Why are all the girls in New York City Oh, Oh, Oh So Pretty?

I really asked myself that several times on my latest journey into the city. I had the good fortune to experience a night in the cities, through the city, in the village. All because I had the foresight, when a flight got canceled to realize that with the same connection it was better to start early in New York then to arrive late in Chicago. I traveled on the subway from Queens and a free stay at a hotel near La Guardia, traveled into the Village and to my favorite restaurant "The Caravan of Dreams." Ahhhh, a dream come true it was. But really, the girls in New York City are sooooo pretty. From blondes with golden almond skin and smiles full of sunshine, to remarkably sophisticated beauties of all hues and styles of all scents and mental kinds. It's nice they are are all so pretty, all them girls in New York City.

Marrying the Movement

Today I considered the notion that really, to do my work I would have to marry the movement. It seems that is the only relation, besides my children, that I have time for and that I can experience without distrust, doubt and all the other anxieties there are in human to human relations. It certainly is my passion, it certainly feeds my soul and invigorates my senses, pushes me to be better and keeps me going when I'm down. It gives me a sense of commitment and purpose and I trust it to be there, since the cause is lasting the relation too is sure to be prolonged. It can't put its arms around me though. It does not wipe tears from my eyes, or touch me gently to show its affection. It doesn't listen, really to my fears and offer advice and it won't playfully explore with me in material ways. That's o.k. maybe. The movement hurts though. It makes me tired and scared and overwhelmed and sometimes I feel like I want to run and hide from it. Bury myself in a green thicket of vegetation, just breathe in moss and feel the wetness of the ground. But that is not the movement, that is me seeking alone time with the reason for the movement the protections of the earth and its growings. Today, when I heard activists of the 70's talking about their actions I was so overwhelmed with that sense that I was now in a relation and it was so intense and wonderful, but besides those with me in this movement, for now at least. I have to wrap my own arms around myself. Pat myself gently on the back, and talk myself to sleep into sweet dreams. For now, that seems like it is the challenge I face in coming into the power to not relate to the movement but to be it.

Cutting Deeper

One time, I was cutting a loaf of Rye bread. I think it was late November and the rye taste satisfied a need for warmth and comfort. The loaf was not particularly hard, but maybe a little tough. Somehow my left hand, the hand securing the bread in place, came too close to the blade. I cut deeply into my left pointer finger. We wrapped the pointer in paper towel, and as is typical in a metropolitan area, we simply walked to the nearest hospital. We waited for a long time and I eventually waited alone, as the baby needed to go home. When the doctor did come we had a lovely exchange, where I shared my fascination with bodily wounds and he shared medical school experiences. He got a kick of the way I watched intently as he stitched up my now bloated finger (from the pain injection). "That is so cool" I kept saying "Its like I'm made of wax." I couldn't get over the way my flesh was open and he was threading through it and I couldn't feel a thing. I remember riding my bike to the store for beer later. Talking on my cell-phone with my good hand, steering with my poor hand. Three Monkeys, a great beer with an over-the-top alcohol content that accompanied my grad school days perfectly. It was the first night of River "crying it out." This was a technique that never did work for him. But I sat and drank beer and read Foucault, with earphones on and a bandaged left hand. Tonight, River cut his hand while reaching up on an outdoor shelf. He screamed for what seemed like forever. The cut was superficial and I wanted him to just breathe. But he continued to scream, and scream. I couldn't help but wonder if he was really screaming about the cut or some other, more internal wound. "I almost cut my finger off once" I told him. "Want to see the scar?" "It healed just fine." "When was that mommy, where was I?" "In Philly, and you were a baby, and I was cutting a loaf of rye bread..."

Me Moving Through

I have been away for a bit. Not even having written a post in August is weird for me, considering it is the 7th already. I traveled to Portland for some progressive inspirations (I swear, they are like a different species in Portland, everyone is so hip and healthy and there are 2 raw food restaurants!) I also had a chance to catch up with my fellow dear "L" ladies Laura (who I call Lar Lar) and Leila (my sweet Lippy Lippy Leila Lu...we say "Hi Lippy!" "Oh, Hi Lippy!!" when we talk. Being with soul sister gals who I trust and know love me no matter what cause they have seen me at my best and worst and still stuck around was exactly what I needed--a total blessing. I missed the boys terribly, I have been away far too much, but I tried to savor the solaness and let myself grow. It was good. Last night we commemorated the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Through photos of the bomb and its effects we made the space for recognition of the atrocities. Through Japanese music on the Kyoto, a presentation of a plaque from the Mayor of Hiroshima, and a survivor story we honored the culture and the human bodies impacted by this past violent act. Then, a dear and lovely woman helped us move past the past to a place of peace and transformation as we meditated together about peace spreading to the world. I actually felt something radical in me shift in that moment and the feeling has been lasting. It all came full circle through the dances of peace we participated in at the end. Weaving our bodies between each other, looking each other in the eyes and singing lovely words the entire process moved from a cerebral remembrance to an embodied acknowledgment and wholistic transformation. This weekend I have my boys in the mountains again. I leave for a period next week. I remembered last night that even when I am away we are connected.