Sunday, September 30, 2007

 

THE BOX

I can't wait for my box to arrive. Tomorrow is the day. For the 3rd time, we will receive a medium organic box with 10 items, mostly vegetables, from the Shropshire Organic Farm in, well, I guess Shropshire. I don't know why it took me so long to go down this obvious garden path. I guess I was waiting for the right time. I mooned over organic box programs in SF on more than one occasion, but found myself unwilling to commit to a weekly cooking regimen that might include vegetables I have no idea how to prepare. I pictured grim weekends full of frantic aubergine and cauliflower consumption in order to make space for the next box. But here's the beauty of this box scheme (in England everything is a "scheme" rather than a "plan" or a "program", which always makes me feel like I'm doing something slightly illicit,) it comes from the supermarket. This means that we control when the box arrives, rather than being committed to a set schedule. Thus, if we haven't chewed our way through one box, we can dely the arrival of the next simply by not going grocery shopping (okay, actually the groceries are delivered, but the same principle applies.) I also have more time on my hands these days, and so I can afford to spend some of it investigating how to prepare runner beans on the internet and then trying out different approaches until we find one we like.

When our first box arrived, I left it sitting open on Gabriel's little table in our kitchen for him to discover. He came home from school, wandered into the kitchen, and exclaimed "Mama! What's this?" He then spent about 45 minutes taking each item out of the box, naming it, putting it back into the box and then repeating the cycle. At one point he was walking around the kitchen triumphantly with an apple in one hand, a red pepper in another and a carrot (with fluffy green top still on) stuffed in his pocket, casually alternating bites between each item. He actually uttered the words "I want to try that" when he spotted the head of lettuce - words I have never heard my too-busy-for-food offspring emit. Upon learning that the head of green leaves was called "lettuce", he sagely recalled "goats eat lettuce." To which I replied "people do too." And without so much as a by your leave, he tore off a great big leaf and started to munch on it.

Getting the box has changed my life overnight in a couple of important ways. First, for the last 2 weeks I have been making my weekly menus based on what comes in the box, rather than what I arbitrarily imagine in my head or what a recipe book says I should cook. This is probably an obvious point to a lot of people, but it's a big new thought for me. "Oh, I could cook based on what's in season and what's available locally, rather than based on a set of recipes or principles that have no relationship to the place and season I am living in." Next, it occurs to me that maybe my son has never shown much interest in vegetables, or fruits for that matter, because mostly what I have offered him has been divorced from it's natural environment - ie. baby carrots lathed, scrubbed and packaged in plastic. I taught him how to eat red, green and yellow peppers awhile back by showing him the whole pepper, exploring the smell and texture with him and then cutting it open to reveal the seeds and the hollow interior. We sliced off rings and wore them as bracelets around our wrists. We tried biting straight into the peppers without bothering to cut out the seeds first. We've investigated peppers from top to bottom, and now when he finds them cut up in his stirfry, he doesn't flinch like he used to, I think mainly because he has some intimacy with the food in its whole state. He likes to eat his grapes off the stem too, rather than carefully destemmed and piled in a bowl. Intuitively, he seems to be interested in food that is as close to its natural state as possible. And of course, the vegetables that have come in our boxes thus far taste fantastic. The peppers were super sweet, the courgettes juicy, the lettuce buttery and crisp.

The other thing I like about the box is that it has made me think more about how far the rest of my food travels. This has already been on my mind, because "food miles" are a big deal in England. Not only is there a heavy "Buy British" marketing campaign going on at the moment, but "how the common citizen can contribute to global reduction of carbon emissions" is a constant topic in the daily news. I've been interested in buying local food for years, but somehow the intense schism here between the growing public awareness of the value of local food and the fact that British supermarkets still import a ton of food from places like South America (which is over 8,000 miles away!), has really highlighted the issue in my mind. My discomfort with having my food flown into my kitchen was highlighted recently - in the same supermarket order that yielded my first box, I also received a package of organic beef (Baby Pickle has been asking for iron.) I felt comfortable ordering organic beef from the supermarket because I assumed it would be British beef, since Britain produces so much of it. But when I unpacked my groceries, I discovered that my steak had originated in Argentina, and I totally freaked out. I wasn't concerned about the quality (Argentina is famous for its beef), but I absolutely could not get over the fact that this pound and a half of steak had flown 1/2 way around the world to be in my kitchen. It seemed the functional equivalent of drinking gasoline. As it turned out, the steak actually wasn't very good - too tough - but I felt desperate to finish every morsel of it. My suddenly awakened food morality was overwhelmed by the idea that I would toss even an ounce of this extraordinarily expensive (in environmental terms) beef into the bin. And so, I have decided that from now on we are only going to buy meat from the local butcher. And I think the same is going to be true of fruit and vegetables as well - no more grapes from Chile, apples from New Zealand, or asparagus from Guatemala. I'm still on the fence about bananas (which only grow in tropical climates), but I working my way toward a "no tropicals" policy.

It's funny how you can stare a thing in the face for years and then something small can change your perspective just enough that you can really see it. Watching my son dance around the kitchen with a smile on his face and vegetables tumbling out of his arms was the last push I needed to fully embrace a "Slow Food" mentality for our family. If you have children, you know that there is almost no greater pleasure than knowing their bellies are full of vegetables. The feeling is a solid "this-is-all-I-need-to-be-happy" kind of contentment that transcends almost everything else. If my child is well-nourished, I have done my job as a parent and I can relax knowing that he will grow according to his own and nature's plan. There is almost nothing else I need to do.

So I sit here tonight, on my cozy red couch, replete with the anticipation of another such moment of fullness tomorrow. When the box comes, Gabriel will paw through it, possibly trying some new foods or reacquainting himself with the texture and taste of his old favorites. And I will crack open the cookbooks and start developing the specific manifestations of my new strategy for weekly menus - eat the delicate things and the strange things first! - and share a small prayer with the universe that we should be blessed with so much bounty.

Be well.


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Tuesday, September 25, 2007

 

paper journal
Originally uploaded by dorkyspice.
INSPIRATION

I'm a journaler - I have an almost obsessive impulse to record and document my life and what I see and hear happening around me. The funny thing is, I don't actually think of myself as a journaler - probably because I never succeeded in doing my morning pages for more than a week (a tool/trick from The Artist's Way for getting the muse to be your daily companion). I tend to write a lot at certain times and then not at all for months. The urge to write usually strikes when something is affecting me emotionally or when I'm having a lot of recurring thoughts about a particular subject that won't leave me alone. I also write because my memory has always been poor. If I can read something descriptive about a past event, it instantly unlocks the secret cellar of my memories so that I can picture the past clearly, recall what happened, how I felt about ,and why it was important.

So, from time to time I reread bits of old journals to see how I have or haven't changed in the intervening time and to stir my mental soup so that interesting and tasty bits I've forgotten or abandoned will float to the top again. I find this particularly useful for my creative life - I can't tell you how many times I've had the same good idea and then forgotten all about it before I could manifest it. I guess in a sense, journaling is about having a conversation with yourself - the act of writing gives your present self a voice, and the act of reading allows all your past selves to join in the dialogue too.

Here's an excerpt from June of this year - it describes a moment when I was in the throes of both first-trimester pregnancy blues and the dawning unpleasant awareness that London might not be the creative cornucopia I had hoped for. It was also the moment when our honeymoon affection for our new home was starting to tarnish a bit, and I was feeling lonely and really missing the intimacy and connection I had with my San Francisco community. It actually started as a journal entry and then morphed into an email I sent to an acquaintance who I hoped would take the bait and become my creative pen pal. That didn't happen, but other things did, and over the course of the summer, I gradually moved out of my doldrums and into a much more content state - trusting that there are more creative conversations ahead in my future, and that inspiration will enter my life again one day like a lightning bolt, probably when I least expect it:

CREATIVE PROCESS


It's been on my mind to write to you for awhile. But I've been a little bit lost in mommy land - not entirely of my own choosing. As it turns out (warning: this is top secret!), I'm pregnant again. Only about 9 or 10 weeks. And while I am intellectually on board with this endeavor, emotionally I'm still coming to terms with it. Having another kid was actually part of the whole London plan, but I was hoping to wait awhile (like until I got a job) to pull the trigger. Ah, nature. So full of surprises.

So I'm feeling a little glum between the discomforts of the first trimester and the fact that I haven't made any artistic friends yet. Well, I've made a few, but they are mostly too busy (like I was in San Francisco) to really invite someone new into their lives. So I've been craving creative contact. And that made me think of you - which is a bit ridiculous since you're as busy as anyone I know. But I had this idea that maybe we could chat about the creative process a bit. And I've been reading Virginia Woolf's letters (she wrote a lot of letters) to a whole slew of female intellectual collaborators, which has made me want a pen pal of my own.

So, speaking of artistic foremothers (and forefathers), my first question is - who has inspired you either directly or indirectly to be an artist, and why? For me, it was a chance encounter with South African playwright/director Athol Fugard that served as a "conversion" to theatre. I heard him speak at an afternoon tea at Princeton when I was an undergraduate. I was 18, it was my first year, and I had no idea who he was. It was an intimate gathering - maybe only 20 people or so - and he read from his journals, which contained a combination of reflections about the play he was currently writing/directing, a new idea for a play that had just come to him and various observations about the world at large. He was so poetic, so present and so mystical that I instantly thought, "That's it. I want to do what he's doing. I want to know what he knows." I auditioned for a play the same day, got cast, quit the crew team (which is what brought me to Princeton on a scholarship in the first place) and devoted myself to theater. At the time I didn't really even think about it, I just knew I wanted to have the kind of deep communion with the world around me that I had seen this amazing man demonstrate. And now, nearly 20 years later, I think I am in need of another kind of conversion experience. Because the life I thought I was going to live and the life I am living are not the same things. I have made less art than I expected to and focused much more time on building relationships and learning how to support myself and live as a woman in the world.

I want to get back to those original impulses, that sense of wonder and mystery and the feeling that the veil was being parted and I was getting a peak-through into the true nature of things. I don't know where or when or how I'm going to find this new inspiration, especially with 2 children hanging off my hem. But I came to England to reinvent myself - intuitively chucking everything I had built personally and professionally so that I might be reborn. And here I am. Here I sit. Waiting for my mentor to step out of the fog and invite me back into the artistic fold. Although it has occurred to me that I might need to be a bit more active about finding him or her. Perhaps I cannot hope to just wander into a room this time and be served up with inspiration. Perhaps I need to go out and hunt for it.

Hmm. Tell me a story that makes you tick.

Be well.

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Friday, September 21, 2007

 

Track 37
Originally uploaded by Dano.
EQUINOX
Gratitude for the gift of life is the primary
wellspring of all religions, the hallmark
of the mystic, the source of all true art...
It is a privilege to be alive in this time
when we can choose to take part in the
self-healing of our world.
- Joanna Macy

Today is a special day. First, it is the Autumnal Equinox, which means that the earth is poised equally between light and dark, day and night, before we slip further into the growing darkness and hibernation of the fall. So, it represents a brief moment of balance which only occurs twice a year, a space between the inhale and the exhale.

Second, it is my birthday. I'm 37 today. A good solid number. And a prime number to boot. I've always liked prime numbers - numbers which are only divisible by themselves and 1 - they seem so full of themselves, tributes to individual identity. After the first batch of essential divisors (1, 2, 3, 5, 7), we have 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, and now 37. To me, prime numbers carry a certain amount of potency, a little magic even, and a great deal of mystery.

So, in tribute to the number and the day, I'd like to offer (in no particular order) a list of some things that I'm grateful for:

1) Living this long. By average estimates, my life is half over (or half begun). And yet, I have already lived longer than many people in many places can expect to. I'm grateful to the universe for continuing to give me the resources I have needed to sustain my life.

2) My mother. For being a stay-at-home mom. Something I definitely didn't appreciate enough in the feminist haze of my adolescent and post-adolescent years. But she gave me a lot of time and attention, more than I may be able to muster for my own kids. And it mattered.

3) My father. For many reasons, but especially today for his regular $100 birthday check. It's nice to have a few things you can count on in life. A birthday splurge at the bookstore is a joy I enjoy today courtesy of dad.

4) Swimming. Nothing feels better than the feeling of my body moving through water.

5) Trees. As long as I live, if I have a window to look out with a bit of sky and a tree to see, I'll be okay.

6) The Ocean and the Sky. Whenever I've been sad, depressed, or confused in my life, I find that half an hour gazing at either of these constantly changing marvels sets me right. Tom Robbins says "Spend 1/2 hour every day reading poetry, being in your body, writing with a hard-on (girls too), and looking at the sky." As apt a recipe for a good life as any I've encountered.

7) Chocolate. Especially Lindt milk-chocolate truffles.

8) Fluevog Shoes. A San Francisco treat.

9) Books. Of every stripe, but lately especially memoirs.

10) Money. And that I have enough of it not only to meet my basic needs, but to buy things I love like chocolate and shoes and books.

11) My Health. Specifically the abilities to walk; see; hear; eat, digest and shit without pain; sleep soundly; and grow and carry two babies in my body without undue hardship.

12) Music. There is so much to be grateful for in this category: jazz, new flamenco, the female diva crooners like Annie Lennox and kd lang, taiko drumming, Tchiakovsky, organ music, and my all-time favorite instrumental on the harp guitar "Because It's There" by Michael Hedges.

13) Being born American. This an unexpected and fairly recent gratitude. Despite all that is wrong with our country and all that we have to be embarrassed and ashamed about, as a woman and a citizen, I have more rights, privileges and freedoms being an American than I would as a citizen of most other countries. I have the ability to speak, dress, and work in any way I choose. Something not to be taken for granted.

14) David. I remember being 20 years old and thinking that I would live the rest of my life alone (probably with a bunch of cats), because I couldn't imagine meeting anyone who I could stand to share my life with or who I imagined would want to be with me for that long. We've been together for nearly 15 years, and while there is lots that we struggle with and plenty to still learn about each other, he has been for me and with me through so much. When my mother called at 6am 4 years ago to tell me that my sister had been in a life-threatening accident, I was only able to gasp. David, in his sleep, heard that giant intake of breath and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. He came charging out of the bedroom and threw his arms around me and held me tight, never asking what was wrong, just holding me, containing me, while I cracked and fell apart.

15) My Friends. All the many varied friends I have collected over the years. Especially the ones who keep reaching out to me and pulling me close even when I'm busy and distracted.

...to be continued.

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Sunday, September 09, 2007

 
MIRACLE x 2

One of my favorite intellectual indulgences is engaging in long-winded theological conversations. My good friend J and I use to stay up till all hours in college debating the nature of divinity and the various laws and practices humans have devised to explain and express their connection to it. For my own part, I believe in a kind of universal consciousness and creative force that I call G-d, for want of a better word to describe the expressible. But I've never believed this power was personal: I don't think G-d takes notice of me or the specific circumstances of my life. I think that I hold about the same position in G-d's consciousness as any other living thing: one drop in a really big bucket.

And yet...how to explain the miracle of my daughter's heart. Yes, Baby Pickle has revealed herself to us. We recently had the 2nd ultrasound - the big picture show - and because we had the good fortune of getting a technician-in-training, the test took about an hour (rather than 10 minutes), and we got to see everything. First, as I predicted, Baby Pickle is most likely a girl. I am enormously pleased by this discovery, not only because I felt she was a girl and love having my maternal intuition validated, but because I am really looking forward to having the experience of parenting children of both genders. I am also hoping that Pickle and Gman will find it easier to enjoy and tolerate each other if they are a bit different.

But by far the most amazing part of the ultrasound was the chance to see Pickle's heart. There are several measurements of the heart ultrasound technicians must take to ensure that there are no significant defects, and because ours was a novice, he was having trouble getting his shots. His teacher, a nurse who appeared to be running the whole department, patiently instructed him how to move the ultrasound wand until finally, the entire pulsing organ came into view. It was such an amazingly clear picture, everyone wanted to linger over it. We could see all four ventricles, the arteries leading into and away from the heart, and the pulsating flush of light representing the flow of blood through the heart. "Nice heart," the nurse said after a minute. And I felt a flood of pride: "I made that heart!" And then another flood of wonder: "How is this possible?" How is it possible that one human being can create another inside of them? How is it possible that information encoded on a microscopic scroll could cause the creation of such a complicated, delicate, and beautiful organ. Looking at my daughter's heart, I immediately understood why the organ has become the symbolic seat of the emotions and even the soul in human consciousness. It is the very embodiment of the universal life force that moves through all things with a steady thumping beat. You can live without a brain. You can live without your kidneys. You cannot live without your heart. And looking at this heart, I could suddenly imagine that maybe G-d does take notice of each creature created on her blue globe. I imagined the heart as G-d's pied-a-terre, the place she fills when she comes to visit her creatures in their earthly incarnation.

Now on to the 2nd Miracle. The day after this ultrasound appointment, I got a phone call out of the blue. "Hello, my name is Jeanette. I'm a one-to-one midwife. Can I stop by and see you today?" I've got to give you some backstory so you can fully appreciate the waves of ecstasy that rolled through me when I heard those words. Early in my pregnancy, I became convinced that I wanted to try for a homebirth this time around. I've had several people encouraging me toward this choice - my exceptional midwife L who graciously "specialed" me with my first pregnancy (meaning that she was the only person I saw for my prenatal care and she committed to being at my delivery), my amazing doula R (who I credit with getting me through transition quickly and in a relaxed enough state that I was able to go the distance without the drugs), and my new friend A (who is training to be an antenatal teacher here in the UK). A gave me a fabulous book called "Homebirth" by UK author and midwife Nicky Wesson, and after reading it, I was pretty sure I wanted to try it. However, the book cautioned that while 75 years ago 90% of births were done at home, today the rate is less than 2%! Thus, you can expect to find a lot of ignorance and resistance to homebirth in the mainstream medical establishment.

Flash forward to my first prenatal appointment at around 14 weeks. I saw a woman who it turns out was a midwife (although she never introduced herself to me, nor did she do much beyond taking my blood pressure and asking 3 or 4 banal questions), and I told her that I wanted to have a homebirth. She basically said "Oh, you can't. We don't do that anymore, we don't have the staffing. We used to have this thing called the one-to-one midwife scheme, but it's only available to disadvantaged mothers now." In other words, if I was young, addicted or crazy I could have the blissful experience of seeing the same midwife throughout my pregnancy, and in my own home no less, but since I'm healthy, wealthy and middle-aged, no dice. Now to be fair, the National Health System is extremely strapped at the moment. Later I learned that it was decided at some point to save one-to-one midwifery time for people who otherwise might not receive any prenatal care. This seems like a smart idea. But still, I was flummoxed by the "we don't do that" approach to homebirth. Because not only are the outcomes better in homebirth, it's actually a hell of a lot cheaper for the state than a hospital birth. I mentioned several times during my visit that I would really like to have a homebirth. "I'll put in a request" she said in a bored tone, "but I wouldn't count on it." I figured that was a euphemism for "fuck off," and didn't expect it to go any further.

At my next appointment, at around 16 weeks, I saw the head honcho OB doctor, because I have this little genetic disposition toward developing blood clots, and I needed to check out the implications for the pregnancy. Turns out there are none for the baby (yeah!), although I could potentially croak from a post-partum deep vein thrombosis that develops into a pulmonary embolism (boo!), but the chances of that are very unlikely and it wouldn't develop quickly so there would be time to take some measures to contain it. I asked this Dr. M (a white, middle-aged, ultra-English male) if my condition precluded me having a homebirth. He said no, "but I would advise against a homebirth anyway." Why? Because my first baby was "big" at 9 pounds, 9 ounces, and 2nd babies tend to get even bigger. "We'd worry about shoulder dystocia," (fancy term for baby getting stuck on the way out). Oh, is that all. I laughed it off, because honestly, if you've seen my hips, you know I ain't gonna have no trouble birthin' no big babies.

Turns out, this conservative dude is actually the gatekeeper of my prenatal care. Because at my 3rd appointment (the one where I had the ultrasound), a much friendlier and more informative midwife said "Oh yes, we do do homebirths and we're always looking for candidates," (yeah!) "but Dr. M has said you shouldn't have one, so you'll have to convince him," (boo!) When I asked when and how I could achieve this, she told me I could see him again at 36 weeks. "Isn't that leaving things a bit late," I asked. "Oh no," she chirped, "if he says it's okay then, we can still schedule you for a homebirth." At this point I was 22 weeks (out of 40 total), and I didn't relish the thought of spending 14 weeks worrying about a big showdown with the doctor that would either result in me getting the chance to birth the way I want or in getting forced into doing it their way. Didn't seem like a good plan. But I left the hospital with the grateful knowledge that Baby Pickle is healthy so far and decided that I would hold the intention of a "homebirth" and hope that the universe or G-d was tuning in enough to pick up my broadcast.

The very next day, I got the call from Jeanette, the one-to-one midwife. I waited all day for her to turn up (she was squeezing me in), and when she finally arrived, we spent a relaxed hour together chatting over tea. She took my blood pressure again and measured my belly on the couch, while Gman played happily in his room. She explained that in fact, one-to-one midwifery care is still available for anyone who wants to have a homebirth. And it turns out the first midwife I saw - the surly one who I thought was blowing me off, actually did put in my request, and finally it had been approved, and I was in like Flynn.

I cannot describe the joy I felt that day, and the wonder that after expecting the worst, suddenly the best had become possible. It just goes to show...well, I don't really know what it shows. Except that I am considering it a Miracle - Miracle #2 (the first being Pickle's heart) - and I am so so grateful. "Hold the intention" is becoming a new mantra - a kissing cousin with "Do your part and the universe will do the rest." There are still lots of reasons why I could wind up delivering in the hospital, but I feel like I have done everything I could to create the optimal conditions for this baby to land in the world, and that is a very very good feeling.

May you experience a Miracle in your own life sometime soon. And may you be wise enough to recognize it when it comes.

Be well.

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