I place you upon the altar of my sorrow,
and of my many joys.
The soft warmth and comfort of you ebbed,
and then rushed away.
Silent in your first days of uncertainty,
and then assured and loud.
Your purposeful waddling and seeking,
finally quiet and all too still.
The simplicity of your constancy held me,
but is now simple, choking memory.
You are in the moments I forget you are gone,
and in the moments I know too well.
You were the beginning of who we became,
and who we still long to become.
Your blue turned my heart red with life,
and with your last breath, blue again.
Always...Blue.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
February 18, 2012--I am a potato trying to be a tomato
So, if you cook at all, you know that potatoes are kind of a perfect canvas. They absorb just about any flavor with which you season them. But you have to be careful, because sometimes, if you add too much of something, potatoes absorb more of the seasoning than you want them to--that's why you have to be so careful about how much salt you add to them or else they'll become bitter.
Except for the "perfect" part, I'm a potato.
I started thinking about this a lot over the last few days. A friend I work with was talking wistfully about a colleague of hers who has happily become immersed in her career. She's in the phase of learning, growing and becoming who she ultimately will be. I wouldn't go as far as to say that my friend is necessarily envious--that could have a negative connotation that I don't intend, but I think it's fair to say that the feeling of wanting to be happy in your work and successful at the same time is fairly universal. We all just need the same things.
I've been working in my field for thirteen years now. I went into it with wide eyes, big ideas and new dreams. The learning, growing, stretching phase made me believe anything was possible. I worked hard to become as good at my job as I could. After a while, I was so excited about all the things that were clicking for me, that I wanted to help them click for everyone around me. As motivated and happy as I was, how could I not want to share that feeling with everyone?
People started to think of me as a possible leader, but it didn't exactly work out that way. Somehow, I just couldn't close the deal. I didn't end up being a leader. Turns out I'm more of a 'ladder'--there to support others and help them reach for things. When I realized what I wasn't going to be, I also realized that maybe I didn't want to be a 'ladder' either. I needed to change. The only problem--I'm a potato.
After all the years of working hard, staying late to help out, giving other people pep talks and trying to do the right thing--I knew those things were good, but they weren't good enough for anyone else, and they were making me feel a little beat up. But after so long doing it, it's hard for other people to see me doing anything else, and it's just as hard for me to start being anything else.
I know we all just need the same things, but sometimes we put all of our wants, needs and desires into one basket, turning our backs on the other ones. When we finally start to take a step back and see all the possibilities we left behind, we realize we've taken on way too much salt. It's really hard to do anything with an overly salty potato.
It's been a tough week. I've felt taken for granted. I've been salty. I say I don't want to be a potato. I declare it and put my foot down, but when people look at me, all they see is a potato.
In spite of wanting to be something else, I actually love potatoes. I remember growing up and hanging out with my mom sometimes when she would be making supper. She was pretty good at opening boxes and cans, and turning them into some of my favorite horribly over processed meals. But when she wasn't taking those short cuts, she actually was a half decent cook. We both shared a love of two pretty versatile plants--potatoes and tomatoes. I loved to eat pieces of fresh potatoes raw as she sliced them up to mash or fry. But given the choice, I would sit down and eat an entire tomato like most people eat apples. I couldn't do that with a potato.
Tomatoes are similar to potatoes in the sense that they can be the foundation for so many dishes, the difference--tomatoes are brightly colored, bursting with their own flavor and they can stand alone. They're fragile and you don't expect them to hang out for as long as potatoes--you know they're going to go bad if you don't use them. Potatoes are sturdy and dependable. They can sit on a counter for days and days and even if they start to grow tiny little sprouts, you can cut those bad parts off and still use them. And they're still going to absorb whatever flavors you want them to. They're going to support your meal.
I hope my friend's colleague becomes a tomato. People around her will reach for her and want to add her to every good thing they're making. I'm pretty sure I won't find a way to be a tomato in my work life. I'm hoping that I didn't look back on the other baskets in my life too late to do anything about them. I hope that maybe I get over the feeling of being a ladder, because ladders by their own natures are designed to be stepped on, and after a while, you start to feel a little bruised when people aren't wearing soft shoes.
It's also important to realize that people with hard shoes aren't wearing hard shoes to hurt you--after all, it's not their fault you look like a ladder, and lifting other people up is what ladders are for.
Cough Syrup--Young the Giant
Except for the "perfect" part, I'm a potato.
I started thinking about this a lot over the last few days. A friend I work with was talking wistfully about a colleague of hers who has happily become immersed in her career. She's in the phase of learning, growing and becoming who she ultimately will be. I wouldn't go as far as to say that my friend is necessarily envious--that could have a negative connotation that I don't intend, but I think it's fair to say that the feeling of wanting to be happy in your work and successful at the same time is fairly universal. We all just need the same things.
I've been working in my field for thirteen years now. I went into it with wide eyes, big ideas and new dreams. The learning, growing, stretching phase made me believe anything was possible. I worked hard to become as good at my job as I could. After a while, I was so excited about all the things that were clicking for me, that I wanted to help them click for everyone around me. As motivated and happy as I was, how could I not want to share that feeling with everyone?
People started to think of me as a possible leader, but it didn't exactly work out that way. Somehow, I just couldn't close the deal. I didn't end up being a leader. Turns out I'm more of a 'ladder'--there to support others and help them reach for things. When I realized what I wasn't going to be, I also realized that maybe I didn't want to be a 'ladder' either. I needed to change. The only problem--I'm a potato.
After all the years of working hard, staying late to help out, giving other people pep talks and trying to do the right thing--I knew those things were good, but they weren't good enough for anyone else, and they were making me feel a little beat up. But after so long doing it, it's hard for other people to see me doing anything else, and it's just as hard for me to start being anything else.
I know we all just need the same things, but sometimes we put all of our wants, needs and desires into one basket, turning our backs on the other ones. When we finally start to take a step back and see all the possibilities we left behind, we realize we've taken on way too much salt. It's really hard to do anything with an overly salty potato.
It's been a tough week. I've felt taken for granted. I've been salty. I say I don't want to be a potato. I declare it and put my foot down, but when people look at me, all they see is a potato.
In spite of wanting to be something else, I actually love potatoes. I remember growing up and hanging out with my mom sometimes when she would be making supper. She was pretty good at opening boxes and cans, and turning them into some of my favorite horribly over processed meals. But when she wasn't taking those short cuts, she actually was a half decent cook. We both shared a love of two pretty versatile plants--potatoes and tomatoes. I loved to eat pieces of fresh potatoes raw as she sliced them up to mash or fry. But given the choice, I would sit down and eat an entire tomato like most people eat apples. I couldn't do that with a potato.
Tomatoes are similar to potatoes in the sense that they can be the foundation for so many dishes, the difference--tomatoes are brightly colored, bursting with their own flavor and they can stand alone. They're fragile and you don't expect them to hang out for as long as potatoes--you know they're going to go bad if you don't use them. Potatoes are sturdy and dependable. They can sit on a counter for days and days and even if they start to grow tiny little sprouts, you can cut those bad parts off and still use them. And they're still going to absorb whatever flavors you want them to. They're going to support your meal.
I hope my friend's colleague becomes a tomato. People around her will reach for her and want to add her to every good thing they're making. I'm pretty sure I won't find a way to be a tomato in my work life. I'm hoping that I didn't look back on the other baskets in my life too late to do anything about them. I hope that maybe I get over the feeling of being a ladder, because ladders by their own natures are designed to be stepped on, and after a while, you start to feel a little bruised when people aren't wearing soft shoes.
It's also important to realize that people with hard shoes aren't wearing hard shoes to hurt you--after all, it's not their fault you look like a ladder, and lifting other people up is what ladders are for.
Cough Syrup--Young the Giant
Sunday, February 5, 2012
February 5, 2012--Pro Choice is Fundamentally Pro Life.
So, I know, controversial title for a post, right? But, I think on whatever side of the issue you find yourself, if you read on, you might be surprised.
As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, knitting and watching Florence and the Machine and Lykke Li on "Austin City Limits," something strikes me--I feel very much like a woman. Now, I'm going to be honest, even at forty years old, I cringe every time I either hear myself referred to as a 'woman' or I have to choose to say the word 'woman.' I don't completely know why, but to me, it just seems like a creepy word. Forgetting any true etymology of the word, when I look at it, it seems like it should come from 'womb of man,' which, let's face it--men don't have wombs. So it kind of doesn't really make any sense.
If you listen to alternative music these days, then you know who Florence and Lykke Li are, and you know that they really couldn't be any more different from each other. Their voices are completely different, and they have chosen completely different directions to go with their music. The key word in that sentence is "chosen."
I had an epiphany recently, but haven't really been able to decide how to talk about it until this afternoon.
Jeph and I have decided that after nearly sixteen years of marriage, we are ready to take the scary leap of trying to have a baby. I always thought I understood what it means to either be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice," but I really didn't.
First of all, the early stages of this journey have taught me something fundamentally sad about myself and many other 'women.' I barely know anything about how my body works at all, especially when it comes to how a baby actually gets made--and no, I don't mean the mechanics of having sex. I mean everything else. I hear women around me--who are in the know--talk about cycle lengths, flower days and bumble bee days. All of this has left me clueless.
So, at forty years old, I find myself having to research things like: how to calculate when you should have an LH surge and when you ovulate; what anti-inflammatories and herbal supplements might be harmful to an unborn child; the percentage of women my age who conceive without heroic efforts; and the like. I've spent days urinating on sticks in hopes of getting a "smiley face" instead of a blank circle. In a way, it's silly and embarrassing. As a 'woman,' how can I know so little about something that is supposed to be such a natural part of my being?
Well, in part, it has been a choice. For most of the last forty years, I have chosen not to think about what it would be like not to prevent pregnancy. I have chosen to run amok going to concerts, traveling to Ireland, working toward professional success and not completely achieving it, and buying things. There's not necessarily anything wrong with any of those activities, but I'm just acknowledging my personal archive of choices.
I spent one week in college worried--terrified--that I might be pregnant. It was not good times. The one thing I learned from my mother--mostly through her stories of things she always wanted to do, but never got to because she had me at the age of sixteen--was that I never wanted to be pregnant before I chose to be. I was on birth control. I was not a wildly promiscuous person. I was incensed by the mere idea that I had been a responsible, careful person and something like this could still happen to me.
I wasn't pregnant. I was working a full time job, going to school full time, exercising and taking multiple dance classes, and my body just decided to take a month off from being normal. So I never had to face any kind of choice.
The epiphany I recently had about choice came to me because of the kind of work I do. I work in veterinary medicine, and as in most medical fields, certain tasks and responsibilities expected of me can entail putting myself in harm's way. On a day-to-day basis, I face the potential of being scratched, bitten, or frankly getting really gross stuff on me. But, I'm also exposed to pathogens, chemical agents, drugs, anesthetic agents and radiation. I never think of these things. I just do what is expected in my position.
When I was presented with the possibility that any of these tasks might put a potential child I might be carrying in danger, it occurred to me that I might be forced to make choices I never had to make, or even think about before. I admit, I felt threatened, even though I had no reason to suspect that I was pregnant at the time. It never occurred to me that I could feel so fiercely protective of something I without even knowing if it was there or not. Now, when I think about it, I think I might understand the mother wolf protecting her litter. I understand why any parent would think of the moment their child was formed as something more than a biological event from which we just happen to be able to derive pleasure.
As I was faced with deciding to continue performing these tasks, or to stand my ground, it occurred to me that as much as being able to choose to terminate a pregnancy that I am not ready for, I want to be able to choose to protect a pregnancy that I am ready for.
I have a relative of whom I am horribly ashamed. I am aware that she has terminated multiple pregnancies via abortion. I am aware that the reason she did not prevent these pregnancies is because of an ignorant philosophy that "prevention" implies that she was intending to do something "dirty," and she wouldn't want anyone to think that she was "dirty." I support a woman's right to choose to end an unwanted pregnancy, but I can't support the kind of choices my relative made so many times.
I think the epiphany I had isn't just about choosing to have a child or not. Choosing is about choosing what happens to you. I want to be able to choose what happens to my body--naturally or otherwise.
It's a common practice to circumcise male infants in the Judeo-Christian culture. I haven't researched it thoroughly, but there seems to be some evidence that circumcision is more hygienic and can prevent the spread of certain diseases, including HIV. But let's be honest, most circumcisions take place because of beliefs and tradition. Those infant boys haven't researched the science behind the procedure any more than they have any belief system that would prompt them to lop off a piece of their penis.
About three million girls have some form of genital mutilation performed on them annually in Africa--also without choice--ranging from the removal of the clitoris to removal of the labia and an assortment of other procedures--none of which have any medical basis. They're all performed based on religious or cultural beliefs.
Men and women are diagnosed with a myriad of diseases everyday. Some of us get the diagnosis of cancer. Some of us are diagnosed with Crohn's disease. Others, the common cold. In all cases, these diagnoses are followed by choices--our choices. Most of us choose to seek treatment for these attacks on our bodies. Some consciously choose, due to their own beliefs, not to pursue medical treatment for anything.
I realize that comparing the choices of treating disease, the lack of choice in genital mutilation and the choices of continuing or ending a pregnancy are very different, but they do have one fundamental thing in common--they're all choices concerning what happens to our own bodies.
This week, Susan G. Komen for the Cure decided to defund Planned Parenthood. Now, I'll be honest, I don't really understand why Susan G. Komen was giving any money to Planned Parenthood in the first place, so I actually don't care about the decision. If I stretch my brain around the situation, the only connection I can make between the two entities is that they provide support for women who are seeking care. I'm glad it happened though, because the controversy made me think about choice, and it helped me decide how to talk about what it means.
I've never discussed with my own physician whether she happens to be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice." It doesn't occur to me that her belief about the issue has anything to do with her ability to scrape my cervix or palpate my breasts for lumps. I'm just glad she knows how to do her job and can tell me whether or not she's found anything concerning with either one of those parts.
My guess is a woman who seeks care from Planned Parenthood is doing so because she needs help. Maybe she has no insurance, and reproductive--or medical care of any kind--is out of her financial reach without an organization like Planned Parenthood. Maybe the only place she might receive an annual breast exam is some place like Planned Parenthood. And I don't care that in the room next to her, a woman might be discussing getting birth control or where to go to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. I still want that woman in need to get the breast exam, and I don't care where Planned Parenthood gets the money to do it.
I know that the big divide is that the choice about reproductive rights doesn't just impact the woman or the man--it impacts whatever we believe to be developing in the uterus. My mom didn't think she would get pregnant while having sex if she didn't want to have a baby at the time. That was the knowledge she had about how her body worked at the age of sixteen. She was wrong. Nature decided she would become pregnant. She chose to have me and raise me. There were a lot of struggles along that road. I'm glad I'm here, but I'm sad that because of beliefs and tradition, nobody ever explained to her that babies come from loving relationships between two people who want to have them; they come from casual, one-time encounters we will be embarrassed about tomorrow; and they come from violent acts that are unwanted by men who take what they want--nature doesn't distinguish between any of these circumstances. It's nature's lack of discrimination in this area that leaves us with the responsibility of choice.
Choice is life.
I Know Places--Lykke Li
As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, knitting and watching Florence and the Machine and Lykke Li on "Austin City Limits," something strikes me--I feel very much like a woman. Now, I'm going to be honest, even at forty years old, I cringe every time I either hear myself referred to as a 'woman' or I have to choose to say the word 'woman.' I don't completely know why, but to me, it just seems like a creepy word. Forgetting any true etymology of the word, when I look at it, it seems like it should come from 'womb of man,' which, let's face it--men don't have wombs. So it kind of doesn't really make any sense.
If you listen to alternative music these days, then you know who Florence and Lykke Li are, and you know that they really couldn't be any more different from each other. Their voices are completely different, and they have chosen completely different directions to go with their music. The key word in that sentence is "chosen."
I had an epiphany recently, but haven't really been able to decide how to talk about it until this afternoon.
Jeph and I have decided that after nearly sixteen years of marriage, we are ready to take the scary leap of trying to have a baby. I always thought I understood what it means to either be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice," but I really didn't.
First of all, the early stages of this journey have taught me something fundamentally sad about myself and many other 'women.' I barely know anything about how my body works at all, especially when it comes to how a baby actually gets made--and no, I don't mean the mechanics of having sex. I mean everything else. I hear women around me--who are in the know--talk about cycle lengths, flower days and bumble bee days. All of this has left me clueless.
So, at forty years old, I find myself having to research things like: how to calculate when you should have an LH surge and when you ovulate; what anti-inflammatories and herbal supplements might be harmful to an unborn child; the percentage of women my age who conceive without heroic efforts; and the like. I've spent days urinating on sticks in hopes of getting a "smiley face" instead of a blank circle. In a way, it's silly and embarrassing. As a 'woman,' how can I know so little about something that is supposed to be such a natural part of my being?
Well, in part, it has been a choice. For most of the last forty years, I have chosen not to think about what it would be like not to prevent pregnancy. I have chosen to run amok going to concerts, traveling to Ireland, working toward professional success and not completely achieving it, and buying things. There's not necessarily anything wrong with any of those activities, but I'm just acknowledging my personal archive of choices.
I spent one week in college worried--terrified--that I might be pregnant. It was not good times. The one thing I learned from my mother--mostly through her stories of things she always wanted to do, but never got to because she had me at the age of sixteen--was that I never wanted to be pregnant before I chose to be. I was on birth control. I was not a wildly promiscuous person. I was incensed by the mere idea that I had been a responsible, careful person and something like this could still happen to me.
I wasn't pregnant. I was working a full time job, going to school full time, exercising and taking multiple dance classes, and my body just decided to take a month off from being normal. So I never had to face any kind of choice.
The epiphany I recently had about choice came to me because of the kind of work I do. I work in veterinary medicine, and as in most medical fields, certain tasks and responsibilities expected of me can entail putting myself in harm's way. On a day-to-day basis, I face the potential of being scratched, bitten, or frankly getting really gross stuff on me. But, I'm also exposed to pathogens, chemical agents, drugs, anesthetic agents and radiation. I never think of these things. I just do what is expected in my position.
When I was presented with the possibility that any of these tasks might put a potential child I might be carrying in danger, it occurred to me that I might be forced to make choices I never had to make, or even think about before. I admit, I felt threatened, even though I had no reason to suspect that I was pregnant at the time. It never occurred to me that I could feel so fiercely protective of something I without even knowing if it was there or not. Now, when I think about it, I think I might understand the mother wolf protecting her litter. I understand why any parent would think of the moment their child was formed as something more than a biological event from which we just happen to be able to derive pleasure.
As I was faced with deciding to continue performing these tasks, or to stand my ground, it occurred to me that as much as being able to choose to terminate a pregnancy that I am not ready for, I want to be able to choose to protect a pregnancy that I am ready for.
I have a relative of whom I am horribly ashamed. I am aware that she has terminated multiple pregnancies via abortion. I am aware that the reason she did not prevent these pregnancies is because of an ignorant philosophy that "prevention" implies that she was intending to do something "dirty," and she wouldn't want anyone to think that she was "dirty." I support a woman's right to choose to end an unwanted pregnancy, but I can't support the kind of choices my relative made so many times.
I think the epiphany I had isn't just about choosing to have a child or not. Choosing is about choosing what happens to you. I want to be able to choose what happens to my body--naturally or otherwise.
It's a common practice to circumcise male infants in the Judeo-Christian culture. I haven't researched it thoroughly, but there seems to be some evidence that circumcision is more hygienic and can prevent the spread of certain diseases, including HIV. But let's be honest, most circumcisions take place because of beliefs and tradition. Those infant boys haven't researched the science behind the procedure any more than they have any belief system that would prompt them to lop off a piece of their penis.
About three million girls have some form of genital mutilation performed on them annually in Africa--also without choice--ranging from the removal of the clitoris to removal of the labia and an assortment of other procedures--none of which have any medical basis. They're all performed based on religious or cultural beliefs.
Men and women are diagnosed with a myriad of diseases everyday. Some of us get the diagnosis of cancer. Some of us are diagnosed with Crohn's disease. Others, the common cold. In all cases, these diagnoses are followed by choices--our choices. Most of us choose to seek treatment for these attacks on our bodies. Some consciously choose, due to their own beliefs, not to pursue medical treatment for anything.
I realize that comparing the choices of treating disease, the lack of choice in genital mutilation and the choices of continuing or ending a pregnancy are very different, but they do have one fundamental thing in common--they're all choices concerning what happens to our own bodies.
This week, Susan G. Komen for the Cure decided to defund Planned Parenthood. Now, I'll be honest, I don't really understand why Susan G. Komen was giving any money to Planned Parenthood in the first place, so I actually don't care about the decision. If I stretch my brain around the situation, the only connection I can make between the two entities is that they provide support for women who are seeking care. I'm glad it happened though, because the controversy made me think about choice, and it helped me decide how to talk about what it means.
I've never discussed with my own physician whether she happens to be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice." It doesn't occur to me that her belief about the issue has anything to do with her ability to scrape my cervix or palpate my breasts for lumps. I'm just glad she knows how to do her job and can tell me whether or not she's found anything concerning with either one of those parts.
My guess is a woman who seeks care from Planned Parenthood is doing so because she needs help. Maybe she has no insurance, and reproductive--or medical care of any kind--is out of her financial reach without an organization like Planned Parenthood. Maybe the only place she might receive an annual breast exam is some place like Planned Parenthood. And I don't care that in the room next to her, a woman might be discussing getting birth control or where to go to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. I still want that woman in need to get the breast exam, and I don't care where Planned Parenthood gets the money to do it.
I know that the big divide is that the choice about reproductive rights doesn't just impact the woman or the man--it impacts whatever we believe to be developing in the uterus. My mom didn't think she would get pregnant while having sex if she didn't want to have a baby at the time. That was the knowledge she had about how her body worked at the age of sixteen. She was wrong. Nature decided she would become pregnant. She chose to have me and raise me. There were a lot of struggles along that road. I'm glad I'm here, but I'm sad that because of beliefs and tradition, nobody ever explained to her that babies come from loving relationships between two people who want to have them; they come from casual, one-time encounters we will be embarrassed about tomorrow; and they come from violent acts that are unwanted by men who take what they want--nature doesn't distinguish between any of these circumstances. It's nature's lack of discrimination in this area that leaves us with the responsibility of choice.
Choice is life.
I Know Places--Lykke Li
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