Dead Batteries All Around.

There is something just awful about knowing that you are at dangerous levels of life burnout and you can't take a break. Half the reasons that I am feeling at loose ends are ones that I can't discuss due to confidentiality laws. It seems that as a nurse and as a foster parent, I have to be burdened with more secrets than I am expressly comfortable with. I can't talk about my kids or my work very much.

I was supposed to go to have an appointment with Little A's therapist today to discuss how she is doing. I set aside the time, I skipped putting on makeup because I fully expected to spend the therapeutic 50 minutes crying my eyes out. I packed a bag with lots of under-eye concealer to apply after the appointment and before going to work.

I went out to my Jeep and tried to start it. It went "click, click, click". That's it. The thing was running fine yesterday, and today...nada.

So I open the hood and peer inside. Now, I know how to change my own oil and do a tune up, but fixing actual problems on my car is another matter altogether. So there I am in my pink nursing scrubs, looking under the hood like the answer is gonna jump right out at me, and further that I would know how to fix it. Of course that made me feel like a dork. So I called Tony and he said it was a dead battery, and he was gonna buy me a new one and head home with it.

So I had to call and cancel the cry my eyes out appointment. I went back in the house and made some of those cinnamon rolls that come in the pop-open tin. As I ate one, I felt properly sorry for myself. All in all, it wasn't even a huge crisis. We had the money for the battery, and Tony replaced it pretty quickly. The car started right up. But it had thrown my flow off. It was frustrating on a day when I had multiple things to do before work. As it is, I am not even going to be late for work or anything, but my personal battery feels like it is going "click, click, click".

I am having that thought again. The one where I need to go take a retreat and recharge myself. I need to find my spiritual core and get grounded. I need to do yoga and sit among trees and feel the breeze on my skin. As it happens, I am going to go to work in about 20 minutes and won't be home until after midnight.

I'm lucky that the car didn't die at some other, less opportune time or place. It could have been much worse. Could have been better, too, though,.

If you see me by the side of the road with my hood up, at least honk and wave. I'm just looking for answers even if I don't understand how things work and might not even know how to fix them.

Cupid and Psyche

I

Cupid and Psyche, Antonio Canova, 1796

As often happens when I have even a little time to myself, I am thinking about myths and legends. This morning it is the peculiar romance of Cupid (or Eros) and Psyche.  Stories where gods fall in love with mortals are of particular interest to me. 

I love this sculpture, pictured in part, above.  The hands of the figures are so tender, it is amazing to imagine that this was once a piece of featureless marble. The anatomy is soft and beautiful as they caress each other. They are captured in the lips parted moment before a passionate kiss. 

Psyche had the misfortune of being born so beautiful that she made Venus jealous. Making a goddess feel envy is often cause for terrible punishment in these tales. Yet Psyche prevails and even gets to drink ambrosia and become immortal herself. That Cupid falls in love with her because he scratches himself with his own arrow is unfortunate. That Psyche is merely beautiful and not also wise is also a drawback. But It is a mysterious and charming story, full of invisible forces and ardent lovers that insist on having the lights off.

Without love, the world grows old and loses its color. Cupid and Psyche had a child together, the Goddess Volupta, who personifies sensual love and is one of the Three Graces. The gods didn't have that before. It took the human touch to create it. 

What the hell is my point? I'm just rambling, mostly. But in part I harbor a secret wish that I could contain some spark of inner beauty that would cause the divine to look on me favorably and create something of worth in me. Something that is unique in the world and fills it with pleasure and joy.

Instead of God the Father, this is God the Lover, and it is an interesting concept. It would be nice to have an intimate and mutually loving relationship with a god, even a minor one. Most of the time I experience the divine as largely indifferent to the minutiae of my life experience. Wouldn't it be nice to have a kiss of greeting and have God ask, "Honey, how was your day?"

Living Passionately

Image by Paula Scarletta


When I am in good form, and working at the top of my game, I strive always to live passionately. Of course, lately, I have been stunned into silence and even illness by the drama and baggage and heavy feelings surrounding the return of Little A and the short stay of Baby B.

As I sit here drinking water and taking antibiotics and trying to recover from the total shock to my system, I am noticing how down  and low-vibrating this situation has made me feel. I have had zero energy for writing or for making other kinds of art. That spiraled down into a total creative void and finally physical wear and tear. It was like my body just totally went on strike to get me to notice that I had started to live my life in a way that was not going to be consistent with my happiness.

Of course I know that having kids will put a damper on your energy. Especially my kids, because they come from backgrounds that mean they have certain special needs in the parenting department. Well, A does. J has made such progress and I have bonded with him such that he seems easy and the relationship is pretty relaxed most of the time.

I am nowhere near my usual energy level at the moment, but it has forced me to use my time for contemplation. It is going to take me a little bit to rebuild my strength. While I do that I am going to try to remain focused on what really matters, and that is being true to who I really am. Too often I allow the people in the county building tell me how to parent. The fact is that I am a slightly peculiar person and my kids enjoy me more if I can go with it and just be myself.

I'm happier when I am entertaining friends, experiencing and making art, supporting the artists I know, dancing, being in nature, and helping other people. It raises my energy level to do those things. It brings me down to do paperwork, do things out of obligation rather than by choice, and spending time in places that are filled with negative energy and negative people.

I'm not really sure how long we are going to have Little A this time. Things seem pretty uncertain at the moment. But if I am going to enjoy her in her good moments, I need to have enough energy to be awake for it. Little by little, I need to raise the bar for myself and follow those passions where they lead.

Monet & Me

Monet's Garden at Vétheuil, 1881 (National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA)

This painting is following me around. Although it is quite a popular piece, I have been noticing it a lot lately. I was looking online for some new prints to put in my house, this one caught my eye again. I am going to need to buy a print of it. 

My love of the Impressionists flows naturally from my mother and grandmother, of course. For years and years before I ever had children, this seemed a perfect piece to hang in a nursery. It seems peaceful to me. As I was researching it this morning, I discovered that it was painted after the death of the artist's wife Camille, and that this garden, landscaped by Monet himself, was planted at a rented house. He had to get special permission from his landlord to do it.

To say that nurseries have been on my mind lately would be an understatement. The last week has been a flurry of activity and then nervous waiting to see if we can work out the details to move Little A and her baby sister Little B into our house. They are currently in an emergency foster care placement, and we would like to care for them. It is a huge unknown and a huge gamble. We could have them only for a few months. There is always the slimmer than slim chance that they would stay with us longer. Any other placement would have been unthinkable right now, as we are still waiting to finalize Little J's adoption. But A lived with us for 2 years, and to be honest I wouldn't mind visiting the piece of my heart that she carries.

So I have been seeing this print everywhere lately. The most recent sighting was in the restroom of an Italian delicatessen that Tony and I went to for lunch yesterday. Seeing it so out of context seemed a soothing omen. Either we are meant to get these girls and it is going to work out this time, or even if we lose them we are going to be okay.

Monet threw himself into his work after losing his wife, and painted some of the most lasting images of his career during that time in his life. I'm no Monet of course, but I know a little bit about epic loss and the dramatic and beautiful aspects of suffering.

Of course, I would prefer it if I could capture some of the peaceful cheerfulness of this painting. Who knows how Monet was actually feeling when he painted it. Perhaps he loved sunflowers because it is impossible not to smile while gazing upon them. Somebody remind me to plant some in the spring.

Angry Old Fat Women Need Love,Too!

RANT ALERT!!!!

Hey, guess what? I'm feeling a little pissed off today and here's why:

According to our popular culture:

It is okay to be fat as long as you are funny.

You can be hot if you are older, but only if you are skinny.

You can be sexy if you are curvy but not TOO MUCH.

You can be a feminist, but why be so ANGRY?

It is okay to be angry, but for cryin' out loud, get some botox so you don't LOOK angry. And don't be fat and angry.

But if you are middle aged, overweight, and dare to try to feel even the slightest bit attractive, good freaking luck. You can be old and hot or fat and hot, but both??? Nobody wants to see that.

I'm pitching fits. Culturally speaking, there is no place for me. Sexually speaking, at least in terms of popular culture, I am dead in the water, and any complaining about it is just old-lady bitching. Women who are younger than me seem to come away with the impression that because I look like a soccer mom, that I never had any fun when I was younger. I actually had a girl tell me that she just can't picture me ever being the type to wear a short skirt and drink and generally get into trouble.

In other words, I have become harmless. My femme-fatale days are over to other people, and apparently I was the last to get the memo. Whatever sensuality I possess is now expected to be subdued, refined, or, you know, invisible.

Not that I haven't mellowed with age, but that is just crap. I have no desire to be compared to a fine wine that gets better with age. I am different, but like all women in their forties, I am deeply aware of and interested in my sexual life. Like many women with naturally curvy bodies, I want to enjoy mine.

So here it is:

I'm aging, just like you are. ALL OF YOU. I'm also fat by many standards. I have little wrinkles from worrying on my forehead.

I also really enjoy sex, and I am probably better at it than you are. So there. I'm not self censoring any more for your comfort.

Dream: Hold Yer Own Tic Tacs!

I always have such  strange dreams when I sleep in a little. This morning I was dreaming that I was conquering my fear of heights by going skydiving. I was attending the safety class when some random guy said to me "Here, hold my tic tacs for me. Put them in your purse." So I did, only the lid wasn't all the way closed, and little white tic tacs went flying everywhere.

He was complaining to everyone about how I ruined his tic tacs. I got really pissed at him and yelled at him from across the room "Hold Yer Own Tic Tacs!!!!" and I started throwing them at him. Like, who did he think he was, presuming to take up space in my Coach handbag, anyway?? And why did he need the tic tacs for skydiving, anyway?


So there!

Sinking In

Image: Little J finding the light at the end of the tunnel. It isn't even a train this time.

Okay, so I had to create a new tag for my blog today. I can't believe I had never used it before: Happy.

That just shows how much I have been holding my breath the last few years. It occurred to me earlier today that Little J will be with us at Christmas for sure.  I have been so wrapped up in his legal concerns lately that I have not been able to think, with emotional safety, about the future. Just thinking about preparing a nice Christmas for him made me super happy.

Usually I am not super into that holiday. When we were going through infertility treatments there were too many Christmases that came and went without a child to share them with. The holidays became this loaded issue for me. Last year I didn't even decorate or put up a tree. I just couldn't do it. Now I have a new house and a new kid. I think I am going to dream of sugarplums tonight.

What the heck is a sugarplum, anyway?