Gifting a Heart

Exotic car rental for day.  A collection of penned life memories on yellowed parchment. Handmade, black leather, sorta dykey, wallet wrist cuff.  That perfect light catcher on the dusty back shelf of the bookstore that you touched just once with your hands.  The vacuum with the retractable cord.  A super soft vintage tee shirt at the thrift store.  A bag of M&M’s and a girly night atop a multi-blanketed, many-pillowed, billowy soft bed.

The ideas are always meaningful and unique.  My intentions are pure.  In my vast and scattered mind, I even “plan ahead”.  But the follow through?  That’s the really lousy part.  So it remains that I have identified, yet again, another area of my life that I half-ass:  gift giving.

As my spirit, and age, has ripened I have grown to appreciate the art of gift giving.  Given time and a small bit of mad money, I lust to wander the city and hidden gift shops and galleries and paper stores and gardens in search of that “perfect gift” for my circle of friends and family.  There is magic in the process of hunting, gathering, wrapping, and giving.  There is mystery is placing a call to the universe for an object symbolic of so much love and gratitude for a person.  And when that call is answered?  There is peace in placing hands gently on that gift, grinning as if light emanated from your mouth.  In this space, gift giving is timeless and unhindered, simple and quiet, as brilliant as the opening blossom of a white rose.

Enter the shrieks and needs of a 3 year old and a one year old.  Usher in the critical nap time schedule and subsequent diva melt downs if they aren’t followed.  Welcome to the nasty foe of gift-giving:  children.

There is no time for that hunting and pecking, pushing through the packed and clanking hangers at the Goodwill one at a time.   Good god woman, diaper changes and leaking sippy cups and “play the didgeridoo music!!!!!!!” requests are much more important than taking an hour to give back to those whose love runs like streams in your heart.

Even internet shopping is difficult to achieve when kids are clawing their way onto your lap with tears interrupting the chocolate-encrusted patches on their cheeks.   And that instant gratification and ability to feel the energy in a gift? Zippo with internet shopping.   So like mothering, internet shopping becomes a gamble.  A gamble that the retro, lacey apron won’t smell like smoke, or that the jasmine soy candle isn’t melted upon delivery to the hellish temperate in the desert.

Oh sure, there’s always the option of hand-crafting a gift. (stifling laughter).   I’ve tried.  No bueno.  Unless you like your gifts to be autographed by 3 year olds with crayons and applesauce, and truly enjoy the “surprise” of  receiving them 6 months later,  I’d advise against requesting a hand-crafted, from-the-heart gift from me. 

I miss gift giving.  Admittedly, I enjoyed shopping on Etsy.com last year and packing boxes for my tribe-women and their babies.   There was meditation in this act:  of cutting old fabrics to wrap with, and tying curly ribbons around onesies, and placing aromatic candles or incense within each package.   The gift was giving back to me, whispering of dearly-held memories and of dances and initiations under the sun.

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My husband is seriously good at gift giving.   For our very first Christmas together, he gifted me one of those gigantic stockings filled with 100 small presents.  He has surprised me throughout our 11 years together with a variety of incredibly romantic and touching gifts, things I never knew I’d really wanted:  a hot air balloon ride ending with champagne and cheese on a picnic blanket, a snowboarding trip to Park City, Utah, a brand new mountain bike, an acoustic guitar I could sing my heart out to, a book of wisdom by the Dalai Lama, a manicure and pedicure, brushed velvet stilettos, two gorgeous baby girls.  And always, always chocolate.

I did pull off a good one once and managed to arrange a completely surprise weekend trip to Six Flags Magic Mountain, in California.  He had no clue where we were going, even as we boarded a plane (I wouldn’t let him look at the sign), and rented a car, and drove to a hotel.  It wasn’t until we settled into the hotel room and opened the curtains to let the light in, that I told him what I had planned.   At the park, our exhilarated screams got caught in our throat as the seat of our Free Fall ride let loose and our feet headed towards the ground.   Then, during dinner, we cuddled next to each other in a booth and carried on a long-standing birthday tradition by sharing burritos and friend ice cream at El Toritos.

Magic indeed.

And B.C. indeed (before children).

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There it lay, among the overdue bills and annoying coupon flyers.  I didn’t recognize the name on the return address label at first.  But it was hand-addressed to me, so it had to be a friend.  Inside, the cream colored card included a shimmery gold illustration of leaves on a plant.  Peaceful.  Serene.  Inside was this:

“…and a small welcome back gift.”  From the card and into my hands slid a Wildflower Bread Company gift card, a place we had shared together just weeks prior.

I rested my back against the leather of my minivan seat and placed a hand over my thumping heart.  Tears felt like they were welling throughout my entire body.  Overcome with gratitude that this friend had thought enough to send me a simple, beautiful “welcome back” gift.  Little ol’ me.  Just for coming back from a 10-day vacation.  This moment, an intersection of humility and grace bundled with the knowledge that her hands took the time to write, seal, stamp, and send a card.  Her hands that have held beauty and pain in one moment, her soul who has known so much grief and loss.   This moment, a gift itself.  Raising my eyes to the sun, I gave thanks for the piercing arrow of companionship.

It is the spanning of distance, the bridging of time, which touches me most about gift giving.  It is the ability to bring someone to their knees, or up off their knees finally, with the tearing of paper or lifting of a box lid.  It is the way they remembered that one time you groaned about how having a new cookie sheet would be so nice or that, as kooky as it sounded, a lock of her silky hair would be so very meaningful to you.

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Convos and Vacay

The bustle of airports has always thrilled me.  I notice the way the sunlight filters through the windows, illuminating the rolling bags and footsteps of travelers.   Even the overpriced food and the shiny magazines are appealing.  My husband and I used to watch the passengers of arriving flights come off the jet way and make instant whispered judgments of their character:

Him:  Thin lips.  I don’t trust him.

Me:  Oh, she definitely cheated on her husband on that trip.

Him:  They are a couple yet and don’t know it.

Me:  Sweet old grandma. 

Both:  Accountant.  Or Lawyer.

Me:  He flirted with the flight attendants the entire time.

Both:  Drunk!

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I shiver to think what assessments would be made of me as I deplane alone with both daughters in tow:

Him:   Haggard, single mom.  Probably busting her ex’s balls for child support.

Her:  Confused.  Part wannabe hippy, part wannabe Cosmo. 

Him:  Those kids need baths.

Her:  Damn, her eyebrows need waxing.

Both:  Drunk!

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While Daddy held down the fort back home for 10 days, me and the girl-clan traveled back to the Midwest to visit family and revel in the breezy delight of spring.   Upon arriving at our gate, the distant sound of the “Tom and Jerry” theme song pulled Kaia to a nearby TV and kids table.  Delighted to see a semblance of “kid-friendly”, I parked my bags, babes, and butt nearby and found another mama to chat the time away with.  Later, after sharing stories of traveling alone with kids, I decide to wrap Indi back up in the Moby, grab Kaia’s hand and go check on the flight.

Me (to gate attendant):  Is the St. Louis flight late?

Gate Attendant (blinking and looking totally bershon):  Uh, it’s, like, already left.

Me (blinking with mouth agape,):  You’re kidding!?

Gate Attendant:  Who are you?…Yeah, we called your name, like, four times over the loud speaker.

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Astounded that I missed my flight while being in the actual gate area the entire time, I headed over to customer service to find out about the next flight.

Me:  Seriously, am I crazy? I never heard my name once.

Customer Service Rep:  No, you aren’t crazy.  You are the 4^th person this has happened to today.  You can barely hear anything over those speakers.

Me:  Well, thanks for the validation.  When is the next flight?

Customer Service Rep:  We can get you on the flight that departs in 3.5 hours.

And so, with shlumping shoulders and tears in my eyes, I waited for 3.5 hours with overtired girls while I chatted it up with yet another Mama.  Only this time, I kept one eye out on my gate at all times.   Indi didn’t stop squirming the entire flight, spilling juice and giggling at passengers as she peered between the cracks in the seats.  Both girls melted down and finally passed out 10 minutes before we landed.  Sigh.   We arrived at my Dad’s silent and secluded Missouri home at 2 am and snoozed to the croaking of bullfrogs.

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To prepare for our return flight to Phoenix (after a three hour road trip to the airport), I purchase a Cars magnetic toy set for Kaia to meddle with while we waited.  After she played with it for a measly 20 minutes, I performed a quick calculation in my head.

Toy = $20

Minutes of Entertainment = 20

Cost to Keep Kid Happy = $1 per minute

Seriously.  Can you imagine forking over a buck every single minute just to keep your kid happy? Yeah, I know you can.  Like the clicking of coins in a slot machine, I gamble that my dollar will keep her going, keep her occupied.  At some point, the little rolling windows on the slot machines slow down and I see large, red X’s appear.  DONE.   Twenty minutes of contentment while in a crowded airport? Priceless.

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Favorite memories from Missouri vacation:

• Walks through the lush forests of Missouri with my Dad and the girls as the wind whistled through the leaves of the trees.
• Utterly perfect weather.
• My Dad introducing me to these addictive pita chips (the simply naked variety).
• Having no house to clean or laundry to fold.
• Bird watching from the kitchen table.
• Biking the Kady Trail with my Dad and the girls.
• Lounging in a folding lawn chair as my Dad pushed the girls in a swing hanging from the high sturdy branch of a tree in our front yard.
• Witnessing Kaia scream in anger as I requested she finish some of her “growing food” before eating a treat:  “I do NOT like growing food…EVERRRRR!!!!”
• Helping my Dad pack individual meals for his upcoming 4 day Appalachian-trail hike with my sister and bro-in-law (this process took many, many hours and included re-engineering of the meal packing process.  Did you know that entire breakfast and lunches can fit into a sandwich sized Ziploc and dinners can fit into a quart sized Ziploc?)
• Watching my girls wander and discover and play in the home I grew up in.   Having moments of nostalgia as I sat on the steps of the front porch, realizing I was like my Mama at this age:  watching her brown-haired daughter (me) play on the very same grass of the very same lawn on the very same gorgeous May afternoon with a little sibling (my brother).
• Splurging on junk food with my Dad.  Savoring Hostess cupcakes and ding-dongs together on the road trip to Indiana.
• Reprising an old tradition of singing “Back Home Again in Indiana” as we crossed the state line in a trusty, beat up Mercury.  This song was belted out together every time my dad brought my siblings and me back home to my Mom’s house: every other weekend since 1980.  Only this time, it was sung to the tune of two screaming girls in the backseat.

Favorite memories from Indiana vacation:

• Sleeping with the girls and my Mom all in one room.
• Our day trip to Holiday World with my Mama, brother, and girls.  The park hasn’t changed since we were kids.
• Riding rollercoasters for the first time since not being pregnant and or/toting kids (2004).  My brother and I screaming our way through the twists and dips of the wooden, creaking coasters, riding one of them three times in a row without exiting the seats (hooray for no lines!). 
• Realizing that riding coasters while screaming and barely breathing is therapeutic.
• Sleeping in while Grams watched the girls.
• Visiting with old friends over Mexican food and laughter.  Hearing us all say “We all look the same as we did in High School” and really wanting to believe it.
• Meeting a sister-doula in my hometown to discuss the state of birth-culture there and our hopes for inspiring change.
• Celebrating my brother’s 30^th birthday party at my older brother’s 100 year old home with my entire family.   Sharing memories of my brother’s life.
• Hearing that my side of the family is finally going to welcome another grandchild! I’m going to be an AUNT!  And my amazing, tender-hearted brother Billy is finally going to be a Dad.
• Perusing through all the garage sale finds my Mama scored for us.
• Swinging in the homemade Eames swing my brother hung in his backyard.  Watching Kaia and Aunt Robin water the beautiful garden together.
• Seeing my siblings for the first time since Christmas.  Laughing with my sister.  Watching my siblings entertain and love on my girls.
• Driving past my childhood home in Indiana and stopping to tell my girls details of it.
• Enjoying the craziness of motherhood with my very own Mama.
• Knowing I was Home.
• Accepting help with the girls (distraction, holding) from strangers on the airplane
• Seeing Jason’s smiling face in the terminal as we arrived.  Watching the girls’ eyes glow as they noticed their Daddy and Kaia jump into his open arms.
• Coming Home to just-as-divine weather in the desert.

Not So Favorite Memory:

• Having my Dad pull ticks from my hair (I was too terrified).  Finding two ticks in Kaia’s hair during a bath.  Remembering how we used to be covered in ticks when we were kids.

She’s Fer Real

It boggles me sometimes. I just don’t know how she did it, managed it all alone without a pinch-hitter to reliever her, a sidekick to take over when she needed to slam a door behind her and bury her face in a pillow. Four snotty noses to wipe, four dirt-caked bodies to wash, eight pieces of bread to slather with peanut butter, 40 fingernails to clip, four hands to hold when crossing a street, fourteen or so loads of laundry per week, immeasurable needs to meet simultaneously, four mumbled and whiny voices careening in and out of her ears at once, four little hearts to hold in her hands.

But then again, she got to keep all of the smiles and kisses and “I love you, mamas” all to herself. And when the day was done, no one was beside her with raised eyebrows tsk-tsking if she spooned ice cream directly from the carton while watching late night TV.

My childhood was privileged and carefree, due in large part to my mother’s love. Rules were fluid, chores were mostly optional, playfulness and silliness were abundant, encouragement was limitless, creativity was welcome, and road trips were an oft-anticipated adventure. Somehow my mama knew how to inject lighthearted humor and goofiness into most any situation. To this day, is the one person I can let it all hang out with. She is the only person with whom I carry on a years-long conversation about “101+ uses for a tampon”. She is my favorite person to “spy” on strangers with; we’ve perfected eavesdropping in a restaurant or acting “busy” looking at clothes on a clearance rack while really peering over at a cute guy or an interestingly coiffed woman. My mama is the epitome of fun.

I inherited my off-beat sense of humor from her as well. When my younger brother was an ornery teenager, one of my mom’s classic and bodacious tricks occasionally used to shut him up was to flash her boobs at him. She’ll probably kill me for saying that, but c’mon, that’s hilarious. He’d roll his eyes and turn away in embarrassment (no one wants to see “mom boobs”, unless you are Stiffler). To her credit, it worked.

And besides fun and love – and that inability to “ask your Father…” – that’s what ya get when you are raised by a single mom.

I love you, Mama. For all the ways you inspire me, for the way your heart overflows for my girls, for the memory of never having to go to bed without the acknowledgment of your love, I thank you. I can’t wait to see you soon!

“Silly is you in a natural state, and serious is something you have to do until you can get silly again.” Mike Myers

P.S. #89: dipped in essential oils, it becomes a car air-freshener

Darkness Becomes Me

The urgent padding of bare feet down a hallway, around a week-old basket of laundry and randomly scattered toys. The lifting of a quietly sobbing three year old – mostly still in dream world – from bed to crib in one swift move. Staring at the LED lights of my alarm clock on my bedside table, like a ship to a lighthouses’ beam, as a means to maneuver safely around the sharp corners of our bed frame (I know if I walk towards those numbers that I am at least at the side of my bed). The heaving of body out of bed, scooping of hungry infant out of nearby playpen (whose head could be at either end), and placement of baby at breast between two warm bodies. A midnight piss, complete with mouth sipping water from the bathroom faucet.

This is all very ordinary. And all done in complete charcoal-black darkness most every single night.

Last night, as I walked the path from Kaia’s room to our room in the pitch dark, the thought occurred to me:

“I am so damn good at this. Save for a few instances (like the time I careened face-first into our closed bedroom door with Indi in my arms), I’ve never tripped or run into anything. I find my way around in the darkness like a pro.”

And let me remind you that we are not tidy and orderly folks. Our bedroom is often a maze of strewn-about objects: piles of clothes, diapers, crumpled towels, plastic toy animals (of which hurt like hell when you step on them), half-broken pieces of jewelry, books, glass cups, dirty sheets and pillowcases in a wad, laundry baskets, hangers, one cat, and one dog. My point? It’s like hurdle jumping. Only more like hurdle stepping. And at night. Naked.

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I have learned – often reluctantly and over time – to navigate through darkness rather fluidly. Or perhaps it’s better to explain that I embrace the journey wrapped in the witchy, mysterious hue of black like I would a sister. I struggle mostly with the seeming stagnancy of the darkness, my impatience like the nervously grinding hand of a kid on a jack-in-the-box crank. I hate waiting. No, let me rephrase that. I.Hate.Waiting.

For answers, for grocery lines, in traffic, for a slow internet connection to load, for microwaveable meals, for the greasy guys at the lube shop who don’t know how to type properly and take 10 minutes to chicken peck my info on their keyboards. But mostly, for answers – both ones that I anticipate coming and esoteric ones that may never arrive.

Yet I have found that the darkness shrouds answers – leaves space for the deepness needed for asking and questioning and waffling - and for that very reason I’ve come to understand darkness as my guide and friend. It is in the space void of light that I can walk a beaten path without thought or simply lose myself in a maze, letting my tired mind wander. There is stillness in the dark, a welcome blindfold to quell my need to constantly “take it all in”.

One may say that we are more vulnerable in the dark. In a sense, that is true. The protection it offers allows me to break open my layers like the fragile shell of an egg; all emotions of humankind dripping from my core. Yet darkness is my shroud, my cape of mystic abilities, where the glowing orb eyes of the owl meet mine. It is where wisdom and suffering convene to bring about simple awareness. Night is my protection, allowing the most fragile parts of my heart to be bare and wide open: the song of grief and healing and expectation as loud as the beat of congas calling me to dance within their fire. It is the darkness that heals, the darkness that gives me the knowledge to recognize the abundance in the light.

The darkness is where I can shed my Motherhood skin, remove my mask of Wife, release the Beast of 31, uncurl the tail of Birther and Doula, step out of the robe of Woman, and retract the claws Living Everyday Life. The darkness is where I can be Destroyer Goddess: Erishkigal, Kali, Lilith, Hecate, or just Leigh the Dark Goddess. Darkness is where the veil between birth and death is lifted; where gravity is defied; where limits are tossed to the wind. Darkness is a womb I crawl into in repose: a silent world of echoes and heartbeats.

And while the Light is my inhale, the Darkness is my exhale. And it feels oh so good to breathe it all out.

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At 18, I wrote:

“Night is my innocence

Night is my sorrow

Night come and swallow me like the pills of the addict”

At 31, I gladly step into Night’s belly, awash in surrender.

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How do you find your way through the Darkness?