Sanctuary

I had a hard time coming up with a title for this post.  Nothing quite seems to capture what I want to say.  So I decided to just start writing and I'd let the title come to me as I type.

The past few weeks have been a nightmare mixed with moments of happiness and raw emotion.  I realize that I am running the risk of sounding melodramatic and as though I'm courting sympathy, and that's fine.  Not everyone will understand, nor do I expect folks to.  What I will say, however, is that losing a close friend under tragic, violent circumstances is a life-changing experience. I think it's impossible to see the world the same way again.  People's true natures come to light in times like these; the fabric of who they are capable of being is revealed, and oftentimes it's disappointing or even ugly.  And then there's my perception of the world.  I am fearful...for my kids, for myself and my husband.  I feel vulnerable, as though truly for the first time in my life I realize how at the mercy of others we are.  I keep my children close and love them hard and often.  I check, double check and triple check locks on doors.  I make sure my dogs are around when I'm home.  I am afraid of humanity.

There is joy, too.  There is the love that my family and close friends have expressed.  The love that knows not to ask too many questions, or to let me talk in my own due time.  The love that makes getting through another day bearable.

Losing someone you love is a strange thing, a dichotomy of different emotions.  There is a persistent cloud, a heaviness, a shadow that follows you around...first thing when you wake up, it's there; throughout the workday, it's there; laughing with friends and family, it's there; going to bed at night.  Always there.  It's an emotional and spiritual burden that I just wish would go away.  I want to be normal again.  I want to be ME again!  Aye, but there's the rub...once my cloud lifts, I won't be grieving anymore.  I will get on with my life, and (is it possible?) start to forget.  The idea or possibility of forgetting a loved one gone too soon makes for a guilt like no other.  It makes me consider my responsibilities as the friend who is left behind.

I know there are many in my life who have deep religious faith, and who wish that I shared this.  I don't.  While I respect that others do, and in some ways am even a tad envious that they have that faith to comfort them in times of great sorrow like this, I have found that my current situation makes my lack of faith even more concrete. And perhaps, in some ways, that does bring small comfort to me.  While the world, and my emotions, and all that is good and bad swirls around, and I unable to make sense of it all, knowing who I am inside is one little sanctuary.

And I just found the title to this post.

Good-bye, My Friend

Last week I lost a dear friend to a horrific crime.  My heart won't stop breaking and I'm not sure what to do or how to move on.

I wish I could have saved you, and I wish I had the chance to see you, to hug you, to love you just one more time.  I hope you know how incredibly special you are to me, and how much I cherish our friendship.

I love you, sweet friend. This morning, there were so many reminders of you everywhere.  I broke down and cried and cried.  You are everywhere and nowhere all at the same time, and it's unbearable.
I hope you can read this somehow. Perhaps you are hovering over my shoulder as I type.  Please stay close for your kids, your family, and for your friends who love you so much.  Selfishly, we need you here.

I can't say good-bye to you...not yet.  Just love, love, love...for my beautiful friend.

Actually...

Our little nest in the hanging basket has turned out to belong to a pair of house finches, not a mockingbird like I originally thought.  I saw a mockingbird defending territory from a robin right around the nest site, so that's why I was confused.  But the finch pair has been dedicated and doting to their clutch of SIX eggs.  I'd take a picture, but I don't want to unnecessarily disturb that mama and her babies.  Perhaps some hatchling photos once the babies have arrived...!

Spring Awakening

Several years ago, a colleague of mine--who is also an avid and gifted birder--told me that every spring, when birds start to migrate back to their summer grounds, she has vivid dreams.  They are filled with flocks of colorful, sweet-sounding birds flying in the sky over her head, through her bedroom window, larger than life and thrilling.  I remember that I laughed some when she first told me this, thinking,  Every spring you dream about birds?  Although I studied birds for my own research and thoroughly enjoy birdwatching as a hobby, I thought that she must reside on a totally separate plane of birding fandom, to have them infiltrate her dreams in such a spectacular way every year.

And then, a couple years ago, something happened.  I found that when we left the bedroom window open at night, and I'd wake up to the dawn chorus, the early morning cacophony of bird songs, my heart was alight even at 4 am. In the nights that followed, I'd start to dream, incredible and larger than life dreams of snowy owls swooping down over my head, of hawks and songbirds dancing in the sky. I would wake full of the excitement my dream self had had, looking around for someone to confide in who would care about these wonderful bird dreams as much as I did.

Spring migration has settled in once more, and I find that my eyes are often pointed the sky as soon as I step outside.  Our neighborhood is filled with a diverse blend of different species, in spite of it being part of such an urban metropolis.  We have red-tailed hawks, ospreys, turkey vultures, mockingbirds, robins, cardinals, blue jays, grackles, song sparrows, cowbirds, red-bellied woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers and catbirds, to name the most commonly seen visitors.

A few days ago was, quite simply, a day of birds.  As I walked to work, I noticed a starling in a yard I walked past, busily scuttling soil back and forth with its feet, presumably in search of insects.  Not a minute later, I was greeted by a catbird, sitting atop a fence line, not at all afraid of me as I walked past, unable to keep my eyes off it.  Another catbird flew into my path a short few steps later.  As I turned the corner, I heard the low, croaking, spine-tingling call of a common raven.  I looked up and saw it at the top of a building.  Ravens? Here? I thought it must be a crow, but as it took to flight, it seemed too big to be a crow, and besides, nothing can be mistaken for the raven call.  I watched it as it swooped the air, and then started to descend...down toward me.  I stood rooted, unable to move or think, just entranced by this big, guttural-sounding bird as it seemed poised to fly into me.  Actually, it never intended to fly into me, as the bird arched back into the air, flying over my head and into the forest of urban infrastructure beyond me.  A day of birds.

When I returned home that evening, one of my first tasks was to water the hanging baskets of flowers I'd gotten the weekend before.  The midday sun dries the soil so fast, so I've learned my daily post-work chore will have to be to water them.  I love it, though, as it gives me an excuse to be outside, looking for new birds, identifying the ones I already know, saying hello to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the mourning dove couple that perches, side by side, on the electrical wire above our street.  As I took down the first basket, I was surprised to find a nest inside with one translucent egg taking up residence right in the middle. I breathed out a sigh of joyful contentment.  An egg!  A bird in my neighborhood knew the right house in which to make its home, for surely none of my neighbors would be more thrilled than me to find a bird nest in their hanging basket!  Since that day, two more eggs have been laid by what I think is a mockingbird.  The biggest challenge has been keeping my plant watered without disturbing the nest. Unfortunately, I think the plant will suffer a cruel death by dehydration once the chicks have hatched, as I would never disturb a new mother from her fresh, newly-hatched babies.

Ahhh!!!...days of birds.

A Chance Encounter

B's 5th birthday is tomorrow, and her teachers had informed me that I could bring in a snack for her class today to celebrate.  In my not-very-many-years as a parent, I've seen B bring home goody bags from classmates' birthday celebrations, and realized that I've kind of cheaped out in the past by just sending in a package of Oreos for her party.  This year, she's at a new school, with new friends and new anxieties and insecurities.  I really wanted her to meet #5 head-on and with confidence, so I asked her what she wanted to have for her party theme.  "Dragons!" she exclaimed (as in, How To Train Your Dragon). Dragons it is.

I had seen tiny dragon figurines at Target a couple months ago, so I figured if they were cheap enough I could buy a bunch to give to each of her classmates in a goody bag. Last night, I made the trek and found them in the toy aisle right away.  I practically emptied Target out of those dragons.  Mama-guilt-meets-American-consumerism at its finest hour.

I walk to checkout and have a male cashier, somewhere in his mid-late 40s.  He greets me immediately, but isn't chatty.  At some point during the transaction, he must have felt like he should be more conversational, so he remarks, "You're throwing a boy's birthday party, huh?" (you know where this is going...)

Now, it was about 9 pm on a Thursday night. I'm sure this guy was tired after a long day of standing on his feet, dealing with customers and transactions.  I'm sure he thought he'd just make conversation with me, we'd exchange some pleasantries, and I'd be on my way.  But, something made me "go there", when maybe I should have just let it go.

Me: Now, why would you assume this was for a boy's birthday party?
Cashier: (annoyed) Because you're buying a bunch of boys' toys.
Me: There's no such thing as 'boys' toys'!"
Cashier: (trying not to roll his eyes) Okay...
Me: Actually, this is all for a little girl who loves dragons.
(Silence)
...I couldn't help myself...
Me: You don't need certain body parts in order to play with dragons.
Cashier: (dismissively) Okay.

I know it might have been uncalled for, perhaps even a little rude.  But if that guy was comfortable making an assumption to me about gender roles, then surely he would impart that suggestion on to the children in his life.  I just that morning had dropped B off at her school, only to notice that all the boys in the classroom were on the floor playing with building blocks and structures, while all the girls were at the table coloring.  There's nothing wrong, inherently, with either of these activities.  But I don't believe that by nature, boys are born to build and girls are born to color.  I think the power of suggestion that we as adults pass along to our kids goes a long way.  I've seen the way the girls in her class can get down on the floor and work imaginatively and cooperatively to build ramps, slides and towers with those building blocks.  Likewise, I know many of the boys enjoy cutting, pasting and coloring at the arts & crafts table.  So why, in an informal setting, do the segregate themselves and migrate to the stereotypical gender-role activities? Perhaps because accidentally or otherwise, it's been suggested that those are the activities appropriate for their sex?  Heck, if the cashier at Target would tell me that, then surely there are adults that would say that to their kids, right?

So, B has her dragon-themed party in just another couple hours.  I won't be able to make it, but A will, and he promised to take pictures. I wonder if the kids--boys and girls--will love their new dragon toys.  My guess is, given the opportunity, kids will see a toy as just a toy, no gender assigned.

Yes All Women?

My heart is still pounding...my voice is still not quite right.  I just stepped through the door to work after having approached a small group of male construction workers who I observed cat-calling women.

Perhaps I'm still a bit sensitive because I just read an article yesterday about the #YesAllWomen movement that has ignited after the murders at UC Santa Barbara.  Although I don't entirely agree with everything that's been said in support of that movement, I do think it's true that men have no idea how one-sided, intimidating and unappreciated their interactions with women can be.

As I was walking up the block to my office, I noticed a group of three young male construction workers, standing half underground (they were doing work on the infrastructure under the street).  An attractive young woman was walking up ahead of me, and I saw all three of the men's heads turn approvingly in her direction.  Then one or all of them started yelling unintelligible things her way.  She either didn't hear or chose to ignore them because she didn't respond, just kept walking.  They saw me walking next, and I don't know if it was the fact that I was carrying a baby, or the fact that I was looking right at them, or maybe they just didn't find me attractive, but none of them said anything to me.  I almost just put the whole situation behind me and went inside my building.  My coworker had just arrived and noticed me, so he had left the door ajar for me.  But something made me not go inside. I realized I had to say something for all the women who have ever felt frightened to walk down a street for fear of being harassed by men. For all the women who don't have the nerve or are too afraid of the repercussions of standing up to disrespectful men.  I just had to.

In all honesty, I felt safe.  These were young guys in their 20s.  They were at work in the middle of the street with uniforms on.  My job was just a few short steps away.  I knew nothing bad was going to happen.  So that made it easier than if I were in a parking garage or an empty street at night.  I wouldn't have the nerve or feel safe doing it then.

I walked up and, my voice clear and strong, but still shaking, told them that I was speaking because not all women feel like they can.  I told them that no woman appreciates being called after and harassed simply for walking down the street. One of the guys seemed immediately shamed, and he looked stone-faced at the ground.  The other two men smiled.  I told them I could tell they thought it was funny because they were smiling, but that it's not.  Men who treat women like that are making women feel intimidated and fearful, when all we want to do is walk down the street.  I told them surely they have women in their lives who they care about, who they wouldn't want feeling this way because of strange men on the street.  I told them that women should be able to walk with pride and respect and not be shamed by men cat-calling and commenting on their appearance.  The two men who were smiling gave me a bit of lip service, feigned humility, but were smiling (sheepishly?) by the time I stopped talking.  The other man seemed like he genuinely heard what I was saying and was taking it to heart.  So, maybe my words made some impact. I walked away, shaky and nervous with a charge of adrenaline and emotion.

I almost posted this story to Facebook.  But I didn't want to get a bunch of "likes" and congratulatory comments from well-meaning friends.  I didn't do this for that.  I did this so that perhaps one day a woman won't get harassed by these guys because the men actually stop to think before they say something. Maybe they'll think about how their words, actions and general appearance come across to a woman walking down the street, and instead of cat-calling, perhaps they'll just nod courteously and wish her a nice day.

The One About The Flowers

A few weeks ago, A's brother and sister-in-law became the proud parents to twin boys. We are over the moon excited for them, after many months of anticipation, planning and waiting for the babies' birth. While at work today, I had the thought that it'd be nice to send our sister-in-law a flower arrangement in celebration of her very first Mother's Day. I went online and picked out arrangements for her, for my mother, and for a sweet neighbor back in Michigan. Now that I'm gainfully employed again, it felt nice to be able to afford a luxury like sending gifts to loved ones.

After work, Samara and I met up with A and B for some family time, dinner and drinks. On the walk home, I casually mentioned to A that I had purchased flowers for those three special ladies, feeling a bit guilty that I had not sent an arrangement to his mother. I quickly added, ''But I know your mother, and she's not really the flower type, so that's why I didn't buy her any.''

A rolled his eyes and laughed. ''Dont worry, I took care of my mother already.'' I breathed a silent air of relief before asking, ''You sent her flowers?'' A replied, ''Yup, and I sent Christine flowers, too, so I guess she'll be getting two arrangements from us.'' Christine is our sister-in-law. I looked at him, wide-eyed. ''You sent Christine flowers, too?'' Neither Adam nor I is particularly great about gift-giving, so I was surprised that he would have had the same idea to send flowers to the new mom as I did. ''Yea, evidently you were thinking the same thing,'' he said, before adding, ''actually she's getting two arrangements from me because I got the address wrong when I purchased them. When I called the company to try to get it changed, they said it was too late and so they'd have to send another arrangement to the right address, but that the first arrangement would likely go to the right address anyway.'' So our dear Christine is getting three floral arrangements from us for Mothers Day. Apparently we are REALLY excited about her new entrance into motherhood. Apparently we also need to talk more about plans regarding gift-giving.

When we arrived at home, B in her usual style ran ahead of us, up the steep slope of the front yard and onto the front porch. I was wearing Samara in the wrap and so I moved more slowly. I heard B exclaim, ''Dad, we got mail!'' and then, ''What do you think it is?'' At that point, I realized we had a package by the front door. As I walked onto the porch, I saw the long box and wondered what could be inside. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a flower arrangement. My first thought was, ''I wonder who would send me flowers...and why?'' It took a couple seconds for my brain to connect the dots. I turned to my grinning husband and asked, ''Did you get me flowers?'' He replied, ''Maybe.'' We are not really the type to do flowers, an unnecessary luxury that costs money and only ends in sadness when the blooms wilt, brown and fall off. I bent down to open the box. Two dozen red roses, so beautiful. I gave him a kiss of thanks. A lavender bath set and box of chocolates were also included. I kissed him again. The red, red roses came with a daringly racy red vase that reminded me of the sophisticated, romantic rendezvous that we used to take in our youth back in New York City. I smile when I think how our children will never know the crazy young love side of us, a side that still exists but is hidden behind the duties of jobs and bills, parenting and commuting. The side that gets hidden by making everyone else's Mother's Day perfect and forgetting to enjoy my own. But that young love side of us still exists; A reminded me of that this evening. Even more than the flowers, I loved the special note he included in the box. While I choose to keep his words private, I will say they are quite possibly the most beautiful things he has ever said to me. And I loved it all, even if we're not the type to do flowers.