Eve WAS framed!

A few years ago, I received the best Christmas present ever, from the best mother-in-law ever: a sweatshirt on which was printed "Eve was framed." Is that not the best? Does she not "get" her rabble rousing daughter-in-law? I raise this because a dear friend of mine, a catholic/jew, for one reason or another found me worthy to receive this little story. I've never heard it, but it's a goodie. Thanks, Boobee!

A Visit to Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's

Young Enoch skipped up the pathway, effervescent with excitement. Father Jared and Mother had never let him go so far from home before, all by himself! With this visit to Adam and Eve, he could prove to his parents that he was indeed a big boy, and could handle himself in the wide world, East of Eden.

Adam was out working, but Eve were very happy to see him, as always. There seemed to be a special twinkle in Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's eye-- she must be proud of me, too, Enoch thought. Eve brought out a delicious porridge she had just made. "Eat, eat, my child!"

"Ur-Bubbie, this is delicious! What is it?"

"Well, I've been potchkeying around in the kitchen with the new barley crop, and I came up with this recipe. Do you like it?"

"Yes, Ur-Bubbie. What do you call it?"

"I don't have a name yet. What do you think?"

"I think you should call it 'Grape-Nuts'!"

"What an odd name? What made you think of that?"

"Well, the barleycorns are small, like grape seeds, and the porridge is crunchy, like nuts."

"Oh, Enoch, you are so clever!"

After finishing the mandatory second helping, to prove to Ur-Bubbie that he really did love her cooking, Enoch broached the main purpose of his visit:

"In school today, the teacher told us that we needed to know more about our human family. All the other kids were talking to Great-Great-Great Grandfather Seth, but I decided to go all the way up the line and talk to you!"

"That's a good boychik, Enoch. It's good to aim high. For some reasons, your cousins never come to me when they get these school assignments. But I think that you will have the best report of all. What do you want to know?"

"Well, Ur-bubbie, I was hoping... what I mean is... well...."

Eve put her hand-- roughened from much work, but still firm and strong-- on Enoch's arm. "I know why you are stammering, mein Kind. You want to ask about the Hard Times, and you don't know how to bring up the subject."

"How did you guess?"

"Enoch, I have lived through a great deal, and brought many children into the world. I have nursed them back to health when they are sick; I have heard them babble when their fever is high. I know how to see the vines of a question ready to spring up out of a child's heart, even when the seeds are only beginning to sprout."

That gave Enoch the courage to ask the hard question. "The other kids were saying that it was your fault that Ur-Zayde and you had to leave the Garden. I was sticking up for you. I said that you and Ur-Zayde always made your decisions together, and that people shouldn't go blaming you. They said, I'm just a little kid, and what do I know? So I want to hear the story from you, Ur-Bubbie."

Eve patted her great-great-great-great grandson's arm again, but her voice changed in timbre when she spoke. "It was a very hard time, and we had a huge fight. Adam was blaming me, and I really thought it wasn't fair. But even worse than that, I thought that we would never have a happy moment again. I had never known sadness until then, and it was so hard... Do you understand me, or is this over your head?"

Enoch shook his head vigorously, to show that he was old enough to understand.

"But the most amazing thing happened after we left the Garden. For the first time, we began to know each other, really know each other. We worked together to grow wheat. You can still see a patch of the first wheat we cultivated. Even though we have better crops today, I still put in one patch of the first wheat, just for old times' sake. We were so tired after a day's work, that we would just drop off and sleep like babies. But I was happy, because Adam needed me, and I needed him. We couldn't just wander around and pick fruit, like in the old days. We sweated plenty to get the food that we ate. But it tasted even better, because we had worked for it."

Mother Eve went on in this vein, and Enoch drank in the stories. He wanted to know other things, too. But he was afraid to bring up the difficult subject of Abel's death-- none of the kids ever talked about it. They only whispered scary snatches of a tale, and Enoch wasn't sure if he wanted to know how much of it was true.

Mother Eve, of course, saw all this in her youngest one's face, and she finished her story: "Of course, there's a lot more you want to know, but that will have to wait until you are older. You have already grown so much! You came here all by yourself. Let's measure your height... see, you come up to the second cord on the tent-flap. Next time, I bet you'll be even taller, and I'll tell you more. Meantime, take this back to your Mama, since you like it. Tell her to come to me for the recipe." And she gave him a pot filled with Grape-Nuts, to take back home.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michael Panitz

The flaw with going public

For many years now, I've been told that pain is the touchstone of growth. James Joyce said, "Mistakes are the portals of discovery."

When I first started this blog I couldn't explain the 'why' of it. Sure, I may have tried, but foresight is not my strong suit. Today I understand the 'why' behind this venture and it's as the subtitle says, "a dumping ground of one's own." This is my litter box, where I unload, where I stash, where I celebrate, and where I wallow. I have no intention of sounding like some poor, tortured, artsy-fartsy soul. Rather I must clarify THE point behind this space: healing.

I cannot speak for Jane Doe or Joe Schmoe, I can only speak for me and my need to "write it out." I'm sure you can dig up all sorts of personality traits and planetary alignments to argue why this be the case, but so what. The truth is, I write what I feel and what I feel is usually not something I hide all the best. This has its perks and drawbacks.

When I started The Litterbox, I was sending out my feelings in hopes of meeting others with similar passions or ideas or experiences; maybe connect with someone further along this journey. I was guarded, afraid of anyone learning my identity because I was letting EVERYTHING out. I was droppin' the F-bombs, knockin' the church, pissin' on the hierarchy, and just venting in a hugely freeing, no-holds-barred kinda way. And it felt good.

Initially, very few people knew of The Litterbox because I didn't want to offend anyone. The Litterbox was not intended to be a weapon of harm. Again, I created it at as a vehicle for healing and as the posts began to grow, so did my confidence. I began telling more people about it. Ego-maniac that I am (yes, I'm a spade), I thought some of my mates might be interested in the stuff I was penning. Recently, I even linked some posts to my Facebook profile. In hindsight, this was not the most thought-out act.

For the first time, my identity was publicly linked to The Litterbox. I was okay with that, I didn't think I had anything to hide. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about some earlier venting and joking I'd done at the expense of family. Yup. I fucked up, again. Months ago, hurting over long-time drama, I made some remarks about various family members. Whether they were real or imagined DOES NOT MATTER.

What matters is that by linking The Litterbox on Facebook, my family had access to all 90+ posts. The remarks were dug up and feelings were hurt. Justifiably so, and there's nothing I can do to take it back. Sure, I removed the offending posts from the blog. But this doesn't make things right. It doesn't right the wrongs done to my aunts or to my sisters or to my parents. "That horse has left the barn," a friend wrote me. I have done all I can and an "I'm sorry" just doesn't feel enough.

If there's one thing I do with The Litterbox, it's be real. I will continue to be real, to share my angst and frustrations and hurts and worries. I will continue to shout it, to show it, to sing it. I am human, I am flawed, I am fucked up, and I will never be quite right. And I'm learning to accept this about myself. I will continue to make mistakes for the rest of my days. And in spite of this, I know that I am a good person doing the very best that I can. Sometimes my best is fabulous. Sometimes my best sucks ass. But I can honestly say that I'm trying to do better, one moment, one lesson, at a time.

Much love to you all.

Searching for the Green Tara

So having edited many past posts and deleted some others, it's time for me to get back to the basics: literature! Thanks goes out to my friend and fellow blogger Miss Wooly Daisy who recommended I read Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna. She shared it after reading of my experience with Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

Longing for Darkness is the story of writer China Galland's search for female connections within the Buddhist discipline. I'm only a third through the book, but Miss Daisy must know my heart as she really directed me toward a significant read. Thanks, gurl! This Galland chick and I have a few things in common: we share similar catholic roots, we are both sober moms, and both of us desire female spiritual guides, deities, and gods.

So last night, with flashlight in hand (and Moira's head on my shoulder), I read of Galland's meeting with the abbot of the Dalai Lama's monastery in McLeod Ganji, India. She was sent to him by the Dalai Lama himself to learn more about Tara, who "according to the legend . . . knew that there were hardly any Buddhas who had been enlightened in the form of a woman. So she was determined to retain her female form and to become enlightened only in this female form."

While it is said that Buddhist practitioners see no difference between men and women, it is also admitted that there is some feeling of discrimination, albeit "superficial," the Dalai Lama states.

What Galland shares with the abbot is a visualization she's experienced. "After sitting for five years, some of my Christian roots began to crop up in my meditation. What has evolved is a kind of mandala in which I visualize Tara, the Virgin Mary, Buddha, and Jesus Christ."

This one paragraph is ripe with coincidences for me, but for this post, the significance that struck me is not in the presence of the Christian figures, but what Tara is doing: "I imagine Tara taking a pitcher of compassion and pouring it over the heads of all the people I love--my family, my friends, everyone, as well as all the people I don't love--that I find difficult or hard."

Tonight, after a long, afternoon meeting with Moira's surgeon, I thought of that visualization. I have no control over others, no control over their actions, their thoughts, their experiences, how they interpret, or what they say. But I do have control over myself and I must allow others the right to live according to their own will. I don't have to like it, but I do have to accept, and that's where the visualization enters: I must imagine my God, the great She, pouring warm, loving compassion over the heads of all the people I love and don't love, and trust in those oft repeated words of Julian of Norwich, "all will be well." Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but "all will be well."

Trying to 'roll' with it

I wish I could write that it's the good stuff the universe continues to bring, but with the good, also comes the bad, though I hate to use such labels. I've been slacking on my prayer, meditation, and readings. Not just slacking, rather, just not doing. "I'm fine," I tell myself. But what I'm really saying is, "I don't fucking care." And that sucks to admit, but there it is.

I don't believe in vengeful deities. I believe in gods that allow me freedom to sow my actions and reap my consequences. There's no judgement, no penance. This is important stuff for me to remember, especially during days like today when I want to blame my pain on the gods and the humans. But the universe doesn't roll that way.

Today's lesson, which I shall call, "What happens when Jenny's a lazy toad," goes something like this . . .

On my way to Coffee Klatch this morning, after dropping off the kids at school, I cruise with my decaf, talking to a sister on my celli. Suddenly I feel something in the road and then the 'thwump, thwump, thwump' of a flat tire. Grrrr. Hanging up on my sister, I draw a temporary blank on the donut in the trunk of my car. "Do I call a tow truck?" I wondered. No, my husband! Always my man in waiting, ready to swoop in and clean up my shit, he reminds me of said donut, but not to worry, that he'll come change it.

"Well, I could at least get it unpacked," I thought. So with owner's manual in hand (yeah, it took that just to get the tire unsecured from the trunk floor), I discovered changing a tire is not all that difficult. In fact, it's pretty empowering. Thirty minutes later and I called off my husband and rushed off to my meeting. (Wasn't it nice of a passerby to snap this photo of me in action?!!)

After another 30 minutes, Coffee Klatch ends. When I drove off to get a new tire, I spilled my water bottle in my lap. More specifically, on my crotch! So, there I find myself, wandering around the local box store looking as if I'd just pissed myself. Nice. It's at that moment that I notice I'm beginning to feel a little 'not right,' a wee agitated, a bit edgy, as if the winds of change may just be blowing against me.

Well, let me just say, the day hasn't gotten much better. Think freshly baked pizza, a nice cup of red Kool-Aid, and my mother's recently cleaned white carpet.

Yeah, it's gone that good . . .

Time to pray, meditate, and read!

How grey be the 'hard' & 'soft' of it

Who was it that said when a mother pushes out her child, nature pushes in the guilt? Obviously I've got a lot of it with Moira. She survived an early gestation with alcohol, survived alcohol-tainted breast milk, and even survived her mother's sobering up. I do not mean to write so flippantly of this, it is the reality Moira and I share.

And whenever I screw up now, my "internal critic" likes to unpack all that old guilt that I've tried to process and blow situations waaaayyyyy out of wack. Like, for instance, this new hole in Moira's mouth. Upon meeting with her doctor today, we learned that this type of opening may simply have occurred on its own. Her diet and the difference between "hard" and "soft" foods? Turns out, we were doing ok. According to the Otolaryngology Clinic, "soft" foods are "anything that doesn't crunch." Whew.

But what's this mean for Moira's mouth? Well, there remains some, if not all, of the bone graft. However, doctors won't know for sure until January when x-rays will determine whether or not it has taken root. In the meantime, we continue with the foods she's comfortable and get to take the oral care up a notch to include an antibiotic mouth rinse and use of a water pik. We'll know more in 2 weeks when we return.

Mistakes and responsibility

It was 6 weeks ago today that my 8-year-old Moira had an alveolar bone graft. This was by far the most intense surgery out of the many she's had since she was just 5 months old. My daughter was born with a cleft lip and palate.

My husband and I were of the rare group lucky to learn their unborn baby had a cleft. With this information, we were able to use the final 2 weeks of gestation to prepare ourselves, and mourn the loss of our ideal. It was a harsh blow. No parent wants their child to be anything less than perfect, no matter how delusional that may sound. And honestly, I was afraid of the ugliness of clefts.

When we were told what the doctors saw in the ultrasound, I flipped out. I thought it was the worst thing ever! Having a couple of cousins with clefts, I remembered different surgeries they went through, the scars on their lips, the language still used to describe them, and the ignorance of people who encountered them. I was so angry that I would have to deal with this.

But as the days passed, I grew more calm. I would lay, soaking in the bathtub with my arms around my belly and tell my child I loved her and couldn't wait to meet her. I would cry with fear that people wouldn't love her, that they'd be frightened or startled by her, that they'd use ugly words like "hair lip." I was so scared that she would grow up feeling like something was wrong with her, that she was less then.

So when it came time to bring her into this world, my husband and I had progressed through many stages of grief over the loss of what we'd expected and were pretty psyched to meet who we were being given! And she was fabulous from the moment she entered the world! And so tough! Being born with a cleft means you're going to have a lot of surgeries over the course of your life, most of which will occur before age 18.

At 5-months-old, Moira's lip was closed. At 1 year, her palate was closed. At 3-years-old, a hole or "fistula" opened in the soft palate so a skin graft was taken from her hip to close that hole. Then back in late August of this year, a piece of bone was taken from the same hip and grafted into her hard palate.

Her surgeon told us that the procedure couldn't have gone better. That if a perfect surgery could be had, it just did. He then drove home the importance of oral care, basically warning that if the graft failed to take root, it would likely be failure to keep the mouth clean or be the result of trauma to the face.

I thought we'd been careful. Super sensitive to teeth brushing (at least 4 times a day). Hyper vigilant with teachers that she be suspended from P.E. and recess. What we failed at was the diet. At about 3 weeks post-op, Marty and I allowed her to start eating soft foods. Foods like plain hot dogs, cut up, and soggy, microwaved chicken nuggets. Why I thought these would pass as "soft" I don't know. I have since learned that these foods are classified as "hard" and shouldn't be given until 6 weeks post-op.

This goes beyond your run-of-the-mill "oops." This was a fuck up. And this massive mistake may have cost Moira another surgery.

Last night, as I sat listening to her read, I heard it. I heard this nasally whistle of a sound that only happens when there's a fistula in her palate. My heart stopped. "Moira? Is your hole back," I asked her. "Yeah. I noticed it this weekend."

My husband and I immediately grabbed a flashlight and, yup, there's a hole up there. In fact, we can see the front of the hole above her gum and the back of the hole in the hard palate behind her teeth. I felt so numb and helpless. Still do, in fact. But let's not forget the overwhelming sense of RESPONSIBILITY. To play the "if only" game is stupid, but it's how I feel right now: stupid that a hot dog or nugget would pass as "soft."

So today, after numerous messages left with her surgeon's office, I finally got through to a receptionist at 4 o'clock. When I told her that I "heard" it, she freaked out. "Oh my God. I'll get Dr. John and have him call you right away."

Turns out, Dr. John's in China, but he wants us seen ASAP by his attending. So tomorrow we head back to the hospital, expecting no work to be done other than charting a new course of action.

I just fear all that is unknown until then.

BitchFest 10 hits it home

I'm speechless. Something that rarely happens. Last weekend marked the 10th anniversary of BitchFest, an annual gathering of 6 chicks who met in college, worked on the school paper together, and somehow felt the need to regroup.

The lot of us did not start out as a particularly tight clan. In fact, some of us hardly knew one another "back in the day." Our one link was 'The Daily,' all of us serving as various editors at different times. There was one other link, too. Helen. She's the Numero Uno, Queen Bitch, if you will. And Oct. 18 will mark the 5th anniversary of her freedom, being set free after an ugly battle with brain cancer.

BitchFest began when this diva, Helen, finished a Peace Corps tour in the African bush, and she was eager to see her girls, her Bitches. Five us: Waller, Helen, Diane and me all converged at Bradford's near Madison, Wisconsin. It was really just a weekend to reconnect, drink beer, look at photos, and talk.

The following year the sixth bitch, Dukes, entered the fray and completed our roster. And every year since, most of us have dug deep into our schedules and found the willingness to put time aside for the Bitches. And BitchFest has seen some pretty significant changes in the personalities of her cast, and such changes nearly killed this sacred gathering.

After last year's "Huckleberry Bitch," in which we rented a houseboat and sailed the mighty Mississippi for a weekend, a few spiritual issues were raised that I, for one, was not prepared to handle in a mature, grown-up way. In fact, I behaved like a Bad Bitch: a whiny, divisive, smelly, pirate hooker Bitch.

Turns out, despite the near-death of this gathering, everyone came together in the spirit of Bitch and "put it out there" as we hashed out old beefs. Never have I felt more naked, having this group see me as I really am: flawed, broken, and ornery as hell. And negative, too. Ew. I left our gathering feeling more whole, but also more aware of the work I need to do on myself. I am such a pain in the ass, and can be so critical of others. I see that this is no way to live.

So to my bitches, I love you all sumpin fierce, and I have your backs in all that you do. XO.