So, I'm finding it even harder than usual to entertain the theory that there is a higher power. Many of us have been searching our hearts and minds over the last few days and coming up with nothing--nothing that makes sense; nothing that quiets the grief.
In the days since a very ill individual ripped away the lives of so many children in Newtown, Connecticut, many of us have been looking for answers to questions that even if answered would not satisfy the hole left behind by this tragedy. And many of us have been arguing over solutions and ways to prevent killings like this one from happening again.
No detailed manifesto or note that Adam Lanza could have written for us would make the pain of this event any less, and knowing why doesn't help. No matter "why" he did this horrible, horrible thing, we can never unknow the horror he left us with. Having the answer to "why" doesn't keep me from being in my car and thinking about what has happened and openly weeping. And for those of us so indirectly affected by this killing field, fathoming the grief of these families and their community is impossible. We barely have a right to be as grief-stricken as many of us are.
I want a child. My husband and I have spent the better part of a year trying to have one. Many of my friends either have young children, or have children on the way. Events like this make you pause. How can anyone in good conscious bring a child into a world where there are people who could do something so horrible?
I have a very strong opinion when it comes to the debate about gun control, but I understand that if someone is so troubled that they want to commit this kind of act, they are going to find a way to do it, no matter what laws are in place.
I don't know what the answers are, but I do know that most of us are starting to feel that we live in a world gone mad, and by mad, I mean angry and filled with hurt.
A couple of my good friends talked about this on their Facebook pages. They talked about how mean spirited we have become as a society, and how media perpetuate this spirit. And with social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter, we all participate in that media now more than ever, no matter how much we might also complain about it.
People have been argumentative and mean for as long as people have been walking the face of the earth. It's at least part of our nature. But before we all had the kind of access we do now, if you wanted to be argumentative with someone, or mean to them, you had to do it in a more personal way--you had to say it to them directly. It's just not that way anymore.
Social media emboldens all of us to say things to and about each other that we otherwise would never say. And I think feeling so emboldened in that way almost makes us feel more emboldened in our everyday lives too. Sometimes, when I think of things people have said to or about me or others, I am just stunned.
It's amazing how a snide remark when you're already having a hard time can quickly knock you down even further. When you're doing the best you can in life, and someone reminds you that it's not enough, it can be hard to feel like trying harder.
I was picked on throughout my childhood. Elementary and junior high school were the worst. I wasn't a popular kid, and my parents didn't see the importance of keeping me in trendy clothes. I was kind of studious. I wasn't an ugly kid, but I was probably more than a little awkward at times. I grew up in an abusive household. It was a tough time.
Sure, I never snapped and lashed out in violence, but I hurt a lot, and often. I can't begin to imagine how much that hurt would have been multiplied if I had grown up in this era of Facebook, YouTube and Twitter. Someone like me would have been a target for sure.
The kind of mean-spirited behavior perpetrated these days is disheartening. Kids who already feel like outcasts become the targets of social media attacks that drive them to take their own lives. Bullies little realize or care how their victims feel, and only when something terrible happens does anyone face accountability for their actions.
Some people might say that making it through tough times should help you develop a thicker skin or character. And for some people, that may actually work. But for others, constantly being attacked with little stabs and pokes is like being torn down every time they try to build themselves up. If it happens often enough, they eventually give up trying.
But for those individuals who are deeply troubled--mentally ill, the meanness of everyone around them who pokes at them and reminds them of their failure to fit in, that hurt is a ticking time bomb. It's waiting for that moment when all the light goes out, and darkness is all that is left.
I'm going to say something horrible, now. I don't care how much Adam Lanza was hurting, or even why right now. So whatever people did or said to him as his mental illness evolved doesn't even matter to me now. I think it would be very hard to find many people who could muster sympathy or understanding after what he has done. But, I do care about how easy it is for us all to be the sharp sticks that poke at these sleeping monsters, contributing to their awakening.
When you see someone hurting or struggling, no matter how ridiculous they might seem to you, think of the last time you were hurting and struggling and how much better or worse the actions of others made that situation. Is it so much to ask that we try to reach out to each other with compassion? Is it so much to ask that we try to understand each other and help each other, even if only in small ways?
We have choices everyday. We can be small people committing layer upon layer of small terrorist attacks on each others' hearts, or we can be giant people committing tiny acts of heroism to heal each others' hurts. It may not prevent the kind of heinous acts that people like Adam Lanza commit, but it's surprising how little it can take to "save a life."
If God Will Send His Angels--U2
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Objects Are Cooler Than They Appear, December 1, 2012
So, there was one night in Dublin when Jeph and I ended up having an argument. It's not really that unusual that a couple would have a disagreement during a vacation, but on this particular evening, our argument was about spending a night out on the town, and living it up. Silly, right? Who wouldn't be up for spending a night out, eating fancy food and drinking up all the city has to offer in the "hippest" part of town?
Well, the truth of the matter is, kind of me. I had dressed to the nines, strappy heels and all. We'd had an elegant dinner at the Tea Room in our hotel, and the night was young. We stepped out into the night, and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar to people watch and see what the craic was. For my non-Irish affiliated, the craic is an Irish term for "what's happening."
On this particular Saturday night, like most, the Bar was chockablock. Most of the crowd was comprised of twenty-somethings, or maybe even a few thirty-somethings. I looked good. Jeph looked good. That said, my footwear didn't exactly leave me as nimble and agile as I wanted to be. I'm sure it's just that I don't wear heels everyday, but it was annoying to me that I was having so much trouble and that half of the women around me were tromping around the Bar like freaking gazelles in similar footwear and worse. It hurt my pride.
We stopped and watched a couple of guys who were playing some blues outside a restaurant. Jeph was stoked. I'm not personally a blues girl, so we watched for a bit and moved on. We thought we'd duck into another bar in the district, and we followed some fairly cool looking people into a club that sounded to be hopping. As soon as we walked in, we quickly realized we didn't belong there--not to mention the fact that there was a fairly foul odor I don't think I could describe.
I didn't want to give up, so we pressed on. Every step I took was more precarious than the last, and I knew that I was sacrificing my feet for style. I felt like a fool.
When we finally decided to give up the fight, we still had to make it back all the way to the hotel--through the throngs of people, and the same distance of cobbled road my pride had made us traverse in the first place. We tried to hug the sides of the cobbles and stick to the sidewalks to spare my already blistered toes any little bit of skin they had left. Unfortunately, these sidewalks were jam-packed with people, and most of them were waiting outside of clubs or bars. We tried to walk around these crowds, and politely excuse our way through. At one point, a lippy young woman mouthed off to me, and surprisingly I was the one who felt mortified.
In that moment, I felt so out of place, and so old, I just wanted to rip my pretty shoes off and race back to our room.
When we did get back to the room, Jeph was bummed about coming back early, and frustrated with me for what I'd done to my feet in the process. He was sad to think that this was the last night we'd have in Dublin that wouldn't be followed by a day of travel, and I'd squandered it.
As we discussed the situation, the one thing that we could agree on was that we weren't young hipsters, up for spending the night out partying and hanging out anymore. Truth be told, we probably never were quite like that, but now we really weren't (aren't) full stop.
It led us to think about our age--something we've done a lot of this year. When forty rolled around at the end of last year, I didn't give it any weight. So what? For the first time in years, I wear what I want. I do my hair however I like. I feel like I reflect more of what's inside than I have since I was much younger. I don't care that some people still give me a sideways glance since I colored my hair. I don't care that some people don't like tattoos. I am who I am. Being forty didn't seem to matter. I didn't think about the number putting any kind of limit on me. I know that Jeph had approached this year in much the same way. For him, it started with growing some sideburns, scoring his first pair of Doc Martens and a handful of pearl snap shirts.
Nearly a year down the road, I know I was wrong, in some respects, to be so half full about everything. Things I want to do physically just aren't as easy as they would have been at another time. And I know Jeph feels the same way. While his pulmonary embolism was definitely not age related, the limitations that go hand in hand with his risk factors make him feel tied and bound--like someone much older.
A common theme in our society is that once you get to be a certain age, there are things you just have to accept. Maturity dictates that you don't throw fits when you want to. Responsibility means that you shun frivolity. Stability means you embrace habit. Maybe you used to be able to touch your toes and you no longer can. Maybe you're afraid to mountain bike on rough trails in case you cut yourself and your blood thinners that save you from dangerous clots, make you bleed like a stuck pig.
We saw the new James Bond movie this afternoon. One of the undercurrents of the plot was the idea that Bond and operatives like him were a thing of the past, easily replaced by the new and the technologically proficient. Anyone who's a Bond fan can surmise that 007 proved the naysayers wrong. His wealth of experience and long term connection was the foundation for a perspective that was much broader than up and coming techie geniuses who mocked his methods. Years of injuries and physical abuse certainly made the job harder for him, but it's who he is that makes him so invaluable.
Now, Jeph and I are certainly not as cool as James Bond--few people are. But, in our hearts, we also aren't forty-something. We're probably not twenty-something either. I think we're some mystical, non-existent age that just isn't fortyish. In our hearts, we're still dreaming and trying to find a way to live the life we want. And maybe it's not about our age. It's about who we are, and where we fit and where we don't. Some days, who we are imprisons us. We're the solid, reliable souls among our peers. We don't always let everyone know that we're in the gutter, because we're trying to remind ourselves not to forget to look at the stars.
Jeph frequently refers to himself as a cog in the machinery. Just a piece within the equipment that other people use to get the job done. I know I often identify with that feeling. And maybe that's what we really are. But maybe it doesn't matter what everybody else thinks. He may be a cog, but when I look at him, he's the cog that isn't covered in the grease and grime of overuse, because he's what tries to make the machinery of dreaming for more work for me.
At the end of the Saturday night, these objects are cooler than they appear--blistered feet, bent dreamscapes, tears shed, and all.
Stay Young, Go Dancing--Death Cab For Cutie
Well, the truth of the matter is, kind of me. I had dressed to the nines, strappy heels and all. We'd had an elegant dinner at the Tea Room in our hotel, and the night was young. We stepped out into the night, and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar to people watch and see what the craic was. For my non-Irish affiliated, the craic is an Irish term for "what's happening."
On this particular Saturday night, like most, the Bar was chockablock. Most of the crowd was comprised of twenty-somethings, or maybe even a few thirty-somethings. I looked good. Jeph looked good. That said, my footwear didn't exactly leave me as nimble and agile as I wanted to be. I'm sure it's just that I don't wear heels everyday, but it was annoying to me that I was having so much trouble and that half of the women around me were tromping around the Bar like freaking gazelles in similar footwear and worse. It hurt my pride.
We stopped and watched a couple of guys who were playing some blues outside a restaurant. Jeph was stoked. I'm not personally a blues girl, so we watched for a bit and moved on. We thought we'd duck into another bar in the district, and we followed some fairly cool looking people into a club that sounded to be hopping. As soon as we walked in, we quickly realized we didn't belong there--not to mention the fact that there was a fairly foul odor I don't think I could describe.
I didn't want to give up, so we pressed on. Every step I took was more precarious than the last, and I knew that I was sacrificing my feet for style. I felt like a fool.
When we finally decided to give up the fight, we still had to make it back all the way to the hotel--through the throngs of people, and the same distance of cobbled road my pride had made us traverse in the first place. We tried to hug the sides of the cobbles and stick to the sidewalks to spare my already blistered toes any little bit of skin they had left. Unfortunately, these sidewalks were jam-packed with people, and most of them were waiting outside of clubs or bars. We tried to walk around these crowds, and politely excuse our way through. At one point, a lippy young woman mouthed off to me, and surprisingly I was the one who felt mortified.
In that moment, I felt so out of place, and so old, I just wanted to rip my pretty shoes off and race back to our room.
When we did get back to the room, Jeph was bummed about coming back early, and frustrated with me for what I'd done to my feet in the process. He was sad to think that this was the last night we'd have in Dublin that wouldn't be followed by a day of travel, and I'd squandered it.
As we discussed the situation, the one thing that we could agree on was that we weren't young hipsters, up for spending the night out partying and hanging out anymore. Truth be told, we probably never were quite like that, but now we really weren't (aren't) full stop.
It led us to think about our age--something we've done a lot of this year. When forty rolled around at the end of last year, I didn't give it any weight. So what? For the first time in years, I wear what I want. I do my hair however I like. I feel like I reflect more of what's inside than I have since I was much younger. I don't care that some people still give me a sideways glance since I colored my hair. I don't care that some people don't like tattoos. I am who I am. Being forty didn't seem to matter. I didn't think about the number putting any kind of limit on me. I know that Jeph had approached this year in much the same way. For him, it started with growing some sideburns, scoring his first pair of Doc Martens and a handful of pearl snap shirts.
Nearly a year down the road, I know I was wrong, in some respects, to be so half full about everything. Things I want to do physically just aren't as easy as they would have been at another time. And I know Jeph feels the same way. While his pulmonary embolism was definitely not age related, the limitations that go hand in hand with his risk factors make him feel tied and bound--like someone much older.A common theme in our society is that once you get to be a certain age, there are things you just have to accept. Maturity dictates that you don't throw fits when you want to. Responsibility means that you shun frivolity. Stability means you embrace habit. Maybe you used to be able to touch your toes and you no longer can. Maybe you're afraid to mountain bike on rough trails in case you cut yourself and your blood thinners that save you from dangerous clots, make you bleed like a stuck pig.
We saw the new James Bond movie this afternoon. One of the undercurrents of the plot was the idea that Bond and operatives like him were a thing of the past, easily replaced by the new and the technologically proficient. Anyone who's a Bond fan can surmise that 007 proved the naysayers wrong. His wealth of experience and long term connection was the foundation for a perspective that was much broader than up and coming techie geniuses who mocked his methods. Years of injuries and physical abuse certainly made the job harder for him, but it's who he is that makes him so invaluable.
Now, Jeph and I are certainly not as cool as James Bond--few people are. But, in our hearts, we also aren't forty-something. We're probably not twenty-something either. I think we're some mystical, non-existent age that just isn't fortyish. In our hearts, we're still dreaming and trying to find a way to live the life we want. And maybe it's not about our age. It's about who we are, and where we fit and where we don't. Some days, who we are imprisons us. We're the solid, reliable souls among our peers. We don't always let everyone know that we're in the gutter, because we're trying to remind ourselves not to forget to look at the stars.
Jeph frequently refers to himself as a cog in the machinery. Just a piece within the equipment that other people use to get the job done. I know I often identify with that feeling. And maybe that's what we really are. But maybe it doesn't matter what everybody else thinks. He may be a cog, but when I look at him, he's the cog that isn't covered in the grease and grime of overuse, because he's what tries to make the machinery of dreaming for more work for me.
At the end of the Saturday night, these objects are cooler than they appear--blistered feet, bent dreamscapes, tears shed, and all.
Stay Young, Go Dancing--Death Cab For Cutie
Affordable Comfort, December 1, 2012
Light weaves in and out of vision,Interfering, then darting away.
Time wastes itself in the cover of night,
And drowns in a bottle of sand.
Consternation is my nation, my ethnicity
Leaving no mark or color on my skin.
But my mind knows my address,
And my heart sees its landscape.
As miles of time pass, I wonder how,
But fail to choose, to stop.
Enfolded in the lulling warmth,
Fashioned by my own hands,
All from dangerously affordable comfort.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Grateful and Naming Names, November 19, 2012
So, a lot of people are doing the daily gratitude thing on Facebook and other places this month. I get it, but up until today, I just wasn't into it.
I frequently find myself aware of moments and people that I take for granted. When I realize my mistake, I feel sad if I've missed a chance to acknowledge those moments or those people. But, I like to think that I make a point of letting the people I care about know how much they mean to me whenever I can.
Every once in a while, someone really surprises me. Every once in a while, the people I love, love me back.
I know I have written about the low points of this year, but mostly those low moments have been coupled to amazing affirmations that there are lovely people looking out for me, and for my family. It sometimes feels impossible that we can be digging our way out of a terrible dark hole, only to find a bright and shining sun lighting the way out.
I usually make a point not to mention any names in my blog, because I always figure my friends and family don't ask to be the subject of my creative outlet. But if I'm going to talk about gratitude, I can't do it without naming names.
It started in February this year, when we had to say goodbye to our Blue. I work in a profession where I frequently have to help people deal with the loss of their pets. I have some great friends at work who helped us get through our own loss this time around, particularly Kat Hodes.
I once told Kat Hodes that she practices expensive veterinary care, and that hers was the kind I would always be glad to pay dearly for. If people had to pay her what she's really worth, they could never afford it. She cares for every patient she meets as if they were her very own pet, and she offers their owners every bit of hope that might be possible. And when it doesn't go the way everyone hopes, she's just as disappointed, if not more. There is no good way to say goodbye to a family member, but she made one of the worst experiences of this year the most loving and compassionate moments we could have given Blue, no matter how painful for us.
If that wasn't enough, a short time after saying goodbye to Blue, we got a card in the mail that Kat had personalized with Blue and our dog Scrubbs having a conversation about heaven. It was an amazingly sweet gift that I could never have imagined anyone would give us.
When I drew a work assignment this year that I didn't ask for or want, I didn't know how I was going to get through it. I'd spent the previous couple of years in work related-angst, and my faith in my professional world had worn pretty thin. I had just started to believe the corner had turned when this assignment came up.
A short time before this difficult assignment, I got a new boss. In the past, that had been a scary change. This time, it has been one of the best things that could ever have happened. Becca Forbis is a manager. She defines the word. She knows people, and she knows what they need to be successful and to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even during difficult times. She could not have any idea how much our weekly lunches meant to me over the summer. She helped me believe, again, in things I had given up on. She helped me believe that someone in my work world really cares about us, and that she will go to bat for me. She's an amazing person, and continues to mean so much in my life.
It seems like those couple of things would have been enough. But June packed quite a punch this year.
When Jeph ended up in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism, we were immediately surrounded by friends, some of whom traveled a great distance to be with us. Sheri Rohrbach, and Jeph's mom Jill, came running. They were there to sit with him, and to keep me distracted for the three days he was hospitalized. And anyone who couldn't come sent messages and offered up any other kind of help we might want.
A short time following Jeph's adventure, our late start to a non-furry family didn't go so well. We're still waiting for another chance at that.
But when things started to go so sadly awry, I leaned on someone who knew what I was going through pretty hard. Meg Kaemmer is one of the brightest, most sparkly people I know. I don't think she knows how amazing and beautiful she is. I don't have any idea how many texts I received from her in the days leading up to, and immediately after my miscarriage this year. On a day-to-day basis, I realize we aren't the most obvious friends, but every time it has really mattered, she has been there behind the scenes when I can't keep myself together. She's my stormy weather friend.
And she wasn't the only one.
The first day back at work, Cory Bassett knew I wasn't doing the best. She rescued me away to lunch so I could get all of it out. It seems like a little thing to take someone to lunch, but it was huge that day, and proof that sometimes the tiniest gestures have the greatest impact. Not unlike another tiny gesture from Kat Hodes, when she sent me some of Bono's mojo.
Every day was difficult for a while, and looking for bright spots was hard. But Julie Moyer Lancaster not only was the voice in my head in the emergency room, reminding me to advocate for myself, she was the package from Barnes and Noble on the kitchen counter containing at least a week's worth of escape.
Ginnifer Smith Jobgen was there when I got my first massage in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. We had been friends for a long time, but we hadn't been able to hang out in ages. She had been a comforting voice in my storm as well, and in August, I got to escape to Indiana to be with her for a few days just to slow the world down. I was reminded of why it had meant to much to me to fight for our friendship when she and Jeph's brother broke up all those years ago. She continues to understand me on levels that few people do.
I have been grateful to all of these women this year for showing me in small and giant ways how easy it is to make a difference for others. I don't think any one of them would consider what they've done for me this year to be extraordinary. But that's exactly what they are--extraordinary, because it's just their way.
And it doesn't end with the difficult times. At the end of last week, my fellow Twilight tribeswoman Julie surprised me with a "Breaking Dawn" mug and hot chocolate. Just a small gesture to acknowledge the end of something we have shared together, that has meant so much to both of us. And today, Ginnifer sent me a tiny piece of Ireland in the form of a door knocker just like the one at my favorite place to stay there. She knows I've felt pretty homesick since coming back, and seeing this arrive in the mail would brighten my day.
I think taking a month aside and dedicating a moment to share gratitude everyday is a good thing. Maybe I'm not into it, because the level of gratitude I have for these amazing women in my life leaves me speechless. I don't know how to be worthy of the love I've been shown by all of them during this most difficult year.
There are always going to be moments that get you down. It's easy to spiral downward with it. At times, I have let myself be sadder than I should have been. But sometimes, that's when people give you the most to be grateful for. It's because every tiny thing they do lifts you up, when you find it difficult to lift yourself up.
Kind and Generous--Natalie Merchant
I frequently find myself aware of moments and people that I take for granted. When I realize my mistake, I feel sad if I've missed a chance to acknowledge those moments or those people. But, I like to think that I make a point of letting the people I care about know how much they mean to me whenever I can.
Every once in a while, someone really surprises me. Every once in a while, the people I love, love me back.
I know I have written about the low points of this year, but mostly those low moments have been coupled to amazing affirmations that there are lovely people looking out for me, and for my family. It sometimes feels impossible that we can be digging our way out of a terrible dark hole, only to find a bright and shining sun lighting the way out.
I usually make a point not to mention any names in my blog, because I always figure my friends and family don't ask to be the subject of my creative outlet. But if I'm going to talk about gratitude, I can't do it without naming names.
It started in February this year, when we had to say goodbye to our Blue. I work in a profession where I frequently have to help people deal with the loss of their pets. I have some great friends at work who helped us get through our own loss this time around, particularly Kat Hodes.
 |
| The card Kat Hodes made for us |
If that wasn't enough, a short time after saying goodbye to Blue, we got a card in the mail that Kat had personalized with Blue and our dog Scrubbs having a conversation about heaven. It was an amazingly sweet gift that I could never have imagined anyone would give us.
When I drew a work assignment this year that I didn't ask for or want, I didn't know how I was going to get through it. I'd spent the previous couple of years in work related-angst, and my faith in my professional world had worn pretty thin. I had just started to believe the corner had turned when this assignment came up.
A short time before this difficult assignment, I got a new boss. In the past, that had been a scary change. This time, it has been one of the best things that could ever have happened. Becca Forbis is a manager. She defines the word. She knows people, and she knows what they need to be successful and to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even during difficult times. She could not have any idea how much our weekly lunches meant to me over the summer. She helped me believe, again, in things I had given up on. She helped me believe that someone in my work world really cares about us, and that she will go to bat for me. She's an amazing person, and continues to mean so much in my life.
It seems like those couple of things would have been enough. But June packed quite a punch this year.
When Jeph ended up in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism, we were immediately surrounded by friends, some of whom traveled a great distance to be with us. Sheri Rohrbach, and Jeph's mom Jill, came running. They were there to sit with him, and to keep me distracted for the three days he was hospitalized. And anyone who couldn't come sent messages and offered up any other kind of help we might want.
A short time following Jeph's adventure, our late start to a non-furry family didn't go so well. We're still waiting for another chance at that.
But when things started to go so sadly awry, I leaned on someone who knew what I was going through pretty hard. Meg Kaemmer is one of the brightest, most sparkly people I know. I don't think she knows how amazing and beautiful she is. I don't have any idea how many texts I received from her in the days leading up to, and immediately after my miscarriage this year. On a day-to-day basis, I realize we aren't the most obvious friends, but every time it has really mattered, she has been there behind the scenes when I can't keep myself together. She's my stormy weather friend.
And she wasn't the only one.
The first day back at work, Cory Bassett knew I wasn't doing the best. She rescued me away to lunch so I could get all of it out. It seems like a little thing to take someone to lunch, but it was huge that day, and proof that sometimes the tiniest gestures have the greatest impact. Not unlike another tiny gesture from Kat Hodes, when she sent me some of Bono's mojo.
 |
| All those "Fever" books from Julie Moyer Lancaster |
Ginnifer Smith Jobgen was there when I got my first massage in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. We had been friends for a long time, but we hadn't been able to hang out in ages. She had been a comforting voice in my storm as well, and in August, I got to escape to Indiana to be with her for a few days just to slow the world down. I was reminded of why it had meant to much to me to fight for our friendship when she and Jeph's brother broke up all those years ago. She continues to understand me on levels that few people do.
I have been grateful to all of these women this year for showing me in small and giant ways how easy it is to make a difference for others. I don't think any one of them would consider what they've done for me this year to be extraordinary. But that's exactly what they are--extraordinary, because it's just their way.
 |
| Ginnifer Jobgen knockin' on my heart's door |
I think taking a month aside and dedicating a moment to share gratitude everyday is a good thing. Maybe I'm not into it, because the level of gratitude I have for these amazing women in my life leaves me speechless. I don't know how to be worthy of the love I've been shown by all of them during this most difficult year.
There are always going to be moments that get you down. It's easy to spiral downward with it. At times, I have let myself be sadder than I should have been. But sometimes, that's when people give you the most to be grateful for. It's because every tiny thing they do lifts you up, when you find it difficult to lift yourself up.
Kind and Generous--Natalie Merchant
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Wonder of the Twilight Years, and My Tribe, November 13, 2012
So, I invariably meet with a little flack every time I bring up the "Twilight" series, and I don't expect this time to be any different, but have patience, flack flingers, because I think you might understand where I'm coming from.
The last of the screen adaptations of the books premiers late Thursday night, and as I have done for the last four years, I will be attending the midnight showing. But I won't be going alone. I will be going with two young women, who are very special to me. And we will be going with millions of other people (not all in the same theater, of course).
In the early fall of 2008, one of the dearest people I know suggested I read the series. I had seen the book displays all over the place, and as a newbie to Facebook, I had seen so many Edward and Bella pieces of flare, I already felt a little left out, because I didn't know the story. As with many of us who are periodically angsty, I was going through "one of those times" and really needed a diversion. I used a forty percent off Barnes and Noble coupon and bought the set. Some of the best money I ever spent.
Much to my amazement, I was sucked in. The books were like a Dyson--they never lost suction.
I think it's important at this time to mention, I'm a relatively intelligent person. I love reading and writing. I know the difference between high literature and low literature. I know that the "Twilight" series does not rise to the level of "Of Mice and Men," or "The Fountainhead." I know that learned people are horrified by the message these books send to young women--that if they just meet the right boy their whole world will change. But as much as I know all of these things, I know some other things as well.
I know that the books in this series provided an escape during a time in which I needed one. I know that they inspired young people to read as they hadn't done since the release of J.K. Rowlings' Harry Potter series, and maybe even a different segment of young people that hadn't yet been reached. I know I started reading more as a result. I know they sparked a ridiculous phenomenon that still carries people away today--sometimes to the point of absurdity, and at others just to the edge of silliness. Myself included.
And that's the key phrase: "myself included."
People are often captured by things that they can relate to, or that are very special to them. You may have heard of "Trekkies" and "Whovians?" Not all fandoms have adopted, or been given names, but they are no less obsessive. Die-hard comic book fans attend conventions all over the world in hopes of meeting their very favorite heroes and characters, never for a moment accepting the fiction of the situation.
"Twilight," whether good or bad, is like all of these other things, in that it gives its people something they didn't have before--a place where they feel they belong. A comic-book salesman I knew referred to it as a sense of "tribe."
This reassured me when I felt silly for deciding to attend a "Twilight" themed convention in 2009. I really wanted to go, but I felt like a total dweeb. In retrospect, it was one of the funnest weekends ever, and it was really good for me. In spite of the "horrible" message the books send young women about not being independent, it was that convention that inspired me to go on my first major trip all on my own. For the first time, I got on a plane by myself for something other than work. I learned that if there was someplace I really wanted to go, I didn't need to have someone else to come along. I know so many people who hear that I did that, and that I have taken other trips and it stupefies them. Many women I know won't even eat at Applebees by themselves! And that stupefies me. What the what?
Because I so wanted to be a part of what my tribe was doing, I challenged the inner dialogue I often have with myself about what I can and cannot do.
What's more is that after being so inspired by these books to read other books, I was also inspired to write again--something I hadn't been willing to entertain for more than ten years. Now, I have some folks who think I do okay at it, and I like that, but more important than anyone who reads what I write, is the simple fact that I always loved to do it, and I am doing it again. That's worth something.
I'm not trying to convince anyone that "Twilight" is anything special in and of itself. It is what it is for me, and for the millions of people who connected with it, for whatever reason. It's more about what the sense of belonging to something so big can do for a person, or even for large group of people.
Many of us spend a good portion of our lives feeling like we're stuck on the outside and can't get in. There's no place for us. Sometimes it takes a gigantic door to let us in, and once we cross the threshold, the whole world becomes ours.
I, like many of my fellow "Twihards," or "Twekkies," have re-read the series multiple times. In my subsequent readings, I was no less enamored or enthralled, even as sections of dialogue seemed ludicrous at times, and childish at others. I get it. But knowing how flawed something is doesn't always make it less valuable.
As Thursday night is fast approaching, and a "Breaking Dawn Part 2" trailer is coincidentally playing on my television right now, I'm a little wistful and sad. There currently is no promise of five more movies, or even more books. There won't be a three-part prequel to the three-part prequel by Disney. There won't be a reincarnation of the "Amazing Edward." At this point, it's all coming to an end. My tribe will not have a "one more thing" coming up to hold us together. We probably won't disband, but what is a tribe without a shaman?
Reaching the stroke of midnight Thursday night is a shift in the movement of my tribe, but it also is a shift in my closer world. It marks the end of an era--the Twilight Years. That's what I have come to call these last few years. My adoptive girls who attend the midnight premier of the movies with me every year are growing up. In the next year, they will be finishing up with college and starting lives in different places. We won't be planning for the next "Twilight" movie to be released in November again.
I know we will stay in contact, and that while things will be different, we will always have this sense of belonging, and the many others that came about because of this "Twilight" connection.
So, for everyone who has a strong distaste for such ridiculous literary tripe, I encourage you to just insert the name of your own tribe in every place I wrote "Twilight" or something obviously related, and settle on the feeling you have. Focus hard. Do you feel it? Okay. That's what being part of the "Twilight Saga" means for my tribe.
Ours--The Bravery
The last of the screen adaptations of the books premiers late Thursday night, and as I have done for the last four years, I will be attending the midnight showing. But I won't be going alone. I will be going with two young women, who are very special to me. And we will be going with millions of other people (not all in the same theater, of course).
In the early fall of 2008, one of the dearest people I know suggested I read the series. I had seen the book displays all over the place, and as a newbie to Facebook, I had seen so many Edward and Bella pieces of flare, I already felt a little left out, because I didn't know the story. As with many of us who are periodically angsty, I was going through "one of those times" and really needed a diversion. I used a forty percent off Barnes and Noble coupon and bought the set. Some of the best money I ever spent.Much to my amazement, I was sucked in. The books were like a Dyson--they never lost suction.
I think it's important at this time to mention, I'm a relatively intelligent person. I love reading and writing. I know the difference between high literature and low literature. I know that the "Twilight" series does not rise to the level of "Of Mice and Men," or "The Fountainhead." I know that learned people are horrified by the message these books send to young women--that if they just meet the right boy their whole world will change. But as much as I know all of these things, I know some other things as well.
I know that the books in this series provided an escape during a time in which I needed one. I know that they inspired young people to read as they hadn't done since the release of J.K. Rowlings' Harry Potter series, and maybe even a different segment of young people that hadn't yet been reached. I know I started reading more as a result. I know they sparked a ridiculous phenomenon that still carries people away today--sometimes to the point of absurdity, and at others just to the edge of silliness. Myself included.
And that's the key phrase: "myself included."
People are often captured by things that they can relate to, or that are very special to them. You may have heard of "Trekkies" and "Whovians?" Not all fandoms have adopted, or been given names, but they are no less obsessive. Die-hard comic book fans attend conventions all over the world in hopes of meeting their very favorite heroes and characters, never for a moment accepting the fiction of the situation.
"Twilight," whether good or bad, is like all of these other things, in that it gives its people something they didn't have before--a place where they feel they belong. A comic-book salesman I knew referred to it as a sense of "tribe."
This reassured me when I felt silly for deciding to attend a "Twilight" themed convention in 2009. I really wanted to go, but I felt like a total dweeb. In retrospect, it was one of the funnest weekends ever, and it was really good for me. In spite of the "horrible" message the books send young women about not being independent, it was that convention that inspired me to go on my first major trip all on my own. For the first time, I got on a plane by myself for something other than work. I learned that if there was someplace I really wanted to go, I didn't need to have someone else to come along. I know so many people who hear that I did that, and that I have taken other trips and it stupefies them. Many women I know won't even eat at Applebees by themselves! And that stupefies me. What the what?Because I so wanted to be a part of what my tribe was doing, I challenged the inner dialogue I often have with myself about what I can and cannot do.
What's more is that after being so inspired by these books to read other books, I was also inspired to write again--something I hadn't been willing to entertain for more than ten years. Now, I have some folks who think I do okay at it, and I like that, but more important than anyone who reads what I write, is the simple fact that I always loved to do it, and I am doing it again. That's worth something.
I'm not trying to convince anyone that "Twilight" is anything special in and of itself. It is what it is for me, and for the millions of people who connected with it, for whatever reason. It's more about what the sense of belonging to something so big can do for a person, or even for large group of people.
Many of us spend a good portion of our lives feeling like we're stuck on the outside and can't get in. There's no place for us. Sometimes it takes a gigantic door to let us in, and once we cross the threshold, the whole world becomes ours.
I, like many of my fellow "Twihards," or "Twekkies," have re-read the series multiple times. In my subsequent readings, I was no less enamored or enthralled, even as sections of dialogue seemed ludicrous at times, and childish at others. I get it. But knowing how flawed something is doesn't always make it less valuable.
As Thursday night is fast approaching, and a "Breaking Dawn Part 2" trailer is coincidentally playing on my television right now, I'm a little wistful and sad. There currently is no promise of five more movies, or even more books. There won't be a three-part prequel to the three-part prequel by Disney. There won't be a reincarnation of the "Amazing Edward." At this point, it's all coming to an end. My tribe will not have a "one more thing" coming up to hold us together. We probably won't disband, but what is a tribe without a shaman?
 |
| Abby & Stacy--My Twilight Girls |
I know we will stay in contact, and that while things will be different, we will always have this sense of belonging, and the many others that came about because of this "Twilight" connection.
So, for everyone who has a strong distaste for such ridiculous literary tripe, I encourage you to just insert the name of your own tribe in every place I wrote "Twilight" or something obviously related, and settle on the feeling you have. Focus hard. Do you feel it? Okay. That's what being part of the "Twilight Saga" means for my tribe.
Ours--The Bravery
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Rolling in the Green, November 7, 2012
So, a little over two weeks ago, as I listened to the safety instructions on an Aer Lingus flight that was getting ready to depart from Dublin, I felt the stinging of uncontrollable tears flood my eyes. I tried, very discreetly, to dab them away with my shirt sleeve, as I stared out the window, hoping that no one would see me.
I felt sad, and a little bit ridiculous. At least a couple of times during our trip, it occurred to Jeph and me that time was slipping away, and that our days in Ireland were growing shorter, and our return to reality was imminent. We knew part of it was just the feeling of disappointment that we would be going back to our busy lives, where time together is too short, and moments of appreciation for what's around us slip through our fingers all too easily. But as I sat in that seat, watching the patches of green slip away behind clouds, I also knew it was because every time I leave, I feel like a large part of me gets left behind with all those shades of green.
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| Connemara |
But as many obstacles as there are, they don't negate the affinity I feel for the craggy rocks of the Burren, the nearness of the oceans surrounding me on all sides, and the connections I feel to every blade of grass, and to every gnarled tree root reaching into the soil. As someone who has spent a lot of my life feeling out of place and disconnected, it's one of, maybe, two places I feel I could truly belong.
When I leave that feeling behind, I imagine it's akin to leaving your child behind. I'm leaving a sliver of joy behind--a piece of my life--and all I have to bring back are trinkets, photos, and the hope that my memories will fill that space until next time.
On this trip, we chose to revisit several places we love, but took opportunities to see new places as well. We traipsed around the Burren and Ailwee Cave, both of which are in the county dearest to my heart, Clare. We walked around the grounds of Ballynahinch Castle, where we stumbled upon wild shamrocks, thistles and a waterfall. We were consumed by the cool dampness of the lushness that can occasionally overwhelm you in near darkness, even in the middle of the day. I helped fulfill Jeph's wish to see the Leviathan Telescope in County Offaly, and we explored the "magic" of Glendalough in County Wicklow. The ancient aura of Newgrange made me want to place my name in the lottery to return for the Winter Solstice, and to have the financial means to be able to hop on a plane at a moment's notice if my name was actually drawn.
I had promised Jeph that on this trip, we wouldn't run and run and run. But as we drove along the country roads of Ireland, I saw signpost after signpost, making it clear to me that it would require an entire lifetime to see everything I would ever wish to see there. And that's what I want. Given infinite time, wealth and freedom, I would jump on a plane, hop in a car, and never stop until I could say that I had seen all that Ireland has to offer.
At this point, it may be worth it to acknowledge that I realize the possibility that if I had the fortune to be there all the time, my appreciation for it might wain. I think that's a valid argument for staying here in the Midwest of the United States. After all, we live a pretty comfortable life, and I am not generally unhappy here.
But when we were in the limey Burren, without any thought, I declared that I wanted to "roll around in it." Jeph teased me, and thought my declaration was hilarious. For one, taking a roll around in the Burren would be anything but comfortable, and I'm pretty sure that anyone witnessing such an act would have thought me insane. That said, I can think of no other way to describe how much I want every surface of Ireland to meet with mine, and to tangibly connect to my every surface. I literally want to be as much a part of it, as I feel it to be a part of me. It's not about the "seeing" of everything there, it's about the "being" with it.
I think it's only natural to be coming to the end of a vacation and feel down about the prospect of returning to work-a-day life. Since returning, I have spent less time with Jeph than I want and need to. I have already begun to feel the strain we all feel with going through the motions of work and day to day life. It was always going to be this way.
While on our trip, a friend commented on one of my Facebook posts, saying that she realized that this trip was more than just a vacation for Jeph and me, it was a trip to someplace we could feel a sense of healing. I agreed with her. The last eighteen months have been rocky ones for us, starting with the tornado that swept through Joplin last year. A lot has happened in that time frame. We've lost our dog Blue. Jeph is still learning to cope with the lack of control he has over his body since his pulmonary embolism this summer. And I still have my sad days of frustration over my own body being out of my hands since my miscarriage. I think there are some wounds and assaults, from which it takes a very long time to recover.
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| Poulnabrone Dolmen, County Clare |
In a dire moment, I asked for what I needed, believing it was what we both needed--something to look forward to, when everything seemed to be going to hell in a hand-basket. As we have returned, I think I understand that the need was for more than just a trip--more than just something to look forward to. I'm not close to my own family, so there are some things I can only speculate about. I imagine for people who do have that closeness, in times of crisis, you seek out your family--your common home--for comfort and for a place that feels like yours. That's the feeling of need that I had.
Right now, as I continue to adjust to coming back and to the day to day things that feel somewhat unimportant to me, I look at nine days as a band-aid. As the days trickled away, the adhesive slowly wore off, and all those wounds still have to heal the rest of the way. Only now, they have to heal away from the tickling waters of Powerscourt Waterfall, and without the brisk winds that whistle through the crevices of the lunar landscape of the Burren. The wild green I can still close my eyes and see is thousands of miles away. But if I could, in my heart's beat, I would jump at the chance to always be rolling around in it.
The Planets Bend Between Us--Snow Patrol
Monday, October 29, 2012
An American Sunset, October 29, 2012
So, a little over two weeks ago, I sat against a wall of windows that looked out over an airfield of giant planes, all fueling up for different destinations. We were in one of the Aer Lingus terminals, and surrounded by Irish folk waiting to return home.
As we sat there in the late afternoon, something funny happened. About half a dozen burly Irishmen stood up and pulled out camera phones and their other photographic "weaponry." They began shooting pictures of the New York skyline as the sun was setting. I couldn't help but chuckle. And then it occurred to me--maybe I was missing something. So, I popped out my iPhone and snapped a couple of pics myself.
It was a beautiful sunset. And without the excitement of these enthusiastic photogs, I would have ignored it, in favor of surfing the net or flipping through a magazine or guidebook.
I couldn't see things the way they were seeing them--through an outsider's eyes.
It wasn't the only time during our recent travels that an outsider shed light on a world that I think most of us in America are too disillusioned, and downhearted to see.
On our flight from Chicago to New York, I overheard a young Italian woman discussing her future, and the hopes and dreams she has for herself. She was traveling home after spending time in the Midwest studying. She very much hoped she would be returning to the U.S. for her collegiate studies, and the man she was talking to seemed surprised to hear about her eagerness.
She explained that there are no jobs for her back home, and the freedom she might have to explore career opportunities at home is very limited. I found her account a little surprising myself. The young woman said she wasn't sure what course of study she wanted to follow, and back home the educational structure requires students to select a specific course of study. In America, she would have the opportunity to study with a much broader approach, so she could discover the right career path and avoid having to take a job she didn't like.
As an American, I always took for granted the educational opportunities I had, and while I know that many Americans struggle to have an opportunity for higher education, at least if they get there, they can choose their own path, or even change it.
I know that in the current economic situation, millions of Americans are unemployed, or find themselves in low-paying jobs that are barely making ends meet. It's a tough time. In times like this, it's hard for us to care much about how the rest of the world is doing. But the Irishmen with the cameras, and the young Italian woman reminded me that sometimes we need to look at our situations through different eyes.
We had the opportunity to watch a lot of news while overseas, and we were shocked to learn that unemployment in Ireland is at about fifteen percent. That's nearly double the current unemployment rate of the U.S. Ireland, along with Greece, Spain and Italy, has found itself in the news in recent years for their serious levels of debt, and the fabric of the European Union threatens to unravel as the more economically powerful and successful countries try to keep it afloat.
Along with watching a lot of news, we road in several taxis. And as fantastic as the anchors of RTE' and the BBC are, nobody has the pulse of a nation better than an Irish cabby. On our ride from the Dublin airport to the town center, we had the opportunity to talk to Tony. We try very hard not to be the brash, hurried and impatient Americans that we often see traveling around us. Jeph usually cracks a few jokes about whatever travel dilemmas we "dumb Americans" have found ourselves in, and self-deprecates to the max. In our thirty minute drive, Tony revealed his view of how Ireland got into such dire straits. In the EU, immigration is pretty easy, and in most countries, the government provides for you if you don't have a job. It's expected. The Irish economy is teeny tiny, by comparison to many of its neighbors, and obviously miniscule compared to that of the United States. But he made a point of saying that unlike Las Vegas, what happens in the U.S. economy doesn't stay in the U.S. economy. When we nosedive, the world nosedives. They're all watching the U.S. Presidential Election with concerned and baited breath.
So, when it comes down to it, we may not care about the rest of the world, or our impact on it, but rest assured, the rest of the world still looks to us as a beacon. We're the country that still shines a light of hope for the rest of the world--whether we want to be or not. They view our success or failure as their potential success or failure.
I'm not naive, and I know many of my friends and associates look at the current economy, and want to point fingers of blame. I haven't made my political views a secret, but regardless of what I believe, I'm not so certain that I'm right, and everyone else is wrong, that I would even begin to pontificate about who people should vote for, or what they should think.
But a week before our nation peacefully elects the leader who will try to steer this ship for the next four years, I think it's work sharing that while we may be looking at ourselves, and we may be thinking about how bad everything is, there are people everywhere else still seeing America as the place to be. They still see the best hope of change, vitality and greatness on our shores.
Having a positive outlook doesn't create jobs. It doesn't bring down the costs of health care. Positivity isn't going to save Social Security or Medicare. But looking at everything through the mucky, filthy, gray glasses of hopelessness and negativity isn't going to get us anywhere either.
And at the end of the day, we may not care about each other, and we may despise each others' views, but ultimately, just like all of the people who came to this country with hope, we are each other. And we still are the hope of the world.
In God's Country--U2
As we sat there in the late afternoon, something funny happened. About half a dozen burly Irishmen stood up and pulled out camera phones and their other photographic "weaponry." They began shooting pictures of the New York skyline as the sun was setting. I couldn't help but chuckle. And then it occurred to me--maybe I was missing something. So, I popped out my iPhone and snapped a couple of pics myself.
It was a beautiful sunset. And without the excitement of these enthusiastic photogs, I would have ignored it, in favor of surfing the net or flipping through a magazine or guidebook.
I couldn't see things the way they were seeing them--through an outsider's eyes.
It wasn't the only time during our recent travels that an outsider shed light on a world that I think most of us in America are too disillusioned, and downhearted to see.
On our flight from Chicago to New York, I overheard a young Italian woman discussing her future, and the hopes and dreams she has for herself. She was traveling home after spending time in the Midwest studying. She very much hoped she would be returning to the U.S. for her collegiate studies, and the man she was talking to seemed surprised to hear about her eagerness.
She explained that there are no jobs for her back home, and the freedom she might have to explore career opportunities at home is very limited. I found her account a little surprising myself. The young woman said she wasn't sure what course of study she wanted to follow, and back home the educational structure requires students to select a specific course of study. In America, she would have the opportunity to study with a much broader approach, so she could discover the right career path and avoid having to take a job she didn't like.
As an American, I always took for granted the educational opportunities I had, and while I know that many Americans struggle to have an opportunity for higher education, at least if they get there, they can choose their own path, or even change it.
I know that in the current economic situation, millions of Americans are unemployed, or find themselves in low-paying jobs that are barely making ends meet. It's a tough time. In times like this, it's hard for us to care much about how the rest of the world is doing. But the Irishmen with the cameras, and the young Italian woman reminded me that sometimes we need to look at our situations through different eyes.
We had the opportunity to watch a lot of news while overseas, and we were shocked to learn that unemployment in Ireland is at about fifteen percent. That's nearly double the current unemployment rate of the U.S. Ireland, along with Greece, Spain and Italy, has found itself in the news in recent years for their serious levels of debt, and the fabric of the European Union threatens to unravel as the more economically powerful and successful countries try to keep it afloat.
Along with watching a lot of news, we road in several taxis. And as fantastic as the anchors of RTE' and the BBC are, nobody has the pulse of a nation better than an Irish cabby. On our ride from the Dublin airport to the town center, we had the opportunity to talk to Tony. We try very hard not to be the brash, hurried and impatient Americans that we often see traveling around us. Jeph usually cracks a few jokes about whatever travel dilemmas we "dumb Americans" have found ourselves in, and self-deprecates to the max. In our thirty minute drive, Tony revealed his view of how Ireland got into such dire straits. In the EU, immigration is pretty easy, and in most countries, the government provides for you if you don't have a job. It's expected. The Irish economy is teeny tiny, by comparison to many of its neighbors, and obviously miniscule compared to that of the United States. But he made a point of saying that unlike Las Vegas, what happens in the U.S. economy doesn't stay in the U.S. economy. When we nosedive, the world nosedives. They're all watching the U.S. Presidential Election with concerned and baited breath.
So, when it comes down to it, we may not care about the rest of the world, or our impact on it, but rest assured, the rest of the world still looks to us as a beacon. We're the country that still shines a light of hope for the rest of the world--whether we want to be or not. They view our success or failure as their potential success or failure.
I'm not naive, and I know many of my friends and associates look at the current economy, and want to point fingers of blame. I haven't made my political views a secret, but regardless of what I believe, I'm not so certain that I'm right, and everyone else is wrong, that I would even begin to pontificate about who people should vote for, or what they should think.
 |
| A New York Sunset |
Having a positive outlook doesn't create jobs. It doesn't bring down the costs of health care. Positivity isn't going to save Social Security or Medicare. But looking at everything through the mucky, filthy, gray glasses of hopelessness and negativity isn't going to get us anywhere either.
And at the end of the day, we may not care about each other, and we may despise each others' views, but ultimately, just like all of the people who came to this country with hope, we are each other. And we still are the hope of the world.
In God's Country--U2
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Rings Around Fingers, October 28, 2012
So, I have this little, silver ring I wear on my right ring finger. It has Jeph's name engraved on it in the ancient Irish alphabet called ogham. When I put it on, I try to make sure I face the letters up and down so when I look at it, his name is read right to left by me. I bought it for myself about ten years after we got married. It was inexpensive, and by now it is all scratched up and has definitely seen better days.
Since I bought the ring, I occasionally see advertisements in magazines for jewelers selling flashy, bejeweled rings designed for a woman's right hand. These rings are supposed to be a statement about the owner's personal independence and freedom to live her life. Like a lot of women, I'm enamored of the right hand rings in those pictures. I'm a little bit of a jewelry nut, so why wouldn't I be attracted to a little bling?
When Jeph and I first started talking about the prospect of getting married nearly 17 years ago, I was just graduating from college, and he had his first job out of grad school. Paying rent was more important than saving a couple months' salary for a big rock to put on my left hand. We picked a marquis diamond solitaire that he could afford to make payments on, and I picked out a wrap in which I could have our birthstones set. I didn't know much about picking out a ring. I didn't know what to look for in the way of durability. I just picked out something I thought was pretty, and that I could turn into something meaningful.
Sadly, my lack of knowledge netted me a ring that wouldn't hold up. I repeated lost stones out of my wrap, and had to have it repaired multiple times, and even replaced. Over several years of battling this infernally beautiful ring that wouldn't last, I gave up. I stashed the wrap out of sight in a box, because I couldn't wear it, and I couldn't bear to see it sitting around and not on my left hand.
Eventually, Jeph and I agreed that we would get the ring replaced, and I found a fantastic jeweler to work with. We designed something really special that reflected my Celtic sensibility, and I was assured that this ring would be built to withstand the type of work I do on a day to day basis. A year or so after I got my new ring, Jeph took it in to have it cleaned and he had an oft used phrase engraved on the inside of it for me: "Nation of two."
Over the years of our marriage, we had come to realize that in times of struggle and in times of joy, we were together. We would get through those tough times, and enjoy those fantastic times together. Sure, we have friends and family, but at the end of the day, our life together is ours. We are a "nation of two."
When I bought that little, silver ring with Jeph's name on it, it was another ring I chose. And I wear it on the finger those magazine ads suggest should be the one signifying that I still have my freedom and independence--as if to say that the one I wear on my left hand is the one I wear signifying my sense of being tied to my husband.
I suppose it depends on how you look at it. And I suppose that there are as many different kinds of marriages as there are rings to be worn. Over the weekend, I was thinking about my ring fingers and what the rings I wear mean to me. I am very fortunate. The marriage I find myself in is one based on partnership and commonalities, but it is also based on a knowledge that we are two equal and separate individuals. I grew up watching my mother's first marriage--specifically the struggle of her husband to control her, and her struggle not to be controlled.
Those struggles are not a part of my reality. For that I am grateful. In my jewelry box, there is a tiny little ring with two entwined hearts. Each heart has a tiny little diamond chip. This was the promise ring my mother's first husband gave to her. This pretty little ring I fell in love with as a girl, is now a symbol of promises broken--a ring that was intended to be a symbol of my mother's submission to a man who needed to feel he was in control. I still think it's pretty, but I am wise enough to understand that even the most visually beautiful things can be dark and deceptive.
Love, and the symbols we use to mark each other, should always be like those rings in the right ring finger ads. Love shouldn't bind us. Yes, it makes us responsible to each other, but only because we want to be. It should make us hope for each other and the happiness of one another. It should be an opportunity to share a lifetime, but also to support and work toward each others' dreams. Love should understand that when we commit to each other, we do not discard ourselves.
When I look at the rings on both of my hands, I know that I have a fortune that not everyone gets to realize. I have two rings that are just like those right hand ring ads, and so much more. They're symbols of my chosen partner in life, and symbols of the freedom I feel in loving him.
Everyone should be able to look at the rings on their fingers and feel so lucky.
The Book of Love--A cover by Peter Gabriel
Since I bought the ring, I occasionally see advertisements in magazines for jewelers selling flashy, bejeweled rings designed for a woman's right hand. These rings are supposed to be a statement about the owner's personal independence and freedom to live her life. Like a lot of women, I'm enamored of the right hand rings in those pictures. I'm a little bit of a jewelry nut, so why wouldn't I be attracted to a little bling?When Jeph and I first started talking about the prospect of getting married nearly 17 years ago, I was just graduating from college, and he had his first job out of grad school. Paying rent was more important than saving a couple months' salary for a big rock to put on my left hand. We picked a marquis diamond solitaire that he could afford to make payments on, and I picked out a wrap in which I could have our birthstones set. I didn't know much about picking out a ring. I didn't know what to look for in the way of durability. I just picked out something I thought was pretty, and that I could turn into something meaningful.
Sadly, my lack of knowledge netted me a ring that wouldn't hold up. I repeated lost stones out of my wrap, and had to have it repaired multiple times, and even replaced. Over several years of battling this infernally beautiful ring that wouldn't last, I gave up. I stashed the wrap out of sight in a box, because I couldn't wear it, and I couldn't bear to see it sitting around and not on my left hand.
Eventually, Jeph and I agreed that we would get the ring replaced, and I found a fantastic jeweler to work with. We designed something really special that reflected my Celtic sensibility, and I was assured that this ring would be built to withstand the type of work I do on a day to day basis. A year or so after I got my new ring, Jeph took it in to have it cleaned and he had an oft used phrase engraved on the inside of it for me: "Nation of two."
Over the years of our marriage, we had come to realize that in times of struggle and in times of joy, we were together. We would get through those tough times, and enjoy those fantastic times together. Sure, we have friends and family, but at the end of the day, our life together is ours. We are a "nation of two."
When I bought that little, silver ring with Jeph's name on it, it was another ring I chose. And I wear it on the finger those magazine ads suggest should be the one signifying that I still have my freedom and independence--as if to say that the one I wear on my left hand is the one I wear signifying my sense of being tied to my husband.
I suppose it depends on how you look at it. And I suppose that there are as many different kinds of marriages as there are rings to be worn. Over the weekend, I was thinking about my ring fingers and what the rings I wear mean to me. I am very fortunate. The marriage I find myself in is one based on partnership and commonalities, but it is also based on a knowledge that we are two equal and separate individuals. I grew up watching my mother's first marriage--specifically the struggle of her husband to control her, and her struggle not to be controlled.
Those struggles are not a part of my reality. For that I am grateful. In my jewelry box, there is a tiny little ring with two entwined hearts. Each heart has a tiny little diamond chip. This was the promise ring my mother's first husband gave to her. This pretty little ring I fell in love with as a girl, is now a symbol of promises broken--a ring that was intended to be a symbol of my mother's submission to a man who needed to feel he was in control. I still think it's pretty, but I am wise enough to understand that even the most visually beautiful things can be dark and deceptive.
Love, and the symbols we use to mark each other, should always be like those rings in the right ring finger ads. Love shouldn't bind us. Yes, it makes us responsible to each other, but only because we want to be. It should make us hope for each other and the happiness of one another. It should be an opportunity to share a lifetime, but also to support and work toward each others' dreams. Love should understand that when we commit to each other, we do not discard ourselves.
When I look at the rings on both of my hands, I know that I have a fortune that not everyone gets to realize. I have two rings that are just like those right hand ring ads, and so much more. They're symbols of my chosen partner in life, and symbols of the freedom I feel in loving him.
Everyone should be able to look at the rings on their fingers and feel so lucky.
The Book of Love--A cover by Peter Gabriel
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Surrendering the Dream--Let it go
So, there are moments in life in which you have to accept that a dream is coming to an end, and you didn't even realize you were sleeping.
The world of work is difficult. There are a billion things we all would like to be doing everyday, and in the perfect world, we'd find a way to get paid for all of them. Most of the time, we end up sacrificing something in order to pay a bill, have a roof over our heads, and shoes on our feet. But, hopefully, we don't hate what we do in order to meet those needs.
I've been guilty of putting all of my eggs into one basket, multiple times. I've been guilty of believing in things that sometimes didn't believe in me back.
The first time around, I was going to be a journalist or writer. I still love to write, and I still hope one day that doing so will be a larger part of my existence than it is. For one, I know it will take far more discipline than I have now, and a wellspring of energy that I don't have most days. For two, being successful at it, will require that I find people who believe in me as much as I sometimes believe in myself.
The second time around, I realized that the first basket wasn't going to help me meet the needs of bills, roofs, or shoes. So, I fell in love with an idea, and went back to school to become a veterinary technician. I still believe in the idea with which I fell in love, but it took me a while to recognize that idea didn't necessarily believe in, or love me as much.
I had allowed myself to be consumed by what I do, what I thought I should be, and what I thought I had the chance to become. In the process, I forgot that I was more than all of those things. I think we all do that a little bit when we don't have anything on the outside to anchor us to the ground and remind us who we are while we are reaching so high for those possibilities we may always be left...reaching for.
Very recently it took a year and a half of being knocked to the ground (hard) repeatedly for me to realize who I am, and who I want to be. I'm still not there yet, but everyday, I think I see myself a little more clearly. I see when I start to slip and let all the other wind in my world blow me around, and I mistakenly think myself powerless to stand against it. I forget that we all have power...power of self, it's just a matter of choosing to use that power in our lives when we really need to.
What do I mean by that? It's not a simple answer. Sometimes it means that we say "yes" when we want to say "no," because we know the currency we stand to gain. Sometimes it means that when we leave work, we really leave it there. Sometimes it means we accept that what's good, outweighs the bad for us, and we are doing more than paying bills, keeping roofs over our heads, or shoes on our feet. What's good are the friendships we build with people who share common struggles, values and hopes. What's good is the satisfaction that we do it better than most. What's good is knowing that someone waits for us at home--four-legged or two, and even if nobody else we encounter all day believes in us, they do. Sometimes the power of "self" means we know when a dream has been just that, and we are worth more than that dream to ourselves and the people who love us. And even when waking up from that dream hurts like hell, we're going to be all right.
Being aware of "self" means you have the power to recognize what's worthwhile in your life, no matter what else might be happening around you. There's always something worthwhile, and you always had some part in making that happen. There's always something to believe in--it's you.
I have a friend going through a tough time today. A day of disillusionment and loss. Tough places to be. It's a painful to wake up from dreams, but just as hard to have the feeling that somehow, you were asleep along the way, and that you've given so much of yourself over to a non-wakeful state. Letting go is never easy. But when you let go, you find, you can...let it go...surrender.
Bad--U2
The world of work is difficult. There are a billion things we all would like to be doing everyday, and in the perfect world, we'd find a way to get paid for all of them. Most of the time, we end up sacrificing something in order to pay a bill, have a roof over our heads, and shoes on our feet. But, hopefully, we don't hate what we do in order to meet those needs.
I've been guilty of putting all of my eggs into one basket, multiple times. I've been guilty of believing in things that sometimes didn't believe in me back.
The first time around, I was going to be a journalist or writer. I still love to write, and I still hope one day that doing so will be a larger part of my existence than it is. For one, I know it will take far more discipline than I have now, and a wellspring of energy that I don't have most days. For two, being successful at it, will require that I find people who believe in me as much as I sometimes believe in myself.
The second time around, I realized that the first basket wasn't going to help me meet the needs of bills, roofs, or shoes. So, I fell in love with an idea, and went back to school to become a veterinary technician. I still believe in the idea with which I fell in love, but it took me a while to recognize that idea didn't necessarily believe in, or love me as much.
I had allowed myself to be consumed by what I do, what I thought I should be, and what I thought I had the chance to become. In the process, I forgot that I was more than all of those things. I think we all do that a little bit when we don't have anything on the outside to anchor us to the ground and remind us who we are while we are reaching so high for those possibilities we may always be left...reaching for.
Very recently it took a year and a half of being knocked to the ground (hard) repeatedly for me to realize who I am, and who I want to be. I'm still not there yet, but everyday, I think I see myself a little more clearly. I see when I start to slip and let all the other wind in my world blow me around, and I mistakenly think myself powerless to stand against it. I forget that we all have power...power of self, it's just a matter of choosing to use that power in our lives when we really need to.
What do I mean by that? It's not a simple answer. Sometimes it means that we say "yes" when we want to say "no," because we know the currency we stand to gain. Sometimes it means that when we leave work, we really leave it there. Sometimes it means we accept that what's good, outweighs the bad for us, and we are doing more than paying bills, keeping roofs over our heads, or shoes on our feet. What's good are the friendships we build with people who share common struggles, values and hopes. What's good is the satisfaction that we do it better than most. What's good is knowing that someone waits for us at home--four-legged or two, and even if nobody else we encounter all day believes in us, they do. Sometimes the power of "self" means we know when a dream has been just that, and we are worth more than that dream to ourselves and the people who love us. And even when waking up from that dream hurts like hell, we're going to be all right.
Being aware of "self" means you have the power to recognize what's worthwhile in your life, no matter what else might be happening around you. There's always something worthwhile, and you always had some part in making that happen. There's always something to believe in--it's you.
I have a friend going through a tough time today. A day of disillusionment and loss. Tough places to be. It's a painful to wake up from dreams, but just as hard to have the feeling that somehow, you were asleep along the way, and that you've given so much of yourself over to a non-wakeful state. Letting go is never easy. But when you let go, you find, you can...let it go...surrender.
Bad--U2
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Friends Need and Love You, Even at Your Worst.
So, a friend recently reminded me of something I already knew: friendship means you're there for the long hauls, and the illogically sad moments, just as much as you are there for the incredibly joyful ones. And surprisingly, in those moments, sometimes they need you just as much or more.
It's been a long summer, filled with more downs than ups, and it seems, in some ways to have dragged on way too long. Getting passed the emotional upheaval of loss is difficult when it's so deeply tied to your physical being; especially when your physical being is extraordinarily abnormal.
I've written about the miscarriage Jeph and I suffered over the summer, but I haven't written about the frustrations associated with how long it takes to become whole again. The one positive situation to come out of the process is that my ambivalence about motherhood is resolved. But we haven't been able to start over, and it still may be several months before we can. No one ever tells you that, but then again, everyone's situation is different.
We chose our path. We chose to wait until we were really ready before we tried. We chose to be at least 10 years older than most other couples before taking this leap. I often find myself in a world of women who chose more wisely, and who are starting their families long before the odds are against their success. Sometimes, that's difficult.
A dear friend of mine who suffered major obstacles in having her daughter, and only succeeded through in vitro, recently posted something on her Facebook page about the feelings you have when everyone else around you can get pregnant and stay pregnant without additional help. I certainly have not yet found myself having to go down the many difficult roads of seeking help for infertility, but I identified greatly with the feelings on that list.
And even as I admit my feelings, I know how unfair they are. It's nobody's fault that I had a miscarriage, and it's nobody's fault that we cannot yet try again. It's not fair that I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by the loss when I am surrounded by people who deservedly are experiencing so much joy.
I had such a day recently. I had an opportunity to go to lunch with a couple of really great friends, both of whom are expecting. One of those friends has played a major role in helping me get through the worst of the pain. The other friend is one with whom I also have shared some very difficult and life altering moments. And yet, I found myself in such a dark place, I just couldn't bring myself to go.
About a week later, the latter of those two friends helped me realize my mistake. In the moment I fled the scene, I thought I was protecting the two of them from my unfair feelings of sadness, and that they were better off not having to deal with me. I didn't want any of my feelings to take anything away from them, and I was afraid that's what would happen.
My friend has been going through some ups and downs with her pregnancy, and reached out to me. I explained to her what I had been feeling that day, and she told me she wished I had just talked to her. As I talked my way through the feelings I was having, and the difficulties in the process I have been going through, I came to understand that I had been a terrible friend--not because I was sad, but because I didn't share it. My friend needed me as much in my heartbreak as she needs me in my joy.
It's hard to share the bad with people. It's hard to feel like you won't be bringing them down. It's especially hard when there is guilt attached to those feelings. But if your friends are truly your friends, they don't want you to hide from them--no matter what.
That's hard to remember in the moment. And I'm not going to say that I will always get it right. But, I'm going to try to remind myself that I am not just the feeling I am having at any given moment. I am still the person I always have been. I always have something to share. Sadness and experience do not define us, they refine us.
Shake it Out--Florence + The Machine
It's been a long summer, filled with more downs than ups, and it seems, in some ways to have dragged on way too long. Getting passed the emotional upheaval of loss is difficult when it's so deeply tied to your physical being; especially when your physical being is extraordinarily abnormal.
I've written about the miscarriage Jeph and I suffered over the summer, but I haven't written about the frustrations associated with how long it takes to become whole again. The one positive situation to come out of the process is that my ambivalence about motherhood is resolved. But we haven't been able to start over, and it still may be several months before we can. No one ever tells you that, but then again, everyone's situation is different.
We chose our path. We chose to wait until we were really ready before we tried. We chose to be at least 10 years older than most other couples before taking this leap. I often find myself in a world of women who chose more wisely, and who are starting their families long before the odds are against their success. Sometimes, that's difficult.
A dear friend of mine who suffered major obstacles in having her daughter, and only succeeded through in vitro, recently posted something on her Facebook page about the feelings you have when everyone else around you can get pregnant and stay pregnant without additional help. I certainly have not yet found myself having to go down the many difficult roads of seeking help for infertility, but I identified greatly with the feelings on that list.
And even as I admit my feelings, I know how unfair they are. It's nobody's fault that I had a miscarriage, and it's nobody's fault that we cannot yet try again. It's not fair that I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by the loss when I am surrounded by people who deservedly are experiencing so much joy.
I had such a day recently. I had an opportunity to go to lunch with a couple of really great friends, both of whom are expecting. One of those friends has played a major role in helping me get through the worst of the pain. The other friend is one with whom I also have shared some very difficult and life altering moments. And yet, I found myself in such a dark place, I just couldn't bring myself to go.
About a week later, the latter of those two friends helped me realize my mistake. In the moment I fled the scene, I thought I was protecting the two of them from my unfair feelings of sadness, and that they were better off not having to deal with me. I didn't want any of my feelings to take anything away from them, and I was afraid that's what would happen.
My friend has been going through some ups and downs with her pregnancy, and reached out to me. I explained to her what I had been feeling that day, and she told me she wished I had just talked to her. As I talked my way through the feelings I was having, and the difficulties in the process I have been going through, I came to understand that I had been a terrible friend--not because I was sad, but because I didn't share it. My friend needed me as much in my heartbreak as she needs me in my joy.
It's hard to share the bad with people. It's hard to feel like you won't be bringing them down. It's especially hard when there is guilt attached to those feelings. But if your friends are truly your friends, they don't want you to hide from them--no matter what.
That's hard to remember in the moment. And I'm not going to say that I will always get it right. But, I'm going to try to remind myself that I am not just the feeling I am having at any given moment. I am still the person I always have been. I always have something to share. Sadness and experience do not define us, they refine us.
Shake it Out--Florence + The Machine
Sunday, July 8, 2012
What stole the "care" from healthcare? July 8, 2012
So, I haven't made it a secret that Jeph and I recently suffered a very painful loss. Losing the promise of a child is a tough experience to go through, and I know I wasn't prepared for it. It's taking time, but I'm doing better.
As the weeks since this loss have ticked slowly away, I have had moments that remind me how loved and cared for I am by people; how oblivious some people can be to your pain; and sadly, how little care there truly is in human healthcare.
I've been working in a different hospital for almost three months. While I've come to care about the people I work with there, I hadn't anticipated how understanding and caring some of them would be toward me. One day, Elton John's "Your Song" buried me while I cleaned the teeth of a dog, I now can't even remember. My doctor that day was about eight months along in her second pregnancy. She knew I needed a moment, and she knew I needed to talk. I will always appreciate how she rescued me that day.
A dear friend, who frequently rescues me sends me "check-in" texts at least once a week, and in the beginning of this painful experience, she texted me multiple times a day. I think she kept me from spiraling into despair a thousand times. I hate that she can relate to my experience, because her kindness to me makes her loss seem even more unfair. I'm envious of her ability to convey the strength she does in the face of such a loss. I had always known she was amazing, but now, I will never forget it. And I will never forget how she continues to support me and make me feel cared about--even weeks later.
Some people overwhelm you with loving gestures, you can barely show appropriate appreciation for. A friend I've known since first grade, and reconnected with a few Twilight years ago, had one of her favorite series of books shipped to me. It's amazing how the love of a friend, and a few good books can help you escape a world that can be hard to face at moments. Still another friend, who has clotheslined me with her thoughtfulness before, sent me a handmade card offering me a bit of Bono's mojo.
The outpouring of care from these women, who are now woven into my memory of this experience forever, is something for which I can never thank them adequately. Aside from Jeph, they have been my "primary care providers."
And that is actually what I really want to talk about--the state of human healthcare.
Just two short weeks before we lost our pregnancy, I was driving Jeph to a hospital because he was experiencing terrible pain every time he tried to breathe. Through the course of the three days he spent in the hospital, we experienced a wide range of care. From concerned and helpful, to distracted and oblivious--we saw it all. There were moments we were frustrated, but when you're stuck in a hospital bed, you often forget that it's your right to ask for better.
I had been waiting to see my new OB/GYN until I was at least nine or ten weeks along. The appointment scheduler had made it very clear that I didn't need to be seen when I initially called. I freely told her that I knew nothing about the process and was happy to follow their lead on what I needed to do--no additional information was offered--not even what to do if I did find myself in trouble. When trouble came, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and surprisingly, nobody else I asked knew either. We ended up in the emergency room, where I had a sonogram Jeph couldn't be there for, and the technician was not allowed to answer any questions about. In one of the most vulnerable situations of my life, I was completely alone and in the dark about what was happening. As that day progressed and trouble continued, I desperately phoned the office of that new doctor I was waiting to see, and the on-call doctor chastised me for going to the emergency room at all. After having additional testing added to my blood-work, he ordered me to find a 24-hour pharmacy to get a prescription filled. I desperately Googled for said pharmacy--never in my life had I needed to know what pharmacy would be open at midnight on a Saturday. The doctor made it seem urgent that I make it into his office the following Monday. Interestingly, it was only to have more lab work drawn, which I was assured I'd have the result of later in the day. Nothing. After leaving two messages, his nurse called the following day and failed to listen to half of what I told her. When I finally got her to listen, she very frankly told me she believed I had already miscarried. I'd never met this woman, or the doctor she worked for.
A good friend of ours has been dealing with a fairly painful health issue over the last week, and landed in the office of a nurse practitioner. He soon realized she wasn't listening to him, because she was too busy saying what she wanted to say. When I heard how inappropriately appropriately he had called her out on the situation, I was proud of him. Surprisingly, getting her attention didn't change the tenor of the visit, and he walked out to seek help from someone who might actually care.
And that's the thing. I think many of us are raised to respect doctors, nurses and people in the healthcare profession. They go to school for a long time and they know more than we do. We accept that when we try to schedule appointments that we won't be able to see them for weeks, unless we are near death. We accept that we must arrive early for our visit. We must bring a book or magazine to entertain ourselves in the waiting room, while we wait passed the time of our scheduled appointment to see the doctor, or nurse practitioner. We sit, uncomfortably naked in those horrible gowns on those horrible exam tables with the same book we brought, while we wait for another extended period of time to see our healthcare providers. In most cases, they breathlessly breeze in, to spend as little time with us as possible, and as they walk out of the room, they remind us that we haven't lost any weight since the last time they told us to.
Why do we accept all of this? I don't know. But I'm done.
When I asked my last primary care provider what things I should be thinking about as I approached the idea of becoming pregnant, her only responses were that I would be fine and I should get some exercise. She shares an office with my new primary care provider and her bio states that her special interest is in obstetrics and gynecology. My new primary care provider, which I stumbled upon because I wasn't able to see the other one, is from India. She is an internal medicine specialist, and surprisingly, she spends time talking to me. When Jeph got out of the hospital from his pulmonary embolism, she wanted to see him right away, and when he got there, she had already taken the time to review his case front to back. When the office of my OB/GYN failed me, she made the calls necessary to get me face time with the doctor. They had been perfectly content to leave me in limbo for another couple of days.
I work in veterinary medicine. We deal with "crazy" people everyday. Until last month, I didn't understand what it was like to be one of those crazy people. Now I do. It's difficult at times. In my business, people are not the patients, they are more like the insurance providers. They decide what kind of technical care I can provide to my patients.
As I have learned what kind of care I won't accept for myself anymore, I have learned what kind of care I will not provide. I know my patients would always want what's best for themselves. I know that their "insurance providers" can't always provide that level of care. But now, I also know that most of them really do care, and really do want help, or else they wouldn't be in front of me. Perhaps if I show how much I care, they will be able to face providing whatever level of care they can with as much comfort and dignity as I can give them.
I don't know who or what stole the "care" from healthcare. I imagine there are a million things they deal with I will never understand, and somehow, those things have chipped away at their ability to listen, to understand and to empathize. But I also imagine that I will never sit in a waiting room to see someone who has lost their ability to care again.
"I Won't Back Down" Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
As the weeks since this loss have ticked slowly away, I have had moments that remind me how loved and cared for I am by people; how oblivious some people can be to your pain; and sadly, how little care there truly is in human healthcare.
I've been working in a different hospital for almost three months. While I've come to care about the people I work with there, I hadn't anticipated how understanding and caring some of them would be toward me. One day, Elton John's "Your Song" buried me while I cleaned the teeth of a dog, I now can't even remember. My doctor that day was about eight months along in her second pregnancy. She knew I needed a moment, and she knew I needed to talk. I will always appreciate how she rescued me that day.
A dear friend, who frequently rescues me sends me "check-in" texts at least once a week, and in the beginning of this painful experience, she texted me multiple times a day. I think she kept me from spiraling into despair a thousand times. I hate that she can relate to my experience, because her kindness to me makes her loss seem even more unfair. I'm envious of her ability to convey the strength she does in the face of such a loss. I had always known she was amazing, but now, I will never forget it. And I will never forget how she continues to support me and make me feel cared about--even weeks later.
Some people overwhelm you with loving gestures, you can barely show appropriate appreciation for. A friend I've known since first grade, and reconnected with a few Twilight years ago, had one of her favorite series of books shipped to me. It's amazing how the love of a friend, and a few good books can help you escape a world that can be hard to face at moments. Still another friend, who has clotheslined me with her thoughtfulness before, sent me a handmade card offering me a bit of Bono's mojo.
The outpouring of care from these women, who are now woven into my memory of this experience forever, is something for which I can never thank them adequately. Aside from Jeph, they have been my "primary care providers."
And that is actually what I really want to talk about--the state of human healthcare.
Just two short weeks before we lost our pregnancy, I was driving Jeph to a hospital because he was experiencing terrible pain every time he tried to breathe. Through the course of the three days he spent in the hospital, we experienced a wide range of care. From concerned and helpful, to distracted and oblivious--we saw it all. There were moments we were frustrated, but when you're stuck in a hospital bed, you often forget that it's your right to ask for better.
I had been waiting to see my new OB/GYN until I was at least nine or ten weeks along. The appointment scheduler had made it very clear that I didn't need to be seen when I initially called. I freely told her that I knew nothing about the process and was happy to follow their lead on what I needed to do--no additional information was offered--not even what to do if I did find myself in trouble. When trouble came, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and surprisingly, nobody else I asked knew either. We ended up in the emergency room, where I had a sonogram Jeph couldn't be there for, and the technician was not allowed to answer any questions about. In one of the most vulnerable situations of my life, I was completely alone and in the dark about what was happening. As that day progressed and trouble continued, I desperately phoned the office of that new doctor I was waiting to see, and the on-call doctor chastised me for going to the emergency room at all. After having additional testing added to my blood-work, he ordered me to find a 24-hour pharmacy to get a prescription filled. I desperately Googled for said pharmacy--never in my life had I needed to know what pharmacy would be open at midnight on a Saturday. The doctor made it seem urgent that I make it into his office the following Monday. Interestingly, it was only to have more lab work drawn, which I was assured I'd have the result of later in the day. Nothing. After leaving two messages, his nurse called the following day and failed to listen to half of what I told her. When I finally got her to listen, she very frankly told me she believed I had already miscarried. I'd never met this woman, or the doctor she worked for.
A good friend of ours has been dealing with a fairly painful health issue over the last week, and landed in the office of a nurse practitioner. He soon realized she wasn't listening to him, because she was too busy saying what she wanted to say. When I heard how inappropriately appropriately he had called her out on the situation, I was proud of him. Surprisingly, getting her attention didn't change the tenor of the visit, and he walked out to seek help from someone who might actually care.
And that's the thing. I think many of us are raised to respect doctors, nurses and people in the healthcare profession. They go to school for a long time and they know more than we do. We accept that when we try to schedule appointments that we won't be able to see them for weeks, unless we are near death. We accept that we must arrive early for our visit. We must bring a book or magazine to entertain ourselves in the waiting room, while we wait passed the time of our scheduled appointment to see the doctor, or nurse practitioner. We sit, uncomfortably naked in those horrible gowns on those horrible exam tables with the same book we brought, while we wait for another extended period of time to see our healthcare providers. In most cases, they breathlessly breeze in, to spend as little time with us as possible, and as they walk out of the room, they remind us that we haven't lost any weight since the last time they told us to.
Why do we accept all of this? I don't know. But I'm done.
When I asked my last primary care provider what things I should be thinking about as I approached the idea of becoming pregnant, her only responses were that I would be fine and I should get some exercise. She shares an office with my new primary care provider and her bio states that her special interest is in obstetrics and gynecology. My new primary care provider, which I stumbled upon because I wasn't able to see the other one, is from India. She is an internal medicine specialist, and surprisingly, she spends time talking to me. When Jeph got out of the hospital from his pulmonary embolism, she wanted to see him right away, and when he got there, she had already taken the time to review his case front to back. When the office of my OB/GYN failed me, she made the calls necessary to get me face time with the doctor. They had been perfectly content to leave me in limbo for another couple of days.
I work in veterinary medicine. We deal with "crazy" people everyday. Until last month, I didn't understand what it was like to be one of those crazy people. Now I do. It's difficult at times. In my business, people are not the patients, they are more like the insurance providers. They decide what kind of technical care I can provide to my patients.
As I have learned what kind of care I won't accept for myself anymore, I have learned what kind of care I will not provide. I know my patients would always want what's best for themselves. I know that their "insurance providers" can't always provide that level of care. But now, I also know that most of them really do care, and really do want help, or else they wouldn't be in front of me. Perhaps if I show how much I care, they will be able to face providing whatever level of care they can with as much comfort and dignity as I can give them.
I don't know who or what stole the "care" from healthcare. I imagine there are a million things they deal with I will never understand, and somehow, those things have chipped away at their ability to listen, to understand and to empathize. But I also imagine that I will never sit in a waiting room to see someone who has lost their ability to care again.
"I Won't Back Down" Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Friday, June 22, 2012
June 22, 2012--The Other Side
So, I've been seeing Facebook posts over the last couple of days about getting through things, and finding the way to the so-called "other side." One of those was a quote by the late Doors front man Jim Morrison.
“People
are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of
all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love
hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and
dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain
is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re
wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio.
You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you
carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a
part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide
them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up
for your right to feel your pain.”
My response to this post from my husband: "It's there, whether you want
it to be or not. And if you try to ignore it, you can't ever get
through it. That's why I let myself cry when I need to, if I can. You
can't "break on through to the other side." You have to get there one
tear at a time; one heartbreak at a time."
In forty years, I've managed to survive and overcome a lot of very painful things. People who know me well and all of the things I've gotten through in life think I'm strong. I suppose I should still think of that as a compliment, but any more, I just find it annoying. The thing about having a reputation for being strong is that when something hits me like a sledgehammer, I feel guilty if I can't keep my shit together. I feel compelled to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when I want to fall to the floor and crumple into a limp, damp ball.
Another master of words has come to my mind often this week: Bono. Every time I hit a wall in life, there is a string of lyrics that never fails to flash through my mind. "Sometimes I feel like...I don't know. Sometimes I feel like checking out. I wanna get it wrong. Can't always be strong." I think these words mean so much to me, because of my annoyance with my reputation for being able to keep things together. Isn't even the strongest person entitled to a major emotional breakdown, and the occasional unbridled fuck up in response?
I haven't done so well this week.
After my last blog, a dear young friend reached out to me, and spoke of how strong my relationship with Jeph is, and how much she hopes to build something as strong as we have in her own life.
Jeph and I have been through things we never imagined possibly being so hard. The loss of two of our dogs brought us to our knees. The destruction of a giant chunk of his home town brought Jeph to places so dark and disturbing that I can't imagine. Job losses. Dreams crumbling. We've seen a lot. He's the strong one this week, and I envy him, though I know he's being so for me.
As I have slogged through the quicksand of learning what the fate of our lentil bean would be, I have gone from the moment I knew a heartbeat existed, to the moment I knew there was nothing. I've gone from cautiously optimistic to hysterical, and every place in between.
I don't want to feel the pain; not because I can't bear it, but because I can't bear for anyone to see me bearing it. I want to skip the period of time in which I will be fine one moment, and a puddle of tears the next. I want to skip the hours of sleep I can't seem to get right now, because my brain and heart won't shut down. I want to get to the other side of this agonizing time.
I know Jim Morrison was driven and inspired by a fast life of substance abuse, and overindulgence on many levels. If you believe the version of his life presented by Oliver Stone in the movie "The Doors," he was more than a little crazy. But the quote my husband posted shatters my already broken heart with its clarity and truth.
Whether it's pain, fear or desolation, you can't get through these feelings without feeling them. You can't be real with yourself or anyone else unless you let what your really feeling pass through you so you can get to the other side of it.
Some people will argue that you must remain positive. You must keep a stiff upper lip. You must carry on. I found myself dealing with medical professionals who were less than sensitive. I found myself hearing life altering news from people who didn't know me. In the midst of this, I came to an understanding about how I deal with people who are in pain, or even just in a state of worry. In my business, people often make demands on my time and the time of my colleagues that feel unreasonable. Until this week, I had never been a person seeking help, seeking information and seeking comfort. I had never been the patient or client going off on the person on the other end of the line. I had never been made to feel so trivial and so helpless. And over the course of the week, I realized that I could think of times I hadn't been any better to those so-called crazy and nuisance people.
Not only was I uncomfortable dealing with my own pain and fear, but I didn't want to deal with anyone else's either. It's easier to avoid pain than to feel it or face it. It's the reason why so many of us never take risks or leaps in our lives. It's the reason why so many of us stay put in situations we don't like, rather than chancing a loss of stability. If we never try to do something amazing, we will never fail at it, and we will never have to recover from anything. We will never lose.
The thing we often overlook in living our lives that way is that we also will never win. Every great thing we dream of, or aspire to will never happen.
We spent a lot of time hemming and hawing over whether we would try to have a child or not. I think we mostly waited because we didn't want to risk that it would change us and our lives in ways we would regret. But when I think of Jeph explaining to people that it came to him that we should, because he wanted to finally do something meaningful with life, it occurs to me that maybe he's right, and maybe our fear of failing to remain who we are has kept us from living as meaningful a life as we might have for longer than we should have.
We were afraid to feel the pain of mistakes. We were afraid to feel the discomfort of change. In the moment of hysteria I experienced last Saturday night, that fear and pain of loss made me understand how much I really wanted our lentil bean--how much I really wanted our child. While the agony of the loss seems to be hitting me in waves, without this pain, I wouldn't know that I must try again, and I must try better. Without feeling this pain, I couldn't get to the other side. I'm not going to break through, because pain doesn't work that way. The giant gaping wound heals slowly, and side to side. The pulling back together of my spirit won't happen overnight, and as another friend shared with me, I may still feel the scar so many years from now. I may still be feeling the pain as a reminder of how I made it to that other side.
So, wallow, when you have to. Choke back tears when it feels right and you can. Eat a whole pie. Let the tears fall in the car while you sing along to songs on the "New Moon" soundtrack. Feel what you need to feel to get where you need to go. Because you're never going to get through it by trying to get around it.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
A Miscarriage of Certainty
So, I haven't written for a while. For a number of reasons, I just haven't felt like it. I had been experiencing a sense of immaturity about it and the way that it sometimes feels like open mic night at a comedy club, when there are only a couple of people in the crowd, and they're really just there because of the fabulous potato skins and chicken tenders. I've also been wrestling with a new work assignment that has left me feeling drained mentally and physically. Writing seemed, once again, to have become something that really didn't do anything for anyone, except me, and like so many people, I felt like it was hard to justify something that seemed kind of self-centered.
Being self-centered isn't a hard concept for me, as I am sure it's not for many of us. It's easy to get stuck in moments that aren't great and be consumed by them. It's easy to get wrapped up in little events, things and excitements. But occasionally, life clotheslines us, and we realize that some things are really huge.
About four weeks ago, Jeph and I found out that we were going to be parents--to something without fur. Some things are impossible to believe, no matter how many times you see evidence of it. Like most women, I had decided not to spread the unbelievable news around until I felt like it was "safe" and that we were out of the scary time.
And then, the next life altering event: Jeph Blanchard throws a blood clot to a lung and spends three days in a hospital bed, completely out of control of one of the things he is constantly in control of--his body. The awareness of the gravity of the situation was not lost on me, and of course, the fear that something could happen to my partner in this big adventure hit me like a freight train. I'm sure the mere two hours of sleep I got after learning of this crazy made the weight of the situation significantly greater.
When you overcome the odds of age, percentages and a bullet, you figure that the biggest bump left will literally be the biggest bump your body will ever experience. The pursuit of getting pregnant and the thought of trying to become a parent is really pretty abstract. In the early days, I really haven't "felt" pregnant. But reading about it in multiple sources and visiting about it with experienced friends assured me that I was normal. At this point, it's important for us to all switch off the goggles and extendible ears that allow us to see and hear that biological clock ticking away as I get halfway through my fortieth year. My age was my only hurdle. My only fear.
I had already decided not to be a hero. I thought of the many women I have worked with over the years and how they had managed their pregnancies. They ranged from the very protective and needy, to the obscenely independent and blase. I've literally worked with women who have gone into labor at work. I don't see the sense of that. I was just going to do what I felt comfortable with. Unfortunately, in our work life, most of us feel compelled to be what everyone else needs, and most of the time, we put what we need on the back burner.
I had also decided not to be a crazy pregnant lady. I wasn't going to worry about every soda I shouldn't drink or every pound overweight I already am. I wasn't going to request that we purchase a special mask for me to wear while I managed anesthesia at work, and while I clearly wasn't going to clean any litter boxes, I was still going to touch cats. I wasn't going to freak out about every little bloat, cramp or spot. I wasn't going to be the wife who looked at her husband and said "no, honey, it might hurt the baby."
I know that there's really only so much anyone can control in life. I've made it pretty clear in past blogs that I'm not relying on some mystical, unknown being to save me or to magically wipe away any bad. But I never expected to feel the way I have felt in the last twenty-four hours. I never knew how horrible uncertainty and waiting could feel. I never knew that I could feel so protective about something that is so small. I never knew that potentially losing something the size of a lentil bean could make me feel so stripped bare. The limbo state of waiting for "threatened" to become "eminent" is painful. The prospect of things ending badly, and having to try again is sobering.
Part of me doesn't want to hope that the tiny intervention might work, because what if we are trying to save something that just wasn't meant to be? Part of me wants beyond all medical knowledge and reason to fight hard. Part of me wonders if there's something in our nature that helps us know when something is wrong, and if that's why I hadn't been ready to start writing in that journal I picked up while baby shopping for a friend.For weeks, I have been thinking about one of my favorite movies about becoming a mother: "The Waitress." Jenna, played by Kerri Russell, finds herself in the family way while in the midst of a miserably unhappy marriage. One of the first things she does is write a letter to her unborn child, and she continues to do this periodically throughout the movie.
"Dear baby..." all of the letters begin. That's how I had been envisioning this time would be. Almost as if giving up writing here would be replaced with writing there.
As I sit waiting for my body to decide what to do, I am filled with uncertainty. I am filled with grief. I am filled with the emptiness of not knowing. But I think that no matter what happens, I am reminded today of how I cope with life. I cope with it using letters and words, and they don't have to be for anyone else. They can be just for me.
Dear lentil bean,
We don't know if we will get to meet you or not. We hope that you know we were finally feeling ready for you, and we were going to love you so much. We know if you can't make it, that there is a really good reason, and we will hope some piece of who you were going to be will find us again. For now, just rest quietly while we all wait to see. We're going to do our best to do the same, and hopefully tomorrow I will be able to write you again and tell you that everything looks much better.
Love,
Lima Bean
Fires--Band of Skulls
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Passive loss
A mound of ebbing energy,
you are rescued, just to succumb.
The struggle to save you
unravels and you simply fade.
The agonizing stench of your loss,
awakens the best and worst.
You are leaving even as you arrive,
rescued, only to be lost by fools.
The gone of you is overwhelming,
then the moving from you, a relief sigh.
All that remains, a dirty husk,
you were here, only to be quickly gone.
You were rescued and lost to fools.
you are rescued, just to succumb.
The struggle to save you
unravels and you simply fade.
The agonizing stench of your loss,
awakens the best and worst.
You are leaving even as you arrive,
rescued, only to be lost by fools.
The gone of you is overwhelming,
then the moving from you, a relief sigh.
All that remains, a dirty husk,
you were here, only to be quickly gone.
You were rescued and lost to fools.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Holding on
Adrift upon the roughest seas,
I wash upon the rocky shore.
Slippery and sharp, I hold on.
I hold on because that's all there is.
I hold on because holding on is what I know.
For hours and days, I cling,
My hands and face sliced, slashed.
The cuts flay me deep, bleed me dry.
I watch the time bleed away from me,
I watch, only because I am paralyzed by moments.
Warmer, softer grasses--an oasis,
I can only dream of in the distance,
The cold water awakens my desperation.
I cling for fear of going under,
I cling to stop the drowning, the slipping away.
The gulls screech by taunting,
Shouting at me to swim--to fly.
I turn, leaning my head against the rocks.
Shutting out the sound of those calls,
Shutting out the judgment of my chosen failure.
My arms limp and weak from bruising,
I feel each and every bone snapping.
Each break met with misshapen smiles.
Lips crossing like fingers waiting for my crush,
Lips forming words that taunt like gulls without beaks.
Drowning might set me free,
Slipping under may allow my rest
I tighten my hold, steeling myself against thought.
For now, I am more frightened of freedom,
For now, I hold onto the worthlessness of security.
From time to time, the sun warms me,
Brings me back to life in the cold sea,
And I see your warm, soft grasses in the distance.
I am tired from holding on, but I still do,
I hold on, because in the distance,
somehow, I know I will always find you.
I wash upon the rocky shore.
Slippery and sharp, I hold on.
I hold on because that's all there is.
I hold on because holding on is what I know.
For hours and days, I cling,
My hands and face sliced, slashed.
The cuts flay me deep, bleed me dry.
I watch the time bleed away from me,
I watch, only because I am paralyzed by moments.
Warmer, softer grasses--an oasis,
I can only dream of in the distance,
The cold water awakens my desperation.
I cling for fear of going under,
I cling to stop the drowning, the slipping away.
The gulls screech by taunting,
Shouting at me to swim--to fly.
I turn, leaning my head against the rocks.
Shutting out the sound of those calls,
Shutting out the judgment of my chosen failure.
My arms limp and weak from bruising,
I feel each and every bone snapping.
Each break met with misshapen smiles.
Lips crossing like fingers waiting for my crush,
Lips forming words that taunt like gulls without beaks.
Drowning might set me free,
Slipping under may allow my rest
I tighten my hold, steeling myself against thought.
For now, I am more frightened of freedom,
For now, I hold onto the worthlessness of security.
From time to time, the sun warms me,
Brings me back to life in the cold sea,
And I see your warm, soft grasses in the distance.
I am tired from holding on, but I still do,
I hold on, because in the distance,
somehow, I know I will always find you.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
March 29, 2012--Driven to kill?
So, I have a list--a short list--of people that I truly despise. One time, I even contemplated killing one of them. It wouldn't have been a crime of passion. It wouldn't have been self-defense. It wouldn't have been an act of madness. It wouldn't have been an act of war. It just would have been an act of retribution--payback for years of fear, oppression and pain. But as much as I wanted to do it, and as much as I believed it was possible that I could, I couldn't.
Most of us will never know what it's like to take the life of another human. Regardless of belief systems, it seems to be an act that most of us innately know to be heinous and unforgiveable. Even though many enlist in the different branches of the armed forces, most people doing so hope they will never be forced to take another life.
Those of us who don't find ourselves in situations that force our hands, don't know what enters the mind of individuals who make the fateful decision to kill someone else. Until reading the now wildly popular "Hunger Games" series, I couldn't imagine a circumstance that would convicne children to actvely participate in the sport of killing each other. Most of the characters never would have considered committing such a heinous act, until reaching that arena and knowing that it was kill or be killed. Until under direct threat, Katniss seemed to be avoiding the inevitable--letting others do the killing.
"The Hunger Games" aren't real life. But luckily, in real life we don't frequently find ourselves in the position of having to defend ourselves or others. I would bet most of us don't know what we would do in these kinds of circumstances. We hope we'd be able to protect ourselves or those we love, but we hope we never have to find out.
In recent days, the idea of being "driven to kill" has taken the spotlight.
An Army Staff Seargent allegedly went door to door killing innocent Afghan men, women and children. Many people say that if he committed this horrible crime, it's only because he was "driven to it" after multiple deployments, traumatic brain injury and the influence of alcohol. We should feel sorry for him.
Hundreds of thousands of men and women have been deployed to active duty multiple times and suffered brain and other significant injuries. But only one was allegedly "driven to kill" nine children. What I have found deplorable is the number of people coming to his defense, justifying his actions because of how much he has suffered from being deployed so many times. It's difficult, if he indeed did commit this terrible act, to understand how a father of two young children could take the lives of other children. I'm having a great deal of difficulty finding it in my heart to understand or empathize with this kind of act. I find myself not caring about how many times he was deployed, or what he suffered. I'm sure the relatives of the victims don't find any peace in knowing their loved ones were cut down in their sleep because a man had willingly enlisted in the armed forces and found himself serving multiple tours. I find myself looking for accountability.
If there can be a positive for me in reflecting on this act, it's that I know there are countless other men and women serving us honorably--over and over--and doing everything to hold themselves together and not get sucked into this kind of abyss. Knowing this makes my support for our troops even stronger, because the majority are showing grace under extreme pressure and duress. We owe them a debt we will never be able to repay.
Killing in a war zone is what a war zone is all about. We expect people to kill each other on a war front, but we don't expect it on our city streets.
People everywhere are protesting, and calling for the arrest of a man who took the life of a seventeen-year-old African American boy in Florida. The man claims that his actions were self defense. He claims that the boy came after him and beat him up. He was forced to defend himself. I don't know what really happened. There's a good chance none of us will ever learn the whole truth behind the incident, because a bizarre law in Florida makes the act of deadly force legal if you claim such force was used in self-defense.
The thing that makes me wonder most about this incident is the recorded conversation between the shooter and a 911 dispatcher who was telling him not to pursue the boy--to let law enforcement address the situation. He ignored the dispatcher's directive. Why? I don't even care about the possibility that he used an obscene racial slur in the call. I just find it hard to understand why he continued to pursue the kid. I also consider how the average man might react to seeing someone seem to stalk them while on a cell phone, and I wonder, would that have driven Trayvon to confront him--in turn giving Zimmerman an even greater sense of just cause for taking his life? Could a shoving match over bitter words and misinterpreted actions led to this kid's death?
I'm not naive. I know that as much as I would prefer to live in a world where we could all resolve issues non-violently, I understand that won't always happen. But short of some aberrant twist of chromosomes, I will never understand what makes one human more likely to "snap," and with seemingly little to no cause take the life of another human.
Killing does not lead to anything good. At the time of the 9/11 attacks, even my emotions were high, and in the flurry, I believed a violent response was warranted. But in the years since, it has become less clear to me what the benefit of such a response truly has been. Trillions of dollars have been spent. Thousands of lives have been laid to waste. The ideology of the region we have occupied for the last ten years has barely inched from what it was at the time of the attacks. The destruction of sixteen innocent lives certainly hasn't further endeared us to the Afghan people, or anyone else in the region.
On our home front, the New Black Panthers are calling for loud protests and an "eye for an eye" in regards to the slaying of Trayvon Martin. They are practically inciting violence with their rhetoric.
I'm at a loss to understand how spilling the blood of others can help right any wrong. I'm at a loss to understand how we can look at anyone and say "he was driven to it."
Mahatma Ghandi said it better than anyone else ever will: "An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind."
Mothers of the Disappeared--U2
Most of us will never know what it's like to take the life of another human. Regardless of belief systems, it seems to be an act that most of us innately know to be heinous and unforgiveable. Even though many enlist in the different branches of the armed forces, most people doing so hope they will never be forced to take another life.
Those of us who don't find ourselves in situations that force our hands, don't know what enters the mind of individuals who make the fateful decision to kill someone else. Until reading the now wildly popular "Hunger Games" series, I couldn't imagine a circumstance that would convicne children to actvely participate in the sport of killing each other. Most of the characters never would have considered committing such a heinous act, until reaching that arena and knowing that it was kill or be killed. Until under direct threat, Katniss seemed to be avoiding the inevitable--letting others do the killing.
"The Hunger Games" aren't real life. But luckily, in real life we don't frequently find ourselves in the position of having to defend ourselves or others. I would bet most of us don't know what we would do in these kinds of circumstances. We hope we'd be able to protect ourselves or those we love, but we hope we never have to find out.
In recent days, the idea of being "driven to kill" has taken the spotlight.
An Army Staff Seargent allegedly went door to door killing innocent Afghan men, women and children. Many people say that if he committed this horrible crime, it's only because he was "driven to it" after multiple deployments, traumatic brain injury and the influence of alcohol. We should feel sorry for him.
Hundreds of thousands of men and women have been deployed to active duty multiple times and suffered brain and other significant injuries. But only one was allegedly "driven to kill" nine children. What I have found deplorable is the number of people coming to his defense, justifying his actions because of how much he has suffered from being deployed so many times. It's difficult, if he indeed did commit this terrible act, to understand how a father of two young children could take the lives of other children. I'm having a great deal of difficulty finding it in my heart to understand or empathize with this kind of act. I find myself not caring about how many times he was deployed, or what he suffered. I'm sure the relatives of the victims don't find any peace in knowing their loved ones were cut down in their sleep because a man had willingly enlisted in the armed forces and found himself serving multiple tours. I find myself looking for accountability.
If there can be a positive for me in reflecting on this act, it's that I know there are countless other men and women serving us honorably--over and over--and doing everything to hold themselves together and not get sucked into this kind of abyss. Knowing this makes my support for our troops even stronger, because the majority are showing grace under extreme pressure and duress. We owe them a debt we will never be able to repay.
Killing in a war zone is what a war zone is all about. We expect people to kill each other on a war front, but we don't expect it on our city streets.
People everywhere are protesting, and calling for the arrest of a man who took the life of a seventeen-year-old African American boy in Florida. The man claims that his actions were self defense. He claims that the boy came after him and beat him up. He was forced to defend himself. I don't know what really happened. There's a good chance none of us will ever learn the whole truth behind the incident, because a bizarre law in Florida makes the act of deadly force legal if you claim such force was used in self-defense.
The thing that makes me wonder most about this incident is the recorded conversation between the shooter and a 911 dispatcher who was telling him not to pursue the boy--to let law enforcement address the situation. He ignored the dispatcher's directive. Why? I don't even care about the possibility that he used an obscene racial slur in the call. I just find it hard to understand why he continued to pursue the kid. I also consider how the average man might react to seeing someone seem to stalk them while on a cell phone, and I wonder, would that have driven Trayvon to confront him--in turn giving Zimmerman an even greater sense of just cause for taking his life? Could a shoving match over bitter words and misinterpreted actions led to this kid's death?
I'm not naive. I know that as much as I would prefer to live in a world where we could all resolve issues non-violently, I understand that won't always happen. But short of some aberrant twist of chromosomes, I will never understand what makes one human more likely to "snap," and with seemingly little to no cause take the life of another human.
Killing does not lead to anything good. At the time of the 9/11 attacks, even my emotions were high, and in the flurry, I believed a violent response was warranted. But in the years since, it has become less clear to me what the benefit of such a response truly has been. Trillions of dollars have been spent. Thousands of lives have been laid to waste. The ideology of the region we have occupied for the last ten years has barely inched from what it was at the time of the attacks. The destruction of sixteen innocent lives certainly hasn't further endeared us to the Afghan people, or anyone else in the region.
On our home front, the New Black Panthers are calling for loud protests and an "eye for an eye" in regards to the slaying of Trayvon Martin. They are practically inciting violence with their rhetoric.
I'm at a loss to understand how spilling the blood of others can help right any wrong. I'm at a loss to understand how we can look at anyone and say "he was driven to it."
Mahatma Ghandi said it better than anyone else ever will: "An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind."
Mothers of the Disappeared--U2
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