The last day of my life.

Five years ago today, being fed up with my pitiful fat waddle and baby-induced sciatica going down my right buttock and leg, I became determined. I had been pregnant for 41 weeks and a day, and was feeling very uncomfortable with even the discussion of inducing labor at the hospital. I decided it was time to take action. After eating pineapple for lunch, I boiled up a big pot of Raspberry Leaf tea and began to sip it. As the afternoon progressed, I started popping evening primrose oil capsules, rubbing my nipples, and massaging my hoku spot (among other things). I was beginning to feel a little peculiar. So I headed to the local Mexican place and ate the spiciest food I could get a hold of, and then took a long walk around lake Merritt. There on a bench behind Fairy Land it happened. My 9.6 pound baby's body and mine began to move in unison.

That was just the beginning.

I mused on my walk home, every time I stopped to maintain my balance during contractions, that all these people around me had no idea I was in labor. I remember looking people in the eyes thinking "Can you tell I am having a baby?" but only smiling, which may have at times looked like a grimace.

We're a goin' on a trip!

Though I have less funds than I had been planning at this particular point in my life, I went ahead and bought plane tickets to Costa Rica on a credit card.  February 27th. When I told my mom over the phone the other day, she immediately responded, “I thought you don’t have any money.”  Ugh, my downer mom.   “…you asked us to all go in on a Christmas gift this year and get you a sewing machine because you said you can’t afford one, but you have enough for Costa Rica?”  I tell her I put in on a credit card.  So what anyway!?!?  I have priorities. I earn my own money, mommy! Right now was the time to get the tickets.  

It is true that I can’t afford a sewing machine, but what one can afford is not always a matter of how much money one has (especially in the days of credit and the stock market).  It’s a matter of priorities and how much risk you are going to take. I wouldn’t go into debt for a thing.  When I was a child and my mother was young, it always turned out that, though there were times when she couldn’t feed her children, she always seemed to manage to be able to afford the paint and other supplies she needed.  I have never held this against her, because I get it.  She needs to do art to keep her sanity.  Art supplies were a necessity. She sacrificed much of her money, days and time to raising us three kids, something our fathers did not do.  She deserved to have something that wasn’t to be sacrificed simply because she was a single mother.

For me, the occasional and regular self-displacement from my life, culture, home, town, is a necessity.  I haven’t left the country for two and a half years.   Leaving helps me see clearly, away from mundaniness, the regularity, the familiarity that works my thought cycles in circles.  It gets me back in touch with myself, in order to grow in a more authentic way.  

But this trip is extra special ‘cause we are going to meet Ramona’s paternal family.  She has never met her father.  He doesn’t really talk to me and he doesn’t do the internet.  He didn’t have a cell when I was there, and no one has given a number to me.  Once in a while I hear a word.  But I am not going for him.  Ramona wants to meet her dad, so I am taking her.  Lately, when the subject of her father comes up in conversations with people, she replies with a nervous sort of laugh.  One that is quite familiar to me.  It is the exact same nervous giggle I used to emit when I was little and confronted with a situation that I was uncomfortable and insecure about.  I still have a version of it as an adult.

Now, when I mention to someone our trip to Costa Rica, she declares, “We are going to go see my dad!”  I had never heard her say “dad” with such boldness before this.  She is thrilled and proud to go. I try to help her not have her hopes up too much.  Of course I don’t want her to be disappointed.  But I know that the time is now, she wants to meet her father. 

(The suspension bridge in the cloud forest just north of Santa Elena, where R's dad lives.) 

Besides, she loves to travel.  She is quite adventurous and curious; traveling fulfills her quest for constant stimulation and newness.  If things feel uncomfortable with his family, we we will be spending three weeks in a beautiful tropical paradise.

But yes, I am nervous.  I know not to worry too much, because the truth is that most likely everything with turn our great.  I left her dad because I couldn’t be his partner (i.e. wife).  I was not willing to live in Costa Rica with him.  We are not made for each other. I didn’t trust that my staying would cure him of his issues with drinking, drugs, jealousy, etc.  I wanted to protect my daughter from the horrors that children go through when their parents’ relationship gets ugly.  I knew it would end, and why make the baby be there to witness the pain of the separation? Not that he doesn’t have a good heart, he does.  He was always kind and gentle to me.  He’s been hurt in his life and doesn’t know how to deal with it in a productive manner.  

And honestly, I am also nervous because there was no lack of chemistry between us.  I know that we were attracted to each other until the day I left. I know that, as I ran from the house, late, to catch the bus, we both hoped on some level that I would miss the bus.  

Raw Milk (and Butter) Ruckus

Bummed the FDA has been putting pressure on my farmer for selling us raw cow milk.  Not us personally, but anybody.  It is illegal in most states now, because of, they say, risks of contamination.  Of course, everything is at risk of contamination.  There are so many scare tactics out there about raw milk (I can't even go there, it would take me all week to write), you would think it was responsible for at least one death…nope.  I am more likely to win the lottery than get sick from raw milk, especially since I get the milk straight from a healthy cow within hours of the milking.  No processing plant.  No employees that may not have been trained well.  I am furious that the FDA is forcing a wedge between me and my farmer.  And since when has the FDA been enforcing state laws? Food and Drug Fascists. 

I love raw milk.  It is a living food.  I am all about living foods.  You are what you eat.  Living foods come from healthy colonies of bacteria and yeasts, they grow from living soil, they come unadulterated from an animal. They come from a living food system, not the industrial food system of irradiated and sterile food, full of preservatives and toxic crap.  Dead Foods from diseased places.  Living foods can not be part of the industrial food system, because the system kills them.  Corn and other grains are so bad for cows that they have to be shot up with antibiotics for their milk to even be suitable for human consumption.  And of course all the indigestion caused by eating what their bodies are not meant to eat creates some seriously gassy bovines, emitting tons of extra methane, a greenhouse gas. 

I tend to think that nature will provide for me perfect foods, not scientists who are still discovering vitamins that they never even knew existed (and still don’t know what they are for). Raw milk contains 8 amino acids and 60 fully intact and functional enzymes, pasteurized milk has none.  In fact, humans could live solely off of the milk of a healthy, pasture fed cow.  Or so they say (click here for a great article explaining raw milk nutrients).

I had heard that once you start to drink raw milk, you never go back.  Well, I now agree.  I have been drinking it only a little while, but my body knows that raw milk is good food.  It tastes better. There is no flemmy after effect, or bloated feeling in my belly.  Plus, we get make a cube of fresh sweet cream butter every week from the milk fat.  Sometimes, I make yogurt as well.

So now we are on a hunt for a new raw milk source.  One way to get raw milk legally here in California is to buy a cow share.  So that is what we are looking to do.  And I have invited some friends to join me. 

Butter is super easy to make...check it out

 Here is a beautiful 1/2 gallon of milk, with a big old head of cream, ready for making into butter.  This one has been sitting in the fridge a couple days...I usually make the butter the night after the morning of milking cause it tastes so fresh and sweet.  I didn't get to it on time this time.

Heavy cream from the top, sitting, beckoning me to make it into butter.  This is a quart jar.  1/3 full is a good amount.  More than half full will leave you with not enough room for the next part.

And she is off, shaking and shaking the cream.  You need to shake for a while.  It is nice to sit around, watching a video, passing the jar amongst a group of friends.  Or at least to have someone to talk to.  It seems to take less time if you are doing more than just shaking cream.  Keep shaking. Don't give up, the cream, very suddenly, seemingly in just a few shakes, will turn to...

This clumpy butter. The nice thing about letting the milk sit longer before shaking it is that there is less milk in the fat...thus less buttermilk leftover (real buttermilk isn't that stuff you buy in the store, its the stuff leftover after shaking the butter.) I don't drink the buttermilk, but you can. I try to cook with it.

With your hand you can remove the butter from the jar, then run it under cold water, while squeezing and kneading it until the water runs clear. Leaving milk in your butter will turn in rancid a little to quickly for my taste. I usually add salt (if I add salt) either after I cleaned it, or I knead it in right before.  I am not sure which is better.

After you have squeezed it clean, make a little cube.  Tah dah! 

My kid is smart.

I had been thinking about getting R a Crafty Kid Playhouse for Christmas or maybe her 5th birthday coming up.  They seemed cute, she would be able to color it, they are "eco-friendly" and they are made right here in the USA.  And she loves playhouses and forts.  As we were leaving a store the other day, I saw some by the door.  To gauge her interest, I was like, "Wow, that looks like fun, cardboard playhouses, and you get to color them yourself!"  Ramona glanced down and said, "We don't need that.  I have a playhouse in the yard, and we make houses with cardboard boxes inside."  And she walked right out the door.   Uh, derrr.  She is so logical sometimes (in a good way).  It is way more fun and crafty building ones own playhouse from old cardboard boxes (I'm glad we kept some from the move), and much more eco-friendly.  What was I thinking?

Me and My Kombucha

Recently, a mama from Hipmama offered up some Kombucha Mothers.  Kombucha is an effervecient fermented drink made from tea and sugar that has been used as a health elixer for thousands of years.  I had been tasting it here and there and decided this was a great opportunity.

Baby SCOBY (you can see mama SCOBY
sideways in a new batch of tea)

I responded to her post and she sent me a baby kombucha through the mail from New Jersey!  To clarify, the Kombucha SCOBY (Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria and Yeasts) is often referred to as a “mother” because this is what makes the kombucha.  Every time that a new batch of kombucha is finished, a white (sometimes pinkish) baby SCOBY has formed on the top of the brew.  As soon as you remove the baby and put it in a fresh batch of tea and sugar, the baby effectively becomes a mother as well, and at the end of the brew you will have yet another baby that has formed on top.  Mothers tend to darken with age, as the tea stains them.

I store my kombucha in
used bottles from this store-
bought kombucha

So, I have been brewing kombucha for a month now, and drinking it daily.  It is purported to have a myriad of health benefits, especially for detoxing organs and basically just an all round disease (cancer) fighter.  I was interested to see what sort of effect it would have on my acne, since Chinese medicine has been telling me that my acne is linked to my “stomach ring” including organs such as pancreas, kidneys and liver.  I did a fair share of damage to my organs in my youth, and have been trying to figure ways to restore them. The liver, pancreas, kidneys, etc. help process what you eat, filter toxins, and produce hormones.  Hormonal imbalances are often tied to these cleansing organs.  Now, I almost always have acne cists under the skin around my chin and jawbone (the preferred location for hormonal acne) that I can always feel, though not necessarily see.  These have disappeared.  While I have had some superficial pimples, it seems that for the most part I am healthier and my skin is happier.

I start and end my day with Kombucha. drinking about 16 ounces of it a day.  Ramona has been drinking a few ounces here and there.  It is a little strong for her.

A quick search can give you several sites with various directions for brewing tea, so I will skip the step by step (but here is a great FAQ).  Many people will say you have to use black tea.  Not true, though black tea is a good basic starting place since it has all the nutrients the mother needs.  They also say you have to use white sugar; I have been using raw and unprocessed sugar from the bulk section just fine. I just make sure to add the sugar when the water is boiling to perhaps boil away any imputities or germs. I started off using a green tea mix, mint mélange from Trader Joes and Yogi Ginger Tea.  I later read that many of the herbs I was using are a no no for reasons of acid levels and mold.  However, I have been successful using some of the no no herbs, just not in excess.  However, I have started changing my brews to not include so much of the forbidden herbs...I am still working on my perfect brew.  I will check back when I find it.  Here is a great article about appropriate herbs to use. Also, black, white, and green tea and well as Yerba Mate work great. 

I must warn you though, sometimes they recommend adding a bit of vinegar to give the SCOBY some of the acidic environment it likes…don’’t use “live” or raw vinegar…this will interfere with the brew, and you will have a very vinegary Kombucha!

Sugar and tea bags, waiting for boiling water.

Not finding a good gallon jar for brewing, I have been using half gallon mason jars which work great.  I use three tea bags, reverse osmosis water, and just under a cup of sugar.  Since Kombucha likes to be kept between 70 and 85 degrees fahrenheit, and I am not going to keep my house that warm all winter, I invested $15 in a heating pad and keep it on low sideways between the bottles in the cupboard where I brew my Kombucha. 

I usually only fill it 1/3 of the way with hot water,
and add cold after I remove the teabags for
quicker cooling. Make sure to melt all the sugar
when adding the boiling water. 

I am addicted to the stuff.  It makes me happy and healthy. Let me know if you want a Kombucha baby, I would love to share the love.   

Mother just added to cooled tea/sugar.

Ready!  See the baby sitting pretty on top? 

Brewing in the cupboard over the stove.  I switched
from covering with kitchen towel to paper towels
cause I don't have enough kitchen towels and for
sanitary reasons. These are two deep and I slide the
heating pad right between them.

Another post not about mothering but about not being a writer

I loose myself in the internet.  It is my addiction; I use it to escape the moment.  Sometimes I fight against this tool of modernity by detoxing, banning myself from the internet.  The thing is that mostly my escape into the computer is an escape from my own relentless banter and feelings in inadequacy.   I have realized that my internet procrastinating is directly related to my battle with labels.

So, I’ve been talking about shedding labels.  Not too easy.  One can’t just say, okay, no labels, and then just walk away free.  Some labels fall easily to the wayside, but some are attached to me like a third arm. How can I not be a writer? I had hoped to have finally found my “true” calling. 

I attributed my grade school teachers’ compliments about my essays to being a nerd, not a writer.  It wasn’t until I was in college and having instructors rave about my essays that I thought, “Hey, I have a knack for writing and I happen to love doing it,” before going on with my life.  A few years later, I spun music for the local college radio station and someone called me out of the blue and said he liked my show and would I consider writing an indie rock column for his magazine.  I wrote him an album review as a sample and he hired me.  Soon enough I was dubbed “writer.”   I didn’t choose it, it just happened.  When I look back over time, it was me, doing the things that made me feel alive, saying yes, that transformed me into a writer, not me carrying out my duty to create.  But, now it’s been years since I wrote a column and have had little published since then, nothing for the last nearly two years.  I have written no books and I have no ideas.  Don’t you have to write to be a writer?  If I am not a writer what am I?

Some of my labels were easy to shed, but those ones have little affect on my life.  Letting go of the writer label is perhaps the most difficult and the most freeing.  I subject myself to so much duty.  Duty turns love into drudgery. When I don’t perform, I call myself a hack.  When I wake up, and my daughter is still asleep, that is my time to create, so I create because it’s my duty.  I obligate myself to create.  But this kind of create is so muted and twisted and my obligation to fulfill the writer label, or the _fill in the blank_  has got me burying my head in facebook and watching the world collapse on youtube.  I don’t want to have to write anymore.  I want to write if inspired. I want to write for love.  I want to write because I was moved to. 

If I am not a writer, I have permission not to write.

Oh, and then there is the activist.  I feel I have to be part of the Occupy movement.  All the activists are, unless they have something even cooler going on. Well, I have been trying to figure out what it even means to be an activist for a while, so maybe I really do just need to let it rest for a while.  If I’m not an activist, I don’t need to worry about defining it. I don’t have to feel like a hack if I stay home from the big meeting. There is this small part of me that wants to still be able to say I am part of some “activist community,” but I don’t have the energy to prove it to anyone, not even myself.  Anyway, a lot of those people are just a bunch of cocky, self-righteous, know-it-alls (I don’t really mean it, but it feels good to say).

I have, in some ways, become dependent on labels to define me, give me direction, but labels can easily turn against you.  I have too many.  I take them too seriously – I don’t want to be one of those fake artists that my mother taught me to loathe.  So I shed them; I am trying to shed them all.  When I wake up in the morning, I don’t have to absorb myself in internet - email, craft ideas, news, social media - to avoid myself and my constant banter insisting I should be doing…. Just for now, I don’t have to be anybody.  I can be a nobody.  I am deprogramming. 

Not to mention that deprogramming comes with its own scary world.  My program and my identity protects me from becoming someone I don’t want to be, acquiring those bad label.  What if I am not part of the revolution?  What if I am boring?  What if I want money? What if I want luxury and a lot of money!?  What if I join a religion and a church?  What if I sit around and watch cable TV all day? What if I become conservative?  I can be scared of those things but I can’t stay the same and I don’t want to live the rest of my life trying to fulfill hollow labels.

I want to shed this anxiety that tells me I deserve my horrible fate if I ignore the all-encompassing mantra of work, duty, progress.  I just want to feel what it is like to be my raw nobody self. 

Low Tide Beach

A trip to the ocean is a way for me to renew, foster a connection with the world around me and a reminder that I belong somewhere. The ocean is one of the very few constants in my life, and greeting her is like greeting an old familiar friend, arms wide open. Ramona and I have been going to the beach together since she was 9 months old; it has become our special mini-trip (as you might know from reading my blog). The ocean brings me peace and connection. As a child I stayed twice during the summer with my dad in a cabin on an Island in the gentle Puget sound. There was a little trail that went down to the beach. The beach was so empty of people, that it was always a surprise on those rare occasions that someone would come walking into view. At six and seven year of age, I was set loose to play on the beach alone for hours. I became one with my surrounding then. It was possibly one of the last times that I felt safe, there at the water's edge.  Within a month my father was arrested and sent to prison for almost three years and I left the state of Washington with my mother to spend the next decade moving from neighborhood to neighborhood, town to town, state to state.

But, I hope for my child I can create situations that will lead to the same sort of connection that I felt for those summer days on the Island. maybe one day I will find a perfect island cabin to call ours for a while.

Besides connection, our trips to the ocean are like mini-travels. I travel to open and change perspective, to remove my self from the location from which all that I do takes place. No house to clean, no friends to socialize with, no habits to habitate with, nothing to make or write, no way to get to work...leaving me with only reality, the moment, to experience and explore.  I am able to engage in the moment effortlessly.

Yesterday was a super low tide at sunset, so we had to go!

That last post and re-thinking the blog

That last post I wrote 5 days ago. I posted it today, back-dated. I have been rethinking the blog. I have been thinking that I want a radical mothering blog, but I want to blog about myself as well. My inner and outer journey. My complete self. I was planning to split the blog into two. I haven't felt inspired to do so.

So i am thinking, what is this blog about? Shall I create a separate blog for the part about mothering? For my non personal-healing and growth ideas? My non-integrated blog?

Well, I haven't figured it out yet. And since I am trying to shed the "writer" label, I can't say if and when I will make this decision, so I guess I will continue as is for now. hmmm.

Shedding Labels

This last while, I have found myself, after the worst 6-7 months of the decade, immersed total confusion. Circumstances have become better, but I am not sure what to do with them, with me. As I have written before, being all these things that I am, or say I am, or think I am - musician, writer, activist, anarchist, feminist, traveler, artist, mother, creative, intellectual etc. - is just so confusing and time consuming. Am I really all this stuff? Are they callings? Or are they just the labels that I have acquired? I know that many people don’t like to be labeled, and neither do I, but isn’t saying that you are anything labeling yourself? If you say you are a teacher, aren’t you labeling yourself? I see labels as an integral part of identity. But I have also come to know that sometimes acquiring labels, especially for long periods of time, hinders change. (I see this in mono-thinking conservatives and liberals all the time). It can be hard to shed a label once you have been wearing it for a while, even if it isn’t really you anymore. They can also lead to insecurities. “How can I be an artist if I am not even making art?”

When I was younger, I was very anti-label. I never tried to fulfill a roll, in fact I may have been actively trying to not do what what expected of me. I was just me, I liked it that way and damned if you tried to pigeon-hole me. Though I must admit, adults were good at labeling me. To my mother, I was “the creative child,” to the school I was an “at-risk” student. I ignored them.
I started dressing Death Punk/gothy not because I was one, but because I wore the clothes that I thought looked good. I had one goth friend, but didn’t hang out with goths for the longest time until they started gravitating towards me…if I dress like one am I one? And of course I am using the word goth to cover everything I was called (death rocker, death punk, goth, kooky spook, gutter goth…all variations). When I was around 22 or 23, I was labeled anarchist by a group of anarchists. It happened after a long discussion about my political views with a collective that was meeting at my house, that one of my roommates belonged too. I was quickly welcomed into the collective. Later I decided to adopt the label diligently, largely due to people’s misconceptions about anarchism. I have helped open up a lot of minds about the ideas that exist within the many nuances of anarchism. I expanded and still expand many people’s understanding of that particular label. I also don't want the black blocs and what some called “lifestyle anarchists” to dominate people perceptions about what anarchism is. But by this time I was being labeled a rocker.

I was also going to a digital art college at the time, and read a book called “Art and Fear” for one of my classes. At this point, I took the scary plunge and started calling myself an artist. Now for me, that was big, because my mother is a very serious artist. She often accuses other (most) artists as not making “real art.” So to me, calling myself an artist meant I had to make “real art.” And the story goes on…I acquired more labels through expressing who I was and doing the things I loved.

Now, I find myself confused. Not knowing who the hell I am and what the hell I am doing. So I am shedding labels the best I can. Going back to the young me, who rebelliously shunned labels. (Anothers one of my first labels – rebel). I am going to be me only. And I look at the Occupy movement and I wonder if the times are changing, and labels are becoming less useful…or maybe new ones are being created. The media and powers that be are furiously trying to label the movement. Labeling makes things easier to pick apart and analyze in superficial ways. It makes us be able to wrap our heads around something. They can’t wrap their heads around the movement. We can’t even wrap our heads around the movement. No one could define the complexity of the movement in words. Perhaps we could describe large parts of the movement via book and film. We can experience it. The truth is, we really can’t even wrap our head around the complexity of a single human being. We CAN experience being one. I wonder what labels OWS will adopt or be dubbed. I wonder what labels Occupy Petaluma will adopt or be dubbed.

So, this is a time of shedding. Not thinking about labels. Shedding some baggage. Refusing labels. I am looking forward to experiencing myself in the future. See what old labels come back, what new ones I might have adopted. Or if I just refuse to decide to ever call myself anything again.

Princesses

This beautifully sums up all my criticisms of Disney princesses (and a lot of those horrible sexist stories that fairy tales became). Except for the part about Disney's monopoly of princesses.

A couple months ago, when Ramona was wearing her princess dress, we ran into a little girl who insisted on knowing what princess Ramona was, (as in Ariel, Belle, Rapunzel, etc.) as she didn't recognize the dress. She could not fathom that princesses existed outside of Disney Characters.

re-entry into life, rethinking the blog

As my crazy work schedule winds down, I find myself mired in the chaos of an unattended life. Not the good kind of chaos, the uncomfortable kind. The house in total disarray and me lacking the energy to do anything about it. The regret of missing the beginning of what seems to be the biggest social movement in my adult life. A feeling of estrangement from my daughter and fear of loosing our connection. A feeling of estrangement from society. The realization that in doing everything that I do, I can’t do anything well. Many things aren’t working, and as I reenter my life I see an opportunity to make some major decisions about it. I need to pair down.

I have started with the decision to forget working in public education. I can not meld into the professional world. I have spent too much time trying to fit into places that I don’t and I am done. And I hate the way that it has made me constantly want to correct people’s grammar (especially people’s tendency to use adjectives in place of adverbs). I loved the fluidity of the English language before it was netted in my standardization and Webster.


But outside education I am a writer, a videographer, and artist, a musician, a single parent, an activist, a “home educator,” an intellectual, a traveler and wanderer, a member of the working class, an urban homesteader…how do I manage? I want to spend time with people too!

I shall start with integration.

Video is a great tool. It is a job I feel comfortable doing. It is an outlet for creativity. It is something I can be paid for. It is a project I can do with my daughter, and help her learn. It is a way to document. Video is a tool for activism.

Writing is something I love. It keeps me sane. It is a form of activism for me. I recently stopped journaling after reading an article from someone I respect saying that in order to be a “famous “ writer, I should write for others, and not waste time journaling to myself. I took the advice and it had devastating effects. For me, writing is not only a mode of communication with the outside world, but a mode of communication with my inner self. I am an introvert and much of me is deeply buried. Writing is an exercise in digging. I am working on adding journaling back into my life. When I journaled regularly I liked my writing.

I am rethinking my blog. What is it here for? I liked it when more mothering was happening in my blogging. When my mothering looked like acts of rebellion. But really I guess it still is. I feel strong in my ideas about how to raise my daughter without regular schooling, at least for the short term. I have plans. I am determined to have a life that doesn’t revolve around my daughter as well. And integrated life is an act of rebellion.

I don’t feel like tackling the other stuff on my list right now…

We will see where all the sticks fall as I come out of super worker mode. 55 hour work weeks plus 6-7 hours of commute time is a lot, even for a hip mama. The cat is laying herself on my wrists as I type this.

Selling the body and the mind

Taking a minute to write. Something I haven’t done in a while. I worked 25 hours in on Saturday/Sunday. Might pull the same thing again tomorrow. Work comes in waves it seems. Just the way I like it. I had been remembering fondly my days working on the fish processor boats in Alaska. We would work all day every day for months, and then be set free with a large check to explore the world, or support our families. Some people think I am crazy for liking that sort of work, but I do. For one it is work. Like real honest work, and something of value is actually being produced. I have always been confused by people’s fear of work. Maybe because “labor” is so poorly paid. I was just saying a month ago, that if I could take my kid onto a fish processor boat in Alaska, that is what I would do.

When I work 30, 40, or even 25 hours a week for someone else, then go home and love my child and my garden, there is little time for me to work on my own creativity - writing, video, music, etc. My mind is dominated by a job. If my mind is already going to be dominated by a job (i.e. be a slave to it), I would much rather just be a “worker” full tilt every day all day and then get paid and go on my way, have my days back to do the things I want to do. I find it sad that so many people go through their life never really sure what they want to do…since we spend it working at a job or looking for a job.

I got a job on a farm. My daughter hangs out on the farm with the kids of the farm owners and the ponies and goats, and dogs…you get the picture. I do that 40-50 hours a week over 4 days. I don’t have to use my creativity or brain-power to make someone rich. The farm-owners pay 160% of the going rate for the workers (cause they are self-proclaimed socialists who shy away from buying machines to replace humans and play great music). My mind is free to have its own thoughts as I work (and I have jotted some amazing stuff down during my long hours). I may have to sell my body to make a life for my daughter and I but at least I don’t have to sell my mind. And I have always found labor work environments so much more tolerable and lively than the average office.

I also am partnered with a couple non-profits, both for whom I work about 6.5 hours a week for- admin, desktop publishing and video. So I work about 13 hours a week outside of the farm job. These jobs feel good. The farm job will last a two or three more weeks. Then the harvesting will be mostly over. I will be able to buy a bass amp, some clothes, pay off the credit cards, rethink my blog, join (physically) the Occupy Movement with my daughter (there’s talk of renting an RV at the farm), take my disabled mom (who lives off $850 a month) on a wonderful trip somewhere beautiful, and Ramona will finally get to meet her dad in Costa Rica.

Working on Paradise

I was home for a day from camping, and then went to Mendocino to visit a friend. She happens to live in an intentional community. Its still forming. They have a beautiful house. Their first baby chicks ever hatched while we were there. So sweet. It was great and it was nice to feel so comfortable somewhere. I like it. Community. Self-sufficiency. They are eventually planning to be completely self-sufficient, off the grid, ect.

What else is great is that they live walking distance to a town. Boonville. In Mendocino County. I always picture the off-the-grid, intentional communities to be way out in the middle of nowhere for some reason. Off the grid can be in the middle of town! I used to live on the Mendocino Coast, which was amazing. When I spoke to people there, I didn’t feel like an alien like I do in most places. But due to the fact that I can’t weather the gray and fog and I got lonely so far from any urban center, I moved to Oakland, then Petaluma. Now Boonville is a little more populated that the Coast, closer to cities, and the weather is similar to here. And virtually no one wears make-up there. That right there sort of reflects the nature of the town. Fuck Fake, masks, status quo. Be your self. But then the grass is always greener on the other side. I would miss a music scene if I were there for one…

And I am not ready right now to move somewhere like that, or I would inquire on becoming a stakeholder. Right now I need to enjoy this place I just acquired, have some space and quiet for some inner searching and personal development. But it did inspire me to begin seeking likeminded people around me (I hear more and more are coming) and to work on my house, to bring back that feeling of self-sufficiency I was building a year or two ago. As soon as I got home I started working on making my home into a home, as well as writing on a piece I have been working on for a couple months called “Home.” I turned two dead areas of my yard into fertile (I hope) garden beds, planting carrots, beets, broccoli, snow and sugar peas. I moved two giant terra cotta pots to my upstairs porch which is the sunniest place I have to start my patio garden and Ramona planted a large pot of wildflowers in the yard. I started growing some sprouts in a jar today. AND I have begun looking at plans for building a small chicken coop, and asked my neighbors if they would mind chickens. Coincidentally, the neighbor behind my fence just got chickens yesterday. I am just a little nervous to ask the landlord. But I figure if I make the yard from a dead slab of dirt and weeds into a paradise, how can they say no? So I am working on the paradise part.

Getting out of a rut and plastering my face all over my house

Well, I haven't been writing anything for public, just private. Self-medicating, being uninspired, feeling trapped, going though loss feelings, gaining an X-guy...and going camping!

And wow, what a difference a few days away makes. I have to say I would implode if I were not able to travel. Since I can’t afford to really travel right now, I went with my daughter up to Sierra Foothills, next to the most beautiful river that I know of. Though I didn’t get silence due to my chattering daughter, I did get out of the rut that staying in my town, in my house puts me into. The first night I spent hours laying in the tent worrying about things at home, but soon the change of scenery disrupted my worry/thought loop.

By the end of the trip I was refreshed and full of ideas and to get back to work on my home and garden, to work on my writing and to work on my music playing. X-guy was completely out of my mind and I felt relieved to be free of him finally, after two weeks loss feelings. I hadn’t realized how much energy he sucked and how unmanageable our relationship was until I was able to look at it in hindsight. I was suddenly so much more grateful for the friends I have (sometimes I can take my relationships for granted).

I also decided to tackle something that has been bothering me forever, something I need to change for my own personal growth. Though my daughter is beautiful and very photogenic, almost every time I see a picture of myself, I am repulsed. When I look in the mirror it isn’t so bad, occasionally I even think I am hot, but seeing my face and expressions frozen in time is usually sort of hideous for some reason. It is annoying. I am not very judgmental of the way others look, though sometimes very beautiful women make me uncomfortable. Maybe jealously…cause jealousy is uncomfortable. I don’t have a hard time seeing beauty in a lot of people. Many times it is their uniqueness that I find beautiful. But not when I look at me. I am often afraid to be seen without make-up.

Growing up, my sister was the pretty one. My sister hated me and made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted, that I was repulsive. I was also very awkward and an easy target for kids as well as always being the new kid at school. I was also often the only white kid in a sea of children brought up in poverty and under white oppression. What I am trying to say is that I grew up thinking I was ugly, repulsive, disgusting. Then as a teenager I started getting some attention. But what I noticed is that the attention always seemed to be hinged on how sexy or pretty I made-up myself. All superficial stuff. So then I was like, oh guys like this fakeness I can project. They don’t like me.

So when I was camping I took many many pictures of my self. No make-up, dirty, in the morning, whatever. I decided to print them all out on 8x11 pieces of paper and hang them around my house. Stare at them every day. Stop being repulsed by me and rather see me as clearly as possible. Get used to my face, begin to appreciate my face. Start to draw my face. Self portraits. See what I really look like and then learn to appreciate it and see the beautiful uniqueness in my own face. Is that being extreme? In a way I think it sounds crazy, but on the other hand, I am tired of being repulsed by myself.

It would also help in my relationships with men. I am always suspicious when someone compliments me. I have this feeling, way down inside that they are saying what they are saying cause they want sex or something else. That they say it to everyone. I get "You're Cute." somewhat regularly (what does that mean anyway), but that is about as meaningful as saying "good job" to a child. And then if I think they really do think I am pretty, then I am afraid for them to see me on a bad day, au natural. It is very unhealthy and something I need to grow out of. Thus, weeks of staring at me shall commence, soon.

R at the Beach on Thursday

"This used to be a beautiful train track by the river and now they turned it into a beach."

What does a four year old know?

My daughter tried out shoplifting for the second time recently. I didn’t know about it for days. Then one day I notice her eating something, and I asked her about it. First she says a friend gave the candy to her, then confesses that she “snuck it” from the corporate copy shop. I explained to her that it was called stealing, not sneaking. Then I told her about all the horrible things that could happen if she were caught, and I talked about the police. Problem is that, though I don’t condone stealing from people or local businesses, I didn’t really care since its apparent to me that corporations steal a lot more from us than we do them. A friend of mine told me I should take her into the store, and make her give it back and apologize for stealing and that she would never do it again. I remember getting caught and embarrassed stealing as a young age and it just made me better at it. I also know that I would rather have an open line of communication with my daughter than shame her in public. Shaming isn't respectful, and respect is the central tenet in my personal child-rearing philosophy.

Last night I was closing the blinds so I could walk around my house naked. My daughter asked why. I told her it was because adults aren’t supposed to let strangers see them naked. She asks me what the police would do if someone was naked. I said I didn’t know, and what did she think they would do. She said that she thinks the person would get arrested, or if they were a girl they would get a ticket. I grilled her a little on her thinking, because I thought it sounded pretty accurate. After asking a couple times why boys get arrested and girls get tickets, she responded, “Because boys are just a little bit more nasty than girls.” Huh. She couldn’t tell me who told her that boys are nastier. She says she just knew it. I didn't contradict her, but I wonder if I should have. I like her to think that being female rocks, since it will probably get harder to think that as she gets older and is assaulted by our cultures twisted norms. .

Watching children grow very entertaining and a great learning experience if you are paying attention. I’ve been noticing other things, as in how different parenting styles and parent thought processes affect children in their development, beliefs and mannerisms. It is especially obvious between around 2.5 to about kindergarten, when they are old enough to be expressing themselves, but their thought processes have not yet been mediated by government schools.

Kids are fun.

(see look at that, one day off Facebook and I write two blogs. Now I am going to do some more writing and play the bass.)

no trip, no beer, no facebook

My tooth is going to cost me $230-300, so the road trip is postponed. I need to move farther towards the black before I go deeper into the red. I know, what a let down. I plan to re-evaluate in a couple weeks to see if I can go before the cold and rain start up north. But at least the dentist will be giving me an exam and x-rays, so I can see to what extent the corrosion that my mouth is in and what needs to happen to repair it. I am working on getting a temp job up north, and coupled with the tax return I usually get in Late February, I am determined that within the next 8 months Ramona gets to go to Costa Rica to meet her dad. And of course I will be armed with x-rays and the Spanish skills to locate an awesome dentist to make my mouth shine for 1/3 the price of American dentists. Besides repairs, I am also looking into slowly replacing all my metal fillings with composite ones. Metal makes me feel toxic. And amalgam fillings tend to have some of the more toxic metals in them.

Planning on taking a camping trip, just my daughter and I, to the American River next week to make ourselves feel better about no road trip. But I keep wondering if I should save the $50 in camping fees and $25 or so in gas and put it towards my road trip. Hmmmmm.

Well, none-the-less I will be doing some work to make my life less tempting to get away from. Like limiting myself to one (12 oz) beer a day maximum, drunk in my own home. I like drinking beer, but when I am not feeling great, I drink more, which makes me feel worse and more tired. I drink six or more beers a week in bars, the good kind. Six pints adds up to $30-36 dollars a week with tips. I could use that money to buy tools and wood to make garden beds, more art to make my house more comfortable, extra childcare to get more peace.

Another de-toxifying change I have made is to deactivate my facebook. It is too easy to distract myself on that thing. It was hard, but I just wrote a note on my calendar for two weeks from yesterday, saying that I can reactivate my account if I feel like it at that time. That way the decision doesn’t have to feel so big. Already, the first morning without, I was tempted by an awesome groupon deal to activate my facebook to share it. One of my favorite local cafes has a 61% off deal. I wanted all my friends to know…and of course if my friends sign on to groupon because of my suggestion, I get $10 towards other groupon deals, see how that can get insidious? Life on the internet is insidious. I was sort of disgusted with myself. What have I become? I do love groupon though.

I can't not go...Road Trip

I just decided to go on a road trip. I don’t even feel like I have a choice. At first it was just a two or three day excursion, that turned into the hope for a couple weeks of aimless meandering up the Northwest Coast and back. A few days is nice, but sometimes it takes a few days to even get my mind unstuck and prepped for cleansing and expanding. Exploring the world around me has a mirror effect on my inner life. I explore the internal landscapes of my psyche.

I was practically born on the road, my mom switched towns every couple years and took road trips often. Traveling clears my head, brings me to the place of my rhythm and towards clarity. Whenever I return from a trip, I am open, inspired, and with a new grasp of reality. I helps me to connect better with those whom I am spending time with...without the everyday life interruptions and distractions.

The thing that has been the hardest for me, since I have had my child is being tied down to a place. It is mostly due to finances…money goes towards different things when you have a child and a home. I am still in debt from moving, but I need to go now, to preserve my sanity. I may try to make it all the way to Bellingham, my hometown, but am trying to think of ways to at least make the extra $200 I will need for gas, even considering spare changing along the road. (If anyone reading this has any ideas for earning cash in the next 3 or 4 days let me know.) I am also reaching out to friends and acquaintances for possible places to crash and avoid camping and motel fees. We may even bring our kitten, Dora Maar.

And I will Blog my experience. So stayed tuned.

I would rather gut fish in Alaska than teach an a "professional" bureaucracy.

The adult school called yesterday to let me know that they don’t have any classes for me to teach this year. I felt like the tethers were being cut. At the same time, the insecurity of my whole life situation was bumped up a few notches. Another piece of my life liberated into the dark unknown.

I am supposed to have a job, but I had been secretly dreading the call for me to return to work. The cheerful voice of my supervisor on the phone had me thinking my life was going to revert to last year’s program, which I was going to cheerfully accept, as I am a teacher after-all. Instead, she cheerfully told me that they had nothing for me. I am not sure if it was because funds were cut (as is in the yearly recipe) or if they just decided to give my class to someone that “fits.” I am pretty sure the latter was at least partially responsible. My class still exists and last month they advertised a position on the site, that no one mentioned to me. Did they see through my professional façade and discover the truth; that deep down I would rather gut fish in Alaska that teach in a “professional” bureaucracy? I could at least taste freedom working long hours for shit pay on a boat. Professionalism tends to own us, forcing us to not only pimp out our bodies, but our minds as well. And of course to be a professional these days just means you jump though hoops and log in hours in a classroom to get your piece of paper that says you are a professional, NOT that you are actually good at anything.

No teaching job. What does that mean? I am no longer a “teacher?” Everyone always said I would make a great teacher. Don’t I need a teaching “job” to be a teacher? Am I a hack if I just share knowledge, skills, experience, insight? Luckily, I have been blessed to have friends divulge, unsolicited, what it is that I have taught them just by being what I am, doing what I do and saying what I say. The greatest teachers in my life have just been curious learners and researchers that liked to share and listen; and that strive to constantly change and grow. Free Skools have always been a source of inspiration to me.

Teachy teachers drive me nuts. In the group of teachers with whom I most recently worked, the unsolicited advice ran thick as pea soup. And god forbid if one (me) were to tell the teachy teachers that their advice is unneeded… ”Oh, of course it is (even if you don’t know it, we all know I am more competent/experienced than you are)” or “I was just trying to help (miss know-it-all).”

Not being called back to teach removes me from my current profession. Amazingly, that sounds nice to me…being removed from my profession. But how to survive? For now I get my unemployment. Truth is that, right now, I couldn’t survive within this capitalist socio-economic system without government “handouts” or a bread-winning head-of-household man. The elite and upper class create and perpetuate this system that benefits themselves not the rest of us. Welfare programs are not about charity or social welfare, but are used, along with the middle-class buffer (which hasn’t existed throughout much of history) in order to avoid social upheaval and class war (brace yourself). A look into Western history, clearly demonstrates that when social welfare programs are decimated and the middle-class shrinks, the upper-classes have a tussle on their hands. Where the poor and dispossessed are able to eek out the basic necessities of life and the middle-class is a good healthy size, the rich always have an easier time usurping the societies and natures resources. Unfortunately our social and environmental resources are disappearing but greed is not.

Am I getting off track? The thing is that I can’t hold down a regular job. I couldn’t do it when it was only me, and I definitely can’t do it now that I am the sole caretaker of a young child. I used to think I could do anything if I put my mind to it. Once upon a time, I was considered incapacitated, for emotional and mental reasons, but I did believe I could work if I really wanted to. I am no longer considered incapacitated, but I can tell you I am now very sanely sure that I can not hold a regular job. I can not accept the rat race in lieu of meaningful work. And it isn’t because I am lazy; I work all the time. For example, yesterday I did some writing, I practiced the bass AND guitar, I cleaned the house, I dug up all the blackberry bushes from the backyard, I minded a friends child, I researched the cultivation of cherry trees, planned a garden bed, mothered, and even got a little bit of paid work done.

So I use the tools I have at my disposal to live a bearable, meaningful, and even joyful life. I don’t get straight up welfare, but benefit from other programs that help me circumvent the need for money. If I don’t judge my friends who work in finance and own stocks, I don’t see how anyone could judge me for using our tax dollars to live a full creative life.

change, music and ...

Changes;
More child-mom independence (including kid having sleep-overs so mom can party)
Our own home
Dating
Music
35th birthday
Kitten
Social life
Activist meeting
All these on top of a shit load of change last winter...


I feel sad when I don’t get to write a blog post every week or so. I guess I am settling into all the changes that have been going on around me; figuring out what I have to say about them still. I felt like I was living in a pressure cooker, then abruptly tossed out the window. The painful contortions of change transform into a new rhythm. Starting to feel comfortable in my new skin.

The advice I give to my depressed friends is to always remember that things will inevitably change.…rough spots are just that…spots. But I was starting to think that maybe I was full of it. I guess some “rough spots” are more like large salt-water lakes.
Moving is hard. Life as a single parent can be exhausting. Life as a non-single parent can be exhausting. Life as a middleclass nuclear family can be hell. But I am a little exhausted, trying to create a little balance to handle all these new changes, good changes, nonetheless somewhat uncomfortable changes. I am a very lucky girl, when compared with the world majority. It is such a horror that billions of people suffer so much that even the thought of having a creative outlet would scarcely touch the mind. People created horror.

Anyway, the advice I give IS good, but sometimes hard to remember when you have spent the last four score and umpteen days riddled with anxiety, valiantly fighting your depression with mind power and beer.

One change I have added to the mix recently is that I have dedicated myself to being a musician. This is where I am aiming. Playing music has been something I have always wanted to do. It has been a source of excitement, anxiety, frustration, elation, and very much…connection. I played with people about 10 years ago. In a band. Then I fell apart emotionally and socially. I didn’t even listen to music for a few years. I didn’t want to deal with the emotion that inevitable welled up and distracted me from “sanity” when I listened to music. But I kept all my instruments. I helped bring in the last full-moon in a drum circle. Now I have been playing bass. I play guitar, but I want to play bass in a band. So that is what I am going to do. I know that it will work wonders for my self-esteem. I always feel bad that I don’t play music when I am not playing music. I hear a drummer playing music in a nearby home. Maybe I should find where it is coming from and introduce myself. .

Home and Hearth

I must admit that I erased my last post about depression. Struggling with it, but seeing it in words makes me cringe. I don't want to make deleting a habit though...as I don't like so much of what I write it could make blogging a problem.

Moving on...we finally found a place to live. Its in a triplex, with two big bedrooms, a big living room for relaxation and music and yard to play in and grow food. It’s not perfect, but it will be a great place to live. There is a garage to store bikes, put a washer and dryer and make a workshop for my creative endeavors. I am looking forward to cracking open the life that lives in the garage in boxes...it seems I was punishing myself for not finding a place Ramona and I could fit and flourish...I have been deprived of most of my music, jewelry, art-making supplies, guitar amp and pedals for so long...

The best part about this move is that it means that my life gets to make one great leap forward. It means that I get to create my own space. For some reason this sounds so amazingly satisfying to me. I used to express myself creatively using my own body as a canvas, clothes, hair, make-up…but unfortunately I don’t want to be stared at (I didn’t then either). I stick out already in this subdued town, I don’t need to draw yet more attention to myself. There has been but one year in my entire life where I have had my own home. And even then I spent 3 of those 12 months in Mexico, away from my tiny home…I was also 5 months pregnant and in grad school when I moved in…not in position to be decorating. It took me a month to even get a bed in the tiny third floor apt. (I do remember one time though, when I was in love, that my shared space really was my space, when my love was part of my family and me. I loved our house then)

I am looking forward to hosting. I look forward to seeing how my home base will change things in my life.

I have been in this town for nearly four years now. That is a lot for me. My last house I was in for 3 and a half years. That is the longest I have ever lived anywhere. I think 2 years is the longest before that, and I am including my entire life, not just my adulthood. Creating a home base is peculiar, but I am embracing it. Something new. It seems that home is the next frontier after choosing a community in which to grow roots.

Everyone is always so interested in my travels, my experience flitting from one place to another. My fearlessness in the face of instability and change, my love for motion. But a being that I have mostly lived in instability I have a novel and eager fascination with scary stability. How will creating home affect me? Not that stillness will ever be my natural, comfortable state, but deepening my roots could definitely open up new opportunities to flourish. A place with furniture…before a few years ago I have always been able to fit everything I own in my car. Everyone thinks that is “awesome,” but at the same time, making hearth and home is also a wonderful thing. Having a soft place for a traveling friend to lay their head, space to create music in the company of friends, a yard full of living food, all that is just as great as being in motion. Home and hearth is such a resource; to myself, my child and my loved ones. How many times have friends given me a soft spot to sleep, company and a warm meal during my adventures. Now I can do the same. I also remember how hard it was as a child to live in constant motion and instability. It meant never cultivating strong relationships, always being new…I love the value that Ramona puts on here relationships and social rituals.

Sometimes, movement and change can be deceptive. When things get boring and tough, just take off to shake things up and get a new perspective. While I love it…while constantly shaking things up and changing the scenery is exciting and makes for great memories and mind-expanding experiences, there is a certain sort of shaking up and changing that only happens when the world around me is quiet. There is a sort of painful inner work that can only happen when I am not being over stimulated by the world around me. There is a certain kind of exquisite creative output that only happens from a place of groundedness.

Two Loves

The emotional roller coaster has persevered. I was once so even keeled. I keep myself that way because I know what lurks inside my placid shell. But here I am, living and exploring everything in here. Drinking beers all afternoon to keep me from exploding.

Being Ramona’s mother has been the biggest privilege of my life. I love her so much it makes me cry sometimes. I am in love. Only the second time in my life. Over the last couple days things have gotten really hard. When she is complaining or trying to get her way, I have found myself wanting to do things and say things I am ashamed to admit. For the first time in my life I want a break from being a mom. I want a week off. I want to explore and groove alone. I don’t want to have a kid to take care of. I just want to be all about me and what I want. I thought it might happen, that I feel like this one day, but I hate the way it feels to want to escape my own child. I have always loved how we are a team and have generally always had such a good time together, talking things out, keeping our heads, keeping respect…not like those other families. Last night, after I turned off the lights to sleep, I told Ramona I was sorry I haven’t been the best mom, that I am just stressed. She said, “I know you’re stressed, mommy.” In such a sweet understanding voice. I feel so lucky to have her, just hours after wanting to throw her out with the trash. I snuggled the little cutey. Emotional roller coaster.
Of course I can’t take a week off. Today, thank goodness, I do get to take a day off. I think I will be getting to take a night off as well. We are preparing to try having Ramona take her first night without me, at my mom’s house. I am going to the next town over for a show. I hope to stay out past 10:30 for the first time in 5 years.

Oh and speaking of 5 years, I haven’t even told the world I lost my mama virginity yet. (I love the benefits of a semi-anonymous blog). He had been flirting with me and trying to hang for a couple months. Then I saw him last week and he started playing with my hands when suddenly he says, “Oh, wow.” And looks at me surprised. And to my surprise I realize that I had grabbed his hands, and was holding them and stroking them. I just went with it. That night he came over after I put Ramona to sleep. My housemates were out of town leaving their bedrooms open to exploration. The next night we did it again, and the next. Then I realized I may already be over him. He’s 24. I think he grew up on porn. I feel like if I keep hanging with him, I might wake up trapped in some weird fetish porn and wonder how I got there. And I guess I think he is cute, but he isn’t really my type. Like there isn’t enough desire in me to propel me to do the things II know he wants me to do. So I am a little turned off for him, but the experience has just made me hungrier for whatever this is that my sensual core is aching for.

After five years of nothing, what more could I ask for than a sex-crazed 24 year old? I guess my job is to figure that out. He didn’t quench my thirst, but stroked the fire. Opened Pandora’s box unleashing all sorts of chaos on the world. I want enough girlfriends and boyfriends to make up for the 5 years of starvation. I’ve never been into multiple sexual relationships, but I wonder if I am now. I am realizing crushes I have had that I didn’t know about. This is why I was hesitant to get involved in the world of romance. I knew what was brewing just under my placid shell.

I met a guy named Ryan over a year ago, when he approached me I totally screwed up and he left without me and I regretted it all year. He was like a magnet, and we had been catching each other looking at each other all afternoon. . I emailed a friend of his to tell him I want to talk to him (since I don’t know how else to get a hold of him). I was too shy to do it last year. A little loving can do wonders for a woman’s confidence. Still waiting for the response.
So do I tell my guy that I am done? Or am I done? I guess I am not sure. I like him, but if I don’t even want to kiss him outside of the bedroom, I think that says something. But if I am using him, then it is mutual I think.

And all the while this is happening, the number of days until I have to move are ticking, ticking. Nerve Wracking. Three weeks left. And Petaluma is prejudice against people receiving rental assistance. I am really afraid. Running around frantically trying to not remember that I don’t have a place to live yet. And my housemates weird, Marin, middle-class, nuclear culture is really making me uncomfortable and miserable. But that is another story that isn’t about love…not really.

I want to run around, I want to get crazy, liberate myself. Fix all this love stuff. Think I will go crack a beer and feel selfish for a while.

Sunday Poetry: Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

Went to the beach yesterday.

It was cold, so we spent a long time a little away from the ocean and walked up the mouth of the Russian River, where I then took a cat nap after getting little sleep the night before. Got some great pics though (take a closer look), and this is only one of them...can you believe that body belongs to a 4 year old? Tomorrow is her half birthday. She towers above other four year olds, though I guess it doesn't really matter. Only one of her friends is four.

Are We There Yet?

I can’t believe how the weather has finally turned so beautiful. It was bound to happen, but when it did it was still amazing, sweet success. Summer has begun, and likewise mine feels like it must be getting closer. My living situation has driven me to the brink of insanity; to bi polar psychosis. The gears are churning at such a painfully slow pace...it’s like in a dream, when you are trying to do something, run, get the attention of your lover as he/she is walking away, and it feels like you are trapped in sand or mud, your movements, even on step or gesture, so slow and labored.

As a person so familiar and infused with flow, movement, constant change, being stuck in limbo, stagnation, is so, so painful. For me it is usually the decision-making time that I slow down. I have made a decision, so what the hell is the problem, let’s get on with it!

I have to admit, I am a bit of an occultist and I consult Iching (How could Mom, Carl Jung and Pink Floyd all be wrong?), and it has helped me with my faith that a great place in which to create the home I need will show up, that I need not make any rash decisions and settle for something that won’t make a comfortable hearth. But the waiting is hard. Two thirds of my life is packed away in the garage, my daughter and I squished into a single room. We are artists, how can we create if we can hardly move? Where just putting something away is a chore because it goes in the box behind the other box in the closet.

As I have finally, for the first time found a great community in which I have chosen to lay down so roots, I now have this burning intense desire to create the home/hearth from which to thrive and conceive (no, I am not talking about children). But all has rolled to a stop. As I search for our home we exist in another’s home. I have for most of my life lived with roommates and in communal situations, but here is different, my roommates are very nuclear and the house is very normal. We work, create, learn, experiment, shake things up and live from our home. MY home is full of art, science, music, political commentary, books, dinner guests…not banal clutter, and all the regular furniture. This is not my home.

This town isn’t big enough to have 20 rentals to choose from. They trickle in and 2 property managers monopolize the market. It is hard to discuss section 8 vouchers with a corporation. They aren’t people and the middleman always makes all the rules.

So to escape all the pain of stagnation on the home front, I push my life forward in other areas. Picking up again my Zapatista, Latin America solidarity work. Picking up again my battles in the world of gender. And filling my life with others who say NO to school.

Spent the whole afternoon and early evening with unschoolers yesterday, on the Russian River. Already have three camping trips slated for the summer. Two with groups of unschoolers and another with some amazing, radical, super smart friends….one of which I realized I have a crush on. Though I would never tell her.

PS as I cut and posted this from Word to post up here, my roommate came home and told me she is moving...sooo I said go ahead and give 30 days...so now I have 30 days. Exciting and nerve wracking. Let the count down begin. 

I just say no to school

I was starting to get on board and just accept that I would be sending my daughter to school.  All her friends that are older than two are planning to go to school.  I hadn’t connected much with any parents in the Homeschooling Association here. And what single parent in their right mind, who has no help with this child raising fiasco, would forgo all that free childcare provided by the public school system?  Me?

Though I had planned from the beginning not to send my daughter to school, over the last months of chaos and pain, I had determined that Ramona would do just fine there.  I would have more time/freedom to research and create in solitary peace.  Ramona’s education and socialization needs will be handed to us on a silver platter.  And, well, what  makes us so special, that school isn’t good enough…but…every time I would meet someone who was ditching school permanently, my throat would tighten and my heart sink. Jealousy.  Compromising my ideals, yuck! I want the freedom they have and the guts to go through with it…I have that, don’t I? 

In the beginning I liked school sort of, but not particularly.  I complained about school starting so early from the first day.  I hated how people were so uptight and mean because I wasn’t like they were (actually was really painful).  I felt like I was wasting my time at school. By the time I was a teen and I realized that the person the designed the school I went to also designed the local prison I REALLY despised school. I hated that when I didn’t go to school, they would send the police over to escort me and threaten to send my mom to jail.  Whoa, fascists!  Compulsory public schooling to me looks like a lot of compulsory conditioning…first invented in Prussia in order to create good soldiers and citizens.  While some parents want their children conditioned to support and carry on the current social structure that happens to be coming unraveled at the seams, I see friends of mine spending a lot of time undoing the damage that the experiences of school creates for their children. 

I dropped out before the age of legality, to live my rebellious life.  Five years later, I took my GED and went to college .  That’s when I got even angrier at school.  I realized how much of what I learned was superficial as well as completely wrong.  In college I reconnected with my innate drive to learn, the one that nearly everyone is born with,  the one that school had wrung out of me.  In college I was treated with respect rather than a subject to be “taught” (conditioned) to some weird standard that was created by some shmucks who think they know what my child needs to live her future adult life. 

I know that school has changed some in some places since I was a child. I guess I just haven’t seen good results with reform, so I’m not a reformist. Some people like school…and it isn’t so much that there aren’t alternatives to the lame status quo mainstream classroom, especially here in Liberal Northern California.  My objections to school run much deeper than that.  They spring from the center of my being, which is where my activism, creative  energy and way of life also spring. Where once my activism emerged from resentment and rebellion…now it emerges from rebellion, hope and dedication to a better future.  Some magical experiences I have had involving Mexico, research and alternative schools; a collage of Zapatismo, Oaxacan rebellions and Gustavo Esteva’s writing and work brought me to this place. “Imagine the future you are dreaming of and fighting for in vivid detail. Now, build that future, in everyway that you can, miniscule and humongous, in the here and now.  Let every action be an action towards realizing your utopia. Live the future now.” The ideas snuggled in these words have salvaged me.  They have given direction to my creative and political energy and a voice and contentment to my innate self. 

If you crush it, smash it, tear this “white racist, homophobic, patriarchal bullshit paradigm” down, what have you but a power vacuum followed by more power grabbing and the “join me, join me” propaganda war? How can we change if we aren’t creating something to change into. How can we fight “power over”  without  cultivating personal power?  After spending years fighting and dying and screaming and crying I realized I had been ignoring the other side or more likely I didn’t feel the power to think outside the paradigm…but the Zapatistas have been trying it (they were a bit farther from our western controled paradigm already).  Gustvo Esteva has been working on it as well.  Two years ago I had the opportunity to study for a month at the so-called university that Esteva co-founded called Universidad de la Tierra. It’s about building.  Building connections, building alternatives,  building whole lives…defragmenting and decentralizing EVERYTHING. 

So as my life fell apart this winter and my inspiration stagnated, so did my desire and ability to build the new paradigm that is being built in a million tiny pieces and places all over the world and growing and growing (seriously, but much of what is going on ISN’T in the USA).  I want to struggle against fragmentation and centralization and for self-empowered people and communities.  Power from above centralizes as people power and self-sufficiency dwindles.  The power that we give to the government is the power that we give to the government.  Our relationship with our work, our food, our educations, our children, our health, out water, our environment, our lives are fragmented and we become helpless and dependent on centralized power to give us everything.  We know that this isn’t sustainable. The struggle for sustainability should be the struggle for self-sufficiency.

Schooling is synonymous with conditioning.  I want my daughter to learn in freedom.  I want her to learn from the real world, not about it.  I want her to know that (outside of math) there is always more than one answer, that are always more than two sides of a story and the truth isn’t always somewhere in the middle. To know that what is impossible to solve in one paradigm may be simple in another.  I want her ability to follow her bliss to stay intact. 

Funny thing is that while I often hear parents worried that their children aren’t being stimulated enough, I see children being over-stimulated.  So-called “stimulation” actually looks a lot like distraction to me.  Distraction from listening to the self and learning to deal withit. When my daughter is in preschool, she expects adults to always give her something to do; to keep her busy.  When summer comes, she goes crazy for a couple weeks (driving me crazy), and then when she realizes I am not going to give her everything to do, she will start being creative.  Finding her own things to do. She becomes amazingly focused and creates her best work.  Following her own passion, or at least discovering it.  If this is already obvious to me in preschool, I am afraid what happens in the higher grades. 

It isn’t that I don’t believe in the public good, or public education, it has more to do with schooling and conditioning of children. Ordering 25 seven-year-olds to a room for most of the day, day after day, accompanied by one adult and pressuring the teacher to teach to some Government standards based on making our country competitive in the global factory is not a good way to learn; it isn’t even safe (this is why so much of Teacher Training programs are focused on “classroom management.”) The structure of school requires hierarchical power structures and carrot/stick punishment and reward tactics to keep the peace and encourage students to fulfill government mandates.  What our children learn as children will profoundly affect the way they exist as adults. I know there are better, less costly ways to learn.  Ivan Illich had some good ideas about this.  His book “Deschooling Society,” touches on a lot of the problems with schooling, that I haven’t even began to go into in this blog, as well as a few ideas and solutions.  I also know that present day school is the better option for many children whose parents don’t have the capacity to put them anywhere better or even make educational decisions for them.  But I hope for everyone to one day have better options.  The more people say “no” and take a step out, the easier it is for others to do the same.  And as people find popular-based and local-based solutions, the humongo, centralized,  misguided federal government solution becomes less desirable.  Maybe I am a pioneer.  I hope I am a pioneer. I can’t do this alone.  I see more parent cooperative, community schools and free skools on the horizon.  At least for my daughter’s and my sake.

I recently started a homeschool/unschool Park Day in my town.  I think it was a hit.  I find more and more families are turning towards, “No More School” by the week.   And they mostly aren’t rich or religious.  Look at me.  The Crazy Anarchist.

If you have actually made it through that long post, and your still interested, well, I would like to share a couple links.  Here is a link to Ivan Illich’s Deschooling Society online with notes and commentary…it is posted as a reading group on Wikiversity. http://en.wikiversity.org/wiki/Ivan_Illich:_Deschooling_Society

And here is the text of a speech Gustavo Esteva gave to some college students around commencement, that talks about some of his amazing life, thinking, meeting of Ivan and most importantly the thinking and actions that gave birth to the bad ass learning space in Oaxaca, Universidad de la Tierra. http://www.gustavoesteva.com/english_site/back_from_the_future.htm

Also, this is an awesome awesome  awesome movement  in India, I really dig the “Walk-Out” campaign.  http://www.swaraj.org/shikshantar/