I want nothing more than to go to bed.

It’s late.  I woke up nearly 24 hours ago in South Beach, Miami boarded a plane to Chicago, endured a 3 hr layover with NO FREE WIRELESS in O’Hare, flew to Dayton, found our car in the economy lot, drove to Russia, picked up my baby, drove home, put Isaiah to bed and made myself a late night snack while I checked in with my email and social media outlets from which I had been mostly away from for four days.

I want nothing more than to go to bed.

But I can’t.  I am worried that if I don’t write this now, I won’t feel it in the morning.  I’m scared that this clarity (in the form of advice I’m about to impart) will dissipate between now and dreamland and when I wake up, I’ll be all selfish with my time and make breakfast and say, “The world can do without my words.”

But right now, I know that I should pass on a little piece of goodness that I know with my whole tired body, mind, and soul: prioritize love.

Since Nick and I went on this little weekend getaway, small mirrors keep popping up in our faces, reflecting back at us what we look like as a married couple.  We had a gift: Time together, time away with no agenda that to simply BE with one another.  Talk, explore, try, eat, sit, laugh, muse, remember, and hold hands on a overcast day and sip drinks from a 7-11 corner store.  I couldn’t remember that last time that Nothingness could feel so precise and purposeful.

On our plane ride, we tried to think of the last time that he and I traveled together, alone, with no other purpose than to just be together.  Not for a wedding, family reunion, funeral, or friends’ gathering.  It had been years.  Many years.

I suppose that neither of us noticed how long it had been since it had just been us too because our life, our kid is so great.  Isaiah’s this amazing ball of wonder who makes us laugh and enjoy life.  But, like many parents know, your joy is filtered through the lens of your child.  A child IS the joy, can be the joy.  So much so that one parent can forget that joy can come from other areas of life, like a life partner, or spouse, or lover.  Joy is meant to be a multi-located entity.  A healthy parent, a healthy marriage must have a map of where joy can be found and it should have many X’s to mark that spot.  Isaiah is, by far, the largest, but on Nick’s map, I am a large X and on my map, Nick is just as large.

I had time to do and remember what I love when I’m with Nick: watch him.  Watching his face as he reads, listening to him choose his words carefully when retelling a story of what happened to him when he walked to the store while I lay on the beach, watching him read a menu and look around, a sign that he’s unsure of what he wants.  We had time to read and share passages aloud that resonated with us. We would put our heads close to talk about the four men a few feet from us who starting arguing politics, and we discussed who we agreed with and why.  We had our arms around each other, poking each other in the arms during a joke, smoothing our hands over the other’s arm, him putting his hand on the small of my back to lead me into a room, me resting my hand on the back of his neck when we hugged. — all these little moments felt like small bridges, building new ways to connect and be in love.

None of this was forecasted.  I just thought we would kick it and enjoy much needed down time.  I did not anticipate the energy erupted from just being together without our son crawling on us, crying for more crackers, asking us to dance with him, or making us break our gaze so to look at him.  I didn’t anticipate that because I didn’t realize something was missing.

Love is never a one time thing.  It’s not like you fall in love and then Poof! you maintain that depth, intimacy, and understanding everyday all day.  It fluctuates with life’s demands, children, and career.  But I think that many of us figure that in the absence of fighting, in the quiet busyness of making life work, marriage can be in maintenance mode and still be functional.  It CAN be, but unlike other relationships, your primary relationship deserves more than just maintenance mode.  We’re all changing, breathing creatures who adapt with time and experience.   We all need time to show we are becoming to the one we most cherish.  That takes time, space, and intentionality.

Being married should never be maintenance, but constant chiseling.  However, from time to time, the tools need to be put down to admire the work of art in one another.

The manuscript was ready.  The pieces were tightened, the writers were satisfied.  I was eager to move on.

The bones were solidified and the pitch – oh, the tedious and pain inflicted pitch – to select presses was finished.

And then two things happened.  1. I got feedback and 2. I had a feeling

My vision for Dear Sister was to offer the world a piece of literature of survivors to take on their journey.  And, metaphorically, when they reach one of the many summits of their hike they will be equipped to breathe; to have the knowledge, trust, and belief in themselves, their lives and community to fly again.

The anthology had a hole.  The hole was transformative justice.  The glaring hole that would not cease its relentless burning until I acknowledged that it was not finished after all and, incredibly, I had more work to do.

It was NOT back to drawing board.  It was more like, “I have to add another canvas to this work.”

The canvas is justice, and what it looks like outside the judicial system.  What does justice look like for those survivors who choose NOT to report, who do NOT find justice through the legal system that so often fails survivors of trauma?  What IS justice for those who previously thought incarceration for the perpetrator was the only way to feel free again?  What does sexual violence look like when you take a step back and see that processes and legality do NOT address healing?  What does it mean to say that justice IS and can be healing for all of us in community with one another?

Vision.  Justice.  Transformation.

This canvas is being painted with those ideas and so I am working with a handful of essayists who are drawing this out.  These voices are closing the anthology.

This book is not and would not be complete without transformative justice.  WE are not complete without it either.

Without transformation, without justice, where would our paths lead us to?

I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m going to be afraid my whole life. I don’t want to be.

It’s natural to be a afraid. It means you’re alive. If you’re not afraid, you’re in a blissful state of ignorance. That or you’re drunk.

pause

The only thing we have control over is what we have in front of us: today. All you can do is be fully, absolutely present to your day. I’m not saying not to save money or plan for the future, but you cannot have or enjoy those things if you are not present to your current self. Not the past. Not the future.

silence

What are you thinking?

No words really, just more of an image.

Ok.

I thought of a long row of lamps. I want to make sure the ones down the line are lit. Ideally I want all of them lit, but I’m obsessed with making sure the ones up there, the ones for later are going to be lit.

If the lamps are all connected, the only way for those lamps to be lit is if there is energy in your lamp today. And with your faulty wiring, you aren’t lighting up the lamp in front of you.

If I don’t light up the lamp in front of me…

…then there’s no light or energy to spill onto tomorrow’s lamp. Cause it’s sure not going to light itself.

A simple but key step to living a fulfilled life is accepting what we do and do not have control over.

My beliefs – religious and spiritual – lead a wandering, brooding soul like myself to acknowledge that we have control for a little less than half of what happens to us, but that 49% is critical to our overall well-being.

What we do have control over is our decisions, our process of reflection upon our lives which (usually) leads to a more fruitful existence, attitude, and choice. Some big, some small, but all of our choices make up the sand and clouds of our day. We just have to be aware that they are, in fact, choices, and not forced up us. It’s quite freeing if you adopt this mentality.

For instance, I last year I attended a conference on trauma stewardship. It was about how to practically care for oneself when being exposed to the everyday traumas of our lives: violence, suffering, abuse, war, famine, poverty, oppression.

For those who work in social services especially, one of the lessons that was emphasized was reminding oneself that your occupation is a choice. For many of us, those who are caretakers, or social workers, or counselors, or really anyone who works on the front lines of trauma, begin to feel like their work is growing a life of its own; as if no one else can do it, like s/he must do it alone and after a little while, you being to resent it. You begin to view it with pessimism. And thus begins secondary trauma.

We choose the work and life we live, not the other way around. And at any time, if you feel the negativity of the work warping your perspective, that life is nothing but one big lemon — it’s time to remember that just as we chose the work, we are able to walk away.

But is that true for writers?

I think I have tried to walk away from writing approximately 2837271 times. Each time unsuccessful. And the work of writing is isolating, sometimes staunchly so, and unceasingly divisive. In the world of writing, there is no mental multitasking. I cannot respond to anything else when writing, my brain is so absorbed by its thoughts.

I didn’t choose writing. It chose me. And, unfortunately, when I don’t do it, when I think of a life without it, I slip into a very dark hole that thinks life is one big lemon, that everyone else gets to do what they truly love, and I, given this yearning to jot down words, must balance a tray of work, family, and responsibility just so I can get a few hours here and there to do what I truly love.

For many writers, writing itself can be traumatic. Gloria Anzaldúa once wrote that she would occupy herself with every possible chore and task to avoid her writing desk. Once you sit down and commit, writers unleash the ghosts, goblins, and demons that most people silence in their heads. Writers activate them for truth-telling. Sometimes writing just ain’t pretty. The dark oils that spill from our keyboards and pens can turn bloody as memories and questions are resurrected for sharing with readers.

Perhaps that’s the difference between jobs and vocations. I’ve had a million jobs – server, golf caddy, admin coordinator, counselor, advocate, cashier, sales rep, camp leader – and I walked to and away from them for various reasons, but always knowing it was a choice. Writing has never felt like a choice. It was like a calling. A distant, over the mountains, faint echo of sirens calling. A lusty, obsessive call of the soul to communicate. In my world as a writer, the only choices I see are the ones to set up my life to make writing happen.

Perhaps it is the things that we do NOT have control over which become potential treasure maps. Weather, rude strangers, stop lights, sickness, family, childhood, body type, shoe size, allergies, others’ decisions. WIth or without our handprint, these winds of life blow in whatever direction they please.

You can be blown over by it. Or you can parasail.

I’m taking on a challenge of a free write. It feels rather risqué to do such a thing — free write, no edit, publish on internet. But, here goes.

The first thing I felt when I began writing was to make a list of all of the random things that pass through my head that never get processed. I often think about the million and one things that pass through the human brain that we immediately disregard as inappropriate or irrelevant, and they fade into the outer space of our noggins, never to be revisited or shared. I think have about a gazillion of those by 10am.

So, a sample list of unshared thoughts:

Morning
1st thoughts:
I love this new bedroom. So cozy.
I really need to start strengthening my back. Isaiah is getting so tall and heavy.
Should I work out?
Mhm, I better send that email for work.
I’m going to be on time today. Mhm. No, I’m going to TRY and be on time today. Critical difference.
I should do Yoga.
If I start wearing a robe, then I’m really old.
My knees crack like an old lady.
Is my doc appointment today or tomorrow?
Do I do enough with my privilege?
That’s a hellluvalot of snow.
I’m a capri girl and it’s a capri world.

2nd thoughts:
Is Cleveland really the best place for me?
Is Cleveland really the best place for me to raise a child?
I really hope Isaiah sleeps at least another hour.
I can’t believe I’m up before Nick. Such role reversal since we got married.
I don’t feel like cooking anything. The kitchen floor is so cold.
Mhm. Yes. Sending that work email right now.
Yay! Paget’s back! I feel more freedom already!

Midmorning thoughts:
I swear everyone else and their mom is off work today.
I’ll miss not working with Nick when he starts working for Deloitte in the fall.
Nick really loves those button down shirts with black pants.
Today is a great day even though it’s snowing like a mothereffer outside.
I really need to work on my presentation for Wednesday.
Catholic Social teaching? That’s like oxygen for my brain cells.
King Herod was a coward. Afraid of an infant?
I wish people paid attention to their faith. It’d make my job a lot easier.

Afternoon thoughts:
This barley should’ve cooked at least another 30 minutes.
Southern pound cake is crack. I want this whole loaf.
How does Fresca have sodium in it? It’s so sweet.
Working out is such a chore in January.
It’s so flipping cold. Cleveland is not the place for me or Isaiah.
How can I arrange my life so that I spend winters in warm climates? How do I do this without disrupting Isaiah’s education?
Things will be better once I have a really good run and get my endorphins pumping.
Soup is my medicine.

Late Afternoon Thoughts
TJ Maxx truly is a different store everyday.
This kid doesn’t know anything about furniture.
He’s really sweet, but a lovable idiot.
Not an idiot after all. he found the gadget to fold down my backseat.
HOORAY! The table fits in the car now. Should I tip him?

Early Evening Thoughts
I miss Isaiah.
Go back to sleep, child.
How the Buckeyes manage to lose so badly is a disgrace.
Why do I always end up with the poopy diaper?
Am I still a feminist the way I was last year? Or the year before?
How does one teach about sexuality without getting lambasted by conservatives in the catholic church?
I love black beans. Small tragedy Isaiah doesn’t like them anymore.
Nick is implementing all of his resolutions already. I like it.

Evening Thoughts
If I call Dad, it’ll be at least 30 minutes of my night talking about the latest kidnappings.
I miss Dad. Call anyway.
I can’t believe this butternut squash soup cooked the rice so well. YUM.
This must be terrible twos. If it’s not, I’m returning this kid.
I should write.
I should workout.
I just want to lay here on the couch with Nick and laugh with Isaiah for hours.
Life’s too short.
Just because I like “Baby, Baby” doesn’t mean I’m a Bieber fan. He’s like 12 years old.

Late evening THoughts
I don’t think old houses are my thing.
Efficiency is the trump card of life.
Why did I friend her? I’m not even sure she knows who I am.
This new Timeline thing on Facebook looks like a commitment of at least 2 hours.
I love having a child.
Do I want another child?
I think I’m still a child.
I love this damn mac so damn much.
I love Nick so damn much.
I think I have to live someplace warm. Maybe Northern California.
I don’t want to be a cliche, but coastal life is calling me.
New curtains. YES. But not frilly.
Why can’t computers just think for me and download what i need without asking me questions?

Now
Sleep sounds good, but I’m addicted to this mac.

I’m not sure when I stopped writing down quotes/
maybe when I realized
that
my words
my experiences of love
were just as worthy
as Shakespeare’s imagination,
or Barret Browning’s loving Thee-

when we believe our love is worthy
we rise to the expectation
and seek Love
that we were/are
created for:
Divine.

I’m writing this from my room of one’s own. It was the Christmas gift I asked for from Nick. I wanted a room in the house, completely mine. A room with light, with my chosen fixtures, with my clashing bright colors and unevenness throughout. I want to choose everything about it and in that room I will write, paint, draw, create, think, sleep, cry, be, wither, rejuvenate, ruminate, research. It’s mine. All are welcome in it, but it’s a space dedicated to me. The rest of the rooms in the house have their purposes, but this room. THIS ROOM is created out of need, out of love.

And Nick delivered.

Christmas eve he was working like a madman to switch the master bedroom with another small room which would be our room, and the master bedroom would be my Room. Room. Such a beautiful word.

It was hard work. We bundled Isaiah in a coat, gloves, and hat and asked him to play downstairs while we left the side door open and we walked in and out of the house, carrying furniture we decided to donate into the garage. In the cold December night, we sweated as we lifted and turned heavy pieces of shelves and desks on their sides. I cleaned. Nick moved all of our books to the basement until we decide what to do with the hundreds of books that used to be our library which is now the space for our mattress. I sneezed and dusted, swept and vacuumed. Isaiah proudly held the extra broom and ran around scattering my piles of dirt.

Some Christmas wishes don’t come true without hard work.

So after we attended Christmas eve mass we came home to exchange gifts. Nick sent me on a scavenger hunt throughout the house and, finally, upon my last clue which had me flustered and confused on the third floor, I came upon my gift. The GIFT. The gift that surpassed all other gifts he’s given me (minus a notebook full of love letters from 2001). It was rectangular and spectacularly enormous. I ripped the paper in one long thick strip and glimpsed the front cover. One word: iMac. iScreamed. Loud. Isaiah started bawling, probably thinking I was under attack from the huge box. iCried. And couldn’t stop.

Most people would raise their eyebrows at such a luxurious gift for such non fancy folks such as me and Nick, so let me elaborate on what went on in my mind.

More than anyone else in my life, Nick knows my dreams. As well as a person outside your own mind can understand your desires, Nick knows my dreams. He knows what excites me. And he knows that what makes most people happy doesn’t make me happy. It’s not that I’m hard to know, but there are such few things that I would truly cherish as much as a device that facilitates my creativity like a new speedy computer whose graphics and clarity bring out the beauty of my photography and helps immensely when processing batches of photos. More than that though, it was the first time I felt like someone broke inside my head, didn’t steal anything, and just looked. Like Nick studied all the different ideas I have for writing projects, he analyzed my frustration with not having space or time to devote to quiet. With a stethoscope, microscope, flashlight, and samples, he did investigative work on my heart. And I wasn’t wishing for a Mac. I was wishing for space.

He helped me create that space and then added an unexpected ornament in the center. An ornament that whispered, “I believe in you. Do this.”

That’s what made me cry.

In 1997 I attended a lecture my first year in college. It was on self-defense and how to be safe in college (mandated for all first year students) and the woman who lectured digressed into talking about her partner. I’ll never forget her words that rang in my then 18 year old ears, “If you find someone who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. Marry them.”

I didn’t like the advice. I thought, “I always believe in myself. I don’t need others to believe in me before I believe in myself.”

Now 32 years old, with a 2 year old son, balancing life on a tight rope it seems at times, I strive to wonder what the hell I was thinking. Who in the world thinks s/he is exempt from self-doubt? Who DOESN’T need a someone in their life who looks you in the eye and believes in everything inside of you? Who, except a naive fool, thinks they can get through life holding onto their dreams and make them happen alone?

When we allow ourselves to speak our dreams, we will find a listener. Perhaps it won’t be a crowd. Maybe you don’t even get two. But you will find one. One person is all it takes to be heard and when that one person listens closely, like you have the only voice in the world, it can be a magical experience all on its own. All year we come down on ourselves with failures and disappointments, and the world seems all to eager to remind you that dreams are only for the few and wealthy.

Dreams belong to us all and when folded with love, a gesture, a Gift, can make us feel like dreams are possible; like anything is possible.

It wasn’t the screen or wireless gadgets that came in that huge box. It was imagining Nick lying next to me, listening to my endless lists of almosts, shoulds, and maybes and him thinking, “Let’s do this.”

And now, I sit here, in a newly cleaned and organized Room of my own. In a space that looks, smells, feels like it came straight out of my soul, I cannot help but sit here on January 1, 2012 and believe, not just in dreams, but in myself.

Merry, Happy, Ecstatic New Year, my love. Thank you.

Since 1999, I stopped doing new years resolutions and introduced themes. They’re much easier and manageable, not to mention realistic, as I strive to grow into the human person I want envision myself to be.

Boom, Onward and Upward, Phenomenal, Spectacular Spectacular, Faithful are just a few of the themes I incorporated into my life. 2011 was a bit different. I chose, “The Year that I…” and let my actions define the theme to see what emerged out of my life. Truthfully, I was a bit disappointed with myself because the year wasn’t as defined as I would have liked. There wasn’t one particular milestone that stood out, which leads my sometimes Type A self to come own unnecessarily harsh and lambaste the past 365 days.

And then I take a closer look.

This was the year I watched my sisters get married.
This was the year of watching 4 of the closest women in my life get married, one of the including my own sister. The other three – Tricia, Amanda, and Claire – are the dearest friends of mine from different parts of my life. Tricia, my best friend from 11 years old. Claire, one of my closest friends out of college with whom I’ve shared incredibly powerful traveling trips. Amanda, my best friend from graduate school. And then my very own sister, Carmen, who shares the same blood as I. My sisters, in every sense of the word, got married in 2011. These four weddings alone – Canton, Ohio; Louisville, Kentucky; Madison, Wisconsin; and Honolulu, Hawaii – defined an emotionally powerful era in my life.

This was the year I edited my first book.
The Dear Sister Anthology is a work that will define my life and I have spent the better part of 2011 in the depths of rape and sexual violence. Reading, rereading, editing, and working with over 40 writers and artists to refine their trauma into a letter, poem, or essay changed me this year. It confirmed my identity as an activist for which I have defined as actively participating in the world to witness or cause a transformative, societal, or cosmic disruption which contributes to the evolution of the human species toward a more loving and just existence. Working to end gendered and sexual violence has taken me in 2011 to present at the Civil Liberties and Public Policy Conference and further engage other activists and students with the voices of survivors who have and will continue to light their own path of healing. Dear Sister, I promise you, will be published/available/distributed in 2012.

This was the year I shifted within make/shift.
Since November of 2007, I began editing with make/shift magazine, the leading independent feminist voice in the world (in my not so humble opinion). How make/shift unhooks itself from mainstream and kyriarchal practices of editing and publishing has clearly defined my path as both an editor for Dear Sister and a writer. Making the transition from front of books editor to contributor and supporter has been difficult. How does one walk away from a consistent source of inspiration? Well, you measure priorities and then you wake up to the opportunities the seed themselves along the new soil that the hard decision cultivated. My son, my partner, my writing, Dear Sister, and my work as a minister called me to reevaluate my role within the magazine. And true to form, Jess Hoffman, my life “editor” (one who builds relationship and brings out your personal best) embraced my process and welcomed my shift. It was so Jess, so make/shift.

This was the year I created and hosted my first retreat, Abundance, in my own home.
Three of the most respected writers and activists on the planet traveled from Michigan, North Carolina, and New Mexico to spend a weekend of reflecting, connecting, and loving each other. Connected by passion, words, humor, dancing, and food, we strengthened a bond based on abundance, a theory/perspective springing from the ideology there is more than enough in this world and we need not fear or hoard or dismiss ourselves in the practicing and living out of that belief.

This was the year I ran my first road race.

This was the year Facebook started seeing less of me.

This was the year that I let the pristine and saintly illusion of motherhood permanently die. My responsibilities and blessings of family led me to drop the towel covering the naked, vulnerable, and defensive part of me and let the world know who I am: an amorphous vegan, a sensitive mother, a hot mess of a life partner, a patient of a mental health counselor, by day – a sure footed minister, by night – a less certain writer. I began being less afraid to tell the truth because the truth was so obvious it seemed almost ridiculous to keep any kind of farce in my life. This was the year of recognizing two options and choosing the latter: pretending I’m super woman or asking for help. I hired individuals to help care for Isaiah, my home, and accepted that co-parenting means Isaiah has equal bonds with mother and father. (That can be hard when you’re raised to believe mothers are the heart of the family and allowing TWO hearts to pulse for your family.) All of this and more meant laying my Martyrdom Mom identity in a casket. I want to live my life for my son, not give it to him with resentment.

I learned from 2011 that the more you say NO, the more my YES’s mean. Relationships, projects, money, even goals themselves increase in the quality of attention paid to them when I flip my turning signal on less frequently and drive further down the main artery of my life. Which leads me to my 2012 theme: Simplify.

2012 is the year that will grow two facets of my core identity: writing and health. Last year took a lot out of me. I was there for so much for others that I didn’t give myself the time I personally needed, which includes rest and nothingness. The only things I am saying yes to in 2012 are activities and demands which directly feed either my writing or health. Specifically, I will say no if it doesn’t help me publish or distribute Dear Sister and/or write my memoir, or help me train for a triathlon. This means saying No to photography gigs that would make me more money. This means saying Yes to organizing and redecorating my office so I have more motivation and clarity to read. This means saying No to superfluous activities which I enjoy so I have ample time to dedicate what I most hunger: creativity and balance.

2012: Simplify means stripping down the excess of my life so all that is left in December 2012 are two towers of gleaming accomplishment: my internal and external work of art.