tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307867522024-03-18T23:12:48.487-04:00My EcdysisLisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.comBlogger768125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-37323448561662016832010-06-04T02:45:00.003-04:002010-06-17T20:22:30.069-04:00Onward and Upward!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAHi58ev9Q4z_Chi7I6h95JKTSp7GhRJEatOdh4Hraux80Oy5UxIVbWwqoUmF6n13jTj-0DpsrSziZQaEjiECvleitJMWlt6FKzkCkPgkYi0o0kXNb0EfIkj4Fyojd8klkt5w/s1600/move.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAHi58ev9Q4z_Chi7I6h95JKTSp7GhRJEatOdh4Hraux80Oy5UxIVbWwqoUmF6n13jTj-0DpsrSziZQaEjiECvleitJMWlt6FKzkCkPgkYi0o0kXNb0EfIkj4Fyojd8klkt5w/s400/move.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483902404377163538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I certainly don't want to get all weepy and sappy as I move this blog to my website.<br /><br />So...keep your tears and throw some confetti because we are MOVIN' ON UP!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Update your reader and get to my new home: <a href="http://www.myecdysis.com/">www.myecdysis.com</a></span>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-50423312242035234232010-05-17T15:27:00.004-04:002010-05-17T16:38:48.749-04:00The Illusion of PermissionI never earned a degree in photography, but I call myself a photographer.<br /><br />No one ever taught me how to write creatively, but I call myself a writer in creative non-fiction.<br /><br />There's an illusion of permission, particularly in the arts, that you really should have the right kind of credential or background before you call yourself anything, before you utter the word "artist" or "poet" as a descriptor.<br /><br />Of course credentials are helpful. There's no dispute that a formal program or academic certificate offers professional development and advancement. But what I'm referring to is the community level, grassroots, center-of-the body need to create and express ourselves. And the unfortunate tendency is to self-dismiss our drive because we are not really "authorized" to do so. In other words, we - those without permission - dare not dip our toes into the creative process or artistic world. We let it slip away.<br /><br />Who has the license to create? Who gives YOU permission to move, bend, and contort paper, pen, ideas, words, clay, textile, paint, beads, voice into something that expresses a peace/piece inside you?<br /><br />Today I was talking to someone about photography and she asked me how I got into photography, if I had ever taken a class. I'd never taken a photography or lighting course. I never joined a club. Hell, I didn't even own a camera until I took my first job after graduate school. <br /><br />But, photography always moved me. The color. The symphony. The patience of waiting for the right moment. I always felt that photography was about observation and timing. And as the youngest of four children, my whole life was spent observing the world around me. There were three eyes on by body, I often thought. The two on my face and the one in my brain, clicking a camera to capture a moment. The way Andrew smiled at me right before I received my first kiss. The shadowed foot steps of my family when we walked the beach in 1992. The electric blue bubble letters on a sign that read "Vote for Lisa" when I ran for class president in 4th grade. My father's hands as he drummed the steering wheel to old classic music in our Ram van.<br /><br />The lesson plans of the camera are formidable and can be frustrating. There's a slight math and science to the camera; a sophisticated vocabulary that must be decoded before one can smoothly operate the camera as a tool. But I stuck with it. It started as fascination, then grew to a hobby, then flourished into a passion. And then I committed to it. I dedicated myself to learning it, with my love for photography tucked under my elbow. That's when I knew I was a photographer. I not only loved doing it. I committed myself to it.<br /><br />It's very similar to romantic relationships. The real-ness of the relationship, what legitimizes it, what affirms the relationship to be authentic and solid and heavy does not come from those outside looking in. It comes from the commitment of the people to one another, to the relationship.<br /><br />You must commit to the process, to the art as action. You must commit yourself.<br /><br />Photography, as an art, takes practice. It takes vision.<br /><br />I told my friend to stop waiting for someone to give her permission. "If you keep waiting for someone to tell you that it's ok to try something, you'll never start. And the only person waiting and sitting in disappointment is yourself. There's no permission needed. Just start creating."<br /><br />I thought about that for a few hours afterward.<br /><br />I thought about how long I waited to try. I waited for someone to tell me that I had an eye for photography. That day never came. It's no wonder either. The "you have a good eye" compliment never came because I wasn't DOING anything and therefore had nothing to show; nothing for anyone to reflect upon, critique, or admire. When you wait for permission, you wait in stillness.<br /><br />Why did I wait for permission? Why do we figure we need to earn something EXTRA before we allow ourselves to draw or sketch or, dammit, even just TRY something creative. To raise our fingers to an unfamiliar block of clay, an untouched canvas, or a blank page takes a steel rod of bravery.<br /><br />We are moving into an age where the single nomad, crushing himself into a starving corner is no longer the picture of an artist or master creator. Today, artists are single mothers with two jobs<br />and a bus pass. Photographers can be world travelers or lifetime small town dwellers. The elitism is bleeding out. Art is everyday. Artists should be as common as a worn kitchen table.<br /><br />We may grow old. We may lose that fresh inspiration that wakes us up in the middle of the night. But the goal of creative work is not to be legendary or even remembered. The goal is to be free.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-89109395894912235902010-05-06T09:54:00.006-04:002010-05-06T16:38:55.734-04:00The 12 Startling Similarities Between God and the Right EditorI've been a writer all my life. I cannot remember a time when my right hand did not grasp a pen and moved left to right on a page, documenting the significant and insignificant morsels of living.<br /><br />A few years ago, I was struck by lightning and had the tremendous opportunity to work with make/shift magazine, and with Jess Hoffman, and slowly begin learning about the fundamentals of editing.<br /><br />Editing has its moments of excruciating difficulty. It is not the free flowing creative river that is writing. It can be an unpredictable whiplash that stings every time you work with a new writer. I've had the magnificent pleasure of learning from many different kinds of writers and editors and, today, thought of the countless similarities I began seeing in my relationship with God and my relationship with editing.<br /><br />This is what I found...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Twelve Startling Similarities Between God and the Right Editor</span></span><br /><br />1) The Editor works with you and your ideas, trying to observe and guide and not intercede.<br /><br />2) When you are excessively verbose, the Editor gets to the heart of what you are saying.<br /><br />3) The Editor is patient, but nudges you from time to time.<br /><br />4) The Editor knows that the writer must equally trust the Editor and believe in herself.<br /><br />5) The Editor has worked with so many different kinds of writers, you know there's nothing that the Editor hasn't seen.<br /><br />6) The Editor knows what is sacred and carefully addresses issues close to your heart.<br /><br />7) The Editor has a vision, but it is co-authored.<br /><br />8) Ultimately, the Editor wants your best self, your best work, and works with you to make that manifest.<br /><br />9) Often times in conversation with the Editor, you realize hidden truths underneath a lot of rubble.<br /><br />10) "I know what I know, what do YOU think?"<br /><br />11) The Editor will never give you an assignment that is too large for you to handle.<br /><br />12) The Editor has a way of arranging things that leaves you mystified, dumbstruck, and grateful.<br /><br />So, to all the writers out there: I wish you not only deep, rich soil to till your work in, I wish you a gracious and visionary editor who believes in your ability to fruitfully open a truth for yourself to share with the world.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-86752779431329194652010-04-28T12:28:00.004-04:002010-04-28T12:30:20.884-04:00Seeing Myself in My SonI was cleaning the office and found one of my baby pictures.<br /><br />It was eerie. I compared my picture with Isaiah.<br /><br />Oh my...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6TrIuw8zGBwJQhH9iUHXfekv1WLoPu2HSdaICcfWqX4-lrIdiPQtu0NEMsXJ9Fgtc-EcJJWKwUv9tpm24tvPur0leXLXk1_FTq0Vyl39ojd90bIJOhAWkRRXZpOCM40ClcfZ/s1600/Me+and+My+Baby+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6TrIuw8zGBwJQhH9iUHXfekv1WLoPu2HSdaICcfWqX4-lrIdiPQtu0NEMsXJ9Fgtc-EcJJWKwUv9tpm24tvPur0leXLXk1_FTq0Vyl39ojd90bIJOhAWkRRXZpOCM40ClcfZ/s400/Me+and+My+Baby+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465226486788544946" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-84410838476786265592010-04-14T10:31:00.009-04:002010-04-14T20:37:12.108-04:00Birthing a New Feminism<p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">On December 20, 2009, I gave birth to two things: a 9lb. 7oz son and a new feminism. It was the third time my reproductive organs had encountered surgical metal; twice to remove ovarian tumors and cysts and once to remove a breathing boy.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">By nightfall, I was vomiting from the drugs administered to my body for my c-section. After an excruciating vomiting episode, my head hit my pillow in utter exhaustion and my newborn began to cry out of hunger.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">I looked at my body. Like a meticulous and tedious film director wanting to capture every detail of a flowerbed with a camera, I surveyed every inch of my body. I started at my feet.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My legs were buzzing numb, still, from surgery. To keep from forming blood clots, my legs had been strapped to a pumping machine. Two pieces of plastic swathed my legs. They hissed when they squeezed my calves and lazily loosened after three seconds of tight holds. The noise prevented me from deep sleep and made my legs sweat. </span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">A catheter was inserted. I saw the bag full of my urine with taints of blood.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"> It was a horrendous sight.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The dressing over my surgical incision covered the most tender and vulnerable part of my birthing body, the exit wound of my baby.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">An ugly red rash had exploded onto the top of my chest. Its bumps were just as unsightly as they were itchy. <i><span> A reaction, maybe from the hospital gown? Or hormones? </span></i></span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My left hand was a splotchy mess from a messy IV insertion. Mounds of clear tape awkwardly held in a needle and dried blood itched under the surface. It was hooked to a machine, beeping and regulating my body. Bags of I don’t know what dripped into my arm.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My right arm held Isaiah as I tried to breastfeed him. His desperate attempts to latch on were beyond painful, but with the help of countless nurses and my husband, he drank.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Gulped, really.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My normally brown face was gray with remnants of drugs and fatigue. No food. No water. Only ice chips. My water was taken away when I drank too much too soon and vomited into the pan again.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Later, to help stir bowel movements, an enema was inserted.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">And I surveyed my body, every orifice of my body was either plugged, bandaged, bleeding, dry, or fatigued. And as Isaiah drank, my breasts ached with new agony, unfamiliar with this new demand of nourishment and, suddenly, as if my leg pumps, catheter, IV, and surgery scars weren’t enough, I began having more contractions. My uterus throbbed with an intensity that made my eyes close.</span></p> <p><i><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The hormones stimulated by breastfeeding will cause contractions. This will help your uterus descend and go back to its normal size.</span></i></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">And Isaiah’s latch intensified.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Never, in all the days of my life, had I ever undergone anything so life-giving. Never had I myself been so life-giving. Every part of my body was simultaneously healing and giving.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">But I was in much pain. The lactation consultants were so beautiful and caring, I wanted to weep into their laps.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">They gently touched, massaged, and handled my breasts. The nipples, swollen and red, screamed with pain at the slightest touch of a hospital gown. Maya, a middle aged woman from Russia, was sharp, informative, and decisive. Her teaching was fast, her hands careful, but her eyes were business. She recognized the pain, she knew how hard this was. Myra understood that I was thisclose to losing my sanity.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">She understood that while the vagina or, in my case, the abdomen, was the door to life in the womb, it was the nipples that were the entry point of survival for my son. </span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The body, my body became a poem, a poem of <a href="http://www.wiretapmag.org/stories/44638/" mce_href="http://www.wiretapmag.org/stories/44638/">survival.</a></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><br />______</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">I stayed in the hospital room, save two hours to walk down the hall for a parenting class, for four days straight. My dreams were in neon and my breasts were engorged. What I remember about that period in my life was how unbelievably gentle and kind people can be when you are in pain.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><br />Briefly, like a loose leaf lightly touching a windshield before moving on, I thought about Feminism. Now a mother. Never again like before. Never just I. </span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My life just took the most radical turn. That morning I had made myself chocolate chip pancakes. Six hours later, I was a mother. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye. And in that change, I came to a realization that there were <a href="http://www.utne.com/2008-03-01/Media/Shelf-Life-Feminism-2-0.aspx" mce_href="http://www.utne.com/2008-03-01/Media/Shelf-Life-Feminism-2-0.aspx">two kinds of feminism</a>. The Feminism of issues and the feminism of our lives. </span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">I realized the Feminism that is perpetuated in mainstream and mainstream-like media is not the feminism of our lives. It is the feminism of commerce. It is the feminism that picks and chooses the winners and losers, the visible and invisible, and accessible and ignored. It chooses what will sell and what sells focuses on status climbing, material wealth, and westernized independence. Things that bring pleasure, not transformation.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The Feminism that has stepped on the backs of women of color and ignored the backs of trans and disabled women is the Feminism that camouflages itself with diverse panels and collectives but neglects to modernize its definition of social liberation in the era of digital media. It is the feminist theories stuck in the academy with no implored action. It is the round table discussions reserved for annual conferences that result in no true connection or building blocks.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">This is the Feminism that has the time and luxury to ask leisure questions such as, “Why don’t you <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women" mce_href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women">identify as feminist</a>?” and “Where are all the women of color bloggers?" The same Feminism that circulates the energy over <a href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/235299" mce_href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/235299">the same privileged circle of the educated, the employed,</a> <a href="http://www.racialicious.com/2010/03/30/newsweek-takes-on-feminism-on-behalf-of-young-white-girls-everywhere/" mce_href="http://www.racialicious.com/2010/03/30/newsweek-takes-on-feminism-on-behalf-of-young-white-girls-everywhere/">or as I call it, "the Sames;"</a> the ones who stand an inch into the outskirts, banging on the "equality" door but who also ignore <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2002/04/04/nyregion/public-lives-a-union-maid-actually-a-nanny-organizing.html?pagewanted=1" mce_href="http://www.nytimes.com/2002/04/04/nyregion/public-lives-a-union-maid-actually-a-nanny-organizing.html?pagewanted=1">the women whose heads are in toilets cleaning their bathrooms or nannying their children.</a></span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women" mce_href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women">This is the Feminism of fruitless banter and recycled conversations. </a> The space to bring these issues up could be a hopeful sign of progress, however, the repetition of those conversations and the predictable accusations and defenses serve no other purpose than keeping the pendulum swinging in balance. Aka, the status quo.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">This is the same Feminism that haunts the academy and academic support offices such as Women’s Centers and elite conference gatherings. The conversation of the privileged becomes priority over decision-making. Consciousness-raising is imperative for transformation, but it cannot begin and end with questions. There must be forward motion, however slight. </span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women" mce_href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women">Simply putting 50% of women into anything male dominated may alter the demographic, but that’s not necessarily transformative.</a> Putting a woman’s face where a man’s once was, without any sort of critical change, is not equality but appeasement. And <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/06/AR2008060603494.html" mce_href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/06/AR2008060603494.html">before Linda Hirshman takes that quote of mine again out of context</a>, let me explain further.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The purpose of feminism is to end itself. <a href="http://www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/dworkin/WarZoneChaptIIIE.html" mce_href="http://www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/dworkin/WarZoneChaptIIIE.html">Andrea Dworkin called it one day without rape</a>. Others have other land posts measuring feminism’s victory. The purpose of feminism is to one day find ourselves where we don’t need to fight for human rights through the lens of women’s oppression. Note: I didn’t write that the purpose is to bring down the man. The purpose is not to have a female president. The purpose is to transform the infrastructure that holds<a href="http://myecdysis.blogspot.com/2008/04/accepting-kyriarchy-not-apologies.html" mce_href="http://myecdysis.blogspot.com/2008/04/accepting-kyriarchy-not-apologies.html"> kyriarchy</a> in its place. Replacing men with women </span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">– of any race, ethnicity, creed, or ability –</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"> who refuse to acknowledge the insidious and mutating face of gender oppression is not forward stepping. It’s a perpetuation of history.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">And so the question comes: how invested are you in the liberation of women?</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Because if you agree that the liberation of all women carries more weight than the identification as a liberal feminist, the feuds over whether feminism is dead becomes irrelevant. The uproar should be about dying women, not a dying Feminism.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><br />_____</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">There was something so entirely miraculous about those four days in the hospital. I witnessed myself birth life. Bones from my bones. Blood from my blood. Life from my womb, I brought a person into the world. From two, I grew my family to three.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">This awesome mystery/reality settled itself in bits and fragments.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My father told me that the birthing woman is different afterward. Her power is different. She herself is different.</span></p> <p><i><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">My power is different.</span></i></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">For months, nearly everyone I encountered – friends and strangers alike – offered their opinion on what parenting should and would be for me. It was in that hospital room, where Nick slept uncomfortably on the couch without shaving and I, hooked to monitors and machines, understood a profound difference.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Parenting is the responsibility that we both shared. Together. It would be the late nights of feeding, rocking, and soothing that we’d walk together, he and I. But mothering, becoming a mother, was an entirely different bond. To me, motherhood is a yearning helplessness. Yearning to love more, yearning to teach better, yearning to make the world right – however impossible that might be. And recognizing that impossibility often made me cry. </span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">I suddenly had this crazy urge to clean up the world for my son. I needed to organize.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><br />___________</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The feminism of my life unfolded in a love story that resulted in the birth of my son. Gathered at my bed was my mother, the woman I’ve thought of and written so much about. The woman who I have processed more than any other human I’ve met. My father kept stroking my hair and muttering concerns over my state.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The feminism I had begun to build was a house of love that no longer shunned my parents out of frustration, but embraced our difficulties and disagreements. Filipino culture was not something I needed to understand to live, it was something I needed to live out.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Nick held the can for me while I vomited. He wore scrubs and, in the delivery room, wore a surgical mask. The shade of the scrubs made his hazel eyes deep green. I saw him between hurls. I saw my son. Our son.<br />____________</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">Anything that I would dedicate my life to had to include, even demand, men. It may prioritize the lens of women’s experience for the liberation of all, but men had to be there. Where was I going without my son? What was I creating if not for him? I didn’t want to go where my family would not belong. It no longer made sense to separate myself and be alone. There was no division between the world I wanted to build and my son’s participation in it. I wanted freedom. Mine and his.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The Feminism of issues serves its purpose well. It informs us of the problems. But we’re more than issues, are we not? Isn’t our life worth more than the issues?</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The feminism of our lives is the story of love, survival, testament, death, and epitaph. It is what we dedicate ourselves to and what we will pass on as truth to our children. Whether or not we identify as “feminist” is a sandbar to the <a href="http://www.makeshiftmag.com/" mce_href="http://www.makeshiftmag.com">oceanic movements of feminisms.</a></span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">In my community, <a href="http://www.cleveland.com/morris/index.ssf/2009/11/a_missing_black_woman_isnt_wor.html" mce_href="http://www.cleveland.com/morris/index.ssf/2009/11/a_missing_black_woman_isnt_wor.html">there is so much work to do</a>, so <a href="http://www.cleveland.com/morris/index.ssf/2009/11/a_serial_killer_apparently_wor.html" mce_href="http://www.cleveland.com/morris/index.ssf/2009/11/a_serial_killer_apparently_wor.html">much silence</a> <a href="http://blog.cleveland.com/metro/2010/04/cleveland_police_officials_say.html" mce_href="http://blog.cleveland.com/metro/2010/04/cleveland_police_officials_say.html">to break</a>, that for the brief minute of a life where I get to use my voice, I am not going to expend my breath on explaining whether or not I identify as feminist. And the<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/02/19/angeles.philippines/index.html" mce_href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/02/19/angeles.philippines/index.html"> back-breaking work</a> of so many women and men who never use the word feminism is not qualified or standardized on the arbitrary use of the word either.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The awareness matters. The intentional work toward eradicating inequality matters. The feminisms of my life matters. The use of the label does not.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://tanglad.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/oh-yeah-youre-a-feminist/" mce_href="http://tanglad.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/oh-yeah-youre-a-feminist/">Listen. Listen closely</a>. Can you hear it?</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;" mce_style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: medium;">The revolution will not be a movement. It will be Birthed.</span></p><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ></span>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-54041971045778082842010-04-08T23:03:00.002-04:002010-04-08T23:09:55.950-04:00APAD 2 (A Poem a Day)Food is the miracle<br /><br />What we do with it -<br />How we do it -<br /><br />cook<br />distribute<br />grow<br /><br />will determine our revolutionLisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-63051132645905745032010-04-07T22:31:00.002-04:002010-04-07T22:36:34.718-04:00Spring for Brownfemipower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wtc-lOalfAO8miw6WCetpVYjsYpyenG-EL0JqMnwGaIpaaVKJlFS-uJpoxy2xt9NmsAzkZQLGNlY0Fzyn56V6kpkENO-dqJg1rIQGTRLuz7wm6gwrLcrmeqVEyu-Bw5bEf1w/s1600/DSC_0395.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wtc-lOalfAO8miw6WCetpVYjsYpyenG-EL0JqMnwGaIpaaVKJlFS-uJpoxy2xt9NmsAzkZQLGNlY0Fzyn56V6kpkENO-dqJg1rIQGTRLuz7wm6gwrLcrmeqVEyu-Bw5bEf1w/s400/DSC_0395.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457589329433787362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidywMzPIfGaMAelp4ec64ko3Xmhe3iawJrjawHgZslMvBc-9B1rW2dGMzM5lgiE37N8fLX-ejdvN8ITPGeQRJ3FwTCuaHnHKWy-Qe_cb453jtW3y9C46ZvLDw3mRWShMdIC5rO/s1600/DSC_0394.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidywMzPIfGaMAelp4ec64ko3Xmhe3iawJrjawHgZslMvBc-9B1rW2dGMzM5lgiE37N8fLX-ejdvN8ITPGeQRJ3FwTCuaHnHKWy-Qe_cb453jtW3y9C46ZvLDw3mRWShMdIC5rO/s400/DSC_0394.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457589313324911106" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96M_G769DhxeZY-fGRaZoOc8_qL8vxBEFdVR2xF2vUd0PBkkJlZCiaBzPNgN9uUnhGj3JFibknuAw4L6-vduHvHd_rjnBsobY59cdvBvzS4keJcNyej_F2Y7u9azaoxMyA76O/s1600/DSC_0393.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96M_G769DhxeZY-fGRaZoOc8_qL8vxBEFdVR2xF2vUd0PBkkJlZCiaBzPNgN9uUnhGj3JFibknuAw4L6-vduHvHd_rjnBsobY59cdvBvzS4keJcNyej_F2Y7u9azaoxMyA76O/s400/DSC_0393.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457589298832810082" /></a><br /><br />For my dear BFP,<br /><br />Depending on what camera you have, all factors can play a critical role in the colors popping in your pic.<br /><br />I went out for a walk and was eyeing the same tree. I took a few shots and got the effect I think you are talking about -- lighter sky, deeper flower color -- and I got it by playing with the shutter speed. That's my area that I always play with.<br /><br />I have a Nikon D80 with a ProMaster lens, 17-50mm.<br /><br />Keep playing around with yours until you get it. The colors will come!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-51527007381046871242010-04-07T12:00:00.006-04:002010-04-08T23:03:29.478-04:00APAD 1 (A Poem a Day)Thanks to <a href="http://www.lamamitamala.com/">Mamita Mala</a> for this idea. I'm late, but I'm going to try and do this...<br /><br />I'm going to try and get over my fear of perfection (because that leads you to a brick writing wall of paralysis) and just WRITE.<br /><br />So, heeeeerrreee goes...<br /><br /><br /><br />Lolo and Lolo<br />I never knew my grandfathers<br />- grand clocks who stopped before my time -<br /><br />My Lolo Fernandez rode the train<br />and loved basil gardens<br /><br />My Lolo Factora believed soup bones<br />healed birthing mothers<br /><br />One Spanish, One Filipino<br />One engineer, One soldier<br />Two invisible vines<br />encircling one garden<br /><br />When my mother smells the basil in the grocer<br />Or moves her face into the wind, she says<br />I'm thinking of my father<br /><br />In early December, my father grows quiet<br />And wordlessly heads to a morning mass<br />He's thinking of his father<br /><br />They never speak much of them<br />But I see their eyes change<br />when Lolo moves in their presence<br /><br />And the stopped clocks tick one last tock<br />through my parents<br /><br />And I listen to their memory.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-28426667789899278632010-04-06T16:11:00.001-04:002010-04-06T16:11:32.309-04:00The Changes of SpringAnd suddenly, in Isaiah's world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.<br /><br />And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.<br /><br />Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.<br /><br />It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.<br /><br />When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.<br /><br />The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.<br /><br />Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.<br /><br />That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.<br /><br />Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.<br /><br />For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough. <br /><br />Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-74315273441398774002010-04-04T08:24:00.000-04:002010-04-04T08:25:42.054-04:00Happy Easter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNendbS5jRthdBXeEmMQLn3L72qajJLiYGVaqCpSpOIJFEz4oxbacE8LUTo9gzXE8G3Cvvj3tf0rltvdS4Vi4PBVi3M5M9mi-nxBw0eGlGJtG-jlF5Iyy25jSDkC5FpZhQw-a/s1600/easter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNendbS5jRthdBXeEmMQLn3L72qajJLiYGVaqCpSpOIJFEz4oxbacE8LUTo9gzXE8G3Cvvj3tf0rltvdS4Vi4PBVi3M5M9mi-nxBw0eGlGJtG-jlF5Iyy25jSDkC5FpZhQw-a/s400/easter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456257408025400626" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-57794616742666242222010-04-03T10:12:00.002-04:002010-04-03T10:13:19.852-04:00My Little Super Hero, Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hKAj0kObEPiDt1CflIJIpct51uvaZq11n6e_uOIoL0AFf1CNT5lHn6o2TXXnv-_lR6BL03zaWad4yIhyphenhyphen-16Ymubf4zIyKlBFMk8-J4J5ToRMaC9aBAkXFJ5Btkl7bItoH1SR/s1600/Isaiah+Rolls+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hKAj0kObEPiDt1CflIJIpct51uvaZq11n6e_uOIoL0AFf1CNT5lHn6o2TXXnv-_lR6BL03zaWad4yIhyphenhyphen-16Ymubf4zIyKlBFMk8-J4J5ToRMaC9aBAkXFJ5Btkl7bItoH1SR/s400/Isaiah+Rolls+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455914073938967154" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-16277673392148443792010-04-03T09:54:00.001-04:002010-04-03T09:54:36.644-04:00My Little Super Hero<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGvXEqyGcJidm2WxylUFAy71nlAVrcvAMfMgKH-eR2e9mvWXeo-etZiLG4oA65tiBgN04S6GBt1-GXIPruQzG1dZqOZARbTNZNaBYZPvR3XTBx4v9bxAW4MGrJteehBmvUHxy/s1600/Super+Isaiah+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGvXEqyGcJidm2WxylUFAy71nlAVrcvAMfMgKH-eR2e9mvWXeo-etZiLG4oA65tiBgN04S6GBt1-GXIPruQzG1dZqOZARbTNZNaBYZPvR3XTBx4v9bxAW4MGrJteehBmvUHxy/s400/Super+Isaiah+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455909247727591186" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-53915040599276761732010-04-02T00:05:00.002-04:002010-04-02T00:10:07.615-04:00My Feminist, Good Friday Homily<span style="font-style:italic;">Today, I will be fulfilling a life long dream: to deliver a reflection during a church service. Because Good Friday service is "technically" not a mass, lay parishioners are allowed to give a "homily."</span><br /><br />When I was growing up, I always knew better than to ask my mom if I was allowed to do anything during Holy Week. On our refrigerator, she would post the church bulletin and with a highlighter, go through and underline every single mass, reconciliation time, and service offered. I was the youngest of four and all of us were expected to attend, no matter what was going on. No exceptions.<br /><br />It got really difficult when I was in high school. And since it was Easter break, people would have all kinds of get-togethers and parties. And since we were on vacation, you knew everyone was going to be there. Everyone, that is, but me. One time, though, I did get the nerve to ask my mom if I could go to a party. She just raised her eyebrows at me and say, “Lisa, are you going to a party on the day of our Lord’s death?”<br /><br />So, you can imagine, I did not go.<br /><br />I didn’t want to be a party-goer during Good Friday, so I just thought to myself, “This is just a sacrifice I’ll make by staying home.” All the while, though, I was wishing I was with my friends. Remember, as a teenager, staying home on a Friday night of vacation was a really, big deal.<br /><br />My mom was right. Today is a day, among many things, about grief. It is a day typically marked with solemnity, a sobering awareness that’s almost palpable. Good Friday is when we relive the most intense story in the gospel – the Passion. It is a time that we, typically and appropriately, regard with mourning and reflective hearts. It is, after all, the day that Jesus dies.<br /><br />How do we move into these hours? Is it with heavy hearts? Spiritually, that makes sense. But is there more to Good Friday than just the quiet grief and observation of Jesus’ death? Good Friday is more than just staying home and self-sacrifice. It is more than just the quiet 3 o’clock hour. <br /><br />Personally, I know that I am able to move through this darkness because I know the light of the resurrection is but stone roll away. I have heard the sounds of Easter before, I have seen Easter lilies bloom. I have the strength to move through the darkness of Good Friday because I know and believe that today will pass. Friday passes into Holy Saturday and Holy Saturday gives way to a Sunday miracle.<br /><br />But, is that what I want my Good Friday to be about? Waiting for Sunday? What is your Good Friday about? Perhaps Good Friday is the opportunity to find and witness someone else’s passion. Who in your world, who in your life, who in your heart do you know is dying? Who are those people in your life whose tomorrow, next week, and all the days of this year will be Good Friday? <br /><br />Today we gather and remember the suffering of Christ. It’s easy to be overcome by the physicality of Jesus’ suffering: the scourging, the crown of thorns, three falls of Christ. But what haunts me the most about the Passion is that Jesus, who walked in the knowledge, faith, and trust that he was God’s son, believed that he was abandoned by God. Jesus! I cannot think of a more crushing anguish or more profound loneliness than to believe you have been forgotten, even forsaken, by God. The very God who created your existence.<br /><br />Somewhere, someone today is going through precisely that; that division from God, believing that they are forgotten. Beyond these walls, or maybe within these walls there are those who are living the Good Friday that Jesus experienced. I don’t know any one in my life who endured the brutal violence Jesus did, but I do know people who are going through the psychological and spiritual trauma Jesus did. In my world, I see my friend Katherine who is ostracized from her family because she is a lesbian and is no longer invited to her family’s Easter celebrations. I see a place called Payatas, a community I visited in the Philippines that lives at the base of dumpster where the people sift through the garbage with their bare hands for food that can be recooked for their families. I see my friend Emily who has been trying but has not been able to conceive a child for many years. I think of my mother who is walking with her mother in the last stages of life.<br /><br />Who in your life is in the darkness? And who are we to be afraid to bring light to them? If Good Friday is anything, it is a day to put aside any fear we may have, and let the light of God move the stone from someone’s tomb. <br /><br />How do we do that? For myself, I write letters. I send handwritten letters on ordinary days. I try not to wait for holidays or birthdays or anniversaries to remind someone they are not forgotten. This may seem very small or just a crack at their seemingly insurmountable suffering, but I am often amazed at how much light comes through one small crack. But what is even more astounding to witness is how much darkness is dispelled by that crack.<br /><br />To truly follow Christ is not just observing his death, but remembering why he died. Jesus was killed because he brought light to those in darkness. So, perhaps today is more than just brokenness and sacrifice. Perhaps it is a day not to enter, not be enveloped, not become one with the darkness, but to be the light, however small. <br /><br />I would like to leave you with one question and I hope you can come back to it often as you move through your Good Friday: What will you do to dispel the darkness?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-11053501007314880212010-03-31T08:49:00.005-04:002010-03-31T09:01:23.931-04:00Writing a HomilyA dream I've always had is to preach from a pulpit. Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to stand in front of a congregation and lead others in a reflection of God, scripture, and its relevance to our lives today.<br /><br />And, who would've thought that I'd be able to actually do that in the Catholic church. Amidst all the controversy and criticism, I've found a parish that I have built my community, a place where I am building my faith in people as well as in God.<br /><br />This week is Holy Week, the holiest days of the Catholic calendar. And on Friday, Good Friday, I will be delivering a reflection after the gospel is read - usually when the priest reads his homily - and offering my thoughts on what Good Friday means to me. <br /><br />Since this is something I've wanted to do since I was six years old - before I learned women could not be priests or deacons, before I knew I'd have to practice a different faith to if I wanted to preach from a pulpit - you'd think that I'd feel fireworks go off in my organs.<br /><br />But there were no fireworks.<br /><br />As I sat down to write my reflection last night, it felt like it did any other time I saw down to write my thoughts: natural. There was nothing spectacular about the moment my fingers hit the keyboard, no electric current coursed through my hands. I didn't feel like a prophet, savior, or even a disciple.<br /><br />I felt the same as I normally do: a writer recognizing a difficult subject to address.<br /><br />It felt natural to contemplate the meaning of Good Friday as a Catholic, as a woman, as a mother, as a 31 year old free spirit who simply wants to share what I have inside with my community. <br /><br />It felt natural; as if this is what I have been supposed to be doing all along.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-62758416587031899062010-03-28T08:43:00.001-04:002010-03-28T08:45:05.392-04:00Sunday Weigh-In: Round 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCVcJjX9HR-9Vh1h-FmgLYOwWQ1xKAApdbpQqd6KNQKdbP1VNSKJGd68gz-2iojn3ieyWNPsLjkSMoG_J4Gw_IV3yq4dmQFWvCgBHv7kuHdIXuNp8IrxGQSQh0OP4v36ILezh/s1600/Week+1+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCVcJjX9HR-9Vh1h-FmgLYOwWQ1xKAApdbpQqd6KNQKdbP1VNSKJGd68gz-2iojn3ieyWNPsLjkSMoG_J4Gw_IV3yq4dmQFWvCgBHv7kuHdIXuNp8IrxGQSQh0OP4v36ILezh/s400/Week+1+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453664666904867426" /></a><br /><br />Worry not. I shall come roaring back. Next Sunday is Easter Sunday and, appropriately, you will see a second resurrection in addition to Christ's.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-61125467518046542072010-03-22T19:36:00.008-04:002010-03-22T19:42:44.284-04:00Milk Stained Bumper Stickers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejhJn58ff2I5VJ3_X9LPbXIGIXMtO8aROAEGxx2AVgXaRGoXCPgjgnqxYDkO3pwGXBmW5LAK539FwhgyIK5MsGauQHR5xCeecgxpprfoE9I7ijoDNYXEL15jo3Tl6DeHi5Zfg/s1600-h/breastfeeding.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejhJn58ff2I5VJ3_X9LPbXIGIXMtO8aROAEGxx2AVgXaRGoXCPgjgnqxYDkO3pwGXBmW5LAK539FwhgyIK5MsGauQHR5xCeecgxpprfoE9I7ijoDNYXEL15jo3Tl6DeHi5Zfg/s400/breastfeeding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451607209862329778" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />A Funny Poem About Breastfeeding<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span><br /><br />It's funny how no one talks publicly about breastfeeding.<br /><br />It's funny how nearly every man I know is uncomfortable when the topic comes up.<br /><br />It's funny how, unless you yourself have breastfed before, people get a pained expression on their face if you talk honestly about how difficult or painful breastfeeding can be.<br /><br />It's funny how cleavage and sexy boobs are somehow categorized differently than milky nipples.<br /><br />*replace "funny" with "maddening"Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-63367532290772204092010-03-21T08:05:00.000-04:002010-03-21T08:06:17.023-04:00Sunday Weigh-In: Round 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QIo5Qjvxn_N-lNIR8a7OaGg1Wb7Ooa-tUW6GfIZRW3TChbot4vlxQIENEMM-c155Mn8VCm52wFtr7jd1VQ_yAppJLqiV9eSVCrIr6iWZfusNITTUCAS2LlrUk8xJnw43uo95/s1600-h/Week+1+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QIo5Qjvxn_N-lNIR8a7OaGg1Wb7Ooa-tUW6GfIZRW3TChbot4vlxQIENEMM-c155Mn8VCm52wFtr7jd1VQ_yAppJLqiV9eSVCrIr6iWZfusNITTUCAS2LlrUk8xJnw43uo95/s400/Week+1+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451057167833881554" /></a><br /><br />The smack talk this morning nearly woke up Isaiah.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-26218189999922107912010-03-16T19:36:00.001-04:002010-03-16T19:37:11.913-04:00Never Thought of That<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeASXyj1XjlPUQEaV4EAkbPYKRnMOYOztiNVbAhfDfxjockar1cddQSuyMFoFURfGhpPEQi8ZTQ0vLNffC1pUkyZMnbmnbs5_ddStKOTHk4fpQ-WHP3yUp05D3pBCw03mVQgvu/s1600-h/DSC_0050.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeASXyj1XjlPUQEaV4EAkbPYKRnMOYOztiNVbAhfDfxjockar1cddQSuyMFoFURfGhpPEQi8ZTQ0vLNffC1pUkyZMnbmnbs5_ddStKOTHk4fpQ-WHP3yUp05D3pBCw03mVQgvu/s400/DSC_0050.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449379754883623858" /></a><br /><br />Growing up Filipino, I never thought I'd say these words: My son is part Irish.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-26083741511391179392010-03-14T09:55:00.000-04:002010-03-14T09:56:26.497-04:00Sunday Weigh-In<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICySeL4xJ3FF1gTafXkL06EFwA1ehRaZ5yr9WaAZQ3zdWZKbSgMkXIvkxGRh_y8kRysBkWJ8CqvyVdMjjBu_yt_gjVt1uB052JSgtFbA-AgYqobB-khyphenhyphenQTK8Vb1sb5Hh59und/s1600-h/Week+1+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICySeL4xJ3FF1gTafXkL06EFwA1ehRaZ5yr9WaAZQ3zdWZKbSgMkXIvkxGRh_y8kRysBkWJ8CqvyVdMjjBu_yt_gjVt1uB052JSgtFbA-AgYqobB-khyphenhyphenQTK8Vb1sb5Hh59und/s400/Week+1+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448487930824367650" /></a><br /><br />Round One goes to Nick. <br /><br />Dammit.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-23049171012068907112010-03-09T10:13:00.000-05:002010-03-09T10:14:09.037-05:00ControlMy wonderful mama has flown in from Virginia to stay for a weeks with us so she can help out with Isaiah. I never appreciated another set of hands around the house so much in my life. You'd think that between Nick and I, we'd have everything under control.<br /><br />Shatter those expectations right now. There's no such thing as control when you're learning how to be a parent for the first time. Quite the opposite, you'll find that nearly everything is actually OUT OF CONTROL.<br /><br />For example - let's take the bathroom.<br /><br />Once the pride and joy of our house when we got a few things redone, but since Isaiah has come along, it has evolved into a banished and neglected corner on the second floor. It is in such dire need of a cleaning that even NICK said something about how we need to get control of that thing. By "thing," we're talking about the overdue scrubbing of the tub. Our BRAND NEW tub that we've neglected for months now.<br /><br />Control is a funny illusion of life. We THINK we know what's around the corner because we anticipate problems, we logically hypothesize the risks and factors of every decision and, understandably, wait for the expected outcome.<br /><br />Remember, though, that an illusion is something that appears to be real. It presents itself as something actual, something tangible, but it is, in fact, not.<br /><br />It's like how I believe I have Isaiah's schedule in control and then, out of nowhere, he decides he's bored out of his mind and wiggles like crazy for an hour. He's fed, dry, and not tired. He's just wiggling. Wiggle, wiggle.<br /><br />He wiggles out of his bouncer, he wiggles off the blanket on the floor, he wiggles out of my arms, he wiggles to the corner of the couch. And I think, "I can't control this boy."<br /><br />Ah HA! Parenting lesson #827462 - NO CHILD IS UNDER OUR CONTROL, PARTICULARLY CHUBBY NEWBORNS.<br /><br />And thus Nick and I feel out of control at times. We do our best to stay in routine, not make any plans and be nerdy 30-somethings with no lives outside our jobs and domestic responsibilities that include trips to Home Depot. We have learned that control is, quite frankly, laughable.<br /><br />I thought I had control of nursing Isaiah and yet, still, every stinking week, something comes up. This week, for example, I developed a low grade fever on Sunday. My leg muscles were achy and my whole body was sore. I couldn't believe I was sick. Considering how neurotic I've been about washing and/or sanitizing my hands every time I touch an unsterilized door knob, I didn't think I'd catch any bug.<br /><br />And as it turns out, I was dehydrated. I kept drinking waterbottles full of H20 and didn't have to pee at all. Miraculously (insert sarcasm there), the next morning my fever broke. I kept drinking and drinking and by the early afternoon, I felt as fine as a shiny new button.<br /><br />How could I forget to increase my water intake? Nursing, working out, the weather is *just* beginning to warm up...hello? Water? More of it?<br /><br />Before I admonished myself too harshly, Nick shared a story with me that made me feel oodles better...<br /><br />The other night Nick woke up in the middle of the night because he heard Isaiah on the monitor. Nick thought Isaiah was just fussing around but he still got up to listen to the monitor more closely. He was alarmed, though, when he realized that Isaiah's breathing was making an irregular high pitched squeak, like he was having trouble breathing. As he started to move quickly toward the door, concerned that maybe Isaiah was sick or in a bad sleeping position, he noticed that the high pitched noise was moving with him, despite he was growing further and further away from the monitor.<br /><br />"It was my own breathing," Nick told me. "It was my own freaking nose that was making those noises. I couldn't even distinguish my own self from a baby monitor."<br /><br />Mhm. That's bad, babe, I thought.<br /><br />So, you have a dehydrated and dizzy mom and a dad who can't hear his own nostrils.<br /><br />Perfect.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-70656560404664356582010-03-05T10:03:00.002-05:002010-03-05T10:05:05.027-05:00It's SO OnFor those who know us best, the gene that determines competitiveness runs strong in both Factora and Borchers families. It has to. I've never met anyone who's more competitive than I am. That is, not until I met Nick.<br /><br />Competitiveness comes in many forms. There's the obvious kind that reveals itself in sports. The Michael Jordan/Tiger Woods (sans sex scandal) kind of competition. This is the "I CANNOT LOSE. EVER." gene which makes athletes train twice as hard and cultivates a near military discipline that most of us civilians would find unbearable.<br /><br />Then there's other genes of competition, more subtle but just as lethal. This competitive gene revolves around the oratory debate stratosphere, aka "I MUST BE RIGHT. I AM RIGHT." kind of thinking. It's a gene that makes its way into the most innocuous of situations - bowling, finding a parking space, starting a campfire, any household project, insurance claims...<br /><br />You think these situations are not competitive? Move in with us for a week, you'll understand after that.<br /><br />No matter what the situation, Nick and I often pit ourselves against the opponent, be a piece of stubborn firewood that will not flame up along with the others or a slow car in the Panera Bread parking lot who is blocking traffic. Everything's a competition. No dispute too small, no challenge too big. There are two trophy words uttered in our house that carry more weight than anything: <span style="font-weight:bold;">I WIN.</span><br /><br />Sometimes it's shouted, sometimes it's whispered into a billowing pile of laundry. Whatever needs conquering shall be conquered in our house.<br /><br />So, you can imagine the kind of raised eyebrows and smack talk in our marriage when the competition is between us. It can get ugly, but it's always entertaining. Many people do not know that Nick is, as Keith Borchers said in his best man speech at our wedding, "an ego maniac who thinks he's sweet at everything."<br /><br />Save opera and any form of dancing, this is true about Nicholas David Borchers. He hates losing. He can't stand being second. He likes strategy and mind-games during poker. He's all about focus and readjustment. Don't be fooled by his calm demeanor. There's a beast inside him called THE WINNER'S CIRCLE.<br /><br />And then there's me. Don't think that I don't have my own monster and even according to Nick, I may be more competitive than him. There's a reason why I have the Rocky IV soundtrack on my iPod. Most people wouldn't see it coming, kind of like a CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE that didn't come up on your weather outlook.<br /><br />My competitiveness is often stuffed away because of its monstrosity. It can and has ruined moments of friendly game playing. While everyone else shrugs after a loss, I seethe inside. Competitiveness is like a constant search for perfection, which can never be attained. So, the desire to win or be right or dominate knows no rest. But, it's not always appropriate to be competitive so I, along with Nick, keep it to myself. We're like two man-eating sharks in a Sea World tank: it's in our blood and in our nature, but we're trained to be harmless.<br /><br />That was a long introduction into the heart of this post, but it's critical for you to know the background of our competitive edges.<br /><br />Nick and I have a combined goal to be and become healthier parents. Running around with Isaiah necessitates optimal states of health so we decided to commit to losing a few pounds. I need to shed my pregnancy weight and Nick, many months ago, invented a campaign called, "Don't Get Fat" because of his fear of rolling into a "fat new dad."<br /><br />So we made a deal and the stakes are high.<br /><br />Beginning Sunday, March 7th, we are having our own personal Biggest Loser competition. We adapted the show to our own lives and here are the ground rules:<br /><br />Weekly weigh-ins on Sunday<br />Largest percentage of weight loss wins<br />Two goal dates: June 4, 2010 (our 5 year anniversary) and September 4, 2010.<br />Whoever has the largest percentage of weight loss on June 4, 2010 has the intermediate prize - winner gets one evening of their choice every week to go out and do whatever s/he wants while Isaiah is with the other parent.<br /><br />If you don't understand the impact of that reward, go back and read it again. This prize is HUGE. This can mean going out with your friends. For Nick it can mean going to play racquetball with Books and Sam or going to the library for a few hours. For me that means extended trips to a coffee shop or taking my time at a farmer's market.<br /><br />The ultimate prize, come September 4, will be individualized. Nick has yet to announce what his prize will be if he wins. If I win, I get to go to the conference of my choice in any part of the United States. (I'm such a nerd. I adore conferences on writing, feminism, media, etc...) Beside the fact that I want to shed my preggers weight, that conference-attending prize alone all by guarantees that I will win. Hello? Travel? Hotels? Learning? Meeting new writers and artists? That's what I was born to do.<br /><br />This competition is huge and normally, I would not post something like this on our blog, but I figured if our friends and family - and God knows who else on the internet is reading this - is in the know, we are accountable to seeing this through. And we will.<br /><br />It's man vs. woman. Focus vs. Passion. Tall vs. Short. Endurance vs. Intervals.<br /><br />Choose your team now and place your bets. Nick is team blue. I am team green.<br /><br />Cheers to a healthier Borchers/Factora-Borchers family in 2010.<br /><br />(And, here's to ME, cause you know I'm going to lick this thing...)Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-59680353888285720632010-03-02T22:33:00.000-05:002010-03-02T22:34:20.435-05:00The Irony of His First LaughWriting, for me, serves many purposes. Not only is it my passion, my center, my lifelong dream and goal, writing is also cathartic. When I write, it always relieves something. It helps me share the good. It also helps me release the aggravation.<br /><br />Today, I am writing for the latter.<br /><br />It is my first taste in understanding how parents can simultaneously love their child and also want to run away to Bora Bora alone and get lost in the beauty of the ocean, away from screaming cries and milk stains and the smell of diapers and the sight of bad eczema.<br /><br />Today Isaiah was a complete paradox. After sleeping through the night consistently for over a month (I know, I know - we're incredibly blessed and I shouldn't be complaining), he didn't last night. He WAH!ed and AIGH!ed for an hour while I tried everything to calm him down, but...to no avail.<br /><br />He woke at 8am and was just as fussy. So I stripped him down to his diaper to look for any signs of...anything - rashes, bumps, bruises - signs of discomfort or hurt. Nada.<br /><br />While he laid on our big bed squirming like a fish out of water with nothing but his diaper on, I couldn't help but laugh at how adorable he looked. His pure smooth skin (except his face where he has eczema, poor guy) and fat rolls...he looked like an enormous human cinnabon, just ready to be eaten. So I leaned over and teased him, calling him my favorite pumpkin and gave him a friendly zerbert on his stomach.<br /><br />And thus came Isaiah's first laugh.<br /><br />3 hearty, adorable chuckles erupted from his tiny little mouth and I squealed in delight.<br /><br />That was the highlight of the day.<br /><br />The rest of the day he was either fussing, crying, yelping, or sadfacing. I was at my wit's end and contemplated what Bora Bora looked like this time of year. I could hear it calling my name. Liiiiiisssssaaaaaa...LLLLLLLiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssaaaaaa<br /><br />I was brought back to reality when Isaiah spit up on me for the fifth time. <br /><br />It was a toss-up between me and his burp cloth for WORST SMELL IN THE LIVING ROOM. We both were covered in Isaiah's regurgitation.<br /><br />Of course it had to be a night when Nick worked late until 9pm. He walked in to find me on the floor, lightly bouncing Isaiah in his bouncer while his eyelids drooped closer and closer to a close. My other hand was stuffing dinner in my face because I hadn't eaten in hours. Taking care of Isaiah required both hands all day. Food was secondary. By 9pm, I was so ravenous, I felt like I was going to eat a piece of old firewood laying in the fireplace. It looked like a hotdog at the time.<br /><br />Luckily, I was able to scarf down dinner while Isaiah bounced around for a few minutes. Nick had barely entered the house when I announced that I needed to go upstairs and get my sanity back. "I'm going to take a shower. If you need me, I'm NOT available."<br /><br />It's ironic that Isaiah's first laugh came today when I spent most of the day near tears with Bora Bora dreams. Nothing, not even the promise of spring in three weeks could alleviate the stress of a restless baby.<br /><br />And so, I write.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-8955318893900493912010-02-27T11:56:00.002-05:002010-02-27T11:58:40.978-05:002010 State of the Self Address<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Four years ago I began delivering the “State of the Self;” a reflection on the past year of life which is always given the evening of my birthday. This is my 2010 State of the Self.</span></span><br /><br />February 27, 1979 is the day I stopped breathing someone else’s air and began breathing on my own. It was not by choice. The woman’s body is built only to support another life for so long before the placenta begins to thin, before the protective and nourishing sac of life begins to deteriorate. It’s like our birthday is our first eviction and the landlord is out mother’s body.<br /><br />A birth. A day.<br /><br />I spare no indulgence on the 27th of February and, previous to this year, birthdays always meant my customary helium balloon, sheet cake with vanilla satin icing, and a long list of “must to do” things that include morning mimosas, naps, writing, dreaming, and sniffing around closets and car trunks for my hidden gifts. For the record, I never pretend to be more than a child on my birthday, save the mimosas.<br /><br />But this birthday is different. This is my first birthday as a mother. This is the first birthday in which the word “birth” and “day” have extracted themselves from streamers and sweets and grew into profound meaning. “Birth,” as in, a son, my firstborn. Day has grown to be more than the frame of 24 hours. “Day” is now gift.<br /><br />Last year, my State of the Self focused on my identity as a writer. My pen itself nearly throbbed with pain as I described the challenges of creative writing. Now, I worry less about identity as a writer and more about truthfulness. Being truthful with Isaiah may very well be the most challenging task of my life.<br /><br />And one truth I am going to share with my son is to take moments for himself. Or as I like to put it: Breathe in the awesome. I never understood those who hated their birthday. I suppose it can be viewed as a self-important concept, but the celebration of life, of my own life has always superceded any other reason to deny the day. Those who dread their birthday often do so because of a number – age. Or it reminds them of death.<br /><br />Birth, for me, evokes the boundless beginning of life.<br /><br />But if birthdays aren’t your cup of tea, I hope and pray that you do find a day, a time to rejoice in your own life in the very miracle of your existence. Because if we can’t find a reason or an hour to relish in our blessings, to be authentically and radically grateful for our friends, family, lovers, gifts, talents, experiences, insights, and lessons – I don’t know if we’re truly seeing ourselves – or life – clearly enough.<br /><br />Thirty-one years is more than enough reason for cake and drinks. And after birthing my son, I know that thirty-one seconds alone is more than enough reason for celebration. The paradox of birth – its fragility and its power – must, begs, needs to be recognized. And celebrated. Isaiah has taught me that.<br /><br />So, my state at 31 is one of utter grace. Grace of understanding. Grace of frustration. Grace of holy parenting and emotion. It is a period of firsts and failures and finding that my life can hold so much more than I ever thought possible. That realization also came with the responsibility that I myself am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible. <br /><br />It is my birthday wish that everyone – at some point in their life – births new life and it need not be a child. A revolution, a concept, relationship, invention, methodology, habit or path that inducts an enhanced thought-process, a better more gentle way of loving and being in the world.<br /><br />Because if we all took a moment to birth and rejoice in our own birthing, the state of grace would no longer be a temporary lingering, but an everlasting positioning of soul.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-47823990196870730302010-02-19T10:11:00.004-05:002010-02-19T10:37:42.389-05:00The Artist's WaySome weeks ago (my memory is really bad since pregnancy), <a href="http://www.flipfloppingjoy.com">my dear friend and much respected writer, BFP,</a> wrote something along the lines of saying that she was less interested in "activism" and more interested in the lives and journeys of artists.<br /><br />That struck me. For numerous reasons.<br /><br />The first thing that struck me is thinking about my blogging life. When I first began blogging four years ago (yikes! has it been that long?), I remember wanting my "writing" to FIT into the feminist blogosphere. I read many blogs then, wanting to understand what was important to the "Feminist Community," and, truthfully, always struggled in that genre. <br /><br />I struggled because writing is, essentially, an extension of one's self. What interests me is what I will write most intimately about, what I love is what will illuminate the page (or screen) with my words. Making my writing fit is like trimming my own self, trying to make ME fit.<br /><br />What I was always interested in were topics like God. Addressing sexual and gender violence in our everyday relationships through deconstruction and critical questions of gender norming. Family. Humor. And love. Always love. These were my interests.<br /><br />I didn't know it then, but my writing came and continues to flow from a very deep, supremely sensitive place where I process my memory, my life experiences. Of course, current events and news are always interesting, but the writing I connect with is the writing that comes from LIFE, my life. And I'm always interested in how others live or lived their lives. <br /><br />How did Gloria Anzaldua live with diabetes? How did my mother live through immigrating to this country on her own? How did my cousins live through the passing of both their parents? How did my 8th grade science teacher feel when she decided to get teeth braces at the age of 48? What is it like for young women of color writers in the US?<br /><br />These were my questions, they weren't "feminist," I suppose, but they came from a very real place that questioned the systematic punishment and guardrails around women.<br /><br />Feminism exists for all of us to live richer, deeper, more fulfilling lives. Feminism exists for us to question what we want to question and to live as we want to live. The lives of artists, the lives of those who create are lives that are often imbued with resistance; they live counter-culturally. Artists, the souls who create something out of nothing, those who build from ill-fitting pieces possess a strength that reveals itself in their life choices.<br /><br />I no longer worry about whether I or my writing fits. Rather, I focus on whether or not I am truthful, committed to creation and relationship, and love. Always love.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30786752.post-71236957168440878012010-02-15T22:40:00.004-05:002010-02-15T22:54:14.931-05:00New MommnessSo I started working out two weeks ago.<br /><br />To feel my body MOVE, as in constant motion, without stopping, in cyclic ways, in scissor ways, in stretching to the skies...well, it's been a trial.<br /><br />I remember WAITING for the day when I could work out again. When I was pregnant and huge and my belly was larger than Jupiter and Saturn and all their moons COMBINED, I was itching to work out HARD.<br /><br />And now?<br /><br />Ugh, I can feel the absence of muscle. (except my right bicep which is ripping awesome from carrying my big baby) My lungs are in a state of, "What's going on? I'm actually working under stressful conditions..." and my buttocks are yawning themselves awake, "Mhm, this doesn't feel like the couch cushions..."<br /><br />I don't want my pre-baby body back. I want a better state of health.<br /><br />I want - God willing - my next pregnancy to be even better, with a cleaner bill of health. No worries about sugar, no anxieties about high blood pressure. Granted, all was well with this pregnancy and my fear of these conditions was all for naught. But I want to be better. I want to be stronger, more ready.<br /><br />And then there's breastfeeding. Did someone fail to write this sentence in all the pregnancy and birth literature out there:<br /><br />REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU DO, IF YOU DECIDE TO BREASTFEED, THIS WILL LIKELY BE THE MOST PAINFUL AND DIFFICULT PART OF THE POSTPARTUM EXPERIENCE.<br /><br />I'm not dissing the sleep deprivation. I'm not smirking at the episiomoty recoveries. I'm just sayin' that the boobfeeding experience is one that I was NOT, repeat NOT prepared for...blisters, rashes, PLUGGED DUCTS, changing colors, sizes, breast pads, nursing bras, lotions, water, airing out...<br /><br />Heaven help me. Why didn't anyone give me a reality check about breastfeeding?<br /><br />There was one person, I believe, on FACEBOOK who wrote one comment on my wall when she found out I was pregnant: Watch out for breastfeeding. I wish someone prepped me for that one.<br /><br />Of course I knew it would take some time to figure out. The sore nipples and what not -- I was anticipating all of that. But holy smokes, the PAIN, the agonizing over each feeding in the beginning...I actually had nightmares about a gigantic breast in my face; as if I was the baby and one huge boob was coming toward me. It was the size of a house. I woke up sweating.<br /><br />So, yeah. Breastfeeding.<br /><br />Another reason confirming that women truly can do and withstand anything.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16013142465038823597noreply@blogger.com2