While I ride through this heartbreaking life: necessary writing on staying centered through pain.

The long stretch of neglect from ignoring the will to create has an accumulating effect on happiness.  The longer the stretch is prolonged, the heavier the weight of it, compounding the maintenance of that happiness.  I can't stand much longer of ignoring the need to write, to make ritual of my body and my mind.  My heart can only take so much trotting along on worn out paths of grief and minutia, time spent only half rooted to the sacred ground I stand on.  If I don't stop to take notice of the always-available power I have to get through this shit, I lose it.  I end up right where I am right now- slipping off of the edge of the mountain.  I'm clinging to grass as the mother takes off with me on her back, grasping onto her hair as she takes me away.  

How do we come back to center when our whole world turns upside down?  Or when our meticulously designed routines are upended, or our stabilizers disperse?  The hardest thing can be remaining in clear sight of our truths when everything we've placed around us to stay in identity with those truths is in altered alignment.  What has become increasingly clear to me is that I'm too identified with the things outside of me- reliant on my beau, my home, and my ways to keep me rooted in what is ultimately designed to come from within.  I'm resistant to imagining myself as isolated and floating out in space somewhere in a vacuum of meeting my own needs all the time, and crave a balance between personal power and union, connection.  When grief strikes and I am forced to turn within, how is it possible to see through the fog of brokenness to the wholeness of me?  

I'm in the throes of this, so I won't put out any lofty answers involving personal practice, meditation, mindfulness, et cetera, although it's certain that they are involved.  There's a bigger picture for me.  Back to riding on the mother's back, riding the ground as it's tossed through time and space and getting a good enough grip on the roots of her hair for the leverage to wrap my thighs around her waist and get back on the saddle.  Mindfulness- seeing through the fog- is that leverage, among the many tools at my disposal.  Seeing the fog for what it is and not mistaking it for what is inside of this mother's heart and mine.  And keeping that feeling in my heart, the feeling of the wild abandon and safety of being secured on her hip, held close to her breath and the scent of her while I ride through this heartbreaking life.

An open letter to our men.

It's too soon to put us on the spot and start demanding solutions.  There are too many wounds to heal, too much trust to mend, too much power still left to reclaim from having demands and solutions thrust upon us.  Not enough time has passed where our men have simply put down their tools and listened, shown us that they are willing to sit through and bear witness to the pain and anger, to sit still in the rising tide of the mother returning to her power because of their deep knowing that after the storm, the fury, is the most complete beauty they will ever know.  Only then, when she has been shown who is still with her, will it be time to pick back up your tools.

Be very conscious of how terrifying it is for your woman to be truly seen in the world.  Honor her walls- they have served a great purpose.  Know the paradox that is integral to the essence of the feminine- you will only be heard if you whisper, the walls will only become stronger if you try to take them down yourself.  The only way she will fell truly safe- with you and with the world- is if she is the one that takes them down.  But you, our men, you must sit on your hands and watch.  You must be able to see when there are bricks coming down, when we are creating openings for us to shine through to you.  Never is this permission to jump in and help us.  We don't need rescuing.  We need- your woman needs- to see your patience and faith that more will come, your appreciation of what is being shared, the beauty that is slowly coming through.  

Your woman is desperate to trust you, to feel safe.  But everything you have been taught to do or be as a man has kept this mystery in hiding.  The lesson is now the unknown.  Can you sit without the security of tools or solutions, and just listen?  Can you relish in your goddess's glory and beauty without giving her guidance?  Can you trust that we will love you, appreciate your gifts as they come to us in clear sight and intention?

First, you must stop what you are doing and truly, deeply see your woman.  Don't come at her with tools- she's worn and beaten down from that.  Show her you trust her way of knowing by leaning into the discomfort of your uncertainty.  It's much more important than clinging desperately to what you know.  

polluted by pain

Not going to pretend like this is some grandiose manifestation of what I thought I could be, because the truth right now is that I'm in a self-limiting place, one where I can only see the fault lines in my psyche and soul.  Coming out on the other side is no hope at all because I always dip right back into despair.  My depression seems inevitable.  

My mother tells me that people say nothing but kind things about me and love to learn that her daughter is me, like this persona or contortion of a memory in my hometown.  I don't know how to feel about it, whether I should identify with that or brush it off as a projection.  It's sort of maddening to know that I don't see it in myself. 

I feel the rage and sadness and pain on a cellular level.  I feel like bashing someone's teeth in, throwing a canning jar at someone's head.  I feel years of abuse and disgracing my body trying to escape through my pores.  My skin is crawling constantly.  I'm just dying to get out.  

And sometimes I want to just die.  

I'm so sick of landing here as if the weeks of beauty and laughter never exist.  I'm left wondering if I'm just faking it, on my best behavior.  I'm tired of trying to buy in to some spirituality I don't feel from the inside out, putting patches on my broken soul.  I feel like I need the company of other broken people to feel any love at all.  Maybe that's why I don't care about breaking the people around me.  I don't know.  

There is such a profound difference between feeling and knowing.  But right now I can't tell what is what.  There is too much rotting around my heart to know if there's anything pure left on the inside, or if there will be anything left if I scrape those parts off.  I think my fear of that is keeping me from letting go.  The fear of being seen, the fear of not existing or existing in a pure form only to be polluted by pain all over again.  

I can't think my way out of this.  But I don't think there is a way out of it.  I've been telling myself that I can only go through it, but I'm so tired.  Right now I just want to check out, stop thinking, stop dealing.

But then what?  

Maybe if I felt worthy of the beauty that is my children, my life, then I could live up to it.  I just don't know how to wrap my head around the transient nature of change and the fear of having nothing in the end.  I'm always left wondering, what's the point?  

What's the point of loving if I can't ever feel loved??

What is the MOTHER FRONT?

The relevance of this outlet has grown for me lately, causing me to evaluate what exactly my intentions are with the corner of the world I inhabit.  I've always saddled the line between professionalism and profanity, needing my blog to be a safe space for both.  I've felt a drive lately to dig deeper, and have a space where I can offer what's truly going on inside of me, to offer what it is that I want to share and do so in a way that I feel confident developing it into it's fullest potential.

I have so many ideas for this space.  And it turns out that people might be paying attention.

So I'm going to go ahead and answer the big question:

What is the MOTHER FRONT??

It is the space of consciousness that our earliest memories exist.  Earlier than time allows, earlier than we, as we know ourselves, were awake.

It is the place where the beauty within and the violence of this age collide, where we battle constantly to hear the truth of our own voices. 

It is the place where it is safe to cry in front of others.  To admit that we feel too much in a world that feels too little. 

It is what it means to be home.

In my work with child-bearing families, the most beautiful moments are the ones where I witness people finding this place within themselves.  Where people walk into their own power as fully embodied physical and spiritual beings.  And in the work I do with myself, I am constantly seeking the safety of this space, the refuge of my power.  I want to share this in a deep way.  I have a deep need to help heal humanity in my own subtle way.  

What does this look like?

Of course, it's political.

But it's a truth being hidden in the essence of ourselves, and we can all have a piece/peace of it if we give ourselves the tools.

Movement, meditation, relaxation.

Feeding ourselves purely, physically and spiritually.

And the honoring of the traditions of humanity.

Through our children.

Mother to mother.

People to people.

It's healing the lost art of love.

So watch out.  In the next few moths, I want to do something I've never done before, and that is to commit, full- and open-hearted, to this process and offer everything I know about how to do it.  This includes gentle parenting, primal motherhood and birth, guided meditations (which I'm really excited about recording and possibly broadcasting), and complimentary medicine lessons in bodywork, herbalism, and energy healing.  I will still journal here from time to time, and always post the tools that are relevant to me in the moment with honesty and emotion, but expect to see a major shift, because it's already happening.  

I'm excited to make this next step, to make the Mother Front a tangible thing in my life, and perhaps even possibly yours.

On having a daughter.

This second pregnancy has been smoother, faster, and healthier.  I feel less chaotic and psychotic than my first, in which I did a lot of crying, a lot of yelling.  I wasn't nearly this balanced with Elijah, and suffered from pretty profound postpartum depression (if you've read my blog before, you may know this).  My psychosis and anxiety ran so deep that it was one of the only reasons I considered not going through with a future accidental pregnancy.  I had a deep fear of myself after what I went through with Elijah, and so the way this pregnancy has gone is a sigh of deep relief.  

When I found out, I immediately connected with the little rose bud inside of me.  I smiled mistily in disbelief and gratitude, and held on to the belly that lingered from this one's brother.  That day, I put myself on a path to ground myself in wellness (which I have done better with at times than others) and self appreciation.  I've been able to connect with this light body inside of my belly in a demystified way that can only come with the veil having been lifted through the birth of a previous child.  This second pregnancy is profoundly different.  I've been so grateful.

But now I am terrified.

Elijah predicted this.  Of course, I'm not surprised that my utterly intuitive three-year-old knew the nature of this baby- he's been nothing but gushing over his "baby sister", but I only indulged him.  I could care less, or so I thought.  After all, I didn't with him.  With him, I thought I wanted a girl, and when he was a boy instead and I realized the joy of mothering a sweet little man, the whole thing became arbitrary.  And theoretically speaking, the sex of a baby makes not a damn bit of difference.  I'm not interested in the cultural indoctrination of gender.  

But suffice it to say, at the risk of political correctness, the reveal of this baby's sex, one that happened due to my aforementioned ambivalence and the excitement of said three-year-old, has made a drastic shift in my perception.  Due to a combination of several factors, including an intensely unhealthy relationship with my own mother, my spiritual beliefs regarding the power of women, and deeply held political ideologies, the weight of having a daughter is heavy to my soul.  My ex mother-in-law always talked about how much "easier" boys were- how they always loved on and supported their mothers- but how daughters would tear your guts out without even blinking, how vicious they could be, and I would laugh knowingly, looking back on my relationship with my mother and how awful and vicious I was to her, the deep anger I held and acted out toward her and how aware I was of it without caring at all.  I was deeply wounded as a child because my mother didn't have a "mother" of her own, in any known sense of the word, and so no examples were given her of stability, of emotional availability or gentle nurturing.  

So these deep fears have come up, and I'm in the private process of bracing myself not against a wall, but against solutions, tools.  I am a gentle mother to Elijah, despite having put him in the unfortunate position of being "motherless" for part of the time, so most of the fear of myself as a mother has no place.  But the chain remains unbroken- my mother and I are taking our own chips at it but it really is much bigger than us sometimes.  It's a long lineage of resentment, jealousy, and just plain meanness.  I feel like I'm going to be too tough on her, that I'm going to be awkward and unavailable, or conversely dependent on her validation of my worth as a woman.  I'm afraid of being ripped apart and being simply not good enough.  I can't imagine a greater vulnerability.  

And now the pressure is really on.  All of the ways I've been meaning to embody The Mother, the great goddess or what have you, can no longer wait.  I've been able to put them off until now.  But raising daughters, I believe, is serious business.  It's a scary world for them, and there's so much healing to do.  (It should be noted, of course, that all forms of motherhood, and parenthood for that matter, is serious business, and I take raising my son no less to heart, but my feelings are clearly so different.  Elijah has taught me the depths of compassion that must be opened up for him as a future man in the world.  As much as I wish it weren't, this is much different.)  

I wish I didn't feel a distinction.  I wish I could just raise my children in their fully appreciated selves without regard to what I thought to be arbitrary news.  And really, still, at the end of the day, I could give two shits about having boys or girls (in the way people want one or the other).  But the emotions in me are undeniable, and for the sake of future vulnerability, honesty, and heartfelt discomfort, here they are.  

I have faith that all of my children will be fully realized versions of the beautiful beings they are sent here to be.  It's just scarier than hell to know how much of that rests on me.  

Little hen all cooped up.

I've had the compulsion today toward writing, catching up.  Perhaps even taking the plunge and committing myself to the craft I used to identify with so well.  I give up on it like every other self-doubting artist, sacrificing creativity for perfection, which can never be achieved or even approached without mistake.  So here I go.

Lots of catching up on life to do, but it's hardly necessary.  The point is that I'm probably happier than I've ever been.  Living in the Black Hills now, gaining the weight of a progressing second pregnancy that delights me in ways I was unaware of or held back from with the first.  I feel more close to myself and not like some anomaly of nature.  I feel closer to nature, even though I spend most of my days inside while the sun shines brightly through the windows and the pines whisper my name.  It was kind of silly to move to such a remote, Northern place in late autumn, but a large part of me needed a cut off, really needed a reason to stop and breathe.  I've been immersed in school work, trying to make much needed progress on my nursing degree, taking the plunge off of the double-edged sword of that commitment, not really knowing how it will balance but trusting in my huge faith that it will.

So for once in my life, I'm okay with being a little hen all cooped up.  In my hometown I was so lost.  I didn't feel like a mother hen at all.  I felt like a rat, running and sniffing around for the next opportunity with no real agenda, just a fear of not looking busy.  Now I can just sit around and fluff my feathers and keep myself warm to incubate this egg.  I feel broody and proud.  For once in my life, I feel safe.

This Self-Assuredly Strange Life

(In this post, I'm including pictures from a dreamy photo shoot I did with some lovely Denver ladies back in March outside of Red Rocks, as promised.  Enjoy.)

The lifestyle I've always dreamed of is finally, and strangely, taking shape.  A nomadic path bridging city and country life, uprooted in order to respond to any breeze or need.  I've been sleeping in a cozy four-person tent, bought cheap from Walmart, in my dear friend Amy's backyard.  Picture her city lot full of fruit trees, elderberry bushes, volunteer vegetable plants and perennial herbs surrounding a fire pit, just before entering the back half of wooded territory, which I have made my little grotto.  I've hung my hammock, although it's much too humid to avoid the mosquitoes.  I have a basket for linens, a crate of clothing, a drum, a book, and a rain fly.  My cooking tools and supplies are up by the house and my bulk herbs are in the garage.  The rest of my necessities are packed down in my Chevy Venture.  

Things as a medical professional are exploding.  I was just accepted to the Office of Women's Health and Women's Health Leadership Institute's Community Health Worker (CHW) training, which admittedly changes everything.  It impacts my doula work in a huge way, as CHWs are essentially public health "doulas" in a more broad sense in that they provide education and advocacy for a variety of different health conditions and populations (not just pregnancy and birth).  This means that I will be able to widen my services to include many aspects of reproductive health.  CHWs also have an interesting and critical role as their work places a heavy emphasis on culturally competent care- that is, providing it themselves as well as enforcing it from medical care providers.  Part of this particular training is getting set up with a supervisor who helps the trainee execute a community project in their home community.  So Sycamore Center will be heavily impacted by this, and it may even prove to give shape to the organization completely.  

I've also started my volunteerism with the American Red Cross.  I have distant dreams of being deployed in the face of natural disaster to set up mobile birth units, and I figure that climbing their ladder and getting trained in mass food distribution as well as shelter management is the best free way to do it (no degree!!  woo!!).

 

And I've also met the man of my dreams.  There's no other way to put that, really.  He feeds my vision of escaping the troubles of the world to high atop a Black Hill-side, feeding my goats and staring up at the clouds with nothing but the wind to hear.  Waiting patiently for the next mother to go into labor as I cultivate my herb garden, smoke out a hive of bees, or help him haul in the next project.  He calls me his goddess, Nefer, and perhaps someday I will be his queen, yelling at kids from the porch he built.  Through all of the hard work I'm doing these days, I'm walking on Cloud 99.

But tonight, with all of this spiraling around me (and not out of control, mind you, but part of the ever-changing cycle of my life which right now is busy, busy, busy), I am trying to stay mindful of the simple things.  Sage infusing in white wine vinegar.  Slow eating.  Choosing to stay in one place for the moment.  Walking barefoot on the earth.  I need that reminder to be here now, but being on the right path makes it easier to give to myself.  

I've never felt this self-assured of my own joy.  It's pretty wonderful.

The Invisible Mother

Today I discovered the photography technique of the hidden mother, used to capture only their children and babies.  So strange.

 

Look at more photos here, and here.

Intro to Codependent Polyamory

WHEW! What a week.

It's late at night and what I really wanted to get on here to write about, even though there's much to choose from, is my romantic scenario.  Ugh.  Nobody wants to hear this crap but here I am venting.  Maybe this will help someone.  I never know.

My future looks lovely but right now I'm in a tangle of emotions, trying to be honest with myself about how I feel, guarding my heart, and learning some lessons yet again.  I'm okay, though.  I started talking to a guy, right after I ended a relationship, on OKCupid- we talked every day online for three weeks, tried it out when we met and it's ended up in us not spending any time together and sleeping with other people.  He doesn't seem that interested in me anymore and I'm wondering why I'm even spending that much time and thought on him.  Meanwhile, my husband, who I just had sex with for the first time in a year, starts treating me like a goddess and says he wants to date me.  Hell.  I don't know what I have the energy for.  I don't feel strong enough emotionally to take any of it on, but my emotions are still so strong.  But I'm not putting my eggs in one basket.  I did it for a minute with the guy I've been seeing.  The reality of it is that he doesn't have time for me and I need attention.

I think that what I need is to go to Denver, make out with a bunch of queers and remember who I am, how I love, and what I'm all about.  I'm not about chasing dudes in this drinking town around.  If you want to ditch me to watch sports while I encapsulate placentas and eat dinner with my friends, be my guest.

I really do envision myself in a great open relationship that is completely egalitarian, where I feel safe to express and explore myself, where I know I wont be judged, where I'm not afraid of them leaving because I feel secure, appreciated, and understood.  I see myself being free in my body, experiencing all types of pleasure in my life, creating abundance, and nourishing every part of myself.  And having amazing sex and nothing less.

This will all pass, all of this conflict of emotions, the push and pull of want, desire and rejection.  Affection then neglect.  He said he was overwhelmed by me.  Blah blah blah.

Maybe it would just be easier to be with somebody who knows me.  Seriously, where are the other stand-up men unafraid of commitment?

To say that this is not about me being alone would be a lie.  Of course it is.  I need a lover.  But one that will love me.

Is that so much to ask?

The point is not to analyze it for what it was, but to see it for the small thing that it all is and figure out where I am.  What I am vs. where I was.  I want all of these things because I have finally, for the first time, felt like I deserve all of this, truly.  It rings true for me now.  A very poignant story about personal truth and self esteem:  Angela Barber was living in my house last summer and she was telling me of a healer that came to her in the hospital when she was there for a major accident for some time.  He asked her above all else, what she believed to be true.  She said, "I know I am loved."  As Angela told me this, I was stunned by the deadening silence of untruth in me that statement brought.  It made no sense that I was unloved, but I felt an utter emptiness in me that has since filled with a deep sense of gratefulness for every part of me.  Sometimes people ask me what it is that changed in me, and the simplest way to put it is that I realized that nothing would change until I started loving myself.

How do you start loving yourself?  You just accept the fact (the truth) that anything anybody has ever said to you to bring you down, cast doubt on you, or cause you pain was a fucking LIE.  The minute you start loving yourself is the one when everything changes.

My conclusion, for now, is that I want to treat myself the way I want to be treated.  Like a goddess?  Fine, it's on.  I'm going to treat myself like a goddess.   I'm not waiting on anybody else to make the first step.  Because I deserve it.  Why should I depend on anybody to get what I deserve?

Lead in Lipstick? Coal Tar in Shampoo?

OH!  And..  Democracy Now! had a great feature on the toxicity of the cosmetics industry a few days ago..  I wanted to note this on my blog, since I was once pursuing a career in the beauty industry.  Take a look: