The Contemplative Mommy

I am not sure if you have noticed, but this is my first post in a long time. When I first started writing this blog I was committed to posting at least twice a week. And the topics just wouldn’t stop flowing. Posting twice a week was relatively easy at first and I still had 3-4 “back-up” blogs in the wings if I had a busy week.

Little by little, though, it got harder to keep posting regularly. The inspiration didn’t flow as effortlessly.  I changed my standard to at least once a week and kept that up for a good while. That was fine. I enjoyed having a forum for my thoughts and it was a great way to keep up the writing skills.

But sometime, I don’t know when exactly, I found myself dreading, rather than looking forward to my writing time. Staring at the wall without motivation or inspiration. Classic writers block? Time to dig deep and make myself write something every day to develop discipline? Perhaps.  Or maybe something else.

Around that time, I also started meeting with a Spiritual Director. And what an excellent idea that has been. My time with my Spiritual Director has been incredibly fulfilling, challenging and eye-opening. Definitely the most refreshing and exciting spiritual experience of my life so far.

One of the first questions my Spiritual Director asked me was, “How have you felt connected to God in the past? What kind of praying has brought you most fully into God’s presence?” The answer burned clearly and I answered immediately, though with some confusion: “Writing.”

You see, for years, I’ve written my prayers whether they be “Dear God, Please be with So and So…” or my more opaque, spiritually-themed poetry. But I realized that writing had lost its spiritual appeal almost entirely as it became a labored effort to impress others and fulfill some blog-post-frequency standard I’d made up.

So I stopped writing the blog. Let’s see, that was in November I believe. And, honestly, I haven’t missed it. I’ve been writing poetry again, reconnecting on that intimate level with God and it’s been great. I’m so glad I’ve put the blog on hold indefinitely.

And yet, here I am. Writing a blog.  Time to restart? Fire up the old creative juices and carve out time for writing again?  Perhaps.  Or maybe something else.

I’ve toyed with different ways to think about what this blog was and what it could be.  The “Why” theme has been fun and accurately captured an important time in my journey.  Over the last year and a half or so, I’ve tackled the whys behind many thoughts and theories and theologies, testing out and trying on what I really believe to be most important in this life.  Those Why blogs were an excellent way to push the limits of my previously-held beliefs and approach new and somewhat more radical ideas.  Thanks for doing that with me, by the way.

But now I’m thinking I may not be so much in the Why stage anymore.  Not so much in the prove-it-to-you, 5 reasons, debate and discussion and finding the truth stage.  I think I may be coming into a more How kind of stage.

And if you’re not really sure what a How stage might be like, I offer this quote from the Brilliant AA Milne. “And how are you?”, said Winnie-the-Pooh. (…)  “Not very how”, he said. “I don’t seem to have felt at all how for a long time.”

What Eeyore clearly meant is that he’s been stuck in the whys; in constantly trying to explain himself; in endless circles of reasons; in his head, head, head and not enough in his heart.  At least that’s what I think he means.  That’s what I mean.

I don’t know if this will be a How blog from now on or not.  I’m knowing fewer things lately and much less forcefully.  But I’m excited for How, if not for this blog, then certainly for my life.  A little more Going and Doing and Being and a little less Knowing and Saying and Showing.

So whether that all ends up on the blog or not will depend, I guess, on whether all that Going and Doing and Being leaves me time to write a blog.  If it does, I’ll see you here.  If not, thanks for reading and rest happy knowing tha I am very How indeed.

As I was growing up, I had almost no exposure to alcoholic beverages.  My parents imbibed not a bit, for any reason, on any occasion.  Much like swearing, it was just something we didn’t do.  It wasn’t evil per se but it was dangerous, definitely.  It was looked down upon.  It was unfortunate.

Surprisingly (based on statistics – not so surprising based on personality) I deeply internalized this anti-alcohol stance and never once experimented with it during high school.  My freshman year of college I tried my first glass of wine at a friend’s house (with her parents) and was so overwrought with guilt (our small Christian college had a no-drinking policy) I immediately confessed my indiscretion to our Resident Advisor.

All that to say, it wasn’t until a pretty ripe old age that I really started drinking alcohol in any form.  It was a gentle, slow transition and I admit to really enjoying my current place as a social drinker.  I can appreciate a good buzz, have never been drunk and am starting to really enjoy a glass of wine.  Though I admit to being deeply intimidated by wine.  I stand useless and somewhat embarrassed in front of the endless rows of wine in the grocery store with no idea how to begin to choose one.

There sure are a lot of wines.  And a lot of ways to describe how they taste.  And a lot of people who are really into carefully describing wines.  I like wine.  I like certain wines more than others.  When I drink a glass of wine, I generally know whether I like it or not.  However, I cannot begin to tell you why. And even if you offer me words like “oaky” or “full” or “dry” I’m really not going to be able to use those in any meaningful way.

Remember that scene in French Kiss when Kevin Kline is introducing Meg Ryan to his wine tasting project with the different little bottles filled with herbs and such?  He has her take a drink of wine and she can’t tell him what it tastes like.  Then he opens a few of the bottles for her to smell and suddenly she’s finding “lavender” and “chocolate” and a bunch of other flavors in the wine she just tasted.  Perhaps I just need that, an afternoon in a French wine cellar with an American actor asking me, “Now what do you smell?” in a delightfully bad French accent.  Maybe then I’d be all “winey”.

As it is now, I’m pretty clueless.  The other day I opened a bottle of red wine for Matt and I to have with dinner.  I’d made a spicy peanut stew and I was pleasantly enjoying my wine and my stew.  But after Matt’s first sip, he scrunched up his nose a bit and proclaimed, “This wine does NOT go well with this food.”  Oh.  Really?  Tasted fine to me.  The wine tasted like wine and the stew tasted like stew.  When I took a sip of the wine I expected wine and when I tasted the stew I expected stew and it didn’t really dawn on me to connect the two.

But I guess normal people do.  They expect flavors to link together and flatter each other and they notice when they don’t. We have a wonderful group of friends with whom we share dinner once a week and I am always surprised when one of them answers the question, “What would you like to drink?” with, “What are we having for dinner?”  And then, even crazier, they actually seem to use the information about what kind of food we’re having to help determine what they will drink!  The only meaningful question I can ever come up with to help decide what to drink is, “What do you have?”

But I’ve been making more of an attempt, lately.  When I made the peanut stew again for guests I looked online so see what “pairing” was suggested for a spicy peanut stew and went out and bought just that very wine.  And it was a yummy wine (I thought) and it tasted great with the stew (I thought).  But I got no feedback from guests on that particular question and I don’t trust my own reaction AT ALL.

At bottom, this wine pairing problem stems from one thing: I do not have a discerning palette.  At all.  I am difficult to feed what with the no-meat, no-gluten difficulties.  But as far as the taste of something goes, I’m really very tolerant.  If it’s food, I’m going to like it.

It brings to mind another somewhat lame pop culture reference: the Friends episode where Rachel mixes up a dessert recipe with some kind of shepherd’s pie recipe and serves everyone a “trifle” that is composed of alternating layers of jam, custard, sautéed beef, bananas and whipped cream.  As everyone does their best to choke it down, the camera pans over to Joey who is devouring the nasty combination with joy. He proclaims, “What’s not to like?  Custard?  Good.  Jam?  Good.  Meat?  Good!” Often, I feel  like Joey – happily piling it in while everyone else is unimpressed.

I was raised this way.  Growing up, I thought my mom was the most amazing cook ever.  And then I got a taste of foodie culture.  Oh, so…flavoring everything with chicken bouillon isn’t gourmet?  People prefer fresh vegetables to frozen ones?  Steak isn’t only cooked VERY well-done?  There are more spices than salt and pepper and taco seasoning?

As I started sampling some of this fancy, multi-layered, fresh-herbs and, goat-cheese kind of cooking I began to realize that my mom’s style of cuisine is generally considered somewhat…inferior.  But here’s the thing: I love it.  I’d choose my mom’s simple cuisine ANY day over an herb-encrusted, fresh-tarragon-sporting, lightly-garnished anything.  Much of her fare is now off-limits to me(we ate a lot of wheat and meat) but I still prefer her chicken-bullion-flavored stir-fry to any other I’ve ever had.

One year my sister-in-law hosted Thanksgiving and made a ton of extremely beautiful, Barefoot Contessa-type, dishes.  The rest of my family raved.  And I appreciated the artistry, definitely.  Objectively, I understood how this was “better” than our standard fare but, honestly, I just really missed the canned green beans in Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup.  Maybe it’s nothing but familiarity.  But it’s sure powerful.  More powerful than clarified butter and bacon bits sautéed with fresh green beans.

And, ultimately, I think that will always be my attitude toward wine as well.  Wine is good.  I like wine.  I may even try to pair it a bit here and there. But I also expect that most of the time I really won’t know what tastes good or why.  And I’m okay with that.  I’m not a culinary genius and I don’t want to be.  I just want to be able to cook like my mom.  To dump some frozen veggies into a pot with homemade broth, add in the salt and pepper and serve it up as love.  I will probably serve some wine with it too.  And I’ll hope that the love will make up for the clashing flavors.

It’s been a hard 10 days or so for inspiration.  Mostly because I’ve been a single mom for the last 10 days.  I’ve often wondered if I’m a good mom at all (see this post) but I’m certain that I’m not a good single mom.  I suffer through a stint as a single mom for 10-14 days about 6 times a year.  Many, many times a day during this marathon of frustration I heartily praise and deeply empathize with the many incredible moms out there raising kids on their own.

My mom was a single mother to my older brother and sister.  She was a very young single mother, too.  I can’t imagine being 20 years old and on my own with two kids under age 3.  But she did it.  When my older sister and brother were ages 7 and 6, respectively, she married my father and ushered in the new and sometimes difficult world of navigating step-relationships and biological fathers.

I had no sense of this growing up.  Born 11 years after my oldest sister, the years before my birth when my mom was on welfare and hadn’t met my father were such ancient history they were completely meaningless.  But it means something to me now.

I have a couple friends currently in similar situations and I am constantly humbled by their courage and stamina.  It is such a huge and confusing world to navigate without a partner, to try to forge a path for your kid without anyone helping you clear the brush away.  They are surprisingly capable, amazingly strong women.  They are raising great kids.  They are success stories.

And yet, when I finally have both my girls in bed and – for the fifth time that day – calculate how long until my husband gets back, I am reminded of my friends for whom there is no countdown of days.  I admire these women so much.  I admire their determination.  I admire how they have sought to draw positive community and role models around them, knowing they cannot do it all alone.  I admire how they remember to stop and just love on their kids.  These are not easy things to do when you’re barely scraping by each day.  They are super-heroes.

I hesitate to even make this political.  Perhaps I should just leave it as a tribute to all the wonderful, hardworking, beautiful single moms.

But I can’t resist one little plug.  I know there are some single moms who don’t work very hard.  I know there are some who abuse the system.  And I know a lot of people don’t like the idea of those people collecting benefits.  And, yet, when I hear the term “welfare mom” I don’t picture a lazy, system-scamming person.  I picture the single moms I know – the ones who work their butts off every day to try to make their kids’ lives “normal.”  I think of my own mom, 40 years ago, just needing a little help until she could get back on her feet.  I’m more than happy to pay for a little help for them.

And, I’m even happy to pay for those who might not be trying quite that hard.  Those who might have given up the fight in some ways.  Those who have been beaten down by a system that little values them.  10 days as a single mom is enough to remind me that anyone raising kids on her own deserves all the help I can give her.

I love movies.  I love them so much I usually call them films, at least when I’m talking to my other film-loving friends.  I’m not super-knowledgeable about them, I don’t get any magazines about them (anymore) and I don’t really watch as many as I’d like (which I totally blame on having children).  But watching a good movie – and going to the cinema, especially – is one of my favorite activities.  The epitome of happy laziness for me is a movie in the morning; I love waking up and starting a film before breakfast.  Ah, movies.

I am impressed with the power and grandeur of film: how far we’ve come in our ability to relay beautiful, meaningful and thought-provoking stories.  I am grateful for a medium that can so poignantly present truths and mysteries to us; that can cross lines of race and time and age to confront us with the horror and the majesty of the human condition.

But it’s not all seriousness and heaviness in film for me.  I also love funny movies.  I’ve probably watched Waiting for Guffman over a hundred times.  And What About Bob comes in as a very close second.  I really appreciate a good comedy and never get tired of it.  And I can also get behind a solid Rom-Com (I always have and always will adore Sleepless in Seattle and my personal favorite, though admittedly less universally renowned, While You Were Sleeping).

And yet, I also hate a lot of movies.  I get kind of intolerant in respect to certain genres of movies and have a really hard time “lightening up” or “appreciating the artistry” as I’ve often been instructed to do by my movie-loving friends.  There’s sort of this whole class of films that are accepted as quality films – in some cases even brilliant films – that I just can’t stomach.  For me this ends up being pretty much two categories: films that glorify anger and/or violence and “shock comedies” that rest on raunchiness, the f-bomb and political incorrectness for laughs.

We watched The Big Lebowski this weekend because, “Oh man – you haven’t seen that?!” and “It’s a cult classic!” and “It’s a must-see!”  I still can’t believe I watched as much of it as I did.  I’m embarrassed to admit how much I watched, to be honest.  I kept thinking it would have to get better and, I admit, the story did draw me in enough that I wanted to know what was going to happen.  But I didn’t make it to the end because that movie was the perfect storm of all things I hate in film: excessive profanity, senseless violence, vengeance, endless disregard for the value of other humans, hero-izing of self-destructive behavior, an absolute dearth of positive female presence and – to make it worse – all these things are supposed to be funny.  Cutting a person off with “shut the f*ck up, Donny” every time that person speaks?  Oh, so funny!  Sticking a cocked and loaded gun in another person’s face over a trivial bowling rule?  Hilarious!  I am very deeply bothered by the idea that these things are understood as funny.   I don’t find them even remotely funny.  And I honestly think it’s wrong that anyone thinks these things are funny.

And this is where the “lighten up” comes in.  All my life I’ve been called overly sensitive and uptight about such things.  And there is certainly some truth to that.  I’ve always been very vulnerable to what I see in films.  I mean, I was fast-forwarding the evil step-mother’s angry face in Cinderella until I was 11 years old.  I remember rushing from the TV room sobbing as a pre-teen because a horse in an old western movie was about to be put down.  I screamed, “Why would you bring home a movie like that!?” to my bewildered parents.  Indeed, even at 17 I had a very had time sleeping after watching The Sixth Sense.  Every time I closed my eyes, the battered woman ghost in the kitchen would flash in front of my eyes.  I barely slept for a week.  And, even when re-watching it 10 years later, I close my eyes for that scene.  I guess this speaks to my empathy or something?  I have a strong ability to feel what others feel and, when it’s presented in a compelling way on screen I am deeply affected by that.  I guess.

So is that all it is? Marilee’s just too sensitive?  I’m not really content with that answer.  Especially because, with The Big Lebowski, my above examples aren’t really the same.  Cinderella, shooting the horse and battered women all speak to violence and victims and power and control; and none of them were meant to be funny.  It was supposed to be sad that the horse got killed, Cinderella’s mom was meant to be scary and the Sixth Sense ghost was fully intended to be haunting.  In those cases, I was following the intent of the filmmakers – just maybe too far.  But why, exactly, does a movie that is intended to make me laugh, instead make me deeply offended, angry and disturbed?

The one I find the most confusing is the swearing.  While I was certainly pretty afraid of and horrified by any swearing as a child, I’ve moved about 180 degrees away from that as an adult.  Indeed, I’ve found a lot of freedom and relief in being able to express myself with a well-placed cuss word.  As a verbal processor and wordsmith, I find them invaluable at times.  So, on one level, I find my discomfort with the excessive language in some films a bit hypocritical.

But I think it has something to do with respect.  Respect and appropriate emotion and expression.  I think it’s disrespectful to the people around you and to the English language to add “f*cking” to absolutely every noun uttered in any given sentence.  It diminishes the meaning of everything else in the sentence.  Also, at least in Big Lebowski, the anger seems to escalate with each f-word until I am being taken emotionally to a place I don’t understand and don’t really want to be.  The f-word is powerful and should be reserved for really serious shit, not tossed around all crazy.  There’s a scene in Big Lebowski where John Goodman takes a crowbar and smashes a car to smithereens with each blow screaming this phrase at the top of his lungs: “This is what happens when you f*ck a stranger in the ass!”  In total, he probably shouts this sentence 10-12 times.  Even just writing that sentence bothers me.  What is beneficial or truthful or even funny about such a repulsive phrase?

I mean, I get that “some people really talk like that” as I’ve been admonished by more tolerant film-viewers before.  But if I were confronted in real life with a person who talked to me like that I would extricate myself from that situation as soon as possible.  I would not want to subject myself to language that denies my humanity or the humanity of others and is destructive.  So why would I want to sit through that in a film?  How is that enjoyable?  How is that not deteriorating to everyone who ingests it?

I don’t know.  This is one issue in my life that has gone on for a long time and I don’t foresee any solution to it just around the corner.  Not even after a spectacularly articulated blog post. 

I guess it’s just a ramble.  And a warning: even if it’s artistic, even if it’s brilliant, even if it’s a cult classic or really, really funny if it’s excessively violent, if it consistently devalues and disrespects people with langue or action, if it’s misogynistic or even just insulting to women, I won’t watch that movie with you.  And maybe it’s just because I’m overly sensitive.  I’m willing to own that.  Even my four-year old is annoyed that I insist on fast-forwarding the “shadow” parts in Princess and The Frog.  But she and all of you will just have to accept it: shadows don’t play on my TV.

I think it all changed when I started really, truly knowing and loving gay folks.  Ack, I hate using that “them” label.  I don’t feel like I know “gay folks”; I feel like I have a few friends and one great friend that have changed my perception of gay marriage because of who they are and because I love them.

Well, maybe they haven’t really changed my perception all that much.  I’ve long thought that gay marriage was fine.  Back in 2005 I voted in favor of gay marriage in Oregon (which didn’t happen) and I remember many a good pre-vote discussion with folks opposed to it.  We’d sit around and discuss civil and human rights, church and state entanglement and other issues.  And I loved it.

But, honestly, if such a bill were presented in Washington State or on the federal level, I feel pretty confident I would no longer find such discussions rousing and invigorating.  I suppose I’d still take part, simply because it matters to me in an entirely different way now that such a bill be passed.  I’d owe it to my friends, knowing how important it would be to them.  And I’d very much want to influence the outcome in any way I could.  But I’d certainly not relish the discussion part in the same way.

Lately, when I see negative comments on facebook about gay marriage, I am not fired up or dying to respond. I’m just sad.  I’m not even angry, really.  And I’m really not interested in trying to engage these other friends of mine about the topic.  It feels somehow disrespectful to my friends to reduce them to the kind of unaccountable bantering these kind of online “issues” discussions generate.  I couldn’t bring myself to demean these wonderful friends, so dear to my heart, by dragging them through the muck of slogans and rhetoric.

A few weekends ago, one of my dearest friends married his partner in a very small ceremony at their house.  I was so honored to be invited but couldn’t attend because of a previous engagement.  When I saw the pictures later, tears welled up in my eyes at the beauty of two people committing their lives to each other.  Now, when people talk about gay marriage I no longer think of legal arguments or slogans or theological propositions.  Instead, I picture my friend, tears in his eyes, as he listened to his partner read his vows.

I want to protect and support and love these two friends in their decision to join their lives.  We live in a world that does not encourage life-long commitments to anything and I want to be a source of strength and affirmation in their union, encouraging them to remain true and faithful to each other, to honor their vows.  So, I suppose all that would require me to rally around a gay marriage vote if one were to come up.

Perhaps there’d be a way to do that without all the fiery discussion of principles and faceless people.  Perhaps there’d be a way to respect and honor my friends while still speaking up for their rights.  A way to not mar their union by withstanding petty comments and ignorant assumptions.  I hope I’ll find the way to do that someday.

For now, just know that if I don’t comment on your Facebook post about why gay marriage is wrong, it’s not because I agree or because I don’t care.  It’s simply because I’m too busy rejoicing in the beauty of my friends’ love and don’t feel like dragging that love through the mud.

Congratulations, Sander and Matt.  I love you guys.

As I’ve mentioned on here before, I love yoga.  Love it a lot.  Physically (and mentally) miss it when I can’t go for a few days.  I’ve been doing it for over a year now relatively regularly and had only had a few moments of wondering if it was “okay”.  But you do hear the random off-hand comment or the way out there “I just don’t want you to go to hell” speech (like this one – yipes!) that make you think a bit. Just how would I explain how I see yoga as beautifully complimentary to my Christian faith?

I didn’t come up with any well-worded answers.  But in the last week or so have stumbled upon 3 really excellent, thought-provoking posts from other blogs about that very topic.  So I’m just going to re-post them here.  I mean, why re-invent the proverbial wheel here?  These women perfectly express my comfort with yoga and how it interacts with my faith.  So I’ll just let them do it.

The first post started the whole thing.  It is taken from this great new blog, Ain’t I A Woman, which is authored by two of my favorite professors from my George Fox days: stunning, intelligent, ballsy women of God who set an amazing example to me of what it means to be a Christian Feminist.  Here, they tackle the issue of extreme opposition to yoga in the male-patriarchal form.

Deconstructing Male Power – Ain’t I A  Woman Blog

Then today I stumbled upon the following two blogs, both of which I just love for how these thoughtful women (neither of whom I know) articulately integrate yoga with their Christian beliefs.

First: Yoga Chants & Our Comfort Levels which details one woman’s search for the “perfect” yoga video and her concern over chanting and ommmms.

And Finally: What Yoga Has Taught Me About Life.  I love this one particularly because of her detailed life application lessons; such good insights into how yoga can help shift our perspective and open our boundaries.

So there you go, nothing original, just appreciating some fellow smart ladies and their thoughts about yoga!

Wednesday is the day I volunteer at ICS. ICS stands for Immanuel Community Services.  They are an incredible organization housed by and partnering with Immanuel Lutheran Church which is located 1 block from our apartment and whose beautiful steeple I see out my window.  I volunteer in the Hygiene Center which is really nothing more than an old gymnasium with a deteriorating bathroom.  Every day the gym is opened for anyone in the neighborhood to come in, shower, rest and get their clothes washed.  On any given day there are as many as 30 men (and a few women) lounging on the floor in the gym sleeping, talking, laughing and getting clean.

Back in May I started running the “Help Desk” in the Hygiene Center.  Help Desk is a fancy way of saying I bring my laptop and my cell phone and have them both available for use.  I am not a professional service provider in any way.  But I have a nice laptop that I know how to use and a cell phone with lots of minutes and, not too surprisingly, these are resources that are far out of reach for most of the men who come to the Hygiene Center.  Since starting, I’ve prepared a few applications for birth certificates, signed folks up for the Section 8 housing lottery, re-written a resume, done a few job searches, helped to navigate our confusing medical system and heard a lot of stories.

For the most part, I adore my time at ICS.  The men who frequent the Hygiene Center form a very fascinating little community of folks.  They support each other and love each other in some beautiful ways and I’m privileged to feel somewhat accepted into that community.  A few weeks ago a new guy was there and asked if he could use my phone to call his family.  As we all overheard his conversation it became clear that he was new in town and had absolutely no resources or information.  Before he’d finished his call one of the regulars had taken out a calling card with $10 bucks on it that he insisted the new guy take to call his out-of-state family again later.  And then, with help from the other guys – complete with walking the new guy halfway down the street to make sure he had the right directions – they set him up with the best place to get food and a place to sleep.  I was overwhelmed to see how these men came together to take care of this guy.

These men love to laugh and tease and (thanks, Dad and Grandpa) I’m very comfortable with that.  The barbs and jabs flying across that gym are sometimes harsh but always laughed off and I love it when a good ribbing comes my way.  They haven’t yet noticed my dreadlocks but I know I’m going to get a lot of crap about that when they do  You know, white girl dreadlocks and such – and I’m really looking forward to that.  They already tease me about being unprepared (spent 15 minutes trying to find my phone last week and then ended up without a pen) and not knowing anything (they all know a hell of a lot more about social services in Seattle than I do).  But, as they’ve told me before, “it’s all in love.” And it feels that way.

I’ve met some really wonderful men who I’m proud to call my friends and my time talking with them is, for me, a much-needed break from the world of play-doh and dress-up and pulled hair in which I usually reside.  They are such unique people, from such fascinating places and all have interesting and surprising stories.

And sometimes sad stories.  And that’s where the dread part comes in.

In college I majored in Political Science but all my friends were Social Work majors.   I always said that I admired them and that we had the same goals but I just couldn’t handle that one-on-one level.  I needed to be in the policy realm.  I’ve always had a “sensitive heart” which is a nice way of saying I cry while watching commercials and don’t get over things easily.  The stories my friends would tell of the hurt children they worked with would lay me low for days – and I never even met those kids!  So I figured no way could I deal with that stuff on a regular basis.

And, I probably couldn’t work with kids.  And maybe not even women.  So far, the guys at ICS have shared stories of unfairness and bad decisions and unjust systems.  Stuff that riles me up and angers me and saddens me but doesn’t, exactly, turn my stomach like child abuse or sexual assault.  There’s also a culture of “being okay” in that gym that I think helps us do a lot more laughing and a lot less crying than would be the case if I were a social worker for kids.

But, still.  Still.  If a Wednesday night passes and I haven’t been able to vent to Matt about what I heard and experienced that day, it starts to weigh me down.  The injustice and separation and hopelessness I sometimes get a whiff of there go deep in me and I have to be able to “unload” it a little or I start getting edgy and irritable and a little depressed and don’t really know why.  It’s like these men are asking me to share some of their load and I’m so honored to do that.  But I’m also not all that strong on my own and can’t really carry even the small bit they share without my wonderful husband, family and friends to help me.

That’s what happened this week.  A friend I’ve spoken with before told me about his life before he came to Seattle.  It was a beautiful story of deep and reckless and unwise romance that ended in a baby, a mom in jail and a dad separated from his daughter, with no claim to paternity, no money and no prospects.  This gentleman then used my phone to call his mother and the affection and love I heard in his voice as he laughed and reminisced with her absolutely broke my heart.  I’m glad to be let into this intimate place in this man’s life – in my friend’s life – but I also feel a great weight and obligation with that.  I’m not sure what that really means yet.

I’ve talked to some of my wise social work friends about it and they keep reminding me about boundaries.  And I think I’m doing okay with that.  But it’s a delicate balance, I’m realizing.  It’s easy to take too much on and try to carry it all on my own.  But I’m excited to keep working the balance out as I continue to get to know these men and become a part of their lives in this limited way.

And we’re making some plans.  As much as we’ve enjoyed watching Parks and Rec on Netflix in the evenings, Matt and I have agreed to first take at least a few minutes on the couch after the girls are asleep just to talk.  Not to talk over our laptop screens or from opposite sides of the house as we clean up but to just truly look at each other and share our days.  I’m looking forward to that because my work at ICS has shown me just how blessed I am to have Matt in my life; a dedicated life partner to help me carry the load I’m called to.  I’m not going to take that blessing for granted or neglect its power.

I’ve been growing these dreads for almost a year.  Or over a year, I guess, depending on how you count.  In May 2010, I stopped brushing my hair.  In September 2010, I stopped using shampoo (switched to a baking soda rinse with essential oils, thank you very much, I did NOT stop cleaning my hair).  Apparently I’d wasted a lot of time brushing my hair over my lifetime, since not even the hint of a dreadlock formed until cutting out shampoo. So I have counted September as the “official” start date.  But, who knows?  Maybe those months of no brushing were essential to the process and I should say I’ve been doing this over a year.  Feel free to decide for yourself.

And it’s a good time to review.  And maybe a good time to put another very rare photo on this blog?  Maybe a “before” and “after” kind of thing?  Okay, I will.

After 2 months of no brushing, still using shampoo

After about 12 months of no brushing, no shampoo

Basically, I have dreadlocks now.  But, with a few caveats.  (Total side note: “caveat” is one of my favorite words.  I first learned it at my brother and sister-in-law’s master’s degree graduation ceremony.  My older brother used it on me in hangman as we killed time during the lengthy commencement address.  He was shocked (shocked I tell you!) that I didn’t know it’s meaning.  So ever since that day in the hot, sweaty, boring Western Washington University gymnasium, I have loved caveat.  So I’m going to overuse it here)

First Caveat: Most of them don’t really look like dreadlocks yet.  I mean, they do in the very “natural” and “loosest” sense of the word.  But no one (not even in hippy Seattle) would see me walking down the street and think or say, “Nice dreads!”  They mostly just look like curly, tangly hair and, on close inspection you can see how, actually half of each lock of hair is actually matted into a lovely, somewhat wild dreadlock.  So until I pass the stranger-on-the-street-noticing test, I’m not sure I can really call them dreadlocks straight up.

Second Caveat: I have almost as much “rat tail” on each dreadlock as I have dreadlock.  I’m told these stringy, non-matted ends will soon incorporate into the dread and won’t keep ticking my face, constantly making me think I’m being attacked by flies.  But it hasn’t happened yet and, until it does, I’m not loving the look all that much which leads to the third caveat…

Third Caveat: I keep them wrapped up in a bun most of the time.  I don’t like those rat tails.  They tickle and fly all over and don’t look like dreadlocks.  However, they are excellent binders for a bun.  I’ve never been much of a hair-down kind of girl, anyway, so a ponytail or bun is standard fair.  I only feel a tiny bit ashamed that I’m not “showing off my dreads” because, mostly, I just ADORE how easy it is to put my dreadlocks in a bun which leads us to my DEEP DREAD LOVES.

DEEP DREAD LOVE #1: My hair has friction!  When I’m talking about putting my hair up in a bun what I mean is twisting it all together until it’s tight, tucking the leftover rat tails into the center of the twist and leaving it.  And it stays, amazingly.  No hair-tie required.  No mirror.  No problem.  And it’s cute – the hair is all bumpy and smashy, all twisted together, sort of this fabulous hybrid of stuffy and totally chill.  A bit like me, eh?  Somewhat tight-assed and yet completely laid-back.  Same wonderful deal applies to half-ponytails which I now accomplish by simply pulling up half the dreads and then selecting a skinny one to wrap around the others.  Boom, all-day half ponytail.  Ah, it’s so sweet.

I think I partly love this friction because it frees me from the hair-doing anxiety I’ve had most of my life.  I call this one

DEEP DREAD LOVE #2: My hair is SUPPOSED to look messy.  I remember standing in front of the mirror in 8^th grade brushing the top of my head over and over and over, trying to make those tiny bumps disappear.  Yet no matter how hard I brushed, or how much I brushed, every ponytail ended up with ripples popping out of what should have been the perfectly-smooth hair leading back to the ponytail holder.  It would drive me crazy.  Eventually I got used to the “messy ponytail look”  but it took some work and I still didn’t want to mess with buns or braids or anything else that I knew couldn’t look perfect on me.

Ironically, though, dreadlocks have freed me from this whole perfection in hairstyle thing.  They’re supposed to be messy.  They look great messy!  I LOVE them messy!  So while I’m still not quite ready to embrace the rat tails and I do sometimes see the “man-made” dreads and think how lovely and uniform and orderly they are, I’m mostly able to embrace this messy head and see it as perfection.  I think this must be good for my soul somehow, right: to be less perfectionistic?  Even if it’s just with my hair?

Hm..Do I have a DEEP DREAD LOVE #3?  Oh, yes I do. It’s that purpose thing, that I’ve written about before.  I was always bothered by the “maintenance” with earlier hair styles.  I’d go in and get a great, fun, new haircut and love it!  But, then, by the time I needed a trim to keep it looking good, I was kind of done with that hairstyle.  But I didn’t want to pay the big bucks that often, either to do something brand new.  And, since I didn’t want to do that whole dye-job thing again, there was really only so far I could go with new and exciting hair.

But growing dreadlocks is totally different.  These last 14 months (or 11 months, whichever you chose) have been a constant experience of newness and growth and change and progress without ever once paying $60, getting pumped up high in a chair and making awkward conversation with a stranger.  Every day, almost, they seem a little different, a little tighter, a little wilder and charting the progress has been so cool.  Some days exciting (when I love how they look) and some days horrifying (when that particular stage struck me as ugly and awful) but always interesting and new.

And, my obsession with accomplishments has really been happy with this hair change.  My hair is no longer a mere head adornment.  It’s not simply a fashion accessory or what have you.  Now, my hair has a goal; it is accomplishing something!  Every day, it makes more and more progress toward the worthy goal of dreadlocks.  How cool is that?  Even my hair can be an over-achiever!

So I suppose that’s all, for now.  I still have some trepidation about my dreads (when will those rat tails grow in?) and often hide them in a bun as a result. Also, just how short is my hair going to be when those rat tails are gone?  Looking like it could be pretty short… But I LOVE that bun and how easy it is to do and how much less bondage I feel to hair perfection as a result.  And, of course, gotta love hair that’s on a mission; accomplishing something every day.

Have I convinced you to stop shampooing and brushing your hair yet?  No?  Well, at least I tried.  More to come on this topic, I’m sure, friends.  These dreads still have a ways to go.

You may or may not remember that about a month ago I began a series on this blog entitled “Why I Should/Shouldn’t Keep Trying”.  I had great intentions.  I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the life-changes I’d take on over the past year, attempting to change (almost all at once) how I eat, where I live, what I buy (and how much and why), how I run and more.  It seemed like a really, really good exercise to take each topic on one at a time and work through, in writing, whether I should give myself a break or should keep trying to pursue a new approach.

Since then, I’ve posted twice about things completely unrelated to everything I said above.  As the daughter of a pastor who has spent my life sitting through four Sundays of tithing, followed by four Sundays of santification, followed by 8 Sundays of Romans I know how a good series works.  And it’s not like that.

But every time I sit down to tackle why I should/shouldn’t keep running barefoot, or eating local, or trying to buy fair trade or whatever, I just don’t have the inertia needed to make it happen.  And, to my credit, with a 2-year-old and 4-year-old and all the messes they generate, substantial inertia is required to complete a post.

I guess I’m just not quite methodical enough to tackle problems in such a repetitive, disciplined manner.

Plus, wouldn’t you have gotten bored with that?  I would have, obviously. 

So I’m just going to re-cap instead.  I’m going to end this one-part series with a follow-up to the original post just letting you know the equilibrium I’ve struck for now and how it’s going.

Basically, I’ve lightened up.  Not in everything.  And not substantially so, I suppose, at least compared to normal people.  But I’ve found a few small ways that I can allow something less than ideal to be acceptable.  And it’s brought much relief.

For example, I’ve allowed Pepper Bellies to be added to our dinner menu again.  Pepper Bellies are a delicacy of Matt’s and my early married years.  This dish is constructed of Nalley canned Chili (oringal, not chunky because, unlike the original canned chili, we found chunky gross), heated (preferably in the microwave) and poured over Fritos, straight from the bag.  Top with shredded cheddar cheese, mix and enjoy.  When I started trying to eat vegetarian and primarily un-processed foods, Pepper Bellies were – obviously – one of the first meals to go.  And they were missed.

But when we went camping for Matt’s birthday in July, I was pursuing the gluten-free, natural sections and discovered Amy’s canned vegetarian chili.  We had Pepper Bellies on the camping trip and they were oh, so, oh so good.  So I went for it when we got back home.  A small bit of me rebelled as I grabbed the Nalley cans off the store shelf but I felt so much peace and relief that night when dinner took 10 minutes to prepare – and Matt prepared it.  Though I still don’t love Nalley (or canned stuff in general) it is clearly a good trade-off.

There are a few other food-related things I’ve loosened up on but a lot I still hold to.  We now have periodically indulge in the following junky foods: Pepper Bellies, Cheese Spaghetti, Blueberry muffins from the box and sugar cereal (mostly just Matt).  But we still don’t eat fast food, I still cook and freeze all our refried beans, have seriously cut back on sugar (except, of course the glaring examples mentioned above) and eat mostly whole, unprocessed foods.  Is it a perfect balance?  No.  Do I feel guilty each time I reward my daughter for peeing in the toilet with an old piece of Easter candy?  Yes.  But is it the right mix of ideology and practicality for now?  Absolutely.  And I will I keep trying to find a better balance in the future?  I certainly plan to.

Another one I was thinking about giving up entirely was barefoot running.  I’d been pretty discouraged with the amount of time it was taking to transition to this new way of running.  My stride felt awkward.  My arches were constantly sore.  And I kept re-inflaming my old ankle injuries, forcing me to take breaks from running and thus making it impossible to see improvement.  Plus, I felt compelled to wear “barefoot” shoes at all times (for the benefit of my bunions).  I bought some expensive barefoot shoes for everyday use (vivobarefoot) and found them kind of hard to adjust to; a little too tight, strange to walk in, etc.

And all that footwear confusion just became a little too overwhelming.  The prospect of who knows how long adjusting to my daily wear barefoot shoes when I still hadn’t adjusted to my barefoot running shoes was a bit more than I could handle.  I just so wanted walking and running to be easy again.  I wanted to not have to think so constantly about something I supposedly learned how to do as a toddler.  So I was seriously thinking about buying some “real” shoes and just running without thought.

But I decided to give those vibrum five fingers one more shot.  And I had a really nice run, actually.  Not thoughtless, of course, but nice still.  And then the next day, I had another nice one.  And before I knew it, my calves weren’t burning, my arches were only a tiny bit sore and I was putting in up to 4 miles 2-3 times a week without ankle incident.  Suddenly, I was just running in different footwear.  Oh joy!

And, my new daily-wear shoes broke (which I think was a fluke and they gave me a full refund and let me keep the shoes, so that was cool).  So I just started wearing my flip-flops.  And, at first, I felt this need to analyze my stride and not hit my heel too hard.  But then, after success with running, I just decided – forget it.  I’m just going to walk the way I know how.  And if the super-padded heel on my flip-flops allows me to strike my heel harder than nature intended, well, I’ll just trust my body can handle that for now.  Eventually, I want to get my vivobarefoots fixed and figure out how to happily walk around in them.  I do believe it will be good for me.  But for now, I’m happy to stride correctly in my regular runs and kindly cradle my heels in plush flip-flop the rest of the time.

Finally: clothes.  I went to the outlet mall with my mom last week.  I bought a really cute shirt and new sunglasses from Banana Republic, a company about which I know nothing.  Except that, based on their very name, I doubt they place a great deal of emphasis on responsible production (I mean, who thought that name was a  good idea?  Next, we’ll be buying cool clothes from a store called “The Vietnam War”).  And, even as I shuddered at the irony of freeing myself from the pressure to buy sustainable, fair-trade clothing by shopping at a store called Banana Republic, it also felt so good to get a cute shirt and to replace my long-lost sunglasses.

Now, I will also say that I’m not planning to join the Banana Republic frequent-buying club or anything.  I still love me my thrift stores and consignment shops and feel very good buying most of my clothes there.   And, again, it is an area I want to keep working on.   It is important to me to vote with my dollars and, in so doing, create demand for products that are sustainably and fairly produced.

And yet, it’s an area that I want to give myself breathing room in, too.  I am not a perfect person; body image and all the self-esteem crap that goes with it are an ongoing struggle for me (despite how great I felt when I wrote this post) and I have decided its valid to allow myself the space to buy cute things every once in a while simply because I feel cute in them and it’s okay (maybe even good?!) to feel cute from time to time.

So that’s where I’m at for now on this non-series about trying or not trying.  I’m still trying.  In everything.  But I’m also eating Pepper Bellies, buying shirts from Banana Republic and heel-striking in my flip-flops.  And I’m really, really trying to be okay with that; to see the seeming contradiction as balance; as grace; as freedom.  And to know that all I can do is keep trying.

We don’t have TV.  Well, let me be clear: we do own a television.  A big one, actually.  But we don’t have cable.  We use our TV to watch movies (yay streaming Netflix) and to play Xbox Kinect (yay working for Microsoft).

Anyway, whenever a conversation starts with “Did you see that thing on the news, last night?”  I always have to say (or think to myself), “Nope.”  I did not.  I’ve hated “the news” for years, actually, ever since John Stewart got in my head about the sensationalism of TV news and how fear-based it all is.  Even if we had cable, I wouldn’t watch it.  As a result, I am often out of the loop on current events. In fact, Facebook is usually my primary source for things news-related.

So that’s why the first time I heard about the famine in the Horn of Africa was during an announcement in church.  By the way: I LOVE that my church is the kind of place where you hear about things like that.  After that, I looked it up and was shocked to learn how horrible it is.  I think they say it’s the worst famine to strike Africa in 20 years which is, pretty much, my entire life.  The last time this happened the response was very different.  Remember the Feed the Children songs and such?  It was like the American flags after 9/11 or the Justin Bieber haircut – it was everywhere all of a sudden; everyone cared.

This time, not so much.  I found plenty of news stories about it with my google search, but little public discussion, no Facebook posts or petitions, no one asking me if I saw that thing about Africa on the news last night. And that bothered me.  I mean, I know Africa is far away.  And I know that malnutrition and death from starvation is not uncommon in many parts of the world.  I found one statistic that says a child dies every 5 seconds from hunger-related causes. That’s a pretty insurmountable statistic. But there is something about the severity and urgency of this problem (the UN estimates 3 million people will die from starvation during this famine) that demands a response.  I also know all the reasons that giving is “useless”.  It’s not an easy place to get aid to.  Indeed, the only mainstream coverage I’ve heard about this current famine was an NPR piece all about Al Shabab and how they are manipulating aid to keep control of the population in Sudan.  This is terribly distressing but, to me, it’s not an excuse to look the other way as I stand in the Starbucks line for my $4 coffee and $3 scone.  Those damn terrorists; if it weren’t for them, I’d totally help.  “Yes, extra whipped cream, please!”

In a vaguely-related conversation with a friend a few weeks ago we were talking about how hard it is to balance our daily actions to care for ourselves (grocery shopping, buying clothes etc.) with the knowledge of such suffering.  We bantered around for a while and she ultimately concluded, “But that’s just the contradiction of life, isn’t it?  I buy organic Superfoods while people are starving to death.”  I agreed that, yes, that’s the horrible contradiction of life but as I walked away I felt more and more strongly that I wasn’t content to just live within that contradiction.  Not this time.

So, inspired in part by the cool Lahash International’s Rice and Beans Month, Matt and I decided to forgo any eating out for the month of August.  He’s even decided to not go to Chipotle for lunch at work and, if you know Matt at all, you know this is a huge sacrifice.  Equally huge (I’d like to think): I’m not going out for coffee.  At all.  No Starbucks, Nollie’s or Inner Chapters this month.  That’s why I’m currently writing this post on the deck of my apartment’s community room with a home-made iced tea instead of enjoying a Vivace iced latte across the street

We also invited our church to join us in this.  At the end of the month, we’ll make a group donation to Mennonite Central Committee’s campaign for famine relief and long-term food support to the Horn of Africa.  I’m encouraged that our financial efforts can be multiplied in this way.  And, mostly, just that the folks in my church get behind hair-brained notions like this.

It’s a very small gesture, I realize.  We aren’t going to end hunger the world over by not buying coffee for 30 days.  Nor, honestly, are we probably going to decrease that horrifying UN death statistic by any discernable amount.  It’s less about that to me.  It’s like the wonderful and oft-used Mother Teresa quote: “I am not called to be successful, only faithful.”  Or as my hero Dorothy Day said: We are saved “by little and by little.”  One of Lahash’s reasons for Rice and Beans Month is Solidarity with the poor and I think, ultimately, that’s what this No Eating Out is for me.  It’s a way to remind myself on a regular basis that my brothers and sisters in Africa are suffering deeply.  Each time I wish I had a London Fog tea latte or could just order take-out, I’ll remember the Horn of Africa and send up a tiny little prayer for relief there.  And I hope that little act of solidarity will, if nothing else, change me and my family for the better.  Make us more aware, more thoughtful and more connected.

I invite you to consider joining us.  Maybe it’s not eating out for you – maybe it’s your weekly pedicure (Hah! I honestly can’t imagine many of my readers getting a weekly pedicure.  Where did that example come from?)  or your Diet Coke or your ice cream.  Or maybe it’s not giving anything up but finding some other way to remind yourself of what’s happening and to stand in solidarity with our African brothers and sisters.  And I hope it also involves a donation of some kind.  MCC is an excellent organization and I’d love to be part of helping them achieve their $1 million goal for the Horn of Africa.  But there are many other amazing organizations that I’m sure you already know of.  I don’t care who delivers the funds; just that they turn into food and other necessary development measures in East Africa.

Thanks for reading.  Thanks for caring.