Tag Archives: me


I can’t write about knitting or sewing this week.

I can’t.

Too much has happened to me this week.  There’s too much anger and sadness in me to compose a few blithe paragraphs about handwork right now.

I want to share with you what’s on my mind instead of what’s in my work bag today.

Today is the first day after the heat wave here on the west coast.  I know that the majority of media sources in this country have just started to cover the record-breaking heat, because, as with most things, if it doesn’t happen at least as far east as Chicago, it might as well have happened in another country.

Don’t get me wrong, I love living on the frontier.  I love standing knee-deep in the Pacific, looking west, and feeling the wilderness around me.

But I didn’t hear about the oil train derailment that happened a scant 10 miles from my house for hours after the fact, and even then it was only because I went to a local news website trying to figure out why there was so much traffic stacked up on highway 30.

We were so very lucky in Mosier.  If the train had crashed the day before, the winds would have made the fire worse by orders of magnitude.  If the explosion or fire had been bigger, Mosier would have lost a school, homes, lives.  If it had been raining, which it frequently does in early June, there would have been no way to mitigate the spill of oil into the Columbia.  If the derailment had happened 10 miles further west, it might have taken out a freeway overpass, a number of local businesses, or even my house.

My house.  Where my children live.

I’ve been fighting against the bomb trains for years.  And this one nearly got me.

By contrast, I was quite physically safe from the Stanford rapist.  But as I read the victim’s statement and the letter the rapist’s father wrote to the judge, I wept the angry, familiar tears of someone who has lived her whole life embroiled with rape culture.

I remembered the first time I was sexually harassed– in line at the drinking fountain, in kindergarten, age 5– and I remembered how embarrassed I felt.  How I stood there stupidly and let him keep touching me even though my stomach was knotting up and my legs wanted to run.  How the words he said were permanently etched into my psyche.  How I never told anyone.  How I felt ashamed by the incident, like it was my fault.

The little boy who groped me and made sexual comments about my prepubescent body probably doesn’t even remember that it happened.

I remember him, though.  I remember his name, his face, his hair cut, even though we moved across the state the summer after I finished first grade and I haven’t seen him since.  And when I hear about men who are so assured of their right to touch women, who feel as entitled to their sexual attentions as the Stanford rapist obviously does, I think about that boy and I wonder if he ever learned about consent.  If he became the kind of guy who tells rape jokes and makes his sexual partners feel obligated to engage in acts they don’t enjoy.  If he went on to rape someone at a frat party in college.  If he became one of the relatively few men who are serial rapists– how many victims would he have by now, at nearly 30 years old?

I think it’s that survivor’s sensitivity that made me uncomfortable with Bernie Sanders from the beginning.  I wanted to like him.  I bought into the hype of his being a challenger from Clinton’s left who would force her left during the primary at least.  But then, I watched him debate with her.  I heard the dogwhistles when he accused her of “yelling”, tried to paint her as manipulative and dishonest, insinuated that she could be bought.  I read the things he wrote about women and sexual relations when he was younger.  I watched him treat his wife with incredible disrespect onstage at a public event.  I heard the contempt in his voice when dealing with female reporters.  I heard him insist that people who didn’t support him didn’t know their own best interests.  I watched his campaign double down on the idea that supporting Clinton because she’s a woman is stupid, wrong, even traitorous.

I watched him lie and cheat and steal and take no responsibility.  I watched him blame everyone else for his problems.  I watched him allow his supporters to run wild, threatening women and disrupting events.

I voted for Hillary Clinton.  Because women’s rights are human rights.  Because she listens to people and genuinely cares about them.  Because she plays by the rules.  Because she cares about indigenous people’s issues.  Because she has been a tireless advocate for the rights of children and women for her entire life.  Because she’s always been ahead of the curve on LGBT issues.  Because her staff is diverse and well-trained and highly skilled.  Because she admits it and apologizes when she is wrong.  Because she says the word “abortion”.

Last night Clinton became the presumptive nominee.  The first female major party nominee ever.  EVER.  I watched her speech.  I watched the commemorative video.  I cried.  I was so proud to have been part of getting her this far.  I was so excited for the general election.

This morning I read the news and learned that at his event last night, Bernie Sanders, who has repeatedly claimed that he’s an advocate for women, allowed 15 seconds of booing and hissing directed towards Hillary Clinton, the nominee of his party and the first woman EVER to be a major party nominee for president.  He didn’t even recognize the glass ceiling she shattered this week.

I realized that he doesn’t see her.  He doesn’t see women.  He doesn’t see ME.

And I’ve had about enough of being trivialized and ignored.  I’m done being relegated to the sidelines.

I have no more patience for those who marginalize me, be they east-coast-centered mainstream news sources, legislators who insist that shipping oil by rail is safe, teary-eyed rapists who think they’ve done nothing wrong, or political candidates who think it’s irrelevant whether they actually have a good record on women’s issues or just say they do in interviews.

My life is too wild and precious to spend it legitimizing all this bullshit.

So I am renewing my declaration of war against the patriarchy this summer.

gracedchin / Via etsy.com

And that is the work I have in progress this week.



WIP Wednesday

IMG_3782start date: today
completeness: 10%


It’s a word I like: kind of anachronistic, a little connotation of fanciness.

As I’ve been working through the list of projects I rattled off last time, this has been the one I’m striving to get to.  It’s spring heading into summer now, of course, so the need for extra layers under my skirt is far from urgent, but these have been on my queue for a long time, and they are going to be an important part of my wardrobe.

By putting elastic in the top, I’ll be making a petticoat that can also be pulled up to my armpits and worn as a sort of shift dress, which I’m hoping will make for perfect nightgowns.


And, of course, in the fall and winter, having an extra layer under my skirt to trap warm air next to my body is going to be very important.

I dyed these in December, but then life happened, and I’m only now starting to put them together.  It’s simple work: just an Elizabethan seam up the back, an elastic casing at the top, and a single-fold hem along the bottom (because I was clever enough to leave the fabric selvage where it benefits me).

But there are three of them.  And they’re pretty big, boring sewing– lots of long, straight seams and not much else.


So I guess it’s lucky for me that they’re so important, because otherwise I might never find the motivation.

The fabric is Dharma Trading Co. Organic Cotton Muslin, kettle dyed with iDye Natural in 430 Silver Gray.

Open Letters

Dear Mosquitoes,

I know my curves are delicious, but they are not for you.  Consent is important.



Dear Smalls,

When I say “please don’t kick me”, gently placing the soles of your filthy feet against my body and then pushing off with them is an asshole move.




Dear Costco,

You do not stock enough of the chocolate-covered almonds I like.  This is unacceptable behavior.

— A chocolate fiend


Dear Bernie Sanders,

YOU HAVE LOST, okay?  Kindly sit down.

— Everyone


Dear Proudfoot the Australorp,

Your job is to turn kitchen scraps and weeds and bugs into delicious eggs.  Nowhere in your job description does it say “be a total dick by hopping the fence multiple times a day in some vain attempt to eat the peas growing in the garden.”

Knock that shit off, because you are a dual-purpose breed and three of us eat chicken.

— Your humans


Dear Donald Trump,

OMG STAHP.  Get some therapy and work on yourself, and in the meantime don’t be airing that shit you believe in public because it’s dangerous and disgusting.

— Me


Dear Sharis,

That strawberry ganache pie you make is fucking delicious.  But every time I order it, your employees are like “Oh, the strawberry chocolate ganache?” and that undermines my faith in your food because, and I loathe that I have to even say this outright, GANACHE IS CHOCOLATE BY DEFINITION.

I notice that these same employees are never saying “Oh, you mean an egg omelette?” which would make exactly as much sense.  Omelette = eggs + milk + whatever, ganache = chocolate + cream + whatever.

I don’t expect you guys to be Julia Child; I am aware that it’s a diner, but not telling your staff what the items on the menu are is clearly not working out.

— Me


Dear student loan companies,

Yeah, I know that I will pay more over the lifetime of my loan because I’m on a reduced payment plan now.  But if I could pay more now, I wouldn’t have qualified for the reduced payment plan, so I’m not sure why you’re wasting my time and your money sending me mail about this fact unless it actually is the purpose of your existence to trigger my anxiety and depression.

Fuck you.


Dear the ’90s,

I still don’t miss you.




Dear Gen X,

You used to be cool.  What happened?

— Milennials

Attention People with Nimiipuu Ancestry

To anybody with a grandmother, uncle, etc. who is strong in the language:

Please record your elder(s) telling a story or singing (especially singing) in Nimiipuutimpt, and put it on YouTube. Please.

I remember– hazily– a song that my great-aunts used to sing to the babies at the family reunions. It was in Nimiipuutimpt, and I can only assume it was a lullaby, but that’s all I can really remember. It sounded a bit like the song the Cannibal sings in the story about the cannibal who ate all his brothers, at least in tune. It makes me so frustrated and sad to feel it right on the edge of my memories but be unable to truly recall it.

Now that I am studying the language again, I can hear this song in my dreams, but it will not come to my waking mind.  I would love to be able to learn it and sing it to my children.

I’m stumbling and awkward in Nimiipuutimpt, and I cherish every resource I can find as I strive to improve. Your grandmother, your aunt, your mother, even you might know this lullaby that’s so tantalizing me.

Please, for the sake of the language and my own personal sanity, record and share whatever you have permission to record and share.


WIP Wednesday


I am taking the bull by the horns lately.

This week I finished the hair accessories that have been cluttering up my cutting table for the last month or so, whipstitched together the patchwork a-frame tent cover I’ve alluded to from my collection of antique table linens, and made myself a new seating pouf for the studio.

Today I’m wrestling with a former fitted sheet to attempt to make a sister to my favorite skirt.  So far, so good, but I haven’t gotten to the difficult part yet, which is to attach some kind of stretch knit (I’m thinking interlock?) waistband to this woven skirt.

Then I need to finish up a stack of petticoats, make myself some summer sandals, do some more mending (it’s always more mending), finish the faux Victorian baby gown I’ve been working on since January, and then I have a great idea for a new shirt that I’d like to try.

And in the meantime, there’s more knitting (it’s yarn sale season), some crochet (I have a peacock finger puppet in my Ravelry queue that’s been there since 2012), apothecary work (new mouthwash for me, experiments with duck fat vs. palm oil, and I’m out of laundry soap), gardening (carrots have to go in this week), bushcraft (I have to find a way to dry manroot pods and a way to make bamboo baskets), organizing (I’m in the middle of a bathroom storage overhaul), plus all of the normal stuff I do around the house like cleaning, baking, laundry, dishes, canning, homeschooling, etc.

Robert says that I treat homemaking as if it were several full-time jobs, and most of the time I think he’s wrong.  I feel like I spend most days catching just enough sleep, trying to remember to feed myself, and being angry about things I read on news blogs.

But sometimes, when I’m cleaning out the studio or looking back on all the things I’ve done recently (only a very small fraction of which ever make it onto the blog, which is strange to me), I catch a glimpse of all the work that goes into my life and it is stunning.

And frankly, it seems a bit unfair to expect me to file taxes and go to the DMV and return my mother’s e-mails and other adulting on top of everything else.

On the Frontier

I remarked to Robert this week that Oregon will always be the frontier of America– wild, lawless, not quite part of the Union and not quite foreign, where cultures collide and there’s still far more natural than human on the horizon.

That Oregon is a refuge of weirdness is well-known.  There’s a whole television show about the quirkiness of Portland, which, believe it or not, is the actually the most Americanized, most assimilated place out here.  In the small towns, composed of farmers, ranchers, fruit-pickers, teachers, nurses, midwives, distillers, and store clerks, things are downright eccentric.

People are a little bit skeptical of strangers, like in all small towns, but they make an effort to be friendly.  When you are introduced to someone, you lean far, far out of your personal space, feet firmly planted, to extend an overbalanced handshake.  When you greet a friend, you raise your left hand and hug them across the shoulder blades from your right side, and the pair of you briefly create two cache-coeurs around each other with your arms.

We celebrate weird, here.

We go to the drive-in, and we shop at the farmer’s market.  We have a parade to celebrate flowers, and we drive 50 miles on the freeway as if it’s nothing.  We walk home in the rain and we travel to seek out snow and surf.  We know that the best watermelons come from Hermiston and the best strawberries from Hood River.  We watch the fields stream by out of the windows of cars and trains and buses and we know: that’s barley, that’s hops, that’s rye, that’s cabbage, that’s grapes, that’s green beans.  We speak Spanish and Chinook jargon and French.  We chop wood and haul wood and mill wood and burn wood and plant saplings and listen to the forest sighing in the wind and count the rings on our Christmas trees and always seem to have some pitch on our hands.  We are Facebook fans of that hideous airport carpet, that, ugly as it is, means “home.”  We vote by mail to protect the salmon, and we hold nothing more sacred than our own self-determination.

I’ve lived all over this state, and traveled even more of it.  I’ve tracked deer in the Wallowas, I’ve boogie boarded in Pacific City, and I’ve stared up at the stars on the Nevada border.  I know the sharp smell of an approaching thunderstorm in the high desert, and the gentle susurration of ocean waves on a sunny afternoon, and the chill of dew on prairie grass under my bare feet.

And I can’t imagine raising my children anywhere else.

Today is the third anniversary of the day we bought our plane tickets home.  My eyes sting with tears as I think about that– how long it’s been, how we’re starting to take Oregon for granted again, how Númenor and Ithilien don’t really remember living anywhere else.

The fact is, back east was too much for us.  Too much in our business.  Too much snow.  Too much traffic.  Too much crowding.  Too much America.  Too much pollution.  Too much conformity.  Too much erosion of the mountains.  Too much lime in the drinking water.  Too much fuss to vote.  Too much fear.  Too much civilization.

When I stepped off that plane and saw that hideous windmill carpet in PDX, I could breathe again.  As we drove through rainy, nighttime Portland, trying to find the food we’d promised our beleaguered toddlers who had just endured a three-layover cross-country flight, it all came back to me.  How to navigate Portland, and that we should be looking for a Plaid Pantry, and what it felt like to know you belonged somewhere.

The state of Oregon will be turning 147 years old this month.  But somehow, it still feels like a territory.  It’s a place of changes and contradictions and clashing cultures and weirdness, where the rules don’t fully apply.  And it is my home.

So thank you, Oregon, for flying with your own wings.  And thank you, fellow Oregonians, for keeping this place a weird and wild exception to the rules.

Life on the frontier is a perfect fit for me.

Polka Dot Spectacle Sock

My progress in the craft of knitting has been erratic.  Whereas people who learn to knit in a more formal pedagogy have this concept of some techniques or stitches being more advanced than others, as a self-taught knitter, I just see things I already know vs. things I don’t know yet.

One of the things I didn’t know yet last month was double knitting.  I wanted to learn it, because I suspected it was the secret of knitting socks two-at-once, so I looked around at various resources and started to figure it out (this was the most helpful tutorial I found).

Normally I have a specific project in mind when I’m learning a new technique, but double knitting isn’t very popular and nothing in my queue used it, so I was trying to figure out what to practice on before trying out my two-at-once sock idea.

I also was starting to get annoyed with having to constantly untangle my glasses from other things in my work bag: they would wrap themselves in my yarn or interlock obscenely with my measuring tape, and this could not continue.

So I made a little double-knitted socklet to keep my specs safe and contained.  It’s knitted in a double-faced stockinette from the bottom up and finished with a marled ribbing section, so it is fully reversible.



Whatever you need, really.  At my gauge, which was roughly 5 sts and 6 rows per inch, the pattern below made a tube 7.5″ long and 3″ wide (6″ in circumference).  It’s very easy to adjust, though.


  • about 35 yards each of two colors of worsted weight yarn (I used Ella Rae Classic Superwash in Light Grey and Fibra Natura Oak in Castor Grey)
  • five US8 (5mm) DPNs


CO 15 sts in one color.  Knit sts through the front onto one DPN, but through the back onto another DPN.  This will leave you with 30sts total.  Repeat this process for the other color of yarn on separate needles.

Take a new DPN and knit the first st from the “front” needle of one yarn, purl the first st from the front needle of the other yarn, and repeat this process until your working needle has all 30 sts interleaved, with all the sts of one color knit and the other purl.  Repeat for the “back” needles.  60 sts.

Now there should be enough slack to redistribute the sts evenly onto your preferred number of DPNs (I used three).

*NOTE: make sure to remember to bring BOTH yarns to the front when you work the right side fabric, and move BOTH yarns to the back when you work the wrong side fabric*

R1: stockinette (knit the right-side sts and purl the wrong-side sts, each in their own yarn)

R2: *4 sts stockinette, 2 sts interleaved (knit the right-side sts with the yarn from the wrong side and purl the wrong-side sts with the yarn from the right side)* repeat around.

R3: same as R2

R4-6: same as R1 (you will trade the yarns back to their originating sides as you work R4)

R7: *1 st stockinette, 2 sts interleaved, 3 sts stockinette* repeat around.

R8: same as R7

R9-10: same as R1 (you will trade the yarns back to their originating sides as you work R9)

Repeat these 10 rows twice, and then work R1-R6 once more for a total of 38 rows.  There will be 7 rows of dots and you will have just finished three plain stockinette rows.

Take both strands of working yarn and establish marled ribbing by k2tog, p2tog to end of round.

Work in 1×1 rib as established (*k1, p1* around) for 1.25″.

Bind off and block as desired.  I used a regular knitted bind off to tighten up the edge because I was paranoid about my glasses slipping out, but any bind off can be used.



This is my 100th blog post.

Rather than trying to write meaningful content here about self-reflection and intentional living, I’m going to instead post this list of 100 books I’ve read in my lifetime.

Because I am so very pregnant, and therefore I have no brain for words right now.

A Partial Annotated Bibliography for My Life

Books I haven’t read since I was a child, so I don’t trust my recollection of them, but I loved them at the time:

  1. Amelia Bedelia by Peggy Parish
  2. Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery by James Howe
  3. The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks
  4. Galax-Arena by Gillian Rubinstein
  5. The Egypt Game by Zilpha Keatley Snyder
  6. Beezus and Ramona by Beverly Cleary
  7. Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink
  8. Onion John by Joseph Krumgold
  9. Gone-Away Lake by Elizabeth Enright
  10. The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner
  11. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery
  12. Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter
  13. Black Beauty by Anna Sewell
  14. Heidi by Johanna Spyri
  15. 20000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne

Books I read as a child and re-read as an adult and still like, but now find problematic, largely for reasons of racism or misogyny:

  1.  Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle by Betty MacDonald
  2. Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers
  3. All-of-a-Kind Family by Syndey Taylor
  4. The Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling
  5. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
  6. Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder
  7. Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
  8. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
  9. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
  10. A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain

Books I read as a child and re-read as an adult and still like, and would recommend:

  1.  Winne-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne
  2. The House At Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne
  3. Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
  4. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien
  5. The BFG by Roald Dahl
  6. Matilda by Roald Dahl
  7. The Witches by Roald Dahl
  8. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
  9. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
  10. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Frequently banned books I have read and don’t think actually earned the negative attention:

  1. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
  2. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
  3. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
  4. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
  5. Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix by J.K. Rowling
  6. The Golden Compass by Phillip Pullman
  7. Then Again, Maybe I Won’t by Judy Blume
  8. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
  9. Lady Chatterly’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
  10. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
  11. Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
  12. And Tango Makes Three by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell
  13. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
  14. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
  15. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

Banned or controversial books I’ve read and found deeply disturbing or challenging, and would highly recommend:

  1.  Beloved by Toni Morrison
  2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
  3. The Lord of the Flies by William Golding
  4. 1984 by George Orwell
  5. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
  6. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
  7. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
  8. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
  9. Animal Farm by George Orwell
  10. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
  11. Story of O by Pauline Réage
  12. On the Road by Jack Kerouac
  13. The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
  14. The Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M. Auel
  15. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

“Classic” or highly-esteemed books I’ve read and thought were totally overrated:

  1. The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler
  2. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
  3. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
  4. Death be not Proud by John Gunther
  5. The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather
  6. Sophie’s Choice by William Styron
  7. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
  8. The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi

Lesser-known books I have read and thought were brilliant:

  1. The Pearl by John Steinbeck
  2. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather

Non-fiction books that have been pivotal in my life:

  1.  A Child is Born by Lennart Nilsson
  2. The Way Things Work by David Macaulay
  3. Globalization and Its Discontents by Joseph E. Stiglitz
  4. The Origins of Intelligence in Children by Jean Piaget
  5. Silent Spring by Rachael Carson
  6. In the way of Development: Indigenous Peoples, Life Projects, and Globalization by Mario Blaser, Harvey A. Feit, and Glenn McRae
  7. On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
  8. Working Cures: Healing, Health, and Power on Southern Slave Plantations by Sharla M. Fett
  9. Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskin
  10. The Saga of Chief Joseph by Helen Addison Howard

Books I’ve read in a foreign-to-me language and highly recommend:

  1.  A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
  2. La Symphonie Pastorale by André Gide
  3. El amor en los tiempos del cólera by Gabriel Garcia Márquez
  4. La casa de los espiritus by Isabel Allende
  5. Murambi, le livre des ossements by  Boubacar Boris Diop
  6. Disparition de la langue francais by Assia Djebar

Books I’ve read in more than one language and highly recommend:

  1. El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes
  2. L’aventure ambiguë by Cheikh Hamidou Kane
  3. La Chute by Albert Camus
  4. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

The last five books I’ve read:

  1. The Comanche Empire by Pekka Hamalainen
  2. For Her Own Good: Two Centuries of the Experts’ Advice to Women by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deidre English
  3. The Morbid Anatomy Anthology edited by Joanna Ebenstein and Colin Dickey
  4. Redefining Girly: How Parents Can Fight the Stereotyping and Sexualizing of Girlhood, from birth to Tween by Melissa Atkins Wardy
  5. Raising Steam by Terry Pratchett


It occurs to me that I am setting a dangerous precedent for future milestones, but as I’m sure you know, I am an adrenaline junkie who lives her life on the razor’s very edge.

Thanks for reading!

By Flashlight

Have you ever tried to find something by flashlight?  Something small, easily mistakable, in a crowded, unfamiliar room?

Joni Mitchell says you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, a sentiment that applies perfectly to electric lighting in many lives.  One moment your life is normal, you aren’t even thinking about the light you’re using to see, and the next moment, you are plunged into darkness.  It takes a bit of mental adjustment before you even know why everything has suddenly disappeared– of course, the lights.  The lights must have gone out.  The power must be out.

A few weeks ago, the whole city lost power during an ice storm.  The outage lasted less than three minutes, but across the city people were momentarily taken by surprise and forced to face their privilege.  Grocery store employees were stuck on stepladders, children scrambled to find their flashlights,  families made noises of outrage at the interruption in board games and TV shows, drivers scrambled to adjust to the lack of streetlights and traffic control lights, and I froze stupidly in the middle of mixing cookie dough, my fingers sticky with butter and molasses, the floor under me awash with a detritus of playthings waiting to stub my blind and stumbling toes.

Númenor and Ithilien, hoopy froods that they are, found their flashlights quickly and were happily using them in less than 30 seconds, the crazed, ricocheting islands of light adding to the choas in my path as I tried to feel my way to the bathroom cupboard to retrieve the candles and LED taplights.  Ithilien, normally afraid of the dark, was reveling in the novelty of its presence here, in his waking hours, unintended and uninvited.  Númenor was full of questions: Are the lights broken? Would we need to replace the lightbulbs?  Does the house need new batteries?  Why did the numbers on the stove timer disappear?

Power was restored just as I approached the bathroom door, which was a relief because I didn’t have to muck anything up with my doughy hands waste any cookie dough.  I took a moment to silently thank the people in charge of managing this utility I take so much for granted, and to reflect on the merits of the fish-killing, native-heritage-site-destroying Bonneville Dam in the wake of an extremely visceral reminder of what it does for me.

Lately I’ve been struggling with finding enough perfection within the lawlessness and tumult of real life to sustain me, or at least the parts of myself that are fed by kairos moments and the illusion of control.  I’ve been stumbling in the dark, stepping on a clearly unreasonable number of plastic lizards, using a little circle of light I claim illuminates my task when all it seems to do is make the darkness thicker and fill it with menacing shadows.

My friend Beth wrote recently about being a little underwater in her own head and life, and I wrote back to tell her that I’m there, too.  Waiting for dawn, knowing (but at the same time having trouble believing) that it is coming.

I always tell people that the hardest part of pregnancy and birth is humbling your conscious mind and surrendering the illusion of control over your life and your body.  It’s a frightening thing to contemplate, that regardless of how we may treat them, our bodies are more than just a physical extension of our conscious minds.  It’s terrifying to know that sometimes the body won’t or can’t, and infuriating to find that sometimes the body trusts its own counsel over yours.

All this is an exceedingly roundabout way of saying:  I’m still here, and I’m still pregnant.  Much more pregnant than I ever thought I would be, in fact.

And I’m rummaging though what, for lack of a better term, we will have to refer to as my soul, looking for faith by flashlight, and not having much success finding it.

The flashlight casts shadows that have the illusion of movement and catch my peripheral vision, dragging me off-task.  It will show me everything in this space, but not without my searching every shelf and every drawer deliberately and thoroughly.  I can’t quickly glance over everything, as I could with overhead lighting, and focus my search on the likely vicinity.  I have to comb over the whole space, taking care to look behind and under, and stubbing my toes in the meantime.

And faith is a small, slippery, translucent thing, with no strong color or definite shape.

In short, it’s a bitch to find and to hang onto.

But I’m looking nonetheless, because I need it and nothing else will do.

With just a tiny amount of faith in my body, I will be content to wait until the time is right.

With just a tiny amount of faith in myself and my skills, I will be my own ultimate birth attendant.

With just a tiny amount of faith in this baby, I will be able to focus on what I can assess and control directly to help everything come out right.

With just a tiny amount of faith in my family, I will be able to ask for and receive help when I need it.

And I know that my faith is in here somewhere.  I believe that I will find it.

And for now, as I stumble around in the dark with my flashlight, faith that I will have faith is enough.