Hi.  I've changed.  This blog has become old news. I have started a blog about "homeschooling single" over here. http://homeschoolsingle.blogspot.com/

Becoming a Swallowtail Butterfly (in pictures)

This is where it all started. An aquarium planted with fennel.
We located fennel in a community garden that had little golden
eggs of the Swallowtail.

A day or two before hatching the egg turns black.

little hatchling. (images photographed through jewelers loop)

Three days old.

About 5 days old.

9 days old, third skin.

12 days old. 4th skin.

spinning the rope that keeps it in place as it metamorphoses.

Still working. Day 15?

About day 16, comatose.

after sitting around a few days,the last skin falls away...

Its moving

And now a full chrysalis, good morning.

After nearly two weeks of no change, the wing patterns
appear through skin

Emergence

stretching the wings

Stayed with us about 24 hours before taking its new wings to air.

A Costa Rican Family

I have had a hard time writing about Costa Rica. I have no wise words to say about it.  I traveled and related open, without my own agenda nor expectations, just listening to cues from within and without and all worked out.  This is just the beginning of something much more enduring that will take many years to unfold. 

I am spent my last days in Costa Rica back in San Ramon.  The first day felt strained between Jonathan (R’s dad) and I, but by the next day everything was easy again.

Ramona and I again stayed in Uncle Javier’s house.  Javier comes in holding a dead turkey by the feet.  He recounts catching a glimpse of his dog attacking the bird through his rear-view mirror as he turned the corner at the end of his driveway.  He couldn’t get to them before it was dead.   He had bought two turkeys, and this was the second to be killed by this particular dog.  He had bought the pair as pets and to make more baby turkeys, but soon found out the dogs were not going to allow for that. I didn’t care to see the defeathering or the chopping up of the turkey, but Ramona went back and watched for a couple of minutes.  I never saw anything like that when I was a kid.  She’s not squeamish like me.  I wish I were more like her in some respects.  I did take a few pictures of the birds head sticking out of a little box full of feathers and bones (I will spare you).  Then Jonathan chopped some up some turkey and put it in the white sauce for our pasta.  

It was so great (and daunting) going to Costa Rica.  Its good to create connections.  Our lives have been broadened, expanding our world through our relationships. Ramona and her dad foster a new relationship, she gets to meet other family members.  She gets to be welcomed by her Costa Rican roots. But, she had her own idea of the meeting, with high expectations and I think was let down a little.  She pictured a man with grayish long hair and a long beard.  Jonathan likes to shave his head and face.  He was also way to grabby and touchy with her, which made her feel uncomfortable.  I tried to explain how we in the US are more particular with bodies, and that Ramona connects through talking/stories, before touching.  However, though Ramona understands Spanish very well, she can’t tell stories is Spanish, so a lot was lost. She talked and talked in English and no one understood what she was saying but me.

Jonathan and I seem to have begun anew some sort of romance, we are just too attracted to try to control it all.  And I’ve changed so much in six years.  I am able to just let my relationships be what they are for the most part. We have a loving, friendly connection, we accept each other at face value.  Walking around as father daughter and mother felt so strange.  It was a first for me. He asked me if I would like to come live in Costa Rica, I said "Maybe someday." He asked me if I wanted to have another baby with him.  I said no.  He said we should get married for visa purposes, I said "It wouldn't help."

We are sooooo different is so many ways, but there seems to be this fundamental connection, this strange way that we are actually the basically the same. But the truth is that the vast distance between us may be the thing that keeps the good energy and peace between us. 


My friend says I am lucky because when the USA gets really shitty in a few years I will be happy to have somewhere to go.  I am working on establishing paternity for her as well as Costa Rican citizenship in the near future, then I work on my stuff. 

Waiting for the bus...

Check out the size of this big ass hummingbird!  

I am waiting for a bus down to San Ramon, so decided to update.   Ramona and I got to spend the last two and a half days with Ramona;s dad and her little brother.   Sometimes I wish we were able to spend more time here, playing with the same kids for more than just a couple days.  The first day there was a lot of calling and craziness.  We spent the day on the side of a hill at Ramona’s sort of Uncle’s house, which is right next door to the lot that R’s dad says he is going to build a house for Taylor (Rmaona’s brother) and Ramona.  Check out the view of Golfo de Nicoya.

The View, ahhhh.  Of course pictures do it no justice. 

The day was interrupted with many many phone calls from Erika, the other mother.  Angry that Jonathan had Taylor out so long (though arguments are rarely about what they pretend to be about) cumulating in her threatening to call the police if he wasn’t home right away as we waited for our pizza.   So the second day she was invited.  It was all a little weird, but at least we spent some time together. She drank a couple beers. She was no longer so scary to me. Though she did exhibit slight insanity a couple times.  I do think though, were I to be in a situation like hers, I may be slightly crazy myself.  But it is all relative. Relationships are so strange, especially upon the landscape of social restraints.

Gotta go.  To be continued…

Saludos

I keep thinking about blogging, but have had a hard time organizing my thoughts.  I don’t know how much I am comfortable sharing and what my feelings are about a lot of this stuff.  So I just I decided to post, without the process.  Just set the scene.

The first week here, I didn’t even have enough time on the internet to read my email.  Which is a good thing.  I can’t remember the last time I didn’t check my email in a week.  I think I should do that more often.  When I finally did check there wasn’t all that much there.  Made we wonder if I really need to check my email 8 times a day when I do have access.

So the first four nights I stayed at Jonathan’s (Ramona’s Dad) uncle’s house.  He is staying there for a while building an apartment for his uncle.  I was sort of immediately dropped into drama.  His other kid’s mom was calling constantly.  He told me that she was jealous of me.  That she has always been jealous of me.  All these years. Which struck me odd, as I didn’t even know that we knew each other until my second day here.   I didn’t even know he had another child until about two weeks before I came.  I had a conversation with the other mother once.  I haven’t figured out their relationship.  They haven’t lived in the same town for a year.  But he admitted that they had been together “once in a long while.”

Ramona’s grandma and aunt came to see her.  Ramona ran away from them.  Really she walked. I was surprised to see that Ramona was overwhelmed with being the center of attention.  

Then we went to the beach with J for three days.  It was pretty nice, swimming, eating, smoking, and then again, ending each night with a bottle of wine once Ramona was asleep. It was a strange feeling to be all daddy, mommy, and kid.  Never had that experience before.  He told me he was going to build a house for Ramona and he brother.  He also said some outrageous things I have yet to process. The other mom called more.  So uncomfortable and irritating.

Then he needed to work, and it is rather boring hanging out while he works, so Ramona and I came up here to Santa Elena.  This is where I met J.  This is where the other mother and child lives (in a house owned and built by J).  I haven’t seen them.

But a couple days ago I took an overnight trip to La Fortuna, and spent a day in the Hot Springs.  That was great, beautiful and the foot of a volcano, which has been dormant for 3 months.  All the better; Ramona’s greatest fear is hot lava.  The trip itself was fun cause we got to take a boat for part of the way.  On the way back we traveled with a cowboy from Arizona, a Leo like me.  He had a crazy story.  He had been planning to buy a horse here in Costa Rica and then ride it to Sonoma County coincidentally.  But the airline lost his saddle and then he lost some money and found out that horses are more expensive here than in the US.  Here they eat grass.  In the states they eat $20 a bale hay.  In the sates the horse rescues are full cause no one can afford horses (and there is no where to ride them anyway).  So now he doesn’t know what he’s gonna do.  But he bought us dinner on returning to Santa Elena.  We talked about how important it is to live life, cause it might be all we have.

Today I meet with Ramona’s dad.  We are also supposed to meet he brother and the other mother.  It should be interesting.  

On my way...

I am sitting on the airplane, headed towards Costa Rica.  Ramona is trying to nap beside me.   She only slept 6 hours last night, after several nights of not quite getting enough sleep.  I wonder if, when it will catch up with her.  I got 3 hours sleep if I was lucky (damned insomnia).  We are dropping in on Ramona’s Dad.  He wasn’t communicating with me, so I just decided to go.  Ramona wanted to.  But now, he becomes a part of our life.  I wonder what part he will play in our lives?  Suddenly there will be a dad where there once was none.  Years ago I had mysteriously lost all the photos from my trip to Costa Rica, so Ramona was never even able to see what he looked like.  A few weeks ago he got a facebook account as a way to stay in touch.  She got to see a picture of him.  She seemed surprised and said he didn’t look like how she thought.  She said she thought he had white hair and a beard.  “Like Santa?” I asked, she said no.  Perhaps it was more resembled a child’s idea of what God looks like.  

Another person we get to meet is the brother Ramona that we just found out that she has.  He is only four months younger than Ramona.  I don’t know what to think about it.  Good for him to have been involved in raising a child, though he isn’t with the mother anymore.  Why did he cut off communication with me?  I ponder various scenarios in my head. For me, this is a truth-seeking journey.  Why did things play out the way they did?  Why was it all so great and yet so bad?

So he is excited and nervous to meet her, and is coming to meet us at the airport and has found us a place to stay and paid three nights, so that's nice.  Good way to begin again.

…Now I am in Dallas, my flight is over an hour late.  I should be flying towards Costa Rica right now.

desmotivaciones

I am baffled at my complete lack of motivation right now. I have so much time, at home, to do stuff and I don’t feel like doing anything. The me from a few months ago would have freaked if she could see all the time I would be "wasting" in the near future. All I do is think about going to Costa Rica, and that is still a month away. Am I going to be like this for a month? I can now see why I never liked to have much of anything in my life. Because I always end up feeling like this. Like I want to just get up and go. I don’t know how not to compulsively and/or obsessively think about my next trip. And now I have a this and a that, those things that go alone with stability. But really, I want to pick up and go. Put a few things away somewhere safe until I get back and just go. Everything seems so dull.

And then there is this overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Not sure where it came from. I'm tired of taking care of everything.

So I just sit around. Not being creative. Keeping my house a mess. Not working in the yard. Fuck it. I’m gonna make myself go do something.

Or maybe just sit here and do nothing for the next month.

Kid Art

Photos never do Ramona's art justice, since her work is always so glitter-centric, but here is a nice one she did yesterday.

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.