We had a lovely weekend in Cambridge and Boston, with about 10 - 12 miles of walking, a fair amount of eating, and don't forget yoga. Our intention was to take yoga on Saturday morning across the river in Boston, having visited the two studies we cared to visit on this side already, but after a lovely dinner at Oleana on Friday night -- which was tremendous and which, Paige thought, rivaled or surpassed Greens in San Francisco -- we didn't end up making it out of bed in time to catch the subway.
Instead, we wandered up Mt. Auburn to Mass Ave, to take a vinyasa class from the teacher we tried earlier in the week, whom we'd enjoyed. After that, we came back to the apartment and changed for lunch at Rangzen Tibet Restaurant. We'd done dinner there our second night but for lunch they have a buffet, with about half-and-half veg/non-veg. It's Paige's new favorite cheap spot and I'm sure we'll go a third time before we bail.
Lunch led to a nap which led to a big walk -- bigger than we'd planned. Paige wanted to visit Mt. Auburn Cemetery. While the walk took us about 45 minutes or an hour to get there, it was worth it. The weather out was good. Warmish with a breeze, but once we arrived it started to get chilly. We spent enough time at the cemetery to walk most of it -- the high points anyway (chapel, tower, willow pond -- saw a cute, small lesbian wedding happening at the tower, which looked pretty special) and started back. The weather turned and we weren't ready for the change so that was a cold 2.5 / 3 miles back to Harvard Square.
In the end, we stopped in for veggie burgers at a little spot before coming back to the pad and chilling out for the rest of the night.
Next... Sunday.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
What's more amazing is that it ever works out the right way...!
Memorial Day -- May, 2009 -- I was dozing on the sofa, something I rarely do. Sam was in the crook of my arm and I was propped at an uncomfortable angle but it wasn't so disagreeable that I felt like moving.
Paige and I had been having a truly lovely long weekend. A bit of gardening, some cleaning around the house. Now we were just "having a Sunday." Though, as I said, it was Monday.
I heard Paige come down the stairs from the master bath. Her announcement that she was running to Walgreens brought me around. This was an unusual errand indeed. In the two-plus years I'd known her, "Walgreens" had never been in her vocabulary. Mother's, Whole Foods, Pharmaca, yes. Walgreens, no.
"That's weird." I said, looking up, groggy from my half-sleep.
"Well," she cocked her head on the up-tick, "I think I might be pregnant."
I'm pretty sure I stood up. Or maybe I didn't, I only thought I did. In either case, whatever I did, it was very slow and probably with a balance check. Even if that was only in my mind.
"Oh." That, and a slim smile were all I could muster. She told me she'd be back in a few minutes, at which point she walked out the front door. I stood up for real then, got the vacuum out and started sweeping my downstairs circuit. I don't know why I did this, but it seemed perfectly natural and if I were to do it over again, well, I would.
I heard her unlock the car with the keyless entry. Two honks. Sharp. It was a real sound but all I heard was the vacuum. (She backed down the drive an away to the store.) The low sound of our lemon yellow Miele. Sam stayed on the sofa. Baby Cat lounged somewhere just out of sight but I felt her presence. It was a lovely weekend. No heater, no air conditioner. The humidity at a comfortable 20-percent. I think the windows were closed and I know it was quiet.
When Paige came home, one honk on the keyless lock, she didn't announce herself. Nothing unusual there. Sam noticed but he didn't get out from his chair. I kept vacuuming. Part of me was unsure whether to hover or to act casual, so I just did what came naturally and continued to vacuum.
A few minutes later, she came out. I knew she was there but now I was really concentrating on "acting" naturally and so when she stated, "Are you gonna stop vacuuming now." I did.
"Well, I'm pregnant." Big smile with a sort of disbelief that framed total acceptance of the reality.
Inside, I lept. My heart raced. I knew this was wonderful. I'm pretty sure that all this emotion wasn't thoroughly contained and that a smile shown. I think I said something "sensitive" like, "how do you feel" or "are you ok with this" or something else totally transparent and nonsensical. I also think I hugged her and told her that I was happy, but I know that all I was feeling was that "I love you" and "I'm so happy" and "we're going to be parents."
The rest of the day was sort of a blur. We talked a lot about the stages of pregnancy and what 5 weeks meant and we started talking about a baby's room but ultimately decided that we had plenty of time. At some point, we just sort of sat quietly on the sofa, Paige's laptop finally closed beside her, her feet on my thighs, Sam next to me, Baby Cat behind my head licking my hair. This was how we would be, no matter what.
"I love you."
A week or so later, I flew to Albuquerque. Within a few hours, I had told my mom and The Commander, my grandparents and the rest of that side of the family. Though the trip was officially to visit my Grandad (and this is really where my heart was for these three days), I was in the moment with them. The only absence was that of my dad, and the place where Paige should have / would have been had this been any other kind of trip than the one it was, or if we'd had more foresight into the idea of telling people that we were going to have a baby.
On Saturday, after a long day in the mountains, finally back in Albuquerque visiting my cousin and seeing my youngest nephew in his own environment for the first time, Paige called and mentioned that there was some bleeding. We talked. She felt good. She was going to bed, but she felt good.
We said: "This is normal."
On Sunday, another long day with my Grandad -- who deserves far more than to be part of this story in this context because he is one of the sweetest men I know, and there will be a post for him someday -- I spoke with Paige and the same was happening.
"I'll be home tomorrow night and we'll do what we need to do -- ultrasound, whatever -- on Tuesday."
Feelings of:
...I should be home...
...I never should have left...
...this is our time...
...this is her time...
...she is alone...
...why am I here...
Monday again. Two weeks after Memorial Day.
Sad leaving, loving time with my mom and my family.
Little Bird Farm.
And finally, Raleigh-Durham airport and Paige with Sam on leash, waiting for me at baggage claim despite the late hour and my later arrival. An embrace that... says more than words can.
When Paige and I hold each other it's like I've never held anybody else. This sounds like hyperbole but it is the feeling I get that erases all sense of self and selfishness, all thoughts of a past or jealousy, and grounds me so firmly in the present that I know the truth of the first passage in the Yoga Sutra.
Now is the Practice of Union.
And I was confident. Despite any fears to the contrary, despite any sense of risk or the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of chemical and biological reactions that have to proceed exactly as prescribed in order for a perfect child to be born, that we were ok. That Paige was ok.
But Tuesday came and the symptoms progressed. We determined that an ultrasound was the best course of action and our midwife made it so.
UNC Medical Center in Chapel Hill. Big, state of the art, parking structure, sky-way sidewalks and multi-tiered reception areas. A wonder of engineering and technology and sterility and "let's issue you an ID card" and "do you have insurance" and "please have a seat, the nurse will be with you shortly."
For all its attempts at sensitivity and sterility and non-invasiveness, this is a chaotic, messy, invasive place. No, not invasive, intrusive. It is a trespass. On some level, they know they are outsiders and that this is not a humanizing experience and yet in the same ways that they are apologizing for the humiliations and the patronage, they are reminding you of just how little control you have over your body, the situation... and this in itself is awe-inspiring and fear-inducing and humiliating.
"This is not our place. These are not our people. Why are we here?"
I had never heard of an ectopic pregnancy and for all the trauma and fear that Paige almost instantly felt, I had only questions; though all I could do was respond to Paige and hold her and dab her tears with my shirt and try and replace the some of the dignity that an ultrasound machine, and a curtain, and meaningless medical jargon, and a sneezing technician take away...
Yet there was a treatment that was non-surgical and for all my propensity to please, to act on the spot and to take no time, this time I said, "I think we need some time to talk."
To walk, to process, to breath real air, to hear voices that we know, to hold each other away from here and away from this...
Of course there is no other option, but with a miscarriage you assume that you will be home within the hour to make tea, to grieve, to cry and to await the body's final attempts to make itself right.
In this course there is nothing except further treatment, more lab work, and waiting and "come with me, I'll take you to a private room so that your crying and obvious distress does not scare the other mothers who are here for their own private humiliations," and "we have to dot our i's and cross our t's in order to cover our ass effectively -- you understand."
Of course, this isn't what they say but it is what we felt, in our own world, our bubble, our cocoons of experience and dread and sadness.
Several hours later, we were home and yet, while I sat with Paige and let her lie back in bed for a nap, following a cry and lots of water and more talking and a little food, I drove back to Chapel Hill to teach yoga (though I was the one in need of healing).
And when I took my seat to open the class, before the mantra and before the breath, I reminded my students of the importance of being present. Of not living for a potential that has yet to manifest. Of having the experience that is, and of making this your own. In this way I was sharing most truly what I felt and for the first time that day I nearly broke. But grief too, is a process and while you must and do feel it, you can also remind yourself of joys.
That's what the looks from those women across from me was doing, they were considering and experiencing with me -- in communion without words. They were here with me and that was powerful. They looked at me and considered me and that was the presence and in that moment the joy came from deep, deep within.
We took anjalimudra, prayer pose, and set our intention with "this" moment and "this" breath, and "this" breath, and "this" one... and I began the mantra that thanks all teachers who came before me for giving me this gift and for helping me realize that this moment is precious.
It's been a few weeks and we are doing good.
I am doing good. Better anyway. It is a process but it is a process that comes easier with practice.
We have a lot of work before us -- this much we know; that we have more work to do together. But we are joyful because that is our right. And we are with each other more truly every day. And I love her and she loves me.
Paige and I had been having a truly lovely long weekend. A bit of gardening, some cleaning around the house. Now we were just "having a Sunday." Though, as I said, it was Monday.
I heard Paige come down the stairs from the master bath. Her announcement that she was running to Walgreens brought me around. This was an unusual errand indeed. In the two-plus years I'd known her, "Walgreens" had never been in her vocabulary. Mother's, Whole Foods, Pharmaca, yes. Walgreens, no.
"That's weird." I said, looking up, groggy from my half-sleep.
"Well," she cocked her head on the up-tick, "I think I might be pregnant."
I'm pretty sure I stood up. Or maybe I didn't, I only thought I did. In either case, whatever I did, it was very slow and probably with a balance check. Even if that was only in my mind.
"Oh." That, and a slim smile were all I could muster. She told me she'd be back in a few minutes, at which point she walked out the front door. I stood up for real then, got the vacuum out and started sweeping my downstairs circuit. I don't know why I did this, but it seemed perfectly natural and if I were to do it over again, well, I would.
I heard her unlock the car with the keyless entry. Two honks. Sharp. It was a real sound but all I heard was the vacuum. (She backed down the drive an away to the store.) The low sound of our lemon yellow Miele. Sam stayed on the sofa. Baby Cat lounged somewhere just out of sight but I felt her presence. It was a lovely weekend. No heater, no air conditioner. The humidity at a comfortable 20-percent. I think the windows were closed and I know it was quiet.
When Paige came home, one honk on the keyless lock, she didn't announce herself. Nothing unusual there. Sam noticed but he didn't get out from his chair. I kept vacuuming. Part of me was unsure whether to hover or to act casual, so I just did what came naturally and continued to vacuum.
A few minutes later, she came out. I knew she was there but now I was really concentrating on "acting" naturally and so when she stated, "Are you gonna stop vacuuming now." I did.
"Well, I'm pregnant." Big smile with a sort of disbelief that framed total acceptance of the reality.
Inside, I lept. My heart raced. I knew this was wonderful. I'm pretty sure that all this emotion wasn't thoroughly contained and that a smile shown. I think I said something "sensitive" like, "how do you feel" or "are you ok with this" or something else totally transparent and nonsensical. I also think I hugged her and told her that I was happy, but I know that all I was feeling was that "I love you" and "I'm so happy" and "we're going to be parents."
The rest of the day was sort of a blur. We talked a lot about the stages of pregnancy and what 5 weeks meant and we started talking about a baby's room but ultimately decided that we had plenty of time. At some point, we just sort of sat quietly on the sofa, Paige's laptop finally closed beside her, her feet on my thighs, Sam next to me, Baby Cat behind my head licking my hair. This was how we would be, no matter what.
"I love you."
A week or so later, I flew to Albuquerque. Within a few hours, I had told my mom and The Commander, my grandparents and the rest of that side of the family. Though the trip was officially to visit my Grandad (and this is really where my heart was for these three days), I was in the moment with them. The only absence was that of my dad, and the place where Paige should have / would have been had this been any other kind of trip than the one it was, or if we'd had more foresight into the idea of telling people that we were going to have a baby.
On Saturday, after a long day in the mountains, finally back in Albuquerque visiting my cousin and seeing my youngest nephew in his own environment for the first time, Paige called and mentioned that there was some bleeding. We talked. She felt good. She was going to bed, but she felt good.
We said: "This is normal."
On Sunday, another long day with my Grandad -- who deserves far more than to be part of this story in this context because he is one of the sweetest men I know, and there will be a post for him someday -- I spoke with Paige and the same was happening.
"I'll be home tomorrow night and we'll do what we need to do -- ultrasound, whatever -- on Tuesday."
Feelings of:
...I should be home...
...I never should have left...
...this is our time...
...this is her time...
...she is alone...
...why am I here...
Monday again. Two weeks after Memorial Day.
Sad leaving, loving time with my mom and my family.
Little Bird Farm.
And finally, Raleigh-Durham airport and Paige with Sam on leash, waiting for me at baggage claim despite the late hour and my later arrival. An embrace that... says more than words can.
When Paige and I hold each other it's like I've never held anybody else. This sounds like hyperbole but it is the feeling I get that erases all sense of self and selfishness, all thoughts of a past or jealousy, and grounds me so firmly in the present that I know the truth of the first passage in the Yoga Sutra.
Now is the Practice of Union.
And I was confident. Despite any fears to the contrary, despite any sense of risk or the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of chemical and biological reactions that have to proceed exactly as prescribed in order for a perfect child to be born, that we were ok. That Paige was ok.
But Tuesday came and the symptoms progressed. We determined that an ultrasound was the best course of action and our midwife made it so.
UNC Medical Center in Chapel Hill. Big, state of the art, parking structure, sky-way sidewalks and multi-tiered reception areas. A wonder of engineering and technology and sterility and "let's issue you an ID card" and "do you have insurance" and "please have a seat, the nurse will be with you shortly."
For all its attempts at sensitivity and sterility and non-invasiveness, this is a chaotic, messy, invasive place. No, not invasive, intrusive. It is a trespass. On some level, they know they are outsiders and that this is not a humanizing experience and yet in the same ways that they are apologizing for the humiliations and the patronage, they are reminding you of just how little control you have over your body, the situation... and this in itself is awe-inspiring and fear-inducing and humiliating.
"This is not our place. These are not our people. Why are we here?"
I had never heard of an ectopic pregnancy and for all the trauma and fear that Paige almost instantly felt, I had only questions; though all I could do was respond to Paige and hold her and dab her tears with my shirt and try and replace the some of the dignity that an ultrasound machine, and a curtain, and meaningless medical jargon, and a sneezing technician take away...
Yet there was a treatment that was non-surgical and for all my propensity to please, to act on the spot and to take no time, this time I said, "I think we need some time to talk."
To walk, to process, to breath real air, to hear voices that we know, to hold each other away from here and away from this...
Of course there is no other option, but with a miscarriage you assume that you will be home within the hour to make tea, to grieve, to cry and to await the body's final attempts to make itself right.
In this course there is nothing except further treatment, more lab work, and waiting and "come with me, I'll take you to a private room so that your crying and obvious distress does not scare the other mothers who are here for their own private humiliations," and "we have to dot our i's and cross our t's in order to cover our ass effectively -- you understand."
Of course, this isn't what they say but it is what we felt, in our own world, our bubble, our cocoons of experience and dread and sadness.
Several hours later, we were home and yet, while I sat with Paige and let her lie back in bed for a nap, following a cry and lots of water and more talking and a little food, I drove back to Chapel Hill to teach yoga (though I was the one in need of healing).
And when I took my seat to open the class, before the mantra and before the breath, I reminded my students of the importance of being present. Of not living for a potential that has yet to manifest. Of having the experience that is, and of making this your own. In this way I was sharing most truly what I felt and for the first time that day I nearly broke. But grief too, is a process and while you must and do feel it, you can also remind yourself of joys.
That's what the looks from those women across from me was doing, they were considering and experiencing with me -- in communion without words. They were here with me and that was powerful. They looked at me and considered me and that was the presence and in that moment the joy came from deep, deep within.
We took anjalimudra, prayer pose, and set our intention with "this" moment and "this" breath, and "this" breath, and "this" one... and I began the mantra that thanks all teachers who came before me for giving me this gift and for helping me realize that this moment is precious.
It's been a few weeks and we are doing good.
I am doing good. Better anyway. It is a process but it is a process that comes easier with practice.
We have a lot of work before us -- this much we know; that we have more work to do together. But we are joyful because that is our right. And we are with each other more truly every day. And I love her and she loves me.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Diversity
We have been surprised and, yes, pleasantly surprised to find that our yard has an active and varied little ecosystem with a variety of critters. Lately, Baby Cat has been catching and dispensing with moles (which are a garden pest), and just generally pestering our lizards, which live under the steps in the back. She can't catch them because they're too fast and never venture far from their home, but I don't think she really wants to anyway. Also lately -- this afternoon in fact -- we have had many little snake sightings -- thankfully, all non-venomous and truly beneficial. A healthy and diverse population of critters means we have a good, happy ecosystem.
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