Rage Rant

This.  This is what is sick in our society.  This makes its way through a major publishing house, and is put on the shelves at your local bookstore.  And we wonder why rape culture continues to perpetuate itself.

Yeah, yeah, I get it.  Its supposed to be cute.  Its supposed to be clever.  "What new parent hasn't wished that their tiny bundle of a baby came with an instruction manual along with the enormity of responsibility?" asks the marketing assistant. Its a sentiment repeated on mommy blogs and social media.  It in itself is a symptom of a culture that has devalued intrinsic wisdom and the intuition we all have access to and has chosen instead to rely on the outside authority of 'experts' in nearly every field including, perhaps unsurprisingly, child rearing. Baby knows what baby needs, and so does Mom if she listens, so does Dad if he listens. But that's a whole 'nother conversation.

What got my goat, what made me gasp in outrage when I saw it on the shelf, what got me to whip out my cameraphone and snap a photo to post in rage to social media is the title and all the (unexamined - I will charitably assume this of the author who seems to be a well educated woman) assumptions that underpin the title.

You don't own your baby.  You don't own your child.  They are autonomous humans entrusted to your care.

But more than that?

A GIRL'S BODY IS NOT CHATTEL.  A woman's body is her own.  It does not magically become her own at the stroke of midnight when she turns 18.  It is her own as a teen, as a girl, as a baby.  It is hers.  It does not belong to the scary man in the alley, it does not belong to her soccer coach or her pastor or her teacher.  It does not belong to the guy she went out for drinks with.  (Pardon, the guy with whom she went out for drinks.) It does not belong to her boyfriend.  It does not belong to her husband.  It does not belong to People magazine or the paparazzi.  It does not belong to her mom.  It does not belong to her dad.  It belongs to her.

"Baby Girls : an owner's manual." That is not clever.  That is not cute.  That is sick.  It is sad. 

My inner snark had hoped to get even more righteously indignant over the fact there was no boy baby book with a parallel title.  But there is.  By the same author.  I don't know if that ameliorates the issue or makes it worse. 

If we intend to teach our children that no means no, that yes means yes, that they don't have to accept abuse, that they have no right to abuse or force themselves on another person; if we intend to heal a culture - a world - that has become inured to interpersonal violence and sexual harassment and assault... it has to start with the children.  We have to raise children who believe, who know, that they belong to themselves.  That their mind is their own, their feelings are their own, and that their body is their own. 

A winter's worth of wood

So, the Darlin'Man cut down a whole passel of trees before the sap ran this spring, clearing out a piece of what I dearly hope will become a sheep field before too entirely long.  Today, he and his Finnish axe made a bet that they could chop in a day what we'd otherwise use a wood splitter to make our way through... 

I think he succeeded in his challenge. I'm reminded of the legend of John Henry.  Thankfully there's no heart attack for us at the end of the day, just an icepack on his back. 

I'm so proud of - and oh so thankful for - my Mountain Man... I think I'll keep him. 

Quiet Beauty

I've discovered the joy of naps recently. I took one today, with kittens (grown up ones) to cuddle and snow falling softly out the window. It was the last full day at home I'll have for the next couple of weeks, and rather than trying to be productive, I spent today simmering soup, watching snow fall, sipping tea, reading, and writing letters. Have I shared yet about how much I love correspondence? Of the on paper in the mail variety? Because I do. It makes me happy and warm inside.  2 of these letters have been sitting half written on my coffee table for weeks, and it's lovely to know they will finally be posted to NYC and the Maine woods tomorrow! 

And then my darlin' darlin' darlin' man brought me home the loveliest bouquet. It's a nice reminder that despite the snow, spring approaches. And it's just so pretty. I smile Everytime I pass by. 

(This moment)

Joining in with Soulemama.com this Friday. 

{this moment} ~ A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Stitching for Yuletide

Every year I tell myself (and sometimes others) that I'm going to give handmade gifts.  Sometimes this is for the beauty and the love and the care and the ethic of handmade.  Sometimes it is because the bank account is looking real thin.  Both were true this year.  The difference was that I actually managed to give one meaningful handmade gift -and it was completed in time for the actual day of gift giving!  Happy Yuletide Mom!

This is a stitched copy of a medieval print from the first published midwifery manual.  Its an image I'm familiar with from a childhood raised by a childbirth educator, doula and midwife!  

This is probably my best "I saw it on Pinterest!" project to-date.  It wasn't precisely this image that I saw, but another medieval print done in black (and red!) line embroidery in this style.  I'm really pleased with how it came out.  And the stitching itself was both fun and therapeutically soothing.  I was working on it during a time when the dark was getting to me, when I felt frustrated, trapped into spending far too much time in town and not enough at home and overwhelmed with large projects; the stitching was something that I could control.  I could watch it grow.  It lulled my over-active mind, eased my way slipping into a meditative state.  It could be worked in small bits in companionable company with my husband on the couch in the late evening or in the coffeeshop or at the studio between appointments.  It was wonderful.  I would probably really benefit from and enjoy getting another stitching project started.  They're manageable, portable and addictive in the best sort of ways.

This one, I gave to my mother for Yule.  But the internet is full of out-of-copyright medieval prints.  I've got my eye on one of two witches summoning a rainstorm!

First I traced the image onto the cloth (I used special tracing paper and pencils from JoAnn's but I don't believe that is strictly necessary.  Also if you have easy access to a computer and printer, you can print onto wax paper and iron-on).  And then I stitched every line. 

Winter Prayer

I ask for the strength I will need to endure until spring

and the wisdom I require to learn from the dark 

and cold the lessons they will teach.

May I receive them without flinching

Jenna over at Cold Antler Farm shared this last winter, or possibly the year before.  I copied it down and made a note to myself to use it as the basis for a winter time blog post.  Its a good prayer for me right now.  We are having issues with all of the 'modern' infrastructures of the house: a leaking generator, a broken inverter, failing batteries, and now more plumbing issues on top of the ones that have had us hauling water in blue jugs the last year and more.  Its almost enough to make me want to rip out the plumbing (itself probably as arduous a job as fixing it), set up a grey water system, install the compost toilet, sell the hot water heater and water softener and the whole generator set up and invest the sales monies in a wood cookstove and a bajillion Alladin lamps.  I want to curl up in a ball of tears and ask why.  Instead, I count our blessings.  I'm grateful for woodheat and candlelight.  I'm grateful that the leaky generator still runs, and that the mountain man has its manual on order.  I'm grateful the batteries have not yet given up the ghost.  I'm grateful that I get to learn about plumbing.  I'm grateful that the prospect of a housejack makes me sigh, but does not scare me.  I practice gratitude because that's the only way to hold my determinism.  We will have running hot and cold water and a working electrical system before snow flies next fall.

I ask for the strength I will need to endure until spring

and the wisdom I require to learn from the dark 

and cold the lessons they will teach.

May I receive them without flinching

Hi again

Hello. I miss writing here. So I'm back. I think. We'll see. It seems sometimes (a lot of the times) (nearly always) that I have better intentions and more projects than I can live up to or finish. And sometimes this space feels like another one of them. But at the same time, this is a useful space for me to catalog and share those intentions I do live up to and those projects I do complete.  Not to mention thought tangles about life and beauty which seem to want more than just a journal entry no one else will ever see. Why do thoughts seem more valid when shared?  

Which I realize really gives this space a lop sided perspective on my life; it elides the rough patches, ignores the sink of dirty dishes or the fact that the summer garden is overgrown and that just outside the perfectly composed frame is the mess of life. But there you have it. We all curate ourselves on the internet, do we not? 

So, here goes. An experiment perhaps? That takes the pressure of a resolution away. A return to this space and an experiment in using it however best suits me. Even if that means entries that are nothing but pictures of pies. Like this one. 

Blueberry rhubarb. My new favorite combo. And with rhubarb hopefully surviving it's first winter in the garden and blueberry lowlands just down the road, one that's sure to return for many years to come.