Risking looking like a perfect, self-serving ass

I got some good news yesterday. I was selected to speak on stage at an event that will have hundreds of attendees. I will be sharing the stage with not only with peers who are highly accomplished, courageous, and brilliant, but also speakers who have made significant impacts in the world.

I'm literally playing on a big stage.

When the event was in early planning, I was struck with a clear picture of myself telling a story on stage. It was a powerful, vibrant vision. So clear and powerful that I knew it was going to happen. That I would get to speak. 

Almost every big accomplishment I've made has been preceded by such an image.

But there was one little problem. 

I was on the planning committee--a position where I could influence the outcome. Why did I think it was ok for me to submit a proposal to speak? Shouldn't I be enabling others and just enjoying what I helped create? 

I put my idea aside. There wasn't even a call for speakers yet. I was going to let it be.

Except, the idea kept nudging me.

Months pass, preparations are made. Finally, a call for speakers goes out. Days pass. I do nothing.

We have meetings to talk about the review process. I am silent. 

The day of the deadline comes. I feel something. Like a person standing behind me. I look at my calendar.

The deadline is two hours away. 

I write a hurried note to my colleagues on the committee that would it be ok if I submitted a proposal if I could get it in on time. 

I started writing frantically. My story about the Gay Marriage battle of Prop 8 started flowing out. I dropped it in the submission box. 

My colleagues didn't comment. 

I was grateful for "polite silence". It wasn't lost on me that none of my colleagues had submitted a proposal. 

I felt like a greedy, self-serving ass. 

The review process began. I was supposed to be part of the process. I wanted to stay out. 

But there was urge again. The person standing behind me. I read every submission. There were some good ones. Mine was one of them. 

Ugh. I withheld my input for a day. I didn't want to vote. 

Still...

I rated myself along with the others. I gave reasons for every rating including the marks I gave myself. Let the cards fall where they would. I was going to advocate for my story and let others tell me I was wrong if I was.

To my surprise, my peers on the committee were saying yes to my story. 

I made the list of finalists. I had an interview with the selection chair. As of yesterday afternoon, I was in.

There were several times I could have bailed out. But I wanted to tell this story. Not just have the story be told. 

I said Yes to me. 

One of the barriers to own creative expression (any expression really) is the persistent belief that my voice doesn't belong. The reasons for this are many and varied. Every time I decide I want to be seen or heard, those voices telling me to STFU and sit down will be there. 

Recently, I coached someone who is working on a significant social good project. Her work is literally touching millions of people. She is tortured by the idea that her ego is running away with her. 

I asked her if her mission was important enough for her to bear the discomfort of those thoughts? 

For me, the decision to advocate for my story was the same. I had to be willing to be uncomfortable and even run the risk of looking like a self serving ass. 

I just really wanted to tell this story. Now I get to. 

Imagination

I'm reading a real paper and ink book. It's a collection of essays by Ursula K. Le Guin. Essays by one of the great science fiction (or just plain fiction) writers of our time. She is writing about her perspectives and life. It's a joy to read them.

The first one made me think of my own use of my imagination. Seriously, I take in a lot of information which does a lot for my curiosity. But my imagination (except for the anxious part) is under-exercised.

I spend far too much time in this world. The world of facts, data, and speculation. Speculation is a kind of imagination but it isn't the kind I feel separated from. No, speculation is all about how the world will turn out on certain trajectories. It doesn't do much for me except make me want to close the door and turn the lights low.

I miss writing fiction and painting from my mind's eye. It doesn't come easily. And that is because I'm certain my imagination is underfed and under exercised.

I think I'll play with it a little right now.

Liebchen, my dog, grew a pair of dragonfly wings this morning. I woke up to find her on my chest on the bed where she doesn't belong. I told her to jump down but instead she started to buzz loudly lifted off me and hovered in place. Her legs paddled in the air frantically until she plopped back onto me. The wings folded against her flank, originating near the joint where her front legs attach to her body.

The wings explained how she got up there. But they didn't explain her being out of her kennel. That was answered when MoMo jumped on the bed and started patting my face with a big beefy hand. He wanted to be fed.

I just rolled over. If he could open the dog's kennel, he could feed himself and the other cats.

This people is my imagination. I imagine a world where the cats feed themselves.

Full stop sort of, I'm just relaxing kind of

Now that Christmas has passed, I have been in a full stop mode. Well, somewhat. I still did a little post holiday shopping with Miss K and took a road trip with A to visit with someone we are collaborating with. But, more or less, I've been shirking the urge to do something productive and meaningful with my time.

Luckily I managed to catch the cold that is going around so I won't be taking anything new on today.

Ok, one thing. I made walnut milk.

Several months ago I did EverlyWell to figure out what things could be gunking up my system (the test measures for IgG reactivity which apparently can be responsible for a whole host of issues including fatigue, migraines indigestion, bloating etc etc etc).

However, after briefly scanning the results, I did nothing with them. But now, after a ton of holiday indulging, I thought it wasn't a horrible idea to take a look again.

The only thing I remembered from the list is that I'm highly sensitive to eggs (whites coming in as more sensitive than yolks). I don't eat many of them anyway. I could explain why I sometimes get nauseated eating them. I also don't eat many things with eggs as an ingredient outside the occasional baked good.

What else is there on the list?

Under "moderately reactive" I have 7 items that include usual pariahs such as soy, gluten, wheat, and barley, but also, honey (???), yogurt (again ???), and mozzarella cheese.

With the exception of barley and mozzarella, I eat these other things nearly daily (especially yogurt and honey which always seemed like a righteous breakfast choice). Annoying.

Still, I don't have celiac so even a reduction in wheat/gluten probably will have a beneficial effect without having to go crazy with obsessive label reading.

And then there are the "mildly reactive" items which have a blend of daily things and things I can take or leave. Milk is on the list--I don't usually drink milk but I do put half and half in my coffee. So is black pepper (I will not be eliminating that). So are almonds and peanuts.

I think I can work around these for the most part. 
Happily, there are far more things on the list that don't show up as reactive.

If I feel up to it, I'm going to make some non reactive butternut squash soup. Maybe.

Even though milk is supposed to be only mildly reactive (along with peanuts and almonds), and soy is supposedly an issue, I made a batch of walnut milk in my Vitamix to inaugurate my food sensitivity exploration.

Because, what is the point of experimenting with your food if you don't include some really weirdo substitute that isn't easy to find at your local coffee shop? Maybe this will be the new thing.

Walnut milk

1 cup raw walnut pieces

3 cups water

pinch of salt (I used the pink Himalayan kinds)

I suppose you can soak the walnuts overnight to start the process but I didn't. I put all ingredients in my Vitamix and blended starting at the low end of the dial and turning it gradually to 10 and let it go for about a minute. I then poured it through a fine strainer and re-blended it. The solids separated but came together with a good shake.

It blended with my coffee as easily as half and half.

Try it before the hipsters find out and we reach peak walnut milk.

A Merry Little Christmas with Mom

Once I wanted to write a graphic novel with the title "Damn Damn Christmas Ham". The story was going to be a retelling of the first year after my father passed away.

The title came from that first Christmas. It was Mom, my brother Mike, and me all staring at a huge ham at the kitchen table. I recall looking out the window at the total blackness of the early evening--it was gloomy and the lights in the kitchen were not enough to beat back the literal and figurative darkness of the day.

Fast forward 32 years. Here we are again. Mom, my brother Mike, Miss K, and me. There is the ham. Also, left over side dishes from my Mom's birthday festival. And some brussel sprouts that I totally overcooked. This time we were laughing and smiling. Not in a boisterous way. More in a "gee, how nice the holidays are wrapping up and look at this ham!"

I have to say, Miss K has done what no one else has ever been able to do. Make my Mom smile in spite of herself. Now Mom is ready for her and starts smiling in advance. Things are easier in this way.

Mom is not a believer--in Christmas or any of the reasons behind it (with the exception of Miss K, none of us are, really). Yet, I know Mom likes that I wander by on Christmas in the most casual way anyway. We are all introverts in this family. We do the get togethers, but they all cost us something. We all end up exhausted even if we are glad we came. This is why we prefer these low key, extremely low effort gatherings.

I looked out the window. The once dark, empty field now has a Bass Pros plopped on it. The darkness is gone--replaced with the light of the sign. I never thought I'd miss the cheerless dark but now that empty patch won't be filled with golden sky on summer evenings.

There is a sweetness in contrast--even harsh contrasts.

My Mom brought up a memory about camping in Patrick's Point and I started regaling Miss K with memories of going camping with Mom and Dad and staying in a canvas tent in Patrick's point--I don't remember being cold ever in that tent--only the crisp air when my little pajama clad feet stepped onto the moist earth. Mom would be frying bacon over a gas stove. It imprinted itself as a memory of the goodness of life.

I could see Mom smiling with each memory from that time.

Seeing Mom smile, makes me smile.

We both have so much resistance to the holidays. Its nice to break through that and be in the moment instead.

Mark Zuckerberg's lunch

My Christmas present from my nephew was a device that is supposed to help with sleep. It plays a variety of tonal patterns that influence your brainwaves. Also, it has a number of color schemes to either help you relax or bring about wakefulness.

I set it up right away. And while it still took a while for me to fall asleep I definitely enjoyed the upgrade in my dreams!

Last night's dream:

I was at work and Sheryl Sandberg came by my desk (she sat on the edge like she sat on the edge of the couch when we visited last spring). She was dressed in a snow white, full length coat as well as a white turtle neck and trousers.

She then "leaned in" said "I always read your blog".

Before I could reply she went on her way.

I was then whisked up to the upper level of the office building. It was all in white.

At the back of the office was something I couldn't make out at first. It was huge (floor to ceiling) and looked like the trigger on a fire extinguisher--but what it turned out to be was a special locking mechanism that was meant to keep two large plastic drawers closed--the drawers were way less substantial and looked like the kind of container you put wrapper paper in and then shove under the bed.

And what did these cheap ass draws contain that needed such a big lock?

Mark Zuckerberg's lunch.

I think I need to aim higher.

Sasha eats her mochi too loudly!

Dreams are 100% from inside the dreamer and represent all aspects of the dreamer.

Also, dreams told in detail are usually only interesting to the dreamer.

I'm going to bore you with two of mine anyway--because I can.

Dream the first.

Amy Farrah Fowler (Big Ban Theory) gave me a box of mochi as a present. I immediately gobbled them up!

As I licked my fingers I saw her looking in my direction saying that I ate mochi way too loudly. I don't think she expected me to hear her because there was a moment of silence and awkwardness.

Then AFF started telling me about all her many flaws while hiking up her skirt to show me a lot of shapely calf (I know that's a dream as it's something she wouldn't do in real life or on the show).

Dream the second.

Miss K and I have moved into a commune. It's not really supposed to be a commune but we have taken up residence there and there are lots of people also living there and seem only semi-interested in moving on.

She and I crawl into bed. While Miss K is peacefully sawing logs, I am offered a plate of hot wings that I tuck into enthusiastically. Off to the side is a very prim woman in glasses (not AFF but the vibe is there...she kind of reminds me from someone from work actually) who is aghast that I haven't taken a napkin (there were no napkins ok???). She says this just as I put my drippy hands down on the white coverlet. She then crawls under the covers next to Miss K(WTF?) and tries to tell me that it's fine but I can tell she's freaked out. I look around for a sponge to daub the linens but there are none to be found.

These are pretty much the same damn dream--getting messier and weirder as we go along. Who knows what will show up tonight--drinking pumpkin soup directly from a tureen while in the middle of a bridal shop? Spaghetti and meatballs with my bare hands in the Louvre?

I have an inner AFF who is disturbed at how messy I can be when I'm fully in the enjoyment of the moment, being myself. This inner AFF knows it's weird and contrary but there it is (also, there are not enough bulky sweater outfits to cover up those legs either girl).

In the meantime, the one thing I didn't feel was bad about chowing down on treats. In some area of my life I am raining on my own parade while giving a cover story about it being great about being who I am.

Incoherence all around!

I am a messy person in many ways. This is nothing new. Almost every self improvement kick I've gone on is tied to some sneaky "draw inside the lines" agenda that will make me look like I have my act together in one way or another.

Honestly, my act is really together...and it's a very messy act.

When I was a child I often pressed down with crayons to get deep colors. Can you imagine how shocked I was to see that some of my little friends drew neat borders around the figures they colored and then colored right up to the edge?

It was ridiculously easy to copy that but once I learned the trick it bored me. It was never as good as pressing the crayons down to get that deep, deep purple.

Ho ho ho headache

Forcing myself to write something everyday is making me look at my persistent thoughts. It's also making me look at what I want to exclude.

I woke up with a clanging headache. I tried to wash it away with a cup of tea but that promptly came up--since when does tea cause nausea?

Am I sick? Maybe. Or maybe I shouldn't combine hot chocolate with a hotdog and not have any other food for dinner.

Either way, I'm not operating at 100%.

We all went to see Last Jedi last night. A and Miss K both scrambled to get their last minute work requests done. I had the tickets. Despite the frenzy and the fact that the mall was full of shoppers, we found good parking and were seated even before the credits rolled.

I'm rolling into a week of time off. As mentioned before, my first blog was filled with complaining about work. Nothing new there so I'm moving along. I'm just happy to only have a task or two left before I can put this laptop away for a full week.

I took two Tylenol, a decongestant, and more black tea. No movement in my headache. I want to feel better so I can go to the store and buy some ingredients for my Mom's 94th birthday dinner. Honestly, now is the best time to do it AND the worst time because I feel like shit and don't want to face Whole Foods.

I'm going to do it anyway. If it's the most painful thing I do today, it will be over and I can just put a blanket over my head and pray for mercy from the headache gods.

Trapped Like an Animal

Puppers not trapped.

I'm at work and despite the fact that it's the shortest day of the year, the fact that everyone is checked out because of Holy Daze haze, the fact that secretly we'd all like to be somewhere else, I cannot find a room with a closed door to shut my eyes and meditate. So I'm writing in an open area.

Here is what happened last night.

My best beloved invited me to attend a dinner hosted by her colleague. I like this person and all the people Miss K works with. Still, the combination of close quarters, not being able to hear what was going on, and the pressure to talk about myself got to me. I have about two hours that I can do this gracefully and feel ok. However, by hour two, we had barely ordered dinner.

After eating a few fried appetizers, I became aware of how much I wanted real food. Real food wasn't coming as far as I could tell. My neighbor on the right started talking about his job and all of a sudden my heart started pounding loudly in my chest. I felt crushed from the inside. It was the same feeling I've had in the past when I badly wanted to run away but couldn't.

Miss K, utterly unaware of what is going on with me, squeezed my arm playfully and asked "having fun sweetheart?".

I looked helplessly at her and said "I'm having an anxiety attack".

She blanched for a moment and then said "ok, you need a break. Go over to the restroom. We can go anytime."

In the restroom I got in a stall. The toilet seat felt like ice. How can they run a restaurant and not turn the heat on when it's 40F outside?

I felt my heart. It pounded.

I tried to detach from the feeling. Looked at my phone. Tried breathing slowly. Just waited for the pounding to get less insistent, less dangerous feeling.

After several minutes, I went out and sat down again. The food arrived. It was ok. I still felt edgy but I could maintain.

I looked around at everyone at the table. These people liked each other and I liked them.

Still, I hated that I couldn't gracefully escape without being conspicuous. Ugh.

After dessert and what seemed like a very long time after, the party showed no sign of breaking up.

I had to tap out.

Miss K told our host we were fading. Instantly, the speech of appreciation was given, presents were distributed, we said our goodbyes, and we walked to the car.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I could see everyone else filing out of the restaurant.

Someone always has to be the one to give permission to the group it seems. Someone has to do something for everyone else to do anything.

Too much routine, regiment, requirements (even the good stuff), makes me want to scratch a hole in the walls of whatever perceived structure I'm feeling stifled by.

I will gleefully abandon anything for the refreshing feeling of escape. I need to know I can. It's how I feel like a human being and the best animal I can be.

Everyday really is something

I haven't updated this journal since 2015.

I'm starting it up again.

I started the Everyday Something blog with the intention of writing "something" everyday. I have a blog for my coaching business, but I realized I really missed the immediacy and rawness of this blog.

I don't have to make this blog mean anything or be significant--I just love to write about what I'm noticing.

A story I frequently tell is how I started blogging in 2006 on Livejournal. A few years after starting that blog I took it down. When I reviewed the output I was surprised to learn I had written over a thousand pages--mostly centering on the hatred of my job, my dissatisfaction with my body, and random crap.

Sound harsh? Maybe a little, but the majority of it was exactly that. Mind loops.

And that's just it. I get stuck in mind loops and a lot of it is complaining.

Here is something that isn't a complaint. It rained last night.

Stepping onto the back porch, I enjoyed the earthy smell of wet wood chips and fallen leaves. My brother turned 66 yesterday and my Mother will turn 94 on Saturday. Another Christmas and another New Year on the way.

Here is something else. I will always love drinking hot coffee first thing in the morning more than meditating.

Also, I love shattering productive habits so I can look at life with fresh eyes. Virtuous routines are the bowling pins I aim at when I need to have new thoughts.

I'm literally shirking other responsibilities to put these words down. And I love that.

Stage a Holiday Rebellion!

Today I'm going to share a story I'm calling "Sasha's First Holiday Rebellion".

Back in my 20s I was partnered with a woman who was both highly extroverted and loved the holiday season--to be honest we both did. We always had a decorated tree that we invited friends over to decorate with us. We went to parties, spent time with our families and generally enjoyed the colorful fun of the season.

But one year, all the visiting and spending time with others just burnt me out. After cooking two holiday dinners myself to entertain family and friends, my lovely partner volunteered me to cook for her cousins who were visiting her family. Don't get me wrong, these were lovely people AND I love to cook but I noticed that every I thought about it my entire body felt like I as wearing a lead suit. I just couldn't face another evening of cooking and socializing. I needed a break!

I chose to not go. I gave my partner a recipe card for my beef stew recipe and told her she could call me if she needed advice but I was going nowhere that evening. She wasn't happy about it and her family wondered "what's wrong with Sasha" but they got over it.

I don't remember exactly what I did with my evening but I believe it included putting my feet up and watching a movie. All I know is that when I think back on it my body relaxes a little and I breath a sigh of relief.

Just recently a good friend told me how she turned down a family plan to travel on Thanksgiving in favor of relaxing at home. This made me smile A LOT.

Sometimes the best thing you can give yourself is a vacation from the Holiday. There might be some resistance at first, but when people see you are serious about taking care of your own peace and well being, they often will follow your lead which will create a more peaceful season for everyone.

Thanksgiving -- have a serving of sanity

Hey Peeps, I sent this out to my mailing list and thought it was worth sharing more broadly. Just in case you are running hard trying to make everyone happy.

I love to cook and I especially love making Thanksgiving dinner. I love it so much that in the past I was quite willing to do my one woman act for my family like I was some kind of circus performer. Never mind I didn't get to actually visit with my family or really enjoy sitting down to dinner. I had a center stage position to maintain! Also, I didn't need any stinkin' help! I can DO IT ALL!

Right?

Do you find yourself in this position ever? Where you are just the center of some activity and loving the attention but just on the verge of collapse because if you admit in even the smallest way that the task is tiring you out (even with all the recognition) you will loose everyone's (love, respect, awe...).

Well, I found myself in that exact spot. After several years of creating unique menus that included things like chestnut soup shooters and gorgieres, multiple desserts and unique takes on traditional recipes I found myself burning out. I was just exhausted thinking about the menu. Never mind the cleaning, table decor etc.

(I just didn't want to disappoint anyone).

Only a couple years ago I took a risk and asked my sister to bring a pumpkin pie. The next year, I toned down the menu. This year, Keri is doing all the appetizers.

The weird thing is I don't think anyone is really noticing that these other elements aren't there. Or that I'm not doing everything. And perhaps my effort is appreciated even when I give up a little control.

What about you? Is there something you really dread that you possibly could risk farming out or just dropping all together?

Here is a tiny challenge. Find one thing that you think that you absolutely must do that you are dreading (it doesn't have to be around Thanksgiving or the holidays by the way) and DON'T DO IT. If it must be done, give it to someone else. If it's optional, drop it. See what happens.

Then take a nap.

Guns..what I think about the "debate"

We are on an upward trend of gun related violence and we are still arguing about the right to possess guns.

The argument always devolves into "good law abiding gun owner" clutching their pearls protesting "but I'm a good gun owner" and how they only shoot at targets and they have a right to defend their home and how they have a permit and how they obey the law and how blah blah blah THEY ARE GOOD PEOPLE NOT NUT-JOBS DAMMIT!!!

Despite the statistics stating that these good citizen gun owners are all for regulations (because those bad guys are gun manufactures or the NRA--not the people buying the guns or being influenced by the NRA), I have yet to see one gun owner getting up to offer any solution to gun violence if it in any way inconveniences their perceived rights to have a gun.

Because these good people aren't the problem, right? It's the crazy irresponsible people that are screwing up the party.

Why are we so fixated on owning guns anyway?

This is what I think.

The base impulse behind guns, no matter what story you tell yourself about heritage, family, good times, going hunting with your dad, your years as a scout (boy or girl), how safe and controlled you are...gun ownership is about being able to do a greater violence than you think can be visited upon you.

Guns have no alternate use. They are designed for killing (no really. I'll wait while you look that up).

In a zero sum mindset, superior firepower is a poor man's peace.

Our world moves fast and doesn't always feel safe.  It's not a big leap for a fragile person to use a gun to solve their feelings of angst, frustration or disenfranchisement.

(but, I'm a good person...a responsible person)

Oh boy, the spittle really starts to fly when talk about the right to "defend your home" begins.

In the story of the good responsible gun owner, shooting an intruder is the end of the story. The intruder is dead and the mini castle restored to peace. The good people win the evil intruder goes to jail (or is dead--you are supposed to shoot to kill in those instances, right?).

Rights as a good citizen fulfilled.

But the possibility of the dangerous outside coming in, taking your stuff and "getting you" never goes away. That looping film plays in the brain every time the good, responsible, recreational, "only protecting my home" gun owner hears or sees something that remotely triggers fear.

It's life on high alert with guns and ammo. Is that safety?

If you look at global statistics for countries with gun control the per capita rate for home break ins and gun related violence is far lower than here in the US.  This is well documented.

Then the conversation goes back to "our heritage, tradition, American values etc" and "why can't I have a gun? I'm a responsible blah blah blah".

Will we ever stop believing guns make us safer, freer (or more American)?

One thing is true for me. As I get ready to press Publish on this article, I know that it will likely upset some gun owners.

This fact doesn't make me feel very safe or free. We have that in common at least.

the blessing of twisting my knee--how I'm letting others care for me

Yesterday morning I managed to fall hard in my kitchen and twist my knee. As I tried to step over the dog gate, full coffee cup in hand, the very tip of my bunny slipper caught the top of the gate and sent me tripping forward. I attempted to catch myself--first on the kitchen table, then the counter top. The coffee in my cup went flying up and out--all over the counter and floor where my not yet stable foot was still in motion. It went sliding fast forward and up. I was air borne for a second. Some where in that, my knee twisted against its normal alignment.

I landed. There was a lot of noise from the dog gate falling over and me crashing heavily on the floor. And then shouting from Keri and our housemate--both rushing to see if I was ok.

For the first time that I can remember I couldn't spring up and say "I'm ok". Not even with false cheer. I wasn't sure which part of my body would allow that. My left shoulder was still giving me problems and my knee had a lot of sharp and unfamiliar pain. I just sat there until I worked out a plan for getting to my other knee (which was also banged up) and onto to my feet.

This was not how my day was supposed to go.

I had a day off planned for fun (a trip to the City for ramen, a tour of the Anchor Brewery and a trip to the public library there). Instead it was spent figuring out how to manage my quickly swelling joint.

A year ago I wrote about being laid up with some dreadful intestinal distress. The degree of chagrin and borderline shame of needing to be taken care of and sending Keri out to do "my" stuff was the beginning of a learning process that has been slow and uncomfortable for me (a self identified strong woman).

Since that event I've had many rich learnings on how to let someone else be in charge and to let others take care of me. I have been physically sidelined at least five times to the degree I was nearly fully dependent on others for my care (I say nearly because I could manage to bath and use the WC on my own--lessons I don't feel I need right now...please?).

The feeling of weird self consciousness in letting someone else do my chores is still there but at least I'm not protesting the kindness offered to me and am just saying yes to the help. I can still totally hear the little voice saying "no, it's ok, I'll take care of it, I've got this...blah blah blah".

And just what does that little voice think it's doing? My little voices are always protectors but many times misguided. Who am I after all if I am not doing all the things that normally fall to me? Not worthy? Not good enough? Weak? Lazy? Incompetent?

Strong women can handle a little discomfort, right?

(it's just a flesh wound)

So, for your enjoyment, my short list of things I let other people do instead of insisting on doing it myself.

I slept like a baby through this.

1. Let my snacks, drinks, towels, medications and icepacks be brought to me--it is literally 15 ft to the kitchen and I totally feel this is a little thing but instead I asked to have them brought to me. 
2. Let myself be driven around. I dislike being a passenger--it feels weird and I believe I'm a better driver than almost anyone (I hear the harrumphing, whatev, it's my blog). Still the stress of putting my foot on the gas and brake would not help my knee out at all so driving Miss Daisy it is. 
3. Let someone else do the chores for others that I signed up to do--such as hanging my acupuncturist's painting for her or installing my Mom's new internet connection. I really did think I was going to do those things up until I realized they were not so unique that they required my personal touch (also they were kindly taken out of my hands).  
4. Going for treatment early instead of toughing it out. I have a long history of refusing to see a doctor until I'm practically disabled. (now, I am aware that I actually AM disabled to a degree. However, there could be a whole lot more denial going on --I'm taking the win.)
5. Letting someone offer Reiki to me and accepting it. Seriously, I never ask for Reiki because I think I should be able to do my own Reiki. That I should be able to erase my own pain with my own unimpeachable energetic flow--yah, Spirit loves that kind of thinking.
6. Letting other people handle it in general.

I looked up what knees problems indicate in my Louse Hay book--pride, ego, inflexibility. The irony is not lost on me. While I don't believe my ego caused my knee problems I do find it rather entertaining that this is making me temporarily give up my hold on things.

I can accept help. I am no less strong for it. My knee will heal in it's own time.

In order to help other "strong women" avoid the same pitfalls I've had to navigate, I am planning a web class where I will share my learnings and experience as well as leave plenty of time to work with you on your own strong woman traps. Total freebie--mark your calendar for September 16th at 6PM. If you are interested, please leave a comment so I can send you a personal invite.

Strong woman, may you find the strength to ask for the the care you need before you become one of the walking (or not walking) wounded.

How I enraged 29 out of 30 readers

Back in my late twenties, in the throes of my dreadful, long time "writer's block" period I took a creative writing class to try to get some of my writing mojo back.

The objective of the class was actually to write a novella but all we were turning in was short stories.

It was like any other creative writing class--the first two lessons are about avoiding passive voice and a bunch of timed writing exercises. You then get to pass them around for feedback. Also, we were assigned homework--write short stories that could become that novella.

I liked the teacher. The advice he gave that stuck with me was how important it was to be kind when giving feedback. If you don't like something, it is really easy to say all kinds of unhelpful things. The flip side of course was to have a thick skin because receiving feedback was part of the program--your precious darling (story) was out there and there was a really good chance that people were not going to like it--not just the technical aspects of your prose but your story, your characters, your point in general.

So one evening I passed out the xeroxes of my story and braced myself for whatever was going to come from my peers (some of them wrote really well).

As the feedback came in some of my classmates pointed out things such as my use of passive voice but what really fascinated me was how much white hot hatred the room had for my main character and sympathy for the character that was her trigger. Name calling was involved (not towards me, just my character). I could see the bristling outrage--I somehow had tapped into some odd shared experiences and identities in the classroom.

Intriguing. I had no idea this would come back.

On the bottom of the pile was one person's feedback--he got my point. He understood my main character's dilemma and the conflicted feelings/thoughts she was having and the actions she ultimately took. Out of thrity pieces of feedback, my story stuck it's landing with one reader.

I got two gifts that evening. One, the experience of having my story land home. The other more trenchant experience was of touching a nerve with so many people. It felt amazing! As I gave my reaction to the feedback I said as much (the room looked puzzled and a little afraid).

I didn't return to class after that. What I told myself at the time was "these aren't my people". This might have been a mistake. I might never have made any friends or fans there, but I lost out on the delicious experience of provoking and disturbing people around me WITHOUT EVEN TRYING.

I don't write for bland acknowledgements. I'm also not on a mission to provoke or upset people. The only intentional thing I do when I write is try to tell the truth as I know it.

Writing from the gut, going for nuance, saying things that are hard to describe (even to myself) isn't going to win me a lot of fans-I only hope I reach someone who needs whatever it is I have to share. This kind of writing can be lonely because even when something hits home, I won't necessarily hear about it.

I review my blog periodically--I can see where I was trying too hard to make people happy or to reach a broader audience. Occasionally those articles get a bunch of reads. Just as occasionally the articles that are more personal and less apologetic catch attention and I get just as many reads.

Sometimes I try to reach one audience and alienate another audience.  Sometimes my writing isn't read at all.

Oh well.

I've been publishing less (still writing my share--just not pushing it all out). Contrary to what I'm told about keeping contact and staying in my audience's awareness, I only want to publish writing that is true. I can't do that if I am worried about "being on your mind". Also, I trust you more than that.

And in a world of seven billion people, one in thirty isn't a bad statistic.

Have a great week. May you provoke people in all the right ways.

It's been a year since Steve took his life

I have been dreading this week. I have been reliving memories of receiving the phone call from the coroner's office, breaking the news to my family and the dreadful slowness of sitting with searing pain.

My mother looks tiny these days--as if the year inserted a straw into her center and sipped at her life force every time Steve crossed her mind (and he crosses her mind all the time). She speaks of her own passing more than ever--what to do with her ashes and that she is sorry knowing it will fall to be and my sister to handle all the things in her house. I stay close, I listen, and I try to get her to at least use her walking stick (she really needs a walker).

Grief did strange things to me too. I wanted to be normal too fast. And while I was semi-conscious that I was efforting and braining my way through life, the caldron of my emotions bubbled under an unsteady lid ready to boil over. And when they boiled over, it wasn't just me who suffered the burns.

Grief set up little stations to catch my attention. She had a permanent position on Lawrence Exp. where I could see Steve's old apartment and the turn off I would take to pick him up for lunch at Mom's.

She was there at Mo's where I took Steve for breakfast on his last birthday.

She also clings most potently to a small container in my closet that contains the objects I collected from the coroner that Steve had in his pocket. The $40 in crisp $10 bills just feels so sad. That he didn't spend it. It looks like he had just got that money and $40 worth of living never made it out of him.

Throwing yourself into work is culturally seen as a brave thing to do to deal with grief. All the activity of the last year--my technology job, the book writing, taking on physical challenges, setting goals--none of it was therapeutic.

I thought my grief would just recede into background and normalcy would return. I honestly couldn't run fast enough to make that happen. Grief caught me when I stopped to take a breath.

I'm on a temporary moratorium on almost everything...challenges and goals be damned (for now).

I've been sharing this year along the way--partially because I want some company and partially because I want to slay any idea that grief is something that can be heroically (and neatly) endured and then bypassed. Parts of me died (and are dying) as I go through this. I'm still not done with this. I'm not the same woman I was 365 days ago.

One part that died what the compelling illusion that I could "save" anyone. No matter how may righteous seeming actions I might take, I cannot change a course someone else has chosen for them self. I don't regret any of the things I did to try to help Steven in his distress. What has been hard is knowing that there wasn't a magical blend of action that I could have chosen instead that would have "done the trick" by giving him a physical reality that would stand in for the emotional state he needed to stay in this world.

Grief will have her way with me--she has been having her way with me anyway. Only now I struggle less against her terrible tender hands.

on being "seen" part two

I've written a little about some of these topics before but it's my blog so I get to repeat myself as often as I like.

Part of the experience of being bullied is creating a defense system. Some people do it by becoming bullies--you can't get picked on if you are doing the picking. Some find other ways. Bottomline, as children, without the help of wiser people, you are going to come up with systems that don't cut it over time.

You will bring your old, deficient defenses with you into adult life completely unaware they are deficient. When situations arise that resonate with who you were at age 8 or 10, you will trot out your old remedies and defenses and find them strangely lacking.

My old remedy was to lean against my creative talents. As a child I was very productive and skillful when it came to art. I received lots of praise from adults and sometimes from my peers, so even though I was terrified of being chased home by gangs of angry girls or cruel boys on dirt bikes or accosted in the hallway by some skeevy kid with bad skin, I had art as a refuge.

My creativity held me up for a long time. At least it did until the time that I wanted to take my art into a bigger arena. I quickly discovered that there were people who wouldn't like my stuff. Also, that I wasn't as skilled as others.

It devastated me. I was completely unprepared for my coping mechanism to come up short.

My lack of awareness, finding out that I was vulnerable in the one area I thought I was bullet proof, caused me to run away.

My life existed in two parts--the part of me that got all my self worth from being good at something and the other part of me that was broken, denigrated and deeply hidden.

But I didn't know that I was operating like that. And out of that I created a life of shielding and avoidance.

For years I lived looking over my shoulder, watching for the people who would sense my vulnerability and rip me to shreds. It became harder and harder to share the things I was interested in because of excessive concern over criticism.

The list of things I said "no" to was ridiculously long. Teaching or any career where I would need to control a room or deal with unruliness was absolutely off the list of possibilities.

Instead of dealing with people, I developing skill after skill so there would always be something I could hold up to protect the broken bird living in my heart.

But because I could never be perfect in any of my pursuits, eventually those things became new ways for my broken bird to be rebroken.

I ran for years until I recognized I couldn't "skill" myself into safety.

Eventually, the broken bird must be seen for what she is to be healed.

And it is hard. Because with it comes acknowledging that someone else saw you as less than...a person ok to harm. And for me came the double shame of lacking the resilience to stand up to the rigors of a critical world and therefore never being able to take creative risks.

There is a word that comes to mind for someone lacks resilience and that can be harmed.  That word is "weak".

With such a mindset, it's a wonder that the broken bird can ever see the light of day.

As I've said before, I feel a certain safety in writing. As I imagine you, my readers, you are infinitely kind and empathetic. I imagine you've been there. That you have a broken bird too.

The illusion of that safety allows me to write and start the process of being seen. Of giving my broken bird heart light and oxygen.

In seeking and finding others to witness, to bring compassion, to hold space, to seen and be seen--by and by, the broken bird is healed.

The world is not a perfectly safe place. People will not love you automatically. They also will not universally embrace your brokenness.

There are plenty of scenarios in my daily life where I don't feel safe--but I don't avoid them anymore.

I'm more ok with not being perfectly defended--with being vulnerable. I don't need my list of accomplishments to protect me as much. I'm less perfect today than I have ever been.

But I have a better sense of where I can bring my broken bird out into the light. And I do.

In Praise of the Shy, the Quiet, the Introvert

The ones that don't want to fight
but who are endlessly engaged and powered
by our own bubbles

for we are the ones exhorted to "put ourselves out there"
and "be seen"
 in a world ravenous for entertainment and stimulation

we are not here as your puppet show
or random curiosity

like some undiscovered life form
remote from all sight
in some undiscovered rainforest

we don't want to be discovered
lest we be consumed

(you wonder that we even exist)

we will not be consigned to a museum
where we can live in the stasis of your gaze

deep space stars blaze and burn on
ignorant of the limits of your perception

My Mom--it's Mother's Day

I mention Mom from time to time in this blog but I've never really gone into her story. In some ways I think that telling my Mom's story will be one of the great works of my life because of the slice of history she inhabited.

I started to write a little of Mom's story today but it's way too much to go into in a blog post.

I wrote in my Mother's Day card how everything I have in my life could be linked back to something she either taught me, did for me or gave me and that I give thanks for her daily.

The Super Hero as a young woman.

She smiled at this and then out of the blue said "you know what you really owe your life too?"

"No"

"Victory."

If the Allied forces hadn't pushed back Nazi occupation, my Mother would never have met my Father (an American GI) while she waited in the snow for the streetcar that was supposed to take her to her job at the American hospital.

When Mom talks about her young life it sounds adventurous and dramatic--a series of clear, happy images interspersed with genuinely terrifying events. Now that I think of it, it reminds me a little of the story of Candide.

Despite the fact that she lived in such a turbulent, dangerous time under such threatening circumstances, she speaks of most of her life during the war with great fondness.

Honestly, I think it was far more difficult for Mom to be an Army wife in the United States with three kids than it was to deal with Nazis occupying her home town or being shipped off to Germany to do forced labor. But, she managed to do both.

And then I came along.

I don't think having another child at age 43 was what Mom had in mind. After years of my father being away in the service, moving multiple times and raising my siblings I think Mom would have enjoyed being in one place with my Dad retired from the service to enjoy something other than child rearing.

Victory wasn't my benefactor. My Mom's decision to marry my Dad and follow that path was my benefactor. And perhaps the fact that Mom couldn't return to Belarus (repatriated prisoners were being consigned to forced labor to rebuild ware destroyed Russia) was also my benefactor.

Those doors closed and forced another door open for Mom.

And through that door was a domestic life in a country she didn't understand and that didn't understand her.

The Super Hero, the author and brunch.

But she walked through anyway and picked up little infant me on the other side.

As I strive to understand Mom I start to see life a little through her lens. By comparison, I was raised with a ridiculous amount of privilege and access and security.

Here is the real question I'll leave you with. How do you look back on a life that includes being interrogated by Nazis and dodging gun fire and be able to focus primarily on fond, happy memories?

Answer that, and you have the key to a happy, free life.

So Mom, thanks for all the decisions you made that made me.

Thanks for being in the right place at the right time.

Thanks for believing in music lessons and education and books.

Thanks for letting me do my own thing but being clear about boundaries.

Thanks for letting me fail and figure it out on my own.

Thanks for supporting my eccentric pursuits.

Thanks for loving Keri.

Thanks for being so fiercely yourself.

Thanks Mom. Just thanks.

On being "seen"

I started this essay about being seen a week ago after attending a conference with my peers.

The one way I have tried to be "seen" in the world is through writing. By writing myself out I transform into a less dimensional person--I show what I can bear to be seen.

There is so much people don't get to see.

One thing they say about introverts is that we are energetically renewed by time alone and depleted by dealing with crowds (crowds for me start at about +5 people). Part of this energy depletion is caused by overstimulation (having to parse so much simultaneously) but I realize for me that a far larger part of that is defensiveness--not knowing who or what in a crowd is safe for me emotionally.

I'm still dealing with grief (oh that you say?). Yes, that.

When Sheryl Sandberg lost her husband on Friday night I wish I could have been there to say to her personally that she doesn't have to be strong or inspire anyone right now. With all her power and influence, she still needs the space to fall apart.

I wish that for her with all my strength. I wish it for myself as well.

I hate having people catch me in an unguarded moment experiencing my grief. I hate it with a white hot passion. But because it shows up uninvited I don't have a lot of choice around it. I just roll with it.

I hate having people see my real frustration with things that don't frustrate them. I usually keep those things to myself. When I don't however, I get to hear from people exercising their smart muscles about what a grump I am for letting little things bother me.

I hate having people see that there are so many areas in my life where I am incompetent. The unasked for advice and feedback masked as concern bugs the shit out of me.

I hate having people see my anger. I have it and I'm told I am wrong for having it--it makes people uncomfortable.

Because of these things I have over the decades of my life cultivated a broken self sufficiency--a kind of DIY lifestyle that covered my heart. I could go to my corner, deal with what is broken alone (much of my internal life is duct taped together), and stay silent on those things that disturb me--from the trivial to the global.

But that all started to crack apart when Steve took his life. I needed to be seen. I needed people to know how broken I was (am). I couldn't pretend that I could bear it all and be so strong. I was falling apart on many levels (I still am).

There is risk in showing that. People have opinions, draw conclusions, and project themselves--many times speaking with good intention and flawed execution.

The human compulsion to opine on and insert themselves into things both sensitive and deeply personal to another--part of their own desire to exist, to be seen--it's just out there.

But taking this risk of being seen is how we build a tribe. We show ourselves little by little and see who shows up with their hearing ears on and speaking mouth closed. The ones who see us--not their own reflection speaking back. These are the safe ones. The ones who can see the grief, the failure, the discontent, the disappointment, and even the anger. They are not battered or bothered by it. They don't need to fix it or advise it away. They have been there.

Because of it, I am finding my tribe--person by person. People who can sit in silence with me. People who offer presence and companionship. People who bring their whole selves and who can bear to be seen by me too.

I have a heightened appreciation for these people and seek them out.

Even as this first year of grief is passing, I find my feelings changing but not dulling or dimming. I need to feel all my feelings. I need people who can hold this space with me.

Apple Watch, body scans--what the hell????

I had a soul enriching retreat with an inspiring group of women this last weekend. A great deal was discussed that I'm still digesting. So, I'm not ready to share any of that just yet.

So, instead for your entertainment...

I'm taking a picture of taking a picture.

I got my Apple Watch. 

I freely admit that I'm addicted to do dads that measure "me". What I'm doing, how much energy I'm expending, all that. I use them all for a while and then find I dislike being measured all the time. 

But I still get them when they promise to get me closer to "truth". 

I want to believe I'm working harder than I am so I'm always looking for some ultimately accurate device that will show me for sure what I'm doing. 

Part of me doesn't really want to know but I can't let it go. 

The other part of me (the one that is high and mighty) likes to dryly point out that my ancestors didn't need to monitor their movements at all. That voice usually doesn't get the mic for very long--I do love gadgets.

And because I really want to know more about this "truth" I had a body scan done--I wanted to see the results of all my hard work with Precious. I just knew underneath my cushy exterior would be a rock solid core of muscle and dense bone. The scan was going to tell me all that.

How body scans work is that you lie down on a table and an X-Ray mounted on a track makes slow sweeps across your body to give you a read out of how much of you is bone, muscle and (of course) fat. Takes less than 10 minutes. 

The scan looks kind of like the figure on the right.

When I got my results back I discovered that if you put me in a jar and shook me real hard, I'd turn into butter. 

Also, I discovered that the human body flattens out to an alarming extent when horizontal. The scan produces a silhouette of a teeny tiny thin person (the green and blue representing the bone and muscle) surrounded by a humanoid ocean of red (adipose tissue). It's not a good look. 

Heck, it was downright disturbing to see! I had no idea about how my excess weight was settled on my body.

I shared the result of my scan with Miss Keri who immediately shot back that the scan was WRONG and that I'm BEAUTIFUL. 

(I love Miss Keri ALOT--if my beauty was the problem she would be correct)

What I didn't know about was how much my muscle mass I'd lost over the years. 

How different body composition looks from being a super active person in their twenties to someone who is in their late forties who only gets in some walks along with going to the gym a couple times a week.

Working out is good but what I'm doing is barely stemming the tide of nature. 

I intend to live a long time. Not sure what quality that will be if I have fat nestled around my internal organs. 

I let Precious in on the scan results. She responded by adding more weight and more intensity. 

It's going to be a bumpy ride.