So, I think our brains have a way of creating moments that, out of context, seem cruel and heartless. But the thing I think we often forget in a moment of pain is that the brain doesn't live without the heart.
My grandpa died about seven years ago. Wild Turkey had been a very close friend to him, years of hard physical labor, and a marriage to a woman who could never love him as much as he loved her had taken a great toll on him.
He was a brash, offensive and horrible man. But he also was a loving, humorous and secretly tender man. He was the man who referred to the political party opposing his own views as "Nazis." But he also was the man who, near the end of his life, remembered that my grandma had once mentioned wanting a metal detector, and just a few days before Christmas (always last minute) would make the call to me to fetch one for her. Years of self-destructive overindulgence in food and alcohol, combined with the toll hard physical labor takes on your body, had left him pretty much home-bound. So, he relied on me a lot. Three hours away, I was one of the few people he could rely on, with the exception of the "friend" who continued to sneak him whiskey. I wish that "friend" had been far less reliable.
In the days that followed my grandpa's death, I couldn't help the feeling that he had deserved so much better. He deserved to be loved as much as he loved. He deserved not to feel as much physical and emotional pain as he suffered for so many of his final years. I worried that maybe, just maybe, he had deliberately increased his "secret" alcohol intake near the end, knowing that there would be no one to question whether his passing was completely "natural" or not.
In my heart, no matter what really happened, his death was anything but natural. There is nothing natural about losing someone you love, especially someone you love whom you know no one else loves in the same way you love them. I was embarrassed by him. He was so racist, so offensive and just generally unpleasant to so many. But, in the last years of his life, I listened to him. I got to know the person he was and why he did the things I found so abhorrent and annoying. And somehow, I came to love him for those things too.
When he died, my grandma wanted to cremate him. I was horrified. He and I had never spoken of his desires, and maybe he really didn't care, but when I considered what I knew of him, I protested. My grandpa had adored his parents, almost as much as his wife. They were good Catholics--something my grandpa certainly was not, and probably even disdained. But he loved them so much, I felt sure that he would want to be buried and given a proper send off. In a way, and without hurtful intent, I found myself planning that send off, and basically dragging my grandma along.
In retrospect, I think it's just as likely that he wouldn't have cared, but I did. I cared so much that I steeled myself to remember that he was not a good Catholic and that God, whatever that is, had little if any place in his life, and I spoke at his funeral instead of some preacher he had never met. I took the opportunity to illustrate the negatives about him, as well as the positives, and especially to communicate in very certain words the way in which I felt he had been misunderstood and under-appreciated by others. I explained that in the last years of his life, his body had become a prison--a constant source of frustration and pain he couldn't escape. Maybe it was wrong, but it felt good to stand up for him, since as brash and horrible as he was, he never stood up for himself.
I took his last years, and his passing as a personal affront. I wished I had done more for him. I ached for how much he had hurt. Feelings that are still hard to let go of and think about so many years later.
A few weeks after he died, I had a dream about him. I was in an unfamiliar setting--some kind of apartment. It was streamed with crazy sunlight and he came to my door. He wouldn't come in, and he wouldn't say anything to me, but simply stood at the door with an enormous smile on his face, waving at me. And then, he was gone.
After that, the pain started to slowly slip away. I don't really remember when it stopped. I just know that some time passed and I didn't feel the need to cry everyday and I stopped boiling over with the anger I had for everyone who had mistreated and abandoned him.
This morning, I had a dream about our Blue. Throughout his life, Blue was a nervous Nellie--always quick to upset, a barker, a whiner and a dog who demanded attention. He seemed to be able to tell time, and in the last few years, all of those life-long traits had intensified. Those things had been almost endearing when he was young, but as he seemed to be more restless, more difficult to pacify and more relentless in his neediness--for what I could almost never tell--those traits were a drain. In losing him, we have gained the guilt of how easy just "being" has become.
In the time after losing someone, our brain is overtaken by our heart. It begins to paint pictures of the person--or dog--we have lost and it turns them into a heroic and shining version of who they were, that they never could have lived up to in real life.
For days, I haven't been able to see "old Blue," just the younger version that was always truckin' around the house, panting and alerting me to the fact he wanted a treat.
In my dream about him this morning, I found myself in a place that I had never been before, but there were a million familiar things all around. I found myself talking about how much I missed Blue and how terrible it was to lose him with a mother I will never care about in the way I once did, and a man who I will never be able to relate to as I once did. My sister was an infant, crawling around on the wretchedly thick, green plush carpet from the first house my parents owned. Long lost toys and objects from my past were gathered in corners, including my Goofy slipper with the blow-out and my "Magical Musical Thing." I lie down on that soft, ugly carpet, and young Blue jumped into my arms and licked my face. I laughed and played with him until I woke up and all of it was gone. And he is gone.
In the same way my brain found a way to break through to my heart and let me know that my grandpa was going to be all right, my brain found a way to tell my heart that young Blue was a place I would never see again, and that he had really been gone for quite a while. It was okay to stop painting the picture--the one I couldn't stop seeing. It was okay to see him how he really was.
Day to day life hadn't let me start grieving for Blue when we really started to lose him. It's only now that I can't continue to try and make him the Blue I had been missing, that I grasp he was already gone.
My Body is a Cage--The Arcade Fire
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
March 1, 2012--Sometimes we "hunger" for more.
So, a lot of people around me have been reading "The Hunger Games," and are eagerly anticipating the movie, which will be released in about three weeks. I had my doubts. After all, the premise is horrifying. But, I finally succumbed in the last week, and I understand the hype. During a week that has been anything but pleasant, I have been able to find myself completely sucked into the epic story of Katniss, a young woman who finds herself in a struggle to survive a battle to the death with twenty-three others in a post-apocalyptic world.
On the surface, it is an adventuresome thrill ride that drags you to the edge of your seat and keeps you there. As I think about the week I happen to be living, it has taken on a different meaning for me.
In "The Hunger Games," Katniss lives in District 12, one of the poorest of the remaining districts of Panem. Panem is overseen by leaders living in the Capitol who govern with an iron fist and want to make certain that all of its citizens living outside of the Capitol know the danger of dissent. Each year, two children, one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18, are selected by lottery to participate in The Hunger Games. In these games, the "Tributes," as they are called, are launched into an artificial world with its own potential threats and hidden bounties. They are intended to kill each other until there is only one of them remaining.
Katniss isn't really good at accepting her lot. In her poor mining district, food is scarce, and as the oldest daughter of a widowed mother, she has become the primary provider in her household. She escapes the confines of her district on a routine basis to hunt and gather any additional sustenance the nearby woods has to offer. It is through her hunting and gathering that she develops a strong, but undefined bond with Gale, a boy who is just a couple years older than she is.
Everything about the games is designed to further oppress the people of the poorer districts and the lower classes within each district. For the price of increasing their odds of being selected in the reaping, the impoverished and hungry children can acquire additional food to help sustain their families. As the primary providers in their families, Katniss and Gale have multiple chances in the reaping, but much to Katniss's horror, her sister Prim's name is drawn the first year of her eligibility. Even if you haven't seen the movie trailer, it's a given that Katniss will volunteer to take her sister's place.
She and her male counterpart, Peeta, are swept away in a wave of strategizing and image creation. In the process of preparing for the games, Peeta reveals two things: 1) he doesn't want his fear of dying to change the person he is as he fights for his own survival and 2) he has been in love with Katniss for years. Katniss, who has promised her family she will do her best to survive the games, has no use for holding onto trifling things like her own identity, and the last thing she knows what to do with are Peeta's feelings for her.
As the games unfold, Katniss struggles to keep her promise. Along the way, she becomes attached to a girl from another district and with this girl's death, she seems finally to begin to absorb the cruelty of the games. She begins to discover herself, and not only struggles to fight for her own survival, but for the survival of her own spirit, even though she isn't exactly sure she knows her own spirit. And it is this that is the essence of what I have connected with in this story.
I identify myself as an agnostic--someone who isn't sure there is a higher power. Some people think of agnostics as being "atheist light." But I often think of the scene in "Four Weddings and a Funeral," when Hugh Grant's character Charles is getting ready to marry Duckface and he tells his brother he is uncertain of what to do. "Here I am on my wedding day and I'm still thinking." It seems like I find myself feeling the same way about God and many other heavy life decisions. I'm always "still thinking."
In "The Hunger Games," Katniss finds herself confused about her feelings for Peeta and Gale. She finds herself playing along with a ruse that may just help her and Peeta survive. But at what expense? And if the ruse does work, how long will she have to keep it up? What other prices will she have to pay?
The outcome of the games is surprising to say the least. Without necessarily planning it, Katniss thumbs her nose at the Capitol and appears to be inciting dissent among the districts. Such an act puts herself and those she loves in danger.
When the world seems to be closing in on her, it appears she thinks she can have it both ways when she considers the prospect of gathering her loved ones and trying to run. She believes in something impossible, only to find that some of the people she loves aren't able to so easily delude themselves and pretend.
This last weekend, Jeph and I had to say goodbye to our fifteen-year-old dog--our Blue. It's the second such loss we've suffered in the last two years. Last spring, we nearly lost our eleven-year-old dog. As I contemplated the possibility that she would not survive her illness, for a moment, I believed no matter the benefit, I could never take on any other living thing to love, because of the deep pain I knew I was going to endure if we lost her. As I am enduring that pain, I find myself unable to close the door on eternity--something only a dedicated atheist can do. I find myself referring to where Blue and Scrubby are now, and their fellow dogs that I've known over the years that deserve better than my faithlessness.
Loss makes you "hunger" for something more. It makes you hunger for an alternative to what you can see and know with your eyes. It makes you hunger for a way out. It makes you hunger for a sustenance the faithless can never find.
I don't know if Katniss will ultimately survive. I haven't gotten through all three books yet. In spite of the pain I feel right now, I know that I will survive. I know that, in spite of my current feelings about it, that I will "love" again. As the last weekend was ending, I discovered a quote by Edgar Allan Poe that shocked me: "Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." Knowing a thing or two about the losses and suffering he endured in his short life, I have to raise a glass to my Eddy for being able to recognize what most of us find really difficult to see in the face of sorrow.
And since I haven't been launched into an arena with twenty-three other people who are trying to kill me, I have the time to consider who I am and what all of that means before I reach that final door.
Safe and Sound--Taylor Swift, featuring The Civil Wars
On the surface, it is an adventuresome thrill ride that drags you to the edge of your seat and keeps you there. As I think about the week I happen to be living, it has taken on a different meaning for me.
In "The Hunger Games," Katniss lives in District 12, one of the poorest of the remaining districts of Panem. Panem is overseen by leaders living in the Capitol who govern with an iron fist and want to make certain that all of its citizens living outside of the Capitol know the danger of dissent. Each year, two children, one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18, are selected by lottery to participate in The Hunger Games. In these games, the "Tributes," as they are called, are launched into an artificial world with its own potential threats and hidden bounties. They are intended to kill each other until there is only one of them remaining.
Katniss isn't really good at accepting her lot. In her poor mining district, food is scarce, and as the oldest daughter of a widowed mother, she has become the primary provider in her household. She escapes the confines of her district on a routine basis to hunt and gather any additional sustenance the nearby woods has to offer. It is through her hunting and gathering that she develops a strong, but undefined bond with Gale, a boy who is just a couple years older than she is.
Everything about the games is designed to further oppress the people of the poorer districts and the lower classes within each district. For the price of increasing their odds of being selected in the reaping, the impoverished and hungry children can acquire additional food to help sustain their families. As the primary providers in their families, Katniss and Gale have multiple chances in the reaping, but much to Katniss's horror, her sister Prim's name is drawn the first year of her eligibility. Even if you haven't seen the movie trailer, it's a given that Katniss will volunteer to take her sister's place.
She and her male counterpart, Peeta, are swept away in a wave of strategizing and image creation. In the process of preparing for the games, Peeta reveals two things: 1) he doesn't want his fear of dying to change the person he is as he fights for his own survival and 2) he has been in love with Katniss for years. Katniss, who has promised her family she will do her best to survive the games, has no use for holding onto trifling things like her own identity, and the last thing she knows what to do with are Peeta's feelings for her.
As the games unfold, Katniss struggles to keep her promise. Along the way, she becomes attached to a girl from another district and with this girl's death, she seems finally to begin to absorb the cruelty of the games. She begins to discover herself, and not only struggles to fight for her own survival, but for the survival of her own spirit, even though she isn't exactly sure she knows her own spirit. And it is this that is the essence of what I have connected with in this story.
I identify myself as an agnostic--someone who isn't sure there is a higher power. Some people think of agnostics as being "atheist light." But I often think of the scene in "Four Weddings and a Funeral," when Hugh Grant's character Charles is getting ready to marry Duckface and he tells his brother he is uncertain of what to do. "Here I am on my wedding day and I'm still thinking." It seems like I find myself feeling the same way about God and many other heavy life decisions. I'm always "still thinking."
In "The Hunger Games," Katniss finds herself confused about her feelings for Peeta and Gale. She finds herself playing along with a ruse that may just help her and Peeta survive. But at what expense? And if the ruse does work, how long will she have to keep it up? What other prices will she have to pay?
The outcome of the games is surprising to say the least. Without necessarily planning it, Katniss thumbs her nose at the Capitol and appears to be inciting dissent among the districts. Such an act puts herself and those she loves in danger.
When the world seems to be closing in on her, it appears she thinks she can have it both ways when she considers the prospect of gathering her loved ones and trying to run. She believes in something impossible, only to find that some of the people she loves aren't able to so easily delude themselves and pretend.
This last weekend, Jeph and I had to say goodbye to our fifteen-year-old dog--our Blue. It's the second such loss we've suffered in the last two years. Last spring, we nearly lost our eleven-year-old dog. As I contemplated the possibility that she would not survive her illness, for a moment, I believed no matter the benefit, I could never take on any other living thing to love, because of the deep pain I knew I was going to endure if we lost her. As I am enduring that pain, I find myself unable to close the door on eternity--something only a dedicated atheist can do. I find myself referring to where Blue and Scrubby are now, and their fellow dogs that I've known over the years that deserve better than my faithlessness.
Loss makes you "hunger" for something more. It makes you hunger for an alternative to what you can see and know with your eyes. It makes you hunger for a way out. It makes you hunger for a sustenance the faithless can never find.
I don't know if Katniss will ultimately survive. I haven't gotten through all three books yet. In spite of the pain I feel right now, I know that I will survive. I know that, in spite of my current feelings about it, that I will "love" again. As the last weekend was ending, I discovered a quote by Edgar Allan Poe that shocked me: "Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." Knowing a thing or two about the losses and suffering he endured in his short life, I have to raise a glass to my Eddy for being able to recognize what most of us find really difficult to see in the face of sorrow.
And since I haven't been launched into an arena with twenty-three other people who are trying to kill me, I have the time to consider who I am and what all of that means before I reach that final door.
Safe and Sound--Taylor Swift, featuring The Civil Wars
Monday, February 27, 2012
Blue
I place you upon the altar of my sorrow,
and of my many joys.
The soft warmth and comfort of you ebbed,
and then rushed away.
Silent in your first days of uncertainty,
and then assured and loud.
Your purposeful waddling and seeking,
finally quiet and all too still.
The simplicity of your constancy held me,
but is now simple, choking memory.
You are in the moments I forget you are gone,
and in the moments I know too well.
You were the beginning of who we became,
and who we still long to become.
Your blue turned my heart red with life,
and with your last breath, blue again.
Always...Blue.
and of my many joys.
The soft warmth and comfort of you ebbed,
and then rushed away.
Silent in your first days of uncertainty,
and then assured and loud.
Your purposeful waddling and seeking,
finally quiet and all too still.
The simplicity of your constancy held me,
but is now simple, choking memory.
You are in the moments I forget you are gone,
and in the moments I know too well.
You were the beginning of who we became,
and who we still long to become.
Your blue turned my heart red with life,
and with your last breath, blue again.
Always...Blue.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
February 18, 2012--I am a potato trying to be a tomato
So, if you cook at all, you know that potatoes are kind of a perfect canvas. They absorb just about any flavor with which you season them. But you have to be careful, because sometimes, if you add too much of something, potatoes absorb more of the seasoning than you want them to--that's why you have to be so careful about how much salt you add to them or else they'll become bitter.
Except for the "perfect" part, I'm a potato.
I started thinking about this a lot over the last few days. A friend I work with was talking wistfully about a colleague of hers who has happily become immersed in her career. She's in the phase of learning, growing and becoming who she ultimately will be. I wouldn't go as far as to say that my friend is necessarily envious--that could have a negative connotation that I don't intend, but I think it's fair to say that the feeling of wanting to be happy in your work and successful at the same time is fairly universal. We all just need the same things.
I've been working in my field for thirteen years now. I went into it with wide eyes, big ideas and new dreams. The learning, growing, stretching phase made me believe anything was possible. I worked hard to become as good at my job as I could. After a while, I was so excited about all the things that were clicking for me, that I wanted to help them click for everyone around me. As motivated and happy as I was, how could I not want to share that feeling with everyone?
People started to think of me as a possible leader, but it didn't exactly work out that way. Somehow, I just couldn't close the deal. I didn't end up being a leader. Turns out I'm more of a 'ladder'--there to support others and help them reach for things. When I realized what I wasn't going to be, I also realized that maybe I didn't want to be a 'ladder' either. I needed to change. The only problem--I'm a potato.
After all the years of working hard, staying late to help out, giving other people pep talks and trying to do the right thing--I knew those things were good, but they weren't good enough for anyone else, and they were making me feel a little beat up. But after so long doing it, it's hard for other people to see me doing anything else, and it's just as hard for me to start being anything else.
I know we all just need the same things, but sometimes we put all of our wants, needs and desires into one basket, turning our backs on the other ones. When we finally start to take a step back and see all the possibilities we left behind, we realize we've taken on way too much salt. It's really hard to do anything with an overly salty potato.
It's been a tough week. I've felt taken for granted. I've been salty. I say I don't want to be a potato. I declare it and put my foot down, but when people look at me, all they see is a potato.
In spite of wanting to be something else, I actually love potatoes. I remember growing up and hanging out with my mom sometimes when she would be making supper. She was pretty good at opening boxes and cans, and turning them into some of my favorite horribly over processed meals. But when she wasn't taking those short cuts, she actually was a half decent cook. We both shared a love of two pretty versatile plants--potatoes and tomatoes. I loved to eat pieces of fresh potatoes raw as she sliced them up to mash or fry. But given the choice, I would sit down and eat an entire tomato like most people eat apples. I couldn't do that with a potato.
Tomatoes are similar to potatoes in the sense that they can be the foundation for so many dishes, the difference--tomatoes are brightly colored, bursting with their own flavor and they can stand alone. They're fragile and you don't expect them to hang out for as long as potatoes--you know they're going to go bad if you don't use them. Potatoes are sturdy and dependable. They can sit on a counter for days and days and even if they start to grow tiny little sprouts, you can cut those bad parts off and still use them. And they're still going to absorb whatever flavors you want them to. They're going to support your meal.
I hope my friend's colleague becomes a tomato. People around her will reach for her and want to add her to every good thing they're making. I'm pretty sure I won't find a way to be a tomato in my work life. I'm hoping that I didn't look back on the other baskets in my life too late to do anything about them. I hope that maybe I get over the feeling of being a ladder, because ladders by their own natures are designed to be stepped on, and after a while, you start to feel a little bruised when people aren't wearing soft shoes.
It's also important to realize that people with hard shoes aren't wearing hard shoes to hurt you--after all, it's not their fault you look like a ladder, and lifting other people up is what ladders are for.
Cough Syrup--Young the Giant
Except for the "perfect" part, I'm a potato.
I started thinking about this a lot over the last few days. A friend I work with was talking wistfully about a colleague of hers who has happily become immersed in her career. She's in the phase of learning, growing and becoming who she ultimately will be. I wouldn't go as far as to say that my friend is necessarily envious--that could have a negative connotation that I don't intend, but I think it's fair to say that the feeling of wanting to be happy in your work and successful at the same time is fairly universal. We all just need the same things.
I've been working in my field for thirteen years now. I went into it with wide eyes, big ideas and new dreams. The learning, growing, stretching phase made me believe anything was possible. I worked hard to become as good at my job as I could. After a while, I was so excited about all the things that were clicking for me, that I wanted to help them click for everyone around me. As motivated and happy as I was, how could I not want to share that feeling with everyone?
People started to think of me as a possible leader, but it didn't exactly work out that way. Somehow, I just couldn't close the deal. I didn't end up being a leader. Turns out I'm more of a 'ladder'--there to support others and help them reach for things. When I realized what I wasn't going to be, I also realized that maybe I didn't want to be a 'ladder' either. I needed to change. The only problem--I'm a potato.
After all the years of working hard, staying late to help out, giving other people pep talks and trying to do the right thing--I knew those things were good, but they weren't good enough for anyone else, and they were making me feel a little beat up. But after so long doing it, it's hard for other people to see me doing anything else, and it's just as hard for me to start being anything else.
I know we all just need the same things, but sometimes we put all of our wants, needs and desires into one basket, turning our backs on the other ones. When we finally start to take a step back and see all the possibilities we left behind, we realize we've taken on way too much salt. It's really hard to do anything with an overly salty potato.
It's been a tough week. I've felt taken for granted. I've been salty. I say I don't want to be a potato. I declare it and put my foot down, but when people look at me, all they see is a potato.
In spite of wanting to be something else, I actually love potatoes. I remember growing up and hanging out with my mom sometimes when she would be making supper. She was pretty good at opening boxes and cans, and turning them into some of my favorite horribly over processed meals. But when she wasn't taking those short cuts, she actually was a half decent cook. We both shared a love of two pretty versatile plants--potatoes and tomatoes. I loved to eat pieces of fresh potatoes raw as she sliced them up to mash or fry. But given the choice, I would sit down and eat an entire tomato like most people eat apples. I couldn't do that with a potato.
Tomatoes are similar to potatoes in the sense that they can be the foundation for so many dishes, the difference--tomatoes are brightly colored, bursting with their own flavor and they can stand alone. They're fragile and you don't expect them to hang out for as long as potatoes--you know they're going to go bad if you don't use them. Potatoes are sturdy and dependable. They can sit on a counter for days and days and even if they start to grow tiny little sprouts, you can cut those bad parts off and still use them. And they're still going to absorb whatever flavors you want them to. They're going to support your meal.
I hope my friend's colleague becomes a tomato. People around her will reach for her and want to add her to every good thing they're making. I'm pretty sure I won't find a way to be a tomato in my work life. I'm hoping that I didn't look back on the other baskets in my life too late to do anything about them. I hope that maybe I get over the feeling of being a ladder, because ladders by their own natures are designed to be stepped on, and after a while, you start to feel a little bruised when people aren't wearing soft shoes.
It's also important to realize that people with hard shoes aren't wearing hard shoes to hurt you--after all, it's not their fault you look like a ladder, and lifting other people up is what ladders are for.
Cough Syrup--Young the Giant
Sunday, February 5, 2012
February 5, 2012--Pro Choice is Fundamentally Pro Life.
So, I know, controversial title for a post, right? But, I think on whatever side of the issue you find yourself, if you read on, you might be surprised.
As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, knitting and watching Florence and the Machine and Lykke Li on "Austin City Limits," something strikes me--I feel very much like a woman. Now, I'm going to be honest, even at forty years old, I cringe every time I either hear myself referred to as a 'woman' or I have to choose to say the word 'woman.' I don't completely know why, but to me, it just seems like a creepy word. Forgetting any true etymology of the word, when I look at it, it seems like it should come from 'womb of man,' which, let's face it--men don't have wombs. So it kind of doesn't really make any sense.
If you listen to alternative music these days, then you know who Florence and Lykke Li are, and you know that they really couldn't be any more different from each other. Their voices are completely different, and they have chosen completely different directions to go with their music. The key word in that sentence is "chosen."
I had an epiphany recently, but haven't really been able to decide how to talk about it until this afternoon.
Jeph and I have decided that after nearly sixteen years of marriage, we are ready to take the scary leap of trying to have a baby. I always thought I understood what it means to either be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice," but I really didn't.
First of all, the early stages of this journey have taught me something fundamentally sad about myself and many other 'women.' I barely know anything about how my body works at all, especially when it comes to how a baby actually gets made--and no, I don't mean the mechanics of having sex. I mean everything else. I hear women around me--who are in the know--talk about cycle lengths, flower days and bumble bee days. All of this has left me clueless.
So, at forty years old, I find myself having to research things like: how to calculate when you should have an LH surge and when you ovulate; what anti-inflammatories and herbal supplements might be harmful to an unborn child; the percentage of women my age who conceive without heroic efforts; and the like. I've spent days urinating on sticks in hopes of getting a "smiley face" instead of a blank circle. In a way, it's silly and embarrassing. As a 'woman,' how can I know so little about something that is supposed to be such a natural part of my being?
Well, in part, it has been a choice. For most of the last forty years, I have chosen not to think about what it would be like not to prevent pregnancy. I have chosen to run amok going to concerts, traveling to Ireland, working toward professional success and not completely achieving it, and buying things. There's not necessarily anything wrong with any of those activities, but I'm just acknowledging my personal archive of choices.
I spent one week in college worried--terrified--that I might be pregnant. It was not good times. The one thing I learned from my mother--mostly through her stories of things she always wanted to do, but never got to because she had me at the age of sixteen--was that I never wanted to be pregnant before I chose to be. I was on birth control. I was not a wildly promiscuous person. I was incensed by the mere idea that I had been a responsible, careful person and something like this could still happen to me.
I wasn't pregnant. I was working a full time job, going to school full time, exercising and taking multiple dance classes, and my body just decided to take a month off from being normal. So I never had to face any kind of choice.
The epiphany I recently had about choice came to me because of the kind of work I do. I work in veterinary medicine, and as in most medical fields, certain tasks and responsibilities expected of me can entail putting myself in harm's way. On a day-to-day basis, I face the potential of being scratched, bitten, or frankly getting really gross stuff on me. But, I'm also exposed to pathogens, chemical agents, drugs, anesthetic agents and radiation. I never think of these things. I just do what is expected in my position.
When I was presented with the possibility that any of these tasks might put a potential child I might be carrying in danger, it occurred to me that I might be forced to make choices I never had to make, or even think about before. I admit, I felt threatened, even though I had no reason to suspect that I was pregnant at the time. It never occurred to me that I could feel so fiercely protective of something I without even knowing if it was there or not. Now, when I think about it, I think I might understand the mother wolf protecting her litter. I understand why any parent would think of the moment their child was formed as something more than a biological event from which we just happen to be able to derive pleasure.
As I was faced with deciding to continue performing these tasks, or to stand my ground, it occurred to me that as much as being able to choose to terminate a pregnancy that I am not ready for, I want to be able to choose to protect a pregnancy that I am ready for.
I have a relative of whom I am horribly ashamed. I am aware that she has terminated multiple pregnancies via abortion. I am aware that the reason she did not prevent these pregnancies is because of an ignorant philosophy that "prevention" implies that she was intending to do something "dirty," and she wouldn't want anyone to think that she was "dirty." I support a woman's right to choose to end an unwanted pregnancy, but I can't support the kind of choices my relative made so many times.
I think the epiphany I had isn't just about choosing to have a child or not. Choosing is about choosing what happens to you. I want to be able to choose what happens to my body--naturally or otherwise.
It's a common practice to circumcise male infants in the Judeo-Christian culture. I haven't researched it thoroughly, but there seems to be some evidence that circumcision is more hygienic and can prevent the spread of certain diseases, including HIV. But let's be honest, most circumcisions take place because of beliefs and tradition. Those infant boys haven't researched the science behind the procedure any more than they have any belief system that would prompt them to lop off a piece of their penis.
About three million girls have some form of genital mutilation performed on them annually in Africa--also without choice--ranging from the removal of the clitoris to removal of the labia and an assortment of other procedures--none of which have any medical basis. They're all performed based on religious or cultural beliefs.
Men and women are diagnosed with a myriad of diseases everyday. Some of us get the diagnosis of cancer. Some of us are diagnosed with Crohn's disease. Others, the common cold. In all cases, these diagnoses are followed by choices--our choices. Most of us choose to seek treatment for these attacks on our bodies. Some consciously choose, due to their own beliefs, not to pursue medical treatment for anything.
I realize that comparing the choices of treating disease, the lack of choice in genital mutilation and the choices of continuing or ending a pregnancy are very different, but they do have one fundamental thing in common--they're all choices concerning what happens to our own bodies.
This week, Susan G. Komen for the Cure decided to defund Planned Parenthood. Now, I'll be honest, I don't really understand why Susan G. Komen was giving any money to Planned Parenthood in the first place, so I actually don't care about the decision. If I stretch my brain around the situation, the only connection I can make between the two entities is that they provide support for women who are seeking care. I'm glad it happened though, because the controversy made me think about choice, and it helped me decide how to talk about what it means.
I've never discussed with my own physician whether she happens to be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice." It doesn't occur to me that her belief about the issue has anything to do with her ability to scrape my cervix or palpate my breasts for lumps. I'm just glad she knows how to do her job and can tell me whether or not she's found anything concerning with either one of those parts.
My guess is a woman who seeks care from Planned Parenthood is doing so because she needs help. Maybe she has no insurance, and reproductive--or medical care of any kind--is out of her financial reach without an organization like Planned Parenthood. Maybe the only place she might receive an annual breast exam is some place like Planned Parenthood. And I don't care that in the room next to her, a woman might be discussing getting birth control or where to go to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. I still want that woman in need to get the breast exam, and I don't care where Planned Parenthood gets the money to do it.
I know that the big divide is that the choice about reproductive rights doesn't just impact the woman or the man--it impacts whatever we believe to be developing in the uterus. My mom didn't think she would get pregnant while having sex if she didn't want to have a baby at the time. That was the knowledge she had about how her body worked at the age of sixteen. She was wrong. Nature decided she would become pregnant. She chose to have me and raise me. There were a lot of struggles along that road. I'm glad I'm here, but I'm sad that because of beliefs and tradition, nobody ever explained to her that babies come from loving relationships between two people who want to have them; they come from casual, one-time encounters we will be embarrassed about tomorrow; and they come from violent acts that are unwanted by men who take what they want--nature doesn't distinguish between any of these circumstances. It's nature's lack of discrimination in this area that leaves us with the responsibility of choice.
Choice is life.
I Know Places--Lykke Li
As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, knitting and watching Florence and the Machine and Lykke Li on "Austin City Limits," something strikes me--I feel very much like a woman. Now, I'm going to be honest, even at forty years old, I cringe every time I either hear myself referred to as a 'woman' or I have to choose to say the word 'woman.' I don't completely know why, but to me, it just seems like a creepy word. Forgetting any true etymology of the word, when I look at it, it seems like it should come from 'womb of man,' which, let's face it--men don't have wombs. So it kind of doesn't really make any sense.
If you listen to alternative music these days, then you know who Florence and Lykke Li are, and you know that they really couldn't be any more different from each other. Their voices are completely different, and they have chosen completely different directions to go with their music. The key word in that sentence is "chosen."
I had an epiphany recently, but haven't really been able to decide how to talk about it until this afternoon.
Jeph and I have decided that after nearly sixteen years of marriage, we are ready to take the scary leap of trying to have a baby. I always thought I understood what it means to either be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice," but I really didn't.
First of all, the early stages of this journey have taught me something fundamentally sad about myself and many other 'women.' I barely know anything about how my body works at all, especially when it comes to how a baby actually gets made--and no, I don't mean the mechanics of having sex. I mean everything else. I hear women around me--who are in the know--talk about cycle lengths, flower days and bumble bee days. All of this has left me clueless.
So, at forty years old, I find myself having to research things like: how to calculate when you should have an LH surge and when you ovulate; what anti-inflammatories and herbal supplements might be harmful to an unborn child; the percentage of women my age who conceive without heroic efforts; and the like. I've spent days urinating on sticks in hopes of getting a "smiley face" instead of a blank circle. In a way, it's silly and embarrassing. As a 'woman,' how can I know so little about something that is supposed to be such a natural part of my being?
Well, in part, it has been a choice. For most of the last forty years, I have chosen not to think about what it would be like not to prevent pregnancy. I have chosen to run amok going to concerts, traveling to Ireland, working toward professional success and not completely achieving it, and buying things. There's not necessarily anything wrong with any of those activities, but I'm just acknowledging my personal archive of choices.
I spent one week in college worried--terrified--that I might be pregnant. It was not good times. The one thing I learned from my mother--mostly through her stories of things she always wanted to do, but never got to because she had me at the age of sixteen--was that I never wanted to be pregnant before I chose to be. I was on birth control. I was not a wildly promiscuous person. I was incensed by the mere idea that I had been a responsible, careful person and something like this could still happen to me.
I wasn't pregnant. I was working a full time job, going to school full time, exercising and taking multiple dance classes, and my body just decided to take a month off from being normal. So I never had to face any kind of choice.
The epiphany I recently had about choice came to me because of the kind of work I do. I work in veterinary medicine, and as in most medical fields, certain tasks and responsibilities expected of me can entail putting myself in harm's way. On a day-to-day basis, I face the potential of being scratched, bitten, or frankly getting really gross stuff on me. But, I'm also exposed to pathogens, chemical agents, drugs, anesthetic agents and radiation. I never think of these things. I just do what is expected in my position.
When I was presented with the possibility that any of these tasks might put a potential child I might be carrying in danger, it occurred to me that I might be forced to make choices I never had to make, or even think about before. I admit, I felt threatened, even though I had no reason to suspect that I was pregnant at the time. It never occurred to me that I could feel so fiercely protective of something I without even knowing if it was there or not. Now, when I think about it, I think I might understand the mother wolf protecting her litter. I understand why any parent would think of the moment their child was formed as something more than a biological event from which we just happen to be able to derive pleasure.
As I was faced with deciding to continue performing these tasks, or to stand my ground, it occurred to me that as much as being able to choose to terminate a pregnancy that I am not ready for, I want to be able to choose to protect a pregnancy that I am ready for.
I have a relative of whom I am horribly ashamed. I am aware that she has terminated multiple pregnancies via abortion. I am aware that the reason she did not prevent these pregnancies is because of an ignorant philosophy that "prevention" implies that she was intending to do something "dirty," and she wouldn't want anyone to think that she was "dirty." I support a woman's right to choose to end an unwanted pregnancy, but I can't support the kind of choices my relative made so many times.
I think the epiphany I had isn't just about choosing to have a child or not. Choosing is about choosing what happens to you. I want to be able to choose what happens to my body--naturally or otherwise.
It's a common practice to circumcise male infants in the Judeo-Christian culture. I haven't researched it thoroughly, but there seems to be some evidence that circumcision is more hygienic and can prevent the spread of certain diseases, including HIV. But let's be honest, most circumcisions take place because of beliefs and tradition. Those infant boys haven't researched the science behind the procedure any more than they have any belief system that would prompt them to lop off a piece of their penis.
About three million girls have some form of genital mutilation performed on them annually in Africa--also without choice--ranging from the removal of the clitoris to removal of the labia and an assortment of other procedures--none of which have any medical basis. They're all performed based on religious or cultural beliefs.
Men and women are diagnosed with a myriad of diseases everyday. Some of us get the diagnosis of cancer. Some of us are diagnosed with Crohn's disease. Others, the common cold. In all cases, these diagnoses are followed by choices--our choices. Most of us choose to seek treatment for these attacks on our bodies. Some consciously choose, due to their own beliefs, not to pursue medical treatment for anything.
I realize that comparing the choices of treating disease, the lack of choice in genital mutilation and the choices of continuing or ending a pregnancy are very different, but they do have one fundamental thing in common--they're all choices concerning what happens to our own bodies.
This week, Susan G. Komen for the Cure decided to defund Planned Parenthood. Now, I'll be honest, I don't really understand why Susan G. Komen was giving any money to Planned Parenthood in the first place, so I actually don't care about the decision. If I stretch my brain around the situation, the only connection I can make between the two entities is that they provide support for women who are seeking care. I'm glad it happened though, because the controversy made me think about choice, and it helped me decide how to talk about what it means.
I've never discussed with my own physician whether she happens to be "Pro Life" or "Pro Choice." It doesn't occur to me that her belief about the issue has anything to do with her ability to scrape my cervix or palpate my breasts for lumps. I'm just glad she knows how to do her job and can tell me whether or not she's found anything concerning with either one of those parts.
My guess is a woman who seeks care from Planned Parenthood is doing so because she needs help. Maybe she has no insurance, and reproductive--or medical care of any kind--is out of her financial reach without an organization like Planned Parenthood. Maybe the only place she might receive an annual breast exam is some place like Planned Parenthood. And I don't care that in the room next to her, a woman might be discussing getting birth control or where to go to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. I still want that woman in need to get the breast exam, and I don't care where Planned Parenthood gets the money to do it.
I know that the big divide is that the choice about reproductive rights doesn't just impact the woman or the man--it impacts whatever we believe to be developing in the uterus. My mom didn't think she would get pregnant while having sex if she didn't want to have a baby at the time. That was the knowledge she had about how her body worked at the age of sixteen. She was wrong. Nature decided she would become pregnant. She chose to have me and raise me. There were a lot of struggles along that road. I'm glad I'm here, but I'm sad that because of beliefs and tradition, nobody ever explained to her that babies come from loving relationships between two people who want to have them; they come from casual, one-time encounters we will be embarrassed about tomorrow; and they come from violent acts that are unwanted by men who take what they want--nature doesn't distinguish between any of these circumstances. It's nature's lack of discrimination in this area that leaves us with the responsibility of choice.
Choice is life.
I Know Places--Lykke Li
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
January 31, 2012--Why ya wanna be so mean? Maybe ya don't mean to be.
So, time passes, and things we think we remember well, often are fragmented by time. I remember my grandpa saying something like "it's easy to be pleasant, but it takes work to be a horse's ass." As I sit here thinking about it, to me it seems like that statement should go in reverse, but there's no one handy to verify the saying.
Some days, I think it's easy to get caught up in things that aren't going well or right for us, and it's easy to give in to that and let it color the way we treat people around us. We don't necessarily intend to be mean or unhelpful, we just are. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, because for the last few months, a lot of things have been going really right for me that hadn't been, and I'm protective of that sea change.
I know there always will be bumps in the road, no matter how smooth the resurfacing job has been, but maybe it's not surprising that when I'm happy, I want others around me to be happy as well. I don't want one person's thoughtlessness stepping on someone I care about, because then there are three people who aren't on smooth footing--the person getting stepped on, the person doing the stepping, and me. There are probably others who are noting those moments and feeling those things too, but when you come out of the wilderness, it's almost like breathing clean air for the first time--you never want to give that up.
It's hard to just be nice, especially on a bad day, or minimally a day when you don't feel your best and nothing seems to be adding up. Today was kind of like that. It was so much work just to plow through the day that I barely had anything left in the tank for cordial, let alone nice.
On the way home, however, I thought about it. Someone I work with is going through a really worrisome situation. I'm not particularly close to this person. In fact, most of the time she drives me pretty crazy. But, I thought, "you know what, I could at least lend her a little hand." And so I did. It may not make a lot of difference, but at the end of the day, you spend more time with the people you work with than your own family most of the time, why can't we just be nice to each other?
Sometimes it's envy. The person you can't bear to be nice to has something going for them that you wish you had. As with Rosalie in "Eclipse," when she tells Bella that choosing to become a vampire is the biggest mistake she could make and that she would give anything to be in Bella's position so she could choose to live and have a real life. Immortality and ridiculous beauty evidently aren't everything they're cracked up to be.
Sometimes it's personality clashes. You just can't mesh with the other person, no matter how you might think you've tried. You may go out of your way to try and mold yourself to fit what works for the other person, but it's so far out of the realm of possibility that it just can't ever happen. It will always be a strain.
Sometimes we don't understand the words we say and the way we say them don't come across the way we mean them. We use sarcasm and humor to try and fit into situations that are hard for us because we don't have better tools. And we don't recognize when our efforts go awry and we've hurt or irritated others. I know I'm guilty of that from time to time.
But I think most of the time it's simple thoughtlessness. Thoughtless sounds like a really mean word, until you break it down. It truly just means 'without thought.' It's not because we don't like each other or we want to make things harder on each other, it's just that we act without thought.
When you're the recipient of 'the mean,' it's pretty hard to consider that maybe, just maybe no harm was intended.
I don't know if letting go of the difficult day and the way I was feeling will make any difference for my co-worker, but, I know if I were in her shoes, I would hope that someone would reach out and try to help me too--whether they like me or not.
How to Save a Life--The Fray
Some days, I think it's easy to get caught up in things that aren't going well or right for us, and it's easy to give in to that and let it color the way we treat people around us. We don't necessarily intend to be mean or unhelpful, we just are. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, because for the last few months, a lot of things have been going really right for me that hadn't been, and I'm protective of that sea change.
I know there always will be bumps in the road, no matter how smooth the resurfacing job has been, but maybe it's not surprising that when I'm happy, I want others around me to be happy as well. I don't want one person's thoughtlessness stepping on someone I care about, because then there are three people who aren't on smooth footing--the person getting stepped on, the person doing the stepping, and me. There are probably others who are noting those moments and feeling those things too, but when you come out of the wilderness, it's almost like breathing clean air for the first time--you never want to give that up.
It's hard to just be nice, especially on a bad day, or minimally a day when you don't feel your best and nothing seems to be adding up. Today was kind of like that. It was so much work just to plow through the day that I barely had anything left in the tank for cordial, let alone nice.
On the way home, however, I thought about it. Someone I work with is going through a really worrisome situation. I'm not particularly close to this person. In fact, most of the time she drives me pretty crazy. But, I thought, "you know what, I could at least lend her a little hand." And so I did. It may not make a lot of difference, but at the end of the day, you spend more time with the people you work with than your own family most of the time, why can't we just be nice to each other?
Sometimes it's envy. The person you can't bear to be nice to has something going for them that you wish you had. As with Rosalie in "Eclipse," when she tells Bella that choosing to become a vampire is the biggest mistake she could make and that she would give anything to be in Bella's position so she could choose to live and have a real life. Immortality and ridiculous beauty evidently aren't everything they're cracked up to be.
Sometimes it's personality clashes. You just can't mesh with the other person, no matter how you might think you've tried. You may go out of your way to try and mold yourself to fit what works for the other person, but it's so far out of the realm of possibility that it just can't ever happen. It will always be a strain.
Sometimes we don't understand the words we say and the way we say them don't come across the way we mean them. We use sarcasm and humor to try and fit into situations that are hard for us because we don't have better tools. And we don't recognize when our efforts go awry and we've hurt or irritated others. I know I'm guilty of that from time to time.
But I think most of the time it's simple thoughtlessness. Thoughtless sounds like a really mean word, until you break it down. It truly just means 'without thought.' It's not because we don't like each other or we want to make things harder on each other, it's just that we act without thought.
When you're the recipient of 'the mean,' it's pretty hard to consider that maybe, just maybe no harm was intended.
I don't know if letting go of the difficult day and the way I was feeling will make any difference for my co-worker, but, I know if I were in her shoes, I would hope that someone would reach out and try to help me too--whether they like me or not.
How to Save a Life--The Fray
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Nevermore
The grace of the gray wind brushes her cheek,
and she hears a distant bell from nowhere
--silly imagination.
Words of a distant and long dead poet wrap 'round her,
as she dreams of a city by the sea lost forever
--drifting through ages.
Plans peel away like petals from the rose
and the dead whisper reminders of what we miss
--simply by not living.
The nails of the past leave the marks on her back,
she self consciously shies away from seeing them
--feeling them always behind.
Time is a clever thief, stealing away days and days,
giving empty minutes and hours to burn away
--no tomorrow.
The clang and the clatter of time crumbling away,
whisper that this moment has passed
--to be here, nevermore.
and she hears a distant bell from nowhere
--silly imagination.
Words of a distant and long dead poet wrap 'round her,
as she dreams of a city by the sea lost forever
--drifting through ages.
Plans peel away like petals from the rose
and the dead whisper reminders of what we miss
--simply by not living.
The nails of the past leave the marks on her back,
she self consciously shies away from seeing them
--feeling them always behind.
Time is a clever thief, stealing away days and days,
giving empty minutes and hours to burn away
--no tomorrow.
The clang and the clatter of time crumbling away,
whisper that this moment has passed
--to be here, nevermore.
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