Holding Still

newlY Born

the little horse is newlY

Born)he knows nothing,and feels
everything;all around whom is

perfectly a strange
ness(Of sun
light and of fragrance and of

Singing)is ev
erywhere(a welcom
ing dream:is amazing)
a worlD.and in

this world lies:smoothbeautifuL
ly folded;a(brea
thing a gro

Wing)silence,who;
is:somE

oNe.

 

I am beginning to write in this blog once more. Journal entries to be expanded on, and a place to listen to my voice again, and hopefully to share.

The poem above by ee cummings has always been one of my favorites. It makes me think of personal regeneration, of how we can always begin again, be new again, see things newlY again.

A therapist helped me to realize that I was labeling myself -- specifically as a "sick person." When I thought about it, I realized I was often labeling myself: bad mother; weak woman; undependable girlfriend. Among others. The implication of failure is an obvious connection between these. 

When I think about being newly Born, i think about not labeling myself. That doesn't mean I negate those things that encouraged me to create labels. I do have an autoimmune illness. I have parented in a way that I do not like. I have behaved selfishly in my relationships. These things have happened, are true. But there are many other productive behaviors I've demonstrated, positive qualities of which I'm proud, that should round me out. Round me out from a flat, written label on the page to a flesh and blood human being incarnated currently on planet earth.

She will begin writing again. We'll see how it goes.

 

 

 

 

Being 8

I've been writing poems lately.  I don't have a lot of history or experience with this, except for the odd haiku here and there.  But I love reading poetry, and they are starting to come out of me, so there you have it.

I spent around 10 days at my parent's place in CT with my sons.  We went to the beach a lot.  CT is on the Long Island Sound, so we swam a bit, but mostly they fished.  It was great fun for them.  They caught snapper blues, mostly, though H also caught a sea robin.  Have you ever seen one of these?  They are intense!  Very prehistoric.  I loved watching them figure out their casting style, untangling lines, chatting up fellow fisher people.  I hung out on the jetty with them, going out into the water to rescue errant bobbers and hooks.  Here is the poem that came from these experiences.  It is under construction, but I thought I'd put it out there for critique.

 

Being 8 

"Will you get the hook?"

You were squeamish about unseen crabs in the water.

I was 8 again, crouching on the barnacled rocks.

Later my toes  bled from the sharp and slippery platform.  I am a heroine

 

Released into the water.  My younger body feels the thrill

Of warm water at top, chill below.

More fearless, not to be outdone by a girl,

You jump in – Another splash as your brother joins us.

 

The sun warms our shoulders as we wade,

Water waist-deep, the bobber our goal.

Swimming with you, when I’m 8, is precious.

I savour the salt on my lips, try not to forget.

 

 

 

mercury retrograde, or "DO look back"

It is summer, and oh, how I love summer.  Chauncey lies by my side, fuzzy and cute, despite the strange brown something  sticking to the fur below his tail... I'll try not to think about it.  It's warm, but not humid, and breezy.  We've gotten more than our fair share of rain this summer, so this is a welcome break.  It is quiet -- the boys are at a friend's house.  Now that they are older (8 and 10), they are in high demand socially.  They have full lives apart from mine, which is good.  But it feels weird.  It's weird that it's so quiet.  I like quiet, but I miss them.  

They are doing well.  They both had successful school years, love school, and now are loving camp.  I am fortunate to work at the school they go to, and the camp.  It is our second home.  

Chauncey has rolled over, and the unidentified brown something I spied earlier is covered by his tail, to remain an enigma.

A lot has happened since I wrote.  First, the boys are HUGE.  Really big.  Like, they will probably each be at least 6' 4" by the time they are done growing.  That is what people who know about such things tell me.  Big sigh.

I finished a yoga teacher training program last year, and finally finished the test that went with it this April.  I'm awaiting my grade on that, and when it's accepted, I will apply for certification.  I started teaching yoga last summer and have begun again this summer.  I love it.

There is a move in our future, at the end of the summer.   That is a big change for us, but a welcome one.  

The reason I entitled the post Mercury Retrograde is because Mercury is retrograde, and it's a good time to go back to things you've started in the past, or to reconnect with people from your past.  I've been in the mood to write again, so here I am, writing on the old blog.  Not sure how often I will do so, but it was a great friend to me during the adoption of our boys, and I think I'll need its friendship during this time of internal and external change.  

Mercury actually encourages one to look back when it's retrograde.  Go back to old projects, call old friends, meditate on past events or ideas.  You may find yourself doing so naturally.  It's the opposite of forging ahead.  Unless you're cleaning your closets, and then it's a great time to forge ahead.  Closets are a virtual treasure trove during a Mercury retrograde period.  

So DO look back.  Ruminate, pick up an old poem you wrote when in the depths of despair, resume the half-started mosaic project you began 3 years ago.  Re-watch your wedding video which hopefully you've transferred to dvd or your computer. Call your college roommate.  Reread Pride and Prejudice.  

I'm going to advise Chauncey to look back, too.  At the area under his tail (i.e. his butt).  I'm hoping he can attend to it the way that dogs do.  If not, out comes the fancy lavender-scented dog shampoo (aka Buddy Wash), and into the sink he goes.  Here's to yesterday, backward and behind -- Enjoy!

colorful skies

Today when I got home from work I set the hound free ASAP, (Al's in NY, Chauncey was alone and shut inside all day). I realized it was TOTALLY freezing outside and that the two or so days of 40 degree weather were a fluke, so we ran into the warm and welcoming house of Chauncey's gal pal, Sammy. We visited with Sammy's owner, one of my favorite older gentlemen who, coincidentally, wrote one of our recommendation letters for the adoption. We had some tea and cookies, then headed home. Light on the answering machine. Three messages. Telemarketer, our Social Worker, and Alex. Social Worker? Says she has "good news." I know what this means. Or do I? Maybe she got the paperwork from the CIS before we did (that's what happened the first time). But she added -- "I don't think you'll want to wait the weekend to hear the news, so here's my cell phone number." By now I am all fluttery inside, and cursing the fact that Alex is NOT HOME. I write her cell phone number down twice, once on a small and flimsy receipt. I realize that I would need to write many things down so I found a bigger piece of paper for the event. This was going to be an event. I probably wouldn't reach her -- Mercury is retrograde, after all. Despite the threat of Mercury, I call after I sit myself down with a pen and paper. She answers on the second ring with a knowing, "Hellooo?!" "It's Erin, what's the news?" "You have a referral for two brothers. The oldest is 3 years and 3 months, the younger is 2 years and 4 months." TWO BOYS!!! I needed to call Alex before anyone else, of course. I called the cell. One ring, then nothing. I did this about 10 times, no exaggeration. "Here is where Mercury will have its way with me," I thought. I'm not going to stop until I get a ring and an answer of some sort. Finally, I get one ring, long silence, then the message telling me to leave a message. "Papa C, call me as soon as you get this." Meanwhile I try to eat supper and play with the dog without jumping out of my skin. Chauncey realizes something is up and takes every toy out of his toy bowl, realizing I finally have as much energy as he has. Phone rings, it's Alex. "What's up?" He obviously didn't notice the "Papa C" prelude to my message, so I have to think fast. "You're a Daddy!" Strange, primeval sounds are emitted -- half-way between a shout and a shriek. Alex is not much of a shrieker, so I am little alarmed. But I soldier on and tell him all about the boys, as much as I know. Meanwhile, he tries to cross the street without getting hit by a bus, the method by which he is sure he will meet his end, as he has told me on numerous occasions. We say how much we love one another, how we can't wait until tomorrow when we can see one another. He says how relieved he is that the boys have one another. Finally, I cry. Mom and Dad, of couse, are not home, nor are they answering their cell phone. Eventually I reach one of my friends, and I can further exhale the breath that is expanding within me. More friends are called, I reach Mom and Dad, and I am totally exhausted. That is where you find me now. I find the whole thing too large to fully comprehend, not to mention to describe. Below are some pictures I took at sunset before I had tea with my neighbor, before I got the news. When I was driving home, the tips of all of the bare trees were tinged with the most ethereal pink I had ever seen. I grabbed the camera for my "walk" with Chauncey and snapped a bunch of pictures from my neighbor's field. They will never capture the aching beauty I saw -- pictures of skies seldom do. The painful beauty I saw seems to match the way I feel inside about the boys. The colors of that late February sunset describe better than I can the simultaneous joy and sadness of this whole experience.

via holdingstill.typepad.com

6 years ago today we discovered we would be parents to Habtamu and Lire. Thank you, boys, for some of the hardest, and most lovely experiences of our lives. You rock.

Non-Cooking is.

I have a wonderful friend who is a wonderful writer.  And she has had a tumultuous relationship with cooking (let me know if that is not totally accurate, E), for many years.  She has a very funny blog called Picky Grouchy Non-Cook.  In addition to a description of what a Non-Cook is (someone who doesn't consider him/herself a cook), she has an ongoing manifesto, resources, history of her non-cook forays, non-cook categories, and a featured Non-Cook of the month.

October's  featured Non-Cook is ME.  And I am no longer ashamed.  Here is the link.  I had a blast doing it, I must say.  I hope you enjoy it.  And in honor of my coming out of the kitchen closet as a PBN-C (Pro Bake Non-Cook), yesterday and today I baked numerous apple pies.  So there.

Below are photo hints from my interview... Read Picky Grouchy Non-Cook and find out why...

 



Enjoy!

I'm ba-ack...

I was sitting at my computer this evening, checking FB friends' posts, etc.  Looking at my lovely African violets and the zinnia bouquet with sage,  Japanese anemones and lavendar.  Very pretty.  I thought to myself, I feel like writing on my blog.  Just like that.  Over a year since my last post.  No real reason why. 

And not too much to say.  I am having a lot of trouble breathing.  Just like last September.  I didn't write about it then, since my last post was in June.  But in late August, early September last year I had a lot of difficulty breathing.  Had to up my prednisone to 15 mg. again.  Quel drag, as Holly Golightly would say.  By March I was down to 3.75mg.  Still there.  Won't be able to taper again, if at all, for a while.  I have had a couple of moments of "oh shit! here it goes again."  Pissed at myself, my illness, what I last called my first baby.  I get really angry at her. 

So that's what's up with my health.  I still do cranial sacral therapy, acupuncture, herbs, homeopathy and of course, the prednisone.  I also have stepped up the yoga, and have started on the path of teacher training.  I have a new job, fulltime, which I absloutely love.  Which is rare, so I know, I am blessed.  My two boys are exceptionally healthy and exceptionally cute and wonderful.  Not without their challenges, of course, but they are human. 

My younger guy lost his first tooth today.  He really lost it, can't find it.  So, following the recommendation of his older, wiser cousin who also lost a tooth in a watermelon-eating episode, he wrote a letter to the tooth fairy.  This is significant.  My younger lad does not feel very comfortable writing or reading.  He has anxiety about it.  But this was important.  He sat at his desk, using a pencil, in case he made a mistake, and wrote the cutest letter of all time to the tooth fairy.  He asked him/her,  his/her name.  He told aforementioned fairy that he lost his tooth somewhere.  Lastly, he asked if he could have a picture of him/her.

His tooth fairy will save this letter forever. 

So you see, life is still miraculous, illness or no illness.

The Horse Boy

I've just been reading The Horse Boy by Rupert Isaacsson.  This isn't a review, by the way, I am just LOVING this book.  Alex and I saw part of the movie on PBS a few weeks back, so I wanted to get the book to delve more into the back story and also get more details.  It is a true story of a boy with pretty severe autism and his parents' quest to help bring him back to them as he seems to drift farther and farther away.  Between the horses they ride at home in Texas and an incredible journey to Mongolia to visit the shamans there, incredible, no miraculous strides are made.  I haven't finished it yet, and like I said, didn't see the entire film, so I can't tell you if the changes stuck for their little boy, or how far he came.  But it is a beautiful, intense story I highly recommend.  Isaacsson is a travel writer, horseman and adventurer, so he writes about Mongolia's landscapes and people intelligently and respectfully.

Check it out!  I also found this cool website that has a story about Mongolian shamans which I also recommend.

Enjoy!

Happy belated birthday

I turned 43 on Tuesday, and it was kind of, well, great.  Not in the surprise party way.  Not in the "my husband bought me a Lexus!" way, and not in the "I've got no cellulite!" way.  None of those things happened upon me.

What did happen was that I was pretty chill.  Pretty serene.  Happy and feeling like I used to feel.  Hard to pinpoint when that was -- "how I used to feel."  I have been searching for when that was.  I go back to when I was in my 20's and lived in Baltimore.  When I first moved to NYC.  When I went to Italy and fulfilled a lifelong dream.  When I was 11.  There was no sudden shift, no clear before and after of feeling good and then feeling bad.  It kind of snuck up on me.  However, my illness and subsequent "recovery" is a sort of marker.  It most certainly has something to do with that, my first "child."  

I've always considered my illness and especially my recuperation period to be like a very prolonged, difficult pregnancy.  I have never been pregnant, at least not that I know of, not in this particular lifetime.  But I remember that when I was "better" (ie, able to leave the apartment and see people), I was weak and tired easily.  Needed to sit down a lot.  Many foods disagreed with me.  I couldn't drink.  I was very emotional.  And I was self conscious about the way I looked.  In this I was the opposite of the pregnant friends I seemed to be surrounded by.  They were getting larger, whereas I had gotten much, much smaller.  Small to the point that at first, my family and some friends were convinced that I was anorexic.  Legs so thin that they didn't appear to be mine at all -- whose bones were those jutting out of the pale, thin skin?  Not mine.    

A memory that stands out for me is from a party I attended with at least two pregnant friends.  They and I all felt a bit nauseous and very tired and ready to call it a night.  One friend was describing her symptoms, and I commiserated -- they were not much different from mine.  The difference was that she was carrying new life within her, life that admittedly made her feel pretty awful.  I wasn't carrying anything special like that.  Instead I was host to some overactive white blood cells and some weird granulomae that apparently caused quite a ruckus to my immune system.  I sighed.  My baby was my illness.  I had to tend to it, hate it as I might.  Because I did despise this unwelcome visitor who I determined had destroyed my life.  Had dissipated my body out of all recognition.  The baby who wouldn't let me have another, less destructive baby.  

 For about 8 years now, I've been waiting to feel like I used to.  I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up coughing or with a raging headache or ear infection.  Wake up refreshed and not trembling, heart racing.  Wanted to laugh -- laugh readily and often, like I used to.  Not snap at loved ones because I didn't get enough sleep.  I have known for a while that I have been protecting myself in a little cocoon from hurting more.  I didn't care, I was sick, wasn't I?  Too bad for you, you just have to deal with my illness peculiarities.  It is only recently that I have been able to step back and watch myself fend off life.  I have been afraid of this baby.  She turned my life upside-down.  Slowly, not without resistance, I have forced myself to accept her.  "She might not ever leave, you know," I told myself.  There is also a good chance I might not ever get off of prednisone.  Prednisone is the pacifier that keeps her from throwing my body back into the sickness spiral.  

I have learned a few tricks.  If I do yoga regularly, she doesn't feel as achy and she sleeps better.  As woo-woo as it sounds, cranio-sacral therapy works.  So do chanting Buddhist monks and nuns.  Having two boys, as challenging as it is, is good exercise and makes her sleep well, too.  

With this acceptance, the fear has lessened.  I'm not throwing raspberries her way or dissing her or anything, of course.  I must respect her.  The illness, my first child, has allowed  me to lessen the prednisone pacifier.  She has allowed me to go from the five milligrams I've been on for so long, gradually, painstakingly down to 2.5 milligrams.  To those of you who've tapered prednisone, you know of what I speak.  It is extremely difficult to taper once you get down to the lower numbers.  Some say it is impossible once you've been on them so long, your adrenal glands become addicted to it and can't work on their own.  I tapered by 1.25 milligrams in March, and it has taken me until now to not feel completely exhausted.  I'm still not sure it'll stick, but I feel pretty good lately.  I weigh the same as I did before the illness.  Even a couple pounds more.  

And for a week or so now, I've been pretty ok.  Pretty chill.  More mindful.  More like I used to feel.  And for as long as it lasts, I am grateful.  Thank you for this birthday gift, you illness you.  My first baby.   

The one who made it possible for me to have my second two babies -- my boys.
 

You're Not the Boss of Me

Ahh, another book review opportunity!  I recently received a copy of You’re Not the Boss of Me by Betsy Brown Braun from Mom Central.  They're participating in a blog tour campaign on behalf of HarperCollins, and thus I'm writing this review.  They were kind enough to give me a copy of the book to facilitate my review. Mom Central also sent me a gift certificate to thank me for taking the time to participate.  It is a win-win situation.

It's particularly a winning situation for me when the book is a useful and good one.  I'm no expert on parenting books, because, frankly, I'm no expert on parenting, but I can recognize when a book has something to offer me in terms of practical advice or a fresh perspective -- something else I find I need when I'm get tired of the hackneyed phrases I tend to use.  Like, "Eat your meat, or you can't have any pudding -- how can you have any pudding when you don't eat your meat!" or "Put down the finely-sharpened stick before somebody loses an eye!"

Braun's book is written in an accessible and easy-to-read way and fits the bill as far as being useful and having a fresh perspective.  Each chapter has a theme, for example, Independence and Empathy were two of my favorites.  After a brief intro on the theme with discussions of normal childhood development and temperament, for example, she will provide "tips and scripts."  These follow each discussion and give the reader examples of what to say and/or do in a variety of situations.  She references scientific research a little more than I find necessary, but I do understand that that is important to some people.  I do tend to gloss over those parts after a while.  I prefer the anecdotal, real-life situations a bit more.  Something I really liked was her discussion of "brat-proofing" one's child.  When one of my kids is really behaving like a, well, like a brat, I'm always kind of taken aback.   Because they are definitely not brats, far from it.  They can behave in a brat-like manner, of course, which I think all kids (and some adults!) can do.  So I like the fact that she's not afraid to use the word "brat" and to realize that we can do something about helping our kids to become independent, respectful, empathetic kids.  And to realize that it takes time.  It takes learning.  And patience.  Patience from us as their parents and patience from them when we forget that they're still developing and expect too much.

I found the chapter on empathy (Why is that Girl Crying?) particularly interesting, because it's something that concerns me a great deal with my boys.  It's something I value and hope to engender in them, too.  I was happy that she actually recommended showing one's kids how to be empathetic in words and in deeds.  For example, she proposes volunteering if one has the time so your kids can see that caring for others is important to you.  

There is a lot to read, and I did find myself glossing over some of the tips and scripts when I felt that they went on too long.  But I do think it's the kind of book that one can pick up and put down as needed.  You can focus on a chapter that suddenly becomes pertinent (e.g. No, You Go to Your Room!" Creating a  Respectful Child), read the tips and scripts, and then work on putting it into practice.  Some things are common sense, but I think it's good to be reminded of particular parenting tools no matter how long we've been parents, since I'm sure a lot of us get mired in repetitive reactions to our children's less attractive behaviors.

All in all, I enjoyed reading You're Not the Boss of Me while I sat a McDonald's waiting for all four tires of our car to be replaced.  Yes, all four.  It was entertaining and gave me a lot to think about regarding my own parental habits.  Anything that makes a parent more mindful is a good thing.

don't worry!

I think I'd better write an upbeat post and tout suite!  I most certainly have been in a contemplative mood of late.  The third anniversary of the boys coming into our family has recently passed, and then I read about the dissolved Russian adoption case and some people's reactions to it.  The whole thing was so very sad, and I found myself feeling sorry for everyone involved, imagining going through with such a thing, how confused the boy must have been, how dissociated the adults must have been.  

We are actually quite, quite good here, with the usual and more than occasional challenge popping up.  In the Franken-mom post I was primarily talking about our first year together, and we are miles from that now, in a lot of ways.  Some of the same bad habits (for all of us) still exist from that time, but awareness of them make them less harmful to our family unit.

Awareness is what I was discussing towards the end of that last post.  My own awareness of my reactions, my thought processes, and real awareness of the other members of the family has caused a shift to occur in me.  Part of that awareness has come naturally, and part of it has come through work I've done with meditation and study of Buddhism.  I am slogging through, for sure, but I'm happier for it.  Recognition of my perceived failings as a parent are something I need to look at, learn from, and then move on.  I'm trying not to beat myself up, but at the same time look at things as objectively as I can.  I tend to write when I'm most inward, and when I have time.  So please don't worry!  I haven't considered jumping into the ocean in at least 6 months!

Here are the photos I promised two posts ago.  Mercury is still retrograde, but hopefully they'll load up.

It feels good to write again!  I'll try and keep up.
Lire and wee Nolan's tootsies.

new sandals on a 70 degree morning.

I tried to upload more, but my computer has had enough.  It's complaining rather loudly, alas.