Just came across this quote on my favorite photography forum and it got me thinking about bliss.

The regular dictionary definition is some variation of “a state of extreme happiness”. My my own personal experience of bliss feels more like this yogic explanation:

The past few years have taught me a great deal about Bliss – finding it, following it, living it. Even so, it takes mindfulness and focus to avoid losing track of Bliss and letting myself wallow in the muck and mire of existence (like the dirty dishes and cranky kids and money worries). Bliss can be a transcendent force that overarches and inspires everything in my life, or it can be a fleeting moment that slips out of my grasp all too easily. Without attention, awareness and gratitude – Bliss can even be a source of heartache and frustration. Becoming conscious and mindful of Bliss and cultivating it in my life has proven harder than it sounds.

Before Bella was born I hadn’t the slightest clue who I really was, let alone what brought me Bliss. Bella’s birth was the beginning of a new path, and the past four and a half years have been one big journey of self-discovery and personal awareness. Julianna’s birth feels like another milestone, a seismic shift in my being that brought everything into focus. My youngest baby is also my ancient guru – and she has brought me to new levels of consciousness. New levels of joy.

New levels of Bliss.

A huge part of this journey has been discovering a transcendent, deeply personal joy. The kind of joy that - in the moment - makes everything make sense.

In the past four and a half years I have found Bliss over and over again. I have found Bliss in my birth work and the service of women that is more calling than vocation, more reward than obligation. I have found Bliss in my writing. I have found Bliss in my friendships, in the women of uncommon beauty of spirit who have entered my life and moved my soul and made my heart dance. I’ve found countless moments of the purest Bliss in my children, and lately I have glimpsed it in my photography – seeing the beauty of the world in a different way through the viewfinder. I’ve found Bliss in the acknowledgement of my strength, and in owning my own vulnerability. I’ve learned that Bliss is available in moments of weakness just as it is in moments of strength.

My next journey will be figuring out how to embrace my Bliss without fear or reservation or excuses or self-deprecation. To get past the paralyzing self-doubt that prevents me from chasing dreams. To reach beyond my comfort zone into the scary places – to delve into the dark and dirty so that I can be free to become the woman I am meant to be.

I’m going to spend the next little while diving into my Bliss.

Care to join me?

What is your Bliss? Are you seeking it ? Chasing it? Embracing it? Are you living it? Are you the embodiment of your Bliss?

Are you hiding from it? Unaware of it? Afraid of it? Convincing yourself that it is not worth it? That you’re not worth it? That it is unimportant, or silly or unrealistic?

What makes you feel alive? Giddy? What makes you make sense?

What is your Bliss?

Go see my dearest Mb and read her profound thoughts and questions on pain in labour.

Go now. This is important stuff.

J.

Sure looks like they both had a hard night - doesn’t it?

Important Note: Jules is wearing her very first advocacy t-shirt….a gift from Anna. It says “Human milk for baby humans. Cow milk for baby cows.” A lactivist at 8 months!

Tis the oft lamented curse of the second child. Empty baby book. A handful of pictures. Hardly any video.

We all swear that our second child, equally loved and no less cherished, will never be subject to this unfortunate fate. Of course we’ll take just as many pictures. Of course we’ll still record hours of video of every spit bubble and pureed carrot smeared face. Of course we’ll faithfully note doctors appointments, first teeth, and developmental milestones in our neatest penmanship, filling the pages darling Beatrix Potter themed baby book that Great Aunt Myrtle sent for the baby shower.

Of course. Not.

Although nobody can say that Julianna has suffered in the photography department (I took 250 pictures today. Yes. 250) the record of her first year is lagging rather noticeably in other areas.

I found her baby book mixed in with the boxes of Bella’s books we had packed in the garage when the house was for sale. Have not even cracked it open. We took a bit of video in her first few weeks. Maybe shot a few minutes tape at Halloween, and I think we got a few moments at Christmas. Don’t even know where the darn thing is now. Although I’ve taken plenty of photos, I’ve not put a single one in a photo album since before our Hawaii trip last spring, and I haven’t printed a single photo since I got my digital before Christmas. She’s had professional photos taken twice, but I couldn’t for the life of me find them if you wanted to see them.

On the other hand, Bella’s baby book had almost every blank filled in. When our firstborn was three months old, we were able to fill an entire video tape with footage to send home to our families for Christmas. I took her to The Picture People every single month for her entire first year, and filed away at least one (and as many as five) 8x10’s in her baby book from each monthly visit.

The biggest difference however is in writing. My journal from Bella’s infancy covers her development in mind-numbing, excruciating, nauseating detail. I’m sure you could look back and find out what outfit I dressed her in, what she ate for breakfast and how long she napped when she was five months, three weeks and two days old. Page, after page after page I chronicled her every waking moment, and most of her sleeping ones as well.

Poor dear Jules. I haven’t even written an update since she was six months old – and the updates I have written have been brief bullet point catch ups, not at all like the lovingly detailed epics composed for her older sister.

Granted, I’ve got a bit more going on now than I did then. Aside from the not so minor fact that the first time around I had only one baby to concern myself with, I also only had a handful of real friends, no car, little money and not much of a life outside of family and home. I certainly wasn’t running a non-profit, working as a doula or trying to learn the complex art of photography, not to mention selling, moving and renovating. Heck – even when I do write now, I’m self-centered enough that it is rarely about my sweet Julie.

I feel bad about that. When grown and faced with the comparative shortage of information (and therefore time) devoted to tangible memories of their formative years, do second children feel the sting of the lack of attention and time devoted to them? Sam and I are both firstborns, with all the privileges generally thus afforded, so we have no idea.

I have these grand plans of one day printing these diaries up on archival paper and binding them in fine leather, gifting my daughters with my memories of their lives. Will Julianna notice that her volume is about half the size of her sister’s? Will she wonder if I might possibly have loved Bella more? Will she, on some level, feel the unintentional slight of a busy mama with a crazy life? A mama who didn’t have time to write page after page about the way my heart jumps with joy when I see mischief shine in her eyes, or how I feel peace at the core of my being when we lie together in bed and she gently caresses my arm as she falls asleep. Will I remember to tell her these things, even though I haven’t taken the time to write them?

This lack of documentation is but one symptom of a life split in a million different directions. Of trying to be enough (good enough, fast enough, awake enough) to do this job they way it should be done. Of taking love and passion and attention and channeling it inward and outward so that everyone (including myself) gets what they need. I fear this lack of focus is not good for my family, and know I need to take time to learn skills of re-centering, and calming – so that I can teach them to my kids. Maybe then I’ll find the time to sit still for 15 minutes and tell you all about my wee girlie, so that she’ll know her mama loved her too.

….I just realized I could have better spent this time by writing about Julianna, instead of writing about not writing about Julianna….Funny how hindsight works.

“I get by with a little help from my friends. I get high with a little help from my friends.”

Can’t remember who said that, but it must have been a mother!* The two things I need more of as a mother are friends and alcoholic beverages.

I’ve been lucky to have great friends and some great experiences with booze (remember what the Boone’s Farm led to?), but I will admit to being both a selfish friend and a selfish drinker. I was always the person that you didn’t want to leave alone at a table while you went dancing. All the drinks would be empty when you got back.

I’m a mother now. Less time, but maybe more need for the occasional adult liquid refreshment. I drink less often, but make sure that when I do it is as much fun as possible. There was that day a small army of women and children were at my house making vanilla with vodka and whole vanilla beans when we realized that we had open bottles of booze. That was a blast!

The friends I need now as a mother have changed some but the one basic requirement for me is the same. As a selfish friend, I only have time for friendships with people that make me feel good about myself. Of course that is one reason why I LOVE Jeanette! That girl really knows how to stoke my ego. What makes it better is that she’s so wonderful. It makes me feel all tingly inside to know that someone like her likes me! Ummm…she’s even fought over me with others. That’s like the biggest selfish-egomaniac-girl’s wet dream!

I have learned to share my booze with others better—it isn’t as much fun to drink alone. I am also learning how to be a better friend to others. I want to repay friends like Jeanette and make sure that I make them feel as good about themselves as they make me feel about myself.

Here’s a list of just a few things I love and admire about Jeanette:

-Her passion about birth and how that has gotten her two beautiful daughters, helped other women with their birth journeys, and helped create a wonderful place for other people to gather that also care about birth (Arizona Birth Network).

-Her creativity. The way she expresses herself in words and more recently with a camera is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

-Her beauty inside and out is breathtaking!

-Her great judgment…did I mention that she loves me, too?

Here’s a list of just a few things I love about Margaritas:

-There is room for variety and choices. But easy choices and all I can live with. Salt or no salt? Frozen or on the rocks? By the glass or by the pitcher?

-They make anyone you are about to sleep with better looking. Even the guy you’ve been married to for over 11 years!

-They are the right amount of sweet & sour…just like me!

*My husband would die…of course it was The Beatles.

My sole applicant for the Guest Writer position seeks anonymity, so I suppose she’ll be a ghost writer as well. However, just to set the stage, let me tell you a bit about her.

K exudes an uncommon mix of good old fashioned mama love along with healthy dose of sex appeal. She’s bawdy and spicy and risqué, and kind and warm and beautiful. She has a sharp mind and even sharper wit. She wears a tiara while cleaning her toilet and bought a big ole poufy prom dress ‘just because’. She’s got an entire room in her house devoted to Elvis and she believes wholeheartedly in the superpower endowing properties of her Wonderwoman panties. She’s a princess and a grand eccentric dame. When it was her turn to plan Moms Night Out there was nary a scrapbook or latte to be seen – she brought everyone to a drag show. She’s got a story for every occasion, personality enough for ten women, and is 110% original.

Most of my local readers have already deduced the identity of our mystery writer, but the rest of you should sit up and take notice…

Queen K is in the house.

Good Girl Disclaimer: In the interest of providing fair warning for certain segments of my readership (mainly the the ones that gave birth to me or otherwise had a hand in my upbringing) K is a tad less inhibited than me. I’m just can’t shake my that I’m-a-preachers-daughter-must-be-a-good-girl mentatity. (Can’t even type a swear word. I’ve tried - and I always delete and type ^%$(* instead).

On the other hand, K is planning on covering some adult topics - and I’ve decided not to censor her one little bit, because I don’t believe in messing with another woman’s voice. So, although it made me blush right down to my good girl toes, and I’m expecting some very interesting google hits - here is her first entry in it’s original unedited format. Enjoy…

Losing my virginity, again.

This is the first time I have blogged. Nice to know that it is just a temporary gig while our dear Jeanette is packing & moving. Blogging for the first time is like when I lost my other virginity because both times I had an audience.

When I lost my other virginity I was 18 years, 1 month, and 6 days old. And it was every girl’s dream come true….

There were four of us drinking in the desert that Saturday night, Rene DeLaCruz, Ray Mitchell, a girl we called Wednesday (real name was Susan Something-or-other), and me. It wasn’t exactly a double date because Ray wasn’t into Rene but some other guy on the wrestling team, Wednesday was into me but I didn’t know it, I didn’t know if Rene was into anyone but another friend of mine had lost her virginity to him the year before, and I was totally into another friend not out drinking that night, Mark, who was totally into Ray. After about eight bottles of Boone’s Farm between the four of us it didn’t matter any more who was into whom.

Suddenly (ok, maybe not so suddenly but I’m skipping the part of the story where we were racing in the desert and decided clothes were slowing us down) Ray and Wednesday were making out and Rene and I were making out. I decided plain old making out just wouldn’t do. I got down to some heavy duty begging. Rene was either being a gentleman or really didn’t want the pressure of fatherhood because he was really insisting on “protection.” Only made me want him more.

We got into the truck and drove a little ways to a generic looking, still far into the boonies convenient store. Convenient, my ass! They didn’t even sell condoms! We had made Wednesday go in and ask. We drove a little closer into town and found a Circle K. Wednesday went in with all the change we had scrounged up and came out with a grin, announcing, “I got ribbed for HER pleasure!”

Maybe it was fear that we would all sober up if we drove back out into the desert, but we just drove behind the Circle K. Ray and Wednesday continued making out—even after one of them threw up, and Rene and I did IT. What a tiny penis! Not teeny tiny, but longish and skinny! It was just like Rene, and just like his hands so I guessed that whole look at their hands thing was true. We were having some difficulty with positioning because we were in a tiny truck with a stick shift and my leg kept hitting the radio controls—shooting up the volume at odd moments. It took FOREVER. If I knew then what I know now I think I would have nixed his idea of wearing two condoms at once (he was really afraid of unwanted pregnancies, but it’s not like doubling up helped out with his pencil dick issue).

At one point I remembered my friend Ray standing over me. He had lost his buzz and was getting cold. He wanted the jacket that was under me while I was trying to get laid. I don’t remember how much longer the whole thing lasted, but it seemed like a long time and not once was it so great that I wanted it lasting close to as long as it did. When it was finally over the bastard stepped outside of the truck and announced, “She wasn’t a virgin!” I’ll never know if he thought I wasn’t as “tight” as virgins were supposed to feel or because I didn’t just lay there for my first lay. I never asked and we never did it again. I got it out of the way and that was good enough.

Getting it crossed off my Things To Do List was one of the biggest differences between losing my two virginities. At 18 I was afraid that I would die the other kind of virgin. I wasn’t afraid I would die without ever having blogged. I didn’t have all these weird scenarios in my head where I was at the bank when it was robbed and I had to ask a robber to please let me blog him before he killed me or asking the ambulance driver after a horrible accident to please let me blog him before I died of my internal injuries. I’m still glad to be rid of this virginity. I just hope you call me tomorrow.