dragon tales and the water is wide
pirates sail and lost boys fly
fish bite moonbeams every night
and i love you

-dixie chicks, "godspeed (sweet dreams)"-

Younger Girlchild is 5 today. While it is impossible that Older Girlchild is 8, Boy is 7, Cousin is 6...it is inconceivable for some reason that she is 5. Maybe it's because, as I spoke with her mom on the phone today, we both agreed that it seemed like just yesterday she was born. And while there are hundreds upon hundreds of memories that I can reach out and grab, of all four of them, memories that make me smile when I am down and get me through my roughest days at work just by looking at their pictures, what strikes me most about Younger Girlchild is this: she is the first (and only, to date) person I've known since the day she was born. Since before then, even. And given my situation when she was a baby, and her parents' generosity in sharing their lives and kiddos with me, I got to spend a lot of one on one time with Younger Girlchild. And there are two memories that seem to shine for me, just of her and I. There are many children I have lost my heart to since her, including her siblings and her cousin. But in an odd way, she was the first.

When she was around 7-8 months, her mom asked (read: told, expected--exactly what I needed) me to be at their house every other morning at 8am. She would take the older kiddos to school, come home, pick up their other car, and leave me and Younger Girlchild with the van, to get the older ones at the end of their schoolday (which was not long back then if I remember right). And after tummy time and snacks and songs and kisses and games, Younger Girlchild would go down for her morning nap. She went down pretty well for a little one, but the way she fell asleep the best for me was snuggled up with her head on my chest, arms down by her sides, with me singing every song I could ever think of and then reciting Shakespeare and poems and then starting over at the beginning. I usually held her longer than it took for her to fall asleep, unless it was a long morning and my arms were falling off. But I will never forget how that felt, to have her settle in and sigh off to sleep. To have her trust me. I use to pace into their bathroom to check her in the mirror, to see if she was out or not. When she was I would study her face, seeing her mama and daddy and sister and brother stamped there, all of the beginnings and promises and innate wisdom that is housed in tiny bodies with huge souls.

I can remember vividly the first time each of them told me that they loved me. Older Girlchild was one morning sitting in front of their tv after I'd slept on the couch, Boy was curled up under my arm on their couch one rainy freezing afternoon after school, Cousin was one night at her house while I was putting her to bed. Younger Girlchild was one evening after a long afternoon with all four of them. A long week had preceded this particular Friday, and at that moment Older Girlchild was brushing her teeth and yelling because Younger Girlchild was in the bathroom, the Boy was picking out a book and yelling because he wanted to brush his teeth, Younger Girlchild was yelling because at that moment she was neither brushing her teeth nor picking out a book. It was, in a word, ridiculous. Hilarious. And at that moment, exhausting. A rare moment with them where for just half a second I was not sure that I wanted to be their "aunt" A that night. I realized this quaver of faith just as Younger Girlchild stumbled out of the bathroom, footie pajamas, eyes full of tears born of frustration and utter tiredness. She grabbed onto my knee and I was back in my favorite role in the entire world, there in their hallway, nowhere else I'd rather be. I picked her up and she looked into my face, hair strewn about and stuck to the drip under her nose, and sighs. I put my arms around her and she buries her head in my neck, snuffling into my shoulder. Then--"I love you, A. I love you." I grin over her head. "I love you too, Younger Girlchild". She shoves her head up. "I love you eleven hundred!!" I laugh and tell her back "I love you eleven hundred too." As quick as it comes, the moment is gone, and there we are, tired and happy and full of hugs and laughter and shouts. But after the stories were read and the songs sung and the hugs and kisses given and the reassurances that Mommy and Daddy would be home before they woke up were said, I walked into the hallway to see that little moment out of time, shining. Where she reminded me, as they have all done, that there is nothing not worth doing and no one not worth meeting. Where she once again reminded me of the promise of her life, and mine, and all of theirs.

So today she is 5 and I marvel at the person she has become. I am amazed by her vocabulary, her wisdom, her unending hugs, and her resilience. I cannot help but be proud of her. And I cannot help but be grateful. More than anyone, perhaps, she is what I got out of bed for during those long ago difficult days. Today she is tall and lanky, full of smiles and ideas and tears and stubbornness and the unbelievable imperfect perfection that all of these kids possess.

Happy Birthday, Younger Girlchild. I hope you get as much out of your time with me as I do. I know you will grow up to be a wise and amazing woman. You have a wonderful family, immediate and extended, and I have every confidence that they will guide you through your hard times and rejoice in your happy times in the best of ways. But for now, please keep on being the beautiful little girl that you are.

One final note that I meant to write sooner: a few weekends ago, I got to spend with them. We went to the pancake store, carved (and decorated) pumpkins with the Cousin, watched movies, drove up and down the "big hills" as requested, sang songs. It was a wonderful weekend. And as we were driving, Older Girlchild asked that we sing the "bedtime song". It took me a minute to realize what she was talking about: it was a song that my grandfather, my dad's dad, made up for his boys when they were no older than Younger Girlchild is now, on a hot summer night so long ago in a cabin in upstate New York. He sang it to them--and then he sang it to us, his grandchildren--and along with many others, it is a song I will sing to my kids, and my nieces and nephews, whenever they come along. I had taught it to Older Girlchild and the Boy a few years back, and they love it. That day I started to sing it and as they joined in, loudly and gleefully, I quieted down and listened to them chorus a song older than them, older than me, part of my own history and makeup. Listening to them that day, I was chilled suddenly. My grandfather died several years back and I miss him daily. Hearing them sing it, this stupid little song--well, it was a recycling of sorts. A simple moment. But a joyful one.

I hope their mom and dad don't mind me writing about them--if you do, of course please tell me and I'll stop!!

But again, for now--Happy Birthday, lovely Girlchild. You are and will continue to be one of my all time favorite kiddos.

hey girl where are you going
looking wild and puzzled and free
when you smiled and lassoed the sunset
did you give one last thought to me?
--jessica parsons-taylor--

election night, and while there are few things i like to discuss openly in a public forum less than politics, suffice it to say that i am worried. mostly because of the gubernatorial race, and the clear jeopardy that my job will be in if it goes one way versus the other--not to mention the hurt suffered by our clients if that same candidate wins. but as i said, i am not a huge fan of debating on open websites. so that is all i will say on that.

i was snuggling Bigfang on the couch tonight when the Bro came home from an hour or two out with friends. "aww, bigfang" he said, "it's a rough life, huh?" Bigfang just grunted and settled her head more solidly in my hand. and as i often do, i began to reflect on the year and a half we have lived together, the Bro and SIL and i. you see, Bigdog is wholly the Bro's. her heart lives in his pocket. she will guard the SIL and i when he is away, because to her we are part of his pack, and so we are her responsibility when he is not here. she knows his car. sleeps on his side of the bed. and Stinky is all the SIL's. that dog would follow my SIL to the ends of the earth. no matter who walks her, feeds her, or scratches her ears, Stinky goes to SIL first and last and in between. when my SIL is sick, Stinky becomes a hot-border-collie-compress and snuggles up with her; when Stinky is scared she becomes velcrodog, sticking to the SIL like glue. equally, Catwings is all mine. he comes when i call, whines a welcome when i come home after work, watches out the window every night while i fall asleep. he will ride on my lap in the truck, curl up on my stomach, step on the computer to get my attention.

and yet. while they each clearly have their favorite, the SIL tells me that during the day when she and the Bro are sleeping (they operate on a night schedule--they're not lazy), she will hear the quiet pad of Catwings' paws up the stairs. he will come in and pat along the edge of the bed until he feels Stinky underneath the covers, then he will go around to the other side, hop up, and proceed to snuggle up with SIL--checking in, she says, it's like he's making sure we're all good up there. on days when i am sad or tired or heaven forbid tearful, Bigfang is all about sitting with me. she'll plant her solid self right by my side and wait while i put an arm around her neck, hug her fur, tell her secrets that i don't want anyone to hear. and Stinky will let the Bro--and from what i've seen, only the Bro--pick her up, toss her up on his shoulders, and walk around with her literally hanging around his neck. these are meager examples. the SIL broke Bigfang and made her into a snuggle monster. Stinky and i ran together for so long after work that now she waits to hear me come in and then meets me with whines and jumps and wiggles at the door, just to make sure i know she wants to come. and the Bro has developed a love love relationship with Catwings, who really doesn't like dudes-- but the Bro can pet him or tussle with him, and Catwings loves him.

so what's the point of this silly little post? well. more than anything it was a reflection of how far our little family has come. but maybe tonight it's bigger than that, as so many things often are. we're sitting in a time that is unstable and scary. perhaps the worst is the feeling that we are simply doing just that, sitting in it. and while i cannot help but believe that the people i work with and work for are doing more good than harm, sometimes it is a struggle to see that. sometimes optimism is a job that i cannot complete. and some days, i want to simply give up, because change in every world i'm part of seems a very long time coming.

but then i think back to the first month we all lived together--longer than that, the first six months we lived together, in that first house which is 6 blocks and a lifetime from where we are now. you see, Bigfang wasn't a cat dog. and Stinky wouldn't stop barking. and Catwings would meow all day long confined to his room.

then we moved. Stinky stopped her barking. and one night i found Bigfang and Catwings curled on opposite ends of the same couch, each sleeping with one eye open but a newfound toleration. change was a long time coming. and i wasn't expecting to see the changes i did. but we got there. they got there. as always i find a lesson in our animals, our companions and friends, most definitely wiser than humans. and while i am sure that there are people who would say, "oh my lord, it's dogs. and a cat. get over it!", i am astounded by the powerful examples that they set for me. perhaps i am looking too hard for it. but there has been change. and that leaves me, more than anything else, hopeful.

what would you do if i sang out of tune
would you stand up and walk out on me?
lend me your ears and i'll sing you a song
and i'll try not to sing out of key--
oh i get by with a little help from my friends...

*those guys who you all know*

it has been so long since i have written anything but poetry, which is kind of amazing. the last time i was so focused was almost a year ago. maybe it's the season. who knows! tonight was the first dodgeball game of the fall season. driving over the fremont bridge i realized that this is the first year marker here in portland--i started playing last year this time. it's been quite a year. new job, new goals, new houses (x2 at this point). and i remember a conversation my SIL and i had right around this time last year. i had come home on a rainy night, a little sick and a little sad. feeling friendless. which was not true of course, but i hadn't found my group here. she was studying and i went in and sat down on the end of their bed. snuggled the little black dog. as usual she got to the heart of the matter. "you've got the job." because i was working. "uh huh." "and you've got the running and writing." still do. "yup." "so now all you need are the friends. it's the last part of the trifecta." "i'm not sure how to find that." "it's never easy, reinventing a life for yourself, is it?" "no, it's not." "you're doing a good job. especially because no one ever warns you about how hard it's going to be." "i am?" "yup. and before you know it, you'll find them." "you think?" "ames, i know."

she was right. a few weeks later i started dodgeball. and then a few months after that, when i joined my second indy team, i found my group. we're an oddball crew. 22 is a hardcore basketball star, fierce and sweet and one of the most welcoming women i've met. bionicman is a smart man, a sweet man, with a good outlook on the world and an impressive set of ethics and morals. the vannabama boys--one quiet, one loud--are funny and goofy; we love the same movies and make the same dorky jokes. stoner is quiet and kind, a man everyone would want on their team, solid. together we are fiercely competitive, winners, the team that jumps and yells and cheers each other on and trades off and calls each other on our sh*t. off the dodgeball court we are loud and funny and can swear like sailors. and yet i find each of them to be, in their own ways, incredibly good people. no one tells you that out in the world, making friends isn't as easy as it was in kindergarten. i feel that i hit the jackpot with this crew and i know they feel the same way. they laugh at my snorts, understand when my job is rough, are there with a hug or a high five, have made me in ways both large and invisible a better version of myself. it's sometimes hard to step out and see where i could be a better person, with more common sense and stronger values. they are somewhat of a rudder and somewhat of a cannon, blowing off steam every wednesday night.

tonight, after 6 weeks off, we welcomed each other back with hugs and cheers and beers. we brought three new women into our team, awesome chicks each, who rocked the court along with us. we pissed people off, threw hard, and for one night in our week lived bigger than we ever let ourselves outside of those walls. well, except for 22. she's roughhouse. afterwards we sat around and had beers, ribbed each other, talked about breakups and school and funny work stories and cruddy work stories. in the blink of 2 hours we slipped back into a team. it's funny. i remember, as most people do, dodgeball games from elementary school. i couldn't wait to leave the court. even now-- my coworkers and friends and family, they think it's great but also look at me like i'm nuts. but that place, that place where so many that i know might not want to be, is where i have found another home.

it's a little thing, i know. for hell's sake, it's rec league big kid dodgeball in a tiny community center in portland. but to have something fun to look forward to, every week, guaranteed laughs and some hard work--to feel that rush and rise in confidence--to know that even when i don't play my best they will slap my hand and not mind--to know that when i do they will be jumping all over me--to remember on my hardest days that i am part of a team that routinely kicks ass--that's something big for me. special.

long month. goooood month! but long. this week has kind of officially sucked, although much of that is because i just didn't get my big girl pants on before the weekend ended and i was blindsided at work by things i might not usually let bother me. so it goes. some new poetry below--

1) the truth of the matter is,
you know,
that people do terrible things
to children.
not just children
but to their children

and you see, that is where my comprehension
ends,
in that word, the spaces and lines and dots creating that word:
"their"
the new blood that was once
in their veins
the small bones made from
their bodies

but that is what i know to be true
today
and in the absence of understanding:
this time
there is only grief
and salt tears tumbling down to slick
the dog's fur--
the only neck i clung to being hers:
and in wide brown eyes
thumping tail
head pressed to my jaw
she reminds me
that there is no shame
in feeling each tiny wound

she reminds me,
in little snuggles
and her stomach for my pillow,
that each pinch and ache of
sadness
signals the continuance
of my own humanity

nights like this
i wish i wanted to be:
a dancer
a banker
a chef--
anything else at all
if i could regain
the bits of heart
lost

nights like this
each patch of myself
scraped away in a
soured attempt of kindness
sears as fire

and i can hold only faith
that my broken heart offerings
will repair their own
knowing even as i extend the pieces
that they will fall short
by far:
in smallest bodies
beat ever expanding hearts
solar flares
which i dare not attempt to match

so instead
layer by layer
i will peel the bruised
(and broken)
skin
from fragile
(and fragmented)
bones
and wear their misfortune as my own

hoping
as i do
on nights like this, you know,
that their truth
will one day be a lie
that their history
will not repeat onto itself
in far flung days

but that change will rustle
as wind through oak leaves
and we will do better tomorrow

and

2) In the calm woods, frozen in and out
Of time
There is a sweet pleasure
To find
In the deep drifts of snow and days
That, in fact, the world carries order
Beyond our control

And in the deepest hibernations:
Endless caverns
And starlit paths
We cannot touch what lies beneath,
Where the fawns wait to be born,
In the recesses of a spring yet unknown
Far off in guaranteed days

And in the night
Oh, for trees
Ageless and free
Whistling in the wind a song wise and sad
I go to the woods because they are not mine
I stay because there I am known
Without cause or agenda

We can but hope
Somewhere in worlds far distant from our own
That the woods will wait
Hold their counsel
And keep their peace

For in them is joy
With music in crooked streams
The places where we will lie
In dusty graves
Seeking beyond our bodies
That place which is forever home

she says "thank you".
"you don't hear it, i expect,
but you all do amazing work
and we are so grateful",
she says.
i become a statue staring
at this woman:
a grandmother too young,
dirty shirt
messy hair
crooked smile that barely lights on her lips

and i don't know how to tell her
that tonight i will go home
and cry
because no one has thanked me before.
yelled at me
slurred epithets: "bitch"
cried at me
spat bitter words of frustration
tried to tear down my soul;
that i have come
to expect. i cannot blame them.
our clients are bleeding.
walking through our doors
their hope sloughs off
and they stand before us with anger
as their only shield.
and their only weapon.

but thank you is a gift
that grows in my cupped palms,
a small eternal flame.
and to her i owe everything,
today.

you know they say you can't go home again
but i just had to come back one last time
ma'am i know that you don't know me from adam
but those handprints on the front step, they're mine

i thought if i could touch this place or feel it
this emptiness inside me might start healing
out here it's like i'm someone else
thought that maybe i could find myself
if i could just come in i swear i'll leave
won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me

--miranda lambert--


a long week, but we're finally in the new house! a little more cleaning and we'll be done done DONE with the old house. i'm exhausted. moving is hard. it hurts and it's frustrating and the weather is never right. but we had friends who are rockstars, and a mother/in law who is a complete champ, and between us all we got it done.

sitting here tonight in the quiet old house they've bought, i can't help but feel something new beginning. my bed is up high again and the Cat and I are watching the moon, which is shining in my window at the perfect angle. i'm puzzling out the change. this is the first time in years that i've settled so fast after a change, usually i'm a nice little hot mess for weeks after. this is new.

there is some overturn at work and the momentum keeps stepping up. more and more work, and still i'm feeling on top of it. fast-paced is my pace and i'm thoroughly enjoying staying on top of it. thoroughly enjoying finding absent parents and getting kids enrolled in tribes, working with new people and different organizations.

my writing has gained my focus again. being published is a wholly validating experience. seeing my words, the letters i put in order on a page six years ago and finally got the courage to submit, seeing them in print where anyone can read them is both terrifying and amazingly exhilarating. my mom read it and cried. my SIL read it and cried. then she asked me to read it at the wedding. and that right there makes every word i've ever written, the hours i spent on this one poem, worth it. even if no one ever publishes my work again, that makes it worth it. but i think if i work at it and make the time for it, this could go somewhere. i've found a writing mentor and she's amazing. before this i wrote raw and scraped, no refinement or thought, and she is reigning me in, calming me down, forcing me to slow my pace. at the heart of it i love the words. love that i have no control over them. writing is just...what i do. no rhyme or reason, no explanation. it's that simple.

so once again i find myself on a branching path. i am not often wise or usually intuitive, but i have learned that forks in the road can come up when you least expect them. and those are the best ones to follow.

there once was a union maid
who never was afraid
of goons and ginks and company finks
and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid
she went to the union hall
when a meeting it was called
and when the Legion boys came 'round
she always stood her ground:
oh you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union, i'm stickin to the union
no you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union till the day i die

~woody guthrie~, "union maid"

suffice it to say there are things going on that i can't talk about. so in lieu of that, here is a story:

there once was a young man who escaped tsarist russia after being jailed for distributing anti-tsar leaflets. at 15 he jumped a ship bound for america and settled in to a new life in new york city. he was alone. in the bronx borough he found a home among other jews and working class men. after a time--several years, i would think--he met the love of his life, and married her. they had a daughter. along about the same time, there were labor strikes and disputes erupting around the country. there were riots. the conditions of the working people were exposed, and the young man joined the industrial workers of the world organization. their motto was one he could believe in: an injury to one is an injury to all. and in the earliest days of long-lasting labor unions in america, this young man (who was not quite as young anymore) rose in the ranks to become a vocal participant in union movements. he and his wife raised their daughter to believe she could be anything. they told her that she was as good as any boy and that she could achieve just as much.

as his daughter grew, she met a young man from the bronx as well, a young man who was in the IWW and spent his time working for his father and organizing within his local. over time they fell in love. he liked to write her love letters in green ink. she called him penny. and after they married they joined a group of young radicals in establishing a socialist society outside of the city. of course they didn't live there, but they spent their summers there. this group of young friends built a dock on the lake, built a meeting house and a common barn, camped on their sections of the land they had bought together, and eventually even built true houses on them. as people do when they are in love, the young woman (who was not quite as young anymore) and her husband had children: three boys. they spent their years in new york but their summers in three arrows, as the community was named, after a symbol from the young woman's father's days in russia, meaning down with communism, capitalism, and fascism. they believed in equality, in sharing their lives and lands and money with their friends and neighbors, they believed that everyone had a duty to help better the world. the boys grew up riding the subways and running in the woods. they played baseball, they went to school, they read and fought and were as boys are. but they also heard the stories of their grandfather's involvement in the union, of their father's involvement. they had songbooks full of union anthems. all of their lullabies were such. and in their hearts at first, and then their heads, they came to believe, as their parents and grandparents, in equality first. in strength in numbers. in unions.

by 1963, the focus of rights in america had shifted, from rights for the working class in the early 1900s, to rights for women in the 1920s, and onto civil rights for african-americans. on august 28th, 1963, dr. king's voice rang out on the lincoln memorial and the washington monument, the mall between them blanketed with people singing, crying, believing. the two younger boys (who were not as young anymore) were there. in their genes they had inherited big eyebrows and a passion for baseball, and a deep seated belief that everyone deserved rights as a human being among men. the youngest, especially, worked for the civil rights movement. he marched. he sang. he wrote. he stood up for others, as his father and grandfather and mother and grandmother before him.

as the man grew he met a woman with fiery hair and a loud laugh. they had two dogs, and a house on the prairie in kansas (far from home for both), and then a son. they moved west in the pioneer tradition, and then they had a daughter. these two spent summers in three arrows with their cousins. they all heard the stories of their great-grandfather and great-grandmother, their grandfather and grandmother, their dads and moms, in their work to stand up. they heard the lullabies and sang the songs and grew up believing in the worth of every person around them. they joined the unions they could join. and at family reunions, funerals and birthdays and anniversary celebrations, they sang songs of freedom and never forgot to remember who had brought them to where they stood.

after their grandfather died, their fathers crawled into the old attic and found his original union membership card, signed in green ink.

and the daughter, this proud descendant of brave men and brave women, well, someday she'll sing the songs to her own children. and then to their children. but for now, for tonight, she settles in with memories that were bequeathed to her, of long ago days when a young boy jumped a ship-- and in that one act, started a legacy.