Feminism, Relationships, Individual worth, & money. Ayn Rand is in my head!

About two years ago, Kevin asked me to quit one of my jobs, waiting tables, so that I could partner with him on Rooted Landscaping. We've been together well over 10 years and have joint bank accounts. Until we got Rooted more organized (part of the impetus for me to come on board) I wouldn't have a salary per se. On paper at least, I wouldn't earn much of anything.

Even though I was working for Rooted, because our income wasn't separated, I felt like a kept woman. If Kevin and I weren't a couple, I wouldn't be able to support myself.

I was freaking out.

Around the same time, a friend of mine moved into the area. Given the economy and the fact that she was a fresh transplant, it took her months to find work. Thankfully, she was also in a relationship where her partner could support the two of them. She didn't lay around and eat bon bons. She finished a book she'd been working on for years, volunteered in a field where she'd created international non-profits, and kept their house spotlessly clean.

She was freaking out.

Recently, another friend described her transition from a good job, but not the right one for her, into a graduate program that would allow her to work in a new field. Her job is driving her nuts, which means she's driving her husband nuts. He's urging her to quit and take a break before beginning grad school. Leaving her job is inevitable, the question is when. She's waiting to leave a job that she's not fond of because if she went now, she'd be completely reliant on her husband's income (for only a few months!). Which they could handle.

But the thought is freaking her out.

In each conversation with these women, our eyebrows raised, our hands gesticulating wildly, we exclaimed, "He'll resent me! I can't take care of myself! I'm a bad feminist!"

So weird.

I'm sure all of our individual politics and beliefs vary, but none of us are too keen in total capitalism and we're not racing to be rich. For me, personally, I believe whole-heartedly in interdependence and less reliance on money. I'm not impressed by wealth accumulation nor fancy careers. I believe we should all focus on health for ourselves, our communities, and our environment.

Yet, in a total about face, I feel like I have to have enough income at any given moment to support myself in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed. Which is (by global standards) extravagant and unnecessary.

I absolutely believe that communities should support one another. Children and elders should be supported by those who can generate resources. Their value is outside of economic scale. Similarly, when people are ill or parents are on maternity or paternity leave, they shouldn't worry about income. There are reasonable times when any of our work will not be remunerated.

In the layers below my intellect, there's something residual, a lingering belief that causes my emotional strings to spasm when triggered-- I still equate independence and responsibility with money.

Why?

In each of the instances outlined in the introduction, the partners in the equation were TOTALLY OK with providing for their partner. In each instance, both parties were contributing to the welfare of the whole, but not all work was financially compensated. Thankfully, these were situations where at least one party had sufficient gainful employment to support their beloved.

That spasm-y emote-string reverberates with, "I'll be a mooch. He'll resent me." All the nonsense rhetoric unfairly applied to those who receive welfare (and not justly applied to the corporations truly bleeding the public coffers). These aren't even my politics?! Why are they in my head?!

I PURPOSEFULLY built a life that is based on stability but not accumulation. I intentionally have invested in community and purposeful work at the expense of excess things/stuff/money. I committed to someone with shared goals and beliefs. And yet. Lurking. Just below.

This thing.

So what's up with this? I can speculate a bit. I'm 33. The friends I profiled range from 30-45. We were all pretty conscious in the 80s and 90s when a lot of lip service was given to women having careers outside the home, "having it all," being independent. My older sister was always my hero. I always knew she was and would be self-sufficient. I knew that I would be too.

I didn't anticipate the varied compromises and unexpected scenarios of adult life, specifically in partnership. I didn't realize the array of decisions on any given day. I didn't realize that all my unexamined beliefs would surface so that I could blessedly know myself, even when the process feels freaky and foreign.

It took me a solid year of freaking out before I acknowledged that I work, I contribute, my worth is not a paycheck. I still think about this stuff. Rooted is also getting to the point where I could track my own salary, though I haven't yet.

We're the generation born to feminists, me thinks. I'm grateful for the women who preceed and mentor me. I wonder what I have to pass down to the next? That the models of independence we're erecting can be nuanced? That we can disentangle independence and respect from earnings? That we can create our own economies of barter and trade, and offer energy?

Early in our relationship, Kevin said something really insightful to me. "Politically, you believe in interdependence, but emotionally, you're on board with Ayn Rand. What's up with that?"

Truly.

Borderlands

When I remember Cuba, I think of escape.

This morning I read a poetry prompt about place. The reader is invited to think of a place where something happened.

I thought of listening to Wyclef Jean on the roof of my semester-long home in Havana.

During that semester, the students in my study abroad program and I converted a University Hotel in the Vedado section of La Habana to a dorm. The second story was our haven from the incessant hisses and invitations endemic to walking the streets of La Habana. Though I think many of my classmates were less troubled by the quick intimacy of Cuban relationships than myself.

I was hiding.

I spent hours in my room watching CNN. The first month of our semester abroad the World Trade Centers dropped after the plane crashes. I saw the footage looped from my urban tropical dorm room. When I truly drove my roommate nuts, I went up to the roof. Three stories above our neighbors playing dominoes on over-turned milk crates. Three blocks uphill from El Malecon, the crumbling wall holding the Caribbean Sea at bay.

One night, my roommate and I wandered down to the always populated Malecon. We stood on the lip of the wall. It was one am, which I guess must have been high tide. The waves crashed against the wall and steamed the tops of our heads. My roommate, Kieu, was from LA. She was used to late night visits with big water.

During the day I sometimes took runs along El Malecon. I put headphones on to try to deter the inevitable friendships of walking the streets of La Habana. It rarely worked. I would try to out-run those who wanted to talk to me.

Back home, a family I didn't know how to be a part of, a relationship that had been long-dead. The embargo kept so much at bay.

I walked up to the roof at night, felt balmy sea breezes, watched life lived stories below, and listened to my walkman.

I guess the thing that happened was I became accustomed to life without them. The whole world changed that semester. When I landed in Newark that winter, American flags dangled from every conceivable surface. Patriotism hung in the air in equal parts fearful and aggressive.

Soon after my arrival, we both conceded the relationship was long gone. We made our peace while I was out of range for phone calls and emails. When I got back to the States I moved out, left college, and cut ties.

On the rooftop in Havana, I made peace with life on my own terms.

Salty Words

It's National Poetry Month! I've been writing a poem a day, but privately. I have some raw material today that I thought I'd splash into the world. I always welcome feedback.

Grow a Pair

And a backbone.
Stop apologizing for
every inhale.
Stop swallowing your
words.

You're happiest tied
to railroad tracks;
unleashing your hair
from the castle tower;
sleeping for decades
under glass.

Get up and make a
trail of muddy boot
prints.
Publish every one of
their whispers.
Steal their leverage.

I dream of islands because
they are calloused scar
tissue rising from
the sea.

Prepping potatoes

Cutting potatoes to dry and then plant. Always makes me think of my maternal grandmother. Towards the end, I was quick with questions, "What was your mother like? What games did you play?" She was playfully evasive. 

I gathered one story.

Her father was on the board of the bank. Their farm was worked by white share-croppers. They did plant some themselves. Her father was busy, arriving home late. My grandmother wanted to help him, so she began prepping the potatoes for planting. She cut through the eye of every potato, thereby ruining the seed stock. When he returned to her eager helpfulness, a flash across his face informed her of her mistake. But he thanked her, graciously accepted the seed potatoes, and moved towards the fields as though he would plant them.

Every time I plant potatoes, I think of graciousness.

I'm still

Reckless Self-Righteousness

vs.

Reckless Humility

Kevin just said those words and I love the idea. Working towards reckless humility, untethered humility, freed from ego, present.

I was able to see family last week when I headed down to DC for the Split This Rock poetry & activism conference. Kevin had been sick. I felt twinges, but tried to shrug them off. Between a heavy work week and lots of travel, the twinges graduated on Thursday, while I was in DC. For that reason, I cut my time short, only attending two of three possible workshops. Thankfully, I made it home safely. During the trip, I had my favorite high school teacher on speaker phone and got to catch up.

Thursday night my sore throat growled and I drank water to appease. Then the cycle of having to go to the bathroom. Then trying to comfortably lay down to find sleep only for it to be interrupted by post-nasal drip. I didn't sleep at all. The silver lining? My sweet cat, Laz, stayed by my side the entire time. Usually, Laz puts Kevin and I to bed and then gets to the important business of wandering. Thursday night, he took care of me.

Anxiously, I waited for an appropriate hour to text fellow yoga teachers about covering my 6 am class. I had hoped to be able to teach it myself, but that seemed wildly unlikely after such a rough night. A friend came through quickly, and I fell into a few hours of sleep in the morning.

All day, Laz by my side.

Weeks ago, my friend Deb told me that she'd been feeling the need to be quiet and still. I was so impressed by her wise adherence to that message. I often feel that too, but unfortunately, I don't always heed it. I'm compelled by "should," I "should" go there, do this thing, be there for this person. Or, I don't want to miss something. Illness is always a messenger right? Be still.

I'm still.

When planted seeds start to bloom

What a week!

This morning, I received word that I'll be assisting Beth Filla when she teaches at the Namas Day Festival in Philly. I LOVE assisting and adjusting students. Plus, musician (& friend!) Andrew Chalfen will offer live tunes. Read the description below & register.

Make Me an Instrument: a Jivamukti Yoga Chakra Balancing PracticeBeth FillaAsana, Meditation, Intermediate, 9:00-10:30 am

Our bodies are the repositories for our karmas: everything we do, say, and think has an impact. Different parts of our physical bodies correspond to the situations and relationships we find ourselves in at different points in our lives. Through yoga asana, sound practice (mantra), and meditation, we can liberate ourselves from the residues of our past actions and clear the channels so we can consciously direct our energy toward what we hold most dear.

In other news, I'm developing a bunch of amazing yoga retreats. It's bananas. To me, travel can function so similarly to yoga-- it can prime us to reconceive of ourselves and our environment. Powerful. One retreat I've been dreaming of mightily? Hoi An, Vietnam. I received word today that Advanced Certified Jivamukti Instructor, Julie Kirkpatrick has committed to co-teach with me! I'm pretty much beside myself. She an astounding teacher, so the participants will benefit from all of her bright insight-- but I get to practice with her when I'm not teaching! What a blessing!

Stay tuned. This is turning out to be a bright spring.

Travel Bend Write

Last night I headed up to NYC to perform with the #GrowFierce showcase of writers from Caits Meissner's Digging Deep, Facing Self course. 

I parked at my spot in Hoboken. Took the PATH train to 14th. Got the F train downtown. Scouted out Bluestockings. They were playing intimidating punk music. I skulked down the street and nervously sat over a bowl of Pho and a Vietnamese iced coffee.

I picked at my food, hungry, but too anxious to eat. 

A woman came in sharing her excitement over an upcoming trip to Vietnam. A staff member explained that she was from Saigon. I had to jump in. Soon, we're swapping stories of rice paddies, red sand hills, and misty switchbacks. My mind in Vietnam, my palms stopped sweating.

I mentioned that I develop yoga retreats and ache to offer one in Vietnam. The woman's eyebrows raised, "Really?! Do you have a card?"

Why yes, yes I do.

And then, remembering myself. I do. I do that. I travel around the world. I bend bodies. I write words.

With the warmth from these two women, I wandered back to Bluestockings. This revolutionary space has offered haven to Ramona Africa, to activists and artists spanning decades. The workers began setting out chairs and I begged to help, desperate for something to do. Their warm smiles made the punk seem less intimidating.

Soon, a trickle of familiar faces, though regrettably, mainly familiar from Facebook. No matter, they soon were in my arms as we embraced in greeting. 

And then, one by one, we offered ourselves up. The audience held us warmly.

An untitled piece that I shared last night:

Used to say vacant lots were

ugly until we dropped beats

around them, kicked life against

chain link fence, strung shoes

like ornaments on telephone 

wire

Said open fields were boring

until we painted the canvas 

with seed and let the horizon

bleed into the sky

They said Brooklyn was a

dump, Philly an armpit. Now

we splash home across our

chest, claim ancestry in

concrete

They disqualified most

female bodies--

too

big

hairy

pale

brown

skinny

flabby

We ask, "Where did

you come from?"

-Maiga Milbourne

A highlight, sweet Amy's son took the mike. He huffed, explained he had to get himself together, made sweet, determined fists, and basically displayed everything I had felt. Gathering what he needed, he crafted a poem on the spot.

The promise of big stories and whole humans. Space made for vital, small voices.

Plots made and wishes shared about the Mythic Beings Retreat, a weekend opened up specifically to nourish and create. I can't wait to experience more of what these women have to offer.

I slipped out, onto the F train, out on the PATH train, and then driving south to home. Tired, my brain spun. Space for our stories, for our voices, for each other.

This morning, Caits shared a poem written for each of us.

For me:

Maiga:

Ma, you ride

wind, song & 

waves, bend 

space & spine

& being fluid &

sunflower-fist

burst straight

through sky's 

thick canvas -

come sing

this freedom

loud as a flock

of gulls alive

over ocean &

then shhhh,

be still & bold

as stone,

you beg us

to be good

but strong.

-Caits Meissner

Come to the next two dates in the series! April 14 & May 12!