Let the Chips Fall Where They May...

There are certain moments that come along when the choices are laid out clearly before you, and you know you will have to say goodbye to something that has become a part of you, in order to lay claim to another part of you that may be more hidden and obscure.

For years, I have been circling… no, lurking is probably a better word… around the soul of my creativity. She has lived in a shadow world that I visit mostly in my night time dreams, and sometimes during the frustrated day dreams that distract me from whatever business at hand I should be dealing with at the moment. I have used her as a justification for avoiding responsibility and for indulging impulses. She has been my running partner through years of mischief and then later through years of sacrifice and forbearance. I have loved her and hated her and envied her, for her unbridled courage and open fuck-you to anyone and anything that gets in her way.

And how I have longed for her. I have wished that I could just throw my arms open to her and embrace her with the fierceness reserved for those lovers who are star crossed or who have otherwise looked death in the eye. Instead, I have kept her in a secret place, barricaded behind walls of guilt and shame and the fear of clarity and its partner, judgement. I have opted for obfuscation, and the blurring of distinctions between what I’ve really wanted and what others have wanted me to do. I have bided my time. I have been lazy. I have been afraid. I have been foolish.

This blog is a testament to my almostness… My creative soul lives here, but I rarely bring around my friends or colleagues to sit with her. I share with them my chatter about work, and projects and other people’s music and musings. I immerse myself in conversations about commerce and communication and other people’s suffering. But here is where you’ll find the truth about me. Here is where I’ll show you how I’m really feeling, and what touches me deeply. The things I think about because I’m not supposed to think about them, or the things that haunt me because they could have been, might have been or should have been. Or shit I just feel like saying, without having to justify why…

I no longer believe in instant karma, as in a song that heals wounds or a play that changes the world. I now believe that real change is borne of many, many cumulative choices over time, coupled with as many accidents of fate. Having weathered the impatience of my youth, and the repeated construction and deconstruction of my ego, I’m comfortable enough with myself now to view the impending turn of my fifth decade with a sense of relief and wonder. The preciousness of my words no longer completely overwhelms me… I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter that much who likes my writing and who doesn’t. That will constantly change, and I will be delighted and disappointed many times over.

What I do know is that it’s no longer OK to sequester whole parts of me, especially my creative soul, to a dark corner of the internet akin to a deserted part of town. If I’m supposedly such a good communicator, then I should be able to talk about my own work, and share it with others, and be willing to participate in the conversations it stimulates. Yes, I should…

So here I am, putting it out there yet again. Each time I write one of these pieces that feels like a cross between a confessional and an attempt to articulate a grand world view, I care a little less about what someone will think when they read it, and a little more about what I’ve just gotten out of the way and how I’ve cleared the road for the next thing… I can’t wait to struggle with the next concept and practice letting it flow out of me like something tasty and delicious that I love to savor and share and savor some more. God it feels so fucking good to write. I just want to keep doing it…

Dealing With the Pain of Others

On Twitter, I'm known as projectmaven. That's me. I get involved in a lot of projects.
One of them is a play, No Place Called Home. It was written by a friend of mine, Kim Schultz. She's an actress, improv performer and writer. And now she's an activist. That's right, back in the fall of 2009, she traveled to the middle east with a group of other artists on a trip organized by the group, Intersections International, to meet with Iraqi refugees and hear their stories. She came back to New York a changed person. Not only had she heard literally hundreds of stories of ruined and traumatized lives, but she also fell in love with one of the refugees she met, an Iraqi artist named Omar. Then she wrote a play about it.

That's Kim.

Meanwhile, while Kim was busy getting her mind blown apart in Lebanon, Jordan and Syria, I was back in New York, coping with the death of my husband, Ivor, from a life long battle with sickle cell disease. By the time she and I were reunited, the funeral was over and my son and I were well on our way down the road of Life without Daddy.

That's me.

Now I'm working with Kim to help her develop a national tour of her play. She's already had a successful run of this one woman show in New York City and New Jersey, and a performance in Washington, DC. I'm helping her to book dates at college campuses and museums all across the midwest, California, Baltimore, New York and other cities throughout the country.

There's one more piece of important history here.

Back in 2009, I had begun my own two-year journey of working on a project that was also related to Iraqi people. Although some of the folks I eventually met were also refugees living in the US, at the time, most Iraqis were still civilians living in their own country that was busy being decimated from the inside by US led sanctions aimed at toppling Saddam Hussein. The impact of these policies on Iraqi civilians, and the efforts of activists to bring light to the situation was the focus of my film, "Christmas in Baghdad." The Iraqi infrastructure had already been shredded, and many activists I knew were busy doing "peaceful" protests against the cruel policies by bringing medical and school supplies to the country, in quiet defiance of the restrictions. Although one friend had traveled to Iraq with a humanitarian delegation and shot ten hours of footage for me, I had largely approached my subject matter through the lens of the activities of protesters and students here in the states, as well as by meeting and talking to Iraqi Americans who still had family living in Baghdad and other Iraqi cities.

In my final leg of research, I also came to know a group of Iraqi refugees living in Lincoln, Nebraska, whose situation had stemmed mostly from their involvement in the 1991 uprising against Saddam Hussein, at the end of the first Gulf War. As I remember it then, meeting with those families had led me to the soul of my film.

Iraqi people are indescribably gracious, soulful and thoughtful people. The poignancy of their suffering, coupled with their dignity and generosity was almost too much for me to bear. How does one witness this and stay silent? I was determined to bring their voices to the American public, to let other Americans have the opportunity to see that they are just like us! They love their children, and want to create a good life for them and the rest of their family members. They are interested in education and culture and living good, healthy lives within a community. Surely these are universal values that everyone could understand? Just share their stories with good hearted American folks, and they will see that we should not be supporting policies that hurt these other good hearted people who are not so different from us and our families...

But 2001 had other things in store for me, and for all of us.

In May of that year, my father died. Then, two months later, we lost my grandmother. Two months later was 9/11 which pretty much shattered the world as we knew it, and then in November, my cat died. It was a terrible year.

With much to recover from, I put my project aside for a while. "Christmas in Baghdad," would have to wait.

And then, the following summer, I became pregnant and my younger sister had a heart attack, just about in that order. My personal life was about to take over in a big way. By the time 2003 rolled around, I was becoming a new mother, and we were entering a new war in Iraq. My film about sanctions was a thing of the past. I had a whole new level of family responsibilities and concerns to occupy my thoughts. The lives of Iraqi people were no longer at the forefront of my consciousness.

Until Kim brought them back in. Coincidence? I don't think so. I believe things happen for a reason. Back when I was working on my film, the psychic burden had in some ways become too great for me to bear. At the time, I could not see how I, one woman functioning as an independent filmmaker, could take on the the criticism of US policies or even manage to look critically at their aftermath, in the form of the suffering of these very real people, about whom I had grown to care tremendously. I simply did not believe I had the inner resources to do it.

Over the next several years, as I dealt with the responsibilities of unraveling two estates, being a new mother, supporting my sister through her acclimation to what became chronic, though manageable heart disease, and coping with my husband's own quietly advancing illness, I often felt pangs of guilt for having abandoned my Iraqi friends. They had told me their stories. They had invested me with the responsibility of sharing what I knew, of doing whatever I could to help, and here I was, letting all of that just... go...

Until Kim brought it back into my life.

So yes, now my son is about to turn eight years old, my husband has been gone for over a year and a half, and my sister has learned to adapt to her underlying illness and is living a very normal and successful life. And I, amidst the many other things I do in a given day, am helping Kim Schultz, as her tour coordinator, to bring her one woman show around the country, to share the stories of Iraqi refugees whose country has been decimated.

And no, we are not alone. There are other artists, activists, advocates, aid workers, family members and friends of Iraqis throughout the United States and around the world who are also doing what they can to help. And the more we reach out and connect with them, the more we will be able to do. And, I am sitting on over a hundred hours of footage documenting the recent history of this current situation. So I'd say, there's a lot of potential here...

The big question is, how do you get people to care about people they don't know? How do you get people to want to deal with the pain and suffering of others? Especially when there is so much hardship right here at home... and in Haiti... Japan... the list goes on and on...

This is just the opening question in a conversation that will continue. I have much more to share on this topic...

The Fear of Never Ending Pain

I spent most of this weekend in a reclining position. It seems that, despite the fact that I had just scheduled a chiropractic appointment for Monday evening, my recent, increasingly frequent bouts of lower and upper back pain, shoulder tension and neck spasms culminated in a massive lower back systems failure on Friday evening. All I did was reach down to pick up a garbage bag and BAM. The left side of my lower back just completely seized up. I could barely walk.

Fortunately, I'm not prone to panic. Plus I happened to have company that night and help the following morning to get my eight-year-old son to soccer, and then later on to karate. So I had the freedom to be able to stay in bed, and then on the couch, for the majority of Saturday. Oh, and thank goodness for take-out Chinese food, ice packs, hot showers, ibuprofen... and Flexeril.

Now here I am, Sunday night, still pretty sore and not yet able to pick things up from the floor, or easily make the transition back and forth from sitting to standing... but I know things will be OK soon.

I was reminded of a few things this weekend, though. When Ivor died, it ended a lifetime of chronic pain. He had been born with sickle cell anemia, one of the crappiest diseases I have ever come across. I know it intimately, from over two decades of supporting him through his crises, his hospitalizations, his gradually decreasing stamina and the slow erosion of his joints, the weakening of his major organs and the ultimate full system collapse that finally ended his life.

Since Ivor died, I have had several transient health crises. One was a stomach virus that had me grateful to lie on the cool floor between bouts of expelling my insides out both ends of my body. There have been a couple of eye splitting migraines. And then there was this debilitating back thing this weekend. Fortunately, the pain never got completely out of control, and I never got too scared. But I remembered what it was that has always frightened me about episodes like these - the possibility that it will go on forever.

What if my back is permanently damaged or injured? What if I will never regain my mobility? What if I will always be in pain? What if I will no longer be able to just walk anywhere I want, or ride a bike, or stand in the kitchen cooking all afternoon, or dance, or have sex all night, or even sit at the computer for hours on end? What if my life was permanently altered by a drastic change in my physical status? My biggest fear of being in pain is that it will never end.

I watched my husband live with chronic pain for over 20 years. I learned first hand the kind of assistance he required to live a good life. But I also learned how his positive attitude never let him lead with the pain. If asked how he was doing, he would always reply that he was doing either well, or OK. The pain was never the thing that defined the quality of his life.

When I was more actively working in coalition with other people advocating on behalf of the chronically ill and disabled, there was a term that people in the advocacy community used to refer to healthy individuals - the temporarily able-bodied. Because really, any one of us could suddenly be injured, or develop a terrible illness, or otherwise find ourselves faced with life altering circumstances. We healthy folk generally take our good health for granted, until something happens to shake us out of our complacency.

You would think that a big chunk of my life spent married to a man who lived with chronic pain would give me some perspective on this issue. It has. I suppose going through the grief of losing him has also taught me a lot about what I can survive, and what I'm capable of handling. And then of course, there is the instant motivator of having a son who needs me to be there for him. Despite my discomfort this weekend, I did my best to keep a good attitude and make sure my son knew I was still present and attentive, if not physically active.

Being a widow of a man who had a chronic illness puts me in a unique club. Anyone who has been there knows it's a life that encompasses many layers of challenge, blessing, frustration, and joy. It's really complicated. But here I am on this end of it, making my way through a fairly crappy weekend with my spirit intact, despite the fact that I didn't get to do anything special with my son, or do any of the house cleaning I meant to do, or the cooking, or even the writing I was supposed to do for a few of my projects.

Grief, loss, being a witness to suffering... are these hardships or gifts? For me, I like to think they have been a little of both...

Personal and Professional - Finding the Balance

For some time now, I've struggled with the notion of building a professional profile alongside my personal explorations. The more I put myself out there into the blogosphere, the twitterverse, and other online spaces, the more connections I make with people from all over the world, in a variety of social spheres. The outreach is so vast and varied, sometimes it makes me dizzy, but at the same time, it is thrilling.

I have to be careful I don't lose my balance. The other day, I got so carried away with all of my connecting, I ended up feeling lost and completely off center by the end of the day. I had gotten so swept away by all of the reaching out, I lost track of what I was bringing to the table, myself. I ended the day feeling empty and uncertain - NOT good feelings to have either as a foundation for confidence or self-esteem, or as the basis for creating fruitful dialogues with others. The next day I took a complete break from all social networks, and focused instead on being the best salesperson and business developer I could (i.e. focused on the day job). I found it completely rewarding to be applying myself fully to that for which I get paid. Doing a good job is in and of itself a gratifying activity. I forget that sometimes, so it was nice to be reminded...

I crave authenticity in everything I do. To be fully present in all of my activities - that is my goal. It seems the more of myself I bring to my work, the better I do, and the more gratifying are all of my interactions. That being said, I still feel a certain reticence to completely promote this blog. Somehow I can't see inserting keywords into my short stories, or thinking about SEO when I'm posting my poems. I guess my readership will just have to grow slowly as I go along. Develop naturally along the way. I want to share my work, but I'm still a little afraid of sharing all of these personal parts of myself with the people I'm communicating with for business.

I suppose things will get really interesting when I publish my first book. My writing is so personal. When it goes public, I'll have finally bridged the gap. That is going to be something...

Yeah, I'm back...

Oh, Mercury retrograde, what hath thou loosed in me? I am a jumble of memories, impressions, sensations and desires… I feel so cold tonight. Can’t decide if it’s hormones or the presence of my dead husband’s ghost. I fell asleep earlier and had a strange dream of walking through the house in hard leather shoes that clacked loudly against the wooden floor as I returned to my bedroom and they clattered off my feet. Climbed into my bed and heard the clanging sound of something falling from the wall. The lid of some sort of tin box. But where had it come from? In the dream, I was somehow thinking of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz… I woke up for real, and heard the rumble of a loud car… the refurbished vintage muscle car from up the block, I think, idling, idling, so loud, in the middle of the night… I felt so very cold, and thought, I’m just like E-. Swathed in long pants, a t-shirt AND a sweatshirt, under a down quilt, and still chilled to the bone. I was getting ready to put my socks on, and the phone rang. He called, just as I was thinking of him. Are you still coming over, I asked. Yes, he replied. He sounded breathless and faraway. Are you at your house or in the Bronx? At the house, he replied. Oh, you sound so sexy in the country. And he laughed. A joyful, unselfconscious laugh. I could see his teeth flashing in my mind. Mmmm… I’m in bed, but I’ll leave the door unlocked, and you can just come right in… Mmmm… I said, that sounds good… More sexy. That keeps coming up…

But as I lay there, I realized, I can’t sleep. There is something in my gut, driving me out from under the safety of the covers, my warm socks now back on. The coziness, the drowsy, cozy heat of expectation was so enticing, yet I kept thinking about things I wanted to write about. Yes, the pull of the words was/is so great. They are definitely coming to the surface, needing to be organized.

This weekend, I took my son to his first Baptist Church. My boyfriend, who, like my husband… now what do I call him? My former husband? We never divorced. My dead husband? Anyway, he was African American. My son is the color of caramel, and his features carry the distinction of his African heritage – from the spread of his slightly flattened nose and his full lips to his dark brown almost black eyes and tight, curly hair, and the high round ass that will surely slay many potential suitors as he comes into his ripened pre teen years… he is a Black boy. And yet, he has never had the experience of being in a room full of hundreds if not thousands of brown-skinned people. Until this past Sunday morning.

It was only for a short period of time, not even an hour, if 45 minutes. I don’t think E- was really expecting me to say, yes, we want to come with you, and then proceed to shower and dress the two of us in our Sunday best as he took over the breakfast preparations. He took the batter I had mixed up and cooked us all a lovely batch of pancakes, and eggs. What a thrill having a man in the kitchen. But it all took longer than any of us thought, and by the time we got out of the house, it was later than we expected. By the time we reached the church, the choir was just finishing up their last big number.

I had enticed my son to break up his Sunday morning video watching jag by describing the amazing music he was about to hear. I was excited, myself, because there is nothing like a real, Gospel choir. The first time I heard authentic Gospel music sung live by brown skinned people, I wept. And there we were, at the Grace Baptist Church in Mt. Vernon, surrounded by a sea of brown people, and I couldn’t have felt more at home. My little boy seemed to light up when the time came to shake hands with those seated near us, and he fell right in line with the “God Bless You’s” of the moment. Later on, he told me he had never been around that many brown skinned people at the same time before. We discovered that we both had noticed the same “only other white person” in the room, a middle aged man with a large head, about halfway across the huge room. It would seem my son has already developed his own sense of race radar.

And now, here I am, writing, in the middle of the night. Waiting for my boyfriend to come over. He is also brown skinned. Tall, dark and handsome, I like to call him. He is. All three. I am feeling intoxicated with anticipation. My body is prickly and bloated with PMS, and there is an odd sensation in my midsection – a fullness, a swelling, a discomfort. What is it that I expect? I am sitting in front of the computer, typing, the screen bringing the only light into the darkened room. I am at my dining room table, the window looking out on the house next door, where I can see my neighbor’s bathroom light on through that room’s frosted glass lower window with translucent fish stickers on the upper pane of glass. When anyone is in there, I can see the top of his/her head. I like looking over there and seeing people walk in and out of that room, even though I can’t make out anything clearly below the foreheads of the tall ones.

I’ve decided that I’m going to write something every morning. Something that could loosely be construed as a blog post. I feel the urge to share my voice with others, even though at times I feel so unfocused and vague about my intentions. I am not sure why I want people to read my words. I don’t really know what I’m seeking… Sure, all the usual stuff – love, approval, all that shit… but what about beyond that… a following? A career? Financial remuneration? Other opportunities for self-expression? All of the above?

Being on a journey like this seems so haphazard. So precarious. So dangerous and frightening. So liberating, and ultimately reassuring. A journey into the chaos of my mind… into the fear of not knowing. Into the trust in my own impulses, my own instincts, my own floundering in the dark. Tonight I pulled myself out of a warm bed, out of the safety of the covers, where I was bundled in all my coziest cotton gear. I pulled myself away from the sweet escape of sleep, to the drafty space near the front door, to write my words, and wait for a late night visitor.

I have so many stories to tell. So many dreams to explore and nightmares to purge. So many theories to test out and visions to bring to life. So much pain to heal and desire to quench. So much to do. Must organize the words into some semblance of order. That is what I want. The beauty and joy of seeing the words come together in a way that traces the paths of energy I’m feeling. Tracing the familiar patterns. Feeling them come to the surface. Taking the expectation, the fullness, the discomfort and the desire and forming them into something coherent, something that reflects what I’m feeling, something that makes it all seem real, somehow. Something that reminds me of who I am. I guess that’s enough for now.

Photo "Under the Milky Way" by jurvetson