Music

I love music. I played the organ, the sax and guitar when I was younger. I used to be able to read the black and white notes, lines, symbols and numbers without hesitation.  I memorized the words to songs without trying (now if I could only sing on key it would be nice) and absorbed rhythm with my body when I danced.

Music has another power over me. It can send me back in time to a specific moment. I can recall with telescopic clarity what I listened to during specific times in my life. I remember, as a toddler, when my mother played Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkle in our apartment how I would run from whatever room I was in, to the living room and do my little circle dance. I remember how the dance made me happy. I remember liking how the the red velvet drapes in the room looked swirling in my vision. I can recall the stiff carpet under my feet and how I couldn’t sit still when that beat vibrated through the air. I was compelled to dance. I knew the words but didn’t understand them. I just felt the happy beat, the sound of clapping hands and the simple sounds of the music. I feel joy to this day when I hear Cecilia. I still want to dance.

I have the opposite reaction to Celebration by Kool and the Gang. I had a dance routine to that song. When I hear the first horns and guitars playing the iconic party song, I automatically count to eight (as in five, six seven eight- dancers counts) and my body wants to repeat the routine I danced for years: one, two, leap, step, leap, step, turn. One and two three and four five six seven eight. Which probably means nothing to you, but to me it is a series of dance steps. My dance academy wore silver leggings and a silver half tank top with long white finges for the dance. The outfit made me cringe then and remembering it now elicits the same reaction.  That song is on my NEVER play list!

The songs go on and on. Music is evocative. John Legend, Lenny Kravitz, Depech Mode, Jamiroquai, Anjulie, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Alanis Morissette, Motzart, Jonathan Goldman, Sting, Pitbull, Third Eye Blind, Incubus, Duran Duran, Genesis- the soundtrack to memories is as long as my life. Music for the years and decades. Music for personal highs and lows. I use it now to help guide my mood when I write.

I play Mozart and gongs and crystal bowl to help remove my conscious mind form what I’m doing and open up a gateway to my higher self and my creativity. Some days it works, others not so much. I use music to tap into an emotion that I want a character to experience. I’ll play a song that triggers a specific sense memory .iTunes makes jumping around easy and I love it. I can go from Joydrop’s Beautiful to a soft ballad. My Playlists are full of memories, their songs bring back old hurts and broken hearts, others remind me of Egypt, being wicked, or laughing.

Music is an amazing gift. I’m glad I have it. I’m glad I’ve shared it with you.

P.S.

Rest in Peace Donna Summer. I danced to your music with my mother in the living room and sang Heaven Knows while I skied down mountains. The rhythm kept me moving and the words, I believed, were a prayer- as in heaven knows I should crash and hurt myself.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Mom,

I want to tell you how much I love you. I know you prefer personal matters to remain private. But this year I want to shout it from the rooftop how amazing I think you are. So please, pull up your desk chair and slip on your reading glasses and get comfortable.

Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for giving me the space to express myself. Thank you for letting me get it off my chest when you didn’t want to hear it.  Thank you for supporting me and my style as a child. Thank you for supporting me through tough emotional times. Thank you for laughing with me. Thank you for sitting quietly with me. Thank you for playing golf with me. Thank you for dancing in the living room with me. Thank you for a wicked sense of humor.

I want you to know that I see you too.

I appreciate your creativity. I appreciate your wisdom. I appreciate your talent. I think you should show the world more of it, and so here it is, something you painted for me that I wish to share with the world.

I appreciate your heart. I appreciate our relationship. I appreciate your love of fast cars, convertibles and motorcycles. I appreciate your need for privacy, even though I don’t always go along with it. I appreciate your style. I appreciate the friendships you have. I appreciate your generous heart. I appreciate your teenage-spirit and ideas about love. I appreciate your ability to lighten up the room. I appreciate that we can speak the truth even when it hurts without being defensive. I appreciate your clothes. I appreciate your sparkly things. I appreciate your need for space. I appreciate your feelings about being the new matriarch of the family. I appreciate the love you have for your grandchildren. I appreciate your passion for art. I appreciate your taste in fine dining. I appreciate the fact you don’t enjoy cooking. I appreciate that you make it easy to come home. I appreciate your hugs. I appreciate your kisses. I appreciate your tears. I appreciate that you are a survivor. I appreciate the way your mouth moves when you speak. I appreciate your eyebrows. I appreciate your skinny legs and blonde hair. I appreciate your creativity. I appreciate your dramatic flair. I appreciate your sense of fashion. I appreciate your decorating style. I appreciate your intuition. I appreciate your need to live near the ocean. I appreciate your hugs. I appreciate your gifts. I appreciate the look you used to give me when you thought I did something bad. I appreciate how your raised me. I appreciate how you let me go. I appreciate how you are always there. I appreciate how you love me.

I love you, too. Always.

Happy Mother’s Day!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time Magazine, Attachment Parenting, and Breast Feeding

I’m not a fan of Time Magazine’s cover. I despise the title ARE YOU MOM ENOUGH? I escpecially don’t like timing of it.(Mother’s day is this weekend).I think it’s exploitative to put Jamie Lynn Gromet (www.iamnotthebabysitter.com) on the cover breatfeeding her nearly four-year-old as he stands on a chair in order to reach her breast, when the article is about Dr. William Sears and attachement parenting. I’m not for breastfeeding a child when they can dress and feed themselves, have all their teeth and can speak. But being a Mom is a never-ending, at times thankless, overwhelming joyful, love crazed job. Women are hard enough on ourselves without being dared to question our worth as mothers. I’m taking a stand. I want to say women, let’s be kind to each other. If attachment parenting isn’t your thing, don’t worry about it. If it works for you and your family, more power to you.

Shame on Us North Carolina

NC I’m embarrassed by you. Charlotte, Asheville and Raleigh thank goodness we voted against it. If I were gay I’d leave NC. Take your families and your money and live where you are respected. Sorry my vote wasn’t enough.

Your Voice Your Dream

I’ve been watching The Voice. I know, I can’t believe it either. Weeks ago I was flicking through the channels when I saw and heard Tony Lucca. I was surprised to see him up there and happy for him. Because way back when in 1996 I worked with him on Malibu Shores. I was the production coordinator on the Spelling Television series. He was a young actor who got his start on the Mickey Mouse Club, funny how that still is part of his bio. Funny how a fellow musketeer, Xtina, is outwardly rude to him. I’d swear I saw her texting during his comments. What gives Xtina?

His past as an actor got me thinking. I like that he is pursuing his dream to sing now. I think the risk is personal. His possible failure public. It’s great drama. I like his personality. I like the way his family looks. I like how Adam Levine and Tony get one another. I think it’s rare to meet someone in entertainment who will mentor talent and not be intimidated by it, or threatened by another person’s success.

All the Tony drama got me thinking about all the talent shows out there. I think of all the spectators watching other people risk it all in pursuit of a dream. And I wonder what dreams they may have that are left in the attic hope chest getting dusty with the rest of their childhood toys and memories.

I say get up and do something. You dont’ have to do it on a grand scale. Take a painting class or a singing class. Heck learn to swim, play tennis or rugby. Try your hand at writing. Do you want to learn a new language? Have you always wanted to know how to read music or play an instrument. What is holding you back?

I worked in television and film for eighteen years. I busted my ass, worked 20 hour days and made a great living. But I wasn’t living my dream. Back then I was out to prove I could do it. And so I did. I was good at my job but never had the stomach for the politics of production. You know what I always wanted to do? That’s right, all I’ve ever wanted to do was be a writer.

I started off small  again when I was twenty-eight. I signed up for UCLA Extensions writing program. I took a few classes.  My first teacher was Rob Roberge, next Tod Goldberg, Barbara Abercrombie, Samantha Dunn, and finally outside of the program I met Rachel Resnick. These people saw my work progress from terrible, to not so bad, to what it is now.

I owe them everything because they helped me realize my dream. They helped me write. It’s up to me now to make what I can out of it. They gave me the tools and a reason to practice writing. I was elated to keep my creativity for myself. I suffered over words, I sweated over plots, and doubted myself. I started with short stories, moved to personal essays and then the unimaginable happened. I actually took on writing a book. And finished it.

What is holding you back? I’m not saying you have to be a rock star, but if you love to sing, why not let your voice shine? I am letting mine, one typed word at a time.

Sisters

My little girl wants some sisters. She tells me about her big sister who is 14. Her sister is naughty. She pushes my girl and doesn’t listen to mommy. Her sister also sings songs with her and plays with her. Some days my girl has a brother too, but not as often. She calls her cousins her brothers and sisters. My girl really has a one track mind.

This weekend she asked me to open my mouth so she could look inside.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“I’m looking for a baby in your tummy,” she said.

I thought the sentiment was adorable. In the meantime, I sold her stroller and pack and play. I threw out her BPA free bottles. Got rid of her expensive cloth diapers that I used to wipe up all her spit up and whatnot, got rid of her receiving blankets, and her first wood blocks. I am successfully and slowly purging baby thoughts and dreams. My daughter — not so much. She wants a sibling. When I try to explain that I can’t have another baby, her four-year-old mind goes to work processing.

“It’s okay Mommy. Try. I want a sister.”

I think my girl would find adjusting to an infant painful at best. She doesn’t like to share me with anyone. But I like her chutzpah.

For now though, I am working hard on putting baby dreams to rest. Time to focus on another dream. My book. I have a goal. To finish this draft, polish it, and get my YA novel LIFE-LIKE out into agents hands by the end of August. I hope to get my girl on board with this. I think it would be a cool incentive to have her ask if my book is ready yet instead of asking for a sister. Think it’ll work?

 

National Infertility Awareness Week

Did you know it is National Infertility Awareness Week? I did. I was trying to ignore it. I am tired of defining myself as infertile. But since there are so many of us, I thought it more important to show solidarity. I personally suffer from secondary infertility. It can feel isolating and lonely. It’s made me feel broken. In my worst moments of despair I felt that I was a breeder of death. I don’t want anyone else to feel that way. So here is a link to the National Infertility Awareness website. And I’m re-posting the letter I wrote to the first baby I lost. I wrote it days after my D&C. In it I am painfully honest about my grief. But do not worry about me now, I am okay. I’m sharing it to let those who don’t understand get a glimpse into the silent pain the infertile carry in their hearts. And for anyone who may be reading this who is still deep in grief or fear, maybe it’ll help you release it too. Wishing everyone happiness and support.

xox,

Holly

 

 

Dear Baby,

Can I even call you that? That which you were, almost…an almost, yet with me for twelve weeks, shifting my body, my hormones, my moods, taking control of my stomach and twisting it with nausea, and swelling my breasts with tenderness and soreness so much so that they couldn’t be touched. Making my mind race, thinking how is this possible? How was getting pregnant so easy this time? How fantastic that we made love thinking about the possibility of you and you appeared the very first time?

And then the other thoughts, the vexing ones, the troubled and fear infused ones. How will I manage two small children? How will I lift Isabelle when I am round and full of you? How will I rearrange the room so both of you can share it? How many diapers will I have to change a day? How will this affect your father? How will you affect Isabelle? How lost will I become when you are born? How invisible will my individuality become as I morph into the mother of two? How bad will the post partum depression be this time? When will I get the chance to do something I enjoy again once you are born? How long will it take to find me again?

Ten weeks in and I already reorganized the closet in your room, kicked your father out of it so you could have the space. Now your closet is bright and empty waiting for you. I have cleared the shelves of dad’s suits, dry cleaned shirts, and size 13 shoes, made space for your clothes, your toys, your needs and smells to be held.  I went and bought you your first outfit, a knit winter onesie. I know I bought it early, but I couldn’t resist the purple, white and light brown stripes and the purple pom pom on the top of the hood.

I imagined zipping you in it and taking you to the park on the corner with your sister, giving her time to play and on the yellow and blue teeter totter and climb across the red wood bridge while you and I snuggled. You’d be in my black and white sling around my chest, safe and warm and content. 

     I hid your outfit in my drawer of maternity clothes. I didn’t want anyone to know that I started getting things for you. It was too early, too soon to imagine how we might be. So I kept it a secret, and looked forward to stretching it around you, and imagined how it would be to unfold your tiny arms and legs and pull them through and see your small face pop up into that pom pommed hoody. I wondered if purple would even look good on you, but dismissed that as being silly. 

Or perhaps you knew how much I already loved another and that I hadn’t quite fallen in love with you yet?  Did you know I was shocked to realize you showed up? That I had just regained my body back a year after your sister was born and wasn’t so keen on giving it up to another again so soon. Did you know I paid less attention to you than your older sister than at the same embryonic stage?

I spoke to her every day while she was inside me. I sent her my love and my strength. When the doctor didn’t like how she was developing in the first few weeks I was worried. I told her, “Be a fighter. Fight, do you hear me, fight and be strong and stay.” 

With you when the doctor told me to keep the pregnancy to myself I wasn’t worried. “This is how it was with Isabelle,” I said to your dad. “This is just how my body is.” I even convinced myself. So I didn’t tell you to fight or be strong, I let you be.

But at 8 weeks when we went back to the doctor and we saw your tiny embryonic self and saw the flitter of your tiny heart I was worried because even though I saw the hummingbird like flutter of your heart I couldn’t hear it. No one could hear it, not me, or your father or the doctor. He tried reaching it, tried amplifying the sound on the ultrasound machine but you were a silent movie. Tony our doctor said, “It could just be the position of the baby, but I’d like to see you in two more weeks.” That was unexpected. I got scared, but didn’t tell you to stay or fight.

I had faith in you because you were making me so sick. Morning sickness lasted all day and was worse at night. I could only eat baguettes and packaged cheese because they were all I could keep in my tortured stomach and all I could stand the smell of.  I couldn’t go to the grocery store, all those terrible odors kicking at my gut. I wondered how they all could escape from the plastic surrounding them. I swore mean spirited elves punched holes in every package moments before I passed by.

At nine weeks before I fell asleep I placed my fingertips on my barely swollen uterus. I was checking in on you to see how you may be growing. I wanted to talk to you, tell you about the vision I had the week before I realized I was pregnant; the vision of me lying in the grassy plains as an Indian girl.

The vision came to me in yoga class. I was lying in shavasna and I was transported from my purple yoga mat to a grassy plain. Warm afternoon sun heated my body and the light green long stalks of grass swirled around me. I was peaceful and enjoying the shhing sounds the grass made and how the feathery seed filled tips tickled my hair. I was perfectly still and happy.

An old woman with long gray hair a deer skin dress and rough hands approached me. I knew she was an elder from my tribe. Her steps were quick yet small and she held in her arms a papoose. She smiled gently at me, like a mother does her child when she is amazed by a new skill, and laid the papoose on the left hand side of my body. Then I was back in yoga class.

I believed that was you baby all wrapped up in animal skin, safe and comfortable. I believed we had shared a lifetime together already and you were letting me know that. I felt the warmest sensation of love; I felt gentleness from you and a kindness from the old woman. I thought that vision meant we were going to be okay. But when I tired to conjure it up again a few weeks later I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel the love or the hope of you and I felt ashamed.

Ashamed that I was looking forward to being done with all the illness. Ashamed for not telling you I loved you. Ashamed for not telling you how excited I was because I was too scared to be excited just yet. Ashamed that I didn’t tell you to fight. Ashamed that I kept you a secret. Ashamed that I thought you were taking me away from Isabelle. Ashamed that it took me those ten weeks to be happy about you but you were gone.

You left me with your shell and no life. No heartbeat in that tenth week visit. Just your shelter, just your corporal crust shed like snakeskin, empty but proof that you were there. You left me without knowing, without saying goodbye, or bloodshed or cramps. You left me soulless on a doctor’s table with my feet in stirrups and an ultrasound machine’s condom covered wand inside of me searching for you. You left me feeling like a grave, a hole holding what remained. You left me to wait and see what my body would do next. I waited nearly two weeks before the doctor had to go back in and remove your remains forcibly.

I wonder did I disappoint you some how? Did you know that I loved another so much, were you worried I wouldn’t love you too? That I couldn’t? I worried about how all this love would affect me, wear me out, and make me older. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want you.

And now I am without you and I’m so sad. I’m sad for not enjoying you. I’m sad for not knowing you, or growing you, or giving birth to you, and loving you more when I could feel you against my skin; when I’d be sleep deprived and trying to nurse, when I’d resent your crying and neediness and want a moment of time to myself, a moment when I wouldn’t be needed or touched by another. Did you know that too? Or did you remember me from before, when we were Indians together? Had I left you that time? Did I abandon you to a motherless life?

What lesson are you teaching me my angel? What am I supposed to know or remember? Help me because I am now so lost without you. And I am so sorry if I disappointed you.

I know I haven’t cried, but I don’t want to cry in front of your sister. She gets so upset. I don’t want to hurt her too. And I have so few moments alone, so few moments to let it out, let out my grief. I tried drinking wine to numb me past the anger. I was so angry at myself, so mad that I didn’t do better. That I failed.

Then we were at a barbeque this weekend and Drew and Kerry told us that they are expecting their first child on December 5^th and it crushed my heart. That was your due date, December 4^th, that was to be our day, your birthday, and it’s theirs now and it hurt me because I couldn’t say, “Oh my G-d! Me too!” and be happy. No, I ran into the bathroom and began body sobbing, leaving your father and sister outside the door knocking. “Holly, let me in,” he said. And they hugged me but it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you and I love them for being wonderful and not being mad at me too, but why not? Why aren’t you? Why couldn’t you be yet?

I want you to know that if you decide you are ready to try again, to come back to us, that I am here. I love you before you begin and I will love you always,

Mommy

 

 

Secondary Infertility Devistated My Friend–Why Didn’t I Feel More Compassion?

My friend Lisa wrote this article for the Huffington Post. It caught me a little off guard because the more I read, the more “Cassie” sounded like me. So I asked her, “Is Cassie me? Or am I being vain?”

She admitted it was me. So here you are, an honest look at our shared stories about dealing with infertility and how infertile women judge secondary infertility.

Secondary Infertility Devastated My Friend — Why Didn’t I Feel More Compassion?

www.huffingtonpost.com

Just Kids by Patti Smith

Self Portrait, 1980 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

LATFOB

If you are in or around the Los Angeles, California area- and you love books and reading you should head over to the LA Times Festival of Books. It’s a great resource for new and emerging writers. For more information go to:

http://events.latimes.com/festivalofbooks/