You Have One Job

Yes, Christmas is 8 days away and I have a massive to-do list. Maybe, like me, you’ve managed to cut back on a lot of the holiday prep and even dodged some expectations, but you still feel weighed down with whatever it is that comes with this page of the calendar.

It’s getting dark at 4:30 where I am, and by 7:30 I’m ready to go to bed. I check my list and move the things I didn’t get done to tomorrow, but tomorrow’s list is already jammed. There isn’t any room to add anything left from today, let alone something unexpected, and now I’m feeling like I want to go to bed by 7:00. While I tell myself that it always gets done, and it’s never not gotten done, I keep feeling like there’s something I’ve forgotten to add to the list.

It was when I was thinking about writing this post that it came to me, as it often does when I’m about to sit down to write.

I have one job.

Love myself.

That’s my one job.

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes when I typed, “Love myself.” (Insert puking emoji.) That statement is so sappy. It’s so cliche. I don’t know what you think of when you read it, but just typing that makes me want to close my laptop and find a juicy podcast and go for a walk to avoid thinking about me or myself or (gag) loving myself. I watched a sweet Hallmark Christmas movie last night (is it me or is every currently popular movie full of graphic violence and sex) and even that wasn’t as sappy as typing, “Love myself.”

Why is it a knee-jerk reaction to be disgusted whenever I even conceive of the notion of loving myself? My therapist says it’s because I have an ingrained aversion to narcissism, and she suggests that even being kind to myself makes me feel like I’m moving further along the narcissism spectrum – in the wrong direction.

What comes up when you consider the possibility of loving yourself or being kinder to yourself, or even attempting to not say disparaging things about yourself to yourself? You know how it goes. You come home from a gathering and lecture yourself about all the “dumb” things you think you said, even though, if you polled the folks at the party, they can’t remember you saying anything dumb, mostly because they are fixated on all the dumb things they think they said. Or you get home from a meeting and chastise yourself for wearing a skirt, instead of the “safer” choice – a black pair of slacks.

We all have a continuously looping playlist of our perceived failures. When everyone else shares their Spotify* Wrapped, you don’t because topping your list is a self-made pod listing all your failings, in chronological order, going as far back as 1977. I can’t remember the name of the guy that sat next to me in 8th grade science, but I can perfectly describe the stupid outfit I was wearing the day he finally struck up a conversation with me.

Call it negativity bias or a toxic case of self-doubt, but why is it we instinctively think the worst of ourselves? Why don’t I love myself the way I love my kids? Why don’t I look at myself the way I look at Will and marvel at his sense of humor or his dedication to his friends or the way he can see through crap to get at what is really going on. Why can’t I appreciate myself the way I am so impressed by how Jen tackles her studies, or navigates her social life or never loses sight of her goals or continuously, but gently, challenges herself.

I do know how we learn what love is. And I’m not naive about how our attitude about self is developed. I know about the lizard brain and attachment theory and generational trauma. I don’t need another counseling session to be reminded of the importance of practicing mindful self-compassion. Heck, Jen has been telling me, since she was 8, to be nicer to myself. At this point, I need to start doing it!

If I can stick with Duolingo for 327 days in a row, why can’t loving myself become another daily practice like walking, drinking water, lifting my little 2-pound weights to hopefully prevent the onset of osteoporosis, even though I sure haven’t avoided “turkey wobble” arms. (See! I did it again. Even when writing about loving myself, I can’t avoid being critical of myself.) It’s societal. Whatever damage wasn’t finished in the familial setting, society makes damn sure to finish off by constantly showing us how we are coming up short.

So, I changed my personal podcast to sound something like:

“Wow, look how strong you are. You walk 3 miles every day. (Well, most days. I walk on the treadmill when there have been mountain lion sightings on my street – I live in town! – and I can’t do 3 miles on my treadmill without dying of boredom.) You always get everything (that matters) done. You love your kids and your garden and your friends. You love your messy life – most days. You are doing great! It’s okay to disappoint and fail to please others. It’s okay to change and grow and leave some behind, but DO NOT leave yourself behind.”

Some days I even look in the mirror and say, “So what about your arms. They held two beautiful babies, they painted the whole house, they shovel every inch of snow and they lift cast iron pans almost every day. Give them a break! They have done their best and they continue to do their best, just as you do.”

And today, if the pod runs out when I have 6 blocks to go, I’ll remind myself that I have one job. Even if it feels icky to write it. (Insert that little green emoji that looks like it’s about to barf.) I do have one job. My job is to love myself. At the end of this life, I’m all I’ve got. I could spend all that energy pleasing and loving others, but what will I have when they are gone and I’ve forgotten to love myself?

You have one job, too. Not trying to add another thing to your to-do list here, but I’m learning that this is the most important thing. Everything else will get done a little easier if you start with this one thing. Love yourself.

And while I’m being sappy (said to myself in a sweet way, not a critical way), what would happen to this world if we all loved ourselves first? Not like the Musks or Rogans of the world (I suspect their behaviors are coming from scary deep wells of self-doubt), but like healthy people. You know that toxic self-doubt has to leak out at some point. You know you’ve been the recipient of another’s unintended pressure-release of self-doubt. Is it possible to reach a point where extreme healthy self-love prevents us from hurting others? Imagine the healing in this world if that could happen.

Love yourself, please. See you next year.

*I got rid of Spotify because of Joe Rogan. (Insert another puking emoji here.)

LTSG – Let That Shit Go

This is my new mantra. Or, more accurately, when I remember that I have a new mantra, this is the one.

Today I learned that an extended family member came to town and didn’t get in touch. Initially, I was a bit hurt. Why didn’t she call or text? What did I do? Why wasn’t I on her list of folks to see while she was here? While I was in the shower, I remembered: Let That Shit Go! (Also, Jesse, remember that the last time she was in town, you weren’t excited about getting together, anyway.)

As the member of the extended family who struggles the most with sweeping things under the rug, I often find that I’m not invited to family gatherings. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. We assumed you had other plans.” Or another favorite, “The last few times we invited you, you couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t come.” The family Black Sheep needs a poster on her bathroom door that says, “Let That Shit Go!”

When the last social function you went to was attended by library-supporting, long hippie skirt wearing, single women of a certain age, and you wonder why you rarely go out, or why it is that you have found your tribe and it’s nothing like you thought your tribe would be, remember to Let That Shit Go. Let go of those ridiculous expectations of where you thought your life would be right now, or who you thought you’d be spending it with. Besides, those ladies need to have someone to pass the baton to. Accept that baton proudly and with grace. Embrace your patchouli-scented tribe and carry on!

When someone comments that you spend way too much time with your kids and should work on getting a life outside of being a mom (and a dad), give them the side eye and LTSG.

Also, when your kids have issues with their vehicles and you get pissed because their “dad” is clueless and/or rarely checks in on them, LTSG and be glad that he rarely checks in on them because he’d stir up the pot, criticize them for how they handle these grown-up issues, and then give them the silent treatment for not having called or texted him more often. (As you remember, Jesse, he thinks the heavy lifting in the parenting game should be handled by the child, not the parent.) Let That Shit Go!

When you get told that you aren’t doing enough, LTSG.

When you are told that you should do it better, LTSG.

When you are passive aggressively informed that you fail to meet expectations, LTSG. And let them go while you are at it.

When your wardrobe and your yard and your car and your house and even (Goddesses forbid) your kids and your life are not like everyone else’s, LET THAT SHIT GO! (To be clear, I’m not advocating that you let your life and your kids and all that other stuff go. Let the comparisons go! You knew that, right?) It can get pretty quiet over here doing things differently than other folks. Get comfortable with the quiet path. Let the noise and commotion of the well-worn path be for others.

Also, the whole taking things personally? Yeah. I’m trying to Let That Shit Go, too.

Today I’m letting all that shit go. I’m heading out to watch all the bees happily bobbing from one blossom of clover to the next in my unconventional little private funky haven of a backyard.

*I got this cool poster at Society 6. It really is mounted on my bathroom door.

An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

Don’t Do It!

This post is for U.S. readers who may be experiencing election anxiety. But let’s be real: With this global economy, an election in one big power player impacts the others, so it applies to those of you outside of the U.S., too.

If you’ve tried pacing, or biting your nails, or talking to the cat more than you usually do, take heed.

If you signed up to be an elections judge and then, on November 1st, turned the page of the calendar and realized that there will be a full moon on Election Day, take heart. (WT actual F was I thinking?)

If you’ve worked the phone banks, or posted the memes on Facebook, or dropped Twitter in protest, or marched in the reproductive rights gatherings, I understand.

It’s real. The anxiety is real.

But don’t!

Whatever you do!

Don’t cut your bangs!

Or you’ll end up as the only masked elections judge with butchered bangs on Tuesday, November 8.

Vote.

p.s. I think I fixed the subscriber glitch.

Failed Insurrection in the Garden

I just harvested the best crop of strawberries ever plucked in the 16 years I’ve had the privilege of tending our little garden.

Sixteen years?!

About four weeks ago, as the strawberry leaves were saluting the sun while shading their blossoms, I got creative with the netting. In the past, I’d sort of drape the netting across the plants, clothes-pinning the edges of the net to stakes or raspberry canes or anything within reach. I’d walk out of the garden and announce to all the listening birds that they were to, “Please stay out of the garden.” Then I’d walk into the house and cross “Cover Strawberries” off my list.

But alas, there would be gaps in the netting, and the birds always managed to find the gaps. Then I could be heard lecturing the birds about staying away from the ripening berries. By the time I’d get to harvest anything, most of the fruit had evidence of beak penetration, if they weren’t eaten all the way to the stem.

I’d laugh and tell the kids, “Well, the birds need to eat, too.”

This year I attached the netting to some stakes and framed the strawberry bed with my creation, leaving some of the plants outside of the netting as decoys. There are NO gaps underneath the framework of the netting.

It worked!

You may be wondering, “What took you so long?” To that I say, “When wrangling kids and a cat and a job and bills and all the other stuff life threw at me, the strawberry patch never made it to the top of the list.” Hell, it’s a wonder I even spent any time in the garden.

As I was plucking the plump berries, I listened to a podcast about reproductive rights or the January 6 Committee or voters’ rights or some such topic. (The podcasts are all mashing together in my brain making a word cloud: vote, rights, abuse, attack, democracy, vote, SCOTUS, insurrection, fight, flee, new zip code, other democratic countries, and vote. How is it 2022 and this is where we are?)

As the bowl filled with the dark red fruit, I started thinking (and forgetting to listen) about how my netting method worked so well. Of course, I extrapolated my ingenuity with the netting to the possibility of stopping insurrectionists, because… Why wouldn’t I?

In my head it sounded something like this:

Pluck a berry for the bowl, “So if I secured the large portion of the patch with the netting, and …”

Pluck a berry for my mouth, “… left a scattering of ripening fruits outside of the net to satisfy the birds while effectively keeping them away from the majority of the harvest,”

Pluck a couple more for the bowl, “… would it then be possible to secure our democracy while leaving strategically scattered decoys (what would the decoys be?) placed around the country for the insurrectionists?”

Move stool to get access to more berries, “Would the insurrectionists be satisfied with the ‘decoys’ or would they continue to go for the whole enchilada?”

Pluck two for my mouth, “The birds seem content with the plants outside the netting. I’ve surprised them when I’ve come out of the house, and not a one has been found trapped under the net, like they have been in the past. Is there a correct number of decoys to satisfy the birds? What would be the correct number of decoys for the insurrectionists? Again, what would the decoys be?” (This question started to make me uncomfortable.)

Pull a couple weeds to gain access to more berries hiding under leaves, “Hasn’t this country been trying to appeal to insurrectionists since the beginning of, well, this country?”

Rake the soil around the edge of the strawberry patch, “While birds do have a bird brain, they tend to prioritize well, as evidenced by the effort put in to the nest on the back patio, and the energy spent harvesting worms for feeding their babies.” (I don’t want to read up on how big, mean birds attack the nests of little, nice birds to make meals out of the nice bird eggs. I know there are mean birds out there. Are there some birds who act like insurrectionists? Even a bird brain knows enough to stay away from the mean lady in the garden.)

Leave some of the berries that still need a couple days of sun, “Is the common thread the brain? Is there a Venn diagram of human brains and bird brains with a large portion in the middle of the diagram representing Mean Bird Brains and Insurrectionist Brains?”

Look to the sky and check for rain, “Crap! Is it even about the decoys? Maybe it’s all about securing the net and not leaving any gaps. Good. The whole “decoys for insurrectionists” line of thinking was creeping me out.”

Speaking of brains, I think I need to get mine out of the sun because, once again, I find myself trying to apply rational thinking to irrational people.

Here’s what I do know: 15 years of cajoling, pleading, lecturing and yelling at the birds did not get the job done.

Securing the strawberry patch got the job done.

One more thing, if you haven’t made a plan to vote, please do so.

My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

The Spirit Guides Watch TV

Jon hopped off his skateboard and approached the bench from behind.  He could see the three of them sitting side by side.  As he got closer, he could hear talking and …

Wait, was that the sound of a gavel?

As he walked around the bench, he could see an old TV had been placed on a grave marker.  “What are you guys doing?!”

Through a mouthful of pie, Basil said, “We’re watching the impeachment trial.”

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Gladys said, “Shhhh!”

Margaret whispered, “Grab a piece, dear, and join us.  There’s room.  Scoot to the edge, Gladys.  Make some room.”

Jon grabbed some pie and perched next to Margaret.  He whispered, “I wondered where you guys were.  This isn’t the usual bench.”

Basil said, “We had to find a bench next to a plug-in.”  Jon said, “Cool!  Where’d you get the TV?”

Gladys scowled at Basil, “Shhhh!”

 

They sat for awhile and watched.  At one point, Basil got up to get a second piece of pie.  Margaret had made French Silk that day.  Jon walked over and asked if Basil had any more coffee.  “I brought an extra thermos because I knew we’d be here for awhile.”  Jon said, “Great.  So, Basil, why are we watching this?”  Basil unscrewed the top of the thermos, “It’s the impeachment trial for Trump, the former president.”  Jon held out a cup.  “Why do we care?”  Basil laughed, “We don’t, but it’s interesting to see how they conduct themselves, and why they all find this so important.”

Margaret approached.  “They’re done for the day.  Good time to stretch the legs.”  Jon took a fork full, “I’d have thought you’d make an apple pie today, Margaret.  You know, kind of an American pie.”  Jon laughed at himself.  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, “I’m a little disgusted with America right now, Jon, so I opted for something else.”  Jon looked at Basil, “Apparently Margaret cares about this trial.”

Gladys walked over, shaking her head.  “Don’t you find it fascinating that they even have to have a trial for that guy?  Shouldn’t he already be in jail?”  Basil looked at Jon as he pointed at Gladys, “Tread lightly near that one.”  Margaret shook her head, “Seems a waste of time when everyone knows how the vote will go.  You could have all the evidence in the world, but the other side made up their minds before they even began.”

With both hands on her hips, Gladys said, “What are they supposed to do now?  Are they supposed to move on and pretend none of this ever happened?  Do they just let him get away with it?!  Doesn’t this pave the way for this to happen again?  Do ANY of them read history?”

Jon backed away and looked at Basil.  “I thought you said we didn’t care?”  Basil laughed, “Well, I guess I meant that I don’t care.  I came for the pie.”

Now Margaret put her hands on her hips.  Both Gladys and Margaret faced Basil.  At the same time, they both said, “Why don’t you care, Basil?”

 

Basil put his plate down and leaned against a tree.  He took a breath and said, “First of all, I’ll remind you that we don’t have to care.  We can view this from a distance.  Fortunately.”  Basil crossed his arms, “I would suggest that the living do the same thing.  Other than those on the front lines fighting the fight, what can most of them do?  Can all those watching TV or listening to the radio …”  Jon interrupted and said, “Or checking their social media!”  Basil said, “Right, Jon.  That, too.  Can any of them really make a difference other than elevating their blood pressure?  Shouldn’t they focus on what they can do?  They can improve their own lives and focus on their families.  They can make progress in their corner of the country.”

Gladys leaned in, “They could focus on truth!  They could stop spreading lies!  They could do their homework and read and quit jumping to conclusions.”

“True,” Basil said, “but that has to start in their own home.”

Margaret relaxed and said, “Basil is right.  There are warriors who are cut out for this.  Not everyone is cut out to be a warrior.  The rest could clear the way to let those warriors do the work, but back them up by cleaning up the messes in their own backyards.  They could fight in their own way.  They could start by making sure their neighbors have enough to eat.”

Gladys said, “And making sure their neighbors have a roof over their heads, while they are at it.”

Basil said, “I agree with both of you.”

Gladys said, “Isn’t it also the government’s responsibility to feed and house the masses?”

Basil laughed, “That depends on who you ask.”

Gladys said, “Fine.  But when the masses lose trust in their government, won’t they lose hope in the process?  And when they lose hope in the process, what’s next?  Anarchy?”

Basil said, “Whoa, Gladys!  History proves that the process prevails.”

Margaret said, “History also proves that the top rarely looks out for the bottom. And while they are busy repeating history, who makes sure there’s enough food and shelter?  And, Basil, you know better than to say, ‘Whoa, Gladys.'”

Basil smiled,  “That’s right, Margaret.  Gladys, I apologize.  What I mean to say is that if they focus on their own stories and work on change in their own part of the world, the process can prevail. The top will only ever care about power.”  With a mouthful, Jon said, “And money.”  Basil, said, “That, too, Jon.  The top will never concern itself with the story of the common people, other than to give their story lip service in order to gain more power.  It’s up to the masses to look out for each other.”

 

Jon said, “And they can vote, Basil.  That’s where they can make a difference.  They can vote.”

Basil patted Jon on the back, “You’re absolutely right about that, Jon.”

Gladys huffed, “That’s all fine, until the top takes away their right to vote.”

Margaret put her hand on Gladys’ shoulder,  “Then they make darn sure they don’t vote for the ones who take away the votes of others, dear.  And in the meantime, they make sure their neighbors have enough.”  Margaret re-tied her apron, “Meet back here tomorrow.  I’m making German Kuchen.”

Basil laughed.  “See you tomorrow.  I’ll bring another thermos.”

 

 

Unsubscribed

I’ve been blogging for 11 years and I’ve yet to create a process (need?) for subscribing to either of my blogs.  I was never going to send you a newsletter or ask you to become a member of a club, so I didn’t see the point.

A couple weeks ago, I was giving serious thought to the idea of no longer self-hosting these blogs.  Are these blogs two leaves drifting down onto a forest floor covered in (prettier, better-written, more interesting) leaves?  Often I feel I’m in the middle of that forest, spilling my thoughts to the trees, moss and birds.

 

Hello?

 

Is anyone there?

 

This blog has been, and continues to be, my therapy.  While it’s nice to know others are out there reading, the benefit comes to me, even if I’m spewing to the trees, birds and other woodland creatures.  That’s why I’ve kept hosting them all these long years – the blogs, not the woodland creatures.  (See what I mean about better writing?)

But it costs money to self-host a blog.  It’s not a lot, and it’s certainly less than monthly therapy appointments.  That being said, whenever I need to tighten my belt (2020?!), I often look at those monthly charges and think about not paying Hostgator.  Hell, I could save that money and use up some of the kids’ unused (except for a few random pages of doodles and complaints about the teacher) spiral notebooks from home school to scrawl out all those thoughts – thoughts I’ve been paying to spew into the moss-covered forest inhabited by birds, who clearly don’t give a rip.

And then, a few days ago, I opened up the Jesse Blayne email account and there was an email from one who was wondering how to subscribe so she wouldn’t miss any of these words.

I ask you, when the Universe sends you a wink like that, what would you do?

I know, right?

So I created a page on this blog where you can subscribe.   If you like.  And then, apparently, this plug-in thingy will send you an email when I’ve written a new post.  Then you, and the moss-covered trees and the birds, will know what I’m ranting about. (Like that matters?  I dunno.)  But, just maybe you’ll be glad to know another soul out there feels the same way you do, and you’re not alone in all this craziness.

And I’ll save the kids’ old spiral notebooks for a different project like notes on gardening, or potential remodeling ideas (that are way too expensive), or how to understand my 22 year old son, or maybe donate them (the notebooks, not Will, of course) to Goodwill with the other home school books we no longer need.

 

Speaking of subscribing, I requested to be part of a Facebook Group about Covid.  I was hoping it was going to be filled with science-minded, caring folks who wanted to support each other through these crazy times.  I now see that there most likely isn’t that sort of Covid Support Group – at least not on Facebook.  I unsubscribed.

 

Speaking of unsubscribing, what have you unsubscribed from this year?

If Covid could have a silver lining, maybe it’s that we have an excuse to unsubscribe, unfollow and back away from many of the things we wanted to get away from, but were too polite to, before this virus.

Like that guy I unsubscribed from, a few years back, whose voice I hear saying, “No one reads your blogs,” right before I’m about to hit the Publish button.

I’ve tried to unsubscribe from the shenanigans in the White House.  My mental health is whispering (okay, sometimes screaming) that maybe it’s not such a great idea to pay attention to that circus.  What can I do about it, anyway.  But it reminds me of a big black hairy spider there, in the corner.  I’ve got to keep my eye on it.  Oh wait!  It just went under the green chair.  “Jen!  Grab a shoe!  Quick!”  And while Jen runs to grab a shoe, I’ve got to keep watching the floor under the green chair, because if I lose sight of the big hairy spider, it’ll reappear where I least expect it, and scare the crap out of all of us.

Also, who’s bringing the shoe for the spider in the White House and could they hurry it up, please?

 

I do hope this year comes to a peaceful, healthy close for you and that you feel encouraged and lighter about the possibilities that the new year might bring.  Thanks for being here.

Survival Mode in a Pandemic

It’s been a couple months since I’ve written.  Ideas and titles for possible blog posts are written on scratch paper, tucked behind the Starbucks mug full of pens on the kitchen counter.  The mug was a gift for Jen.  She doesn’t drink coffee.  Thing is, I haven’t felt like writing, even though I know that’s exactly what I need to do.

I’ve lost a few pounds since the middle of February, yet this is the heaviest I can remember feeling.  I wasn’t trying to lose weight but, I don’t eat when I’m stressed.  I used to write to deal with stress, but I’ve lost the ability to focus.

This is new.  This is limbo.

I could search the internet to find the “experts” (can anyone be an expert during this?) who write about how to get up and shower and drink the coffee and plan the day during a fucking pandemic.  I don’t have the energy to search.

I have tuned into some podcasts – Ram Dass, Michelle Obama, Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown – while gardening.  Many have given me permission to feel out-of-sorts; to be okay with not writing; to understand why I hate cooking the same 13 things over and over again.  (It’s no wonder I’ve lost weight.)

While I want to write something encouraging or uplifting, I can’t find the words.  I’m too pissed off.  I just now noticed that I’ve written “I” or “I’ve” or “I’m” 20 times in these first paragraphs.  All the experts would tell me to write about you, if I want this to be read.  Screw the experts.  I need to get this out there.  It’s about me.

Maybe it’s about you, too.

 

I am a mask-wearing, self-isolating, social-distancing island in a sea of folks who aren’t taking this virus seriously.

It’s not the first time I’ve been the odd one out.  The fringe is my zip code.  The unconventional is my groove.  And while I find solace in my garden, I am bone-weary tired of worrying about all the kids of the world, not just my own.  I am frayed from caring too much about how they’ll navigate once this administration is done raping and pillaging.  I struggle to remain optimistic, when my soul tells me that the pendulum has to swing the other way, all while I’m surrounded by folks who don’t want to let go of the status quo.

And it’s lonely over here, hiding behind my mask, hoping for the best, knowing full-well we are headed for an Avenger-sized train wreck that will make all other train wrecks look like something the Hulk might step on.

 

On a bright note, I have blooming, swaying, towering hollyhocks in my back yard, for the first time ever.  So that’s a happy thing.

 

I remember being told that if I want anyone to read this blog, I would be smart to steer away from politics and religion.  Well, dammit, we can’t afford to steer away from politics right now!  If all the quiet, low-under-the-radar, mind-their-own-business types would rise up, we might stand a chance.  Maybe we could see a return to civil discourse, manners, respect, compassion and love.  If we express our concerns and share our voices, maybe our kids could have a future!

Last night, I learned my neighbor – a nice young man, a homeowner with two happy, busy daughters – is shouting from the social media rooftops his support of the current administration.  I’ve been what-the-fucking since I saw his posts.  I’ve had numerous conversations with him.  We share concerns about keeping the neighborhood safe, fixing up our homes, finding roofing contractors and raising kids.  I thought we had a connection.  I’ve often felt like a mom-figure to him.  How the hell can he support Trump when he’s raising two daughters?!  How can anyone who has children, or professes to love females, support the current administration?!

I will lose a friend (many friends, most likely) when I put the signs up in my yard.  This will be the first time I declare my stance before an election.  Desperate times …

Don’t tell me about how Trump has done so much for the economy.  My neighbor and his wife have three jobs between them, to make ends meet.  That doesn’t leave a lot of time for effectively raising two kids.

 

This year I grew these from seed.  Don’t they look like something from a Disney movie?  They’re called Penny Blacks.

 

I can almost hear my family and friends rolling their eyes at what they probably perceive is my over-zealousness about the mask.  I’ve seen Will roll his eyes, when he thinks I’m not looking.  Truth be told, I’m rolling my eyes at them, too.  Thanks to Trump, that political divide in families has gotten much bigger.  It used to be that I could go to a family dinner and enjoy the food, the card playing and the banter.

I told you, it’s lonely being me.  But, it’s not an option to NOT be me.

A couple days ago, after a sleepless night of worrying about college kids and how they’ll cope, I was feeling the isolation of my stance on all things virus related.  I succumbed to searching for Facebook groups of like-minded individuals.  Even from the safe-distance of my home, I hoped to find my tribe – a group to commiserate with.  In case you didn’t know, there are scores of anti-mask groups on Facebook.  I couldn’t find a single group for those who wear masks, other than the group of 7 who make masks.   Instead, I opened a new tab to explore the possibility of moving to New Zealand.

 

Did I tell you we will have pumpkins this year?

 

Jen is on the island with me.  She went off to college.  We were nervous, scared and excited.  She came back home after seeing how cavalier the other students were about masks and social-distancing.  She’ll be taking classes online.

Who can possibly thrive in this narcissistic culture that can’t sacrifice a couple social engagements, wear a goddamn mask, or keep their asses home long enough for this generation (our future!) to be able to get an education?!  When will we see that serving only ourselves will be our end?

How can a culture, that is so supportive of athletics and team sports, be so full of folks who are shitty at being team players?

That sense of entitlement will cost us all those things that we hold dear, including our families and our futures.

 

I know.  You think I’ve gone off the deep end with all the time to over-think, during this extended period of self-isolation.  The introvert in me doesn’t mind the distance.  Perhaps I needed a pandemic to show me how to stick to my boundaries.  The HSP in me loses sleep with worry for all the kids.  If it weren’t for yard work and walking, I’d be curled up in a fetal position on my yoga mat complaining about my stress-induced back problems.

Here’s the thing.  We need to go off the deep end.  We need to get uncomfortable.  We need to go out there and make damn sure that our kids have a chance.  Complacency allows this massive train-wreck to happen.

 

The italicized portions of this post are a reflection of my coping mechanisms during this seemingly unending, politicized pandemic.  I rant for stretches and then I go out to the yard for respite.  “Oh, look.  A bee on the sunflower Oh, there’s my garden buddy!” (A wee bunny munches in the yard while I water and weed.  He’s not smart enough to be afraid of me, or maybe he knows I’m all bark and no bite.)

Then I check social media and remember to be mad at the world.  Jen and I vent together and shake our heads.  Then she goes back to a project (her coping mechanism) and I go back outside. 

Later, we’ll go for a walk, vent some more, take pictures of the offspring of the multiplying bunnies in our neighborhood, wonder at the moon, and consider how nice it would be to live somewhere else.  As weeks roll into months, we fret and worry and hope, and get ready to vote.

 

*I ran to the store before posting this.  Will and I had gotten Jen a pasta machine for her birthday.  Between all the pasta we’ll be making and the baking we already do, we needed to stock up on flour.  I’m pushing a cart that has a 25# bag of flour and a 25# bag of jasmine rice, and I happen to run into two, who I now realize are part of my tribe.  I rarely see them because they are staying home like Jen and I are!  We stood 6 feet apart and yelled through our masks and talked about the glasses of wine we hoped to be able to share one day.

I think maybe I didn’t know who was part of my tribe, until this pandemic.  For that, I am grateful.

Thank you, Universe, for showing me that Jen and I are not alone on this island.