On the Move

Following a new path

I can usually tell how busy my life has been by the frequency of my blog posts.When I'm in survival mode, I don't have the time, energy, or mental space to go to the reflective place I need in order to write. Well, it's been more than six months since I've had a chance to write a blog, and what a six months it has been! We've been without a permanent address for most of that time, living on the road while traveling around the country screening our documentary film. Most of our belongings are in storage, Lily has been on more airplane rides than I can count, I've slept in more guest beds than I can keep track of, and over 8,000 people have come to film screenings and discussions. In true Dickens' fashion, it has been both the best of times, and the worst of times. But let me back up.

My last post, written in what feels like a different world to me, was about feeling gratitude for living in the city with Lily, about finally letting go of some angst around the concept of home and just settling into the truly wonderful situation we had living in San Francisco's Richmond district. We could walk to most everything and had the convenience and culture of city living next to the splendor of the Presidio and the ocean. Lily might not have a garden or a very big room, but life was good. We worked together on a meaningful project from our home, and Lily could walk to both world class museums with babysitters and roll naked down sand dunes with friends in the woods near our home on Lake Street. 

My gratitude, while profound, was short-lived. 

Just two days after posting that piece, we got word that our landlords were going to be selling our unit. San Francisco has strict rent control laws meant to try to help people like us stick around despite the incredibly high housing prices. However, our landlords had won what's called the "condo lottery", after applying for eight years, and normal rent control rules weren't going to apply to us for much longer. We'd known about the condo conversation for a year, but what was new was their intent to sell…and with a date attached. In November of 2012, we'd need to move. 

Now, this is the second time we've had to move out of a space in San Francisco without it being our idea. Three years ago, our beloved studio space was needed by our landlady for her son's family, and now we were on the unfortunate side of the condo lottery. In both situations we could have made more of a noise and gotten a tenant's rights' organization involved--the first time we were technically due quite a sum of money to make up for the costs and inconveniences of what's known as an owner-move-in eviction. (We didn't pursue those funds because we thought of our landlady as family, and she'd treated us and our family with great generosity. I'm still very grateful we didn't try to get greedy and put money before a relationship. It was the right choice on many levels.). And, this time, we were advised by tenant advocates that we could refuse to move, put up protest signs in the windows, and test the legality of condo conversation evictions vs owner move-ins when a school-aged child was a tenant. If you don't live in San Francisco or another tightly-regulated rental market, none of this likely makes much sense, but in a place like San Francisco where rents are ridiculously high and the vast majority of residents rent, there are regulations and policies in place to try to keep a diverse population and to keep the city within reach of artists, teachers, pastors, non-profit workers, social workers, and the rest of us who don't work in high tech or finance. We ended up deciding we didn't have the energy to launch our film and have a big, messy, draining legal fight over where we lived. 

Last time this happened, we took advantage of the rent savings and went on the road for three months (and 10,000 miles) to really dive into the production phase of our film. We set up story booths all around the country to listen to stories from LGBT Adventists, and we interviewed scholars, professors, pastors, and other experts from a wide range of perspectives (this was back before we realized we wanted a pure story approach for the film). Lily was nine months old when we left and a bit over a year old when we returned. It was tiring, a bit nuts, but incredibly rewarding. It's what we look back on as a formative and necessary research phase of this film.

At the lovely Seattle Lesbian & Gay Film FestivalThis time, we realized that we needed to be on the road for several months doing screenings and discussions as our film started to roll out at film festivals and community screenings in theaters, churches, and community halls. We made a list of all of the locations where we really wanted to be present for a community screening and discussion in order to feel that we had put our best effort into this phase of the film. It was a long list…And, yet again, not paying rent and utilities would make this a lot more feasible to actually pull off. So, we first sublet for a month while doing screenings back east, then we asked our landlords if they'd help pay for moving expenses in exchange for us leaving a few months earlier than required (which would help them get the apartment on the market before the holidays). They agreed. We moved in a flurry of five days in between screening trips in August. 

I've lost track of just where we've been and where these past few months (our screenings page helps me remember!), but what I do know if that life has been in almost constant motion. I've barely had a moment to myself, and the constant need to keep on top of logistics for the next flight and the next screening--all while on the road with a three-and-a-half-year-old--was all I could manage. We were living on adrenaline and from one screening and location to the next. In between screening trips, my parents generously opened up a wing of their home to us--and they kept our dog the entire six months.

Lily with the great volunteers at the SWGLFF...devouring popcorn!Amazingly, Lily did really well with all of the travel, new people, new beds, and new babysitters. We did have a disastrous evening in Albuquerque after the Southwest Gay & Lesbian Film Festival screening. It was one screening that I hadn't been able to find a babysitter to help with, and we were at the end of a tiring two weeks (I was just off two red eye/very early am flights over two days to fit in an additional D.C. screening the day prior). We were all ready to collapse. The friendly volunteers at the festival helped entertain Lily, which was a lifesaver but resulted in her eating a large quantity of movie theater-style popcorn and frozen yogurt. Then after the screening, we went to tea across the street with a few friends and locals who had come. It was lovely, except Lily managed to snarf at least three or four cookies before I caught on. Then we slept in a guest room of a relative we'd never stayed with before in Santa Fe, which is over 7,000 feet in elevation. Tired Lily, way too much junk food, high elevation = one very pukey kiddo at 2 a.m. Did I mention it was an all-white guest bedroom? And we'd given her some kids' Pepto Bismal when she'd first said her tummy hurt? It was an unmitigated disaster.

And, it got worse. Usually Stephen checks us in online the day before our departure. With the screening happening, he didn't get to it that day, and somehow his Southwest app put the departure in his calendar for a different time zone. We arrived at 9:15 the next morning at the Albuquerque airport only to discover that our airplane left at 9:35, not 10:35 as we'd thought. We missed the flight. And this was the Monday morning after the hot air balloon fiesta. Every other flight was quite full, and the chance of getting on stand-by with a party of three was slim. We simply couldn't afford the upgrade fee to confirm a later flight, and we knew from how challenging it had been to find lodging that nearly every room in the area was booked (and marked up significantly) due to the balloon festival, so as appealing as going somewhere to rest sounded, it wasn't likely. 

About this time, I put Lily's hair into a pony tail and discovered that she had chunks of vomit dried in the back of her hair from the night's drama. I broke down and began sobbing silently. The Southwest agent, who already felt sorry for us, brought me tissues. As we were considering driving to Phoenix to get a flight, Stephen happened to show the agent his Southwest iPhone app and the time error, although he also said he knew he should have checked in himself and double-checked everything. It was actually all she needed to consider the error theirs and not ours, which allowed her to confirm us on a later flight without charging us more. We still had almost six hours to spend in the Albuquerque airport with a child who had dried vomit chunks in her hair, but at least we knew we'd be on a flight that day. (And later, when we did get on the flight, they were asking for volunteers to be bumped, so we would not have made it on stand-by.)

That would be the worst of times. Thankfully, the best of times far outweighed the bad. There was always a lot of stress and nerves, but there was also a huge amount of satisfaction seeing the film screen to so many crowds and be so well received. Over the year, the film screened 42 times to over 8,000 people. We were personally at all but five of those screenings. I'm supposed to be the wordy one, but I don't even quite have words to describe what it felt like to feel audiences fall in love with the people in our film and be moved by their journeys--no matter their beliefs or convictions--people are moved and expanded by watching our film. This is, of course, thanks to the incredible people who opened up their lives and trusted us to tell their stories. But it is also because we just kept at this despite very large obstacles and personal challenges for almost four years. And it felt good to see it amount to something positive in the world and in the faith community that goes back for generations on both sides of our families.  

One of our most memorable screenings this yearOne of my favorite moments was in the Powerhouse Theater in Walla Walla, WA, which is where a large Adventist university is located. The student leaders had planned and coordinated a screening in this theater, which was a renovated 1890s old, brick power house that had been turned into an authentic Shakespearean theater-in-the-round. It had great energy, and it sat more than 350 people, yet its vertical design managed to make the space feel incredibly close and intimate. They had a huge silk they draped for a screen, and the image quality was great. The turnout was phenomenal, and the only place I could sit was up above the audience looking down through the lighting rig. Feeling their laughter, their tears, their journey through the film from that vantage point was magical. I felt blessed and lucky to have been able to do work that felt so worthy of all of our time and our audiences. And then when the entire crowd gave us a standing ovation and stuck around for a beautiful discussion that focused on listening, sharing authentically, and loving despite difference--that was an evening and moment in time I'll carry with me. There have been a lot of moments like that (the La Sierra sanctuary and 1,000 people in attendance stands out too!), and a lot of emails and comments from people that help us know what a true difference this is making in lives, families, churches, and communities. It's what has made it worth the challenges.

Through all of the travel, we've been uncertain about where we would land on the other end. Our hearts have been in San Francisco for eight years now, and there is much that we love there by way of friends, networks, cafes, incredible walks--I could go on and on. But we've known for a while that the finances weren't going to work much longer. San Francisco is now the city with the highest cost of living in the entire U.S., even above New York. Prior to having Lily, we would have found a way to squeeze our life into a studio somewhere quaint and call it an adventure. But now, we knew she needed a long-term community that would work for her as well. San Francisco has a notoriously hard time keeping young families due to the housing costs and insane school-assignment lottery system that nobody understands or trusts. Unless you have the funds for private schools (easily $25,000 a year even at the grade school level), it's just not a situation that many families can tolerate. They move north, south, or east. Over half of the families we've been close to in the past four years have moved and become part of the family flight statistics.

And, as of this week, so have we. 

It was not an easy decision. In retrospect, one of the only ways we could have left San Francisco was in stages, like we did--first a short sublet, then traveling with the idea of returning, then eventually realizing we were priced out. We didn't finally make the decision until after Thanksgiving when stayed for almost a week in a friend's apartment in Oakland. Parts of the the East Bay are affordable, and we wanted to see if they were parts we could imagine living in. It didn't help that on the third night our car window got smashed in--unfortunately, the affordable areas also often have much higher crime rates. And, since we'd lived on the western side of San Francisco, all of our routines, favorite haunts, and most of the families we did excursions with lived a good 45 minutes in good traffic away. That's not very realistic to keep up for a family, and the idea of living where we'd be looking across the bay at where we really wanted to live sounded like a recipe for resentment. And, we still wouldn't ever afford to buy a home anywhere we wanted to live in the Bay Area. That was becoming important to us again, both because we want a long-term home for Lily, and because we'd just been forced out twice from rentals before a time of our choosing. 

Super Hero Lily making friends in an airportWe've been to a lot of cities and towns across the country this year (and when we did our first filming trip), and both times when we've been traveling, we were without a permanent home, so we found ourselves doing a lot of "trying on" and imagining if we could live in various towns. We were very tempted to live close to grandparents and cousins, as we love being near family. But ultimately, we also know we need the vibe and personality of the location to inspire us to want to do the work we've chosen to do, much the way San Francisco and our community there helped birth our current film. There are definitely several cities we could imagine calling home (love you Burlington, NYC, Fort Collins, Bozeman, Chicago, and Sydney), but only one kept us coming back: Portland, Oregon. For us, Portland feels like it has an independent spirit and creative vibe like San Francisco but without the banking and high-tech circles that drive housing up. And a surprising number of people, upon hearing we're going to be Portlanders, tell me that they have good friends here, that they love this town, that they can imagine us fitting in here.There is a small film community (nothing like our beloved SFFS, but one that feels like we could eventually find community). We have good friends nearby (and several in other Oregon towns…all CA immigrants like us!). The housing is just a breath of fresh air after the Bay Area, and, while we realize it will be a long time reaching fruition, we feel like there's the hope of community here. We think--we hope-we'll find a tribe. (Given how quickly our Portland screening filled up this summer, we think there must be good people here! ; )

Oh--and we've made a pact not to complain about the winter weather. Yes, we know it will rain a lot. At the exact moment, it's darn cold outside too…much colder than our CA blood is used to. But Lily assured us she likes the rain because puddles are fun to stomp in (they are, actually, and having a young one reminds me of that). And she wants to grow a garden. And she really wants us to own a house one day so she can paint her room whatever color she wants (it's a safe wager to assume pink and purple will play starring roles).

Enjoying a chillier climate!So here we are. This is one of those moments when I have a lot of hopes of what we want to lean into. It's a long way before most of them will come close to being realized, and we're sitting in a transition space, which is always hard. But I trust that we will find a way. We have each other. We have a fridge full of groceries. We have winter coats. We have a warm house (very wonderfully, a friend is letting us housesit in the area for several months while we get to work on the DVD and figure out which neighborhood is the best fit). We have the most important things right in arm's reach. 

The other night while snuggling Lily to sleep, she reached out in the dark and touched my face. She said, "Mommy, I choose you forever." Those moments, that space is what matters above all else. 

It's been a year of meaningful moments, sacred spaces, and reaching out to each other. I choose that too. The rest will follow. In that truth, I am trusting. In the meantime, I need to unpack our rain gear (and start requesting REI gift certificates ;  ).

Wild Child in the City, or Gratitude for City Living

Lily loves walking to the beach--on this day for the 75th birthday of the Golden Gate Bridge.As readers of this blog know, trying to find home and a sense of place and belonging has been a major theme for me ever since I became a mother. I'm a person who wants deep roots, Sunday suppers with the same families, good conversations over tea, and that sense of tribe that I grew up with in my idyllic ride-horses-and-run-wild-in-the-country childhood. Trying to envision raising a family in a setting so very different than my own childhood has been challenging. I don't have a model, and there's a general assumption with rather deep roots in our cultural consciousness that raising kids in the city isn't really a good idea. Aren't cities dirty, noisy, concrete jungles that attract a lot of crime and vice?

I don't know what the future holds (although filmmaking is an urban craft), but I feel that it's only fair to me, our family, and to the city we've called home for almost nine years, to write about what I do love about the idea of raising Lily right here.

Easily the biggest reason why we love living in the city is walkability. We live right on the edge of the Presidio with easy access to miles and miles of trails. Lily plays in "the woods" almost daily, and at least once a week she meets several other kids that's she's been playing in the woods with for years now. They explore, climb up on logs, pick wildflowers, invent games, and--on sunny days--usually end up rolling down a sand dune buck naked. I laugh at the occasional jogger who comes around the corner of the trail to see five preschoolers running wild and naked in the woods. This is not the image most people have when they think of "city living". 

Besides the woods, we're a short walk from the ocean (both the Pacific and the Bay), Golden Gate Park and several great museums, playgrounds and more playgrounds, a newly-renovated library, and many cafes, eateries, and shops. We have a favorite cafes for a sandwich, a wood-fired pizza, a hot chocolate, a burrito, or a the occasional cupcake, all within walking distance. We have numerous neighborhood markets ranging from ethnic grocery stores with rock bottom prices and an experience that feels like a visit to foreign country to mini-Whole Foods types with local, organic produce, 15 varieties of kombucha, and bulk bins. Getting out every day to go to a local park might be a little more work than just opening the sliding glass doors and letting her play in our own yard, but I do love how it forges new friendships, connections, and conversations with our neighbors. We come to the park together, and there's something very human about that interaction.

On an Easter Egg hunt with friends in the woods next to our apartment.We walk (well, Lily scoots) to ballet class, her playgroups, and just about everything else. Without even meaning to, we easily walk a few miles a day. (This is one reason why, even with Lily being 3.5 years old and 37 pounds, we still use our beloved Boba carrier often to cart her around. It's a sure bet that somewhere along the way little feet get tired, and I find it much easier to put her on my back than to negotiate with a tired kiddo about just how many more blocks we have to go.) Her babysitters have no trouble taking her out of the house for a neighborhood playground adventure or for an afternoon at the Academy of Sciences saying hello to her favorite penguins and fish, and the preschool she's going to start at in the fall meets outdoors (rain or shine) in a fairy ring in the meadow of a large, local park that we'll just walk or bike to.

This is not the type of city living most people envision--it's full of nature, the great outdoors, and a rich cultural experience that the suburbs can't offer.

She loves our "woods", and this is just a few minutes walk from our front door.Of course, the biggest issue most people think about with cities is crime. Safety matters before culture and neighborhood cafes. And this is where there are a lot of assumptions without data to back them up. First, just the feel of our neighborhood is safe. (We even inadvertently tested this the other night when I forgot our jogging stroller outside overnight, and it was right where I left it in the morning). I'd never live in certain parts of the city, but I find that a lot of people base their impressions of the city by their own (infrequent) visits, often to the parts of town that aren't very savory. In San Francisco, the parts of the city where tourists flock are the parts of town where the panhandlers and opportunists also flock. I can assure you that the parts of town where families live are very different. We do have a couple homeless men in our neighborhood that we occasionally see (especially one man who pushes a shopping cart down our street often), and our policy is that we will give or buy anyone food, if they ask. So, occasionally, we'll buy an extra burrito or take some baked goods out to share. But I actually like that Lily is growing up seeing and experiencing some of the aspects of humanity that we can tend to hide and sanitize. Eventually these interactions will be occasions for very growing conversations about poverty, privilege, and social responsibility.

Lily's favorite mode of transport around town.But back to the data about the safety of cities. Interestingly enough, while the very rare cases of violence against children get magnified in the media, the most dangerous place for a child to be is….in a car. Auto accidents are the leading cause of death for people ages 5-34, according to the CDC. So, the the walkability of living in the city isn't just about enjoyment or exercise; we are also at a significantly less risk of serious injury or death simply because we don't use our car very often. 

As for crime, not only is crime down overall (and that's been a big surprise for those who predicted that the downturn in the economy would lead to an increase in crime), it has been dropping steadily since the 90s. And one of the biggest drug problems facing the country right now--Meth--isn't much of a big city problem, it's a suburban and rural one. 

I'm not trying to paint an overly rosy picture of city living--I certainly get tired of looking for parking, carrying groceries up three flights of stairs, not having a dishwasher or a space to host large get-togethers, and the occasional siren we hear in the distance. And San Francisco, in particular, is a tough place for families because of the high-cost of living and the challenging school assignment system (it's complicated, unpopular, and highly politicized). Because of rent-control, people like us can afford (sometimes barely) to rent, but if we wanted to buy, there's simply no feasible way that could happen. I'm already seeing families we've met in these first years of parenting moving out to places with bigger yards, cheaper rents, feasible mortgages, and more transparent school assignment processes. And there are many days when I really get why, times when I feel out-classed by the million-dollar price tags on the homes on our street, misunderstood by the crowds of trendy, urban hipsters in the Mission who seem resentful of parents and children, and utterly overwhelmed by the idea of school lotteries and complicated bureaucracy. I do understand why families leave.

The frolicking princess at a neighborhood park.But just for today, I'm going to put aside the angst and assumptions and just be grateful. My daughter is growing up in a vibrant, richly diverse, and culturally significant city. She has friends to run naked in the woods with. And her idea of a fun family date is to ride her scooter to a favorite local cafe for a hot chocolate or hop on our bikes to enjoy Golden Gate Park car-free (every Sunday is car free!). If we choose the latter, she'll make sure we ride by her favorite sculpture in the park, a Goethe and Schiller statue that she likes to blow hugs and kisses to. Then she's likely to ask if we can ride on the carousel at the Children's Playground. Maybe she can even ride the unicorn? Or the dragon?

And you know what? That makes me happy. That puts the little inconveniences in sharp relief to the big perks. And happy parents make for happier kids, no matter where home is physically located. So, for today, I am a resting in gratitude for our little home in the big city.

More on Finding Home

A beautiful depiction of "Finding Home" from http://souvenirsfromwonderland.blogspot.com/I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the challenge of finding home. I wrote about this several months ago, and it still continues to be one of the biggest question marks in my life. This is partly because our apartment was recently converted to a condo. In San Francisco, there’s a limit on the number of condo conversions that can happen every year in an effort to keep neighborhoods marginally affordable. People like us can afford to rent our apartment, but we couldn’t afford to buy it as a condo. Shortly after we moved in, our landlord won the condo lottery (it’s literally a lottery system that owners have to enter, usually for years), and we’ve been formally notified that we can lose our lease by this fall.

This will be the second time that we’ve had to move in San Francisco under circumstances not of our choosing—the first time we had to move out of our beloved studio when Lily was five months old because our landlady’s son was moving back from Sweden, and now our space will be up for sale soon. For someone like me who longs to sink in roots, create community, and start planting a garden with my daughter, this has been a very difficult space. I long for home in a way that mystifies my husband, who is much more accomplished at letting tomorrow’s worries wait until tomorrow and embracing a new adventure. For him, we know we have at least until November, probably longer since the market is down right now, so, why worry now? He does have a point, and I am trying to lean into more gratitude for the present moment, but I am not very good at that. When I dream of the future, it involves a lot of hearth, home, and potlucks in a kitchen full of neighbors. This is why I keep choosing work that allows me to (primarily) work from home—my home space is a deep part of my identity, for better or for worse.

Lily has actually picked up on this rather profound difference between her parents. A few days ago she spent the whole day at a sitter's, and she came home with a bag full of crafts. She was most proud of two large pictures she had made and decorated (with help). They were even wrapped up. The one for Stephen features a large airplane, “Because Daddy likes airplanes.” Mine? It’s all centered around a big house. "Because Mommy likes houses." She's got us figured out quicker than we did.

When I think about home, I’m undoubtedly influenced by the rather idealistic space I had as a child. It’s a space that I doubt exists as a possibility today. I’ve mentioned it before, and it looms large in my memories. We essentially lived on what could be described as a religious commune out in the country. (It was a parochial boarding school run by the Seventh-day Adventist church where my father was on faculty.) All of our neighbors were employed by the same school and shared the same belief system. Of course there were some variations, but comparatively speaking, our neighbors all shared a huge deal of their religious beliefs and practices in common. For example, in conservative circles, almost all Adventists are vegetarians, but one family might go a step further and be vegan. (My good friend and I actually had on-and-off squabbles when we were kids about whether veganism was spiritually mandated. Possibly telling, I was the one considered the liberal on this—and pretty much any—topic.)

Having all of our parents be members of and employed by the same religious institution meant that we were surrounded by kids and families with lots in common who all shared the same school schedule and general ideals. I grew up playing on the hills around the school with my sister and friends (roaming wild for hours on end, really), riding horses, and just enjoying a very community-oriented childhood. Our home was open to the other neighborhood kids, and we freely invited ourselves in for snack time, sleepovers, and just hang out time at our friends’ houses. We also didn’t have TV reception, so I read for entertainment. A lot. I homeschooled off and on, usually when I had something more interesting to do than traditional schoolwork (like the year I got a horse when I was 10). It was idyllic. 

Of course, my problem as a mother now trying to find home for our family is that my idyllic childhood doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Not only is the actual school closed and the property sold, but as an adult, I have gone far on a spiritual path that precludes me working and living in a community like that. I deeply value my spiritual and religious heritage, but I’ve chosen to build a life with more mystery, less certainty, and a lot more diversity. I sometimes truly wish I could return to the simpler days, but I can’t. 

So now I don’t know where to turn for community for our family. Where do we fit? While I feel like Stephen and I, in general, have community individually, we have yet to find our tribe for our family. Even at the wonderful, progressive little church we go to, we’re the only regulars with a child, and Lily is getting to the point where I feel she needs children’s programming, at least once a month. And I love the moms and toddlers we have as friends and play dates, but they aren’t family friendships—it’s unusual for anything social to happen outside of our scheduled walks or classes. Stephen is the only dad who can swap taking her to her ballet class or Presidio walk, which is a big perk of our being able to share work and childcare, but it reminds us how hard it is to get to know the whole family.

According to Gretchen Rubin of The Happiness Project, one issue is actually that we live in too nice of a neighborhood. Rubin’s year-long quest to improve her happiness is chronicled in a best-selling book, and one of the research tidbits I found fascinating is that we’re more likely to be unhappy in wealthy neighborhoods if we aren’t wealthy ourselves. I suppose it’s the old irresistible human temptation to compare ourselves to others, but people are happier when they live near people who make about the same amount of money as they do.

Now, I’ve written before about how much we love living right next to the Presidio in San Francisco. And we have very affordable rent by SF standards, but our little space is an anomaly in this neighborhood. The houses across the street that border that Presidio are multi-million dollar homes. It makes it hard to imagine fitting in, especially when I seem to only run into nannies at the playground. 

Actually, I just discovered that our street is not technically considered part of the Richmond District. San Francisco is divided up into 11 districts, and each district has a supervisor. Since we moved to San Francisco over seven years ago now, we’ve been in the Richmond district (well, there was a two-month mistake I try to forget!). The Richmond is a more affordable district with a diverse population, lots of interesting shops and ethnic restaurants (especially every type of Asian cuisine), and lots of great walking because it’s bordered by the expansive Presidio and Golden Gate Park. At the west end is the Pacific, and on the other side of the Presidio is the Golden Gate bridge and the entrance to the bay, which makes our climate very foggy in the summer and generally a little cooler that other neighborhoods.

Long story short, the districts are being slightly redrawn because of the latest census results, and I discovered while following these talks that our entire street and the Sea Cliff neighborhood (a very pricey neighborhood overlooking the water and the bridge) is not considered part of the Richmond because of socio-economic reasons. Essentially, this neighborhood is considered too rich to have much in common with the rest of the Richmond, so it technically “belongs” with the Marina district, even though that area of town is hardly even within walking distance (it’s at least a 10-minute drive away).

Actually, a clarifying story came out this week—it’s just the north side of our street that’s part of the Marina. We live on the south side of the street. So I literally look out of our apartment windows into a different neighborhood, one that’s considered so much wealthier that our supervisor can’t properly represent their interests.  No wonder I don’t feel like I fit in. The temptation isn't really to compare; it's more despair as I realize we will never own a home or move in the same social circles as our neighbors.

There’s a part of me that worries that all of this longing for home is somehow insatiable. There will always be something not quite right even if I find a space that feels like a better fit. I know this is what worries my husband—that deep down my desire for community, my seeking a tribe isn’t an attainable desire, and we might give up much or lose what we do have trying to find it.  I worry about that too.  It’s a clear risk.

But right now, knowing that we’re going to lose the physical space we call home before too long, I can’t help but wonder where our home is? Where will we be most happy as a family? Where do I want Lily to bring her family one day to tell them stories of her childhood? Where will we flourish, contribute, and do worthy work?  Like many great quest stories, I’m completely open to the possibility that I may ask this question only to find that what I wanted most I already had. I may travel far and wide only to discover that my house was built on the very treasure I seek. But I seem to certainly be one who needs to ask the question. 

Lonely Mommy, or, One About Friends

Just a quick note to let subscribers know that my most recent blog post is up over at Girlfriendcircles.com, a website run by a dear and brilliant friend that helps match women who want local friends. In many ways, motherhood seemed like the ticket to a whole new world of community and belonging, but I found it difficult to make truly deep friendships with other moms and have floundered a bit while figuring out how to make friendship a priority and something I want to model for Lily. Here's the full post.

Longing for Home

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” -Maya Angelou

Our "city girl" just around the corner from our flat.

Lately Lily is very into pretend play. One of her favorite questions is to ask me where I live, and she’s not looking for the straight answer. She mastered the fact that we live in a city called “San Francisco” months ago. No, she wants an exotic location.

“Machu Picchu,” I’ll answer (or some other fun destination).

“Is it faraway or close by?”

“Far away.”

“You have to take a bus there?

“Oh yes—or maybe even an airplane.”

“Are there babies there? And girls? And kittens?” That’s the ticket for her—babies to comfort? Girls and kittens to play with? She’s definitely going to visit me.

This game is just as fun for her in reverse, and the names she makes up for where she lives are so exotic I sometimes have a hard time repeating them. Lewis Carroll would have been in awe.

I’ve actually been playing a similar game in my own head lately. Lily’s criteria for what makes a place a good one to live—babies, girls, and kittens—might not be quite what mine are, but it turns out I’ve got my own criteria for the where-will-our-family-really-settle-our-roots game.

I’m finding this game hard and not much fun.

No question, the city by the bay has been good to us.Here’s my challenge: I love living in San Francisco. There is much about this city that has energized and nurtured me the past seven years that I’ve called it home. There’s a vibe, an energy that I resonate with here—it’s an openness to ideas, a commitment to authenticity, and an acceptance of people. And, really dang good food. Just around the corner.

I recently read an article by an SF traveler who was told by several people on a trip to India that he was lucky to live in the “spiritual center of the earth.” This idea surprised him, as San Francisco is often described as quite secular, but as he asked around, he was told repeatedly that yes, for hundreds of years the spiritual center of the world was India, but now it’s San Francisco. The “spiritual center of the earth" was defined by a teacher as “the place where new ideas meet the least resistance.”

That is definitely the sense I have living here—this town is one place where you can try any idea, be anything you want. It’s liberating to know people will respect you for trying. I know I wouldn’t be producing a documentary about the identity challenge faced by gay and lesbian Seventh-day Adventists if I didn’t live in this city. And, living here, I don’t have to worry about someone defacing my Obama bumper sticker on our car like a woman did at a trailhead on our last trip to San Diego.

But I have grown increasingly anxious when I think about our future here. It’s not at all about the challenges of raising a child in the city. Lily runs in the Presidio woods just around the corner from us almost every day finding banana slugs, watching the resident heron, and occasionally spotting a great-horned owl. We have five parks within easy walking distance, several favorite cafes a few blocks away for afternoon hot chocolate treats, and world-class destinations like the Academy of Sciences, De Young Museum, and the splendor of Golden Gate Park just a bike ride away. Lily not only has easy access to nature, she has cultural opportunities that I never had in my idyllic country upbringing. And she’s growing up in a diverse environment. She won’t likely scream in terror at the sight of an African man as I apparently did at age two in the small town we lived in at the time in Walla Walla, Washington.

But, here’s the thing: I’m a tree by nature. I’m someone who wants to foster and gather community around me, sinking my roots in deep. And I am finding it hard to imagine ever owning a home in this city or even affording a rental big enough to host Saturday suppers, book clubs, and the sorts of playtime with neighboring families that helps kids actually grow up friends.

I’ve been too busy lately to admit this growing angst to myself and even a little ashamed. I don’t want to be this shallow. I want to be a bigger person about materialistic things. I don’t want to grumble every time I have to circle to find parking. I don’t want to be the type of person who would move for in-unit laundry. I don’t want to be the type of person who looks enviously at the big, warm yards of my wealthier mom friends whose homes I bring Lily to play at. I don’t want to be the cliché family that moves out of the city when it’s time to think about schools.

I’ve been Googling things like, “Great places to live with a family outside San Francisco” and checking out home prices, but I’ve been doing it late at night when the rest of the house is asleep.

That is a nice big yard...Part of the problem is that I don’t know where else we would live. I had a moment of bliss yesterday in the warmth of Larkspur, but housing prices there pose the same problem. I’ve been having strange fantasies about Vermont. And I’m pretty sure I’ve been imaging a home garden scene straight out of The Bernenstain Bears. If only my criteria were as easy as babies, girls, and kittens…I think we could manage those. (I’d add easier and more affordable babysitting to my list. Being near family does have one mighty big perk in this department.)

But I want to feel this same sort of energy and openness that I love about San Francisco in a place with decent home prices, vibrant schools, great walkability, and good weather, and, while I’m dreaming, my friends and family nearby. What I’m talking about at some level is a spiritual issue. I’m feeling like I haven’t quite found my tribe, or, possibly, that I’ve found them, but I don’t have the personal energy and space to find true community with them.

Part of this challenge must come from the fact that I was raised in an almost utopian environment, at least from a kids’ perspective. My dad taught at a private boarding school in the country, and we grew up running wild in the hills, riding horses for hours on end, and having close friends all living in the same neighborhood whose houses we ran in and out of as if they were our own. Everyone was the same religion—Seventh-day Adventist—so there was a shared culture, language, and worldview that could be assumed. We were a tribe.

But that world is no longer open to me (mainly by my choosing), and I couldn’t actually do what my parents did, even though it was a fabulous life for my sister and me. It feels like such a big responsibility to pick home for Lily, to pick the place that will mean (I hope) comfort and love, the place that she'll always carry a small piece of in her heart. Of course where I/we are happy, she is most likely to be happy and at peace, but I'm finding it a lot harder to imagine home in the realm of the real.

I’ve promised myself not to do anything drastic for now. I’m trying just to sit with this, to observe myself. Given the intensely cold and foggy summer we’ve had in the Richmond district this year, I wouldn’t be surprised if my mood changes considerably with more sunshine. I forgive the city a host of ills on beautiful days.

I napped with Lily yesterday. When we stirred two hours later, she was laying on her side, facing me, still in the final clutches of sleep. She reached over, touched my face, said, “Hi Mommy,” and then simply held my hand for a full five minutes. We lay there in a dreamlike space, and I felt myself relax at a core level.

This must be what if feels like to be at home wherever we find ourselves. 

Having What I Have: Another Piece on Gratitude

I don’t know what it says about my parenting that for the past two Mother’s Days, I’ve ended up requesting time without my child to just rest and recharge. Last year I ended up asking Stephen to take Lily without me to the family BBQ while I just had a day alone (see "Being Selfish for Mother's Day"), and this year my mother-in-law generously agreed to watch Lily for the weekend so my husband and I could rest and enjoy some couple time. When you parent together and work together, it can be easy to have the illusion of time spent together when in reality we’re sometimes living in close proximity, taking care of the business of running the house, working on the film, and watching Lily without actually interacting with each other in a quality manner, especially while feeling rested and relaxed. 

One gift that comes to me when I rest and have some alone time is the chance to reflect. You can tell how often this happens by how often I manage to blog! This really is a space I’ve come to value as a chance to process, reflect, and witness the journey.

This weekend, especially after a long nap, what keeps coming up for me is a phrase I heard a few weeks ago at a talk at our JCC by Geneen Roth, author of Women, Food, and God and Lost and Found. She and her husband lost their life savings in the Bernie Madoff scam, and she had to do a lot of hard thinking about a pretty taboo topic: money. Even though she really did have true financial worries, she also realized that even prior to finding out that Madoff was a fraud she'd never appreciated what she had (and it was a very comfortable amount). She's always worried about what could go wrong. She was insatiable.

She talked about the “trance of depravation” that we frequently find ourselves in, unable to actually “have what we have.” We keep waiting to feel grateful until we get “there,” but we don’t define what “there” means for us or question the assumptions and beliefs behind where we’ve gotten our ideas about the value of “there.”

I wondered if she could read my mind. I have often found myself in a cycle of depravation—the moment something I’ve been worrying about or wanting to have happen gets resolved, I hardly pause for a breath before I move on to the next big want or worry. Even when things go really, really well, I can easily think of what might go wrong or the next angst-ridden issue rattling around in my head keeping my mind occupied on what I don’t have instead of resting in the gratitude of what I do have.

Lately the “what I do have” column is pretty amazing. Not only is our film starting to take shape after two years of work, but the post-production funding is starting to come in. We live next door to an incredibly beautiful forest, even though we also live within walking distance of city amenities (like great eateries, parks, and libraries).

And Lily is just bursting with personality.

Life with Lilybird is filled with a lot of chatter (seriously, this child is incredibly out-going and can talk most anyone in circles), imaginary play, and joyful moments of pure being. The imaginary play is especially fun to watch and encourage. She has a host of imaginary friends who have been coming to visit lately (some live in our tree and fly in through the breakfast window for tea or hot chocolate, some want to play in the bathtub, others visit randomly). And she likes to pretend to be a doctor or patient several times a day. She tells me to “lay down on your special pad,” (she got this from a friend), and then she’ll listen to my heart, check my eyes, ears, and teeth, and even re-attach my fingers (she thought of this one morning playfully). She even likes to play “Monster” right now. She either pretends to be a monster about to steal my food, or she’ll want Stephen or me to pretend to steal her food (she prefers playing monsters with Stephen, probably because he’ll really chase her around the house). So far she tells me that the monsters are nice, but I have tried to preempt scary monsters by saying you can get rid of monsters by tickling them. We’ll see how that works.

Of course we have some classic two-year-old moments too—there is some high drama, especially around transitions and sharing (and especially if she’s tired). But really, toddlers are incredible teachers about how to live in the moment. Sometimes that’s a moment of utter anguish, but it’s often total, unfettered joy—it’s where they want to live, and it’s where Lily naturally lands, especially if she’s rested (I could learn something here….).

A highlight for me right now is dancing in the kitchen after a meal. Lily has always loved rhythm and music, and one of her favorite things to do is listen to music and dance. Here’s how it often goes:

“Mommy, play some music on your computer.”

“What’s that magic word that Mama likes to hear when you want something?” I asked pointedly.

“Pleeeease play some music!”

“Oh, of course! Thank you for asking so nicely.”

Sometimes she has a particular request (she likes big, grand pieces right now—and I mean grand, as in The Hallelujah Chorus). If I choose, I put on something fun to move to like The Macarena or Papa Loves Mambo. She starts dancing and quickly wants company.

“Mommy, dance with me,” she’ll command, while holding out her hands. Soon she’ll get Stephen into the action too if he’s home.

“Come Daddy! Dance with us!” And she’ll hold out a hand. So there we’ll all be, dancing in our little kitchen. Her face is absolutely lit up in utter joy—and she seriously can bust some fun dance moves. For me, having been raised a good Adventist who didn’t dance or dwell on the pleasures of the body, it’s liberating and healing to move with abandon, enjoying my body and the positive group energy that comes from our little family kitchen dance.

It’s bliss, really. And getting an opportunity to rest and reflect this weekend helps me recognize that bliss and have what I have without worrying about what comes next. 

Another Seder Story, or, Choosing to Believe in Love

Close-up of Klimt's Mother and ChildToday at my church we celebrated Seder together. We've done this every year for the past several, and it's always a very profound experience for me because between the prayers and short talks, you eat various types of food that really bring home the message of that segment. I appreciate rituals that help me get into the physicality of an experience since I can be tempted to stay in my head. There’s nothing quite like a bit of horseradish on matzo to bring the shock and sting of grief into full focus. I felt like a small explosion had gone off in my sinuses! And I like thinking of the generations upon generations that have participated in these rituals before me.

We focused a lot this time on how these Jewish rituals give space and language to the journey of grief. Christianity has a great language of hope and of a life to come, but it's Judaism that gives much more space to the grieving process and really admits that there is much pain in life, and it's okay to embrace the tears. In fact, eat this parsley dipped in saltwater to remind yourself of the tears.

It was a day when I especially need to acknowledge tears and grief. Two weeks ago today, our infant niece, Gabriella, died after just an hour of life. I still well up with tears when I think about that precious little bundle with long feet, a sweet and peaceful smile, and soft, soft skin. Her parents were gracious enough to let us meet her, even knowing that they didn’t have much time with her. Even Lily met her cousin. It’s her first real experience of death. Of course she doesn’t fully understand what it means (who does?), but she clearly knows that it makes the adults in her life sad.

This whole month at my church we've been talking about the inherent duality of life and spirituality, the pain and the joy that are part and parcel of our human experience. When I looked back at this blog to see what I’d written about Seder before, I see that it was also in April two years ago that we were trying to process another round of loss.

The Lilybird is an expert angst-away-chaser!As the poets say, April is the cruelest month. I hope you don’t mind, but it seemed an entry that was worth re-posting. These are still questions that I struggle with, but I will now say that on most days having the cheery soundtrack of a vivacious two-year-old filling the house helps me carry these questions as well-known (if not comforting) traveling companions, and I don’t feel quite as much angst in the unknowingness of it all.

Originally published on Friday, April 10, 2009

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“Of Death, Bitter Herbs, Teeth, and Harry Potter”

I’ve had a hard time dealing with death lately.

While I was pregnant with Lily, I realized that death scared me much more than I had ever previously acknowledged. Death and birth, as our bookends on this human experience, are closely related, so I think it’s natural that being pregnant stirs up thoughts of death (and for most of human history giving birth has been such a risky undertaking for women that they very justly feared that the start of their child’s life might be the end of their own).

Bringing new life into the world also naturally requires reflection on what values and beliefs we want to pass on to our children. I didn’t just want to give birth to a child; I wanted—want—to help imbue her life with meaning and purpose, which brings me back to the Big Questions: Where did we come from? Where are we going? Why are we here? All of these questions deal with death both explicitly and implicitly.

In a previous post, I talked about how some work I did with a hypnotherapist while I was pregnant helped me recognize that one of my deepest fears about birth and motherhood was that the hope I had been raised with—the hope that death, as John Donne penned, is just “one short sleep past” before “we wake eternally”—might simply be wishful thinking, a way to deal with the randomness, pain, and injustices of this life.

These past few weeks have made me face this fear anew. The three families, seven adults and seven children, who died in that tragic Montana plane crash you’ve likely read about were alumni of my alma mater, and my husband went to high school with one of the fathers. This news has been especially hard to fathom now that I have a child. The loss of so many young lives—all of the children were under 10—is truly unfathomable to me. And I can’t imagine how my parents would cope if they ever faced such a loss of their children and grandchildren (two of the mothers were sisters; five of the children were cousins).

And this week, one of my former colleagues died of lung cancer. She had never smoked even one cigarette. It feels so colossally unfair. She was only 52 with two children in high school. We taught English composition together for two years when I was still quite green. Not only did she welcome me (and my dog) to her office anytime, but she also opened all of her files, gave me copies of her syllabi, and mentored me through my first challenging semesters.

The last time I saw her was in the lab of a local hospital. She was getting her blood drawn to try to figure out why she couldn’t shake a persistent chest cold. I was getting my blood drawn to make sure we were all set to start trying to get pregnant.

She was on her way to a lung cancer diagnosis. I was on my way to meet Lily. Life and loss don’t ever seem to be too far from each other.

This juxtaposition of life and loss was really emphasized for me this past weekend when the small church/spiritual community that we go to celebrated a Seder meal together as a way to respect, appreciate and enter into this important Jewish holiday. The 15-part meal, in the words of a rabbi, represents the journey of liberation and transformation. As one of my pastors put it, “It’s 15 parts because transformation takes a long time—it’s the work of a lifetime.”

One of the steps, Maror, the eating of bitter herbs, really affected me. I was holding Lily during the meal, doing the new mama sway to keep her peacefully sleeping in her sling. I carefully ate the mixture of horseradish on lettuce, trying not to spill on her (wouldn’t that be a great introduction to solids!).  The horseradish is actually mixed with the Charoset, a sweet walnut and apple paste which symbolizes the mortar that the Jews used as slaves to keep the bricks together while building Pharoah’s many projects. My other pastor, who had actually made the dishes, pointed out that the Charoset, the sweetest part of the whole meal, also had wine or grape juice mixed in to symbolize that everything, even the sweet and easy times, has at least a little pain that is inherent. We ate the bitter herbs twice. The second time they were inside a Matzah “sandwich,” symbolizing the mix of bitter and sweet isn’t only external; it’s also within.

As a metaphor for life, the eating of bitter herbs teaches me that life and loss really are inextricably woven together. I’m speaking as a novice—and a non-Jewish one at that—but my takeaway was that the whole experience is a reminder that life is often bitter, we will be slaves in Egypt for far too long, but we carry with us the hope and possibility of liberation and transformation.

I told the group after the meal that Maror had reminded me of how difficult the previous week had been because Lily had started teething. The pain she felt cutting her teeth was excruciating for Stephen and me to witness (she added a new scream to her repertoire that gives new meaning to the term "blood-curdling"). And many of our efforts to help her were very poorly received by her. There’s just no way to explain to a baby that suctioning her nose with a saline spray and one of those horrible bulb aspirators is actually going to make her feel better. However, from my vantage point as an adult (with teeth), I know that teeth are important and quite nice for both eating and biting off hang nails. I can now see two little teeth starting to emerge, but boy is that emergence a big pain in the gums (and ears, and nose, apparently).

All I can hope is that from the vantage point of the divine, our pain and loss that seems so unfair, so random is like cutting teeth in the big scheme of things. And I desperately hope there is a scheme of things.

Those close to me laugh at how often I see applicable truth and insight in the Harry Potter series, but I’m realizing while writing this post that besides the clever plot and engaging characters, I love these books because they are all about death, the temptation of immortality, the power of self-sacrificing love, and, above all, the hope that there is a big scheme of things.

J.K. Rowling has said that her mother’s slow demise from multiple sclerosis was a big part of her motivation to write the series. She struggles mightily with her faith in the books—this is no easy allegorical tale. Like me, her doubts are big, her questions real. The tombstone on the grave of Harry’s parents points to her hope. She quotes 1 Corinthians 15:26: “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.” That is ultimately the thesis statement of the series.

Rowling knows that her hints of transcendence, her gestures at something beyond can only be that—gestures and not road signs. Faith, after all, is the substance of things hoped for. When Harry meets Dumbledore in the afterlife—well, really the chamber to the afterlife—and learns the answers to most of his questions, he asks Dumbledore if their conversation was real or if it was just in his head. Dumbledore’s answer is one of my favorite explanations of faith: “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

I have no idea how to incorporate Dumbledore's wisdom, or the lessons of Maror, or even my hopes and fears into my parenting of Lily. But maybe in a small way just deciding to have her is in itself a gesture, a prayer for the substance of things hoped for.

Note:

Shortly after I posted this, I read a chapter in Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith about Easter and Good Friday that completely hit home. She was visiting a friend in Utah who was dying of cancer (she died a month after the trip), and, in addition to skiing, they celebrated Easter together. Lamott's description of Good Friday felt so true, that I just have to add it as a follow-up to this post:

We celebrated Good Friday that night, a week late. It's a sad day, of loss and cruelty, and all you have to go on is faith that the light shines in the darkness, and nothing, not death, not disease, not even the government, can overcome it. I hate that you can't prove the beliefs of my faith. If I were God, I'd have the answers at the end of the workbook, so you could check as you went along, to see if you're on the right track. But nooooooo. Darkness is our context, and Easter's context: without it, you couldn't see the light. Hope is not about proving anything. It's about choosing to believe this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us.

How Lilybird Got Her Name

“We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.” J.K. Rowling

When people ask how it is that Lily got the nickname Lilybird, I usually pause or deflect the question because it’s a long answer. Lately that nickname has taken on even new meaning for me, so I feel like diving in (warning: I can't figure out how to make this a short post). I have to backup first though. I have to explain how we arrived at Lily in the first place.

By the time Stephen and I found out that we were having a girl, we’d already decided that our “girl name” would be Lillian. We weren't sure if we'd stick to Lillian or go right to Lily, but we loved the many layers around the name that spoke to us. Conveniently enough, it’s a family name on both sides. Stephen’s great-grandmother was Lillian, and I had a great-aunt Lily. Neither of us knew these women, but I am drawn to names that have ancestral significance.

I’m also fond of the Lillith tales in mystical Judaism that tell of a first wife of Adam—Lillith. She was headstrong and unwilling to be subservient to Adam, so Adam asked God for a more compliant wife, which is where Eve came into the picture. (I probably won’t tell these stories to Lily for a very long time!). And, of course, the lily flower is beautiful. I actually carried lilies in my wedding bouquet, and I love all of the wild lilies that grow all over the Presidio that we walk by regularly.

But the most compelling reason why we loved the name Lily actually comes from the Harry Potter series. I first started reading the series as an 8th grade language arts teacher at a private Christian school. One day I noticed several students sitting through all of their breaks—including their lunch breaks—reading the same book. I asked what could possibly be keeping them in the classroom over break, and, voilà, I met Harry and quickly became a fan. At first I thought they were just good fun, but as the series unfolded, I began to think of them as great literature in addition to great stories. (Bonus read: Here's a piece I wrote once about my nostalgia for Harry with my take on the series' deep religious symbolism along with the trouble I got into allowing my students at a Christian school to read them.)

Eventually I talked Stephen into reading them with me. Well, we actually listened to the entire series (twice) on tape over two years when we had a long commute together (hands down the best audio tapes around—the narrator is fantastic). We listened to the final book on tape the summer that we lived in Paris on a home exchange. The memory of walking around Paris at all hours of the night listening to the book with tandem earbuds on my iPod, totally jet-lagged and yet enthralled in the final saga of Harry Potter, is still one of my dearest memories. We talked about the themes of the book for weeks over chocolate croissants and café.

When I encounter a story that taps into my need for myth and meaning in a powerful way like Harry Potter did, I find myself able to interpret the world around me in a much more compassionate way, and I see people more generously. One of the enduring themes of the series is that love, self-sacrificing love, is ultimately the most powerful force in the universe. Dumbledore, the great professor and father figure (some argue God figure), continually teaches Harry that Voldemort’s greatest weakness is that he underestimates love because he only values power.

The character in the series who begins this theme of entirely selfless love is Harry’s mother, Lily Potter, who sacrifices her life for Harry, but in that act of love, she also imparts a powerful and protective charm that sustains Harry through many close encounters.

In a strange—even magical—way, reading that book series together prepared Stephen and me to be parents (of course, J.K. Rowling herself has said, “I believe in God, not magic”). We felt that we were ready to embark on the next journey of adulthood and learn more about what it means to love another more than self. We were ready to be parents. And naming our daughter after the character who inspired us to really embrace self-sacrificing love as the most powerful force in the universe seemed the least that we could do to give her a meaningful name.

But now to the “Lilybird” nickname. Around week 32 of my pregnancy, our midwife told us that Lily was breech. An ultrasound confirmed what her experienced hands already knew, and I started to panic in a very major way.

You see, not only did I not want a c-section (which, unfortunately in this country is the automatic answer for breech babes and mamas), but I had been planning a natural birth at home. I wanted the full experience, and I was utterly terrified of a surgical birth. I started having nightmares about a large knife cutting open my belly.

I had been a breech baby, and my mother had had a c-section (and since VBACS weren’t a remote possibility then, she’d had a second c-section with my sister). Both of her surgeries and recoveries had been very difficult, and she had a hard time breastfeeding either of us. With my sister, she’d had too much anesthesia and barely woke up for three days, and when she did she was sure that my sister was dead because she’d come out totally silent, also a result from too much anesthesia.

Even typing the word “c-section” in an email made me weep. In fact, just typing this now, I’m noticing quite a bit of discomfort and some anxiety. I was committed to doing everything possible to avoid a c-section. If you’ve heard of a remedy to turn babies (handstands in water, moxibustion, acupuncture, chiropractic, abdominal massage, music/talking, tilts, external version, etc., etc.), I tried it. A breech baby had been a complication that I’d known about because I have a funky uterus, or, in more positive language, “a two-bedroom special”, as Stephen likes to call it. Most babies are naturally more comfortable head-down in the average uterus, but mine is unique (bicornuate is the technical term), and Lily was standing on her toes in there, a double footling breech.

As a last resort, I tried hypnosis, which has actually been shown to have better luck than external versions at getting breech babies to turn down in several respected studies. My prenatal yoga teacher was also a hypnotherapist (and a doula), and I saw her for several sessions. Having grown up a good Adventist girl, I had a lot of reservations about hypnosis, but my fear of a c-section was far greater! Luckily, it didn’t turn out to be anything like the movies. (I called Stephen afterwards to assure him that I remembered everything and that there were no swinging chains involved.) My therapist just practiced deep relaxation and guided visualization. The point was to help me get in touch with my feelings around motherhood, parenting, and birth to see if I was subconsciously giving Lily a message that it wasn’t safe to get ready for birth.

What came out utterly surprised me. I’m a very wordy person (witness the length of this post), and I can talk my way in and out of a lot of rationales. So often the best way for me to get in touch with my authentic self is through external practices that provide a framework for me to go deeper. What I've found is that when I can recognize truth on a spirit level, I instantly know it; I don't have to talk my way into or around it.

This is what happened for me with hypnosis. I came headlong into my own fear and recognized it instantly as a deep, core fear that was underneath many aspects of my life.  I discovered that I was profoundly terrified of bringing an innocent life into this world because I didn’t know how to explain the suffering and pain in life. I desperately wanted to believe in a bigger purpose, a higher power, and that love and beauty eventually are greater than evil, but I was scared that I simply wanted those things to be true so badly that I was clinging to my stories (both the ones found in sacred literature and Harry Potter).

Of course I didn’t find a quick and easy answer—the problem of suffering and pain has been with us always, confounding the best thinkers—but it was incredibly helpful to tap into that fear.

And in a moment of visualizing a safe space where I could communicate love, acceptance, and safety to Lily, I found myself suddenly seeing Lily as a bird, alighting in the nest that I had made for her. She seemed part spirit, still drenched in the light.

I explained this sense later to Stephen—you know—a typical expectant parent conversation: “Hey honey—I felt the spirit of our unborn daughter come to me in a vision, and her spirit is a bird.” Luckily he didn’t freak out; instead he christened our yet-to-be little girl, “Lilybird.” Now that we’ve met her, I can confidently say that it fits well.

And now that we’ve learned more about each other (parenting is a grueling but effective way to strip yourself and your mate down to core essence!), this name feels like a perfect fit of our two selves blended into a new creature—I’m grounded, of the earth; Stephen loves to fly and explore broad expanses. 

It’s a lot of fun watching our Lilybird becoming herself. So far I’d say she has my love of people and place and her dad’s sense of adventure. And I sincerely hope that we’re all learning more every day about loving each other and the world outside our nest unselfishly.

Sorry—long tale, I know. But there you have it. 

Update on Tuesday, February 8, 2011 at 12:22AM by Daneen Akers

Someone asked me on Facebook (where this blog feeds), what ever happened with the hypnosis and Lily's breech position, and I realized that I never did share the ending of that portion of the story! I guess it must show that I've reached some peace with it two years later. She never turned despite many, many attempts, and it was actually in my final hypnosis session that I was able to accept that she had tried, but that she really needed to be a belly birth. So I had a c-section. I still wouldn't recommend it to anyone, and I hope never to have another, but I was able to bring intentionality, empowerment, and even peace even to a surgical birth. All was well in the end, especially the first time my eyes met hers.

A Belated Christmas Post

Lily at two.Two years ago on Christmas day we brought our Lilybird home from the hospital. We were in the land of newly born—new baby, new parents. And we both were learning what this new chapter was about. The utter exhaustion I felt was only overpowered by the utter bliss that kept washing over me every time I locked eyes with this new little being that seemed too beautiful, too innocent, too sacred to have actually chosen our little nest to grow up in.

I remember walking around in those first few weeks and months—that is, after I could move without dissolving into tears from the pain (I’d had a c-section, but that’s a story for another post)—and being fascinated by grandmas on the bus or on the sidewalk. And I looked at them with new eyes because I suddenly felt a kinship with every woman who had ever given birth and fallen in love with her baby; she knew what it felt like to have your heart expand to fill your entire chest, quivering with a new purpose and protective instinct. I had entered into the stream that all of my ancestors before me had been baptized into as well.

Seriously--where did the time go? Two years later, I sometimes feel incredibly cliché as I marvel about where the time went. Can I really have a toddler? Have Stephen and I somehow managed to parent together for two years? (How our marriage survived is also a topic for another post—do you know, dear reader, that within three years of the birth of a child 66 percent of American couples are divorced or headed there in a hurry?)

Lily seems to do and say new things on a daily basis now. Today, for the first time, I heard her sing a really long and loud note with intention—toddler Pavarotti style. Rather than an aria, it was a rousing end to her the song that currently is her obsession: B-I-N-G-O. (It is a rather catchy tune.) Still, it was quite a moment for her enraptured audience of grandparents, parents, aunt, uncle, and, the slightly-less-enthusiastic taxi driver.

We’ve also seen her sense of humor start to emerge in a much more defined way lately. Earlier this week she was eating yogurt rather messily and gave her dad a very yogurty kiss. He made a funny face and made a big deal about it, and she started laughing big belly laughs.

“More yogurt kisses?” she kept asking amid big belly laughs.

“Well, okay.” Stephen would respond with mock delay, loving every moment.

She’s been repeating that trick every other day this week, and we haven’t tired of it yet either. It’s these sorts of moments that have us exchanging a lot of glances and comments like, “Can you believe we have such a sweet daughter?”

Of course, I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say that we’re also understanding more of what the legendary “terrible twos” are about. We do see more assertions of her will, and these episodes do occasionally get quite dramatic, but we’re learning to manage the toddler twos much in the same way we learned to care for a newborn—some things are instinctual, but the good stuff I pick up from watching those who are more experienced than I am (sometimes this is from a book, but I really glean a lot from watching other parents).

I also have an entirely new appreciation for free will these days—gone are the times of just plopping my baby down where I want her to be and going about a task (e.g. changing a diaper). She has definite opinions now about where she wants to be, what she wants to wear/eat/do, and I find that figuring out how we can collaborate is a far easier use of energy than trying to force my way. She’s definitely her own person, and when I remember to slow down and just appreciate her emerging personality, we all get along much better.

When I reflect back on what two years as a parent has been like for me, I think I’m most impressed by what motherhood has done for finally getting me to think about someone else before myself. I am no longer the most important person in my world—and that’s actually been a really freeing experience.

This is actually what I think is the true miracle of the Christmas story. When I put aside the aspects of the central Christian story that I don’t understand or don’t know where my thinking has really landed (things like atonement theories/theology), I’m struck that the Christmas story is ultimately about love, the sort of self-sacrificing love that all of the worlds great religions teach about. It’s the path of this sort of love that conquers ego. And, whether it’s literally true or just true in the way that metaphor gestures towards the very best that we know and aspire to, it’s dangerous and radical.

The greatest message that Christianity offers the world (when it’s at its best, which is far too rare these days), is that the divine force in this universe actually values every human life so much that she/he incarnated in order to show us what real love looks like. The stories about Jesus show a radical love that embraces the marginalized, subverts the power structures of his time, fights for the oppressed, and makes us whole in its unconditional and complete acceptance. (I've recently been reading about how this was actually an extension of the teachings of Rabbi Hillel, who was hugely influential when Jesus was coming of age.) Naturally, that sort of thinking got Jesus in trouble with the authorities—where was all the judgment? Where was all of the separating people into acceptable and unacceptable categories that makes us feel superior to others?

That’s a love that motherhood is just starting to teach me about. I’m not someone who thinks that you need to be a parent to truly fulfill your destiny as a human being, but I now realize that parenthood was a very direct way for me to expand my heart, move beyond myself, and put my foot on the path that so many have trod before me. It’s a path that moves me beyond my ego and into the heart of the divine. For me, if we can teach Lily about that sort of love when we celebrate Christmas—heck, if I can learn how to even model a teensy amount of that sort of love, we’ll have done our job well.

How I Found My Gratitude

Meister Eckhart, the 13^th century Christian mystic and philosopher famously said, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is ‘thank you’, that will suffice.”

As simple as that sounds, I still find myself having a hard time cultivating an attitude of gratitude, even though this is the time of year when we're all supposed to feel thankful. For at least the better part of a day, we all try to focus on what we're thankful for before we dive headlong into the holiday shopping frenzy. And, if you’re like me, this time of year is treacherous for gratitude.

Shopping for presents is a sure way to add a lot of items to the “I want (no need!) that for me too” list. I don’t even know how deprived I am of material possessions until I step into Macy’s amidst a crowd of well-dressed women who all seem to have not only a better wardrobe but better hairstyles, shoes, and especially eyebrows than I do.

This is also the time of year when Christmas cards start arriving, and try as I might to resist, I still end up comparing myself, not so much to others but to some mysterious sense I get from cultural, familial, and personal expectations (often that I don’t even know are buried deep down in there) of where I’m supposed to be at this time in my life. There’s a voice in my head that gets really shrill this time of year as it starts reminding me about all of my inadequacies (which this Voice knows very, very well).

The Voice says things like, “You don’t own a house yet. In fact, you don’t even have a guest room or an extra bathroom. And you’re not likely to for a very, very long time, especially on this salary.”

This is not a recipe for a grateful and thankful heart. It’s more in line with the great villains of the season—Grinch and Scrooge.

Of course this isn’t a part of myself that I’m proud of. I know it’s childish and represents my baser instincts. But I’ve also learned recently that it’s actually physically unhealthy. Not only is gratitude a good spiritual practice (all of the major world religions teach gratitude as a primary tool)—it’s a good health practice.

Lily likes to give this statue a hug when we ride by.

This weekend we spent a lot of time talking about the benefits of gratitude and the science behind why gratitude is so good for our health at my small, progressive church in San Francisco. According to the Wall Street Journal, there’s a whole host of good things associated with gratitude—more energy, a more optimistic outlook on life, more friends, less stress, and a greater resistance to infections. Sounds like a gratitude shot along with my flu shot is in order this year.

One of the exercises we did was write a gratitude list with 30 entries. What helped me was a suggestion someone shared about how she got through a particularly rough time when she and her family were living in a cheap rental without even money for heating oil. She had a personal mantra that “Little things make me happy”—and she looked for the very specific, small things that brought her joy.

So instead of the biggies that I’m usually tempted to put on a list like this in some strange attempt to be weighty and ponderous (you know, “life” or “the Divine”), I just put down little things. I promise not to share all 30, but here are seven:

I'm grateful for this tree to look at every day.

1. The tall, glorious tree outside our kitchen window that we can see from miles away and chart a course home.
2. The way Lily runs across the apartment when I’m leaving for work or class with her arms outstretched yelling, “Hugs! Hugs!”
3. Morning family snuggles in bed.
4. Bike rides through Golden Gate Park with Lily perched in her bright green iBert seat (I love that she wants to give the statue of Goethe and Schiller a hug every time we ride by).
5. Cups of hot Milo (anyone else know about this delicious Ovaltine-like drink?) on the couch with Stephen after Lily is asleep.
6. My newly organized pantry.
7. The world’s sweetest dog who teaches me daily about unconditional love (especially putting up with a toddler’s often overly-enthusiastic affections).

Maybe not surprisingly, the exercise worked.

I got out of my attitude of scarcity and found my gratitude. The warmth I felt while focusing on what was right instead of what was wrong lasted all day. I was a more patient mom, a more affectionate wife. And it probably would have lasted through this morning had we not woken up to a very cranky almost-two-year-old who was suffering a serious letdown after almost five days straight of cousins, aunts, and uncles to play with. I can see why a daily gratitude practice—probably especially through this season—would be good for my health.

I’m trying to think of ways to incorporate a gratitude practice into our day so that Lily can learn about thankfulness in the same way that she knows about stories before bedtime; it will just be routine. Any ideas? We do a short grace before meals, and I’ve read in many parenting books that this is a good way to cultivate gratitude even for families who don’t have religious affiliations.

Maybe a habit of sharing one good thing that happened that day while we’re eating supper? (Bedtime already stretches too long these days!). If anyone else has some good suggestions for what you do or what you’d like to do to cultivate an ongoing attitude of gratitude in your home, I’d love to hear them.