I don't miss my son. There. I've said it. I've said those awful words out loud. My son has been gone for a week, safe with family in Canada, happy and full of life and joy. I cried when I dropped them off at the airport, watching him easily break free from me, turn, and run happily into the garishly lit airport terminal. So excited, so quick to not need me,
Need me. For five years he has needed me, clung to me, lived off of my love my nourishment my attention my breathe my energy my soul my heart my dreams my life. My universe shrunk to include me and him, me large and warm in the middle and him growing growing growing as he orbited around me.
Need me. He always needs me. Mommy! Mommy! Day and night and night and night. Never a full night of sleep. Dreams interrupted, afraid to go deep deep deep, instead hovering in the purgatory between sleep and awake, always afraid to fully leave, to fully turn off the ears the eyes the mind. Mommy! I need you! I need you!
Need me. Thoughts broken, thoughts never complete. An idea here, moment there, a brief beautiful poem unfolding in the mind, shattered by that need. My mind, always a place of reprieve and oddities and gardens of words became uncertain and starved, no privacy, no escape. My son the volcano, the ash cloud growing and growing and blocking out the light, my thoughts left to slowly die, my garden withering. No sleep, no time, no silence.
Need me, need me. The first year the need so intense, the need so real. Without me he would die. I fed, cleaned, touched, examined, worried, held my breathe is he ok is he ok will he be ok if I just close my eyes for a moment, a minute. . .an hour? Need.
Need me. The Mother is all. Older now, the immediate need is less. We sleep, entangled arms and legs and warm little boy breathe. I sleep sleep sleep, sleep for as long as I can, never enough. He goes to school, goes to other homes, he goes without me. The need still there. The Mother is All. The planning, the worrying, the appointments and new shoes and vegetables. The phantom pain - gone but still there. Need.
Then. . .gone. A week. 2,000 miles away. The Need lessens, lessens as the airplane takes him further and further away. I cry, the Need ripped away, suddenly, completely. . .the flesh under the Need red and raw and new. What am I without the Need?
Me. Me me me. Woman, fighter, creative soul. Goddess happy music and love. People people people freedom. Nights out long and hectic. So free. The flesh heals, the soul remembers. Night air, solitude on an ocean rock, bars loud and smokey. Music laughter intoxication. The sun with no planets, burning only for herself, no one to warm no one to nourish. Burn.
Me. I still exist under it all, under the Need, beyond the Mother. Ashes still smoldering so hot hot hot ready to erupt back into flames with a single breathe.
He comes back today, all arms and legs and sticky fingers. Love and joy and light and little boy smell. Mommy mommy! I am ready, renewed, revived, the fire died down but still warm warm warm. Woman, fighter, lover, writer, goddess, dreamer. . .Mother.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Dancing: One Month Later
I have been taking dance classes for a month. I have learned a basic mambo step (break on two!), half-turns and right turns and inside and outside turns and the Suzy Q (where you basically cross your legs and pretend that you really have to pee). I have also learned all about dance shoes and how if your feet feel like they are in a tourniquet and your toes protrude desperately from the front, as if gasping for air, you are wearing them correctly.
But I have learned even more about myself and life and love and passion. . .well, not really love and passion, but I am just assuming that will happen eventually as the music gets faster and I learn how to make my body gyrate just right.
Here is what I have learned so far:
1. I am terrible at dancing. Terrible. My instructors say I think too much and get into my own head and they grab my hands and my arms and shake them as if to loosen them up and shake away my inherit awkwardness. I have learned that having a "chicken wing arm" is NOT a good thing. My brain and my body seem to have a disconnect - I want my leg to go over there, but instead it just sort-of shuffles slightly to the left. I'm like a stroke patient learning to walk again.
2. I do not look sexy. At all. I watch the other women in the class, most of them Latina, and they just look sexy, no matter what they are doing. When they do the basic step, their hips gyrate and their shoulders shimmy and their backs arch as if they will orgasm at any moment. When I look at myself in the mirror as I step forward and back, I look as though I am auditioning to be an extra in a bad zombie movie. If I do try to "be sexy", an instructor will rush over to make sure I am not having a seizure.
3. I am estranged from my body. I have never been an athlete or dancer, never learned to swim, never took ballet or tap as a kid. I can't do a cartwheel or handstand. I can't even jumprope. I do love yoga, surprisingly, and can make it through an advanced class without hurting myself, but that has not helped me feel particularly close to this fleshy blob that I call home. When I dance, I feel so distant from myself - I see that arm move and that foot slide, but I feel like I am using a remote control to make it happen. Like I am sitting on the couch playing a video game (a very very bad video game). One of my instructors was talking to me about "body isolation moves" and she might as well have been trying to teach me how to "wave my arms and fly". It just doesn't click with me. She told me that it would take time - I just hope the 40 or so years I have left on this planet is enough. I'm hoping for an afterlife so I can make it to the intermediate class.
4. I am tenacious. I have gone to class every single week. I stay late, watching the advanced level class. I practice at home. I listen to the music. I dance around my house. The instructors see my determination, my commitment. They work with me one-on-one. During the intermediate class, they will pull me aside and review what we have learned that night, repeating the moves with me over and over and over (and over) until I seem somewhat comfortable. They give me tips, moving my body, touching me here and there. They smile, they laugh, they support me. I tell everyone I am taking classes. I display my moves. I do not give up. I will not give up.
5. I can laugh at myself. Ok, this is not a new one - I spend most of my life laughing at myself. However, in the past, when I have been truly uncomfortable in a situation, truly out of my element, I have tended to shut down, quit, avoid. In my "beginner" class, I am the only true beginner. The others have all been dancing for years, just not to the mambo. But they have that comfort with their bodies that comes from dancing. One glance at the room of moving bodies will tell you that I am the outsider, I am the one who does not belong. They all know each other, talking, joking, giving those double kisses that only foreigners can pull off. I do not belong. In the past, I would have fled. But I don't. I stay, I smile, and I laugh at myself, I laugh through the awkwardness. I laugh instead of run. I laugh a lot.
6. I inspire. I was surprised at the reactions to telling the world that I am taking dance classes. People light up, they support me, and, most of all, they tell me what they have always wanted to try but have been afraid to - guitar lessons, voice lessons, dance class, foreign languages, sewing, karate. They are afraid to try something new, afraid to look foolish, that they won't be good enough. People seem genuinely fascinated that I am doing this - and they watch. They watch to see if I quit, if I give up, if I I am so terrible that I have to stop. When they see me week after week loving my dance classes, it seems to give them hope. Since starting my classes, I have had many friends start new adventures of their own and that is the best thing of all - that I have inspired adventure and life. That I have inspired someone to get out of their own comfort zone. That my dancing, my very very bad dancing, has meaning beyond myself.
7. And, finally, the one that I am most reluctant to admit to myself, I am not really that bad at dancing. A friend came to my class this week and watched us dance. Afterwards, he said to me "You looked amazing! You are doing so well!" and I BELIEVED him. Was he telling the truth? Who knows, probably not. But it doesn't even matter. I believed him. I allowed myself to think that, hey, I DON'T look that bad out there. I am moving, I am learning, I am living my life. I am dancing. And is there anything truly as beautiful as that?
But I have learned even more about myself and life and love and passion. . .well, not really love and passion, but I am just assuming that will happen eventually as the music gets faster and I learn how to make my body gyrate just right.
Here is what I have learned so far:
1. I am terrible at dancing. Terrible. My instructors say I think too much and get into my own head and they grab my hands and my arms and shake them as if to loosen them up and shake away my inherit awkwardness. I have learned that having a "chicken wing arm" is NOT a good thing. My brain and my body seem to have a disconnect - I want my leg to go over there, but instead it just sort-of shuffles slightly to the left. I'm like a stroke patient learning to walk again.
2. I do not look sexy. At all. I watch the other women in the class, most of them Latina, and they just look sexy, no matter what they are doing. When they do the basic step, their hips gyrate and their shoulders shimmy and their backs arch as if they will orgasm at any moment. When I look at myself in the mirror as I step forward and back, I look as though I am auditioning to be an extra in a bad zombie movie. If I do try to "be sexy", an instructor will rush over to make sure I am not having a seizure.
3. I am estranged from my body. I have never been an athlete or dancer, never learned to swim, never took ballet or tap as a kid. I can't do a cartwheel or handstand. I can't even jumprope. I do love yoga, surprisingly, and can make it through an advanced class without hurting myself, but that has not helped me feel particularly close to this fleshy blob that I call home. When I dance, I feel so distant from myself - I see that arm move and that foot slide, but I feel like I am using a remote control to make it happen. Like I am sitting on the couch playing a video game (a very very bad video game). One of my instructors was talking to me about "body isolation moves" and she might as well have been trying to teach me how to "wave my arms and fly". It just doesn't click with me. She told me that it would take time - I just hope the 40 or so years I have left on this planet is enough. I'm hoping for an afterlife so I can make it to the intermediate class.
4. I am tenacious. I have gone to class every single week. I stay late, watching the advanced level class. I practice at home. I listen to the music. I dance around my house. The instructors see my determination, my commitment. They work with me one-on-one. During the intermediate class, they will pull me aside and review what we have learned that night, repeating the moves with me over and over and over (and over) until I seem somewhat comfortable. They give me tips, moving my body, touching me here and there. They smile, they laugh, they support me. I tell everyone I am taking classes. I display my moves. I do not give up. I will not give up.
5. I can laugh at myself. Ok, this is not a new one - I spend most of my life laughing at myself. However, in the past, when I have been truly uncomfortable in a situation, truly out of my element, I have tended to shut down, quit, avoid. In my "beginner" class, I am the only true beginner. The others have all been dancing for years, just not to the mambo. But they have that comfort with their bodies that comes from dancing. One glance at the room of moving bodies will tell you that I am the outsider, I am the one who does not belong. They all know each other, talking, joking, giving those double kisses that only foreigners can pull off. I do not belong. In the past, I would have fled. But I don't. I stay, I smile, and I laugh at myself, I laugh through the awkwardness. I laugh instead of run. I laugh a lot.
6. I inspire. I was surprised at the reactions to telling the world that I am taking dance classes. People light up, they support me, and, most of all, they tell me what they have always wanted to try but have been afraid to - guitar lessons, voice lessons, dance class, foreign languages, sewing, karate. They are afraid to try something new, afraid to look foolish, that they won't be good enough. People seem genuinely fascinated that I am doing this - and they watch. They watch to see if I quit, if I give up, if I I am so terrible that I have to stop. When they see me week after week loving my dance classes, it seems to give them hope. Since starting my classes, I have had many friends start new adventures of their own and that is the best thing of all - that I have inspired adventure and life. That I have inspired someone to get out of their own comfort zone. That my dancing, my very very bad dancing, has meaning beyond myself.
7. And, finally, the one that I am most reluctant to admit to myself, I am not really that bad at dancing. A friend came to my class this week and watched us dance. Afterwards, he said to me "You looked amazing! You are doing so well!" and I BELIEVED him. Was he telling the truth? Who knows, probably not. But it doesn't even matter. I believed him. I allowed myself to think that, hey, I DON'T look that bad out there. I am moving, I am learning, I am living my life. I am dancing. And is there anything truly as beautiful as that?
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Dance Lessons
I don't dance. Well, I have danced and I do dance sometimes in the privacy of my own home when I can shake my booty without scaring small children. Overall though, dancing is something I have never felt comfortable doing. Probably because I was raised in a homogeneous small town where music was something that was played on a dusty old church organ on Sunday mornings and occasionally in my uncle's garage when the guys played pool and listened to tapes of Def Leppard and Guns N' Roses (the only people who dance to that are generally hanging off poles and there were definitely none of those in my hometown.)
I went to a small Christian school where dancing was not allowed ("dancing standing up leads to dancing lying down" my principal was fond of saying). Instead of school dances, we had "banquets" where we all sat at tables next to our dates eating the baked chicken and wishing we were hanging out with the heathens at the local public schools who were groping each other under the dimmed gymnasiums lights as they danced to Boyz II Men.
When I finally escaped to college, I was faced with dancing in public and quickly learned the only way to deal with nights in the clubs was to drink a lot and dress so slutty that no one would notice that my dance moves resembled a grand mal seizure. Under the strobe lights, pressed into the writhing mass of sweaty bodies, my inability to dance remained hidden.
So, whenever I am faced with a dance floor, I grow sweaty and scared, typically faking an injury or hiding in the bathroom until the music has stopped. I watch other people so effortlessly move to the music and I am jealous. I want to be out there! I want to feel the beat and grab a partner and enjoy life! I have tried. . .I have taken a deep breathe and walked out there and started to dance only to slink away quickly realizing that I literally had no idea what I was doing and others were not-so-subtly moving away from me and my flailing limbs.
I have often googled "dance lessons Tampa" and scrolled through the listings, looking at the photos of happy looking people paired off in couples being led in dance by some fit Ricky Martin look-a-like and I hover over the "register" button. Then fear and anxiety take over and I quickly close the page and clear my browser history, embarrassed as if I had been searching for porn. I just wasn't ready.
Until now. I am 37 and on my 38th birthday in SIX WEEKS I am travelling to Puerto Rico, an entire island of people who learned to dance before they learned to walk. I envision getting off the plane and being greeted by Salsa music and dancing airport employees. City streets full of women shaking their hips to the tropical music that fills the air. Latino men reaching out of doorways, grabbing the first woman they see and pulling them close into a sensual Merengue. And me. Standing there. Terrified.
I want to dance on my birthday. I want to go out and hear some music and dance in Puerto Rico. And not be terrified. So, I have decided to finally do it, I have finally signed up for Salsa dance lessons here in Tampa. I have waited too long. I start on Tuesday in a group class. A GROUP CLASS. That means there will be others in the room, others who will see me, others who will witness my awkwardness.
Life is short. Do something that terrifies you. DANCE.
(updates on the lessons to come. . .)
I went to a small Christian school where dancing was not allowed ("dancing standing up leads to dancing lying down" my principal was fond of saying). Instead of school dances, we had "banquets" where we all sat at tables next to our dates eating the baked chicken and wishing we were hanging out with the heathens at the local public schools who were groping each other under the dimmed gymnasiums lights as they danced to Boyz II Men.
When I finally escaped to college, I was faced with dancing in public and quickly learned the only way to deal with nights in the clubs was to drink a lot and dress so slutty that no one would notice that my dance moves resembled a grand mal seizure. Under the strobe lights, pressed into the writhing mass of sweaty bodies, my inability to dance remained hidden.
So, whenever I am faced with a dance floor, I grow sweaty and scared, typically faking an injury or hiding in the bathroom until the music has stopped. I watch other people so effortlessly move to the music and I am jealous. I want to be out there! I want to feel the beat and grab a partner and enjoy life! I have tried. . .I have taken a deep breathe and walked out there and started to dance only to slink away quickly realizing that I literally had no idea what I was doing and others were not-so-subtly moving away from me and my flailing limbs.
I have often googled "dance lessons Tampa" and scrolled through the listings, looking at the photos of happy looking people paired off in couples being led in dance by some fit Ricky Martin look-a-like and I hover over the "register" button. Then fear and anxiety take over and I quickly close the page and clear my browser history, embarrassed as if I had been searching for porn. I just wasn't ready.
Until now. I am 37 and on my 38th birthday in SIX WEEKS I am travelling to Puerto Rico, an entire island of people who learned to dance before they learned to walk. I envision getting off the plane and being greeted by Salsa music and dancing airport employees. City streets full of women shaking their hips to the tropical music that fills the air. Latino men reaching out of doorways, grabbing the first woman they see and pulling them close into a sensual Merengue. And me. Standing there. Terrified.
I want to dance on my birthday. I want to go out and hear some music and dance in Puerto Rico. And not be terrified. So, I have decided to finally do it, I have finally signed up for Salsa dance lessons here in Tampa. I have waited too long. I start on Tuesday in a group class. A GROUP CLASS. That means there will be others in the room, others who will see me, others who will witness my awkwardness.
Life is short. Do something that terrifies you. DANCE.
(updates on the lessons to come. . .)
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Planning Trips
The Stay-At-Home Gypsy needs to always have a trip planned. Going somewhere, at some point in time, it doesn't matter when or where, there just needs to be a destination lurking out there. A definitive adventure. Something to dream about when life becomes mundane. Something to think about when the daily routines start to pummel the soul. A window, a beacon of light, a future escape. As long as there is something planned, life can go on.
I am going to Croatia in May. That is 7 months away but it brings me joy every day. Images of Dubrovnik flash through my mind and it is intoxicating. I plan my days there in my head. . .two days in Zagreb, well, maybe three, then on to the coast. Maybe I will take a day trip to Montenegro? Maybe not. Who cares? In my head, I am EXPLORING and it thrills my soul.
I read about the country - its history, its culture, its stories. I find every book I can find about the Croatia - both fiction and nonfiction. I listen to Croatian music, I learn some basic phrases (Istražiti!), I watch Rick Steves roam the streets of Split on my TV. I immerse myself.
I google hostels, I browse through airbnb.com, I create different experiences in my head. Do I stay in private hotels and spend my down time reading and napping? Do I stay in a boisterous hostel surrounded by young travels from all over the world? Do I rent a room and immerse myself in local culture? I experience all options, the good and the bad.
I travel there every single day in my head. It is my private escape. No matter what is going on around me - work, stress, traffic - in my head, I retreat to my own make believe Croatia.
In this way, each trip that I take lasts for months. It gives me ongoing joy and excitement. I may not be able to travel as much as I want, but I make every trip count.
I am going to Croatia in May. That is 7 months away but it brings me joy every day. Images of Dubrovnik flash through my mind and it is intoxicating. I plan my days there in my head. . .two days in Zagreb, well, maybe three, then on to the coast. Maybe I will take a day trip to Montenegro? Maybe not. Who cares? In my head, I am EXPLORING and it thrills my soul.
I read about the country - its history, its culture, its stories. I find every book I can find about the Croatia - both fiction and nonfiction. I listen to Croatian music, I learn some basic phrases (Istražiti!), I watch Rick Steves roam the streets of Split on my TV. I immerse myself.
I google hostels, I browse through airbnb.com, I create different experiences in my head. Do I stay in private hotels and spend my down time reading and napping? Do I stay in a boisterous hostel surrounded by young travels from all over the world? Do I rent a room and immerse myself in local culture? I experience all options, the good and the bad.
I travel there every single day in my head. It is my private escape. No matter what is going on around me - work, stress, traffic - in my head, I retreat to my own make believe Croatia.
In this way, each trip that I take lasts for months. It gives me ongoing joy and excitement. I may not be able to travel as much as I want, but I make every trip count.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Putting Myself First
You know how when you fly, and the flight attendant stands at the front of the plane and does the little song and dance about how to fasten your seat belt, where the exits are, and what to do if the plane suddenly plummets in a ball of flames? Yeah, I know, no one ever pays attention to the poor flight attendant, who studied hard in flight attendant school to master those erratic arm movements and mad pointing skills, but there is one instruction that has always stood out to me:
"Place the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping small children or others who may need your assistance."
It seems selfish at first. What? Give myself life-saving oxygen over my helpless child? Allow him to gasp for air while I am sucking on that sweet O2? How could I?
It's obvious, of course, because you can't help others if you are debilitated. Or dead. You have to be strong and at your best if you are going to be there for others. It makes sense when you are sitting in row 14 seat A looking up at that little closed hatch ready to grab that face mask and pull it over your face the instant it drops. You are ready.
So how come in regular life, when there is not a smartly coiffed flight attendant directing our actions, are we so willing to ignore ourselves while helping everyone around us? Why do we disregard our own needs while making sure the other people in our lives are taken care of? Why are we so busy slapping oxygen masks on everyone else while we slowly suffocate?
I did this for years, especially after my son was born. My own needs came last. And it was killing me.
I have learned, no, I am in the process of learning, to put that oxygen mask on myself first and breathe deeply before helping those around me. To put myself first. Initially, it felt selfish to focus on my own needs - to say No to people, to claim my own space, to ignore the judgments of others. But it gets easier, and after breathing that sweet oxygen for a while, it becomes much easier to help those around you while taking care of yourself.
"Place the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping small children or others who may need your assistance."
It seems selfish at first. What? Give myself life-saving oxygen over my helpless child? Allow him to gasp for air while I am sucking on that sweet O2? How could I?
It's obvious, of course, because you can't help others if you are debilitated. Or dead. You have to be strong and at your best if you are going to be there for others. It makes sense when you are sitting in row 14 seat A looking up at that little closed hatch ready to grab that face mask and pull it over your face the instant it drops. You are ready.
So how come in regular life, when there is not a smartly coiffed flight attendant directing our actions, are we so willing to ignore ourselves while helping everyone around us? Why do we disregard our own needs while making sure the other people in our lives are taken care of? Why are we so busy slapping oxygen masks on everyone else while we slowly suffocate?
I did this for years, especially after my son was born. My own needs came last. And it was killing me.
I have learned, no, I am in the process of learning, to put that oxygen mask on myself first and breathe deeply before helping those around me. To put myself first. Initially, it felt selfish to focus on my own needs - to say No to people, to claim my own space, to ignore the judgments of others. But it gets easier, and after breathing that sweet oxygen for a while, it becomes much easier to help those around you while taking care of yourself.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Chasing a Croatian Girl: A (brief) Review and (big!) Recommendation
Read this entire book this morning - highly recommended for Stay-At-Home Gypsies everywhere. His writing style is similar to mine (awesome and hilarious) and his experiences adapting to living abroad are fascinating. Also, his viewpoint of America ('Murica!") is spot on.
Read it. Then book a fucking ticket somewhere. Seriously, people, travel. If you do ONE THING in this life, get the hell out of this country for a few weeks. This place is like a giant bubble of artificial existence. I feel like I'm in the Truman Show sometimes. If only I could cross that ocean. . .
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