Vali-Dating

The kids and I spent the last week at family camp.  Emandal, farm on a river, the best week of the year hands-down.  We attend the same session every summer – Week Five – and have a wealth of camp friends who do the same.  Every August we reconvene, check in, break it down, talk about what’s next.

If last year was about processing my divorce, this year was taking a deep look at romantic love.  Chatting with my friends, at the farmhouse, at the river, at the campfire, slowly peeling back the layers of what I want and why.

My friend, Bonnie, brought tarot cards and gave readings in the gathering dark after dinner.  Every reading felt uncanny.  It’s like visiting a psychic – hearing what you didn’t know you knew.  Same thing for tarot, it turns out.  The cards said that the world is at my feet.  There is darkness behind and light up ahead.  But to get there, to fulfill those dreams, I need to take care.  I need to take some time to retreat, to pull back into my shell, to restore.  I need to be careful of putting obstacles in my way, specifically dalliances with men who aren’t available.  And I need to relinquish control – which I took to mean both control of finding my love and manipulation of the relationship once it manifests.

I was joking at the beginning of the week about a dating site I want to start called “Vali-Dating”.  You shop for dates but are really just there to get your ego stroked.  To know that someone in the outside world finds you attractive, finds you worthy.  I’ve used dating websites before this way, mostly unconsciously.

But then later in the week, at the final campfire, during what my friend Chip calls “Campfire Stage Four”, when the kids have departed, the bourbon has been uncorked and the coals burn low, Chip said something that sunk my vali-dating joke straight down to the bottom of the river. 

I was telling him how I struggle with the idea of love.  How I want this thing, this great love, so badly, this complete union, this truly-madly-deeply.  But how, as yet, I haven’t been able to achieve it.  He said a lot in response but the sentence that made me burst into surprised tears was this:  “You need to stop looking for validation”.

Because I do.  That’s my M.O.  I believe myself to be smart, charming, sexy, fun – at least I believe that in my head.  But my heart isn’t sure.  My heart believes I’m not quite worthy.  And so I look for proof that I am, generally in the form of a male gaze.

Yesterday we all went down to the river to swim at the base of Skull Rock, a giant piece of granite thrusting towards the sky.  Mae immediately scrambled to the top, a good twenty or thirty feet up, and leapt with a joyful yelp into the water.  As the afternoon progressed, more kids and adults climbed and jumped.  Mostly kids, mostly men.  Soon my friend Elizabeth eased her way up.  Then Bonnie.  Looking at these women climb that rock face – not easy and frankly quite scary – then fly out into the abyss, I was awed.  Not only because they looked like the cover of an Athleta catalog, all tensed muscle and bikini.  But because they were risking failure, going after something they wanted, not worrying about how they appeared to others.

I didn’t climb Skull Rock.  I’m not great with taking physical risks, I have old beliefs about a lack of upper body strength (surely cured by teaching barre class), but mostly I was afraid of how awkward I would look to the crowd gathered below, this group of people who love me no matter what.

So what if I lived as if no one was watching?  What if I just didn’t give a shit?  What if I climbed the rock, followed my own compass, maybe even forgot about love for awhile?

The cards – and Chip – seem to think I should spend some time alone.  Burrow into my new house, cuddle up with my kids, make my art.  Stop looking around for who’s watching.  Maybe heal this old heart of mine, once and for all.

And who knows, maybe next year I’ll scale Skull Rock, slowly, carefully, probably awkwardly.  And take a huge leap out into the air; free.

Living

It’s 6:20 on a Saturday morning.  I’ve been up since five.  Not because I have to, I just couldn’t sleep.  Too much going on.

A lot has happened in the last couple months.  I opened a new store – the best Shop ever.  Hand-built with my colleagues (that’s how I’m now referring to my co-owners, Jane, Val and Michele – my colleagues.  I’m pretending we’re doctors), it is a visual feast.  Housed in an old post office circa 1859, the building buffed within an inch of its life and filled with everything we make and find.  It’s been a huge success, in every way.  I may be able to pay my rent after all.

Speaking of which, the house I’ve been renting went up for sale.  After I tried to buy it.  I didn’t have the $800,000 for my 800 square foot cottage so shit out of luck.  I was looking for another rental (so insanely expensive, so demoralizing) when I lucked into escrow on a house on the hill.  Skin of my teeth, seat of my pants, hair of my chinny chin chin, we close June 2^nd.   Every star aligned and an extremely good friend stepped in to co-sign (turns out the bank doesn’t trust a stay-at-home-mom freshly turned full-time artist).  Somehow I’m managing to stay in Marin, a market I thought I might be priced out of.

And I’m officially divorced.  Which I think is good news?

Sprinkled in there have been some dates, some mini love affairs.  It seems the more intense the rest of my life the more release I seek romantically.  Which makes for not a lot of sleep and some emotional turmoil.

I spent last week weeping (okay, and this one).  Last Thursday I got news that a good friend, a person that has always awed me with her energy and beauty and heart, is seriously ill.  My dear friend Megan’s mom died last Saturday.  I had thought about her (Megan’s mom but Megan, too) every hour of that week that was her last.  On Sunday I went to a memorial for my high school drama teacher, a man that had a huge influence on my life.   Weep, weep, weep, weep.  And then, cherry on top, on Monday I watched the series finale of Mad Men.  In the last pivotal scene, a group therapy session at a hippie retreat, I watched my friend from college, Evan Arnold, give a heartbreaking performance.  I would have cried anyway but the fact that I knew this guy sent me over the edge.

I’m sitting in change.  I have been for two years.  I’ve been grappling with big questions.  What is romantic love?  What is self-love?  How do I squeeze every last drop of this life, find adventure (of all sorts) and live with the steadiness it takes to raise children?  What is the balance of art and commerce?  Can I love what I do and make a decent enough living to make it in one of the most expensive places in the world?  How deeply can I live?  How deeply can I feel?  How much can I grow?

I can’t believe I’m still talking about a TV show but the last scenes of Mad Men are a montage of the main characters – where they’ve landed, intimations of where they’re going.  Joan – gorgeous, voluptuous Joan – is, for once, romantically unencumbered.  We see here in her living room, post-its on the wall above the dining table, managing her nascent production company.  She has let a man walk out of her life, probably her great love, but she is smiling.  She’s making her own way, she is loving her work, she is fully alive.  I’ve carried that image with me all week, in the midst of my own personal changes, in the midst of death and illness, in the midst of romantic entanglements, in the midst of my own deeply satisfying work.  Maybe, romantic though I am, I’ll nurture myself most  by listening to my own creativity, by building this business that so excites me.  Maybe I’m Joan.  Sexy, lovable, but choosing myself first.  Living in my own house on the hill, happily constructing beautiful objects out of other people’s throw-aways, raising these children I love so passionately.  Maybe that’s where I’ve landed, where I’m going.  Alone, yes, but so so alive.

There Are Places I Remember

I’ve known a handful of magic places in my life; pockets carved out by time and people.  They’re chapters in my life, they’re what’s made me.

The first was the Lane, a short dead-end street on the side of Mount Tam.  My childhood home was on the Lane (Friars Lane to the uninitiated) but my house was not what made the Lane magic.  My best friend, Casey, who also lived on the lane was responsible for that.  Together we created intricate stories, stories we’d draw on the pavement and step into.  We roamed from her backyard to mine, to the Lane and back, speaking the voices of the characters that inhabited our secret worlds.  This went on for a good ten years.

The second magic place was Ruby Scott Theatre at Tam High.  It was a black box, morphing with every production.  There I met Megan, I met Evany, I met many of the people that are still with me.  Under the guidance of the indomitable Dan Caldwell, our drama teacher, we wrote, we directed, we produced, we acted.  It was our shelter in the storm of adolescence.  We found a moment in a single pool of light where we could actually be ourselves.

The next was Room 1340 in McGowan Hall at UCLA.   It was a room, yes, but a big room, a theater, another black box.  There I met more drama freaks, made more drama, pulled off the layers of girlhood one by one until I found the woman underneath.  The Freud Playhouse, the mainstage next door, was much fancier, much more prestigious.  But what we created in 1340 was grittier, it was three-dimensional, it was true.

Number four, another theater.  This one was the Cast Theater in Hollywood.  When one thinks “Hollywood” one is not imagining the Cast, at least in the nineties.  It was two tiny theaters housed in one run-down building on a residential street in a mostly Latino neighborhood.  We performed original plays by Justin Tanner, our wunderkind.  For five years running I performed a play called “Pot Mom” every Saturday night.  It was everything the title implies – irreverent, pee-your-pants funny but with a huge heart.  We were a ragged band of actors, shouting our lines over the thumping Mariachi from next door, movie stars in the audience.

Number five was the first house I ever owned.  It was 750 square feet, on a hill in Fairfax.  Ben and I bought it as newlyweds, a fixer-upper we quickly shone into submission.  There we conceived both girls, the most magic you can make.  I gave birth to Lana in that house.   We had first steps, first words.

Number six, the very last magic place on my list, is The Garage.  This is the design collective I’m a part of in my little town.  We’re a retail shop housed in an old fix-it garage, largely unimproved.  We are all makers.  Everything you find here is unique and beautiful.

If all the places on my lists are scenes of creativity, The Garage fits right in.  Here I discovered that people might actually want to buy the stuff I make, the stuff I’ve been making for years just to feed my soul; the ponchos out of old cashmere sweaters, the dog-bowl stands out of vintage fruit crates, the brown sugar fudge that was my father’s favorite.  I’ve discovered a group of artists unlike my former actor tribes; they are visual, often internal, but no less magic, no less true.

This coming Sunday we close our doors.  Our building has sold, we have to move out.  A few of us are opening a new store in nearby Olema, a place that will undoubtedly be my next magic spot, an exciting prospect.  But on Sunday we will say goodbye to this place, this entity that for me, at least, has been a life-changer.  I’ve spent two years here, blossoming from a stay-at-home mom to a business owner.  I have been inspired and supported by these gorgeous people around me.  I’ve said before that the Garage has become the beating heart of Fairfax.  On Sunday will be a little death.  And all I can say is thank you.

Starving

When I was pregnant with Mae, my first kid, I was pretty sure that being a mother was going to be like babysitting – kinda fun, kinda boring.  Then, (thirteen years ago yesterday, to be exact) she was born.  In that first moment I saw her squalling Mae-Mae face, I discovered that, actually, being a parent, particularly of a baby, is like being in the presence of a movie star.  Every move, every sound, every glance, magic.  Being a mother, it turns out, is falling in love.

Mihiretu and I have been working on our attachment.  I consult with Aaron, our therapist, and he tells me how to alter my behavior around Mihiretu.  Walk out of the room when he’s misbehaving, check in with him every half hour or so he knows I’m there.  Starve the negative attachment, build the positive attachment.

We talk every week, Aaron and I.  He’s on the East Coast, I’ve never met him.  Mihiretu doesn’t even know he’s in therapy.  This last Monday, I took a break from painting our new store out in West Marin and dialed the New Jersey number at the appointed time.  I sat outside on an old metal chair in the alley behind the store, plugging my non-phone ear to drown the sound of the occasional car, early spring sun warming my shoulders.

Aaron said something that quietly blew my mind, continues to reverberate in me.  He said that I need to open my heart to Mihiretu.  When he enters a room, I need to whole-heartedly greet him, turn my body toward him, smile.  This is a kid, he said, who’s lived his life on a starvation diet of love.  Since his adoption, he’s been pushing away everyone he cares about – testing them to make sure they’ll stay.  And so we, his family, have hardened under this constant barrage of little boy abuse.  Historically, he’s thrown rocks, he’s hit, he’s kicked, he’s sworn, he’s shrieked, he’s stolen, he’s destroyed.  When he walks into a room, we’ve been trained to cower.

For whatever reason, this depiction of Mihiretu, of a boy who’s starving, got me.  Because I’m the one that can feed him.  I’ve been following all the recommended behavioral modifications for the month that I’ve been working with Aaron, but this week, the therapy entered my heart.  It was the key that unlocked me.

And so, when Mihiretu enters a room, I stop what I’m doing, I look him in the eye, I smile and I say, “Hi, Buddy”.  Every ten minutes or so I rub his knee or shoulder, tell him I love him.  He seems a little bewildered by it, but certainly not unreceptive.

Two nights ago we were lying in his bed.  He was telling me about his day, about his friends at school, about his friends in general.  He said, “You know who my favorite girl?”

And I said, “Um, no.  Let me think.  Alana?  From school?”

“Nah,” he said shyly, gazing at me from under his eyelashes.  “I lookin’ at her.”

If being a mother is falling in love, maybe six years into being Mihiretu’s mother, the love affair is finally beginning.  I’m finally feeding my starving child.  And this whole time I didn’t even know he was hungry. 

Selfish Shellfish

I’m employing a new therapy with Mihiretu.  Like most adopted kids, particularly those who found their new families after infancy, Mihiretu has attachment issues.  It plays out in all kinds of ways, most of all behaviorally.  He is an incredible person, but often it feels like we’re living with a gleeful poltergeist.  He destroys homework, he hides favorite stuffed animals, he throws his dirty underwear up onto the ceiling fan.

We’ve addressed this with many different therapies; psychotherapy, medication, OT.  This new approach is all about attachment, only about attachment.  The hope is once he feels securely attached the negative attention-seeking behaviors will evaporate.

In the meantime, by the request of our therapist, Mihiretu is living full-time with me.  This therapist believes that a secure attachment begins with the mother.

I’m not a selfless person.  Really at all.  I’m pretty selfish, actually.  Vain, opinionated, pleasure-seeking.  Maybe to compensate for this basic nature, I’ve put myself into a position where I must be selfless.  Three kids, the youngest of which demands PhD-level parenting.  Really, now that I’m here, now that I’m in the situation that I set up for myself, the most selfish thing I can do is turn this kid around.  Otherwise he’ll torture me for the rest of my life in bigger and bigger ways.  And yes, of course, I adore him.  I want him to have a happy and healthy life.  I want that for all my kids and this current path seems the only way to that end.

The therapy is intense.  I’m changing my behavior with Mihiretu, neutralizing the negative attachment so we can form a positive one.  I’m working on it every moment I’m with him.  He doesn’t like it, no surprise.  It’s completely exhausting and unnerving.  And it’s my work for the next six months to a year.

So all my fun will come down a notch.  Dating will be on a low simmer, if the stove is on at all.  Not a lot of nights out with friends.  Selfish shellfish won’t get much playtime.  I’m trying to be okay with this.  Most moments I am.  Though when he’s screaming at me I can feel a little cornered, a little alone. When his behavior is bad, all I want to do is run away.  Now I must turn around and face it.  There’s no way out but through.

Wish me luck.  I’m going to need it.  Though if there’s one thing I can do in this lifetime, putting my three kids out in the world as whole people is it.   Maybe once that’s done I can go back to being selfish.  Selfish, selfish old lady.

Luck

I was walking through Fairfax yesterday afternoon, Sunny pulling the leash ahead of me, on the way back from a short stint working the counter at The Garage, idly checking what was playing at the movie theater, when it struck me how very lucky I am.

I live in my favorite town in the world, a quirky Mayberry, chock full of Nuevo-hippies, transsexuals, artists of every stripe, live music always within a stone’s throw.  I can’t walk twenty feet without seeing someone I know and likely love.  I step from my door into the woods, onto the mountain, one vista opening onto another.  A thirty-minute drive takes me to a world-class city, a metropolis unique in its love of human rights, of art, of food; a jewel in the fog.

My work is my passion.  I’d be doing it even if I weren’t being paid.  I’m never happier than with my hands full of old cashmere sweaters, cutting, shaping, sewing; crafting a treasure from trash.  I'm an essential part of the coolest store in town, nestled in a community of makers.  And, in yet another cool store just around the corner, I get to teach the women of this town how to move their bodies, how to find fitness and strength at any age.

My fabric of friends is a tapestry.  They make my life infinitely richer, they keep me alive in all kinds of ways.

My children are my beating heart.  From cuddling with Mihiretu on the couch, to listening to Lana narrate the intricacies of her outfit, to laying with Mae in my bed, quizzing her on Spanish vocabulary, both of us snorting with laughter (I like to roll my r’s).

My house is tiny and gorgeous, every corner has a purpose and a beauty.  I can vacuum the whole thing from one electrical outlet in five minutes flat.  It holds us, it cradles us.

And then there’s love.  This whole new world.  I no longer have partnership, true.  One day I’ll find that again.  But in the meantime, there’s so much that’s new.  New people, new ways of being.  I’m in my body, really in my body, in a way I haven’t been for a very long time.  I feel awake.  In the midst of my daily life of work and friends and kids, I have episodes of romance.  Episodes that I can get lost in like a dream.  Completely delicious.

I am a lucky girl.  A very lucky, almost-divorced, less-than-financially-sound, often-sobbing-on-the-couch, forty-four-year-old girl.  Can I get a hallelujah?

New Year's

Today we went to IKEA.  We moved into our little house a year ago tomorrow and to mark the occasion we thought we’d refresh the place a little.  A new sisal in the kitchen, fresh duvet covers; minor changes that feel major.

Mihiretu has been feeling a little barfy the last couple days.  This isn’t necessarily unusual.  He was malnourished until he came to America.  He overeats and then his stomach rebels.  But it seems that he is bonafide sick at the moment.  His energy is low, he was up in the night spitting into a bowl. 

But we – ok, the girls and I - were excited about the IKEA idea.  I lured Mihiretu into the car with an iPad and a quilt.  Once at the Swedish Marketplace (as my Garage friends euphemistically title it), we settled him into the cart with a borrowed pillow.

Within an hour we were falling apart at the seams.  We couldn’t agree, the girls were competing over who got more stuff for their respective rooms (always a metaphor for parental love), everyone was hungry.  We took a break, waited in the crazy long line and got ourselves some meatballs.

Mihiretu ate everything in front of him in three minutes and then said, mournfully, eyes big, “Mama…”

I placed an almost empty plate under his mouth just in time to catch the torrent of barely digested ligonberry-mashed-potato mayhem.

When that plate was exhausted, I grabbed another.  And then another.  Around us, people kept eating, oblivious.  We were all laughing, even Mihiretu.

“Well,” I said as we hastily exited the cafeteria, “That certainly cheered us up.”

We somehow made it home with our booty.  Mihiretu promptly crashed on the couch.  And our plans of going to our friend Megan’s house for the evening were revised.

And so I sit on this blue leather couch that I found (and haggled for) on craigslist a year ago, listening to Death Cab for Cutie covering Yaz, a fire in the stove.  Something I’ve spent a lot of time doing this year.    I’ll ring in the new year alone, in the presence of sleeping children – something else I’ve spent a lot of time doing.  And it all feels right. 

This was one fuck of a year, 2014.  I wouldn’t trade it but it wasn’t easy.  I’m so, so curious about what 2015 has to offer.   If this year has been anything, it’s been unpredictable.  I expect the same for the next.  There’s a beauty in that.