Moving and Loving

October 21, 2009

Before I bought this apartment, I had never owned property.  My happy-go-lucky freelance teaching life kept me a renter.  But once I made the psychological shift, the change felt so different.  The bragging rights to say I owned in San Francisco felt good.  And as a teacher I felt validated into American ethos.  We are, afterall, our credit score mostly, yes?  Who can deposit idealism into a bank?  Pretty hard to cash that one out.  Perhaps I romanticized the teaching life.  Earning less than my peers was also a badge of honor.  That changed radically in August 2005 when I became an urban landowner.

So, as the roller coaster of falling in love can have you secrete weird hormones, so did buying my condo.  Walking into this place, I thought inhabiting the space might be impossible.  Small. grungy, and worn down–my new home made me wonder if we were compatible.  But she had that something-something.  She wasn’t a fall-for-you at first sight relationship.  No, this one was a builder.  Especially since the same gay couple had lived here for around 20 years.  For starters, picture five layers of linoleum on the bathroom floor–literally.

Stripping the place clean took amazing amounts of work.  Some I physically did myself.  Friends helped, too.  Mostly I hired skilled labor.  And that is when I learned how to finesse the word, “No.”  Anything is possible when you have fallen in love, living by an intangible energy that fuels seeing what could possibly be done just by showing up and staying open–to saying yes.  I heard no so many times while designing the space, pulling permits, organizing other owners in the building, and persisting to convert a Tenants-in-Common 4-unit building to individual condos.  But somehow I trusted this old building would appreciate updates while retaining its historical charm.  Like a new lover, I didn’t attempt to change any of her core attrributes just the ones that might mutually benefit us.  Besides, usually when you start dating someone you adore, a new haircut and fashion sense seem to appear out of no where.  Feels good to spruce up.

Some demon grabbed me though–as love often will–and in five weeks the place looked completely different.  Bright yellow walls opened the small 606 square feet space.  All the wainscotting and trim still said Edwardian just in a high-gloss cream color.  Blonde bamboo floors everywhere reflected all the sunshine.  I had never heard of cork flooring, but loved what I saw in my neighbors apartment.  And the kitchen gleamed with Home Depot white cupboards plus a  friendly red-n-black spreckled granite.

All of it happened by serendipity, one moment of lucky discovery after another.  Shopping at Discount Builders a few blocks away, I flipped through some window samples.  One stood to the side with a note on it simply saying, “Wrong order.”  Not for me.  The double-paned brand new window is four feet by five feet and cost me $90; a custom order, they couldn’t get rid of it.  Fits and looks beautiful in the kitchen right now.  People gawk at how much natural light streams in.

Same with the kitchen door.  Stopping by a wood shop on 17th Street, I searched for metal door handles.  Losing my way, I crossed the street and entered their wood work shop by accident.  In the back I could see random doors leaning against a wall.  This one had a thick four inch wood border and the rest of the door was all glass.  My imagination fired–more natural light for the kitchen!  I heard several “no” votes on that one.  Sure does look good though.  Or strolling into Beronio lumber at 6:30 a.m. to match the existing trim.  Took hours of comparison, but the kitchen trim now flows seamlessly with the original 1907 stuff.  Countless other serendipity moments made renovating this apartment an amazing experience.

Of course, relationships change you.  The more I fell in love with my apartment, the more I wondered if I deserved her.  I’m not a cheater in a relationship; once I commit, I’m there.  So, I never thought of moving.  But I am still building the self-esteem reserves, meaning sometimes I sabotage.  Do I really deserve all this?  Slowly through poor decisions and behavior, I started to unravel the relationship.  If only I had believed in myself enough.  The momentum towards having to move and end this one has its finish in sight.

Next Friday on 30 October 2009, I will give keys to the new owners.  She is sold.  Selling now in this market makes no sense.  And much of the bad behavior driving irreversible reasons for having to sell makes no sense.  But break-ups seldom make sense.  Sure, I’m super sad.  Living here and enjoying the love zone has changed me greatly.  Every relationship does.  Mostly I’m just plain grateful.  And I must say a touch curious as to what will happen next.  Where else will I fall in love?

Today I took a ten-minute power nap on the living room sofa.  As it has a hundred times, the afternoon wind blew in from the open window and onto my face–always smells fresh, clean, caressing.  I will enjoy a few more of those moments and then move on.

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A Second Chance

October 16, 2009

One afternoon standing on dusty floors grimed from several weeks of construction, a ray of sunshine shone through the front window, and I heard the phrase, “This is where you will raise your children.”  Of course, life did not quite flow that way.  This time last year my level of fear and happy anticipation were through the roof.  And then on that random Tuesday afternoon, 11 November 2008, the thin graham cracker walls came crashing down.  Just reflecting on the moment sends shivers down my spine.  Those next three weeks were the scariest of my life.  How could Elimisha Fussell, Jerome Fussell, Celeste and Camden Fussell, commit such a crime?  One thing is for sure.  They enjoyed the activity enough to watch another person squirm to do it for free.  They worked far too hard for far too little money to consider this a scam for monetary reasons alone.

Recognizing how deeply disturbed this behavior was and is created the scary part of that difficult time.  That I would not become a mother yet again I could accept because that’s all I’ve known as I try to hear that little word, “Mama.”  No, the sheer fright was to slowly understand who the monster was on the other side of the texting.  Some people enjoy watching others suffer.  But I write that in anger.  The reality is that this group must have suffered at the hands of someone else; my core belief is that people begin with all the best intentions in the world.  And then the story goes wrong.  Evil does not occur in a vacuum; this type of behavior is learned and is a response to mistreatment–an eye for an eye, even if you poke out the wrong person’s eye, an innocent bystander to your twisted internal conflict.  Feels good to get revenge on a world that done you wrong.

And this chapter of the story starts to close because it appears my apartment will have a successful sale.  I’m moving on in so many ways.  The freedom feels amazing right now and I happily begin to take care of all the last details here.  Before me is a second chance.  The woman who experienced that surrogacy charade a year ago is no longer around.  She grew up and saw the light.  Of course, I am that woman still and yet not her.  Change happens and I’m fascinated to see what is next.

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Born Again

October 15, 2009

The other day I saw Roger Ebert, a feisty film critic for the Chicago Tribune, write honestly about his several decades in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous.  Sure the program relies on anonymity and at the same time by speaking freely of the successful support found in AA maybe another troubled drinker will join us.

One of the peculiar moments in working through the Twelve Steps is Step Three: “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him” (59).  Shortly after I qualified for and joined AA, some folks shared with me that “will” can mean obsessive thinking.  Imagine you have a body that willy nilly craves a certain substance.  And after your body makes contact with that substance, all bets are off.  This biology will run its course–no matter what.  And an obsessive mind is a perfect companion for such a physiology.

Now if someone quits drinking, removes the physical craving, then only the obsessive mind is left.  In AA parlance this is called living as a dry drunk.  Picture a person obsessing about work, food, relationships, sex, or whatever.  Simply replacing one addiction with a more socially acceptable one is not the most fun way to live.  That was me for nine and a half years.  Ultimately then extreme drinking (soft phrasing for alcoholism) has little to do with actually drinking.  Doing so just fulfills the expected trajectory of someone living with this physiology.  Real alcoholism is the behavior without drinking.  Because living authentically sober, and not just dry, means taking the obsessive and extremely self-centered pursuit of fulfilling that physical craving and turning this energy into altruism–helping others without any expectation.

To find relief from this limited state of living–just quitting without looking at behavior–is turning willful thinking over to a more balanced style is at the heart of step three.  Other AA folks have shared with me that “our lives” as it appears in step three means “action.”  So, step three eggs on anyone in early sobriety to stop obsessing (controlling) their lives away; instead, look to a more graceful source of energy to motivate your thoughts (will) and actions (lives).  This is called turning it over.  And to do so is a very conscious decision.

Once this decision is made, a path has been chosen.  In fact, a type of incision has been made on the path not chosen–continuing to drink.  Once the decision to live life beyond self-centered motives, a change happens.  “Established on such a footing we became less and less interested in ourselves, in our little plans and designs” (63).  The cut–the conscious incision–is made on the past.  Then God (as any person may perceive this spiritual source of new power) forgives the wreckage behavior and regret becomes inspiration rather than humiliation.  It’s true that our drinking stories inspire others to change their life, too.  This is not always a literal return from fatal drinking, but it’s always a return from emotional withering.  Addiction robs any person of a real life–one lived in emotional honesty.

Making a conscious decision to “turn it over” can create real change swiftly in a person’s life.  “As we felt new power flow in, as we enjoyed peace of mind, as we discovered we could face life successfully, as we became conscious of His presence, we began to lose our fear of today, tomorrow or hereafter.  We were reborn” (63).  This phrase “reborn” could spark some alarm for me if I associate the language with, say, born again religious folks here in the United States.  But tonight I heard what the definition might mean more intentionally.

She coiffed her short  silver hair in a cute haircut.  Wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses, blue jeans, sneakers, and a yellow sweater, she looked like somebody’s cool grandmother.  Jane told our group of thirty women, at a meeting in an upscale San Francisco neighborhood, that she felt reborn.  A woman who appeared seven or eight months pregnant had just spoken for twenty minutes or so.  Jane looked at her and reflected aloud that she’d heard babies birth themselves when their lungs are ready for real air.  Jane admitted that she too felt like a new born arriving to this earth ready to truly breathe for the first time.  At 59-years-old she had always laughed at and accepted herself as the well-known drunk.  But finally she had arrived to take serious her recovery from abusing herself with a substance for so many decades; swiftly she was birthing a new self.  Her eyes looked vibrantly clear, her skin healthy, and her emotions honest, powerful.  Yes, a new power to give the ease back in a day of playful, artful and purposeful living.  Reborn at 59-years-old.

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Taking Flight

October 14, 2009

On Monday evenings at 6:30 p.m. a horde of swallows, or perhaps they are sparrows, take flight.  Numbering at least five hundred they fly back and forth between two skyscraper buildings in downtown San Francisco.  I watch them from the six foot window on the 16th floor where in an urban classroom a small group of writers gather to learn more.  Why do these birds fly so precisely at this time? Perhaps they leave their home, an incredibly misplaced tree rooted outside the Greyhound bus station on Mission Street and Second.  I can set my watch by their taking flight.

Same flying ritual occurred last year in the fall.  Only in this season do they fly such a distinct pattern.  Maybe the change in weather brings them this high.  They seem to need each other and fly in an eerie parallel to the Blue Angels who also fly so perilously close and in the high sky this time of year.  Watching these birds makes me feel I belong.  For only when we rely on others close by can we truly take flight.  Sounds corny but anyone who has seen the documentary “Winged Migration” knows the power of family travel while watching grouped birds complete their annual voyage from one pole to another, thousands of miles together.  So many people who are no longer in my flight are still with me.  They helped me get here. I’m grateful.

Reminds me of a favorite poet, Mary Oliver, who implores us to,  “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”  In her  poem “Wild Geese” she nudges everyone to touch imagination and see the life-giving fit, “announcing your place in the family of things.”  So much is changing right now and yet I look over to everyone right there flying near.  Some gift, truly.

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Homeless

October 12, 2009

Just a few minutes ago I walked over a freshly microwaved Trader Joe’s mac-n-cheese for Jewel.  I found her sitting between her shopping carts ardently picking at items in her shoulder length puffy hair.  Her moveable home was flush against the park fence on a reasonably chilly fall evening here in San Francisco.

“Would you like some mac-n-cheese?” I asked her.

“No,” she said half-heartedly probably wanting some but afraid if it was safe.

“Do you like mac-n-cheese?” I asked.

“Naaahh,” she said but she kept staring at the plate.  Feeling disappointed I just quietly started to shuffle away.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice.

“Your welcome,” I said confidently.  I can’t say I blame her.  And yet I wish she had said yes, taking a culinary chance, one that would have rewarded her because I ate the whole dish and scrumptious she was.  Yes, my discipline to exercise and eat well every day starts to take on a daily routine that I don’t even think about while trying to lose 25 pounds.  This means once in a while I can indulge in super-bad-for-you but oh-so-delicious foods.

If my condo sale goes through, I will also become homeless.  Maybe.  Fingers crossed.  Would be my first quite successful real estate sale, and I will humbly toss out there, I don’t imagine my last.  Moving smoothly is always a fine art.  For now I’m in limbo and thus homeless.  So, I ate the entire mac-n-cheese.

And I wonder where Jewel goes away to for a few days; haven’t seen her in a while.  Maybe she has a weekday place because Sunday was the exact day I saw her last time.  Goodness knows if I can ever effect more change than simply saying hello once in a while–frustrating how that works.

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Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

October 10, 2009

A straight guy I hadn’t seen in several months said as his first response, “I like your hair.”  He’s actually a friend, or at least I feel comfortable calling him up anytime to grab lunch, but his comment creeped me out.  “What about my hair?” I asked.  He switched topics.  Of course, hair is personal.  I remember when I had a few months gathered in sobriety and I went to an acquaintance who I met in AA.  How cool is that–an AA hair professional.  He was new to sobriety himself.  After I gently requested four specific details in the haircut, I picked up a magazine and began reading.  A while later I looked up and saw that he had early-sobriety-syndrome; in other words, he had not listened to a word I said and instead just cut away based on his own decisions.  My hair was probably a half inch all over my head–maybe the shortest I’ve ever had it.  Woo hoo!  I actually loved it and felt incredibly free sporting the new do all around.  Nothing what I expected though–which is true of most my experiences in sobriety.

Yet what a reaction.  The personal had turned political.  At work several gay colleagues appreciated the coming out statement the haircut made.  A four-year-old little girl I know said that I look like a man and winced then gave me a hug.  At the Pacific Heights church where I am on some Sundays a caregiver to younger children, the reaction was startled glances.  In fact, this is where my straight friend works and so he was happy to see that I returned with the more socially acceptable longer hair.  Other folks who know me well at the church said, “You’re letting your hair grow out” with a beaming smile.  Code for what, I’m not sure.  I actually adore these parents because in many ways they have been super supportive to me and the group is a substantial size; in short, I need their smiles–they buoy me.

In reality, why have I let my hair grow?  Simply vanity.  My goal is to learn how to surf and I think stepping out of the water I will look more cool with moderately long hair compared to a shorter cut.

But I am not the only one caught in the headlights of mainstream straight culture assessing hair.  The hilarious comedian Chris Rock is now starring in a documentary titled, “Good Hair.”  The film analyzes why black women make the hair choices they do.  And some are based on racism.  For example, black women often by a product called the “relaxer,” which makes curly hair straight–that is, similar to caucasian hair.  In class the other night we read an essay titled “My First Conk” by Malcolm X that so artfully links this young man’s hairstyle choice and internalized racism.  He completely straightens out his kinky hair.

Not to pretend I can imagine how racism plays out day to day, but maybe I have something a touch similar–internalized sexism.  I mean I felt more free in some inarticulate way with the half-inch hairdo, but now I’m sporting the more socially acceptable hetero-mandated stamp of approval hairdo.  Sense some residual resentment there; and in my world that means I need to look at my part or responsibility for that.  Stay tuned.  The real test will probably be photos taken in Hawaii during this Christmas (if I wind up venturing there) as I exit the ocean after surfing.  Do they look cool?  Or is the long hair thang not working?

All of which brings me to the baby boy I just saw in Target with no hair.  I would toss out a guess that one out of ten babies truly looks clear eyed and alert.  I’m constantly taking clandestine peeks in bassinets to see a baby’s eyes and facial gestures.  Most are less than sharp.  But this little guy was alive–couldn’t have been more than six months old.  I usually look to the baby first if possible and then to the parent.  Sure enough his pops had bags under his eyes but looked as fresh and alert as junior.  The baby registered the big guys every move, expecting more fun since his dad was playing a game with him utilizing a balloon.  So awesome that at this age no matter what race a baby is–hair doesn’t matter.  Parents are simply happy if some exists.  Amazing that as we enter the world and as we exit it, we all get a free pass on hairdos.  Nobody tells grandma that her hairstyle isn’t working.  Nobody.

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Seeing With Your Ears

October 10, 2009

A little boy was born blind and clung to his Mom’s hand wherever they traveled.  Both were mostly too afraid to leave the house.  Until an expert on assisting the blind suggested he try echolocation.  Using clicking sounds made by his tongue, the boy and his parents went from fear to courage in four days.  He can “see” objects around him by hearing the echo they make.  Only four days–that’s how long the boy needed to learn how to navigate anywhere, even around the lake by his home in England.  He still uses a white cane, but his amazing results in adopting echolocation create real independence for him.  He is seven-years-old.  Amazing how little time it takes to change your life once fear is invited in and then hushed, becoming a feint echo.

The Norwegian Nobel Peace Prize committee’s message today rang loud and clear.  Awarding Obama the prestigious honor seems to signal a strong and immediate vote against the Bush reign.  Only nine months into his presidency, Obama has given birth to global hope.  The award indicates so.  Funny how conquering fear can create swift change.  Obama said he heard the news from his daughter Malia, 11, and felt so humbled that he heard the vote as a call to action.  Then his other daughter Sasha, 8, told him the really good news: “Daddy, this is a three day weekend.”  Kids keep you real, Obama quipped.  Sure do.

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Why?

October 7, 2009

Mondays and Tuesdays make me giddy right now because I teach two classes on each day and take one film class each day.  Do the math.  That’s a whole lot of classroom time.  I drink green tea and think positive thoughts.  Only two more weeks and then the schedule lightens by one class.  Still, I’m grateful for all the work.  Learned today that my credit score is pretty low and so all this work, plus what looks like a positive sale of my condo, will help me rebuild there–as I’m doing most places in my life right now.  So, on Sunday evenings I’m a touch flighty knowing how the work days stretch before me.  That was my energy when I turned the corner after parking my car around 10 p.m. and saw Jewel, the homeless woman I have adopted in my heart.

“Moving your stuff,” I asked her happily enough, waving and smiling, too.  She mumbled something, so I crossed the street.

“What?” I asked, taking a few steps closer.

I couldn’t hear her again.

“What?” I said some ten feet distant from her.

“Why?” she hissed angrily.

I took a step back.  Caught off guard, I just wanted to comfort her.

“No reason.  I was just curious.”

“Campbell, right?” she hurled back.

“What?”

“Your name is Campbell,” she responded in hostility.

“Oh, no…my name is Karolina,” I annunciated slowly and carefully.

“What’s your last name?” she snarled.

“My last name is Garrett,” I offered her.

She softened but kept slowly moving in her purpose to pull her two carts to another location.

“Thank you,” she said softly.  And turned around.

I also went in a different direction flustered as to what had just happened.  Clearly, someone appearing out of no where cannot be a pleasant surprise for her.  Perhaps city officials even do a sweep at night before they lock the park gates.  I wish I had said goodnight.

The next day I saw her soaking up some sun in the park.  At least we have the days to thaw out.  I didn’t have the heart to go up and talk to her again.  Not quite sure what to do.  I’m teaching a class titled “Government and Politics” where we analyze San Francisco’s homeless culture and its public policy.  Maybe I will discover some ideas during that time.

At the gym just now sitting in the sauna, I read in a recent Time magazine the editor’s reflection on America’s long history of paranoia in our politics–how we project psychological fears onto the “other.”  Why are we so fearful in America?  The magazine issue also covered Fox’s Glenn Beck and his wrathful politicking.  Anger sells.  In contrast, Anna Quindlen wrote a poignant essay titled simply “Homeless,” where she argues that we turn individuals like Jewel into a public policy matter rather than notice how unique an individual she is.  Why?  Because to notice her hurts too much.  Why not fear her rather than say hello?  Intellectual paranoia distances anyone from the startling reality that a grown woman with dignity must sleep outside on this chilly night in San Francisco, California–in America, land of the free.

By the time junior rolls around in my home, sociology lessons will probably start as he or she turns one.  Good stuff for children to ponder I suppose from an early age.  They can read and take notes at that age, yes?  Better dust off my child development books and see if I’m accurate on that one.  Or ask Jewel. I’m sure she has children somewhere.

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What Might Happen

October 3, 2009

Today I watched for several hours as a friend edited a clip from “Gunsmoke,” using iMovie software on a Macintosh.  We took eighteen minutes of film and selectively trimmed the footage down to a clean four minutes.  Film is all editing.  We worked together because I have fallen behind in our class and he was tutoring me.  But I made the content decisions–what to leave in and what to leave out.  Amazing the different choices I made compared to him.  My inclination is to let faces tell a story probably more so than dialogue.  Facial gestures reveal so much while words disguise true motive so well.  At least that’s been my experience in real life (see previous post).  We worked compatibly and quickly finishing the assignment in a few hours.

While working he showed me his leg that had a blood clot.  He had spent the night in the emergency room the other evening because the infected area became worse quickly.  This man’s face looks as if perhaps he was born preemie; petite nose, pale skin, and thin as a rail.  Perhaps preemie but for sure heroin addict for 13 years, which messed up his veins so blood does not flow so well.  That and smoking a few packs a day for 25 years.  He decided after ten months sober to stop taking his blood thinning medication, accounting for an arrival to the emergency room.  Amazing how after coming so close to near death, people early in recovery start making decisions as if they have any idea how to run an authentically functioning and healthy life.

He said he had a golden vein just on the inside of his hip.  While describing how easy he could shoot heroin, “without even looking,” he jabbed the area several times in the air.  Unconsciously while we worked his hand rested there.  Today he is articulate and talented, but I wonder.  Soon he will graduate from Walden House, an in-patient recovery center here in San Francisco.  For now I’m grateful that his sobriety program brings him to class alert and helpful.  Will be fascinating to see what kind of film he makes as we progress in the semester.  We have two and a half months left.

Makes me wonder, too, what might happen to any parent’s child.  What was my friend like as a child?  Do or did his parents suffer from addiction, too?  The twin components of addiction are simply a biology that craves a substance to numb reality and the mental obsession to satisfy that craving.  And clearly along the way emotional imbalances develop.  Numbing out to the world does not create a bedrock for healthy relationships.

Parenting is a crapshoot then.  Whoever gives birth to the child I will raise, will ideally be free of genetic addiction.  Although that seems impossible, why not shoot for the stars?  Still, what might happen is completely out of my control.  If my child does become an addict, I will at least have a few joyful recovery tips I can offer.  Get back to me in 13 years when he or she approaches teenagehood–a common time for substance abuse to begin.  Most experts say that a consistently loving, stable home can play a significant environmental influence on a child’s propensity to fall into addiction.  So then I will strive to become the very best parent I can.

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Jewel Is Sleeping Inside Tonight

October 2, 2009

Tigger has been gone for a few weeks by now, but I miss those late evening walks so much.  I took one solo to walk off the huge platter of Indian food a few friends and I shared earlier in the evening.  Pretty balmy tonight, making for perfect walking weather.  Stroll I did and when nearly done I went searching for her.  The usual spots were empty and I worried she had left the neighborhood.  I walked all the way around just to make sure and there I saw her inside the gated park.  Tonight she could sleep serenely, knowing noboby will steal her belongings.  The gates lock everyone out so she can enjoy a good night’s sleep inside.  Makes me rest easier seeing her so comfortable on a warm night.  I am so hoping I can tell this woman’s story on film.  Maybe I will take a room at the Park Hotel once and if my condo actually sells.  The Indian grandfather told me through puffs of cigarette smoke that he charges $150 a week.  This brick building sits right across the park where Jewel  lives.

A friend told me at a sobriety meeting that my maternal side is spiking unusually high.  Maybe so and maybe because I’m back in the surrogacy game.  My first conversation with a new potential surrogate flowed easy enough.  Next Saturday I will meet her.  The spark of connection reminded me of my first meeting with Elimisha Fussell.  We laughed for several hours and connected.  Or so I thought, of course.  Starting over again reminds me that I actually took the process pretty serious and treated Ms. Fussell decent.  I can still recall the many times I would fill a bag of expensive groceries and deliver to her.  Who would intentionally hurt someone as she planned and plotted for so long?  For the money?  Unlikely because the amount remained pretty low by average surrogacy fees.  So, why then?  Strange.  Most likely just the adrenalin rush of seeing someone suffer.  Evidence for this exists in the last month they ran me around everywhere.  Completely unnecessary.  Their game was already up.  They just did the chase for the pure demented thrill of manipulating another human being.  Must say–doesn’t feel so good to write these words.  Perhaps the super scary part is what childhood condition would hardwire an adult to enjoy watching another person squirm.  Probably a statistical certainty that Ms. Fussell and her gang experienced similar sadistic suffering; it’s just this time, unlike when they were children, they had all the control.  Not any more, of course, since now all I need to pursue is relentless focus on justice.  Because whatever reason drives people to behave inhumanely, they are still accountable.  Always will be until restitution is made, even if just by expressing remorse.  We will see what follows.

My vote is on faith.  Keeping it so that I eventually become a mother, an effortless goal for so many and yet a challenge for me so far.  I still have all the baby supplies, including all the clothes, so I am ready well in advance.  I’ll just rely on blind faith then.  That’s enough–more than enough.

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