born on the day of oscillation

when i was little, i hated bedtime.

there is nothing unusual about that.
but what was and still is the most
challenging aspect of my existence
can be mined from this antagonism.

the concept of end, of closing the page,
of stopping action, and accepting change
toward being restful, peaceful even ---
goes instinctively against everything
i feel in my body and heart
about why i am here.

i am one of those over-inspired weirdos
that loves being, playing, building, laughing,
loving, creating, nurturing --- hell, even
fighting, struggling, crying, stumbling so
wholeheartedly that the concept of this
"ending," even if for a day, brings
such overwhelming sadness that
i cannot breathe or speak.

you might be rolling your eyes at this point
and that's ok.
i hardly ever talk about this because it
makes people very uncomfortable and annoyed.
"do some yoga.  try meditation.
remember reflection brings new energy."
and i appreciate you saying that.
but it's not that simple for me.

containing this well spring of passion
is like trying to embrace a supercell tornado
and sometimes i get so angry at myself
for feeling this way that i try to attack
it too with total apathy, fear, bottles of wine,
---- any myriad of colorful distractions

but no matter what I do, this feeling relentlessly rises.
and as i paddle out into the day
the crests of ideas, beauty, imagination,
and possibility draw me further out
into the prismatic sea, past the break, until I find
the angle and force of the perfect wave
to bring me into something new.
over and over this happens
like riding a great set and
my energy matches and meets the invitation.

until it doesn't and i am so fucking exhausted
that i crash brutally.  i miss a sign, i lose intuition,
i take a drink or 4 to calm down and then it hits me
and sends me to the bottom - the abyss of darkness,
sand packs my nostrils, flailing arms and legs render useless.
i am alone and it is terrifying.
i doubt every part of myself that started the quest,
that believed in my capacity to be so infinite
and i retreat away from love and into self loathing.

i can empathize deeply with those who have
been so consumed by creation that it was their destruction -
we all have our favorite handful of
artists, musicians, scientists, philosophers -
we deeply admire and connect to.
as they lost their minds, hearts, and lives
in this manic/depressive scenario,
we mourned their inability to find a balance.

so what does a person like me do
who loves being alive so much that
she fights, screams, and cries at bedtime
still at 35 years old?

i don't know.  but let me know if you do.

goals

sometimes life is about setting a goal and meeting it
i am meeting it

gatekeeper

as the gatekeeper of a lighthouse, i must close the gate at dusk every night.  time had moved blackness forward and i wandered into it with wet cheeks and a mascara blur.  the white metal barrier awaited my governance - when left open it was access to a northwest nirvana, and when closed resulted in a begrudging reroute with a hefty side of historical disappointment.  and here i am left as the one holding the precious padlock to a person's offbeat travels.

i started to sob wholeheartedly again.  clutching the tiny key in hand, i pictured it as the entrance or exit point of every relationship i've had.  be it the lock down or lock out of a lover, every flavor of this moment landed like chicken bone in my throat and i was gagging on its rigidity as i walked to the gate.

then i heard a sound -- youth suddenly penetrating my monologue of middle-aged medivalism.  a boy and a girl laughing.  talking about the mountain and midterms, about how pretty her eyes were.  that they were in the dark alone.  i froze like a cowboy in a spaghetti western.  these kids were here after hours and i couldn't shut the gate until i escorted them out.  so i approached softly inquiring if they were the inhabitants of the black jetta in the parking lot.

they sweetly apologized and i recanted my efforts as porter by nearly gifting them the beach itself.  "what you're doing is precious,' i said.  (and i want it too.)  "don't stop.  go to another beach and keep talking like this."

they drove away and i locked the gate.
i can't wait to open it again.

robin song

jogging down the road
i found a robin
dead, perfectly.

i knelt down
to study its anatomy
frozen in rapid departure

like an angel fallen
its opal eyes invited
me to cross the veil

in a magnolia leaf
i wrapped the bird
in life

and it sang to
me a chorus of
death, beautifully

one call had bonded
both dawn and dusk
in sacred union

i ran home
to tell my mother
this was so

grandfather clock

in my childhood home, a grandfather clock
watched over the living room
like a scottish grandmother
it rarely ticked, was never touched
but we all knew it was there, making time

one day, with laughter's legs and arms unwound
i collided with the monolith
of oak and glass and gears
the 'clism of time's death 
was like dynamite in a locked box

left without order, i smiled.
_______________________________________
he shut the door
and i lay on the floor
my body in pieces

my hand in chest
and i held my breast
what am i?

i reached within
and let passion begin
between my thighs

a wonderland
and i couldn't stand
that pleasure was mine

in final throws
and i deeply know
love is time.

lovers for love

Do you ever do this?  You sit down on the couch feeling like shit about your world come bedtime and then the guilt hits. Like, “there are people way worse off than you asshole – put on your big girl pants, find your happy, and get over your damn self.”  I just did that whole mantra right there and it wasn’t so great.

Now I'm wondering where you go in your limbo moments?  Cause I’ll tell you where I go – I look up old lovers on Facebook and see what they are up to.

Now, the self-empowered, rebel Julia will regret sharing this vulnerability with you.  But I think there is something here for us both.  When I am feeling scared, unsure, -- at odds, -- I find center staring into the faces of men I’ve fucked wholeheartedly.  Ok, so it’s actually just one guy (“faces” sounds more balanced and poetic) but honestly he is all I need. 

Stick with me.  This isn’t about a 30 something mom retreating into the hells of cyber nostalgia.  In fact, when I look into his dark eyes and thick smirk, I feel no sparkle in my groin or escapist desire for play.  But I do get excited.  I remember what it was like to march my ass onto a train eastbound and ride the zephyr wind with every bit of sex, power, selfhood, and femininity I embodied to freely gift to this chosen sir.  I remember what it was like to say to myself, -- yes, I deserve love -- hot, wild, across the country, passion for no reason other than to confirm my belief in love.  In myself.  And that love was freedom. Unbridled freedom.

Sometimes in my day to day, -- my kid’s cough, my partner’s absence, in big bills, work, daily chaos, changing schedules and monogamy I simply forget that love is freedom.  And I feel guilty because I am struggling to see love smiling at me in all I’ve built.  So I look at my old lover on that flat screen and say, hi there.  Hi love.  I am here.  You are too.  So I ask you as I ask me, how can we make love free right now as a 30 something?  How can we free up love in our lives – in the parts of our lives that aren’t sexy? -- How can I learn to look in the mirror and see what I find in the lines on his face?

I believe.  I love.  I am.  That’s the mantra I'm growing.   

the day the teacher dressed up as a banana

I got caught cheating on a General Science chapter test in 9^th grade.  I went to the Principal’s office and my parents were called.  At home, my folks questioned why I had cheated and I told them that my teacher didn’t care about my learning or even if I attended to class.  I told them that I had no idea what was happening despite daily attendance and the notes I meticulously scribed from each lesson.  Not to mention that he could talk about the minutiae of a cellular reproduction but couldn't connect with a kid to save his life.  My parents seemed to understand my dilemma and didn’t punish me.  They said I should do what it took to make it through the class even if it I meant that I merely survived it.

Sitting in the high school gallows that afternoon shed light on a particular path I chose to walk as I marched into "collegelandia."  The system of education had nothing to do with learning, with integrity, or collaboration.  It was about working the system so you didn’t get worked.  And so I did just that and did so very well.

Academically, I have received numerous awards of excellence, outstanding GPAs, and full ride scholarships.  But not because I understood or could practice the “material.” I could play the hearts of teachers - teachers who were rarely acknowledged or appreciated as masters of anything.  I realized that I could get the best grade in the class by simply being a friendly face to a figurehead that desperately needed a smile from the crowd. 

During my undergrad work at a popular university in Washington State, I received a 96% on a critical final exam in a 350 level class though the majority of what I wrote in 6 or 7 pages was inaccurate garbage.  I penned paragraphs of wild make-believe across the short answer and essay portions of the exam but I believe it was because I looked the professor, who happened to be an audacious French-Canadian male, directly in the eye each day with a particular sparkle that he so foolishly granted me such success in his course.  He obviously didn’t read a single word I wrote but saw I had applied myself in an academic fashion to the task and knew my name and face from class. 

Education was an extrinsic game of faking it and receiving accolades for my charmed performances.  It was when I graduated with my BA from The Evergreen State College that I realized I might not actually be able to act this way off the academic stage and in the “real world.”  It was a truly terrifying moment.  I listened to a lot of Jimmy Buffet, which added insult to injury.  I was miserable, insecure and out of total desperation accepted a menial job at the local newspaper so that my friends and family would see me utilizing my degree in the working world.  I actually engaged very diligently in the tasks of my new job as the Newspaper In Education Coordinator at first.  I worked out of a tiny cubicle in the basement and spent long days trying to build connections between the newspaper and schools in subscribing districts.  No one noticed my drive and certainly no one commended my efforts.  I came home every night exhausted and unraveled.  I reminded myself of the dozens of teachers I had just bamboozled in my undergrad work.  I, too, was in need of a smiling face and a little recognition.

After completing a big marketing project for the newspaper to which no one acknowledged, I got flaming pissed.  I said, fuck this.  I started exercising at the YMCA during work hours and even grabbed a beer on the clock without remorse or even concern.  I felt empowered again.  Punk rock even.  And suddenly everyone started noticing me.  My boss began giving me positive comments on the work I actually wasn’t doing any more.  It seemed the more I screwed off, the more everyone cheered.  It was confusing and by all means reinforcing of my bad behavior.  On my last day, (I had to quit before I was figured out), they threw me a catered party.  I remember feeling sick eating the food and felt a deep sense of relief that this chapter of mockery had ended. 

But alas, I had a degree and no job so without much depth of thought packed up and moved to Reno to start fresh.  At the time, 2004, the economy in “the biggest little city” was growing exponentially.  Californians were buying up land like Cinnabuns on a Sunday.  Schools were being built to house all the incoming kids and there were certified teaching jobs for anyone with a BA in freaking anything.  Sold.  I took a gig in a slum called Stead just north of Reno.  An old WW2 air force base, Stead had a smelly garbage dump, some single-wide track homes, and an elementary school called Desert Heights.  I worked in the Life Skills Classroom for 4^th-6^th graders with a full spectrum of special needs.  Autism, fetal alcohol, mental retardation, Down’s syndrome, severe behavior issues to name a few.  Having never spent an hour with anyone, adult or child, grappling with any of these challenges and having no training in how to support children with special needs or even how to care for their physical demands - seizures, diapering/toileting, feeding, non-verbal communication - I came home from the first day and said to myself, what in the bloody hell was I thinking?

I remember drinking most of a terrible bottle of wine that night trying to devise a plan of how the heck I was going to keep everyone alive including myself, let alone, how I was actually going to be able teach anyone anything.  Near the end of the bottle it hit me: that the kids held all the answers I needed.  So I went to school with a bit of a head ache the next morning determined to sit with every kid and hear from each one of them what they wanted and needed from me.  Now mind you, some of the kids in my class were non-verbal or only spoke in single word responses but I made sure to engage with every student and to create a way for everyone to respond.  When I explained to the class that I would be asking each of them what he or she needed from me to thrive, immediately every student was attentive and excited.  And as I sat with each of them one by one throughout the day, I was amazed that I was able to understand so clearly what was expressed despite the many barriers. We were truly communicating heart to heart and I found a newfound sense of calm, which replaced the overwhelming fear of failing them.

I took notes throughout the day on the board and then as a class we created a chart called, “What I Need From Ms. A.”  One child, who was diagnosed with both Down’s syndrome and mental retardation, gave me a giant hug as her response.  So every day I made sure to give her a big bear hug hello and an equally joyful hug goodbye to start and end her time in class.  Another child with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome said he needed 3 sharp pencils on his desk at all times.  So I sharpened 50 or so pencils and made sure he had access to them throughout the day.  The students asked me what I needed from them before the end of class that day.  I was stunned and I couldn’t respond because no one had ever asked me that in a classroom or professionally.  I was brutally speechless and told them I would think that night and let them know the next day.  I went home and walked along the Truckee River for hours grappling with how I would respond and with the feeling of not knowing what I needed. 

The next morning, I started class by reviewing everyone’s needs and then I added my own to the list: "Miss Julia wants to share something she is thankful for each day and needs to laugh with her class at least once every day."  I felt like in that moment, I dropped into the class as me.  It was actually that simple.  Everyone could see the chart and over time, I noticed kids attending to and supporting each other’s needs.  And they attended to my needs.  Kids would bring in funny stories and jokes and we would have a comedy corner each day where we would just laugh together.  I made sure to share what I was thankful for and I found it a useful tool that did help me to move past moments of feeling overwhelmed.  The Needs List was a beautiful exercise that built on itself throughout the year and we grew to treasure each other’s needs.  I found that when everyone, including the teacher herself, had his or her needs identified and acknowledged, a sense of real freedom, safety, and love developed amongst a very diverse group of people. 

I spent my time in class deeply loving all 14 of those kids as my own.  The only time I won gambling in my life was that year in Reno, playing the Wheel of Fortune slot machine at the Silver Legacy Casino the night before Thanksgiving.  I looked her in the rainbow flashing eyes and said, I need to win money so each of my kids can have Santa Claus this year.  Every child in my classroom believed in Santa, yet under half had ever received a present from the elf himself.  As I pulled that lever, I muttered my promises – and went up a hundred dollars immediately off one dollar.  Before 5 minutes had passed, I was up to nearly $450 – the amount I was holding as what I needed to buy everyone a Santa gift.  I cashed out and celebrated.  Working with everyone’s parents, I went to the toy store, bought, wrapped, and made every parent pinky swear to me that his or her child would receive the gift on Christmas morning from Santa.  This was a true test in trust as some of my kiddos parents weren’t exactly folks who had earned such privileges.  But I had faith.  And when we returned from Winter Break, it was so joyfully confirmed that Santa had successfully made it to everyone’s house.  It was an incredible moment for me as a woman who deeply believes in facilitating magic and as a teacher who wanted all her kids to feel special that Christmas morning.

Such connection with and affection for these brilliant children in Stead inspired me to return to higher education with a passion to learn more techniques and tools for supporting the learning and lives of children, especially those facing real physical and emotional challenges.  I applied a few months before that school year ended in Stead, to The Evergreen State College’s Master in Teaching program and was accepted.  I knew this return to schooling would look and feel nothing like what I had experienced prior.  I wanted to learn more than I wanted to be rewarded.  I wanted to be the raw and real me in class as I had been in Stead, rather than the smiling student formerly known as Julia.  I had no idea how I would do this because I never had in academia.  But I went to Olympia and showed up to the MIT Orientation week scared completely shitless and ready for something I had never experienced.