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By Mama Paloma, 25/03/2013 22:42

Hey there. Where have you been?

Kidding. I know I was the one who bailed for a bit.

The thing is, about eight months ago, in the midst of some big, crazy stuff regarding my kid, my blog started sending out links that took people to some weird sites proffering eastern European get-rich-quick schemes and other unsavory opportunities. I’d been hacked or malwared or something. I spent some time trying to sort out what to do about this issue but – not having the technical knowledge, time to gain said technical knowledge,  or funds to pay someone else with such technical knowledge – I soon gave up. Put it off for a day when one of these resources magically became available.

And got really busy.

Then, yesterday, I decided to have a look-see at the old blog again…and it seemed the problem was gone. Mind you, in eight months, WordPress had more than a couple of updates. When I loaded them up, things seemed to run like a CHARM. So, I figured I’d give it a go.

So, this is a test. If you get any weirdness, please let me know. Direct Message me on Twitter @MominLACity or email me at mamapaloma at gmail dot com.

The past while has been super intense and I’ve been processing a lot. There’s a lot of good that will come out of this time and, I think, a lot of good writing. Here’s a snapshot of the past two-thirds of a year, and what they have me thinking about.

Drama with the preschool got worse (if that was possible). The little guy started in a new school which has been all right but a tough adjustment, in large degree because of how crappy the original school was about it. It was sadly comforting to see the reports of another school that was closing due to almost identical issues – because I had been painted as being over-reactive by my son’s school, which is still open, and some of those evil people are bringing their kid to my kid’s soccer team (well, it’s not ‘his’ per se but we did get there FIRST). Can’t say much more about that as there are legal issues still pending. Still thinking about making our communities safer by challenging the ‘culture of silence’ around child sexual development and abuse prevention.

This connects to my recent obsession with Zerlina Maxwell and several rape cases that have received unusual press coverage.  One blogger wrote about the night that Jane Doe was repeatedly assaulted in Stubenville, Ohio as “the saddest night that Steubenville, Ohio, has ever seen.” It was sad all right, but hardly unusual. The videos and commentary by the perpetrators’ and victim’s peers made it clear that this was nothing new in Stubenville. For those of us who have been working in the rape crisis sector for years decades (!), nothing about these situations are surprising. This kind of assault is so common, especially in High School and college social scenes (though I personally have been assaulted twice in my thirties and forties by men my age). What is awesome about this and other situations coming out is the amazing conversations going on about rape culture and how to change it, particularly about how to raise our boys to not rape or be silent bystanders.

Recently, after a long hiatus, I made a foray into dating. With a much younger guy. It was fun for a New York minute but, man, did this dude have some internal conflicts and an inability to express what he really wanted. Desire for connection and sex and commitment are so easily confused and tangled up and put in opposition to one another. This has me thinking (in parallel to/connected with the combating rape culture theme) also about boys and the mixed up messages they get and how to raise my son in a way that he can fully enjoy being affectionate and sexual and own his own longing for connection and be ethical and respectful about it. Am sure there’s more to say about that.

Hopefully, there’ll be more dating in my future as, contrary to rape apologists’ ideas, this super feminist lady does love men and is ready to get back out there.

Then, just under two weeks ago (the morning after I told the young fella to hit the bricks once and for all),  a friend finally lost her war with cancer. There had been many battles and she was a trooper and the end came abruptly for those of us who had seen her rally a dozen times before. She left two little boys, almost exactly eleven months older and younger than mine. In addition to the sadness I feel that she isn’t in the world, this has brought up a ton of stuff around our mortality, our children’s fear of losing us, my son’s father being so far away and what will happen if he never sees him again, valuing people while we are lucky enough to have them around, and honoring them when they are gone.

I really believe that there is power in teaching both empathy and action. Last weekend, just after Denise died, my little guy had his third haircut ever at the LAPD/LAFD annual St. Baldrick’s Day event. He got sponsored (you can still chip in!) to have his head shaved to benefit children’s cancer treatment and research. Before he let them take off a year’s growth, he helped his buddies at Station 89 polish their truck before Chief Cummings showed up. The firefighters invited him to join their lineup and this photo has been making the rounds.

In other news…

My non-profit has grown and expanded projects. While we carry on developing our innovative peace-building project for Liberia and supporting transgender youth to find their social media voices, we’re getting ready to launch new collaborations with families affected by incarceration and Los Angeles area homeless people. It’s pretty awesome and terrifying – especially as our funding has not grown and expanded with the work and I am broke. Know any rich people who want to make their legacy by launching an innovative, awesome nonprofit into the stratosphere? Send ‘em my way!

Seriously, though, we are always looking for volunteers and are assembling a fundraising committee of people who love putting on events (I don’t) who will have a blast getting our work visibility and support.

So, this was meant to be far more entertaining. Sorry. This WordPress thing seems to be working, except the photo posting bit. I’ll get right on that…after I go get the laundry, tidy up, sleep a bit, get through tomorrow…OK, I’ll get to it eventually.

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By Mama Paloma, 09/01/2012 22:19

This holiday season, I did something I haven’t done in five years. I took a holiday. Really. The full week between Christmas and New Years. Five days away from even my son. In that space, that time, I reflected and got clear about my intentions and hopes for the coming year. I made plans. Over the past year, I have been increasingly aware of the un-sustainability of my life. For the past five years, in every way, I have been sapped–financially, emotionally, psychologically, physically. My plans weren’t grand, but about setting up my life in subtly different ways, ensuring that well-being remains at the center of how we do things at Casa Paloma.

And I landed on January 2 back into a shitstorm. Too much work stuff landed all at once…good stuff, but more than I could possibly handle in that short week. My mom, goddess bless her, was facing some challenges and dramas of her own that demanded my support even as they strained our relationship. My plans–for serenity, for finding more ease, for increasing time with important people–were derailed from the start.

Or were they?

I felt like crap–overwhelmed, tired, sad–but decided to just show up and do what I had planned. I got up and did my 10 minutes of yoga each morning. I did our morning meditative reading. I ended each day at a set time, more or less, and sometimes (gasp!) left my laptop at the office. I played online scrabble and read a bit in one of the books I got for Christmas (which, the past few years would have sat on the shelf, gathering dust, as I waited for ‘the time’ to read it). I got more sleep than normal.

And, by Wednesday, I was already feeling better. By the weekend, I was chugging along, ready for anything and enjoying the ride. My experience shifted when I shifted in my experience.

I dropped more than a few balls. The thank you notes I dutifully helped my son prepare on Boxing Day? Unmailed. I haven’t had/taken/made the time to address and stamp them. The Christmas returns? The TV bracket that needs to be bought and installed? They are waiting. As are any number of things on the long list of To Dos.

But the important stuff? It’s getting done. In three days, more or less, I got a fellowship application submitted on time and without incident, coordinated another grant meeting, presented at a weekend conference, facilitated a group, and caught up with clients. I sorted out my health insurance situation (more or less). I stopped for play and ice cream with Addison, set some boundaries with mom, (not going over well…but we’ll get through it) and spent some time reaching out to friends who have been sidelined by my work and general busyness for too long.

In one of the reflection exercises, I was asked to give this year’s “word.” The first thing that came to me was “Open.” This is my resolution, my resolve. To be open to the possibilities I don’t see. Even the possibility that my life can be more than manageable, that I may savor and enjoy and still be enough.

With that, I am off to read more of that book.

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By Mama Paloma, 12/03/2011 23:17

Ever get in that place where everything and everyone is just pissing you off? Well, I am there. Right now. Have been all day. Noticed it this morning when I realized I was swearing like a drunken sailor at the not-unusually-bad L.A. drivers. What are you f***ing doing, you f***ing a**hole? I grumbled out loud to my empty car.

Wow. I thought to myself. You need to chill out.

When three-year-old AJ is irritable for no apparent reason, I ask him if he is wearing his ‘cranky pants.’ Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am the one wearing cranky pants these days. I think they are red. I think they might be AJ’s. They are incredibly tight and itchy and really, really annoying.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong, per se. In fact, things are moving along swimmingly on a number of fronts. The little nonprofit I started (AKA my unpaid job) had a few events and got some great visibility this week, including coverage and a mention at the 50/50 Leadership‘s International Women’s Day press conference and Women of the World Awards. Made a few amazing contacts (more on that coming on the soon-to-be overhauled Survivors’ Truths website) and met great people. There have also been a few glitches this week. The Board member who dropped out, the intern who went AWOL, and questions about how to proceed with my practice (AKA my paid job).

But, overall, everything is as it should be and better. The ‘soft launch’ of our project in partnership with Children’s Hospital Los Angeles’ TransYouth program went great and I am so excited with what we are going to be able to do with these young people. My son had his first haircut (ever) as a part of an awesome fundraiser for children’s cancer treatment and research. Now, there is nothing more rewarding to this bleeding heart mama than hearing her little boy explain this by saying, “Sometimes kids get weally, weally sick and we need to help our friends when they are sick.” Just delicious, right?

I also have the perspective granted by almost six years of living with people who thrive in the face of crushing poverty. My running water (hot and cold!), washing machine, and (perhaps most importantly) regular access to lattes and croissants make me rich beyond measure.

And yet, I am spent, exhausted, fast approaching burnout even as some of my hardest work begins to come to fruition. And, as previously noted, I am very, very cranky.

Earlier this week, I thoroughly enjoyed a post and video meditation by new online friend Marianne Elliot. The post, aptly titled “Take F$%king Care of Yourself,” challenges those of us trying to take care of the world to consider how ridiculous it is that we don’t make time to attend to our most basic physical and emotional needs. In the included brief video, she insightfully notes “It’s no wonder you’re f***ing tired…” and challenged viewers to “…get off your f***ing computer and go for a walk…”

It was just what I f***ing needed to hear.

So, I did this. Started turning off the computer at the end of the workday and (mostly) leaving it that way until the next day. Picked up a fiction book and read myself to sleep (dozed off one night at 9:30pm!). Stopped trying to make it all happen and started trying to see what needs to happen and let the rest go. Started planning a real vacation for myself. Got up a bit earlier and took my out-of-shape self for a walk.

Being who I am, knowing what I know, I can’t actually just drop everything. I mean, I could. But it’s not who I am or who I want to be. I have made commitments to myself and others that I will honor. So, I have carried on with the activities of the week. My most urgent work now, though, is to figure out how to do that with a little more comfort and rest and care. I know it’s not going to get easier right this minute but I also know I am on my way. I have to be.

These cranky pants make my f***ing a** look huge.

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By Mama Paloma, 28/01/2011 00:01

Both AJ and I have been stricken with the latest allergy/cold thing–that leaves one feeling fine but coughing like a severe asthmatic with emphysema who smokes two packs a day–since Sunday. So, in place of a coherent, non-sleep-deprived-or-drug-affected piece, I offer these occasionally-ever-so-slightly-whiny snippets:

• Voicing concern about one problem (Murder of gay activist in Uganda or women’s rights, for example.) without concurrent comment on another (Murder of Shia in Iraq or the plight of men, for example) does not need to be justified or explained. You talk about what concerns you and I’ll do the same and between us we should have things covered. Unless your concern is with the validity of my concerns in which case I have a bone to pick!
• What’s with all of the grown ups with life-ADD? “I am so committed to this, you can count on me–look! something shiny! Oohh… Oh, what was it we were talking about?”
• LA DRIVERS!!! No, I won’t go into that.
• After seven weeks away, my mom is back. YAY!
• I am currently prepping for my 2010 taxes. Once again, as I did last year and the year before, I am determined to keep up on this stuff throughout the year…we’ll see how that goes. Gotta go back through 2010 first, ugggg.
• Seriously, am I the only person who doesn’t give a flying ef you see kay about American Idol? All right, I don’t have a TV but I did once, when American Idol was shiny and new, and still never watched an entire episode.
• For anyone tracking my posts on the subject, baby daddy came and went and I am really, really over his nonsense. Once again, we are all grown-ups…honor your commitments and responsibilities and, no, it’s not all right if your commitments and responsibilities to me go to the bottom of your list.
• I am really happy for Tim Heatherington, who I met in Liberia, and Sebastian Junger that their work is being acknowledged with an Oscar Nomination for Restrepo.
• I have noticed that my FaceBook ‘network’ is amazingly diverse…drawing on my missionary kid upbringing, crazy biological family, progressive colleagues and friends collected through the years, international travel and work, and the random people that have come into my life in various ways. Just finished scanning today’s ‘news’ and saw everything from something on the debate over fasting in the Pentecostal church to outrage over the murder of the Ugandan gay rights activist, protests of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, celebrations of military service, way too many details of people’s meals and health concerns, pro- and anti-Obama rants, local and national and international politics, and the latest (aforementioned) on American Idol. And more. It’s lovely and lush and inspiring and sometimes infuriating and good company on an evening when my kid is sick and I am sitting alone in the apartment.
• I would like to have a boyfriend. There, I said it. Not an L.A. random ‘thing.’ Not a ‘partner.’ Just a boy who enjoys spending time with me on a regular basis and is 1) not an alcoholic/addict/overly attached to any ‘problem’ 2) not coming out of a long relationship 3) able to relax and let things evolve 4) is interesting, attractive, gainfully engaged in some kind of work. I know, I know…I’m a freaking prima donna…want it all. Fine, I didn’t say I needed this…just would be nice sometimes.
• My kid is the coolest ever. Really. I mean, I know I am not an objective source but…trust me, he is.

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By Mama Paloma, 24/01/2011 22:15

A few weeks ago, I started writing part II of this post, thinking it was part I or, really, the only part. Then I saw the following TED video featuring Chimamanda Adichie.  So lovely to find a seemingly kindred spirit who can so eloquently articulate the power of multi-storied lives.

Without our having met, she explains so beautifully why I am a therapist, why I started Survivors’ Truths and what it’s all about. First, I thought of working it in to what I had already started to write but her talk deserves to stand alone. I’ll post that other ramble later…my favorite moments and the full video of her talk are below. Enjoy.

…how impressionable and vulnerable we are in the face of a story… The consequence of the single story is this–it robs people of dignity…When we reject the single story…we regain a kind of paradise.

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By Mama Paloma, 23/01/2011 14:52

So many times, I have wanted to do what Chris Hoff does here…to capture a moment when the scenery, the song on the radio, the location all combine to form a ‘moment’ that feels somehow significant in its random ordinariness.

Today, AJ and I are both fighting colds. Winning the fight, I think. Ten hours of sleep, ginger tea, and a lazy Sunday are the weapons of choice. To pass the time, we hit up our YouTube account, which has numerous playlists I have created to amuse him and, of course, there’s one of all of the video clips of him I have uploaded for friends and family to enjoy. He asked to watch it and so we did for a while.

Looking at these blips in his development—from this account of his frenetic efforts to grab the camera as a two-month-old to discovering Santa’s leavings on Chrismas morning—I am struck by a couple of things.

One is how much he L O V E loves to watch himself. Without the veneer of expected modesty and self-critique we acquire somewhere along the line, a three-year-old relishes his own reflection and reliving past moments.

Another is  how hard it is to both observe and participate in these moments. It’s something I have struggled with a lot as a single parent. I want to preserve these moments but, at the same time, want to be present and a part of things. Behind the camera, I am slightly removed, engaged in framing the experience–something that can’t be done from within the experience itself.

For me, this challenge extends beyond the realm of documenting our lives. When juggling multiple priorities, time lines, and threads of activity, it isn’t easy to be fully present for any of it. Just this week, I was sitting with a client, also a mom who works outside the home, as she talked about this dilemma. As she said, “I just want to be more present with my kids,” I nodded internally in agreement. Then, also internally, I jumped out of my seat in a panic. I had forgotten to send the address of AJ’s preschool  to my friend who was picking AJ up for me that day! It was about the time she should be going to pick him up. What kind of parent am I?

And what kind of therapist am I? If nothing else, it is my job to be fully present for those who come to consult with me. Containing my panic, I wrestled with these conflicting assessments. I realized that, lame as I was for neglecting to send the needed information, the world was not likely to come to an end as a result. AJ was safe at his school (exorbitant late fees be damned) and this client has been consulting with me long enough to work out that I am, indeed, a real human being. So, I quietly took a deep breath and stayed engaged until the conversation reached a natural point of ‘switching gears’ and then asked her if I could excuse myself for a moment. I explained that her comments had reminded me of something I neglected to do. I called. AJ was fine (my resourceful friend had looked up the school on Google). We laughed. It was not my most shining moment as a parent or a professional but it passed.

I am not sure how to tie this all in but it is connected for me somehow–the threads of our lives and the way we weave them together, the impossibility of completely separating the threads of the professional and personal, the organization of all of these pieces and the holes that develop when we drop a stitch and that then, in time, become part of the pattern and wholeness of a life lived.

And the moments that speak from their ordinary synchronicity of the meaning and beauty of it all.

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By Mama Paloma, 14/01/2011 23:33

I have a new idol/virtual mentor/muse. It this woman who writes under the Pseudonym “Sugar” for The Rumpus. Each week, in her column “Dear Sugar,” she responds to people’s dilemmas with humor, candor, and compassion. Deep, deep compassion and love. So, I share this little bit of Sugar with you and invite you to read the rest if you are also touched or inspired.

It made me think about what’s at stake when we ponder a gig. About what work means. About the fine balance of money and reason and instinct and the ideas we have about ourselves when we imagine we can be “meta” about our bodies and lives and the ways we spend our days. About what’s at work when we attempt to talk ourselves into things we don’t want to do and out of things we do. When we think a payoff comes from being paid and a price exacted from doing things for free. About what morality is. And who gets to say. And what relation it has to making money. And what relation it has to desperation.

Though the writer of this week’s inquiry was facing a decision about taking money for sex–a choice I have not personally taken on but know is far, far more common than most people realize–her dilemma and Sugar’s response touched me in a deep place. I, too have been struggling with questions of survival, relationship, value of my work, and honoring the things that matter most to me. This is coming up now in my professional life as I weigh the importance of carrying on non-profit work which comes out of ideas that feed my soul while draining my time and tangible resources and also in my personal life as I negotiate the minefield of maintaining a relationship with my son’s other parent. Where is fairness? What is constructive and just and moral and good? What price should I expect myself to pay for these values? How does material compensation relate to respect and being valued? How do I take responsibility for that when so much of it is out of my hands?

For me, today is also significant because it marks the tenth anniversary of giving up another gig. On January 14, 2001, I put a couple of suitcases in my car, took off my rings, and began the process of leaving a twelve-year relationship. Yep, folks, this Marriage and Family Therapist was once married. Like my current situations in work and family life, the process of changing that took far longer and was more painful than I could have anticipated. Yet, I wouldn’t change that decision if I could. I hope that, ten years from now, I can say the same about these current journeys I have embarked on. Sometimes it’s hard to see how it can be but I persevere in the hope the process is worth the pain and the outcome outweighs the price.

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By Mama Paloma, 14/12/2010 07:31

…that I will not participate in any relationship that becomes dominated by Someone’s Unending Drama, emotional manipulation, and/or bullshit ultimatums. Consider this my declaration of independence from Trying to Make it All Right. Sometimes it’s just wrong. I pledge to accept when it’s just wrong and move on.

Yeah, I am taking the train out of Crazy Town. Maybe I belong there but that place sucks!

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By Mama Paloma, 09/08/2010 02:33

…but lately have been feeling pretty house-bound. First, there’s the fact that much of my work is done from my dining room table. So, I work and live (with my two-and-a-half-year-old son) in a not overly spacious but very homey 1928 one-bedroom apartment. Second, my current financial and work situation doesn’t allow me to get out all that much…except for work-related events. My going out has been much more limited recently as my mom, my mainstay, my main means of surviving this single mommy thing, has had surgery on both of her feet in the past few months and can’t make it up the stairs to my lovely flat, let alone keep up with the aforementioned progeny.

I am at once in desperate need of adult interaction and exhausted beyond being able to carry on a coherent conversation. I am a lonely hermit.

This, too, will pass. Mom’s feet are healing up, I am working on an office for Survivors’ Truths (anyone want to volunteer to head up that effort?), and AJ is getting more independent each day. A couple of friends have offered to try having a sleep over. We are planning trips for work and family.

But a part of me does yearn for the kind of easy by-the-seat-of-my-pants travel I used to know. A friend’s recent post of caving in the Southwest US reminded me of a magical evening in Paris. I looked up the email I sent to friends and now share it here…proof of the adventurer I once was.

Dove Goes Underground–October 26, 2005 (with some minor edits)

OK, folks, this is by far my BEST Paris story yet. It’s a bit long but, I think, worth the reading. Leaves being asked out by cops in the dust….Maya, you will be proud (and maybe a little jealous)!

So, yesterday, after waiting around for a long time for my friend Penelope to come from Brussels (Penelope, where are you? Are you OK?) I decided to go see some sights. It was already afternoon, so I headed down to the Denfert-Rochereau Station to see the Catacombs. This is a place where bones from various cemeteries were moved to underground tunnels in the late 1700s-early 1800s to make room for new dead people/buildings.

There are tunnels all over under Paris. Some are were originally made by miners taking stone from under the city to erect the city above, others are old sewers, still more are built-over Roman structures and medieval streets. The small section of the Catacombs Museum is open to the public, the rest technically illegal to explore. My plan was to have a peek at the Museum and then walk up to the Luxembourg gardens before going to check out a couple of bookstores with lots of books in English. I arrived just as the place was closing and was one of the last group of people to be let in for the day.

After descending a ten-meter spiral staircase, I was wandering around these tunnels, taking photos and generally enjoying myself. I overheard a woman in front of me saying she was named Heidi and was from California. I did not say anything to her or anyone else, but that bit is important to the story later.

As I was taking a photo of a sign in the tunnel, a young man who was sitting there (turned out to be an employee) said something to me in French. I responded ”Pardone, I do not speak French.” He spoke a little English, and asked me if I wanted to see the ”renovations.” I had no idea what he was talking about but he took me back into some areas that were behind locked gates to a place where someone ages ago had carved a replica of one of the Paris palaces out of the limestone. It was really cool. This was still within the “museum’s” area and well-lit, so I was not worried about going back there with him. We came back to the group and I thanked him. He said “No problem. If you like, I can show you the forbidden catacombs.”

Now, I am, generally, as sensible person (no comments from the peanut gallery, thank you), so my first thought was:

“It is probably not a good idea to go into underground tunnels with some guy I don’t know. If something happened i.e. he turns out to be a rapist/psycho killer, even if I kicked his butt, I would not be able to find my way out.”

Of course, my second thought was:

“That sounds really, really cool.”

And who wants to tell the story of how they could have gone to the forbidden catacombs?

So, I sidled up to the aforementioned Californian and said “So, you’re from California?” I think I kind of freaked her out because she responded “What, are you a mind reader?” I explained that I had overheard her talking earlier and then told her that this guy had offered to take me to the forbidden catacombs but I was a bit nervous about going on my own. She was very interested in going, so we agreed to act like we were friends. If he wasn’t thrilled to be taking both of us, forget it.

The museum closed and we were all led back up to street level. The other people from the tour left and we were standing there. The guy asked if the other woman was my friend and I said she was. He asked her if she would like to go to the forbidden catacombs and she said yes. Now, keep in mind that neither she nor I speak French and he really speaks a very little bit of English. So, after some confusion, he handed me a paper with his phone number on it. He said to call when we wanted to go. I asked when we could go and he said “Any time you like.” “Now?” I asked, and he, hesitantly,  said “Sure.”

He was kind of looking at me funny and it occurred to me that I might not be dressed for such an adventure. I was wearing a white dress with a black and gray pattern on it, a black cardigan, black coat, blue scarf, and my new (very cool) knee-high high-heeled boots. I was looking very chic and Parisian, if I do say so myself. Anyway, I realized that perhaps this get-up is not really what one normally wears in the forbidden catacombs so, using sign language and a bit of Frenglish, I asked him his opinion on the matter.

He was emphatic that I needed different shoes–tennis shoes or hiking boots. I explained that I did not have either with me but could go buy some. He got on his mobile phone, made a couple of calls and said “Let’s go.” I surmised that he was arranging some shoes for me to borrow.

We followed him through the neighborhood to an apartment complex and went in. Turns out we were going to his house. It is actually the government-subsidized housing, what we in the US would call a “project” (in the area that, a short couple of weeks later, was in riotous flames) but it is very nice and clean (unlike most of our ”projects”). His mum was home with three babies–she has a little day care operation going. So, we played with the babies while he made some arrangements. Then, he gave me some tennis shoes (think they were his mum’s) and clothes–camouflage cargo pants and a huge t-shirt. I changed and we were off.

We walked along the street a bit and then, with little warning, he jumped over the wall. I followed, though I can’t say I really jumped, more like scrambled/clawed/pulled my way over, then Heidi. We walked down some steps to some old train tracks then about 1/2 a kilometer into an old  unused metro tunnel. It was about then that we introduced ourselves to each other. Turns out our tour guide was a 22-year-old named Charles.

It seemed we were going to be in that tunnel forever when Charles suddenly stopped and pointed out a (seemingly very small) hole along the bottom of the wall with “HELL BOUND” scrawled above it in graffiti.

We crawled through that hole into a tunnel. Charles, thankfully, had brought torches (AKA flashlights) because it is really, really dark underground. A couple of times, we turned our torches off and it was darker than any dark I have ever experienced. We walked along corridors and through smaller tunnels where we had to crouch down. We walked through underground streams with very cold water up to our knees. I expected to feel claustrophobic (tend to be) and generally nervous, but I wasn’t.

It was also completely silent. If we all stood still the only sound was our breathing. Every once in a while, there would be a rumble of a metro train nearby…but even that sounded very distant. At one point, there was a loud knocking sound. It sounded almost like someone drumming but different. It is the only time I felt a bit scared. We kept walking and came to a place where there is a man-hole cover some 30 meters up through a tunnel and water was coming down and hitting some coke cans someone had dropped down there. The sound of that was really loud and echoed through the halls. We passed that and were in silence again.

Some of the tunnels are marked with the names of the streets above. There are lots of side tunnels, some that open up into rooms. In several places, I was sure we were looking at the remains of old Roman baths…I had seen some at an archeological site near Notre Dame and the structures seemed quite similar. Some of the rooms had amazing graffiti, one had a bunch of fake plants and flowers with a sign “PLEASE KEEP OFF PLANTINGS SPRING BULBS ARE PLANTED HERE,” one had a large stuffed bunny rabbit and a deflated blow-up doll (really creepy), and another had a large carved castle and gargoyles (really cool). A couple of times, we stopped and lit a bunch of candles (Charles the Prepared had also brought a bag of tea light candles with him). It was really beautiful and amazingly comfortable, sitting there with these strangers, far below the Paris streets.

Eventually, we were really hungry and decided to go out. Charles led us along a ways and then we climbed maybe 20 or 30 meters up to a man-hole cover which then refused to budge. We climbed back down and went back the way we had come (i.e. a long way). We ran into some of Charles’ friends who were going in. Apparently, there is this whole sub-culture of tunnelers. They seem quite nice and friendly. Anyway, Charles asked if we wanted to stay and hang out with those guys but we were pretty tired and hungry so we went on out (emerging about 4 hours after we went in), back to his place where I changed back into my own clothes (Heidi had to stay all wet and muddy), and then Heidi and I took him for a nice Italian dinner in the Ste. Michele area.

All in all, it was one of the most surreal experiences and the most fun I have had in a long time.

Update: I recently came across this email from Charles, sent then next day. Poor boy was confused by my misuse of the the phrase “se bon.”

good day my dove

  goes then your satisfies of your soiree yesterday?
that is this you do beautiful I want to see you. I
want to pass a soiree in tete has tete with you. I you
had that I have to crack for you you so pretty and
great sympathique.I do not know if you have a boy
friend but me I fell in love with you I does only
thought has you you know.  kiss has you my beautiful
one.

charles
(catacombes) kisssssssssssssssssssss

Comments (0)

By Mama Paloma, 25/07/2009 03:34

I recently dated someone for a couple of months. Among his many (many) complaints about me was the fact that, in any situation (but especially in a disagreement), I am more concerned with the process than the content. I am more interested in the how than the what. This drove him mad, in all likelihood because his how drove me mad. He is, I truly believe a kind and giving person at heart. And he does give and is kind. However, quite often, this giving kindness comes in rather, um, shall we say, rough packaging.

Case in point: I was feeling ill. My stomach was upset. He made me ginger tea (kind), he brought it to me (very kind), he said, very sternly and a bit sharply, “You should drink this.” The other person present looked at me, seeming a surprised and a little uncomfortable. “The sentiment is good,” I commented, “even if the delivery isn’t.” She nodded.

To me, packaging matters. Delivery matters. How things feel and are experienced matters. For my would-be lover and I, this sensitivity, in part, destroyed our connection. My sensibilities could only handle so many insults. It was very hard to believe that he didn’t think I was an idiot when he spoke to me like I was an idiot. It was hard to remember that he wasn’t yelling at me when he raised and hardened his voice and would not listen to anything I said.

At the same time that I was sorting out how much this all did matter to me, I was working, with him, on a project. This was the culmination of some work I started in Africa almost three years ago. I had the opportunity to take this work and present it at the Liberian Embassy in Washington DC. I was torn up about the disintegrating relationship. It went against all of my sensibilities and felt so wrong to go forward with everything else without setting that right. And I tried to set it right. Up to the day I left, I was trying to have a conversation that could help it end well.

It didn’t work.

So, I had to do something uncomfortable. I had to keep going in spite of feeling messy and ugly and sad. Perhaps this was my lesson in all of this. To keep focused on the content of my life even when the process seems a bit off.

On reflection, this may be the lesson of the past two years: that I can honor my natural desire to attend to process but am also able to move forward when the how is not as I would hope. The process of having my son–from unintentional conception to betrayal by his father to a difficult hospital birth–was not at all in keeping with my preferences. Yet, I managed to keep going, to make meaning of these experiences, to connect with my son, and (so far, at least) to have a happy, healthy child.

So, I say, for today, process is paramount, my friends, but not all.

And that is good enough for me.