Walking Alone For Awhile

I’ve been thinking a lot about a favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

I see many interpretations of that quote, and I’ve always loved it, even though I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought because I liked the way it sounded. To me it has always meant that we’re in this together. We are all heading in the same general direction. We may walk side by side for awhile, or our paths may diverge, but we’re all going to the same place, so the least we can do is be there for each other as we make progress.

Recently, though, I’ve felt tired. I could blame it on winter, or age, or too much work. Am I expecting my body to still keep the pace it always has? Isn’t it logical to want to slow down at my age? I’m feeling the years, or the miles, as my funny daughter says. I suspect the exhaustion comes from our many attempts. My soul is tired, as I think hers may very well be, even if she’s only 21 in this go ’round. If we are working at it – and I do believe that is our soul’s purpose – then we will get tired.

How should we walk each other home? How much is required of us, and how much might we expect from fellow travelers? Is it up to me to drag you along if you aren’t keeping up? (For that matter, who am I to determine that you aren’t keeping up?) Is it up to you to drag me if I’m lagging behind? Of course not, on both counts, but I often forget that, especially when I’m tired. I know we all get to go at our own pace. Am I still a good person if I’m too tired to be there for you? Gee, *said facetiously* I wonder which spiritual teaching convinced me that always doing for others is what makes us a good person?

Do I have to be continuously walking? Can I just sit on the side of the road in the sun for a bit, and catch up on some reading and screen my calls? Would Dass be okay with that? Why do I even care what he would think?

Perhaps I’m fickle for prescribing to whatever approach appeals to me at a particular time, lacking loyalty to a guru or spiritual teacher for the duration. It got me to this point, didn’t it? It’s my process, and if switching philosophical/mystical/spiritual teams gets me to the next point, then all that matters is that I’m making progress. As long as I’m loyal to my progress, I can change up the method as many times as I like. If one approach is no longer serving, it’s time to try a new approach.

I’m learning that this experimental approach puts me in a position to meet new people. I’ve certainly met some interesting folks who’ve taught me important lessons along the way, but I’m feeling the need to slow down and process those lessons. Perhaps the tired is from an overload of too many messages/lessons.

Speaking of gurus, I’m pretty sure Abraham Hicks would say that I’m forgetting to have fun with the process. I think I moved on from his approach because it seemed, to me anyway, that I should be working harder instead of just having fun. (That probably comes from the same spiritual teaching that I referenced earlier.) Come to think of it, Dass basically says we’d do well to relax and enjoy the ride. I see pictures of the guy and he usually looks happy, and so does Esther Hicks.

What about you? Have you been feeling more tired than usual? Have you been dragging someone along the path, or have you felt as though you need some dragging? A smart someone recently told me, “Sometimes help is not.” Whether we are attempting to help or being helped, is it always helpful? Would we do better to take a break or focus our efforts on ourselves?

The dormancy of winter will end soon. I can already see the greening of the hill across the street. My energy will surge again, as much as the grass will grow, and I’ll be ready to do the work – in the yard and on myself.

Right now, though, I need to slow down and walk by myself for awhile.

I’ll be back.

Take good care.

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.)

Worry Them Home

I remember my dad and his siblings teasing their mom about being such a worry wart. It confused me because, even back then, I perceived my grandma’s worrying as just her way of loving us. As I got older, I understood why they were annoyed.

So many questions.

So nosey.

I’d often think, “Quit worrying about me and leave me alone,” as I rolled my eyes and refused to share the details of my escapades.

I do not remember her ever getting defensive when they gave her a hard time about worrying, she just kept at it. She wore her worrying like a cloak or a badge of honor. She didn’t hide it or sugar coat it. She was in their faces (and mine) about her worries. I do wonder if, because of how my dad and some of his siblings turned out, maybe my grandma hadn’t been worrying enough.

I’m not going to get into how those were different times, and they required different styles of parenting. Did anyone worry about their parenting style back then? I’m sure my grandma wasn’t worrying about whether she was doing a good job, she was just wanting to make sure they stayed out of jail.

Recently, on what had started out as a lazy Sunday morning, Will came running out of his bedroom pulling on a t-shirt and grabbing his boots. He’d just gotten a text from a friend who’d told him that the girlfriend of a mutual friend had texted to say that her boyfriend (a member of Will’s friend group) had not returned from camping when he said he would. Texts weren’t answered. Voicemails had not come in. She was panicked. Will and some members of the friend group had decided to rally and drive out to the mountains where this friend was supposed to be camping. Will was shaky and I warned him to take it easy and make a plan, so that he and others in the group weren’t at risk of harm while they looked out for the missing camper. “Remember,” I told him, “Manifest a positive outcome. Don’t dwell on the what-ifs, unless you are focusing on only the good what-ifs.”

They were 30 minutes from town, just before losing cell service, when he got a text that the friend was almost back to town. The friend was embarrassed to admit that he and his girlfriend had gotten their wires crossed and miscommunicated about his return time. Then the friend said, “Were you guys really coming to look for me?” After giving the camper a hard time for scaring the shit out of them, Will said, “Of course we were coming to look for you.” The friend was surprised that his group cared enough to drop everything and look for him.

Later, Will and I talked about how the Universe will go to great lengths to show folks they are loved. I laughed, “Geez, couldn’t you just tell each other that you love each other?” I like seeing his group worrying about each other. It reinforces that fact that he has found good friends.

Worry has gotten a bad rap. It wasn’t cool (way back in the 70s) to be a worry wart. It’s not cool now, either. Today, worry warts are called helicopter moms or hovering parents. I can see that there are less annoying ways to worry than my grandma’s style, and I do try to worry without being all up in their business. Of course, if you asked them, they might not agree.

The other day, out for my morning walk, I discovered this baby bottle lying on the side of the road. My mind jumped to all the hovering mom conclusions or, some might say, judgments. “That poor child! Who is in charge? How does that even happen?” On and on my brain went, circling around all the possibilities of how horrible this baby’s life must be if it’s parent/parents can’t even keep track of its bottle. (Why I didn’t first go to, “Wow. Bummer, the bottle was lost, but at least this baby was being fed,” is a whole different post.)

Then I got to noticing how worried I was about the baby, and how futile worry is. What was my worrying accomplishing? Did it help that baby any? Then I wondered if folks are less worried about others than they were in my grandma’s day. Do folks care about each other as much as they did back then?

Isn’t worry a form of love? Worry is caring. Worry might even be a form of manifesting. Will told me that he and his two buddies talked about focusing on their friend driving into town, as they were heading into the mountains, instead of focusing on the worst possible scenario. When I’m worried about one of my two, I picture them calling me. I picture Jen calling, from the safety of her apartment, to tell me all about her night out. Or I picture Will calling to tell me of the big catfish he caught, when he was on a river out of cell service. I’ll admit that sometimes, especially if I haven’t eaten, I’ll spiral into all the negative what-ifs, but I am getting better at not sharing all those with Jen and Will.

Worry might be the ripple we send out to the Universe that says make sure they get home safely. But the tone of the worry matters. Worry doesn’t need to judge the parents for losing the baby bottle. Worry can, and should, focus on that baby’s healthy future. Maybe something like, “Oh, I hope they had another bottle in the car.” Or, “I bet it fell out of the stroller as the parent was walking the baby and their puppy.”

In the absence of being able to do anything for others, including that baby, the least we can do is send a ripple out to the Universe and worry them home.

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.

Believe In Your Fabulousness

Or at least try loving yourself more.

I woke in the night with the lyrics from Miley Cyrus’s song, Flowers, running through my head. I can’t explain it. I hear it on the radio when I’m going from here to there. (Side note: I am hesitant to come to terms with the fact that I might get better sleep if I gave up on my one nightly adult beverage. Damn. Can that one drink really be the cause of my colorful dreamlife?) Anyway, Cyrus’s song makes me think of what I was recently telling Jen: If you have to use even one breath to convince him that you are spectacular, he is NOT the guy for you.

Yes. I do know that I’m not an expert on all things having to do with relationships, but I am a romantic, and I do read enough memes to have a vague notion about such things. Memes make us experts, right?

By the way, just because I wrote a couple books about getting out of a narcissistic relationship, and I passionately announced to the Universe that, “I AM GOOD ENOUGH,” that does not mean that I don’t still struggle with getting out of the “lack of self-confidence” groove. Blame it on a long winter, or too much time on my hands, but that groove is deep! This morning, when I woke with those lyrics still nagging me, I got to thinking, “What do I do to love me better?” That’s a weird sentence to type. It feels self-centered. About the time I start thinking something feels self-centered, that’s the time I need to focus on that groove I’ve spent too damn many years trying to jump. (Jesse, accept that the groove no longer serves you – if it ever did – and get the hell out of there!)

IT IS NOT SELF-CENTERED TO LOVE YOURSELF! It is essential!

What do you do to love yourself? Whatever it is, you don’t need to justify it. You don’t need permission. Don’t make excuses. Don’t think your way has to be like another’s way. I’ve noticed that those who denigrate other’s interests are often the most lacking in self-love. I used to be that way. (Honestly, I still fight this.) For example, I’m not a manicure person. But it’s none of my business if that’s what you love – if that’s how you express your love of self. All the amazing ways of expressing self-love make the world a beautiful place. Get the tats, the piercings, the clothes, and the haircuts. Whatever makes you feel alive, do that to express your love.

Buy the flowers. Schedule the nail appointments. Make time for yourself. Take yourself out to lunch. Make time with friends. Have that one nightly cocktail. (Make it a bit smaller, Jesse, or try having it earlier to see if your sleep improves.) Buy the seed packets. Watch your shows on Netflix, even if you have to stay up later to do so because your roommate doesn’t like British mysteries. Find the podcast and go for a longer walk. Write the words in your journal that you don’t have the nerve to say out loud: “I am fabulous.” (You don’t have to yell or write it in all caps, the Universe already knows.)

If, like me, you’re challenged in the financial department, get the cute tchotchke in the clearance aisle at Target. (This bunny!)

Loving yourself does not need to cost anything. I know that’s easier said than done. Right now, a favorite way to love myself is to sit in the sun, in the backyard, with my eyes closed (so I can’t see all the work I need to get done) feeling the warmth and celebrating the end of winter.

Maybe you have a partner who loves you just fine. (Seriously, I hope it’s more than fine, but that’s up to you.) Even with a fantastic, loving partner there is room for you to still love yourself. In fact, it’s imperative. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Love yourself through it all.

You might be surprised to find out that many others think you are fabulous, too. Like your cat, or the elderly neighbor lady, or some guy from high school you haven’t seen in 40 years. Trust that there are legions of people who think you are amazing. Don’t spend a minute thinking of those who can’t see your fabulousness. That’s about them. (That’s from a good meme I may have sent to Jen. – Author Unknown.)

Turn loving yourself into a ritual. Have you noticed how some skilled folks turn ritual into habit? Before you know it, loving you will become a habit. I suppose that once it becomes habit, you lose the mindfulness of it, but at least that way you aren’t overthinking it and talking yourself out of loving yourself. (I know my ritual around coffee is a habit – the grinding, the boiling of the water and the pouring. Sometimes I slow down my movements in order to focus on the quiet and the smells and the steam and the process. But how mindful can I be first thing in the morning before that first cup.) Loving you needs to be a habit like brushing your teeth or feeding the cat or drinking that first cup in the morning.

What matters is that you believe in your fabulousness. If it feels weird to love yourself, get over it. Make that your new groove. Remember, the Universe is expansive! There’s room enough for you to love others and yourself. How good would it be if you managed to love yourself as much as you love others? Maybe, by loving ourselves more, we can come to love others more. (I think that’s a meme, too.)

Piacere!

An old, brown accordion file for storing paperwork.

“Piacere, Hank!”

“You’re learning Italian?” Hank walked to Jesse’s end of the bar and grinned. “Piacere means, ‘Nice to meet you.’ We’ve already met.”

“Shit. I suppose you know Italian?”

“I think you mean, ‘Merda.’ I only know a little, Jess. Why and how do you have time to learn Italian?”

“The kids and I still hope to take a trip one day. Jen is doing well in French. If I learn enough Italian, we can order food in the countries we want to see. Maybe.” Jesse laughed. “Will promises not to fall asleep in all the cathedrals. Besides, I got off Twitter and found extra time. I’m reading more, finishing some painting projects, rearranging furniture. It’s kind of embarrassing how much time I spent on that bird app.”

“So, you found yourself with more time and didn’t come in here?”

“Hank, if I did that, I’d become a pest, and I’d feel guilty. But I’m working on the guilt thing. I found a therapist!”

“Good for you! Give me a second, would ya? I’ve got to get to the end of the bar and run interference.” Hank grabbed a beer and slid it to the guy standing at the end of the bar. The guy grabbed his beer and drank from it like his life depended on it. Hank asked the woman sitting next to the guy if she was ready for another drink. Jesse could hear her say something about a different wine, something about the last one being too sweet. The couple didn’t look like they belonged together, but the guy appeared glued to her side.

Hank returned with a glass of beer for Jesse. “Tell me, is therapy everything you hoped it would be?”

“Enough about me, Hank, what’s with that couple?”

“Oh, it’s a classic pairing. The more she expects, the more he tries to please. You know how that goes.”

“All too well. Reminds me of a recent project. I had five manilla folders full of medical records and insurance forms and all that stuff that accumulates. I never know what to keep or what to throw out. I turned on Pandora and started sorting. I had several piles: Urology, Gynecology, Cardiology…”

Hank winked, “Neurology?”

“Ha, if I’d stayed married, that would have been the biggest pile. Anyway, I sorted each category in chronological order and discovered an interesting pattern.” Jesse noticed the guy at the end of the bar trying to get Hank’s attention.

“Sorry, Jess. Be right back.” Hank returned and mumbled under his breath. “She didn’t like that wine either. Before you got here, the guy ran out to the car two separate times to retrieve different things for her. He’s running ragged.”

“He looks exhausted. I recognize that look.”

Hank shook his head, “So do I, Jess. Anyway, what pattern did you see in your medical records?”

“My trips to the doctor only occurred when I was in a relationship! Seriously. The heart palpitations were stress from a relationship. There were appointments trying to figure out loss of appetite and sleeping too much, all at the tail end of my marriage. The UTIs …”

Hank put up his hands, laughed and backed away.

“Sorry, Hank. I’ll spare you the details. But the pattern was obvious. There wasn’t any paperwork in the time periods when I wasn’t part of a couple. When I wasn’t in a relationship, there was no need to do any doctoring. It reminded me about some article I read where folks who’d lived to 100 were interviewed and asked what they thought the secret to longevity was. This one spry gal said, ‘Staying single and having a can of Schlitz with my evening meal.'”

“Schlitz? She couldn’t do better than that?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the point, Hank. Look at that guy down there. Wouldn’t he be better off single with even a 6-pack of Schlitz?”

Hank nodded. “Hell! I’d even stock Schlitz if I thought it would help that poor guy. He needs to learn what I had to learn. Doing more for them doesn’t make them love you more, and you lose yourself in the process. They are a bottomless pit. All the trips to the car and all the different glasses of wine will not fill that hole. That guy cannot fill that hole, but he’ll kill himself trying if he doesn’t figure it out. That’s why you only went to the doctor when you were in a relationship. You were losing yourself, and your body was trying to get your attention.”

“How come it wasn’t obvious to me at the time?”

“Cuz you were too busy trying to be what they needed and keep your head above water. Did any of them ask what you needed?”

“I think I picked those who just assumed that whatever they provided was enough. I guess I didn’t know I could ask for what I needed. I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Hank smiled, “Have you covered that with the therapist?”

“I guess I just now thought of it.” Jesse laughed, “Why am I going to a therapist when I can come here?”

Hank laughed. “I can’t answer that, Jess.” Hank ran to the end of the bar as the woman stood so the guy could help her with her jacket. Jess realized the guy had never taken off his jacket. Maybe he felt he was better prepared to do her bidding if he kept his jacket on. Jesse noticed the slump in his shoulders. She could feel his exhaustion. He would break soon, if he hadn’t already.

When Hank returned, Jesse said, “I think that little old lady from the article was brilliant. I might choose something other than Schlitz, though.” They both laughed. “My medical history proves it’s healthier for me to be single. The choice is obvious. What about you, Hank. You’re still single. I never hear of you having to go to a doctor for anything. What do you think of that little old lady’s take on longevity?” Jesse stood and reached for her jacket.

“I’d say that while she may have lived a long time, she might have been happier if she’d found the right someone to share the Schlitz with.” Hank caught Jesse’s eye, winked and reached for her empty glass, “Arrivederci, Jess.”

Jesse paused. She couldn’t think of what to say or how to react. She looked down to zip up her jacket, fumbled with her keys and bag and turned to go. As she walked out the door she looked back and said, “Ciao?”

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.

This Bird Flew the Coop

I deactivated my Twitter account this morning.

I’m going to miss the folks I connected with on there. I’d been on there since the inception of my first blog, 12 years ago. It’s going to feel very strange not checking in there every day. What will I do with all the extra time?

I know! Maybe I’ll finish some of the drafts I’ve been creating, over the last several months.

I try to set healthy boundaries. An important boundary is set around what news and opinions I allow in my corner of the world.

I’m now more carefully curating my news feed and specifically selecting what I read.

I’ll miss you birds.

My email is still Jesse Blayne @ gmail . com.

Until we meet again …

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.