This journal is (mostly) friends only. If you would like to be added to my friends list, please a comment on this post. It would be nice if you'd include a little about why you think we'd get on well if I don't already know you. The content of my journal will be mostly of a personal nature, although I do sometimes make posts related to current events or random things that I find which amuse me.

If you don't comment here, then I shall assume you're just here to read my public posts.

I am currently participating in therealljidol.

First off, apologies if this isn't quite as coherent or insightful as you'd expect it to be. It's almost 2 hours past my bedtime and I've got a 5 month old daughter who has me in perpetual sleep deficit.

This week I acted as a gatekeeper for therealljidol. It was an honor to be asked and I had a lot of fun doing it. Often, contestants are curious about how the gatekeepers evaluate the entries, what sort of methodologies they use, etc etc.

I didn't have any formulas or fancy rubrics for deciding whether an entry got my vote. I read the entries in the order that they were submitted. I tried to keep an open mind and reminded myself that just because an entry didn't initially seem like my cup of tea, it didn't mean that it wouldn't turn out that way.

What I looked for first was a clearly defined authorial voice. Whatever style the person was writing in, whatever the content, I wanted to feel like it was being told by an individual with a unique point of view. And, tying into that, it had to feel authentic. These things can be hard to define--it's abstract, not concrete.

Next I looked for stories that felt new, novel, fresh. Whether they were fiction or nonfiction, I wanted to feel like this was the first time I read this piece. There are certain topics and tropes that get played over and over again in Idol. Chances are, if you were writing one of these, I was more critical of your work.

Usually I say that I don't like fiction as much as nonfiction. After playing gatekeeper this week, I'm in doubt of the veracity of that claim. Some of my favorite pieces this week were fiction.

When I assembled my votes for the week, I discovered that I had voted for exactly one-third of the entries. For me, those were the entries that really stood out. There were a number of other entries that I considered good, but not great.

Over the past few days, I composed bits of my gatekeeper entry in my head. It all sounded far more eloquent than this. Sorry about that. I'd have waited until morning, but then it might never have gotten written.

I'll do my best to elaborate more in response to specific questions. I make no guarantees on the time frame of my replies, but I will do my best to respond to all inquiries.

This week in Utah, four thousand eared grebes crash landed in a Wal*Mart parking lot. They say that there was bad weather and that the birds were trying to make a night-time landing. In the vastness of night, the wet pavement looked like a lake. At 40 miles per hour, their glide would have been far more graceful had they hit water rather than asphalt.

It seems that this is just the price that we pay for paving over the world. Fifteen hundred dead and a couple thousand injured for what? There still aren't enough spaces for everyone rushing to finish their holiday shopping. We commemorate the arrival of the Messiah with imported plastic goods stamped "Made in China" at every day low prices. We cut down countless trees in our pine-pocalypse, and bedeck them with shiny silver strands of tinsel. 'Tis the season, after all. And a month later when the season has passed, we put them to the curb where the last shimmering bits draw the attention of animals and tangle in their guts.

As we approach the shortest day of the year, what we really need is more love. Something to get us through the cold dark despair of winter. We've forgotten how to love though, so we try to fill the void with consumption. We want more and we want it now. We build our holiday traditions on exploitation and death, but we ignore the real costs until they slap us in the face.

Until we're confronted with thousands of broken birds on pavement.

--------
(reference)

Two weeks after her birth, I gaze down at my sleeping baby girl, and ask myself: “How did she fit inside of me? Even more importantly, how the fuck did she ever get out?”

Lots of new moms are full of joy and wonder, all that sentimental stuff. Often I'm just baffled. When we lie in bed, side by side, her small body seems to fill the space from my chin to my hips. Where did I keep my organs for the last few months? How is it that I never split open from the pressure, baby limbs exploding forth from my abdomen, like the dinner scene in Aliens?

It's little wonder that I screamed so much when it was finally time to push her out. Whoever says that you forget the pain of labor is wrong. I remember. I remember feeling like someone was tearing my pelvis in two, the fibrous connection of the symphysis joint slowly snapping apart. I remember feeling like my vagina was crossing the event horizon, being ripped apart by tidal forces. I remember being convinced I was going to poop in the birthing pool, even though hormonal changes had already emptied my bowels prior to transition.

After, the nurses and midwives would ask me how my bottom was. I told them that my bottom was fine, but my labia felt swollen and bruised—silently wondering why they were so concerned about my ass when it was my vagina that had just done all the work. Turns out that “bottom” meant the whole region. Sitting there in bed with ice packs in my underwear, I was certain that my genitals would never tuck themselves back into position again.

It's even more perplexing now, though, as I study my body, searching for evidence of what it did for the last nine months. Two weeks after the fact and the evidence has largely disappeared. The extra weight has miraculously melted away, even though the literature tells me it should take months. There are none of those troublesome stretch marks I've been warned about to keep company with those left on my hips and breasts during puberty. Even the soft and slightly pudgy belly I'm sporting now differs little from the one I was sporting last year. A week ago, I could have still looked to my nether regions for clues. Now, the swelling has subsided and everything has tucked itself back where it belongs. All that remains as a testament of what my body has done is the faint shadow of linea nigra, mapping out a crude path from womb to birth canal.

When people talked about the miracle of birth, I used to think it was ridiculous. Now I understand that the miracle is that the impossible happens. Your belly expands beyond the point of reason. Then, a few weeks after you think you couldn't possibly get any larger, your body decides that it's time for you to endure pain of increasing frequency, duration, and intensity. Then, when you're past your breaking point, you strain harder than you ever have before—but when you're done, rather than a toilet clogging turd, you have an infant.

I'm not breastfeeding.

I thought that I would. Or, rather, I assumed that I would. The truth is, I hadn't given it much thought at all. Being the good old earth-loving, dippy hippie type, it seemed a given. I'm not sure that most of the people around me even asked me if I was going to--they just assumed as well.

And it was all okay, until it wasn't.

The first few days, I diligently performed my duty as a human milk factory. Each time my daughter cried, I would grit my teeth and bear it. After all, that's what a good mother is supposed to do. I was in pain, miserable, and experiencing memory triggers from past sexual abuse. All I wanted was to enjoy spending time with my beautiful new daughter, but that never seemed to happen, because all I had time for was feeding her.

When I decided to stop, relief washed over me. Not only that, but I noticed that my daughter seemed happier and more relaxed, as well. It was a good decision. But I can't let go of the shame I feel.

After all, the message is loud and clear: breast is best! A good mother will martyr herself in the name of breastfeeding. When your nipples are bleeding, keep going, the blood is safe for your baby. If you get mastitis, keep going, your pain will nourish your child! At all costs, you must make sure to keep nursing or the world will end.

I feel like a failure for placing my own mental health ahead of the great obligation of breastfeeding. I'm scared to even let people know. I'm scared of being viewed as somehow less. I'm scared that people will see me as some sort of sellout. I'm scared that I'll see all of my self-doubts reflected in the opinions of others.

I'm not breastfeeding, but I still think that I can be an awesome mother. In fact, I keep trying to remind myself that I already am one--because I made the choice to take care of myself so that I can take care of my child.

I don't believe in fashionably late. Probably that came from growing up with my mother, who was always a little bit early. The few times that she was supposed to pick me up and wasn't there when she was supposed to be were filled with anxiety on my side. Where was she? Why wasn't she here yet? As I grew older, that anxiety transferred to my own appointments. On time in my mind became at least 5 minutes early. As the clock ticked closer to appointment time, meeting time, start of shift, my heart would beat a little faster. I'd swallow more frequently. I'd check my watch or cell phone repeatedly, as though it would make some difference. As though I could will time to slow down, so that I'd have my comfortable cushion of minutes.

I don't do fashionably late, but it appears that my daughter is looking to adopt that lifestyle. My due date was yesterday, but she's still not here. In fact, she's not even made any motions to indicate an interest in vacating my uterus. That any time in the two weeks before and two weeks after my due date is considered normal is little comfort to me. In my world, an on time arrival would have been yesterday. Instead I'm sitting here waiting for what seems an eternity.

Sometimes I go and stare out the window, like I used to do when waiting for my friends to pick me up in high school. Once I knew I was waiting for someone or something, it was impossible to concentrate on anything else. So, I'd just stand there at the window. Watching. Waiting. Looking at the clock and wondering why it was taking so long. It makes no sense to look out the window now, but I still do it. I go and stand, gazing longingly at the road, as though my baby will magically appear out there on the dark pavement. No one ever said I was the most rational person.

For months when people gestured to my ever-expanding belly and asked if I was ready, the answer was a truthful “not really.” The reality of the situation weighed on me. All I could think of was how my life was going to change. How it would no longer be just me and my partner, but the three of us. We didn't plan to have a baby. In fact, we'd been taking measures to prevent it—but when faced with a contraceptive failure, after much soul-searching and many difficult conversations, we decided to go through with it. So, as my belly grew ever larger, at the back of my mind there were always doubts and questions, worries and fears.

A couple of weeks ago, that changed, though. One day I woke up and decided that I was ready. Or rather, that I was done, as supported by my belly button which now sticks out like a turkey thermometer notifying me it's time to take the bird from the oven. Now I'm past ready. I'm impatient. I can't focus on much of anything other than my obsessive waiting. I'm waiting to meet this incredible new person I've been incubating for 40 weeks. I'm waiting to post that exhilarating “I'm in labor!” note to my journal. I am waiting.

I.
The world bustles around me. Cars roll by. A jogger smiles as she passes. I shuffle one foot forward and wince as my pubis joint sends a jolt of pain through my body. After a pause I adjust my movement ever so slightly and try again. I have time. I am waiting for an epiphany. The discomfort of each step drowns out the endless drone of thoughts racing through my mind. In the quiet of pain I listen to wind and wave for coded messages that are never dispatched.

II.
I keep a bookshelf full of religious texts as a reminder. It reminds me of my dream. It reminds me that I need to stop procrastinating, find my courage and pull together my seminary application already. It reminds me that following my dream might be a foolhardy choice. Who would sign up to take on more debt in this economic climate, for the future job prospect of chaplain or minister? (A small interior voice whispers “me.”) Most days I fluctuate between the call to service and a crushing disheartening feeling. If all I had to consider was my own future, I'd follow my dream in a heartbeat—but with my womb on the brink of bursting with child, I must consider how my choices will impact her future and that of my partner.

III.
Sometimes I pray for guidance—even though I often don't know to whom, exactly, I am praying. As a Unitarian Universalist I feel I've got more questions than answers, more mysteries than revelations. And usually, I like it like that. My faith is not based in turning my will over to an outside force; it is based in a belief in creativity and the capacity to effect positive change. My faith tells me to look upon those around me with compassion, even when it challenges me. My faith tells me to help others: help them to grow and explore, to heal and help.

IV.
When you've been called to service how do you respond when you've been left no name or callback number?

V.
I fill my days with knitting. With organizing. With to do lists. With errands. With puzzles. With baby preparations. With everything except the time and space to reflect on this question so heavy in my heart. Sometimes actions are no more than distractions and what I really need is to sit in my discomfort until I find resolution. Sometimes moving your feet only works once you know where you're trying to go.

LJ Idol Season 8 Sign Ups have been posted. This is my post of intent to participate.

What, with being 37 weeks 4 days pregnant, I'm looking at oodles of free time to write in my future. Right?

The truth is, though, that I enjoy how much I learn about myself through this competition. If anyone on my friends list is looking to write more, meet some new LJ friends, or learn about themselves through a new experience--I would encourage you to join up for the adventure. And remember, while Gary runs the show, it's the participants who create the tone for each season. So, if you want to be a part of a community that welcomes people, encourages them to grow and develop as writers, knows how to have fun... come join me and make that community happen!

I've actually remembered to post on a Thursday for once.

"You are so weak. Give up to grace. The ocean takes care of each wave til it gets to shore." -Jelaluddin Rumi

The last week has presented me with challenges--but also with many opportunities for growth. I've been learning more about my resilience, my inner strength, and my capacity to become the person I want to be. At the same time I've also re-discovered that I have an amazing support network.

♥ my new laptop ♥ my matching pearl necklace and bracelet set ♥ my new haircut ♥ my homemade fingerless gloves ♥ lifting weights ♥ singing gospel music ♥ eating lunch with my economics TA ♥ ice stabilizers ♥ grocery shopping ♥ chocolate with chilis ♥ chai with steamed almond milk ♥ sitting in the sauna ♥ knitting ♥ having a lunchtime tarot reading ♥ katherynne who inspires me to make these posts ♥ rocking chairs ♥ watching robins roost ♥ getting a bird feeder ♥ hand lotion ♥ coal tar shampoo ♥ thermal underwear ♥ argyle knee socks ♥ you ♥

What about you? What makes your heart smile this week?

Once again, I come with a Things I Love post. I've found that in writing them, I am able to look back on my week and remember all the goodness in my life, from the big things down to the little things. Cultivating that sort of positive mindset has been so rewarding.

Natural warmth is our shared capacity to love, to have empathy, to have a sense of humor. It is also our capacity to feel gratitude and appreciation and tenderness. It's the whole gamut of what are often called the heart qualities, qualities that are a natural part of being human. Natural warmth has the power to heal all relationships--the relationship with ourselves as well as with people, animals, and all that we encounter every day of our lives. -Pema Chodron

♥ pair bonding ♥ weight training ♥ my green re-usable takeout container for the cafeteria ♥ filing my federal income tax already ♥ dinner at local sprouts ♥ staying on top of my school work ♥ tidying my space ♥ cultivating friendly acquaintanceships on campus ♥ helping others ♥ between class hugs ♥ tiger balm ♥ my favorite jeans ♥ spending time with the 'regulars' at sprouts ♥ singing backup vox ♥ playing woodblock ♥ sobriety ♥ cornmeal cookies with lime frosting ♥ warm snuggly bathrobes ♥ snuggle breaks ♥ greek yogurt with honey ♥ chatting with tea ♥ cooking dinner for my love ♥ music by members of the local sudanese community ♥ chocolate ♥ simon and garfunkel ♥ you ♥

And as always, I'd love to hear from all of you, my friends. What are you loving this week?