Iridescence: A Lyric Exploration

   

That which She who shows luminous colors that seem to change when viewed from different angles is called iridescent. To see from a different angle is a matter of work, a choice.

My continued pursuit of shine: I have chosen to see the future from different angles. Colors illuminate paths of possibility without number, and that which is fixed anchors each: my children, friends and loved ones, community and commune-ity, my faith and the love of God, the need to create and to live an extraordinary life.

February  just past: the culmination of months of depression and stress gnawing at the heart of my beautiful everyday lead me first to prayer, then to a notebook, and then to a doctor.

In the prayer: Here I am. This is quiet. This is mine.

In the notebook: a list of the ways my body feels broken.

From the doctor: you are not sleeping enough. You have not slept enough in almost three years. You are overworking your heart, your stomach, your mind. A note. Take it to the therapist downstairs.

In the notebook that night: Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. They all begin with an edict: cut back at work. Sleep more. Finish school. Mamma more. Quiet thoughts more. Stress less.

The brother-in-law was here from LA before the doctor week and when the brother is here things are easier in many ways. He is a persuasive and gentle salesman for the idea of a move to Burbank, where he and the sister live (one of the sisters). No kids of their own. Commune-ity. Big hearts. There are jobs for me there, and good schools for the kids and sunshine. The beach in one hour one way and the mountains (even snow) in the other. On the phone with the sister she says come in July. The thought goes in the notebook. In Plan B-- a red that fades to orange because it would be hasty but alright. Plan A calls for one more year, cap and gown at almost 37, and then deciding, carefully. Assessing all that is, all that has passed. It is soft mint, like lamb's ear or sage buttercup shoots in spring. Plan C ends in a question mark that looks like home, and has no color that stays.

Best-friend texting:

She. Don't make a decision to fill a void.

Me. Voids must be filled. Even if temporarily or changeably. Close family fills a lot of voids.

She. Love you without location.


With the friend-boss:

Me. I need to leave a little. And then maybe leave more. But my segmented heart is half-rooted here. These people! This garden they grow! I don't know.

She. Leave a little. Get some rest. Tell me more and when. Your roots will transplant if you need them to, but I like them here. Finish school.  We'll see.


With the therapist:

Me. It's really about seeing an end in sight when I need to see a beginning behind. And these high                   expectations.

She. You're very hard on yourself. An A- is a good grade. Many students have fewer                                 children and fewer publication credits than you.

Me. But I am a butterfly. I don't have as much time. I have fears that drive me as much as hope.

She. Tell me about the men.

Tuesday just past: the first day I can feel it, this working less. Money is tighter, but after school, I come home. My children come home. That is new. We have almost five hours together before night falls. This has happened before, but as a fluke, not routine. It is calendared now! I let my sugarless-Lent end early and we eat cake to celebrate. We talk about August and the road trip, and I get a Go-Pro steal off Craigslist for the journey. We talk about hometowns, and wander-lust, roots and wings. The light changes, and Plan A calls out: Wait. It may be Burbank. It may be Missoula. It may be everywhere, in all the colors. Get some more rest but keep working hard. See how the light changes if you just hold on to this beautiful Tuesday, this beautiful everyday, and shine.

The Light of Okay

Dear Ones Who Were There (& Still Are),

Last Thursday I celebrated an important anniversary. It was the 2nd rebirth day of my bionic heart. Because social media is both a blessing and an addictive little booger-of-a-curse, Facebook considerately and persistently reminded me of the memories I had to look back on that day. I read love on the page, and encouragement, hope. I read strength in myself that I'd forgotten I have and I read quiet friends at-the-ready should I be too stubborn to ask for help and call. In looking back, I rediscovered a hope and a light.

Lately, I have struggled to feel and experience things as deeply as I would like. I have felt a numbness creeping in. I think this is in part a side-effect of the political season, which always weighs heavily on my shoulders with its conflict and divisions, and in part the urgency I have felt to speak out and fight against the mass injustice of the world. The poverty. The cruelty. The hatred. The ignorance. The shame.

This is not wrong, but if imbalanced against gratitude it is a heavy way to live. It is a dark way to live, when always, always gratitude for what is good and beautiful and going okay has been my soul's light.

I lost my balance.

But, as I was reminded on Thursday, I am loved, I am blessed, I am grateful, I'm alive! and so much is so much more than alright. I cannot fix the world in this moment. But I can revel in what is working, in beautiful moments and connections, in the eternal beings of my children, in the sensory richness of every day. I can build from that foundation a base of objection and of action, with the light of knowing that all is not lost and much will turn out okay in the end.

Thank you, shining ones, for the love and the moments. You're okay. Bask in that light.

Squeezing It In

If I were to enumerate here the number of things I must/ I tell myself I must get done in a day, there would be no novelty in it. I am like you, and you are like me. But conversations about what we choose, and how we manage those choices are important to have. Often, I think, we feel alone in our struggles to accept our needs, or, conversely, to accept that we just plain don't need the same things all the other ______(moms, women, neighbors, coworkers, friends, people in our family- you choose) do.

Specifically, today's topic of need: exercise.  (Cue eye-rolls. Are we done? Okay.) Some of us feel this need only physically, some emotionally or mentally, some not at all. I feel the need for consistent exercise physically, emotionally and mentally. When I don't get it, I feel weak. Feeling weak causes me stress and I start to feel unequal to the tasks of daily life. This leads to feelings of depression, self-criticism (to which I'm already predisposed), more stress, consumption of excessive carbs and chocolate...

...but it doesn't lead to motivation to exercise. It's a nasty cycle and breaking it is hard. Just committing to that first workout after a few weeks off is the hardest. Best not to get caught to begin with. I must choose, consciously each day, to squeeze exercise in.

My fitness history lacks consistency. In my childhood/ teenagery, I was a competitive swimmer, a cross-country runner, and a roller-skating rink referee (that job will tone your tuchus.) In my young(er) adult years I had babies. I lost the baby weight and stayed mostly fit through breastfeeding, running, some free weights, a really excellent Pilates For Dummies DVD, and walking uphill pushing a stroller. Amber reincarnate discovered Oula and even trained to be an Oula instructor, but was interrupted by life and that whole pesky heart-surgery debacle, on top of early-onset arthritis in both my knees. Which is quite painful at times. Stupid barefoot running trends in the 90's. And now...

One might think that because I work at a Y, finding the time to exercise would be easy. I keep workout clothes in my office. Which is down one flight of stairs from the gym, for pete's sake. But on that list of must-dos (see paragraph one), and I'm not making this one up, is Must Work At Least 32 Hours Per Week So As To Not Be Homeless, while going to school, studying, managing a household, teaching Sunday school, and being all- in for three kiddos- the most important task of all. Sometimes, that bare-minimum half-hour, plus at least 15 minutes to change clothes/ freshen up after, just isn't there. I have found that on days when I plan to exercise during my work day, and things just don't flow that way (my work to-do list is in constant, varied flux), it completely ruins my 'tude.  

This semester (I promise I'm a grown-up), squeezing it in is functioning in three ways:

1. If I get up at 6, when my alarm goes off, and don't fall back asleep (which depends on how late I was up studying/ writing/ eliminating my politically-stupid "friends" on Facebook the night before) then I have time to throw on a sports bra and run through three 7-minute workout circuits before hitting the shower.

2. If I have a load of reading to do after the kids are in bed (and I haven't dozed off while reading Jasper a bedtime story, semi-consciously adding words to the page that just aren't there*), then I can use some combination of my resistance band, yoga mat, and weighted hula hoop for any exercises which can be done while holding a book. There are actually quite a few.

3. If, in the course of rushing back and forth betwixt work and campus each day, I can pull into my parking spot (yes, I have a secret parking spot; no, I won't tell you where it is), which is exactly one mile from campus, with a bare minimum of 19 minutes until class starts, then I can walk instead of riding the bus. I've timed it. It takes me 14 minutes exactly to walk to the corner of campus in winter weather, 12 when the sidewalks are clear. Which leaves 5-7 minutes to get to the right building, fill the water bottle, hit the bathroom, and find a seat before classwork officially begins. So between there and back, and depending on the day, I can walk 2-4 miles if the fates of time-management help me play my cards right.

Notice how each of these contingencies starts with "if"?

But I'm leaning on them optimistically. They might not help me lose the 20 pounds I didn't have a year ago, but squeezing in at least one each day helps me feel more equal to life's tasks, and better about who I am.




*The words "Fake it, fake it, fake it 'till you make it" actually don't appear in Curious George Flies a Kite. Huh.

Amber June's Guide to Post-Divorce Dating for the Burned and Skeptical Single Mom of Faith

Hey Blogland Beauties. 'Sup? You want to be the next tick on my page counter? I know, I know, I haven't been around. But I'm here now, and I know you want to read ALL my words.

In the two years since my divorce, I've gone from being terrified of dating again, to having a lot of fun dating again, to being annoyed with dating and all single men, to coming to peace with the possibility of spending the rest of my life alone and actually being okay with that prospect. I mean, the closet space alone is a compelling factor. But we'll come to that.

I've spent a lot of time wondering if my random dating-after-divorce / online-dating-related thoughts and experiences could be of help to anyone and I've concluded that they will probably not. Because, whatever stage of the above cycle you, or the person you know who just got divorced whom you're going to tell to read this, or their cousin Sheila who's been divorced for a year and needs to get "back in the saddle" is in, I feel that it's a cycle every divorcee/ widow/ widower has to go through on their own, in some form, in order to be truly ready to be in a relationship again. That's right, she said it: you must be happy and at peace with the prospect of being alone for the rest of your life before you're ready to make a relationship work again. But, regardless of the potential unhelpful-ness of my messy experiences and jumbled thoughts, I'm writing this anyhow. For my own sanity's sake.

Why online dating? Why thank you for asking, blogland.

There are a lot of factors at play here. For me. online dating has had the following advantages:

-I work. I go to school. I raise three kids. I do all the requisite errand-running and selective adventure-seeking consistent with that life. And if I haven't yet met someone in real-life along my real-life paths, I doubt it will happen that way.  I also live in a relatively small community with a shallow dating pool. Apply my moral/ spiritual/ social/ intellectual standards to the prospects and the field is narrowed considerably. With internet dating sites, the dating field has no geographical bounds.

-My ideals are high and specific. I am a person of spiritual conviction and would like to meet someone who shares, or, at the very least, is willing to consider sharing my faith. He must respect my standards. He must be a gentleman. He must be ready to step in to the role of very involved stepdad to three children with strong standards and personalities of their own.  He must be driven, passionate, honest, kind, creative, strong and gentle, with a sense of humor and confidence. He must be looking for me.  With online dating, I can peruse profiles like they're job applications and send subtle reconnoitering messages to potentials who meet certain criteria (has job, can spell, profile pic does not include dead deer/ elk/ bear/ fish/ excessive sports team paraphernalia, etc.). I can eliminate men based on their poor grammar usage, height, political affiliation, inability to communicate about themselves intelligently, or whatever else I choose without ever hurting anyone's feelings in real life.

-Online dating just plain saves time. And I don't have time to waste. By reading someone's profile, I can get all the information I might otherwise have to extract in awkward first-date conversation and decide if the subject is worth my energy. Where are you from. What do you do. Where did you go to school. Divorced/ widowed/ never married. Politics. Religion. Poor habits. Weaknesses/ strengths. It's all there on page one if you know how to read it. I have also developed into the type of online-dater who has the chutzpah to ask very direct questions or make very direct assessments after the first two or three message exchanges when, in person, social conventions would dictate those conversations be reserved for date three or later.

-My geographically-expanded dating experiences of the last two years have twice led me to travel to places I wouldn't have otherwise in order to give a man a chance. I will never complain about a chance to travel, even if, in the end, the men didn't make the cut.

However, online dating has had this one big disadvantage:

-People lie. And while they lie in person too (Heaven knows I've been on the receiving end of real-world dishonesty), it's a little easier to get away with it, against an all-too-trusting person like me, on the Internets.

My fragile heart has been stomped by liars. But before we go there, please enjoy these entertaining conversational gems my online dating presence has gleaned. And before you ask: Yes. For real.

"It makes my head hurt."


Man: I see you dont like huntin fishing or four wheeling. We gots all three but seeing as how you keep
looking at my picture I think you could get over that.
Me: *face palm*

---

Me: How long have you been divorced?
Man: Oh my divorce isn't final yet. (Whiny backstory placing all the blame on his wife.)
Me: I'm sorry that you've been through so much. However, if your divorce isn't final, that means you're still
married and our conversation is through.
Man: (Several annoying messages with self-righteous and inapplicable scripture quotations, followed by
assertion that God doesn't mind married men and single women being friends.)
Me: You're right. I don't think God has a problem with men and women maintaining appropriate friendships
regardless of marital status. HOWEVER: While some people may consider being bombarded with unsolicited scriptural condescension to be charming, I am among those who find it to be harassing, demeaning, and to smack of arrogance. Telling someone who hasn't asked, when the subject hasn't been raised, how the demise of your marriage is all your wife's fault also betrays nothing so much as a weak attempt to cover your tracks, and again: arrogance.  Lastly, are you here for friends? Because I'm not. I have friends. I have so many friends, in fact, that I really don't have time for more. What I don't have and would like to have is a husband and  that is why I am here. However, even if I were looking for friends, I would not look in the pool of bitter, still-married men who attempt to justify their unjustifiable presence on dating websites by saying they're "getting divorced anyway" and "just looking for friends."

---

Man: I see you're a poet. I don't know about that. With the exception of Edna St. Vincent- Millay, I don't
think women have the courage to experiment with language the way a poet should.
Me: I see why you're single.
Man: Oh come on. I was just joking. Seriously, who says that?
Me: The man who has paid no attention to his audience- a woman who has a clear command of language
as well as the ability and courage to do anything she damn well pleases- says that. The man who thinks
that a "women can't" statement in any form, whether in seriousness or jest, is EVER acceptable says
that. And also, the man who obviously has extremely limited experience with poetry and literature to
begin with says that.


Okay, okay. That last Me throw-down happened in my head. I ignored his bully's defense. But I wish I hadn't. Your ONE female poet reference is Edna St. Vincent-Millay? Honestly.

Moving on. Beyond the slog of chauvinists, big-heads, and dullards, I have met some kind and good men. A teacher in California, who, ultimately didn't want to leave CA anymore than I want to leave MT. An intelligent and respectful contractor from Idaho...who really needed a mother for his eight children. #sorrynotme. You're a nice guy, but not me. A Denver consultant. An Oklahoma professor. For several months, at the beginning of last -year, I enjoyed a truly old-fashioned exchange of thoughtfully written, beautifully crafted letters with a dad of three boys in Spokane. We met, once, when I was in Spokane for other reasons, and ultimately, mutually decided that we were only meant to be friends. The letters tapered off after that, on both our parts, but I have kept every one of them and think often of how nice it was, for those few months, to sit in a quiet house, late at night, arranging my thoughts on the page for his in return.

In the very beginning of my post-divorce dating, there was California Man. Truly a rebound relationship, but I won't deny how much I learned. About myself. About what I want. About my tendency to accept what is unacceptable because it's not as bad as it could be or as bad as I've had it in the past. He was worth the trial run, California Man. Though not worth any more time than I gave him, and certainly not worth the rest of my life.

And most recently (aside from a couple of in-person, half-hearted one-or-two date wonder flops), there was McCall man.

Raw honesty time. Remember the aforementioned liars? McCall man was the best. For all I knew he was kind and fun, handsome and tall, intelligent and talented, driven, confident, stable, and gentle. I loved our conversations (an enormously important factor for me), and I loved his presence when we were together. He created a lie of who he was, of his devotion to me, his understanding of me, and of our future life together, which was so effective and so deeply fulfilling that I felt I had finally found the man with whom I could happily spend the rest of my days. Worse, he drew my children and his children into this happy-blended-family lie, to which I committed my heart and mind. I fell for it. And when truth ran us down in the golden road I experienced a different kind of fall: into a depression deeper and longer than any I've ever felt. I mourned the loss of McCall Man as much as, if not more than, the loss of my marriage. Because, while it was brief, while it was not real, I have never felt more loved. My resilient children, thankfully, were not as exposed as I was to the dream, and not hit nearly as hard. And his children...I don't know. I think of them often and wonder if they're used to repeated hope and loss.

It's been nine months, and the world moves on, hearts slowly trailing behind. The pain of McCall Man and my foolishness have faded far into the background of my joyous, beautiful life, yet not entirely disappeared. A wise friend of mine and I have set a three-month deadline for me to finish the process of grief, to chalk up my lessons-learned, and to let it go. And I will. He will never again dim my light, my commitment to shine.

So that closet space. :) It's good. Leaving the over-involved-with-dating-websites phase of my life behind is good. Independent decision-making (parenting, financial, career, education, travel...). It's very good. And most of all, in the last two-ish years, I have come to see that stepping away from the need to date entirely, from the need to be romantically loved, peacefully and happily owning my dual-parent role and my (not) alone-ness, is beyond good. It is what my family really needs, and what I need, in the end.  
 
That's my guide, I suppose. Learn from my mistakes. Make your own. Protect your children. Pray. But know that you are enough, alone. You are capable of happiness, of adventure, of changing the world, with or without a partner at your side. Love is nice, and I won't say I wouldn't still like to find it, but it's not a need anymore. I won't say no to the right love if it comes and at the same time, I won't seek it quite so intently any longer. I will seek family and faith and adventures and humanity and service and words and beauty and me.

Love,

Soul Song Sunday: These Waters

Part of my goal for 2016: Shine, Soul Song Sunday posts will feature some expression of my spiritual thoughts or feelings of late. Poetry, prose, image, quote, or song, these posts will be my imperfect hallelujah, and open prayer.

Tonight I am sharing a poem which was inspired by a few words spoken in church last week, words which caught my ear and grew to something within me. Here is that something.


These Waters

These waters are washing our

homes into the fields and the

fields, the red rocks, the heathered hills

into our homes.

These waters are rising above our

fault-lines and sight-lines and

love-blinds. Our eyes are

turning starward, Godward,

holy silent cries.

Give me stilts to stand on.

Give me cupped hands to bail.

Light the striatious places with un-fleeting light.

Let my child and my neighbor be among the

survivors when

These waters are receding, riven clans and

fractured nations deep in mending pull. And

aired, dried we lie down in the Sun.

Love,

Experience Before Possession or More Adventures, Less Stuff

Not long ago, a friend and I had a conversation that shed a new light on a long-held conviction of mine: that living life is better than owning it, that the value of experience is higher than the value of possession. Or, as one of my sisters often puts it in motto form: More Adventures, Less Stuff. This friend pointed out a scientific study that indicated people who choose to invest in experiences rather than objects identify as being happier than their stuff-hoarding counterparts. Of course, at the time of this conversation I already knew that adventure was my preference. It is not in me to be satisfied with living a mundane, average, or tedious life. And I knew that the adventures (however small-scale or large) I have often plotted and planned and carried out for my children and I are our most valuable educational resource. I knew experiences of exposure to new people, new ideas, new places, arts, culture, nature, science, service, empathy...these are the makings of knowledge that shapes this life for us and leaves this life with us, unlike anything that can be bought. But I had never before really applied the thought that now seems so obvious: we are happier for the things we do. And, perhaps more importantly, can be made unhappy by the things we have, if they are too much, or not the right things, or more important to us than living life.

Four months ago, my children and I moved from a 3000 square foot house to a 900 square foot apartment. We reduced our possessions-- our stuff--by at least 60%. It was, at first, difficult to decide what would stay and what should go, but when we really thought about the ways we use our time, and the ways we would like to use our time, rather than the ways we were trying to make ourselves want to use our time, the task sorted itself out. Which toys did the children actually care about? Which books did they actually read? Which arts/ crafts projects was I actually going to do and which was I just hauling around from place to place, telling myself that the me who doesn't use her time that way is an unacceptable version of me? Even in the matter of my wardrobe (and you know I love me some clothes and accessories and shoes), I said goodbye to the things that were not bringing me joy. Small space living is intentional. It is systematic. It requires careful choice and thought. We have found our new home to not only be much more manageable and to bring us together more, but we have also found more freedom in the purposeful ways we choose what stays in our home and what goes.


I do not belittle the experiences of everyday when a life is well-lived. The human connections. The selfless service. The beauty to be found in the simplicity of home. But I also esteem travel, and have always, always loved to explore the world. In the last two years, with the financial decisions and priorities finally being my own, we've been able to make regular trips to see family, to meet friends, to explore new places like never before. Even when money is tight, you just decide what matters. Personally, I am willing to take risks and cut corners elsewhere for an unforgettable, adventure-filled life. Last year, with my theme of House in Order , part of my focus was to arrange our finances and time in a way that would make it possible for us to travel more in the future. And we got a good start. For Christmas our big family gifts were ASTC passes, and tickets to see Newsies in Spokane in May (experience +  experience). This year, staying on that trajectory, the kiddos and I spent New Year's Eve planning what is to be our most epic summer road trip yet. We talked about the sacrifices we'd have to make to make it happen. The lack of stuff. And I think we can do it, blogland. We'll go from our home in Missoula to my sister and bro-in-law's home in L.A., stopping all along the way to visit family, friends, historic sites, holy temples, national parks, ASTC museums, and whatever strikes our fancy. Then, after a few days in La-La-Land, (with maybe a little Wizarding World of Harry Potter thrown in there, if we can swing it), we'll come back home by way of the 101, driving all the way up the Pacific coastline. Again, stopping to see friends and have more beautiful adventures on the way.

It's a tall order, I know. It's a big dream. But it's the dreams, big or small, not the fancy things, that make life a happy adventure worth living.  

2016: Shine

I am not a resolution maker. Or, rather, I suppose I once was, but when I discovered, after years of trial and error, that I am not a resolution keeper, I resolved to restructure my efforts. (Did she just make a resolution?) I have learned that my life is a work of art, and I don't do well defining it rigidly. I function much more happily within the flexible structure of over-arching themes and "knowns" about myself and others around me, which are always open to discovery and growth. So last year, in lieu of a resolution, I chose a New Year's Theme. It was "House in Order," based not so much on the R.E.M. song Wolves, Lower  as the scripture D&C 88:119

Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a ^bhouse, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God;

although the song gets stuck in my head every time I think about it.

Putting my house in order over the last year has been an imperfect process, and has led me on paths I did not expect. I knew when I chose the theme that it was necessary in my life in so many ways. The kids and I had been on our own for a year and the dust was beginning to settle. The rubble needed to be cleared away and that had implications spiritual, financial, educational, emotional... in every way. I did not expect, on January 1 2015, that this commitment would lead me to a new position at work (I see it as connected, though others may not), a new car, some eliminated debt, the reduction of our material possessions by well over 50%, and, in the fall, moving from a house we adored to a smaller, more affordable and more manageable apartment closer to work, church, and (for me) school. But I trusted in the process. I trusted in the refining pain and the celebratory freedom that came, and this year, through ups and downs, I have felt so very much ALIVE.  The children continued to heal and grow and find order in their own self-awareness, the house of their souls. And though it is not definitively laid out before us, I can see the order of a future-- a beautiful future for my little family ahead.

This year, the theme I have chosen is, simply, "Shine." The thought bowled me over as I was preparing a Christmas lesson for my Sunbeams class at church (three and four year olds) and contemplating the star of Bethlehem. Phrases such as "goodness and light" and words such as "holy" and "glorious" rang in my mind. I knew that this year, 2016, would be about shining my light.

What that means to me: It means bringing, in any way I can, light into the lives of others, my children first of all. It means being unafraid of giving, loving, sharing, seeking, growing, risking, failing, and repeating in a way that adds up to a life which might inspire someone. Even one someone. It means shaking off anything that holds me back, hides my light, or makes me afraid. It means accepting both pain and happiness, hard work and vital play as necessary to illuminate the soul. To shine. It means flying like a fragile burning ember against the dark, on the hope of being someone's wising star.

And I *might* just try again to write about it all here, like I used to...but with more SHINE.

Love,  

The Blessed Hope of Domesticity...and Benedict Cumberbatch

I have lately been moved by a good deal of poetry. It could be that I'm reading more than my usual ration, what with the whole "English major" and all, but I'd like to think the particular poems which have been thrust via syllabi into my hands are meant, kismetly (no, I did not adverb that word, Kristen Stewart did.), for me. Matthew Arnold (kind of a prick, in my humble opinion, but I like some of his postulations) predicted in his "The Study of Poetry" in 1869 that

More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to 

interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our science will 

appear incomplete; and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy

will be replaced by poetry.

I don't know about replacement, strictly speaking, but I think Mr. Arnold is right in his forecast of humankind's increasing reach for truth and meaning and the increasing succor found in the carefully chosen, evocative words of poesy. There is something intuitively soul-searching about poets, something naked and raw and universally familiar about their successful work; something Alice Notley would affectionately call disobedience--the refusal to meet expectations or follow forms, but a commitment to portray truths only the artist knows. The beauty in this disobedience, I find, is that it turns out the readers (at least some of them) know these same truths as well, and the poem then becomes "obedient," if you will, to the common threads of human experience.

I love every moment I get to spend expanding my learning and every thought I am blessed to explore, but this is all so very much to think about, and there is within me so very very much to write. Some nights, after my little ones are in bed, and my head is swimming with the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Bishop and Allen Ginsberg, and I'm trying to finish listening to the audio recording of Heart of Darkness without retching, solidify a thesis for my "Darkling Thrush"/ "Carrion Comfort" essay, and decide if my MFA emphasis should be poetry or fiction (yep--that decision is already stressing me), I find I am in need of some simple ground to stand on. I think of that thrush, Hardy's thrush--my favorite bird amongst the many poetically present in the works of those fun-loving Romantic and Victorian Brits--and the "blessed hope" trembling through "his happy good-night air." A hope whereof the poem's speaker claims to be "unaware," but, I think, if he were really as unaware and as despairing as he would like to be, he wouldn't hear it at all. And my "blessed hope," my simple ground to stand on, if that makes any sense at all, becomes domesticity. I clear my head and regain my focus by doing something, anything, of the homemaking variety for the benefit of my family.

This is my truth: one of the comments I most often receive on my writing is that it has a certain domestic feel. Often, that's unintentional. It's just there because it's me on the page and that's who I am. If I feel like my children are washed and nurtured, food is prepared, clothes are clean and mended, activities are planned and packed for, I can put my mind to the task of learning and analyzing, absorbing and creating with clarity and care. So yes, folding laundry helps me see the themes of feminism in Tennyson. Filling the freezer with homemade burritos and the pantry with trail-mix snack bags gets me thinking on experimental syntax. And sometimes, not thinking about anything literary at all but instead watching Sherlock (*sigh* Benedict Cumberbatch) while putting away the dishes or sorting the coat closet gives my brain just enough of a breather to help me make decent comments in class discussions the next day. (Okay, lie. Sherlock actually can't  be watched without literary thoughts crossing the brain. The revival of a classic! The modern take! The narrative! The allusions!)

A list, if anyone's interested, of the recently read poems that speak to me:

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
Carrion Comfort by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sections 50, 54, and 55 of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam
Lines 470-481 of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh
Ode to A Nightingale by John Keats (Cumberbatch bonus!)
Her Kind by Anne Sexton

Others, I confess, have been my own, and I'm not *quite* ready to share. The small happiness I have in feasting on them is, for now, just mine.

What is your truth? Where do you see it in art? In life?

xo

An ICD

Last Tuesday, at 5:30 am, I woke and dressed myself, fixed my hair and my face. I skipped breakfast. I kissed my sleeping little ones and thanked my Mom for staying to get them off to daycare and school. Then my Dad and I got in my car in the still darkness and drove to the International Heart Institute at St. Patrick Hospital. 

My attempt to dispel my own fear through fashion and humor. 

It wasn't a question, anymore, of whether the procedure was the right choice for me. I've lived with Long QT Syndrome all my life without knowing it; the Junctional Bradycardia came later, but two types of heart disease working in tandem was finally becoming more than my brave little ticker coud take. I was out of breath and having flutters all the time. My hands constantly shook, my feet and ankles swelled, my heart rate was far too low, my blood pressure was far too low and bottomed out when I exercised.  I waited for what one doctor told me was my "inevitable" cardiac arrest. It was time. 

And I was/am grateful. Despite my nervousness for the surgery, I can't deny my wonder and awe of the technology. After two hours of prep, question-answer sessions, including holding a model of the soon-to-be-in-my-body device in hand, and convincing my very good-natured doctor to make the necessary scar shaped like a lightning bolt- I even brought him the template I'd made Monday night-and easing into the conscious sedation, I was in the operating room. 

I tried to get the whole surgical team to squish in for a picture before they took my phone away, but I felt very disconnected from both my brain and my thumbs at that point. I remember blaming my inability to take the shot on the lead walls of the room, which, I'm fairly certain, is not true. There was an enormous computer screen, and. I vaguely recall Bearded Surgical Man pointing to some charts and stats on the screen and saying, "that's you." This thrilled me to no end. So much so, that, after transferring myself (I'm sure I had help) from the cath lab bed to the operating table and complaining that the bed had been more comfortable, I fell sound asleep. 

I'm certain, in the course of the next two to three hours, many medically miraculous things happened. I had a blue sheet over my face. I remember, at one point, trying to sit up so that I could make sure Riley had gotten on the school bus, and the nurse reassured me that my Mom was taking care of my kids. I remember thinking, repeatedly and very intently, that I wanted to look at what was happening, but I'm not sure if I actually said it out loud. The moment when they took the blue sheet down and I saw only bandaging on my chest was a disappointment, as if I had missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because I hadn't made myself heard. 

They let me keep my earrings in. Just tucked them in the hair net. 

Wheeling out of the OR and into recovery, the nurse, Theresa, must have given me my phone back because I made a ten-second video of nothing and immediately started taking pictures. 

I know my parents took turns sitting with me in recovery...some fuzzy remnant memory of my Mom spoon-feeding me cream of wheat (heehee: Warm Bodies ), and me telling her how I'd organized the lumber mill, exists but that is all. Then suddenly, and I honestly don't remember the changing of the guard, but she was gone, and my bestie Sandi was there. 

I know I was happy to see her, but as far as my own memory goes, I have no idea what we talked about or anything that happened in those hours. Sandi tells me I insisted on getting up to go to the bathroom by myself and nearly fainted, imitated the accent of my Bulgarian nurse, Seva, and ate a chicken chef salad and a strawberry milkshake. I got nothin. 

Some love from my kiddos once I got to a private room...

...one rough, painful, emotional night in the hospital...

...and suddenly I was home. Transformation to bionic woman complete. 

I know I needed to do this. I know that, in time, this device will simply become a part of me and I won't notice it working the way I do now. I won't even think about it. And, even if I do, the thoughts will be of gratitude that I don't have to worry, like I used to, about my heart stopping at any moment of any day. The pacing function of my device corrects the Bradycardia and can, if necessary, attempt to even out arrhythmias. And the defibrillator function will save my life if/when that day comes. 

This Tuesday, I will visit the heart institute again to have my device tested and my lightning bolt scar unveiled. Of course I'll post pictures and an update. Until then, rest. Reflection. Gratitude for my family and friends who are helping me through, gratitude that my daughter does not have to go through this yet, but if that changes, her life can be protected and preserved through technology as well, and gratitude for every beat of my heart. 

Lorrie, Joanna, and Me

In accordance with the pledge I made in, er, November, to share my writing more regularly (actually I think I said "daily" and then begged for reinforcements of flattery), here are a couple of pieces which have come out of my recent poetry and creative writing workshops. Open to critique.

In this class exercise the idea was five minutes to write a scene in which infidelity is revealed, using the style of an author we had recently read. I chose Lorrie Moore. 

She is in the middle of apologizing to him for the bruise on his face,  a by-product of last night's vivid storytelling gesticulations, when he tells her he's been sleeping with his secretary. The air immediately surrounding her head reverberates with the echoes of a half-million decent screenwriters cringing at once. She drops her coffe cup. 

Here is the picture: white sofa, silver chair, basket of oranges on the dark wood table, morning sun, curtains half-drawn, coffee--two sugars no cream--on the carpet. She is standing. He is sitting. Somewhere, Woody Allen strikes a typewriter key and changes her fate. 

This poem draft is the result of an exercise in which each class member selected words, lines, or phrases at random from another poet's published work, then altered, arranged, and added to those lines to create a poem. So I can claim the beauty in arrangement here, but the majority of the words belong to Joanna Klink. 

Beyond the crumbling walls,

Pale pink as the daylight, 

A woman sifts through paper.

Barely perceptible, she becomes forceless. 

Close to animal, the man understands very little.

He forgets her. 

I can think of three ways frost burns, 

But reason wilts like other things. 

The woman dips her hands into the river,

Gratified to think no one has noticed her. 

But we are here, 

Beyond the crumbling walls,

The man and I. 

Reasons Y

To counterbalance last week's frustrated rant, and for the good it does my soul to speak positive truths, I'll share some gratitude today. A couple of years ago I shared a post on the joy our family found in joining our local YMCA. With all the things that have changed in our lives, this is one that has not. I work at the Y now, part-time, and last week I had the opportunity to speak at a luncheon to a group of coworkers and fundraiser volunteers about my experience with this incredible organization. I've taken out the names of the people I mentioned, just for privacy's sake, but the rest of that speech is here, word for word. I mean each one. 

::::::

I want to thank you all for the opportunity to come here today and share my Y story. My story is very personal, but I believe it is in the moments when we, as a Y family touch each others' lives personally that the true worth and value of the YMCA organization is revealed. Through the three tenets of the Y vision--Social Responsibility, Healthy Living, and Youth Development--we have daily opportunities to share the human experience and affect lives in our community. My family's life has been positively impacted by the Y in more ways than I can express.

In September of 2013, just before I began working here in Childwatch, my thirteen year marriage came to a sudden and unexpected end. Saying nothing of the emotional devastation his absence wreaked upon me and my three children, the financial support he provided for us was very suddenly and very drastically reduced. I, a veteran stay-at-home-mom of nine years, who'd dropped out of college to move for her husband's career, found myself in the position of parenting and providing for three young children 90% on my own. I was determined to take care of them, to heal, to go back to school, to work hard and show my children how to rise above the hard knocks of life, but I needed help. I needed childcare for Jasper, my youngest. I needed a safe and healthy environment for Laurelei and Riley, my oldest and middle, to be in after school. I needed a place where I could come and get the regular exercise I need to manage the heart condition which affects me. And then, as the year progressed and my daughter Laurelei was diagnosed with the same potentially fatal congenital heart disorder, I also needed her to be around people who would look out for her, people who knew how to use an AED, people who could keep her safe while still allowing her to be the irrepressibly active kid she is. 

Through the generosity of donors who make program and membership assistance possible, we have found what we need--and beyond that, what we want and love: an environment which has strengthened us through the most difficult trials of our lives--here at the Y. ___'s help was invaluable in helping me to set up our family membership in an affordable way. In a matter of just one day, ___ and ___ and I were able to get Jasper set up for daycare at the Development Center, and later I applied for and received assistance in putting Laurelei and Riley on the Rock Climbing Team. Yesterday at the climbing team's first practice, I showed up at 4:30, ready to brief Coach ___ and Coach ___ on Laurelei's medical condition, only to find they had already been filled in. They were on top of it and knew what to do. 

As a mom who, by necessicity, can no longer be at her children's sides quite as much as she used to be, or quite as much as she'd like to be, I am relieved and grateful to come to the Y each afternoon and find my children happy and engaged in healthy activities. Whether that is Jasper smiling and laughing in the daycare or Laurelei and Riley playing a game in the Youth Center with ____ or ____, or climbing on the rock wall, or running around in the gym, I know they are surrounded by people who truly care for their well being. To also know that circumstance is one which will never be dictated by our financial status is an added comfort and blessing. I am determined that someday I will be the donor who writes the check that changes a Y family's life. Thank you, each of you, for volunteering your time to help the Y and so many families like mine. 

::::::

An American Childhood

I am frustrated recently, but particularly today, with myself, with this culture of busyness and over-achieving expectations that is the way of the modern American family and with my submission to it, against my better judgement and wishes. Does anyone else feel, I wonder, that our protestations are worthless? Because, in the end, what is our choice?

I spent an hour last night googling "time management skills for kids," "too much homework for elementary schoolers" and "teaching kids to be self-directed." I hated that hour. But night after night, weekend after weekend, I find myself nagging my fourth grader to catch up with all the schoolwork she's not getting done in class and in homework time. My stomach turns as I, standing beneath the embroidered Play is the Work of Children wall hanging in my living room, cut her play time short or make her free reading time dependent upon schoolwork accomplishments. And when she brings home high test scores but low overall grades because her work is not done, I don't know what to think or do or say.  I hear myself, as if it not myself, rushing her and her brother to school each morning, quick breakfast in hand, saying "if you don't learn to hurry you won't make it in this world." 

What the hell?

I have become, in my singledom, that parent I always judged so harshly. That parent who uses the school system for childcare because I HAVE to go to work and to school. That parent who doesn't serve on the PTO or volunteer in the classroom or get involved in anyway because there is literally NO TIME. I am the mother who hates the system of busy work and pointless desk assignments and government testing, but does nothing about it because she can't even figure out what to do about paying the bills. I conform and I push my children to conform, all the while telling them it's wrong, wrong, wrong. 

What do I do?

My children's extracurricular activities are minimal and, I feel, really more valuable to their development than many aspects of school. My time, on the rare occasions when we are home together, I focus on them, leaving my own studying for midnight or between classes or when they are at dad's. We don't watch tv, or play video games, or waste time in any other way. I try hard, so hard, to allow them time to eat well, to wonder and talk and discover. But it's not enough. I feel I am building broken children, only slightly more whole than their broken parents by virtue of their natural strengths. 

Reason would tell me I have two choices:

Opt out. Out of society, out of school. Go off the grid or out of the country and let my children grow up in wild wanderlust, isolated from deadlines, grade books, and competitions of social expectations. If I were independently wealthy I might give this some serious thought. 

Or

Get married again, and share the burden of providing and the responsibility of parenting with someone else, hopefully creating in that convergence some time not spent rushing and pushing and nagging to do, go, be. But at what cost to me, and the emerging sense of self-worth I have grappled to cultivate in the last six months? At what cost to my independence and goals and plans? At what risk to my heart?

I cannot afford option A and I fear option B. 

I suppose there is option C: Find the balance. Guard my words. Teach them what's important and when it's okay to fail. Make sure, somehow, that they are learning, not just memorizing, and that their opening souls are being nourished even more than their minds. And fumble through these years of hurting and healing without looking back in longing for the life that was better in some ways, but never quite right. What we have is now, my three babies and me. An American childhood, in a middling sense, with moments of both the best and worst. 

Butterfly Blessings

During my freshman and sophomore years of college, I was obsessed with butterflies. So much so that when I married at ripe old age of twenty, butterflies were a part of my wedding decorations. And then I let them, out of self-neglect and like so many other aspects of who I am, fade from my life for a very long time.

The day my husband left me three months ago has become, in my mind, the beginning of a journey to rediscover me, and become who I am without him. And, inspired by the somewhat clichéd and overused saying, "Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended, she became a butterfly," the butterfly has become my totem animal once more. My Instagram photos have been tagged with #becomingabutterfly, I've been given butterfly gifts, and my bestie has nurtured and tended the metaphor with metamorphosis-encouraging words of wisdom and images of beauty. One day, when I was feeling particularly imprisoned in my chrysalis, she helped me to remember another, lesser tattooed quote I love which, at one point, had inspired one of my first blogs: "One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar. " Helen Keller. I have felt that impulse growing stronger, and my butterfly wings matching that growth day by day. 

But more than my own metamorphosis, I have felt, through the past months, an abundance of blessings, answers to prayer at the hands of family and friends, and love beyond measure from countless people around me. I have learned to accept help, and to allow others to be blessed by giving that help they sincerely want to give. It has come in the form of plain old cash, of time and kind words, of letters and cards, of meals, of childcare, and, most recently, a home. Even as my children and I prepared to leave our house and move into a tiny, two bedroom apartment-all we could afford- our Father in Heaven blessed us through the service and sacrifice if His servants once again. A couple from our church who own rental houses offered us a house. A house I love already. A house I know they could rent to someone else for twice what they are charging me. But I, humbly and gratefully, have accepted this help, this blessing, and pledged to live up to it. 

And so this week, Thanksgiving, with the strength and help of my Mom, and fiercely loyal love from my Dad, my children and I left Moon Cottage, a house we waited so long to have for Orchard Corner, a house we never expected, which has already lifted our hearts and shoulders and brought us love and light. I am thankful beyond words for this blessing on my butterfly journey. I feel I have emerged from my chrysalis, and found a home. 

Words, and the Power Thereof

I love words. This is not news. I have spent a good portion of my life choosing my words, both written and spoken, carefully, sometimes getting it wrong but, I'd like to think, more often than not, choosing words which uplift, paint images of beauty, and inspire. Words have power. They are magic, of a sort. The new novel I began writing this summer is based on that theme. And, though it has been set aside in deference to personal crises for several painful months (see previous post), I am beginning to feel the power of the words calling to me again. 

Ira Glass said that to become great at an art, whether writing or any other form, one must produce a huge volume of mediocre work-in other words, practice work- before mastering that art. And that's total muddled paraphrasing; my apologies Ira. But the gist is that, as I prepare to go back to school as a an English major with an emphasis in creative writing, as I get back to work on my second novel, as I tell people that I hope to work in the book publishing industry, calling my daily to-do lists and one-sentence quasi-daily journaling my "writing" will no longer suffice. I tend to write in bursts, cycling through several weeks of productivity, poetry, outlines, and actual manuscripts, before succumbing to the demands of ordinary life and losing my momentum, which, once lost, is so nimble and flighty a being as to be difficult to capture once more. As in all things, I struggle to find a balance. 

Goal: post a snippet here daily, whether a sample of some fiction from my past or present writing life, the result of a writerly exercise, or the unsolicited opinions and advice and deep thoughts I typically share. Anything more expansive than a to-do list. 

Will you hold me to it, blogland? I do thrive on positive attention and expectations. 

xo

The Space Between

When I last wrote here, I clung to the edges of a life I'd woven, sometimes blindly, which was unraveling even as I continued to bind the strands, trying so hard to make them stay. In the space between then and now, I have seen and felt my marriage falter, without knowing why, then, upon learning why, offered forgiveness, offered my whole heart, my whole being, tried desperately to change and control that which was out of my hands and still, in the end, watched my husband of thirteen years walk away. I have lain in darkness and sorrow and wondered if I should just stay there. But I couldn't stay. Someone called my name: Amber June. Mamma. Daughter. Sister. Friend. And in the darkness I turned toward that someone, those many someones, and saw myself in their light. 

I'm different now. Stronger. Scarred. Smarter. Winged. I carry three little hearts on my heart, and I am finding hope and joy in the journey of rediscovering me. 

There are many practical differences in our daily lives now; quiet nights when the kids are with their Dad. Four at the table. We will leave our beloved Moon Cottage at the end of this month and move into an apartment. Come January, I will do what I've never done with my babies, and leave Jasper in someone else's care while I finish the education I cut short to move for my husband's career. 

I am anxious. But I see so much good in the future for my little ones and me, in spite of and because of this pain. The space between now and then is indefinite. But I am determined there will not be so much space between my shared words, my sacred thoughts, and this place where I scream them quietly from my own little mountain, again. 

What They've Taught Me

I wrote this post months ago and never posted it...not sure why. But here it is. 


 A Not-Nearly-All-Inclusive List of The Number One Thing I've Learned From Each of These Important People in My Life

(how's that for a subtitle?)

   First, my mom. Mammas should always be first. I have very few singualr light-bulb-moment- type memories of my childhood with my mother. What I do have is more of a general feeling of her presence in nearly all my memories. Which, I think, indicates where I learned to be a present parent in my children's lives as much as possible. She was in mine. As to what she taught me, there are many things...how to bake without making a mess in the kitchen...how to fold hospital corners on flat sheets...and to always say 'I Love You' before hanging up the phone (with someone you love, that is). But I think if I had to choose one, I would say, above all,  that my mother taught me I can do anything. If I am still and close my eyes, I can still hear her saying the words. "You can be anything you want to be and do anything you want to do." Never, in all of my growing-up years, did I come to her with some scheme or dream to have her put it down. She never told me something was out of my reach or too hard, no matter how illogical or far-fetched or naive my ideas may have been.

Life Lesson from Mom: I Can Do Anything.

  Then there's my dad. I inherited from my father my love of reading, writing, poetry, vocabulary, classic British literature, and, I dare say, sarcastic wit. In contrast to my mother, whose inadvertent teachings pervade nearly all my memories, when I think of what my father taught me, three very direct, specific things come to mind. The first two have proven useful, if not always 100% accurate pieces of advise: Never vote for anyone with poor taste in neckties, and, When all else fails, try Masterpiece Theater. But it is the third life lesson that I remember most clearly and that has meant the most to me throughout the years: Find out what you believe in, and stand by it. Even if you stand alone. I don't know if my dad remembers the day he said this to me, but I've never forgotten it. He and I sat on the astro-turf covered kitchen porch of our small country house, watching the sunset and talking about things which, I'm sure, were mostly beyond me. At least, I don't remember anymore of the conversation than that. But I've done my best to put that teaching into practice. Ironically, many of the things that I've found I believe in have turned out to be things with which my father would disagree. So, in that sense, I do stand alone. But there it is. We teach our children principles, but we cannot dictate how those principles are applied.

Life Lesson from Dad: Find Out What You Believe In, and Stand By It.

  Now Brian. My husband and best friend of thirteen (at the time I write this) years. I don't even have to pause to think about what he has taught me, because I know it and I am grateful for it everyday. Brian has taught me that Life Can be Fun, Even When It's Not. Shall I expound? Brian has taught me that it's okay to find something to laugh about even when the rent is past due and the fridge is empty and the car needs new tires for winter. It's alright to smile to yourself and sing your favorite song even if the weather is yucky and you were late to work. And it's more than okay, it's absolutely necessary, to be happy even when you have failed. Or lost something or someone you loved.

Life Lesson from Brian: Life Can Be Fun, Even When it's Not.

Laurelei is my first baby. I could say she taught me to be a mother, but that wouldn't be exactly true. The skills of Mammahood are learned through being mothered and grandmothered, through observing other Mammas and applying what's learned. And saying Laurelei taught me that would be not only be a role reversal, but it would also be to place her value in the circumstance of her position, rather than the divine nature of her person, her individuality and soul. My beautiful Laurelei has taught me to Make My Actions Consistent With My Words. I have never met anyone truer to her proclaimed standards, more pure and Christlike and loving and fair in heart than my Laurelei. And when I, in my justifications and laziness, become a hypocrite, she tells me so. I see in her the blessed life of one who walks the walk of unconditional love and sometimes, I just want to be that girl.

Life Lesson from Laurelei: Make Your Actions Consistent With Your Words

Riley. He's sitting here, near me, strumming his out-of-tune guitar. How can I narrow it down to one lesson from you, my tender-hearted, wild and crazy, singing-silly-sweet boy? But there it is, as you, without a single guitar lesson behind you, plunk one chord, adjust the knob, and plunk it again and again before making up a tune. My Riley has taught me to Have Patience and Persevere. And I don't mean that in the way most Mammas would say their six-year old sons have taught them patience. I mean that Riley is one of the most patient, just-keep-trying people I have ever met. He'll spend hours figuring something out, and, most of the time, come away successful and happy and proud. Couldn't we all stand to be a little more like that? I know I could.

Life Lesson from Riley: Have Patience and Persevere

My baby boy Jasper is not old enough, as I write this, to have anything I say mean much to him. I hope to be  around when he is. But I will tell everyone who might read these words that Jasper has taught me to Linger in the Quiet Moments of a hug, a snuggling nap, a silly nose-to-nose laugh, a kiss. I think even more, because of the changes that have come about in my life, than my other babies did. Memories are made in those moments. And memories, I believe, are one of the few things we can take with us from this world.

Life Lesson from Jasper: Linger in the Quiet Moments

There are others...my sisters, my closest friends. Too many to list. But never could I express enough love for all of them, never except in living, as best I can, the lessons they've taught me. And hoping we get to learn many more together.

xo

The Nothing I Did Today

I've always been a list-maker, garnering untold satisfaction from the dozens of little check-marks on my to-do rosters daily. Granted, my lists often include items like "eat," "shower," "get out of bed," but still...a tangible marked-up account of how I have spent my time is the end product. And these lists become like journals to me. I can look back in my scores of saved notebooks at the dates and the items on the list that day and clearly remember, based on the to-do's, what was happening in my family, with my friends, in my creative brain at the time.

The last few months...okay, year (pregnancy + 5 1/2 month old baby), my lists have been considerably shorter than usual. And wrapping my head around that, accepting that, has honestly been very hard. I have had to re- learn how to place value on resting, sitting, snuggling, singing songs and laughing...moments of quiet Mammahood surrender which, obviously, I knew how to value when L & R were babes, but that seems so long ago! They're so...active and...independent now. But what I have learned and come to accept, is that these days of no (or very few--I still eat and get out of bed) check marks are beyond important to my infant son, and my older children as well. Even when I feel like I'm "getting nothing done" (I haven't blogged! I haven't written or read or sewn or drawn! The laundry is piling up and shouldn't I be making my bread from scratch everyday?),  it's not nothing to Jasper. It's everything to him.

Slowly, very slowly, I'm figuring out a balance. I'm placing less importance on excessive social interaction (something I never even realized I had been giving extra to) and spotless housekeeping, and more importance on family interaction, creative "me" time, and moments--whenever we can find them--with my husband, who is, after all, the other half of my soul. I've set some writing goals, and hope to be posting here a little more to share them, and I've remembered how to linger in the face-to-face moments with my little ones, even when I've checked very little off my list.

For now, at the end of each day, my home and family are (mostly) clean and (generally) safe. My husband and children, I hope, are emotionally, physically, and spiritually well-fed. That is not nothing, I lay in bed assuring myself each night. Quite often, that is enough to change the world.

xo

Natural Childbirth, My Story, part III

My reasons for putting off the third installment of this series for so long are, I think, obvious to any regular readers I might have out there. The family that my children were born into is not the same. It broke, and I sometimes still can't sort out exactly when. Was it already happening when my Jasper arrived? I don't know. I think yes. But despite those fractures which I can see clearly now, he came to this world welcome, whole, healthy, and madly loved. That is this story. And despite the timing, my list-checking personality could not leave this third part of a three-part series unpublished any longer. Jasper turned 14 months old today. Here's to you, Little Bear. 

We waited a long time for Jasper. Laurelei was about to turn eight and Riles was six when Brian and I sat them down to tell them a baby was growing inside me. They were overjoyed. As was I. My third was the most...conscious? I guess is a good word...of all my pregnancies. I felt everything physically much sooner and with much more definition than I had with the others. I felt an awareness of the life inside me from the first moment I knew he was there. And I reveled in the pregnancy, the growing belly, the flutters and kicks and hiccups from within me, it seems, more than I allowed myself to do with the older two. Or maybe, I just embedded those moments more firmly in my memory because I knew it would be the very last time.

All went well with Jasper's gestation until the beginning of the third trimester, when our amazingly skilled, attune, and intelligent midwife said, "Tell me some more about the heart problems you had after Riley's birth." 

We were planning on birthing at her birth center,after all. Safety first. 

So I told her. 12 days after R was born, I was at home, and suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred, I had an enormous build up of pressure in my chest and I could feel my heart drumming, very slowly, in my head. At the ER, they told me I was hyperventilating, panicking, nothing was truly wrong and sent me home. Two days later, it happened again. Actually, the pressure in my chest never really went away. This time, in triage, my heart rate rested at 40, so they ordered an ECG and checked me in. After two days in the hospital, during which my HR got as low as 29 bpm, several ECGs, a cardiac ultrasound, and some indefinite talk about a QT interval being prolonged (could send her to the hospital in Boise...specialists...medical jargon), I was suddenly released. They said the tests found nothing, having babies effects your body in strange ways, and I should go home and rest. Being two weeks postpartum and anxious for my babes, I did. Ever since then, I've had episodes of feeling that weakness, shortness of breath, chest pressure, low HR, but, despite mentioning it to several doctors, no one seemed concerned. 

But Jeanne, my midwife, was concerned. She ordered an ECG. With the results of that ECG, I was referred to a high-risk Obstetrician, and a cardiologist, and eventually, diagnosed with Junctional Bradycardia and Long QT Syndrome, a double heart disease combination which, in some corner of my mind, I knew would change my life. But, for the moment, all I could see was how this would change Jasper's birth. 

Jeanne was amazing--by my side as  I consulted with the fetal medicine specialist, found a new OBGyn, and learned all I could about my options for birthing naturally in the hospital. She provided a doula for us, free of charge. In the whirlwind, I don't think I was as grateful as I should have been. 

The plan became come in to the hospital as soon as you're sure it's real labor, rather than laboring at home and waiting. IV and continual heart monitoring required. Cardiologist on call. Fetal Medicine on call. NiCU prepped. I was terrified. 

But the night Jasper was born, nothing went as planned, in the best way possible. After slipping and falling in the snow in my bestie's driveway, walking around the track at the Y with my mom for a half hour, and stopping on the way home to have Jeanne strip my membranes, the rushes came fast and strong. Our doula, Marlene, arrived at our home around 10, and just before midnight we left for the hospital. I barely made it in the doors. Full moon. There were no rooms. I continued my labor in triage with no IV, no heart monitor, no drugs...just as I'd wanted but didn't expect to get...not even admitted to the hospital. When a room opened up 20 minutes after we arrived, my water broke as they wheeled me down the hall. I pushed. Many voices told me to stop, but I listened only to my son, ready now. We had been in the room for maybe three minutes, no doctors-but lots of nervous nurses darting around and my amazing doula calmly but firmly running the show, advocating for us- when I reached down and pushed my baby boy into my own hands. 

And despite all the fear, all the hype, all the prep, all the change, it was the three of us- mom, dad, and babe- in that moment. I laid him on my chest as the doctor arrived, and let Marlene stave off the ancie nurses for a beautiful moment in time. The blood pulsed in his umbilical cord, part him, part me, warm and strong. Riley and Laurelei arrived with Nanna moments later, and our little family reveled in the new soul on Mamma's breast. We sang to him the song which had been his for many months and still is: Hold on to me as we go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road...know you're not alone. We're going to make this place your home. 

The life changes came later. Jasper's birth was an unexpected kind of perfect. And so is he.