Category: if i had the nerve

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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.)

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The Ivy-Covered Imaginary Wall

She’d cried the first time she’d walked into the house. It would be the perfect home for this new chapter. The house they were leaving was certainly larger and newer, but this new address made up for a lack of square footage and new appliances with acceptance, warmth, the hoped-for ability to sleep through the night and a fenced back yard.

It wasn’t an impenetrable fence. Squirrels, bunnies and neighborhood cats could gain access, but dogs could not. In fact, one neighbor’s cat, after squeezing under the fence, liked to peer in the sliding glass door to try to strike up a friendship with the resident cat. This usually culminated in the two feisty felines body-slamming the sliding door in an effort to prove who was the most fearsome. (This was good exercise for the indoor cat, and an excellent way for the outdoor cat to stay warm.)

The years passed as they want to do, and this little home showed itself to be the haven she’d wished for. Oh, there were bumps and bruises along the way, but the three of them (plus cat) had always found a safe place to land under the roof and within the fenced back yard. They’d heal their wounds and talk of their slights and remind each other that it always works out.

Part of the reason it always worked out was because in between homeschooling, baking cookies and cranking out homemade pasta; after carving pumpkins, figuring out the new job and scheduling the dentist and vet appointments; before one left for college and after the other hurt himself too many times at the job that built his confidence, she’d been methodically building an imaginary wall around the house and yard. This wall was a borderline even though she was the only one who could see it. It was six feet high and made of stone. Over 17 years, Engleman Ivy had grown over the wall and, this time of year, if they hadn’t already gotten a heavy snow, the leaves were crimson and crackly.

She hadn’t planned for the wall to be this tall. When she’d first started the build, she figured a four-foot wall would certainly provide the protection she felt she needed. She wanted the cats and squirrels and bunnies to still have access. The cats had no problem jumping the four feet and perching on the top of the wall. They’d sit for hours on sunny days pretending to doze but really looking for birds. The squirrels and bunnies used the arched doorway that had long ago been hidden under the overgrown ivy. She’d intentionally built a doorway and included a solid wood door that was six inches thick. By now the hinges were rusty and the lock had yet to be used. The door was propped open, and the ivy prevented it from swinging shut.

More recently, with the arrival of unwanted intruders, she’d had to extend the height to six feet. The ivy had no problem getting to work and hiding the addition. It was hungry to stretch its “legs” and thrilled to have more surface to cover with its tendrils. Still, she hadn’t felt the need to close and lock the door. She’d always figured that was a last resort. It helped her sleep knowing she had the option to close the door if she needed to. (Even her counselor had mentioned that boundaries aren’t permanent, they can be flexible and change just as life changes.)

And so it was that a day came along, just as the leaves had turned that dark shade of red, right before the first snow, when the cats had been particularly aggressive in their body slams at the sliding glass door. She’d been feeling stretched and pulled in too many directions. She’d lost interest in the things she loved. The candle needed more than the two ends. She woke in the night and remembered that she could close the door in the wall. The next morning, after that first cup of coffee, she put on her boots and grabbed the coat she’d put in the closet last April, which was really too soon, since they always seemed to get one more snow before spring staked her claim.

She grabbed a pair of trimmers and slowly, apologetically started cutting away at the Engleman Ivy that had been anchoring the wooden door to the wall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she snipped, “You’ll grow back in no time.” A black cat sneaked through the doorway to watch her progress. Squirrel jumped down from his precarious perch on a sunflower stalk to see if he could snack on the ivy clippings. She turned to wave at indoor cat who was standing at the sliding door making sure all knew who was in charge. Once the ivy was cleared away, she’d tried to pull the door closed. The hinges, having been unused for so many years, had forgotten how to do their job. She remembered she had a can of WD40 under the kitchen sink. As she walked into the house, squirrel and black cat ran off to find something more interesting. Indoor cat met her at the door and mewed her questions. She answered with a couple treats for the queen and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The oil did the trick, and with some effort, she was able to get the door closed. Now to find the key for the lock. Would it be in the tool shed, the potting shed or a kitchen drawer? After much hunting and asking cat if she knew where the key was, she found the key hanging from a nail in the tool shed. Unlike the hinges, this key had been wanting to do its job for some time – one turn and a click, and the door was locked.

She went back in the house, put the water on for coffee and took off her boots. “It had to be done,” she said to cat. “Your buddy has never used the doorway anyway. Bunnies can dig a hole underneath the wall and squirrels never have an issue getting into where they want to be. It always works out, remember?”

That night she was able to sit on the couch and read for an hour. (Lately, she’d had a hard time concentrating). Weirdly, she hadn’t felt the need to pour a glass of wine. She sensed a familiar peace settle within the four walls, a peace she remembered from the first time she’d walked into the house. And the sleep? She slept like bears do when they hibernate. She slept like cats do when they find a sunny spot.

And so, the door would stay locked, and the ivy would grow. One day she might decide to clear away the ivy and open it back up, or she might not.

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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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.

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Junk Drawer as Metaphor

I bet we’ve all got one – a junk drawer.  I have two – side by side.  Maybe I have more junk than most?  I dunno, but it makes sense to me.

During this pandemic (wow, never thought I’d write those three words together in a sentence) I’ve been doing a version of Marie Kondo that has me wiping things down and pitching things as I go.  (I haven’t searched Goodwill, but I suspect they don’t want any of our stuff for obvious reasons, so it will sit in the garage until it’s safe to pass on.)

As I methodically wipe/pitch/sort, I over-think.  Surprise!

 

I hope you are coping well with the way life is these days.  For the six or so people who still read this blog, I’ve most likely checked in with you.  But I would suggest that none of us truly knows how we are doing.  We mention that our pantries are stocked, or that the car will have to be taken out for a spin, or that we dusted off some old board games, or that we’ve found a new crush on Netflix.

But how are you really?

 

You might know me well enough, by now, to know that I am at peace with where the world is today.  I firmly believe that this pandemic will provide us with a much-needed reset.  I also know that you most likely don’t agree with me.  🙂

 

As I was getting ready to organize one of my junk drawers, I couldn’t help but notice the obvious metaphor.

If my junk drawer represents my life, this is what I would describe:

A toddler (Coronavirus) just came into my kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer to look for his Hot Wheel. (Seriously, there is no significance with my referring to the virus as a he.  I think.)  He pulled the drawer open too far, and because I wasn’t there to catch it, the drawer landed on the floor with a deafening crash.  All the contents of the drawer flew in every direction.  Some things ended up under the range, some under the fridge.  Some bounced and landed in the sink full of a solution of bleach water.  I heard a couple items roll into the living room.

The toddler (that fricking virus) laughed and ran into his bedroom to look for his little car, because it was not in the junk drawer.

 

What could I do?

 

I did the only thing that made sense.  I cleared a spot on the floor and sat down to survey the damage.  I grabbed the dividers and the organizing containers and I started sorting.  I worked slowly, remembering to breathe.  Instead of yelling at the rascal who created this disaster, I focused on the task at hand.

 

Wow, I have a lot of binder clips.  Why?  What am I trying to control?  What is my need to contain?  How much of it can I have any influence on?

And pencils?  Why do I keep the stubby ones?  Am I worried I will never be able to afford more pencils?

I have batteries for gadgets I no longer own.  I save batteries that I’m sure lost their juice back when Will played with remote-controlled cars.  Am I hanging on to those just in case they’ll revive, even though I know they won’t?

I’m sure Post-Its are replicating in that drawer, or I have some misguided fear of running out, so I buy them even if I don’t need them.  Could be buying pencils instead?

I don’t even know what flew under the range or the fridge or rolled into the living room.  I’m not sure I care.

 

I made a 4th cup of coffee, even tho’ my limit is 3/day.  Desperate times (pandemic or spilled junk drawer) allow for desperate measures, and aren’t we limited enough already?!  I even poured whipping cream in for additional comfort, and sat down amidst all the contents of my “junk drawer” to methodically decide what to keep and what to pitch.

 

QUIT trying to control, I said to myself, loudly enough to make the cat jump.

You’ve survived this far on a restricted budget.  You’ve mastered life with a tightened belt.  Buy the damn pencils.

Friendships that have long since lost their juice will not revive without a great deal of effort.  Choose wisely.

It’s okay to stock-pile Post-Its.  I’m allowed my ideosyncrasies and all the other things that make me me.  I am keeping the second junk drawer!

All the stuff under the fridge or range or wherever it landed –  I’ll deal with that when it arises.  Or not.

 

How will you organize your “junk drawer?”

 

More importantly, stay safe!

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The Sanctuary – Blue Room Launch

Now I am sitting in the seat, hands perched on the controls.  The attendant has closed the shield.  I am encased in the bubble.  I’m not sure I want to go anywhere.  I’m loving staring off at the blue.

No sounds.

No smells.

Peace.

Quiet.  Stillness.  Calm.

 

 

And because my brain never sits still long enough to appreciate the calm, my fingers grasp the controls.  I feel the slightest texture.  I am excited to see what will happen.  I push the right control forward and the blue screen undulates.  The blue deepens.  Is that a breeze I feel?  I look up to see if there is a fan above me.  Nothing.  All I see is blue.  The blue is getting darker.

I’d swear I’m moving through this dark blue.

My left hand moves the control forward.  I’m “moving” faster.  The color is darker.  The air flows faster.  I feel like I’m swooping down into depths.

I take my hands off the controls.  The breeze stops.  I feel suspended, as if I’m floating in deep blue ocean waters.  Is this what it would be like to freely breathe under water?  I am relaxed.  There is no fear or anxiety.  I gently push the right control to the right.  Did I move to the right?  Or does my brain assume I’ve moved?  I take my hand off the control.

I continue to float.  My mind wants to know what to expect.  Would I come upon a massive school of fish?  Will they part as I “swim” through?  My curiosity prevents me from enjoying the weightlessness of my position in this deep blue.

I push the left control to the left and move in that direction.  Now I push both controls to the left and speed through the dark blue.  The air flows again.

Far ahead of me, I see reflections.  Floating shapes are materializing.  Slowly, approaching from the dark blue shadows, images form into ….

 

Memories?

I want to see more clearly.  I am insistent.  What am I seeing?

I yank both controls back.  Will I get to the images more quickly?  When both controls were pushed forward, I sensed that I was swooping down.  Now, with controls pulled back,  I am clearly soaring up through these dark depths, racing through reflecting images of memories.  The farther I go up, the lighter the blue gets.  I see Patches, my favorite cat from childhood.  There’s my hot pink Stingray, the bike that allowed me the first taste of freedom.  Images speed by:  the tie-dyed pillow furniture I’d made for my Barbies; a favorite mod-print dress from 1st grade; faces of friends from 2nd grade; crushes from 6th grade; the car I drove in high school.   Oh! That’s the Eagle’s album that had melted in the back of that car.  Weird!  I can almost smell my dorm room.   There’s my favorite pair of skis.

I am moving so fast it is impossible to catalog all the memories as they flash by me.   The air moves faster.  I begin to feel dizzy.  I want to slow down but, more desperately, I want to know where I’m headed.

The blue is lighter still.  I look up and see that I am approaching the lightest shade of blue.  Is it the sky?  Am I coming to the surface of an ocean? Am I ready to leave all these memories?  What is next?

. . . . .

If you were sitting in the chair, hands on the controls, what would you see?  Where would you go?  Would you swim contentedly in the memories or would you soar to the surface and excitedly embrace what is next?

 

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The Sanctuary

You’ve heard of this place, but you want to see for yourself.

You find the door, but you’re not sure that this unmarked door could lead to what you are expecting.  Is this the service entrance?  More than that, the dust-covered door looks like it hasn’t been used in awhile.  The handle hasn’t been turned recently.  The door is set back in the wall of the building, deep enough for a person to hide from oncoming traffic.  Dried leaves and a McDonald’s wrapper have taken refuge in the corner from the wind.  If they don’t take time to clean the entrance, what’s the interior going to be like?

You’re convinced you are at the wrong building, but then you notice a door bell button.  You look over both shoulders, hesitate, and press the button.  You hear the faintest buzz, not the expected sound of a bell.  A quiet voice emits from a speaker you cannot see.  “Solo or communal, please?”  You look over your shoulder before saying, “Solo?”

The door opens almost immediately and your senses are engaged.  First, a waft that is equal parts orange, sage, and eucalyptus, followed by a note of bergamot and, lastly, the distinct, memory-inducing scent of damp soil.  The smells are pleasing and inviting without overpowering.  Your eyes adjust to the darkness and then spot low-lit, amber-colored sconces near the high ceiling, lining a hallway.  Your skin notices warmth, not a dry heat from forced air, but a moist warmth that instantly makes your shoulders relax.  You think you hear the gentle tinkling of bells, or is that some kind of new age music in the background.

You pause to take it all in and your mind briefly wonders if this is going to be too “out there” for you, but your body pulls you over the threshold.

The assistant, who patiently allowed you time to adjust,  hands you a key and points to a wall of mailboxes.  You haven’t seen this kind of mailbox since your mom held your hand to cross the street on the way to the post office.

“Please silence your phone, place it in number 17 and lock it.  Keep the key with you, please.  Don’t worry about remembering which box is yours.  I’ll take care of that.”  After you’ve secured your phone in its own locked box, the attendant says, “This way please.”  She leads you down the panel-lined hallway toward a set of stairs.  It is dark, but not menacingly so.

On your left is a set of double mahogany doors.  You see natural light coming from under the doors, and you hear sounds – music, laughter, conversation.  The sounds are inviting, but that’s not where you want to be today.

The wide staircase is lit with the same sconces.  The stairs lead to a landing.  You turn to the right and climb a second set of stairs.  The carpeted stairs muffle the sound of your footsteps as you follow the attendant.

At the top of the stairs you reach another hallway.  Three closed doors line each side of the hallway.  At the end of the hallway, a demi-moon table holds a lit Tiffany lamp and a wide, shallow wooden bowl filled with polished stones.

You notice the ambient light coming from under each of the six doors.  The light is colored.  A different colored light glows from under each door.

The attendant tells you that the Purple and Green rooms are occupied.  She says, “You may select from the other four doors.”

. . .

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The Land of Pink

I almost painted my fingernails yesterday.  They are long right now, and they’d look good with some polish.   I can’t remember the last time I painted them.  I have long, masculine fingers – my grandma’s – and they look better (more feminine?) when my nails are longer, but long nails are a distraction.  They get in the way when typing or gardening, which is a bummer, because my nails are hard and they are nice.  I tried to decide what color.  We don’t have a lot of polish in the house.  Jen has a couple favorite colors – white, gold and another white.  I think.

I was wanting a red or a corral.  I don’t know where this came from.  But then I thought, people will notice because I never paint my nails.  And, ugh, they’ll say something, and I’ll feel the need to defend my choice to paint my nails and why I picked the color I picked, and why I don’t normally paint my nails.

I thought of women who change their hair color or handbag or get a tattoo, and don’t seem to have a care in the world about whether anyone comments, and how freeing that must be.  Or, most likely, they do care, but they don’t let that stop them.

And then I got tired, which reminded me of what it’s like to be in The Land of Pink.

 

Look at that sweet baby girl.  Or is it a boy.  Hard to tell when they are new.  They smell the same.  They act the same.  They cry when they are hungry or they need to be changed.  They cry when they are tired.  That’s pretty much it.

Until well-meaning parents get involved and suddenly gender is projected on to this being that only cares about sleeping and eating and being comfortable.  The Big Ones coo and smile and comment on appearance when they change diapers.  “Oh, your soooo cute.”  Their hearts are in the right place, but Bigs start to treat the girls and boys differently.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their genetic coding.

Baby girls are cute for different reasons than baby boys are.

Baby slowly starts to make a connection between her appearance and the mood of the Bigs.

Babies aren’t dumb.  It doesn’t take them long to connect dots.  Happy Big = more squash.  If I coo or smile at Big, Big is happy, then I get squash.

Before she knows it, she has to be careful about not getting mashed peas on her pretty dress.  She mustn’t get squash in her hair.  She doesn’t care about her hair, she cares about fists full of food.   Pretty soon, though, it takes more than a smile to make Big happy.  Big likes it when we are cute or clean or quiet.  If we do those things, we get more squash.

 

Now she’s old enough to toddle around in the yard.  She’s amazed at where her legs will take her.  She doesn’t care what’s on her legs as long as it isn’t itchy.  This Disney Princess dress is itchy.  She reaches for a fistful of mud and attempts to bring it to her mouth, but a Big tells her, “NO!  Don’t eat that!  That’s icky!  Don’t get that on your pretty dress.”

 

It’s the first day of Kindergarten.  Her tummy feels weird and her new clothes are itchy.  She’s wearing a dress and she’s told that she probably better not go on the slide at the playground because the boys might look up her dress.  Why do boys want to look up her dress?  Whose idea was it to make her wear a dress today, anyway?

She’s no dummy.  She can see that the teacher spends more time with certain kids – the cute ones.   She notices that the cute ones are surrounded by more kids on the playground.  What must she do to be cuter?  She ponders this while sitting at a long, cold table, under florescent lights, eating a peanut butter and jelly that has been cut into quarters.  She can’t wait to get home, get out of this dress and away from this need to be cute.

Years later, she’ll learn that the weird feeling in her tummy is called anxiety.  Anxiety will become her life-long companion.

 

To be continued …

 

By the way, I cut my nails.  It’s just easier, and I’m tired.