Mama Mia No Sabia

Run, Mama, Run

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 04:13:00 +0000

Today you wore the baby sling for the first time in the five years that we've been holding babies together. Loosening the hip strap, pulling down on the shoulder straps, working it so that baby Z could rest his head over your heart. Lunges next and ssshhing this crying baby as you wave me out the door so that I can get in one last run before you leave on your long, long business trip.
I open the door leaving you drowning in tears and high pitched screams that stretch every last nerve. Pop in my ear buds and slip away for 30 minutes, just 30 minutes when I am a runner, not a mama or a teacher or a line cook or a sweaty, milky production line. Just music and sun and the pounding of pavement under foot.

Abue

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 16:33:00 +0000

My Tia Mague's tribute to my Abuelita today on her birthday....

Today is my mother's birthday, she would have been 97 years old. You wonder why my father Ernesto traveled so far from Germany to live and stay in Mexico? My mother was the reason. She was a quiet woman, her eyes small but a penetrating gaze. Petite in stature and yet a gigantic prescence in our lives. Orphaned as a child she bore almost a nation. A tribe of Kullicks cut off from the roots of the old world, we grew strong, attached, gave shade and refuge to one another. You could say my father gave her the greatest gift of all the love for the written word, teaching her to read and write so that even when the years faded beauty and youth her wisdom has withstood the test of time. Feliz Cumpleanos Mami.

Today my grandmother turns 97. The Azteca who taught me all the songs I know in Spanish, who sat in the quiet sunlight on our back porch every summer reading every book en espanol our little library had to offer, the lady who could knock a baseball into left field at 75 years old, oblivious to the fact that her nylons were rolling up at her ankles as she rounded the bases, the mama who carried me in her arms when my knee caps burned raw from the pavement, in my ear breathing the magical, healing words "sana sana colita de rana," the curandera who pinched off the heads of fresh mint sprigs from our garden to make me a tea of yerba buena for my cramps, time and time again. My abue. the storyteller. my first teacher whose spirit breathes life again through my voice when I roll my R's and when I cradle my own son in my arms it is her words that heal the wounded that dry the tears. Te Extrano mi Abue.

Studio Time

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 00:36:00 +0000

He came back today.
The artist with an edge of mystery that I met in college.
The one who went to see Howard's End, our first movie together, just so he could capture the blue bell scene for me on canvas.
This boy who smuggled flowers out of Glacier National Park so that their tiny heads would kiss plated glass and hang immortally above my bedside.
The crazy one who declared, one lazy afternoon, that in Salt Lake City, sundays from here on out, would be dedicated to "Studio Time," a time to get creative, to seduce clay between our fingers, to paint like Jackson Pollock, to write like Fitzgerald, to experiement with Einstein ideas.
And so began our work together.
On our porch, as the sun turned the Wasatch mountains a deep mahogany, we sipped wine and moved clay till it became a set of sushi plates for a wedding we would attend. For my nude collection. He sculpted my right leg, capturing every sinew and curve and I by his side made a functioning water fountain that once fired and painted lulled us into a peaceful slumber every evening.
Other days we intertwined on the couch as he sketched out science ideas and I wrote. Then we moved our creativity into the kitchen, opening cookbooks we dare not open, spending hours chopping, mincing and preparing our greatest culinary feats or so we thought: Beef Wellington, Pad Thai, Crab Cakes, Ahi ceviche swimming in blood oranges.
I savored every moment and the boy who came out to play.
The wind changed as it always does bringing us to a new city, bringing us a baby boy.
Studio time closed shop without notice.
The pottery tools we roughened and put to work nearly every Sunday stayed packed somewhere, in some box in the abyss of our basement.
Until today.
It took me by surprise because there was nothing significant about this particular Sunday only that I had gone on a run with friend and when I came back....
Studio time. The rennaissance of creativity that had laid stagnant between us, among us, inside us.
A Buddha for our garden.
Something I'd been looking for in shops all around the city he had imagined through his own fingers.
The boy had come back to play.

I do not believe in a fate that falls upon men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act. Buddha

Staycation

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 02:49:00 +0000

Dear friends,
We are enjoying our staycation in Seattle on a day coupled with bright sun and crisp winter air. First on the itinerary: Volunteer Park. We were craving an open space a place to spin and roll around in the fresh green grass. The beauty of being a tourist in your own town is that you can pack lightly. We filled up a carry-on bag with only the essentials, pesto and goat cheese sandwiches, ice cold grapes and a handful of ripe satsumas. The picnic spot G picked on the grassy knoll overlooked a reservoir that reflected views of the space needle and the city sky line. We watched the ducks land and take off, the rippling water distorting the image of the needle till it became stretchy, like pulled taffy.
"This hill is a ski jump" the little man observed as he licked the sticky satsuma juice running between his fingers. It was clear he was getting the wiggles and the sharp angle of this montecito was inviting the G to begin a series of "rolly pollies" down the hill. Over and over he would go like a crank turing out of control. It made me nauseous watching him and I laughed as it reminded me so much of myself, how i loved to feel dizzy twirling down the dunes of Lake Michigan.
The Seattle Asian Art Museum was our next stop. I couldn't stop taking photographs at this point so many art noveau windows and their shadows. The two camels guarding the entrance became the G's playgym. Strangely I felt connected to them the idea of carrying this load, this hump on your body made me appreciate this awkward looking beast. The G enjoyed the museum especially since the Chinese incorporate so many animals into their pottery and art work. We played i-spy to keep him busy..I spy tigers, I spy vipers and then went balmy when we spied a "real" griffin's head. As I walked through the silent hallways talking about art with the G, I relished the moment. We had him all to ourselves this boy bursting with questions. On this day there would be no baby distractions no screaming younger sibling. Just the G and his mama. Just the G and his dada.
Before heading to the car we decided to hike up the 100 stairs to the top of the water observatory. What an amazing sight to see Mt. Rainier against a blue cloudless sky to see the space needle, the city windows refracting light, a redwood 60 feet high.
The G didn't want to leave. He loved the perspective from this height. This tiny boy floating above the world like a bird, a cloud, the wind.

I've always pined to be in other places throughout my life...booking flights and making reservations to cities and towns all over the world. But in 2009 I've made a resolution to plan many staycations making travels in my hometown, becoming a tourist of the mind so that I might better focus on the beauty of the present moment.

What I've Learned: Mi Padre

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 03:36:00 +0000

Little Bambinos,
I want to teach you to wonder about the world to let your eyes fall off the confines of road maps and coloring books. I hope I can give you the sense of curiosity that my father shared with me as a child. I think those lessons really started on the long road trips we used to take. My dad in the driver's seat and I his "navigator" learning to read the road map, deciphering the arteries and veins of concrete highways from Michigan to Mexico. To pass the time, my dad would teach my brother and I the state capitals until we could say them by heart and belt them out at record's pace.
"Delaware," he'd say.
"Dover" we'd chime in unison.
As the miles flashed before us, I wondered about the places we'd shouted out. I remember thinking: Do they play flashlight tag in Carson City? Are there Tamarack trees in Tallahassee?

It was never necessary to ask dad "are we there yet?" because he had empowered us long ago to figure this out for ourselves. I loved looking up our destination cities on the mileage chart on the last page of our tattered and frayed road atlas.
"We have 246 miles to go" I would announce to the car.
"What's the next highway I have to take kid, figure that out would you?"
Back to the map I'd go, running my finger along the tiny blue lines until I had an answer. Of course he always knew the way but since he never checked my work, it felt good to know that my answer was respected, my suggestion heeded.

Just a few years ago on a trip to Rome with my family, I stood in line behind my dad, like a little kid, waiting for him to pay for the books I had just picked out about Caravaggio and Michelangelo. We had just wandered the halls of this spectacular museum, our conversation a simple a stream of questions and wonderment.
"Pick out some books kid" he told me at the shop.
"Go on..." he urged and gave me a nudge as if to say "find those answers to those questions kid." The greatest gift I can give you Griffin and little bambino on the way is the present my father continues to share with me, which is to wonder about the world, to be curious about even the smallest of things.

80 Opportunites

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 05:21:00 +0000

We arrived to the beach at midnight wound up, eager to hear the roar of the waves and the rattle of palm leaves. Stretched out side by side on lawn chairs, my mama and I moon bathed as hundreds of hermit crabs inched along the sand beneath our feet. Since I had never seen so many crabs gathered together like this, it felt like I had stumbled upon a secret, a private pilgrimage that up until this point only the waves and the sand had been privy to. I envied them and the philosophy that “home” does not have to be confined to an address and I imagined their whisperings…Tonight I will find a nice piece of coral to crawl under. Tomorrow I’ll sleep with the waves. I had come to Mexico to learn again what it means to be present and at the same time I had hoped that in this journey I would forget.
++++++++++++++++++++++++

We had waited all week for them like anxious little girls on Christmas Eve. Will they ever come? The Turtle nest in front of our beach house had been ready since we arrived. 60 days up. The volunteers had already begun preapring the site by removing the coral that bordered their natural crib. Each day after my morning run, I would inspect the site for any signs of movement.
Nothing.
In the early evening as we watched the sunset and sipped vino, we circled the perimeter calling out to the little ones below.
“It’s safe now you can come out little babies.”
Nobody stirred.
On our last evening together, just after my cousins had said their last goodbyes and headed back to the city, I had stretched out under a palm tree when I noticed the ground shaking,revealing a tiny paw scratching its way to the surface.
“Vengan! Vengan! Rapido! They are here!,” I screamed announcing their birth like a proud mama to everyone on the beach. Suddenly dozens of turtles and their siblings erupted from the ground like a volcano pushing their way into the moonlight. 71, 72,73 the volunteers were counting them as the little ones marched into a single file line. They knew exactly where to go magnetized by the pulse of the ocean, it was as though they had been here before. The first one showed no fear as he headed deep inside the darkness of the thundering wave. He churned and somersaulted for a time before taking a final dive into the abyss. It hadn’t occurred to him to wait for the others. There was no doubt that this is where he should be, that this is the direction he should go. He seemed so sure of his destiny he didn’t need to glance back or look over his shoulder. And he need not be consumed with thoughts of predators and shark infested waters for there would be algae and seaweed to eat and fish of every color to admire.
“Have a safe journey my little friend, ” I called out.
“We were a part of something magical tonight, a special secret that nature keeps for those who need to hear its message.” My uncle tells me wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.
80 new lives cast out to sea. 80 opportunities. 80 reasons to be courageous, to dare, to risk, to create, to explore, to love, to hope.

My Scarlet Ibis

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 03:54:00 +0000

“At that moment, the bird began to flutter. It tumbled down through the bleeding tree and landed at our feet with a thud. Its graceful neck jerked twice and then straightened out, and the bird was still. It lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and even death could not mar its beauty.” – James Hurst

Caged.
This feeling.
This Scarlet Ibis, this wild bird inside me.
She just suddenly appeared four months ago… built a nest in one day.
Knowing nothing about this creature, I read everything I could about her, enough to learn that she doesn’t belong here, that she’ll die in this rain.
Most days she is unconscious of her surroundings, too weak to lift her head, staring aimlessly into the darkness as if she were looking for something she’d lost down a well.
Other times she is too needy, too loud and I hand her over to you awkwardly, impatiently, as if she were made of hot coals.
I say: Babysit this shit for awhile. I don’t know what to do with it so you try to hold her, tame her. Make her a nest, give her a space and then maybe she won’t come back to me anymore.
I've tried to tell her: Goodbye. You are free. Fly back to Central America pajaro. Go home.
But she stays anyway making circles above me… after all nobody knows how to preen her like I do.
And when I’m not watching, when I’m unaware she comes back to me again, this wild bird, because she knows there’s this door right here, right beside my diaphragm and the latch still remains loose and unhinged.

We're on Mexican Time

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 15:54:00 +0000

Lost.
It’s this road Tia I’m sure it is this road. I remember that it’s just past the gas station.
But this road does not have the yellow rope that guards the passageway that they were talking about.
Ok try this one.
We turn off the expressway into a thicket of jungle. There are no markers for this rustic road we are looking for so we’ve been driving down every turn off the highway. We pass somebody’s homestead, a simple palapa…children playing, chickens running freely and in the front yard a thousand corn tortillas are drying in the sun waiting to be crispy tostadas.

No this is not the way but we would have missed this beautiful scene.

We are on our way to the Reunion. We carry with us the picadillo Nancy made this morning, a bag of cups and silverware, our beach towels and sun hats.
On the next turn off, we recognize the bronco of Tia Alvine. Up ahead she is talking to the lady who guards the road. From her hand gestures it is clear she is negotiating….Why should we pay to use the beach we are staying at the cabanas there?
It’s 90 degrees and way past noon when we finally park the car. With only the directions “Let's meet up at those cabanas en la playa quien sabe como se llama. We head for the beach hoping that if we rub our hands together fast enough our family will just suddenly appear.
Heavy with bags and hot food, I start to get agitated filling up with just a little bit of my American impatience that I haven’t quite shaken off even though I’ve been in Akumal for three days now.
Donde estan?
These aren’t the cabanas, but we stop to take in the view anyway white capped waves and turquoise waters. The fact that we are lost and hot and carrying a heavy load does not seem to phase anyone in this group. Their patience and "celebrate the moment spirit" is contagious so I set down the food for a minute to lay in a hammock and watch my cousin’s impromptu game of soccer. My aunt gets on the phone to call another aunt and soon we have a name for these cabanas.
A final hill climb and suddenly we are there.

From behind parked cars and swaying palms everyone suddenly appears like magic carrying salads of nopales, bags of avocados, dragging coolers chilling with Tecate.
In seconds we are gathered in a circle to say a prayer. Thank you for bringing us here together safely senor that we may enjoy this beautiful paradise and our time together.

Kisses on both cheeks to everyone. Moni you cut your hair. Itaty how was your quincenera? We pull chairs together in a horseshoe sharing chistes, jokes, and stories of childhood, embarrassing moments, love lost, love gained.
Quien quiere un vino? I’m the waitress for awhile then my cousin Chava. He brings a plate of limes and clamato for cheladas. My cousin rubs sunscreen on my back because I’m la guera(the blondie) and he’s looking out for my pearly white skin.

The night of talents is next Gael has practiced his magic trick all day and with the help of his papa back stage he executes it with gusto.

My cousin Alina who is studying opera sings two songs.
Itaty recites poetry and raises every hair on my body.

Sabina buries her head in her notebook singing a song she learned in English. I sing a duet with my cousin.
Pati, the resident writer, raps freestyle for a bit

My mom shares some words of wisdom.

My aunt tells a joke.

My cousin shakes his booty. That’s his talent he says.
For the younger ones we decide there will be prizes and everyone throws some pesos into the hat. It is a four way tie of course everybody wins something.

The night goes on like this…we find a venomous snake, a snake the local senora del pueblo called los cuatro narizes

We share confessions in the moonlight, we take turns singing the chorus of our favorite songs, my cousin makes a toast to my mom for her returned good health after having a tumor removed from her spine, we put up a tent and forget the tarp, we laugh open mouthed, we make a midnight snack of papitas with limon y sal, we swat mosquitos and chase each other down the beach all the while waiting to finally receive the dawn....

I find myself here year after year snuggling in with my family as if no time has gone by…and each time I leave them I take away a little bit more of their good humor, their patience, their generosity, their courage, their intelligence, their love…

On our last day after swimming in the ocean and browsing the markets of quinta avendia in Playa Del Carmen we must say our goodbyes. I don’t want to leave them my chest hurts with the despedida and I’m crying.
Te quiero mucho, my cousin Yani tells me squeezing me like a Boa. We don’t let go for a long time…and then just as my mom and I round the corner we hear their shouts…”A la bio a la bao a la bim bom bao…Mamacita, Tia Beby rah rah rah!”

Beach Camping

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 23:50:00 +0000

Beach Camping with the D fam

The Essential Packing List:

port (always a good tawwwwny port as they say in Brooklyn)
dark chocolate (goes well with campfire smoke and port of course)
Grapes (who would have thought that the G would spend a whopping 45 minutes entertaining himself by making little "characters" out of the stems and then popping them in his mouth for his latest amazing trick)

eggs and canadian bacon (mmm bacon)

brie and crusty baguette for brie delights (a recent discovery on our last camping trip, a savory s'more,,, just skewer and roast for some gooey goodness)

pirate mask and eye patch (for the pirate daze festival we happened upon)

The G was a little scared to pose for a picture with a big group of "local pirates" so the Docta tried to comfort him by telling him "they are not real G, they are just pretending" ooohhhh don't ever ever say that to the local townies of Westport. Man did the swords come out.

"Sir, I beg your pardon but we are real, very real,"they told the Docta.

Blankets and rash guards (not quite tropical yet :)

Forget the sunscreen it was 60 bloody degrees our first beach day

A bucket for sand dollars (here's the docta gloating that he found the first one and then look what eagle eyed mama brought in :) aaahh yeahhh)

Multiple light sources for the show on the beach...

Check out my Slide Show!

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 04:28:00 +0000

Time

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 28 May 2008 03:12:00 +0000

Every year is getting shorter. Never seem to find the time. Plans that either come to or nought a half a page of scribbled lines. Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way. The time is gone. The song is over. Thought I'd have something more to say. -Pink Floyd

Every watch that I have ever owned has always been a gift from the Docta.

After we had feasted on crusty bread, pate and slivers of gorgonzola, a picnic the Docta spread out on the floor of my dorm room, he gave me a small box. I hadn't expected a gift from him since this was our first Christmas together. Inside the box was a watch simliar to the one below, a sun and moon dial that changed faces from day to night.
The sun and moon will always rise for you... he told me.
He went on to say that he had agonized, as he always does, over whether to buy this particular one and whether I'd actually wear it.
I wore it everyday till the leather band cracked apart and the battery went dead.

A couple years later I lost the second watch he had given me during a snowstorm on a midnight walk to Packard drive. Although our destination was only a few short blocks away from the Docta's apartment, we spent hours skating down slick walkways, making snow angels, and throwing snowballs till we were red cheeked cherubs. That night we sat around in big fuzzy socks taking turns sipping ramen noodle soup straight out of the pot. We never found that watch.
During those years it seemed that everything in my life was held up against clock time - my college courses: Korean politics lecture 1.5 hours, Botany lab in the Botanical Gardens across town 2 hours 15 minutes, the lunch shift at the Law Quad 3-6 p.m. my summer job filing medical claims for discharged soldiers 8-4, My first year as a teacher, 90 minute block periods and the brutal start time 7:45 a.m., Pregnancy: 9 months, Labor and delivery: 11 hours, the G's nap times from three naps to two naps to one.

Last night the Docta returned from a weekend with his parents in Santa Cruz. He could hardly wait to give me the package he had bought on his travels.

I bought it because it reminded me of the first watch I gave you the one with the sun and the moon.

I put it on my wrist staring at the two windows and the outline of a crescent moon.

Where is that first watch? Suddenly it was important to me that I find it. I pulled out every jewerly box, looked inside every cosmetic bag.
In my search, I found the other ones he had given me...

The ones that marked time in other phases of my life, our life.

16 years of clock time.

I guess it makes sense that this first watch is no longer to be found because Time means something entirely different for me now. The hours, the minutes the seconds no longer matter as they did back then when I was just enduring or living for the next break, the elusive good time.

Does time really heal all wounds? Does time really give us perspective and if so how do we know we've attained it? If we are waiting to answer a question that has no definitive answer how do we know it has been answered? I know this much you cannot determine in hours how long it will take you to heal or the exact hour you will be ready to forgive someone. I'd like to put those dates on my calendar but I know it would be fruitless.

I've been thinking a lot about time, about moving towards eliminating time altogether. "the psychological time which is the egoic mind's endless preocupation with past and future and its unwillingness to be one with life by living in alignment with the inevitable isness of the present moment."

This watch the Docta has given me with its abstract windows and numberless faces is the perfect reminder for me of the duality that time holds for me, that all we've got is time and yet time is nothing more than a "surface layer of reality."

Folklife

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Mon, 26 May 2008 05:20:00 +0000

The G made his stage debut at Folklife Music Festival this weekend. Picture Woodstock meets Carnival meets local county fair where deodorant is a bonus and dancing is not optional.
On my shoulders the G was mesmerized by the sweaty, open, rhythms.
Bongos. Live saxophone. Electric Cello. The pan flute.
Everybody's playing somethin' and you want to dance to it all.
You will soon be on the stage, my man. I tell him.
When we arrive to the Mural Ampitheater, the G was not at all impressed with the size of the stage, with the hundreds of spectators,with the fact that he would have two costume changes, or with the fact that at 3.5 he was now a Latino pop star...
It was quite the production especially during the danza Azteca, the poor guy was tripping over his loin cloth and his tighty whities kept promising to give everyone a show so I had to rescue the poor lad who was fit for tears. For the most part, however, this guero danced like an Aztec King.

My favortite part of the whole performance was that the G did in fact know all the words to the songs. I wasn't quite sure what he would do up there because every time I asked him to practice los canciones en casa he would always feed me the line..."not now mama just wait"... sure enough with the pressure of a thousand wide eyed spectators this kid piped up and delivered every word. He was especially in tune with the song "De colores" one of my childhood favorites. When the mic came his way he gave it is his best pio pio, the chirping of a little chick hen.....
I didn't expect him to stay for the three dance numbers.

I didn't expect him to wait in the wings for his turn.
And I definitely didn't expect him to turn to me at the end of it all and shout "Lo hizo mama" " I did it" Una sonrisa the size of the river Nile...

The journeywork of the stars

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 21 May 2008 03:42:00 +0000

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars…and the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, and the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn machinery..And I could come every afternoon of my life [to watch the sun push out the clouds]” –Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I needed this trip to the farm. From the very instant we rattled down Oma and Opa’s dirt driveway I could tell I was going to lose myself in thigh high wild grass and the hum of distant tractors turning up the field.

Upon arrival the G and his buddy Xave immediately disappeared.
“Hello” they called from between the lemon curtains of the cozy little Bavarian playhouse. Ignoring the cobwebs and dust of winter that left this little place lonely and desolate, the two boys went straight to work pouring tea and stirring up imaginary concoctions.
I needed this therapy ,a hammock and a good friend, arms behind our heads staring into the vast blue sky as the music of our children buzzed between us.
Here I could forget my own little earthquake in exchange for this… the present moment.

The philosopher Nietzche, in a rare moment of deep stillness wrote, “For happiness, how little suffices for happiness!...the least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a lizard’s rustling, a breath, a wink, an eye glance-little maketh up the best happiness. Be Still.”

In the henhouse the G is feeding a cluster of banty chickens in patterns that only a designer could dream up, wild stripes and ovals in shapes like smoke rings. Inspired I think I might go home and make myself a skirt ala banty chicken.

We walk the long walk to the neighbor’s farm, following a dried up river bed, waving to the tractor man as he plows the field, making swords out of sticks, staring at our reflections in rain filled puddles.
And then to the barn, that smell of sweet hay and hard work and goat breath. Xave and the G are squealing as they feed the crew of goats that butts and pushes themselves through the fence slats. Again. Again. Lets feed them again the G demands. Xave shows him where to find the barrel that brims with goat feed. No G no more, the goats are full buddy.
Ahhh the Three year old melt down that luckily in this outdoor air is very short lived as soon as we slip through the fence and break free…

After dinner and a lively talk with Oma and Opa about yoga and the saving grace of meditation, thoughts and attachment, ego and awareness, we stumble to the car high on hay needles and the peace that comes from life at this slow pace.

Opa has given me a book on meditation a gift to take home. “I buy a lot of copies of this book just so I can give them out. Read it and pass it on.”

I cradle it in my arms on the drive home along with the idea that the beauty and simple kindness of this day is not to be pinned down. “It is the cloudless sky. It has no form. It is space; it is stillness, the sweetness of being and infinitely more than these words.”

Life Day

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 03:46:00 +0000

It was February 7th, the beginnings of the 2002 Winter Olympics, on the first day of their visit the Docta and his father were on a mission to rent some snowshoes and skis on the U of U campus.

"We'll meet up with you guys later for lunch," I told them. "Mal and I have plans to check out the boutiques in the city."

Two bowls of Dungess Crab chowder stared back at us as we waited for them. Dennis is never late.

And then the phone call.

"Your husband and your father-in-law have been in an accident with a train" the operator informs me.

A train?

Minutes later a police car arrives to pick us up.

He can't tell us any details. A train? I think I lost consciousness. I can't remember how we got there I only remember that when they finally told us what had happened to our husbands I was crazy by then. The doctor backed us into a room, the kind of room I imagined where they'd tell you "I'm sorry they didn't make it." Candles were lit, boxes of tissues on every table.

No, no I don't want to go in there. Please Please. I remember telling the man, pushing myself away.

That was six years ago...the rest of the story is here.

I have not written about this day in any formal way only a letter to the Docta's father when it first happened. I said something like there are many ways to react in desperate and difficult times you have taught me a life lesson in resilience, in patience, in love, in forgiveness. Although he had a bruise down his entire body the size of Texas he never complained. Although he wasn't the driver and he broke all of his ribs, punctured his lung and then some he never blamed. Although he forfeited his chance to go to any Olympic events, he never pouted. He never played the victim.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Of all the strange things that happened during this time, I think the most puzzling is that the Docta and his father never recovered their eye glasses from the wreck. At the time,we asked the recovery crew for their whereabouts. They swore that they combed the rubble and searched the car thoroughly. The Docta and I even walked the Trax line up and down hoping to find a sign, some broken out frames, or even the shattered remnants. Nothing.

Hard to believe that two men, father and son, could "walk" away from this accident and their glasses gone without a trace.

My theory is that the men who wore those glasses could never have put the same pair on again. Perspectives shifted. Relationships changed, forged took new directions and the men that stood up afterwards would never look at life the same way again.

That was six years ago...

"Happy Life Day!" It's the Docta's mama on the phone I can hardly hear her the ocean surf is muffling out her voice, even so, I can tell she is celebrating.

"Dennis and I are walking the beach today. We've been here all day," she tells me and I think What a gift. What a gift to see the surf meet the sand, to hear the distant cry of a dog barking for a frisbee, to hear your own grandchild squealing in delight as the sea spray tickles her rosy cheeks.

Happy Life Day.

Pow Pow

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 03:24:00 +0000

You would think that the best part of this past Sunday's family adventure in the mountains would be that the G got to go skiing for the first time.

that his face looked like this most of the day

That at lunch I ate a burger and fry combo like a lady in lust breaking all my "i'm not eating another carb" promises and loving every minute of it

That the G thankfully did not pee his pants as we whisked him from the slopes and desperately tried to peel him out of five bazillion layers

That everytime someone wiped out on the bunny hill the G was right there in their face offering some words of comfort"lady are you ok? i hope you're ok."

No, no the best part of the day was watching the Docta teach the G to ski.
"He's doing it! He's skiing" he would shout up to me.

"He's loving it"

To be honest I think the G was just projecting all that gooey happiness beaming from his giddy Papa who can't wait to show him the vista from the top of the mountain very very soon.

And the Pow Pow, the powder, in Utah is so deep G that you need a snorkel. We'll go there someday too little bugabug...

3D

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 22:03:00 +0000

The G's drawings and paintings have always looked like this...

With a furrowed brow deep in concentration the tip of his tongue darting in and out of his mouth, he sets down to paint windstorms, spark plugs dripping and grampo's eyebrows.

And while no two drawings ever look the same he pays no mind that his classmates have been moving on and turning those wild crazy scribbles into faces and stick figure bodies.

Should I worry he's not drawing faces yet? I ask his teacher
That he chooses not to paint anymore? Its a milestone right that at three they should start drawing circles and faces and move from the abstract to the concrete?

He has... she tells me, you just need to shift your perspective to see it. The G prefers to create things that are three dimensional. The faces, arms and body parts that he makes are not flat on the page but objects he can hold and manipulate. Just look at this creature he made out of legos, the arm can shake hands. How about this man he made out of building materials.
++++++++++
A week later she hands me an article by Brenda Engel "Considering Children's Art"

Preschool (ages 2-5)

scribbles, loops, zigzags, wavy lines, jabs

chance forms or shapes

trying out different effects

the meaning is in the act itself, not in the results or product

Shift your perspective and you can see it... my new mantra

You can be that Servant Too

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 21:04:00 +0000

This morning I sat amongst 500 chatty middle schoolers who crowded into the small gym as we always do every January to celebrate the life of Dr. Martin Luther King. I brought kleenex this time because Dr. King's voice echoing off the bleachers and filling a crowd of young eager minds gets my mascara running every time.

"Everybody can be great, because everybody can serve.

You don't have to have a college degree to serve.

You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve.

You don't have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve.

You don't have to know Einstein's "Theory of Relativity" to serve.

You don't have to know the Second Theory of Thermal Dynamics in physics to serve.

You only need a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love, and you can be that servant."

What will you do? Our student body president asks us all at the conclusion of the assembly.

How will you serve?

I can answer that.

I'm for ending the vicious cycle of illiteracy that closes doors for my students and breeds ignorance, self-loathing, shame and apathy. My plan to serve entails empowering my students to be reading role models in their homes and communities. The idea is if I can teach my students the tools to crack the code and they can share it with their brother, their sister than perhaps I might not see these names again on my roster two or three years down the line.

Before break my students got their first taste of community service on a field trip to the neighborhood elementary school where we sprawled out on the floor in pairs, reading books like Chicks and Salsa and Captain Underpants. Boys whose pants low ride, who have gritty My Space pages and behavior files thick as dictionaries suddenly turn fatherly. They hold books up like master storytellers changing their voices in sync with the characters they are portraying, smiling, nodding their heads, patting their buddies on the back.

Today after the assembly I rolled out part two of my plan and passed out reading logs and arm loads of picture books.

We can all serve even in our own homes. I told them.

Take these picture books and read them to your brothers and sisters. Read every night for a month. Ask questions, point to pictures, discuss interesting ideas and facts, laugh, listen. You only need a heart full of grace for this assignment and a soul generated by love and you can be that servant too.

I am for real...

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sat, 05 Jan 2008 00:33:00 +0000

The G is digging hip hop all of a sudden.

Ok not by mere coincidence....on a drive to the city the Docta decided to knock the dust off the i-pod his parents had given us years ago and fired up the groovy track "Me, Myself and I" by De La Soul.

Do you ever temporarily forget that you have a child along for the ride? Well this was one of those moments...when the Docta switched tracks to another song in the shuffle and the F bombs started to drop I almost lost control at the wheel as I desperately tried to lower the volume.

Too late the heavy bass and fast paced rhyming gave G just enough of a taste to pique his interest. You see the G loves anything with a drum and cymbal baseline that is why we introduced him to Jazz early as a little lad. Now he won't go to sleep without some ba boom ba bah zah zaroni and those sultry sax solos belting out in the background. He enjoys it so much that on our recent trip to San Fran we had to play John Coltrane and Miles Davis on the laptop just so he would settle into his guest bed. We've also exhausted the possiblities on this PBS kids website which is perfect for the budding jazz lover.

What is that music? The G perks up from his catbird seat in the back.

It's hip hop, the docta replies rapidly scrolling through his i-pod for something else.

I want more hip hop. more. It's fast, fast.

He beings to drum his hands against the carseat and starts imitating cymbal crashes with his mouth.

Do they make G rated stuff? the Docta asks me.

Uhhhh..How about we make up our own hip hop G? I tell him turning off the radio altogether.

Two days later. The G starts busting out rhymes in the cadence of a rap.
ana banana bow chicka bow had a fanana bow chica bow....then he starts running words together so fast I can't understand him most of it is gibberish but he knows he needs to be quick and he knows that he needs to rhyme.

He also knows he needs to accentuate certain words too like when he is singing Outcast's song"I'm sorry Miss Jackson I am for real.... "a song he heard only one time on New Year's eve but can't seem to get out of his head.

In the corner of our living room he has set up his own musical studio complete with a makeshift drum set which consists of three tambourines configured into a triangle.

This set must not be touched by mama and dada hands.

As a reading teacher I am over the moon that he is rhyming like this at 3 and exploring language in this way now the only trick is to find him some G rated stuff that will quench his thirst for the hip hop beast.

Spa 200

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 23:17:00 +0000

I'll never forget this post my friend Ally wrote last year in December on the idea of giving experiences as presents instead of material goods. I've always been a big fan of this idea.

Don't get me wrong I'm not ungrateful. I love the gesture that people make. I love the sentiment. I love the idea that people thought about you as they made their purchase. But really I'd rather go to concert with you or out to dinner or read a heart felt card you made than put another paper weight on my desk or another coffee mug in my cabinet. Oh yeah as a teacher I get them by the dozens with very creative titles like "My Favorite Teacher's cup of Joe" or "A+ Teacher."
Thankfully my mom is now the proud owner of all these mugs. Every summer she fishes them out of my"to be garage saled" bin.

How could you get rid of these 'mija? I will save them for your retirement. tsk tsk.

So than what do you get your child's teacher if you wanna give them an experience?

One clever mom at our school decided to create a "spa" atmoshpere in the faculty bathroom for the teachers in our hallway.

This is what the faculty bathroom usually looks like (the poor suckers in the 300 hall didn't get the spa make-over). Very institutional: four cement walls, toilet paper that melts in your mouth it's so thin, cardboard paper towel that rubs you raw and pink soap that comes out like frog spawn.

Spa 200 looks like this now....

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On the rickety school desk in the corner this parent laid out a festive tablecloth and placed all the teacher esstentials (Ibuprofen, Vitamin C, Candy canes, and a hand held massager for those really stressful days). In a basket she added a fancy shmancy collection of creams, body oils, hairspray etc.

At the sink a nice vase of flowers and lovely soaps and creams.
And for the sports fans in our hallway (which are many) she included a copy of the lastest Sports Almanac toilet side.

I can't tell you how our staff has reacted to this very simple but creative gesture.

Have you been to the spa today? my colleague asks, Try the Vanilla Mint cream its very nice..(in her best Borat impression) very, very nice.

I leave every day from work now sucking on a candy cane and smelling like jasmine and oranges.

Now that is the gift of experience.

Any other clever ideas? Send 'em my way...

I've Got Sunshine

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 19:05:00 +0000

It has been raining for days and even when the rain stops the sky still looks like this.

I know it is Seattle and we are supposed to be waterproof but in the hallways students are dragging their feet, they are limp in their chairs, they are falling over from the routine. Ok maybe it's just my first period!

So today I invited the Sun back into our classroom.

Literally I brought the sun, tied her down so her glittery face would hang above us all.

On each student's desk I placed one single piece of Dot candy, in lip smacking tropical flavors like pineapple, mango and papaya.

"If the sun cannot come to you then you must bring the sun.... We need some energy in this place again my friends. So whose birthday is coming up next? D get on up here!"

With my son's pitiful ukuele in hand I hopped up on a desk and led the class in singing my version of "Happy Birthday." This includes belting it out punk style and ending every verse with the phrase"cha cha cha" while you shake your hips.

I was a little hesitant to do this with my first period they are the shyest most self concious group of middle schoolers you will ever meet. I am always challenging them to loosen up and to stop looking over their shoulders all the time.

At first I was the only one singing to D.

"Come on people I know you have better voices than I do. What about if we rapped it?"

S0 we sang it rap style "yo happy birthday to you D-unit"

We sang it country style "yee haaaa you little birthday cowboy."

We sang it in Spanish too.

By the end of it all every kid was smiling, every kid laughing, nobody seemed to care if we were making fools of ourselves or not.

I ended the class with this proposal...

"Your challenge today my friends if you so choose to accept it is to spread a little sunshine all over this place. Break it up mis amigos give somebody a reason to laugh today. I wanna feel the warmth of your energy in these halls. And report back to me..."

Ms. B

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 23:57:00 +0000

"As her husband, K, considered how to describe his wife, he paused.

'She was the one with the words,' he said. 'She was such a powerhouse - she could walk into a room and people were drawn to her.'"

Steph was definitely the one with the words, the crazy creative writing teacher we all called "our resident hippie." Since the first day I met her she has always been the kind of woman who would hug you so tight that you'd lose your breath. It wasn't uncommon to hear bongos coming from her classroom and students shouting "yes" to the universe from their desk tops. I'll never forget her rendition of Othello (a one woman act, costumes and all). I literally hyperventilated with laughter watching her from the hallway between our classrooms. At four months pregnant, she convinced me to perform with her in our school talent show, a modern dance of all things. I didn't think I had it in me but she was always egging me on like that pushing me to live la vida Steph style.

When I was with her I felt on fire. I felt the charge of lightning.

When I called her in early November she greeted me with that same gusto, "Hey Girl."

I asked her about the Leukemia but it wasn't her style to talk about it.

"You know I'm going to beat this shit Ms. D. I'm not going out without a fight, so tell me about the G what's that smartie up to?"

This was the last time I spoke to her. I'm scrambling now to remember her every last word.

I got an email from her husband just yesterday linking me to this news article.

I'm heartbroken.

I'm sad to know that her energy is not knocking around out there, that she's not climbing some mountain or dancing down those hallways in her crazy striped socks and mismatched scarves.

I love you Ms. B. I love you my beautiful sister. You lived a thousand lives in your 39 years.

Join me this week in celebrating her life, do something crazy.

Do something you'd never expect of yourself, even if that means wearing clashing colors or sticking your head out the car window and screaming "yes" to the universe.

++++++++++++++++++

Steph was the one with the words so I'm going to end with the very last post she wrote on the caringbridge site that was created to support her in her battle.

Monday, June 25, 2007-
Well. This is it for me. I'm officially and celebratorily signing off the caring bridge. All of my friends, supporters, family, loves, teachers, students, doctors, nurses, and freaks... THANK YOU.It is an amazing trip that here I sit- about 1 year later and so much healthier. Unbeknownest to me last year this time I was visiting home in Seattle when the leukemia peaked its rude and ugly head again. We have all covered so much ground, truly, and managed various stresses, struggles, and heartache during the last year. A war still rages in Iraq, gas is over $3 a gallon, the ozone is dissipating, fires are raging... need I go on? However, amidst all of the hurt and suffering, I still maintain hope.Why?Why do any of us choose to invite love and healing into our lives? Because it IS the natural order of things. It is the way. Buddha was reborn 549 times before he knew it was time to stay in his own form and body. As a descendent of a wandering ascetic I understand the philosophy that speaks no language- but is communal language for us all to hear. It is within ourselves, our light and our truth. It is the wind, a flower, the river, a wave, the birdcall, a cat's meow, our mother nature in her silent beauty reaching for all of us. I hear babies cry in my dreams- and I also hear children laugh. I encompass all of these deities. As do you- together, us.I sit here today facing new struggles and wondering if I have what it takes to write a paper. We are simply met with what we doubt within ourselves. Why? In order to achieve success and continue moving. This is what I love most. Moving energy. Coming into my own light source and the symbiotic energy of the moving world around me.Kevin and I have been blessed. We spent 2 months traveling- Costa Rica among other stellar places. The home is where the heart is as our external environments also reflect internal landscapes. I loved my Costa Rican brothers and sisters- gracious and daring and funny and small in stature. Compared to my long, big body. At times, I felt out of sorts and insecure. Struggling with Spanish, self-conscious. And then, I would simply relinquish this identity and breathe into myself and simply feel Stephanie.I love her. I love you.Eventually, in the 2nd century, Buddha was given a face. An identity in the way of man. Before that Buddha image was simply a composite of similes and metaphors. Buddha was the image of the water, the parrot, the banana tree, the fish, the universal truth. As we all continue along our path it is my desire that we are able to continue to relinquish and surrender. I obsess when I lose something- an almost daily event. I am working on letting go of my desire to attach my identity to material objects. I still have a long way to go...I hope that as you meet yourself and others on your path that you can create an image of absence with your own breath of presence. That you, too, may entertain and respect the paradox of which we are all a part. That you continue to reflect on your own blessed life and walk through fear and negativity into your own sacred space.Namaste.Pura vida.Peace out.Love Love Love stephanie

Keep it Simple

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 02:40:00 +0000

I'd love to say that I live simply.

If you glanced at the titles piling up on my bedside table Buddhism for Mothers, Awakening the Buddha within, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, Baby Buddha: a guide for teaching meditation to children you'd think I'd have earned a Masters in the subject by now. You'd think that I'd be a guru at living in the present moment as all these books recommend and you'd think I'd be able to use meditation as a way to help me rechannel the crazy pace of my life.

But I failed the meditation class I signed up for last spring.
Ok, I didn't get a grade of course but I could not stay focused on my breathing. I paid sixty bucks and showed up to about half of the sessions because in the middle of fifty quiet meditators I just couldn't stop my mind from rattling.

"Breathe in, breathe out listen to your breathing," the yogi invites us with the voice of a harp.

"Ok, ok breathe, breathe. Does that man next to me have a cold? How can I concentrate when he's coughing."

"Imagine you are sitting on the banks of a river. Now imagine this river is your thoughts and you are watching them float on by."

"Ok that's a good idea. Breathe, breathe. Goodbye thoughts. I will watch you float away down that river. Cheesy, so cheesy. This guy is like the woman in our birthing class when the Docta and I had to do a guided visualization and the lady asked us to imagine a babbling brook with birds chirping and chipmunks chattering and the Docta could not stop laughing. Do they all use the same metaphors? Ok stop you're so cynical, back to breathing. shit, the library book on meditative breathing i didn't return it. stay focused. (one eye opens scans the room, is everybody else in meditative bliss already? look at them they are statues. peaceful statues already) panic. eyes slam shut. breathe in, breathe out. hurry hurry you're not doing this right. hey why didn't Rims call back? i hope that cop didn't give her a ticket for talking on the phone. What's the deal with Chicago police, I wonder when Washington will make cell phone use illegal? Ok this is not working how do i stop thinking? i need a fricking mantra. Tonight I'll re-read the chapter from Meditation for Dummies and pick one out..."

I'm recalling all of this now and re-evaluating my efforts to live in simplicity because I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat, Pray, Love. After a horrible, horrible divorce Gilbert sets out for Italy, India and Indonesia on a quest to achieve balance in her life. In India, she spends four entire months in an Ashram mediatating for hours and days on end. And I think to myself this sounds amazing. I could use this..but could I do it? I remember a friend of mind spent a month in Thailand doing a similar thing. She sent me postcards detailing her life there, the detox diet, the yoga marathons and the hours she spent doing chores in spiritual contemplation. I'd like to say i'd be up for this but do I have the mental stamina and focus this type of journey requires? Either way I'd like to get back to simplifiying my life again. But how my friends? What do you do? How do you keep it simple?

Something Between

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 04:09:00 +0000

This is not your typical rompecabeza.

This puzzle begins whole, a picture that snaps into shape the night of my cousin's wedding in a rustic open-air church in Xcaret, Mexico.

I'm standing behind my cousin Teto, next to my tia Lilia who sits next to her daughter, who sits next to my brother who sits next to my prima Imelda and so on and so forth, a chain of family wrapping itself around every pew.

The Bride's side is so full my cousin Yanina jokes that, "este barco se va por este lado, the boat's gonna tip this way."

My mother is at the podium reading a verse. In the distance you would swear that she was my Abue or any one of my six aunts. What I see Teto hears, it is the sound of his dead mother's voice calling to him through my mother's visage.

"Let us remember those who have departed Rosa Maria," even though it has been many years since her death this bull of a man with the back of a tight end heaves and sobs as though it were yesterday. I rub Teto's back, I squeeze his hand.

As we file out of the church he is still deep in the memory of his mother.

"When I heard your mother's voice," he tells me, "se me rompio el corazon, it broke my heart."

The first piece in this puzzle.

The second piece he tells me is that on his drive back from serenading my cousin Mayumi on the eve of her wedding alone in the darkenss my tia spoke to him once again,

"Porque no le cantaste Adivina mi'jo, Why didn't you sing her the song Imagine my sweet son?"

"Ah si Mama, seria perfecto, yes mama it would have been perfect,"as he crawls into bed it is this song that hums him to sleep.

Adivina the same song that plays tonight as Mayumi kneels before the Virgin Mary on her wedding day, the coincidence is all too much.

And the final piece of the puzzle is me he says.

"Prima do you remember your Quincenera, your fifteenth birthday, when I serenaded you con Mariachis on Abue's front porch so long ago? I will say that your profile today in this church is still as dulce, sweet, as it was 19 years ago."

"This is the puzzle mi hermana that comes together here as I sit in this primitive place on Mayumi's wedding. I look out at the silhouette of this family and I say to myself that I am not alone on this journey. I have all of you. And you have all of us. These tears are not of sadness."

I'm not sure why Teto's words of all the beautiful things that were said that evening are the ones that I have chosen to go to sleep with at night now that I am back from my trip. I think it is because he reminds me that there cannot be love without loss and there cannot be loss without love.

If I stand back for a moment what does this puzzle look like that my cousin has put together before me?
I decide there is not a clear picture of one person, mi tia, my mother, my cousin or one geographical place the church on a hill, my abue's homestead, the balcony of an eager bride but rather something entirely new, an indescribable feeling altogether something beautiful vacillating between love and loss.

P.S.

I know that I cannot do justice to the words of my cousin Teto in this story. It is lost in translation. I find it impossible to adequately describe the profound feelings I felt on my trip to Mexico just days ago. After reading this piece, the Docta reminds me, "Bud there are a million back stories to every story that you tell here. I'm not sure people are going to follow this."

I tell him, "you are right and it doesn't matter. This is a story I have to tell for myself and thank God it makes sense to me."

Here Lies Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 19:50:00 +0000

Just before I slipped into the operating room for my D & C, my Mama caught my arm and whispered,
If you're scared chiquita sing a song. Think of your song right now and sing it loudly.

Under a fiery Autumn sun, I couldn't get that song out of my head as we planted the tree that my dear hermana Bgirl gave us in memoriam, a plant she chose especially because it blooms in the dead of winter even when the ground is hard, cold and unforgiving.

There is something beautiful about this kind of resilience, the notion that this tender creature can thrive under the harshest of conditions.

It felt good to dig the hole, to feel the pulse of the earth in my hands once again. I hadn't been outside in days and I'd forgotton how easily you can get lost in the trance of the garden. I could hear the neighbor's chickens pecking and scratching, the wind shaking the remaining leaves off our fig tree, the laughter of children playing in the park.

As I buried the roots of the tree, I also buried with it all the emptiness, melancholy and loss of the last few days. I buried fear, despair and uncertainty too.

And in its place I planted hope.

I am in the wilderness You are in the music In the man's car next to me Somewhere in my sadnessI know I won't fall apart completely When I need to be rescued And I need a place to swimI have a rock to cling to in the stormWhen no one can hear me callingI have you I can sing to -Sade

Expect to Wait

noreply@blogger.com (Seattle Mamacita) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 22:27:00 +0000

You have two options. You can wait for it to pass on its own. It is so small the size of a snow pea that it will probably come quickly or I can schedule the D and C procedure as early as Monday. What are you thinking?

I'm thinking I have no idea what it will be like to pass it on my own and the prospect frightens me. By D and C you mean Dilation and Curettage, I cannot even fathom the idea right now.

I think I will wait.

I leave her office with nothing but a pile of crumpled tissues and her words knocking around in my head, no hand-out detailing what to expect, no comforting anecdotes from women in my shoes who can hold my hand out the door.

On Saturday nothing comes. I pace the hallways. In the rain I walk the neighborhood.

Please go little spirit. Please go now.

Under an archway I call my friend's sister who is a midwife,
Is there something natural, I can take to get this going?

I drink a uterine stimulant, a small dose of both blue cohosh and black cohosh, a mixture that she tells me many Native Americans have used to induce labor.

You will feel contractions, you feel lower back pain, you feel cramping, you feel your heart racing with adrenaline.

By evening I welcome the contractions knowing that they signal the beginnings of the passing and after an hour I am strangley relieved to feel the bleeding. I tell myself I think it is gone now.

Today at my ultrasound I'm face to face with the same woman who broke the news to me just five days ago. She has more of the same to share.

I'm so sorry honey it has not passed yet.

The empty gelatinous sac up on the screen is as big as it was five days ago.

It is elongated now though which means it is getting ready, she adds quickly rushing to hand me kleenex.

I wanted so much for my body to do this on her own so I could have the last goodbye in privacy. I somehow assumed there would be this terrible grand finale but that it would be over quickly.
I naively assumed it would take hours not days.

I didn't expect the waiting.

While I wait to speak to the nurse, I write a list of the symptoms I wish I had been prepared for, A Girlfriends Guide to Miscarriage if you will:

expect the drastic drop in hormones to render you crazy, nauseous, unpredictable, expect cramping three times worse than the kind you get during your period, expect lower back pain that grinds on your nerves, expect to feel light headed, expect headaches, expect to feel anxious, expect to feel amped up one minute and then emotionless the next, expect uncontrollable tears, expect insomnia, expect to feel the same exhaustion of pregnancy, expect to lose your appetite, expect to feel inconsolable, expect to hear friends tell you its happened to them, expect to feel that this is no consolation, expect to feel angry, expect to feel relieved that nature took its course, expect to feel loved, expect to feel blessed by the people who call you day after day, who bring you warm soup, homemade bread, who offer to take your child while you go to breakfast with your husband, who cancel their trip to stay by your side.
Expect to realize that life goes on.
Expect to wait.