Grace, received.

Grace, receied establishes a man as a worhty. Given neither due, nor despite one's actions, grace speaks to a man's very core: "You are worhty and precious without comparison."

Grace, received and understood, never leaves a man unchanged. Its power to instruct, to protect and to comfort is unsurpassed. Its benefits are eternal, as a man does not lose grace with time or as a result of thoughts and actions.

Grace, received, is undoubtedly the greatest thing a man stands to experience.

Grace, denied.

Grace, denied, is capable of producing the greatest pain a man can know. As it is not deserved, grace is given based solely on one's worth, one's essence, one's very being. When denied, grace speaks of a man's past, present and future as unworthy. Grace, denied, speaks to the very core of one's being: " You do not measure up, and there is nothing to be done about it."
When denied grace, a man has nothing left. Nothing to do or undo, nothing to be changed to somehow merit grace. Grace is denied to a man stripped of any deeds, honorable or dishonorable. Grace is denied to the unchanging essence of what one is. And if denied, it irrevocably judges a man worthless forevermore.

Conversations.

My son frequently shouts "a cycle!".
He then looks at me with expectation of further discussion. At which point I must decide which cycle is in question and quickly, as my son seems to have inherited my nearly complete lack of patience.
If we are outside or standing by the window, he is likely referring to a bicycle or a motorcycle. I learned to pick out motorcycle roar out of all the noises of a busy street we live on. We never taught Saleem to say "brrrrlrrrlrrrrmrrr" with spit flying everywhere and appropriate gestures showing the maneuvers of a motorcycle. And yet he knows exactly how to do so! An appropriate response from my side is "brrrlrllmrrmmvmmrrr", perhaps with less spit, but also with sincere gestures.
If I hear no engines roaring, I assume, it is a bicycle. I then must locate the bicycle, identify its color, talk about whom it must belong to, and assure my son that soon he too will have a bicycle of his own. Just as soon as he is big enough. He nods.
But sometimes, "a cycle" is not at all about things on wheels. Saleem may be talking about recycling. As a half tree-hugging-daisy-eater, half computer engineer, the little man is very particular about recycling. He angrily pulls out boxes his father did not break down, and neatly folds them. He give daddy a somewhat condescending look from under his eyebrow, while smoothing the creases. Sometimes, he becomes upset with item he finds in the recycling bin. That's when "a cycle?" is more of a question, than a statement, and it means we are about to get into a debate of whether a juice bottle should be recycled, or opened and played with. "A juice!" he shouts, pointing to the bottle. "Yes, dear, it used to have juice in it, but now it is all gone. And we have to recycle the bottle. " "A cycle," he says sadly in disbelief. "Yes, a cycle."

THROUGH THE ENEMY LINES

In lieu of a proper motor vehicle, the Enterprise rented my husband a tank. "It is no extra out of pocket, the insurance will cover everything," they said. "Nice!" said my husband and drove the thing home with a Cheshire cat smile on his face.
My scrub top smelled funny. In its pocket I had plenty of Kleenex tissues for blowing nose and wiping eyes. I have not cried since Monday, and as if to say "we'll do it whether you will or not" my eyes and nose ran incessantly. In the other pocket there was a necklace. I put it there driven by an odd compulsion. Although assigned protective value, it laid there quite helpless to protect me from any harm.
I was on my way to see a patient for the first time since the accident. Reminding myself to stop holding breath, I drove the tank North as if in a trance.
I felt very similarly in the summer of 2004. A brand-new driver, I was trusted to steer a large, red pick-up from Texarkana to a piece of wooded land on Louisiana border. I was going a good bit slower than the speed limit, weaving my way on a two-lane road, oncoming traffic whistling by. I gripped the steering wheel with each upcoming curve, and tried to think my way through it. But before I could, my hands would do the job, and we'd be past it, heading to another curve down the road. "The truck turned itself!" I'd exclaim. Dr. A.D. just grinned, and mumbled something like "It did, didn't it." "Don't worry about the people behind you, they'll pass you if they need to." Mostly, I do exactly as Dr. A.D. says, because, well, he is right most of the time.
"Life must go on. Just drive. You need to see the patient," I kept telling myself.
The tank murmured pleasantly. I fiddled with automatic windows.
"I am real sorry to hear that," said my patient. "Thank God the baby was not with you!" The sentiment I heard all week.
Yes, indeed, thank God that the baby was not with me. And thank God, that I am not dead or badly injured, and that the other driver is OK.
My mind goes on to recall every evil, ill and indignity of the past few years and beyond. Do I thank God for not allowing the worst-case scenario in each instance? What a joyous gratitude list that'll be!
Deep into the enemy lines, caught in the cross-fire of my restless mind, I drive my rental tank.
How long do I gather strength to thank for that? And how dare I not, for through all this, I am not yet a casualty.
The silver flash to my left. The sound of my own voice, a squeal, rather than a scream. Airbags explode with a sound of a hand grenade, acidic smoke filling my nose. The windshield spreads with a web of cracks. I feel choked, and brush my face repeatedly, but there is nothing to remove. My hand puts the car in park, and turns off the ignition. My other hand opens the door, letting in more smoke coming from under the hood. Round pink beads and pink ribbons from my bracelet cover the disintegrated insides of my car. My first car.
"You need a car. Can't get anywhere in Arkansas without a car, " said Dr. A.D. "You're sure you want the silver one?" said A.D. grinning proudly a few weeks later. "Yes! I love it," I replied. "Oh my, it sounds like a plane that is about to take off," I laughed as we test drove. "It sounds just fine."
Paramedics got to the scene instantly, driving one block from Swedish Covenant. A dozen onlookers gathered. Someone stretched out a hand with a glass of water and asked: "The baby is not with you?" pointing at the car seat. "No, no, thank God!", and I cry again, sobbing and gasping as the firemen pry up the hood of my car to put out the smoke.
In my tank, I am aware that this is now and that is past. Five days in the past now. Yet the smell of smoke in my nose is very real.
Am I blessed? Cursed? Could it be that I am both?
From the safety of the tank I assess the fortunes and misfortunes of my life. All vivid, many unlikely, some practically unbelievable. As the cross-fire quiets for a time, I decide that there is no merit in evaluating my overall "luck" any further.
I just breathe and drive, knowing the sooner I get there, the sooner I go Home.

Reading List

Besides the Bible of course, these are the books I've read. Many are available at CPL. Feel free to ask me about any of these.

1. The Billings method: controlling fertility without drugs or devices by Evelyn Billings--a must for anyone with ovaries. Really, they should teach this in schools.
2. Feng Shui for skeptics by Kartar Diamond--does a great job of explaining what Feng Shui is and is not, and how to avoid the hoaxy side of the story. Otherwise, has no real practical advice.
3. The complete idiot's guide to feng shui by Elizabeth Moran and Val Biktashev--hate the name of the series, but this is a great book. Incidentally, they go onto great detail and get very involved with some concepts, so forget idiots, many smarty pants will not get this. Very helpful and practical.
4. Feng Shui handbook: how to create a healthier living and working environment by Lam Kam Chuen--simple and to the point. Explains concepts in rather unusual ways, and goes onto things other books are afraid to touch on. Great read.
5. The Circle of Stones by Judith Duerk--strongly recommended for thinking women.
6. The Truth About Children's Health: The Comprehensive Guide to Understanding, Preventing, and Reversing Disease by Robert Bernardini--just OK. I feel the author sensationalized a few issues for the sake of squeezing another few pages out. Does have helpful advice. Mostly yesterday's news though.
7. No more Mondays: fire yourself and other revolutionary ways to discover your true calling at work by Dan Miller--the jury is still out. Helpful, thorough, but at times unchecked and unrealistic. Could be more helpful. Good read.
8. The crazy makers : how the food industry is destroying our brains and harming our children by Caro Simontacchi. I have to be honest: I had to skip a few pages here and there. Some of the subjects I am simply very familiar with and this book had little to add. While the author is an outstanding nutritionist, her writing has a long way to go. Reads more like a dry textbook. I loved the last chapters, the recipes, and the meal plans.
9. Queen Jin's Handbook of Pregnancy by Fred Seligson. I cannot recommend this book, especially to pregnant women. In fact, had I read it while I was carrying a child, I would have ripped the thing into shreds and owed Chicago Public Library. As you may see, the authors name is neither Korean, nor Chinese or Japanese. Indeed, he is an American man that married a Korean young woman and became fascinated with all things oriental and pregnancy. This fascination often borders on creepy and inappropriate, especially when fueled by gravidas the author is not related to. The book indeed quotes some great sources, including ancient Korean sages and contemporary practitioners of oriental medicine. Most unfortunately, the author punctuated centuries-old pearls of wisdom with his at best mediocre poetry and oriental superstition ranging from silly to downright harmful. The book did get me interested in Embryonic Education, and I am looking forward to exploring the subject through better sources.
10. Diary of a Midwife by Juliana van Olphen-Fehr. I cried, I laughed. I wished I were a midwife, and I thanked God I was not. A wonderful book, although I am annoyed I cannot pronounce the author's last name. A must read.

MOTHER'S DAY BLUES

-We are just out for brunch with my Mother-in-Law, what about you guys?
-Oh, I don't know... She said. But what is it she did not say?
When I was carrying my son, and for a while after he was born, people would ask me: "So, is your Mother coming then?" "Hell, no!!!", is what I didn't say. "My mother is a sick, sick woman and I hope to avoid seeing her for many years to come," did not come out of my mouth either.
"But she is your Muthah!", shouts Tony Evans, "she gave birth to you! (gasp) She raised you! (gasp) You must hoooonuh your Muthah!!!" Zealous, and a bit oxygen deprived from shouting, Tony fails to read in faces of some of his listeners : "She beat me half dead! She pimped me out for a fix! She held me while I was being raped!", and less shocking, but as damaging "She always talked about how I ruined her life! She hit me for crying! She said she's embarrassed that I'm so fat! She did nothing as I was abused, humiliated, as my very soul was crushed, torn, and defiled!"
The problem with honouring any group of individuals, be they united by profession, race, gender, or having mothered or fathered someone, is that within such a group there is always dishonour. Man has managed to bring dishonor everywhere.
"So now, let's have all the Mothers stand up, and let's give them a hand. For all the love they have given, and all their hard work." And ladies in hats and with corsages stand up, smiling shyly, while men and children clap, looking up at them adoringly. A few women remained seated. It's a wonder that a woman unable to conceive year after year despite all the prayer one can offer even musters enough courage to come to Church on Mother's day Sunday. Many don't. Foster mothers, step-mothers, once mothers of children that passed, almost mothers that miscarried, or had an abortion. And daughters. Abused daughters, neglected daughters, orphaned daughters, adopted daughters, lost daughters, unwanted daughters...
"Nobody wants a friend like you! You are too complicated. And then you dare to act all unhappy, when it's all your own fault! Just don't be like that. So dark! If you just act simple, people will like you a lot more." "Heifer, don't you think I know that! Please. You are too dumb to get me anyway. And you are not my friend either, " is what I didn't say. I just stood there, lowered my eyes, unable to tell the truth. I still don't really have a lot of friends. She was right. Nobody wants a friend like me. Dark and complicated.
Daughters are loyal. Any daughter is loyal to any mother. For better, for worse. Amidst deepest of hatred, there is sadness even deeper. Sadness of a motherless daughter. Sadness that sends a woman running from herself, her essence as a woman and a mother. Sends her running as far as she can get from the Mother. Or else cause her to descend into the depths seeking to feel a Mother presence.
Any horror story told by a daughter of her mother is speckled with compassion, mournfulness, even love. Perhaps disguised, but it is there.
Daughter are loyal.

Nursing Saleem

I love nursing Saleem. We lay in bed for an hour or two before waking up. He starts on one side, falls asleep, nudges me to turn over with him on my chest, landing him on the other side to continue nursing. When he is finally ready to wake up, he sits up, smiles looking at me and says something like: "Hmm! Um.. Aye" enthusiastically. Sometimes we sit as comfortable as we can get, considering he is now too tall to lay in my lap, my hair cascading down my shoulders, rays of sun playing on the wall, gazing in each other's eyes. Sometimes we play games. He "counts" my teeth, pushes on my cheeks to make a "blbrrrr" noise. He points to various parts of the face and waits for me to name them in Russian and English, and smiles when I say "uho", which is "ear" in Russian. Sometimes he hums, while drinking. It is very funny to listen to, and also tickles me if he hums loud enough. I love nursing Saleem... But it has not always been that way.
I wake up afraid of the noise. It is a cough, with an "emmm" on the exhale. I know it well, and I know what it means, and yet, in odd kind of denial, I try to just go back to sleep and ignore it. Cough, cough, emmm. "Honey," says my husband half-asleep, "here." He passes my son to me. He is hungry. This tiny little thing, undoubtedly the best thing I've ever done in my life, depends solely on me for nourishment on me. On my funny, large, awkward breasts with less than adequate nipples. It's me. Just me. No one else is coming to rescue me, there is no flaking out. I have to. And then, I start with the questions. Painfully aware of how ridiculous, redundant I am, partly prepared for my husband to just curse me out instead of answering, I ask for the hundredth time: "What time is it? When did he last eat? What time did I take the Motrin? Can I have any now?" In reality, the answers did not matter. Even if Saleem ate only a few hours ago, he was hungry again, and making an argument of "you only just ate" would not work. Motrin helped a bit, but , clearly, not enough. Even if I took it right this minute, it would not kick in in time to help. I'd feel the familiar adrenalin rush. Something deep inside me braced. A lump lowered from my throat to my chest and stay there. Helpless, with a look of sheep led to the slaughter, I arrange the pillows, get the burp cloth, latch Saleem on and feel the PAIN. "He is hurting me. He is not doing this right. I am not doing this right. Damn the lactation consultant. I did what she said and this is not getting better." I take him off, latch him back on. Instead of the yawn-like open I heard so much about, Saleem barely parts his jaws to latch on and then promptly clenches again. "He is starving. My baby is starving. I know he is." Within minutes I feel the milk leave my breast, I know it's about 4-5 oz. now, Saleem is looking more content. I take him off, because now there is nothing to justify the pain, and he fusses. I know. He is not really done. If I were a good mother, the right kind of mother, I'd just sit there and let him fall asleep. But I can't. I can no longer ignore the razor blade cutting through my nipple. And so I hand him back off to his father, discontented, uncomforted, and surely starving.
I took Motrin, slept, nursed, and took more Motrin. I used ointments and calendula oil on my nipples. I used lanolin. I treated both of us with gentian violet. I used Grapefruit Seed Extract. I took a course of Diflucan. I took Procardia in attempt to stop the spasms until my heart rate got dangerously low. I went to the doctor, I went to the chiropractor, I went to the cranio-sacral therapist, I went to the midwives, I went to the lactation consultant, I went to the La Leche League leaders, I went to the post-partum depression therapist. I was found to have lots of milk, small nipples, overly sensitive skin, a possible yeast infection, some nerve damage, Reynaud's syndrome, a generous case of post-partum crazy, and lots of determination. And I nursed through pain again and again.
I thought I'd take a day off once. I'd pump and let him take the bottle just for one day. After a few hours, around the time Saleem got hungry, my breasts tingled. I felt anxious. I had to let him nurse. My baby was hungry and he did not want the bottle. I felt a compulsion. This internal clock that until this day tells me when he is hungry. This alarm with no snooze or off button. So much for a day off.
One night, I stared in the mirror, Saleem at my breast, my husband standing by with water and Motrin. I did not know where I was. I did not know who I was. The pain was more than I could take. I thought.
One day, I decided to stop pumping. It got better immediately. Later, I would find out that my ample supply of milk was part of the problem. As I allowed Saleem to regulate the cycles of emptying and re-filling of my breasts, the milk let down gentler, without squirting and choking him. He relaxed his jaw. This still did not take away the pain, but it was better.
Another day, I came to understand that he was not perfect. A remarkable child in every way, Saleem was not very good at nursing. And I was OK with that. I stopped hoping that he would figure it out, or get it right. This was my son. My darling baby who accepted me for what I was from the day he was conceived. I had to learn to accept him. Just as he was. And I asked myself: "If he never gets better, can I still do this?" The answer was "yes." And things got even better. And it just stopped being an issue. My body healed. My mild began to heal. My son was handsome, healthy, and gained well. He had amazing personality. He loved to nurse more than anything else in the world, and taking it away from him was not an option.
And yet another day, I suddenly realized, that I love nursing Saleem.
We never take it for granted. He never bites me on purpose. I never refuse a nursing unless I absolutely have to. We know where we've been. And we love where it brought us.

Malls Suck

I dislike malls. All similarly unpleasant, they smell of bad expensive cosmetics and bad cheap food.
Many things annoy me there. Unattended, bored children running about, loitering adolescents, store attendants sizing up customers with "shoes'n'watch" approach. (They must not think much of my vegan footwear and I have not worn a watch in many years.) Old ladies marching around for exercise are, perhaps, the only ones really getting something worthwhile.
I don't mind shopping for baby clothes on sale. It is bearable. There are definitely good deals. But why should my experience be just bearable? Why buy clothing from someone who does not know where it is made, how it is made, or what it is made from? For that matter, I am yet to find an attendant that even cares if I buy anything at all. If they don't, who does? The corporation?
I'd much rather shop at a hardware store. It smells like metal and oil, it is generally very clean and organized, and I've never been glared at while picking through brackets or paints. Unfortunately they do not sell bras or dresses.
I'd much rather shop at the local summer market, where it smells like watermelon and incense, where I get dirt on my fingers while picking through tender juicy produce. I haggle ruthlessly, while trying to avoid offending the hard-working vendors with unreasonable offers. But summer markets are only there... well, in the summer.
I'd rather shop at a thrift store, where I find the most bizarre pieces of clothing ever made, where designer originals cost as much as Big-Mart cast-offs, and price tags are safely stapled onto the items. But some things ought not be acquired in used condition.
Perhaps, one day I'll find a store that carries beautiful clothing made by men and women I can meet myself and thank for that fabulous A-line. The store would have lots of carts with child seats and a juice bar. There would be a nursing room, a dressing room, a changing room and a very very nice bathroom with clean toilets and castile soap in dispensers. The store would have clothes for men and women from birth to 103, including maternity, nursing, juniors, petites, formal and swimwear, and still be a small neighbourhood place. Because for goodness' sake, as it is, if I need a bra, a onesie and a tie, I have to drive from one end of Chicagoland to another! One day. One glorious day!

THE WOMAN I WAS MEANT TO BE.

It is my firm belief that when things do no work properly, there is something wrong with the system. Something is not the way it is meant to be.
God created us fearfully and wonderfully. Not to be confused with perfect. Even our imperfections are a part of the plan. Any deviation form the original plan causes problems and malfunctions. For example: we are not made to sit for hours on end staring at something shiny. Persons of African descent are not meant to live in Ireland (I am referring to vit. D synthesis of course). Children, women, and men are not meant to spend days (months, years?) without meaningful and nurturing human touch. Young mothers are not meant to be left alone with their babies to figure things out. Hydrogenated crap and red dye #40 have no way to properly interact with out body, because, well, they were not meant to be eaten. You get the picture.
And so on the way to decipher the meaning of womanhood in the context of Western life, I ask myself: "What kind of woman am I meant to be?"
I know somewhere along the way I became convinced that mood fluctuations are a sign of weakness and hysteria. I have grown to believe that vicious hypervigilance of a new mother is nothing but paranoia and unreasonable over-protectiveness. Perhaps, Nestle even convinced me that they can make formula just as well as I can produce milk. Gerber told me that somehow their little jars of technicolour goop are the only appropriate nutrition for our bundles of joy. Parenting magazines can be summed up as: "You will need the brightest, loudest, twinkliest, most expensive gear, gadgets and toys to ensure proper development and happiness of your child." And the Church stumped me completely by teaching that the woman has a purpose and is in no way inferior to a man, and is very very special and wonderful, and in Heaven there will be no male or female, however it is best if she sticks to manning the nursery and, perhaps, teaching an occasional lady's class, preferably after reaching a respectable age.
Well, I am only a few steps onto the yellow brick road, but is apparent that this ain't Kansas no more!!!
I do not suffer from PMS. I enter into an altered state of consciousness which allows me to see things clearer, to be more articulate and perceptive, and to focus on spiritual issues. I deal with physical symptoms by distancing myself from the everyday routine as much as is reasonable.
I fought a mighty battle to continue breastfeeding and won. It made me a more compassionate mother and less likely to let other mothers off the hook because it just isn't easy.
Screw Gerber and Nestle and parenting magazines! My baby loves chickpeas masala, and kalamata olives, and scrambled tofu. We use lots of hand-me-downs, shop at Salvation Army, and labour over DIY's, yielding a beautiful and comfortable life at only a fraction of the price.
I refuse to be dumbed-down for others' comfort! Women were not put to the side, shut-up or condescended to by Jesus, and neither will I be in my house of worship.
I will not allow bearing and raising children to become anything short of a holy mission. I will not look to my family or friends to give me credit for it, I will take the reward meant for the mother by our Maker.
Won't we stop shoving square pegs into round holes? A woman is a holy vessel meant to be filled with none other than the essence of a woman.

Hasidic Jews are on to something!

I heard of them in Belarus. Don't know if ever saw one though. In Chicago, I live just a few blocks South of Devon Street. Devon is perhaps the most dense multicultural chaos of a community in the United States. As I passed Jewish schools and synagogues, I developed a vague understanding of the kind of life that takes place amidst and apart from the rest of us. And then, I watched the documentary "A Life Apart" and it hit me: Hasidic Jews are on to something. Maybe, it's worth never watching television, never reading magazines or newspapers. Maybe not. But this I know: I am willing to part with many things for the sake of what they've got. I am willing to shelter and protect and censor, if it must be so, for the sake of what they've got. Of course, I am glamourizing. My casual observations and one documentary aside, I know nothing of Hassidism. But let's just say that it is so. A society void of immodesty, role confusion, isolation. A society where you do not have to set out on a likely fruitless and disheartening search for a role model. A place where your identity is clearly defined by your respected ancestors. Where children are worn as jewels in the crown and where every Saturday is a celebration of life. Yeah, I'd give a lot for that. There is a scene of a young mother waking her two sons. Before they get out of bed, they are to ceremonially wash their hands. She tenderly wakes them and stays to assist with the ritual. Not an empty ritual. No. She enthusiastically teaches them every moment all she can about their God. All they do as they go through the day says: "You are a precious part of this community. You are set apart. You are not like others because of the blood that runs through your veins, the food that you eat, the home you live in, the clothing that you wear." Sounds familiar, anybody? "But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him, who called you out of darkness into His marvellous light."

Do you feel like that, Christians? Of course there is this pesky issue of carrying the light into the world. But just for a second, let's leave that alone. How many Christian mothers are truly love and appreciated just for being the holy vessels and for the mundane, day-to-day chores of child-rearing? (For those of you who delight in every little special joy of a dirty dish: kudos, but I am so not on that bus!) How many men have a close relationship with at least two generations of men older, and a strong male role model to help with everything from impotence to mutual funds? How many of us can say, to paraphrase a Rabbi, that we did not cut down the Bible to fit the cover, but instead, got a new cover to fit the Bible? How many average American Christian women can raise at least ten biological children (yes, it matters, no offence to the adoptive parents, there is something to pushing out all ten yourself) and not go nuts? Honestly people, the Hasids are on to something!

Can we have that? I don't know. Maybe. Screw TV. But we'd have to sensor the books, even the classics. No public schools. Certainly no fraternizing with the gentiles. We couldn't spread the "light" very well, but perhaps, we could have it. The Light, that is. And that gleam in our eyes that would say: "I know something really really important and my world ROCKS!!! If you promise you'll listen close, I'll tell you about it."

DIY: crabby baby shirts

I first saw potato stamps on baby clothes on Martha Stewart (no, I do not habitually watch the show. In fact, the woman makes my skin crawl sometimes). I checked out the site sweetpotatoprints.com and was very impressed with what the ladies are doing. I played with some paints and potatoes, and volia!
Step 1. Pre-washed cotton white long-sleeved onesies with Charlie's soap.
Step 2. Assembled paint, bamboo skewer, paint brush, paper towels, small knife, one medium white potato.
Step 3. Cut potato in half length-wise (crab body). Used other half to make legs (two hooks curved in opposite directions), one rectangle for "arms", two claws: one small, one large. For the eyes I used back of the paint brush, for eye stalks, the tip of the skewer. All but eyes stamped in red. Eyes are black with a bit of blue. And yes, I know, crabs are not red until after the hot tub, and they also have eight legs. Bugger off :-).
Step 4. Completed the project while holding Saleem in one arm, trying to keep him from grabbing the knife, or eating the paint. Washed off a few smudges, ironed, wrapped, tagged and ready to tote to Church to present two birthday boys with their band-new crabby shirts.