hello: pride

Happy Pride y'all!

As Pride 2013 comes to a close I find myself, unsurprisingly perhaps, reflecting on what "pride" means to me.

Though I don't often turn to wikipedia as my go-to research tool, I thought a more crowd-sourced definition on pride might be a nice start. This was an interesting little tidbit:

With a positive connotation, pride refers to a satisfied sense of attachment toward one's own or another's choices and actions, or toward a whole group of people, and is a product of praise, independent self-reflection, or a fulfilled feeling of belonging.

Feeling of belonging, eh? To be honest, it's never been easy until recently to talk about my queerness, so for me most of my past pride celebrations have been more about a feeling of not belonging, a feeling of otherness and outsider status. Did dating men make me a traitor to the community? Did deeply identifying as queer rather than gay/lesbian/dyke make me less than? Past prides I've felt like I was looking in on a world that wasn't quite mine.

This year I decided to just show up and see how it felt. After all, I've been lucky enough to have loved a lot of wonderful people in my life: men & women. I've had my heart broken by people from all across the gender spectrum (lucky me). I've advocated for the rights of LGBTQ people for much of my adult life and spoken up when it felt like the right, even if not easy, thing to do. I've been schooled by people who don't understand my brand of queerness and I've schooled people who think they get to decide what to call me. It's an evolving identity and so when I showed up this year for pride that is what I was proud of: my long-time-coming-(still-developing)-okayness-with-myself.

Pride for me is self-respect and self-acceptance, no matter who you find yourself becoming.

What does "pride" mean to you? What are you proud of?

A Lesson and A Memory

This has been a long, hard week. I've noticed that grief seems to change the nature of time. As I've tried to be very available to my roommate, days have blurred into each other, minutes of sitting together have turned into hours, and my sleep has been deep yet dream-filled. I wake up not sure if I just went to bed or if I have been asleep for days. And I'm still tired either way.

And then there are also the strange moments of learning that some people will and/or can meet you in grief, and some people won't and/or can't. No judgements here, as I certainly remember a time in my life when saying the words "I'm sorry for your loss," felt too scary to utter. I had a friend in college who lost her mom five months into our freshman year (and therefore five months into our friendship) and I carried a certain kind of guilt for years for not saying upon first seeing her after the funeral "I'm sorry for your loss." So much guilt that I blurted it out one random summer day when we had already graduated and she had long-forgotten (or never realized) my friendship fail. Still it's been surprising for me to witness what people in my roommate's life are just avoiding her altogether or are calling me to ask how she is doing. Call her. Ask her.

Then there are the people who ask me from a safe distance how she is, and when I give an answer or react in the way that isn't expected, they remove themselves from the situation quickly. Like for instance, my boss. I consider my boss to be an understanding person, and through our many one-on-one meetings I have determined that we click rather nicely and have a strong professional leaning towards personal relationship. However, when she came over to my cube on Friday morning, I think the weight and depth of the loss had finally hit me. In an attempt to be strong for my roommate, I had only let the experience sink in to the shallowest depth. Friday morning something happened (more on that in a bit) that shook the experience right to my core. I felt Rachael's loss fully.

So when my boss walked over to ask how Rachael was doing, I had just been thinking If anyone asks me how I am, I will surely burst into tears. Don't ask me how I am, don't ask me how I am, don't ask me how I am...

She interrupted this thought bubble and worse than asking how I am - cause it's all relative, I am fine really - she asked how Rachael was, which was just too much. Instead of words coming out of my mouth, tears starting rolling out of my eyes. I have never burst into silent crying so instantly.

Possibly stranger than my breakdown was the fact that upon it starting, my boss hot-tailed it away from me. In fact, it was almost comical how quickly she fast-walked/ran away from me. I had barely squeaked out a "It's hard," when she had already rounded away from my cube and out of sight.

Wow, that's what you have to give, lady?

Interestingly enough, after I got my shit together, wiped away my snot and tears and composed myself just a touch, my new colleague Melissa walked over from her cube 'next door.' Melissa and I have only known each other a few months, and yet she boldly walked right into the storm and asked me if everything was okay as she had "overheard something." (A nice way of saying: I heard your breakdown that made our boss run away.) Melissa coming right over to see what was wrong made me start to silent sob all over again, but interestingly enough she just stood right next to me and let me work it out. She didn't say anything but she stuck around to let me express "how hard" this has been.

And so I have been learning all week who can meet you in grief. Sometimes it's not who you expect.

As for the Friday experience that pushed me into a vulnerable enough space to openly cry in front of my boss and coworker, it's hard to explain, but try I shall.

Friday, May 3rd I woke up and it was grey and snow-raining. I was cold. I wanted real spring. Spring is a season of nostalgia - it makes me long for home and childhood in a very strong way. The grey-snow-rain-nonspring-spring put me in a weird headspace and warped my nostalgia.

Add to this that on Friday, May 3rd I was going to get my blood drawn. For my whole life I have gotten my blood drawn every 4-6 months to make sure my hypothyroidism medication is functioning correctly. As a kid, going to get my blood drawn meant mostly one thing: pancakes with Dad afterwards at Uncle Bill's Pancake House. I think the tradition started as a way to give me something to focus on beyond my fear. Regardless of how or why it started, it transformed an icky experience into one that I actually looked forward to and cherished.

Despite having gone alone to get my blood work done for the last decade, there was something about the weather, the week, and the winding, labyrinth-like hallways of the hospital, that made my aloneness in this task especially jarring this particular day. I sat alone in the blood lab and waited for my number to be called, and thought about all those lab waiting rooms I had sat in with my dad. I thought about all the mundane details including: the overly confusing parking ramp that always both led us in and got us lost; the sanitized smell of the hospital; the over-the-top childish and cheerful -but actually deeply terrifying - murals in the waiting room; the jar of lollipops I eagerly eyed; the cartoon bandaids that marked the completition of the task. This May 3rd hospital was different, but the biggest difference was my distance from those waiting rooms of my childhood. I felt the distance, the time & space; I felt it deeply like it was a canyon in my chest.

The seemingly most insignificant parts of becoming an adult can actually have the most significance.

I was so overcome with my emotions, that I had to turn away as the nurse drew my blood because I didn't want her to see the tears forming in my eyes and assume I was scared. I never had a chance to develop a fear of getting my blood drawn because my dad was always right there beside me, and pancakes were always my reward for getting through. So the tears forming were not exactly from fear. Rather, I was far from my past, aware of the passage of time, and at the doorway to my own grief for the things we lose when we grow up.

It was a long, hard week. I want pancakes.

Survival 101

Packing List for a Mad World

• Consume media in moderation 
• Question your sources
• Look for the good
• Withhold judgment 
• Make eye contact with "strangers"
• Question what cultural stories are causing you to classify other human beings as "strangers"
• While you're at it, explore the definition of "security" and what makes you feel secure
• Listen to wise friends who say "fear is a liar"
• Hold your breath and hope the world will surprise you 
• But if it doesn't, check your privilege. 

Careful Consideration of the Good

Today was a very challenging day, but since the careless use of words is what made today so heartbreaking, I will just use a few words as best as I can.

Things I am grateful for:

Delicious, healthy meals enjoyed with a group of old friends.

A circle of women who provide strength and wisdom for each other - and my luck in being a part of the circle!

The wise words of the book Tiny, Beautiful Things - and the ritual of reading a few pages before bed.

The sound of melting snow and cracking ice....but also the knowledge that more snow will cover the tree branches tomorrow.  (It's okay that this is a bit contradictory.)

Having a friend I can lovingly create a care package for. And including a favorite book from my childhood that he will surely love!

The beauty and serenity of the simple things - such as a stack of vintage plates, washed with care and quiet intention at the end of a very long day.

As a sidenote: I will never forgot the time in church that the minister read a poem about a father teaching his daughter to swim in the sea. The father told the frightened girl to let go, and fall back into the water - he assured her that the salty sea water would keep her afloat. The minister compared our church community to an ocean - that all the congregants make up this body, this great, strong mass that holds things up. He said that as an individual in the church community sometimes you will be a part of the ocean, holding up other individuals who need the support, and sometimes you will be the one being held by the ocean.

Sometimes you are the ocean; sometimes you need the ocean. Today I needed the ocean, and was lucky enough to fall back and discover a number of bodies keeping me afloat.

love thy self

I realized yesterday that it has been a lot easier to be angry at the woman who "wasn't ready" to date - me or anyone - than to ask myself the question, "Am I even ready to date someone?"

It's amazing how the desire for something to work can blind us to our most basic self truths - that perhaps, as much as on some levels we'd like to be in a place where something can work, we really just aren't there yet.

I have been trying to transition from briefly - but intensely - dating AW to being her friend, and in the process have discovered some rather ugly sides of myself. There is a desperation, a longing, a forceful "be with me! be with me! be with me!" that is utterly unsexy.

And I think it's present in me because I haven't honestly given myself a shot at cultivating the one relationship I need to cultivate before any of that can work out: the one with myself. AW said to me that as cliche as it sounds, we can't attract love in our life until we have it for ourself.

It's funny, of course I've heard that sentiment expressed numerous times over the course of my life, but something about hearing it at that moment, from this person, really nailed me to the spot. Maybe it's that other truth of: no matter how many times others give wise or good advice to you, until you have the capacity to find that wisdom inside yourself, the good advice of others will fall on deaf ears. So, simply put, I finally heard that statement for what it is, and how true it is.

Like, what specifically is it I think I need or am going to get from a romantic partnership that I can't get from myself? When I came home last night after dropping AW off at her place, I sat with that question for a very long time. Much of what I think I want from a partnership comes down to very basic companionship and affirmation of self. Yikes. I think this blog project is deeply connected to this idea of self-love and befriending myself, but it's super easy to go through the day and forget the many subtle ways we are acting in a way that is not self-loving.

I think I am at this crossroads point in my life - I've been feeling it for many months now but have been avoiding facing it - and what the crossroads is begging of me is to be extremely intentional about self-care and self-love.

So why not list that out (as I so love to do)?

The things I think I want from a relationship AND how I will get them from myself:

An activity partner....................I can create more enjoyment from doing fun activities by myself. Not just errands, but movies, walks in the park, a special visit to a museum, etc.

Someone to cook dinner for.............I will cook a delicious dinner for myself as often as possible and eat it sitting down at my table.

Someone to do small, kind gestures for...............I will buy myself flowers, create silly collages just for me, and find other tangible ways to be caring towards myself.

Backrubs...............thank goodness I recently discovered the best massage therapist ever.

Someone to try new things with...........I can continue taking classes and having experiences that are new to me, either by myself or with a friend.

A spiritual partner.............I can continue to explore my spirituality through going to church, practicing meditation, and reading books. Sitting with myself on this part of the journey is key.

Someone who is very protective of my feelings, my journey, my process & vice versa......well obviously, the whole point is it's time to do this for myself.

There is more, but that's a reasonable start.....time to travel alone, but with some true loving kindess towards myself. I don't want to be "okay" at being alone, I want to enjoy my own company. I don't know how I've gotten so far from that part of myself. Yesterday was a bit of a wake-up call. Annoying. Necessary.

hello: the things I like

I was so inspired by that adorable video I posted about earlier this week, that I have found myself thinking - in the midst of some very annoying debbie-downer-esque moping - what are the things I like? What are the small to grand things that I use to shake off my fear and march boldly into my life?

Before I get into this project, here are a few things:

1) This morning I listened to the New Year's Eve This American Life episode (better late than never) about self-improvement. The story about Daryl Watson really captured me. He tells the story of a time in his life when he felt very lost and without direction (feels familiar) and how he went about trying to find it. This story resonated with me for a few reasons:

• He said he just wanted to figure out his "Mission Statement." Hmmm, that seems like what I am trying to do every day of my life these days. (Dramatic much?)
• What ended up bringing him peace was not 'figuring it out,' but rather not focusing so much on the ultimate answer or destination. Again, this sounds pretty familiar and a message I have been receiving in various forms for the majority of my twenties.

2) I think this blog has become way too serious. I got to my 100th entry and it was a moping mess about hurt and loss and pain. While I definitely am in the midst of some serious questions (see above), I also aim to reclaim this space as a bit more positive and hopeful. I feel so far away from that part of myself, but I know it's not lost and gone forever.

On that note:

Things I Like (in no particular order but specific to this particular moment in time):

-A fresh onion bagel, smeared with cold cream cheese, topped with lox, red onions, and capers, accompanied by a glass of orange juice. (Tonight's breakfast AND post-shoveling snack.)

-On-going inside jokes between close friends that may involve sending goofy things in the mail to each other.

-Having an entire drawer dedicated to crafting.

-Going a bit overboard on a work-related craft project using said craft drawer, an entire roll of gold duct tape, jewels, and many, many pom-poms.

-Prematurely dreaming of spring and my garden.

-Making a path through freshly fallen snow.

-Also: not being so scared of cold snow going down my pants -- making a snow angel in the middle of my backyard.

-Discovering that the snowblower is broken and being forced to shovel, which takes thirty extra minutes but also invites a peace and quiet not present in doing it quickly (and loudly) with the snowblower.

-Any physical task such as shoveling that reminds me of the hard, satisfying work of farming.

-NPR Music's Tiny Desk Concert Series, and right now especially this one. 

-Ending the evening with a list of things I like and a handwritten letter to one of my BFFs.

Off to do the latter now...

Walkin'

New snow fell over the weekend, and with it came some simple realizations:

1. Snow-covered tree branches are in the top three of my all time favorite things.

2. Walks might be my number one.

Ironically enough, I was driving down a snowy street (ridiculously slow mind you), when I saw my friend Jack walking his two dogs. I stopped, rolled down my window, and hollered greetings at him (like any good neighbor would), and then continued on my way after we exchanged the proper number of pleasantries. And then I got really jealous about his walk. And then I realized how much I love walks. Which was followed by the thought that my favorite way to see any place - whether new or well known - is by foot. I am always down for a walking tour of a city.

As I turned the corner, I was suddenly in a corridor of snow-covered trees, and I was overcome with the desire to pull over my Toyota, hop out, and explore this place with my feet. Walks emcompass so much for me. Walks are incredibly romantic: I consider a walk as much a love poem as an actual love poem. I love taking walks as a way to mark seasonal shifts. Crunchy leaves underfoot, pink petals lining the sidewalk, the smell of lilacs perfuming the air, slick ice causing me to be extra careful. I like walking and talking with friends just as much as I like walking quietly with another person. I like creeping through back alleyways and peeking over fences at gardens. I will never find speed walking pleasurable or understandable. I wander, meander, mosey, and - very rarely & briefly - skip.

And I especially like seeing a familiar place in a new way.

Take for instance, another great walk related moment from this weekend.

My friend and I were babysitting the adorable three-year-old twins of another friend of ours. The kids ended up being delightful, but the new puppy was a royal terror. After his second pee on the carpet, I told my friend to stay put while I took Harris for a long walk. It was 10:30pm, the night was very dark and very cold, and I was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Or, at least, unfamiliar in these particular conditions.

I have never owned a dog and didn't grow up with one, so besides the occassional dog walk with a friend, this was a new experience for me. This was definitely my very first evening-alone-with-a-pup walk.

At first, with Harris tugging me along, and a few near spills on invisible patches of ice, I found myself grumbling about the burdens of dog ownership. It was cold, Harris was being a bit annoying, and I wasn't sure I felt totally safe. Yet, something urged me on: perhaps my strong desire to wear Harris out and avoid another accident, perhaps my equally strong desire to get past my discomfort and into a place of enjoying this unknown ritual.

And what do you know? As Harris started to tire out a little and tug at me less, I started to see the walk in a totally different way. Suddenly we were on a street that was familiar to me. Soon we were passing a hardware store, garden shop, ice cream place, and bakery that I had frequented a few years back when I lived closer to this part of the city.

It looked so different in this light, with a dog by my side. I was intrigued. I looked up at the sky, and saw beautiful moon-light-lined clouds moving fast. I suddenly was a lot less cold and in a lot less of a hurry.

I realized that this walk, this moment with Harris in this familiar yet unfamiliar place, was unique. Perhaps what I was really experiencing was the realization of the brevity of life, and the singular nature of every single moment in time. The nature of time itself. This Saturday in January of 2013 walking with Harris the dog would never happen again, and no walk would ever be just like this walk. Suddenly I understood the benefit of dog ownership.

Ahh, the philosophy of the walk. The deep/not-so-deep musings of the walker. This thought-pattern is comforting and familiar! And probably part of why I love walks!

Each walk is a little adventure, at its best allowing us to see our world with fresh eyes,

The World of What If

Yesterday morning, I sat in my cold car, on a street that's not my own, and watched the ice on the windshield crack and melt from the heat of my warming engine. In this strange, wonderful way it was beautiful: the warm air hitting the cold glass made formations that were like algae or fungus, blooms growing and shrinking before my tired eyes.

Just beyond the algae blooms, I watched this beautiful person, whom I've known only a short while, walk away. She stumbled over chunks of ice, her small dog skittering around her. It seemed unlikely I would see her again - or at least not anytime soon. Unlikely that this idea of "us" would go any further than this moment - which happened to consist of me shivering in my car and she shivering a few yards away on the sidewalk. It seemed terrible that we were both shivering alone. I suddenly wished I'd looked at her for one moment longer than I had. I wanted to jump out of my cold car and hold her, so at the very least we could be shivering side-by-side.

Even if you sense something is ending, there is a moment of panic in the moment you realize it's crumbling: have I gotten my bearings? Have I taken in this last moment? Can't I just look into your eyes one more time before you walk out of my life? Maybe it's the cartographer in me: the part of me that needs a map to look back on, a map to see where I got off course, but also where the views were noble.

So there I was in my car, about to drive off, looking at my own little tragedy, unaware that across the country small, innocent lives were coming to an abrupt, violent end.

Life feels very sadly poetic in this way.

I've held off on putting to paper my feelings about this new person in my life, not because I was doubting what was so unexpectedly occurring, but because I was just simply enjoying it for once and wanted to do nothing but enjoy it. Oh, to just share time with someone witty and smart! Time feels so limitless and yet so full when the company is good. Holding hands and drinking tea, sending flirty, careful texts, making snowpeople together in the fast-falling flakes, laughing wildly in bed, whispering our hopes, and talking about who we were and who we could be, as individuals mostly, but also, possibly, together.

Today I've spent a lot of time not wanting to be out in the world. I haven't wanted to face a world that can be so cruel on such large scales and also so heartbreaking to individual lives.

I've been living in the world of what if. What if past relationships didn't bruise and challenge and destroy us a little? What if we felt free and open to letting love in, despite...? What if family baggage didn't haunt us and past failures didn't follow us? What if the timing was always right? What if everything could just work out for once? Does the world actually operate like that? What if it did?

I've been wondering, also, what it means to be ready. She and I chatted this morning and she said I'm sorry I came to your door bearing gifts and a big maybe. I should have left the gifts at home and met you on the sidewalk.

Is that the simple truth of the matter? Timing and what we bring are everything? I am wondering if things that don't work out are simply a matter of one or both of the individuals not being ready.

All I know is, today I awoke in a soul-crushingly sad world because of the tragedies beyond my own life. And I felt that today would have been a really nice day to have had someone beautiful, and warm, and real, and lovely to curl up next to and say Honey, the world can be a terrible place, I'm grateful for this simple moment together.

But since, for now at least, that reality isn't available to me, I spent the day remembering and enjoying my own company. I cried alone about the tragic events on the east coast, but I also laughed alone at small acknowledgments of kindness and beauty that too exist. I walked through my house and took note of all the pieces of a life that come together to create a deeply nourishing existence. I've done this single thing well for a long time, and just because I got a brief taste of what is possible, it doesn't mean I can't enjoy what I already had.

And I suppose, the nice part about not getting too used to what things are becoming, is that then it is easier to go back to the way things were.

Pop Song Truthiness

The weekly* question comes via Robyn's brilliant Call Your Girlfriend. Go ahead, Watch it.

So, I'm wondering, is it true: Is the only way a person's heart will mend, is by learning to love again?

This week I am asking myself: do we heal on our own, through our own, solitary process or through the possibility of connections with other people, the headfirst plunge into "here we go again"?

Grappling...

(*which seems to imply there have been other questions of the week. let's just say I'm trying something new, inspired.)

Hello: Living Without Tragedy

A strange couple of words have been echoing through my head this week: "Okay-dokey."

These are not words that I use myself, nor words that many people in my circle find themselves exclaiming.

But this week they are the words the husband of a coworker of mine uttered when he learned the cancer in his body has metastasized to his brain and that he should start hospice care. "Okay-dokey" he said to the doctor delivering the news. "Okay-dokey" he said to the certainty his days are numbered.

I've thought about him often this week - and the matter-o-fact way he is facing his mortality - and I've thought about his wife (my coworker) who is likely walking down a path in her marriage that she never thought to plan for. I also thought how this woman just lost her mom, also to a freak illness that came out of nowhere and wiped away her life in the blink of an eye.

Likely, she will have lost both her Mom and her husband before Thanksgiving, just a few weeks apart from each other. She will be forced to sit down to a feast and reflect on what she is grateful for, two noticeably empty chairs at the table, death hanging in the air.

The unfairness of it all just takes your breath away.

Her tragedy has me thinking about the ways personal tragedies inspire us or motivate us in ways that "normal" life often doesn't.

When someone passes away, their family and friends (usually) mourn their loss and speak to how important and wonderful the deceased person was. This is what a eulogy is - a moment to reflect, celebrate, honor, and love the life that is now gone.

And when someone dies too young or in a freak accident, you read in the paper how kind or generous they were, what a good friend and sibling they were, how they had so much potential.

When people are diagnosed with an incurable disease or have a near-death experience, you hear about "bucket lists," or the ways they will change for the better, the things they are now inspired to do. People who've gone through something like this are often more open to those in their life about how much they cherish and love them.

I don't think it should take tragedy for us to be honest with those in our lives, to express our deep love and gratitude for our relationships, and to be the person we want to be.

Thus I am spending some time thinking about living without tragedy, but still living the life we want and still being the best friend/sister/coworker/girlfriend/daughter/etc we can be.

Tonight I was driving to a friend's house for our Sunday night newish tradition of watching The Walking Dead, eating popcorn, and making fun of the bad writing and each other.

As I was driving, I got this overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Suddenly the day washed over me: sleeping in, an hour at the gym, raking up the blanket of leaves in my yard, going to the Co-op, watching an episode of Sherlock, baking some scones, making lunch for the week, and now heading to a friend's house. Honestly, pretty mundane. But as I drove the half mile to his home I was grateful for so much: living in a place where I have friends in my "hood" and can drive over on a Sunday night just to hang for an hour; having a yard to care for and beautiful leaves to rake into colorful piles; having a kitchen to make food in; having a great grocery store a mile away; having the time to do a lot of little nothing tasks that actually make me quite happy.

It reminded me of these moments I experienced while portaging in the Boundary Waters, when I would have the very heavy canoe on my shoulders and I would just start to think I couldn't go any further, when suddenly the canoe would almost feel weightless. It was always sudden and brief, but having just that tiny moment of relief made me push on a few more steps. It made me realize it was possible to have that moment of clarity and comfort during a very difficult time.

I was brought back to this moment tonight as I drove to my friend's and felt myself fill with gratitude, out of the blue. It was like the world had been pushing on me all week, and suddenly something opened up to remind me the little ways I have nothing weighing on me, the many ways I am blessed.

To live without tragedy and still be able to be grateful for the leaves you are raking, the scones you are burning in the oven, the coleslaw you are making up as you go, the day mostly spent alone until you find yourself laughing next to a friend...this is when I feel truly lucky. To live without tragedy and still be able to see the gift of my not-so-extraordinary life.

honoring a life

Tonight I lit a yahrzeit candle in memory of my Grandma Bernice, who died ten years ago tomorrow. It's Jewish tradition to light the candle at sundown the evening before the yahrzeit (anniversary of the death). I'm not the most devout Jew ever (to say the least), but I always have seen the symbolism of this tradition as being a reminder that even if a person is gone in body, their spirit lives on - there is a light still burning for the person. The light to me has represented the immortal spirit of our loved ones, but what do I know? And regardless of what it means, I've been comforted every anniversary date for the last ten years when I see the candle burning for my Grandma.

On this date, I always take some time to reflect on my Grandma Bernice and the amazing person she was. The first inarticulate brain activity was along the lines of: how has it been ten years?! When Grandma Bernice passed away I was 18 years old, three weeks into my freshman year of college, and in bed fighting a bad case of mono - which I had gotten, turns out, kissing a rather cute boy all summer long. So it really is "the kissing disease." I did not go to her memorial service - a decision I will forever regret - and because of that in many ways I've spent the last decade carrying the loss with me. Yet, I've found ways to let go for the most part and find peace. I've also almost forgiven myself for not being a part of her memorial, but it is one life decision I wish so badly I could redo. Since I can't, I will focus on what I can do...

Tonight also happens to be the start of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Rosh Hashanah is about making amends for the past year and committing to improving your life in the coming year. Knowing I am remembering a decade without Grandma B, while also thinking of the year ahead, feels just about right.

What I've most often struggled with in the decade without her feels incredibly selfish: I'm sad I didn't get to know her when I was an adult, and that she didn't get to know me as I entered a transformative time of my life.

On the other hand, I think losing her as I entered my independent life changed me in ways that have made me who I am. So it's hard to think about who I would be if I didn't suffer this loss right as I was embarking on my life outside of the literal and figurative safety of my childhood home. It's one of those crazy moments of: did this make me who I am, or would I still have made the decisions I made if this significant life event hadn't happened then?

Regardless of the answer to that question -since there is no real way of knowing - I am seeing how she has been a part of my last ten years in so many big ways. Since she's been gone I've taken a leave of absence from school to live alone in California and work on a nature sanctuary; returned to college wiser and braver and willing to study the things I cared about instead of the things I felt pressured to care about; traveled to Japan, Paris, Hawaii, Vancouver, England, and loads of states; fallen in love for the first time; hitch-hiked on the Big Island of Hawaii wearing a rainbow-colored sundress; survived other losses and heartbreak; participated in back-breaking farming until I too believed in my strength; bought a house on my own at 25-years-of-age; quit a job when it was no longer life-affirming; written a story that was mentioned on public radio; spoken up for what I believe when it wasn't the easy thing to do; been kind and loving and curious as often as possible.

In so many of these adventures I see traces of Grandma Bernice. I see her determination and strength. I see her zest for life and her curiosity. I see her loyalty to living a life of adventure. I see her honesty with herself and those around her. Mostly though, I see her love for the world and the people in it. 

I see myself through her, and her through me.

So how do we honor a life? I think we honor it by living our life: living it well, living it with intention, and care. We live it, in the words of one of my favorite UU hymns, by saying "Yes" to life.

(here's that song)
Just as Long as I Have Breath

Just as long as I have breath, I must answer, “Yes,” to life;
though with pain I made my way, still with hope I meet each day.
If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, “Yes,” to life.

Just as long as vision lasts, I must answer, “Yes,” to truth;
in my dream and in my dark, always: that elusive spark.
If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, “Yes,” to truth.

Just as long as my heart beats, I must answer, “Yes,” to love;
disappointment pierced me through, still I kept on loving you.
If they ask what I did best, tell them I said, “Yes,” to love.

Surviving a Family Vacation

Two survival tactics for a family vacation:

1) Get your own hotel room. This is worth the $400 for the weekend.

2) Bring along as many David Sedaris novels as fit in your bag, and sneak away to read a story or two when the tension is high. Take a moment to bask in how much more dysfunctional your family could be. 

Bonus survival tactic:

3) Remember that every vacation has beautiful moments that you are entitled to enjoy all by yourself. Remember also that every vacation has an ending. Know that when you have a home you love "coming home to," you are truly lucky. You can be lucky even if you also have a crazy family. 

Getting by

Coming back to work after a wonderful week away (more on that later) is a dose of reality I'm not all that fond of. I spent most of yesterday nursing a massive headache and crying inwardly about being back in my cube, staring at a computer, sitting in an uncomfortable chair with coworker gossip rattling in my brain. I wanted the loons, the open water, the peaceful quiet of the North.

Today I woke up and knew I was in for another depressing day if I didn't take matters into my own hands.

So I put on a favorite dress.

And those acorn buttons that Mom helped me convert into earrings.

And my red shoes.

And I went out into the garden as the sun was just coming up and everything was still covered in a layer of dew, and I harvested all sorts of things to bring in for my gossiping - but lovely - coworkers. Eggplant, grapes, melon, cabbage, kale, chard, and flowers.

And I brought the bag of homegrown treats with me on the bus, where it sat by my feet as I read The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury. The story I read was about a man who goes to Mars and then returns to Earth to realize how different it feels. Did he remember it incorrectly or did his new experience change it somehow, forever? I was struck by how the experience of leaving your life - even briefly - and returning to it is the same in this world as it is in a sci-fi story. In both cases we feel a little ungrounded when we return, the place we've just been quickly becoming distant memory despite our desperate grasping, and it's the little glimmers of happiness that are necessary for survival.

Cooking Alone

I just spent two hours in the kitchen chopping up the fresh vegetables of the local harvest (and a few out of season and out of the region gems, namely AVOCADOS) to try out some new recipes. I think I've found two new favorites.

First though, I have been feeling awfully smug lately when I use things from my own garden in my cooking. For instance, I brought a salad to our neighborhood National Night Out celebration with my own orange pepper, kohlrabi, and tomatoes in it and I was downright obnoxious. Like carrying it over as if it were a winning lottery ticket. (I could just hear the voice in my head singing Ta-Da!!) Granted, this is my first ever successful sweet pepper AND my tomatoes have failed the last two out of three years, but you know, I didn't know I had it in me to be so proud. 

Tonight wasn't that impressive but I did make use of my own: chives, thai basil, sweet basil, and beet greens. Okay, written out like that, less than impressive. But I do think the combination of basil varieties brought my dressing to a whole new level. So that's kind of fun.

Here are the deeply satisfying vegetarian recipes you too should try, from a newly discovered cooking blog:

http://www.sproutedkitchen.com/home/2012/4/24/shitake-mushroom-lentil-asian-tacos.html

http://www.sproutedkitchen.com/home/2012/3/20/beet-green-chopped-salad.html

They both have a lot going on and, given that, were a lot of work. Gut reaction: worth it.

It was additionally really nice to spend some time alone in my kitchen: chopping, mixing, tinkering, tasting, thinking, humming, and stepping out to the garden every once and awhile to grab more herbs. I've had a whirlwind of a few weeks and coming home today with nothing on the calendar and deciding to make a wholesome, delicious meal just for me, was exactly what I needed. Cooking has really become a respite for me in an otherwise very chaotic busy life.

As I cooked I was able to think over the last few weeks, full of celebration and visitors and so much  love...and ultimately bittersweet goodbyes that are always a part of getting visits from friends who live far away. As of yesterday afternoon, when I dropped Joseph at the bus and said my last goodbye, I've felt a deep, deep quiet.

It's the quiet that comes after a beautiful storm. And as I've always known, I'm happy to be able to feel such deep sadness at the end of such uplifting, joyous merriment. To be able to access the extremes - all of them - makes life worth living. The good is better when we know the other side just as intimately. Seeing 'long-lost' friends and then having to say goodbye again, without certainty of when they will come back, is just a part of this crazy, beautiful existence.

So tonight I sat at my table alone, eating a very delicious meal, thinking of all the people I have seen or connected with over the last month who I would have liked to share it with. But then I thought of the ways all my far-flung loves and friends are constantly with me - Hannah in the moments of pure poetry, Adam when I have a crazy YAY moment, Sarah C when I am tending my garden, Joseph when the world moves me to laughter or tears - and I ate on happily, alone in body but not in spirit.

what we give up to grow (up)

Tonight I spent a solitary evening pushing a mop, washing and folding stranger's towels, and wiping dust off windowsills. This simple work, two hours total every Wednesday for the unforeseeable future, gives me the ability to take unlimited yoga & pilates classes at a small studio a few miles from my house. The work itself felt meditative and relaxing. Alone in the studio, with the lights dimmed, folding towels for tomorrow's patrons of the studio, quiet except for the cars passing outside, I felt at peace.

It's funny, I've talked about giving up my metaphorical ugly robes to find the good ones, but when I started this project I didn't envision some of the choices I've ended up making. I guess that's the fun part. Tonight I did something I had envisioned though: I traded skills. What was surprising is that it could be something so simple: really it was just my time and willingness to do some unglamorous, but not difficult, tasks. But by giving of my time and energies, I gain something very tangible in return: yoga. Which is something I've recently identified as a possibly really healthy addition to my life; something worth making time and pausing for. A worthy investment.

I guess that was one part I didn't envision: what it was I would want to trade for, and how simple it would be to get it.

I also didn't envision what I'd have to give up in order to gain.

In this particular instance, I decided to stop playing kickball on the team I've co-captained for the last three years: spring, summer, and fall seasons x 3 years x every Wednesday evening = a lot of kickball. I guess to be honest, on some egotistical level I also felt important on the team, and needed by my peers. So I stayed on the team longer than I wanted, and with negative influences and relationships around me, in order to not disappoint others or let down anyone. (Forget about disappointing myself: I was worried about the team.) So last week I decided to give it all up - at least for the time being or until it feels right to welcome it back into my life - in order to do some better self-care.

So that became a part of it too: walking out of something familiar, into something foreign.

This year I am learning how much this happens, how often this is necessary. In some ways it feels like I am shedding my old skin...

Is that what I mean though? Or do I mean that I am finding what skin I want to live in; I'm being a little more willing to risk trying out different versions of myself to get at who I want to be? It's about acceptance, yes, but also risk. It's about seeing while change is constant, it's more exciting to be the executor of some of our changes. I want to try new things and be more fully human because it's a choice I've made. I want to be happy and centered and caring for myself deeply - by choice.

And a big part of self care is reframing how I think about being alone. What activities can I take part in by myself that are energizing, life-giving, and nourishing, rather than depleting? At a retreat a few weekends ago, though surrounded by people, I discovered the possibility that yoga and pilates could be one life-affirming activity that is as good solo as it is in a group. Certainly caring for my body and my health is a huge part of the many activities I find joy in on my own - including cooking, gardening, going for walks, and reading outside. (Okay, that last one was a stretch...)

So tonight I discovered not just what I can give up, but what I can give, in order to receive the things I need. It's a small step, but a step towards more fully understanding myself and my place in this world. No (wo)man is an island, but sometimes to get back to the others, we first need to get back to our self.

Or at least that's my theory. I'll let you know how it all shakes out.

Hello: Permission to Be

I had a very happy weekend where I was able to put everything away (symbolically) and remember/rediscover what's really important.

Here are some thoughts I am going to try to keep with me through this summer, through the stresses of work, through the ups & downs of friendships and relationships, through this crazy thing called life:

I can be grateful without needing to fill in the "why" or "what" I am grateful for. I can just say: "I am grateful."

I can try new things, even if they scare me. Fear is not stronger than courage.

My house is work in progress and there is no pressure to get it all done right this moment.

Same goes for the garden. (Peace be with you bunny rabbits.)

Deep breathing has the power to heal. Stepping away from stress, even for a moment, can cleanse. Do these things often.

Fear of pain or difficulty is no reason to not push myself further.

When feeling uninspired, go outside and run or scream or move or laugh or dance until you fall down exhausted. Repeat.

I am exactly where I need to be.

I am enough.

I was many things. I am many things. I will be many things in the course of my life.

hello: I'm kind of a big deal

What a strange and wonderful day this was!

Perhaps it's been clear from the blog - or perhaps some of my readers (3 and counting...) are good at reading between the lines, but yes, I've been feeling a bit blue lately.

But maybe it's more accurate to say: I've been feeling very alone. Alone in that ultimate way - like even if I'm surrounded by people, when it comes down to it I'm really, deeply, utterly alone. Born alone, die alone. That sort of debbie downer thinking. It's been coursing through my body lately, impacting every step I take. I just haven't been able to shake the feeling. Even after good days and moments of connection, I still have been coming home to wallow in my solitude. As often happens when I feel this way, I have been pushing away those I love rather than asking for their support. Trying to prove my loneliness is justified or some nonsense like that...

And then - poof! The universe, as it's been known to do, gave me the greatest shake of all.

It actually began a few months ago when a colleague of mine, I'll call him Bob cause that's his name, and I were chatting. Bob, if I'm to be honest, is one of my favorite people at work. He is a reporter, has a blog on our organization website, and I read it religiously. I start my morning with his first column of the day and usually cry at my desk reading some story he has covered. I like that he's a pretend-curmudgeon that deep down wants to believe the world, and the people in it, are good. I relate to his jaded hope...

But anyway, he and I were talking this one day a few months back. Actually, it was in the midst of my little storm cloud hoovering over me, and instead of saying "I'm well" when he asked "How are you doing?" I said: "Pretty shitty." He seemed to like my no bullshit attitude, and asked me to sit down.

We got to talking about life, mental health, work stresses...and then I happened to mention a time in my life I had actually gone on adventures, a time I had been a farmer/farmed. And he perked right up and said, "Now that's a story I'd like to hear!" And then he told me - without knowing if I can write or not - to write the story, cause he'd sure like to read it.

That was two months ago. About a day after the conversation the last line of the story came to me, which has never happened to me before, and I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. And then I proceeded to stare at that line for two months.

Until this past week when I was talking to my college BFF Adam on the phone and bemoaning my writer's block of late and he simply said, "What writer's block? It's gone. I banish it." We hung up and I spent an hour writing my story. I finished it the next morning on the bus in to work. I wrote and wrote and ended up at the last line I had written two months prior. It still felt like the right way to end the story, which seemed like a miracle in itself.

And then I shared the draft with - of all people - my middle school English teacher. She's great. She gave me good feedback which simultaneously brought me back to 8th grade and brought me forward in my adult writing.

And then I sent the story to Bob last night with a disclaimer and a thanks. Thanks, I said, for asking me to tell my story, for just asking. Thanks, I said, for letting me be honest. This, I said, is one story of many, but I hope it gets at the essence of my experience. Thanks, I told him, for helping me find the words to capture the essential part of this time in my life.

And he wrote back and said: "I'm posting this on my blog tomorrow."

Immediately I had a little flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I also thought, "Shit, I kind of overshared in that piece."

But then I held my breath and waited for it to hit the world-wide-web. On my favorite blog nonetheless! Holy shit!

And when it did, wow, did I ever get the surprise of my life. The feedback came pouring in - texts, emails, calls, facebook accolades. And then, it was mentioned on the radio by one of my favorite hosts. (To be fair, I work at a radio station and it wasn't so out of the blue, but still.) I didn't hear it myself, but plenty of friends did, and they made sure to tell me.

So here's the lesson: I am not alone. In the midst of my deepest self-pity and self-loathing, I decided to be honest about some part of my life story, to be completely vulnerable and real, and people from all over - some I know and some I don't - responded.

And no matter what it is they said specifically, what I was hearing generally is: you are not alone. 

My daily meditation for today is called "Be honest with yourself." And it says: "The way to joy, the way to the heart is tender, soft, gentle, and honest."

How true that is. Being vulnerable and honest opens us up not only to ourselves, but to all the people out there who love and applaud and cherish us, and who we love and applaud and cherish as well. 

I need to send Bob a thank you note. On it I will write very simply: The world can feel noisy and isolating. Thank you for helping me feel heard. 

goodbye: old love

It's funny, this blog thing. Who do we write it for? It's different than a journal because instead of turning inward, privately, for just ourselves, we open outward, publicly, for a perceived audience, an assumed audience - even if it's never confirmed. Are we writing for ourselves here, or for the other selves we imagine peering into our world? Do we write with the idea of how someone might see us? Does that somehow then make us who we are?

I rushed home from the corner bar just now - literally a block away from my home, but oh rush did I - and I immediately went to the sink and frantically washed dishes and I frantically put on the song that says to me "with every broken heart I become more adventurous" and I scrub away and I hum and then I realize my eyes are filling with tears, and I'm not numb, I am feeling something, I do hurt. So then I came here. Hello computer, hello possible audience, might you want to hear today's goodbye?

Goodbye love. Long-overdue goodbye.

(Disclaimer to the assumed audience of 1+: there might be lots of run-on sentences occurring here. My brain is scrambling to understand itself and I'm trying my hardest to be authentic and real, which sometimes translates to the written version of babble.)

I'm not sure if in my young life I've yet to have good love, love that sustains and nourishes and brings out the part of me that I truly want out, but I have had my run-ins with some types of love. Ranging from the spectrum of really bad and unhealthy to fairly interesting and good at inspiring personal growth.  And recently, I've had a most confused love, a love that tore me in two and that I wasn't brave enough to admit did so.

So, it's held on. For a good year, almost to the date, I've tried to understand my brokenness while simultaneously moving on and forgetting. Those things are hard to do at the same time. I should have just stared my hurt in the eye as long as I needed to and then dealt with the moving on and healing. Ack, live and learn.

Tonight, something brought us together. My own longing for closure? My psychic abilities or sixth sense that something was up? Or my desire to sit together, like we used to do, when it meant nothing, when it was simple?

We sat side-by-side at the bar (because face-to-face was just too much for me) and he told me, after the world's longest pause during which I suddenly knew what was coming next, he told me he and his new love are engaged. (Which I understand seems to imply I am his old love, which is not the case. He is my old love, and I am his....his thing which he has no words for, which he cannot articulate or place in the story of his life.)

The thing that I have been asking myself is: what did I feel in that moment?

I felt something that was enough to shortly afterwards draw tears while washing dishes and listening to cheesy pop music, but that in the moment nailed me to my seat, numbed me to my core. I don't know what I felt because I shut down almost instantly! And that bothers me tremendously.

He rambled on a bit, and in that ramble he brought up "us" (and used the words "us" while also struggling with words a bit, avoiding words like "relationship" and "love" and "intimacy.") And he talked about how this next step with her made him think about a lot of his old relationships, and a lot of the lessons he'd learned. And he tried to talk about our thing, but I was so gone at that point, so shut down. He wanted me to chime in, but I was scared. Scared of opening up that place again and finding that what I thought was dead and done with is actually alive. I was scared of him seeing how much he got to me. How deeply he wounded my most vulnerable core.

And as I sat there longer, I realized that even if the animal is alive in me, it's dead in him. It's so over for one of us, so it has to be so over for both of us. That that is then, and this is now.

Then was laughter and fun and closeness and vulnerability that quickly morphed into ugliness and yelling and distrust and betrayal.

Now is two strangers sitting at a bar, talking around the fact that they inflicted real hurt on each other. Now is one stranger who  still can't "go there" without being deeply inside the hurt, without it feeling present and full-bodied, even if not fully present-tense. Now is the other stranger who can talk about it as a lesson learned, as the past, as over.

Then was learning and hurting and steps forward, steps back, steps forward, steps back, steps back and back and back for what felt like infinity.

Now is two people who can barely look each other in the eyes, and one who is trying so hard to say something he's wanted to say and the other embarrassed by the fact that she's still wishing she had the last word, still wishing she had the perfect thing to say to make him understand, and instead resigns herself to saying nothing - or saying just enough that still amounts to nothing. Now is his release and her sink deeper into the quicksand of her hurt.

Now is seeing the future is never sitting side-by-side at a bar, catching up like old friends do, because now is the real truth that that friendship died the minute one heart broke, and no matter what wounds heal and what apologies are uttered over a 12-year-aged scotch, there is no future for "us." There is only goodbye.

And why write? Why speak in circles about the matters of the heart? Why do this when writing can only uncover a theory and confusion still reigns supreme?

In an attempt to say hello to real love one day. One day. One day...

I'll write until it's real. I'll write until it feels like it could be real.

expert advice

My therapist has given me two sage pieces of advice in the last month:

Have more sex.

Be more of a slacker at the office.

She's pretty inspiring.

hello: learning to ride the wave

This week I've been without my trusty map. You know the one: it's been with you forever, you can reference it in your most lost moments, it always seems to be in your back pocket even when you think your back pocket is empty. (Hint: this is a metaphor.)

This week it wasn't there for me. Hard as I looked, I couldn't find it.

I'd been hit by a huge wave, a crushing mass, that came out of nowhere - and inside that wave was all of my self-doubt, the insecurities that haunt me, the anxieties that keep me up at night. Suddenly my internal compass was thrown off, but I couldn't say why. Only the week before I was as sure of myself as ever, and now I found myself at the bottom of all the bits and pieces that add up to who I am. And the bottom of that pile felt messy, suffocating.

When this happens to us, what do we do? We seek, in what feels like the darkest dark, some wisdom on how to find our way again. We seek those things that make our map.

My first map was my freewill astrology horoscope waiting for me in my inbox Tuesday

CAPRICORN: "I couldn't wait for success," said rich and

famous comedian Jonathan Winters, "so I went ahead without it." I love

that approach, and I suggest you try it out. Is there any area of your life

that is held captive by an image of perfection? Consider the possibility

that shiny concepts of victory and progress might be distracting you from

doing the work that will bring you meaning and fulfillment. If you're too

busy dreaming of someday attaining the ideal mate, weight, job, pleasure,

and community, you may miss out on the imperfect but amazing

opportunities that are available right now.

 Ahh yes, read my mind yet again freewill astrology.

This has been part of the roadblock: the dreaded impatience. What is available to me now and does it match what I wish were available to me now? I've been driving myself crazy this week noticing the literal and metaphorical cracks in the walls all around me: literally in the disarray of my house, metaphorically in the disarray of the close relationships in my life.

Freewill tells me to do the work rather than be distracted by the idea of perfection. I was starting to make an attempt when I got distracted by another map...

In a murderous time
   the heart breaks and breaks
      and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
   through dark and deeper dark
      and not to turn.

-Stanley Kunitz

Initially, I did not think this was was the right map, because I recognized this map and it always shows up when I am already lost, it shows up and tempts me to stay lost. It affirms my heartache. It's a companion to grief.

Yet, it also urges me not to turn away.  Both freewill and Kunitz seemed to want me to turn into the dark in order to find my way out of the dark.

This is the struggle I often face when my map is lost: Do I stay put and hope I will find my way out, or do I explore the lost places in order to find my way more fully, both now and long into the future?

I see the things that are bringing me down, they are typical, they are small and big: the world is messed up, my world is messed up; I love what doesn't love me, I will never find the right love, I am the only one alone; my work is not meaningful, my work shouldn't need to mean everything; my house is not perfect, I don't have the ability to make my house perfect, why do I need my house to be perfect; everyone is moving on but me, why can't I be satisfied with stillness, why can't I be satisfied with how things are...

This week my mind has been haunted by all of this.

And then I found a third map - or it found me? I picked up a book, dusty with neglect, and I turned it to a page and the page said to me:

Learn to ride the waves of energy in  your life. Learn to wait for the right time to take action.  Learn to wait until your senses, your emotions, your body, and the universe give you the signal you need.  Yes, you have a list of things you want to do.  But as soon as you have made that list, visualized what you want, you've already begun a powerful force. You've already begun to engage the universe in helping bring you what you want.  There are moments that are more perfect than others to initiate action, to make that phone call, to finish that task. Untimely action will not get the job done any sooner. It will simply waste your energy and send you back to sea, waiting for the right wave. Focus on your goal, muster all your forces, and head out to sea.  Then wait patiently for the right time, for the right energy, for the right wave.

Three maps, are they right? Are they leading me when I need to go?

A breakdown:

Forego perfection for the imperfect but amazing life in front of me.

Venture further inside the heartache (by first admitting I still have some) in order to ever get through the heartache.

Trust that the right wave will come to me when I am ready for it and it is ready for me.

A further breakdown:

Acceptance. Honesty. Hard work. Patience.