from here to the rest of the world

We are almost done watching "the Wire." We've plowed through it with our accustomed tenacity, and we are one episode away from done. There's a lot about this series I really like. In particular, the fact that it takes place in Baltimore--the only other city where I spend any time in my youth--is special. Baltimore is a strange, simmering place. It is midnight in-between the south and east. This series captures some of that. And some things are missing. Like my sister and I smoking menthol cigarettes three blocks away from my grandmother's house after eating cheese steak sandwiches, and buying a box of Entertainment cookies and eating them on the side of a hill by the busy street. Me walking my grandmother's silent greyhound while wearing a pair of boots that went up to my thighs that I had found in her old clothes (?) past the old building whereabouts my great grandmother and her sister owned a dry cleaning business. Sno Cones with marshmallow topping and graveyards and trips to Ocean City. But they had steamed crab, scrapple, and the Domino Sugar sign in the show. I remember those things, too.

One of the kids in the show is struggling with his place on earth. He's not made for the streets but he is made from them, and this is a tough bind. He's smart but not brilliant. And not lucky. He's sweet. He wants to fit and protect himself. To figure out where he belongs, like any of us do, and survive in the most primal sense. So there's this scene where he's sitting outside the boxing gym of a reformed criminal, and they're just talking. This guy is telling the kid he's not meant to fight either, kind of breaking it to him. And he's not old enough to work. There are other things out there in other places that have yet to be explored. Life is his to be had. But not exactly, because this kid has to make his way to the place where he belongs, all on his own. And he asks the boxer something:

"How do you get from here to the rest of the world?"

The lump formed in my throat. And I went through my typical brain tricks ("It's just a show, this kid probably has steady acting work.") But these games don't really matter, because this line represents something that really is. Poverty. Racism. Hatred. City. Generations to overcome. And I cried, thinking about that kid sitting somewhere in Baltimore, somewhere.

The last time I felt this way, I tried to do something. I joined the fight, the cause, to try and deal with the inequalities that ebb in and out of the structures that keep us safe, employed, and in a home. My experience was not good. I was young, and my hopes were easily affected. There was one final thing that did it for me, where I had to watch someone try and stand up for themselves against a mountain. They were crushed, and I just couldn't do it anymore. I quit.

Life is really as hard for me as I make it, or perceive it to be. But it is not hard. I never doubted that I could step out of my front door and do anything I wanted. I have written about the chapters I have ended because of a more thorough understanding of myself. This is a gift, really. It's a good thing. I am fine-tuning my path, not paving it.

But I should be listening and looking for that way to help others reach the rest of the world. And not give up on it. To fork my road toward someone else. I don't think there is just one thing to do, and I think that was my first mistake those years ago. The thought that if I had this credential, this identity, it would make a difference because it was significant. But it is about choices made every day. There may be a "big thing to do." But it is only sustainable if the smaller things support its structure. So that when it shakes, it doesn't fall.

The boxer didn't have an answer for the kid. They sat in the darkness not knowing.

you must be out of your mind

A friend and a good soul I know has a very lovely habit. She uses a lot of caveats and likes to provide a lot of context for what she says, the stories she tells, and the situations she reveals. I really like this about her. We jive on it. Probably because I do it, too. I am entangled in background and context. There is nothing I love more than a good story from anyone.

We were laughing about the caveats and how being a partner to each of us must be interesting. So much wind up before the pitch. All the information that precedes "getting to the point." She said something I will always remember her for. We were acknowledging this tick, and she said:

"It's really more of a third date habit."

I had a wonderful mental collision as these words became a thought. The truths we don't share about our peculiar selves until we are--I am--the smallest bit certain there's a chance we'll not be pushed back into the tiny plastic musical chair. It's like the, "I'll let you see me naked" of the less primal us. And when it gets right down to it, this is the part that matters when it comes to any kind of union. Not the imperfections in flesh. I could describe to you everything about me that is physical and someone, somewhere would tell me how those folds and shadows are beautiful. There's a fetish in all of us that loves the unsymmetrical. The freckles. The too small this and the too big that. Because people are like that. That is why they are amazing. We even pride ourselves on the things we seek that are singular in their attraction.

But let me tell you about my temper. It is red. My jackass-ery; significant. My insecurities manifested with specific rules and codes of conduct that you didn't know you were participating in, but you are. Didn't you know you were supposed to be this way?

I cancel plans. I make excuses that are not about me but are about some unforeseen circumstance that never could have possibly happened unless it was fate. Not lies, but bundled truths. And other things. Complicated "I am so very sorry" for everything upon everything. Let's top it all off with this:

I hate this in other people. I hate games. Pot. Kettle.

The most wonderful thing about living in a world with other people is that they understand what all this means. Like the person I told you about, who started all of this. Women and men and parents, we are all at least one of them and they all behave like this. When we are trying to make that match with another soul, a beam out there, and when we get it right, these body-less flaws melt into everything else. You're not good with money? I didn't hear you say that. I'm tangled up already.

Forgiveness.

Acceptance.

Love.

Pot. Kettle. We both. We are.

The lifetime before me is filled with our curious strangeness. So many third dates and mixes from the song I want you to hear.

the white album gave us something

Last year, it was very important to me that I learn all the words to "Big Rock Candy Mountain." We would listen to it on the way to wherever we were going and the line, "Where they hung the jerk, that invented work," really hooked me. It became essential that I learn all the words and before my daughter was born. Because I had decided that I would sing this to her when she needed it. It has a lot of lyrics, tells a story, all the things that are important to me. I felt it would keep me engaged.

I printed out the lyrics and studied them every morning after my shower for the last two months of my pregnancy. Other lines made me really happy, too.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountain, you never change your socks.
And tiny streams of alcohol come a'tricklin down the rocks.

I did sing that song to her many times. In the middle of the night when she needed soothing. Sometimes to sooth myself, even when it seemed to have no effect on her. It's a fun song to sing, and I recommend it.

But at some point late this past summer, I started singing different songs when I put her to bed. And I developed a routine. A certain Beatle trio: "I Will," "In My Life," and "Rocky Raccoon." It just sort of evolved, I think, because I got tired of "Big Rock Candy Mountain" and the only songs I know all the words to without hesitation are Beatles songs. When you're tired, you just don't want to think that hard. I knew once I got into Rocky Raccoon, it was almost time for the big put down. Sometimes she needed longer and I'd pull out an "Ob-la-di" or an "I'm So Tired." And then I'd have to use my brain a little more. But most often, without fail, right around the time Rocky falls back to his room, I could tell that she was nearly done and ready for me to leave.

Because I know the words so well, I have time to think to myself when I'm in there singing. I think a lot about how these songs represent the arcs of relationships, and the dips and dives. The first is such a sweet, tender lull. There's some talk of parting for a time, but they find each other at the close. And it says the way you are, and who you are, this is what makes me love you. The things you do endear you to me. And "I Will" whatever you need when you need it. I'll be the one to help you find it. And what you want, most of the time. I'll do those things, too.

I remember exactly where I was when I heard "In My Life." It was the summer at my grandmother's house in-between the fifth and sixth grade, and my sister had a Discman. There was a copy of "Imagine" rolling around, and I put it on. That's the song that made me a John girl, always and forever. I've been places and seen things, and there have been a lot of people. I've built relationships and some of them just didn't make it. Because you're not meant to have everything forever; where would you keep it all? Memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new. Love is old. Love doesn't stop and end, I don't think. But people change and learn, if they're lucky. That song really is a life from beginning to end. It's a little bit of a heart turned inside out, and placed gently on the mind.

I thought about poor Rocky (who I believed was actually a raccoon for most of my life). What was it like before Nancy left? Did he call her Lil, was he the only one who didn't know her as something else? What was he going to find in the passages of Gideon to help the healing begin and end someday? I wondered where he got shot. It certainly wasn't in the heart. I like to ask a lot of questions, to figure things out. I like to know about people. But I'll never know anything else about Rocky or any of them. I want to see their faces and know what they've learned. What happens. Did they make it?

These three, they will represent something quiet for me always. That time in the evening when I left my daughter with a final sensation of the world. Stories of love done three ways. I've thought about telling her some day when I sang to her. The eye rolls that will probably ensue. But maybe we'll have a conversation about love and loss. And loving again, too.

About two months ago, we convened for our nightly routine. I got exactly this far into the first song:

Who knows how long I've loved you.
I know I love you still.

And she sat up and gently pushed me away. Having no idea what was going on, I stood up, and put my daughter down. She said, "Hi," and turned away from me. She fell asleep without me helping her do anything at all.

the bad things done

I have done some totallystupidthings in my 1/3 of a time on this mortal coil. Poor judgment. Knowingly bad. Selfish. Reckless. Naive.

Like many of us, I also tend to say, "I have no regrets."

This is, in fact, a lie.

I have regrets. Maybe a lot, even. When I say these words, what I mean is, "I would never change things because that means I wouldn't be the lucky son-of-a that I am today." Because when I think of regrets, I tend to revert to my formative understanding of consequences, which is really based on a repetitious viewing of "Back to the Future." Like if I changed something, someone I love would end up in a photograph with hid or her head missing. I would never change things because then everything would be different and nothing would be the way it is today. It is...amazing how uninformed my understanding of cause and effect is.

But honestly, there are things I have done that I would change. I've hurt people I love, most desperately and dearly. I have put myself first when I should have been protecting the interests of tender others. Sure, there may have been lessons attached to these incidents that somehow inform who I am as a person. But really, I would sacrifice that self-awareness for some of these choices. Not everything is worth it.

Those moments when I have been at my worst have been times when I have not been honest with myself. The falsehoods I have made my face have grown from the tales I have told to my own heart. And I have to say, this realization is very new to me. That the mistakes I repeat are rooted in the lies I've told myself. The lies I tell myself all the time.

Along with these regrets, and these lies, I do believe in karma. Because I have found--coupled with the choices I would take back--moments that have taught me that the consequences of my actions reach beyond whatever seems to be the obvious. Somehow, it's as though my bad stuff has punched little holes in the plans I have for myself and let in other things. Darker things. Judgments and even hauntings; happenings totally outside my ability to control. There is nothing more terrifying than things outside my ability to control.

When I have these moments of karmic confrontation, I check my mind with my partner in crime. In some ways, my Id, Ego, and Super. And he always, always tells me the same thing:

"You're just not that special."

He untangles this a bit.

"You're just a person. People make mistakes. You're not being punished by the world."

I have always thought of myself as so different than everybody else (is there anything so grandeur?). I've just often felt very strange. I see my family and my experiences as so totally unique, that no one could have faced the moments I have. No one could understand. But when my husband tells me this, that there may be other people out there like me who have made mistakes they regret (can you imagine?). Choices that have unintended consequences. When he reminds me that I'm not alone in the world, that there are "people" and I am one of them. When he tells me this, I feel a sense of peace at the sameness of it all. When I worry about judgments, I remember that I only have control over how much I judge. What perceptions I level on others for their actions. That is where the cycle can be changed.

I imagine there is a person out there, just like me. Maybe she even looks like me. Maybe she's in Sweden. And she has dreams and thoughts and good intentions. But she is also remarkably selfish. She has taken for granted the most precious of things. She hasn't learned from the most pressing of her mistakes. But she is not evil. She cannot be reduced to only those decisions. She is also a partner, and a daughter. Even a mother. She is everything that came before and all that is yet to be. She gives and she takes just as much as she offers. Sometimes, she takes more than she should. Sometimes, more than she is entitled to. She is trivial and she is thoughtful. But she is more than her worst day. As is everyone.

I think about this second person third person. And I do the only thing I can; I forgive her. I ask her to forgive herself. I tell her that it is going to be alright. The judgments will come. Maybe forever. Pain for a long time, alas. But there is a place to begin; stop lying to herself. Stop telling herself the things that are convenient for the moment that she knows are not true. Do what is difficult and be honest. Then, the best choices become easier to make. And the sunshine of days will be that much warmer. Everything will be brighter and behold.

a piece of falling into it

Like pretty much every other couple, he and I have often talked about how lucky we are to be together. There is, of course, the "luck" of finding each other in the first place. But that initial burst of good fortune is just that; it's at the beginning and, because it doesn't require much work right away, it doesn't speak to the "forever" that everyone associates with the Big L.

There's more to it, really. There is also our luck at really falling in love after we were married. We had certainly said we loved each other before the day, and we've always meant it. But it has been through our experiences together that we have fallen more deeply into it. Whatever words we said to each other about "forever" years ago have only come to mean something each day we wake up together and do it all over again. That's where the lucky comes in; not that we were right in the first place, but that we choose to be right each day.

This is probably not a surprising revelation. I think any couple would say that time makes a difference in the depth of union

So now onto admitting something that is more tender.

I knew I wanted to be a mother before we had our daughter. When we found out we were having a girl, we literally high-fived. I was so excited and ready. I spent a lot of time thinking about the big day when she would finally be here, wanting to be prepared to do my part. When it came, it was beautiful beyond anything.

And then, we came home.

And she cried. And didn't sleep. So we didn't sleep. This is nothing new; this is, as they say, par for the thing golfers putt upon. We were totally exhausted and overwhelmed, as everyone is. I remember watching Gwyneth Paltrow on "Oprah," talking about how when her daughter was born, she had "baby euphoria," but when her son was born she was depressed. That made me feel better. Until she said that she had dinner with Madonna and that had really helped her get out of the funk. That option didn't seem available to me, so I sunk a little deeper.

Each day at home seemed long, cold, and filled with radio in a chair. The winter sun poured through her nursery and there I sat, rocking and nursing and not.moving.at.all. I felt horrible. It wasn't love I felt; it was an overwhelming sense of responsibility and fear that I was going to screw her up. Just by being me. I was supposed to be filled with all of these instincts and inclinations and instead I looked at this amazingly beautiful creature and felt so sorry that she had gotten stuck with me. It didn't feel like depression, or what I imagined depression to be. It felt like a mountain before me that I was not prepared to climb. I felt young and old enough to know better. And that made me feel foolish. I had made this choice, too.

What I didn't know and what I think I do now is that my daughter and I had to get to know each other. Because she is, amazingly, a person. Since she was born, she had been an individual, not a vessel. She is not something for me to shape; she is someone for me to shepherd. I have come to understand her likes and joys and what she needs and wants from me. She, for her part, has grown to understand me and who I am. She may be made of us but this child is her own lady. And once I came to understand this, that so much of it is outside of my control, everything has been a wonder. We have been relaxed and we have had fun. We have fallen in love with each other, as all people do when they are meant to be.

We are just that, she and I. We roll through the time we spend together laughing and eating ice chips. She pretends to put food in my mouth and then eats it herself. What a joker. Just like her mom.