Patron Saints and Unwed Mothers

It's 3:30 (again). In the AM. When I awoke at midnight, hours after reading some Curious George to my son, I made the mistake (or good fortune, really) of switching on the light when I moved to my own bed. I bought a book last week. Ann Patchett's The Patron Saint of Liars. I bought it because I liked the title. It made me think about this small book I had on my bedside table when I was a little girl. It was called Lives of the Saints. And, swear to God, somehow there were saints who'd conveniently died on every day of the calendar year. So I could move through the book each night reading about this saint or that one. How they'd lived and how they'd died. If they'd been martyr'd or murdered. Or thrown themselves off a roof to preserve their virginity. Stuff like that was in this little book. There were gruesome details, too. Maybe not the best bedtime reading for a young girl, after all.

Ann Patchett's book is far better. The novel begins with a woman who becomes pregnant and feels the need to get as far away as she can from the situation in which she's found herself. She drives from California to a home for unwed mothers in Kentucky.

Reading Patchett's novel is bringing back the memory of my pregnant nights, out at my old farmhouse. When the closing of each day involved the slow climb of stairs with my swollen belly propping up a bowl of fruit for me to eat throughout the wee hours. Apples. Oranges. Plums. Grapes. No wonder my Sonshine was such a sweet baby when he was born. Apples for cheeks. Skin soft as peach fuzz. Such a sugary temperament.

The Patron Saint of Liars evokes all those nights I lay in my bed wondering about this baby coming to my arms. You'd think a single mum lying alone in bed with a bursting belly couldn't feel more alone. But the opposite was true for me. I couldn't have felt less alone with the kicking and movement going on towards the homestretch. It was the first time in a long time I didn't feel alone, even the years someone else lay beside me. It felt wonderful. It feels heavenly, still.

So Patchett's novel is stirring up a lot of fond (and poignant) memories for me. The whistle of the wind howling across the backfields through my tall pines. The last snow of my final pre-motherhood winter coating the grass on Mother's Day (3 days before I finally gave birth). The sign of the very pregnant robin in that snow and her nest above my side door as I swept and prepared a room for baby and me. Knowing that I'd have to sell my farmhouse eventually. Leave it. How content I felt curled in my bed out there with my bowl of fruit within reach. With the fruit of my own womb even closer. I can relive exactly my hand reaching out in the dark and peeling a clementine. Swallowing each juicy crescent. The pure joy of finally expecting. The small fears of the unknowns. The brightness of the moon rising over my apple tree and shining into my bedroom window as my own moonbelly waxed towards full.

I admit I envy the women in Patchett's novel. Not the time period in which they felt so judged they were sent or volunteered themselves to go hide away from the world or the need to hand over their newborn to some couple out there to adopt. Never that. But just the...sisterhood. The company. All these unwed mothers holding hands, whispering at night to each other. The storytelling. The 24/7 support.

Reading about Rose, the main character, brought tears to my eyes. I had to put the book down and get up, go into his bedroom, lift him carefully, still asleep and tuck him into my bed to stare at him. I was lying there crying and holding onto his little hands thinking about how much of a miracle he is and I felt compelled to descend my stairs to write. And the first thing I did was google the patron saint of unwed mothers. She's apparently Margaret of Cortona.

Here's the thing. I don't remember her from my little book. Which kind of makes me like her all the more. Wikipedia states, "She is the patron saint of the falsely accused; hoboes; homeless; insane; orphaned; mentally ill; midwives; penitents; single mothers; reformed prostitutes; stepchildren; tramps." I'm pretty sure she would choose to be the patron saint of prostitutes whether they were "reformed" or not. Everybody deserves a patron saint o' their own, you know?

When I grew older, I realized that some of the so-called patron "saints" in that little book were actually goddesses (like the Celtic goddess, Brigid) whom The Church felt the need to canonize, to "christianize" in some way since they couldn't stop the people's worship of them. I think a lot of older world goddesses had "St." slapped in front of their names. The Church had to somehow explain their power, their magnetism, I guess. And some of the saints weren't goddesses. Some of them were just everyday women. But The Church needed to stick "St." in front of their names, too, because God Forbid, they couldn't have just some plain, ol' woman inspiring people or holding any kind of religious sway.

A friend of mine posted this article on facebook tonight. The Church is still afraid of women clearly. That's nothing new. There's a lot of power in women, especially those women whose goal has nothing to do with seeking power. If only The Church could take to heart that kind of lesson in humility itself. But its continuous misogyny, its homophobia, its supreme judgment of others, its exclusionary nature, never mind its scandal-ridden, child-abusing past (and current) state, along with its unending greed for power -- all this will be its own undoing, I believe. That is my one belief about The Church. I don't give it any more credence than that.

Having gone through birth and attended two homebirths, I have witnessed the incredible strength and power of women firsthand. It is exactly what terrifies The Church so much that they even conjured up some kind of tradition to wash away the evil they believed to be inherent in birthing blood,  related to God's punishment of Eve that she will "bring forth children in pain" and such. I read about this in Uta Ranke-Heineman's excellent book Eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven. I recall sitting in a cafe, relaying to my dear Irish mother this horrible, age-old practice in which women had to be cleansed on the steps before re-entering the church just because they'd given birth. That they were actually considered evil and had to be decontaminated before they could attend mass again. My mother stares at me, somewhat mute and astounded. I continue, "this practice was known as 'churching'," and I'm thinking I am telling her some new detail of The Church's sordid, long-ago past, trying to describe how its misogyny stems from the very beginning. "I was churched," she whispers. And it's my turn to be shocked. "But they made it out to be some kind of...rite to help bring strength to a new mother. A blessing." Of course, they'd couch this ancient, misogynistic practice in such phrases today. Might as well stick "St." in front of a goddess' name, too.

Women don't need strength after giving birth. They've already shown their strength and their power in doing so. Let the men who fear them quake in their holy frocks. Nothing they can do to change that fact. If someone needs to pray to the Patron Saint of Liars, it's The Church.

And here's something else I would say to The Church: say what you want about women. Sisters are doin' it for themselves. And more importantly for others. For the needy, for the disenfranchised. Every day. It's what the founder of your so-called "faith" actually preached. Remember him? I don't recall him sitting on some gold throne, griping about women. If there's one thing I recall from my own Catholic upbringing it's that Jesus hung out with the homeless, the insane, the prostitutes, the mentally ill, the orphaned. Jesus actually liked women. Fancy that. They were his friends. He was man enough not to fear them. His own mother happened to be one of 'em. The Church could learn a lot about how to treat women and children and everyone else on the planet if they'd look to the example of its actual founder. The story of this figure of Jesus strikes me as a leader all about inclusivity versus the rampant exclusivity the modern-day Church seems to espouse.

This post is dedicated to all the single moms out there. All the unwed mothers. The midwives. The doulas. The falsely accused (which is ringing home for me just now). The hoboes and the homeless. Those thought to be insane and those who are insane. The orphaned. The mentally ill. The stepchildren. The stepmothers who love them and don't buy into the stereotypes hollywood and faerytales can make. The prostitutes, both reformed and unreformed. To those women who have helped other women safely end their pregnancies when and where it was (and is still) not legal to do so. To my own mother, whose incredible strength and love taught me how to be a good mommy.

And to Margaret, whoever you were. You had a son, just like me, on your own. I raise this apple in my hand to you as I climb the stairs to bed again. Eating of the fruit of knowledge doesn't seem such a wrong decision after all, hey? Better than living a life in ignorance and denial and getting away with calling it God's word somehow. A lot of nuns out there challenge the closed mind that has long been their church. They challenge it daily. God (if you exist), may You bless them. An open mind, a mind seeking knowledge, with eyes open and learning, witnessing without judging is much more welcoming and comforting than the closed doors or judgment of a church caving in on itself, clinging to a world that is no longer the one in which we now live and breathe.

Amen to that.

emergent

e·mer·gent [ih-mur-juhnt] adjective
1. coming into view or notice; issuing.
2. emerging; rising from a liquid or other surrounding medium.
3. coming into existence, especially with political independence: the emergent nations of Africa.
4. arising casually or unexpectedly.
5. calling for immediate action; urgent.

The sharp pains begin close to 2pm yesterday. Intense enough and different enough that I choose to leave work early. I leave my car parked on campus and I taxi it to the local emerg. Eventually I am registered and I sit and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

If you don't come prepared to an emerg with a book or an iPod, what you do is people watch. You can't help it. You notice the waves of people washing in and some pulled back out of the sliding doors by the tide.

To my immediate right sits a man with a bucket into which he vomits. Every few minutes he wretches. His body appears to have two hands wringing him from the inside and out into the bucket. A small part of me wishes to catch his eye; to convey sympathy through a glance. But I know he must feel beyond miserable to have to undergo such physical humiliation in a crowded triage. I turn my head away and close my eyes.

From one of the triage stations, a young redhead appears. She cannot be more than 15. Her tshirt drapes off of one shoulder to expose a royal blue bra strap. A sullen, dark-haired boy of similar age whose cap almost covers his eyes shirks along beside her. By their expressions, it seems not hard to guess the cause of this particular teenage angst. "She is pregnant," my brain whispers. Her eyes meet mine as my inner voice announces this and her gaze sweeps downward. His eyes shift back and forth. They look terrified. They look so vulnerable. Still children themselves. I cannot know for sure this is the diagnosis, but I do know it. I know it. I wish there was something I could say with my eyes to her but I don't even know what I'd say. She and her boyfriend are called into another area moments later. They will get counseling. This I know. This comforts me. Only a little.

An hour passes and as I open my eyes, the view changes. Now a young man sits opposite me. I can tell by the interaction of the slightly older lass beside him that they are siblings, not lovers. He has a bright, red, egg-shaped lump on his skull just above his left eye to which he holds an ice pack. The sister's black skirt is so short it might be a belt. Her black lace stockings are ripped a bit at the top of her left thigh. He is complaining about what was taken from the apartment. His computer. The iBox. He looks 17. I wonder where his parents are and why they are not here with him. A tall man with a camera enters the emerg and he signals to him. The photographer is expected. They both remove themselves to a spot more private to digitally capture the injuries. A half hour later, two plain clothes officers show up to interview the lad. I overhear bits and pieces. "Three guys," he says. "Metal pipe." His parents should be here. Even one of them. One of them. Where are they? My mothering instinct takes over and I realize I have not seen my own son since early morning when I dropped him to daycare. My whole body aches with the longing to hold my son. My parents have already picked him up and by now he is with my sister and her husband and his two cousins. It is now 6:00pm.

The main inner doors swing opposite ways as they open and out walks a woman in her late 60s. Her gray and yellow cotton jacket is zipped to her chin. She has a confident stride but a shiner on her left eye. I say a silent prayer that perhaps this was due to a fall of some sort, though the left side of her body seems unscathed. The eye is quite swollen, turning purplish. "Leave him," shouts my mind. "Maybe it was a fall," it counters, less assuredly.

The young man is seated now and the officers have left. Another patient asks him what happened. "Was robbed. Three guys came into my apartment. The one hit me over the head with a metal pole and another guy tazered me." Eyebrows rise. The teen stands, tall as a willow, and says, "see the marks on my back?" He lifts his shirt. I cannot tell if he's boasting his survival of this assault or seeking pity. Perhaps a mixture of both. Where is his mom? She should be here. This poor kid. He was attacked. He might have been killed.

From out of the minor treatment area yet another teenage girl follows after an older 20-something. Her bottom lip has been stitched on two sides and she barely opens her eyes to look at me as she shuffles by. She seems either on painkillers or in some drugged-out daze. A green, sleeveless tank is all she wears with her jeans. No jacket, though there is still a nip of winter in the wind. I'm not sure the 20-something is the cause of her swollen lip or the stitches but my desire is to grab her and ask her if she's okay. Does she want to leave with him or does she wish to stay and wait a bit? Stay and wait. Until the daze passes. Until the pain is gone. Stay. My silence makes me ache as I turn to watch her exit the emerg. I wonder if she'll be back again soon.

"Hello?" shouts an elderly man, wheelchair bound. His right foot is in some kind of cast. He is an amputee. His left leg stops at the knee. The pant is cut and hangs empty, lifeless. I think, "this happened during the War." World War II? Korea? He appears old enough to have gone through more than one.

A bandage wraps his left arm and is marked in two spots by blood. "Hello?" he yells, again. "HELLOOOOO!" Grave concern erupts, "that baby is going to fall off the table!" He is staring straight ahead. "Somebody for chrissake, catch that baby. No one is with that baby! Will someone pick the baby up for chrissake?" There is no baby or table. I wonder if the painkillers he must surely be on are causing the hallucinations. Or perhaps this was a scene he witnessed during the war. One of them. Something that still haunts him. A ghost from the past. "The baby! Chrissake, save the baby!" he screams. An emerg volunteer comes to comfort him and turn the wheelchair away from whatever scene it is he believes he is witnessing.

The entrance doors swish open to inhale more wounded and spit out those already digested and chewed. As I sit, eyes half closed, absorbing the scenes around me and trying to decipher my own conclusions as to their nature, I can't help giving thanks. Thanks that I am not in any of the situations I witness. Thanks that I live in a country where I need not put money up first to be treated. Thankful for a hygienic hospital environment. Clean water. Professional, competent, kind, considerate nursing staff. Thankful for knowledgeable doctors.

Eventually I am called to a room where another wait begins.

It is sunny, warmer the next afternoon as the lips of sliding doors part and I am belched from the hospital's mouth. Buds are growing and inhaling the warmth of the sun. There. There! My first monarch of the season! I feel I have emerged from my own cocoon. My crumpled wings flutter, still moist, and I cling to this twig of a moment as the spring breeze and sun's rays warms them. They stretch and dry to their new, velvety sheen. I will hold onto this feeling, this moment. Today. Tomorrow. On this image of a butterfly flitting from flower to flower will I focus as I move forward. My arms, my heart, my whole being ache for my son.

I fly. The black eyes of my burnt orange wings wink in the sunlight.

vernal

ver·nal (vûr n l). adj. 1. Of, relating to, or occurring in the spring. 2. Characteristic of or resembling spring. 3. Fresh and young; youthful

This winter has been springlike. October was winterlike. November springlike. February resembled summer as it soared into the mid-20s (celcius). Last night it was back to a seasonal 1. We've been up and down like a yo-yo, but now that the vernal equinox has passed, spring may finally be taking a hold.

I stepped outside today to record the dregs of winter as the sun begins to stretch its fingers, grows warmer and lengthens our days. Winter is still in the air, but the blossoming has commenced.

Here is another visual ode to this transition of seasons...

remnants of winter clouds

winter orchard

corner of the cedar planter

remnants of winter solstice guests

rebirth of the pine

welcome back, Sun.

Both Sides Now

Last week I came across a truly unique approach to art which I have coined "cumulus(t)". A recent exhibit has Dutch artist Berndnaut Smilde create and suspend real clouds indoors. His installations are fleeting yet oh, so powerful! (Why I love that photography can capture such momentary perfection!) I've always had a hankering for clouds. Even the names of 'em: cumulonimbus, cirrus, altostratus. How musical. What whimsy!

Photo credit: Cassander Eeeftinck Schattenkerk of
Berndnaut Smilde's breathtaking exhibit

This week has seen sunshine and clouds in more ways than one. Par example: potty training (blue skies) and The Tempest (overcast with 99% chance of rain). Let's look more closely at these recent weather patterns...

First off, a shout-out to Elmo. Bless your furry, red head. Thanks for getting my Sonshine all excited about his potty. Indeed, he has become a 'potty animal'. We sing, we dance (well, I disco and he moves his arms and legs in a circular fashion while seated). I never knew how exciting pee and poop could be! (Yes, this is my life right now.) Ma wee laddie (no pun intended) has finally learned to "listen to his body". This past Sunday, he asked me no less than FIVE TIMES to go potty!!! *Trumpets blare somewhere offstage*

He is enjoying some diaper-free time now on the weekends and evenings, though he hasn't yet mastered that undies are different and will not absorb his pee. Thinking we may need to backtrack slightly: maybe so he learns to ask to go potty while still donning diapers. He certainly has mastered asking while not wearing them.  Can I say again, "me so proud!"?

Achtung! Potty Training can be dangerous. Helmet recommended.

As with every silver lining, though, a little rain must fall. (Curse you, Ink Spots!) In two months, he turns 3 and does not disappoint with respect to the temper tantrums that are rumoured to pepper this age and stage. Lately, at mommy's utterance of "no", the bottom lip juts out, the arms start flailing, the legs start kicking, the uvula starts um, uvulating. It's like looking at a tiny mirror of myself whenever someone says "Stephen Harper" to me. A mini-volcano-meets-tornado and man, can he erupt!

So this weekend, alongside the urination-defecation jubilation, I've slowly introduced this little gem of a technique known as a "timeout". Understatement of the year: it's not going over all that well. But after being punched in the head by tiny fists, kicked a number of times by flapping feet and slapped in the face by frustrated fingers, I felt it was time to maybe try something, say, a tad more proactive; what, in my book, is officially known as "nipping this in the bud".

Reactions vary: auto-toffee-flavoured smile with side of neckwrap while singing, "I love you, mommy" as I still attempt to encourage a quiet, little "let's just sit for a second and ponder just how mommy feels when you beat her up." Alternatively: beet-red complexion followed by repeated slaps and kicks to my person. For now, the standard timeout approach (one minute per age of the child) is not even feasible. It's a pendulum swing: just by uttering "timeout" and calmly moving him to the stair for a sit can result in a) an immediate apology in order to get back (just as immediately) to playtime or b) The End of the World as we know it. So the "sit and dwell" part has yet to kick in, really (again, no pun intended).

I am trying to encourage communication BEFORE the temper tantrum, well, tants. So if I sense he is becoming upset about something, I am often able to coax vocalization (with words and in English versus LindaBlairese). And, by jove, sometimes (just sometimes), it works! The pinnacle moment I will not soon forget is his grumpy face last weekend grumbling, "Hey you. Get offa my cloud."

I'm not sure I heard that right. I stutter, "Did you just say, um. 'Get offa my cloud'?"

"Yes, mommy. Get offa it!"

I hide my face in a pillow to pretend I am crying a bit so he won't be offended by my incontrollable outburst of giggles. On Monday morning, I learn that my daycare has a mixed CD on which The Rolling Stones feature. Cool daycare (and apparently worth the lineup)!

bows and flows of angel hair

So yeah, thank you, Elmo for the potty party atmosphere. And thanks, Mick, for making these dark days of tantrum clouds sparkle that silver edge so sweetly. And I am eternally grateful, Joni, for you.

Win or Lose, looking at clouds from both sides is an excellent practice, a comfort to parents (and toddlers) everywhere and highly recommended.

Dickens of a Day

It was the best of days. It was the worst of days.

No disrespect to ol' Charlie for whom the planet recently celebrated a bicentennial birthday. February 19th actually started off on a high note. It commenced as Dickens but became Brown. As in Charlie Brown. ('Good grief'  is not the expletive I used, exactly.)

Honestly, the day began innocently enough, albeit a bit too early, when I awoke at the hour of my old friend and colleague, 4 o'clock. Down the stairs I tiptoe once again in the wee hours to clean my house, do laundry, and check emails.

Upon opening my flickr account, I discover that a photograph of mine I'd uploaded the previous day has been 'Explored'. This may mean squat to non-flickrites, but every day, from the thousands - I'd even venture to say - hundreds of thousands of photographs uploaded onto the flickr site by its innumerable members, only 500 are chosen for 'interestingness' and are placed into the sacred echelons of flickr's main, public group called 'Explore'. And yesterday morning, my wintry photograph of a favourite, rural, tree-lined drive was chosen to be included. For one day, I witness the views of and comments on this photograph rocket as the Explore group is globally monitored. More than a tad exciting.

welcome to my nightmare

You see, no one can tell how one becomes an Explored Elite. There appears to be no one set of criteria. Flickrites can try their damndest and it may never happen and others may not give a damn or try at all, and suddenly, there it is: a photograph of theirs has been featured as one of the most interesting of that day (as determined by flickr staff. Somehow.)

I am still dizzy from the heights of euphoric flickr states as I happily go about preparing The Sunday Roast. A few days before I'd invited two couples with their daughters and another friend to my home for the meal. As a single parent of a 2 year old, rarely do I get the chance to cook the way I long to, the way I love to and today is the day! As my toddler sleeps soundly upstairs for his midday nap, I dice pears, sautee leek, slice figs and arrange a beautiful piece of pork roast for my guests. A little white wine over the garlic, leek, shallots and pears; some melted creamed cinnamon honey over the pork and figs. A smidge of sea salt here, a pep of pepper there. Yum!

a dream denied

And here's where the grace and formality of Master Dickens is wrestled to the ground by the foibles and good-grieving of Master Brown. My guests arrive and help prepare the salad. I cook basmati rice and sautee a sauce of mushrooms, sugar snaps and mango in coconut milk and apple butter with curry, cardamom and cumin. Everything is going swimmingly. I pull out the pork at 6pm to check its progress. It is very nearly done and I place it back in the oven for another fifteen minutes. Palettable Paradise is mere moments away.

When the oven malfunctions. Or rather, I make it malfunction. The self-cleaning mechanism turns on. I should have been able to cancel at the push of a button, yet no buttons push. I mouth the word, "no". At first, it emits from my mouth as a soft whisper, then a moan, increasing thereafter in volume and repetition as I envision the oven raising its temperature to 575 degrees and my roast becoming, as Thomas the Tank Engine would put it, 'cinders and ashes'. Desperate now, I unplug the oven.

my arch nemesis

Every attempt to replug and hit cancel is taunted by the oven clock flashing at me like a pervert in a public park. I feel just like Charlie when Lucy whips away the football at the last moment. Whatever the mechanisms are that should allow my self-cleaning oven door to unlock and open take a holiday. My oven has kidnapped my pork roast and is unwilling to negotiate its release. Where is Denzel Washington when I need him?

My guests are more than gracious as we sit down to basmati rice with no main course. Jesus wept. And so did I. For the love of all that is holy, I ask myself, why does this oven fail me when it is a Sunday followed by a holiday Monday? There will be no rescuing the pork now until Tuesday. One small consolation: the light in the oven turned off when it malfunctioned so none of us need stare at the dinner we almost had.

And here I sit, at 5 am, still shaking my head in disbelief. For a brief moment, I wonder about the two lovely wives of the couples invited, both of them pregnant (and likely starving for something more substantial than a side dish). Could it be I was envying their round bellies and wanting something of my own in the oven?

Fig me.

No. It' just Murphy's Law disguised as Nancy's Law. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am Lucille Ball reincarnated. A Mary Tyler Moore for the 21st century. When I recall 90% of the special events that have taken place in my life, there is always some unbelievable mishap thwarting my genuine efforts to be Charles Dickens and not end up Charlie Brown. I really should have my own sitcom.

'Tis a far, far better thing I do to just not give a fig and go back to bed. That'll be five cents, please.

52 Weeks

The very last night of last year, I fell asleep on my son's bed reading stories to him while he nodded off himself. It was 10:00 p.m. perhaps. 10:30 at the latest. And when I awoke, the clock read 12:05. I kissed his brow and wished him a happy 2012 and then crawled into my own bed and began to dream.

New Year's Eve has felt, for many years now, more than a tad anti-climactic after what is my favourite, festive Yuletide "hollyday" season. And it's been a couple of years at least since I even thought about anything concrete for a resolution never mind more than one. Life has felt too fast and too full and certainly, some days, too exhausting to worry about any such list.

This year began the same way for me. But one thing I have resolved for myself is to commit to a self-portrait photography project. I have started and failed at completing two 365-day self-portrait projects on flickr (projects other flickr friends of mine were able to successfully complete). Inevitably single-parenting left me taking last-minute-of-the-day-in-front-of-the-bathroom-mirror shots just to get my submission in for the day. Plus, I was fairly bored with the subject matter: my tired, food-on-the-shirt, unwashed hair, bags-under-the-eyes single mommy face. My days were just too full for me to have the enthusiasm to commit, never mind the energy.

Curious as George...

This year, I'm taking it easy on myself. Along with two other photography projects I plan, I will now attempt a 52-week self-portrait project. As a single mom, I think I can manage at least one photo once a week and have the energy to be a tad more creative than a daily late-night-shot-in-the-mirror before flopping into bed.

Already, I failed to take my first shot on New Year's weekend. Not a great start, so I've cheated and used a selfie I shot of Sonshine and I Christmas morning as my first submission for the project. It's a magical moment for us both and captures us reading one of my Christmas gifts to him: Curious George in the Snow.

To make up for the bad start, I felt the need to be more creative, make more of a statement with my second submission. I was thinking about this coming year and how I'd like to get back in touch with the other parts of myself that perhaps have been sorely neglected since becoming a single parent. My first thought was my femininity. For  almost 3 years, I have been wearing jeans and cords and tshirts and fleece and stretchy yoga wear and keens or mukluks. Generally, I am almost always without makeup. Time is just a luxury for this kind of attention. Inevitably, the moments I take to glimpse myself in a mirror are brief (and for a reason). I shy away from them. Who wants to constantly witness food-splattered clothing or scratches on skin etched by tiny fingernails or tousled, bed-head hair? Not me!

Yesterday, while he napped. I put on a dress and heels for my second shoot for the project. And let me tell you, it felt great to be creative and feel pretty and to have a goal, an actual statement to make with the project: that aside from being a mommy 24/7, I'd like to get in touch with my feminine side, the woman I am, not just the mother. And to allow myself moments to rediscover those many other sides to myself that have been relinquished for some time now. Sides I am missing.

Best foot forward for 2012...

The wheels are already turning for next week's shot, when my birthday happens. Wonder if I can pull it off!

My 52-week project goal is not only to share with the visitors to my stream Who I Am, but to present opportunties for me to discover more about myself and see just where this self-digging and exploration takes me. The main goal is to have fun with it. It's proven a chore in the past and I hope the once-a-week timeline will free up my energy and creativity. Perhaps this is a resolution in some small way: for me to tap more into my own artistic nature and set that free using my lens and my imagination. Not a bad first commitment as 2012 begins...

Happy New Year to all of you and hope it's a magical one!

A Room of Her Own

Early morning did not go well. Lately, each dawn wages a new battle. It's the 2-year-old toddler struggle-for-control blues. Mommy has to get to work or to an appointment and clothes that are offered first, then with choices displayed, after which are forced over the head or tugged onto flailing legs, are summarily removed and thrown onto the floor. There is wailing and gnashing of teeth (on both sides). There are hugs, pleadings, bribes. There are visits to the back deck to swear at the trees briefly so it is not directed at a wee one.

"Stop! SssshH! Crash!" The rhythm of our mornings lately.

Yesterday morning in particular begins roughly as I must administer a nasal antibiotic spray up each nostril. As a single mother, this involves straddling him, pinning each arm down with a knee and trying to insert the spray end into the nostrils of a head swerving rapidly from right to left and not hate yourself because your little lad is crying and begging you to stop. I finally get the damn spray "bottle" in and it doesn't SPRAY! Why o WHY do manufacturers feel the need to change something that WORKS? This isn't a  plain old bottle you can squeeze so it sprays the old fashioned way. No. It's got some g-d device you are supposed to easily 'click' to administer the antibiotic. I want to throttle the person who invented this. I manage to spray into the other nostril but one of them begins to bleed a little and he is saying, "I'm sowwy. I'm sowwy." As though he has done something he shouldn't have and he thinks I am punishing him. He just wants me to stop. It tortures me that he thinks this is punishment. I hug and hold him for the better part of a half hour and assure him over and over and over that he has done nothing wrong and we just want his nose to get all better. We move on...

I finally get him fed and dressed and as I pull out of the driveway it is now 9:32am. This morning, aside from it being my first day of vacation, I actually had an appointment. My very first portrait session which was to begin at 9am. I manage to pop off an email that I hope to be there by 9:30. Foiled again. I hit every red light on the way to the daycare. Buses which stop every five metres appear out of nowhere in front of me. I rush him into his room and give him big hugs and run down the hallway. My hair is the way it was when I awoke. I have no makeup on. I hit every red light on the way to the appointment. I had promised to bring a coffee and figure this is the least I can do since I am so behind now.

Jubilant about Juliet

When I finally arrive, my friend Carrie is gracious and forgiving. I almost burst into tears explaining the nasal spray, the morning. She remembers. Her youngest is now three and she has four beautiful kids. She remembers this stage of things. We move on to the Great Event as we down our coffees and chat. Beside me on her kitchen table sits an advanced reading copy of her latest short story collection, The Juliet Stories, due to hit bookstores in March. I remove the lens cover as we chat about the excitement of this collection of stories, now a solid thing in her hands. She is jubilant. Capturing her hands at this moment is like trying to capture my toddler. The blur of motion as she handles her new 'baby' belies a thrilling ecstasy beneath Carrie's generally calm composure.

Writing haven off the kitchen...

Carrie and I got into photography a bit more pronouncedly as a creative outlet close to the same time a couple of years ago. We have recently been discussing a joint (ad)venture involving our mutual facebook friends, of which we have 34. It is inpsired by an etsy post I'd recently come across. A few months back I described to Carrie the idea for a project of my own entitled "ipowr". The anagram stands for Intriguing People of Waterloo Region but also a play on how powerful photography can be and what the "eye" (the one behind the lens, the glass 'eye' of the camera) captures. Ipowr is a portraiture project I hope will encompass images captured and journalistic features on people who live in my area; people who are accomplishing and exploring intriguing things, both on a small scale and a big one. I'm starting big and have asked Carrie to be my first 'victim'.

Aunt Alice's Chair

Recently, Carrie's beautiful, Victorian home has undergone a new facelift. The prospect of a brand new porch meant that, for a stay-at-home-mum of four who is also a writer, a new office space all her own could be factored in. I open the original door of bubbled glass. A small office takes up part of the original front porch in the house. As I step into the space, the first thing which greets me is the heated floor. I am thrilled for Carrie and what this wee haven means for her. The left wall of the office as I enter is a warm redbrick. The ceiling height is majestic and three gorgeous, marbled lamps reach down to hover over Carrie's head as she works at her mac.

'The Carrie Stories' Photo Shoot

The photo I want to take, the photo I have imagined to kick off my new photography project will have to wait. This morning I'm here to capture the author in A Room of Her Own. And she owns the space as she enters it. I ask her a gazillion questions about her writing process, about her upcoming collection of short stories set in Nicaragua, about what inspires her and how the stories came to be. Carrie begins my photo session by grabbing her own camera and shooting some of me. I laugh. As the photographer, this is something I clearly was not expecting. My unkempt hair. Face sans makeup. Clothes thrown on from the floor of my bedroom that morning. But it's an act that puts us both more at ease as the shoot formally begins.

(Not So) Still Life with Redhead

We have a great session and I feel 100 times better than I did two hours before. Plus, I now know new things I didn't know about this friend of mine I've known on and off since we were in our 20s. She inspires me with her energy, her writing, her motherhood and her grace. I feel thankful to know her and that she's helping me to give birth to my own project just as her latest one is arriving in her own arms. Fitting as, outside of being a writer, mother of four and a triathlete, she is also a certified doula. I know this is all the tip of the iceberg called Carrie Snyder. Check out her wonderful blog. She'll hardly remain obscure for long, I warrant. You'll have to change the blog name, Carrie!

Just as lovely in black and white

And I await with bubbling anticipation our next shoot! Today is the first day of Winter and tomorrow's dawn will bring just that little bit more of sunlight into our days. Thanks, Carrie, for making the eve of the Darkest Night of the Year so bright for me!