Category: Self-Help

Sacred Marriage. Vixen Diaries. Love Yourself First. Live Juicy. A wall of titles, towering, closing in. Each one of these books, a brick pressing in, right against the gut. I had approached this section ("Self-Improvement?" Holy Toledo!) seeking something about. . . what? Gratitude and appreciation? Clearing away the debris? Getting eight hours of sleep?

This section of the books store has always been my secret indulgence. While I pretend I am a history buff and will plow through a biography of Jonas Salk just because it matters, the shelves I visit when craving comfort food offer a thousand ways to mend ragged love and ease stiff perception. By following the training regimens of gurus and quacks, I seek escape from the commonplace. A simple set of exercises has the power to give each moment a jolt of clarity. Perhaps by following this five-step plan or repeating that mantra, I will unearth my calling, my companion, my faith? When I stumble across a new title on mindfulness or forgiveness, my mouth waters. What new practice shall I sink my teeth into today? How can I learn to look up and discover my way?

But now. Gads. Now that the core relationships of my life are in a jumble and I need the help more than ever, all I experience as I approach this wailing wall is sheer vertigo. Confession and prayer, careful attention to each intimate detail. . . these tasks are about as compelling as scaling a rock-face teeming with snakes. I cannot, physically cannot step within arm's length of the shelves. I stand at a safe-ish distance, assessing the spines. Each seems more coolly dangerous than the last. Relationship Rescue. Collaborative Divorce.

It appears the vast array of options for reflection and recovery is no longer a delicious smorgasbord of self-discovery. Whatever exists between those blessedly closed covers suddenly seems too much. Too much self-absorption, too much spiraling diagnosis. Too much savoring the flavor of one's own cud. Just Too. Damned. Much.

Because I cannot take one step closer, I back away, reeling, and spin into another aisle. Cookbooks, travel guides, coffee-table volumes of English gardens and lightning storms. What other skills shall I develop instead? This is the habit for a gal like me. Allow someone else to give me a prompt, a purpose, a compass point. Seek and absorb. But what of the path I have already cleared away? What of the practices I have spent the better part of three decades learning to cultivate?

I stop. Catch my breath. Enough, lady. You know where to go. It's really not so hard one you just say yes. Yes, I know my heart and I know my mind. These two are my own trusty guides.

They nudge my feet in the direction of the stationery section. Bound books. Blank parchment. There, I find the one I seek. A flashy spiral filled with lined sheets, a slick chick in a bikini on the cover sipping a martini. I pay my $10 -- too much for blank pages, but not for the lease -- and slip over to the cozy chairs to inhabit the empty rooms between the college rule. One word at a time, I fill them. This is my own text. My own story. A self-improvement section crafted by these hands.

As I begin to write, a man near me strikes up a conversation. Following a health scare, he has begun to keep a journal for the first time in his life. "What do you say in those things?" He asks, gesturing towards my book. We talk of writing whatever pulls us to the page. He tells his story about traveling the world for work, then retiring with just enough in the bank to buy into a ranch in Colorado. There, the waiting horses, the endless acres. I listen. He is hungry for an ear. I feed him mine. Little does he know, I am filling my own belly with crumbs of adventures I have not yet imagined. My journal only contains four lines, but it is fat with the nourishment I came in seeking. Before I go, I remind the fella to keep writing. He tells me the same.

It is a blessing to know simple things. Make poetry. Share bread. It is not so very hard to love this big old world when returning to what is already known. They say the only way to learn how to write is to write. Perhaps the only way to find one's way is to take a step.

Like You

Like you I

love love, life, the sweet smell

of things, the sky-blue

landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up

and I laugh through eyes

that have known the buds of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful

and the poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don't end in me

but in the unanimous blood

of those who struggle for life,

love,

little things,

landscape and bread,

the poetry of everyone.

- Roque Dalton

Waystation

I.

On the bedstand in the room where I wait
out the storm sits
a globe. So close to my head, still
I ignore her until well past the witching hour
when the urge to roam
is stymied by snow. I feel
for a cord
on a whim.

Suddenly the dark, squat sphere
is lit from within. In her parchment
glow, I trace shadows
of mountains on the ocean floor, fault
lines in the crust fathoms
below a surface whose smooth second
dimension is all she bares in the cool light of day.

When darkness descends and sleep
evades, when gazing into a thing
is required, I follow
the gulf stream from where it skirts
my capital city pressing
me so close to the coast, east
and slightly north, ever toward
the British Isles where it glances
off the Out Stack and flows
toward the Arctic chill.
Everyone's compass point,
like it or not, true
north.
That frozen place
where one had better learn to hunt and grow
a pelt because the days may be lengthening
but winter has only just begun.

II.

Why not? My hand
wonders. Why not
ignore the drift, resist
the pull? Haven't we all learned
when caught in a riptide, swim
parallel to the shore?
Barbados, perhaps?
Trinidad?
Suriname?
Other currents can guide
a willing vessel just as well.
It only takes a bit of muscle, sense
of the stars, consideration
of lesser known ports
whose names are shaped by a tongue I have
yet to learn.

Spa World

When your shoulder is stiff for a week
but you've got no one to ask to rub it
When your dreams are fractured for a night
but you've got no one to wake up to tell
You might ignore the dawn and
decide you're better off going back to sleep.
But the bed will still be empty and the shoulder will not stop whining.

You might have left the window cracked all night
in the hopes that the strong, soft hand of god
would slip in to hold you tight. If you are the praying type,
this just might work for you. But be warned:
Such a tactic might just let in January's serrated chill
to scar your dreams and score your skin.

Chances are, when day bangs against the pane
you will know you must rise and take care of your own damned self.

Make your lists of what you have learned so far.
Resist resistance. Brainstorm:

Hike Old Rag
Brunch with a friend
Elliptical
Bubble bath
Buy shoes
Plant something
Paint something
Punch something
Bake

But it is 19 degrees when the wind blows. Your shoulder groans.
Your dreams left a hole too deep and wide
for chocolate cake or Jimmy Choos.

Once you've loosened the tight seal of your mind,
you may remember talk of a Korean spa out your way.
If you are resourceful and can bark yourself awake,
you may stumble to your feet, find a phone, get dressed and go.

Within two minutes of arriving at the cavernous place,
you are naked and simmering in needle-hot tub.
All around you, slick hides of naked apes dip in and out of view.
Steam rises, oils are applied.
Sleepy eyes and stretching necks, girls with mamas and grandmothers too.
You book shiatsu, you don the uniform and climb the bamboo stairs.
A woman straddles your ass and cracks your spine,
her fingers a marvel.
She is small. She makes you howl. She will not speak.
It does not matter.
Your shoulder hurts far worse than before,
but you know this was how it had to be.

You step into a red clay hut set at 173 degrees,
recline on a sisal mat, and sweat out what is left of your pain.

You may remember to breathe.
You may remember you are simply meat and bone.
You may begin to let go.

Isn't this how it always is?
When you stop pleading
when you stop waiting to be saved
the hand slips in through a crack in the floor.
It carries you where you need to go.
It is the hand of god
and it is your own.

Vienna

As the Orange line train nears
the final station, the car is heavy with men.
On my left, one with gray hair keeps falling asleep.
His head hangs limp, swaying. His right hand bears
a red-gold claddagh, heart turned in. Rocking,
his leg brushes mine
again
then brushes mine again. He does not stir.

The touch, brief and anonymous
under the blanket of empty stares,
thrills me.
He means no harm. He seeks his respite
as we all must.

On all sides of me, men sport rings.
I notice these things
now that my delicate band lives in its dark velvet case
and I wear two thick hunks of silver, hand-hewn knuckledusters
on my middle fingers.

Each of these men, someone has chosen.
Each of these men has chosen
to stay
at least for today
as the wind slices its January chill
across the tracks
where the train sighs to a stop.
The sleeping man rouses himself
pulls tight his scarf
and ducks out into an evening
eager to ferry weary husbands
to the ones who await them.

Home is only a moment
but it is warm enough
no matter how fleeting
the pleasure of arriving where you are known.

I follow the parade up the escalator
out to the garage where I have parked on top.
My windburnt cheeks brush against the belly of imperfect sky
whose violet embers sear the deepening blue.
The days grow longer even though it is still winter.
Light greets me now
at the end of day.

Bon Voyage

Books - the best antidote against the marsh-gas of boredom and vacuity.    - George Steiner

The fear has been that Bug will get lost in the storm. We move, his mommy starts back at work, his daddy moves yet again, his gramma un-retires, and yet another preschool tapes his name to a cubby. From one day to the next, this four-year-old doesn't know where he is going to be.

When I tumble back through the looking-glass, I can call up inverted images of that mommy who used to spend long stretches of every day walking her son through the tasks of life. They made fingerpaint out of cornstarch. She wandered with him into the woods and to gaze at polliwogs in the creek. Butter knife in hand, he helped prep the veggies for dinner. Hell, they made dinner.

Now, it is all I can do to nuke a meal, draw a bath, and read a few books at bedtime. The two day care centers watching Bug during his fractured week had better be teaching him well, because in this house, we haven't touched play-doh or the dress-up trunk in months.

Tumbling forward to this side of the mirror has come at great cost, but dwelling on the loss is a recipe for misery. We bouy each other, my kid and me, by speaking about our favorite things each day. Yet, every week, I make silent, earnest promises to myself to do better when Saturday comes around. Divided as the weekends are between two parents, I know I only have 24 hours to make up for lost time. "We will sit down at the piano together," I say to myself during the arduous Friday commute. "We will work on letters on the white-board. I'll attend wholly to my son's (doubtlessly delayed) development and take him down to the Smithsonian."

But Bug has other plans. After spending the week tossed between caregivers, he doesn't want to do much more than flit around the house and the yard, touching all his familiar stuff. A most thrilling outing is crashing his Thomas bike into a tower of crates in the driveway. Also? Let's be honest here. I'm wrecked. All of my best parenting intentions leak away as Saturday morning gives way to the afternoon, and time for the inevitable trade-off approaches. I'm happy if I can just puddle on the floor next to my son while he scoots his dinosaurs around the living room. My abbreviated weekend involves an endless quest for low-resource, high-quality educational activities that require minimal expenditure of ergs.

This morning, I convinced Bug to crawl up next to me on the sofa and to listen to a story. This is ambrosia for a weary mommy. No operating instructions, recipes, or road maps required. We sit. I read. Bliss.

Today, we were reading a book that has the names of certain supermarket items displayed around the page separated from the text. Bug interrupted my reading to ask, "What's that one, Mommy?" He was pointing to the vegetable display. I have been re-reading this story for the better part of three years. It didn't occur to me to do anything differently than what I had always done. I simply pointed to each item and read it aloud. Carrots, beets, broccoli.

Then we reached the page with the deli and meat counter. He interrupted again. "What's that?" I remembered that Bug had been tracing out his letters at the table the night before. I took a different approach. "Try sounding it out." He did. Slowly, he traced his finger across the letters. "Buh-ay-cuh-aw-n." He went back and did it again. "Buh-ay-con." A grin spread across his face. He turned to me, recognition a new sun rising behind his eyes. "Bacon!"

"You got it! What about this one?" I pointed. "The C-H makes a 'ch' sound."

"Chuh-i-k-eh-n." Another grin. "Chicken!"

"Baby," I pulled him close. "You're reading. You know that?"

Bug wriggled out of my grasp and sat up straighter on the sofa. "Another one," he said. He traced his finger along a word. Bread. Then another. Crackers. He worked through each until the sounds coalesced into a familiar arrangement. Checkout Counter. Magazines. Cashier. One after another, objects surfaced on his lips and inside his skull in perfect synchronicity. The charge of pleasure and pride down his spine crackled right through to my own skin. Perhaps this is not Helen Keller at the water pump, but the dawning wonder of comprehension is no less magnificent for being commonplace. My beautiful boy had begun to read.

As it turns out, Bug is not lost. The weather may be unpredictable, but a wide circle of people, some family and some professionals, cares for him and helps him learn how to navigate the chop. He has two homes full of stimulating activities, two addresses he shares with loving adults. He is fine. Even when my maternal panic tries to convince me otherwise, the more worldy parts of me know he's got a pretty good deal. Still, it is a relief to witness this external measure of my child's good progress.

The real delight of today's breakthrough comes from a much deeper well than simply knowing my son is on track and meeting a external standard of success. Today, I saw my little boy finally kicking off the shore on his journey as a reader. He will now begin to have books as sources of adventure, solace, and escape. A literate child can tap hope when the world fails to deliver. Far from being lost; if my son finds books, he can find his way.

Under Construction

From my office window, I can see the National Cathedral in the distance through the scouring January sun. A year ago, I would not have believed myself capable of such a statement. At the beginning of 2010, my little family was still holed up in a cabin within spitting distance of Lake George. I could walk from my front door all the way to the top of Buck Mountain in the Adirondack range without ever crossing a road. An urban office, the requisite job, and the need for me to bring in an income were not anywhere on the horizon. We were still doing our best to perform triage on our marriage. I was a stay-at-home mom and camp wife by day, a struggling novelist by night.

In my spotty work history, I have worked leading students through the streets of Geneva and the hills of St. Lucia, occupied modular cubes and steamy kitchens, and staffed courtrooms and classrooms. But I have never simultaneously possessed both a workspace of my own and a window. As Bug was growing through his toddler and preschool years, I occasionally imagined myself returning to work. I figured if I could keep him alive until kindergarten, I might land a part-time gig scanning membership cards at the front desk of the Glens Falls YMCA.

Necessity is the mother of invention. Desperation is the OB forcing her feet in the stirrups. Within the span of a year, complacent avoidance has given way to single motherhood. My imagination has been cracked open by the sudden force of the change. I don't just work and raise a child. Within the School of Public Policy, I take on projects above and beyond the scope of my position. I say "yes" whenever possible. I may be laying my career foundation a little late in the game, but I'm erecting the gleaming skeleton with determined optimism. I know better than to assume 2011 is going to see a finished product, but I also understand that the structure of this new life will only be as grand as the blueprints I lay down here and now.

At this moment, I am inside the freshly carpeted hull of the latest steel-and-glass addition to the Virgina Square skyline. This is our first week of business in George Mason U's new Founders Hall. On Monday morning, I opened an office door flanked by a plate bearing my married name and walked into the sunlit space I will inhabit forty-odd hours of every week. The ergonomically correct office chair gave me a welcome hug and I spun around to gaze northeast across Arlington, over the river, along the tops of winter-bared trees to the cathedral atop a D.C. hill.

I remember the stone church being perpetually under construction when I was a child growing up here. The foundation was laid in 1907. When it was completed about 80 years after its beginning, many people needed reminding that it was one of the most rapidly constructed cathedrals in the world. It's a nice reminder that lovely, solid things take a long time to build.

Both Hands

If you know one song,
any piano will do.
Bend to it. Commence.