The Wilderness

Insecurity, stop following me, with your beautiful lashes and your delicious smell.  Your kiss, so soft and so sweet, steals my breath and blackens my eyes. Your siren song ruptures my ears, deafening love.  Your strong embrace is so enticing, but you are no good for me.  So I am leaving you. Please stop following me.  Out in the wilderness, in the speckles of light and shadows of beauty.  Please stop following me with your promises of warmth and belonging.  I am fooled by you no more.  Your whispers of us are silent now.  Out in the wilderness I go, without you.  Out into the speckles of light and shadows of beauty.

Awakening



Morning Light by Anna Razumovskaya

I didn't know I was asleep. My life felt dreamlike-fuzzy around the edges. I felt happy and content, but with a mildly acidic undertone of something more sad, or lonely, or fearful...something that could never quite be identified and was so subtle that it almost felt imagined.  Perhaps it was fear of more- more pain, more of the same, more of the past, more of something I couldn't handle, more sadness for what I would never have.  Perhaps it was fear of less-having less, being less, accepting less, owning less of myself.  It was all very wispy and quiet and when I sat still and listened, I couldn't hear it.  I couldn't hear anything but the whispers of other's dreams that I couldn't distinguish from my own.



As I start to wake, I lay lazy and content, ready to receive.   In the space where sleep and awake mingle, I am still in the mist, letting what is true be revealed to me with the sun. In the past, I would have strained to see with my eyes.  In my forcing, I would mistaken the grayness for something more concrete and I would have called it truth.  Now, I wait as the truth shines through the kaleidoscope of reality and wishfulness. I let the colors dance on my skin-I let them change me, warm me, brighten me. In the space between sleep and awake, I am peaceful and whole.  I can hear the whispers, and they are my own.

Things I lost in the Flood

Tsunamis are odd things.  They start as a disturbance that happens deep under the water.   The movement is slow at first, gaining inertia through the reconstitution of it's own energy, creating slow, long waves that almost appear harmless.  Miles away, unassuming bystanders have no idea what it coming.  There is no storm, no explosion, no breaking of levies, no crumbling of  mountains...there is nothing to signify the impending danger. The sun still shines on the day of a tsunami. Videos of tsunamis often show the victims staring at the large rolling waves, their brains unable to process what is different about the sea.  They stare into the blue, searching and scanning for something-but the same blue waves answer back. It isn't until the floods start to sweep away the structures that have been present for decades that the brain registers the danger. And it is only after the floods recede that everyone returns to survey the damage.

Years ago I experienced a small disturbance that happened deep under the water.  I didn't notice the quiet rumble or subtle shift in the sediment...and yet, it was already moving, changing, growing.  Cut to the present day, I am drenched, gasping for air, and returning to the scene to make a list of the things I lost in the flood.  I surveyed the damage and found that my family, the love for my husband, my career, my education, and my will were still intact.  Here is what I lost in the flood:

1.  My sense of style.  For the past three years I have either been pregnant, nursing, or trying to get pregnant.  I have gained weight and retained water, making me look puffy and lumpy.  I was limited in exercise and forbidden to diet.  I didn't want to spend money on clothes because I might get pregnant again and wouldn't be able to wear the new clothes.  I gave up shopping, accessories, and shoes.  I replaced high heels for tennis shoes and comfortable boots. My designer jeans were tucked away in place of yoga pants and stretch jeans.

2.  My beauty. I gave up all skin care regimens, certain hair treatments, waxes, and manicures and pedicures because of the potentially harmful effects on the non-existent fetus.  I forgot how powerful, put together, and beautiful I felt when I took care of my looks.  As the waves grew stronger, my personal sense of style and beauty began to erode.  It etched my face, dulled my skin, and snuffed out the spark in my eyes, leaving gritty pools of grey underneath.

3.   My sexuality, passion, and fertility.  See above. It is hard to feel sexy and desirable when feeling fat, lumpy, dowdy and old.  My sense of womanhood is intricately intertwined with my sexuality and fertility.  The power of the tsunami ripped them apart from each other, leaving notches and scars where the three had grown as one. Although my fertility perished in the flood, my womanhood and sexuality have remained, temporarily weak, but with a renewed sense of strength now that they have been freed from interdependence.

4.  My smile.  Not the face smile I give everyone, but the smile that happens from the soul and shines outwards,spreading joy and happiness regardless of whether the face smile is present.  It's the smile that doesn't require any effort and that takes my breath away every once in awhile.

5.  My sense of adventure.  I used to be the kind of person who loved to try new things, go new places, break the rules a little, and jump out of bounds every once in awhile just for the thrill. I delighted in creating my future.  Then the tsunami happened and  I became a slave to schedules, to needles, to the unknown.  The future stood still, just waiting for me.  I stood still, waiting for my future.  We stared at each other, paralyzed, waiting for someone to make the first move. 

Last night, as I scrubbed away the soot and the salt and took stock of what was lost, I also started to rebuild. I remembered how to walk in high heels, let the smile shine through my eyes, and remembered how it felt to feel sexy, stylish, and whole.
 
As with any natural disaster, there is much to be rebuilt...and yet, like with any natural disaster, there is an unwavering spirit and a sense of resilience that is revealed.  There is new growth, new developments, new hope, new beauty.

While much was lost in the flood, fertile ground has been left behind, ready to birth a new future, ripe and colorful with possibility.

Little Dreams

Little One,
I have dreamt about you for years.  I can't tell you how many nights I have laid in bed, my hands on my  belly, willing you into existence-or how many times I sat in the silence of my car, thinking of you, almost sure I could see you and feel you growing.  I dreamt of our life together.  I dreamt of you with you brother and sisters, laughing and running around the house.  I have spent countless hours laying on the couch, daydreaming of how you felt in my arms, the smell of your warm milkiness stuck on my skin.  I could see your round pink lips sucking in your sleep and your pillow hand curled around my finger.  I saw you  growing in my belly.  I felt you kick.  I saw you sleeping in the stroller.  I saw your first steps.  I saw you learn to talk, jump, run, and skip.  I saw the day I dropped you off at daycare.  I saw your first day of preschool and your first loose tooth. I saw your sisters hold you and your brother kiss you. My littlest one-I have wished for you so hard that I almost forgot you were just that-a wish, a hope, a dream, a whisper.

Today, I am so sad because I have lost you...not one, not twice, but three times.  You were growing inside me and then you weren't.  I blame myself for  for not being strong enough to hold onto you.  My head knows differently, but my heart still hurts.  I have lost you so much more than that-every month for two years I was sure you were with me, and every month I have mourned the loss of you.  But today, today is the worst because I not only mourn the loss of you-but I mourn the loss of the possibility of you. 

Littlest one, know this-I tried so very hard for you. I wanted you more than anything and I would continue to feel pain and loss for months on end if I knew that eventually I would get to hold you in my arms.  But sadly, the doctor said that isn't possible. I am so sorry.  I am sorry I am old and my body has failed you and your dad.  I am sorry for the life I can't give you or your father.  I am so sorry that my best just wasn't good enough to make it work this time.  I am having difficulty getting over the fact that I have lost this battle.  My body is sore and tender from the anger and frustration that is richocheting inside.  I hate losing-I also know there is absolutely no point in battling God.

Time will move on and you will become a shadow in my heart.  A shadow that I hide with light and glitter because I am afraid of the dark.  I will move on and be happy and live and love and appreciate the gifts I have-but I will always be sad that you weren't able to grow up with me. 

My love for you is great, and I am so sorry it just wasn't enough.

Thank You for My Gifts

I used to think that as a parent, it was my job to impart Gifts to my children. Not the gifts that Santa brings, but the type of Gifts that will live on long after I am gone. I provide them with love and support. I teach them everything, from walking and talking to how to be a kind and generous person, a responsible citizen, a respected worker, a loving spouse, and a selfless parent. I viewed the love of parent and child pulsating between two hearts-glowing and magnitizing-but stronger and brighter in one direction. As a child myself, I have often wondered if my parents have any idea how deeply I love them...yet as a parent, I understand the profound deepness of parental love. A child's job is simply to love, grow up, and grow away. A parent's job is to love, to teach, and to stay still. We are lighthouses atop a rock-a stable beacon of safety and security for our children so that while they may wander, they may always find their way home.


Of course, as parents, we know that it is ridiculous to think our children don't teach us. Our children teach us every day. We learn patience and humility, selflessness and humor. We learn to recapture innocence. Our children force us to cast off our glasses, smeared and chipped from the smog and hardships of life so we can see life with the same brilliance they see- dazzling and sparkling under the virgin sun...all of it wondrous and new. It is in these moments that I am overwhelmed by parenthood. I am weightless in the joy and warmth.


We also know that our children are our beacon of light. Yesterday I was changing my son's clothes and gave him a kiss on his belly. He roared with laughter and shouted, "Again!" I chuckled and repeated....and repeated...and repeated....and repeated. We were stuck in a moment that will now forever be part of my fabric-his damp baby breath soft on my cheek, his warm hands on my face, and his sweet baby scent swirling and mixing with his laughter as it hung around us. We were nose to nose, giggling, breathing each other. In that moment, I was struck that my children are my Gift, straight from God. These moments are what Heaven feels like, smells like, sounds like. In that sliver of space between my nose and his-where we connect as one, in the absence of time and the abundance of light-that is where God lives. In those moments, God shines through my children to show me the way home.


I know that moment wasn't a gift to my son because that moment has already passed through him, indistinguishable from thousands of other moments. That moment was a gift meant for me-a moment captured with my breath and absorbed by my heart.


So while I give my children the Gifts they will need to grow and live well, they give me the Gift of Heaven on Earth each day. They help me to see as a child sees, as angels see, as God sees. Every day they walk me closer to Heaven. While I have been focusing on giving them the Gifts that will sustain them long after I am gone, they have been giving me the gift of Eternity.

Throwing Away New Year's Resolutions

This time of year is my favorite time of year. Not only is Christmas my favorite holiday, but because I work in the school system, I get a vacation between Christmas and New Year’s Day. During this week every year, I play with my children, nap, cook, read, and engage in my guiltiest pleasure-morning news television. The morning news programs tell me why my winter coat is no longer in style, what those crazy Kardashian sisters are up to now, which movies I must see, and how to turn leftover Christmas dinner into quiche. However, there is also a darker side to watching morning news television during this week. This is the week in which the segments are filled with tips regarding New Year’s resolutions. Each day I learn how to do more with my money, get fit, and eat healthier. I watch segments on how to be a better parent, a more dedicated employee, and a more responsible citizen.

What is wrong with all these tips? Well, in short, they make us feel lousy about ourselves. Even the term “resolutions”makes me cringe. Just the act of making a resolution sends a message that we are broken and must be fixed. When we feel incomplete, it changes who we are, how we look at the world, and how we interact with others. We exhaust ourselves trying to hide our flaws, appear perfect to the outside world, and find the cure for our hideous imperfections. Every year, most Americans make a resolution, and every year by February, most Americans have already broken those resolutions. We feel terrible for being such weak and horrible individuals and we spend the rest of the year silently whipping ourselves for our weaknesses, only to begin the crazy cycle again next year. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am calling for the end of New Year’s Resolutions and the beginning of New Year’s Celebrations. We should celebrate that which is beautiful, special, unique, and ordinary about ourselves. Instead of looking ahead or lamenting the past, we should be still in the moment. Sit quietly. Take in all that surrounds us, all that is within us. We should embrace ourselves, our scars, our soft bellies, and our crinkled eyes- for those scars are trophies of that which have made us strong, our soft bellies reflect time we spent lingering over meals with our friends and family, and every line etched around our eyes tells our story of joy or sorrow. Instead of resolving to change, we should resolve to first love ourselves as whole individuals, perfect and unique, ordinary and rare. Wrapped up in all our quirks and“imperfections,” we are whole, we are worthy, we are special. So I raise a glass and toast to you, for all that you are is all that you need to be in this moment. Happy New Year!

Tips for Halloween

When my oldest daughter was just over 2 years old, I bought her a cow costume for Halloween. She was with me when we picked it out and she mooed and squealed with delight in that warm, sweet baby voice that makes any mother’s heart melt. For weeks before Halloween, she wore the costume, mooing and jumping and laughing. I couldn’t wait to take her trick-or-treating for the first time. She and I were both convinced it was going to be magical. On the evening of Halloween, I woke her from her nap to get ready to go trick-or-treating.
Lesson one: Never wake a sleeping toddler for your own holiday pleasure. She was cranky and miserable. I wrestled her into the costume, convincing her how much fun we were going to have through my own clenched teeth. She refused to go, and I forced her in the name of fun.
Lesson two: Scowling at children as a way of convincing them they are about to have fun is a poor strategy. She cried, whined, and refused to walk. I schlepped her around the neighborhood wearing high heeled boots and a sweater with no jacket, balancing her on one hip while the thin plastic strap of her plastic pumpkin dug into my wrist. I had such high expectations for our first trick-or-treating experience; by the time we returned home, we were both exhausted and frustrated.
Lesson three: Dress appropriately. Halloween is a contact sport, not a fashion show. Wear appropriate shoes in the event that you have to chase children, run from scary costumes, or carry toddlers through half of Catonsville. Dress warmly. Bring the mittens, scarves, parkas…whatever it takes. It is surprisingly cold waiting for toddlers who insist on walking by themselves or supervising teenagers who insist of filling an entire pillowcase with candy.
Lesson three-and-a-half: A good cup of coffee, hot tea, or a glass of wine is not an accessory but a necessity. Good neighbors who gladly refill your glass are cherished gifts.
Lesson four: There is nothing wrong with eating your children’s candy as payment for your suffering. Don't feel bad. When they have children of their own, you can let them in on the secret and they can have their own after-bedtime candy raids. That night I put my daughter to bed, still in the cow costume, and proceeded to eat almost everything in her plastic pumpkin.
A few years later, my younger daughter hit the same age and I excitedly pulled out the same costume. Just like before, she mooed and giggled until the big day. Just like before, when Halloween came, she was tired and cranky. I had learned my lesson and so when she refused to put up the hood on the costume, I didn’t fight her. It was so cold, she had to wear a coat and no one could see the costume anyway.
Lesson five: Don’t sweat the costume. No one is going to refuse to give candy to a child because they can’t tell if the child is a cow, a dalmation puppy, or Lindsay Lohan. A few years later, the same daughter couldn’t wait to be Tinkerbell and then cried and ran away when I tried to attach the wings. As an experienced mom, I threw away the wings with a smile and secretly ate her candy after she went to bed as payment for trekking around two Targets and the mall to get the perfect Tinkerbell costume, complete with wings.
My girls are now twelve and nine. The benefit of older children is that they walk by themselves and collect their own candy. The downside is that they are no longer happy to walk the neighborhood; they now need to walk every neighborhood in Catonsville in search of the “perfect score.”
Lesson six: End all fights about candy by eating it yourself. My brother and I used to come home from trick-or-treating and would spend the night bartering and trading candy with each other. My daughters do the same. They have learned not to argue because mom will eat whatever candy is the object of discussion. Thank goodness they have learned their lesson because a grown woman can only eat so much candy in one sitting.
My son is almost two and so, once again, I am preparing for Halloween with a toddler. The entire family chose the perfect Halloween costume for him. We purchased the most adorable golfer costume, complete with knickers, tasseled shoes, and a hat. Of course, his feet are too fat to fit into the shoes, he refuses to wear the hat, and when I gave him the stuffed golf club, he threw it on the floor and got his real golf club. I am already prepared that he won’t wear his costume and he will end up toddling down Montrose Avenue in his pajamas and winter coat. All the experienced moms will smile at me and raise their wine glasses as they stroll down the street in their tennis shoes and parkas. I will bring the stroller and he will refuse to get in it because his sisters are walking. Every time someone puts candy in his bag, he will likely cry and toss it on the ground. The girls will insist on hitting every house and I will return home slightly frostbitten. After they go to bed, my husband and I will raid their candy and then vehemently deny it in the morning as we shake off a sugar hangover. It sounds like a bit mess, but I will have had a great time...and hopefully, if I did it right, the children will have enjoyed it too.
Final lesson: Relax, go with the flow, have fun, and don’t take it so seriously. It’s just Halloween. Oh, and don’t forget to save the best candy for yourself.

Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through. I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history. My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan. She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception. She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team. She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children. When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way. It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations. My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio. If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves. There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static. Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium. My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs. It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer. We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!” It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer. Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues. We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again. At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home. We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans. I miss those days. I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning. All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles. Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats? Everyone has a theory. Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black. Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved. While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump. Baltimore is a proud city. We are a loyal city. While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles. Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history. We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between. Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore. I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to make new baseball memories.

The Man and The Boy

I see a man. The man stands tall, proud, pure. He is a good man with a good heart. He believes in love, family, justice, peace, decency, honor. I see a boy. The boy cries for the childhood lost, the memories tainted, the scars, the wounds, the loneliness, the hurt. The boy cries for himself. The boy cries from guilt. The boy cries from anger. The boy cries from sadness. The boy cries from fear of the darkness of his thoughts. The boy cries all the tears he never cried. The boy desires to please, to smooth, to forget. The man knows these are childish thoughts. There is no forgetting, no undoing. There is only movement forward. Through pain. Out of childhood. Out of the past. The man weeps for the child. He weeps for his foolishness. He weeps for his innocence. He weeps for all things lost and all things that will never be lost. The two weep together until they are one.

Love Is...

Love isn’t a feeling or a passion, it’s a series of small actions shared between two people. It isn’t big events or grand gestures, but the things that happen in the little spaces, the small breaths, the silent seconds of every day.
Good love knits together these actions and these moments into a tight weave, folding the fabric back on itself time and time again until a thick quilt is formed, creating a cocoon for those wrapped inside. It offers protection, warmth, safety, comfort.


Bad love tries desperately to string together a series of big actions using big looping stitches, trying to shortcut and ignore the strength of the small stitch. The knots and stitches are loose, lumpy, and uneven. In the end, there isn’t a fabric but more of a moth-eaten bit of cheese cloth. Those that have woven this fabric foolishly think no one sees the holes. When others aren't looking, they pull and tug, stretch and fluff, desperately trying to smooth over, plump,and brighten the coarse bits of fray. They try to wrap themselves, but find only a fight with the other for warmth and protection. When one wins, the other loses. The fabric isn’t big enough for both. Both are left bitter, cold, shivering,and exposed to the elements.

The Feeling of Love

When I first met my husband, I couldn’t remember what he looked like the next day. Even after several dates, when we would meet, I was always surprised by his appearance. There is nothing wrong with my husband’s looks; I kept forgetting what he looked like because for the first time, my heart served as my eyes. My vision of what is true and good is much better this way. I should have used this technique a long time ago-I could have saved myself a lot of trouble trying to make the ugly pretty.


The night we first met, there was a hum and a pulse that slowly moved us through space towards each other. I didn’t notice. I was still seeing with my eyes. In blurry moments of rich darkness and laughter, we were together, alone, in a crowd. The hot night air wrapped the two of us up tightly. The hum and the pulse smothered the noise from the outside world. I remember his laugh tickling my ear, the gentle touch of his hand on the small of my back, the feeling of the night air on my skin as it drew us together. The world faded away. I could almost see the light connecting our hearts and pulling us together. Not a rope of light or an extra-terrestrial beam of light jetting out from our bellies, but a glow and a hum that is silent and invisible, blinding and deafening. Encapsulating us. Protecting us. When I think of my husband, I don’t see a body or a paycheck, labels, skills or scenes…I see the light and the hum-it draws me in, wraps me up, and keeps me safe.

He is the warm breath on the nape of my neck- the open, relaxed lips and brush of the nose right before a kiss-the eyes that I fall into and hope to get lost in forever. He is the nook of his neck where my head fits perfectly and I lay contently, breathing in the sweet fragrance of soap and shaving cream. He is the arms that wrap around me to block out the world and squeeze out my demons, keeping me safe from even myself. He is my harbor, my home, my life, my light, my redemption, my salvation, my love. I am me. He is him. Stripped down. Honest. Naked. Whole. Complete. Perfectly Imperfect.

I see him best when we are together, tangled and melted into one, eyes closed, breathing each other, with no beginning and no end. With every breath, we melt deeper into each other, into the universe, into ourselves. We are limp with light and warmth- like napping in warm sand. Our love rushes in and settles like a tidal pool, warm and safe and playfully inviting. This is what love looks like feels like to me.

Vacation Memories

As a child, vacation held just as much anticipation and excitement as Christmas, and took just as much preparation. For the week leading up to vacation, my mother would bake dozens upon dozens of cookies and other sweets. She and my aunt would go grocery shopping and fill two or three carts full of food until the carts were so overstuffed that our jobs as kids was rush around behind them like ball boys and girls, picking up any stray items that fell out as they tried to steer the impossibly heavy carts. They would bake hams and roasts and slice them thinly into lunchmeat and make casserole upon casserole until our freezers were as overstuffed as our little tanned bellies would be in just a week's time. My grandmother would take a special trip to the UTZ factory downtown to buy large tins of chips and pretzels that stood half my size. As kids, we would have to dip the entire top half of our bodies into the tin while our toes strained to keep contact with the floor to get the goodies at the bottom of the tin. Everything we scored would be soggy, stale, and sandy. We didn't care. Everything we ate tasted marvelous because the rules were different on vacation. After all, we didn't have to ask permission. My grandmother always saved the empty tins and she would fill the empty tins with homemade Chex mix. It would take her weeks to make enough batches to fill the tin. Once the tin was unpacked from the car, we would immediately attack like locusts, leaving only buttery fingerprints, melba toast, dark burnt Chex pieces, and peanuts for the grown-ups to enjoy.

My father made playlist after playlist so we had the perfect soundtrack for every occasion and made sure we had enough batteries for the boom box. My uncle spent hundreds of hours, and dollars, getting his boat and all accompanying gear ready to make the trip while my Aunt Bridget shook her head and muttered under her breath what sounded like a string of curse words and something about a hole in the water where her money went. My uncle would bow his head sheepishly and run his hand through his hair while saying, "But Bridge, the kids love it." It was the statement that ended all arguments.

The night before vacation, it was almost impossible to sleep; my mind was like MTV, rapid firing videos in a disjointed mess of memories of vacations past and daydreams of the potential fun to come. Just as I would drift off, a flashy new jingle for Hawaiian Punch rafts would jolt me awake again.

My parents would get up at sunrise and start to pack the car. We lived next door to my aunt and uncle, who were also up packing. My bed was positioned in front of the window and I was able to watch the grown-ups, like small ants, rushing back and forth under the sleepy sky, packing and repacking three cars and a boat until everything fit. Time moved impossibly slowly. They would stop and chat as the light started to bleed into the purple sky while my impatience grew. Didn't they know it was vacation, for God's sake? Let's go! By the time my parents opened my door to tell me it was time to go, I was bursting and bouncing with exuberance.

We would caravan down Route 2, three overstuffed cars and a boat. We would have to pull over from time to time to make sure everyone was still together. I never understood why, when we had been doing this for years, the adults were still confused about how to get there. I would sleep in the car, only to wake at the exact moment my father had to drive over the bridge. My mother would patiently turn to me as I yammered excitedly on and on about nothing and remind me of the rule of no talking while Daddy was on the bridge. It took an immense amount of concentration to stop my mouth from taking off without me during those dreadfully long three minutes.

Once on the road, my father wasn't big on stopping. If we had to go to the bathroom, we had to alert him when we first got the sensation in hopes that we wouldn't pee ourselves by the time he finally decided to pull over. For this trip, he liked to get over the Bay Bridge before stopping to get breakfast. That meant we ate in Easton or Ocean City, depending on when my mother finally put her foot down.

The caravan would pull up to the vacation house and the kids would tumble out of the car and go scampering in all directions like little puppies, peeing on things, rolling in the sand, eating unwrapped candy left lying around. Our parents had the dubious task of wrangling us while simultaneously hiking suitcases, coolers, boogie boards, kites, sand toys, and a myriad of other junk up several flights of stairs.

Time is tricky on vacation. In the small spaces of nothingness throughout the week, the kids get antsy. It seems like the entire vacation is spent waiting...for beach time to come, for sunscreen to be applied, for the ice cream truck to come, for the bus to come, for the waves to come, for night to come, for lifeguards to come, for lifeguards to go, for the tractors to come, for wind to come, for dinner to be finished, for bathing suits to dry, for naptime to be over, for the grown-ups to stop talking. In the small moments of waiting and the big moments untethered joy, time sneaks behind us on it’s tippy toes and jumps up to surprise us at the end of the week. Time doubles over in laughter at this clever joke while we are left shaken, hurt, and stunned. What just happened? We try to recount the week, as if we could locate the missing time and tack it onto the end of the week. The efforts are fruitless. Vacation is a space with everything and nothingness all tangled together and separating the two is impossible. Vacation isn't about specific events, but a warm gooey blending together of all the senses.

We still go to the beach every year. My dad still makes playlists and my uncle still brings the boat. The house still swarms with people as they catch scent of my mother's famous lasagna. Gone is the small beach store where my father got his morning coffee and paper and our yearly supply of glow sticks and rafts. Sunsations dot each street corner now. We have said goodbye to some and welcomed others as our family continues to grow and change. The scenes are the same, but now the children have become the parents, and the parents have become the grandparents.

Memory is like ambient light, especially where childhood is concerned. My vision of my parents gleefully packing the car looks different under the bright lights of my own parenthood experience. I now know it isn't all that exciting to pack and repack at the crack of dawn in the pitch black. Sunsations isn't Mecca, the Boardwalk isn't as great as Disneyland, and time feels different sitting on the sidelines baking in the sun than it does bobbing gleefully over the waves. I am thankful for memory's ability to soften the rough edges and make the colors, scents, and scenes more vibrant- for myself and for my children. After all, vacation is still the best week of the entire year.

The Modern Day Hester Prynne

Women experiencing fertility problems are the Modern Day Hester Prynne. No longer is is shameful to sleep with another man's husband. It is also no longer sinful to covet, lie, steal, or cheat. As a matter of fact, in today's society, engaging in those behaviors puts a person on the fast track to becoming famous. However, to have the word infertility linked to a woman's name, now that is shameful. It is so shameful that a fifty year old movie star will swear she got pregnant naturally, even though it is virtually impossible. Women with infertility are first sentenced when given a scarlet letter-made of paper, not rags-that says, "Please go visit one of the following infertility specialists." They are sent to an office with letters the size of a billboard announcing FERTILITY SPECIALIST. Only those that have been given the scarlet letter are able see the subtitle, "Wasteland of the broken women. Have pity on their souls." The Modern Day Hester Prynne tries to go about her life. However, instead of wearing the letter proudly, she fervently hides the letter. With every attempt at deceit and denial, the letter glows hotter, branding and blistering the skin. Upon discovery, others offer pity, condemnation, confusion, judgment, fear, or combination of the above. Her shame sears her skin with every announcement that someone is having a baby, every attendance at a baby shower, and every opportunity to hold a baby. Every month that goes by without two pink lines, she picks at her scabs with hatred and disgust. In an attempt to heal, the Modern Day Hester Prynne seeks books, websites, friends, family, specialists, herbalists, yoga masters, organic farmers, life coaches, and any other carpetbagger that claims to hold the secret cure to infertility. These cures prove to only aggravate the wounds, making them sting and ache and bleed. The wounds can't be hidden; attempts just leave a stain caused by the oozing, sticky wound.

The branding scars and disfigures the heart, the head, the womb, the words, the thoughts, the actions, the life, the future, the past. For many women, they will find a cure or will learn to embrace their situation. They are the successful Hester Prynnes. They will wear their letter proudly. Others will never find a cure. They will eventually move on and stop picking the scabs. They will let their wounds heal. The scars serve as reminder of their failures as women, as mothers, and as wives.


I don't know if, as the scars turn white and fade back into the skin, the pain also fades. I don't know if, or when, it stops being the event that eclipses all else, defining every moment, every breath. I don't know when it stops feeling like a punishment from God. I don't know if infertility is a theme that weaves through the entire book, or just a chapter that sets the stage for the larger story. I don't know what happens next. Only time will tell. You see, I am one of the many Modern Day Hester Prynnes.

Catching Fireflies

When I was young, I loved the fourth of July. The fourth marks some very key moments in the summer. It is the time of year when honeysuckle blooms and the hot air smells sweet and delicious. It's the kick off to summer marked by parades and fireworks, mosquito bites and snowballs. It's dancing and twirling barefoot in the grass, and artwork burned into the inky night sky by sparklers. Most importantly for me, the fourth of July marks the beginning of firefly season. There is nothing like running, jumping, and squealing in delight, deep in the chase for bits of pixie dust floating in the air. The art of the hunt, the thrill of the catch. Catching a firefly is like catching a star, a mystery, a pixie, a fantasy. The night stands still, holding it's breath...waiting. The slow unfolding of the hand, the blackness in the palms, until...THE BURST of light that moves slowly on the fingertips and then floats effortlessly into the darkness. It is a fantastical event that captures the beauty of childhood, the spirit of happiness.

Much of that had been lost for me. Times are busy and somehow Pottery Barn catalogs crept in and eclipsed the brilliance of sparkler art. I can't identify when I lost that untamed happiness. For me, there wasn't a defining moment but more of a series of events that shaped who I was, what I thought, and how I perceived the world. There also wasn't a moment that I recaptured the spirit of childhood. I didn't find the secret to happiness and now I am dancing around with sparklers at night while proclaiming to love my cellulite. I am, however, moving deeper into happiness every day. I am learning to live in the moment, accept myself, take deep breaths, and drink in joy. I am washing off the dark, sticky tar of guilt and unworthiness. I am doing the hard work of forgiving myself and finding peace and acceptance in my life. I am catching those brilliant moments of happiness, those that appear magically like fireflies to light up the night sky. I am learning to coax those moments gently in my hands and then sit quietly and appreciate their brilliance, only to let them go back into the night sky, fulfilled by the hunt, and the glory, of catching magic.