Out there in the world we encounter all shades and shapes and flavors; and the variety might be tempting if one fails to recognize the value of what‘s right here…

Right here

In my heart

I know

I have all I need.

I have you.

Deep and dark and true

Intense, complex,

Sometimes tannic, sometimes sweet,

Layered, luscious, ambrosial, complete.

Sumptuous and scrumptious,

 Exceptional,

Delectable.

I take you

Into every inch of me.

~ Heaven ~

Hold on!

This passion, this obsession, this commitment to the “we “

Promises to be

Sensual, artisanal,

Synchronously bittersweet.

A love affair.

Or a box of chocolates.

*Both collages were made entirely of chocolate packaging and Sharpies©

Yesterday The Good Husband and I spent hours in the garden cleaning, preening, trimming and skimming. We wore our swimsuits and hopped in the pool to cool. Gentle breezes rustled mesquite beans from their branches and clouds spread themselves thinly between the bright desert sun and us. Rain would come. Lovely!

In the Mission Garden I ate several late strawberries, trimmed back the mint (I have more than a dozen varieties), and harvested a lovely cache of figs. FIGS! Now there’s a fruit that’s inspired lots of love. And is it ever revered. Historically, the fig tree’s been considered sacred in all parts of Southwestern Asia, Egypt, Greece, and Italy. And now, of course, in Tucson.

Pliny The Elder, the noted Roman writer and natural philosopher, said “Figs are restorative. They increase the strength of young people, preserve the elderly in better health and make them look younger with fewer wrinkles.”

Bring on the figs!

Figs symbolize abundance, fertility, sweetness. Like a ripe and ready, fecund woman. The most mentioned fruits in the bible, figs also played key roles in ancient tales of love and seduction. Not surprising. Figs are sexy. Consider the words used to describe figs… Fleshy, Luscious, Rosy, Satiny, Smooth, Succulent. You get the picture.

Figs. I love them. Have I made you think twice? If so, take a look at some of mine:

Inspiration:

The Fig

by Gabriela Mistral, as translated from the Spanish by Maria Jacketti

Touch me: it is softness of good satin, and when you open me, what an unexpected rose! Do you not remember some king’s black cloak under which a redness burned?

I bloom inside myself to enjoy myself with an inward gaze, scarcely for a week.

Afterward, the satin opens generously in a great fold of Congolese laughter.

Poets have not know the color of night, nor the figs of Palestine. We are both the most ancient blue, a passionate blue, richly concentrating itself because of its ardor.

I spill my pressed flowers into your hand. I create a deaf meadow for your pleasure. I shower you with the meadow’s bouquet until covering your feet. No. I keep the flowers tied – they make me itch; the resting rose also knows this sensation.

I am also the pulp of the Rose-of-Sharon, bruised.

Allow my praise to be made: I nourished the Greeks, and they have praised me less than Juno, who gave them nothing.

“Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it.” ~ Ella  Wheeler Wilcox, American Author & Poet

~ ω ~

I’ll take my bitter

In the form of bitter herbs

Soothe me, treat me;

My distress, curb.

Chamomile, arugula, wormwood, mint.

Each a cure,

Sublimely sent.

In a drink, yes, I think

Bitter can be grand.

Salty gin, tonic, lime~

Never bland.

I’ll take my bitter with a little dash of sweet.

Combined with love and honey, a real treat.

Grapefruit, lemon, sour grape, wine.

Divine

But I won’t take your bitter, spewed and splattered all about.

If you so choose to live,

Then you

I’ll live without.

And love from a distance.

“What’s the earth

With all it’s art, verse, music, worth–

Compared with love

found, gained, kept?”

~ Robert Browning

 Dear Robert,

You got it mostly right. This world ~ with all it’s art, verse, music ~ simply would not be, without love. Love is the root of adornment and adoration. Love is the reason for it all.

Love ~ found, gained, kept ~ is at the bottom of everything worthy of aspiration. Love is the aspiration.

Romantic love, friendly love, passionate love, familial love. Love of the creator. Love for fellow men. Love for loving’s sake.

I AM what I AM, you are what your are, we are who we are… in love, through love, by love, because of love.

Deny love - deny yourself.

Love. The opposite of fear. And we all know the only thing to fear is fear itself.

Think on that for a bit.

Yeah, yeah. I know the drill. Hands are the true indicator of a woman’s age.

But let’s get serious…

These Hands

Among other things

Have raised

Babies

Vegetables

Spirits

And Hell

Why wouldn’t I love them?

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.

All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.

Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone.

Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source.”

~ Leo Tolstoy

Dear Leo,

Did you know that  I’m a Leo, too? Yep.  Born on August second. Smack dab in the middle of The Leo Zone. I am FULL of Leo-glow… strong, creative and enthusiastic, open-minded, faithful and loving. I’m a little bit dramatic, like to make an entrance, and want to leave an impression.

I can be dogmatic, pompous, and am sometimes patronizing. I’ve been called stubborn and opinionated, and overly idealistic. Although I hate to admit it, I’m a little vain. And I must be boastful since, on occasion, I really do think “It is good to be queen,” while secretly yearning for a ruby-studded tiara. I am uncomplicated. I have few secrets. What you see is what you get.

How is it that I am aware of all these things? How do I so thoroughly understand my assets, flaws and foibles? Simple. You, Mr. Tolstoy were right. We only understand when we are willing to love, and I have learned to love. I’ve benefited from  exceptional living examples, numerous historic role models, and a lover and friend who loves me unconditionally. I have learned to love. Not all of us do. How lucky am I? I live love, give love, take love, make love. I AM love.  I live. I breathe. I love.

So thank you, Leo, for so famously putting into words what is certainly the universe’s driving force and eternal truth. But I have to say, you and I are also alike in our verbosity. John Lennon put all that in a nutshell. And then in a song. Using only 5 words. “All you need is love.”

And there you have it.

Love to you, Leo!

        ~ Aristotle

Dear Ari,

 When you’re right, you’re right.

 Love, Kim

 ~ CHOOSE ~

~ ? ~

Choose to be happy

To depend on yourself

To find joy by the end of each day.

~

Choose to be honest

To live only the truth

No regrets; ne’er deceive or betray.

~

Choose to be valiant

To look fear in the face

Straighten shoulders; lift your chin and love.

~

Choose to be brilliant

To let your light so shine

That the Gods seek you out, from above.

~

This

Is to live.

Choose.

~ ? ~

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.