The Writing Process

When I write, I usually don't know what my conclusion will be. On rare occasions I only know the ending, and I have no idea how I will get there.

Writing, for me, is a process of discovery. It is not like I have a complete story inside of me that I need to get out. I have just a glimpse. A heartbeat. A descriptive breath. If I am quick enough with pen and paper I can capture that moment. If not, it fades away to wherever dreams that haven't been finished being dreamt go.

Of the moments I catch, some stick there in the pages of my notebooks for days or months before I reorganize my life and toss them out. A few of them, though, keep going. My pen latches on to them, or maybe they claw at my pen, drawing it down to the paper, and I keep writing, never knowing what will happen in the next moment.

These are the good ones. Or, at least they are the fun ones. They are what make writing a joy.

I tend not to be superstitious, but I am overly cautious in this area. I have learned that if I think about something I am writing- if I tongue it and work out some kind of plot in my head, then it will never get finished. Instead, every time the story insists on being thought I must let it be written. Sometimes, when I finish a passage, I reread it and wonder how that plot twist happened.

When I blog it is the same thing. I get a beginning. A point. An instant. From there I simply write, figuring out what I think and feel along the way. I know that if I work out phrases ahead of time the post will get to be a draft at best, and will never reach a conclusion.

Honestly, this even happened in academic writing. I was always the student who turned in her thesis proposal and then wrote a paper that completely contradicted it. Luckily, my instructors accepted my final conclusions. I always thought it was silly, to have an idea and then find the research that supports it. I would rather let the research lead me in loops until I reach a logical conclusion. THEN go back and have an idea.

I'll never understand those people who have a crystallized thought in their head that they need to express. For me it is all murky exploration. It is a wet, slippery process, and I love it. 

Intimacy

Today, while breast feeding Peatuk, I started crying. It was just a trickle of hot, salty tears and a bit of a smile as he faded away to sleep. I am not sure what it was. He is in pants and shirts a lot more than onesies these days, and maybe it was that he looks so big in those clothes compared to the tiny little being that we held with fear of breaking 7 months ago.

He closed his eyes. His jaw slowed, and I stroked his tiny yet plump fingers. I realized that I have never had this level of intimacy with someone in my entire life. This is coming from an intimacy addict. I love getting intimate with people. Physical intimacy. Sexual intimacy. Emotional intimacy. Mental intimacy. I get excited by sharing and having people share with me. Honesty excites me. I respect vulnerability. So, I have had quite a few intimate relationships, from friends to lovers, and nothing comes close to the intimacy I experience with this little guy.

It is weird to talk about physical intimacy and not immediately jump to sexuality. But being able to kiss his foot and hear him giggle with joy- having to wipe his bottom and inspect his poop for the latest gastrointestinal offenders- allowing him to lick my face and chomp on my nose as he tries to learn how to give kisses- these trump even the most open hugs and massages that I have shared with friends.

Part of me knows that this intimacy is only temporary. The more self aware and self sufficient he becomes, the less our bodies will be one. It is a fading intimacy since the moment of birth. However, as that physical intimacy fades, there is the mental and emotional intimacy growing in its place.

This little guy is learning who he is. He is learning what he likes and needs, and he is learning to communicate it. For the time being, I get to be the primary person he practices and explores with. I get to know his entire vocabulary. I can anticipate his habits better than he can. It is an amazing feeling.

Positive Reflections on Istanbul

Now that over a year has passed since we left Istanbul, I can start to look back on it fondly. The politics of the place fade away and all that is left in my memory are the concrete facts of what it was.

I smell fish grilling on the streets. I feel the damp, drizzly winter seeping through my clothes and into my skin. I see thousands of cats roaming my university campus as if it was created for them. I feel the weight and motion of large ferry boats bobbing in the waves of the channel. I remember the fear and excitement of a new language tripping over my tongue, and the simple joy of being understood. I remember the frothing emotion of the Gezi Park protesters- excitement, anger, fear, and joy shaken up into youthful bodies and youthful voices. I taste countless cig kofte wraps and potato bureks. I feel the satisfaction of making it up one of those winding, never ending hills on my bicycle. I feel the fear and joy of slipping down the other side, my hands hovering nervously over the brakes. I feel the morning rhythm of the ride into school, along the water, seeing shops open and the occasional car slip by. I remember the feel of my feet on the concrete as I ran up and up, to the very northern edge of the endless city, to watch the boats wait for passage.

A year later, my frustrations have faded. I no longer think about my time there and immediately feel vulnerable. I no longer feel angry that so many people tried to take advantage of us. Instead, I just feel the moments, and there were plenty of good moments. Plenty.

The Bedroom Set

"The things you own end up owning you." 

How much does a new bedroom set really say about me? Does it define me? Of course, the answer is much more complex than the question. 

Yesterday Nikola and I purchased a new bedroom set: bed, frame, mattress, nightstands, dresser with mirror, and wardrobe. It is all set to be delivered in two weeks. The large impulse purchase- for we really didn't NEED it- has me thinking about space and self. 

When I was young, my bedroom was a public space. 

As a child, I had a single bed and a closet filled with toys. When we had company over, my mother would send me and whatever children were around my age into my room to play. Pink plastic horses and teddy bears, along one wall a cornflower clue comforter covering the bed, and no privacy. 

As I grew, my bedroom changed several times. Being the only girl in the house I had my own room, while my brothers had to share, but was never particularly possessive of it. A room in California, three different rooms in New York, and finally, a room in Prescott. The 'playing' changed from dolls and horses to whispered conversations about boys and school and other teenage drama. I graduated to a queen sized bed, and packed countless friends into it over the years, wondering briefly if friends cuddled or slept on opposite edges of the bed before I fell asleep. 

During these years I was slightly more obsessed with decoration than I am now. My walls housed posters, drawings, and, strangely, the back covers of three years worth of reader's digest magazines. At least twice a year I shuffled the bed, desk, and dresser around to try to find a new perspective. 

In high school, the room became less of a place to play and more of a place to work. It was where I practiced my instruments. It was where I wrote. My senior year I got my first computer, a Christmas present for impending college, and I moved my studying from the kitchen table to my bedroom. 

Then, college began, and I started sharing my room. Bunk beds and a refrigerator, the room, especially my dorm room, became a social hub. People stopping by with sack lunches, or to heat a bowl of spaghetti-o's, to play a board game or get dressed for RHPS. People came and went, and still, the decorations in the rooms were meant to say something about who I was to the many people passing through. 

Even when I lived alone, as a single girl, my room was designed to be presented. A cuddly nest on the floor for dates, a few conversational pieces on the walls. 

Now, suddenly, it seems like things are different. Nikola and I have a "grown up," life, and a "grown up" living arrangement. Which works out to a very private bedroom that very few people have any reason to enter. 

We have a living room, where we live. There is no reason to retreat to the solitude of our bedroom with a meal or to watch a movie. We can do that in the dining area or the living room. When we have guests, we have a fold out couch where they sleep, making our bed our own. Computers are in the living room and office. Guitar is in the living room. All of our 'life' is lived outside of our bedroom. 

And yet... our bedroom is not a place for only sleep and sex. It is a place for a very private, intimate family life. It is where we read Peatuk bedtime stories. It is where we lay in bed, looking up at fake stars and point out false constellations to each other. It is where Peatuk eats his last snack before bedtime, and falls asleep so peacefully on my breast. It is where we cuddle and whisper secrets to each other. In some ways it is a very sacred space. 

So, as we slowly accumulate furniture to put on display and make our guests comfortable- a couch, a table, a microwave, shouldn't we also take the time to turn that private space into the sanctuary it could be? Yes, we could last with the hard mattress and slightly squeaky bed that rocks back and forth like a ship at sea whenever one of us crawls in at the end of the day. We could keep the slightly wonky, blocky cabinets from the 1980's. Or, we can fill that room with warm, elegant furniture and make it into our oasis. 

I am not the type to neglect my own desires for the sake of appearances, and neither is Nikola. Hopefully, that is something we will teach Peatuk as well, as we lay on our comfy bed and dream together.  

Desire

Perhaps I am just another victim of the romance myth. You know, that myth that drives our consumerism and gets the female half of box office sales.

"Find your one. Find your one. Find your one."

The myth whispers.

It gives every little girl (and boy) a purpose. Okay, not everyone, but many of us.

Then, one day, I find my, "one." Even though I don't believe that there is a one, I can say I achieved the disney dream of my prince.

I have a husband, and not just any husband, but one that makes me happy. Giddy at times. Not just a husband, but a best friend. I have found the one, and I am left flat, wondering, what now?

I guess this is why they say to build a career. I guess this is why they say you shouldn't look for another person to complete you.

No, I do not feel like he completes me, but I do feel overly satisfied.

I talked with Nikola about this the other day... I told him that I was too satisfied by him and our life together. I used to run around- different activities and different festivals and different countries, and although I was not always looking for someone, the thrill of possibility was always there. Who will I meet that will make me go weak in the knees?

I am not saying that I wont meet amazing people now. I am just saying that I am content to stay at home, playing with my son and flirting with my husband. An entire existence broken only by brief trips to the store and the occasional visit to grandma's.

I have no desire to leave our little bubble, but I do have a desire to have a desire. I have grown accustomed to desire- thirst. I want to want.

So, I am thinking of old hobbies and new hobbies, and how to integrate a little baby into a life that allows me to explore on my own, or at least explore myself.

I bought some acrylics the other day- perhaps I will take up painting. I am also looking for earthbuilding workshops in the area. Of course, when the half hour I get to myself every day is taken with dishes or laundry or a bit of writing... the thought of adding more is a bit daunting. But I fear that if I don't find a thirst I will let myself wither, and we can't have that. 

On Motherhood

Usually I don't think of being a mother as a particularly big deal. Sure, there was the whole pregnancy and birth thing, and yes, I am constantly tied to a small being, unable to travel or even go get a coffee on my own for longer than three hours. But still...

Peatuk is this unbelievably chill, fun little person. He is all smiles and laughter and curiosity and discovery. So, he coos from the bed when he wakes up and I have to go get him and sing him, "Good Morning Beautiful," as he giggles at me. It's really not a lot to ask from a person.

Then, there are moments when I really feel like a mother. Moments (rare) when he is sobbing uncontrollably because he is tired and the world is so big and he just can't fall asleep. True, it might be his father that finally gets him to calm down, but as I rub his back, fighting off his whimpers and keeping him asleep, I realize that I am his protector.

That is when I realize that being a mother... being HIS mother, is a big deal. The trust that he can't help but give me. His complete dependence.

Slowly, he will grow up. I already see so many changes in his eyes as he begins to see the world for what it is. Eventually, if I do my part correctly, he wont need me.

But for now I am completely honored to welcome this soul into the world and guide him through those first, wonderful, frightening, overwhelming years. 

Moments in Motion

The debate over digital cameras, and how much they distract individuals from, "living in the moment," vs. their ability to capture and share experiences, thoughts, and ideas is tired. At least, it is tired in me. Perhaps because I surrendered to my desire to purchase a nice digital camera for Peatuk last holiday season and have become one of those obsessed mothers, sharing thousands of bright colored photos of my son on facebook with hardly any intention of looking back on them again. I've made my decision. I am pro-camera. 

However, even with the decision made, I can't help but be overwhelmed with how much the digital camera influences our every day lives and our cultural rituals. 

First of all, it seems like we are living in a never-ending photo-shoot. I remember being a teenager, trying on clothing. I remember twisting this way and that in front of a mirror. I remember twirling to see how a dress or skirt flowed. After all, clothing is meant to be worn in motion. We do not sit still all day. That is why fashion shows involve live models walking a runway. It is not the final pose that matters, but the pathway to the climax. 

Now, bombarded by online catalogues and constant pictures of girls posing at the beach, in front of statues, at the club, wherever they are... it feels like the motion has been lost. Selfies in the mirror show how girls try on clothes, and there is no motion to it. Butt out, breasts out, lips ducked. Does the outfit hit the pose? It is as if existence has ceased to move and has instead become a stop-motion caricature of life. 

I remember being guided through one of my first modeling sessions by my friend. She had me twisting into uncomfortable, unnatural positions. The pictures turned out great, but they were not something you would see in real life. They were a statement, they were not me.

Now, I think that it is a lot more likely that I will see these postures in every day life. On the street corner, girls wearing 6 inch heels, arching their backs as they lean against a wall. Everyone is a pin up model. 

Parties, weddings, the first day of school... they are all optimized for photos. Everything works towards that single 'click.' It has gone beyond distraction and changed the very fabric of life. How we relate to each other. How we relate to our selves. How we relate to the world around us. 

The world feels jolted. 

Click. Step. Click. Step. Click. Smile. Click.

It continues, like strobes.

I wonder if that is why I have lost my motion. The world has stopped moving around me.