The responsible party

There’s not a lot about this month that’s been good. One could argue that there hasn’t been a lot about this year that’s been good. But for a lot of us, the current news cycle has brought to the surface incidents from our past, buried feelings, and outrage. In many respects, that has been the case for about three years now.

To many of us, it is outrageous that men who commit violent acts against women should not only be able to get away with it, but they are able to achieve positions of power, and essentially be untouchable.

Every time a woman has the audacity to talk about harm done to her by a prominent, or well-regarded man, the same scenario plays out.

What was she doing there? Why can’t she remember this certain detail about the event? Why did she wait this long to talk about it? What did she expect?

And then, there is the discussion about what happened. They were at a party. Things like that always happen at parties. It’s just boys being boys. That’s happened to everyone I know. He was captain of the whatever team, he wouldn’t have done that. He could have had any girl he wanted just by asking, he wouldn’t have had any reason to attack a girl. It’s her fault for having poor judgment. There aren’t any witnesses. And now, it wasn’t on his calendar.

There are even plenty of women who don’t believe a sexual assault is a sexual assault unless a woman has been raped.

Those of us who have found ourselves to be the victim, watch as the scenario plays out. We watch the debates on news networks about whether someone coming forward after this much time is telling the truth. We watch as snide and uninformed comments are made about the woman on social media. We watch as attorneys and other powerful men ask these questions and make these comments as well.

Over the course of the past week, we have gotten to see all of it happen, all over again. And we all know it is likely to end the way it almost always does. The woman will have bared her soul, to do the right thing, about an incident she wishes she could forget. She will be dragged through the gutter. She will be maligned, and accused of lying, or even being paid to come forward. She will be called a gold digger, or a fame seeker. In this case, her family will have had to relocate to escape death threats, and even to be separated at times for their own safety.

And those of us who have felt the pain, fear, and emotional scars being opened, will be reminded of the one thing we always know. What happened to us doesn’t matter to anyone but ourselves, and the people closest to us who love us. We will be held responsible for our own trauma. We will be ridiculed. We will be doubted.

The men who harmed us will be comforted for the “pain” we have brought upon them, their careers, and their families. Those in the position to preside over justice will want to make sure that they come through the situation unscathed, because their future is bright, and they were football players or swimmers.

We will be told that we sent mixed signals, or we misunderstood what happened to us—after all, we can’t even remember every single detail about the date, the place where it happened, or what happened afterward—never mind that in the moments following a trauma, we may have been in shock, or still in fight or flight mode. Never mind that the impact of trauma may affect each of us in a different way.

It’s not unlikely that we will be blamed for ruining our attacker or abuser’s life. In most cases, it will be a matter of “he said, she said.” And even if the report is made when physical evidence is available, we will be asked over and over if we could be mistaken and the incident was consensual.

And while this and similar scenarios play out, we will probably attend get togethers with friends or family, and hear someone joke “It was so long ago. I hope nobody decides to come after me for some of the stuff I pulled when I was that age.”

Whenever I hear that, I always think, “Well, if you committed a crime against someone, wouldn’t it only be fair for your victim to come forth and receive justice?”

But until it happens to you, it’s all just a story you hear about, or see on television if the guy is famous or powerful. It’s all just a matter of deciding who is more credible, and for whatever reason, people almost always assume it’s the guy, because they liked him in that one television show, or because he is pro-life and a Christian.

I almost purposely didn’t watch the Ford/Kavanaugh hearing. I had been gone most of the morning. I really only caught Senator Lindsey Graham spewing his anger about the timing of the accusation. To be honest, it looked to me like he wasn’t angry because the accusation was made, but because it sounded like she was telling the truth, and that might derail the nomination.

As per usual, he wasn’t angry that Brett Kavanaugh May have tried to rape a woman. He was angry that this nominee may have made a terrible drunken choice, and that the choice was the reason his nomination was in jeopardy..

I had to leave again just before Brett Kavanaugh had a turn at telling his side of the story. I only ended up seeing still photos and clips. But I had seen all of his facial expressions before. I had seen them in my family’s kitchen when I was 20, and I had finally gotten a chance to tell my mom that my stepfather had been sexually abusing me for years. I saw these expressions on his face as he yelled, screamed and ranted at me that I was ungrateful, that he hoped I didn’t still expect him to help me go to school. He told me he hoped I was happy. I didn’t expect anything from him. All I wanted was to never have to see him again, and to put his existence in my life behind me.

I could see that Brett Kavanaugh’s blood was boiling with rage in just the same way. Something he felt he was entitled to—something he felt he deserved, was at risk, and he clearly wanted us all to know how angry he was.

I didn’t watch any of it. I wasn’t afraid I would have flashbacks because of the testimony. I am fortunate in that I am only very occasionally triggered. I just didn’t want to feel more anger and rage than I was already feeling, because I know how these things usually play out, and I knew the people who didn’t want this truth to be told, were like snarling dogs over a cornered rabbit.

Around the time of the Women’s March nearly two years ago, a lot of people were asking what rights we were marching for. They asked what issues could have made us such angry and “nasty” women.

Undoubtedly, we each had our own reasons. One of the rights I marched for, and will no doubt march for again is just to be. I want the right to walk down a block. I want to be able to have a drink in a bar, or go to a party. I want to do these things without being certain that if something happens to me by someone else’s hands, I won’t somehow be blamed for it. I march, because I belong to a very special group. I belong to a group of people who have been harmed, and whose lives didn’t matter. It’s natural to march alongside blacks, immigrants, and non-Christians, because I know a little bit about how it feels to be held accountable for things that I haven’t done. I know what it’s like to simply not be as valuable as the person who harmed me.

For many of us who belong to this very special group, watching someone else suffer the same fate that we have reminds us that there isn’t justice for all. And so, among the many reasons we stand up, speak out, march, or protest, we are often trying to get the justice for others that we will never get for ourselves. We want the lives of those who are wronged by the powerful to matter. And we want them to be held accountable for their actions.

We aren’t looking for sympathy. We aren’t trying to get paid. We aren’t seeking revenge. We aren’t even necessarily trying to get our opponents to change their politics—unless their politics dictate that they must hold onto power at all costs, even if they are wrong, and someone has truly been harmed.

We may be seeking things we can never get—the person we were before this horrible thing happened to us; the freedom and sense of security for ourselves and for others, that old white men, and women outside of our group take for granted.

We know that we may never get there. But we have also learned that no one else will do it for us, and we will not stand idly by while someone else suffers through the same things we have.

We will always do for others what no one did for us.

Saint Jeff: on the loss of a veterinary genius, and an amazing friend

So, I am waking up this morning, and settling into the routine of most days. I’ve been living in a small town in Northwest Arkansas for five years now, and I am watching my four-year-old covering the sides of the garden tub with bath paint. My old life seems a million miles away, but like so many of my friends, I felt everything come to a screeching halt yesterday.

We lost an amazing light. We lost an amazing advocate. We lost an amazing mentor. And we lost an amazing friend.

I have been gone from Kansas City and veterinary medicine for five years. I only worked for him briefly, and rarely in proximity. Why would I have anything to say about losing Jeff Dennis?

The simple answer is that everyone who worked or works in the Kansas City veterinary community knows who he is, but as a technician, the answer is more personal.

I worked at hospitals that were part of national chain of veterinary hospitals for most of the 16 years I was in the field. I often got to work with veterinarians who were new to the field, and who were dealing with some of their first major cases. I was often in the treatment area of my hospital when doctors were on the phone with him, as he patiently answered questions for all of them. In the very early days of my career, he seemed to be some veterinary mystic that everyone relied on, and that everyone could rely on.

I remember the random and odd occasions when our practice might be out of some little used item that we either never kept on hand, or that expired before we could use it. As the assistant or technician, I was tasked with making the desperate call to see if we might be able to borrow one until we could get one in. I don’t remember a time that he ever said ‘no.’

In the first few years that I worked as a technician, there was a Sunday when I was working, and about an hour before time to leave, I got the call from home that all veterinary professionals dread—“Sam, bring something home for diarrhea.” I usually had something at home for those pet emergencies. In this case, I just needed some bland food, only we were out of stock that afternoon, and by the time I would get off, I wouldn’t be able to get it anywhere else. I think the doctor I was working with suggested I might get lucky if I stopped by VSEC on my way home. Maybe they would sell me a can or two to get by.

I was tired. I had worked all weekend, and I knew what awaited me at home. I made the stop, and hoped that the receptionist or one of the technicians might take pity on me and sell me a few cans of I/D until our food order at work came in. It was after six p.m. by this time. The receptionist disappeared for a moment, and then he appeared with three cans, and as I started to get my money out, he he told me not to worry about it. As the earnest, young technician, I argued that I was happy to pay for it since he was kind enough to let me have it. He wouldn’t hear of it.

I was so grateful, and sent him a note to say so later. After years of watching him help doctors, and having him hand me three cans of I/D, I had taken to calling him Saint Jeff. I never told him that. I’m almost sure I wasn’t alone. I know it was only three cans of food, but come on—diarrhea.

As the years went by, the thriving specialty and emergency practice he helped to build started offering technician lectures for continuing education credit for just a small donation to a local animal related charity. Technicians are often one of the lowest paid professionals in our field, but we are still required to acquire continuing education hours in order to maintain our licenses. For many of us, that often means missing out on at least one day of work, and paying fees we really can’t afford. These lectures were scheduled after most practices were closed. As someone who had to pay out of pocket for continuing education most of my career, those lectures were a godsend when I couldn’t afford to go to a conference.

About 11 years into my career, I decided to take a giant leap. It wasn’t the right leap for me, but I got to work in his practice for about six months. At that point, the practice had not only grown from a cramped little corner of a strip mall to a large and technically advanced facility jam-packed with veterinary genius, it was being absorbed into a larger company with locations in at least three other states.

Even with all of that going on, he was still answering calls from doctors and spending time on the phone with pet owners. When I recovered patients from surgery, I would see him with the phone attached to his ear, as he paced a small path, back and forth, all the while the cord would be wrapping around him. When he would notice the cord predicament, he simply lifted it up around his head, and began pacing the same worn path again. I am sure he didn’t really do that for hours, but it sure appeared that way.

My shift was from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., but one day our surgery schedule was chocked full, and we had squeezed in a couple of emergency surgeries near the end. The surgery department looked like a massive pile of bloodied scrap metal, and the task of just getting everything clean and drying so it could be wrapped the following morning seemed impossible. But technicians and assistants just keep scrubbing, and doing whatever has to be done. At around 8 that night, he wandered back to the surgery department and asked what he could do to help me get out of there. Before I could even try to come up with an awkward answer that would let him off the hook, he rolled up his sleeves and started scrubbing with me. I was exhausted, I was overwhelmed, and to have him scrubbing instruments alongside me, I was also humbled.

For several years, VSEC—now Blue Pearl—has been offering a full day of continuing education lectures for doctors. Now they were going to do the same thing for technicians—and it was to be free, and on a Sunday! You could literally get all of the continuing education you needed for your yearly license for free, and on a day when you were already likely to be off work. So, you didn’t even have to lose a day of pay. Even though there is now a request of a ten dollar donation for the event, it’s a ridiculous bargain.

If you were a technician or assistant working with him, you were respected, and cared for. I know he wasn’t perfect, and I know he didn’t do all of the wonderful things alone. I know there is a phenomenal team of people who help organize events, topics, sponsors, and lectures. I also know that it is more than an altruistic effort. It is a very sound business strategy. After all, in spite of the fact that assistants and technicians are usually grossly underpaid, overworked, and sometimes inappropriately utilized, we can wield a fair amount of power, especially in private practices. We’re often the person in charge of ordering supplies for our hospitals, and we’re often influential when it comes to persuading our doctors about referral hospitals.

When we feel respected and cared for, we remember it, and it matters.

And that’s at least part of the reason I have something to say about losing Jeff Dennis. He always made me feel respected and cared about as a professional.

Even now, five years as an inactive technician who maintains her license “just in case,” the legacy of all that he had a hand in building for the technician community in Kansas City is helping my little family. I would not be able afford continuing education if not for the opportunities he helped create.

None of us leave the world the same as it was before we came to it. And our actions and efforts have a rippling and lasting impact on others. He helped hundreds of veterinarians be better doctors, by answering their questions, and helping them gain the confidence to take on cases they were unsure of. He helped thousands of technicians, simply by understanding and respecting their vital role to the veterinary practice, and offering support that is meaningful and generous.

To say he will be missed is ridiculous. I am sad for every new doctor who won’t get a chance to run a case by him. I am sad for every technician or assistant who won’t have another chance to thank him one more time for the role he has played in supporting our part of the veterinary community.

When Vincent Van Gogh died, he left a note. “The sadness will last forever.” I thought about those words all of last night, and again this morning, as my husband quietly told me again that he was so sorry about my friend, and the tears started again. I never worked closely with him. I didn’t know him as well as so many of my colleagues and coworkers. But in that moment this morning, it occurred to me that he was exactly that to all of us—our friend.

A sense of invisibility—you can’t always see what’s there.

This has been a tough year. There’s an undercurrent of stress and urgency that seems to constantly keep me on edge. I often feel like I am trying to keep the people I love most in my life off the ledge, and out of the path of reckless traffic.

We started out the year like most families do, hoping that it would be a blank slate with new beginnings. But as I look back over the last nine months, most of it has felt like holding onto a rope that is slowly coming apart. And the worst of it is what most people can’t really see, and the feeling that I am just at the beginning of another long battle in which I will often feel like I am getting knocked down.

Some days, it’s really hard to get back up. Some days, I am like most people, and I just want to say “fuck this shit,” and shut out anyone and anything that doesn’t hear me or understand.

You see, our daughter told her daddy today that she thinks I don’t want her because I am always tired. Hearing that, and trying to explain to my four-year-old that I am always tired because I desperately do want her, and that the reason I am tired is because I spend almost all of my time trying to think of how I can help her with her struggles, and get her all the tools and help she needs to be able to do the things she really wants to—things other kids don’t struggle with.

A year and a half ago, I knew that something was off. I knew that there was a change. She was more sensitive to the world around her, and she was more volatile when things didn’t go her way. After a very long year of constant hard work, and a second sensory evaluation, a small part of what I already believed was validated.

I don’t have a “diagnosis.” I don’t know if she is technically “on the spectrum.” I know that the first page of the paperwork we filed for supplemental therapy insurance from the state was called an “autism waiver.” I don’t know if my other suspicions about her are true, and that we are going to be facing other battles that haven’t been uncovered yet. And most people looking at us from the outside wouldn’t even know that there is anything to face, until they get to know her, and us.

When you watch her play, you wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. When she speaks, you would likely just miss a word or sound here or there and think you just didn’t hear her right, when in fact, she actually didn’t pronounce a letter or sound clearly enough to be understood. And unless you saw her in a full sensory meltdown, you would think she is like every other four-year-old.

And in the most significant ways, she is just like every other four-year-old.

She wants to be your friend. She wants to be everybody’s friend. She loves to dance, sing and tell jokes. She loves puppies. She wants to go to school, and just this last week, she decided she really wants to learn how to read.She has a vicious sweet tooth. She adores her grandparents. Her favorite holiday is Halloween.

But just the hint of the wrong odor makes her vomit. Loud, crowded places confuse her, and make her uneasy. She hates having her face touched or her hair washed. Last night, she was convinced that she had “boo boos” on her back, and swore that it hurt when we touched her. She has trouble sitting still, because her core muscles aren’t strong enough for her to sit without becoming fatigued. She can’t do a sit-up without putting her hands behind her head, and even then it’s a struggle. When she gets angry, she is angrier than most adults, and you can’t stop her from flailing, trying to hit or kicking, unless you pin her and wrap her like a boa constrictor.

Sadly, her struggles with all of these things make her “difficult.” She can’t “self-regulate.” She’s 
“disruptive.” She requires more—of everything.

As a mom, when you see your kid struggling with anything, all you want is for everyone who becomes a part of her little life to just understand—just to get it.

She has to work ten times harder to act “normal,” and so she often gives over to her imagination, and acts like a puppy. Puppies can be floppy, and uncoordinated. They don’t have to be able to pronounce the l’s in their name, or the letter ‘r’ in a word. Puppies are impulsive, and even when they are well-trained, nobody expects them to be perfect all the time.

When people see “Willow Puppy,” they see a little girl who might be a little odd, but instead of thinking something is wrong, they just write it off as being silly. It’s an easy fix to a tough set of problems. If I think of it through that lens, it’s a pretty ingenious coping mechanism.

Some people might try to tell me that a four-year-old couldn’t know that, but you see, aside from her struggles, she’s actually very bright, very intelligent, and brimming with talent. She’s got an enormous vocabulary, and on a pretty frequent basis says words I can’t account for. She makes up songs with verses and choruses, and sometimes when I watch her dance, I have no idea where her skill comes from. She is empathetic, and tries to comfort others when she sees them hurting. I think it’s because she can relate. I know her heart, and I know that all she wants is to be welcome, and to share kindness with others. Last week, a little girl she was playing with hit her. When the girl was crying and in time out, Willow wasn’t upset about being hit, she was offering hugs, and reassuring the girl that everything would be okay.

All of this brilliance, makes it even easier to hide what is already hard for others to see.

There are a few places she can go where she doesn’t have to self-regulate as much. She doesn’t have to be still. She doesn’t have to pronounce ‘th’. Our local children’s museum is our second home—so much so that we learned over the last week that our family has visitedmore than 120 times in the last year. The closest family to our level of attendance was in the 80’s. Trampoline parks let her do all of the big body work she needs to keep the wiggles at bay. I know they pose potential risk for injury, but so does climbing all over the furniture and playing a four-year-old’s version of parkour. And of course, parks with swings and jungle gyms allow her to do many of the things that soothe her out in the fresh air and sunshine.

It’s the places that she has to go, and must be in control that are so hard. Because there is nothing to outwardly suggest otherwise, her struggles are referred to as “some of her behaviors.” Her needs are difficult for a “normal” school to meet, but not difficult enough for her to qualify for a school with sensory friendly classrooms, and tools. And I have to be Mama Bear, which is so counter to my naturally acquiescent demeanor that I end up doing so much of the research, procurement, and educating about her triggers, tools, and needs, that it almost feels pointless to have her anywhere but home with me, and the few places that she can just be who she is.

When she is at home with me, I know who she is, and even when it’s difficult—even when we are both at the peak of pushing each other’s buttons—I know that I can talk her back off the ledge. When she is in the other “Willow safe places,” the only things I have to worry about are her feelings getting hurt if someone doesn’t want to play, the exceptional moments when she doesn’t play well with someone, or her melting down because I waited too long to leave, and she’s grossly overtired.

Not all delays and challenges we have are visible. Not every child you see with a beet red face, seeming to come completely unglued because their parent just told them they can’t scale the shelves in the grocery store is a brat.

Not every child who looks completely “normal”—whatever that even means—is having an easy time of it. And the mom who quietly fights for understanding, validation, and the help and grace her child needs will almost always be a little tired, frequently because she wanted her child more than anything, and sleep is useless when there is so much fighting to do.

We all need a prophet: Exploring the connection between music, spirituality and activism

So, I see an awful lot of criticism of artists, musicians, comedians, and actors who are political, or who openly champion the causes they most care about. I feel like I see such criticism most frequently about musicians.

If ever you find yourself stumbling into a social media post about or from U2, Shirley Manson of Garbage, John Legend, Bruce Springsteen, or many others, you will frequently find something bewildering—comments suggesting that they just “shut up and sing”, as if to say that because they are musicians, they should be nothing more that puppets on strings, never deviating from their marionette act. It’s often as if the person making the critical comment has up to that point never realized an artist has always been political, or that their views have always been reflected in their work. Another possibility is that up to that moment, the person making the comment was never aligned with politics that ran counter to the artist or their work.

In other words, if you’re an artist I like, it’s fine for you to express your political views or be an activist—unless I someday disagree with you. It seems that the only way to never be criticized for speaking out, or for activism, is to either never speak out, never take a side, never take up a cause—or never get “caught”.

I am a child of the 70’s and 80’s. I remember hearing parts of George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh projecting from my parents’ giant, Mediterranean inspired stereo. I grew up in the era of Band Aid, USA for Africa and Farm Aid. In my junior year in high school, one of my friends asked if I wanted to help her and one of our teachers start a chapter of Amnesty International at our school. Being a fellow U2 fan, I knew exactly where her inspiration came from.

I am sure there were plenty of other causes and movements I didn’t get involved with, or embrace, but I am also sure that these causes and movements were made more successful because of musicians taking a role in trying to move them forward.

After high school, I attended two private colleges—both with religious affiliation. I wasn’t particularly religious, nor was I a firm believer. Attending these schools did not manage to change that, but they both gave me a great opportunity to learn about religions from around the world, and from historical perspective, and most specifically about the teachings associated with Jesus.

I know many who would or might argue with my perspective, because of their own beliefs and versions of immersive Biblical study. They may even say that I am interpreting or remembering it wrong. I just happen to believe that when it comes to embracing the positive aspects of a faith, there is no concrete right or wrong way.

His teachings weren’t always strictly in line with the Old Testament status quo. He often found dramatic and creative ways of illustrating what it means to walk in faith, and to take action based on that faith.

I’m a professed agnostic, but I can get behind so many of the values and ideals that Jesus is said to have taught. And when I see musicians and other artists and performers sharing their values and ideals, I see them walking, and taking action in their own faiths. 

Joshua Tree 30 years on. 

I am not suggesting that Bono is the second coming, but in all honesty, he was my coming. He and the other members of U2 have and continue to bring in more money than most of us will ever see in our lifetimes. Bono is the demonstrative face of their career-long activism. He sits at the table with world leaders who loathe or are indifferent to him in an effort to fulfill his own faith’s call. They all give financially to the causes they support. They have always been political. They have always been activists. I’m sure visits to sub Saharan Africa, where children die from starvation, poor or nonexistent medical care, extreme poverty, and AIDS, inform such vocal activism. No rockstar with the level of ego Bono possesses would subject himself to the level of contempt he has faced from leaders, and disconnected fans if not adequately moved by such desperation.

There are so many artists like him, who are fighting their own good fights, in spite of criticism or ridicule. And they bring those of us who truly connect to their artistic work along. I believe we can find ourselves inspired to activism by the art and artists with which we deeply connect. I think this happens because you cannot truly disconnect the artistic from the spiritual.

No matter what our beliefs may be, on some level, we all need a prophet, and I strongly believe that we choose our own prophets, not the other way around.

Some of us prefer a prophet who fits within the constraints of a very specific box,  and who calls them to do things in order to meet the criteria for salvation from an external higher power.

Some of us prefer a prophet who can’t get comfortable in a box, and who, through their work and their own actions, inspires us to answer the call of a higher power we carry within ourselves.

Some might argue that it doesn’t matter which one we answer to, as long as we answer, because the result is the same, but if that is true, why criticize artists for walking their values in their work? And if it is true, why haven’t the lists and directives brought an end to extreme poverty, racial discrimination, war, and despair?

We’ve all seen the lists, right? We know what we should do, right?

At this point, I know someone will want to argue that evil, or some evil entity comes into play. When I see the many terrible things happening in the world around us, and the level of comfortable inaction about them, I find it very convenient that faiths have a built-in explanation or excuse for why people improperly use their free will.

When I consider this, it takes me back to a time when I was superficially into contemporary Christian music. I say superficially, only because I never dove deeper into the pool than Amy Grant or Michael W. Smith. I may not call myself a Christian, but I can certainly relate to music and art that expresses the confusion, and uncertainty that comes along with finding a spiritual path.

I particularly connected with the Amy Grant album “Lead Me On.” In the lyrics of the song “What About The Love?” she sings about a few different circumstances in which people talk about the legalistic aspect of faith, but fail to take action for others, or judge those who stumble.

I said, "Is this all there is,
Just the letter of the law?"
Something's wrong.

The album and those words are thirty years old now, but when I look at public declaration of faith and the laws attached to all faiths, I think these are the words I hear inside my own mind when I see people acting so counter to the faith they profess. These are the words that make me look for action seeking no reward, but the reward of helping those who need it most. I truly believe helping others is its own reward, and our salvation comes from fulfilling the calling within ourselves.

Not everyone who listens to music or likes art in all of its forms connects to it at a deep level, and certainly not at the level I am talking about from my own experience. That’s not necessarily a criticism. It’s just a truth.

As someone who is unable to do one without the other naturally following, It will always be hard for me to understand that possibility. I cannot love someone’s music, without respecting their personal beliefs and values enough that I would never presume to tell them to leave those beliefs and values at stage left, even if they don’t jive with my own. And I cannot love someone’s music without feeling connected enough to it, and to the artist at such a level that I would be unaware of what they and their art are about. So, it absolutely dumbfounds me to see anyone who has ever liked an artist’s work tell them to just shut up and perform.

I absolutely adored Prince, and his music, but I didn’t adore his values. He was against same-sex marriage, and followed a faith path that I find worrisome. Neil Peart, drummer and lyricist for Rush is tremendously inspirational to me, and I cannot fathom a world without the music he and his band mates have brought to life. I also cannot fathom how that music and those lyrics come from someone who at one point in time found the same kind of political affinity in Ayn Rand as American House Speaker Paul Ryan. But you know what? It never would have occurred to me to disrespect their values or personal beliefs in their space. I never would have told them to shut up and play.

Shirley Manson takes no prisoners.

It’s very seldom that I connect with the art of someone with whom I do not share values. I’m sure that is bias at work. I am not driven by words in a book of faith instructing me what to do, or how to live. I do not believe the literal interpretation of any book of faith.

Because the “prophets” I follow inspire the calling I feel within myself, I believe that If anything figurative can be said about the actions of Jesus, it isn’t that he gave bread or wine through miracles. It is that he gave from the calling of his heart. Maybe he did help those in need eat, but it wasn’t because anyone directed him to do so. He knew it was right. And he wanted the rest of us to know that it was right, too, not because he said so, but because that is what he did.

True prophets are those who inspire us through their own example, not through lists, laws, or fear-based archetypes. They aren’t pontificating from a pulpit, or bringing in enormous tithes. They may not be in a church at all, or even in a traditional faith setting. They may be clad in black leather, and sunglasses, while reminding us about leaders like Dr. Martin Luther King. They may be playing an extremely altered electric guitar, and singing about resistance. They may be stopping their show to express personal grief about very public and political issues. You may be surprised to find them giving TED talks about extreme poverty.

Our true prophets are those who demonstrate how the fulfillment of faith comes from how we bring the callings of our own beliefs and values to life.

We all need a prophet.

In the lost and found

So, last weekend, I went away for a day. I needed a break—a daycation. I needed not to think about what anyone else needed, or anyone else’s troubles.

I didn’t pack my bag the night before, but I knew I could quickly gather what I needed for one day and a night. It had been a lot harder to unpack the truth when I declared that I just needed to go. It’s always a million times harder to ask for what I need than it is for me to absorb and fulfill what everyone else does.

That’s not new.

My husband has accused me of something so often, that all it merits anymore is an eye roll as I turn and walk away. He says I “fiddle fart”. I do. To fiddle fart is to take much longer to do something small than necessary, by creating mini tasks along the way.

I almost always do this when I am going to spend time on my own. I think he thinks it’s because I lose track of time, or care about things that are insignificant.

Last weekend was no different. I knew exactly what to pack. I started putting cosmetics, toiletries, and meds in a case the night before. I knew what I was going to wear the day I left. I even packed the blister care bandages I knew I was going to need, because I even though I insisted I had been breaking in the green Doc Martens long enough, I knew by the end of the day, my feet would say otherwise.

I quickly threw all of my planned items into my duffle. Then I thought about accessories. No great trip away for yourself can be accomplished without accessories. And in the midst of trying to get out the door for time on my own that I really needed, I decided to just grab “that one necklace”. I was sure it was in a box, inside my jewelry cabinet, along with all of my other Celtic knot jewelry.

It wasn’t. I silently started taking things out, searching, and putting things back in. I couldn’t find it. I decided I had probably put it in another location, in another room. No. 

I could have just written it off. I kind of have a habit. I have dozens of other necklaces and pendants I could have worn.

At this point, my husband seemed to notice I was off track. I was fiddle farting.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

“Then get going.”

“I will! Just give me a minute.”

“What are you looking for.”

“I’m looking for my trinity knot necklace.”

“Isn’t it hanging from your rear view mirror.”

“No.” And I felt my eyes rolling. Does he not even know what kind of knot I mean? That can’t even be.

“You’re wasting your time!”

“But it’s my time, now isn’t it?”

I knew he was right. I was fiddle farting. I was fixating on something I didn’t need to care about. I quickly settled on something else, and nearly broke my neck heading out the door.

Before I left, he reminded me that I could listen to any music I wanted to. Ordinarily, that would be enough motivation, but I know something better than he does. I have our daughter so well “trained” that she already loves listening to mommy’s music. For the two months satellite radio had a U2 station this summer, she never once asked me to change it.

Nevertheless, I finally got on the road, and determined that I would listen to things I hadn’t made time for during that two-month-long Bono holiday. The new Snow Patrol album—still wrapped in the factory plastic, and the most recent U2 album, in a much more attentive and focused manner.

They were good. It was good. I started thinking about the way the knots of motherhood seem to loosen when you get a few miles away. As a writer, I could already think of nearly half a dozen things I wanted to write about.

My daughter is in preschool three days a week, and has therapy the other two, but I almost never write whiled she’s gone. I craft. I surf the Internet. I sort through emails, and sign endless electronic petitions every day to satisfy my political and social outrage. I think for me writing requires a lot more packing, unpacking, and distance than simple constrained three-hour blocks.

That’s a completely lame excuse. Clearly hundreds of well-known authors discipline themselves to writing a defined number of words or pages a day. They churn out books like factories. Even with the time allotted for driving my daughter to and from her daily stuff, I could probably squeeze in an hour or two.

Granted, I wouldn’t get anything else done. And when you have a four-year-old Hell-bent against picking up even a single item, a husband who needs clean work shirts and socks, and used spoons left in glasses that need to soak for the gunk to actually come out in the dishwasher, packing and unpacking for writing is just one more task. And what if I didn’t get to do again tomorrow?

So, those “tomorrows” pile up.

I spend my time in the car, listening to my music, and I spend my day doing what I choose. It’s my time.

After a day of festival activities, I make my way to my hotel around midnight. I am in sore need of a shower.

I unpack what I need. The blister bandages on the backs of my heels have failed, and are nothing more than a squideged up, crumpled mess. “Good thing I brought more”, I think to myself. But then I realize, I haven’t brought a shower cap, and this rebellious red wreaks havoc on white pillow cases. I don’t even have a headband. I mom-bun my hair with a tie as best I can, hopeful my hair won’t get wet enough to leave the appearance of a full-blown massacre on the sheets and cases.

The next morning, I realize I didn’t bring my flat iron, or even that clever hot brush I bought on Prime Day. Again, I grab the hair tie, and do what I can to look presentable.

It’s not lost on me that I spent a ridiculous amount of time looking for that necklace, and I might have remember these other items if I hadn’t been fiddle farting. But it was my time to waste, and it was so hard to declare my need of it, that I most certainly know I was allowing the chance for the request to be denied—not because I didn’t want to go, but because it’s easy to give up on things when everything else is important.

I had gotten a text that our order hadn’t arrived yet, and we were out of my daughter’s protein shakes. She doesn’t like to eat for about an hour after she wakes up. I knew well what was happening when daddy informed her we were out. It made me wince from 200 miles away.

“Give her some juice, and yogurt instead.”

I lingered at the Super Target, where I picked up more protein shakes, and more blister bandages. I wandered into the imports store next door. I spent too much time there. I stopped for gas sixty miles out of town, and realized I needed some safety pins to mark holes a friend of a friend was going to darn for me in a couple of sweaters. Into the Walmart, where I tried desperately to find a cold, fizzy drink that wasn’t “soda” and wasn’t La Croix. I stopped again at my friend’s to drop off the sweaters.

My time was winding up. I couldn’t stretch it any more.

After I got home, my mind returned to searching for that necklace. I was resigned to the fact it had somehow been lost, and that I would just try to find a replacement. But that feeling crept in. It wouldn’t be the same, because I would always know it wasn’t the necklace I had bought myself as a reward when my self-published book sold ten copies.

You see, I wasn’t looking for a necklace at all.