Even during the break-up conversation John was endearing, at one time reciting a Langston Hughes poem about chance and possibility, and later, after I'd said I should leave, he walked to my side of the table, put his arms around me and stayed there, only after a minute or two, saying matter of factly, "Ok, I need to weep now."

All of which made it harder than I thought it would be. I shed a few tears inside his house, but by the time my ass touched the seat of my car, I was crying hard.

Yesterday, he'd suggested plans for tonight: make dinner, watch a movie at my house, stay over. But this morning, I woke up with another man in my bed (we didn't have sex). I watched Jose sleep as the sun broke over his shoulder and torso, and it occurred to me that the fact that I'd let him sleep over at all, innocent as it was, was evidence enough that I'd made a choice, and it wasn't staying with John. If I let him come over tonight, I'd feel a bit sluttish (2 nights, 2 men) and I know I'd be paranoid about making sure all evidence of Jose was eliminated, and that felt too much like cheating, even if John and I never spoke of being exclusive, or not dating other people. So when he called to finalize plans, my response was, "I don't want to make dinner or watch a movie. I need to talk."

Cliched as it was, I listened to Beyonce's "Halo" over and over on the way to his house. Yes, I'm still on my Beyonce trip, months later than the rest of the country, but hey, she's been a bit of a lifeline this past week, so I'm not ashamed to admit it. It fortified me, tweaking the lyrics as a I sang, so that it spoke to me about being in love with Love or the Universe or the best of who I am, and finally, just trusting that my idea for Love in my life is so much smaller than what I am actually blessed with. There's some cosmic energy stronger than I out there and singing Halo on my way to speak my truth, I took great comfort (albeit a cheesy, high school, GLEE-like comfort) that this immense, benevolent energy,

it's my saving grace
everything I need and more
I know it won't fade away
I'm letting the walls just fall away
They didn't even put up a fight
I found a way to let You in
I've been awakened
I'm never gonna shut You out
Everywhere I'm looking now
I'm surrounded by Your embrace
Hit me like a ray of sun
burning through a dark night
You're the only one that I want
Think I'm addicted to Your light
I swore I'd never fall again,
but this don't even feel like falling
Gravity can't forget
To pull me back to the ground again

I parked in front of his house, took a deep breath, holding on to the vibration of my version of Halo, and said out loud, "I know You've got my back," as I walked in the door.

I could tell he knew what was coming by the concern in his eyes.

I told him I don't like the woman I am with him, always trying to figure out which page in which book he's in so I can be there, too, neglecting that I have a perfectly wonderful book to hang out in, forgetting even, until it's too late, that I am not here to accommodate his every whim or mood. I told him that his desire to buy me dinner for taking him to the airport was revealing. You buy dinner for a friend that takes you to the airport, but you take your lover to dinner the night before you leave because you're not going to be with them for five days. I told him that I'd wanted him to take me to a nice dinner, like he had offered, not ending up in casual clothes at a casual restaurant. I told him that I want to be treasured, I wanted his actions to be evidence of his affection for me.

I told him that he'd been pretty clear with what he could offer (essentially a "one foot out the door" relationship) and that my responsibility was in hoping that he'd wake up one day and realize that I'm it, that I'm the one he loves. That's just no way to sustain me or him or us. I told him that I couldn't make enough onion bread or cashew cheese (recipes of mine he loves) to make him love me, that if he isn't sold in three months of dating me, then I'm not it.

He told me he understood where I was coming from, that it's true that he hasn't been able to meet me in my world as much as either of us wanted, and that he's been pained by his inability to embrace all of what I have to offer. That was the hardest thing to hear, the thing that in the end, made me weep once I was in the safety of my car: For the first time since we've been dating, I finally get that he does see who I really am, that in his way, he's awed by me and by how right we are for one another in so many, many ways. He simply doesn't have the emotional capacity right now to love me, to adore me, as he said, he knows I deserve. Our timing was just off. We should have met five years ago or in another year. That a healed and whole John would have been grateful for a chance to honor me with the best of his love, that? That's what made me cry.

In the end, it was a simple calculus, but the answer offered none of the comfort of a well executed formula. In the end, we were two people who needed to take our first few steps away from one another in months, and it was hard.

So we stood in his living room, just before I left, holding each other, and he began to cry. I gripped tighter, not wanting to let go, but prepping for the inevitable, trying to steel us both for the coming, final separation. I think of him now, his sadness, his regret, his not understanding why he couldn't muster enough love for me, and I ache for him. And here I am again, trying to be in his shoes, in his book, living his words. This stops here.

With hours between the conversation and now, I'm sad, tired and weary, but also relieved and even proud of myself. I get it like I haven't before that my needs aren't too big, too needy, too much. It isn't that I'm not worth loving, and I finally (finally!) see that that's never been it. I'm not going down that road this time. I drove right past it, without even a sideways glance. I'm looking at that old lie and seeing the big "t" Truth right there in the middle of it: I'm worth loving me. The only person I ever had to prove it to was me. And there's not anything that's going to get in the way of dedicating myself to loving me the best I can from here on out, because, fuck, I am a spiritually empowered woman and it's about time I start living like one.

Here's to a new beginning. And thanks, John, for helping deliver me back to myself. I'd been away so long, I almost forgot it's a really great place to be.

R&B, how I have missed you...

Last week, I re-discovered my abiding love of R&B while trying to find just the right music to get me through my last hours at work before my much needed two week vacation. Whether old school Marvin Gaye or Curtis Mayfield, standards like Mary J, or pop-leaning Beyonce and Rihanna, I'm a sucker for it all.

In high school I loved Boys II Men as much as the next girl, but for the most part, I was an aspiring indie-rocker (I'd been in unrequited love with a friend for years who had an encyclopedic knowledge of all things indie-rock; I was trying to score points). But in college, most of the music in the office I worked in was R&B or hip-hop, and this is when my love affair began. At work, I was the only white person, and not knowing much musically about anything but white rock bands no one had ever heard of, I often felt like I stuck out more than I wanted to, but my fall for R&B was quick and hard, and my desire to somehow fit in wasn't a necessary condition. There's something in the drama of it, the sweeping declarations of love, the plaintive sing-song wailing of heartbreak, the often sexy as hell sensuality, the wanton disregard for self-care in the name of wild devotion to another, that registered on a cellular level. Those same qualities later drew me to Spanish music and even Gospel, but coming back to R&B after several years of neglect was like recalling a first, sweet love.

So, I've been hitting the R&B hard this last week. It really was an accident that I had an R&B playlist on Pandora playing when the new guy I met last weekend came over to hang out while I did some food prep and holiday knitting. I wasn't trying to set a mood. Yet, it weaved a subtle web in the background as we talked and got to know each other, and as the hour progressed, I found myself feeling more and more drawn to him, despite knowing that I don't have it in me to date two men at once or the desire to dodge my integrity around honesty and forthrightness.

I'm still trying to pinpoint what it is I find so maddeningly attractive about this new guy. He's shorter than me, not in the greatest shape (though his self-deprecating humor about it and willingness to be active anyway is endearing). He lost his job a couple months ago and is now working as a busser to get by. He's an artist with work exhibited in a local cafe. He is not, like most men, used to getting what he wants (in his words, "Would I be bussing tables right now if I got what I wanted?"). He is used to dreaming big and working hard and has overcome much. He shares about his life and asks about me in equal measure. There's a way his lips move around his crooked teeth that sharpen his words and make his laughter both resonant and bright. He's considerate and kind. Long, dark eyelashes sway languidly over happy eyes and his long, dark hair frames his face pleasantly. I find myself distracted with visions of holding back his hair while kissing him. All in all, he's not conventionally hot, but there I was beholding the beauty in him. 

And this confuses me. I'm invested in another man. True, we haven't had the conversation about exclusivity, but I think if our situations were reversed, I'd think his attraction to another woman was telling. I have this sinking feeling that I am attracted to this new guy because right now he's uncomplicated and it's all confident flirting and bold moves. I know this territory so well and I'm so good at it that I slide into it without much intention. I'm not good later on, when the "just what is it we're doing here?" begins to form between me and whatever man. I don't know how to navigate those waters well, and that's right where I am with the man I've been with.

So, just what is my attraction to this new man telling me about my feelings for the man I'd be with exclusively if it were up to me? I'm frustrated with him, and there's nothing I can do to make things go my way. I have someone who is so close to exactly who I want, and the only option is to let go. This new guy reminds me that there are interesting, kind, available men out beyond the morass I've made of trying to hold space for a man who's on the fence. This new guy is an opportunity to press pause on all of it and get clear again on what it is I'm looking for, on what I want and need.

A couple days before the man I've been seeing left for the holidays, he called and said, "I'd like to take you out for a nice dinner tomorrow night." So, I'm thinking Soif or maybe even Oswald's. I decide on my highest, sexy heels and lowest cut shirt in blues and greens and golds that make my eyes sparkle.

When we speak a couple hours before meeting the next night, I decide to ask where he's taking me, and he mulls it over aloud, throwing out sushi, Thai, Malabar, all casual dining and not one of the nicer-type restaurants in town. He asks me what I'm interested in. Instead of saying, "I'm interested in you taking me out to a nice restaurant like you'd suggested yesterday," which looking back would have been a perfectly acceptable response, I say that Malabar sounds fine. I ask about what he's wearing and he says casually, as if the invitation to a nice dinner hadn't roll off his lips, "Nothing special." Again, inwardly disappointed, I mentally re-adjust my outfit toward the casual.

The dinner was pleasant enough, and we decided to sleep at his house that night. Once we've settled in bed, my arm resting on his chest, I start to nod off. It wasn't long before he says, "I like feeling your hand on me, but can we settle into our own spaces right now?" in other words, no touching. I withdrew without surprise or protest, I was too tired to care, or so I told myself. I tried to sleep again, but found myself smoldering, filling with resentment, and I began to wonder what the fuck I was even there for. A raw scratchiness crept into my throat at this point, which begged for the relief of a cough or two, which I stifled so as not to disturb his even breathing. I told myself to get up and go home, but I stayed, and suddenly the absurdity of the situation hit me.

He will always feel justified and comfortable in asking for what he needs, and he's accustomed to having them met. I rarely feel that way, and (shocker!) I rarely have my needs met. The very thing I was resenting so much in him that moment is the very thing I need to be doing myself. I have actually been dating a man who is a good model of self-care. And he's attracted me to him, a good model of how to care really well for others.

I'm learning that I can be the loving, need-meeter person I am, but I also have to be comfortable (and feel justified in) stating my needs, and expect that my needs are taken seriously and honored where possible. I'm also getting real clear that the man I end up with does need to take good care of himself, but he also needs to be curious about those needs in me that he can meet that make me happy or make me feel loved and supported. I must take better care of me not just because it'll make me a less resentful, more fulfilled partner, but also because I have nieces who look up to me and, Universe willing, a child one day who will learn from me, and I don't want them to grow up with the message that women are supposed to care for others needs first, and that men's needs are more important to meet than anyone's else.

I'm not sure I can learn to self-care better with any man around. I've already laid the foundation of my relationship with man number one with my sacrificed needs and willingness to try to meet his. The pattern's been set, and I don't know how to break it without breaking all of it. But I guess I don't need to know how, I just need to say "yes" to the change. "Yes" to speaking up when my needs aren't being met, "yes" to being clear about what my needs are. "Yes" to more sleep (well, not tonight, but soon...). "Yes" to me. The how will become clear.

On a hike with the new guy today I told him that I needed to get clear on what it is I want and what I'm doing with this other guy, but that I'd really appreciate his friendship right now. It wasn't so hard, stating what I need. It was a little hard to let our attraction hang in the space between us with no outlet, and we struggled with the weight of it for a while. But by the time we parted ways, we resolved to offer our friendship to another, and for now, I'm not going to let this blip of attraction to another man mean the ruin of my relationship with the man I'm seeing. It's a chance to re-assess and see anew.

As I wrap this up, If I Were A Boy by Beyonce is playing on Pandora. How comically apt:

If I were a boy even just for a day
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted
And go drink beer with the guys

And chase after girls
I'd kick it with who I wanted
And I'd never get confronted for it
'Cause they stick up for me

If I were a boy
I think I could understand
How it feels to love a girl
I swear I'd be a better man

I'd listen to her
'Cause I know how it hurts
When you lose the one you wanted
'Cause he's taking you for granted
And everything you had got destroyed

If I were a boy
I would turn off my phone
Tell everyone it's broken
So they'd think that I was sleeping alone

I'd put myself first
And make the rules as I go
'Cause I know that she'd be faithful
Waiting for me to come home, to come home

If I were a boy
I think I could understand
How it feels to love a girl
I swear I'd be a better man

I'd listen to her
'Cause I know how it hurts
When you lose the one you wanted
'Cause he's taking you for granted
And everything you had got destroyed

It's a little too late for you to come back
Say it's just a mistake
Think I'd forgive you like that
If you thought I would wait for you
You thought wrong

But you're just a boy
You don't understand
And you don't understand, oh
How it feels to love a girl
Someday you wish you were a better man

You don't listen to her
You don't care how it hurts
Until you lose the one you wanted
'Cause you're taking her for granted
And everything you had got destroyed
But you're just a boy

Release

I (want to) free what has been in my clutches so that it can evolve into its greater yet to be.
I (want to) release to liberate my mind from relentless repetitiveness.
I (want to) release to cultivate the soil for right action.

I want to be willing to drop the "want to's." What will it take for me to drop the "want to's"? When I read these lines Sunday, these sparkly, little gems, wedged into the affirmation at church, I longed for them to be true of me the way I long to be in love. As though it'll never happen.

This morning he called. Told me he's thinking of going to San Diego for Christmas with his father. Then asks me what my plans are, saying, "You probably spend the whole day with family, huh?"Uh-huh. Sure do. He arrived at work and we hung up. Later, making my bed, I thought, Wait a minute. Was he feeling me out to see if I would be able to come with him? He didn't outright ask me, but the conversational proximity of the San Diego trip and my family holiday plans made it seem plausible. Confusing, given our rather up-in-the-air status at the moment, but still plausible.

Later, chatting with my sister in law on-line, I told her that he might have invited me to Christmas with his dad. She said that was great and we'd work our holiday plans around it. It is great, I remember thinking. Tonight, I asked him if he was asking about my plans because he was thinking of inviting me or because he was just curious. The pause was long enough to know he hadn't thought of including me at all. I felt like an idiot. For hoping. For wanting it to be a sign. For actually having asked my family if it was possible to move our holiday plans around to accommodate a trip he'd never even thought to invite me on. For having the thought that I would get to visit my friends who just moved to San Diego while he got in some one on one time with his Dad. Granted, it was his vague communication style that left it open for interpretation, but I chose hoping against the odds, hoping against evidence even that we are so not there yet.

I cling. I fear he'll all go away, because all the other men I have loved, or tried to, always have. So, I try to be the best they've ever had. And usually, I am. Usually they tell me I am. It's always them, unavailable. And here I am again, really liking a man with one foot in the door. The whole rest of him may be in the room: sweet, sincere, smart, goofy, attractive, clearly into me, clearly so much more than I would have expected to find in a man. Mostly. But. He's got one foot in the door, not letting it close, an escape route, an excuse out. For whatever reason. It's a good reason, I can't deny him that. But, if I continue to see him, as he has said he wants, even if we slow it way down, I'll still be waiting for him to stop thinking of me with a "but" somewhere in there.

It doesn't matter that his best friend told me he's said great things about me.

It doesn't matter that he told the woman who introduced us that I was the kindest, most compasisonate woman he's ever met.

It doesn't matter that one night after we talked about books and writing for a good long while, he texted me, "I like that you're a lit-critter."

It doesn't matter that he made a list of what he wanted in a woman and I am who he described.

It doesn't matter that I see the way he looks at me from time to time, eyes dancing and pulling the corners of his mouth upward just a bit, as though he's just amazed.

It doesn't matter that somehow I know we're supposed to be together. 

Because the timings off.

I'm ready; he's not ready yet. Me sticking around won't change that.

Rev D this Sunday said we don't release because we don't trust that our deepest heart's desires will be fulfilled. Truthfully, she said we don't release because we don't trust that there's a Divine Order. And really, I guess that's true enough. I do believe that I'll have my needs fulfilled. But my wants? My deepest desires? I want to believe, but I doubt. If there's one Bible passage I can relate to it's in Mark 9, when a father brings a sick boy to Jesus and says:

 "... if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us."

" 'If you can'?" said Jesus. "Everything is possible for him who believes."

 Immediately the boy's father exclaimed, "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!"

I so need to overcome my unbelief.


If I release him now, and tell him, "When you know what you want, and you're ready; give me a call. If I'm single and still interested, we can give this another shot," I fear he won't ever call. If I hold on to him, I fear I'll smother this new sprout of a relationship with my insecurities.

I have a hunch that someone less prone to dramatics and romanticism and wishful thinking would look at my options and call it a no-brainer. "Tell him 'goodbye'," they'd say, "Light a fire under his ass by taking the goods away." But honestly, the fear of not hearing from him again, the fear that can only be assuaged by more trust in the Universe than I currently have, feels much scarier and less reliable than getting as much of him as I can for as long as I can because in the end, I have always ended up alone.

The only question now worth asking, and answering, is "Am I willing to trust that if not this wonderful man, then someone better?"

What I do want

I want to sleep. Sleep for hours and hours, maybe even a whole day, or at least until late in the morning, so that when I wake and look out my window from my bed, the sun has been poured across the bay, making it a glistening, white pool.

I want to meditate upon waking each day, sing a song or two, and pray.

I want to write a little, or a lot, every day, so that the words stay fluid and free in my fingers.

I want to honor my recently declared three month fast from shoe and clothes buying. I want people to see through the economic privilege needed to even declare such a fast, and see why I am really doing this. I want to prove to myself that I have enough, that no new pair of shoes or new jacket will make my wardrobe feel complete, and that the completeness I seek in my wardrobe is just a desire misplaced.

I want to uncover the places in me that lack cohesion, coordination, unity.

I want to spoon more Chocolate Hazelnut Fudge Coconut Bliss Ice Cream into my mouth, except that, at the moment, I want more to honor this body temple of mine, to honor the organs that do not need more food tonight. I want this honoring to last me until bedtime, through tomorrow, and I want to be forever plagued by the ability to honor my body's (and my heart's) needs for nourishment.

I want to solo the song that broke me open back in 2007 when I was so weary with resisting faith, and made me believe in more than just myself. I want to stand up in front of a packed house at my church, with my choir behind me singing their hearts out. I want to sing of letting go, of surrender, of just letting it be. I want the nervousness that claws inside my throat and makes my singing less strong and clear and beautiful to be transformed by the vision of my ministry into freedom in song.

I want the my muscles in my lower back to stop seizing and shooting out tendrils of pain.

I want to be witty and smart and assured, sorta like a straight Rachel Maddow.

I want the wars to end, for the Supreme Court to make gay marriage legal, and for health care reform, including a public option, to pass and show all the naysayers it's possible to honor everyone's right to health care without the world falling apart.

I want to tell the truth. I want to be free of the endless mind-fucking that not telling the truth does to me.

I want to tell the truth: You made a list of the ten main qualities you want in a partner just before you met me. Passionate, happy, intelligent, maternal, humorous, to name a few. You made a list of my core qualities. I want you to see that you drew me into your life. The truth I want to tell is this: I don't think it's possible to make a list of what you want in a partner and then dictate the time line of when the physical manifestation of this list shows up. I want to say: There's a disconnect between not being sure about having kids when "maternal" is on your list.

This is more truth I want to tell: I have never in all my years of dating connected intellectually so well with a man. When you quote to me lines from great literature, or read to me in bed passages from a book that a deceased friend of yours wrote, and I can hear the tears haunting the words, or you consider thoughtfully my distaste for the word "ghetto" without getting defensive, or call me to get my input on an assignment or discussion questions for your students, I weary of, once again telling my heart not to leap into my throat and force me to say the thing I'm afraid is "too much" for you, that I can't keep seeing you and not grow to love you. I want you to know that when you told me you watched me while I made dinner the other night, I lied and said I didn't notice. I want to believe that there's something to the warmth and tenderness in your stare that has to do with love.

The truth is: I'm not one of those women who can just live only in this moment, and not think about where this is all going, unless I am being honest about where I am, in this moment.

Because I want to be treasured, I want you to fall in love with me because of who I am and what I bring to your life, not because I am here now, a comfortable fit.

I want to be a truth teller.

I want to say all this, and let the words fall where they may. I want to be that bold.

I want to think it's possible that you are falling in love with me as much as I think you may be too full of stories about your past relationships, age, and doubt that will prevent you from seeing that you've got what you want, and that I've got what I want, right here.

I want, more than anything right now, to stop wishing you would text me, or call me, and reassure me. Just as no man has ever been able to do before you, I know that THAT kind of reassurance, that I am treasured and adored and loved will mean nothing if I don't already treasure, adore, and love who I am.

I want to remember that you can't read my mind, you don't know how I feel unless I tell you, and that you appreciate when I am honest with you. I want to tell you, and actually mean it, that I want you to be honest with me about where you're at.

I want to not make too many excuses about how busy we both are to avoid this conversation.

I want to have the sweet, lovely, light quality to our interactions untainted by my insecurities.

I want to stop wanting and start experiencing the things I want.

"It wasn't that I changed, I simply recognized the continuity that always existed," said Jaroslav Pelikan, Biblical historian, talking about how his "conversion" to Orthodox Christianity was not so much a conversion, but a process of becoming aware that he had always "spoken" Orthodox Christianity in his day-to-day life, but had never named it that.

Krista Tippet, his interviewer, and host of Speaking on Faith, a radio show I listen to, laughed with him and said, "Well, isn't all change like that?"

I repeated what Pelikan had said to myself: Change is recognizing the continuity that has always existed. I like the sound of it, it's linguistic simplicity, though I'm not sure I believe it. Certainly, my own spirituality has been just this, just seeing, bit by bit that I've always gotten what I needed, that I've never felt alone, that despite feeling like I'd inevitably get hurt or disappointed, I always wanted to believe; so that one day, while listening to a woman sing, I recognized the continuity of connectedness I'd always felt and finally felt ok calling it God.

But the events that have changed my life completely, I'm not so sure. Consider my mom's stroke when I was 15 years old, and all the change that it precipitated. Was there a continuity revealed there? Our family's response wasn't so much a pulling together, a rallying of love and revelations of support for one another. Matt, at 20, quit school and began working overtime to help pay the house payment and put food on the table. I quit babysitting and got a real job and worked as much as I could legally. Mark, so ill-equipped to deal with upsets held rigidly to his routines. With Mom in the hospital for weeks and all of us "doing our own thing" to get through, it was only our daily visits to Mom that brought us together and her urgings to pull together and show one another care and concern didn't really reach our freaked out and bereft hearts.

We never sat down and talked about what it felt like to have had our mother nearly die, for me to be the first person to hear her having the stroke, for Mark to be woken in the middle of the night and help me drag her out to the car to go the emergency room, for Matt, who had drank too much and slept too soundly to be roused by my screams for help. Two teenagers and one barely adult, we didn't know how to rally, to bond and become stronger, and left to our own devices outside of the hour or so with my Mom each day, my brothers and I became estranged from one another, fought endlessly when we were all together, so that I began spending less and less time at home, more time with extra-curricular activities, friends, and, even, dating.

By the time Mom returned to the house, the changes that had passed between my bothers and I were buried, we put on a front, without even talking about it, we tried to be more civil, more united, more of what my Mom needed. She recovered, more or less, completely over the next year or so, but I wonder about how well we recovered as a family sometimes. Now, today, with Pelikan's words echoing in my mind, I wonder what continuity was revealed by this massive assault on our lives.

I have a photo of us in front of the Christmas tree the December after Mom's stroke. She was still not very mobile and had asked me to buy sweatpants and sweatshirts for all of us for Christmas. She didn't have money for anything else. In the picture, we're sporting our colorful, warm fleece and smiling. Looking at the photo now, we all look tired and the smiles don't seem to come from deep down. It's my Mom's eyes, though, that give away how I think we all felt: they're teary, and though I don't know what she was feeling at that moment, I imagine that Christmas she felt overwhelmed with relief that her babies were all around her and imagine she was overcome with gratitude for another shot at being alive. How tired we all were with working or running away or trying to keep us together and bonded, didn't really matter, because we were still a family, and would go on being this imperfect, unprocessed, forever healing family. One that laughs easily, feels strongly, argues from time to time, but is also bound together by a significant trauma, by the obligation of blood, and most of all, by the power of love to transform it all into our individual and collective experiences of growth and humanity.

Ah, so this? This is the power of writing. I wasn't so sure there was continuity in this changing event in my life when I started writing, but here it is, revealed word by stealthy word, without my knowing it would get there. And so it seems that yes, I do believe that change is simply recognizing the continuity that has always existed.

What I don't want

I don't want to write right now.

I don't want to have a time limit imposed by my parking meter.

I don't want to be inside a cafe right now.

I don't want to have to avoid wearing my jeans another day because I can't seem to shake my China weight gain. I don't want to continue feeling fat, when, clearly, I am not, or as though I've learned little about self-control over the past few years.

I don't want to disappoint my nieces or my ten year old friend, Indigo by not spending time with them.

I don't want to run around trying to fulfill competing obligations anymore. I don't want to have a to do list that never get's done.

I don't want the cold to come to Santa Cruz, even though I have more scarves and coats than anyone else I know.

I don't want to start another week tired.

I don't want to be cranky or melancholy anymore.

I don't want to try so hard with Joe. I don't want to stop seeing him. I don't want to keep seeing him if I'm going to continue to want him to be someone he isn't. I don't want him to keep understanding me so completely, to keep saying things and doing things that endear him to me, to keep texting me sultry texts and kissing me with such sweetness. I don't want him to quietly correct me when I talk of us having sex, supplanting it with "making love" because I so much want that to be what we are making that I need to call it sex to keep my heart from leaping way ahead of where we're at. I don't want him to like the same books as me or harbor dreams of being an author like me. I don't want him to speak so thoughtfully about racism. I don't want him to be so very almost the person I want to be with. Almost, because the thing I don't want the most in all this is that I don't want him to be unclear about whether or not he wants a relationship that is leading to marriage and a family. I don't want to be that woman, again, who hangs on, waiting for him to see that I really am the most amazing person he's ever met and he'd be crazy not to fall completely in love with me. I SO don't want to be that woman. I don't want my heart to sigh when I inevitably think that being that woman feels so much easier and more rewarding (in the short run, anyway). I DON'T WANT TO KEEP TAKING THIS NEW, EXCITING THING WITH JOE SO FUCKING SERIOUSLY!

I don't want the way I've always been in relationships to spark such fear in me as I try to treasure and stay present in getting to know this good man. 

Finally, I don't want to keep thinking about what I don't want, because, let's face it, cranky Mandie isn't so much fun. Perhaps, if I'm feeling inspired next week, I'll have a list of what I do want. But for now, what I want more than anything else is to remember that my life really is all about being Love.

Race, babies, and being white

On NPR's All Things Considered today, there was a story on infant mortality, and the U.S.'s abysmal ranking as 30th among industrialized nations (It was once 12th) Listen here, if you want: http://www.npr.org/templates/player/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=120098242&m=120098821

Though this is pretty sad, what I found more maddening was that the preterm birth rate for black women is two times that for white women (The preterm birth rate for Latino women is lower than blacks and higher than whites), even when adjusted for things like income, obesity, education, income, and disease. The fact is that babies born to black and Latino mothers, even those who are well educated with good incomes, are still born preterm at a higher rate (and die at a higher rate) than babies born to the poorest, least well educated white women. A researcher who was interviewed said that it may make some people uncomfortable, but that it really is related to the physiologic effects of experiencing lifelong racism.

Uncomfortable? I'm not uncomfortable, I'm pissed. It's not that I'm surprised that there are serious physiologic consequences to living as a person of color in a racist society, it's that it's such a sensitive fact to discuss that a scientist who is clearly disturbed by this trend has to "prepare" the listeners to hopefully hear her message, which, I believe is this:

Stop. Stop denying racism. Stop this bullshit about a post-Obama/post-racial society. If nothing else has swayed you, consider what it would be like to be an expectant parent, all the planning and preparation and money saving and excitement. Then imagine that baby being born too early, and struggling to live in a NICU, hooked up to tubes and monitors. Imagine the sleepless nights in NICU rocking chairs, holding on to needle-thin fingers of your too-small baby's tiny hand. As painful as it is to imagine, now think about losing that little soul you forged out of love and tears and hope, imagine that infant not making it, imagine burying that baby before it was even supposed to be born.

Are you uncomfortable yet? You should be. Our collective white denial, my white friends, puts the infants born to our sisters of color in this situation at a rate we should all be ashamed about.

All this is what was left unsaid in the story, what was whispered between the spaces of the words.

Hear what I am saying here; it is not my aim to create or contribute to collective white guilt. Guilt serves no purpose at all when it comes to healing our perniciously racist society. This is yet another call to action. I know the economy is preoccupying us all. I know health care is stealing all the headlines. I know global warming may make all of this other stuff a moot point anyway. And I don't have a clue how to remedy the racial disparities in infant mortality in the U.S., but I do think whites can work individually and collectively to at least begin to minimize the physiologic effects of lifelong racism. Maybe it's picking up a book by Tim Wise, or challenging a racial joke, or becoming aware of our privileges. But we can do something, and we should.

I know it's not a task that's easy, or without complicating factors. This was made explicit for me last Saturday. I was at a writing retreat with a nearly all-white group of authors, editors, and aspiring writers. (That's basic step number one, by the way. If you're white, note all the places and spaces you go that are majority white. Most, if not all people of color do this as a matter of day to day life, so let's do the same. This will show you how starkly segregated our society still is, a result of racist real estate policies in Post World War II America). In one session, I came a few minutes before the start and I heard the white instructor  assuring one of the other participants, an Asian woman, that of course she belonged at the retreat, and said, "You're Asian after all, of course you belong here." The Asian woman smiled flatly and the instructor hurriedly explained that she was referring to an old Doonesbury cartoon where the "model minority" stereotype was invoked as three students with Asian last names were given academic awards after the teacher gave a speech to his multiracial class about how diverse and equitable the school was. The instructor laughed and said, "That is one of the funniest cartoons ever."

I, apparently, didn't get it. There was no reason at all to refer to race in this situation in the first place. And then the cartoon reference, it wasn't funny. So what if there are educators who portray that racism has been eradicated because Asian students often have high achievement rates. How is a cartoon-referenced stereotypical intellectual superiority of Asian students (which is, in itself a myth) supposed to assuage a woman who was expressing vulnerability around a soul-exposing creative pursuit such as personal writing (the theme of the retreat)?

I had to say something, so I asked the instructor to explain why the cartoon was funny and how it applied to this situation. The more she explained, the more it was clear to her that she'd blundered racially, so, as we whites often do, she continued to talk, attempting to knit together the story in her head that keeps her believing she's not racist. When I remained unconvinced of the validity of her amusement with the cartoon and it's use in the session, I said, "I just find that more offensive than funny." She conceded that she could see how it might be and thanked me for asking the question.

At the close of the workshop, the instructor made a quip about being worried that I might think she's a racist. I was thankful for it becuase that meant she'd be willing to talk more about it. As a white person, I know such a comment is code for "please reassure me that I'm not a total racist and didn't just totally make a person of color totally uncomfortable." We talked for about twenty minutes and I felt like it was a frank conversation that brought some things to the surface for her to continue to engage with. I started and ended with my basic premise: I do think you're racist, and so am I, and so are all us whites. We can't not be in this country. It's how we act on our racism, or don't, that makes the difference to our non-white friends and acquaintances. She seemed receptive to hearing that. I also got feedback that she appreciated me addressing her comment. I felt good about how I handled the situation, and I believe she'll think twice about using race in a similar manner in the future

In fact, I felt a little too good. And this is where the insidiousness of white privilege piece comes in. The Asian woman in our session was one of my roommates for the weekend. As I walked back to our room, I noticed that I was walking faster, feeling eager to get to the room to see of she was there to debrief the whole situation, and, and... "Aw, fuck!" I thought then. I realized that what I was hoping for, what I wanted to do was to go talk to this woman so that she could validate me and thank me for my valiant effort at calling out the less evolved white person, for coming to her rescue and saving her from having to call out yet another racist white woman.

I don't regret saying something. I think we all need to step up the ways in which we speak up and stand up. But I was disappointed that my motivation turned out to be that I wanted to be seen and appreciated and liked by one of the few people of color at the retreat for doing so.

Step number two, perhaps, in social justice work, is to know that people of color, or any person who's a member of an oppressed identity group that I am not a part of, do not need to be saved. They've managed remarkably well for centuries under fairly brutal societal conditions. We need to be saved from ourselves, white folks.

Having caught my motivation, I slowed my gait down, took my time on the walk back, and slipped quietly into my room. I said hello to the two roommates who were there, one of them the Asian woman from the session, and left quickly to join a Halloween party at the retreat center. I refused to bring up what had just happened, even though a part of me, the immature part of me that still longs not to be identified as racist, really wanted to. She never did bring it up, and all I could do was laugh at that privileged part of me, the part that loves to ride out on my horse and save people of color from other white people's ignorance.

And yes, even now, that part of me is thinking ahead to which person of color who reads my blog will applaud me for a piece well written. But my stronger motivation for me to include this personal experience, and for writing so raw about the infant mortality story, is that I want to connect with my white brothers and sisters out there. I want to engage your stories and your experiences, to connect to that part of you that I think all humans have that all about love and equity and respect. We're not subject to those physiologic effects of lifelong racism referred to earlier, but I have to believe that none of us wants to remain a silent part of the conditions that mean others experience lifelong racism.

What can you do today to destabilize racism?

A lesson in loss

Let me just ask, what is the point of the auto save updater at the bottom of the text box I compose my posts in for, if not for saving my writing as I write? Is it not here to save my stellar, sexy as hell, fine piece of writing? Every few minutes, I'd look down and see "Draft saved at 9:15pm, " and minutes later, "Draft saved at 9:18pm," an hour later, "Draft saved at 10:18pm," or "Draft saved at 11:05pm" just before I opened Word and the whole damn computer crashed. After the initial gut wrenching realization that I'd just lost it all, I recalled these little reminders and sighed with relief, thinking that Blogspot had it all saved.

BUT NO!

Blogger saved only this:

A colleague once shared that something her grandmother said that always stuck with her was, "Don't wait on the phone." Meaning, don't stand by the phone waiting for that boy you like to call. Right now, I wish I'd grown up hearing that.

I met the boy a little over a week ago at a local wine bar while out with a couple girlfriends. He knew one of my friends, and they

Only the first few minutes of my writing. I am fuming.

Well, actually, that boy I was waiting on the phone for called at 11:10, a minute after I screamed into my hands that Blogspot was a piece of shit. So, now that he's commiserated on the trauma of technology failures with me, and we've had a sweetly reflective conversation, I am not fuming any longer.

So, all the recounting I did between 9 and 11 of the time said boy and I have spent together since our brief introduction, time full of me being made mute and distracted with his intellect and physical beauty, of him remarking with wonder on my eyes "full of mirth" or on the way my hair reflects the light, of his drooling over the books on my bookshelf, delighting in some real sense of connection with me reflected there on those spines, of his way of remembering things I have said or done that speak to him deeply, of his drive-me-wild kisses and my quick comfort with him, all of that? I guess it didn't need to be published here.

It's all good, and I am choosing to rest in a sense of all possibility instead of hoping desperately for the one possibility I want. I'll admit that I have always gotten what I needed, though not everything I've wanted, and so I will trust that whatever this is I've got going on with this blessing of a man, it's what I need, and for that alone it's a blessing to me.

God or Universe willing, we will be able to allow this to unfold naturally and with as little drama and attachment as possible. May we not be led soley by the heroine-like effects of the palpable sexual magnetism between us. May we be unfazed and untouched by the way fear or doubt can claw at the magic of all of this. May we be led by wonder, and by the hope that in this, we get to learn more about what it means to be love. May I not seek his love, or hold onto small evidences of it for dear life, or try to evoke it from him when I'm experiencing uncertainty. May we both learn just enough about embodying love that we continue to bring light and joy into our worlds. And most of all, may we be grateful for love's presence in all aspects of our lives.

Can I get a "amen"?

On being a woman

I love being a woman. I have never once thought I'd like to be a man. Well, I guess I must have at least once, given one of our most famous Stout family stories: me, at three or four, my urine-soaked pants down around my ankles, shuffling into the kitchen where my mom was cooking, tears streaming down my face, crying out, "I tried to go pee-pee just like the boys, but it didn't work at all!" But other than that, I have spent my life grateful to be a girl.

And yet.

Being a woman is, after all, being a part of an oppressed identity group. These days, it's not necessarily something I think about on a daily basis, but in little ways, slights accumulate. A "bitch" here and a cat call there, a glance at my breasts or the dismissal or appropriation of my good idea by a man accumulates and then one thing happens and the reality hits home: I am a member of an oppressed identity group. I alluded to a "trespass" by a man in my last post. I knew that all the taste of blood and bitter it left in me had something to do with this, but it wasn't until he left a message for me this evening, his voice full of tears, letting me know that he doesn't want our friendship to end, that what his "mistake" meant for me. This was my response:

For me, this has highlighted what being a woman in America often means. I love it, and have never wanted to be any other gender, but we always have to be ready, at any moment to be misunderstood, misread, judged to be seeking sexual attention when we're just being flirty or kind, and then when we see our mistake and try to back pedal, men get defensive and accusatory and we end up questioning ourselves, and often, we end up trying to comfort or assuage a man who's ego or masculinity we've somehow damaged when they did the misjudging in the first place.

You don't know that we go through this in our lives time and time again because you don't need to know about it in order to survive in this society, but you need to understand it. You need to get that you didn't just make one little mistake in your life here. You participated in the ongoing oppression of women and, at least up to this point, you have individualized it into a singular mistake that shouldn't have wider impact than this one event in your life. I've done a good job in my life so far of only letting the kind of men who don't behave this way into my inner circle. I trusted you weren't one of these men, and I do trust that this incident doesn't reflect who you really are, and how you want to show up in the world, but you behaved in this way because you are not conscious of all the ways in which male privilege influences you and nothing in the way you've reacted to me or my dear friend in the aftermath of what you did gives me confidence that you wouldn't behave in a similarly oppressive way again in the future.

You see, your regret isn't enough here. Your sadness that we might not be friends isn't enough. Doing some research on gender oppression, reading the book The Gender Knot, really examining what it might mean for you to claim and learn about male privilege, seeking to transform your privilege into creating a more equitable world, those are things that could help me eventually learn to trust you again. You may not think it's worth it, just to (maybe) save our friendship, and if that would be your only motivation anyway, don't do it. But if you did delve into learning about male privilege, you would see the benefits in all your relationships with women, even if it doesn't salvage our friendship.

I do hold you in compassion and love, but for now, and I don't know for how long, I need to do it from a distance.

So, dear blog readers, three men are readers of my blog, that I know of, and I am quite sure they are of the equality-minded sort, so if any of this resonates with you and you know some men who may benefit form reading it, please feel free to forward the link to my blog to them, or to anyone who might get something form it. Also, I know it's from a pretty hetero-viewpoint, but this has been a very hetero experience, so here I am...

Many blessings, and prayers for a more just society,
Mandie

"Hi Mandie," Atlacatl called out. He was standing in the middle of the Oakes bridge just outside my front door. I was startled because it was nearly four in the morning, and didn't expect anyone else to be up.

"I was on my way back to my apartment," he explained softly, "But I saw this thing in the sky," he raised his arm reverently and pointed at a bright dot on the eastern horizon, "It's flashing blue and red and green and I've never seen anything like it. I've been watching it for like ten minutes thinking I must be crazy."

I love that he was compelled to call out to me, to bring this shimmering night sky phenomenon to my attention, his voice hopeful that I too would verify that he was witnessing something unexpected and beautiful. Atlacatl is one of student staff members I supervise. He is kind and deliberate, and tends not to say more than he needs to. He didn't ask me why I was up so late, but just stood there waiting for me to join in his wonder. I followed his finger and squinted into the dark. At first it looked just like a bright star, but then, I saw it. A flash of red, a burst of blue, fading to white, then blue again. And in an instant I was on the same plane of awe. Pinwheel-like, the colors cycled through over and over, sometimes seeming to flame brighter or wider, and it would steal away my breath. We speculated (plane? planet? star?), doubted that it was stationary, then we convinced one another it was. I'd never seen this thing either, and I was rather smitten by it all. I looked up higher in the sky and identified Orion splayed on on his left side, his belt almost pointing an arrow down upon this star. I told him I'd get online and find out what it was, and email him.

It's Sirius, the "dog star," known now by Harry Potter fans as Harry's fugitive Godfather, who could shape shift into a big, black dog. The Ancient Greeks thought that Sirius' emanations could affect dogs adversely, making them behave abnormally in the heat of summer. How apt that is, I thought as I read, for I'd been preoccupied all day thinking through a trespass by a man who had behaved abnormally and left a wake of trauma behind. And what hot days we've been having. But blaming a star for the choices of men who behave like dogs is as futile as convincing said men of the error of their ways. I went back outside, and watched Sirius do some more fanciful color play. I decided stolen early morning moments with a night sky companion like Sirius could redeem me from my anger. There's always beauty, there's always wonder, there's always someone ready to reveal a love of the inky heavens above to the next person who walks by. There are always more reasons to be loving than to not.

That still doesn't mean I have to like him, though.

I'd used the excuse of walking a dear friend halfway out to her car to finally take out some boxes from my month-ago move to the recycle bin, and it was on the way back that Sirius grabbed my attention. I wouldn't have had this starry encounter at all if I had been more on top of my recycling. But something led me to keep forgetting. God, my clandestine miracle worker, She also goes by this name, "Something," as Rev D said today, and will bring us only what we need for our own spiritual development, and often when we least expect it.

My friend and I had just spent hours and hours together on my lovely soft couches, drinking wine, eating ice cream, and doing what sometimes feels like a most important Thing To Do, connecting with another soul. She and I were compatriots in this trespass I referred to, and it was important that we loved each other through to the essence of what this situation means: for me, another opportunity to heal from the experience of oppression as a woman; for her, it revealed remarkable strength and integrity as core qualities, and probably more. I am blessed to have such a woman in my life, and though she is ten years younger than I, I see in her my greatest hope for women taking root: that we find our voice with grace and ease and certainty, that we act less from the desire to be loved or adored, and more from the certainty that love is already ours.

As stiff as...

Stiff. On Thursday afternoon, I climbed up a fence at Empire Grade, with the aim of crossing the road and then another jump over another fence and a long run into Wilder, past the cow pastures, down into the cool woods, a still-nervous totter after all these years across the single tree trunk "bridge" over the  precocious little stream that babbles even through droughts, up past the old lime kilns round the Boar Trail, cresting at Engelman's loop for a quick pondering of the immense and unending beauty of the rolling hills and bay before turning back home. All these images as real and strong and exciting in front of my eyes as the gate I was scaling, or perhaps more so, because something went wrong in my balance and I slowly, too slowly, began falling backward. There was enough time to tell myself not to try to break my fall with my hands and wrists, to hunch my shoulders forward a bit to create a broad space across my back to fall on and to tuck my chin in to (hopefully) prevent banging the back of my on the ground and knocking myself out. My last thought, just before I hit the ground was, "Fuck, this is taking way too long." My left elbow and forearm hit first, then my shoulder blades and neck. It hurt. I lay there in the dirt, well aware that I was letting the pebbles and germs hang out in the scuffed up skin on my arm, but the wind had been knocked out of me and my neck muscles throbbed so I just stayed put for an assessment. A dull ache spread from my neck to my forehead and in a final painful flash disappeared, escaping from some unknown gate. I eased up to standing, squeezed some water on my cuts and thought, "Well, let's try that again." I got over without trouble and in no time I was tamping my rhythm again. I was fine, really. The run was great. But there's always a price to pay for ignoring hints to turn around. My neck's been sore and stiff ever since. As stiff as...


Well, shit. That paragraph is a fine piece of writing and could be taken somewhere sweet or poignant, wrapping it all up like a sitcom, as I tend to attempt in my writing, but all I really want to tie it to is my favorite quote from Julie and Julia (perhaps my favorite quote in a film all year). Julia Child pulled a couple cannelloni from boiling water with her bare hands and exclaimed to her husband, "These damn things are as hot as a stiff cock!"

That is priceless.

On to more serious stuff. This past week, I fell in love with three people, all over again. Jimmy Carter for calling racism racism when no one else would, and Ketih Oberman and Rachel Maddow for methodically explaining what so many pundits and strategists and even President Obama tried to dismiss: that no matter how much we deny that racism is at the root of the conservative so-called back-lash to all things Obama, it doesn't make it so. I get that Obama can't be the one to lead this conversation, since it would be political suicide, but it still needs to happen. Rev D said it best today: you can't claim Oneness and deny that things like racism, sexism, and so on don't exist. The only way to one day be equal is to heal the collective wounds we've all  been festering in for so long. We can't claim we're all in this together and expect those of us who've experienced oppression not to question what this "togetherness" will require us to discount in our own experiences. We can't claim we're all going to move forward united without seeing that those privileged among us have a lot less to lose if this "unity" falls apart or can't be sustained. I got to feeling pretty discouraged and the day Nancy Pelosi choked up about the violence in the late 70s in San Francisco, I recall thinking, "I'm not sure that even race-based violence would get us, as a nation, to finally talk."

So I turned off the news, and turned on my choir practice list and began to sing my prayers. Rev D urges us to watch the news not to see the worst in the world confirmed but to watch for all the prayer requests from the world. We gotta heal, we gotta talk about this stuff, and I pray for that.

I know all we need to heal is the sense of separation -- from ourselves, from each other, from creativity, from love, from God, from whatever it is that gives us peace. So I type, type, type, hoping that someone out there may be soothed as I am by words, that someone may just think about something differently, or that I may, or just feel grateful for a moment to breathe and read.

In the wee hours

Every once in a while, perhaps once a year if I'm lucky, a book works magic on me, casting a spell and pulling me through exhaustion and dragging me past reason and all of logic's persuasive arguments, and delivers a gift so timeless, so unique, so perfect, that I can't resent the pit sleeplessness inevitably forms in my stomach. On some level, it's like making love with a person you adore for the first time. Nothing else matters, the late hour, the fact that my choir is ministering in six short hours and it's our first ministry date of the new season, that I am singing with the soprano section for the first time ever, that I owe it to my section and to my six friends coming to be present, full of energy and spirit. None of it matters in the moment. The lovemaking must not stop! The reading has to go on!

But all is not lost! Just like love, the perfectly executed story can sustain. The beauty of love and the beauty of words are never enervating. Both love making and reading fill me up for sleepless nights of kisses scattered on skin and lips, or pages turned one after another until there are no more glorious valleys and peaks of joy and expression to explore, but there is energy still, so I write, or admire the man before me as he slumbers, until sleep over takes my will.

And this book, a book that could be written by a spiritual revolutionary operating as an author, who gave the job of narration to a very perceptive and wise old dog, Enzo, is one of these rare gems. Enzo, had he been the human he so longed to be, would probably be a tenor in the Inner Light Ministries Gospel Choir, singing along with me tomorrow morning. He says once, of race car driving: "The car goes where the eyes go," and also, "That which you manifest is before you."And then he goes and practices these principles in scenes that made me sigh or cry or cheer or call up some willing friend to read a passage to. Oh, Enzo, you were just perfect!

This day was perfect, as well, or yesterday, I guess, now. In the morning, after sleeping in until 8:30 (unheard of for me!), I made my way slowly to the farmer's market. My farmer's market crush, the older, delightfully cheerful Dutch farmer Ron from Windmill Farms, rained extra strawberries down upon me, more strawberries than I paid for, and kind teasing and mirth in equal measure to his generosity. I will make him kale chips from his beautiful kale for as long as I live here, I love him that much.

I prayed and meditated into a rare sweet spot space before auditioning to be a soloist for the choir someday. Despite having forgot the CD I had practiced with for weeks on end at home, Valerie Joi having to play the rhythm of the song on her keyboard and have me sing along without the choir there to lead or follow, without the anchor notes I'd found and felt comforted by, and having to swallow the resultant wave of anxiety that threatened to make my heart race out of my chest and my throat begin to close up in fear, it went splendidly. After a few false starts, I sang the way I can when I believe what I am singing, when all my egoistic preoocupations get swept away by a gracious hand and I just know that there can be no higher joy than to sing and to minister words of love and healing.

When she stopped me, she turned to me with those big brown, illuminated eyes of hers and said, "Did you hear that? Did you hear how good that was?"

I did. I did. And so did she. To hear the praise in her voice, the praise of my availability to something higher in those moments, was manna from heaven. I let Spirit sing through me, finally (finally!), and Spirit responded with great love, but it sounded deceptively like Valerie Joi. Sneaky, God, She is! And relentless! But I don't mind the way She gently pursues me anymore. Being in Her company is so much less work than before, when I had to try so hard to ignore Her.

And then there was Kath's birthday potluck, where my Spicy Green Cilantro Soup was a hit with all, and wonderfully tasty potluck items, as well as yummy vegan carrot cake form Black China Bakery and coconut bliss ice cream, followed by an invite from Thomas and Indigo to Chocolat. There my plans for a glass of wine morphed to include copius sampling of the Chocolate Orgy sampler plate, and then a giggle-filled trip to Herb Room for Chinese curing pills for the inevitable sugar hangover we'd all suffer (well, I am still suffering, apparently, having just a touch of the tireds but lots of energy still).

I was so struck tonight by my love for those two guys. Indigo, three days past his tenth birthday, and Thomas, 43 today. They look more and more alike as Indigo grows. Indigo is so handsome and sweet and kind and I am so excited about seeing how he will be as a pre-teen and later a young man. My heart swelled at moments tonight just feeling so proud to know this kid. And his father, who knows me as well as my closest family and friends do, and sometimes, creepily, knows me better than I do. I marvel at how quickly we recovered from our breakup. I knew he'd be fine, but I had my doubts about myself. I certainly didn't think we'd ever manage to be this close ever again. In so many ways it's as though we never even had our relationship at all. There are times I recall the relationship and think, "Wait, did that really happen?" It was brief and wonderful and not forgettable, but we have so seamlessly settled back into our bestfriendship that I wonder if I dreamed being his lover for a time, and that this was how we've always been.

And just when I decided around 1:00am this morning that the day couldn't get any better and I might as well turn in, I picked up The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein for a little pre-sleep reading, and my waking hours went from fantastic to perfect as I finished reading the last half of this sweetly profound novel. To end this night, finally, with one other favorite thing in my life I haven't yet mentioned, writing, pretty well seals the deal on one of the best weekends of my life. And there's still tomorrow! Singing! Friends! Endless Joy!

God, I'm not missing a minute of this, and I love you for it all!

What's in a teacup?

In December of 2003, I got two Christmas presents that became symbols of that era of my life.

Dave, my partner at the time, after months of me dropping little hints that I wanted an iBook (ok, so stopping at the Mac store window with him, my eyes would lock on the laptop, my hand flying to my heart and a dramatic sigh of infatuation whistling through my teeth wasn't exactly a "little" hint, but I wanted to be really clear about what I wanted), turned to me one evening a few weeks before Christmas and said, exasperated, "Mandie, what do you want more, an iBook, or an engagement ring?" I paused to think, but that was really just for effect. "Ummmm," I stalled, "an iBook?" It was not truly a question. He shook his head, but smiled cryptically. I got the laptop, but he said, "You can only accept this gift as a stand in for an engagement ring." I did think at the time that I would one day marry Dave, but I wasn't ready to say "yes" to a marriage proposal either. And I really wanted the iBook. Not wanting to get bogged down in the details, I simply said, "Ok!" and thanked him profusely, not letting him actually ask the question.


Yeah, so, cat's out of the bag, I wasn't always a woman of integrity.

The other gift I got that year was a glass tea mug. Dave best friend, a drop out from Humboldt (yes becuase of the reason you suspect) had picked up glass etching and made a handsome living by etching hundreds and thousands of mugs with emblems representing such bands as the Grateful Dead, Iron Maiden, and Phish. He also designed his own mugs and sold those, too. He made mugs for both Dave and I that year, "his and her" mugs. Dave's had some ancient looking symbol of masculinity. Mine has a human figure, arms raised above a circle of a head, broad chest narrowing to the waist, which then flare out to substantial hips and nipping in again to a point where toes could be. running from the toe tip is a squiggly line that rises to the midsection and swirls into itself, a spiraled womb nestled in the focal point of the figure. I loved it instantly, almost as much as the iBook. I loved seeing both our mugs together on my kitchen shelf, a symbol of my hope for our future.

These two things were all that survived the relationship, not including me, of course, and that salvation was really only possible by moving to Mexico for six months, a close call if there ever was one. They became tokens of survival. Every time I turned on my laptop or used the mug, I thought, with much satisfaction, "I survived the greatest heartbreak of my life. Nothing can break me."

In September 2007, I bought a new computer and a few months later gave my iBook to Thomas, who could use it for school. There was a bit of releasing I needed to do, some measure of melancholy at letting it go, but I blessed it for the work it had done for me and would now do for Thomas, and hardly thought about it again.

Tonight, after boiling water for tea, I began pouring it into my mug, thinking, "Yup, I'm a momma." Ok not literally, as in I am pregnant right now, but seeing that woman etched into the glass has recently morphed from the survivor mantra it's been for years to confirmation of who I am in the world, a nurturing, caring woman, full and flowing over with love and creativity. Not two seconds into the pour, I heard a clean, sharp crack, and looked down to see water pooling around the bottom of the mug and a crack shimmering from the rim to the mid-bottom of the mug. No, no, no! I though frantically, Not this mug! And swiftly, my wise self replied, "Well, I guess I don't need a mug to remind me who I am anymore, I just know it, through and through."

So, what's in a mug? Just what you need to be in it until you don't anymore, and then it's just glass to be recycled, repurposed, resurrected into some other container for someone else's nourishment. 

I want a beer

There are at least eight beers in my fridge, and I'd been planning all day to drink a beer while updating my blog, but about 15 minutes ago, I forgot all about my buzz plan and brewed myself a cup of tea. The buzz sensation I've been counting on all day is still alluring, but I am occasionally able to stop fighting my better instincts. So my dear beer, my sweet, crisp, raspberry wheat delight, I will drink you tomorrow night after my next long day.

I mean, ahem, full day. A full, rich, and productive day. Oh, it was all that, but fuck it, I didn't enjoy much of my day.

What I really mean is that I had a very long day, touched by serenity for only an hour and half during a great yoga class. God bless the yoga teachers of the world, I could have kissed mine today, she was just what I needed. I actually teared up during savasana.

I've been doing tasky things all day -- skipped church to get it "all" done, something I've done only twice this year while actually in Santa Cruz. I spent the day planning some sessions for student life staff training that starts tomorrow (which leads to move-in, which then brings with it the first six weeks of school crazieness -- namely, a lot of policy violations for me to adjudicate, and my trip to China in mid-October). Also, I did a lot of uncooking (raw food creations and treats) to trade for my voice lesson tomorrow night. I met and gave keys to about half of the Neighborhood Assistants (like RAs) and Community Assistants (they plan programs all year long), which involved a cell phone that rang every few minutes for three hours and the discovery of missing keys and trips to the office. I made breakfast, lunch and dinner, ran three errands, did all my dishes, and picked up the house a little, too.

And at almost every step, I've willed a fog of resentment at bay. I really wanted this to be a calm weekend, my last before the year starts, and I wanted to drink a fucking beer at the end of the day, damnit.

Perhaps I should have gone to church today, or at least prayed. Or at least had that beer.

It doesn't escape me now that feeling resentful that things didn't turn out the way I wanted them to this weekend is privileged state, or more plainly, it's downright bratty. I have a job, one I love, and a wonderful apartment with everything I need to make the food I love. I have a caring boss, talented co-workers, a car and the money to buy groceries and books and pay for yoga classes. I have eyes that see well (ok, with the help of glasses) and I got to watch the Bay on my drive into town this afternoon, that expanse of sapphire all rippled by wind, little white-tipped waves stacked in patterns too regular to seem possible and I took in the way the sunlight seemed filtered by an orange film around seven this evening, the world looking soft and warm and peaceful. I have a body that moves well and is strong and fit. I am, in almost every way, enormously privileged, and I don't take any of my day for granted. And, even when I am not flooded with gratitude for the whole of my life, I know it is a rare and good thing I have going on here. God, please, may I ALWAYS know this.

What I really, truly mean, deep down, is that it's ok to be grateful and disappointed at the same time, these aren't mutually exclusive emotions, and there's no spiritual scorekeeper out there weighing one against the other and calling it a draw. 

I love my life, so, so much, AND I really would have rather spent my day at the beach drinking cold beers and reading a good book.

Oh, technology! *Sigh*

This is a test post, please ignore...

On getting lost

There are long stretches when I run that feel like meditation, or at least there are minutes of calm that get strung along as my feet beat a rhythm into the trail. I find this so addictive, this quieting of my full mind, that brings me back to running again and again.

If you had told me three years ago those words would ever apply to me I would have had a good long laugh. Three years ago I weighed 222 pounds and told anyone who'd listen that I would never run. I was active and healthy and happy and fat, and I would never be a runner. I knew this like I knew I'd never be a man. And yet...

Today, on one of my rare nods to my half-marathon training, I was in this blissed out state on an 8 mile run when I decided, on a whim, to take a finger trail I've always run past in favor for the trail I know. Before today, each time I sail past it, I've thought I'm gonna take that someday. Today, I just didn't have an excuse not to. No work to get to, or friend to hang out with, so to the left I went. My heart began beating a bit faster and anxiety rose up in my throat, as my body anticipated something new and unknown. Quickly, like the new and unknown always does to me, the nervousness slid into thrill.

There's something so alluring about adventure, even a little one like this, and I glanced around, taking in the redwoods and maples and oaks sifting sunlight like sugar on a cake that I'd never run past, the soft, green fern fingers that had never tickled my calves, the poison oak vines with their ominous jaggeded-edged leaves jumped over for the first time, the pebbles that had never scurried away under my footfalls, and I felt taken in by it all. The whole trail saying, "Hello, there, new runner! We're glad to have you here."

A few minutes later, I had a choice of three trails to continue on and all were basically the same size, and seemed to go in the same general direction, away from where I wanted to go. Uh-oh. Maybe I should have just stuck to what I know. I groaned audibly with that thought. How many times have we all had this thought? How much time have I spent in regret and wishing I could go back and make the right decision, the one that wouldn't waste time or divert me from where I thought it was I wanted to go. Why do I so often doubt that taking a risk is worth it and why do I suspect I've fucked up at the first sign of not knowing for sure?

I could have doubled back and returned to my well-trodden path. I could have, but I so resented my insecure self dominating the unsureness of the moment that I rebelled, and headed off on the trail closest to my general destination with a deep inhale and a rush of faith. I repeated this being lost and finding my way scene two more times before rounding a hill and seeing the Westside of campus, where my new home holds watch on the southern edge, each time with less worry and more assuredness.

And isn't this how it always is when we're finding our way? For every risk I've taken -- moving to Mexico without a job, friends, or a place to live, traveling without more than a list of places I'd like to visit, the LONG process of giving up atheist-infused agnosticism for a god I now treasure, taking voice lessons in order to prepare for soloing with my choir, letting Thomas move in a few weeks after we started a relationship (which didn't work out the way I thought I wanted, but the way I needed), losing 70 plus pounds -- there has been those "What the hell did I do?" moments, followed by achy indecision and thoughts of imminent failure, all eventually eased and the moment of triumph resurrected by taking the next step, by just deciding this WILL work and I don't need to know HOW.

And all I meant to do was get in a long run so I could say I'm prepping for my half marathon. 

See?

I said in my profile I'd probabaly not keep this up,a nd my last blog entry was... nearly a year and a half ago.

Let's bring you up to speed: Thomas and I did give a relationship a shot. It was a great, short-lived love affair, before which we'd decided he and his son would become my roommates. We went through with this crazy plan, broke up after 4 months, and managed to recoup the sweetness we had prior to the relationship adventure. He ended up living with me for another nine months, and we may be the only successful case of exes living together in history.

Five or six very painful and sad weeks after Thomas and I broke up, I ran into a man in the natural vitamin/health store I recognized form church. We spoke, though I think we both wanted to tear each other's clothes off and make love right there between the soap and probiotics, but it being public and all, and his son being with him (yup, another white guy with a son!), and apparently a female friend (really, just a friend) -- though she'd been invisible to me, we meandered through the sexual tension with forced small talk, until I excused myself to wallow in confusion about being attracted to this man while being heartbroken over Thomas. Then it occurred to me, "Oh! I'm so less in pain about breaking up with Thomas in the last week or so."

New's Years Eve, three weeks after our charged encounter at the store, this man and I had our first date. Looking back on that date, I was awesome (yes, "I"), and he was distracted, and if I'd not made excuses for him that night, I probably wouldn't have spent 6 months trying to fit myself into the tight space he might allow a woman to occupy in his life. He's a good man, and sweet at his core, a great father and a skilled lover, just unavailable for the kind of relationship I'm looking for. We're working on being friends, the biggest (though not impossible) challenge to which is the intense, at times, sexual chemistry that still sizzles when he's around.

I simply WILL NOT do a friends with benefits arrangement. I'm too busy manifesting the love of my life to be distracted by that type of entanglement.

One may conclude, at this point, that my life has revolved around these men in the last 17 months, and well, it has.

This summer, there's been one man I've gone on a few dates with, but the night he pulled a visor with a fake hair velcro attachment on his head, which looked kind of like a ratty old beaver, and drew compliments from the street kids, I pretty much knew it wasn't going to work. I think he gets it at this point, but in fairness, I need to make the time to be explicit. So, I made plans for beers this week with him! This is one thing straight men complain about women, isn't it? That we jerk guys around and string them along. Honestly, I don't mean to. It's just that being upfront about what I'm feeling with men doesn't come naturally to me AT ALL. I'm working on it. I swear.

The BIG news this summer is actually on the job/home front. After working for four years at Cowell College at UCSC, I finally (FINALLY!) had my four-year-old wish granted and have transferred back to MY college, Oakes. The one I graduated from, the one where I first began grappling with my identities, especially as a white person. Being here changed everything. I taught after college because of what happened here. And, in part, I'm back here, working in residential life because of my time here.

I'm also deeply grateful for my apartment, which is a huge improvement on my old one -- I've got ocean views form every room, a yard, a garbage disposal, a dishwasher, and a gas stove -- none of which I had at Cowell. I've been here two weeks, and I still get teary eyed thinking about the luck of it, and, on a blue note, the sacrifices that were made by someone I love and respect so that I could be here. I am profoundly appreciative for this opportunity.

Of course, much more exciting living has been squeezed out of the last 17 months, but what I want to end with is this: I am going to keep up this blog weekly. My friend LeTa, and I have committed to meeting once a week for an hour to update our blogs. Apparently, if I want to get my writing "out there" a blog is the easiest way to do it.

So here I am, for reals now, people. No more hiding. No more excuses.