Consolidating the Foundations

She suddenly says “Let me listen to your heart Mama, right there in your neck!” while she snuggles against me, all delicate little limbs and eyes soft with fatigue. Little phrases like this melt my heart, little voice growing stronger and surer every day. In the morning I wake up surrounded by these little beings, their mussed up hair comical, their big, brown eyes cloudy with sleep, endearing. Within seconds the “mamas” start rolling out of their mouths, and I close my eyes, dreaming for a split second, of moments when sleep came easily, and then I climb over their limbs and step into the bathroom.

The mirror doesn’t ever lie these days. Where once nights without sleep gave me a hollowed-eye, slightly rock chic look, now they provide a puffier, ringed with black circles stare, tiny lines sprouting from all corners. I am often swimming in seas of the past, stopping off on islands and rocks to ruminate over strings left untied, that I sometimes forget to look at myself in the now. More and more frequently I catch myself in the middle of an action, in the center of a thought process, and suddenly wonder when the last time I thought of me was. Of me here now.

My past needs to be written, and so many words left unsaid, so many phrases still hanging there, suspended in time. But my present needs to be remembered too, as a whole, more than a day to day endeavor. I live in my present so deeply, but so deeply as a mother, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a partner, that I start to use all those layers as a protective coat, forgetting that the core needs to breathe too. Is this motherhood? Do we always forget to breathe? At what point do we realize that we need to go first sometimes? Just sometimes.

This tiredness goes beyond simple children waking at night fatigue, beyond certain levels of sleep deprivation; it comes from a feeling of slight hopelessness, feet stuck in quick-drying concrete, fingers holding onto crumbling rock above an abyss. There is the everyday, the life at home which often uplifts, sometimes wearies, and is somewhat comforting in its mélange of routine and impulsive dance parties. And then there is the rest of the world, the one I need to send my children out into, where they will have to answer questions about race and religion and beliefs, where often what they will be taught will counter what we talk about at home. And then even further than down the street are the bombs and the threats, humans fighting other humans, humans massacring the planet without regard. How can we consolidate the beauty of nature and also of man-made art and creations with the heap of steaming muck that we are also to blame for? Here lies my fatigue, my sadness, my unwillingness to remove the protective layers of filler, because without them I don’t know how much strength I will have to fight the battles. My children give me so much more willpower to fight for change. I made the choice to have children and this erases my right to wallow in selfish self-doubt and aimless direction. But at the same time I must remember that strength and power are to be nurtured and given time to grow, and growth comes from the core, from within, as well as from those we let in.

I tell my little ones, especially my eldest who deals with severe anxiety, to calm down and breathe every day, something that I should probably be doing more frequently too. Head against the cold front of the refrigerator door, eyes closed for a few seconds, listen to the sound of the ocean, swish swash, in your ears and breathe. Once again, breathe. Put your hand over your heart and feel the beat slow down to a gentle cadence, a walk instead of a gallop. We don’t have anywhere to be, not right now, there is no rush. In a way we have all the time in the world. Actually I want us just to have all the time in the world. A simpler life, one rid of the constant hustle, where we can stop to listen the wind as it blows through the valley, and not hesitate to run down to the water to dip our toes into it. I don’t mind certain hardships when the background and the foundations make them easier to bear. Having little money is easier on the mind when one can cook food grown from the garden, collect eggs from the chickens clucking in the yard. Freezing winters are calming when snow covers the land and you can sit in front of the fire, hot chocolate and warm lights. Boiling summers are different when the ocean is just steps away, with cliff sides offering shelter and secret caves. And so on, there are ways to make even the simplest of lives fulfilling, an aspiration that will never leave me.

How does one consolidate the need to retire from the world we live in while still standing up for the world we believe we should all live in? How can one live an idyllic life away from most humans while still surround oneself with the world? How do we find that middle ground where we live the exact life that we dream of while still being there for those who are not there yet? How can we be both selfish and compassionate, balancing self-care while being devoted to caring for others? How do we get there, where everything falls into place, not asking for much, just for a little push in the right direction? Or are some of us just destined to dream, to hope, and to hustle along, just making do, always yearning for more. More peace, more love, more change.

I think today I will take my little three year old’s advice and just listen to my heart as it beats through my chest, a rhythm of both love and life, close my eyes and dream of what I want for us all. I believe I can have it, that we can make it happen together, but the self-doubt still reigns strong. One day it will, in the meantime we soldier on together, a community, fighting towards a better place for us all, fighting against those who want to destroy us. And I hope to remember to make time for me amidst all of the things, because a foundation needs to remain strong through the storm.

Unraveling the Snowball

I wandered off down memory lane last night, a little trapdoor under the carpet, a rabbit hole again. What started it off this time? Somehow reading about the scene on Ludlow St in 2005 led to me thinking about 1994, and tap tap tap a few minutes later a face, a memory, oh my gosh it’s you, and you, and you… Another half-written memory, another playlist revisited and another story to tell.

Writing this book is HARD. I hesitate between telling myself that I have been waiting to get all of these pieces out of my head, journals, and off of my laptop forever, and telling myself that no one wants to read hundreds of pages about me. That’s a little boring, no? But really it’s not all about me… I’ve lived in some really special places at some really special times surrounded by some really special people, so maybe someone would be interested enough to buy a copy, to read a few pages?

I keep adding and deleting and realizing that a story is missing and another is too much. Some years I wrote a lot more than others, and I keep finding loose sheets of paper, scribbles in a park on a lunch break, emails to myself from 2001 or 2015, and notes and post-its stuck to postcards. I have to decipher them, connect the dots… Where was I, who did I love, what was I listening to? Was it vodka, whiskey, coffee, or sobriety? Was it film, digital, phone, or all of the above? Was it Doc, Frye, or barefoot?

Do I publish 600 pages of stories, memories, moments in time? Do I divide it into two? Chronological? Random order? Poetry sneaking through the pages? With Spring Comes Hope was straightforward: a beginning and a place to finish. Of Hearts and Sea Glass is a brick, a cloud, and a marble, or maybe a snowball, rolling, rolling, rolling, collecting layer after layer of thickly packed snow.

You tell me… Are you interested in England? In France? In Israel? In NYC? Are you interested in music scenes, depression, sex, drugs and rock n roll? Are you interested in heartbreak and happiness, facts, autobiographical fiction, real people with fake names? Are you interested in the ocean and the stars, writers and dreamers, lost souls and barefoot wanderers? Are you going to be upset if you recognize yourself? Are you going to be hurt if you don’t appear? Couldn’t give a shit either way? My writing is often impulsive, spur of the moment, a sudden image flashing from my memory unraveling a string through time, words rushing to get out, to convey that one moment. It’s that song that takes you right back there, every single time, a punch in the gut while it rains stars over your head. When it happens I have to drop everything and grab what I can, writing, typing, dictating, because once the string has unraveled she floats off downstream, just another pearly drop in the water.

I stood on the beach in Nahariya in 2003, and the streets of Oakham in 1995. I walked through Place Grenette so many times I could still do it with my eyes closed, the same way I walked down Orchard St in 2005 or in 2014. I have stepped into the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Pacific, and my beloved Atlantic, toes touching sand, fingers shielding my eyes as I looked out over the water to the end of the world. I’ve walked up mountains and through deserts, lived in the biggest of cities and the smallest of villages and places in between. I have loved many and probably been loved by many, often letting it all flit through my fingertips. And right then, typing those words, Catch starts up in my head, and immediately the feeling of sitting in the passenger seat next to my best friend, zooming down the New Jersey Turnpike towards our skyline, cigarette smoke and dreams, wind tying our hair into knots. Our freedom was the city, nooks and crannies filled with stories upon stories upon stories. I still smell the Bakers Oven across the street and dream of soft éclairs and baguettes from the boulangerie next to Stendhal. I try to treasure all of these memories, because I am so afraid that one day they will all disappear into a black hole.

Are you interested? Am I writing this for me alone? For you? For my children? For no one in particular? I don’t know. But it will be done soon, another month or two of editing and it will be done, as long as I know where to start it and where to cut it off. Words for days, stories for years, it will all come together soon.

In the meantime, if you want to help me choose a cover for Of Hearts and Sea Glass, as well as read some previously unpublished snippets over the next few weeks, add your email to my mailing list (see below). I don’t email often, but I promise it will be worth reading when I do! <3

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Publishing my first book!

A long time ago I promised myself I would one day be a published author, that all of these years of journals and essays and random pieces of paper shoved into folders would become something concrete. In my early 20's I was reading through Plath's journals for my thesis and wondering if one day my own journals would be interesting for others to read. The ramblings of a child coping with parental loss, the teenage laments of unrequited love and dark, dark anger, the conscious escapisms of a well-travelled adult, the queries of a new mother... So many lives interweaving into one, my own. Words on paper are my life, my love, my reality and my dreams. They move constantly through my mind, day and night, often lost into oblivion when I am not able to put them down somewhere for later.

I promised myself I would be a writer. I AM a writer. I write every day. My job is to write content for other people to use, that's what I get paid for. I've always been a writer, from the day I penned my first stories, my first dreams and my first thoughts down. I will be a writer until the day I die, still carrying thousands of unwritten stories and essays around in little compartments in my brain. All the same I have always been reluctant to believe in myself and in my capabilities as a writer, even writing this I kind of cringe and ask myself if I will ever get around to posting this on my blog ever... But I have to.

In a few days time I will be releasing a first collection of essays into the world, a first book out of many. It is something that I have dreamt of doing for many years, but never thought I was actually capable of. This first collection is the easiest one, a written account of my journey into motherhood, starting with the first moment I found out I was pregnant with Luna until a few weeks ago. Finding a cut-off point was necessary, this being a journey without end, because if I hadn't this would all have remained a pipe dream into eternity. This collection is named With Spring Comes Hope, after one of my latest and most favourite blog posts. The title means so much to me, the awakening from a long, long winter, the hope that blossom and green leaves bring along with the warm sun and the longer days. And the idea that despite what is happening in this world today we can still fight to make it a better place.

Over the next month or so I will release another collection, with essays, short stories and poems written at some point during the past 20 years. Many of these pieces of work have never been read by anyone else but me, but I have to let go. Letting go is another step in the direction I am pushing myself into now. After the next one there will be more, and more. Because as I said before, I will always be a writer, and because I have enough written material for thousands of pages, and enough waiting to be written in my hand to multiply that by another thousandfold. Of course I would love people to read everything, but at the same time I am not expecting it either. Doing this is something that I needed to accomplish for myself and, I’m pretty proud of myself for actually doing it!

I know that in self-publishing the most important part (after the writing) is the marketing. I'm terrible at marketing myself, but I'm going to make a bigger effort now... However I have kept my plans for this initial book under wraps as I knew that I just needed to just get it done and prove to myself that I was capable of it. I'm still very nervous about launching these plans into the world, but extremely excited at the same time! In the next few days, as soon as I have done my final proof and hit that “publish” button I will let you know how and where you can obtain the book (Amazon, B&N etc). Thank you for reading, commenting and for the love in general. One word of encouragement goes a long way, and I hope that I always return the encouragement and help.

Coming later this week: With Spring Comes Hope is a journey into motherhood and beyond, a collection of essays spanning over the space of nearly four years, on pregnancy, birth, parenting, motherhood, fears, challenges and that unconditional love that just grows and grows.

Ramblings: I dream of a house on a beach...

There is something that only those closest to me really know, one of my lifelong dreams.

I dream of living in a simple little house by an ocean or sea, preferable where it is warm and sunny, and spending my life writing, reading, raising my kids with my other half, and living in peace. The dream has obviously changed over the years, I used to dream about living in a cabin on the beach alone, now it has my family in it too, and in some ways it has become more attainable and in others less.

I am not one for seeking success in the form of fame and glory, or making more money than another person. I don't want to rule over anyone or take over anything. I would love to be able to change the world in some way, one word at a time, but I would also love to do that from my beach house.

I'm not looking for a huge sprawling mansion. Just a little house in a place where we can afford to work normal hours and live comfortably. By living comfortably I mean having fresh food on the table, enough to pay rent/mortgage and bills and enough to save for later so that the girls don't have to worry about us when we get old. I would even say enough to put them through college too, but by the time they get there I don't think anyone will be able to afford any form of higher education.

I used to dream of going off to other countries, writing about wars and conflicts and coups, taking photos of other cultures and traditions, adding experiences and stories to my already colourful life, and trying to make changes where I could. I used to dream of walking barefoot on every beach in the world, leaving a little bit of myself behind at every stop so that I always had an excuse to come back again. I still dream of taking off to a destination unknown, seeing things through my eyes and translating images and impressions into words over and over again. I used to dream about doing my bit about making this world a better place. And here and there I hope I have, and I hope I continue to.

Our beach house will have a few bright rooms, a quiet room to create, and loud rooms to be heard, a place where one will always feel at home. There will be delicious smells of freshly baked bread and cookies coming from the kitchen and the salty ocean breeze will constantly makes its rounds through the rooms; there will always be a view onto sand and sea, sun and moon; it is a place where you always feel safe and calm and loved. A real home for me is a place that feels completely lived in with its mismatched furniture and well-worn chairs, with photos and artwork on the walls and random children’s scribbles behind doors. It is a place of laughter and tears, of thoughts and dreams. A place where you can sit on the porch at night, count the stars and listen to the waves roll over the sand. A place that holds you close and where you always feel you belong.

I’ve been dreaming, dreaming, dreaming about this beach home for so long now, it has become an integral part of my future. The only problem is that the future is always the future until you make it your present. Magical things don’t just happen, you have to find a way to make them appear, sometimes taking a lot of work and hope and tears. Now that my dream has become a shared dream, one that my family also wants, I hope that this dream will be waiting for us to jump on be right around the next corner. We are going to work as hard as we can to make it possible, for us and for the girls. There is nothing wrong with dreaming big and dreaming far, it is what keeps us going on the bad days and gives us an extra skip on the good days. And on those in-between days? It just keeps us dreaming.

I dream of a beach and a little house, hibiscus flowers as big as my head and coconuts hanging from the trees. I dream of warm sand in my toes, a life barefoot, and a sky stretching further than I can see. I dream so hard that I can practically touch it. Almost there, not far now.

Many of my short stories involve the beach in some way or another. Of Hearts and Sea Glass, Of Instability and Growing Roots, and Autumn's Place are a few that I have up the on blog. I will finish my collection one day!

Ramblings: Daytime Thoughts

This started as one thought, evolved into about four others and kind of made it's way back to the first thought. Some real ramblings for you today...

I fully believe that it's important to never make a judgment based on appearances. But we always do, no matter how hard we try. Some of us try and some just don't really give a shit anyway and spend their lives judging others based on their religion, skin colour, language, background, clothing, whatever. I always hope that I'm in the first group, and that I have learnt from any mistake I may have made in the past, making sure that I never do it again.

If you don't really know me, then you probably don't know how shy and how anxious I am. I've spent many a year hiding it beneath layers and layers of toughened up skin and bone, but it always finds a way to pop up when I least expect it. I've worked on myself over the years, using alcohol to find a way to hide my shyness, then sobriety to find a way to accept my shyness and to get past it. I've learnt to get over my fear of calling people I don't know and accomplishing tasks over the phone. I've managed to get past my utter fear of putting my writing into the public eye and I've traveled to places and talked to people even though I often felt like I was crippled with anxiety inside. I've even forced myself to speak in public, although I don't really think I want to do that again. I'm actually quite happy working from behind my screen now, with my children playing in the background (or hitting each other or screaming at me, whatever happens to be occurring at that moment).

With motherhood also came a dip in the confidence that I had slowly built up over the years, and then, after the first few months went by, came an actual gain in well-being, confidence and strength. For the first time in my life I felt like I had actually finally become the person I was always supposed to be. So those days when my confidence takes a beating I seem to feel it even more. It is kind of like climbing a mountain and instead of falling a few steps right near the top you tumble a quarter of a mile down again. Even the stupidest of things can make me feel like I've fallen down the mountain, just as the smallest of things can often bring me right back up again immediately afterwards. It’s a strange feeling, trying to keep that middle ground of stability while your emotions are pulling you both up and down!

I've always been a good loner. I love my close friends from the bottom of my heart and miss them all terribly now that I have moved away, but I've always been good at creating and fully using my alone time. Books and walks and words and photos, lunches by myself watching the world go by and long trips to places where I didn't know a soul. None of those things ever fazed me. Put me in a room full of people completely sober and ask me to make myself heard, now that would give me anxious shakes and a desire to create a hole for myself to curl up in. I know, being a bartender and working in an extremely busy restaurant don't really seem to be the best jobs for an introvert from the outside, but that is actually wrong. Many of my fellow service industry workers are complete introverts. Many of my musician and actor friends are the same. That face that smiles at you and serves you your drink while chatting about the latest gossip is all an act, part of the job. An act that is pretty easy to sustain, a uniform that you mentally put on every time you walk into work. They are just jobs. Jobs that I absolutely adored before I became a mother, and would do again in a heartbeat if I didn't have two little children. I DO have tons of confidence, but only when I feel in control of my environment and comfortable in my place. It’s a bit of a two-pronged sword being both confident and shy at the same time, because sometimes you end up creating a role for yourself which kind of portrays how people want to see you rather than how you actually want to be seen. Sometimes it leads to a lot of bitterness and sadness when you can’t make your real self seen or heard when you really need to. And sometimes it makes it harder to explain that you need space and silence once in a while, time away from everyone and everything.

I'm still not confident as a writer, after all these years. I still hesitate every time I submit an article or deliver a job. I'm still always surprised when I receive great feedback and always a little hurt when something gets rejected. I kick myself when I read something similar to what I have written and hidden deep in my laptop's memory and wonder why I don't dare send these things out to others to read and love. Why do I watch others do it and sit back and wish that I had the confidence to put myself out there like that? Why do I hide behind my screen waiting for something that will never happen if I don’t “put myself out there” so to speak?

And then I realize that I do. I do it every day. And maybe there are many, many things that I will not publish on here, just because they may be too personal or involve others or just don't belong here, they still belong somewhere, and some day I will find a proper home for them. I still have trouble with social media, with being more pragmatic and less involved in making friends and actually considering people humans rather than just one more person to read my blog, but I know there are others out there like that, who are trying to promote their work while making friends at the same time, and I'm happy to know these people, sometimes work with them, but mostly because their photos and comments make me smile, their thoughts are similar to mine and because they are all inspiring, funny and most likely have the exact same worries and thoughts and self-confidence dips as I do. I do admire those people who have been able to create a “brand” out of themselves, but I cannot do that, and at the same time I don’t know anybody personally who has. Anyone I have actually “met” on social media is like me, just another person using words and thoughts and images to touch others. The whole “brand” thing is really not me at all. And that’s fine, I don’t need to do that, I just need to work on what I really want in a better way. (Sometimes I regret not being so proactive in my 20’s and instead of writing a blog at that time that made no sense to anyone but me I could have actually created something a little more meaningful!). I think this is why I continue to refuse to make my blog into something more “streamlined” – it was always meant to be a platform for me to “publish” my creations, before I became a mother and after, and I don’t want to change it. I may possibly set up something else in the future with some friends, I don’t know, I would need to be more focused on one thing rather than letting myself be pulled in all types of directions.

Years ago I took all of my "things" that I had left with my mother for safe keeping back, including journals dating back to my first at 9 years old. There was however one missing, quite an important one, from my late teens in the late 90's. This past weekend my mother came back from her storage unit with a box with my name on it, and amidst my Cure 45s, some Ted Hughes and Shelley books was that journal. I'm not ready to go down multiple rabbit holes just yet, but I read a few pages of it and see myself, 20 years ago, so shy but so exuberant, angry and happy, and I'm glad I've lead the life that I have. And while I will always regret a few things, mostly those moments when I couldn't tell people how I felt, those moments when I couldn't explain how uncomfortable I was or even those moments when I didn't dare speak up and voice my opinions. But I can catch up on that now. And one day all of those stories that I have written along the way and all of the essays and the thoughts and the poems that I have jotted down will find their own place too.

I suppose all these words came about over the weekend when I was feeling a little down, seeing photos of my friends at the Rockaways, my favourite beach in the world, or at the Stone Roses concert in NYC and missing them, reading nasty comments posted by ignorant and bigoted people from all over the world on internet articles, and with just the sheer amount of utter shit that is going on in the world all the time, every time I look at my phone or check out my social media feeds. Some days it is very hard to live with having both a hurting heart and an overflowing heart. In the end we all bleed the same; I just wish I could stop the unnecessary loss of blood and life with my own hands.

So maybe, next time we look at someone and start to judge them based on something about them, maybe, maybe we should take a step back and remember that they are people just like us, with hearts and minds and souls and worries and stories and families and feelings. And maybe we all stand up and talk about everything that hurts and destroys us as a community, a nation and a world and bring about real change instead of just looking the other way. And when someone is trying to express themselves stop and listen to what they have to say, because it may be a moment to learn and grow, you never know.

And maybe I will remember to tell myself that despite everything I put in my own way my words will be heard by some, and in the end that is all that matters to a writer.

Ramblings: Middle of the Night Thoughts

It just suddenly hit me, a punch to the stomach, so hard I had to catch my breath. They will never be little again. Not little, little, tiny baby little. Tears well up in my eyes when I think of those sleepless nights holding my little Luna, her brow constantly creased into a frown. I wish I hadn't shouted at her today. She's so fragile but so strong and likes to push every boundary as far as she can. I want to not snap but sometimes it's impossible. She will never be that teeny tiny screaming infant again, the one who only wanted her mother, unless it was 4am and then daddy would do. These days it's all "mama mama mama", a scream, an angered yell and then "mama hold me" or "hug?".

I don't spend enough time staring into Aurora's eyes and telling her I love her. Or maybe I do, but that happens in the middle of the night when we are the only ones awake. Her eyes teach me that patience really is a virtue, because she has so much of it, enough to give away and still be fine. I whisper in her ear how much I love her, kiss her soft little cheek and hope that she doesn't remember all of the times that her sister pushed her over. Or hit her on the head with a toy. There is something remarkable about being the second child... Putting up with all of that and still smiling. Maybe she is just remarkable. She is to me anyway. They both are. My little sunshines and moonlights and my reason for wanting a better life in a better place. My motivation to make sure we pursue our dreams.

I don't want to forget any of these moments. I embrace them, I snap pictures of them, I put them into words, store them away in my mind, in clouds, on paper. I embrace it all, the darker parts, the struggles, the dawns and the rainbows, even the passage of time. But I still shed a tear for those moments that I will never get back again, when everything is new and overwhelming and difficult, but beautiful and hopeful.

Ramblings: How Bad Can It Get?

I haven't been able to sleep well recently, and this doesn't have anything to do with the fact that my kids wake me up through-out the night. I'm used to that, so much that my sleep app counts that as "restless" moments and not actual "awake" moments. No, it's more than that, a constant feeling of anxiety that has installed itself deep in my stomach, a growing knot that won't go away. It's as if something is going to happen but I don't know what. Every time something awful happens in the world I think "this is it!", but that feeling won't go away. It's growing and perpetual and pushing my balance off completely. The last time I felt this way was just after 9/11, and it took me a long, long time to find a new balance and to discover faith in myself and mankind again. I fear that this is going to be even more difficult now.

This feeling comes from a place of deep incomprehension. I have never understood why humans consistently hate and destroy each other, and call me what you will, I will never understand it. I was brought up to love life, other people and our planet, and as cynical as some things may have made me over the years, I continue to follow my path with those simple thoughts at the forefront of my mind - I will never let hate overrun them. I understand that my skin colour and place of birth have given me privileges over others, but why these privileges exist I will never understand. I'm white, heterosexual and was born in a first world country, so this automatically means that there are doors open to me that are not for others. For anyone in the same position as me to deny that means that they are kidding themselves. Just really look around and see how the world is today, white privilege has never gone away, hell it’s just as prevalent as it's always been, except for now people just try to deny it still exists. It never went away. I can't embrace it though, because I don't want it to exist. I don't want to be part of a world where one person hates another because of what they look like. I don't want to live in a world where one person will be accepted without even a question while another has to fight for acceptance just because they were born in another country or of another skin colour. I don't want to walk down the street and hear people muttering under their breath about someone because he or she practices a different religion. I don't want to hear kids calling each other names based on sexual orientation or skin colour, not understanding how hurtful and awful those words are. I don't want to hear, see and feel so much hatred around me and my fellow humans, so rooted in our societies that it has become the norm. I don't want to live in a world where we all shrug our shoulders, turn away and stick our heads in the sand again.

I've recently been day dreaming about packing up again and taking my family to a deserted island and living out our lives there, in peace, together. While that's not really doable, I've come to believe that it's the only way to get away from a world that believes in hatred, power and war. Where politicians spout ridiculous ideas and where people just sit there and lap it up, incapable of opening their eyes and making up their own minds. Where the word "democracy" has become a joke, and where we are all meant to pretend that everything is OK and that this is what life is. I need to find that fight in me again and join those who will not give up to the endless rat race, and will not back down until we have figured out a new way forward.

Yes, I am an idealist. And yes, I know a lot of these ideals that I have may sound slightly simple or simplistic. But in the end, we are the ones who have made everything so complicated. There was, and is still, no need to divide people up based on skin colour, religion, sexual orientation or gender. We ARE all equal, and we should all be free. Hatred is a learned emotion, as is fear, and we can start making a change by teaching our future generations to not judge a person by what they look like or which god they may believe in or who they fall in love with.

As it stands right now this world we live in is hurtling towards an explosive end, while we watch disaster after disaster unfolding from the safety of our social media feeds. One of the main contenders for US president is a man who spews out the most ignorant and insulting ideas and policies, people are more occupied by stockpiling guns and rifles rather than stopping mass shootings, rich white kids are getting away with rape and murder while black kids rot in prison on drug charges and everyone is more interested in the newest iPhone than what is happening in places like Syria and Sudan. Men and women are still being sent out to places like Afghanistan and Iraq to get rid of terrorism but at the same time these same countries are supporting regimes that treat their women as subhumans incapable of doing anything of their own accord. Tabloids scream headlines accusing immigrants of stealing jobs and housing and welfare checks and the public believes every word without even a second glance. Nowadays, in addition to the colour of your skin, your religion (if you have one), your gender and your sexual orientation you are also considered "legal" or "illegal". So if you are born black, are gay, practice Islam and don't have a visa to the country you now reside in, well you are completely fucked. If you are white, Christian, a US citizen, male and heterosexual then you probably stand a chance of getting through your life without too many issues. Especially if you stay behind your white picket fence and only mingle with those who are exactly like you. I’m not saying you will never have a problem, but I’m saying that it may be easier to get out of them.

But who wants to be stuck with just people who look and think like you?? This world is so vibrant and colourful and full of different people and thoughts and ideas! By stepping over our self-imposed boundaries and reaching out towards others we can only learn. And by learning more we understand more. And by understanding more we learn to fear less. Fear breeds ignorance and there are too many people on this planet who would rather we remain fearful and ignorant, than learned and brave. It doesn’t matter where you come from in this world, who you are, where you have been and where you will go, there will always be something to learn from somebody else.

Every time there is a massacre in the (Western) world my social media feeds are blown up with flags and “thoughts and prayers”. And while thoughts are nice and you may think your god is going to reach out and help somehow, somewhere, these things are NOT providing concrete help. Speak up about ignorance, contact your leaders about gun policies and reforms, reach out to people who of different colours, heritages, religions and sexual orientations and learn about their lives, make a stand to actually CHANGE the way people think. Consume less and donate more, whether it is time or money, think before you speak and learn before you speak. Hatred is so prevalent in our society and it needs to be uprooted and destroyed. I for one am aiming to make sure that my children understand that we are all the same and all different and that we treat everyone with respect, kindness and love. We don’t all have to LIKE each other, but we should all respect and listen to each other.

When a person walks into another person’s safe haven, loads a gun and sprays bullets into anyone he can hit or when another person shoots a politician because she was trying to make life more bearable for refugees then we can’t ask ourselves questions about whether these were or were not hate crimes, or on what type of gun sprays bullets and what doesn’t. We need to stop getting bogged down in semantics, fighting with one another over definitions and actually start acting. Recognise your privilege and start fighting for real change, as this can only come about if we all work together against hatred and ignorance.

Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that we will never, ever live in a world where everything is sunshine and happiness. There are always going to be people focused on power and control over others, and there will always be people who are wary of differences. There will always be hatred and there will always be war. I may be an idealist and too empathetic for my own good, but I’m also not stupid. I know that I’m not going to change the world with love and I know I’m not going to change people’s mind with a blog post. I however cannot just sit back and pretend none of this is happening, apathetic and braindead. I can at least TRY to change some minds, and if we all TRY then maybe this place will be a better place for the next generations. And only we can start making that happen.

I’m so so so DONE with watching another hate crime go down and nothing changing. How on earth can we expect to stomp our beliefs all over other countries when we can’t even make the proper changes at home? I honestly don’t care if an AK-15 is an assault weapon or not, but I do care that it was used to kill over 50 innocent people just because someone hated them. Hatred isn’t blind; it knows exactly who it is targeting. No more excuses. No more.

Sidenote: I just finished reading I Shall Live: Surviving the Holocaust at all Odds by Henry Orenstein. Not the first Holocaust recount that I have read and most likely not the last, but it really hit home about how easily one person can convince another to hate. We should be learning from our collective past rather than just classifying it in history books.

Ramblings: Speech as a Milestone

Speech. Such a short word with huge connotations. We use speech every single day, a way to communicate, to express ourselves, to show emotion. So simple, but often so difficult. Before I had a child I would often consider speech a tough companion, because sometimes he was so easy to access, sometimes so hard, hanging out a few yards away waiting for me to stumble and wobble over, avoiding deep potholes that were always trying to trip me up. I would be so jealous of those who had no issues talking in public, or getting their point across to others.

Once I had my first child speech became a milestone, beginning in those little babbles that turned to “mama” and “dada” around 8 months, moving along to full words and then phrases a little bit later down the line. I spent my days talking and reading to a little baby who could only communicate with cries and babbles, hoping that it would all sink in and eventually turn into words flowing naturally from her mouth. I still talk and read to my kids all day long, a habit that I won't break until they demand me to.

When Luna turned one year old I expected to start hearing more than just mama, dada and "dat" (cat or dog depending on the animal, sometimes bird or squirrel). Instead we started to hear more and more tantrums, colourful moments of high pitched screams and streams of tears, snotty noses and sometimes so far as crying-induced vomit. A vocabulary that initially seemed so promising stalled and the eardrum piercing scream was perfected to a tee.

No matter how many talks we had, books we read or educational TV shows we watched, nothing changed. We used the excuse of being a bilingual family for a while, every time that people asked us why she wasn't talking, and were met with a few nods and a “ah ok that makes sense”. I told myself that my brother didn't start speaking properly until well past his second birthday and now he's studying towards his PhD, so there was nothing to worry about. I thought about how I am much more eloquent in writing than speech and that maybe it would all click into place for Luna one day.

Luna hit 18 months and then 21 and there still wasn't any improvement. The tantrums got worse, especially as she couldn't communicate all the mixed emotions that were running around her heart and mind, sharing her mummy with another baby, having to wait in turn to be nursed instead of just cuddling whenever she wanted. I found myself having to curb my frustration with her more and more frequently, and began to wonder if we should start seeing a speech therapist to help her through this. I began to feel completely inadequate as a parent, on the one hand wondering what I could have done differently or better, on the other thinking that maybe I was making too big of a deal out of it. Luna has always been strong willed and demanding, emotional and caring, maybe she would find her own way with our gentle guidance, one step at a time. I stopped reading milestone blogs and started just trying to communicate differently with her, calming her down before another tantrum would break out.

And then it happened. Not long before her second birthday she started to repeat words to us, and every day she says one, two or three more new words. At 26 months she can now string two or three words together, tell me she is hungry, tired, sick or thirsty, ask me for a hug or for milk, tell me she wants to read a book or watch Peppa or Elmo, say please and thank you, tell me she loves me, name her teddy bears and tell me what she wants to eat. She can count to five and say all of her colours (usually to the delight of everyone in the supermarket), and even surprises me by picking up one of her foam letters and telling me what it is. While she still has her tantrums and she's still as demanding as ever, we have noticed a significant drop in the screaming and a much higher willingness to take the time to express herself clearly. Every day she will say a new word out of the blue and it blows my mind - she WAS absorbing everything all along, just waiting for the right time.

So yes, I suppose speech is a milestone for a child, but Luna has taught me, in more ways than just speech, that patience is also a milestone to achieve at any age. Communication is not only the ability to speak but also the patience to listen and absorb. Language can often be a tricky thing, and when somebody has a big voice but no words to release it, other ways of expression need to be used. There are other ways of helping a child express themselves; you just need to find out which one, for some it may be sign language, others it may be through pointing or pictures. I realize how much more laid back and "go with the flow" I am now that I have a second child, but at the same time I really hope that she won't find it as difficult as Luna did... There were so many times that we were both in tears out of frustration and it hurts my heart still to think how hard it must have been for her. In the end I shouldn’t have worried so much about it, but it was hard not to when having to deal with upwards of 8 tantrums a day!

Ramblings: My Clan

Ever since I became a mother I have come across articles and social media posts where women talk about finding their “tribe”. For a while, during those first few months of motherhood, feeling so insecure and alone, I wondered if I was supposed to find my own tribe; maybe one would miraculously appear in my life, surround me with warmth and hugs and reassuring phrases, telling me that I would be OK. Motherhood came easily to me, the love, the nurturing, the happiness, but adapting to all of the changes was a little harder. I would continue to read about women describing their tribe, see beautiful pictures on social media of women and their friends, all their children playing together happily and hope that one day I could do the same.

And then suddenly I realised… This “tribe” I was thinking of is no other than my best friends. I already have my tribe; there was no need to find a new one. Just because certain things shift when you have a child (or two in my case), doesn’t mean that everything changes. Sometimes you just need to crawl through the fog to realize this. Just because you become a mother doesn’t automatically mean you need to find a group of “mummy friends”. You will make some along the way, most certainly, but those who have been with you through thick and thin still “get” you, or they do in my case anyway!

I’ve lived in many places, travelled to many countries, settled and then uprooted myself time and time again, and in every place I have left a group of friends behind. Some friends are there for life, an intricate bond that cannot be broken by time or distance, others are friends for a time, and with distance you lose touch. Some friends appear out of the blue and stay there for life; some come and go, weaving in and out of your path. Hearts are broken and sometimes healed again, friends are forgiven and forgotten; friends forgive and move on. Friendship is a give and take and there are always those where the give and the take are easy and seamless, and then there are others where it demands work, sometimes too much. I’ve always been a little wary of female friendships, having been burnt in the past by people, but those that I have really let in have my heart forever.

There is the one who became a mother at the same time as me, our children rolling, crawling and walking together. The one who knew I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that I hadn’t slept in three months. We would nurse our children for hours on the couch for hours, chatting about life, motherhood, or just bathing in silence. She is one who I can talk to at any time of the day or the night, who would come visit us in our apartment in Queens and bring treats and who I now miss terribly since we moved across the country.

There is the one who I met in a bar all those years ago and who I call my best friend. We’ve been through so much together and through so much separately. We have traveled through time together, angered each other, unintentionally hurt each other, held each other and laughed through too many wonderful, silly and exciting moments. She is still the first person I tell anything to, the one person who I know will always have a proper opinion or advice on something that I am struggling with and who will always write the best cards, be they for me or my children. Cards that I save and cherish. And she also happens to be the most wonderful baby shower organizer.

There is the one who I worked with, so much younger than me, but at times so much older than her years. A real free spirit, never to be held down by anything, that beautiful smile always raining down on you, making you feel so important and worthy. She will come crashing into your life like a bolt of lightning and wraps you in her relentless energy, ready to jump into any adventure that you are planning. She’s the one I want to nurture and protect but at the same time need to let fly free as she has everything to discover and no boundaries will stop her. She was my Sunday afternoon partner, bringing food and stories, while let her rest her weary feet before her next adventure into the unknown. My little fiery wild child, so similar to myself at her age, but with all of the confidence that I lacked.

There are the two ladies who were my friends way before I was a mother, and mothers way before I even imagined having a child. At one point we were all thousands of miles apart, but that didn’t stop them giving me advice and comfort when I needed it. One of them has the knack of calling whenever I most need to chat, and always making me feel like I am not going insane, and that everything is completely normal.

There are my Irish and English beauties, and even though we haven’t lived on the same continent for well over a decade, we still communicate regularly, see each other when we can and support each other in our endeavours. We’ve known each other at our best and at our worst, we’ve partied together and been sober together, drank tea and eaten brunch, watched each other grow and shine and move forward and sometimes backwards. Sister from another mister and best friend, all three of us “met” online and became friends in person all those years ago.

Then there are the ladies that I have befriended through my writing and my thoughts, the kind and helpful ladies, the ones that encourage each other to persevere with their work and creativity, who always seem to appear when the going gets tough and you hit a wall. Kind of like an online cheerleading team, but one that cheers each other on, constantly. I never really feel alone anymore, even at 3am when everyone is sleeping and those silly thoughts of failure kick in.

And last, but not least, my sister, the one whose head I tried to pull off when she was a baby, whose obsession with Elvis lasted until well into adulthood and with whom I can have the most epic arguments and still talk to as if nothing happened five minutes later. I don’t always believe that you have to be friends with your family no matter what, but I do believe in my sister as much as she believes in me. I hope that my girls will be able to love each other as much as we do.

My tribe, my “family”, those people who never let you go, even when you push them away, and in return, who you will never let go either. I think back to those days when I thought I was supposed to do it alone, sitting there nursing endlessly through the night, wishing I had someone to talk to, and then feeling silly in the morning. I always had someone to talk to; my tribe was always there for me, just as I am always there for them. I had to learn that it was OK to reach out and say “I need you”. No one is really superwoman, but we are all superwomen together.

Ramblings: #IAmAnImmigrant

A few days ago my sister shared an article on social media that discussed the existence of Immigrant Heritage Month and the use of the hashtag #IAmAnImmigrant. And then that got me thinking about another article I had perused recently about how the British who live abroad always call themselves expats and other immigrants “immigrants”, as if the word immigrant is dirty, wrong. I’m British and I’ve been an immigrant most of my life. The word doesn’t sound dirty or fearful or wrong to me, it just describes that I have moved from the country I was born in to another. And another. And a few more after that. Would it surprise you if I said that as a family we left England in the late 80’s to find a better life? We were not fleeing oppression or death, famine or hatred, but we were fleeing a country where the working class was being stomped upon and where the government ruled with an iron fist. My mother wanted a better life for us all.

We emigrated to The Netherlands. And then to France. Years and years later I followed my mother and sister and brother out to the US, emigrating yet again. I spent some years on a temporary visa, working, some time without any visa, working, and finally got my green card about 11 years after my mother sponsored me for one. I am an immigrant in a country that is made up of scattered natives, immigrants, ancestors of immigrants and people who were brought here as slaves. Oh, hang on, maybe I should have said it differently. I am an immigrant in a country that used to be the home of different Native American tribes but is now a place where the descendants of immigrants, "legal" immigrants, "illegal" immigrants, a few asylum seekers or refugees and a bunch of descendents of slaves live. Altogether. I myself don’t really differentiate between whether you are here “legally” or “illegally”, but apparently you are supposed to (see more below on that). It took me years and years to finally have some real kind of permanent “status” here, and I’m happy I do now. I’ve heard “legal” immigrant’s state how disgusting it is that other people can just “waltz” in here while they had to wait years doing it the “right” way… I’ve never felt that way. You do what you need to. It’s not like anyone really wants to be “illegal” you know…

Oh yes! Let me just leave my country of origin because I’m bored here, hop over the border and steal someone’s job. And HA! I don’t have to pay taxes and I can use all of the awesome welfare services offered to me! Win! Yeah, no, it’s not like that. Actually, most undocumented workers are on a payroll and pay taxes. They just don’t claim any refunds that may be due to them. There is no state in all 50 states that will provide any kind of health insurance, food stamps or WIC checks to anyone who cannot prove they have legal status in this country (apart from if you are pregnant when you may be eligible for a restricted type of health insurance for 10 months, as long as you earn less than the threshold). And if so many immigrants were taking US citizens jobs then why are so many people hiring them? Seeing as most places have all of their employees on payroll so it’s not like they can pay them less than minimum wage. Let’s just be honest about it: many undocumented immigrants are working jobs that no one else wants to work. Doing back breaking work in the fields for 12 hours a day under the blazing sun, working for hours prepping and making food in the restaurants that we all want to eat in, cleaning up your vomit and broken bottles when you go out bar hopping with your friends, scrubbing hotel rooms down day in day out, etc etc, you know the drill. I’m not trying to be annoying here, I’m just telling the truth. No one is taking anyone else’s job, not if we are looking at it from an immigrant vs. US citizen standpoint anyway. We are all just trying to SURVIVE and create a BETTER LIFE for ourselves and our families.

Isn’t that why the first non-native Americans came here in the first place?

I’ve lived here long enough to have been through two US presidential elections (2008 and 2012, I moved here in 2005), so this year will be my third. As a green card holder, an immigrant, I don’t have the right to vote, but I still follow the entire procedure with somewhat bated breath and anticipation. I was working the night that Obama was re-elected in 2012, the entire bar was full of friends and friends of friends holding our breath until the results were announced, cheers and tears going up all over the city. While the outcome during that election wasn’t too bleak, I found the opposition scary based on their use of women’s reproductive rights as a huge part of their campaign (this happens to be an ongoing theme in this country that deserves another article in its own right). However, this year has been particularly strange and even ominous. These elections are different in so much as there is now only one Republican candidate still running, and he not only appears to be a little unhinged, but he has managed to create an enormous following for himself.

Last year we were all laughing at the idea that Donald Trump was going to run in the presidential race. This year it’s not only a reality, he’s also the ONLY ONE LEFT ON THE RIGHT. This is the man who has called Mexicans rapists and drug dealers, the one who talks about his daughter as if she were his wife, who states there is no such thing as climate change. Oh and who wants to set up some kind of tracking system for all Muslims living in the US. At the same time he wants to schedule mass deportations of “illegal immigrants”. This man could potentially be the next US president. What scares me more than him is the fact that he has managed to amass so many supporters who actually believe in him and everything he spews. You can blame some of it on ignorance, but is it that possible that there are SO MANY ignorant people in this country?! Do people not actually look outside of their own homes and see that this country is full of people of different heritages?! Do they really believe the things that he says? Why does he think that the US isn’t great anymore? Does he not know that “America” stands for many more countries than the US? And that Mexico happens to be part of “America”? I really, really doubt that this individual is going to do anything more than create an even more obvious base of hatred and self-doubt in this country while ruining what small and uneven foreign alliances that exist. Why are people so scared of “the other”? “The other” doesn’t exist. Indoctrination doesn’t just exist “over there”. It exists everywhere. It’s up to the individual to stop being scared and to start learning about WHY and HOW.

Earlier I mentioned an interesting point that I have seen come up all over the place… “Legal” immigrants showing their difference from “illegal” immigrants, kind of like a badge of honour. Oh I spent X amount of years waiting to live here and you just ran over the border without any worries. Wait, WHAT? Yes, it took me many, many years to become a legal resident but at least I was able to travel and see my family and friends and homeland (apart from the time that I actually didn’t have any legal right to live here, during which I still paid taxes by the way). I didn’t spend hours, days even, trawling through desert, hiding in the sun, rushing over the border to be caught and sent back again. I didn’t hide in the back of a truck in the boiling heat, not seeing daylight for days until I reached a destination unknown, a place that was huge and busy and didn’t speak my language, left to find work and a home and a new life. I don’t have to worry about never seeing my mother again, only hearing her voice every few weeks on the phone, worrying about how she is getting older and who is going to look after her. I don’t have to worry about having to make the decision between leaving my life behind and attending my father’s funeral or missing it and staying here. There is NO EASY WAY about being here without papers. Or anywhere really. So please, whether you have papers or not, you are still an immigrant. No one is “better” than another. It’s not some kind of elite status that one should be proud of. We all came here for a better life in some form or another.

So yes, I am an immigrant. My partner is an immigrant. We have two children who were born here which makes them US citizens by birth. We both want them to be proud of their country of origin, just like we are of ours, and love their heritage, just like we love the countries that we have lived in and live in. I love the US, and I’ve loved all the years that I have lived here. But I also love England and France, the two countries where I grew up. And I love Canada, the country that granted me citizenship because my father happened to be born there (even though he only spent a few months there and had an English mother and Welsh father). If push comes to shove, and Trump is elected president in November, we will consider finding another place to live, and being the proud immigrants that we are will become immigrants elsewhere. Or maybe our children will become immigrants in one of our countries of origin. Because yes, there are many US citizens who have emigrated abroad, effectively making them immigrants too. An immigrant is just someone who has left their country of origin to live in another… Where they actually come from doesn’t change anything. Remember that when you are eating at your local Mexican joint, drinking fresh orange juice, waiting for your child to go through life-saving open heart surgery, getting your weekly pedicure, taking your beloved dog to the vets, cruising through the newest social media fad and listening to your new favourite rock band play. You most likely interact with an immigrant every single day. And you most definitely interact with the descendant of an immigrant every day.

And just so you know, your average Christian is just as capable as committing an act of terrorism as your average Muslim. And your average Mexican is just as likely to be a rapist as your average white guy. Actually, I am pretty sure that we can say “less likely” to the latter seeing as campus rape is becoming quite the epidemic. Maybe that doesn’t ever happen at Trump University though?!

June 7th is the day that California votes in the primaries. Please remember that your vote counts.