Full Moon Movement

The moon's pull, strong and guiding, created the ebb and flow of the waves that pummeled our bodies again and again as we giggled and rolled. Brown water, fear of sharks, trash galore... nothing could lessen the lust those waves fostered.

And so we splashed and swam and flew atop the water of the Gulf-warm warm waters.

Houston provided friendship, an ability to touch and love one you have missed so much for too long. Yet still the moon pulls and guides. 

Nineteen hours of constant forward motion without much movement (poor body!) through Texas and New Mexico and Colorado. Flat, hot, hilly, cold, the moon helped us through it all and lit the curves of these beautiful winding mountain passes. 

We're here now, Caiti and I, forging onwards into past lives reborn... regrown... refound. She is a woman of immense strength and power, my travel companion; I feel now from where that was borne.

Tonight, we can gaze at the full moon here with our mothers-one in the same now. Colorado is the place of our mothers, and the moon shines bright over her. 

When Good Mothers Die (I think this one is optimistic)

When good mothers die:

Everything breaks. It all goes to shit, really, it does.

You wonder how you are still breathing every second past her passing... she was your life, she created you, bore you so how, HOW are you still here without her?! It is as if God, our creator, suddenly disappeared forever, we would question everything, we would ask: how are we still here?

You have a crisis when you're all alone, screaming and crying because, holy shit, presumably your life is still so long and how are you going to fill the time without her....

When good mothers die:

You begin to see all that she left you and how much she loved you.

You begin to see, also, the cracks, those empty spaces in others forged not by death but by mothers never had, mothers gone before they lived, mothers undeserving of the title.

You begin to see again and again how rare, how unique her beauty and her love. How she died but never left you.

She could never leave you. Impossible.

When good mothers die:

You see her love, you realize you know how to love. You realize all your capacities for beauty, comfort, patience, acceptance. You can spread light because she taught you how.

You see her love and know you can be strong for others, for yourself.

When good mothers die:

You mourn everything.

You grieve for people you've just met. You love so hard and fast it makes no sense and hurts so much.

You learn you have to let it all go, slowly. You can't hold onto love tangibly; letting those you met one month ago roam onwards without much of a public fuss.

When good mothers die:

You fuck up all the time.

Every decision is wrong until it is already decided and then it is alright.

You learn. You grow more than you ever thought you could. Quickly, too. At the speed of light even though time seems to have stopped.

You trust others. You find other mothers. You find other people who nurture you, and you appreciate them. You appreciate oh so much.

When good mothers die:

You find you will never be alone.

You find her. You will always have her.

Forever she is gone, forever you are together.

Prudent Advice to Myself... and a Confession of Regret.

A couple years ago I stumbled upon a blog called "Prudent Advice: Lessons for My Baby Daughter." I like the idea quite a lot.
If I had a daughter I would give her these notes, but as I am far from such an event or may never have kids of my own, I must learn to love myself as I would a daughter–as my mother did me. 

Advice for myself, my friends, my family, my nieces, graduates, and everyone else:

1) If you do not want hair in your face, hold your head high.

Looking down at the ground, while it helps to keep you from falling, hinders your ability to see the world you're walking through. And, by the laws of physics, your hair will fall in your face.

2) Try to begin each day by stepping outside.

Wake up, revel or grieve in the fact that you're still alive (whichever you're partial to), walk outside, even if just for a moment. Doing so will let you know what the weather is like so you know what to wear, begin your daily intake of vitamin D, and (bonus!) you get to experience the world you were created for, so even if your day is crap-tastic, you've had that moment with our Earth.

3) Dream big, but don't forget that achieving big dreams requires a lot of work.

Passion can get you far, very far, but especially in this world of increasly short attention spans you may lose focus. Forgive yourself and know that if it is a true passion it will flair again and you will continue working towards your goals.

4) You are always making memories.

This was the advice my mother always gave me. I believe it works on multiple levels... how do you want others to remember you, how do you want to remember yourself, how do you want to remember certain moments? Regret is real and is hard to overcome and usually occurs when we ruminate on a memory or a set of memories, so be aware and keep this in your mind. 

5) If you want to be a positive force for all, even those going through hard times, prepare to be vulnerable.

My biggest regret in life so far has been my lack of emotional support for my mother during her final months. I believed that to be strong meant to be a rock– hold your head high no matter what. So in the days when my mother would come to me, despaired about the tumors, her fears, her losses, I would barely hug her, knowing that if I let her in too much, I would break and I needed to maintain composure. I did not cry with her when she told me she knew 19 was too young to lose a mother. I did not hold her hand in the doctors office when she got the news that nothing was working. I did not share with her my despair that the cancer had spread to her brain– I stared at the computer screen in the hospital room barely looking at her, knowing if I did I would crack. I was a rock. I know my reasons were noble: I didn't want to add to her stress, feeling responsible for her baby's grief, but I missed out on invaluable moments of connection and support, revelry in the despair of love.

I have then noticed as I have been grieving that many view help during hard times similarly to how I viewed it, being a rock. "Stick that chin up, it'll get better, look at the positives" they say. All these are nice to say, but to be vulnerable with another person is to show them how truly okay it is for them to feel how they feel and it fosters a deep connection and breeds empathy. 

To be strong, often, is to be vulnerable. 

 (For the most part I have forgiven myself for these regrets, but they still remain lessons learned the hard way.)

More to come, I'm sure.

P.S. Prudent Advice: Lessons for My Baby Daughter is now a book. A wonderful bathroom read, a book to keep with you for those moments of public boredom, or for when you are just feeling low.

The Rains of Change Have Come: The End to This and More

My dress plastered to my body, the heaviness of the rain making it cling to my every curve-my butt jiggled and my hips swayed. Useless. Anyone could see if they saw but they didn't.

That is how it should be, I suppose, because maybe you would have thought I meant a kiss to you, maybe... but no. It is you and you and you and him, individually and all together always beautiful, always strong when you could sink, living unapologetically.

I love you, I do, I never told you because I do not know you and maybe it would be misconstrued to mean the meanings other people have made, but I love you.

You touched me-felt so healing-for the first time, just today. The day I said goodbye, or looked away and refused, rather, as I've been saying goodbye before I said hello.To you. Hello to you. Hello! I wish I'd said it earlier. Regret regret regret. Oh I wish wish wish.

But that's the act of learning. I'm sorry I grieved for you before I even met you, I'm sorry that because of that nothing could be fostered. I'm sorry that I observed you, too sad to touch and play for knowledge that it would soon be as if it had never been. I'm sorry I made you a loss, you are not a loss. You are a gain in every sense.

How wonderful that we can love even when they're gone.

My grief plastered to my body, the heaviness of the last moments making me cling to every second-I did not move, I did not dare, for fear that my facade be broken, my face would shrivel up and tears puddle under my chin. "It's the last moment, the last one, I love you, I didn't know you like I wanted, I will miss you deeply." Useless. Anyone could see if they saw but they didn't.

Sixth Month Anniversary: Commemorating Life and Death

"How surprising and scary and amazing that on this day, exactly six months from the day my mother died, I can be giddy from a free ice cream cone, in peace from the pounding rain, and joyful from playing with my friends."
–April 27

Life moves onwards and yet we never forget, will never be able to remove that pain from loss, and nothing will ever be the same. 

I woke up, set up my shrine, lit some incense and candles, prayed to God, Allah, Buddah, the Universe, whatever and everything, and sobbed as I spoke softly to my mom while only being able to stare at a still frame of her, recounting where we had been six months ago today. We've both moved from that moment, yet I hold it gently and try to keep it safe as it was the last moment I had with you. 

I wore all black, treaded lightly (until the tornado, that is), and finished this piece, which I will now share with all of you.

For those of us still living, we can remember:

Mom Memorium from Kelly Zenn on Vimeo.

EASTER

A couple lovely easter songs!

I am matter, so I matter.

Here's the deal, folks,

I am not stupid, I am not weak, I am not too small, I am not incapable. 

I will not judge you, and you will not judge me and together we will learn to default with understanding rather than judgement.

The brain is powerful and malleable and every time I return to Bowling Green I glimpse some different ways my own brain may have been influenced while it was forming, growing, changing.

Every time I come home I am called stupid, small, weak, ugly; my point of view is scoffed at and invalidated; if there are two men (boys) sinking their teeth into a political or cultural discussion I tune out as a reflex as my opinion has never carried much weight before; nearly every one of my male friendships from Bowling Green have involved some sort of sexual tension at one point or another and I've watched many of my girl friends who are much less willing to give into sexual pressures struggle to maintain the same level of relationships with those same male friends.

Right off the bat, you probably won't believe these things are true (invalidating my point of view?) especially if you are a male, but I can assure you of their validity.

Where did that voice come from if none of this were true, that voice that tells me "you can't do this, you don't belong here, you're not made for this, you are too small and weak" at the boxing gym? It isn't my own voice, I was not born insecure and my parents loved me and never once told me I wasn't capable (except, perhaps, when my father told me I probably wasn't good at math because it was in our genes... I am inclined to believe him ;p ).

Why is it that, at Hendrix, when my friends, male or female, and I enter into debates, I still have that voice in my head that utters "what you are thinking of saying right now is useless and you really don't know enough to participate in this conversation" even when every time I do manage to speak up in debates my friends listen, respond and play off of my opinions?

How come at Hendrix, where my shyness takes over and my lack of sexual drive keeps me from interacting with men as I used to, I have trouble making male friendships? The ones I have made are much less skewed and awkward than those previous, which is fantastic but they're difficult for me to forge. And then when I return to Bowling Green, my male friends want to kiss me, to touch me, all sorts of interactions that I used to view as proof of my self-worth.

I do not blame you, I do not blame me although we each had a hand in it. Things are so comfortable here, so blind, so subtle. You laugh and say I'm stupid and I laugh with you, say I am. You're joking but you do it every day. And everyday for 12 years... wires in my brain are forming around those constants.

Mine is one experience, mine is a girl's view, mine is mine, and I am worthy. So hear me out:

I can chase down my friends and tackle them to the ground.
I can throw a good punch when my stance is correct.
I can sing with good pitch and dance with good passion.
I can make bowls and cups that one can eat and drink out of.
I can put my soul on paper with words or paint.
I can walk into my fears and come out stronger.
I can be comforting and affectionate and peaceful.
I can be wild.
I can help my friends trudge along,
I can keep myself trudging along.
I can view the world with you, I can talk with you, hear you and if you hear me too maybe we can create something wonderful. That will not happen, though, if you keep subtly showing me I'm too damn small to matter!

The stark differences of leaving and returning. Oh, the joys of sight and change!