Author: Pam

E is for Eating (read this before you read F)

Published on by Pam4 Comments

Posting two today–one to make up for missing Saturday, and one for today’s letter, F.

I’m fairly ambivalent about eating and food. When The Little Woman asks me in the morning what I want for dinner, or worse, when she asks me on Thursday what I want to eat over the weekend, I usually roll my eyes and shrug, the same way I do when my mother asks me in October what I’m planning to do for Christmas. I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care.

Do you live to Eat or Eat to live? I fall into the latter category, usually. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy a fine meal or appreciate a lovingly prepared feast, but overall, food does not excite me the way it does some people in my life.

I’m married to a foodie. When we met, I weighed about 20 pounds less than I do now. Of course in the intervening 14 years I‘ve grown older and my metabolism has slowed considerably, so part of the change in weight, I’m sure, has to do with aging. But still. I now weigh about 20 pounds less than I did four years ago, and that has mostly to do with exercise and the fact that The Little Woman is not cooking for me daily any more. If my math is correct, that makes for a 40-pound weight gain in about 10 years. Not insignificant.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to blame TLW for my weight issues. I’m not. She did not hold me at gunpoint and force the fork into my hand. I simply got caught up in her enthusiasm for food, and eating, and the celebrations and socializing we did around food. And, when someone puts as much love and thought and delight into preparing a meal as she does, it is damn difficult to apply any sort of meaningful self-restraint or portion control.

And then TLW went to culinary school and spent a lot of time practicing. I was a very willing participant in her epicurean experiments. We had people over often. We had big parties and lots of food (and drink).  We ate and ate and ate. One weekend, Mother was visiting and she opened the refrigerator and exclaimed, “No wonder you girls are chubby! There are seven pints of heavy cream in here!”

No wonder indeed.

I was working away from home during the week in those days, and before I left on Monday mornings, TLW packed me grocery bags full of amazing food to get me through the week. I was the envy of everyone in the lunchroom where I worked. At lunchtime, I’d pull out perfectly grilled pork chops (with the grill marks) and garlic mashed potatoes made with heavy cream and lots of butter while my colleagues dined on frozen NutriSystem or Healthy Choice entrees.

And suddenly I weighed close to 200 pounds (at 5’ 6” tall) and even my fat pants were tight. How had I, someone who had never really had a weight issue, gotten to this place? Something had to change.

D is for the Goddamned Deer!

Published on by Pam6 Comments

Did you ever set out to write something and then realize that to do so would be a bit Disengenuous, Dear Reader? This morning as I looked over my list of possible topics to be brought to you by the letter D, I thought, man I do not want to write about Depression or Drinking. I’m not suffering from either at the moment (knock on wood), and even if I were, I’m not sure that I want to be Defined by either of those words, though god knows I have been in the past.

So I pushed away from the computer this morning and decided to go for a run instead of writing, hoping that inspiration might strike while my body was otherwise occupied. As I began my second circuit around the lake and settled into a cadence, I realized that in all the times I’d run there I had not once seen Deer. And why would they be here, I realized with a jolt, when all the tasty treats are in the yards nearby?

If you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, you’ll know that I’ve written previously about the godDamn Deer in the neighborhood. Monday Dawned bright and glorious, and I eventually Dragged myself out of the house after my early morning run thinking I should Do something productive in the yard since winter seems, finally, to be over.

One of the goddamn deer in our 'hood.
One of the goddamn deer in our ‘hood.

Things are blooming—or would be if the fucking Deer hadn’t eaten everything in my yard except the tiny smattering of Daffodils under the birch tree.  As I surveyed my flower beds, I became Depressed and Despondent—as far as my eyes could see the Deer had wreaked havoc: Tulips? Gone. Pretty purple flowers? Gone. Tiger lily? Chewed to the quick. Nascent hasta? Nubbins. The remaining hollyhocks? Mowed down.

Well, fuck this, I thought to myself and headed to the garage for my shovel. I couldn’t stand to look at the Destruction any longer. I couldn’t take being assaulted with this Degradation every time I wandered out the front Door, Dammit. Time to Do something. If I can’t enjoy the beauty of my bulbs, then the Damn Deer weren’t going to get anymore either, I Decided.

It hasn’t always been this way. For the first ten years I lived here (and during which time I planted said bulbs and other Deer Delicacies), my roses grew tall and strong and bloomed Deliciously. The hollyhocks waved all summer in magenta glory, and the tulips pushed through the soil and blossomed into an array of loveliness. But something changed.

The Deer left the nearby parks and woods with their boring diets of . . . whatever Deer used to eat before they tasted our suburban garden Delights. Now they roam in large packs, marauding up and down the city streets on a culinary circuit of Destruction. Not in my yard. No more.

I set about Digging up the bulbs. I cleared the beds of anything the Deer liked to chew on. No more tulips. No more pretty purple flowers. No more hasta. Bye-bye hollyhocks. I’d already gotten rid of the roses a couple of years ago in a similar fit of pique when I came out one day to find the ready-to-burst buds of the previous day completely Desecrated.

I replaced the rose bushes with California lilac, which, truth be told, is not really cutting it for me. I miss my roses, but I can’t go back to the days of constant vigilance—the spraying, the stress, the watching, the knowing that as soon as the rains come and wash off a coating of the (sadly) non-toxic deer repellent, the beasts will be back to strip my yard of its Delights.

I’m sure I will miss the greenery that pops up each spring, a reminder that winter is finally moving on, that summer awaits. But it is time for a new normal. Time to take control and beat back these feelings of helplessness and Despondency. I will buy more Daffodil bulbs this fall and plant them everywhere. I will get more peonies and some irises (I don’t think the Deer like irises). I will plant more lavender. There will be no more free Deer lunches. Not in my back (or front) yard.

 

C is for Children

Published on by Pam3 Comments

In my post on adoption, I wrote that having kids is a crapshoot no matter which way they come into our lives, via adoption or via our own personal uteri. I consider myself supremely fortunate that my children found their way to me and that they are such amazing and lovely young women and a part of my life.

I wasn’t always sure that they would be in my life. Their other mother and I went through a particularly acrimonious split and subsequent custody battle when the girls were just two and six (nearly 20 years ago), sparking a years’ long wrangling over a workable parenting plan. Because we had each adopted both of the girls, we were both legal parents, but because we were lesbians who at the time could not get married, we were an enigma to the legal system. No one quite knew what to do with us. The lawyers, so happy to take our money, seemed befuddled and bemused.

I remember so many days spent weeping in my therapist’s office, certain that I would never see the kids again, afraid that I did not have the financial or emotional resources required to secure our future together. After all, technically, I was the parent who had left the family home (because I wasn’t an owner and because we weren’t legally married, and because I was young and didn’t know any better), and the lawyers and guardian ad litem put a lot of weight on maintaining a consistent environment for the girls.

I became despondent about the final parenting plan and at the thought of not having equal custody, having to be an every-other-weekend parent. I considered just leaving altogether, but my therapist (who deserves a medal for hanging in there with me, btw) encouraged me to take the long view. She somehow knew that if I hung in there, if I continued showing up against all odds at the kids’ school events, soccer games, concerts, doctor visits, that we could continue to be a family. She promised me that Anna and Taylor would come back to me as adults.

Keeping that long-term perspective as I missed out on so many childhood milestones and moments challenged me. I was supremely insecure in my role as a divorced lesbian mother (the invisible co-parent)—I had no role models. There were not any other mothers in our community in my shoes—half the time no one knew who I was or what my connection to the girls was. Teachers regarded me with suspicion—or assumed I was a stepparent. No one had a frame of reference for me in those days—I made it up as I went along.

Shame haunted me, too. I felt marked as a bad mother by my inability to win custody—felt like I had committed some horrible parenting faux pas, like I was wearing the bad parent equivalent of the scarlet letter. All I’d done was run out of money.  At the time I was teaching freshman composition at the local community college and reading student essays about divorce. So many 18-year-olds wrote about how their parents had squandered so much money on custody battles, how they’d ended up with the parent they didn’t want to be with, how they loved both of their parents and hated being pitted against them.

I’d like to say I took all of that to heart and became King Solomon-like in my detachment from the process, but I at least heard it and internalized it somewhat. I did decide to quit fighting, to preserve my own mental health if nothing else. I knew I couldn’t be a good parent at all if I were to allow myself to be destroyed by the process, either emotionally or financially. As it was, it took me a good decade to recover on both fronts. 

I wish I’d been more conscious in the moment, had been more aware of the potential for damage to the children. I said this to my therapist the last time I saw her, about five years ago now. She grew teary-eyed and looked me in the eyes and said, “Pam, you fought for what was best for those girls with everything you had. You did it the best way you could at the time. You could not have done anything differently or better to change the outcome.”

I can’t second-guess the pain my children experienced, but they are still in my life. They did, after all those years, after all of those cobbled together holidays and every-other-weekend visits, come back to me. For this I am grateful.

B is for Bookmaking

Published on by Pam7 Comments

I remember buying Hand Bookbinding: A Manual of Instruction over 25 years ago (1988, the receipt is still in the book). I was fresh out of college and enamored of fine books—books that harkened back to earlier times, pre-mass market paperbacks, back to when the making of the book was as much an art as the writing of the book. While manual presented concepts beyond my comprehension, the precise line drawings and the very idea that I could make a book awakened a yearning in me.blue_yellow_box1

I dreamed of making books even if the tools and the concepts were complicated, beyond the realm of my experience: book presses and folding bones, book tape, book thread. I couldn’t even imagine where I would find these items. Still, I kept the book, cracking it open occasionally to remind myself that someday I’d figure it out.

blue_yellow_accordion.jpgLooking back, I believe I viewed making books as an alternative way in to writing, a side door. I wanted to be a writer, having recently graduated with a Master’s degree in creative writing, yet I didn’t quite trust (myself? Anyone?) enough to put my words on the page. Bookmaking became a surrogate, related to books and writing but not writing. I wanted to write, but writing scared me.

So, I made empty books. I created journals for others to write in, burying my own writing dreams deep while I busied myself earning a living and crafting a career that would pay better than (not) writing. I became, for a while, the technology director for a Catholic elementary school. One day, having befriended the school’s art teacher, I took one of my handmade books in to show her. She wasn’t impressed.  So what, she said. Where’s the art? All you’ve done is cover some cardboard with pretty paper.madbk11

I stared at the book in my hands and realized she was right—I wasn’t making art any more than I was writing. Where’s the color on your pages, the art teacher asked. Where’s the risk?baby_book1

That was the whole point, I told her. I didn’t want to make a mess. I liked the pristine white pages, the straight lines, the perfect edges. Paint it, she commanded. Put something of yourself into it.  So, when I made my nephew, a skateboarder, a foldout book full of pictures of him skating, I thought I had answered her challenge:

liam6There’s no mess there, she said. Be bold. Be brave. But I couldn’t, not yet. I gave him a book that was very cool in concept, but still boring and dry.

liam11

I did better when I made the same type of book for my niece, a dancer. This time, I got messy and creative. I had to start over and paint over my messes. And things rolled from there. I became more inventive, more willing to make a mess and take risks.

A funny thing happened in the process—I started writing. I signed up for a screen writing class, and then a nine-month novel writing class, and the following fall quarter, a nine-month memoir writing class.

My bookmaking has improvedmadeline_purple_1, as has my writing—creativity breeds creativity, I think. As I take a risk in one area, it feels safer to risk in the other. I’ve been more willing though to be experimental with the book making, more staid and conservative in the book writing. Whenever I feel stuck with my writing, I can turn to the book making—and it’s no longer just books.

photo 1-1

Making books led me to learn how to make stamps, how to carve my own designs into a block, how to use ink and a roller to transfer the image onto whatever paper I wanted. I’ve made prayer flags for writers, books for friends and poets, for my kids, for my sweetie. I’ve made a game board for myself—Pamopoly—when I was feeling extremely stuck and creatively challenged in my writing. I’ve made art prints and pop up books whenever I am betwixt and between writing projects.pamopoly 2inrix

I’ve continued to write and to make books, though I’ve not yet combined the two. Perhaps that is next. After all, I have all of these haikus just hanging around.

 

 

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A is for Adoption

Published on by Pam10 Comments

As I’ve written and rewritten this blog post, I’ve become hyper aware that mine may be a controversial stance and that I harbor very, very personal opinions on this topic. What is right for one family may not be right for another. I get that. I also need to disclose up front that I am the adoptive parent of two children who were born here in the United States. Both of my girls were adopted as infants through open adoptions. Both girls’ birth mothers chose my former partner and me to be the adoptive parents. Both of my children have reconnected with their biological families. In both cases, the birth fathers were out of the picture, though one of my children has a relationship currently with her biological father.

Also worth noting as relevant—my mother was adopted when she was three years old, and my parents adopted my little brother when he was an infant. Both of these adoptions were closed adoptions, meaning the records were sealed at the time of the adoptions and remain closed still.

Given my history with adoption, the fact that my families—both my family of origin and the family I later created with my former partner—would not exist without adoption, I have some strong feelings on the topic. To whit, whenever I hear about a couple’s struggle with infertility and how they are spending gazillions of dollars on in vitro and fertility treatments because they don’t want to consider adoption, my heart breaks a little. In my experience, people’s reasons for pursuing IVF vary, but generally fall into two camps: I want my own biological children and I’m afraid of losing my adopted child.

As a woman who never quite heard her own biological clock ticking, I’m the first to admit mine is not a very sympathetic response. As a mother who came to parenthood slantwise, my point of view is likely uncommon and perhaps unpopular. But, as a parent who, over the years, has worked very consciously to be a parent and to remain a parent in the face of some very daunting challenges, I think I have something valuable to add to the conversation.

First of all, having kids is a crapshoot. It doesn’t matter how they come into our lives. I think the single most important thing potential parents don’t realize is just how little control they will have once that child is conceived and/or born, bundled and placed in their arms. All bets are off. Who gets sick, who lives, who dies, who has disabilities, hidden or otherwise—there is no biological magic bullet that will protect you.

Second of all, children are not possessions with which we are to adorn our lives. Your dreams will not be their dreams; their achievements will not be yours. Their lives are their own. It doesn’t matter if they spring from your loins or from someone else’s—kids are individuals with every right to grow into themselves, whatever they may be, without unrealistic or narcissistic parental expectations, adopted or biological.

We seem to be smack in the midst of a sort of cult of childhood—our culture demands that we dote on our kids, lavish them with opportunities and options in ways our parents never dreamed of. I’m not sure where this urge comes from, but I suspect it springs from our own needs to be seen and doted upon. If our kids look like us, so much the better—it’s that much easier for us to infuse them with our own dreams and ambitions.

I’m not saying that adoptive parents don’t engage in this behavior, but I believe that some people may choose not to adopt because they can’t imagine investing themselves like that in a child that is not biologically theirs. And the world has plenty of children who need families, so it’s unfortunate, I think, that they are overlooked.

As for this notion that adoption is a process fraught with boogeymen who will at any moment demand the return of an adopted child, let me just say this—it’s not that common. In spite of the occasional heart wrenching media report (and very real heartbreak on the parts of all parents involved), the rise of open adoption in the past two and a half decades has gone a long way to deter adoption going off the rails.

I’ve also always been puzzled by adoptive parents who choose to go overseas to adopt. And one of the biggest reasons these folks give is that the chances of the birth parents coming for the kids is slimmer with international adoptions. Given that numbers of kids in this country who need homes, my bias is that we should start here, with our own kids first. And besides, if a birth parent changes his or her mind about placing their child for adoption, shouldn’t they have that right within a particular time frame? Don’t the birth parents deserve the dignity of an open adoption and ongoing communication with the adoptive family?

I have so much more to say on this topic, but it is going to be a long month of blog posts and I’m going to try to keep these things under 1000 words. The A to Z Challenge folks recommend 100-300 words, but I’m just not that good.

If you are considering adoption or want more info, check out these sites:

The Children’s Bureau

Administration for Children and Families

Open Adoption and Family Services

The End

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And so ends a month of blogging (nearly) every day. Technically, according to the rules of the NaBloPoMo site we weren’t supposed to blog on the weekends, so considering that, I succeeded, I think in my commitment to blog every day this month.

Tomorrow begins a new challenge–blogging according to the alphabet, starting with a topic beginning with the letter A on April 1 and ending with a topic beginning with Z on the last day of the month (excluding Sundays). I’m still taking suggestions for topics . . . all will be considered.

Thanks for reading this month–looking forward to more anon.

 

Challenge Accepted–Blogging April, A to Z

Published on by Pam7 Comments

Well, Dear Readers, this adventure has been so much fun this month, I’ve signed up to do it again. This time, I’ll be blogging every day (except for Sundays) during the month of April as part of the A-to-Z Challenge. Each day the theme starts with a letter of the alphabet, beginning on day 1, or April Fool’s Day, with the letter A and working our way to Z.

Since I start classes on April 8, I best be writing and stockpiling some blogs in the next ten days, so I’ve started making a list of topics. I’ve listed some  possible themes below. If you have anything to add or topics you’d like to see me address (or attempt), leave me a comment. All ideas will receive consideration–

Adoption – I have much to say about this topic, given that my entire family was formed by adoption: mother, brother, children.

Body Image – always something women think about, their bodies. I’m no different though I wish I were. Or Books. Bookmaking. I love making books.

Children – I’ve not given enough blog space to my children. I decree they shall have more, starting now. Or Cats—I rarely write about the cats. I’m sure I can work both into the same blog.

Depression. Been there, done that. Or Drinking. Again, could possibly inhabit the exact same blog without a problem.

Eating – I live with a foodie. Eating to live or living to eat?

Food – because I’m sure I won’t say all there is to say about food in the previous post on eating. Maybe Feminism if I say all there is to say about food in my post about eating.

God – because

Haikus? At only eight days in, that seems a bit premature, so maybe I could write about Heaven, on the heels of God. Nice segue.

Imagination.

J

K

Lesbians – takes one to know one. Maybe some fun facts . . . history of? Coming out? No shortage of material here.

Mother – don’t write enough about dear old Mom, and she’s always asking if I’m writing about her and should she hide . . . so yes to both!

Nancy – The Little Woman, wife, sugar mama, main squeeze.

O? Well, there is this video (NSFW) making the rounds on social media. I might need to address it at some point. Just sayin’.

Psychology – cuz that’s what I’m doing now.

Queers –see L, I’m sure there will be more to say on the subject.

Race. See Adoption, Children. Class on Multicultural Perspectives.

Siblings. I have one brother. I love him dearly. He deserves a blog post.

Technology—I used to have a whole blog devoted to making fun of tech. I can do it again. Or Therapy. Lots to say about that.

Umbilical cords—I will be taking a Family of Origins class Spring quarter. I am sure I will have plenty to say about the ties that bind.

Vaginas? Virginity? When I was in London in 1982, the movie The Last American Virgin was playing everywhere. I got a complex and set out to rectify the situation.

Writing. Of course.

X—reserved for April’s Haiku wrap up. I will write a haiku that begins with the letter X.

Youth. Fleeting. I’m sure there is more to say . . .

Z—on having zip, zero, zilch

I’ve left J and K blank because at this late hour my mind cannot come up with even one reasonable topic or theme that begins with either of those letters. Ideas? Leave me a comment!

Thanks so much for reading along in March as I took on this challenge—join me in April for more.

March Haiku Wrap-Up: In Like a Lamb, Out Like a Lion

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Another month of writing haiku has sped by and here we are on the cusp of Spring—ready to launch a new season. I’ve continued to write a haiku a day for the Haiku room.
Magic happens there—a (virtual) room full of essential strangers share their innermost longings, secrets, feelings. A room full of strangers responds, supports, delights together. We draw strength from one another, courage, encouragement.

Inhale images
***mystical fermentation***
Exhale poetry

I attend haiku church
Words and syllables offered, 
Received. Communion.

The haikus arrive
Droplets of oxytocin
Sacred addiction

The haikus I’ve written this month correspond to the work I’m doing with my therapist, the work I’m doing with my massage therapists (yes, you read that correctly, I have two massage therapists—each does amazing and unique work, each has succeeded in “fixing” me in ways that the traditional medical establishment could not).

She laid hands on me
Channeled a Divine spirit–
Broke through to my Soul

Opaque woman looks
Inward and finds her own light
Source, glows brighter now

My heart beats strong, true
Because of the scars woven
In, around and through

Without shadow I
am only that part of me 
I let others see

Old prisons crumbling–
Bars and chains and rank darkness
Opening to light

Some have to do with my rich (hahahaha) inner life. Some with my love and my wife.

I see you seeing
Me and in that gaze I see
You. Deep reflection.

This heart’s fragile terrain
Has no natural boundaries
Travel gently here

Woman’s voice, but girl’s
Fears: Silence, ache, and longing
After all these years

All of them are gifts—some I work on for hours, others come to me in flashes. Occasionally I will wake up in the middle of the night with an idea or a fully formed poem. Sometimes I exchange haikus with friends and the alchemic interactions produce poetry I could never have made on my own.

Silence spirals up
Rising like the heat of a
Clarifying fire

I am bigger than 
The box you’ve put me in. I
Can’t write on these walls. 

I just meant to tug
that one thread, not to make the
whole thing unravel

Twenty one days to
Break a habit—to forget
You, sweet tendency

A few have to do with the creative process—writing and self doubt, which seem to go hand in hand.

I tamp her down–yet
she rises in me, demands,
aches, pens poetry

Shadow self writes and
I wonder how she wrested
Control of the pen.

Taking a haiku
Holiday–away from psy-
Ku hai-ology

Words fall from my tongue–
Spilt, dance upon this altar
Freely sacrificed

Peel words from my tongue
Thoughts stuck in my throat, silence
Masquerades as truth

We construct our own
Prisons whether by longing,
Desire, inertia

A single pebble
Tossed carelessly can create
Ripples of longing

Fragile, frangible
My heart’s porcelain terrain
Travel gently here

A few just have to do with life in general—living in the neighborhood, running, that sort of thing.

Early morning run
I can do anything for
one hour. Anything.
 

Chainsaws, wood chippers
Shattering this afternoon 
A storm’s noisy toll

I hope you enjoy these as much as I enjoyed writing them.

And Now Silence, My Strict Tutor

Published on by Pam3 Comments

Rumi wrote the line that I’ve taken for the title of this blog post: And now silence, my strict tutor.

I’ve been trying to be easy in silence these past couple of days as nothing much has struck me as worthy of a blog post, nothing that hasn’t already been said, so I’m sitting with the silence in my head and trying to learn something from it.

Silence is a strict tutor. In silence we leave ourselves open to so much. It’s easy to fill silence and in doing so shut everything else out, everything that we don’t want to hear or think about. Sitting in the silence makes me squirm–for in the silence I don’t know what you think about me, what I can do to win your approval. In the silence, I have only myself and if I listen to myself the danger is in making stuff up to fill the silence.

The trick is to not try to fill the silence, but to just be in it. When I try too hard to fill it, what comes out is just noise. Already we have too much noise–I don’t need to contribute to it. If I’m going to break the silence, I believe I should break it in a way that moves the conversation forward.

For a guy who wrote a lot, Rumi has much to say about silence:

“Silence is the language of god. All else is poor translation.”

“Be silent, for this tongue of yours is the enemy of the soul.”

“In silence, there is eloquence.”

The temptation to fill the silence seems rooted in a desire to ease discomfort. We assume because we are uncomfortable, others might be as well. We take it upon ourselves to ease their burden, the burden we’ve imagined for them, the burden we want them to have.

“Enough with such questions, let silence take you to the core of life.”

If I can shut up long enough, I might be able to hear something–if I listen to you without commenting, without offering my feedback, my take, my two cents. What can I learn if I just listen and experience what you are saying? So often instead of hearing, we simply anticipate: anticipate what we can say to “help” or to sound smart or to elevate ourselves as experts.

“Keep silent because the world of silence is a vast fullness.  Do not beat the drum of words, the word is only an empty drum.”

I love this–do not beat the drum of words. As a person who lives by language, I want to beat everything to death with words. I want to describe and analyze and report back. I want you to describe and analyze and report back. If I can talk about something or write about it, I can, I believe anyway, understand it. Sometimes though, we just have to feel something to truly understand it.

Instead of worrying about my silence, my current inability to string my thoughts together, I am going to surrender to the silence.

We have to surrender to the silence. This is me. Surrendering.

“Fill me with the wine of your silence
Let it soak my every pore
For the inner splendor it reveals
is a blessing
is a blessing.” –Rumi