My Doula Identity Crisis

For a number of reasons, I'm toying with not recertifying with DONA International next year. (The reasons are best left to a different post.) When considering my options for a new certifying organization, an interesting thought crossed my mind: why recertify at all?

Think about it. Doulas are not medical professionals; there is no such thing as "practicing labor support without a license." It doesn't take a sheet of paper and a nametag to offer holistic pregnancy and labor support. It takes training, knowledge, and most of all, a committment to your cause.

Your cause. And what is my cause? This whole inner dialogue, do I recertify or not, has driven me into a sort of Doula Identity Crisis.

Credentials or not, I am a Doula. I have always been one, and while I haven't always attended births (or, for that matter, attached that term to what I do), I have always played the Supporting Role in whatever challenge my friends and acquaintances are facing. Learning this about myself has given me the opportunity to playfully attach the term to many aspects of my life. Listening to a friend work through issues with her partner? Relationship Doula. Volunteering at Transformus' Sanctuary? Burn Doula. My partner mentioned his fire department's auxiliary. What I heard? Fire Doulas.

What we've come to forget - strangely enough - is that doulas have been attending births long before it was a paid profession. In fact we hear this history when we attend the trainings: women have been assisting women through childbirth for probably as long as childbirth has existed. Many mammals (i.e., elephants!) doula each other through labor. We know this, and yet we have allowed "those who are doulas" to be separated from "those who are not doulas" by a mess of paperwork, fees, and credentials. Even my local professional association of doulas separates certified doulas from non-certified doulas with the categories Certified Doulas and Trained Doulas Working Toward Certification.

Which leads me to ask again, What The Hell Are We Doing?

There must have been something in the air, because right as I started questioning this whole notion that "doulas are paid professionals with credentials," Miriam Perez penned an article on this very topic. She muses:

I think doula work is valuable and important, and I also don’t believe the essence of doula work—non-judgmental and unconditional support for pregnant and parenting people—needs to be locked away in a system that says only a certain amount of training, certificates, or other paperwork bestows upon someone the right to provide this support. We run the risk of replicating the model we’re trying to revolutionize. And I don’t think that is where real social change happens.

Let me pause for a moment and say that, had it not been for my training and push towards credentialing, I would not harbor the knowledge and skills I have today. I see the need for these trained and certified doulas that charge for their services, and I hope to remain one of them for a very long time. The work is invaluable, and charging for services rightfully reimburses us for the hours upon hours spent with someone's family (read: away from ours). It also helps to set a standard of practice so that families know what to expect - and not expect - from a prospective doula.

But as Perez rightly notes, we could be defeating our cause by over-stressing the importance of these things.

Last month, this piece sparked some heated discussion on my Facebook feed. On the one hand, I agree with the author that valuing our work and not selling ourselves short is important. On the other, her point completely ignores the vast number of families who should not be denied trained labor support simply because they cannot front a $500-$1000+ payment to someone who, let's face it, isn't exactly a mandatory part of the birthing process. This population, the under-served and often less educated, needs doula services the most. They are more likely to lack a constant support person throughout the process. They are more likely to be "rushed through the machine" of the hospital system. They are less likely to feel positive about their experiences. They need doulas, and anyone who says I'm "cheapening the profession" by volunteering my time to help someone have the birth they want needs to reassess the reasons they became a doula in the first place.

Fast forward to today. I have a client with one of the more medical physicians practices in this city. They've scheduled an induction for Monday, four days after her estimated due date, because "baby is measuring big." After venting about the obvious issues to a friend, I found myself thinking, "I just need to stop taking clients with this practice."

Woah woah woah woah. What am I saying?

Suppose for a moment I wasn't her doula simply because of who her doctor is. And say all other doulas felt the same way. This mama would still be induced on Monday, but I wouldn't be there to support her through it. No one would, and with a practice like this, it's these women that need my support most.

I'm envious of the doulas who "only attend home births" or "only work with patients of midwives." They are helping to support a certain portion of the population that deserves a doula as much as anyone, and I'm not saying their work as doulas is less important (far from it). However, if their goal is to only work with care providers that are already extra supportive of natural chlidbirth, then I can only imagine their mission differs from mine.

Thing is, I get it. I love working with the midwives, not worrying about contradicting a care provider's advice, not having to hide granola bars under hospital gowns, avoiding unnecessary interventions, etc. I'm excited to have two clients next month who are having water births.

But my mission is to help every person have a supported and satisfying birth. For everyone experiencing abortion or miscarriage to be validated and supported throughout the process. For all my friends and people I care about to have a non-judgmental ear, to have their backs rubbed when they need it, to be reminded to just simply take care of themselves. I'm not doing that if I'm limiting the population I'm willing to work with, and I'm certainly not doing that if I'm more concerned with my credentials and fee schedule than I am my ability to simply be there.

I have a lot to think about over the next year when my DONA certification expires. Do I want to certify with another organization? Let it go and work without cert? Does it even matter? I'm not entirely sure. What I am sure of is this: if I look at myself in the mirror and can say with confidence, "I am a Doula," I know I'm on the right track.

...and then I was Home.

I just re-read my 2011 Farewell Letter. It's airy, idealistic, and ambiguous. Mostly because that's how things felt at last year's end. I had no idea how 2012 would go, but I was privileged to begin it with the person I hoped to spend it with. And I did. And things have gone from ambiguous to concrete, which is in and of itself a wonderful thing, if not far more boring than the flighty idealism that I began the year with.

My partner and I are in a good place. We've made some huge changes in our lives, strengthened our commitment to one another, and navigated past some fairly complicated road blocks. More on that later.

I've continued healing from my past relationship, locating my baggage and acknowledging that I will probably carry it for years. I've learned to let go of the fact that I cannot be the one to tell him what I think he needs to hear. While I was never perfect, I am not a bad person. Let me be clear that he didn't actively seek to make me feel like one, but for the length of our relationship, that is what he did to me. Learning these things about him, through hours and hours of therapeutic processing, has in and of itself allowed me to let him go for good. If that means we're not friends anymore, it means we're not friends anymore. But I cannot be responsible for him, his actions, or the way he treated me. As I'm often so fond of saying, shit ain't mine.

A major thing I've learned this year may surprise some: I realized I am far too agreeable. That's probably a funny thought for anyone who knows me politically, but for those acquainted with my personal life, it should make perfect sense. So this year has been about beginning a new pattern, where I speak up if something is bothering me, not worry about inconveniencing someone if it's a reasonable request, and just generally be more honest about what I want and need in life. Again, those who only know me as the raving feminist with all the crazy opinions will read this and ask how on earth they're going to deal with me being even less agreeable, but that's not the arena of my life that's needed work.

But the biggest event in my life involves finding myself and where I belong. Looking around my house this morning, I realized it feels more like Home than it ever has.

There's something profound about the word Home. To many, home is merely a place you keep your  things and sleep at night. But they're wrong. What makes Home different from your house is simple: how does it make you feel?

At Home, we are at ease. We find comfort, solace, and pure acceptance for who we are. By definition, an enormous portion of the population is Homeless. By definition, I've been Homeless for years.

You'd think my lack of Home during my relationship with C would have tipped me off. But we're good at kidding ourselves, of creating the illusion of Home as a matter of survival. And I don't blame myself for refusing to see the truth; leaving is complicated. I guess I should give C a break on that one... abandonment was indeed the easier path.

But back to Home. It happened so organically. Almost as if it was fate. It's cliche in a way, but it's true. Going from Homeless to just happily rootless in 2011 has given way to my 2012, where I discovered how profoundly I fit in in spaces I did not even know existed. I've made new friends that immediately accepted me as I am, and I them. My old friends feel closer, golden with years of memories combined with my newly-found comfort to be open about everything I am and want.

My life continues to transition, as I hope it always does, but my roots are stronger, clearer, and more defined. Upheaval is met with more confidence, uncertainty with courage and calculated steps forward. My head is clearer, I know what I want most of the time, and I'm trying to be better at achieving it. Large-scale life changes no longer frighten me or pull me into a cycle of complete panic and anxiety. And if nothing else, I know any level of crazy I need to pull out will be met with love, compassion, and support.

I am Home.

Prescribed Addiction

I'll preface by saying that the following is not meant to diminish the experiences of those who have dealt with (and perhaps overcome) addiction to recreational substances. I recognize that my prescription drug is a) legal, b) easy to obtain, c) fairly cheap, and d) not likely to land me in legal trouble any time soon. But seeing how it is as close as I'll hopefully ever come to feeling "like an addict," I believe my experience with Paxil is one that deserves to be spoken about.

I started taking Paxil a little over 12 years ago. What was going on in my life: I was sixteen, looking towards beginning my junior year at an expensive private high school in Atlanta's ritzier neighborhood. Death had encompassed my life over the previous year as I dealt with the passing of five people close to me: three elderly family members, one suicide by a queer teenaged friend, and a close relative of my best friend that died suddenly and unexpectedly at a young age. While I did not personally know the latter, his was the one that hit me hardest. He was young, barely into college the way I remember it. He had an undiagnosed heart condition that had never caused him any trouble until he was just... gone. Young people dying suddenly and without notice. That was scary for me.

The panic attacks became so regular that my life was on hold. I could not so much as stand up out of bed without the crippling feeling like my heart was going to give out. But really... why would it have? I was a dancer, one of the most active kids in my peer group. I was healthy, ate well, had no family history of congenital organ defects. But people who suffer from panic disorder are irrational by definition.

So my parents did what was likely the only thing to get me back on my feet before school started back up: took me to a shrink who would give me pills. After all, legitimate panic disorder manifests as a true chemical imbalance (shut up Tom Cruise, you're an idiot), so drug therapy was surely the proper treatment.

It worked so miraculously that we all but forgot to look for the underlying cause of the imbalance. I understand now that chemical imbalances rarely "just happen" and that drug therapy is best used as a temporary solution in conjunction with whatever will get to the heart of it all. Of course my teenaged self wasn't about to ask questions. After all, I was one of many sixteen year olds on SSRIs. In 2000, it had become as normal as teen angst, and all I had to do was take a pill. Take a pill, feel normal, repeat.

After a decade of this, I started thinking about my reproductive future. Paxil is not safe to take during pregnancy, and I would not will the risk of heart anomalies on a future child. So I'm in therapy (the kind with a person who doesn't have prescription privileges), working on whatever it is I think I should be working on. Hopefully I'll go off the drug one day, but past attempts have not fared well.

Anyway, Paxil is known for its withdrawal symptoms. I've had quite a few experiences with this. I forget to get my prescription refilled before the pharmacy closes, and so I have to wait until morning. Those nights are hell. I had one last night.

These are the moments that make me feel like a drug addict, where I feel as though I can sympathize - if only mildly - with people who have battled addictions themselves. I woke up a number of times overnight after having vivid nightmares. Cold sweat. Hot but freezing. Mouth dry. Sheets below me damp with perspiration, dizzy and emotional. These are not the symptoms of panic disorder itself as the drug manufacturers would like you to believe; this is drug withdrawal.

That this kind of thing can result from a legal drug, one that is prescribed to millions with promises of "normalcy" while innocuous substances like marijuana carry severe life-ruining consequences, is beyond my comprehension. My psychiatrist is a drug peddler, pure and simple. He requires one appointment every two years to continue refilling your prescription. The last one was immediately after my husband left me. In our 20 minute phone conversation, the only real advice he offered was to up my dose from 20mg/day to 30mg/day. (I did not ever do this... my marriage was ending, I wasn't supposed to feel normal.) The Klonopin he also prescribed proved a beneficial bandage as well, but I've learned that this man's job is not to fix but to drug.

And such is the problem with our society's treatment of mental illness. We assume these things "just happen," so just take this drug, don't worry about it, you don't need to look inward to find answers. Or rather, we don't have the time to soul-search for their roots. Drugging is easier, it's cheaper, and it's not at all time consuming. My current therapy is definitely not easy. It's not cheap. It takes time. I'm privileged to have the ability to do it, and in the long run it will be way less expensive than whatever health problems I'll experience from the decade plus of Paxil exposure. But again... we're not a society set up to prioritize those kinds of holistic self-care practices.

So we drug. And drug. And drug some more.

The Waiters

So this came to my attention today.

Okay, for the record, being sex positive means not judging people for their sexual tastes and practices. And that includes not judging folks who, how to put this, "wait" until they're married to do the deed. I certainly don't judge the author of the above article for his relationship choices, despite the fact that he probably thinks I do. Don't get me wrong, I think it's a way outdated concept riddled with oppressive societal norms, but as a friend of mine likes to say, "If abstinence is your fetish, who am I to judge?"

The issue I have with "The Waiters" is that they're so fucking high and mighty about it. They think that the rest of us - the slutty promiscuous sinners who surely will never find true happiness because we just "give it away" to anything that moves - actually want the same things but just don't have the strength or moral integrity to "do things right."

WHICH IS PATHETIC. It's a dream world. I never harbored some uber-sanctified idea of my "virginity." I don't believe "virginity" is even a real physiological state; to me, it's a social construct kept locked up behind a facade of bunk science and poor understanding of reproductive anatomy. And again, if you want to place value on the concept of virginity, then by all means. That's your business. But don't start pulling information from a 19th century textbook to tell me that all women bleed like a slaughtered pig the first time they have intercourse.

So no, I never saw much value in waiting until marriage, in the concept of my supposed "virginity." Does that mean I don't respect myself or my body? Have poor self esteem? Need to "give it up" to keep a man around? Hardly. Let's look at the facts: I have never had sex with someone because I needed to be validated. The only time I've ever had sex under any kind of pressure that surpassed my own autonomy was in a bad relationship that needed to end (a married relationship, at that).

Bad relationship drama aside, I have remained very sexually autonomous in a world that would love to see me otherwise. To start, I was very well educated, mostly by my private (but not religious) school which actually taught comprehensive sex education. The first time I had sex, I was just a few days shy of 17. My boyfriend and I talked it over, we evolved to a place where becoming sexual with one another was something we were both comfortable with, and oh yeah, WE USED PROTECTION. And you know what? I don't regret a thing.

I understand that I'm treading into becoming high and mighty myself, so I want to interject here that I am not trying victim blame. I understand that sexual relationships are far too often entered into for unhealthy reasons, and I believe good, moral people fall into the traps set by a system of inequality between the sexes. So let me say this: anyone who manipulates someone else into having sex with them is a stain upon the wonderful world of human sexuality. The people who fall for it are generally socialized to do so by a system of capitalist patriarchy, which teaches us (particularly those of us with girl parts) that sex is a commodity to be bought and sold while simultaneously shaming us for taking part in it. (Consequently, this is the same system that the aforementioned author likely aligns himself with... food for thought.)

But back to the article. "Oh, we're so much better than that woman who's husband is sleeping it off because we actually feel different today!" You ever stop to think that maybe that couple doesn't want your life? That they don't want your marriage? That they simply didn't perceive their wedding to be this sudden, life-altering event, but rather a wonderful milestone in an already-evolving relationship?

Naw, they wanted to wait, to not live together first. They just fell to temptation. They're weak. Their morals are in shambles. Your way is so much better.

Fuck your understanding of morals. Morality isn't something you abide by just because some centuries-old book tells you to. Morality is something you have internalized for yourself, and even if it does come from a religious influence, you've still internalized it for personal reasons. I'm a very moral person, but for a number of reasons I could never internalize the kind of morality that your religion pushes. However, I do have extremely clear guidelines for how I handle everything from conflict to sexuality, and I very rarely waiver on any of it. One of my favorite morals is non-judgment. As I've said, I don't judge The Waiters. That's their business. But I have a very clear moral duty to call them out on their bullshit when I see them doing harm by passing moral judgment on others.

"Oh, but marriage is just the way to go." Right, because sexual relationships are always great if you're married. People never use sex to manipulate their partners in a marriage. A married man never rapes or sexually assaults his wife. All relationship problems would just magically be solved if everyone would just get married.

Whatever. I hope he and his wife enjoy a long and happy life in whatever alternate reality they currently reside in.

Enough ranting and cursing for now... Jezebel makes it better with all the hilarious GIFs.

A Letter To The Guy Who Catcalled Me In Front Of The Harris Teeter

Or, A Day In The Life Of A Female Body Living Under Patriarchy

Dear Potential Rapist,

You watched me approach the store entrance while lighting your cigarette. I made eye contact with you and possibly ventured a smile, something my Southern nature tells me to do when passing by even the strangest of strangers. You clearly took that as an invitation, nodding, raising your eyebrows, and saying something to the effect of, "Hey there you lil' gorgeous thing, what you lookin' for this afternoon? A good time?"

I wanted to turn to you and respond that I was lookin' to buy some groceries so my partner and I can eat tonight. Tell you that my polite nature is not an invitation to harass me. Then I wanted to ask what you thought would come of it. Did you think I would jump into your car with you? Have mad anonymous sex with you because you're clearly just that hot? Or does harassing random women do enough for you? Does it make you feel like a big man, worthy of respect in a society that offers you little based on your race and socio-economic status?

But I said none of these things. Instead I averted my eyes, dropped my gaze, and hurried into the store where my every move would be caught on security camera.

See, I'm a pretty strong person. I generally stand up for myself and others without blinking an eye. I regularly assist women through long labors without hardly sitting down, let alone sleeping. I have held my own in arguments on complex and controversial topics ranging from abortion, queer lib, rape culture, etc. I've even used my body as a human shield between abortion patients and groups of people who very possibly want me dead.

But you forced upon me the kind of vulnerability from which even the strongest of women are so often unable to recover. As much as I would have loved to turn around and tell you what's what, the threat of further verbal - or worse, physical - harassment turned me into little more than a timid schoolgirl, and I was silenced. So if that was indeed your goal, congratulations.

When I exited the store, you were still there.  My heart skipped a beat as you stood up from the bench where you had apparently been sitting, waiting. A thousand different thoughts flew through my head at once: would someone really attack a woman in broad daylight, and if so, would bystanders respond? Do I remember the defensive maneuvers I learned in RAD almost a decade ago? Could I take you myself, or will I need to scream for help? And finally, I wish I was wearing better shoes. 

I then considered my knee-length skirt and form-fitting tank top and wondered if your good-for-nothing defense attorney would be able to argue that I was asking for it. Imagined the people who would question why I made eye contact with you in the first place. Recalled every last email my mom has sent me with tips for avoiding an attack. Wished I hadn't scoffed at them.

I walked across the shopping center faster than usual, covertly using storefront windows to see if you were following me (a trick most of us have learned by necessity). You weren't there, but I only breathed a sigh of relief when I got into my car, closed the door, and immediately locked it like I always do.

In a way, I think I should thank you for not letting me go a day without a stark reminder that rape culture exists. This wasn't the first time this has happened to me, and it won't be the last. Young women aren't taught that these things might happen to them... we're taught that they will. And it's a survival mechanism, a societal bandaid that helps us prepare for and avoid potential attacks without ever really asking why these things happen in the first place.

But let me not pass judgment. It's quite possible you've never truly raped a woman in your life; your predatory activities could very well begin and end with street harassment. But I (and whoever else you've catcalled) don't know that. To us, you and all men are potential rapists, and your decision to make unsolicited comments about my being a "gorgeous little thing" doesn't exactly help your case.

See, you may never have stopped to consider how your actions are perceived. And in many ways, you will never fully understand the impact of them. To you, street harassment may at worst embarrass us, gross us out, or make us roll our eyes while giving you a funny story to tell your guy friends later. You need to know, however, that rape culture exists in a continuum. You do not need to physically rape a woman in order to make her afraid of being raped... we're socialized to view you as a potential rapist, and any action that seeks to sexualize, objectify, or threaten us without our consent may be perceived as a precursor to the worst possible end. 

Something to think about.

Sincerely,
Your Potential Victim

Friday Musing: Something To Think About Edition

When I went to urgent care after stepping on a sharp metal object in the driveway (thanks dear!), I was told I should take a round of antibiotics.  The doctor was nice enough, informing me that the antibiotics would interfere with my contraceptive method, and therefore I should use a backup method for the next month.

It was nothing I didn't already know, and yet I left thinking, "That's not the way I would have phrased that."  Okay, I say that a lot.  Obviously I'm the kind of person with certain ideas about how health care should and should not be.  But I really mean that here... that is not the way I would have phrased that.

Last week, the Affordable Care Act went into effect, giving women specifically increased access to health care and support.  While the health care bill has obvious short-comings, women's health advocates celebrated the accomplishment, primarily the new contraception without copay rule that will benefit many (but not all) women using birth control.

Don't get me wrong... increasing economic access to a range of birth control methods is awesome.  It absolutely should be lauded as a great accomplishment for sexual health.  But what's left to battle over are the other barriers.  Social stigma, attacks by religious institutions, and a lack of access to education all shape our society's relationship with birth control, not to mention a common issue that is very often overlooked completely: lack of partner support.

Because it's so hidden, it's difficult to gauge how many women are in relationships that impede their ability to use consistently effective birth control.  Birth control sabotage is particularly common in abusive relationships, the idea being that a person is less able to leave the relationship if she is kept in what amounts to reproductive slavery. Abusers don't always covertly sabotage contraception to force pregnancies on their partners; intimidation, threats, or simple unwillingness to use a condom all create significant obstacles that mere co-pay free contraception is not about to remedy.

Given its potential to go unreported, health care providers need to be able to create a plan of care that can work with or around a patient whose partner is unwilling (or just refuses) to play an active role in safer sex practices.  Today many reproductive health clinics (such as Planned Parenthood) staff providers who are able to do this, helping patients choose a method that cannot be sabotaged or, in some cases, even detected by an intimate partner.  But many general health practitioners - particularly those from "the old school" - fall short of even recognizing this as a potential issue.

So back to my doctor's health counseling.  "You should use a backup method for the next cycle" isn't at all inaccurate.  It's actually good information, clearly stated and with little room for confusion.  However, his counseling in no way acknowledged the fact that using a backup method might be out of the question for me. 

What if he phrased it, "You should use a backup method for the next cycle, is that going to be a problem?"  To be sure, the majority of his patients would have said, "No, that's not going to be a problem," and maybe wondered why he thought it might be.  No harm done.  And the ones who would potentially have a problem would be given the opportunity to say so, possibly receiving advice to prevent pregnancy or even some resources to help them change their situations. 

Health care providers need to be at the forefront of these conversations.  We entrust them with our confidential information, knowing our intimate details are protected by law and by their oaths.  They need to be able to first see if they can help patients get out of abusive situations, but they also need to know that getting out is not always possible, and therefore working within those situations to reduce harm may be the best conceivable option.

A Letter to Y'all

Dear Y'all,

I appreciate the concern you have for me and my emotional well-being.  Without many of you, the past year of my life would not have been survivable, let alone exciting and ridiculously fun.  For all the support, love, and time, I am infinitely thankful and blessed to have each of you in my life.

That being said, no, I do not want to get drunk on Sunday.  I do not want to smash stuff, burn things, cast voodoo curses, or anything other than the usual stuff I do on Sundays (which lately has consisted of sleeping in, laundry, and... laundry). If you would like to hang out, let's do so because we're hanging out and not because it's March 4. 

I know I'm one to place strong emotional ties to things like anniversaries, and I know I am often easily triggered by strange associations I've built in my mind.  However, I am not going to have a nervous breakdown.  I am not going to backslide into a compromised emotional state.  I may have one or two moments throughout the day of, "Oh hey, it's my wedding anniversary," but other than that, I don't really anticipate an issue.

I do not want you to come over and help me "process stuff." I do not want you to call to "check in" on how I'm doing... if we're in regular contact, you probably have a pretty good idea of how I'm doing (exceedingly well, for those of you playing along at home), and the calendar day isn't likely to change that.  I honestly don't really want to think about it at all.  (If you really want to come by, you can help with the vast amounts of laundry I'll be doing, and I may feed you lunch.)

Here's the other thing: my new relationship did not enable me to survive the failed marriage.  That train of logic is backwards.  My ability to survive (and do so beautifully, if I do say so myself) was something I enabled myself to do, and it made entering into a new relationship possible.  "She's doing well because of a boy" insults me greatly and undermines my journey; it assumes I could never be happy without another person (a man, at that) to validate my existence, which is fucked.  I went from having never really been "single" as an adult to being a fiercely independent woman in a short period of time, and I did so by myself, lovingly enabled by continuous support from a rad group of close friends and family members.  So before you look to my current relationship for a reason why I'm so damn happy, remember that my ability to be a joyous autonomous human being came first, not the other way around.  My happiness isn't hingent on being involved romantically with someone else (and by the way, neither is yours).

So again, thank you everyone for helping me be the reason I don't want to do anything differently this coming Sunday. Your love and friendship means the world to me, and hey, next time I do want to smash things/burn stuff/cast a few voodoo curses, I'll know who to call. 

Love,
LG

More Things You Should Never Say To A Divorcee (or future divorcee)

A friend sent me this link from The Stir:
10 Things You Should Never Say To A Divorcee

My favorite, by far, is #5:

“My husband and I had problems -- but we decided to try harder and work it out.” Don’t assume that just because my name is Kim, I Kardashianed my way out of my marriage. Sometimes the best intentions, dogged determination, and all the counseling in the world just isn’t enough to fix what’s broke. That’s a scary thing to accept -- which I suppose is why many people haven’t.

She's absolutely right... that ending the relationship is sometimes the best thing for the relationship is scary.  It's also not something we're brought up to think about.  Traditional marriage is "forsaking all others for as long as you both shall live," which, while many people make it work and are happy forever, is a ridiculous standard to hold the entire human population to.  I remember reading somewhere that a couple purposefully removed "for as long as you both shall live" from their wedding vows because, while at the time it seemed like a lovely thought, they understood that 51% of marriages end in divorce.  They chose the realistic route and just removed it all together.  And of course, the general population flipped their shit, not because the statistic is inaccurate, but because this couple would dare to admit that they, like everyone else, are at risk for divorce.

Being together forever is a challenge that, while admirable, actually just isn't right for lots of people. But we do it because we fall in love and in our society marriage is the natural progression. It's all well and good, and I absolutely do not regret having been married, but recognizing when the relationship has taken its course isn't really something we're brought up to think about.

Conte's piece deals with things you shouldn't say to someone who has recently separated or is still struggling.  I'm sitting here thinking of a few others - things you should never say to someone who has separated, is waiting for the mandatory waiting period for divorce, and has moved on.  

1. "Do you think you'll get back together someday?"
What part of "separated and pursuing divorce" don't you understand?
 
2. "I am just so, so sorry that you two are split."
This is a good thing to say to someone who has recently separated and is still getting over it.  Those of us who are moving on, not so much.  I mean honestly, what are you sorry about?  Sorry that we ended our relationship before bringing kids into the world?  Sorry that the split allowed me to reclaim a fierce independence that suits me?  Sorry that we're both happier now?   

3. "I'm glad you're dating again, but aren't you afraid this is just a rebound relationship??"
You're so right.  There is no possible way that my first real relationship since the split could be anything but a fling to help me get over my failed marriage.  And hey, the idea of my current relationship ending is so something I want to think about months after getting over the last painful break. Let's be real... anyone who's going through a divorce has thought of this already.  And really, if it turns out to just be some escapist fling, who the hell cares?  So long as no one gets pregnant or does anything permanent, what's the harm?

4. "Don't worry... you'll meet someone new and it will be awesome."
Maybe.  Or maybe not.  My happiness isn't necessarily tied in with my ability to be in a relationship with another person (and neither is yours). 

Contrast this one with number 3... this is the one that people say when you haven't started dating "soon enough." Everyone has a magic number in their heads about how soon is too soon, how soon is not soon enough, etc.  The truth is, there is no magic number... different people have different priorities, different relationships have different healing periods, and usually you don't realize it's the right time (or wrong time) to start dating again until you do.

5. "I know of a really good divorce lawyer."
Really now?  What makes you think I need one?  This goes back to the idea that divorce is always messy, that it always involves the two partners fighting tooth-and-nail over every last piece of community property, and that everyone even has the ability to pay a lawyer $400 an hour for some bullshit competition.  If I want/need a recommendation for legal services, I'll ask for one.    

6. "My aunt's coworker's hairdresser got divorced and thought she was fine, but two years later it really 'hit her' and she realized she never really grieved the loss of her marriage."
Why even say this??  Yeah, thanks for that heads up... I guess all those weeks of sleeping all the time and forcing myself to eat was just a preview of the shitstorm to come.  I'd better brace myself for the remote possibility that I'm going to have a nervous breakdown in a few years because your aunt's coworker's hairdresser is really good at repressing her shit.     

7. "How are your parents taking it?"
Oh gee, I don't know... last I checked I was the one getting the divorce and they were in Hawaii celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary.  I know they're essentially losing a member of their family, but fuck... my ex and I both have enough on our plates without having to concern ourselves with how other people are dealing with our relationship ending.     

 
8. "Don't worry... you're young and you've still got lots of time."
Lots of time until what?  Until old age comes and takes away any chance of me ever finding true happiness?  Until my ladyparts dry up and I can no longer fulfill my womanly duty to reproduce?  Until I'm classified as an "old maid" and become doomed to a life of loneliness and eccentric-cat-ladyness? 

9. "So who's side are all your mutual friends on?"
Srsly?  Just... srsly?


10. "The divorce rate is just so high.  It's really depressing."
My apologies for becoming a statistic that depresses you.  I guess I should have just stayed in a bad relationship so that you don't ever have to worry your pretty little head over such awful things.  

2011: A Farewell Letter

It was the year that effectively kicked my ass.

Friends sit around a table and discuss how amazing 2011 was.  They're referencing the Arab Spring, Madison, Occupy, and other amazing grassroots efforts that reignited the spirit of people's victory here and around the world.  I try to bask in the same feeling of solidarity, but my year was decidedly more complicated.

It was early July when C and I officially split, but the months leading up to that point were inwardly tumultuous.  I was intensely focused on my classes and internship, my doula mamas, my writing, and anything else to keep myself distracted from my marriage's imminent demise.  Friends didn't see much of me, and if they did, I was distant and disengaged.

When the walls of your lovely complacent life come crashing down, it's excruciating.  For me, it didn't come as a slow, steady fall but as an all-at-once implosion.  I spent the better part of a week lying in bed either sleeping or wishing I was asleep.  I was taking small fistfuls of Klonopin at regular intervals. Friends came by to force feed me and make sure my cats had food themselves.  I didn't shower.  I didn't go to consults.  I even missed a job interview.

The exact details of the next few weeks are too fuzzy (or just too depressing) to write out here, so I'll skip ahead to early October.

I'm outside in the back yard on a cool evening.  The air feels clearer, as the summer's oppressive humidity is finally gone.  A couple of girlfriends are coming by in a while.  I'm basking in the fact that I have just built my first fire... C always did it before (he's very good at it).  I realize the obvious symbolism here: she who can build her own fire is she who can survive, as such an ability is at the crux of survival.  Somewhere in the past few weeks, survival had become second nature and I was ready to thrive.  I decided later that night (after about a bottle and a half of wine) that I was a fucking fire goddess and was completely in control of everything I wished to be in control over.  I awoke the next morning with a renewed sense of self... once the hangover cleared, of course.

I believe it was somewhere on the LIRR later that month when I realized how long this had needed to happen.  I wasn't in love anymore, and I wasn't sure exactly how long that had been going on.  I was thrilled.  I returned to Greensboro during the heydays of our Occupy encampment, spent some nights cooking and hanging out, and felt alive for the first time in months.

The month that followed was nothing if not interesting, as I decided I needed to put out all my fires with gasoline and basically explode into a brilliant display of pure energy.  Thankfully my near-daily yoga practice kept me grounded in stillness when stillness was needed (see the many previous posts on the matter).  I have only my dearest friends and comrades to thank for the constant support and ongoing love during this time... the life of a ball of pure energy is nothing if not ridiculous.  Energy does dumb shit... let me rephrase, it lives on stupidity and bad choices.  There were more than a couple of mornings when I didn't exactly recall driving home from wherever I'd been the previous night.  I can only thank the universe for delivering me home safely so that I could live to see my current lovely existence.

I'm being purposefully vague here, as I'm not a huge fan of putting every ounce of my personal life onto a public space, but suffice to say I am happier than I have been in maybe years. The months of November and December have been phenomenal.  I haven't thrown caution to the wind, believe me on that, but when something beautiful rises from the ashes of your life's most profound implosion, you can't not feel like the luckiest person on the planet.

Divorce is something people pity, something you're supposed to come away from with regrets and anger.  But I maintain neither regret nor anger at the way my marriage ended.  2011 was complicated.  It was the year the relationship I have maintained for my entire adult life ended, abruptly at that, leaving in its wake a whole host of anxiety and pain.  It was the single most excruciating experience either of us could have endured.  But the gaping wound is fast on the mend, and I'm looking forward into 2012 with a renewed sense of hope, a new outlook on myself and on love in general.

That being said, there is a very good chance that I will look back on 2011 as the best fucking year of my life.

transition

When birth workers hear the word "transition," our minds immediately go to the final moments of labor's first stage.  During transition, the cervix is dilating its final two centimeters.  Contractions are longer, stronger, and closer together.  A woman experiencing unmedicated labor will likely ask for an epidural during this time (though she'll be complete and not want one anymore by the time the anesthesiologist gets there).  She will usually say something like "I can't do this anymore."  The doula's role here is to tell her that these are all good signs, that labor is progressing and she'll be done very soon.

This stage of labor is aptly named.  Transitions are indeed difficult.

For the past few months I've been living in a house with all of C's things just waiting around.  I've had to put certain things on hold while I wait for the time when he finally returned to town and moved his stuff to his new apartment.  That time has been this week.

I've been saying for several months that my life is interrupted when C comes into town.  There's considerations we have to make, conversations we have to have, etc.  The groove I've spent months creating for myself has to take a backseat for visitation and heavy conversation.  Not that I mind, it's worth it if it means we can get through this process in a compassionate and (relatively) simple manner.

Then the stuff started disappearing.  The binary of stay still/keep moving that has defined my life over the past couple of months has gone from a basic reality to a constant juggle.  Moving between the extremes - figuring things out with Charlie and living the independent life I've created for myself - has worn down my seams.  I need tons of extra support, extra self-care, and hell, probably extra stillness as well. 

I knew the process would be difficult in many ways.  The move was anticipated, it's necessary, and it's wanted by the both of us.  Doesn't make it any easier to realize that every sound in the house echoes into the spare room that's now mostly empty.  Moving forward, at long last, is cathartic.  It is, at the same time, terribly wonderful, sad, liberating, upsetting, and joyous.

(un)Occupied

My head was full of junk until last night.

I mean that literally, I had a terrible cold that started Wednesday and took its time subsiding.  Maybe there is a connection between head congestion and mind congestion.  Because my mind was certainly congested when last night's yoga practice began.

I thought Monday's "Vinyasa Challenge" would be perfect for my uneasy mental state.  After all, that class generally begins moving and doesn't stop until savasana.  Last night, however, Andrea took a different approach.

A fair warning: I'm going to start sounding like a broken record here.  Andrea's opening remarks had to do with - surprise surprise - stillness and sitting with things.  It's almost like she knew I'd been talking a lot about it but doing very little to live it.  She told us that we'd be flowing through poses slowly, allowing things to sink in instead of moving right along to the next one (sound familiar?).  Great, I thought.  This is not going to work for me.

And at first it didn't.  I tried very hard to stay present through an opening flow, but my mind was everywhere else.  I was just about to give up when BOOM.  First chaturanga, a mandatory moment of strength.  And the focus was there.  And it was liberating.  (Really, it was probably the first time I've ever hoped I could stay in a chaturanga forever.)

I spent the remainder of the practice fully in my body, total self-awareness.  Rooting down, I felt so expansive that I was sure I could touch every wall in the room if I really wanted to.  After a series of balancing poses (definitely kicked my ass... like I said my head was congested too), I felt like I'd finally retained all the focus that last week's "yoga hiatus" had forced me to lose.  And things were clear again.

Then, as we settled into savasana, Andrea read a poem.  Going into the subject matter gets a bit more personal than I'd like to here, but it was the single most perfect end to one of the most mentally-challenging practices ever.  The themes from her earlier remarks were all tied in: sitting with empty spaces, allowing room to breathe, etc.  The metaphor, though, is what got me.  It's almost as if the universe is throwing these things in my face on purpose.  I think it is... at least, I want to believe it is.

I spent the remainder of the evening at a wonderful GA for Occupy UNCG, had a drink with some friends, and came home to half-ass a first draft of a paper that's due next week.  I went to bed with absolutely none of the previous baggage that had been occupying my congested brain, and much of the post-plague congestion had left me as well. 

I truly hadn't slept that well in weeks.

The Left Behind

Unpaid interns need flexibile work.  Last year, this work took the form of afterschool tutoring. 

I was first placed with a fifth grade student at a High Point elementary school.  This child fell squarely in the "difficult" category.  Difficult, and clearly in need of special attention/intervention.  The first (and only) day that I worked with him, I was having him read aloud.  Testing indicated that he read at a 4th grade level, and the passage I had him reading was at the 3rd grade level.  Four sentences in, the child became frustrated.  I watched helplessly as he stood up, ran over to the wall and began punching it with his fist. 

When I finally got him calm and back in his chair, I realized his knuckles were bleeding.  After a quick trip to the school nurse, we got back to it, but getting him to do any more reading was out of the question.  So we talked.  We played tic-tac-toe.  I found the child to be incredibly sweet when he was calm.  He was also very smart with games that involved words or strategy. 

Still, his behavior troubled me so much that I later emailed my boss to tell her that I couldn't provide the kind of education he needed.  I was not a trained educator... tutoring was something that I signed up for to help me pay my bills.  The next group of kids they assigned me to were just perfect: easy, kind, and hard working.  I felt absolutely fine with passing the troubled kid off to a more experienced tutor.

Skip to today.  My former boss emailed me to let me know that the child I had "passed off" had been through three tutors during the previous year.  He had dropped from the tutoring program stopped after being suspended for pulling the fire alarm multiple times in a day.  He had been arrested (ARRESTED!) three times since, and was already facing expulsion from middle school.

This hit me hard. Even with my little knowledge about troubled kids, I knew the signs.  He was aggressive, resistent, and angry.  And I, like apparently lots of other people, had just passed him off as someone else's problem.

I know I can't be the person to save everyone, but hearing about this particular child has been weighing heavily on my heart.  Why?  I'm not an elementary educator.  I teach adults and teens about sex, relationships, contraception, birth, and breastfeeding.  I am no counselor, I am no school teacher.  I know many amazing teachers who work with troubled kids like this, and it's their passion.  They would have been able to handle this child, which is what I assumed would happen once I passed him along. 

Of course that hadn't happened.  Other people had taken the same approach as me.  And here we are... the kid is 11 or 12 and already has a record.  He is on the fast track to becoming yet another troubled-child-turned-criminal.  A statistic.  Had I passed him along because I truly didn't think I could make a difference in his life, or because I just plain didn't want to try?

This child is a prime candidate to just be written off like this.  He's African American and lives in public housing.  He is in a school where the average class size is 30.  He lives with his mother who works two jobs and is never around.  He has a social worker.  His teachers know him as a trouble maker.  So do the tutors.  All the red flags are there, and yet we pass him along to the next person.  Someone else's problem. 

What's THAT supposed to mean?

Another contradiction I've noticed about myself: I believe all life exists in many shades of gray, and yet I have an overwhelming need to label things.  Even if the labels are vague, it doesn't matter.  I need them.

Someone recently told me that this would become a crippling social need if I wasn't careful.  If that comment had come from a close friend, I would have taken it to heart and owned it.  But this was someone I'd barely even known, and their ability to see into me so profoundly bothered me.  They were 100% right, and yet I got defensive.  And so I've spent the past couple of weeks dissecting it.

The conversation was innocent enough, focusing on mere political identities and nothing more.  I had said that I considered myself a "nomadic leftist," meaning I tend to float between far-left ideologies on any given day.  The offending comment came after I had mentioned that this is a common theme for me, adding labels (even if I just pulled them out of my ass) simply due to a need to clarify my place in the world.

My dissection of the conversation, however, was about way more than a political identity.  In the past six months, I've gone from having it "all figured out" to having absolutely no idea what I'm doing, where I belong, with whom I identify, etc.  When those things are clear (or just clearly vague), I'm in my element.  When they're not, that's when the dissection and over-analysis begins.  "What did so-and-so mean when s/he said that?"  I start to obsess.  It's really not healthy.

Same goes for my relationship with C.  I've been making people laugh by calling him "my ex-ish," but that's not a joke.  It's really the best I can come up with right now.  He's not my "ex" because that would imply that we're divorced, right?  Which we're not.  Ex-ish is, I suppose, a shorthand version of "the husband I'm separated from and probably will divorce," but with a smidgen of humor so that I don't have to follow it up with, "But really, I'm fine." 

A close friend told me not to worry about it, that such a tendency comes with a total openness about what I'm thinking and feeling.  I don't tend to hold much back.  I will usually tell you what I think, which not everyone is used to.  "It's mature," I believe were her exact words.  Mature or not, I can see how it would get annoying.  You could look at me with an innocently-raised eyebrow and I will spend the remainder of the day wondering why.  Not that my sense of self hinges completely on what you think, but because I just plain want to know.  Did I say something you found to be ridiculous?  Interesting?  Offensive?  I can usually read people pretty well, but now and then non-verbal interactions leave me clueless.  As do verbal ones, on occasion... "Hey, remember earlier this week when you said you 'liked' October... what did you mean by that?"  It can really be that innocuous. 

Don't get me wrong... this impulse (can we just go ahead and call it a compulsion?) stems from a vested interest in human thought and behavior.  Believe me - I've dissected this many times over - it's hardly about how people see me, at least not in the "I have to be loved" sense.  If I could have one superpower, it would be to be able to read people's thoughts.  Partly out of curiosity, mostly out of a true desire to know what folks are thinking at any given time.  It's probably my tendency to over-empathize.

(Sure let's go with that.)

Zero to Sixty

When things are complicated, we tend to want to skip to the end, a time where the complicated has turned into wisdom.  A time where we can move on with our lives and dedicate ourselves to simplicity.

Of course this is impossible.  We may find a way to "fast forward" to some kind of conclusion, but in doing so we deprive ourselves of the valuable experience we wanted to run to in the first place.  And in the end, that can make things more complicated than they already were, and probably a whole lot more regretful.

I've written a lot, here and in a private journal, about the value of "sitting with it."  I have come to accept that this is the only way to handle difficult life events, but it takes a lot of reminding myself.  It takes even more energy to remind the others involved.  When you're in something with somebody else, you're tied together even when you're separated.  This is especially true when the relationship is long: not only are there emotions to untangle, there's also material objects and logistical matters that - let's face it - have their own share of emotional entanglements.

The real complicated stuff comes when you're ready to run with some things but still need to sit with others.  You're already stretched thin enough from emotional wear-and-tear and the exhaustion of your day-to-day life; one part of you running off while the other struggles to stay put is a true testament to our elasticity.  You have to have elasticity, otherwise you'll be torn in half.  Fortunately I've always been flexible.

Sometimes, though, the "ready to run" part takes off like a leashed dog who's just seen a rabbit.  It takes you by complete surprise.  Your arm gets yanked, your wrist strained from the leash almost slipping from your grasp, and you fight to keep things at a more reasonable pace.  It's still too fast for the part of you that needed stillness, but way too slow for the one that needs motion.  Onlookers view the event, knowing full well what it feels like but laughing all the same, mostly because your "no-really-I'm-fine" demeanor has cued them to do so.  Still and again, no amount of flexibility can sustain such instantaneous force applied, and you're bound to at the very least be sore from the event, even if your arm hasn't been completely torn from its socket.

The simple can be so complicated.

Sitting With It

I woke up this morning overcome with anxiety.  It was awful, a feeling I haven't felt in weeks.  Needless to say, I skipped my class and even crapped out on a consult.  That didn't make the anxiety any better, but I finally allowed myself to let it go, knowing that today needed to be spent for myself.

A quick self-inventory revealed what should have been painfully obvious: I haven't stopped moving since before I went to New York.  That was 15 days ago.  New York was non-stop go (and very little sleep to boot), and upon my return my life has consisted of catching up.  There was work, plus my doula mama had her baby, and I've been spending time at Occupy Greensboro cooking and helping out in whatever way I can.  Everything that has kept me strong over the past few months - good food, down time, yoga - has taken a backseat.

Not that I'm complaining.  All of the aforementioned "stuff" that has kept me in a constant state of motion has been wonderful.  I am truly happy these days.  But I need to remember to take the time to sit with these experiences whenever possible, even only for just an evening. 

It's kind of like running or any sort of cardio workout for that matter.  The real pain comes when you stop.  If you don't stop at your body's first cue to do so - out of fear or just the inability to sit still - you're just delaying the inevitable.  But the pain will be worse.

Let me back up a bit.  First off, I have come to realize that I have fallen out of love.  This isn't any big new breaking thing; like these things tend to go, it has been in process for probably weeks now.  But only in the past week or two have I realized what it was: falling out of love. 

Since coming to this realization was so liberating, my take on it has been almost completely celebratory.  Drinks with girlfriends, etc.  Charlie signed a lease on Friday, and that in and of itself made me want to celebrate.  Things are moving forward, and I no longer feel that they're going in the wrong direction. 

Of course, none of this is 100% good.  Had I taken the time to scratch the surface of what has happened, I would have realized the intense pain that also comes with falling out of love.  And so, with the good feelings and celebrations behind me, I allowed myself to feel the other side.  Obviously, it wasn't nearly as pretty.

There were warnings... last night, I went to a fun Halloween vinyasa practice that was as irreverent as it was challenging.  Lots of prana, lots of ujjayi, lots of crude jokes and laughter.  Sitting with that practice in savasana, I realized I was crying.  Or not.  My eyes were watering, a lot.  I wasn't sobbing or weeping or anything like that, but there were definitely many tears streaming out of my eyes.  It felt very therapeutic, and I left with a renewed sense of clarity.  My biggest mistake was that I didn't sit with it longer, and as a result woke up this morning with a slight hangover and a lot of anxiety.

The whole experience was buffered by the fact that the person I'm falling out of love with is a lovely person, and when I called he was ready and willing to talk me through it.  He'd been through the exact same process only several months ago, after all.  We talked for a while, and it made me realize how lucky I am to have such a great person to go through this with.  As I've said, none of this is malicious.  There's very little resentment, and only the occasional screaming match (which is to be expected). 

These ups and downs are to be expected, but I know I can ease the anxiety factor by allowing myself to sit with things more frequently.  Major life changes are usually wonderful and scary all at once, and I know I can do better for myself by simply letting things sink in before moving on to the next big  thing, even for only five breaths.

New Name, New Look

Pretty much the same blog.  So why the change?

Where to begin?

Life has thrown some major changes my way in the past few months.  Blogging in general has taken a backseat to my own need to simply survive.  Between school, lactation, birth work, a new job, and a wealth of personal stuff, my down time has mostly consisted of resting and binging on contrived TV shows like Grey's Anatomy.

Which was all well and good, but it's time to pick myself back up and use my down time for things that are productive and meaningful to me.  Things like writing.  Looking back, I see that my blog has (not surprisingly) consisted mostly of political rants and raves.  Also well and good, and these issues remain very close to my heart.  But my day-to-day experiences have been so unique to anything I have lived before, and I would like to use this forum to share those insights as well.

Without going too deeply into private issues that involve other people that I care deeply about, I'll just say this: I am facing the possible end of a very long-term relationship with the person I love.  This came as some surprise, and so I have spent the last several months of my life dealing with that loss.  I have come to terms with a lot so far and will continue to do so.  These new experiences have been painful and inspirational all at once.  I've both grieved and remained hopeful, usually also all at once.  But that's getting more personal than I'd like to at this point in time on such a public forum.

So back to the new name.

Yoga has provided a kind of sanctuary for my troubled head; it has fueled my drive to be a better person, both physically and mentally.  When I was a dancer, I allowed myself to "cop out" on upper-body strength with self-defeating excuses ("My arms are hyper-extended so it's really hard to build muscle," "I have bad wrists," etc).  Yoga always seemed like a non-judgmental zone where I can peacefully build such strength on my own schedule.  Before long, I could chaturanga, something I never thought my hyper-extended arms and aching wrists would allow me to do.  Then last week, I did my first full arm balance, a totally-rad eka pada koundinyasana (say that three times fast).  I felt so good about it that I later busted my face while trying to show off to some friends after a few glasses of wine. 

The point is this: practicing yoga has, for me, given me the fuel I need to get through the day.  It strengthens me physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  I accomplish things in my physical body and it gives me the ability to become a stronger person overall.

In yoga, poses are timed not in seconds but in breaths. A downward dog in surya namaskara, for example, is usually held for five breaths. Other resting poses are, in my experience, held for five as well.  This allows for the pose to "sink in," for the yogi to sit in the pose and get stronger all at once.  Sometimes the pose gets exhausting, my legs or (more often) arms get tired, and it becomes uncomfortable.  I want to move to the next pose without letting that feeling sink in and take effect.  But I know that I have to hold it in order to become stronger, to be able to hold that pose for longer and to do it with more strength and grace.  When I'm feeling overly ambitious, holding a resting pose such as child's pose for five breaths seems like a waste of time.  However, I know that taking those five breaths to allow my body to feel the result of the previous series is just as important. 

I'm not going to spell out how that all relates to my current quest for survival... you can probably put two and two together.  But while we're on the subject of survival...

The most influential people in my life right now are those who have been able to offer wisdom about the difference between pain and suffering, as well as the difference between surviving and thriving.

My education as a birth doula has always harped on the difference between pain and suffering.  Pain is a part of life.  It is a normal human experience.  In the context of childbirth, this is obvious.  My job as the doula is to help a person cope with the normal pain of labor such that it does not become suffering.  We learn that how you approach the inevitable discomfort (or pain) shapes how you experience it.  Once pain becomes suffering, it is no longer normal.  My yoga practice has helped me transpose this idea into my day-to-day life in a time where my very unpainful life became almost unbearable.  With proper compassion, coping skills, and attitude, pain is only pain.  Suffering is optional.

The same goes for the difference between surviving and thriving, except that a period of survival is required.  The likely end to a long-term relationship has to involve a period of intense pain, and in those moments, you are in survival mode.  Then, slowly, you do more thriving and less surviving.  You start to live again.  For me (and I imagine most folks in my situation), this has happened so organically that I almost didn't realize it.  It was October 10, just a few months after all this started, and I realized I was happy.  I had a groove going, things were promising, and I was no longer in a 24/7 cycle of survival.  Pain was present, but intermittent.  Suffering seemed more optional as I realized that I was in control of my pain.  I was thriving.

If you have made it this far into this very slapdash and very vague entry, you've probably realized that it has taken weeks to complete.  Where I was at the top of this page is not where I am today.  Things change, that's the only constant in our lives.  Things always change.

So I hope you will continue following my journey from survival mode to a state of living for myself, a place of equanimity in constant flow.  The future is indeed unwritten, but this period of intense personal growth makes all that seem less frightening.  I just need to remember to act when action is required, but to sit when stillness is the best practice.  Five breaths.

Why Not Celebrating Valentine's Day is Awesome

I'm not going to be one of those self-righteous people who runs around on V-day talking about how "my relationship is so good we don't need a special day to enjoy it," etc etc etc.  While that is most certainly one of the major reasons we don't "do" Valentine's (other than its modern roots as nothing but a way for card companies to make money), I'm assuming most couples who celebrate the day don't really need one, either.  Whether or not a couple is into Valentine's Day shenanigans is really not a valid barometer to measure the state of one's relationship.  But I don't celebrate it, and it works for me.  Here's some good reasons to forgo the occasion all together!

• Ever tried to get a table at a nice restaurant on Valentine's?  I actually have not, but I am well aware of how difficult it is without making a reservation far in advance.  Even if you have a reservation or can get a table, your dining experience is going to be shaped by crowds, grumpy waitstaff, and a rushed meal.  I don't know a single food server who doesn't work every single Valentine's, and from what they've told me, people are lousy tippers on this night in particular.  Probably because they've already spent all their cash on some sort of Kay Jewelers fiasco.  
• Speaking of Kay Jewelers... I love you!  Here's something shiny!  More on the diamond industry in a moment, but what is up with this practice?  I'll let Family Guy elaborate on this tradition.
• Did I mention our modern-day understanding of Valentine's Day is little more than a capitalist venture into the marketing of people's deepest and most personal emotions?  There's that.  But there's more.  Far from just greeting cards, Valentine's Day is a huge money maker for some of the most corrupt, most abusive industries on the planet: chocolate, flowers, and diamonds.  It's just nice to completely avoid supporting these industries on their biggest day of the year.  
• Oye, the heterosexism!  That's right, I said it.  Valentine's Day may be celebrated by couples from a range of relationship styles, gender identities, values, marital statuses, etc, but family diversity is rarely reflected in the cookie-cutter Valentine's products we're offered.  This may just be a merchandising standard, you know, cater to the lowest common denominator, but it gives a totally different message: love is uniform, and deviations from its norm are not acceptable.

Well that's that... I could go on for days (who, me?), but it's Valentine's Day, which means I've got to get busy on my feminist theory reading for Wednesday!

omg

I'll let Invader Zim explain how I feel...



Seriously though, I can't fathom what's going on with my back.  Maybe the interwebz can help me figure out what's going on.

It started last week.  The weather had been so dry that my hands were cracky.  However, my decision to use a whole bunch of hand lotion right before bed proved to be a bad idea the following morning at yoga.  Every downward-facing dog, I was slipping and sliding.  In an attempt to "suck it up" and press through regardless (not very yoga, I know), I dealt with it the way my years of dance training taught me to: muscle through.

Not very comfortable, no.  But downdog isn't all rest, right?  I figured it would help engage my upper body a bit more.  However, I found I was using my back more than anything.  And in a weird way, at that.

Long story short, ever since that morning I've had soreness, inflammation, and a lot of discomfort right around my thoracic curve.  It's bad enough to make sitting still difficult for longer periods of time (my 3-hour class today was rough), and it seems to be getting worse.  It's a strange pain... sort of like that tension you feel right before your back pops, but mine won't pop (and I've aggravated it more by trying).  Ice feels good, so does heat, but it won't go away.  It's not particularly sharp, more of a dull ache, but an ache that, again, seems to be getting worse.

I should see a chiropractor, huh?

Ex-Dancer

It has now been five months since I either took or taught a dance class.  To be sure, it was a long time coming, but being ejected in the last possible minute from my instructor position threw me into a space I never thought I would occupy.

Ever since I was three, I was a dancer.  I never considered myself a person who took dance lessons as a hobby... for as long as I can remember, my whole identity was enveloped in that of a dancer's.  I started taking two or more classes per week at age 7, entering a student company at 8, and it went from there.

From the days at Ruth Mitchell's, to my three-year tenure at the Georgia Ballet, to collegiate studies, some brief professional stints as a performer and choreographer, and finally, as an instructor, I have been a dancer.  But that's all done now.

I say this now because I received a call today from a studio that wanted me to sub for them, but I declined.  A couple of weeks ago, Jan Van Dyke taught a week-long intensive at the Cultural Arts Center, but I opted not to register.  This is all very new to me.

To date, I have the impulse to bust into a full-safety at the mere mention of Godspeed You! Black Emperor, the drive to attempt fouette turns when I hear the coda from Don Quixote, and still a burning desire to create the many choreographic works I have been envisioning since I was a kid.

And yet, I am strangely at peace knowing I will likely never do any of those things again, at least not in a formal setting.  Today, I do the "doula hula" instead of rond de jambes.  I prop up breastfeeding moms with pillows and blankets instead of propping up myself in pointe shoes.  My main contact with the earth is in my yoga practice, peacefully gaining a full chaturanga instead of forcing myself through ten or fifteen sets of side hook-arm leg swings.  And while I miss the lot of it, I can say with confidence that my present journey is not supposed to involve a dancer's identity.

Don't get me wrong, I have not abandoned anything.  Whatever I have done up to this point has brought me to the place I am now, so I know that on some level dance led me to what I do today.  Dance is permanently imprinted in my body through the hours and endless hours I have given it, and it will remain there for as long as I live.  

It's difficult, still.  I was always so sure I would just do it forever.  I never thought I would be famous or great; I never even thought I would be able to sustain myself through dance alone.  But on some level, I thought I would be dancing forever.  But I'm not.  And that's okay.

There might come a time when I'm inspired to reenter the dance studio.  I might again feel the skin on my feet splitting apart, mend swollen tendons and bruised knees.  I might one day look down at my feet, covered in floor burns, and say, "Goddamn that's badass!"  If that day comes, I will welcome it with open arms.  But for now, to the dance world, I bid you the fondest of farewells!

Last Night's Nums: Pesto Alla Trapanese

...or, Pesto with Tomatoes and Almonds.

This is yet another gem from the glorious pages of Cooks Illustrated.  Don't let the marinara-like appearance fool you: this is indeed pesto.  "Pesto alla trapanese" refers the Sicilian village of Trapani, where pesto is made with tomatoes in addition to basil, and with toasted almonds instead of pine nuts.  The result is robust and delicious: both savory and fruity with a little kick.

I'll start by saying that this recipe gets a bit expensive in the winter, as grape tomatoes aren't readily available from anywhere nearby.  This is not a recipe that you localvores could swing this time of year.  Though, I'm planning on having a grape tomato plant this summer, then making huge quantities of this sauce to freeze.  It's that good.

I tend to leave recipes from "the test kitchen" untouched... there's very little room for improvement with the bulk of their recipes!  However, there are some minor adjustments in my version based on personal preference.

You most certainly will need a food processor for this dish.  Which you should have anyway; it's one of the best investments for a cooking enthusiast. 


Pesto Alla Trapanese

¼ cup slivered almonds (I buy them pre-slivered, but if you buy them whole with the skins on, you need to remove the skins by blanching them for 2 minutes)
12 oz grape tomatoes, sliced in half*
½ cup packed fresh basil, coarsely chopped
2 large garlic cloves, pressed
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
½ cup Parmesan cheese
1 tsp red wine vinegar
½ tsp red pepper flakes**

1.    Toast almonds in small skillet over medium heat, stirring frequently, until pale golden and fragrant, 2-4 minutes.  Cool almonds to room temperature.
2.    Process cooled almonds, tomatoes, basil, garlic, red pepper flakes, vinegar, and 1 tsp salt until smooth, about 1 minute.  Scrape down sides of bowl with rubber spatula.  With machine running, slowly drizzle in oil, about 30 seconds. 
3.    Add sauce and ½ cup Parmesan cheese to 1lb cooked pasta.  Serve immediately.

* Cherry tomatoes can be used, but we like the flavor of grape tomatoes better.  Still, this time of year cherry tomatoes seem to be a bit less expensive and are also good.
** I have used up to 1 teaspoon of red pepper flakes, which was the perfect amount for a spicy (less fruity) sauce.  It's important to remember that a few red pepper flakes go a long way.

Other notes: I like linguine for this dish, as recommended by Cooks Illustrated.  I can imagine one pound of any other pasta would also work well, however, the sauce coats and sticks to the long, flat noodles very well.  Cook's Illustrated also recommends reserving 1/2 cup cooking water from the pasta for adjusting the consistency of the sauce if it doesn't spread easily enough.  I've never had this problem, as it always comes out just right.

Also notice that, like all traditional pesto, the sauce itself is never cooked, though it does heat through with the pasta.  If you're not a fan of the mostly-raw garlic flavor of traditional pesto, simply cut the garlic to one clove.

Enjoy!