bingeing and purging

We're nearly halfway through the summer, and as luck (grace) would have it, each of my children is at camp this week.

I thought about cleaning house as I often do on Mondays, but the sun was shining and my book suddenly got good. So that was that. 

Yesterday, I walked and began with ballet. I beheld breathtaking views of the Seattle skyline from Kerry Park for a long while. With eyes wide and mouth slung open, I huffed and puffed and hiked the regal neighborhood hills of Queen Anne. I went gallery hopping and sipped a latte in Pioneer Square. I returned to the Island, watched a bit of soccer practice then went to yoga outdoors. I spent a blissful day on my own, on my schedule, at my pace and left to my own devices. Blessed solitude. 

And today, it's raining -- the torrential sort. 

For the last six weeks, I've played and lazed for long days in the sun. I've spent a lot of time with my kids, and it's been mostly good. But in this momentary lull of today's tempest, it hard not to note an arrhythmia. For six weeks, I've also been a little out of sorts and unclear; I've been creatively constipated. 

Today, is the first full day I have been home with neither the constant nor eventual companionship of at least one of my family members. I woke up with no where to be, with no one to host and with neither obligation nor desire to spend the day out of doors. I rolled over in bed this morning and felt poised and compelled to write. 

I've never been more grateful for rain. 

But with freedom comes responsibility. And with camp comes the necessity of sack lunches, which I neglected to pack last night. So before I'd even brushed my teeth, I began this day with a lunch pail and ziplock bags... and with the laundry I neglected to fold and put away last night... and with the dirty dishes I left in the sink. Ah, blessed solitude. 

And Cole and I danced the getting-out-of-the-door dance -- Have you brushed your teeth? Did you grab your lunch pail? I think you might want your rain boots today. Will you grab your raincoat? Good morning and I love you, by the way. 

-- I can't find it, he says.

-- You can't find what?

-- My raincoat. (It hasn't poured rain in months.) 

-- OK, look in dad's car, and I'll check your room. 

And that's when I realized that this summer, I've also been in denial. 

The search for the missing raincoat this morning, took me to a sore spot in my home I have successfully avoided since Spring.

I wish I would have been of the mindset this morning to photograph what I found when I ascended Cole's stairs (it wasn't his raincoat). This is where I would insert the image to document the magnitude of the mayhem. Let's see if I can paint a picture instead.

Imagine -- if you will -- utter chaos.

The place was ransacked -- clothing strewn about and Legos littered everywhere. The floor, the bed, the chair, the dresser, the desk, the corners, the crevices -- they were covered in toys and trash and wrappers and crumpled papers... Empty hangers, hamper and drawers relieved of both dirty and clean clothes... A sleeping bag, a sleeping pad (why? don't ask me), an overturned lamp... another one. Books and magazines... Legos and more Legos... A half eaten sandwich. An unidentifiable smell. An unidentifiable stickiness... (marshmallows, of course).  

It was anarchy. Armageddon. Play land pandemonium. It was a jaw-dropping, stomach churning display of destruction and consumption far exceeding usefulness, anxiety invoking and sickening. I was speechless -- appalled and on the verge of dry-heaving -- as I came back down stairs.

-- Mom, I found it!! (It was in the studio -- naturally). 

Paul took Cole to camp, and I spent the next four hours of this perfectly good writing day in purgatory.  

Enough, I said through gritted teeth to no one in particular as I indiscriminately purged. With minimal regard to sentiment or frugality, I swept piles and heaps from the surfaces of Cole's room into 13-gallon black garbage bags. I'm not sure if I was madder at him or at myself. 

You see, this is not a first for us; these are the steps to another one of Cole's and my dances. For a long while I just picked up after him -- constantly. I would clean up, and he would mess up. I would get mad and stressed, and he would get busy at being a highly-spirited kid. So, I tried to teach the young man to fish (and blissfully unaware, he left the fish out in the sun to rot and die). So I purchased more containers, which he eventually upended and turned into galaxy destroyers. I have encouraged... and I have threatened... and I have desperately tried to teach my son the virtues of responsibility and respect along with cleaning-as-you-go and putting-back-what-you-bring-out. 

And I have realized the less time I spend in Cole's microcosm of chaos, the less mad and stressed I feel. So when I could no longer keep up, I backed up, backed off and assumed a hands-off style of parenting where that bedroom is concerned. (And clearly, that's working out really well for me). 

Twenty six gallons of waste, four loads of laundry and another 13 gallons to Goodwill later, Cole's room is clean, and I'm finally writing. 

To be frank, 1.) I feel clearer today than I have in weeks. I don't think I realized how much I needed a break and to play by myself and to write and to bring momentary order to the disorder in the bedroom above mine. 2.) I am at a loss. I know that what I did today was hardly a solution. It was like gingerly placing a band-aid on an infected war wound. 

But it's gotten me thinking. 

The longer I live, the more subscribe to the philosophy that less is indeed more. I've attempted to live this out and to impart it to my children. At times I have felt relief and found success, but other times, I have failed miserably. And I feel gross and full and stuck... and constipated. 

I have tried to stand up to the seductive voice in this culture that whispers, more, MORE. Believe me, I have tried to simplify in this age of bigger, newer, faster, sleeker and stronger alongside our generous family and friends who just love to give, and get rid of and to give more. Christmas, birthdays, Wednesdays... there must be another way. 

Because here's the thing: my son wears two shirts. TWO. He has (had) at least FORTY! This is a problem -- his problem AND my problem. 

This problem calls for moderation, yes? Isn't it a means by which to step beyond the ugly cycle of bingeing and purging? 

I'd love to hear for sure from the therapist, the mindful, the spiritual, the super-parent or the everyday anybody. I've lived and parented at unsustainable extremes, and I know for sure I'm done with that. Beyond that, I'm not so sure. 

my morrocco

I heard from an old friend. 

I'm not sure if you remember me, he wrote. 

Way back when, he was a senior in high school, 

and I was his Admission Counselor.

I know we weren't supposed to have favorites, 

but without a doubt, he was mine.

How could I forget?

He didn't have a lot, but I believed in him anyway.

I said yes when others said no. 

I fought for him.

And sixteen years later, he came to Washington. 

He told me that it mattered. That I mattered. 

He told me he is healthy and happy and traveling and in love. 

He told me he earned a PhD, and he is now a professor of Literature. 

And I wept. 

Oh, how I wept. 

It turns out I was right. 

And I couldn't be prouder. 

twice

Paul and I went to see Once in Seattle last night.

I enjoyed this musical immensely and felt intimately connected to the actors, to the musicians and to the story in spite of the majesty and magnitude of the theater. I've used words like spectacular, epic and stunning to describe most of the shows I've seen at the Paramount; invariably, these performances are larger than life. But this love story, while moving, was a whisper. It was beautiful. 

The transitions from one scene to the next were a highlight for me. The staging, movement and dance stirred me in their subtleties, and the melodies were sublime. I laughed and smiled a lot which felt so good on the heels of the sad news from earlier in the day. The actors sang and danced with one another, with their instruments and with my heart. I fell in love with music over and over again last night. Its fragrance still lingers this morning.  

I can't recommend this show highly enough. If it wasn't leaving Seattle this weekend, I'd definitely see it again. 

a penny for your...

With a trash bag in tow, I open my door to a pitter-patter upon the rooftop and the front porch. 

Crunch... crunch.... crunch.... I pad along the walkway to the garbage cans on the side of the house. Teeny tiny black pebbles litter the front drive and a beard of furry creatures line the edge of the garbage can... and the side of house... and the walkway... and the guesthouse... and the gate... and the grass... and the ground. 

I feel a gag reflex come on strong, then quicken my step. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch... 

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter go the tiny pebbles as they fall from the sky to the rooftop, then roll down to the porch. More furry beards. More little pebbles. They are everywhere and all around. They are on the bench and on my car. They line the shoes beneath the bench. They are INSIDE the shoes beneath the bench. SICK. I think I might puke. 

My arm hairs stand on end, and I taste bile. Crunch, crunch, crunch... I hopscotch back to the house, tumble inside and clutch my hands to my chest in the refuge of indoors. I'm safe, but I feel dread over the prospect of having to face it all again in order to get the kids out the door and off to school. 

The leaves on the alders outside my window have already fallen -- but not because of autumn. Instead, they have have fallen to wrath of the fuzzy little critters who are wreaking havoc upon Whidbey Island and the state of Washington: the bloody Western Tent Caterpillars. 

I know what you might be thinking --- they're caterpillars, Abi. 

Yes, but you have no idea. THEY. ARE. DIS. GUSTING. These are no ordinary, hungry little caterpillars. And those little black pebbles are not your ordinary little pebbles. They are poop. CATERPILLAR POOP. And it's everywhere. They are everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I really do mean everywhere.

Case in point: Inspired by friends and exasperated by our predicament, I stooped to a new low this morning. I agreed to pay blood money to my children for their help in dealing with (drowning) our Springtime visitors -- a penny per caterpillar.

I know what you might be thinking --That's highway robbery, right? Child labor and animal rights, right? I'm a cheapskate and a contract-killer, and my children are suckers, right? Au contraire!!

In the fifteen minutes between handshakes and our departure for school this morning, my kids made $3.00. THREE DOLLARS. For those of you running the numbers at home, they picked up 300 caterpillars in fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES!!

I realize there are far better and far worse things happening in the world than my little caterpillar problem. And I could be writing about any one of these things. But instead, I've chosen caterpillars. Yeah. 

Perhaps there is a lesson here. Caterpillars become beautiful butterflies, right? But no, not these ones. These ones will soon become moths (so I've got that to look forward to). Hmmm. Or... isn't this a mark of the end times? Caterpillars and their poop raining down from the sky? Or... was that frogs? Wait, I think that was a movie. Hmmm. I don't know. Perhaps not. 

All I know is that I have a bucket of three hundred caterpillars soaking on my front porch. Spring is in the air, summer's on its heels, and I'm too grossed out to go outside. HA! 

The kids will be home in three hours. And I can't wait, because I'm putting them back to work. I just need to get to my car first. 

but still...

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 

Why are you beset with gloom? 

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 

Bowed head and lowered eyes? 

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise. 

Beloved Author, Poet and Inspiration

Dr. Maya Angelou

April 4, 1928 - May 28, 2014

dear bully,

I've had it.

I woke up mad. First, I tried to free-write it out -- I mean the forceful, chicken-scratch writing on pages of loose-leaf paper riddled with exclamation points, triple underlines and innumerable *f-bombs.* The etchings and impressions of my heavy hand even marked the blank pages beneath the sheets I defiled. It didn't work. So I filed them away, and I tried to breathe it out. I sat for a moment in contemplative silence in an effort to meditate, to focus and to find my breath. Screw this, my mind screamed. 

I couldn't sit still so I decided to run instead; I intended to work it out. I cut through cool air -- praying, pounding pavement -- and I ran through a series of smart, forceful and biting responses in my mind. I considered all the things I could have said but didn't have the words for at the time. I pumped my arms and legs and pounded my fists in the air to the angry anthem ringing in my ears. Winded, thirsty and invigorated, I returned home. But rather than to quell the fire in my belly, my run only served to fan the flames. 

So I've decided to blog it out. 

A friend once told me that he loves to read the posts I write when I am upset. "It's your best writing," he asserts. Well, yay for both reader and writer today, because I feel frustrated, angry and annoyed. I'm pissed. 

Hers is that voice that remains in your head long after she's gone. You feel deflated, and you ache for tomorrow when she finally leaves the room -- of course she only leaves after she has presented as her own, the very thoughts that quietly proceeded from your mouth yesterday.

She is the pushy the little bitch on the playground with pigtails and bright eyes who never learned to share. She is a modern-day Veruca Salt. I want, I want, I want, she screams. It's mine. Give it to me -- NOW. And with little regard for anyone but herself, she takes her share and yours too. She asks for, expects for and demands for more. 

She sees wide open spaces, and she fills them. She is boisterous, arrogant and loud. Her voice -- the squeaky, relentless resonance of her voice -- consumes both peace and quiet. She assumes that no, you couldn't wish to be alone as your retreat and you choose to walk away. So she rushes to be by your side once more -- not to be your friend, but to keep an eye on your next move so she can do it too. She flaunts the fruit of another's labor in your face and only feels tall when standing on your toes. 

She is the girl who reads this far into my rant about MY frustrations but somehow manages to make it about herself. How dare you, she seethes. Are you talking about ME? she wonders more than once. Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. 

For a while, my reaction was to shrink and to question myself and my worth. And then, I began to check out, to throw up walls and to shield myself and my heart. And then I learned to walk away, to bow out and to turn the other the cheek. But today -- NOT TODAY. Today I choose to speak up and to push back. On behalf of the small, the meek, the introvert, the soft-spoken, the young, the insecure and the quiet, I am asking you -- no I am telling you -- to BACK THE FUCK OFF. 

I see through the smoke and the mirrors. And all the empty words. And all the broken promises. And all the bullshit. You -- you know who you are  -- you need to know that I see the truth, and today I'm calling you out.

You are small. You are a liar, a cheat, and a counterfeit. You have pushed too long and too far.  You are ugly, unkind, and I pity you. You have no power over me or anyone else except for what we have given to you. No more. No questions. I'm taking it back. 

I am not as loud as you are, and I do not and will not consume as you do. But if you think for a moment that this makes me weak, you are sorely, sadly mistaken. My strength is quiet, constant and strong. It comes from a well far deeper than you have ever had the courage to tap, and it will come when you least expect it. It is fueled by love, not fear. Cooperation, not competition. It is not about me and it is definitely not about you. This is about US. 

Hear me clearly today when I say I am done. 

It's on.