For Mothers

(for Pauline and Kelley's Blessing)

Beauty lies in the belly--
    the accommodation,
      the trepidation,
The foundation.

Children change us from the inside, flesh to flesh,
Then enter the world and change us on the outside,
    streak our hair and deepen our faces,
And continue to transform us beyond the surface,
   the most inward of spaces
   where lovers could never touch,
Remodeling our entire hearts,
   down to the nails.

Sewn into them, our seeds of sorrow and surrender,
    of navigation and delight,
That will thresh out of their fiber every day they step on Earth.
Mothers, they stand by, in the sticky dirt
They bind together the pieces that no one else can bind
   for they don't have the same quality of breath.
They are the framework that holds together,
    and gives birth,
To humanity's tiny masterpiece.

The mother is the language,
   and the child her poetry. 


--LKP 4/6/13



(© 2013 Leah Perlingieri and Beyondthemilk.blogspot.com All Rights Reserved)

This day

At the end of this day

I have talked that talk
A thousand times

Performed the necessary
reparation
caressed and cooed
their precious hearts
curdled by the
banshee moan

Applied the patches
intentionally left gaping holes 
layed just enough ground
to transverse
like advancing along
the attic rafters

With the precision
of a married woman
I have practiced this day
derailing and mounting
in intense fluxuation
the tracks of fear and love

And still I have mastered nothing

little braveheart

isadore did the most amazing thing tonight. i was at the dinner table, post-dinner, slid low in my chair. it was one of those two-people-with-needs-and-not-enough-to-go-around kind of days with the husband. i was looking out the window trying to conceal my tears from the disappointment and loneliness i was feeling, and she skipped into the room with her normal isadore energy. she stopped mid-question (kids always enter a room already talking to you) and noted my tears, and began to in her flair-for-drama way take exaggerated steps backward, to un-tip-toe herself out of the room.

at that moment i shut my eyes very tight. i didn't want to think about anything, about how she was receiving me, what kind of memory i was creating for her, what kind of weepy mother i was being, i just needed to pause in my lacking without consideration. on my island of a moment i was surprised to feel a warm breeze blow in, and that breeze was isadore wrapping her arms around me, with complete acceptance. it felt like medicine, and i was equally comforted as i was amazed at her ability to see what i needed and be brave enough to give it to me. plenty of times my tears have turned into anger at whomever happened to be within snapping distance. perhaps she wasn't afraid of my sadness because she knew it had nothing to do with her; she didn't take it personally, and she had it in her heart to meet this need she'd stumbled upon. i immediately let out a sob, i felt so safe doing so. she said to me "i have been wanting to do this all day." and i thanked her and thanked her and thanked her again.

Dangling aloft

I felt good about getting up today, "my day" to get all three kids off to school. All three. Completely new territory. With prior evening preparations and organization, I felt like a mom With Her Shit Together, a confidence boosting space for me. The morning arguing and stress was minimal (perhaps none??) and we left with the house tidy. I experimented with a slightly altered route from my usual, and got to our destination with 5 minutes to spare.

Mayan launched out of the van before I'd killed the engine and dashed off immediately to find her friends. George and I walked Izzy into the building, and then the two of us waited outside of the preschool waiting the doors to be unlocked. The air had that delicious autumn nip. Once inside, George was happy to change into his slippers and kiss me goodbye.

I met a friend in the lobby so she could tell me about her new love interest, the first since her divorce. I took a moment to revel in her happiness before excusing myself to go to yoga. Although I had 40 minutes to drive only 7, I knew I needed some molting time. The strange, full, lonely, lost feeling was creeping on me. The questioning of myself. A mother whose children are in the care of others, and from now until forever, they will always (and even more so as the years tick on) be in the care of others or of themselves. That raw, dangling feeling, as if aloft without the distinction of joy, but accompanied by the tightness of throat and the imminence of tears. I got to the sun-warmed car before letting any of them fall. I dumbly picked up my phone, sobered by not having my day planned out. Just yoga. Going forth to yoga, I knew, was best.

The northeast class is big, much bigger than the humble loft in southeast, my usual yoga cocoon. I feel slight irritation at this particular instructor--I sense a snobbish streak or maybe I just find her too adorable to relate to. But her classes are skillful, if not lacking a strong flow due to the incessant verbal instruction. Today, my fellow yogis and I packed in only slightly less like sardines. I stayed introverted as I set up, clutching a tissue to dab any quiet trails of tears as they slipped past the ledge of my lower lashes. As the detailed instructions began, I became so engrossed in the distraction that I was taken away from my sadness completely. I thank her for that. Our focus was on the kidneys and spine and brain, and the cerebral-spinal fluid. I've never paid so much attention to the interior space of my body in all of my 11 years of practicing yoga.

Yet when the class wore off and I found my self back in my mobile sanctuary, more tears came. It was then 11am and I had 4 hours of unmarked time. I called the father of my babies and he offered me a verbal pillow to soften on. He helped talk me through my next move--home to brew a pot of coffee and reheat left-overs. He granted me the permission that I silently sought to sit at home with no interruptions in front of my laptop, a perfectly acceptable afternoon. A gentle way to transition into this unprecedented independence that marks the beginning of a whole new elevation of my mother journey. And I promise not to waste it all on Facebook.  

Dead Can Dance, Alive Can Sit

 


In an outdoor theater outside of Seattle last Friday night, Blake, Mayan, and I saw Dead Can Dance perform. The band has been split up since 1998, and most people thought they would never reunite. Seeing them was an awesome experience, especially in the open air on a summer's eve.

 Possibly the sweetest thing I've ever seen: Blake helping Mayan with her eye make-up

The venue reminded me a lot of The Crowded House show we attended a few summers ago at McMenamin's Edgefield, and I suppose most outdoor summer concert venues have that same vibe. Grassy fields for parking, older crowd who listened to band 20 years ago and can afford to pay the ticket prices, some bringing their families, tiny compostable cups of red wine and micro-brews abound. And of course, the seating.

 Nothing says "Restoration" like a few hundred SUV's, sport wagons and luxury sedans.

At first we were so excited to get reserved seats through pre-ticket sales, avoiding the hit-and-miss of the grassy general admission seating area behind the reserved section. But as we approached the tidy rows of white chairs just as the first notes rang out, I realized that when the mesmerizing melodies washed over us we would all be...SITTING. Jesus Lord forbid, you are moved by the music and you want to dance (Dead Can DANCE!), because you'd be blocking someone who paid good money to sit on their ass to ingest this long-awaited experience. Which is FINE; that can be nice, too. It's just that as a crowd you have to collectively decide what you are going to do, and this massive crowd decided they were going to stay glued to their chairs.

The diplomatic extrovert in me fantasized about starting an actual conversation about sitting versus standing, and whether or not we could work something out that could get "all of our needs met." My proposal would have been: let's stand for the first two songs, then sit though the remainder of the set, then stand again for the encore. How does that sound, folks? Ok, smiles, nods, agreement, comradery. But, nooooooo, I just quietly bitched to Blake for a few minutes.

Partway through the show, I identified that guy--who was so moved by the music, he was having the hardest time staying in his chair. His hands were in the air most of the show, he shot out of his to seat to clap after every song, yelled out verbal encouragement and praise, and one song he even (gasp)...remained standing for the next number. I watched intently to see what would happen.....a passionate rebel, ignoring the law of the people...would the people take pity or see it as act of of mutiny? I counted about 36 seconds before the lady behind him tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to sit. He complied, neither graciously or non-graciously, but just succumbed to The Group.

  You can see Hands Guy in this video!

Mercy, did they sound GOOD. Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard sound as crystal as studio recordings from 20 years ago. It's amazing to me how some people's voices can hold out and stay so strong and beautiful over decades, and hearing their rich voices blended together in the flesh was truly a delight.


This was only the second show of their reunion tour, so the energy was still fresh. Plucking away at her hammered dulcimer, and dressed in silk and velvet gown, Ms. Gerrard looked much like a priestess, composed and serene. I often saw what looked like complete delight and gratitude on her face, as she basked in our applause. Being in the studio, recording soundtracks for movies like Gladiator and Whalerider, have quite a different reward than live performances, I imagine. Mr. Perry, who looks simply like any one's Social Studies teacher on summer vacation in a short sleeve shirt and casual pants, can both rattle and lighten the bones with his pleasing baritone and resonant 12-string. Their music is like a hand-picked selection of "the best of" world music with darkly melodic roots, orchestrating a variety of instruments and tongues into a diffusion of deliciously palatable sounds for our Western ears; this is done with an intensity that makes their bodies seems like vessels which ancient spirits and sounds are channeled through. Perhaps this is the inspiration to the name--the spirits of the dead are dancing through their voices and hands.








In the end, the best part of the evening, wasn't actually the show, or our succulent Italian dinner afterwards, or our familiar and posh hotel room in downtown Seattle we retreated to post-show. The best part was that is was a great date with our oldest daughter, Mayan. She, too, is a lover of music, no matter what the are, she loves all things goth and lace, and keeps DCD on her iPod. While she has an especially tight relationship with her dad (the two are cut from the same yard of fabric, I swear), her and I have had a rockier, oil-and-water type connection....pretty much since birth. The past year or so, we've been able to come to an understanding place, and though she is in the throws of great changes, we've been surprisingly close, and able to appreciate our differences for the first time in years. Her father and I found it truly refreshing to have a chance to take her along with us on what would usually be Just Us, and still have it be relaxing despite "having a kid with us." Her presence really enriched our experience, because it reminded us she really isn't a kid anymore, she's a lovely, creative, sensitive, and funny young woman, and ready to partake in more mature adventures. I look forward to many more!


            


 


          

The Information

Last week, on my way to get my boy from preschool, a minivan suddenly turned into my lane giving me only a moment to steer clear. Luckily, I was able to downgrade a full-on collision to a mere scraping of bumpers. The other van and I met in a nearby parking lot, and the passenger and I got out to make sure everyone involved was okay, which was the case, aside from my frantically beating heart. I took a few breaths, and felt the headache I had been fighting all day bear back down.

As per the fender-bender custom, I walked around each car to see how much damage had occurred; my front drivers side had some scrapes but no broken lights. Theirs was in slightly worse shape, although it was difficult to tell what the already battered van looked like before the accident.

The couple, who were African, spoke English as a second language. With my insurance card and smart phone in hand, I asked to exchange information. The woman, in her mid-20s with rough skin and modest clothing, looked to the man for guidance. He placed his hands in his pockets of his khaki pants, relaxing his stance, but his gaze--the energy behind his eyes--changed as though the thoughts behind them quickened.

The man nodded to his wife and spoke. "Get the card." She hesitated. "Go," he said more firmly. "The card."

She headed to the car, but sort of danced around it, approaching the vehicle from different angles, before saying to me, "But you okay. It is okay."

"Yes," I agreed. "But we need to exchange information. It is the smart thing for me to get your insurance information."

I turned back to him. "The baby was crying," he explained.
"Yeah. You turned over a double yellow line. You can't do that. That's illegal."

His hands remained in his pockets so I nudged him for his license or some type of identification. I looked toward the wife who stood looking at her open door but had still not produced anything yet.

"Just tell me if you don't have insurance," I pressed, tired and wanting to get to my son on time. I could see this wasn't going to go as smoothly as my last traffic accident did, my only other traffic accident, where a woman hit me in the school parking lot. We snapped pics of our insurance cards, IDs, and vehicle damage and were on our way within 5 minutes; the insurance companies mostly took it from there. 

"My ID is coming in the mail. I do not have it yet, but it's coming," the man assured me.
"You don't have a driver's license?"
Pause. "No."

"Then you don't have insurance," saying this mostly to complete the puzzle for myself. I knew I couldn't walk away from this with nothing as it has been hammered into my American brain my whole life: exchange information. Exchange Information. 

My great desire for "Information" was clearly beginning to boggle them, but I insisted. "I need your information. It is the right things for me to do. When there is an accident, it is essential that we Exchange Information."

To them, I must have seemed like an uptight middle-class woman, with my messy red hair and fancy pocket computer, making incessant demands for this seemingly vital Information. They were concerned only with what was in front of them: cars are okay, people are okay...what else does this lady need??

Unrelenting, I turned to her, willing to take whatever I could get. "I need to take a picture of your license plate and ID." Again, she looks to her husband, who nods, but is having a harder time hiding his irritation at my request.

She stalled one more time before getting anything for me, and decides to offer every bit she can that may possibly satiate my need for the Information.

"We have a baby."
"Yes," I say.
 "My sister lives right over here," she explains.
"OK."
"But you are okay, and we are okay," she finally offers.
"I know," I reply.

Finally, she opened the sliding door to her minivan and inside were 5 or 6 children, between the ages of newborn and 12, sitting inside. She gestured to the baby before reaching for her wallet. "See?"

The oldest boy sat next to the infant seat, pacifying the child. Another small boy, maybe 4, had been crying and a thick layer of snot was caked all around his nose. The oldest daughter shifted her eyes away from me, as I silently admired her brightly colored pink and green head-covering.

"I see," I told to the mother. Then to the children, "That must have been scary for you." Then, I walked behind the van take a picture of the plate.

The woman one last time tried to talk me out of showing her ID, but I was unwavering. Reluctantly, she handed it over, a type I did not recognize right way, but in the blaring sun I did my best to get a shot of it. My headache was persisting, and I was feeling even more sapped after the initial adrenaline had worn off. The couple seemed uncomfortable, and the man, who was clearly done with the scenario, retreated to the drivers seat.

I handed the card back to the woman and offered to reciprocate. "Do you want my license?"
Confusion passed over her face. "You have it already. I already gave!" she says defensively.
"No, MINE. Would you like mine?" She shrugged, and said "OK," like she is just going along with this ritual that I have been forcing them to participate in. I look at the man who is shaking his head, looking somber and slightly ill.
"You don't want it then?" I checked, the mediator of this whole information triangle. He said no. "We don't need."

I pulled back my card and dropped my hands by my sides, in retreat. Her next words took on a different quality, a more reflective tone. No longer trying to appease my requests or follow my lead, she had honesty in her voice.

"It's not like this in Africa," she stated simply. "You okay. We okay. It's not like this." 

I understood what she was saying. In their eyes, I was making it complicated, much more complicated than it needs to be. They were thinking of the people involved and I am thinking about the vehicles and potential repairs. I only have a moment to gather my response. I am an America-born citizen who was raised on rules and regulation and the complexities of US legal system. Even in this brief encounter, I realize that its a very different world that she comes from. Besides our bumpers, our cultures had collided and the contrast was palpable.

Under the influence of that revelation, all I could offer was this generalization, "In America, its all about the insurance companies. Insurance rules everything." Then I walked away.

After they drove off, I examined the photo I'd captured in the shady relief of my car and I realized what she'd offered me. A US Immigration workers visa...that had expired in 2005. In order to appease my need for Information over a tiny fender bender, they offered me what is probably their biggest secret and greatest burden.

  

Illegal immigration is not something that penetrates my world in such a distinct manner. I was raised in a town that was 97% white, and even in Portland I feel mostly shielded from racial and socioeconomic issues, that I know are present but they don't affect me in an obvious way. I am a very white woman, in a mostly white state, in a fairly white neighborhood, and our family does moderately well. I am, at least, aware of my bubble. This unexpected encounter gave me a glimpse into a life that, while only blocks from my home, is worlds away from my own.

Afterwards, I grappled with whether I'd done the right thing, and what to do next. Here is where my perpetual dual-sidedness comes in to play. On the fence where I dwell, it is difficult for me to be passionate about any one cause because I can always muster some empathy for either side of an issue.

I want all drivers to follow the rules of safety, because I want my family to be safe, and I want to believe that every one of those drivers has read the book and passed the test by demonstrating their safety knowledge and, in turn, earned the proper license. Yes, there are a number of bad drivers out there who have followed that protocol and still barrel over double yellow lines. Or get distracted by crying babies. We are always at risk on the road, no matter how many people follow the rules, as we are ultimately steering about giant hunks of steel at high speeds.

As Americans, we demand the least amount of risk, and do everything to maximize the highest safety standards. Compare our car seat standards against those photos you see of families piled on a motorcycle in Mongolia. Here, our need for (and perception of) safety is a cultural thing.



As far as immigration goes, I have not lived a life that has helped sculpt solid opinions regarding the issue, like maybe a person who has lived in Texas, Southern California, or New York City.  There are multiple angles to attack such a complex issue. Looking from a government standpoint, this family is illegal.  From a citizen and taxpayers standpoint, they could be considered irksome.  From a mothers standpoint...it's understandable. I have no desire to blow the whistle on this family, even if I thought I had what I needed to track them down; the thought of possibly breaking up any family is disturbing. Even if they are living sketchy lives, or the dad is a reckless driver or an abusive jerk, or even the mother for that matter. I don't know a damn real thing; my glimpse didn't get deep enough to see, and its not my job to uncover.

I hope his ID is in the mail. I hope when they got home, the husband and wife hugged each other, and he thanked her for doing her best to protect their secret. I hope they had a conversation about how things could be different, how can they take the right steps to legitimize themselves and stop living under this fear of being exposed as living illegally (maybe I'm being naive and that is impossible.) I hope that the fact they let this stubborn American stranger walk away with a photo of the wife's expired visa doesn't weigh heavily on him, and that he doesn't take out his stress on her or the children. And finally, I hope I did the right thing by letting it go. 

While I was processing this experience, I kept thinking about the possible reactions of very random people in my life. What would so-and-so have done? The young activist couple I know, a friend's military boyfriend, Blake's dad "The Judge", my own mother, sister, and best friend. Another reminder how our roles and experiences shape us, and I guess that is why I am so often on the fence. Out of 6 billion people, I just don't see how my perspective is so well-informed, so significant, because it's not. I'm just one hopeful voice in this big, wide world.

I just really, really love my family. Which, while always true, is a surface feeling that I must savor right now. Because sometimes it's really hard. Loving them is not hard, but allowing the feeling or expression of love to float freely to the surface...its the most surprisingly difficult things I've ever experienced. I look at this and feel such gratitude, such appreciation...for who they are, each of them individually and how they impact me, shape my reality and existence. A stunning group of humans. I am responsible for their care. Boggles my mind and humbles my soul. Xoxo