Warning Label: It's Not Just Time That You Lose

Whether you want it/them or not, you get fifty million and seven mother fuckers letting you know what’s what when you announce the intent to be a parent. Some of it is golden nugget status. Other advice = utter hogwash. One gets good, over time, at discerning between the two.

One thing I heard again and again--hence I took it seriously--had to do with the time suck. Kids take all your time. Get used to having no time for anything, ever. Your time no longer belongs to you. Time time time--all gone. Okay, so they weren't lying. It’s utterly amazing how quickly tasks, demands, surprises and new rituals crop up and transform your life into a new matrix of messy love/fatigue/squishy/hard domestic quiche. My time is rather unrecognizable now in comparison to life-before-kids. But what they didn't tell me about time feels way more important than what they did say. And that’s this: you don’t just lose time; others lose their time with you. And that’s some painful shit.

People I loved first started going away when my nighttimes got taken up by bubble baths, lavender lotioning and rocking with baba. I couldn't go to the club anymore. Couldn't meet with strategizing activists at the bar. Couldn’t watch late night movies and then talk or make out till 2 a.m. Over time I started lingering for cuddles in the bed instead of working out first thing in the morning. My workout partners dropped off. I could no longer go for road trips once my daughter hit 6 months because she needed the stability of home-based routines. Unfortunately many of my friends live out of town and were used to me driving out for over-nights or weekends at least a couple times a year. They've stopped inviting me now. Honestly: i’m glad because it hurts every.single.time to say no. When the second kid came along even my best friends, spouse, and mom started to complain about my lack of availability. Earlier this week I realized that my colleagues at work, ones that I love and adore with my whole heart, can seem like strangers. I don’t give the same amount of time to collegial relationships that I used to because I’m in such a rush to get to my family. I’ve had more than a handful of congregants bemoan my absence; mostly it’s gentle missing but every once in a while I get accused of not caring because I don’t show up the way I used to.

They didn't tell me I would sip coffee in the mornings, in the 12 seconds of quiet at hand, softly crying because I don’t have a clue anymore what it feels like to get dressed up and strut my shit with other pliable queers in the streets. I miss that. They didn't tell me that my favorite college professor’s father would die and we’d be so out of touch that I wouldn't even find out in enough time to send an appropriately placed letter. Damn it. They didn't tell me that loose ends with friends I’d been beefing with, on and off for years, would just die because there wouldn't be enough energy to attend to the potential, passion and pain anymore. Ouch. They didn't tell me about the periods gone by between phone calls with folks who I literally couldn't fathom living without less than 10 years ago. Ughhhhhh.

I've missed being at weddings, birthday parties, retirement receptions, the Occupy movement, baptisms, installations, conferences (With/Out Border in Kalamazoo this weekend FML) vacations with family, season playoff games. Worse: sometimes I show up to stuff and I’m not even there even though I’m there because I’m so tired, stressed, preoccupied, etc. No one told me about that! They didn't tell me about how friends would resent me, how family would grow quite, how some of my congregants would forget what it was like for them and judge me accordingly. They didn't tell me that I’d be giving more of myself away than I ever have but I’d constantly be hearing how it’s not enough.  

There are bazillions of gifts in parenting. There are moments perfect enough in the world of being Aurora and Isaiah’s mommy that I wonder if I’m dreaming. Don’t get me wrong; I wouldn't trade my life. But no one told me about this feeling of neglecting everything and everyone who isn't drooling, pooping, or wanting to play in my house. And it hurts. Like hurts in my guts. Carves out a hollow sense of airlessness in my chest and gives me over to unwilled child’s pose. It’s kinda monstrous. I don’t like it. Some folks will insist that I’ll get my “life back” at some point, but that’s not the point. Missing is missing. Grief is grief. There are moments gone that’ll never come back. It’s real. It’s part of the sacrifice of being a parent.

What I want to say is that while I love being a parent, I need a place to express the sorrow I am carrying about missing certain people and certain days/hours/moments because missing them is one thing but not allowing that sorrow to be expressed is another round of missing. And I can’t do the second round. Fuck emotional repression. The first round is bad enough.

I want to say that sometimes I am just flat fucking sorry that limitations exist, that my body can only be one place at a time, and that the life-change in parenting has an acceleration rate that I had no fucking clue about. I wish I had known. Because there’s this arrogant part of me that thinks if I knew then I would have done a better job of preparing myself and our relationships for this. Which is arrogant. Beneath the arrogance is utter sadness about absence and longing and failure to show up in places where I want to be more than anywhere (except parenting). This sorrow is about growing the fuck up and realizing that in order to get what you want the absolute most, other stuff that you want too, goes away, no matter how much you wish it wouldn't.

"1, 2, 3, JUMP!"

Plunge. 

The force of the water

fills up my noes 

with a foreign and forceful thrill,

an awakening 

this rush of slightly cool 

receiving energy 

touching, caressing, taking in

every inch of my skin.

enveloped. entirely submerged. underneath. 

stay here: die 

cause you can't breathe. 

but just these 8 seconds, please. 

here, surrendered. i am not stronger. just, surrendered.

the sunset 

on high to the left 

hyperbole in gradations of color

magenta with flourescent pinks 

fluff on top of fluff

this grey on blue 

cracked by thin garlands of gold 

fantastical whoa. 

the other side 

on high to the right 

rests a single half moon, 

the polar opposite of the lush setting sun

because it's alone and striking

all by its' unclouded self. 

I see a sky that goes on forever

up above my head

while the dark invisible deep 

holds every limb below.

the awe i let loose from my lips--

it's worship. this. 

i climb out because it's gotten cool. 

she runs over

so excited she's practically tripping.

"1, 2, 3, JUMP" she says 

having seen me do it once before. 

"Wait" she calls "kiss me first!" 

Every time I do something 

that slightly or largely

terrifies me

i kiss my daughter's lips 

and hold her face in my hands

because i have to touch and feel and see and smooch 

the benefactors of my bravery

I want her to see me like this. 

I want her to see me do this. 

I want her to remember. 

How I adored nature. 

How I acted silly. 

How I did things that felt kinda scary.

How I used her tiny, precious body as my bravery barometer.

We do it again. We kiss. We count. I jump. She watches. 

When my head pops up,

a second time

mohawk all disheveled

cheeks dripping

expression 1/2 startled 1/2 seeking her response to my resurfacing, 

she looks simultaneously afraid, curious, 

dared to do the same, and in love

with how all of this happens. 

I let a burst of laughter 

from the bottom of my gut 

fill the air 

not because this is funny 

but because she's watching 

and i want her to know 

there's comedy in being brave

and foolishness in being free

sounds of power other than words

that can fill the evening air 

and make magic without a single cost. 

I want her to know 

skylines are sanctuaries 

and bodies in lakes are being baptized too 

and her Reverend mommy

needs to jump in, jump off, BE HIGH 

sometimes

so when the day comes 

when she's trying to decide 

whether or not to dive 

or live or slowly die 

she.goes.all.in. 

A Summer Saturday

Yet another day I don't want to forget.
Morning: gentle suckle, giggles and snuggle.
The drinking of coffee (it never gets old)
the chopping of squash, beets and assorted fruits.
Packing bottles, sun block, two-seat stroller
a dog water bowl, and lots of snacks.
It only took us an hour and a half to get out of the house
this time. Glory.
Neighborhood stroll:
stop at the local community garden
where two green thumbs taught us
where to look
and how to pick
green beans and cucumber
from the big prickly leaves
that look like lilly pads.
A stop at church to rehydrate.
What else is church for? Ask me tomorrow.
On to the farmer's market
where it suddenly dawns on us
that neighborhoods have brains
which sparks a conversation
about quantum entanglement, colonialism and sperm.
When am I not obsessed with sperm?
We buy cashews and tomatillos.
An old white dude tells a dirty joke to J.R.
and I laugh in an obligatory way.
I practice my sorry ass spanish with Arturo and Josephina
who are gracious enough not to shame my efforts.
Then off to Mill Race Park
where pups sniff, babes play,
birds make nests in amateurish sculptures
and waterfalls gush with cereal city pride.
There are marigolds and petunias
so vibrant it causes acute beauty zings
to erupt in your heart chakra before you can blink.
The linear path, a dog pound and medicinal marijuana clinic collide.
It's the North side.
A quick jog home.
Hot as hell; we're all sweating
so Joey pulls out the popsicles
before nap time.
A belated birthday boquet from grandma rests on the porch.
A congregant/ally comes over for care;
we breathe and laugh and make sacred each other's company
over a tuna sandwich, journal and beets with hummus.
A beloved friend drops off some home-made chai concentrate.
I mix it with milk, pull out Logan's home-made apple sauce from last week.
Mason jars are a staple of the midwest.
Love gets packed in glass and topped with tin here
like love gets expressed on the dance floor everywhere else.
Sweetness of the senses--
this home
this city
this place
this family
this day.
What a perfect way
to spend a summer saturday.

Love Beyond Text(ing)

"Reading and writing proceed from the same region of pleasure. That's what is mysterious. There is always the feeling that something has been found again, a fragment of human nature; or else that something has been saved. What fills me with joy is that this writing that was found again or saved with the instrument of writing is a life factor and not a death factor." 

--Helene Cixous "Rootprints" page 98 

I've gotten into the habit lately 

of copying, editing, and printing out 

everything you write to me. 

Because I must keep you, 

your spirit, your words, alive in the flesh with me. 

Tangibly. Us together object/lively--even if you are not "here." 

It's the only thing I can think to do 

in the harsh cruelty of our geographic separation. 

These printed devotionals are often emails, 

but sometimes text messages. 

I'm lucky when they come 

in hand written cards. 

You wrote me a poem once; 

that one got formatted and printed 

perfectly 

to fit on my altar. 

It hit me this morning: this is what the disciples did 

when Jesus died. It's the textual rendering of resurrection. 

Such rendering can, as we know, 

lead to reading legacies that spark 

social movements for justice, 

communal care-taking, 

personal devotion, and worship. 

They can also lead to faulty outsourcing of one's wisdom, 

fundamentalism and dumb-ass obedience 

to something no longer even slightly relevant. 

You know what my prayer is, Marjorie? 

As I look about these remnants of paper,

these scraps of testimony

documenting the years 

we've ventured together...

you know what my prayer is? 

That someone, preferrably young, 

fed up and confused

but strong, delicate and on-the-verge 

of becoming a womyn 

like Walker or Soelle or Rivera-Rivera

finds our correspondence 

and thinks to herself--

wow, look how the love between them

took on a life of its own which deepened 

only to deepen some more. 

Look at how it made them curious,

trusting and awe-struck, 

and how it saved them when

life crumbled into chaotic little piles.

Look at how their love gave them life.  

And then I hope she puts those texts down

and gets busy finding and doing love 

in her own ways with her own kind of lovers

inspired by, but not obsessed with, us 

only to pick our pages up again 

when she forgets and needs reminding 

that love has no script, no preordained form to mimic

only traces of its power in those who have gone before

and invitations in the desire we feel right now 

to take our impossible place 

on her delightful and terrifying stage 

for the sake of her eternal reign. 

I Was a Front-Row, Tenacious, and On-Time Student

She polks put-put golf looking holes in her play-dough
before turning it into an ice cream sculpture
then sings in hushed alto tones while tracing a helicopter
on a pad of bright white with a stick, golden brown.
"1, 2, 3, 4"
"a, b, c, d"
Head up from the lego table, eyes locked now:
"Your turn mommy!" She squeals, then proudly,
almost boasting, extends her pencil to me
like it's a unique, shining treasure
from a remote, distant, uninhabited island
that she voyaged alone to discover
so that I, and I alone, would be privileged enough
to receive this gift from her outstretched palm.

We are always taking turns and sharing our treasures.

He vacillates on the floor
between scooting, crawling, pulling up and falling down,
trying to discern, physically, with each shift and gesture
which surfaces are steady
which limbs are trustworthy
which positions lead to balance
and those that lead to crumble and thump and ouch.
Head up from the carpet, eyes locked now:
he reaches for me, from knees bowed, with both hands,
body so trusting, form so reminiscent of prayer,
that I tremble with the tenderness and responsibility of it all.

We are always learning how to crawl and be held.

When I am older, a womyn who has lived into my days
with hallowed fullness, body surrendering to the dust
from whence it came, soul retiring or having been gone
quite some time already,
and I am no longer able to tell stories
or charm people with my embodied whit,
please, if you love me, pilgrim,
remind my children
that I was a front-row, tenacious and on-time student
in the classroom of their lives,
and I studied hard, every moment school was in session,
sometimes observing quietly with curiosity,
other times questioning, hands in the air, the rationality of it all,
but most of the time taken aback with wonder,
by how each step of their development
retaught me all the gentle kindness I unlearned
in order to survive way too much pain
long long ago.

We are always taking turns
and sharing our treasures.
We are always learning how to crawl
and be held.

Tell my children that before they even arrived, I loved to learn most of all,
and from the day of their arrival, they were my greatest teachers.

Demarcating with Boundaries & Fantasizing Cobalt Blue Doors

My suitemate in seminary, 

the tender and silliest dyke you ever met,

blue eyes like morning glories

set above mostly pale 

but quick-to-flash lightning red cheeks,

name of Anna Kathryn, 

used to pause in my tiny bedroom doorway  

upon returning home from class

eager to process the latest theological learning,

with someone a little less daunting 

than the professor she was crushing on hard. 

She'd stand there for hours

quoting scholars, weaving ideas,

requesting my partnership in discerning aloud 

whether or not these ideas about God 

or deconstructions of God

or silencing of the name for the sake of the Name 

God

did or did not mesh with my fleshy, worldly experience. 

I'd take in and push back or provoke or laugh or cry

given variable contexts such as 

weather, menstrual cycle, relationship status, 

the latest topics in therapy, and/or vague, lingering homesickness

that doorways, in and of themselves, would

consciously and unconsciously (I believe) 

trigger by the mere visual of her standing there. 

After this practice of occupying doorways 

continued despite changing apartment buildings and bedrooms,

we thought more of it than mindless, convenient habit. 

Might form lead to content?, we'd muse aloud. 

Then we'd half-jokingly launch pleasurable fantasies 

of writing a book one day entitled "Doorway Theology"

which became more and more frequent--

the utterance of fantasy, that is--

when she went on to the East Coast to get her PhD in theology

and I ended up in the economically thrashed rustbelt to pastor. 

That fantasy kept the doorways central to the relationship

when thousands of miles separated our bodies. 

Imagination sorta incarnates proximity.  

In the last week, I've been having new fantasies of doors. 

Not doorways. Doors. 

They are magenta doors, surrounded by grey,

 Orange Julius doors, surrounded by light brown,

 bright cobalt blue doors surrounded by flesh colored adobe walls. 

Every time they are front doors of houses, 

looked upon by an outsider,

a stranger passing by, across the street. 

They haunt me about some future possible

when we get bold enough to splash color 

on physical architecture that represents 

what's spacially framed as a boundary of coming and going, 

a boundary of what constitutes myspace & yourspace in this place.  

Are doorways altars? 

Is the position of a door a particular rendering, 

a voice? 

How you can stand there,

 at the threshold of an open door,

the geography of it all literally belonging to an/other

but in standing there, inevitably, by physicality alone,

albeit temporarily and with great precarity,

the space becomes more yours then theirs,

which transitions them from owner to host

and you from passerby neighbor to occupier 

which can confuse, sometimes subtly and quietly 

other times wild and unsettlingly 

the categories of self and other

there and here. 

(Kind of like skin--a boundary so porous 

folks have actually come up with theories 

about its impenetrability 

just to calm the terror of realizing 

corporeal autonomy is a farce)   

But how when a door is closed the doorway itself is inaccessible,

which leads one to know exactly where lines of self and other 

and geographies of inside and outside are drawn 

which can lead to a gorgeous, exquisite self-actualization 

birthed from the death of codependence 

or to a loss that feels like choking while drowning

in water so cold you don't know whether 

lack of oxygen or hypothermia will kill you first. 

There is power in the power to demarcate. 

To keep open wide. To close and lock. 

To crack it open, ever so slightly, 

intentionally leaving a sliver of light 

shining in the hallway like love infused Morse-code 

to a tired and weary traveler 

just home from a hard day. 

Yesterday my husband had a vasectomy. A door closed. 

I cried quietly on the drive to the appointment. 

I cried in the shower this morning 

after feeling like getting out of bed 

required too too much.  

Then I slumped myself in Tom Ott's doorway, 

body heavy heart sick

from memory after memory 

of an old, bald, straight-to-business 

white man in a white coat 

standing over and operating on

my beloved mocha-skinned husband,

memories of testicles splayed, 

needles and scissors grabbed,

the smell of burnt flesh, sights of blood, gauze, ice packs 

memories that terrorized me enough 

to admit  my hopes for ever having children 

with this man, again, 

died on that table, in that office.

How many possible futures die with the performance of a vasectomy? 

Countless. Itself a theological question and answer. 

Where are the protesters outside of these clinics? 

Itself a theological question and answer.  

In the doorway, I intuitively trusted Tom to know something, 

an expectation rooted in radical trust 

and longevity between us,

that he would see 

--in that doorway--

that I needed him to see 

what I couldn't conjure, gesture, speak. 

"Come in, come sit..." he said. 

With that invitation, he bid me enter a funeral procession, 

one I didn't even know I needed,

where sorrow and care 

could have their rightful places 

in our mutual spaces

for the sake of truth 

these altaring demarcations

these doorways where we dwell

these boundaries around exchange we draw

for coming and going

here and there

me and you

these places we place ourselves 

what we bid enter

and what we prayerfully release

matter. 

Nesting

Burnt orange breast

portrudes like the pride it signifies

amidst a mostly dull grey body built for flight

surrounded by bursting spring nettle green--

a mother bird builds a nest

for her 4 open-mouthed baby birds 

who sing and chirp and demand 

and ruffle each other's feathers

in a tree 

that sits 

right outside 

my kitchen window. 

A week ago, the same day we first caught a glimpse of the nest, word came round that Battle Creek is set to receive state funding for first time home-owners as a way of programmatically responding to Michigan blight. For years as a young girl and then as a budding student of Marx, I watched carefully how the accumulation of personal property resulted in the cage mentality of far too many humans, particularly "trapped" womyn who became mired in their own lifelessness with every passing day of their overly domesticated, gender-rolled lives. For years now as a resident of the state that has the highest unemployment rate per capita of any in the union because the lies of capitalism (which are built on the assumption that ownership of material stimulates a productive economy) staged their most awful theater right here--I'm reluctant to buy a house.  

Momma bird darts in and out of the tree,

exploring the terrain

securing food

returning it to the hungry beaks 

nuzzling the loose branches of the nest

making sure the balance of it all remains.

They are safe. They are fed. Nourished and alive. 

Grounded in rituals up so high. 

Whose work is the work of home-making? Does it indeed include ownership? A stable place? Or is it about collecting what's available in our environments in order to meet the current demands? While acknowledging no one gets to stay anywhere forever? We are all here only for a season, only for a time. What if what's close at hand is all we need in this season? Yet it strikes me significant that there are specific seasons, do or die ones, that require a stability. A staying place.  Where rituals of awakening and resting, preparing and feeding, playing and cuddling, spatting and remaining--themselves--make the home, home. Is it the building? Or is it the rituals? Both/and, I suppose.  

Earlier this morning

my own daughter and I stood beneath the branches

where the baby birds live 

quietly, timidly trying to catch a peak.  

"It's sacred in there, Rory" I said. She got on her tip-toes

and chirped her 2 1/2 year old affirmation 

that always takes on a soprano high note at the end: "yeAH."

Momma bird came swooping in, 

but upon recognizing our presence, flew away

while keeping her eyes entirely locked on the nest.

Think Sankofa and Maternal Protection--with wings. 

 She landed on a telephone wire above us,

watching until we decided to move along. 

I felt for her. Wanted to get out of her way. 

To say "Hey--we have no right 

to keep you from your babies,

to occupy this land so close to your home. 

Sorry for the intrustion." 

Instead, I took Rory's hand, 

and lead her to a pile of sticks she'd collaged on the grass--

far enough away that momma bird could return 

close enough that Rory might make the connection 

between her collage of sticks on the ground 

and the mom's labor up above so high. 

Distanced perfectly so that she might see the value of it all, 

how the creativity for it and of it is already in some of us,

before we even know we need it, 

natural, beautiful--

and totally undercompensated.  

The dimensions of our material lives are justice issues. They are. But never before have I been able to witness, both in the world and in myself, the value of womyn's work (which shouldn't just be our work), of the maternal materiality of this Earth and why that work deserves a stable place, a resting space, a home, because the work itself is sacred, eternal and the catalyst for each new generation to recognize its inherent right to the rituals of sustenance, intimacy and beauty that this life naturally affords. 

Maybe I'll buy a house, after all. 

And maybe, just maybe 

I'll paint one of the walls burnt orange 

to honor her. 

Rituals of Shame: Body Image & Ever Elusive Peace

Yesterday was one of those days when before leaving the house, I changed my outfit three times. Trying this on. Trying that on. Too tight. Too revealing. Walking in front of the mirror with disgust only to see that disgust reflected back. Turns out no matter how many times you "change" on the outside, if your insides aint right, the mirror will just reflect your insides. This is a ritual of shame that I know too well. It's been a long time since I've been back and forth that many times, with that degree of angst and disgust, but apparently rituals cycle in and out of our lives until we are done learning what we need to learn. 

Before I get going on yesterday, let me be clear that I am a gender queer (meaning I have body hair, muscles and desires where I'm not "supposed to"), big bodied white womyn who comes from maternal ancestors whose fat shame conditioned every notion of vulnerability/justice that I've got. The terror of being targeted around gender non-conformity started when I was 6. Play ground bullying is a bitch. The terror of watching my mom get targeted (internally and externally) around size goes back before I can remember. These rituals of out-fit shame are learned behavior. The terror of targeting around attraction and rape started once my body shifted in puberty. That terror got harder and harder to differentiate from when I actually got raped. The accumulation of years and money I've spent in therapy learning to reclaim the sacredness of my body cannot be quantified. Let it be known: for me to leave the house without fear is a fucking miracle.  Let it be known further: I am young, light/white-skinned, of European descent, am able bodied (right now), am first generation middle/upper class, Christian, employed, married to a cis-man, and highly educated. These non-target identities make it easier/safer for me to walk out the front door each day than many many other womyn. For some womyn, even leaving the house at all, is a fucking miracle. 

Back to yesterday. I recognize now, a day later, in writing this reflection, that some of my early morning angst, being expressed in the ritual of shame, was a sort of anticipatory wisdom on my part. You see, we (my spouse and 2 children) were planning to spend Memorial Day at Fort Custer. That's a place where (mostly) patriotic, light/white-skinned, working class, hetero people gather with gaggles of children next to Eagle Lake. There's a "beach" and hiking trails there. Hubby and I are from California, so beach and hiking trails mean different things to us than they do the life-long Michigander. But we are grateful for the C+ version. What I'm not so grateful for at Fort Custer is how a supremacist notion of normalcy appears to provade the air even though 90% of the folks there wouldn't fit the category. Perhaps I'm just bringing the lingering hypervigilance of my hollywood-influenced youth into this mid-western space--and i'm the only one harmed by this obsession with on the surface appearance--but I could swear that when my mixed race family and my gender queer body starts nearing the waters, heads turn, eyes stare (hard) and lots and lots and lots of whispering happens. So when I was trying to "dress" for the day, I had much to consider, you see. How can I be low-profile, not get sun-burned, hiking comfortable, swimming comfortable, and, well, myself comfortable? I anticipated the hot eyes of old white men, former military personnel, drinking beer already at 11 a.m., conservative, and mocking. I anticipated the sneers of girly-girls in their bikinis. I anticipated how my appearance might throw my spouse and children into questionable judgment. It's a lot to consider at 9 oclock in the morning.  

The first time, I walked out with cut off jean shorts and a black tank top. My husband looked over me casually, which I took to mean that I looked unacceptable. So I went back to my closet and put on black adidas track pants. Then I walked back out and he asked "Don't you think you'll get hot in those?" I took that to mean I'd made the wrong choice. Why do I look at/to/for him to be the final judge of anything I do? I'd love to blame this phenomenon on heterosexual control and patriarchy, but the truth hurts. I've been in relationships with womyn identified as dykes, transmen identified as queer, and in every space, I've walked out and changed out and changed out and changed looking for some "judge" to pronounce me worthy of my own reflection. Besides, when I talked to my spouse later in the day about what I was going through between the wardrobe changes, mirror sessions, and marriage consultations, he admitted that he had absolutely no clue what was going on. 

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a cis-man who has no clue what it's like to walk out the front door each day with fear preceding you no matter what you're wearing. That level of cluelessness just boggles my mind. I know they carry fears of a different sort, but Lord Almighty, I just wonder what that freedom is like. 

Finally I put on some black and grey spandex work out shorts that stop at the knee. They are skin tight which might be problematic, but given that swim-suits will be all around, I can probably escape the war. They might get wet while I walk my daughter on water-slushed sand, but work out pants dry quick. So that's cool. And they are a total winner for the run/hike I hope to take once the weather is right. Feeling pretty good about this 3rd choice, a Facebook status update that one of my (well-intentioned yet horrifically misguided) friends wrote recently flashes through my head. His partner is pregnant with their first kid. The status was about how he'd never ever let his daughter leave the house in spandex because of how sexist and objectifying other men can be. Then I think about that dude that shot up a bunch of students in Santa Barbra last week because he hated womyn enough that it it drove him to light up a bunch of strangers. 

Controlling how we "look" will only protect us so much.  What about how you/they look? What about that? 

I say a silent prayer for my friend who is about to become a father of a daughter and a silent prayer for myself and my own daughter and son and for the shooter and those parents who just lost their kids--that we may know peace, peace, peace. Peace. One day. 

A few weeks ago my therapist asked me: "Have you ever tried to practice being unseen? Do you know what that's like?" I shake my head, nope. "How much of this hypervisibility dynamic do you bring on yourself?" she asks. What's the answer to that question that doesn't involve incinerating guilt and shame gushing forth, like molasses, from my guts? 

Back to yesterday. It's time to dress my children. 

In the act of preparing them for our family rendezvous, I find myself shaming myself about my ritual of shame. After giving them both 45 second baths, complete with shampoo and soap, I put a little sun dress on Aurora because that's what she wanted. I put shorts and a t-shirt on Isaiah because that's what was clean and avaible. Simple. 5 minutes total. Then I think back to the 20 minutes of my own "changing" and say to myself, "come on, look how easy this is: you put on clothes, you put on sun-screen, you pack your bags and you walk out the door. What the fuck is wrong with you Emily Joye? If your feminist friends knew what you were doing, they'd all think about what a sell-out you are. And now, just think about what you're doing to your children. You're doing exactly what you watched your mom do every morning. You're passing on the shame ritual to them! You are no better than your mother. They'll be just as bad as you." Shame shame shame.

We often talk in our feminism about how the media sensationalizes and hypersexualizes and exploits womyn's bodies. We talk about rape culture and slut shaming and competition between womyn being the chief corner stone of capitalism. But rarely do I hear about the way we've been taught to internalize all of that and shame the shit out of our own selves as ritual practice--and then to feel guilty about it all and shame the ritual itself. Are body hatred and feminist-shaped shame the religion of womyn in this economy? Or is self-obsession and guilt about self-obsession the means whereby competition and greed package themselves within to be bought and sold bought and sold bought and sold? The problem with all these "health" and "wellness" initiatives is that even eating "right" and exercise can be based in shame. There's nothing healthy or well about rituals based in shame, even if the means are commodified by our culture as ends themselves. Before and after pictures are not your friend, sisters. Not your friend. 

As we are driving to the lake, I confess to J.R. that I've been wrestling with internalized oppression all morning. I cry hushed tears admitting the cycles of what feels like self-torture. He says "you must walk around in terror a lot of the time, huh?" And then I cry tears of a different kind because after years together he kinda gets that he doesn't get it. That's comforting to me. 

We arrive at the "beach" and I watch him take my daughter hand in hand, down to the water. I'm grateful she is in his care. Maybe that peace I prayed for is closer than I think. 

Later in the afternoon, he jokingly dares me to do a second loop on my lake-side run, and to huff and puff up the very steep hill at the loop's end. Even though I'm already out of breath, I side eye him and do it, just because it hints of a challenge. When I meet up with him and the kids after that exhausting climb, my heart is racing, my muscles are spiked and aching, and I feel more righteous than ever. With loving approval of my rigorous effort he says "I can't belive you! You're a beast!" I smile a huge grin, but before my own strength can occupy the mercy seat, I think to myself, "Beast like Abby Wambach or beast like too big, too ugly and too aggressive?" 

Maybe that peace is further than I think.