VOWS (Unwedding) 2010

I was going through some old writings on my computer and stumbled across my initial vows to my beloved.  I wrote these for our unwedding over three years ago.  I did not read these exact words; I wrote some other ones influenced by the draft here.  But, I thought I would share these now, cause I like them.

Family picture from late 2012!

Vows from February 2010

I do not want to keep you standing in the cold for too long, but I have a story to tell.  It is a story of a love deeper than those dark mountains lurking far from human eyes at the bottom of the ocean.

It is not a mushy, syrupy love (okay maybe sometimes).

It is a love that is hard and sinewy; sometimes it is dirty.  Sometimes it sparkles.  Mostly it is bound in a friendship that will move from this cold night and the cold evenings of our past forward in years, minutes, seconds for as long as Kristen and my lungs pull air. 

I could tell you the story of how we met over ten years ago in a Women in Film class at the state school up the road—where we both received excellent educations.  And the story of how a few short months after that meeting in class, February 11, 2000 became our anniversary. 

But mostly I want to tell you about what we have built together since that night ten years ago when we saw Angela Davis at Wayne State and then spent that night and the night after and the night after and the night after curled in one another’s arms talking and whispering and barely sleeping.  

We have grown a radical love that is fertile and dedicated to bringing more and more life around us.  When I was younger, I never really new or understood that your lifemate, your lover, your partner, could also be your best friend—the person you desire to spend your fun times with, your deep and joyous times with, your down times with, the moments when you feel embarrassed or ashamed or panicked or itchy with.

But that is what my kk is to me.  

I guess I have to go back to that night when I ended up in kristen’s arms for the first time, This physical placement—the fact that we ended up entwined around one another—matters to us and it matters to other queer people making their lives together in the midst of laws that favor some groups of people over others because of who these groups of people choose to have sex with (or a romantic relationship).  

Oh, but that is not what this is about—wait, yes it is kind of.

Anyhow, why that night—February 11, 2000—why did we choose that one night as our anniversary (which it will remain after today)?  That night long ago, we did go hear Angela Davis passionately and persuasively talk about dismantling the prison industrial complex in the USA and the discriminatory practices that lead to the over-incarceration of poor people and people of color in this country, and then we ate dinner with some of you who are here and some of you who are not, and then we were smitten and intrigued and tangled up in all that newness that falling in love brings with it.  That staring for long minutes into the eyes of an almost stranger who you are now discovering intimacy with for the first time. 

From that night on, Kristen’s body and mind became a map to me—a map larger than the great and colorful and over-bearing North American world map hanging on the wall of my 2^nd grade classroom.  The stories bottled up in her mind and heart became landscapes and topographies for me to piece together through the deep voiced tellings of her orange headed self.  Her skin became territory for me to explore through smell, taste, touch; my skin the same to her.

That night 10 years ago, I embarked on a new journey with the most unique and beautiful person —a voyage of devotion and discovery.

For nearly seven years (now it is 10 years), I have devoted my working life to trying to reform the prison system in Michigan and Kristen, for the last 3.5 (now it is 6.5 years) years, has worked to end housing discrimination in the Michigan.  We are committed to working for social justice and to striving toward the greatest good for all people and the earth.  

But, more importantly, we are committed to community—to building and growing a loving and beloved community that includes humans, soil, non-human animals, trees, rivers, fungi, rocks, bees, lakes, skies.  We have put down roots in Ypsilanti that are long and thick and sink into the wet slope of the valley toward this river next to us; this river that we love—the Huron.

As Angela Davis stated, “Radical simply means  ‘grasping things at the root.’”  And Kristen and I have worked on both a theoretical level and literal level to do just this.

I have witnessed my love—this beautiful bird before you all—become, day after day, more loving, more poignantly powerful, more dedicated to growing our own food, more self-sustaining, more community sustaining, more committed to all of this living we are doing together.  

I have seen her grow into her own body and discover her resilience and athleticism.  Before K and I were together, she walked around—hiking here and there, but exercise and sports were not her cup of tea.  And then she began to share in the joy of the invention that is more amazing than the automobile—the bicycle—the two wheel kind.

She is so strong on her bicycle; she has amazing endurance.  In the last one and a half years she has put more than three thousand miles on her Surly long haul trucker and many of those miles we have pedaled side by side.  

This mutual love of community and bicycling lead us to founding with a handful of good people who are here today, Bike Ypsi—a community bicycling and bicycle transportation advocacy group.  

We love this town; we love all of you who are here today.

At this juncture, I want to let you know that it is a cold night in January when I am writing these words—and I have had a couple of beers.  We have just survived a week of being without heat at South Normal; k has been through the 8 year anniversary of her mother’s death; together we went through the first anniversary of me having a miscarriage after very suddenly and unexpectedly becoming pregnant.  So, this writing is impaired—heated with melancholy, sentimentality, and a new boiler.

But it is also fueled by clarity and distinguished by the weathering we have been through together over the last many years.  There are days when I wake up to the soft body next to me totally mesmerized and terrified.  Terrified because I do not know what I would do without this love in my life—both in the physical sense and the emotional sense.  Mesmerized by the sweet skin and courageous soul nestled next to my chest, legs, belly.   

“Some day, some day men and women will rise, they will reach the mountain peak, they will meet big and strong and free, ready to receive, to partake, and to bask in the golden rays of love. What fancy, what imagination, what poetic genius can foresee even approximately the potentialities of such a force in the life of men and women. If the world is ever to give birth to true companionship and oneness, not marriage, but love will be the parent.”

Emma Goldman

to her scent i will go...

Today I had this semi-sacred experience regarding the new soul who inhabits my waking and sleeping hours.

I was at work and work has been hard. The grief and stress and violence of other people's lives constantly surrounds me. In our work we are witnesses to suffering and salvaging and sometimes small victories. On top of that, I also have to deal with piles of administrative bullshit, truly wonderful volunteers (something like 12 this semester), planning for meetings, and working in coalitions...

That, there shit above, is the backdrop. I sat at my desk almost paralyzed by the amount of stuff I had to do, when this scent came barreling into my nose. The smell of my darling daughter's skin fell over my face. She, of course, was at her home day care, not there with me in my garage of an office.

The gentle scent of her little head--the place where infant sweat, the scatterings of sweet food and breast milk leftovers, soft, downy hair oils, and her baby bath soap mingle--came over me as if she were sitting on my lap. I paused what I was doing. My eyes glassed over with tears; tears bordering on the edge of the divine and sentimentality, and I inhaled with devout attention for a breath.

Then it all became a divine moment.

It was some kind of miracle. A reminder of this sacred bond I have with another human being. A reminder that legal rights (while I will fight for them until the day I die or until I get them) mean nothing in the face of the daily miracles and sufferings kk and I go through as we engage and love this small child.

If only I could bottle this scent and experience and sell it to the conservative right. The people who think I have no business raising a kid. The people who do everything in their power to disconnect me via intrusive laws (or non-existent ones) from willa's existence...oh ya, folks, if I have not mentioned it here before, I cannot adopt willa in MI--there is no second parent adoption. So, I feed her, bathe her, dance with her, love her with all of me, but, in the end, someone who does not love her as I do or who does not love kk as i do could essentially do legal battle to get her from me and essentially kk's next-of-kin have more rights to her than me. Blah de blah blah fucking blah dee da.

But that ghost-like tendril of traveling smell, it reminded me of the oppressive nature of "man"-made laws. It reminded me of the lasting longing of the deepest sacred parts of humanity. It carried me to a new and better place. The connection embodied in this real, yet profoundly strange, moment surpasses that which the political sphere, the sphere of marginalization and bigotry, and the sphere of civil and human rights can never tap into. I have both animal and spiritual connection to my child beyond the imaginings of the human mind.

So, to her scent I will go. To the smell of her hands that now feed her own self--peaches and dirt, summer and minerals. To the smell of her cheeks when we enter the house from a walk in the sun. To the smell of her shit that invades the whole house with intestines discovering the nuances of various human foods for the first time. To the smell of her tears, like water on dry stones. To the smell of her breath, like an indescribable sweetness doused in the gentle sour of buttermilk. To this small being who I love with the deepest parts of me. To her scent I will go.

I'm going to make myself sit and contemplate shit (and other delicious substances) via the written word

Thanks for your kind words and good thoughts...Really, it is great to have such dedicated and thoughtful readers out there.

And. I decided not to stop blogging. Mostly, because I had this interaction a few days back that made me think a lot. Then I started reminiscing in my head about how, in the past, I would make myself sit down and write about the thoughts that surfaced after an interaction like the aforementioned. And that is what I am going to do. I'm going to make myself sit and contemplate shit via the written word. It is, after all, how I make sense of the world. It may be infrequent, but you all can live with that, right? And, I can at least make sense of the world around me through writing it all out when I have a few minutes. The tension for me about keeping this blog was that sometimes all I want to do is write for me, but work and life muddy the time I would spend on such an endeavor. So I have to clear the waters and make time for me.

The interaction that made me think was all about being a queer parent. The person I was chatting with ( who happens to be a white, straight man in a heteronormative state-sanctioned marriage) really thinks that after queers win comprehensive rights and discrimination hides its ugly head for always, we will be able to display the dysfunction that is in queer families. He thinks that right now studies--the few out there--demonstrate queers as having more stable families cause people are on ultra good behavior. Also, it would hurt "the movement" (though I still do not quite know what that is) if any dysfunction surfaced in the media.

While I think, for sure, there are plenty of fucked up queer families among us--similar in their messiness to hetero family dysfunction--I tend to think that many queer folks had to contemplate the notion of parenting much more thoroughly than straight people. Same gender loving people have to roll the idea of expanding family around in their heads for a lot longer than the thought of two teenage or young adult heteros who achieve off- spring creation spontaneously in the back seat of a dusty dodge. Because there is so much thought and footwork that has to go in to acquiring a child for queer folks, the children of queer couples/people (cause coupledom is not the way all households are configured; there are single, double, triple, quadruple parenting households, etc) have a leg up in that they are often, at least, wanted.

I work with many people who were unwanted as children. People who came from hetero-normative families and who, in the midst of all of that "normalcy" ended up deeply damaged by the misogyny and violence so wed to straight, heterosexist coupledom and family. Out of the patriarchy so came the disheveled tentacles of oppression.

Please know I am friends with many great straight folks; I have blogged about these friendships profusely here. I am not slamming those folks, or so many other people who are straight and/or participate in the reality of straightness. You know: state sanctioned marriage, the social benefits and ease of movement associated with being involved with a person of the opposite gender (i.e. all the dudes at a meeting with political leaders shooting the shit about the wives and kids; if I speak about my beloved and kid, well then I have to provide clean up services for any backlash, fall out, befuddlement, or bumbling foolishness associated with trying to make me feel okay about being queer).

Any which way, I love my daughter immensely. K and I waited 11 years to have her. Of course, had we had our way we would have had her after being together 8 years, but even 8 years is still a lot of time and contemplation. The suck-ass world of infertility gave us even more time to think about the really huge thing we were doing. You know the commitment for the rest of our lives to this dear child? Come hell or high water, she is ours and we belong to her.

So, ya, I think many queer families are different from many hetero-normative families. And, ya, I'll keep on thinking about all of this and sharing it through writing here. Let me know what you think about queer families, too. Maybe start with a definition: the anatomy of a queer family; the anatomy of your queer family. I get there are nuances and I am totally generalizing above...Okay, I'll shut up my fingertips now and go sleep on the edge of my not-big-enough-queer-family-bed.

inside out

KK and her mama
It’s raw. All of me. My innards are exposed, layers of skin and fat and bone have folded inside out and there on the surface rests all of my organs.

Maybe she cut me open with her arrival? Maybe her brightness—the shiny remnant of stardust lingering on her soft humanness—is razor sharp?

All I do know, is that for the last many months I have been experiencing a kind of vulnerability that I have never known. I feel exposed; I feel heavy; I feel love like I never have before, but it is a thicker love. It is both burdensome and rich.

It weighs on me—literally, my whole body feels heavier. My head might as well be a cannon ball; my chest a freighter; my feet rocks from Lake Superior.

And then those pesky dead ones, they are hovering. Their presences are hanging over us like the thick fog on a cool spring morning that desires to be hot. All of them, our grandmothers, k’s mother, our grandfathers, our uncles. All of them. They are so close.

The bridal’s veil is in full bloom. The lilacs are erupting in sickly sweet aroma and my grandmother’s hands write languid visions of her skin on my eyelids.

KK’s mama is sending messages from the netherworld. Her beautiful smile cascades teeth and gums over our bed in the morning when the three of us wake from deep sleep held together by the certainty of one another’s bodies.

This vulnerability, this exposure, this hovering of the dead. It is all okay. It’s different and hard and beautiful. I think it is some new kind of falling in love with the living we are doing day in and out; the weaving together of our lives in tight strands of illuminated rope. Indeed, I loved my daughter from the moment I knew she was alive inside of k. But, always reservedly—just in case she splashed out of her mother’s womb before term without life, just in case the blood that trickled between k’s legs for the whole first trimester ended up being the beginning of the end.

Since Willa met us on this side of living, away from the dark and marvelous world of k’s womb, I have been falling in love with her day in and day out. And it is this loving of Willa that makes me more susceptible to the dead ones who are pestering me with memories (my lived ones and the ones I have been told) and pounding even louder on the rickety cage of ribs that is stacked in a dull pink white glow below my chin and neck.

In the shower in the morning my tears run with the hot water as I think of k’s mama and how she will never know Willa or see k as a mother. Her life was too short and my heart aches for kk. I think of my gram and I feel her soft, wrinkled hands on my face, my shoulder—I miss her, really miss her.

This loving is powerful stuff. It is sharp. Everyday my heart sinks a little deeper into the air outside my chest; my bones clatter in a kind of agony at the turned-inside-out-cold on nighttime and morning, my insides tremble in their new home, unprotected by epidermis, muscle, and fat. Exposed, opened, unfolded—more alive than I have ever been in this new and persistent loving.

to be butch with a baby at a mall

I’m sitting here streaming college basketball and loving the delicious sound of swish.
The moon is in super mode; my two loves are relaxing in the living room, and I am living this full life with tired eyes, a heavy, happy heart and a mind that reels madly through the thickness of too much to think about and analyze and then act upon.

In all of this calm and turbulence, I needed to make sure to sit down and write about my day at the mall. I walked as tall as possible through the stares and dirty looks and all together strangeness that my non-conformity to gender norms conjures in the worlds of people so steeped in their own hetero-normalcy and non-fluid/dualistic/binary gender roles that they can barely breathe without making sure to make the people whom they otherize feel their disapproval.

Today (well a week ago now as time slips away due to being overly busy), I walked my daughter around twelve oaks mall in her stroller. K had a facial with her good friend at the salon in Macy’s. And, since Willa is in deny-the-bottle-with-all-of-her-might-mode, we went with her to the mall. I then proceeded to walk with willa in her hot blue stroller all through the mall.

I know I live in a bubble within our state. Ypsi/ann arbor is full up of queers and working class folks (well ypsi is) and genuine difference and good weirdness.

Whereas, Novi (the place where the mall is located) is surrounded by wealth which sometimes takes any racial or cultural differences and coats the masses in sameness. I know this is not a very deep analyses of race, class, gender, etc. But, I just want to get to the point of my day: I felt like a fish out of water, times ten, walking my child through the mall today. Had k been by my side, it might have been better, but she was not.

The main characters: will and me.

The costumes: willa, purple pants, dinosaur onsie, white bambi hoodie, and bald ness. me, gray khaki pants, black t-shirt, red and black flannel, some hot red wing boots, and short hair with small hawkish mullet in back (got barbered last saturday; hair is currently very short on sides; short but thick on top, and the bit of mulletish stuff on neck).

The prop: will’s super fly (but exceedingly yuppie) uppa stroller with carriage mount ( it was the thing we asked money for our shower/gifts).

The setting: scary as hell. malls scare me to begin with, but the parking lot should have been warning enough for me to stay in the car because we had to park a mile away it was so packed. The economy must not be too fucked, since people were out in hordes buying lots of stuff. 600 dollars worth of pool table stuff, 2500 dollar riding mowers, etc...make-up, and fancy clothes (you catch my drift).

The plot: There really was none. I was just planning to blow an hour walking willa through the mall. I did this, but I really did not foresee the climax.

The climax: The stares, dirty looks, and befuddled looks of mostly woman as I walked through the mall with my daughter. And, Ultimately, an escape to the hardware/fitness/outdoor equipment of sears.

I consider myself a pretty subtle person. I am not soft-spoken. Nor am I loud in appearance or demeanor. I wear men’s underwear and try to keep my breasts from standing out. I keep short hair and do not wear a stitch of make-up except lip balm (clear) in order to keep my lips from cracking off my face. I drift. I get loud when injustice surfaces in my sphere, but I always get loud with strategy behind my voice and actions.

However, on this day, I felt like a rhino on the loose amidst florescent lights and too much stuff. I really did get scowls and disapproving stares.

I escaped to sears. We walked in circles looking at tools and weight benches. And, finally, I ventured to the men’s clothing dept. of sears and found some underwear on hardcore sale.

I walked back to the hardware check-out and purchased a precision screw driver set for kk and the pack of briefs for me. And, then Will and I set out to find her mama-ma in order to escape the oppressive climate of commodities and stares galore.

The security that k brings to my butch step is profound. she helps me feel invincible to the judgment of others. She makes me sure-footed and strong. She heals the scowls with some kind of salve that creates gentleness on the eyes. She is a good deal of my strength.

So, we left the chaos of striving for sameness and entered the calm of the chilly sun-filled afternoon. Our queer little family; comfortable and in love with one another.


she is now four months old...

growing

Um, ya. All I have time for right now is cuteness. See below.

deeper sleep

I have been relegated to the bed in the downstairs back room. A cough has found my chest and will not let up. It has a stronghold on the area below my neck at the top of my rib cage and it shakes fierce and wild in the night hours.

So, I’ve been banished from the family bed.

Obviously, this banishment has occurred for good reason.

I can’t keep the other members of my household up with my deep, hollow, non-productive coughing.

But I miss my dear ones.

And their absence during my dark hours makes me think a lot about how we came to this place of sharing our bed with our wee one. Before Willa came to us, I really did not read much about what to do after she was really here with us. Then she was born. This little, little being cast down to us from some star that finally decided to give up a small piece of the glitter, light, and energy that makes it a star. And, when she fell from her mama’s womb onto our dingy sheets, I knew she could be only there with us, on us, between us in our bed when we slept.

Of course, at that point, I had to consult some books and our midwife and our doula to make sure we were sleeping with her safely. But having her with us in bed and then having her with us in a sling or in our arms as we work and go about our living, well, it all seems so right and perfect.

I did not consult tons of books. The ones I did kind of made me pissy. i.e. dr. sear.s heterosexist extraordinaire. While I think he has a lot to share about a lot of things, I am not some big barreled daddy with a low voice who will accidentally roll on my daughter due to lack of hormonal connection (dr. s says for co-sleeping heterosexuals to put off having the male part of the relationship sleep closely to the infant cause he might smoosh the baby since birth-mothers have all of this hormonal and regular intuition they should be the ones to have the wee ones close by). I could accidentally roll on her, but so could k and we have set up perimeters to keep that from happening.

Willa’s been sleeping in the crook of my arm since she was 8 hours old.
Not every night. But many.

The point of this post is to say, thus far, I am very fond of our family bed. I love it. I love my daughter being close to us. I love the fact that k can side lie nurse and get better (if not still vague) sleep through the night. I love reaching out to feel my sweet willa near by. I love learning her idiosyncrasies. My child is a fidget. She squirms and twists and flails like a worm over flame.

She is also incredibly particular. There have been nights when she wants to just be flat on her back on my chest. I’ll put her next to me on the bed and she will fuss. Cause, see, she knows what she wants. Other nights we hold her tight and close and she calms her fidgeting and falls fast to sleep.

The family bed brings this kind of intense insight into our own selves and to our little one. We know more about each other as animals, as creatures, as our vulnerable selves. I know it will not last forever. It may not even last for many more months. But, this time so far has been precious and enlightening and I would not trade it for anything, not even deeper sleep.

11 years

February 11, 2011 marked our 11 year anniversary. I took the day off work and kk, willa and I had a yummy breakfast at zingerman’s roadhouse. Then we bought some new diaper covers at one of the kids slash baby stuff galore stores in town, then we browsed some books at a local shop and drank tea. But by 2:00 p.m. I was dying of tiredness and we headed home. I crashed out in the most hardcore nap I have taken in years (maybe since adolescence). I slept dead to the world from 3:00 to 7:00.

out to eat with the wilbur


I woke to darkness, floundering around like a nearly dead fish, looking for my kk and my willa—thinking, “where are they? oh my god, where are they?”

Of course, they were downstairs hanging out quietly and letting me sleep and sleep and sleep.

For our anniversary night, we stayed in with our newness and ate vegetables, fruit and cheese and some saucy stuff with bread and drank a glass of wine. We looked into the eyes of the other and mouthed wows and I love yous.

the tray of food


It really is a big wow, to be deeply in love with your best friend after so many years and amidst so much change and difference and beautiful disruption. Which is what our sweet willa is—the beautiful disruption to our solidly without children life. For nearly 11 years, we lived and loved how, when, and where we desired at our personal whims.

kk flying our beautiful disruption on our anniversary night


And now, that free-to-do-as-we-please-when-we-please is no more. Of course, we have always been very committed people and obligated our time, energy, hearts and minds to causes and projects and art that we believe in. So, we were not simple couch loafers dedicated to watching copious amounts of 30 Rock. Rather, we have always worked hard for the greatest good. But having a kid is different than having community meetings to organize or teach-ins to plan. Having a kid means being on always.

There is no off button.

Except, when my darling beloved knows I need hours and hours of catch up sleep, but she needs to be there for that to happen and we both work full-time, so that is not always the case.

It is different now. And, I love every moment. Even though, I do miss my beloved’s body and the time to get frisky when we feel it. Adjusting and adapting to the grand, beautiful disruption of our sweet daughter is a gift. After all that time of just being us together we are now more us and she adds a certain value to our days that makes this living even more invaluable.

Some days I stare at her, into those eyes I saw for the very first time as she made her grand entrance into this world from the warmth of her mama’s womb to the arms of a woman on a bed—a bed where her parents have loved and slept and talked and been sick and dreamed and held one another—Some days those eyes make me yearn for the memory of her first glance to always be with me. And, when my time comes to leave this world, I pray that her eyes, my dear sweet willa’s eyes, will be there looking into my heart as she does day after new day and she will see me through to the place beyond this place.

So, 11 years and now this gift to carry us through to other places full of new knowing and more loving.

a bath and her lovely belly with a bounty that is beyond, beyond

Trying times are met with brilliant moments.

We have been through death and sorrow (my gram went on, my too young uncle, also) in the last month. Work is full and good. Preparation for our dear one is in full swing as K is 35 weeks into this mystery. We are gathering supplies, writing down notes for our desires, and moving toward giving birth at home.

These walls have held the years of others' living like dark stories caught in sunlight. These walls are thick with horse hair plaster and layers of paint and old wall paper glue. These walls are witness to the stretched vocal chord sound of song, fury, love, heartache, winter frost, summer dew, the scent of sex, the idleness of waiting, the quiet of stillness, the hectic murmur of insomnia, the bewildered moments before knowing, the aches, the pitter patter of small animals and children (animals too), the last breaths of loved ones. So much has happened in these rooms in the last 107 years; so much we do not know; so much we do know.

And soon we will be adding to the memories of these walls and the ceilings and the floors. Soon, K will be wailing the cries of child birth; notes that have long vowels and crazy consonants carrying out the ends of her mouth. Soon, she will walk over worn wood in rhythms we are yet to understand. Soon, this thing we know so little about and have tried to learn too much about, will devour us with its mystery and we will make invisible etchings of experience all around us.

On Saturday, we took ourselves out for a fancy date (the last one till our world is turned upside down by the introduction of this new being into our lives). Beforehand, K bathed in our old, deep clawfoot tub. Dusk was on the fringe; gray cascaded through the windows in autumn clad slices, and I took pictures of this graceful beauty unfolding within and throughout this woman i love with every ounce of all of me. Below are a few:

belly ball in bath

angel

amazing

shimmer in the tub

gorgeous beyond, beyond

a smoking hot 25 weeks and 2 days (okay I think she took the pic at 24 weeks, but still)

100 days left till our little bundle of joy parades her beautiful bloody head between k's legs:)

Do you really want a belly shot? Okay, you can have one, cause I do not mind sharing my ultra hot soon-to-be-mama with some of the world.

Yes, ultra-hot. I'll tell you what: I cannot seem to keep my hands of kk while pregnant. I mean my hands love her lots while not pregnant, but she is smoking right now. Her body, her face all of her just gleams with this scrumptious air of sweetness.

Sweetness that I want to gobble up.

She loves being pregnant. Even her posture, seeps with this love.



and here she is all yellow and blurry:


the pictures do not do her total justice, but please believe me she is beyond lovely to look at and her heart, well, it sings with happiness.

speaking of hearts, we heard her little 145 beats per minute heart roaring along the other day and she kicks like a soccer player. she is an active little bugger and her little body flinging around makes me smile.

lakes, legs, and love

lake michigan after a day of rain

k and i just returned from a lovely mini-vacay. i went on her "girls weekend" this year, because only two of the "girls" could go on it, and we had to cancel our regular vacation due to k saving up all her vacation days in order to take a 3 month maternity leave. she gets paid leave only in using up her vacay and sick days and then it becomes unpaid.

K's legs my fingers

it was really good to go up north and be near so many of michigan's wonderful lakes and all of the rivers that flow out from them. of course, we have lakes and rivers downstate too, but up north the inland lakes are large and deep and then lake michigan or lake huron are always near-by (or nearer by). we stayed up the hill from crystal lake in a cottage. we could not see the lake cause a huge condo-complex got built sometime in the late 80s/early 90s and now blocks the view, but we were not far from the lake and we could smell it on the air and know it under our feet.

whipping and skipping rocks on lake michigan

whipping and skipping rocks on crystal lake at sunset

there is this thing in the longevity of loving another person like i love k that is so subtle and simultaneously deeply spread, like the roots of a black walnut. as the days go by, our love seems to sink longer into the folds of this planet. And with that love comes this greater understanding of one another. obviously, our rhythms are sometimes different, our views diverge, our moods cross and rough one another up, but, all in all, we get along splendidly and enjoy each other, day after day after day.

On our little vacay, our friend M spotted this big-ass tree and she decided that K was going to get up i t with her semi-big pregnant belly and M was going to do a photo shoot of my kk up in this tree. Now the crook of the tree where M wanted to shoot K was a good 12-15 feet up off the ground. Mhm, you heard me right. My stomach was a little queasy as K climbed the ladder that M and R had set up in the tree. And then she was on this lovely limb with her solid, rock hard sexy legs hanging out from under her skirt. And, my stomach was still a little queasy, cause I am one overly cautious person, but K up in that tree, well, she was (and is) just gorgeous.

M shooting K in tree from top of the car

and another shot of the shoot

Time to come down!

Down she comes; hot legs

she's hot

yep, literally and figuratively.



and she's mine.

she's wearing the fun outfit in these pictures right now, next to me, on the couch. she's got it on to keep her cool, cause damn it has been hot. and since she came down stairs sporting her belly and her bountiful bosoms, I just had to take a picture and share with all of you her tube top and yellow shorts.

kk is going for the big ultrasound tomorrow afternoon. we will check the sex and make sure he/she is alive and all that. We will also check on the hemorrhage to see what she's been up to. hopefully, she dug a hole out and has permanently left my beloved's body.

we will be checking to see what hangs or does not hang between the little thing's legs. these queers--that's us--are checking the sex cause we have two very gendered names picked for the kid and so one of those names will indeed be assigned to the kid based on the sex. we still live in a very gendered world and still happen to prefer two very gendered names...lifted, of course, from two dead people who left remarkable bits of stardust and wisdom all over the pages of books and in the halls of libraries and the bedside reading tables of many, many people.

back to sweating by my sizzling mama to be.

hilarity, horribleness, and absurdity.

Well. K is still wiping pink tinged stuff and sometimes spotting, but we are trying to chalk it up to the hemorrhage and not the beginnings of a miscarriage.

I also am chalking it up to the fact that last month, at this same time, is when her spotting was happening before, and last month, at this same time, it was also when yours truly was PMSing and having her period. I have a new hypothesis. My alpha hormones are pulling at kk's uterus and making her drop the remnants of the pool of blood that is hanging out in her womb.

Of course, this is totally my non-scientific conjecture, based on the leanings of my ass, but it helps me get a laugh in every once in a while.

With all that being said, kk is standing up in her dear friend's wedding this weekend and we will be staying down in the D Friday and Saturday night at the Ren Cen. So we are getting a little vacay and simultaneously keeping our fingers crossed that kk is not having a miscarriage that accidentally bleeds out all over the light green dress she is wearing in the wedding.

Believe it or not this morbid thought also brings us a little chuckle. Cause wouldn't that be just fucking perfect. You have to laugh at the horrendous shit every once in a while or how can you deal with it?

Really?

Even at work, day after day, we are bombarded with stories of abuse and isolation and desperation that would just break all of our hearts in thirds if we did not draw out a hee hee every now and again at the absurdity of it all. Undiagnosed c.olon cancer is no joke, but a dude collecting pair after pair of bloodied underwear, storing them up in his cell, and taking them with him over to pr.ison health to show the people who are entrusted with his life that he is not lying about blood seeping from his ass, well I have to smile at the smarts and audacity of the dude.

And sometimes when fellows send us blood samples in the mail and poop smears and sem.en samples, cause they think we have a full-on CSI style lab in our little garage of an office, well it makes me laugh my ass off and then wish that I always had latex gloves on when I opened up the mail:)

and did I ever tell you all about the guy who wrote the most detailed story of how he rose from the dead in the morgue of the local hospital with IVs hanging out of his arm. He, of course, was explaining how he had been killed by officers over a period of days. The story itself was so batty I had to smile, but the fact that the man believed this had actually happened--tears came a welling up over the edge of the smile. Cause something really bad must have happened to him sometime in his life--whether in the life of reality or the life inside of his brain that was as vivid as the realest of moments.

So, ya. I can try to make light of the nastiness that surrounds me. I can try to get through with chuckles and laughs. I can open my heart up to the absurd and think about how all of it is just that.

That's where I am at for a while. Riding on a pink tinged wave of hilarity, horribleness, and absurdity. Thank you all for your kind words and thoughts and the traces of things likes prayers that help us conjure up laughter and love in the midst of struggle.

nothing left to say

since saturday, my dear k has been consistently bleeding.

it blows.

how many times have i said it here on this blog? those words, that is? or something like them? it blows. it sucks. fuck it. damn. hard times. suck. etc. etc. etc.

i am trying to be all in the present about it and all that lovely bullshit, but guess what, at this point in time, i'm over it. plain and simple over scavenging for remnants of dreams that are yet to manifest into concrete flesh and blood before my eyes. the day when i feel the little being's scrawny paws upon the tender, yet sharp, curve of my collar bone--when the soft little animal unfolds in ringlets of new skin before me--until then, i will curse the wind and the rain and yell out profanities to the stars and then reel myself back into the present, this moment and take it for what it is.

and what it is is this:

people, we are so fragile and fleeting. at anytime it all could stop for you. at anytime we could be the 25 year old pga pro golf player found dead in her home on a sunday. or we could be the one to be sideswiped by an 83 year old woman who should have had her license taken away 8 years back. (and hell no I am not an ageist; i am a fucking realist).

often, i want to really be okay with all of this passing on that happens before our eyes. i want to know that we leave some kind of imprint--for good; for bad; for always. we do, and still, we do not. we are flashing. we are leaves. we are strong and green and flapping in the strongest of winds and then we fall heavily to the ground and dry up and break down into something else. hopefully, always something life-giving.

but, how do i capture that moment of waiting to know if what is (or was living inside of kk) is still alive? how can patience fortify itself in a heart that desires more than anything to know. to know what is real. to know what is next, and still to understand that we can never know what is next.

i can remember being in the 5th or 6th grade. my parents were gone out for the night and, of all things, I sat on the toilet and started to cry uncontrollably cause i realized my mama could die and not come home. i realized one day the person i cared about the most in the world could and would be gone. i cried and cried and my chest heaved with sadness.

today, that person has shifted to my kk. and now it has shifted to the two lives before my eyes. the life of my lover--the upper quadrant of my heart and this other life trying to forge a path to our world through her womb. and so when the blood is made visible and this threat of new death dangles on the edge of her being, i am paralyzed and devastated.

and now, i have nothing left to say...

it will be okay and maybe even better

I have things to do. Work—lots of it. This work includes my paid work and my house work, but then it also includes the work of my own head and heart.

I need to work through some themes that keep surfacing. Since k had all the bleeding spells, she has not been riding to work with me (though she did ride both ways yesterday for the first time in three weeks). It leaves a void, but also this time to contemplate the things of the world.

Spring is such an active time. Everything is bustling with energy and newness. It makes total sense that my mind is doing the same thing. It is shrill with desire. The desire to know; the desire to understand; the desire to love; the desire to make love; the desire for something bigger than human to help.

Help with what?

To make sense out of human motivations, love, desires, actions, hatred. I do not need definitions or total explanations. I need a bigger peace.

I need to know that when I witness the heinous actions of humans against humans that amidst the knowledge of those actions I can survive and so can those that I know and love and do not know and love. And the survival I am writing of is not just getting by, getting through it; rather, it is knowing that the little efforts toward something better do indeed matter and that these little efforts translate and carry over to generations to come.

And when I speak of generations to come, I do not simply mean human generations, but I mean the vitality and security and well-being of all living things and the rocks, soil, water, and air with which they all exist.

All of this gets me waxing spiritual. Whitman comes to mind a gruff booming in my ear. The rhythm of his voice a fixture in my head though I have never really heard him (except on the gravely, “36-second wax cylinder recording of what is thought to be Whitman's voice reading four lines from the poem ‘America.’”) But rather the rhythm bounces over my memories because I have been reading him religiously since 11th grade American literature when I fell in love with his words and the rapture they induced in my belly.

And, so when I ride my bike down by the river and I think about this woman I met last weekend—the daughter of a man who probably sexually abused hundreds of young woman—I move to Whitman and the words that he wrote; the words that invoke the turn toward something akin to perceptiveness and peace.

I think of our fallibility and our ability to harm. I think of our holiness and our ability to heal. I think of how this woman who expressed that she had done all that she could to keep her father from acting out again and again should never have had to endure that endeavor alone. I think about the messed up world we live in that isolates and abandons people leaving them to their own devices rather than welcoming, developing community, and holding one another accountable over and over again for all of our actions and in-actions.

I think how I want it to be different. I pray that it will. I hum praises to the birds that bring me peace and spin smiles and gestures to the water lapping over rocks and ridges of river.

I listen to this old man, long dead; the cadence of his writing like a comfrey balm. It seeps liquidy over the bristled edges of my heart into those cut places where pus and angst rise up and where I yearn for something more to cradle my face and whisper in any form that comes--it will be okay and maybe even better.

From Walt Whitman's Song of Myself
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the pass-
ing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies
of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs
wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from
bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd
the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

i lied and at least there were baby bees

k is bleeding now. now she is bleeding. it is bright red blood. it sucks. no cramping, but bleeding.

I am so fucking over all of this I can barely handle it.

What really sucks is today after work I had one of the most amazing experiences of my whole life, and k was there and she video taped it all and then we came home and had friends and neighbors on the porch and then k went to the bathroom and blood--bright red blood was all over the mini pad and a clot hung heavy on the top of the toilet water.

and i got mad and kind of turned my back.

and i am still mad.

but today, today after work we--that is my friends t and l plus me--we collected the most beautiful and enormous wild bee hive from an outbuilding one half block away from my house. It was such good work.



K taped us in action (hopefully, video cuts will one day be up on this blog).

The three of us worked so efficiently and well together. T cut the comb with wire from the eaves of the house one luscious piece at a time. L and I carried it to a tarp and cut the excess off into empty frames and then made sure the comb was held in place with rubber bands. The forefront of the wild hive was empty comb. The center of the hive was brood with edges of honey. Unfortunately we had to slice through larvae in order to cut the comb to frame size; it was a creamy white, pollen infested massacre.

But, but. oh my god, but...
We saw baby bees being born.

It was really the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed. The sweet wiggling heads of these finely formed insects busted with precision and grace out of their individual hexagonal larvae comb right before our eyes.

I witnessed three new lives surface from the mysterious depths of one of the most fascinating substances on earth--bee comb.

Their small bodies were pale yellow. Their legs were weak and clumsy--like new born goats trying to find footing.

We placed brood comb into the frames and then brushed hundreds of bees off of piece after piece of the large, undulating comb into the hive we were creating for them in place of their wild hive. There are more pictures to come, but later.

Did you know that a wild hive looks a bit like human female genita.lia?



It is lush and sensual and so full of life.



After the whole collection process, we came home and some of us drank beer and pizza was eaten. Then we went back to the hive spot and saw that the ladies were festering over the place where their other home had been so (without our strange, white, alienesque bee suits) t held a bucket up and scooped the remainder and I pulled the top off the super and he dumped them in and I closed the lid. We did this twice. We think the queen is in the new hive.

There are so many bees and the colony is so strong that even if we crushed her or she did not make it in, they would feed and build another...

At least there are bees being born amidst the bloody mess of stuff that keeps coming out of kk into our toilet.
at least.

staying alive

K has not bled in two days. Before those two days, it was mostly just pinkish brown spots.

I have this thing called caution tied around my neck; it is like a steel weight--a jacob marley style chain necklace tearing at my muscles turning sinew to rock. I am cautiously happy.

I keep seeing that wee spot--the flickering heart, the thud, thud, thud. It is something we've wanted so bad, but the path to this place where we are now has been littered with obstacles and heartache and the unknowing. All in all, we've had too much room, due to circumstances beyond our control and so totally in our control, to think about every move we've made before we've made it. We've pondered the ways to try to make it happen until pondering pounced all the life out of our own life-making ways.

My thought life around pregnancy and potential parenting has been too thick, too full, too vivid, too real. And now we just have to ride this wave of doubt and unknowing for a little longer. Except in reality we will always never know anything for sure. Well, I guess we do know that one day it's all going to end for each of us. One day that small beating heart inside kk's abdomen will no longer pump. Just like one day the strong, able heart of kk will cease and mine and yours will stop. We really just don't know when. I am hoping that all of our hearts keep that lush constant rhythmic quality for years and years to come. This of course includes that lovely little thistle seed heart rushing in the watery world of my beloved's womb.

Caution keep me close, weight of worry stop strangling my esophagus, hearts of the beloved community keep thumping to the pulse of the planet, day keep dawning, night keep falling, kid keep growing...stay alive, stay alive, stay alive...

the potential

Spring teaches us lessons. Lessons in watchfulness. Lessons in living now. Lessons in the fast fading of beautiful moments. Lessons in rebirth. Lessons in possibility. Lessons in the powerful potential for new life.

The potential.

It is hard for me to write about this. It is harder for me to think on it. I am trying to stay in the moment. I am striving for hope where I was not hopeful.

On Thursday, K felt a gush between her legs while she was at work. It was blood. It happened around 3:30.

I had been in Lansing all morning for a House hearing with AFSC's new staff (it was his very first day of work). The hearing had gone well. The day was hot, too hot for the season in Michigan. P, the new staff, and I drove back. I got home around 2:30ish. Grabbed food, grabbed my bicycle and put it on the car and drove down to the park and rode into work. I planned to park the car at the park so k and I could ride back to it around 9:00pm from a panel I was supposed to speak on in Ann Arbor.

I was sweaty when I got to work. Dripping cause it was 82 degrees on april 15 in Michigan. I planned to train P for about an hour and a half and then go to the event I was going to be speaking at when the phone rang and K said I'm having a miscarriage.

And then my heart sank. But it did not sink too much cause I had built foam and other soft substances around it. I know that a large percentage of pregnancies end in miscarriage. I know that this struggle we have been going through is bigger than I am able to wrap my head around and I know it is a struggle. I do not take it as anything else.

Kk had called the repro clinic and they scheduled an ultra sound pronto for 9:00 am friday.

Back at my office where I had been standing dripping with sweat with a partially sinking heart, P instantly dropped everything and took me in his car over to K at her work. Where her boss and colleague had been there for her, supporting her, loving her amidst her tears.

We scooped K up and P took us to our car down in the park.

I drove quickly to the post office to purchase stamps I needed for work the next day, and then I took K home. Our dear friend R brought K a chocolate chip blizzard and some maxi pads. And then, our dear friend and no longer roommate but now neighbor, A, came to walk the pook with me. Later that night she also brought us yummy dahl for dinner.

We walked through an alley I had never discovered before in Ypsi. It is old and dirt and gravel and it feels right beneath human feet. It feels as though it has been tread on for 150 years. We stopped at P's to hand off the stamps I had purchased for the mailing that I would or would not be at work for the next day depending on what happened with K's ultra sound.

I stayed at P's place and A walked pook back home. I drank a cold beer with him in his new apartment, talked, and listened to dylan. He had moved in the day before. We found it together on Monday after a day of apartment hunting. It is a great pad. A good sized efficiency in a very old house with ultra high ceilings and access to two great porches.

It was calming to be sitting there and tuning out a little. But then I knew I had to get back to KK.

I walked home with a small buzz that comes from drinking a cold beer in hot weather as though it were a glass of water. I kicked dirt in the alley. I took in the magnificent green that beats through even the milkiest dusk. Because the green that accompanies the rousing of sleeping vegetation in spring, is different--more vivid, more elaborate than any other green. It glows with the pulse of life. it busts open with that which wants nothing more than to be alive.

When I got back to our house, our good friend G was there with K. She just happened to be in from florida to be with her ailing papa in windsor and was able to slip over the border to visit us and some other ypsi friends. It was perfect timing. Then our good friend N came over and we sat around catching up and three of us drank beers.

They left.

We went to bed.

In the morning, we drank coffee and drove on over to the repro clinic.

Some mother of some straight girl waiting in the waiting room gave us not too kind looks too many times as we sat there. So, I held K's hand tighter as we waited. I held her hand and rubbed her neck and displayed vigorous affection.

We waited and waited.

Then we were taken back to an exam room.

The boy doctor finally came in. Remember, my hope was not high. It was cushioned safely in the cottony confines of my chest.

He wanded K and then instantly said there it is with a strong beating heart. And, then my sweaty hand squeezed K's hand so tight and ghostly little fingers with a mind of their own seemed to rip out the foam and cotton and soft stuff that had been surrounding my own heart, and it became all bare and vulnerable and open.

That is what hope is like. It leaves you open for let down and pure disappointment. So, the 6 week 4 day old fetus has a strong heart beat. We heard it. We saw it. It was alive. Yesterday, it was alive. The blood indicates a threatened miscarriage.
So, k's taking it easy. They tell us the blood could have been from anything. There is still some blood. We can do nothing but wait.

Now, I have this raw heart. This open heart. This heart that saw the beating heart of a little seed.

It is spring. There are many lessons in all the potential bounty. There are reminders of the cycles of life all around us. There are the trees coming back to life and the compost breaking down what once was alive into stuff that will be full of goodness and the potential for even more newness. There are two of us waiting intently for a heartbeat to stay strong. We are counting on spring.

I am learning about hope.

a weekend of bones and beer and books

Today, a rainy afternoon.

Last night too much beer.
Little sleep.
Too much beer in my blood makes my natural insomnia deeper. Heavy haze in my eyes and face but still no falling into those dark places where things right or wrong themselves more easily.

Last afternoon, i started dare, truth, or promise (a young adult le.sbian novel).Before falling asleep, finished it.

in the middle of the night woke hot and flustered from the previously mentioned too much beer, started the novel Patience and Sarah.
Finished it in the steel gray of coming morning.

Finally slept.

Drank coffee.
lazed around.

devoured the soft skin of the love of my life.
held her close in our new bed. Yes, she built me a bed yesterday. And now we are like real adults--no more mattress on the floor.

We loved for hours this lazy, chilled, early spring afternoon.

I found her softness incredible.
The beating of her heart wishing me to never stray from the bone scaffold of her.
It is like that. this love. it is like rushing and slowing and falling over and over again. it is like never knowing and knowing everything.

we try too hard to make too many decisions. we try too hard to think about the future and what she holds for us. all the jumbled mess of desiring or not desiring children. all the complications that fall heavy like lead bullets scraping past our earlobes and leaving drips of nothing on the tiny lines of cartilage that amplify the sounds we want to hear: the voice of direction; the clarity of a prophet; the knowing that we will be alright no matter what.

Leaving that behind in the sweet and sharp bite of beer and novels about "forbidden" love and women forging ahead amidst the struggle of pure adversity and no clear path, well that is what this weekend held. Better than any other; not so different than all the rest.

And in the end our bodies found comfort today--bone to bone, hip to hip, breast to breast.

we will go on along. each day we will build our bed and love stronger and tighter. we will weave our hands together until the traces of each of our fingertips are left always on the fingerprints of her and of me. it is no more spiritual than this; it is no more fantastical or real than everyday breathing in the dusty air of our house and then the crisp air of outside, once we depart to the world around us.

it is this loving of her that makes sense; it is more than religion; it is everything.

another quickie in photographs

Here are some more pictures from our unwedding. We had a sweet, young man do these photos. You can view more of them and a little video at http://matthew.pro/Other/KristenNatalie/11398069_mfUZk#801142002_nb9z8