Kiss Off

 Of all the people who have left me

of all the people who stopped loving me

of all the people who I succeed in pushing away, 

scaring away

running away from

Of all the people who decided I was too much

too loud, too wild, too obnoxious, too much

You are the biggest surprise.

I never thought you would leave me, not completely.

I should have known, you've let me go so any times, picked so many other lives over me 

But somehow I thought you would always love me in the end for the you in me

the loud, the wild, the obnoxious, the too much came from you 

and now you use it against me

like feeding me poison and then punishing me for my illness.  

but in a way it's perfect, because if not even you can love me, then I can connect all of the dots, and see clearly that I was built for this life of loss by you

slowly, over the years, each little chip and fracture adds up to make me who I am, 

Imperfect in every possible way, 

yet a perfect reflection of you.

And now, because you don't want to speak to me anymore, you'll never have to look at that perfect reflection

and see who you are, what you have wrought, what your choices look like in the psyche of your child.

Actually, it all makes perfect sense.

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.