I'm alive!

ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVVVVE! (Say it in your best Dr. Frankenstein voice)

Just a quick update! I have half a billion projects in the fire right now, in different spheres of my life.

Kids are great! Oldest starts high school next fall, all honors classes, marching band, scouts, yada yada. Second just got accepted into our district's self-contained program for highly gifted kids, scouts, step team, blah blah blah. Third has come out with some jewels of reflection lately that have forced me to re-evaluate my understanding of who he is, scouts, etc. All three are in To Shin Do, progressing nicely. All three really starting to explore spirituality in new ways.

Twins are perfect, beautiful, mischievous little impish troublemakers who inspire me. Cute little mister asked me today if I was a princess (I was wearing a dress), and then if someone was going to dance with me. The girly girl is a beautiful little "slinky head" who loves to join me when I pray or meditate. They love to dance, chase birds, climb trees, and sprinkle joy.

Hubs is perfect as always, my rock, my perfect match, like some cosmic planet burst into two, whose halves, while different, still fit together perfectly, and whose atmosphere (energy surrounding both) melds and glows. He has a few projects in the works, but those are his to tell.

And me? Better than I've been in YEARS. Honestly. It is amazing. I have a massive personal transformation underway that began in earnest with the start of the new year, and which is now in full swing. I put my memoir writing project on hold last fall, but reopened an old writing project, began years ago, and am now probably 1/3 of the way through. We're going to be homeschooling over the summer-- just a wonderful, child-driven bout of research and mind-expansion-- and I've been busy writing curriculum for that.

Things are busy, no doubt, but in that wonderful whirlwind of creativity and joy sort of way that I don't mind so much. Maybe eventually I'll get back to regular posting, but for now, I've been too busy living life fully to think much about blogging, which is good for me.

:-)

Peace be with you!

If I Were a Rapist...

If I were a rapist-- a serial sexual predator bent on destroying as many women's independence and control over their own bodies as possible-- and an omnipotent one at that, with the power to create my custom rapist's utopia in which I could move and act freely, I can imagine the sort of society I would create.

In my imaginary society, women would be trained from a young age to disconnect from their own needs and feelings, and to focus instead on meeting the needs of others. They'd learn that what they really want in life doesn't matter so much, and that they always have to be polite and nonconfrontational, and that it's better to let someone else be "right" than to be too assertive. I'd make sure they saw plenty of examples of assertive, independent women who look out for their own needs being labeled "bitches," too, to remind them of what happens when women step outside the meek and accommodating mode and learn to stick up for themselves. Just to make sure they got this message loud and clear, I'd make the popular media be full of caricatures of women-- hard, assertive, mean characters, and modest, pleasing, timid characters. Maybe then they'd never figure out that real women can be both strong and vulnerable, both assertive and compassionate, both humble and accomplished.

I'd make sure women didn't know how to discern and protect their own boundaries. From the time they were small, I'd hope for their parents to make them kiss and hug relatives they don't want to kiss or hug-- "Awww, come on, kiss Aunt Ruth goodbye-- don't you want to be a nice girl?" "I know you think he's weird, but it would really make Uncle Keith feel a lot better if you gave him a hug." I'd want their caregivers to dismiss their feelings, making them believe that children's emotions don't really matter and aren't really real-- "I'll give you something to cry about," and "Quit whining-- it's just a toy." The younger we begin to teach kids to disassociate from their feelings, their pain, their discomfort, the easier it will be to maintain this training all through the rest of their lives.

By the time they were teenagers, their boundaries might be so completely blurred and unstable that they'd be primed to begin to engage in consensual, but unwanted, sex, having sex they don't want to be having for reasons ranging from "he expects it on the third date" to "she'll leave if I don't do this" to "if I do this, he'll know how much I love him." They'd continue to have sex that leaves them feeling empty, whether or not it is truly enjoyable and pleasurable and fun for them. I'd make sure that our society sends them messages letting them know that they're doing the right thing by being "sexually empowered" in having sex frequently, doing my best to obscure the part of the message that "empowerment" involves claiming power, not giving it away. And to make sure they were left feeling further confused and isolated, I'd want society to send messages of shame and judgement, so they'd know that they were doing something dirty and secret, that they were "sluts" for engaging in risky sexual behavior, and "bitches" if they made it about their own sexual gratification, and "prudes" if they wanted sex to be about real love and connection.

I'd make sure that married and partnered women and men knew that putting out on schedule-- some arbitrarily assigned number of times per week-- was part of their "job requirements," whether they felt like having sex or not. Then, they'd be more likely to continue the pattern of dissociating sex from passion and pleasure that was begun in their youth. And just for kicks, I'd pound into their minds the belief that you can't be raped by your spouse-- that he has "rights" to your body because of marriage or past sexual encounters, and that you don't have to consent or agree for him to take you when he wants.

I'd make sure that entire classes of people could be oppressed, and that all of us would be culturally trained to see other types of people as "less than." Further, I'd make sure we were all so scared of being labeled "prejudiced" that we'd be scared to even examine or admit our areas of judgment, staying blissfully unaware of how we contribute to the problem. I'd want a society that sees sexual harassment and battery and rape used as a instrument of subjugation, in military and war and corporate settings. I'd want a society that uses ritual degradation as a rite of passage or entry, like a form of hazing, because once degradation of another human becomes a norm, the door is open for sexual degradation to be part of that ritual.

I'd want every child who comes forward claiming sexual abuse to not be believed, because a child who is not believed will learn to expect that nobody is there to protect him, that nobody will believe her, that there is nothing that can be done to stop violence and violation and betrayal. I'd want grandparents to side with family members who are abusers rather than with the victim, so the kid learns that speaking out results in people turning their back on him. I'd want parents to tell the kids to quit making up stories-- that there's no way grandpa could be an abuser. I'd want parents to be so ashamed that sexual abuse may have touched their family that they'd refuse to report it to law enforcement for investigation, hesitate to get their child needed counseling and treatment, and live their lives in a false world in which nothing ever happened and none of it exists. Kids who are abused and ignored learn that being ignored is what happens when you try to make something of it-- I'd bet they'd make prime targets for me once they are older.

In my rapist's utopia, I'd make sure that women's bodies were used to sell EVERYTHING, and that half-dressed women in sexy poses, airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection, were on the covers of almost all the magazines in the stores. Then women would compare their bodies to the women they're seeing on the magazines and TV commercials and movies, and realize they could never measure up. Thin, beautiful women might work excessively at staying thin and "beautiful"-- doing everything they could to look like the women in the media, hoping to gain some sort of acceptance, while all along learning to use their beauty and superficial sexuality to make gains in life, win attention, and make life easier. Then they'd come to view themselves not as whole women, competent and with great potential, but as shells to be polished and presented, whose worth depends completely on a specific set of ephemeral physical qualities that may or may not last through life. I'd make sure that women who don't fit that narrow definition of socially approved physical "beauty" doubt themselves, and constantly think that nobody could ever find them sexy, so that when they are offered less than ideal sexual experiences that are degrading, devastating, or dismissive, they'll readily accept, having been taught that to be found sexy and attractive is an ideal to aspire to in and of itself, with or without the empowerment that comes from having your sexuality honored by a caring and attentive partner. And I'd definitely want children to see these media images from a young age, so that little girls learn that their value comes from their ability to use their sexuality, and little boys learn that women are objects to be used.

If I were a rapist, the concept of the sex industry would THRILL me as a key component of my utopia because it sets the precedent that women's bodies and sexuality can be bought and sold, and anything that can be bought and sold is fair game to be stolen. I'd want strip clubs galore, where young women barely out of their own childhoods and still experiencing the poor judgment of adolescence would come when they felt that they didn't have options, to take their clothes off for men of all ages. I'd make sure that there were no other entry-level jobs in my society that pay very well, to ensure a steady flow of desperate young women who know they can't make as much money in any other business. In the strip clubs, they'd see that they can make more money based on the degree of graphic nature of their performance, and that the more they DID, the more they'd MAKE. They'd probably end up meeting up with a girl or two who did pictures and videos, and these porn stars would be glamorized! Every "feature" dancer brought into the club would bring in a huge crowd, and be fussed over like a celebrity based upon appearances in a number of magazines and movies. So the girls might branch out into some nude pictures or "soft" video porn.

Eventually, they'd discover that if you go beyond pole tricks and lapdances, you can move into working for escort services and prostitution. The pay would up the ante, with sex itself (instead of just sexuality) being the commodity, opening the door for sex to be stolen. Women in prostitution would learn that sex is sex and that empowerment is empowerment and that pleasure is pleasure, and that they rarely ever go together, lowering her expectations for what sex should be. She's already learned how to suck it up and engage in a sexual act while dissociating somewhat from her own pleasure and sensuality. At some point, she realizes that exchanging sex for money brings a level of attention and identity that she may have been missing before. Perhaps this is the first time she's really been shown a lot of attention, or made to feel sexy, or whatever. Perhaps she has been doing soft porn, and discovers she can make even more money based on what she's willing to do on camera. So, she may branch out into harder porn, eventually engaging in sexual acts that she herself might find offensive or undesirable, simply to make money and "protect" or promote herself in some way.

If I were a rapist, the sex industry would be like an exquisite, gift-wrapped present at Christmas, bringing me precisely the kind of cultural phenomenon I would need to make potential victims have no real connection with their own true power, drive to be empowered, and genuine sexuality; all while making potential bystanders and accomplices learn to see women as bodies, as sex acts, as personal gratification, instead of as sentient, intelligent, independent beings with emotional needs and dreams and desires. The sex industry, particularly the parts of it that encourage violence or brutality as norms, would serve to desensitize my entire utopia to the objectification and victimization of women. I guess if I'm really omnipotent, I'd make sure that thinking people who object to the objectification of women were portrayed as anti-sex, or crazy, or not in touch with reality.

In my imaginary society, people who wanted to "justify" their sexual domination of another person could travel out of country, so they could take advantage of foreign, "different" children, and still consider themselves to be upstanding citizens, because they don't hurt "real" women or children. I'd make sure that every school child in my society was taught about the "end" of slavery, and how awesome our current society is for not allowing slavery, while ensuring that they never learn about the illicit sex slave trade that is alive and well, even in our society. I'd do everything I could to make sure that rape, and child sex abuse, and prostitution, and sex slavery were all things that we could not speak openly and comfortably about in our society, so that more and more people would remain unaware of what was going on in their own families and communities-- right underneath their noses.

And these same qualities of my imaginary society that would make women ideal victims would also serve to make men ideal victims. After all, if women are constantly portrayed as weak, sexual objects ripe for the taking, thus making them easy victims, men are portrayed as strong, unemotional conquerors. What man who has been assaulted and raped wants to admit to being in the same league as weak sexual objects? Men who have been raped are even less likely than women to come forward, to demand justice, and to admit what happened to them.

With all these pieces in place, I'd be damn near guaranteed that I'd have an unlimited supply of victims who would ignore their boundaries long enough for me to make a move, who would have mixed expectations about their own sex lives, increasing their accessibility and vulnerability to me for acquaintance rape. And when I committed a rape, acquaintance or stranger, extremely violent and brutal or simple and straightforward, this utopia would make it extremely unlikely that victims would come forward. Some might not even define what I did to them as "rape," afraid that it implies some degree of ignorance or self-blame on their part. Some might consider it rape, but worry deep down inside that others wouldn't believe them, would blame them, or would say they are lying. After all, these "others" have been seeing the same societal messages, received the same cultural training, and heard the same rape myths. Some might know it was rape, want to come forward, and still feel shamed into submission. Some might come forward and have well-meaning but ill-informed friends, authorities, and professionals question what they did to cause it-- after all, we have all been trained to mistrust the inherent wisdom of women's bodies and to doubt that women are capable of understanding the truth about their lives, much less speaking honestly and directly about their sexual experiences.

If I were a rapist, this is exactly the kind of society that would lead me to feel safe weaving in and out of different circles of people, always being able to hone my craft, never truly worrying about getting into any situations I couldn't talk my way out of. This is exactly the kind of society that I know would be more likely to blame or not believe my victims.

This is exactly the kind of society in which we live.

Ass-Kicker-Tracker

In the spirit of accountability, here it is. The periodic tracker of how I'm getting myself back into ass-kicking shape.

Days since I last cried: 2
Days since I've engaged The Beast (aka my own self-destructive drive): 2
Days since I've wanted to punch somebody: 1
Consecutive days of GRE study in the last 9 days: 9
Time since my first hooping class: 1 week, 1 day (remember my bucket list?)
Total "flight time" since (and including) first hooping class: 15 hours
Total "flight time" yesterday: 2.5
Pounds from my good and healthy weight: 22
Pounds lost since March of 2009: 23
Days I worked last week: 6
Days I'm scheduled to work this week: 6
Days I'd like to be scheduled for each week: 4
Time since I married my best friend: 9 years, 10 months, 5 days
Time since I kissed my best friend: about an hour
Days of Rape Crisis Center companion training until training is done: 6
Current favorite song(s): Everything in its Right Place (Radiohead), Kiss of Life (Sade), Say Hey I Love You (Michael Franti)

I'm not going to commit to posting the Ass-Kicker-Tracker daily or weekly, but expect a check-in every now and then. I'm getting back into fighting shape.

And regarding the hooping classes, it's a hippy-ish, dance/spiritual, fun thing in the town where I live (and spreading with pockets of interest all over). Here's a video of one of the local hoop instructors rocking it out:




Here's the other local instructor:

On ass-kicking, genetics, and being a grown up.

I have taken on a long-awaited writing project, and much of my energy is directed into that at the moment. However, today reminded me of a few facts about myself-- facts I work daily to keep in check.

First reminder of the day: I am descended from some badass genes.

That's my Mema and Papa, out for a day on their motorcycle, back in the day when it was a bit more rare to find badass bikers with their hot chicks rambling the countryside wearing their leather boots and zippered shirts. I don't know exactly when that picture was taken, but probably sometime in the late 1930s or early 1940s.

And while my Mema was prone to feisty antics of her own, Papa was clearly the prize fighter. Tall and lanky, he was the skinny kid who'd rather pop a guy upside the head than continue to argue when he knew he was right.


Exhibit A:

That's him on the right, grinning like the cat about to eat the canary. I know it's silly to bet about things that have already passed, but if I had to wager on the outcome of this fight, all my money's on Papa.

Is there any other proof needed? His face, gleefully anticipating a good ass-whoopin', says it all.

When I was really little, we lived near the town where he lived, and I saw him and Mema all the time. I even lived with them for a little while the summer before and for the first part of my kindergarten year. And even after my mom got married, I spent a lot of time with Mema and Papa. When my mom's little sister found out I had gotten pregnant while in college, her words, though they stung, were not a surprise to me.

"This is going to kill them. Everyone knows you've always been their favorite."

I was their favorite. Papa always wanted to have a grandson, and didn't have the kind of relationship he wanted with my older cousin (his only grandson when I was born), and so he poured all that ass-kickin' boy energy into me. I had his big ol' field to play in, and he got me a go-cart (purchased second hand off of another aging finagler, I'm sure). When I wanted to go fishing every day, he converted their old concrete pool into a freshwater pond, stocked it full of bream, and made me a fishing pole out of bamboo.

And then there were the boxing gloves. Papa kept a couple of pairs of boxing gloves hanging on the wall just inside the big, open hallway. Having been a bit of a prize-fighter back in the day, and watching boxing matches every time one came on TV, he loved few things more than a good match. I was one of the things he loved more, and so he never shied away from an opportunity for us to don the boxing gloves and go at each other, him letting me get in a few KO's every now and then, in the hallway while Mema shot the occasional mom-comment from the kitchen. When we got a little older, my sister (who, like me, also inherited the ass-kicker genes) convinced him to let us bring the gloves back home, and we'd often work out our annoyances by beating the crap out of each other in the hallway at home, with our own mom shaking her head and muttering curses about her dad's influence.

Whatever the cosmic connection between me and my Papa, one thing stands for sure. I love few things more than the adrenaline rush of a good, dramatic battle.

Second reminder of the day: Loving to fight does not lead to an ideal life.

So, I knew this before today, but this is just to say that yes, I am aware that I cannot simply beat the crap out of everyone who pisses me off. I get that part. I am aware of my innate tendencies towards ass-kicking, and it is something I work on daily, and am getting better with all the time.

Third reminder of the day: My words are my greatest, and favorite, weapons.

I'm not exactly sure where she got it from, but I sure did inherit my mother's sharp-tongued genes and gift with words. Mom was an incredible writer, whether she realized it or not, and though she never fully honed her craft, she was undeniably a wordsmith. I thank her for passing along to me the ability to take words and put them together in way that creates an emotion.

Unfortunately, my mother's gift with words paired with my Papa's instinct towards ass-kicking have created within me a sharp-tongued monster, eager to make the verbal kill, taking out anyone in its path. It's a monster I've fairly reliably learned to tame, and to only allow to come out for the occasional play tussle, like baby tigers tumbling around, playing the hunt. But it's in me, part of me, yearning to be put to good use now and then. I usually save it for my activism and advocacy efforts, when sharp-tongued criticism and exposé can be a part of accomplishing the good.

This means that usually, when I'm inflamed over something, the mouth flies off before anything else. Most people who know me well understand who I am, and as long as the verbal lashing isn't directed at them, they give me space to vent when it's needed.

Fourth reminder of the day: Angry hives are like the odd behavior of the forest creatures, predicting the arrival of a terrible storm.

One of the strange things about me and my body is that I tend to break out in hives when I'm extremely upset. Most of the time, this is precipitated by a long period of uncontrollable crying. In the past decade, I remember the hives coming along with my sobs over things like the loss of my Papa, the discovery of a betrayal by a man that I loved, and the discovery that one of my children had faced an inconceivable pain, one from which I had hoped to always shield my children. Farther back, though, before I really began to work at gaining control over my anger, I can remember two times in which the hives were brought on by not tears, but uncontrollable rage.

In one instance, it was my desire to protect my child from a potentially life-threatening situation. As I took my child to leave a dangerous (for my sick baby) setting, a man grabbed me by the arms refusing to let me leave. Like an animal fighting capture, I flew into instinctual action, arms flailing, punches flying, with the startled man retraining his grasp from keeping me from leaving to keeping me from hurting him. When I finally got my son buckled into his car seat, I noticed the flame-hot burning on the skin on my face, neck, and chest. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed a splotchy red rash growing all across my upper body.

In the other, my sister (who, as you may recall, also carries the prize-fighter gene) escalated an argument to the point where she was up in my face, chicken-necking and carrying on like a crazed fool while ranting about how I didn't control her. I asked her calmly, not once, not twice, but three different times, to please leave the room. She (being sixteen years old at the time) thought I was telling her to leave because I wanted to boss her around. In actuality, I was telling her to leave my presence because I was becoming slightly scared of the urges that were growing within me. A few seconds after her last rebuff, she was picking herself up off of the floor, taken down by one strong blow to the side of the head, reeling from the physical and emotional confusion. It was Christmas day. As I took my child and left the house, I recognized that same hot feeling growing across me, and as I passed the mirror in the hallway, I again saw the familiar red splotches, confirming the overwhelming adrenaline flowing like lava through my veins.

Fifth reminder of the day: You can do a hell of a lot of growing in a dozen years.

Today, I had an unusual situation in which someone's misunderstanding of the intent of my words fanned the flames of my anger, sparked by being accused of an intent that I would not-- could not-- own. Perhaps misreading his own intent, I felt as if he were calling into question the one thing that matters more to me than almost all others-- my integrity. I allowed the razor tongue to fly, defending my intent, explaining my meaning, but the more the accuser argued, the less rational I was able to remain. Finally, emotionally exhausted by the continuing argument, I left the room and found a quiet place to regroup. When I passed by a friend a few minutes later, she pointed out to me that I was breaking out in a rash. I ran off to the bathroom and saw the evidence in the mirror-- hives. There had not been enough tears to bring this on out of grief, only anger, only irritation. I splashed some water on my face and chest, trying to cool my skin down enough to help them go away. I fanned myself with a nearby piece of flat plastic. I even disappeared into a giant walk-in cooler for a while, hoping to soothe the heat I could still feel burning across my face and chest. But it was still there, and I was dumbfounded-- "I'm breaking out in freaking hives over this!" -- like I couldn't believe it was really happening over something so stupid. It's never comforting to be betrayed by your own body.

Eventually, it went away and I made my peace with my accuser, and things all went back to normal. But it wasn't until later in the evening that it hit me.

The last two times that I remember breaking out in hives over my own anger and frustration, it escalated into me getting physical.

And while the mental image of me tearing into someone, flying fist-first into someone's chest to the reaction of their complete shock and surprise, is a strangely amusing one to me (for reasons I can't really explain, and for which I should probably feel shame), I'm thankful, for myself and for my family and friends, that a hell of a lot can change in someone over the course of a few years.

I'm still a genetically-predetermined badass. Just one with a little self-control.

Making Frozen Moments Fluid

Larry Losey. That was his name. He was a member of a church where I was working as a youth and children's ministries director, and was not your stereotypical children's ministries volunteer. A former rock-and-roller, long haired, and into eastern spirituality and meditation, he had no children and had never (that I know of) been married. Somehow we clicked and became friends. What struck me about Larry was the strength of his integrity. Integrity is something that is very important to me in my own life, and seems to have been the defining characteristic of those people I've chosen to become my friend-- not just acquaintance, but real friend with access to my heart and emotional energy-- over the past few years. Larry was who he was-- no small task in our modern society-- and seemed content to just be.

At that time in the church, the youth ministry (middle and high school) had been struggling for some time, and believing very strongly that the preteen and teen years were crucial in helping to establish a connection to something greater than oneself, I made it my mission to grow the youth group. I put out a call for volunteers, and personally invited a few friends to join in the effort. Larry was one of those friends. When I asked whether he'd rather work with middle school or high school, his response was that he wanted to serve wherever he was needed.

Through the experience of working together on youth group events, Larry and I developed a closer friendship that was based on time together, and lengthy talks about the nature of the universe. He came to our kinda-annual murder mystery party, bringing a bottle of non-alcoholic wine with him (he didn't drink). It was a 60s themed party, and he was probably the only one there who had been alive in the 60s! And when Jesus Christ Superstar came to Tampa and he had incredible box seats for the performance, he invited me and the Hubster to join him. It was wonderful, and our conversations with Larry (and the Catholic priest he also invited) were amazing that night! In any case, we didn't spend tons of time together, but there was still a mutual respect and mutual admiration between us, and I thought he was an incredibly interesting and unique person.

After leaving my job at the church and preparing to move to South Carolina, I decided to have a final get-together with my friends before the move. I invited a handful of people to join me at Applebees for karaoke (Hubs volunteered to keep the kids so I could have a night out-- he hates crowds and noisy places anyway)-- Larry was one of those people. That night, free from the yoke of having been bound by a volunteer-supervisor relationship, and with me free from the pressure to "say the right thing" as a representative of the church, we talked.

All night long, we talked between songs, talking about Paramhansa Yogananda, whose teachings had been influential in Larry's life, and about each other's histories. We talked about Roy Eugene Davis, chosen successor of Paramhansa Yogananda (who left the monastic life and gave up his successorship to be married), whose retreat center I had visited and with whom I had spent a little time. I learned things about Larry that night that I had never known before-- how he had lived his life before placing integrity and growth before other, less important desires, and about his recovery story from a painful past to a place of peace. He learned things about me, who I was, and some of the events that had shaped where I was going in my life. We talked about God, relationships, family, our pasts, our presents, and it's only in retrospect that I realized how little talk about futures there had been. We talked about karaoke, and friendships, and bungee jumping, and being silly.

And at some point in the night, shortly before I sang my last karaoke song, Larry became very serious. He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "You are something special, you know. Just really, really special." My usual awkward and giddy self, I looked away and tried to change the subject. He focused in more closely on me, with a gaze I knew I couldn't escape, piercing right through to the core of my being. When he knew he had my attention again, he smiled a little, with the same look of sincere caring and amusement of a loving father. He added, "You are such a free spirit! Just really a free spirit, and I think that's awesome. Don't give it up. Don't let them get you down."

There was something in the way he looked at me that night, and the way he said what he did, that has been permanently burnt upon the film of my life and the story of my soul. It wasn't that he admired me or my free-spirited nature that stuck with me, but rather the overwhelming sense of longing I felt from him that night as he called me out for who I was. He wasn't telling me anything that was completely an unfamiliar idea to me-- I've always considered myself a bit quirky and free-spirited. But it was the nonverbal, the part of his communication that extended beyond his simple words and held me out in the open where I couldn't hide from myself, that made an impression. I knew that night when he said what he did that there was something more than a simple interaction going on, but I wasn't sure what.

And then my family and I moved to South Carolina, and I never saw Larry Losey again.

Shortly after the move, a friend and youth group volunteer from the church back home called, crying, to tell me the news. Larry had just passed on, and I believe she said it was from a rare form of pancreatic cancer. At that moment, on the phone, I understood what I had felt from him that night at karaoke. I still can't put it into words, but I recognize fully the emotion, the longing, the realization he was placing into my heart and for my future, from his own place of staring into the stark reality of not getting well again. For a few months, I saw him in my dreams. And then he just went away.

...

Our move to small town South Carolina in 2004 was initially a good one. The first year we were there, we realized we didn't fit in very well, but were okay with that, thinking it would be short term. Then, as our time there continued, I began to try to preserve my spunk, my uniqueness, in little ways, including using this blog as a creative outlet and emotional sounding board. And then, somehow, over time, I began to give in, in little ways, to the banality of stereotypical family life in a small town and to those who would do me harm. I quit singing karaoke, quit dancing in my living room, talked less and less about my past (even though that involved talking less and less about some of my life's most awesome lessons and insights), quit saying things that might not be socially acceptable, focused my blogging on more light-hearted and less personal things, and began to worry a great deal about fitting in and what other people thought of me. I willingly gave up so much of who I was in the name of maintaining connections-- ANY kind of connections-- with the people around me and the culture in which I was immersed, and left all my free-spirited parts behind. From talking to my husband about our lives and how the move impacted us, it seems we were going through different, but parallel, experiences of feeling we had to choose between being outcasts in our community (or at least oddballs) and giving up huge parts of who we were.

And so, last year, after the quest to become like all other nice families in our area had sucked the Life out of both of us, worried about what we were providing for our children, feeling like our integrity had been sacrificed, we decided we needed to move. Neither of us wanted to be in a big city, but neither of us wanted another super-small town, either. We wanted somewhere progressive, where we wouldn't be the oddballs, and where spontaneity, intellectual curiosity, and spiritual seeking were the norm, and where we could more fully express who each of us wanted to become. We researched, and inquired, and prayed, and finally settled on a smallish (but not too small), crunchy town in North Carolina near a major university. We planned for a few months, and then made our move on a short term lease, which we knew would be up on June 22.

Since moving here, we've become familiar with the local culture, local opportunities, and love where we are. We were feeling the gentle nudgings of Spirit, urging us to once again become comfortable with who each of us is, flaws and all, as long as we were being real, honest, kind, compassionate, and maintaining our integrity. In spite of nudges, however, neither of us was really sure what to do, or experiencing any major life changes or shifts in the past four months.

Until the day we signed the lease on the new place we knew would be a more permanent home. Somehow, over the course of that day, I began to think of Larry Losey and our connected talk at karaoke night years ago. I remembered the way he looked at me when he declared me to be a free spirit, and felt like a disappointment for having become someone so different over the past few years, someone so predictable and boring. I felt as if my spirit had become bound up so greatly in my own fears of disappoinment, of rejection, of loneliness, and of failure, and seeing Larry in my mind's eye, smiling as he reminded me of who I was, tugged at me day and night for several days.

This one moment, frozen in my memory, reminded me of how un-fluid everything in me, everything in my life and soul and spirit and being had become over the past few years-- years that began with one betrayal and were quickly followed by another-- years in which I realized that even those people I had trusted the most and loved the most might be flawed and imperfect and leave me hurt and bewildered. The past few years were years in which I began to feel the need for something outside of me to be stable and steady and predictable, and tried to make it that way by making everything within me as stable and steady and predictable as I wanted my environment to become. Thinking of Larry and his simple assessment (one made with a delight and appreciation I haven't felt from anyone other than my husband in recent years) reminded me that this one moment has become so crystallized in my memory because it is one of the last times that someone else (other than my husband, who knows me through and through, better than I even know myself, and loves me unconditionally-- craziness, quirkiness, intensity, and all) took the time to really get to KNOW me, and further, to encourage me to be comfortable in my own skin, without having to pretend or meet a certain standard of "good"-ness before being accepted.

It's been a long 5 years, and very lonely in many ways.

And frankly, I'm glad to be moving on.

I think I realize now why Larry has been so ever-present in my thoughts over the past two weeks. I'm being reminded that we are here now, not there. I am free now, not bound. I am allowed now to open up, to explore my reality, and to become who I am. I am being reminded that deep down inside, under the wounds and scars and anxieties, there is a free spirit. Someone who is very, incredibly special and unique, and who I'd like to get to know again. Someone who, perhaps, other people might want to get to know, and come to love, and want to befriend. Someone who has something to offer that isn't tied up in social appropriateness but is nonetheless powerful and exciting.

Thank you, Larry, for the reminder. Then, and now.

My 100 Things List

So, my favorite blogs have made it clear that after you've been blogging a while, it's customary to post a list of 100 things about yourself-- a little bit of random snapshots into your life to give the readers who don't know you in real life the chance to see a bit more of who you are and who you've been.

I've been blogging now for 3 years, and at this particular blog for almost 3 months, so here goes. My list:

1. My greatest strength in life, next to my God, is my family.

2. They are also my greatest joy, and the source of my inspiration.

3. After my family, my next greatest love is education.

4. I rarely ever read fiction, ‘cause non-fiction is so much more fun.

5. I have my belly button pierced.

6. I have a B.A. in Religious Studies.

7. I completed over 30 hours of graduate work in religion, but never finished my M.Div.

8. I have not always been a Christian, and did not grow up in a religious family.

9. I have been a Christian since 1996.

10. I first started attending church in 1995 when I found a church with beautiful stained glass windows while on a jog one day.

11. I attended church for a year without getting involved.

12. I would sit in a different pew every Sunday so that over the months, I could study every window.

13. The year before, I had taken a course and learned how to do stained glass.

14. I don’t know where all my stained glass tools are now, and have no idea where I lost them.

15. One day, when I have a house with a bit more space, I would love to do stained glass again.

16. I also enjoy singing and dancing.

17. My job throughout middle and high school was singing and dancing in country music shows in a coastal tourist town.

18. I miss performing.

19. Every now and then when I can get a babysitter and a party-mate, I like to go sing karaoke.

20. I once met Chubby Checker when he stayed at the hotel I worked at part-time when I was 16.

21. He got me 2 tickets to his concert, and my mom and I went to see him that night.

22. He recognized me from the hotel, and pulled me up on stage to sing “The Twist” with him.

23. Before we knew who he was, my mom and I watched my (soon-to-be) stepdad on “That’s Incredible” catching a bullet in his mouth.

24. I grew up with my mom, my stepdad, and their two children-- a sister and a brother.

25. It was a pretty crazy and unstructured upbringing.

26. Until fall of 2004, I had never lived near my dad, my stepmom, and their son, my brother.

27. I have never had a lot of money.

28. I don’t think anyone ever really taught me how to manage money well.

29. I am trying to learn now.

30. I met my husband while in school working toward my B.A.

31. He is a total cheapskate, and fairly quiet.

32. We balance each other out pretty well, as I am not as much of a cheapskate and way too talkative.

33. I have pretty much always had some major trust issues.

34. My husband broke through all of those with his piercing honesty and gentle spirit.

35. If I could put on a cape and be a superhero, the first people I would beat up and string up are people who abuse children.

36. I don't take myself too seriously; even when I'm on a crazy-woman rant, I am at least aware that I'm on a crazy-woman rant and find myself a little bit amusing.

37. I tend to be a very intense person, no matter the experience. When I’m silly I’m very silly, and when I’m joyful I’m exhilarated; when I’m sad, I’m crushed.

38. For some people, I think I may be an acquired taste.

39. Correction: I’m pretty sure I am.

40. My husband couldn’t even stand me when we first met.

41. He thought I would never shut up.

42. I only kept talking because he rarely said anything.

43. We met as co-founders of a student disability activist and education network on campus at our college.

44. I worked as a behavioral consultant for children with autism for 7 years.

45. My specialty was play therapy, and when I was 20 years old, parents would pay me insanely great money to come teach their children appropriate play skills so that they would have a better chance of being mainstreamed.

46. I spent a lot of time playing tag, cops and robbers, and hot wheels.

47. I also taught language skills to children who had formerly been mute.

48. One of the greatest feelings in my life was being there when a mom heard her 3-year-old say his first word-- “Mom.”

49. Motivated by a spin on a tire swing, you can get a kid to say anything.

50. I loved working with the kids, but burnt out on dealing with whiny parents.

51. At the time I quit in 2000, over half of the children I worked with had been successfully mainstreamed (with appropriate accomodations) into regular education classrooms.

52. I was a total band geek in high school

53. I was even the grand poobah of the band dorks, and spent two years as drum major of my high school marching band.

54. I was a music education major for two years.

55. Unfortunately, I spent most of those two years being an idiot, lost my scholarships, and dropped out of college in 1995.

56. The summer of 1994, I lived in an apartment with two gay guys who adored me and a very large lesbian who thought I was an annoying twit.

57. My heart broke last year when one of my old roommates from that apartment died of AIDS just shy of his 29th birthday.

58. I moved out of that apartment and into a suburban house with an acquaintance who was a single mom.

59. I thought it would be a more functional and normal environment.

60. I later found out she was a call girl and a porn star.

61. I moved out as soon as I could afford the move.

62. Nothing about the 2 months I spent in that house were normal.

63. In 1994, I met a guy.

64. In 1996, he became the father of my first child.

65. Keeping the kid and ditching the guy are two of the best things I’ve ever done.

66. Finding out I was pregnant forced some serious life evaluation.

67. It was the first time I realized how empty my life really was.

68. That was when I quit looking at the windows and started listening to the homilies.

69. Then a nice guy named James invited me to be a youth group sponsor.

70. I was like, “Whoa, dude-- ME! You would actually let ME around your teens?”

71. Volunteering with the youth group taught me more about life, about Christ, and about forgiveness than a lifetime without church.

72. From 1995 until I moved to Florida in 1997, I spent about a week or more out of every month at an Episcopal convent.

73. If I were ever alone and without family obligations again, I could definitely be a nun. I really like monastic life.

74. In the meantime, I’d like to become a social worker.

75. I plan to go back for my M.S.W. in fall semester of 2007.

76. I currently live in a smallish town.

77. It’s nice, but not my ideal.

78. The local college does not offer a M.S.W.

79. We plan to move near Columbia by the time I go back to school so that I can go to the University of South Carolina.

80. That was where I went the first time, when I goofed and dropped out.

81. I will do better this time. :-)

82. I am a very protective mother.

83. I homeschooled my children for several years.

84. I was a stay-at-home mom for a while.

85. I actually loved being a stay-at-home mom.

86. I think that natural attachment parenting is an ideal to follow as much as possible, depending on your family circumstances.

87. Very few ideals work out 100% in real life.

88. My husband and I have had to pick and choose which we can actually implement.

89. From December of 1999 until May of 2003, I was either pregnant, breastfeeding a baby, or both.

90. That’s 3 years and 5 months of wearing modified undergarments and/or toting a breast pump.

91. I was in college in Florida (on my 2nd try) for most of that 3 years and 5 months.

92. Somehow I juggled it all and had maintained a 3.95 GPA upon my graduation in 2002.

93. I thought Florida sucked.

94. I love the Deep South, in spite of its’ checkered history and occasional social shortcomings.

95. I love to write almost as much as I love to talk.

96. Oh yeah-- I also enjoy learning foreign languages and cultures.

97. I studied French for 6 years, German for 2 years, Spanish for 1 year, and took Biblical Hebrew at a synagogue one summer.

98. I cry easily, but hate crying in front of other people.

99. If someone takes the time to get through my tough guy, comedienne, not easily rattled act, they will find that I am a fiercely loyal friend.

100. I have a big heart and a lot of compassion, and care deeply for the people who come into my life, whether it is through work, school, church, my blog, or some other way.