I did it.

I wanted to write, stage, and debut a new one-woman show and against all odds I made it happen.

I wrote little by little in tiny windows of time while my baby slept in a wrap on my chest.

I found a tiny little gallery in Chicago that would have me.

I constructed a DIY stage with lights and media from Craigslist and Ace Hardware and what I could find at my in-laws for a budget of $200.

I bought a ukulele and learned how to play it (sort of).

I revised and cut and revised and added until my script felt right and landed at about 7300 words.

I rehearsed nightly in my in-laws’ kitchen. I would put the baby to bed, then move the kitchen table, unfurl my area rug, haul in my lights and set-pieces and start working.

I found the strength and resolution to stop feeling silly and speak my lines out loud even though everyone at home could hear me. I dug deep and pushed myself to create something personal, even though there was nowhere to do it in private.

I memorized until I was full.

I rented chairs.

I invited my family and friends and a few friends of friends.

And on January 8, 2016 The Interior opened at Cynamon Shop to a full house of 20 people. I looked into the eyes of a captivated audience as I did what I do best. I felt in my element and out of my body at the same time.

The big question–Will I still make art without graduate school? Will I still make art as a mother?–has been answered by a clear and definite YES.

The days have passed rapidly and Lydia has grown like a weed. How have we been here for five weeks already? Her motor skills are astounding. There is a whole new level of understanding in her eyes. She is a different baby since we left Yellowstone.

This morning I went to a yoga class in Wauconda, the town over. I like a studio called Silver Lotus, and on Saturday mornings I try to make it Hatha Flow. Afterwards, I like to go to Honey Hill Coffee, just up the road, and try to write. These are decadent luxuries to me and I am grateful for them. On Saturdays on like this one, when there is no commuting or shopping or hustle & bustle, life in Chicagoland is peaceful and sweet.

Despite this, I’ve had no time for the blog lately. Every time I sit down to try and blog something, I decide instead that I should be working on the show. The show is happening. I’ve got a venue. I’ve got a script (that I can’t stop picking at). I’ve got 5×7′ area rug that acts as my stage. I’ve got a symphony of clamp lights and xmas lights and outdoor flood lamps that I control with my feet. I’ve got 25 folding chairs. I’ve got a ukelele. I’ve got a great big lump in my throat.

It is FOUR WEEKS until The Interior opens at Cynamon Shop. (Actually, it was four weeks from YESTERDAY.) If I wasn’t panicked about it, it would mean I didn’t care, right? That is what I would tell my students: anxiety about a project means you are invested. So I bounce from “How will I ever get this all done?” to “It feels wonderful to be making something” and back, every time I pick up the script.

I videotape myself acting it out and watch it. Rafal sometimes acts as a stand-in. I understand very fully the value of a director. I’m asking myself to be in two places at once.

But I can’t lie: it lifts my heart to be making something. Something imperfect. Something slapped together between nursing a baby and changing a diaper and maybe every third day washing my hair. It feels real and good to be staging my story, even if on some days, the dual fears of failure and overexposure cause me to lie on the floor and just breathe. My first show post-graduate school is manifesting itself. It is bigger than me now. It is becoming material.

And that’s what is happening now.

 

 

Two months have passed, almost to the day, since I have posted anything on the blog. Allow me to bring things up to speed.

The beginning of October was difficult. Everything in Grant Village was closed and I began to feel the walls closing in. The isolation felt visceral; heavy; a pressure on my central nervous system, not unlike being underwater. But during the second half of October, my heart began opening up. My friend Ruby came to visit and stayed for nearly three weeks, renting the apartment next door. She was (and still is) on an open-ended cross-country soul-searching mission, and she arrived in Yellowstone just in time. For three weeks we hiked, cooked, made fires, passed the baby, and passed the time.

The end of the season brought a subtle change in the other remaining Yellowstone residents, a sort of nostalgia and warmness and extension of inclusion, as though I was now almost one of them, having survived at least this long in the Park. At the end of the season maintenance potluck, I felt like I was a part of the living community of Yellowstone, for maybe the first time.

And just the last week we were there, I made a strong connection with the only other mother in the area. Melia has two daughters–Ava, 5, and Svea, 5 months. Svea was born during the summer at a hospital in Jackson. Melia’s husband Eric works maintenance (like Rafal) and they live in the Park year-round. I’d met them numerous times and we’d even had dinner at their house, but during our final week, Melia and I (and our little ones) began taking morning walks together. Snow had started to fall daily and our three-mile route traversed empty snow-covered streets among glorious pines bearing the weight of the snow. Ruby, Melia, and I even had a girls’ night, sharing tea, tarot cards, and talk of our pasts. In short, I finally made a real friend.

We then packed everything back up into our 5X8 storage trailer. Ruby set off for Carson City, NV on the 29th and Lydia, Rafal, and I headed north toward Missoula, MT on the 30th.

We spent four days in Missoula staying with my friends Mikki & Max. We celebrated Halloween, enjoyed the quintessentially autumn weather, visited with friends old and new, experienced the wonder of the Festival of the Dead parade, and drank lots of delicious Butterfly coffee. It was the perfect decompression after half a year in the woods. And then, we turned our compass east: back to the city where we both grew up, back to family, almost back in time.

Three days and 1600 miles later and we arrived in Island Lake, IL, a far north suburb (maybe so far as to not even be considered an official suburb) where Rafal’s parents own a home and where we will park in intergenerational harmony for the next half-year or so. We’ve already been here for several weeks, bouncing from time with my mom & cousins, to time with friends, to another surprise visit with Ruby! In the mix was my birthday, complete with a massage, real Chicago-style deep dish pizza, a hike in the local state park, board games, carrot cake, and sleepover with my BFF. It was a wholesome and delicious day. Cheers to 32.

Now I am typing in our bedroom, as Rafal spins records in the kitchen. I can hear Lydia laughing. She is just about ten months old now and is the proud owner of 6 teeth. Any second now she will be walking, and before we know it her adorable babble will find the shape and texture of words. A wholly unique person is emerging from the ooey gooey softness of a baby,  with preferences, idiosyncrasies, and a sense of humor all her own. It is enough to move me to tears, watching her take shape. I can scarcely remember the pain of childbirth, and I forgive the pain of lack of sleep. I am just so grateful to be in her company.

Eight inches of snow fell here last night so we are all tucked in with winter delight. Soup simmers on the stove, coffee swirls in my cup, electronic music fills the house.

We are here, Chicago. It feels so very good to be home.

Lydia is an incredible being. She loves to explore textures and sounds. She loves to be in motion. She finds so much joy in things I take for granted: shadows, cars driving by, the way wind rustles the trees.

I am beginning to see myself in her face, in her smile. She loves when we look in the mirror together and I wonder if she understands that we are two different people, or if she has not crossed that threshold yet.

She is sleeping better and better, and becoming more affectionate. She reaches up her arms for me to hold her, and she lays her head on my chest when she gets sleepy. She thinks Tata is the funniest person in the world, and he can get her rolling with laughter like nobody else.

It’s cliché for a reason. She is just so delicious. We are in love.

Today is my last Friday at the Grant Village Post Office. In a few days this station will close down for the season. Our general store is already operating with shortened hours, and within another week or two, everything—the campground, both restaurants*, the visitor’s center, gas station, and general store—will all close their doors. One by one, all non-permanent employees will vacate for the winter. We are scheduled to be here until October 31, just moments before they close the roads and all transportation will be done by snowmobile. We will be among the very last non-winter employees to leave.

[*There are two restaurants here in Grant Village, and I have not mentioned them prior to now. This is because I tend to ignore their existence. It is the opinion of everyone I have spoken to—guests and residents alike—that both the Grant Village Restaurant and the Lake House offer terrible food at offensive prices. As such, I have never eaten at either. We also possess an employee pub hidden somewhere in the woods. I’ve never even laid eyes on it. In addition to pouring cheap whiskey shots, the pub also serves pizza. But since they don’t open until 8pm, and since Rafal and I usually eat dinner at 5 like a couple of old farts, we hadn’t had a chance to try it. Then, a few weeks ago, we were getting back from Jackson much later than usual. So Rafal dropped me off at home to load in the baby and supplies, and he headed to the pub to order a pizza. They informed him that their oven was broken and it would not be fixed this season.]

Grant Village is deep in the interior of the Park, it is up very high (nearly 8000 feet), and it is ultimately expendable. As such, our meager amenities begin evaporating sooner than they do in other locations. The Old Faithful area, for example, will stay active for another month or so, and Mammoth Hotsprings (which holds Park Headquarters) will remain open and plowed throughout the winter. Mammoth has all sorts of year-round accommodations—including, but not limited to, a daycare center—that silly little Grant could never dream of. Mammoth Hotsprings is the New York City of Yellowstone Park, Old Faithful is Chicago, and Grant Village is a small town in Nebraska. (It’s pretty, but there’s not much to do). As James Perry puts it:

“Grant Village is the most hated location in Yellowstone. It’s situated on a beautiful curve of Yellowstone Lake known as West Thumb, close to thermal features and sporting a sublime view of unspoiled shoreline and mountains. It was also built in the middle of some of the most sensitive grizzly habitat in Yellowstone, close to several important cutthroat trout spawning streams where grizzlies take much of their spring nourishment, and only two miles from an already developed area. Grant Village was built with the understanding that another location, Fishing Bridge, would be closed. The idea being that there would be zero net growth as far as development in the Park was concerned. But Fishing Bridge never did close and Grant Village simply took its place among the Park villages like an obnoxious, uninvited guest. Thus its moniker – The Mistake on the Lake.” (14)

I can’t be too hard on Grant Village, though. I feel most comfortable when the place I live is just slightly shitty.

Although I am counting down the weeks until I can get a much needed pedicure, living deep within the interior is one of my favorite parts of this experience. Removing the ability to “run to the store” makes me so much more resourceful, and causes me to reflect on what I truly need. We almost never waste food. We can’t purchase things on impulse. The fact that we need to pack everything back into our 5×8 storage trailer before we leave here means we can’t accumulate additional mass: anything we gain means something else will stay behind. And being entirely removed from the commercial sphere for 13 out of every 14 days is just plain good for the spirit. We keep a running list, plan out all our meals, and do our bi-weekly shopping in one big burst. This means only one instance of standing in line at the store; only one experience of loading in groceries; only one encounter with the malaise of capitalist indecision every two weeks. Plus, it gives us a visceral grasp on what we eat, what we buy, and how much money we spend.

(Full disclosure: Amazon Prime has been pretty helpful for really important things—car parts or baby supplies—that we need in kind of a hurry. We have only another week or so of this luxurious service, so I am stocking up on diapers and treating myself to a couple of books.)

I do miss many things about Babylon. I miss ordering Thai food. I miss making small talk at the health food store. I really miss coffee shops. But I also like being removed from all that noise.

On Friday mornings I walk to work. The air is cool, the sun has just settled into its morning position, and everything smells fresh. I take a short, unofficial trail that cuts through the forest from the NPS housing area to the center of Grant Village, and particularly in the early morning, I keep my bear spray ready-to-hand. (I haven’t yet crossed paths with the infamous grizzly who’s spending this season in Grant, but rumor has it he takes this trail from time to time.) I love these morning walks, but this was the first one that really felt cold. For weeks now, mornings have been in the upper 30s, but with the sun shining and a jacket on, this has been welcome and exhilarating. This week, however, temperatures have started dipping into the 20s, and walking to work with a cup of coffee in my hand, I wished I had worn gloves. Winter is coming, whispered the wind. Snow will be here any day now. I have already stocked my pantry in case of blizzard; I have already pulled out our winter clothes; there is nothing else to do but wait.

I know the next seven weeks will pass quickly. Rafal is entering a grueling month of overtime hours (which means overtime baby rearing for me), and I will be working the next four Saturdays at the Old Faithful Post Office (with Lyd in tow), filling in for another employee who has already flown the seasonal coop. In other words, the next month will be full of work, and should leave us flush with a little extra cash. Meanwhile, we will be exploiting every available moment to experience the Park, fitting in the lower-elevation hikes we’ve been saving for these colder days. After we survive this month, it will be time to begin packing, and before you know it we’ll be on the road.

These words of Crow Chief Arapoorish are stenciled on a wall in Gardiner, Montana (near the north entrance to the Park): “Yellowstone is good country. The Great Spirit has put it exactly in the right place; while you are in it you fare well; whenever you go out of it, whichever way you go, you fare worse” (qtd. in Perry p. 2).

I hope that our winter months are spent happy and cozy, traveling to new places and visiting with old family and friends. I hope that we fare very well, indeed. And yet, before we have even left the Park, I am already looking forward to coming back.

On August 31, 2008 (pictured above), Rafal asked me to accompany him to the Du Quoin State Fair in Southern Illinois. We rode rides, we drank brandy from a flask, and ultimately, we made out in the back of our friend Alex’s Oldsmobile while a cassette of the Fugees played. We’ve pretty much been inseparable ever since.

To celebrate our anniversary, Rafal brought Lydia and I on a surprise to trip to Virginia City, Montana. Virginia City is a ghost town leftover from the Montana gold rush that has been turned into a kind of living museum. We drove past it on our way to Amber’s wedding a few months ago and I fell in love. We stayed at the haunted Fairweather Inn, ate old-fashioned homemade ice cream, and panned for gold. But the cherry on our anniversary cake was seeing the Brewery Follies Variety Show.

The Brewery Follies Variety Show is billed as “an Absurd, Wacky, Zany, Fun-Filled, Contemporary Comedy Revue with music in a Cabaret Atmosphere that contains Biting Parody and Naughty Political/Social Satire” (breweryfollies.net). Essentially, they have taken an defunct “historical” brewery and turned it into a DIY theatre space. Then they put on a decidedly raunchy sketch comedy show with musical numbers. Naturally, I adored it.

When we walked up with a baby in our arms, they stopped us at the door. “Do you know the content of the show?” more than one person asked as we purchased our tickets and found our seats. “Oh yes,” we replied, “We don’t censor the baby.” They put us near an exit in case we needed to make a quick escape. Honestly, we had no idea how Peanut would handle this experience. The show didn’t start until 8pm, so she was already up past her bedtime. As we waited for the opening number and sipped on Sarsaparilla soda pops, she did begin to fuss, but I swaddled her up in her baby wrap next to my chest and fed her the bottle I’d brought along. Before the end of the second scene, she was fast asleep. She would stir whenever loud laughter or applause erupted, but then settle back into her cozy nook.

We had arrived in Virginia City around 2 that afternoon, and in the blink of an eye it was 6pm and everything was closing down. Hmmm, we thought, I guess this really is a ghost town. But just two hours later at the H.S. Gilbert Brewery things were poppin! Almost every seat in the house was sold, beer was flowing like wine, and belly-laughs filled the cinder block room.

How on Earth had I ended up in this tiny Montana ghost town seeing this wild cabaret show?

The last eight months had been a tornado, a veritable twister of life events, a massive influx of energy—both hot and cold emotions—brought together to catapult us to a far away land. Like most storms of this type, it all happened so quickly. I am just now coming to. I am suddenly waking up.

And you may find yourself at a bawdy comedy show. And you may find yourself in a ghost town in rural Montana. And you may find yourself with a Ph.D. And you may find yourself with a beautiful spouse, and a beautiful babe. And you may ask yourself, “Well . . . How did I get here?”

The show was two hours long (with an intermission) and I could not believe how rapidly two hours sped by! It had been so long since I’d seen live performance! I was basked in the glow of performance energy! And these performers were giving it.

Two grey-haired older men and two lovely women in their mid-twenties comprised the cast. Between them, they played Bill and Hilary, a stoner from Missoula, Barbara Streisand, a naughty toddler, Rodney Dangerfield, and others. They did innuendo-filled ensemble numbers, like their riff on “The Island of Misfit Toys,” where they ask, “And what’s the worst kind of misfit? A classically trained actor telling dick jokes.”

The next morning we drove over to Nevada City (just a mile down the road), where we enjoyed a delicious breakfast and some of the best coffee I’ve ever had (a claim I do not make lightly!) at the Star Restaurant, before visiting the museum there. At the museum, we played with antique player organs/pianos (the largest collection in the world) and proto-cinema devices.

I did not encounter the notorious young girl ghost that haunts the Fairweather Inn, but I did feel a ghost of my old self near the edge of the Follies’ stage. The theater has always been my home, and still, there is no place like it.

So happy seventh to my main squeeze. He really knows how to click my heels.

I haven’t been able to write for a week. I haven’t been able to open this blog, or my script, or even my journal. But I can feel my emotions building up and clustering; forming a scummy sadness residue between me and my experience of joy; between my center and my source of bliss. I just haven’t felt happy.

So I got to the post office early this morning, and I am making myself sit here and write. Sort of like morning pages, just a stream of consciousness language purge, just a method to get the creative ball rolling again, because that seems to be the one effective antidote to whatever gets me down.

I’ve been unable to write because I am tired of writing about being tired; about being rejected; about how hard motherhood is. I am tired of dragging my readers with me on through these ups and downs; tired of feeling sorry for myself.

But what can I say? Here I am, not feeling so great. And the only thing I know to do is write about it. So please skip this ineloquent ramble if you’re not in the mood. I know I have many privileges. I know I’m lucky and I should be grateful (and I am).

But . . .

A week ago I had a baby who was taking lovely hour-long naps during the day and sleeping longer hours at night. This has come to a halt.

A week ago I was deeply engaged in a project I felt really good about; the words were coming quickly and sounding good; the prospect of a staged reading was coalescing; and everything felt suddenly real. I was making art; I was living my purpose; my silly little idea was becoming a thing in three-dimensions. This has come to an even more grinding halt.

So things are much as they were before, except that I have tasted something sweeter. I saw a light at the end of this tunnel: a light that said I had value as a person and an artist; a light that said I would begin to feel at home in my body again; a light that said I would have a few minutes to breath and create.

So what happened?

If you want to know what happened with the sleep training, I honestly can’t tell you. It was going well and getting better and then suddenly turned on a dime. However, I spent some time on the phone with L’s pediatrician today, asked about 20 questions I could not find the answers to online, and we are ready to give it another go. (Breathe in and find some more patience.)

Now as for the staged reading, well, that’s a whole other ball of upset energy. If you’ve been following along on Facebook, then you know some of this. Here is a more detailed account:

Once my script was in good shape, I scheduled an appointment to meet with the head Interpretive Ranger here in Grant Village. I had a nice sit down in his office where I explained my idea. Ranger Jon was enthusiastic. He said, “I think this is such a valuable perspective to bring to our visitors.” He talked about how they could handle the advertising: designing flyers, sending out emails and press releases, and so forth. He explained that he needed to confirm with his superior (at headquarters) about the best way to proceed, as he was not sure whether or not I would need a permit. I gave him a copy of my resume and my publicity pamphlet and pointed out a few key things, in case he needed to demonstrate to his boss that I am a professional. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, “It’s not a matter of selling it. This falls under free speech, so I think we just need to verify what permit, if any, you need to obtain.” He said he would call me the following day to talk about dates.

He did call me, but his tone was no longer one of enthusiasm. He said that I would need to apply for a permit, and that he would send me the form via email. He sounded so much less sure than when I’d spoken to him just one day prior and it left me feeling uneasy. He closed his email by stating: “Hope this works and I do apologize for such a formal process.”

I filled out the form, which was very simple, and sent it via USPS up to Park Headquarters. I was worried about the length of time it might take to hear back from them, but within a few days, I received this email:

“Hello Nico – I received your request to do a storytelling performance at the Grant campground amphitheater.  In the park, special events may be permitted by the park superintendent when (1) there is a meaningful association between the park area and the event, and (2) the event will contribute to visitor understanding of the significance of the park area.  

Based on the information you provided, we will not issue a permit for this activity at the campground amphitheater.  I cc’d Steve Roper, the deputy district ranger in the Grant area with this message. If there is an appropriate location in the housing or other government area you could make arrangements with Steve to do a performance for employees, but may not advertise it to the public.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

Regards,

Gina*”

[*not her real name]

This is how I responded:

“Hi Gina,

I did not include more information with my application because I was under the impression that Ranger Jon had already spoken to you.

I am a professional storyteller living in Grant Village with my family. This is an original piece about living in Grant, which draws on historical information about the park.

Ranger Jon was very excited about presenting this and he expressed his full endorsement. Is it possible for you to reconsider or for me to reapply?

Thank you for your time,

Nico”

A few more days passed, and this was Gina’s response:

“Nico – thank you for the additional information about your proposal for the Grant amphitheater (Jon spoke with another person in our office).  While we appreciate your offer we won’t be issuing a special event permit for this performance. The decision isn’t based solely on your proposal, we have to consider not only your request but others that we’ve had and will likely receive if we begin to allow individuals who do not work for the National Park Service to present or perform at public venues in the park.  

I discussed a few other ideas (locations) that you might want to pursue with Jon Nicholson, he’s cc’d on this message.  Please stop by the Visitor Center to visit with Jon about ideas for the other locations.

Regards,

Gina”

This felt like such a blow, such a massive fuck you. I have been very patient with Yellowstone; such a good sport. I have been taking advantage of every opportunity, and attempting to be a good citizen, and following the rules, and trying to contribute something positive and true, and most of all, trying to find a place for myself here so that I can be happy, and my husband can continue to work here (doing things of more concrete importance, like maintaining safe water for us to drink.)

But it went deeper than that. It shouldn’t have. But it did.

It created a wide enough opening for the Fraud Police to sneak in, and remind me, in head spinning repetitive refrains, that I’m not a real artist, not really a “professional,” not really good enough, legitimate enough, just plain enough.

This little project was enough to enliven my Velveteen Rabbit soul; and when it was taken away I devolved back into a ball of fluff. I couldn’t even open the document. I felt so stupid. And naturally, as per my habit of living out loud via FB, I had already announced that the staged reading was a go. (I chronically count my chickens before they hatch.)

And Rafal said, Why not write about this rejection? Why not put it in the show?

But I did that last time. What, is every show going to include a list of all the organizations who rejected me before I finally made some headway with something? It all really made me miss the Kleinau. It is next to impossible to get a show booked that has never existed anywhere before, and the Kleinau and all the people behind it, always gave me my first yes, the yes that all other opportunities were built upon.

This little staged reading was supposed to be that yes. I had a very extensive and serious long-term plan, and this staged reading was supposed to be the first building block. I was counting on it. I thought I could secure it without a problem. And without it, the whole plan comes falling down.

And what if the only people who will ever like my work are people who already love me?

And what if I will never make anything as good as Sideshow again?

And what if my Ph.D. was a huge waste of time because I’m not ready to be a professor and not good enough to be an artist?

But you know what . . .

Copying and pasting Gina’s email here, it doesn’t sound as bad as it felt five days ago. When I read her words, it sent me into such a hideous shame-spiral that I closed the email and didn’t open it again. And I’m not sure I fully even processed what it said. . .

I never did go and speak with Ranger Jon, and obviously, I really should. Maybe I threw in the towel too easily? Maybe I dismissed my chickens before giving them time to hatch?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You’ve done this math before, Nico. You know how the formula goes . . .

Shame + Passion = Self-Love

Or

Passion > Shame

Or

Shame –> Passion –> Self-Love

Or

Shame <–> Self-Love <–> Passion

Something like that.

Maybe it’s not my job to decided what is or isn’t good enough. It’s not my job to judge my own work. There is something that compels me to create (something big), and something about creating heals me (something deep). So as long as I keep making, from the most genuine place that I can find, I am doing what I was meant to do. Other people have to do the rest. This is the riskiest, most vulnerable, more important part: asking others to listen.

And it isn’t truly asking if they don’t have the option to say no.

Maybe this applies to the baby, too? I can ask her to sleep, but I can’t force her.  She is a person, for goodness sake, a dynamic living human. I can ask her to be many things–kind, hardworking, honest, creative–I can teach her and help her and hope for the best, but I can’t make her be anything. I can help her to sleep, but I can’t expect perfection. She is a free being. I must find a balance between discipline and choice. I must make choices based in love, and ask for help when I don’t know the answer.

Furthermore, as I’ve often said, it is my job to get rejection letters. If I’m not getting rejections, I’m not really working, not really risking. Some will always hurt worse than others. Maybe you’re not really applying if you’re not willing to get hurt.

And finally, once again, writing it all down makes it feel better. It helps me put it all in perspective; it decompresses my thought crystals; it keeps the Fraud Police at bay. Whether or not it ever gets staged, whether or not anyone reads it, there is a therapeutic value that must not be ignored. It is as simple as that: writing heals me.

Writing this down reminds me that I’m real. I’m not sure if other people need such frequent and enduring reminders of their own reality, but I suspect the need to know and prove that one is genuine, authentic, that one truly exists is why many people make art in the first place.

So if you are listening, thanks. And if you’ve chosen not to listen, I understand. Offering the art is the second half of making. Being told no is a reminder that your offer was true.

[UPDATE: I did go and meet with Ranger Jon. He apologized profusely for how things went down, which is great because at least I’m not crazy. “I should’ve just let you go for it,” he said, “I mean, this is Grant.” (We are the redheaded step-child of the Yellowstone Villages; nobody pays too much attention to what we do here). I guess they actually get a lot of requests from all different kinds of performance artists to do all different kinds of pieces in the NPS venues, and it is the blanket position of HQ to say no. (Although they do use these venues for church services. Go figure.) He made a few suggestions of places where I could do the performance, and they were not terrible ideas. With the summer season closing and the temps dropping, however, I have decided to just wait and put something more substantial together for next summer. I think I may be able to get booked through the Employee Recreation Program (the same people who put on the talent show) and do a small park tour (shows in Old Faithful Village, Lake Village, Grant), and that sounds like fun to me. I am hoping to get this show on its feet over the winter, so by next summer I will be able to put on a real performance (as opposed to a staged reading) during the peak of the season (not in the post-Labor day chill). Sometimes it is indeed better to ask for forgiveness than permission. When it comes to Yellowstone, I will remember that.]

Back to school season is upon us, and for the first time in many years, I am not a part of it. I began attending preschool at the age of three, and I took one year off between my undergraduate degree and my masters. Thus, I have had 27 “back-to-schools.” This is only the 4^th August I’ve ever had off.

To my own astonishment, I haven’t been disappointed about it. Instead, I’ve been feeling free. Tra-la-la, no lessons to plan; tra-la-la, no bureaucratic bullshit; tra-la-la, no squeezing into pantyhose on hot days; tra-la-la-la-la.

I’ve been reflecting on my good fortune: I didn’t need to look for a job, or figure out what I wanted, or start over at a new school. I got to finish my Ph.D and disappear. I could let my husband worry about bills and work and wants and needs. Tra-la-la-la-la.

I still don’t know our plans for the winter. We have Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, and if all else fails, Plan D. But I don’t know, and I won’t know until a series of men make up their minds. Tra-la-la-la.

***

I have submitted the official paperwork to put a show up in Yellowstone. This is the same paperwork the Jehovah’s Witnesses submit to handout pamphlets or couples submit to put on weddings: Application for Special Use Permit, NPS form 10-930. If approved, I will perform a staged reading of my script on September 10, in the Grant Village Amphitheater.

I had written a letter to the Park Superintendent much earlier in the season for this very permission, but I had also asked for the title “Artist-in-Residence,” because I wanted to write those words on my CV. Because I don’t actually want to disappear completely.

The superintendent never got back to me, but maybe I will write it on my CV anyway.

I reside here. I am an artist. Sometimes you have to enter through the back door.

(If you can pay thousands of dollars to stay at an “Artist Residency” in Greece or Vermont or Timbuktu, and you can put that down on your resume, why not this? I know Joseph Beuys would have my back on this one).

***

Before I moved here, I rehearsed conversations I expected to have. I imagined myself explaining my artwork, defining Performance Studies, defending what I’m doing here with a freshly minted Ph.D.

These rehearsals were in vain, because so far, no one here has asked.

I am a wife and a mother. I wear these affiliations on the outside. They are all anybody needs to know.

***

It has been easy to be outside of academia. I’ve been so pleased with this ease! So surprisingly, delightfully pleased! And then I realized that it has been summer; just one short little summer; the time of year that (although the wheels are always spinning, and they have been) my body is accustomed to being off.

It’s been easy to be smug. I haven’t really left the academic building. I’ve just been on a coffee break.

Each August, I compose a list of professional goals, and this year is no exception. I have to stay relevant. I don’t want a gap in my CV. I have one thing that all career academics wish they had: plenty of time to write. But there is one, pretty important thing I don’t have: access to relevant research.

I have ideas for essays. Juicy, interesting ideas! But I need to back these ideas up with other people’s ideas. And many of those thoughts—even the databases where I can search for the existence of those thoughts—are under university lock and key.

(Yes, there are open source journals—bless them!—and of course I can always buy books, but it smarts a bit to not even be able to access journal articles that I wrote myself because I no longer possess the right access code. I wish I could just type PHD in the slot.)

***

After Lydia’s 6-month check up, Rafal asked me if I was angry that both the nurse and the pediatrician asked him what he did for a living, but neither one asked me. “I’m a terrible feminist,” I responded, “I didn’t even notice.”

I’m becoming too comfortable in this new role.

***

Now that it is in August, now that school has begun, I am officially an Independent Scholar. Harold Orlans writes (in his thankfully open-source article), “Typically, [Independent Scholars] are Ph.D.s in the humanities, often women, who, unable to find scholarly employment (‘independent,’ a wit says, is a euphemism for ‘unemployed’), pursue scholarly interests on their own” (Orlans 12). Touché, Orlans.

Here on the edge of nowhere, I will continue to write. And anybody who knows me knows I have plan. Next up on the agenda: a staged reading that will blow minds.

I bet they’ll ask what I do for a living then. Tra-la-la-la-la.

I am not at Lake Hotel today. Today I am at home, sleep training.

Being a parent means getting real with my own expectations of myself, owning up to the discrepancies between who I think I am, and who I am. In my mind’s idealized eye, I am a crunchy queer granola mother with deep commitments to sustainability; to health; and to abolishing the status quo with my dietary, consumer, and lifestyle choices.

In real life, I am an exhausted mother just barely hanging on by a thread. I use disposable diapers. I sometimes use formula; sometimes shop at Wal-Mart. I let the baby have a pacifier. I eat fish and poultry. I sometimes dress my daughter in non-gender neutral clothing (and way too often catch myself telling her she looks “pretty”). Once in a great while I throw away a peanut butter or spaghetti sauce jar that I am too overwhelmed to wash out. And now, I can add sleep training to my list.

Last night was Night #1.

Last night, as I laid awake, I had intended to write a piece about “Mom Guilt.” I’d been writing this piece in my head for a while because I can’t get over how guilty I feel about so many of my mom-choices. I didn’t think I would feel this way. I try to be vibrant and shameless above all things, but when it comes to parenting, I sometimes second-guess and shame myself into frenzy and despair. (See above list of shortcomings, and there are a lot more where those came from.)

I figured letting the baby cry-it-out would be just the thing to push me over the edge. Then I could wake up, write something insightful and poetic, and feel better. But the thing is: I don’t feel guilty. Not about this. Not yet anyway.

Bedtime had become more and more of a hassle (if you’ve been reading along, you know some of this), and I was becoming more and more upset by it. Two nights ago, two hours into “bedtime” (after trying everything we could think of) Rafal insisted that we lay her in bed between us and let her cry. That was fucking awful. But to my utter surprise, she fell asleep after 15 minutes.

OK, I conceded. Let’s give sleep training a try. Many, many people—including the pediatrician—have encouraged me to stop bitching and try this. She is almost 7 months old. The apartment adjacent to our bedroom is recently vacant. If there were ever a right time, I guess it’s now.

We share a room with Lydia, so in preparation for the big “cry-it-out” night, I hung some curtains between her crib and our bed and downloaded an album called “Help Your Baby Sleep Through the Night,” with white noise and nature sounds. Then we did our usual bedtime ritual (bath w/ mama, darkened room w/ soft lighting, jammies, bottle, singing Me & Bobby McGee while rocking in chair). This time I added the white noise, closed the crib curtains, and said “Goodnight Lydia. I love you.” After five minutes of crying, Tata went in to pat her and tell her we loved her again (although, this actually seemed to make her more upset). After another 15 minutes, she was asleep.

She slept for 6 hours and 15 minutes straight.

She hadn’t slept that long in over 12 weeks. (I know this because yesterday marked exactly 12 weeks in Yellowstone, and the last time she slept 6+ hours was in a hotel room in Scottsbluff, Nebraska. I remember it well.)

I nursed her and put her back in her crib. She cried for a minute or two and fell back to sleep. She woke up one other time, and I did not go to her. She cried for about 10 minutes before falling asleep again. We started our morning at 7:30am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and more rested than either of us had been in months.

It’s hard to feel guilty. I feel too good.

I feel so good that I decided to include naps in this experiment (which was not the original plan). So rather than packing up and heading to Lake Hotel (like most Mondays), I decided to stay home and see this thing through.

She is currently napping in her crib by herself, and I am drinking coffee and writing. This has never happened before. It is way too soon to call this project a success, but damn if it doesn’t feel successful today. [Update: Nap #1–she cried for 12 minutes and then slept for an hour and a half. Nap #2–she cried for 8 minutes and slept for almost two hours.]

Maybe tonight will be harder. Maybe the worst is yet to come. But truthfully, none of that matters right now. Right now I have that free hour I sobbed for. Right now, that is plenty.

This is a lot like how I felt when I finally broke down and gave her formula. Breastfeeding was so hard for us for so long; pumping was a joke; and I somehow needed to throw a backyard wedding, graduate, and move. I had help with the baby during those hectic weeks, but what good was that if she needed to eat every hour and I was the only person who could feed her?

So we gave her some formula, got over that hump, and made it to Wyoming. Breastfeeding finally clicked for us (as so many people reassured me that it would), and I phased most of the formula out. About a month ago, I started giving her a 4 oz. bottle in the evening, and I do think it helps her sleep.

Lydia and I have gotten great at nursing. We can do it anywhere: baby wearing, over the edge of her car seat in a moving vehicle, lying down in bed. We both enjoy it, and I don’t see us stopping any time soon. Honestly, I don’t know if we would have gotten to this point if I hadn’t supplemented during those low, desperate moments.

I am not perfect, but I am still crunchy and I am still queer.

I make my own baby food (though not always). I feed my family healthy food, with as much organic produce as I can. 99.9% of the time, I recycle. I still don’t shave my pits and work the post office in unabashed tank tops. I still dress weird and let my freak flag fly. Even when I let it slip that my baby daughter is pretty, I always follow it up with the fact that she’s smart and funny and strong.

So today’s parenting lesson is this: I will probably always fail to live up to my own expectations. I have to accept my imperfections; keep trying in the face of my known imperfections; love myself not despite, but in light of my imperfections. This is what I have to do because this is what I need to teach Lydia.

Today this is easy, because the bad mean uncool thing I did actually worked. And I slept. And I feel good. But some days I do things that don’t turn out so well. Some days I feel downright awful. But I have to find love for myself on those days too.

Many years ago, my friend Nathan told me that children teach you much more than you teach them. “You’ve got this perfect little Buddha in front of you. And they will show you all your shit.”

Dear Lydia, I’m ready. I want to love myself in the face of every flaw you can illuminate. I will do this for you, for Tata, and for me. Because this is what it takes to be a parent, a woman, a human. And I’m sorry I had to let you cry, but thank you so much for letting me sleep.