Sitting Still

lullaby

The music pulses through the concrete block room, and I gather with the small group of barefoot women directing their attention to the instructor.  For the next hour, he will be providing a framework for the movement exploration called Nia.  And for the next hour, I will be dancing.

Our footwork grows from a series of simple steps to a complex exploration of emotion and spirit.  Arms get thrown out and drawn in, necks loosen, and hips find the natural rhythm of lust.  Inhibitions are shed, and soon we are dancing together.  All different, yet all part of the same tribe.

Another song begins and we are asked join in a circle, stepping in from the perimeter for eight beats and then back out.  In the center of the circle, the instructor lays his six-year-old daughter, a gorgeous little girl with bright eyes and short hair and freckles just like her mom.  Her development is delayed, and she is just now learning to stand alone and speak with words.  As I step towards her I worry that the circle will overwhelm her -- that fifteen strangers and 30 arms reaching for her may cause fear.  But as our orbit tightens, her gravity draws us in.  It's clear that she's delighted, reveling in the attention of the tribe.  She claps her hands and shifts her eyes to connect with each of us, saying, C'mon...closer.

We take the last step inward and reach for her, some touching, some waving hands above.  Her father goes in for a tickle and her squeals make me smile in their familiarity, the sound of a child reveling in a moment of joy. 

As I start backwards, I notice that a few women have lingered.  All are the older women of the community, those with greying hair and eyes bordered by the evidence of 50 or more years' worth of smiles.  The four of them lay hands upon her, or motion above her with sweeps of their arms, rocking back and forth with their feet. 

Together, they perform for her a lullaby of movement -- a murmur not of sound, but of motion. 

Together, they sway her and cuddle her and will her, not into sleep, but into becoming.

*  *  *  *  *
Inspired by the theme lullaby from the lovely community at Mama Says Om.

embracing the beach babe

Quite a number of friends have begun to call me their favorite beach bum.  I was beginning to question whether the description fit when I realized that I haven't so much as glanced at a pair of shoes other than my two pairs of flip-flops since sometime in June.  (Until last night's date night, that is, and I ended up with blisters. Figures.)  Combine that with weekly (or more) trips to the beach, a growing seashell collection, and a new affinity for the cycle of the tides and the rhythm of the ocean, I'm accepting that the label isn't about laziness -- it's about attitude.

We journeyed to the beach again this morning, early, before the sun burned away the reprieve brought by last night's storm.  We go so often on Sunday mornings that I'm beginning to call it church, as it has the same effect on me as a thoughtful service: contemplation, fellowship with my family, acting as a reset button for the start of a new week.  We swim, we sit on the shore and let the waves knock us around gently, we dig our feet in the sand.  Breathing.  Content.

Today, I walked, alone, down the stretch of the beach that I hadn't explored before.  The tide had peaked before our arrival, and the waves were in the phase of slack tide -- breaking closely together near shore, looking rough but without much momentum to push toward shore.  As I walked, I made the conscious decision to pay attention.  That's it: just pay attention. 

In doing so, I found myself enjoying the saline sting of water on the blisters of my heels.  The warmth of the sun on the back of my neck.  The tickle of my hair blowing in my face.  The subtle butterflies of movement in my belly as the new baby danced to the sound of the sea.  The way that the seafoam abandoned by waves gets pushed around by the wind.  Watching a young couple press wet bodies together in the surf.  Laughing at the little girl chasing her bodyboard as it tumbled in the wind.

When I returned to Ron and Claire, I found myself tuned in.  Claire and I played "beach spa" while Ron swam.  She rubbed my legs with sand, exfoliating, and dumped sandy water in my hair in a shampoo au natural.  By the end of our session, we were both sticky with sand, salt water and sunscreen, and we were beautiful.

* * * * *
Inspired in part by last week's Mama Says Om theme: sticky. 

sex

Claire and I were chatting tonight as I put her in bed, talking about our day and making plans for tomorrow.  She got some new Dora ponytail holders and wanted to know if she could wear them tomorrow.  I said yes, maybe two, because her hair is not quite long enough to be pulled into a single ponytail, and pigtails work much better -- besides being ubercute.

"But I want to wear mine like yours," she protested, referencing the fact that I always wear a ponytail.

"Well, I'm a grown-up.  I don't look as cute in pigtails.  But you're a girl."

"Yeah, you're a boy, so you are different.  But I'm a girl, so I wear pigtails."

"No, I'm a girl too, but I'm a grown-up girl.  But we're both girls.  We have girl parts."

"Right, right.  We have girl parts.  But boys, they have that pull-thing.  Girls sit down to go pee-pee and poo-poo.  Boys use their pull-thing to go pee-pee.  But they sit down to go poopie, because they don't need their pull-things to poopie, they just need their bummies."

I think she's got that male/female sex thing ALL FIGURED OUT.  I CAN'T WAIT to tell her how babies are made.

* * *
Perfectly timed for the theme 'sex' this week at Mama Says Om. 

courage

It was a session much like any other.  She was in her second trimester of pregnancy, referred to see me because of a screen positive result on her blood test.  It showed an increased risk of Down syndrome in the pregnancy, but the risk was still small.  As a prenatal genetic counselor, this kind of scenario was my bread and butter.  I saw women and couples everyday with the same circumstance.

The couple came in and sat down.  She looked tired and worried.  He was a big guy, standoffish.  We occupied a cramped, makeshift office because the other rooms were tied up.  I did my basic introductions.  I explained her test results, doing my best to convey that while there is an increased chance of a problem with the baby, the likelihood is still very much in their favor that this is a normal, healthy pregnancy.  We started to talk about the option of amniocentesis.

Then, all hell broke loose.  She's crying.  He's yelling at her to stop crying.  She's saying she doesn't want testing, doesn't want to know for sure.  He's saying that she *will* have the test because he doesn't want a retarded baby.   My head is ping-ponging back and forth between them, trying to figure out where and how to intervene.

This was early in my career.  I was a genetic counselor.  I was supposed to help people make reasonable decisions based on a combination of facts and emotion and values.  But this?  This was chaos.

I tried to come back to the facts.  I tried to bring their attention back to me and off of each other, if only for a couple of minutes.  Time to breathe.  Time to calm down and discuss.    Nothing worked.  He kept yelling.  She kept bawling and protesting.  He kept insisting.  It was not getting any better.

I focused.  She was my patient.  Yes, he was her partner, and yes, I respected his opinion.  But ultimately, she was the one who was going to sign on the dotted line.  He was being verbally abusive.  I suspected that since he was willing to go this far in front of a strange professional, home was worse.

I mustered up all the courage I could find and broke in.  I was shaking inside, if not out. 

"Stop yelling.  Stop.  You are being abusive to her, and I won't allow you to continue being a part of this session if you keep yelling," I said, firmly.

He tried to get in one last punch.  "You're having the test, whether you want to or not!" he said through gritted teeth.  The volume of her wails went up another notch.

"I'm sorry, sir.  I can't let you continue.  You'll need to wait in the waiting room until we're done." 

I was looking him directly in the eye.  He was fuming.  I was scared but trying to hide it.  I needed him to know that I meant what I said.

Both she and I sat between him and the door.  I wasn't sure what he might be capable of doing, but I knew there were people right outside the door to intervene if needed.

And then, without any further words, he got up and left.

I exhaled and turned my attention back to her.  I decided to postpone the rest of our discussion until after her scheduled ultrasound.  At this point, the woman needed to see her baby.

He left --  as in, left the hospital.  He missed the ultrasound.  He was her ride.  She called her mom and sister and explained the situation.  She thanked me for defending her.  She found out that her baby looked great and that the test results were incorrect based on a wrong due date.  After all the commotion, everything turned out fine.

Looking back, I can't say for sure whether I made all the right calls.  Sometimes I think I should have intervened sooner.  Sometimes I think I should have tried again to keep him in the discussion.  It's hard to say. My gut feeling told me this was a pattern in their relationship.  I had to trust that, and I felt like I had to defend her when she was unable to defend herself.

Truth is, I made the best decision I could based on where I was at the moment.  And that alone takes courage.

- - - - - -
Prompted by last week's theme of 'courage' at Mama Says Om.

uberlist

The theme this week at Mama Says Om is uberlist.  Here's my list of hopes and dreams for 2007.

CREATE: Sew kitchen curtains
CREATE: Organize craft storage
CREATE: Try knitting
CREATE: Make photo albums
CREATE: Take more photographs

GEEK: Redesign website
GEEK: Back up hard drive
GEEK: Learn a little bit about website design

COMMUNITY: Donate time and money to a cause I believe in
COMMUNITY: Write my Congressional representatives about issues that are important to me
COMMUNITY: Explore church communities in Charleston

FAMILY: Play more
FAMILY: Yell less
FAMILY: More music, games and artwork; less TV
FAMILY: Listen more carefully to Claire before responding
FAMILY: Take Claire on photo dates with her new camera
FAMILY: Enroll Claire in a dance or tumbling class
FAMILY: Send birthday cards on time to my friends and family members
FAMILY: Call my parents twice a week
FAMILY: Send my grandmother one card or letter a month
FAMILY: Get a family portrait

FRIENDS: Throw a party here before we move
FRIENDS: Send small gifts to friends on a whim
FRIENDS: Meet Jamie monthly for margaritas
FRIENDS: Stick with book club, then join or start one in Charleston

GREEN: Recycle
GREEN: Switch to safe cleaning supplies
GREEN: Buy more organic foods
GREEN: Eat less meat
GREEN: Buy (and use!) canvas bags for grocery store

HOME: Sell house in Nashville/find new home in Charleston to rent
HOME: Declutter our home; only move things we love or use
HOME: Get rid of the freaking mice

LOVE: Connect with Ron everyday in some small way
LOVE: Have a monthly date night
LOVE: Give Ron some solitary time at least twice a month

MONEY: Get some money into savings
MONEY: Reduce credit card debt

PERSONAL: Get annual physical
PERSONAL: See the dentist.  Aw, hell.  See the dentist TWICE.
PERSONAL: Run a 5K
PERSONAL: Buy myself some new clothes
PERSONAL: Do some centering activity (prayer, meditation, yoga) everyday
PERSONAL: Create a personal space for reflection
PERSONAL: Get a bikini wax (not Brazilian)
PERSONAL: Play the piano more often
PERSONAL: Get a tattoo (still looking for the right image)

TRAVEL: Meet friends for vacation in the Carolinas
TRAVEL: Take one trip by myself
TRAVEL: Visit tourist spots before leaving Nashville: Country Music Hall of Fame, Opryland, Hatch Show Print
TRAVEL: Visit Asheville, North Carolina again
TRAVEL: Go canoeing

WORK: Find and train my successor for work here
WORK: Find a job in Charleston?

WRITING: Write at least five times a week here
WRITING: Continue to build a community at The Soccer Mom Vote
WRITING: Write the weekly themes for Mama Says Om
WRITING: Explore writing for print publication

META: Trust my instincts
META: Grow spiritually
META: Be more respectful to the earth and her creatures
META: Forgive more easily
META: Love more deeply
META: Live more fully

synchronicity: invisible

It may not be obvious, even with a search through my archives, that writing here - and the community of support that resulted - was a way out of post-partum depression for me.  The first year of motherhood was incredibly difficult.  I had a child, left a job I loved, and moved to a city where I knew no one, unemployed and alone often because of the demands of Ron's job.  By the time I finally sought help, the counselor listened to that list and said, "Honey, no wonder you're depressed."  One night, when the depression gripped me, I wrote, in scrawling, almost illegible long-hand, the following piece.  It has been at the bottom of a drawer for over a year now.  I knew it was there and was waiting for the right opportunity to share it.  The prompt this week at Mama Says Om is "invisible", which also happens to be the first word I wrote that night.  I'm replicating it here without editing, out of respect for where I was right then.

***
Invisible.  That's how I feel.  Like I could just fade away ever so slowly and that few people would notice.  I go days sometimes without seeing my husband.  Weeks between communication with friends.  Months between visits from family.  At work, I was gone a whole week on vacation and I doubt anyone noticed.  Can you understand what this is like, to be ignored, unimportant, transparent?

I don't demand your undivided attention.  I don't want of need constant companionship.  I just want to feel like I matter again.  It hurts.  It is lonely.  Really lonely.

This is why it matters so much that I am allowed to interrupt you.  Even if it is annoying.  Even if you roll your eyes or put me off 'til a little later.  Because at least you are acknowledging my existence.  At least for a moment I am there.

This is why it is such a big deal that my friends return my calls.  I know they are busy.  I know that they aren't intentionally hurting me.  But it does hurt.  I feel like I am reaching out over and over again only to be ignored.  Invisible.

I WANT OUT.  Out of this hole, of this cloud, of this numbness and despair.   I want to feel like that person that matters to somebody.  I don't want to have to kick and scream and cry every time I need attention.  I want attention for my good qualities, not my bad.

I will get there.  I am on my way to figuring it out.  But sometimes it just sucks so much.  And all I want is a hug, or a smile, or a kind word.  But there is no one there to give it.  At least, no one that can see me.

***
Two disclaimers:
1) This wasn't written to a specific person, although it sounds that way at times.  I think I may have been talking to God, or the universe, or a wall.  Hard to say.  I just know that it wasn't a person.

and

2) I am better.  I am.  I don't need virtual ((hugs)) or worried phone calls or anyone in my life feeling guilty for what they may or may not have done in the past.  It's all good.  I just needed the right time to come for me to speak openly about this chapter of my life, and the writing prompt seemed, to me, a sign.

snaggle-toothed, handicapped bride

Everyone has snags in their wedding plans.  The cake layers melt and slide off of the stacks, the minister cracks an inappropriate joke, the father of the bride gets sloshed and his daughter has to support him during their dance together.  And those are just for my friends.

My own wedding day went perfectly.  PERFECTLY.  No fires to put out, no mouthy relatives, nothing. 

Of course, I got married wearing a walking cast and sporting a new fake tooth.  But that wasn't about the wedding.  It was about the bachelorette party.

We started off with good, albeit sinful, intentions.  We were going to party at several stops, allowing the men to buy us drinks and enjoying some free attention.  The first stop was a daiquiri bar, where alcohol meets slushy so that you can get inebriated and have a brain freeze simultaneously.  Next we moved on to a stupid college bar that I hated but that my friends always liked.  I might have had a shot of something there, but by the time I convinced them to leave, I was still only slightly buzzing.

The next (and likely final) stop was a place called Club Rio.  It was a cheesy meat market for ASU students, but it had a large dance floor and $2 Long Island Iced Teas.  Their play-list included everyone's favorite hits from wayback, and so it was the perfect spot for me, the soon-to-be-drunk bachelorette, to get her groove on.

Unfortunately, I'd never make it to the dance floor.  As we were walking up the ramp from the parking lot to the club, my sister-in-law and I were telling the other ladies about Tae-Bo.  (Did you Tae-Bo?  And if not, how did you resist Billy Blanks' promise of rock hard abs?)  I decided to take it upon myself to demonstrate some moves -- for educational purposes, of course -- and started the forward jab move with enthusiasm.

Next thing I knew, my little-black-dress-clad ass hit the sidewalk, my tibia snapped near the ankle, and my friend was holding a piece of my tooth.  It was six weeks before my wedding, and instead of tying up loose ends with the florist and paying the caterer, I was visiting my new friends: the dentist and the orthopedist.

Long story short, I cried in front of the orthopedist when he suggested a fiberglass cast and ended up with a removable walking cast instead.  The dentist rushed my permanent cap and cemented it to the remainder of my tooth days before the wedding.

And despite the fact that I am obviously a clumsy spaz, my groom showed up and we were married.  Thank God I'd chosen a long, poofy dress.  Wearing the cast during the honeymoon interfered a little bit with the hikes we'd planned, but didn't get in the way of any of the truly important activities.  *wink*

- - - - - - - - - - -

This post was inspired by recent IM conversations with R*belle and Mrs. Flinger, and is posted in honor of Raybelle, who is getting hitched this weekend.

EDITED TO ADD: Oh! Look at that!  The theme at Mama Says Om this week is fall.  I think I'll add this right now!

europass

The hum of an engine sedates me.  Be it a car, a plane, a boat, or a train, if I'm given more than a half hour of relative peace, I can fall asleep.  This quirk is one of the few I can directly attribute to an early childhood experience.  My parents owned a ski boat and were part of a local water ski club when I was very young.  Apparently, the bow of the boat had a space just the right size to slide an infant in a carrier for safe keeping.  When I accuse her of neglect, my mother swears that I was content there, cozily lulled to sleep by the white noise of the motor.

When Ron and I decided to travel through Europe one summer during college, he came to learn the nature of this trait.  While he wanted to use our hours on the train for chatting, or playing games, or gazing at the countryside, all I wanted to do was sleep.  Preferably curled up comfortably on his shoulder.

After tolerating my naps for several countries, he began to get bored and wake me up.  One time, the need to comment on the darling ponies he was seeing out the window overpowered whatever respect he had for my right to sleep.  He poked me.  "Look at the ponies!" 

"Graaaa,"  I'd mumble before nodding chin back to chest.

Poke, poke.  "Ponies!  Wake up!  Look at the ponies!"

I tried to ignore him, but he was persistent.  Finally, I parted my eyelids only enough to scowl and through gritted teeth said, "I don't care about the fucking ponies."

His feelings were hurt.  "Fine.  Go back to sleep.  But you're missing everything," he pouted.

To this day, anytime he is interrupting me or prattling on and on about something stupid, all I have to do is say, "Look! Ponies! Ponies, ponies, ponies!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Inspired by the theme train at Mama Says Om.

tumble

I've always thought that the 'mineral' category of the game "Animal, Vegetable, Mineral" was highly underrated.  After all, anything from a diamond ring to Mt. Rushmore would fit that choice.  While I like animals, human and otherwise, they tend to have pesky habits.  Vegetables require planting and growing and harvesting and cooking.  On the other hand, all it takes is a keen eye (or a generous lover) to build a collection of nice rocks.

I have always liked pretty rocks.  Growing up in the desert, every gift shop from Yuma to Albuquerque had a bin of colorful semiprecious stones tempting children to choose their special one.  Turquoise was the perennial favorite, but I always liked the subtle layers of simple polished quartz.  There was something magical about plunging my hand into the pool of polished rocks to pull out a treasure, which would be inspected against the light and then shoved into a pocket.  There, my fingers could turn it over and over again, in a restless act of tactile admiration.

Somewhere in my obsession, I learned that the shiny rocks I loved so dearly had started out as regular old rocks, and were then polished to perfection in a rock tumbler.  I wanted a rock tumbler.  Here was a tool that threw together rocks with potential for beauty, added some lubricant and some abrasive grit for polishing.  All of those ingredients got tossed around for awhile, and out came gems.

I am one of those regular old rocks, but with a core of good and layers of complexity.  Put me in a tumbler, add the lubricants of laughter and forgiveness and grace, the grit of hard work, suffering and loss.  Let the tumbling of life rub smooth my rough edges and polish my surface to reveal the gem underneath.

Interestingly, it's recommended that rocks be tumbled with others of about the same character.  Anyone up for a spin with me?

***
Inspired by (last week's) theme at Mama Says Om.  My apologies for being late (again).  I like what the prompts offer to my writing but find that sometimes it takes all week for me to dig out the product of the inspiration.

relax

Something about turning thirty has allowed me to relax. While I used to spend time at Pilates classes, yearning for flat abs and a tight ass, I now accept my body for what it is and unabashedly invest in push-up bras and control-top pantyhose. Friday nights drinking at the pool hall have given way to evenings at home with a G-rated movie and an early bedtime. The pressure to meet the goals of my five- and ten-year plans has dissipated. I realize that I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up but that a change of direction does not mean that my Master’s degree was a waste of time. In my twenties, I thought I needed to get it all figured out. Now, I know that I’ll never have it all figured out. 

Good-bye to the decade of wild-oat-sowing, backpacking across Europe, “finding myself”. Hello to the decade of enjoying my partnership, developing in my new role as a mother, and exploring avocations that bring me joy even if they’re not cool. I’m saying yes to myself instead of others. I’m learning that personal growth isn’t always as much about running away as it is about finding the reasons to stay. I’m recognizing the importance of good friends instead of trying to fit in with the crowd. The obligation to have a good time has been lifted, and now I’m actually having a good time.