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Letters to Isaiah: 10 Months

Published on by Lisa
My Little Pumpkin

Dear Isaiah,

You wave.  You are now waving hello and good-bye to anyone and everyone.  This thrilling little move popped out of nowhere.  Two weeks ago you were opening and closing your hand, but your fist was opening and closing in your own direction, like you were waving goodbye to yourself.

Then, one day last week, I walked into your room to greet you Good Morning and squeal over another day with you, and you nonchalantly  lifted up one plumpy arm and gave it a slow and measured up’n down motion in the air.  I laughed out loud.

And now you wave to everyone.  I’m quite sure you still have no idea what it means, and you probably expect strangers to laugh and get all giddy like your Dad and I do, but they just smile and goo-goo over you instead.  It’s pretty amazing, hilarious, and wild to watch you begin to communicate with the world around you.

Ten months, my sweet pea, and they couldn’t have gone any faster.  Just like that, in a few blinks of the proverbial eye, ten months have passed and November is stalking our front steps.  I went through your pictures the other day and already felt that sense of panic – trying to hold onto something that cannot be held – when I realized how quickly you are growing and how unstoppable that growth is and how it will continue.

You crawl faster and more confidently each day.  You are fascinated by the strings and laces of things – shoes, hoodies, pants, even the straps of your car seat and changing pad – and have a smile to light up New York City on a dreary day.  You love when your father puts you on his shoulders and you ride him like a bumpy horse.  When I snuggle with you, you squirm around to give me baby zerberts on my skin and even pinch my neck until I tell you to stop while you just laugh in my face.  Even your strength is out of this world.  When you grab your spoon while you are eating, I seriously have to muster more fight in me to get it from you.

To call you the light of my life, the love of my life, the best thing in my life would be failing to adequately capture how completely transformative your presence has been.  My life, from the moment I knew I was pregnant with you, to this very moment – writing this in the hour before I know you will wake to a new day – has been lit up from within.  The light in you illuminates the lives in this house and we, your dad and I, can only marvel at how you manage to hold so much love in your little body.

The ten months of your life have been the most graced of ours.

Love,

Mom

Natur(e)al Surprises

Published on by Lisa

I took this photo yesterday.

Driving around for a series of errands on a crisp and beautiful autumn day, I knew that it was a high chance of photographing simple but beautiful pieces of scenery purely by chance.  I was right.

I ended up at a donated farm turned research center for organic farming.  As beautiful as the farm was, I couldn’t help but marvel at how close this place was to my home.  Not any more than 20 minutes, maybe, and yet I felt I was in another world.  Not one car, not one living soul walking.

It’s always a beautiful thing to be taken aback by nature in the hidden spots in your hometown that still have some strange power to lure you in a new direction and surprise you with its secret beauty.

Have you ever found yourself in old but new territory?  A place that wasn’t on the map but surprised you with its offering?  Have you ever been pleasantly surprised at your hometown and what it can offer you?  Ever find an unknown spot in your community where peace and wisdom found?

Perhaps for today’s writing prompt you can think of a place in your hometown that still catches your breath when you see it.  Maybe you’ve never seen it before.  Maybe you’ve seen it a hundred times already.  But, is there a place close to where you live that sets your heart on fire?  A place that makes you feel you need to genuflect in its natural reverence?  Where is it and, more importantly, what did you find there?

The Blueberry Diaries

Published on by Lisa
Beautiful berries handpicked by my parents

I don’t know many people who refute blueberries. In some form of it – pie, smoothie, shake, tart, muffin, pancake, even beer – everyone finds their way to a blueberry or two.

The blueberry is an enormously healthy fruit. Research reports come back glowing about the blueberry: it can help sustain vision, clear out toxins, promote your immunity, keep your memory sharp, aid in both cancer and Alzheimer’s treatment, smooth out your digestive track, and give your brain a happy kick.

Blueberries. They sound life-saving, don’t they?

There are two blueberries in my life. One source is my deliciously irresistible vegan choco-blueberry smoothie. This smoothie simply makes me happy, is healthy to boot, and starts my mornings off with just enough of a full stomach to feel satisfied and also not too heavy that I feel sluggish. It gives me energy to carry my son up and down the stairs, change his diapers, feed him bottles and food, clean up his messes, watch him crawl, play with him on the couch, write, edit, launder clothes, and do the dishes before noon everyday.

The blueberry is my drug.

The other blueberry is Nick, my husband. And while I physically do not try to blend Nick in my smoothie or eat him for better health, he’s he kind of partner that is not only life-sustaining, but life-giving. He often clears my head, opens my heart, helps me remember what is important, and tries everything in his power to keep me healthy – mentally and physically. That means he tries to understand the writing, publishing, and blogging world even though he’s never written, published, or blogged one word in his life. It means watering the newly planted grass seed at 10pm at night because I didn’t remember to do so earlier that day. It means laughing with me right before I fall asleep doing impersonations of Stephen Colbert. Being my blueberry means sitting out on the front steps of our house to wait for the Super Harvest Moon and pointing out peach-colored autumn leaves on a feathering tree.

The blueberry people of your life are the ones who not only help you recover from whatever has ailed you, but help give you new life, new perspective.

In the aftermath of assault, most people try to be there for you and try to understand, but it will only be one or two people who stay. The one or two who admit they DON’T understand, but understanding is not a prerequisite for being there and listening.

Who’s been a blueberry in your life?

Cross posted at Dear Sister Anthology Blog

Free Write on writing vs. Writing

Published on by Lisa

Writing is as mysterious as health care providers who smoke, as ambiguous as Theology 101, as misunderstood as the role of the Vice President of the United States.

I took me years to identify as a Writer, mostly because the misleading definitions we have of Writers is so deeply in our brains at a young age that we can hardly fathom identifying as one when we come of age and choose our vocation.

The engendered stereotypes of writers and artists contribute to this. How many classic novels by women were reviewed in English Lit? How many women poets were as extensively researched as Shakespeare? How many historic figures were held up as icons in American History classes? Whose writings were preserved? Whose viewpoint of history is celebrated? Clue: not women. And certainly not women of color. If the education your receive discounts or completely ignores your ancestry, why would you think you have a place in history?

And so, along with engendered stereotypes that men’s writings are the REAL classics, there are a whole slew of cultural factors as well. Filipinos highly prioritize education. I went to a medical camp when I was 14 for goodness sakes, believing I was destined to become the next top surgeon. I even received a certificate at MedCamp: Lisa Factora, B.D. (Beginning Doctor).

And then I fell in love with law. Then psychology. Then theology. All the while telling myself that I need to become specialized before I write. I need credentials before I write. I need xyz before I write. I need to travel before I write. No one will read or listen to me without ________. Writers often have the worst cases of self-doubt. And it’s not (always) a bad thing. Sometimes that doubt serves us well. It makes me research more thoroughly to provide evidence to my points and it reminds me that all the greats of ANY genre or field or discipline experience trial. Doubt can push us to excel.

Sometimes that doubt can be crippling, though. Self doubt can drive us in circles, where we sit in the passenger seat, observing the same fear over and over again in different perspectives. Doubt can lead to pen paralysis and writer’s block. Without proper self- confrontation, a budding writer may freeze and and stunt their growth.

Writers come in all different shapes, sizes, colors, languages, and interest. Not too long ago, I met someone at a restaurant and he was completely thrown by the idea that I was editing an anthology about sexual trauma. He thought, like most people assume, that writers aim to be in Oprah’s Book Club, or on the Publisher’s Top 10 List, or see the New York Times review section glow with fascination of our project.

Sure that would be nice, but if the goal of writing is to turn a profit, it’s not Writing. It’s writing, small w. Writing with capital W is writing because you cannot imagine life without this avenue of expression and understanding that the gift of writing must be developed and nurtured according to your life circumstance. Writing (big W) is understanding that publishing is a business, quite similar to Hollywood. Books are marketed to consumers and the consumers are the ones with money. Publishers want to lay out the most pleasing and alluring topics for your entertainment. They must strike a perfect balance of humor, intrigue, thrill, wit, and smarts. In the end, the formula spells money for publisher and nice cut for the writer. So you can imagine whose queries and proposals are accepted. Usually not ones for the poor, lonely, or incarcerated. If you have a $20 in your wallet, press houses are thinking of your spending patterns, not your social morality.

The image of a white starving man, hunched in a corner, bereaved over his struggling novel fits only a small percentage of writers. The Writers I know are people with families, responsibilities, and financial demands that cut into our dreams of Writing full-time. But we manage. With children, other jobs, spouses, stress, and obligations, we manage.

Writers write because they cannot imagine a world otherwise without the sacred act of documenting their ideas and perceptions of the world around them. And leaving that sacred act to someone else is simply unthinkable.

Lies Uncovered

Published on by Lisa

When I was a kid, my mom told me that I would be able to sleep in when I was an adult. Childhood, then, became this drudgery where I could not wait for it to pass. Specifically, I’m talking about waking up in the morning. The rest was awesome.

Mornings became this breadcrumb game in which small pieces of yumminess were laid out for me and I followed, believing that when I reached my destination (adulthood), I’d finally get what I deserved: late mornings.

LIARS. Everyone.

Adulthood is even worse when it comes to waking up in the morning. When you’re a child and you dig deeper in your mattress, trying to hide from the world, at least you have an excuse. I’M A CHILD. But, as an adult, what are you supposed to do with a spouse who delightfully jumps in the shower to embrace a cool morning and an adorable 9 mo old who is trying to rip his crib open because he wants to be sung to? You can’t exactly dig yourself deeper in the mattress in those circumstances. Disheveled and disoriented, I wake up, with the same thought, “Why did my mother lie to me?”

Hear me now: Life is not a slumber party. It’s an alarm clock.

Other pieces of advice I bequeath to young whippersnappers after I have unfurled more lies…

throw out your college textbooks…really, you’ll never use them again.
throw out your grad school text books…no, REALLY, trust me, you will never use them again.
brand DOES matter when it comes to vacuums
polenta, pomegranate, merlot are all overrated
pruning, walking, stretching are underrated

Digital Writing Prompt for Dear Sister

Published on by Lisa

Dear Sister Anthology Writing Prompt from Lisa Factora-Borchers on Vimeo.

TRANSCRIPT
Many survivors already know this: that after you are raped, you are never the same person again. More specifically, someone has died and new person is born. And like a newborn, the new person must learn first how to survive and then eventually, live.

The five stages of grief is a psychological theory. It outlines and supposes five stages of emotional battle the can occurs in the aftermath of loss.

The first stage is denial.
Survivors may tell themselves it never happened. It wasn’t rape. The person who did this is my friend, my boyfriend, girlfriend, relative, lover, spouse, neighbor. It wasn’t rape.

The second stage is anger.
Survivors can live in a room full of anger, resentment, bitterness, self-blame and self-loathing for weeks, months, sometimes years. They have recognized what has happened and the emotions are often overwhelming.

Bargaining is the third stage.
Bargaining is giving ourselves false hope because we cannot deal with our reality. We look to recover what was lost or taken. We lost our sense of wholeness and cannot deal with our brokenness, so we jump into a relationship, alcohol, drugs, work, sex…believing that if we do something, we will get what we once had. Bargaining looks different for everyone, but regardless of what the behavior is, the hope is trying to get back what cannot be recovered.

Fourth stage is depression
Nearly every survivor will combat depression in some form. Disinterest in previously enjoyed activities, frequent crying spells, trouble sleeping, sleeping too much, changes in appetite. There are numerous symptoms of depression and most survivors will describe it in two words: dark numbness.

The fifth stage is acceptance.
Acceptance doesn’t mean that we’re happy or that we don’t revisit the other stages from time to time. Acceptance means acknowledging that something has lost and we are not the same person as before. A new way of living must be learned and while the road is long, a first step was taken.

As a survivor, do you remember a certain stage you may have experienced? Do you remember moving through that part of your life? What got you through? When did you turn the corner? Who helped you?

In your letter, remember that the survivor is in a raw place, perhaps not even certain of what just happened. Focus not on the darkness, but what brought you to the next place, on what acceptance looked like for you. What brought you into the light?

Mom, Don’t Worry

Published on by Lisa
My Favorite Pumpkin

He’s got four teeth coming in on top and the two furthest out are coming in faster than the others so it looks like he is growing fangs. Poor thing has had a rough week. Isaiah’s got a little edge to him these days with the change in temperatures, change in light, and his aching gums. He’s crawling faster and faster and starting to pull himself up on things, exploring the world that exists at 2ft above ground level.

Isaiah has been invited to his first party, too! This Sunday, his one of his best buddies, Rudy Purcell, is turning one. Rudy, also a hapa (aka, half Filipino) is about two months older than Isaiah and his parents are also Xavier alum. We predict that Isaiah and Rudy will probably go on a spring break trip together in their junior year. We want to get them matching shirts that read: SPRING BREAK ’32 BABY!

Nick just went through finals and I was told by my doctor I need to boost my Vitamin D intake. Vitamin D, also known as the sunshine Vitamin, is a hard thing to get adequate levels. I live in CLEVELAND where the sun pays a visit a few times a week, if we’re lucky. Today is the first day in, I swear, 10 days that I actually see color in the sky. The difference is breathtaking.

Isaiah is also going through these mini-hunger strikes, where he refuses to eat anything. Which sends my mother into a fret where she analyzes the pictures I send and they are emailed back to me with questions from my parents: WHY AREN’T YOU FEEDING MY GRANDSON?

Sometimes, I want to reply, “WAIT! I’m supposed to continue to feed him food once I’m done breastfeeding?! I TOTALLY FORGOT!”

Just kidding, Mom. While Isaiah has now been exclusively bottled for about a week or two, he’s just waaay more interested in the world 2ft above ground level than he is with eating. Such luxuries a 9 month old has.

So, I am sending this picture to the world so you can all see that he’s doing wonderfully and while he’s losing his cute round rolls, they are being replaced with twinkles in his eyes, full of curiosity and delight.

Update to Dear Sister Anthology

Published on by Lisa

The Dear Sister Anthology is gaining momentum faster than I could have anticipated.

Read: this is GREAT news.

So, I’m moving some things around so I can accommodate the contributors who need space to have their questions answered. This requires more than just a space on my website – it needs a blog of its own.

Voila! Say hello (or pay a visit) to the home for the Dear Sister Anthology: www.dearsisteranthology.wordpress.com

This will be home to updates and anything involving my work on this project. As this wonderful project unfolds, I pray that it finds its way into the hands of readers who need it most: survivors without support, family, friends, resources, or community.

This work is dedicated to all of the women, men, and children I have worked with who have been violated, beaten, raped, tortured, humiliated, robbed, burned, kidnapped, tricked, harassed, and neglected. It’s purpose is to give evidence to the transformation and hope that lies beyond the darkness. Dear Sister is a tangible piece of peace that tells the reader the one thing s/he most needs to hear:

My friend, you are not alone. Morning is coming.