Running With My Eyes Closed

In the bathroom I see wide plank wooden floorboards, the rustic, weathered kind. A gleaming slick, white porcelain bathtub with those heavy pewter claw feet, more ornate than anything I would ever need to have in my own home, is centered right in the middle of the room. There is a window behind it with warm sunlight coming in through thin panes of old glass. I feel like a voyeur as I tiptoe silently to the bathtub’s edge, my white gown easily slipping off to the ground leaving my vulnerable body to the room’s breath. It’s not cold, but the deep shaking in my stomach is so painful. As I get a bit closer, I see the clear, salty water to the perfect height in the basin of the tub, and I want to run and submerge my entire body and let my long, blonde hair float to the top like seaweed. It would feel so good. So warm and quiet and easy. Salt makes you float. I’m not sure I should keep sinking. But I do. To my knees, holding steadily to the smooth, cold edge.

I am in the room, and I’m in the whole thing of it, but I’m watching, too. I’m not allowed in the tub anymore because there is a jellyfish. A pink, oozing creature full of sting and pain and joy and burdensome baggage is taking up all of the space in that perfect bathtub.

“Get out. I want in,” I beg in a whisper. “I’m so good in there. We can’t both be in there. I’m sleek and beautiful and uncomplicated here, not you. I can handle everything in the tub and love everyone in the tub and everyone loves me in there. That bathtub makes me so pretty.”

But, oh no, I’m too late. Neither of us can be in there now. That is an old contract, that bathtub. The giant pink mass is undulating, and the first slip of flesh is coming over the edge. Why did it take me so many years to walk down the hallway to my own bathroom? I’ve always been so slow in getting to myself.

Everything is spilling out of the tub now, my knees are drowning in the slick slime of life as my jellyfish can no longer contain itself in that gorgeous tub. We are sliding into each other and floundering around on wet floorboards trying to right each other. One meant for land, one meant for sea, but now there must be a way to be together. Both of us are full to bursting and spitting saltwater from our aching lungs. We are now a complete entanglement of limbs and shuddering breath.

Together we stand up with our trembling legs, and my hand slips for the very last time from the edge of my tub.

A still, small voice whispers, “Surrender, it’s time to go, babe.”

*********************

I had this dream. In these strange, exact details.

I woke up shrieking and sweating and felt a sharp crack of lightning in my front right tooth. Ok, let’s just be real for a moment- it was weird as shit but I never shy away from weird. I go straight for it. Jellyfish?

I was living on my tiny little island in the South. The island is not MINE, per se, I know that, but I was having a bit of trouble there and the grey-rippled Atlantic and horseshoe crabs whispered healing to me and it all felt very personal. And there were jellyfish, too, everywhere, like littered plastic grocery bags both in the water and out. I didn’t know much about them other than they sting, stay back. Why was I having gut-wrenching dreams about jellyfish?

I grabbed my phone and immediately texted three of my best sister friends and said, “Please send your spirit lights. I’m shaking and can’t stop, and I’m oozing all over like a jellyfish and I don’t know who I am anymore. What is happening???”

In true sister friend form, one of them responded, “Ok, you need a new animal analogy. Oozing is gross.”

Right. Totally is.

But I couldn’t stop. It was a mess. But it wasn’t.

I was getting up in the mornings and dancing to my favorite songs, I was crying, constantly, but mostly from relief and joy. Friends were coming back into my life I had left behind at some foggy point in the past and I could no longer understand life without them. I started therapy to “fix whatever was wrong” and then realized nothing really was wrong. I felt lighter and happier than I had in years. Free from something that had been tightly holding a noose around my neck for over two decades. What had been choking me?

I did what any scrappy writer would do and started researching the creature squishing itself into my dreams. First fact I found, jellyfish and cucumbers are both 95% water. Hmmmm…..nope. That was not useful.

But there was this……I found this fact, in various descriptions, in everything I read about jellyfish:

Jellyfish cut in two can regenerate and create two new jellyfish.

When I had cut myself in two?

Oops. Didn’t mean to do that.

As a woman saddled with all of the 13 billion insecurities I heaved upon my own back and as a mother to 4, I had barely come through the last two decades alive, dripping in breastmilk and fatigue and unmet expectations and diapers and school forms and layered guilt and moving boxes and left homes and wine and lost goals and egos. The only way, for little old me, to survive it, was with the continual splitting of myself into perfect little jelly packages to keep giving and giving and giving. I know, “they”, meaning all of the much more enlightened women than I, say “please don’t burn yourself alive at the stake trying to keep everyone else warm”. Great! I won’t do that. I will instead cut myself up into a swarm of 100 perfectly- regenerated jellyfish until I explode into some weird-ass dream in my 40s.

It is terrifying when your soul starts to come back together. I know now it is the Divine Universe helping take your skin off to show you what is truly underneath and to gently breathe you back to life, kind and painful CPR. All of your pink, oozing bits laid bare to be reconciled, acknowledged and tended to.

“Let your halves rejoin, love. We only need one of you, not 100 tired versions of you.”

The jellyfish journey is not for the weak of heart. You need a fair amount of soft armor, bravery, sword-slashing, boundary-setting, empathy and self-borne permission to fail miserably as you reconstruct everything you once knew to be “true”. After all, you were split into one million pieces for the greater part of your adult life. You might need a minute or two. A very dear loved one called me a “poet warrior” the other day. Maybe. Or maybe some stitched- together Frankenstein-ish, strung out on caffeine, lopsided pink jelly glob who cries a lot and loves hard. That, too. All of the above.

Reunited at last.

“Surrender, it’s time to go, babe.”

Who’s coming with me?

xoxoxoxoxoxox

Oh, I know. Yes, yes, yes…..it’s been awhile. Again. Are we used to these patterns yet? No further statement is available at this time. Please refer to the quote on my website cover page.

How are we doing? It is all Christmasy and crap with all of the expectations marching in by twos, yes? Are you exhausted? How are your elves (on shelves) doing? Mine is hiding underneath my workout shorts- we don’t use workout shorts in Canada in December. I’m going to toss that little a**hole down the stairs tomorrow morning so he is sitting by stockings, and everyone can have one glimpse of that guy to know he is still kicking. Every year I vow not to get knocked down by the to-do’s and holiday stress. There are tidy little memes supporting this effort. Yet, every year I get knocked down by the to-do’s and holiday stress. But I love the twinkle in my kids’ eyes, the anticipation twinkle and the joy of giving and the little bits of extra love that tumble out of the world’s collectively beating heart. I love the music. I put it on every morning of December and it soothes my tired, frayed Mom brain:

“Simply having a wonderful Christmastime…..”

I gave myself a little gift this year, though. I did something mildly unusual, but it was exactly what I wanted to do- not my kids, not my husband, just something I needed and wanted to do. I had to so intensely focus on this thing. Like a journey of 1,000 days and nights (ok, fine, it was more like 30 evenings). Like a sweaty, stoic Joan of Arc carrying the weight of war upon my back and shrieking “freedom” like a gladiator (ok, yes, I only wore a backpack and my workout pants but still……). I had to keep doing this one thing in particular so carefully and so exuberantly and so tirelessly and so specifically and so wholly that I died. With my guts slipping from my belly and blood pouring out to the ground beneath me and a final grasping, agonizing reach to my family, I died.

Maybe that explains the lack of writing, but I digress.

I spent the last 12 weeks studying stage and film combat. I left my kids in the hands of a babysitter and walked, subway’ed, streetcar’ed, walked some more until I arrived to a gritty and delicious studio in the heart of downtown Toronto, and stayed there for 4 hours two nights a week wielding a sword and a quarterstaff and learning how to correctly punch someone squarely in the jaw without letting on it was completely fake. I had done some combat before-700 years ago in university. What could be so difficult about a little slashing with a sword and a little fake kick to the groin?

Well, as it turns out, everything.

Prime, Seconde, knap, advance, retreat, parry, true time, passata sotto and so on- all of the terminology to tuck away in my fight brain. I would sweat and punish myself for not remembering everything exactly right. Safety, Story, Style, shit I accidentally got my partner with a quarterstaff, he’s ok, keep going. Choreography and scene work, actor beats and acting lessons. I was in bootcamp, and it was feeding my soul. The people, my new friends were fierce and true and full of integrity and spirit. My friend Lauren calls that the “uhhhhh” (say that with some soul). They all had the “uhhhhh”. I would wander home exhausted and spent, walking in the cold and dark winter nights feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Sometimes when you are tired, life tired, having the blaze of a fight burning in your soul feels pretty damn good.

I passed my certification testing. I am not even close to “done”. As my friend Daniel says, this is all about the journey. I am just getting started on mine and will continue to punch and kick my way along. So today, on this fine Christmas Eve, I want to share with you something before you watch me die (oops, I gave away the ending). A few actor combatant rules to send you on your merry way:

Make eye contact. Breathe. Disappear the room (thank you, Christopher Mott) and let all that surrounds you fall away with the exception of who is right in front of you. Release the tension- it makes for crappy fighting. Love your scene partner and take care of them. Know how to walk away from the fight unscathed and with your whole heart. Prepare and then trust yourself. And my favorite and most useful, when hellfire is raining down and swords are slashing away at your face and you are not safe and fear starts to creep into your belly, Get The Fuck Out.

Merry Christmas, my loves. xoxoxoxoxoxox

Enjoy the following video.:)

https://youtu.be/jP2bRi65U_s

A very heartfelt and special thank you to my dear and talented scene partner, Michael Ruhs, and special appearance by Esther Stellar (the acting world needs to pay very special attention to these two). And to the most incredible Fight Director in the business, Daniel Levinson, Rapier Wit Studios (choreographer) and assistants Amanda Martin and Richard Comeau and adjudicator, Todd Campbell. Some of my favorite people in the entire world.

My sis and I played incessantly with Barbies. This was the era of fuzzy-haired Cabbage Patch Kids and Strawberry Shortcake dolls with their faint scent of sweetness and Monchhichi, Monchhichi, oh so soft and cuddly (looking back, these stuffed monkeys with plastic hands were just plain weird). But Barbies ruled the hours of our playtime. I remember the green plastic and cardboard Barbie house styled with blow-up furniture. The house folded up flat into a neat square. There was the hard, boxy Barbie carrying case with the slick black handle, smooth metal clasp and the two perfect Barbies emblazoned on the front with their pink background and flowing hair and tiniest waists and breasts so perfectly simple and huge they snapped my little girl green eyes backwards. We would get so excited to unlatch that case and let those mini heels and small tall boots and 16 Barbies with their scratchy sweetheart dresses tumble to the floor so we could craft them into their life scenes in the cardboard house. Barbie in the kitchen making dinner with Skipper doing something ridiculous like riding her blonde plastic horse in the yard or Barbie going to the Fisher-Price McDonald’s and making all of the squatty plastic Fisher-Price people with muffin tops and bowl cuts feel small and odd. There was only one Ken. He played a minimal role in our world which is strange because he was the only male except for the Fisher-Price mailman and policeman (if we crossed communities). There is a vague recollection of a half-hearted attempt at making Ken and Barbie appear to be having straight-legged Barbie sex on a blow-up bed with no sheets. And then Ken always went to work. I am not sure there is anything that needs to be discussed here other than it was just easier to have that guy out of our way.

We had Wonder Woman with her sexy red boots and perma-fierce face, though not too fierce, we wouldn’t want to scare the little girls. And Brooke Shields Barbie. I remember thinking it was so refreshing to at least see some dark hair in that mess of blonde. And then there was Jonah.

I did it. I grabbed Mom’s orange-handled sewing scissors from the pull-down kitchen cupboard and went to town-chop, chop, chop-until all that was left of her luscious waxen locks were sharp stubs of hair and some smooth bald spots with those over-enlarged Barbie pores. I can hear my brother laughing beside me, and then see my sister’s enraged, teary eyes when I went running to the living room to show her my Frankenstein-like creation.

What had I done? I just shrugged my shoulders.

“I dunno. She looks funny, and I was bored with these dumb Barbies.”

Realizing there was nothing to be done to “fix” her and still badly wanting to play with all of those “dumb Barbies”, we gave her a name and a new era began.

We named her Jonah.

Something always intrigued me about the way we played with Jonah. At first, she was a freak. I mean, who would cut their own waxy blonde mane right off their beautiful Barbie head??? I remember several episodes of Jonah “screaming” and smacking normal Barbie around a bit because she was so angry. She was hilarious. We gave her a “job” or at least she always carried the weird brown briefcase instead of the sparkly clutch. She was hauled away at one point for unruly conduct (probably by the squatty Fisher-Price police dude), and Skipper just smiled at her as she trotted by on her plastic pony. Jonah was always the one trying to act decent at family gatherings, but yet she still managed to get sent to her room by Brooke Shields Barbie.

Then the “Jonah-game” started to shift. When our cousins came to visit, tension would rise and our little girl fists would start to clench as we debated over “who got Jonah” for this particular round of Barbie madness. Even my sister, who is still traumatized to this day over the shearing of Jonah’s tiny head, was protective of that little criminal. I always wanted her. I hated doing hair and hers was simple and she could wear anything even if it didn’t match (phew, I loved clothes that didn’t match). Plus I liked it when she got angry. I got angry, too, sometimes because being 8 is hard and Barbie waists were so small and big sisters were so beautiful and sometimes mean and dresses were hard to snap in the back and those damn tiny heels were always falling victim to Mom’s Hoover vacuum and she was brave usually when I wasn’t and she got to leave the cardboard house (even if it was to go to jail). Jonah was………cool? Independent? I don’t know, her hair looked like shit, but nobody cared anymore. Jonah just did her own thing.

My Mom kept all of our toys. ALL of the toys. I asked my Mom to take a picture of the Barbie case YESTERDAY. It still sits in the coat closet by the front door. All of the Barbie clothes are there, including the fur-trimmed red pleather jacket I always put on Jonah. The flat cardboard house is gone, but Loving You Barbie is still rattling around in there with tangled hair and tired eyes. Some Barbies are missing limbs and their rouge cheeks are faded, but when our children go to Grandma’s house, I can literally hear those plastic babes sighing and saying in smoky, brusque voices, “All right, ladies, look alive, the kids are here. Skipper! Saddle up the damn horse!”

But not Jonah. She simply up and vanished.

Nobody remembers her leaving or being thrown away. She was too scrappy to get herself sold at a garage sale. I texted my big sis last night asking about Jonah. Her response when I asked what she thinks might have happened to Jonah was: “No idea. She’s not there- it’s creepy.”

She’s somewhere. I feel her. She might be protesting. She certainly wouldn’t stand for women being pushed around anymore. I like to think she lives hard and wild and free and probably wears a pink hat with kitty ears over her patchy hair and hikes mountains and loves all but really only a few and drinks whiskey with poets and goes to bed alone when she wants to and reads Hemingway with a poster of Gloria Steinem above her scratched and worn writer’s desk. Oh, yes, she’s a writer. Sometimes. When she is not a photographer or a public defender or a performance artist or a mysterious herbal medicine woman. No more blow-up furniture for Jonah. She buys whatever damn sheets she wants. I am sure she has a following of faithful friends, but she keeps her distance, too. She spent enough time being told she was crazy and watching Skipper on her horse while chubby policeman led her to jail to know the only one you can ever really trust is yourself.

Keep going, Jonah of Arc. xoxoxoxoxoxox

“One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.”

Joan of Arc

 

I am sure there was a casserole. That is what Mom always had for “company”, the special guests at our dinner table. I know I was sitting on the edge of my padded kitchen chair staring at him and trying so very hard to take in his every sumptuous word. We weren’t in the dining room; the yellow kitchen was cozier and more appropriate when only one extra guest was present. He had silver hair, but I couldn’t be sure how old he was. Age is useless and unimportant to young children. He looked like Mr. Rogers, I think, but I probably made that up as part of my story. I felt like the luckiest kid alive to have parents so cool that people like this man sat with me at dinner. He was an artist. The proper term was “artist in residence”:  a uniquely-qualified person who traveled to different places and usually spent time in a local school system to teach and share their craft. We had several of them as our guests over the years- one was a weaver and worked her magic on a giant loom, I remember musicians of some kind but this particular gentleman had my heart:  He was a storyteller.

Stories were woven into every aspect of my childhood. My Dad would read to me in his deep, rich voice and change his tone for each character. Mark Twain, Lewis Carroll, Kenneth Grahame- I couldn’t wait for bedtime. I pulled book after book down from the dark, walnut bookshelves in our family room- mesmerized by the colors of the spines and varied thicknesses needed to hold in all of those incredible words. I spread record albums out across the beige carpet and read the covers over and over and over while their musical stories played in the background. I spied on grown-up conversations at every single family gathering. Because grown-ups had the BEST STORIES. I never understood why I had to “go in the other room” when the real stuff was getting talked about. Any night I could sit crouched in a teeny ball on a stairway listening to the clink of wine glasses and forks on empty plates mixed into the laughter and the humorous and sometimes embarrassing words of grown-ups, well, that was the best kind of night for me. If a curse word was thrown in that was better than getting to stay up late to watch Dallas. Fuck, I loved words. I was fascinated with not just humanity, but how humans shared their truths, their imaginations, their details, their pain, their joy, their souls.

His name, the kind-Mr. Rogers- gentleman at my table, I can’t recall, but he could spin words together into something so beautiful and mystical I wanted to eat it. He had a power I wanted so very badly. He was my Dumbledore. I set to work making words my life:  writing poetry, collecting writing from newspapers and National Geographic, reading like a voracious wolf (stay back, don’t get your hand in the way of my book, I’ll bite it right off), singing (because musical stories? holy hell), acting (the embodiment of words on a stage was the most freakish perfection for a girl like me). Writing was dancing, dancing was writing, I couldn’t really tell the difference anymore, so I was just Harold with her Purple Crayon scribbling my path all over my life.

I got a little lost on my purple path for awhile. That’s ok. Sometimes, to tell the best stories, you have to stop everything and just listen, forever. For 10,000 years until pencils start to grow out of your fingertips, and your lungs turn into a typewriter. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale.

One of my stories was published yesterday on a major website for a few hours. I was a published writer!!! The dream! I was sharing my words, my kind of story- my truthful kind. But they messed with it. They changed my words without my permission, and it felt all skewed and stomach-pit-y and icy in my guts. So I asked them kindly to return it to me. I am a storyteller with a lot of honesty threaded into my tapestries. I see them in my head like a theatrical production of life, then I put them down and lovingly toss them, with my eyes closed, out to you, out to the world. People may take from them whatever they wish. That is both the gift and price of being a writer- we do not have permission to force people’s reactions. But nobody gets to rewrite them for you. Enough said.

We are all storytellers. It is, in my humble opinion, the only way to survive as humans. Cluster around the fire with our drums and wild hair and dirty, broken fingernails and woot and stamp our muddy feet in ecstasy as we hear who slay the dragon, who hurt who, who asked for forgiveness, who made love with a warrior, who made a deal with the devil and who embarked upon their journey of a lifetime with a tattered sailboat and a lot of hope.

I have a lot of hope in all of you, my loving storytellers.

Gather around. There is so much to say. xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

Fall is here, I suppose. I couldn’t be 100% sure as it was shorts weather yesterday and parka weather today. I don’t care much for pumpkin spice except in candle form. The ones in the glass jar always make me feel like I baked something. Baking makes my hair hurt, so candles it is. The leaves are whispering hints, and I bought four strangely-shaped pumpkins because they looked so cute at the grocery store. So yes, Autumn, Fall, Changing and so on. I walked my little pumpkin to school this morning, and she collected two leaves along the way, one orange, one yellow, because “mommy, they won’t be here after school.” We tucked them into her unicorn backpack (please love unicorns forever, little one) front zipper pocket for safe-keeping and stood in a patch of sunlight, blowing our cold noses, waiting for her bell to ring. She doesn’t like to leave me nor I her. We have what I call a “spirit animal” connection. She stands each day in line waving furiously to me until her slip of an arm crosses the school door threshold, and we are out of sight from each other. Then we both hold our breath until she leaps into my arms again at 3:21pm.

I took my girl (fur baby), Lolo, and my weary body (it’s been a long week or year, whichever) and walked on to the park under some more autumn trees. As colored leaves tumbled by, I felt the familiar chill. It’s not to be blamed on Canada, though they have plenty of weather here to endure. Rather it is “the grey” chill I have come to know and understand. It is a bone-deep ache in the spirit that feels like chapped lips combined with nausea from spinning too much. I have spent my fair share of time in and with “the grey”, and I whisper my same things every time I find myself in the grimy alleyways of rat trash:  You have been here before. You know how to get home. Breathe. Start walking. 

I know my triggers. Sometimes. I do not do well with new places and lack of routine. Oops. PMS is a mind f*ck of grand proportions, and I have to spend a lot of time on my yoga mat. Cloudy weather and rain make me start to panic if it goes on for more than two days. I also don’t do well away from water. I currently live in the middle of a city, so I sit in the bath mostly. When necessary I read poetry, book after book, and listen to songs over and over- different ones until I have completely dissected them and understood every lyric. I call them my ‘writing songs’. This week has been Shallow written by Lady Gaga (and Mark Ronson, Anthony Rossomando, Andrew Wyatt, need to credit all of those writers because it is an incredible song).

“Tell me something girl, Are you happy in this modern world? Or do you need more? Is there something else you’re searchin’ for? I’m falling.”

I don’t know, do you need more? Are you happy in this world? And guess what? You can answer honestly.

It was World Mental Health Day on Wednesday. I read so many posts and ideas about self-care that day. Which I loved. And I despaired over. Because the word “self-care” is a double-edged sword to me. We all know we need to sleep and exercise and eat well and “prioritize our own well-being first” (the whole flight attendant speech about get your own oxygen mask on first)….yeah, yeah, yeah….duh. I have a therapist or two. But sometimes, first, we yell at loved ones or accidentally cry for 12 hours straight or don’t answer when people ask us “how we are” or worse we say “fine, I’m fine, everything is fine” or we eat all of the Oreos in the pantry or nothing at all or we drink, a lot, and then we have to quit or we lose patience with our children or greasy hair stains our pillows or the bags under our eyes start to trickle down to our chins or it takes us a bit longer than reading an Instagram post to remember we have to wash the mud off of our faces. It is called depression. There are many clinical terms and a wide range of “how bad is it” charts. But none of that matters. It can last an hour or two. Sometimes much longer. It just hurts. I know.

I have watched and held vigil with some of you in the trenches. I can’t make it better. But I see you. I will remind you to slash away at the grey, and let the orange rain down. Let the light in, baby, whenever you can. I always envision myself kicking off concrete walls, like a parkour ninja, and somersaulting into my own rays of sunshine.

Piper and I have a thing. We squeeze each other’s hands three times to say “I got you. I love you. I will be back. I won’t leave you. You are brave. You are kind and wise. I will read more stories to you, and I will catch you if you fall.”

Three hand squeeze pumps coming to you, my loves. xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am a feminist. I do not inwardly cringe when I say that. I do not worry about what anyone thinks of the word. It means I fight for equality for ALL. I am also a daughter, a sister with a big brother, married to a man, raising two boys and two girls, a true and deep friend to men and women in my life. But I do love women. I have always loved women- deeply and wholly. The women in my life poured love, and I have only ever understood how to speak in liquid form. And my liquid of late is metal-tanged rage in the back of my throat. As a self-proclaimed “lover of all of life’s delicious details” I am painfully aware not all details are delicious- some are cold and violent truth prisoners, shrieking out from the worst kind of jail. I sent an email, in my tiny corner of the world, to my women friends, asking 5 questions regarding their experiences, if any, with sexual assault and sexual harassment and how they speak to the men in their lives about it. The flood gates opened. The storm is here, and we are the storm. Stay close, my loves. We will need each other. Here is one, submitted anonymously and published only with her explicit permission……and She Believes She Has Something To Say.

I believe she does, too.

In liquid love, Cecily

******************************************************

She Believes She Has Something To Say

-Anonymous-

I grew up in Potomac, Maryland.

I attended an all-girls, Catholic high school and graduated in 1989; my older sisters graduated various years before me.

I was raised Republican.

I still align myself with that party but consider myself a Democrat and an Independent-depending on the issue.

I never missed a party in high school. Things haven’t changed much.

Yes, I like beer, too. I am more of a vodka person now but drank my fair share, underage, with my sisters. My older two sisters were grandfathered into the 18-year-old drinking age.

Georgetown (D.C.) was our second playground, and house parties ruled the land.

Things happened.

A lot of things happened.

Ask any of the hundreds of women who graduated from these all-girls schools during that time. They are gathering and talking about it now.

Potomac is small. Everyone knows everyone. It is a privileged town, and we were proud of that fact then. I know and love differently now.

Many centuries of DC secrets are held within these families.

Secrecy was the 7^th person at our dinner table and amongst friends.

Except, everyone talked.

But never about what happened to them.

I know almost every name and family surrounding Kavanaugh, but I don’t know Kavanaugh personally.

To live in Potomac and to be in a private high school meant we were of the elite- and we knew it. Money, wealth, power, politics, generations of privilege were threaded deeply into our veins and wove us a sweater to wear proudly. The larger the mansion, the more expensive the car, the grander the Country Club affiliation- this was all meant to be a life worth living. But again, with it came the secrets.

I am a survivor of sexual assault.

I am proud to still be standing. Not many people know this fact about me, even though most of my life is lived as an open book.

My freshman year of college, thirty minutes into a fraternity party while I was  drinking a beer, something was slipped into my drink.

I blacked out in a bedroom.

I don’t remember the date, just that it was the fall of freshman year.

I don’t remember the frat house specifically, but I could tell you room by room what it looked like.

I know 3 girlfriends who were with me that night.

I do know that I woke up at dawn the next morning, naked, on a top bunk, not knowing where I was.

I knew sexual intercourse had taken place.

I know his first name. Larry. I don’t know his last name. He slipped it into my drink.

He was the only one in the room before I blacked out.

It was a cold, steel, heavy, black garage door shutting over my eyes.

I don’t know if he was the only one that night, and I will never know. And that haunts me, every single day, like a tormented ghost in my body.

I told my close friends, but I didn’t report it.

I thought it was my fault.

I drank too much.

No one will believe me.

I did drink a lot.

I still flirt.

It MUST be my fault.

Years and years of therapy, I unearthed a flash memory of Larry on top of me. I have released a small percentage of the guilt, but the trauma of it all still lies in my bed.

Call it PTSD, I don’t know.  My supportive, patient and feminist husband of 25 years knows not to sneak up on me in bed nor be romantic without me fully aware he is trying.

If Larry had been nominated for the highest court of law – I would be compelled to write an anonymous letter. In fact, I think I will write one now just in case.

Larry should never, ever be in control of deciding the law for any human being.

EVER.

He violated me sexually without my consent.

PERIOD.

He should be sitting on a concrete jail bed and not on the Supreme Court.

My sister signed the 65 Women Letter supporting Kavanaugh.

I know most of the names on that letter and others written.

I don’t support her.

I have two daughters and a son. I know I am raising them right.

To be respectful.

To not put your hands on someone outside of a football game.

EVER.

I worry that all 3 of them could be a victim of sexual assault or any assault for that matter.

I hope their voices are heard.

I pray our voices are heard.

Republican

Democrat

Girl

Boy

Black

White

Majority

Minority

Holding back

Agendas

He Said

She Said

Elections

Ignorance

Attention

Right

Wrong

TRUTH.

“Many people, especially ignorant people, want to punish you for speaking the truth, for being correct, for being you. Never apologize for being correct, or for being years ahead of your time.  If you’re right and you know it, speak your mind.  Speak your mind. Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is still the truth.” – Mahatma Ghandi

 

 

 

 

I had a thing for quite some time. Not too many people know about my thing, well, because……it’s weird. Now currently I am not too afraid of weird- I am actually more comfortable in the place of “not normal”. This is definitely why I have spent a lifetime wondering what it would be like to run off to the circus (if we could get rid of the animal abuse) and pierce my body and cover it in tattoos that say “stay weird”. I would be the ringmaster or maybe the lone, stealthy acrobat if I wasn’t afraid of heights. My love for the strange also manifested itself in the years I have spent reading Mamet and Shakespeare and standing on tiny stages baring my soul for the two audience members. (Yes, that happened once. Two people. They were both related to me.) It is also why I often want to dive right out of my own skin when life gets a little too normal and suburb-ish and mundane. Bursting into song or one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or simply putting on my best voices for Pete the Cat bedtime stories all help shake off the boredom. Gotta keep stretching for colorful and edgy and “very not normal.” Like I tell my babies, don’t be afraid to fly your freak flag high and proud. Life is too short for beige. Beige makes people lose their minds.

I used to talk in stars.

Let me unpack this for you.

I remember the obsession starting quite young. Words were like a beautiful little flock of chickadees to me. I was constantly trying to pull them together into shapes and details while they fluttered and tweeted around my head in a gleeful game of keep-away. I loved that dance of making sentences complete: subject/predicate. This was intensely satiating to me especially when we got to underline the subject and circle the predicate with our #2 pencils on our ditto-copied 2nd grade worksheets. I found huge release in putting anything to paper. Phew- gather those babies up and put them into a nice little paragraph shape on that boring, BEIGE, wide-ruled paper. Well done, Cecily. A+. Gold star. And that’s when I started the game of stars. If words could be formulated into intricate little paragraph-y shapes on paper, then I could make shapes when I spoke them.

By the age of 9, every sentence that came out of my mouth was quickly recalibrated in my brain to make sure it could fit into my star pattern- 5 syllables. Each line of the star was a syllable. If you needed more, you better make sure it fit into two or threes stars- 5, 10, 15, 20 and onward until my brain was a speckled mess of constellations shining brightly in the dark night sky. Star-talking was a brain game, and I could do it so quickly I no longer even needed to count my word parts. I could just feel them. I then started to take other people’s stories and words and work furiously to configure all of it into billions of my beloved 5-sided shapes. I would listen, draw my brain stars and toss them up into the velvet, navy folds of my brain. Then I had my very own little picture of exactly what I was feeling inside and what you might be feeling inside, too. I was a family party trick, and I loved every minute of it. “Wait, let me count. 1-2-3-4-5, holy crap she did it again!!” I was so proud of the pictures I could make with words. I always hear parenting advice on how “children need structure”, and I guess I created my own. Mine was word structure -found and lost in the stars.

I quit formally “star talking” when I became a teenager. Right about the time when weird is just weird and you best lower your freak flag a fair bit before everyone sees. I thought it most appropriate to throw a blanket over my stars and layer up in sunshine and lipstick so I could get straight A’s and be a doctor someday and all the things that would make me an actual star. I’m not a doctor, well, except, maybe “dr. strange” and I rarely wear lipstick anymore- it typically makes me look like Marilyn Manson (who does corner the market on awesomely weird). That is also about the time I completely quit writing for pleasure. Funny how we let those glorious little odd pieces hide away until they just can’t anymore. I hit 40 and realized I was already my own star and it was time to dust if off and let her shine. The tagline below my email reads “Chase your stars, fool. Life is short.” -Atticus (a favorite poet of mine). Add it up, baby. That’s a couple of complete stars right there. See how the Universe just starts hitting you over the head with your true and weird? Life IS short, I suppose, and time runs out for fakery and falsehoods. You just can’t cheat your stars anymore.

Next time you talk to me I’ll be taking apart your little pieces and placing them into a nighttime sky pattern in my brain while sharing all of my sparkly stars with you.

Or maybe I won’t.

That’s for me to know.

and you to find out.

Fly your freak flag high.

Beige is boring, love.

xoxox

Suspicion about this has been on my mind for quite some time. I always sort of thought I was not being given the full truth but rather just enough “facts” to keep me moving forward and functioning as a mother, wife, woman, sister, daughter, friend, laundress, etc…in the world. But last night at 11:30pm, as I am walking home from the subway in the dark, alone, wearing pants from lost and found (we will get into this later) and using my jacket as a tissue for my leaking nose caused by my horrendous head cold AFTER having just learned how to fake punch a 22-year old (again, give me a minute), I knew I had been right all along.

I live inside a sitcom.

I. Knew. It.

My question for you, my beloved readers, is how long have you known? Did they actually come to your houses and record laughter for the laugh track? Oh, oh, oh-wait- are celebrities involved? And why haven’t I met them yet? Ooooohhhh, that must also be part of my storyline- I never really get to meet the cool, famous people- they are in disguise as my mail person, my garbage collector and my accountant (just give me a hint, George Clooney is somebody, isn’t he?? Please?). And you, my viewers, get to freak out and try to “spot the celebrity” in every episode. Am I right??  And the writers…..I mean, come on, they certainly must be receiving Emmy nominations for this stuff- their imagination, their wit! Good god, this is the best of television right here!

Why just this morning Zoey had this cleverly-scripted line:

“This is my 3rd first week of school. This is exhausting!”

And Kai a couple of days ago had this little nugget:

“Yep, all I did was laugh at just one of his jokes and the next thing you know the kid is asking me for money to buy weed.”

Hahahahahahahahahaha, oh wait, [INSERT CANNED LAUGHTER]

The logistics of my own little version of The Truman Show are quite intricate. I would hate to be the person in charge of scheduling. Creating the filming timeline for us while considering this ridiculous story of continued location change and, therefore, complete re-design of set, well, that is a nightmare. I hope they are getting paid well. (Hmmmm…..) Anyway, I only have one teeny little complaint, and it is not very important, but I thought, being the needy star that I am, I should make my voice heard now and again. Are we going for the “Everybody Loves Raymond” grittier-look or is this more  “Friends” because costume design and hair and make-up are not really making it totally clear. Am I supposed to have 3-inch roots and clothes from 5 years ago? If so, no problem, I get it. That’s all part of my “character”, but maybe, we should at least make my side of the closet APPEAR like it has more clothes than my husband’s side? Oh my god, do they have vegan food at craft services??? I’m going to (insert another classic line the writers gave Zoey) “McFrickin’ lose it” if I find that to be true.

And since it hasn’t aired yet, I’m going to give you a sneak peek of last night’s episode. Somehow my producer (of course I’ve never met her- I guess she has the writers “steer” me in these directions) thought it might be a grand idea to have this 41-year-old mother of 4 get her certification in stage combat- you know, for the ratings and all. Two nights a week, I ride the subway + streetcar + walk for 1.5 hours combined to a tiny little studio in downtown Toronto to study for hours and learn three areas of stage combat: unarmed, quarterstaff and sword. Thankfully, nobody “cheaped out”, and they hired world-renowned fight masters to teach me the intricacies of sword fighting, stage slaps, fake punches and quarterstaff parries (a quarterstaff is a long wooden stick, stay with me). These men and women are deliciously-talented and not ones to mess with in the world of stage and film combat. However, as stated by one of my instructors last night- a big, burly, deep-voiced love, “If I get into a real fight, I am useless. I only know how to make it look like I’m hurting people.” I have no idea what I am doing there, honestly, but it is incredibly interesting, and I AM learning specificity is very important when aiming a sword anywhere near a human. I’m not going to tell you about the lost and found pants, let’s save it for the real airing. But I will tell you this:  I ended last night’s episode (entitled “Fight Club”, by the way, if you are trying to find it on your TV guide) by “fake choking” a lovely British gentleman 3x my size and “gently” lowering him to the ground as he “fell unconscious”. Ladies and gentlemen, you will not find that kind of entertainment anywhere else in Hollywood!

I would like to thank my cast and crew for making this an experience I will never forget. The joke is on you, though, because I do love my little production here. I am also willing to overlook the continued “everyone play along thing” and go about my business. (With the exception of hair and make-up- look alive, please, we are going to need a little more effort from all of you.) How lucky am I to be cast, unknowingly, in such a beautiful, imperfect show. I have been a part of enough theater productions (oh boy, a show within a show) to know you fall madly and deeply in love with your fellow actors and stage crew. They are tucked safely in your heart for life because there truly is no business like show business.

Stay tuned, my gorgeous viewers………….until next time on Truly Television.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

Often I find when I make this declaration, people have very specific reactions. They either a) shake their heads and chuckle in that “awww isn’t she cute yet completely weird and potentially dangerous” kind of way b) freeze and make an instant decision right there I can never be trusted again or c) fall to their knees with respect because how could it be that someone could actually feel the way I do??

I love middle school kids.

No, seriously, I do. This is not a drill. They captivate me as they stand on the precipice of puberty yet still manage to cling to innocence and the wild creative soul of their 5-year-old selves. I have two of my own (well, one has just recently surpassed middle school), and I have spent hours working with middle school kids as a theater director. They can go from hugging love bugs to demonic Children of the Corn in 8 seconds flat, and that is my very favorite. This age-bracket of groovy little gifted babes still hold the intense imagination from their childhood games of pretend while also having the sarcasm of late-night talk show hosts and ability to call you out on absolutely everything they deem incorrect or just plain dumb. They are quick to take sides and point fingers, but also just as quick to swoop in like a pack of protective hyenas if one of their own is threatened. Middle school is that unique and absolutely mind-boggling time when our babies truly begin the arduous and sometimes brutal climb into adulthood. I remember my own middle school years well. This time in life is like living inside Dorothy’s hormone tornado- everything you once knew is blowing around in every direction, you can’t hear anything outside the roar of your own anxiety and all you really want is your Auntie Em and your best friend, Toto.

That is also a spot-on description for middle age.

Now, don’t. Just do not. Do not say that phrase to me. It’s worse than the F-word. Well, ok, I love the F-word, but……..

Mid-life crisis. Nope.

I love all words, too much mostly, and the word “crisis” has a definite and useful place in the English language. Famine, war, terrorism, global warming, Trump…..these each can be defined as a “crisis”. And I do understand that moment of looking into a mirror, deciphering the grease level of one’s hair while contemplating dry shampoo vs. regular shampoo and all of the sudden realizing with darkened roots one can see 60% of the top of one’s blonde head has gone grey. Gasp. When did I become Cruella De Vil? That moment has a slight air of “crisis” about it, for sure, but I still stand firmly AGAINST the notion the 40s need to be labeled as the middle of a disaster.

So, after a few moments of wailing and gnashing of teeth on the bathroom floor and an instantly-broken vow to shave my head like Joan of Arc, I did what any rational young woman would do, and I made a list. A list of details. Of all the very cool things, not crisis-y things, one can notice about being in the middle:

1. Re-released Technicolor- The 30s were foggy and muddled with breastmilk and babies and postpartum greyness (not hair), and sometimes I don’t remember everything about pieces of my life then. My husband will say “hey do you remember that time when…?” and I just stare at him with huge, annoyed vacant eyes because I was mommy brain-dead for a majority of my 30s. But now, just like the re-release of The Wizard of Oz, the poppy field is so red and vibrant, and I want to snuggle up in that golden, fluffy lion’s mane. Seeing all of the colors gives me more courage and self-confidence. I do not need a creepy dude behind a curtain for that.
2. Dorothy’s Empathy- I’ve always had the nerve center of a jumpy squirrel and the whiskers, too. I feel everything and want to rush to the aid of all of Oz. This empathy has deepened considerably as of late. The need to fight like hell for those I love and what I believe in settled deep into my soul right about 40. I do not have all of the answers, this is true, and most of my advice stinks, but I will listen to you and put my arm around you and squeeze until you don’t need me anymore. Then I will use my newfound courage to speak up, loudly, for those (myself included) who need a voice.
3. No more Glinda the Good Witch-  And I’m not really the Wicked Witch of the West either (don’t ask my kids about this, please). I am me! The good and bad, neither of those descriptive words are really relevant. I am all mixed together into the crunched-up, realistic pieces of Cecily. I have stopped apologizing for who I am and the things I still want to be. The other day, Piper announced during a meeting with an Admissions Counselor for a new school for Zoey: “My mommy cries in the Whole Foods parking lot sometimes but it’s ok.” hahahahaha Before being “in the middle” I may have tried to cover for this embarrassing fact by making up a story about how somebody tried to steal my purse in the parking lot, but instead, I looked my new Admissions Counselor friend dead in the face and said “yes I do, and I think we all need grocery store parking lots for occasional breakdowns.” She whole-heartedly agreed, and we had a good laugh. I THINK Zoey may still get into that school. But guess what? Glinda the groovy-badass-funny-slightly-messed-up-and-perfectly-human witch won’t care, and we will move on to the next school if necessary.

See? The middle is ok. There is more to my list, but another thing about being in my 40s? I get tired and just need to walk away from the conversation every now and then, curl up with myself, my dog and my favorite book. So I leave you with this. One of my favorite authors, Debbie Ford, writes (in reference to your one life):

“This is not a dress rehearsal.” 

Indeed it is not. I’ve had plenty of those. They are usually slow and clunky and every actor screws up so badly. It’s why post dress-rehearsal, actors can mostly be found in dark, smoky corners rolling on the floor with their empty bottles of whiskey and a heart full of self-loathing. Forget the dress rehearsal crap. As I tell my middle school actors, bad dress rehearsals mean grand performances. The curtain is rising. Places!

So, off we go, grey hair and crow’s feet and all. Follow the yellow brick road onto your stage. Bring your sarcasm, your hormones (or lack thereof), your witty talk-show selves, deep love bug hugs and demonic fierceness. We will need all of that.

Bravo, my darlings, your 40s performance is just fabulous. Keep going, the second act is the best part, I just know it.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

Self-care makes me tired sometimes.

It is important to my health, mental and physical. Duh. But I often wonder- how am I supposed to do all of the things? “All of the things” meaning: read this advice book, have you checked out this spiritual guru?, MEDITATE, yoga, get up at 3:30am for your alone time, more yoga, Acai bowls and/or smoke a bowl, ORGANIC meals for 6, workout hard but don’t overdo it, always know your budget but buy this meditation app, enlightenment shall come via these 14 podcasts, make time for yourself but also don’t miss out on life with kids, talk to the Universe but check-in with your inner voice mostly, be angry (women) but be STILL, know when to say no but give, give, give, be selfish not selfless but be kind, have you tried tai chi?, do you know your headlines?, don’t read the news it clogs your mind, you’ve only just begun but look how far you’ve come, don’t ever give up on your dreams but be HAPPY with what you have, patience, my love, but hurry life is short, apple cider vinegar (I cannot with this stuff), bone density but remain “light”, first world problems but don’t discount your own pain, life is not a destination but know exactly what you want and GO GET IT, stay off social media but get your brand out there, take a bath and hustle, don’t drink alcohol, you drunk, but unwind with a glass of wine, and my favorite, the Keto diet.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH.

I often feel like we, as a society, are just one contradictory battle cry away from running straight off a cliff into an explosion of inner peace. Leave it to a bunch of humans to make “relaxation” anxiety-filled.

So yesterday I took a nap. Yep. Just a greasy-haired-I’m-exhausted-the-voices-are-loud-I-simply-cannot-do-all-of-the-things-nap. And then I woke up, a little rested and a little more hopeful and feeling fairly ok for 23 seconds about my self-care routine. Then, Piper showed me this (please watch the following short video):

While You Were Sleeping

Hahahahaha. I got “dabbed on” while napping. Universe and Piper-1, Me-0. The simplicity and humor of childhood. None of it matters. All of it matters. Lighten up. (But stay grounded.)

Shit, hold on, I have to journal that.

Stay alert, my loves, but zen out, too. Happy Friday.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

I have a little bit of a place I love. A little island in the South that holds huge space in my heart. It was refuge from my own storm for awhile. I ran the beaches and tossed tears out to the Atlantic and held my babies closely and remembered for 22 seconds who I might be. And now my people there are filling their cars with gas, boarding up windows, banging their heads against walls as they vow to move to Kansas immediately (however, careful there-tornadoes) and run from the giant, swirling monster eating up the Atlantic. Some of them are wavering on whether to stay and face the monster or whether to make an impromptu trip to a certain theme park that uses a mouse as its mascot. All of the considerations must be dealt with- how many people in our family, who made the hotel reservation (crap), how many pets actually fit in our car and who knows how to work this generator. None of it is to be taken lightly- it is scary and stressful as hell. I only went through one hurricane in my time there, and we evacuated to safety and the island took only a small hit. Take a hike, Florence. All tiny islands in the Atlantic have had about enough. We are tired. We are tired of running from monsters.

Thinking about evacuation and safety and big scary storms reminds me that I am a bit of a “runner” (check name of blog). Yeah, yeah, yeah, she moves a lot. (I think I might need to just bag “running with my eyes closed” and start a new blog called “Gone Girl” but leave out Ben Affleck and all of the murder-y stuff.) Now, much of my adult life has been “move-based” out of necessity to feed and clothe my many children and stay afloat in an expensive world. But there have been plenty of times when at the first sign of a claw slipping out from underneath the bed, I ran straight for my Mommy, the closet, a wine bottle or all of the above. I’m sorry, but big drooling, maniacal green-toothed problems are terrifying and my heart hurts today and that doesn’t feel very nice and no way can I possibly lift the bedskirt and stare the yellow-eyed demon in the face. That will make me cry. But lately, I’m tired of running. Do you know that feeling when you might be a wee bit out of shape and yet you go for the 5-mile run anyway? (usually happens around January 1) And it feels like HELL- your holiday fat itches, your lungs screech in anguish and you vow to run everyday for the rest of your life to not feel that again?? (that usually ends January 3) Well, that is where I am- third day of January. Done. No more itchy-fat, lung-searing, plantar-fasciitis inducing miles. I like the skin I’m in.

“Finally,” say my tired quadriceps.

So, I am boarding up my windows, maybe, or I might be throwing them wide open to the rain. I have plenty of water stored in my thirsty soul, and theme parks make me anxious anyway. My car heart always has room for the people I love, and they will just have to squish a bit to fit the monsters and bring a towel for the drool. I figure if I just laugh with those demons a bit, they won’t always look like Pennywise. We will all be ok here, no mandatory evacuation necessary.

Stay safe, my loves.

PS: You may always keep “running with your eyes closed”. That’s different. It’s a metaphor. I think. I’ll let you know when I get there.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

 

I sent my babies off to new schools yesterday. Maybe it is because we have moved so much or maybe I am just so deeply connected with them like a little amoeba family or maybe it is because when I was young I told my Mom I would live with her forever and never go further than an hour away (ha), but I felt sick as I watched each of their gorgeous little backs walk way from me. I wanted to run like a madwoman into their new classrooms and march them right back home with me. How dare you try to take my children! I’ll have them back now, thank you very much. Geesh, like they need you! I can homeschool these little monkeys with my eyes closed and then our chances of head lice decrease signicantly anyway! I stood in the hallway with my high school girl before her morning greeting assembly and wondered how long I could pull off being a student there before they kicked me out. Wait! Stop! I’m not going to leave her here! She’s my people!!!! I don’t need “me time”, I need “we time”! -As authorities drag shrieking woman from high school and everyone rolls their eyes so hard their skulls crack.

But they went. And they stayed. And I went home with a blank stare and tears running down my face. I would sit in vigil for 6 hours wondering and worrying and hoping. Maybe they would be scared of their teachers, maybe the kid next to them would smell funny and they wouldn’t be kind, maybe they would be hungry because packing lunches…well….I don’t want to talk about it or maybe, just maybe they would meet someone. Someone who lights up their life and changes everything they ever knew about being a kid. That made me think about HER.

I need to tell you about somebody.

*************

“Meet you at the yellow house,” I shouted into the mustard kitchen phone with the tangled, curly mess of a cord which will forever feel like the best form of communication to me.

That phone always made it possible to stretch across the 3 blocks to her. My girl. My best friend. My long-lashed, brown-eyed soul twin sister. 324-XXXX. I still know the phone number.

I would hop on my banana yellow bike (why was everything YELLOW?) and pump my legs so hard- hell on wheels to get to the corner halfway between Monroe Street and Fillmore Street so I could wait breathlessly and catch her wide smile as she made it down the street towards me. Her name was Risa.

We met on the first day of Kindergarten. Mrs. V’s class. Half-days of tiny warm milk cartons that made me gag, see-saws before they banned those amazing things and the bathroom with the brown wooden door and a grey floor that always smelled vaguely of poorly-aimed urine and janitor bleach. She was the greatest thing to happen to me in my childhood. Every girl’s dream- the best friend of epic proportions. She was beautiful with olive-y skin and brown hair which varied in style over our years together from permed afro to long and slick. She was so cool, and she loved me. And I loved her, wildly. She was my 6-year-old soulmate.

She could not properly say her letter “R” and I had a calamitous lisp and a name full of “S’s”, so we would introduce each other to anyone we deemed necessary to know us.

“This is my best friend, Risa Rose,” I would announce, hitting those R’s with great exaggeration and laying off those S’s.

“She’s my best friend, Cecily Smith,” she would boldly claim.

Damn, her S’s were smooth as silk.

They called us the “Bobbsey Twins”. Risa and Cecily, where there was one, there was the other. Intertwined instantly and so tangled up in each other we shared head lice, the flu and Halloween costumes. We made rock bands out of trash cans and whispered into sunrise about our plans to marry Jon Bon Jovi and/or Axl Rose. Certainly they would both wait for one of us. We hauled pails of corn from the cornfield across the street and took turns heaving them up and down my treehouse pulley system. Our tiny arms working in perfect unison as we whole-heartedly pretended to be the great pioneers struggling to survive the summer. Then we would dump it all and tear inside to the air conditioning, a bag of Funyuns and The Brady Bunch. Lying together on thick brown lounge pillows, we knew we had the best secrets of anyone in the whole entire world. We had each other.

There was a clubhouse. A limp, half-rotted shed in the empty lot behind her house. We had rules and snacks and journals full of peppered entries from our detailed games of “spy”.

Your Dad is reading the newspaper. He sees me. RUN!

We called it the Rabbit Hutch and the password was “coca-cola bottles”. It might have been “blueberry”. It didn’t matter- no one was getting in -we didn’t need anyone else.

She was my first real relationship outside of my immediate family. The first person I shared a bed with and held hands with and made promises of eternal love to. Because that is what best friends get to have, eternal love. Love as easy as suntanned legs pressed together on warm concrete at the edge of the community pool, a box of shared Sugar Babies melting between them.

I always hear people saying “Awww, to be young and in love again.” Do you mean 6 years old? Because those 6-year-old sugar baby soulmates are everything. We orbit around each other for a lifetime, coming and going a little bit but still managing to keep each other in sight until it is time to come home again. This is the kind of pure-hearted love that walks us into adulthood and teaches us how to navigate all of the inevitable ditches of pain we dig ourselves into.

I slept in the same bed with her the night before her wedding. We lay together whispering our secrets again. We snuggled up as if the yellow phone and the pails of corn and hands brushing together in a bag of greasy chips had never disappeared.  Her huge, brown eyes were exactly the same as when we promised to never fight over Axl Rose. He would probably want her anyway- they did have the same last name.  As always, she was calm and so very cool- ready to start her life with her guy, her other person.

I’m your best friend, Cecily Smith.

I’m your best friend, Risa Rose.

To all of the babies out there navigating new schools, I hope you find your person. Trust me, you will need them.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

 

I can only be up at 5:30am in a dark house with a steaming mug of coffee beside me while I write to you because I am not hungover. There is no choking dry mouth or regret-laden headache pounding like a drum line through to the ends of my hair. My hands are not shaking on my keyboard and the anxiety coursing through my veins is just my “Mama-stuff”- like how much time do I have before Piper and I despairingly crawl around on our knees in the pantry lamenting the lack of actual food in our house. But even that will be tolerable because I won’t be needing to lie down with a cold washcloth on my head- well, hopefully not, but I guess you never know what a day can throw at a girl. There is no wine in my house except some expensive red over there in that corner, but red wasn’t really my thing. I liked (ok, fine, loved) the quick rush of a buttery Chardonnay washing over my sharp, painful edges until they blurred into the softer me, the easier me, the chattier me, the better me (ha), cheap suit me. But it wasn’t just a glass anymore. It was an entire bottle. Alone, usually. Nighttime. Sneaky sips and 1/2 glasses poured while the rest of the world was playing Fortnite.

Hi. My name is Cecily. And I am alcoholic-ish.

My junior year of high school I made a New Year’s resolution. I had read somewhere how soda (we Nebraska girls call it ‘pop’) was terrible for a human body. Remember we are talking about detail girl here- the one who carried every article she would read in her jean pockets. So when I read that one, I took heed. I declared while sitting at my sticky high school lunch table I was “done with pop and the rest of you should be, too!” Toxic stuff! Get rid of it! And the completely weird thing was I DID get rid of it, well, pretty much, mostly. I had occasional cans throughout college when I needed to stay up all night when coffee just tasted like ash to me. And there was some gingerale if I was trying not to throw up while pregnant or while flying on an airplane (until there was wine on the airplane). There is no soda in my house now, and my kids don’t drink it either. (I’m not being preachy here because I swear to you Piper ate Tofutti Cuties for dinner last night). Ok, so if I got rid of soda at age 15, 41-year-old big girl me can shake the wine habit, yes? Well……..

I hit a wall. No, literally. Two years ago I stumbled off the couch and walked right into a wall after a late-night movie coupled with several glasses of my vice wine. Oops, probably shouldn’t be doing THAT while raising children. So I laid off for a few days and proclaimed my birthday month that year to be alcohol-free which lasted three days. Then I decided it was ok to start sipping again while I made dinner and was done driving for the day and the babies were bouncing off the walls and the puppy was chewing the corner of a cabinet and my husband wasn’t home and I was lonely and bored to tears and all of my friends were on another coast or in a different country and, “yes, we are moving again isn’t it exciting” and good God I DESERVED, at the very least, a glass of wine, right? Smooth those edges off, babe, people like you better that way. Take a big swallow and let it help you shove down unnecessary feelings so when people say “How are you?”, you can answer, “I am GOOD! WE are doing great! (Why do I always say WE? I am an I.) The kids are cute and the puppy is cute and my husband is cute and my new top is cute and my hair is not cute but that’s ok-wine a little, laugh a lot, right?” Hahahahahahahaha……insert sob.

I was starting to feel like a leaking boat and instead of bailing the water out and carefully examining the holes I was just dumping more water (ummm…wine) into my sweet little ship.

And the scariest scariness of my overindulgence? I was forgetting my details. My very favorite precious details were leaking out with the rest of my self-confidence. My brain was fuzzy, and I couldn’t remember what I actually texted to my best friend the night before nor what I screamed at my husband nor if I had locked the doors. I felt the need to keep texting pictures of myself with glasses of wine to my friends. We are all drinking and trying not to lose it, right??? I was so very, very tired, and the boat was going under quickly, glug. One night I stumbled off to bed and left my adored dog outside in the dark night until her panicked barking woke my slumbering boys, and they rescued her. Somedays I had trouble with the lingering headaches, and it would take me until 2pm for the nausea to wear off and any form of adult motivation to kick in. Yet 5:00 always came and the itch started to sting my eyes and there was usually a need to go to the store with 4 starving children and the wine was always RIGHT THERE next to the Goldfish crackers anyway. I mean, come on, I am a highly-functioning person with a well-run home and highlights and homeschooled kids and happiness and health and humor and huh………..holy hell. Help.

What was so very wrong in my life that I had to slam back a bottle to make it to bedtime? That needed sorting out, straightaway. So three weeks ago, I rode in on my own very sober horse. My horse is never white and gleaming like a knight might have but more like a donkey with a limp, and she and I hauled out cheap suit Cecily from her ocean of despair and sat her down, hard, on the sand. I had some help. My people came running (well, they had to “virtually” run because I practically live in the Yukon) and leapt like ninja warriors into the rabbit hole with me and said, “Hi, my friend, we missed you. You looked like shit in that suit anyway. Let’s get you back into something a little more comfortable.”

I told one of my rabbit hole angels I wasn’t going to write about this yet. I am still in the midst of it, and I didn’t want to frighten everyone and make them think I needed an intervention. (I don’t, not today.) But the funny thing about drying out your ship and swabbing the deck with a clear mind is this:  All of the colors and details come rushing back in as the most glorious tidal wave of truth. I can’t wait anymore to tell you all I am here and there you are! I see you! Increasing clarity and deep gratitude, instead of clouded, buttery Chardonnay sweat soup, run from my pores every morning. There is something very daring and absolutely terrifying about knowing no masks get to be put on at 5:00- this is it, baby.

Truth? I still want a glass of wine every single night, but instead I make iced green tea with a squeeze of lemon and take a bath while watching Netflix. Then I have a lengthy chat with the Universe and go to bed knowing all of my trusty details and with my favorite fur baby safely inside and with my pain acutely focused right in front of me where it belongs, where it can teach me something. It might take us a minute, my limping donkey and I. She and I are a little slow and the whole running-with-my-eyes-closed thing has turned into a a lumbering haul, but I’m on my way. I think we are all just on our way for the rest of our lives.

I say it all of the time to my people. In texts, on phone calls, in person. It’s my phrase of love and deep understanding, to myself now, too, for when the boat starts rocking and waves keep coming and it hurts and it’s scary and leaks keep springing up on every single side of your boat……

Hold steady, my loves. xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

 

 

She was extra quiet at lunch. We were at a downtown Toronto restaurant as a family after having taken the subway to get there. A subway ride as a family of 6 might make any teenage girl go quiet or any 41-year-old mother for that matter. I mean, honestly, watching my family get on the subway is like watching The Brady Bunch family figure out a Tesla. There are not enough seats, somebody slams into the entrance gates at least twice because their fare card doesn’t scan correctly and Marcia (remember the football???) definitely breaks her nose when she whacks her face against the window forgetting to hold onto the handrail. But, no, my girl knows better than to associate with us when taking public transportation- she walks 6 feet ahead at all times. Something else was stuck in her craw.

After a few moments of letting her chew her tofu tacos and then with a bit of adept motherly questioning which really is just me asking “what is wrong, baby???” in panicked tones, she dropped her chin and let her blonde hair cascade over the side of her face. I caught the length of her lashes reaching out beyond her incredible clear blue eyes- the eyes that see so deeply they take my breath away.

“I shouldn’t have worn this shirt,” she whispered.

Ok. Wait, what? That simple grey tank top tucked into your jeans? Oh, there must be a stain on it. I can wash that, no problem, and I promise not a single person is noticing because they are way too busy watching that amazing guy dancing underneath the Israeli flag over there. Never mind, I bet it is because you wanted to wear that super cool Star Wars Tee from Brandy Melville, right? I love that one, too, it’s so nerd chic which is my very favorite thing on you. And honestly, your style is so far beyond my rolled-up jeans at your age I can’t even take it. How did I raise such a confident fashionista anyway? I love that you find belts in thrift shops and pair them with “mom jeans” because I’ve tried on those calamitous things, eek, apparently actual moms can’t wear them. Or I bet it is because I’m wearing a tank top, too, and nobody wearing mom jeans means it literally and wants to dress like their MOM! Yep, I so get that.

I had it wrong.

“Did you see that guy? The one on the subway. He wouldn’t stop looking at me in that uncomfortable way. I think he was at least 35.”

She’s 14.

The floor fell out beneath me and the rush of white hot heat that only furious Canadian grizzly bears must know- the ones whose babies maybe get snatched in the nighttime or hit by a car on a mountain road- washed over me in a violent surge. Every single curse word I have ever heard in my lifetime ran like ticker tape across my brain, and I had the pure, blinding impulse to stand on my chair and scream every single one at every single male I could see while ripping every single stitch of clothing off of my own body. I wanted to force them all to stare at me until they saw a human body, the body of a woman who used to be 14 who shredded every inch of it to give birth to the four tiny humans at this table who went to the gym to feel better and lifted weights while their eyes burned into her back then to the male plastic surgeon to carve it up then to the male gynecologist who commented on the length of her legs while she wore his paper shirt then to the bar so that one guy could put his hand on her ass and wink at his friends then to the sidewalk so that guy could cat whistle and the other one could stick his tongue between his two fingers then to the subway so a pathetic one could ogle her baby. You know, so she can start her tally sheet a little bit younger than I had to. So she can see that dress codes at school really aren’t about the young ladies and thickness of their straps but rather about our continued failure to wrap our boys up in hugs and vulnerability and show them a different set of eyes to see through.

Oh, baby, no, no, no, no. I am so sorry that getting dressed is now not about creativity and culture, but it is your armor as you walk out the door to war each morning.

A Coldplay song came on my playlist this morning, Fix You.

“Tears stream down your face when you lose something you cannot replace.”

To the man on the subway: thank you for teaching us something. While she and I can’t replace what you took from her and we most certainly won’t try to fix you, we will be over here showing the fine young men at OUR table all of the glorious mystery and honor of women- no, actually the powerful gifts of all humans who get the precious chance to set foot upon this Earth. She is so much cooler than you will ever be because she already knows things you never got to learn. Her fire grows stronger and brighter now. Mind the gap, sir, she has work to do, and she was born to do this.

“Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones.” (Thank you, Coldplay)

Let’s burn it all down, my love. xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember the first phone call. I spoke to a very lovely woman named Amber who calmly and warmly asked me the pertinent questions.

“How many pregnancies have you had?” she asked with the patience of a highly-trained social worker.

“5 but only 4 delivered babies,” I whispered.

“Ok, and any C-sections?” she ticked down her list.

“Nope.”

“So we know you are interested in adominoplasty or rather a tummy tuck, are you also interested in breast implants?”

No. Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous and crossing a line I dare not cross.

“Yes,” I whisper.

I couldn’t let the neighbors hear my answers. I could barely let myself hear my answers.

And that was that. A consultation for plastic surgery was scheduled the following week with Dr. C.

For my first appointment, I took my youngest two children with me. The nurse in her sharp, black dress gave them a breast implant to play with.

“The kids like these. They think they are like a squishy toy,” the nurse announced with a cheeky grin and a wink. Winking is the least comforting act a human can do with their body.

Well, yes, they like to squish them. How do you think I ended up here?

Five pregnancies, 4 delivered children-all chubby and breastfed. Good Mommy. My tally count is 3 years and 1 month of being in the “family way” and 34 months of my breasts full of the good stuff. My husband used to call me “Bessie, His Best Producer”. He meant well.

All of my babies are seated firmly in the deepest part of my soul. I always knew they would be the ones I would get to hold and love and help usher into adulthood. I sat under my childhood willow tree writing one afternoon, I was 7 or maybe 8, and I scribbled in my little notebook of secrets, “4 kids” and drew a heart around it. The fifth baby was exquisite shock and then, brutal loss. I chose their names long before they were born. First and middle names, all of them held in my complete reverence.

What never went into my treasured notebook was the toll my babies would have on a girl emotionally and physically. I was tired of tucking my loose and sagging stomach skin (I called it my stomach puppet) into my jeans to make sure it didn’t catch in the zipper. My former dancer’s body had a hole the size of a fist in my abdominal wall. The medical people called it “Diastasis Recti”. I called it “I can’t wear a swimsuit or do a sit-up anymore.” I used to go to the gym daily to try to release my bone- tired, stressed body from the clutches of young motherhood. I would turn to the side and stare into the mirror. Did I even have breasts anymore? Or had they literally been sucked straight from my body in a kind of child-induced double mastectomy?

None of it mattered, and all of it mattered. I had them. My four. The ones who I loved so much it made me cry most days. They were human perfection. I was a flawed mess who sat up so straight at the edge of the pool while my kids swam. I couldn’t let that excess stomach skin flood out into the world. I was shattered so deeply inside all of the way out and through my hole-y stomach muscles. Dr. C. was going to fix all of that.

The night before surgery I was in Costco. I was bleary-eyed, exhausted from mundane tasks and trying to tuck all of my surgery preparation deep down into my stomach puppet, away so no one could see. Shame to be wasting time on this when there were hungry people and sick people all over this world. But I was doing it anyway. I stared at granola bars wondering how many mega-sized boxes could feed my family, for every meal, for a very long time. I took 5. It wasn’t enough.

I saw a friend. As she neared me, I was breathless because I felt the truth coming up like a necessary burp after a fast slug of seltzer water. And before I could jam it back down, I ducked my head and mumbled, “I’m doing my breasts, too.” There. Someone else to hold witness to my soon-to-be-expanded chest which I would have to hide anyway because I didn’t want anyone to know. I was so confused. How do you get breast implants to “look more appropriate” but yet not let on you have them? In that minute, I decided I would just wear a body binder for the rest of my life. And then I would go right back to looking like I did in the sideways mirror at the gym.

Early in the grey part of a morning, my husband took me to the “surgery center”. We left before the kids were awake trying to make sure they never knew. My answer to them when asked why Mommy was gone for a day and one night and why she couldn’t stand up straight for 3 months was “I needed to fix my tummy”. But don’t worry, baby, it’s not your fault. Oh no, I forgot I might have to justify to them, too. I had not even told my own parents. How do you announce to your mother and father, the ones who brought you into this world, that you needed silicone in your chest to feel better? We hired a nanny to help, part-time, at home as I wouldn’t be able to lift a thing for at least 4 weeks, and I wouldn’t be “back to normal energy” for 4 months. I had four kids at home, young ones, no family nearby, a massive house with stairs, at least 6 loads of laundry a day and a husband who worked long, hard days to pay for all of it, including my surgery which would cost more than I was worth. Ooph.

Upon arrival to my surgical skyscraper in the richest part of town, I realized it doesn’t take long to fill out the last bit of paperwork when you are having an “elective surgery”. Elective. Yep. I voted it in, willingly and ably. Elective is lucky because most paperwork gets done ahead of time, credit cards get slid across mahogany desks to full-lipped receptionists and doctors get to drive away in nice cars while you pretend your newly-elected body is not on fire.

Dr. C was a unique man. I’m not sure that is his word, but there is no other way to describe this lightly-botoxed, former soap opera star-looking guy who didn’t gasp in horror at my stomach puppet. He was so soft-spoken but was definitely a surgical cowboy. He knew how to let a gal know this was not his first rodeo. He had this- even if I did not.

“A little lipo on the flanks is probably a good idea and definitely won’t cause too much bruising.”

Ok, Dr. C. That works. Are you calling me fat?

I wore my black bikini bottoms to surgery. It was funny to dress that day. No bra, loose shirt and pants. It was like a lazy Sunday but with no deodorant. Oh, now, what if I stunk during surgery? What if they laughed at my stretched-out lady parts? I knew they were going to be right down in there. What if they screwed up and actually put in the double D implants instead of my modest B’s? Ok, phew, they had a Sharpie and wrote my numbers on my chest. My branding. Pretty girl, B’s, keep her athletic looking, she wants to look natural. My husband begged the doctor so many times to “please make certain they got the right implants into her”. He was so paranoid about incorrect, bursting pornographic mounds of silicone being shoved underneath my pectoral muscles I almost cancelled surgery 11 times. I was paranoid, too. But mainly about dying.

Headline: “Shallow, Strung-Out, Privileged Mother of 4 Dies in Unnecessary Bad-Choice Surgery”………. In other news, there is war and hunger and global warming, and we have so many unclaimed dogs in shelters. Let’s focus on the important stuff.

Dr. C gently drew black marks on my body. Every incision, push, pull and tug was marked in serious detail. I gave him credit for his artistry. When I proclaimed in my nervous, sweaty black naked bikini bottom to please take that scar as “low as she would go” he easily replied, “I’m already there, Cecily. It will be perfect.” But I wasn’t there. I was silent screaming my way back to home with my confused babies and dirty tile floors and 72 loads of laundry and 5 boxes of granola bars. Then Nurse J gave me what is titled “equivalent of 3 glasses of wine” and Nurse J was the best damn friend I had ever had and may I have another?

The last face I saw was the kind man, my anesthetist.  He told me he had five kids at home. I remember sleepily pleading, “then you will understand why you can’t let me die and you must make sure I get home.” Bring me home, Dr. C., Nurse J, and kind anesthetist. Bring me all of the way home.

************

“I’m going to barf,” were the first words I spoke to my husband and to the new Nurse K. Post-surgery feels like a concrete mixer driving over your already dead-lifeless body, repeatedly, until it runs out of gas and the guy driving needs a sandwich. I didn’t barf. I have an uncanny ability to control barfing. I can count on 10 fingers the number of times I’ve thrown up. Control. I do it well.

“She needs crackers,” exhaled my nervous and relieved husband. I didn’t die. That was going to be a serious problem if I had. At the very least, he would have to explain to the newly-hired nanny how she was now full-time, indefinitely, and could she please do the bedtime stories the right way? Harry Potter was the best choice and don’t forget the voices for each character.

Elective surgeries lead to sleek, black Lincoln town cars driving people, usually one or two at a time to undisclosed “recovery centers”. My husband had to leave and go to his surgery-paying job and pretend his wife hadn’t just been cut wide open for the entire world to ogle. I was wheeled out and then in my most charming way, I put my hand up to Nurse K and said, “I can walk from here.” I hoisted myself up from my sticky wheelchair while straightening my black movie star shades. It was quite possibly the worst attempt in history at pretending to be somebody famous. My bursting chest and fully-seamed together abdomen were all wrapped in a tight corset like an over-stuffed burrito of shame. Then I walked like a goddamn lady to my car.

I don’t remember the driver’s name. I was busy trying to swallow bile and sobs and wondering if the kids still had granola bars left. There was a woman in the front seat. Her entire face was bandaged. Put us together and she and I would have made a complete and fascinating Egyptian mummy bringing visitors to a museum for decades. Why is it always the women carved up for the taking and the dude in a shabby tuxedo driving? She rambled the whole way about her ex-husband. I was drifting in and out of delirium from fatigue and numbness but I remember her slurring this, “I’m gonna be ok….mpmmphmph…..it’s just today.” Yes, babe, let’s torch this Lincoln town car and run. We are handling our electives just fine. It’s just today.

One night in an overly-decorated apartment run by a registered nurse was what you got. A hospital bed awkwardly placed in a normal-looking bedroom and a beautiful young nurse’s assistant to make you feel ok about yourself. I had to push a button to call her to help me up to pee. She was 22. Oh my darling, just hold steady, shit gets real very, very soon. My husband came and sat in a wooden chair in the corner to once again make sure I wasn’t dead until I told him to please leave and just put the television on HGTV. Maybe I could re-think the blue kitchen paint while my body swelled to killer whale proportions. Funny fact about the “mommy makeover”, you swell like an over-blown pool floatie for about two years. Good grief, maybe I was meant to swell until I popped and the realness just exploded all over the sky and rained down onto humanity like a wet prayer. Ahhhhhhh, feel that rain? That’s a Mama Rain full of pain and vulnerability and joy and madness and love. That’s the real thunderstorm.

I made it home. My chivalrous husband picked me up the next day, and I remember thinking immediately, “he’s looking at my boobs.” Isn’t that why I got them? He was stunned into silence, and I was wearing compression hose, a breast and abdominal binder and two bags of liquid. My body was leaking out through two teeny holes. I had no idea the amount of leakage that can come from an elected woman. The kids backed away from me in disdain. Why is she bent and swollen and crying and telling us she’s so glad we are all alive? My husband bought me an extendable camping chair, so I could sit and stare at my family while they ate real food and occasionally flicked their nervous eyes my way. I walked halfway-up for weeks. Something about walking to the point where you can barely meet eyeballs allows a girl to see that nobody is actually looking at you because if they were they would say, “Oh honey, bless you, you didn’t need to do that because I liked you anyway, and granola bars are fine for dinner.” I needed to clean my bloated body, so I took showers with a gold necklace around my neck. I could clip my “fluid bags” to the O rings of the necklace and continue to drain my waste. I needed an inside-out bath.

A close friend who knew what I been through took my children for a few days and brought me gifts. She knew I wanted to get back to my writing, my childhood scribbles and maybe with a new body I could do that. I sat with my newly-gifted lap desk and writer’s manual and sobbed and watched every single episode of Sons of Anarchy instead. Maybe Jax would steal me away on his motorcycle and drape his embellished biker’s jacket over my slumped shoulders and ignore my sagging, swollen body. I took Xanax and Tyenol with codeine and wondered if my husband noticed or was concerned about the explosive gas booming from my readjusted innards. His wife with a hot new rack now just had horrible farts. I was just a giant helium balloon with liquid bags attached underneath my oversized men’s sleep T.

My arms hurt. So badly. For so many days. Actually I had deep dark bruises around my new breasts and underarms. I looked like an emaciated starving child who had been beaten and fed far too many white carbs. I lost weight and tried to do laundry without bending or lifting. It was like a lonely game of stiff Twister. At last it was a four-week checkup with Dr. C., and I was a wee-bit better. I was sleeping in my camp chair without horrible anxiety, and the pain was manageable as long as I didn’t breathe, lie down or eat. I suppose that is fair. I chose it, now deal with these elected consequences. He gave me rave reviews for my recovery. Amazing, actually. I was well on my way to a full-blown bikini body and well-done, you, you are healing beyond the expected rate. I was a perfect patient. Could they use me as a before/after patient in their practice brochure? No.

When I casually mentioned the bruising and asked why my arms still hurt, Dr. C raised his eyebrows with a proud surgeon smile, “That is totally normal! It is to be expected and your bruising looks pretty good! Well done, Cecily. You see, in order to make sure you are “even” at the end of your surgery we flip the table upright with your arms pinned straight out like a “T”. I stand back and observe carefully, and we all make sure you are perfect. A bit like Jesus on the cross.”

Oh.

I had been crucified while I slept.

What does not happen after one has been fully elected is anything at all in the mental repair department. The supermodels still stare at your bad hair in the checkout line and your husband still has meetings and football games and your human perfection children need more granola bars and now dental appointments. Resentment and frustrations continued to run thick in the veins of my new and improved body. My stitches may have come out as I was downgraded to compression underwear, but none of it did anything to hold my heart together. Bruises faded away into smoothness and my breasts softened to a more natural state, squishy, but still I sat straight in my cover-up at the edge of the pool feeling lost in the pieces of my newly-reconstructed body. I still couldn’t jump in.

Three years later, I only now realize Dr. C gave me this new figure, but I have only just begun the rising. Laying out my demons in neat piles like the years of laundry I’ve toiled over, less stiff but still a lonely game. I stare at myself in the mirror and see my hip to hip scar now, a fading and gentle reminder that motherhood and womanhood can never be held together with stitches and butterfly tape. Just because I allowed a steel blade to carve away the ruin, I have not yet walked fully into my light, where the deeper healing happens. So I fall to my knees to release the swallowed sobs, like Mary at the foot of the cross, and then with a little more ease from my newer, stronger abs, I get up with grace on my side and begin again.

Amen.