I Will Meet You There

It’s beginning to occur to me that most of this is out of my control. By “most of this” I mean: getting pregnant, staying pregnant, how incapacitated the pregnancy makes me, how each week seems to bring new challenges even as it takes away previous ones, and––most significantly at this moment––when the baby actually shows up. If you comb the internet (not that I do—all that much), you will find a gazillion and one questions from woman to woman, basically asking a variation of the same question: How can I use information to figure out where my little ship is at this moment in time? More specifically and recently, I have Googled:
“lost mucus plug—labor soon?”
“2cm dilated—labor soon?”
“cramps—labor soon?”
“thunderstorms—labor soon?”
And thousands of pages come up, most of which say, “The baby comes when the baby comes. You can’t rush it and you wouldn’t really want to if you knew the consequences.” Some say, “Yes, that was the beginning of my labor,” or “I had that, and delivery was still four weeks away.” You’d think I’d learn by now that there is no relief to be had by punching my questions into that little bar on the upper right side of the screen, but just today, I typed: “crying jag—labor soon?” And got the same three answers: yes, no, and the baby comes out when the baby comes out.

It’s been a kooky pregnancy. I had my daughter a bit early (36 weeks) and so I’ve been anxious about a premature birth for this one. I’ve had a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions since Memorial Day, and so the docs have been monitoring me carefully. The big question for me was whether or not I’d make it through (or to) the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival, my favorite gig of the year. I was determined to be there no matter what, and fortunately I have an OB who is a folk fan. She said I could show up at the festival the day after giving birth if I needed to. (There was an OB at the festival site, and also an ambulance—I was prepared to jump in if the contractions got strong.)

I made it to and through Falcon Ridge, and here I am, over 2 weeks later, wondering if this or that contraction is going to morph into the real thing. Have I mentioned that patience isn’t one of my virtues? Nor is sitting still and doing nothing. I have taken this opportunity to move my office and decorate both children’s rooms. I had some hopes that the heavy lifting would trigger labor. I eat spicy food every day. I do all the things one does to satisfy the folklore. But the piece of folklore that’s sticking is “the baby comes when the baby comes.”

So about my crying jag. It started yesterday morning when I noticed the candlesticks on top of the refrigerator. As per my book, How to Be an Adult, I was following directions on how to get the wax off. You put them in the freezer and a few hours later, scrub them under hot water. The wax falls off easily. But before I can get a few hours in, my husband keeps taking them out, annoyed at the way they fall into his face when he wants to get some ice. (Can’t imagine why that irritates him.) So he puts them on the roof of the fridge, and I, later, put them back. This had been going on for weeks, and I suddenly had the thought that the baby wouldn’t come out until I’d succeeded in de-waxing these last two candlesticks. So when he came down for breakfast, I said, in my best gentle and reasonable voice, “we need to have a talk about these candlesticks.”
Now my husband has been fairly saintly throughout these last 9 months. When my doctors began to worry about me, he took over all the housekeeping and almost all the care of our 2-year-old daughter. But something about the candlesticks beaming him every time he wanted some ice must have been the last straw.

“We do NOT need to talk about these candlesticks! YOU need to get them out of the freezer and keep them out! And stop talking to me like I’m in third grade!”

“I’m talking to you like you’re in third grade,” I said through gritted teeth. “Because I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll hit you in the face!”

This shocked him, since I don’t usually talk like that. Ever. He said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Take them to the downstairs freezer!” I shouted, as if the idea that I could possibly carry that huge load––two candlesticks––all the way to the basement and then have to ascent again with my big pregnant belly was practically wife abuse. He took the candlesticks down, and I promptly burst into tears and didn’t stop crying for four hours. We drove up to church, and I said, “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry I said I wanted to hit you in the face. I’m just pregnant and emotional.” I sobbed through church and all the women with babies came up to me and said, “Oh. You’re really close.” One said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all be okay.” Another said, “You should worry! It’s all scary and real! And now is the perfect time to cry!” They were both right, and it was perfect advice. I felt grateful.

The scripture for the day was that Rumi poem with the lines: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing is a field. I will meet you there.” That pretty much sums all of this up. As the wonderful writer Catherine Newman says in her book, Waiting for Birdy, pregnant women put so much emphasis on the details of labor and delivery. In addition to my burning question (“when is the baby coming?”), so many women worry about how it’s all going to go on Labor Day. Medicated or “natural”? Home birth or hospital? Midwife or OB? Vaginal or C-section? And on and on. It’s like focusing on the wedding instead of the marriage, writes Newman (or something to that effect.) The real point of the whole enterprise is what we do with the baby after that first experience. Similarly, (and obviously, I am sure to every reader of this piece) the day the baby is born doesn’t matter one whit, even though I’ve convinced myself that astrologically, seasonally, financially, childcare-wise and school-wise (if the baby is born in September rather than August, he’ll stay back a year) it does.

At one point during my crying jag, I prayed. “What should I be doing? What am I doing wrong?” and the answer came back lightening fast: “Nothing. You’re supposed to be crying.” Life is full of weather like this. Why do I try so hard to control the things I cannot change? Even that question has to be left on the near side of the field. Hopefully, I will look back at this ninth month of pregnancy and laugh. Hopefully, my son will too, whether his moon is in Capricorn or Cancer.

On Wall-E, the 2000 Watt Society and Fun

When I announced I was going to be giving birth in August, all my friends were horrified. “It’s the worst time of year to be pregnant!” they all chorused. “You’ll be so hot.”

Since I am usually cold and rarely hot—as in I wear socks to bed even in June, and long underwear from October to May–– I wasn’t too worried. Besides, I thought, if it gets really bad, I’ll go to the movies. What’s a better escape from the summer heat and the frustrations of everyday life than a communal air-conditioned experience?
Then the summer arrived, and I promptly wilted into a useless puddle of PermaContractions (very rare and apparently harmless scenario when a pregnant woman get Braxton-Hicks “practice” contractions if she so much as lifts a glass of water to her parched mouth). Also exhaustion, bad aches and low- (okay, mid-) level grumpiness. I began to look for a suitable flick to take my cranky self to, but somehow I forgot that going to the movies doesn’t really fit into my schedule anymore, what with my two-year-old daughter, three careers, etc.. Sex and the City came and went (in that I would have seen it the first weekend out, but the reviews made me lose interest). Then one of my clients told me about Wall-E the day after Frank Rich wrote about the movie in his Sunday Times column, and I was determined. When my OB told me I couldn’t do my scheduled show at the Boston Children’s Museum last Friday because she didn’t want me out in the heat of the day with my jumpy old uterus, I made a date with my friend Lisa, and we were off.

I’ll try not to spoil anything, but I will say this: Wall-E does not really strike me as a children’s movie. Made by Pixar, with gorgeous computer animation, there's even a cameo by one of my favorite “real” actors, Fred Willard. It was so dark for the first 40 minutes that Lisa and I sat hunkered down in our seats trying not to let the kids in back of us know we were sobbing. It takes place circa 2800 and the only signs of life left on planet Earth are a cockroach and one little green sprout. Humankind—what’s left of it––is circling around the Earth in a spaceship equivalent of the Love Boat. They’ve evolved (or devolved) into infantilized versions of themselves: obese and unable to walk, they travel about in motorized BARCO loungers, subsisting on a diet of shakes. Even the captain is completely clueless about their history and what brought them to their current situation: an apparent take-over of the earth by a conglomerate called Buy N Large, which has literally trashed the planet. Earth is no longer habitable, and a fleet of Wall-Es (Waste Allocation Load Lifter-Earth Class) was left behind to clean up the mess, but only one seems to be still functioning at the beginning of the film.

Wall-E, unlike the viewer, does not judge humans harshly for leaving behind all this trash. In fact, Wall-E seems kind of fascinated by us, and part of his daily routine involves filling a small cooler with artifacts he finds along the way: a Rubik’s cube, incandescent lightbulbs, an engagement ring box and an old videotape of Hello Dolly!. He’s taken by our creativity and our passion, and reminds the viewer that despite the near complete destruction of the Earth, human beings were not all bad. The question the movie asks over and over is: where does creativity turn into proliferation?

I left the movie in tears, and not just because I’m pregnant and had to view apocalyptic scenes of my children’s future environment. When I got home, I curled up into bed with last week’s New Yorker and read an article about the island of Samso, Denmark, which recently won a renewable energy contest, turning a small farming community (hardly a bunch of progressives) into net exporters of energy in less than a decade. The article, by Elizabeth Kolbert, went on to discuss an equally intriguing Swiss initiative called the 2000 Watt Society. 2000 Watts is the world average of energy usage per capita per day. But the figures are skewed by the huge disparity between developing and developed nations: Bangladesh, for example, uses 2600 watts per capita per year, while we in the US use 12,000 watts per person per day.

Since reading the article, I have been combing the internet trying to find out more about the 2000 Watt Society, but I can’t find a whole lot. I want to lower my wattage to 2000 so they let me in their club and I can feel good about myself. More than that, I love the idea of making conservation a personal goal, sort of like trying to climb all 46 mountains over 4000 feet in the Adirondacks was for me and my sisters when we were growing up. One of the villagers of Samso said that once residents started thinking about creating and conserving energy in this new way, “it became a sport.”

It could actually be fun to try to save energy. Rather than see it as deprivation, I want to see it as play. And, as the founders of the 2000 Watt Society point out, reducing energy consumption needn’t lead to a lower standard of living. On the contrary. What sounds more fun: staying inside with air conditioning, or sitting with my two year old in a Freecycled kiddie pool? Driving yet again to the local fluorescent-lit grocery store or riding a bike with a trailer to the downtown farmer’s market where I am sure to meet many dear friends? Throwing out another “disposable” diaper, or hanging out a load of wet but clean cloth diapers in the warm July sun?

Of course, I am lucky that I have these choices to make. Being pregnant and on strict orders not to exercise, I actually can’t ride my bike to the farmer’s market, which makes me notice how lucky I am to live in a bike-friendly, pedestrian-friendly area instead of a megatropolis built around the automobile. At the same time, because I have to drive everywhere these days, I am acutely aware of how much I rely on technology, and how grateful I am to have my own transportation. I try not to buy plastic, AND I’m grateful that plastics have literally saved lives in their applications in various surgeries and other health related matters. (Condoms, for example. Intubation tubes and catheters for another.) I am grateful that we have electricity to power wheelchairs, elevators so that my friends who are unable to walk can bypass stairs. Moreover, the residents of Bangladesh are not living on 2600 watts of energy a year out of some desire to be eco-martyrs. The question that I kept asking after seeing Wall-E (and after seeing An Inconvenient Truth two years ago) is: where did we go wrong? Where is the line? Where does human ingenuity turn into self-destruction? Where do basic human needs get mixed up with desires for iPhones and bigger cars, not to mention hegemony over countries that are oil-rich so that we can maintain our current lifestyles?

That old bumper sticker comes to mind: "Live simply so that others may simply live." When I first saw that, it just made me cranky. I felt preached to, scolded. I was an anti-environmentalist when I was a teen-ager, rebelling probably against my zealous mother and Birkenstock-wearing aunt. (Back then, I could not understand how anyone could allow themselves to be seen in footwear so hideous. Right this moment, I am wearing my beloved 19-year-old pair of Arizona-style Birks.) I remember freshman year in college saying out loud to a friend, “They say there’s deforestation, but look.” I pointed to the trees lining that portion of I-95, probably in Maryland. “Tons of trees.” (My brilliant point was not met with a sympathetic response.) It’s taken me a very long time to get over my feelings of entitlement and try to do my tiny part to lower my footprint, and I know that laying on the guilt doesn’t help. Like any addict, I wasn’t ready to let go of my substance (in this case, consumerism and the easy fix—“just toss it in the trash”) until I was ready.

But I do know this. It works when it becomes play. It works when you make it a game. It works when you see the gift of “less,” the gift of creativity inherent in placing limits on oneself. And it works when I see the truth that no gadget, no processed food, no article of clothing ever made me as happy as the view from the top of an Adirondack Mountain, or the sugar snap peas we grew this spring in our garden, or anything having to do with my little daughter, including her cloth diapers hanging out to dry in our backyard.

Do less. Then, rest.

"How beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterward,"
So goes the famous Spanish Proverb. These seem to be my marching orders these days. Tom and Lila and I had a super long vacation Memorial Day weekend. Well, long by Nields standards: 4 days! On Friday, we took the long, slow way up to the Adirondacks, stopping on Route 9 to drop off copies of my books at various co-ops and generally enjoying the little towns of my past (Williamstown and Bennington in particular.) By the time we met up with my parents at the Treehouse (our name for our cabin in the High Peaks Region), I was so tired I didn’t feel like eating dinner, which means that most likely the Second Coming is at hand, or Hell is freezing over–– one of the two.
As I’ve written before in this space, we Nields are not exactly a sit-around-and-chew-the-fat kind of family. My father is a high-powered Washington lawyer who goes for a run every morning, and at the age of 65 has climbed the 46 peaks over 4000 feet in the Adirondacks at least twice each. My mother is a retired high school history teacher who has more energy in her little finger than I have in my ever-growing body (though perhaps not more than my soon-to-be-born son. This kid is a mover and a shaker!) While we were visiting, they were mostly out playing golf, though they did manage to climb a few mountains, too. Tom went with them and carried Lila.
I? I slept. I took not one but two naps per day.
Oh, I did a little more than that. I played my newly restored Martin guitar and chose some songs to do at our upcoming sing along show. I read a client’s (wonderful) manuscript and cooked a chicken dinner. If we’d had internet access, I certainly would have spent a lot of time combing the blogs about what was going on in the political landscape, and thereby raising my blood pressure, but fortunately, we did not, so I did not. Instead, I slept.
I don’t know if other pregnant people can relate, but I find these days that even though the quantity of sleep I get is prodigious, the quality is weak. I dream almost constantly—of new houses I have just inherited, of book projects, of having to tour in China––and of course, there’s the having to get up to pee every hour and a half. It’s true that I’ve been working particularly intensely lately, what with the book coming out and our double CD being recorded, etc. etc., not to mention the never-ending, completely compelling work of mothering a two-year-old. But still. I couldn’t shake the feeling, as we drove back to Massachusetts on Monday, that I’d wasted time. I hadn’t even done the basic self-care disciplines I swear by: meditating, writing in my journal, doing yoga. I was too tired—WAY too tired.
Someone asked the question on our Howtobeanadult.com blog: “How do you manage the process of taking time off? If work blends seamlessly into life, what techniques do use, what rules (if any) do you set for yourself, in order to feel that time off, and get re-energized by it?”
Coming on the heels of this weekend, I was at a loss. I don’t know. I wanted the answer to be this: Even though it didn’t feel good for a Type A Workaholic Artist like me to do almost nothing but sleep for a weekend, it was good for me. I needed it. And the proof would be in the productivity pudding on Tuesday morning: if the vacation had indeed been “re-energizing”, I would feel well-rested and buoyant and re-energized, right? But that’s not how things worked out.
Instead, I started experiencing such frequent Braxton-Hicks contractions I had to be hooked up to a monitor at my OB’s on Wednesday morning. (Braxton-Hicks contractions are a completely normal part of being pregnant—they don’t hurt; they are the uterus’s way of warming up, so to speak. But one does worry when one has more than 4 in an hour, and/or if one has a history of preterm labor. Since both of these applied to me, I was worried.) As I lay on the doctor’s table, goop on my stomach and two monitors around my gigantic belly, my train of thought went something like this: “This is awful! I will have to cancel all our gigs! I LOVE the shows we have coming up! I need them! And I won’t be able to do HooteNanny! I NEED HooteNanny! What will Lila do if we can’t go to HooteNanny? But then again, if I have to be on bed rest, maybe it will be okay. I will make sure there are toys set up all around me and Lila can play on the floor. I will read all those books I have stacked up next to my bed. I will write in my journal. Maybe I will write a novel! Maybe I will meditate a lot and become enlightened!” And then, secretly, I whispered to a part of myself I rarely acknowledge, “Finally, an excuse to get cable TV!”
Fortunately, my cervix is shut, and they sent me home to live a slowed-down, do-less, but no-bed-rest-yet kind of life. They told me to cancel any shows that weren’t in close proximity to a hospital (I told them Falcon Ridge was literally right around the corner from several highly regarded ones) and to drink a lot of water and keep my feet up as much as possible.
And another piece of advice came to me, unbidden, as I lay around Wednesday afternoon, doing nothing. I realized, with some surprise, that I miss me. I miss the me I get to connect with when I meditate, write in my journal and do yoga. And, I thought with a start, maybe that’s why my dreams have been so intense: maybe my subconscious mind is looking for an outlet, and so it keep me awake, so to speak, with all sorts of symbolic imagery and frenetic trips to China. One of the aspects of motherhood, is of course, that constant tug-of-war of the heart, between one’s own self-care and the care of one’s children, both the external ones and the internal ones. I don’t have any answers yet about how to resolve that one, but I do think tonight I will take a half an hour to stretch a little on the floor, write a few pages and sit with my thoughts and feeling and breath—even if what I mostly end up being aware of is the kicking and turning, the sweet, knobby ballet that is going on in my womb.

Let It Be

I didn’t used to be an emotional person. I’d notice people–sometimes my friends–crying at movies or during a sad song, and I’d wonder why. Of course, when I was a kid I had trouble keeping the tears back, and so I trained myself well to keep that from happening: think of something funny. Think of a math formula. Think of a chord progression.

I got good at cutting off my body from the neck down. If I could work through problems in my head, I could usually come up with a calm, rational way of dealing with them. This was helpful in lots of areas of my life, specifically relationships. If my partner was behaving badly, or treating me “unfairly” (extremely easy to do, since my tolerance for being treated any way other than like a member of the royal family is low), I could go up in my little attic of a head and give myself a pep talk. “He was abused as a child,” I’d counsel my hurt self. “Don’t take it personally.” Or, “She’s envious. She doesn’t have your advantages.” Later, as I became slightly less insecure and slightly more evolved, the pep talk would be more along the lines of, “Maybe you didn’t treat him enough like a member of the royal family. Maybe you’re actually envious of her. Can you look for the gratitude and the acceptance?”

I could and did. Gratitude and acceptance became my watch words. Cultivating gratitude—working actively to appreciate the life I do have, the gifts I have been given, rather than focusing on what I think I lack––has turned my inner world into a much more pleasant place to live. And seeing acceptance as my path to God—taking what comes, letting things be, going with the flow, seeing reality as my true source––works a lot better than fruitless prayer that things be changed, improved, altered, avoided, granted.

But lately, I’ve been pregnant. Lately, I’ve been invaded not just by this new person (whom I did pray for, did invite), and not just by frustrating back troubles which have kept me on the couch during the most glorious season of the year, but worse, by all sorts of hormones raging, turning me into someone especially touchy and twitchy and prone to—yes—cry at the drop of a hat.

Exhibit A. Saturday morning I woke up for the first time in about five months with absolutely nothing to do. Nothing I had to do, I should say. There was plenty I could do, like fold diapers, organize my daughter’s books, write her yearly birthday letter, call my parents, help Tom make bread, do something crafty, etc. But the only thing I wanted to do was to break my eight-week media fast and find out what the polls were saying about Barack Obama. So I put on my comfort disks (Beatles and Bob Dylan, plus Dan Zanes, ostensibly for Lila but really for me) and went online, only to make myself sick the way I used to make myself sick by reading women’s magazines. I started to read a New York Times article online about McCain and Obama clashing about Iran, when suddenly emanating from my ancient stereo, I heard the first chords of “Let It Be.”
I’ve always liked the song, (who doesn’t?) but it’s not like it’s one of my favorites. After the age of 13, I eschewed the more sentimental Paul McCartney songs for the grittier, angrier “more real, man” John Lennon ones. Give me “Come Together.” Give me “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” Give me “Julia,” Lennon’s tribute to his dead mother who was hit by an off duty cop when Lennon was just 16 years old.

But on Saturday, something wordless came over me, and I started to sob. Taking the advice of an old friend (which I dutifully passed along in How to Be an Adult), I lay on the carpet with my feelings, which were huge and wet. As I lay there hoping Tom and Lila would stay in the kitchen and continue to make bread, I wept on the floor, listening to the familiar chord progression, the background vocals of George and John singing their “ahhs”, the overdubbed guitar solo, the raw sentiment of the tune, what it meant to the fans in 1970 to hear this song, knowing their favorite band had broken up, thinking about Paul’s own “Mother Mary” who had also died (of breast cancer) when he was 16—but Paul, unlike John, had been mostly reticent on the subject. The song bore into me, and I felt like a channel of all the world’s pain, and so I just cried along. I suspect this is a pretty typical pregnant woman response—when we are suddenly conduits of new life, our bodies really do become channels for the Other, whether that’s God (in the case of another Mother Mary) or just the pain of the world. I certainly can no longer witness children in any kind of pain any more, nor can I hear about families losing their children, such as the many stories coming in from China over the weekend.

So I cried and cried and after listening to the song twice through, I picked up my guitar and tuned it and played along to the next song, “The Long and Winding Road.” Lila came in and sat next to me, excited to see the guitar out. “You cwying?” she said pointing to my face.

“Yeah. But it’s okay. Mommy cries sometimes when she ‘s sad. And then she feels better. Just like you.”

Lila crawled into the space between my rapidly diminishing lap and the guitar and sat quietly while I strummed along. I thought about 1970, the year Let it Be came out: my own mother struggling with the many burdens of young motherhood (like I will soon be, she was the mother of two kids in diapers) and the burgeoning feminist movement, tired of government corruption, a cynical Republican president fighting an unpopular and unwinnable, costly war, rising costs of fuel. And little two and a half year old me, too young to have heard “Let It Be,” unless it had been piped it into the supermarket where we shopped (doubtful—I think 1970 was strictly Muzakland in places like supermarkets). Then I thought about letting it be; how that’s after all become something of a mantra to me. I thought about music, and how it saves me every time, and how grateful I am to be a conduit for music; as grateful as I am to be a conduit of this baby boy in my belly; this two-year-old on my lap.

Another Pregnancy Blog

It’s that time of year again. The crocuses have wilted, like sad balloons after a kid’s birthday party, and I find myself overdressed by noon, stripping off layers, deeply regretting the wool socks. The red bud is out on the trees and the forsythia is stark yellow against the still brown branches—no green has come yet to soften it. This time two years ago, I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, Lila: full of anticipation, wondering who this new person would be, excited, scared, tired, impatient. Today, I’m pregnant again, and full of the same emotions, but this time around, it would not be a welcome surprise to meet my new child as the lilacs bloom. This time around, my due date is late August, not late May.
This pregnancy has not been easy. I had terrible nausea for the first trimester, and the lift in energy that often happens after about week 14 has yet to arrive for me. I am generally tired at all times during the day, and I seem to require about 10 hours of sleep per night. Perhaps this is because I am usually chasing a toddler around; perhaps it’s because we are trying to cram a year’s worth of gigs into a nine-month period; perhaps it’s because my second book is coming out in two weeks. But the bottom line is: this body can no longer keep up with the dictates of its mind, and recently I’ve lost the ability to walk across the street. I have such bad lower back pain that I am confined to the house and have to ask my husband to lift and carry anything heavier than my dinner plates.
Still, I feel as though I’ve had a meeting of sorts. Last Friday, I had my 20 week ultrasound, and when my ultra-stenographer asked if I wanted to know the baby’s gender, I said, “No, but you can write it down for me and put it in an envelope.” We did this for Lila, and though no one believes us, we really didn’t peek until after she was born. Not knowing whether she was going to be a girl or boy was part of the fun: finding out she was a girl at the moment of her delivery was one of the best moments of my whole life. I wanted that experience again.
However, from the moment my ultra-stenographer put that jelly covered probe on my belly and we turned our attention to the screen above, I was completely unwilling to take my eyes off the little figure wiggling and dancing in front of me. So when she said, “I’m moving down to the legs; you might want to avert your eyes,” I said, “Ehn, no worries. I won’t be able to recognize anything.”
But I did. I was pretty sure I saw the appendage that women don’t have. Still, I thought there had been a penis sighting at this stage of the game two years ago, and Lila is definitely penis-free (something she’s a little sad about right now, but that’s a different story.) The ultra-stenographer said, “Would you like a picture of the genitals along with the information I’m going to put in your envelope?”
“Nah,” I said. “In fact, forget it. I don’t need you to write it down. We can just wait till the baby’s born.”
She nodded. A few minutes later, she was focused on the baby’s hands, which were being waved about by their owner. “This is good,” she told me pointing to the screen. “The hands are open. Closed hands is a soft-marker for Down’s.”
“Mmmm,” I murmured, transfixed. “Can you get a profile picture of the baby’s face?”
“I’ll try,” she said, but the hands kept flying by the baby’s head, blocking our shot. “He sure loves those hands,” she noted.
He! So it was a he! My first reaction was one of deep disappointment. No baby sister for Lila who had been insisting it was a baby sister inside me and not a baby brother. No sequel to the Nerissa and Katryna Show I’d grown up with. Boys have tantrums! Boys tease! Boys play with guns, and if you don’t give them a gun they make the arm of their sisters doll a gun! Boys drive souped up cars and pass you at eighty miles an hour on two lane roads! Boys stop talking to their moms for years at a time! Boys don’t get to wear pink flowery dresses! And for some reason, this was the thing that was making me most disappointed: I wouldn’t get to reuse all those cute baby girl clothes I’d been handed down by my two nieces. Those little pink Mary Janes would leave the family! Oh no!
I pause here to mention that I have been on a huge anti-consumer kick for the past year or so. I buy almost nothing, preferring second-hand everything to putting more money into the system, which manufactures new stuff at alarming rates –much of it from sweat shops in Third World countries; much of it composed of petroleum products. I have been wanting desperately to live off of that particular grid, so it strikes me as hilarious that my focus went to the piles and piles of balled up too-small baby clothes resting in boxes in my attic. Really?
The ultra-stenographer left me to get the doctor. She was gone a long time. I lay on my side and stared at the profile we’d finally taken of the baby’s face. His face. He looks a little more like Tom than Lila did in her US profile. Even then, she looked exactly like me. This baby has longer cheek-bones, like his father’s. He is beautiful, and as I stared, I thought of all the men I love. Tom. My father. Jesus. Gandhi. The Buddha. Martin Luther King, Jr. John Lennon. Bob Dylan. Barack Obama. Not to mention my brothers-in-law and my nephews. And I thought of this one little boy in HooteNanny whom I adore. He sings all the words to all the songs and has a little guitar, which he made Katyrna and me both sign. Having another girl would have been easy: I have two sisters, four aunts and a grandmother. I worked for six years in a girls dorm. Even my pets have been mostly female. But having a boy will stretch me. It will be rich with discovery, a delicious plunge into the unknown.
Disappointment faded and changed to joy, as subtly yet insistently as the browns and grays of March change to the greens and yellows of April. I felt the baby move inside me and I put my hand on my stomach above where I felt him.
“Hello, baby boy,” I whispered. “You’ve got a lot to teach me. I can’t wait to learn.”

Aphrodite, Spring, and My Media Fast

As a former Virginian, I find springtime in New England to be not just disappointing (in its lack of flowers, green and warmth) but also violent. And I’m not talking about the snowstorm that’s supposed to come tonight, nor about the way the ice on the river cracks as loudly as a thunderstorm, nor the way the water rushes down from the Green and White Mountains and floods our Connecticut River banks. I’m talking about the deeper forces that caused the Greeks to name this particular sun cycle after Aries, the Ram (temper, temper) and to associate this zodiacal sign with infants and toddlers. (The Greeks also, I just found out, named the month of April after Aphrodite, who was, by turns, charming and aloof.) Stravinsky must have known something about New England springs, because there is nothing gentle and flower-like about his wonderful, terrifying Rites of Spring. It’s more like a rowdy college keg party, with plenty of Bacchanalian madness thrown in.

Perhaps because it’s spring; perhaps because I’m pregnant, or perhaps because of where we are in this prematurely intense election cycle, but I’ve felt like a frayed nerve for the past few weeks. I cry at the drop of at hat; predictably at that manipulated point in every movie where director hope you will cry, but at other times too: when my father calls to say hi; when my almost two-year-old asks for tomatoes and then spits them out in a glob on the table, and also when she says, “I need cuddle you,” and puts her arms around my neck.

But mostly, I’m a wreck about this election. I’ve been following it fanatically since the Iowa caucus, when I first began to believe that Barack Obama might actually pull off a win. I argued fiercely with fellow lefties who said the country was too backwards and racist to embrace an African American with a foreign name. It’s not about race, I said. This is a visionary, a leader who comes along once in a hundred years! And look! He reaches across party lines! I stayed up way too late most Tuesdays in February watching results come in, mourning when we lost Massachusetts, high-fiving strangers with Obama buttons the day after Wisconsin. I spent every lunch hour pouring over the latest polls on RealClearPolitics.com. I have had many dreams about hanging out with Obama in coffee shops, just chatting about the issues and commiserating about life on the road, and also asking him questions about his church.

Which brings us, of course, to THE issue. Up until the point where Reverend Jeremiah Wright became a YouTube star for his God Damn America moment, Obama was leading both Clinton and McCain in the national polls. In every theoretical match-up, he beat McCain while Clinton just barely lost. And then the endless looping of what I saw as a not untypical African-American preacher doing what many theatrical preachers of all races and political persuasions do: saying things to wake their congregation up and remind their congregation (and perhaps those outside it as well) that our nation is on a dangerous and wrong path. Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell both said our nation got what it deserved after 911.

Though I wasn’t bothered at all by what Rev. Wright said, I was very bothered by the reaction to him. And I was thrilled and amazed by Obama’s speech on Building a More Perfect Union. (Predictably, I cried through much of it, but again, that seems to be par for the course these days.) Like many who have written much more eloquently and extensively than I, I believed this to be a transformational speech; one long overdue. I was raised and educated to believe that racism was the number one problem this country faced, and that until we addressed it and vanquished it, our nation would suffer greatly. It’s an incredibly complex problem, and the solutions require all of us to practice understanding and work harder to put ourselves in the shoes of others. I figured once Barack finished saying what needed to be said, we’d all shake ourselves awake and get to work—start practicing understanding, start talking honestly with one another, start recognizing that we need to put our money where our mouths are, and all that.
That’s not exactly what seemed to happen. Instead, I heard more strange insinuations that Obama wasn’t a real patriot, had issues that were distracting the American people from the crises at hand. The poll numbers didn’t move. My best friend called me to tell me her step-father had told racist jokes at their Pennsylvania Easter table. And the media seemed only interested in how the speech played out politically, not that something important had finally been said. I spent our cold, way-too-early Easter in tears, despairing for our country, despairing for my African American friends, heartbroken and furious.
I did my work on this anger, because I have learned that I can’t live with it, and what I came up with was this: I want the world to be about 100 years ahead of where it is now. I bet a hundred years from now we will not be talking about the first woman president, the first Latino president, the first Asian American president or the first African American president. Maybe we won’t even be talking about the first homosexual president. These will all be benchmarks long passed. I’m hopeful too that in a hundred years, we will have solved many of the problems that plague us today. If I look back a hundred years, I see Jim Crow. If I look back 200 years, I see slavery. I hope this ugly period we’re in right now seems as antiquated and backwards as those do.
The morning after Easter, I put myself on a strict diet: no more NPR, no more New York Times, no more RealClearPolitics, no more arguing. My prescriptions include reading Thich Nhat Hanh and Mary Oliver and going outside for walks with my daughter: the kind of walks where your heart rate never goes over 75 bpm because your companion is running up and down the knoll, kicking around dead leaves and collecting pine cones and doesn’t care a whit about getting anywhere fast. And wouldn’t you know it? I feel a lot better. I am still sad and disappointed, but I can see myself and my friends who are working for peace and justice as cogs in the wheel, just as the suffragettes were in the early part of the 20th Century, just as the abolitionists were in the 1840s, just as the feminists and black power leaders were in the ‘60s and just as the advocates for gay rights were in the ‘70s, ‘80s and today.
I know that spring will come. It always does, sooner or later. And I know this as a musician: a great song is one that has great substance—music with integrity, melody and rhythm plus lyrics that lend themselves to many listens, many ponderings, sometimes many interpretations. Those songs might not crack the top ten, but they will be listened to for decades (maybe even centuries) afterwards. What Barack Obama said on March 18, 2008 was akin to a great song. Whether or not he wins or loses, we will look back on that moment as one in which a brave man told the truth in a way that was meaningful, eloquent and provocative.

National Album Writing Month

On January 31, our friend Anne-Marie Strohman emailed us from Mountain View CA to tell us that February was National Album Writing Month. Since nothing compels me to write songs more effectively than a deadline, we decided that in between finishing How To Be An Adult and painting its cover, running HooteNanny, shoveling snow, playing all over western NY state and raising Amelia, William and Lila (and taking copious pregnancy induced naps-Nerissa, that is) we would take on this challenge. We recorded these songs on our Macs using the Garage Band program and Katryna’s Blue Snowball mic. They are rough demos, done in one take, so we apologize for the flubbed chords and missed pitches. We plan to record some of these for future projects, like our new family CD, Rock all Day, Rock all Night, and the soundtrack for my novel The Big Idea. Some might end up as part of a HooteNanny curriculum. There seems to be a theme to these songs. Anne Lamott says there are two major metaphors in literature: The River and The Garden. I say there’s a third: The Road. Below is a run down of all fourteen songs. You can hear them at http://www.nerissanields.com/FEb08NAWM.html.

1. Who Are You Not To Shine
I took as my prompt for this song the wonderful passage by Marianne Williamson, which is often erroneously attributed to Nelson Mandela.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

I wanted to write a song for my children and my nieces and nephews about being yourself no matter what. Here are the lyrics:
Who Are You Not To Shine

Sometimes you wish you were someone different
Sometimes you want to start all over again
Sometimes you want to go back to being a baby
Sometimes you want to jump ahead to the end

Maybe you could start to see it different
Maybe you could sit down here and rest
Maybe you could hear it once from my side
I think you are the best, the best, the best

Who are you not to shine?
Who are you not to glow?
Who are you not to be your own best self?
You can be who you are
You can change as you grow
But be you, don’t be anybody else

If you weren’t you then who would tell your stories
If you weren’t you then who would walk your miles?
If you weren’t you then who would help your sisters?
If you weren’t you then who would smile your smile?

Chorus


Nerissa Nields
©Peter Quince Publishing


2. Thank You
I wrote this backstage at Kripalu on Feb. 2. I love Kripalu. I first went there in 2001 when my first marriage was in its last months. Since then, I’ve seen it as a haven and a refuge. Nestled in the Berkshires, it’s known mostly as a yoga sanctuary, but I’ve also used it as a personal writing retreat. I studied with Julia Cameron there, and taken a meditation workshop with Sharon Saltzburg. It’s sort of like Falcon Ridge to me; I know I will find members of my tribe there.
Here are the lyrics:
Thank You All The Time

Thank you for the earth
Thank you for the sun
Thank you for my family
Thank you for the fun

All I ask is this:
That some one down the line
Finds the same old simple bliss
And thank you all the time

Thank you for the moon
Thank you for the sea
Thank for the different folks
Who share the world with me.

All I ask is this:
That some one down the line
Finds the same old simple bliss
And thank you all the time
Nerissa Nields
Feb. 2, 2008
©Peter Quince Publishing



3. ABC
I wrote the first verse of this song last year for HooteNanny as an a cappella number, but this February, Katryna suggested I expand it and give it extra verses and a Sesame Street beat.

4. Seasons
I wrote this one in my Thursday writing group, though I found the first four lines in a notebook I was using during the writing of the Sister Holler songs. (I think it was an early draft of “This Train.”) We plan to put this song on our double family CD Rock All Day, Rock All Night. It’ll be on the Night CD.
Lyrics:
Seasons

One field is ploughed
One field is fallow
One field’s on the way to harvest
Though the confidence is shallow
We go round and round
We go up and down
As we pass through the seasons of our life.

One road is new
One road’s well traveled
One road’s wide and comfortable
While another one is narrow
We go round and round
We go up and down
As we pass through the seasons of our life.

When I think I cannot take the snowstorms anymore
I see that crocus poking up through the leaves on the forest floor

One child is fast
One child is funny
One child likes the rainy days
While another likes it sunny
We go round and round
We go up and down
As we pass through the seasons of our life.

Nerissa Nields
Feb. 7, 2007
©Peter Quince Publishing, ASCAP
All Rights Reserved

5. Last Train Home
I started to write this song last May, but didn’t get very far. I finished it during another Thursday writing group.
Lyrics:
Last Train Home

Riding riding riding on the last train home
Got to get to my baby anyway any how
And if the wheels stop turning, gonna jump out and run
I’m gonna flag another train
I’m gonna steal a tired car
I’m gonna show the country what it means
To get to where you are
I’m gonna show the country what it means to find you

Many months of Mondays I have had my way
Basking in the sun of your compassion
Scheming all the time for something more, more, more
Never happy with my handsome ration

Chorus

I could never read you right when you were mine
I thought you would stick around forever
You gave everything you had, I asked for more
Thinking that you lived to give me pleasure

Chorus

Beautiful for spacious skies, waves of amber grain
Can you find it somewhere to forgive me?
If not me, then could you see a way to grant
Clemency for those who will outlive me

Chorus

Nerissa Nields
May 31, 2007 and Feb. 4, 2008


6. Percy On Pluto
Katryna asked me to write this song. She wanted a sequel to Aikendrum, a song about a guy who lives on the moon and wears food for clothes. Percy is his younger sister, and this song is about how she deals with the news that her planet is no longer considered a planet.
Percy On Pluto

Percy lived on Pluto where the sun was far away
And that means you can’t really tell the nighttime from the day
Her older brother Aikendrum, well, he lived on the moon
He played upon a ladle and Percy played on a spoon

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

Aikendrum wore food for clothes while Percy wore a dress.
She also wore long underwear, a hat, a scarf a vest
Two pairs of woolen socks, a coat, some mittens and warm shoes
At four hundred degrees below, you’d probably bundle up too.

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

Aikendrum told Percy, “Your planet’s smaller than my moon
And since the moon’s not a planet, and I bet yours won’t be soon”
Percy said, “Dear brother, does your moon have its own satellite?
I can see my Charon, if it’s day or if it’s night”

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

One day six light years from now, she got this strange report:
“Pluto’s not a planet anymore, you see it came up short.
It’s really pretty tiny and its orbit’s way off course
You can’t really call it a planet anymore, but you can call it Planet Dwarf.”

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

Well, Percy was very tiny too, smaller than a mouse.
If you saw where she lived you would mistake it for a dollhouse
When she heard that her planet was not a planet anymore
She took a breath of CO2, said, “I am Plutette, hear me roar!”

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

“It doesn’t really matter what you call it it’s the same:
A rose is still a rose, after all, by any other name.
And those of us who are little, we matter equally
In fact that’s why they passed the laws of mass and density.”

Yodelayeeee Yodalayeee Yodalayeee

Nerissa Nields © Peter Quince Publishing



7. Molly the Donkey
This is our version of “There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name o.” We live near a vocational agricultural school that has a number of animals, including a herd of cows and sheep, three huge Clydesdale horses and one tiny burro-like donkey named Molly.

I have a donkey
Her name is Molly
And she says “Hee Haw” all the time.
M-O-L-L-Y
M-O-L-L-Y
M-O-L-L-Y
Molly, mine.

Nerissa Nields ©Peter Quince Publishing


8. Good Times Are Here
This song is for my wonderful father. When Katryna was in her last year of college, she said, “Daddy, how old were you when you became disillusioned?”
He thought about it. “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s ever happened.”
He is the most optimistic person I’ve ever met. I want to be like him when I grow up. In this day and age, we need hope more than ever. By “hope” I mean that quality that fuels our actions; the thing with feathers, as Emily Dickinson so famously said. We must have the kind of hope that leads to positive, loving actions towards ourselves and our communities if the human race is to survive.
Good Times Are Here

It’s been so long since we had room to laugh
It’s been so long we’ve been traveling the narrow path
It’s been so long since hope had a season
Always trading sentiment for reason
And now you’re showing me the sunrise

Oh, good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
You were right, you were right all along
Oh, good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
You were right, you were right all along

I though your love was too good to trust
You had enough dreams for the both of us
And so I let you dream while I worried
Always gave you love in a hurry
And now you’re showing me the greatest surprise

Good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
You were right, you were right all along
Oh, good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
You were right, you were right all along

We ate our fear like the noble men
We built our walls to keep the children in
And every year our tribe became smaller
Trading in our heritage for dollars
And now you’re telling me to turn it around
You’re telling me to tear those walls down
That everything I lost can be found
It was there all along in the ground

Good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
You were right, you were right all along
Oh, good times are here, Johnny
Good times are here
I am glad, I’m so glad I was wrong.


Nerissa Nields
Feb. 21, 2008

9. Dresses
Katryna wrote this song as a sequel to “The Enemy Called Pants.” When Amelia was between the ages of three and four, she refused to wear pants. Ever.

10. I See Me Walking
Katryna called me up and said, “I just went for a walk and wrote these lines.” She sang the first four lines of this song into my voicemail. That night was a Monday, and I had a writing group, so I listened to her tune and finished the song.

11. This Is My Life
Veteran Nields fans will recognize this as a metamorphosis of a song I wrote in 1993 by the same title, and with mostly the same tune and chord progression (although back then it was in E. Fifteen years later, it’s in the more forgiving key of D.) While driving home from Ithaca on Feb. 23, Katryna said, “Why don’t you rewrite ‘This Is My Life’? I always loved the chorus of that song.” The old lyrics were pretty mean. I’ve mellowed, and I wanted to write a love song to my husband.
This Is My Life (2008)

I never thought I’d be
A person with a history
I always thought I’d be racing to
Uncharted territory
How was I to know
That you would be so awfully slow
Taking your sweet time to get it right
And now I can’t believe this is my life

So who made you kind?
And who made you bold?
And who made you someone
Who knows how to dress in the cold?
All of our wrong turns
Became the moves we had to learn
Stumbling though the dark with one flashlight
And now I can’t believe this is my life

Now my racing days are over, We can argue over who lost
Though I loved the speed I traveled
I just couldn’t pay the cost
Wouldn’t pay the cost

And now I spend my time
Watching your face shine
Watching our love grow
And knowing nothing’s mine
I just get to be
A witness to our destiny
All our disappointments and delights
And now I can’t believe this is my life
I can’t believe this is my life!
Nerissa Nields
Feb. 27, 2008



12. For All The Love
This was the second to last song I wrote. Again, I found part of it (the second verse) in a songwriting notebook from 2000. This is a love song to all the people who chose a righteous path to walk, sacrificing ease for integrity. No small feat in this day and age.

For All The Love

Now and then there is a calling
You don’t always want to take
You drag your feet and get distracted
Until you start for your own sake
Cause sometimes staying feels like dying
And though you know you have to die
You want to live a bit before then
And so you pack, you go, you try

No one said it would be easy
No one said it would be straight
But if you go and keep on going
You’ll find your way to that holy gate
And on the way are other travelers
Some are wise and some are mean
But they’re all bound to teach you something
Something you have never seen

And as you go, you’ll find companions
Brothers, sisters, of the way
Friends to laugh with friends to dance with
Friends to comfort , friends to say
That this road’s been a little harder
But we would chose it again
For all the love we made together
All the life that we packed in.

Nerissa Nields
Feb. 28, 2008



13. Lilalu
A lullaby to my daughter.

14. Ode To Underpants
Katryna wrote this when I called her in a panic and said “We need one more song!” She promptly came up with this. William, her three year old, laughed hysterically when she sang it to him.

Primary Thoughts

Writing songs is a little like raising kids. The idea seems to impregnate itself inside you and pretty soon has a life of its own, letting you know, by poking at you, that it exists and wants to be born. Some songs are born quickly; some incubate a lot longer. But eventually, they come out, and there's no way to know whether you've got a sleeper or a screamer until that point.

What's been amazing about our career is getting to watch "the kids" grow up. I just had a writing retreat at my house, and as is the custom, after two days of writing, I make everyone dinner and then we sit around and sing folk songs. My husband, Tom, for a Christmas present, organized all the sing-a-long books, which is to say, made me new sing-a-long books, with the help of Katryna. So armed with hundreds of songs and guitar chords, we proceeded to hootenanny. At some point, someone asked if it would be OK to request a Nields song. "Sure," I said. "I actually know those." But then the request turned out to be "The King Is Falling", which I mostly remembered. That song was our "big hit" on the first CD we ever made, 66 Hoxsey Street, an album I am glad we made, but one I never ever need to listen to again. (For me, it's like looking at those photographs of adolescence--awkward and geeky and pimply. I fondly remember myself then, but that doesn't mean I'd hang up a picture from that era.)

"The King Is Falling" was about the first George Bush and how the tide began to turn on him a few months after we "won" the first Gulf war. At the time, I had this idea that performing musicians were like school teachers and needed to keep their political positions to themselves, so we rarely introduced the song to make its subject clear. I don't know why I thought I needed to keep my mouth shut about politics; after all, my heros were Pete Seeger, John Lennon, Arlo Guthrie and Bob Dylan--hardly demure.

And yet, I feel a little tongue tied right now about the national election. Never have I felt so positively towards a candidate or believed a unique individual had the power-or maybe opportunity is a better word- to take the presidency and bring this country to a safer,better,sweeter place . (Well, actually, I think this is true of any of the Democrats and maybe even John McCain-we can't do much worse than George Bush II.)

I will be thrilled to vote for Hillary Clinton if she is the nominee--she's smart, experienced and how cool would it be to have a woman president? I will be ecstatic to vote for John Edwards if he is the Democrat running in the national election--he's really tough on corporations and very brave and honest about how money and corporate greed is poisoning this country. But the candidate I will be voting for in the primary, the one I think could actually bring this country together, and effect (sorry to use the overused) CHANGE--by shaking us out of our party ruts, by making peace, both domestically and abroad, is Barack Obama.

I think he’s the real deal. I have never in my entire life been so excited and hopeful about a candidate. My sister, Abigail, gave me his book, Dreams from my Father, and first of all, the guy can write. He is literate, sensitive, and the book was written way before his political career started. It’s not one of those “Here’s the story of my life and aren’t I great” Born To Lead kinds of books. Instead, it’s a journey of identity, a deep and personal odyssey, brave and honest. He is full of real values, like honesty, kindness, self-respect, respect, perseverance. Also, he is about unification and not division. I, as a lefty Democrat, like what John Edwards has to say. I hate corporations as much as the next progressive. But I fear John Edwards will perpetuate the "us vs them" mentality that’s gotten us to the election of 2000 which to my mind, was the descent into Hell. Barack Obama, while being plenty progressive , is about building bridges and making peace (he alone, besides Kucinich, was against the useless and damaging Iraq war from the start, and he alone, besides Kucinich, is against the death penalty). The man IS peace—just watch him. He carries himself with serene majesty. I also maintain that even if he hadn’t won my heart, my brain would say he is the best—and perhaps only-choice when it comes to rebuilding our integrity and trustworthiness in the eyes of the international community. He actually understands the rest of the world, because he lived in it. His father was Kenyan, his stepfather raised him in Indonesia, and he has a deep sense of the US in the context of the rest of the world. This book, which I highly recommend as a good read no matter what your politics, explores his past, his upbringing, his mistakes along the way with remarkable candor and courage, writing about race clearly and unapologetically. As a writer, I was deeply impressed with his ability and insight. "He's one of us," I thought. A seeker, an artist, a deep thinker."

I like the guy. I'd have him over for dinner. I want to talk to him about the problems in this country and hear his ideas. I want him to be our figurehead--to give the yearly state of the union in that smooth, smart voice of his, reassuring in its calm and authority. I want him to represent us in the Middle East, the European Union, Russia, China, Africa and Australia. I am proud of him, and he makes me proud to be an American.

I can't wait to see what kind of cabinet he puts together.

I think he's our best chance for healing what the Bush administration has done, to repair our reputation in the eyes of the international community.

I think he's our best chance for healing four hundred years of racial division and pain, which, arguably, is the most shameful aspect of our collective history (along with the genocide of Native Americans).


I've never felt this way about a politician before.

Sorry to get all gushy, but this is what's on my mind. Oh, by the way, I just found out Dennis Kucinich was pro-life up until his presidential run.

Happy January and happy voting!

Green Grinchy Christmas

How does one be a good American consumer, enjoy Christmas and be good to the planet, all at the same time? I don't know but here are my Christmas suggestions for this year:
1. give everyone a twenty dollar bill scotch taped to a stick
2. drink a lot of eggnog and eat a lot of chocolate and otherwise numb yourself to the proceedings.

Just kidding. After reading my essays for the past year, it should come as no shock that I am not exactly the biggest fan of our consumer culture. Someone asked me today if I’d “done” Black Friday.” I can’t begin to convey how unlikely it would be to find me anywhere near a place of purchasing the day after Thanksgiving. I am severely allergic to traffic, lines of any sort, excess packaging, schlepping and any version of extra stuff coming into my house (my rule, not well followed, is if something comes in, something else has to go out.)

We are a people who want more. It used to be you would buy one television and if it broke, someone had an ongoing job of fixing it. Remember that 20 year old commercial about the MayTag repair guy sitting glumly around because the MayTag appliances never broke? The truth now is we don’t fix things; we throw them away (or stash them in our attics, garages and basements) and buy a new one. A good friend of mine said, “I just can’t wait for my dishwasher to break so I can have an excuse to buy a new one.” I can’t tell you how many hands free headsets I’ve gone through since getting a cell phone—I think maybe 32. We buy new things, like car seats, shoes, carrot peelers, coolers for our food, pedometers, little jackets for our cell phones, stuffed animals, exercise equipment, and forget about the fact that someday, that thing will no longer be welcome in our house. It will end up in a landfill somewhere where it will last for thousands of years; or else, in the case of plastics, it might end up as part of that great ever growing plastic raft floating in the Pacific Ocean.

So I am not crazy about the consumer aspect of Christmas. It reminds me of eating unhealthy food—fun for the anticipation and the first bite, and then not fun afterwards. Every once in awhile, I hit it just right and find the perfect present for someone I love; that makes it all worth while. Or, less commonly, I am truly surprised and delighted by something someone gives me, though more often, I get lovely things that I really didn’t need. Nevertheless, the holiday season can be the best time of the year, if I take everything with fifty thousand grains of salt and try to have fun, get in the spirit and all that. And my job as a blogger is to give you good ideas, not be a PC environmentalchik wet blanket.

My big truth about the holidays is that I only seem to get inspired, gift-wise, in the last few days of Sagittarius, when the clock is ticking down and all the best selling gifts have been sold. Christmas become Christmas when I personally get into the spirit, and that usually begins with the music. I have a box full of Christmas in my basement, and when I pull it up somewhere around Dec. 1, the first thing I do is put five Revels CDs on my CD changer (www.revels.org.) (Revels is a yearly pageant, born in Cambridge, MA and now celebrated all over the country. It’s a combination of medieval music, ritual and ceremony performed mostly by a large chorus who act as citizens of a medieval Great Hall. It pure joy, as far as I am concerned.) We get a tree (yes, a real tree. Environmental sin #476); I put my holiday candles out and I take out the gift giving journal I keep (LCDP Weekly exercise number 45) and see what I’ve jotted down all year.

Some ideas for my loved ones that will help the earth and keep me out of the mall:
1. Sigg water bottles. I can’t say enough about this product! The water tastes delicious; you can wash them in the dishwasher; the cap is cool,a nd you can put stickers all over yours.
2. Homemade handkerchiefs. Now that was a great invention! Why waste paper when you can have your own soft cloth with your initials on it with which to blow your nose? Do what your granddad did—keep a couple of clean ones in your shirt pocket. With all that eating in the car that we Americans now do, you’ll always have a napkin.
3. Scrapbooks for other family members: this could be a great future gift: ask your sister for all those pieces of paper and photos and Bruce Springsteen tickets she’s been saving and make the scrapbook for her.
4. Homemade soaps. Why use plastic soap dispensers? Also, I didn’t say I was the maker of said soaps. But my friend, Pat makes fabulous homemade soaps, and I plan on supporting her buy buying a bunch.
5. I made my mother a version of the Day Planner last year, which she loved so much she insists I replicate it for her this year. It’s a weekly calendar with pictures from our family adventures plus quotations to go with the pictures and family members birthdays.
6. Dan Zanes CDs. Dan Zanes is the most innovative and restorative musician I can think of. Plus, our whole family loves him.
7. Anything hand knit.
8. A poem, story or song about a loved one, especially if you can perform it, read it or recite it to a crowd

Our family motto for Christmas is "take it down a thousand." My sisters and I have a deal to spend even less on each other this year than we did the year before (I think we’re down to an upper limit of $10.) I am planning to send an email to everyone in my family begging them not to give me anything, and to please, please not give Lila any plastic toys from China, or anywhere else. My husband and I will make a big batch of biscotti and put it in baskets for our friends, along with some Fair Trade coffee or tea. I am learning a few carols on the guitar. I might plan a party. I will take long walks in the low December sun. I will recite Luke 2: 10-15. I will find a photo of my daughter and make cheap black and white Xeroxed cards and send them to all my old friends. I will wrap presents in old newspaper and new ribbons. I will bake winter squash with cinnamon and cloves. I will frantically knit my husband’s scarf. I will sit with people who are intentionally silent and join them with my own silence. I will look around the Christmas table at the people I love most and give thanks for another year well lived.

Happy holidays to you and yours!

How I Know I Need Clutterers Anonymous

People often ask me how I am able to do so many things. The answer is: I almost never clean my house. As they say, something has to give, and in the Nields-Duffy house, it’s housework.

Don’t get me wrong. We only have a few ant colonies and the rats only show their faces at night. So far, the toys from the playroom haven’t migrated so far into the other rooms that doors can’t open, and so far no one has killed him or herself tripping over things, but it’s pretty bad. My friend and co-Day Planner inventor, Bonnie, made a suggestion to the group at one point that, “when things get kind of whacky, I sometimes take all the papers and loose ends and just put them in a box to file later.” I took that suggestion, only my box keeps growing—in fact I just added a second box—and I keep them both under the futon in my office. Lord knows what manner of important papers are in there.

I just paused to Google Clutterers Anonymous. I took their test: How Do I Know I’m A Clutterer? Twenty Questions. If I answered three or more as yes, I was probably a clutterer. I answered 15. Uh oh.

I have a closet overflowing with clothes. Old maternity things hanging hopefully (OK, not hanging—perhaps “crammed” would be a more accurate term), clothes from when I was ten pounds lighter than I am now; winter clothes, summer clothes, shoes in a heap. Piles of clothes, halfheartedly semi-sorted at one point to go to Good Will, get filched from regularly. I have a box in my bedroom marked “off-season clothes” that at one time was organized; now, it’s a dumping ground for the outfits I try on and reject when I’m actually getting dressed up to go somewhere.

I didn’t use to be this way. Honest. I went through a long phase where I studied Feng Shui and decluttered accordingly. In Feng Shui, there is a concept called a Bagua, which is a nine-celled map of your living space. You overlay it onto your home or apartment according to where the front door is and it makes a kind of grid. Each of the nine areas of your home has a corresponding point on the Bagua—areas such as Fame, Money, Children, Romance, Health, etc. The theory is, wherever you let clutter build up, there you will find problems and be stuck; the chi cannot flow freely in your home, and therefore you life, if you have clutter in any section.

Since I had clutter everywhere, I went to it. I decluttered my whole house, room by room, drawer by drawer, surface by surface. I sold excess and refrained from buying anything unless I simultaneously got rid of something else. It helped that I was going through a divorce and could pawn off lots of stuff onto my ex-husband, who LOVES clutter.

I got to like the new decluttered me. I liked leaving the house completely clean before going to bed. I kept my desk neat and my papers filed. I got a thrill from throwing things out.

So what happened? How did I fall off the wagon? Well, first of all, like a person who was overweight as a child but lost the baby fat at puberty, I was always one toss-of-a-sweater-onto-the-end-of-the-bed away from regressing. Conditions had been pretty perfect during my days of grace in the de-slobbing department. Rock the boat a little, and the sleeping monster would surely be woken.

It’s certainly a cop-out to blame a person who isn’t even yet three feet tall, but I point to my 18 month old daughter and cry, “J’accuse!” Here’s a typical day: she wakes up just when I am rushing to make my morning phone calls, so I juggle her on one hip while I or her father makes her eggs and toast and applesauce. These she generally throws on the floor, though occasionally some of the above makes it into her mouth. But not until she’s thoroughly wiped applesauce into her hair, which won’t be washed until evening. Then we do the dishes. As we put plates into the dishwasher, she methodically takes out the utensils and bangs them on the floor, spraying bits of food all over. (As I type this, I notice there are small red drops on my screen—remnants of yesterday’s new discovery: pomegranate seeds.) I take her into the playroom to start cleaning up her toys. Before I can say, “Picasso” she has dumped her basket of mangled crayons all over the floor.

Don’t get me started on the time one of those crayons found its way into the laundry. It was dark blue. Dryers and crayons do not like each other.

It’s not really Lila’s fault. The bigger problem is that I have a negative time balance that greatly interferes with my already shaky ability to throw things out. Plus, just when I have convinced myself that I don’t really need that shirt, that old piece of wrapping paper, that Yoga Journal from 1999, I suddenly come up with a purpose for it, and I renounce my renunciation. True clutterer that I am, I have the notion that that box the Lands End stuff came in might someday be useful. I could be creative and crafty. Really. It’s happened. So I don’t throw it out, nor do I throw out the ribbons from the gifts I get, or the gifts themselves, even though I know I will never use them. I have stacks of random things that might someday be part of as yet unmapped creative project.

Last Friday morning, I was frantically cleaning up Lila’s bedroom because a new babysitter was coming over, and I didn’t want her to see the real me yet. I wanted her to see the me I was ten years ago; the me who would have folded and sorted all Lila’s hand-me-downs in some kind of clever color-coded seasonally appropriate way. As I cleaned, Lila toddled off to my office (I will spare you the details of my office). I vaguely heard her shaking something. I figured it was my bottle of Advil, which makes a great shaker, and fretted not, thanks to childproofing. I heard Tom come up the stairs, enter my office, saying, “Hi, sweetie, oh, look at you, uh AH AAAAAHHHHHH!!!! OH MY GOD!!!” I raced in, to find Lila sitting in the middle of a circle of Advil tablets and an open container in her hand.

We raced her to the emergency room, which she found delightful, played with the Johnny they gave her to wear and she ate her first chocolate in the form of pudding used to disguise the sweetened charcoal the doctors gave her to absorb any of the Advil she might have ingested (which appeared, after all, to be none.)

So much for cleaning! We returned home, and I dug around in a big pile of miscellaneous clutter until I found a medium-sized square box. I drew four circles at the top, cut a door out of the side and labeled it Lila’s Oven. She’s been calling it her “Kitzen” ever since. Clutterers Anonymous will have to wait.

About Food, Again

I recently heard a talk by a wonderful meditation teacher named James Barez. He said:

“In the Buddha’s teaching called Transcendental Dependent Arising, he lays out how suffering can lead to a joyful heart. The list (what’s a Buddhist teaching without a list?) starts by showing how suffering, when held in the light of wisdom and compassion, can be a causative factor for faith. Our hearts crack open as we see we have no control over life. Surrendering our imagined control, we learn to trust that we can meet what is here with wise attention. This is the birth of faith. Faith then leads to gladness, and gladness flowers into joy. So suffering, in the light of dharmic understanding, is actually a precursor to joy. We can choose whether or not to let our suffering lead us into a downward spiral or open our hearts to life, allowing the goodness to shine through.”

Of course this makes me think about food.

Backstage at the Winnipeg Folk Festival, there was a sign reading, “Thank you to the farmers who provided much of this food.” Logos appeared under the words, identifying which of the many Manitoba farms had donated produce and livestock so that we musicians could eat. Later, at the Fairmont hotel in downtown Winnipeg, I asked the waitress if the chicken in my salad was organic and free range. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Our chef won’t work with any meat that isn’t. And all of the vegetables are local too.”

As we drove into Northampton, on our way back from the airport, I noticed in several of the town restaurants those big yellow and green signs saying, “We support local farms.” “Local heroes,” others read. Am I just opening my eyes to these signs, or is a subtle but crucial cultural revolution occurring right now?

I choose to believe the latter, though it’s also true that I have had my consciousness raised recently by two wonderful books: Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, in which the well-known novelist chronicles her family’s year long experiment with eating locally, growing much of their own food, eschewing bananas and hewing closely to their farmer’s market. And The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Michael Pollan’s wonderful account of four meals he serves to his family and how each one of them came to be.

My love for organic farms has its origin in my first summer as a professional musician. Katryna and I had moved to Williamstown in 1991 to take that little town of 8000 by storm (our motto: first Spring Street, then THE WORLD!) Coincidentally, my great aunt Sally, an eighty year old Taoist and gardener, chose that same summer to move back to Williamstown, her girlhood home. She invited us over to tea and said, “I’ve just joined a local organic CSA (Community Supported Agricultural Farm) but I won’t be able to eat even a third of the vegetables. Why don’t you girls come with my on Tuesday and help me pick? I promise I’ll let you have all the sugar snap peas.”

That was the deal of the century. For the next few years, every Tuesday we drove Aunt Sally to Caretaker Farm, nestled in a valley of the Berkshires, and she sat in a rocking chair in the shade of the old barn and knit while Katryna and I picked green beans, peas, raspberries, strawberries, tomatoes and took home more fresh, delicious vegetables per week than we were used to eating in a year. Thus began my love affair with summer squash.

I’ve joined other CSAs over the years, and slowly learned the value of real, homegrown food. I began to get it that commercially grown food costs a lot more than the price tag would indicate: there are environmental and social costs the consumer pays in the form of taxes (subsidies for corn, wheat and soybean farmers) and in the form of environmental degradation (commercial fertilizers are literally killing the soil in the Midwest; age old methods such as crop rotation and the manures of local animals which used to protect the soil have been replaced by synthetic fertilizers which reduce the complex balance of elements in the soil to three: phosphorus, nitrogen and potassium.) In other countries, food costs more, and people generally budget for that, choosing nutrients over a new cell phone every year, and an entirely new wardrobe every season. Is this a bad thing? Certainly, no other country has the obesity epidemic we have, and perhaps a part of that is due to the cheap availability of calories here, many of them derived from soy and corn, turned into junk foods and soda.

When I buy a commercially raised chicken at Stop & Shop, it costs me $2.50 a pound. This chicken has probably spent its entire short sad life living in a room the size of my bathroom in a crate with 1200 other chickens, each in their own crate, stacked up one on top of another. Its beak has probably been removed so it won’t peck its neighbor in the tail feathers, a common occurrence among birds caged in this manner. As this isn’t the most supportive environment for the chicken, it needs supplements of antibiotics to keep it healthy. On the other hand, if I buy my chicken from a local farmer, or even at Whole Foods, and it’s been certified organic, or at least free range, that chicken will set me back more like $4 a lb, but I will know that my chicken pecked grubs and nibbled on grass and maybe even sat on eggs and knew its mother for few weeks of its chicken life.

As I am writing this, I have the same strange mixture of anger, shame and hope that I always have when I write about the places where my desire to be a good citizen of the planet collides with my desire to be accepted as one among many fallen humans, normal people who just want to live a good life, who want to enjoy the occasional chicken McNugget and not have that moment ruined for them by a Climate Change Cassandra campaigning against junk food. In other words I feel the need to apologize. There is no issue that divides people as quickly as food, and this makes sense, of course. Do you know anyone on the planet who likes and hates all the same foods you like and hate? Every mother I know tells me serving dinner to her family of three, four or five is almost impossible: someone’s not going to like something. Why should it be any different with our food politics? These issues are complex. My current belief that it’s more virtuous to eat locally means I no longer buy my weekly box of mangos from Tran, the owner of a wonderful local Asian market because that box was shipped from Haiti and cost who knows how much fossil fuel not to mention the mango pickers might not have been paid a fair wage. But where does that leave Tran? Michael Pollan writes about how monocultures-the growing of just one crop on a given plot—is one of the root problems in our agricultural system, and the solution is to support small, local farms who provide many types of plants and livestock, rotating fields, using the manure of the animals to nourish the crops, and using the grass of the fields to nourish the animals. But in our global economy, we now have farmers in third world countries committed to growing monocultures to feed our curious and growing appetites for exotic fruits and vegetables, which we’d like to have available all year long, and not merely when they’re in season. Do we pull the rug out from under them?

At Winnipeg, we ran into an old friend, and got to talking about the OTHER big concert happening that day.

“Can you believe Madonna?” he scoffed as we watched the Manitoba sunset at 10:15pm. “Doing this Live Earth benefit, pretending to be all holier than thou, and here she is flying her own jet to get to her stage. Some carbon footprint!”

“Yeah,” said my sister Katryna. “But don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

This has been our mantra recently. Also, “It’s not easy being green.” My mother just called to tell me she was eating nothing but local food, and the seventeen-year-old in me wanted to point out that her rice had come from China, her peach from California, her chicken from God knows where and her coffee from Indonesia. But good for you, Mom, for your zucchini and tomato!

Where does that get me? Into a cranky, aversive judgmental place. Glass houses. We all have plenty of environmental sins; no one’s hands are clean. The problem is there are too many of us using the slim resources the earth has to give us, and by that logic, we are guilty for just being alive. But where’s the hope in that? Thinking along these lines—judging my mother, looking at anyone’s plate besides my own, for that matter--just brings me to a place of despair.

Here’s what I like better: I like to think of the changes I feel called to make as challenges, sort of like the challenges I faced when I was starting my music career. Or the challenges I like to think I would take on if I were ever crazy enough to train for a triathlon. Eat locally? Sure! That’ll be fun! I’ll find some farmers and get to know them; ask why they make the choices they make, put a face behind the food on my dinner plate. Feel good knowing that my dollars are going into the pockets of those neighbors with the red barn and the big fields so that their kids can go to college or take over the business when the time comes. Use less fuel? Hey! What a good way to get more exercise, burn some calories, see my town from the vantage point of a bike or on foot. And when I’m on foot, I run into more people I know. Spend less money on the various plastic things I buy, the cheap clothes and ingenious gadgets (like the new iPhone I covet)? Great! I’ll save money and find other ways to spend my time (which is not exactly one of my problems.) If I can take the Buddha’s precept about suffering turning to joy, it’s easy to make these small sacrifices, and I do always find the surrender a gift, that when I give something up, my pack becomes lighter and my journey therefore more easy and pleasant. But that’s my journey—not anyone else’s. So above all, I get to be gentle with all the other six billion humans stalking the planet, and be gentle with myself, treading as lightly as I can and knowing that even with the best of intentions, I’m still going to make an impact.

In Defense of Reading Harry Potter

One day in early August, our babysitter arrived at the usual time, and as I was handing Lila to her, along with Lila’s tofu, wild rice and cheese, she said, “I hope Tom told you I have to leave at 3:30 today. Doctor’s appointment. I told him last week.”

Suffice it to say Tom had not told me, nor did he remember being told even when I pressed him on it. As I had two clients after 3:30, I had to scramble to switch them. Though it all worked out, I felt like a victim of my own mess of systems—the unsynchronized palm pilot, the colorful calendar on my computer, the scrawled To Do list which my sister inadvertently took with her to the Adirondacks, and the non-existent family calendar we keep meaning to create. And the results of my disorganization are manifold—the kitchen floor covered with bits of tofu, wild rice and cheese; the dirty diapers in mid-cycle in the washing machine; my not yet unpacked suitcase from last weekend’s gigs; the manuscripts to all three of my current book projects in my office (not to mention penultimate printouts which may or may not be in boxes in the attic); the DVD of the HBO Drama Big Love half-played in my computer; the leggy runners keeping my roses from blooming. But at least I finished Harry Potter.

I’m only kind of kidding. That day, I did something I almost never do: I lay in bed after lunch and read 200 pages of a novel. The day was sunny and too hot even in the shade, but my bedroom was cool and I had a mason jar full of water and a gripping story to dwell within. I laughed and cried and cheered and felt when I had finished that there was no better way I could have spent my time.

For me, this is progress. Some of my dear friends have pointed out that I am something of a workaholic. “It’s your Capricorn rising,” say my astrology pals. “You can’t bear to let people down.”

While this is true, it’s not the whole story. Fear of disappointing people is not the motor that drives me to work. I like to work because my work is mesmerizing, compelling and rewarding. Right now I am making little movies of my band to put on YouTube. I am touring our new CD Sister Holler. I am editing The Big Idea to release as a serial, and I am writing songs to go with it. I get to coach fascinating people, people whose calls I look forward to taking. And I get to participate in writing groups in my own living room. What’s not to love?

But as I’ve said before, the problem with loving your work (be careful what you wish for) is that if you wade too deeply into it, you risk being pulled out by one of the strongest undertows known to man—the undertow of success. As my astrology pal recognized, one of the pitfalls of success is that it says, “See how important you are? All these people are waiting for you to do the next successful thing. They need you! They are counting on you!” And while this sometimes might appear true—people might even write you letters and tell you just this—it’s really not. You are somewhat replaceable. I say “somewhat” because I also believe that each of us is a unique channel and all that Martha Graham blah blah blah that I’m constantly quoting.* __The other pitfall is the way in which the best, most delicious, fun “work” takes you away from your feelings, from any kind of pain you might be in and might need to address. When I am feeling restless, irritable and discontented in any way, my favorite diversion is to start planning how I am going to fill up my time with useful and productive Things To Do.

But ultimately, when it comes down to a choice between your work and what for lack of a better word I will call your equanimity, I would hope to chose equanimity every time. By equanimity, I mean that sense of rightness within yourself. That sense of balance. I know I have it when I pass my reflection in the mirror and have the thought, “She looks like a nice person. I trust her.” I know I have it when I don’t feel like I’m on speed. I might be full of energy and able to handle the diapers, the manuscripts and my daily jog, but the energy seems to be coming from deep within; not the fleeting caffeinated high I often settle for.

And if you live with people you love, equanimity is about sharing the best parts of yourself with them, and not hoping they will settle for the half-asleep remnants of what is left of you when you spend your day racing from one flaming bush to the next. It’s about getting down on the carpet or the lawn and playing with your child. It’s about asking your partner how his or her day was and really listening for the follow up. It’s about looking those people in the eye and holding contact.

And most importantly, it’s about giving yourself—your dear, worn, imperfect, trying-her-best self-- a break; a break that won’t break you, like going on a shopping spree you can’t afford, or eating a tray full of spice cake. Rather, it’s about pretending for a second that you are the absolutely, uniquely, perfect mother for you; and given that, what would be the kindest, most helpful thing you could do with your time? Perhaps paying attention to your food as you eat a nutritious lunch. Perhaps going for a slow walk by the river. Perhaps riding your bike to an art museum. Perhaps browsing in a book store. Maybe it’s actually tackling that closet full of clothes that don’t fit and packing them off to Good Will. For me, yesterday, it was letting the tofu and cheese remain on the floor for a few hours while I finished a fun novel with my feet up while Lila was downstairs playing with a babysitter.

Even writing those words, I feel a twinge of guilt. The army of “I shoulds!” comes marching out of my ears and I expect thousands of “good” mothers and fiscally responsible householders to condemn me for my sloth and extravagance. Also, I expect that all of you reading this are wondering how I, self-proclaimed time management guru, could possibly schedule such an activity during the peak productivity hours of the day. (I have a lot to say about so called peak productivity hours, but I’ll save that for later.) What I’ll say now is that in the simple act of writing what I have just written, I no longer feel like the victim of my mess of time management systems, but rather the conqueror. For I see that I’ve achieved exactly what all those systems hope to promote, and that is a happy balanced life. Who ever said dirty diapers have no place in a happy balanced life? Who ever said a happy balanced life never left a residue of cheese on a kitchen’s wood floor? These artifacts are ample evidence of the life we are all craving, because they are proof that we are living fully, richly, messily, creatively. My daughter has a big bucket of blocks which are, most of the time, not encased in their bucket but dumped out all over the floor. What purpose do the blocks serve? They are not the kind of blocks that make building meant to last for more than five minutes. From a certain perspective, one could imagine their purpose is to cover the carpet. But I see Lila playing with the blocks. She loves to dump them on the floor, yes, but she also loves to put them back one by one, singing her “Put It Back” song which goes, “Ba---Ba,” to the tune of “Sol-Do.” She also loves to pick one block out and cradle it to her chest and carry it with her all over the house, leaving it finally in some incongruous place like my desk or the toilet. This is part of what she needs to do to learn how the world works. Life is inherently messy.

Because I took a long delicious break in the middle of the day yesterday to enjoy Harry Potter, I was cheerful and present today. I felt spoiled, as though I’d gotten a massage. I felt like someone whose job it was to take care of me exquisitely succeeded. Who knows? Tonight I might even unpack my suitcase.


*FYI, the Martha Graham quote: _"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open."-Martha Graham

On Turning Forty, Sgt. Pepper and the Tao

tao te ching
verse 65
the ancient masters
didn't try to educate the people
but kindly taught them to not-know

when they think that they know the answers
people are difficult to guide
when they know that they don't know
people can find their own way

if you want to learn how to govern
avoid being clever or rich
the simplest pattern is the clearest
content with an ordinary life
you can show all people the way
back to their own true nature

(trans. Stephen Mitchell)

I turned forty last month. I share this birthday with my favorite album of all time: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. In the Summer of Love, 1967, both of us were released in the US on June 2. I didn’t know the Beatles until the spring of 1977, when we were both about to turn ten—my first big round birthday where the odometer flipped the second digit. Though my best friend, Leila Corcoran shared with me every Beatles album in existence, the songs that most appealed to me were the colorful, psychedelic tapestry-like ones from Sgt. Pepper (those, and “Hello, Goodbye,” a single that was released a few months after SPLHCB). As Aimee Mann said in her recent Op Ed piece in the NYTimes, Sgt. Pepper was made particularly for children.

I spent my birthday weekend “working,” if by that participle one means “playing shows.” I never know, before a show, whether it’s going to be a “working” show or a “playing” show. One show was for children and families in Philadelphia at the World Café, and the other a festival in Herndon, VA. On the way home from our weekend of gigs, Katryna swiped a copy of USA Today from the front desk of the Comfort Inn in Newark DE and read a list of “things that have all but vanished” in the last 25 years. These included indoor smoking, typewriters, the rhinoceros, pay phones, Oldsmobiles, the Baltimore Colts, Michael Jackson, videos on MTV, checker cabs and service stations. At our Herndon festival, Carol Welsh, a girl who was a freshman when I was a big senior, showed up; she’d been my “new girl”-an important tradition and designation at my high school. When she mentioned that she is now thirty-seven, I couldn’t believe it. Yes, I knew I was forty; yes, I can do math, but somehow her being thirty-seven was much more indicative of how much time has gone by than my nice round odometric numbers.

I’m kind of in denial about the whole thing. Isn’t forty the new twenty? That’s what my mother said when I came down dressed to go out for dinner on June 2. She said, “You don’t look a day over twenty.” Thank God I’m not twenty, is all I could think. I remember my twentieth birthday. Carol’s older sister Elizabeth, one of my best friends, and fellow Beatles fanatics, gave me a poster of the cover of Sgt Pepper. We were all flipped out because our favorite record was 20 years old (“It was 20 years ago today…”). Meanwhile, I was depressed, lost, 15 pounds overweight, fighting constantly with my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, clueless about what I was going to major in for college, despairing about the Reagan administration, angry at my parents and sad that it was raining. It was truly a low point of my life. I spent the entire 90’s thinking “I hope I never see another 1987 again.”

If I had a list like USA Today’s for just myself and my inner thought parade, here are some of the rhinoceri:
1. Fear of dying in a plane crash
2. Fear of gaining 15 pounds
3. Perms
4. Obsessive thoughts about my ex-boyfriend and the idea that it was his (or anyone’s) job to make me feel good about myself, specifically to answer the question: “Does this make me look fat?”
5. The band Heart (sadly. I really love them, but I cannot listen to them anymore.)
6. Blue jean mini skirts
7. Gigantic bran muffins the size of my current mug of Starbucks coffee
8. TV
9. The belief that it matters where one went to college
10. Fear of being too revealing in my writing.

I used to think there were two kinds of musicians: the kind who were cryptically silent about the meaning of their songs, their processes, their inner lives, their personal lives; they emanated a cool through their dark glasses and silence; they dragged on cigarettes and regarded the reporter (and therefore, you) with a mixture of pity and contempt and mild curiosity. The other kind were completely forthcoming, blabbing about their latest therapist/colonic/girlfriend/boyfriend and of course how each strand of a creative idea came to them. Bob Dylan was the quintessential first kind of musician while John Lennon and Paul McCartney were famous blabbers. (If you don’t believe me, read Jann Wenner’s Lennon Remembers and Mark Lewisohn’s The Beatles Recording Sessions.) I always aspired to be like Dylan, and for a whole year and a half kept my age top secret by orders of my then manager. (That was from 1996 through about, oh, June 1997 when I turned thirty). Somewhere in my DNA lurks the idea that if I don’t say it in public, the world will not be able to handle the loss of the information.

Lao-Tzu, the great Chinese teacher and sage, says that the wisest among us cultivate don’t know mind. That the older and wiser we get, the more we understand how little we know, and the more we are glad of it. I wrote once “I’d rather live expecting the best though if you gave me the choice I’d like to know the rest/A figure in the distance always running.” I wanted to know the answers. I wanted to know, for instance, that I’d never have to feel as depressed as I did in 1987. I wanted to know FOR SURE that I wouldn’t die in an airplane crash, or of cancer, or that anyone I loved would die of cancer, or that anything bad would happen to anyone I knew. Yes, I knew we all had to die, but I didn’t want any of us to die in any way you could propose to me. I pushed it away.

But we all have to die. We all age. I now have compassion for people who get plastic surgery. Just last month, I noticed that my neck has taken on the cast of tissue-paper; that the bags that were only occasionally under my eyes after all nighters have now, excuse the pun, unpacked, as it were and are here to stay. The aging process is bad enough; the fact that it signifies the actual decrepitude of my dear beloved body is horrifying.

My “new girl,” Carol, has been battling a rare brain tumor, Adult Ependymoma for seven years. She has written bravely about her experiences on her website, and can tell her story better than I (http://home.earthlink.net/~mswelsh/adultependymoma/index.html). I have watched her face the worst with humor and love and courage, and I am amazed at the resilience of some of us humans when confronted with that which we fear most. There is nothing like the very real possibility of death to make one put into perspective one’s complaints about one’s neck, or the numbers of CDs one sells. Standing in the rain together after the festival, Carol told me about the Paul McCartney article in last week’s issue of the New Yorker, and we all marveled at his ability to continue making music, showing up for his fans, his muse, his calling even though he has every reason on earth to retire and spend his old age with his little three year old daughter Bea and his four older children.

Someone recently pointed out to me that we all kill to eat. Even those of us who are vegans are guilty of murdering insects, microbes, animals (by destroying their habitats, which unless you eat completely off the commercial grid, is impossible to avoid) and of course, plants. It’s the nature of life; in order to live, one being sacrifices its life for another. And around and around we go. Death is a part of life; as integral as the yin yang symbol makes it out to be, with the little dot of white amidst the black and the dot of black amidst the white. I hold my gorgeous little 13 month old baby up to the mirror and we put our faces together and grin at ourselves. I am shocked at how much older I am than she is. Next to her brand new face (which people in the know will quickly agree looks remarkably like my own) my every wrinkle and age spot comes forth. And I rejoice at my years, at my aging face, at my surgery-free parts and most of all at all the baggage I’ve long ago left at the terminal. Someone else can claim it if they need it. I’m looking forward to forgetting more and more and achieving less and less and spending my remaining days finding my way back to my own true nature. I just hope that includes the Beatles.

Posted by Nerissa at 6:41 AM 0 comments