I love dancing. I just do. We went out dancing in Bogota, just like we did last year in London, and like that one amazing night of oneness and total delightful humanity in Venice when I was 20, it counts among my best lifetime experiences.
I feel a little silly writing that because I'm not a "dancer" in the way you think of dancers, usually, their bodies long and lithe and their posture just right. But I dance all the time, and it's part of our family life and part of how I express and live in the world. There's Nia, which I haven't done much of lately because of my long Saturday runnings prepping for this crazy race, and then there's a whole lot of just silly dancing around the house, and there's just lots of random, spastic movement. God bless it.
My friend Ellen asked me what the name of the girl is, that girl I turn into when I get to go out dancing, that girl who has no trouble expressing sexuality and who stays up late and drinks too much and laughs and forgets herself totally. I said I didn't know, and she said I should ask her next time I see her. I will.
Anyway, I say all this because I hope that, in some small way, my amazing love of dance has been passed on to my daughters. Or, at least, to one of them.
Yeah, that's my kid.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
I'm baaaack ?
I haven't been sewing. For months and months. I don't know why. I just had no desire. I was getting worried that maybe it was just a little hobby I had for a while and now it was gone and I'd better figure out to do with all this sewing stuff I've collected. And then, this weekend, out of the blue, the longing to make something with my own two hands came back.
Out popped a little dress for Nolie, modeled on a little dress in Carefree Clothes for Girls:
An adorable book illustrating how I would dress if I was five. Or thirty-five. It's Orphan Annie chic. It's torn-up, raw-edged goodness. I love it. I wish I was a wee thing who could make myself these little whippets of fashiony delightfulness and parade around in my sweet lineny unfinished swirlypants.
Rhapsody over.
So of course I didn't follow the pattern and just cut up a shower curtain and a table cloth. I don't spend much time making clothes for the girls because they are rotten little stinkers who spill chewed up cherries on everything and screech at the tiniest little thread sticking out to scratch them, and the garment you spent hours on ends up wadded on the floor. Then you think criminal thoughts for a while before going and eating the last Dilly Bar. But I did kind of get into making this and, lo and behold, it's Nolie's new favorite dress:
Wee heart fashioned out of antique quilt top. Thank ye.
Nolie wouldn't stop doing this pose. It's her "I Love Justin Bieber" pose.
Also, this pose.
Pics thanks to Addie. Not bad for an hour's worth of fun on a hot Sunday afternoon, right?
Anyone want to guess how long that dress is going to stay white?
I am also a little enamored of a knock off I made of this skirt:
Here's mine:
It's a blue flowered jersey, and my ruffles aren't finished as nicely (I need to break out the surger). And I need to do some work on the shape. But I actually kind of like it otherwise.
You might also be wondering about that large wet stain on the front.
Well.
That might be where I spilled some chewed-up cherries.
Just keeping it real, people.
Anyway, I'm going to get some gray jersey and try again for the look and I'll let you know what happens.
Out popped a little dress for Nolie, modeled on a little dress in Carefree Clothes for Girls:
An adorable book illustrating how I would dress if I was five. Or thirty-five. It's Orphan Annie chic. It's torn-up, raw-edged goodness. I love it. I wish I was a wee thing who could make myself these little whippets of fashiony delightfulness and parade around in my sweet lineny unfinished swirlypants.
Rhapsody over.
So of course I didn't follow the pattern and just cut up a shower curtain and a table cloth. I don't spend much time making clothes for the girls because they are rotten little stinkers who spill chewed up cherries on everything and screech at the tiniest little thread sticking out to scratch them, and the garment you spent hours on ends up wadded on the floor. Then you think criminal thoughts for a while before going and eating the last Dilly Bar. But I did kind of get into making this and, lo and behold, it's Nolie's new favorite dress:
Wee heart fashioned out of antique quilt top. Thank ye.
Nolie wouldn't stop doing this pose. It's her "I Love Justin Bieber" pose.
Also, this pose.
Pics thanks to Addie. Not bad for an hour's worth of fun on a hot Sunday afternoon, right?
Anyone want to guess how long that dress is going to stay white?
I am also a little enamored of a knock off I made of this skirt:
Here's mine:
It's a blue flowered jersey, and my ruffles aren't finished as nicely (I need to break out the surger). And I need to do some work on the shape. But I actually kind of like it otherwise.
You might also be wondering about that large wet stain on the front.
Well.
That might be where I spilled some chewed-up cherries.
Just keeping it real, people.
Anyway, I'm going to get some gray jersey and try again for the look and I'll let you know what happens.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Post-Bogota Blues
I'm dealing with a serious post-Bogota hangover.
Honestly, I wasn't that excited about going, at first. I'd never been to South America, so I knew it would be interesting to go, but we had just finished a bunch of little trips here, and my summer felt like it was already half gone, and I just didn't know how difficult or fun or sad or whatever the trip would be. I was tired, too, and wanting to just relax a little and get into some writing.
But, the trip was amazing. Way beyond, on every level--personal, spiritual, professional. And now, I've got the stuck-in-America blues.
Here's the thing: There were a lot of bummers about living in Bogota for a week. In a new city, I love to be able to go out and walk all around by myself and explore and that kind of thing and, well, that just wouldn't have been smart in Bogota (though, for the record, I never once felt in danger). Also, because of our conference schedule, we had to get up really early in the mornings and, because of my drinking schedule, I went to bed very late at night. So I didn't treat my body so great while I was there and it led to me feeling everything a little extra much and maybe being a bit weepy and sentimental. This was amplified by the fact of so many Bogota residents coming to our conference and sharing their stories, honestly, authentically, and beautifully, with us, who normally do everything we can to not be ourselves in academic settings.
Also, I ate a lot of white bread and drank a lot of coke. And wine. And beer. And I wore skinny pants out dancing without a tunic, just in a regular old shirt. A gringa pretending to salsa, big old booty out. All while speaking what my friend calls unethically bad Spanish. Without a care! Hola! Buenos dias! Dos minutos, por favor!
But Bogota felt alive to me in ways living here doesn't. It's got the big-city excitement going on, for sure, but the people also seem more alive, more part of the communal. Food comes slowly, one plate at a time, and late at night. There is fresh-squeezed juice with every meal (god bless lulos!). There is music coming from every window. Buildings are painted bright colors. Cars careen around corners. People talk loudly in the streets until late. Fat, happy dogs, teats out, roam all over the place. People juggle, people yell, people bike, large pieces of furniture balanced on the handlebars, up hills. Everyone hugs, everyone kisses.
Above all, there is a sense that you are not alone. For example, we visited one of the poorest parts of Bogota. There were some serious security concerns because of gang activities, so we could only go to certain parts. But while we were visiting one of the safer parts in Soacha, I had to pee, and my friend Juan took me into a bar to do it. The owner personally cleaned the bathroom before letting me use it, and sent his kid out to buy toilet paper, using money they really couldn't spare. And they wouldn't accept any money for it in return. I threw some on the counter anyway, and then felt like an asshole for it.
People steal each other's stuff in Bogota, even if you're just inviting them over for a party. You can get mugged. You can get kidnapped. But you can also be deeply cared for. And seen. And you are part of the people. For me, this was the largest truth of that city.
I think, sometimes, I find living here lonely. Or isolating. Or alienating. Something like that. Not all the time, but maybe now, in contrast to life there, for sure. Here, I'm one of those people stuck in a car, in traffic that doesn't move, in Fellini's 8 1/2. Bogota was my floating out and above.
I realize I was only there a week, and my perceptions are no doubt skewed toward the tourist side of things. There is no question there is a great deal of sadness and injustice in Bogota. It just felt more real, less simulacrum, than life here. I don't know how else to put it. And that dissonance is giving me the blues.
Honestly, I wasn't that excited about going, at first. I'd never been to South America, so I knew it would be interesting to go, but we had just finished a bunch of little trips here, and my summer felt like it was already half gone, and I just didn't know how difficult or fun or sad or whatever the trip would be. I was tired, too, and wanting to just relax a little and get into some writing.
But, the trip was amazing. Way beyond, on every level--personal, spiritual, professional. And now, I've got the stuck-in-America blues.
Here's the thing: There were a lot of bummers about living in Bogota for a week. In a new city, I love to be able to go out and walk all around by myself and explore and that kind of thing and, well, that just wouldn't have been smart in Bogota (though, for the record, I never once felt in danger). Also, because of our conference schedule, we had to get up really early in the mornings and, because of my drinking schedule, I went to bed very late at night. So I didn't treat my body so great while I was there and it led to me feeling everything a little extra much and maybe being a bit weepy and sentimental. This was amplified by the fact of so many Bogota residents coming to our conference and sharing their stories, honestly, authentically, and beautifully, with us, who normally do everything we can to not be ourselves in academic settings.
Also, I ate a lot of white bread and drank a lot of coke. And wine. And beer. And I wore skinny pants out dancing without a tunic, just in a regular old shirt. A gringa pretending to salsa, big old booty out. All while speaking what my friend calls unethically bad Spanish. Without a care! Hola! Buenos dias! Dos minutos, por favor!
But Bogota felt alive to me in ways living here doesn't. It's got the big-city excitement going on, for sure, but the people also seem more alive, more part of the communal. Food comes slowly, one plate at a time, and late at night. There is fresh-squeezed juice with every meal (god bless lulos!). There is music coming from every window. Buildings are painted bright colors. Cars careen around corners. People talk loudly in the streets until late. Fat, happy dogs, teats out, roam all over the place. People juggle, people yell, people bike, large pieces of furniture balanced on the handlebars, up hills. Everyone hugs, everyone kisses.
Above all, there is a sense that you are not alone. For example, we visited one of the poorest parts of Bogota. There were some serious security concerns because of gang activities, so we could only go to certain parts. But while we were visiting one of the safer parts in Soacha, I had to pee, and my friend Juan took me into a bar to do it. The owner personally cleaned the bathroom before letting me use it, and sent his kid out to buy toilet paper, using money they really couldn't spare. And they wouldn't accept any money for it in return. I threw some on the counter anyway, and then felt like an asshole for it.
People steal each other's stuff in Bogota, even if you're just inviting them over for a party. You can get mugged. You can get kidnapped. But you can also be deeply cared for. And seen. And you are part of the people. For me, this was the largest truth of that city.
I think, sometimes, I find living here lonely. Or isolating. Or alienating. Something like that. Not all the time, but maybe now, in contrast to life there, for sure. Here, I'm one of those people stuck in a car, in traffic that doesn't move, in Fellini's 8 1/2. Bogota was my floating out and above.
I realize I was only there a week, and my perceptions are no doubt skewed toward the tourist side of things. There is no question there is a great deal of sadness and injustice in Bogota. It just felt more real, less simulacrum, than life here. I don't know how else to put it. And that dissonance is giving me the blues.
Friday, July 1, 2011
The Great Risk of Something Essential Perishing
I had to end a long-lasting and productive but increasingly difficult relationship at work lately. I struggled through it for a while, trying to figure out how best to do it, what leaving would mean, how to maintain my integrity through it. It was so clearly the right decision from where I sit now, but wasn't always so clear at the time. I was glad to read this from Nepo's The Book of Awakening today:
Isn't that cool? Of course, the inner voice often doesn't speak clearly. It doesn't even speak English, in my experience! It shows up as back pain, weight gain, sleeplessness, anxiety, anger, frustration, mindless shopping, overwork, illness, and resistance, all of which can be explained away as other things (and they sometimes are other things, of course). Finding the "authentic" me isn't easy, either. But when you don't listen to it, when you don't express that essential self, it sure finds ways of making itself known, and that usually isn't pleasant.
Futzy, that inner voice.
Despite all consequence, there is an inevitable honoring of what is true, and at this deep level of inner voice, it is not a summoning of will, but a following of true knowing. My own life is a trail of such following. Time and again, I have heard deep callings that felt inevitable and which I could have ignored, but only at great risk of something essential perishing. [...] Courage of this sort is the result of being authentic. It is available to all and its reward, far more than respect, is the opening of joy.
Isn't that cool? Of course, the inner voice often doesn't speak clearly. It doesn't even speak English, in my experience! It shows up as back pain, weight gain, sleeplessness, anxiety, anger, frustration, mindless shopping, overwork, illness, and resistance, all of which can be explained away as other things (and they sometimes are other things, of course). Finding the "authentic" me isn't easy, either. But when you don't listen to it, when you don't express that essential self, it sure finds ways of making itself known, and that usually isn't pleasant.
Futzy, that inner voice.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
The Weird Thing about Sleepy
Being sleepy used to be like torture for me. It primarily happened around 3 or 4pm (duh, when it happens to most everyone) and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The worst was being sleepy and needing to pick up the kids from school. All I wanted was a few minutes to close my eyes and lay down and recover from the fucking day and instead I had to deal with cranky kids who also probably needed a nap but instead we'd be barreling down the freeway sniping at each other and hating all of it.
This led to a pretty decent caffeine and sugar addiction on my part. I mean, I've always had a nice sugar addiction going (Davies motto: dessert after every meal!) but the caffeine addiction just got progressively worse over the years.
Worse for me, anyway. I wasn't ever hooked onto the triple espressos every afternoon or anything. But I was pretty well convinced I couldn't get out of bed in the morning without coffee, felt bitchy if I didn't have my afternoon cup, and got nasty headaches if I missed either one.
I was reading the book Skinny Bitch last month, though, and it made some pretty interesting suggestions about caffeine and its affects on the body. You know me and the summer diet books. I have to read one every year or I shrivel up and die. Their message wasn't anything new, really: I've read plenty of books that suggest there are negative affects to caffeine addiction, but I never really entertained giving it up. Here's what I reasoned:
1) I could never, ever give up caffeine and don't you even try to make me or I'll kill you.
2) "Some studies show" a little caffeine everyday is actually good for you. I probably read this in one of those magazines my mom sent down.
3) I don't drink that much, compared to some people.
4) I keep my addiction affordable by reheating our drip coffee (I know, gross).
5) I don't have very many drugs and caffeine is my favorite and if you take it away I'll kill you.
But then, without a lot of fanfare or will power, I just sort of gave it up. I drink--sigh, I know, granola--decaf green tea instead. Here is what I've noticed:
1) I still get some afternoon sleepies now and then. I'm having one right now. But they are much less debilitating than they used to be. And the coffee never made them go away anyway.
2) I can really enjoy a strong cup of coffee now and then (I've had one in the last six weeks). In fact, the enjoyment is way greater now that I don't need it and don't have it every day.
3) My sugar cravings have decreased some. Somehow, it always just made sense to pair coffee with a baked good or chocolate. Imagine that.
4) Still, I haven't lost any weight from quitting. So that part might be hooey.
5) I pee my pants less. Like, a lot less. Like, I can run some miles without having to stop and pee. That's awesome.
But here's the biggest thing: I've had to come to terms with my sleepiness. And by that, I mean that, alongside the giving up of the coffee is an accompanying commitment to chilling out more. That has happened veeeeeerrrrry slowly and organically and over time, but working with less, shall we say, intensity, has made it so that if I'm a little sleepy in the afternoon, I lay down for a few minutes. I don't sleep often--I'm not a huge fan of naps because they make me groggy. But I definitely sit my ass down and do nothing for a bit. And, pretty quick, the sleepiness goes away and I go on about my day until my next little rest period.
Don't get me wrong. I'm still a little bit of a bouncing ball. But this rest thing is good stuff. It feels an awful lot like freedom.
This led to a pretty decent caffeine and sugar addiction on my part. I mean, I've always had a nice sugar addiction going (Davies motto: dessert after every meal!) but the caffeine addiction just got progressively worse over the years.
Worse for me, anyway. I wasn't ever hooked onto the triple espressos every afternoon or anything. But I was pretty well convinced I couldn't get out of bed in the morning without coffee, felt bitchy if I didn't have my afternoon cup, and got nasty headaches if I missed either one.
I was reading the book Skinny Bitch last month, though, and it made some pretty interesting suggestions about caffeine and its affects on the body. You know me and the summer diet books. I have to read one every year or I shrivel up and die. Their message wasn't anything new, really: I've read plenty of books that suggest there are negative affects to caffeine addiction, but I never really entertained giving it up. Here's what I reasoned:
1) I could never, ever give up caffeine and don't you even try to make me or I'll kill you.
2) "Some studies show" a little caffeine everyday is actually good for you. I probably read this in one of those magazines my mom sent down.
3) I don't drink that much, compared to some people.
4) I keep my addiction affordable by reheating our drip coffee (I know, gross).
5) I don't have very many drugs and caffeine is my favorite and if you take it away I'll kill you.
But then, without a lot of fanfare or will power, I just sort of gave it up. I drink--sigh, I know, granola--decaf green tea instead. Here is what I've noticed:
1) I still get some afternoon sleepies now and then. I'm having one right now. But they are much less debilitating than they used to be. And the coffee never made them go away anyway.
2) I can really enjoy a strong cup of coffee now and then (I've had one in the last six weeks). In fact, the enjoyment is way greater now that I don't need it and don't have it every day.
3) My sugar cravings have decreased some. Somehow, it always just made sense to pair coffee with a baked good or chocolate. Imagine that.
4) Still, I haven't lost any weight from quitting. So that part might be hooey.
5) I pee my pants less. Like, a lot less. Like, I can run some miles without having to stop and pee. That's awesome.
But here's the biggest thing: I've had to come to terms with my sleepiness. And by that, I mean that, alongside the giving up of the coffee is an accompanying commitment to chilling out more. That has happened veeeeeerrrrry slowly and organically and over time, but working with less, shall we say, intensity, has made it so that if I'm a little sleepy in the afternoon, I lay down for a few minutes. I don't sleep often--I'm not a huge fan of naps because they make me groggy. But I definitely sit my ass down and do nothing for a bit. And, pretty quick, the sleepiness goes away and I go on about my day until my next little rest period.
Don't get me wrong. I'm still a little bit of a bouncing ball. But this rest thing is good stuff. It feels an awful lot like freedom.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Morning Redone
So I get this text from E. some time last week, saying something along the lines of, "Drop-off was actually fine. I'm sorry I got so upset this morning, but can you help me with mornings, because they are driving me crazy?"
There's nothing Mama J likes more than being asked for help, if it involves redesigning a domestic system, right?
So, here we go.
Our mornings, which I found incredibly pleasant (for reasons that are soon to become obvious) were clearly no longer working for E., who is typically (though not always) responsible for getting the kids off to school and/or camp. They looked something like this:
There's nothing Mama J likes more than being asked for help, if it involves redesigning a domestic system, right?
Ding.
So, here we go.
Our mornings, which I found incredibly pleasant (for reasons that are soon to become obvious) were clearly no longer working for E., who is typically (though not always) responsible for getting the kids off to school and/or camp. They looked something like this:
- E. wakes at some ungodly hour, and instantly begins to ruminate about work. And is itching to get off to work as a result. But the three ladies in the house are still sawing logs.
- E. pees, heads downstairs to feed the dog, who has already stuck his wet nose in our faces about sixteen times, and is followed by both the 90-pound dog and the annoying cat with her annoying meow. Frequently, E. trips over one of these obscene creatures and breaks his ass on the stairs.
- E. brings me my coffee. I try to open one eye. Often unsuccessfully.
- E. brings in one sleepy, grump-ass kid at a time to cuddle in bed while he harrumphs and/or goes off to shower.
- Kids immediately fight over who is taking over the bed and who has had "mama cuddle time" vs. "dada cuddle time" and whether one is singing the lyrics to the Justin Bieber song "Never Say Never" correctly and who got more cookies yesterday.
- E. drags the fighting children down the stairs (tantrums ensue) for a leisurely breakfast. And I do mean leisurely. We're talking Paris Hilton leisurely. The kids fight some more, this time over who got more Gorilla Crunch in her bowl and why we really have to eat lactose-free yogurt (protest punctuated by a loud FART) and who was mean to who.
- E. drags the fighting children back up the stairs to get dressed/have potty time/brush their teeth/brush their hair/fight over who gets to have water fun day at camp vs. who has the lyrics to the Justin Bieber song "Baby" correct. One child typically shoves another child off a stool in the bathroom and someone ends up mildly concussed. At this point, I get my lazy butt out of bed and try to help somebody get dressed or put their hair in a ponytail because otherwise E. is going to engage in infanticide/wife-icide.
- E. drags the fighting children back downstairs, wrestles shoes on to their feet, crams backpacks into the car, and buckles them into the car before silently weeping in despair. And that's all before the long trips it takes to get the kids dropped off, AND before a long day of work.
- Meanwhile, I enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee, journal, and read, because, people, my day has BEGUN.
Anyway, E. has had it. So here's our new system, implemented this morning:
1. The girls are awakened by alarm clocks at 7am. Nolie gets Disney music and Addie requested NPR (?). They can have a few minutes to wake up in bed. E. and I also get ourselves out of bed, and make our bed, so that there is no cuddle temptation (alas, cuddling is now for evenings and weekends only). Luckily, I have given up coffee, and my other eye is slowly beginning to open, so this is easier than it would have been two months ago. Also, it's summer, and I'm not working like an ass.
2. The girls have laid out their clothes the night before. Before they leave their rooms, they get dressed, and then go do their hair. Then they get their own sorry asses downstairs for breakfast.
3. They eat. They fight. They laugh. They sob. Whatever. It's fifteen minutes.
4. They brush their teeth, go potty, get their shoes on, and go out to the car. Backpacks were also packed the night before.
Anyway, that's it. This morning's text from E. said "Best morning ever!" so I think we're on to something.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I just have my decaf green tea and do my journalling after everyone leaves, guilt-free, and in peace and quiet. Much better anyway.
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