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Thoughts on hunger, heritage, American borders, and humanity.

It began on a Wednesday morning. No, actually at 10 pm the night before, when I put too much butter on the banana bread that I knew was unloving to begin with. Maybe it started at 4 pm that same afternoon when I drank the tequila I only half wanted? Or a couple of years ago when I secretly texted him at 2 am?

I have a tendency to eat unloving amounts. I tend to do everything in unloving amounts.

Sometimes I wonder who is actually hungry. Have I been reacting to the yearning of a lot of angry ancestors? Hangry bitches? Not just the women, but the men too. All of them. How many of them howled for this kind of systemic freedom and satiety? I am their wildest dream, maybe. Or maybe they’d take one look at today and about-face for the fields and caves from which they crawled.

On this particular Wednesday morning, I decided to delve into my origin story. Celtic music because I am 50% Irish. Clan Kenney. Fiddles, drums, lilting melodies. Cool.

Next, wolves howling? Alexa, listen to wolves howling. I hoped that it would awaken the 25% of me who hails from Estonia. Have you seen the flag? Imagine a rectangle cut into thirds horizontally. A thick white base along the bottom resembles a snowy Baltic blanket. Then, a black stripe to symbolize the dense, black woods. A clear blue rests on top—the sky.

I know for certain I come from a long line of sky watchers, people captivated by the clear blue.

Then I remembered I am American, too. Very “American.” Mayflower American via William Brewster, the minister on that fateful trip over. You’re probably related to him too, the lines are so blurred. Alexa, play Americana Essentials.

Howwwwllllll.

Speaking of canines. During the Estonian howling session my dog had to be let outside because the sounds were so distressing to her. I had to release my beast back out into the wild to escape the synthetic sounds of the wild. She was confused; didn’t know who she was, or who she was supposed to be. Why was the black box on the kitchen counter activating cells and stories she had no clue existed?

Well, now we’ve got something. Heritage.

I think about the headlines and headaches involving the influx of people coming into the United States of America. I understand why people want to “protect and defend” their cells and stories. My heritage informs and clarifies my hunger. I appreciate knowing I am 50% Irish, 25% Estonian, and 25% Mayflower Mud.

Mud. A-muddy-can. Ah-mudi-khan. A-meri-can. American.

Don’t they see that we’re all already covered in mud? That the lines have blurred. America: An Extremely Muddy Experiment. The last handful of hundred years have just been…data collection. Does this work? Can this work? Can we value the kind of freedom we hope (pretend?) to exemplify and still have a nation? A nationality?

They are correct, sturdier borders will alleviate some of the discomfort. But it will not erase our hunger; the deep, visceral howls of fear and existential dread.

So much worry…

How human our desire to keep things organized and knowable is. I feel brave and warm when I imagine my kin gathered around a fire on the greenest Irish grass. Sometimes I pretend to hear the wolves on a cool, crisp Estonian night— it makes me want to growl and smile and cold plunge. There is peace in being able to place myself within a lineage.

Is being American something to be proud of? I am! Sometimes! We are the epitome of “fuck around and find out.” We are a bull in the china shop of “shoulds.” You know why Brewster left England, right? How funny of us to cling so tightly to it all…

Who is howling from the black boxes on our counters and in our hands? Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? I must hold two truths.

My heritage matters to me.

And.

I am mud.

What I want to whisper goes something like this: You’re all right. All of you. That was confusing, let me clarify. You are all correct. Of course, knowing our origin story matters. How foolish to erase our heritage—the extent to which you reject any one thing is the extent to which you can reject your own Self. Our heritage informs our hunger. My need for butter and big skies goes way back.

And.

Aren’t we silly for not seeing our muddy reflections in the white polished stone of our national monuments?

Where do we go to escape the noise? Is peace possible? “Cleanliness” cannot cure our anxiety, though I am sure it allows for a bit of perceived control. Control over an experiment and a world and an existence that has not only escaped our grasp—but was never actually ours to hold.

Don’t they see that at the beginning and the end, it’s always just been us—naked, staring up at the clearest sky?

You’re alright. We’re alright. Keep howling. Keep dancing. Keep fighting, munching, figuring, and praying. Keep doing all the things we humans have been doing since Day 1. That is, hoping and believing that whoever allowed and put us here knows what the actual fuck is going on. Hoping and believing that the thing we call God loves us as much as they all say. We are the wildest dreams come true.

I am a soup.

In the bath I became a soup, my belly became a basin.

Inside are the insides. The makings of something delicious, bright, nutritious, dynamic. Perfect.

There are ingredients that I must add to this broth that, on their own, I dislike. Some I wish to delete, like that text convo on my phone. Swipe left and it’s gone forever. Except it isn’t, but you knew that. Because I am wise I will allow them, knowing that hard things are also good things. Because I am wise I understand that the soup is the sum of its parts.

Other additions I love and always will. The apple tree in May. The sunlight splitting my old fir floors in two, while a piano solo plays in the background. My kids running through the front door, not one of them has pediatric brain cancer. The way he holds me.

Some, to which I’ve grown accustomed. Socks, for example. I hated them. What use are socks when you’ve chosen to walk barefoot through this world? Did you know that socks are actually—at times—very appropriate? And can even facilitate barefoot walking occasionally?! I was wrong, I thought I hated that spice, that flavor—and I was wrong.

There are others I’ve decided no longer support my cells. None of those come to mind, but I know the way used to feel on my body, supportive. And I know the way they feel now—restrictive.

I am soup. The flavor evolves, as any work of art must. Still sturdy, still nutritious, still clear. I am soup, would you like a taste?

When was the last time you shit your pants?

I wish I knew how to communicate how dirty the bed sheets feel (are).

I wish I knew where to put the thought that there are people (children) dying awful deaths right now, as I type with my manicured thumbs in my notes app upon this filthy duvet cover.

Maybe even more important to consider: there are people (children) witnessing awful deaths right now.

I wonder how long they’ll feel knotted? Maybe as long as I did watching my sister’s seven-year-old friends die before she finally left. Which is to say, they will never feel the relief of that tangled mess disappear.

It is now a part of their weave, their fabric. It’s cellular. It will unwind and loosen, yes. There is always hope.

My stomach’s been in knots since I ate a weird avocado on Friday. Loose stools, soiled undergarments, you know the drill. We used to play with the neighbor’s dog through the fence under the shade of my grandmother’s avocado trees. (Very famous neighbors, very famous dogs. If I can make the dogs love me I can make their famous owners love me, too.)

The smooth green flesh induces nausea randomly, since an avo-heavy Cobb salad after my first chemo infusion at nineteen. Daddy brought me to a nice sandwich shop in Newbury Park to connect and nourish his cancerous daughter. Can you imagine losing a daughter to pediatric brain cancer three years before sitting down to a post-chemo lunch with the only kid you’ve got left?

Talk about knots.

Since then, avocados just don’t hit right.

It’s filthy here. Manicured & destroyed.

And…

Last night, my two eldest daughters (neither of whom have active cancer), rubbed my back while I whimpered through belly cramps and an X-Files on the sofa.

My husband pulled the most incredible shot of espresso I’ve ever tasted after our naked hot tub time this morning.

This duvet cover is a custom-made sky-blue chenille wonder from one of my mom’s clients. They donated it, she kept it, I stole it during the move to Colorado. It’s easily worth much more than I can pay. And here we are.

Manicured, filthy, dying.

Cuddling with the kids, training dogs, sipping beverages.

Wishing for love and influence and power; hoping someone knows something about anything.

They don’t.

We don’t.

Here’s what I have: this is it. You’ve got today. How can we make it the least fucked-up day possible? Can it be good? I believe so! Yes, knots in fabric, we cannot erase the hard (we don’t want to, trust me). But can we unwind just enough to let a little love in?

It’s -8 outside.

It would’ve been impossible for my siblings and I to hang out with our mom and dad growing up. We had three different sires between the four of us.

Plus, our sister Ellen was dying of pediatric brain cancer for 11 years. Sean and Fiona don’t really remember her. I do.

So much fracture. So much pain, just passed around. You know how it feels, don’t you?

This big family of mine has healed me. Do I want to run away more days than I can count? Yep! Do I rage inside the way my mother raged? Duh. Do I grieve and grumble when I think about the number of times I die every day to their development, to them? Yeah.

AND: They have saved me. He has saved me. I have saved me, too. The Gospel, 12 steps, and good music helped.

Good and Hard, stitched together. Till death do them part. We call that Goodhardgood. We call that…life. I hate that part.

I hate that we belong to this place full of fear, division, and greed. I hate the ache of abandonment. I hate that it’s below freezing. I hate that housing and groceries and healthcare require more than anyone can easily give. Don’t you want it to feel easy?

I do.

I love that I don’t have cancer cells dividing in my marrow anymore. I love that my kids don’t, either. I love that my dog has the fluffiest coat, and my cat the loudest purr.

I love that I could cry in bed this morning into the chest of a man who fathered all four of my children. A man who stayed even though I put his son in the NICU to withdraw safely from the pain meds. A man who creates invoices, manages payroll, and somehow also preps dinner.

So good. I love that part.

I hate/love life…

The truth is, I know shit about shit, and here is one thing I’ve learned:

We are promised nothing except the next step, the next thing. We have a choice regarding the whisper we choose to follow— Love, or Fear. Would you be willing to take that next step in Love? A Next Loving Step? You will notice fear, and it will often feel sticky. You will cower and cry in bed some mornings. You will regret it all, collapse. And, you will have everything you need.

You will smile at how the sun moves across a day in the sky above you. You will care much less about lots of things. You will turn the music up. You will pause to pet the dog and literally smell the roses. You will ask for lots of help, and hydrate well. You will feel sturdy, capable, effective, soft, strong, sexy (unless your hormones are fucked, then you’ll feel fucked).

You will not be better at life, whatever that means. In fact, you will need more breaks, more rest, more slow (which is just impossible to do in this robot world). You will need a team and you will need orgasms. You will yell at the kiddos, lots at first, then less and less. Then one day, they’ll want to cuddle with you.

It was such an awful life for so long, being a bastard with a dying sister and all. It was so awful the first and second times I was diagnosed with cancer. It was awful when I started sneaking David’s Adderall while 8 months pregnant because nobody taught me how to feel a single feeling and god aren’t methamphetamines incredible. It’s awful everywhere.

But can you even believe how perfect the light is at 2pm? Sneaking through your kitchen window?

And the fanciest 7-11 in the goddamn world.

I kissed my husband in the light of the most perfect sunset and felt nothing.

Which is to say: I felt a lot of things.

Your four healthy children are literally frolicking, bathed in the same orange light. Why are they always whacking each other? There’s so much to love here…

…Just not his kiss. Fuck.

Fuck.

“The part of me that goes to seeing you is often—always—divided.” He sighs over dinner that night, just the two of us. Chile rellenos.

Now you’re crying into a dense restaurant napkin.

“They’re not tears of regret or despair,” you assure, “just anticipation that hurts like grief does. I can’t wait to know you again.”

A strange man enters the establishment. You hate his vibe because he walked up to you and stared at you and your tostada bowl for like ten seconds before forcing you to acknowledge his staring. “Can we leave?” you whisper, looking down at your husband’s plate. Eighty percent empty, meaning you have an eighty percent chance the good man will oblige.

“Yeah!”

“Wanna drive through Montecito and scope out the incredible outdoor lighting.”

“Let’s go.” He’s smiling. You are, too.

“They are fun to look at in the dark. Why do you think it’s so special?” You ask, referring to the houses nestled into the deep indigo hillside.

“It’s primal,” he replies. “Seeing something warmly lit at night is inviting. It’s also why bright, cool-white lighting is definitively and objectively wrong.” I love him.

“For me, there’s something about the inversion of negative space.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Say what?”

“I knew you would use the term ‘negative space’.”

How can he know?

You continue. “How during the day a house is illuminated and the windows disappear. But when it’s dark, it switches. The house disappears and the windows light up. It inverts.”

Driving through Montecito you remember a wealthy great uncle who lived on Valley Club Drive. Your memories expand and contract and the married couples of your youth begin to dance around your brain.

None of them were happy.

I have so much more than was ever modeled to me. None of us is 100% happy all the time. Most of us aren’t even 50% happy fifty percent of the time.

I am. At least today, in this moment. Gosh, I hope they were happy as much of the time as I am.

It doesn’t even come close to mattering though, because happy people spend much more time vibing than they do dissecting the lives of others. Because they’re happy.

We enter a part of town that looks completely foreign to me. It’s a Main Street of some sort.

“That’s the fanciest 7-11 in the goddamn world.”

You’re thinking about how disoriented you feel. “We were always just playing in the pool…” Montecito Bank and Trust appears through the eucalyptus.

“I remember driving there in his red Viper once.” You have less than one hundred memories from your childhood, but that’s the one that stuck.

We are beginning to look more lost. You have 98 childhood memories, how could you remember which exit to take off the 101?

“You’re off the path,” I inform. His aimless wondering is beginning to make the map app feel anxious.

“There never was a path,” he says motioning to the phone clipped to the air vent. “It didn’t load directions back to your dad’s place.” Verizon is shit in the hills of Santa Barbara.

Kygo’s remix to Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” comes on as you both sit in the driveway.

“The thing is, I don’t think it matters. If I enjoy kissing you or not. Because I’m ridiculously happy.”

I miss my chin this time of year. Bone structure bestows power. At least that’s how I perceive it, because my world flows more smoothly when I’m chiseled and lean. But it’s December, Naughty December. Which means I drank whiskey almost nightly. And took a milligram or two of THC more days than not.

We’ve made it past the hump; I’m already deflating here on the Central Coast of CA for our annual winter trip. You don’t want to hear about my puffy face. You want to hear about why it’s puffy, and what I’ll do about it.

It’s puffy because I hate my life. A version of me hates my life. A very small part of Claire hates her life. How does one “hate their life” when one has quite literally everything they ever wanted and hoped for? I’ve been given more than I wanted or hoped for. You, too? Maybe that’s the issue… There’s too much of everything.

Here’s the deal this time around: if you read my last blog—this ain’t it. Every artist knows the gift of a created thing is first for the creator. The Clairemargit pieces used to encapsulate motherhood, sobriety, grief/suffering, and the Divine into a pill we could all swallow to feel less overwhelmed by the rigors of a Goodhardgood life.

I felt safer to be human when I was writing about how gnarly embodied humanity felt.

I hate my life because I feel alone in my life. Not alone alone, silly. That’s impossible with four wonderful, monstrous kiddos; a saintly husband; a team of loving humans team-ing me up; a solid career, solid colleagues; health, safety, etc. Don’t get me started on the trees, the horizons, the gardens, the sunlight cascading through the living room windows and around the shiny fiddle leaf foliage. God has never felt nearer. I’m the wholest I’ve ever been.

AND: I hate a lot of things about the way it feels to exist in this new world.

Do you?

Art is a taproot sent down by the artist. We’re all just hoping to find pockets of nutrients down in the soil, weaving through terrain until we find a community. A place from which to give and receive—exchange. You’re creating too, you’ve sent curious, thoughtful, hungry roots down. You’re living and building something beautiful! We’re all doing the Goodhardood work, we all want to feel like it matters. You want to give and receive. You want to feel seen and human and safe.

Me, too.

This time around will be different because we’re different. I don’t hear the voices of people who have perfect-awful lives. Bio-hacking & attachment-styles can only take us so far. Where’s the full-frontal view of humanity? So much I should, much less I wonder what happens if…

It’s sloppy out here. And, it’s miraculous.

I’m puffy. Full of inflammation and fire, for now. Lonely and wonderful. What am I going to do about it? Here we go, sending a root down. Gosh I hope we all feel a little more human along the way.