The Power of Love (yes, I mean the song)

Yesterday, I went to the 3^rd of a series of 4 workshops my friend has been facilitating over the last few months. Yesterday was Relationship with the Divine. I imagined I sorta had this one “down,” that I could relatively expect what would come up – places where I trust, don’t trust, know I’ll be taken care of, am scared I’ll be taken care of(!). But, a bunch of things happened that I did not expect.

The first of which was in response to the question, What would happen if we shift our current (and assumedly not completely accurate) belief system? What would happen if I really allowed myself to step into full faith in my path, my internal nudges toward art, into the fullest idea that this is a world of abundance? What would happen then?

What occurred to me was that I would need to begin to take responsibility for my dreams, for these nudges and instincts toward joy. And that’s when it happened.

I’ve known that I have shirked responsibility for my needs and my dreams for years, hiding them under “just stay within the lines.” I know that it has become so painful to stay in the lines that I’ve quit jobs with no safety net, moved across continents and countries, and previously fallen into addiction and self-defeating behavior to cover up the distance between what I was doing in my life and what I wanted to be doing. So, I’ve known that I’ve not been responsible to myself.

What I didn’t know was that in sitting with what would it truly look like to step into that responsibility would bring up the fiery reaction of an inner child saying F.U., I’m exhausted from responsibility, responsibility sucks.

Now, sure, many people feel this way, but many don’t. To me what this question tapped into was that my previously held beliefs of responsibility were of ones that were beyond my resources. Like I’ve said, responsibilities that I had to take on when I was younger, like a lot of people I know, were beyond what a child normally ought to take on. Responsibility came with resentment and a feeling of exhaustion.

So, to sit now with the possibility of stepping in and taking full reign of my dreams, nudges, creativity, “power” even, I come up against this out-dated idea of what responsibility means, and of course I’ve run away from stepping into ownership of them. If, to me, responsibility for myself has equaled a burden, something beyond what I’m able to give, a frightening amount of giving, then it is no f’ing wonder that I’ve avoided it.

The bright spot on all of this, is that now I see it, and can dismantle these false ideas. It would be nice to assume responsibility for myself in a way that felt nurturing, caring, and perhaps even refueling. My needs are not exorbitant, they are doable, if I also am willing to tap into the HP (sorry to get G-dy for a minute) and the abundant source of energy that is there.

I’m not a religious person, but I believe there are things beyond me which are much more powerful than I am, and if I can tap into that resource, I don’t get  depleted. If I act as a channel, instead of charging off my own battery, then I don’t get depleted.

So, I’ve known that it’s been hard for me to color outside the lines, to stick to the course that is within me. But i haven’t really known why I’ve continued to avoid the path, besides the normal fears(!). We’ll see how I am able to incorporate this new idea, how I’ll be able to shift the belief system, but awareness is the first action.

Secondly in this workshop, lol, if you’re still reading!, there was a meditation on impermanence. This was So crazy intense, I’ve never had a meditation be so evocative – and I’ve had some whacked out powerful ones that I still remember. The meditation was to ourselves as a very old person, on the doorstep of death. We were to enter the space of this person, and make ourselves known to her (in my case), and to ask what she had to tell us. The whole time, nearly from the beginning of the meditation, I’m streaming tears. Not from grief or sadness, sadness was there, but it was just more this overwhelming sense of emotion.

The woman, me, all frail and skeletal nearly, had my eyes, and they were still bright and kind and alive. There was the smell of cinnamon, something baking elsewhere in the house. And as I held her hand, she told me to “Love, as much as you can.” And to be with my family (which I am not entirely sure what she meant, my current one, the one I’ll have, my family of my friends, or all of these). She was content with her life, ready to go.

Then we were to imagine her passing away, and not to get gross, but imagining her decomposing, to bone, to dust, and perhaps blowing away, and then to sit and “sense or feel or imagine” (as my teacher likes to say) what remains. What remained for me, as I continue to drip saltwater all down my neck, was both the Love this woman had, had around her, in her, in her life, and gave to me, and the edict to Love. Which I interpret as two different things. The sense of love, and the command to love.

What also remained was the sound of children’s laughter somewhere else in the house, downstairs or down the hall. In my meditation of impermanence, laughter and love remained. In my meditation where I literally (sort of) watched myself die, what was left in the world wasn’t diminished.

You can imagine this was pretty intense ;)

But how encouraging. And I’ve been given something to do. To love, as much as I can, and to hold my responsibilities for myself with love, not rejection.

Big tasks, but apparently, I have a very long time in which to accomplish them. 

The language of letting go.

Two things occur to me about this at the moment, situations that have come up. The first is that I’m creating holiday cards to send out to friends and family. The second is that my best friend from the east coast texted me last night to say that her childhood home had been bulldozed.

To the first, I’ve stalled a little on the cards, partly because of the insanity of my self-imposed schedule (even with the simplified design of the card I’ve chosen to do for everyone, it’ll take 30 minutes, times like 20 cards… = ten hours; and my list has more like 40 people on it!). And partly stalled out because of the process around sending them, these handmade items, out into the world. Some people may have no problem with this, and consider it all a labor of love, but it’s nudged into a larger thing for me.

The cards will be okay, mainly because they’re all the same, because they’re being made with the intention of being sent out. But earlier this year, I hosted an art show with a group of my friends, and I sold a painting. I didn’t actually think anything would sell and was delighted when someone inquired, but also felt a sharp pang of “oh fuck”. The painting that sold was sort of a companion piece, one was called “The Rebound”, the other, created months later, was called “Safety or Before the Fall”. The first showed an empty mussed up bed by candlelight, with a naked girl tucked into a corner on a chair facing the bed, all you see are her legs wrapped up around her.

The second painting was of a woman’s hand resting on a man’s bare chest in sort of sepia-like colors, intended to connote a memory. The view most women will know instantly, it’s the view of cuddling, the view of sleeping next to someone, to me, it was the view of safety. That time in your day, whatever time of day it is you are horizontal with your lover, and for those moments, nothing is wrong. You watch your hand rise and fall with his breathing, you play with whatever strands of chest hair, or trace lightly on the skin. It’s a moment of zen for me. Of “all is right with the world.”

Now, of course, the second part of the title “Before the Fall” speaks to the impermanence of that moment. Which led to “The Rebound.” Obviously, these paintings are intensely personal and moments of my own life which I created with my greatest ability to offer the honesty and vulnerability of each of these moments. They were a part of me; a part of my past; and a part of what will always hold a place in my memory and my heart.

So a woman wanted to buy “Safety.” And because it was my first art show, and I was so excited to have an offer at all, and I didn’t know what an appropriate amount was for it, I sold it. (The Rebound I marked as “not for sale,” as that one, at least I knew was much too close a moment to let go of.)

Months later, I’m at an art show of a friend of mine who makes very spiritual paintings, each radiating a kind of passion, divinity, and connection. They are little portraits of love, and sometimes pain. And perhaps, often both. I asked her how she feels able to let go of her paintings when they’re obviously crafted with so much love and care. She said, firstly she prices them in a way in which she doesn’t feel “sold short”, in a way which she feels she wouldn’t “miss” them. (Not greedy, but not lamenting, like I am/was.) Secondly, she said with a specific set of her work, she did a process around letting go of each of them, in order to send them out into the Universe.

I didn’t do either of these with “Safety,” and I regret it. Were it a higher price, I still don’t know if I would have liked to have sold it yet. As such a fledgling artist, there’s still also a place in me in which every piece I make is SO precious because I don’t know if I’ll have it in me to do it again, and also, I am still sometimes astounded and proud of the work and don’t want to let it go.

Earlier this year, I made a portrait of a friend of mine that was very specifically for him, of him, of a San Francisco moment, and I had no trouble giving that away to him. It was a gift for a major milestone for him, and I wanted to honor that. And again, with the cards, knowing their intention is to go out into the Universe to people whom I love, that is easier. It’s these more amorphous recipients who I have trouble with.

Granted, I’m not in any art shows right now, “The Rebound” sits in my closet, but I’ll be taking an advanced oil painting class in the spring and imagine some more work will come out of that/be inspired by that class.

I don’t know what all of this means in my scheme of things, the ability to let go of my creations, but paintings have been different than poems, or even performances. A poem, I own, I wrote, I know that moment, and I have a document. Go ahead, read it, hear it, buy my chapbook ;) Performances? They only work because of you. A performance, to me, is absolutely the love child of performer and audience, be that performing theater or music. That’s part of the thrill of it to me, that each night, each performance is different. It’s a thrilling moment of co-creation.

I would like to learn how to set my paintings in a way where they can go off to others with a sense of completion and satisfaction, even joy, not with a sense of loss.

Lastly, I think having better documentation of my work than my cell phone photos could help me as well ;)

To the second item of letting go, my friend’s house – I’m out of time and room in this blog, but for now, a moment of honoring for that house, the haven it was for me, the home it was for her, and the memories we still get to share, 30 years later. Amen. 

 Safety or Before the Fall (June 2011)

The Rebound (March 2011)

The Joy of Flailing.

So, here I sit at my last desk shift at the gym for a while. I gave my "two week's notice" to them last week, when I realized that a) I wasn't taking advantage of my free classes, and b) ... I want my Friday mornings back. I am on deck as a "sub" person, and I also said that once school starts again and I have a more regular schedule that I'll be back fora regular shift. 

The instructor I've been working in tandem with for the last 6 months or so just brought me a pastry and a sad face :) she's so sweet. As we have an early morning shift, no one is usually here too soon before class, so she and I get to talk dating, men, life, etc. She said she just ordered the Calling In the One book. Ha! You never know what happens with these ripples. 

But, I am looking forward to not having to scramble to cover my shift, trade my shift, cover other peoples - cuz obviously I'm feeling a little "put upon" by this - which again tells me that I've spread myself too thin - because actually this thing is pretty rad - the classes are great and I've realized I like the community aspect of working out. It helps that almost all of the women are older than me, some over 60, and are holding these poses and positions better than I am! It helps to keep me motivated. 

So, I'll come back as soon as I can, but I need the time off. 

After my shift here, I'm getting picked up to babysit for a family up in the Oakland Hills. Although I'm a little nervous to have the two girls for the entire day (I've only sat for them at night - which looks like play, dinner, play, bedtime - so there's not too much need to be entertaining) - but I'm sure it'll be fine. i'm actually looking forward to it a little bit. I love the energy of kids. I'm such a kid myself - I love to be silly and nonsensical. Kids love that stuff - morelike,when you say something like, "You guys are monkeys,"  they love to be like "Noooooo, We're not monkeys!!!" Seems like a silly thing to get indignant about, but when I was teaching a class of kindergartners in South Korea, the thing they most loved to respond with was, "Teacher, we not monkeys!!! You a monkey!!" ~ Their English was a little better at the end of the year ;) But I love that. I love that kids play along, are silly, and when you make up Surrealist shit, they're totally on board. 

I'll babysit for them also next Monday, then the rest of the week with the interior design firm ... and then, release. The week between Christmas and New Year's is entirely mine. 

On Sunday, I'm intending to go ice skating in Union Square. Strange though it may seem "ice skating" is one of the items of my list of "Forbidden Joys" that I wrote 3 years ago through the Artist's Way. Not that *that* should be such a big deal! But it is. It's not like I'm good by any stretch - and I'm not being modest. I'm one of those arm-waving flailing people you don't want to skate anywhere near, because there is a strong likelihood that I will accidentally careen into you and grab onto your scarf for balance and take you down with me .... This actually did happen last time I went skating about 3 or 4 years ago - IT WAS GREAT!!! hahaha!!! I loved it. I didn't actually take the guy down - but it was close. And we all laughed, and by the end of an hour or so, I wasn't flailing as much. 

I ski much the same way, and I love that too. The joy of being a beginner, of not caring that I'm not graceful or skilled. Of just the joy of moving continuously around in a circle to the mash up beats of Katy Perry songs. ;) I love touching base with that kid. So, as part of my "restorative rest" goal of this break, I will be going ice skating. There's a party at the same time on Sunday that I just found out about, so I'm weighing my options, but I really want to skate. By myself, if other people want to show up, great, I'll put it out to some friends, but it really doesn't matter. I end up on my own with my novice-ness anyway. 

I also want to go see some live music. I'll look up what's happening at Yoshi's - the jazz & blues club in the city - there's one in Oakland, and find out from my musician friends what sort of shows our friends may be playing. I might take my friend up on the "stay-cation" and stay at her apartment in SF during that week off. I might choose to stay in Oakland and follow-up on my intention of hanging out with people more here. 

Those are the two things I know I will do. Music and ice-skating. Ways that get me in my body, out of my head, and into the joy of life. 

Just Row, Darling, Just Row.

So, I’m feeling both immensely relieved, and a bit of an emotional hangover from all of the worry and intense “gotta get it done”ness of the school semester. I finally finished my paper for my Shakespeare class, and emailed it to the teacher last night at 9pm. Granted, it was only six pages, but this whole working plus school thing really walloped what I was able to give to school, and squished everything else into weekends that wasn’t school and school sort of got shunted along every day, moving down my calendar like a shuffle board disc – I can do it tomorrow, I can do it tomorrow. Like Scarlet O’Hara – After all tomorrow is another day.

Which may be true, but tomorrow has been another day of intense activity, and not in any way better than the day before it.

So, the paper is done. My third out of 4 semesters of my MFA degree is done. And again, relief but… a big dose of “uhhhhhh….???” aka now what. I’m familiar enough with situations like these to not have to worry too much about the “now what”, but rather to just show up for what’s next, even if that’s do the dishes (which, duh, I do have to do), and also, as I’ve been doing more of lately, follow my little internal nudges, cuz they seem to have a better idea than I do about wtf is going to happen or is meant to happen, or which way I should row.

It’s funny. I had mini-epiphany a while back which went something like the following: I only need to row. I don’t need to know which way the boat is headed, I’m not steering, I’m not making the waves do their thing – I only need to row, and I’ll get there.

But that didn’t quite sit right with me. Sure, I agree, do the next indicated action – which for me at the moment is to wash up and get ready for work (I’ve decided – for now – to do my blogs in the morning – I procrastinate them at night, and then end up past my bedtime – plus one thing I really did learn from all this paper-writing pushing was that I really do write better in the morning. I’m a morning person – sort of. I’ve already had one cup of coffee! – I’m more of a “mid-morning” person – catch me at 10:30 or 11, and I’ll be ON IT… perhaps that’s also cuz the other two cups of coffee will finally have kicked in…).

In any case, rowing is great – I can row, and sit backwards and still question where the hell are we going. But I also do believe that it is sort of my responsibility to have some vague idea of which ocean we’re in – to extend the metaphor beyond its bounds! Maybe that’s still just me wanting to have some control, some idea of control if I know where I am, where I’m heading, and more about what I need to do to get there. Maybe that it doesn’t sit comfortably is just all part of the action and practice of this thing – to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, but to do the work anyway.

I don’t know what will happen at auditions. What will happen after school. What will happen tonight, even! I want to know – especially the “after school” part. Somehow I’m way more willing to let the audition stuff be how it will be – I’m way more que cera cera about it. Because I really know that I can’t control the outcome, I can only control how I show up and prepare for it – how I do or do not do research, take action, practice, and look for an acting coach, like my acting friend suggested to me. Somehow, letting go of the results of this is easy. Partly because, to me, it also feels fun. It feels like an adventure. Like trying a new ice cream every time. Like, I wonder what this flavor tastes like. So, of course it’s easy to show up more lightly to those. (But I will say, I’m sure I wouldn’t have always felt that way – which is why it’s taken me so long to even get here to stage zeropointone or wherever I am.)

But, “after school,” the looming deadline of “you ought to know.” More lies. I don’t know. I know that school has been the best thing I’ve done for myself in a while. Not cuz I get to study and write poetry – that’s cool, but it’s not where my passion is – but cuz I get to have this time to discover all this new stuff about myself. I said when I arrived that I wanted the two years of school to offer me time to “solidify my foundation within myself.” And I think I’ve been doing that. Concretizing who I am, how I want to be in this world – to have the time to become someone who can show up to auditions with a sense of fun.

I am uncomfortable not knowing. I am uncomfortable feeling like I’m not taking the “right” actions (not writing a sample syllabus, not looking at teaching jobs, not knowing where I will live or want to live). But, I also don’t want to teach. … So, that’s leaves me with a WIDE field, and too many options feels a little like none at all in my fear-brain.

So, before I talk myself out of the awesomeness that is my ability to show up and let go of the results, out of the awesomeness that is I FINISHED my semester, I’ll go get my second cup of coffee from my microwave and pray that all this rowing is better for me than I can possibly see. 

Suddenly Seymour

I did it again. I agreed to a job that I didn’t stop to consider whether I wanted to do it, but rather whether I could do it.

At about 3pm yesterday, I get an email from a woman I’ve babysat for before saying her sitter cancelled, and could I sit for her tonight. Almost immediately, without pausing to consider one way or the other, I email her back and say thank you, but I have my final paper due for school tomorrow, and I really need to concentrate on getting that done. But think of me for next time.

Then, my brain starts in. Couldn’t I finish the paper before I sit for them? Sure, I’ll barely get home, scarf down some food, and rush out to BART where she’ll pick me up, but I could do it, right? I mean, I want her to know I’m a reliable babysitter, someone she can call on to pay me x amount of money. If I don’t take this job, she won’t think of me next time. If I don’t take this job, I’ll be out a handful of cash, and I could use it.

So.Many.“Could”s. I could do it. So, I email her back, and say, you know what, I think I can do it. Let’s meet at this BART station at this time.

Then, all of the reality of my over-commiting sinks in. Really, Molly? I’m actually back at home, jacket still on, sitting on my floor with my Shakespeare paper open on my laptop when I realize that I’ve done it again. (Oops) :P

And so, now, at the last minute, I text her and let her know that I thought I could do it, but I really can’t, and that I’m so sorry for accepting a job that I couldn’t really take. She texts me back to say No worries. But, it stuck with me.

This is one of those death-rattle behaviors. These are the last vestiges, it feels to me, of a behavior that is on its way out. But, as is usually the case, the Universe will give me a few more opportunities to see if I’m really willing to let go of accepting things I don’t want to do, can’t do, feel I “should” do. Am I ready to stop chasing the crumbs?

Cuz that’s part of what it comes down to. If I don’t show up for this thing you’ve asked of me, you won’t give me love, esteem, validation. If I don’t show up, even in a resentful, exhausted, crippled manner, you will forget about me and I will be invisible.

Obviously, to a rational observer, these are lies. As more likely, when I am rested, refilled, and available in mind and body, then am I more able to give anything at all. People are not asking me to give from the dregs of my well to them. They’re asking normal questions. And I’m offering them my dregs. That’s not fair to anyone involved, and certainly, then, when I flake.

I had a situation this weekend where a woman had agreed to meet me at a time and place, and I made effort to get into the city to do so. While I’m on BART, she texts to say she can’t make it, and I’m furious. Way more pissed than the situation calls for – and I know it’s because it’s the same behavior I dislike in myself. Why agree to something when you know you can’t do it?

My flakiness is a result of agreeing to stuff that I can’t show up for. I agree to stuff I can’t show up for because I maintain a system of belief that you will only love me and care about me if I’m Super Molly. I am willing to let this go, because it’s just not working anymore. Super Molly is a flake, and I don’t want to do that anymore. I’d rather be human Molly, making commitments I know I can, and showing up to those fully and without resentment. I’d rather be human Molly who doesn’t need to feed on the approval of others for my sustenance. As human Molly, it means that I am equal to you – no better, no worse, and I don’t have to prove I’m either.

Finally, in meditation this morning, I had the song “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors come to me (yes, sometimes my meditations are weird). But what occurred to me about it is that the song's "Seymour" = my Higher Power. (fyi, i get tons of puns and sight gags in my dreams and meditations. my mind/heart is one that would cook something like this up with no problem!) My HP is “here to provide me” with everything I need. My HP, "treating me kindly" with "sweet understanding."* I don’t need to depend on others’ approval for my self-esteem, I don’t need to depend on my fear-based thoughts when I answer requests from others, I don’t need to dig from my dregs to be a member of this world. We’ll see how willing I am to let go of all of this when the next opportunity comes up, but (I hope) for today, Seymour’s my man. 

*and because I can't resist... "I'd meet a dollar/approval, I'd follow it blindly - A job snaps its fingers, Me? I'd say sure!"

The Buddha says hello first.

It’s a good thing a friend of mine told me this yesterday in regard to another situation, as I ran into a woman today who I have some discomfort with.

Earlier this year, I was attempting to make Oakland friends and so was having lunch with this woman who I'd begun to pal around with a little. She was telling me about a person who'd offended her, and began to generalize about people who were “doing it wrong.” I got a little defensive at her blanket statement, and thought that her thinking someone else was doing it wrong was wrong. Of course, I did not see this irony at the moment.

Instead, at the moment, I pulled a Molly, and began to give her my own bit of unsolicited advice. I am a Queen of unsolicited advice. It has so many different disguises, it should own a costume shop. Sometimes, it looks like me telling you what I’ve done, so as to insinuate what you should do. “Well, I know when I was in a similar situation, I did xyz,… [pregnant pause, where they're supposed to get the hint of what I’m actually telling them to do].”

Sometimes, my unsolicited advice looks like me telling you what other people have done who I believe have done it the “right” way. “Well, I know when my friend went through a similar situation, she did xyz,… [pregnant pause, where they're supposed to get the hint of what I’m actually telling them to do].”

“I’ve heard about this book/website/meditation/ointment that might be helpful...”

“Have you considered…”

“I used to do that, but now I…” (ha! that’s always a good one - people loooove that)

Cuz F U, Molly D. Who the hell am I. I don’t know what’s “right”. What’s right for you - even what's "right" for me. Places where I get mired in the “right way” to do something are usually places where I’m scared to let go of my perceived control. If I don’t tell you what to do, you won’t survive. If I don’t figure out what the right way is to do this thing, I’m not valuable.

All of these are crap.

I dated a guy once who had a gluten allergy, and when we’d be out at restaurants, I found myself making sure he knew what had gluten and what didn’t … as if he hadn’t lived for 30+ years without my help ordering from a menu. I caught myself on it eventually, and laughed, but yeah, the idea that without *me* people are not going to “be okay.” I know where this comes from – there were years when I did have to take on doing things "the right way" to ensure that things got done at all, that shades got drawn in the morning, that hair got combed. But, I’m not 10 anymore, and the situations are entirely different. 

And most importantly of every single thing, these people are not asking me.

That’s something that's pointed out to me regularly – “Are they asking you?” Hey Friend, so you’re telling me about this situation in your life (housing, job, money, love, family), and obviously I’m a guru about this shit, so why don’t I tell you precisely what I think you should do.  …. No. 99.9% of the time that they’re not specifically asking me my opinion or my advice, they’re not asking my opinion or my advice. Actually, it’s probably more like 100%, but I still want to get my wedge in there somewhere! ;P

So, anyway, back to the woman I ran into today. We haven’t really seen or spoken to each other since our mildly combative lunch date several months ago, when I began telling her her perspective was (perhaps) skewed, and she told me very directly that she was not asking for feedback on her perspective, period. So, I saw her today. And sure, I still have my opinion, but she’s not asking me, and really, it’s none of my business. (Mind my own business and have business to mind.) And I remembered that quote from yesterday, that “The Buddha always says hello first.” And so, I said hello, she said hello, we were cordial with superficial pleasantries, and said goodbye.

I don’t need to be "right" here. And I would really like to stop telling people what I think about what they’re doing when they’re not asking me. As, no matter what costume I dress it up in, I end up looking like a witch. 

circa 1994

So, I have a new crush. Not that the maroon 5 singer wasn’t delish (see "pulling a carmen" blog), but, I just finished watching “Junebug,” a movie with amy adams and alessandro nivola – and I dunno folks, but something....... Y-u-m. Lately, I feel like there’s 15 year old girl inside me who's been making these choices for me, as it’s been a while since I’ve had “star” crushes. Although, of course, the billboards for crazy stupid love (not steve carrell – sorry steve!) and the new Sherlock Holmes have been lovely head-turners.

When I was home in NJ packing up my room, I found my stash circa 1993 1994, so I was 13ish at the time. … Johnny, and Keanu. I had pages and pages of them each taped over my bed. On the wall above my head was Johnny, and to my right was Keanu. In the mornings before school, I would watch a half-hour of either “Speed” or “CryBaby” – yes, very different movies. And at night, I would kiss each of the gentlemen on their paper lips. Ha! I was a girl. It was great. The Johnny pools of deep luscious brown, and Keanu in a crumpled suit in a claw foot tub in the middle of a field of weeds.

It’s funny what we remember. Like how much our music tastes are concretized when we’re young. When I was getting ready for the dance party last night, I threw on the LIVE album, Throwing Copper – also 1994 as it turns out – and although it wasn’t as uptempo as a party prepping moment and I changed the cd, I still knew all the lyrics. The things we touch back to. The nostalgia that becomes a part of our persona. It’s interesting.

At 13, however, I was a frizzy haired gangly girl with acne, coke bottle glasses and a gap between my front teeth. (Like many middle schoolers!) And so we cling to idealized images from Bop! magazine, and the tortured melancholia passion of a rock album.

Hm. It’s sorta nice to look back with compassion for the 13 year old, to hold on to some of the things she liked, to hold them today as funny stories and taste values.

To undeftly switch gears, but surely related in some stratosphere, I sent Chanukah presents to both my parents this week. As some of you have read, I have been working toward some semblance of reconciliation with my mother after our 6 month incommunicado status. And though we have been texting, and though she sent me a card on my birthday in October, well, I finally shipped to her her birthday present – from June. Our final conversation was around then – I’d already bought these very “mom” presents – an old fashioned magnifying glass with a beautiful fake mother of pearl handle (it’s funny cuz she’s old) ;P and a set of red painted coasters with a bunch of different roosters on them – to match her red couch, a self-identified marked leap for her into color a few years ago. The presents were perfect. Then we careened into the minefield of our relationship and I got indignant and punitive and never sent the gift to her. It’s been in my closet since June.

So after talking with Patsy last Sunday about sitting with the idea of what it would be like to send her a Chanukah present without expectation, I took the present out of my closet. And sat it on my desk. ! Two days later, I picked up an empty box from work. Two days after that, on Thursday, I brought the box into the city and shipped it to my mom. In the box, I’d wrapped the gifts in white and blue tissue paper (Chanukah colors, naturally), and put in the watercolor “giraffe in a scarf” card I’d painted, with a note on the back that I thought she’d like these things and I love her, and happy holiday. (btw, there’s a cellist somewhere in my building or the one next door, and he’s really good – and he’s practicing right now – it is so gorgeous.)

I wrapped the box, and was conscious of letting all of this go out across the country to the Upper East Side with love. With the spirit of giving – which demands no return, which doesn’t even demand she like it – but just truly to say, these reminded me of you, and I love you. Yeah, it took 6 months to get there, but, I am here now. And she should get them soon.

To my dad, I sent something similarly freeing. As I feel it now, it’s miraculously powerful to get to give these gifts to my parents – not the gifts, but the freedom, if only momentarily, from my judgment of them. To my dad, I sent one of those LL Bean canvas tote bags that literally can hold a small child. I had it monogrammed: “D & B”. My dad, Drew, and his fiancé, Barbara.

My dad has recently begun signing every email to me, “Love Dad and Barbara.” This has pissed me off. That my relationship with him is now no longer with him, it’s with a pair, with an entity that is “Dad and Barbara.” But, as I’ve almost always said over their 10 year courtship, I respect her because she makes my dad happy. And that is true.

So, I sent it with a card, To Dad and Barbara, May you use this well in Florida, Love Molly. Because guess what, my dad loves her. He wants to be identified together with her. He wants to be one of a pair, and it’s none of my f*ing business how he wants to be identified. It’s like a person adopting a gender pronoun that they prefer to be called. Who cares if you have a penis, and want to be referred to as “she.” I would call that person whatever the f they wanted to be called – it’s not my call. And, so, neither is it my call to exclude Barbara, even in this way, from my life, or from my Dad’s life. So, to D&B. And off it went. And truly, I do hope they use it well in their new home in Florida. I know it’ll mean a lot to her, and it means a lot to me to see this stubborn, snide child give way to an inclusive, loving adult. It’s pretty huge.

So, like I said, I don’t know how these topics relate, but they’re what’s on my mind. A 13 year old girl-like crush, and no-strings-attached consideration for parents. I can live with all this multi-faceted nonsense, because it’s human, and whole. And 13, or 30, I still think this man is delish. ;)