Every Tuesday Night

I can never never never say goodbye.
Dying to leave and longing to stay,
and hold her hand just a little longer.

Mom can't say my name anymore
or see me with recognition.
Just hum a Yes or a No and say Thank You
to my I Love You's
in her familiar deep voice.

Walking away in silence,
I carry her sweet expression
in my mind
all the way down the hall
through the smell
out to my car
two lights
four freeways
and fifty
minutes

home.

Jewel

I met you one night

after your show at the Greek.
Ushered in with a backstage pass
I waited.
Finally, finally
you appeared
– a blazing red dress –
as if you needed to steal the room.

Watching you sway and twinkle through
the melange, wanting to touch you
(because I knew your words),
I reached out to you in introduction.
And while our small hands fit, I wished
I had stayed in the corner and remained
a fly on the wall.

Loneliness

If you had walked into my house that night
or been hanging on the wall,
you would have found me
in a soft minute
bathtub rocking
"God,"
whispering...
"I'm not brave."

The Childless Woman

I wrote this some time ago. My feelings have softened, but I'm leaving it here for the women who still hurt, especially at Mother's Day.

I became the kind of woman I never saw myself becoming. I never imagined I would grow up and not have children. I never imagined myself standing in a grocery store staring at the belly of a pregnant woman; I never saw myself overhearing a conversation about new babies and cute announcements, sex and diapers and showers and presents until I'm literally choking. I became that woman. The one who couldn't have kids. I’ve met those women. I had a cousin who couldn't conceive. My family always made her sound rather manic about the whole thing. She had a hard time being in the same room with my pregnant sister-in-law and I remember them all complaining about it, as if she should get over it.
As if she could.

If you ask me if I have kids and I say no, please don't say, "Oh honey, you can have mine!" You’re saying this to someone who longs to experience pregnancy and birth and raising a child.  I know you're kidding, but this isn't a joke and that is not funny. I know you're just trying to say something helpful but it feels false, like you didn't hear me. A simple, “I’m sorry. Did you want children?” And if I say "yes," you can just acknowlege it, with a little sympathy. That's all. You don't have to fix my pain, make light of it, or ignore it.

Here are some ideas you can do for someone who wants or wanted children and for whatever reason, didn't have them:

Send unexpected flowers.

Send a friendship card on Mother’s Day.

Get a group of friends together and have a night of support. Give her ra safe place to lament.

Even if you can’t relate to her emptiness, engage her. Pain is universal. Let her know that in spite of the fact you can’t completely understand, you can listen. Care enough to listen. Don’t avoid her or whisper around her, or say that "someday it won’t hurt as much." That's just not true.

I am happy to see my friends have kids, and I want to see pregnancies and rejoice. I want to go to baby showers and enjoy them, not burst into tears in the bathroom, so I don't go to showers. Not because I'm resentful, but because I want you to enjoy your party.

Adoption is an amazing thing, but it's not always an answer. It’s a calling. It’s not something you do just because you’re unable to conceive. Few understand that. Even I didn’t understand that before I experienced this; before I became the recipient of hundreds of suggestions that I adopt. It's not that simple. It's complicated.

Infertility is not something you get past. Living in a world of families and showers and birth announcements can be isolating, and there's really nothing to be done about that. All I can do is protect myself, look for other joys in life (there are plenty), and rather than criticize you, I can let you know how you can respond to women like me.

Solo Ojai

Once upon a solo retreat in Ojai, I awoke every morning out of a deep dreamless sleep to this.

And outside...

The smell of rosemary.
Hawks flying overhead.
Birds in a constant, lively conversation.
Lizards crackling through leaves, like someone sneaking up on me.
Wind, constant wind, through the trees.
Bright wildflowers and California poppies.
Tall bald-trunked trees.
Meadows and meadows.
Lavender.
The movement of nature.
The quiet of wind.

I felt worlds apart from where I was when I arrived. My joints had loosened.

I did yoga in the mornings. These practices heal my body and mind as a way of maintaining health and balance.

In the course of my Christianity, I have always found my way back to these principles and have questioned their place in my life as a Believer. I practice releasing my mind and focus to one intention (God), all the while bringing oxygen to my organs and to my bones. I'm refreshed and clear-headed, fortified and strengthened, and prepared for some serious prayer and engagement with God, and for the world I'll face when I return to it.

A Waltz of Risks

To be in love would be to open doors
that have never opened,
to fall into hands that will hold me
close to forever.

I want to party with my heart
in a waltz of risks.

Big Sur Haiku

The tree stands endless.
Looking ominous.
I smell its age.


Peeking from a crack
In the dirt–
A red poppy.


Without these trees,
this stream, this wind–
My old life.


Redwood trees drop
Their piney scent.
My head swells.


This ocean is new,
Green like glass,
green, like me.


The redwoods reach
as far as me
and stop.


Three paths
lead to tranquility
I took them all.


Lit from within
as flames lick my knees,
my husband at night.