Happy 17 Months Angel

Remembering 12/20/2009

you came with a push and a gush
that blew out every candle in my life
and set ablaze a fire that fueled itself with blood
my blood

two sets of arms, pressing down on my middle
my head rose with a Oh! and my shoulders popped up
and you popped out
with a cry
so deep my dreams paused to look
and fear unmasked itself

i blinked and you were there
you cried and my heart knew you
your voice, my strings
your eyes, my vision
your life, my soul

Isaiah sees something new and says in his cute boyish baby talk, “Oh WOW!”

That’s basically the reaction I’m hoping for when he sees the new masthead.  May is over half over and I finally have the new masthead up.  OH WOW!

Speaking of my beautiful baby — I think I can safely report that’s he’s just about the cutest thing on the planet these days.

Everything he does, the way he stands on his tippy toes to reach everything, the way he stuffs his cheeks with buttery toast and crumby chin, the way he points to squirrels and says DOGGIE!, and the way he throws his chubby hands in the air when he’s excited — it’s all just a blubber of adorable.

I find myself wanting to freeze each little moment with him, the way he leans his head against my chest when I read to him, the way he understands so many different things without being able to talk, the way he ducks his head into my line of vision when I’m holding him and looking in another direction…I’m trying to hold onto everything, but it goes so fast.  It was just the other day when he was all rolls and gurgles and now he grabs his own shoes and lifts his feet to help me put them on him.  Out of nowhere, he went from deep listener to deep lover of water, washing hands, taking baths, and splashing water whenever he gets a chance.  (I can’t WAIT to see our water bill.)

I can feel myself becoming the mom that thinks each milestone is THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF NEWS IN THE FREE WORLD.  Because, you know, WHO CARES who’s running for president or that the economy is still shit and the Miami Heat is the new evil superpower of the world?  WHO CARES ABOUT THESE THINGS WHEN ISAIAH IS CLIMBING ON TOP OF CHAIRS?

The tiny but deep earthquakes of joy he delivers each days is nothing short of miraculous and I thank God everyday for giving me a boy who sometimes feels like an angel in Gap sweatshirts.

Since my hard drive crashed, I’ve had a new hard drive put in, an upgrade of my general software and installed a new photo editing system.  Lots of kinks to work through — and I still haven’t been able to get my masthead up yet.  This is what it looks like.  Moving it into the screen is proving problematic.

So annoying – technology.  Erg.

Breathe.

Try again.

My hard drive crashed in El Salvador and I lost all my editing software (see the golden masthead above with no lettering).  Two conferences.  My sister got married.  I photographed Nick’s cousin’s wedding.  And life continued to march right along.

And then last night I was walloped with a fever that had my teeth chattering and in a cold sweat on the couch.

Ugh.

I ate a chocolate chip cookie slowly, later in the afternoon when my stomach had comes down and I wanted something sweet on my tongue to combat the bland taste of sickness in my mouth.

That cookie is sustaining me until I get my software back, until I get myself back on track, and get back into writing.

Have a cookie.  You’ll thank me later.

Here’s my easter bunny.

It’s hard to believe that one year ago he was this pudgy little thing who didn’t move around very much.  Today he is a precocious and lovable sparkplug, the key to my heart.

Nothing could be a greater reminder of new life than my baby.

Hope your holiday was filled with the reminder that we’re all equal, free, beloved, and redeemed.

I wrote for 40 days (even if my numbering was a little off) more or less.

I gave up chocolate.

I prayed more.

I avoided negative thoughts.

And I remembered to turn to love in times of emotional distress.

All good things.  If only I could continue these habits and form them into life patterns. 

Easter is here and it befuddled me to turn on Facebook this evening and see how many of my friends are 1) Christian or Catholic and 2) put the words “HE IS RISEN” as their status update

As I read through the joyous brevities of returning to Facebook after a long Lent of abstaining, the wonderful meals dined with family, and portraits of a very fair skinned Jesus copy and pasted throughout my news reel, I wondered what Easter and Lent have taught us now that the two are nearly over (except for the Easter church calendar time period).

I wonder if those of us who break forth with abundant Easter brunches and rejoicing plastic egg hunts stop to carefully reflect on how much of the “rising” we leave up to Jesus and not bother with ourselves.  It’ not hard to hear the complaining during Lent.  Nearly every Catholic I know hates giving something up and no one wants to “do anything extra” because their schedule is already so busy, busy, busy. 

So, what’s the point of Lent and Easter?

What’s the point of talking about what you’re giving up for 40 days and then simply indulge in it on Easter without any reflection of what it meant?  We die unto ourselves, let our darkness go, begin life anew…and no one I know exclaims that they themselves feel renewed.

That is, except one person.

A very special woman who recently was received and confirmed into the church gave me a lovely card last night after the easter vigil mass.  In it, she thanked me for being a part of her journey to becoming catholic and wrote, “Thank you for helping me start a new life in Christ.”

These aren’t the most profound or original words, but there was a heaviness to this message as I read it late last night.  It was almost as if the ink captured her sincerity in addition to her words.  I could smell her gratefulness and excitement to begin this new journey of faith.  And I suddenly felt this immense GIFT to watch people grow and question their belief in God.  It’s truly humbling.

Lent taught me to move through my thoughts.  To allow what is felt, to repress nothing and accept each feeling and thought as a mark on a map of what I need to pay attention.  Quick tempered?  What’s behind my inability to deal with waiting?  Anxious after taking a risk?  Why do I feel so uncertain after making myself emotionally vulnerable to someone else?

Lent taught me that most of life is just like Lent — a time for thoughtful reflection to better ourselves, but most people sell themselves short and stop early in the process.

Easter.  Easter taught me about redemption.  It reminded me that all of us, even me, is made for rising.  It’s not just about a man from 2000 years ago who stunned the world with his radical love and resurrection.  It’s about what We, you and I, learn from that example and after a long Lent, decide to come out of our own caves and embrace ourselves, our light, and endless possibilities to rise.

I don’t know how to write about El Salvador.  So I guess I’ll begin there: why I can’t write about it.

There’s too much to write.  Too many critical things that I’ve already forgotten.  Things that can only be felt in the midst of the mountains, in the air of poverty, in the decisions of disparity.  There’s a line between the those who don’t think twice about surviving and those who have live everyday wondering if they’ll survive to see tomorrow.  That kind of framework, that kind of mentality melted once my return flight crossed the US border.  Poverty does that.  It wakes you up.  Comfort and privilege puts you back to sleep.

I can’t write about it because I don’t have the answers, still.  How many visits to central america can there be before I come up with some kind of description for what I witness and see?  All I keep seeing are lines.  Lines between people who have never had their picture taken and those with digital SLR cameras.  There are lines between people who would take leftover food wrapped in plastic from my hands without knowing my name and those in my life who would tell the waiter to discard the leftovers because they don’t want to deal with the styrofoam box.  Lines.  They’re everywhere.

And as much as I would love to say that the usual serenity that fills my soul from central america returned to me, this trip was different.  It wasn’t serenity that filled me.  it was yearning.  yearning for justice,  yearning for enough, yearning for education and basic necessities.  yearning for clean water, medicine, band aids and music instruments.  I was filled with yearning.  Not to be confused with need – since I am under no threat of having those things taken away from me – my yearning is a longing to see not just equal distribution among people and nation, but a yearning for those of us in economically hording countries to WANT to share what we have.

I yearn to see US, the people of the most privileged and resource-eating country in the history of the world, step out of ourselves and realize: there IS enough for all of us.

There is enough for all of us.

There is enough for ALL of us.

How can one concept be so damned difficult to grasp?  To legislate?  To teach?

How can catholics and christians enter the most holy week of the year and not bid one nod to the glaring injustice of all: poverty?  It’s violence is bleeding into the next generation of people without access to the most simple medicines, the most basic literacy skills, and the one resource we all need to survive: clean water.

How can we enter holy week without remembering those simple things?

I don’t know how to write about that.  I don’t know how to move forward with that knowledge that those wonderful people I met – the crocheting women, the praying families, the young choir members, the men carrying unfathomably amounts of firewood on their bare backs – live in conditions that I cannot describe over email, blog, or pen.  hell, it’s something I can’t even really describe to myself.

I can’t write about it.  I don’t even know how to even begin praying for that.

What do you pray for at that point?  HOW do you pray at that point?  Once you witness the violence of poverty – and the indifference that the majority of first world citizens have – the prayer for divine intervention seems ridiculous because the problems could truly be solved by human hands.  there’s nothing spiritually impossible to overcome.  there’s no political impossibilitiy to alleviate poverty.  There’s no trickery or illusions to poverty.  It’s actually quite simple: those with need to transform their hearts.

Maybe that’s where the divine intervention is needed.  Not to save people from dirt floors and malnutrition — all preventable and treatable problems — but the human heart.  Perhaps that’s where I should start with my writing.  And my prayers.

The human heart.  That’s where I’ll begin this week.

So, I’ll begin with yours: what are you doing to alleviate the darkness of the poor?

My sister’s wedding is in a few weeks.  She’s dealing with slow RSVPers and wedding favors.  This is the time, I remember when I was planning my wedding, that I was thisclose to losing it.  Frankly, I just didn’t care about all that stuff, but in the context of it being your wedding, it’s hard to remember that NO ONE CARES IF THE VOTIVE CANDLES ARE CIRCLE OR OVAL.

I’ve never been a matron or maid of honor before and I’ve been drafting my speech for months.  I’m afraid I’m going to break down and sob for three straight minutes before I whip out something profoundly original and moving like, “I LOVE YOU, CARM, AND YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THERE FOR ME!”

Among the family madness, Nick and I are getting through the busy April weeks of traveling, school, Lent, and general craziness.  That and I heard DONALD TRUMP IS TIED FOR THE LEADING GOP 2012 CANDIDATE.  Like I said, crazy.

It’s in these times, when we’re in the cliffhanging moments of an almost government shutdown and a schizophrenic spring season that I must remember to focus on love.  Love in the time of chaos is critical to survival and keeping one’s sanity.

I just have to remember that as I pack my bags for a trip to El Salvador tomorrow and wonder if I should try an Easter egg hunt with Isaiah this year or not.

I’m at the Civil Liberties and Public Policy conference.

I’ve got so much work to do before I present – twice – tomorrow that I am typing so furiously that I am nearly exhausting THE MUSCLES IN MY FINGERTIPS.

I just attended an abortion speak out.  If you’ve never attended one, it’s a simple concept.  Around the parameter of silence, respect, and in stigma-free zone, people walk up to the mic and tell their story of having an abortion.

As a listener, it’s not the time to hold up your GO ROE sign or your picture of the mom and baby that reads LOVE THEM BOTH.  It’s just a time to listen to these stories.  And if you listen you hear more than just their human voices.

You hear about the conditions and situations these women were in as young as 12 years old and put in positions to decide what to do.  You hear about the common everyday stories of girls and woman who were backed into a corner and had to make a decision, often alone, afraid, and left with guilt that I cannot really fathom.

This is the heartbeat of abortion, I thought.  These are the faces and stories of abortion.  Tomorrow, next week, next life can be about politics and debates, but tonight I just want to listen to these women and what happened before, during, and after this life altering decision.

The tagline for women who suffer from the stigma of having an abortion is to “break the silence” and tell their story.  As a listener, I think, for everyone in the United States on either side of the fence, my tagline would be for all the shouting and ranting and feuding and killing and bombing and shooting and blaming and shaming and snearing and protesting and raising all kinds hell to STOP.  STOP THE NOISE.  Let them break their silence and you –  you and me – we should be listening.  Maybe if we do more of that we can figure out something a bit more than pro choice vs. pro life agendas that wage war on each other so loudly you can’t hear a thing.

Listen.  It’s revolutionary.

I’m heading to a conference tomorrow where I will be serving on two different panels, speaking on supporting survivors in abusive intimate partner relationships and strategies to use new media to do political storytelling.

CLPP = Civil Liberties and Public Policy

I’ll be live blogging and tweeting.  Catch you tomorrow.

With the massive amount of writing I’ll be doing in the next 72 hours, a brief hiatus today on my blog is forgivable.