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I want to add to what I wrote yesterday ~ I want to speak to the immense amount of support I received to get from where i was to where I am.
that if my parents hadn't sent me some cash, without knowing what it was for, I couldn't have made my exile from the order, as swiftly as I was able. If my sister hadn't given me a soft landing spot in Portland, I wouldn't have had anywhere to go. If my brother hadn't called me every day, I wouldn't have had any companionship along the way. If it weren't for the kindness of my work mates, when I broke down to pieces and couldn't leave my house, I would have felt more shame than I already did. If my other brother and sister in love hadn't let me stay at their home indefinitely, I wouldn't have been stable enough to try to build my life back up. If my friend hadn't held me after having an anxiety attack, I may have taken extreme measures to soothe my ache. If I hadn't met the raddest group of solo mamas, I wouldn't have EVER known my options or taken the plunge. If my bestie hadn't called me at the perfect time from overseas to check in on me when I was making the final decisions about attempting to conceive, I may not have had the courage. If my dearest little G hadn't been here for the start of my darkest hour postpartum, we may not have survived. There are so many more "ifs and wouldn't haves" to say, and maybe I'll keep saying them as time passes. All this to now say, it takes a fucking village, y'all & I want my village to know I see you, I know you, I love you, and I will always know you are woven into the fabric of my being & our story.
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Yesterday marked six years that I left the order. Six years ago I packed up my car with only what I could carry and i left the spiritual group I’d dedicated my heart & soul to for the previous 14 years. I knew, because the culture of the group was such, that my leaving meant I would lose everyone I’d known and loved. For two weeks they’d been hammering away at my heart and mind. It was time to go. i was done with the controlling, alienating, and abusive ways & needed to find myself again
I’d been estranged from my family for a decade and had no idea if they’d welcome me back. I would drive for seven days, on my way to Portland; shaken, sad, but certain. Every day, I heard from my brother who was my lifeline along the journey. My mother would die six months later and in comfort & confusion, I would walk the Camino de Santiago with her ashes. I would fall in love & have my heart broken. I would try to find my joy through others & fail every time. I would start writing again. Haiku would color my pages and then the city streets. I would admit to myself that I couldn’t wait any longer to answer the call of my soul to become a mother. I would take a leap and attempt pregnancy and on my first try, conceive a powerhouse of a girl. I would almost die birthing that girl. Despite years of celibacy, years of saying no to what was always the biggest yes of all, motherhood won out.#bisonbutterflyblog #singlemom#motherhood #startingover  I broke today. My baby wouldn't nap and there's a slew of things that happened that drove me down a rabbit hole and broke my spirit. I'm not one of those people who's baby goes down easy. It's a process every time. Every nap, every night. Bouncing, singing, nursing, swaying, pleading, begging, demanding, giving up. She's also not the kid that I can put down and have a couple hours to do things. Sometimes, a lot of times, I'm nap trapped. But it's ok ~ I read, rest, fold laundry, watch something, post something.... I've gotten used to it and for the most part, I enjoy the break.
But that's just it, when the break doesn't come, I feel gypped. Like part of my day got taken from me and I get mad about it. And then I feel like an asshole for being mad. Because who am I mad at? My baby? Myself? Yes & yes. In the middle of it all today, I texted a friend to share what was happening because I felt so alone and I didn't want to despair. It helped. She validated me, assured me what I was doing was best for me and my daughter (I had put her in the crib and went downstairs to catch my breath). We were both safe and both crying but we were both fine. This picture is from last year, less than four weeks after she was born. We were walking in the park and she got hungry. I was in the wrong shirt (ie no boob access) and we were several blocks from home. There was no way to hold her and maneuver my clothes to gain boob access so I had to put her down. The tree trunk seemed the safest place. Then I walked home, nursing. My wrong shirt pulled up over my chest. We can't always be prepared ~ we'll do everything right and the circumstances will still go south. I'm trying to breathe into Welcome to the re-igniting of my writing life. For the past year I've *thought* a lot about writing. I've squeezed out a few poems, worked on my haiku manuscript (which is on hold till I have the money to pay for my editor to hack away at it), and made a few leather goodies. I have a memoir in the works about my life after the order and a children's book that needs an illustrator. Besides that I've been busy parenting my beloved 1 year old, working full time, and connecting with the village that has formed around me this past year. People I never dreamed would leave my life are gone & others I dreamed awake, have now joined us.
I'm going to talk about parenting & mothering on these pages and just plain life. You're going to read me toggle between using the term "single parent" and "solo parent" and just plain "parent" because I feel like it. Sometimes I'm going to talk about being a single mother, which is another perspective in my eyes, different than a single parent. I'm an expert on me and us and don't claim to know you or what's best for anyone but us (and that's a mystery sometimes.) These pages are me giving me an outlet to speak up what I feel, know, see, and strive to understand. I also want to bring life back into this website ~ BisonButterfly was a baby I adored and it's calling me back and asking for more. I hear you BB. So we'll see. Together. Where this goes or if anyone (namely me), cares. And from that place of caring, we'll fly. Tin House, a local publishing house and educational organization, recently offered a scholarship for single parents for this upcoming winter workshop. I was so excited, imagining that this would be a way I might actually attend. I started my essay over and over again and put an alert in my phone for the deadline of Oct 17, so I wouldn't miss it.
Yesterday I sat down to send it and well, the deadline was Oct 14..... I gasped, I cried. I was so mad at myself for flaking. Later, when my daughter was screaming in the car, I told her to let it rip. Yell it out. I won't be one to tell a girl, any girl, to quiet her feelings down. I wanted to scream like that too. Anyway, I figured I'll just post my mini essay here. In my own blog, which I realize, I have not contributed to since last DECEMBER. Damn. So here it is, my thoughts on single parenting & my writing. What I'd hoped to gain from being at this Winter's Workshop. * Hello! I missed the deadline, thinking it was 10/17 & just realized yesterday it was 10/14. Urged by a friend, I'm emailing you here with the hope of being considered, and with the understanding I may not be... Thank you in advance for considering! Sincerely, Marialicia Gonzalez * I’ve started this essay so many times. Struggling with how to express my feelings about single motherhood and my writing… Choosing to become a single parent has affected everything I do, think, feel, and express. It was a circumstance I claimed and am living with as much grace and gumption as I can. It’s not something I ever wanted, the “single” part I mean. But motherhood chose me long ago. When it came down to the last minute of possibility for me, I stepped in, and my daughter responded by firmly implanting herself inside of me. My writing is kind of like that. I’m not sure I can say I choose to write. Writing chooses me. Writing keeps calling me out and reminding me I’m alive and I have something to say. It’s a teacher and a life partner. Now that I am a parent I feel stronger about being myself and continuing to develop a “me” to offer my daughter. Paving the way for her to strengthen her character and believe in her self-expression, whatever that may be. I also think that if I follow my dream and inspiration, I’ll trust when she follow hers. My initiation into motherhood was grief-ridden, painful and isolating. Though I have a village of loving people around me, friends like no one deserves (or maybe like everyone deserves?), it was shockingly sad and strange. Grief informs much of my writing too, which began in childhood. Writing always helped me reflect on what was so that I could dream of what hadn’t been. I still use the method of free writing, allowing the themes lying under the surface to rise up and show me what’s really on my mind and in my heart. When I think about what challenges me in being a parent and a writer, it’s carving out room in my mind, heart, and home to delve into the ride writing wants to take me on. Before baby, I could take the time I wanted and luxuriate in it. Now, I have to trust that the words, feelings, and inspiration, won’t leave me, even if I have to leave them for a minute, hours, or for days. I’m currently working on a haiku collection. Haiku has been a constant companion for over 20 years. I am haiku’s muse. And because of this poetry form, I have developed and taught writing classes, started haiku graffiti, which connected me with the street artist community, and became a leather worker. This collection is haiku’s most recent ask of me and so far, it’s been slow moving, though I do have a first draft sent back to me from my editor. Since my daughter’s birth two months ago, I’ve worked on it a total of zero hours, ten minutes, zero seconds. My hope at this winter’s workshop is to workshop the hell out of my manuscript and move it from its zygotic stage to, at the very least, embryotic. I’m excited and confident that being around other writers will strengthen my parenting by giving me the surroundings and community that bring me joy and re-inspire my creativity.  I love Jesus and Mary. That’s what I told a new friend, the other night. Right away he said how speaking that meant I believed in a messianic reality, which I enjoyed and kind of laughed at. My love for Jesus and Mary has nothing to do with a messianic blah blah or any other type of belief system. It has to do with my experience. When I was tiny, like 2 or 3, I was under my sheets in bed. I remember feeling like I was in outer space but super tiny. Like I was a spec of stardust but also giant, like I took up the whole of the universe. It was a tiny hugeness. I felt peaceful, grounded, and alive. Safe. Somewhere in my sweet little kid mind, that was an experience of god. My love for Jesus and Mary doesn’t mean to me love for christianity or for a building or a belief system. It’s love for these beings that are big and loving and powerfully cool. I remember when I first started meditating, *tuning* in to “them.” It’s strange to me that the Buddha is cool as compassion but Jesus and Mary aren’t as love. I know I know, so damn much shit has gone down in the name of Jesus ~ it totally sucks. I hate it. But even if those bible thumping peoples who use it to hate actually read the actions of those beings, they’d be stilled. It is never about exclusion or hatred. It’s always about inclusion, healing, compassion, forgiveness, tenderness, and simple simple love. Can I get an amen? Can I get an OM? Back in mid July of this year, I had the first thought about #WriteSomethingWrong ~ I was free writing one morning, contemplating a time in my life several years ago. I was exploring why, while in this particular relationship, when my love would write me sweet or sexy texts, I’d often not respond or clam up. And I wrote that I was “worried about writing something wrong.” Seeing that on the page really gave me pause. I kind of pride myself of being free spirited and when I write something that surprises me or I want to learn more from, I’ll sometimes write it over and over and over again. So that’s what I did.
Write something wrong Write something wrong Write something wrong Write something wrong Write something wrong And at that moment I wondered what I’d write if I “wrote something wrong.” I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve written plenty about shit that’s happened or shit I’ve done or I’ve apologized to people or rounded back to events or people I was hurt by. I’ve done this in one way or another all my life. I felt an impulse to launch it immediately and then got scared….last new year’s eve I launched an ‘’if there was no shame’’ thingy and that night I was inadvertently drugged and then dropped by the one I was with. I was oozing with shame, confusion, sickness, and sadness. I hated the way the new year rang in and was afraid of what that meant for the rest of the year. So, I was a little skittish to start this wondering….what will I write? And what experiences will I draw to myself as a result of initiating this….? We shall see…. After my birthday on July 23rd, I set off for southern Oregon on a camping adventure. When I arrived at Crater Lake, I was amazed. Below are a few videos & photos that share about what brought me such joy ~ LOVE <3 If y’all haven’t heard enough, at this point, about my art show, here’s a little bit more. Words sometimes suck so the pictures may just be enough to go by…. In my preparations, I printed out over 150 images from the past year of posting haiku around town. I didn’t know I had so many! Taking notice of all the people who’ve come to my workshops, sat with me discovering haiku or poetry for the first time, or rediscovering it for themselves, was a deep gift and beautifully reflective process. Thank.You. I appreciate you being on this journey with me. I’m sure it’s going to keep riding us through the rapids and into sunset after sunset. I love you. ps - show is up till August 25th, so...ya know, tell your friends?! <3 Last Saturday, May 6th, along with my friend Melissa Hobbs on the cello, we performed “My Mother’s Dust” – a piece I wrote detailing part of my journey trekking the Camino of Santiago de Compostela after the burial of my mother’s remains. It was a remarkable experience for me ~ starting with working with Melissa in creating a fresh piece that evolved into its own being. Its very own being ~ that is the most real way I can explain it. When Melissa and I got together the Thursday prior to the Festival, we started to go through the piece, the words, and her improvised bowing on the cello. I wanted her voice in there too. She agreed. After only an hour, we ran through it and got chills. Melissa asked me if I was okay with her emotion and the emotion of the cello coming through. Definitely! Something new was emerging that was fresh, alive, and wanted to be known. A new being was born. Saturday morning we gathered just before going on stage ~ Melissa asked me how I felt. Trusting. I felt trusting of this new being and ready to step into it and let it be. When we got on stage at the Portland Art Museum, everyone was milling about on a break. I made a timid introduction, feeling shy and a little out of place. Melissa invited the audience to tune into themselves, feel into their relationships with their mothers and all that conjured up. We started. People stopped talking, wrapped their arms around each other. Cried. Stood up. Less than ten minutes later, we were through. But people were standing, clapping. I did something I’ve never done after a reading. Stood there, bowed, took Melissa’s hand and we bowed together. Usually I scurry off quickly, feeling shy. But it felt important to stay on stage and respect the audience – the experience we’d just shared and let them soak us up for a moment or two. The experience opened up my heart & inspiration in ways I’m excited to explore. So, here are some pictures ~ one, a fb live screenshot of us sent to me by a friend, one of Melissa & I sitting after the perfomance + one of her and "Celli," and there’s a little vidi I shot right after the performance. Musings of a muse I suppose…. Once I have the video of the performance, I’ll share ~ thank you for reading, listening, and coming along for the ride…. Bjs. |
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