I'm Okay

Last year in one of our after school conversations, JT was interested in the progression of school. He asked what happens after he finishes his school (it's pre K through 12th grade) and I explained that he'd go to college. And after college? I said that he'd probably go to graduate school. And then? So I explained that the end goal is to get a job.

We were walking to the car and he simply stopped in his tracks and then asked the obvious question, "When do I get to play?"

So I explained how a job that you love is like playing. And he listened and nodded his head, though it was clear that he regarded this as so much adult bullshit. The discovery that life and education lead to a job instead of playing seemed to revitalize JT's interest in getting in as much as play time as possible. It's a strike while the iron is hot policy.

And the boy is an amazing, imaginative player. Though he likes television and video games as much as the next kid, his real passion is reserved for playing all sorts of imaginary games. In the summer, when JT's time is unleashed for non-stop play, he will spend hours immersed in his imaginary games. I don't want to suggest a child unable to live in reality, because that's not the case. But more times than I can count, I find my child wearing some sort of costume and playing a game with a complete world made up by him, for him. He'll play the game for hours and wake up the next morning ready to go at it again. He's an only child but has never once asked for a sibling. He expects to make his own fun and he's perfectly able to do so.

This summer, the games have occasionally featured a loud noise. And when that happens, he'll call downstairs and we'll have the following conversation.

JT: Mama?

Mama: Honey, what was that (incredibly loud) noise?

JT: I'm playing. But I'm okay.

Mama: Well please be careful.

As the summer has unfolded, the full conversation has been less necessary. I'll hear the noise and within seconds it will be followed by the announcement: "I'm okay." It's JT's instant peace-of-mind program for dealing with his Mama.

In the next week, JT will be doing his playing at his other mom's house. My house will feel strangely quiet. At first, I'll relish the quiet. But soon I will miss the thundering boy feet, the laughter, the announcements that all is well. This time away isn't optional; it's what happens when a family is broken. To be honest, I've had a hard time making my peace with it. But if it has any silver lining, it's that I've come to appreciate just how fleeting my boy's childhood is.

I'll miss him while he's gone. Over and over I'll remind myself that what cannot be changed must be borne. In my mind, I'll hear JT's sweet, sweet voice telling me, "I'm okay."

I'm okay.

Meanwhile, Back at the Nest

In the middle of May, while we were looking for an errant baseball in the backyard, JT and I came upon a robin's nest in the middle of a giant, thorny bush.
It was startlingly beautiful, this project of a robin and Mother Nature, and JT and I were immediately charmed. We showed our secret nest to everyone who came to the house, amazed by the secret wonder. JT never doubted that the eggs would hatch and we'd have baby birds to admire. I worried that he'd be disappointed or, worse yet, the birds would hatch while he was away and he'd miss it all.

Then, last week there were cracks in a few of the eggs. Finally, on a terribly hot Saturday morning, two of the tiny birds emerged. JT heard them first while he was playing outside and he rushed inside to share the news with me. "Mama, they've hatched; they've hatched," he said with great excitement, "Come and see."

And indeed they had hatched. We could hear their sweet chirping when we stood on the back deck. I am often reminded that New Jersey really is a garden state, wooded and lush with greenery and wildlife, even here in our corner of a town located less than two miles from a major highway. I appreciate that about this place and, more than that, I love having a boy with which to share such wonders.

The boy has been away for the past week, visiting his other mom's family. I've stayed here at our temporarily quiet nest. I've missed every element of regular life as guided by JT........distribution of fudgesicles, backyard baseball, silly jokes, bike rides, dirty hand prints on the glass, reading to a boy before bed......all of it. It all returns tomorrow, when the boy walks through the door.
Safe travels, little boy. The nest hasn't been the same without you.

Bed

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings this week is smorgasbord, by which they mean writers can choose any of the 102 prompts they've posted in the last two years. I looked at the list, let the ideas ramble about in my head, and have decided to write about my bed.

I think of my bed as my own personal nest. I've always felt that way. And my nest requirements are pretty exacting: soft sheets, lots of pillows, a good mattress that feels just cushy enough (I know it when I feel it), and the proper mix of covers. I like soft colors.....nothing too bold for me because, if it all works out, I'd like to sleep in this bed, not be energized. My current bed is pretty tall so I have to climb up on it. But I like that too: I feel like the princess and the pea (though there is no pea under my mattress).

I am a girl of exacting precision when it comes to the nest. The proper mix of covers varies with the seasons. In the very depth of winter, the proper mix is flannel sheets, a warm fleece blanket, down comforter in a flannel duvet cover, and on top of it all, my down quilt. That's the bed Lucy the cat is pictured in here.
With spring, the bed needn't be so warm, and I start scaling back the mix of covers. First to go is the extra down quilt, then the flannel sheets and flannel duvet cover get packed away. I re-mix the bed one layer at a time so that by the time summer arrives, I'll be down to poplin sheets and a nice heavy quilt (because mama likes her a/c). The picture below shows that bed.
I keep a few extra quilts on the shelf in my closet to add extra warmth as needed. As I think about it, the bed changes its mix nearly every month. And now I am wondering......perhaps what I identify as exacting precision is just being picky.

That's a post for another day.

Hi, My Name is.......

When I first meet someone, I want to know that they have a good and kind heart. Lots of other things matter, of course, but for me that is at the center of it all. So when I am meeting someone for the first time, the fact that I am a caring person is the first thing I seek to establish. It's like I'm saying, "Hi, my name is Stacy, and I am a nice person." Last week was Back to School night at my school. In seven minutes for each classroom period, I have the opportunity to introduce myself to the parents of my students, to explain the courses I am teaching, and basically to begin to make a connection. I find it extremely nerve-wracking.

This is my 14th year as a teacher, and my 6th year at this school, so it's not as if I lack experience at this task. And both the parents and I want to make a good impression, so I probably shouldn't worry as much as I do. In meeting the parents, I follow the same basic principle that I apply in my classroom. The first thing I want to establish with my students is the fact that I care about them. I want them to know how much they matter to me. To help them know how much I care, I introduce myself each year by disclosing personal information. I tell them different things each year. This year, I told them about my son, the fact that I have lived in 4 states, and I told them about the things that I like to do with my free time (reading, gardening, cooking). I believe that students will take greater risks for a teacher whom they trust and for a teacher whom they believe cares about them. So I work very hard to foster that relationship early on, so that they will work hard for me all year long.

With the parents, it's a little more complicated. I want them to know that I care about their children. And I want them to understand that I will spend the year pushing their child to be a confident, independent learner. This year, I'm teaching seniors, juniors, and frosh students and so I remind the parents that in one, two, or four years, their child will be sitting in a college classroom. The folks and pushy Ms. Sassafras will not be there, and so the students must be able to get the job done on their own. I remind them that the measure of our success is not the receipt of a high school diploma, but, rather, a successful college experience.

This week, I'll be on the other side of the desk, as I attend Back to School night for the lower school and hear from my child's teacher. And as a parent, I want to know that she cares about my child. I've already met her and she's terrific. With good humor and kindness, she has helped JT to navigate the second grade with a broken leg. But most importantly, he thinks that she hung the moon. So she's met the test I apply to my relationship with my students: I believe that she cares about my son.

Collections

I collect antique dishes. Dish collecting is an interest I got from my mother; the antique part is just my twist on that tradition. When there is a special occasion at my house I get out my Jewel Tea dishes. The first pieces in my collection (a large bowl, a baking dish and a salad bowl) were well-worn and came from my grandmother. I love them because of that connection. They remind me of being at her home, drinking Coke out of fancy glasses, staying up late, playing endless games of cards, and feeling very grown-up. Over the years I've acquired additional pieces as gifts. Others I've purchased at auctions and antique stores. They aren't fancy dishes, and maybe they are a little homely. But I love them.

The story behind Jewel Tea is one of the reasons I love them so much. Starting in the early 20th century, the Jewel Tea company employed door-to-door salesmen all over the nation and they sold dry goods (and tea). Customers earned premium stamps for their purchase and with those stamps could get bonuses, including these dishes made by Hall Superior dish company. Over the years, Hall Superior made more and more special pieces for Jewel Tea and thus a collector's paradise was born. There are innumerable dishes in the collection ---- custard cups, sauce bowls, plates of all sizes. You name it and Hall made it.

My grandmother remembered that her mother bought things from the Jewel Tea salesman in the 1930s because he had a lot of children and she worried they didn't have enough to eat. There's always plenty to eat at my house, of course. But I never forget that act of kindness by a woman a few generations away from me, yet still present at my supper table whenever I set out my Jewel Tea dishes.

Quality Time with My Fellow Citizens

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is goosebumps. I'm not a fan of scary things, so I tend to get my goosebumps from reality.

Remember the 1980s TV show Night Court? Remember how much fun that wacky assortment of people could be? Okay, if you're still with me, remember that was television. The real night court starts off pretty funny but then it gets scary and sad.

I know because I was recently at night court in Middlesex, New Jersey. For the first part of the evening, it's traffic court. Then its time for all the other petty offenders. I was there for a minor traffic offense (yippee for saying good bye to the nasty points) but, due to a paperwork fracas, my minor speeding violation wasn't dispensed until late in the game, so I had plenty of time to see and hear the madness of my fellow citizens.

There was the drunk woman who was in court on a charge of disorderly conduct and public urination. She was 55 if she was a day and she was totally lit, sitting in the back of the courtroom and commenting on everyone and everything and using language so foul that even I was shocked.

Now that's saying something.

There was the man who admitted that yes, he drives day workers to jobs and no, he doesn't have commercial insurance. "Why?" said the judge.

"Because it's too expensive," the man explained. The judge laughed. But that particular infraction carries a steep fine, so I'm guessing our driving friend will go and get some commercial insurance real quick like.

Next up: a mother and her teenage daughter in for assault. Both charged for hitting one another. The judge encouraged them to drop the charges ---- mutually ---- and see a family counselor. They agreed ---- begrudgingly ---- and then left through separate doors to collect their bail refunds. Bet they'll be back.

Most disturbing was the woman in for violation of her probation. For the 5th time. The judge told her it was a mandatory jail sentence. She said, "who will watch my kids?"

The judge said, "I gave you 7 days last week to get that taken care of."

"I'm still working that out," she said, nonplussed as if that wasn't her responsibility. And the judge sighed heavily, clearly feeling the burden of this job he performs and then he said, "I don't have any choice." So off she went in handcuffs while the police were dispatched to her home to get three children (10, 3, and 2......the judge asked) and take them to foster care.

At this point, it's just not funny anymore. And by now, my paperwork has been found and I'm all set to pay my fine and leave. And I'm really, really happy to come home to my 7 year old. But as I tucked him into bed, I started to worry again about that other woman's children. Where are they tonight? Do they have clean pajamas and a lovey to cuddle up against? Have they had supper and a story? Will someone smooth a hand over their brow and whisper, "I love you?"

I fear not. And that makes me really sad and scared for them in a way that lingers so that I can't quite shake it off.

Decision 2012: A Call for Primary Reform

While most of the news media is focused on the 2008 presidential primary elections, I've been thinking about 2012. The last few presidential cycles have featured primary contests held earlier and earlier (a phenomenon called front-loading). Various proposals for reform of the primary system abound. Most would feature a series of regional primaries, but all would allow the Iowa Caucus and the New Hampshire primary to start the ball rolling. There is no perfect reform of the primary process; certainly no system that will provide for every political eventuality. But I think that regional primaries is worth a try. And I also I think that it's time for Iowa and New Hampshire to step aside.

Both states claim that their long history of running early primary contests makes them ideally suited to start the process. I would argue otherwise, for a number of reasons. First of all, when it comes to long histories in the primary process, long is relative. The Iowa Caucus has been important in American presidential elections since 1976. New Hampshire can claim longer influence, since 1952. And while tradition is important, I would argue that this tradition is not worth preserving, especially in the presidential primary process, which has only been decisive in the election of American presidents since the 1970s. The very nature of primaries is for change to drive the dynamic.

Neither Iowa nor New Hampshire is representative of the United States. They are too white, too rural, and too parochial to adequately represent America. That alone should be enough to seal the deal.

The persistence of the Iowa Caucus has empowered the farm lobby to continue to exercise its iron grip on American politics. But America's farm subsidy program is just a colossal system of corporate welfare, benefiting giant companies like Cargill and ADM, not the family farmer. Family farms are no longer the foundation of America, let alone rural America, and we should quit pretending that this is the case. Yet another reason to end the Iowa and New Hampshire lock on being first.

The power of teacher's unions and the movement to retain local political control of schools in Iowa and New Hampshire is so great that no candidate will seriously discuss any of the education reforms these groups oppose. Public education may be working in Iowa and New Hampshire (by the way, I have strong suspicions about this claim, but that's a post for another day), but it is failing miserably elsewhere in the United States, most notably in the cities (of which there are none in Iowa and New Hampshire......and Des Moines does not count as a city). We need to have some meaningful discussions about fixing public education in the U.S. But that won't happen if candidates are forced to kow-tow to the educational hierarchy in these early primary states.

And how about poverty or health care reform? Iowa and New Hampshire have elderly populations covered by Medicare and both participate in Medicaid. But neither state has a population of uninsured with any level of empowerment; nor does the political culture of either state encourage such discussions. There is a problem with rural poverty in the United States, but it's not on the political agenda in either Iowa or New Hampshire. So poverty and health care reform won't make the national agenda.

I could go on. But the bottom line is that Iowa and New Hampshire have out-lived their usefulness as centers of presidential politics. It's time to recognize this reality and move on to a new system for selecting presidential contenders, one that gives all states a chance at exercising influence over this important decision.

The Barry Bonds Phenomenon

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is phenomenon, specifically what sort of things make other people excited that just don't get you all worked up. Mine is rather a guilty secret: I don't hate or revile Barry Bonds. If he breaks Hank Aaron's hitting record, I'll watch it on television. I'll probably think about what it takes to hit so many pitches in the major league. I'll listen to commentators indignantly announce that Bond's accomplishment is sullied by allegations that he used steroids. And then I'll change the channel.

I won't wring my hands and note the shame of Bonds using steroids to enhance his already phenomenal hitting power. I'm pretty sure that Bonds has used perfromance enhancement drugs. I think it's a shame, especially because he was a talented athlete without the enhancement. But I won't rant that the record must have an asterisk to note that he's a steroid user.

And it's not because I don't care. I don't think that athletes should use performance enhancement drugs. But I'm not surprised when people do so and I can hardly blame them. The fame and the money and the power generated by physical prowess; by a talent randomly handed to you by god, must sometimes be overwhelming. The combination of physical and mental strength required to be a good athlete is a rare one; hard to sustain over the years. How can we be surprised that some people look for a quicker road to athletic success?

In the end, whether he used drugs or not, Barry Bonds is an impressive athlete. One day, long after he's hit his last major league ball, he'll look in the mirror and have to answer his conscience. That's good enough for me.

Slippery

One of the best things about summer is sliding through the water of a pool or the ocean and the sense of how quick and agile your body feels in that moment. I have loved that feeling since I first learned how to swim. This summer I've been teaching JT to pick up diving sticks, so that he learns to propel himself under water.

And that's really the thing I love most about the slippery feeling: it's powerful. It's a reminder of everything you can do. And just how fast you can do it.

A Love Letter to New Jersey

I have lived in four states ---- California, Tennessee, Nebraska, and New Jersey. I grew up in a smallish California town and went off to college in the big city of Los Angeles. I spent my grad school years in Nashville. When my son was born, I lived in a town in Nebraska with 5,000 people and 3 stoplights. Now I live in central New Jersey in a town of 10,000, sandwiched between other little towns. It's always been my experience that after a while I fall a little in love with the place that I am living. It's happened three times, so I think it's a dependable trait.

When I left Clovis for college at UCLA, Los Angeles and its surrounds represented excitement and opportunity beyond my wildest dreams. I learned to take the bus to new places and to love the city. I loved Westwood, the town at the foot of the university. I can still see its twinkling lights on a Friday night, and feel the freedom it represented.

In Tennessee, the first placed I moved after I left California, my love was immediate. Something about the thick sweet air and the relaxing pace just struck a chord with me. I lived there for five years and went back for a few summers after I had moved to the midwest. It's the only place I've ever been homesick for. That southern charm never faded for me and when I think of the idea of "home" it's Nashville that comes to mind.

It took me a while longer to love Nebraska, but I grew to appreciate the beauty of the wide view and the prairie sky, especially on a clear sunny day. The night sky was like my own personal IMAX experience. I never thought that the horizon could be so beautiful.

I came to New Jersey nearly 5 years ago, when my son was 2 years old. I like the small shaded towns strung together by busy highways (called routes by the locals...1, 22, 28, 206.... a seemingly endless chain). I enjoy the character of these towns, some with Italian bakeries, others with a Portuguese influence, and still more university towns. There are charming downtowns with shops and bookstores. There are deep dark woods to be found when I need them. Garden stores abound. It's the most multi-cultural place I have ever lived in.

I like the fact that my son can ride his bike in the streets of our town. I love our twice-yearly block parties and the fact that we can walk to the local theater to catch a movie. But close by are the bookstores, coffee houses, restaurants, museums, and lovely grocery stores that I loved about city-living. New Jersey has the small towns that people romanticize, without the smallness that can make those towns feel confining.

But most of all, New Jersey is the place my son knows best and it's home to him, reason enough to love it.

Simple

There is an old Shaker hymn that sings "'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free. 'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be." I learned the hymn when I sang in my elementary school choir and I've never forgotten that line. It has often provided comfort to me in rough moments of life, reminding me what's truly important. When the Sunday Scribblings prompt this week was "simple" I thought about that hymn and the simple things that I most enjoy. And so I've made a list of my very favorite simple pleasures:

- the sound of my boy laughing
- sitting on my back deck drinking a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning
- the sound of the rain when it just starts to fall
- the smile on my boy's face when he does something well
- an ice cold glass of Coke
- the smell and feel of the dark woods
- my kittens curled up and peaceful at the foot of my bed
- holding hands with someone you love
- the sight of my son, freshly washed, in clean pajamas and asleep in his bed
- a new, soft cardigan sweater
- the dark, deep, green depth of the twilight in the spring

Wings – Sunday Scribblings

When I was in the 7th grade, after school I rode the bus to my mother's school (she taught the 3rd grade) and I would do my homework while she finished up her day. By that time of day her students had left and she would often have a conversation with the other teachers in the school. As children often are, I was privy to these adult conversations and one of them stands out in my mind.

To a friend whose daughter was graduating high school and moving away to attend college, my mother said, "only the healthy birds leave the nest." At the time, I didn't quite understand what she meant. But years later, I teach high school and I now know exactly what she meant. This year I teach a class of 9th graders, a class of 11th graders, and two classes of 12th graders. My classroom is filled with birds who are in various stages of preparation to leave the nest. And I think often about the wings they will need to take flight.

The 9th graders still have a few years to go but in just one school year, I have watched some of them develop the beginnings of the independence and bravery that they will require. They aren't really thinking of leaving the nest, so most have little anxiety about their long-term future. They are fixated on the next few weeks and the prospect of summer vacation. Though it's closer than they think, taking flight seems well in the distance for this group.

The 11th graders have begun the process of looking for a college. They are actively thinking about their future and most are excited. Right now, it feels as if the world is their oyster and this future of independence and freedom is still far away. But in a few weeks, when the seniors finish school and the juniors assume the position of power in the senior lounge, they will realize that the final stages of their journey out of the nest has truly begun. And suddenly they will begin to contemplate what it will really mean to leave.

Right now, the 12th graders are excited. While a few are still weighing their college options, most have made a decision. There is a certain amount of senioritus at work amongst them. But others are more somber as they consider what the next few months will bring. My school is pre-K through the 12 grade and a number of the students have been here for all of their schooling. For them, contemplation of the future is tempered by the knowledge that they are about to leave a school that has been their second home for nearly all of their life.

We spend a lot of time preparing them to leave the nest. From the moment they walk in our door, whether at age 4 or at age 14, it's our goal to send them on. We know that we don't get to keep them. We know that we must prepare them to successfully leave the nest. And in many more ways than they probably know, we have helped them to grow the wings this will require. When graduation comes, and they walk across the stage, some tentative and some proud, but nearly all of them ready to go, I will watch them with tears in my eyes. I know every one of them, some of them very well. I know that many are ready to embrace the uncertainty of life out of the nest. I know that some will struggle. And I know how exciting and how stressful the next few years will be. But I see a glimmer of the adults they will become. I see that that they are one step closer to building a nest of their very own. Mostly I will know that we've done our job well.

And then I will come home to my own nest, and to my own 7 year old bird. I will try to imagine that one day he will want to leave our nest. I know that it's my job to see that this happens for him. But I will tell myself that there is still time, still years and years before I watch him take flight from our nest.

The Pope and Me: Secret Identity

Several years ago, in what often seems like a previous life, I was a college professor teaching moral philosophy to students enrolled in an open enrollment college in rural Nebraska. If it sounds like the premise of some Kafkaesque story, let me assure you that it often felt that way.

Teaching moral philosophy to students who could care less about philosophy is a challenge. And as we read our way through excerpts of Aristotle's Ethics, Immanuel Kant's categorical imperative, and the ideas of Vaclav Havel, it was sometimes more of a challenge then I expected.

In the rural Midwest, a place that can rarely be called open-minded, I found myself awash in students who were ethical relativists. Yes, they would agree, genital mutilation is wrong in America. But those folks in Africa should be permitted to engage in such practices, they would argue. "It's their culture," the students would inform me, as if that explained it all.

I came to believe that ethical relativism is the governing principle of most every moral discourse in the United States. My students would tell me again and again that there is no absolute right or wrong. It's all relative to the situation, they would say. I must confess that I found this surprising, though there was once a time when I would have agreed with such an argument. In many ways, ethical relativism promotes a greater tolerance for cultural diversity. I think that is vitally important. But the more I read and taught moral philosophy, the more I came to believe that there is a bright and universal demarcation between right and wrong. Some moral standards must exist; right and wrong cannot be relative positions.

I know this is an odd conclusion for a liberal, educated, feminist, lesbian to articulate. I was born in 1967, the child of liberal baby boomer Californians. If anyone has a right to be a relativist, it's me. I grew up in an open-minded world governed by tolerance. Who am I to suggest that that there are absolute standards in the moral universe?

And yet I believe that there are absolute standards of moral behavior. I'm not sure how I would define it all, but there are some principles to which I believe that we must all adhere. Children are due our protection and must never be hurt. Genital mutilation is wrong. Always. We have a moral imperative to make every effort to end violence where it exists, or at least to avoid contributing to the sum amount of it in the world. Are these ideals that cannot be achieved? I don't really know the answer to that. Must we try to achieve them? Absolutely.

The new pope, Pope Benedict, has lately argued that ethical relativism run amok leaves us with no moral foundation. In a homily delivered to his fellow cardinals after the death of Pope John Paul, Benedict (then Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger) said, "We are moving toward a dictatorship of relativism which does not recognize anything as for certain and which has as its highest goal one's own ego and one's own desires." I couldn't agree more. And while I am certain that he and I have very different notions of right and wrong, I believe that he's right that relativism is the slippery slope to moral bankruptcy.

So here I am, an avowed liberal with a secret identity as the anti-ethical relativist. Who knew?

In the News – Sunday Scribblings

I come from a family who was well-informed by osmosis. I don't recall that my parents ever sat us down and said: you must be well-informed. We just were. We listened to the morning news on the radio and we read the paper every day. My family watched the evening news ---- CBS was the preferred network. When I was 14 and requested that my parents get me a Newsweek subscription, they did so and then read the magazine themselves and talked with me about what I was reading. 25 years later, I still have that Newsweek subscription and I still read the magazine from cover-to-cover each week. I read a daily paper (though I do it on-line) and the radio news is how I start my day. On the weekends and during summer vacation, I add BBC World News to my daily habit. At age 7, my son recognizes the voices of National Public Radio. Though I no longer watch much TV news, I read a handful of political blogs every day.

I'm basically well-informed because I never knew a time when that wasn't important. I'm teaching my son the same habit, though the war in Iraq and the state of the world makes that hard. I don't want him exposed to violence and war. Children want to believe things are black and white, but how do I tell him that American soldiers are good when there is Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo? How do I explain what our nation is doing in Iraq? How do I explain that sometimes our elected leaders cannot be trusted? I am cautious and yet I let him listen. For all that I can't explain, the core value that I want my son to develop is the idea that being well-informed is important. He must listen and read and ask questions in order to know what he believes and where he stands.

Deepest Darkest

Deepest darkest read the prompt at Sunday Scribblings. I knew the answer to the question even before I finished reading it.

For as long as I can remember, my deepest darkest fear was that I was not worthy of love. My grandmother used to say that there was a lid for every pot but growing up I often felt that wasn't true for me. I hoped that there was lid for me but I didn't quite believe that there would be. As an adult I came to feel that my deepest darkest fear was really a manifestation of figuring out who I am and being okay with being gay. Years of therapy were helpful in this regard. And for the nine years that I was with Lisa I was persuaded that my fear was unfounded.

For nine years I felt worthy of love and then suddenly, again, I feel unworthy. I am a lid without a pot. Or a pot without a lid. I keep wondering if I am somehow a broken person. The rational part of me tells me that I'm human, but not broken. I have family and friends who love me; my son loves me. I am not alone in this world, not by a long shot. But I have never quite loved another person as I loved Lisa. And thus I have never quite hurt like I have hurt since she left. And though I know that I should, I can't quite dismiss the fear that she was right to leave me; that I wasn't worthy of being loved by her. And so my deepest darkest fear has returned like an old and unwelcome acquaintance in the deepest darkest parts of my thoughts.

I fought off the demon once before and I like to think that I can fight it off again. Really, I have no choice. But sometimes I still feel like that 10 year old who let herself into the quiet empty house after school. She worried that no one could love her. And 30 years later I worry too.

In the Kitchen

As a girl and a young woman, I would not have characterized myself as a particularly creative person. Now, as an adult, I think that I am more creative, and certainly more willing to take creative risks. And, though it might seem like an odd development, I think that my willingness to be creative is from learning to cook and being willing to take risks in the kitchen.

I first learned to cook from my mother and my paternal grandmother. Later on, when I was in my 20s I learned more from my friend Kyle and her mother, Betty. By the time I was 25, I was a confident cook, willing to take risks and trust my judgment. I began to develop a list of things that I could cook well ---- specialties of my kitchen. I began to collect cookbooks and I was willing to try new things. Now, at the age of 39, I am a confident cook. I often use recipes and still love to read cookbooks and cooking magazines (Cooking Light and Cook's Country are my favorites). Lately, I've developed a growing list of food blogs to regularly read, including Simply Recipes, Homesick Texan, and Smittenkitchen. But just as often, I use my own desires as start for finding just the right taste.

I cook for the joy of the process and for the pleasure of feeding others. I love to sit down at the table with my family and friends. One of my greatest pleasures in life is a good meal prepared by my hands. I think that a great deal of my enjoyment is because I like to feed the people whom I love. I've begun to share my kitchen with my sonand to teach him the pleasure of cooking for others (that's him helping me make cookies while wearing his pirate costume. It feels like I am sharing a tradition and a process that will last him a lifetime.

All of this means that by design, my kitchen and my dining room are the center of my home, and the place where I most often express my creative energies.

Dream Journey

My whole life, I have been an active daydreamer. Most often, my daydreams have featured my future. I dreamt about having a child and being a parent long before he was actually born; I can remember walking through the woods years ago in Nashville dreaming about having a house of my own. I think that I have always planned and prepared for my future through daydreams.

In the years that Lisa and I were together, I daydreamed about our future: places we would go together, things that we would do. I had a very active daydream about running a bed and breakfast that was sometimes a daily visit for me. I had planned a trip to England for Lisa's 40th birthday. When Lisa first left, I frantically tried to close off the pain by retreating to my daydreams only to find that they hurt as well. For years I had been spinning daydreams about a future for she and I but there was no us anymore, and no future to go with it. And so what was once a familiar place to take comfort was now just new area of pain in my life. My daydream factory was suddenly shut down.

I quit daydreaming about the future because it hurt so much and because for the first time in years I had no idea what the future might bring. And, frankly, I was so busy trying to manage the here and now that I couldn't really envision the future. I wasn't even sure that I wanted a future.

But this week I realized that very slowly my daydreaming life is coming back. For the last few weeks, I've daydreamed about my upcoming vacation in Florida. I've also daydreamed about camping in the Cape this summer. It's not far into the future, but it is a future, which feels like a huge step forward.

Superstition – Sunday Scribblings

I'm not sure that I would call myself a superstitious girl, though I am cautious. I wouldn't step on a crack (for fear I'd break my mother's back) and if I spill salt, I toss some over my shoulder. My life hasn't really been governed by these practices. On the other hand, since I am a cautious person, I have had a life-long tendency to develop patterns and to stick with them. I even find comfort in these patterns. So I used the same ink pen to take every final exam I ever took at UCLA. I have a calming mantra that I repeat to myself in nervous moments. And the pattern goes further than that: for nearly every year of my life since I was a little girl, I have bought a new pair of Keds sneakers in the spring. There are other things as well, but I think that you get the idea.

I wouldn't say that I resist change, because I don't think that's the case. But I have always sought continuity in the midst of change and change that I didn't create or didn't want makes me very anxious. Sometimes it makes me feel utterly powerless. So the upheaval in my life last summer was unwelcome and hard for me. Because it was unexpected I hadn't had the opportunity to gird myself for what was coming. And in the aftermath, I decided that as I approach the age of 40, I need to do a better job of rolling with the punches, or at least being prepared to roll with the punches when they come my way.

So I have broken with some of my traditions. It makes me a little nervous to do so. But it also feels freeing in an unexpected way. I still got some new sneakers this spring, but they aren't Keds. I got some K-Swiss this year. It may not look all that different but it feels new to me. And when I look at my feet while I'm walking around in Florida next week I will hopefully be reminded that changes, even the unexpected ones, can be good.

Puzzled

Here at Sassafras House we are getting ready for spring break and a trip to Florida. So JT's other mom ---- the one who suddenly hit the road last summer --- kindly bought him some shorts and t-shirts. At least it seemed kind because it saved me both the time and money of taking JT shopping to pick out new clothes. This weekend, I had him try on the clothes. They are enormous, far too big. Seriously, these aren't shorts, they're gauchos. And the shirts were a size 10 ----- the boy is 7 and a pretty scrawny 7 at that.

I find this all rather puzzling. And it's clear that Lisa, who regularly insists to me that she is just as much a parent as I am, is pretty damn puzzled herself. This afternoon, while JT is seeing her for their weekly visit, I will go out and exchange the giant shorts for the right-sized clothing.

Because that's what parents --- the kind who are the mama every day --- do.

Crush

My first real crush was in high school. I was a senior and A was a friend of my sister (memo to the sister: did you even know this?). She was vibrant and funny and made up her own vocabulary for things. I loved that about her. She was tall ----- taller than me ----- with an angular haircut and a great sense of style. Things were just different when she was around and I liked that.

At the time, I had no idea that I had a crush on her. I just thought that I liked her because she was so funny. I had yet to receive that internal "hey, you're a lesbian memo." And when I went to college and realized that I was gay, it was a slow realization: I just thought that everyone felt like I did.

But ultimately, A was that source of that realization.