Part Two: Falling In Love (#29)

9:09pm, July 6, 2011

Dear Louise,

It’s 2005. Tony and I are driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. It is almost my birthday. This is the year that your Grandma Louise passed. The same year I fell in love with your papa, remember?

He went back to NYC, broke up with his girlfriend, Heather, finished up his first residency in CT with Jacques D’Amboise, and then flew to meet me in California. Sienna said it was all good with her but I’m feeling a little awkward about the whole thing, especially the fact that he’s scheduled to marry her in the Fall–for a greencard–but, still.

I’ve been hiding out with Dharma Dog in a tin cabin on the mountain for the last month, writing my re*Search notebooks and licking my wounds from being devoured by the Watoochies. I was spit out by the music-business machine. Leaving Warner Bros. took every ounce of courage I had. Leaving my ex-manager took every ounce of self-respect I had. And breaking up with my ex-boyfriend . . . well, that’s another story. I’m wondering what I should do, now, with the rest of my life, and thinking, Why do I keep ending up in these messes?

We’re headed for the Santa Barbara mountains in the blue jeep. God he’s beautiful, I think.

I tell him, “I thought I saw the ghost of my mother hitchhiking when I got lost on my way to California, after dropping you in Vegas.”

He looks at me and smiles, “Doesn’t surprise me,” he says.

Later that afternoon, we’re flirting on the mountain top. I’ve just come out of the bathroom after putting on the candy-cane bikini I had bought myself the day before at the surfer store downtown. We’ve decided to go to the beach together for the afternoon. We gather up our towels and head down the long twisting road.

When we’re at the beach, your papa lets down his long dreadlocks. They fall below his shoulder blades. He is walking toward the shore. His body is slim, tan, and young. He is testing the water with his feet; it’s chilly. Dharma Dog is afraid of water. Tony walks closer to the breaking waves. Dharma nips Tony’s leg. (Your papa still has a hint of that scar on his right thigh). He is bleeding a tiny bit. He jumps into the ocean anyway and ignores the cut.

We swim together like dolphins.

We’re getting hungry now. We go to our mismatched beach towels, dry off, and head to the surf shop for lobster rolls and fries. We sit in the car eating ’cause a Summer rain is sprinkling outside, but, really, we want to be alone. I turn on the car stereo and sing with Neil Young. “Someday, you’ll find everything you’re looking for.” We look at each other. He smiles and nods, “I think we’re finding it,” he says.

We’re devouring delicious lobster rolls in the front seat. Butter is dripping from our fingers. Another song comes on. Its Donovan. He’s singing “Wear your love like heaven.” I finish eating my roll. I am licking the butter off my fingers as I lean forward. Baba leans in, finishing his last bite. Our arms touch. My whole body lights up from within.

I am kissing Tony. He is kissing me. The song surrounds us like it’s a soundtrack from a movie. The car is full of light. We’re making out, we’re making time, we’re making the holy tender. I’m holding his face. Our tongues are tangled like a bird’s nest. Grace is forming like sticks inside us and the th*Reads of life are weaving us together forever. We kiss and kiss and kiss. Donovon keeps singing, “Wear your love like heaven.” Kissing and kissing and kissing. Mmmmm. Donovan wraps up the melody. It’s like we’ve been waiting for this our whole lives. I feel my wings growing inside me as he touches my cheek.

The song is done. I pull back. Our arms are still touching. “Wow,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” he confirms. His eyes are sparkling.

Dharma makes a hungry whining sound from the back seat. We both turn to look at the one-eyed cow dog watching us and we laugh. He’s waiting patiently for his share of our lobster rolls. This is the moment your papa and I stop falling in love. We start flying.

PS: I had planned to finish this first collection of correspondence with you on your first birthday but I’ve decided to finish it by my 38th birthday instead, which is in 14 days. Do you remember? I gave you this first collection to read on your 15th birthday, or your 16th, or your 17th–or at least by your 18 birthday but for now, I’m wrapping up the past to deliver the present…sitting here at the kitchen table in our new house. It is dusk. The story surrounds me, falling ap*Art and putting itself back together again and again.

Part Two: Falling In Love (#28)

5:48am July 1st, 2011

You and Eukaya, your neighbor, feeding each other dinner...

Dear Louise,

I said to your papa today as we both lay down on our bed, fulfilled but exhausted by the day’s adventures, “With this schedule, it’s going to have to happen before we wake up or after we go to sleep.” He sleepily lays his hand on my naked chest, nods, and closes his eyes, unable to fight the sleep overtaking him.

Eye lay t*Here staring at the glowing horses going round and round on the shelf and th*Ink to mys*Elf, If time is the holy tender in this University, then people who make time are very rich. Eye need to l*Earn how to make time.

A shot from our trip to my home town of NYC

And as I said to Lori last week (when she wrote me, explaining that she wished she had my grace)…”My grace?” I told her, “Hmmm, it’s something I strive for–to touch, to dance with–but, still, it alludes me, like a mischievous s*Elf in the game of life; and though I am always reaching for it, I’m not always holding it, not even close. Still, I reach for it . . . at least I reach. I think, at the end of the day, that is what we are tested on in this University, don’t you? Like the question that really matters is: did we at least try?” (I wrote a song about that in 1997 –Time To Cry. Two versions were recorded, but that’s another story.)

I remember the week before we left Colorado. It was May, 2011…

“Oh no! I have to get on camera again? No!” I said, emphatically. I’m so tired of looking at myself and listening to mys*Elf. I’m in the kitchen eating french fries, licking the salt and grease off my fingers and searching for some kind of napkin. Boxes are everywhere. I am shying away from the computer, but he’s got it all set up to film and he’s coming toward me, smiling and grabbing my ass lovingly.

“Don’t you understand? you always look beautiful!” your papa says, laughing sympathetically. It’s still May 2011. We’re hard at work finishing the proposal for our new creative project–which is now up on Kickstarter.

A still from last week's photo shoot for the new book...

Another still from last week's photo shoot for our new book...

It’s due Monday night. We took a break and went camping for a few days so we’re a little behind on everything (like moving across country and launching our new company). Your eleven-month-old s*Elf peeks her head over the baby gate and chimes in, “Mama!” while your papa adds, “Lizzie, you are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen! You could stick french fries up your nose and you’d still look gorgeous.”

He’s good at calming me down. I hug him and laugh and say, “Okay, I’ll get on camera again; but wait, I’ve got to write that down.”

I am feeling the fundamental ambiguity today in a big way. I feel it is piercing my he*Art as it th*Reads its*Elf into my s*Kin. Weaving my w*In*gs.

The robin is on the st*Air. It perches on the wood banister. It flies to the glass door over and over again. I don’t understand. It’s like it wants to come inside this house–the house we are about to leave in search of our home on the east coast. It’s as if the bird is trying to communicate some sort of urgency to me but I can’t understand what it is saying. What are you trying to tell me? Eye ask silently. Another robin is t*Here too. It’s tail has been cut somehow–I am afraid it will die; it can’t fly. The flying robin feeds the injured bird worms. Your papa and I watch mesmerized by the love between the two red-bellied creatures. I stare at the mystical scene and think of Baba feeding me worms whenever I need them. Inside my body I feel the  the*Read of each of my ancestors sharing my h*Om*e, weaving themselves into my w*In*gs, and speaking to me from the other side. They are calling me, each with a different re*Quest. Then I remember the robin hurling itself violently against my bedroom window in March of 2005. Again and again–during those lonely months of leaving my, then, boyfriend while losing my mother to Cancer–the robin crashed against the glass. For the twelve weeks before mama’s passing, the bird kept trying to warn me that mama was getting pulled into the sterile hospital, and that she’d never get out once she got in. And then, I remember, the bird stopped. It disappeared after grandma Louise’s Eye left her body. A few days later I found the china statue of the red-breasted robin on my mother’s desk, and, now, here it is on my desk. What a journey.

Do you feel that Louise? The g*Round is moving.

“Who Am Eye?” you repeat the question. “Do you remember?” you smile. “Listen to me, How*L, we have a chance now to get back into our bodies in time. If we miss it, we have to st*Art all over.”

Suddenly it comes back to me. This is w*Here I really am, here at the picnic table by the golden lake that I emerged from when I was searching for my six-year-old daughter Louise. Or was it last Fall, which would make her six months old? What is the date, really? What time is it? I look around at the others sitting next to me. Dharma Dog is t*Here, sitting at the table and watching me–with one eye missing and the other looking through me. He is a hologram of hims*Elf.

My seventy-year-old s*Elf is sitting t*Here too, watching me with a wise look in her eyes. You are t*Here, too, Louise. You are wearing the hologram costume of your thirty-something s*Elf. We all have candles lit within us, and, when we breathe, the flames move. The level of our glow dims and brightens in concert with our breath.

Suddenly, as I remember w*Here I am, the p*Ages in my hands stop multiplying and Eye think to mys*Elf, I remember the Quest*I*On, the quest we are really on, all of us. “Who am Eye?!” I say loudly–excited that I am remembering w*Here I am. “That is the Quest*I*On–which is also the answer, for now,” I say.

“YES!!” The three of you e*X*Claim, giving each other looks of he*Arty congratulations–as if you have led me to the water and helped me drink.

“What is happening here?” I ask you…

Isn’t it funny, Louise? In order to re*Mind mys*Elf, Eye have to re*Mind you. In order to l*Earn, Eye have to teach; in order to t*Each, Eye have to l*Earn. The moment I think Eye am d*One l*Earning, that’s when Eye get slammed the hardest–re*Minded the deepest. That is one of the most fundamental rules in this mad University, remember?

Out to dinner this past Friday night with your Grandma Nancy whom you now call "Nanna"...

And how your papa smiles–on June 9th, 2010–looking so deeply relieved. He wants to hold me but he can’t, not with all these tubes hanging from my limbs. I’m strung up like a blinking light, remember? He takes my hand and squeezes it, squeezing his eyes closed too, as if he is giving desperate thanks for something. I bite my lip hard. I don’t have to ask. He knows. He answers, “She’s fine, Lizzie.” I close my eyes. I can hardly keep them open.

4th of July fireworks on the east coast in upstate NY...

PS: Do you remember how you jumped up and said, “Eye’ve got to g*Row now. You’re in good hands, How*L. Eye’ll meet you back on Camp*Us E*Art*h.” Your wings opened. “The morning you wake up to remember this dream, in full, is the day we’ll both be back in body again. You’ll k*Now it’s me in the baby Louise costume when you fulfill y*Our next assignment on Camp*Us E*Art*h.” The glowing extensions of your s*Elf spread so wide that you covered the green sky as you took off into the night, or the day, or the morning, or whatever time it was in that timeless Land of Now.

Part Two: Falling In Love (#27)

11:33 am, June 23, 2011

One of these days, I'll get to the next p*Art of my next assignment but for now, t*Here's no w*Here else Eye'd rather be.

Dear Louise…

I remember living in the tin cabin on top of the mountain in Santa Barbara that Summer of 2005. It was hot.

It is June 2005 and I am hot. I am borrowing/renting this place from my epic friend Ted (an old Hippy who came out here to escape society in the early sixties. He built this cabin on top of a mountain, by hand, by log, by tin). Tony (the young, twenty-three year old boy who will become your papa in five years) has come to visit me. He is sporting long dreadlocks, black-rimmed eye glasses, and a sexy smile. I can’t stop thinking about him and the dream I had last night in which we were making amazing love. Now here he is, in the flesh. I am driving him down the Pacific Coast highway in the blue jeep–I’ve just picked him up from the airport. “I’ve got some good grass,” I tell him, “but I can’t find it anywhere.”

He looks at me and smiles, “We’ll find it,” he says. Our chemistry is so charged I can feel it between my legs.

Jim Henson says,”Life’s like a movie, write your own ending. Keep believing, keep pretending.” Last night your papa and I sat with your grandma Nancy (who is visiting from Wisconsin and recovering from surgery at our new place for a few weeks). In the brown leather chairs, we all sat and talked. “This place is becoming a home,” I say as I carry another unpacked bag down from the new bedroom upstairs. “So, who do you want to emulate in this world?” I asked them both casually, dropping the bag by the door, flopping on the leather chair and sipping my red wine. “I mean, who really inspires you?”

We tossed around the Quest*I*On for a while and then we all went to bed.

I asked your godsister Shante to draw me a picture of something she was thankful for so I could use her drawing for our first Thank You For Giving Us Party Invite. I slipped her a few bucks for her piggy bank in exchange for her work.

Cooling off in the NYC fountains of my childhood last week on a business trip to the big city.

The next morning, I am in the eleventh year of the new millennium, sitting on the brick porch at your godparent’s house, next door–working here ’cause we still don’t have internet at our place. I write the name “Jim Henson” down in my re*Search notebook and take a sip of my coffee. He’s someone I admire, I think. Did he have balance? I am learning to balance the role of artist and mother more than ever lately as WE attempt to complete the next assignment on Camp*Us E*Art*h. I wonder if Jim Henson lived a centered life?

As I mentioned last January, my two words of the year are “Centered Success.”

Outtake still shot of your papa for our new book, Thank You For Giving Us...staying balanced is not always easy.

Keeping balanced, for me, is a daily routine that leads to our daily walks down the lovely grey green path of now

Outtake still shot of your papa for our new book, Thank You For Giving Us...Staying balanced is not always easy.

That is my major goal, right now, and it is a wonderfully challenging class in this University of Now . . . which brings me back to that dream I had about the hitchhiker in the Spring of 2011. The cab driver is staring at me, speaking with an Indian accent, maybe Pakistani. “Here we are ma’am.”

T*Here we are, parked in front of my brother’s house, your Uncle Kermit’s dream home–the building he gutted and renovated just a few years ago. This place is so  beautiful, I think, staring out of the window and remembering the story that was written about them in the New York Times a few years ago. (I will tell you more about your uncle Kermit later). Anyway, we’re about to get out of the cab, go through the iron gate, climb the steps to the porch, step up to the door, and ring the bell…

Pay the driver, Eye tell mys*Elf. Come back to “reality.”

Without waking you up, I carry your ten-month-old sleeping s*Elf and our two bags to the door of my brother’s house. Your uncle Kermit greets me at the door on Stockholm Street. He helps me settle in; he shows me my bed and the crib where you will sleep, tonight. Within an hour, the lights are dim, you are sound asleep, and I am lying in bed thinking about centered success, remembering the long day of travel, kneading the moments, breathing, and counting thank yous instead of sheep. My thoughts carry me, like a leaf riding on a stream, like a life riding on time…

There is a long pause, and then the hitchhiker speaks to me again, her white linen sleeve brushing against my face as she touches my cheek, “Do you remember, ZZ, how we sat together, drinking coffee in this very car, at the beach, just a few months ago? Can you believe Eye am now completely g*One from your life and my costume has been recycled?” We sit in silence. I nod. I do remember. I swallow hard, holding the moment and feeling my tears welling up inside me. God I miss her.

More soon,

PS:  Do you remember how we had to fly out of the hospital room on that night you were born into this body? That was the night my costume had an out-of-body experience, remember? My “I” had almost died giving birth to you? They chased our Eyes out of the hospital room, and we both fell through the portal trying to escape.

Part Two: Falling In Love (#26)

June 16th, 2011 7:50pm

Dear Louise,

My first moustache wax ever! Mama had her moustache ripped off today, sounds like a song.

The dichotomy of being an artist and mother can be hard. One role requires us to be pretty s*Elf-involved so we can know ours*Elves well enough to interpret the world through expression, while the other requires us to often disregard ours*Elves, to surrender our own needs to the needs of another human being, always putting someone else first. Even if that someone else is the most important person in your life, it can still be hard.

Maybe you’ll be reading this when you’re fifteen years old, but, then again, maybe you’ll be reading it when you’re a mother too. Maybe you’ll have a teething toddler in the next room. Maybe the little angel will have just passed out after a long day–and you will be sitting there wondering where to begin. You’ll find this letter in a box. You’ll read about your own mother, and how she coped with raising a baby and be*In*g human on Camp*Us E*Art*h. You’ll read about the reality of being both a sexual woman in your own right and a loving mother, a duality many women experience. You’ll nod your head in agreement. You’ll read about how your mama and papa created Camp Now Productions and how projects created by Camp Now  were not only designed to inspire children to fulfill their potential, every day, but the projects (including my R-rated blog) were also intended to help parents walk that fine line with more grace.

Your godsister and new neighbor, Shante.

Your godmama and our new neighbor, Mama Hillybean.

It’s June, 2011 now. The sharp stones on the driveway of this new home remind me of how I have to give thanks for the pain of being human–for the whole process. The edge of the hard grey rock feels good against the tough skin of my mama feet. I carry you to our neighbor’s house, swinging out my big left hip so you practically have a shelf to sit on (I used to curse these big hips but now I give thanks for them every day).

Playing with two of our new neighbors... Julie and Eukaya

Later that night, I’m sitting at the table in our new house, surrounded by boxes, talking to your papa about my writing. I’m trying to explain the challenge of being both an artist and a mom while trying to find the time to just be me. We’re drinking wine together. I’m wearing the blue silk robe that your father’s Aunt Mary brought back from the Orient years ago. Mary gave it your Grandma Nancy, and then, this past Fall, Nancy gave it to me, remember? When she was nursing me back to health after my postpartum crash? The robe reminds me of Mary, I wonder how she’s doing these days.

Eye hold your face in my mind as thoughts of Mary drift off. The evening birds tweet their song. I’m sitting here in another mess, but, this time, it’s different. I’m loving the sticky strawberry juice on my bare thighs, the juice that dripped onto my s*Kin while I fed you your Summer dessert earlier this evening, unable to do any of my art ’cause I was too busy being mama. My hair is a wild strawberry blonde birds nest of “fuck it,” and Eye am smiling through mys*Elf. You are asleep in the porta-crib upstairs since nothing’s been unpacked yet. Your papa just came downstairs after putting you to bed for the first time in our new house, and I’m thinking, Thank you for giving me Baba.

Out on our daily Thank You walk...no matter what we're doing and where we are, we walk to say thank you.

And then I think about the project; it’s helping me so much lately to practice the method. In the last two weeks, moving our family into a new home, launching our new company, and experiencing the chaos of change, saying, “Thank You” is keeping me sane. It is an amazing project; I tell mys*Elf. It takes the edge off being a parent–or being human for that matter–and I want to share it with as many people as possible.

It helps me be more present for you, Louise. And I figure, if I’m calmer, then, chances are, you will be calmer too, and maybe, if we’re all a little calmer, this planet will calm down. I’m not just talking about saying thank you as a way to teach kids to be polite, I’m talking about reminding myself and others, on a daily basis, that by saying, “Thank you”–by really feeling that feeling of gratitude–we can be more peaceful people and can receive more gifts in life. And the truth is, if practiced intentionally, gratitude can be the key to creating the reality of our dreams. I look around our new house and think back on conception. The project came to your papa and I in Colorado, remember? We developed the idea on our afternoon walks and on the weekends, as I was recovering from the postpartum. By practicing the Thank You For Giving Us… method, we were able to embrace our new role as parents in a more peaceful way. We kept talking and talking, trying to break down our desires, and, slowly, our dreams became digestible.

Your papa and I brainstormed about what really mattered to us. Then, somehow, a seed popped out of the “ground” of our conversation and we got really inspired by Kickstarter. I wonder if, by the time you are reading this, Kickstarter will be the way most creators release their work? In the year 2025, will it be a household name–the future’s answer to making creative projects a reality? It is definitely an amazing new way for people to relate to creators–and even, possibly, unleash the creator in themselves. Through Kickstarter, people can do business without sacrificing their integrity in this new digital age.  It is a true democracy for artists and their fans. Through it, anyone can help an artist create a project from scratch; all they have to do is like the idea and spend at least $1. They can follow artists in their creative process, interact with them personally, and reap the rewards of learning and enjoyment–all for the same price as they would have paid, in the past, for just a book or CD.

You’re waking up. You need me.

More soon,

PS: “Can you believe this rain?” She asks me. I look up to see rain pouring down, hitting the windshield of my blue jeep (the car I bought three years earlier as a congratulations gift to myself with the advance money from the recording contract I signed with Warner Bros.).

“I thought we were in the desert,” I say, feeling the edges of the brown paper package that she has just just given me. Looking at my hands crinkling the paper, I feel strangely present.

“We are,” she says, looking at me through my mother’s puppy dog eyes. Then, she smiles that smile, like she knows the answer and the question. “But remember, in the Long Dream, the desert can rain if it needs to.” She pauses and asks, “So, what is the Holy Tender?” My b*Rain floods with images.

Still on the move but more soon…

7:41pm, June 13, 2011

Mama on the move, poetry in my left pocket, bottle in my right... June 4th, 2011

Dear Louise,

Well, you, your papa, and I are too busy, right now, for me to get back to telling you the story, just yet, of how your papa and I fell in love (or how Eye got back into body after getting c*Locked out of it last June–human time)… But, here are a few shots in the meantime.

We’re all on the move, hard at work studying in these classes on Camp*Us E*Art*h. We’re living on the road, eating in restaurants, working in wireless cafes, and visiting friends until the renovation is done on our new home. We’re simultaneously producing our Thank You For Giving Us…project and, of course, loving you all the while–you, our little guru. Needless to say, we are deep in the he*Art of Now, pr*Act*Icing the gratitude meditation and re*Searching our studies in this cosmic University. Our classes at present? “Keeping Y*Our Balance on Camp*Us E*Art*h” and “Disciplining the S*Elf.”

You in crayon discovery at one year old!

Papa showing you the magic of crayons at the diner on the road to god-papa Gregg's house..

More soon…

PS: Do you remember how you gave me the present, deep inside the Long Dream. You said, “In order to get back to y*Our body, you have to get the present back through the portal. Deliver it to Camp*Us E*Art*h to get your next assignment, remember?” You paused, gave me an icy stare, and then added, “That is…if you even want to re*In*Habit your Lizzie vehicle. Do you?”

You and your god-sister Shante, reminding me that something good is happening now, as was promised by the yellow ribbons of my last assignment on Camp*Us E*Art*h

You and your papa at the end of a long yesterday on Camp*Us E*Art*h

Your first birthday and more soon….

June 9, 2011 11:39pm

Dear Louise,

After thirty-seven (human) years of searching for the key to my happiness, I have finally found it. If I were to leave Camp*Us E*Art*h for good, tomorrow, it is the one thing Eye would have wanted you to k*Now, and that’s why I am doing this; that’s why I am writing you this long letter, and that’s why I am dedicating the rest of this year to our Thank You For Giving Us…project. It’s not that I always remember w*Here the key is or even how to find the door, sometimes, but today, on the night of your first birthday, I can tell you this, even when the key is lost it’s always t*Here. Life is a journey, and the only thing we have control over is k*Now*I*ng that–that the key is never missing from the he*Art of Now.

Even when doubt penetrates our reality and the clouds of forgetting close in on the lucid dream, gratitude brings us h*Om*e to who we really are, to w*Here we really are, to what is. So, happy birthday honey. A year ago tonight, you arrived back on Camp*Us E*Art*h. Eye was still c*Locked out of body but you took refuge in your papa’s arms as I recovered in the ICU. Now look at us.

More soon…

PS: Next week I’ll st*Art finishing reminding you about how Eye got c*Locked out of body and how Eye got back in. Remember? How the hitchhiker came to give me the package and how Eye had to get the present back through the portal in order to complete my assignment in this complex University. Until then, sleep deep my love, sleep deep in k*Now*I*ng you are safe in the he*Art of Now.

“Thank You For Giving Us…” and more soon…

June 6th, 2011 9:20 pm

Dear Louise,

As I write this to you, you are asleep, hanging like a kangaroo baby on my chest, all snug inside my brown Ergo pouch on Camp*Us E*Art*h.

In the past two weeks you have… traveled across centuries to a hidden city in Mesa Verde and enjoyed your first camping trip–in this body.

Your first camping trip!

You have watched me pack up all your toys in Colorado and sat by while I discovered the package that the dreaming hitchhiker promised I’d find in my studio on Hilltop Street, remember? You’ve flown across country with me, had your first of two birthday parties, played among the boxes as we unloaded the truck into our new home, and you’ve enjoyed being pushed in the carriage. On the country road of this new chapter in our lives, your papa and I discuss tonight’s launch of the magical project we’ve been working on for six months.  You gnaw at a teething cookie and listen to the red-winged black birds singing.

T*Here is no time to say more right now but t*Here will be soon, Eye promise.

More soon…

PS: Do you remember what the hitchhiker said as she handed me the pack*Age? She said, “Strength is knowing when to walk away. Weakness is thinking strength is choosing to stay. Remember?”