facing my greatest fears. motherhood. redefined.

i am back on the writing train.  enjoy-all my thanks always.


Fear. I fear many a thing. Like tight places or being in a crowd and not being able to move or being trapped.  A no exit of my own making, my own reality, no longer a play I read in honors English over a decade ago. I used to fear tanker trucks and would avoid them at the fear I might blow up at gas stations.  On the road.  But never did I. Blow up. I still get warm when I cross a bridge.  The no exit and the no return part makes my heart pitter patter and deep breathing my only refuge. Classic- my abnormal psych professor said of someone who had been abandoned.   Somehow comfort missing from the equation in this knowledge.  I fear loss. And being left. And being alone.  And not finding the right person.  To call my home. 

I used to fear I'd become like my mother- not in the typical fashion into a nag or choreograph into her. More like I might one day be crazy like her. Certifiable.  One day be an addict like her. But crazy isn't always inherited and addiction can live and breathe in your body and not ever be yours. I feared I wouldn't break the cycle. The cycle of loss.  The cycle of abandonment   The cycle of  my mother losing her mother tragically at 13 and me losing my mother starting at 8 and more permanently at 18.  My greatest fear is I would be a mother and I would leave.  

One of my goals written across this fearful and hopeful heart was to break this cycle and be a mother. But I haven't been a mother.  Not yet.  I haven't found that love of my life to make babies with.  But this isn't about birthing babies or the tanker trucks or bridges of my life I  have crossed.  It is about much more.  I am surprised.  Surprising myself is I don't have to birth a child to love a child part of me just the same. The gift of helping to raise children is more than the greatness of it.  It is the realization that my greatest fear that I'd be a mother a mother who would leave won't happen- won't happen to me. It is a choice.  And I choose in a way -I always have. In the raising of my brother and my choice of profession and my work of always being around the children.  

Time lines thrown away.  Clocks forgotten.  I may not have that luxury of the regular textbook mothering-but as I look around I can't help but be certain I will be called mom one day.  A mom who stays-a mother who doesn't play out the perfect fantasy of undoing of her own childhood to better her own.   Mothering isn't what I thought it would be. A child looking at you to feel safe and loved and seen and to truly bask in the beauty of childhood.  I am already doing that.  My fears.  My fears aren't permanent.  I can mother and mother in a way-in a way that works for me. And stop being scared that I will leave. Leave.  

the meaning of a word on a beer label

hello all,  i wrote this last summer in a notebook outside a cafe transferred it to the computer and decided to hold onto for awhile.  i let go of this man a long time ago.  and never thought he would provide me more than enough material.  writing and otherwise.  he also made me realize what i really wanted.  and for that i am thankful.  i think this will be the last piece he will be a part of. okay enough reflective words on the past.  without further ado- the meaning of a word on a beer label.  all my thanks always!

As I stand in the aisle, feet planted in the front of the multiple colors bottled with labels and letters spelled out into words, more words, into the word: Parabola. It stands before me. Boxed because its special. My eyes reading the book of beer bottles scanning left and right and left and right-typewriter swinging. Until it stops on the one word I had forgotten until it stands there with its paper colored box and the description underneath-attention beer geeks and this will go fast. And the flashback of the year earlier roams through the maze of my mind and lands on my chest. 


I pause. I pause. And think about the bottle I still have sitting in my fridge. With the same name. The one released in 2010. Sold out but I got one of the last bottles to call my own. I bought it to share. But never did I. It transferred from my old house in noe to soma to inner richmond and back and where it lives and has lived since september in the mission. I had bought this to share with someone who I'd stop seeing more than once, twice to be exact or was it three times, the last being a drift of little to no contact to calmness of the still pond.

So this most recent time and this bottle of beer. When we started again in the causal of coffee and parks and dog watching and playing. This time it was my own investigation that resulted in the meeting. My own curiosity and needing to know he was okay. Because the rumors that touched my ears didn't tell the words I wanted to believe. So I had to do what I needed, what I always felt I should and went into see for myself. The recon of inquisitiveness and instinct. 

He had told me before. People tell you who you are but we are blind and deaf and gullible and have a possible male version case of selective or the i am on my cell phone and can't hear you- hearing intensified in wanting to believe that damaged goods doesn't mean a permanence of forever. We look into the eyes- I look into his eyes and want to believe. Believe in the fairytale of trauma resolved by doing little work. That white lines were once in awhile. That him saying this conversation is over, abruptly, coldly, right now- would stop. That the fact that he wanted to die, he had, all could fade away in my embrace.

In my potential seeing grasping wanting to believe that we all could be different because I was different and I hadn't let the twists and turns of my childhood paint a dark D upon my chest. I had brillo padded and scrubbed and massaged and crossed over and spray painted it to form a S. I worked hard to keep that letter there and showed it more than I should. To anyone who might need it.  I did this again all feeling new with my glistening sparkly S upon my chest. I believed I could save him. Save him from the despair of loneliness while saving myself in companionship. 

But the pull, the tug on the fish line from my heart to his hands upon the pole, the sparkly distraction was just so tempting. Tempting to let that shiny S show again. I didn't want to save him. So I told myself. I wanted to make sure he was okay. Not too skinny. Not too close to the edge. I never thought it through what I would do with my google results of how do you tell someone has a cocaine addiction or might be suicidal? What to do other than see if these rumors are true. 


And if this man who I loved. Even if it wasn't warranted. I had to see if he lay on pieces on the ground, his potato head nose and eyes and lips and hands to feel needing to be put him back together. But with my hands. For me to help him form into completion. Into the real him. The real him he could be. It wasn’t just about him. It was about me. Me feeling I was important. Me feeling indispensable. Me saving others to make it feel better I could never help her. My mother. I guess if I saved enough people it would feel okay giving up on her. Another notch on the superhero belt of humanity might make me feel more alive. Less guilty. More alive.

So our visit at the park gave birth to more. My google searches and my own evaluation resulted in results uncertain. Uncertain I was. I needed to do more research. But objective I couldn't be. He might be broken, broken. Beautifully broken but he was comfort still, the familiarity of him, us, warmed me. The familiarity of him and me and the story of how dysfunction and addiction and missing parents can perfectly end so very differently.  My own fable of my making. 


 The park became phone calls long bubble gum outstretched ones like ones when we were in the thick of our love affair. And for a brief moment, I paused and fell back in not caring about the future but the now. Only the now. So I did what anyone who didn't care for the importance of the future. I had sex with him multiple times and once on backyard swing. But somehow our romp on that swing allowed it to end. Really this time.

He called soaked in worry that I would want to be together and he couldn't give me what I needed. I didn't. Not in a cold callus way but in a way of knowing the truth. I thought it was fun.  I don't regret it. Words falling out of me from my script I had written. I guess I should have thought this through. He would say. Surprised by the swings change in me. I should have thought it through as well. 


Thought about what grabbing onto the shiny lure would mean. Meaning. The word. Parabola. Glistening in the florescent manufactured lights above. It sits there and reminds me of the buying of it in the limbo of a beginning of summer stickiness of the heat wave san francisco summer of before. The accident of the weather and sleeping together and diving into to it again. And the bottle I bought for us to drink together.

And as I stared at the bottle- I remember we never drank it, not together, I never did drink it not even alone. And I think maybe I should buy it. Buy this new version limited edition again. I stare at it the only way you can feel nostalgia for a bottle. For a moment. I stand. And stare. And he is standing next to me again. 


For just a few moments. There was only one choice left. And as I walk away from this bottle brightly light and perfectly packaged- still not knowing what was inside but knowing more than enough. My eyes turn slowly as I span out until it is in the distance of the corner of my eyes. I didn't look back. 


 Until. A few days later when I was shopping I happened upon this aisle again. But this time I wanted to buy it. Maybe. But it was gone. And so was he. It was as if they have never been there. There at all.

swimming in the unknown currents of this city doesn't make me hard- it makes me human

The paradox of city living. Is I see more. Than I should. Than I sometimes can bear. But I feel more at home within this glass house of society than I ever did in the planned of community of normalness. That never felt normal. I awake early to move the car. That if not will be decorated in a ticket which could buy me a meal, a drink, and something else more desired.

The day moves in waves above my head- the clouds move in a pattern I will never see again but I am struck and stand for a moment. The sun paints a picture on the etch sketch of its canvas. Not in black and white and gray. But perfectly brilliant colors only to last for right now. If I had awoken early to move my car. I would have missed it. No driveway or designated parking place and more parking tickets than I should admit aloud. If I had woken up I would not see the mother with her child taking him to school. He is almost her size and they move in unison. No words. But talking. Still. I wouldn't have seen this father hold the hands of his daughter. And see her jump up on this curb covered in trash. No trash can. Available. Smiling still. Next to the building clean. But still newly graffitied. It will be painted over soon.

If I had not woken up I would not have talked to the teenage boy with glassy eyes of sleep as we walk across the street. He wouldn't have told me he has been growing out his hair since he was a baby. He would not of heard me and see me smile. He would not have heard my wish that he woke up before he got school. I would not have seen his face tired and growing with anticipation of a smile. A real genuine look. Into the eye. If I had not awoken on this day. So early. I might not have seen the community I call home.

Later. I would not have been given a homeless woman's gas bill payment. I sat on a bench. She left me her payment- another envelope addressed to someone else- and kept walking. I didn't know what to do. To pick it up and touch it or leave it behind. Her conversation continues as she walked away. If I didn't pay attention. I might have missed the child inside the dumpster. The recycling variety foundation built in cardboard. His after school activity helping his father. Collect. For his family. I smile at him. For his strength. For my hope. That his hard work pays off. That he still will be freedom to be a child. And as I walk I feel the tears of the sea of me well up.

Living in the city has not made me hard. Or soft. It has made me human. It has made me realize the reality of statistics being people. And people mattering more. It has made me realize. There are no ways to build walls to avoid the realities that are humanity. Beautiful ugly growing into the realness. I sometimes close my eyes to not see. But not for too long. I have to open them again. Or I'll miss the good stuff.

The paradox of this city is how beautiful the rawness of every day that brings me to tears. It touches me. And I let it. I don't read the news. I just walk outside and let the pace of this city. Teach me. Teach me more than I ever learned from reading a book. And the fear. The fear of it being too much sometimes grows. But the beauty of it. Calms me again. The ebb and flow of this urban river. I sometimes stand on the river bed but today I will swim in its unknown currents.

it wasn't life or death. until it was and finally i wasn't scared.

Hello all, this was written in 70 something degree weather (last week) outside cafe bar from a pregnant nurse with a dog and cobb salad. she was a stranger but we shared a table. enjoy and all my thanks always!

Life or death. It wasn't life or death. I would tell myself. Out loud. Written down on reminders. Post its. Stuck. To myself. To to others. In the writing-in the pen-lines in the sand of the book of pages. In words formed in squiggles and straights and the cloud of my personal audio narrative hitting the airwaves of the soundtrack of this life/ our lives. I said it. But I didn't mean it. I said it to believe. Believe it was true. That I wouldn't die in this bar in running into someone who I was just decided to stop seeing, again. That I wouldn't die in this interview. Or in the pounding muscle of my heart in the first date. Or in this car. When I am not driving. I can see the snap of the fingers into the loss of control. Or in the confines of this plane. Across this bridge- the long ones and even the short ones. The height and distance of no return made me feel like I would die. But it wasn't life or death.

When the words- and the yoga- and the acupuncture- and the herbal remedies and the therapy and all the other coping mechanisms of anxiety failed. Anxiety predetermined in genetics and reenforced in environment. When these true and tried ways failed-I would resort to my xanax. Xanax prescribed for the confinement of planes crossed of over to first dates- just a quarter- to breakups- probably half- to first interviews- a quarter or a half to be sure. It wasn't life or death and I could believe it if I kept the safety of my flotation device in the small zipper in my red vintage purse with a bow. Just in case. Open upon emergency. Break the glass. Break into a piece. Swallow without anyone seeing. Hidden from everyone me. It wasn't life or death.

Until one day it was. It was life or death. And I stand in the water in a swimsuit no emergency prescription freedom to make it less so. Just me in a swim suit surrounded in melted snow of a lake. And it was life or death. And I was calm. No pace of my heart- uncomfortable in and out of this body. No wanting to run away. Just seeing and doing of the slowness of a firefighter upon arrival. As I looked out beyond, I knew they were in trouble. I yelled for help. And the swimming. First my brother. I knew right away. She needed help. I am not frozen in fear but I am unsure to follow or stay. Help I say and another one is moving. He moves through the water a brisk slow no splashing stroke. Gliding. I just follow. Talking calmly. Letting her know we are coming. We are coming. You are going to be okay.

The calm movement of their pace- the sail boat of them arrive to her. Turned over and floating. And all three moving to shore as one. She sits in the beginning part of the lake cradled by the bottom her toes could not find. The water visiting her. And then leaving again. It mimics her breathing. My body caresses the sand, the bottom of this lake, next to her. We embrace and you are okay and you did a great job are the only words that can be produced from this mouth. We walk slowly on the sand. Footprints in and out. Proof we are there. Were there. I need milks-she breaths.

It was life or death and finally I wasn't scared. And somehow the life of the death of it all happening really happening made all the worry and worry and work and escape and working on not being scared toss away and gave birth finally to faith. Faith in myself. Finally it had been life or death and I wasn't scared.

betrayed by this good friend along the road of life

hello friends,

thanks for stopping by as always. and don't be alarmed. i am okay. this was written a few months ago after i got some unanticipated test results. i repeat i am okay. but this piece captured the moments of the betrayal of this body.

Unmasked. The unmasked stood before me. I didn't know this. I didn't recognize this. But the unmasked it stood before me. I knew. I knew. I knew. That it wouldn't be good news. I didn't recognize this unmasked barrier of bad news for it was a different kind. But I knew the look. The look of the grayness of the eyes never making eye contact that mattered, the facial figures blending in together, the non-descriptiveness of it all. And inside of me. The remembering of a late night phone call of the worst news. The across country call of coming home because of sickness and fear of death. Starting to pulse in and out of my frame of this body. I knew this unmasked figure. I knew it or he or she was bringing me news. Not the best news as the platter what exposed for me to see.

And I have now crossed over into a place where the healthiness of this body I can't exactly control. And truth be told we never could. We thought we could. It was before the worry of tests. And test results. And genetics. And my ability to make babies. Once I wanted to.

This body, this athletic body, has not failed me once. I didn't always win the race. But it always carried me. But these feet with a high arch and toughness from years of barefoot walking and running had never let me down. These legs. Legs carved muscular through years of sports and running and swimming and now yoga and zumba have held my ground in ways I was thankful. My stomach. My anchor my way of knowing right and wrong was a pretty good team player too. To my chest and heart- the comfort of the heart and know it will beat in and out and hasn't stopped yet. To my breasts thankful that they decided to debut later in life in college but sometimes now wanting to put them on the shelf when not needed. Like when I want to take a run around the block. My arms- my right stronger than the left that has been know to hug and hold and sometimes used in arm wrestling. And these hands. These wrinkled hands of irish inheritance, my hands, my mother's, and my brother's, and a younger version of my grandmothers. The fingers have walked and jumped and spread over papers and keys on computers and the discovering the map of anothers hand or to squeeze an arm in encouragement and connection.

My body. My body I have so much to be thankful for. And we have been good friends along the road of this life. But in the unmasking of results. Test results. Not fatal. Not deathly. But not pleasant. And decisions to be made of next steps. Makes me feel betrayed. Betrayed by this body. Betrayed by my dear friends who have helped me along the way. Betrayed in knowing I can't control it. And never could. And as anxiety sets in I can't help but think I will all be okay. For it always has been. Okay. And a blimp on the radar of health in our modern time could really make the difference in the future in ways it couldn't before. In living in prevention, we sometimes have things unmasked before we are ready. Betrayed I feel but faith in having that this body, this body that has never failed me. Yet. Won't fail me today. Or tomorrow.

my drug of choice is success, at least it used to be

The first time she saw it this way was after a lifetime of conversations and pondering and wondering and putting herself under the microscope of why do I do the things I do. Some people never do that. Reach your hands and arms and other limbs under the glass to be held there and reviewed and examined. Oh I see here what we have. It was when she sat there wondering. After a conversation, a conversation she has had many times. Almost always the same. The undertone of it. Facing a different face. Similar words. And other than the task of being present. She couldn't help but wonder. What was her drug? Drug of choice. What was her way to escape?

And as she sat there in the others culmination of running away and being sent away and experimentation at a youngish age. It was the first time she actually understood as she examined the cells and movement of herself as the scientist and the sociologist and psychologist. Her own personal. Research. It is somehow easier to understand others than ourselves. So as the light shone down on her own white irish skin of “winter” of san francisco. It was there- success was her drug.

Success was her drug. Not in a way that she pushed small children and dogs to get on the top. But the addiction to success being successful and smart and capable were her escape were her drug. Her own success was so paramount she would give up sleep and drink buckets of coffee and run hard and fast from jobs to school to research projects maybe grabbing a drink of relaxation on the way. See as she, as I stood on the path on that crossroads of life in a childhood that made a lot more nonsense than sense, her body, my body moved to the side of running hard and fast towards success in school. In life. In jobs. No one could tell me no.

I didn't frolic with the drugs or the sex or the not going to school. The typical rebellion of teenagers multiplied by responsiblities and missing parents and new step parent which complicated it all. It is hard to find yourself amongst others for everyone. I don't know, know, when I sat at the crossroads or how I made my decision. But praise was mine breakfast, lunch, and dinner in assignments with student body this with captain that with church youth group leader on top of the heap of successes. Then college acceptances and scholarships rolled down the belt. I stopped looking at them and barely soaking them in and just discarded them in the pile next to me. Look at me. Look at all my success. How important I must be.

The drug of success inspired me to do much and to do it well. But without my own protection of anxiety and empathy and finding the new gift of failure I don't know who I might have become. Today. Although grateful for not having to release in the typical escapades. I did escape in a way. A way that did make me successful. But also made me move too fast and too hard and make being the best a price too high.

My drug and my desire for it is still with me as I breathe in and out and walk around this street, in this city, in my school, in my grad school, in this coffee shop. My need for it exists. Another hit of it would satisfy that little girl at the crossroads of life. It would make her happy. I still look for it. But in finding failure, I found what real success could be and it isn't the cookie cutter life I thought I had wanted all along.

falling rain walking in redemption

thanks for stopping by as always. written from the prompt faith after a hard day at school. and so happy for a break in the clouds. i need the sun now.

Faith. As the cross between rain and mist saturate my skin with a spa touch I know I have to have faith. Faith in my work. Faith in my students. Faith in redemption and the possibility of it. As I open those doors from my public to private life to walk home-the drizzle brings a great relief that I don't find myself covering up or protecting myself from it. The dampness of the spray brings a relief from a hard day. Relief from what just happened and relief in the possibility of my faith as I step one foot in front of another. The wet sprays my face relieving and allowing for my own wetness to fall. I move slowly as I walk home. With sadness in my eyes, with contemplation across my lips, with disappointment living on my nose, faith finds a place in the lines between my eyes and loosens my face. It is strange when you have this look how many people mostly men will look at you. And try to speak to you. As if your sadness might be a sign of weakness a biological need to be saved. No one to save me. But this water washing over me to begin again. But this put the foot in front of the other. But the faith I found in believing. In believing in the possibility of change.

Yesterday at school my student got caught for a serious offense. An offense that included the dean and the authorities and his family members. A kind of offense that gets you kicked out of school. A kind of offense that gets you a record. At first as I heard the news, I sat down and it slipped off me. There was a pause and disappointment. But it wasn't until I saw his face. His face before he made the walk down the hall and the stairs to a future he was uncertain of. A conversation I knew was about to happen. He walked not knowing what was to come. I stood in that hallway watching him walk away and I froze. Do I go after him to say anything? Do I let him walk along side this security guard to his destiny? I let him face it alone. Part of this job is letting go. Letting them fly alone. But knew and hoped that I might be able to talk to him. For this moment. But to let him know we were still here. Here for him. For I might not see him again. And a relationship built in writing during a volunteer project became me giving him cliff bars and taking walks and discussions about life and future and choices. There was a gift in that.

As I walked in to the room. I didn't know what I was to say. He looked up into my face. And the first thing he did was cry. Wetness fell down his face. He had held it together until he saw me. Someone who believed in him, someone who he had disappointed. Someone who he trusted and shared more than with many. And in that moment. I know the only thing I can do is sit there. Be there. Help him get through this moment. And let him know. He is more than this. More than a dealer. For he is. As he wipes away the tears, we all are heavy in the sorrow of mistakes made and what would happen next. Consequences are important to make us stop. Stop in our tracks. And the choice we have to decide whats next. Choose right or left. I didn't leave his side until I had to. I knew that being there and caring was more important than the yelling and lecturing and legal troubles that would come.

Faith in myself to do the right thing or what I think it is. Faith in this student to be who he dreams. Faith that as I walk, walk home that we all get chances again. I have to believe in redemption. I have to. But now it is something he must face alone. Not with me by his side. But I have faith. That I still might sit there. For him. And as I become more wet from the sky donation above, it washes over me. As I start again too.