I get's it from my Mummah, and her Mummah (in-law) and her...

So...

Once upon a time ...I had a friend. A good friend. A friend who I loveded. He was sweet, sugar-pie sweet even. We had simple lives. Well, not really, but we were young(ish). I like to think we still are.

We game-played. Talked about life when you could do so from afar. When talking about life didn't need to occur in a scheduled sort of way. When life just went on or stopped, but it didn't matter cause you were still broke-ish and happy-ish. I think I was having a bohemian phase. I wear pearls now #deadedthat.

Anyway, yes. Friend. We shit-shot. Talked about love in that sappy sense, in the real sense. I made up a story about how my grandmother viewed love. It was really only half made up now that I think about it. And I learned it more through my cousin than through Nana. And heard it most (or internalized it through my very hard/very large head) only recently.

Love someone who loves you more than you love them.

So, you're reading this and headnodding. Perhaps you are on that #teamWTF status. It's cool. I'm there, in both places too.

But here is the story:

I advise said friend re: Nana's knowledge. He coos, coolly. I continue:

Well, my Nana used to say, if she could do it again, she'd let her heart choose someone who loved her more than she loved him.//Someone who didn't mind that she cursed like an unpolite sailor.// Who didn't find irony in that she was too educated (for a woman)// that she carried herself regally.// She had too little patience and too many kids.// She would choose this time to devote herself to a man unlike the man who became my grandfather.//She would let this man, this man that may or may not exist// love her profoundly, deeply, rushedly sometimes.// Maybe he'd be uneasily distracted. Too deep.// He'd be strong, stronger than her and his love would show up needingly.//

Crazy, right? Well, I continued:

He'd be a different man from Papa.//Perhaps none of us would be here because of it.// She wouldn't regret what she didn't know.// The lost devotion to a man less hungry than she needed him to be.// The lost pain of expectation that never occurred.// Or occurred infrequently at best.// The lost pain of being too tall, or too polite, or too everything, because at any given moment she was all of those things, and at any given moment,// she was not enough at all.


And so, I shared with my sweet friend with the soft heart and the sharp wit. If you fall in love, or walk, or tread into it, love someone who listens hungrily to your stories, even if they make her sad. Love someone who bends her ear and her back to your humor, even if, at times, she realizes the underlying pain your brand of humor embellishes. Love the woman who holds the razor as you shave your face clean as a young boy, even though she'll likely love your face older, more masculine, telling of your place as a man. And read from her actions as you can, what you can, when you can.

As for me, I want to grow older. Have few facial lines that aren't from laughter or sun. Maintain my posture. I want to smile at my child when I can. Chase her when I need to. Sometimes I'll curse. Sometimes I'll admit, I have too much education, too much pride, too little patience with people that aren't inclined to jazz, or heels, or incense.

And I want/like to love a man to be loved by a man who puts up with this crazy shit anyway. My long winded stories. My overdone posture. My over the top recollections of my childhood, my Mama, my tall-tales and low ones. My overdone overdoneness. Love my everything. Hungrily so.

I thank my mummah, my nana, and the divine for all this crazy shit, this good and bad fortune, this capacity to question, all of it.

Question: Do I have that kind of love? Am I like my own Nana in that I'd choose otherwise?

#hmmm.

xo,

D

Confined Body I (and 3/4ths) #imjustsayin

We went to NJ for the holiday (July 4th) weekend. It was fun, particularly the NY portion.

I lived in NYC for a few years, and found that it was the onliest place I have ever truly felt at home. And if you've seen me report otherwise, I was lying.

No drama here, #justsayin... race is real, the mental anguish of it is too. Being asked every day for much of my life what/who I am, to being asked a host of other ridiculous questions, none of which question my ethnicity, was like a gritty 3 year vacation. One filled with shiny and/or loose teeth, dark and/or light skin, men and/or women (yes) just wanting to flirt, to have conversation, to... well, spit ridiculous game.

And I miss that.

Sometimes, when I look around... ok, dramatic moment, I actually don't look around anymore. I just hold my head up as if I am, I position my eyes (sometimes) as if I'm making eye contact, I walk around "being" like it's ok being the only brown/beige/black person in many of my meetings, in the commuter rail ride to my suburban paradise, in the local public library, in my saditty hangouts.

It's decently lonely; a privileged lonesomeness I've earned with my degrees, and my telephonic prefix. Our polished ruralistic main street. Our emotional and physical distance from here to there.

I guess I could go to the hood. And do. I do so once a week, barely fitting in. Barely able to retrace the streets I walked once I lived with my grandmother, mostly because I don't remember them; I was, now, recalling in my adulthood, not allowed to wander/wonder. I know those streets from her 17th story vantage point.

I damn near didn't go outside for 8 years, ages 9-17.

And sometimes, even now, I still ain't outside. Still am not wandering or wondering. Still haven't gotten back to the steady gait I had in a City that does in fact sleep, and where brother/sisterhood does in fact cat-call, and in a place where sometimes you like that shit.

And I guess I'm admitting it now: I miss that shit. That place. That grit.

From my lonely-ish piece of privilege.

Confined Body I.

I went to prison on Thursday.

Yes, really to prison. A close friend of mine (Hi Tivka!) and her awesome guide-dog connected me with an awesome program that supports future service dogs for returning and injured military veterans with significant needs that can be supported by these dogs.

Which is where prison comes in to play.

Certain inmates, largely those who are incarcerated for life raise these puppies. WTF I'm sure most are thinking. But the business model is a smart one. The human service model perhaps is smarter.

In this prison, the inmates are all women. Based on a number of the stats, most have suffered some pretty horrific events early on in their lives: survivors of child abuse, sexual abuse, or domestic violence; one or both parents have a mental illness, they themselves have a mental illness. They've committed crimes (many have anyway). Some made criminal mistakes. Some don't know what they've done in that I can think and process it kind of way.

And some were undergoing severe detoxification during our time in the prison. We didn't get to see them for obvious reasons.

But there were dogs. Little black puppy dogs. Medium size golden labs. Tivka's lab/poodle mix. Me. Others interested in this program. Hope was present too. Eager and hungry hope.

So we sat in on this program. Were served cookies. Cried a little. Listened to survivors who are also lifers talk about how their lives were changed by being able to give back. To raise the puppies.

We walked the campus of the prison on the tour. I met and shielded my eyes from women; some who wanted to be ignored (I think), some who were oblivious to me (I think), some who were so vulnerable due to their diagnoses that the prison was both the safest place for them and the most dangerous of all.

I tried not to hyperventilate. I over-thought my foolish outfit of shiny beige heels and knee-length skirt. My posture was nearing defeat. I was aware of eyes. Of closed in spaces. Of TVs, everywhere. I've never (ever) seen so much plexiglass.

But there were dogs. And women. And some smiled. And some women had pallor return to their cheeks. One testified smilingly "That dog, she's my old lady." And some didn't say shit. And why should they?

And before I turn you loose reader, friend, auntie-cousin someone residing somewhere... before you wonder at the audacity of confining a dog to a prison, or worse, a team of dogs who'll learn to lead and to help and to aid a person injured in combat, or on base, or pre-deployment, scroll up. Look at that list of atrocities these women have faced, have endured, have suffered themselves to. And ask yourself, really ask yourself, how many have you faced? Homelessness. Assault? Go ahead, scroll up. I myself have counted at least three out of six.

But I the one in the silly tan heels. The one working at the health department. The one blogging about it on a Mac. The one with the space to think it through, to wonder at my privilege. To think how close I am to being in, than out.

A close friend calls it survivors guilt. Some may read it otherwise. I don't know.

Perhaps.

Motivation: quiet, loud, guilty, and other.

I am really working the whole procrastinating thing today. Working as in neglecting to do, working as in putting off, working as in revising my to-do list instead of doing my to-do list.

I haven't felt guilty about it until I've put pen to paper (which, to be honest, I'm not really doing that either), so I've really not completely felt even a modest amount of guilt until right about... now. Hollow keys, hollow sound, undone work.

#HMPH

I like to think there is a sort of scale where intention to act, action, and continued action/completion are clearly delineated, that every intention to act gets you closer to doing the thing you said you'd do. That the itching, inkling, almosting thing is really work. We can call this quiet motivation. It's really the polar opposite of procrastination, though they look remarkably similar.

Loud motivation is like my kid, or a thunderstorm, perhaps both. I woke up at 5:15 this morning. I had NO motivation to do so. Thunder decided it was time for that. So I woke up, but I woke up in that way that really mirrors sleep in that my eyes were closed, the covers were over my head, and the curtains were as taut as a young drum. My child then woke up. Enter loud motivation: I DONT LIKE THUNDER MUMMAH. I NEED AN OUTFIT MUMMAH. Thunder had much to say too. Think of the scale, mentioned previously, loud motivation is an element of that scale too, moving you perhaps not from motivation to act, to action, but from each section of the scale (and backwards too) depending upon your own predisposition to loudness.

Guilty motivation is an ever-constant non-companion. I have it various points of the day, the hour, the month. It supports me looking for a higher salaried job, it causes me to think about how often or infrequent I see my Mom. It likes to do that part most. And I haven't seen her in weeks. Given that I'm not sure where I'm at in my motivation to act/action grid. Perhaps I'm under it.

Which leads me to the other type of motivation: hungry.

I have been known to be a hungry person, both with regard to what I eat (I get away with caloric murder to not be at least now, morbidly obese) with regard to books (I ate the story of HELA in less than 2 days) and with cultural stuff... I won't detail my curiosity about what folks do around the world with their own placentas, but I could.

Hungry motivation, at least mine, is thoughtless, reckless and thoughtful. It is full of want and need, and can be quiet guilty and loud. But it infrequently turns off, and reluctantly goes to bed. It's a major part of who I am...

It's my greatest burden, and biggest too. But definitely greatest.I'm hungry as hell. And that means something. But back to neglecting my to do list. And time to see Mummi. Some other stuff too. Time to walk the grid/plank/whatever it is.

D

A quieting and disquieting thought; all at once.

In the middle of balancing my budget (particularly foliowing this latest ended affair as a career grad student) I've realized I need to make some necessary reductions. Some are clearly trickier than others: think grande soy-lattes and weekly hair appointments. They're simply NOT going anywhere... and neither are certain other costs: that of my daughter's and my mother's long-term care (education or otherwise).

Fortunately I'm only 2 or so years away from my daughters astounding-but-worth-it daycare (think college) tuition bills being greatly reduced (suburban public pk2, here we come), that is should we not give her the baby sister she's been requesting, but I realize given my parents age, and the urbane gruffness of their lives, some costs will only rise in time. Largely that of my mom's long term care. It sounds, perhaps cold to think of it that way, but I'll admit, I do, and I have for a very long time. It is expensive, will get expensive, and like my daughter's care, will always be more than worth it.

I perhaps am thinking of it most at this time, as a very close friend of mine lost his own parent abruptly. Like my own mom, his parent too had a long term and chronic mental health diagnosis. His parent (dad) was in the care of family. He was loved, beloved even. And like I've made mention to in previous blog posts, persons with more serious and largely less stable mental health diagnoses, tend to lose their lives sooner, by nearly 25 or so years. Unfortunately, this week, his dad became part of that number.

And while I sit here, nearly numb from how sudden the loss is of this dear and sweet soul (and his is a profound spirit), I also think of the woman, my mother, who raised me as best she could, and whose eyes mirror my own, and whom my daughter looks too for silly talk and kooky knit hats, one day needing more of me than she needs now, or worse, one day not being here to need me at all. And while it doesn't scare me per se, its a quieting and disquieting thought all at once. An inevitable and dis/quieting thought.

And I'll plan for it, and I'll hope for it not to come, but it will just the same.

Dry spell. Don't laugh. Or do. But read.

I think with my recent graduation, and with the enormous heartsong of a card my father gave me, and a coming of age/coming to terms with that relationship, I essentially ran out of words for a few days.

I realize that's fine, and we can/should learn to live and be in happiness however quiet or resounding it is, but this silence has made me feel more uneasy, more questioning, more moreness. And I'm a little-too-much most days as is.

I've been thinking about what true-value this blog brings to folks who read it, folks who know me, and, based on analytics the folks who read and don't know me in Alaska, in Iran (hi friends), those referred from Facebook, from LinkedIn (hi future employers and colleagues).

I have been wondering how and if it is OK that I'm unsure if and how my brand of caregiving fits what folks may remember caregiving looking like, months ago, years ago. Some of my caregiving ends with the last four digits of my social, some of its in urgent-care centers, most of it is on weekends, and in late night phone calls. Some of it will always and only be in my heart.

I remember conversations with my now 92 year old (feisty and cussy) grandmother. Caregiving for her as a nurse was round-the-clock, tiresome. It threatened to grove her even-now perfect skin in sockets, deepen her already deep set eyes. Caregiving for family was even more tiresome, though she never called it that, it was simply, a duty.

I wonder how much it is for me. I'll admit, I don't know about that. It's more magnetic, puling and pushing me at the same time.
And I wonder, for my readers, for my Facebook friends and Family (hi Pauls and Prasads) if that is also ok, in the this is legitimate sense, this is not burdensome of a read sense, and in a this is helpful sense.

I think that's the point.
I'm getting there.

Ultimately, however, I've been thinking, and I'll likely keep doing so.
In the interim, I'll be caregiving, which today looks like ordering fresh edamame Mummi will turn her nose up to.
I'll be coordinating the delivery. Emailing my father to support him in her care. I will be worrying too, but I don't clock those hours.

Profound to me.

The truth about caregiving...

Sike.

I have no truth. I have a short-story though.

I've been semi-battling with the legitimacy of this being a true caregiver blog in that:
1. Mummi doesn't live here
2. I write almost extensively about me/our past/my kid and her
3. some other shit too.

And I've not come to some meaningful and communicable point about where I stand with that, or if it is a true issue and not a created one...

#hmph

I'ma let this be my boring post for the weekend. Brief too. Unless I think of something else.

#ImFried
#Iwont.

-D