I am a phoenix.

Trigger Warning: This post speaks further on domestic violence and it's effects. Readers sensitive to the subject should be cautioned.

Yesterday marked an important anniversary date for me. On May 3, 28 years ago at 6:15 in the morning, as the sun was rising over the Texas sky and the heat was setting in for the day and the world was abuzz with news of a terrorist bombing on an Air Lanka flight and the wedding of Annette Funicello, in a small hospital room in San Antonio a young woman took her last breath. Her heart stopped pumping, her lungs finally collapsed on themselves, her body convulsed only slightly, and then it just... let go.

Like a condemned building tumbling into mere dust or a person walking away forever.

This woman was my mother, and my latest grassroots work is her legacy. That is what she left for me: a few tattered memories, more questions than answers, and a whole lot of work to heal from the losses and traumas throughout the years following her death. This year's efforts have been especially useful in that way, igniting the spirit of generosity among my neighbors, providing needed items to an organization that is working to help people like my mother and me, and allowing me to share my experiences in a way that gives a nearly justifiable purpose to the suffering my mother went through in her final three weeks on this Earth.

Some strange and unlikely occurrences have unfolded over the last three weeks of this drive. For example, my mom was apparently called the Yellow Rose of Texas by friends and when she died funeral attendees showered the scene with yellow roses. The day after I announced From the Heart to the Hands, a photo of a tattoo a friend of mine had just finished on a client showed up in my Facebook newsfeed. It was a yellow rose draped in a purple ribbon, the color used to signify domestic violence. Another is the random text a girlfriend received the other night from a stranger. She shared the details of it with me, and it was a horrifying statement of abuse and control wherein the sender recounted the many ways he had hurt other women, including shooting one out of jealousy. There was also an incident recently where a local man intentionally hit his girlfriend with his car, and another just yesterday where a man bound and stabbed a woman and then shot himself in the head following the police chase that ensued. Lastly, and perhaps this is the most poignant of all of them, we received a box of strawberries on our doorstep yesterday as part of our Fruit of the Month club membership (remember? The grapefruit bomb-diggity DIY cleaner?). This is not remarkable on its own; however, my mother was attacked for the last time by her lover on the eve of their date to the Poteet Strawberry Festival. As I unwrapped the insulated packaging and held one of the chilly, perfect berries in my hand I moved momentarily to the memory of the coldness of my mother's hands on the day of her burial. Suddenly my mind was overflowing with memories from that day, countless and small, like the seeds on a strawberry. It's been a long time since I said goodbye to her; like, a really, really long time. I've never held such cold hands since. The warmth of childhood bliss froze for me that day.

There have been days where my whole universe was on fire because of my mom's death. Days where everything familiar and comforting fell down around me, engulfed in flames and melting away to ashes, burning me with the embers and making it hard for me to breathe because of the nerves and desperate palpation of my heavy heart. I have felt the intensity of the heat, the lack of control in situations along the way, the damage caused in the immediate of those moments and in the aftermath, and at times I could see nothing but a scorched and partial framework left where there once resided the fullness and hope only found in small and wondrous children. Domestic violence will do that to those who live it. But today, I am a phoenix.

This donation drive helped to lift me out of those ashes, a break from life as a fiery creature engaged in a cycle of burning and being born anew from the remnants of the painful struggle. Today this bird flies on wings made of crayons, journals and tampons, on grocery gift cards and play-doh and cookie cutters and baby carriers. These simple items and so many others which have been given to me for this drive have made a tremendous impact on me, and on my community. I am uplifted by these gifts of hope and healing for the people who need them, and am elevated by the privilege of acting as a community hub for their dispersal. This time around my rebirth is one of reflective and meaningful purpose, and that feels pretty enlivening.

Thank you, Tiny Town, for doing what you do best: sharing the love. You are one bunch of generous citizens and I cannot wait to share all of your donations with DVSAS. Thank you, thank you, thank you. On Wednesday they will receive the following and so much more:

• hundreds of dollars in gift/phone cards and cash

• approximately 500 diapers

• a fresh paint job for the DVSAS offices

• 6 baby carriers

• 2 jumperoos

• quality fresh coffee for a year for the office

• a highchair

• lamps

• a mirror

• trunk full of costume items

• craft, home & office supplies 

• and, lastly, my favorite: gift certificates for families to get new portraits devoid of old memories

I asked. You came out in droves, arms full, again. You shared your stories of trauma and survival with me. Your participation in these grassroots efforts is helping me create a movement of individuals inspired to perform random acts of inspiration, giving, and kindness, and the impact is tangible in my community and beyond. I've said it before, but don't you ever stop. Ever!

The staff at DVSAS wrote my name on the sign, but only because all of yours wouldn't fit!

{Rest in peace Mom. I'm not sure what comes after this life, but I hope your spirit can feel my love for you in whatever form your energy has taken.}

From the Heart to the Hands: The Final Push

Trigger Warning: This post is part of a series related to domestic violence. The truth is that domestic violence is ugly, uncomfortable, and often brutal. This will read much along the same lines. If you are sensitive to the topic you might just skip to the bottom of this post.

If you have been following along throughout the From the Heart to the Hands donation drive (in honor of my biological mother who was killed by her partner when I was a girl), you know that Domestic Violence and Assault Services of Whatcom County serves thousands of people in my Tiny Town every year. Consider that the number of phone calls and direct services they handled amounts to roughly 10% of my hometown's population... and that's just those who find their assistance. My mother saw no relief from the unrestrained effects of her lover's tendency toward violence. If you've been following along, you know that healing from the tragedy losing my mother in this way is just one part of my motivation for this donation drive.

The other is my firm belief that all families deserve to feel safe and to be healthy. People working with DVSAS are heading to brighter futures framed by these premises, and I want desperately to provide this organization--which does so much for my community--respite from the constant need that nonprofit organizations typically face. Providing them several totes of items directly from their published list of wants and needs will help to seal financial gaps in provision, while also painting silver linings on the experiences of the clients they will distribute them to during some very challenging times.

When my mom died and my dad and stepmom (neither of whom I knew) got custody of me, I was given a coloring book to occupy me as they drove me "home" across state lines. I am 34 years old and still remember coloring pictures of Cinderella; tracing the sections with careful attention, gently etching back and forth with the crayons, focusing on something other than my dead mother and all of the uncertainty ahead.

I want every child who needs one to have a box of crayons and a coloring book to sink into when the grownups in their lives create heavy things for them to process. I want for every woman who will feel the sting of her face breaking under the pressure of her lovers' knuckles to have a journal to record both no-contact order violations, and the journaled words that will eventually come to heal her. I want for the staff at DVSAS to have the printers, thumb drives, and other tools they need to perform their invaluable work. And I want, perhaps more than anything, for the results of this drive to illustrate that my mother's life was not lost in vain. Here, her death helps others.

By the start of week two of her three-week hospital stay my mother had the entire left side of her body casted from the shattering force of her collision with the car her boyfriend crushed her with. Her lungs were collapsing; she developed pneumonia. Her liver was fighting to function; her kidneys were failing. She had a tracheotomy tube, several blood transfusions under her belt, and the blessing/curse of periodic consciousness through it all. Because her brother was born deaf, my mother and our family were fluent in ASL. We each had the opportunity to visit and speak with her this way before she died. We learned the events of that night and about the pain she was in, and then we said goodbye. The severity of her injuries took her at the age of 25. She left behind two daughters who came to understand life filtered through violence and colored by the repetition of our own experiences with it.

It makes sense that I would go on to do this work for other women.

This is the last image ever recorded of my mother. In it, you can see the tangible effects of violence in her life and therefore in mine. It is devoid of the color, the life, the emotion, and the personality that Lynn carried with her in her short life. It fails to convey the passions she enjoyed, the devotion she had toward her daughters, and the love she carried for her friends and family; nor does it illustrate her beauty, her will, or her strength. But I can assure you, she encompassed all of these things.

So now I am asking readers, community members, friends, and strangers to help me through one final push in my mission to collect the needed items for DVSAS. Please follow the facebook event here, LIKE the blog's corresponding facebook page here for updates, and support the work of similar organizations wherever you may find yourself if you are so inclined. I will be at the collection spot during these remaining time slots: 

Wednesday, 4/23, 5-7pm

Friday, 4/25. 5-6:30pm

Saturday, 5/3, 11-1pm

Consider taking a look at the list of needs in this post to get an idea of what would be useful. Thank you to all of you who have come out already, to those businesses who have offered incredible gifts, and to all of you who have shared with me your stories of tragedy, healing, and hope. Your gifts are varied and vast, and your resilience commendable. 

In peace.   

Week One Debrief

Week one of the donation drive is well underway and things are coming in at a slow and steady trickle. While sitting on the tailgate of my van waiting for donors to show up (of which there have physically only been four so far, but four with generous donations) I have reflected a great deal on the ways in which my life has been negatively impacted by domestic violence. Here in summation:

1. It has created some divides that are too rocky to traverse.
2. I still have regularly occurring nightmares wherein I relive helping my mom clean her blood off of the waterbed after a fight between her and her partner. That was thirty years ago. I was four. 
3. Violence fostered a climate in my brain where my already genetically predisposed neurotransmitters could easily misfire, causing irreparable damage to my psyche. This means the pathways in my brain are lined with violence.  
4. I will probably be medicated and go to therapy for the effects of the many types of violence I experienced in my young life for a very long time. That fact alone is shrouded in concern for my body, for the safety of medication, for the fear of dependency to feel 'normal', and for the financial responsibility of a lifelong need.  
5. My children have felt the effects intergenerationally. It trickles down in the angry and short-tempered side of me, the embarrassing behavior, regretful words, and shameful acts of yelling mean things at the people I love most in all this world. Meanwhile they have had to look at me through frightened eyes, the grinding of my teeth audible and my knuckles tense and white as I stomp out an aggressive infantile rant. It hurts to admit these things and to know that they happen in part because I was heavily conditioned by similar behavior as a child. It is such hard work to rewire, but I have made it my life's work to do so for my children. 
6. I walked down a lot of statistically predictable paths as a result of my mother's experience, including: teen pregnancy, drug and alcohol use, lack of high school completion, divorce, receipt of welfare, having children from multiple fathers, chronic underemployment, estrangement from family, and cycles of violence and assault. 
7. At the tender of of six I said goodbye to my mom. Her casket lowered, and I never saw her again.
   

Since announcing the donation drive last week I have received three emails from strangers, empathizing and sharing their own experiences. I have had two good tailgate cries in reflective homage to all of my friends and family members whose names I could rattle off without blinking who have all suffered various forms of abuse at the hands of partners and loved ones. I have listened as my son Koa serenaded me with a song he wrote about my resilience and presence in his life, and bawled until I almost couldn't breathe from the beauty of his words and the depth of his love. If nothing else comes in the coming days, I have all of this and more already.

I have  been changed by the experience of this donation drive already, and it's just getting underway. It is one way for me to have some control over all of the things that happened to me and around me that I had no agency over as a child. In this scenario I get to determine what my response to domestic violence is. I get to speak openly and honestly about my loss. I get to speak up for women who can't. I get to do something that turns the experience into one of growth and strength instead of stifling me and making me fearful. I get to empower others on their quests for Life. 

That is the greatest gift my mom ever gave me; I just didn't get to open it until now, when I was ready to. 

Come by and say hello this week, and bring a donation if you can: 

Wednesday, 4/16, 4:30-6pm

Friday, 4/18, 12-1:30pm

Saturday, 4/19 12-2pm   

From the heart... to the hands.

Trigger Warning: This post contains subjects some readers may be sensitive to. It's about violence and it's about love, and it's about what happens when the two mix. Domestic violence isn't something that everyone is comfortable talking about without a warning, so this is mine to you. 

The fast approaching weekend and in particular Saturday, April 12th, marks a very special anniversary. The date conjures a void that is almost tangible, like a penny falling down into the darkness of a never-ending well. It marks one of those defining moments where something happens, and then nothing is truly the same ever again. For me, this weekend symbolizes the beginning of my journey toward a lifetime as a feminist, as an advocate, and as a survivor of domestic violence. It is the same weekend that, 28 years ago, my mother Lynn was plowed down on a rural highway. Her lover was behind the wheel, alcohol and aggression exploding in between the slurs and swerves, and the topography of my life and hers was changed forever in that moment.

The moment that the tiny yellow car caught up with her brought with it a full and weighty clarity. Her body exploded in a cacophony of noise--the sound of bones breaking, organs bursting, and her heart slapping against the busted up framework of her chest cavity--to which she sang a song that I would come to know as a verse in my anthem.

May you only experience love like you deserve to be loved.   

The arrest report from that night.

But that's not always what happens when you are 6 years old and you see your mother lying in a hospital bed so badly injured that she is almost unrecognizable, statistically speaking anyway. Children like me--little girls who know what it sounds like when a full-grown woman's body smashes into the side of a single-wide trailer, who help their mothers clean up post-battle blood--we tend to find ourselves in similar patterns when we get old enough for our own relationships. I don't know what it is about seeing the matron pilar in one's life peppered with hemorrhages, weakened by blood loss and holding to life by the wire threads in her monitors, that leads little girls to believe they deserve to be treated as anything less than the queens they are; however, there is an expansive body of evidence suggesting that children who witness domestic violence are prone to play out the role in their own lives. I did too, to a lesser but no less valid extent than my mother. Thankfully I escaped that life and built up my confidence before injury ever left me hospitalized. Feeling hopeless, worthless, scared and scarred for my life, yes, but hospitalization, no. Ever since, my life has been on a steady trajectory toward empowering other women to do the same.

Kindergarten missed me.

In honor of my mother's strength through the trying weeks that she faced lying in that hospital bed, and in honor of my own experiences with domestic violence and of the experiences of as many as 4,000,000 other women in our country every year (U.S. Dept. of Justice, Violence by Intimates: Analysis of Data on Crimes by Current of Former Spouses, Boyfriends, and Girlfriends, March, 1998), I am going to do something to help the women and children in my community who live with the effects of domestic violence. In honor of the 65% of children who will also be abused by their mother's abuser--all those tiny eyes and ears who live through the terror of a violent upbringing--in honor of my boys for whom I am breaking so many cycles; and in honor of the 3,247 people served by Domestic Violence & Sexual Assault Services of Whatcom County (DVSAS) last year and the countless others who need but do not seek their services...

A witness statement.

You may remember the success of the Warmth Wagon coat drive (if you don't know what that is click here and here). Well, I need you to help me fill my van once more. Beginning April 12 and lasting until May 3 (the duration of my mother's hospital stay following the incident), I will be in the parking lot of the Lakeway Market at designated times collecting items of need for DVSAS. I have coordinated with the organization to determine their greatest needs at this time and would be grateful if you would join me in helping to meet them. Many of the items are low-cost to purchase, or may even be things you have spares of around your house, and will greatly help ease the impacts of domestic violence on our community. Please, for little girls like me and their moms both in Tiny Town and everywhere else, and for everyone else galvanized by the crippling damage of domestic violence, consider skipping a latte this week and bringing a donation by instead. You will soften someone's experience guaranteed; trust me, I know. Here are the most pressing needs:

Children's Programs

Activity jumper/jumperoo (stationery, not door frame kind)
Art supplies (buttons, clay, dry-erase markers, crayons, markers, construction paper, glue, etc.)
Boppy pillows
Coloring books
Cookie cutters
Disposable diapers, all sizes
Dress-up clothes, and a storage trunk for them
Ergo baby carriers in new or good used condition
Full-length mirror
Gerber sippy cups
Non-perishable single serving sized snacks and juice
Play-Doh, rolling pins and other tools for it
Wooden high-chair

Adult Programs

Blank journals and notebooks
Gift cards to help meet basic needs (gas/food/groceries)
Greyhound vouchers
Non-perishable single serving sized snacks and juice
Pre-paid cell phones
Pre-paid calling cards

Agency Needs

Coffee, tea, and creamer
Desktop photocopier for copying protection/restraining orders in client rooms
Desktop printer, any kind so long as it's in good working order
Hot plates
Large plastic storage totes
Magazine subscriptions for the waiting rooms
Bathroom supplies: toilet paper, pads, tampons, bleach wipes
Thumb drives 

So, Tiny Town, show me what you've got! I will be in the Lakeway Market parking lot at the following times in the coming week, and will post the next week's schedule in a forthcoming blog post. Be sure to join the event on Facebook too, to keep abreast of the developments as the project gets underway.

Saturday, 4/12 9-10am
Monday, 4/14 12-1:30pm
Wednesday, 4/16 4:30-6pm
Friday, 4/18 12-1:30pm
Saturday, 4/19 12-2pm

Please swing by, say hello and help me make someone's life better through your kind deeds by taking your concern from your heart, to their hands.

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner...

...except for the whole "chicken" part, since I happen to know for a fact that one of the randomly selected winners is a super-vegetarian... if not vegan. She just might be a vegan. (And we're totally cool, by the way. It's fine because, like, I'm pretty sure she doesn't even hold my birthday party against me since she knows the fur has no nutritional value and that there's no such thing as a vegetarian wolf.) Ahem, moving on.

Opting to share the bulk of my cloth diaper stash with other families instead of sell, consign or donate the diapers and other goodies means that families who might otherwise not try cloth diapers have the opportunity to fall in love with this eco-friendly, totally adorable option for FREE. These diapers are well known in the land of cloth diaper lovers and will easily last another child or two, so my hope is that the winners will share the love when they are done with them by passing them to another sweet family who will use them.  

Anyway, I am so happy to announce the two winners of the Great Stash for NO Cash cloth diaper giveaway prizes. The names were randomly selected using Random.org through Rafflecopter. The Full Stash packages each include 1dozen Fuzzi Bunz diapers, 18 microfiber inserts/doublers, a large wet bag, a small wet bag, and a dozen reusable cloth wipes--all from my collection. The Bonus Stash package includes two Fuzzi Bunz diapers, five inserts, and a sweet boutique blanket that we just loved from area craft masters Crackabo.

FULL STASH WINNERS: Jaycie W. and Megan T.

 BONUS STASH WINNER: Holli G.

There were nearly 100 entries, which is pretty sweet considering this was all through the grapevine and my blog is pretty much brand new. Of course I know one of them because, well, 30% of my facebook followers and blog readers are technically real-life, true-blood friends who have seen the whites of my eyes in the last month or two. It will be nice to send her a personalized little card with the package. The others are women whose names I recognize from online community support groups for local mothers. I haven't met them yet, I don't believe, but it is cool to know that two of the packages will be staying here in Tiny Town. Lucky mamas and sweet babes--I can't wait to pass on the stash that we so loved. Watch your emails, ladies--I'll be in touch for delivery info soon!

Thanks to everyone for entering, for reading, and for simply being you. Don't you ever stop.

A Great Stash for NO Cash!

Heads up! I finally figured out how to make the giveaway legit on Facebook. Be gentle with me, as it's my first go with this particular application, but I have used it as a participant in other giveaways and found it easy to navigate. Most of you should have no trouble at all. Click here to enter!

You can enter up to five, yes FIVE, times in a variety of fun ways. Get one entry simply for “liking” a palpable paradox on Facebook, another for tagging the page in a status on your personal page about what using cloth diapers means/would mean for your family, another for following @palpableparadox on twitter, yet another for tweeting about the giveaway on twitter, and lastly (my personal favorite) you can write a haiku poem about cloth diapering on the Facebook page after you've liked it!

Remember, you don’t have to be actively cloth diapering to enter or win. You can be simply interested in trying them; you can be pregnant; you can be daydreaming about having a baby; you can have a neighbor two doors down you think could use them; you can be a Papa who wants to cloth diaper on his weekends (and I kind of hope you are, actually); you can be a grandma, a sister, an uncle, a mentor or a teacher of someone who you think might appreciate them. I just want the collections to go to homes where they will be cherished and put to good use by families who want to try to do the best they can for the Earth.

Now, the official mumbo jumbo: This giveaway is sponsored by me and only me, not Facebook or Rafflecopter or Fuzzi Bunz or any of the others groups, companies, organizations or individuals who may be mentioned in the duration of this giveaway. One winner will be drawn on the morning of April 3, 2014. If the Facebook page receives 250 or more likes by April 2, there will be a second winner drawn; if the page receives 300 or more likes by then, a third winner will be added. Winners will be randomly selected, and packages will be delivered (if local) or shipped within one week of the drawing. By accepting the prize you agree to release me of any liability resulting in your acceptance and use of the diapers, liners, cloth wipes, and wet bags contained therein. Use common laundering sense. The diapers have been stripped, but I advise you to launder them in your own fashion and detergent before use—you know, for sanitation’s sake. Now, if you’ve made it this far, you can leave a comment here on the blog for a chance to win a bonus mini prize pack not announced anywhere else. Simply tell me your two favorite colors from the rainbow diaper stash photo and you will be entered into a secondary drawing to be held the same day!

Good luck!

Nice to meet you, Cloth Diapers!

When I had my first son a couple months after turning seventeen I wasn't really running on well-researched paths. I pretty much raised him in a manner heavily influenced by three things: mainstream child rearing culture, the ever-present advice of my ex-husband's parents, and the way that I was raised myself. Suffice it to say that a lot of my parenting beliefs and approaches have changed over the last several years, and all I believe to be positive steps toward the outcome of better relationships with healthier more confident children.

Some of the differences between what I affectionately refer to as my my First and Second Waves (of motherhood) include issues of circumcision, breastfeeding, babywearing, elimination communication, diapering, sign language, sensory learning, screen and media exposure, and issues surrounding 'discipline' when the children 'act out' (aka now I'm not always a huge jerk when my kids are slamming down on my buttons in a developmentally appropriate way).

One of these subjects tends to lend itself to less inflammatory discourse than some of the others, so I'd like to start by sharing a little bit about my venture into cloth diapering.

Though I had seen my step-mom cloth diaper my little brother when I was around ten years old, I remember it being a cumbersome task involving pins and covers and hand wringing shitty diapers in the toilet. Par for the course in many cases, sure, but to me as a child--totally disgusting. Koa and Cedar were raised in disposable diapers due to a number of circumstances ranging from resources to knowledge, but mostly due to lacking exposure to the practice. Jump forward almost a decade to find me living in Tiny Town, a great place to be born. Here I learned about Doulas and Midwifery and natural birth and birth centers... And about cloth diapers.

Elvis is everywhere, even on a tiny Birch.

Once I found them I was hooked. There are so many amazing companies and hard-working Mamas with home businesses to choose from; children look adorable in them; they come in almost any print or color you can imagine; after the initial sticker shock wears off they pay for themselves quickly and retain a strong resale value; and using them creates a lower impact on the Earth than using disposables. With all that on the table it was hard not to get hooked. Those of you who've been following along well know that once I get excited about something I don't really look back until the guilt or regret not only nips at my heels, but actually tears a chunk out of the back of my thigh. Such is the life of a borderline hoarder. That is how I wound up with a stash of diapers that numbered 120+ at one time for just my two youngest boys. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but like I said Tiny Town is really into these sorts of things so finding used cloth diapers in excellent condition to bulk up on was an easy task. Besides, mathematically speaking, this obscene amount of diapers really only amounts to purchasing one every three days or so... Which kind of doesn't make me sound any less impulsive, I realize, but it's a noble cause to get behind. 

Birch wore cloth a solid 93% of his diaper days and Aspen started in them, but we finally caught on to elimination communication with him and drastically decreased the need for a lot of diapers in the process. I was rotating through an immense diaper stash and washing a less-than-full load every two or three days, had finally perfected my dry pail and wash systems, and I felt great for acing something plenty of other people are intimidated by. That is until the day a tiny baby Aspen got the diaper rash that changed everything.

Looking for some pep.

Maybe I'll tell the tale another time because it's a doozy and deserves a full post with lots of informational links and statistics, but basically when Aspen's diaper rash refused to respond to the usual course of treatment at home, I took him in to see another doctor in his pediatrician's office who had room on his schedule on a Sunday. It is enough for now to say that the doctor did not respect me or my son, resulting in formal complaints and investigations with the State that nearly took us to court for a malpractice suit. Then, because of a need to apply heavy creams to his rash that would compromise the absorbency permanently in the cloth diapers, I started using disposables. Simultaneously I battled a depressive bout of my own while also processing a lot of other internal family stressors, and I couldn't find the energy to think about returning to the cloth diaper ritual after a month, then two. Now it's nearly seven months later and I can say that my fetish for the fluff has quelled considerably. My expectations for myself at this juncture are much lower when it comes to my ability to manage regular weekly laundry, even with the help of Brian and the older boys, much less the added two or three loads of diapers. Part of me feels lame for throwing in the towel, but more of me recognizes the breakup with cloth as a simple way to practice self-care. When everything feels like it's caving in on me, or like it's incredibly heavy or busy, or we have a week heavy on the nighttime accidents or daytime art projects (which seems to be, well, pretty much every week), removing a few loads of laundry a week actually feels like removing a few tons of brick off my back even if I do understand the social, environmental, and financial implications of the decision. We all have to arrange our priorities based on our circumstances, and I feel no shame in reevaluating them according to my latest self-revelation. In fact friends, reevaluation driven by self-reflection and revelation is a really refreshing practice. It helps me remember that the whole world is fluid, even me, and that it is okay to be so.

I do, however, still love cloth diapers--especially my Fuzzi Bunz stash. I sold off my tiny ones as soon as Aspen was out of them since he is the final baby in our home, but I still have a huge stash of medium and large sizes in all the colors of the rainbow. While I could likely sell them for $5-$8/ea in Tiny Town and recoup some of my investment, I've decided I would rather share the benefits of cloth diapering with other families who have or are expecting a little one and who may or may not otherwise consider using them due to cost or other factors. And plus, remember the Great Purge of 2014? I have to hold up my end of the deal. The diapers are beautiful, insanely useful, and totally storied--they were part of every day of my children's lives for 2+ years--but they are not doing any good just sitting in IKEA storage bins.

The most glorious remnants of our cloth diaper days.

Stay tuned for the full details on how you can win a dozen of my Fuzzi Bunz diapers and inserts, along with both a pail-sized and a travel wet bag. Sure they're used but they were well taken care of and recently stripped, they are free, and they will be catching shit so I don't think it really matters that much. Plus, you are under zero obligation to enter to win something you wouldn't actually cherish and use. For the rest of you, save about $125 and change the way you handle bio-waste forever. It's actually a really sweet deal, and one which I will have delivered to your door if you win and live in the US.    

Details coming Wednesday (or maybe sooner if I get ambitious and am not just being pushed around by caffeine and sleep-deprived delirium) so stay tuned, spread the word, and be sure to LIKE ME for the most up-to-date announcements as I hammer out a plan...         

Wishes really do come true!

sack of tools, that is.

I have wonderful friends. Wonderful, brave, daring, talented, hilarious, engaging, and genuine friends. They are always backing me up, even when my ideas are totally batshit crazy. For example I once ran an impromptu coat drive and they stopped by with hot coffee for me and warm coats for the homeless. This time I sent out the invite to my taxidermy themed 34th birthday party and not only did they show up ready to learn, but came armed with accessories like sun hats and itty bitty cigarettes to create incredible taxidermy pieces while here.

This is the best birthday party I have ever had. I once had a roller skating birthday party that was pretty awesome. We had cake and skated. This, however, trumps any birthday party I or pretty much anyone else has ever had. Why?

Three words: Heirloom party favors.

Oh, and we still had cake. Red velvet cupcakes with rabbit ears on them. Thematically apropos.

Not only did these troopers put aside nerves and queasiness, but they brought booze and food and sweet gifts like Magic 8 Balls and bedazzled satin mesh-back Virgin Mary trucker hats (for real, which likely warrants its own photo post later this week). They also wrote genuine messages of love and endearment in my cards, and let me know how special and precious I am to them. They spent hours reminding me why I have chosen them to be my nearest and dearest. Additionally, they are an aesthetically pleasing bunch to spend four hours crammed in a cold garage with, so there's that.

Speaking of troopers, my boys Cedar and Koa deserve a HUGE hollar of gratitude. They entertained, wrangled, bathed five times, read books to, fed, comforted, watched movies and cuddled with Birch and Aspen through the entire duration of the party, the cleanup, and the time it took Brian and I to have a beer, take a load off, and reflect on how much fun everyone had. It really was a once in a lifetime type of thing, and I am so grateful to know the kinds of people who will step outside their comfort zones--or into them, as the case may be--and do something new for the sake of checking things off of Bucket Lists. Monotony is miserable, and everyone deserves to have an heirloom taxidermy piece to leave behind. Thanks to the assistance of Cedar and Koa, I now have two of them. I'll make sure to bequeath one to each of them.

One very important aside: The guinea pigs and rabbits we used were purchased from a reputable provider of feeder animals for zoos, animal rehabilitation centers, and other agencies across the country. They are bred to be feeder animals, and are treated with the highest standards of care during their lives and processing. Humanely euthanized using carbon dioxide, the animals are immediately frozen and sent out. You may notice the mounts we created use only the pelt of the top half of the animals. Because I love me some philanthropy, the parts you can't see (because my Grandpa reads my blog and I don't want to post a picture of a bloody, earless, footless rabbit here to shock him) are heading to Predators of the Heart, an organization serving wild animals in a variety of ways, and will become food for wolves and cougars. I am thrilled to see the animals go full circle to their destiny as feeders while also being memorialized as a tangible remembrance of one of the best times I've had in a long, long time.

Happy Birthday to Me! 34 isn't looking so bad so far... 

   

Taxidermy! (Who doesn't love a birthday party with a theme?)

It's an heirloom.

*Here's your warning shot: There is a graphic image at the bottom of this page. No more so than a biology class, but still, heads up El Sensitivos!*

I once paid an exorbitant amount of money to make my own stuffed rabbit mount. True story. I attended the out-of-town workshop with a cherished friend, so the experience ended up being worth the cost despite the instructor being a crappy facilitator. While she has definitely nailed a niche market--and I appreciate her entrepreneurial spirit, I really do--I was grossly overcharged. Maybe she was having a bad day or maybe being snappy and awkward just comes with the territory in an industry I have little experience in. Either way, I have since wished for that same exact activity with a room full of different people...

I have long believed taxidermy, though quickly gaining clout in the world of trendsetters and hipsters, to be an incredible way to treat the remains of an animal. I also appreciate the kitschy appeal a crappy taxidermized animal can bring to just about any space. Now I am not advocating for killing for fun or, say, I don't know, running down your neighbor's scrawny ragamuffin dog that runs rampant all day long just barking and shitting on everyone's lawn but its own. I don't believe in such cruelties (as evidenced by the continued life of dear little Shaggy as he runs amok atop of the hill). However, if you can find humanely sourced animals or want to go rogue and hit the county roads with a shovel, well, you won't hear an argument from the likes of me is all I'm saying.

And my birthday is Wednesday, so now I'm officially wishing for a taxidermy themed birthday soiree. And, true to my form, if I officially wish for something to happen there really isn't any stopping it. Ask anyone who knows me. And so the small mammals and scalpels were ordered and the invitations sent:

I LOVE YOU TO DEATH: A TAXIDERMY THEMED BIRTHDAY PARTY!   

I have spent the last several days running around like a mad woman trying to pull together the details, and now there are two dozen animals thawing out in my garage for the occasion. I can't wait to tell you more about it, but for now I just wanted to give you a preview of what is coming... and to make sure you know whose blog you are reading.

Adios, Crazy Cat Lady!

So there I was just searching the internet for crazy cat lady pictures when something went very, very wrong. Kind of. It was also hilarious. As part of the Great Purge of 2014 I found myself highly motivated to get rid of all the cat-related items still lingering in our garage and then, when I wasn’t looking for a reminder of any sort, I was hit in the face with a banner reading “Mother of the Year.”

I’ve always had cats, my whole life, as long as I can remember. The first cat I had as a child was a ragtag black cat with hints of rusty red in her fur, a crooked half-tail, and all the patience in the world who we found at a gas station somewhere between San Antonio and Santa Fe. I called her Cinderella Lauper—Cindy—after my then-favorite Disney movie and the only natural progression for the mind of a child in the 80s, the seeker of all things fun, Cindy Lauper. She was an affectionate cat all the way until the feline leukemia took her. Fast-forward twenty years to find me offering every remaining cat-themed supply in my possession up on an internet group designed for free exchange of goods and services, preparing to load some random accompanying image from Google to add a laugh, and discovering a video of obvious pornography on my husband’s laptop when I go to retrieve my image.

A quick glance at the properties showed me that the video was actually a very brief file of a nude woman doing leg lifts… like the exercise—am I the only one who thinks it’s odd that this would be arousing? like, to anyone, ever?—from  a site called nakedsports.com. After an intense bout of laughter at the thought of such... dare I say deviance, and a few clicks to delete the evidence, my husband and I pondered which one of the boys had made the accidental click that no doubt ended in a frantic closing of all browser windows and an immediate deletion of search history. I think we’ll leave that one right in the recycling bin my son(s?) imagines it was put in years ago, a hilarious and endearing reminder how bizarre adolescent inquiry is for everyone.

Suffice it to say (and without further embarrassing the children) I had cats when I was a kid and pretty much every day thereafter and now I don’t. All of the pet things I hoped to give away were weighted reminders of the companionship of animals I can’t currently house. Though having a box of shit in my house to tend to would most certainly put me over my edge, I still miss each of the cats I’ve had in the past. With one kid pretty much anaphylactic due to the dander, however, remaining pet-free is no question for me. Giving these things away empowers me to let go of the distant and impatient longing that comes with refusing to fully let go of my life as a crazy cat lady. This is clearly a step in the direction I need to be heading right meow.    

Why the Warmth Wagon had to happen.

Sometimes memories live in our minds. Other times they live in our bones.

More from Jen

They rise to greet us unexpectedly, at times unwanted and others welcome, triggered by some acute perception of our senses. A breeze carrying a long-forgotten scent; a stranger with familiar eyes; a sudden loud boom. That is exactly what happened on Monday morning as I opened the back door of my comfortable abode in Tiny Town. My deck overlooks a sunken yard with a grassy trail boundary, lined by bamboo and the most remarkable cherry tree I have ever seen. I was enjoying a steamy hot cup of dark coffee when the chill grabbed me. I stepped out back to recycle some refuse and unexpectedly shook a series of memories loose from my bones. The air smelled of frost and fire, my eyes ached from the coldness, and my hands quickly grasped my mug again, thankful for the heat and caffeine.

I immediately took to social media and asked people to meet me in the parking lot of a vacant grocery store and bring cold weather items to disperse to the most needy of Tiny Town. Within 24 hours the event had been joined by over 1,400 locals. I collected hundreds of coats and dozens of sleeping bags and blankets. Then, simply, I took to the streets and charitable organizations to help people feel warmth. Everyone deserves to feel warmth and it was easy to manifest for both recipients and donors.

15: hungry and homeless.

I was a homeless for a year before I got pregnant with my son Koa. At the age of 15 nearing the end of my freshman year I learned what it was like to feel hungry but have no access to food; to long for a safe bed; to wish for a shower, a toothbrush, clean clothes; to dig in dumpsters for resources; to beg restaurant staff for the day's leftovers; to hold signs for change. I slept on the couches of friends and acquaintances, on benches, in tents in the woods, on bathroom floors of interstate rest stops, fireside in the reading room of a small private school I had insider knowledge of, in countless vehicles, and even a brief stint as a resident at one of my teacher's home (until I stole and wrecked his daughter's car). That time period afforded me perspective that most thankfully do not have to gain, and created in me a willing advocate when it comes to other people living lives in transition. All people deserve to be warm and to feel safe no matter their life choices or circumstances, where they come from or where they are heading. I had nights where I felt neither warmth nor safety, where I curled up with nothing but a fear and hopelessness I would wish on no one--not even those who could be humbled by such lessons. It is uncomfortable for me to revisit a lot of the memories created during that time, but because of them it was not uncomfortable to approach the homeless population and offer them compassion in the form of a hug and a coat to keep them warm.

While I could share several stories about the individuals I met in the process, suffice it to say that they were all human beings and all worthy of so much more than I could give them. As for me, I was given too much praise for what was actually not that much work. I was called saint, amazing, most inspiring. The truth is I'm kind of an asshole. Why, after all that good work and all those people's lives touched, would I say that about myself? Simple. It took me little to no time, little to no strenuous effort, and little to no money to pull off something that helped hundreds of people. The real saints are the people who shared the event and showed up on short notice with so many wonderful donations. The real amazing ones are those whose generosity roused deep appreciation from the amazing people who received these items. The most inspiring are those who are out there trying every day to make their lives and this world a better place to be. I met a woman homeless for five months now, on dialysis, who literally melted into my arms as she wept while sharing her story and the story of her partner who had a stroke on the way to one of her appointments. I could see her big toe through her tennis shoe. "I need a room," she said. "I don't have one of those unfortunately, but do you need any warm layers? A sleeping bag?" "Have you got any socks? He could really use some socks."

That's some perspective I have carried all week since. When I feel like bitching about my floor needing to be vacuumed, the dishes piling up, the food left out on the stove, the fucking laundry pile that never. ever. ends... I find myself seeing that woman's face, remembering the warmth of her tears as I wiped them away. I'm overwhelmed because I have too much to take care of, and she just needs socks for the love of her life. 

Tiny Town, you really came through. You brought the highest quality duds and helped to outfit our homeless neighbors in brand names I cannot myself regularly afford: Columbia, Helly Hansen, GAP, London Fog, Burton, kuhl, REI, Patagonia... Some, brand new. Here's to the best dressed homeless population in the nation, and to the warmth those layers provide them. To those of you who wish you could have participated or would have heard about it sooner, it's ok. Just throw an extra pair of gloves in your car and give them to someone who looks like they need them. They went faster than anything else.

History, you are different now. The lingering feeling of hopelessness from that era is nearly evaporated now, as countless examples of efficacy and good continue to add up in my jar. I am confident I'll never return to that place, though for years I feared going back there. Security and perspective are both great gifts.

Boys and Brian, thank you for indulging another one of my big ideas on the fly--you really made it possible to pull it off because of your flexibility and willingness to jump on board. I hope you boys feel some of that humanity sink in because I would like you to be the type of people who engage in random acts of community service throughout your lives. Also, thanks for not flipping me too much shit when our garage looks like this. (Although I did hear Brian murmur,"This is how it all starts, this is it..." as he stared at the piles and began to help me sort.) I promise not to land us on one of those reality tv shows about hoarding, despite what the garage looks like from time to time.

The Warmth Wagon in Numbers

Crappy paper banner #2

First, my apologies for not having these numbers on the blog faster--but seriously, I'm a mom to four boys and have done an incredible amount of work single-handedly in the last 72hrs, so I'm doing the best I can. I really appreciate your sticking with me to see the full results and reflections, though, so here's what you need to know about how things panned out:

Monday night, after only one hour of impromptu collecting in the parking lot of a vacant grocery store here in Tiny Town, Koa, Cedar and I hit the streets. In thirty minutes we gave out 52 coats, 15 sleeping bags, 47 hats, 22 pairs of gloves, 36 pairs of socks, 26 sweaters, 16 thermals, 7 thick blankets, and a large grocery sack worth of snacks and handwarmers. I repeat, IN THIRTY MINUTES. It just so happened that we came across a large group waiting in line and lingering about the general area of one of Tiny Town's most beloved cafes, The Little Cheerful, for the Monday Night Soup Kitchen they offer to the community, and this unintentional intersection made it so easy to access a large number of recipients. Bless the people behind the soup kitchen effort, as it was a hoppin' place to be. The windows were covered by the steam of hot breath coming in off the frigid street, and it would have looked like a restaurant full of typical patrons if only I couldn't see the dirt, the exhaustion, the large backpacks and tired eyes each of the guests carried with themselves. As we drove away the boys and I discussed the spectrum of responses we gleaned, reflected on the many blessings we have in our own lives, and blasted the heat in the Warmth Wagon all the way home.

Tuesday morning after Koa and Cedar had left for school, I loaded up Aspen and Birch for another round of street deliveries, followed by a second brief collection period during the lunch hour. This time a longtime friend and photographer, Jen Owen, stopped by to drop off donations. She hung her camera around her neck and stopped periodically, as she was sorting through incoming bags helping me to organize items, to snap some incredible photos. I'm grateful to have evidence of the generosity of my community, as I was too busy to do much more than snap a few pictures with my phone after a while. By the time the thirty minutes was up my van was full once more. (Tiny Town, you are incredible!)

Two more street delivery rounds brought us to four homeless camps, countless individuals as we encountered them, and the doorsteps of the Drop-In Center and other known homeless hangouts. Beyond that, I was able to connect with several local organizations to make large donations of items of immediate need. The YWCA and the Back to Work Boutique, The Interfaith Coalition Men's and Women's Extreme Weather Emergency Shelters, The Lighthouse Mission, Northwest Youth Services, and the Mission Drop-In Center all received overflowing bags. Some received me with warmth and gratitude, others with skepticism and an air of inconvenience, but all in all I am confident in the ability of these organizations to ensure that nothing goes unused.

• Men's coats: 133

• Women's coats: 75

• Teen coats: 16

• Vests: 22

• Sleeping bags: 29

• Blankets: a million

• Thermals: 2 large bags

• Sweats: 1 large bag 

• Men's tops: 1 large bag

• Women's tops: 1 large bag

• Sweaters: a GIGANTIC heap (and I'm pretty sure they multiplied overnight)

• Hats and other head warming gear: 150+

• Scarves: 50+

• Children's coats/warm clothing: 9 large bags

• Coffee cards: 2

• Hand warmers: 150+

• Hugs: 33 from donors, 8 from recipients

• Smiles and good feels: too many to count     

Seriously. So. Many. Hugs!

 Next up... the motivation and reflection piece. Stay tuned for more! 

The Warmth Wagon

A Community Support Flash Mob

There is a great heart in my Tiny Town. The humanity is palpable here, and once again when I asked for help I received it in spades. I am awed and humbled to be connected to so many generous individuals through my networks. Let me tell you what happened...

Monday morning, 10am: I am drinking hot coffee in my warm house, reading facebook posts of friends while my children play nearby. A friend posted a link to the NOAA Severe Weather Alert for our area, promising record-breaking low temperatures for days and nights on end. People die in weather like this.

10:15am: Talking to my partner on the phone, we discuss the weather warning briefly. After my phone call I open the back door to put out some recycling. The chill of the air on my skin and the way the frigidity swept my breath away triggered a somatic memory. For those of you who don't speak academia-ease, this type of memory is one stored in the body. My body shook from the chill when I shut the door, and my mind suddenly returned to place I've been before but not for a very, very long time.

10:16-10:27am: Pace the floor, nurse Aspen, and contemplate whether or not I could actually pull off my next big idea. Decide that, yes, I could.

Initiate Community Support Flash Mob!

10:28am: Begin drafting facebook event post.

11am: Start to share event with friends and facebook groups and watch it spread like wildfire.

4-5pm: Greet 25 adults and 9 children and thank them for the things they deliver. Challenge older man in parking lot who tells me my "crappy paper banner isn't doing much for [my] cause," by replying: "My crappy paper banner is doing more for our community than your cynical apathy." I notice how nice his rig is, how warm and happily retired and taken care of he looks, and realize that he couldn't possibly empathize with someone sleeping on the ground in these temperatures because he couldn't even sympathize. I decide everything I'm doing is important and commit to doing as much as possible in the next 24 hours to help my cold neighbors. Again, being homeless in weather like this can actually kill people. I don't have money to buy all the cold weather gear myself but I have time, a facebook account, and this sweet ride:

Stay tuned for more on what happened next!