Walking/running/climbing on his own.
Drinking out of a cup.
Trying to put on his own shoes.
On his last doc appointment, he was in the 90th percentile for height.
Independent, tall, and proud. My little prince.
Liberation Practices: Take Notice of What’s Growing
There are these “back up” moments I often have when out in public with Isaiah. I’ll be busy loading groceries on the conveyor belt, or picking up my keys that he threw on the playground steps, and when I get my composure, I see that he is busy charming the pants off of the closest person around. The phrase “doll-baby” has been thrown around, along with “well-behaved” and “angelic.” Someone yesterday even commented to me that she thinks Isaiah has a philosophical look about him.
I forget these things. I sometimes forget to study this little man in front of me. My mind is often bursting at the seams with trying to remember this and that, I forget that he is really one of the most well-behaved little persons I know. I forget to study him sometimes.
Since I see him everyday, it’s hard for me to take notice of how he is constantly growing. Little by little, inch my inch, he moves along in his development all on his own. In the blink of an eye, he started counting (I prompt, “one” and he says, “TWWWWOOOO”) and his gazes are much more knowing and confidant. My baby is growing.
Sometimes we are so caught up in making our lives work, we forget to notice how much is growing around us. And when I do take notice and take that few extra seconds to notice how much Nick has grown, how Isaiah has developed, how I have changed, I am overcome by a tsunami of gratitude.
Notice. Be grateful.
Word by Word: Editing as an Act of Love
Allied Media Conference Workshop: Editing as an Act of Love from Lisa Factora-Borchers on Vimeo.
This weekend is the almighty Allied Media Conference – a completely awesome gathering of activists, writers, media makers, shape-shifters, publishers, Troublemakers, and movement builders in Detroit! I went a few years back and try to make it every year. Only significant conflicts warrant an AMC absence.
This weekend, one of my dearest friends is getting married. So, that’s the signficant conflict.
However, I am sending my spirit along to Detroit for the weekend. I have submitted a video I made for a workshop entitled, “Editing as an Act of Love” which will be a radical collaborative effort between myself and wonderful workers of love who put their heart on the page and edit with principles that build community, affirm voice, and uplift the work of marginalized or silenced. In my case, I based this video on my ongoing editing with Dear Sister, my anthology of letters and art, created by survivors of sexual violence for other survivors.
Editing has been a learning experience. It’s an honor and grace to read the words of survivors who have been through unfathomable violation and witness (read) their personal resurrections.
This is the video that will be shown at the conference this weekend. But fear not: for those of you who view the vid, but do not engage in any editing work, the same principles apply to personal relationship 
Liberation Living: A Kind Farewell to Bad Habits and the Feminist Blogosphere
When am I NOT in the process of a make-over?
I’m obsessed with make-overs, and reinventing myself, and self-improvement, and life goals, and not just living better, but actually BEING better at life. Life, in my righteous humble opinion is not about a sensible, chronological gathering of pertinent experiences to get us to a convenient and comfy position in our lives. Life, as I have sensed it, is and can be a linear progression of growths and challenges where we get to incorporate an ongoing understanding of ourselves and our impact on others (and the world) as we age.
I decided to make some significant changes in my life and to document those changes here.
I began My Ecdysis to document the feathering and fraying pieces of my identity, to honor and laugh at the things that pound through my life, however lasting or temporary, and share them with the world from my tiny corner of the universe. Over the past two years, I have mentally and emotionally struggled to truly define my life, post partum: what it means to be a working mother; what it means to be a constantly vigilant foodie concerned with health issues and high blood pressure, type II diabetes, cancer, and heart disease; what it means to co-build a uniquely loving and egalitarian marriage; what it means to be a Filipina American in the midwest; what it means to be a writer, a photographer, a digital and painting artist; what it means to forever battle healthy choices in food, drink, and general consumerism.
These things matter to me. They truly matter in my daily course of existing, creating, and evolving.
Interwoven through all of that is my deepening and changing relationship to Catholicism, feminism, veganism and/or plant-based nutrition, yoga, prayer, and – for lack of a better description – the intuition restlessness to always do the right and loving thing.
For the past few years, I’ve written about my struggle with the world, the struggle to be a catholic feminist, the struggle to swim against the tide as an editor and activist. And, quite frankly, I grew tiresome when it came to describing just the struggle.
It finally dawned on me (again) that life (as I know it) is only as sustainable as our spirits allow it to be and what feeds my spirit is what will, ultimately, feed my life.
Translation: I want to write about what I love most. I want to write about the details of life that pronounce our freedom and community, rather than the pieces that hold us back from being ourselves. Perhaps that struggle wasn’t prominent in the last two years of writing, but the brevity of my posts, the general sweeps and mysteriously shallow depth of them covered my personal struggle with what to write about. I want to let go of the hundred things I think are important to write about and focus on the two or three things that I absolutely MUST write about. In other words, I want to focus on what moves my life forward, not what holds me back.
As Nick once told me, “I’m not looking for a good life, I’m looking for a great life.” The line between the two, I’ve found, can be just as subtle as it is significant. Focus on the necessary, choose the great, let go of lukewarm, mediocre, so-so, and alright. And so, here I am, trying to choose the great. This is what I’ve come up with.
- I’ve outgrown the (capital F) feminist blogosphere. After six years, I’m politely done with it. As I’ve said before, “The feminist blogosphere is like earth day: recycling the same shit over and over again.”
- I’m into LIVING. As in, “how to.” As in, “quit your bitching and do something.” As in, “laughing is good.” As in, “Did anyone else notice that?”
- Showing what I’ve done. Dusting off my camera and providing colorful illustrations is part of my liberatory practices
- Getting back to the basics. Eating whole foods (limiting processed food and sugar), drinking water (soda like alcohol = special occassions), praying (spending time with Quiet and innermost thoughts), honesty (both in relationships AND self), simplicity (claiming what is most desirous), returning phone calls (keeping connections), being on time (the war on procrastination), and renewal (being unafraid).
Hence the new masthead above. “Daily scopes of liberation” (with resistance scratched out) is my decision to live better and share it with those who are also trying to do similarly in their lives. Often times, it’s the small things that elevate ourselves to a higher prescription of living, and we all need reminders of how we can do that. I’ll still write about resistance, because it IS essential to understanding liberation, but my plan is for things to be a lot more concrete, positive, breathable, and liveable.
Daily practices in liberation living. Sound good?
I hope you join me.
In Defense of Psychotherapy: The Difference Between Talky and Constructive Conversation
When I studied Counseling Psychology, one of the most frequent topics of discussion was how to get over that initial hump: getting society to understand that therapy is a GOOD thing and not just for “the crazies” of the world.
Still, I come across the stigma. When you hear that someone is in therapy, it’s as if you can see a small glimpse of their soul and – gasp! – there’s a really difficult issue the person is struggling through. Welcome to life, I say, home to frequently unsolvable problems and deep pain that requires coping skills that may need to be learned through relationships and community.
What’s ironic about the stigma of therapy is that it’s something only REALLY disturbed people do — like people who are fascinated by fire and like to play with matches a little too much, or addicts, or folks who struggle with OCD, or bereavement, or grief/loss, severe forms of bipolar or schizophrenia, or other mental disorders that general society tries to keep in a closet away from us “normal” folk.
Here’s the kicker: there’s no normal. There’s only a continuum of mental wellness and we all are planted somewhere along the spectrum. And we also shift. ‘Cause last time I checked, life is a moving, breathable thing that moves us from one place to another with different experiences, responsibilities, and realities. We’re never the same for too long. Hence, our abilities to cope and find our way through fluctuate with what we’re dealing with. That’s assuming, of course, you are trying to deal. There’s also a segment of the population, *cough* (men), who are socialized to NOT feel, not cry, and smooth out feelings even before they have prickled to the surface our conscious or heart. We all go through times of intense joy and dark sadness. We all move through days, weeks, and sometimes months of overwhelming feelings which are confusing and leave us restless, or unlike our normal selves.
I’m trying to normalize the path for those who think therapy is for “those” people over there. The crazies.
This little illustration may help…
When I was learning the difference between clinical psychology and counseling psychology, I was lost. I didn’t know which one was for me. Clinical psych, in my own words, is for severe cases of mental illness. I’d work with individuals whose lives were interrupted and limited by their illness. Counseling psych took a more holistic view of issues that occur throughout one’s lifespan. That’s a super general way to put it, and there’s a lot more than that, but that’s it in a nutshell.
I’ve been in and out of therapy since 2001 — once I left college and was proverbially on my own. I was navigating uncertain waters of an unconventional relationship and as newly minted college student, tackling severe cases of trauma as a sexual assault advocate. It was through exposure to my clients that I slowly began taking on more of their pain than I should have and the lines between advocate and friend were blurring. A co-worker suggested for me to talk it out. “Talk about what? I’m affected by my work — does that warrant a therapist?”
No.
But the feelings I carried inside me after I met with clients – unresolved anger from closed cases from lack of evidence, chronic helplessness when I worked with abused children – caught up with me until I started looking at every stranger and wondered if s/he was a pedophile, or a sick, twisted lunatic with dark, unconfessable secrets.
Now THAT warrants a therapist.
It was soon after meeting with Bob, a hippy looking kind of guy with a doctorate in social work, that I realized it wasn’t about talking. It wasn’t the chit chat model that I thought it was going to be. It was structured analysis of feelings and behavior through verbal disclosures that started giving me my sense of peace again. I began believing that it was normal and ok for me to take in pain that wasn’t mine, but I must find ways to flush out the toxic and be healthy, be free.
It didn’t come right away. But I came a little closer each week I sat down in front of that massive fish tank and stared at Bob’s beard. He normalized my feelings and affirmed my humanity. Excellent therapist, to say the least.
Even after studying counseling psychology, working in a hospital, doing crisis work, running groups, and conducting and receiving therapy, I still hesitate to disclose that I’ve been in therapy. I’m not ashamed of it – quite the contrary! – but there’s so much stigma, still, attached to the idea of old school therapy that I don’t feel comfortable sharing the latest brilliant insight I had with Counselor_________ .
My therapist friends understand it best. We laugh all the time and talk about our former or current therapist as everyday characters in our lives, like we talk about our partners and family members. “Well, Diane, reminded me that it might be too soon to think about moving in with Dave. I mean, I don’t want to make the same mistakes again..”
And I can’t help but think how amazing that is — how wonderful the world would be and how healthier we ALL would be if people chose to enter into relationships with the objective of reframing their negativity into something constructive and purposeful, evaluating the progress and meaning of their lives and vocations, and strategized ways to deepen their connection to self, God (or whatever one believes in)…and family.
There’s a whole lot of cultural boundaries as well and, believe me, I know firsthand how quick someone is to say, “For WHAT?!” when you share you go to therapy.
What most people don’t know is that their lives, thoughts, and choices can be done with much more freedom and intention when their self-awareness is tightened by the spindle of reflective therapy.
In this world of same old, same old, who DOESN’T need a new way to think and re-invent themselves?
Obama and Cleveland: A City that Needs Hope
Regardless of political affiliation, you gotta admit this is a cool pic.
I snapped it over the weekend as Nick and I were driving. As usual, I squealed when I saw a completely inopportune photo opp and ask Nick to pull over. Of course, it’s a regular road with moving traffic, but does that stop my loving hubs from pulling over? Of course not. THIS IS REAL DEVOTION.
As much as I love this photo, I do hope and pray that Cleveland – like many other cities in economic and employment despair – realize that the action and progress must come for the residents of the region, not our president.
It doesn’t matter who’s in the White House. Real change only comes from the bottom up.
A Time to Love
It’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t know you. A time where I never looked at you and smiled either with my face or with my soul.
Even when we first met, the first thing I noticed about you was your gentleness. Even in the way you listened, the way you hung your head and didn’t look at me. Without knowing you at that time, I still knew you were listening to me deeply. It said a lot about you to listen to someone you barely knew with such sincerity.
The years we spent at Xavier were years of their own. Those days when we laughed so hard that life seemed to be perfect just as it was. Perfection was a day we took a walk around Eden Park and talked about our hopes and dreams. I don’t think either of us ever really thought that our hopes and dreams would eventually merge into one path.
Those years of inner struggle, when neither of us knew what we wanted to do with our lives are now times we can look back with admiration instead of pain. I think we’ve reached that point in our lives where we can be proud you were in seminary, discerning your vocation, and I can be proud of the places I went, the work I did, the people I tried to learn more about. Both of us, without really knowing, were really looking for ourselves. And I’m proud that we both had the strength to step away from each other and live out our questions before we realized that our answers were laying in one another.
You flew to Boston every month for nearly a year and then moved there when you sensed I was growing tiresome of a long distance relationship. You hate fashion and worked at the Gap. You had your masters in theology and applied to work as English speaking tutor to kids from Japan and Spain. You took other people’s shifts to help out even if it meant spending 4th of July a part. You helped me move and always took the big boxes. When we talked on the phone, you hid your frustration when I called from a loud bar and screamed, “HOW’S EVERYTHING GOING FOR YOU?” When we sat at Summit Park, overlooking Boston, we talked seriously for the first time about getting married and spending our lives together, but it kept being interrupted by the bean burrito gas episodes … we couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of constant farting through the most profound conversation of our lives.
You never wanted anything but for me to be happy. You never want anything now but for me and Isaiah to be happy.
I watch you now, stealing glimpses when you’re not looking, perpetually amazed at how pure your heart is, how good you are to so many people, and how unassuming you of every living person. You give everyone – from Obama to your family to rude teens to bad drivers to homeless people on the street – the same treatment: you assume the best in all of them, in all of us.
You may not be perfect, but you’re close to it in my eyes. Our life together often resembles the best case scenario of how love should go and I am moved beyond words each day I see you working so hard to create a life of goodness, creativity, and meaning for us. There is no better man in my life, no better person.
Six years of marriage is nothing compared to the lifetime of love we have already exchanged. And I am so excited to see what more we build together, what Isaiah will bring, how and what we’ll all learn from one another. You have made me a better person, a better woman. Your insights have made me pause, your quips make me chuckle, and your honesty has moved me to a higher place of understanding.
We will always grow together, my love, and the stem that flowers us both is stronger than ever.
Lisa
File Under, Please Tell Me You’re Joking
Out of nowhere it’s 91 degrees. The plastic that we kept on the windows to keep the heat in and then then pollen out had to come down.
The air was stifling.
And so we put in the AC units. Well, UNIT. That was installed in the little Prince’s room.
Nick and I had to order ours from Home Depot online. And then they called today to confirm the delivery on June 2nd, only they said JUNE 9th.
And then my sweat turned into a waterfall.
Nick said, “Well that’s annoying.”
And I said, as sweat poured down my face from standing completely still, “Please tell me you’re joking.”
No. He’s not joking.
Tears. The tears.
PSA: There is No Such Thing as a “Normal” Child
I get that most books and info centers just want to help. I get it. I get that most parents truly do worry their lives away about whether the foods they’re feeding their kids are right, about whether the car seat will protect them in side collision, and whether their speech and mobility coordination is on task or below average. I get that most information and data is used for two purposes: to comfort or to instill fear.
In my email inbox, I am flooded – on a regular basis – by emails from baby centers, parenting magazine, and mother-centered orgs. And I noticed that they usually put a question in the very beginning of that email, either the first line of the email or in the subject header.
“IS YOUR TODDLER EATING RIGHT?”
“IS YOUR CHILD SHOWING SIGNS OF FILL-IN-THE-BLANK-WITH-SOMETHING-THAT-IS-INCURABLE?”
“WHY WON’T JOHNNY PLAY WITH OTHER KIDS?”
And here’s my own question: Have you young parents ever noticed how most “help” books/emails/brochures engage readers by playing on your natural fears as a parent? In your desire for a “normal” child? (So to reassure yourself that you are a “normal” parent?”)
Well, I’ve noticed it and it’s starting to get to me.
Being a parent means living in the forest of worry. I worry. All the time. I worry about Isaiah’s future. I worry that he won’t have friends. I worry he’ll develop some kind of mental or learning disability. I worry he’ll accidentally ingest a peanut and not have anyone around to help him or know what to do.
I’m his mother, of course I worry.
But there’s a line between worry and fear. And I’m giving up the “fear” part. I decided this yesterday when Isaiah laughed for about an hour straight. Since the weather has decided that spring is allowed in Cleveland, Isaiah has spent much of his time outdoors, in the grass, absorbing sun and Vitamin D — and the smallest little things (squirrels, feathers, DOGGIES!, blowing leaves, bark, whistling grass, and peaceful neighbors) make his giddy with giggling.
I looked at him and thought, “I think I’m doing alright if he’s this joyful.”
Isaiah is enjoying life, every little inch of it. And I decided to be the kind of mother that enjoyed it right along with him. One of the first steps is knowing that there is no “normal” parent and no “normal” child. We hope and pray that we, Nick and I, continue to find and develop ourselves as adults and that Isaiah does the same at each stage of his life. The worry is inevitable, but the fear is not.
Letting go of the fear never felt so nice.
Why “Acquittal” is the Go-To Decision in Rape Trials
Two New York City Police Officers Acquitted of Rape
There’s not a whole lot to say when cases like grab the nation’s attention. A drunken woman. Two men. A jury that said is was certainly possible that a rape had occurred, but there just wasn’t enough evidence to prove it.
Whether in the courtrooms of Manhattan, or in the shadows of Grays Harbor, Washington, or in the college towns of Miami University or Boston College — all places I have lived and worked — the same story is told. Of the women who are raped, a fraction goes to trial, and a fraction of those actually come out on the side of the survivor. Often so many result in acquittal – why?
I asked this of a prosecutor several years ago who told me that juries often represent the heart of America, they represent the conscious and mind of the middle of America. The middle of America, he said, don’t understand rape, trauma, consent, and the physiology of memory. So as long as the average American believes that no rape occurred unless there’s DNA and the story has every hole covered, and the woman is a sober virgin, who’s likely white; and the perpetrator is non white, and it happened at night, with violence that left bruises and blood. And the survivor had a rape kit done immediately which was properly processed. And she has adequate legal representation.
Acquitting rapists is not just an American trend, it’s a global trend.
There’s no real way to talk or link up to every. single. case that went in favor of the defense – cases where survivors needed emergency medical attention because they were bleeding so profusely from their attack, cases where survivors had eye witnesses – for reasons that remain mysterious.
I just think back to the words of that prosecutor who compared juries to the common citizen.
If you are middle America – what does it take to convince you a rape has occurred?
Think about it. And then talk to someone who feels comfortable in sharing their story of assault. See how your perceptions measure to their reality.
Think about it.