How You Walk Through Fire

 Charles Bukowski once said, "What matters most is how well you walk through the fire".  Or he wrote it, honestly, I haven't fact checked this, but I saw it on a beautiful piece of graffiti art, and after spending plenty of years ready Bukowski like he was the genius he thought he was, I am compelled to reflect.

And it might feel insensitive to use fire as a metaphor while California is burning, but it might also be apt.  And, frankly, it's 2025.  It feels like someplace on earth is always burning; if not California then the Amazon, Australia, Gaza, Canada, the Notre Dame.  We are always burning, the world is on fire. 

We are on fire.

And we all have to find a way to walk through the fire.  The literal and metaphorical fire, the personal and the communal fire.  And how we walk through this fire will dictate what the next fire looks like.  How we weather the next fire informs the fire that follows, it's intensity, its heat and influence.  

And it doesn't feel like the fires will ever stop coming.  Maybe in the past, in previous years, we imagined a world where this fire was a once in a lifetime fire, a once in a decade fire. These days the word unprecedented has become a thin parody of itself, worn out from use. The economy, the climate, the political sphere, even how humans choose to treat each other seems to have reached a crescendo.  We have found new depths of suffering, pain, and harm.

But as we walk through this fire, I choose optimism over pessimism.  Because we walk through this fire together at least as often as we do alone, we find new ways to commune with each other and support each other.  These unprecedented times are ripe with potential for growth, for kindness, for community.  

And that's how I choose to walk through the fire.  Every time I witness need, there is an opportunity to help, to alleviate suffering, to reduce the need.  And in that opportunity a universe of potential exists, a tiny mass of potential, ripe like early spring fruit.  That is my wish for the new year, my resolution for the next round of fire that is already upon us.  May we find in each moment of suffering , the potential for love and growth.

I did that!

 In April of 2023, my son was attacked by a dog.  People differ in how they like to describe the situation.  My mom calls it a dog bite.  My cousin, who owns the dog in question, still doesn't believe there was a bite, so I'm not sure how she would describe it.

My sweet, 40 pound six year old was standing next to his grandmother, when the dog in question pulled himself free of my aunt, who was holding his leash, to jump on my child.  I heard all of this second and third hand, but I saw the shredded t-shirt, the puncture marks on his hand, the scratches around his neck.

The grown ups in charge at the time gave him two bowls of ice cream and bandaged him up on their own, eventually getting him into clean clothes and to a safer space.  I was asked not to seek medical attention, not to report the attack as a dog bite, not to tell the police. 

Instead I did all those things and more.  I got him in front of a doctor and two mental health professionals to process his trauma.  I bought children's books on dog bites for us to read together, and talked to my child about PTSD.  My child and I constructed narratives about good dogs and bad dogs, friendly dogs, helper dogs, and dogs that shouldn't be around kids.  We spent more than a year slowly reintroducing him to dogs and healing his trauma, with the help of friends and strangers.  And today, my son is fairly comfortable with most dogs, and cuddles his favorite big dogs with ease.  

Today I was asked how I thought it happened, that my child could be so resilient, could get over this thing so quickly and easily.

First off, he is amazing,  He is a strong kiddo, and I am so deeply proud of him.  And a lot of friends and dog owners spent time talking to my child, sharing their patient dogs with my child, and generally being awesome.  

But also, I did that.  

I held him, I read to him, I talked to him.  I made appointments and drove him to professionals, and asked for advice and took time out of each day to help my child heal.  And it was absolutely worth it, because he is an amazing child who deserves to live with joy and without fear.  But it was also hard work, and I did that work.  He did that work, too.  We did that.  

And I will say it with my full chest. I did that.

Don't Collude With His Shadow Self

 I found this phrase written on an index card in my journal, while searching for a poem I wanted to revise.

It is a note I made during a therapy session almost exactly two years ago.  I had started doing this only recently, probably as a guard against the combined effect of age and chemo on my memory.  

"Don't collude whit his shadow-self.  Asking for help/telling the truth is letting him in, taking the pressure off.  The good parts come from sharing"

I find it such a striking phrase today, two years further into our relationship, two years deeper into my life, two years of growth and experience under my belt.  How easily our sick parts seek companionship with the sick parts of others.  how quick we are to let the small, broken, damaged bits of ourselves link up with the small damaged bits of others, replaying those old, hurtful patterns again and again because they are familiar, even though they are destructive.

Don't collude...

Like it's a secret, yet powerful meeting between the hurt child in me who does not trust and the hurt child in him who grew without tenderness.  Like they, our shadow selves, are out there somewhere, trying to drive us into self destruction and mutual destruction.

Like there is a me, desperate to keep things the same as they have always been because the hurt and betrayal are so familiar that they've come to feel like home.   A me who would rather never admit that I need help or support, and then can rage at the isolation an betrayal with a sense of vindication.

Because to break the pattern, to betray the shadow self, would be to have to live a different life, a different truth.  Live in a world where I am worthy of love and so is he, and we can give it to eachother freely, without contempt or compensation.

Because the good parts come from sharing.

Buying Peace

 Driving in to my office yesterday, I picked a playlist at random.  Some Spotify-created summer rewind playlist. 

It was all sad songs, angry songs, songs about resilience.  Songs about heart break, divorce, loss, and recovery.  The occasional bop from a Disney movie.  

It took me about half of my 30 minute drive to figure out what summer this playlist was from, and pinpoint the emotional state I was in that summer.  And then, dots connected, the songs spent the rest f my drive taking my body back to that time.  I started to feel the music resurrect the anxiety in my muscles, the sadness and betrayal in my bones.  I felt the way I gripped the same steering wheel five years earlier, when everything was entirely different.  And then I did the most important thing.

I remembered the wishes I had then, the hopes and plans I sketched out roughly in my mind while I listened to this same collection of songs in this same car on these same roads.  And I felt pure gratitude.

The peace that I have purchased over the last five years, through sacrifice and love and work and luck, is so valuable.  The woman who listened to Liz Phair's Divorce Song on repeat in between mournful used-to-love songs by The National would have chaffed in the relative comfort of the life I live now.

And so I walk these days in gratitude for all the things I take for granted now, that I was afraid to wish for a few years ago.

And I remember that the goal is to continue to buy peace, find joy, build a world anchored in love, respect, and growth.

Holding my heart in my hands

 In the morning, before he wakes up, I hold my son in my arms and smell his breath.  Inhale him.  He is getting older, longer, smellier, but he is my own flesh and blood that I made from my body, raised, sweated and bled and cried for every day of his life and many days before. 

And then I think about what it would be like to have him taken from me; to have to watch his beautiful, perfect little body be broken in ways that cause pain, in ways that don't heal, in ways that can't be fixed.

I think about the absolute searing pain I would feel, if I couldn't press his sleeping forehead to my lips, or his clean hair to my nose, or lift his body into my lap, his hand into mine.  how would  I live if he was taken from me, broken, burned, beaten.

I never used to think these thoughts, until Gaza.  Until I began to track the suffering of the Palestinian people as they watched their loved ones be beaten, crushed, burned, cut, violated, tortured, frightened, maimed, and massacred.

And now I can't stop thinking about it.  I catch myself crying at the absolute unfairness that is the relative ease and safety of our life.

The almost overwhelming privilege that exists in my ability to promise my child that I will protect him, keep him from harm, keep him safe, fed, clothed and clean.  What an absolute load of bull shit.  A government could take that ability from me, break my promises to my child, in a minute with their weapons and their heartless, soulless violence.  And render me powerless to do the one job that matters in this life, protect my child.  

Everyday I think about what a friend of mine said when her teenage son committed suicide.  She reflected on all the time she spent cutting grapes in half to keep him from choking as a baby. 

We do that, as parents, as care givers.  We strive to protect them from the tiniest risks, to shelter them and herd them into maturity, relative safety, hoping they arrive in adulthood intact and capable. 

But what happens to all of those efforts when your child is ripped from you by an occupying army, and imprisoned for years without contact?

What happens when a bomb or a sniper's bullet pierces your child's skin, tearing through the flesh you carefully nourished and cleaned day in and day out.

What happens when your child's fears are no longer irrational fears of monsters under beds, but very real fears of death, destruction, and unthinkable loss.

What happens when your child is hungry and you are powerless to feed them, when they are thirsty and you are powerless to quench their thirst?  What happens when your child needs to be comforted by love and hugs and kind, soft, nice things, but you are dead and your poor child is huddled alone in a tent, bandaged and hungry with all of the orphans of a genocide that global powers refuse to admit is taking place.

How is anyone walking around right now, functioning?  How did we pay our taxes and plan out meals without remembering the mother who asked to cut of her own hand to feed her child, the 2 year old orphaned and amputated alone in a tent, the child crying for help, isolated in a car full of dead relatives, and the bombed out ambulances driven by aid workers murdered in their attempt to rescue her from what must of been a horrific final day of her incredibly young life.  

There is so much pain, suffering, frustration and angry boiling in my broken heart, and you have the audacity to discuss the appropriate way to protest, the right time to speak out, the civility of sharing images of the destruction my government has spent billions funding?

Fuck all of the way off.  I will help burn this system down until a new one is born.

New Year, New Bullshit

 There is a tradition, at least around here,  of beginning a new calendar year with a statement of goals.  A reflection of the last year and a resolution or two for the new year. 

I respect this tradition because I truly believe that as humans we need to mark time with traditions like this.   I respect the ways the goals of my past new years have helped to shape the life I have today.   

But I don't really have any real resolutions for 2024.  I've heard a lot of people lament this past year,  and I get it, globally a lot is going wrong; the climate deteriorates, civil rights are deteriorating, global conflict has intensified in violence and severity.   But my life was good.   2023 was a good year for Andrea.  I am cancer free.   That's huge!!  I grew in my career at Sac State,  and at Folsom Lake. I gained recognition, confidence, and grew in my sense of self.   I am watching August grow as a human,  watching my relationship with Chris grow and watch him grow as an individual.  In watching Nathanial grow,  my friendships grow.  Everything is,  as I like to say, on its trajectory.   Things don't need to be perfect today,  and they aren't,  but they are getting a little better every day. 

So what are my goals for 2024?

More.   Keep going, do a little more. 

I want to keep doing what I'm doing,  because it's working. I want to keep being me, keep being healthy, keep growing in my career and relationships. 

I want to get weirder. I want to get Witchier.  I want to do more Wiccan things,  more earthy/crunchy things. I want to trust my instincts more often.  

I told Chris,  twice now,  that I'm going to get weirder.   But that's short hand for what I want to say in a more complicated way,  which is I know who I am now, and I'm not pretending anymore. I'm going to be more me, and I'm not apologizing to anyone.

Fighting the Tide

 There are times when things seem to go our way, when the energy flows, good things, come, and we feel as though we are being taken by the hand through the universe with kind admiration and support.  Good days.  Found a parking space, no line for coffee, someone brought donuts kind of days.

And then there are those days where the universe seems set to destroy us, or at the least our spirits.  Everything seems to be aimed at obstruction and we struggle with simple tasks.  Step-in-a-puddle days.  Days where it feels like you are the fly and life is the windshield.

We seem to regularly need reminders to be patient during the dark times, but we fly through the good times, bouncing from one morsel of goods news to the other as though there is no end in sight.

The hard but valuable thing is to remember that we are just grains of sand along a vast beach.  The tide comes in and then ebbs, leaving us.  But no matter how long the tide's absence feels, it is always temporary, it always returns to bathe us in its salty fresh water.  

 

i think that is one of the great benefits of time...after years of living through these ebbs and flows of life's fortunes, you learn how temporary each state is, how inevitable each next phase is.