We take it all so literally. Let’s consider the story metaphorically, universally…

It’s iconic.

Ironic.

This repeated passion play.

I could prostrate myself,

Allow your scourge to freely flay.

It would not be enough.

You’d come back another day.

Angry.

I could struggle through the darkness

Of our shared Gethsemane,

Let you revile, defile, deny me.

It would not be enough.

You still would fail to see.

Resentful.

I could walk to Golgotha,

Accept your jabs and barbs,

Wear your crown of thorns.

It would not be enough.

You’d still want more.

Vengeful.

I could climb the mount to Calvary,

Hang there upon the crux,

Naked, mocked and doomed.

It would not be enough.

You’d rub salt in my wounds.

Righteous.

It’s useless, this processional, repeated passion play.

Then, Aha!

Perhaps the change to make’s not yours,

But mine.

Okay…

I’ll completely shift my focus.

Look inside.

My will be thine. ‡

*Footnote:  Here’s the thing… I let it, allowed it, chose it. Freely. Now that’s ironic.

A week in New York City with my daughters and I am rejuvenated.

A quick rundown:

•            Upon arrival at 6 Columbus, chilled champagne and a lovel note from The Good Husband
• Dinner at Landmarc at the Time-Warner Center
• Century 21 shopping
• Pre-theatre dinner at The Russian Tea Room
• Phantom of the Opera at The Majestic Theatre
• NBA Playoff game at The Coliseum Bar and Restaurant
• A morning in  Central Park
• The Natural History Museum
• Drinks in The Empire Hotel’s rooftop bar (Featured in Sex and the City 2)
• Pizza from Mariella’s (voted the best in America by Oprah’s Gayle King)
• Sex and the City 2… In Manhattan… On Opening Day… With My Girls!
• Lunch at Josephina’s
• The Metrolpolitan Museum of Art
• Dinner at Seraphina
• Battery Park during Fleet Week
• Wandering  Canal Street
• Tapas and Sangria with Tommy at Pipa
• Night cap at the newly-opened Penny Farthing
• Brunch at Sarabeth’s
• The Bloomingdale’s Memorial Day Sale
• FAO Schwartz (for the grandson :-) )
• Dylan’s Candy Bar (for the college grad :-) )
• Brunch at Le Paris
• The Guggenheim
• MoMa, aka  Museum of Modern Art
• Dinner at Blue Ribbon Sushi

The best part?

We three.

Together.

…And as I traversed that amazing city with my beautiful daughters, I had to consider Alicia Keys’ words in Jay Z’s song, “Empire State of Mind:”

In New York,

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,

There’s nothing you can’t do,

Now you’re in New York,

These streets will make you feel brand new,

The lights will inspire you,

Lets here it for New York, New York, New York!

We made memories to last a lifetime, we three… 

Look.

Look closely.

At HER.

She is Love

Is Lovely

Lovable

Perfect.

See?

Yes?

Lucky!

If not, Grieve.

Because that means

You haven’t the eyes

To see.

Travesty.

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.

I learned much of what I know from my 98-year old grandmother. First in her lap, and then in her kitchen and garden, I learned a lot. I heard words and songs, stories, prayers and poems from a woman to whom most sound remained elusive. Deaf from age eight, when chicken pox, measles, and scarlet fever joined forces to ravage her body and damage her auditory nerves, my Gram introduced me to both the wonder and the power of words. The relationship coalesced, and I’ve had a love affair with the written word ever since.

Outdoors, I learned the joy of working in tandem with the seasons, with the earth, with indeed, the universe.  I learned how to grow almost anything from seed or seedling, to compost, to harvest, to cook and preserve. Then Gram taught me how to conserve and re-build resources, to encourage and support the natural cycles of life. Later, when my life challenged me in ways never expected, I took refuge in the garden. The bounty of Gram’s lessons filled not only my pantry, but also my soul, repeatedly renewing my spirit. Through her actions and examples, I learned to open my heart and my mind, and to anticipate and embrace the promise of abundance and hope.

The lessons I learned in Gram’s vegetable plot and flower beds, the truths discovered in her orchard and kitchen, have carried me through lean times, both financial and emotional. I learned to have faith, to nurture patience and to see the unique wonder and beauty in every living thing. I learned to discover individual value and to look for the good and praise it. I learned to love without condition, accept despite disagreement, release judgment and anger, and to walk with my head held high. My gram taught me a lot.

She taught me how to fry the chicken everyone wants at a potluck, the secret to a good “biscuit hand,” and how to make the best vanilla ice cream and deep dark fudge. She taught me to play Aggravation and Scrabble and Kings in The Corners, and how to be gracious in victory and defeat. She taught how to baste and hem and sew a straight seam, keeping the stitches close and tight and the fabric pucker-free. She imparted the value of long, drawn-out suppers where conversation and love flow back and forth across the table just as surely as the tide rolls in and out. So many lessons. Blessed gifts.

Pondering all that Gram generously bestowed, I’m behooved to ask “What was of greatest value?” The answer is quick, pure and true. The best gift given, the most valuable lesson learned is the wonder of Love. Unconditional, unfettered, unabashed Love. Because she loved me so completely, I learned to love that way too. Lucky me.

Facing the latest in a long line of temporal assaults, my sweet Gram left the hospital yesterday for a physical rehab facility, following a fall and a broken hip. Always soft-spoken, non-judgmental, forgiving and accepting, Gram (also diagnosed with Alzheimer’s) has recently displayed some atypical characteristics. Pain, frustration and dementia pushed her to “damn” the physical therapist “to hell”  (!) when he made her walk just 24-hours after surgery.  With a wide smile and dancing eyes, the young PT who already calls Gram “Grandma,” said to my mom, “She’s the feistiest patient I have. She’s amazing us all.”

That’s my Gram ~ Amazing.

Always has been.

Love…

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.

I dreamed of you

So vividly

Before you breathed life here.

You came to me with firm belief

That you were mine, so dear.

When morning came, I lucidly

Considered your request,

And changed up my life’s plan

Right there,

Upon your righteousness.

Once committed, I prepared

To have you in my life,

Proceeding forth to welcome you

No fear, no doubt, no strife.

When you arrived,

Beloved!

I knew that we’d been right.

We salvaged joy, began new worlds,

Thanks to that fateful night.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday… Lucid, Righteous, Salvage

“Behind all this, some great happiness is hiding.”

~ Yehuda Amichai

In the midst of the trial,

The tunnel’s length and breadth

Swallowed up its ending light.

Or did our anger and our grief

Destroy that, too?

 In the dark, we clung

We to He

You to Me

Me to You

Fear of death

~ Worse yet ~

Fear of life like this

Stopped us in our tracks

And then

Pushed!

 Pushed us

To push back, push on, push through.

Stubborn will, paternal fight, future’s-sight

Love

Were all we knew.

And they grew

Until

Thanks to the process? … luck? … good will?

We found the happiness.

Always there. Never gone.

Hiding just behind,

All along.

I garden avidly.

When I was a child, my now 98-year old grandmother introduced me to the magic of coaxing food, medicine, scent, and sensation from seeds planted in the earth.

Gram lived a few blocks from my childhood home (in which my mom still lives) and I could walk to her place in minutes.  In my first book, A Desert Gardener’s Companion, I share a few of my happy-memory stories:

~ Gram supervised while I planted bulbs in her front bed to earn my Brownie Girl Scout Handbook.

~ I learned to double-dig alongside her in the vegetable plot of her half-acre garden.

~ All the girls in the family made jams and jellies from home-grown fruit in Gram’s tiny but efficient kitchen.

It was at the dining table in that same kitchen that I first perused stacks of seed catalogs with color-rich covers cradling packet descriptions and hundreds of  varieties possessing distinct and unique qualities. I loved those catalogs then, and I love them now.  But these days my favorite catalogs and companies are online.

I recently ordered seed from Botanical Interests, enticed by their Facebook page , our Twitter connection and their inspirational blog posts.

Botanical Interests is ”a family owned garden seed packet company specializing in dependable herb, flower, and vegetable varieties for the home gardener.” Always pleased with their products, I expect this year’s choices to perform just as well.

Bring Home The Butterflies,  Xeriscape Extreme and Perennial Bloom promise to be great additions to my newly-installed bird and butterfly garden. Just outside the massive bay of windows that define my work space, I’ve planted lots of seed- and berry-producing plants to entice the desert’s insect and avian creatures.

When interplanted with the Guara,  lavender, Loropetalum, Plumbago, Pyracantha, Salvia and others, I’m sure the nectar-producing florals these selections boast, along with the baby’s breath, Nasturtiums, Penstemon, and poppies, will be utterly adored.

And I will adore the creatures they attract.

I just hope the raptors

…and the coyotes

…and wild cats

mind their manners.

Bless the beasts…