Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

This weekend, S. and I offered to help care for the seven horses that live in the campus' barn (as well as two cats living temporarily alone on opposite ends of town, but I digress). I don't know the first thing about taking care of horses, but S. has learned a lot in her eight months of lessons, and she knows each of the horses well. (Even after four days of seeing them twice each day for about an hour, I have yet to tell a couple of them apart--this either proves I'm not very observant or not a horse person, or both). Usually there are seven students, or more, taking care of these horses, but only two students were sticking around, so our help was welcomed. I'll just admit this: I agreed to do this partly because I was hoping to convince S. that she's not ready for her own horse, which she desperately wants and hopes I will decide to purchase for her for her 16th birthday. "I want a horse, not horsepower, for my sweet 16," she keeps saying. I keep tellin...

One day the weather is blue and warm, the dog bounding excitedly out the door, and the next, snowy-bright-white, easy-packing snow, the dog cautious, watchful. Soon after all is melted again and the snowperson's head has fallen off, a small, white ball among the unracked leaves. One day the house is full of people I truly love who are celebrating or mourning, candles lit, an abundance of food; the next, my daughter is kicking me, twisting my arm, her most violent outburst so far. And then we're standing on the roadside and she's holding a sign that says "I love my lesbian mom," and then there's another gathering that turns ugly toward the end and I'm wondering why I didn't step in when two friends got into an argument, knowing the hurt that could happen, kicking myself for pulling away. And then I'm screaming at my daughter louder than I ever have and she's crying, I don't remember why--too many refusals in a row to do what I've asked, ...

Four anti-gay amendments in one night. We're still waiting for a recount on Prop 8, but it doesn't look good. After I posted my last blog, I was up another three or so hours, answering facebook messages, text messages, e-mails. People were ecstatic--and also depressed. It was hard to know what to feel. On the one hand, I felt guilty for not feeling elated--fully, totally, purely. On the other hand, I felt guilty for feeling as happy as I did. It was surreal, actually. What does it tell us, as a nation, that we can "vote for change" while at the same time voting against basic civil rights? Yes, there will be some legal battles, the seeds of which have already begun. But some of us are tired of living in fear and worry that our children could be taken from us, that we have to rely on the whims of voters to determine whether or not our relationships "count." I can't help but think of what would have happened if I lived in Arkansas and the adoption had not y...

This morning at 7 a.m., my daughter and I went to the polls. (In our small town, there was no line yet--we were the only ones there!). The election judges let her go in with me so she could see what it was like to fill out a ballot. I have tried to allow S. to explore all sides of the issues that matter to her, but of course she's been influenced by me. We don't agree on everything, but we agree on much more than we did when she came to me, and we were both rooting for the same candidates and issues. We were uncharacteristically silent as I drove her to school. "I hope he wins," she whispered as she got out of the car. "Me too." --- The campus was alive with messages to vote Democratic, to vote for change. I feel lucky to work where I work. This afternoon, we had an appointment in a town two hours away. Usually I spend election day door knocking and phone calling and driving people to the polls, but this year I spent it driving to and from our appointment. I...

On Thursday, our attorney called me to report that S's bio mother had finally signed the open communication document--but with a scribbled-in addition that expressed how angry she was at the "harassment" she's faced and how she wanted her criminal record expunged. Although her note most likely wouldn't stand up in court, I had to respond. I wrote an addendum saying that I agreed with her other additions, but not this one. I noted that she had abused my daughter, and the scars are indelible, permanent--she did not deserve to have her record expunged, and she had not been harassed by anyone. I faxed the addendum to the attorney, then called her to make sure she'd received the fax. "Is this going to delay the adoption again?" I asked our attorney. "Do you want to adopt S?" she asked me. "Yes, more than anything." "Does she wanted to be adopted?" "Yes, more than anything." "Then we'll make it happen,"...

I'm finding a lightness in my center lately, sustained by little blessings, which, once I list them, I'll bet won't feel so little anymore... --I have a poem in my head--not on paper yet, but still. Good considering most of my writing time has been spent tinkering with older projects--nice to have something new. --I got quality time with one of my closest friends last week--a brief visit, but full of long walks and time for her to get to know S. and an awesome dinner party, the likes of which I realized, suddenly, that I've not attended since S. came into my life. --Coming Out Day: woke up exhausted, bitter I had to go to work to do a six-hour training that has nothing to do with the job I'm actually paid to do. But then, the participants reminded me of how lucky I am to live in a place where I feel safe and affirmed and loved most of the time, where people are willing to leave their kids and homework and lives to reflect on how to become better allies. --I spent t...

For awhile, despite small detours here and there, the framework of my life seemed clear, made sense; it was all about healing and helping others heal, about changing lives and, with them, taking at least small cracks in the larger systems that caused the suffering in those lives. It was about a depth of love (and, yes, sacrifice, too) that nourished me, energized me. I was raising this amazing child, watching her take one step back, two steps forward, over and over again. I had a rewarding job through which I was able to do the same kind of mentoring for my students. I had time to work on my writing; I was happy simply being at the page, sending things out when the mood struck me or when something seemed a good fit, keeping up this blog, sharing my work with people who most needed it. My relationships with family and friends were the strongest they had ever been, and those that weren't perfect no longer plagued me, because my life had such meaning, such purpose. I was happy--the ha...

Sometimes, I can't sleep because I am haunted, suddenly, inexplicably, by an old memory--something I should have done differently, someone I should have treated differently. I will lie in bed and relive every detail--the woman I turned away some twelve years ago who so desperately wanted more than the casual fling we were having; the student who dropped out, the one I hardly noticed in my classes--reserved and detached, not a problem, but also not interesting, so I didn't bother to try to connect; the decision to miss this baptism, that wedding, at times when I felt disconnected from my family; the moment I signed for my first credit card, and the endless debt I grappled with as a result for much of my life. It's strange how real these memories can be, frought with the same emotions I had at the time, as well as the emotionality that would have been there if I'd known then what I know now. In reality, I signed the papers for that first card in the student center of my c...

Today, S. let go of three distinct and important parts of her past all at once: she broke up with her boyfriend; she gave away ten bags of clothing, or 107 individual pieces (yes, we actually counted), all of which had been purchased and worn during and before her four years in foster care; and, she told me confidently and with certainty that she no longer wanted to move back to the state she is from. Anyone who read that first paragraph is now thinking, “Wow, they had an amazing, life-changing day,” but they’d be wrong—-well, sort of. The day started out in a less-than-stellar way. Church this morning was a nightmare. When S. came to live with me, I went back to the church I’d attended a year or so earlier, before I'd had a big falling-out with more than half the parishioners about whether the church ought to be open and affirming to GLBT people. (I wrote about this at length on this blog awhile back). It was a hard decision, but she had been attending an Evangelical church and b...

Today, on the last official day of summer, S. and I go to the beach. We are two of only about eight people there, and there is a good reason: it is windy. And when I say windy, I'm talking about a kind of wind that people who aren't from the prairie can't fathom. I lie on the beach, trying to finish a book of poetry, but the sand kicking up against my skin is seriously and strangely painful. I can feel it in my eardrums, in my mouth, against my side, little stinging daggers of pain. The waves are high, and when I try to float on my back, I swallow water, breathe water, squirm to get back up. The water, the wind, reminds me of Ikaria, and for a second I am homesick for that island where I have never lived, and then, I daydream briefly of taking S. there, something we've planned for next year, how it will go, what particular challenges might arise, what it will be like to show her another place, other people, that matter to me. Briefly, I feel grief for all of her places ...

S. and I went on a mini-camping trip this weekend. Before we left, I was feeling at the end of my rope again. S's adoption ceremony and party were magnificent, but the aftermath was colored by family drama, exhaustion, and the looming end of summer. For the first hour at our campsite, I was outright cruel to S., snapping commands at her, blaming her for a mistake in our attempt to put together the tent, forcing her to go on a hike she didn't want to take. As she begrudgingly followed me into the woods, though, I suddenly realized how awful I was being. I turned to her, picked up the dog and rubbed his head. "I'm being a total bitch," I said. "I haven't gotten enough exercise or sleep lately, and I'm frustrated by how fast the summer is going. I'm so sorry. I'm going to try to do better." "You _were_ being a bitch," she answered. "But it's OK." I put the dog down then, and we hiked for awhile longer in silence, and ...