sipping stardust

he unscrews the lid.
i peer into
the depths of a jar.

we hiked up the bluff
of my childhood haunt
to help fly her home.

mom’s ashes clutched
in dad's palm,
a bottle of wine
in mine.

we take turns talking
about her,
tears choking
syllables
from our sentences

a breathless pause,
we watch her rise 
to a tempestuous wind
engulfing us whole.

i look to dad,
ash matted to face,
sobbing, smiling
both of us standing cliff side
coated in mom.

raising a dusty bottle,
we drank to her love,
her love into us,
sipping stardust.

underneath

"momma, can we go outside? i want to hug the bees. i know they will want to play today. i just know it."
She shot me the, for god's sake not again, look - how many times can a kid get stung before she stops this?
"now sweetie, the bees are very busy and can't understand that you want to play with them. please stay away from the rhododendron and find something else to do."
Like any willful four year old, I sure as hell was going straight for that giant bee-filled bush. I entered into the lush igloo, looking to make sure my momma wasn't watching me. In I sat, beneath the magenta blossoms that swirled in fragrant layers above me. I could hear my momma's voice and smell cigarette smoke, which meant she was on the phone.
I'm underneath, in my own world of right and wrong and no one knows I'm here. Except the bees. And today they will stop to play.
"hi, it's me. will you play with me today?"
With a grin of assuredness, I reached my small hand upward into the canopy of flowers filled with bees of all sizes and kinds. My prowling fingers approached a fat bumblebee dusted in furry pollen. Like a prospector to gold, I carefully plucked the bee from the blossom. Bang, I was shot in the palm and throbbing pain ensued.
Deep within, a fury rose from my stomach to chest, chest to mouth. No, no don't scream Julia or momma will know you are here again and she told you not to. She told you not to play with bees.
Underneath, I listened to the cacophony of their wings as my hand throbbed in unison. My momma laughed in the background and I realized she still hadn't seen me in the forbidden bush. I looked at my hand covered in holes and bumps from previous stings and then at the fresh stinger lodged in it. It hurt so badly. Why wouldn't they play with me?
I closed my eyes, laid down and smelled the grey smoke wafting between branches.
Underneath, I wanted to love and I wanted to play. But it sure did hurt. Tomorrow, I would try again.

middle school dance

cue up —

song, strap in, reverse out.
coffee hot to hand,
to work now.

Grocery store
parking lot, 8am -
construction crews,
parent/toddler:
Destruction view.

lip gloss to face, bass to street.
Drive. Shoulder dance.
Live beats.

you. White truck.
Right there, on a sharp left.
Ladder on top.
Yearn. regret.

closer; closely.
your face. Shuttering.
hands sweat.
Shit. still driving.
Eyes met.

bumper to bumper
awkward dancers,
Middle school madness -
car wipers thumping.

song ends. Silence slips.
Coffee on my lip -
I go. you park.
2 passing ships.

Missing the mark.

an open letter to darkness

On October 29, 2016, I was drugged, raped and physically assaulted on the island that raised me. I went for a glass of wine at 5pm to a local establishment where I was known by name before attending a spooky Halloween play, Darkness Illuminated. I tipped the bartender and drove eagerly to the art center, excited to experience live theatre and see one of my dearest friends perform. The venue was bustling with grinning faces, most of whom I knew, and I mingled happily among them.

When I was introduced to a friend of my friend, I realized something was profoundly wrong with me. I could hear and see everything but my response sat like cement in my head. I couldn’t speak or formulate sentences. Blushing embarrassment painted my face. What the hell was happening? I had been stressed beyond reason with the recent death of my mom and going through the agony of divorce, but how could this be happening – especially in a moment when I was entrenched in public and wanting to be supportive of my friend.

The lights flashed, and I found a seat hoping to recover and reengage in my night out. After 10 minutes, my hearing was also gone – I could see everything happening on the stage but I was completely cut from the audible world surrounding me. I trembled in terror – was I having a complete melt down? Sweat ran down my forehead. I had to escape. I ran to the door of the art center facing the parking lot. I looked into a sea of darkness with cars like beacons of color facing me. 

Where had I parked? I had no memory of parking. God damnit. How could I be this fucked up after a glass of wine? Darkness. Like a short circuit in my brain, I was in my car but no memory of how I found it. Just me suddenly sitting in the driver’s seat in front of Minglement. Pumpkins with faces smiled at me. I was crying. Fuck you Julia. I was so angry at myself. I ran away from the theatre, my friend, and I was fucking imploding. I hated myself in this moment sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, grateful for my car, but I was loathing myself. My last memory of the night. Hating myself for losing control. 7:08pm. Darkness. Silence. Darkness.

When I opened my eyes I was in a bed. Naked. There was a man. Frozen I laid there blinking. In excruciating pain, I blinked more. I remained perfectly still. I felt my breath and I wanted my life so bad. Would I ever see or hold my kids again? I started to panic. But I just blinked. The man moved. I thought about running out the door but I didn’t know where I was, if I was on Vashon, if outside was safer than inside. I wanted my life but somehow it had been taken from me. The TV showed the time on a blue screen. It was 5:37am. I looked at the man. I had never seen him before. I had zero memory of anything past the art center – but how was that possible? I had to make it out of this moment so I could understand why.

I slid to the floor in search of my pants, purse, anything that was mine. Where was my reality? He sat up like he had been awake and asked if I was ok. I begged him to help me get home. I told him I didn’t know what had happened or why I was there. I was at his total mercy. He spoke very little but knew right where my car was and said he would return me there. I collected the rest of my things from around his room. My pants had buttons and the buttonholes were torn through. I got in his car shaking and realized I was in Gold Beach. I felt a sense of relief but I knew I wasn’t safe. I felt ashamed. I hurt. I had double vision. My head pulsed in pain. My left shoulder felt broken. I apologized to him. He told me not to be sorry. I wanted to kill him. But I just kept thanking him in hopes he would bring me closer to my kids.

My car was parked behind the pharmacy in the spot I always park when I go uptown. I shut his car door. I watched him leave into the early morning darkness. I sat in my car alone. I exploded like Beowulf screaming.

My dad. My kids. My friend. They thought I was dead. I disappeared. They were out searching all night in the darkness for me. I had done the unthinkable - I left and didn’t come home. I was so angry at myself. How had this happened? I hated the darkness. I hated that I had no memory beyond sitting in my car by the pumpkin heads. I felt completely at fault – grown adults didn’t do horrible things like this to people they love.

Swedish hospital with my dad followed. Something happened, he knew it and demanded we get answers. Get help with this mystery. A seizure maybe? I was in horrible pain. Battling flashbacks of awakening to the stranger in bed next to me. The nurse took my blood. Rape kit. I saw the bruises on my body. Rape kit. She did too. I shivered. I still couldn’t see. I wanted to vomit. My heart raced.

You’ve been drugged Julia, look at the test results. Drugged? What? What does that mean? Have you heard of date rape drugs – you have one in your system. Drugged. One glass of wine at 5:30pm. Drugged. The darkness – that happens when the drugs take effect. You probably will never remember what happened that night. Maybe that’s a good thing.

A good thing. Someone had released a serpent into my bloodstream and I was consumed whole, inside out. A good thing to be alive, yes. But I knew as the nurse was talking and I put my clothes back on that I would have an epic battle of rebuilding myself. To live through this now that I had my life.

3 years ago, I left home to have a glass of wine in a local establishment and lost my life for 10 hours. I woke up in a man’s bed and I was no longer the Julia I had been for 36 years. I was a victim. I was hurt badly. I couldn’t trust anyone or anything that I had built my life upon. But I had belief. I had believers who saw and never questioned my pain, who brought me to help, who loved me when I felt unloveable. Who didn't let me abandon love.

I learned bad things happen to good people. I knew I wasn’t alone in the darkness so I started sharing my story. And I found many people like myself who had been hurt, hurt in this same establishment, who were silently hating themselves, who had been assaulted years ago and had never felt safe to

verbalize the horror. I found love in these hollows of horror. I felt like my experience wasn’t in vain because I was helping other people unlock avenues of healing.

Together we were shoulder to shoulder marching ourselves and each other out of darkness.

Trauma disconnects us. It beheads us from our heart. Be the light that shines in the face of fear. Believe survivors of violence because your belief makes it possible to reengage and live in a world that has betrayed you. Belief enables healing. Believe survivors and help illuminate the darkness. Thank you to each of you who has held me, believed me, protected me, and loved me through my process of illumination.

Thank you for being the light.

the last hurrah

With breakfast in our bellies, my children eagerly engaged Grandpa in a cutthroat game of Go Fish.  They delighted in my parents coming for a visit to the island and had drafted a tight schedule of activities and adventures for Grandma and Grandpa.  I was washing up the last of the dishes when my mom approached as though holding a mischievous secret.  “Let’s get ready for our lunch date.  What do you think?” Perplexed by her offer, as we had just eaten, I flashed her a curious smile.  We had a long-standing tradition of noon rendezvous, just the two of us feasting and delving into a myriad of conversational topics.  It was sacred mother daughter time so when she called me to court I didn’t so much as question her intentions.

I kissed the heads of those blissfully lost in play and we headed to the car.  Once we sat, my mom grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes.  “This is the last time I will be able to come and visit you.  Here’s what I want to do darling.  Drive us to the grocery store.  Buy me a bottle of white, buy yourself a bottle of red and we will head to Dockton Park.  I have things I need to tell you.”

Struck in this moment, I realized my mother was dying.  All the talk about cancer, treatments or lack there of, and hospice had not prepared me for the sudden acknowledgement that I would lose my mother.  This was it.  Our last hurrah. 

“You got it momma.”  I wasn’t drinking at the time because I was emotionally at war and alcohol fueled the enemy.  But hell if I wasn’t going to drink with my mother on this day.  In godspeed there we were, 10am in the store buying wine.  No food.  We didn’t have time.  And we marched back to the car and drove straight to the park.

The bitter February rain relentlessly pelted the car.  We parked in the upper parking lot looking out into the gray face of winter.  Raising our bottles, we drank like two queens of the Nile.  Time ceased and the water of Quartermaster Harbor froze before us.  The car erupted with laughter and rich stories, reflections, and gratitude. Everything came flying out of this 35-year-old cornucopia of memories. As we neared the bottom of our bottles my mother was preparing for a last toast.  She went to pour into her paper cup and missed it completely hosing the entire center console in sweet elixir. Tears of hilarity folded us together. Arm in arm, love engulfed us whole. 

Several hours passed.  It was time to take mom home. Like bringing a drunk teenager in after curfew, I snuck her past the watchful eyes of my father and tucked her into bed.  She definitely needed a nap. I lifted the blanket up to her cold hands and put my lips to her cheek.  Tears traversed our faces.  “Sleep well momma.”  Her eyes closed and I stood there marveling at each breath of her body until the sound of my son calling me drew me from the room. 

bad seeds

Sitting on the edge of my daughter’s bed, my face approached hers for a fare well kiss.  Abruptly, she shifted to pierce my weary eyelids.  “Mom, I heard someone was gonna come to the high school with a gun and hurt people.  I’m really scared and I don’t think I can sleep.”

Like any mom, this was alarming on two fronts: I was genuinely terrified that my child was terrified and I was terrified that my child was telling me she wouldn’t be able to sleep.  In that moment, I reached into the depths of my toolbox and there I found a bag of seeds. 

“Mirabelle, I want to share with you a precious gift that was given to me when I was feeling afraid.  So shut your eyes and listen.  Imagine that you are holding a bag of seeds.  In your bag of seeds are seeds that can grow many beautiful things – magnificent flowers of every color and fragrance, ideas that have yet to be imagined, feelings of joy that never leave you.  And in this bag are also seeds that can grow thoughts that will cause you worry and uncertainty.  Seeds that grow thorns and darkness.  Seeds that are exhausting to sow and that can overgrow your other seeds if you are not careful.

So now reach into your bag and pick each seed intentionally.  You decide where each one will grow and what you want to plant.  Place each one slowly and carefully. There is no right or wrong.  Only your intention.

Once all your seeds are planted, pat the ground and water your seeds right before you go to bed.  As you sleep, your seeds will grow.  And when you wake up, you will be surrounded by whatever you have planted and nurtured.”

After a deep pause, her eyes opened into mine. 

“Mom, we have to have bad seeds don’t we?  Because if we didn’t have bad seeds we wouldn’t know what we really wanted or see how beautiful our good seeds are.  I’m always going to plant a few bad seeds but I’m going to put a fence around them so they don’t mess up my garden.”

In that moment, I imploded with reverence for my child’s wisdom.  Yes, we do need bad seeds because they teach us vulnerability, presence, and to love passionately and choosingly. 

I put my lips to Mirabelle’s cheek and wrapped my arms around her as it was time to let sleep take precedence.  Pulling back from her body in the darkness of her room, I saw her small hand reaching into her bag of seeds.  And I knew something amazing was about to grow.

into the deep

Recklessly, I wrangled my winter coat over my pajamas. The light had retired early and the netherworlds beneath a towering stand of Douglas fir were calling. Affectionately known as the “Deep Dark Woods” this nocturnal vaudeville housed a family of Great Horned Owls that my dad had been coveting for months.

Pouring himself a generous glass of scotch, my dad swept the tumbler to his fingers and took my hand in his other.  My heart took to flight and I held tight to his thick palm knowing that anything was game if I let go. Haunting shadows and menacing sounds sparked an imaginative playground in my mind as we ventured further from home and closer to the woods.

There were rules of engagement out here that were never to be tested.  Silence was mandated with an occasional inquisitive whisper reluctantly accepted.  Beneath the giant bows we stood and I couldn’t see anything other than the dark figure of my dad.  “Don’t move kid.”  After a few minutes my dad had spotted an owl and it was crucial that it did not know we were there.  I strained to see anything but layers of darkness only revealed more darkness and I buried my head into my dad’s thick side feeling petrified as only a 5 year old can.

Like a knife cutting through a wizard’s cloak, the magnificent creature pierced the absence of sound nearly knocking us to the ground. A sharp squeal erupted from the forest floor as the bird lifted its prey back to the branches above.  Admiration and remorse swept across my chest, as though I had just witnessed a gunslinger’s shoot out.  Sensing moral conflict, my dad squeezed my hand twice which meant it was time to return to our house.  As we stepped between tangles of underbrush, the glow of civilization returned, as did the breath into my lungs.  I tugged for my dad to come down to meet my chilled face.  “Thank you for taking me to the night daddy.”  I kissed his cheek and he remained silently smiling.

in memorandum

I slipped from the feathers of my bed into a game of nature’s spades.  Wet leaves and tannic blackberry notes swept across the freshly soaked concrete drive.  I inhaled my first cup of coffee as a sailor takes to sweet-spiced rum.

Under a cacophony of electrical rage, my feet quickly escorted me away from the drumming of thunder towards the steep grade out of Point Robinson Park.

I heard the jester, Raven, call out to me from the west.  I positioned his cackle above a young buck car-struck near mid-rise of the slope.  Celebrating in the fragrance of decomposition, he beckoned me to join him in a hearty memorandum.

For three days the foul scent of the stiffened beast caused me raw discomfort every time I passed by. I fought a strong repulsion and trudged on to meet the spot of slaughter.  Raven perched alone in the bow of a bent alder. Below, lay blood stained hair and grass interwoven but the lifeless deer was gone. Death incarnate had disappeared and I was left staring at the empty space demarcated.  Like a crime scene freshly cleared, I bowed in reverence for all mortal beings brought in and out of body.

Raven was quiet.  As was I.  Thunder ceased and I returned home with wet feet and a steady beat in my chest.

a letter to loss

When you ask me how I’m coping with the recent loss of my mother, my response reflects the confusion of a Magic 8 Ball:

I’m OK.  I’m so fucked up.  I’m lugging around a screaming heart in my chest.  I’m a whitewater of love.  I’m wickedly blind.  I’m dying.  Come back later.

And it’s hard not to be hard on myself.  See, there I go again.  But the truth is, no one really knows how to accept death because every death is different.  Well, there are a handful of folks who seem to have a grasp, but as a person staring into the shadows of loss, I can say there are more unmarked trails than lit ones. 

There is no 12-step plan to manage or to stop this grief.  I’m suspect to the negligence of any claims that love will obey and isn’t ruled by total chaos because the deeper penetrated my arterial vein, the more I spin into the unknown, be it into ecstasy or horror.  Or both.  Most certainly into both. 

The best response I can give you right now is that I am learning to be a constant dancer.  I birthed both of my babies while fearlessly swaying and stomping across wooden floors, so it figures that in the face of death I’d be sweaty in the core of the mosh pit.  Every day reflects a newfound embodiment of letting go.  Interpretive dance at its rawest. 

Some days I’m arm and arm with love.  My mother is so close I can feel her peppery breath to my cheek, and the warmth of her fingers on my shoulder.  Other times I’m standing alone at the middle school dance, paralyzed and awkwardly reaching out for hope, for a body, only to find false idols and blisters. 

Then comes Sunday, the day my mom left her life, when I hit into textured walls of nostalgia and longing.  My nose bleeds and the ache burns my bare feet up to my chest and out through my skinny arms.  I look for her and she is nowhere.  I call for her into darkness.  Like a child in the throes of tantrum, I scream violently for her throwing myself against the door that separates us until I succumb to surrender.

This continues day after day, week after week.  And damn, the only thing I know is that I’m so thankful my mother taught me to dance in our living room.  Without those moves I’d have no idea how to waltz with life and with death now. One step at a time.

 

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. 

unbuckle

i buckle into a window seat of flight 2252.  thirst wrinkles my skin.  48 hours of talking love in reno has me pickled and cumbersome.  i'm verging on airborne, which no amount of booze or physics can remedy.  there is a big man on my left wielding a book: "liberty defined."  we are taxiing toward take off.  sweat, like a desert spring, licks my barren faceland.  
we leave earth on a head wind and she is blowing hard.  i am about to come, undone.  wings wobble and i look down upon my thighs cemented to the seat.  spread thin, i recite: "i believe, i love, i am." ascending and above the sagebrush and single wides, i rise.  up and down like passionate breath and body, i want to scream - to revel in this turbulent ride.  
"remain buckled until the plane reaches altitude"  reaching climax, i find relief in her vantage point.  we are fucking held above the clouds, bumps, and humps.  
they roll out the cart with wine, beer, and coca-cola.  i celebrate with a shot of merlot.
love is the only thing i can comprehend high.  past and present.  child and lover.  i am consumed.
"love is my greatest strength."
yes it is.  my hand holds me whole.  and the big man smiles.

headline haiku

old men, young wine

desert dog, worm hole, underpants

neighbor's nuts, bittersweet

lover's quarrel, quarantined

stolen bra, pistol whipped, red

unidentified man, invades skirt, imprisoned

burning man, eczema

wizard sleeve soliloquies

northbound numb nuts

eat halloween

a one woman act

what would happen if you gave one woman
a bottle of wine and internet access?

first, she will go into the bathroom
and meticulously cut her hair
(she has no hair)
so perhaps she is seeking a sense of control and
hair manipulation is her domain.

nonetheless, she will settle into the kitchen table
and start to write.

she might remember that she was eager for this
evening time alone.
that she tucked her children into bed
and was looking forward to a sense of freedom of

self.

but when it came time, it brought a friend named

alone.

there are times to be.
she is not afraid of being.
but there are times she yearned
for connection.

for the night at the neighborhood bar.  the dinner party.
the person on the train rubbing her feet.
instead, she was staring at a tree full of lights,
a dishwasher running, and Facebook
remembering when there were adults
(or kids playing adults) available
for wining, dining, and (shhh...)
playful debate.

there are moments like this
when she thinks about waking
her children from slumber and declaring
"oops, i was wrong.  let's keep screaming,
singing, throwing food, and getting frustrated
at what we can't do yet."

please come back.

but that has never happened.
she is smart enough to write instead.
sometimes she calls and leaves you a
wacky voicemail (insert laughter)

but for now, she fills her glass and smiles.
sometimes there isn't an answer.
but there always is something.

undertaking

careening across portland,
a light found me

he kneeled in cigarette butts
and held a sign

"No work.  No hope.  Help."

with 54 cents, i rolled down the window
but he took a buck from a bmw

good.  i figured

and then i remembered something.

the love i've felt
for friends, lovers, a job, a thing

was a choice.

was this love worth the work?

being in love is showing up to work
and there is hope in work.

i hope that helps.