I'm not a big fan of the birthday, at least not mine. Not because I fear getting older ----- I actually kind of like that. I'm far more comfortable inside my skin now than I ever was back when it fit better.
No, first of all, birthdays kind of annoy me because they don't really mark what we think they do. I was born on August 24, 1950. (By the way, as birthdays go, that's a good one, especially the 1950 part. Makes it so easy to figure out all other dates.) But that was just the day I was born, not the day I started.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not some google-eyed anti-abortion terrorist determined that life begins sometime before conception. But when you get launched into the world and you're a full-fledged, breathing person, it'd be nice to get some credit for surviving all that cell division, and growing of fingers and toes, that went on in the womb. That's not nothing. So we already start out 9 months behind, give or take. Then we've got to put in a whole 'nother 365 before we even get to the big ONE. Somehow, that just seems wrong.
What all this amounts to for me is that in 2015 I'll turn 65 (see how easy that math is? I love 1950!) and that's supposed to be meaningful in much the same way that turning 21 is ---- it marks an artificial milestone that translates into describable, sometimes legal, changes. Everybody knows that when you turn 21 you can drink (wink wink) and you're considered an adult. Similarly, when you turn 65 you can go on Medicare. You also get all kinds of discounts, like with airlines and gym memberships, and people automatically put you in the category of OLD ----- or elderly or senior citizen or, my personal favorite, a golden-ager. You know who really thinks you're old, besides grandchildren? Car rental companies. Some don't even want to rent cars to people over 65. Huh! Why Sonny, I've been driving since stick shifts were everywhere and seat belts didn't exist!
Since Mom died, I've been in touch with a lot of people from my previous lives. It's an interesting process. First of all, I don't think I'm that much different, so why do all these people have gray hair (or bald heads!) and grandkids and social security? I still think that me being able to collect SS is some sort of scam I'm pulling --- surely I'm not old enough for retirement, right? All of my notions about time and life-span are up for grabs right now. I suppose it's a perfectly predictable life passage that happens just about now, but it's MY life passage and it's a novelty to me. How can life go by so quickly? How can I feel so new when, chronologically speaking, I'm sliding down the far end of the bell curve?
I'm reading about brain chemistry and neurology, creativity and consciousness. I'm also re-reading Agatha Christie to give those neurons a break from trying to find hooks on which to hang new learning. I get the butterflies in the tummy with excitement when I make new connections, understand something that had never been clear before. I clench my teeth and read some paragraphs over and over, almost feeling the reach of dendrites as I try to grasp something new. Wears me plum out!
When I was 30, I first noticed that the skin on my hand was loosening up. I was appalled. I kept poking at the back of my hand like it was a dead mouse, fascinated and horrified. Thirty-five years later, with far more loose skin, I assure you, I see my mother's hands, the hands of my grandmother ---- wrinkled, veiny, age-spotted ---- and I love them. They're not new, they've been used to work and play and dig in the dirt and hold babies and make love and open jars. They've been surgified several times, rehabilitated, puffed up and shrunk down.
At Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Raleigh (UUFR) my favorite part of the child dedication ceremony is the call to 'use these hands in the work of the world.' I have done that and, most recently, in the care of my mother in her last days. As we gathered around her bed, and the world fell away, it felt like a death and a birth, rolled into one.
That is new learning for me.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
Meeting the Reaper Head-on
My mother died ten days before Christmas. That's so like her.
Nancy was a woman who was easy to love. She drew people like Monarchs to milkweed. They simply couldn't help themselves. Not only was she funny and pretty and kind, she had a way of listening that was attentive and made you feel like you were her sole concern at that moment. It was usually true ---- she loved being with people. It was also true that she was hard of hearing and had to lip read. That helped her cultivate the soft, sincere, focus that people felt in her presence.
She was genuinely happy to help people she knew and loved, and people she didn't as well. When I was a girl, she had a way of adopting people into the family. She cooked too much because there was no way to know how many would show up at dinner time. She listened to people's troubles, even though she rarely offered advice. Her attention and compassion were enough.
In her later years, as the kids grew up and moved away, she became increasingly independent. In her forties, she moved back to the US from England for two years, in order to complete her degree in teaching. She had taught for years without it, but wanted to achieve full career status with the Department of Defense Dependent Schools, and needed a diploma. A few years later the folks turned the tables and she held down the fort in the Azores while Dad pursued his ambition to be an itinerant, starving, actor in the US. In a marriage that surely had its ups and downs, they were both committed to helping each other fulfill their dreams.
After 31 years of living overseas, traveling widely, and teaching generations of kindergarteners and music students, they settled near grown kids in Louisburg, North Carolina. The final two decades distilled a lifetime of family ties, artistic pursuits, community living, travel, and caregiving. There were innumerable family get-togethers always accompanied by board games, singing at the piano bar, and laughter. When hurricane Fran blew through, it was at Mom and Dad's we all took refuge. Theirs was the only house in our family to sustain bad damage ---- wouldn't you know it? ---- but at least we were all together through that frightening night. Because that's exactly what we do.
Retirement for the folks brought the chance to do community theater, to attend grandchildren's plays and concerts, to go on their annual pilgrimmage to Disney World. Mom and I would talk on the phone almost daily, a delight after living on different continents for so many years. We discussed the birds in our yards, bragged on how many loads of laundry we had on the line or what we were cooking for supper. We swapped stories and gossip and shared resentments and troubles. An already close relationship blossomed under the ordinary of daily contact.
When Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease in 1998 it was not a surprise since he had been behaving strangely for some time, but it was a shock. Reality check. Life was changing completely and abruptly. She took care of him at home, taking on the brunt of the burden and shielding the three of us kids who live here, so we could carry on with our own lives and families. It was not until he became unmanageable and dangerously combative that we understood the true extent of his decline. She continued to visit him several times a week in the Memory Care unit, overseeing his treatment and condition, but relieved at last from feeling unsafe in her own home.
She was widowed after 53 years of marriage and several years of Lester's dementia. Now she was free from caregiving and could travel once more. She flitted about, knocking things off of her bucket list and visiting friends and her three older siblings. Good times, indeed . . . . until. Small things at first, lost objects, repeated questions or statements, getting lost in a town of 1,500. With utter despair we all came to realize that she was showing many of the early signs that Dad had shown, and the diagnosis was confirmed. Two years after Alzheimer's claimed Lester, it came gunnin' for Nancy.
Nancy Lou Ewers Bundy was a determined woman. She was eminently practical and, though blessed with the spirit of an artist, she did not shrink from the real world. Whatever her thoughts and fears after she started treatment, she rarely let on that she was anything but firmly grounded in living her life each day to the fullest. She took care of legalities. She divested herself of most of her belongings. She chose which independent living community she wanted to move to in Raleigh, close to the kids. She voluntarily gave up her car and couldn't say enough how glad she was that she didn't have to take care of that big house and yard, or cook or clean for herself anymore. She made friends and became a BINGO maven. We continued to talk on the phone and see each other as usual. She fell in love with an older man, Jack, and passionately threw herself into a relationship that sustained and uplifted both of them for five years.
There's no pretty way to live and die with Alzheimer's. There are ways to manage it, there can be joy and laughter ---- sometimes high hilarity ---- and there can be intense love and devotion. But no matter how you cut it, it ain't pretty. She lost memory. Her speech and coordination faded away. She was confused and frightened sometimes, often courageous, mostly resigned. Her body gave out as she lost half of her body weight and the ability to walk or feed herself. Her limbs contracted until finally, mute and vacant, she was curled into a grotesque fetal position, ready to launch into an unknown world and leave that tortured body behind. Which she did, nine and a half years post-diagnosis, at 9:28 PM on Monday, December 15, 2014.
Isn't that just like her? She didn't want to trouble anybody. Maybe she knew we were bringing her home on the 10th for however long her final weeks would be, and decided she would cut it short and bring us all together. With the help of Hospice, she was carefully installed in a hospital bed in the front room of our house. Within two days she started to fail. On her final day, the family gathered. Music played ---- Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Christmas carols. The lights on the Christmas tree drew her eyes when nothing else could. We whispered and talked to her, told her how much we loved her, thanked her for the light she had always been. We patted and soothed and kissed and held her and she slipped away, enveloped in love. That was her gift to us, a final light on the path she has always illuminated for her children, her family, and friends.
She was my mama.
Nancy was a woman who was easy to love. She drew people like Monarchs to milkweed. They simply couldn't help themselves. Not only was she funny and pretty and kind, she had a way of listening that was attentive and made you feel like you were her sole concern at that moment. It was usually true ---- she loved being with people. It was also true that she was hard of hearing and had to lip read. That helped her cultivate the soft, sincere, focus that people felt in her presence.
She was genuinely happy to help people she knew and loved, and people she didn't as well. When I was a girl, she had a way of adopting people into the family. She cooked too much because there was no way to know how many would show up at dinner time. She listened to people's troubles, even though she rarely offered advice. Her attention and compassion were enough.
In her later years, as the kids grew up and moved away, she became increasingly independent. In her forties, she moved back to the US from England for two years, in order to complete her degree in teaching. She had taught for years without it, but wanted to achieve full career status with the Department of Defense Dependent Schools, and needed a diploma. A few years later the folks turned the tables and she held down the fort in the Azores while Dad pursued his ambition to be an itinerant, starving, actor in the US. In a marriage that surely had its ups and downs, they were both committed to helping each other fulfill their dreams.
After 31 years of living overseas, traveling widely, and teaching generations of kindergarteners and music students, they settled near grown kids in Louisburg, North Carolina. The final two decades distilled a lifetime of family ties, artistic pursuits, community living, travel, and caregiving. There were innumerable family get-togethers always accompanied by board games, singing at the piano bar, and laughter. When hurricane Fran blew through, it was at Mom and Dad's we all took refuge. Theirs was the only house in our family to sustain bad damage ---- wouldn't you know it? ---- but at least we were all together through that frightening night. Because that's exactly what we do.
Retirement for the folks brought the chance to do community theater, to attend grandchildren's plays and concerts, to go on their annual pilgrimmage to Disney World. Mom and I would talk on the phone almost daily, a delight after living on different continents for so many years. We discussed the birds in our yards, bragged on how many loads of laundry we had on the line or what we were cooking for supper. We swapped stories and gossip and shared resentments and troubles. An already close relationship blossomed under the ordinary of daily contact.
When Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease in 1998 it was not a surprise since he had been behaving strangely for some time, but it was a shock. Reality check. Life was changing completely and abruptly. She took care of him at home, taking on the brunt of the burden and shielding the three of us kids who live here, so we could carry on with our own lives and families. It was not until he became unmanageable and dangerously combative that we understood the true extent of his decline. She continued to visit him several times a week in the Memory Care unit, overseeing his treatment and condition, but relieved at last from feeling unsafe in her own home.
She was widowed after 53 years of marriage and several years of Lester's dementia. Now she was free from caregiving and could travel once more. She flitted about, knocking things off of her bucket list and visiting friends and her three older siblings. Good times, indeed . . . . until. Small things at first, lost objects, repeated questions or statements, getting lost in a town of 1,500. With utter despair we all came to realize that she was showing many of the early signs that Dad had shown, and the diagnosis was confirmed. Two years after Alzheimer's claimed Lester, it came gunnin' for Nancy.
Nancy Lou Ewers Bundy was a determined woman. She was eminently practical and, though blessed with the spirit of an artist, she did not shrink from the real world. Whatever her thoughts and fears after she started treatment, she rarely let on that she was anything but firmly grounded in living her life each day to the fullest. She took care of legalities. She divested herself of most of her belongings. She chose which independent living community she wanted to move to in Raleigh, close to the kids. She voluntarily gave up her car and couldn't say enough how glad she was that she didn't have to take care of that big house and yard, or cook or clean for herself anymore. She made friends and became a BINGO maven. We continued to talk on the phone and see each other as usual. She fell in love with an older man, Jack, and passionately threw herself into a relationship that sustained and uplifted both of them for five years.
There's no pretty way to live and die with Alzheimer's. There are ways to manage it, there can be joy and laughter ---- sometimes high hilarity ---- and there can be intense love and devotion. But no matter how you cut it, it ain't pretty. She lost memory. Her speech and coordination faded away. She was confused and frightened sometimes, often courageous, mostly resigned. Her body gave out as she lost half of her body weight and the ability to walk or feed herself. Her limbs contracted until finally, mute and vacant, she was curled into a grotesque fetal position, ready to launch into an unknown world and leave that tortured body behind. Which she did, nine and a half years post-diagnosis, at 9:28 PM on Monday, December 15, 2014.
Isn't that just like her? She didn't want to trouble anybody. Maybe she knew we were bringing her home on the 10th for however long her final weeks would be, and decided she would cut it short and bring us all together. With the help of Hospice, she was carefully installed in a hospital bed in the front room of our house. Within two days she started to fail. On her final day, the family gathered. Music played ---- Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Christmas carols. The lights on the Christmas tree drew her eyes when nothing else could. We whispered and talked to her, told her how much we loved her, thanked her for the light she had always been. We patted and soothed and kissed and held her and she slipped away, enveloped in love. That was her gift to us, a final light on the path she has always illuminated for her children, her family, and friends.
She was my mama.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Bridesmaid again
I woke up Wednesday morning, November 5, to sigh into my coffee and feel around for equilibrium. It's not an unusual feeling. Far more often than not, the day after an election is a letdown. Why do I keep backing the people who lose?
Maybe it was the coffee, particularly strong and fragrant that morning. Maybe after 40+ years of participating in the political process, I'm finally catching on. I've figured something out --- losing is a good thing. It means I'm still a progressive!
Think about it. By definition, progressives are the minority political group. However we align in terms of party or self-identity, to espouse progressive ideas about society is to buck the norm. We are, if you will, the tip of the arrow. And when the entire society lurches forward as it did in 2008, the pushback is going to be brutal.
It's a continuous process and, given the way humans seem to be constructed, will probably go on this way. Progressives forge ahead, push the boundaries, defy standards and taboos, invent, create, and often thumb their noses at the folks who aren't on board. Conservatives want to conserve ---- be comfortable, stay on the path, harken back to custom and tradition, hold on to the proven way of doing things. Change is difficult and threatening; most people don't like much change.
These two will always be at odds and never truly understand each other.
I won't assert any of my theories about what lures one person into the unknown while another longs for the comforts of home. Neither is essentially bad or wrong or right or good. In fact, while I count myself a lifelong progressive I also seek comfort in familiar people and surroundings.
It is that tension between surging ahead and holding on that is behind the colossal battle that plays out in politics, over the airwaves, and in families. And I imagine that the faster the pace of change, the more strident the conflict. Even for an old dog, future-gazer like me, it is hard to catch my breath. I'm always a few innovations behind.
Last weekend I had occasion to go to the big, new, whiz-bang library on the campus of North Carolina State University. This is a university that has a strong science, engineering and technology focus, and the library reflects that. As I sat writing (it's Nanowrimo.org month!) I saw and heard all around me the students of today ---- leaders of tomorrow ---- discussing, comparing, writing on whiteboards things I have no idea about. Those were some smart young people and they're learning about the world today and the world they're going to shape for tomorrow.
I came away from that experience energized and hopeful. Isn't that the way of things? My generation in the 60s and 70s was at the vanguard of social and technological revolution. Now we're regarded as wizened relics, obstacles to progress. Pat them on the head and wait for them to die.
I truly hope that the confirmed conservatives who want to take us back to a world that existed only in their imaginations do not succeed in scorching the earth too badly before the young'ins can take over.
Progressives are the minority. Fortunately, we can't stop progressing. It's in our DNA.
Maybe it was the coffee, particularly strong and fragrant that morning. Maybe after 40+ years of participating in the political process, I'm finally catching on. I've figured something out --- losing is a good thing. It means I'm still a progressive!
Think about it. By definition, progressives are the minority political group. However we align in terms of party or self-identity, to espouse progressive ideas about society is to buck the norm. We are, if you will, the tip of the arrow. And when the entire society lurches forward as it did in 2008, the pushback is going to be brutal.
It's a continuous process and, given the way humans seem to be constructed, will probably go on this way. Progressives forge ahead, push the boundaries, defy standards and taboos, invent, create, and often thumb their noses at the folks who aren't on board. Conservatives want to conserve ---- be comfortable, stay on the path, harken back to custom and tradition, hold on to the proven way of doing things. Change is difficult and threatening; most people don't like much change.
These two will always be at odds and never truly understand each other.
I won't assert any of my theories about what lures one person into the unknown while another longs for the comforts of home. Neither is essentially bad or wrong or right or good. In fact, while I count myself a lifelong progressive I also seek comfort in familiar people and surroundings.
It is that tension between surging ahead and holding on that is behind the colossal battle that plays out in politics, over the airwaves, and in families. And I imagine that the faster the pace of change, the more strident the conflict. Even for an old dog, future-gazer like me, it is hard to catch my breath. I'm always a few innovations behind.
Last weekend I had occasion to go to the big, new, whiz-bang library on the campus of North Carolina State University. This is a university that has a strong science, engineering and technology focus, and the library reflects that. As I sat writing (it's Nanowrimo.org month!) I saw and heard all around me the students of today ---- leaders of tomorrow ---- discussing, comparing, writing on whiteboards things I have no idea about. Those were some smart young people and they're learning about the world today and the world they're going to shape for tomorrow.
I came away from that experience energized and hopeful. Isn't that the way of things? My generation in the 60s and 70s was at the vanguard of social and technological revolution. Now we're regarded as wizened relics, obstacles to progress. Pat them on the head and wait for them to die.
I truly hope that the confirmed conservatives who want to take us back to a world that existed only in their imaginations do not succeed in scorching the earth too badly before the young'ins can take over.
Progressives are the minority. Fortunately, we can't stop progressing. It's in our DNA.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Waiting for the Urchins
It's Halloween once again. The sun sinks behind gathering clouds and darkness is descending. It won't be long before the ghosties and goblins and Disney princesses and pirates arrive, hoping for candy and a little bit afraid.
Remember going trick or treating? There's nothing new about Disney costuming. In 1958 I wore a Cinderella mask that kept going crooked so I had to look out of one eye hole. By the end of the night the dyes were running and I looked more like a horror victim than a princess. But I had a bag full of candy.
I have very mixed feelings about Halloween. As a kid, it was one of the most exciting days of the year. Costumes, shivery scary stuff, parades (yes, in school), and candy, of course. Lots of candy. Back in those days there were home made goodies as well ---- candy apples, popcorn balls, brownies and cookies. That all came to a screeching halt in the 70s, I guess.
Now, it's been a number of years since we went to a costume party. This year, we're not even dressing up to greet the kids. Our dogs hate it when strangers come to the door, so they have to put away for the evening. Somehow it's lost a lot of its charm.
But in a few minutes the first little butterfly or skeleton will come up onto the porch and offer up a bucket of some ghastly color and lisp out "Trick or Treat" while mom and dad stand back and grin. And for a few minutes, Halloween will be magical again. And I know it'll warm my heart.
Remember going trick or treating? There's nothing new about Disney costuming. In 1958 I wore a Cinderella mask that kept going crooked so I had to look out of one eye hole. By the end of the night the dyes were running and I looked more like a horror victim than a princess. But I had a bag full of candy.
I have very mixed feelings about Halloween. As a kid, it was one of the most exciting days of the year. Costumes, shivery scary stuff, parades (yes, in school), and candy, of course. Lots of candy. Back in those days there were home made goodies as well ---- candy apples, popcorn balls, brownies and cookies. That all came to a screeching halt in the 70s, I guess.
Now, it's been a number of years since we went to a costume party. This year, we're not even dressing up to greet the kids. Our dogs hate it when strangers come to the door, so they have to put away for the evening. Somehow it's lost a lot of its charm.
But in a few minutes the first little butterfly or skeleton will come up onto the porch and offer up a bucket of some ghastly color and lisp out "Trick or Treat" while mom and dad stand back and grin. And for a few minutes, Halloween will be magical again. And I know it'll warm my heart.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Pushme-Pullyou
Remember the Pushme-Pullyou from the Dr. Dolittle movie or books? Aside from being the perfect image for today's congress, it has a different, but related, political meaning for me.
First of all, I loved the Dr. Dolittle books when I was a kid. I checked them all out of the base library, along with the Mary Poppins books, when I was in sixth grade. They were counterpoint to my effort to read every biography in our school library. Typical for me.
So I've carried the Pushme-Pullyou image with me for decades and come back to it often. This morning, I was thinking about the current political situation, a month before the mid-term elections, and in the middle of death-defying efforts to legalize marriage for gay people in North Carolina. It's easy to get wound up, especially when I feel like I have a personal stake in the outcomes. Which I do. But it's equally easy to lose perspective.
When I was 18, I was enrolled in a tiny, American, liberal arts college in Germany ----- Schiller College. It was a unique experience that I didn't have enough appreciation for at the time. I ran away (literally) after one semester. But I arrived at school in the fall of 1968, freshly graduated from David Glasgow Farragut HS (Go Admirals!) on the navy base in Rota, Spain. I had lived in Germany for five years prior to moving to Spain, and my German language skills were far superior to what I had picked up of Spanish in the last two years. I felt like I was going home.
I was also in the company of my best male friend and co-conspirator for all things radical, John. We traveled to Germany by Eurail for three weeks before school started, and got into lots of tangles and interesting situations before finally landing at our castle campus in Bonnigheim. (I don't have a clue how to put an umlaut over that o.) I was feeling adventurous from the moment our train pulled out of Jerez in southern Spain, and being at school didn't dampen that one bit.
So politics. On our tiny campus we had 69 students, all freshmen, all American. Some came from the States and many came from state department or military families overseas. The faculty ---- I don't know how they got there, but they were certainly representative of the times. We smoked weed with the English professor while discussing literature, and we drank beer and danced with others in the on-campus "Milchbar". And one memorable night, we formed an SDS chapter.
We met at a gasthaus in town for a regular political workshop. Everybody drank wine or beer and got really argumentative. It was 1968. The world was coming to an end. Important political figures were being butchered in the streets. Entire neighborhoods in cities were in flames. The war was devouring a generation of young men. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
We met with our political science prof ---- a wise and experienced man of thirty ---- who told us about this subversive, underground, radical group that was opposed to all the things that were wrong with our home country. Some of us had not lived there since we were children. "Breaking news" often broke a week or more after it happened ---- it was hard to keep up with what was happening back home. But the Students for a Democratic Society was in the vanguard, he assured us, and even though we were too young to vote (the voting age was still 21) we were old enough to fight the system.
I don't remember what exactly joining the SDS involved. I don't remember there being any secret handshakes, though there might have been some sort of membership card. I do remember that our meetings involved a great deal of wine and shouting. I'm surprised we didn't get thrown out of the bar.
The SDS in the United States probably did have some impact. For me, it was an introduction to activism, no matter how small and ineffectual. When I left school and married my sailor boyfriend and returned to the States the next year, this early foundation segued into active participation in anti-war demonstrations and street-level protest in the women's movement.
My parents were apolitical. I don't believe they ever voted until they retired and moved back to the US. I cast my first vote for Shirley Chisolm in the 1972 primary. I've missed very few opportunities to vote since then. In fact, I like voting so much I always want to go back to the end of the line and do it again. You know the old saying ---- vote early and often!
I hear a lot about voter apathy now, attributed to various causes, and I wonder if some of it is just plain lack of education. We're swimming in information overload, but still too many people don't know how government is designed to work in this country. The loud doomsday voices on both sides of the political spectrum tend to drown out the plodding local-issue necessities of day to day government. Too many people feel like they don't matter, that they can't make a difference.
My one vote out of millions may not matter if I'm focused on that one tiny action. But if everyone stayed home and didn't vote, because it just doesn't matter, then who would seize the power? Somebody will, and it's not likely to be someone with my best interests at heart.
I feel vaguely guilty because I haven't been out canvassing or phone banking. Over the past 45 years I've done all of that, multiple times. I even managed a local campaign office one year for a governor's race. I've worked the polls. I've gone to Washington to lobby for causes. Now I'm ready to turn that part of it over, not because I'm apathetic, but because I'm tired. And it hurts my heart.
I'll vote. I'll always vote. I'll talk and blog and make phone calls to elected officials and sign petitions. But the pushme-pullyou of politics has taken its toll on me. I can't jump in with both feet anymore without hurting myself. And these days, for me, every single day counts.
Go on, all you youngsters ----- and the oldsters who still have the passion and the energy for it. Save the country. Let your voice be heard.
EVERYBODY VOTE!
Monday, October 6, 2014
On the Brink
It happens every fall. It took a long time to connect the dots because I actually LOVE fall. I'm not a big fan of being out in the sun and heat of summer, hate to feel sweaty and prickly, rarely visit the beach before October. Give me sunny, blue, autumn days with a bit of chill in the air and leaves that show some color, and I'm a happy camper.
So I've always ignored the dark side of autumn. And it's gotten me in trouble.
Retirement changes things, as I innocently said here when I first left my teaching job three years ago. I came to recognize, gradually, that I had experienced a moderately deep bout with depression. I started calling it my "good, old-fashioned, 1950s-style nervous breakdown" --- a fairly accurate description.
Considering that I had finally succumbed to what I regarded as the Big Pharma takeover of mental health, and started taking medication a few years earlier, I thought I pretty much had everything under control. HA!
There's a reason that November is the month for Depression Awareness efforts. I always thought that depression had to involve being snake-pit comatose in order to count as the real thing. If I could still walk and talk, that wasn't depression. It was malingering. It was laziness. It was being a weenie.
Of the many things I've been learning during my three years of retirement, this is some of the most important. I still resist it. I still want to believe that it's a character flaw, not an illness, and that all I need is a good ass-kicking to get myself back in gear. But that's not true for me, and it's not true for other people either.
The systemic dismissal of everything short of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, is a huge failure in our society. We lose people every day, every hour. We wring our hands about gun violence and racism and sexism and all the myriad ways that people are bludgeoned with oppression, depression, suppression --- yet we still spank and holler at our tender little people instead of treating them like precious human beings. Where do you think it all begins?
I've had it pointed out to me, over and over, that I treat myself much worse than I would ever think of treating another person. Even the grocery store clerk. Especially the grocery store clerk. I would never in a million years yell at the barista who made me the wrong coffee or the student who didn't understand multiplication. But I sure will berate myself for sleeping 12 hours or not dusting up the dog hair.
It's a long, slow process, recovery. Just like sobriety, it takes constant vigilance ---- without judgment and shame. I have a posse to help me, everyone from a loving wife to healthcare providers to deep soul family and friends. But I know that the best thing I can do to stay ahead of it is to recognize it, talk about it, share with courage. That's a tall order.
Carolina blue skies. Brilliant sunshine across my desk. A calendar dotted with things I want to do and don't want to do. Dogs right behind me. All I have to do is be here now and breathe.
So I've always ignored the dark side of autumn. And it's gotten me in trouble.
Retirement changes things, as I innocently said here when I first left my teaching job three years ago. I came to recognize, gradually, that I had experienced a moderately deep bout with depression. I started calling it my "good, old-fashioned, 1950s-style nervous breakdown" --- a fairly accurate description.
Considering that I had finally succumbed to what I regarded as the Big Pharma takeover of mental health, and started taking medication a few years earlier, I thought I pretty much had everything under control. HA!
There's a reason that November is the month for Depression Awareness efforts. I always thought that depression had to involve being snake-pit comatose in order to count as the real thing. If I could still walk and talk, that wasn't depression. It was malingering. It was laziness. It was being a weenie.
Of the many things I've been learning during my three years of retirement, this is some of the most important. I still resist it. I still want to believe that it's a character flaw, not an illness, and that all I need is a good ass-kicking to get myself back in gear. But that's not true for me, and it's not true for other people either.
The systemic dismissal of everything short of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, is a huge failure in our society. We lose people every day, every hour. We wring our hands about gun violence and racism and sexism and all the myriad ways that people are bludgeoned with oppression, depression, suppression --- yet we still spank and holler at our tender little people instead of treating them like precious human beings. Where do you think it all begins?
I've had it pointed out to me, over and over, that I treat myself much worse than I would ever think of treating another person. Even the grocery store clerk. Especially the grocery store clerk. I would never in a million years yell at the barista who made me the wrong coffee or the student who didn't understand multiplication. But I sure will berate myself for sleeping 12 hours or not dusting up the dog hair.
It's a long, slow process, recovery. Just like sobriety, it takes constant vigilance ---- without judgment and shame. I have a posse to help me, everyone from a loving wife to healthcare providers to deep soul family and friends. But I know that the best thing I can do to stay ahead of it is to recognize it, talk about it, share with courage. That's a tall order.
Carolina blue skies. Brilliant sunshine across my desk. A calendar dotted with things I want to do and don't want to do. Dogs right behind me. All I have to do is be here now and breathe.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Getting up the Gumption
Yesterday, Jill and I went to North Carolina Pride for the first time in several years. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy looking at all the color and soaking up the festive atmosphere. Usually, when Pride day rolls around, it seems like too far to go, too much effort to drive all the way to Durham ---- twenty-some miles ---- and anyway, if you've seen one pride, you've seen them all.
 |
| Home Sweet Home |
But that's the way life seems to be these days.
I was never much of a homebody. Just ask my kids, who claim that they had to go to their friends' houses to get a good meal. That's only partially true --- I did work a lot of dinner hour shifts when I was waiting tables back in the day, but I cooked, really I did.
Right from the get-go, I was a busy, busy girl. I liked to be out and about. I wasn't a sulky teenager, sitting in my bedroom with the music playing and the curtains closed. I wanted to hang with my friends, ride the bus out to the Staging Area for movies or bowling or horsing around in the snack bar. By the time I was 14, I gleefully added going down to the strip to drink beer at Gertie's Hole in the Wall. My Bremerhaven peeps know what I'm talking about.
After I got sober at 30, I had a whole new world of social activities ---- meetings, coffee with friends, the meeting before the meeting, the meeting after the meeting, sobriety dances and gatherings of all sorts. And lots of time on the phone. I've got a long history of being a social creature.
Age? Fatigue? Developmental Stage? (Yes, adults do have developmental stages, too.) I hover over that deep, black pool of depression, but I haven't dived in lately. And maybe that's the deal. It takes effort not just to stay afloat, but to avoid being sucked to the depths. And I carry that effort all the time.
The voice in my head ---- you know the one ----- says "Just get out and DO something. Commit. Don't be lazy. Show some gumption."
It doesn't feel that simple. I wish it were. I never meant my "golden years" to be haunted by clouding darkness. I couldn't have predicted it. I do what I can to regulate this part of myself that feels so foreign and, at the same time, enticingly familiar. And I keep on walking.If you, invisible reader, have wrestled with depression, or know someone who does, please be kind. It takes more than gumption to tame this beast, which can attack without warning and leave a teary puddle in its wake. Bootstraps and will-power are not the best defense, though they may play a part. Just don't rely on gumption. Acceptance and love will work better, I believe.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
It's not a Bandwagon
Ever since the Ray Rice story broke and people discovered intimate partner abuse, I have been troubled. Not because it shouldn't be talked about. I welcome the conversation. It's long overdue. What troubles me is my friend, Joanna.
Some of my avid readers (!) may remember this post about Joanna's arrest. Her husband was found murdered and she was arrested the next day. Everyone who knew her was shocked; it seemed like a terrible nightmare. She has been in Wake County Jail ever since, awaiting trial. The trial date is set for January 19, 2015.
As her friend and mentor, I have been in continuous communication since she was incarcerated. Over the past fifteen months, we have corresponded by mail, by weekly phone calls, and a few video visits. Most of her very limited visitation time is reserved for her children.
During the course of this ongoing conversation, we have explored ---- without going into details of the events of June 15 ----- what brought her to this place in life. Domestic abuse and dependence play heavily into her life story.
When we see the video of Ray Rice hitting and dragging his partner out the elevator, it is shocking in a visceral way. There is no avoiding how violent it is, how wrong. But as horrible as physical violence is ---- and no one disputes that ---- it is not the only form of abuse which occurs in "private" situations. The ramifications of verbal and sexual abuse, mental cruelty, isolation and threat of violence reach far into families and relationships. They don't leave visible marks. They are easy to dismiss as lapses of temper or judgment, isolated instances rather than a systematic pattern of control and terrorization. They can have terrible consequences.
I am fortunate not to be among the 1 in 3 American women to suffer intimate partner abuse. It crosses all lines of wealth, age, social position, race, religion, and education. Sociologists, psychologists, law enforcement, medical providers and clergy have probed and debated the causes and response to domestic violence for many years. I have no idea, even after doing some of my own research over the past year, whether we're any closer to understanding and finding effective prevention or treatments for people whose lives are shattered by the many faces of this problem. I do know that it will never be "one size fits all."
Joanna has told me she was ashamed for anyone to know what was happening behind closed doors. She felt unworthy and embarrassed, as though she'd been taken in and made a fool of. Who ever wants to admit they've been conned, right? But that shame, combined with fear of consequences, provided fertile ground for tragedy.
Her story will come out. It will be hashed in the media, as situations like this always are. Everyone who watches or reads the news will have opinions and beliefs about the case. It will be adjudicated and whatever comes of that will be the new condition for her and for all the people touched by those terrible events. Two families and countless friends were devastated by Jose's death and Joanna's incarceration. None of them will ever be quite the same.
It happens every day in this country. How many more?
If you want to get involved: enoughnc.org
Monday, September 8, 2014
Guns, Guns Everywhere, and not a Life to Save
I’ve been thinking of the 2nd Amendment
enthusiasts and the notion of protection. It is a maxim, raised to the level of Divine Truth, that firearms are necessary for protection of home and family,
self and others. What rarely enters the conversation is more than a vague
allusion to what we're protecting ourselves from.
“Bad guys with guns.”
“The
Government.”
“THEM.”
But the trouble is, guns cannot protect anyone from the real
dangers in life, the ones faced by every single person on the planet ----
sickness, heartbreak, natural disasters, death. We all face unknown dangers
every single day and no amount of firepower can protect us.
That, I think, is what baffles me about the entire
conversation. Yes, guns have had their uses. I like venison as well as the next
person. There are even instances in which a gun does provide personal
protection in extreme circumstances. But I have to say, I have yet to come
across one of those instances in real life, and the odds are I never will.
In this societal discussion, I'm drawn to the disconnect between reality and fantasy. When I was a little kid, like many
others I was afraid there was somebody under my bed or in my closet when the
lights went out. It didn’t matter how many times my parents flung open the
closet door, or got down on the floor with a flashlight and showed me nobody
was there, as soon as the lights went out, I was scared.
That sort of fantasy-world fear is what seems to propel the
proliferation of guns, aided and goaded on by the arms industry, of course.
Guns are like mouthwash ---- they prey upon our fears and offer a solution for
purchase. Easy! And look, it comes in pink for the ladies!
But no matter how much deodorant you apply, it’s not going
to make it any easier to talk to that cutie who makes your heart go
pitter-patter. And no matter how many guns you pile into your arsenal, you
can’t stop a tornado from taking everything you own.
Ultimately, we have to learn to live with uncertainty and ambiguity.
I have a doctor’s appointment today. She could tell me I’m seriously ill. Most
likely, she’ll tell me it will get better and send me on my merry way. Or maybe
I’ll get in a car wreck on the drive to her office and never even get to my
appointment. All of those possibilities are infinitely more likely than
anything that carrying a gun in my purse would help. Yet there are people who
are convinced that carrying a firearm will provide protection from . . . what?
Life?
Humans are generally not prone to think things out and
behave logically in everyday situations. We’re much more likely to run on unexamined
emotion and excitability, or simply habit.
If I considered the statistical odds of being killed in a car wreck every
day, I’d never get in an automobile again. If I were to logically, stoically
consider the longterm effects of everything that I put in my mouth, I’d
probably never enjoy another luscious dish of smooth, cold ice cream. But we
live each day as though we’ll live forever and, with practice, learn to ignore
or accommodate the perilous ambiguities we face.
A gun will not keep you happy, healthy or loved. And, I
truly believe, it is far more likely to multiply fear than diminish it. You can
shoot at the Grim Reaper all you want, but there’s no protection there. And
he’s not even carrying a gun.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
I Know Everything!
Okay, not really. Not yet.
But I’m working on it.
I think it started early,
this curiosity about the world. See, my father was a schoolteacher and didn’t
get paid in the summer. That meant he had to find a summer job every year. They varied
from hard physical labor in the gypsum mill to being a Fuller Brush salesman.
The summer I was nine, he sold World Book Encyclopedias door-to-door. I don’t
know how the pay was, but I know I was the beneficiary in more ways than food
on the table. That’s the year we got our
very own encyclopedias.
I was a bookworm. I read
everything I could get my hands on. We lived just outside a town of 750,
surrounded by Iowa
Our set of World Book came
with its own stand. The stiff, new books stood enshrined under the window, near
the piano, along with Childcraft and Children’s Classics. I memorized the rough
texture of the covers, the new book smell. Some volumes were fat ---- B, S ----
some were so thin they combined with other letters. Our family suddenly had the
world at our fingertips.
I had plenty of questions.
How do caterpillars turn into butterflies? There it was in the B volume, with illustrations.
How big around is the earth? Who was Clara Barton? How many presidents were
there? Where was China
Fast forward.
I spent a lot of years, as we all do, very busy with family and job
responsibilities. I had bills to pay and divorces to negotiate. My curiosity
shrank and became more focused. How do you make your own baby food? (circa
1974) What was rural life in Illinois North
Carolina
Now, in retirement, I might
as well be that nine-year-old once more. Only this time, instead of cumbersome,
outdated books, I have the internet. Amazing!
Well, I had the internet. Due to technical difficulties beyond my control,
I’ve been without internet access at home for four days. What do I miss the
most? Not Facebook, not email ----- Answers! I don’t know how many times I’ve
wondered or thought about something and not been able to look it up. Nothing earth-shattering, just everyday
curiosity. And that makes me realize how much I love having the world at my
fingertips again.
What is the ‘morning star’?
I saw it this morning while I was on the deck doing Qigong. Who was that familiar
actor in the tv show from last night? What year were the schools in Raleigh Jamaica
I’ll probably never run out
of questions. I hope I don’t. And I’ll never have all the answers. But I sure
will be glad to get my internet back. I’m going to have quite a backlog at this
rate.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
I believe I don't know
With age comes wisdom, so they say. I just celebrated the 64th anniversary of my birth. I told my mother, as she sat in her wheelchair staring blankly, that 64 years ago she had her first baby, and it was me. I didn't take it personally that she had no idea what I was talking about. She did smile at me before the visit ended, though.
I've been considering the difference between what I know and what I believe. I'm not the first person ever to do that ----- that much I know. I do wonder what the relationship is between my beliefs and what I perceive as reality, though.
In my Qigong class yesterday, we had a guided meditation followed by movement and postures designed to optimize letting go of blockages, opening the way for chi to flow. I do this three times a week, and have done for more than a year. During that time, I've experienced changes in myself, mainly of the invisible sort. My sense of well-being has expanded considerably.
But yesterday, I felt newly challenged to look at the beliefs that carve me out of everything else. If I take up space ---- and I take up a lot more space than I used to ----- that means there's an Out There and an In Here. At least, that's how it seems to me. But what if it's not as simple as that? What if my configuration of molecules and cells and blood and guts is an outpicturing of my tightly held beliefs? It gets slippery here.
There was a time, about 50 years ago, when I believed strongly that any grade below a B meant that I was hopelessly stupid and not just a failure, but a total loser. When I worked as hard as I knew how and still got a D in Algebra, I fell apart. I felt doomed, embarrassed, stained with an indelible mark. I couldn't conceive of any other interpretation of that grade on a report card. I was a failure at math. Forever. That belief, from a single class, had long term repercussions --- I could not risk taking a math class in college. I scoured the catalog and chose a major that didn't involve any more than "Kiddie Math" ---- a math methods class for elementary teachers.
There have been many, many instances like that, beliefs that shaped who I experience myself to be based on nothing more substantial than other people's judgments. The most enduring has been circumference. To this day, deep inside, I can't argue myself out of the belief that somehow I have failed in life because I'm not a size 5.
The meditation on Friday opened a little window on that, though. If it is a long-ingrained, universally reinforced belief, isn't it possible, in theory at least, to unbelieve it? In fact, isn't that the only relief there is? A never-ending thought loop is the tightest prison I know. It feeds itself perpetually and is ultimately connected to nothing in "real" life because it all happens inside my head.
It's been about 3 weeks since I had a long talk with my dear friend Sharon about coming into our own as Crones ---- claiming our wisdom and growth without false modesty and self-deprecation. There is a great deal to be said for living long enough to learn some things, and that's what we've done and are still doing. We can reap the rewards of increased serenity, peace of mind, acceptance and yes, a slower pace. Things are not so urgent anymore. Thank Goodness!
It is not inconceivable that one day I will be in my mother's position. I don't expect it. I no longer spend much time worrying about it. But I'm not in la-la land, either. Both of my parents had Alzheimer's Disease, which may well increase my odds.
Therefore, in my mid-sixties, the time I have left is more precious than ever. Each day is fresh. There are no throw-away days. That doesn't mean I have to live in some sort of pressure cooker attempt to By God Enjoy Every Minute. That would be the exact opposite of what's called for. It actually means that I have the awareness and wisdom to focus on the present. I'm not out to save the world. I'm happy sweeping my own piece of the planet.
I've decided to engage in some thought experiments, letting those life and happiness denying beliefs slide away. Through recognition, challenges, and continuing the meditative and movement practices I already have, I can shape my thoughts and beliefs. Nobody else can. I'll be like Bill Cosby with his old joke about his kids: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
I've been considering the difference between what I know and what I believe. I'm not the first person ever to do that ----- that much I know. I do wonder what the relationship is between my beliefs and what I perceive as reality, though.
In my Qigong class yesterday, we had a guided meditation followed by movement and postures designed to optimize letting go of blockages, opening the way for chi to flow. I do this three times a week, and have done for more than a year. During that time, I've experienced changes in myself, mainly of the invisible sort. My sense of well-being has expanded considerably.
But yesterday, I felt newly challenged to look at the beliefs that carve me out of everything else. If I take up space ---- and I take up a lot more space than I used to ----- that means there's an Out There and an In Here. At least, that's how it seems to me. But what if it's not as simple as that? What if my configuration of molecules and cells and blood and guts is an outpicturing of my tightly held beliefs? It gets slippery here.
There was a time, about 50 years ago, when I believed strongly that any grade below a B meant that I was hopelessly stupid and not just a failure, but a total loser. When I worked as hard as I knew how and still got a D in Algebra, I fell apart. I felt doomed, embarrassed, stained with an indelible mark. I couldn't conceive of any other interpretation of that grade on a report card. I was a failure at math. Forever. That belief, from a single class, had long term repercussions --- I could not risk taking a math class in college. I scoured the catalog and chose a major that didn't involve any more than "Kiddie Math" ---- a math methods class for elementary teachers.
There have been many, many instances like that, beliefs that shaped who I experience myself to be based on nothing more substantial than other people's judgments. The most enduring has been circumference. To this day, deep inside, I can't argue myself out of the belief that somehow I have failed in life because I'm not a size 5.
The meditation on Friday opened a little window on that, though. If it is a long-ingrained, universally reinforced belief, isn't it possible, in theory at least, to unbelieve it? In fact, isn't that the only relief there is? A never-ending thought loop is the tightest prison I know. It feeds itself perpetually and is ultimately connected to nothing in "real" life because it all happens inside my head.
It's been about 3 weeks since I had a long talk with my dear friend Sharon about coming into our own as Crones ---- claiming our wisdom and growth without false modesty and self-deprecation. There is a great deal to be said for living long enough to learn some things, and that's what we've done and are still doing. We can reap the rewards of increased serenity, peace of mind, acceptance and yes, a slower pace. Things are not so urgent anymore. Thank Goodness!
It is not inconceivable that one day I will be in my mother's position. I don't expect it. I no longer spend much time worrying about it. But I'm not in la-la land, either. Both of my parents had Alzheimer's Disease, which may well increase my odds.
Therefore, in my mid-sixties, the time I have left is more precious than ever. Each day is fresh. There are no throw-away days. That doesn't mean I have to live in some sort of pressure cooker attempt to By God Enjoy Every Minute. That would be the exact opposite of what's called for. It actually means that I have the awareness and wisdom to focus on the present. I'm not out to save the world. I'm happy sweeping my own piece of the planet.
I've decided to engage in some thought experiments, letting those life and happiness denying beliefs slide away. Through recognition, challenges, and continuing the meditative and movement practices I already have, I can shape my thoughts and beliefs. Nobody else can. I'll be like Bill Cosby with his old joke about his kids: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Shelter in the chaos
I'm in one of my writing spaces. I have the comfort of dogs and cats. Jill is a few feet away in her studio. Coffee cup at my elbow, hummingbirds outside the window, jazz playing in my ears. It's my shelter, my refuge, my safe space, my home. Not everybody has that.
Over the past week, as I've been checking in on the news sporadically, the trouble in Ferguson MO has punctured my serenity. It runs parallel to a book I'm reading at the moment, Jason Sokol's There Goes My Everything. On social media, I've seen memes and pictures and outraged comparisons to the Civil Rights movement half a century ago. (Half a century? Damn, I'm old.)
This book is subtitled: White Southerners in the Age of Civil Rights, 1945-1975. It reads like a dissertation, which I suppose was its basis, and was published in 2006. At this moment, it is helpful for me, because it provides a historical perspective.
It's not news to anybody that race is a fraught subject in the US. I don't think I have much to offer that hasn't already been said and re-said a gazillion times before. All I have to go on is my own limited experience. That's where having been on the planet for awhile comes in handy.
My own experiences with civil unrest are defined by only a couple of times in the distant past. I'm lucky that way. My neighborhood was only marginally involved. My sense of personal security was not completely destroyed, though it was definitely rattled. Neither involved overt racism. Both involved "otherness" and authoritarianism.
I have vivid memories of the armed, organized, National Guard marching on my campus, the University of Illinois at Urbana. We lived on Green Street only a couple of blocks from campus, and it was a main drag. In the morning, we would see the Guard close it to citizens and make their presence known, ostentatiously marching to the campus. They swept down the quad, gathering up students for arrest. While my sympathies did lie with the protesters, and I attended rallies and prepared to be tear-gassed, according to the steps on my "Kill The Pigs" flyer, I was still concerned with getting to class and finals. The semester was almost over. I needed those credits. But students at Kent State and Jackson State were being killed on their college campuses. People were marching and running and shouting and throwing things right there where I lived and went to school. Once, I got caught in a canyon between buildings with the Guard coming at me and thought I was in deep shit ---- I turned and ran, hoping I would not be shot.
The Revolution was upon us.
My only other brush with rioting in the streets came in San Francisco following the murders of Harvey Milk and Mayor Moscone. I worked an 8pm - 4am shift in the Federal Building, back when computers took up entire rooms and had to be backed up on tape every night. That was my lonely job, in a towering building with only a front door security guard in the building, at least as far as I knew. I was too close to City Hall for comfort. Cars got turned over and ignited. People massed in the streets. There was shouting. I was afraid to come or go. I stayed put. It didn't feel like my war to fight, but harking back to my college years, my sympathies always landed with the people, not the armed authorities.
I don't know what sparks any individual riot. They may occur spontaneously, but they are not out of the blue. Unrest and rioting in the streets come from a cause, from many causes, but it seems to me it boils down to desperation. No other voice will be heard. It's the voice of people who have been ignored and shunted aside too long.
Have you ever tried to explain yourself to someone who won't let you get a word in, who won't listen to anything you have to say, who is completely uninterested in your point of view? Don't you want to slap him (or her)? Not that it would do any good. It wouldn't change anything and would likely make it all worse and you'd wind up hurting more than you started. But still.... SMACK! "Listen to me, you righteous mother-fucker! I'm here in front of you!"
Ferguson slapped America. Selma, Detroit, Los Angeles. So many others.
Wake up! We're here! We matter!
All of us others ----- All of us humans.
Just listen, please, with heart, not fear.
Wake up! We're here! We matter!
All of us others ----- All of us humans.
Just listen, please, with heart, not fear.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Behind those eyeballs
A facebook friend recently posed the question "If you could be anyone else for a day, who would it be?" My rather flippant answer was "You?" That's started a chain reaction in my mind that has me up at 4 AM.
I tried to explain, but quickly found myself sounding like a creepy stalker. The thing is, the whole idea of being inside of another person's head is pretty creepy and stalker-like. Before long, I realized that while other folks on the thread wanted to be be Mother Teresa or Eleanor Roosevelt, I pretty much want to find out what it's like inside everybody.
This hits on one of my most persistent mental constructs. Maybe this should be just between me and my therapist, but I frequently think about people I'm talking to, people I see in the store, other drivers, all looking out from behind their own eyeballs, not experiencing the same thing I am, even if we're in the same place.
I am emphatically not a person who consumes horror media. I never watch graphically violent movies. I even close my eyes to keep from watching your run-of-the-mill shootouts and car chases. But when I think about getting inside somebody else's head, I'm drawn like a shark to the Jefferey Dahmers and Bernie Madoffs. What makes someone do things like that? What is it like in there?
Would I want to be them for a day? Hell no. But maybe for an hour or two. Eleanor Roosevelt or James Baldwin? Sure, them too. The heavily tatooed cashier at Food Lion? Yup, count me in. I'm curious about pretty much everyone --- the pre-school teacher and the plumber, the retirement-age guy who comes around to check our termite traps, even the plunderers and murderers waging holy war across Iraq right now. What is it like inside that mind?
Writing books is the closest I can get to being inside someone else's head. You often hear writers say that the characters take on a life of their own. They take off in unforeseen directions and hijack the story. I always wonder where the characters who populate my books come from. I think it's from my insatiable curiosity about what makes people tick.
I've known my wife Jill for 12 years. We've spent hours and days and weeks talking, going to couple's counselling, sharing secrets, spilling guts. Do I know her? Yes, . . . and no. We often say the same thing at the same time. I can predict with some certainty what she will say or think about many things, though she still surprises me. But I don't know what it's like to be her. I can't swim in her thoughts and look out from her unique perspective.
If I had to choose one person in the world to be for a day, I couldn't do it. The closest would be my mother, but not for a day, oh, heavens no. End stage Alzheimer's would be scarier than Jeffrey Dahmer. But yes, I wish I could know what goes on in my Mama's mind. What does she see from behind those eyeballs? How much does she know? Is she still in there ----- trapped and unable to communicate? Does she know who I am? Does she know who she is?
So what do you think, is it a writer thing, this wanting to worm my way into other people's heads? Or maybe I should just call my therapist.
I wonder what goes on behind her eyeballs.
I tried to explain, but quickly found myself sounding like a creepy stalker. The thing is, the whole idea of being inside of another person's head is pretty creepy and stalker-like. Before long, I realized that while other folks on the thread wanted to be be Mother Teresa or Eleanor Roosevelt, I pretty much want to find out what it's like inside everybody.
This hits on one of my most persistent mental constructs. Maybe this should be just between me and my therapist, but I frequently think about people I'm talking to, people I see in the store, other drivers, all looking out from behind their own eyeballs, not experiencing the same thing I am, even if we're in the same place.
I am emphatically not a person who consumes horror media. I never watch graphically violent movies. I even close my eyes to keep from watching your run-of-the-mill shootouts and car chases. But when I think about getting inside somebody else's head, I'm drawn like a shark to the Jefferey Dahmers and Bernie Madoffs. What makes someone do things like that? What is it like in there?
Would I want to be them for a day? Hell no. But maybe for an hour or two. Eleanor Roosevelt or James Baldwin? Sure, them too. The heavily tatooed cashier at Food Lion? Yup, count me in. I'm curious about pretty much everyone --- the pre-school teacher and the plumber, the retirement-age guy who comes around to check our termite traps, even the plunderers and murderers waging holy war across Iraq right now. What is it like inside that mind?
Writing books is the closest I can get to being inside someone else's head. You often hear writers say that the characters take on a life of their own. They take off in unforeseen directions and hijack the story. I always wonder where the characters who populate my books come from. I think it's from my insatiable curiosity about what makes people tick.
I've known my wife Jill for 12 years. We've spent hours and days and weeks talking, going to couple's counselling, sharing secrets, spilling guts. Do I know her? Yes, . . . and no. We often say the same thing at the same time. I can predict with some certainty what she will say or think about many things, though she still surprises me. But I don't know what it's like to be her. I can't swim in her thoughts and look out from her unique perspective.
If I had to choose one person in the world to be for a day, I couldn't do it. The closest would be my mother, but not for a day, oh, heavens no. End stage Alzheimer's would be scarier than Jeffrey Dahmer. But yes, I wish I could know what goes on in my Mama's mind. What does she see from behind those eyeballs? How much does she know? Is she still in there ----- trapped and unable to communicate? Does she know who I am? Does she know who she is?
So what do you think, is it a writer thing, this wanting to worm my way into other people's heads? Or maybe I should just call my therapist.
I wonder what goes on behind her eyeballs.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Cycling through Life
No, not that kind of cycling. Being a devotee of sloth and a delicate flower of femininity, I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was 15. At that point, I thought it would be fun and cute, in a Gidget sort of way, to have my boyfriend teach me how to ride. I never got past wobbling down the street trying not to fall off and bust my ass.
I tried the same thing three years later when I reached the driving age in Spain, where I lived, and recruited my sailor boyfriend to borrow his friend's sports car and teach me to drive. I promptly massacred a young pine sapling. He married me anyway.
The cycling I have in mind today is of the "going around, coming around" variety. The cycles of life. Beginnings and endings. Reaping what you sow.
My mother, Nancy, has entered a new phase of this very long Alzheimer's Disease journey. As long as she was able, after her diagnosis, she was pretty matter-of-fact and proactive about the illness. She set the example that it was not a tragedy, it was something to deal with as you would any other change in circumstances. She took care of the legalities. She divested herself of the house and belongings, converting it all into the money it would take to cover her care. She moved into a senior living place and whooped it up and fell in love and told everyone she talked to that she had never been so happy in her whole life. And I believe it was true. She voluntarily gave up her car. She dived wholeheartedly into the activities in her community, even trying new things she had been too self-conscious or afraid to try before. She suffered the memory losses, and knew full well what was coming; she had just finished caring for my father through his prolonged trip down the same path. She was 75 years old and had a death sentence of excruciating decline and debilitation.
Alzheimer's is not merely a disease of memory loss. That often seems the most visible to outsiders, and cognitive loss the most horrifying to those in fear of developing it. Though memory blanks are frequently the first clues, that is only a starting point. As it progresses, slowly and inexorably, there are starts and stops, sometimes relatively calm plateaus followed by precipitous loss. The entire body is affected ---- coordination, visual perception, continence, touch, movement, speech. The brain disorder shows up differently in each person, with a general progression which can sometimes be predicted, but not a solid timetable.
Nine years post-diagnosis, Nancy is in the end stage now. Her legs are drawn up to her chest. Her speech is gone and her attempts to communicate come out as drawn out yells and screams. She often appears to be afraid or anxious. Her medical caregivers say she doesn't show signs of pain, but is in some sort of distress, and they are trying to find meds and environmental ways to address it. Sometimes, she still seeks eye contact and smiles.
My mother took care of me when I was pre-verbal. I couldn't express myself except by cries, which she learned to interpret and hoped she got right. I could not walk or feed myself. I couldn't control my movements with any degree of certainty. I had to have my diapers changed. I expect that she would lie beside me on the bed and cuddle me against her body, as I did with my children, as I do now with her. I'm certain she spoke softly to me, sang to me, reassured me that everything was okay. I did that with my children. It's what mothers do. And now, I find, it's what daughters do, too.
My sister asked me the other day if I had watched Mom sleep and seen her lips sucking while she slept. I have. I used to sit with my babies on my lap and watch intently. I loved when their lips would move as though they were trying to speak. "Talking to the angels" some people call it. And the tiny sucking movements as they slept, during those first few months of life, were utterly precious to see.
In many ways my mother has returned to infancy. Much of that instinctive behavior we see in newborns is present again. Often it makes me cry, but at the same time I'm so very grateful to be able to be with her as the circle closes. It seems a fitting end.
I tried the same thing three years later when I reached the driving age in Spain, where I lived, and recruited my sailor boyfriend to borrow his friend's sports car and teach me to drive. I promptly massacred a young pine sapling. He married me anyway.
The cycling I have in mind today is of the "going around, coming around" variety. The cycles of life. Beginnings and endings. Reaping what you sow.
My mother, Nancy, has entered a new phase of this very long Alzheimer's Disease journey. As long as she was able, after her diagnosis, she was pretty matter-of-fact and proactive about the illness. She set the example that it was not a tragedy, it was something to deal with as you would any other change in circumstances. She took care of the legalities. She divested herself of the house and belongings, converting it all into the money it would take to cover her care. She moved into a senior living place and whooped it up and fell in love and told everyone she talked to that she had never been so happy in her whole life. And I believe it was true. She voluntarily gave up her car. She dived wholeheartedly into the activities in her community, even trying new things she had been too self-conscious or afraid to try before. She suffered the memory losses, and knew full well what was coming; she had just finished caring for my father through his prolonged trip down the same path. She was 75 years old and had a death sentence of excruciating decline and debilitation.
Alzheimer's is not merely a disease of memory loss. That often seems the most visible to outsiders, and cognitive loss the most horrifying to those in fear of developing it. Though memory blanks are frequently the first clues, that is only a starting point. As it progresses, slowly and inexorably, there are starts and stops, sometimes relatively calm plateaus followed by precipitous loss. The entire body is affected ---- coordination, visual perception, continence, touch, movement, speech. The brain disorder shows up differently in each person, with a general progression which can sometimes be predicted, but not a solid timetable.
Nine years post-diagnosis, Nancy is in the end stage now. Her legs are drawn up to her chest. Her speech is gone and her attempts to communicate come out as drawn out yells and screams. She often appears to be afraid or anxious. Her medical caregivers say she doesn't show signs of pain, but is in some sort of distress, and they are trying to find meds and environmental ways to address it. Sometimes, she still seeks eye contact and smiles.
My mother took care of me when I was pre-verbal. I couldn't express myself except by cries, which she learned to interpret and hoped she got right. I could not walk or feed myself. I couldn't control my movements with any degree of certainty. I had to have my diapers changed. I expect that she would lie beside me on the bed and cuddle me against her body, as I did with my children, as I do now with her. I'm certain she spoke softly to me, sang to me, reassured me that everything was okay. I did that with my children. It's what mothers do. And now, I find, it's what daughters do, too.
My sister asked me the other day if I had watched Mom sleep and seen her lips sucking while she slept. I have. I used to sit with my babies on my lap and watch intently. I loved when their lips would move as though they were trying to speak. "Talking to the angels" some people call it. And the tiny sucking movements as they slept, during those first few months of life, were utterly precious to see.
In many ways my mother has returned to infancy. Much of that instinctive behavior we see in newborns is present again. Often it makes me cry, but at the same time I'm so very grateful to be able to be with her as the circle closes. It seems a fitting end.
Monday, July 7, 2014
I Killed a Bug and I Liked It
Last night, about midnight, after Jill was asleep and I was going around making sure the lights were off and doors locked, I almost stepped on a bug in my bare feet!
In the Southland, we've got some bugs of unusual size. People who know me, know that one of my most enduring characteristics is a lifelong fear of bugs. Okay, not fear. Phobia. Twice, over the years, I've become so incapacitated by that fear that I've had to go for treatment. It's not that I think they're annoying, or ugly, or symbolic of everything evil in the universe. It's all that and more. They have all those skinny little legs. They move so fast and unpredictably. Sometimes they fly and even get ON you. And they crunch when you step on them. I could go on.
It's only been a matter of a month or so ago that I was doing the late night circuit and came upon one of those midnight visitors. As usual, I screamed uncontrollably and started doing the tiptoe dance, which brought Jill out of her much-needed sleep. She sighed and took over. She knows her job well. I cowered in the other room while she destroyed the creature, which really was THIS BIG, regardless of what she says, and worried about whether she would properly dispose of the carcass. It's a demand that goes unspoken, but has great repercussions because it can affect the next few days or longer. Unfortunately, she put it in the kitchen trash, right there on top in front of God and everybody, but since I had already ruined her slumber and she had to get up for work at 5:15, I stayed mum and sucked it up like a good soldier. First thing in the morning, I stepped on the trashcan pedal, averted my eyes, and put several perfectly good, unused paper towels on top of the monster.
I have never actually killed one of these creatures myself ----- until last night.
It's true that when I finish writing a novel, I plunge into an abyss. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I cast about for things to do, try to catch passing ideas and see if they'll spin out into some sort of narrative, read and scrabble around on the internet machine, and generally start to feel that I have no particular use in the world, or excuse for taking up oxygen. That can lead to very bad places if left unchecked. And in its wake, fears and phobias are able to resurface from their ever-present hiding places. Kind of like bugs in the walls and crevices.
I've been introspective, off balance, a little weepy, not in the pink, I guess you could say, ever since I finished the last book. In fact, I have two unopened cartons from CreateSpace sitting in the front room, with books inside. So when I encountered that wanton, six-legged varmint last night, I immediately started to freak out and dance around ----- but I didn't scream. Perhaps that is the beginning.
I made a split-second decision not to wake up my blissfully sleeping wife and take on this threat my own self. Our big, brave 55 pound dog looked on as I cast about for a weapon. Spray was my first thought, but that would involve going out to the garage, which could give this thing time to slip into a crack and disappear, and then I'd never get to sleep. No, it had to be immediate and decisive. I would have to use a flyswatter. That's what they're made for. But where was it? Not in either of the two places I usually hang it in the kitchen. Then I remembered hanging it from the cafe rod by the table. That would mean crossing in front of the beast, which would give it an opening to attack, but I had to take a chance. I leaped like a creature of the forest to the other side of the room, grabbed my weapon and ------ no. I could not come at it from the front. That would never do. It would mean not only that it could charge me, but I'd be at a disadvantage having to use a cross-body swing. I was certain to miss.
With another heroic leap, I gained a foothold to the left of my quarry and slightly behind. Pausing only to blur my vision enough to aim for the moving spot on the floor without being able to distinguish the disgusting legs, I swung. Splat! A near miss. It shot in the direction of the refrigerator and I swung again. I was determined not to let it out of my fuzzy vision. The third time I slapped pink plastic against the kitchen floor, I winged it. It was no longer running, but wiggling in its tracks. A final swoop of the flyswatter and the deed was done. I was victorious!
I knew I had reached my limit. The clean up crew would have to take care of the remains. I left the flyswatter across the trashcan as a symbol of my triumph, and hoped that neither the dogs nor the cats would decide to munch on the carcass. It took awhile to go to sleep; I felt an odd mixture of pride and horror at the evening's adventure.
This morning I woke up long enough to announce my feat to Jill.
"I killed a bug last night!"
"So did I."
"In the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one I killed."
"Oh, I killed it again. I thought it was just resting."
We're an unstoppable team.
In the Southland, we've got some bugs of unusual size. People who know me, know that one of my most enduring characteristics is a lifelong fear of bugs. Okay, not fear. Phobia. Twice, over the years, I've become so incapacitated by that fear that I've had to go for treatment. It's not that I think they're annoying, or ugly, or symbolic of everything evil in the universe. It's all that and more. They have all those skinny little legs. They move so fast and unpredictably. Sometimes they fly and even get ON you. And they crunch when you step on them. I could go on.
It's only been a matter of a month or so ago that I was doing the late night circuit and came upon one of those midnight visitors. As usual, I screamed uncontrollably and started doing the tiptoe dance, which brought Jill out of her much-needed sleep. She sighed and took over. She knows her job well. I cowered in the other room while she destroyed the creature, which really was THIS BIG, regardless of what she says, and worried about whether she would properly dispose of the carcass. It's a demand that goes unspoken, but has great repercussions because it can affect the next few days or longer. Unfortunately, she put it in the kitchen trash, right there on top in front of God and everybody, but since I had already ruined her slumber and she had to get up for work at 5:15, I stayed mum and sucked it up like a good soldier. First thing in the morning, I stepped on the trashcan pedal, averted my eyes, and put several perfectly good, unused paper towels on top of the monster.
I have never actually killed one of these creatures myself ----- until last night.
It's true that when I finish writing a novel, I plunge into an abyss. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I cast about for things to do, try to catch passing ideas and see if they'll spin out into some sort of narrative, read and scrabble around on the internet machine, and generally start to feel that I have no particular use in the world, or excuse for taking up oxygen. That can lead to very bad places if left unchecked. And in its wake, fears and phobias are able to resurface from their ever-present hiding places. Kind of like bugs in the walls and crevices.
I've been introspective, off balance, a little weepy, not in the pink, I guess you could say, ever since I finished the last book. In fact, I have two unopened cartons from CreateSpace sitting in the front room, with books inside. So when I encountered that wanton, six-legged varmint last night, I immediately started to freak out and dance around ----- but I didn't scream. Perhaps that is the beginning.
I made a split-second decision not to wake up my blissfully sleeping wife and take on this threat my own self. Our big, brave 55 pound dog looked on as I cast about for a weapon. Spray was my first thought, but that would involve going out to the garage, which could give this thing time to slip into a crack and disappear, and then I'd never get to sleep. No, it had to be immediate and decisive. I would have to use a flyswatter. That's what they're made for. But where was it? Not in either of the two places I usually hang it in the kitchen. Then I remembered hanging it from the cafe rod by the table. That would mean crossing in front of the beast, which would give it an opening to attack, but I had to take a chance. I leaped like a creature of the forest to the other side of the room, grabbed my weapon and ------ no. I could not come at it from the front. That would never do. It would mean not only that it could charge me, but I'd be at a disadvantage having to use a cross-body swing. I was certain to miss.
With another heroic leap, I gained a foothold to the left of my quarry and slightly behind. Pausing only to blur my vision enough to aim for the moving spot on the floor without being able to distinguish the disgusting legs, I swung. Splat! A near miss. It shot in the direction of the refrigerator and I swung again. I was determined not to let it out of my fuzzy vision. The third time I slapped pink plastic against the kitchen floor, I winged it. It was no longer running, but wiggling in its tracks. A final swoop of the flyswatter and the deed was done. I was victorious!
I knew I had reached my limit. The clean up crew would have to take care of the remains. I left the flyswatter across the trashcan as a symbol of my triumph, and hoped that neither the dogs nor the cats would decide to munch on the carcass. It took awhile to go to sleep; I felt an odd mixture of pride and horror at the evening's adventure.
This morning I woke up long enough to announce my feat to Jill.
"I killed a bug last night!"
"So did I."
"In the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one I killed."
"Oh, I killed it again. I thought it was just resting."
We're an unstoppable team.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Haunted by the past
I just birthed another book. It's an odd feeling. Even though I've written all my life, ever since I learned how to form sentences in first grade, I never expected to have actual books out in the world. Now there are seven.
I wrote, as a child, because I could. I knew how to transfer words in my mind to paper. I could save them up ---- and I have. I could go back and read them later, and recreate the experience all over again. That seemed like magic. It still does.
Fifty-three years worth of journals repose in the blue bookcase in my upstairs room. Everything up there is dusty. I don't go upstairs often, though it's a cozy space. But my writing desk and now-stationary laptop are downstairs, and steps can seem daunting. Plus it's Buddy the Doggy's favorite place, his man cave. He can keep an eye on the neighborhood from up there.
The other day, I mentioned a long-ago incident from when my son was five years old. I became curious; memory is a tricky beast. One of the reasons I write things down is to keep myself from making things up. So I trotted upstairs and pulled that volume from the shelf, blew off the dust, pounded the couch pillow (cough, cough) and sat down to find the magic of the written word.
Life goes by day to day. In the morning, we never know what's going to happen. Something life-changing can occur at any moment. The thing is, often we don't even recognize it when it does. I was 29 years old in February of 1980. Andrew was still in his Superman phase. He spent two years in full regalia most of the time. I was feeling my oats as well --- living with my folks for free in the Azores, a fulltime Portugese grandmother to take care of Andrew by day and plenty of childcare at night as well. Single, ripe, and fancy free on an Air Force base is the stuff lurid lit is made of, and I was trying my best to live up to the genre.
What I remembered so vividly was the decision to send Andrew to live with his father in the States. In hindsight, 35 years later and 33 years sober, it was pivotal. It was the beginning of the end of my drinking. It was the realization that I was hurting my child and he needed a "normal" life. It was fear that I couldn't control myself and might actually harm him sometime. So I sent him away, rather than change myself. That, right there, that's addiction.
In my journal from February 1980, it rates a small paragraph, spliced in between accounts of cast parties, flirtations, speculation and drunkalogue. I have no way of knowing what would have happened if I had not sent him home. I'm dead sure it was the right thing to do, though once it happened, a few months later, I was bereft, and spent several pages lamenting the loss and wondering whether I would ever get him back. I did, but it took three years and getting sober before it happened.
I still keep a journal. It's sporadic. I'll write intensely when my mind is crammed and my life is feeling out of control. Then I'll go a month or two without writing at all. But I never quit. Every so often I go back and check myself like this, check in on my old self. There's a lot I don't remember. Things that seemed catastrophic at the time, have disappeared entirely from my memory. People, too. I'm surprised at how memory works, and doesn't work.
When I face a perplexing decision or emotionally-charged situation, I try to project ahead to the end of my life and look back on the present. It usually helps to change my perspective that way. Puts things in focus. In the meantime, while regular, sweet, boring life unfolds, I do what I can to stay awake to what's in front of me and, when inspired, write it down in my journal.
The new book is called Haints in the Sideyard, a sequel to Way Out in Dog Heaven. Do you know what a haint is?
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