misplaced mama :: March

acceptance.

March 30, 2008

In Zen Buddhism, the practice of non-attachment inspires that there is only now, and that nothing is forever and we can choose to create a sufferer story and hold it tight hoping that we can fix a situation or change it, attached to the outcome, or we can just accept. I like this as a practice to become my essential nature, all that I Am. This doesn’t mean I can’t manifest my life; indeed I manifest it all, even things I don’t know what to do with, situations I may not like as my teacher. My practice now it to accept all that I bring to my own table, to accept it in hopes my cravings will lighten. I might just free up some of those chains I place around my being. And so I learn acceptance.

I accept that for the first time in my life I am content to live where I live. I find myself searching for that familiar struggle and frayed edged longing to leave, to move, to explore more, and it’s just not there. My search for space is done. For now. And yet I find myself not knowing what to do without it. It had defined me. It’s been my partner, a part of me for so long. I accept that I am here and that I love it here, that I don’t want to move. Which really sounds outlandish for me, but it’s here and now and it is. I accept a home.

I accept that I live with a four and ½ year old and that four and ½ year olds need time, love and understanding. They need rhythm, excitement, silliness and power. They need quiet time and a shit load of running around. They need not be expected to listen all the time or sit still or to eat what anybody else wants them to eat. I accept they are a whitwind of messy goodness and pain-in-the-ass sass.

I accept that I fail my four and ½ year old. I make her cry or I cry in front of her. I choose to be impatient instead of breathing and stepping back and feeling the slowness. I accept how I mother, how I try to mother. I accept that I want to try differnt things and I accept that I toss them out after trying. I accept my raw emotion as mother, I accept that love can sting and sing all in one moment.

I accept my body. Its curve and bulge and squishiness. I accept that my sides spill like waterfalls over my too tight waistbands and I just don’t look like I looked 11 months ago. I accept that I want to look like I looked 11 months ago. I accept that my boobs point down and to even to write that makes me smile big. I accept the fat while I wait for it to leave.

I accept my yoga practice as it is; anywhere from 2 minutes to an hour each morning. I accept that I have to get off the mat 10 times during that duration to stir mush, breastfeed or burp a baby, mediate a squabble over two sisters, take an urgent pee or pour a glass of water. I accept that my Chaturanga Dandasana burns my arms and my deep twists are hindered by the extra around my midline and that my spine feels squashed and short instead of long and expanding. I accept my heart center folds in right now. For a moment I judged myself for telling my kids that they can watch me practice or pull their mats next to me and practice with me; but they cannot touch me, climb on me or yell in my face. Now I accept those small needs and that I communicate them firmly.

I accept my husband and our relationship. I accept the journey we are both on, finding space in this new land and comfort in these surrounding. Moving is up there with death and divorce as bringer of all things stressful. We’ve been moving for almost a year now, and still not totally settled. But it’s not death or divorce and I accept this process of moving as it carries us closer to home. I accept my role in turning towards my husband instead of away while we take this journey. I accept myself in those moments I need to turn away, and I accept him in his. I accept his snore, his slob and his gentle and corny way of reaching out to me in love.

I accept that I am a full time mother with selfish needs. Like putting on high heels and leaving the house and not telling anyone where I am going or hiring a house cleaner or a babysitter for the whole day or putting on Mary Poppins two times so I can write or sleep or read a magazine or feeding the kids toast for a couple meals in a row. I accept these needs.

I accept the rain as it falls when I want to take the kids walking.

I accept my budget.

I accept long hour of uninterupted sleep.

I accept fatigue.

I accept my new bed that is totally uncomfortable and I accept that I don’t like it and want a different one.

I accept that I can’t do this alone, that I need a Mother Tribe around me; a community.

I accept stinky breath in the morning from little mouths.

I accept that to have land and a decent house we will end up buying a bit out of the ‘city’. I accept the drive and the country life and the mountains and the rivers and the farmers that will be my neighbors.

I accept my laundry pile, my drawer of single socks, my pee and baby spit-up scented sofa and the rotting kale in the fridge.

I accept that while I continually process Z’s birth, I am still resentful of people, uneasy about moments, doubting my choices and wishing it a bit different. I accept the birth. I accept my feelings about it. I accept that those feelings make me uncomfortable and I accept the discomfort. This birth has gifted me deep compassion and I can’t ignore my calling to get back birth work any longer.

I accept breath and it’s need to come through to me.

I accept life force energy inside me and around me.

I accept the sun peaking through the clouds and sparkling on the cracked wet pavement.

I accept that it will be a while before I can do any work outside the house. I accept I have a newborn and this is the time to just be.

I accept abundance.

I accept long hours alone while my husband works.

I accept the cries of the baby and the wails of a two year old and the kicks of a four year old.

I accept the warmth of a small body nuzzled against my chest all night long.

I accept coo’s and gurgles and small fingers wrapped around my own.

I accept my strength.

I accept phonecalls and ignoring phonecalls, too.

I accept my raging and volatile hormones.

I accept the delicate nature of post partum and I finally accept I am not always the strong, positive natured, constantly joyful being that others around me would like me to be. I accept depression. I accept being ugly.

I accept that it takes 2 hours to leave my house. I accept it when I forget diapers and wipes.

I accept the lecture my friend and I received from the grumpy old couple at the Co-op (in another county) who came up to us to tell us our kids were too loud and that we were failing at socializing them in the proper way. Yes, I even accept them as well as my too loud kids.

I accept sickness and disease in those I love.

I accept best friends spending long hours on planes and layovers, lugging kids and strollers and carseats, to visit me.

I accept healing and that it can happen. I accept that I am a healer in my own right.

I accept my anger and my right to express it.

I accept love. I accept love. I accept love.

I don’t attach myself to these things. They are life.

Some things are so easy for me to accept. Some things are so very hard.

I accept these beings, their presence and their wisdom.

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I accept being read. I accept writing. I accept you.

Good? Bad? Maybe.

March 22, 2008

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
The Dalai Lama

We lost it. The bid on the house. The turn of the century house in the perfect location. With the perfect piece of almost an acre of grassy flat land. At the bottom of a mountain. 1 mile inland from the water. Smack in the middle of a community, surrounded by organic farms. From the backyard you could see the Islands. And it came with His (music lab.guest space) and Her (writing lab.guest space) outbuildings. Fun. Funky. Chicken pen and rabbit hutch and fire pit kind of fun. Spectatcular sunsets and lovely bakery walking distance. The whole upstars: a child’s oasis with window seats and hidden cubbies. But it’s in the process of being someone elses home right now. I was already looking for the junked rocker to paint cherry bomb red place on the front porch and then sit on while drink a vodka and lime with fresh mint from the garden.

This didn’t happen because of a whirwind of ego and fear, and fear driven ego and negative speculation and very bad advice. This didn’t happen because of real estate game playing and niavity. This didn’t happen because of many things. And perhaps many things I can’t name or see guided this home to someone else. I don’t know much about much but I do know that I am pissed. Disappointed. And really, really sad. Living in this very temporary rental (the lease ends in 2 months and the house goes back on the market) is just that: temporary. I’d like the girls to find a home. A place to put up and easle and not give a fuck if the paint gets everywhere.

The beauty and the sustainability of this community take my breath away. The people intrigue me. And the color of the grass here is really just the most perfect green you could ever imagine. So much of my life I have been searching for this spot that I sit right now and type; the Pacific Northwest. It’s like that feeling when I first entered California, but better: the air is clean and I certainly don’t live in the car. The emotional struggle since I arrived here and it’s not because I don’t like it. I just want to ground myself and start life without thinking about another move into another house. I wanna sink those coiled roots into the dark moist wormy dirt of this earth, trust this journey even more by committing to a home, a place to hang a laundry line and build a wooden tower for the kids to climb up and check out the views. And then I found the little butter colored home at the bottom of Blanchard Mountain. And I worked my ass off to get our finances in place. And when it was all said and done, my partner felt one way and I felt another and the compromise on the bid was too low. The beginners mind was over-powered by the ‘I know everything’ mind. And both of us ‘knew everything’ and both of us know nothing.

My real estate agent called crying to tell us the rejected our bid. She is an intuitive and swore that this house was ours. She apologized up and down, listing a million things she should have done to prevent this ‘bad news’. This house was yours. This is just so sad.

And then I remembered this. It’s my mantra: Good? Bad? Whose to say, really? I mean, the house was officially below sea level and a perfect target for all my Tsunami dreams. So was it sad we lost the little Washington Starter Home that I could have lived in for the reast of my life? Maybe. But I’ll keep looking.

A wise farmer had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing this news, his neighbors came to visit him. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. "Maybe" the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed. "Maybe," the farmer replied.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses and was thrown off the horse and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on this misfortune. "Maybe" answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the farmer’s son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. "Maybe." said the wise farmer."

one day at a time.

March 20, 2008

Finding rhythm each day has proven to be a challange with three. I repel schedule and routine, but rhythm is something that keeps all of us interested, aware and present. There was only a handful of places or things the two girls and I would attempt to do outside the house in AZ; picnics at parks when the weather was cool enough. When is was scortching hot, lazy mornings at the coffee joint that bled into cozy afternoons spent next door reading endless books at the library (which probably, besides people, is the most missed ‘thing’ about AZ. Scottsdale Library is truly phenomenal). Besides being in a new place, and having a new kid, and living in a delicate and sometimes pretty dark state of mind post-partum, I have been rhythmless. I haven’t been able to figure out anthing yet. I need time to heal, process, and ease into this new life, but it’s been wearing on me, getting old, this not knowing what to do or how to get dressed. I’m getting sick of being bound by this state of indifference to sadness, frustration to anger. It’s time to crack open the paralyzing armor, or at least poke out from underneath the covers.

Today’s was good. Mia to school. The rest of us walk 3 miles to a park. Play. Walk back. Pick Mia up. Fast trip home (insist girls all wait in the car), grab no-prep to-go lunch. Head to the beach for a picnic of apples, strawberries, cheese and raw cashews. Walk to the bookstore. Cookies and tea and browse through books. Home. Play. Pull out stuff for dinner. Wait for B to get home to make dinner. Make life easy and wear Z the whole entire time, except for daiper changes. Breath. Laugh. PLay music. Watch the moon get bigger. Bath. Sing The Beatles Blackbird 5 times. Bed. Today was good. No dizzy spells or anxiety. No stuffing my face in a couch cushion and cry/screaming. No sobbing phone calls to husband or friends or sisters. No wishing my life away. No yelling. Living and trying to function so close to a birth is fragile. In our tribeless (literal) state of a culture, I honor my hard times, my depression and overwhelming moments. And I celebrate when I can slide back into my comfortable skin, the mask I know intimately and I really enjoy wearing. Happy and Mellow. Balanced and carefree. Flexible and gentle. Strong and energized, maybe even a little hyper. Silly. Dancy. Singy. I got there today. It felt fantastic and it was just normal. Me. Today I felt what it’s like to dive in and enjoy being a mother again, because the past month has been a stuggle to see the light, no matter what there have been days where I felt like a stranger in my own body, my own life. One day at a time.

Mia cut her hair again. When one is preoccupied with a newborn one will sometimes give a suspecious four year old kid craft scissors and paper and glue for fun and entertainment and then not really pay attention to what they are doing and go do a load of laundry (okay given her history -or histories- perhaps there is no real excuse for not watching her like a hawk).

Her short side:

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Her long side:

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People ar very impressed with her sense of style. I request they don’t encourage it. Really. I like the cut, too, sorta mod meets Johnny Scissorhands. But please. Don’t encourage it.

Punk Rock Warrior and Berry Eater:

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100%…MIX

March 15, 2008

Rewind Selectah! Don’t stop till the very last drop!

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And yes, she is learning to scratch. Her father cringes every time she puts her finger down on a limited edition vinyl and takes it for a little push and pull.

One of the two turntables is missing a slipmat (the one she is placing a Dancehall compilations called Punany. Um, yeah, she says that’s her ‘very best’ record. Anyway, I told her she couldn’t use the turntable without the slipmat. She climbs down from her DJ booth after thinking for a moment. She heads over to the sacred paper towel cupboard, pulls and rips two towels off the roll. Climbs back to her booth and figures out how to get the papertowels on to the turntables in place of a slipmat. "is this good?" she asks. "yeah it’s good" i smile at her. "perfect". The dance party begins.

B and I debated whether or not to put his gear out in the open at this house. We had a designated studio space in AZ. My feeling has always been, a child learns by watching (which she has done since she was 2 weeks old). And then a child learns by doing. "easy for you to say" he says to me. "it’s all my gear not yours." "Many a time I have let her write love stories to Cody Maverick (Surf’s Up) on my laptop, " I remind him. "Yeah, and she’s busted two computers," he reminds me.

But in the end he decided put it all out, whether it be for Mia to learn the trade, or because his cold ass is sick of making music out in the garage, it seems to be working out.

Mia’s Old Skool Mixed Tapes available upon request.

raw. beauty.exhaustion.

March 14, 2008

This month.

I can’t write. I can barely form words. I smell like a mix of B.O., espresso, and hot buttered popcorn (breastmilk poo). It takes me 2 hours to leave the house. I lock myself out. I forget diapers for one of the two in them. My shirt is on not only backwards but inside out as well. My kids teeth have not been brushed in 24 hours. Mine in 48. I have exactly 3 pairs of pants that fit. My hands look like my mothers, veiny and wrinkly. Let’s not talk about my eyes. When I don’t take my placenta pills things start to spiral out of control, just like when I forget my oils, my vitamins, food and water. When I do remember to eat and drink and encapsulate pills for a fews days, my life is good. Beauitful. Raw beauty. Stripped down to the center of all existance I have to tap at the neverending flow: Love. Because in the end, the driving force behind all this; the procreation, the manifestation, the isolation, the exhaustion, the challanging path of mother/child communication, is love. It’s all for the love.

Days are still fragile. We all transition and allow moments of melt-down, hysteria, silliness, saddness and heaps of hour long group snuggles on the floor. Chocolate chips and small cups of whip cream and sprinkles help, too. One moment at a time, I breath.

My newest daughter’s name is Zaida Dove, as we annouced over a month ago. Since then it’s changed about 3 times. Echo Dove. Zaida Echo. Zadie Echo Dove. And finally, again, Zaida Dove and Zadie for fun. I have never had a baby whose name was so mysterious.

Four and 1/2 might be the most fucked up age besides 21.

Zaida is sensitive to Soy and Dairy and I can’t eat either.

My house has never been such a mess. There are smashed blueberries from last week still on the kitchen floor. The baby’s room has turned into the Closet Room. Looking for clean clothes? Go in there and dig through the pile on the floor. We haven’t had TP in 2 days. Sula is out of diapers, not because she is ready, but because I keep forgetting to buy them for her.

I AM NOT a bad mom because I stopped using cloth diapers on the baby last week. I am not. I refuse to feel the guilt. The laundry was fucking drowning me. Period. I’ll go back. I always do.

I have found a wrap way better than the Moby and I never thought I’d say that. Don’t know the brand. It was a gift. Go here (www.lyonmom.blogsome.com) and ask her because she’s responsible for my new obsession. I want one in every color.

One top of it all, we’re trying to search the surrounding 30 mile radius to buy a house on some land. I drive around in the mountains alot looking and listening to Kanye West while Sula screams for Joan Jett. It’s an ongoing argument. Her and I both get stuck on one sound and we just don’t budge. Luckily I have control of the IPOD. Nothing against Joan Jett. I mean, I’d be the mother of her kids if she’d only ask me. But I’d also do the same for Kanye, and he’s so damn literary. Hot.

It’s official. I’m a mom. I drive a caravan. My beloved Subaru is no longer mine. I know own a seven seater/14 cup holder silver bullet of can. That thing can go fast. Kinda impressed after I got over the fact I drive a minivan.

Washington State is insanely beautiful and I feel so blessed to be here. It is my home away from Om. And if I can figure it out, I plan on changing the subtitle to this blog from Constantly Searching For That Perfect Space to Creating Space or something like that. When I was out walking along the water yesterday I thought of the perfect line to change it to and now it’s gone, a glimpse of a thought.

I am trying to create another blog which I hope can help lift me up and bring me wellness, a blog that chronicals my postnatal yoga (instead of focusing on the PPD, I am hoping to focus on what really works in lifting me out of tightness and into Space. It will include video, daily yoga lessons and lots of fun chanting along with my writing. The only problem is I have no time to make another blog. Or really practice yoga. So if anyone wants to make the blog and watch my kids while I practice…that would be sweet. Oh and someone to film me too. And maybe lend me a digi cam. Great. Thanks.

I am truly falling asleep at the keys right now. All in all this past month has been heavy, raw, overwhelming, and so perfect. Just perfect. When all else gets to me, I just tap into that love, or try to. Picking up the baby and breathing her in, accepting the force that she so freely offers and hoping to give to her as well is where I find the strength to keep it going on.

no time or energy to spell check.

Some photos of the past couple weeks….

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