2010 State of the Self Address

Published on by Lisa Category: State of the Self Address

Four years ago I began delivering the “State of the Self;” a reflection on the past year of life which is always given the evening of my birthday. This is my 2010 State of the Self.

February 27, 1979 is the day I stopped breathing someone else’s air and began breathing on my own. It was not by choice. The woman’s body is built only to support another life for so long before the placenta begins to thin, before the protective and nourishing sac of life begins to deteriorate. It’s like our birthday is our first eviction and the landlord is out mother’s body.

A birth. A day.

I spare no indulgence on the 27th of February and, previous to this year, birthdays always meant my customary helium balloon, sheet cake with vanilla satin icing, and a long list of “must to do” things that include morning mimosas, naps, writing, dreaming, and sniffing around closets and car trunks for my hidden gifts. For the record, I never pretend to be more than a child on my birthday, save the mimosas.

But this birthday is different. This is my first birthday as a mother. This is the first birthday in which the word “birth” and “day” have extracted themselves from streamers and sweets and grew into profound meaning. “Birth,” as in, a son, my firstborn. Day has grown to be more than the frame of 24 hours. “Day” is now gift.

Last year, my State of the Self focused on my identity as a writer. My pen itself nearly throbbed with pain as I described the challenges of creative writing. Now, I worry less about identity as a writer and more about truthfulness. Being truthful with Isaiah may very well be the most challenging task of my life.

And one truth I am going to share with my son is to take moments for himself. Or as I like to put it: Breathe in the awesome. I never understood those who hated their birthday. I suppose it can be viewed as a self-important concept, but the celebration of life, of my own life has always superceded any other reason to deny the day. Those who dread their birthday often do so because of a number – age. Or it reminds them of death.

Birth, for me, evokes the boundless beginning of life.

But if birthdays aren’t your cup of tea, I hope and pray that you do find a day, a time to rejoice in your own life in the very miracle of your existence. Because if we can’t find a reason or an hour to relish in our blessings, to be authentically and radically grateful for our friends, family, lovers, gifts, talents, experiences, insights, and lessons – I don’t know if we’re truly seeing ourselves – or life – clearly enough.

Thirty-one years is more than enough reason for cake and drinks. And after birthing my son, I know that thirty-one seconds alone is more than enough reason for celebration. The paradox of birth – its fragility and its power – must, begs, needs to be recognized. And celebrated. Isaiah has taught me that.

So, my state at 31 is one of utter grace. Grace of understanding. Grace of frustration. Grace of holy parenting and emotion. It is a period of firsts and failures and finding that my life can hold so much more than I ever thought possible. That realization also came with the responsibility that I myself am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

It is my birthday wish that everyone – at some point in their life – births new life and it need not be a child. A revolution, a concept, relationship, invention, methodology, habit or path that inducts an enhanced thought-process, a better more gentle way of loving and being in the world.

Because if we all took a moment to birth and rejoice in our own birthing, the state of grace would no longer be a temporary lingering, but an everlasting positioning of soul.

Isaiah and Love

Published on by Lisa Category: Isaiah, Marriage and Weddings, Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, This is Us

I am listening to Isaiah gulp down his milk.

He is in the other room with Nick. The strains of the television are loud, but they still cannot drown out the long sighs and squirms and squeaks of our little one. As I write this, though I cannot see him, I know he is draining his bottle, staring at the intricate patterns of the ceiling, and kicking his legs into the air.

Isaiah is 9 weeks old. Nick and I can scarcely believe it. I cannot imagine the level of disbelief I will be in when he is 9 months, 9 years or 19 years old. Those days will come, but for now, I just watch and observe my big little guy, chasing the winter blues away – which are so common for Clevelanders – with his rainbow wide smile and fat rolls on his wrists and ankles.

My father recently commented that from the photos I have taken of him, it’s obvious that Isaiah is the love of my life. And I couldn’t agree more. He’s the love of OUR lives – Nick and mine. Every little thing he does evokes a reaction from us that reminds me how I was when I was falling in love with Nick. All the tiny details of your beloved’s existence seem to burn into your memory. Nothing seems as interesting or intriguing as what is happening in their world. Life seems more exciting when you know you are going to see this person and when you see their smile…ahhhh, it’s like the world was just reborn, everything’s new and beautiful again.

Isaiah has moved the furniture in our hearts and has promptly and decidedly plopped his round little bottom into the middle of it. He takes up every inch we have of energy and attention, laughter and frustration, sleep and concern. This is the transition of parenthood, I assume. You begin to learn to live outside yourself. Love of self still continues, obviously (and necessarily), but the center of well-being shifts. It’s no longer contained in my life, it exists in this chubby 22 inch body who cannot do anything but need, cry, and wiggle. And somehow, incredibly, this person also delivers immeasurable joy.

Sweet Isaiah, these 9 weeks have been life-changing. Your father and I will never be able to adequately explain how nuts we are about you. I hope you know that you have introduced us to a new and deeper kind of love that we never knew before. Not only have you brought this love out of us for you, but it has also further deepened our love for one another.

The Artist’s Way

Published on by Lisa Category: Fear Shmear, Feminism, the Writing process, Writer's Wounds

Some weeks ago (my memory is really bad since pregnancy), my dear friend and much respected writer, BFP, wrote something along the lines of saying that she was less interested in “activism” and more interested in the lives and journeys of artists.

That struck me. For numerous reasons.

The first thing that struck me is thinking about my blogging life. When I first began blogging four years ago (yikes! has it been that long?), I remember wanting my “writing” to FIT into the feminist blogosphere. I read many blogs then, wanting to understand what was important to the “Feminist Community,” and, truthfully, always struggled in that genre.

I struggled because writing is, essentially, an extension of one’s self. What interests me is what I will write most intimately about, what I love is what will illuminate the page (or screen) with my words. Making my writing fit is like trimming my own self, trying to make ME fit.

What I was always interested in were topics like God. Addressing sexual and gender violence in our everyday relationships through deconstruction and critical questions of gender norming. Family. Humor. And love. Always love. These were my interests.

I didn’t know it then, but my writing came and continues to flow from a very deep, supremely sensitive place where I process my memory, my life experiences. Of course, current events and news are always interesting, but the writing I connect with is the writing that comes from LIFE, my life. And I’m always interested in how others live or lived their lives.

How did Gloria Anzaldua live with diabetes? How did my mother live through immigrating to this country on her own? How did my cousins live through the passing of both their parents? How did my 8th grade science teacher feel when she decided to get teeth braces at the age of 48? What is it like for young women of color writers in the US?

These were my questions, they weren’t “feminist,” I suppose, but they came from a very real place that questioned the systematic punishment and guardrails around women.

Feminism exists for all of us to live richer, deeper, more fulfilling lives. Feminism exists for us to question what we want to question and to live as we want to live. The lives of artists, the lives of those who create are lives that are often imbued with resistance; they live counter-culturally. Artists, the souls who create something out of nothing, those who build from ill-fitting pieces possess a strength that reveals itself in their life choices.

I no longer worry about whether I or my writing fits. Rather, I focus on whether or not I am truthful, committed to creation and relationship, and love. Always love.

Gluttony, Maybe

Published on by Lisa Category: Faith, Isaiah, Notes From Home Plate

So, the little Gerber Face received ashes today. I mean, THANK GOD, because it’s been a little over 3 weeks since his baptism and he really needed to be straightened out before things got too out of hand. You saw his Valentine’s Day picture, right? Flipping the camera off like he’s a deranged teenager already? My sweet boy is getting a little too edgy for me. So, hopefully the ashes will set him straight. “Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel,” are mighty good words to live by.

But what sin (other than the Valentine birdy he gave me) can this sweet cherub commit? Vanity? No. Rage? Hardly. Greed? Nope. Envy? Never. Sloth, pride, lust? NO.

Gluttony?

Mhm, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll….

What do you call one’s inability to stop drinking milk? Borderline gluttonous behavior?

He’s too new to sin, but it’s good to have received ashes nonetheless.

He behaved like an angel, of course, throughout all of mass, and even for the soup and faith discussion we attended after mass. Nick was leading a discussion about Lent and prayer. Isaiah was like a little Lenten prayer all on his own – so quiet, holy, pure, and awesome.

So begins 40 days of meditation and fish Fridays. Nick and I decided that although we think he would try to participate as a devout Catholic, we’re not going to let him fast this year.

New Mommness

Published on by Lisa Category: birth, breastfeeding, pregnancy

So I started working out two weeks ago.

To feel my body MOVE, as in constant motion, without stopping, in cyclic ways, in scissor ways, in stretching to the skies…well, it’s been a trial.

I remember WAITING for the day when I could work out again. When I was pregnant and huge and my belly was larger than Jupiter and Saturn and all their moons COMBINED, I was itching to work out HARD.

And now?

Ugh, I can feel the absence of muscle. (except my right bicep which is ripping awesome from carrying my big baby) My lungs are in a state of, “What’s going on? I’m actually working under stressful conditions…” and my buttocks are yawning themselves awake, “Mhm, this doesn’t feel like the couch cushions…”

I don’t want my pre-baby body back. I want a better state of health.

I want – God willing – my next pregnancy to be even better, with a cleaner bill of health. No worries about sugar, no anxieties about high blood pressure. Granted, all was well with this pregnancy and my fear of these conditions was all for naught. But I want to be better. I want to be stronger, more ready.

And then there’s breastfeeding. Did someone fail to write this sentence in all the pregnancy and birth literature out there:

REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU DO, IF YOU DECIDE TO BREASTFEED, THIS WILL LIKELY BE THE MOST PAINFUL AND DIFFICULT PART OF THE POSTPARTUM EXPERIENCE.

I’m not dissing the sleep deprivation. I’m not smirking at the episiomoty recoveries. I’m just sayin’ that the boobfeeding experience is one that I was NOT, repeat NOT prepared for…blisters, rashes, PLUGGED DUCTS, changing colors, sizes, breast pads, nursing bras, lotions, water, airing out…

Heaven help me. Why didn’t anyone give me a reality check about breastfeeding?

There was one person, I believe, on FACEBOOK who wrote one comment on my wall when she found out I was pregnant: Watch out for breastfeeding. I wish someone prepped me for that one.

Of course I knew it would take some time to figure out. The sore nipples and what not — I was anticipating all of that. But holy smokes, the PAIN, the agonizing over each feeding in the beginning…I actually had nightmares about a gigantic breast in my face; as if I was the baby and one huge boob was coming toward me. It was the size of a house. I woke up sweating.

So, yeah. Breastfeeding.

Another reason confirming that women truly can do and withstand anything.