Yikes. The only thing worse than facing a blank page is facing a blank blog post after neglecting said blog for months. Actually, I guess this is only true if you’re a writer. If you’re not a writer, I’m sure you can imagine.

Anyway, I last left this lil’ blog of mine right around Dia de los Muertos and Halloween and the descent into the deepest, darkest part of the year when introspection is a given and, well, lethargy is a likelihood. Admittedly, Blogosphere, I started wondering: What is the point here? I am writing for like seven people including myself. Well, it’s true.

So, my uncertainty inspired a little bit of research. That’s what I do when I’m anxious, I research. Knowledge calms my nerves.

Did you know  it’s estimated that 175,000 new blogs are started each day? And the total number of dead, abandoned blogs out there has exceeded 200 million?

I didn’t. And in some ways those stats make me want to give up on this blog even more … but in others  … it provides some solid reasoning for the whole blogging phenomena: people want and need to be heard.

As someone who is pursuing expressive arts therapy as a profession, you’d think this would have come to me sooner – but nope – I guess I’ve been a little slow on the uptake. And really, until last year when a friend pushed me to start Small Marvel – I was completely resistant to the whole concept of blogging. As in, eye-rolling resistant.

But what I’m starting to realize is that while the Web is flooded with blogs, and it really, really is, the blogosphere serves as a communal story bank – a central place where people can share their experiences, stories and opinions. It is, for all intents and purposes, a window into the collective unconscious, and conscious too – I guess. It is pretty amazing.

So with all that said, I’m gearing back up to both write and read. I’ve got stuff on my mind. And more than ever I’m inspired to hear/read what other people are saying. Please, all seven readers of mine, send me your top recommendations for blogs that you love. Please start your own and thanks for taking the time to listen to what I have to say. For real.

Ancestor Altar

Just a few weeks ago I was writing about how the streets of my hood were lined with  altars due to gang violence, and now here I am again writing about altars, though admittedly, the circumstance is slightly different and the mood around these parts … very different.

It’s the eve of Dia de los Muertos and honestly, if you don’t believe in the mystical, the magical or in infinite possibility, you should take a stroll around the Mission … because it’s emanating all of the above.

In anticipation of tomorrow’s big day – a day in which the veil between the living and dead thins and ancestors come back to pay a visit – people around here have done everything but put up big signs in their window encouraging their deceased loved ones to stop by. Shop windows (mainly Latino-owned) display elaborate altars created to welcome spirits, and tomorrow evening thousands of people – of varied backgrounds – will gather at a small neighborhood park where community members will erect life-sized altar installations paying homage to those lost.  There will also be music and entertainment and drinking and eating and general celebrating everywhere you look. My neighborhood will be partying with the dead, and there is nothing morose or maudlin about it.

My neighbor Alfonso, who is building a real-deal altar of his own, recently gave me the full rundown on Dia de los Muertos and all the traditional altar items.

For instance,  you should include both food and liquor on you altar — unless of course, the altar is for kid spirits — then it’s candy. Marigolds, calderas (or sugar skulls), pictures of loved ones, etc are required. (More contemporary altars deviate from tradition some and often pay reverence to not only personal loss, but collective loss – victims of war, mother nature and so on.)

Anyone that knows me well, knows that I have a history of  borrowing/adopting traditions from other cultures and religions on the regular,especially if I have friends from said cultures. I do so respectfully and  am the the first to admit that it’s because I was raised in a family that lacks anything resembling tradition – unless you count brunch at Bloomingdales followed by shopping.

Over the years I have picked up Jamaican traditions, Northern Indian, pre-Christian, Meso-American, Buddhist and so on.

The first time I made an ancestor altar it was out of necessity – when my Mom died, eight years ago. There was no formal funeral or memorial (per her request) and so I made a simple altar in my bedroom – with roses, a glass of wine, and two white candles … to honor my mom’s passing and commemorate the shedding of a physical body that no longer served her. That ritual of altar making made sense to me and has stuck with me through the years. Granted some year’s these altars are better planned than others, but there is always an altar – for my mom and for my brother, grandmother, and two aunts.

As I write this blog post I look up now and again at the candles that  flicker across the room. They shine to guide those spirits to my small apartment in the Mission District for a visit. I invite them hoping that they’ll share what they’ve learned and maybe laugh a little too. In truth, I have no idea if they’ll show … they might be tired or grumpy or at some other happening party, but it’s fun to wait, to hope, to keep an eye out. Because really, you just never know. Especially this time of year.

For the past week or so I’ve been haunted by the words of my 11th grade English teacher. These words of his keep looping in my head, as words tend to do, and I keep seeing  flashes of myself as an insecure 16-year-old ready to give up writing F-O-R-E-V-E-R. Yes, that’s right, F-O-R-E-V-E-R.

“Jessika,” he said. “Happiness is a cheap emotion.”

I can’t recall the details of the writing assignment I turned in, nor is it really the point. What is the point: These days, I have good reason to wonder if the editors I’ve been working with also had the misfortune of receiving the tutelage of Mr. Vogel because for the first time in my adult life I am receiving feedback that my work is too positive.

Too positive?  Save Mr. Vogel’s incongruous feedback, I have never even heard of such a thing.

I am not, as I pointed out in my very first blog post, glass-half-full by nature. In fact, I have always been thought of as the opposite. The other day I was visiting with my friend Jeff. We hadn’t talked in a good while and he was listening carefully as I ranted about my experience. After a while I paused and he smiled: It’s funny, I don’t remember you being into happy,” he said.

And he was right. I have always been the girl who concentrates on just the shadow instead of the interplay between darkness and light, and no surprise, my writing has always reflected that.

Since college I have been writing essays and articles most often about environmental or social justice issues. When I had my first job as a newspaper reporter my colleagues used to joke that I had the “oppressed peoples beat”  — and yeah, they weren’t too far off the mark. In recent years, I’ve written about the gentrification in my neighborhood, early puberty due to toxic exposure and our completely wack health care system – and pissed off Blue Cross/Blue Shield in the process. But as of late, more specifically within the last year, I’ve noticed my interest has been shifting – both in fiction and nonfiction writing, both in what I read and what I write.

These days, I’m interested in stories that inspire. I’m interested in transformation, and the beauty and growth that comes from working through the circumstances we’re given – a direct result of therapy, I’m sure. And more so, I’m not at all interested in pointing fingers or perpetuating conflict – though, admittedly, there is an important place for writers who are.

I should say also that I pitched these editors with my story ideas and past samples of my writing ahead of time. They were interested.  I’ve worked with one of these editors several times before and he’s never changed a word of my writing. It just turns out my take on these pieces were not tumultuous enough for them. In turn I’ve been told things like: “You’ve got some good stuff here, but … I think you’ve still got to work harder to earn that happy ending.” (For God’s sake, the essay was about coming to terms with my mom’s prolonged and agonizing death.) (And shouldn’t happy endings be a birthright?)

Anyway, it seems my writing is no longer a good fit for these publications, so I’ve politely withdrawn my submissions rather than revise them in a way that doesn’t feel true.

That may or may not have been a huge mistake in terms of my not-yet-developed writing career, but then again, this may just be the trade off to being more healed and whole (and all that) then I ever have been before.

In the meantime, I’m putting out the feelers and will wait to see what else surfaces. Somewhere out there someone must want to hear about the good, about the interplay between light and dark and all the beauty that unfolds. I believe in that. I have to.

24th and Potrero

24th and Treat

Street Art - 24th Street

24th and Florida

There are several things I know to be true when it comes to my emotional life:

1. I am over-the-top sensitive. Not in the way that people hurt my feelings easily, but more in the way I pick up and am easily impacted by the vibe in a room.

2. Not everyone feels the way that I feel, and not everyone gets it. Actually, most people don’t.

and

3. It is my responsibility to manage my sensitivity and my reaction to it.

The other night I was having dinner with a good friend who is as sensitive, if not more so, than I am. We ate Indian food and talked and laughed. It helps to have someone who experiences the same type of emotional overload. It’s like some weird sisterhood – oh yes, the ties that bind.

Anyway, most recently, I’ve been really impacted by the shootings in my neighborhood and the number of kids that have been killed. The pictures above are of makeshift altars erected on 24th Street to honor lives lost in the last two weeks due to shootings. There are cops on almost every street corner these days and tensions are running high. My reaction is not  rooted in fear or anger, it’s mostly sadness. The kind of sadness you would feel if you actually knew the people who died, which I didn’t. The kind that weighs down on you and is hard to shake.

I should say here that I do not live in a desolate, crime-ridden neighborhood. This week will mark four years I’ve lived here, the most at home I’ve ever felt. In my neighborhood people throw block parties in the streets to get to know their neighbors. They decorate trees with paper flowers for no reason in particular. They paint brightly colored murals to tells stories of the Latino immigrant experience. There are hipsters, activists, families, poor people and rich people all living right next to each other. It is also true that in my neighborhood kids shoot each other in the name of gang affiliation and defending turf.

I imagine somewhere in the Mission District there are other people who are as upset by the violence as I am, but I can’t seem to find any of them. The people I talk to are:

1. Scared for their own safety – which is largely unrealistic because this type of gang violence, rooted in protecting territory, is personal crime. They are killing other gang members.

2. Numb to the violence – which is hard for me to understand. No matter how many times you see or hear about it, kids are still shooting each other.

3. Misinformed and think that gang activity can be curbed simply be increasing police enforcement- which blows my mind. Yes, gang activity is a big problem, but more so it is a symptom of social and economic inequity. You can’t curb gang activity without addressing the root issues.

In the past four years I’ve seen waves of violence hit over and over again – sometimes in front of my own building. In that time I’ve been part of neighborhood associations that have turned into polarazing neighborhood watch groups – the watchers and the watchees (my involvement didn’t last long). I’ve also heard a number of friends and neighbors speak of how much they love the Mission and then they move on to “nicer” neighborhoods where “people actually care about their neighborhood.”

Obviously, I can’t control what others think or feel or do, but I can (per no. 3 in the first list above) own my feelings and take appropriate steps to address them. And so I’ve decided to seek out opportunities to support long term solutions to the violence in my hood – solutions that do not displace families and further polarization, but instead promote integration and level the playing field by providing alternatives to gang affiliation and crime – ie youth programs, economic development initiatives etc. I’m not sure what all of this will look like when it comes together, but I’m in research mode now. There’s a lot of positive amidst the negative, just sometimes it needs to be sought out.

' Control Lost' by Sam Flores

Fine. I’m willing to accept that maybe I was overly ambitious when it came to planning my trip “home” after all these years – 7 years to be exact. Maybe I was too confident, but I really did think the timing was right. And I really did think I was ready, over the course of four days, to:

a) meet my dad’s new wife’s kids and grandkids

b) see my 97-year-old grandmother who still, after all these years, manages to bring out every insecurity I have

c) visit with my dead mom’s best friend – who was always like a second mom and her daughter – my fake sister

and

d) face a bunch of  childhood ghosts whom I’ve been playing hide and seek with for years now

Evidently, I was incorrect in my assumption I was ready and I canceled my flight to NY 12 hours before the plane was to take off from SFO. It was dramatic. There were tears and possibly a panic attack involved. It wouldn’t be out of character for me to blame this emotional outburst on the full moon, but really, the bottom line is that I flailed in the face of potential discomfort. Ah, yes, there’s nothing like a healthy dose of humility to remind you you still have much work to do.

So I’ve been trying since that fateful day to reconcile what happened and also put the demons that I had in check, back in check. It’s not going so smoothly.

Demons, by the way, are not some scary mythical concept - not for me anyway. Everyone’s got them. Some people are better at keeping them at bay and some people be-friend them. Some people, I guess, too, get swallowed.

In the Budhist pracitce of  Chöd, which I’ve been reading about lately, you’re asked to not only be-friend your demons but actually sit them down and ask them what’s up. What do you want? What can I do for you?

The practice was originated by the eleventh-century Tibetan yogini Machig Lapdrön, and has been made popular in the contemporary West by Tsultrim Allione. There are actually five steps in the contemporary practice of Chöd, but once you find out what these demons really want and give it to them, they transform into guides or allies instead of big, scary weirdos that lurk in the corners reminding you how much you suck — that’s what mine do. I can’t speak for anyone else.

That being said, I have not yet put this practice to the test. My first step is to stop viewing this aborted journey home as a major setback in my personal evolution. That’s number 1. Instead I hope to see it as for what it really was: a change in plans.

After I  accomplish this, I think I’ll invite these demons to the table and see what’s up. It’s long overdue. In the meantime though,  I’m working on being compassionate and patient with myself. Last I checked compassion and patience are not things that are readily valued in our culture, so this in itself is a big challenge. Still, I think it’s do-able.

"The Rebirth of Seven Macaw" by Erika Schulz

I had a whole list of topics to write about this week ranging from the esoteric to the mundane, social commentary to personal triumph, but all I can think to write about at this moment is the small stuff, which is actually big stuff, that I’ve experienced and witnessed as of late.

That, as you may know, is why I started this blog. It was/is an exercise in perception and attention, in noticing what usually goes unappreciated, undocumented in my world.

Anyway … this was an outstanding week. What follows are the highlights or whatever.

The Big Picture:

Sunshine says excuse me and pushes fog out of the way. Fog politely moves aside – San Francisco is happier for it. Writer lies on couch and watches the big puffy clouds float across the sky through big bay windows of a place she calls home. Home. Nice to say.

Juicy daydreams (no, not that kind of juicy). Ideas come and go for novel, for grad school essay, for article pitches, for blog. Writer jots ideas down in a small brown notebook – to be revisited in a timely manner. The possibilities seem infinite.

The Deets:

1. The Infant – Made a new friend named Siena. She is three weeks old, and am fairly certain she wishes she were still on the inside of her mom. Still, she is holding her own and learning to adjust. Her instinct and resilience are amazing to watch. I don’t know many infants. Actually, she’s the first.
2. The Editor – Came across story of an inspiring group of men at San Quentin State Prison. Pitched editor at Bay Guardian – was very enthusiastic. Moving forward with article.
3. The Meeting – Got clarity about next professional steps after meeting with the program coordinator at a shelter for victims of domestic violence. Got so excited when talking about the project (I’m going to facilitate a creative writing workshop for a group of kids there) that what little doubt I had about grad school is gone. I am certain I want to pursue the study and practice of expressive arts in healing (ie expressive arts therapy).
4. The Turtles and the Dog – Had a staring match with a family of turtles at a park not too far from my apartment. They were hanging at a pond that River likes to swim in. We all kicked it together – in peace.
5. The Starlet – Watched my friend and fellow writer, Liz Latty, take to the stage and shine brightly. Her writing was raw and brilliant.
6. The Right of Passage – Helped celebrate my friend Ariel’s 30^th birthday, met some cool people, ate some food, listened to laughter.
7. The Tribe – Continue to watch friends grow and evolve, live dreams, navigate adulthood — so proud of them and so inspired.
8. The Journey – After six years, have planned a trip back to New York where I will meet new family members, see old friends, do some research for said novel, and hopefully do a little shopping.
9. The First Boyfriend – One day after making my profile searchable on Facebook, received email from first real boyfriend. Just saying hi. Wrote back, thanking him for being a great first boyfriend and setting the bar so high.
10. The Ghosts – Faced some ghosts. Outcome TBD. Stay tuned for next blog post.

What are your small, tiny and mini marvels? (No big ones, please. I’ve got a theme going here.)

Tell us.

Leave a comment below (where it says ‘no comment’).

For real.

Four years ago, when I moved to San Francisco, I stopped frequenting city dog parks on a regular basis. There are a bunch of reasons behind my decision ranging from boredom to obnoxious dog walkers who don’t have control over their zillions of dogs, but the main reasons are/were as follows:

1) My dog, River, is now eight years old and I’ve spent a good part of my adult life at dog parks in Boulder, Los Angeles and New York.  It’s a tired scene.

2) Since I’ve had River, I’ve met all but two of my boyfriends at the dog park and I’m trying to break the pattern.

3)  I don’t want to end up like this woman: www.dogparkmom.com

Lately though, since I’ve been on *vacation*, I’ve been spending more time at Delores Park than I probably should be.  It started as convenience, and now it’s a ritual. I wake up in the morning, I throw on whatever I can find to wear, I go get some coffee and then River and I stroll down Valencia, turn left on 21st (pass by the house of one of the guys I dated from the dog park) and kick it at Delores Park for a while.

River has made some new friends too  – which is an added bonus. I’m happy, when he’s happy. (I know,  I know … but  it’s the truth.)

Anyway, one of River’s friends  is this smaller dog – white with light brown markings on his face and ears, a few distinct freckles on his nose. He is long, like a Basset or a Beagle, but likely mixed with a sassier breed, perhaps a Jack Russell. It’s hard to tell. He’s pretty damned cute, though.

Then the other day, I was standing under the palm trees, sipping my coffee, watching as  River and his new friend played. They chased each other and wrestled, just being goofy and having fun. Before I knew it, though, River was taking a stance I hadn’t seen him take in a long time. He was about to mount that small dog. Not good.

(For those dog park novices: when dogs mount or hump each other, it is almost never sexual. It’s a show of dominance to establish pack order. Sometimes it’s not a big deal. Sometimes it is – it can cause doggy squabbles. Either way it’s bad form amongst dog owners to let the gesture go unpunished.)

“Jesus!” I shouted at River. “Come on, you know better than that.” And I shoed him away.

This is something that all dog owners do when their dogs do something “bad.” They talk to them as if they understand people-talk, in a loud voice, mostly so all the other dog owners will hear them – it’s totally ridiculous, but it usually makes everyone feel better.

I walked over to the small dog and knelt down. He seemed totally unaware of what  just happened. No ego bruising, no trauma. Still, I felt compelled to apologize on River’s behalf.

“He’s just a punk sometimes,” I explained. I gave him a little pat and took a look at his tags.

The tag read: Walter, The Dog, Esq. - as in attorney.

Whoa.

A minute or so later the guy I presumed to be Walter’s owner came walking my way and I stood to greet him. This kid was no older than 30, no younger than 25 with shaggy hair and thick framed black glasses. He was a Mission hipster for sure, but not the kind that hung out on the hill all day. He probably had a job. I smiled to say hello. We made small talk for a bit, introducing our dogs but not ourselves, and then watched as the dogs played.

“Sorry about earlier,” I said, referencing River’s dominance. “I don’t know where that came from. He hasn’t done that since he was a puppy.”

Walter’s dad nodded like he’d heard it before.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “ Everybody humps Walter. There’s just something about him.” He sounded disappointed, almost ashamed.

“Oh, that’s not uncommon,” I said. “How old is he?”

“He’s two.”

“He’s still young,” I said. “And it seems like Walter has a submissive personality. You’re lucky. You don’t have to worry about dog park squabbles.”

Walter, The Dog, Esq. leaned against his dad’s leg, while a few other dogs gathered to get in on the fun – a Yorkie, a Standard Poodle and a 14-year-old German Shepard who could barely walk, let alone romp. Walter looked a little uneasy as the pack continued to form.

“I guess,” Walter’s dad said. “But I think he needs to stick up for himself. My wife spoils him.”

He looked down and stepped away. “Go on, Walter! You can’t hide behind me. You can do it!”

My discomfort level was rising as I watched Walter’s dad encourage him to, as they say, man-up. When I worked as a teacher, I witnessed this type of gender stereotyping between parent and child, but at a dog park? In San Francisco?  Really?

I thought of things I could say to reassure Walter’s dad that his dog was just fine the way he was, but I decided against it. It would have been like telling a stranger how to raise their kid.

Instead I took another sip of coffee and sighed. River and Walter continued to play hard and  the others joined the mix. It was a funny scene as they tumbled about. Henry stopped every so often to let out a little bark. Even the Shepard, whose back legs gave out every few steps seems inspirited, determined to keep up.

Walter, a little tuckered, leaned against his dad’s pant leg again and snarled slightly, lifting his lip. It looked unnatural and kind of sad.

“There you go Walter!” he said. “Stand up for yourself!” And again moved his leg to leave Walter to fend for himself. Walter was panting hard. I fought every inclination to scoop him up and give him a reprieve.

Instead, I called River before Round Three took hold and prepared to head home.

“You’re taking off?” Walter’s dad said. “Well, bye River. Hope we see you again.”

I forced a smile and leaned down to rub Walter’s little head. The sparkle in his eyes was still there, a little dimmer though. I nodded in understanding. “You’re good the way you are,” I whispered. “A very good boy.”

Then I rose to my feet and River and I began our walk home.

“We’re not going back there for a while,” I whispered  to River. I felt like I should explain.

He was panting in a good way that meant he’d played hard and he’d sleep the rest of the day.

“I get it,” he said. “Agreed.”

I mean, he didn’t really say it, but he sort of did …

Ah, I’ve been remiss in updating my blog, which in the blogosphere, is bad, bad form. So here I am, entering my second week of this new chapter and I’m finally sitting still long enough to download.

These days, in between job hunting and play time and dog sitting my ex-boyfriend’s 180-pound dog, I find myself chatting with the universe quite a bit. Mind you these conversations don’t happen aloud – that would just be crazy. But they do happen. And okay, sometimes they happen aloud – on my end anyway. Sometimes my questions are vague – like: Okay, show me what’s up. Or, Okay, please guide me to where I need to be so I can serve the planet and pay my rent. I ask these types of questions before I go to sleep and hope that I’ll get some clarity when I’m dreaming. Sometimes it comes when I’m dreaming and sometimes it comes when I’m walking down the street a few days later. You never know.

It’s important to note that as flakey as this all sounds, this type of inner dialogue has always served me well. And it’s true, I’ve been having these conversations long before this new chapter began.  It seems every time I’m in transition and things seem completely out of control, which you know, is pretty regularly, I call for backup and guidance.

This time last year, for example, I was in the midst of a pretty serious healing cycle. I was knee deep in therapy, sorting out things I should have dealt with years ago. The pain, honestly, was almost too much to take at times. One night I was lying in bed and I clearly remember asking: WTF? Wasn’t therapy supposed to help, not hurt? That night I dreamed that I had open wounds on my arms – they looked like sores with teeth (I know, imagine how I felt). Instead of being afraid of them and panicking, I took a closer look, and when I did, when I pressed my face right up to them, I saw that I could see inside myself – literally. Those wounds were an entry way to knowing myself from the inside out.

And this insight, led to other insights and so on.

So, these days, I’m not quite at the point where I’m asking: WTF? But I am asking, respectfully, what’s next for me? I am doing everything I can to set things straight in the material world, lay the foundation and infrastructure of what I’d like my adult life to look like. I am also networking, keeping myself “out there”, and have my eyes wide open, scanning for opportunity …  but I am also not above asking for help.

Last night I was snuggled up in a rather uncomfortable sofa bed, thinking a little too much about all of this, and finally when my brain exhausted my spirit, I gave in and  mumbled something like: Ok, I trust the universe, let it go.

Shortly thereafter as I was drifting off to sleep, and was in that in between space – the one that’s warm and glowey and the color of twilight – the universe said back to me (not aloud, mind you): That’s cool, but trust yourself.

You probably think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

These days in particular, I’m spending a good amount of time playing what my dad has always called the what-if game. It’s this fun little thing I do when my neurosis gets the best of me – I sit around and create negative stories about things that could happen or could never happen.

This game is in TOTAL opposition to my dedication to thinking positively. And it’s also a TOTAL waste of time. So as of right now, I am swearing off the what-if game … at least for the rest of today. And hopefully tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes.

Anyway, I’m not surprised this old habit of mine is rearing its ugly head now.  The word of the day is transition.  The other word is unemployment. So there are a lot of what ifs lurking about. A lot of question marks.

This Friday, I’ll end a nine-month stint as a contractor for an organization I have grown to love and had hoped to stay at. And more than that, I’ll be a leaving a community of co-workers I have grown to love, one that is comprised of some of my now closest friends in San Francisco.

I should also mention I don’t know where my next  paycheck is coming from.

Meanwhile, I’m job hunting, planning for the short-term, medium-term and long-term, and having nightly dreams about driving vehicles that aren’t equipped with working brakes. Apparently my subconscious has moved on from brakeless orange bicycles (see post no. 1 in this blog) and has now taken to driving fancy cars like Audis and Saabs. They ALL lack working brakes. The upside is that every time I wake up I find I have come out of the danger unscathed. Sometimes I even coast in my given vehicle until I can find a safe place to crash the car, and then the dent is always minor and I am always fine.

Still, I’d be lying if I said this transition is a comfortable place to be – in real life or in my dreams.

Interestingly enough, though, I’m not alone in this process.  Most of the people in my life are also going through some type of rapid change and  uncertainty. It has occurred to me that maybe this type of transition is always happening and I just don’t take notice often enough. Right now, for example, some of my friends have been laid off and are job hunting just like me, one is considering marriage, some are breaking up, another just sold her second novel – which, by the way, is pretty bad-ass. Others are weighing the pros and cons of grad school, and another of my friends is about to go into labor – like any minute – also a bad-ass move.

And if I take another step back, a big step,  it seems like it’s not just the people I know; it’s our whole country that is steeped in chaos and transition. Read the headlines, you can’t miss it. After eight years of building faulty infrastructure based on arrogance and greed, a collective shift is taking place. And maybe the current chaos is helping to clear out the old and make way for something new and strong and healthy. And maybe it’s true that the only way for real change to happen, the kind that means growth and evolution and all that, is for a certain amount of chaos to take hold. I’m not sure.

But for now, anyway, my next bold move consists of sitting tight and watching the chaos – both personal and collective – without getting caught in the undertow of what-ifs. I’m doing my best to learn from it, to keep my balance.  I don’t know where I’ll end up when this transition is complete, not that I ever do when I’m in transition, but accepting the uncertainty makes the process more palatable, and maybe even a little more exciting.

After all, where there’s nothing, there’s always the possibility of something.

Despite the handy use of emotiocons, it’s pretty hard to tell when someone is glowing on the other side of g*chat. Happy? Sure. Glowing? Not really. But this morning my friend Liz is beaming right through the computer. Liz, by the way, is not a glowey kind of person. She doesn’t ‘beam’ on the regular. She’s sort of dark and twisty on the inside, very sarcastic – part of why I love her. She is also an activist, writer and directs an afterschool program for at-risk kids in Oakland.  But anyway, today Liz is glowey, and it’s endearing. It’s also easy to know why. Look out my window and you’ll know what I’m talking about – lesbians as far as the eye can see. Tall lesbians, short, dark, light, femme, butch, somewhere in between – there are lots and lots of lesbians. Most, I imagine, are making their way from 24^th Street or Bernal Heights to the other side of the Mission District to convene at Delores Park.  Today is Pride and more specifically Dyke March in San Francisco.

It’s a big day in The Bay.

Come meet us in the park, Liz says. We’re still on g*chat.

I’m not really up for it,” I say. And I’m not. It’s been a long week and I really need some Jessika-time. Happy Pink Saturday, though!

Yes it is! I love the Bay, she says. It’s okay to be gay. It’s still amazing to me.

See: glowey. And rightfully so.

For Liz, and many others for that matter, Pride is not only about the political; it’s about personal liberation as well. She comes from a family of devout Roman Catholics. Liz was adopted as a baby by parents who go to church every day. When she finally came out to them in her teenage years, well … I’m sure you can imagine. Mayhem. And to this day her parents tell her they love her, they just can’t accept her. But wait the story gets better. When Liz was a college student she sought out her biological parents only to find that they too were Jesus-freaks.

And I ask you, what are the chances?

But I guess a more important question is: how do people reconcile circumstances like these? How do they get through and heal?

I, for one, don’t know. I have a whole segment of my own family who once was Jewish and is now born-again (as in Christian) – like the real deal, praise Jesus and all that. They see me as a heretic because I am not a follower of convention and because I pay reverence to the natural world, to my friends and to my community instead of to one male god that I have never really connected with. In true right-wing fashion they are not above trying to scare others into believing what they believe, or saying things like: homosexuality is a disease, or even equating it to demonic possession. As a teenager and then as a 20-something (which is the last time I saw them) I was always told by the rest of my family to keep my opinions to myself and not stir up trouble. My father would sometimes kick me under the table. It was best just to tolerate their views. To ignore them. And I did do my best.

Now as an adult, I can tell you with certainty that it is NEVER best to tolerate ignorance. Not ever.

As I think back to all of this, I am amazed by Liz’s strength and patience. She has not cut off communications with her family, though sometimes she needs to take a break. She does, however, use the opportunity to try and educate her family and remains an advocate for queer rights through discussion, through humor, through honesty. She’s also not above sending her mother the occasional newspaper clipping about the possible links between soymilk and homosexuality.

Maybe that’s how I ended up gay? And she usually laughs. Though sometimes she cries.

But I digress.

Liz is back on g*chat now. She tells me she’s heading to Delores Park soon to join Dyke March. It’s a beautiful day in San Francisco – warm sunshine – rare.

Are you sure you don’t want to come, she says.

Nah, I’m really not up for it, I say.

She tells me about the pink bloomers she’s bought for the occasion and the matching nail polish, and I laugh.

There’s nothing like a park full of lesbians to cheer you up, she says.

I’ll be there in spirit, I say.

Okay, I’ll touch some boobs for you!

This is another reason why I love Liz.  She’s always thinking of her friends.