If you’d stalked me around the inter-webz last week you’d have seen…

At Tryhandmade

What’s In Season Now, March Edition

Whether your farmer’s market is officially open for the season now or just holding a few special winter edition sale dates until warmer weather really ushers in most are now operating in one way or another. If they’re not they likely will be very, very soon.

But what can we — and maybe more importantly, should we — be shopping for now? Read More >>>

At 5 Minutes for Going Green

Asking One’s Self the Hard Questions

A couple weeks ago we invited another couple over for dinner and games. I’ve been friends with the wife for sometime but we hadn’t yet gotten together as couples more than a few times — her husband didn’t know me as well as she did and had no idea what it is that I do for a living. In our neck of the woods freelance writers aren’t exactly plentiful so I’m accustomed to reactions of bewilderment when my livelihood comes up for discussion. What I’m not accustomed to is people questioning, even if in a friendly and truly curious manner, why I am fit to do what I do. Read More >>>

Green Your St. Patrick’s Day, Not Just Your Shirt

I grew up in a small village (population: less than 400) in the middle of Michigan that is incredibly proud of its Irish heritage. It also just so happens that its local tavern holds the state’s oldest liquor license. Combine these two facts and what I have always known is a huge St. Patrick’s Day celebration; one with potato rolls, delicious beef stew and copious amounts of green beer. And if you didn’t get to the tavern early enough, they’d be out of all of the above. People would come from miles and miles around to celebrate. It was standing room only and the town’s fifteen parking spots on the one small block that made up “main street” were nowhere near enough to accommodate. St. Patrick’s Day, here, is like Christmas — only without the pre-holiday stress and over-indulgent electricity usage. Read More >>>

At On Olive Hill

From Scratch

What draws me to cooking ‘from scratch’ is likely the same thing that draws me to the people (and animals) I love most; delicious imperfection.
My oldest daughter’s pigeon-toed gait, my youngest’s knock-knees, my husbands scarred hands, my dogs’ Heinz 57 pedigree and matching appearance (with the exception of The Schnauzer, of course, she’s purebred — just wonky anyway, which is exactly why we picked her); there’s something captivating, something beautiful, about the simple imperfections in the world. Read More >>>

The gelding in the picture is twenty-eight. In horse years this roughly translates to, well, old. Unlike people, who our society all too often view as less attractive as they age, he makes everything look good; distinguished; wise — even a late winter beard of heavy fur and unkempt whiskers. He has a way with people young and old, a kindness, an understanding. I hope, one day, to be half the soul he is.

*Disclaimer: I have not actually watched Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Ever. I have however, been privy to all the hub-bub surrounding the episode in which Kourtney gave birth*

And here’s my beef; while I am absolutely on board with the admonishment of elective cesarean sections and whole-heartedly believe the medical community as a general population is incredibly over-obsessed with the dreaded pitocin (as a woman who has been ripped in half hip-from-hip by it like a Thanksgiving Wishbone how could I not?) but I’m also not sure the current trend in childbirth discussion — especially online recently and in light of Kourtney’s televised birth — is any healthier.

I’ve had two children. Both births were vaginal deliveries. Both births were a unique experience. Both births rate among the top experiences of my lifetime. Neither birth was “zen”. In any sense of the word. I yelled at least once both times — the second birth I yelled a LOT.

Guess which birth I would choose to do again if I had to. That’s right, the second. And not because of the lack of epidural, I can tell you that much. I would choose to have another birth like my second because of the intense pain, because of the feeling of primal strength. There was nothing “zen” about that experience. Not a damn thing. I screamed like hell and I distinctly remember telling a nurse off. My husband was, at the time, thoroughly intimidated and literally made sick by the amount of pain I was in. But you know what? That’s okay. Because it wasn’t about him.

As a matter of fact, and I know this is probably going to get me some nasty hate mail, but it wasn’t about my baby either — who, by the way, is happy, healthy, thriving five year-old today — it was about me. Believe it or not that experience changed me; that experience equipped me for the unique trials that would follow; it gave me the perspective I needed to raise the baby that was the product of it.

When I gave birth to my oldest I sat up and looked down when she had crowned and saw her beautiful full head of hair — not in a mirror, but right there with my own eyes — and I was overcome with emotion. If every woman in the world could have that experience it would truly be a gift to humanity. It was a raw, awe-inspiring moment. That said, it was what I needed when I was giving birth to my first. I was unsure, I was educated about what was supposed to be happening, what would be coming, but I was scared. There was immense trepidation. I needed that wave of emotion, I needed that boost of pure heart.

When I gave birth to my second I didn’t know it at the time but what I would need was not raw emotion of the heart, but rather strength. Her birth provided that. Was the atmosphere a little more “negative” than the first time around? I guess some would say so. I certainly didn’t feel it. I felt more intense, more deeply focused on the physical aspects of the moment, more absorbed in me, but certainly not negative.

You see, my oldest was an easy baby. She was an easy toddler. It’s only been in the past year or so as she slowly picks up a bit of tween attitude that she has been at all challenging. For all of that we’re thankful. The emotional attachment that came from her calm(er), more deliberate delivery was a perfect start to our journey with her.

My youngest on the other hand, has been difficult. I often joke that she’s had my number since the moment of conception. She’s a person all her own. She’s passionate and energetic and too smart. I needed the primal, superhuman strength that I experienced during her birth to survive her first five years of life. Literally. Needed. What I didn’t need was to be overcome with love, admiration, awe. I needed strength. I got it.

All this to say, birth should be natural — as natural as possible — it should be something that women look back on as a positive experience in their history. It should help prepare them for their road ahead. Birth should be a course in preparation all its own. But this doesn’t mean it has to be zen. It doesn’t mean orca calls should play in the background (unless the mother enjoys orca calls, in which case by all means!). It doesn’t mean there needs to be candles or massages or water or sunshine bursting forth over strawberry fields. It doesn’t mean that if you ask for an epidural you’ve failed. Or that if you told the nurse you would suffocate her with her own rubber gloves after the ten millionth check of your cervix that you’re a bad person.

Any person who has witnessed any number of animals giving birth in person can tell you that a natural birth is not always a pretty thing. They can tell you that the mother was in pain, that during at least some portions of the birth she was entirely focused on herself, they’ll also tell you that sometimes assistance is needed and when that happens it does not automatically mean the resulting baby will be lesser than its counterparts.

Rather than focusing on what is better and what is worse in the world of birthing why not focus on how to reassure one another that it is possible; that birth is nothing to be scared of; that no matter how it happens, no matter if you choose medical pain management or not birth is an experience that will change your life forever? Why not shout from the rooftops that — like babies — happy, healthy births come in all shapes, all sizes, all durations of time; they happen in hospitals, in homes, in birthing centers and sometimes in cars, and in the back of ambulances. And if you’re open to just being present for the experience they will give you something you really need at that time in your life — whether it’s a raw moment of bonding emotion or a six-hour exercise in primal strength. Just be. And when you’re done, be proud. You gave birth.

I often fail to blog here, we all know this by now, but I don’t (too often, anyway) fail to write for the other places to which I am committed. If you’d stalked me recently you’d have seen me…

Discovering Bolani, an awesome Afghan stuffed flatbread, at Try Handmade.

Researching top family vacations and the top ten destinations at MOMeo Magazine.

Reviewing the Solio Solar Charger from CREDO Mobile at 5 Minutes for Going Green.

Starting a brand new blog (because you know, what’s one more?) that is still under construction, but does feature its very first post. On Olive Hill will follow our journey into small, organic ‘farmsteading’ as we grow — and hopefully prosper — as well as providing our local clients a place to order produce and poultry in the future. Can you say exciting? I can!

And, last but certainly not least, today you can find me Asking One’s Self the Hard Questions at 5 Minutes for Going Green.

Thanks for stalking me, come back and do it again soon (and by soon I mean next Monday.)

Lots of notes. At three in the morning when I can’t sleep, mostly. Which is often.

They’re good notes; profound, thought provoking, turn-them-into-a-project kind of notes. In the morning I stack them in a pile with every intention of giving them a go. They collect dust on my desk — fine, the floor next to my bed — and eventually I shove them in the back of a drawer somewhere. The thing is I have no direction, I’m indecisive, I am still learning the art of follow-through. And by learning, yes, I do mean I am utterly failing at it day-in and day-out and lets face it, nothing is ever going to be done with those notes.

I’m what the experts like to call a ‘Start-Up Leader’. All of my middle and high school teachers called it lack of discipline. My mother called it a lost cause. I’ve always been most fond of the experts anyway. We wouldn’t call them experts if they didn’t know more than Mom, after all. Just don’t tell my kids I said that. Or thought it. The youngest seems to have an uncanny knack for reading my mind and using it against me.

All of this to say, I have a house full of notes. In notebooks, on post-its, jotted on my hand and imprinted on my cheek after a particularly long night — notes! Also, a heart full of the best of intentions.

A few days ago I ran across a particularly large stash of those notes when cleaning off my desk. I know, I know. Who does that? It’s beyond me. I blame the winter weather, I was hoping a clean desk would upset the cosmos and bring spring. It didn’t work, in case there was any doubt, what with the record snowfall and howling winds.

Where were we? Oh, notes! You’ll have to forgive me, blogging only six times per year leaves a girl’s mad skillz a little rusty.

I found this stack of notes; tattered, smudged and stuffed in the very rear part of my desk drawer. I remembered writing them. At the time I was reading Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers. And, as you might imagine, thoroughly enjoying it.

Those notes are full of ideas; awesome ideas, some of which I own domains for. But what struck me most was not necessarily how terribly wasted those ideas had been when I stuck them in the back of the drawer without another thought, but how largely what was written on those notes are the same things that are written now in my mind. Not the specifics of course, but the general idea, no doubt.

The fact of the matter is I’ve had my fair share of suffering identity crisis after identity crisis over the years. Many of those have shown in my writing online and, of course, the numerous incarnations of different blogs I’ve called home. And yet here I sit looking over every note I could find after I stumbled across that first fateful pile and there is a clear trend throughout it all.

I was — am — so lost and yet, so very found. And that is a bizarre feeling.

I have not been in the mood for composing even a poorly put-together New Year’s post. In fact, despite the horrid tone of 2009 I’ve not been in the mood for a New Year. Period.

There were so many wholly good aspects of 2009. Most of our family survived, those that did not brought us closer together and offered us so very much even in death; we had a roof over our heads; we filled our bellies with food regularly, we never went hungry; we reveled in comforts whether we always regarded them as such at the time or not; we were reminded of all we had. And yet, all of those things, for whatever reason seem colored only by the failure, the death, the loss.

As I recently told a friend, I feel like I’m standing inside a dark tunnel and though the entrance is right there I can’t step out. I can’t leave the darkness for the sunlight. My life is out there. It sparkles. But I am inside.

I want so badly to soak up all the things I know are good and positive. I want to enjoy my life. I want to absorb all of the really wonderful aspects that it has to offer. But I just can’t move. I am paralyzed in the dark. Watching. Wishing. Wanting.

I made New Year’s goals — modest but given my state of being, lofty. I feel almost obligated to write about them. And yet, I have no real desire to. I can see the path to achieving them. The footsteps are right in front of me, but they lead out of the tunnel. They lead somewhere I don’t know if I can go right now.

In the past few days I’ve forced myself a little closer to the edge, to the sunlight, to the beginning of the paths to those goals. In the past few days I’ve felt more apprehensive, weak and out-of-control than I ever remember feeling before. And maybe that’s the problem. I feel out-of-control. I feel weak. I feel unsure, apprehensive. I have never felt those things before.

I have felt depression. I have felt that nothing; that hopelessness. This is not it. This is a beast all its own. This is something I do not know, I do not understand. This is paralyzation (yes, I did just make that word up). This is wanting. Badly. This is wishing. Wholly. And I don’t even know where to begin. Or how.

I pushed my hips to the left; cocked my right leg and twirled my tennis-shoe clad toe on the freshly-polished tile.

The florescent lights glinted off the computer screens lining the far wall of the classroom. His eyes sparkled.

I titled my head opposite the position of my hips; smiled.

The bell rang.

He strode for the door to the hallway some 50 feet away. He was sixteen.

I struggled to keep up. I was fourteen, boy crazy and a show-off.

As we came to the off-white, cinder-block half-wall that stood at the entrance to the hallway I had a grand idea. In one swift movement I threw my leg up, placed my foot square on the wall and sprung into what I imagined would be the most epic 360 that boy had ever seen.

That’s when, in one swift moment I heard, he heard, The Sound.

Criiiiittttcccchhhhhhhh.

I don’t remember his name. Or his face — in that moment or any other.

What I remember, now and always, is The Sound. The one that denim makes when it rips from one seam to the other. The one that denim makes when it ruins what you once perceived as your only chance with Him.

:: :: ::

This post is an exercise in letting it all hang out. It is a rough, first draft on this week’s Write of Passage writing prompt, Your Most Embarrassing Moment. You can check out other bloggers who are letting it hang out, too. Follow where the linky takes you!

:: :: ::

Dear Oprah,

I really don’t appreciate being made to eat my own words. It was, after all, just over a year ago that I defended you in your decision not to have Sarah Palin on your program. It was, after all, just over a year ago that I vehemently defended your pro-woman stance. Not that you, a popular culture goddess, need my defense. But my, how times change.

Today I tuned into your show to see you reverse that decision; to watch you interview Sarah Palin, a woman who it is suffice to say I will never see eye to eye with. I expected to be taken aback at least once during the course of that interview. I expected to find words coming from inside the television screen that would make my jaw drop, my head shake. I never expected those words — the ones that would leave my stomach sick with disdain — to come from your mouth. I never expected to walk away from that program feeling that you may actually be less pro-woman than Palin herself.

If it weren’t enough that you chose to question Ms. Palin on how she would handle holding one of the highest offices in the land with children at home even after readily acknowledging that we don’t ask these things of men, when she answered that she would handle it much in the same way any other politician does you retorted, and I quote, “they have WIVES!”

Wives, Ms. Winfrey? WIVES? Because as we all know good little wives are waiting at home taking care of the kids and cooking a casserole to make it all easier? WIVES? One must have a WIFE in order to juggle holding a political office and maintaining a family life? Please, explain this to me, Ms. Winfrey.

Explain how it is that you honestly feel it acceptable to question a woman’s fitness for a job in any way that you would not equally question a man’s? Tell me, why not just ask Sarah how she expected to perform her duties while grappling with PMS? At least that does fall wholly on the shoulders of women for good reason.

Today you gave weight to patriarchal non-sense, you took part in pushing women on their asses, you hurt us all. You should be ashamed of yourself. I know I am.

His jeans were starched and the most vivid shade of indigo I’d ever seen. His hair as white as the driven snow. His hands shook ever so slightly as he fumbled with his wallet.

I don’t get emotionally attached to many people. When I do, it’s intense.

On the matte, black conveyor belt that stood belly high to him there was a single stack of goods. Only closer inspection of the thin, rectangular boxes revealed their differences. Their waxed red exterior reflected the harsh flourescent light that shone down from above.

In my chest there was an unfamiliar twinge of discomfort. My heart.

The air had hardly been filled with silence, but the harsh beep of the scanner and the rustle of plastic as each box was rung-up and bagged struck my ears like a pick on ice. “Eight dollars.” His eyes were deep, intense, glossy.

I reached into my pocket, slid my fingers around my cell phone, gripped it tightly.

“Sir, eight dollars.” “Eig.. eight?” He repeated the amount as a question. A little louder the cashier responded. “Yes, Eight dollars, Sir.” His index finger was thick. The skin that covered it seemed impossibly thin in comparison. And pale. His veins, all visible, made a map on the back of his hand.

I am sometimes, often times, unreasonable in love.

I imagined they told a great story, could lead the way to the beginning of his life and back. The five dollar bill be pulled from his wallet was as fragile as he was. Tattered. Worn. The three one dollar bills that followed were as well.

I just wanted it to be over.

His walk was slow, labored, but not painful. He seemed to have all the time in the world and yet want none of it. Time crept. I watched, unable not to. Everything else faded. By the time he made it to the front door of the store I was only a few steps behind. Our feet hit the dark, wet pavement in synchronization. And then I veered to the left, leaving him behind. The sight, the sadness, the thoughts.

I breathed in the rain, pulled the cell phone from my pocket and there, right there in the dimly lit lot under the orange light and in the pouring rain, I dialed home.

It rang. He answered.

“Promise me one thing, when I die you have to eat. You have to live. You cannot buy ten TV dinners for the week. You just can’t.”

He agreed.

“I’ll eat.”

Understood.

“I love you.”

Reassured.

“Even when you’re crazy and unreasonable.”

The first time I woke up and could not move or speak was indisputably the scariest moment of my life. I’ve experienced things that would have any person’s heart pounding out of their chest; looked down the barrel of a gun, into the eyes of someone intent on hurting me badly with nothing between us, watched my husband flip an ATV at more than seventy miles per hour and slide across an icy embankment limp, found the ground coming at me entirely too fast when I was supposed to be sitting atop a horse, been pinned underwater by my own ATV after an accident not sure if anyone had seen it happen or would come to help, in a car that flipped 5 times before coming to rest on its roof. But in each of those incidents I have been in control — even if only of my own reaction. I have been able to scream out for help, to move at least a limb, to see more than darkness.

Sleep paralysis, as I would find out much later it is called, gave me no such comfort. There is no control, no ability even to react. You cannot move, cannot open your eyes to see, cannot speak. All you can do is hear, is know that you are awake but that your body is still asleep. And for how long, you never know.

The first time was about two and a half years ago. I never surmised at that time — or even shortly thereafter — that it may have been related to a severe concussion I’d experienced a few months prior. Lately, I’ve been wondering if it is more and more. At first it would last just a minute or two. Yesterday, it went on for at least 10 minutes. I know because I could hear the TV. It also used to happen only periodically. Once or twice a year at most. This year it has been more like once per month. And there are other … symptoms, that indicate perhaps the concussion I thought I’d recovered from did lasting damage.

There is the fact that I cannot lay on my back without pain shooting through the bottom of the back of my head — precisely where it was, by the way, that I was injured; precisely where it was that hurt excrutiatingly for a week during the concussion fiasco of 2006 if I so much as sat upright. There is the fact that sometimes, despite my once very quick-to-the-draw mind I forget very simple english words for days at a time. The fact that I’m not anywhere near old enough for that to be blamed on age.

It has been a few months now since the first time I connected the proverbial dots; since I have thought that perhaps these symptoms are related. It has been a few months since I have had to admit mortality inwardly. With all of the reckless, stupid, dangerous things I have done admitting even to myself that I can be harmed — potentially irreversibly — is hard. Admitting it aloud, even harder.

It’s not that I am so naive that I believe things — bad things — cannot happen to me. I know that. I know. I have been hurt. Badly. Repeatedly. But always I have recovered. I have healed. I have not had to confront the fact that some day, some thing may not heal. May not have really healed like I thought already.

And that is what is most difficult. Confronting once and for all the very real fact that my idea of fun may not always be my body’s idea of it. That my body may not be able to compensate for all the things I want it to.

Right now I’m still not even sure if that means I’ll stop asking it to.