misplaced mama

glitter. illegal amounts of glue and copious amounts of glitter and then it’s on everything. fir floors. porridge. my coffee. hair. eyeballs. the ceiling. the couch. the dog. very fine and sparkly life indeed.

friends who come visit you with big black garbage and Louis Vitton bags. who don’t mind sleeping on the floor because we forget to charge things like air pumps for air mattresses.

above friend who is not only beautiful but wildly sincere. if your ass looks big in jeans she’ll let you know. if she thinks you are divinely perfectly gorgeous and you don’t see it in yourself, she’ll tell you straight up. she shares her uncensored tales while popping chocolate covered caramel and ritualistically pouring wine. she gives of herself freely and trusts me to capture one of her many authentic after- midnight -stripped- down -to- our primal- art- making- wildgirl- faces. her golden allure and storytelling spirit linger in our house long after she does. thankfully.

other friends who just so happen to write 11 songs in like a weeks time and record an album that your are going to LOVE. and she trusts that when i snap the photo i won’t post it publically. sorry. better get used to it Keri the Rock Star.

reaching for a book and finding a barbie doll enjoyng some reading time between Bass Culture and The Peterson Field Guide To North American Birds. she has diverse interests; nature and heavy bass. can’t judge a book by their cover now can you?

Meet Medusa. No, not the one that those lame men made up: ugly and angry and eventually beheaded. But the Amazonian Goddess. So beautiful that those same men were stunned by her divine hottness and they were frozen in love, cold stone mesmerized. Medusa, The Winged One who can take flight anytime, permission to experience The Sun (fuck off Athena). Throat Chakra full open and AHHH.  Out comes the inside of the gut, ugly and raw. Out comes the art. Out comes the love. Out comes it all. Snakes are super cool.

And Freya. Healer and midwife to the otherworld. Goddess of sensuality and fertility. Cloaked in feathers. Most Beautiful and propitious. Patron to all Witches and Keeper of the Runes. She has a secret. At dawn, go with your daughter to the safest spot in the woods.  There must be thunder and rain. Wooden bowls. Naked. Drawing a circle around both of you in the dirt.  Draw some other pictures, you’ll know what when the time comes.  Wait for the sun to show its first moment of face. Lift your arms up….then see what happens.  If you dare.

These two massive warrior goddess energies were invited to hang with us this Hallow’s Eve.  They agreed.  We hope to keep them around.

　~~~

Future Fire Spinner.

The sisterhood of the pumpkin patch.

~~~

I was determined to make the damn things.  I’ve been talking about wanting to make these prayer flags for every holiday, turning of season kind of deal.  For Hallow’s Eve the plan was to make some and then string ‘em across the front porch.  They were suppose to say BE MAGIC, with a raven block print on either side of the letters.  The letters and print where going to be stenciled on lovely little pieces of fabric.  They would be used year after  year.  But of course I am not her.  Or her.   I am just not and I am never going to be so there. 

BE MAGIC only lived in my heart.  So Plan B was: GIVE THANKS for thanksgiving.  And you know if I was one of those crafty mamas I’d have a shit load of fabric scraps neatly organized in some shelf and I’d have ribbon and stencils and a bunch of prayer flag making shit right here under my nose.  But I am not and I don’t and I was like no way am I going to go to the craft store and drop another thirty bucks.  This is about GIVING THANKS.  So I looked at the girls and I said, you know what I am thankful for? and they said, what? and i said, all those awesome water color paintings you did the other day and daddy’s box of graphite pencils and the twine I found in the junk drawer and our oil pastels and clothespins and thumbtacks.

Let’s get to work.

(there is an S at the end thanks, it’s just hiding.)

Give thanks for whatever you have right now at this very moment because it can transform into anything you want.

ZADIE looks just like you, she says.

This was after I tell her Echo baby is screaming for “wowwypops” (lollypops).

She does? I say.  Then I say to Echo, but really into the receiver, Echo, you look like Mama.

Zadie looks like you, she says.

And so I let it be. I am her mama. I honor her. That’s all I need to know.

* * *

She was named Echo before she came into my womb. Approximately four months before. I stumbled upon a story about Echo, not the Greek Myth, but the pre-Greek myth, the pagan myth. The myth where Echo was not silenced, but a Creatrix.

If I have another baby, which I. WILL.NOT her name will be Echo I tell my friend.

Now don’t ask me why she wasn’t named that. Maybe it was the sideways looks. Maybe it was the sounds of people going like this to me when I told them I thought Echo was her name: Echo echo echo echo. As in echoing. Yes. People actually did this to me.

And when she was born. She was not named. The first two. They were named. They came here very clearly with words to call them. And if she did, I didn’t hear. I was too busy trying to find a name that wasn’t so strange. Lucia. Nika. Zaida.

And when I went down to apply for her birth certificate I just did it. I wrote on the form : Zaida Echo Skyla Dove. And then I crossed it out and just wrote Zaida Dove. I felt sick and then I thought, no, the man does not need to know all her spirit names. I know them. That’s all.

And then one day, not too long ago, she screamed at me. She screamed loud.

MINE ECHO BABY!

Huh?

MINE ECHO BABY!

Mom! the middle one who is intricately connected to her her informs me, She wants you to call her Echo Baby.

I look at her. Spitting image of me. Huge brown eyes with puppy dog bags. Saggy checks like she is storing walnuts for the winter. Big old teeth behind pouty lips. What is your name, I ask her.

ECHO BABY!

Okay then. I scoop her up and hold her close and whisper in her ear. Of course you are, Echo Baby. You are whoever you want to me.

* * *

We slip. We call her Zazz. Zades. Zaza. Zadie. Zaida. And she looks at us and screams. MINE ECHO BABY!

Echo baby wans cooks (cookie).

Mia Echo baby doggy (mia took echo’s doggy)

Echo Baby Mama Nights. (echo wants mama’s night-nights)

She knows her own name. And that’s that. People are going to have trouble with this. When I told my mother she says, Poor baby. You are confusing her.

I’m not confusing her. She came to me. She voiced herself. This is her name. I don’t have a right to call her something she is not. She is only shy of two years old, but she is wise, older than the glacial carvings in the mountains and the rocks that wash upon the shore. Older than the grooves on the redwood and the crackle of fire.

I was/am confused, believe me. For almost 2 years I have been calling different forms of Zaida. And ya know what, it hasn’t ever felt like her name. Little Dove, yes. Z? Nope. But Echo. Yes. Echo. Yes. This is my daughter. And I made a blunder back then and I can admit that. And the most beautiful thing is this lesson in deeply listening. Maybe I didn’t do it back then. But I did it now. I heard her.I am hearing her, deep in my gut.

She is owner of herself, deeply knowing who she is. Why she is here. I am only a vessel, warm arms to keep her comforted, eyes to witness her climb on a chair all by herself. Ears to hear her needs. And a heart and mind open enough to say, Girl, you be who you want. You tell me. I will never doubt you.  It is true.  These wise souls come here knowing.  Deeply knowing.  Who am I to say to her, but echo baby, everyone else things you’re Zaida.  Oh F that.

So meet Echo Baby aka little ladybug.

She is very loud. So loud I wonder if there isn’t something true to the Greecian Myth of Echo,  doomed to be only an Echo, after annoying Narcissus.  Maybe she is here now to be heard, to be loud.

And maybe someday she will look at me and say, I’m Zaida again.  And I will say, Yes you are.  Because she is all things.  Everything there is to be.  Everything.  

For my banana nut muffin E, over at www.starvingartistink.com

1. where is your cell phone?
It’s actually next to me. But until this morning it was in a bowl of rice trying to draw all the moisture out of it from it’s little “bath” in the dish water.

2. your hair?
Seven dreadlocks that somehow continue to form over and over again throughout the years, even when I chop them off. Left over henna red. Clumpy ringlets. Washed last night. Half braided and tied in a knot with itself in back.

3. your mother?
Warrior womb. Giver of life. Martyr. Neurotic. MILF at 79. Smart. Excellent baker. OCD Cleaner. Package sender. Full of Faith.

4. your father?
Goodfella. Strong, Genius. Passionate. Rebel. Writer. Singer. Generous. Hot tempered. A god with a frying pan and Italian sausage and hot peppers and onions. Gorgeous. Muscular. Silly. Affectionate. Baby lover. Stubborn.

5. your favorite food?
Raw. Sushi. Anything that comes with a dip. Thai.

6. your dream last night?
I didn’t dream because I didn’t sleep. The winds, oh the winds. They shook the house, I tried to fight the fear, but it was so intense. I just stayed up all night until the died down around 5am. 60 miles an hour they traveled.

7. your favorite drink?
Americano. Double. With fresh cream. OR fresh made Chai with honey and coconut milk. OR Whiskey on the rocks with a splash of bubbly water and 2 limes. OR Absinthe. And water. I love water.

8. your dream | goal?
To live in love and harmony.

9. the room you are in?
My beautiful, beloved bedroom. Antique writing desk. View of the bay and the islands. Vintage pink and brown delicate flowered wallpaper. Crystal chandelier. Baby sleeping on my boob. Sula in bed reading a book in our bed the one her DaDa made for us . Re-mix of Peter Tosh’s Legalize playing in the background from the downstairs stereo. The light is like the breath of angels right now.

10. hobbies?
Word Alchemy. Beach Comber. Applying eye make-up. Dancing in a way that should be illegal. Reading long novels in the bath.

11. what is your fear?
Fear

12. where were you last night?
At home with my beautiful girls reading a novel while they made castles with blocks after we ate black beans and rice inside sprouted corn tortilla with lime and avacado. Late night Dada returns to help with bedtime which did not happen until 9:45 because my girls are on speed or something. The winds kept us all alert last night.

13. something you are not?
Organized.

14. muffins:
gluten free, vegan, pumpkin dark chocolate chunk.  Wait. Fuck muffins.  GIMME CUPCAKES! 

25. wish list items:
more boots. A fancy hat. A red wool coat. A buyer for my writing project. That my children always feel the love they deserve.

26. where did you grow up?
New York State.

17. last thing you did?
Made brown sushi rice and folded laundry and put on eye make-up (this is a new thing).

18. what are you wearing?
Black legging and a brown tank top and a baby asleep across my lap. Bare feet.

19. your TV:
Nope. None here.

20. your pets?
live in oklahoma. hoping to get one for our home soon..

21. your friends:
are beautiful.

22. your life:
Is a dream.

23. your mood?
Ready.

24. missing someone?
Sisterhood.

25. vehicle:
Bowing head in shame. A big silver Toyota Sienna Minivan. Post partum purchase that should have never been. Now we owe more on it than it’s worth. Ugh.

26. something you’re not wearing:
a bra and undies.

27. your favorite store?
Any little boutique that is not a chain that has smoochy little clothes and sweet things…such as this one www.thepaperdoll.net

28. your favorite color?
Aqua. Flaming Red. Grass Green. Sunset Orange. Deep Purple. Gold.

29. the time you last laughed?
today.

30. the time you last cried?
Two days ago. We were driving out to the house that is in the process of a short sale to pick up the last of our stuff. The beautiful drive down that lush valley, my heart ache for the loss, for the space, for the mountains that linger, the rivers that rush, the eagles that soar, the quiet. The peace. Mine. My girls. But it was bittersweet. I am so much happier where I am now. But the dream is gone and that brought a rush of tears down my face.

31. your best friend:
isn’t here.

32. one place you go over and over?
The ugly place in my head where insecurity of my creative worth lives. AND the lovely juicy spot in my heart that makes me pinch myself: do i really have these three divine daughters?  Wow.

33. guilty pleasure?
Paying a babysitter to watch my kids to go do writing that I am not yet getting paid for.

34. favorite place to eat?
Home. With Brooke cooking.

35. where do you want to be six years?
With my family. Creating. Exploring. Learning. Expressing our True Selves.

(inspiration for this post here) 

I thought it was a harmonium when I called my husband. I know that we are broke, I said. But you know I’ve always wanted one. So I am letting you know, I might get it. I might not, but I might.

I didn’t get it that day. It was exactly the same amount of money I owed to Sula’s preschool and so I opted to pay them. It was either pay you or buy a harmonium from Goodwill, I told her teacher. Dumb choice, she said. Go get that instrument.

The next day I went back to Goodwill. I was thinking that somehow it was going to be part of my writing ritual. I’ll play it before I sit down, I told him. I’ll play it and sing the four Sanskrit songs I know and then I will write, I assured him, we all need a ritual. He was silent. Then he laughed. And then he sighed. And then I bought it. I bought it in it’s red velvet lined suitcase. I bought it with it’s golden glittered sparkle keys and mother-of-pearl-body and yellow beaded note board. Lira it said in gold writing across the front. Made in Italy.

Italy?

I went home searched on the internet for Lira harmoniums, and of course. Of course it wasn’t a harmonium. It was an accordion. I’m Sicilian, not Indian. My harmonium is an accordion.

And then the story came back to me.

I never met any of my grandmothers. This is how it is when your parents have you older in life. I had a grandfather for fifteen years and he was my greatest human gift besides my own flesh and blood. But that’s all, nobody else. And my ancestors stories mostly got lost, sailed with waves across the seas. They are from the Old Country. But what I do know passed was down from the mouth of an old aunt, the place where stories stream from, like a verbal inkwell, she shared what she knew. I ate them up in my soul, hoping to capture who they were and where I came from. How their eyes searched for truth. How their bellies called for food. How their feet walked the path. How their hands played the keys. How their arms held on to each other.

He was called Giuseppe. He was a musician, an accordion player. He was poor, a nomad, an artist. He traveled around Southern Italy playing music for the wealthy, at their homes or second homes or third homes.

She was the daughter of a prominent family, “aristocrats” was the word my aunt used. Her name was Paolina. She wasn’t Sicilian, but from somewhere north, exact location still being revealed. He came and played music for her family one summer. Out on warm Sicilian nights, against the blue of the Mediterranean Sea, she sat and ate fish and olives and drank fresh cherry juice and listened to him while his sounds kissed the air.

She fell in love.

So did he.

And so they left together, she gave up the riches and the homes and the comfort. She traveled by the side of her musician. Her family was in an uproar. She didn’t care.

Soon a baby entered her womb. Their only source of money was from his traveling sound, so they continued to cover ground, accordion in arm, hope in heart. This was a different life for her. She was used to fine things. Safe things. She was delicate and the pregnancy stole her health. She safely gave birth to a baby girl, Salvatrice. But soon after Paolina fell ill and died.

Giuseppe came back shortly after with a plan.

He was going to America.

* * *

I cry in longing and inspiration. Salvatrice, my grandmother is only a story, handful of pictures and a pair of pointy silver rim reading glasses my father kept in his hankie drawer. Nine kids total but she watched three of them die. She lost her husband while my father was growing in her belly. The aunt who holds these records, these stories, is dying right now, as I type, almost 100 years old. This is my bloodline. To tell these stories, to let them live. My children deserve to know who lives in them, whose ghosts visit them on windy autumn nights, carry them through dreams and stroke their cheeks while they sleep.

I like it here.

Earth.

This is new thing for me to say seeing I thought I always missed target and landed a few planets off. But something about today, the tune the wind whistles and the way white caps on the water pop, this place is okay.  It’s home.

While I was vacuuming this morning, blaring M.I.A in a way too small tank top that was totally stretched out from the baby pulling the neckline for boobs all night, I looked up and noticed out my picture window that the construction workers from across the street where looking over toward my house. I look down. My boobs are totally hanging out. I am not so sure they can see that far away, such detail, the sun glaring a bit. But I thought, fuck it. What other planet gives a woman a better set of night-nights. Even though mine point down this days and there are little lines like rivers all over them, I like them. Let the workers look. Enjoy boys! Have fun on Earth.

I also like this planet for other reasons. For instance, life can be really good at the same time it totally sucks. I don’t sleep. Every morning I wake up and look like I had a cocaine and mojito binge the night before. My man is still working like a dog. I haven’t seen him at home in four days. Yes, that means he comes home so late and exhausted, way after I go to bed, which means we have countertops covered in dishes (he’s my dish man). It also means the girls take out missing their daddy out on me. Lots of I Hate You. And You’re Stupid, Mama! Which is valid. I am the one who does the impulse buying like antique Italian made, mother of pearl key accordions and vintage red leather mini-skirts. And mini-vans.

I miss him. He misses me. He is on the verge of being sick. So am I.

But at the same time, our hearts speak magic. We are so provided for.

I am getting to study midwifery with these folks here in Bellingham I just got offered the deal of the life on an vintage bio-diesel flatbed truck which will become something, but not totally, like this (shhhh, it’s his birthday gift). I FINALLY finished (well so close) my treatment and pitch for something so special I hope you get to see it in moving action someday. And in about 1 week I am done, sending it off, hoping that all my hard work and years of hand-jobs in Los Angeles will pay off somehow. Or maybe it’s just my karma. And maybe nothing will happen with it at all except I DID IT. I am not an outcome kind of person. The process is so much more interesting to me. And for the past nine months, nine months TO THE DATE, I have created a world of characters; subversive, controversial, ordinary people. What I can say is that it has something to do with midwifery and Los Angeles and writers and hookers and it could possibly have more unadulterated vaginas ever to be shown on cable television. How could one resist that?

So I have been busy living this, not dreaming it, but living it. I spent so many years dreaming. Now it’s time to show up to my life.

And each step I take I can feel the Earth support me. Really hold me up. How very kind of her considering She could just toss me off any time She damn well pleases.

* * *

My girls are becoming Jesus freaks. It’s so great. I can say this because I am firmly a zen pagan punk rock yogi rasta atheist.. It all started last week with the Strega Nona book-on-tape we grabbed from the library. Tomie Di Paolo’s Strega Nona does Christmans, and even though she is a witch in Calabria, Italy, she still knows Christmas has a magic all on it’s own. It also holds a handful of super serious Christmas tunes. A lot of Christ the Kings and Baby Born in Bethlehem and good stuff like that. Mia sings along loud and with gusto. I almost want to go to church just so she can be in the choir. And last night in bed Sula smuggled in a book that my Aunt Betty sent last Christmas. Aunt Betty is an Old School Catholic, not bible reading, but totally Jesus and Mary loving. I try to put this book in the back of the shelve because reading it sort of scares me, but in reality, it’s totally fine, practically benign. It’s about a little girl who stresses on Christmas Eve because she doesn’t leave Baby Jesus a gift. Her mother soothes her and the little girl teaches the mother the true lesson of Love at Christmas.

So there was the little baby who lived with the angels and magical winged creatures at The Source. He wanted to come to Mama Earth to because wanted to remind everyone here that we should all Love each other. He found the belly of a compassionate goddess mama and then he was born at home, in a barn under a magical star, just like you all were. And then he grew up walking with his friends telling people to remember we are all brothers and sisters, that we should all just love each other.

They cuddle in close to me. Before Mia closes her eyes she says, I love you Jesus.

I am not the least bit anything. I bring my kids up so absent dogma that it’s amazing to see what will resonate with them, what opens their hearts. They watched me Hallow’s Eve put out the skulls and the wine and the chocolate and carefully laid out the photos of our ancestors. They watched me paint symbols of witchery and lore all over my body before I took them out trick or treating. They hear me talk to the plants. They came from my womb. They know. I trust that always, they will know.

I trust.