sherrybaby

Sherrybaby is a powerful, raw, and wrenching film that I believe does an excellent job revealing what childhood sexual abuse can do to a person, and one of the painful paths on which many victims of this abuse can find themselves. For me, the two father/daughter scenes explain the rest of the movie. And Maggie Gyllenhaal's performance is incredible.

Please stay tuned for more about Vision Casting, LLC and the Blackbird Feather Fund, two bright, beaming lamp-posts for women on this dark and lonely road.

"You better knock, knock, knock on wood."

Many people in my life know that I have a bit of a 'thing' for knocking on wood. Not a casual 'tap on the table' kind of thing. Not a relaxed 'I'll just knock on my head as a joke' kind of thing. More of an 'I'll leave the person I'm walking with even if they are someone I don't know well and am (or was) trying to impress, cross a busy city street against traffic, step directly through the dog poop infested pachysandra circle and knock on an ailing New York City tree' kind of thing.

So, I'm working on it. I'm a bit superstitious about other things too--I don't walk under ladders, I'm no fool, although I make an exception for fire-escape ladders because they're everywhere and I'd have to leave town--but mostly it's all in the same neighborhood: I don't want to jinx things, I don't want to tempt fate.

Although I haven't actually seen "The Secret" yet (I will ASAP), I have been spending a lot of time lately talking about it and thinking about it, and I have come to believe that there is tremendous power in directly asking the universe for what you want, in positive energy, in faith. After years of working on self-help books, you'd think I'd know this, and I did know it enough to talk about it before--but not enough to feel it. Otherwise, why would I be so afraid to say anything positive without canceling it out with a knock?

I have discovered that all of my superstitious leanings exist to counteract any positive thinking I might do. "I haven't had the flu in three years...knock on wood." "My computer has never crashed...knock on wood." "Isabel is very healthy, thanks...KNOCK ON WOOD." And as silly as it all sounds, this way of thinking is a poison that spreads everywhere. One example: I keep a notebook of Isabel's eating and sleeping schedule each day, and usually once she's down for the night, I'll write in tomorrow's date...but I always pause, wondering, is this a good idea? To just assume that she will be alive tomorrow? And that feeling is not good.

So I am going to stop the madness. I am going to realize that people aren't sitting in their houses, car keys in hand, just waiting for me to exclaim that there's surprisingly little traffic on the road so they can scramble into their cars and hightail it to where I'm driving. It's not the case.

If your thoughts play a large part in determining your destiny, which I believe, then I am going to shake off my fear of positive thoughts. I will think them and I will embrace them. I think--no, I know--it will go well.

The Twelve Year Honeymoon is Over

Ode to Kitty

He used to be the king,
So it really is a shame.
Now he doesn't rule a thing
And we know just who's to blame.

She's up early in the morning
And sometimes late into the night.
She squawks without a warning.
It simply isn't right.

Life used to be relaxing,
But now his days are long and tough.
Her attention can be taxing
As she tends to play quite rough.

She loves to tug his ears
And smack him on the face.
She plays on his darkest fears
And there is no hiding place.

When he's stretched out in recline
She spreads her arms out wide,
Careens like Frankenstein,
And body-slams his side.

He lurks behind the door
But it is to no avail.
She hurries back for more
And trods upon his tail.

Each night when she finally goes
He accuses and complains.
But despite it all,
I hope he knows
We love him just the same.

Well, maybe not quite as much as we used to.

Striving for Imperfection

A few weeks ago I wrote my first blog post, making the switch from long-time editor to first-time writer. I was chomping at the bit to do it, but still it wasn't easy--I had to constantly fight the editorial impulses that are my second nature at this point, little dams that kept coming down and down, over and over, in their attempts to staunch and correct the words that were trying to pour out of me.

Because I was attending Jennifer Lauck's writing workshop when I began this blog, I had the wonderful opportunity to read my first post and receive her feedback (and the group's), revealing for me quite clearly the yawning chasm of difference between an editor (me) and a writing teacher (her). That night, I revised my piece considerably, and now I am actually happy with it. It fits now, it's just what I wanted to write, and it feels good. EXCEPT: I can't post it. I'm not allowed. I must let that first draft--cluttered with all of those clunky sentences I've cut or changed, missing all of the details and additions that really brought the piece home--sit there like a big pile of dirty dishes, a river of spilled milk, a boil on the face of my shiny new blog.

Because that is part of my work now: to unleash the picky editor in me, to unlock the doors of my own creativity that have been closed for years in service to the creativity of others. I love editorial work and will continue to do it, but I will no longer be defined by it. And I am profoundly lucky to have supporters who are helping to shepherd me through this transition, and who are not afraid to give me the kind of tough lessons I have dished out myself from time to time. Blogs are not meant to be perfect. You cannot post your revision--just move ahead with the next post and don't look back.

Now, one might accuse me of cheating by even writing this post, but hey, I'm not supposed to be perfect, and I didn't mention a single specific change in my revised piece...like how the beginning is totally different and much better now. And so far I am still posting with dictionary.com open at all times in the next window, but it's only been two weeks. Give me time and I'll keep working on letting go.

Plus, Carrie Link is linking to my blog today, and I certainly couldn't have my most recent entry be a haiku, could I? Yikes, that would never do!

Haiku for Belly in her stroller

Busy little crunch
Of Cheerios in your mouth.
For me, pure sweetness.

Simple Pleasures

Isabel and I spent the weekend in one of my very favorite places--the company of women. And on Saturday, dear friends of my dear friend gathered for brunch to celebrate friendship and her nuptials, coming this summer. Her 12-year old son has some change to swallow, but he is happy for her. It's been a long road for this amazing woman.

One of her friends--the beautiful artist friend I have met several times throughout the years--was buzzing with excitement over a gorgeous ring she had been obsessing about and finally bought at an estate auction house the night before. A large rectangular aquamarine sat confidently in a boxy, stacked gold setting that looked perfect with her long fingers. One look at that arresting, watery stone, that lovely muted gold, and you knew there was a rich history there. Although she got a great deal on it, it was not an easy purchase for an artist to make. But there was no buyer's remorse here: her smile sparkled brighter than the ring. She explained it this way:

Several months ago, she was browsing around an herbal wellness store with a friend who is a homeopathic doctor. She was casually sampling various scents when she came upon one that made her giggle and smile automatically. She smelled it again, and then went to put it back down with the others. Her friend immediately stopped her, asking why she would put back something that made her react that way? How could you ignore a reaction like that? So she realized something: the scent of grapefruit made her giggle. And since then, she has made an effort to buy grapefruits and the occasional grapefruit shampoo, or cream, or whatever to make her smile.

This artist makes jewelry and spends a great deal of time with beads. Recently, she realized that aquamarine did the same thing to her as grapefruit: it made her giggle. She thought many stones were beautiful, but for whatever reason the attraction was stronger with aquamarine--it worked with her chemisty, it made her happy.

So when she saw this ring, she fell in love. She figured out the money. She visited the ring, and counted the days until the auction. She wore an aquamarine bracelet to attract the ring to her, to make her hand seem a welcoming home. The old couple standing near her heard the story, and routed for her all the way. And as nervous as she was, she made herself keep bidding and made it happen.

What she didn't say, but I knew, was this: she learned about this auction house because of a heartbreaking family tragedy, and most of the time she spent there was very painful. The day I saw her, yesterday, was the one-year anniversary of this family tragedy--a very painful day. But we didn't talk about that at this bridesmaids brunch. Her finger sparkled with a blue-green light, a talisman that was not about materialism, but survival. Not about jewelry, but about finding strength in beauty and joy in something simple and precious.

I can't stop thinking about this ring and what it represents. How easy it seems but how hard it can be to find and hold our simple pleasures, to gather them around ourselves so they are there when we need them. Today, I was singing and dancing with Isabel to Lyle Lovett's album 'I Love Everybody.' I adore this album. I know every word, every note, every nuance of every chorus. I saw him in concert when he toured for this album, many years ago. And I asked myself: why is this the only Lyle Lovett album I own? How can I have ignored how happy it makes me? So I am going to buy more. And I am going to listen.

Eyes Wide Shut

I usually try to take the very best care of my daughter I can. Usually, but not always. Those moments when I bump up against my own limitations as a parent are certainly not my proudest, but so far they are not consuming me with guilt either. I don't want to passively accept my limitations--I always want to work to grow past them--but I do strive to accept myself in all of my flawed humanity, and I know that my parenting will be as flawed as the rest of me is.

Today I might continue with my work just a few minutes past when I should, as she sits waiting for me, awake in her crib. Just one more email honey, I'll be right there. Or I will reach for a baby food jar because I was too busy watching Grey's Anatomy last night to make her something better. I know this is pretty innocuous, but give me time...it will segue directly into parking her in front of the TV for hours on end as she noshes on fast food. Add a few more years to that and I'll really be ready to screw her up.

But I do try. I am decently careful and picky about what I feed her, what I read to her, what she plays with. I educate myself on what to expect, what to encourage, how to entertain and educate at the same time. But I bumped up against a thick brick wall of my own limitations today.

I am a big fan of Michelle O'Neil's blog and think she is an incredible parent. I've been reading her concerns about the dangers of vaccinations, following her links to more information, reading about it and discussing it like the concerned parent I fancy myself to be. My daughter has been getting her vaccines regularly, and has most of the big ones coming up in the next 6 months.

So I went to her check-up today armed with questions: How much mercury is in these vaccines? Why must they be given all at once like this--can't we space them out? How necessary is it, really, to pump my baby full of so much poison? My doctor, an intelligent and kind young women, respectfully addressed each question: only one infant shot has any mercury at all, and it's almost none; spacing them out just gives the baby more pain and more frequent side effects; most people feel it is a good idea to protect people from these life-threatening diseases.

And instead of challenging her, asking for more details, more specifics, following up in ANY way, I smiled and breathed a big sigh of relief. Phew! Okay, great, thanks for indulging me, see you in a month, have those needles ready! Pushing the stroller home, I realized: I did not ask those questions to get more information or even to protect my daughter. I only asked them so I could feel better. I wanted her to say just enough for me to feel okay about them, to not have to worry about things I don't understand, and I was very happy that that is exactly what she did.

So, limitless love, but limited parenting. Even as I write this, I still feel relieved, I still plan on proceeding with the vaccines just as they tell me too. All I can say is that I will remember this moment the next time I feel judgmental about someone else's parenting decisions.

The Tortoise and the Hare

A long time ago but not so far away, a writer was living with one of her best friends. This woman (the writer) had always wanted to be a writer, from the time she was a little girl pouring her heart out in her diary, and she was talented and worked hard (I have read much her writing). Her friend (the roommate) was more all over the place--smart, beautiful, and clearly talented, although it was totally unclear in what. She tended to be too distracted by the details of life and her own mental struggles to do much about it. Also (and this will become important soon), the roommate was pretty set for money, for whatever reasons. The writer, as is often the case with writers, was not.

So they lived together happily, the writer toiling away at her craft (writing, revising, reading, teaching, checking in with her agent who was submitting her writing, getting rejected, writing more, revising again, struggling to come up with her half of the rent, etc.) and the roommate flitting around, cooking, dating, and wishing she had such passion and purpose. One day, inspired in part by her deep admiration for the writer, the roommate thought why don't I take a crack at writing too. So she sat down and spilled out a memoir about her particular mental struggles and how they caused her to lead her life. It was quick writing, quick reading, quite funny, and oddly touching.

The writer was excited for the roommate, knowing how she was always searching for something meaningful to do. She read the material, gave her advice and encouragement, and helped hook her up with an agent. Then, before you could utter the words "six figures"...can you guess where this is going?

The roommate got a huge book deal. It was very exciting, super quick, and for a lot of money. Now, the writer had never wanted anything but good things for the roommate, but this was a bit hard to swallow. Where was her book deal? She was the one for whom it was a life-long dream. Where was her money? She was the one who needed it, who had worked so damn hard for it. Every morning when she woke up and every night when she went to bed, there was the roommate, a sudden walking personification of everything she wanted and could not seem to get. She was consumed with envy.

For someone as kind as the writer is, a person who had taken refuge in the Buddha, this felt particularly wrong, so she went to her Rinpoche for help and he said this: every time you feel envious of the roommate, make her a salad. Do something kind, and caring, and good for her health, no matter how you feel. So that is what the writer did.

Newspapers and magazines announced the exciting book deal, and the collander in the sink filled up with greens. Wow, the publishers are throwing a big book party, something they almost never do anymore. Chop, chop, chop on the broccoli and peppers. It's been optioned for a movie! Throw in some dried cranberries, maybe hearts of palm? The Today Show appearance went great, only Oprah is left! Time to head to Chinatown for the really exotic vegetables--the grocery store is no longer cutting it.

As you can imagine, it was not an easy time for the writer. The thing is, it wasn't all that easy a time for the roommate either, no matter how it looked. She still had these same mental struggles, book deal or no, and with all of the publicity and excitement, she spun a bit out of control, began dating the wrong guy, and got involved in some things that were really not good for her, and that were very difficult to kick once you started. As the writer watched from the next room, wishing desperately that she could help but growing more and more powerless to do so, she learned something. It might take years, maybe forever, to get that book deal, but she had her writing, her passion and purpose, right now, every day. No one could take it away from her, and it was the most valuable thing in the world.

Fast forward to today: the writer is no longer in touch with the roommate, but she very much hopes she's doing well. The writer is finally supporting herself by writing books. It doesn't look quite the way she thought it would--she's left New York, and they aren't always the books she thought she'd write--but she is grateful and happy and talented and works hard, as she always has.

Blessing on all of your writing. It is the most important part.

Her Public

I'm pretty sure my 11 month old daughter loves me. I know I am greeted three times a day, every day, with the kind of reaction Ed McMahon might receive if he arrived at one's door arm-in-arm with Santa Claus. And she seems to be pretty happy to spend a lot of time together--at least I think I'd be able to tell if it was all just a scam, just a heartless ruse to get more bananas out of me, whatever it took.

Until we leave the apartment, that is. Once we hit the streets, all bets are off. You can basically consider me the horse she rode in on, the waiting limo, the vehicle necessary only to connect her with her adoring public.

Walks in the stroller are fine, but dull. Swinging at the park can be fun enough, but frustrating: people tend to pay attention to their own kids there. Give my daughter the subway or the bus any day: a large car packed with bored people, trapped with nothing better to do than to watch her. The wide smiles, the head tilts (all the way to the left, scrunched-up half-smile, then all the way to the right--all while keeping eye contact), the wave/salute, and, when necessary, the uproarious, squalking peacock laugh that gets even grumpy traders, commuting home after losing 10 million dollars, to crack a grin...the girl has an arsenal that would put Shirley Temple to shame, and she can't even walk or talk.

Tonight we had dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was pretty empty when we arrived, as we tend to beat the early bird crowd by about 15 minutes. At first she was able to make due: there were hostesses playing peekaboo and busboys with big smiles. But it wasn't enough. She began to obsess about getting the attention of the one busy table behind her--it was quite irritating for her, actually, the way someone at her own table kept trying to feed her things when obviously she needed to keep her body turned 180 degrees in the highchair in order to face them.

Luckily, things soon picked up. As more people began entering the restaurant, she welcomed them each with a hearty salute. Some smiled back, some laughed, most didn't actually notice, but she didn't care--she was in her element. Then Ricky Martin's voice came out of the speakers, singing La Vida Loca, and this party girl's cup runneth over. She swayed side to side in her high chair, laughing and kicking...and she even had to give mom and dad some props, as they were the only ones in the restaurant who seemed to know the same seated dance.

Putting on her coat and leaving was a buzz kill, but she was tired--holding court like that takes a lot of energy. And I don't mind being the background, the scenery, the blue screen to her adventures. I know who she comes home with every night.

Chocolate

It was cold as I pushed the stroller around today, but Isabel wouldn't let me cover her hands because they were far too busy gripping her toys. As has happened before, I found myself unable to put my own gloves on, knowing her hands were exposed to the chill. Not as any kind of sacrifice, but just because I felt my hands should know what her hands were feeling.

After a few blocks, we stepped into a sunny patch and she had to squint her eyes against the glare--again, I didn't pull my sunglasses out of the diaper bag, knowing her eyes weren't protected.

Soon after, it occurred to me: Isabel doesn't really eat sugar yet. Bananas and pears are about as sweet as it gets for her currently.

Oh well, sucks for her. Yum!