Love.

One of my favorite topics.

I’m big on it.

I’ve been in various stages and ages of love with the same man for nearly 34 years. I loved him intensely way back when. I love him intensely now. We met in high school, went to nearby colleges, and married when barely in our twenties. We had a mortgage at age twenty-five and three babies before I was thirty.

It was those babies, as they grew, developed and became the people they are now, who taught me about the greatness, the hugeness, of love. With each one, I wondered “Could I possibly love another person to the degree that I love this one?” And as each one came into being, I experienced the expanding nature of love.  If one is open to the possibility, love is never-ending, unlimited, and I think, eternal. It grows and it grows and it grows, if you let it.

Through some challenging times as the matriarch of a family, I learned, among other valuable lessons, the wonder and truth of unconditional love.  I learned that people aren’t necessarily their actions or their choices; and that it’s my duty, indeed my blessing, to love them regardless of the path they walk in the world. This wasn’t an easy lesson. It took staring into the chasm of near-death to soften my heart and my soul. How lucky I am that they did. Selah.

As my children bring others into their lives and into our shared world, my love is extended. How can I not love someone who so clearly loves my child? Or someone my child so deeply loves? It grows this way, love. It extends to others and surprises us with its intensity. The world, I’ve learned, is filled with people I do love, could love, would love.

As I age,  I realize and recognize a love that always is, a love that encompasses my essential self. I feel deeply for people I’ve long-known, as well as some I’ve newly met. I feel connected to others in a way that makes me wonder about life here and now, and life in the past and in the future. I consider the possibilities that I knew and loved in another way, in another time and place, in another life and realm. I thrill at the ongoing, undying qualities of love, leading forward and backward across the spectrum of existence.

When inclined to judge or begrudge, I remind myself to love. I’m better in every way when I function this way. I feel love and know it’s what I was created to feel, what I’ve evolved to be, what I AM.

I love Love.  

And I love this Erica Jong quote:

“Love is everything it’s cracked up to be… It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.”

So I will continue to fight, and try to be brave, and risk all that I have, for the glory of love. Because it is everything it’s cracked up to be… and then some.

Birthday Season. That’s what we Nelson’s call the weeks between mid-March and early April. In those weeks, we celebrate the days on which my three children made their earthly entrances… March 16, March 25 and April 7.  Wonderful days, those.

I’ve always known I’d be a mother, not an unusual belief for a woman of my generation. Thing is, I’ve always known that I’d give it my all, that raising kids would be one of my great endeavors. This was not typical for a bright, academically-inclined woman coming of age in the late 1970’s. I was expected to do great things, change the world, ACHIEVE. Thing is, by raising my family, that’s exactly what I did.

The Good Husband (TGH) and I fell in love completely and early. I knew by age 18 that he would be a good partner and parent, and that he would father my children. I spent the next several years learning the skills necessary to be a good parent myself.

When we married, just after I finished student teaching, we had a “first baby in 5-years plan.” Didn’t work out that way.  Daughter #1 arrived 13 months later, changing our lives forever, and for the better.

Two weeks overdue, I was thrilled when TGH arrived home from a three-week assignment on an oil rig that was a day’s travel away.  Happy to be reunited before b-day, we spent the next day walking through the gardens at The Huntington Library, and I went into labor at ten o’clock the next night. TGH slept while I dozed and dreamed of what lay ahead. By eight the next morning, I was ready to go to the hospital where we spent the next seven hours cosseted in a labor room. We labored away while outdoors a spring storm raged and the teen in an adjacent room heartbreakingly raged, “Get this thing out of me! I don’t want it! Mama, make them take it out!”

I was equally anxious to complete the task at hand, but by gum, I was going to do it with strength and dignity. I’m big on dignity. I faithfully practiced my Lamaze breathing and knew without a doubt when it was time to push. And push I did. Daughter #1 popped into the world after 16 hours of labor and only one contraction’s worth of pushing. The most beautiful baby born that day (seriously – lots of people told us that), D#1 snuggled on my chest while the doctor stitched me up; and I was sitting Indian style in the middle of my bed, eating a full meal  three hours later. Birthing at age 22 is easy. So is recovering. I wore all my old clothes by the time D#1 was ready for her 6-week check up. Let me tell you now, that never happened again!

Three years later (perfectly planned so that I, an elementary school teacher, could be home until the new baby was 6-months old), Son-The-One-&-Only was born. Arriving nine days after big sis’ birthday (again, planned… didn’t want immediate resentment of a new sib), he was, like all of my babies, about two weeks late; but he wasn’t supposed to come that day either.

Early in the morning, March 25, 1985, TGH and I trekked to the hospital for a scheduled Fetal Non-Stress Test. Since I was overdue, my ob-gyn wanted to make sure the baby was still nourished. While lying on the table, wide monitor strapped across my bulging belly, I felt a familiar twinge. “I think I’m starting labor.” I told the attending nurse. Laughing, she patted my shoulder, saying. “Honey, you will not be having this baby today and may not have it this week. You’re not even close.”

Trusting the experienced professional, TGH and I began the thirty-minute drive home. But before we reached our freeway off-ramp, my contractions required focused breathing. Once home, TGH made additional babysitting arrangements for D#1 and I paced the family room, keeping time.  Two hours after leaving the hospital, we were on our way back. Labor was so advanced I couldn’t sit comfortably, so I lay down in the backseat. TGH paled. He did not want to deliver his own child on the shoulder of Southern California’s Interstate-10.

We arrived. He parked. I got out of the car. “What can I do? What should I do?” Asked TGH. ~And this is how I know I was “in transition” (And you thought PMS was a bitch. If you don’t know, look it up) ~ “Just shut up and walk, God Damn It!”  He did.

Back in the same hallway, I looked at the same nurse. “I need to push!”

No rooms were available. 

“I still need to push!”

I was literally guided around a corner and given a gown in a back hallway. Completely without shame, I stripped bare, put on that gown and hauled myself onto the skinny little gurney that the shocked nurse provided. The on-duty doc checked me, announcing, “She’s right. She needs to push.” And so I did. Right there in the hallway, as well as in the short maze of not-at-all private hallways that the nurse and TGH trundled me through. My privates no longer were. Without thought or hesitation, I pulled my knees to me ears (I’m very limber) and I pushed. I pushed so hard, I broke dozens of little blood vessels in my face, neck and chest, and was instantly dotted with tiny red and blue bruises. By the time we got to a room, he’d arrived.  Three hours of labor from beginning to end. Quickly stitched up, I was immediately wheeled back into a hallway and the next delivering mom entered the room. Busy day in labor and delivery.

In a dark, quiet hallway, I cuddled my baby boy, whose smell was uniquely his own and whose adoring face wrought true that a mother can love more than one child with all her heart. Two decades later, when he nearly died, I stood in another little room, breathing in his wonderfully unique smell and hoped that my adoring face proved to him that my love was and always would be unconditional and pure. I think it did.

With a boy and a girl, TGH and I thought we might be done, but two years later I had a dream. In my opinion, it was right up there with MLK’s. A young woman visited me in my sleep and pronounced herself my daughter. She also made clear that she was awaiting my cooperation and was ready for this earthly sphere. I know. A little “woo-woo.” But true. The next morning I told TGH and, as has always been the case, he supported me. A few months later we were expecting another girl.

On D#1’s 6^th birthday, as I ushered the last party guest out the front door, my body set things into motion. But it was early; I hadn’t expected it. And I shouldn’t have. For the next three weeks I remained in mild labor until my doc did some blood work and determined that my body wasn’t producing enough Oxytocin for the process to progress. He invited me to come to the maternity ward the next morning at nine where he began an IV “Pit-drip.”  Like clockwork, I was in the delivery room in three hours flat.

That’s where the drama began. With each contraction D#2’s heart rate became erratic. When I was fully dilated, my doc plunged (I’m frickin’ serious here—plunged!) both hands into the birth canal to figure out what was going on. “Don’t Push!” He shouted. “Stop pushing. The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck.” I didn’t push, but it was darn hard not to. Deftly, the doctor turned the baby and released the cord from her neck, then told me to push. I did, and she flew on out. Really—she propelled. Thank God the doc was a good catch.  And then she cried. And she cried. That baby cried so long and so hard that the nurses refused to allow her into the nursery. Fortunately she got it all out early, and proved to be the easiest baby of all.

So there you have it. Three babies born in six years, when their mama was 22, 25 and 28. And now, as of today, my babies are 22, 25 and 28. Seems like the right time to tell their birth stories. I hope this is the right time for you to tell yours. Please use the comment function here or send me an email with your story attached. Let’s share the wonder and the glory of every birthing story.

My friend and fellow writer, V-Grrrl, wrote a compelling post about her dealings with depression and the healing and supportive effects of social media. I invite you to read her story. 

In response, I penned the comments below:

I first wanted to die at age 7. Prayed every night that I’d not awaken in the morning. For the longest time, I blamed my inner turmoil on a wildly tumultuous family life laden with violence and abuse and tears.

Through my thirties, the “dark debilitator” and I never parted company. I read scores of self-help books, ate right, got plenty of sleep, avoided alcohol, sought counseling, never toyed with drugs and practiced every holistic recommendation.

Still, He dogged me.

Despite the fact that, once an adult, I enjoyed every blessing and achieved every goal, I fell into the abyss on a regular basis. Climbing out was a monumental feat that nearly broke me time and again.

When the first of two of my children became chronically ill, I finally told the doctor the dirty details of my thirty-year battle with the beast. Her response? “This is a biological illness. All you’ve done has helped, but only medication will set your chemistry right.”

Enter the vanquisher- a prescription antidepressant. Over the last ten years I weaned myself off of it several times, thinking I could manage on my own. Finally, I accept it as my saving grace. On it, I AM me. Without it, He wins. Fuck that.

If it ever stops working, I’ll get myself to the doctor and find a new weapon. I love being me. I’ll never again willingly give up myself.

If you think you might suffer with depression, make an appointment with your doctor. Seek help. Feel better.

* "Black Dog" is a colloquial term for depression.

Blue.

I know you.

Intimately.

Ours

Was my first

Long-term

Relationship.

With you,

I spent

Too many

Pacing late nights

and

Anxious, wee-hour mornings.

Blue.

Me and you

In the kitchen, stewing

On bent knees, pleading

On the interchange, scheming

Dreaming.

For years

You held court,

Torturously

Twisting the past,

Plaiting the present

and

Tainting my tomorrows.

Blue

I fought you.

With intellect, through sheer neglect

Using prayer and mantra

Swear and tantra

Battling long

And strong

Until finally, I knew

What to do

To vanquish you,

Blue.

~

It was so simple.

Add yellow.

For The Good Husband and me, ’08 and ’09 were years of living large. We traveled and entertained to excess, ate rich and highly lauded food, drank exceptional wines, danced into the wee hours and on and on. We had the kind of fun our age-mates enjoyed nearly thirty years ago while we were busy having and raising babies.

He found this busy life exhilarating. I found it exhausting, and yearned for simplicity.

Now finally, he too, is weary. ( Thank God! I was ready to suggest separate houses and regular rendezvous so that I could get some rest.) Over the holidays we created a new plan based on the realization that we have and appreciate everything we need. We’ve adopted a “paring down” approach to 2010. I am thrilled!

Turning 50 (and the four months it took to understand what that meant for me) undoubtedly contributed to my values clarification. Another key factor: For the first time in a decade, all my children are healthy and well, and I am free from the onus of getting them to this juncture. I’ve reached an amazing place in my life and I relish it.

Now, calm, content and focused, I embrace this new decade with confidence, joy and a surer sense of self. I will write, garden and practice yoga more. I will covet, spend and want less. Most importantly, I will love.  

In the midst of this past decade, a close friend on the threshold of death said, “You have loved me well.” No words impacted me more.  So I rededicate my time better to correspond to my values, and hope all to whom I’m connected can utter the same when I pass that divide. In the spirit of  this desire, beginning now and with myself, I will love. I will love well.

When she heard the girl was sick ~ and always would be.

“Not my daughter.”

“She’s brilliant. We prize that.”

~

She raged as illness unfolded.

Living the day-in, the day-out, fearing dreams would never come about.

“This is not our life!”

She had such plans. She cherished them. She clung.

~

She trembled when the crazy bubbled up.

When her fear, fueled by helplessness, boiled on over with it.

She’d always had control.

That’s how she lived.  She controlled.

~

She prayed when hope refused to settle in.

When getting through a day sans crisis was success.

“God can do miracles.”

“We need one. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She begged.

~

She mourned as miracles failed to manifest.

When she knew the girl was sick and always would be.

When she knew her mind was truly ill.

She, they, so prized it.

…time…

She loved when they spent time together.

When the girl chose to live and she chose to live beside her.

When she knew their plans had changed, but that the change was right and good.

They would move on. They would be well.

~

And now.

They rejoice.

She is ill, but lives, stays, well.

Lives, loves, learns. Well.

And ~ blessed be ~ brilliance, bravery, beauty ~ accompany.

They, too, are here to stay.

A sea-change is at hand and creative women are riding it’s waves toward fulfillment. The prevailing economy and socio-political currents prompted us to tighten our belts, recycle, reduce, reuse and return to basics. These same forces also inspired us to re-examine our essential selves and search for meaning and purpose. For many, meaning and purpose are deeply rooted in creation. We are painters, crafters, writers, photographers, binders, builders and believers, who of late, have often drifted in a sea of confused focus.

But… Aha!

Something is in the air.

Thanks to the stars, the moon or some mystical cosmic shift, the tide is turning.  Encouraged by new possibilities on confident winds, we depart the doldrums and venture into the shipping lanes. No longer adrift, many artist friends have renewed enthusiasm for artistic expression and also recognize opportunities to test their entrepreneurial savvy. Navigating uncharted waters and embarking on uniquely individual voyages, artists of all ilks enthusiastically dive deep and follow unfamiliar sea-routes toward the next new world.

It’s a Renaissance of sorts.

And it’s happening everywhere.

Keep your spyglass in hand. Be awakened and aware. Sightings of brilliance are inevitable.

~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·

Here are a few interesting artists, their stories and endeavors:

Jane Devin: One Writer No Address

Veronica McCabe Deschambault at Compost Studios

Art by Chrysti at The Altered Abbey on Etsy

Joanne Vanbezooyen, Designer

Check ‘em out!

I am encumbered by

“What-if?”

“What now?”

“What next?”

Eyes darting, arms outstretched,

I search for safety,

Grasp for what I know.

Keenly, I listen.

And hear each sound that ere was mere white noise.

Panic sets down roots and grows.

The fog of fear moves in,

Compressing my space,

My place,

In My world.

Denser. Thicker. Fed by confusion and alarm.

Until I realize

This fog is of my own creation.

I, unprotected, unaware, let it in.

I let it thrive,

Feeding it the dung another spewed and I empowered.

But no more.

Take back your shit.

Or let it rot and spoil the world in which you live.

I, from here forward, refuse

To let

You

In.

Or let you win.

Touché.

It is

It does

It will.

Change.

Choose your method or your means,

But not avoidance.

Impossible.

It’s inevitable,

Ironically immutable.

It IS.

Change.

Look here.

You’ll see it.

Epitome.

Female, feminine, defined, real.

Confident.

Strong.

Vibrant.

Brave.

All this,

And only at middle age.

Damn!

Watch.

Watch out.