All things being equal

Equinox, a moment of balance. It came and went this morning at 9:03 a.m., while I was doing my morning study and meditating on personal liberty. Apropos.

The spirit of balance lingered today. I celebrated the even divide between dark and light by driving south with family for our annual grape-picking excursion at the home of some friends. Delicious green Himrods, those Utah beauties—oh! Soon my kitchen will be filled with the aroma of steaming grapes, and then we'll have the first provident bottles of 2011 ready to line the shelves of our pantry. I love the harvest season. And it's especially nice to begin refilling the coffers on a day of celestial balance.

On the drive down to Salem, I sat in the middle row of seats in my sister-in-law's van, next to my darling nephew, 3yo Finn. He announced to me happily, out of the blue, "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" It seemed like all the grownups in the vehicle stopped breathing for a couple seconds, but maybe that was just me. I'm pretty sure this wasn't something Finn had heard from his parents, but I could be wrong about that too. Wherever it came from, I just laughed and accepted it. Why not? Who would know better than Finn? And who am I to doubt such an intelligent fellow? He made his powerful assertion again a little later: "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" And then went on to describe to me how much he loves babies and likes to hold them, and I decided I would be very glad for him to hold mine once I have her... or find her... or him... or them... or... however this thing's going to happen. But I have it on good authority now; I'm gonna get one. Finn says.

Last year when we went grape-picking I was the beneficiary of another magical sentence, shared with me in a whisper while little arms were wrapped around my neck, a secret from my niece, Scout. Since it was a secret I won't share it, but it was a lovely shaft of light that came in through my ear and went straight into my heart to burn there all these months. I appreciate the tiny shiny voices of these people I love so much. I treasure their gifts and don't minimize them the least bit.

After today I'll be in my last week of my month-long garden detox diet. I took a Mason jar full of green smoothie with me grape-picking: it was lunch, if you use your imagination. There was enough that I gave everybody who was brave enough to try it a taste. Finn wanted a drink of it, so I helped him tip up the heavy jar and when it came down, he was wearing a Kermit green moustache. Ha! After his second swig, his moustache had grown into a perfect half-circle of swamp nog, plus a bright green unibrow from pressing the messy jar against his face. Pretty hilarious. I grabbed my camera but before I could shoot he'd sleeved his cheeks and was focused on the next part of lunch. (That green unibrow dried in place though, I'm tickled to report.) Scout saw me trying for a Kodak moment, so she obliged by taking her own big drink of my stuff and modeling the latest in lip fashion:

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." —Leonardo da Vinci

S-t-r-e-t-c-h-!

This is not a great photo, but I had to really crank the iPhone to get all of this baby in the Hipstamatic frame.

Our friends bought a limo for their family car, fer cryin' out loud! How fabulous is that? This is what happens when you have triplets before your Irish twins turn three. You need a real family wagon. With cupholders. And a privacy screen. And leather seats. And decanters! And a TV/VCR! And just enough curb space to park the thing!

It is a thing of laughable beauty. I hope our friends keep it and don't chicken out on this crazy wonderful eBay deal. Beats the pants off a minivan. They are a very special family and I think anything that helps them keep and share their great sense of humor as they navigate the winding roads of parenting five children three and under is a keeper.

I'm looking forward to my first ride in... what's its name, anyway? A 'mobile like that has simply got to have a classy name. Any suggestions? I'll pass 'em on.

About a Plant

Here we are, almost two years ago, just after learning I was pregnant again. Happy, thankful people.

A short time later we traveled to SoCal to spend some time with my dear uncle, who was in the process of wrapping up his mortal sojourn.

One day Rob and I went to the beach with my cousin. We went out onto the big pier and watched people fish and throw mackerel to the seals. (It isn't called Seal Beach for nothing.)

Later we poked around in a few shops downtown. My cousin bought a gigantic fake diamond for his wife, a piece of cut glass large enough to fill up my hand. 

There was nothing for sale that enticed me (except when we stopped in an Italian deli which nearly overpowered my will with its wall of olives) until we came upon a beautiful little open air garden shop. So many gorgeous growing things. I think Rob and my cousin Brett grew an inch of beard standing around, waiting for me to look at every last flower and succulent in the place. Twice. When I left, I had in tow a panda plant,

a few rescued pearls from a string of beads plant,

and a plant which is the one I want to tell you about. It's known as a mother plant.

This is the one I loved the best. Is it any wonder that I wanted to buy a mother plant to celebrate our big (but still secret at that point) joy? This plant is the succulent equivalent of a possom, carrying its "babies" till they're mature enough to drop to the ground and make it on their own. See the spiky edges of each leaf? Comfy lodging for a baby on each of those points. This kind of plant is so pretty to see when it's fruitfully full of its tiny riders. 

So, when our stay in Seal Beach reached an end, I carefully packed up my mother plant and the others and brought them all safely home to Utah. 

I expected to share some real maternal solidarity with the mother plant in the months ahead, but it wasn't meant to be. In the early summer I miscarried the baby I'd been so sure about. It was devastating. And the mother plant suffered. I never out and out tried to kill the plant, but I neglected it like I'd never neglected any other in my life. It remained in its tiny starter pot, with only the merest plug of soil to protect and sustain it. It dried out. Its babies died and it dropped most of its leaves. It stretched desperately toward light, toward any kind of nurturing, and grew spindly. It became deformed, almost two feet of thin green crisis. I might have watered it a few times (or Rob might have) in the beginning, a nickel's worth of a drink, only enough to be insulting. Then the soil really dried out, hard. The mother plant fell over and got pushed behind a junk pile. I never really forgot it; I began to ignore it. The sight of it depressed me but I couldn't persuade myself to throw it away... or take care of it either.

This non-story goes on and on. Months, many months passed. During those months Rob and I began working through the long process of preparing for an adoption through an agency, LDS Family Services. You'd think, wouldn't you, that I'd have made my peace with the mother plant then? Nope. Despite my own renewed pursuit of motherhood (possomhood?), the mother plant suffered on. 

Now Rob and I are facing a deadline that's less than two months away; we must complete our preparations so that once and for all we can qualify to become viable candidates for adoption. Do you know what people mean when they say they've been on an emotional roller coaster ride? I do. I'd like to say I've done nothing but push on diligently toward our goal for ten months, but I admit I stalled out here and there, scared and unsure, about irrational stuff. Or maybe rational stuff, depending upon how you look at it, but still irrelevant if you factor in faith. Yeah, what about miracles?

For instance, here's one: that crazy mother plant lives on. It's not a zombie, not undead; it's alive! It's been devastated, but it hangs on. It doesn't even seem to hate me. If my life was a Hitchcock film, or maybe a Kubrick, the mother plant would have strangled me in the night long ago, wrapped its horrible glow-in-the-dark tough skinniness around my neck and choked. But this show's got a finer director, so rather than whomping me with Mother Nature's curse, this little mother plant has shown me that survival is what we're made for. 

So March Forth, my very own holiday, came. A lot of good things happened that day, which I mentioned in my last post. The event that seemed the most celebratory and symbolic was finally caring for my mama possum plant. It felt like time, time to march forth in mothering and peacemaking. I found in our storage shed a pretty pot, never before used, and a new bag of potting mix. I put a magical rock from the day's hike in the bottom to cover the drainage hole. I kissed and clipped that mother plant. I cut her down again, and again, with my sharpest knife and steadiest hand, till there seemed to be almost nothing left of her. Then I carefully planted and watered her, and decorated her new home with more magical rocks and remnants of a beautiful old wall in Salt Lake, and set her on my favorite old plate to catch the extra water.

This is a lot of talk about a plant, isn't it?

The mother plant was curled and bent when I planted it two days ago. Today it's standing straight (already!) and that's an encouraging sight. I'm doting: Need a mist, love? Here you go! Such a forgiving thing, this plant. How did it go on so long in the face of my grudge and manage to survive on air? How? 

I have a habit of looking for symbols everywhere. Maybe I'm projecting too much onto this plant. Whatever happens with my own mothering, I'm through with killing-by-degrees this eager green life. I'm hoping it will soon feel well enough to possum up and make a few happy vigorous babies. If anybody wants a succulent start, I can certainly vouch for the strength of the stock. 

Reaffirming My Position

I tell you it will happen. 

I don't claim to know how or when, but they are coming. I'm not crazy. Wait and see. Migraines pass and the blur of tired vision clears. Hope and hot water bottles prevail. 

Buns in the Oven

Stayed awake half the night thinking about these:

This is my eleven-day-old cousin. Well, eleven yesterday.

She's the procreatee of two wonderful people:

Can you tell which is my blood relation?

Because I was up so far into the night (morning), thinking about my own long and winding path to parenthood, I woke up with a sick, underslept headache. It turned migrainous later in the day. I was good for much of nothing from that point on. No cooking. No thinking. No talking. Nothing but down comforter and hot water bottle (thanks again, Mirjam) and drugs and shades drawn.

I emerged from my underground cave hours later, and was met by these beauties cooling on the kitchen table:

The Baker Man had been hard at work. He had also filled my giant red Knit Night pot with chicken soup, but I didn't get a picture of that. Nice late supper. Nice Rob. 

Talk about comfort food. I'm going back to bed now to dream of lovin' from the oven. 

Silent triad, speak!

This is really something. Please visit the link. Please listen. Please read. Tell me what you think. I can't get enough. Nowhere near enough. 

I've been thinking for a while about recording adoption stories, starting my own collection. My Rob has been thinking about it too. We attend the monthly adoption workshops required by both state law and the agency we're working with, and in those we frequently get to hear adoptive families speak about their experiences. Last week we attended the October class and the entire time was devoted to a birth mother panel. Three brave, generous, beautiful women came and spoke about their journeys as they chose to place their babies for adoption. I don't know how to quantify how much love I felt for those women. No pity, no judgment, just deep admiration and awe. It was a sacred night, I felt. I was overwhelmed by love.

I think that November is going to be my month to make a start on this pet recording project. I'm already going to be conducting and/or facilitating three different interviews next month (non-adoption-related), so the ol' mic and recorder will already be fired up and ready to roll. If you think you would enjoy talking out your adoption story, please let me know, and maybe we can figure out when to chat in the coming months. I don't know that our discussion will ever end up on Transom.org or anywhere else important, but even if just you and I are the audience that's enough to make it worthwhile. If you can't or don't want to talk face-to-face, I can always record you over the phone or probably Skype (just give me minute to figure it out). Whatever part you've played in the "silent triad"—birth parent, adoptee, or adoptive parent—or as a different kind of participant, I am all ears. 

If you want to email me and discuss this more, my address is pogofig at gmail dot com.

I'd love to.

Human Beans, Indigestion

Do this:

Go to Pandora.
Scroll down and click on "Genre Stations."
Select "Latin."
Then select "Mexican."

Now you can celebrate Cinco de Mayo with me while doing your day's work.

Sick at my stomach. Umpteenth day.
Nerves.
Adoption orientation/intake in a few hours. Step one.
Budgeting.
Paperwork.
Self-doubt.
Kneeling. Praying.
Pep talk.
Pepto-Bismol?
Aiee!
Couldn't eat a taco now if I tried.

¡Gracias al cielo de Pandora!

And gracias to our dear ones who are sending prayers and happy thoughts our way.

P.S. Thanks to you-know-who for paying more than we asked for the guitar amp. You are sneaky and crazy and we love you.

Recycled: "We Are Not Amused"

I've been neglecting my blog home On Bright Street for a long time and I know it. I've nearly pulled it down a few times in the past several months, but can't quite seem to make my peace with that choice. I've finally come around again to the point where I began—plain and simple, this started out and continues to be a good way for me to be in touch with a few very significant people in my life, since I stink with telephones and hardly anybody gets into writing real letters anymore (although thankfully, Becca still does). But if I'm going to use Bright Street as that kind of communication tool then I've got to write here more than I have been. Imagine! Posting on one's blog! Novelty, indeed.

I have been doing a lot of writing lately—stories, journals, illegibly scribbled notes on pieces of napkins and scraps that sometimes enter another dimension through pockets and purses and laundry piles. I've been stringing words together, just not too much here.

But I will repent of my mum ways. In good faith, I will this very moment pull out for your inspection, like a rabbit from a hat, my latest contribution to a private blog generally written for two exclusive readers: myself and Rob. I'll give you this little peek into the state of our union before it's even a day old. Then hopefully I'll find something more to share here very soon.

Dear you—

I let myself check the calendar today, crunched some growing numbers, and decided that I really must be pregnant again. And guess what—I was not terrified by the prospect of a number five. I was thrilled.

I prayed. I asked for help. I eagerly shot one of those fridge-chilly, messy, still-ahead-of-expiration-date progesterone bullets up thataway, carefully adhering to last year's prescription label's strict directive: "1 per vagina." I studied scriptures. I thought secret things. My hands trembled. I simultaneously read and listened to an old recording of Genesis 1, the creation story, cried with happiness, and pled with the Lord to Let there be light in my womb. I borrowed a great line from a real Biblical trooper: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" and gave a good Sarah-worthy bellylaugh. I felt that sure of the situation.

I hopped on your bike because mine has a flat and put your seat down a little too far and pedaled like a low rider down to the dollar store for a dollar test, then I laid down not one but seven dollars, splurging on a silly color riot: sparkles for my eyes, bright nail polish, false eyelashes that would make a drag queen envious. I smiled my face off at everyone and nearly kissed the cashier but she had a goth's manicure and didn't look interested.

I hurried next door to The Good Earth to pee, which seemed appropriate. On my way in I picked up a sample of agave nectar and drank it down, saving the cup for my golden specimen. (I really went deluxe this time, yes?) Freddy Mercury was singing, "Aw, you're my best friend," and I thought of you and agreed. Locked in the public potty, I washed out my agave cup and then filled it again with something I thought might prove even sweeter, but . . . when I carefully wielded the plastic eyedropper and put four drops of my own nectar to the test only one pink stripe appeared, not two. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so sure I wold see a positive reading. So. Sure.

Should I even be telling you this?

I think so. Because I know you would want to share this with me. Even if it makes you sad.

Because you are my best friend.

I had been planning to go to yoga class this afternoon, but now I all I want is you and a toasted coconut donut. Anyway, I'm leaking progesterone now, and it makes me uncomfortable.

You should feel very proud of me. I never said the d-word or any other regrettable word even once and don't think I will this time. But I shall here and now make a rude and Queenly noise to express my vast displeasure and provocation whilst simultaneously keeping my clenching fists occupied and affirming the great and constant blessing of my life (to wit, you). Feel free to join in.

xoinfinity

Thanksgiving started today

Paradox: In spite of its underlying melancholy, my day has been one of joy.

I got a Facebook message last week from an old friend Rob and I knew and loved when we were first married. We lost contact eons ago, and I've tried several times to find him over the years. What a happy surprise it was to have him just show up and want to reconnect. But as if that wasn't enough, he shared some news today that made me whoop loud, smile long, and cry a little. It came in parts: (1) he's decided to be baptized into our faith (and close enough for us to attend), (2) he's got a plan in the works to marry a friend he knew in high school way way way back when, and (3) he's moving back to Utah, and will be only half an hour from us. SO FABULOUS. I almost can't stand it, it's so beautiful.

And then. AND THEN. I find out THIS: La Yen is preggers! So so so so so so so so so very glad for her and hers. You just never know when it's going to be your turn for a miracle. I love that La Yen is now a Fertile Myrtle. I love that Jooj is going to have a baby Waldo or Walda (or both!) to teach some tricks. I love that La Yen and W get to pass on their superior genes to some lucky hatchling(s). They've got the Nurture part down pat as far as I can tell, and now they get to add Nature to their repertoire. Lovely every way you look at it.

So now I'm on a roll and since my friend who's getting baptized, hitched, and relocated has always been deeply connected with Thanksgiving in my memory (I will offer photographic evidence of why when I can find the pictures), I hereby declare that the holiday has begun. Tomorrow I hope to find some black olives to wear on my fingers to really get it started right.

Heidi Egan, if you're reading this, I'm talking about STEVE MIKE. (I know!)

So here are a few other items for the gratitude list today:

• I managed to squeeze myself into some long-disabled cords, thanks to the ol' elastic band trick. I may get my wardrobe back this year after all, and even ditch the elastic bands.

• Got half my mountain of laundry done. Kilimanjaro, just for reference.

• This post. And this one. I love those girls.

• Said no to ranch dressing.

• Saturday music: Anna Moffo singing "Summertime," Derek & the Dominos covering "Little Wing," and an hour of bluegrass on Pandora

• Still eating black kale from the garden.

• My hair's beginning to grow back and fill in some of its crop circles.

• Had an unlooked-for chance to help Rob make an activity successful for a regional gathering of single adults which was held at our church meetinghouse.

• Got a nice big kiss planted on me in front of said singles after whispering to Rob that I'd been getting heavily flirted at by several of the fellers present.

• Pumpkin chocolate chippers.

• Goose down comforters.

• This.

• An at-home date: eating in, working to figure out details for our shadow puppet theater, and going for a chilly downtown walk.

• Table talk.

• Tony in the east, and Tony in the west, and the gift of their communications.

• Midnight biscotti.

But seriously, who gets hula hoop cuts?

It finally arrived.

I sent for it early this year, during the time when I was discovering Kundalini yoga and ordering workout and dance DVDs in lieu of joining a gym. It was on backorder for a couple weeks—okay, I can deal with that. When it didn't arrive by the promised date, I gave it a couple more days for good measure then called the company. Still on backorder, the supplier's fault, they said. Nothing we can do, lady. You still want it?

Of course. I want it.

Meanwhile, I did my Kundalini, my Bollywood, some ballet conditioning. I started learning basic salsa again, and some hip hop. (Hey! I heard that snicker!)

Still it didn't arrive. Am I going to have to call and get my money back?

Then I got pregnant. Fatigue and nausea set in, along with wild cravings for gingersnaps, Manzanilla olives, and Café Rio chicken tortilla soup. I flopped. Then I got busy and ordered pre-natal workout DVDs. No gym for us, but movement was still a must, so I switched over to bellydance (appropriate), Pilates, and exercising with a pregnant acrobat from Cirque du Soleil.

I still wanted it, but the thought of trying to use it with a growing belly made my eyes roll. Okay, I said, I can wait for it a while longer, since obviously I must, and since I won't use it for a few more months anyhow.

Long story short, it kept on not coming and then I forgot about it. My mind was taken up by the miracle at hand, and by trying to keep a level head, in case that miracle should turn out to be short-lived like the others.

And it did. At the tail end of June I started miscarrying. Rob and I hadn't told people about this pregnancy, not even our families, hoping to avoid getting some dear-to-us hopes up only to have to dash 'em again. We hoped and prayed we'd eventually have some fantastic news to share, or that in time folks would finally figure out the secret—that I was getting too fat to blame it solely on Eliane's French Bakery.

But. That's not the way things went.

So July has largely been about big pain and a drawn-out recovery. About fat and slow and a frustrating inability to stand up straight. I really hated being forced to quit the circus.

But by golly, it—that thing I ordered months ago—finally arrived. It showed up when I least cared, when I was still deeply Lortabbed and weepy with hurt, just as we were leaving for a family wedding and visit back east that I felt more than unprepared to handle.

I pulled it from its box and hated it almost instantly—bubble gum pink and flashy gold!—is it possible that colors exist in this world that are any less "me"? I shoved it back into its box, and away we flew to upstate New York.

(It was an exhausting trip, by the way, but I am so glad I didn't stay home like my body wanted me to. It was good to spend that untimely time with Rob's clan. I love them all, boy howdy.)

(I didn't love having to be there fat and sick though.)

(My fattest ever.)

(Ugh. Vanity hurt my feelings.)

We returned home from our traveling last week. Two days ago, I pulled pink and gold parts from the box again and this time put the gaudy thing together. I gave it a half-hearted swing, but still didn't care.

Yesterday I picked it up with real intent, and what's the first thing that happened? It sliced my hands in three places. But I set it in motion. I forgave it for being pink and gold. I also forgave it for giving me ridiculous cuts.

The only time I went back on that forgiveness was for a few seconds today at lunch, when I got balsamic vinegar in the biggest cut. OW.

Today I gave it another good swing, and kept it going 'round just a little bit longer. Tomorrow, I'll keep it circling for a little longer still.

Maybe if I keep at it eventually I'll be truly ready for the circus.



Photo: Mädchen mit "Hula Hupp" Reifen
from the German Federal Archive via this page

That's how it happens? Oh, now you tell me!

Sheesh, we've really been overthinking the process. We could have made a whole houseful already! And a few for our friends! Why do we always have to make things so complicated?

GOSH!

Well, rest assured, Rob and I are two old dogs that CAN be taught new tricks. Stand by for offspring.

Baby, cat, baby, baby, etc.

3 Beautiful Things du jour:

1. Y., my young Puerto Rican friend who likes to sometimes call me her American mom, phoned this morning and asked me what it means if the test shows two lines, but the second line is lighter than the first. I told her that her baby probably prefers pastels.

2. Another friend of mine, K., a single woman, gave an amazing talk about gratitude this evening at the Saturday session of our stake conference. I got to visit with her afterward and it was sweet to catch up a bit, and also compare notes about our recent thoughts on the subject of her address. K. took care of her elderly mother for ages till she died about three years back. K. told me that for as long as her mother lived with her, every day when K. came home from work her mother said to her, "I'm so glad you're back. It's so nice to have you home." When her mother passed away, K. said it was such a lonely feeling coming home to a quiet house with no one there to greet her with words of warmth and love. I'm sure the house would've loved to offer some, but like most houses, it didn't come outfitted with a tongue. After some time went by, K. decided she needed to get a pet: a cat for company. She carefully conducted a search for just the right creature. She looked everywhere, taking great pains to make no mistake. When she met up with a small cross little kitten she felt such a strong sense that this was her pet, so she took him in, lacerating claws and biting teeth and all. This cat now has a nasty reputation among the neighbors. Wo to the catsitter when K. goes on a trip! There have been stories of blood and gore, and I believe them. Boots, of course, is not a cuddler (not that anyone's offering), and he sniffs at the idea of condescending to purr . . . generally speaking. The astonishing thing is that every day when K. comes home from work, Boots is expectantly perched (as he is at no other time of the day or night) in the front window, watching for her arrival. When she walks through the door, Boots purrs at her with the greatest of genuine pleasure and solicitous affection, and they have their moment of greeting. K. says she knows that Heavenly Father is in the details of our lives, and that he cared enough about her lonely feelings to help her locate a little grumpy cat who would say (in catspeak) the same things to her that her dear mother did. She attributes her recognition of this connection to spending time every night recounting her day and looking for ways to be grateful as she prays. She says, "I'm sure I would have missed that detail otherwise."

3. T., a friend from Salt Lake, stopped by late tonight on his way out of town to say hello and give us an update on life. He is in his early 50s, I think, and his wife of just a couple years, L., is either closing in on or just beyond 40. Their news? A baby on the way, of course. We don't have frequent contact with T. and L., but we like them both a lot. They'd heard from our good friends next door about our recent episode—miscarriage #3—and he was very serious about encouraging us to "keep trying," "whatever it takes," "the fourth time was the charm for us." He shared with us that they had miscarried three times in rapid succession before this one "took." (And at the six-month mark, they are well past their dangerously unlucky first trimester.) T. talked about environmental factors and all sorts of other possibilities that he saw as potential hindrances, so we agreed we should wear nothing but organic fig leaves and get off the consumer grid to help our fertility along. Anyway, he was so kind and so sincere. They've had dreams of two boys like we've had dreams of two girls, so his parting suggestion was that we merge the family lines when the time is right.

Why stop there? I'm also grateful for:

• spotting our friends for the first time out with their new adopted baby, and noticing how thrilled and involved they look
• the fragrant green wreath on my front door (finally a piece of Christmas cheer!)
• a wonderful handmade Japanese-style pin cushion, just arrived from Australia—thank you, Donna, for the fabulous PIF pressie!
• running half of my laps this morning
• no shin splints yet
• Portabella ravioli, sautéed mushrooms, garlic cream sauce
• knee socks
• way too many umbrellas and Rob's plan to give them to strangers getting wet
• clementines
• contrasting friends
• hearing a story about Elder Russell M. Nelson memorizing faces and names of people he'd be with for less than a day
• the white stuff—the right stuff (snow, snow, and more snow)
• snowmen and snowwomen appearing everywhere
• safely accomplished car errands
• not falling down stairs
• the way the tiny girl dragged her dad away from the psychology aisle (also the sexuality aisle, which is where Dad's attention seemed to be stealthily drawn) and said, "C'mon, Dad, c'mon. C'mon, Dad. Kids' books. C'mon, Dad."
• seeing one of our teen friends doing a giftwrapping fundraiser with his speech and debate club at Borders (apparent positive extra-curricular involvement + one very überintelligent, dynamic kid = relief for those who worry about him)
• writing something small and impromptu for a Segullah word game
• News from Lake Wobegon
• walking together in the snow
• getting to bed before midnight (at least I think I will)

Me-Me U

Devise a list of 5-10 courses you would take to fix your life. It's more fun to be in classes with friends, so include one class from the person who tagged you that you'd also like to take. Tag five.

I've been tagged! Well, this meme-turn comes at exactly the right time, smack dab in the middle of my dreaming about going back to school. So here's an unexpected opportunity to make a dreamy new start and transform my entire life with just a few easy classes! Whoopee! Watch me work.

A class which I would jump at the chance to take is Humor 101 with am'n2deep, my friendly bloggerhood tagger. I think a full semester of serious belly laughs in good company would go far toward clearing my mind and possibly tightening my muffin top so I could squeeze back into my old jeans.

Next, I'd fill my schedule with the following classes, recent additions to the Me-Me U academic catalog:

•PSYCH 413: Sugar Aversion Therapy (lab required)
•EXSC 171: Swimming for Water Chickens
•BIOL 347R: Forty and Fertile
•REL C 090: Remedial Visiting Teaching (non-credit)
•TMA 121: Breathe, Relax, Find Your Voice
•ENGL 518R: Just Get It Written, Already!
•CHEM 698R: Kissing—Master's Project
•VASTU 220R: Art Techniques for the Undiscovered
•DANCE 184: Living Room Salsa Dancing
•WS 392R: Mood Swings for Fun & Profit

Who want's to play next? How about rc cola!, andi, lois, nigel, and livs, if you can stand it? I don't think I've picked on any of you with this meme stuff before.

P.S. Any of you other lovely chums who wish to be picked on, please pick yourselves for this meme. I already picked you as friends, and as far as I'm concerned it's a standing pick. xo

Negative, positive

We'd just finished enjoying a late lunch of coastal Carolina-style fish stew on Wednesday when the phone rang. It wouldn't have done any good not to answer it. Results from the nurse on my latest hCG test. News I was unprepared for. The number isn't rising, is retreating, has given up doubling, has doubled back, has doubled-crossed us. There are no ifs ands or buts about what this implies; been there, done that before. It can only mean one thing. No miracle baby hatching in April. Sophie's flight has been cancelled.

I don't understand!

That was all I could think, all I could say, all I could choke out with my tears.

(I'm telling you this now, because I let you in, I invited you to the mad-happy celebration, and because of that you are now part of the story too. And I'm glad you have been. And still are. That said, it's really okay with me if you feel like you need to stop reading this.)

I thank God that Rob was with me in that moment. That I didn't have to ring him on the intercom or drag myself the twenty steps to the shop just to hurt him.

Holding me, he said, "Let's go for a drive." Forget work.

The gas tank was blessedly full. Rob aimed the car north and soon we passed out of a melting city into a blurry autumnal canyon. I don't care how fast you go.

He took me to Heber, to a small antique shop we'd tried on other occasions to visit always to find a "CLOSED" sign aggravatingly propped in the window. This time we were lucky.

On any other day I would have said the boutique was a little disappointing. It's got nothing, of course, on the place here in town run by our own dear Gary of the Tiaras and his business partner. The new place had mostly ho-hum antiques, with a lot of girly stuff thrown in—chenille cakes, cheap costume jewelry, lots of gingham chicken-scratch aprons, ladies' straw hats, and the DIY Network blasting from a small teevee screen in the back room. But it was a relief to have something frivolous to look at, bits and pieces of fluff to pick up and put down again, a direction to walk in.

I happened to spy a small stack of old black and white photographs in a box on a corner shelf, and was drawn to go through it. Photos are nearly always irresistable to me. I was able to smile a little at some of the family shots, images that look just like what's in everyone's grandmother's scrapbooks—frumpy, birthing-tough matrons; stringy men smoking cigarettes; precocious boys in woollen knickers; young bucks posing with their cars, each with one foot planted on the running board; women, young and old, huddled together in front of flowering bushes, wearing drop-waist frocks and fur collars; small girls with Clara Bow bobs; almost everybody in a hat.

I was nearly through distracting myself with bygone lives, and considering the circumstances, was doing a pretty admirable job of overcoming gloom for Rob's sake, when I found a wonderful photo, a beautiful little girl holding a bird cage. It made my breath catch. Quickly finishing the stack, I also found the photo's negative. I've got to have these, I said to myself.



Most of you won't recognize what about this picture grabbed me, because I haven't yet related much of the symbolism that has long been and recently become tied up in this epic baby acquisition project of ours. I would be writing for hours if I were to try to get you up to speed with a single post; it's something I'll need to spread out over time, and some of it, naturally, isn't suitable for blogging anyway. I wish you could just lean your forehead against your computer monitor and I could osmote some history through cyberspace to you.

I'll tell you this much: My personal sky has over the past few years become filled with birds. It started with a Dream I had, of two beautiful hummingbirds. That will ring a bell for some of you who've known me a while and know me well, and who have even grown comfortable or brave or nuts enough to refer to those little birds by name. Sophie. Mercy. (If I'm going crazy, then I guess I'm taking you with me. It is a small comfort.) The bird motif has broadened in the past while to include a number of other magnificent wingéd creatures, even small shining fireflies. This is where I think I'll leave the point for now, though I want to come back to it in some other post.

So, I found this picture and its source, its reverse, its negative. Even just that little detail was remarkable to me—both pieces were in my hands. But the photo! At first I only noticed the dark bird inside the cage, but then I realized there was also a smaller, lighter bird. Two birds, safe and cared for in the hands of a gentle, smiling, proud girl. I can't describe how the image spoke to and comforted me. I felt absolutely seen and understood. I know it makes me sound dreamy, but honestly, I felt it was a tender little gift from God. I know, honey. I know. Don't lose heart.

*************

I had strong feelings about this pregnancy. I was so sure it would work out this time. I have had some beautiful and sacred feelings and experiences—I do mean much more than just a heart full of longing wishes, although that has been ever-present—these all seemed to come together and point to a complete springtime nestful of YES. For once, I tried to put all my fears far away from me and give myself to believing the answer I felt I was being urged to embrace. Even now, in the depths of loss, I don't think that was a mistake.

I was told this pregnancy was a miracle, an answer to prayer. Is it any less so, now that it's ending in an unexpected way? I don't think so.

I have a long list of incredible moments that I've been intending for weeks now to write about—insights, interactions, inspirations, et cetera. Should I throw away that list now, and call it meaningless, or worse? I really don't feel that to be so.

At first I was completely bewildered. How could it be over, after all I've seen and heard and felt? (I wish this was the right venue for giving more details. But I guess I'm already in violation of some propriety code or other. What in the world possesses me to go on like this, compromising my own introversion?)

This is much longer than I meant it to be. Let's get to the bottom line:

I will not be shaken off my foundation by this. Apparently, there are some lessons I need even more than I need a child right now. I know God loves me. Deep down, I believe that this is an opportunity, not a punishment. It's an invitation to learn—to learn more patience, to learn to "wait on the Lord," and to examine the nature and healthy expression of faith—my own faith as well as others'. It's a chance to learn compassion, and to practice forgiveness. It's a time to keep going. I don't know what else this is, but I trust I'll find out.

If I manage to learn what I need to, then the sting of this investment will have been worth it.

What was sacred is still sacred. Yes will still ultimately be yes. I just need to open myself up for new and better interpretations of the mystery that is this moment. For now, I'm not in a rush to connect all the dots. I trust that it's okay to live with my frazzled, rapidly-changing feelings, that I'm not condemned for moving through the grief process, even the really ugly, sometimes almost dangerously angry parts. I trust that the answers to my questions are known to God, and that when the time is right I'll be able to know them too, but it isn't up to me to set the deadline. I trust that it all makes sense, even if I can't make sense of it yet.

I hoped this would be a more cohesive post, and a brighter one. Oh, well. I'm working things out, and I'm too tired to edit. You get what you get.

Thanks for reading along.

*************

My dear friend Debby came over today with a coupon and persuaded me to go shopping with her. I came home from BB&B with a bright yellow teapot. It's such a cheerful color; I thought it would help me feel better to drink water boiled in enameled-steel sunshine. My happy pot sings in four-part harmony when it's all ready to kiss tea leaves.

Early this morning I took a break from the heaviness and the processing and I danced and danced till I couldn't anymore to just one favorite song, a song that seems to perfectly capture my current state of mind. It's a sweet one. Would you like to try dancing to it as well? (The lyrics follow.)

The Littlest Birds

Well I feel like an old hobo
I'm sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as the summer day
Now the summer days are through
You pass through places
And places pass through you
But you carry 'em with you
On the souls of your travellin' shoes

Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways
One of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

Well it's times like these
I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin' footsteps of a wanderin' child
And I'm lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin' these blues with a warble and a trill
But I'm not too blue to fly
No I'm not too blue to fly cause

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

Well I love you so dearly
I love you so fearlessly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I don't wanna leave you
I love you through and through

Oh I left my baby on a pretty blue train
And I sang my songs to the cold and the rain
I had the wanderin' blues
And I sang those wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways
One of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

(I don't care if the sun don't shine
I don't care if nothin' is mine
I don't care if I'm nervous with you
I'll do my lovin' in the wintertime)

~Syd Barrett

Check out Agnes Mae!

I love it! Were you in on the Bright Street baby name discussion recently? C-dub brought up Agnes, and I had just the day before developed a crush on that name, as pronounced by the French, after having watched a foreign film from the library. Since then, I've been coming to realize that I even adore it with a bland American accent. It's funny how tastes can change. The same thing happened with the name Henry a couple years ago—I went from dislike to luv in nothing flat. It's like when I was a kid and I changed practically overnight from gagging over avocados and mushrooms to being unable to live without them.

What this is all leading up to is just a teeny-einy link to hopefully brighten your day, as it did mine. A nice person named Phoebe just came out of lurk mode to leave me a thoughtful comment. I went to visit her blog, and lo and behold, there was a baby Agnes! Not only an Agnes, but an Agnes Mae! Mae is one of my adored names of choice, a family name, always on The List. Don't know if I'll ever get to use it, but I love it.

Anyway. If you haven't met Phoebe or Agnes Mae, you oughta go and do. I've got a fresh crush on a girl with a strawberry on her swaddled bum.

Yes

Just pee for two

Thanks, beautiful Shakes woman, for the 6¢ loan so I could buy a pregnancy test at the dollar store. I dropped my coat and bags the moment I walked through my front door, took a quick dose of curry courage, and cracked open the kit. Never mind I used an old pretty teacup to catch the stream. Never mind three straight days of collective dreams. Never mind Noel for a middle name. There was only one pink stripe. I didn't really believe there would be two, but I had to check, because a dollar's a dollar (without tax), and there's always a chance that there'll be a third time (charmed, I'm sure) and that there mightn't be that old telltale feeling of fullness in my stomach to make me suspect.

Thanks for curry and compassion and conversation and cruising for undershirts and keeping cool when some cad of a criminal obviously moved your car in the mall parking lot. You're terrific.

I owe you 6¢ now that your investment in a godchild has gone belly up.