my big fat social justice wedding

I can't believe how beautiful you all look. Radiant. Not a yard of pink taffeta in sight. And I see some of you have already found the champagne. Nicely done.

Let us begin with a reading:

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Kahlil Gibran; On Marriage

And allow Mad and I to exchange our vows:

I, Jenny Talia, vow to keep earnest in my desire to be socially conscious; to allow my heart to be pressed by the ills of the world, and to respond accordingly; not out of personal gain but out of a burning desire to live in a just world. I promise to remain steadfast in the face of adversity, to challenge and allow myself to be challenged, and to do whatever is in my power, whether it be by voice or time or money, to speak out and, in turn, be spoken to. I promise to hold all of you in my heart, ever mindful that we have all come together to raise the next generation of humans, and that we are dedicated to leave them a legacy of kindness and justice.

I stand in awe of each of you, for giving of your time and soul and heart, for joining with us to stand together, committed to making the world a better place. For recognizing and honoring that we are all one.

And with this prayer on my lips and tears in my eyes, I thee wed each and every one of you.

Thunderous applause. One hundred kisses. Popping of corks. Joyousness. Making of merry.

Now tilt your heads slowly downward....we have a party to attend. And much to celebrate.

Deezee has offered the most beautiful wedding toast. De, you brought tears to my eyes with this and I am so deeply honored. And on top of the toast, she volunteered to DJ our affair. Her choices are below.

For your listening pleasure:

Pink: Dear Mr. President

Cat Stevens: Peace Train and Where Do the Children Play

Broken Social Scene: Puff the Magic Dragon

Antigone Rising: You're the Reason

RHCP: Higher Ground

Michael Andrews: Mad World

The Finn Brothers: Won't Give In

Moby: We Are All Made of Stars

Pete Yorn: On Your Side

Badly Drawn Boy: Magic in the Air

Neil Finn: Human Kindness

R.E.M: Shiny Happy People

And sweet J-Dog offered a few of his own (in hopes of getting in on the (girl) action:

Sly and the Family Stone: Stand!

Soundgarden: Hands All Over

Marvin Gaye: Mercy, mercy me (the ecology)

Thievery Corporation: Richest Man in Babylon

John Lennon: Imagine

24/7 Spies: Valdez 27 Million

Joni Mitchell: Big Yellow Taxi

Bob Dylan: Hurricane

The Wailers: Get up, stand up

Digable Planets: La Femme Fatale

Above The Law: Freedom of Speech

Spearhead: Crime to be broke in America

I could not have picked better music myself. And I can't believe how well some of you dance....so much better than a rhythmless ship...er..anyways.

Feel free to hum along as we open the presents...and more wine? champagne? sparkling water? Allow me...

Presents!

Many of you left your wishes in our comments, and spoke of your passion for gay marriage, for womens issues, for non-violence, and for peace. Many of you promised to strive to be more mindful in your daily choices, and keep the fires of justice alive. Many of you expressed your willingness to participate without posting. I thank all of you for adding your voices to the choir.

Let's first hear from my Maid of Honor. Andrea wrote a post so succinct, so perfect, so exactly spot on in explaining how we've gotten to now, and many thoughts on what we can do. Andrea, I vow to incorporate your wisdom as I try to live a more sustainable life, committed to being more conscious of the world around me. I vow to get my over 2 planet usage down. I do.

Mouse takes Andrea's words and holds them up to the light. She reminds me that it is so easy to rationalize our own wastefulness, and that by living more consciously, we can live in more congruence with our souls. And how important that is. And how unjustifiable my own excuses may sound. I will do better.

Sin talked about using Christmas for giving, and if mass consumerism doesn't sit well with your soul, then she offers a few tangible alternatives for good. Sin - I've heard about the foster family organization already, and I plan to join in January. Thank you for reminding me.

Oh The Joys and sweet Jenny over at mamadrama wrote so beautifully about poverty and hunger and gave us all some tangible ideas for getting involved. Some are as easy as a simple click of the mouse. Some may take a bit of re-working old perceptions, but the challenge is just and the impact is kind.

bub and pie spoke with such love about wanting to care for other mothers in need. About how easy it is to forget what it might be like to be all on your own, and how scary that must be. And she is doing something about it.

Daufiero, in her wise and thoughtful way, reminds us that we must speak out. That we have a voice to use and we should use it wisely. That we have more power than we think. And that is it our responsibility to stand up. Bravo.

Wise Chani talks to us about the difference universal health care would make in the US. And about the burden of illness resting squarely on folks who are already struggling to get by. And true to form, she shows her passion for exploited laborers, and how we can get involved in raising awareness about globalization.

Tabba gives us her passion for foster care kids. And how a broken system leads to broken children and broken adults. And how this will continue unless we do something about it. I've seen this first hand a hundred times, Tab, and my heart aches for the kids who simply want a home.

Jo and Kiki (Kiki, your dress looks amazing, sister...perfect for a bridesmaid) both spoke so passionately about domestic violence, and not only about the price the woman pays, but the societal toll. Senseless violence against our sisters has gone on long enough.

Mammaloves wrote a tremendous piece on the right to choose, and what an incredible gift having choice can be. And the beauty of that is, we can all choose the right thing for our lives without needing to inform others how to live theirs. It's our choice. She then followed up (two presents!) by exploring her personal take on social justice and what it means to truly pursue justice for all.

Neen's gift included a wonderful story about some amazingly strong women. And she didn't end there. In true CWKTBH fashion, she stood up and committed herself to several different causes, and challenged us to do the same. Her gift will go on and on. And I am clicking those links. I'll try and keep up with you, girl on fire.

Brilliant KC shared her thoughts on race and color, and about how our role in raising our children to understand and value diversity is so critical. And it's up to us. She knows first hand what a color filled childhood is like. Hat's off, sweet friend.

Carrie took a stand at her grocery store and stood up for human rights. She will not allow homosexuality to be disparaged, overtly or not, and she is putting her money where her mouth is. You go, girl.

Em reminds us that basic human needs are so easily forgotten as long as we can meet them and yet so incredibly critical if we cannot. And how the USA has a ways to go in honoring the rights of all children. We need more lights on than off.

My friend Deb over at Organized Chaos reminds us to vote, and when we vote, vote consciously. She is passionate about addiction and our criminal justice system and has such compassion for those who are struggling - and does something about it every day.

Susanne and Julie both brought gifts from the larger social context. Issues that permeate all other issues of justice. And how peace and reconciliation are so critical. And how we all have the power to forgive, and to remember, and to change our world for good, starting within our own hearts. Julie spoke specifically and acutely about the need for spiritual and emotional intelligence in those who lead our countries. Pause while I stand and wildly applaud you.

Crazymum talked about her friend Rosie, and how her father taught her to value the lives of everyone by his actions. I so hope I can impart the same wisdom and compassion to M.

motherwoman brought us to the specific and current, by reflecting on the lovely Kim family, and the courage and honor they showed in saving their children. Rest in peace, Mr. Kim. Your story and your courage touched so many of us so deeply. I hope you died peacefully, knowing you gave everything you had to save your girls. You are my hero. Rest in peace.

SwampWITCH follows by reminding us of the true meaning of Christmas - and how it can be much more about giving than purchasing, sharing rather than consuming. That is, if we choose it. And it's not always an easy choice.

NotSoSage reminds us of those struggling with addiction; and how we can either offer a judgmental stance or a compassionate embrace. And how harm reduction is so much more humane, and less fearful, than many might think. I agree with you, Oh, So Sage...absolutely.

And last but not least, the two most lovely MOTR and Momish remind us to care not only for humans but also for the smallest and meekest of creatures. About how we should care for all planet dwellers, and how we can choose with our dollars to improve the lives of animals. And in their honor, the wedding feast is 100% vegetarian.

Or perhaps we should just eat some cake.

And there are a few of you who have promised a belated gift, and when you are ready to offer them, let us know and we'll bring out the leftovers and pop some more champagne. Life showed up this week for many and just because today is wedding day doesn't mean the celebration is over.

Edited to say: Gifts keep flowing. Please go and see what Nancy just dropped off - she's already grabbed some wine and headed out to the dance floor. More gifts to come. And sweet Meno with her giving heart for creatures of various shapes and sizes....these two sure know how to groove. And juli, who brings multiple gifts and words of wisdom and truth...And sweet liv whose words are so important, and her heart so true in it's pursuit. And Sunshine. who gives of her heart and mind daily in her very good work and still managed to take time off and join us for a late night cuppa....There is more to come.

In fact, I was just getting to that....take another sip, crank up the wedding music, and read on.

And now we have presents for all of you. Mad has created the most lovely gift for me, and I in turn, give it to all of you.

The Just Post Award is Mad's brainchild. It is a precious and amazing gift, and one that will keep our wedding party going all year long. We will celebrate our anniversary on the 10th of every month, and will do so by calling for nominations for the Just Post Award on the 1st of each month, and Mad and I will offer the button and list all nominees and nominators every month on our anniversary.

And in honor of my gift, I in turn offer one to Mad. Mad, my gift to you is in raising awareness of a social justice issue each month when we unveil the Just Post awards. I promise to highlight a cause or solution that is tangible for all of us. I promise to show all of us that a small group of committed individuals can, indeed, change the world.

So as our wedding winds down, please accept our invitation to join our ongoing celebration. And whenever you read or post about doing good in our world, share it with us. And I'll make sure to remind you. I am pushy like that. I am the bride, after all.

I truly don't have words to thank each of you for sharing in our celebration. This has been an incredibly joyous week, filled with excitement and energy and power.

I am honored to hold hands in this circle with you. And I won't be letting go.

And lastly, to Mad, my partner in social justice anti-crime, I thee wed.

Let the hot girl (brain) on girl (brain) action continue.

a word from the wedding planner

If you are still planning on submitting your RSVP's to tomorrows soiree, can you send me the link before 8pm PST?

Girl (brain) on girl (brain) action requires a restful bride.

And moreover, I am terrified I'll miss one of your presents....

See you bright and early with bells on, all you social justice warrior women, you.

bird by bird (on my way to the chapel)

I can't believe I am getting married in two days. And to so many amazing and brilliant women. And especially to Mad. Mad, my fierce and lovely bride who has done such an amazing job of courting all of us all week long.

This will most likely be my last post until Sunday - I've got so many loose ends to tie up - finalizing the music, taste-testing all the champagne, arranging the flowers...

And it's not too late for you to join us. All we ask is that you write about a social justice issue that you are passionate about before Sunday AM. You can read the whole invitation here. Just make sure to share your link if you haven't already (you can leave it in the comments section here or at the original invite) and I'll get you on the guest list.

I can already picture it - a warm and sunny day (it's my wedding and it can be warm if I say so), dozens of radiant, powerful women all coming together on the side of making the world a better place. And of course...presents.

And on that note, let me leave you with something joyful to get you in the mood. Because social justice doesn't have to be discussed only in terms of all that is wrong in the world, but also sometimes, the things that are so completely right.

Right stopped by today in the form of a family that I worked with several years ago. Another family who'd fled Somali and landed in the US, a family with no connections and a son with a hole in his heart. They were living in a shed (and paying rent for the priviledge - can you imagine being THAT landlord?) and their son was progressively getting worse. The doctors needed to operate but would not do it till they could find a safe and clean place to for him to recover. When I met their son A, he had trouble breathing. Walking was hard. He was 4 but he didn't speak. He was a sick little guy.

Housing, surgery, another surgery, recovery, immigration battles, employment - it wasn't easy but they survived all of it, and we lost touch after they moved on. They stopped in today, and A. is a gorgeous, tall, handsome 8 year old. A soccer player who gets all A's. And boy, does he talk.
While it's not a commentary on a system broken, it sure felt really, really good to see a family who had perched on the brink and climbed out the other side.

Margaret Mead (and Anne Lamont) are right. It's bird by bird. It can be done this way.

Sometimes this is the only way we've got.

something borrowed and blue

Mad has been doing such a wonderful job posting about social issues all week long. I read her eloquent posts, filled with facts and links and all I can see are faces. Little faces. I see stories in the her words of hunger and of abuse.

I was travelling through Mexico a few years ago. I was sitting on the steps of a church is some little town when a boy came up to me and sat down. He spoke a little english, and I spoke a little spanish, and we spent some time together, quietly sitting. After a while I mentioned that I needed to get going, that I was hungry. When I asked if he was hungry too, he said yes. We shared a meal and parted ways.

The next day I opened the door to my little hotel room and he was sleeping on a chair in the courtyard out front. Ernesto, I said. Que tal? He said he was waiting for me. I asked if he was hungry. Si. We had breakfast.
Ernesto and I hung out for several days. He never asked me for money. Never asked for anything, just seemed to want to follow me around. He'd sit on the beach while I sat and read. He waited outside places I visited. He'd step back in line with me when I'd come out.

I didn't mind the company - I was alone for a good deal of the time and was sorting some things out, and he was easy to be with.

When it was time for me to move on I bought him one last meal and I talked about leaving, and about our time together. I asked him why he spent so much time with me. And if he needed money, I would give some to him.

No, he said. I just like being with you. You are pretty, and you gave me food. We hugged goodbye, and for a moment, we both were silent. Ernesto was nine years old when I met him. I can still picture him, standing at the bus stop waving as the bus pulled away.

When I was in Cambodia earlier this year, there were hundreds of hungry children. Many of them begging, pleading, unrelenting in their pursuit. They knew tourists have money, that we leave more on our plates than they eat all day. They pursued us well. And I let them. It was heartbreaking. I knew they had a job to do for their families, that they were part of a system. Part of a means of survival. They were so young. Stomachs distended. Thin. Filthy. Heartbreaking.

Children not much older than M were up late at night, begging. We'd buy them food and milk and they'd take it and still press for money. Money needed to bring home. We gave that too, not liking the way it made us feel but knowing that no matter what the reason or angle, they needed it so much more than we did. It was relentless. And even though Mad posted about human trafficking today, I still can't bring myself to write about the child brothels and underage prostitution we happened upon. I am sorry, but I just can't. Maybe at some point I'll find words to do those little girls justice, but I don't have the vocabulary yet.

Luckily, we happened to stay at this guest house and learned about this place. We felt it was a way to contribute to a concerted effort being made in one small town. Good people run this place, and do good things.

It is unspeakable, the horrors of poverty. The desperation caused by hunger. The way a child looks at you when they need to beg from you in order to eat. The dimness behind what should be bright eyes. The littlest faces.

The wedding. The wedding. It is only 3 days away. You still have till Saturday to get us your gift. And we can't wait to see all of you there on Sunday. I plan on blowing a hundred kisses in all directions of the earth.

interrupting my regularly scheduled programming

If you've been here before, or regularly, as some of you are, you'll notice something glaringly different to the right of this post.

Yes. BlogHer Ads.

I started inquiring about working with BlogHer a while back - interested in seeing what possibilities I might be able to explore as far as earning a bit of extra money. And the thing is, the extra money (or ability to earn extra money in ways beyond my work) is important to me because we so deeply want to move to Belize. We want to move to Belize, and we have no real idea how we'll survive. So I began exploring different ideas - things that might contribute to sustaining us that we can do FROM there, and that is a tall order. I can't build anything. I can't fix anything. I can't wash clothes properly in the river. But I can do this.

I can't tell you how ironic I find it that this is the week it all came together. I am not sure why I feel that this conflicts with my social justice wedding, or if it does at all, but something is colliding in my head and I couldn't stand not mentioning it to you. I have read other debates on the topic, and some have very strong opinions. I've always aligned myself more to the side of free will and personal choice, but I know that this is a hot topic for some. And I still want you to want to be here.

All I know is I have standards. And BlogHer fits those - by being able to designate what ads you are willing to host (social causes/family) by not yielding site or content control, and by being a part of a network of women. And if it becomes something other than I believe it is, I won't do it anymore.

But for now, I am checking it out. I am earnest in my desire to find creative and alternative ways to sustain my family so we can move to the jungle and raise M in the wild.

All I'll need is a good internet connection.

Thanks for letting me share this. Next I'll get back to my wedding plans. While the room is filling up with some of the most beautiful women I've ever read, we've still got room at the head table. It's not too late to RSVP.

something old is something new

I am getting around to finalizing my wedding details. Like choosing a maid of honor...I have my eye on Andrea at Athena Dreaming, and I am hoping if I promise we can wear recycled eco-friendly locally sewn by consenting adults hemp garments then she'll accept.

The thing about Andrea is that she is much more environmentally conscious than I am. She thinks with her dollars. She thinks by NOT spending her dollars. She's got a test you can take here that will give you pause. And pause some more.

Aside from being one of the most articulate and brillant posts I have ever read in my life - the thing that struck me so deeply (so deeply that I just finished reading her entire post aloud to J, who after standing still in our kitchen for several minutes in awe asked me to email him the link) is that she is able to think comprehensively and strategically about the core issues that bind us. The ones that make us want to throw up our hands and give up. The ones that truly overwhelm. And she breaks it down simply. Energy efficient light bulbs. Choosing who you buy your gas from. How you get to work. And how you invest your money.

All of it, in part and parcel, can reduce the consumption we so easily and blindly participate in. All of it combined can make a big difference.

And she got me thinking. In my own meager retirement account I choose to only invest in green funds. I set it up that way, and feeling oh so very principled, chose less growth potential over supporting oil. However, in my 403b through work I am invested in standard mutuals. I tried pursuing the green route, but this carrier had limited options and was making it complicated, so I let it go.

I gave up, just like that. I mean, why not? It's not my hectare we are talking about here. It's someone elses.

I am shamed tonight. And Andrea, I am calling my account rep in the morning.

Because you are right, and it has to stop. Enough is way too much.

We've got a LOT more space at the reception. We are taking RSVPs here. And Mad is doing an amazing job courting me. Her words and intellect and passion continue to astound. I only hope I can mirror her majesty (pre-wedding jitters anyone) and make her proud.

fiver

In the midst of all my wedding plans I almost forgot that I owe Madame Chick a list.

A list of five things you don't know about me, or my kid.

Me first, me first.

1. I have a thing for latin men. Or maybe for men who speak spanish. One or the other.
2. My childhood crush was Mikail Baryshnikov. I waited outside for 2 hours after seeing him dance to meet him. He came out (all 4'9" of him) and I got to meet (and touch) him. I lived on that for years.
3. I cannot dance. A rhythmless ship. It's awful.
4. I got drunk and lost in Mexico once and to this day have no recollection of 8 hours, 2 car rides, a burro, and a border crossing. (there but for the grace of friends went I)
5. goat cheese and orange peppers are one of my favorite combinations ever.

The kid.

1. Her middle name is from a Bjork song.
2. She is a big fan of pickles.
3. She got her passport when she was five days old.
4. She has a strange affinity for trying on my bras. Over and over. And she puts stuffed animals inside them and walks around the house.
5. She will issue a fake cry or a fake laugh on demand. We are working on her fake surprise and fake sleepy look and will be soon adding them to her performance roster.

I tag Liv but she has more than one kid so I'll understand if she takes a pass.

And don't forget the big wedding this weekend. There are still spots on the guest list.

last night out as a single girl

You've all heard by now that I am getting married on Sunday. And you all know you are invited to marry us too. All I ask in return is a present. A present, you ask? A present about an social justice issue that concerns you, one that you want to share that will perhaps enlighten others of us to get involved. No issue is irrelevent if it matters to you.

You can find out more here and here. You know you want to be on the guest list. And Mad is promising girl (brain) on girl (brain) action. Librarians are wild like that.

So anyways, I figured since I am getting hitched (again, and to so many of you) that I might want to get out and sow my last few wild oats. Lucky for me, Columbia Pictures invited a bunch of us homeless hacks in the Bay Area to an early screening of The Pursuit of Happyness in recognition of National Project Connect week. Nothing says changing the world like a bunch of homeless hacks all in one theater seeing a free movie.

You should see this movie. Chris Gardner is an amazing human being. And his struggle to keep his family safe and housed is just one example of what thousands of families go through on a daily basis. Hands down, an incredibly moving film. Will Smith did an amazing job portraying Chris' story.

And while I don't want to be critical, I do need to say that I had hoped the movie would have made a stronger case for the broken system rather than focusing solely on how damn hard this man worked to save his life. I fear it might give the impression that anyone who's homeless can get their shit together if only they work hard enough. I wish that was true, but we aren't alone in this. It's a dysfunctional system with many layers and obstacles - not one easily overcome by many. Chris Gardner is an amazing human being, and what he was able to do in his life is inspirational and remarkable and humbling...but it's not only up to the Chris Gardners of the world. It's up to local, county, and state legislators to stand up in their communities and advocate for change. To increase the supply of affordable housing. To improve minimum wage and the cost of child care. To leverage non-profits to get the most comprehensive services possible. It's up to all of us to make sure everyone is housed, and safe, and warm.

Chris may have done it all by himself, but that is what makes him so heroic. I am no Chris Gardner. And in all my years of working with homeless folks, I've never met anyone else like him. He's extraordinary. But the problems still remain, and will remain, until we make housing a priority in every community.

A betrothal of cross cultural ideals and same sex beliefs

Mad asked me to marry her. She did. It's right back there a few posts ago in the comments section in black and white.

I mulled it over for about 20 seconds. Then I immediately accepted.

Before the naysayers chime in, with the you are both married (mine isn't legal and well, Canadians are cooler about the same sex thing) or the whole you've never even met each other thing (Russian brides do it all the time) and the how do you know you guys can stand each other in real life (yet to be seen but odds are high) and the what about your partners (my gut says both might be totally psyched about it)

Take a moment to think about it. About a union of minds and souls and hearts - where we are willing to stand up and commit ourselves to our common belief system, where we are willing to bravely throw caution to the wind because we know in our hearts that what we believe is so profound, so important, and so oriented towards bettering our planet that we are willing to run pell mell into marriage, and well, hell....our kids have instant playmates. Admit it, you are jealous already.

In fact, if I may take it one step further (and great liberties with the post in general) - our commitment will be centered on coming together to form a better world. Our commitment will be to give social justice a voice so in turn there may be change.

Margaret Mead summed it up best: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.

So, perhaps that means we make this a group wedding. Let's get wild and drunk (figuratively speaking for those of you who abstain) on the idea that a small group of committed people CAN change the world.

It'll be a hell of a reception. If we are going to break bigamy laws, might as well do it right. Who's in? And if you are in, your wedding present to us will be to tell us the area of social justice you are passionate about, and what we can do about it. On your blog or in the comments, your choice. Just bring it on.

If you choose to join us, send me the link to your post and next weekend, we'll have one big social justice wedding and all of your vows will be included. And that means Mad only has to actually court me for a week. I am easy like that.

Oh, and the totally other cool part is I am betting that on top of being a passionate, brilliant, and socially minded woman, Mad is pretty hot, too.

I scored.

far from tender

I was back in the Tenderloin yesterday doing a bit more research for a project I am working on. Every time I visit there, I am always struck by how desperate it is - it's filthy, the streets are filled with the homeless, with people who seem very ill, or high, or both. The businesses that line the area are a mix of converted SROs (a type of extremely low income housing) liquor stores, and porn shops. People are everywhere, yelling, talking to themselves, asking for money, working some deal or another.

Truthfully, it freaks me out - the lack of hope and the utter desperation is so loud it hurts.

I take note of those who are going through this district rather than living in it. They walk fast, head down, eyes averted. Purses clutched. They are going somewhere else. Those who seem to live in this area are slower, a bit more conversational. I too, am heading somewhere, and I am on the move.

We literally step over a few people as we go. One man is lying on some cardboard, bleeding from his head. I notice he has no shoes. We see two men dragging a third who can't walk - it's impossible to tell whether or not he is temporarily or permanently unable - it looks pretty bad either way.

A woman stops me - starts in on a convoluted story about needing a specific amount of change to get somewhere - I stop her, no need to sell me on your story - and hand her some money. I feel strange hearing her justify her begging, and stranger still as she yells god bless you three or four times as I walk away. I already know sister. I do. And I am sorry. I'd rather you were blessed instead.

We reach our destination and get to meet with some very good people trying to do some very good work. Ideas are tossed around. It gets us closer to where we want to be. We wrap up and head back.

On the way back to the car we notice a man in a wheelchair. He is doubled over limply, his head is at his ankles, a rope tied around his middle keeps him attached to his chair. He is in the middle of the sidewalk. People swerve around him, glancing maybe, but nothing more. I wonder if he is dead. He seems dead. I stop and say this is so fucked up. My friend says this IS so fucked up. But we don't know what to do. We stop and gently touch his shoulder, not knowing what the hell we will do after that moment. He jerks and groans and yells. It scares me, and I feel helpless. My friend quietly says Jen, let's go. There is nothing we can do. I leave, ashamed that I allow myself to buy that as an excuse, and ashamed I remain.

We keep going. I look back. He is upright now.

This IS so fucked up.

I notice this is my 100th post. That means I've been waxing on about drool and the streets for a while now. I don't know what is different between the time I started and now. I wonder how that man slept last night, and if he ever feels warm and safe. I wonder about that woman, and if she ever feels blessed.

I want it to be different than this.

push-pull

Let me qualify the below by saying I KNOW how incredibly blessed I am. I know how easy my life is compared to so many others in the world. I have a roof. I have food. I KNOW. I am whining. I KNOW.

But damn, if some days aren't hard. Yesterday was hard.

Between M and the balance we need to work two full time jobs while only allowing her to spend part time in day care combined with laundry and figuring out what to eat and making an attempt to clean the house and being completely wrecked by my insanely high energy child who is into every single thing at every single minute like tonight when she ate a fairly large piece of paper and then cackled and hid under the table while chewing and swallowing....

while balancing a cell phone on one shoulder while I change a diaper while in conference call with important people discussing important problems and using my little finger to mute the phone every time M squeals so they don't catch on that I am not paying attention when I should be paying attention....

when I stop on the corner to give a panhandler my card and he tells me to go fuck myself, and I say if I could, I'd certainly be doing that instead of trying to talk to him, and while that cracked the facade briefly, it wasn't enough to convince him because he's stayed at one of the shelters at my agency and will never go back because we are assholes who don't care about the homeless....(ouch, brother)

while racing to read enough baby books and do bathtime and get her to bed on time so she can get enough sleep so we can start all over again....and then instead of doing something good for myself like god forbid exercise I fling myself in exhaustion on the couch..

i should perhaps join the circus. maybe they need another juggler. because god knows, if nothing else, I am a damn fine juggler.

And jugglers wear cute tights. And someone else puts their makeup on for them, right?

But clowns scare me.

The Said American Dream - by Jenny Talia

ECR humorously tasked me to write about The American Dream, or better stated, my perspective on The Said American Dream.

First, let's get a generally proposed definition for the subject matter at hand.

Wikipedia (the source for all things accurate) defines The American Dream as a subjective term usually implying a successful and satisfying life. This term usually implies financial security and material comfort, but can also imply a dream of fame, exceeding social, ethnic, or class boundaries, or simply living a fulfilling life. Perceptions of the American dream are usually framed in terms of American capitalism, its associated meritocracy, and the freedoms guaranteed by the U.S. Bill of Rights.

The term is not easily defined, and has subjective meaning to many who claim it. The American Dream is often associated with immigration, as the dream of religious freedom, economic prosperity, and meritocracy has historically driven immigrants to the United States. The term is used by many modern Americans to signify success in life as a result of hard work (as in, "living [or pursuing] the American Dream").

Hmmm. I guess I can get behind the part about living a fulfilling life - but is my life truly fulfilled if yours is not? Is it ok that I am warm if it means you are cold? Fame and fortune, well, that makes me sit up a little straighter and start to itch. Then I get all prickly towards the parts describing capitalism and then laugh out loud when I read the part about it involving meritocracy, better known as a system of government or other organization based on demonstrated ability (merit) and talent rather than by wealth, family connections (nepotism), class privilege, cronyism or other historical determinants of social position and political power.

Ahem. If meritocracy is an actual part of The Existing American Dream, then I can shit tiny gold men and make them do my laundry.

PS. I do my own laundry.

(I shouldn't be so cynical. We are conditioned to embrace the ideals of meritocracy, and the practice certainly does exist, but concerning leadership in particular - status is exponentially easier to achieve through wealth, nepotism, class/race privilege, & cronyism than through a merit-based ascension through the establishment's rank & file. For every Frederick Douglas, there are 1000 George Bushes.)

I guess I'd prefer to re-define what we typically think of as the American Dream as Global Human Potential through Social Justice.

(Wiki-people) Social justice refers to conceptions of justice applied to an entire society. It is based on the idea of a just society, which gives individuals and groups fair treatment and a just share of the benefits of society.
Social justice is both a philosophical problem and an important issue in politics. It can be argued that everyone wishes to live in a just society, but different political ideologies have different conceptions of what a 'just society' actually is. The term "social justice" itself tends to be used by those ideologies who believe that present day society is highly unjust - and these are usually left-wing ideologies, advocating a more extensive use of democracy and income redistribution, a more egalitarian society and either a mixed economy or a non-market-based economic model.

Social justice is also a concept that some use to describe the movement towards a socially just world. In this context, social justice is based on the concepts of human rights and equality. So a very broad definition of social justice is that "social justice reflects the way in which human rights are manifested in the everyday lives of people at every level of society" It can be further defined as working towards the realization of a world where all members of a society, regardless of background, have basic human rights and an equal opportunity to access the benefits of their society.

Amen.

Now what does this all mean to me? I think people like C come to our country because we have acquired more of the world's resources, therefore making it easier to feed and clothe your family, and keep them alive than in many other parts of the world. But The Said American Dream comes on the backs of others. Unfair trade agreements, destabilization of other economies, and the ever loving desire to make a buck has crippled the world's (and our) economy. The Said American Dream lives on the backs of our domestic brothers and sisters - one in five children live below the poverty line in the US. Millions have no health insurance. There is not a city in the nation where minimum wage equates market rate rental housing. Tens of thousands of children go to bed hungry. In my county alone, there are 20,000 people who are currently unhoused. The average age of a homeless person is nine years old.

I have met hundreds of homeless or at risk of homelessness families who pursue the above with a vigor that startles me. They believe that with hard work, one can have anything. I think it is an honorable dream, and one that many of us have been fortunate enough to experience ourselves to varying degrees. But did it all come to us via our hard work alone? It didn't for me - money, stability and ethnicity all played a role.

ECR - Obviously this is somewhat sardonic and a bit scattered. In fact, I'd give myself a C-, or better, fail me for plagarism. I'll let you decide. Others, please feel free to disagree. That whole it's a free country thing does come in handy.

But if the argument is at least we aren't as bad as some other countries, I won't buy it. Because as the country with the most resources and wealth, we have the obligation and responsibility to be an example to others. To use our power for good. To stand up taller. To do the right thing. It doesn't matter if others are mucking it up worse.

So, in turn, ECR, and others - what is your perspective of the American Dream?

rising up

Sometimes people come back after their crisis is over, not as often as I'd like, so when I get the pleasure of hearing the "look at me now" stories I drink them up like sweet water. Yesterday brought one of those unexpected visitors.

C came to us with his son after fleeing Somalia in 2001. He was granted political asylum, but not much else. They were homeless, couldn't speak much english, and needed help. We were able to move him into to one of our projects and over time and with some interpreters, started to learn how we could best help.

C fled during the remnants of the civil war. He was only able to afford passage for himself and one son (of 5 children at the time) and missed his wife and family dearly. C immediately began taking ESL classes and looking for work. Not having any understanding of our social system or ability to speak the language was a barrier, but he took it in stride - all he cared about was getting his family out and safe. He took to our programs quickly, absorbed the help we could offer, was extraordinarily proud of his new place to live, and worked, worked, worked. He had to save $13,000 to prove to the US that he could support his family as well as pay for their passage. He also had to get all the proper approvals and visas and after 9/11, (his family is Muslim), things got considerably tougher.

Stories of all the domestically displaced Muslim families we housed in the years after 9/11 is another tale for another day.

C is so generous, surprising us with Somali delicacies, helping out when we needed some heavy lifting, and working hard to contribute to his new community. C would find other African immigrant families in trouble, and would drop them on our doorstep and translate their needs to us and implore us to help. He was a one man community builder.

C lived with us for over two years. We had committed to keep him housed until his family arrived and we could transition them together, because stable housing was one of the criteria he had to have in order to justify their arrival.

About two months before his family was granted aslyum, one of his daughters died. She had been sick, their village didn't have proper medical treatment, and food was scarce. In essence, she died because it took too long to bring them here. C was devastated, and yet he kept going. There were three children left to bring to his new home.

Finally, the paperwork was pushed and the stamps were stamped and authority was granted. His family arrived, and it was a joyous homecoming. His wife was so breathtakingly beautiful, I'll never forget the first time I saw her walking across the parking lot - orange sari flowing, her regal posture and shy and exhausted smile. His children were beside themselves, they'd had quite a journey and had spent a long time away from their father. Everyone was hungry, and needed to see a doctor, but were ok.

Very shortly after he kept his commitment to us and prepared to move out. He worked several assorted jobs to make ends meet. He'd saved money, but had spent most of it bringing his family here. He still needed help, but again small miracles ensued and a kind landlord was willing to negotiate.

That was 2 years ago. He's always kept in touch, but it's been awhile. He came yesterday to say helllo and to kindly offer me blessings, saying without us he would not have been able to rise up. That he is in touch with others we'd helped at the same time, and we learned one family has bought a house, and another has a son in college. He is working with another family to open a restaurant. And he says they owe it all to us.

Believe me, I know that isn't true. I know the truth is that they helped themselves. That they made the most of every opportunity and never wavered. That they brought community and joy and love and life to our country, and they've blessed us in knowing them.

He brought another family with him today, one he's stumbled upon recently, who've recently arrived from Africa, and one of the kids has some issues. He is 11, but he cannot speak. C thinks the horrors he's witnessed has taken his voice. And of course, they need a place to stay. In the for-profit world, this might equal customer satisfaction and a strong referral base. In ours, it's akin to bailing an ocean with a thimble. There is never enough housing and our arms are weary. But still they come, each with their own stories of trauma and hard times, and each with their exhaustion, shame, and a glimmer of hope in their eyes.

I learned long ago that even when it's thank you, it's never only about thank you.

And I can live with that.

a little wooden ring

A couple of you asked to see - and unfortunately the picture kind of, well sucks. But here you go. Note the trekking through the jungle dirty fingernails.

And no, that was NOT me sipping a bit of rum punch while pregnant...what kind of woman do you think I am?

Probably exactly the kind of woman I am.

A sip, people. Just a sip.

joining the union

This one's for Chani, who got me thinking.

We hadn't been together for very long before M decided to join us. And getting pregnant didn't make us want to get legally married - we are both of the mindset that we don't need a judicial system to help us define our love and commitment so the idea of a wedding or marriage wasn't something that we'd put on the table as a result of M.

However, her appearance made us realize we wanted to do something to communicate to the world that we'd become a family. We decided that we'd both change our names to a name that fits how we want to live our lives. We labored for months about the right name, and at one point were fairly well set on an acronym for a phrase we like: Truth and Love in Action. Talia sounded like a terrific last name until I (thanking the almighty) said it out loud in a sentence.

Hi, I am Jen Talia. Or worse, Jenny Talia. Nice to meet you.

And we were THIS CLOSE to filing the paperwork. I'll wait till you are done laughing at our stupidity before continuing. Needless to say we went with another option.

Anyways, we were trekking around Central America during my 2nd trimester, feeling the need for a trip before our world changed. While we were in Belize J-Dog started acting a bit suspiciously - disappearing for a while, hushed conversations, etc. I knew something was up but I had no idea what.

One morning he said he had a surprise. We walked over to the ocean and a catamaran was sitting on the dock. He had rented it to take us out into the Caribbean, complete with two old and salty Belizean sailor types. The day was perfect. Water a deep turquoise, visibility for miles. J-Dog asked me to sit down and be serious. I started to giggle and fidget.

He pulled out a piece of paper and a small bag. He had written the most beautiful words about love and partnership and about how he was committed to making this life with me, about how much he loved me and the baby inside, and invited me to make a family with him, for better and worse. He opened the bag and had some wooden rings inside, a few different and inexpensive pieces, yet they suited me perfectly. He said I could wear or not wear them, but knew I liked variety and wanted me to have choices. They were lovely, his words were lovely, and at one point he asked me if I would be his life partner, and I said yes.

He then stood up and yelled to the old Belizean men "She said YES! She said YES!" and they whooped and cheered and brought over a plastic tub of rum punch and toasted our happiness.

Simple, private, and perfect.

We've realized since that while this has made us happy, at some point we might like to have a celebration of sorts - not sure yet what we'd call it - that our friends and family can attend. We'd like to wait till M is a bit older, so she'll remember it and can participate. For now, we have done exactly enough to suit us.

That doesn't mean we don't have to defend our decision to family, or that folks don't get confused when I call him my partner or because of our last name, assume we're married and call him my husband. And none of it matters, because he is all of those things to me anyways. It doesn't mean it'll always be this way, or that we won't choose something else later. It just means we're playing it loose.

He’s the warmest chord I ever heard

Play that warm chord, play and stay baby

We don’t need no piece of paper

From the city hall

Keeping us tied and true

- Joni Mitchell

spending and sharing

A friend recently told me about how she teaches her daughter about philanthropy. I loved the concept and want to adopt it with M when she is a bit older. Every week her daughter gets her allowance and she has three jars to put it in. One for spending, one for saving, and one for sharing.

Her daughter understands she is to divide it up equally into the three jars. The spend jar gets to be used for whatever she wants, and the save jar is used for the really special thing she wants and is learning to save for. The share jar is for her to use when she learns about things people need. She can choose where to give it to, but she knows she is to use it to help others. She's purchased a blanket for a homeless person with her share money, and helped pay for child care for another woman who was in need. I know we aren't talking about huge dollar amounts here, but it's so very much about awareness and compassion and so much less about the amount itself.

I can't tell you how much I love this. Especially since her daughter is only six.

The other day she overheard her mom talking on the phone about the money troubles in her agency (she is also in non-profit) so she walked over and handed her her share jar and asked her to use it for her job "since they need money to help more people".

What a lifetime gift she is giving her child. I can't wait to start this same tradition with M.

all consuming

I am not sure exactly what it is about consumerism that makes me want to weep, but watching all the people line up outside stores in the dark to be the first one inside, to get the best deals, to spend, spend, spend, makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Maybe its because it's a reality incomprehensible to the majority of the world who would give a limb to have the same small fortune that folks are willing to squander on the latest thing, or out of a sense of obligation to others, or to simply feel full.

There is something so incredibly sad about it. Or maybe it's just me.

Does anyone have any thoughts about the upside of consumerism? Because I can't seem to find it and am wondering what it must be.

familiar relations

Thank you to all of your thoughts for M. She is doing so much better - and once the infection is cleared, we'll focus on understanding what asthma means for her and what we need to do to deal with it. Of course I'd prefer that nothing was ever wrong with her, but as far as things go, this is treatable and therefore, it's ok. We'll figure it out.

My brother is in town for a few days. My brother is a bachelor, a world traveller, a rather hunky sort of boy. Girls love my brother. And he's the kind of boy I'd not want my daughter going out with. He's used to his life, his way. He only manages to come see us once or twice a year, and so it's nice having him around. However, I think he's reconsidering the length of his visit. It's gone something like this:

Me: Since you are never around, seems fitting to get to know your niece. (We respond well to guilt in our family)
Him: Ok
Me: So J-Dog and I are going to the movies so you can have quality time together.
Him: Ok. But she better not poop.
Me: You better deal with it if she does. Kids poop.
Him: But she poops a lot. I mean, who shits 4 times a day?

Off to Borat, a completely outrageous and bizarre yet strangely hilarious experience

We came home at 9:30pm to find him sound asleep. Mr. All Night Partier out of commission. Asleep on the couch, toys everywhere, battle wounds visible. M's (fresh) diaper on backwards. But she's smiling in her sleep. M 1. Uncle 0.

In the morning M wakes at her usual 7am.

Him: Does she ever stop?
Me: No
Him: How the hell do you do this? I mean, she's cute, but cute gets old.
Me: Look at me. I am a mere shell of my old self. I am fatter and more worn out than ever.
Him: You're not that...
Me: Watch it.
Him: Still. I've been around other kids before. None of them require this much non-stop attention. Something must be wrong with her.
Me: Ok. What do you think it is?
Him: Maybe she needs medication
Me: You dumbshit. She's two.
Him: Maybe I need medication.
Me: If you get some, give me half.

Later...
Me: Wouldn't it be fun if Uncle took you to the park?
Him: Groaning
M: Yeah, yeah, yeah , park, uncle, uncle park park uncle park uncle uncle park.
Me: Can you honestly disappoint someone as cute as that?
Him: I am over the cute factor. I told you that already.
Me: I'll buy you beer. And I'll give you $20.
Him: Groaning, yet rising upwards.

I am totally exploiting him today, and I have no problem with it.
At all.
And it's not even noon yet.

gobble

I am not sure why we require a holiday to remember to be thankful - and yet I know I can be as guilty of it as the next person - getting caught up in the daily grind, forgetting my everyday abundance of good fortune, and then feeling generally ashamed that I require a prompt to acknowledge the obvious. So instead of waxing on about my everyday richness, good health, a loving family, and so forth, I'd rather bring you this:

To the bevy of women (and occasional man) that I didn't know existed a year ago: You tremendously supportive, articulate, hilarious and powerful writers, you are what I am thankful for today.

I feel genuine love for so many of you. I eagerly clickity clack on over to you each day, excited to see what you've come up with, ways to learn from your wisdom, sending solace when you are aching, or laughing at your wit. I have become involved in your lives, and I find that what you do and say matters a great deal.

So, as I slyly tilt my head towards the right side of my screen and coyly, under half lidded eyes gaze in your direction I become increasingly wide eyed and captivated - you, and then more of you, is what I am thankful for today.

Thank you for shining light into dark corners, for your keen wit, your depth of beauty, and for your willingness to meet me in the middle.

It's come to matter more than you know. So I bring flowers in gratitude, all the way from a little spot in Cambodia, just for you.

coming up for air

After a long and scary sleepless night we finally got to see a MD. When I got to the doctor's office I told the woman behind the counter that M was really struggling to breathe. She said, yeah, we see a lot of that lately. As I mentally grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her face into the counter, I more politely said listen, she is having trouble breathing right now. I want to see a MD RIGHT NOW. I know, health care providers, that I am just a faceless number. But dammit, I need you to listen. to. me. or I just might go Wild Planet on you. I really just might.

M was taken back and learned that yes, her oxygen saturation levels were extremely low. Breathing treatment ensued. Another listen. Yes, it's walking pneumonia, oh, and probably, she's got asthma. Lots to figure out. KC, I wish you lived closer, and I wish you were my MD.

I can deal with all of this because I notice M now has color in her cheeks. 2 inhalers, no problem. prescriptions, cool. Because she can breathe again. Thank you.

And thank you for your wonderful thoughts and wishes. I was up all night, so re-reading your comments made me feel a bit less alone in the dark.

deep breaths

M is pretty sick right now. Borderline driving to the emergency room sick.

She had walking pneumonia a few weeks ago, got better (or so we thought) and came crashing down today. Her breathing is so labored, I was almost in tears letting the nurse listen to her over the phone before finally collectively deciding we can wait till our appointment first thing in the AM, but only if it doesn't get worse. If it gets worse, we head to the ER.

It's one of those nights where you walk on eggshells, checking on her over and over, sleeping in her room on the floor in shifts.
It's one of those nights where you realize you've taken every healthy day for granted, and how you have no real idea of what it is like to worry for your child. While intellectually I know she'll be fine, it's still one of those nights and it won't stop till I know she's better.

So instead I take a moment to pour a glass of red and turn to all of you, and share a picture of her with lungs strong enough to blow bubbles.

It's one of those nights where everything feels a bit scary, when I realize how small we all are, how I am completely wrecked by love for my child, and yet how powerless I can feel if something is wrong.

brimstone and bologna sandwiches

My father's brother ran a homeless ministry. He was a fire breathing preacher, full of faith and gospel and god and he commanded the same of everyone around him. He was larger than life, my Uncle, when he walked into a room people gathered around him. He took that pulpit and made it scream. People loved him. Feared him, too. I always felt like he was God On Earth. His words WERE the holy commandments, and you better listen up.

He lived in the church office with his wife and kids. They lived onsite because they kept their doors open 24/7 to anyone needing a place to stay. Anyone could sleep on one of the pews. The only rule was you'd better be upright at 6am to get your fill of Jesus. Praying, bible study, church...you abided by all of it if you wanted a place to stay.

I cut my homeless baby teeth inside those walls. We'd visit regularly, we'd help cook meals, make sandwiches, go to church. It was unavoidable - my grandmother lived in the back of the church by then, and the rest of the family came and went as well. Running the church and the various programs was a true family affair.

They ran a summer camp for inner city kids. The camp was spartan - tents and outhouses, a lot of white bread and oatmeal. They'd round up hundreds of kids from deep inside L.A. and get them breathing mountains for a week at a time. My parents would send me, and truth be told, I hated it. Camp was hard. We were roughing it. And the kids, well, the kids were tough. There was so little money to spare that the evening activities mostly consisted of chasing one of the counselors around while he held a hershey bar in his teeth. Whoever finally caught him got the candy. I never won, not once.

My uncle ran things with an iron fist wrapped around a bible. From time to time city workers would hassle him - people were being housed illegally, overcrowding, pews were not meant to be used as beds. Nothing was up to code, food was bartered and begged. Folks did drugs. One guy from the Health Inspectors office tried hard to shut the place down. I remember threats of litigation and of closing our doors. I remember my uncle fighting with him and bringing it up in church, bible raised and voice thundering, asking God to intervene. The guy dropped dead of a heart attack the next week. I kid you not. This was how my uncle rolled.

All of that combined meant I had a healthy fear of my uncle. He commanded and I responded. He told me what to do, what to read, and I did. I loved him very much. I also was just a little girl, and easily impressionable.

While I certainly learned about humanity, I struggled with the religiousity of it all. As I grew older, I disagreed that someone should have to augment their belief system in order to receive help. While I appreciate his passion, I don't agree with the approach. To be honest, I don't know how many folks were truly helped...did they end their homelessness, or was it just passing time? I know some people seemed to make miraculous recoveries...pimps became pastors, that sort of thing. Perhaps salvation IS the goal, eternal life certainly trumps this world if one is a believer of that sort, but at the same time, I think helping is helping, and it shouldn't come chained to the bible.

My uncle died quite a few years ago. He was out at dinner, looked at his wife, said it's time to go home, and died on the spot. We always felt it was a blessing that he died away from the church, because people saw salvation in him, and seeing him wheeled out in a bag might have been too much to bear. I recall his funeral - the church was filled to the brim and there were 200 or so more people gathered outside in the street. I remember a lot of wailing and crying. One woman threw herself on his coffin. I cried for a week. My aunt, though - she was a rock. She never did leave that church office, not for many years to come.

Without knowing, he gave me my start. I had no idea I'd end up doing what I do now way back then, but those experiences taught me a lot about perseverance and hope. About dedication and compassion.

But mostly, it taught me but there for the grace of god, go I.

forty eight

Every year I attend a funeral for the homeless who've died on the streets in our county. Every year the names are compiled of those who've died and it allows their friends, family if any, and the community to witness their passing and offer them some small grace.

This year I knew several of the forty eight folks who died, one whom I've paid tribute to already, and others who I knew less well, but mourn them just the same. Like the woman whose body was found on the conveyor belt of our local refuse plant, where she'd landed after her body had been carelessly tossed into a dumpster and unwittingly delivered, or the woman who died in the streets and left her husband alone, to weep today at what will be the only official tribute to her life. The morgue is full of unclaimed bodies, for even those who'd like to cannot afford to bury them, and so they sit.

It's always bittersweet because while I appreciate the acknowledgement of those we've lost, I can't help but wonder what this winter will hold in store for others. The nights are getting colder, the first rain is already upon us, and the medical system cannot keep the ones without insurance unless their condition absolutely mandates it, so the sick and dying are left to wander.

And then I wonder what it's going to really take to force our local and national governments to sit up and take notice. The horror of Katrina and it's aftermath certainly didn't - I was involved in resettlement for about 200 refugees that were displaced and sent across the country on greyhound buses so I got to see the bureaucracy that folks had to suffer through, and how it took a very long time and a lot of bullshit to get folks rehoused. And that was just a small piece of the total that were rendered (and still are) homeless.

I wonder how many more names I will hear read while we continue to fail those who need it the most because it is unsavory economically to do something about it.

Rest in peace.

Minced Metaphors: The Phoenix Shouldn't Throw the Baby out with the Bathwater if it Hopes to Rise from its Own Ashes

I invited J-Dog to write a piece for my blog - seeing as he's watched it take over a chunk of my life, I thought it might be nice to add his voice to the mix. Besides, he's the true writer in the family anyways.

His creation is below.

I was 5 years old when my parents divorced. The divorce was a bitter affair, largely the fruit of an extramarital affair, and was in some frames of reference, mine in particular, utterly unfair to me. Given these were my adoptive parents, the abandonment double-whammy has owned my shadow ever since. But in the wake of my dad's moving out, he would occasionally visit me, and I remember one visit above the others.

Being the type of man who throws money at his problems, forever hoping that material indulgence might absolve others' pain & his guilt, my father took me to this castle-shaped palatial warehouse called Toy World (long since buried by Toys 'R Us), and told me that I could have any toy in the store I wanted. Being 5, I ate that shit up - hook, line, worm, & sinker - and I vividly remember feeling like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, or Dorothy maybe, at the moment she opens her tornado-torn, sepia-hued bedroom door to find a Technicolor land of Oz & opportunity . . . You mean, any toy I want? I asked. Yes, any toy you want. And so I carefully, thoughtfully, methodically combed the magnificent aisles of promise, piously hedging my good fortune against the burden of choice, and the choice I finally made might confuse you, as it did me for some 30 years.

I chose a small plastic toy ark. It was a sea-worthy vessel, bathtub-worthy for sure, replete with miniature figures of Noah, Naamah (Noah's wife, who's name I admittedly researched for my own sake, given the predominant readership of this blog), 2 giraffes, 2 elephants, 2 tigers, and so on.

Now I wasn't particularly religious before, during, or after the age of 5, and I have no clear memory of relating to the toy in a biblical sense, but I chose what I chose, a humble ark, despite having license to own any manner of toy - a toy perhaps, of some pomp & circumstance, or adventurous scope & scheme. Being too young to engage much self-reflection, I only remember my father & I excitedly taking the toy to a creek, placing the figurines of people & animals on the deck, setting the ark afloat, & taking a picture as craft & crew traveled merrily down-stream.

Years then passed without so much as a second-thought about either the toy or the event, and its memory may have been lost forever had I not one day during my early 20's found that photo. A simple photo maybe, but I was struck by complex & powerful feelings. Not only by the clarity with which I was able to revisit that day in my memory, but by the emotional charge of those times, and the nostalgia I felt for having shared such a moment with my now more-than-less estranged father.

The photo instantly became one of my prized possessions, one of the few things I never lost over the ensuing years, and one of those private mementos that became a secret unto myself; not because I consciously chose to hide its import from others, but because such opportunities rarely presented themselves (save for the occasion when a lover & I chose to plumb such depths). Still though, I didn't really get it. Why did the photo mean so much to me and, more importantly, why the hell did I choose an ark? Why would an un-indoctrinated 5 year-old boy voluntarily choose an ark for a toy? Especially in the face of such grand alternatives. Was there ever a time when arks were considered fun things to play with? What the . . . ?

Well, it's been 30 years now, and I believe I can finally address the enigma in a light that suits my nature. The ark is clearly a symbol for the container that safely transports one from the garden that was destroyed - across, over, & through the floods, dangers, darkness, & crises that envelope the former world - to an unforeseen, undiscovered, & unexplored place of safety, stability, illumination, and new life. The ark is the vessel that carries you through the times that don't kill you. The ark is the shelter through the storm. The ark offers safe passage between tragedy & triumph. And though the ark might be lost, ravaged by the elements, desperate for a sign, and challenged in its hope that stable ground might some day be found again, the ark always stays afloat. The ark survives.

Furthermore, the ark also contains the seeds of everything worth salvaging from the old world. When a safe harbor is finally anchored, these fertile seeds allow for a new world order to be cultivated & repopulated from the best of what the old world had to offer. While previously gained strengths are preserved, and wayward pursuits have been washed away, fresh perspectives emerge, novel approaches are employed, previous pitfalls are avoided, rebuilding begets awareness, mindfulness becomes practice, evolution becomes conscious, the gardener awakens and a new garden takes root. Like the seasons, the cyclical journey of the ark will persist throughout one's life. The ark transforms.

So, why did I buy an ark? Because an ark is precisely what I needed to survive my parents’ divorce & transform myself. Pretty smart for a 5 year old, but not all that surprising if you know any 5 year olds. And all these years later, I realize that I was and still am that ark. Populating the ark might be my friends, family, self-concept, dreams, faith, hope, passions, strength, love, un-deterrable destiny - whatever fertile seedling 'ark'-etypes I carry with me through the darkness - but I am, like you, forever the ark. And I am always reminded of this by that old photo that today lives on our refrigerator door.

So we must never forget, and need look no further than ourselves, for we are more powerful than we can imagine. Survival is instinctual, but choosing to engage the opportunity for transformation embedded within is paramount.

It is with gratitude that I have been allowed to share this story with you. The ark-I-am honors the ark-you-are. After all, were it not for the success of the arks-we-are, the paths of most-certain strangers would never have met here, and the opportunity to acknowledge our fundamental sameness, strength, & power may have passed unnoticed.

spiders and moon

I always wondered what rituals I'd create with my own family - as rituals and magic and fun were somewhat lost on me as a girl. I knew I wanted to create something different in my own family, to make life as magical for M as possible.

I can't claim we have an ocean of creativity and wonder freefalling all around us, but we do have this:

Every night before bed, M and J-Dog go outside and sit on our porch. It's their time, and I choose not to invade it but every so often I hear lifts and lilts of their voices. This is something M looks forward to every night. Just as it's getting late she starts asking for spiders and moon and off they go into the dark majesty of the evening.

Last night I asked what it was they spoke of. J said they talk about sounds and bugs and cats and spiders and the moon and cars and sirens. And how she sits still in his lap and holds his hands in hers. And then we realized we'd created a ritual - one where over the years the talk will expand to feelings and friends and boys or girls and love and life and politics and travel....and that they'll always have that time together and she'll have that to look forward to, every single night. Her time with her father, where anything is open for discussion. In fact, they are outside again tonight as I type this post; M with her blanket and chatter and J-Dog with his parka and heart of gold.

And how very blessed that makes us, safe and warm and loving, in our own corner of darkness and light.

jungle fever

While the picture is overexposed and you'll have to take my word for it that we are not using forced child labor, here is a glimpse of progress on our two acre jungle paradise....our local friends cleared the underbrush and are tending the grass till we make it back and figure out how to stay. (I still can't believe it's ours. Oh, and that we own a lawnmower in Belize. A Belizean lawnmower of all things).

Can you see those itty bitty fence posts in the background? We now have a fence!

The second shot is the view facing the river, where one day I'll bathe M and wash our clothes. Alright, who am I kidding....we'll drag chairs to the edge and drink beers at sunset.


It's tough to really explain how wanderlust lives inside me. About how every day I dream of dusty backpacks and local buses. About food stalls and foreign beer. About discovery and challenge.

The only person I know who gets to make that sort of travel a reality on a regular basis is the lovely Lucia who travels the world exotic in the name of goodness.

Have you met her yet? If not, you should.

the reality of perception

I was leaving the grocery store recently when I noticed a man panhandling outside. I usually stop and talk to the men or women I see doing this to see if they are homeless - usually because I can offer some information if they want it, a night in a shelter, a phone number, a connection of sorts. Sometimes they just want a buck, and I have no problem with that either, but I generally try to approach it with the goal of a longer term solution.

I was sitting on the curb talking with the guy about bus routes and shelter options when another shopper came up and handed me a couple dollars, quietly said good luck and walked away.

At first I was taken aback. I immediately thought I must look like shit and then almost said oh, hey, wait, I'm not homeless but I thought that might be an affront to the guy I was talking to, so I simply turned and handed him the money. He smiled and took it and mentioned something about how maybe I could hang out a bit longer.

As I left I was struck by the reactions that brought up in me - a sense of self-consciousness, a smidge of unintended fraud, and above all, the need to explain that I am not what you were thinking. Talk about some heavy lifting in those moments, coming from someone who purportedly spends her time and passion and intellect focused on the issue, on raising awareness to it, to proving that homelessness can look like any of us.

And yet so internally quick to defend that I am not.

It bothered me. Or better said, I bothered me. For practical reasons my reaction was normal, but my need to defend disappointed me. What makes me different? A roof, sure, but otherwise, we share skin and bone and love and fear. A choice here or there, certainly, but any of us can take a wrong turn and find ourselves lost. A battle lost, a lover scorned, a system broken.

We are all them, because we are all us. Next time, I'll just say thank you.

good answer, sister.

This week's TIME magazine featured a short interview with Nancy Pelosi. This answer made me stand up and cheer.

TIME Will your performance as Speaker have implications for Hillary Clinton if she runs for President?

PELOSI I'm not sure you would have asked a man that about another man. But since this is unusual, I will respect your question. I think it's really important for the people of our country to see that women can wield power and success in this rarefied and high altitude of power. I don't think Hillary Clinton, though, needs any validation from any other woman. She is an experienced Senator, articulate and a force in her own right.

Exactly. The simple fact that she is a woman should not set the tone for women everywhere. The question never would have been asked to a man. But the reality is it will be, time and time again. She'll be under more scrutiny for the simple fact of being woman.

Nancy, we are counting on you to keep reminding them that gender alone shouldn't be used to compare us, and it would be a mistake to let it divide us, or worse, to underestimate us.

Go, girl.

the needs of man

J Dog came home with a funny story last night. As he's leaving work in a hurry (mostly because I've been sick the last two days w/ an offshoot of walking pneumonia courtesy of M and I called begging for reinforcements) a client approached him rather aggressively on his way out the door.

Guy: I am a man, and I like to c*ome. (Humor the edits, I am saving weird googlers the disappointment of not finding something better to read)
J: Excuse me?
Guy: I am a man, and I like to c*ome. (I am on the floor by now, picturing this and J's face)
J: I am confused why you are telling me this, because it makes me feel uncomfortable (good one, J). Are you saying you are like to e*jac/ulate?
Guy: I am a man, and I like to c*ome.
J: Ok, Guy, you obviously need to talk about this but I am not sure how to respond. Are you saying you like to c*ome or you need to c*ome?
Guy: I need to.
J: Ah, ok. So that is different. I am hearing you say you are having trouble c*oming. Is that true?
Guy: Yes.
J: Ok. There are many reasons that might be occuring (synopsis of medication contraindications and so forth) How about we talk about some other things you can try safely and privately so that you are able to take care of yourself?

Bless him. I think I might not have stopped to try and flesh (pun intended) this one out, if it were me. But he saw it as a treatment opportunity and took it.

And then I wondered how many therapeutic moments we all miss in the course of our daily lives where kids/friends/co-workers/clients reach out tentatively (or otherwise), and we don't take the time to allow it to unravel because it makes us feel uncomfortable? I am betting I do it more often than I think - and something this overt is a good reminder.

mountain men and the lack of maid service

We lived for a while in a small mountain town. Maybe 1000 people, rather remote, everyone knew everyone. There weren't a lot of homeless as the weather was harsh and services distant, but a few took up residence from time to time.

I was 11 or 12 at the time, so my awareness was much more focused on Prince or Shawn Cassidy but I recall bits and pieces of the conversations I'd overhear my dad telling my mom, about how he was trying to help Don.

Don lived out in the woods. I never saw his encampment - my father never brought me when he'd go visit. Don had been homeless for a long time, wasn't connected to the system, was off the grid. My dad was trying to help him get some assistance. Don would come by from time to time, perhaps for money or some food, and my dad would always talk to him on our porch and give him what he needed.

One day we came home from the long commute from the city and our house was not quite our house. Things were out of place. I remember my mom freaking out, calling my dad, screaming. I remember angry conversations, and I never saw Don again.

Don had come over when we were gone. Doors weren't often locked, so it was easy to come inside. He was in need of some help, and to Don's credit, he only took what he needed. A warm jacket. Boots for the snow. He also tried to do a load of laundry and broke the machine. He put a frozen pizza in the oven, box and all, and burned the inside black. He took a shower and used a lot of towels and left them filthy on the floor and in the washing machine. And I think he slept in my parents bed. I think he might have taken a pillow with him when he left.

At the time I didn't understand my mom's reaction. It seemed to me that Don was just trying to take what he needed, and wanted a bit of time feeling clean and warm. Of course he'd want a shower. And a nap. Hungry? Of course. But working an oven and a washing machine probably escaped him. If you've not used one in god knows how long, it would probably escape you too. And the sight of a warm and comfortable bed - who could pass that up? And he had tried to clean up. A shit job, but he tried.

I understand my mother's anger at being violated, and her need to protect her home and her children. But I don't think Don was threatening any of that. Perhaps he didn't follow social convention, but he didn't take what he didn't need. Our VCR, my mom's bits of jewelry, it was all there. Nothing was intentionally broken or damaged. He even tried to clean up. And he didn't force his way in.

Like I said, I never saw Don again. I know my mom pushed my dad call the police, and while my dad (bless him) refused to do that, he did go and tell Don he couldn't come over any more, and that he couldn't help him any longer. And our doors were locked after that.

I've never asked him, but I am betting that pained my dad. I know this because I am who I am in part because of him. Because of the homeless mission his family ran while I was growing up, the place where I first cut my baby teeth. But that is the meat for another meal, so I'll stick it in the oven (without the box) soon.

inspired

Right after I wrote my last post J-Dog took M to the park and to ride a train and left me alone in the house for a few hours. I realized in that moment how lucky I am, and how blessed. And how rich life is. A father who loves to spend time with his daughter. A daugher that never, ever fails to throw herself in my arms screeching mama, grin as wide as the sun.

I've reflected on my posts lately, and yes, something is trying to come out. And it'll make it's way. But it's easy to push aside the joy, the most simple and beautiful joys that come from each and every day. Metro Mama posted about this, and it inspired me and the truth was blinding.

It's often easier to sink than rise. Gravity, be damned. Sometimes we need to stop looking and just enjoy the view.

What was the grace and light in your world today?

Mine was when I noticed M trying to imitate me in the mirror - she reached up and patted her hair and tossed her head (who's the vain mum here?) I hadn't even realized I'd done it till she did it too and then looked up at me, grinning ear to ear, saying "like mama, like mama".

I gobbled that up and am entirely full.

comfortably numb

Lately I feel as if I've been on autopilot. The lights are on, the motor's humming, but nothing is really happening in between. It's the state of getting by that has nothing to do with getting to.

I am not sure what it all really means - but it feels awkward and delicate and sort of plastic. Like the artificial me - where things are bouncing off rather than soaking in, or fizzling instead of popping. Whatever function this defense mechanism is serving I've been riding with it - the rest feels a bit too challenging and that feels a bit like bullshit. But I am numb, my fingers and toes aren't sensing things like they should. The back of my throat feels dull. My brain is like a ping pong table.

I am dropping things. Forgetting things (and I usually have a brain like an elephant). Or wait, is that the animal that has a long memory? Or is that an ostrich? Maybe that's a long neck. See, this is exactly what I mean.

Does this sound familiar? The calm before what storm?

sacred spaces

Lil approached me weeks ago to collaborate on a site with her. She has a vision for a site where she and others can air out their stories - the ones that have made us stumble, rise up, scream, or weep along the journey.

She's created a place where we can gather and bring some of that to light. It's over at the only way out is through and the door is open to anyone who has a story they feel they'd like to share. I know she is dedicated to respecting the privacy of others, so submissions can be anonymous.

It feels like a warm and lovely place already - mostly because Lil is so pure of heart in her choice to birth this and also in her willingness to create space for the rest of us.

A couple of you have already inquired, and I know Lil is working to get your story on the site in the next few days. I look forward to hearing what you have to say - especially given the strong reaction to some of my recent posts - I know there is a lot brewing under the surface for many of us, and sometimes the things we hide keeps us stuck.

breaking the girl

I fell in love with the wrong guy when I was 18. I had a crush on him for years - he lived down the street from me, he was on the football team in high school, a few years older, devastatingly good looking....you know the rest.

We started dating at a time I was feeling a bit lost - I was taking a few courses in college, working full time, and enjoying the lack of rules and structure. At first we hit it off famously. And we drank a lot. And then after a while I noticed that he drank a whole hell of a lot. By this time I was living with him, out of co-dependence rather than necessity. I NEEDED to be around him just as he needed to drink. I gave up my sense of self and climbed right down the rabbit hole. And in retrospect, that made me an awfully easy target.

It started off slowly - fighting, yelling, derogatory behavior, but again, youth and passion and drink all made that somewhat normal. And then it got worse. He started to endanger my life, driving while guzzling pints of vodka, threatening to run off the road into a tree, by forcing (yes, I know, no one really forces you) to drink much more than is a good idea, so much so that one night it almost killed me. And then it got even worse. He pushed me out of a moving car. He hit me. He forced me to have sex with him, once in front of his friends, once so bad it's not worth repeating, and some other times, too.

It's insidious, this type of abuse. Because by the time they wear you down to a point you might do things you never thought you'd do, you are confused and depressed and sure you are going crazy. And I was such a little girl at the time, with so little experience to draw on. I was trying to escape my childhood, and I ran straight into hell.

And the funny thing is I wasn't one of the women who truly have limited choices. I had a home I could go back to if I had to. I had friends I could talk to. But since I was enduring it, it shamed me and I had to keep it a secret. I could tell no one, because there was no one who would understand. I wouldn't have been able to explain it because I didn't understand it myself.

Slowly I began hating him and hating myself. I stopped talking to friends, and I lied to them when I did. I put myself again and again in a position to be abused. I remember feeling like I was watching a movie while floating on the ceiling. I remember being so upset I would throw up.

And in between the nightmare he worked a sick magic, proving and showing why I couldn't leave and why I could do no better. I knew he was full of shit, but I couldn't make my limbs move in the opposite direction no matter how hard I screamed inside.

And then one night I walked in the door and saw him sitting in a chair, a smoke in one hand and a pint in the other, and as he turned in his chair to face me and the face of pure evil looked back, I heard a voice inside that said you don't have to do this anymore. I dropped my groceries in the entry way and I turned and ran as fast as I could to my car, drove to a friend's house, and I never saw him again. I never went back for my belongings, I never spoke to him again. It was done.

And still, I never told anyone what happened. Yes, we broke up, yes it's over...yes yes yes. But never about what really happened, about the torture and abuse. Never because in my mind I had chosen to stay. I had CHOSEN to stay, and I had a CHOICE.

When I went back to college full time I switched my major to psychology. I wanted to learn more about how this could happen, and what I could do about it. The DV shelter came from this, doing good to replace something bad. It took several more years to focus that work inward instead of outward, but right before I had a nervous breakdown I did something about that too. That's a song for another day, this has exhausted me enough.

This isn't a story to incite pity. I realize there are much worse stories to tell. This is simply a glimpse into what shaped me - this cornocopia of bad choices sparked a life path I had might not taken otherwise. Or perhaps it was in me all along. But that would mean going back even further.

the dawn of possibilities

The House and Senate have gone blue. While I realize it's not a miracle cure, it's got to be better than what we have. And I've not felt so encouraged in years about what might be possible.

And California passed 1C, which is a major achievement for homeless providers in the state. Now maybe we can kick affordable housing in it's ass.

I am done waxing on about the election. I'll get back to my regularly scheduled programming next, or better termed as that early bullshit that changed my life.

a thumping

We gathered around the radio today to listen to Bush's address. We all collectively decided amidst the massive cheering about Rumsfield's departure and laughing at the inane hiring practices and courses that must be stayed - is that while we have no idea why this cat is the leader of the free world, he might actually be fun to drink a beer with.

1 Senate seat to go. You fabulous people of Virginia, don't fail us now.

What an incredible power shift. The people have finally spoken loud enough to be heard.

choose or lose

We are damn close to taking the house, and a bit farther from taking the Senate. It's going to be a long night.

I've cracked open some red and even smoked a cigarette....it matters THAT much. M is wondering why I am yelling at the TV, but it's all good on election night so far.

America, don't fail me now. A regime change is in order.

Edited to add at 8:10pm: Bagged the House. Rock the fuck on, America.

And please do know that when I say We, I only mean anything other than They. Green party, through and through in this house. But we fit better with We than we'll ever in a million years fit with They. We's got some work to do, too. And we'll be watching.

that one time someone had a gun

My first internship was in college. I had asked for a placement at a domestic violence shelter that my college had not previously assigned students because it was in a particularly dodgy area of town. I had a reason I wanted to intern there (another story, soon) and so I got the director to sign off, begged my professor, and was off and running. I had no real idea of what I was in for, other than convinced I would change the world. Green as a frog on Sunday.

I was assigned mostly to playing with the kids and co-facilitating some groups. I don't think they felt I had skills beyond that, and I am certain they were right. I had 2 evening shifts a week, and I loved every second of it. This shelter was pretty rough - the neighborhood was terrible, a crackateria next door, and women earning a hard living on the corner. Inside the shelter women were coming straight from their abusers, and the kids were out of control, angry, and traumatized. There wasn't a lot of money to provide extras - we used government rationed food, relied on donations, and everything had that distinct smell of old mops.

One night I was in the community room holding a 3 day old baby. The mom had a few other kids so her hands were pretty full. I remember thinking I had never held something so small in my life.

All of a sudden I heard what I thought was firecrackers. I didn't think much else until one of the women screamed someone is shooting at the building and everyone in the room fell onto the floor. Remember, I was green, green, green - I'd never heard gunfire in real life before....it's almost embarrassing now to think of it but I was doing the best I knew how. What struck me later was that the rest of the women knew what gunfire sounded like, and also exactly what to do.

I laid down on the floor on top of the baby still cradled in my arms, and single file we crawled on hands and knees out of the windowed room into the windowless hallway. There were about 10 of us, plus kids. I was the only "staff" person there, and someone had to go into one of the offices to call 911. So I did, on all fours, and then came back. There was one moment I had to stand up level with the windows and thought maybe this is it...but nothing happened and it quieted down soon after. We could still hear an occasional gunshot, and we didn't know who was doing the shooting. Many of the women had escaped violent situations, and some felt certain that their man would try and kill them if they found them. One woman in particular had been shot three times by an ex-husband who'd followed her through half a dozen states. She was an artist - and her work still hangs on my wall today.

After two long hours there was a knock at the door, followed by: open up, it's the police. Just as I did there were more gunshots, and what I will forever remember as a woman's death scream. It's was one of the most horrific sounds I've ever heard. The cops quickly told me to shut the door and they'd be back when they could. Another hour passed before they came back. That's a long time in a windowless hallway. They'd caught the man with the gun, the man who was not shooting at us in particular but at the building nonetheless.

Someone died that night. I'll never know who she was, but I know I heard her spirit leave her body. The college tried to pull me out after that, but I refused, begged, threatened to drop out. I knew it was an important place for me to be, and I knew I had so much to learn.

What happened before will come next. It's a trickier story, one with less guns but a lot more bullshit.

walking guilt

As might have been obvious, J returned home w/ M, 4 pairs of tights for a 6 year old, and a set of boy's PJs. Really. No, really. No, seriously.

That aside, I am full of maternal guilt. M has had a cough for a few weeks, a bit of a runny nose, but no other symptoms. I put off taking her to the MD out of a) the fear of over-reacting and b) wasting time hearing it's just a cold, and c) because I am obviously a horribly selfish person.

We took her in today because something very small deep inside me told me to.

She has walking pneumonia. And has for a few weeks. And I did nothing until today.

It's rather hard to describe the immense guilt I am feeling in this moment.

timing issues

Is it just me, or does the conviction and subsequent death sentence for Saddam Hussein coincide quite nicely with Tuesday's elections.....

it's probably just me.

And for the less controversial side (at least globally) J-Dog has declared M's wardrobe to be a fashion disaster and has taken her shopping alone, for the first time in two years. I, on the other hand, think she's an icon in the making, top to bottom.

You decide.

mojito wobbles

After a gratifying and challenging day exploring possibilities and limitations in strategic partnerships and affordable housing we hit the town for Cuban. Two mojitos later and the conversation veered into the personal - about the strength and validity of love and commitment and personal philosophies about what is feasible to expect over the long term combined with biology and selfishness and the lack of control over all things changing.

One opinion was that no relationship can truly last "forever", that it's an unrealistic expectation and a farce of society. Others held truer to love trumping all, and the notion of beating the system. And above all else rose the notion of having integrity in relationship, and being brave enough to call it quits when quits is due. And how easy it is to wax on about relational ethics over mojitos and cuban.

I've generally fallen back on a simple tale, one told by the magnificent Barbara Kingslover in one of her earlier books, either Bean Trees or Pigs in Heaven, I can't quite remember now (blame it on the mojitos) the one w/ that kid Turtle, and the lover, Jax. And how Jax described secrets as taking a raw egg into bed with you, and instead of telling your lover about the egg, you roll and tumble and shield and do everything not to crack the egg, when the really honorable thing is to hand the egg over and let the other decide what to do, whether to scramble or toss or put back in the fridge. But at least you've let them in on the secret, because you respect them enough to know how to handle it from there. And if you don't, eventually, one of you is going to roll over onto it and all you'll have left is a big mess in your bed.

And as is more and more common lately, my thoughts turned to you, and I wondered what your philosophy is on love and it's sustainability, and whether or not we are all just kidding ourselves. And more importantly, how you separate the wheat from the chaff and decide what's worth keeping versus being simply sacrificial or largely afraid.

to thrive delicious

Hope this will keep you warm on a colder Friday. Deep gratitude to everyone who contributed to it - I so love how it unfolded, mysterious, scarlet, vivid and strong.

A crimson stain spreads round her feet
She hastily, franticly gathers the layers of her billowy skirt
as if the stains are hot embers burning through her,
confronting her with power and pain
Or at least it seemed that way to the observer.

She backed away from the spreading putrid stain and
stifled the scream rising in her throat,
filling her with deep red peace.

But a scarlet dove will never fly, and so grounded,
must teach her mind to soar above the anchors
that weigh her heart to the living road.

Thus, a prayer soared from her red ebb and flow;
this last anamnesis draining
with life and earth clenched in her fists,
she cries to thrive delicious through her flowing vein.

Time never seemed to move so slow, as he watched her,
unable to comprehend, unable to emphathize,
he thought the red sun center might scorch him.

Amen
Hallelujah
Fin

hideaway

It's very rare that I get to travel for work, and then when I do, I am travelling on a day trip to Skid Row or the Tenderloin to connect with other housing providers so my days are often full of shelter visits, SRO rehabs, hotel conversions. Glamorous, the lot of it. But I like it because it's a new face of homelessness, with a different style or rhythm, and it energizes me and keeps me alert. I like seeing how others are making this crazy thing work. Because it's hard won, no matter what community we are in.

This week I am in the midwest - researching best practices before we begin pre-development on a new housing project. Same sort of scenarios, but the most excellent thing is I have my own hotel room for two entire nights. I shouldn't be gloating about the personal time but hell yes, I am gloating about the personal time. It's 5p and I am in for the night, perusing the room service menu, the movie options, ignoring the gym downstairs, and in general, settling myself in for a virtual carnival of blogs - to get to really sit and read what others are saying, while not having M beat me on the head w/ a spatula, or jump on top of the keyboard, or eat a magic marker because I am shirking my parental duties. I am leaving that for J-Dog tonight. (Baby, I am loving you in this moment).

It's amazing how selfish I feel now, but over the smallest things. How much more protective I am of myself, and what I am willing to do, and what I am keeping close and tight. And tonight, that is all about my personal space. I am happy to go out for beers tomorrow night, and shoot the homeless shit with others in the field, but tonight, I am in a cocoon, and I'll be floating over your way.

And the poem is cooking up nicely. I'll give it another day and then compile it. I must say, it's given me chills so far, the way some of you turn a phrase is delicious.

sitting around the poetry fire

I love the idea of a freeflowing exchange of creative and soulful thoughts...and thus came my poetry roundtable idea.

Juices flow best if left to their own devices, so please know it's more about speaking to what moves you in the moment, abstractly or otherwise, and less about rhyme or syntax. I personally think those two things interfere with poetry anyways. Perhaps it's more of a story than a poem, or a story told via this medium, or what have you. It's wide open.

I see it evolving like this: I'll post the initial line of the poem below and if you are so moved, add a line in the comments section. After a day or two I'll compile it all, title it based on what we've collectively written and post our creation in all it's glory.

Game on, sisters (and you too, occasional brothers). We can keep each other warm.

A crimson stain spreads round her feet

perfectly still

I am stunned and honored to share that Organized Chaos and Mama Drama have nominated me for an October Perfect Post award for this over at Petroville and Suburban Turmoil. I must say I've never linked that many people in one post so that alone is a feat of fortitude.

What an honor from the lovely Deb and Jen, and I must say, it is a tremendously lovely tribute to my friend.
I wonder if he is aware of this blessing, and that makes my heart swim upstream.

Thank you both.

PS. Don't forget about the poetry roundtable - it's coming round the bend.