An integrated life: why I quit the 8-to-5

corrugated-boxesFor so long,

I’ve put the different

Bits of myself into

Separate little boxes,

Like disassembled doll parts

Played with by a

Disturbing little girl:

Arms twisted off the

Shoulder nubs,

The two stiff, plastic

Legs jerked loose,

The little fingers worked

Under the doll chin

And the head popped off

With a sound like a

Gum snap.

The torso now a

Dumb lump

Filled with a gray foam,

The skin Barbie-tan,

Crotch smooth.

All in separate boxes,

All boxes stacked,

Largest on bottom,

Smallest on top.

The little girl

Sucking her hair strands into

Knife-points on either

Side of her face.

The little fingers

Questing for

A scab to pick.

Won’t heal for weeks.

The doll part

Metaphor played out:

The mom in a box.

The professional in a box.

The writer/artist in a box.

The recovering alcoholic in a box.

The wife in a box.

The animal that needs sleep, food, etc.

In a box.

In one 24-hour period,

I would box-hop:

The animal sleeps.

The writer writes.

The mom gets kids ready for school.

The professional commutes to work.

The professional works in an office.

The professional commutes home.

The alcoholic goes to a meeting.

The mom drives kids around,

Gets kids ready for bed.

The wife

Tries and fails to

Connect to her

Similarly compartmentalized husband.

Finally, the animal sleeps

Because supposedly,

It is now time to sleep.

Out of all of the boxes,

Work is the one with the

Most artifice.

The professional

Who doesn’t talk about recovery,

Who mentions her blog and

Novel writing to select few,

Who slogs ineffectively through the

Post-lunch afternoon lag

When a little nap would

Make all the difference in

Actually getting something done.

Who clock-watches like a factory worker.

Who gives her

Brightest smile and

Lightest moods to her

Coworkers,

Leaving the offal of

Tiredness and testiness for her

Kids and husband,

Whom she loves most

In this world.

I just

Couldn’t fucking

Do it

Anymore.

As I freaked out

Leading up to my 40th birthday a few months ago,

Being so disassembled went from being

Uncomfortable to being

Painful.

So in a bid to

Gather some of my doll parts

Together,

I quit my job and

Went off on my own.

Back to school and

The freelancing life,

There to figure out how to

Put the doll pieces back together.

So far,

We have not

Starved

Or been turned out of our house.

And me,

I’m realizing what I see in people

Who have careers and

Lives I’d like to emulate

Is integration.

They’re not

One person here and

Another there.

They’re just

Themselves

All the time.

They’ve figured out

How to make a living at

Something they’d be

Doing anyway–

Not an easy task for a

Creative-type.

They sleep when they’re tired.

They don’t have a commute.

They have energy for their

Kids and spouse.

Their creativity

Flows through their

Entire lives

Evenly.

I refuse to believe

It’s not possible to

Have all these things.

Indeed, for the past four months,

I’ve managed to

Continue moving toward it

And still pay the bills.

But I still want to

Put that doll back together

Completely.

Put a top hat on her,

Spin her around and

See if some glitter and stardust

Bring her to life.

This is my 2016.

The year of blurred lines and

Open box lids,

Of hyperlinks,

Of erring on the side of

Oversharing,

Of refining this skill of

Hurling myself

Out into the world

Again and

Again and

Again.

Bright eyes and

Light moods for

Everyone,

Especially myself in the mirror.

 

 

 

Advertisements

My recovery from alcoholism: a story of paradoxes

Drunken days

Drunken days

October 1, 2006, I woke up in the

Guest bedroom of my best friend’s house.

My infant son was in a crib next to me

Crying like he had been crying for a long time.

A white rug on the floor was stained with red-wine vomit.

I popped a pacifier in my son’s mouth and

Dragged the rug into the bathroom

Where I hoisted it into the sink and

Vainly tried to scrub the vomit out of it.

There was a mirror above the sink

And if I looked in it,

I surely looked down again quickly.

I wasn’t in the habit those days of

Looking myself in the eye much.

The vomit wasn’t coming out of the rug,

So I filled a pail with cold water and

Left the rug to soak in the shower,

My feeble attempt at cleaning up after myself.

I brought my son downstairs.

My friend and her infant daughter were in the kitchen making lunch.

My son and I were spending the weekend, and I,

As usual,

Had shown up with a box of red wine

Which had been finished off to the point of

Opening the box and

Taking the foil bladder out and

Squeezing every last drop of wine out of it.

I was probably still somewhat drunk;

I don’t remember being particularly

Hung over that morning,

Which usually meant the

Alcohol hadn’t worked its way through my system yet.

I sat down at the table across from my friend,

Therese,

One of my best friends ever,

And grinned.

She didn’t grin back.

“I’m not going to

Drink with you anymore,” she said.

“You can do whatever you want,

But I’m done.

You’re out of control.

It’s too sad to watch.”

The look in her eyes.

It wasn’t anger exactly,

And it wasn’t sadness either.

It was resolve,

And it was protection.

She needed to protect herself from me.

She was putting up a wall.

I think I sat in silence for a while.

Our two babies were playing on the floor.

My son.

Thirteen months old.

I was getting divorced from his dad,

And I knew my drinking could put me in danger of a

Custody battle.

I thought:

“I’m going to start losing people.”

It’s become a pop-culture trope:

That moment when the alcoholic or addict

Lifts her quaking eyes up from the tabletop and says,

“I need help.”

What I didn’t know until my moment for doing it

Was that that act of surrender

Took more courage and strength than

Anything I had done in my life up until that point.

It wasn’t weakness to ask for help;

It was a last gasp of strength.

A few days later,

I found myself sitting in an

Empty church sanctuary.

I had attended my first 12-step recovery meeting,

And I been unable to muster the words,

“I’m Jen.

I’m an alcoholic.”

I knew if I was going back,

I had to decide.

So I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in,

A god I had spent my whole life being

Skeptical about at best,

Vulgarly mocking at worst.

Screwing up all my energy into a tight little ball, I said,

“Okay, ‘god.’

Am I alcoholic or not?

Yes or no?”

Nothing happened.

Nothing.

Fuck this, I thought.

And at that moment,

These words came into my mind

As if spoken out loud:

“You are precious and delicate.

And it’s okay.”

I wept, friends.

It wasn’t the answer I had been looking for—

God or whatever you want to call it

Doesn’t tend to answer questions so directly,

I’ve since learned.

But it was permission to be powerless,

And it was a gentle, loving exhortation to

Start treating myself well.

It’s been more than eight years since my last drink,

And that’s important.

But as most alcoholics and addicts know,

Our drinking is but a symptom.

If I had never taken a drink in my entire life,

I would have filled that gaping hole with something,

Possibly an eating disorder

Or even more destructive sexual behavior

Than I had already engaged in.

Why do alcoholics drink and addicts use?

It’s truly insane.

We poison ourselves sometimes to death,

We destroy our lives,

The lives of people we love and

Sometimes the lives of strangers

Who have the misfortune of

Crossing our paths at the wrong moment.

If you had asked me on October 1, 2006

Why I did what I did,

Why I drank every day

At the most inappropriate times,

Why my eyes for years were

Unfocused and glazed over,

I would have been as baffled as anyone.

3,227 days later,

I’m starting to have a glint of understanding.

Alcohol is called “spirits” for a reason.

Alcoholics often describe themselves as having a

God-sized hole in their soul,

Into which they pour booze.

And for me, I know now I had a

Spiritual problem that needed a

Spiritual solution.

With recovery from addiction,

There’s often a feeling of being reborn.

As a religion skeptic,

It took me many years to feel comfortable

Identifying my experience as that,

But there’s really no other way to describe the

Fundamental perspective change that happened.

I began to understand that

The way I perceived the world was in many ways

Opposite from how the world actually worked.

This showed up for me in several of the

Paradoxes that are inherent in recovery from addiction

And in living a spiritually based life.

The first paradox is that

Suffering is often the door through which

We enter a spiritual life and

Gain some peace.

Before my recovery from alcoholism,

I had thought that spiritual people were

Just born that way–

If I thought about them at all.

There were spiritual people,

And there were unspiritual people,

And spiritual people were

Weird and weak,

Ergo, I was definitely not

One of them.

Now I understand that

It took me an immense amount of suffering

To surrender to a spiritual experience.

A spiritual life is not for the faint of heart.

The path to some measure of

Serenity and peace

Was a very painful one.

In that sense,

October 1, 2006 was one of the

Most difficult days of my life,

But it was also one of the

Best days of my life.

That’s another lesson I’ve learned from

Living a spiritual life:

That once I stop turning away from

Life on life’s terms–

Which is essentially what I was doing

Every time I put a drink to my lips–

There’s a depth to the experience

I had never known could happen.

It’s completely possible to

Hold several profound emotions

All at the same time,

To be wracked by them all,

And not be overcome.

I experienced this when,

After a long journey with Alzheimer’s,

My mother died when I had about

Five years of sobriety.

I felt so many things:

Grief,

Gratitude,

Relief,

Joy.

To plumb the depths of this

Experience of life at that level is

Such a gift,

And one I can only truly experience

When I’m consciously living as a spiritual being.

Another paradox I’ve been thinking a lot about is

The axiom that,

In order to keep something,

You have to give it away.

This is one of the three pillars of the

Recovery fellowship I’m a part of,

And we regularly see people who are

Not focused on being of selfless service to other alcoholics

Relapsing.

I had no idea what it meant to

Be of service

Before I embarked on this

Spiritual journey of recovery.

It wasn’t anything that was

Remotely on my radar.

I was completely focused on myself,

Or at best on a select group of loved ones.

I suppose I was faintly aware that

There were people in the world who were

Generous or gave of themselves,

But any thought I gave them was

Couched in cynicism:

They were just doing it to

Look good or

Make themselves feel better.

I had no idea of the profound joy,

The symbiosis of how

Me helping someone else

Helps me

Just as much as it

Helps them.

It’s one of the most beautiful parts about life,

And I’m privileged to have the chance to

Experience it every day

If I want to,

By being of service to

Other alcoholics in recovery.

There is no more satisfying feeling

Than to spend an hour

Sitting across a coffee shop table

With another woman in recovery

Sharing my experience, strength and hope,

And receiving hers.

A final paradox that I,

As a writer,

Particularly appreciate is that

The stories of my worst moments in life

Are actually my greatest gifts.

When I think about the moment of

Desolation and fear on October 1, 2006,

When I realized that

I could not live with alcohol

But I could not live without it,

I had no idea that that story

Could be a gift I could give to

Other women

Suffering from untreated alcoholism.

My most difficult moments in life

Are also that ones that most deeply connect me with others,

And in that way I see them as

Gifts that I’m obligated to share.

One gift I get to share with others now

Is the gift of the words that I heard

In the church that day.

I get to say to you

The words that were said to me:

“You are precious and delicate.

And it’s okay.”

After 20 years with my head in the sand, back to feminist roots

thAs a girl,

I was unapologetically

A

Feminist.

In the safe cocoon

Of my parents’

Encouragement and

Support

I could talk loud and

Indignant about the

Inequality I was learning

More about

Everyday.

And then

I went out in the world,

To college,

And quickly observed that

Most men–

And, to my dismay,

Lots of women–

Didn’t

Want to

Talk about

Feminism.

That word made people

Roll their eyes and even

Sneer.

And so,

I stopped talking about it.

I put my head down,

And I painstakingly gathered a

Life together that,

I felt,

Wasn’t affected by

The inequality.

“I don’t see it in my life,”

I’d think tremulously

When I did hear

Women talking about the

Persistent

Male-centeredness of our

Society and our

World.

I’ve never been beaten up by

A boyfriend.

I’ve never been

Raped.

I’ve never

(To my unexamined knowledge)

Been paid less than a

Man doing the

Same work.

I wouldn’t have even

Wanted to stay home from work

More than

Twelve weeks when I had my

Son,

And

I have a job that gave me

Sick time to use and

Short-term disability

When I was on maternity leave.

I don’t live in a society that

Doesn’t let women drive,

Or slices out their clitoris,

Or makes them the

Property of their husbands.

So for 20 years,

I avoided.

Whenever there was an

Article in the news about

Women’s inequality

I skipped it,

Packing down the

Consternation in my gut that

This is

Still

An

Issue.

When I did hear women

Broach the subject

I’d nod along but

Not really

Go

There.

Too depressing.

Too big to solve.

And

Not

My

Problem.

And yet.

And yet.

My avoidance is becoming

Painful.

I’m aware of a

Throbbing

Dismay that

More

Hasn’t

Changed.

The headlines are starting to

Bellow at me:

Wage inequality;

Women’s reproductive rights in peril;

Mass rape of women and girls in war zones.

The message is

Becoming clear:

It’s time for me to

Start

Thinking and

Writing about

Feminism

Again.

Sure,

Things are

Pretty good for me.

Tolerable,

I guess.

But this is still

Very much a

Man’s

World.

And I feel called to

Hash out a

New

Feminist

Theory

For myself,

That makes sense

Now,

For this moment in history,

That’s not

Angry at men,

That sees myself in

Partnership and

Interdependent with

Men and

Women

Around my community and

Even

The

World.

My formal

Education is

Feeble.

I read some,

But not much,

Feminist theory in

College.

All I have is my

Experience.

I can’t speak for

Womankind.

Women’s lives around the

Globe are so

Vastly different.

If you make a

Generalization about

Women,

You’ll always get someone saying,

“But that’s my

My

Experience.”

And yet.

Fear of that reaction

Has kept my

Feminism dormant and

Festering for 20 years.

And so over the next year or so,

My blog is going to

Explore my

Rekindled feminism.

Some topics I’ll explore include:

“Lessons from the gay rights movement;”

“What makes women women? Biology. Solution centered in the body?”

“Women having more doesn’t mean men having less;”

“Children aren’t a women’s issue, but let’s be real: Infants are;”

“My own personal feminist manifesto;”

“I’d don’t want special rights and I’m not angry. I just want to talk;”

“Maybe my life is okay, but other women’s aren’t. I have a duty to speak up;”

“Independence is a fallacy, we have to come together;”

“Men have a big stake in this, too;”

“The tragedy of misunderstood female sexuality.”

“Do we need a new word for feminism?”

I hope you’ll read

And let me know what you think.

Surrounded by screens, I need books now more than ever

thThe other day

On the morning bus to work,

I sat amongst

Five people

Reading books.

It was lovely and cozy,

The morning sunlight

Streaking through the windows,

The heater blowing warm air

On my legs

As we wended our way

Downtown,

My bus-neighbors

Flipping pages around me.

God,

I love books.

I love reading books,

I love watching people

Read books

(I can’t help but

Glance over people’s

Shoulders to see

What they’re reading.

I try to be as

Uncreepy as possible.) th-10

I love browsing musty used

Book stores–

I have one of the best

Used book stores

Two blocks from my house on

University and Snelling,

Midway Books,

Run by a curmudgeonly old man,

His long, stringy hair flattened to his scalp

With a dirty sweatband.

He hates kids and

Bus-waiters,

But he likes people like me:

Adults who

Retreat silently for hours into his

Stacks,

Whose purchases he makes

Comraderly comments on:

“Ah, spending some time with

Sinclair Lewis

This weekend?”

(Alas, I did waste a

Month this fall studying one of our state’s

Literary luminaries to discover that,

Despite his

Nobel Prize in 1930,

He kinda sucks.)

th-11Recently

I finished a good book–

Margaret Atwood’s latest

Short story collection–

And didn’t have another book

Lined up to immediately start.

If I don’t have a book going,

Or one to look forward to,

It’s typical for me to

Feel adrift and irritable.

This time,

My reaction was stronger.

It was more like panic and fear.

What if this was the moment when I just

Stopped

Reading

Books?

What if I just

Allowed myself to get

Sucked into the

Riptide of

The

Screen

And never pick up a

Book

Again?

It would be easy enough to do. th-5

People seem to do it

All the time.

I had a deeply

Depressing

Conversation with a colleague recently.

He was talking about how,

Since he reads all day

(On screens)

The last thing he wants to do

Outside work hours is

Read

A

Book.

“Just gimme my

Remote control and a

Six pack,”

He pronounced with a

Elbow-nudge.

“You know what I mean?”

th-1I was silent.

He didn’t know that I

Write books

In my spare time,

And I didn’t want to

Make him feel like a

Jackass by

Telling him.

But I kinda got it.

Even for a bibliophile like me,

It takes something like

Discipline

To put my device down at the

End of the day

And pick up a book. th-12

Screens

Affect me like

Caffeine,

They make my brain

Quivery inside my skull,

They make this

Naturally

Focused

Worker

Into a candidate for

ADHD medication.

And the content on the screens:

I slurp up information

On the screen

Greedily,

Out of control,

Like how I used to drink.

All those Netflix series!

All those real estate listings!

All that celebrity news!

So many

Unexplored

Digital rabbit holes.

Feed my head.

Feed my head.

Feed my head.

th-14That’s why

Even though it takes

One moment of

Discipline to

Close the laptop or the

Tablet cover

At the end of the day

And pick up my

Book,

I need that book

Now

More than

Ever.

The simplicity of the

Black and white pages,

The subtle texture of the

Paper

Give my brain

Space to

Delve deeply

Into the words,

The ideas.

Books have always been

A joyful part of my life.

But these days,

They’re a critical one.

To read a book th-16

At the end of a day

And let it lull me into

Drowsiness,

And then

Sleep,

Is a deeply

Precious  and

Necessary daily retreat.

To know that

There are enough books out there

To fill my lifetime

And then some,

That I’ll never run out of

Books to read

No matter how long I live

Is one of the things

I love most about

Life.

And in this

Increasingly

Screenified world,

I’m more sure of that

Than ever.

th-7

 

 

 

 

 

Done calling myself “busy”

thIf a life is like a

Jar full of rocks,

My jar is objectively

Pretty full.

I’m married,

We have four kids

Ages two to fifteen.

My husband and I both

Work full-time.

I spend time every week with my

12-step program and my church.

I see friends frequently.

Exercise daily.

Have a blog, and am

Working on a novel.

And yet,

I made a decision at the

New year:

I’m going to stop calling myself

“Busy.”

A rich life?

Absolutely.

A busy one?

No thanks.

When people asked

How I was, I always answered,

“Good.

Busy,”

The “busy” somehow a

Qualifier to the “good.”

The busier I thought of myself

And the busier I told people I was,

The busier I felt.

Just saying the word

“Busy”

Tightens my chest like

Twisting a piece of cloth.

The panic of

Not enough time,

Feeling like I’m trying to do the

Impossible:

Fit more into this span of time

Than the limitations of our world

Allow for.

Or, to tack on to the

Rocks-in-jar metaphor,

To try to cram more rocks

Into the jar than

The jar can hold.

(Pushing down on rocks to

Compress them

Is a futile exercise,

A waste of time and energy,

And can break the fragile jar-vessel.)

There have been times when I’ve

Glimpsed the

Self-induced spin I’ve

Put myself into.

Sudden breaks in the action when,

Between this and that activity,

I have an unexpected blip of unplanned time,

And I’m at a loss.

I actually grasp for the

Next thing

(Or my

So-called

Smart

Phone)

Because I’m so

Unpracticed at just

Hanging out.

Being.

There’s also a

Self-importance to my

Busyness, and an

Implication that

I don’t really have time for

You,

So if I’m standing here

Talking to you,

You’re imposing on my

Precious

Time.

(Even if I have a smile on my face.)

In the last few months,

I started to suspect that,

Maybe I’m not as

Busy

As I think I am.

I’ve got a lot of rocks in my jar,

But there are

Spaces between the rocks.

And room at the top for

New rocks,

If I want there to be.

Thinking of myself as

Busy,

I cut myself off from the

Serendipitous.

I’m so focused on

The next thing to do that

I don’t even see all these

Cool things and

Cool people

Happening around me.

I catch myself now.

When people ask me how I am,

I don’t tack on the

“Busy”

Qualifier.

I’m trying to focus more on the

Spaces between the rocks,

The air in there,

The nothingness.

Those spaces,

That’s my paradise.

That’s my wandering without aim,

My earplug-quiet and darkness

Just before sleep,

My Sunday mornings when we

Skip church,

My clocklessness,

My finding myself with

Nothing to do,

And

Not reaching for my

Smart phone.

Paradise amongst the

Rocks.

 

 

 

 

New year’s train ride: a changing world, a changing self in the window

IMG_0093It’s new year’s day

2015

(the year I turn

40.

Good

God).

I’m on the train–

One of my

Favorite places to be.

The City of New Orleans,

20 hours between

New Orleans and

Chicago.

Gazing out this train window is

My kind of entertainment:

Scenery flowing steadily by,

The deep, damp greens and

Browns of

The south in winter.

The gray-day

Forests and fields and

Poor, small, rickety towns.

Looking out the train window

In the daylight,

It’s expansive thinking,

Thinking that quests over the

Landscapes and

Around these small-town buildings and

Between the scrub brushes like

Rippling water.

Who are the people

In those houses?

What are the stories of those

Old buildings?

Who’s poled along these bayous and

Tramped in these forests?

And I love the

Rock of the train.

To just lay on this

Sleeper car bed and

Let this almost-40-year-old body

Be rolled

Back and

Forth,

To settle and

Settle

Deeper into my oldening skin and bones

With every gentle

Tug of the tracks,

This Buddha-grinning head

Lolling on the pillow,

These yoga feet

Flexing in the luxury of having

The whole bottom double berth

To myself.

To think that

Americans disdain

Riding the train!

We,

Who think of ourselves as

Expanders and

Ramblers!

There’s nothing more

Large and

Outward-glowing than a

Day-lit view out a

Train window.

IMG_0106And then,

The transition to night:

It’s that dark, snowless,

Southern winter kind of night

When you blink at your phone,

Amazed it’s only

8:15.

Now the window is a

Black

Mirror

Flecked by passing lights outside.

Now it’s you and

Your reflection in the glass,

Your almost-40-year-old

Arms

Moving your stuff around the

Blue-lit cabin.

You and the reflection of the

Top of your head

Lit by the reading lamp,

Doming like a perfect

Half-moon,

Like it holds a

Momentary miracle.

I’ve ridden trains for years.

How many times have I

Encountered the

Black train-window mirror,

Reflections of the back-lit

Shadowy hints of

Myself at

14 years old,

21 years old,

23,

27,

European trains in my

Twenties and thirties.

A lot of

Confusion and grasping,

Tears and

Unsteady cockiness in those

Old black-glass mirrors.

Today in the black-glass mirror,

I feel like a

Stretching cat,

Self-satisfied to

Loll here on vacation after

Working

So

Hard,

To have a strong-jawed husband in the

Berth above me,

A cantaloupe-bellied toddler

Sleeping in the pack-n-play,

Three other children

Growing in their sleep in the

Cabin next door.

(These children don’t

Save you from yourself but

Slowly,

If you keep enough of

Yourself to

Yourself,

They teach you

Many lessons.

And they are so funny.

We

Laugh and laugh.)

Today the

Black-glass mirror isn’t about

Angst and

Confusion.

Today it’s about a

Wink into the

Black night

And a curiosity for

What will be revealed

When the

Morning light turns this

Glass from a

Mirror back into a

Window on this

Mad, lovely

World.

IMG_0123

 

 

Recommitting to my gritty, authentic neighborhood: Hamline-Midway

P1050282Last weekend

Rocky, Victor and I

Walked around our neighborhood,

Hamline-Midway,

Me with my camera

Around my neck,

Bouncing on my chest

As I walked,

Pushing Rocky’s stroller,

Victor walking next to us in his

Swishy snow pants,

His begloved hand

Resting on the stroller handle.

The sky was utterly blue,

Cloudless,

And the winter sun was

Small and hard,

Throwing symmetrical noon shadows from the

Southern sky.

I was out looking for

Cool stuff to

Photograph

In my

Neighborhood.

In Hamline-Midway, this

Gritty,

Authentic,

Sketchy,

Dynamic neighborhood where

I’ve lived for

Six years.

Growing up in the suburbs of St. Paul,

I was restless for a more

Complicated ambiance than the

1980s housing tract

Surrounded by marshland

My parents lovingly provided,

And I rushed into the city

As soon as I started college.

But it’s taken me a

Long,

Long time to

Get a grip on the trade-offs of

City living.

When we first started looking for

Houses in 2008,

I’d listed to our realtor

All the neighborhoods I wanted to

Look in,

And seeing my price range,

He’d mentioned the

Midway.

“No way,” I’d said.

“Really? Midway?

Isn’t that kind of

Ghetto?”

“There are some nice

Neighborhoods back there,”

He’d said.

“Affordable.”

And so we’d bought our

Salmon-colored

1920’s bungalow,

Six of us in this

Little house,

Winter boots shoved in corners

Because there are no coat closets,

Refrigerator in the back hallway,

Visitors wedged

Hip-to-hip on the

Couches in the

Small living room.

And the neighborhood:

The empty shopping carts

Tipped over on snowbanks,

The pained stories on the neighborhood

Facebook page of

Home break-ins and

Cars rifled through,

The homeless folks with their

Cardboard signs

At the main intersections.

For the past couple years,

I’ve been

Planning my escape,

Emailing regularly with my

Mortgage banker and

Meeting with our realtor about

Plans and

Plans:

A bigger, nicer house in a

“Better” neighborhood.

But deep down,

I knew I hadn’t really given

This house and

This neighborhood

A chance.

And I suspected that if I

Moved to a

Beautiful house in a

Whiter,

Richer

Neighborhood,

I would realize too late how

Valuable to my

Life experience

This house and this neighborhood has been.

How the century-old buildings

Fascinate

For all the

Life that’s been

Lived in them.

How living as neighbors with

People who’ve had

Very few breaks in life

Has helped me find my

Voice as a writer who

Writes about

People of privilege encountering

Marginalized people

And having their worldview challenged.

I’ve always suspected that

This is a precious place in the world.

That there’s real life going on here,

Life that’s not always easy,

Life where things don’t

Fall into place,

Complicated life.

Rich life.

In a two-block radius from our house,

There’s a

Russian tea house with

Line-around-the-block pierogies,

A men’s drug and alcohol treatment center,

A pawn shop,

A porn shop,

The best Thai restaurant

In the Cities,

A surplus store displaying a

Real iron lung (not for sale),

An Ethiopian restaurant,

A drum shop,

A used book store with

Surly signs in the windows about

No bus waiting and

No kids without parents,

A 1940s-era nightclub with a

Mosaic scene of

Cowboys artifying an

Exterior wall.

Recently, we’ve decided to stay.

To add on to this house we might be able to

Actually pay off some day,

To recommit to this neighborhood.

And as soon as we’d made that decision,

My eyes started seeing it:

All the art that’s here.

The architectural details,

The mosaic designs.

And the funny,

Humble people who believe enough in

This place

To make this art.

I needed to act on my re-commitment,

And so the picture day.

The day I started seeing how

Rich this

Hamline-Midway is:

P1050206

 

 

 

P1050207

 

 

 

P1050217

 

 

 

 

P1050215

 

 

 

 

P1050219

 

 

 

P1050228

 

 

 

P1050222

 

 

 

 

P1050221

 

 

 

P1050230

 

 

 

P1050237

 

 

 

 

P1050248

 

 

 

P1050249

 

 

 

P1050295

 

 

 

P1050253

 

 

 

P1050254

 

 

 

P1050265

 

 

P1050269

 

 

 

P1050268

 

 

 

 

P1050303

 

 

 

 

P1050266

 

 

 

P1050278

 

 

 

 

P1050275

 

 

P1050288

 

 

 

P1050283