True Stories and Essays

It's Time to Go Back to the Future

2009-03-05T22:38:00.006-05:00

In Sean Penn's acceptance speech at the Oscars this year, he said, "I think that it is a good time for those who voted for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect and anticipate their great shame and the shame in their grandchildren's eyes if they continue that way of support. We've got to have equal rights for everyone."

Hear, hear.

Mr. Penn got a rousing round of applause and whistles from his audience.

I found this part of his speech to be particularly moving and memorable because it asks us to step outside the time and place in which we are immersed; it asks us to move away for a moment and to see with the help of the light shining back at us from the future; and because it asks us to remember the world our grandchildren will live in. I say "remember" not "imagine" (while Penn says "anticipate") because... we have been there already. We are all someone's grandchildren. We are all now arriving in what was once someone else's far-off future. That distant, futuristic time when black men could be President and the Red Sox could win the World Series. It's crazy, right? Except that it happened. Just like men on the moon and women on the Supreme Court. It really did happen.

Penn's speech reminded me of something I wrote in my journal about a month before the Academy Awards, just a few days after President Obama was inaugurated. I share it with you now, on the first night after the California Supreme Court heard arguments regarding the legality of Prop. 8, because I, too, hope that those who object to equal rights for everyone will, as Penn says, sit and reflect and anticipate the future--and then make the brave choice to open their minds in the way that suffragists did; to trust that even if your religious faith or your personal preference mean that you do not approve of gay marriage, that you will stand on the side of democracy, equality, the Constitution, and human kindness, just as abolitionists (and every civil rights advocate ever) did.

Here's what I wrote:

"If you think you are one of the people who--if transported back in time--would stand up for the things you know to be right; if you think you would fight for women's suffrage or to free the slaves or to stop the war in Vietnam; if you think you would protect child workers or poor immigrants or sharecroppers; if you think you would stop the Holocaust, or register black voters, or desegregate schools, or refuse to give up your seat on the bus--then I'm telling you: your time is now.

If you were to travel back in time and be given the chance to end discrimination, fight for freedom, or foster peace, what makes you think you would not tell yourself the same things you tell yourself now: that you are too busy; that it is too soon; that you cannot afford it; that someone else will do it?

What makes you think that you would not go back in time and worry more about whether you looked cool, fit in, or earned enough money? What makes you think you would not obsess about your weight/your love life/your job/or some celebrity's divorce/relationship/plastic surgery/wardrobe/weight gain or loss?

What makes you think you would not just watch TV and buy a house and work to pay your mortgage?

To us, looking back, it is obvious that slavery should end, the states should be united, people of color, poor people, and women should all be allowed to vote, hold office, become doctors or teachers. To us, looking back, it is obvious that blacks and whites could--and should--drink from the same fountains, attend the same schools, and sit wherever they like on busses. (Ditto recycling, wheelchair ramps, accessible bathrooms, and female athletes.)

But to the people of those times, it took vision, determination, and courage. It took imprisonment and hunger strikes and a war time resolution to finally get women the vote. It took even more than that to get it for black women. It even took more than what President Obama likes to call "hope."

To the people 40 years from now, we are 1969. You have traveled back in time from then and you can spark the change that your future self believes in. If you stood up for Barack Obama; if you elected the first black American President, then don't sit down yet. Stand up until a woman President is elected. Stand up until there is more than one black Senator. Stand up to protect a woman's right to make her own healthy, well-informed, reproductive choices. Stand up until the health care system is fixed. Stand up until corporations are treated like businesses (not people) and held acocuntable as such under the law. Stand up until tax dollars are spent responsibly. Stand up until there is an equal rights amendment. And, for the love of God--or if you prefer, for the love of democracy--stand up for same-sex marriage and family rights.

Whatever your religious or personal objections might be to same-sex marriages and families, those same things were said about blacks in the 40s and 50s and 60s, about women in the 1860s and 70s and 80s (and on...), and about Asians, Jews, immigrants, Catholics, Native Americans...

You can't go back to 1969 and tell everyone what their new President is about to do; you can't join the protesters who were trying to stop the war; you can't convince Robert McNamara that later on he'll regret it; you can't be there to help at Stonewall; you can't save Mary Jo Kopechne or Sharon Tate or the civilians at My Lai; you can't watch the first men land on the moon or attend Woodstock; and you can't stop AIDS.

But you do have a chance to travel back in time from 2049 to 2009, to the difficult and magical days just after the first African-American President was elected in this country; a time when the world found itself facing a nearly unprecedented financial crisis brought on and perpetuated by corporate greed, bureaucratic apathy, a bloated and distracted government, and a confused and overmatched electorate. The system is broken. This is an opportunity for change. You have a chance to go back to the future. So what will you do?"

People Who Need "People"

2008-12-24T13:13:00.002-05:00

Last night, after we finally completed the interminable drive from Northampton to Bucksport, I had to go to bed because I was just plain exhausted and I had to work the next day, but my boyfriend decided to stay up a bit. He settled in at the kitchen bar with a cup of tea (compliments of me) and read the first thing he saw, a "People" magazine (compliments of our host).

He read it cover to cover and then came up to bed and said, "There's nothing in that thing. It's only about celebrities eating ice cream and the celebrities they're dating."

It's funny because it's true.

In Defense of Marriage--For All

2008-11-06T16:29:00.005-05:00

On Tuesday, three states passed propositions that would limit the rights of same-sex couples to marry. The next day, at my Facebook page, I posted a status that said, "Naomi is exhausted and sad."

My friend Elizabeth asked, "why sad?"

And I responded thusly: "I'm sad because there are still so many people determined to deny others the right to marry. three states yesterday...and because bigotry makes my heart ache. And because someone blew up a predominantly black church near here this morning. And because, truth be told, I really, really, really wanted to be celebrating the first woman President today, and while I threw my full support behind Obama--and am humbled and proud and full of respect for the progress we've made as a nation in electing him--I ache with a longing so profound I can barely articulate it for the day when this same sense of victory and equality will be shared by women."

I also changed my profile picture to the one you see above and joined a couple of Facebook groups that are rallying to repeal Prop 8 in California. The California proposition was especially upsetting because I used to call California home, and because two of my best friends were married there this summer, only to now experience the devastating news that their marriage vows may be rendered invalid.

And here's the beauty of Facebook. I was able to feel less alone in my grief and upset. I received coomfort from friends and was also able to offer it to others. And I also received this note from a high school friend that I enjoy connecting with on Facebook, but who I haven't seen in more than a decade.

She identifies as "moderate/conservative--purple," Christian, and is married with a young child. She wrote today to ask me this:

"enlighten me please....why is it okay for homosexuals to reject christianity and our God, which is where marriage gets its origin, but it's called bigotry or discrimination for christians to ask that they establish civil unions for their relationships instead of marriages (which is a christian institution)? if we are to respect all people equally, does that not go both ways? i'm not saying that their relationships should have any less legal standing, they should have rights too, as everyone should, but if they so reject the premise of marriage, which is between a man and a woman according to God and christian principles, why do they so crave to have their union referred to as a marriage, not a legal union.

i'm not trying to sound mean or better then anyone, i'm legitmately asking a question from someone whom i respect and believe is more enlightened then i am on the subject. thanks naomi."

I am sharing my response to my friend here, and welcome your comments--and also encourage the sharing of my response with others. Forward along, if you see fit.

Here is what I told her (my response was so long I had to break it into parts in order to send it through Facebook):

"I am so glad you asked...

I think the answer to your question lies in our understanding of what marriage is.

You are defining marriage as being “between a man and a woman according to God and Christian principles,” but, while that may be true in your church and for you personally, it’s not actually true universally and should not be a lawful definition of marriage under civil law. Would you say to a Jewish couple that their marriage is invalid because it was not made according to Christian principles? Certainly not. (I hope not, anyway!)

I understand your attachment to the definition of marriage as being according to God and Christian principles—it’s very important to you--but marriage pre-dates Christianity and it also exists in myriad valid forms outside Christendom. Thousands of people get married every day, all over the world—and in our own country—in faiths other than Christianity and their marriages are still “marriages” despite not having a single wit to do with Christian principles. If a Buddhist couple in Japan or a Muslim couple in Afghanistan or a Jewish couple in Israel or a pagan couple in Ireland or a Hindu couple in India or a couple of secular yahoos in England (or California, for that matter) get married, they definitely do not define their union as being according to “God and Christian principles,” but those marriages would all be recognized as marriages in the United States.

Just as being married—and calling it that--is incredibly important to you, it’s equally important to non-Christian and same-sex couples who may hold different definitions dear to them, based on their personal or religious beliefs. How would you feel if you couldn’t call your husband your husband any more because some other religious group said so? (You’d feel frustrated, dismayed, angry, and awful, I expect—and rightly so.)

Giving same-sex marriages a different word is exactly the same as giving black Americans separate train cars, schools, and water fountains. To give it another name is to make it less-than, separate—and as Barack Obama (and the Supreme Court) will tell you in a heartbeat—separate is inherently unequal.

A different path

There are, essentially, two kinds of marriage, religious and civil. At issue here is only the legal contract of a civil marriage, as recognized by individual states, not the religious ceremony. (The Defense of Marriage Act prevents same-sex marriages from being acknowledged across state borders, so for the purposes of our discussion today, the issue is at the state level.)

The two kinds of marriage, religious and civil, often overlap one another—most Americans do both--but they are two separate and distinct events. One happens in a church, synagogue, or other sacred venue; the other happens at city hall (or wherever you file your marriage license). They are related, but they are not the same thing. For instance, it’s the civil marriage that you have to break when you divorce, not the religious one. (That’s why you need a lawyer.)

What same-sex couples are seeking is equal treatment under the law. They want to legally marry, not according to God and Christian principles, but according to a lawful civil definition of marriage.

There, but for grace

You, as a Christian, understand marriage to be one thing. You have a strong and clear belief about what marriage means in your faith, but each faith sets its own parameters for what marriage is and what it means.

Your idea is vastly different from my Mormon friends who were sealed in a private ceremony in a temple for all eternity. And it is also different from my Jewish friends, my Jehovah’s Witness friends, my Buddhist friends, my non-religious friends, my Wiccan or pagan friends, and even from some of my other Christian friends—the Unitarian Universalists, for instance. In some faiths, marriages are arranged. In some, there need not be witnesses. In others, a dowry is still required. Because there are so many different forms of marriage based on faith, it is not fair—or legal, in my opinion—for any one religious group to control what marriage (or any other religious practice) means to other religious or non-religious groups. Just as a church has a right to baptize its members by dipping them in a river instead of anointing them with oil or holy water (or whatever other form they find sacred) at whatever age they feel is appropriate, if a religion wants to allow same-sex marriages, then that is its right; if it doesn’t, then that is its right, as well. But when it comes to rights granted by the states, those should absolutely not be dependent upon one religious group’s interpretation of the right.

When I had a Jewish girlfriend, for instance, I could not have married her in her temple—not because I was a woman, but because I’m not Jewish. No one is trying to pass a law saying that Rabbis have to marry non-Jews in temple—nor, for that matter, that they have to marry same-sex couples. That’s entirely up to them. Decisions about religious marriage belong in the faiths; decisions about legal contracts of marriage belong with the states (or, I would argue, at the federal level, but again, that point is moot for now).

To have and to hold

What is particularly egregious about the Prop 8 situation in California is that opponents of same-sex marriage, motivated by religious doctrine, voted to amend the state’s constitution in order to explicitly deny the right to marry for same-sex couples. The U.S. Constitution and the state constitutions are documents designed to grant rights, not take them away. It sets a dangerous and disturbing precedent to use the Constitution to single out a group of people and deny them a civil right based solely on one religion’s interpretation of marriage.

The First Amendment was designed to prohibit the establishment of a national religion, or the preference of one religion over another, or the preference of religion over non-religion. To use a religious definition for state marriage contracts is to impose one religious view on the populous, flying in the face of what is arguably the most important tenet of our entire society (along with freedoms of speech, press, and assembly).

If you don’t believe your church should marry same-sex couples, then I would argue that’s a battle to fight in your congregation or with the leaders of your faith, not something that should happen at the constitutional level.

We are all granted by our beautiful, necessary, incredible Constitution the right to practice our faiths freely. In fact, it’s so important that it’s the very first line of the very First Amendment. This is true not just for marriage-related rituals, but for all sorts of other things as well. My Mormon friends don’t baptize their children until the age of eight, for instance, and are forbidden from drinking hot beverages or alcohol. I assume that you baptized your child sometime shortly after she was born and perhaps, if you are Catholic, she will have a confirmation—or if you’re not, she won’t.

I think to get a good view of the issue, if one is in the majority religion (as you are), one has to try to take a big step back from one’s religious beliefs, take a deep breath, and then imagine what life would be like if one were in the minority. What if, for instance, Mormonism were the dominant religion in our country? It is, after all, the fastest growing religion in the world and it spent a reported $22 million backing Prop 8 in California. What if, after marriage, leaders of this religion moved on to amend the Constitution of your state to ban alcohol (we tried this once, remember, and it was the origin of organized crime) or to ban coffee (egad!) or to remove the right to baptize a child within its first year of life, etc.? What if this were about requiring or banning circumcision?

I assume this would bother you. And it should bother you. At its center, the United States is a place where we should be able to live free from religious oppression. It is the very thing the pilgrims came seeking when they fled; it is part of what we will celebrate on Thanksgiving. (And, it’s what the ancestors of my beloved Mormon friends were seeking when they fled violence and persecution to go west and eventually create a safe haven for themselves in Salt Lake. Unfortunate that now this church is apparently leading a movement to oppress others…)

Religious freedom is an essential part of what makes our country great. Separation of church and state means that if you want marry in your church, whatever wacky church that might be, then “mazel tov!” The state won’t stop you. So, why should the church be able to say to the state, “No way, no how, you can’t ‘marry’ unless you do it our way”?

I believe that every adult has a right to make a loving commitment to another consenting adult to join their lives and finances together as spouses and to make a family, if they so choose--and to call this marriage. Remember, it used to be illegal for a black person and a white person to be wed, but now we acknowledge that those people have a right to marry—regardless of their faith. I believe same-sex couples are entitled to this same basic human right.

For me, it’s not about homosexuality. I would be just as sad today if someone from another faith were preventing you from legally wedding your husband; I would fight for your right to marry, too.

What is at issue here is that people—of any gender—who wish to marry should have the right to do so, even if it offends or upsets members of certain religious groups. Same-sex couples seeking a legal marriage are not “rejecting Christianity and your God” as you say. They are trying to embrace a life of romantic and social commitment. As difficult as it may be to let go of your religious perspective, this is a civil rights issue, not a religious issue. The voters are not trying to amend your church’s canon; they are trying to amend a state’s constitution. And this is wrong.

I welcome your feedback and hope I’ve answered your question. :-)>>

I haven't heard back from my friend yet, but what I love about this is that she respected me enough to ask--and I care for and respect her enough to answer. I hope that my respect came through in my response.

As President-elect Obama says, "I will listen, especially when we disagree."

On whichever side of this issue you stand, I hope that you will really and truly open your ears and your heart and listen to the voice of the other side--and speak with respect in return. It is my great hope that you will come to stand on the side of tolerance and human rights and equality. But, whether or not you do, the Obama Presidency is not just about an African-American family in the White House; it's not just about ending war in Iraq or helping the middle class or resolving our economic crisis. It's about this great, intangible thing that he articulated on election night. It's about becoming a new America--a United States of America--where we can achieve change; where we can be honest, even when it's difficult; and where we can listen, especially when we disagree.

How I am (part deux)

2008-10-02T14:13:00.003-04:00

I had some posting difficulties (cursed Word meta tags!) with this post. Here's the second half of the post that should have gone up last week. Cheers.

...I stopped taking the pills and never went back to her.

The hormone pills have been out of my system for five months, but the weight gain continues unfettered.

I returned to my PCP a couple of weeks ago to complain (for what feels like the umpteenth time) about my fatigue and especially my weight gain. She was kind, but said it is not from water retention (as I had suspected) and that my bloodwork is normal, apart from something being off with my red corpuscles. She suggested that perhaps I was eating more than I thought now that I have a live-in boyfriend and that I should exercise more. I told her this wasn’t the problem.

She ordered more blood work, but I left so furious and discouraged that I barely slept for two days.

The day after that office visit, I was determined to do as she said—to get 30 minutes of aerobic exercise into every day. After work, I walked for 30 minutes on a level surface at a moderate pace. It was very painful. I got through it by digging deep into my athlete-self and my stoic Yankee self, to plod along, no matter how tired, no matter how painful. I longed for relief and when I finally arrived home, I went straight up to my yoga room to stretch, in the hope of relieving some of the pain. I made it through a couple of standing stretches, but then, collapsed to the floor and blacked out.

The next day I resolved that on my next visit, I would use this as a specific example, so that when I say, “I can’t exercise more,” or “I am deeply fatigued,” or “I can’t recover from exercise,” or “I have no energy,” she will understand what I mean.

I am an athlete. A debilitated, overweight athlete who can't exercise, but an athlete nonetheless.

Believe it or not, I have a relatively high threshold for pain. While training for the San Francisco marathon eight years ago, I tore something in my right knee on the tenth mile of a 12-mile training run, but I finished that run. I couldn’t walk the next day, but I finished—and had surgery instead of running the marathon.

When my ACL was torn completely off my femur last summer and my bone was bruised so severely that I was in pain 24x7 for 15 months while it healed, I refused the morphine and the prescription pain killers they offered me. I remained a good sport the day of the injury—howling in the first moments and crying—but also cracking jokes, making decisions, and staying calm.

That ability to function while under pressure and in pain is part of my athlete self and it comes in handy in a crisis, but I now believe that it has prevented friends, family, and most importantly doctors, from grasping exactly how serious the problem is--because I don't let it show.

I realize now that I must find a way to set aside my determination to slog through it, get past my belief that somehow I am just being weak, being a victim, and find the words to communicate to my PCP that something is really wrong. Even though I do my job faithfully for 40 hours every week and I am as active as I can possibly be given my limitations, we can't ignore that I’m not okay. The fact that I have the stamina to get through a 30-minute walk of pain through terrible fatigue comes not from a healthy body, but from the sick grit that makes athletes play through injuries and exhaustion.

But this is not a game—it is not 40 minutes on a court or on a soccer field. This is my life. It’s not a race or a training run. And it’s not just about today—it’s about all these days, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them when I have been too weak to move, when I have functioned only because I can dig down and find another gear that makes it possible to buy the groceries, do the laundry, weed the garden, sweep the floor, and file my stories.

I tell this here and now as much to myself as to anyone else. I need to get my story straight so that I can communicate with the physicians or practitioners who might have an answer for me. And I tell it to you now, so that if you are my friend, you will understand what has been going on.

This is why I couldn’t go to Anna’s wedding. It’s why I can’t go to Tom’s wedding in October. It’s why I couldn’t go to the trade show in San Francisco earlier this month. It’s why it takes me a long time to get things done sometimes and why I’ve had to cut back on my duties as a class officer, and limit the other volunteer work I care about. It’s why my office is a mess. It’s why we haven’t moved. It’s why I haven't done a good job these last five years of keeping in touch. It’s why I’ve gotten so very large.

While I was home in Maine last month, I saw my grandfather. In front of everyone, the first thing he said to me was, “You’ve put on a lot of pounds.” Then he squeezed the fat on my arms between his fingers and pinched it. Hard. “You need to exercise,” he said.

I doubt he’ll ever see this blog post. But for everyone who’s ever thought I should be in better shape or making different choices in my life, here it is: I’m tired. I’ve been very, very sick and very, very tired for a long, long time. It drove me into bankruptcy. It nearly cost me my life. And trust me when I say, I’ve worked very, very hard to get well--and I'm still not there.

These are just some of the things I've done to try to get well:

acupuncture
acupressure
psychiatric care
psychotherapy
several forms of yoga
physical therapy
homeopathy
chiropractic
orthotics
massage and other body work
reiki
ayurveda
the Perricone diet
the Eat Right for your Type diet
a vegan diet
a vegetarian diet
a diet incorporating meat
a semi-vegetarian (lacto-ovo-pesce) diet
meditation
exercise
craniosacral
the reduction and removal of caffeine
three different hormone treatments
herbal colon cleansing
prayer
psychosynthesis
energy work
Bach Flower remedies
tissue salts
vitamin and mineral supplements
visits to the doctor
lab tests
sonograms
a new bed
new apartments
new relationships
aromatherapy
new bedtime routines
attention to fluid intake
epsom salt baths

Currently, I don’t take any prescription medication, apart from things that come up as needed.

I take Tylenol, ibuprofen, or naproxen, as needed for pain and inflammation.

I take Methionine-200 (amino acid) twice daily and evening Primrose oil 1000 mg as prescribed by Dr. Lasneski, an alternative practitioner who is very expensive, but has a unique method that gets results.

I also take:

Copper (2 mg/day)

Iron (68 mg/day)

Vitamin C—1,500 mg

Niacin 35 mg

Folic Acid 825 mcg

B12 85 mcg

Calcium 1050 mg

Magnesium 460 mg

Zinc 17mg

Manganese 2.5mg

Chromium 130 mcg

Sodium 70 mg

Potassium 205 mg

Glucosamine 500 mg

Chondroitin 400 mg

Alpha Lipoic Acid 1mg

Quercetin 1mg

Vitamin A 10,000 IU

Vitamin D3 400 IU

Vitamin E 400 IU

Thiamine 25 mg

Riboflavin 25mg

B6 100mg

Biotin 60 mcg

Pantothenic acid 25 mg

Iodine 150 mcg

Selenium 70 mcg

Proprietary blend 480 mg (Bromelain, pancreatin (4x), choline biatrate, borage oil extract powder, chastree berry extract poswer, amylase, citrus biflavonoids, chamomile poder, inositol, papain, rose hips powder, rutin.

Bach Flower remedies: Rescue remedy as needed (usually daily), Clematis, Water Violet, Honeysuckle.

September commitments: This month I am removing cola from my diet to see if I receive any beneficial effect. Starting 9/13, I am beginning my day with an ayurvedic tonic that promotes weight loss: 1-2 cups hot water, 1tsp honey, squeeze of lemon juice. I drink this first thing upon waking. I also take another ayurvedic tea that includes ginger and promotes weight loss by flushing ama. I also take a weekly anusara yoga class with my teacher (one hour). I do daily meditation in the evening. And I am being gentle with myself: not pushing through fatigue, but rather going with the flow. Attempting to listen to my body and my energy force so that I can exert only that which I have to give on any given day. And I persist in getting results. And drink plenty of spring water, often with lemon. Weekly psychosynthesis. Monthly body work with my chronic pain specialist. And prayer.

At my last visit with my PCP, the metabolic panel she ran again showed mostly normal results. And when she had finished explaining them, I burst into tears. “I’m just so tired…” I said. I don’t want to be sick. I’m glad the tests say I’m okay—but I want to know what’s causing this, so I can get better!

She suggested that I should get some therapy and that for many women, childhood abuse is linked to their adult pain symptoms. “I know it’s kind of bullshitty…” she said.

It’s crazymaking to sit in that room and try to be taken seriously, to be understood. I’ve told her I wasn’t abused as I child…I’m not sure it gets through. (Every year when I come in for my annual exam, she says, "Now, you were sexually abused, right?"Sigh...No. I tell her. Again. I never had to endure that.)

And then I start to wonder, does what I went through as a kid count as abuse? Is my physical pain now the result of emotional and physical trauma? How unfair is that?

I assured my PCP that I was doing consistent and good work in the therapy department, through yoga, psychosynthesis, and body work that incorporates a psycho-spiritual release and healing element. She cares about me, but I’m still not sure she gets it. I’ve got that part covered. I need her to rule out—or locate—a cause from a medical standpoint.

She ordered more bloodwork in two months. Referred me to a rheumatologist and an endocrinologist and ordered an ultrasound. And she wants me to keep her in the loop. She also thinks a sleep study might be a good idea.

It’ll be two months before I can see the rheumatologist and four before the endocrinologist can fit me in. (Our health care system is so broken...and I have health insurance!)

In the meantime, what can I do? Continue my healing paths with yoga, psychosynthesis, and body work. Keep trying to sleep right, eat right, and exercise when I can. And I will continue my meditation practice, I think. And continue, perhaps, the ayurvedic path.

There are millions and millions of people suffering with these symptoms…we are exhausted. We are overweight. Many of us are depressed and anxious. And yet we are tasked with all this work of getting answers…because there's no clear path to wellness.

What on earth is going on?

How I am

2008-09-21T21:35:00.005-04:00

Last weekend, I drove down to CT to celebrate the wedding of my friends Anna and Heidi. Anna and I have been friends for a long time and she has helped me through some difficult days. I love her to pieces--and Heidi is wonderful, too. We always have fun. They were married last month in California, but I could not go. I was too sick.

After the reception on Sunday, which was low-key, creative, family-oriented, all-girl, and lovely, Anna and I (that's us with Phoenix, above) got to spend some time alone together in the car on our way to her sister's house--her sister who recently survived an amazing bout with a rare cancer.

Anna is one of my closest friends, perhaps my closest female friend, in a lot of ways, and yet we haven't been able to see each other much or talk much this last year or so. She lives in New Jersey now, so it takes some effort to get together. And I have been too tired, and for many months after the accident, too debilitated.

In the car, she said, "How are you?" and she asked in such a gentle way, I knew she wanted a real answer.I struggle with this question. I struggle to answer anyone honestly, partly because I can’t always tell how much people want to know, partly because I feel so confused by the tangled thread of the truth that I can’t get at an answer that can be explained quickly in any linear narrative way—let alone in one word--and partly because I often feel so much better when I’m around people who care about me that I feel cheerful and then I can’t remember how bad things are. It’s like living in a dimly lit room, but then having someone light a candle and then turn to me and say, “How is the light in this room?”

It’s terrific now, thanks!

But then they leave…and it gets dark again, and they don't understand that this is happening to me because I haven’t told them. So they leave, thinking I’m fine, when really, I’m not.

There’s also a large component of stubborn adherence to my rural Maine upbringing and my mother’s fierce determination that one should never be a victim, which translated to my child self meant one should never have needs or—God forbid! Express them. One doesn’t complain, one sucks it up, no matter how extreme the condition. Add to this a high threshold for suffering and pain and an even higher expectation of what I should be able to tolerate without complaining, and I get very confused by this question, “How are you?”

But, I had made up my mind before I left for the drive down to the reception that I would be honest with Anna about my health if she asked. I didn’t know what the words would be, but I knew I would try—and so I made a few mental notes, a crib sheet for describing unwellness, so that when the light came on I wouldn’t forget about the shadows.

“How are you?” she asked.

And I told her that the fatigue was still very bad, but that other things had improved. The migraines, the vertigo, the allergies, a handful of other things have gotten much better or gone away entirely. But the fatigue, while somewhat improved, remains a big problem. And now there is this mysterious and dramatic weight gain that seems to be an unstoppable force of nature, there are the feelings of helplessness and discomfort that go along with that—the irritating inability to find clothes that fit or feel attractive, the yucky swelling in my face and hands—along with the pain.

“It’s very difficult for me to walk or stand,” I told her. And it’s not just my knee—that injury has healed mostly—it’s like when I stand up, there are lead weights on all my joints, especially my hips and sacrum. It feels like there is extra gravity pressing on me and it makes it painful and difficult to function—or to exercise, which I’m sure doesn’t help with the bizarre piling on of weight.

To my great relief, Anna said she’d been having a hard time physically, too. I want Anna to be happy and healthy always! And she looks fit and attractive as ever. I was relieved because she got it. Because she wasn’t living on the outside of the glass box I feel I am always in, with the healthy people on the outside not comprehending what it can be like to be plagued with illness, particularly the kind of illness that has no name, no successful treatment, only Byzantine corridors filled with doctor’s visits and blood work and attempts at therapies and questions that only lead to answers that create even more questions or that result in dead ends.

Anna’s health issues are her own so I won't describe them, but we were able to say, “me, too!” to one another here and there, and in this feeling there was great calm for me. There was dismay that someone I love has struggles, of course, and there was also comfort in that we could talk with one another about it—and that perhaps we could help one another find answers.

Her sister took steroids as part of her cancer treatment and experienced a weight gain that should have gone away by now, but won’t. This is very much like what happened to me. Last fall, I saw a psychiatrist about my severe PMS depression. He prescribed a tiny dose of Prozac—one quarter of the smallest does usually prescribed—and in the six weeks I was on the medication, I gained two cup sizes in my breasts, my hands swelled to the point that I could no longer wear my rings, I gained 15 pounds—and I got no relief from the PMS.

The psychiatrist said he’d never seen anything like it. “That’s impressive,” were his exact words.

I went off the Prozac, but a year later, I do not have my body back.

I saw my primary care physician (PCP) (who is actually a Physician’s Assistant) who tested my thyroid, my sugars, my iron levels, and found nothing wrong, so she never followed up. I pursued another primary care physician who suggested I take B vitamins. (I did. It didn’t help.) I tried a gynecologist thinking she’d know something about hormones. She put me on a birth control pill, which did help with the depression, but which put my libido into a coma and left me feeling generally sort of odd. I also put another almost a pound a week on my body during the 12 weeks that I took it.

After eight weeks, I went back to the gynecologist to express my concern about the weight. It was February. She said it was just “weight from the holidays” and not to worry. (What holidays? It didn't even occur to her that I don't celebrate whatever the hell eating festival she thought I did.)

[9.26.08 There's more to this post, but I'm having technical difficulties and haven't been able to get it live yet. Stay tuned.]

Calvin Graychase: One Year Later

2008-06-06T17:28:00.011-04:00

One year ago today, I lost my sweet Calvin, my Little Bug, my guy. It still hurts too much to spend time dwelling on it today, but I do want to share a couple of things.

First, I want to say publicly that without my friend Dan, I wouldn't have made it through all the assorted and sundry traumas of last spring and summer, most especially Calvin's death.

Second, while I ache every day for Calvin and I still miss him so profoundly, it hurts less now than it did a year ago. Time heals, if you let it.

I have learned that grief is best when not contained. As horrible as it is, holding it back is like forcing poison to stay in your gut when really, the best thing to do is to get through the awful vomiting part so you can begin to recover. Grief isn't meant to stay still or to stay inside. When the floods of grief came, I let them take me. I sobbed until I drooled and coughed and collapsed on the floor. My body was literally wracked with grief, contorted and thrashing. I cramped, I caved, I cried.

But, by doing this, the torrent of grief passed through. I did not fight it.

Each time it comes--now in smaller waves, rather than full out floods--I let it wash through. I feel it, open to its flow, and then it passes. I don't fight it, dam it, try to surf on top of it, or pretend it isn't there. I open my arms and close my eyes and let it splash me in the face and take me wherever it will go. It is awful and it is necessary. It makes things better in the end.

The big flood came just after he died, and it did its work. Just as flood plains are the most fertile soil for growing, so became my heart after the worst of grief had passed.

Since Calvin left, I have found love, both in my work life and in my romantic life--and also in my internal life. I can see now that I was loved in a constant, unbreakable fashion since the moment I became me--in other words, always. I saw one day in yoga that there is a thin, immutable thread connecting me from the moment I was created to this moment today, and that it will continue on, as long as I am being. This is true for all of us. And it does not come from our parents or our friends or other humans--or even cats. It is a fact of our existence that we are infinitely loved, that we are all entitled to this love and given it freely, constantly, no matter what. It is permanent, irrevocable, and unconditional. It is Love, the love that is Ever, the love that is Life, the Love that connects all living things.

I have this comfort now, always. It was something that my mother tried to tell me once, but I wasn't ready yet to understand. But, since losing Calvin, I have found this: I used to suffer greatly because I believed I wasn't loved and couldn't ever be lovable. There was so much evidence to support this fact--it was overwhelming. But now I know that no matter what the other humans do, no matter who can see me and who can't, no matter who comes and who goes, no matter who hurts me or abandons me or leaves me alone, I am still loved and worth loving.

And, just as the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, my love begets love. Since learning that I am infinitely loved and lovable, I have found work that sustains me. Work that I look forward to doing every day. Work that enables me to reap the rewards that come with prosperity--peace of mind, enjoyment, safety, the ability to give to the causes and people I care for, power and agency, and more.

I have found a partner, a loving companion (who, by the way does not like being called a "partner,") who does so many of the things I always wished someone would do. He gives me a place to return to, a chest to rest my weary head upon. We laugh. We do crosswords. We love.

We have spent nearly 24 hours a day together for six months and only grown happier and more interested and content. We struggle and we learn and we grow and we keep getting better. I bring to this relationship a more honest me, a more compassionate me, because when we know we are loved we can be more generous, both with ourselves and with others. And he loves me for my authenticity. He comes with me as I flow and grow and I love him for this.

It is, for me, a dream come true. I have good company, affection, and laughter. When I have a migraine, he sees it on my face before I think to tell him, and he brings me an ice pack and a glass of water and some Tylenol. He says, "What do you need?" and he means it. When I am hungry and sick, he cooks. I like taking care of him, too. We are partners, whether he likes the word or not. :-)

As for the more literal garden in my life, Calvin's memorial garden is flourishing. The tulips I planted for him in the fall came up this spring--the first ones to bloom in the whole Valley, I think, and they were gorgeous and long-lasting and tall. And today, just as the anniversary of his passing arrives, the first roses are blooming on the bush I planted for him, a gift from my friend Becky.

There are dozens of violets with heart-shaped leaves and very special lilies, which I splurged on in his memory. They all survived the winter and they will bloom later this summer and fill the air with the sweetest scent I know. His lilac tree is in its infancy, but growing up nice and strong. The lupine--my favorite wild flower--are thriving. I planted them from seed just after Calvin died and they have sprung up tiny, but everywhere. The one I planted from a starter has grown tremendously and flowered out in ten giant stems. The peonies, the mums, the lillies of the valley, the daisies, the day lilies--all of it, everything made it. Everything is living and growing. I am fighting back the invasive weeds and relishing every single green and lovely day with these flowers planted in his name.

I even stuck some lettuce in his garden this spring. If it does well, I'll have a little Calvin Memorial Salad later on this summer. It seems the soil here is just as fertile as the metaphorical plains I found inside myself after the floods had come on through.

Eventually, we will have to leave here--this place does not make us happy and I cannot manage a life here for much longer. I'm struggling with the idea of leaving Calvin's garden behind. But, for now, at least, I am committed to making it as beautiful and perpetual as possible, just like my love for little Cal.

On the day that I had to take him in and let him go, I prayed for the strength to fulfill the promise I made to him, to end the seizures and the suffering that day and let him pass out of his sick body and go on. It felt an impossible task as he lay curled up and resting, purring. I needed to be more brave and more strong than I ever thought possible.

When I prayed, I got an instant response. It was the word, "Beauty." It hovered in the air above me all the while that I was gathering up my courage. It enabled me to change my clothes and gather up my beautiful Calvin in my arms. I focused on that word, that feeling during the ride to the vet...and it was what I saw and felt while I held him as they stopped his heart. It was Beauty that enabled me to carry his body home, which felt so different without him in it, and lay him to rest.

His garden is about preserving and honoring and continuing to see and feel Beauty. Last year I was too injured to maintain it, but this year, despite my continually aching knee, I can bend and walk and stand enough to be there a little bit every day. And that's kind of what life is about, I suppose. We are all hobbled and limited by various injuries to our bodies and our souls, we have all suffered losses so great they threatened to shut us down, but if we can find a way to tend to our gardens, to find a few moments to really care for and nourish or at least take a moment to recognize Beauty in our days, then perhaps we are doing okay.

Because I have to leave Calvin and his garden behind eventually, I love it as much as I can while I have it. I love it consistently, ferociously, fully; I love it even when I can't lay hands on it; I love it even though it's work; I love it even though it is flawed. I spend as much time as I can looking at it, so that when it is gone, I will always remember how it looked and felt and smelled, how it grew and changed and became more and more beautiful each day. In other words, I love it just like I loved Calvin.

I am making a memorial donation in Calvin's name to the Helping Paws fund at Northampton Veterinary Clinic. If you would like to join me--or offer something in the name of a companion animal that you have loved--you can send them a check made out to the clinic. Write Helping Paws fund in the memo field, and Calvin's (or another animal's) name.

With love and roses,

Naomi

Count the Votes in Michigan and Florida

2008-05-16T13:21:00.003-04:00

I wrote this letter today to the DNC. On May 31st, they will meet to decide about Michigan and Florida. If you want those votes to be counted and those delegates to be seated, please take the time to contact the DNC today. Feel free to use any or all of the text below from my correspondence.

One way to contact them is through this form at Hillary Clinton's Web site. You do not have to be a Hillary supporter to use this form to tell the DNC what you think.

Yours in support of democracy,

Naomi

>>Dear Mr. Dean:

While I understand that the DNC intended to take a hard line with Florida and Michigan when it set the punishment for moving up their primaries/caucuses, and that the democratic leadership in those states undertook the decision to move elections knowing full well what the punishment was, it is clear that some action must now be taken to include the voters in those states.

It was too harsh a punishment, devised naively and unfairly, in my opinion, and a remedy must be sought--something fair and reasonable.

What is paramount is this: the voters in Michigan and Florida must be heard. It was not their decision to move the primaries, but rather that of their party leaders. We must not penalize the citizens for the mistakes of their party.

Further, because the race for the Democratic nominee is so close, so hard-fought, it is vital that every state be counted. The entire country should be allowed to choose its nominee.

I know that both candidates consented to run knowing that Florida and Michigan would not be counted, but what choice did they have?

And, of course, we cannot ignore the vital importance of considering two states, which can swing the final outcome in the general election in November. Democratic Floridians, in particular, have been injured profoundly by elections-based mistakes and misdeeds in the past. It is vitally important that we make right by them this time around.

Please, count the votes and seat the delegates from Florida and Michigan at the convention.

Sincerely yours,

Naomi Graychase
Easthampton, MA>>

Postcards from the Edge (of Easthampton)

2008-04-25T09:17:00.007-04:00

When I left my old apartment in Northampton, it was largely because of the noise that came from living below another tenant. I could even hear when he peed.

Being a light sleeper, working from home, and being prone to migraines, etc. a quiet environment is an essential quality-of-life ingredient for me, and was "top-of-mind" when I searched for a new place. Sadly, the first place I took was such a noise-riddled disaster that I spent most days in tears, clutching my head and rocking. Ultimately, after five long months, my landlords who lived above me, let me out of my lease and hired someone to soundproof the ceiling so that the next tenant wouldn't have to listen to every footstep, every word of every conversation, every microwave beep, and every radio show or guitar lesson that happened above her.

I was so relieved when I left that place and found this strange, but large, apartment in what seemed like a dead quiet neighborhood on the edge of Easthampton. For starters, there would be no one above me, which had been the largest issue at the last two places. And my landlords lived next door in our side-by-side duplex instead of right above me. I was a little nervous about being side-by-side. I thought perhaps I'd wind up succumbing to all of the same sorts of noise that had traveled down at the other places--doesn't noise also travel sideways? But I had such a good feeling about the place, I took it on faith and negotiated a month-to-month lease so that if the noise was awful, I could break free and look all over again. (Ugh.)

I've been here a year now, and I'm happy to report that my landlords are quiet neighbors. Every now and again I hear the husband practicing his drums, a sound that dominates every inch of the house when it happens, but which thankfully rarely happens, or a dog running up and down the stairs, or guests talking too loudly in the kitchen, or the vaccuum cleaner running. Once I heard the eery sounds of what sounded like a recorder floating down from the attic. But, these are the normal sounds of life, they come and go, and on the whole, it's been lovely to have that side of the house be a quiet sanctuary.

Unfortunately, the other three sides are subjected to an almost non-stop onslaught of noise.

Which brings me to this blog. Because the noise is so constant, so unbelievable, I decided it might help me to cope if I cataloged some of it here.

I can't possibly sum up the entire last year of noises in one blog post, but just to give you a sampling, I'll tell you that I woke up on my first Saturday morning here at 9am to the sounds of a chainsaw that ran for the next six hours straight. There were several more days like it as the neighbor to my right worked to cut down and then dismember a very large and healthy tree in his front yard. He then rented some heavy equipment to dig up and then pave over his front yard. My neighbors behind me and next door also enjoy playing music. It ranges from afro-pop to "gangsta" rap to hip hop to--I swear to God--adult contemporary. (Who blasts this?) I have also endured four straight hours of rototilling, many hours of yappy dog barking, snow throwers, especially in the pre-dawn hours, a wide assortment of power tools, the excavation and construction of a house that burned down and was rebuilt one street over, and an ongoing basketball tournament virtually in my backyard. The irregular thwap of a basketball has now landed itself on my list of Most Reviled Noises of All Time.

My neighbors to the right also have children and a large extended family. In summer, there is not a day that passes when a child is not slamming a soccer ball against the house and/or screaming. The neighbors just past them also have a remote control car that they whiz up and down the street. This noise could best be described as a high-pitched Weed Whacker that increases and decreases the intensity of its whine as it approaches and then passes my apartment. Over. And over. And over. It sounds very much like a dentist's drill and is one of the most unbearable sounds ever created. (I have extended fantasies about running down this remote controlled vehicle and crushing it under the wheels of my car--and then backing up over it just to make sure it's entirely crushed. My next door neighbors on the far left have the very same fantasy. Perhaps one day our dream will come true...)

The children next door will, occasionally, stop slamming their ball against the house and go inside, open all the windows, and blast cartoons louder than one would think possible.

The saddest part of all of this for me is that I live for spring and summer. During all the long, cold, dark months of being shut up here in New England, the thing that keeps me going is the anticipation of the moment when I can throw open my windows and bask in the warm breezes that kiss my skin and satisfy my nostrils. I love the feeling of warm, fresh air through windows. I love hearing the birds and feeling the sunshine. I love looking out over my tulips.

But here, I have to choose: fresh air or quiet. I've invested almost $200 in white noise machines and ear plugs. I've tried running fans and air conditioners, but these burn through electricity and with the A/C on, I can't also open the window.

This morning, for instance, I sat down at my desk for work at 8:45 a.m. and already the next door neighbors were making noise. It really is comical the diverse potpourri of noises they create. This morning, for instance, it was an industrial-sounding vacuum. It's a gorgeous spring day. Sunny and fresh. But even through the windows, the whizzing whine of the vacuum made it seem as though I'd pulled up to a car wash rather than sat down in my sunny little office. When I opened the windows, the noise was just too much to take. So, as I usually do, I chose the quiet over the fresh air and closed the windows. The vacuuming went on for what seemed like forever.

We also seem to be in the flight path of what I think is an air force base in Westover or Westfield? After the vacuuming stopped, I opened my window and a massive aircraft, the kind that looks like it could open its cargo hold and swallow half a dozen tractor trailers whole, rumbled by overhead. When these planes fly over, the noise is so powerful it fills up your whole chest as they slowly pass over. I always feel a little bit afraid when I hear them, as though I weren't on the edge of Easthampton, but instead, on the edge of Gaza or Tikrit where such noises often herald doom.

After the vacuum and the airplane noises were done, the children came out to play. They are on April vacation. And so the bouncing and slamming began. And the shouting. The littlest one has a shriek that could shatter glass. Oh, yes. And the Big Wheel. I am deeply nostalgic for my own Big Wheel, but this one, last summer, was the bane of my existence.

After the vacuum ended, I opened my windows again. But what quickly came through them, carried in on the sweet spring breeze, was an argument between children, close in age, fighting over toys and territory. The little one will win because she is cuter and holds greater sway with the adults, which her older brother knows all too well. And because she can scream louder and for longer. And because she is a little girl and therefore is, to a certain extent, untouchable.

"No, I get it! Don't go here! Stay here!" she screams. Her voice getting higher and sharper.

Frustrated beyond words, "Waahahahhhhhhrrghh!" is his response.

An adult intervenes in some melodic West African language, and now the Big Wheel rumbles forth. I don't think it's possible to describe exactly how loud, how miserable a noise that Big Wheel makes. The wheels squeak and I resume another of my fantasies: dousing the thing in WD-40 while the children sleep. But the worst is the rumble. The plastic wheels grind into the pavement in such a way as to create a noise so profound it cannot be stopped by walls or windows or ear plugs or white noise machines. It is relentless. And the children never tire of it.

So, this is how my days go. Bella and Buddy will scream, screech, wail. Bang things, throw things, and ride that cursed Big Wheel back and forth all day. The tractor trailers will rumble by every few minutes. The helicopters and warcrafts will pass over head just often enough to be noticeable. Adults will talk loudly in a lovely language I can't understand. And, at some point, someone, somewhere, will blast their music, most likely with a sub woofer-enhanced bass line so strong it feels as though it is trying to impede the beating of my heart inside my chest. There will also be the extended grinding buzz of motorcycles speeding by on the main road at the end of my street and, inevitably, some sort of machinery or power tool buzzing and whizzing nearby. A few times a week, the pair of little dogs two houses down will add their yappy voices to the mix.

You may ask why I have stayed...I started looking for a new place to live almost immediately after moving in, but then my truck died. And Calvin died. And then my knee got ripped to shreds. And then, eight months later, just as I could walk again and imagine carrying boxes up and down stairs, I had an accident in yoga class and got a pretty bad case of whiplash. (I know, it's funny, right?) That was three weeks ago. In three more weeks, I'll be medically cleared for something like a move. So, we'll see how things go then.

Silver lining
If there can be a bright side to all of this, it's that I've somehow come to a place of greater peace and acceptance with my powerlessness against the noise. Sometimes I even laugh when a new, obscure noise invades what little silence I may have achieved. The sheer volume--both in level of noise and variety--is something one really has to have at least a grudging appreciation for.

Just the other day someone on the street behind ours was running some sort of machinery and Peter and I both looked at each other with quizzical expressions and said, What is that?

And then, in the way that some connoisseurs might try to determine which particular type of pear or mushroom has been baked into a dish, we cocked our heads and ran the sound across the palates of our ears, scanning our internal database for similar sounds.

I thought it was someone trying to saw through a sapling with an electric carving knife. Peter thought it might be some kind of saw. Whatever it is, it's being overworked, I said.

Every weekend, sometimes on both Saturday and on Sunday, the Ghanaian family next door has a bash, a multi-generational gathering, which lasts all day and involves a lot of talking both in English and in a melodic African language I cannot understand. There is laughter, shouting, and music--and this year, burning meat with lots of lighter fluid. (Something smells wrong about that barbeque, said Peter as we fled the house in search of quiet places last weekend.)

Perhaps it is that I am getting older. Perhaps it is my yoga. Perhaps it is because I have Peter, or because I am no longer injured, broke, and stuck in one place. Whatever has caused it, now, when the noises come, I do not get angry. I examine my choices and I pick one. Instead of hating that I have to close the windows to block out the noise enough to sleep/work/watch a movie/think, I take a very deep, cleansing breath, let it out, and make my choice.

This weekend, for instance, the weather was incredibly beautiful for the first time (on a weekend) since the fall. The noise started as soon as we got up. But, instead of closing the doors and windows and gritting my teeth, putting on the fans or putting in the ear plugs, or calling the police, Peter and I just left. We packed a picnic and went to the lake. We saw a movie. We went out to dinner. And by the time we got home, things had quieted down almost to the point that we could hear our own television when we turned it on to watch a DVD of LOST.

Having Peter here means that I am not alone with the noise, except when I'm working, and this helps. Having a stable job means I can afford to escape by doing things like seeing movies or eating out. Being able-bodied means I can walk or drive away; for the first eight months, this wasn't true. And my yoga practice has helped me to achieve a greater sense of perspective, a more fluid sense of myself within the great flow of the universe. Somehow, it allows me to laugh the way the Dalai Lama laughs. I can't stop the noise, but I have some freedom and some agency and these things help to relieve my resentment. I have perspective, and this helps me to laugh, even in the face of chainsaws.

While I still long for a place of my own that is quiet and lovely, I have come to a place inside myself where the noise I experience here doesn't make me feel desperate and crazy. Right now, for instance, the yappy dogs are barking again and a woman is yelling very angrily at them, to no avail. (Quite honestly listening to her is almost worse than listening to the sharp yelps of the dogs, which has been going on for about an hour.) She has been joined by a child, who is also now yelling at the dogs. Who are still barking. And, all of this happens above the constant soundtrack of a conversation between men, in the African language, which has been going on outside my window for some time now. And, for percussion, a tractor trailer grumbles loudly, followed by another, and another. The engines rev as they accelerate, or the brakes squeak and the engines grind as they down shift and prepare to dock.

But, I am okay. I wish very much that it was quiet here, but, it isn't and this is where I am. I take a deep, cleansing breath, fill my lungs with nourishing fresh air, exhale...and then close the windows. I can still hear the dogs, but, as my friend Dan says, "Noise happens."

And, continuing to look on the bright side: at least I don't have to listen to anyone pee.

Think...and Vote

2008-02-04T22:45:00.000-05:00

My dearest friends,

Tomorrow is Super Tuesday, aka, "Super Duper Tuesday," "Giga Tuesday," and "The Tuesday of Destiny."

If you are in one of the 22 states holding primaries and/or caucuses tomorrow, I'm hoping you'll go vote.

If you are in Massachusetts or California, you can vote (I believe) in the primary even if you are registered as an Independent.

If you haven't registered yet, what a great time to do it!

I think you can get a voter registration form at your local post office, or you can visit an online site, such as Rock the Vote to register online or learn how to register in your state. If you get registered, you'll be able to vote in the election this fall--and that's very important.

In general, I don't like to urge people to vote one way or another. I am pro-choice, and this includes politics. I think you should make your own informed choice and act on it--and that it's a private choice that is basically none of my business.

This year, however, I am breaking my mind-your-own-business rule, and I'm sending out this e-mail asking you to give Hillary Clinton your vote tomorrow.

I will keep my plea simple. If you are not currently planning to vote for her, I will only ask you to take a few deep breaths and then give *real* thought to the reasons you have felt resistant to voting for her. Among the reasons I have heard from my (independent or democratic, progressive, intelligent) friends of late:

--"I'm too much of a feminist to vote for her just because she's a woman."
--"I don't like the way she handled her husband's infidelity."
--"She can't win."
--"I won't be able to stand watching FOX news go after her for four
years, if she wins the Presidency."
--"The conservatives hate her too much. I'm sick of divisive politics."
---"It's too much, this Bush-Bush-Clinton-Clinton, thing. It's like Pakistan. It's not healthy."
--"She's not personable."
--"I don't like her."

If any of these are your reasons, I implore you to consider the following:

--We live in a society, which has seen 43 consecutive male Presidents; where the Senate is not even 10% female; where, in essence, our world is governed by men for men. We are not done--not even nearly done--with the fight for equal rights. We barely have one generation
of women who were born after Roe v. Wade and Title IX, and each of those things are in dire jeopardy even as I write this. Our work is not done. It still matters a great deal that women get a seat at the table, that little girls--and especially little boys!--learn that women can be powerful, women can be leaders, women can be EQUAL. Try this, if you don't believe me: find a little girl--or an adolescent--and ask her to name five famous women. If she names anyone
who isn't either fictional or in the entertainment industry, then go ahead and vote for a male candidate.

--How much do you know about the other candidate's marriages? Is the way a candidate chooses to handle his or her spouse's infidelity really and truly the standard of measure you want to use when electing a PRESIDENT? Hillary Clinton is not running for President of the PTA or your senior class. This is much bigger than her marriage. How she handled that painful, embarrassing situation is her own business--and, honestly, if what she's done is honor her vow, even when it felt impossible, isn't that a good quality in a President? If what she's done is found forgiveness instead of hostility, isn't that the kind of leader we want?

--Almost everyone said the NY Giants couldn't win yesterday, and look how that turned out. We thought Bush couldn't win, and he did. Twice. Don't rule Hillary out because you believe she's not electable. Focus on your own ideas about what's important and vote based on that. You
simply cannot know what the American electorate will do in November, so don't give up on anyone based on a fear that they can't win. Give her a chance. She may surprise you.

--If the idea of FOX news coverage of her Presidency bothers you so much, how about you just stop watching FOX news? :-)

--We are a divisive nation. It's time to stick up for what you believe in. Besides, if the people who believe in everything you stand against hate your candidate, then that candidate is doing something right. The small-minded hate-mongers won't love any democrat or progressive,
ever. They hate Obama, too, it's just less politically correct to come out and say so. In short, you can't not vote for the right person just because you fear the ire of the bad guys. They hated Bill Clinton, too, but his Presidency is widely regarded as a whopping success.
Don't let hate win by being afraid of it.

--As for the Bush-Bush-Clinton-Clinton thing...the bad guys stole at least one election--and a lot of people have suffered and died as a result. Voting against Hillary Clinton because sixteen years ago her husband won an election and then another, and then somebody stole one?
It's just bad logic--and unfair, if you ask me. (Which, you didn't, I do realize.) :-) The system is flawed, but the way to fix it is not to reject Hillary Clinton.

--As for the last two complaints, if you've met her and still believe she's not personable, or you still don't like her, then go ahead, vote for someone else. But, if you are basing this on FOX news, or most any other media, just give her the benefit of the doubt and take a moment
to investigate further. Watch this video, for instance. Or listen to her daughter. Or, at the very least, consider the actual value of having a personable President. The idiot running the show right now is known for his folksy, personable nature and he's the worst thing since taxation
without representation. Maybe we'd be better off with someone who comes off as a little more...Presidential.

The last thing I'll say is this: my e-mail is not an anti-Obama message. I gave money to the Obama campaign. He's a great candidate and the implications of having the first African-American President are monumental. I do not wish to get into a debate about which is more important--a woman or a person of color.

This e-mail is an attempt to counteract some of the small-minded foolishness that has seeped like a conservative fog into the minds of even some of the brightest and most progressive among us. If you have said or thought any of the above, I am trying to wake you up, splash
some cold water on your face, and invite you out into the fresh air and sunshine, so that you can make your choice with a clear head. If, after you give it some honest thought, you really and truly believe that someone else deserves your vote, then by all means, vote for another candidate.

In short, I want you to THINK. And I want you to VOTE.

Thank you so much for tolerating my e-mail invasion of perspective. It makes me really uncomfortable to pontificate, but it just feels so important to speak up...

This concludes our broadcast. :-)

Feel free to forward.

With love, both for you and democracy,

Naomi

Shopping for a Candidate

2007-11-28T18:29:00.000-05:00

I should begin by saying that in the last election, I voted for Dennis Kucinich. Not only did I vote for him, I relinquished my status as an Independent and registered as a Democrat for the first time in my life so that I could vote for him in the primary. I discovered later that in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts one can vote in a party’s primary even if one is not registered in that party, so the gesture wasn’t necessary, but the point is, I was committed enough to do it.

This time around, despite my fondness for Congressman Kucinich, which was intensified after meeting him last time, but then somewhat dampened by his decision to marry someone other than me, I was feeling like maybe I ought to get in with the cool kids. I mean, this time around, it’s not a choice between dull and duller, or lame and lamer, there are actually some exciting candidates in the running.

After much internal struggle—do you support the guy whose faith and politics you really love, but who has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting elected, the woman, or the black guy?--I decided to go for the woman.

So, I went online to buy some Hillary gear.

I haven’t paid awfully close attention to the Presidential campaigns yet, although I’m horrified that Mitt Romney is running (having endured him as governor here) and I did watch one of the debates, the one co-branded with YouTube and hosted by Anderson Cooper. (He sure has come a long way since hosting The Mole, hasn’t he?)

I thought that Obama gave the best, most Presidential performance, with Hillary a close second. Sadly, my favorite candidate was the butt of a (really funny) joke that he didn’t quite get. But, that’s okay. We still love you, Dennis.

I started my Presidential schwag shopping with Hillary because, after some unsettling conversations with some of my favorite female (and feminist, I think) friends, I realized that, despite her fantastic fundraising abilities and her performance in the polls, there seems to be a real lack of support among the people I think should be automatically supporting her: white, progressive, liberal and/or Democrat women. I mean, she’s a woman. Don’t you understand what this means? How important it is for your daughters? For us? For the world? 43 consecutive white, male Presidents and you want to quibble over her haircut or her ability to alienate the right wing? Come ON.

So, I decided it was time to put my money—and possibly my fashion—where my mouth is and gear up. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything I really wanted to buy at Hillary’s site, with the possible exception of an “Asian American [sic] & Pacific Islanders for Hillary” button, which I thought would be funny on me.

Other groups singled out were African Americans [sic], Jews, gays, nurses, veterans, women, children, and educators. The only one I fit into is "women," but, honestly, while I am supporting Hillary primarily because she is a woman, I don’t think I want to wear a Women for Hillary button. I was looking for something really stylish or really clever. Something that made a great statement. I still display on the wall of my office the "Vote for Hillary's Husband," buttons I got when I volunteered for the Clinton/Gore campaign in '92. I guess I was hoping there might be a "Vote for Bill's Wife," button to complete the set, or something...but there wasn't anything like that.

I was on the brink of buying her somewhat stylish and kind of clever slim-fitting signature tee shirt (for $20.08 plus shipping and handling), but then my best friend reminded me that I never wear tee shirts. Oh, Hillary. Why don’t you sell tank tops? Why?

I wasn’t getting quite what I wanted from this candidate, who, on the face of it seems to be my ideal match. So, I decided to just, you know, take a peek at Barak Obama’s site. Now, this guy, he knows how to give the people what they want. If you want to back Obama, you can do it with a cozy fleece blanket, a wide selection of gorgeous buttons, or—yes, that’s right—ladies tank tops. Unfortunately, most of the attractive, affordable, made-in-the-USA tank tops sport the “Women for Obama” slogan, which I find alienating. However, Barak did not stop there. There are a plethora of shirts and tanks for women, including several color schemes with cap sleeves and cute little hot pink baby doll number with Obama’s face between the boobs—for only ten bucks! I was nearly sold…but then I thought…perhaps I should just look at Kucinich’s merchandise, just to see what’s out there. I mean, before I write him off completely, why don't I see what he can do for me?

And that’s when he got me. As soon as I landed at his web site, my heart (and my wallet) was won.

My favorite candidate; the guy who tells the truth and soldiers on and genuinely cares about America; the guy with the hot wife and the UFO sighting: he was offering a signed, pocket-sized Constitution, just like the one he carries around. He carries around a Constitution! How could you NOT love this guy.

So, Hillary can keep her “Let’s Make History” shirts and Obama can keep his sexy tank. I gave my $50 to the Kucinich campaign, in exchange for my very own signed pocket-sized copy of the Constitution. I put my money where my heart is.

Tonight, I watched a YouTube video of Dennis speaking before an ani difranco concert, and with tears in my eyes, I went back to the site. His campaign is trying to raise $1 million by tomorrow. They have, to date, $277,000 toward this goal. Money given before the end of tomorrow (November 29) is eligible for matching funds. So, tonight, I gave another $40, in exchange for a collection of buttons, stickers, and signs. I’m going to give some to my mother, who introduced me to the candidate in the first place, and use the rest to spread the word.

You may think that Dennis Kucinich is unelectable, but this is only true if you don’t vote for him. One of the great things about America is that if enough people believe, anyone is electable. And the more money he has, the longer he can stay in the race, and the longer he stays in the race, the more he can influence the debate. This is a different sort of victory than winning the White House, but a victory nonetheless.

I’m hoping you’ll give to the Kucinich campaign, and that you’ll give him your vote in your state’s primary or caucus. And if his message of peace and prosperity doesn’t sway you, if honesty, courage, and compassion aren’t enough to get you to open your wallet or your mouth, then you might at least swing by the Kucinich campaign store. They have a coffee mug that’s very tempting, and a kerchief for your dog that’s practically irresistible.

Naomi Graychase first registered to vote in 1990. The first election in which she was old enough to vote was 1992. At that time, she was living in Washington, DC doing an internship at the Smithsonian. She spent her free time touring the museums and monuments of her nation's capitol, and volunteering for the Clinton/Gore campaign. She shook Governor Clinton's hand once, as he was arriving at the Washington Hilton (which she recognized as the site of the Reagan assassination attempt, an event which she watched on TV at the age of nine while sitting in a bar with her father. )

Naomi took the results of the last two elections very hard, but she has tried to do her part to combat the darkness at work in American society and politics by forming Sister Spit Northampton, registering voters, and encouraging others through her writing, performances, and speaking engagements to do what is necessary in times of darkness: make more light.

After voting in four Presidential elections, she's batting .500, which would be good if she were a slugger, but which feels pretty crummy, given how many people have died as a result of President Bush remaining in office.

Despite having nearly lost her faith in the Supreme Court, the democratic process, and the American electorate, she is still moved to tears every time she enters a polling place. She loves to vote. I mean, she LOVES to vote.

If you have abandoned your town's voting booth, if you've given up on the democratic process or the American electorate, she hopes that you will see that this is what the bad guys are counting on. She hopes that you will re-emerge, stronger, determined, more optimistic, and that you will re-discover the beautiful privilege of voting for yourself. People died so that you could do this. Don't let them down.

Staying In: Thanksgiving (or Alohomora?)

2007-11-23T11:25:00.000-05:00

I hate Thanksgiving. Don’t make me explain why.

Other people are with people today. I am alone. It shouldn’t bother me, not any more than any other Thursday, especially since I’ve had so much practice, but it does.

My big plan was to watch every episode of Californication in my Showtime On Demand, but the On Demand isn’t working. I called my cable company to get it fixed, but it didn't work.

I said, “I’m sorry you have to work on Thanksgiving,” to the tech support woman.

In the silence that followed, I could hear the keys of her keyboard clicking through the phone.

I could have gone somewhere. I got invited to my neighbor Kelly’s family’s Thanksgiving in Connecticut. But…you know how it is. I can’t…go out. I can’t go in a car to a strange place and be with people I don’t know. Not on Thanksgiving. It’s too much. I might unravel. I might start to cry, to sob. I just can’t go.

It makes me sad that I can’t go.

My biggest fear right now is that something will happen to Peter before he gets here. I’m afraid that after all this work and time, when I finally have a good life within reach, someone who loves me and wants to stay with me; just when I could have things like Thanksgiving—or any other Thursday—with someone who knows my name (and loves me), I’m convinced on some level that he will be killed before he can get here. In a car crash. I’ll get a phone call and…it’ll be terrible. And I’ll barely, just barely live through it. More pain. More alone. More agony. How much more life can I live like this, day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute? How much more can be asked of me? (This is a dangerous question to ask.)

I told this fear to Peter last night. He is sure that he is not going to die in a car crash before he gets here.

It snowed in Colorado yesterday. Peter thought he had his JEEP in four-wheel-drive, but he didn’t. He hit a slippery patch and slid into oncoming traffic. He didn’t die, though. He righted himself and got out of the way before disaster struck.

I need to right myself and get out of the way before disaster strikes.

I am struggling with a terrible depression. It came, and it will not release me. In my journal on Tuesday I wrote:

I’m so sad.
It’s…pervasive.
Like I am permeable
and this thing, it’s like
humidity
it comes and occupies
my space, my body, my head

In my grief on Monday, I lay down in my bed, and I cracked open. I cried. When it comes like that, I strain against it. It’s like cramping, seizing, only it’s my spiritual heart, my emotional heart, not my muscles. Although, they ache, too.

And then, from inside the darkness, a flash of light, and I remembered that I can ask for help. I sat up. And said, fiercely, aloud, “Help me.” It was an order, not a request. Not begging. It was a command. “Help me.”

I thought of Dumbledore saying that there will always be help at Hogwarts for those who ask. I thought of Pru and the work we’ve done. And I thought about God. And I said, “Help me. Help me, God, and the universe. Help me love and light. Help me every part of myself that knows how to help me: help me. Now.”

And before I knew it, I was rising. And the pain had passed for a bit. And I finished my work day.

I am worried that my worrying will destroy my thing with Peter. It’s magical thinking, I know, but I’m worried that my conviction that he will die rather than reach me will bring it about, influence him, change the course of events. I am reminded of my healer friend Craig. He says I get in my own way.

I need to get out of my own way.

I told Peter about my concerns last night, and about my depression. It was a confession of sorts. He had some idea already of course, but I wanted to make sure he wasn’t being tricked into coming here, tricked into thinking I’m always alright, when I’m not.

“It gets pretty bad sometimes,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “What you have to remember is that now, there are two of us.”

Don’t you just love him? For someone whose greatest agony is that she is always alone, could there be any better balm than hearing these words, now, there are two of us.

He likes that I’m interesting. He says that my sadness and depression are part of what makes me special. He doesn’t want me to be depressed; he admits that it’s a nuisance. But it’s not a deal breaker. Not even close. He says my intense ability to give, to feel, to open, to share—these things mean I also feel sadness profoundly. He understands and appreciates this. He said it’s like being in a village where everyone eats the same amount of food, and you can eat ten times that amount, but no one else understands. Then you meet someone with the same appetite.

He also says he will never stop trying to cheer me up. And that I’m a trooper who is strong. I love that he sees this.

As for my worry about his premature death meaning the end of our relationship before it has really even begun, he has faith that he will live a long and healthy life. When he decided to quit smoking, it was, he said, because if it means the difference between getting to be with me until he’s 82 instead of 80, it’s worth it.

I told Peter I feel like I’ve been asked to run a thousand thousand marathons in this lifetime, and even though I’m so close to the final finish line, my legs and lungs are giving out. Sometimes after a journey that long, you just can’t take one more step, even if you’re within sight of the finish line. You can’t believe you got so close, but no matter how much willpower you have, if your legs have turned to jelly you simply cannot make them move.

Peter says he is coming. He says he is trying to get here before anything happens. He says, very kindly, that if I doubt that, then he hasn’t been clear. So, he will continue to tell me, and to act accordingly, until I have more faith in that than I do in my own predilection for doom.

I was very upset last weekend about the prospect of losing Norman, who I found out on Saturday is beginning the final stages of his life. I talked to Peter about it, and he said it was interesting that he and Norman entered my life at the same time (1989). Peter went on his own journey and Norman stayed with me. Now, as Norman is about to pass on, Peter returns. This cheered me up. In my journal, I wrote:

I love that Peter saw through the mess and the dismay to the heart of the problem. Yes, I love Calvin and Norman so much, and the idea of losing them is so profoundly grief-inducing.

But what really, really hurts is the feeling that I will then be totally alone. I’ll have no reason to live.

I’m not able to say this or even know this in a way I can communicate in my conversation with Peter. But I’m feeling it intensely.

And he knows it.

He knows.

He is steady. And there is a softness to his speech. It’s like when you fall asleep on the couch, and you get cold, but you’re too tired to get up, and then someone puts a blanket over you, and you warm up and relax and fall back to sleep. Peter gave me a blanket last night. An uncomplicated gesture that made all the difference. For him, the answer to the problem was as obvious as the answer to the problem of a cold person on a couch. He could see what I needed. And he gave it.

Peter didn’t die in a car crash yesterday. I should be rejoicing in that good news, instead of worrying about what bad thing will happen next. It just seems inevitable that my dreams will collapse…again.

“But, I thought you were ‘entering a time of transition, a new phase, a new chapter, a new era,’” said Peter, quoting me back to me, reminding me what I used to feel was true, before I sank beneath the surface and forgot that I can float, that I can swim, that I even own a boat. I remembered this, fondly, vaguely, from afar.

“Oh, yeah…” I said.

When I told Jon Reed that I thought I should be happy because Peter didn’t die in a car crash and Norman survived the pit bull attack (what a fucking day!), Jon Reed laughed and said, “Well, if we’re going to count the absence of terrible things as ‘good,’ then that’s true. You should be happy. But we’re--”

“—we’re not those kind of people!”

We both said it together. And we laughed. We laughed hard.

I talked to my friend Tom yesterday. He called from the road. He was on the way to a ribbon-cutting ceremony in Nevada. He’s formed a nonprofit group that is giving away millions of dollars in electricity via solar power to schools and hospitals in Nevada. He lives in California. He just had a baby. And he has a job. But he does this, because he can. Because it’s right and powerful and feels good. I love this about him.

I told Tom about Peter.

“I can tell this guy is right for you,” he said, “because I know you would rather suffer than settle.”

And he’s right. I hate suffering. But I hate settling more.

A friend of mine from my hometown, who is also friends with my sister-in-law, Cindy, said in an e-mail this week, “I really hope things work out for you. I know Cindy gets a bit worried about you. Says you put your whole heart into things and afraid you will get hurt. I say go for it!!!”

And I wrote back, “Thank you. I'm with you on that. Cindy doesn't need to worry. Peter is so good to me, and very committed. It's beautiful. She's right that I put my whole heart into things, and yes, I get hurt a lot, but I think it's the only way to get anything truly wonderful. So, hard as it's been, everything I've gone through was worth it to get me to Peter. And, even if we don't work out, we won't have been wrong to have given it everything we had when we tried.”

Peter and I agree on this wholeheartedly. That even if it doesn’t work out, we won’t have been wrong to have tried. We do not believe that at the end of our lives we will only wish we had been more cautious in life or given less to the things we believed in.

I feel I have run a thousand, thousand marathons, when I only signed up to run one. Maybe two. Three at the most. I am jelly-legged and wheezing, cramped and straining, leaking salt from my pores and seeing double. I feel the ground rising up and slamming into my cheekbone. And then I’m confused to be lying on the ground, pondering a vertical horizon.

I am alone on Thanksgiving. But I am not homeless or broke or hungry or even technically single. And I still have Norman. And comfortable shoes. But the absence of terrible things does not equal “good,” (even though I still suspect that it should).

I asked God for help this week. I asked light and love and the universe for help. I asked myself for help. And what came was Peter, on the other end of the phone, not having died in a car wreck. And Norman, fighting off a pitbull like he was a teenager, instead of an aged old man entering his final days.

I asked God to help me and this morning, I woke up after a night filled with dreams I can no longer remember, and one phrase kept repeating--you know the tune--over and over. It’s been there all day:

Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door to your heart
Let my love open the door, ooh
Let my love open the door,
Let my love open the door, ooh
Let my love open the door
to your heart.

I hate Thanksgiving. And, I am alone today. But I do have someplace I could go, if I were able, and wanted to.

Instead, I woke up to a mild day and the sunlight in my room felt gentle. I said good morning to Norman and I washed my face. Let my love open the door, oooh, let my love open the door.

I got dressed in warm comfy clothes. I put my hair in a ponytail. I gave Norman his medication and his treat. Let my love open the door, oooh, let my love open the door.

I made some coffee. I tried to make my On Demand work. I called the cable company for help, but they told me to wait an hour. Let my love open the door. Let my love open the door. Oooh.

I went next door, to take care of my neighbors’ dog. I fed her. Gave her hugs and loving words. I let her out to pee. And then I sat down on the couch. Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door.

I turned on the cable, and their On Demand was working. The dog curled up under the blankets at my feet. The kitten who has never let me hold her came and climbed onto my chest. Let my love open the door, ooh. Let my love open the door.

I turned on the show I had so badly wanted and I watched it, three whole episodes, and I drank my coffee, with the dog snuggled up against my legs and the kitty on my chest. Let my love open the door. Let my love open the door.

After a while, the kitten began to suckle my hand, fiercely. She suckled and suckled, and kneaded my hand with her paws. Her razor sharp kitten claws cut puncture wounds and gashes into the back of my hand, but I didn’t pull away. Let my love open the door, oooh.

There was something so tender, so raw about her need. She survived an abusive beginning and was rescued by my neighbors. She’s several months old now, but snuggled up there with me, she returned to her infancy and suckled and suckled away. Fruitless and desperate and instinctual, her suckling was primal. And I did not turn her away. It was something I could give. I maneuvered my hand to avoid to brunt of her claws, and I held her and let her suckle my hand through two whole episodes. Let my love open the door.

I told Tom that the biggest problem in my life is my desire to have one person I can count on. I want one reliable source of strength and sustenance, of love and stability and affection. But this is not how it goes for me. I have not been able to count on anyone to always be there, to come if I call, to help. But what is also true, the hard, hard lesson for me to grasp, is that life always provides me with what I need, I just never know where from. My life has been visited by a cavalcade of angels, who arrive, unbidden—or so I think—and offer me just what I need, like a hand to suckle on Thanksgiving.

Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door.

On this day, I needed company and affection. I needed to be needed. I needed to not be alone. I woke up with a song in my head and sunlight in my room. Let my love open the door. I woke up thinking I would watch some cable at my house, but instead, I was forced to go next door. Let my love open the door. Where I sat on my neighbors’ couch, with a dog who loves me and a kitten who still needs a mom. Let my love open the door, ooh. Let my love open the door. I gave those animals a place to be taken care of, and they in turn, allowed me to channel the love I couldn’t seem to access for myself. It felt good.

When I came back home, I reached for the door, and as my hand closed around the doorknob, the volume turned up on the song that had been playing over and over in my head since I woke: Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, to your heart!

And I remembered again what my healer friend Craig said, all those months ago, about how I need to get out of my own way.

I feel stuck, blocked, trapped beneath the surface and I can’t figure the way out. (Is it possible that I’m lying on top of myself?)

I came inside and Googled the “Let My Love Open the Door” lyrics:

When tragedy befalls you
(Let my love open the door, ooh)
Don't let it drag you down
Love can cure your problems
(Let my love open the door, ooh)
You're so lucky I'm around
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door to your heart

Wow. Okay...but…how? Ever since I read the lyrics I’ve been trying to figure out…how do I let your love open the door? Maybe I should be meditating? Or singing? Maybe I should learn the words to the song and sing it in public? Is this meant to be grace through karaoke?

While doing dishes tonight, it occurred to me that maybe I just need to offer the right invitation. So, I stopped washing and said, out loud, “Um…I let your love open the door. To my heart.” It sounded really odd.

And I don’t think it worked because now it's Friday and I woke up with the song still playing in my head. Let my love open the door, oooh.

I’m trying…I really am. Let my love open the door, let my love open the door.

It follows me everywhere, this song. I tried listening to it through Rhapsody. And I sang the whole thing through, twice. But, it's still with me. I'm not sure what should I try next. Perhaps... "Alohomora?"

"The Long-awaited Time of Joy," Chapter 1: The Lightbulb in the Basement

2007-10-25T18:52:00.000-04:00

You know, it's a mad mission
But, I got the ambition
Not everybody makes it
to the loving cup
It's a mad mission, but I got the ambition
Mad, mad mission
Sign me up.--Patty Griffin

Aside from the fact that the sun was shining in my perpetually foggy neighborhood, it was a perfectly ordinary day in San Francisco, a Thursday in mid-April. I stepped out of my office, which was situated at the back of an old, yellow Edwardian-style apartment building, and I walked down the outdoor staircase and then into the basement. I carried with me a box of the paper residue of my life, headed for the recycling bin. My body was performing this task--balancing cargo, moving me along--but my mind was elsewhere. It was that serene state of being, when a body is engaged in something rote, like dishes or driving, and the mind can wander off on its own to explore.

As I switched on the basement light and walked down the musty corridor toward the trashcans and recycling bins, I was thinking what a mess my life had become. I’d recently been kicked out of my apartment, but I hadn’t yet found a new place to live. My formerly live-in girlfriend had left me a few months earlier and moved back east. I’d quit my job as an editor at a successful magazine and was attempting to support myself by freelancing full-time; I was getting work, but not enough. And I was coping with some medical issues. Ever since I’d moved to San Francisco, nearly three years before, I’d been battling upper respiratory problems ranging from colds that would last for weeks, to several bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia.

Being sick had morphed my former-college-athlete body into something I barely recognized. Thirty pounds overweight, I was finding it nearly impossible to get back to a healthy size. Walking up stairs left me breathless. I had developed sciatica and carpel tunnel syndrome at my former magazine job, which were so severe that even after six months of physical therapy, acupuncture and ergonomic adjustments to my work station, I couldn’t sit or stand comfortably, and even chopping vegetables was a painful task. To top it all off, I’d just been diagnosed with depression and a panic disorder with associated phobias, including agoraphobia--which explained why I would sometimes circle my apartment for days before being able to step outside to mail a letter. The good news, of course, was that a diagnosis meant I could begin a course of treatment for these things, which had namelessly plagued me for a decade. But at the time, the news didn’t feel so good. I felt like a mental patient, one step away from straightjackets, and Jell-O eaten in confinement off plastic spoons.

My ex-girlfriend and I were having a bubble gum break-up—no matter how far we stretched, we remained stuck together. Even though she was on the other side of the country, we were having trouble letting go. Meanwhile, I had begun a passionate but frightening new relationship with a woman I’d known for just a short time. I wound up straddling the two things like an insane person, thinking I could make land with one foot in a rowboat and one foot on a raft. The sea was growing stormy and it looked as though I would soon lose my grip on both things and go crashing beneath the waves. All my worst fears about being alone, being unloved, and disappointing others, were rearing their vicious heads like a battalion of Hydra. And, like the icing on the squished cake of my life--or really, like the cracked plate underneath it--there was my deep conflict over where I should live. I was so torn between San Francisco and Northampton that I was never completely happy in either place. I spent all of my free time and energy either planning or taking trips back and forth. I couldn’t choose to live without what one place offered, in order to be fully present in the other, so I remained forever in between, always longing for San Francisco when I was in Northampton, and for Northampton when I was in San Francisco. It was an exhausting way to live.

As I strode down the basement corridor that day, toward the bald and dusty light bulb hanging above the sticky trash bins, I mulled over these things, turning them around as though they were puzzle-toys I could somehow find my way into--or out of--if only I could understand how. While my body walked and my rational mind tried to solve the puzzle, the deeper, more creative part of my self saw her moment to act. She went off exploring in the fields of my experience, rooting through the trash piles of my memory to see what she could find. She had only a few moments; when I was done in the basement, I would sequester her again while I worked. So, she went quickly, with delight and purpose, like a child set loose for recess. I hadn’t even realized that she was gone until she returned, flushed and smiling, to her seat in my mental classroom. It was what Oprah would call a “light bulb moment” when she held up for me her discovery.

When she showed it to me, I felt the way I would if I found the one remaining Popsicle--perfectly preserved--amongst the stale ice cubes and freezer-burnt peas in my freezer on a hot, summer night. It was such a simple thing, but it felt so rare and delivered so much pleasure that I was filled with joy when she held up for me this notion: Life is trying to teach you that you’re strong. As I’d entered the basement, I’d been wondering idly--without even realizing that I was wondering it--Why me? Why has it all been so hard? And she went and found the answer: life is trying to teach me that I’m strong.

I’ve suffered from the why-me’s before--everyone probably has--but, I’ve never actually gotten an answer before. Of course, my self-pity wasn’t entirely without reason; it wasn’t just about career changes or romantic entanglements or bronchial infections. It was about my life, my whole life, right from the beginning. The list of things I’ve lived through would have startled my peers and made them treat me differently, so I kept it secret through high school (as much as I could), through college (because no one knew me from before), and then in my adult life in the “real” world (where I could completely re-invent myself, if I chose to). But, no matter what I projected to others or let them assume, the truth is, I was often hungry and homeless as a child. Growing up in Maine, that meant things like harsh winters with no boots, and sad Christmases worthy of a Lifetime Original Movie, complete with recently laid-off, drunk, construction-worker father and a refrigerator, which offered not much more than a light bulb when it was opened.

As a child, I lived in tents, slept in cars and took baths standing in large pots other families would have cooked their dinners in. There were years without electricity, running water or plumbing. And during the hardest years, the youngest years, I didn’t have the sense to ask why me. For little kids, there is only one life, their own, and they have no way of knowing it could (or should) be different--especially if they don’t have TV. Later, though, during adolescence, I started to understand that other kids had it easier, had it better. I grew tired of shame and struggle, tired of cold and hunger, tired of my divorced and angry parents, and I started to ask, Why me?

When I got to high school and my mother was finally able to buy a home, I thought life would get easier. I thought I had paid my dues. But, of course, I hadn’t. There is no cap on human suffering. You may feel you’ve filled your quota by the age of fourteen, but there’s nothing to say the hardest parts aren’t still to come. For teenagers, melodrama fits like a second skin. So, in my teenaged years the why-me’s really kicked in. I engaged in them in vain, selfish, tragic moments when I wanted something unattainable like a pair of Jordache jeans (or a college education) so badly it felt the world would end if I didn’t get it. The world felt so unfair--and honestly, that’s because it was.

But, despite my fears about not getting a college education, I did manage to get one. Eleven years later I’m still paying it off. But the fact remains, despite my fears and hardships, I did put myself through an expensive, highly ranked, and rigorous school. My college years were a time when buying postage stamps was a luxury and getting a haircut was out of the question. The years before and after college weren’t exactly a picnic, either. But when I think back on it now, I’m reminded of a time when I went cross-country skiing alone on unfamiliar trails. I got lost, it got dark, and I had no idea how or even if I’d make it through the night alive. But, despite the fear, cold, exhaustion, and the stamina required, I did eventually find my way back out of the woods.

I was too embarrassed until I was well into my twenties to speak to anyone of the badges of my shame, what I considered to be the evidence of my weakness--the things which make me who I am, but which I have sought to deny and to escape from since I was old enough to know what they were. I kept these things (poverty, rape, homelessness, anxiety, depression) and others to myself because they seemed like such clear symbols of my fallibility, my less-than/other-than status.

For most of my life, I have been afraid, occasionally hopeless, and almost always tired and confused. And yet, when I graduated from college, nearly every card I received praised my strength. It made me feel like a liar, like a disgusting actress, like I had somehow tricked my closest friends. They knew not how weak, in fact, I was. That day in the basement in San Francisco, when I first began to understand that life was not persecuting me, but instead trying to prove to me what the others had seen all along, a door was formed before me. I wasn’t yet ready to walk through it, but the knowledge that it was there was the first step in my eventual liberation.

Six years later, my closest friend loaned me a book called Struggle for Intimacy by Janet Woititz. I had never met its author and yet somehow she knew exactly what I thought about myself. I rejoiced at the discovery that this sense I have of not being seen for the truly flawed human being that I am--of secretly being a weak and ugly person, not worthy of love, success or devotion, while everyone buys the girl-who’s-got-it-together act I put on--is absolutely normal and terribly common among adult children of alcoholics (ACOAs). It’s even on a list of common ACOA self-myths. Between this book, and the self-knowledge I found unexpectedly that day in the basement, I am beginning to accept a beautiful truth: that I am strong; that I deserve to be happy. Acceptance of this truth allows me to walk through the door between self-loathing and self-love.

Our minds work in strange ways. We expect things from ourselves we’d never expect from others. We ACOAs tend to believe that the people around us don’t know how much we’re faking it. For some reason, for some of us, it’s difficult to focus on what is good in us, to forgive ourselves--or anyone else--for being human. So many of us can’t see the forest of strength we possess, because we can’t see past the trees of our faults. We beat ourselves up and we ask ourselves questions like, Why me? Without ever really expecting an answer.

But after years of asking the question silently to myself, I finally got my answer on an ordinary day in a grimy basement in San Francisco. Life doesn’t bring me challenges to punish me or to keep me from getting ahead. Life is trying to teach me that I’m strong. It’s an important lesson to learn. It will come in handy if life ever gets really hard. I’ve been stubborn, blind and insistent in my belief in my weakness and my unworthiness. But I’m beginning to understand now that we all have faults and burdens. It’s human nature. It’s a package deal. No one is perfect. Sometimes we get lost in the woods. But the truth is, if I’ve made it this far, I really am strong.

[The original version of this essay was written in 1998 or 1999, I think, and was distributed as part of a monthly e-mail column I used to write and send to friends and a few subscribers. This version is part of manuscript entitled, "The Long-awaited Time of Joy, and Other True Stories," which I completed a few years ago, but never really tried very hard to publish. You can read more chapters and excerpts from TLATJ at this blog.]

The Truth About Love: "I'm Too Old For This"

2007-08-05T00:51:00.000-04:00

Last night I got the news that a member of my class at Smith had passed away. She was my age, I think—35—and she had a husband and two small children. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago, she was pregnant. She started chemo while she was still pregnant and had her daughter a little early so she could start her second round.

My classmate worked at her job as director of development at a nonprofit right up until the day before her daughter was born, very small, but in perfect health. She fought her cancer with chemo. Then radiation. And a mastectomy. In January, she wrote to our class secretary to report that she still had six weeks of daily radiation and then, if that went well, reconstructive surgery. "It hasn't been so bad," she said. "Radiation should be a piece of cake compared to chemo."

"The kids are great," she wrote. "So much fun and getting bigger every day. I just took [my daughter] to the doctors for her second flu shot and she is now 90% for height! She's catching up to her brother and it looks like we'll have two tall kids. So relieved that she's perfectly healthy."

It did not sound as if she had any idea that in just over six months, two months after her daughter's first birthday, she'd be gone. As I understand it, she received the news that her cancer had metastasized to her liver and bones just over one week before she passed away. Until that news came, I think she and her family believed she was getting better.

I didn't know this woman as an undergrad, but as President of the class, I was among the first to be informed, thanks to a friend of my classmate who reached out to our class Secretary. It fell to me to make decisions, and after consulting our class Secretary, I felt it was best to immediately inform the class via e-mail, so that anyone who might want to attend the wake and/or funeral today or tomorrow could do so.

I spent my morning phoning funeral homes and churches and cemeteries to confirm the dates and times I'd been given. When I called the Alumnae House to find out if they had any recommendations or restrictions about protocol, I was told they would have to call me back; no one had ever done such a thing. In the end, the person in charge agreed that this was a special exception and gave me a green light to notify my class via e-mail.

While I didn't know this woman personally, her death has nudged open the door to a cellar full of sadness in my heart. It piles up in there, like the garbage when sanitation workers are on strike. When the door is wedged open, the thick swampy air clogs my lungs and stings my eyes. It makes me irritable. I feel upset, swimming in leachate and dizzy; my chest and my head throb with grief. I wanted to scream today, but I had no place to do so. I wanted to punch and kick and break things, but I had no place to do so. Today was the first time since I left there last fall that I missed the heavy bag that used to hang in the dingy basement of my old apartment.

I know that death happens to everyone; I have always known this. I know that one in four American women will get breast cancer. I know that I am lucky it wasn't me. But my good fortune at having cancer-free breasts is an erstwhile friend; it may have cheered me on some bygone days, but today, I just keep thinking about her children, and her husband, and her friends--and my friends. I keep thinking about her and what it must have been like to realize she would have to say goodbye and leave her children motherless. I think of this and I ache. I feel a sharp pain in my heart, like a nail driven into the flesh between my ribs. My jaw and my brow are sore from holding back tears. I can't let them come or they will drown me. I still wish I could scream.

Everyone dies. I know that I am never too young or too old to be next. I have already lost two friends from college and one from high school (ALS, brain cancer, suicide). At 35, I often feel old. I feel how quickly my reproductive years are slipping down the drain. I know how rapidly my earning years are dying on the vine. I see how quickly my skin is aging in certain spots where I've gotten too much sun. Even my little breasts are beginning to sag. And yet, despite how old I usually feel, when I thought of my classmate getting sick and dying, I felt an awareness of my youth that came on so quickly it made me lose my breath, like the moment you realize how close you came to going over the edge of something or getting hit by a car—snatch! Suck in your breath. That was close. I'm still here. We're so young. So terrifyingly young.

And yet, I've been dating someone who is more than ten years my junior. I was a lesbian in my twenties, so I missed out on this phase—men in their twenties—almost entirely. He's hot. I don't mind saying it. He has an ass more scrumptious than a cupcake. And muscles that make me melt. And yet…he conducts most of our relationship (if you could call it that) via text message or, occasionally, via e-mail. And this makes me feel old. And cranky. Like an old lady fussing about how fast the cars move nowadays. (But seriously--text messages?? YGBKM!)

I probably should have known from the beginning that we weren't a good match. We met in a bar, which is, I'm guessing, not how most love stories with happy endings begin. At the end of the night, he apologized for asking for my number. "I'm sorry to even ask you this…" he said. I found it an odd but endearing approach, so I gave him my card.

It took him a week to get in touch. And instead of calling, he e-mailed and said that he had just realized he'd forgotten to e-mail me. "I just remembered I forgot you," is not exactly romance on caliber with Lloyd Dobler. But I e-mailed back. And gave him my number. And over the course of the next few months, he filled up my cell phone's inbox with flirtatious text messages sent just before closing at whatever bar he was at—a behavior I never rewarded.

Eventually, we made it out for an actual date. He took me for drinks and then karaoke. Unfortunately, I drank too much and couldn't drive home. He drove me home in my car and once we got there, I started vomiting almost immediately. My roommate drove him home. It took three days to recover. It was like I had the flu or food poisoning.

On our second date, I tore my ACL. He invited me to play volleyball with him and some friends. I tried to get out of it. I was just feeling really sad about Calvin. But he convinced me to go. On the last point of the last game, I slipped in the acrylic house paint his friends had used to create lines for the court in their backyard. It'll be at least a year before I'm walking normally, a year of painful, tedious physical therapy and, it seems, reconstructive surgery.

On our third date, a moth flew into my ear and a skunk moved into my basement. On our fourth date, I thought we were going out alone, and then at the last minute, he invited everyone he knew via an Evite to join him as he celebrated his new job. I thought we were having a date; he thought he was having a party.

I've been practicing being more direct and honest in my communication, so I let him know that I had thought we'd be going out alone—on a date--and that I was disappointed by the Evite because I thought he and I had plans. We worked it out—via e-mail—and I joined him and his friends late in the night and had an okay time. It was the last day of the Year of Healing. He stayed over.

The next night he took me to a movie and we spent almost all of that weekend together. It was fun for me to have affection, someone to go to brunch with, a date. I told my friend Megan afterwards that it was such a nice change to date someone who was emotionally and physically available. It's been more than a decade since that happened for me. (In retrospect, this is, of course, an hysterically funny observation because of how wrong I was--LOL!—but, when I said it, I thought it was true; it's how he seemed.)

After our weekend together, though, he disappeared. He didn't call or e-mail. I got proactive and invited him to do something, but he didn't answer my e-mail.

After almost a week, I sent him an e-mail and asked if he had gotten my e-mail inviting him to get together. He said he had. I pointed out that an honorable person would not sleep with a girl and then ignore her for a week. He responded, via e-mail, to say "Acknowledged." But he didn't apologize. Eventually, he sent me a text message, saying he was "sorry, if it seemed like he was blowing me off." I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but I'm practicing reigning in my disappointment and not walloping people over the head with it, especially people who are trying to be nice to me. So, I texted him back and said, "Thanks." And I told him where I was. But, I never heard from him. (He claimed later he never got my text, but honestly, even if he didn't, shouldn't he have followed up?)

After nearly two weeks without seeing him, talking to him, or planning another date, I decided the only thing I really wanted was to know why. I asked him to meet me and he agreed. We sat on a bench overlooking a pond and I asked him to tell me why he disappeared. I told him he could be honest with me. The answer didn't really matter, I just really wanted to know what had happened so I could stop wondering.

He denied that he had disappeared. His defense: "But I texted you!"

I think for anyone my age—perhaps anyone at all—if the phrase "but I texted you" works its way into an important conversation about the future (or past) of your relationship, you can generally assume it's a bad sign. Of course, you might also assume that vomiting, severed ligaments, ambulance rides, insects in your ear, and/or vermin in your basement are bad signs, too. I, on the other hand, soldiered on.

"A text message, in response to my e-mail asking why you'd ignored my first e-mail does not really count as not disappearing," I said, feeling like I was (totally) stating the obvious. "You just seem to have lost interest. And that's fine. That's your choice. But I'd just really like to know why, because you seemed really interested. And you stuck around through all of that crap, all the injuries and debacles, and you gave me the impression you were a good guy, but then, once you'd slept with me, you disappeared. I mean, is this just some sort of clever shtick? You act like a nice guy—totally convincing--you don't make a move until the fifth date, then spend the whole weekend with the girl, before disappearing into the ether?"

"No," he said. "It was not a shtick. I'm an honest person."

"Yeah," I said. "But your saying that isn't helpful. A liar could sit here and say the same thing. It's what you do that really matters. And what you did was disappear."

Eventually, he admitted that he had, in fact, disappeared. He said he had done so because he was easily distracted, his life was busy and (this I had to pull out of him)…he was afraid of my expectations.

"And how do you know what my expectations are, exactly?"

"I don't know…I just assumed that you wanted…"

My left eyebrow shot up toward my brow and I looked at him like he was an abominable idiot. He had never asked what I wanted. I watched as it dawned on him that he could have simply asked me, instead of running away. It was clear that this thought had not occurred to him. He just assumed that I wanted him, really wanted him for some serious relationship. (Is there a text message symbol for "asshole?")

"For the record," I said, "I just wanted to have some fun."

Eventually, he began to realize that I wasn't just complaining about his behavior, I was telling him he'd blown it—completely. He let me know that he wasn't quite ready to lose me yet. And, since I am practicing being reasonable, I made room for the possibility that he could change.

"I'm getting the sense that if I called you, you wouldn't go out with me again," he said.

"Well, that's right," I said. "I don't want to spend my time with people who are indifferent to me. I don't want to sleep with someone who is so easily distracted and forgetful. I want to be around people who say to themselves, 'yaaayyy!' when they're with me. I want to have fun and being neglected isn't fun."

"Well," he said. "I think I'll leave the ball in your court. I'll say that I want to see you again, and if you want to see me, you can call."

"You can do that," I said. "But if you want to see me, you'll have to do better. I don't want you to leave the ball in my court. I want you to do some work. I want you to show me that you value my company. If you want to see me, you'll have to give me something more than a ball in my court."

In the end, we warmed up to one another. We laughed. We moved from the bench to a tree swing further up the hill and gazed out at the moonlight dancing on the water. We swung gently back and forth and as I shifted in my seat to swat at a mosquito, my arm pressed against his and I remembered how delicious his muscles feel, how surprisingly soft his skin is, and how warm I feel when he kisses me.

"I have a good time with you," he said. "Even this conversation has been fun."

I was proud of myself for sticking up for myself, for being direct and honest in my communication, for knowing what I needed and saying so, and for letting him off the hook, rather than masticating him with my self-righteous, indignant, rage. He had remembered why he liked me.

"What would you say if I said I wanted to come home with you tonight," he asked.

"I would say, 'let's go to your house instead,'" I said.

And, so, we did. And he drank wine and I sipped vodka and we laughed, and kissed, and spent a delectable hour breaking my celibacy streak even further and sweating in the heat. It was what I wanted, and at 2am, I kissed him goodbye and went home to my bed.

The next day, he was good to me. "Fuck the two day rule," he said in an e-mail. And he asked me if I was free the next day. I wasn't. I was going away for part of the weekend. He checked in again, while I was gone, via text, to see when I'd be back. I came back a day late and expected that he'd be eager to see me. When I returned, he invited me to a movie via text message, but I was too tired to go—it was something I'd already seen, anyway. I told him I'd meet him for drinks after and he said he'd get back to me after the movie if he was interested. I wanted to sleep with him again. I wanted him to want to sleep with me that night…but I never heard back.

A few days later, we made plans to watch a movie at my place. He slept over. It was okay. I didn't hear from him the next day, the day, it turns out, that my classmate died.

And that brings us to today, with the blazing heat and intolerable humidity and my heart grown so heavy it felt like the only thing keeping it from slipping out of its cage and into my belly was the nail someone drove in through my ribs. I left my best friend three long voice mails. I left a message for my friend and former lover, the one who can always make me laugh, the one who came when Calvin died and when I hurt my knee and couldn't drive to the interview in Connecticut; the one who can make me feel better, the one whose hugs feel more like home than anything I've felt in a very, very long time (a mixed blessing), but he didn't have time to call me back. He sent me some well-intentioned, but not helpful e-mails instead. There was no one else to call and nowhere else to go. I was on my own with this.

I spent the morning taking care of the details around my classmate's death—could we send flowers, can we send an e-mail, what should it say, when should it go, how will it get there, are the dates and times and places for the wake and funeral, reception and interment correct--and then sent an e-mail out to the class. I went to physical therapy. I worked hard. I ran unpleasant errands. I arrived home hungry, angry, and wishing I had someplace to scream. Or someone to hold me.

Instead, I did what I could for myself. I lugged in the groceries, put them away, checked my e-mails, and then took off all my sweaty clothes and settled in with a DVD, a cold drink, an ice pack on my knee, and the A/C in my bedroom on high. Just then, my 24-year old text messaged me, asking me to go see a movie. I said yes, but the late show.

He said okay.

A few minutes later, he called (he actually called!) and said that he wanted to invite some other friends, get a bunch of people to go. He had learned from past experience that it was better to check with me first. I appreciated that he learned, but was disappointed that this was what he wanted.

I told him about my day. About my classmate dying…about my roommate not paying his rent…about my knee being sore and just my general feeling of exhaustion and upset. I started to cry a little—my voice caught--and I told him I felt too tired and vulnerable to deal with getting a group of strangers (to me) coordinated to find seats at what would definitely be a sold out Friday night premiere of "The Bourne Ultimatum." I haven't met his friends and I just wasn't in a space where I felt I could interact socially with strangers. I hesitated…then lied and said I would understand if he wanted to go with a group instead of with me. He said he'd check in with his friends and get back to me.

I got in the shower feeling hot and dirty and sad and sore and heavy and tired. I took a deep breath and then let the cool water wash over me. As I washed my hair, a thought came to me as clean and simple as the milky white suds running down my shoulders. It was more than a thought, it was a knowing: what I want is a person who, upon hearing that I knew someone who died and was heartbroken and tired and vulnerable, would not say, "I'll call my friends and get back to you." What I want is a person who hears that and says, "Do you want me to come over?" I wanted someone to bring me food and maybe a movie or just any kind of good-natured care. I don't need much, but I need that. Or, I want it anyway.

Today, I wanted a chest to rest my head on and the knowledge that the owner of that chest really cared. "I can't sleep with someone who would be that disinterested in what I need," I thought.

As I stepped out of the shower, I sighed. It was a happy relief to know my own bottom line, to understand what I need and want. Knowing is the first step toward getting it. But, it also meant that this young man would not turn out to be the fun summer fling I had hoped he would be. (Bummer.) Being neglected really isn't any fun; I'd have to give up my hope that he could be the source of affection and companionship and laughter I'd been wishing for.

It took him two hours to get back to me. He didn't call me, as he said he would. He canceled our date via text message. "Hey," he wrote. "I'm too tired to do the movie. I'm going to finish Harry Potter and then crash."

My immediate thought: "Asshole." My next thought: "I'm too old for this."

I'm too old to have people break dates via text message. I'm too old to date someone who doesn't even really think of dates as dates, which is why he doesn't need to cancel them with an apology—or a phone call—and why he invites other people to come on them. It was just an idea he had, I think, to see the movie, and when it passed he felt no obligation to factor in my feelings about it at all.

I was angry so I wanted to do something clever, like write back and say, "Don't bother to call me any more," except he never really calls me anyway. Or, better yet, I thought I might use some text message lingo like "U R N ASS" to communicate that I had reached the end of my rope. But I couldn't think what to say in 80 characters or less. I even checked out an online dictionary of text messaging abbreviations. I read through every single one, but aside from BBN (Bye Bye Now) and YGBKM (You've Gotta Be Kidding Me), nothing, apart from the overly cheerful L8RG8R, really even came close to capturing the spirit of what I wanted to say.

Maybe it's because I was born in an era when phones still had cords, but nothing I could think to say via SMS was going to be quite good enough for this. Regardless of my age, my inclination is to communicate. And no matter how fast you type, text messaging just isn't meant for that. It's been five hours and I haven't texted him back. At this point, I guess I probably won't even bother. It turns out that I may not be too young to die of breast cancer—but I am definitely too old for this.

The Truth About Love: "At the Lake"

2007-07-22T15:05:00.000-04:00

djm,

we said and felt and did and saw so much on Friday. at this point, re-visiting it feels like too much, so I will say very little, but wanted to share with you a positive thing.

i went to puffer's pond yesterday, a beautiful spot in amherst. i brought a picnic and books and spent the afternoon reading on my blanket or floating on my little inflatable raft. i'm struggling. everything is difficult, but i breathed, i lived, i did my day.

i only went in the water once. when i stepped in, this old woman--like maybe she was 70?--came right over to me. it was some effort for her to walk, but she made that effort so as to get to me. it was as though...as though i was the right place for her. like the way i was looking for coffee on our drive home and spotted a dunkin' donuts and said, "oh, there's one!"

i had that feeling. like she was looking for something she needed and when she spotted me she said, "oh, there's one!" Like an information desk, or a map in a subway station, or a gas station when you're lost--or a kind soul when you need some helping.

i was a little taken aback when she talked to me because i was feeling so raw in the world already. i'd gone through a lot the night and day before, obviously. so i missed the first thing she said. and my first instinct was to avoid her. but then i thought maybe she needed my help and that maybe i ought to not be selfish. like maybe i might need to offer to help her get out of the water or something. i felt i should rise to the occasion.

so i looked up and into her eyes, and i was filled with warm loving. it's this warm thing that channels through me sometimes. deep compassion. the kind that knows no bounds and comes up from the earth and connects me to the heavens so that i am like a channel for goodness, traveling through from sky to earth, earth to sky. it is a great feeling of connectedness. it happens also sometimes when I pray and when i think about my niece and my nephew. i smiled. and engaged with her.

"something bit me," she said. "i think it was a moose fly." she showed me her wrist where a shocking amount of swelling was taking place, it was like a squishy blue golf ball had formed under her tissue-thin flesh just at the point where one would take her pulse.

"you need a poultish," I said--sometimes I still struggle with "s"s. (did i ever tell you about all the speech therapy I did as a kid?). she knew I meant "poultice," and i helped her to dig up some of the cool, wet mud on the shore. she placed it over her wrist, and held it there while she stood ankle deep in the water, leaning against the railways ties that formed a small wall at the edge of the water, and told me more about the bite.

i told her that ice and ibuprofen should help. and possibly a benadryl since it looked like she was having an allergic reaction. but i said if she'd been stung by a hornet, rather than bitten by a fly, then the poultice would really help to draw out the poison. i told her if it was a hornet, it would also itch very much in the coming days. i showed her where i had spotted a hornet's nest nearby when i was getting in the water. there were hornets crawling all over someone's towel and sandals.

"those are my things! " she said. "that's where i got bitten."

"I think you were stung," I said. "keep the poultice on it, put some ice on it, and take a benadryl and an advil if you like. it'll take a few days to feel better."

it's hard to explain the love and kindness i felt for her. and she was wonderful. i enjoyed talking with her and being there with her.

i offered her some advil, but she declined and said she'd go home instead.

i wished her luck and started to move away into the water, and she looked up at me and said, "are you a nurse?"

"No..." I said. I thought perhaps I ought to offer something more than that, some explanation for my knowledge or my reason for helping. But, I didn't really feel like explaining. So, I just left it at that. And I smiled.

i kind of wish i'd asked her why she picked me to talk to about her sting...there were so many people there, of all ages, mothers with children, men and women, all sorts of people. but she came straight over to me. and it was the right choice for both of us.

these things happen to me a lot. i generally don't tell anyone, unless there's a great anecdote associated, like the day I helped stop traffic for the ducks (did i tell you about that?) or the day i had diarrhea AND was late for my flight AND had locked the keys in the rental car AND the car rental woman had set her pants on fire AND I'd gotten in an accident with the rental car and totally stripped one of the side mirrors off the car AND I had Calvin and Norman with me and then the woman in the bathroom at SFO asked me to "help her find her hole." (which, I stopped and did, of course. the hole turned out to be a post-surgical drain in her back. eww.)

aside from those kinds of stories, there's something private and sort of spiritual about these moments. i feel connected to the right easy flow of the universe when i am called to love in this way. it's sort of like why people must give money anonymously. they give for the giving, not for the credit. i think it's why babies fall asleep in my arms. when i am near children, i often channel this calm, loving flow, that feels so good and soothing to them (and to me).

i share this with you now because i want to make a greater effort to focus on and verbalize the positive experiences in my days. and also because while it was happening, i was aware of you, and felt a connection to you in the moment. i think you wish for me a life that is full of that feeling--of love and loving, of smiling and goodness and inner calm. so i wanted you to know that, despite everything else, for a few minutes at the lake, i had that. and i appreciated it and loved it and returned to it now when i remembered and shared it with you.

i'm still struggling. there is lots more to say. but for now, let's leave it at this.

and, of course, another "thank you."

with love and appreciation and a fervent hope that your saturday work went quickly,

naomi

The Truth About Love: "Skunk Update and Roommate Stories"

2007-07-10T18:08:00.000-04:00

Good news! Seth (my roommate, pictured right with our little friend) and I successfully caught and removed the little skunk last night. It was very cute and calm and reasonable throughout the process. I think everyone involved was deeply relieved when it ran off into the night.

One of the things I like most about Seth is his ability to step up. The day he was supposed to move in, was the day Calvin died. He showed up and found me on the stairs in my pajamas attempting to process the news. Rather than move in that day, he gave me the day to be alone with Calvin and Norman and Dan. He gave me room to cope and cry and grieve and bury Calvin in privacy, even though he had every right to move in and had already paid his rent. It made all the difference in the world and was a tremendous act of caring for someone who was a relative stranger.

The next day, he showed up with flowers. Lilies and impatiens, "because," he said, "I know you like to garden. And girls like flowers." Those flowers became the ones that circle Calvin's headstone, and I was so grateful to have them. Planting them kept me busy that first day without Cal, and it was a great relief to have a purpose.

During Seth's first weekend here, I came home from my first date with Nathanael, very sick. He was on the couch and I walked in with this guy he'd never met and said, "I'm going to go throw up. Make sure he gets home." And he did. He drove him home.

And the next morning, when I called Seth from my room (on my home phone) to his room (on his cell phone), he got up out of bed, and went out to get me the only food I felt I could stomach: Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and Gatorade. He'd only gotten two hours of sleep, but he didn't tell me that until later. He just went out and got me what I needed.

The next weekend, I came home again with Nathanael, only this time I was on crutches having spent the evening in the emergency room. "I think you know the way," was all I said to Seth. We smiled at one another, and shook our heads, and he got up and drove Nathanael home again.

My knee injury was terrible. I was in pain. I was immobilized. A brutal heat wave hit. It was all just very discouraging. I was behind in my freelance work already because of moving and then my car dying and then Calvin dying...and I was applying for a job I really wanted, but it was impossible to sit at my desk. Whenever I did, my knee swelled up like a grapefruit, which was very uncomfortable and more than a little bit frightening.

So, I laid in bed with my leg up and tried to work from there. And Seth took care of me.

I tried to find others to help. I asked a few friends if they could come, but almost all of them had their own problems or prior commitments and couldn't (or wouldn't) come that first week, when I couldn't walk. But Seth, who had only known me for a few weeks, dropped everything and took care of me. He helped me up and down stairs. He brought me Tylenol and Advil and ice. He kept me company. And when I broke down in tears because I just felt so miserable and lonely and overwhelmed, he did the dishes and washed the floor because he knew it would make me feel less powerless and more okay if the house was clean. It was pretty wonderful, really.

Every day, he gets up, and he leaves the house so that I can work in peace and quiet. He is a Journeyman Ironworker and has been between placements during his time here, so he could just sit at home all day. But, he doesn't. He gets up and makes sure he's gone for the duration of my work day. He does this only because he knows I need it. It's incredibly selfless.

I was surprised when Seth didn't answer any of my phone calls yesterday about the skunk. I left him several messages but didn't hear anything back. He rolled in the door around 10pm and immediately smelled the skunk and saw the barricade i'd put up between the kitchen and the hall.

"What the deuce?" he said.

"Didn't you get my messages?!" I said.

He said he hadn't. His phone had died. So, he sat down and I explained about the skunk. He listened to all our options. The $400 professional removal. ("Fuck that," said Seth.) The possibility that the ACO would come back tomorrow with a trap. Or, we could do it ourselves.

"Can I kill it?" he said.

"Absolutely NOT," I said. "There will be no killing. NO killing. We are going to take care of this animal--no killing."

He smiled a smile made crooked by the lump of chewing tobacco nestled against his jaw.

"Let's go get it," he said.

There is something about Seth that makes him trustworthy. This was not the half-cocked, testosterone-induced notion of an irresponsible man. Seth is an Eagle Scout. He is pierced and tattooed and drinks like he's Irish (which, I think he is). He is also capable of handling just about anything. So, with complete confidence, I said, "yes." All of a sudden the idea of being face to face-or face to ass--with a skunk seemed totally reasonable. It was definitely what we should do.

Armed with an old blanket, a flashlight, and a whiffle ball bat, we located the beast. Well, Seth located the beast while I stood in the kitchen eating my dinner. But, once he'd found it, though, I was in. I went downstairs and together we worked like a well-oiled machine. It reminded me of something my brother and I would do together. My brother is a man like Seth is a man. He has a high tolerance for pain, a big love for his family, a wicked sense of humor, a desire to kill furry animals and occasionally torment me with stories about doing so, and the ability to fix just about anything.

With Seth at my side, I did not fear the skunk's perfume. Instead, I felt totally capable of solving the problem. It took us a while to move boxes out of the way, prod the little creature out of its hiding place, and wrap it in a blanket. But all along the way, we moved like a perfect duet, a daring duo. We could anticipate one another's moves and supply what was needed. The lifting of a box here, the shining of a light there, the application of the whiffle ball bat to prod the skunk in one direction or the other. It was a thing of beauty.

And, luckily, this time, he didn't have to drive anyone home when it was over. He just carried the skunk out to the yard, posed for some pictures, and set the little one free.

The Truth About Love: "At Least It's Not a Roach"

2007-07-09T17:56:00.000-04:00

Last night I went on a third date with a very nice guy from Northampton.

On our second date, I slipped on some paint that had been applied to the edges of the grass volleyball court we were playing on. I sprained my knee, got covered in sticky white acrylic paint, and had to go to the emergency room in an ambulance. I'm still not walking properly and am awaiting the results of my MRI. My hope is that it's a non-surgical diagnosis.

On our first date, I got food poisoning.

Nevertheless, last night, we attempted a third date. We went swimming. played cards on a blanket by the lake, then went into amherst for some dinner. When i made it through swimming without drowning, being attacked by eels, or stepping on a piece of glass, I thought I was home free.

But then, while standing at the intersection near Amherst Coffee...a bug flew in my ear. It was a big bug. A big, winged bug that smacked into my ear and then journeyed inside, deeper and deeper, flapping his wings and clawing at my ear canal with great futility.

In response, I also flapped my wings and clawed at my ear with a futility that, it turns out, equaled the bug's, while making animalistic wimper-screeches and jumping up and down. I wonder if, to the other pedestrians, there could have been any imaginable explanation for my behavior other than dangerous insanity.

I waited for an eternity for the light to change and then sprint-limped to the fire station where a teenaged-looking EMT was mostly just amused at my plight. he grinned, rather stupidly in my opinion, and said he couldn't see the bug, it was in too deep, and that he should take me to the ER in the ambulance to have it removed. another trip the the ER??? good gawd.

luckily, the night before--the very night before!--i was with a friend to whom this happened, so i knew just what to do. the nurse had told us to get some mineral oil, fill the ear, let it sit, and then tip it out.

so, i sprint-limped out of the ambulance, still whimper-screeching and flapping, stormed into CVS, with my date quietly trailing behind. I nearly panicked when i couldn't find the mineral oil.

"Go find it!!" I commanded my date.

And just then, I then found it, next to the laxatives and indigestion relief aids.

"I found it!" I screamed.

I sprint-limped back to the counter and asked the pack of tweenage girls lingering over their chewing gum choices if i could cut in front of them because i was "kind of having an emergency." they agreed, and my mineral oil purchase was, i suspect, aside from perhaps a late-night condom purchase or two, the most frantic transaction ever conducted at the downtown amherst CVS.

"Open this!" I told him, while a frightened cashier doled out my change.

I jammed the bills into my wallet, grabbed the mineral oil, and ran out the door--or tried to. Instead, I crashed into the too-slow automatic doors, which accordion INward, a design flaw one can only appreciate if one is in a panic and attempting to move OUTward.

I untangled myself from the doors, dashed down the concrete stairs, and laid down on the sidewalk. I put my head on the bottom step so that my date could pour mineral oil in my ear. We haven't kissed yet. We haven't even hugged yet, but there have been bed pans, IVs, ambulances, blood, crutches, and now this.

My date did what I asked. He dumped the mineral oil in my ear, but it made a big mess. my head, neck, and shoulders were fairly well soaked. so, i sent him for napkins, and while i lay there drenched in oil on the sidewalk in front of CVS, a homeless-seeming man wearing a colorful but crooked cape he had fashioned out of a pillow case and carrying a big bucket plunked himself down for a chat.

"how you doin?!" he said with great artificial cheer, as though he were a department store Santa Claus and I were a child his profession required him to charm. I was, of course, not a child in line for his lap, but rather a woman lying prone on the spit and gum-coated sidewalk with an ear full of mineral oil and a bug in its death throes in her ear canal.

Naturally, I ignored him and focused on the dying bug. But he would not be dissuaded.

"You doin' some yoga?," he asked.

"No," I said. "I have a bug in my ear."

"Ahhh," he said, as though I had requested a football signed by every member Patriots and their coaching staff instead of a talking Suzy Sweetness doll. He pondered my predicament for a moment, undeterred, and then offered, "My wife got a roach in her ear!"

I said nothing in response to this. He had done what a good conversationalist should do; he had found some common ground. But, lying there with one ear on the dirty concrete, the other filled with oil and an ever-more-slowly thrashing bug, I simply could not think of anything to say. The man ambled away, looking, I presume, for a better conversation partner or perhaps someone more willing to put something in his bucket.

As the drowning bug made its last thrusts inside my head, my date returned with a fresh roll of paper towels he had purchased inside the CVS, a place I was now beginning to think of as my sole source of salvation, its glowing red sign offering amnesty and escape from persecution in the form of air conditioning, mineral oil, fresh paper towels, concrete steps on which to rest my troubled head, and the sympathetic gum-shopping 12-year olds who stepped aside for me and then came by later to check on my progress and to tell me to "be well."

My date handed me a wad of paper towels and I sat up and tilted my head to the side, hoping ferociously that the bug would drain out along with all the oil. It hasn't yet. It's still in there. But as I sit here today, contemplating whether or not I should call my doctor, I am able to take some comfort in this thought: "at least it's not a roach."

Post Script: As I was writing this, I took a break to go downstairs and let in the furnace repairman. We discovered that the noise I heard in the basement last night was a skunk. Let's just say, we discovered this "the hard way."

I burnt my breakfast because animal control called me back while I was cooking.

Animal control came--and then left. He said he didn't want to ruin his clothes with the awful smell. He called again half an hour later to tell me he had a sore throat from the fumes. What could I say to him? "At least it's not a roach?" It turns out, that's not a universally comforting mantra.

He suggested I open the basement door and in the hope that the skunk finds its way out through my kitchen. He said I should lock the cat upstairs, barricade the four doors that lead off the kitchen, and leave the back door open. He suggested I sprinkle a 3x4 foot square of flour near the door so that I would know when the skunk had departed.

So, here I sit. Monday afternoon. Eating burnt eggs. Waaay behind in my work, with a bug in my ear and a skunk in my basement. My house reeks intensely of skunky funk. I'm sitting in the dining room in front of a very large fan, watching over my kitchen, a 3x4 foot square of flour my latest hope of salvation.

Update: As of 6:06 pm, the skunk is still enjoying the confines of the basement, despite my tempting open door policy. After acting as sentry over the area for much of the afternoon, I have a headache from the fumes and the heat. So, I have retreated to my office, where I have closed the door and turned on the A/C, which is a great comfort compared to the assaultive 90 degree heat and painful smell downstairs. The best news of all: I went to the doctor. They flushed my ear and out came an insect. A moth. A dead one. A rather sizable one. The doctor was so delighted, he actually high-fived me.

The Truth About Love: Calvin Graychase, 1994-2007

2007-06-30T23:53:00.001-04:00

On June 5th, 2007, Calvin Graychase, my stalwart and affectionate companion for the last twelve years and eleven months, suffered a severe and disturbing attack on his central nervous system. I rushed him to our wonderful vet, where, after several hours of testing and waiting, he was diagnosed with a form of acute onset cancer. His body was riddled with it. And there was no chance that he would survive.

His nose was bleeding, blood was also pooling behind his right eye, his limbs would not obey his commands, and yet he purred through every second of our visit to the vet. He purred through X-rays, needles, and a rectal thermometer. He purred through several tests that I can't remember the names of. He purred so loudly that the vet couldn't hear his heartbeat; she had to face him away from me and turn on the running water to quiet his purring enough for her to get a good listen.

This is who Calvin was. He was indomitable and loving, even to the end. He refused to acknowledge barriers to his desire. Not fences, not doors, not containers for food, and certainly not a physical malady.

When my friend Amanda, who used to be a vet tech, heard the news, she said, "He was was one of the coolest cats I ever met, and I have met a lot. He broke into my bag of food. I think it was candy."

When Peter, an emergency veterinarian, who loved, lived with, and cared for us in San Francisco, and who was Calvin and Norman's foster dad for six months when I first moved back east, heard the news, he called to express his sympathies. His most distinct memory of Calvin was how much trouble we had keeping him out of the fresh soil in our garden, which Calvin thought had been dug up expressly for him to poop and pee and roll around in. Why else could it be there?

To know Calvin was to know the battle to contain him--and to know that you would never win. His passion and determination to access what is sweet--freedom, affection, doughnuts, candy--was so formidable and so relentless that I never found anything that could detain him. Even on his last day on earth, I returned from a walk to discover that he had somehow, with lungs full of tumors and limbs that shouldn't have worked, climbed an entire flight of stairs AND climbed up into my bed--one of the places, of course, he was forbidden to go.

He spent his last hours on earth curled up there, in a shady spot near a sunbeam, sleeping and purring in the place he most desired to be, a space that belonged to me.

At 4pm on June 6th, I put on a beautiful dress, scooped him up, wrapped him in a towel, and held him in my arms while a dear friend drove us to our vet. I held him in my arms, while he looked at me and purred...until he was gone.

Letting go of Calvin was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I don't know where I found the strength to pick him up and take him away. He has been the one constant bit of goodness in my life since I graduated from college thirteen years ago. He was there with me in every home, through every up and down, every lover, every illness, every loss and triumph. He was my Little Bug. He was My Guy.
The size of my joy at having known him is the size of my grief at having said goodbye; it is tremendous.

When I told my ex-boyfriend, Jon, what was happening, he said, "Wow, the universe must be so excited to have Calvin's spirit return back into the folds of its fabric. It must be rejoicing."

And this has given me great comfort. Calvin's spirit was so bright and terrific. I do believe that the universe was joyful to welcome him back into its light. I got through the euthanasia by focusing on that spirit of rejoicing. I focused on the clear and distinct beauty of who he was. My love for him sustained me in the time when I needed it most.

Calvin's last meal was his favorite, tuna fish. His last night was spent curled up in his favorite chair and then in his favorite basket with Norman. His last day was spent in my lap and in my bed. It was clear that his light was dimming that day, but he did not suffer any of the terrible seizures he went through the day before. His last day was peaceful and full of love and as much comfort as could be possible for someone so sick.

Last Wednesday, I laid his body to rest in a beautiful spot where I can watch over him. He was blessed, treasured, and set free. His remains were sprinkled with catnip. Over his grave I have planted Forget-me-nots, lillies, impatiens, and roses, almost all of which were gifts from people who care for us.

I was going to suggest that if anyone wanted to do something to honor Calvin's memory, that they make a donation of time or money to their local animal shelter. But, then I realized: while that would be a good and lovely thing to do, the best way you could honor Calvin would be to do something aggressively self-loving today (and every day). Ignore the rules and barriers between you and what you desire. Break into a bag of candy. Demand that someone give you love. Now. Fearlessly indulge your urge to lie on your back with your legs splayed open and your chin in the air and soak up the sunshine. Learn to purr. Foster a feeling of being entitled to goodness and satisfaction in every moment of every day, no matter what. Ignore the word, "no," and insist that someone feed you your favorite food and hold you in their arms for hours. Nuzzle the people who love you. Do whatever satisfies you most, and Calvin's spirit will join you.

For photographs of Calvin, including his last day and his Memorial Garden (coming soon) go here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/graybird/sets/72157600029813103/

Thank you to everyone who ever cared for, lived with, fed, loved, and indulged Calvin (and me). We appreciate you all.

With love and a heart full of grief,

Naomi (and Norman)

Church Signs: "Coming Home"

2007-05-29T13:29:00.001-04:00

Last Tuesday was the 13^th anniversary of my graduation from college. I decided to mark the occasion by writing a letter to my closest friends, "coming out" as it were, about my struggles, and asking for their help in finding my way to a life that works.

I have been committed for most of these last thirteen years to hiding my flaws, covering up my mistakes, grinning madly through my misery, and pretending everything is okay. I'm quick to scribble in a silver-colored lining to every cloud, and then lie about its extraordinary virtues. This approach has left me feeling alienated, unprotected, misunderstood, and ashamed—because I am both a liar and a failure.

As part of the Year of Healing, I felt it was time to come clean. To admit to these women I love and respect—and who love and respect me—that I have had a great deal of trouble staying alive. That any happiness they may have perceived, any success, was either short-lived or a false front. I have been afraid to visit with them or talk to them or to keep in touch because I was in so much pain. I was afraid that they would see it.

I decided to write to them to accomplish several things. First, the wise, loving part of my psyche suggested that these are people who would love an opportunity to help, to be included; they are the kind of friends who wish you would turn to them when you need something. So, I wanted to give them that opportunity; I wanted to open the door and invite them into my real life in a meaningful way.

Second, I thought they might actually be able to help. Because sometimes it is hard for us to fully see ourselves, I thought that perhaps one of them would have a vision of me that could work. Perhaps one of them had heard of a program, a book, a workshop, a person, a place, a movie--something that they thought I should experience. Perhaps there is some job they have always thought I would be perfect for. It was an inkling—an intuition—I had, to put this out there to them. I wanted to know what associations they made between me and a life of happiness. What did they see in that picture? How did they connect the dots? I trusted that if I panned through their imaginations, a chunk of gold could emerge.

Writing the letter was satisfying at first. It felt beautiful. I was able to find my words—or they found me. It was good to be reminded that I love writing because I hate (so much) the writing I do for work; and I hate the feeling of not knowing how to direct my skills into a format that earns me a living wage and satisfies my desire for a sense of purpose. But as I got to the second half of the letter, where I was honest about the extent to which my life has been at risk these last thirteen years, it seemed like too much to lay on them.

My third purpose in being forthright with them was so that, if I lost my battle to survive, they would not be totally taken aback. I wanted them to have some sense that it was a possibility, that I'd barely made it so far and that at any moment, I could completely fall through the cracks. I thought that if they were blindsided, it would seem so much more painful and confusing; they might blame themselves and wonder what they could have done to help. The letter was a way of gently, subtly, letting them know the truth, so that if they lost me altogether, it wouldn't come out of the blue.

Once it was finished, I realized this was too much to lay on them. It was depressing and intense, and knowing that I had nearly died so many times these last thirteen years, would sink their ships. It would cause so much concern that instead of offering the twinkling light of connection between things that might work for me, they would call and e-mail with grave concern, and I would be left fielding these calls, instead of following the light they might shine into my future.

So, I revised the letter. I addressed it to my entire class. (As Alumnae Class President, I can write to them all.) Instead of confessing my struggles and bracing my friends for my departure, or asking them for help and guidance, I offered a message to my classmates, a message of respect, encouragement, and compassion. I told them what I had been hoping to hear for all these years. Somehow, by being willing to reach out to my friends, to confess my weaknesses and my problems, I had discovered the truth I had been seeking for myself. I had set off for Oz, but then discovered the answer was right here at home.

Don't get me wrong. I am still struggling: my rent is due this week and I barely have it. I need a roommate, but don't want one and can't find one. I hate my job and have hated it for about thirteen years, so the cumulative drag is substantial. My love-life is a non-starter. (Two weeks ago I told the guy I've been seeing once or twice a month for the last few months that I'd like to see more of him and he said no.)

Yesterday, three days after making a $500 repair to my truck, the driver's side door wouldn't close. It has rusted to the point that the latch has broken off, which I expect is a very expensive thing to fix, since it would require body work. Yesterday, I drove around town with one arm out the window holding my door shut. Since I drive a standard, the other hand was busy shifting and steering. To really make things fantastic, a few weeks ago, my windshield wipers started going crazy every time I turn on my blinker; and if I turn it to the left, the blinker won't turn off after I've completed my turn. I have to do it manually. The cost of fixing the blinker/wiper fiasco is $250. So, for the time being, I will be holding the door shut with my left arm, while I shift, steer, and turn the blinkers (and windshield wipers!) on and off with my right. It's a good thing I'm coordinated.

But, here's the silver lining, and I promise this isn't just me coloring one in so that I can pretend things are better than they are: it's funny.

I mean, instead of feeling freaked out and depressed and suicidal and hopeless and like the bullshit and bad luck will never end, yesterday, as I was driving down the road, broke and single, less than a month from turning 35, with no roommate prospects and uncertain if I'd be able to pay my rent, let alone buy some groceries or a ticket to the movies, my debt growing like a cancer, avoiding thoughts of the tedious, low-paying, work I'm behind on, holding in the door with my left arm, as I attempted to steer, shift, brake, clutch, and turn the wipers off all at once with my remaining appendages, I laughed. I mean, I genuinely laughed. Out loud.

What used to make it not funny was the feeling that it would never end, that this poverty and isolation is life-threatening and there's no way out; it was the feeling that I am alone in my failure. Sure, I started out from a harder place than most, but I went to Smith. I should have parlayed that into something more. There are people living in trailer parks with nothing better than a GED in better financial shape than I'm in. There are people with degrees from community colleges or mediocre state schools who drank their way through school and slept through half their classes with more fulfilling and financially gratifying careers than mine. I have felt like I blew it and that's devastating. I have felt like such a waste of skin and space and education and love. (No wonder I was suicidal.)

But, the process of writing that supportive letter to my class was a little cathartic. I felt more stable and comforted afterwards. It gave me some perspective and access to my own wise, capable parts. And then, on top of that, there was an unexpected influx of letters from my classmates. 443 women received that e-mail. And, so far, about 50 of them have written back, along with some of their parents and friends and friends of friends to whom they forwarded the letter.

They've written some gorgeous e-mails, expressed sentiments that gave me goosebumps, and made me smile or laugh or cry. I have been embraced, and they have embraced one another—and themselves. It turns out, there were a lot of women like me who felt their lives weren't measuring up. Women who were struggling and feeling a little (or a lot) lost and alone. And now, we all feel a little less so.

We all started Smith with a common sense of optimism, determination, and purpose; there is a unity, a solidarity, that we call "the Smith experience." As we have journeyed off on our own courses, we have become increasingly disconnected from that. On the 13^th anniversary of our commencement, I reached out and plugged us back in. I didn't have any ruby slippers, but I did have the keys on my keyboard. I clicked them together and said what I think is a modern translation of, "there's no place like home."

I said, "You are not alone." I said it to myself and I said it to them. And they returned the favor.

Below, you can read the original letter and some of the responses I received.

From: Naomi Graychase <graychase@gmail.com>
Date: May 23, 2007 2:00 PM
Subject: Happy Anniversary
To: Alumni <graychase@gmail.com>

My Dearest Classmates,

[I tried to send this note to you yesterday, but a glitch in the e-mail broadcast system prevented it from making it to you. C'est la vie.]

On this day, thirteen years ago, we stood in the blazing sun in black robes and white dresses (or pants suits) and sweated our knockers off while we waited to receive the hard-won diplomas of people who were not us. Then, when all the speeches were over and all the names had been called, we marched, dazedly, onto the grass in front of King and Scales, formed a spiraling circle, and passed our diplomas until we came up with our own.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The next day remains in the Top Ten All-Time Worst Days Ever for me. I hope it does for you, as well. That would mean that you still love and miss one another, and also that your life hasn't really been that bad since you stopped singing gaudeamus igitur twice a year and eating Fisherperson's Platter.

Spring has been cold and slow to come fully into herself this season in Northampton. Ivy Day was chilly and rainy. But nevertheless, last weekend, the town was swarmed with women in white, with name tags and tote bags, and the wistful, determined expressions of people who have returned to a place that will always be familiar and yet somehow never be the same, people who have journeyed through time (and airports) to invite their past to meet their future...people who are trying to find a way to squeeze in one more trip to Herrell's before they catch their shuttle back to Bradley.

I hope that these thirteen years have treated you well; that what you learned at Smith, whether it was to remain open-minded when encountering the unfamiliar--such as grapes paired with brown sugar and sour cream for dessert--or to speak up and think hard about what you believe in, has stayed with you and helped you through every victory and every loss.

We never read in the pages of the Alumnae Quarterly about the other kinds of successes in our lives, the brave and beautiful ways we get ourselves through the bankruptcies, miscarriages, divorces, lay-offs, betrayals, illnesses, and the other ugly struggles that come to all of us eventually. I think that's sort of a shame. I consider these things to be the true successes in life; the moments when we rise up amidst adversity and make brave choices and fight our way through. That's the stuff I really wish we were sharing--not that promotions and vacations and babies aren't fantastic; I love hearing about them. But I'd also love to know more about the creative, enlightened ways that each of you has managed to navigate what has been difficult in your lives. How you got sober or recovered when your business failed or found the courage to drop out of medical school and disappoint your parents or leave your spouse or care for your sick mother or whatever it is that you've done bravely these last thirteen years.

Since we don't currently have a forum for exchanging those stories and ideas, I want to take a moment here, on the 22nd of May, 2007, to pause and to acknowledge that for every one of us who has earned her PhD or published six books or married a dreamboat or landed her dream job or bought her dream home or given birth to brilliant children, there are a lot more of us who got a little lost along the way; who made difficult choices between career and family; who quietly left marriages that weren't working or jobs that weren't right; who lost children, or couldn't have them, or had children who were sick. Some of us fled our homes when Hurricane Katrina hit, some of us fled for other reasons, and some of us are still searching for something that really feels like home. Some of us are sick and some of us are nursing spouses or children or parents who are fighting illnesses they may not defeat. And the courage, intelligence, compassion, and strength that these things take are worth applauding.

I hope that all of you are thriving and happy and healthy, but for those of you who aren't--don't let the Quarterly (or anything else) fool you. You are not alone. Whether you are plagued by ambivalence or something easier to diagnose, there is someone among us who is struggling like you.

In the diploma circle it took more time for some of us to find what we had earned than it did for others. If you are feeling lost, I hope you will hang in there, stay on your feet and keep passing to the right (as it were), and yours will come eventually. And if you are one of the ones that have already found the metaphorical diploma with your name on it, I hope you are whooping with delight and throwing your cap up in the air tonight.

Happy Anniversary.
xxoo
Naomi
--
Naomi Graychase
Alumnae Class President, 1994

Sample Responses:

Dear Naomi,

I am profoundly moved by your anniversary message. Thank you so much
for finding a graceful way to honor the diverse (and often, as you point
out, unspoken) paths we've all taken.

I made a few false starts at Smith and made a few more in the years
following my time there - a Master's in a field that incurred a lot of
debt but few professional prospects; some years spent thinking that my
job experience wasn't sufficient to earn a decent living (so I settled
for being woefully underpaid); time spent doubting, doubting, doubting.

But here I now sit at 36, feeling respected at work, making progress
towards a much more interesting Master's degree, and being exceptionally
content in my family situation and surrounded by friends old and new. I
am reminded again by your message that much of what I learned implicitly
during my time at Smith - speaking my mind in personal relationships,
classroom settings, and conference rooms, being able to interact
respectfully with a diverse group of people - continues to matter a
great deal in how I move through my day-to-day life, and I am grateful
for those implicit lessons.

Most of all, though, as I make plans to travel to the commitment
ceremony of two Smith friends this summer, and as I catch up over email
and phone with other Smith friends, I am reminded of how exceptionally
fortunate I was to be surrounded by so many remarkable women during
those fleeting and confused years, and am secure awed and inspired by
them - and all of us - to this day, in our mistakes and our triumphs.

Warm regards,
Kelley Smith

Naomi,

Your email is spot on, and eerily relevant. I spent the weekend with a
group of Smithies, one of whose husband is battling advanced brain cancer.
She was suffering, she called upon us, and six of us flew in at two weeks
notice from various points around the country to be with her to talk, laugh,
cry, and drink a whole lot of wine. It is an ugly thing which she is
experiencing, but it was so beautiful to see how the Smith sisterhood is
helping to sustain her through her ordeal.

Thank you so much for this fresh take on the thirteen years behind us.

Warm regards,
Melissa (Merten) Belleville '94

Naomi,

I'd like to say thank you for your anniversary wishes. I had two friends email your message to me at work before I even had a chance to find it in my own private email. I guess you could say it spread like wildfire. As I wrote to my friends after I read your words, "I felt a whole hell of a lot closer to the sisterhood of Smith in that moment than I have in a long time. I felt supported and part of a whole...not like I'm out here floundering on my own." I, in fact, cried - in that good, cathartic way. I am blessed with a wonderful life, but still have times of ambivalence, where I think I ought to be more. That perhaps I should be living up to the reputation of Smith. You remind me that I have. In every choice and decision I make (to leave a job, take on debt, leave a relationship), I act as a product of that wonderful environment. I am independent, intelligent, compassionate, and strong (whether I feel it or not). I am right where I should be, right where many of us are. It feels great to be reminded that I am part of a larger whole. That the sort of women Smith produces are exactly like me. I will keep making choices and may even pass to the right on some things until I find exactly what it is I'm looking for. I have no doubts my ribbon-wrapped diploma will arrive. So thank you for your anniversary wishes, I wish you double of the same!

Best regards,

Marcella Davis

Church Signs: "Ready to Go Home"

2007-04-16T23:29:00.000-04:00

I suffer from chronic pain on the right side of my body. The pain is mostly localized in one nickel-sized spot in the interior of my right knee and one half-dollar-sized spot my buttocks (in the center of my piriformis), although I also have pain in my inner thigh, under my right shoulder blade, and on my forearm, near my elbow. The upper body spots are explained by repetitive stress, I think; the others have been with me so long, it's hard to remember when they began.

Over the years, I've tried acupuncture, physical therapy, surgery, yoga, various types of exercise, special (expensive) types of shoes, orthotics, chiropractic care, stretching, anti-inflammatories, homeopathic remedies, and other alternative remedies. I have consulted with podiatrists, orthopedists, general practitioners, physical therapists, massage therapists, energy workers, acupuncturists, osteopaths, friends, relatives, books, psychotherapists, psychiatrists, and more. Nothing has worked. Not meditation. Not exercise. Not changes in diet. Not Tylenol, Advil, or Motrin. Not percoset, darvocet, codeine, or vicodin.

The severity of the pain varies from week to week, but it never goes away. Never. The most uncomfortable things for me to do are sitting and lying down. It's maddening that I cannot lie on my back and read a book or sit and watch a movie. I can't work without squirming. And I haven't been on an airplane in several years because it's just too painful to endure. These limitations severely impact my quality of life because it limits my access to fun, travel, entertainment, and most essentially, rest. My nervous system is always on alert and this affects my sleep, my mood, my digestion, and my anxiety. During the Year of Healing, I have redoubled my efforts to find a solution. I am determined to find a cure for this pain. I want to live in a body that is pain-free.

Part of the problem is that there appears to be no explanation for the pain. Nothing is visible on x-rays or in MRIs or in blood tests. No answer is revealed in a chiropractic exam or other physical examination. Yes, one leg is slightly longer than the other—but that's true for most people, and my orthotics correct it. Yes, my sacrum is out of alignment and one hip is much tighter than the other, but even with regular chiropractic adjustments, an ergonomic work station, frequent stretching, physical therapy, etc., the pain is not relieved.

When I was three, my right femur, the strongest bone in the human body, was snapped and I spent several months in traction and in a body cast. It's possible that the experience caused a slight misalignment that no one can quite locate in their tests. Or it's possible that the trauma of that event is stored in my body and continues to trigger my pain sensors, even though the cast is long gone and the emergency ended three decades ago.

For the past eight months, I have been receiving regular physical therapy and chiropractic care. This work was complemented by occasional massages and regular (weekly, then monthly, now occasional) energy work. I also began taking yoga twice a week and seeing a very expensive homeopath who specializes in Bach Flower Remedies once a month. A few months ago, I also started working with a therapist who practices psychosynthesis.

My pain has diminished significantly through this work and I have met some gifted healers. I am better than I was when I began this leg of the journey toward wellness, but I am still not well. There is still pain in my body, 24x7. I cannot relax completely. I am not free.

On Thursday, after my regular anusara yoga class, I had a private lesson with my teacher, Amy. In our classes lately, she has been teaching us about the principle "vasudeva," which is the act of making a home for yourself in your body. I like this idea. I like the idea of building strong walls and a solid foundation. I love the idea of incorporating fresh air and nourishment and love in my home. I love conceptualizing my body as a home for me to dwell in, to expand into, or be wrapped up in.

The private lesson was very intense. The principle of alignment that she was teaching me was mind-blowing to experience. I thought that I was taking my yoga to a near-peak level in class, but in this lesson, I realized that I was only about two steps up the mountain. It is magical and liberating to discover how much more power one can manifest in one's own body. I shook and sweated and filled my lungs with breath that I had to work hard at remembering to exhale. (One of the great gifts of yoga is the discovery that your breath can guide you through almost anything.)

At one point, I began to feel weak and frustrated. What she was asking of me was so difficult, so complicated and unfamiliar. It was confusing and challenging and required that I operate and engage muscles that I didn't even know existed in my feet and legs. My teacher saw this dip as it was happening inside me. She saw the light in me dimming, and she coached me through it by calling on the power of my desire to be free from pain. All along I have felt diminished and trapped by my pain; but Amy spoke directly to the part of my spirit that is fighting so hard to be free. Rather than focus on the walls, she drew my focus to the part of me that can climb them, the part of me that can be earthbound and still look intently skyward. I felt that part of me rally and burst forward. I felt a surge of strength unlike almost anything I've ever felt before. I could have lifted cars. I could have leapt over mountains. I arrived fully in my asana (my pose) and she cheered for me.

"Yes! Yes, Naomi!" she said. And it was amazing.

At the end of our session, Amy asked me to sit cross-legged on a folded blanket (to protect and support my lower back). She invited me to close my eyes and fold my palms in prayer position in front of my heart. And then she spoke of things that touched my soul profoundly. I don't know how she knew just what to say, but her words made me feel seen by her, and known, as though the walls of my home were invisible to her, and she could look tenderly in and know what wounds lay there, what aches and disappointments.

She said that for most of us, we have no idea what home should feel like. We are not familiar with home as a totally safe, totally protective, self-affirming place. As we practice vasudeva, we struggle to build a home that offers us that safety. We struggle to understand what that feels like, to create it and get comfortable moving around in it. She affirmed that our home can be so strong that all of our emotions can be safe there. That whatever trauma or fear or emergency might be stored in our bodies, our home can be a safe place to let that loose. Our homes can be strong enough to handle it.

We closed our practice by saluting the divinity within ourselves and within each other by exchanging the greeting, "namaste." I opened my eyes and looked into hers and I said, "thank you." When I said those words, I gathered up everything of value in my partially constructed home and I offered it to her, in gratitude.

I felt myself tip over on the inside, and I began to cry. Big shuddering waves from deep inside. My teacher had offered me this class free of charge because she saw how much I struggled and knew that she could help. She accompanied me on this difficult journey through fear and pain and over the crest, fully into the experience, where I could breathe and delight in my body and its power. She introduced me to the strength contained in my longing. She showed me how beautiful this desire truly is, and how to access it as joy instead of frustration, as limitless supply rather than as limit.

I wept and her bright eyes glistened as she supported me and took me in. Even though I wanted to just let myself give in to it, even though being with Amy is a safe space, I held back my emotions and I smiled. I smiled apologetically, self-deprocatingly, sympathetically.

"I smile through my tears," I said, laughing to break the tension, "because I don't want anyone to feel bad. It used to confuse my Reiki healer because he would press on something and it would hurt me, but I would grin at him and say, 'That hurts.' I didn't realize I was doing it until he finally said that I was sending him mixed messages. He had to directly point out to me that smiling and pain are incongruous."

We laughed together because she knew what I meant, and because I said it in a way that was meant to be funny. She knew how it is to feel that you must keep your pain from bothering anyone else. She said that as a child, she had to be the grown-up, and I nodded, because I knew what that was like.

"It's funny," I said. "One truth about human experience is that the very things we did to keep ourselves alive as children eventually become the things that keep us from living fully as adults. We did brave and necessary things as kids to adapt and to survive. But as adults, we reach a point where those same coping skills become destructive."

The ability to smile through problems, to not bother anyone, it served me when I was little. It was necessary. But now, I need to learn that I have a right to my feelings. I need to learn how to say, "I'm sad," and not also smile.

Today, I was sad. I was very, very, very sad. When I arrived at therapy and my therapist said, "How are you?" I said, "I'm sad," and I started to cry. I tried hard not to smile, but I couldn't stop it.

I told my therapist, Pru, the story about Amy and vasudeva and making a home in my soul. I told her about crying with Amy and how I couldn't do it without smiling. I've been working on authenticity in my therapy. I am learning how to give myself permission to be angry when I'm violated; sad when I'm hurt; frightened when I'm afraid. It was a victory to answer that standard question ("how are you?") with an honest answer: "I'm sad."

Halfway through therapy, I was still crying and my therapist—who is my wise and loving teacher—let me know that, at that moment, she could see that I was sad. My inside self and my outside self were matched up, and this is authenticity, this is my goal.

Of course, once she pointed it out, I started smiling again, because I felt self-conscious, but for a moment, I had a taste of what it was like to be sad and to look sad; to not spend any of my energy creating a diversion or worrying about how my sadness will affect others or pretending it's not really true or running away from it. It felt good—even though I was in pain, the authenticity felt good. Telling the truth is almost always a relief, even when the truth is hard.

My original home was not a safe place to be; it was not a safe place to have my feelings or my needs; it was not a good place to be alive. But the home I am building now, through vasudeva, through work with Amy and with Pru, is good for me. This home is strong. In this home, I can be who I really am. I can be ugly and sad and frightened and broken. There is room for all of that-- not just room, but loving acceptance. My home is strong enough to hold the deepest rage and the brightest joy. It can withstand anything I bring and never fall down. Whatever emotion might be behind the pain in my leg, I am building a home where it can be welcomed and given everything it needs. In my home, there is an infinite supply of love (sri). I am extending an invitation to my pain and every emotion that sustains it. I hope that soon, it will be ready to go home.

What are Church Signs?

2007-03-28T23:51:00.001-04:00

Last fall, I moved to a new apartment. On my way home, I now pass a church, which posts what I presume is a new sermon topic on a sign at the end of its driveway each week. The topics have often struck me as odd. Recently, for instance, the topic was "Wedding Wonders." Not being Christian, I don't have much experience with sermons, the bible, or church, in general. But, the topics sort of intrigue me.

Church Signs is a series of essays based on the weekly topics at the church. I've given myself 50 minutes to write each one, and then 50 minutes to edit and post it. It's just a writing exercise--I don't know if they'll be any good. But we'll see what happens, won't we?

Church Signs: Guest Rant

2007-03-19T13:01:00.001-04:00

This week, it's my pleasure to present a guest rant from my favorite blogger, Jon Reed.

Church Signs: "Home Is Where the Manna Stops"

When a church puts up as message like "Home is Where the Manna Stops," I have to tip my pagan cap. It's about time that someone acknowledged it: for many of us, that tasty (and miraculous) holy bread did not make it inside the front door. I'm used to getting the Lord shoved down my throat. But this thoughtful congregation recognizes that for many of us, home was not about Manna; home was about Wonder Bread and making people feel a little smaller so they wouldn't forget where they came from and to whom they could attribute their self-loathing. Home was not so much a holy place as a place to be impregnated with our family's failures and prejudices, a chance to learn firsthand about alcoholism and drug addiction, workaholic neglect, and subtler forms of emotional manipulation that are as much a part of our existential challenge as anything we must overcome after we leave our homes in search of that sweet Manna, chasing after that childhood scent which lingered outside our doors, giving us Godly solace while we hugged our pets close and dreamed of better days. No, we didn't necessarily get cigarettes stamped on our palms like Bender of the Breakfast Club, but we didn't bake miraculous bread in our kitchens either. As for my family, we had stale whole wheat, good intentions and some Silly Putty. It would be nice to say we all turned out okay, but unfortunately there wasn't enough Manna to go around and not all of us did. Still, it's comforting to know I can walk right into that church and grab a slice. I like knowing there's at least one Christian institution that won't insist on the holiness of what went on inside my home. And to think that all this time, I thought we were wounded people doing the best we could! As it turns out, we just had the wrong bread.

Church Signs: "Grace: The Home God Makes"

2007-03-19T12:56:00.001-04:00

Seven months ago, I made a commitment to myself and to the universe that I would embark upon a Year of Healing. I would make my own wellness the only priority in my life. I would pursue health on all fronts, spare no expense, accept no excuse, and follow all leads for one entire year.

Early on in the Year of Healing, I found my way to a twice-weekly yoga class taught at my alma mater. As an alumna, for a small flat fee, I have access to an unlimited number of classes. Despite being weak and sick and frequently overwhelmed, I made a promise to myself that I would be unswerving in my devotion to these classes-—and I was. I never missed a one-—and toward the end of the first semester, I even added a third weekly class.

In the beginning, I hated my teacher. I hated the poses. I hated the room that we practiced in. I hated everyone around me. I was angry at my limits, at my pain and discomfort. I was angry at my breath. I was filled in those first few classes with a white hot fury that made me want to kill my teacher for asking me to do these things that were impossible to do. I was confused, and I raged against my incomprehension, my lack of coordination, at all the impossible details she rattled off to us at once. I despised her for talking us through our poses instead of showing us the way. I needed to see the poses to get them; what kind of stupid yoga teacher just walks through the room issuing instructions like "press into your ridge tops" and "stretch out through your bones?" She should be showing us what to do.

The year before, I had tried to take a pilates class, but I got so angry at the teacher, I actually yelled at her and stormed out of the room. I know…it's so embarrassing in retrospect, but I share this with you so that you will understand how all-encompassing, how tsunami-like, was my rage. It swept all before it, destroying villages, with me scowling and red-faced atop its frothy crest.

Last September, I tried again. This time, it was not pilates but a crowded yoga class in a dreary space with very little natural light, dank industrial carpets, and a tiny little curly-haired teacher named Amy who was so perky it was hard not to hate her on sight.

I had tried other forms of yoga before: Bikram, Iyengar, Hatha, Ashtanga. But none of them really worked for me. It was a chore to do. Repeating sun salutations was so tedious. And in the case of Bikram, I passed out or nearly passed out in every class. I just couldn't take the intensity of the work in that heat.

Amy's class, I soon learned, was a relatively new branch of Hatha yoga, called "Anusara." And on that first day, our chipper little teacher talked to us about how we could bring our hearts into the practice. She told us that whatever we bring to the practice is beautiful, and that we should go with it. Fear, fatigue, stress, excitement—whatever we had was real, it was part of our practice, part of us, so it was beautiful.

Somehow, amidst the down-dogging and the conscious breathing and the dizziness and the strain, I understood this. Some deep and good part of myself, a part that often sees the good in others and makes kind and sensible decisions, took in this knowledge fully. So when my anger rose up that first day and threatened a full-out revolt, this other part of me sent a message: it smiled. It offered warmth and good humor and most importantly of all, acceptance.

"If what I have here today is anger, then what I have here today is anger," it said. It gave my anger room. It gave my anger tolerance. It loved my anger and didn't try to change its mind, and together we made it all the way through that first class without yelling or storming at anybody.

In the next session, Amy again reminded us that whatever we brought to the practice was worthy. That everything about us was honored in this space. That we could expand our breath—our life—into whatever we were feeling. And I discovered that while my anger was a storm, I was not the storm. I could witness the tsunami, and be there with it, and genuinely love it for all its crazy destructive power, but it didn't have to toss me about in the mayhem of its waves. I discovered that I could have a feeling—an intense feeling--without being consumed by it. I was me and the anger was just one beautiful part of me.

During the third week of classes, we were doing balancing poses that are very difficult to hold; it's easy to lose your balance and fall over, or to have hips too tight to open all the way. In other words, it's easy for someone like me to feel frustrated and like they are failing when they are doing balancing poses. But the funniest thing happened--as I was trying to maintain strength in the one leg I had planted on the ground, and open my hip, and keep my foot up, and turn my inner thigh inward and my upper palette upward and the million other things I was instructed to do as part of the pose—without falling over--I suddenly noticed I was smiling. Not even just smiling, I was giggling—I was having fun. I felt connected to a joyfulness that came up from the ground and partied around in my insides and then rose on up through my crown. It was beautiful—and it was fun. The imperfection of my pose was part of what made it glorious. I wasn't trapped in a rigid expectation of right and wrong; I was free to play around with my body and enjoy the attempt. I started to understand what Amy meant when she said we could "rock out" in a pose.

Towards the end of the first semester, I was still struggling with a deep and pervasive emotional pain and depression. I felt an intense loneliness that nothing I did seemed to cure. One day, around the holidays, Amy spoke of how she often used to feel incredibly lonely, especially around her family, but that through yoga, she has found a joy that fills her up. It completes her. After class, I asked her…how did you do that? How did you find that feeling?

And she shared with me that she had had some very painful, very hard times. I could sense the intensity of her struggle, the weight of what she had carried. And she said that through a lot of therapy, a lot of difficult work, and yoga, she had found a way through, a way to be fully in herself and be joyful.

She said that in yoga, there is a concept, an idea, that when one feels this way—this loneliness and agony--it is because there is dirt on the mirror of one's soul. That our true state of being is one of loving and light, but that when we look in a mirror that is cloudy, we cannot see how beautiful and loved we truly are, and this causes us to feel despair.

It spoke to me, this metaphor, this idea that my true self is beautiful and never alone, always loved and loving because I am, at my center, love and light. That the problem is not with my reality, my state of being, it is with my perception of my reality. I went home and I began to practice gently cleaning my mirror. I could picture it vividly, covered with mud, so I held a hose up to it, one that was full of the cleanest, purest water in the world, and I let it gently run down the face of the mirror until it was clear and shining.

At first, I could only focus on the mirror itself, on doing the work of cleaning it. It was too much to try to look into the mirror and see a true reflection of myself. It was too beautiful to look upon, and I wasn't ready. But in time, my loving care for that mirror brought me to a place where I felt ready to see what it could show. I looked into the mirror and I gazed upon a sight that warmed me through and through. It was a never ending cycle of loved and loving, loving and loved. It was the most beautiful, everlasting light that could ever be seen.

Since then, I have only rarely felt lonely; I can barely recall what it is like. I am kept in good company even when I am only with myself (which is almost all of the time).

I still take my Anusara classes with Amy twice a week. Sometimes I still burn with anger, especially when she asks me to do a pose I cannot do because of the strange and chronic pain in my knee and other places, and I still try to welcome that feeling and love it and let it be. And I often feel an irrepressible joy shining out of me and up through my fingertips, especially when we do triangle pose or warrior pose.

The Year of Healing has one basic goal: to learn to fill my own cup. I am learning to tap into my own source. From this place, all other healing—all good living—is possible; it is how I can access my strength, my power, my grace.

In my life, I have attracted a stunning number of people who were not really able to give. I have lived in what has felt like a constant state of deprivation. Recently, it was suggested to me that this is because people who are not comfortable receiving, attract people who are not comfortable giving. So, I am making a clear and intentional effort to open myself up to receiving gifts of all kinds, with grace. It is, I am finding, as awkward for me as those first standing poses or my earliest downward facing dog. But I have said out loud to the universe that I am committed to learning how this is done, and I am a woman of my word. I have opened myself up to grace.

Since then, among other things, this is what has come:

"Hi, Naomi, I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying this delicious foggy morning. I am writing because last night I wanted to extend to you the offer of a free private yoga lesson, but you left before I could catch up with you. I feel confident that a private lesson will allow me and you to tune into your body in a more focused way and better understand how to use the Principles of Alignment to at least work with, if not alleviate your pain. If you feel uncomfortable with the offer of a free lesson we can discuss trade or reduced payment.

What I really want is for you to feel empowered by the yoga, not diminished and frustrated by it. Of course I also think that the latter feelings have their appropriate place and should be honored in their own time.

Also, just in case you couldn't feel it (but I bet you could) your body/asana looked totally different last night, you looked stronger, and more vibrant, like you were holding more energy. I hope you could feel the difference, because I definitely saw it, inside & out.

Blessings,
A"

I am hoping that she won't mind that I have posted her letter to me here. I wept just now, again, as I read it. I have accepted Amy's offer. I have welcomed the generosity of her gift.

Grace is the home God makes. And I am moving in.

Church Signs: "Home is Feeling Safe"

2007-03-17T17:28:00.000-04:00

Church Signs: "Home Is Feeling Safe"

I'm looking for a new home. A better home. The right home.

My dream is to own my own home. Figuring out how to push or pull that into reality is taking some time. In the meantime, short of some sudden, magic windfall, I'll continue to be a renter.

At my last place, I did not feel happy. I did not feel safe. My landlord was scary and yelled at me. The rent was a stretch. The apartment itself was assaultive. Blasting me with heat in the summer; freezing me out in winter. Something was always leaking or rotting or breaking.

It sounded great on paper—spacious 2BR with fireplace, lots of storage, laundry, hardwood floors, garage, dishwasher, gas stove, and sun porch—but in reality, it was a nightmare. Pipes bursting. Mold and dust and spiders everywhere. One month, I gently removed and relocated more than 80 spiders, but it barely made a dent. Their webs were everywhere. They collected dust and cat hair constantly making the baseboards and undersides of all the furniture in the house seem like it was covered with dirty fringe. It never felt clean no matter how many times I swept it, or how many spiders I removed.

And those were just the small problems.

After three years, I finally moved. It took a great deal of oomph to pick up and relocate. I gave up the fireplace, the three extra rooms, the laundry, the garage, the garden, the basketball hoop, my great neighbors, and a great location. I also gave up my hope that I would meet the person of my dreams and we would make the perfect home there together. It was time to create some change. It was time to move…to co-housing.

In case you're not familiar with it, co-housing is a concept that originated in Denmark. It is a form of intentional community where a group of people own their own homes, but share land and common facilities together.

I am single. I live alone and work from home. I am isolated. I moved to co-housing, in part because the apartment was clean and small and beautiful, in part because the landlord was wonderful, and in part because I thought I would find friends here. I thought I was headed for a quieter environment and a fuller, richer life in all regards. What I got was something my friend Russell calls "The Death Camp of Tolerance." I call it "The Gulag," "The Compound," or sometimes just…home.

A few weeks after I moved in, I was invited to meet with the Welcoming Committee. I ran in the pouring rain to a home in the Lower Pod, to meet with two retirement-age women, one of whom is the current president of the board of trustees of the community. One was very friendly; one was very not.

I expected muffins and get-to-know you conversation. But, the meeting consisted of their insisting that I read through the community bylaws. They also tried to bully me into committing to work assignments with specific committees, something I managed to avoid doing, partly out of naiveté--I didn't realize until later that they weren't just aggressively interested in my interests, they were trying to get me to commit to work details.

I assured them that I'd already read the bylaws (twice), but they thought it would be a good idea for me to do it again--while they watched. So, I did. And, I noticed that in this version, an unpaid work requirement of six hours per month was included, something that was not indicated in my lease or the version of the bylaws that I read and consented to when I joined. I also noticed that smoking was prohibited in the common areas of the community.

I pointed out the discrepancy with the work hours and was disturbed to discover that--at least according to them--the six hour expectation was mandatory, even for renters. I also asked about the smoking rule.

"I have several friends who smoke," I said. "I love them very much, and want them to feel comfortable when they visit. Could you tell me if there's a designated smoking area, or someplace where they can smoke?"

From her perch in an overstuffed chair across the room, the president of the board of trustees paused and looked at me with disdain before responding, "Most people do that sort of thing in their own homes."

"Oh," I said, very perky, flashing my kill-em-with-kindness-smile. "I'm afraid I can't do that. It's forbidden in my lease. My friends are very important to me. Could you tell me where in the community I might be able to take them for a smoke?"

Another pause, a nose wrinkled in disgust. "You have friends who smoke?…What a shame."

A couple of months later, I was loading my car up for my annual trip home to Maine for Christmas. I was sick and overwhelmed and under a lot of pressure to get out the door. I pulled my car into the community, something we are allowed to do if we meet one of 14 exceptions to the "no cars" rule. On that particular day, I met four of those exceptions.

Nevertheless, someone left an anonymous note on my car. And then, while I was walking out to the car, arms full of stuff, an old geezer accosted me, saying, "We don't allow cars in the community." Big emphasis on "we," as though my rent and my residency don't qualify me as one of them.

I snapped at him. I told him I had every right to pull my car in when I was loading and unloading. I hated that man--what the hell? He's my next door neighbor and never even bothered to introduce himself.

Later, he told my landlord about it. I think she must have spoken in my defense because he eventually approached me and apologized, very sincerely, for not having introduced himself. "I thought you were an outsider," he said by way of explanation.

Outsiders. That's what they call people who don't live here. As in, "Something is also needed near the Common House - outsiders seem to think the path is just a continuation of the road."* (The "something," by the way, has been a rock or a log or a safety cone. Not a sign, like they have at the community next door that indicates "pedestrians only, please." How passive-aggressive is it to place a log along the side of a road so as to make it difficult for a car to pass over it rather than just putting up a sign?)

Whatever. My apartment is cozy and clean. My landlords are wonderful. But co-housing is for the birds. Their latest dictum is that renters shall be required to do between 6-15 hours of unpaid labor in the form of upkeep and enhancement of the property for the community each month, including a monthly three hour Saturday afternoon meeting where agenda items generally include discussions of treehouse building, architectural issues, or parenting groups—three things I don't care a whit about. (I, by the way, am the only renter in the 25-household community with her own apartment. The three other renters rent rooms in other people's houses.) It's like they're creating some sort of fiefdom, where I pay above market rate to live in their midst and then also work their land for free.

They also turn all the lights out at midnight--to save pennies, I suppose. As a single girl is wont to do, when I come home late at least once a week, I enter a world that is pitch black. We live in the woods. There is no light at night other than what we create or what the moon might offer. I keep a headlamp and a flashlight in my car. For guests, I have often had to come out and rescue them as I forgot to mention that they'd be navigating blind if they didn't have their own light source. The sidewalks rarely get shoveled or sanded, too, so it's like a freaking death trap here in winter. You'd think with all those work hours being required someone would be able to take care of it…but perhaps they're too busy moving logs into the path to block ousiders...

Apart from the horrors of co-housing—the rude people, the unethical and I suspect illegal work obligations, the bad food and forced handholding and singing at common meals, the deadly sidewalks that become glare ice at night—there is the noise. The community itself is quiet. Creepily so. But my apartment is not. I hear every footstep, every beep from the microwave, every conversation, every thing from upstairs. It's driving me crazy.

I spent most of the first two months in tears, gripping my ears and rocking back and forth as the thud-thud-thudding destroyed my peace and quiet. I hardly slept. I couldn't work nearly enough. I mustered up my courage and complained.

My landlords were responsive. They gave me an expensive Hammacher Schlemmer sound machine. They run a white noise machine in their house. They walk in stocking feet. They make the kids play upstairs. They tiptoe. They installed special sound dampening curtains in the stairwell between our places and carpets on the floors. It got slightly better, but still…it's unlivable.

Bless her heart and grace be true, when I met with her about it earlier this month, my landlord agreed to either let me out of my lease, or to put in a whole new soundproofed ceiling.

I gave co-housing a shot. I even went to one more common meal, but it just isn't my bag. The new age hierarchy and can take their managed community and live it however they please; I'd rather be an outsider. I want to be someplace where people are interested in making friends, not rules.

So, I've begun my search. I check Craig's List constantly. I've looked at dumpy one-bedrooms in Northampton and an unusual three bedroom in Easthampton. I've perused the "Roommates Wanted" section in the hope of finding something just right.

Last week, I also looked at a 3BR duplex in Easthampton, a real fixer-upper. It's not in Northampton. It has a funny smell. The walls are covered in weird linoleum and so are the floors. Two of the bedrooms are teeny tiny. But I love the way it feels there. I love the landlords, a young couple who just bought the place and live next door. I love the little yard. And even though the view from my office will be no longer be of the forest and the neat co-housing houses--it will be, instead, of the pile of tires in the neighbor's backyard--I think it will feel good there. Even though the ceilings are sagging and the microwave and part of the kitchen ceiling are covered in grease; even though the tub is miniature and the dining room carpet is gross, there's just something about this apartment that I love.

If my references check out—and they will—it's mine if I want it. I'd need to get a roommate. I'd need to cover some pretty hefty move-in costs. I looked at another place today that was larger and prettier and might even include an above ground pool, but I didn't feel safe there. I feel a sense of warmth and safety in the fixer-upper on Hampton Terrace. It's not a rational choice—and it's confusing and tough to know for sure what to do—but as soon as I saw it, I began to beam.

I love that there are stairs. I love the crazy chandelier in the dining room. I love that it's only 7 minutes to Northampton. And I really love the landlords who live next door. I also love that if I can find the right roommate, I'll finally be able to afford my rent with ease, and that is the thing I really want most of all. That is the real source of my sense of safety. After all these years of just barely making it, I'd love to relax into a feeling of quiet and safety and joy in my home.

*taken from an actual e-mail sent by an "insider" to the community's e-mail list, regarding cars driving into the community

Church Signs: "Welcome Home"

2007-03-10T19:06:00.000-05:00

Church Signs: "Welcome Home"

Last week, I met with a former professor of mine from college. He was my major advisor, my favorite professor, and chair of his department for an unprecedented period of time—about a decade longer than is expected. He is gentle, brilliant, accomplished, and beloved by students past and present.

I have always felt respected and appreciated by him, partly because I felt it in his manner, and partly because I knew I'd earned it. I won a very competitive academic prize in the field of my major my junior year; I graduated with Latin honors; I made the dean's list every semester after my first year. I was passionate, dogged, and enthusiastic as a student.

He demonstrated his approval of me in many ways. There were good grades and recommendations, of course. And then, when a few students were selected from our department by this professor to dine with important visitors, I was among them. When the department re-designed its Web site, I was among a handful of alumnae chosen to represent the major. When I needed a place to live in the summer between my sophomore and junior years, he let me stay (for free) in a small apartment in the basement of his home while he and his family were away. Several years ago, when a teaching position opened up in his department—one class, a senior writing seminar—he asked me to apply, even though I was definitely under-qualified.

I have always felt that he considered me to be special and this has meant a great deal to me. It has helped me to push my limits, to maintain confidence in any setting requiring a formidable intellect, and to walk in the world feeling accomplished.

When I was an undergrad, he didn't know what I had come from; but when I applied for the teaching position, I gave him a portion of my manuscript to read, and he discovered the truth of my impoverished rural upbringing. Later, he visited my hometown and told me, "I can't believe you come from here."

My professor and I met up for tea last week at the student center. It had been a few years since we last saw each other and he asked me how things were. I told him I was good, still writing.

He asked if I made enough money. I answered honestly. I told him, "No."

He asked what happened to law school. (A few years ago when I was applying, he had written me a recommendation.) I answered honestly. I told him that I got in to my first choice, UC Davis, a tier one school, but that for a variety of reasons, it didn’t work out. For starters, I couldn't afford it. Two digits of my social security number were transposed on my application for financial aid, and I found myself thrown into a bureaucratic nightmare as I attempted to prove that I was, in fact, an American citizen who qualified for aid. I also lost my in-state residency in California by voting in Northampton. My bank accounts, permanent address, car registration, and worldly belongings were in San Francisco, but I voted in Northampton since I happened to be there during an election, and the State of California considered this to be a relinquishment of my right to claim residency in its state. Although, I still had to pay California income tax…

I didn't mention that I was also carrying a monstrous debt load, and that there was no way for me to pay for law school and meet my living expenses when you factored in the credit card and student loan bills I was paying.

I also told him that, at the time, I felt I had to choose between law and art; I chose art. I wrote a book. I founded a nonprofit organization and obtained 501(c)3 status for it. I began writing and performing poetry.

He asked me if I had an agent. I said, "No."

He asked me what I wanted to do and I told him, with a smile, that I wasn't sure; that I was a bit lost; that I was working on it.

I told him I love studying law and that I still think of applying, but that I just can't pull the trigger. I'm not certain it's what I want to do, at my age. I just paid off my undergraduate loans last year. I don't know if I want to take on another $80,000 in student loan debt or commit to a three-year program I may not enjoy.

He asked if I was partnered. I told him that I wasn't; that my last real relationship ended nearly a decade ago.

I said these things unselfconsciously, almost cheerfully. I am good-natured about my circumstance. I told him that on the plus side, I was free to do anything I wanted because my life wasn't tethered to another's. I was not defensive or self-protective because I trusted him to accept and understand me, to offer guidance, to see my great potential, and perhaps to offer some answers that would help to guide me into the perfect port.

Instead, he said, "Oh…Naomi…" and there was pity in his voice.

He asked more questions about law school, like what my LSAT scores were. I told him. He didn't even pretend to hide his reaction. (They were poor.)

He asked about my dream job. I told him I'd like to be a Supreme Court Justice, or an actor, or that I might like to be a speech writer, but that I wasn't sure how one does that. He shook his head in minor disbelief at the first two ideas, but said that if you want to be a speechwriter, you go to DC for 90 days. You have lunches. You stay on someone's couch. You make connections. You find your way in.

I said I wasn't sure I was willing to do that, just now.

"Do you have health insurance?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "I do now."

"How?" he asked.

"Through the state…through Commonwealth Care…"

Again…the look of pity and concern. He made me feel frightened for my safety. He made me feel old and inadequate. And no matter what I said, the conversation kept turning back to my lack and to what he seemed to see as my failure to reach my potential. He kept coming back to law school. He thought I should apply again, find a way to afford it. He thought I should move to a state with a state law school (Massachusetts doesn't have one) so that I could establish residency, get in, and attend at a lower cost. I told him that was a big commitment and I just wasn't sure it was the right thing for me.

Finally, as a way of defending my lack of willingness to uproot myself and take a brave stab at a new career, I also told him that I have struggled with serious health issues. That there is more at stake for me than simply choosing a new profession. I told him that I was too sick to work for 26 weeks last year; that when one is facing that sort of debilitation, one cannot launch into a new career. One cannot go to Washington, DC, sleep on a couch, and meet people for lunch. Even if one survived that experience and succeeded in landing a job, one couldn't promise one's employer, with any confidence, that one would be able to fulfill one's duties. And what about health insurance? And caregivers? In the Valley, I have found practitioners who I couldn't easily replace in another state. I want to stay near them. And Smith—being near Smith allows me to have affordable access to yoga classes and athletic facilities and other things. It's not the right time for me to pull up my life and move someplace for a high stakes career I'm not sure I want.

I dropped into the conversation that I have been published in the New York Times and on National Public Radio. That I have published more than 300 stories. But this didn't seem to shake his worry.

"You never seemed to me to lack confidence," he said, "but perhaps you have a problem with your self-esteem?" He made this assertion several times. What does one say to this?

"I don't think that's it…" I said, turning up the wattage on my smile, sitting up straighter, trying to broadcast confidence.

Eventually, I turned the conversation back to him, to the state of affairs at Smith. We talked about the massive failings of the current President, the extent to which the faculty, staff, and student body are displeased. It was an enlightening talk. Discouraging, but enlightening.

He ended the conversation abruptly when he realized he was going to be late to meet his wife. I walked with him for a while, then thanked him for his time, wished him well, and headed back across campus to my car. It was dark and damp and the cold bit at my thighs as I clomped my boots on the pavement. I phoned my best friend immediately and left him a distraught voice mail. I didn't think it was possible that I could stand on this campus, walk past the buildings where I had done so well and learned so much, and feel like a failure, but I did.

I nearly cried. I felt a sinkhole open in my gut, a cramping pain gripped my neck and shoulders, a vice clamped down on my temples.

"He pities me," I realized. The sound of his voice saying, "Ohhh…Naomi…" as though I had just been fired or dropped a Faberge egg…it played over and over in my mind. I was nauseous.

In my yoga practice, we learn to value our hearts. We learn to breath into our feelings. The memory of this practice came to me and I breathed into my heart. I breathed into my gut. I breathed into my neck and shoulders and temples. And as I breathed, a new awareness poured into me: he was wrong.

This man who I revered and cared for. This man who had been something of a father—or perhaps good uncle—figure to me. This man who was a brilliant academic. He was wrong about this.

My life is not a failure. There is no reason to worry for me. I am still young and curious. I am still determined and bright and capable. There is no shame in feeling lost, particularly if you are working hard on finding your way. Law school is not the way for me. Not now, not yet. My way is in finding stillness, in getting well. My way is in learning to listen to myself, to value what I bring to the world, to treat myself with loving kindness, always.

My grandfather couldn't read the newspaper. My grandmother de-throated chickens with her bare hands in a factory while her six children waited in the car. My father has a high school diploma (and a strong cadre of skills like masonry and heavy equipment operation). I went to Smith College. I got myself there and I put myself through. I graduated with honors. If I do nothing else with my life, this is enough. This is enough.

And there is no way to quantify all the brave choices, all the rising up that has occurred after terrible falls, all the attempts at self-discovery, all the lives that I have changed by offering compassion, friendship, art, and joy. There is no accounting for Love in my professor's assessment of my success.

I am learning to be at home in my body and my life. I am making peace with my past and my present and my future. I am learning what it means to be me. I have not yet put any new letters before or after my name. But choosing not to enter into a marriage or a graduate program before it is my time—these things are victories, too. In the same way that the silences between notes give music its rhythm, so, too, are the absences in my life an essential part of my song.

And let's not forget that I am grateful simply to be alive. I come from homelessness and poverty, from illiteracy and isolation. I emerged from rural Maine and I became something. I became a woman who is a force for good in the world. I am not making a comfortable living, but I have kept myself alive all by myself. I have forged this existence without the safety of a trust fund or an influential surname or the gift of a free car/home/down payment/education or anything else from my parents.

It took only twenty minutes for all of this to sink in. I walked away from my professor feeling like a failure, depressed and anxious. Twenty minutes later, I stood in the kitchen of my little apartment and I called my best friend again.

"I know who I am," I said. "I know what I am worth. I know what I have done. I have not yet become all that I can be, and this is just as it should be. My professor is wrong about me. He comes from a place where one's value, one's progress can be measured in advanced degrees, in spouses, houses, and income. I do not live in that place. I live in a place where my value comes from my ability to heal, to forgive, to listen. It comes from my ability to love, to learn, to stay alive."

I left that place—the place where my value is immeasurable and does not depend on advanced degrees or spouses or income or accolades--while I was talking to my professor. But after 20 minutes of breathing and thinking, I returned to it again. And when I arrived back in that healthy state of mind, I understood from the deepest most inner parts of my being all the way up to my conscious self, what it means to hear, "Welcome Home."

Church Signs: "Coming Down the Mountain"

2007-02-22T00:53:00.000-05:00

Church Signs: "Coming Down the Mountain"

I struggled with this week's topic. I had it in my head that the phrase meant something, something specifically biblical, and it was tripping me up. I thought it had something to do with receiving enlightenment-slash-the-word-of-god, and so every time I started to mentally prepare an essay on the subject, I would falter partway in, feeling as though it was important to bring it back around to what I thought was the intended meaning of the church sign. Yet, I also felt a strong internal resistance to seeking out the biblical reference because it seemed it would taint my otherwise independent experience with the phrase. It was slowing me down enough that I finally decided to spend a few of my writing minutes on researching the topic, just to get it over with. I Googled "coming down the mountain" and was surprised to discover that the number one result was not a religious site, but a Butthole Surfers lyric.

"Some will fall in love with life
And drink it from a fountain
That is pouring like an avalanche
Coming down the mountain"

I picked up a magazine this week and saw Demi Moore on the cover. She was standing on a bridge-like deck in her mountainside home (that is practically a treehouse) in California. She looked healthy, fit, and strong. Her hair was long and lustrous. Her feet bare. Her fingers and toes were manicured and pedicured in dark polish, a deep purple that seemed out of place with the apparent lightness of her life. There were green leaves all around her, not crowding, just creating the dappled sort of lighting you get through forests in the summer. Looking at her standing there in her jeans and bare feet, her red kabbalah string barely visible around her wrist, you could practically feel the trees exhaling fresh oxygen all around her.

I flipped through the pages of the architectural magazine and envied her her riches. Her young handsome husband, her spacious new home, her children. I fantasized about what it must be like to have all that money, all those resources. To have the ability to actually make your dreams come true. To dream of a home, in a certain place, designed and furnished and decorated just the way you want it--and to make it come true. When you have that much money, the only challenge is to know your dream and then find the people who can create what you imagine.

I heard myself thinking, "If I had that money, I would have a better life. I would make the most of it. My home would be cleaner, prettier, more welcoming. It would be a place where people would gather and feel safe, relaxed, and nurtured. It would be a place where I felt good about myself and did good things in the world."

Then I looked at Ashton and Demi posing playfully on the couch, laughing, affectionate, giddy. And I thought, everyone thinks they would do better if they had what these famous, wealthy people have. But Brittney's shaving her head and flashing her crotch and driving with her kids in her lap, while men and women all over America are making beautiful homes and lives with barely a fraction of that wealth. Of course I want what they have--I want to be able to make the most beautiful home I can and share it with the people I love. But getting money won't suddenly make you that person. If you aren't making those things in your life now--cleanliness, beauty, love, comfort--then there's no reason to think you'd suddenly make the most of what you have, just because you have more.

Last weekend, I went away. I drove out to the Cape to be with new friends and their old friends. It was a cold and sunny February day. Clear and crisp and wonderful for driving. I had music and snacks and a clear sense of where I wanted to go and why. I was happy.

As I drove along the pike, I found myself thinking of my niece and my nephew. I feel for them a love that comes straight from god, from the universe. I love them the way god loves everything—unconditionally. When I think of them, this love comes down from the heavens and up from the earth and I channel it toward them. I ask the universe to make sure they know how much they are loved, how much they belong here, no matter what anyone ever says or does to them, they are graced and special and endowed by their creator with an inalienable right to love. It flows through me, this gorgeous powerful love, this total bright acceptance, and it fills me up until it overflows and my world is full of light and I am weeping tears of joy. I drove this way for a while, speeding accidentally, tears running down my face as I laughed out loud and grinned until my face hurt.

Over the course of the weekend, I was introducing myself to these new people through my words. I told them the story about my great grandmother shooting my kitten and killing my pet geese. I told them about the strip club my boss took me to in New Orleans, and the man who stuck his dick in my mouth there. I told them about the fights I got into in high school and the time Eddie Levesque snuck into my room and tried to strangle me. I talked about outhouses and ramshackle homes and my rural experience of poverty. I did it without thinking. I opened my mouth and the stories that came out were mostly about shock and violence, about fighting, poverty, and betrayal.

As I drove home from that trip, I felt as though I was coming down the mountain. I had climbed up high where the air was cold and the view was more profound. I looked around while I was up there and I saw that my life is so much more than those old stories.

From up on the mountain, I could see the patchwork fields of the days gone past. I could see the many colors of the stories that make up my life, all the hard and gritty things, and all the gorgeous ones, too. I could see that each of them is stitched together with another story of triumph or forgiveness or good fortune. The hard parts of my history are only one small fraction of what I am. I tell them out of habit, but it's time to change my ways. It's time for me to dream of a metaphorical tree house where the air is fresh and my home--the place where I keep my self--is clean and comfortable and full of light and love.

Our relationship to ourselves, to our own lives, is like the ones we have with other people. Sometimes we have a hard time, after someone is gone, remembering what they were really like. We make them heroes or villains; we ache for what they gave us without remembering what they took, or we forget how much they offered and remember only what they stole.

I have struggled to assimilate my past, to integrate it into who I am today; to neither be ashamed nor boastful; to have depth without drowning in it; to be comfortable in my own skin. It's true that there has been violence, poverty, and heartbreak; but there has also been so much more than that. There has also been so much love and openness in me that I sometimes weep from the joy of it all. I gulp it down like water, from a fountain, that is pouring like an avalanche coming down the mountain.