jen lemen - Home

Here’s the link I was missing on Sunday. I remain amazed at the kind of community that thrives in Richmond. Someday someone will help me connect all the dots between all the dear people I keep discovering from this dear place. It will probably require a diagram on a napkin, my sage sister Patience and some sticky rice. Chopsticks optional.

Congratulations, Kristin Hott and company. And special thanks to Julie Sulik for sending good people my way.

May the seeds of kindness you plant grow into a great forest of compassion providing shelter and joy to more people than you can imagine.

I wrote this little card following a hike on the Oregon Coast last summer.

Rachelle planned this trip and called me every week until I gathered the nerve to buy my ticket. The idea was that we would hole up in Deborah’s cabin and get some major work done. The whole idea felt so scandalous–what mother of small children can get away with this kind of stuff?

I didn’t tell my closest friends I was coming for fear that I wouldn’t write down one word, but it hardly mattered. One look at those jagged rocks on that stormy coast and there was no way I could stay inside. Day after day I hiked and explored, while Rachelle poured brilliance on reams of paper. At first I felt horribly guilty, so I called Mahasti for reassurance. She was literally in the process of pouring molten metal into a mold when I called, so her husband Lincoln answered. “Oh Jen,” he said, complete wisdom in a sentence. “I don’t know about you, but if I don’t dig into my environment, my art looks just like the art I make when I’m at home.” This is a man who knows how to run a micro-forge for the sake of sculpture. He had just the kind of street cred to make me listen.

I got off my cell phone that instant and turned back to the state park where two sister cliffs protected a quiet beach and a sleepy cove. Tall fir trees grew along the side of each mountain, pacific blue ocean the perfect backdrop to their stunning silhouette. A lovely path wound straight to the top of the outlook north of the cove.

Ever since living in Nagasaki, I’ve had a weakness for Japanese woodblock prints, and now I was in one.

I walked that path, taking in the sights below, until the firs gave way to a field of huckleberries, perfectly ripe for my hungry heart. I didn’t realize at first that this was where the path ended until I stepped past one bush and almost walked straight off the cliff! The whole experience was surreal.

The next day I promised myself I’d write, and I think Rachelle breathed a sigh of relief. All these miles! All that way! And all Jen would have to show for it would be sore legs and a sun-kissed face. Who would understand?

That morning I filled thirty little cards with all the kindness I had soaked in the days before. Writing those words felt like magic, like someone else’s pen was flying across the page. All my life I had been striving to make my mark, to not waste my life, to be known as a dear soul on the earth. In all my efforts to love and to be remembered well, I was secretly afraid that No One was watching, that my story was too small for divine attention, if such a presence existed at all.

I did not want to find out in one dark unattended moment that my worst fears were indeed true.

Climbing that path to those huckleberries waiting for me, my resistance to the Truth melted away with each step. The whole earth was full of deep and abiding glory. I was working hard to find love, to cultivate it, to make it live and grow, but all the while the Universe growing me. Holding me in a deep embrace of total care, total love. I could resist with the noblest of efforts, but no matter. All the love I could ever need and more was tending my soul whether I accepted it or not. All the love I could ever desire to give was being knit into the very fabric of my being.

I wish I could say what happened that day. All these words can’t hold those moments. But I need to remember. Especially today–when I’m a little scared of my longings, my dreams and all the ways I resist the Truth that makes me fearless and free.

After being in production mode for the last few weeks, I’m ready for dreams with long narratives and days where you never leave your bed. Tonight at bedtime lying next to Carter, bundled in blankets, I whisper, “I adore you.” He answers, “Me too.” It’s amazing to me it took me so long to realize that this little boy is the child of my soul as well as my body. I love his scruffy hair and the way he drops off to sleep.

A few posts stay with me today as I think about Sunday Link-Love.

Irene writes so beautifully here. I want to go to Paris and take in her world in silence while she snaps away. Such loveliness.

Magpie-Girl is inviting me to accompany her to a new Habitude. Acts of random love to strangers, tiny books of kindness included. I’m in. I think this crowd will dig it, too.

I spent yesterday with my blog sistah from back in the day Claudia Mair. (I’m linking to her myspace cuz she’s just that withit.) We ate Ethiopian food, told stories, laughed and wandered Silver Spring all the way to Mecca. It was so good for my soul to re-connect and strengthen this friendship. Her writing life is on fire right now, and that’s a drop in the bucket compared to what she’s got cookin’. I am so impressed.

My dear Deanne (travesty I have no blog to link to here!) sent me this link. It’s like pouring gasoline on the zine fire.

I love these resolutions and this dream.

I wrote advice on Minti this week for parents who want to stay connected to their creative dreams. Felt good just to put all that experience in one place. I also posted in one of the groups a silly meme that made me happy.

This was strangely meditative. So was this.

Someday I will meet Tara Hunt and we will discuss this and this. But not before drinking these. I see this happening here. The only problem is what I will wear.

My kids are obsessed with this mildly inappropriate movie which they only saw previews for but are enjoying the trailers online. I want to have an opinion, but their laughing completely melts me every time. God, I love to hear them crack up.

Of course, you can still buy my zine here. I think Etsy is down right now, but hopefully that link will work in the morning. Some people have asked about alternate payment. I accept personal checks. I would also happily receive envelopes of pennies from your dresser.

Sadly, I have no lovely images or amazing music on this list OR inspiring ways to bring happiness to Africa or some faraway place, so feel free to include my omissions in the comments below.

Hopefully a good night’s sleep will cure this tired girl. I guess this list wasn’t tiny after all!

There are all those things you are supposed to do, supposed to know, supposed to believe. And then there is that other list–that tiny secret one called “Things I Know that I Know.” This list is little, but it packs a lot of punch. I have episodes of shyness about this list because it feels so strange and wild to be so sure of anything during times when so much seems to be falling apart.

The very act of saying you know anything is revolutionary. Who can say such things when there’s all that science and history and data and professional opinion out there to contend with? I don’t want to be foolish. I don’t want to say things on the off chance that I could be wrong or just trying to make myself feel better.

But the truth is, my soul has been keeping data on me and my experiences for quite some time now. There are many things I do not know and other truths I will discard after walking one more mile on this earth. But at this very moment, I DO have a tiny well of wisdom that is mine, all mine, with a dear girl representing the trust. She is unruly and untamed. She sings always in full voice and wears clothes that don’t match. Compass rings make her happy, along with glitter, subway maps and ice cream.

She sets things straight with one word. She knows where I need to go and what needs to happen when I get there. I’m always shocked when she shows up. I expected my wisdom to come from someone staid and responsible. This girl will have none of it.

I am trying to give her her say in my life these days, trying not to be so fussy and irritated when she’s sassy or sure of herself. I tell myself it’s okay for her to be that way, that without her, I’ve got nothin’ and more trouble to unravel than I have time or money. She’s a part of me. All me if I let her have her way.

So my word for this year is TRUST. I just know that’s the word to take me far this year. A little voice told me. What about you?

How did this happen so soon? Real writing to follow this week, but for now, these fun links. In case you were wondering, my baby is back in the nursery and waiting for you to admire her here.

This totally melted me.
More dreams come true here.
These photoblogs are so full of life and love. Worth a quiet cup of tea and a visit through the archives.
You make me feel like dancing. I think this hot daddy should be the dj. Hat tip to my own hot daddy DWL.
This was really hard to explain when mom got home. She’ll need this reminder for sure.
Newly converted zine lovahs will adore this new mid-winter zine by my dear magpie-girl. The crunchiest among us will dig this as well.
I blogged some parenting angst over at jenlemen.minti.com earlier this week. The lovely poetic version of that story goes up here shortly. Feeling more calm now. Special thanks Matt for helping me get set up. Those Minti boys are oh so clever.

The only thing that would make this Sunday Linklove complete is some music, so how about this song which i find oddly soothing.

We’re in a winter wonderland this Sunday evening in Silver Spring. It’ll be all hot cocoa and marshmallows come morning, and then back to the printers and then the post office. I like this zine stuff (or the teeny zeeny as Meryl calls it) so much, I can’t tell you. Sleep well, all. May the sweetest dreams await.

P.S. Before I forget, my Google analytics says I have had readers from far away places like India and Finland. I wonder if it could really be true or if someone’s four year old went just nuts on the keyboard. Anyway, if you are from anywhere other than the continental United States, the Carribbean, Canada, the UK or Australia, leave me a comment below, and I will send you a free zine. First five qualifying commenters win, and each winner must be from a different country. We’ll make arrangements via email.

Update! We have five winners, one reader each from South Africa, China, India, Bulgaria and Alaska respectively. Thanks for playing!

Seriously. I feel like I just had a baby.

You can hold her here. I have a feeling she’s the kind of baby that sleeps through the night and smiles at you every time you look at her. Even as a newborn. She’s advanced like that, this girl of mine.

In any event, you’ll love her to pieces–I’m sure of it. She’s so delightful. More pictures to follow.

Love to you all. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Update 1/20 5:30pm: My wonderful printer Marketa has assured me she can finish printing more copies on Monday, so I just put another 50 up on Etsy–for those of you who got there only to find a “Sold Out” sign! I’m both delighted and panicked to be selling through these copies so quickly and am medicating my anxiety by putting a lovely square of chocolate in each hand-addressed envelope. Much love to you all.

It’s getting kind of lonely finishing up the zine. I have that feeling you get the first summer you have a job and all your friends are still outside playing. Luckily, there is no shortage of encouragement.

The other night, after one of the guys at Mayorga tapped me on the shoulder to let me know they were closing, another guy with a mop came up to me and said: “I know you are not finished, but please do not worry,” a trace of French accent revealing his African home faraway. “We will be here for you tomorrow.”

Earlier, a younger kid who buses tables, stopped by and conducted a short interview.

Kid: Why you doin’ all this?
Me: I’m making a little book. It’s called a zine. (smiling, trying not to seem insane)
Kid: (admiring my pictures) So you have big plans?
Me: Always.

When I left I gave him this lovely orange that I bought at Whole Foods to inspire me. I should have taken a picture–it was so pretty with the leaves still attached from the tree. He didn’t believe it was real and took it in with awe and wonder.

Yesterday, Meryl and I went out and about to find a printer with a kindred spirit. All you have to say is 600dpi for scanning and I get weak in the knees. All will be well, friends, all will be well. Finishing is not one of my strong suits, but it looks like it’s happening today.

Okay, on with my little presents to pass along to you. I have been on blog reading sabbatical, but everything here and here is too lovely for words. Per usual. I want to be Keri or Sage when I grow up.
While we’re speaking of Sage, you can vote for her here. We don’t want her to be a poet who didn’t even know it. More information here.
Having spent so much time in coffeeshops this last week, this link made me smile. Art is everywhere.
I love the outrageous extravagance of this. I could eat one of these all by myself.
When I die, remember me this way if a bench isn’t available here. Hopefully, I’ll be doing lots of things like this before that happens.
I love the Zen jewels here made by my new blogcrush Denise. I love the idea of wearing something as a way of inviting my soul to expand and grow.
Delightful images here.
Also, I confess, in addition to Rose Cousins, this soundtrack is providing ample zine inspiration. Thanks, Madeleine, for making me a convert.
I’ve been drinking this instead of this lately. My mother would be so proud.
And last but not least, this dear friend posted a blessing for your soul that I am taking into my own fully for 2007.

Okay, dear ones–I’m back to work–happy, happy Sunday to you!

p.s. This just in! A must listen “This I Believe” for designated celebrators everywhere.

Okay, dear readers, you will be relieved to note that this post has nothing to do with death, dying, crime, orphaning one’s children or any other subject that is sure to make you have to lay your head down on the keyboard and have a good cry. One of my sisters, who shall remain nameless due to her endless concern about her privacy on the internet, calls me every other day to report that I am killing her.

“Jen, I love ya, but these posts are so effing long, I just can’t take it.” I agree, say I really should be writing a book, and then imagining a book of my writing, she replies. “And I gotta tell you. How are you people so effing deep ALL THE TIME? These people should read my blog, I swear I crack myself up every time I read it.” And it’s true. I read her blog and I cry because it’s just that funny. I read it and think Dooce is SO overrated. My sister, the nameless one, is that good.

Usually after that I complain that no one in my family (except Dave andJorgie) will let me link to them. I don’t understand this, but my sisters are adamant. But since I’m the oldest and don’t really listen to anyone, I can tell you that Google might be kind to you if you were a mother looking for a cocktail or someone extremely focused on being playful. I feel so much better just throwing those little hints out there.

Thankfully, my soulsisters Rachelle and Kyran, wisely understanding the whorish nature of the internet will accept my links happily. Rachelle just launched the exceedingly clever Magpie-Girl and Kyran is great EVERY SINGLE TIME she posts. Internet, I heart you for bringing such great people into my life.

Within hours I will be able to post the cover of my in-process zine called “Beginnings” which I swear to you is only “effing” delightful and not one bit too deep. I am so excited about this, I can hardly contain myself. I expect to send everything off to the printers early Monday. Here’s hoping you have such a lovely, light-filled day. It’s bitter cold here this morning, though my dear Canadians will say I have no room to talk.

I just got back from spending the weekend with my sister Patience, her husband Jorge (who we affectionately call Georgie) and our legion of children in honor of Jackie-boy’s fourth birthday. We did it up true Salgado style, reserving two hotel rooms at the Omni where the staff cringes everytime they see us and our brood coming round (and round and round) those brass revolving doors. Pache likes to call it “White Trash Does the Omni” as our kids (and various adults) stuff their pockets full of berries and cookies from the lobby afternoon refreshments table on the way to the elevators. It only took us five minutes to have security call into the elevator to make sure those button pushing pre-schoolers were all right from the sugar rush. Only thirty minutes more to completely lose two year old Ethan out of the hotel room and one second beyond that for year old Lucy to start saying “Buh-bye” on repeat while we searched the halls frantically.

I love Richmond, especially the neighborhood where my sister lives, just blocks from Carytown. I’ve come to see this town as our home away from home. I imagine my kids at VCU or my sister throwing kick-ass rehearsal dinners at O Burrito, just because that’s where everyone really wants to go anyway. I drive up and down those old-town streets and see me and my sister as old ladies riding our three-wheel bikes, stopping occasionally to put coins in meters about to expire. I love the way you can’t get one block in Carytown without seeing a happy puppy-dog or something amazing and soulful from a shoppe window.

Richmond has been through a lot this last year, starting off 2006 with the news that a well-loved family in the community had been brutally murdered in their Woodland Heights home on New Year’s Day. Two ex-convicts, high out of their minds, walked through Bryan and Kathryn Harvey’s front door, setting off a chain of events that would haunt the people of Richmond in the weeks and months that followed.

It was home invasion with the darkest twist. A father fighting to the last breath to defend his wife and two daughters Stella (9) and Ruby (4). A mother and her little girls trying to escape bound hands. Two killers determined to destroy their victims, no matter what evil that required. A loved one arriving after the fact for a New Year’s Day party, greeted instead by news of a quadruple homicide. As word spread from neighbor to neighbor, killers still on the loose, outrage and fear flowed like a river of rain along city streets, leaving this town in a sea of grief.

I learned the news through my sister Patience who does kindness work with the nurse midwife who delivered Kathryn’s babies in a local hospital. Susan* was in over her head trying to calm the women about to deliver. In the birth world, the sanctity of your house is everything, especially for mothers planning to deliver at home. Patience was having trouble sleeping at night along with so many other young mothers in Richmond. The fact that something so atrocious could happen anywhere, let alone to people as caring and creative as the Harveys, was hard to fathom. “It’s not that they were some symbol of the perfect family or anything like that,” my sister says. “They were just the kind of people who were living their best lives–their dreams. And they knew how to create community. People loved them for knowing how to do that. Knowing how to make that kind of loving, joyful space.”

My sister and I talked on the phone constantly that week. I wanted to know how the women in the neighborhood were faring. Every few days Patience would pack up baby Lucy in the car and take someone a meal or leave flowers on someone’s doorstep. News came that a lovely young woman adored in the birth community discovered a new tumor, after being in remission for years. It seemed like death was knocking on every door. Even the wisest women in that circle were left without words.

Within two weeks, the two men who committed the murders were finally caught. In a lengthy confession to a prison chaplain weeks later, Ricky Javon Gray said, “I don’t think sorry is strong enough. None of this was necessary.” And then this, “I just want to die.” Looking at the hate that had poured out of his altered mind and the sheer devastation that resulted, he agreed his life had no worth.

Something about all this broke my heart wide open. “Something has to be done, right?” I said to my sister the next morning. I could tell she felt like crying, too. “I don’t know how to say it, but if hate wins in this thing, if the weight of this evil stamps out the last shred of compassion–or the last bit of hope–then we’re in worse trouble than before, right?” We sat on the phone in silence. Neither one of us thought more killing or despair would solve anything, but it wasn’t our place to say. We understood that we did not know even in part what it felt like to lose someone you loved in such an incredible, vicious way. We knew nothing of whatever terror had brought Gray or Dandridge to this final moment.

That day I sat on my porch and did the only thing I know how to do when there seems like all hope is gone. I lit one of my little candles and wrote out blessings. Only this time, I tried to imagine there was a Divine Mother watching over the whole mess. I asked for words to bring about healing. I asked for peace to fill every dark and fearful place. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the kind of love that can face up to that kind of horror. I prayed for Patience and her wide, loving heart. I thought about Gray killing those little children and tried to remember what it was like when he was a baby before he lost the warmth of his mother’s arms. I tried to not think about something like that ever happening again.

Then I went inside and locked all my doors.

Over time, Richmond rallied, though the faultlines of crime, race and economics ran a little bit deeper. Susan kept delivering babies. The young woman with cancer died. The black family murdered by Gray and Dandridge in September received decidedly less coverage. Richmond pulled together to honor the Harveys a hundred different ways. Both men were tried. Ray Joseph Dandridge received a life sentence. Ricky Javon Gray got the death penalty. Mark Harvey, Brian’s brother called the trial “an emotional gauntlet”. Everyone reported great relief when the trial was finally over, though the pain of this loss has no end. (article here)

I’ve spent days trying to write this story, and I’m still not certain why it’s so important to me that I do it. All I know is that everytime I work on it, my tears are right there on the surface of things. In this moment, after hours of pouring through articles and news reports, I’m overcome by how fragile we are as human beings and how completely in need we are of love and careful care. I close my eyes and try to imagine each person in this story as a baby in my arms. Bryan. Kathryn. Ruby. Stella. Ray. Ricky. Mark. I try to hold this sadness and all the joy of each tender life, even though it’s impossible in so many ways.

I go over these words over and over again, spoken by Bryan Harvey while he was still on this earth:

“I don’t really believe in God. However, I think I’m a pretty spiritual person. I have a lot of faith in humans. I believe we’re capable of incredibly beautiful things (as well as incredibly evil).”

May incredible beauty be our hallmark. May peace, strange and unexpected, come to all who suffer this loss, like an unexpected rainfall. And may I meet every human eye with kindness in my own, remembering where we each began.

To read more about this story, Richmond’s Style Weekly has a gentle memorial here.
To learn more about the Foundation established in the Harvey’s name, go here.
To make a contribution to a local Richmond non-profit dedicated to helping young people living in some of Richmond’s roughest neighborhoods, check out the work my friend Julie is doing here.

Special thanks to Jorge, Patience, Susan and NVC for opening my heart to this story and for being the kind of people who bring hope and change to our fragile world. I am also grateful for John Sarvay and his excellent reporting on this story.

The art below is a gift to any and all connected to the Harvey story.

*some names have been changed in this post to protect the privacy of the individuals

The house is perfectly still. Just the tap of the keyboard and the hum of the refrigerator. I want to sleep but Madeleine is burrowed so close to me that I must flee my bed in search of more blanket and more than one half of a pillow. I move to Carter’s room, but the light of the moon keeps distracting me and the Incredibles comforter isn’t quite as comfy as the down one on my bed. No wonder these children crawl in one by one on the nights they haven’t lobbied to start here already. Who wouldn’t want to be folded into her mother’s arms on the night of the first frost?

Tonight before bed and in between cartwheels, Madeleine wanted to talk about heaven. She’s been floating in a sea of myths for months now–first Greek, than Norse. Now she is reading a book about the saints, which in her mind falls into the same category. “I’m just worried,” she says, her twirly jean skirt billowing as she tries to do a cartwheel from her right side first, then the left. “Because what if heaven is just one of the myths? What if it’s not really real?” I let the question hang in the air. I know from experience that Sunday School answers won’t satisfy this dear girl with a mind as wild as her unruly hair and unstoppable cartwheels–that she must be taken seriously or not at all. “I’m just thinking about it,” she says, “because kids can die–you know, car accidents and that kind of stuff–so maybe I should think about it. Just in case.”

Update: As promised, I’ve taken down the whole essay and am leaving up this excerpt from “Heaven When We’re Home”–the remainder will be published in a book/zine I am writing with my sister Patience called Soulful Parenting–If you’d like us to drop you a note when Soulful Parenting is ready for your nightstand, send me an email at soulfulparenting dot gmail dot com. For more inspiration about heaven, check out this song by the Wailin’ Jennys.