there was this one night
just last week
when i saw these
at trader joes

b. thought they were
b-o-r-i-n-g
(being all one colour
and pink at that)
and so tried to
direct my attention
to some
brightly coloured
daisies

but these
for some reason
in their softness and
strength
captured my attention
and so I bought them for
her

(and to make b. happy
we got the
daisies
too)

and much to my surprise
when we got home
we found that sometimes
love and flowers go
hand and hand
and there was
another bouquet
waiting for
us
(because she
wanted to give flowers
to her girls).

isn’t it nice
when things just
come together
like that?

“And so this is Christmas
And what have we done
Another year over
And a new one just begun….”

When the unraveling begins, and the world is spinning so fast you can’t tell up from down or right from wrong, there’s just no way to predict where you’ll end up when the vortex finally ceases.

When you’re deep in it, it’s impossibly to see beyond the immediacy of the moment, there is nothing beyond NOW. You know, of course, that there will be collateral damage, but even the most somber imaginings don’t have the power to pull you from the necessity of just taking one more breath, one more step, of getting through just one more day.

Step on a butterfly and change the future. Of course. If even the smallest of actions can alter the course of a lifetime, what of those that fracture a family? And what if you are the one who faced the truth, spoke the words, made the choice?

What then?

And so this is Christmas. Today I will say goodbye to my girls and send them back to the house that never had a chance to become my home. When I kiss them goodbye I’ll know that I won’t be the one to help them put out cookies and milk for Santa. I won’t be there to remind them to include a carrot for the poor overworked reindeer. I won’t tuck them into bed, and kiss them on the nose and recite from memory the familiar words of ‘The Night Before Christmas’.

I wont be with them in the morning, awake far earlier than I deem acceptable because my excited children can’t bear to wait another minute. I won’t see them open the presents I bought to fill their stockings, or see their reactions when they tear into their gift from Santa. I won’t hear their squeals of excitement or witness that gleam of magic in their eyes.

This is my eighth Christmas as a mother, and it will be my first without my children by my side. A part of me cannot bear to imagine tonight and tomorrow morning, and another part of me cannot help but play it through my head over and over again.

Last night at midnight I found myself on the floor of my bedroom closet, door closed so that the sounds of my heartache would not be heard by anyone else in the small two-bedroom apartment we now call home. Hot tears slid down my cheeks and emotions shook my body, crying not just for tonight and tomorrow, but for all the countless moments of our lives that we will not be together. Crying for the reality that my girls will forever be moving between two places, instead of resting securely in one. Crying for him because of all that he has lost in the wake of my truth. Crying because the costs are so much higher than anyone could possibly have imagined. Self pity, grief, and endless, all-consuming guilt – it’s a vicious combination.

But all that has to be put aside right now, because right now they are with me – bubbling with anticipation, ready to bake holiday goodies, decorate the tree, wrap last minute gifts. In the dark of my closet in the middle of the night it was time to let my tears flow and succumb to the shadows, but now it is time to lift my head and open my eyes to countless blessings, to hold my girls close and to bring them as much joy and gratitude and peace as possible in the hours that they are here. To open my heart and knock down walls between love past, love present, and love future and to let all of those pieces mingle and flow.

And so this is Christmas….and it won’t ever be the same again. But within the changes, within the loss, within the grief – perhaps there is beauty to be found, gifts of a different kind, wholeness hiding amidst the broken pieces. All I can do is hope.

you see
it’s like this…

it’s like
some nameless, faceless doctor
sat me down
in a cold white room
surrounded by windows
and said

here’s the deal…
i can either cut off
your right leg,
or your left

you get to choose
but one of them has
got to go
now

because your two legs
,though both strong
and beautiful
and necessary,
can’t balance your life anymore

so tell me which
right now please
because people are waiting
on your decision
(don’t you feel them watching you
through all those windows?)
and your legs are
quite anxious
(understandable really)
to know which one
will be left
behind

but you must know this
and know in the deepest part
of yourself
he said,
(as he looked me in the eye
and in the heart)
that even though you have the
power
to make this choice
(and not everyone does – so
consider yourself lucky)
you are still going
to feel
for the rest of your life
like a part of you is missing.

…..

don’t you see?
it’s been a year now
more than that really
since this all began
and being with her
is like finding home
and our bodies fit
and our hearts fit
and i fit
and this is right
and i love her
and us
and this life

truly.

but i still miss him
ache for him
ache for us
ache for our children
for our life and the unmet potential
and that third child
(i always pictured another little girl)
we were pretty sure we would
one day have

and when I see an elderly couple
eating together at a
restaurant
or a young family
together doing family things
i feel something inside me
crumple
and hear this sound bubble up
from deep
inside of me
this keening, primal, animalistic sound
of mourning
of grief
of anger
for what can never be
because we won’t ever be
again

and i won’t know what his hand feels
like in mine
when we are both eighty years old
and how can that not feel like a tragedy?
and after breaking that promise
i don’t know if any other promise
can ever count
really, really count
again

because i made a choice
that wasn’t a choice at all

and i have to accept
in the deepest part of myself
that always knows the truth
that although i belong is this life
there is a huge part of me that will always belong
to that life
to him

and to be perfectly honest,
i don’t quite know what
to do about that.

it’s been
stealing over me
again
disconnect
not fitting
in my space in my
skin

like before
when it came and stayed
-for months and months
that time-

-i think in thoughts tinged
with numbness-
don’t want to go
down that
rabbit hole again

talk to me
-i tell
her
wanting to hear
words to help me
sleep-
tell me things

i don’t tell
her
that i want
to take her words
her voice her
spirit
and stuff it all
inside
to fill the emptiness

what does it mean
now?
-i wonder-
something swirling
in space
but not yet visible
to me?

***

She
whispers, pulling
me close
and i roll onto
her
wanting to absorb
everything
i can and
then
i sleep.

***

i wake to
silky blonde hair
little fists
rubbing sleepy eyes
‘mommy i’m hungry’
and rise
leaving her asleep
in our bed.

our bed.
in our home.
so many changes
for me
and mine

oatmeal
-with honey
of course-
in a pink plastic bowl
made quickly
paper grabbed
to scrawl out
words that needed
release

and with release
comes
-as it so often
does-
relief from
pressure to figure
to understand
to know

and all that is
left is to
just be
just me
just words
on torn paper
on a dark wood table
next to a pink plastic
bowl
filled with oatmeal.

***

she comes up
behind me
in the kitchen
and i turn
to bury
my face in her
shoulder
finding
everything
in her
arms

i feel you today
-i say-
i know
-she says-
that’s because
last night you called for
me in your sleep
and i came to
you
crawled inside,
filled you
up

ah,
-i say-
thats why i feel
so different
this morning.

thanks.

Prop 102 would amend the Arizona Constitution to say "only a union between one man and one woman shall be valid or recognized as a marriage in this state". This issue is on the ballot for November 4th, even though Arizona residents voted on, and rejected, this issue just two short years ago.

This time around, the “Yes On 102” campaign has a huge budget to spread their message. Their billboards, signs, and radio/television ads are everywhere right now. It’s easy to let that make us feel invisible, marginalized, hopeless….but now, more than ever; we cannot afford to let that happen.

Consider this a call to action! We want to counter those images and messages of divisiveness, exclusion and prejudice with images of inclusion, equality and acceptance.

If you live in Arizona take a picture of you in front of your “No on 102’ lawn sign, print a sign for your car window and take a picture of that, or stand in front of one of the “Yes” signs holding your own handmade sign that shows your support of equality and your desire to defeat this proposition. Kiss, hug, hold hands, flash a big peace sign…whatever you’re inspired to do.*

If you live elsewhere in the country, but want to show your support, make a sign of your own celebrating acceptance, equality, love.  Involve your children, neighbors – heck, get your pets in the mix too - just make sure to write “No On 102” somewhere on the sign!

Margaret Mead said: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

To that we add, never underestimate the power of a simple photograph. Our pictures, taken from the heart, often speak louder than our voices ever could. Collectively we believe these images will carry our message of equality forward and outward – spreading a wave of positive energy that will help us defeat this proposition once and for all.

*Just keep it legal folks – nothing obscene or vulgar, and definitely nothing against the law – no graffiti or defacement, keep it positive!

Please blog about us, link to us, send our information to your friends and family.  Consider making a sign or taking a pic and uploading it to our flickr group or email it to noon102@gmail.com.  Add us as your friend on Myspace (and make us your top friend until the election) or join our group on facebook. Check out our ‘Get Involved’ page for more ways to help, and make a donation to help us fight against this proposition.  Every little bit helps.

Our Blog

Our Myspace

Our Facebook

Our Flickr

I shared this video and the lyrics to this Missy Higgins song once before. Since the beginning of my awakenings this song has spoken directly to my experience on every possible level, and this new video makes my connection to the song even more poignant – especially considering my post from last night.

There’s an ache that never leaves me, the tears spill over now without warning. Driving down the freeway, lying between cool white sheets in bed at night, standing at the sink staring into space while scrubbing dried oatmeal off of abandoned breakfast dishes… the mindlessness of the activity allows the vortex of my memories to begin that perilous spin. I imagine that if tears could carve a path, there would be well worn furrows down my cheeks by now; rivers and streams and tributaries born of loss and regret. I cannot stop thinking of what was and what can never be again, not because I wish to go backwards, but because I must grieve for what had to be lost along the way.

In the past year I have begun the process of stepping fully into myself, of accepting who I am, of embracing myself and my truth. There was a tendency, in the beginning, to think that this negated all that came before. My recent journey has been all about understanding that my past – the woman that I was and the life that I led – was no less me. My life till that point was no less valid or authentic or right – it was just not the complete story. Who I am now does not eclipse who I used to be – this life no more legitimate than that one. The fact that this is so very right does not need to make all that came before wrong. I do not need to view my life with a harsh divide separating my before and my after. Indeed these are just different parts of the very same journey, MY journey.

It is clear to me that this part of my path is as much about looking back as it is about looking forward. I mourn deeply the loss of my past, my husband and best friend, my intact and happy family. I need to give myself permission to do this, and I need to learn to do it in a way that does not detract from moving forward into a future with my love, with our children, toward a level of independence and personal growth that has little to do with sexuality and everything to do with owning my experience and creating a fully authentic life.

Yes, I am sad right now. It is not a sadness that leads to the sort of dramatic breakdowns that have been all too frequent over the past year. It’s not about guilt or fear or denial or breathless sobbing and raging into the night. It is a quiet, deep, seemingly bottomless sadness. It is a sadness that lives in the memories of happier days, of the loss of the part of my heart that will always belong to him, of the disappearance of a planned future and a life mapped out together. It is realizing that the joy of beginning this life does not have the power to wipe out the grief of losing that life, and of knowing that there is nothing that can be done but let this sadness fall down on me, and cloak me in its shadows.

It is the sadness of acceptance, and I somehow think that it might be the hardest to bear.

What do you do with the pictures? What happens to eleven years of snapshots and cheesy portrait studio enlargements, wedding albums and vacation pictures? Horrid Walmart engagement photos that stand as a forever reminder of a very bad hair day, murky underwater snorkeling shots of unidentified fish in Hawaii, precious photos of the first moments of parenthood?

What do you do with the shriveled balloons he bought you on your first valentines day, the souvenirs from your trip to NYC in the spring of 1999, with the birthday cards filled with sappy handwritten notes? How do you split up a decades worth of personalized Christmas tree ornaments, carefully chosen during a holiday shopping trip each year - even the pets’ names carefully added in with permanent marker. Who gets the home videos - hours upon hours beginning with teary eyed ‘I do’s’ and extending through first breaths and birthday parties and wobbly steps and Christmas mornings?

Who keeps the locks of hair lovingly saved from the first hair cut? How can you divide the stick figure drawing of your family of four, proudly rendered at preschool in bright crayola marker? What about wedding rings engraved with words of forever and partially filled in baby books and anniversary gifts and ticket stubs and random shoeboxes full of 11 years worth of collected nostalgia?

When you are faced with separating two lives that have been wholly intertwined for so long you discover that you are surrounded by representations of that relationship, both concrete and symbolic. Your house is filled with a million symbols of the bonds, of the happy times when anything seemed possible, of the family you built and the history you shared and the plans you made.

When all is said and done, and it all comes down to the final weeks of living under the same roof, those mementos are all that remain of both dream and reality. Keepsakes of a life that no longer exists, they are both more priceless and more meaningless than you ever thought possible.

And the final question lingers…what on earth do you do with the memories?

Clearly, I’ve been a little neglectful in posting lately. As I look back at my archives from the past several months there is something even more obvious than an overall shortage of posts - since late December I have only written about one side of my life.

I wrote this, directly from my aching heart onto the computer screen, the night S. and I moved into separate rooms. In the months since I have not written a word about the remnants of the life I once lead. I haven’t been able to bring myself to talk to you about the reality of existing in this familiar yet foreign space. I have found it near impossible to find words for the balancing act required to straddle the distance between the places I came from and the places I am headed, especially knowing that some parts of me will always live in this crazy, mixed-up in-between.

I’ve not mentioned the pain, the loss, the anger and bitterness, the omnipresent weight of the guilt that will be my forever baggage. I’ve ignored the heart break, the loneliness, the tears (both shed and possibly more painful, unshed). I haven’t shared with you the breakdowns and the shutdowns and the ache of living with a vast chasm of pain and hurt between myself and the one I have loved for over a decade.

I’ve not talked about my husband, my girls, my home – the wanting to dive in and hold them tight and the desire to shut down, push them away and run, run, run - fast and fierce and far. I’ve neglected to mention my paralyzing fear, all the decisions that must be made, how my financial and logistical future seems tentative at best and perilous at worst. I haven’t once written about how I’ve spent the last several months sticking (nay, ramming) my head deep into the dry packed earth of my adopted desert home – hoping that if I ignore it all for long enough perhaps when I stand up again the storm will have passed me by and life will have returned to normal.

I have kept quiet about the fact that the knowledge of what I have done never, ever fully leaves me, that sometimes I can’t breathe with the weight of it squeezing my chest like a vice. I haven’t mentioned that in retrospect, the first part of this journey seems easy in comparison to the place I find myself now. I haven’t written that instead of feeling strong and confident and bold, I’ve been feeling fragile and brittle and confused beyond all belief. I certainly haven’t told you that I’m scared out of my fucking mind.

It’s been easier to write about the new, the euphoria, the rush of discovery and experience. Crushing, feeling, exploring, falling, blissing out on love. That’s the simple stuff. Even easier than that is not writing at all – staying in the surface of the moments and not daring to go any deeper the way writing demands. But I can’t keep doing that. As I mentioned before, the living of this and the writing of this are so hopelessly intertwined that I cannot possibly separate one from the other for long. If I don’t write, I don’t process and I certainly don’t move forward. I sit, I stagnate, I shrink into myself until I feel like a shell of the woman I know I have the power to become.

The time has come (past come, actually) to start moving again. My life demands movement, direction, forward motion – more than it ever has before. But I cannot move fully into the future until I deal fully with the past. I need to be honest, to own up to the harsh and the ugly and the terribly, terribly sad – and this is where I need to do it.

This blog is my therapy. My writing is my voice, my story, the truth of my journey. My fingers, my keyboard, my computer screen are my tools. And you, my lovely readers, are my wise council. For me, someone who has chronicled her life online for eight years now, all of these things are vital parts of the process.

But beyond all that, what it really comes down to is my heart. I can’t do what I need to do if my heart is on lockdown. I’ve got to bring it out of hiding, unwrap it and put it out there again. Not just for the good and wonderful and beautiful (because these past few months has been filled to overflowing with those things as well), but also for all the less than pretty things that I’d really rather not face. I need to step out of my safe little corner and into the light, sometimes soft and inviting, but often harsh and blinding. I need to tell you my stories, and need to know that you will hear me.

I need to write again. I’m starting now.

It’s Christmas Eve. We’ve just spent a rather lovely day together as a family, all things considered. Sure, there are moments of heaviness and intense discussion – there always are – but for the most part we’ve just been comfortably together today.

We debated attending church tonight for many reasons. This year marked the first year I have been able to own my lack of religion. I have tried throughout my life to make it real for me. I chased Christianity hard for a while with a yearning and craving for the sort of certainty I sensed in friends who were solid in their faith. I put on a mask and made a good game of pretend, but it was always insincere.

The affectations of this faith always felt hollow to me. Even as a child, growing up as the oldest daughter of a Protestant minister, there was always something missing – a big hole where my faith was supposed to live. That hole was always filled with nagging doubt, suspicion, and distrust. I’ve think I’ve always known that this was not my truth, but was never strong enough to admit it aloud.

The idea of attending Christmas services seemed hypocritical to me, the same way I feel rather counterfeit everytime I gloss over the answer to a religion related question from my daughter. But still, we decided to attend, believing that there was a need for some sort of tradition and predictability in the midst of the constant uncertainty of our lives. We have not successfully managed to replace Christianity with other spiritual beliefs (because I have not yet managed to fully understand or articulate my own and because S. is still fairly solid in his Christian faith), but we’ve always attended Christmas Eve services, and so we planned to attend this year as well. I thought it would be okay, but from the moment we took our seats in the pew I vacillated between sensations of suffocation and hyperventilation.

I felt like an utter and total fraud.

It wasn’t just the lack of religion. The questions about my beliefs were not at all new; I’ve attended numerous services able to simply enjoy the comfort of ritual in the absence of faith. Despite my lack of strong beliefs, I have always been able to pull a sense of serenity from the predictability and tradition of the church, from knowing what words to say, what music I would hear; there is a simple beauty of being in a place where you know all the rules (even when you don’t believe them).

No, it was more than my lack of religion.

I could imagine the picture we presented to the world. Two young parents and two adorable, if rather noisy and ragamuffin, kids. A close family bonded by love, just like any other in that church. I try to see us as we appear to the outside. I imagine what the rest of our night might look like from that outside view. If I had seen us - sitting together in that church - I would probably imagine that we’d go home and tuck our kids into bed with promises of Santa and presents. Next we’d arrange the gifts beneath the tree, and then sit in front of the twinkling lights with our arms around one another, comfortable in the certainty of our lives.

What nobody in that church could have possibly known was that we are a family on the verge of breakdown. That S. and I often alternate between clinging to our past in desperation and turning away from one another completely. That even at the best of times our interactions are bordered by the sort of tentative uncertainty that makes me forget that we’ve been best friends for over a decade. An outsider could probably sense the love between us, to me it is still such a palatable thing, a clearly visible current of emotion. Yes, the love is there, but someone looking in would probably have no idea that this love isn’t enough, not near enough, to sustain us.

At one point during the service I noticed a couple in front of us. They looked about our age, the man was rugged and handsome, the girl fresh-faced and naturally beautiful. He had his arm around her, his thumb absentmindedly stroking her shoulder or twirling her hair. She looked up at him every few moments with a loving gaze, her eyes clearly transmitting all the faith and happiness in the world. I wondered how long they had been together. One month? Ten years? Were they married? Were they happy? They were clearly in love, and that is when it struck me what truly separated us from them. While the love between S and I is undeniable, we are no longer ‘in love’ the way we have been for so very long. We are not one any more; we have begun the long and convoluted process of growing apart and moving on.

I looked over at him, and he looked so achingly handsome that it took my breath away. I wondered, as tears threatened to fill my eyes, why on earth can’t I want him the way I always did? Why can’t the love, and the memories and the life we had built be enough? Why is it that I need something different? Something more? How can someone be so close, and yet so far away?

And perhaps the biggest question of all, how do I move from feeling like a fraud, to finally feeling as if I am just being me?