The Iris

On Saturday I noticed the hearty leaves that sprout on the side of my house in the spring had developed a bud, with deep purple petals beginning to push through.  I snapped a photo and sent it to Lindsey, who responded, "Ooo, purple!  I bet it's an iris."

I had admired my neighbors irises many times, but had no idea the plant that grows every year had the potential to be a blooming iris.  Sure enough, when I pulled into the driveway on Monday, I noticed immediately that the flower had bloomed.  It was stunning. 

It was clearly a sign, I thought.  Something fantastic was about to happen.  And I needed something fantastic to happen.  Sender and I, who had been involved in a casual relationship for several months, had been in the process of figuring out what to do with our romantic relationship that seems to have evolved into more of a friendship.  It had been a tiring process, as he and I started to let go of the security we'd found in each other.  I'd come to count on Sender to be available for dinner, companionship, and a shoulder to lean on that somehow provided a different sort of comfort than be found among family and platonic friends.  He took me on my first post-divorce date, he was the first person to hold my hand again or put his arm around me in romantic affection after nearly a year long void of that sort of special, intimate, contact.  I needed him, right at that very moment, and he will be dear to me always. 

As our relationship fizzled the way these things do, with a reduced amount of text messaging but still the occassional, "Wanna go to lunch this week?" I felt at once scared of treading the single waters again, and hopeful.  I had a plan.  I had always had a plan.  And when I have a plan I am focused, and driven.  That beautiful purple iris bloom was my sign that my plan was right on track, no matter how scared I was feeling. 

My hope was promptly cut short, though, with an unexpected - unplanned - message.  A kink in the plan.  A great, big kink, and the kind I can't unravel.  The kind that is completely out of my control.  The kind of kink you feel in your heart; the kind of helplessness you feel in your gut.  The kind of kink that I had considered might arise, but which I waved off because I knew I couldn't plan for it or do a damn thing about it if it ever came up. 

I'm a planner.  I'm a go-getter.  "Why do you pursue men?" my therapist asked.  I do for a lot of reasons.  I do it because most men who I would be interested in are not the type that would pursue someone like me.  I do it because I like to be in control.  I do it because when I want something, I go out and get it.

"You do," said my mom.  "Like a law degree.  But some things aren't yours to have."  I picked at my plate while I considered what she'd just said.  Not mine to have?  Like people? 

I wanted a husband.  I searched and searched, my eyes on the end goal, passing on anyone who I didn't think I could get to the finish line.  I caught him.  I married him.  I began working on my plans for the rest of my life until I planned, and organized, and scheduled myself into an unplanned divorce. 

I wanted a baby.  I wanted several babies.  I had wanted them for as long as I can remember.  I'd been naming them since I was 13.  I calendared their due dates even before they were conceived.  Like clockwork, their existence was detected with a home pregnancy test two weeks after they came into being.  I began stockpiling diapers, clothes and furniture.  I made lists of names and meanings and practiced writing them and saying them out loud.  I picked out nursery decor.  I planned, and organized, and scheduled my children's lives never imagining with either pregnancy that all of the plans would be unnecessary.  I planned them, until I broke them.  That was NOT part of the plan.  That was NOT supposed to happen.  I learned a hard lesson that people, not even our children, are not ours to go out and get, and have, and keep. I was shocked to learn I was miscarrying my baby.  I was shocked to learn I would lose my next baby.  I'm always shocked by this kind of news because I don't really hope and dream tentatively, I hope and dream with faith and confidence.

I can say that I'm a planner, but my plans are often born out of impulse and governed by emotional wants and childish impatience.  I don't feel halfway, I feel from the bottom of my heart and it drives me and that drive is my success and my undoing all at once.  I set my sights, and I march ahead and I pursue what I want because I want it.  Gabriel was just as determined.  He decided he was going to live ten days, and so he did, in spite of statistics. I'm not sorry that I gave him my strong will.

I'm not sorry for the way I love and care - deeply, and with abandon.  I'm only sorry for the way I show it - desparately and wildly and unrestrained. It strikes me now that maybe this isn't the best MO. 

I wanted grass.  I got grass.  Every day I find myself fussing over the grass, watering the dry patches of sod that haven't taken quite yet, scolding Noelle for trying to pull up the sod, tip-toeing across a lawn that two large dogs run across and wrestle and play on all day while I'm at work.  The dry patches still haven't taken. 

But before Saturday I don't think I had ever touched the iris.  I didn't pull the leaves in the spring, or trim them back when they wilted in the fall.  I didn't give it any special attention.  I just let it be, and it became this beautiful thing that I never even noticed was there.  It makes me wonder what else I have missed in my narrow focus and pursuits.  I wonder what I've lost because I've fussed too much or tried too hard.  What kinds of things would have grown if I hadn't tried so hard?  How many more irises are out and the next time I see one, will I have slowed down enough to recognize it? 

Hope's Alive

Since 2007 I have been waiting. 

2007 was the last year a woman won American Idol - Well, at 16 Jordin Sparks wasn't quite a woman when she took the title.  Although through Season 8 I championed the unlikely Kris Allen all the way to the first place spot, I have wanted another woman to win every year since then.  Of all the things wrong in the world, of all the things to hope for, hoping for a woman to win American Idol is unquestionably trite, yet it was a fervent wish of mine as this season kicked off.

With every male contestant eliminated and five women left standing in this unprecedented season of American Idol, it appears my wish has come true. 

Why American Idol?  Because I get to watch someone else's dream come true.  In fact, I get to help make their dream come true. I get to sort through a talented bunch of people and eliminate the egos, the slouches and the hacks until I've found the singer who touches my heart and inspires me. 

I love American Idol. 

Although the top five are all women, the situation still isn't ideal to me.  As I type tonight, I watched my favorite, Janelle Arthur, get eliminated.  I think I knew Janelle wasn't going to be the winner, like I knew Haley Reinhart and Hollie Cavanagh were probably not going to be the winners.  After Janelle's stunning performance of "You Keep Me Hanging On" I felt a glimmer of hope that the rest of the world was seeing what I had seen for weeks.  I can't help it.  Though I have a frightening competitive streak, and I hate to lose, I'm also a sucker for an underdog and hopelessly romantic when it comes to a lost cause.  Some might say giving up is easy, but it's actually not.  Giving up when your heart is telling you to keep holding on even while it's breaking is not easy, or I suppose I would have many times by now. 

I keep hoping, because every once in a while, someone like Kris Allen wins American Idol, and every once in a while, the baby they said would die moments after birth lives for ten days and changes the world.  Every once in a while, the hope you were told to let go of proves itself worth holding on to. 

The Dootch

I lost a couple of things temporarily in the divorce:  Amestoy's, and Narducci's. 

Though I am an East Bakersfield native and Ben migrated here from Orange County, he quickly took to the local food and bar scene.  Certain places just became his.  Amestoy's, just down the street from the house, was one of them.  Narducci's, affectionately called "The Dootch," was another.  I've known bartenders and patrons at both places for many years, having become a staple myself in the East Bakersfield bar scene after nearly 10 years of service in it.  But Ben was a regular at both spots, and after so many years in the business, I know how comfortable - and talkative - regulars can be.

For years I've listened to men complain about their nagging, crochety, bitchy wives.  Their wives who just don't understand them.  The wives that just want to keep these independent, hard-working men under their thumbs.  The wives whose phone calls are rattling the men's cell phones while they ask for one more drink.  Now that I have been one of those wives I shudder to think about what kinds of things have been said about me. 

When the time came to walk into Amestoy's again, the fear was a little bit more mild.  I'd been to Amestoy's many times before I'd ever even met Ben, and the bar is in walking distance from my home.  Besides, the crowd at Amestoy's had been instrumental in raising funds so that Ben and I didn't have to pay for Gabriel's funeral, cremation, or interment services.  The names of patrons and bartenders from both Amestoy's and Narducci's decorate the pages of Gabriel's funeral guest book.  They know.  They know, to some degree, what we went through.  They witnessed the progression from happy newlyweds to crestfallen post-miscarriage parents, to blissfully expectant parents, to grieving parents, to fueding parents, to distant parents, to divorced parents. . . They know the ride that lasted just slightly under three years had been fast, and hard, and disastrous. 

Yet I was afraid to walk back into Narducci's again.  I kept my distance, having never been much of a patron their to begin with.  Every once in a while, one of their bartenders would pop into Charly's and ask how I was doing.  And if I'd heard from Ben. 

On St. Patrick's Day evening I got a simple message:  "Come to the Dootch."  The sender and I had been casually dating for a couple of months, and St. Patrick's Day was his birthday, a bit of a milestone birthday this particular year.  I hesitated when I opened the message.  Sender had graciously been my date and companion on a number of occassions in situations that probably made him less than comfortable.  And it was Sender's birthday.  And it was a holiday. . .

"Okay," I responded.  I called for back-up, dragging another friend along with me with promises of being the driver for the evening.  I slunk into the bar and bee-lined for Sender.  Sender was lively with celebratory spirit, and I imagined that I felt the eyes of the people I knew boring into me.  The place was packed, and the bartenders barely had time to think, let alone think about me, but my paranoia bubbled inside of me. 

"There she is. The ex-wife of the ex-chef at the Marriott.  You know, the one with the dead baby.  It's so sad.  That must be why she drinks.  I would too, if everything I lived for were gone.  Is she here with Sender?  Isn't it too soon for her to be dating?  Pretty convenient, huh?  No kid to look after - She drove the ex off to South Carolina so now I guess she thinks she can just run around doing whatever she wants." 

The Dootch was wall to wall with drunk young, barely-of-drinking-age girls, rowdy men, and a band.  No one would have cause to even take notice of me as I sat inconspicuously.  Reason tells me now it was all in my imagination.  But at the time it felt painfully real. 

I made it out of The Dootch that evening relatively unscathed.  The same can't be said for Sender - mid-morning text messages informed me that he was feeling the effects of a long day of celebrating. 

I've gone back to The Dootch a few times, and each time it gets a little easier.  I do find myself wondering what life might have been like if there were no Narducci's - but I know that there's always a Narducci's.  If it's not Narducci's, it's a Shooters, or a Sandtrap.  It's not lost on me that my life with Ben began and ended in a bar and that maybe a lesson to take away is to just avoid them.  But I know that the problem wasn't the bar.  The problem runs much deeper and the problem runs through us both.  I've spent the last year wrestling the problems, trying to accept responsibility for my faults, and making conscious choices to do things differently now. 

I've done a lot of growing up in bars and all in all, I think working in bars has given me courage, strength, and confidence.  I'll awlways be a bar girl.  But I won't always be so broken.  In fact, every day I find that I've healed just a little bit more. 

Trial and Error

There was never any question for me upon entering law school that I should be a trial attorney.  Anyone who knew me prior to starting law school also knew I would come out the other side a trial attorney.  Like being a mom, being a trial attorney is just sort of what I was meant to do.

My heart has been in criminal law since I understood the importance of law.  For 27 years my mom was legal secretary to arguably the best criminal defense attorney that Bakersfield had ever seen, and for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be Stan Simrin when I grow up.  I want to be the kind of lawyer who practices with the burning belief that every person accused of a crime deserves a defense.  I want to be the kind of lawyer that MAKES opposing counsel prove their burden, and who argues every case with the fierce zeal that we are ethically bound to demonstrate.

Over cocktails and karaoke one evening, a fellow attorney who passed the California bar exam the same year that I did said to me, "I can't believe you're doing worker's comp.  You are a criminal defense attorney at heart.  You believe in it.  I respect that."  As he slurred his way through a David Allan Coe song I thought wistfully about what he'd said.

Criminal defense isn't the most respected area of legal practice, because it's frequently misunderstood.  There's a belief that if a person would defend a criminal, they must somehow approve of crimes, think victims are "asking for it," or that the lawyer must also be a crook and a criminal just trying to rake in retainer fees.  I think some people must think we are vulnerable fools, or at least that's what I gather every time I comment publicly about the Jodi Arias trial.

"I can kinda see how things happened as she describes," I'll say, and jaws hit the floor.  It's undoubtedly easier to believe that Arias is just a sociopath and a liar - we know at least the latter part is true and likely so is the first.  But, as they say, as children prosecutors and plaintiff's attorneys like to build things, and defense attorneys like to tear them down.  From the time I was a child I was picking cases apart and I know that I was just a born defense attorney.  If there's reasonable doubt to be found, a defense attorney can spy it.

After years of dreaming about what my first "real trial" would be like, the real thing couldn't have been more anticlimactic.  Though I had done hearings in civil court where there was action and interaction with witnesses, and come very close to taking a case to jury trial, my first actual trial was a lien trial.  At lien trials, stipulations and issues and a list of exhibits are read into the record, with the parties appearing to either approve or dispute what was read on the record.  Then everyone just sorta goes back to their office.  Brilliant, lengthy arguments aren't delivered.  No one stands up.  The parties aren't even all lawyers.

A lien trial isn't what I envisioned for my first trial.  Then again, life isn't really what I planned it to be either.  Life, both professionally and personally, has been full of trial and error.  I never thought I'd be practicing administrative law, but I love it.  It's never dull - except when it is.  My colleagues are bright, adept attorneys; the firm that employs me is respectable and good to me; the applicants are interesting; I get to travel; and I love going to work every day.  I'm not just biding my time with this position. I love my job and so I'm giving it an honest shot.

I know eventually I'll find my way back to criminal defense.  It's in my heart.  It's who I am.  I wonder sometimes if I'm just a fool, clinging to romantic notions of justice.  Why can't I just be satisfied with what I've got?  How can I have so much, and still want more?  But in my heart, I believe the time was just wrong for me to be in criminal practice right now.  Someday, the time will be right.  Until the it is, I suppose I'll just keep trying to make the most of what I've got right now, and learning all along the way.

Into Church History. . . And Beyond

The little blue light flashed on my phone, still charging on my bathroom counter, when I woke up on February 11, 2013, alerting me that I had a message.  I swiped the screen to read the message:  "Did you hear the Pope is retiring?  Does that make him ex-Benedict?"  I rolled my eyes.  It was too early for one of Rick's pope jokes.

At work Ken stopped me in the hallway.  "So, the Pope's retiring?"

A few questions sprang to mind.  Could Ken and Rick be in on this together?  How did I become the default Catholic to ask pope questions of?  And. .  wait. . . The Pope's retiring?

By now the news has begun to sink in.  If you are Catholic, whether in practice or only in name, you have come to realize the secular world's curiosity about our Faith.  People have likely turned to you with their questions, and you've discovered how much you still have to learn about your own Church.  Perhaps you've learned that he is more than just a figurehead, he is our Papa.  If your experience has been anything like mine, it's only with the retirement of Pope Benedict XVI that you have discovered how much you love our leader.

The secular world may think us bizarre, almost cult-like in our adherence to one man who leads our universal Church.  They are intrigued by the mysterious selection process, and skeptical of our belief that the Holy Spirit moves the conclave of religious who will gather to determine who our next Pope will be.  I'm intrigued too.  And as time closes in on February, at the end of which Pope Benedict will leave the throne of Peter, I'm surprised by the sadness in my heart as I consider saying farewell.

My reversion to the Faith of my cradle began eight years ago.  Not long after I returned to the Catholic Church to begin a new stage in my own spiritual journey, our beloved John Paul II passed from this world, paving the way for Pope Benedict XVI's new stage of his spiritual journey.  Pope Benedict and I "grew up" together; he is, for all intents and purposes, the only Pope I've ever really known.

Benedict will be remembered as a theologian, who closely followed in the footsteps of his predecessor Pope John Paul II.  He is a man of deep thought, and deep prayer, and though our first instinct at his announcement of retirement was to be shocked by this virtually unprecedented decision, we know that it is the product of much reflection.  We see that the world is changing.  We sense that morale is low among us and around us.  We see that people are leaving the Church.  But we also see that people are reverting and converting to the Catholic Faith in droves.  We trust our leader.  We trust the structure of our Church.  We trust that God always leads us where He needs us to go.

I will remember Pope Benedict's bold position on issues that are dear to my own heart.  Pope Benedict has been outspoken against the poor treatment of animals, particularly those raised for food.  He reminded us of our human obligation to be good stewards of this earth.  Like Pope John Paul II, Benedict was an advocate against the death penalty, calling on us to work to end this practice in our modern world where we have alternatives to execution.  And when Americans were rejoicing in the death of Osama Bin Laden, Pope Benedict reminded us that every soul belongs to God and that each one is part of His flock.  Our God never wants to see any of us go astray.  Every soul has value, and we should pray for mercy on every single one.

Even our Good German Shepherd is not assured that leaving this world will lead straight to Heaven.  Our eyes must always be focused on that reward; we cannot lose sight of that goal.  As Benedict struggles with his declining health, we can trust that he will continue to look towards Heaven and we should continue to pray that he, and all of our brothers and sisters, may find themselves there someday.

The world will keep speculating about "real" reasons for Pope Benedict XVI's resignation.  They'll gossip about scandalous allegations, even while they wait, fascinated, for the announcement of our new leader.  We faithful Catholics have a rare opportunity to share our Faith right now; the world is never as interested in the beauty and mystery of our religion as it is when our pope is being selected.

Somehow, in my faith journey I have become one of those people who listens to Catholic radio.  I've become hungry for knowledge and information about my Faith, and the timing couldn't be better.  I implore fellow Catholics to keep themselves informed as we go through this process together.  Protect your Church. Take this opportunity to educate and even evangelize - we don't do enough evangelizing, having relied for so long on breeding ourselves into domination.  Our friends will have questions about papal infallibility, the likelihood that a new pope will "change" the Church teachings on contraception, and even about rituals and customs involving silver hammers and fishermen's rings.  I've learned in recent years that the answers to all of our questions are somewhere to be found, and right now it's up to us to spearhead our own education in our faith so we can be prepared to answer the secular world's questions.

At the end of the day, we are not so very different from our dear pope.  Our hearts all long for Heaven.  We all long to hear someday the same words:

"Well done, good and faithful servant."

Saddling Up

Somewhere inside of me, I know it's not normal to feel this torn.

A couple of months ago, I started dating again.  My friends and even my parents were thrilled.  I had, in their opinions, earned a little companionship.  I had earned a reprieve from the loneliness that only a door held open, a nice dinner, and a romantic surprise text message can bring.

I kept the information closely guarded from the online Catholic community that I've been walking my spiritual journey with for the past few years.  I knew what their response would be: An annulment has not been granted - in fact, the process hasn't even begun. In the eyes of the Church, despite the fact that I have not laid eyes on my "husband" in months, I am still married.  Any romantic relationship I have until that annulment may be granted is considered adulterous.

 The guilt tugs at me; rightly so, I suppose.  I have chosen to be part of a Faith that requires discipline.  It is a rule-based Faith, and I have faith that the rules are there for a reason, for our own good.  I know that I cannot in good conscience just do what feels right - We're not animals, for God's sake.  We don't have to give in to our every whim.

At the same time, I struggle to understand why the rules have to leave me feeling so damn miserable.  I don't want to let go of my companion.  He is exactly what the word implies:  Good company.  A shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, a drinking buddy (we can never have too many!), a dinner date.  He's not just a warm body.  He's not just someone to fill the space.  I don't know that the future holds anything for us, because that's not the point.  He does something for me today that no one else really does:  He gives me hope when my hope has been shattered.

I've listened to the warnings.  "You need time."  "Beware of your codependent ways."  "Be happy with you before you try to be happy with someone else."  I wonder if it's struck anyone how much time - my child's lifetime, a marriage that was supposed to last a lifetime - has been packed into the last few years.  Does the time I spent feeling alone in a marriage not count for anything now?  No sort of credit for time served?  One day I realized the life I'd thought I would be living was gone; one day I realized I couldn't go back; one day I realized I was okay with never going back and I charged ahead.  As long as I was charging ahead I was strong and willful; as long as I was submitting job resumes and finding gainful employment and making it on my own I was determined.  Am I now weak, for taking steps towards finding what I want most again?  Does someone wanna tell me when the right time to get back on the horse again is?  Does someone have some sort of step-by-step guide that could have told me how to get through the last few years, and how to move forward from here?

Where have the critics been while I was struggling to provide for myself and my dogs, while I was putting the pieces of my single life back together, while I was adjusting to a new career?  I wonder if they realize that I think I'm pretty fucking awesome, and it's beyond me and my vanity why I can't get the people that I want to realize it, but I'll sure enjoy the attention from someone who does.  When everyone around me seems to be sharing good news of engagements, weddings, pregnancy and birth announcements, and the most exciting thing happening in my life is putting on a pair of heels and running a brush through my hair to go on a date, it doesn't seem unreasonable to want to hang on to that.

I don't expect this man to work a miracle.  I don't expect him to erase my past, I don't expect him to ride up on a white horse and sweep me away.  What I expect is to wake up in the morning alone, to this life I didn't anticipate, and wander into the bathroom to find a text message saying simply, "Good morning." Maybe it will be a good morning.  Maybe it won't be.  But at least my morning will start with a little smile, and a little bit of hope.

God's (Least) Favorite

"If you wanna make God laugh, tell him your plans," our RCIA instructor joked.  I wonder if God got a hearty laugh from my belief that today I would be married for three years with at least one healthy child.  I'm sure it's hilarious to Him that I'm not.  That'll show me.  Right? 

Somewhere along the way, it happened:  The God who never gave up on me before, the God who guided me back to Him even when I strayed, stopped loving me.  In all sincerity, I believe that.  In all sincerity I believe that God exists, that God is in charge, and that God loves everyone. . . Except for me. 

If Job was God's favorite, I think I must be God's least favorite. Perhaps the correlation isn't obvious.  Job was stripped of everything he held dear, and of his wordly possessions.  I, on the other hand, have a comfortable life filled with loving family and friends.  What could I possibly have to complain about?  I know, trust me, I know that I have a lot to be grateful for, and I am.  Today as I attended the Rite of Election service for the churches of our county, I watched as hundreds of people waited to become the Church Elect; soon they will become fully initiated Catholics.  I watched as people from outlying farming towns were greeted by the Bishop.  Here were these people, who report to work as early as 4 in the morning and work for hours on end in the heat or the cold, laboring just to put food on the table, and I wondered how I dare think I am unloved when I'm been so fortunate. 

The joy I used to get from my home, from my dogs, from my work, even from friends and family, is gone.  I wonder why God has given me all of this, and stripped me of my capacity to enjoy it; or at the very least, He's abandoned me in my attempts to restore that capacity.  I'm faking happiness most of the time now.  I dutifully report to Mass but the homily and the hymns feel meaningless anymore.  I used to feel God's love.  Even in Gabriel's brief life and death, I felt God's love.  I know what love feels like.  I feel it from my parents.  I feel it from my dogs.  I feel it from my friends.  God's love, though, is distinctly missing.  It MUST be missing, because it's supposed to be the greatest love of all and we should feel that, right? 

But I don't. 

I don't know how to love a God that doesn't love me.  I'll play His game.  I don't care to see Him, but I long to see my son again and I know that God determines whether or not I do.  For anyone that thinks I don't realize that I'm tempting fate, they couldn't be farther off.  I think about hell more than anyone I know.  I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell more than anyone I know.  My friends are shocked.  "You worry about hell?"  they ask incredulously.  I know full well that as a practicing, informed Catholic I'm held to a higher standard before God.  I feel like a fool, constantly trying to earn His favor, but I MUST see my son again.  I know that someday I will have to stand before God and face judgment and right now, the only thing I want to say to Him is, "Can You put me through now?" 

"Pray," seems to be the constant advisal.  I don't want to pray.  I don't have it in me to pray.  I have no desire to talk to a God who doesn't love me.  What could I possibly say to Him to convince Him to love me again?  I'm flailing here, and I turned to Him with my grief and my pain, and I trusted His way until it just became to much to bear.  Arguably, my problem might be that I've got in my mind how I want to be soothed, and that's keeping me from feeling the relief God provides.  I remember distincly, though, desparate prayes to God, begging Him to grant me my heart's desire if it is His will, or to take that desire from me so I can go on.  I'm still waiting for an answer. 

Inevitably, I'll get responses like "God DOES love you, even if you don't believe it.  God DOES love you, even if you don't feel it."  I wish I could be like my dad, who just believes without question.  Blessed are they who believe without seeing, and all that.  My faith is hanging by a barely-there thread, and if I don't feel some relief soon I'm afraid it will break.