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.

Cave Dweller

This past month has been a lonely one. To make a long (and personal) story, short (and impersonal), I did something that very much hurt someone I love. It's been a little over a month, and I am reeling from the aftermath, struggling with self worth, and attempting to put the pieces back together.

It's been a lonely journey. When you are the victim, you feel justified in seeking help and friendship. But when you are the offender, the fiendish orchestrator of your own woes, reaching out feels like permissive bullshit. Why should anyone feel bad for me? Why should I receive love and care? I deserve every ounce of pain that I feel.

Plus, it's shameful. The shock of possible rejection in my diminished state feels like too much. I already feel bad about myself. Why open up so people can make me feel worse? So I turn inward. I know there's a certain selfishness in this act. Darkness is what led to bad decisions, and dwelling in darkness is certainly not the way out.

Earlier this week, I was sitting at Greenlake when a friend called. Crying and overwhelmed, she said that she felt she would take a risk and reach out, hoping I was a safe place to land. This friend, by the way, has been one who has listened and supported me throughout this whole ordeal. I didn't know her well at the time, but I had taken a risk in reaching out, and now she was doing the same.

Something strange happened when I heard her voice. I was immediately knocked out of my insular funk. I tend to get tunnel vision, thinking only of the primacy of my problems, dwelling on their ultimate importance. But hearing the suffering of a friend, I snapped to attention. I'm not the only one in pain.

 As I gathered my things and walked to the car, I moved with more purpose than I had in over a month. Even shopping for groceries had more meaning--I prayed that the food would nourish us, both body and soul. Later, as I hugged my friend, entered her home, sat at her table, I felt welcomed--not just into her life, but into the human family.

Pema Chodron writes,

"In cultivating compassion, we draw from the wholeness of our being--our suffering, our empathy, as well as our cruelty and terror. It has to be this way. Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity."

Boy, do I know my own darkness. I have spent the last weeks indulging it, swimming in it, letting it own me. Like many, I always considered myself to be a "good" person. Realizing that I have the capacity to wound and hide and wound again was frightening. But even in darkness, there are odd lessons to be learned. Coming into such intimate contact with my own terror has opened me to misery, yes,but also to a new and generous compassion. I can sit with a friend in her moments of despair as an equal, a partner, and a fellow seeker. Both of us are the wounder and the wounded. And because of this, mutual healing can occur.

Sitting across the table, looking into her face, I felt a peace I haven't felt in much too long. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe I'm not only defined by the darkness I sometimes fall into. Maybe there is room for both, for the darkness and the light, for the terror and the love. Maybe I am just me. Maybe you are just you. Maybe that's what it means to be human. 

I left that evening without all my problems solved. They weren't in tight boxes, ready to be packaged and tucked neatly away. They were still spilling over, messy and unforgettable. In fact, the next day brought more pain, deeper sadness, more acute loneliness. But there was a balm on my heart. The feeling I was not alone, that all around, human beings suffer and love and cry and rejoice in tandem. And I felt hope. Not hope like a thrilling expectation, like things are going to be great, swiftly and suddenly. But instead, hope felt like a gentle tug, a patient endurance. I'm going to keep going. It's not only me who soldiers on, but everyone. I'm not in this alone. We're in this together. 

Peace be with you!

I rise.

Truth time: I've had writers block for three, maybe four years. Maybe even five. When was the last time I wrote something fantastic? Something I dreamt about and awoke in the middle of the night, jotting in a blurry fever? It happens on rare and inspired occasion, but, sadly, "rare" is the focal word.

I remember in college, walking along the ship canal on the way to Fremont, writing in my head about rivers swelling into monster heads, gaping mouth ready to swallow me into darkness. I loved to write then, the burning in my busom a constant warmth. But I was also lonely then, and sad.

Jen, my roommate, had a lot of friends in college. The kind of friends who had bonfires on the beach at Golden Gardens, who snuck champagne into the dorms and took camping trips on Labor Day weekend. I, on the other hand, had boyfriends. One at a time, of course. It's not that I'm needy or that I even particularly like romance (in fact, I dislike it, but that's another issue). Moreso, I am a "best friend" kind of gal. In elementary school, I always had one friend, one great friend, who was with me all the time. The same went for college, except that in college, girls were more interested in dating boys and having tons to girlfriends to be my bestie. Jen was a friend from elementary school, and while we loved each other dearly, college meant the natural growing apart from our childhood selves. So in lieu of a best friend scenario, I chose boyfriends.

Having a boyfriend was a new thing for me--I didn't really date in high school, and I definitely wasn't one of those kids who "dated" in the fifth grade. But in my desperation for a daily buddy, my boyfriends sufficed in the best friend role. And it was a good thing. I'm still fond of the people I dated.

All this to say, I was pretty lonely in college, but my loneliness fueled creativity and creativity somehow gave way to a subtle pleasure. I loved writing. I love the idea of creating something out of nothing, of leaving something behind, of imprinting your thoughts into something tangible, readable.

This kind of sad, melancholy-driven artisanship, is not sustainable, however, and after I graduated, I found my own group of bonfire friends. And as I grew happier, and as I glowed in the light of new adventures, I began to fear writing.

It's a chicken or the egg situation with me and writing. Does the "sad" come first, or the writing? Or does the writing induce the sad? For years, I didn't want to find out. I was happy being happy, and I didn't need writing bringing me down, emo-ing me up, and bringing darkness into my new-found light.

But this kind of light--the light of experience and newness and novelty--is also not sustainable. And over time, my heart has felt the gap where writing used to be, the deep-dark glow of the long-sad nights of laying it all out on paper. And once again, I grew lonely. And once again, I wanted to write.

Writer's block, however, is a bitch. And the pressure of writing, just like the pressure of trying to recapture some past and sacred emotion--like romance--is heavy and impossible. How can I get back to that place of blissful writing sadness, that pandora's box of weird emotion and creative energy? Do I have to get all "thinky" again? Do I have to tap into my inner goth-child, my tired angsty teenager? Or is there a new fountain of creativity--an adult kind, a confident kind, a kind of creativity that is compatible with the woman I have become. A creativity that recognizes my growth, my healthy passion, my fear and persistence?

I hope so. Because I miss this. And wan, lonely me from college yesteryear needs to meet the woman she will become, just as much as who I am today must reconnect with her roots, find her glasses, and get her nerd on.

I like to think there's a happy medium.

Whirlwindenstein

This has been the wackiest year.

I started grad school. I became a social work intern at a non-profit here in town. I watched Boys Don't Cry (and cried) I learned what "gender identity" really means. I became a teacher and a student and a new friend. I started training for a half marathon and I ran 14 miles for fun. I, the ever shy flower, sang a LOT of karaoke. I reconnected with old friends. I lost touch. I regained focus. I ate Ramen and salad and felt sunny and sad and every gradation in between.

And let's face it. Everybody in my life is facing crisis. Divorce, death, illness--you name it, someone I know is going through it.

And (surprise), it all has me a'thinkin'.

How do I want to spend my life? Like so many quarters and endless vending machines, I am faced with this quandry: time well spent, is spent...where? How? And with whom?

I used to be the kind of gal who hoped to meet one guy, marry one guy, and that was that. Any additional relationships would sully my innocence and take away from the magic. But now I'm not so sure. Can I, at 26, really know what I want? Will want? Or is that just my Generation-"Y"-ness talking? You know...the part of me that was raised in a quick-fix/internet/tv-on-dvd world and can't stand the thought of doing the same thing for 20 minutes--let alone a lifetime. At the same time, I am goal-oriented by nature (perhaps to a fault), and the thought of wasting my time with someone who is going to be a mere memory in who-knows-when isn't that appealing either.

On the other hand, I can't stand to think of anyone as a waste of my time.

On the other hand, I can't stomach being with someone who is biding their time until the next best thing comes along. Which is, historically, how I end up feeling when I make the mistake of over-thinking (which, historically, I always do).

I am the next best thing, damnit.

And yes, I am dwelling too much on the past. As much as I don't like to admit it, my past relationships have taken their toll on me...and here I am again, late at night, rememory...izing.

Memory is an odd thing, the way it lopes and shifts and splits apart with the telling. Memory in my head is entirely different from memory spoken aloud, and still even more different from memory written down. When I write a memory, I alter it indefinitely--it is no longer the innocent memory of old. It is reshaped, formatted by that all-knowing entity called retrospect.
Hindsight is 20/20.
Take relationships for example. At the time, mine all seemed good and well, lovely even. Eventually though, these relationships faded, became marred by cynicism, by the simplest things--a misplaced word, a misread look--any combination of things that signalled the inevitable beginning of the end, tiny infractions that converted the "what could have beens" into the "what never was". Goodbye. Farewell. Nice knowing you. All that work for nothing.
It is odd the transition from seeing a person every day to never seeing them, to move from sharing everything to sharing nothing.

Frankly, it has left me a little disillusioned.

And yet not, in retrospect, I can see that mistakes that were made. I can reread the misread tone. I can reinterpret the "he said, she said". If love is blind, retrospect has x-ray vision. I can safely say that most things I did to end my relationships I would never have done again...in retrospect. I can see my mistakes and mentally I can repair them, reposition my relationships, gather the fragments, and put them back together again. Hypothetically.

But what does that mean? The hard truth is I can't go back. And if I could, would I? Would I want to come back with the proverbial "knowledge of good and evil"? Wouldn't that ruin the innocence of my memories, sour my experiences by intellectualizing them?

Because really, there is something to be said for mistakes. For taking chances and failing. Sorely. For realizing through experience that you were wrong, you can be an asshole, and that not everything you say gets interpreted how you intended it. Maybe it all happened for a reason. Maybe you needed to learn a lesson. Maybe you needed to fail.
Maybe some things were just not meant to be.

Or were they?

What do I do with the things of my past? The people of my past? The feelings of my past? It seems odd to be able to discard human emotion so quickly, as though it were nothing, is nothing. Became nothing? How can emotion evaporate completely? Or can it? Is it always a part of you somehow?

I apologize for this infuriatingly sparse and random piece of writing. Lately, I have been increasingly lost in thought, caught within the cyclical maze of memory and rememory, of past and present. I am where I am supposed to be. I know that, and that should be good enough. But as wonderful as the present may be, I cannot seem to escape the sneaking suspicion that the past has never quite left me, that it is always skulking somewhere along the periphery of my psyche, waiting for its second chance to shine.

And really? Where do emotions go when they die? Do they die? Or are they just reinvested into something else? The big question is, how divorced are we from our pasts? Can we ever truly move on, or are our past always a part of us?

I think so. In a noncreepy way. I think our pasts help create our present, that our mistakes and triumphs help mold us into who we are today. We can transform, but we can never discard the elements that compose us. Once we experience something or someone, it becomes a part of us forever. In a noncreepy way. We can change and mold and adapt, but we are who we are.

...We are who we are who we are.

Running, dying, and everything in between

I haven't written for awhile, and I have some excuses.

One is that I got depressed. I interviewed for and subsequently failed to get a writing-related job-of-my-dreams. This failure, punctuated by two months of unemployment and living off savings, led to many days spent eating Top Ramen and contemplating my existence. My caloric consumption and mental gymnastics made writing much less appealing than sleep.

The other excuse is that my dog died. No, not Hondo, but Chopstick, my dear pug of 13 years. In what can now go on record as the Worst Day of my Life, Chopstick went from a happy-go-lucky, snorting mass of food-begging happiness to a stiff, seizure stricken old dog, and finally to a soft, lifeless lump of fur lying on a sad carpet in the vet's office.

I wasn't really prepared for how awful the death of a pet could be, nor was I ready to be faced with the notion that it was my fault--we had her put to sleep. Grief, accompanying guilt (for having killed my dog) and shame (for being so sad about a dog), caused me to once again refuse to write. In addition, I felt like I needed to write something epic commemorating the life of my dog. Of course, never having been much of a clutch player, I cracked under pressure and instead of writing, resumed my life of Ramen consumption, minus the contemplation plus reality t.v.

And now, a couple of months later, I find myself not only employed but also registered for grad school in the fall. The thought of Ramen makes me want to vomit and reality television has somehow lost it's appeal (who knew...?). I am also running again, which takes up a lot of my time. I think it's safe to say I am sane again, at least for the time being, which means it's only proper to resume the writing life (hopefully Hondo will be up for a blog or two now and then as well...did I say I was sane?).

So yay for me. I'm back.

Best of the Best

Best of the Best was a favorite movie when we were growing up, my brother, sister, and I carefully watching all the karate moves until we could mimic them perfectly.

The plot of the movie is pretty simple. Ponytailed Main Guy is a martial artist who doesn't want to fight anymore. That is, until his kid brother is brutally beaten and killed in a match with Guy with a Chip on His Shoulder. Main Guy plots revenge and joins the U.S. team in hopes of meeting Chipped Shoulder and settling the score once and for all. All the while, he and his teammates are journey to see who truly is Best of the Best, in the tournament and in real life.

The movie culminates in the last fight of the tournament, where Main Guy squares off against Chipped Shoulder. As Main Guy is busy pummeling Chipped Shoulder, he spots Chipped Shoulder's younger brother. Nothing more than a teenager, the boy looks on helplessly as Chipped Shoulder, obviously his hero, is walloped to near-death by a guy with a ponytail (Main Guy). As Main Guy readies himself to deal the final, deadly blow that will end it all and prove him the best fighter around, he hesitates. He can't do it! He can't take another guy's brother away. I mean, after all, he of all people knows what that's like. His integrity has saved Chipped Shoulder, but lost Team U.S.A. and himself the title.

After the match, Team Korea somberly accepts their medals while team U.S.A. stands proudly by. But wait! There is some movement in the lineup of Team Korea. Team U.S.A. looks up in surprise as Chipped Shoulder makes his way over to Main Guy. Chipped shoulder walks with a crutch, his eye purple and sealed shut, dried blood crusted in the corners of his face. When he reaches Main Guy, Chipped Shoulder, with great struggle, removes his own medal and places it ceremonially over Main Guy's head. You can see that Chipped Shoulder is getting emotional. He raises his hand and places it on Main Guy's shoulder saying in accented English, I am sorry for what I have done. Please accept me as your brother. Wowza! Right to the heart, Chipped Shoulder. Upon seeing this great gesture, the remaining members of Team Korea approach, placing their own medals on Team U.S.A.

Moral of the story: integrity and good character win out over evil. Thus, the title of the movie Best of the Best is really a double entendre, in which the "best of the best" could be the people who win the medals. Or, more poignantly, the "best of the best" are the people with the greatest character. I love martial arts movies from the 80's!

So in the end, what can we learn from this harrowing, albeit cheesy and formulaic, archetype of classic 80's martial arts cinematography?

Well, it got me thinking. In a way, my own personal Martial Arts Tournament of Life, [aka My Job Hunt aka Search for Life's Meaning] is a test similar to that of the ponytailed Main Guy. Much like Main Guy labored to perfect his skill as a fighter, over the last three years, I've put my heart into achieving my career goals But putting effort into anything begs the question why?

Why train for any sport? Or, in my case, why look for a job? What's its purpose? Well, certainly a job provides money. It provides a level of security. But other things do that, too. The lottery, for one. The Mafia. Even a good Sugar Daddy will do the trick. So why a job?

My theory is that we work because, among other things, it gives us purpose. And I think our purpose on earth is to become better people--stronger, more willing to forgive, more apt to help, more inclined to do the right thing even when it's difficult. And a job, any job really, helps us do just that. It is a thing that requires our time, concentration, and effort. And those things required by a job in and of themselves demand that we go beyond our natural inclinations, that we strengthen and stretch and challenge ourselves.

So I realize that I've been going about this all wrong. I've been looking for a job so that I can make money and not feel like such a loser. But if the purpose of a job is to build character, then what is stopping me from building my character right now, exactly where I'm at? To me, this is revolutionary.

And trust me, there is nothing more character building than rejection. Sure, it's easy to be a swell person when things are going your way. When you have a job, when people like you, when your brother was not killed by a man with a chip on his shoulder--it's easy to be friendly and kind and treat others with respect. But the truth is that most of the time, for most of us, things aren't going to go right. You won't get that job, someone somewhere will dislike you, and some metaphorical chipped shouldered person will always be out to get you. Bad things will happen, and that's just the way it is.

A person of character is someone who displays grace despite it all. Who is thankful when they have a lot and thankful when they have little. A person of character knows how to be content when things are good and when things aren't so good. And this is the kind of person I want to be, job or no job. And I am thankful for this time of testing and even thankful for all the rejection. The trials and struggles of life are ultimately what make us stronger and, in the long run, the challenges we face and overcome are what make life worth living. Like gold is refined in the fire, so our character is made better through adversity.

So at the end of the day, I don't want to be the kind of person who runs and hides from a little defeat. A wise man once said to me that nothing worthwhile is ever easy--and as the tag line from Best of the Best so eloquently states, There's a kind of inner strength you never know you have...until it's ALL you have.

Bring on the next round of unemployment! I'm ready for it.

Gym-Bob

As a 100-somethingish pound girl in her 20's, it's always a little intimidating walking into a gym full of thick-necked beefmonkeys doing squats and assaulting poor tires with sledgehammers in homage to the Cross Fit gods. But, in the name of fitness and the dream of rock-hard abs (HA!), I (bench)press on. Pun intended.

My usual strategy of wearing what I call a "man deflector"--a thin metal band, purchased in bulk from Walmart and vaguely resembling a wedding ring, has been hit and miss to say the least. So to the deflection package, I have added the ensemble cast of headphones, baggy clothes, and stern expression.

However, over the weekend I worked out with my friend, so instead of headphones, we chatted and laughed, as one would expect to do when working out with your best friend of over 15 years. Unfortunately, our lack of headphones and other man-deflecting accessories made us prime targets for the hungry monkeys to come impose their beefiest of wisdom upon us. "Uh, you know ladies," says the pencil-legged, potbellied gent with the bandanna, "the moves you are doing...are those from Cross Fit? Because I...[hee haw, hee haw, insert some sort of monkey verbiage...]" For gods sake, beefmonkeys--leave us be! But of course, being the nice ladies that we are, we smiled and nodded, until he finally left us to our business of performing squats with the 25lb bar.

A few sets later, and a Graying Soul Patch Monkey approaches us. "Yo", he rubs his nose with his thumb and glances around conspiratorially. "Yo ladies, what did that guy say to you?" Referring of course to Senor Bandanna. "I only ask because he is always giving advice, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Now, I don't want to bug you, but when you are doing squats [hee haw...I was studying sports medicine in '82...hee hawwwwww....]" Again, we smile and nod, until we make our escape to a small stretching room adjacent to the weight room. Surely we are safe here!!

Not so the wicked. "Hey, hey ladies?" Soul Patch. "I don't mean to bug you, but...[rah rah, sis-boom-monkey-speak for 5 minutes]..."

And sure enough, two minutes later. "Excuse me, can I...[woooooooonkaaaaaaaaaaahh...]" Soul Patch. Again!

GOOD GOD.

Needless to say, we left the gym that day with a wealth of knowledge on some sort of ancient monkey ritual. But more importantly, we left with a keen desire to hone our skills of man deflection. I am thinking of adding some sort of nun habit to my deflecting arsenal. Or perhaps purchasing some sort of...man suit. At any rate, let this be a lesson to all you beefcakes out there: if I don't ask for help, I don't want it. And if you ask me if I want help? Yes definitely means no.

Peace out (B-town)

Golden Oldies.

Ay Dios Mio

Sheesh. This is certainly an odd week.

It sounds cold hearted to say, so please don't misread me...its not as though I am immune to death. I am sad, listless and almost without hope, but still...odd.

Death is odd.

When thinking about the short span of human life, the all-important blip appearing somewhere within the vast expanse of time, all I can really come up with is...odd. Odd that I am a thinking, feeling human being with all my loves and trials and jokes and tragedies, the things that encompass my days, the moods that wax and wane, the people which whom I share all of these changes...it seems odd that one thing--namely, something as insignificant as DEATH, which is, really, little more than the stopping of breath, the lurched reaction of tissue and muscle and bone to some change within the harmony of normal bodily functioning--has the power to end it all . This one thing, this one change, signals the end of all the things I have ever known and ushers in beyond my will the beginning of all things unknown. If that even makes sense at all.

Since Mike died it feels as though my once sunny days (read: ignorant days) are now obstructed by the presence of something dark and ominous lurking just beyond the periphery. Like in a horror film where the children are playing and laughing or the adults are cooking dinner or making love only the be interrupted by a presence, a sudden shift in atmosphere or music or lighting that signals to the audience that something terrible is about to occur.

And now this?

But I was never all that happy anyways. It's just that now that I have discovered death, not as something distant and able to be ignored, but as something always and irrepressibly with me, I have validation for my constant worry, for the fluttering in my stomach when I think of a future beyond career, marriage, retirement.

I don't want it to end there for him. I want to be there in that moment to be an intervening force, to stop time and rush back to that elusive place "before it was too late". I would put out my hand and save. SAVE. I would stop it before it happened. Before the tears. Before the grief, the suspicion. Before the inevitable regret. Or if I couldn't stop it, maybe I could postpone it, get some explanation, some words that might comfort. And I would carry them off to his mother and father and place the comfort in their laps and say See? See here? There is hope. It is not over, it is not sad...

The worst thing is knowing beyond a doubt that what's done is done.

Or, if you believe John Donne..."death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for though art not so...death, thou hast died."

The death of death. Resurrection? In order to end "death", there must be a death? In order for others to live, some must die? In order for one son to live, another must die?

How must Mary have felt, to know that the death of her son would be life to many? It seems...odd.

Again, it has been an odd week.

Peace of Christ be with you.

Love and Some Verses

I am making another pact with myself to write regularly. I have done this way too many times over the years...but I guess I'll stop when I'm dead. Or when I actually start writing regularly (my bets are on death).

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Concerning love, people seem to have a lot to talk about, but little to say. Love and some verses. Love's labors lost. Love won't pay the rent. And no one's gonna buy the cow if they're getting the milk for free (thanks, Mom).

What is love? An emotion? A feeling? If that's the case, I've been in love a thousand times over. Members of boy bands. Christian Bale in Newsies. The handsome boy studying for finals at Starbucks. I've loved professors, mothers, fireman, freshmen. I've loved a multitude of folks whom I've admired and imagined and known and not known. But what are those loves? What are they made of? Of what substance are they? They fade, faded, and will fade. They will shift and lope (but never E-lope). They will rise and dive. They will cloud and reappear in the form of something else.

If love is emotion, we are all grasping at banners.

Or is love a choice? Is it an action? Is it a calculated decision, a maneuver to capture a fleeting emotion and give it permanence? If this is the case, then what about all those nice boys in my life--you know the ones. The ones whose moms taught them right, whose parents stayed together through thick and thin, who knew how to buy flowers and cook dinners for no reason. How to pack my lunch with a note in it and to pick me up from work and tell me I look pretty and make me chocolates from scratch (yes this really happened). The boys who wined and dined and covered me with love and so spoke so comfortably and sweetly about our future together. What about them? Why didn't I love them? Why couldn't I love them? If love is a choice, why can't I choose it wisely?

Instead, I choose the boys who are smart and artsy and individuals. The boys with futures that stretch a million miles in countless directions with futures that move every-which-way--except for the way that includes me. The minimal effort boys. The ones who are nice at first and then forget. The ones who are so limitless in every way except for one. And that is in loving me. Their hearts are big, but not big enough. No ring or planning or shared dreams. No willingness to change. No hope for commitment. No dinners for no reason.

No chocolates.

I always love the wrong boys. I love 'em bad and I love 'em noncommittal.

I have got to stop, and I think I will. Because maybe love is a choice. And having fun together and sharing hobbies will not make a lifelong partnership work. Shared commitment, shared goals, shared work ethic. Shared choice. Both partners need to choose to love, and I am tired of flying solo. No more bad boys for me (sorry, Fonz)