Dear Politicians, I voted today. Now get off your asses or give me back the $25 I sent you.

I pick the girls up from D. It is the fifth of July.

He is making bread in his kitchen. I use his bathroom, then sit at his counter. We talk about the week, about his Shakespeare rehearsals, about summer camp, as the girls collect their things. I tell him about the Fourth of July party I went to last night, the fireworks gone wild.

As the girls and I are leaving, I add, Don’t get naked. The city of Boston is watching. I tell him about the brouhaha. I tell him one comment made me throw up.

D tells me not to let it get me down, that the Boston Globe is probably thrilled to have a little controversy. He tells me the commenters are nuts, not to take them seriously, that we are fine.

We are not fine together, but I know what he means. As parents, we are still fine. We are still there for each other, when push comes to Boston Globe.

It’s a small moment. But I am grateful for it. I say a quick prayer. I hope for better days. Different days, for sure. But maybe one day it will be easier.

*****

I have some difficult decisions to make, decisions that consume me. I can’t shake them off my shoulders, no matter how hard I try.

So last night, I gave up on decision-making. I went to an old-fashioned, rowdy, country Fourth of July party in Ballston Spa, New York, complete with burgers, hot dogs, real dogs, kids, trampoline, bonfire, beer, secret ganja and a terrific band.

I went along as a roadie, knowing only the guitarist and the other band members. I floated from area to area, hiding under my new straw cowgirl hat, taking in the faces passing by. These faces were real ones, not like the ones I tend to *see* at night.

I played with other people’s kids. I realized I felt invisible and perfectly at home at the same time. It was a peculiar sensation. Every stranger felt familiar—’like family.’

As twilight fell and the nearly full moon began taking the stage, the dusk turned this New York state country road into an Iowa landscape—the only thing missing was the smell of pig manure. A silo, farmhouse roofs, scrubby trees, all in shadow. The sky was beautiful, and not eager to let go of its light.

“Billy” was in charge of the fireworks, which finally commenced at 9:20. I wasn’t expecting much. So I was knocked out by the half-hour display, bigger and brasher than some of the ones I’d seen in Philadelphia as a child. Each onslaught of fireworks was a bizarre luxury, I thought. How strange, that we welcome explosions here on this day, trusting in our safety and freedom.

With each wave of fireworks, I jumped and crackled. Firework-watching is not the best pastime for one with bipolar who’s battling a mixed state of agitation and anxiety. But I couldn’t look away. There is magic in gold dust raining from the sky. I was riveted to my small white rock in a field of mulch between rows of parked cars.

I held my hat over my ears while E. stood guard. I realized that my lips were moving slightly, with each gorgeous explosion. Each explosion became a prayer, to do better, to do right by someone I love. Each explosion—I found myself giving it a name, a blessing. Wil. Jackie. Scott. Karina. Heather. Linds. Etienne. The nearby gal pals. Shelly. Clemmy. Katharine. Karmen. Topo. Tree. Mom. Joe. Katieface. Dad. Davide. The girls. My nieces. My nephew. The readers I love. The commenters who break my heart. The military. The unseen in this country. The unseen in every country. There was no shortage of names or prayers, or fireworks, it seemed.

All the while, a patriotic soundtrack blared from the garage. My heart pounded. Too much noise, too much, too much. I held onto my rock.

“Billy” lived to tell, as did we all, but the fireworks went awry near the end of the production. Two rockets shot off into the woods, two into the parking lot—narrowly missing me and E.—and one hit the house, setting something or other on fire (quickly extinguished).

Prayers were cut short, then. No more fireworks. Drunken karaoke ensued, which was my cue to exit (my ensuing panic attack was another good reason, yeee-haw!).

On the way home I thought of the summer night air, the fireflies, the welcoming people I’d met. I thought of this country of ours, the one we are so quick to dismiss as uncouth, as graceless as a big dog. We wag our tail and it makes a grand mess much of the time, overturning coffee table after coffee table. This is true enough.

But we all must be somewhere, and a white rock in a field of mulch just off a country road in the U.S.A. is not a bad place to be for a half an hour. Not a bad place at all for prayer, as the angels throw glitter from the heavens and each gorgeous explosion speaks for the wishes we cannot say out loud.

Um? This one time? At band camp? I wrote this thing? And the people of Boston want to call the DSS?

I wish I did not care. I wish I could shrug off the trolls, the haters, the creepers.

My skin is too thin for this writing stuff. And yet I keep plugging away at it. Is this the definition of thick-headed, or persistence? I no longer know.

This time, they cut me to the quick. Can you smell the blood from where you are? Oof. I am down for the count.

I know I’m not supposed to read the comments. I know anything about nudity seems to whip Bostonians into a Puritanical feeding frenzy. I know the things I am supposed to know—with my mind—but my heart and my gut get scared.

Question my sanity, sure, but don’t question my mothering. Or my hair.

Please go read the article if 1) you’re feeling sassy and protective and 2) you’ve been naked in front of your offspring.

If everyone wears Haz Mat Couture for bathtime at your house, though? Forget I mentioned it. Boston Globe what? La la la la la la la la la…

I found you at Family Dollar
Dusty, communion-white wax
in dull, statuesque glass.
Your dark face and robed form
trapped in a crinkled blue decal

While my daughters knelt
before an altar of Barbie imposters
and their dollar disco dresses,
I prayed to you, a test-drive

Psalm 97:11
“Thou knowest how trouble
and disappointment have
come to me”

You did not speak.
Jaw clenched, a broken
fan at my feet
I cast my eyes to your anti-heavens,
the fluorescent lighting overhead,
to the detritus long forgotten
on the top shelves: splitting lawn
chairs, cracked hampers, dirty teddy
bears, bearing their share
of the indignity

“Help me, Guadalupe.”
I can read, and that
is my salvation
and my curse.
I read, so I know
writing exists. I attempt it until
my mind turns sickly, a carnival
ride all but the most wretched
and sticky are willing to climb inside

“I long for love, finance and
happiness in my life. Thou
shalt hear my voice and show
me real contentment.”

Our Lady of Guadalupe,
where is Guadalupe, and why
are you standing atop a small
brown child? Is he He?
Is He sifting listlessly
through dollar Matchbox cars
farm animals and soldiers
while you seek Pine-Sol,
shower curtains, or a full-length
mirror, to see if your bare feet
are clean enough, after all
these years?

You cost more than
a dollar. No matter. So
do the false Barbies, and
your pedigree is finer, holier. I
save you, in selfish hope that
you might save me.

Do you hear? There were hundreds
of you in the bodegas of Washington
Heights, the site of my previous life,
my last wholeness, my former solidity

Sometimes, I would buy a cousin of
yours, a saint with a more intriguing
name or history. For a bath, a meal.
Frivolity, then. For shame

If you are who I think
you are, I apologize, but I still do not
believe that you are a virgin. But then
neither am I, so there’s no need for
pretense

Two weeks pass, and on my
birthday, yesterday,
I set your spine on fire. We both
know what I wish—
sorry, pray for

Birthday candles on cakes
are dangerous. I got what
I wished for. Twenty or so
years of wishing for the
same thing will do that
to a person. I forgot to wish
to keep it, is all

So I have stopped wishing,
Our Lady of Guadalupe. Yesterday,
I let your core burn, I let
your glass turn black with
smoke and disappointment

I prayed to you, despite the
fact that you wouldn’t meet
my hungry gaze. I have to
assume that you heard me,
that you are merely
considering,
considering

Meanwhile, our children—
yours and mine—wait for
us to make up our minds.
How much is too much,
here at Family Dollar?

First, a moose.

Then, the other day, on the same road: a small dark lump. I was doing 50 mph and held my breath as I steered over it, careful not to smash it with any of my tires.

There were cars behind me.

I could have kept going, except, of course, I couldn’t.

I pulled over. I made a U-turn. I drove back, holding my breath again.

The lump was still in the middle of the road, unsquashed, but surely not for long. A box turtle.

Dear God. I pulled over in the gravel, cringed as traffic flew by, narrowly missing the turtle with zooming tires.

I sprinted. I seized the little guy. I took him across the road, in the direction he was pointed. I hope I got him close to his intended destination. I did my best.

We do our best.

This same week: another small lump in the middle of a road. Crikey! Barely anywhere to pull over. And yet.

Of course. I jogged back to find him. Her? This one, feisty. When I touched her shell, she sprinted. I had no idea turtles could be so zippy. I lunged over and over for her. She was surprisingly strong, too.

Finally, I scooped her up, managing to avoid being squashed myself in the process. Crankiness emanated from the shell. She’d tucked herself completely inside it, and was surely grumbling. I bolted up a nearby lawn and set her down in a grassy, dewy, leafy glade. No thanks from the shell. My friend K insists I thwarted a tortoise suicide attempt and thus did not deserve thanks. She may be correct, but I could not bear to drive that stretch later in the day and find a crunched shadow.

I can only handle so much, these days. You know.

A moose, two turtles, and today, a deer. An arc of light tan motion, hurtling between my car and another. Gone. Safe. I exhaled, possibly for the first time in a week.

How many spirit guides can one have?

I am driving over the winding mountain pass from my town to Albany. I notice, as the road straightens out, that there is somebody standing up ahead in the very middle of the two-lane highway. No car in sight.

I can’t figure it out. People zoom this stretch doing 50, 60. To make the matter more interesting, this joker is wearing some type of reindeer-like headdress. Antlers. What an idiot. This better be good, I think, as I slow down some.

Ten car-lengths away, and the guy’s still not budging. In fact, it’s clear he’s looking right at me. Terrific. I make sure the car doors are locked. I assess swervability of the sides of the road. I look back at the guy. Damn. Some kind of costume. What the hell?? Why me? No other cars on the road, that I can see.

I slow some more and feel myself cringing. This had better be good. The last frickin’ thing I need is the latest serial killer, Reindeer Man.

He’s still not moving. This is full-on face-off now. He’s in some weird brown suit. Ambitious Halloween dress rehearsal. What the hell?

His eyes lock on mine, through the windshield.

Well, Lord in heaven.

He’s a moose.

A gangly, teenaged moose. Facing me, head-on. Looking all two-legged.

I brake as fast as I can, squeak to a stop about 25 feet away from the big guy, who does not move. He looks awkward, ungainly. He eyes me with interest. I’ve been looking for you. I got my orders in March.

I’ll be damned. I can’t take my eyes off him.

Another car comes up behind me, and the moose gives me one last meaningful look, then trots with surprising fleetness into the woods.

What a joker. Joke’s on me. I’ve been saying for months, hey, Universe, I really could use a nice animal totem. And I NEED YOU TO BE VERY, VERY CLEAR.

Moose. I submit, humbly. Go look it up. I sure did. I read everything I could find online about moose totems, and I did it with my mouth open and my head shaking. Right on the money. Moose. I got a moose. He could have trashed my car, that wild teenage moose, but no. That moose came to deliver a message. You’re wack, baby, but let’s get past that. Follow me and I’ll show you some really cool moose shit.

I’m in.

I am so in.

Eventually, I slept, but it took a long time to find my way into that welcome dark.

The day had not been bad. In fact, it had been a good day—from the lunches ready to go in the morning, to the homework done at her desk without complaint, to the other one’s calm goodnight.

And: In the middle of the day, I had sushi with dear friends, to celebrate one’s birthday. Two of the friends I had not seen in some time. I was not as tongue-tied as I had feared I might be.

It is difficult to be my friend. I know it. I feel ashamed, duck my head at drop-off and pickup time at the girls’ school. I wish I were someone different—someone answering phone calls all day long, laughing, filling up calendar squares.

When I look back, though, I see that I was never that person. I was always a floater, trying to be friendly to all, but keeping much of my life to myself. Solitude has always felt right to me; solitude, or the company of a few close friends and family. And whomever I was in love with.

I never know what to say to the friends I haven’t seen for a while. I love them very much, and yet I find it a monumental challenge in this painful chapter of my life to reach out to them. Others are going through painful times too, of course. And yet I have so little to give, most days, because I am saving every ounce of energy for the girls and me.

My therapist and friend, R, suggested, “What if you don’t pathologize it? What if you recognize that you need to do what you need to do right now? Only you know how much energy you have and what you can handle.”

There is compassion and sense to this.

Complicating matters these days: The lithium is a powerful drug. At first, I could not drive because it affected my vision. I could not walk without lurching into walls. I could not pick up a cup of coffee without spilling it.

It’s a humbling drug in other ways as well: fast weight gain that defies any diet plan, painful acne, thyroid wackiness leading to constant bone-deep cold and shivers, and disturbing brain fog. I fight to find the right words. I use the wrong words and blush. Speaking has become more difficult. This I find particularly upsetting. No one notices, or at least not very often, but I know that my verbal prowess has been given a good solid beating, and I wonder when it’s going to get up off its knees.

The lithium reins in the highs and yanks up the lows, but the cost is significant. I feel large and very, very small at the same time.

The cost of not being on lithium, of course, is worse, in my case. Or seems to be.

There is the bipolar disorder, but there is also the situation. To tease these two apart is not possible. But last night, I think the situation was what crept up the stairs, into my room, onto my bed, into my heart.

I’ve tried to shut it out, tried to develop a tougher hide recently. I’ve tried to focus on the positive—two wonderful little girls who make me laugh, a mother nearby who loves me with all her heart, family and friends everywhere who care very much, dogs who remind me again and again what it is to live purely and simply and appreciate small comforts.

Late last night, the sadness won out—the sense of, no, no, this can’t be my life, this should not be happening, this cannot possibly be happening. I felt the familiar panic, the sensation of drowning, waves of misery swelling. This is not what I want. I want hope, contentment. I cannot find it, cannot see it anywhere on the horizon.

I reached for the pebbles that the Rabbi had given me. Smooth, worn, cool to the touch. I held them. I kissed them. Sitting on the bed between two flatulent dogs—because, truly, prayer happens best in these humble places—I told God I did not know what to do with this pain. I told God I needed help, that the dark tide was coming in again and I was going under. I told God I was handing the pain over to him, that I hoped He/She/Wonderful It was there.

I told God that I am trying, so hard. That I am still barely making it through the day. That I hope I am being the best mother I can be. That I hope He will shield the girls from the pain leaking out of my eyes when they mention their daddy. I said I was sorry for my screw-ups, my impatience, my mistakes, my part in it all.

I cried, because I think there is a God, but who can say? I kissed the pebbles again, and I put them next to me on the bed, where the girls’ daddy used to sleep.

I closed my eyes. Finally, finally, I slept.

In the morning, the pebbles had sprouted. Beside me lay a sleeping Sophie.

I woke her up. “Honey,” I said, “You slept on rocks! Didn’t that hurt?”

“What rocks?” She blinked, still half-asleep.

I showed her the pebbles. She smiled. “I didn’t feel them at all,” she said, and shrugged.

We must take our miracles where we can. From dry pebbles on a mattress, in the middle of the night, a child I adore sprouted and bloomed. If that is not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

This morning, when we tried on her pants, none fit. She grew overnight, on the pebbles.

I said thank you. To You-Know-Who.

Later this morning, I went to the hospital, the same hospital I had stayed in at its psych ward. This time, I had to have blood drawn, to have my lithium levels checked. I chewed on my beloved mother’s coat (she still had it on) while the technician took vials from my left arm. Afterwards, while my mother made a phone call, I went to visit the hospital chapel.

Inside there was a trough of pebbles much like mine. Above the pebbles a painting hung: a sprouting plant.

“Ah,” I said to no one in particular. “Of course.”

I said thank you again.

There is never a shortage of reasons to say thank you.

I went to the rabbi.

My sweet friend Shelly says, “I just love it when anyone says, I went to the rabbi.”

It is nice to be able to say that. There is something very special about going to the rabbi. Especially when you happen to be a flaming shiksa, like me.

But this rabbi, he is a blessing. His heart has room for all.

He knows our whole family. And although I’ve got a therapist and a psychiatrist and a mama and babies and friends, I haven’t had that God link. You know. The direct line. And my grief has been so violent, so awful, well, this shiksa needed some help getting in touch with the Big Somebody.

(I should write G-d here. We shiksas struggle to remember the ways of the Jews, because we spent 12 years at Catholic school learning about Jesus and the moneychangers at the temple, before we knew what moneychangers were. Or, if you were in Sister Maria Madonna’s fifth-grade class, you were in Math cringing as she made all the boys raise their hands and promise to never ever let any woman they know have an abortion. Catholic algebra, I suppose.)

The rabbi and I, on the threshold of the New Year, we talked. I sat beneath a painting of a dour-looking rabbi. “He doesn’t look too happy,” I said.

Our rabbi smiled. “He’s my great-great-great grandfather,” he said. (J, forgive me if I missed a ‘great’.)

Immediately, tears came to my eyes.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh!” It does not take much to make me cry these days, but for some reason, this connection did. Sitting below a painting of a long-gone rabbi from Hungary, it turns out.

Oddly, the night before, I had dreamed of Hungary. I taught English there for a year, and in my dream, I was back there again, reintroducing myself to all of my kollegak and my students, speaking in Hungarian, a language I love. To me, Hungarian sounds like teddy bears speaking backwards Japanese. Jo napot kivanok. Sziastok. Tessek, parancsolni.

They are family to me now, the people I met there. And as I sat below the painting of this somber Hungarian-Jewish rabbi, family of our rabbi, I thought, Ah, family. I am looking again for family. New family.

Our rabbi and I talked at length. I cried; it is impossible for me not to cry. The divorce is a death in process, a lingering, painful death. When it is complete, it will still be incomplete, and I will see the ghost of D everywhere.

We talked about the whys and wheres and my illness and the vicious cocktail of manic-depression and divorce. We talked about the devastation of losing a love that was good, and having a disease that makes it impossible to unsnarl what is authentically you, and what is the illness.

The tears would not stop.

“What do I do?” I asked the rabbi. “When the pain is so great, I feel like I can’t keep going?”

“Ah,” he said. “This is one of those times when you might just have to give it back to G-d, say, ‘G-d, I don’t know what you want me to do with this. I give up. Let Your will be done.’”

“I feel like I need pebbles,” I blurted out. “I need to install a shelf by my bed and when it gets too painful, I could put a pebble there. A symbol.”

He smiled broadly and stood up. “What kind of rabbi would I be if I didn’t have pebbles?”

Sure enough, he walked over to a magic stash of holy pebbles and placed a handful into my cupped hands. He put his hands around mine and held them gently.

“Is there a blessing? Some BARUCH ETAH ADONAI DIVORCE blessing?”

“No, no blessing for a divorce,” he said.

“What does the Talmud say? Does the Talmud hate divorce?”

“No, no, if there’s a reason, it’s understandable.”

I sniffled. “Is this the part where the Magic Challah Bread comes down from heaven and makes it all better?”

He laughed. “Would it be too ridiculous if I told you the Magic Challah Bread comes from within?”

“No more ridiculous than anything else. I like it. I have to find my inner Magic Challah Bread of Moxie, is what you’re saying.”

“Yup. Because you have moxie. That’s a part of you. You might never begin to separate the illness from your natural exuberance. So you accept it and keep going.”

“My Moxieful Magic Challah Bread.”

He laughed. “Yup.”

“I’m going to work on that,” I said. “It would be hard for me to become a rabbi, right?”

He is very good at keeping a straight face when necessary. “Well, it would be, considering you’re not Jewish.”

“How about a hospital chaplain? I want to do something that helps people.”

“Chaplain, that might be worth looking into.”

I hugged him goodbye. I like very much that he knows our whole family, that he will be watching my girls grow up, that he will be close to D and me during this time, though separately.

Last night, it was all too much again. I held one of the holy pebbles. I got to know it, its size, its shape, its color. I thought the thoughts that make my heart split in two, in four, in eight. I warmed it to my body temperature, and then, I placed it on the shelf above my headboard.

Your will be done, G-d. I have no idea. I’ll leave this up to you. It hurts too much.

I won’t wish you all a Happy New Year, because the fact is, it won’t all be happy. But may you have places to go when your strength is waning in 2009. May there be more contentment than discontentment. And may we all get better at counting our blessings.

I wish you Magic Moxieful Challah Bread, all.

This said “WOW” before, but somehow that post got erased when I tried to write a new one.

May be quiet for a bit. Out of commission.

Sending love.

Is it just me, or does the Night Before the Election feel like Christmas Eve?

Pookey-muffins. I am going to bed NOW because I can’t take the suspense any longer. Who’s with me?

Wow. Okay, I don’t have that much room in my bed, so you’ll just have to bunk at home! But we’ll be together in spirit!

My brain has morphed into a shifting patchwork quilt of red and blue states. Tomorrow? If you pump my arm? My eyes will do that little cartoon-slot-machine thing (CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! ONE RED STATE! ONE BLUE STATE! DAMN! TRY AGAIN!), all day long.

Dearies. You know we will need to be strong tomorrow, to handle all that heart-pounding, NO-THEY-DIH-INT! whiplash color commentary. What? CNN’s reporting that Nader won in Ohio? WTF?!? Wait, Fox is reporting that Tina Fey and Jon Stewart are ahead in Montana? Okay, I can get behind that! Wha—no?? MY HEAD! MY HEAD! ARGGH!!!

So sleep well, sleep strong, and ROCK THAT VOTE!

And cattle-prod any undecided souls in your neighborhood or family in the direction of the nearest polling booth.

And as always, play nice.