Daughter # 2 - Hannah Rose

So..I didn't realize that I was pregnant for a little while. This caught me off-guard and perhaps plays into why Satori was such a fussy, hungry baby. Even so, it was a magical pregnancy. We moved out into the country, I planted an herb garden and fabulous vegetable garden which just produced and PRODUCED. And, as usual, it was a long, hot Indiana summer. Tori was learning to talk a little bit...and I was trying to teach her to say "rose"...she kept saying something that sounded like Anna and then she'd spit out "rose." And so, Hannah was named. I knew she was a girl, but just in case, Jesse Daniel was our backup.

Hannah came late...way late, almost five weeks late. Our midwife needed to leave town for 48 hours. Oh sure, go ahead, what are the chances she will pick these 48 hours to make her appearance? And of course, that's exactly what she did. We had a new midwife as our backup. I kept hoping I was mistaken and "this" would wait for our beloved friend to return. But no.

When I woke my husband he asked if he should call Midwife and I said, "no! don't wake her yet, it has to hurt first!" Fortunately, he did not listen to me and made the call. Midwife RUNS in the door, escorted by Husband who had heard her car. She arrives barely in time to don gloves and then Hannah was in my arms. In less than 3 hours, without one moment of pain, Hannah Rose was here. It can happen...no pain, not one. Easy, perfect, everything as it should be unless you count my slight hemmorhage right after. I insisted on getting a shower and fainted on my way there. Honestly, I felt just fine - until I hit the floor. We managed the situation and from that moment on, everything was perfect. Tori was delighted with her new sister, she was perfectly healthy and the world seemed like a wonderful place to be. Our life was magical.

While Tori was thin and fussy, Hannah was fat and juicy and calm - she seemed happy all the time and rarely fussed. She nursed like a trooper and gained weight easily. I can still recall the moments of nursing the two of them. Or winters (we moved back into the city when Husband changed jobs) walking in the snow to my friends house; Hannah in the front pack Snuggly, and Tori in the backpack. I honestly have a hard time remembering a happier time in my life. My marriage was in the beginning state of crumbling - but we did not know that. Our children were beautiful and my days were filled with a bit of domestic bliss.

As a toddler, of course there were "play dates." I was shocked when mothers would call and request specifically, Hannah's visit. I was hurt that Tori was often excluded. I chocked it up at that time, and maybe still do a bit, to Hannah having blond hair, blue eyes and being so "easy."

But, as "easy" as she could be, she was often quite difficult. As she grew older, Hannah had a fierce independence and often disappeared. I remember more than once calling the sheriff, only to find Hannah at a neighbor's playing with her friends. Once, at the state fair she got away from me - and after moments of heartstopping fear, we found her closeby, talking to an Indian. He gave her a prayer fan. Her spiritual life developed quickly. She was thoughtful and often questioned and demanded explanations. And, like me, and Tori too, she could sing. Hannah still has one of those high, squeaky kind of speaking voices. It's getting deeper as she grows older, but often, say, on the phone, you might think you were speaking to a child if you did not know. She had the sweetest singing voice.

One horrible day (I had accepted that Tori, Hannah and Daughter #3 wished to attend "real" school). Hannah wanted to sing in the choir. According to her child's explanation; Hannah was rejected - with unkind words. Hannah, from that moment forward, would never sing again. I am not exaggerating; I mean NEVER. Such a loss, such a sorrow for us all. That story still makes me cry and secretly cheer with a radical, almost angry cry, when I read homeschooling blogs. But this little story foreshadows some of what Hannah is to become. Such stubbornness you will not encounter often. As a teenager, if in trouble, she would often go for days without speaking. Seriously. What do you do with a child who refuses to speak? She was certainly more strong willed than I. I was not prepared.

I would like to end Hannah's story here. For now, I would like to linger in that memory of happiness. I will begin again, soon, with the story of Hannah's adolescence. But this memory is sweet, and I will savor it for awhile.

~Lee

Opens the Door

The initial posts from LibrarianLee are now posted below. I fudged with the dates a little bit so that those posts would appear below the welcome message. And now, the welcome mat is out, the neon's turned on and we're ready to go. Over the next few days I'll get some appropriate side bars and spruce up the place a little bit. And sometime this weekend, I'll continue writing my story.

I feel like I should use this space to say something inspiring, or at least witty about why I'm writing. I've nothing much to say, except that I must write it. Perhaps the why will become clear as the story unfolds.

~Lee

Welcome

If you've followed me from LibrarianLee, I'd like to thank you very much. After all those early comments I made, about not fragmenting myself into work blog, family blog, craft blog, I find that I am doing just that.

Several days ago, I ran into several blogs from mothers worried about children, especially teens. Reading those experiences propelled me into my own history; some very dark days and into the memory of some very fine, all-is-right-with-the-world days. I felt urged, almost compelled to share those stories. I felt like kind of urging that I have always imagined to come from another place - or, just the places hidden deeply inside of me which need to be heard. And so, obedient to the urge, I began writing. I cannot tell you, despite the sometimes overwhelming sobs which consumed me during that writing process, how absolutely liberating was the experience. I felt a healing begin. And, I know the worst of it is not over - the sobs will consume me again, but also I hope, so will the joys of my story.

Even though I felt the warmth and peace of healing begun, I did not like some of the emails which I started to receive. I didn't really think that "anyone" read my blog. "Anyone" meaning, lots of strangers. Strangers it appears who in kindness were alarmed and worried for me, or other strangers who made some judgments and felt that maybe the "Five-good-things", cheery, Dollie making Lee wasn't totally real and who felt deceived. Then, there were those who did not appreciate my language, others who questioned me sharing such intimate, personal detail.

And so I've decided that those stories need their own place. They are not separate from Dollie making, kind of knitter, crafter, librarian Lee. They just need their own room. And I'm glad you've come by.

I won't post here as frequently as I post on LibrarianLee....it's harder work, it's emotional, it's peeling away and sometimes it stings. Making dollies and "stuff", talking about cooking and librarianing are all parts of the healing too; and much easier to write - I feel almost normal when I do those things, happy, like maybe I've managed to come through (which I hesitate to say because I know that I might have to "go back in" any minute) with some semblance of talent, personality and just plain old fun life.

So, I'll begin the process of moving my story posts over to this blog, and at some point soon, I'll continue with the story, I'll continue being obedient to the urge I felt, and still feel, to journey back. I hope you'll stick around and continue to witness the process. Thank you.

The planet shifts - one of the Happy Endings to a Story which has Not Ended

Tori had begun to figure it out. It took a little while, there were several false starts, fits and bursts but gradually, my daughter was returning. She found herself a new boyfriend, we'll call him Boy with a Pure Heart and Deep Wounds. Or, Pure, for short. Satori went back to school, got her GED, enrolled in school to be a Medical Assistant, passed with flying colors and went to work at a doctor's office. During this time, Satori and Pure gave us Niamh LeeAnn. My first grandchild. Ha! She hated me. She did, I swear! Well, the truth is, she hated everyone but her mother. In her mother's absence, she wailed, much like Satori had done, save that Satori could comfort her. In Tori's presence she was smart, funny, quick and precocious just like her mother. During this time #2 had also experienced a dramatic shift, and her life was going very well. The blank spaces now shift to #3 and #4 (You had to know that it couldn't be all good didn't you?).

I do not wish to belabor what happens next. I've gotten so many emails worried about me, and some indicating shock. Enough so that I question whatever it was that urged me to tell this story. So again, I will say it really fast, skip over details and hope that you read fast. There were four of them (my memory falters, perhaps it was six?) The rumor tells us that they were sent either by VEB, or that they were looking for VEB. Whichever, VEB is at its root - and remains one of the reasons I cannot say his name.

Satori and Pure had begun to buy a home. They were being "regular" folk, gardens, lawn mowing, painting. It all seemed so positive, so NORMAL. But then, there they were, these intruders. My daughter phones me from the hospital and arrived later at my home. Even I did not know all of the details for many years. My daughter's face, and Pure's were such that I had not seen even during the Black Years of VEB. And our precious Nia had seen it all. The hate is distant from my heart now, never fresh as in those days, but always there. VEB has somehow gotten himself involved with Pure's sister - they have a child together, Nia's cousin and I still cannot quite wrap my mind around that. But it is our reality. VEB lives now somewhere on the West Coast, but he remains legend...and threat.

Satori moves to Colorado in order to distance herself from further threat. We are told that both Pure's mother and I were, at that time, on "the list" and our lives rotated around fear and becomes a good portion of why I now live in Seattle. While in Colorado, Tori works hard but it becomes evident that Pure's deep wounds will not allow him to sustain support for his family. They return to Indiana and Tori tries hard to support them all as Pure cannot sustain consistent income for any length of time. I am sorry for Pure, I love Pure - I think of him as my family, but a family member that cannot be, at this time, a real participant in family life. I see in him Husband, who is by now, Ex-husband. I am not sorry that Satori left him. It had to be done.

On one hot, searing, Indiana night, I sat with Satori on the porch of her home. It is then that she reveals to me the real details of the Night of the Intruders. I will not shock you with the details. My daughter told them as if she were telling a story that had happened to someone else. My daughter tells me that she deeply regrets so many of her decisions, and wishes that she had listened more to mama. My ego responds quite well to this, but I make attempts to stave off the ego; for I know that many of my decisions, or lack of them, allowed these events to manifest. Or maybe not; maybe it HAD to happen for some reason unknown to me. I'm not sure I will ever sort that out...but at some point, in tears, I must have exclaimed that I wished I could turn back the clock and make it all not happen. To which my daughter responds, "Mama, I'm not sure I would ever have "got it" if it had not happened. Am I glad it happened? Would I allow it to happen again? No. But it did happen and because it happened, I am strong and wiser and happy with who I am." Wow.

The story gets better. This part I am happy to tell. Satori goes on, urged by her dermotologist employer, to get to Estitician's school. She gets in incrediable job and she LOVES her work. I mean, she LOVES her work which is something every mother wishes for her child. She returns to school AGAIN and gets licensed to cut and style hair. She hints that she wants to go back to school AGAIN...of course, I am hoping for an eventual BA, but I am learning to shut of my ego and be deeply pleased that she loves her work. She runs like a maniac, miles and miles each day. She works out, she is strong (you would want this girl in your corner if the Intruders come to your home). She is beautiful, phyically and spiritually. And now, our "arguements" are NORMAL...like, "do you HAVE to color your hair every few months? Do you really like this daycare arrangement? Oh yes, about your sister...." Oh god the normality of it - tis beyond amazing.

And then, she re-connects with one of those boys from the crowd I mentioned in the beginning. We shall call him The Boy who Made it, or maybe the Boy Who surprised Me, or maybe just, Mr Right for my Daughter. Mr Right owns his own framing shop, and he works hard, hard, hard. He loves my daughter. And together, they have given us Thomas. Not Tom, or Tommy, THOMAS. And Thomas is the happiest, juiciest, thrilling child. I adore him, I adore Nia...and they are happy. They are truly happy. They vote Democratic - they support Obama, they go to PTA meetings and discuss social issues and invest money, and do all of those things young families should do, playdates, the YMCA. Tori makes Mr. Right eat organic food and she calls me for recipes! She cooks, she cleans her home and she asks child raising questions (which I don't really answer because after all, who I am to pretend wisdom?)

Some days I thought that my daughter would not live; and I never would have given you a nickel to bet on Mr. Right's success. But my daughter lives, Mr. Right succeeds and Nia and Thomas are loving, healthy, bright children.

But Satori is fantatic about locking the doors at night. Locking her car....and running. So the dark spot, the past horror is still there, but manifests itself properly. And I could not be more pleased. My faith is renewed and now, I can make little dollies and purses, and be a librarian and grandmother and live life.

You have been kind to read. And somehow, I hope your faith is shored up some. Life is Good, God is Good. Yes, as my children taught me to say, "It's All Good."

Wake up, Mom

I told you in the beginning that there would be times when you would ask questions, "How could she? Why did she? How come she did not.....?" Some of you may dislike me already, some of you will dislike me (more)by the end of this post...I promise, you cannot dislike me more than I disliked myself. You can freely insert words like loathe, hate, distain...for those are all words I felt, and sometimes still feel.

Everything was suddenly no longer even okay. Daughter #2's, "not so good" was turning into "Really not so good" while Satori plunged straight from "apparently on the road to success everyone's dream girl" straight fast forward to, "everything is REALLY bad."

I didn't know the cause (which implies that I at some future point learned the cause, which I did, but of course not THE cause which we can debate about forever and refer back to those negative adjectives I had for myself). She went from bright student, to high school drop-out, promising athlete to what? Something for which I have no name. She was sneaking out at night, disappearing for days, surly, unkind. People urged me to lock her out, tough love they said. Did they know, as I knew, that IPD would find, arrest and charge you for such actions? Did they ever really confront what happens to a mother's heart? Or worse, what might have happened to a daughter while locked out?

Slowly, the cause (with a small c, eh?) revealed itself. We shall call him, VEB - for Very Evil Boy. I would like to tell you his name, I would. I would like to pray that if I told his name, there would be some cowboy out there, some gunslinger, sharp shooter who would bring justice. But I cannot.

There is evil. I used to not believe that. I believed that we created our own evil, that with enough light and love, what we thought evil would disappear. I believed that as we evolved as a people, as a culture, evil would stop being created. I believe that there is only good. Part of me still believes that; or struggles to believe it. I was wrong. I cannot make this jive with my belief system, I cannot make it harmonize in my heart. I no longer hate (so much), but I acknowledge and give evil the respect tis due.

Rumor says that VEB was a drug-runner, I believe it. Rumor says that VEB was an informant; I believe it. VEB was arrested numorous times, sometimes for very serious offenses; I know it. He was never held. He was never charged. Not rumor, but FACT says that VEB tried to murder his mother, using stabbing, drowning and who knows what else, and that mother loved him all the same and welcomed him home when she was released from the hospital. I couldn't even lock my daughter out of our home; I tried to forgive his mother. After all, she must also have seen perfection when the most beautiful child ever to be born was placed in her arms.

Daughter is now out of school, running wild. I don't know this child. She comes home bloody and bruised. I plead, I cry, I pray. I listen to phone calls, I search her things, I talk to everyone, and I do mean everyone. One day, I learn that VEB has been placed on house arrest. That means he doesn't get out and no one gets in. That's what it means. So, I followed her. I did, I followed my own daughter and watched his mother let her in. I phoned the police. I reasoned, that police arrive, see the forbidden guest and VEB goes to jail. Police arrive. Sitting in my car, I watch mother escort son out the backdoor. I watch lights go on in the house and I watch police leave, empty handed. I find out later that mother hid my daughter. What shall I do? I play this and many other scenes over again in my mind; what should have been done?

I send husband to talk with Mother. Daughter will tell me many years later that Husband instead appeared to be using the discussion as an opportunity to "hit" on mother and that nothing was accomplished. Husband is not quite yet Ex-husband, but I am figuring it out. The days go on and continue to become more and more and more not okay; in fact, they become downright frightening. She appears again and again with bloody face, bruises and she will not hear reason. I am wishing that we were wealthy, that I could have her kidnapped, taken to some monastary, healed. I keep remembering her face, that perfect face moments after her birth. How can this be happening? How can a man's fist be raised to that perfection? Does she not know her own perfection?

One evening I followed and arrived just in time to witness the beginning of what would have been more bruises, more blood. I do not know how I did it, god help me, I do not know how I got her to the car. And we drove...we drove. Some might say that I was insane; perhaps I was. When I saw the neon lights at an adult store , the insane idea captured me. I made her go in with me (figure this out, no one asked for her I.D. and no one in that place seemed to find it strange either, mother and daughter together in that place). There, I purchased a set of leg irons. Yes, I really did. I still don't know how I got her home. Honestly, I don't remember. But once home, I chained my daughter to the bathroom sink. I really did. I made her dinner, I sat it in the sink, I left her a pillow and a blanket, a stool (another one goofy, I'm only half crazy, ok?) and I told her that one of us needed to think.

I paced. I tried to think. She was quiet for a long time and eventually began screaming. "This is child abuse, I will see you in jail." Oh. That's the first moment such had occured to me. Dear God. I have chained my daughter to the bathroom sink. Perhaps my next move wasn't the brightest move I ever made (has anything I've done to this point been bright?) I called the police. In walks all seven feet of him. "Do you hear that child hollering in the bathroom? I have chained her to the bathroom sink." His face does this, "uh duh, what do I do now" thing. And then, I said the name, "VEB." And he knew. He grew silent. He hung his head. And eventually, in answer to my quiet, "is this child abuse?" He answered, "I won't write it up like that even if it is but, Ma'am? Ma'am? Eventually you have to let her loose." Ummm. I hadn't thought about that. And he left. Just left. And I unlocked the chain. And the night fell silent.

It may please you to know that in the years since, there have been times when we all have laughted about this incident. Nothing stays the same. Things heal; or at least move on and eventually, we moved on. Satori figured it out (or started to) and made attempts to leave VEB. He stalked, he threatened, he punished her. There is more that I'm not telling. Some I will tell later. And for now, again, I will leave you for a bit.

I rather doubt that anyone reads my very long stories. And for this moment, I leave you more for breath than for anything else. I leave you because if you haven't stopped reading by now; you should. Go hang with your children, make a dollie, watch funny television, bake a cake. Nothing stays the same, and this too shall pass.

~lee

Truly, Satori

And so, when my daughter ceased her endless wailing; she became a delightful child. I learned for the first time, playfulness. I relished the sun, the flowers, we planted herbs, we loved, we sang. She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful. I did not know that I was pregnant again for quite some time - but that belongs to Daughter #2's story and so I will leave some blanks. But daughter #2 did come - (I'll let you have a few lines to digest that).

About those diapers...I used cloth of course, and one day, I found myself, straddle the bathtub, surrounded it seemed, with two million dirty diapers. I did not like this, I did not like this AT ALL. I was wringing and flinging, letting every ounce of my dislike loose when suddenly, I had this thought. Well..maybe it wasn't me that had the thought - maybe it was Someone else. "These diapers must be cleaned, cleaned with your love, or your anger and distaste, you choose." Humility. Silence. Cleaning the diapers became an act of love. I might be exaggerating if I used the words always and forevermore...but...well, you know..generally speaking.



A few days after #2 was born, I had faced that moment that many women warn of...you know the one, the one that I cannot speak of delicately (my delicacy will fade in the following posts, just saying). The first ahem (I hesitate) BM after childbirth(if I say it really fast will you read it really fast, too?). I was sitting in the bathroom, #2 in arms, tears rolling down my cheeks. Naked Satori, fresh from her bath before the unexpected caught me, had seated herself on a little potty chair which some well-meaning soul had provided. And, wonder of wonders! Satori went potty. 10 months old. Yes, she did, she really did. And she never, ever, no not once, soiled or wet her diaper again. I must be (must have been) a very good mother don't you think? And, half as many diapers to wring - man, I must have been a really great mom.



Her life continued to be like this. She was amazing, precocious. Early in everything but speech. Of course there is more, some of it wound so tightly with #2's life that it cannot be unwound, but for now, I try to stick as closely as possible to our Tori's life.
She was a delightful, brilliant, child. A beautiful child who would not, no matter what I tried, gain weight. As beautiful as she was, my darling daughter looked like the poster child for some country of starving children. She nursed ferociously, she ate anything offered to her, but she did not gain weight. Even so, she was smart, she was diligent (yes, I meant that) and in her own way she was quiet. I do not mean that she was not noisy, we already know about the wailing, I mean that she simply and quietly did what she was going to do. No fanfare, no probing questions; she walked at 7 months, fed herself carefully and neatly quite early. For the most part, she was quite compliant and helpful, even from a young age.We moved several times, we experienced upheaval, we had impoverished, but beautiful holidays and gatherings, in the way the young people building a life tend to do. And my daughter grew.



I will skip some parts of the story now...these blanks will be filled in when I speak of my other daughters; and I may interrupt from time to time to tell some of my own story. But I am eager now to face what must be faced, and so we shall spin ourselves round and clink our heels together and greet 13 year old Tori.





She did well in school - at some point, later revealed, my children had begun attending "regular" school. Satori was ahead of her classmates, quite capable and well-liked. Some pretty horrible things happened during these middle school years - things which foreshadow what is to come, in her life, my life, and her sister's life (note again, I did not say, in her father's life). I will tell you one of those things - despite that it likely belongs more in #2's story. The photo above belongs in such a place, both of them - daughter #2 and Satori Marie, crossing 1st and 2nd, ages 16 - 18, in the Indianapolis 500 Day Marathon. Of course, those were days just shortly before it was all not okay. She was a runner, fastest girl in all of Putnam County she was (yes, we lived in Greencastle for a short while - that's for another time).



In Indianapolis we lived in what might be called - the ghetto - or at least at its edge. Immense wealth one block that way, and abject poverty one block the other way. I wanted my children to experience diversity you see; and I still believe in that idea. I know now that it takes perhaps a bit more preparation than I had believed. On the other hand, what I experienced, other families around me were experiencing - in both cardinal directions. It happened to all of us.

My children (2 of them and occasionally 3) had fallen in with a crowd of kids that ummm well, I might have done better to have removed them from this group of children (as if I could have). Some of them were wealthy children, others not so much. This was a shock for me; we had previously lived in a very homogeneous community...I was not prepared for umm the diversity shall we say of standards and values. And so one night, my daughters ask to attend a party at Best Girlfriend's home. I agreed. Stupidly. I agreed.



Sometime about midnight I began to feel uneasy. I'm not sure what it was but something urged me on and I went to fetch them. There, I found, I'm sure, a million children, boys and girls alike. I had understood that this was a girl's sleepover...not the first boy/girl party. Ahhh if only it had been that simple. I could not find the mother. I drug my daughters, two of them, home. No idea that something was amiss, I stopped at an all-night drug store for cough syrup. My sweet daughters did not want to come in. Hmmmmmmm...



I fetched the medicine and drove home, parked the car and started up the steps when I realized that #2 was leaning heavily on Satori. "She's just tired, Mom." Okay, except she can't walk. OH MY GOD. MY DAUGHTER IS DRUNK!!! Such a thought had never occurred to me. I was so innocent, (read, STUPID). We never "didn't drink." We had beer on occasion, a little wine, but we were not "drinkers." My husband (oh suddenly he is present) is an adult child, so we were cautious; not crazy cautious, just well, we just didn't (often). We'd never spoken really to our children about drinking - so naive, so ARROGANT, we assumed that such things would never touch them. But...MY DAUGHTER IS DRUNK. She vomited, I cleaned it up - I wasn't sure whether to let loose my rage, or be loving...which? and how shall I express either? Satori was not, as far as I could ascertain, drunk herself; I smelled nothing on her breath. She seemed fine but that she had lied for her sister. The first such instance to my awareness of what was to become a pattern; each sister shielding the other from trouble. They had misunderstood my admonitions to protect and care for one another; suddenly, in many ways, I was the outsider and their relationship together, in all its youthful lack of wisdom, was far stronger (I thought!) than their relationship with me. Another of those things which is neither good, nor bad; just is - until we name it.



#2 is cleaned up and abed quickly something still nagged at me and I'm not sure what possessed me to do it, but I drove back to that party. What kind of mother leaves her daughter home alone when she knows that other girls are coming to sleepover? It never entered my mind that she did not know. (She did not) Most of the children ran when I pulled up......but I found one dear girlfriend in bed, asleep? Was she asleep? I intended to phone her parents but needed her number, I could not wake her. She was breathing but would not wake and I phoned 911. I do not recall the numbers, but I recall that the numbers were beyond infinite. The blood alcohol content numbers - numbers that I would hear more than I ever expected to hear them in my life. Blood/alcohol content numbers are something you hear on the television, not numbers that are spoken in your presence. Had I not phoned, she would have been dead. Dead. Dead. The children thought she was asleep; they thought that they were doing her a kindness to tuck her into bed and let her wake in the morning. She would not have woken. Thankfully, she did not die. I thought the lesson would be learned, but she did not die. Which would you have chosen? The girl's life? Or the lesson learned?

I must sound evil, wondering whether or not I had wished the girl had died. Of course I do not - of course not...she was a lovely girl. But that group of children escaped their lesson that night, and most of them, including my own girls will continue to dance with danger - and some of them (whose stories are not mine to tell) did not escape. Those are stories that do not end well..and some of them have ended while this one has not. And, I think about that often.

Because she did not die, thank god, the lesson was not learned. In fact, another lesson was learned, consequences are rare, we are invincable...usually, all is well.

And for awhile, they were.

Tori excelled in her academic work. She did really well in the most difficult things - physics, chemistry, biology; but could barely write a readable English paragraph...genes of her father I suppose. I was proud. She played soccer...she PLAYED soccer - there were rumors that scouts were watching. She was incredible. The talk of the town as they say. She pitched softball, she was well-liked. If it were not for those missing blanks, you would expect to hear that all was well and we were happy. But this part, this part was good.


We had an okay life, (despite those things which are going on in the blank spaces). We still did chores, we still ate (fewer and fewer bean sprouts but still lots of tofu and by now there is a television and lots of new "friends".) Yes, this part was, if not good, okay.


And then, it wasn't. It wasn't at all.


And sadly, my few precious readers who have stuck with me thus far, I leave you for another little while. Unlike you, I know what is coming; and I must shore myself up. I will finish up a Dollie, sit at my altar, drink some tea and perhaps tonight, more likely tomorrow, I will write again. But I needed to remember these times; I needed to remember that nothing is ever all good, or all bad, nothing

Satori Marie

Satori Marie is actually Satori long before she IS.

Indiana Summers are H- O- T. Some of you know. Husband, was in the kitchen; probably making fried tofu with mung bean sprouts for dinner. The dogs were playing happily in the yard, the windows and doors were all open and I was languishing in a cool bathtub, reading an old book of poetry which someone had given me as a graduation gift, Please Touch. I would so love to find a copy of that book now but alas, it is long gone with so many tangible pieces of memories. Even without tangible aid, I remember the night clearly.

The poem which I landed upon was a beautiful work about, as I recall, art, or life, or trees, maybe puppies, or true love, or something like that - but the last line spoke of seeing new things with old eyes. Satori. My heart felt suddenly calm, suddenly sure of absolutely nothing. I remember writing it that way in some also lost journal - sure, but of nothing and I called to my husband. He knelt by the tub, I remember my eyes lingering on the gold of his hair draping across brownish shoulders, feeling such love, so lost in just the sight of him. And I told him - our first child is Satori. My eyes met his and I thought I saw wonder, delight, or at least, "not Mary? or Jane? or Tim?" Now I know that what I saw was, "You don't seriously think we're having children do you?" But the unspoken thought remained so and an excuse was made for a long and steamy night of the sort of sex that young people have when they don't know enough to know what is wonderful. Of course, not much excuse was needed for such nights - remember? And though she was not conceived that night; she was, for in my heart, that is when she began.

Eventually she was really conceived - not long after that night, close enough so that she was born the following hot summer. It was a difficult pregnancy; my body threatened to end the ordeal for several months and then finally relented. I found a midwife; I ate mung bean sprouts and drank ungodly concoctions that included ingredients like lecithin and brewer’s yeast - which I also sprinkled liberally on popcorn and toast. I read every baby book and parenting book I could find - most memorably Ina May Gaskin who remains one of my heroes. And, I planned for this child to be born in our home - a plan that had not much chance of success. Despite all my reading, I was ill-prepared. I was convinced that by meditating, thinking positive, loving thoughts, eating lots of healthy things and welcoming and loving my child, there would be no pain. Are the other mothers laughing now? No pain. I was sure of it. I will skip a few lines so you can stop laughing.

Satori Marie was born in the hospital and there we experienced exactly what we expected to experience. (This is my way of saying that I have come to know that we find less often good things or bad things, but more often, we find what we expect to find - which some day we will understand is neither good nor bad, save that we call it so) Broken monitors, nasty nurses, bright lights, dismissal of our wishes and.....in the end...the most beautiful child that ever was born was placed in my arms. I know that I saw God. I saw truth; I saw eternity stretch beyond, before, behind me. I understood my mother and all the women that had come before my mother to culminate in this beautiful, perfect girl-child. I vowed never to raise my voice, to speak cross words, to bring less than Truth. I knew that this perfection in my arms would inspire me to be all things good and beautiful. Who cares about law school, who cares about almost anything that lays beyond the grasp of my arms, and the sight of the breathless beauty. This, this perfection is my calling and I will now be perfect. I will. I just knew.

Except.

Except.

She never stopped crying. (Now, what I want to REALLy say, what I remember FEELING is more like, "She never f****** shut up! but don't you think that,"she never stopped crying sounds so much better? Especially since she was going to create,or call perfection in me and nary another cross word would I speak.) For three months she did not stop crying. Never. I walked, I rocked, I sang. She stopped crying in the bathtub with me; so we took lots of baths. She liked to be naked, clothing against her skin was apparently unbearable, remove her clothes and she would again remind me of that perfection the first night. I was in despair. All my meditation, all my healthy eating, all my preparation - what was I doing wrong? I could not console this small child, dependent upon me! The most important moment of my life and I had not just failed, I was failING in each breath, failING.

Like all good hippie children, our bed was on the floor, draped with some brownish/reddish/yellowish Indian tapestry and pushed against the wall, beneath the windows. Old windows, from ceiling to floor so that sitting on the bed meant you could easily lean out the window and catch whatever slight breeze that might be offered up during a hot Indiana summer. I was sure the heat would steal my daughter's life, she dripped sweat and so did I and she cried, and so did I. We nursed, we walked, we cried, we WEPT, we nursed some more and walked some more and we did not sleep.

One day, quite by accident I discovered that cradling her in my arms and twisting from side to side, VERY FAST, would still her crying. Very, VERY fast. Silence, and then I stopped and crying began again. I even tested it, yes, if I stopped, she cried. I'm not sure why that surprised me so - I already knew that if I stood, and let my knees lower me, there there was a certain critical mass achieved which would set off the next round of tears which sometimes kept silent, as long as I stood. I grew accustomed to knowing that I could stand, I could even sit on some very tall stools, but as soon as I lowered myself enough to meet the chair - wailing began. But! I could sit as long as I twisted, whooshing her fast, almost in circles, twist, flow, fast, don't stop, she is quiet, I can hear birds! Don't stop, as long as you don't stop you may sit awhile longer by the window where tis slightly cool. Don't stop.

I can remember exactly when the thought seized me. Shamed me. Shocked me. As I twisted, just past the window, I realized, in one brief horrific second, that if I opened my arms at precisely the right moment…….then…..and then.....then......there would be…...silence. There are no words for the moment of realization that you, you, ME, I have just thought this thought. Evil. Dangerous. Failure. Go to the living room, sit there, nurse this baby mama - you know, the one who would make you perfect... You are not alone if you note the change in voice, I am now speaking to myself, not being myself. Get away from the window. Sob. Weep for this sinful thought, this evil, unholy thought. It was a dramatic experience.

Of course, dirty diapers (cloth of course) and crying babe can fortunately spare us some drama. It wasn't until hours later when I really retrieved myself and remembered the gentleness allotted to me. But I followed by understanding this: As an almost, or at least heading toward middle class, with a good education, lots of family for support, a present (well, sort of) husband, a healthy child, medical insurance, food in the fridge, for all anyone knows white woman, had that thought, what happens to a woman without partner, without family, maybe without education, social support, no-food-in-the-fridge woman of color? How can I ever judge another human being again? Ever? E -V-E-R? I haven't spoken much of Satori have I? Well, a lot goes into Satori Marie. A lot of me, a lot of her father, a lot of her and a lot of God...and so, tomorrow more of Satori Marie.