Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Song of the Week: Where Soul Meets Body
Labels:
Being Alive,
Being Sensitive,
god,
Love,
Song of the Week
Monday, September 21, 2015
Pope Week is All of the Panics, the Parkway Is all of the Violated Places
***Please note: I would like to acknowledge a bout of
empty-womb sorrow that informs the general frustration of this post.***
Geez, this is a lot of dark topics lately for a happiness
blog, you might be thinking, but sometimes, there’s anger, sometimes you have
to dig through three thousand porta potties of shit to unearth joy, or in this
case, get to God.
Here’s what I see when I see the “Welcome, Pope Francis”
signs everywhere, including at my own usually-liberal Unitarian Society:
Welcome, institutionalized rape.
Welcome, marriage and childbirth as coercion.
Welcome, only being worthwhile as a woman if you serve a
husband and have lots of children.
Welcome, only being worthwhile as a man if you own a woman
and have lots of children.
Welcome, birth control as sin and overpopulation murdering
the planet.
Welcome, narrow definition of love that doesn’t apply to me.
Welcome, my ex-wife and I being told we’re sinners at most
family weddings.
Welcome, even babies have inherent sin.
Welcome, the thought is as bad as the deed.
But the thing that makes me angriest is how Catholicism
taught me that some of the best things about myself are what keeps me separated
from God. My questioning, my strength, my sexuality—not even queer sexuality
but the very fact of out-of-marriage desire; that these things kept me from
feeling entitled to a relationship with God make me feel enraged. God made me
this way, and the Church separated me from God.
I happen to be in a phase right now where I’d like a more
openhearted relationship with the divine, where I want to come out and come to
terms with my not-atheism. I’m not a cool agnostic, and I’d like to find some
ways of expressing it. I do believe in a benevolent force that loves me. I do
want to be grace-filled and joyful and accept that love. But right now all I
can feel is anger for how long I was told I didn’t deserve that connection,
that god belonged to more straight and well-behaved girls. I know it’s my fault
for not realizing it sooner.
Mostly, like all things are to me, it’s personal. I am angry
on behalf of child me, as is way-too-often the case. An example is this: When I
was fourteen, I had sex for the first time. I did it right then because I was
feeling sad and ugly and I thought I might never have the chance again. I
thought it would make some sort of connection with the guy but he treated me
like a stranger afterwards. It was so sad as to seem like a cliché.
I told my aunt, my favorite confidante. That evening, we
were in church and I mentioned that someone had on my (recently deceased) Great
Grandmom’s perfume. “Maybe she’s telling you she forgives you.” said my beloved
aunt.
Here is what she should have said, and I’ll say it to myself
now—
You are worthy and good and there is so much happiness
and love in your future. Sex is yours and you will have it in the happiest,
most playful, most exuberant, most loving ways. You can and should expect more
from partners, and you have so much in body, soul, and heart to offer them in
return.
Being shamed about sex, believing somewhere inside that it’s
something for which I need forgiveness, has caused me so much pain and loss
that at 41, I’m still working to heal the consequences.
Welcome Pope Francis, chip in on my therapy bills.
So, during Pope Weekend, I will do every kind thing for
myself. I’ll pray for everyone who was hurt in large and small ways by the
Church. I will take the opportunity to stay home and work on my sex memoir, so
that this woman, at least, will continue to have a voice, so I can honor the
hot-pants spark inside me that IS
God, and it will be, loved, celebrated, and will know it never needs to be
forgiven, that it was born forgiven. My family’s faith may have hampered their
ability to raise me (and themselves) with love, but I can still raise myself,
and still find my own path to God.
Labels:
Anger,
Connection,
Famliy,
god,
Grace,
Growing Up Catholic,
Happiness,
Having Faith,
Losing Faith,
Love,
sex
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Songs of the Week: Two for Profile-Updating
Labels:
Dreams,
Heart Inventory,
Heartbreak,
Love,
My Inner Minaj,
Song of the Week
Monday, September 14, 2015
Thoughts After a Romance (Heart Inventory Continued)
When I wrote my birthday heart inventory, I happened to be
in the early part of a relationship, the part where one is expected to be
reticent, lighthearted, tentative, (none of those my strong suit even a little)
as though one were trying to convince a woodland creature to eat from one’s
hand. (Some comedian said that, it isn’t mine but it’s apt.)
So I left some things out.
I’m so glad I decided to let him in, to let myself hope. It
was wonderful to think that we might actually be going someplace together. He
was supposed to stay over on Saturday and then go to church with me on Sunday.
I haven’t attended church with a boyfriend since the summer before eleventh
grade, when I knelt beside my unbelievably sweet first boyfriend in the front
pew of my Aunt Connie’s church. The idea of sharing a faith with a partner, of
harboring a spiritual connection, made me so joyful that I thought I might
explode. Sunday was the Water Ceremony at my church, where we were supposed to
bring water from our summer and join it with everyone else’s water. I’d asked
him if he would want to contribute some water from his pool, where we’d shared
some perfect moments, and to my great delight, he said yes.
I keep a one-sentence journal, and Saturday’s entry reads:
“I think he really likes me—our date is at 3pm and at 10 am, he’s already put
the water in his car to remember to bring it for church.” This news was
accompanied by a photo of his morning glories, which are purple like most of
mine. Maybe he did really like me.
That morning, I felt so open and festive, like the best
possible version of myself. It was, he
was, a special occasion. I walked over to the co-op to get flowers to put by
the door, and of course they were a rainbow. I felt playful, and loving, and
generous, and there were definitely special underpants.
And it was a
magical afternoon and evening, full of laughter and what I would’ve called
closeness. It doesn’t matter what went wrong in the night, but I will say this:
Usually I can sift though any bad match and find what I did wrong, but in this
case I am wholeheartedly sure that that guy had won the person lottery, and he
severely mishandled his luck.
I still went to church, cried the whole way there and was
glad I remembered where they keep the stash of wedding/funeral tissues. One of
my favorite friends joined me in the pew and we laughed about the patheticness
of my I-had-to-spill-the-special-pool-water-down-the-sink story. She’d
forgotten her water so I lent her my drinking bottle while I spilled in some
ocean water from the family beach. It was an absolutely meant-to-be breakthrough
morning with my friend, who also happens to be a creative coachee.
But home alone, sobbing in front of “Up in the Air,” I had
to admit to such loss, such longing. Before I met him, it was mostly possible
to ignore a big part of what’s missing in my life, or I’d just been enjoying a
nice break from worrying about it: Though my day- to-day life is pleasant and
good, I want to fall in love and have a family more deeply than it feels safe
to say.
A few months ago, one of my favorite friends in the world
had a baby after a long, hard struggle. I was so relieved and happy for her and
saw it as proof that even the most enormous and terrifying-to-want dreams can
come true. But also I was inconsolable. I cried so hard that I thought my heart
would fall out. I felt so much envy and pain and grief and loneliness with each
successively more adorable picture: I eventually had to just unsubscribe.
Normally one would just take that to mean, duh, I want a
baby, but that honestly seems supercrazy for me to want—I’m sensitive, anxious,
single, and (though I know I have
fertile genes) likely too old to try.
And yet.
The wide, vast, chasm of pain that opened up from my friends
facebook and from the loss of a guy who just wasn’t right means that I do very
dearly, in the most raggedly vulnerable way, want to have my own family.
The guy, while he has qualities of his own, also has two
adorable sons. He once texted me a picture of them on a picnic by a pond. And I
let myself imagine it—how I might someday meet them, how I might someday heap
them all in love. Even without having (thank goodness) met the kids, I knew
that the three of them needed me, needed the ocean of love that’s in me, and I
let myself hope I could someday give it to them.
So now I’m in a position of being no longer able to ignore a
thing I can’t really do anything about. I’m afraid I’ve lost my chance, not
with him (he was not the chance) but
with my someday family, like we’ve all missed our connection somehow. The idea
that it might be to late is a heavy thing to carry around, knowing I may
eventually have to just grieve the lost chance.
But the thing is, I let myself believe in the possibility of
love, of letting someone in. I let myself go as far as the current of romance
could take me, and that was a good and brave choice. And although it is
famously lightning-strike foolish, I have to believe that my guy and my family
are still out there waiting for me, or maybe the impossible will happen before
it’s too late. I have so much love, so much everything to give a family.
However they come, whoever they are, let them get here. I miss them so much.
Labels:
Church,
Dreams,
Family,
Gender,
goals,
Happiness,
Heart Inventory,
Heartbreak,
Love,
The BabyThing,
Water
Friday, September 11, 2015
Friday Love Poem: Daniel McGinn!
Daniel, fourth from left with his deardear wife Lori, back when I lived blessedly near them. |
This week's poet is a favorite influence, a wonderful friend, and one of the best all around humans there is. He and Lori just celebrated their 39th anniversary, so it seems a little odd to mark the occasion with a poem about me--but who could resist?
Explaining Jane
“Jane
Cassady has been informed that you cannot be a post-modernist and call
yourself a post-modernist at the same time, so she now refers to herself
as post- structuralist.”
yourself a post-modernist at the same time, so she now refers to herself
as post- structuralist.”
-Ben
Trig, Poetry Host
1.
Open to
her eyes peering out the mail slot—
the sound
of one pink polished nail
tap tap
tapping in the brass lip.
Let us
assume she is on her knees,
Holy
Mother of God,
she wonders aloud
When
will the postman arrive?
Jane knows
what she means to say
but today
she is
closed like a door
with a
mouthful of letters.
2.
What shall
I say?
My
lips are just meat.
My heart
but a subject
open
for interpretation.
The state
of my soul?
This is California, you say
but it is
never the same to you.
We
communicate alone, don’t we?
One does
not even understand odd.
Knowing
people is a matter of time
and space.
Consider space.
Who among
us is able to do the math?
3.
Lesson
One, says
the teacher,
is that there
is no Lesson One.
Maybe it’s
raining out.
Maybe the
teacher is crying.
But hey, who
are we to judge the teacher?
Jane
raises her hand,
waving it
like a flag on a minivan,
a silent
hand but important,
like a
white flag
snapping
smartly over a massacre.
Jane says
to the teacher,
What
about the post??
The
teacher sees lumber
And tries
to build his argument.
No, Jane says,
it’s
not about the male men anymore,
The
teacher sees machine guns.
Jane sees
love letters.
Daniel McGinn's work has appeared numerous anthologies and publications. His full length collection of poems, 1000 Black Umbrellas was released by Write Bloody Press. He had five chapbooks published as part of the Laguna Poets chapbook series. Daniel has an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He and his wife, poet Lori McGinn, are natives of Southern California. They have 3 children, 6 grandchildren and a very good dog.
Labels:
Art,
Dreams,
Friday Love Poems,
Mail,
Nice Friends,
Poetry
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Birthday Heart Inventory: More for Age 41
Yesterday as I was getting in the car to drive to work, I
had the music turned up and this song shuffled on. A grumpy man across the
street glowered at me and I gave him the biggest grin and decided it would be
my song of the year. I would like to say goodbye permanently to guilt and
shame, to my tendency to apologize for my existence, to false good-girl
compliance, and embrace being maladjusted, both in the Dr. King sense and in
the regular way. So:
Forty was the year of friends. I realized my dream of being
best friends with Amy, and while that may not be the move-oniest thing, it is
certainly a source of joy and my favorite pleasant work boredom. I’ve gotten
closer to my church friends, made poetry part of my life again in a small but
significant way, and had the best friend-life since probably middle school.
There was a spate where all of my friends lived in other cities and though I
still love my far-flung family of pals, I’m glad to have expanded to those who
can just barge in or, as my next-door neighbor did this morning, surprise me
with spontaneous festiveness.
This was also the year that I truly loved being single,
where getting in my own little world has been the best and happiest treat,
whether I’m writing, painting, organizing the shelves, or just snoozing on the
couch rewatching Gilmore Girls again.
And for making my own little world so pretty, the MVP award
definitely goes to my apartment. The story of how I got it is how I want to let
life be more often: One Sunday morning I was all grumpy because my divorce
apartment was filled with cigarette smoke from the creepy downstairs neighbor.
I was so crabby I couldn’t even deal with finding a parking spot at church, so
I came up to the prettiest street around to take a walk. I overheard my
now-landlord talking about showing the place and I stopped, butted into her
conversation, and came up the driveway to see. The walls were painted a hideous
pumpkin orange, but she said I could have any color, and she got my robin’s egg
blue exactly right.
This is the first place that ever really felt mine, the place I most truly belong. In
the mornings, I open the door and let the cool air in, stand there with Frannie
and see how many morning glories bloomed. It’s a still and safe place that
reminds me of the countryside I grew up in, but with an independent bookstore
three doors down.
The apartment became the home of Fun and Games Poetry Class,
which was definitely the biggest and happiest accomplishment of the year. That
I made money for praising wonderful writers and helping them bring out their
best work feels like such an incredible gift. I’ve written them so many thank
you notes already, but the curiosity, generosity, and imagination at the heart
of my poet pals is a force of nature and I’m honored whenever I’m in their
presence.
The same goes for my made-up creative coaching careers. That
my friends have trusted me with something as personal and delicate as their
creativity, that I get to foster breakthroughs and encourage indulgence and
celebrate expression at my own kitchen table is a dream come true, and I would
love to see it expand in the coming year.
I’ve already said a lot about the year’s losses, but they
need a little paragraph. It still hurts that classroom teaching didn’t work,
that I’m not able to work for justice in the way that I wanted to. The harsh,
tenacious, beautiful lives of my students still haunts me, will never leave me,
and I hope that I can honor them in this new life. As soon as one more
clearance comes in the mail, I’ll be back writing poetry with the library kids,
so that’s a start. Though the panics of school haven’t left me yet, I know I’m
getting stronger.
And okay, I’ve put off writing about him long enough,
there’s a guy. It’s too soon to tell what we’ll be to each other but he is a man. He makes plans, he takes me out on
real dates, he remains unfazed when the darkest parts of me come out. He lights
me up. I don’t want to say more or I’ll jinx it, but it’s nice to be hanging
around with someone who makes sense for me—it was a long way to get here.
Labels:
Art,
creativity,
Dreams,
Family,
Friends,
Heart Inventory,
Home,
Love,
Neighbors,
Not Wanting to Jinx It,
Poetry,
Work,
Writing
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Talking With My Childhood Self About Bill Cosby
Photo by my Uncle Steve |
Before I get to the soul searching, I want to say that I
think Hannibal Buress is a hero for bringing the reality Bill Cosby’s victims
into the public consciousness, but I really wish that women were taken as
seriously on the same set of topics—Jen Kirkman has been censored and Julie
Klausner vilified for pointing out similar allegations and hypocrisies, (about Louis C. K. and R.
Kelly respectively) and I would very much like to live in a world that isn’t trained
to dismiss women’s point of view, especially on this particular matter.
For a lot of my adult life, I’ve been a trusting, open,
jump-in-with-both-feet kind of person. I made friends and became devoted to
them instantly (okay, I still do that) got crushes on poets and wrote reams
about them, greeted nearly every person and new situation wholeheartedly. I’ve never been afraid to walk alone at night
and I’m still not, but in the past few years, I’ve ended up seeing the world
through rape-colored glasses, seeing facets of coercion and exploitation everywhere.
The problem with this lens is not that it isn’t true, but that it isn’t helpful;
it’s not taking me where I want to go.
I want to slay those dragons and really start to live knowing
I have agency and hope. The personal reasons that I tend to see the world this
way are well-documented; they’re private and complex, but the psychological
impact, the pulling-the-rug out-from-under-me that Cosby-as-rapist has wrought matters.
Like probably so many little girls, I LOVED Bill Cosby. This
is not an overstatement like “Oh, I love Netflix,” but real, abject human love
of a child for an adult man who seemed more than deserving of that love. My dad
had all of his records and my brother and sister and I listened to them so much
that it was almost like we were the
siblings in those stories.
But The Cosby Show.
It was one of the few shows we were allowed to watch—somehow that Thursday
night block was highbrow enough for my dad (who before long would give into the
slippery slope of Growing Pains and Perfect Strangers) (Mike Seaver didn’t
do much in the not-letting-me-down department either, did he?) so we watched it
as a family every Thursday night, like everyone.
Was there ever a more appealing paragon of manhood than
Cliff Huxtable? He danced with his wife. He goofed around with the kids. He
lovingly and hilariously laid down the law when necessary. And sometimes, as I
think was pointed out once on Community,
an entire episode could be about making a sandwich with his daughter. He was a
perfect picture of what it means to be a man in a family, exactly the beautiful
grownup my ten-year-old self needed.
There are a lot of factors that combine to make me generally
skittish, but the shift from what I felt about Cosby then to what I know now
exacerbates the feeling I have sometimes that if I relax for one second, if I
trust for one second, the world will turn upside down and I will be completely
fucked. But I certainly don’t want to approach the world that way.
So.
Dear Little Self,
What you loved was a story, and that story is still true.
Everywhere there are families with singing and laughing—you’ve lived in one for
a long time. Everywhere there are men, dads and brothers and friends and
strangers who wish you and everyone nothing but love, safety and happiness.
You can grieve for Cliff Huxtable and be mad that Kurt
Cobain was such a creep to that girl in high school and still be pretty peeved
about that one episode of Buffy. I
will always be mad with you and on your behalf. I will always be on your side.
But let’s look for other, better examples, and allow them to
be true. I’ll do my best to keep you safe, if you’ll do your best to let it go.
Take all the time you need.
Love,
Grownup You
Labels:
Childhood,
Dreams,
Gender,
Heartbreak,
Hope,
Love,
Pop Culture,
TV
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