Shoes is a funny word

Ode to Sam at Two Years Old

2011-09-28T04:37:00.002+01:00

My little boy is two!! Whew! When did he grow up so much?!! Ever since we landed in Asheville four months ago, he has been growing and changing non-stop and his personality has become so vividly apparent. I'm left sitting there in awe most days just observing who he has and is becoming and how amazingly fast he is becoming it. There's no trace of baby left in this smart, loving, silly, active, social, and talkative little being, except for maybe the bottles he requests at night when his molars are hurting him (he asks for "baby bottle, with almond milk," self-aware that he is not a baby, but wants something they use nonetheless). Aside from the genius of being out of diapers, counting to 10 and knowing all of his shapes and colors (with seriously next to no teaching from us) and being able to express himself so clearly, what astounds me the most is how much Sam has become Sam and what a full personality he suddenly has. When did that happen? And how?!! It must be a special kind of magic. I'm entranced by it.

Here's an example of what I'm talking about. In August, we were at the farm having a candle-lit dinner in the formal dining room. Sam was invited, just this once, to join the table. At first he did his usual -- quiet, fascinated observation -- but when he felt a lull in the lively conversation between adults, he piped up with his biggest sentence yet, one he had been practicing since before our trip (based on his remembrance of an unpleasant event when we visited in June), "No step in cow poop." Miles and I stifled our guffaws and no one else heard, so Sam repeated this again two more times, hoping to join the conversation and receive a reaction as he witnessed happening around him. What was so amazing to me was to see his intense desire to converse; to share the best of what he could verbalize; to be an equal part of what was happening around him. It's what we all want, but it floored me to see this in my little boy, who only two months before began to verbalize at all and who I never realized had such an urge to socialize.

And another. Sam has very, VERY, specific likes and dislikes. He likes to swing, loves it, but only in a very precise way. "Two hands, pull. Way high." He will not allow anything but us pulling him, from the front, with two hands, as high as we can reach. He does not like to be dirty and asks for a napkin when any food gets on his hands or face or a towel when he gets dirt or sand on him (the sandbox is a fun one for us!). He enjoys rolling around in the muddy grass but then cries when he sees the mess and demands new clothes. He also likes the house to be clean and has been known to order me and others to sweep, vacuum, dust, and even clean the tiles in the shower. He also tells me when to cut my fingernails and Miles when to shave, but good lord, when it's time to cut his nails or wash his hair!! That he does NOT like. He likes, no LOVES, raisins, which he calls "widdies" and knows that he asks for them too much because he now screws his face up into this ridiculously cute grin, eyes sparkling, and voice pitched just right when requesting them in succession with the other things he knows I don't just dole out all day, "Widdies? Canberries? Apricox? Bubas?" Oh, and buba (blueberry) is the same word he uses for boogers, something he loves to dig out of his nose and also make jokes about. Yes, jokes, already. He has a keen sense of humor and cracks himself up often coming up with some pretty gross ideas of what to do with bubas and other bodily things. And his sense of imagination... that too is suddenly here. He rides around on his little red truck and then comes up to me and offers me "ice ceam and cupcakes" from the hatch; he talks about big digger trucks (he LOVES trucks) picking up haybales and spinning them into giant meatballs; and he plays pretend so elaborately with his bunny "Hop Hop" and other animals and babydoll -- I once saw him teaching Hop Hop how to cook dinner and then wash the dishes, and then later saw him stirring Hop Hop in the stew pot!

And here's another. On Labor Day, we went to a restaurant that was celebrating with a new twist -- giving pregnant mamas free meals and the opportunity to win raffle prizes. When my number was called and I collected my bounty (a basket of woolens and organic diapers), Sam pulled a pair of red wool pants out of the basket and held them up to my tummy. "Baby out," he said emphatically. "Now." He wanted to put the pants on the baby right then! Since then, this has become a regular demand from him spoken directly to my belly and I believe him. He wants this baby to come. Now. There are many things he wants the baby to do and he tells my belly so (along with giving it loving kisses and amazingly gentle rubs -- "baby like that," he tells me). But how can he be so sure? How can he even know what a baby is, let alone that there is one inside of me that is going to come out? He gets it, I know he does. But how?

The best example, the one that melts me to a puddle, is when, seemingly out of nowhere, he looks at me with those huge brown eyes, so filled with love, and then puckers up his lips and reaches out his arms for an "ug and ix" or sometimes for "lots of ixes" covering my face with a score of the sweetest little kisses. Until last week, he has been calling himself "Ham" or "Hammy" (couldn't say the "s" sound) and my favorite sentence to date and probably forever is, "Ham lubs mommy." Tonight, after his bath he gave me the best squeeze of a hug and nibbled on my arm saying, "Sam eat mommy up." Oh my. Let the magic never end!

Two Years Around the Sun (and 24 moons)

2011-09-28T03:07:00.017+01:00

Sam on his birthday throne...

Sam's big gift, from Poppi and Kiki (a little too tall for him to ride yet, but he still enjoys taking it for walks around the neighborhood!)

Helping me bake his birthday cupcakes...

...preparation really is a joyful part of celebration...

...especially when you get to lick the spoon!

For his party with his friends, we sailed boats in the creek...

They loved to see their boats go over the "rapids" and we loved watching their glee...

Sam also loved eating his cupcakes... in his birthday suit! (he didn't like when his bathing suit got wet!)

His friends enjoyed them too...

And they didn't seem to mind that he didn't share the picnic blanket...

A little "bump" in our plans

2011-07-19T05:51:00.006+01:00

I always knew I wanted to have at least two children -- being an only was often lonely, but after Sam entered and consumed our lives, the reality of this was very hard to picture. How could we possibly manage another child? When would we sleep? When would I write? How could we afford it? How would we ever manage to have a conversation, let alone a date? And, most importantly, how could I possibly share my heart with another little being when Samuel had the whole thing, part and parcel? The thought would bring tears to my eyes. I wasn't ready. But, I hoped that eventually once we were settled in our new life in Asheville, I finished up some writing projects, and Sam was more self-sufficient that everything would fall into place and I would be ready for another child.

But life is a force of its own and despite our "family planning" one day in the shower I realized that my body looked a little different... and a lot like it had when I was first pregnant with Sam. Instantly, I knew I was pregnant. I got dressed, checked the calendar to confirm then put Sam into his buggy and took a brisk walk in the cool February air... to the shoe repair store of all places. I had several pairs of shoes and boots for myself, Sam, and Miles that had all needed new soles, straps, or heels and they were ready to be picked up. The symbolism of this didn't occur to me at the time, but how perfect? Our family of three had some major hiking ahead on new terrain! We were soon to be four.

As I headed home with our spiffed-up walking shoes, my previous worries were just that: previous. I turned my focus to the trail ahead. I knew it would be steep at times, especially with our impending move and Sam's impending two's, but I also found solace in the fact that while I hadn't planned this precise course, this new life in me had, which meant we had a guide. I just needed to trust this little guide and everything would work out.

When I told Miles he laughed and said, "And so our enormous family begins!" And when I explained to Sam that there was a baby growing in my belly as he had done before he was born, he seemed to get it. He put his head on my belly right then and then kept doing it several times a day and even in the middle of the night, saying "bebe." I think he and his little sibling were in cahoots to be as close in age as possible. It seemed to me he called this one in.

At almost 7 months pregnant with the bulk of our move behind us, I'm feeling pretty good. I love to feel this baby wiggle and kick, as it has been doing almost constantly since 12 weeks (I felt the first movements when I was at the Bonderman working on my play -- being pregnant by no means slowed me down then). Already I can tell this is a very different person than Sam. I think this one will be willful and certainly energetic, but I also think he or she will be able to go with the flow a bit more -- they've been pretty good at it so far! I confess that this pregnancy has not been first and foremost in my attention... maybe the baby kicks so much to remind me it's there! I'm grateful for the reminders-- each time I feel them I also feel my heart expand more. Funny to think I wasn't sure it would be big enough to love both Sam and another baby... pregnancy certainly takes care of that.

Actually, I learned that a mother's heart physically grows during pregnancy. It's true. It has to pump so much blood that it increases noticeably in size. Isn't life wondrous?

Thank you, Seattle

2011-04-28T20:44:00.006+01:00

Thank you for your pear blossoms, especially the ones that fill up our entire picture window and shower us with white petals when we go to get the mail or take Sam for a misty buggy ride. This year I will miss watching as they turn from small buds into tiny fruit and then I will miss comparing the swell of my belly with swell of the pears, both of us becoming ripe at the same time. Sam was born when the pears were just about to fall from the trees. His little brother or sister will be born when they have either been mostly picked or fallen to the ground. I hope the next tenants here find the same joy in them that we did. I hope they risk life and death hanging over the rooftop to get the juiciest ones. I hope their toddler finds them on the ground and takes a bite out of each one. I hope their friends come over to help peel, boil, and can them. I hope they make pear butter and pear jam and pear cake with pear sauce. I hope they make up new and strange recipes so that they can savor every last pear, even in the middle of winter when the blossoms are long gone.

Thank you, Seattle, for such a variety of blossoms all the year round. Thank you for grass that is always green. For air that is so fresh I can smell the snow on the mountains hundreds of miles away.

Thank you for city-wide composting. For people who love nature to the point of obsession. For hills so steep I had to give up bike riding (while the obsessed athletic types buy bikes without gears and torture themselves in all weather on the steepest of hills).

Thank you for more parks within walking distance than we can visit in a month (and we go every single day). For a plethora of hiking trails within the city. For waterfalls and rain forests and islands and volcanoes just a short drive away.

Thank you for awesome, fresh, organic, vegetarian and gluten-free food. For the best apples I've ever eaten. And the best donuts too. For the plentiful farmer's markets in every neighborhood, one on every day of the week.

Thank you for friends, for community. For a tribe of beautiful people who are sending us so lovingly on our way, celebrating with us and helping us pack and clean and watch Sam so we can make this move happen.

Thank you for sisterhood; for a circle of women who have shared deeply of themselves and invited me to share too.

Thank you for stories and for fairytales; for my Waldorf Teacher Training and for a circle of girls who helped me rediscover the deep well from which I have to write and create.

Thank you for introducing us to Waldorf Education and to Anthroposophy. This has forever changed the course of our lives, giving us rich meaning and new understanding into the gift of life and how we want to care for that gift.

Thank you for making us parents. In Chicago, we knew that we wanted to become parents someday but we couldn't figure out how to get from A to B. Just three months after arriving in Seattle, we were happily on our way to B, the path well-lit and lined with helpful guides.

Thank you for the rain; for teaching my son about puddles and helping me get over the idea that you have to stay inside when it's wet or dreary.

Thank you for helping me to finally breathe. To find my singing voice again. To open my heart wide.

Thank you for weathering me like the Cascades. I left so much behind when we entered these mountains for the first time and then in three short years I was chiseled into a woman, a mother, an adult and my true self. Now that my structure feels solid, I am ready to add greenery, wildflowers... and bluegrass!

Thank you Seattle for sheltering us so well and now for sending us home.

Easter

2011-04-28T20:39:00.011+01:00

When I was a child Easter was a fancy affair. I never dyed eggs, but instead had a small collection of porcelain eggs which my mother would put small and dainty treats in. I always had a new dress and bonnet or hat and sometimes even gloves and a little purse to match my shoes. Once my mother even bought me a new dress coat, which I hated because it was gray and I was much too colorful to like gray. I also always had a corsage. All of this I wore to church and then usually to some flower garden where I posed for lots of pictures. I'm sure there was an Easter basket lined with fake grass and full of milk chocolate bunnies to greet me when I woke, but that's not what I remember.

This Easter I was excited to pull out my porcelain egg collection for Sam, but somehow that didn't seem quite festive enough for an 18-month old boy to grasp so I decided to try out what Miles did growing up-- dye eggs and have a hunt! The night before we invited some friends and my cousin Elisabeth over to dye the eggs. We concocted some cool colors using beets, cabbage, turmeric, coffee, and onion skins (Julie, am I missing anything?).

Easter Sunday was raining and not exactly warm, typical for Seattle, but it felt cozy and warm when 3 families of friends with boys Sam's age came over for brunch. After a feast, the dads went down to our schoolyard to disperse the eggs and then the boys "hunted" for them with their adorable little baskets, breaking most of them in the process. The yard was the idyllic setting for this and the pictures will hopefully give a glimpse of what a precious site it was having 4 toddlers roaming about in the rain with hands full of colorful eggs.

It was a lovely day, very different from my childhood memories of Easter and while it was an ending to our time in Seattle -- being the last get-together we would host there --, it also felt like a wonderful new beginning of our own family traditions. Seattle has given us a whole basket-full of these beginnings, for which I will forever be grateful.

Ah, how I love this adorable little person

2011-02-09T23:37:00.007Z

To feed my family or to write? -- I wish that weren't the question

2011-01-26T22:56:00.004Z

I've just walked Sam around our neighborhood loop three times until he fell asleep and I carried him up to his bed. Now I have anywhere between 30 minutes and an hour and a half to do something and my list of things to do is always too long. In a blink, I settled upon making bread because that's what the meal plan I quickly drafted Sunday night says we were supposed to have for lunch today (oops) and because I don't know what else to feed Sam for dinner (didn't get that far with the meal plan this week). But as I'm flipping through my recipe book to find out how much honey to dissolve into the hot water for the bread my cousin taught me how to make, I come across a piece of writing I had completely forgotten about and soon I'm lost in my own world of words... one I quickly realize I haven't visited in far too long and am desperately longing to revisit.

The paper is torn in half with a cornbread recipe scrawled on the back, so I can't stay lost for long, nor can I read to the end. I glance at the kettle, which hasn't yet started to rumble then run to my computer, searching through my files curious to find out how it ends or if I ever reached an end, and if I didn't, at least wondering what comes next. It's not often I find myself this curious about my own writing and I'm excited both for the mystery of it and because (this never happens), I find I like the writing; I think it's good. When I locate the document on my hard drive I discover that I had only written a few more paragraphs then left off abruptly with only one word beginning the next paragraph.

I read to that lonely word and soon find myself clicking away at my keyboard, continuing from where I had left off how many ever months or years before when I had first begun the piece. But then the kettle starts to shriek and I'm called back to the kitchen to silence it before it wakes Sam. I see the recipe book and my hand reaches for my apron hanging on the hook while my mind is crafting the next sentence I will type. My feet are stuck and I stand there, caught between two worlds. What should I do? Put off writing for another day (will that day ever actually come??) or be a good mother who feeds her family?

I procrastinate the decision but tie on my apron and pour the hot water into the measuring cup, adding the honey. It needs time to dissolve, I tell myself then I run back to the computer. Instead of writing that next sentence in an attempt to finish that piece, which certainly will take longer than I have, I open up blogger and begin this post because I know I can write it while the honey dissolves and then get back in the kitchen... I suppose this is like a snack for myself; fuel to help me feed my family and not feel like I'm starving myself while I'm doing it.

Festive Days & Holy Nights

2011-01-11T00:21:00.012Z

I haven't had much of a chance to write the past few months with all of the running after Sam I've been doing. I've also been up with him more nights than not due to his horrible teething pains. But more than Sam, I gave up my weekly writing time to prepare for the girl's story circle I have been designing and leading for a group of nine-year old girls. It's my first venture back into teaching since momhood and I have loved pouring myself into the creativity of it -- it is the first time I have been able to create an entire curriculum and also design things of a deeper nature that really build a group and create a nurturing atmosphere-- opening/closing rituals and festive ceremonies, for example.

For the first 10 weeks, the group met in our home and that was also something new for me. Interestingly, just days before I received the request to begin this group from a mom I used to nanny for, I had the urge to make some big shifts in our apartment and I asked my mom for some feng shui guidance. Together we transitioned what was a family nest (or hidey hole) into a more open environment that welcomed outside energy. I have long known the power of making physical changes in one's space (I witnessed a lot of that growing up under my mother's roof and then, once under my own, did my own fair share of it), but it is still remarkable to me the changes that have occurred since the physical changes in our space, the most notable being the influx of outside energy. Since then we have hosted several festive events here, something I had always hoped to do when I had a family of my own. Here's a little photologue.

Miles's mom came to visit for Thanksgiving and we ended up having our first big Thanksgiving feast here with her, my cousin Elisabeth and her friend, and our good friends Julie, Sean, and Quinn... that's seven adults and two babies that fit around our little table! It was so lovely and so yummy with all of us cooking up a delicious storm (well, maybe not Sam and Quinn).

Here's the table I set for the girl's story circle holiday party. Each time we meet, we start with tea and snack, each with her regular place at the table and her own special tea cup. The week before, the girls helped make some of the decorations and they also felted soaps for their own gifts.

We get together regularly with our Seattle Family -- our friends we met in birthing class. We had a holiday party with them and for the first time in all of our get-togethers, we all found ourselves eating at the same time around the same table -- these boys are growing up! We had such a fun time together that day, especially the baby boys who danced, threw balls, built with blocks, and even took rides on a "one horse open duvet." We are going to miss these guys like crazy when we move.

The Winter Solstice, Monday, December 21st, marked the beginning of our Holy Nights-- the twelve longest nights of the year which we celebrated as a family together with my mother. Every evening as the sun went down (starting as early as 3:30pm), Miles stopped working and we turned on the Christmas lights, lit the candles, played some music and enjoyed the magic that ensued. We feasted, gave simple presents occasionally, and enjoyed one another's company. Sam especially enjoyed reading his Christmas book every night, winding up the Christmas music box, studying the little Balsa wood nativity my mom brought back from Africa, and having candlelit baths -- something we have decided to continue every night since it so helped him ease into sleepiness. Our decorations were intended to keep us in touch with the natural world -- trimmings from the Evergreens in our yard, an abundance of candles, and an advent wreath which we decorated with tokens from the mineral world, the plant world, the animal world, and the human world.

Of course, for Sam there were more presents than for us. We tried to keep things simple for him and only doled out one every few days, but even that quickly overwhelmed him and though he loved receiving the gifts, we soon had to make them disappear so new ones could appear on the scene and the space could maintain a sense of normalcy. The idea is to put most of his toys in a treasure chest that he can access at special times (like weekends) so that he can better master each new toy and so that they can all remain special and exciting for a long time. We'll see how that pans out as he grows older... Here are the only photos I remembered to take when he received his gifts (I was too excited seeing his reaction to get the camera!)

Santa came on Christmas morning and he was much more practical, filling Sam's stocking with a container of sliced grapes, a cup of prune juice, and a new toothbrush, all of which went immediately into his mouth.

After Christmas, our Holy Nights became simpler (and less fattening) and became less about festivity and more about rest and relaxation, but still the focus was on being together and experiencing the long nights. On New Year's Eve, my cousin Elisabeth came over for appetizers and banana splits, a tradition I hope to continue, and on New Year's Day, Miles, Sam and I took a long walk together like we normally do on the weekends. The next day was Sunday and that night we blew out what was left of our candles for the last night. On Monday night, it felt odd to turn on the lights when it became dark so we sat in the darkness for a little while until it was time to make dinner and life resumed as normal.

Those twelve nights spent together in the flicker of the candles was a beautiful gift and a tradition that I hope grows more and more dear as our family grows with it throughout the years.

Sam and I lace up our running shoes

2011-01-10T23:37:00.008Z

(written on the plane to Melissa's wedding Oct. 2010 -- my first time away from Sam)

Craning to look down over the Cascades from my aisle seat, I wish I had more a view of the scenery, but perhaps it's good that I don't. Perhaps my heart couldn't bear to see the expanse of miles and the rocky terrain that now separate me from my baby. There's no going back now, and even if I could, I know that I wouldn't. This trip is a necessity and not just because I would never miss the wedding of my cousin, my closest sister, but also because I resolved this time to be the end of my nursing relationship with Sam -- something his health is requiring, but also something he clearly needs in order to develop as his own individual. The miles that distance us now are enforcing that resolve, something I'm sure both him and I need for this to be a success since even though it is needed, separation is something neither of us want -- nursing bonded us intimately together.

We've been preparing for this for over a month, but it still seems hard to believe that this morning was the last time I will ever nurse him. No longer will I filter what goes into his body with my own; now he must take it directly from the world and filter it himself. No longer will I be able to soothe him back into sleep with the sweetness and warmth of the milk my body has been making exclusively for him since he lived inside me; now he will have to rely on only my caress, perhaps a bottle, and his own will to fall asleep.

We have endured separation before. Our original separation was bloody and dramatic, but so obviously rewarding. At his birth I didn't think to mourn the closeness we sacrificed embodied most dramatically by the severing of our cord. It was well worth it to be able to look into his dark, innocent eyes and to smell his sweet scalp and kiss his soft feet while holding him close to my breast...

But this is now the end of the mystical period of time following the birth, that time when we were one on the outside. I've seen this end approaching for some months. First he began rolling away from me, then crawling and walking. Now he's capable of running away from me and he does it with such glee -- oh how Sam loves to be chased! The glimmer in his eye as he peers over his shoulder waiting to see if I'll take the bait and play his game, and then that joyful shriek as he hops from one foot to the other (his starting prance) and then takes off on his tip toes, hands drawn up to his armpits, fists closing then opening rhythmically as they used to while he fed at my breast...

Like the first separation, with this separation comes many a new joy and I would be dishonest not to say how much pleasure I am already finding in this new stage of our relationship and of mothering (more giggles, less poop!), but, of course, it comes at a cost -- out with the old, in with the new. So much of parenting is about just this it seems, about letting go. If we don't, if we cling to what was, we miss the full experience of the child who shares the present with us, the child who is constantly growing, changing, leaving the old behind and running full force into the new... but not without that inquisitive glance over the shoulder asking if we will, indeed, take the bait and stay present with him as he ventures forth.

It strikes me that how I meet that gaze is everything. Will I run with my child, giving him my full love and trust as he bounds forward into his future? Or will I stay behind, longing for the irretrievable past, unable to meet his gaze, which then becomes clouded with doubt?

Sam wants to run and it's time. I am grateful that, for now, he also wants me close behind him, running also, egging him on. It's a good thing that I just bought new sneakers for both of us -- bare feet will no longer do.

Sam will be fine these three days without me and that he will thrive once weaned, I am certain. My return gaze won't be doubtful. It won't be aimed behind us both, but straight into his wonderfully joyful brown eyes. My gaze will be the same as it was every time I looked down at him as he nursed -- a look so full of love it connects us no matter how far the miles or great the mountains, and no matter how far he runs into his future.

Through the Tunnel

2011-01-10T23:11:00.002Z

(written early September, 2010)

Samuel is now one year old, almost weaned, and I am beginning to see his independence from me and mine from him. When I look at him now there are more and more moments when I can really see who he is. The other day in the bathtub I studied him. His hair was wet and long down his shoulders which are broadening to toddler proportion. In a rare moment of stillness, he let me look long into his dark eyes and I saw Samuel instead of my little boy. I realized then how little I know of him and how special it is that I get to spend these early years in his presence. I have the opportunity to know him more than anyone ever will and I hope I don't waste this with my own busyness or my own attachment to him. To be able to see him in this way is a result of a natural separation between us that has come with the beginning of weaning. Before, I streamed directly into him. We were a fluid entity -- motherbaby. Now I get to experience him as his own entity.

With this separation, I also get to experience myself as my own entity again. After almost two years of being devoted mind, body, soul to growing my child, this experience of individuality is totally fresh and I feel that I have a new self. It's as though I just came through a tunnel into the sunlight -- my senses are totally awake and aware in a way that they weren't before. The scenery looks so vivid and I feel so alive and renewed. This is a new chapter and a clean slate. I am different than who I was before I became a mother; improved, I'd even venture to say. What a gift it was to take a break from being myself! Of course I was always me, but my focus for these last two years wasn't on cultivating or reinforcing my own identity -- this focus was blurred, softened. I was only periphery to myself during that time.

Now that this focus is returning, I see how much I've changed since moving to Seattle and readying myself (consciously and unconsciously) to become a mother. I peeled down, exfoliated, and only minimally added back on. I feel light and free now, like I let go of more than I added. Unencumbered is the word. It's good to come back to myself and to feel these changes. The funny thing about having a sense of self again complete with ideas, desires, and the ability to maintain focus on things outside of the mothering realm, is that it feels like a gift, like a bonus. I wasn't expecting to have myself back so soon -- I thought I'd have to wait until all of my kids were grown!

Three cheers to Samuel, to Janis, and to the light beyond the tunnel for us all.

One Year Around the Sun

2010-09-07T05:54:00.007+01:00

My baby is one... and no longer a baby. As I write this now he is taking a nap that he put himself down for -- no ergo or stroller walk, no nursing, no bottle, no rocking... I just laid there in his bed while he played in his room and then he came and laid next to me and drifted off to sleep. I really wasn't sure if this day would ever come, let alone so suddenly. He has only been weaned for two weeks and just learned how to fall asleep on his own at night two days ago. How quickly this amazing little being learns! And how ready he is for his independence.

Samuel has been learning and changing so much in the last 6 weeks since his birthday that I've scarcely had time to sit down let alone type up my thoughts. Luckily I took a couple of photos during his birthday week to jog my memory. The photo above shows him with his prized blue balloon, his favorite birthday present (the Blue Jay feather was a hit but we decided to keep it tucked out of reach for its posterity). He loved to run through the house with it trailing behind him. The photo is blurry and that's absolutely fitting since these days my busy, busy little man often appears as just a streak soaring past me.

Sam's birthday was on a Thursday this year but because Miles works from home and is his own boss we were able to take the time as a family to celebrate together on the actual day of Sam's birth, for which I am so thankful. This is the first time I have felt the huge importance of a birth day -- I remember this day last year quite well! It felt wonderful to be able to celebrate it fully this time and not be either exhausted or in pain! Together with my mother who was also there for Sam's birth, we prepared a festive lunch complete with linen tablecloth, music, and champagne (not for Sam). I made Sam an almond meal, maple syrup pumpkin spice cake with mashed bananas for icing. Here he is in awe of the candle.

He so loved this that we now light a candle at every meal. When Sam is finished eating he says "done" and points to the candle so that we can all blow it out together.

On the Saturday after his birthday (Labor Day weekend, appropriately), we had a party in the school yard below to celebrate Sam's birth with the people who supported us here in Seattle throughout his birth and first year. The weather was perfectly autumnal (a little early this year) and fit quite nicely with our hot spiced cider and bonfire. The older children who came helped me dye some silks with natural dyes I prepared from plants. The plan is to sew those into a prayer flag for Sam's room as soon as I get the chance. The party was merry and Sam had a great time trouncing through the yard with some of his one year-old buddies and watching the older boys climb trees and take wagon rides, something I can see he is desperately hoping to be able to do soon. He especially loved the fire and we had our hands full trying to keep him out of it while we were gathered round singing together the songs I've been singing to Samuel every night since his birth. Here's the only photo I remembered to take during the party. I think some of our friends took some so maybe I can snag a few and post more later.

sticks & stones & tromp, tromp, tromping

2010-09-07T05:42:00.004+01:00

This is for my Aunt Carol who asked for footage of Samuel tromping about. I'm happy that I was able to capture him in the midst of one of his favorite activities: discovering the perfect stick or stone. What follows is usually something that has us running after him -- like putting it in his mouth, or, much preferred, poking, waving, or throwing his new found treasure with, I have to say, a pretty good aim. Sam is the quintessential boy. This is him totally in his element.

three

2010-09-07T05:26:00.014+01:00

At the end of August, Miles and I headed off on our own adventure -- a night away from Sam -- in celebration of 3 years of marriage and surviving our first year as parents. Where we went is almost inconsequential as we were hardly able to focus on anything other than the fact that after a year of putting our son to sleep each night (over and over again since his digestion problems woke him up sometimes every hour), we were now on our own.

We knew Samuel was in good hands with his Grandma Joy, but still we worried. After a 3-hour drive to Mount Rainier we took a very short hike (with a disproportionally large back of trail of mix). It was short because it was close to sunset and we were afraid of losing our way back -- a fear we probably wouldn't have heeded if we didn't feel the new responsibility of parenthood. Here's a photo of the glimpse of Mt. Rainier we caught on our little hike.

After losing the trail briefly and imagining the worst possible scenario, we made it back to our car and all we wanted to do was call home and find out how our little man was doing. One problem: we couldn't get a signal on our cell and the cottage where we were staying didn't have a phone. We spent the next few hours driving around trying to get a signal and stopping at payphones (what a huge pain those ancient things are!) trying to get a hold of my mom to no avail. Eventually, we were forced to head back to our mountain retreat -- it was either that or go home, which definitely did cross our minds. Once there, I asked another guest if he knew where we might be able to make a call, explaining our situation. With not an ounce of sympathy he told me that unless my baby was staying with a psychopath I should relax and have a vacation, in a tone that cleared inferred I needed one.

Hungry and tired of worrying without a solution, Miles and I retreated into our cottage and spent some time trying to connect with Sam from afar, singing to him his bedtime songs and sending our love. Afterwards, we both felt that surely he was okay and that if there were an emergency, my mom would find a way to contact us through the staff. This was a big moment in our journey as parents, one that I'm sure we'll revisit many a time -- letting go and trusting seem to be the major theme of this journey.

With the majority of our worry behind us (I still woke terrified in the middle of the night and had to calm myself all over again), we were able to turn our focus fully to each other, something we realized we hadn't had much opportunity for since Sam's birth. We corked a bottle of wine we had brought back from France the year we were married and were delighted after it opened up at how good it was, even fuller and tastier than we remembered -- a perfect metaphor for what we were discovering about our relationship. We spent the rest of the night taking the other guest's recommendation and relaxing together in a hotspring-fed hot tub that overlooked an old-growth forest and then steaming in a wood-fired cedar sauna. This was paradise. We fell asleep too the soothing sound of a creek babbling just outside our door.

The next morning we woke later than we might have expected and rushed off to a pay phone to find out about our boy. Luckily, we reached my mother this time and she gave us the most stunning report -- not only did Sam do fine, but he slept well! We couldn't have been more ecstatic. I danced and leaped all the way back to our cottage. On the way, we spotted a beautiful blue feather left behind by a family of Blue Jays who had watched our arrival. I had been hoping we would find the perfect gift for Sam's birthday and the universe provided. What a poetic symbol to remind us all of his ability to fly on his own and ours to trust that he is able.

Miles and I enjoyed the rest of our morning with light and joyful hearts. We toasted with champagne and our romance bubbled in a way that only new love can. We remembered our wedding vows and added to them. This was a new beginning.

Coming home has never been sweeter. We raced up our stairs and threw open the door to see Sam playing in the sunlight. He ran over to us with a big grin on his face then he laid his head on his dad's chest and stuck his hand down mine. He guzzled my milk for a long time, looking into my eyes the whole time as we flowed back into each other. This will remain one of my most special memories from our nursing days together.

Later we went for our Sunday walk in the park, together and complete in a brand new way. This is the photo I took.

first family camping trip

2010-09-07T05:21:00.012+01:00

Way back at the beginning of August (time flies with a walking, talking toddler on my hands!), we had our first family adventure -- camping in a state park on the ocean in Larabee, Washington. The family I'm mentioning wasn't just Miles, Sam and myself but our larger Seattle family which started forming when we met three other couples in birthing class almost two winters ago. All of us gave birth to baby boys within two months of each other and we became close over the months as we shared the adventure of parenting our first children over pots of soup, bottles of milk and beer, ladies nights, dad days, childcare swaps and play dates. So integral were these wonderfully open, loving and fun moms, dads and babies in our lives that I cannot imagine how we could have ever made it, let alone so joyfully, during this transition into parenthood. As we approached the first anniversary of our boys' births we decided to plan a two-day camping trip to celebrate what we had all accomplished and to soak up a longer time together as one large family.
(our only dry moments -- it began raining within the hour of our arrival. in the second picture that is Callum on my lap, not Sam though they are both similar in a chubby-cheeked kind of way.).

Though none of knew what to expect when camping with one baby let alone four, we certainly could not have imagined that it would rain for the entirety of our trip (no, it doesn't rain all the time here -- August is usually hot and dry!). I certainly did not come prepared for rain and we spent our time soaked, chilly, and very, very muddy... but it didn't put a damper on what turned out to be a magical time with people who will always stay very close to our hearts. We had such a fantastic time playing in each other's tents, taking walks, making music, bathing our boys in a washbin under a tarp, and sharing meals (wow, are we a bunch who like good food! we all outdid ourselves with everything from homemade veggie patties to mimosas to flank stakes and port to homemade granola warmed over the fire, served with home-picked and canned jam!).

But it wasn't all just fun -- we learned a whole lot, too. Sam and his buddies taught me that it's okay if he eats rocks, rolls in the mud, and stays up past his bedtime -- the fresh air and soothing sounds of Katie's didgeridoo lulled him right to sleep when the sun went down. Miles learned that pancakes don't have to even remotely resemble cakes to be tasty (you try cooking in the rain!) and Sam learned countless things from his buddies, as he always does, and had a complete blast. Here here he is digging in the sand for a treasure.

One of my favorite moments was when the boys all gathered around the cooler, each making music of his own. Miles joined in with his guitar and Katie with her didgeridoo. It was awesome. Here's a photo toward the end of the show.

Actually, I credit these boys with inspiring Sam (the youngest) how to sit upright, crawl, stand, and walk. On Rowan's birthday, for just one example, Sam studied Rowan walking and then the very next morning took his first steps. I love this photo of all of them together, each so happy to be together yet totally with his own focus. They are each so unique and so ridiculously cute! This was taken right before we headed home (yep, that's right when the rain stopped).

I also credit the 6 other parents for always inspiring us to grow in our parenting. Each time we have gotten together we have learned so much from them about everything under the parenting sun -- vaccines, diapering, food, sleep, play -- just to name a few. We all have a similar approach to how we want to raise our boys and it's been really neat to see how that plays out when we share information and experiences. These boys have all been sitting on the potty from an early age, been given natural remedies for ailments, breastfed and then eaten home-cooked organic food, and nurtured with incredible attention from both mom and dad -- not exactly commonplace in this day and age. We have been such an incredible resource to each other and I am so grateful for each and every moment together. I look forward to continuing to share life as we all continue growing up.

first steps!

2010-07-21T05:27:00.000+01:00

Samuel Leads

2010-06-11T18:52:00.007+01:00

At nine months old Samuel is now taking the lead in his life leaving us floored at how very capable he is and a bit exhausted trying to keep up with him. This change was sure to take place on its own, but there been a dramatic switch since we began following the baby-led approach to mealtimes. Instead of pureeing and spoon-feeding Sam, we now place him in his chair with a bowl full of whole foods and sit back while he feeds himself. He LOVES this and gobbles up steamed chard, red bananas, noodles, yogurt, oatmeal, legumes... whatever we give him. When he is especially enjoying something, he makes the cutest sound that has now become a family word, "mmmnnnnyummminyum." You can catch it for a moment in the video.

It took a few days for the majority of food to make it into his mouth but now he can even manipulate his spoon -- when he feels like it, of course. He is so excited about feeding himself that he tends to stuff too much in his mouth at once which can be frightening for us to watch as well as making quite a mess, but we try to keep our hands off so that he can learn and grow confident in this skill. Now when he's taken in too much and is having a hard time with it he asks for his water bottle (he usually says "ba") to wash it down and gradually he is learning to go a little slower. This has been a wonderful lesson for me in parenting at large. When I let Sam take the lead and listen to what he is trying so hard to communicate with me, it's really astounding what takes place.

Last week, after several botched attempts to get him down for a nap, I gave up and worked on my computer while he played. When he was finished he crawled into his room, but I didn't catch on so he cried for me as he went in and out of his room a few more times. Finally, I got the message and put him to bed. He went right to sleep. Another day, my mom was struggling with him during his potty time. He didn't want to sit down and instead of fighting it, she let him do as he wanted and soon he peed just like he's seen his dad do it -- standing up!

The list goes on and on. He is learning so quickly I usually feel a step behind him, underestimating what he can do and what he understands. I'm hoping to be able to be more present with him so I'm not always struggling to catch up, but that means letting go not only of the lead, but much more difficultly, letting go of my baby who, with or without my help, is growing up.

occupation: mother

2010-05-15T04:10:00.002+01:00

Today at the ladies' spa (a divine experience I'm sure to write about soon) I had to fill out a form before my reflexology foot massage, which I purchased totally on a whim because, hey, it's my birthday and I do love a good foot rub. There was a space for "occupation" and for the very first time I wrote "mother." I barely even hesitated. It felt awesome!!!!

two new holidays

2010-05-13T22:59:00.020+01:00

(The card Samuel and Miles made for me for Mother's Day -- Sam drew the lines while Miles held the paper and then Miles colored it in. Isn't it beautiful? When my husband puts his mind to it, he comes up with the most wonderful gifts.)

May has always been my favorite month. My most loved childhood memories (and most of my adult ones too) all include the scent of lilacs and rain and fresh grass. I am a Spring being through and through. I love the gentle rays of the sun, the freshness of the warm rain. I love seeing worms crawl out of the rich dirt and people dig into it (and boy do they ever here in Seattle). I love how everyone is so happy to be alive and to be in community after the long, dark winter. I love all of the yard sales and picnics and festivals, and even spring cleaning. And, yes, I love my birthday.

But it isn't even my birthday yet and I already love May more than I ever have before. Seattle knows how to do Spring better than any place I've ever seen with an abundance of flowers and blossoms of every shape and shade that begin their parade in February and continue right on into summer. And, experiencing life with a baby who is just awakening in his senses during this time of year in such a beautiful part of the world is totally blissful.

To make this month beyond glorious, two new holidays were added to my calendar this May. Mother's Day, which of course you knew I was going to write about, but also May Day, something we celebrated for the first time. It's a holiday that, in my experience, is mostly overlooked in this country. In fact, I didn't even realize it was a holiday until studying abroad in Paris. I remember walking to the metro the morning of May 1st, wondering why so many florists had set up booths on my cobbled street. Later in the day, a friend presented me with a single-flower bouquet and said "Happy May Day," which I thought was her own charming idea. When I saw that everyone in Paris seemed to be carrying or wearing flowers that day, I put two and two together and was completely delighted to discover that it was an official holiday, not just in France, but in all of Europe. I bought a bunch of tiny bouquets and handed them out to everyone I knew, then celebrated the best way I could think of at the time -- by drinking a pichet of white wine at a sidewalk cafe. I vowed to celebrate May Day every year from then on out. Sadly, upon my return to the US, I quickly forgot all about that vow until this year when, thanks to the Waldorf School with its European roots, its focus on the rhythms of the Earth and its love of festivals, I was reminded and will never forget again.

This photo was taken at May Faire, the Waldorf school's May Day festival that centers around a huge May Pole bedecked in colorful ribbons which the children, bedecked in their own colorful ribbons and flowers, weave into a variety of patterns as they dance around it to ancient songs played on the fiddle and sung by the whole school. Each class in the school dances a different dance increasing in difficulty and the intricacy of the weave as the grades progress. And before every dance, the children bow to the May Queen, who you can't see in that photo, but you can in this one...

Yep, that's right. I was the May Queen! With a skirt full of flowers, ribbons and straw for a crown, I sat on a throne and watched class after class of beautifully happy children dance... for me! What a morning! A teacher that I know at this school asked if I would do it because I looked the part and none of the children knew me (very important for the little ones -- the May Queen is right up there with St. Nick). Being very curious about this festival (as well as all Waldorf festivals -- something I'll need to know how to put on very soon if I do end up starting a school) and also flattered to be asked to be a queen for a day, I said yes without knowing just what exactly a May Queen was. I'm so glad I did. Not only did I get to experience the wonderful community of this school from the inside (for the very last dance, the whole school and all of the parents and families who had come to watch, held hands and wove the ribbons the rest of the way around the pole -- it brought tears to my eyes and shivers down my spine... so powerful!), but I also really felt like I was helping usher in my favorite month.

I began by hiding in the woods so that the kindergartens could come looking for me. When I heard them singing "We are looking for the May Queen," I came out to meet them, swinging my basket of flowers and swishing my skirt full of flowers as I lead them to the May Pole, occasionally turning back to smile and wave like a Queen.

After the entire school bowed and danced, bowed and danced, I handed out flowers sprinkled with "wishing dust" to the younger ones and wished them a happy spring.

Then I visited the younger classes to make sure that every child received a flower. A few of them refused because they said the flowers didn't work, but most of them looked at me with such awe. I really did feel like Santa Claus. When my basket was empty, I snuck inside to change into my own clothes. I pulled my hair up and tried to look as different as I could for my short walk to my car, but still one little girl stopped me. "I know who you are!" "Who?" "You're the May Queen. I recognize your face." "Oh, I'm not the May Queen. The May Queen went back into the woods. Didn't you see her?" And it was true, the May Queen had gone back into the woods. I was a little sad to be just me again.

Luckily, the next day there was another May Faire at another Waldorf School (the one where my classes are held and where I know plenty of the kids and teachers) and I was able to don my crown again, though everyone there bowed to another queen, and king, for that matter. This faire was complete with a bazaar and old-fashioned games such as pillow jousting, cake walks, and zucchini races. Miles and Sam came with me and I couldn't help but think ahead a few short years to the day when Miles and I stand there watching Sam skip around the May Pole at our own school.

And then two weeks later, still on a high from my two May Faires, I got to celebrate yet again... my first Mother's Day. Here's a photo of Sam and I on this special day. In addition to card he and Miles made me, Sam gave me a truly AWESOME gift -- a night of sleep with only one waking! I woke up that morning rested and so, so grateful to my little angel who 8 months earlier gave me the very best gift of all: motherhood.

The day was a gorgeous one, and warm, so after brunch with my mother, complete with champagne, and some family dancing to Beatles records (a Sunday tradition which Sam LOVES), we all walked up the street to the zoo. I realized yet again that I am certainly my mother's daughter when Miles took a look at the two of us waiting to cross the street and commented on our dress: wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, scarves, and skirts. Like mother, like daughter. Later that evening we celebrated the beginning of my birthday week with a few friends by going to an incredible vegetarian restaurant and eating a mostly wild and foraged, organic, local meal that was out of this world good. And to top off a most spectacular day, we all went to hear our friend and awesome musician Dosh play -- the first time since we left Chicago.

And now, it's the eve of my birthday. Samuel is sound asleep and the smell of rhubarb cake baking in the oven is filling the house. Tomorrow I will abscond to a ladies' spa to soak and steam and read and nap and then I'll come home to dine with my family. I love May!

may day, may day! sam can crawl!

2010-05-04T05:27:00.002+01:00

Last week Sam was one very hard-working and determined little dude. He learned how to sit up (via an awesome splits rollover move), crawl, and pull himself to standing. It was one heck of a week for us since he also didn't want to quit practicing to sleep. In addition to that, he had quite a few falls and bumps. If this continues, we're debating either wrapping the house in some non-toxic foam (does that exist?) or buying a baby helmet for him.

So here's a video of him in action. A totally new baby. Heaven help us!

my favorite sound in the whole world

2010-05-04T05:22:00.002+01:00

I often wonder where my day has gone. Watching this video, I realized that it goes to moment after moment just like this. I feel so lucky that I get to spend my days exactly this way.

new shoes and old ones

2010-04-23T21:48:00.018+01:00

New Shoes
Sam is wearing shoes, finally. Well, they're more like sandal-slippers, but they're definitely an improvement to just socks. Gone are the days when socks alone stayed on these wiggly tootsies. Nope, now he likes to either grab on to the toes and shake like crazy while yelling happily at the top of his lungs, or stretch them all the way up to his mouth to use as a teether... and that's just for the few pairs that will actually stay on. The others he has taken to silently removing from his feet and tucking away in secret places like a squirrel with his nuts. I'm pretty sure he gets that fun little habit from his dad. I call him Harry Sock Houdini (when I'm not calling him Harry Sleep Houdini). When I found a pair of classic looking soft shoes in just Sam's size and new at my favorite kids consignment shop, I bought them thinking they might help give him some traction in his crawling attempts. I was quite pleasantly surprised when I realized that they are also the perfect contraption to keep his socks on. Sam thinks they are a fancy new toy that magically stays with him everywhere he goes... even on the potty, somewhere he is always desperate for a distraction. Every time I see his sweet little feet in his new blue shoes, my heart thumps a bit harder... he's growing up so fast. Every day it seems an ounce of little boy replaces an ounce of my baby.

Old Shoes
After a good year or more of being barefoot in the kitchen, slippered on the sofa, sneakered behind a stroller, or rainbooted in the mud, I took out my most expensive pair of shoes, blew off the dust and squeezed my slightly-larger-than-before feet into them for a night out sans husband and sans son. Strapping on these Italian leather, two-plus-inch heels bought on a whim with money from a playwriting grant and hidden immediately so that my visiting mother-in-law wouldn't think I was extravagant, I felt a version of myself come back that I had almost forgotten -- one that was practically out of print.

The occasion was a reading by my all-time favorite poet, Sharon Olds, preceded by dinner with a friend who, pre-momhood, used to commiserate about writing with me on a weekly basis. As I headed out the door, Miles was startled to see me dolled up with my tall heels, shaved legs, and eyeshadow(!). "I didn't realize poetry readings were such a big deal." "They're not," I smiled. "But me going to this one is." As I drove to pick up my friend, I blasted music I haven't listened to in years and could almost taste the life I used to live made that much more savory by the sweetness of the life I live now.

Sharon Olds gave an amazing reading, so much more heartfelt than what I remember from when I saw her in Chicago 10 years ago. She seemed like a totally different person -- so much more peaceful and what a sense of humor! Her poems have changed, too. Now she's writing odes and war poems instead of being entirely autobiographical. I'm so grateful for her autobiographical work -- grateful to have a glimpse into her life so that I can be reminded how poetic all of life is. She really doesn't leave any subject untouched.

As I listened to her and tapped my toes inside my old shoes, I felt an old desire begin to return -- one for a peaceful life, full of everyday poetry. This desire crept into the space I used to reserve for my "writing career", which I recently cleared after deciding I'd rather be a mother who writes than a writer who is a mom. That might sound like semantics, but it was a huge shift that has made my time with Sam so much happier and has done away with the writing burden I've been carrying around for too long -- I used to write to feel justified as a "writer" whereas my new outlook is that if I am writer, it's a result of writing because I really want to.

It's exhilarating to be able to wear my fancy shoes out and then, damn, does it feel good to come home, kick them off and kiss my boys.

Gravity

2010-04-23T19:53:00.006+01:00

As my son drifts to sleep I feel his body submit to gravity
and realize how hard he fights it when awake --
always reaching up,
tiny hands opening and closing, grasping the air
or lying on his belly, flailing his limbs
in what is surely an attempt to fly.

At last inert, he sinks into my arms
and I am overcome with gratitude
for the forces that tether this most precious being
to the earth, as once my body was able to do.

I remember waiting for months,
longing to feel him move inside of me.
Now I treasure these rare moments of stillness
when I can experience his weight against me.

Slipping deeper into sleep,
he grows heavier
and suddenly I sense the heft
of his entire life
in my arms.

I hold his heaviness as a slinky young boy,
as a lumpy teenager,
as a sturdy, thick man,
and then I feel his weight shift
as he holds his own children in his arms.
He becomes lighter
no longer carrying
all that he will become.

The baby I am holding is too heavy for me now.
I bend down slowly, laying him tenderly in his bed.

As I look down on him lying there alone
I notice that I am lighter than I was
before I became his mother.

Gravity is a beautiful thing.
It holds us tightly to the Earth
until we have become all we are to be
and then, gradually, tenderly,
it lets us go
until we feel so light that, finally,
we get to float away.

recent feet

2010-04-01T19:48:00.002+01:00

Shanee took this photo when she and Brian came to meet Samuel when he was just one month old. Everything feels new since then but there have been a few constants. Just about every Sunday we take a long walk to a park, around the lake, to the market or through the zoo. It's our Sunday adventure and some of our favorite family time. It usually involves finding a treat somewhere and lots of giggles from our little man. He loves riding in his buggy and checking out the world.

Wonder

2010-02-27T00:08:00.006Z

Our world has become wonder-filled since Samuel's arrival. I can recall so many moments in the past six months when we've stared at him in awe then looked to each other smiling and shaking our heads as it settles in-- Yep, he's real and he's ours. I remember walking through our front door that very first time with him in my arms, whispering "welcome to your home." That moment was so full I barely know how to describe it except to say that home and my experience of it was deeply transformed then and there. When I breathed in its familiar scent, I felt my son breathe it in for the first time and was overwhelmed by the fact this was the first sensation of home he would ever know. When I brought him into our room, I noticed the softness of the light filtering through the curtains. The rush and grind of the traffic outside never sounded louder. When I laid him down in his basket, I felt how it was lined with the weeks of our anticipation and with the seed of our love that had already grown leaps and bounds in our two days absence from gazing into it, trying to imagine the person who would soon sleep there. I wondered at the sensation of lying in a bed prepared with such intention, which surely he felt. At the same time, I wondered at the miracle of what had been an the empty basket suddenly being filled, suddenly being the bed of a little being named Samuel who would now sleep beside me every night.

At six months that little being has tripled in size, long outgrowing his basket. Now that he has become mobile with his vigorous rolling, the tiniest details of our home are coming into vivid focus for me partly to ensure his safety but mostly because I am experiencing them through his eyes. I am endlessly intrigued by the intricate weavings of our various baskets and the sounds they make when scratched by tiny fingers. I understand the urge to gnaw on the thick wooden legs of the coffee table (though unlike someone, I resist). I am mesmerized by the colorful blur of children playing beyond the window with their endless movement and gleeful voices. I am lulled by the whir of the washing machine and the rhythmic clatter and splash of dishes in the sink. I am overwhelmed by joy when I hear the quick trot of Miles's feet bounding down the stairs from his office or the gentle rap of Grandma's knock on the front door. I am unmistakeably aware that there is an abundance of happiness in this home... and this, too, fills me with wonder. Where did it come from and when did it arrive? Has it always been here? What is it like to live almost every moment wrapped up in this?

I think the more of a mother I become, the more I strive to be like my son. When I look at it from his perspective, life is nothing short of wonderful.

new poem

2010-01-19T23:20:00.004Z

Swimming through scratchy waves of green blades
As tall as my shoulders and taller,
I would surge ahead
The blood in my young veins pulsing in rhythm with the earth,
Pulling me towards the heart of the land.

Though it was a different spot each time,
I knew it when I arrived,
My own private isle in an emerald sea.
Free falling backwards, the field grass would catch me
Bending gracefully under my seven-year old bones
Safely feathering me

down,

down

Until there I am,
Perfectly hidden,
A baby bird tucked inside my nest.

I look up at the blue sky where dreams
Are born inside pillowy clouds.

I breathe in the sweetness of the grass
Becoming for a moment a calf
Grazing just beyond the wire fence.

I listen to the breeze softly whistling
Through these magical overgrown weeds
My soul swaying with them

Side to side,

Side to side

Until I couldn’t stand it any longer
And having grown wings during my stay
I would take flight and soar away from this place
That filled my well so full
I drink from it still.

big week, small pants

2010-01-15T03:52:00.008Z

This has been a big week for Samuel and a small one for me. Small for me because I made a fantastic discovery that I fit into all of my regular pants again! I haven't tried my super skinny ones (why ruin a good thing?), but this feat makes me feel pretty great. As Miles put it when he saw me in my old jeans -- it's back to the old me. Well, physically. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually there's no going back. I'm a mama. I run on entirely different fuel now (baby diesel?). My engine's still getting used to the switch, but there are days when I coast along humming. I think I'm getting way better mileage too. The other day I managed to eat dinner while singing, bouncing and nursing Sam to sleep.

For Sam it was a very big week with three firsts. I finally mustered up the guts to leave him in childcare at my yoga studio which was the very first time he was without me, dad or grandma. For an hour and a half he played with a 9-month old girl (smaller than him) and her mom down the hall from where I was. He apparently had a great time until the last few minutes when I heard him cry and left meditation to give him a mommy dose. As soon as I picked him up, he suctioned himself to me and then gave me the best smile. This was a very good experience for both of us that I think we may try to repeat again soon. Earlier in the week, we decided to let Sam try out his new wooden bowl and spoon which was a gift from Grandma Joy. We put a wee amount of mushed up carrots in it and then gave him free reign. As you can see from the video, he LOVED it! He giggled for about 5 minutes which is longer than he ever has before, hence my having time to grab the camera. Three days of carrots and then we took a break since the idea was only to introduce food, not to start feeding it to him everyday. Next week I think we'll try avocado. The last of the firsts happened on the changing table (no, it doesn't have to do with the carrots!). In a few moments of being diaper-free, Sam discovered that he has feet! He grabbed them both and after realizing he couldn't quite get them in his mouth, he contented himself with rolling side to side in happy baby pose. Now he gets regular naked time (well, he wears leg warmers, socks, a shirt and hat so I guess I should call it bare bottom time) and with the freedom from his bulky diapers, he amuses himself to no end rolling and laughing and pulling off his socks. He seems very close to rolling all the way over which makes me hesitate to leave him -- I don't want to miss it!

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-22T19:58:00.006Z

What a year! I can hardly believe Samuel is already this big. At 3.5 months, he's a roly-poly 20 lbs (this is ginormous -- his 17-month-old cousin is 21 lbs) and teething (yes, very early) so this amazing toothless smile will be quite different any day now. Actually, every day it seems something is different but this bundle of love keeps me so grounded in the present it's hard to keep track of all the changes and I've mostly given up trying. This Christmas Sam's best gift (the one that's really, truly for him) is a pacifier. We really didn't want to give him one but considering the pain he's going through with these chompers trying to push through, we can now see the merits of pacification. We're excited to give it to him as soon as it arrives in the mail. He is also receiving an Amber necklace which is supposed to have soothing properties especially helpful for teething and, consequently, will make him look like a surfer. His third and final Christmas gift from us this year is a stocking that I need to finish making. Miles cut it out of wool sweaters and now I am going to sew it together and needle-felt some decorations onto it. I actually have 7 total stockings to make... one for Miles, my mom, and myself and then 3 more for any possible additions to our family (wouldn't want them to feel left out if we had matching stockings and they didn't!). I sure do know how to make work for myself! It's good work though. This year, I'm finally living up to my crafty name.

I do still, occasionally, have time to write. Below is a children's nature story I wrote for my Waldorf teacher training class (I'm still attending, very part-time). Miles has plans to illustrate it... maybe this will be Sam's present next Christmas. Those of you in the Ruder clan might especially enjoy this story. :-)

The Story of Long Lake

Once upon a time there was a lake who was much longer than she was wide and so she was called Long Lake. Long Lake was very beautiful. She sparkled in the sunshine and glimmered in the moonlight. Her long, curvy figure was lined with tall trees who would unfurl their strong roots down her sandy banks to drink from her fresh water. Some of the trees loved her so much that instead of growing taller, they leaned to the side and stretched their branches as far as they could so that a leaf or two might kiss her gentle waves.

In the summertime when Long Lake’s friend the sun had warmed her to the perfect temperature, children would come to play in her and while she loved all of her friends, Long Lake loved playing with the children best of all. If they were floating on their backs, she would lap softly over them, tickling their cheeks. If they were squishing their toes in the soft bed of sand that lay at her bottom, she would swirl around their ankles, sometimes uncovering treasures for them of beautifully dappled Petosky stones. If they were dipping the oars of their small boats in and out as they glided across her, she would slosh rhythmically against the wooden slats, singing happily to them.

In the autumn the children didn’t visit Long Lake much except occasionally to skip pebbles across her smooth surface. Long Lake missed them, but she wasn’t lonely. She would lie quietly looking up at her friend the sky, reflecting his clouds so that he could see how lovely they were. Some days, her friend the wind would whirl about her, goading her to a game of tag. Riled up, Long Lake would chase after the wind, tossing her greatest waves out towards him as he whistled with glee.

In the long nights of winter, Long Lake became very still and sleepy. She would dress for bed in a crystalline nightgown that glittered in the moonlight, beckoning ice skaters to etch their swirling patterns into it. Each year Long Lake’s cousin, the snow, would fly in from out of town. These two cousins were very close, so close that the snow would pull her huge, fluffy white blanket over them both and they would snuggle underneath it, telling each other stories until spring came.

As winter came to an end, Long Lake’s younger cousin, the rain, would come looking for her. When she couldn’t find her, the rain would cry big, fat raindrops. Some of the raindrops would fall onto the blanket, dotting it with pretty little holes. Peaking through the holes, the rain would spot her two cousins whispering away and she would join them, telling a story of her own.

Towards the end of spring, the sun would shine from a distance, calling again to his friend Long Lake. When the three cousins heard him, their stories would suddenly come to a halt. Knowing it was time to go home, the rain would cry a warm shower of tears, the snow would roll up her white blanket, and then they both would hug Long Lake before disappearing into her deep waters.

After her cousins had left, the sun would come to greet Long Lake wondering how she had spent the year. Long Lake would tell the sun that just like every year before, she had been with her cousins under a big, white blanket until he came calling and suddenly they had disappeared. The sun, feeling badly, would hide behind a cloud until Long Lake shivered, begging him to come warm her up. Then an idea would occur to the sun as if for the very first time (though he had this same idea every year): he would search the sandy floor of Long Lake until he could find her cousins and bring them back to her.

And that’s how summer would begin again… with the sun shining down on Long Lake, looking and looking until she was the perfect temperature for the children to come and play.

Sam's first game

2009-11-07T02:58:00.002Z

new feet

2009-10-07T17:33:00.005+01:00

My new devotion...

My new way to spend a morning...

A fierce labor

2009-09-30T20:05:00.013+01:00

During the final class of our Birthing From Within course (the most creative approach to birth preparation I could find), I was asked to visualize myself in labor and then to answer the question "who are you?" Effortlessly, I summoned my favorite image of myself on our tree-lined deck in a birthing tub at sunrise, quietly and intensely focused -- eyes closed, statue still, and with my braids wrapped around my head I looked like a goddess, like a Madonna unfinished but for the baby to be placed in her arms. I answered the question, "I am where the rainbow ends." The class instructor, a doula and queen mama, raised an eyebrow at this and I couldn't help but feel she found my response naive and extremely off the mark for who I would really be while laboring. Internally, I defended myself. My unborn baby and I had connected for the first time in the presence of a rainbow and it symbolized for me the bridge from the spiritual world I was going to help him or her cross (though I was SURE this baby was a girl). The problem with this metaphor, as hindsight has shown me, is that it was entirely centered on the happy ending, which of course would be beautiful. By never visualizing the beginning and middle phases of labor I was able to avoid the fear that most first-time moms face and maintain my poetic image... right up until the day labor began.

On Tuesday, September 1st, I woke up thirty-six hours after my water had broken to another morning exactly like the last eleven since my due date: still pregnant, still no sign of labor. Miles shrugged his shoulders and went to take a shower and I grabbed a plastic-bagged pillow (how prepared we were for a homebirth!) and buried my face in it. For the first time I realized that the birth I'd imagined wasn't a possibility with a dreaded hospital birth was more than likely since my midwives would only deliver up to forty-eight hours after the waters had ruptured due to the chance of infection and complications. I knew I was on borrowed time. The tears gushed out of me in tandem with my amniotic fluid. I was a mess. When Miles found me he asked what was the matter and I found it hard to believe that he truly didn't know. "I don't want my baby to be cut out of me!" I wailed. To me, going to the hospital, especially this late in the game, meant almost certainly a cesarean – the hospital was considerably more conservative than our midwives. A few minutes of allowing my fears to surface and then I stopped, looked my loving husband in the eyes, and pulled myself together. "We’re going to have a baby today. That's what matters." I got out of bed and started to get ready for the day only to discover that my amniotic fluid now had green particles in it -- meconium. I think I let out exactly one helpless sob before beginning a transformation into the fiercely determined woman the next twenty-four hours would chisel me into.

A trip to see my midwives a few hours later confirmed that there was indeed thick meconium. I was relieved to discover that this meant no harm to the baby before the birth though it did pose a risk for after the birth -- if the baby had meconium in its lungs it could impede its ability to breath and would have to be suctioned intensively by neo-natal specialists. The decision was made: I would be giving birth in the hospital. Morgan, the midwife who would be with us for the birth, made an appointment for us at the University of Washington Medical Center for 6pm and told us to call her if I went into active labor before that. Miles and I went home, cancelled our labor tub, packed our bags, and, at his request, sketched out a short birth plan, though my hopes it would be followed weren’t high. Then we sat on the sofa and waited. Eventually, he fell asleep and I lay there trying to conjure up a new image for labor. It didn't come… and so I braided my hair. Soon a calm yet strong mother-goddess-to-be reflection stared back at me from the bathroom mirror and though I wasn’t able to visualize what was to come, I was able to ground myself with a renewed determination for having a natural birth, even in the hospital.

At almost 4pm, I was desperate for contractions to begin. I knew if I wasn't in active labor when I went into the hospital, natural birth would be a pipe dream and with a chemical induction altering my body’s processes, a cesarean would likely follow. I tried to stay positive and suddenly thought of my unlit birth candle. Realizing open flames probably weren’t permissible in the hospital, I lit the candle right then and began to think of everyone who already had a candle burning for us thanks to my overzealous emails, calls and text messages the first moments after my water broke, now forty-four hours ago (several people told me they had to buy extra candles!). Within a few minutes of lighting the candle and connecting with the thoughts and prayers of our loved ones, I felt my first real contraction. Never before have I been so happy to experience pain, though this pain was nothing like what was to come. I waited for another contraction before waking Miles to tell him the good news. He grabbed the clock and a piece of graph paper and began to time them. Three minutes apart! Their length and intensity grew rapidly and within an hour my mother was there whispering to Miles (quite audibly) that she thought I was already in transition. She wanted us to rush to the hospital ASAP. I wasn't so sure about this until a few contractions later when I started throwing up. Then I knew things were definitely under way. All of a sudden an image of labor fleeted across my mind. It went something like this: We show up at the hospital and everyone is dumbfounded that my labor has progressed so quickly. The doctors barely have time to put on gloves before my baby crowns. As the sun is setting over the mountains, I push my baby out and she is laid immediately onto my chest, skin to skin (thanks to our birth plan).

But, back to the non-fiction version…

Somehow I managed to waddle down our stairs and cram myself into our car. Sitting down was almost unbearable with the splitting pain in my back but I was still so elated to be in labor that I kept saying how thankful I was after each contraction, perhaps afraid they would quit if I didn't keep urging them on. My optimism prevailed throughout the next ten hours of intense labor although I soon stopped being grateful for a contraction every three minutes (they never let up!) and instead started begging for a break. When we first arrived at the hospital, a soak in the tub provided some amazing relief and I was able to be, for a few moments at least, that meditative goddess I had imagined even though instead of fruit trees and a sunrise, the backdrop was a toilet and monochromatic tiling, but... So relieved to finally be having my baby and to still have a chance for a natural birth, I was able to focus mostly on the positive and all that I had to be thankful for.

I was thankful for a view from my birthing suite of the sunset over the canal; thankful for having my midwife, mother and husband all there taking turns pushing on my back, feeding me ice chips, and holding my woobie -- the plastic vomit cup; thankful for an obliging nurse who met almost all of my requests including those for a bath (even throwing in a bed pillow for my back!), a yoga ball, and a miraculous metal bar on the bed that I spent hours heaving myself over and pulling on with all my might; thankful for the comforting sound of Miles' music which he had compiled for the birth; thankful for years of yoga, ballet, and flamenco to draw on intuitively (the combination of Warrior II arms, flamenco hands, and a deep grande plié were especially helpful for working with my contractions and expanding laterally with the pain instead of clamping down against it); thankful even for my stint as an art model which did away with any modesty I might have had. The latter came in very handy with the constant stream of doctors and nurses whose main activity seemed to be gawking at me, but especially once I became aware that there was a building next door full of lit windows with perfect views into my room. Upon this realization I ordered the blinds closed but not soon enough to avoid considering what I must look like from the other side – half-naked with my red dress hiked up and looped through the neckline, standing on the bed and simultaneously puking and pulling on that metal bar like a weightlifter trying to curl an impossible load. The only semblance of my original labor image was my hair, though at this time more than goddess it expressed primitive warrior. Even for this, I was thankful – a goddess couldn’t have survived one of my contractions; labor was earthly business to be sure. I know undoubtedly that this act of verbally thanking my helpers, God, and the universe for all of these things helped me more than any drugs could have. Not only did it keep me in a triumphant frame of mind, it kept me present within my body. I knew what I wanted and needed – my instincts were sharp and my heart was full. When gratitude became too cerebral, when moving my lips required more effort than I had to give, I simply thought about my baby and silently repeated, I love you baby, I love you. We can do this. I love you. I’m now certain it’s true that love can help a person endure anything.

But I am also now convinced that birth, even as experienced by the most enlightened yogi, cannot be only beautiful. Birth is a battle, a bloody one, and like every worthy battle, it is not without its dark moments; its moments when the warrior doesn’t know if she’ll be able to overcome her opposing forces, doesn’t know how she will ever survive. These moments cannot be usurped no matter how positive or pacifist the warrior might be. They are as necessary as the torrent of waves against a cliffside… opposition is what shapes things, makes them beautiful, and it is what made me a new person. There came a period in my labor when the physical sensations were so intense, so acute, that I could not only feel my cervix tearing open, I was my cervix; I was tearing open. I went so deeply inside my body, into the core of my cells, that, at moments, it seemed my self had been obliterated, that I would never return. In these moments my opposing forces revealed themselves and, despite my habit of positivity, a bleak shadow would bear down on me as I bore down physically.

The clock was one such of my opponents, challenging my perseverance and my balanced state of mind. It was a huge, round clock with ominous black arms and great big numbers -- the exact make and model that hangs in every classroom of every public school in America; one of those clocks I’d stared at for twelve years, anxiously awaiting the bell to ring. Now was no different -- just a single glance in its direction at the wrong moment could fill me anxiety. Four hours… seven hours… eleven hours?! When will the bell ring? When do I get to go home for the day? I can’t take much more of this! My mantra was the only thing that could pull my mind from its fight with time. I love you baby, I love you. We can do this. I love you. Luckily, this combat with the clock was only intermittent thanks to it being analog -- with my brain lost in laborland, more often than not I couldn’t do the math to know just how slowly things were progressing.

For most of my labor I also experienced the doctors as opponents. To be honest, I checked into the hospital with a prejudice against them, trusting much more my midwives’ gentle approach to birth. Whenever a doctor entered my room, I suddenly felt colder and it seemed to me that their fear (or maybe it was shock) due the circumstances of my labor and my feral way of working through my contractions actually lowered the thermostat. In this frigid atmosphere, they would interrupt during an intense contraction, ask me to lie on my back (The torture! This was back labor!) and examine my cervix only to tell me, like the clock, that I wasn’t there yet. On one occasion, I knew I physically could not get onto to my back no matter how they insisted and I pleaded to be examined in any other position. One of the residents responded so truthfully it was almost endearing: “But I’ve never done it in another position. I don’t know how,” to which my midwife asked if she would like to learn and, bless her heart, she did. With coaching from my midwife and painful yelps from me, “No! That’s my clitoris!” she was able to detect my dilation, but not with enough certainty not to warrant an additional exam shortly after by another resident, this time very strictly on my back. After the birth, one of them actually told me she had never seen a birth like mine; that most of the women she sees would have begged for an epidural or a c-section after ten minutes of my labor. I’m sure I would have too had I felt obligated to lie prone the whole time and wait for their instructions instead of listening to my body and doing what it told me.

More of a pest than a foe but still a force to be combated, were the tangle of cords that kept me tethered to the bed and would have impeded my instinctive movement if not for the constant presence of a helping hand to hold them aside or unwind me. When I first arrived there were only the two fetal heart rate monitors wrapped around my belly and gouging into my swollen back but then the IV was added for fluids and later, when a fever appeared, for antibiotics. When my baby’s vital signs dropped, an oxygen mask was snapped over my face causing my vision to blur and me to feel more like a birthing heifer at the mercy of a vet than a human being. I felt helpless with my fate and my baby’s in the hands of those who knew how to monitor the machines to which we were attached…. and yet I also understood that these things might very well save my baby's life. Positivity won again.

My greatest adversary, the one to whom I almost lost the battle, was the beeping of the fetal heart rate monitor. In my eleventh hour (literally) of on-my-feet labor, in the middle of what I thought, hoped, prayed was a particularly successful squatting push, what had been a faint but constant background rhythm suddenly became a very loud series of alarms followed by doctors rushing in and out telling me to change positions immediately. I obeyed but the alarms didn’t quiet. The doctors yelled for me to stop pushing and began hoisting me into a series of excruciating positions, flipping me from one side to the other, twisting me up in the cords and disorienting me completely. With the addition of the oxygen mask, not only did I no longer feel human, worse, I no longer trusted my body to do what my baby needed. My body wanted to push, couldn’t help but push, but the high-pitched, increasingly fast-paced beeping of the FHM told me this was harming my baby. Through the blur of my plastic mask, I glanced up at the clock then over at the fearful faces of the doctors and… I gave up. I haven’t admitted this before, but it’s the truth. At that moment, I threw in the towel. C’est la vie. There’s nothing left I can do. I’m exhausted. Just get my baby out. I never said these words out loud but they must have permeated the room (and my womb) because as soon as I felt them, the alarms became even faster and I was immediately wheeled into the operating room.

In the OR, I was connected to more cords and even my baby was caught in the web with a new fetal heart monitor stuck directly to its head. There was more beeping in the OR, which I mistook for the baby’s heart rate and when, against all odds, the surgeons told me that the baby seemed to have turned out of its posterior position and that I could continue pushing for five more minutes, I was almost too paralyzed from fear (and numb legs) to continue. With each push I would hear the beeping vacillate and my courage to carry on would wane. The five minutes ended and still no baby, but, much to my surprise, the surgeons said I was doing well, the baby was doing well, and so long as that continued, so could my pushing. Both relieved and distressed (I don’t know that I can keep pushing), I asked feebly if I could change out of their prescribed side-lying, leg-held-in-the-air position. Fully expecting to be told no, I was instead responded to with, “What do you want to try?” to which I answered the only way I could: by clamping onto my trusty metal bar and heaving my beaten-down being back up… all the way to standing. This caused a great commotion since the new cords to which I was attached were much shorter and the OR ceiling much lower. Wide-eyed, the attending physician called out to me, “Watch the hanging lights!” and I angled my head to the right as I growled through a powerful push. Though my trembling, woozy body permitted me only a few of these upright pushes before slinking down into a squat, the act of rising up so empowered me that, like any nearly-defeated warrior, I charged fiercely ahead. The silent repetition of my well-worn mantra, I love you baby, I love you. We can do this. I love you, drowned out the oppressive noises of the OR, including the beeping.

After an hour and forty minutes of pushing so hard I popped blood vessels in my eyes, only one rival remained: my own worn-out, fever-ridden body. By this time my mantra had shifted to: Please baby, help me. I can’t do this any longer. You’ve got to come with this push. It was the cheering of my once fearful doctors (now very much my allies), which carried me until I was able to reach down and feel my baby’s head crowning. At this point, Miles began giggling happily, “There’s so much hair!” and this joyful sound held me safely even though I was ripping at the seams. As close as I was to ending this excruciating battle, I had no more reserves of strength to summon. Everyone was reassuring, “You can do it!” but I had no idea how. Suddenly an image of a circle of candles lit for me by my loved ones and by every woman on earth who had ever given birth began to burn in my mind’s eye and I surrendered to the ancient force of birth itself. I’m in your hands, I called to the force and with one incredible push, my baby’s enormous head was born. With my whole body crying out Thank you! and every person in the OR cheering the “yay!” of labor -- Push! Push! – I shattered apart revealing two fragile, new beings: my baby and the woman who was its mother.

My child had slid over the bridge into the world of the living, but jury was still out on how long he would stay. I laid eyes on him for a split second before he was whisked away. I didn’t catch enough of a glimpse to know yet that he was a he, but I did see that my child was limp and black, which, in my delirium, I thought must be due to a mysterious recessive gene rather than the meconium he had ingested. This was not the beautiful ending I thought was guaranteed… but I was too exhausted to panic and with my white flag was still waving, my baby, too, was in the force’s hands.

My husband left my side to become a father, passionately and protectively watching over his child as the neo-natal specialists suctioned him intensively. After a long silence, I finally heard my baby cry then I exhaled long and deep. Miles came back to my side. “We have a boy,” he beamed. “He’s weak but they say he’s going to be okay.” Me too, I thought. Before they disappeared into the NICU, Miles managed to convince the doctors to place him on my chest for a moment. For the first time, I looked my son in the eyes. “I love you, baby,” I told him. “We did it.” He cooed back at me. This was an image I could never have conjured on my own.

As I was sewn up and my placenta manually removed (a painful necessity due to an infection in my uterus), I noticed how tired everyone was, especially the nurse who had been with me almost the entire twelve hours, and yet how happy they all were for my victory. Now, not only did I have a beautiful baby boy, I had something else to be thankful for: giving birth in a hospital. I could see that this is where my baby and I needed to be in order to receive the care we required. That care included not only the technical abilities to tend our urgent medical complications, but also the human capacity to see my dedication to a natural birth and then assist me in that, even under the wire. I gushed my thanks aloud to the doctors and nurses. The attending physician responded, “We could see how determined you were. And, you, know, we really do try to avoid cesareans.”

While my nurse cleaned the blood from legs and feet and my mother stood at my side holding my hand, my mind replayed the most intense moments of the labor and I could hardly believe I had survived them. I also replayed my lowest moment and couldn’t imagine not having bounced back from it. The question my birthing class instructor posed floated back to me. Who am I? During my labor, I had become someone else entirely, but already she seemed like a dream. So now who was I? Without my baby in my arms, I hardly felt like a mother, but I also felt distinctly separate from the person I had been twelve hours before and the past twenty-eight years before that. As they wheeled me back into my room to await the return of my baby and husband, the answer came to me: I am a shape-shifter – I am my baby’s warrior and my husband’s hero, I am a goddess, a poet, a white flag, and, yes, I am a rainbow – where it ends and where it begins again. Suddenly, I felt the depth of what it means to be a woman.

the last days of bump

2009-09-12T00:22:00.009+01:00

I thought for sure my bump would be born within 24hours of this photo taken after a beautiful hike in Discovery Park. It was the eve of our anniversary and I couldn't fathom being more than 5 days overdue. Little did I know... 7 days after that, my bump was even bigger!
Looking at my big baby boy now, I can hardly believe he once fit into this bump, no matter how absurdly huge it looked then. The photo above was me trying to get a shot of the bump and my feet a few days before he was born. I was shocked to find out I couldn't even see my toes! I did some finagling and discovered if I leaned back far enough, I could catch a glimpse of them...

With lots of time on my hands, I cracked myself up with some odd angles (this is lying down... I am wearing shorts!)

Here it is in all its glory...
After I tired of my bump photo shoot, I started making a handbag. I just learned to sew and never dreamed I would get very far with this project let alone finish it, but the days kept ticking by and my bump was still a bump. I was happy to have a bag, but was truly at a loss when I finished the final stitches on this thing and still hadn't begun labor. At that point, I asked Miles to pick some more plums and pears and we started making more jam and pear butter... and in the middle of that my water broke... but still nothing happened for 42 more hours! This bump gave me a serious lesson in patience!

bountiful baby

2009-08-06T19:43:00.021+01:00

Everything is in bloom these days!

There is a lot we don't know about this baby. We don't if it is a boy or a girl. We don't know if it will be a Leo or a Virgo. We don't know if it will be dark-headed or light-headed (or have any hair at all!). We don't know its name (though we do have some ideas). And we certainly don't know who this person is. When I think about it all and look down at my big huge bump, I can hardly stand it that I don't even know when I will get to find out all of these things. It could be tomorrow or it could be in 2 weeks (please, God, don't let this baby wait that long!). Being pregnant is like staring at an exquisitely wrapped present that you know is yours but that you don't get to unwrap... it has to unwrap itself! I realize that metaphor is a little convoluted -- it's not called labor for nothing -- but you catch my drift. I've always loved surprises, but this is the biggest surprise I've ever had to wait for and I want to open it up now and see what's inside!

It does bring me some solace to know a few things about this most desired present. 1.It is a baby. 2. It's a wiggly one (even with no room to wiggle in, it finds a way!). 3. We get along pretty well so far... I can still sleep well at night, my ribs aren't bruised from kicking, I feel pretty good, and when I press on my tummy the baby presses back. 4. He or she likes live music... when Miles plays the guitar or we have been in the presence of other instruments or singing, bump becomes really active like he or she is dancing. 5. I don't know this one, but I do have a strong feeling that this baby is content most of the time and often downright happy. I suppose this feeling comes from the fact that when I think about the baby I feel content and that when Miles and I feel bump moving, the movements make us smile and laugh.

There's another thing I know about this baby and though I'm not sure exactly how it will effect him or her, I know it will certainly leave its mark -- this baby is going to be born at a bountiful time of year in an unusually bountiful environment. Just take our yard for example... it's dripping with fruit! I've always wanted to learn how to preserve fruit and bake luscious desserts and we moved to the right place... if we don't pick it, we have to sweep it up!

An hour's worth of plum picking last week...

... which I then canned and jammed thanks to help from two friends and advice from my grandma. The peaches were from the farmer's market and they were very happy to sell them to us and cheaply. The dry, hot summer so far has caused much of the fruit this summer to ripen at once. No good for the farmers but luckily canning equipment sales are up 20-something-percent this year. Is it the recession or are people waking up to the importance of being connected to their food and respecting the way our grandparents used to do things?

5 pear trees that are almost ripe... I saved a supply jars to can these too but that depends on how handy I am with a newborn in a sling!

Miles' first tomato, picked this morning! If he treats our baby with only as much care as he has given this tomato plant, he'd be a pretty damn good dad. I can't explain to you how much Miles loves this plant -- he checks on it almost every time he comes downstairs from his office and was totally heartbroken when he realized it caught a disease. He hasn't given up on it since it got sick, but tends it even more tenderly pruning each leaf as it withers and checking constantly on the progress of the existing tomatoes. It was a very happy moment when he brought in this beautiful, ripe, red orb. Maybe it's a sign labor will begin soon!

Food for the bees...

Blackberry pie made from scratch (first time!) with blackberries Miles and I picked in the park...

Wait for me to slice it first!

And... a very ripe bump! I can still see my toes, sort of!

letting go of letting go & opening up

2009-08-06T19:41:00.012+01:00

Yesterday the weather turned cool and cloudy and I was able to tune my attention inwards for the first time in a long stretch. Typical Seattle weather with the sky low and enveloping is perfect for the pondering, writerly mind though, I have to say, there has not been a whole lot of that in the year we've lived here. With records breaking (or nearing) for amounts of snow, coldest spring, dryest May, and hottest July days, I haven't done nearly as much brooding as I have in past years. But, then again, my interior climate has been atypical for the past 9 months also. So, on Wednesday I reveled in the chance to snuggle up with a blanket and a story, take a walk with a scarf and my journal, and contemplate my connection with a fallen blossom.

My theme for the day was set by the story I read entitled "Mother Goddess" about my friend's journey to find balance between motherhood and self and the struggle that ensues when that balance isn't struck. This launched me into deep contemplation of my own transformation into motherhood and finding this beautiful fallen blossom was complete synchronicity. So much of this past year for me has been about letting go of the many ways I used to define myself to make room for the new person who coming from the future to greet me: myself as a mother. Letting go of some things has been easier than others (like letting go of the notion that I need to earn a certain amount of money -- that was easy because I couldn't find work! and letting go of my image of my body being a certain way... well, that's obviously a silly one to fight), but I eventually got the hang of letting go of even the more painful things and was able to surrender to the concept that my life was not going to run in the same manner as it has and that it's okay. In fact, I think I even got myself into a habit of letting things go, so much so that when my few plans for the next year post-baby began to fall through, I was able to recover quite easily. Maybe it's hormones or maybe it's the understanding that my life is going to be unimaginably changed that keeps me present instead of fretting about the future. It's a nice breather from my old driven self. I can appreciate that the beauty of this blossom lies in its fragility -- it won't look like this tomorrow.

But... when I took a step back from this single blossom and saw just how many blossoms were strewn about the hill, I became a little afraid. What if I let go of too much? What if in another year, I don't recognize myself at all? What if I am only a mother? After a mild panic, I realized it was time to let go of letting go. I'd let go of plenty and two weeks away from my due date, it seemed time for something else.

I changed my perspective to encompass the tree that was the bearer of all these pink blossoms. She was a strong tree. Strong enough to lean far to one side and not cripple herself. Her branches were thick and balanced and her leaves were a rich green. It occurred to me then how dropping her blossoms left her open to possibilities of the new season. I don't know this tree, so I don't know if berries or more blossoms lie in her future, but already I could see how she was opening up and unfolding, free from the weight of hundreds of blossoms. I knew this was what was next for me. Surrender had taken me so far and now it was time to open up and receive the new. Soon, my body will open so I can receive my baby into the world. I know my heart will also open to envelop and nurture this baby and to be loved by it in return. I am confident that I, too, can open up into my new self, into someone who is seasoned by motherhood but stands strong on her own roots while reaching far into the open air.

One of the first gifts this new focus on opening helped me to receive took place later that evening when my mother held a mother blessing for me with a few friends. It was a beautiful ceremony and I was so grateful for the wisdom, love, and strength given to me from these amazing women and from those who sent their blessings from afar. Taking the time to focus together on the significance of motherhood and honor the transition into it was so thoroughly nourishing. I no longer felt alone in my struggles and realizations, but part of an ancient life cycle and saw that I am one tree in a forest that renews itself again and again.

Now, I feel excited and ready. Ready for birth, ready for my baby, ready to be a mother, ready to unfold into who I will become.

One of my friends pointed out the significance of this particular day, (it was August 5) in cultures around the world. It couldn't be more serendipitous so I post her findings here:
Today is our Lunar Lammas - first harvest, breaking bread, abundance. Green Corn Ceremony (Creek), Sundance (Lakota), Festivals of the Goddess , Corn Mother (Hopi), Amaterasu (Japanese) Hatshepsut's Day (Egyptian).
It is also a Full Moon in Aquarius - Calls us to the circle, away from private concerns and intimacy; it reminds us of the sacredness of collaboration and collectivization. We become deeply aware that what affects one, affects us all. It's time to search for new allies, network, review our philosophy and find a way to walk our talk.
Finally we have a Lunar Eclipse today - Look within to release whatever shadow figures show up there, and recognize the power of your authentic Self.

mylar polyeurethane and repurposed muslin... in one day

2009-06-07T03:04:00.013+01:00

Awe... what a wholesome way to spend a morning... Mom and pregnant daughter happily sewing curtains out of recycled muslin (we used the table clothes from the wedding picnic)...

But by afternoon granola handwork was replaced with toxins and space-age technology...

You probably don't even notice the simple yet lovely curtains in the background with this UFO dominating our living room. What the heck is it, you're wondering, and how did it get there?! Okay. I'll try to make a ridiculous story tight and to the point. At somewhere around 29 weeks, my back started spasming and so I went to a masseuse who propped me up on the most comfortable foam wedge. The massage was nice, but the wedge was superb since I hadn't been able to sit or lie down comfortably for weeks. After the massage I asked what I had to do to have my very own piece of wonder foam and she told me the answer was a little shop called "Friendly Foam" and that they would make me my very own bliss pad if I gave them the right angle. So I called them up and gave the angle she had told me. The friendly foamster wasn't as friendly as I'd expected and even mocked me for not knowing the dimensions I wanted and just the angle, but he did take my order and my credit card number and said my wedge would be ready in a week. I couldn't wait.

So, after a morning of achy sewing, you can imagine how thrilled I was when my friend with the foam called to tell me relief was on its way. I drove on over to the foam shop (yep, that's really all they sell there) and parked in front where a few dudes where smoking. I held my breath as I stepped past them into the store and dinged the little bell for service. One of the dudes outside rolled his eyes, stumped out his cigarette, and entered behind the counter.

Dude: Yeah?
Me: I'm here for my custom foam wedge. You just called me.
Dude: Oh that enormous thing. Just a sec. (he steps into the back and then reenters with a ginormous piece of foam tied up in plastic)
Me: Wow. That is huge. I bet you're glad it's just foam.
Dude: Still hurts my back.
Me: (thinking this is a joke)Really?
Dude: (self-righteously)I do it all day long.
(A moment while I recall him outside smoking with his buddies and he cracks his back groaning. I stare at the foam.)
Me: You know this is way bigger than my masseuse's wedge.
Dude: You said you wanted a 45 degree angle.
Me: I did.
Dude: It has to be this big to get it this angle.
Me: Seriously?
Dude: (blank stare)
Me: Well, I guess I can make it work. It's the angle that's important.
Dude: (blank stare)
Me: How much did it come to?
Dude: $136.82
Me: You're kidding.
Dude: It was custom made.
Me: It's foam.
Dude: They had to glue two wedges together.
(A moment where I stifle a guffaw and stare at the foam not knowing what to do)
Dude: (Pushing a bill over the counter to me) Just sign here. We already have your credit card number.

After a moment of deliberating what to do, I realize I don't have any options. Out of the corner of my eye I see a bin of cylindrical foam shapes that resemble something else my masseuse had used and I ask the price. They are $4. The price foam should be. I add the cylinder to my order, sign on the dotted line, and the dude (no longer my friend) surprises me by offering to carry the wedge to my car, perhaps afraid I might change my mind last minute and leave him with it. It doesn't fit easily into the trunk so he shoves it in, rocking my entire car. "That's the good thing about foam," he says. I'm not so sure. When I get home, after much tugging and even a bit of tearing, I get the foam out of the trunk and lug it up the stairs to our house. Even pregnant with my back spasms I cannot imagine how this would be considered challenging labor. I put the wedge on the bed and am grateful that there is still room for me. Then Miles enters.

Miles: That's what your masseuse had?!
Me: Not exactly.
Miles: It's enormous.
Me: I know.
Miles: How much was it?
Me: Don't ask. (He looks at me worried. I am preoccupied.) Do you smell something chemical-y?"
Miles: Yes. (He whiffs the foam unhappily.)
Me: I think it's giving me a headache.
Miles: Isn't polyeurethene incredibly toxic?
Me: What's that?
Miles: What foam is made out of.
(Suddenly his uncle's painting gets dislodged from above the bed (the foam is too tall and has bumped it off the nail). Miles catches it. I begin to laugh hysterically.)
Me: $136.82 for a gigantic piece of toxic foam.
Miles: You're kidding.
Me: I've got to get it away from me. (I start to lug it out onto the porch)
Miles: We'll take it back.
Me: Can't. It's custom made.
Miles: You can't sleep with this thing.
Me: I realize this.
Miles: It defeats everything organic we've been putting in our house and our bodies.
Me: I realize this.
(I continue laughing to the point of tears while Miles starts to get a look on his face I have never seen before -- he's mad.)
Miles: This isn't funny. We can't waste money like this.
Me: (still laughing but also kind of yelling) I realize this!

Miles walks away and my laughing stops abruptly. It's finally happened: our first fight. Don't get me wrong, we grate on each other's nerves sometimes but neither of us are fighters so it has never gotten to this point before. This silent treatment lasts about 10 minutes and then Miles comes and finds me.

Miles: Are you mad?
Me: Yes. Are you?
Miles: Yes.

Now I start crying like I had been laughing: pregnant with uncontrollable emotion. He holds me. We both apologize. I explain how stupid I feel. He Googles polyeurethane. Yep, it's toxic, and especially is the seam glue they used to "customize" this piece. We reconcile ourselves to chalking this up to a waste of money and make a list of other stupid expenditures (nothing tops the inanity of this one, but our $500 meal in Paris was certainly more painful).

And then Miles gets the brilliant idea to cover the foam so it is still usable. He finds out that mylar (what they use to make space blankets) effectively seals things and, after a trip to the neighborhood hydroponic growing store (apparently every neighborhood has one), he begins wrapping.

Married bliss resumes...

While this thing is still too big to sleep on, it has come in handy for resting on with a heating pad, but it's most popular function is as a slide... every time kids come over they find this thing (even if I'm hiding it under a blanket) and go nuts on it! In fact, I think it's safe to say it has even made us kid popular, which is a nice boost before ours arrives.

walking a new path (and not walking too)

2009-06-07T03:03:00.016+01:00

Our travels these days tend more towards journeying inside (or at least near the nest) than hiking around the globe...

Our baby's feet. Aren't they sweet?! We were given three photos from our ultra sound, none of which we got to choose and this was one of them. Coincidence? We weren't originally planning to do an ultra sound but at 26 weeks this bump was measuring big and there was a question of twins so we gave in and on my 28th birthday we got to see our baby for the first time. It felt a little invasive, especially when they showed us the inside of its heart, brain and spinal cord, but it was really neat to see this little person opening and closing its mouth and wiggling around. I especially loved seeing its busy little feet. This baby hasn't stopped moving since then and I think he or she is dancing in there whenever Miles plays his guitar or we hear live music. I haven't gotten many strong kicks, but lots of little flurries and rhythmic taps... maybe just to let me know all is well. One night, there was so much activity that I woke out of a sound sleep and was convinced this bump was having a spaz attack. It's a funny thought considering both Miles and I were (and sometimes still are) prone to them.

This photo was taken at the Hole-in-wall on Rialto Beach (WA)in April when Miles and I took a bumpmoon. Looking back, it's appropriate how far the cave is from my belly... we still had a long way to go! It's amazing just how long a woman is pregnant. I have been pregnant for all of 2009 and while I've certainly done other things, my main focus has been on growing this baby. Transforming into a mother is quite the journey and I'm sure labor will be like peaking a tremendous mountain. I'm excited for the view from there though I suspect it will include many higher peaks yet to be scaled.

See the tiny little American flag inside my red shoes? This made me giggle when I thought of how this blog started as "european shoes." We've traveled a long way since that time and worn out many pairs of shoes. Now we have the bliss of being home together. Home is the place where you get to leave your shoes at the door, or next to your blanket on the beach.

Feet on retreat. Before our bumpmoon, I spent a week doing a writing residency in Port Townsend. I've been lucky to do a residency every year since 2005 and I hope to keep that a tradition. This week was the most productive I had all year -- I was able to edit two existing plays and start two new ones, one of which is my first ever play for children. It didn't hurt that I was able to walk on the beach everyday. I witnessed an incredible rainbow my first evening there and wrote my first little scene for the baby which you can read on my website if you're interested. (www.janiscraftplays.com -- the last play under "short plays and monologues").

Miles took this on the beach outside of our cabin at Kalaloch on the bumpmoon. I don't want to spoil the magic of our time there with inadequate words so I'll leave it at this: I am so lucky to walk through life with this man.

At 37 weeks pregnant, Seattle decided to have a heatwave. I thought we'd been smart to leave Chicago before having a baby but it turns out they've had it cool this summer! Go figure. These are my toes in what was a bucket of ice on the hottest day of the year (103 degrees!). I also had on hand a spray bottle, an ice pack and jars of cold water. I even tried freezing my socks but they just wouldn't stay frozen long enough for relief. Luckily it's over now. That was not fun.

In full nesting mode, we've been decorating the baby's room (regardless of the heat). Miles has been putting his art degree to use drawing and cutting leaves and branches and I've been his trusty assistant and picky inspector. We're a good team when it comes to making things. The room is by far the best place in the house, especially after our crafty friends made all sorts of fun things for it -- bugs, fruit, a bird and nest, toys, animals. I'm also quite proud that nothing in the room was bought new except for the non-toxic paint on the walls. If we didn't make it, we were either lent it or found it on craigslist or at garage sales. And because we want to keep it clean (especially the white wool rug!) barefoot is the rule. ;-)

Footlogue

2009-04-23T04:27:00.024+01:00

So, I realize that I've neglected this blog for the past two years since we called France home, and especially in 07 and 08 when all kinds of exciting foot photos were taken on our travels... our wedding and honeymoon, our trip back to Europe, our move to Seattle... (Hey, our wedding vows didn't mention walking together for nothing! These feet get around!) So, since I hope to keep up a little better now that a new set of feet will be making an appearance, here's a little retrospective of our last years to bring things up to date.

My lonely feet in Montpellier, after Miles had gone back to Chicago.

Two months on different continents... It was the longest we've been apart and hopefully that will be our record. We're much better as a team.

Back together at last! For my 26th birthday we had a super day in Chicago complete with a trip to the planetarium (part research for my play) and then a long, long walk to the Bean. These shoes were actually my mom's old ones and they cut some gnarly blisters into my feet, but I didn't pay much attention. I was too happy to be with my love again. We decided to wear our wedding rings for the day (and not until again the big day) and I remember the amazing reality that we were going to spend our lives together set in for the first time. After being apart, I was so, so thankful to know togetherness was our plan.

Would you believe that we entirely forgot to take a picture of our feet together on our wedding day? I guess our minds were elsewhere... Here's Miles' foot in our eco cottage on the wedding night. I believe I was busy packing a picnic basket to take to the floating dock on our little private pond. We saw a shooting star that night...

The next morning, Miles woke to find me staring at him wide-eyed with a huge smile. This kind of freaked him out as he is the early riser and I am not. I had been too happy to sleep a wink the whole night and just kept thinking about how my husband, my wedding, my life were all so much more beautiful than I'd ever imagined (and as someone who loves to imagine and to dream, I'd spent most of my life weaving some pretty stunning images of these things). As our goal was to make it from Michigan to Nevada in 3 days (Miles was playing a show), we set out shortly after breakfast and some goodbyes to family staying in the cottages nearby. It didn't take long for me to realize I was missing a pair of shoes and we took a detour back to the Dunes to search for the shoes I'd kicked off just before we had said our vows. The rose petals, courtesy of my cousins' car decor, fell out when I'd opened the door.

Now ready to really set off, we put our bride and groom duckies on the dash (thanks Maggie!) with the groom duckie on the driver side since Miles was taking the wheel. Shortly after, I fell asleep and didn't fully wake up until Nevada (couldn't sleep the next few nights in hotels either) which meant that Miles did most of the driving. Our vows should have said, "I choose you as my partner to drive me through life..."

Almost there! I'm standing on Salt Lake!

And we made it to the desert... playa feet!

We met up with Rich at the festival... he had some pretty awesome shoes.

There's nothing like a dust storm in the desert...

Back on the road, with me driving more often now, we set off for the Grand Tetons and found a pretty stunning picnic spot.

Onto Yellowstone...

It started raining just when we were ready to set up camp. Though it was a nice change from the desert, the idea of being wet and cold for the whole time didn't seem like fun so we bought cheesy ponchos.

Back to Chicago for nine months of working hard and we were ready for another voyage. Knowing that we would soon be living on the West Coast, we thought we needed to get back Europe while it was still relatively close. Miles had some shows lined up in Paris and London and I was eager to see our friends and my students in Montpellier before the end of the school year. Plus it was my birthday again... what a great present.

Jardin feet...

It was great to take things slow for 10 days before the whirlwind of games, plays, and our move caught us. This was taken on a hike in St. Guilhem-le-desert, near Montpellier. Miles ate Pentecostal bull in this town and we hitch-hiked to a grotto. Fun times!

Paris toes...

Here I am in London showing off my playwriting shoes (bought with money from my first sizable grant). I'm sitting across the table from my friend Polly here working on a play that one day we will finish.

And since you can see Seattle feet in the next post, I'll end with a shot of the happy heads these feet carry around. This was taken at Lake Crescent in Washington, two months ago.

hiking boots

2008-12-02T03:31:00.004Z

These shoes just don't cut it in the mountains.

The next time we went hiking we wore these:

More than our Washington license plate, owning hiking boots makes us officially no longer Mid-Westerners.

Pacific feet

2008-12-02T03:25:00.003Z

August, 2008. Discovery Park.

Seattle feet!

2008-08-11T21:32:00.012+01:00

Wow. These feet sure have done some walking since the last post! From Europe back to Chicago, over to Michigan to get married, then out West to Yellowstone, back to Europe and now all they way across in the other direction to Seattle! I've got some catching up to do -- and lots of foot photos to sort through!

But first lets start with where these feet have landed....

These are our feet (well, my blue toe) after a swim in Lake Washington, which is probably the closet lake to us, although since we're very centrally located, it's a bit of a toss up with all of the other beautiful bodies of water nearby. The one thing that's certain is that to get any of them, we have to go down a big hill. They don't call it Capitol Hill for nothin! We'll see if I ever build up enough strength to ride my bike back up it!

Et voila, proof we're really in Seattle. This view of the needle is from Volunteer Park, one of the many amazing parks in this town that are just a short bike ride from home. This park reminds me a bit of Barcelona because of its scope and because there's a museum in it. There's also an awesome botanical garden here which has a corpse flower on display right now that just bloomed. Stinky!!!

Allow me to introduce you to our new neighbor. He likes to hang out our on our picket fence. We made friends fast by giving him organic pecans (as he can be seen eating here). He tried to come in, but we thought that was a little pushy and told him he needed to disclose his last name before things went any further. It just doesn't seem right to invite someone in who won't tell you their last name, ya know?

We found the bees! Apparently all those confused bees who haven't been returning home to their beekeepers, have been hanging out in our yard. This makes Miles, who thinks they're so cute he's making a game about them, especially happy. I like watching them twirl around inside these orange flowers.

mon leçon

2007-04-19T09:58:00.000+01:00

As my classes are are coming to an end, I've decided to switch places with my students. I hand them the dry-erase markers and sit down at a desk with a notebook and pen. "Teach me the French I'd never learn in a book," I tell them.

They're shy at first. This is not behavior that they're used to. The French are proper and French school teachers even more so. The students usually giggle amongst themsevles then stammer for something proper to teach me. Three different classes now I've been taught that the longest french word is anticonstitionalism. I tell them this an English word and that it also happens to be our longest word. They are dissappointed. I try to reiterate that I want to learn real French. I want to know all of the fun little phrases. I want to know what they've been mumbling to each other all year long.

Yesterday I finally had a class that took the bait. Well, kind of.

Here is what I've learned:

Sers moi un janue -- Serve me a yellow. This refers to the liquor Pastis but the kids use it often as a sort of inside joke that I'm guessing refers to when they would like to be drinking instead of listening to a silly professor begging to learn real French.

on se casse -- this one comes with an arm movement. the one that basically means "up yours." it means "we're outta here."

ça déchire -- literally means "it rips" actually means it's great, awesome. it's the informal version of cest genial

la boule à zéro -- literally this translates as "the head is a zero" but actually it means someone is bald.

s'en fut or: il n'y a rien à faire -- I don't care

tomber sur un os -- literally means "to fall on a bone" but actually means to come accross something difficult

qu'est-ta? short for qu'est-ce que tu as or more formally qu'elle ton problème -- essentially, what's up with you? what's your deal? What's your problem?

kiffer -- apparently this is a newly created word for aimer, to love. So instead of je t'aime you can say je te kiffe. The kids couldn't say where "kiffer" originally came from. apparently it came out of thin air.

c'est nul -- a cool way of saying it's not interesting. they say this a lot in class. good thing i'm just now learning it.

je suis déssu -- another, less current way, of saying c'est nul

à plus or shorter, à+ -- both short for à plus tard which means more later... a good way to sign off an email

I have another class this afternoon with some senior boys. I'm hoping they'll take the bait further...

donc, à+...

je me suis trompée... encore

2007-04-19T08:12:00.000+01:00

Trompée is such a good word. It sounds exactly like what it is. A tromp. A trump. A stump. And then as a verb... Tromping all over the language. Trumped all ya'll. Stumped you. And then in the phrase je me suis trompée... I made a boo-boo. An erreur. Un betise. Un faux pas. Oops!

I'm a real pro when it comes to trompée-ing. Well, to be fair, I suppose all newcomers to a language are pros at this. There is just no way you could not make ridiculous mistakes on daily basis.

But perhaps I make these trompes a little more often than others... There's this thing somewhere between my head and my tongue that just refuses to obey. See, I know which words are troublesome and that I should just avoid altogether but for some reason those are the very words that my tongue just rolls off in the most inappropriate circumstances. I'm sure Freud would have a grand ole time with me.

Par exemple, the other day I finally bothered to ask someone just what it is that's so funny about the word "chaud," which means hot. I'm working with high school students so I know they'll laugh at just about anything, but as the temperature has been climbing here and I've been using the word more and more I've begun to understand that this isn't just their regular laugh... and I started getting nervous. Just what does it mean when I say Je suis chaude? En faites, as a fellow teacher informed me, it means I am horny. Yep. I've been standing in front of classrooms full of teenagers fanning myself saying "My god, I am so horny right now."

I should have known better. In french you have heat -- J'ai chaud not, je suis chaude. This is one of the first things you learn in French... and apparently one of the first things I forgot.

So, later that day, forever having sworn off using the word "chaud" just to be safe from my tricky tongue, I was fanning my red face (it is really hot here!) in the faculty room and a young teacher saw me and asked me, correctly, if I was hot. I responded by mimicing what he said. Tu as chaud? Oui, j'ai chaud. Thought there could be no harm in that, but as soon as I said it another teacher standing nearby, a teacher whom I've noticed giving me eyes throughout the year, without missing a beat, asked if he could take me home. Now, it was the end of the day and I was getting ready to leave but there was no mistaking his timing. I had said it correctly, but the double entendre was still there... a joke waiting to be made. At my expense. My face got redder. I tried to respond to what he said as if there were no pun and thanked him but said I had another ride. He continued and eventually asked me on a date to which I had to finally admit I understood him perfectly fine but was not interested.

Yeah. I got picked up in the faculty room. And all because of that damned word.

But there have been worse instances. Ones that set my face on fire and ones that have reduced me to tears... the laughing kind.

Early in the year I was eating lunch with the other teachers in la cantine and I was talking about how impressed with French cafeteria food I was. I now bring my lunch every day (everything is relative) but at that point I could only see what a step up from American cafeteria food it was. There were three courses, for one thing. And the meat actaully looked like meat. The biggest difference I noticed, however, was that the potatoes were actually mashed, not taken out of a box. This impressed me so much that I launched into a speech about all of the preservatives in American food and how horrible they are for people. Using the classic rule of franglais which is to take an English word and say it with a French accent, I concluded that the French word for preservatives must be something similar to "préservatives." But, of course, it's not. Préservatifs, which is the word I pronounced again and again, are condoms. I could tell the teachers were all stifling giggles. I mistook this for their disbelief in how awful American food can be. I became even more persistent. "But, it's true. We put condoms in all of our food. It's why we're all so fat. You're very lucky to have food that doesn't have condoms in it. I can really taste the difference."

When I went home that night and told Miles the story I confused the English word and used instead "conservatives" which is a reversed franglaisism -- the correct word in French for preservative is, in fact,conservateur. Miles listened to the whole story with a slight grin and at the end said simply: "I know you're a liberal but everything bad is not necessarily conservative."

Another time I was trying to figure out when I could reschedule a class with another teacher. It was quite complicated and she was a bit frustrated as we studied the calendar. After much searching we decided that I could take the class on thursdays, jeudi. A moment later she declared with some force "Mercredi!," the word for wednesday. I responded a bit flustered "But I don't work on Wednesdays, remember?" Luckily she was an English teacher and she looked up at me and giggled. Mercredi, apparently, is also a euphemism for merde... much like how we use fudge to replace our naughtiest of words...

And speaking of those naughtiest of words, the French equivalent is baiser. I was instructed to never confuse that with the similar word baisser which means "to lower, as in tone." I committed this to memory but thought that it thankfully wouldn't be much of a problem since I would probably never have a need for the word "baisser." Ah, how wrong I was. I am a teacher afterall and what do teachers say to students? Be quiet. Close your mouths. Zip it! And most politely, "Please lower the tone of your voices." Trying to be polite, I calmly said to my class one morning, "I would greatly appreciate it if you would kindly fuck the tone of your voices. Thank you." That got their attention!

Whatever this devilish little malfunction between tongue and brain is, I'm pretty certain it is hereditary. I remember kneeling in church some years ago next my mother as we sung a quiet post-eucharist hymn. The refrain was "When I fall on my knees with my face to the rising sun, Oh Lord, have mercy on me." My mother, however, in a confident and unreserved volume sang "When I fall on my face with my knees to the rising sun, Oh Lord, have mercy on me." I giggled until I snorted but she kept on singing, repeating the same verse another time. When I whispered to her what she had said we both couldn't stand it and had to leave the service early, tears streaming down our cheeks and both of our faces, of course, burning red.

des personnages de mon séjour

2007-03-22T09:19:00.000Z

When we began this trip I had it in my head that I would write a sketch of each interesting person we encountered along the way. But life goes fast and we went a lot of places and the list became long before we even got to France. Now many of the faces that marked themselves on the canvas of my memory have blended into the overall painting -- not forgotten, but not remembered individually. There are only a few who remain broad, distinct strokes and since this composition seems to continue gathering layers, I figure I had better jot them down now before I lose them altogether.

Donc, voilà...

The Toast Man
I am in line at Intermarché, one of the few supermarkets in town. There are no grocery carts at this supermarket. Instead there are red plastic baskets on wheels with handles that extend to reach your hand. Pretty clever, if you ask me. I have one of the baskets next to me as I wait. In my basket are a slew of unhealthy vaguely American things (to cure a bout of mild homesickness) including the worst of them all, American Sandwhich sliced white bread, the bread that never goes bad (I've had a bag of it sitting on top of the microwave for almost two months now and still no trace of mold). That this bread even exists in France shows just where things in the world are headed... This is what's going through my mind when a man in his 40s begins talking to me about the items in my basket and trying to guess my personality from them. He's speaking in French, of course. I pretend not to understand him. Sometimes being foreign really comes in handy. When he realizes I'm not French he switches to English and I realize I'm screwed. He gets on a roll about my American Sandwhich bread and how very English it is to eat toast. Then he laughs and says that the English even cut their croissants in half, stick them in the toaster, and butter them heavily. I make a face at this. Who would toast a croissant and, worse, add butter? Butter is their main indredient. The man smiles and, in an attempt to flirt, insists that croissants are good like this -- toasted and buttered. That the English know what they're talking about. That it's the English who gave the French toast, and even better english muffins. I nod and begin taking my items out of the basket hoping he won't comment on the chips, the coke, the beer, the pretzels, the other clearly non-french items, thinking he's got to be blind if he doesn't notice that I'm obviously American, not English, but he doesn't. He just keeps speaking about toast other things that can be put in toasters until I begin to wonder if he just learned the word "toast" and was trying to use it in as many sentences as he could.

The Candy Man
Do you know the beginning scene in Willy Wonka, the original film, the scene in the candy shop with the candy store owner singing as he heaps gross amounts of sweets onto giddy children? Well, I found the real deal working in the candy shop here at the school I work at. They don't call it a candy shop. They call it le cafe, but aside from the espresso machine which the teachers need when they run out of instant coffee, the only thing being sold there is either coated in or entirely composed of sugar. Le sucre. No wonder my worst classes are always after the breaks... The Candy Man is an exceptionally tall man in his mid-forties. He has smiling eyes and a face that is always faking sterness. One of those guys who teases everyone in a serious manner. The kids love him. I love standing at the counter with my espresso watching him fill up white paper sacks as screaming children point to different tubs of gooey candy. He sells apples too. But no one ever buys them.

The Wee-fee Lady
The wee-fee lady runs Tycho(pronounced tea-co), an internet and wi-fi (pronounced wee-fee) café in my neighborhood. When we first moved here Miles I were there daily and each day this woman would cry "Cou cou!" the second either of us walked through the door. Cou cou is what you say to children, generally. It's a lot like peek-a-boo. The wee-fee lady, however, is not at all motherly. She has fire-engine-red spikey hair and eyes that are always almost popping out of her head due to the amount of caffeine she drinks. She always has an espresso sitting next to her computer as she surfs the net for god knows what. Recently I realized that she also works at the café next door, which explains the consistency of her caffeine. Perhaps she works there in exchange for her coffee... The wee-fee lady has a TON of energy. She also rides a mountain bike and she rides it with fury. I saw her from the bus window once. She flew down the center of the street in a red blur. Not bad for someone pushing 50. After Miles and I finally got internet in our apartment, we didn't see the wee-fee for lady for months. I went there to print something eventually and was a bit embarrassed over my long absence. As soon as she saw my face she cou-cou-ed me like no time at all had passed. I'm going to miss the wee-fee lady.

Le Pizza Man
I should know his name. He's told it to me several times. I feel like it starts with a G. Gaston? Guillaume? Geronimo? Le Pizza Man, whatever his name is, is the friendliest Frenchman I've ever met. Each time I go in to order a pizza he offers a small dish of peanuts and a tiny plastic cup of sangria as I wait. If I have a question about something on the menu, he shows it to me and tells me to taste it. Le Pizza Man, I've learned, has another job as a bouncer at a big discothèque. I was very impressed when he told me this. He's probably in his early forties, has a jolly Pizzaman belly, and didn't strike me in the least as a bouncer. I mean, since when are bouncers super friendly? Le Pizza Man likes to ask me where I am from each time I go (we're talking 10-15 times he's asked me this now). Each time I tell him Chicago and each time he points at the Illinois liscense plate hanging on the wall that one of his customers gave him. Le pizza man is fou, crazy, for the US. He went to visit his cousin in Alabama once and helped out in his restaurant there. He raves about American food, especially American pizza. Le Pizza Man is a rare Frenchman indeed. When Miles told him that he was going back to Chicago, Le Pizza Man pointed to the liscense plate and told Miles that he'd have to send a postcard. I think we're going to have to send him another liscense plate.

L'homme qui peint le plafond
The man who painted the ceiling of our teeny tiny apartment was a special man. Short, old, and skin brown and wrinkled as leather, he knocked on the door at 9am on a morning when I was completely incapacitated by a terrible headache. I let him in and tried to figure out what he needed from me before trying to figure out what to do with myself. Miles was out getting aspirin and croissants and I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into my bed but it seemed a bit too odd to do with the two of us alone there. So I sat on the couch, almost under his feet as he began to paint the ceiling above my head. At this point I finally noticed him and saw that he was wearing what looked like a doctor's smock with his bare chest and gold chain clearly visible. On his feet were blue house slippers. And in his mouth was a half-smoked cigarette-sized cigar, unlit. I'm not sure if he was dressed like this when he arrived or if he changed in the hallway outside of the apartment but the idea of him walking down the street like that was too much. When Miles came back, I scarfed down the aspirin and croissant and got into bed, pulling the covers over my head. A few minutes later Miles announced that the man wanted to paint the bedroom. I couldn't move and told him he could paint around me. And that is exactly what he did. He put a tarp over my blanket and painted the slanted ceiling three feet above my head. He was so close I could smell his cigar. He hummed a few notes every now and then, forgetting I was there under the tarp. The sound of his roller squishing paint onto the walls was so soothing, I almost forgot I was there too. And that was a very good thing.

Home

2007-03-19T07:31:00.000Z

Isn't it what we're all searching for,
as we trek across borders and oceans,
knocking on strangers' doors
wandering through monuments
into castles and museums, those memory mansions,
or searching behind the eyes of ones we love or loved
in photographs or favorite novels or,if we've been lucky,in the flesh and blood,
all the while our many selves strapped to our aching backs
our legs weary and feet raw, our hearts heavy with hope
that maybe now we've found it

Found a place to put down our massive load,
unpack the stories of the sights we've seen,
the people we've shared meals and secrets with,
the beds we've dreamt in and the shadows we've hidden in,
all the hours and days and years of our gypsy lives,
all so that we might finally sit down
and rejoice in the cobalt blue of the breaking dawn,
in the birds who cheer it on, those concert-goers hoping for an encore,
in the love bubbling up from the core and overflowing champagne --
a toast for the Earth who has finally welcomed us in!

Has it always been this I was searching for
never a place with a roof and a floor
but a space for the soul to stretch wide and breathe deep
where roots can unfurl and branches reach so far
they touch the ground and begin growing in again
down to the center of it all
where the space between you and I did not yet exist,
back to when it had always been we?

When we fold our hands together, yours and mine,
when we weave our fingers tight, like this,
and feel the warmth flowing back and forth without end,
we remember where we came from,
what we've been looking for,
where home has always been.

3x3

2007-03-01T07:32:00.002Z

waving to you one last time, I exit your terminal and
my strong face breaks in the duty-free whiskey store
too ridiculous a place to cry, I hold my breathe until the moving walkway

at gate A63 I sit alone, as if for the very first time
except that when I look to my right I see
this perfect irish baby smiling, relentlessly

you are everywhere, aren't you?
or is it just that you remain with me
your scent now the scent of my own skin

barcelona feet

2007-01-31T22:32:00.003Z

If our feet seem extra happy it's because we're holding hands in Parque Geull and on my hand is the ring we've just found in an antique store window. Miles gave it to me for our engagement. It has five turquoise stones, which he says each have a super power. I feel super-powered.

things that i miss

2007-01-31T22:11:00.000Z

i miss mexican food -- refried beans and buritos and great big margaritas.

yes, i miss greasy things and oversized things. i also miss things that are loud and being loud myself. i miss being in a hurry to come home and zone out in front of a mediocre movie. i miss driving around in circles looking for parking and i miss getting lost in superstores -- pushing grocery carts the size of european cars and coasting down big fat aisles with more choices of junk food than a person can possibly read.

i miss black cats shedding on my white clothing. i miss my overflowing closet and worrying about what to wear. i miss working hard and complaining about working hard to friends who complain about the exact same thing. i miss drinking pints of cheap beer in dive bars and understanding every uninteresting thing the drunks are mumbling. yes, i miss english. strangely, i also miss tippping waitresses a dollar on every drink.

i miss shopping for things i don't need on sale racks, especially at tj maxx. i miss the word "bargain" as much as eating in diners at 3am and knowing exactly what to order. i miss concerts and hipsters and people who don't move their arms when they dance. i miss laughing at obese people drinking 2-litres of diet coke. i miss fudgicles and lean cuisines and ice cream, just knowing that they're there on the shelves gathering frost! oh, how i deeply miss great big freezers with their very own doors...

i miss bathtubs and shower curtains, even the ones with mold in the creases. i miss peanut butter products, especially trader joe's pb-filled pretzels. oddly enough, i also miss wide-screen plasma TVs and loud unruly bass blaring out of SUVs but only because i miss not being able to hear myself think and the time i can waste criticizing consumeristic dreams.

but most of all i miss never being asked tu viens d'ou? and the awkward moment that follows when I consider not answering with -- I come from the U.S.

unspoken comebacks

2007-01-12T12:42:00.000Z

i'm not sure why, but whenever i walk down the street here my head is full of comebacks to strangers who either have done or might do me an injustice. i suppose this is a sign of just how much the french culture is rubbing off on me. i'm not usually one for comebacks, but this has proven quite a good way for me to practice all of the french i don't get an opportunity to use.

the one that most often runs through my mind and that i am most fond of is

excusez-moi, mais j'existe aussi

i suppose it's pretty universal. buit doesn't it sound good? feel free to use it on someone someday. or just to say in your mind as a mantra, like i do.

l'ennuie

2007-01-11T14:56:00.000Z

The mop committed suicide again. You didn't hear it? In the bathroom just now? That sad whistle of a Timmmbbbberrr! and then the distinct plunk into the toilet bowl? It's happening almost daily now. Even a rag on a metal stick can't bear this interminable waiting any more.

Well, everything's hard to tell these days with winter so long overdue and every single thing suffocating in this moisture. It just isn't right. Things should become brittle and break instead of perpetually bending. Nothing can maintain grace in a climate as stagnant as this.

Not that maintaining grace is even what's important here. Just give me a season and then please let it end so I can either wake up or begin dreaming again.

Barcelona, the city where fruit comes with a spoon

2007-01-05T20:01:00.000Z

i've already forgotten the name of this fruit, but isn't it lovely? and exoctic?

here, have a closer look...

i'm always searching for the original fruit that dangled so alluringly from the tree of knowledge. clearly it wasn't an apple. not when there are pomegranites and pomelos and blood oranges and this intoxicating piece of produce we discovered in the market off of las ramblas our first sunny morning in barcelona.

this market is the market of all markets. it's a market that seriously has everything you can possibily imagine including goat heads and coa tongues and freshly squeezed kiwi juice and candy silver bullets and octopus eyeballs,and more people crammed into one space than we'd encountered in all of the rest of europe. with eyes wide open, we pushed our way from aisle to aisle taking it all in. talk about sensory overload. there was so much to see and smell and hear that it wasn't until we'd passed by something that our brains could actually register it.

this is how it was with this pink poppyseed fruit. pushed by the dense crowd, we'd rounded a few corners and become separated from each other. i stopped and let people run into me while miles snaked a path to my hand and in those few seconds my mind recalled a piece of polk-a-dotted fruit that was wrapped in plastic and accompanied with tiny red spoon.

when miles reached me i blurted out "i have to have that that fruit that comes with the spoon." he'd seen it too and was as curious as i was. it took us a while to wind our way back to where we thought we'd seen it only to discover an appalling glass case full of skinned piglets laying there like ghosts. a few more turns and we were standing in front of the most vibrant display of fruits i've ever seen. miles pointed to our fruit and handed the woman behind the the display four euros... not a cheap eat.

surrounding the market is a square lined with restuarants and shops and miles and i discovered an unoccupied patch of cement in between tables where people ate from plates piled high with various seafoods complete with tentacles, spines, shells, legs, and antennae. we unwrapped the fruit and with the tiny spoon miles fed me the first bite. it was crunchy! and rather... watery... not at all what i was imagining.

i would have been forever banned from eden for one bite of this stunning fruit, but now that i'd tasted it, i had to admit that it shared many qualities with melons, and melons are one of two foods that i do not eat. the other is cucumbers, which, if you think about it, have much in common with melons. needless to say, i was more than mildly disappointed.

i decided to make the most of it and photograph miles holding the fruit and carving it with the spoon and lifting it to his mouth and eating it and... i went a little camera crazy. i realized this when i saw that several of the nearby tables had looked up from their seacreature meals to gawk and laugh at us, the weirdo tourists who came to barcelona to photograph what was probably to them the most common of fruits.

quickly becoming self-conscious, i squirrled away my camera while miles got his money's worth, scraping every last poppyseed from the inside of the plastic-like skin. after he'd finished, he went to toss the remains into the trash can, but i grabbed his arm impulsively to stop him.

at this point he looked right at me, eyebrows raised to perfectly express "you're not going to keep this," as he continued to dangle the fruit in mid-air. i glanced back at the diners who were again focused on cracking open shells and sawing off tiny heads and then back to the fruit which now looked more like a carcass of a crustacean than anything worth leaving the enchanted garden for.

"i suppose it will stink in a few days," and as i said this he immediately dropped it into the overflowing bin.

holding hands, we snaked our way out of the market and into the sun. later, we sat at high-altitude in parc guel, our feet dangling from the side of a rock as we shared a cheese sandwhich and a beer. it was one of those times when all questions dissolved and the world, with us in it, appeared incredibly simple and clear. it was a time when we were enveloped by either complete knowledge or complete innocence -- a time when the boundry between the two disappeared.

how do you know when a piece of french cheese is moldy?

2007-01-05T18:13:00.000Z

no, this isn't a riddle. i really want to know.

i just took out the roquefort i bought the other day, and it's not looking too good which is a real tragedy in this household with miles and myself both completement fou for the roquefort. it's a special cheese from this region with the caves de roquefort less than a half-hour drive away and we've certainly been enjoying its moist, smokey-maneure flavor -- so much that we even had to put a ration on the amount we consume so that we don't face serious withdrawl issues when we return to the states.

the rationing was conveniently forgotten yesterday when i was at our favorite cremerie buying fresh butter. i couldn't help but bring home a little treat of heavenly cheese for my love (okay, for myself too). i asked the madame behind the counter for our usual, inexpensive choice of "cave blanche" but was faced with a difficult decision when she informed me that today there was no cave blanche, only the more expensive brands or, as she so kindly offered, a last cut of a pricey bloque that she would reduce to almost the "meme-prix" as the cave blanche. my americanness revealed itself as i nodded eagerly accepting her offer: i was very excited by the prospect of "getting a deal."

in my excitement i forgot common knowledge and basic human logic: there's no such thing as a deal when it comes to cheese.

upon arriving home, miles instantly intuited that there was something special in the bags i sat down on the table. perhaps it was the smell, or maybe it was the big bargain-winning grin on my face -- it's hard to know what specifically gave it away -- but he pounced on the bags and found the parcel of cheese in no time, holding it up to the ceiling like a trophy and exclaiming gleefully "roquefort!!!!" actually, i don't remember what he exclaimed, but there was glee in the room, oh boy was there.

glee is a funny thing. it refers to a very brief moment. and this glee was no different. upon unwrapping the paper from the cheese and then carefully folding down the plastic wrap, we stared down at the long-desired fromage and our joyful expressions morphed first to confusion then to disappointment then to disgust and finally settled upon that of depression. this cheese was crumbly and dry and covered in what one might perceptibly call a gray fur.

we debated the fur for a while. clearly it was mold. but roquefort is mostly all mold anyhow, and it was the mold that made us love it so (think of a blue cheese and then picture the blue parts a green so deep it's almost black). common sense said, "throw that stinky cheese out!" but, as i already described, we're cheese crazy and common sense tends to sit back seat of our tasty friend.

besides, how exactly does one draw the line between 'ew, that's been sitting outside of a fridge for way too long' versus 'mmm... tasty, good mold... bon appetite!'?

in the end, i scraped off most of the fur with a butter knife and we ate the cheese. but it just wasn't the same. miles has since decided it would make a much better sauce and there he is right now, over at the hot plate, warming butter and creme and a little flour and shaking in the those dry crumbles, rejeuveniting the roquefort, and more importantly, our passion for it.

somedays

2006-12-18T15:25:00.000Z

somedays i feel exactly like this.

like i have all the luck in the world...
and no idea how to go about eating it.

happy feet

2006-11-10T17:09:00.000Z

I know I just said I wasn't going to post anymore phoot fotos (wow, I just typed that accidentily. I suppose it really is time to move on from the feet photography), but this one has to be posted because these are some happy feet. Can't you tell? They're barely touching the tile on our kitchen floor and they're having a very hard time holding still for the picture. They're happy because this is the morning Miles popped the question. And I don't use the word "popped" lightly here. He really did pop it out of nowhere, which was pretty awesome. It certainly got these purple felt duck shoes dancing.

paris was a time, not a place

2006-11-10T17:00:00.000Z

I have to admit. I really like this picture. In fact, it's my favorite foot photo. It figures that I took it in Paris. Everything's always better in Paris.

Or at least that's what I used to think. I really did.

I'm not sure when it started, maybe when I was 13 and very serious about ballet or maybe in my high school French class when I first learned how to roll my 'r's. Definitely it had already begun by the time I'd decided to acquire a French minor in college. And certainly it was well in motion, was in fact, solidified, when at the age of 20 I kissed my sullen boyfriend goodbye and went to live in Paris for 3 months.

For me, Paris has always been synonymous with abroad. It was the other. The place across the sea with a history of art, literature, food, wine and expatriates so rich that it always put to shame my infant country. Long before I ever stepped foot there, Paris was the place I always wanted to be. Which meant that everywhere else was somewhere I was hoping to leave.

Those three months I lived in the city of light were, without a doubt, the most extraordinary months of my life (up until then). The world opened up for me while I was there and I rolled like a pearl out of an oyster and into an ocean... except that I could float whereas pearls are kind of heavy and tend to stay at the bottom with the crawly creatures and what fun is that when there's all of Paris to see? Actually, I had a pretty intense realization about floating while I was there, sitting on the bank of the Seine river, waxing my poetic pearl, so this metaphor is more than just frilly wordplay (whatdoyaknow).

The realization was that for most of my life I'd been trying to swim against the current and that I'd been doing a pretty good job of making my life happen my way (I'd made it all the way to Paris, for one thing). As you might concur, swimming against the current is not so difficult within the confines of an oyster shell. But getting out into bigger water, specifically riverwater, well, the currant's hard to fight out there. People drown and stuff. And they also look damn silly swimming one direction as they're moving in the other. So, I decided I wanted to float instead of swim. Lay back and see where the water would take me. Which wasn't easy. Floating requires balance and a certain amount of trust.

So, metaphor explained, I spent much of my time in Paris attempting to float for the first time. No shit it was an amazing experience. And the food and wine and culture of a city I'd been dreaming about for the last seven years weren't too shabby a backdrop either. En faites, (which means 'in fact' -- something French people love to say as much as they can in both languages), I attributed the success of floating to the backdrop. I was twenty, what did you expect? When I returned to the US and the backdrop included mid-western suburbs and fast-food and cable, in order to keep from sinking, I flipped over and frantically tried to swim back.

Five years later, I finally made it. And it wasn't because of my stellar breast-stroke. Eventually, I found my balance and figured out how to float in different backdrops and before I knew it the backdrop started changing rapidly - Chicago, Dublin, Galway, London, Leicester, Den Haag, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Berlin, Kaiserslautern, Tours, Montpellier... and then suddenly there I was, once again, walking along the bank of the Seine in Paris, remembering the grand realization I'd made there but also looking ahead to the tents of homeless people lined up next to the water and wondering if there was enough room for me to pass without stepping over their mats and crates, which would just be plain rude. And then wondering why I don't remember ever seeing homeless people in Paris before, certainly they were there then just as now. Had I just chosen not to see them? Had I really been that self-absorbed?

I began noticing lots of things I hadn't seen before (like the horribly dated popmusic in every single retail store and the McDonald's wrappers in the gutters and the accordion players in every metro who all play the same three songs which are specifically chosen to stick in your head and drive you bonkers for the next week) and many of the things I'd been so impressed with, I passed right by. This isn't to say I was unimpressed with Paris. The Eiffel Tower was still cool as hell, especially at night when it's lit up and twinkling like the world's largest fake Christmas tree. And my absolute favorite bar, le 10 Bar, with its pitchers of sangria and international crowd of young people sharing thick wooden tables and ceramic pitchers of homemade sangria is most definitely still my absolute favorite bar. It's just to say that I finally saw Paris as a city instead of a personal symbol. And as a city, well, it was just another city on our European tour. And actually, when it comes to down to it, I enjoyed Copenhagen and Berlin much more. But that's more because of the time we spent there than the cities themselves...

And that was my grand realization this time -- cities are cities. You can have a good time, the best time ever, in any one, but it's always going to be the time, not the place that makes a place what it is. It's not as dramatic as the last one, but it's still a rather life-changing observation. It means that I can live in Montpellier or Chicago or Seattle and take even better foot photos because my feet, for once, won't be kicking to get somewhere else. It also means I can probably stop taking pictures of my feet altogether because it doesn't really make a difference where they are or where they're going.

Guess I'll just have to start taking pictures of other people's feet. Kidding. (maybe)

to be fair

2006-11-02T21:22:00.000Z

While there's still gorgeous sun most days here, fall is finally falling. Not exactly beach weather anymore. Today it was even rather chilly and I wore my jacket for the first time. I think no matter where you are the first jacket day is always kind of exciting. I think it's the smell of the fresh brisk air that does it. The smell of summer leaving and something new approaching. Maybe it's the smell of change.

To celebrate the change (and also to nurse our mild colds), Miles and I ate grilled cheese sandwhiches (cut in-half the triangle way) and tomato soup (out of a box, not a can -- can't get soup in a can here, which is okay because we don't have a can-opener) for lunch today and then put on thick socks and snuggled up in a fleece blanket and took a nap. It was very cozy.

Sadly, there aren't many trees in Montpellier. So I can't go on and on about the leaves turning colors and how lovely that is, but there is a park near our apartment with a couple of small trees-- acuatally it's more of an open space cleared from where some buildings were torn down a few years ago (a prison, I'm told), but there are benches and grass and usually loads of high school students smoking cigarettes, doing homework, making out and sometimes playing guitar in between classes on school days -- and I had the good luck of walking by the trees at the right moment, when the wind was blowing I suppose, and some yellowish leaves fell from their branches and took flight across the distance of the park.

That was enough fall to make me feel at home. At least for now.

no, i'm not rubbing it in...

2006-11-02T21:17:00.000Z

This was the second week of October, just a few days before it started snowing in Chicago.

Yep. I'm at the beach. (Which is 30mins from our place).

montpellier!

2006-11-02T21:09:00.000Z

Wahoo! After five weeks of traveling we finally made it to Montpellier. Luckily, it's just as great as I remember it from the one day I spent here five years ago. Miles digs it too (phew).

Notice the palm tree? Yep. I'm living it up on the Mediterranean.

Want to come for a visit?

five euro shoes: not a good buy

2006-11-02T20:16:00.000Z

Yep. Those are my feet standing stocking-footed on a Paris street. Gross, I know. Especially in a city known for letting its dogs shit on the sidewalks. But I had no other choice. Celebrating our anniversay, Miles and I went to a very nice restaurant, too nice of a restaurant, and spent so much more money than we planned that the only thing to do afterwards was to walk back to our hotel. Along the way, we stopped and checked out the Eiffel Tower (free) and walked along river holding hands (awe. also free). It was a gorgeous night (of course, free) and aside from the fact that every five minutes one of us had to bring up the amount we'd just spent on dinner (and crack a joke about how someday we'll tell our kids that this dinner is the reason they can't go to college), the walk was really everything you might imagine a romantic walk in Paris to be.

But that only lasted as long as my five-euro shoes did. Which wasn't much more than a mile and we must have walked at least five (as I said, this was a very expensive dinner). My five-euro shoes are bright red and rather butt-ugly. They have rounded points for the toes, kind of like elf shoes, and a space-agey looking ankle strap with a horseshoe-shaped buckle. And they're fake leather. I bought them for the novelty of buying a pair of shoes for 5 euros (about 7 bucks, but, in Paris, even harder to find than 7buck-shoes) and I wore them because they were so far-out there they kind of looked like high-fashion and my other options were the shoes you've already seen in this blog -- nothing fancy enough for a dinner that would break our backs. They also came with an extra set of heels. Because the first pair were bound to wear out rather quickly. That's how cheap they were.

If I'd known we were going to walk five miles I would not have worn these shoes. But, if I'd known that, I'd also have known how much we would spend on dinner and I would have worn the pink sneakers and taken us to McDonalds (oh yeah, they're everywhere in France) instead. Anyhow, I didn't know and I wore the shoes and no, I'm not going to show you a photo of them because I wouldn't want to bring my blog down to that level...

So after the first mile my feet began scream like 200 monkeys locked in a tiny cage without any bananas and Miles has a sensitive ear and told me to take them off before we both went crazy. So that's what I did. And after a little footrub on a parkbench (I really do have the best man ever) I braved the streets of Paris sans chausseurs and I have to say, it felt really really good... Mostly because anything was better than those five-euro torture devices, but also because the coolness of the pavement coupled with its bumpy texture was something I hadn't felt in a very long time.

It brought me back to those good old days when I'd kick off my shoes just to see how far I could fling them and then I'd have to run after them and hurry to put them back on before my mother caught me ruining my socks. Those were the best moments. Those moments of forbidden freedom.

And moments like those are always free.

when your feet don't touch the ground

2006-11-01T20:00:00.000Z

This is in Berlin. In the Holocaust Memorial Park. Just before we stood above Hitler's bunker. I like this picture because it's what my feet look like in dreams when I'm floating. Really, I'm just sitting on one of the hundreds of gray concrete tomb-shaped stones that cover the park. When you walk through the park, the ground descends and the stones get taller and taller until you can't see anything but stone. It's actually the opposite feeling of floating -- drowning. But drowning can be beautiful too. At the bottom-most point of the park, there is a silence like no other. To be able to hear a silence like that, the silence of such great loss, is amazing. It makes the everyday noise of life when you remerge have a very different quality; it sounds like a gift.

I suppose floating wouldn't seem that extraordinary if there weren't always the possibility of drowning.

putting my feet on the castle

2006-11-01T19:15:00.000Z

Voila. This is France in all of it France-ness. The Loire Valley and Chenonceau Castle which literally straddles the Loire river.

This is me standing on a balcony of the castle. I stood on this same balcony five years before and was awed by its grandeur.

This time, I knew what to expect and so therefore wasn't as awed. But Miles and I had a nice time peeking into the different rooms and walking through the gardens. We actually spent most of our time there concerned with the state of Miles' tongue.

Shortly after our arrival, Miles, listening to his inner squirrel, picked a chestnut up off the ground, cracked it, and much to my dismay, began eating it. His tongue and throat started feeling funny a few minutes later and we became convinced that he was having an allergic reaction. Instead of looking out over the Loire, we stood next to Loire looking at his tongue (which was much easier for me than for him). I couldn't remember what his tongue originally looked like, but it seemed swollen to me so I started translating in my head how I would explain to a security guard that my boyfriend ate a nut off of the ground and now his tongue was big and I was afraid his throat might close and could they please call an ambulance. Translation is no simple matter. I'd had enough trouble trying to explain to a pharamicist that I needed creme for a insect bite (what I'd ended up saying was: I need the thing you put on after an insect eats you).

Luckily, with the aid of our camera (hillarious taking pictures of his tongue while others photographed the castle), Miles determined that his tongue was not in fact swollen (apparently it's just fat), that it was only slightly itchy, and with the aid of an overpriced bottle of Evian, we were both able to calm down and get on with important matters such as photographing my pink shoe on the balcony of the castle when no one was looking. You think putting your feet on the table is bad... try putting your foot on an ancient castle and see the kind of scorn you get...

what's beneath our feet

2006-10-09T16:05:00.000+01:00

I've never spent much time thinking about what's beneath my feet. I think a lot about what's on my feet (what's comfortable, fashionable, danceable, photagraphable, etc). I think about what my feet are walking on and what they're hopefully not walking on, especially in Montpellier where the dogs run wild and merde freely. But rarely do I think about anything deeper, because, really, what's there to think about?

This photo was taken in Berlin. We're standing in an unimpressive (aren't they all) parking lot. We're standing on tar or possibly concrete, it's hard to tell. We're also standing on one of the most important historical landmarks of the last century. Doesn't look like much, does it?

Beneath my pink sneakers and Miles' Black Riders and several feet of sand and dirt is a completely in-tact bunker. It is the bunker where Hitler spent his last days hiding out and finally committed suicide.

It was a strange place to stand. The ground didn't feel too sturdy. There was a fear of falling through.

Not much distance separated my feet from where Hitler stood and slept and ate and shot himself. It was a good reminder for how little the distance is between ourselves and the possibility for such great destruction. It was a good reminder that the present is built on top of the past. That nothing is solid.

That there is always something beneath our feet, and then, most likey, beneath that.

Copenhagen is a good place to take a nap

2006-09-13T19:28:00.000+01:00

I'm not sure exactly what time it is here right now, but I know there was beautiful sun pouring in through our bedroom window and illuminating the sky-blue paint on our walls when we laid down and now it's dark, but not dark enough for the moon... yet. Sunshine always comes first.

I've been keenly aware of the sun and moon on this trip. Just about everywhere we've stayed has had huge windows in just the right places. In Holland, I was woken up by the sky breaking into dawn. From the bed, situated in the middle of the essentially empty room (this was an abandoned office building we were legally squatting in), I could look out the wall of office windows onto the tops of the neighborhood clock tower and steeple and rooftops. On first waking, I saw them perfectly silhouetted against an inky gray sky with a hint of lightness in it. My semi-conscious registered this as unique and beautiful and set an internal alarm that woke me intermittently to see the various shades of gray lighten into the softest, purest brightness I'd ever witnessed. Something in me unlocked. I felt I was finally able to understand one of the mysteries of the Earth; one of the reasons for existence. I think, for a moment, I became light. I found this so remarkable that I woke Miles up. I'm not sure what his experience was (mine was too full to consider his then), but I think he was transcended for a moment too. When I closed my eyes again, I thought about the Dutch painters and their infamous skyscapes and proclivity to Northern sunlight. I'm not sure if we were facing North, or South or West for that matter, but I could see how they could spend their entire lives trying to capture a fragment of that light with their oils.

Two days after the sun rise in Den Haag, I was woken by the moon in Copenhagen. It wasn't a full moon -- we'd just seen her in all of her glory when we were wandering the canals of Amsterdam.

This moon, the moon that woke me up, was just a three-quarter moon, but she was potent as ever. Have you ever been woken up by the brightness of the moon? It happened to me a few times when I was in Montauk and then, as well as here in Copenhagen, it was... dramatic. Moonshine is dramatic because it is unexpected. Whereas you know that the sun rises and sets every day with a breaking and a setting, the moon usually just glows subtly in one of its various phases. Rarely does the moon seem close enough, direct enough, to actually shine, let alone to shine down directly onto you through your bedroom window as you are peacefully sleeping, or were until it decided to drown you in its light. It is impossible to continue sleeping peacefully when the moon is shining brightly and directly onto you. If the moon has chosen you to shine on, then she demands your attention. She will beam her light through your skin and into your veins, making them pulse stronger and stronger until you shoot up to sitting position with a jump start. After she's shot you awake, she relents a bit, allowing you to get your bearings so that when you finally turn towards your window, you aren't shocked when you see her, but are instead stunned, as you might be if you were to glimpse a beautiful woman walking naked through a meadow... ( sorry to go Pre-Raphaelite on you, we've only been to one museum so far but I am seeing the sights of the great painters first-hand and art, as well as philosophy, is present on my mind).

Anyhow. Two days after being woken by the sun in Holland, I was woken by the moon in Denmark and similar to the sensation I had with the sunwaking, I felt as though some mystery was being unlocked for me, or more precisely -- in me. I had the distinct feeling that we had come to this bedroom in this city at this precise date just so that I could have this experience. Or less romantically (sorry, I'm prone to it here -- it's a romantic culture), I had that unique sensation of being in the right place at the right time and I knew that being woken up to see the moon was the exact reason for the rightness of it all. It's kind of a loop, but I'll try to explain. Because the moon woke me up, I suddenly knew I was in the right place at the right time experiencing exactly what I needed to experience and knowing just that was both the experience and the unlocking of a mystery... I guess, the mystery was the experience of experiencing a mystery being unlocked... by the moon. Sounds convoluted, but like the sunrise, it was a transcendent moment for me. A moment seemingly necessary for me to evolve into the next phase of existence. A moment that let me know I was up to something bigger than simply travel, which is what I was hoping would be the case when we set out on this adventure.

Following suite from the other experience, I woke Miles up to look at the moon. He wasn't as moved as myself. Probably because it was me who woke him instead of her... I think he said, "whoa. neat," and then went back to sleep. Apparently this mystery was just for me. Specialness confirmed.

Back to sunshine.

When we were in Ireland, Galway to be precise, it poured cold ugly rain. I was, to be frank, miserable. I was still jet-legged and fighting allergies or a cold, and while I can certainly appreciate rain (hell, I wrote an entire play about it) this was not my cup of tea... or pint of guinness, to be regionally specific. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Our next stop was London, (and a side trip to Leicester to visit a friend from Montauk) and though out of character for England, things were rather sunny and I started to dry out. Then we went to Holland where the moon was full at night and the sun was radiant throughout the days. We watched it set on the beach with bare feet in the sand (and sweaters on the upper halves, hot coffee in hand) and were baked by it one whole glorious day in Amsterdam (that's another story... the brightest sun on a Saturday in Amsterdam with everyone continously moving at the same speed through the maze of cobbled streets...). We followed the sun by train to Denmark and looked in awe as it colored the sky the perfect backdrop for hundreds of windmills. And then we followed it onto a ferry (quite unexpected... we didn't realize our train would board a ferry until we went upstairs in what we thought was a pit stop of a train depot and Miles noticed the "depot" was moving) and from the top of the boat, watched it dip into the ocean -- one of those perfect orange wafer suns that melts into the water.

And now we're here, in Copenhagen, where everyone says it's usually dreary and today marks our third day of impeccable sunshine. I even have a sunburn from our bicycle ride today. As was the case in Amsterdam, everyone seems to be outside every minute of the day soaking up as much light as they can. I think there are probably always tons of cyclists here (there are far more bikes here than cars), but there have been throngs of them the past few days. It's fun riding in a throng of bicycles, all stopping at the same traffic lights, lining up in single file all the way the back to the previous light, dinging their bike bells if they need to pass. A few times I tried to follow the bikes ahead of me just to see where we'd end up. I didn't get very far before having to explain my direction to Miles, who is more of a map kind of person, at least when we have a destination in mind, but I would have been completely content getting lost just so that I could cruise behind them.

Today we biked to the Christianshavn. It's an island of Copenhagen that's supposed to have a hippie village of substantial size situated somewhere on it (this village actually declared itself not a part of the European Union even though Denmark is a member, as we learned on our guided boat tour the other day). We wound our way onto some gravel paths, thanks to Miles' navigation, and passed behind what we gathered to be part of hippieville from the piles of wood behind each bungalow home. From there we continued onto a network of gravel paths though an extensive natural (aside from the gravel) park. There wasn't much to see, but it was a beautiful and peaceful ride. At one point we passed a woman who was walking her bike out of a patch of trees and bushes. Miles stopped suddenly and yelled for me to do the same. When I turned back I passed the woman and saw that she was eating an apple. She smiled at me, and possibly even winked. Miles was already in the bushes looking up at a beautiful tree... an apple tree dripping with fruit. We each set our eyes on particular yellow-gold orbs. Mine was near the top of the tree, but that didn't stop me. After much jumping and pulling, I emerged, covered in burrs, with my perfect piece of fruit. It was delicious. So delicious that possibly it was the reason we came to Copenhagen...

And then we came back here to our apartment-of-the-week and climbed the five flights of stairs, giving each other little pushes to help make it to the top, and then we collapsed onto the bed under the window with the sun pouring in and the most perfect of breezes blowing past the thin curtain. And then we took a very, very good nap.

And now, I can see the moon. She's a perfect half tonight and gold-tinged... a reflection of today's golden sun-light, no doubt.

The next day we made it to the actual hippieville. It's called Christiania and is a neat little town with cafes and shops and gardens and galleries and parks and lots of places to sit and chill out. Miles said it reminded him a lot of Burning Man, and it turns out Burning Man was inspired by Christiania. We wondered how one goes about moving into Christiania. You probably have to prove what you would add to the community. Miles said he could make their website look not cheesy and play shows. I was thinking I could start a little hippie theatre company...

self-portrait #1

2006-09-13T00:08:00.000+01:00

The beach in Den Haag. Sunset. Truly blissful.

amsterdamned feet

2006-09-13T00:07:00.000+01:00

From top, clockwise: My feet, Jurn's feet, Miles' foot.

Jurn was our guide extraordinaire in Holland. He found us a legal place to squat and cooked us amazing meals on a hot plate then showed us the best parts of Den Haag and Amsterdam -- the falafel shop, the beach clubs, the dune paths, the film museum cafe, the canals... and on and on. And all by wandering.

Jurn also helped get Miles a show in Amsterdam, in an intimate black box of a club... a good show, indeed.
Dank U, Jurn.

Polly's Portrait

2006-09-13T00:06:00.000+01:00

These are my favorite feet to date. Polly, on her Pimlico porch. Completely candid.

Polly put us up our first night in London. We had a grand time eating curry and talking plays.

Polly and I have agreed to meet on a different continent each time we get together. What will be next - Austrailia or Asia?

London Bridges

2006-09-13T00:05:00.000+01:00

Here are our millenium feet.

They're standing on the new London Millenium Bridge. Believe it or not, there was an old London Millenium Bridge. It was very shaky and people had the sensation it would soon be falling down, so it had to be fixed. The new London Millenium Bridge isn't shaky at all. But, coming from a former bridge-o-phobe, it is a little scary when you look down...

On one side of the bridge is St. Paul's. On the other is the Tate Modern. Both are very neat. Oddly, the museum is free and the church charges a pricy admission. I prefer it this way.

For all you pregnant women's feet fetishists...

2006-09-13T00:04:00.000+01:00

From left to right: Miles foot, my feet, Penny, my pregnant friend who lives in Leicester's feet.

At 8 months prego, Penny thinks her feet are fat and ugly and wasn't thrilled about having them in a photo. Miles told her we were going to put the photo on the internet and sell it to all of those pregnant women's feet fetishists...

We know you're out there! Pay up!

(and thanks, penny, for a great shot... and a lovely time in leicester. xox)

unfurled film on a galway hilltop

2006-09-13T00:01:00.000+01:00

Day two. A four hour bus trip from Dublin and we were in Galway. Miles had been before and said it was a cool place, so we'd decided to go and hang out there. For the first few hours the sun was making an appearance and in those hours, Galway was a charming little seaside college town. After that, is a cold and rather uninteresting story (we rented bikes but didn't get far in the rain and intense wind so we decided instead seriously plan out the rest of our trip, although we did go out once only to meet two drugged-up and drunk irishmen who kept telling us that x was only 1 euro in Galway and talked in so many colloquialisms we were utterly lost).

Slightly more rested this time, although still delirious, we started wandering again. Within a half-hour of our arrival we found ourselves on a small hilltop in a nest of hundreds of feet of eroding film. Couldn't tell what the movie was (although it somehow looked French... a woman with a very serious expression), which made it that much more intriguing.

It was a strange and oddly beautiful sight -- a string of images broken free from their canister, snaking across the grass, trying to take flight.

You'd think I'd have more to write about that, but at the moment, I do not. It was a stunning thing to encounter. That's all.

First Steps

2006-09-12T22:26:00.000+01:00

Our first day in Dublin was a haze. Our flight arrived at 8:40am which was 1:40am Chicago time and our hostel room wasn't available until 3pm. Without any plans, we wandered the streets, ate a full Irish breakfast (with five kinds of meat including two blood puddings), bought an umbrella when it started pouring and found an internet cafe to let our parents know we'd arrived safely. We weren't quite sure where we were or what we were doing wandering in the middle of our night down the middle of these foreign rainy streets. We needed something to ground us. A mission of sorts. Something to focus us over those first delirious hours. When Miles, who packed so light he only brought sandals, discovered his feet were cold and wet, our mission became clear: we had to find him the perfect pair of european shoes.

This was much more difficult than we anticipated due to several factors -- the main one being that we couldn't seem to find any shoe stores. After what felt like an eternity of pathetic trekking back and forth across the city, we stumbled upon a street that seemed to be Shoe Street, lined on both sides with almost only shoe stores. We went into every single one. And still no luck. Miles would find a pair he'd like and they'd be out of his size. Or he wouldn't find any that he'd like. Or he'd find a pair and I would tell him they were poorly made and overpriced. It wasn't fun. The only good thing was that every time he tried on a pair of shoes, we were both able to sit down and rest our weary bones for a moment.

It was past 3pm and our room was available but we were still searching. Miles was ready to give up and had already put on his socks with his sandals (they weren't white socks... it could have been much worse) but I'm a bit... relentless. I knew if we threw in the towel our first hours of our big European trip would have been spent in vein so I persuaded him to try one more street, a street just around the corner from our hostel. On this street was a store with a large sign reading "ShuCrazy!" This had to be the place.

Inside, every inch of the store was covered with single shoes, all in rows, all squished up next to each other side by side. It was dizzying, but somewhere in there I found one shoe. A dusty brown leather shoe with a sturdy soul. It was a Black Rider. It was the shoe. Miles didn't know it yet. He could only see the price, which was definitely up there but the shoe was worth it. The teenage sales clerk became very excited when he saw Miles and I debated over the shoe. He explained to Miles what a good shoe it was, that it was already significantly marked down from the original price, and that it was the only shoe like it in the store. It was Miles' size. He tried it on and said it was a bit too big (still looking for a cheaper shoe, I think). The kid said he'd put an insole in it to make it fit better. He did. It did. Miles still wasn't sold. He paced up and down the rows searching like a madman for a better shoe. He frantically tried on several more pairs. He went... ShuCrazy.

Trying to maintain my own sanity and get us out of there an into our beds, I pointed out to Miles that the Black Riders were actually less expensive than his sandals had been and he, at last, realized what a steal they were. And he bought them.

Thank god.

When we left the store, his new shoes squeaking down the wet Dublin street, I had to take a picture of our first European monument -- his shiny new Black Riders next to my tired, but ever bright pink sneakers. This is an important monument. We're going to travel a long distance in the next year and these shoes (and others) are going to cover a lot of ground.

So here's to our shoes setting their first steps in Europe. And here's to many more steps to come.

I just used the word "shoes" many times and have come to the realization that it's a funny word. It doesn't look at all like it sounds. And it doesn't sound at all like something you would put on your feet... hmmm.