6

The number is 6.

6: the number of gnats resting (and puking and pooping and sneezing and farting and eating and fornicating no doubt) on my toothbrush this morning

6: the number of cans of Raid that have been discharged in my kitchen in just the last month

6: the number of houses for sale that I gazed sadly at today thinking, "they probably don't have gnats in there"

6: the current number of ways I can think of to kill myself if this bug situation does not reach a speedy resolution

The post below was supposed to have been posted May 17. You'll notice that it is now June 7 and I'll have you know. . . the situation has grown even more dire. Imagine, for a moment, that it is mid-May and unusually cool in Saint Louis.

Gnats 2.0

Seriously?!

Seriously.

Not only have they returned, but I'm not entirely sure they ever left.

It is only May. 4 long, hot months are staring back at me. Laughing. Knowing that they've already won and that I will resign myself, once again, to living in a gnat infested house.

We've added a dog and a 12 year old since the last round. Maybe we are ready for a more brutal fight now.

Or maybe I'm even more exhausted and will give up before the fight even starts.

It remains to be seen.


Now.

Imagine that it is June and the temperature threatens to reach 100 degrees before summer even officially begins. Think about the sweat that pools in every crease and crevice of your body (I'll spare you the gruesome details). It's hot. Like, really hot.

Imagine that there is a swarm of gnats not only near the garbage can or fruit (which is, of course, no longer kept on the counter. We've even eliminated the counter-kept bananas from our diet, resulting in dangerously low levels of potassium and a pervasive crankiness) but in the shower, at the kitchen table, and even, sadly, in your bedroom.

Imagine now that you have just cracked open yet another can of Raid and hosed down the kitchen and you are wondering just how serious they are about this being bad for animals and small humans.

Imagine that you have embraced serenity to such an extent that you sigh and call the exterminator AGAIN without even considering putting your head in the oven or changing zip codes.

If you made it through that last bit you are a far more evolved human than I.

We've called the exterminator. We've sprayed every inch of the house with a potpourri of chemicals. I've filled tiny dishes with vinegar, poured ammonia down the drains, stopped eating bananas, scoured every surface.

I'm exhausted.

I've even tried to accept the little f*$@ers and come to some peace with their presence.

I've tried. I really have. But no.

Things have gotten worse.

At the risk of sounding a bit whiny or (gasp) self-centered and pitiful, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend.



Yep. We've added a brown recluse invasion to the wonders of our home. Thus far we've killed two in the hallway, one in Jordan's room, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, and one in the bedroom shortly after it dismounted my leg.

Yes. My LEG!! Because I apparently was not having enough trouble with the gnats and the heat. I also had to be assaulted - ok fine, threatened - by a poisonous spider. In my bed.

No, it didn't bite me. Yes, I'm fine albeit a bit dramatic.

I will typically carry my burdens with a smile. I will be that enlightened individual who sighs, breathes, and picks up the phone, nonplussed. I might even chuckle.

Most days.

But that spider scurrying up my leg was my complete and total undoing. I cracked. I sobbed. Not because I was afraid of the spider (puhleeze) but because it was suddenly all just too much.

And so I whined and whimpered and cried.

And now I rant.

And hope for your sympathy and pest control tips.

So what shall I do?

Evacuate? Bomb it? Do a special chant/dance combo at midnight under a full moon? sacrifice one of the children?

I'm open to suggestions. However outlandish. Because, seriously, something's gotta give.

P.S. Please don't call DFS . . . I promise that it is an otherwise lovely, healthy home.

There is only us.

A few weeks ago, I had the incredible privilege of hearing Father Gregory Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries, speak here in St Louis. His talk focused on creating a sense of kinship and mutuality. He pointed to the lyrics of O Holy Night - "Long lay the world in sin and error pining. Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth." And that's it - in kinship and mutuality, our spirits/souls feel their worth. I don't think it a mistake that the song later cries "Fall on your knees! O hear, the angel voices" for there is no more humbling, awe-some experience than meeting another in the beauty of our creation, our humanity.

If you are willing to stand in the margins, be present on the edges, and connect, you will find there is a mutuality there, a beauty that cannot be described. There is no us and them, there is only us.

There are moments that leave you crying on a classroom floor, watching as two devastated young people walk back to the hotel where they are living hand in hand, the despair on a young woman's face as she sits abandonned in a condemned apartment, the humility that you find at the laundromat later that night. These are scenes that move me, wake me, remind me. The moments when I see God in the margins, in the alleys, and on the faces of those who so many would rather turn away. To love them when they cannot/do not love themselves. The stories told with their lives are stories of disconnect and separation.

Whether it is drugs, alcohol, crime, violence, victimization or the age old story of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, there is a hopelessness that descends on us when we disconnect. When we begin to see that vast expanse between you and me, we lose something of our soul's worth. We lose something of this 'us', of this mutuality and kinship.

I am tasked each day with connecting. My job description is filled with tasks, responsibilities, roles. But really, what I get to do is connect. Sure, I could do my job without such connection. I could provide services, facilitate training, write case notes and manage programs. But I would be missing out. I have no interest in seeing where this "population I serve" is so different than me, but where I see my own heart break. Where we become one in this humanity. Where we connect with the divine in our suffering and in our love. To use Father G's words: "I defy you to identify who is the service provider and who is the recipient."

Each day, I encounter incredible strength and courage, I sit with crushing despair and shame, I draw open eyes that have been so long down turned. And I am connected. There is only us and there is a sense that we belong to one another.

My soul feels its worth.

Where do you feel your soul's worth?

What does kinship mean in your life? How do you come together and belong to one another?

This passion drives me. This work (can I call it that?) shapes me. And I continue to dream of this kinship and connection. Inspired daily by others who feel it and also dream of creating communities where each soul knows its worth. Where each one is valued and served by another. Where together we create opportunities for restoration and education and compassion. Boundless compassion.


I'm starting the book this afternoon. I hope you'll consider reading along.







Here is a glimpse at what Father Boyle is doing out there in California. What might we do here?

Up and coming . . .

I have 4 rather lengthy posts started. They've been started for weeks and yet they are still unfinished.

It is Memorial Day and there is a lovely breeze through the kitchen. I sit here typing, thinking that I am long overdue to post something and I mess around with those 4 other posts but still, they are just rambling half sentences and connections that float only in my mind.

I thought that maybe I would sit and write, check some things off the list, create a few spreadsheets, send a few emails, update the blog, reeeallly get some stuff done, ya know?

Sitting here in the breeze though. . . .I think maybe not so much.

I think maybe I'll go for a walk instead and take a few deep breaths and squeeze my babies and laugh just a little too loud at nothing in particular. And try to live fully for today. Its a rinse and repeat kind of deal. Each morning I start over. Each day calls for a new kind of peace. A new kind of presence. One intended, created, insisted upon for that very day. This morning. . . .this morning draws me away from the computer, away from the lists and into my children's arms and the freedom of the breeze.

with a nod to Ghandi

Be the change we wish to see.
Live lives that change the world.
Seek out words that change our lives.

Words shape us, create us, uncover us. The right words put voice to things we've felt and seen but have been unable to express. They inspire, educate, destroy, and rebuild.

"speak only words that make souls stronger"

"And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

"No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it."

"There are no wrong roads to Anywhere"

"Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world."

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"I don't really know what kind of girl I am."

"Don't let the ceiling fall on your head"

"Well-behaved women rarely make history"

"You should probably sign up for the vocational training program."

"I filed for divorce today."

"Grace is sufficient for today"

"I'm enough."

"Grant me the serenity"

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

"This is holy ground."

"I love you."

"Today, courage says Stand there and tremble. You will not fall."

"You are the deepest wisdom and the highest truth; the greatest peace and the grandest love. You are these things. And in moments of your life you have known yourself as these things. Choose now to know yourself as these things always."

"There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year."

and it goes on and on and on. I'm reminded of thirsty horses, a longing for the sea, and the many many other words that have so deeply affected me.

And I wander around the ways that I carry those words with me still. The marks they've left on my life, my soul, my world. Words just marked on a page. And then there is the way that ink impresses a page, impresses my heart. And then there is the way that ink and stitches and staples and scars impress my flesh. And then it all starts to come together.

And I remember this website.

There isn't enough flesh to capture all the words that matter. I'm anxious trying to distill the richest experiences into a handful of magic syllables. They write our stories, shape and create the spaces we inhabit, the changes that we seek. Maybe it is just the letters. The building blocks. The simple and sublime that gives us the eyes and hearts to imagine change.

"Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded" or so says Virginia Woolf. We are changing. The beauty, the magic, the pain, the fear, the urgency, the passion, the complacency. It is happening.

How will you record it?

Project-ion

Ok well, just a project, really. But adding -ion makes it so much smarter somehow. Imagine all the fun we could have here with notions of projection. But we won't because this is just a project, really.

A happiness project.

If you aren't familiar with Gretchen Rubin's book might I suggest that you hurry to the bookstore RIGHT now and buy it?

I'll wait.









Now that you've got the book, please proceed to her website. Bask. Browse. Dig in.

In addition to great quotes and tips and even Gretchen's 12 personal commandments (which I love) you'll find a lot of talk about these Happiness Project Groups. Sounds delightful doesn't it?

The trouble is . . . there isn't one in Missouri and that is where I currently reside. As if I weren't already stretched wafer thin - I am actually considering what it might be like to start a happiness project group here.

It might be something that my souls needs.

It might be something others need.

What if we met on Monday nights during my Connect group at CtS? What if this were a way to bring inspired, lovely people together in a new way?

Other communities and relationships that I've sought to build over the years have failed and failed again. Maybe because I was joining something and I'm not a joiner. Maybe because our intentions were fundamentally different. Maybe because they served a very specific, short-term purpose.

But this might be just the thing.

I have to tell you - there was a moment a few paragraphs back when my stomach started to feel a bit odd and I started smiling at the computer screen. I think I have to do this.

I think I may have already sent an email requesting the starter kit.

I think I might already feel a little glowy and squirmy.

This might be just what I need.

Blog Berserk

So this blog is apparently going berserk. There was a post sent by feedburner the other day that was more than a year old. This morning the post about girls is gone without a trace. I've reposted it but all the comments were lost. If you would like to repost your comments I'd love it!

I will likely be moving to a new service since we've lost access to that feedburner account. Can't remember the password or the answer to the secret question. Believe me. . . we've tried everything. I'll post again in a few days after we've sorted out the confusion and I'll let you know how to proceed.

Thanks for reading!

The psychology of our girls

At the end of The Breakfast Club, Molly Ringwald kisses Judd Nelsen. Why? Because he's a complete dick to her the entire day. And she's a girl. And that, apparently, is what we do.

After all, The Game sat comfortably at #1 on Amazon after its release and enjoyed a spot on the New York Times bestseller list. Strauss provides sage advice how to pick up women, including tips such as: pretend you don't notice her, insult her, and alternate between attraction and disinterest. A recent article in Psychology Today cites research that points at girls' intelligence as liability and almost deterrent to courage, perseverance, and self confidence. It asks "What makes smart girls more vulnerable, and less confident, when they should be the most confident kids in the room?"

My question exactly. In fact, this post started before I'd read that article and started something like this:

Why would a 6 year old be afraid to say NO to an unwanted kiss? Why would she be reticent to let mom say anything to the offender? Why does she throw up her hands and cry because she can't do something? And why does she run to her bed and collapse when she isn't able to force something into the shape she had planned?

Why has her mom lived much of her life saying and doing these very same things? Why do women across America compare their insides with other people's outsides? An interminable comparison happening behind mascara and lip gloss, sunglasses and sweat pants. Why are we so taken with what everyone else is saying and doing?

Through some magic combination of forces seen and unseen, we become fearful and small. We rely on Judd Nelsen to tell us that we really exist. And then we insist on proving to him just how special we are even though we are sure he is right to mistreat us. Our self abuse far outweighs that of the pick up artist and the jerk.

But why?

Because we fear that what is inherent in us isn't quite enough.

Because we fear that our brilliance is happened upon and in short supply.

Because we fear that we forgot to get in line for our share of courage.

Because we fear.

The walls that we build to protect us become our most certain cages. We are isolated and stuck. We are afraid to be uncovered, to stretch, to be ourselves.

And as we learn to extend a hand, to find our voice, we tremble and wobble and fall back into our silence because it is all just too much. And after all - we aren't really enough. Are we?

What power lies in the truth? What liberation might be just a few feet further? What if today, courage says "Stand there and tremble. You won't fall." What if today you act "as if" and can close your eyes and feel full and whole and worthy?

The truth is that we are powerful beyond measure. The truth is that we are enough. Say it over and over again, whisper it to the wind, scream into the sunlight and mumble it to yourself as you fall asleep each night.

You are enough.
I am enough.

So how do we teach our girls these lessons before they are crippled by self-doubt, self-loathing, insecurity and fear? Is it simply to change the praise that we offer? I doubt it. Do we have to descend into the dark to find the strength to step fully into ourselves, to discover our own courage? Does the realization of that rich, full brand of freedom have to be a phoenix process, a death and rebirth? Or can we become girls early on that do not thrive on the mistreatment of others to define, challenge, inspire or dishearten us?

How do we create a new kind of Molly Ringwald and let go, finally, of our self-deprecating romanticism and allegiance to the John Hughes and Neil Strauss manipulations of our time?

I can't say that I have the answer. I am definitely asking the questions though. Join me?

Leftovers

This, apparently, is what it means to put away the leftovers in my house.

And yes, I am aware that I am the parent and thereby responsible for teaching the smaller people these skills, but seriously. After 12 years of watching separate items go into separate Tupperware containers, receive lids and then get stacked neatly in the fridge wouldn't you think he'd have a pretty good idea of the expectation?

In case you are wondering, that is a hard boiled egg, some chicken fries and a few pizza rolls.

You may now criticize the quality of the dinner that the child was served and question the nutritional value that was provided while judging me, quietly, a lousy parent. You may suggest that if his body were fed more nutritional items his mind would be stronger and healthier, he'd be able to think clearly and reason things out. He'd know not to dump all leftover items in a single container before slinging it, uncovered, into the fridge.

You may be right. But probably aren't.

A post in which I do reference Danzig

Okay, so maybe Danzig is the whole post.

Mother (in which I do not reference Danzig)

I watched Juno again Saturday evening and it struck me as poignant and wonderful as the first time I watched it. Many would agree that it is a great film that treats a sensitive subject with an element of humor and respect that is often hard to find. It is more than that for me, though. This movie has a profound impact on me each time I watch it. I experience some strange combination of every known emotion and I'm exhausted as the end credits roll. I need a few minutes to myself.

I too was a cautionary whale. A swollen, sassy, quirky but wonderful pregnant teenager.

Juno tells a part of my story that many of you do not know. You may know some of the facts of my teenage pregnancy. You may be able to do the math and, knowing that my 30th birthday is upon us and Jordan is already 12, put 17 and 12 together. But the moments that none of you could have experienced with us, the moments that shaped me, as a woman and as a mother were often too private, too lonely, too fleeting to have shared.

My story is admittedly a bit different from Juno's. I didn't consider abortion. I didn't give my baby up for adoption. I didn't return to a normal teenage life at the end of the show.

Jordan watched part of the movie with me Saturday and at one point as Juno shoves her belly down the crowded high school hallway he said, "Wow. It must be really scary to be a teenager and pregnant and like still have to go to school and have everyone look at you". I just looked at him and said, "Yeah. It is really is."

And I am reminded that only certain people know that particular fear. That particular trauma. That particular courage. The mark that that long walk down the hallway leaves deep within you. The mother that you become in those moments and the hundreds that follow.

I once read an essay called "You're Just Not the Type" about a young, lesbian, feminist, rocker who became a teenage mother. She wasn't the type to become that most dreaded statistic - teenage mother. Maybe she wasn't.

Neither was I.

And yet, here I sit, typing away as my twelfth Mother's Day draws to a close. And I carefully examine just how far we've come.

There is a beauty in the life I chose that others cannot see. There is a heartbreak and ache in remembering the fear, the uncertainty, the shame, and the determination to make it.

We've more than made it. My boy has just 20 days of 6th grade left. I am no longer a teenager. Though I will always be a mother. And I watch from the kitchen window, scrubbing dinner dishes, responding to texts from clients, and smiling at that baby boy, riding his bike, laughing and growing, just this very moment, into an incredible young man.

Even those who love us most cannot know what it was like to walk through those days. To sit behind the steering wheel crying and screaming and then soothing that giant belly that thumped and flipped and ached. Whispering "you and me, kid" long into the darkest nights.

And so Mother's Day is a strange day for me. I listen to my babies snore, I kiss their aging cheeks and I can't not reflect on what this motherhood means. There is a carefully carved place, a rich, private history of my becoming. This love of mine, this story of ours.

As it turns out, I am just the type.

In the event that you find yourself without a radio . . .

Honda is dedicated to protecting its drivers. I appreciate this. I appreciate the various safety features that come standard in our Element. I even appreciate that they don't interfere with the rather spartan attitude of the vehicle. I do not, however, appreciate that anytime the battery is changed or drained - you need a super secret special code to make your radio function.

There are other things I don't like about the Element. I don't like that small items in the trunk slide under the seats and wind up in the front. I don't like that it sat in the driveway for 6 months in desperate need of brakes. But generally, yay Element. So I was generally pleased when I was forced to get new brakes earlier this week after the Blazer once again thumbed its nose at us and left me, the kids, 14 bags, a vacuum, and some snacks, sitting awkwardly, forlornly even, in the driveway. And there the Blazer still sits. Defiant. Mysterious. Not starting. The kids and I, eventually, disembarked and started in on our next great vehicular adventure.

Element brakes do not, despite Honda's best efforts, magically appear when summoned. (They're working on it, though). So it took a few days and more than a few hundred dollars to get the Element in tip top shape again. And I was excited to retrieve it from AutoTire, knowing that not only would it be actually take us where we needed to go but it would now be ever so much safer to drive since it actually has functioning brakes and properly aligned alignment. Jordan and I really shouldn't be allowed in retail or repair establishments without supervision. He sprayed Axe on me, I laughed when I should have parented, we babbled and quirked all over poor AutoTire man who was all too pleased to offer me the keys and direct me to the parking lot where the Element awaited us.

We were so ready for the windows down, music up, carefree spring afternoon that makes having an operable vehicle so much fun. Windows down. Radio . . . wait a minute. All it says is "CODE" and then silence.

"CODE" seems rather demanding. Especially when I don't have the "CODE". And I'm much too busy of a woman to spend days on the phone with Honda or in the occult Honda Element Owners' Club chat rooms trying to figure it out.

So we drove in silence.

Well.

Maybe not silence.

We were forced to sing.

Okay, I was forced to sing.

Jordan was forced to slouch in his seat, praying we didn't stop at a red light next to the super cute blond girl from his science class or anyone else he has ever or might ever meet.

But it didn't take long before I drew a complete blank. What else could I sing? I'd already exhausted my collection of Queen, Cake, Hole, The Beatles, some Jan and Dean, Lady Gaga and yes, even Miley Cyrus.

What choice did I have but to resort to camp songs? Jordan was no help at all. I gave him the microphone/soda bottle but he just stared blankly at me.

So I started singing this shark attack song that he learned at 5th grade camp. I thought, "sure! this'll be fun! He'll love it! This is right up his alley!I'm such a cool mom!"

Did I mention that Jordan turned 12 recently?

12 is a very cool age.

A very NOT shark attack song from 5th grade camp with my mom - age.

And again, he stares.

But then to my dismay I realize - I can't remember how the song goes!

And thus began my relentless mental pursuit of this song. I drove this very secure and owner-loving Honda around for more than 3 days trying to remember the words and tune to this ridiculous song! And it isn't even a very good song. Sedona was a real sport. We spent the 10 minutes to and from school every day trying different tunes, arguing about the order of events, even deciding at one point that we should call the 5th grade camp counselor and see if he could help us.

As we left the China Buffet one evening, we got it! Sedona and I lined the pieces up and sang pitch perfect shark attack magic. Ahh sweet satisfaction. Jordan, of course, was thrilled and said something like, "cool, mom" (roll eyes here).

So in the event that you find yourself without a radio. . . . . call a friend, practice quiet mindfulness, employ your phone's Pandora app, enjoy the silence but do not under any circumstances allow yourself to become singularly obsessed with the lyrics, motions or tune of a camp song.

And for your viewing/listening pleasure . . . Jordan (who was NOT paid to do this) joins Sedona in singing/signing "Shark Attack".

Who knew?

As it turns out. . if you fancy becoming a writer and dream silly little dreams of calling yourself a writer and maybe even having more than one slightly unflattering pair of glasses. . .you have to actually write something. Who knew?

I'm reading a fantastic book by Ariel Gore and even she suggests that writing things (other than manuals for your employer)is the first step in becoming a writer. So on that authority, I rejoin my 3-7 followers on this little adventure in blogging.

I'm exploring other blog platforms and toying with a separate, more sophisticated blog (read: not one that is all about the kids and the gnats and the silliness). You know, one that will tackle the tough issues, that will discuss politics, religion, sex, and the abhorred fashion/diet trends. Where else can I pontificate about NKOTBSB and the Israeli conflict?

Or maybe I should stick to what I know. And what I know is that this moment is a gift. There are but joyful tasks at hand. There is gratitude and grace flooding in and I'm struggling to capture it in all its glory. Animals rubbing their faces with their paws and yawning ever so delightfully that I almost want to die. Babies snoring in messy rooms. Calm settling on a joyfull home. These are the ridiculous amazing moments that I know.

And so I find my way back here and I have notes all over the place about things I'd like to write. Things I'd like to share. Things I'd like for you to laugh at and retell. Things I'd like for you to pay me for having said. Well, laugh anyway and smile and revel in that moment of joy that you find yourself about to miss.