Growing Up, Love

Permission

Pissarro Family Legend

We are allowed to love ourselves.

We are allowed to show up. We are allowed to take the compliment even when we fall short of our own standards.

We are allowed to determine the standards.

We are allowed to talk about how hard it is to love ourselves. We are allowed to enjoy our own simple company. We are allowed to release our grip. To revel in the small days. To have just one or two good friends.

We are allowed to think of our family, whatever its shape, as worthy of a crest.

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body, Fitness

Bouncing Back

streb fly 2
STREB/Ringside: Photo by Lois Greenfield

Maybe the talisman doesn’t save us after all. Maybe something suitable just happens to be within reach at the moment we need to be saved.

When it comes to rescue, coincidence can look a lot like fate.

Several months ago, I “threw my back out.” An uber-intense workout involving a particularly brutal instrument of torture called Jacob’s Ladder twinged something in my lumbar region. Within hours, pain immobilized me.

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activism, Take Action

Question in Action

speak the truth

If I hold a room the way the sparkling statue lady does tonight, book-touring her paleo-pedicure-CrossFit happy meal of neoliberal feminism, how will I use my voice?

I too could propitiate the gods of privilege. I might tug loose one rough thread of the story and call it struggle. Might forget to notice who inhabits the room. And the design of it. How thick the walls. Who cannot breach them.

Will I preen?

Or will I speak truth to power?

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Growing Up, Home

Plant Anyway

corn shucking.jpg

HeĀ  drops his backpack by the door and heads out. Whether the temperature hovers at freezing or rises to a swelter, he and his friends find each other. Sometimes I block the way and steer him back to his violin for a round of scales. The neighborhood kids bang on the door every three minutes, “Is he done yet?” They loop around the breezeway on bikes and scooters. A few come up barely past my knee. A few are already shaving. When he’s free, they all charge off down the hill, hollering ever-changing rules to an ever-evolving game that winds through this labyrinth of stairwells and parking lots.

I shut the door and head to the kitchen to rinse out the lunch containers.

Divorced at 37 and still single at 43, parenting a surly tween, stuck in the suburbs, jammed into a 5-story development abutting a freeway, and working a desk job for a paycheck that barely covers groceries while a white supremacist and a Russian oligarch run the White House.

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Children, Mindfulness, Parenting

Of Mice and Mornings

visitor for bear door

Little holes in the bag of rice gave it away. Three and half years living in this place, and here was the first sign of uninvited guests. On our next trip to town, we stopped at the hardware store for traps. Despite Bug’s insistence that we buy the $39 ultrasonic pest repeller, I opted for Tomcat traps. A four-pack for four bucks.

We smeared on peanut butter and tucked it into the cabinet corner. The next morning, we heard a snap. Big brown eyes, white fuzzy belly, limp broken body. “Oh, he’s so cute,” Bug said sadly. Into the weekday rush we crammed this death. We shrank it down to fit. School, work, a morning meeting and already late. I dumped the trap, mouse and all, into the garbage. Another dab of peanut butter on a clean trap, and off we hustled into our overfull day.

On the drive to school, regret hit hard.

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activism, Take Action, Uncategorized

Action 6: Read the Rules

rules_for_radicals

The most unethical of all means is the non-use of any means.

– Saul Alinsky, Rules for Radicals

At the end of January 2017, the chilling term “alternative facts” entered the public lexicon. For a brief moment, reading humans around the world collectively remembered a literary dystopia that looked uncomfortably prescient. George Orwell’s 1984 rose to renewed prominence in Amazon’s bestseller list.

Now in the first weeks of March, 1984 has fallen out of the top twenty. In its place, Portraits of Courage by another clown of a president for whom, at this moment, we would trade this entire administration plus vital organs and firstborn children to have back in office. Also up on the list? The Five Love Languages. In the midst of rising fascism, romance still drives the bus.

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Choices, Determination, Purpose, Writing

Treat Jar

Comedy

The professor wears plaid clogs.Ā  She strides into the conference room, bold black and gray swimming around feet sheathed in silver-threaded socks.Ā  I tell her I like her style.Ā  She tells me that every time she hits a professional milestone, she buys herself shoes.Ā  She can stand in her closet and scan the trajectory of her career: her first publication shoes, her first edited volume shoes.Ā  The plaid clogs?Ā  Tenure-track shoes.

“What’s next?” I ask.

“Full professor, going up next year.”

“Have you scoped out the shoes?”

She shakes her head.Ā  “Oh no, that would jinx it.”Ā  Then she grins.Ā  “Which is a total lie.Ā  There are these boots,” she sort of moans.Ā  “Boots and a whole new outfit to go with them.”

This concept mystifies me.Ā  One friend picks out a fancy purse for every promotion or raise.Ā  Coach, Kate Spade, Louis Vuitton.Ā  Another takes herself on a cruise.Ā  I clap along but something rankles.Ā  We’re dogs now?Ā  We get cookies for every well-timed wiggle?

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body, Fitness, Learning

Power Forward

shavanaas

I take a deep breath and add another 2-1/2 lb weight to either end of the chest press bar.Ā  These “graduation” days are bittersweet.Ā  Each crossing of a threshold puts the lie to the comforting narrative that I’m only so capable, only so strong.Ā  If I keep surpassing my own limits, I might start to believe that most of them are self-imposed.Ā  How in the world can I avoid living my full life under those conditions?


Image: Mary Ellen Mark’s Photograph of Shavanaas Begum, the Indian Circus Strongwoman, 1989