History Class

Here in the quarantine world, amid a pandemic and racist public policy and the general malaise of a capitalist society, there is a strange increase in the amount of time. 

Well, sort of. I also have a 20 month old child, a fulltime, job, a family, a small garden, a body to nourish and exercise, and society to fix and many years of incomplete education to undo. 

Anyways, with this time, I've been doing a lot of reading. Mostly things about race and racism, since this is the prevalent issue of our time. Some scientific things, given the pandemic and all. But one thing I've been getting into is history. 

I am reading Lies My Teacher Told Me and it is BLOWING. MY. MIND. A lot of the basic premise I've picked up over the years - our "heroes" are mostly white men, those who have succeeded in the country they built for themselves, washed clean of any blemishes or criticisms, absent of most women, people of color, and other marginalized groups. History is written by those in power to support the narrative that keeps them in power. All that. This book interrogates high school history books for all that is left out, all the context not included, the nuance, and challenges us to ask questions of what we read - who wrote this? What was their point of view? Who was their audience? Where do they fit into our social structure? What do other authors have to say about this same topic? Does this match with my own experience with this particular issue? 

One of the things that struck me to today was a section about Helen Keller. Turns out that in addition to her being a heralded for becoming educated despite being blind and deaf, she was a staunch SOCIALIST. As she was looking for ways to help the blind community, she realized that the majority of blind people are from poorer, lower class communities - that disparities in safety at work, access to healthcare, etc., made people from these communities more likely to experience blindness. One's social status was predictive of their life experience. We never hear much about this (or anything, really) because that messes with the clean narrative of her as a survivor, spelling "water" with her hands. But what about the rest of her life? Interestingly, the moment that sticks with me is one that describes a march she did with suffragists. The march, which took place over a short distance, took six hours to complete, because counter protesters were there heckling and harassing. In fact, Helen Keller was so exhausted and disheartened during it, that she cancelled her speech. This harassment of the protesters actually resulted in some public outcry that helped garner more support for the right of women to vote. 

But my favorite part is that Helen Keller was too exhausted and disheartened to give her speech, and cancelled. This doesn't seem particularly "heroic," right? Aren't heroes supposed to power through adversity? Aren't we supposed to overlook our own needs for the needs of others? But no. She was tired. Overwhelmed. Probably angry and sad and scared and frustrated. And she cancelled the speech. And life went on. 

I think the reason so many of us excuse ourselves for our inaction is that our "heroes" are touted as being perfect. They don't get lazy. They don't cancel obligations. They don't get tired or lonely or pissed. Or if they do, it's very righteous. And so we say, "well, I wish I could do something about society. But I'm just me. And what we need is a real leader, someone who has been specifically gifted for this moment." And that's kind of crap. Our "heroes" were regular people. With lots of flaws. Real flaws. I like the musical "Hamilton" because it highlights strengths and weaknesses, devotion to a partner, infidelity, idealism, hubris. It's all there, just like it is in all of us. And in me. 

I get kind of caught up in my flaws and foibles. The big one being "Melanie got into a great doctoral program, won a fellowship to pay for it all. And then...crashed and burned." I dropped out after barely two quarters. There's a lot of context to this, of course - anxiety and depression brought on by working fulltime, family issues, the end and beginning of romantic relationships, people pleasing, racial angst, imposter syndrome. But what I cling to is the last part, the big failure part - the imposter syndrome that came true. I had a big opportunity and I failed, because I just couldn't hang. 

And Helen Keller's small moment of quitting something because it was too much in the moment gives me a little hope. Maybe I'm not done. Maybe I'm not defined by my failures. Or maybe I am, and that definition is one of perseverance and strength. Maybe I can be a hero, too. 

Things to remember when I'm freaking out

1.) the world benefits from a healthy you -- think of how much good you could so, how much suffering you could alleviate if you weren't trapped by a cycle of fear, anxiety, sadness

2.) This leads to the 2nd thing: It's not all about you. And it is. There's a whole big world out there and you are a part of it. You are connected to it. Nothing you are going through is unique to you - every feeling, every worry, every trial -- someone else has been through something similar. You aren't alone! You are one small part of an enormous story

3.)  The way out of anxiety and fear is connection to others. Love, relationship, and vulnerability are all worth it -- take a risk to bring these things into your life.

4.) Shine light on the dum da dum dumm DOOM. Look fear in the face, examine it, be curious about it. Things are always scarier in the abstract, and the only way the darkness is scary is if it remains darkness - face it.

5.) Gratitude. Focus on gratitude daily. Even if you don't feel like it in the moment, the net effect of regular practice will help you be more grateful and start to notice more and more things to be grateful for. It changes the way you perceive the world. Life is such a precious gift. What do you have to lose by savoring it?

Interrogate the stories you tell yourself

The little things.

Today, I bought a wedding dress.

It's one of those things that's supposed to make you happy, fill you with glee, make you giddy and joyous all over because - heck - you've made it! You hit the jackpot! Every girl's dream, right?

And it was a sweet moment, sure. I did feel some lift of excitement. There was smiling involved.

And yet.

Lately, post-anxiety attack and in the midst of some ongoing health issues, I've been feeling pretty beat up and bruised, and my usually buoyant spirit subdued. Everything makes me sad, hurts my heart, throws me into fear. It seems as though my sensors for all the sadness in the world are on high alert. As I walk past people and look into their eyes, I sense their pain, their sorrow. And this makes me more pain-filled and sorrowful.

Needless to say, I'm super  useful these days.

In the midst of all this sadness swelling, this hyper-awareness to all that ails the world, I feel a bit guilty for wanting to just be happy about the simple things. What does this pretty beading on my dress matter if people are in danger around the world? Why do I care what food will be served or what my hair will look like when my friends and neighbors are at risk of being deported, when so many are sad or lonely or hungry?

And yet.

This is not a particularly helpful disposition. The world can be a sad, hard place, if not for the efforts of the buoyant, the brave, the optimistic. I'm not much use to anyone if I'm wallowing all the time.

And it's a little insulting, right? When I'm serving meals at our church's community dinner, my heart hurts for the people coming in out of the cold, who are suffering from illness or addiction or who knows what else. But while compassion is certainly in order, pity is not. Wallowing and over-identifying and seeing only sadness and despair does not do justice to the incredible resilience and strength of people. It diminishes them, dehumanizes them, reduces them to their hard places. It refuses to tell the whole, complex story of a person, it glazes over their triumphs, their potential, their dignity.

I was recently reading something by Thich Nhat Hanh, and it said something to the effect of "see and experience enough of the world's suffering to increase your compassion, but don't take in so much that you become overwhelmed with despair." (I've totally butchered that). And I think there is some truth there. Empathy is helpful, in that it reminds us that other people have feelings. Our identification with the suffering of others compels us to action. This is a good thing. And yet too much identification with suffering incapacitates us. It fills us with fear and loathing and means that we are incapable of taking action.

This is me, lately.

I'm grateful for my own struggles over the last month, because I truly believe that it is teaching me. My pain reminds me that I'm vulnerable. I'm not perfect. I'm not indestructible. Pema Chodron said that compassion is not a relationship of the healer and the wounded, but rather a relationship between equals. Suffering is quieting my "savior syndrome." Nobody needs my saving any more than I do.

And yet.

There is something about the over identification with suffering that is troubling to me. I want to believe that there is good in the world. I want to remain hopeful.  I want, so deeply, to take joy in small things. In dogs and babies and weddings. In listening to music or growing a tomato or shaking my hips to a Beyonce song. I want to believe that there is purpose to these small joys, too. That I am allowed to be happy, sometimes. That I don't always have to be sad, just because sadness exists.

Because that's how they get ya, right? That's how they win. The people in power create a world of sadness and steal your joy. To which I say, emphatically...no. No! No to joy stealing. Joy is motivating. Love is motivating. Beautiful dresses are motivating. These small things are not everything, but they are something. In a world of materialism, certainly we rely on things too much for our happiness. And yet just because materialism exists and can be destructive, doesn't mean that there is anything wrong with taking the occasional joy in the things of this earth. Right?

And so that's my prayer. To find some joy. To be happy when I see something silly. To relish in feeling beautiful once in awhile. To smile at small things. And in doing so, to find deep meaning and motivation to keep going, to keep trying, to keep acting. Because truly, for all those suffering in the world, all I wish for them is the same thing I wish for myself: the ability to love and be loved. To rejoice at small things. To feel the sun on their faces and smile with the heartbeat of the universe.

Love and hugs to all. 

Raindrops Redeux


Well, it happened. Long story short, on the evening of my 33rd birthday, I had what the doctor in the ER said was a panic attack. I won't go into the details of the sordid event, but let's just say, it's left me shaken.

I knew this was coming, I suppose. I've been tired for a long time, tired and a bit melancholy, my heart of love a dull beat under exhaustion and busyness and my incessant people pleasing.  I spent a lot of time pleasing people other than myself, saying yes when I should have said no, backing down when I could have stood up, squashing and squinching and pushing aside the still small voice inside of me.

Now much of this came from a good place. I love people, and I also hate perpetuating harm. So sometimes, when I disagreed with someone, rather than start a fight, I would try to see if from their perspective, try to listen, try to be open minded. The trouble is, sometimes I'm  so open to the minds of others that I forget another important mind and opinion: my own. Sometimes I get so lost in absorbing the hurts and fears and anger of others, diffusing it, forgiving it, trying to contain it, that I lose myself.

And that's not ok, right? If I believe (and I truly believe) that each person is sacred, that each person should be heard, that each person is uniquely loved and loveable, and at the same time, integral to the health of all humanity, then I need to extend that same belief to this guy (two  thumbs, pointing at me).

And yet this is a harder pill to swallow.

Sometimes, I reject the whole "self love, self compassion" thing. There is a part of me that believes it is selfishness, that in order to truly love  others, we must put down our own lives for them.

And yet, there is selfishness built into this rejection of self compassion. The truth is, some people on this planet love me. They love me dearly and deeply, and my pain does not serve them. It hurts them. They would want nothing more than to see me healthy and happy and thriving, with my voice in full, maybe even getting mad every now and again, if it meant my voice was being heard. I know this because I feel this way about all  the people I love. I think about my nieces.  Do I want them to become small, self-loathing people? People who do and say what others think is best, simply for the "benefit" of the other?

HELL. TO. THE. NO.

This is my nightmare, that these sweet babies would be anything other than their fully expressed and wonderful selves.

So back to me. 

What good does it do the world if I shrink? Nothing. I am here for a purpose. I don't always know what that purpose is, but I know I was made for something. My health is integral to the health of all humans.

I think of it like this: if the human family is a body, then all parts are important. The health of each single cell is important. If I'm  sick, I make the cell-buddies next to me sick, too. If I heal, my healing impacts and heals those around me. So as I heal, you heal. As you heal, I heal. Like it or not, we're in this together.

So I think this is my battle today and probably forever. I can't give up.  I need to heal. And I need to do so both gently and fiercely. Gently, I hold my tiny infant girl self. I hold her and I love her and I tell her she is loved and safe and wanted. Fiercely, I hold that same girl, and I help her get up when it's hard. I help her get out of bed when it isn't easy, to face the world and not hide in shame.

And frankly, I can't do this alone.

A little while ago, I asked God/the universe: hey. So, if you're out there and if you have a purpose for me....would you please let me know?

Of course, I expected a gentle voice. A quiet wind. A warm and happy feeling in my heart.

And instead I got this: panic. Existential anguish. A real and true fire in the belly and spirit.

God is telling me something, so I'm trying to listen.

And I'm trying to do it both gently and fiercely. Because ultimately, this call comes from love. It comes as a reminder. I cannot continue to live as I was living, with life as a blur, with my voice silenced and sad. That is not what I was made for. And it took a big shift, a big moment, to knock me out of it.

So  in this time, community, I ask for your help. For your support. For your wisdom. For your love. For your patience, grace and prayers. I am so grateful for each and every one of you.

Raindrops keep fallin'

Tonight I went to G’s house for dinner. Warm food, kind conversation. I love her house. G is understanding and empathetic, having endured a painful breakup several years ago herself, from the father of her children. In some ways, it was comforting. She has confirmed it: I am not insane! The crying, the stomachaches, the mind-carousel of thoughts, the crying over Norwegian goat cheese in the grocery store—these feelings, these physical manifestations of heartbreak are normal, expected parts of the healing process. And even better?  They are time limited. Eventually, as G and so many others have proven, we humans establish equilibrium. Although I may never look at goat cheese the same. 

On the other hand, it was painful to be out of my cave,  enjoying time with others, seeing a person on the other side of pain. Lately, when people talk, I struggle to comprehend. My face is pointed in the right direction.  My mouth smiles.  I laugh—…ha, ha, haaaa!!-. Perhaps an imperceptible beat too late, but still fairly convincing. But in my mind? I am thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. What should I have done differently? What have I done? What can I do to fix this? What will the coming months be like, looking at the Autumn leaves alone? What could I…woulda, shoulda, coulda…I can fix this, right? No, I need to let it go. Why won’t he call? And when will this person stop talking so I can escape to my car to cry?

 

After leaving Gaby’s (how long was I there? I have no idea) I park and walk to my apartment. The rain has stopped and I breathe in the delightful scent, so clean and new, so full of memories…damnit. An exquisite sadness twists at my heart. The lonely feeling again. Like an adult-sized version of the homesickness I used to feel at summer camp, like everything familiar is out of reach. And everything familiar is so much better than what I’m experiencing now. The unfamiliar. Nothing will ever compare. Noth. Ing. 

Look, Lady. I think to myself, trying to be stern. The glorious scent after rain? It’s glorious because it is. Yes, it reminds you of him. Yes, so many of your tender, happy memories are swept up in the scent of this rain. But even without him…doesn’t it smell ok? It wasn’t your relationship that made it smell sweet. It was the flowers, and the grass, the clean air. 

I try to think of another time I’ve enjoyed the rain. 

I am 8 years old and Mom and Dad say they will buy me a toy. With wide eyes, I look and look, wandering up the aisles, pushing my glasses up my nose, wringing my hands, filled with indecision. Dad suggests a stuffed squirrel. Cute. I think. But not what I want. Should I choose it so Dad will be happy? Will he be disappointed if I choose something else? Will it hurt his feelings?  Guilt squirms in my tummy. I’m such a worried kid! No…I calm down. He won’t mind. He said choose anything I want. So I continue to look until I see her—a doll! A baby doll that smells like baby powder. I put my nose up to her and breathe in her sweetness. I admire her delicate blue dress. This is it. My baby. Mom nods in approval. Dad pays for her and it’s raining as we walk side by side to the car. As Dad drives, I hold my baby and watch drops trickle down the windshield, the windows. It’s gray and wet outside and inside, I feel a little sad. I’m not sure why. I’m just that kind of kid! Maybe I wish I picked the squirrel? Maybe I’m feeling excited and worried about it being over too soon? I look down at my doll. I remember to be happy again. Dad smiles at me in the rear view mirror, and I feel safe. 

The same mixture of emotions, the same worry about pleasing others, the same existential crisis. God, what kind of kid was I?? What kind of kid worries about the impermanence of things?? The kind of kid that turns into a serious, dreary adult! 

Or you know what? Maybe I’m coating my memories with the colors of my current misery. I probably went home that night, watched TGIF with my siblings, ate a Kids Cuisine, and stayed up late to play with my doll. Even as a melancholy-prone person, I still know how to have a good time. 

Ack! -Your life is not over, Melbot. The rain still falls, the sun still rises. Your life will be filled with sadness, but it will also be defined by joy, forgiveness, and light-- if you let it. The rain keeps falling no matter who you know, who you love, and who loves you back. It keeps falling and it keeps smelling clean and fresh and sweet. You are going to be ok. You both are. 

Now check out this awesome video.