of raindrops and Regina

         The past two weeks in New England has been this constant flexing of rain patters. From drizzling to downpour, to merely clouded skies to heavy drops- all of it comes in unsteady shifts. At night as I’m going to sleep with my window open, all I can do is lay there LISTENING, just absorbing the sound of the wet- embracing the soaked world around me that is living out this understanding of a moving, dripping, sometimes thunderous peace.

 Right now, in the ensemble of drops meeting the materials outside my window, I hear the small, sharp tin-tin of singular drops darting into rain gutters. I hear that slapping noise of water hitting pavement and forming puddles. And I hear those rushes of water slipping off the leaves- the quick torrent of small drops one after the other that sounds like a towel being wrung out before being hung to dry on the line.

 It’s the chatter of weather and the pacemaker of breathing as my mind unwinds and uncurls its desperate, controlling grasp on my thoughts. Everything wanders, like this, and my lungs take over to match natural rhythms of falling rain, of natural breathing, of the simplest form of existing.

In my hot yoga classes, most of my focus while I’m contorting my body into the most hysterical positions is actually on my breathing. Through my massage today, I lost myself in the sound of my breathing to keep my muscles from fighting the wonderful work she did on my back. Now, here in my bed with a glass of red and another birthday behind me, I fling wide my arms to invite the tin-tin, lazy plop, and wrung out towel droplets falling outside my window.

I invite the water, the cleanliness, the noise, and the smell of the water as it forgives the earth. And I breathe.

 “And it was raining cats and dogs outside of her window, and- she knew they’d be destined to become sacred roadkill on the way, as she was listenin’ to the sound of heavens shaking and thinkin’ about puddles, puddles and mistakes…” --- Regina Spektor. braille.

of babies and bombshells

No comment, just thought this merited a reprint: By Polly Vernon- chief editor of a London magazine A bar, one Thursday night, after work, I’m sharing a bottle of wine with a group of colleagues, when I fall into conversation with Mark, a friend of a friend. I mention in passing that my workload has increased because a member of my team is on maternity leave. “That’s OK,” he says. “Women hold the fort for each other because you’ll be hoping someone will do it for you.” I bristle. “It isn’t really OK because, well, I don’t want kids.” I say. He looks at me curiously. I take a defensive sip of wine. “You can’t have them?” I sigh. “No. I don’t want to have them.” “why do you think you don’t want to have them?” “I don’t think. I know.” “No. you don’t,” he scolds. “How could you?” Things spiral downward from there. I’m accused of being deluded, of letting feminist convictions run away with me, or not having met the right man. I am pathologized…Predicitons are made for me: I’ll come out of this phase 10 years down the line when it’s too late for me to change my mind. I am not truly happy and fulfilled in my childless state, and I will never be. I’ll die cold, old, and alone. Still, somehow, Mark, who has known me for a little over an hour, fails to make me abandon the conviction I’ve had for three decades. Go figure. …I knew [at a young age] that I would not, and should not, ever be a mother. Not in a sad, self-denying way, but in a cheerful, confident way- a liberating way. I knew that my life was open to me, without any pre-mapped destinations. I grew older, and my conviction grew stronger. By my mid-teens, I could quote statistics on the damage that kids would wreak on my career trajectory, finances, social life, and body. Although to be honest, none of that was, or is, a big factor in my decision to remain childless as my instinctive feeling that I just didn’t want children. …I’d defend myself against all these attacks, I’d point out that the maternal instinct was by no means indication of a sane mind; that all sorts of damaged women have children; that not being a parent did not make me irresponsible by definition…Also, contrary to popular belief, parenthood does not make one selfless. It tends to make people prioritize their children over themselves, yes, but it also gives them a sense of entitlement that can lead to some profoundly uncivilized behavior- as anyone who has ever been thrown off the pavement by a stampede of unapologetic Bugaboo-pushing mothers would agree. …. In such moments [as my conversation at the bar] I can just keep my mouth shut. Or I can stick to my guns and hope that once- just once- I might drop the “no kid for me, thanks” bombshell and have someone accept it as a rational life choice. That’d be my blue heaven right there.