Product Promotion & Blogging: I Want to be Jenny Lawson

I have mixed feelings about this issue.

On the one hand, everyone who writes wants to make money doing what they love to do in addition to what therapeutic value the endeavor provides. Wouldn't we all love to be Wil Wheaton or Jenny Lawson famous in the blogosphere? Sure we would. Bloggers with Anxiety & Depression issues, myself included, would love it if we could sit through our episodes of self loathing, self doubt and defeatist rumination and come out with a following and products. We have bills to pay but not necessarily the proper level of inner strength to deal with people in the flesh. So getting paid to write is a goal for most. Getting paid to stay home and do art without dealing with the general public would be awesome too.

Now the positives, anxiety relief benefits aside, of staying home and getting paid to write and make art are petty awesome. For one, you get to take your own Number One Reliever that you hand out to your friends who suffer: do something for you, something creative that makes you feel good. Even if no one buys it/likes it/understands it. Creativity built the world. If you don't dream it you can't make it. Everything starts in the mind. As we who suffer well know, for better or worse, it starts with the mind.

For two, you get to stay home and engage in a mental health practice of Avoiding Negativity, the Number Two thing we like to tell our suffering friends. Stay home or or hang out in a coffee shop. Oh hey, if you are lucky, your city has WiFi at the beach or some parks so you can be out in the sun. Unless you are a Vampire and will explode in the UV light. Regular folk who like to be outside can write in peace in their favorite park. Hey, if it isn't your favorite now, it will be when you find out you can blog from there. Writing in the comfort of your home space insulates you from the mass of negative people flinging their emotional poop like underwear at a strip club. You don't have to be the third party to a family feud of dystopian drama. There are no coworkers spewing bullshit and complaining about every little thing you and management do, justified or not. And, random triggers don't get pulled.

The third benefit of staying home and writing, besides the potential income?  It's the one we hate to recommend because it was the catch phrase and go to answer for all of our mental health issues in the 80s and 90s. Blogging is cathartic like journaling. Blogging, especially for lifestyle bloggers, is journaling. Imagine it! Getting paid to write your journal! How cool would that be?

Yes the fantasy is real.

And then reality sets in.

First your internal editor tells you that no one wants to know what you think about anything. What kind of cache do you have? You aren't Wil Wheaton with a pool of fans to draw to your blog. And you aren't Jenny Lawson with a truly unique and quirky pull... the pull of bizarre links: bad taxidermy, dressed taxidermy, Beyonce the Chicken. Once your internal editor whips out its comments that Pen is bloodier than a Viking broad ax or Roman sword. And you are done before you start.

Second, your editor has convinced you that your creative expression is worthless. So you end up not doing it.

Third, you might be able to avoid flesh and blood people by staying home. But the second you hit publish you wear a target for all the mean people hiding behind avatars and fake names who are just waiting to unleash their vitriol. You are vulnerable to attack from people you don't know; vulnerable to counterpoint opinions. Blogging looks private. And it is...

Right up until you hit publish.

Fourth, your journal is public. Your journey through the treacherous land of your own head is open to the kind of scrutiny you never dreamed possible. So while you are working out your issues, finding insight and hoping that in publishing your thoughts that someone else with a similar situation finds relief or support, there is someone out there who will take your intent and twist it. Your words and thoughts are public and subject to sharing across a range of media. It is also subject to being copied and pasted into an email and sent to people out of context of the greater body of work.

Publish or Perish! That was the motivating catchphrase for newspapers and journalists in the early history of Print. In the modern world... Publish and Perish is just as likely. The internet can be a wonderful place to meet new people, find deeper avenues of learning with all the experts at hand and grow beyond yourself. As with all things, there is a dark side to the internet. The dark side is where trolls go to stagnate their minds and exercise and build angry hearts, vitriolic voices, and arsenals of equally ignorant and irresponsible  ideologies.

In my case, all of the benefits of blogging have legitimately helped me. And I am still finding new information about the Anxiety and Depression that has plagued me for better than a decade. For those reasons I continue to blog. Even though I have found I am not immune to the dark side. But I am not Wil Wheaton and Jenny Lawson famous. I don't make money doing this as much as I would love to. And right now, that is okay. Wil still has people telling him to "Shut up Wesley" as if they can kill him with that single blow. Though, death by a thousand cuts is a real thing. So maybe that is why the trolls gang up on him. Which sucks because he has some really valuable things to say and is a constant encouragement to make things that make you happy. Jenny doesn't get trolled as much. But then her head does a really good job of that without added help. I look at those two examples and review my own personal experience with an anonymous (to the net) troll and wonder why do I do it?

Because benefits.
That shit in our heads needs to come out. And since the medical and psychiatric world doesn't know how PTSD happens and why it is so hard to cure along with the other mental issues, it is up to us. We have to find our own answers. And if we care about making the world better, we have to share what we learn with others. I didn't mention the fifth benefit of blogging. And that is finding encouragement. Your mental health professional will tell you to join a support group, go out and volunteer because helping others is the best help you can give yourself. But really... if you live in a small area surrounded by nose to the grind stone people who don't get it, how is being around them helpful? How do you go out and support others when the thought of going out is the source of your issue? So blogging, lets us find the people we need who need us. If we all share what works for us, someone who is desperate will find more options than they could have come up with on their own. That is why we are here.

That is why I am here. Fun and therapy.

I firmly believe that is why Wil and Jenny are here.

With the growing waves of hate and the boldness of internet trolls, we need to find each other and support each other. I have mixed feelings about blogging for profit. Nothing I love that turns into a job makes me happy. I think as much as I need money to survive as a single girl that I actually loathe the stuff. I am much more concerned with my spirit than my physical comfort. And I care about other people's spirit more than I care about money. So while I may never get famous or make money doing this, I have no problem supporting people who do. And I do not have a problem sharing resources. If I find a tool that I think will help, I will share it. Even if it is my own personal issues and insights, painful past experiences. Call it oversharing. But I know that support groups help. When you find the right support.

Adult coloring books are all the craze right now. And there are a lot of them. TV show themes building on the TV show themed books we had as kids, art of other cultures, famous artworks re-interpreted at your hands, obligatory cats, birds, dogs, horses, butterflies and 60s & 70s patterns abound. The 80s argyle and chunky color blocks should be showing up any month now. There are even promotional coloring books for cities, states and festival tourism. Hey where are the colorbooks representing the countries of the world? A whole book on India would take a life time to color with all the zen-tangled bedazzlement going on. But of all the books out there, I haven't seen anything that has encouragement in it beyond the benefit of mindful coloring.

Today Jenny Lawson announced her new book is available for pre-order. "You are Here" is a visual journey through a profoundly difficult period of depression and anxiety during a promotional book tour. Jenny, literally worked through her episode. With depression that deep and that strong many people collapse while they are doing what the world tells them to do. "Suck it up, Buttercup." In her own way, Jenny found a path through that dark wood. Along the way she showed the internet her doodles. Her doodles have become a book. As far as I am concerned it is a must have book.

What ever thoughts Jenny battled, the things that let her come out of each skirmish, are incorporated into the work. While you color you have a prompt for your own exploration of Things You Can't Put a Finger on  but Are There or a mantra to get through the Thing You Know is There but Don't Like to Look At. I am hoping that the leviathan grabbing the sailing ship is in the book. She shared that the day that it was done. It was a day that I was drowning in my own blood, blood spilled by my Internal Editor's sword pen. And it helped. A LOT!

I have mixed feelings about ME making money doing things that I love. Part of it is my guilt fueled anxiety. Part of it is my parochial upbringing. Part of it is my own sense of justice and social growth. I have, however, absolutely NO qualms about helping other people make money. So go order Jenny's book. Order it for you. Order it for your friends who suffer. Order it for an emergency gift for that time when you want to comfort someone and have no idea how to do it.

And when you order her book from anyone of the fine establishments she has trade agreements with, take some time to read her blog if you haven't already.

Then, follow her on twitter.

And if you are drifting, helplessly alone in your mental health issues in a sea of people who just don't get why you can't get with it, join the rest of us under the hashtag #TheBloggessTribe.

While you are at it, follow Castle's mom, Susan Sullivan for uplifting quotes, calming mantras, unsolicited advice and a dose of gentility often lacking in media that is bound to make you feel better.

Depression lies, And it never shuts up. But we can drown that little fucker. Join us.

Anxiety Update: Grounding

another tropical looking beach view in Northern Michigan

I can't tell you where this is. So far, it is the emptiest beach we have found and I want to keep it this way for a few reasons. The biggest reason, anxiety. As I have said, getting out to the beach and getting my feet in the sand, water and across the rocks is grounding. And I need a lot of grounding right now. This is where we were on Saturday and what we were doing.

Grounding
You, undoubtedly, have heard the term from a mental health professional or even the New Agers. Grounding is the process by which we literally find our feet. If you are going to use New Age speak, grounding let's the energy in the earth, travel through you, connecting you and your energy, to the ether or cosmos. This creates a complete circuit and allows you to navigate your life choices with a kind of certainty and freedom that is otherwise impossible when circuits are broken. In mental health terms, when you are grounded you are living in your most authentic self. And the most authentic self is the one least troubled by the outside of the world. Granted this simplifies things a bit much. The process and the need is a little more complicated than one paragraph or one blog post can cover. This is a good start though.

Grounding involves being in the moment, being totally involved in and engaged with who you are in respect to your gender identity and personality. And the steps beyond those two basic identifiers are in living your passions and callings. When one denies any part of ones self there is discord, disconnection and then dysfunction. And that is where I think that mental illness begins.

I'm not an expert in this area so I can not be clinically certain of this. Nor can you do more with the statement than run it passed whomever assists you with your own issues. I come to this conclusion by observing my own life and comparing the periods of greatest contentment and greatest discontentment. Nothing can make me more certain of this than the moment in which I am currently.

Today, and for the rest of the week I am in Grand Rapids. I have been invited by a friend, staying with him and with only 2.50 to live on for the week. I have brought with me enough material to work productively during the week. The plan is to attack the projects that I have not had the focus to accomplish much while I have been at home. Too much to distract me and none of it all that helpful. So away for a week. Away to someplace that dredges the past in both good and bad ways. Not that good or bad is even accurate. Happy and sad are not accurate either. Whatever the description is or should be for the memories or the feelings those memories bring the effect is the same.

I am anxious.
I am sad.
I have a longing for something in the past that rather haunts the present.

I came to Grand Rapids grounded. I spend either Friday or Saturday every week grounding myself. It is something that I have not done for most of the last 10 years. Much like people who stop taking medication when they feel better give illness a foothold to return, ceasing to perform your personal rituals gives illness in spirit and mind a foothold. You lose your defense against many things, many influences. When you lose defenses you lose direction. When you lose your own sense of direction then others can control you. Today I struggle with control. I don't want to lose myself to memories. Today I struggle with a disconnected past. Grand Rapids represents disconnect.

My anxiety is officially diagnosed as PTSD. My sense of this, where the city is concerned, is an unsettled past. My Wondertwin lives here. Our story might be considered tragic for the fact that a romance will never come of it though at one time that was the goal for which we both had hoped. Yet, for reasons that are completely obvious to me now, romance was never wheat the Universe had intended. It should have been obvious to each of us that if we called each other Wondertwin then we were connected only as siblings could be connected. And we were connected, are connected in a way that Souls are meant to connect for sustainable support.

When men and women connect it is usually assumed that it is going to be for the purpose of relationships, sex, pro-creation. So with those assumptions, it is very easy for them to get confused. And he was always confused. Sometimes I get confused about these things too. And I confused things with him. But back then, something inside of me wouldn't let the confusion last. I was strong enough to not let who I was slip away. I tried to keep us both centered in our own personality. He resisted. I could not survive as something other than who I am. So we parted.

Every once in awhile he would contact me. The last time he did I was dating someone. This didn't fit into his plan. And when I realized that someone else, yet again, had expected me to make my life about them at my own expense I lashed out. Being here, in his city, I want to reach out and heal that scar for both of us. You see, I know myself. I have always known myself. And when I am asked to be other than myself I have to stop whatever course would allow me to become lost. This often means that I must disappoint someone. Some people do not handle the disappointment well. And sometimes I do not handle the redirection well. This was one of those times.

And one of the reasons that Grounding is so important. If I had been better grounded, I am certain that I could have handled things with him better. I believe I could have stated my case without anger and we could have parted as friends. If I had been grounded I would not have been dating anyone. When I am grounded I know that I am not supposed to be dating anyone. It is not who I am. Whenever I do things that are out of my nature there is chaos and then there is anxiety.

When anxiety comes it does not leave as easily or as swiftly as it arrived. I don't know if the potential for mental illness lies dormant waiting for the right circumstance to manifest or if it is entirely a deposit of circumstance. All I know is that the worst times I have in dealing with myself and the things that go on in my head and the panic of dealing with situations come when I am not grounded. And I can not deal with them until I am grounded.

Grounding is being rooted inside your Self. It is knowing who you are and making choices that support that. In my case, with him, it is knowing that I am to be single. Be it a state of birth or the consequence of early traumas, I am a single woman. I knew that when I was 14. And the biggest mistakes, the ones that bore consequences both bitter and difficult to over come, were made when I was less myself and trying to be more like others. In the attempt to fit into the shapes others chose for me I fell through into a kind of nothingness. This is so for each mistake I made. I married when I knew that I should not. I married to please a friend, to please my sister and to please the society that we lived in. I did not marry to please myself or fulfill my purpose. And it cost me the ground I gained in the attempt to fulfill my purpose. I dated my Wondertwin to please him, and then again to gain acceptance into a circle that I felt I was supposed to belong to. In the end, neither my marriage nor the relationship with my Wondertwin withstood the chaos.

You see, we know who we are at a very young age. When we are counseled to embrace our inner child we do not take it quite far enough. We stop at wonderment and joy of creative expression or of natural expression. We do not go as far into the life of our inner child as the contentment of being true. Children do not dampen their enthusiasm or curiosity until they are compelled to do so for fear of punishment. Adults squash the exuberances of youth because they are naturally messy and chaotic. Somewhere along the line of evolution we have learned that adulthood is for order and construct life to be that way. It is not so. It can not be so because life is a tangled skein of yarn, spun from the unpredictable events in each of our lives. We spend a considerable amount of time as adults in the untangling of it while as children we just use the parts we can get to. At least that was my hands on experience with yarn. I will never be a knitter.

We unravel ourselves to be able to make use of ourselves for purposes that are not always our own. I am certain that is where my anxiety comes from. The traumas I dealt with were in trying to bend myself to others so that I could survive their schemes and then to avoid them alltogether. It is exhausting. One can never know another well enough to predict how they will approach interactions with one's Self. When you try to live in 100% subjugation to others then you can not live with yourself. This is where we break down I think. This is where our brain's chemistry changes and mental illness sets in. And this is where knowing yourself and being grounded in yourself helps.

Once and done
Our consumer life is constructed around fast and easy. So anything that requires maintenance is a chore. As a chore, the kinds of things that we do to take care of ourselves is drudgery and something to be avoided. When I participated in Christian settings getting people to pray daily became increasingly difficult. Pray once and be done. Set your problems at the foot of the cross one day and never worry over it again. It is the same in the New Age world. Consumers do not like maintenance unless it can be farmed out for someone else to service. Once and done does not work with Grounding.

You have to do it regularly. It is like taking a shower. And if you are a water person that might be the perfect place to do so. As with showers or eating, grounding should be done daily. As we deliberately sit down to pay bills or balance check books, it has to be done deliberately as well. I could go outside and sit on the porch and soak up the sun. It is quick, easy, convenient. But it is also mindless as I make no extra effort. There is no choice to participate in the experience of grounding. Just going outside, walking out the door and plopping down with the cat, is passive. And it is subject to comfort. Or rather, to how easily comfort can be obtained by going three steps back into the house. Planning to go to the beach, driving X number of miles to that beach, then actively interacting with the environment, THAT is what allows the grounding to happen. And in that process of participation when you are actively engaged in the feelings in the process that is where the magic happens. That is where everything that is not the beach, the waves, the rocks, the wind, the sun, the gulls and water fowl, the smells and the company disappears.

All of the senses get involved in the grounding process. Whatever is outside of your location, whatever is inside of your head that does not pertain to the immediate experience, disappears from your awareness. It doesn't make your problems go away. They will be there waiting for you when you get back to them. Grounding makes you strong enough to deal with them. Grounding gives you a much needed break from your hamster wheeling so that you can think clearly and make the best choices you can to resolve issues. When the hamster wheel slows or stops so does my anxiety. And when the anxiety subsides then my blood pressure returns to normal.

crinoid fossil looks like a typesette'rs case for Morse Code
spilled on to the floor. It is a mix of dots & dashes that used
to be living things cemented in  Paleozoic sediment

I grounded well this week knowing that this trip was going to bring up issues. There are a lot of confusing emotions right now. The past wants healing, the present wants resolution as well as to be enjoyed as it is. The future wishes to remain a mystery. And I wish to be the most authentic Self that I can be without the guilt I felt in the past. And that is where all of the garbage that presents itself as mental illness begins. The Past.

Perhaps then it is no small surprise to me that I am finding these kinds of fossils highly collectible and significant in my grounding rituals. Look at all the little bits. The rings of white are the arms and stems of corals that lived millions of years ago. The long rectangular bits are the same, only sliced in a side view. Each white spot in the black stone is part of a once living thing, individual living things frozen in time. They are the broken bits that remain after glaciers plowed through inland seas and bedrock. Unsuspecting creatures with no idea what was happening let alone aware of potential immortality... just not in a shape they might have envisioned if they were capable of such imagination.

My grounding leads me to collect a record of the past. If I look at where and when my feet were most firmly planted it is in the times that I did not waiver from my path or deny who I was. People couldn't make me nuts. Angry yes. Frustrated by cruelty yes. But nuts? No. They could not make me that. I did not suffer anxiety then. I was grounded, rooted in an immutable state of being.

And I think that is where I have to begin to take control of and heal the depression and anxiety. I have hope that it is possible.

Summer Fun: rock hunting

If you are new to northern lower Michigan and Lake Michigan's shoreline you could be forgiven for mistaking the average beach scene for a clam digging party. It won't be clams that beach goers are hunting. Rock hounds, the popular moniker for a sub genre of tourist, hunt the popular yet elusive semi precious commodity stones: Petosky, Charlevoix, Agate and Leland Blue.

Rock Hounds range from casual hobbyists to rabid collectors and professional geologists. Many guidebooks aid the more committed hunter with identification, forming the foundation of a hobbyisttreats's knowledge base. And yet there will always be something beyond the known. Professional Rock Hounds generally enjoy engaging new comers to the sport, regaling the uninformed with a wealth of information. C&M Rock shop in Honor is a fountain of information. Bruce is always happy to sign a copy of his published works.

The beach is filled most days with curious eyes and hands. Serious collectors don't wait for the warm weather, they get to the beaches early in the Spring for the best of what Lake Michigan has churned with its ice floes. I am the average rock hunter, curious & looking for treats for the eyes. My housemate is a bit more serious. She reminds me very much of my mother's best friend, Eileen. Eileen was a professional lapidarist who initiated my passion for purple gemstones and beach combing. Eileen made her money traveling the country in a beat up yellow Datsun, from quarries to rock shows and home during Winter. In Winter her saws and tumblers ran constantly so she could produce finished pieces to ply her trade. My housemate is a hobbyist at the moment. She relates to rocks better than to people and doesn't think me the slightest bit strange for searching the surf splashed shore for "pretty things". I do not hunt for profit.

Agatized chert, fossils and perhaps some jaspers, with
chert, granite, maybe some gneiss and a quart piece in a
random photo of the shoreline from out first outing. 

I hunt for eye pleasing colors, patterns and shapes. I have since I was a kid. Contented for hours looking through the baubles on the shore. School taught me about fossils which is probably where all of it started. I've never had any belief that anything I found would ever be gem quality and net me millions. However, I always thought that the stones on the beach were precious to someone, even if only me. My mother didn't like me bringing home "the whole beach" because they were not valuable. I'm sure most mothers feel the same way. Many times in my life I have had a collection of stones in boxes or jars. And many times I have had to rebuild my collection.

The beach is a place of solace and energy. I always feel better in the water than on land. And I always feel better when my feet have been in the sand and tortured by the lake floor. If it is true that stones have their own energy that heals, soothes and imbues one with special qualities then the beach is just a natural rave. After our first trip out to the coast, I was so relaxed my blood pressure dropped below normal. This second trip I sunburned myself and didn't get the same effect though I did have a significant reduction in the blood pressure.

As if to prove it is about aesthetics and not value, this Summer I have been picking up a lot of Blue Chert. Only one geologist/gemologist acknowledges it as a specific kind of chert, separate from the common browns and reds... Bruce at C&M. He seemed amused that I was so enthralled by this worthless stone. Chert is not viable for commercial applications as it is a stone of surface color. When you slab chert you find a disappointing plain white interior of flint. Yep, that gorgeous blue stone that mocks sodalite is a piece of fire starting, arrow point flint. It's as common a mineral as you will ever find. But the blue apparently is found in few places around the world other than Northern Michigan. It can not be tumbled for the same reason that it can not be slabbed. It would have to be dipped or reside in an apothecary jar full of distilled water and sit on a shelf. What a shame. It truly does imitate the colors of sodalite. Which is perhaps why I find it so appealing.

Adding to the entertainment of rock hunting with the pros is the find that inspires jealousy. Hunting Petosky stones, agates and Leland Blue and finding bigger pieces or the first piece ahead of a true rock hound is especially fun. Especially when they are big pieces that are already well rounded by wave action. Petosky stones and Charlevoix stones are two types of colony coral fossil common to Lake Michigan. The Petosky is the State's stone, while it's cousin the Greenstone is the State's gemstone. Agates are a bit harder to find than the fossils. And the Leland Blue that rock hounds are currently obsessing over can only be found in Leland and Frankfort Michigan. And they are not even real stones.

Sitting on a piece of polished sodalite, chert (top) and two
pieces of Leland Blue (bottom). 

Leland Blue is slag that was dumped after iron smelting has been performed and before there were ever any environmental regulations regarding disposal of manufacturing waste. The slag glass makes for beautiful jewelry. The bluest of the blues with its foamy white bits is more a piece of the water than the earth. To me the best pieces are like picture jasper, they tell the story of where the piece has been. I haven't found yet any of what I consider the best pieces. I know other will argue, especially about the ones that mock agate, which seems to be the purple variety which is not common. Leland Blue goes for 30.00 a pound so my little collection from our second trip could get me a little bit of cash. But we will have to see how it polishes before parting with it.

Memory Stones

Sometimes when we are bored and seeking a small adventure my best friend, or her daughter, and I will go to a cemetery and look around for interesting bits of sculpture, inscriptions, spirits and whatnot. It is normally in the fall that the Oak Park Cemetery is most vibrant and beautiful. In Summer the canopy is so thick and green that getting good shots with my amateur camera is almost impossible. Not only that, the bright fake flowers adorning the grave sites is always unnerving for me. Nothing screams insincerity like fake flowers. But rules are rules and most cemeteries these days don't let you plant real flowers.  So there is that. I've always liked Oak Park because of the variety of sculpture, mostly Victorian Era. Oak Park is also home to most of the Founding Fathers of Traverse City and was always the "Catholic Cemetery".

I grew up Catholic and went to a lot of funerals with my dad, though not very often to attend a graveside service. Death and I are not strangers, but we aren't buds either. Death is just another thing; like too many relatives in the house at Christmas, and ignored birthdays.  It comes at the end of Life, requires a shindig, public lamenting and then...

The "And then" always bothers me. And then often is a few years of dedicated visitation that tapers off as grief gives way to a life resumed. Following the lack of visitation there is, for some, a period of guilt that is oft overcome with the thought that "Well, he's dead. What does he care if I don't go?" The "And then" for the dead is a physical decay. But how many of those dead stay with the body, limited in spirit to the confines of the cemetery? And for how long?

I can not imagine a fate worse than to be trapped with a useless body and watching parade after parade of histrionics when grief is most poignantly felt then great swaths of time when no one comes to visit anymore. Then, when the traffic slows to the slightest tickle the gawkers and ghost hunters arrive to coax ghoulish cries. Of course, on occasion, one can watch the malicious destruction of property as grave stones are smashed by normally idle hands. I don't know what is worse. The immediate shock and grief or the "and then"... being ignored.

As one of the troupe of curiosity seekers, hoping to encounter and not encounter entities in the cemetery, drooling over the artistry in the markers, marveling at the age of my city and lost in the solitude the quietness of a cemetery in daylight engenders, I try to keep the murmur to a dull roar. I can neither see nor hear the dead. It is rare that I can feel the presence of those who have passed and got stuck here. And, I try not to disturb a site that is clearly visited by family and friends. I will right a potted plant that has toppled and been ignored by the grounds keeping staff. And I avoid freshly turned soil, giving it a wider berth than is likely necessary. Sometimes though, I can not help but get up close and personal.

Normally, I do not delve deep into this cemetery. Most of the truly interesting sculptural pieces are near the front on the 8th street side. I'd been told it is the oldest part of the cemetery. I had also been told it was the "Catholic" cemetery. So this time, with the younger friend, we went deeper. Much to my surprise, I found a Jewish section. Traverse City has always had a very small Jewish population. At one point large enough for it's own temple but which has waned in recent decades. The Jewish synagogue is now part of the courthouse complex. There are still Jewish families in town, worshiping alongside other faiths, and tending the graves of family members.

Most of the stones in the Hebrew section were covered in any number of small pebbly stones such as the picture above. It is uniquely Jewish. A good explanation is here. Depending on the traditions one grew up with it is either to keep golems at bay, to bind the soul to the earth or to mark a connection between visitor and the visited.  My gut tells me that this is a marker to mean, "I thought of you". Flowers die, stones are more permanent. And it seems like one of those long term things that Jewish a good at when it comes to zakor , which means "remember". Leaving the stone is like leaving a bit of yourself to stay with the decedent.  Somehow, being there helped me feel a bit better about Shayne, even though he is buried in Chicago. It also made me miss him so much more as we come upon the anniversary of his passing, and leaving the marker of his birthday last month.

It's Always too Early to Quit~ Norman Peale

Well, let me make it official here at Blogger.... I have been promoted. Sometime in the near future I will be moving to another hotel to be the Executive Housekeeper. I've known for a week month and the first two people I told were the Housemate and the Pen Pal. With this change coming, I am in a mind to be a bit reflective.

On Friendship
If you ever have any doubts as to who your best friend is, or whom you want your best friend to be, take a look at all of your impulses regarding the best news in your life. When the BF and I split a couple of weeks ago the first two people who knew were the Housemate and the Pen Pal. They are the first to know everything. Clearly, the proximity issue with the housemate is an advantage. But lets face it... we wouldn't be housemates if we were not already good friends. They were the first to know about the BF when he was new. They are the first two people that I tell anything to. Then you guys. But this time Facebook got the announcement first.

The person or persons that you instinctively tell anything to, the first people that come to mind when anything happens, or you want to plan an adventure.... those are the people who should know what is going on at all times. They have to be safe, supportive and trustworthy. They can not be dream killers. They can not have an agenda that undermines your efforts. You have to have a good history with them. They should always want what is best for you and they should be the kind of people who are telling you when you are being self harmful and not rush to hand you the tools of your own destruction. Those are the kind of people that you want to be your best friend.

On Resilience
We all have rough patches. We all have areas of our lives that take a nose dive, hopefully one area at a time. Some times work will suck. Some times it will be home. Some times your family will bring you down and other times it will be your life partner. Some times your frustrations will land in the house of your hobbies, some times in finances and some times the car or health. Each area of our lives is prone to catastrophic failure. In most cases it is just the natural progression of having or doing something for a very long time. In other cases it is because you missed a key diagnostic element, signs of wear and tear or because you just were not paying attention to the warning klaxons blaring at you from every direction. And there are times when they rough patch seems to never end.

I've been with the same company for a little over 8 years now. And I have had rough patches here too. Sometimes the rough patch is the end of a cascade failure from other areas that spills, inevitably, into work. And sometimes the rough patch has been because of the elements involved in the job. One rough patch occurred fairly early into the venture. It resulted in the constant barrage of "advice" to quit. The advice came from my brother. This is the same guy, who when he found out that I loved the new job and the new work family decided to throw his support for art into the mix as an emotional monkey wrench. He advocated moving on. Always moving on. And when I told him that I would stay and see things to the end told me what an idiot I was.

Long story short:

I survived the rough patches. I was promoted last year within in this company and now, exactly a year later have another promotion. Why? Resilience. It is nothing to quit a job in which you are unhappy or feel misunderstood. But being unhappy is no reason to quit. Unhappy is a feeling. It is a tempting lure to those ever greener pastures we seek. But those pastures, when we reach them are just as patchy as the place we left. Unhappiness is an illusion as much as happiness is. It is nothing to quit. But it is everything to stay. To stay, to work, in this case literally, through the rough patches is something that defines your character, it is a layer of resilience that you need when life decides to use you for target practice.
I'm not talking about quitting harmful relationships or smoking. I am talking about the way we easily give up when things get difficult. Suddenly, when life throws a few cast off chunks of brick at us, we shrivel up and turn into 5 year old demanding someone fix it for us. When it doesn't get fixed, we pick up our toys and leave. But what good is that? We don't learn to stand for ourselves. We don't learn endurance. We don't learn strength. And we do not learn reason. We don't learn skills.

The only thing we learn is how to run. And that bit only is helpful in an episode of Dr. Who. When was the last time you saw Captain Picard turn tail and hit warp 9? Only when safety is a factor. You leave a job, a sport or a hobby when you are in danger. Ego bruises are not dangerous.

Which brings me to my next bit of musing...

On Relationships
On the whole, I think we give up on those too easily. Our egos get confused as to what is more important at any given moment until we are so twisted around that we think a missed birthday is a reason to dump someone. Or, that a few choice words flung like witch fire will make someone worship us and our egos. Somehow those of us who are rather self sustaining seem to feel that a relationship with a significant other means totalitarianism. Forgiveness gets lost when the ego gets in the way and we quit.

No judgement from me though. I do it too. I've done it in the past and I will do it again. I will do it when I remember something essential about myself that I forgot... I don't belong in one on one relationships. Never have. Probably never will. I am a live alone until a community to which I know I heartily belong too emerges. And then I am only around for as long as we need each other. I am very good of letting healthy things go. I am not good at letting go of damaging people. At least I didn't used to be.

I got dumped. And I am going to make sure that I stay dumped. I could fall into that you have to forgive, you have to leave the door open mentality. But while there was a lot of fun and it showed here and in facebook there were some things that weren't. Some things that we downright emotionally dangerous. It happens. I over estimate my ability to cope with other people's crazy. I under estimate the nature of other people's beasts. But once I get the crap scared out of me there is no letting the defenses down. So there is no choice but to let the one who dumped me stay gone. And not chose a similar path next time. I'm taking heat for being a "quitter" on that one. But I am chosing to be around healthy people. I know... unhealthy people need others and deserve to be supported with love and kindness. Without a doubt I believe that. I just don't think that it has to be me all the time.

And it is the same with leaving my brother out of my life. Far more dangerous than any boyfriend I have ever had, that was a relationship that I spent 39 years trying to get out of and always guilted into remaining on the grounds that we were family. I saw that quote today on Google+. It's always to early to quit. But it is never too early to save yourself.

Family ties and romantic bonds get used to trap us in places with people who can sap our strength. And we are always expected because of those ties to forgive and stay in whatever behavioral cycles we are in. So I wonder.... why doesn't that bond mean we have to be treated better than we are? Why is my brother allowed to undermine me, emotionally twist things to make me dependent on his approval to live, physically intimidate me? If family ties mean that much he should behave better. When he hurts me and I tell him to stop he should stop. That is what he wants of me. But his response has always been "Make me." Taking the "high road" is great. We should always take the high road...

But do we still keep on the high road when we notice the signs have been switched? I say no. When it comes to protecting yourself it is ok to quit. But when you aren't in danger, when it is only an ego that is bruised and there is no real and lasting harm, I say stick with it. Keep at it. Work through that hard time and learn from it. If it makes you stronger, it is always too early to quit.

Out of Doors When Out of Sorts

A panoramic view of a small cove on the Leelanau Peninsula.

We drove past his house to get here. I thought I would be okay. I am not. Anger has given way and now I am just at sad. I didn't know that this cove required flying passed his house when I said I would go. I've lived here all my life and never realized that this is what the kids were talking about. If she had known it would make me sad, we would have gone rock hunting on another beach.  We didn't and now I am sad. Sad and in the process of doing something as unhealthy for me as eating a gallon of chocolate ice-cream...
by myself...
on the couch....
binge watching TV....
not journalling....
and definitely not looking at how to improve the situation.

As each day to the new job comes closer I am sadder and sadder than I can't say to him that I made it. I said that I would and I did it. That his answer to the stress and the discomfort on some days was the wrong answer. I don't get to show him that I am not a quitter.

They say that you are supposed to get out and do things when you are sad and in the grip of depression. They say that you are supposed to break out of your routine. They say a lot of things and mean well.... but to get here, we had to pass there. And the whole adventure on Sunday was exactly the routine that We went through on each of our adventures. At least this little cove was not somewhere that We had gone to get away from the world. We missed it by about 3/4 of a mile. To the left of this shot, out of the frame, is the beach that I took so many pictures from last Summer. The beach on which we found a jetty bearing wild strawberries.

I think that I might have to spend the Summer indoors to get the taste of bittersweet memories out of my head. Or at least, spend it on the porch with Teeny.

Prepare for the Summer of Cat pictures.

In Full Swing: Good Depression v. Bad Depression

You should all know that I am not a trained mental health professional. The subject matter in this post is about mental health, specifically depression. This is a post to work out some thoughts, ideas, maybe spark a conversation. In no way should anything that I have written be construed as a diagnosis or prescription. That said, by all means, consider this a launch point for a conversation with your mental health provider or counselor. I do not have an answer, but I have a lot of questions and observations.

I can tell that I am depressed. I do not find much of anything that I enjoy to be enjoyable right now. I made plans to go walking with a friend and I would like very much to blow it off. Painting is not a great outlet because I am so frustrated with how much I have forgotten about the process. The real tell-tale signs that depression in indeed in full swing is that I don't feel like cooking. I am hungry but I can not make myself eat.

ALDI hosts German week this week and I was all excited about Butter cheese and the pastries filled with spinach and cheese and fruits and nuts (Not all together. Two separate kinds of pastries!) Also excited for authentic wurst. But today, as well as  yesterday after my pen pal and I finished our conversation, depression has come for a visit. There is no telling how long it will last. And the more I fight it the more it holds on.

And the funny thing about it, I just had a therapy session in which we talked about the break up. The whole expectation v. reality bull drizzle that happens in every encounter. Of course, the family had company yesterday. Said company brings a passel of melancholy with it when it visits. And the melancholy hangs around. So since I am an empath that could be part of the problem. It is just odd though that I can walk out of the therapist office and know that things will be ok, feel that they will be ok and then have this huge weight around my neck. I feel like I am drowning.

All of my go to things are not working: meditation, netflix is dull now, I screwed up the breakfast that I did make and my coffee tastes like crap. But it is the same coffee beans that I had two days ago that were wonderful. Facebook is usually a good place to practice the funny and work out those good deeds of cheering others. That didn't help. Wil Wheaton's dog died, which seems like it shouldn't matter because I don't know will personally. But I know Riley pretty well because she has guest starred on his blog for 13 years. Julian Lennon's mom died. And while I don't know him or her personally, I do follow his posts and developed enough of an attachment that I cry when I hear the sadness in his words.

So maybe Facebook is the wrong place for a depressed empath. Maybe when the empath is depressed she shouldn't be trying to help others. This might be a clue that I've been spread too thin and need to regroup. I mean, every day is like that so why should being depressed mean I have to throw myself into the world?

I have new followers thanks to Google+. Hello all! And while each new follower is a feather in a pretty scarcely decorated cap, this week the newness hasn't even begun to make a dent in the armor that depression locks me into.

Soooooooo...... [Totally just had an epiphany!!!]

Bear with me. I have an idea.

What if some depression is not illness but insulation?
What if some depression, like the one that happens when we grieve, is supposed to be the armor that protects us from doing drastic and potentially idiotic things?

I very much want to do nothing. Feel nothing. Be nothing right now. I am antsy to be sure. My body wants some kind of activity while it wants to sleep. It is a weird paradox and I do not know how to make a decision because the impulses to do and to not do change so fast that by the time I am doing something I do not have the energy to do it. Paradoxically, I have sustained a desire to write long enough to get this far.... weird. Possibly a bit wibbly wobbly in the psychology department. But let's keep going....

In the past week I have dealt with a lot of emotional people at work, personalities clashing and dealing with the idea of saying goodbye to one job while saying hello to another. It is all, understandably, a bit overwhelming. And the teenager has been in the house for two days. She is an emotional bundle of unprocessed psycho-kinetic energy with no ability (as she lacks desire to learn) to master or understand any of the emotions that she has. She is an example of why Betazoids do not have pets. I have also had to deal with my own grief. So.....for the weeks worth of emotional expenditures, one could logically say the depression is an armor. Or a stockade. Let's go with a stockade.
This stockade is keeping me homebound. Being home means that I am not going to be constantly dieting on other people's emotional bullshit. It means that I do not have to deal with the triggers of grief at work, which oddly enough include Sir Knight. (zip it, Shayne.) And right now home has no one in it but me and the cat. She is hiding in her mom's room because there is nothing of interest happening outside. It is grey and rainy and could be contributing to the icky depressed scene. Since I am locked in this emotional stockade and am doing nothing (except writing you all) I am not overstimulating the mental and emotional circuits that have been over stimulated already.

Perhaps their is a good depression and a bad depression like their is for cholesterol. I might be having an episode of good depression. Like having the flu forces you to stay home and not load up on more germs you're already fighting.

If we look at the happenings of the last month, which I feel we must because the strength of the stockade seem excessive for the week's worth of over load, we can see some more triggers:

• Being dumped, the exchange of hostilities that may not have been deserved, the loss and all the triggers around me that refer back to the fresh loss.
• Trying to reconcile issues with an old friend that has resurfaced
• financial concerns
• being sick with the bronchial weirdness
• reconciling the conflict between a positive career advance and inexplicable sadness over the change
• physical pain from my hip and thigh bones
• separation from the boyfriend due to conflicts of school

And we look further back over the last quarter and half year:

• heavy work schedule
• conflicts with personalities at work
• physical pain from the heavy work load
• time usurped by the demands of the boyfriend's mental illness
• trying to fit someone into my life who might not belong here
• regaining the things that were set aside for the boyfriend
• disappointment with the delay of personal goals due to financial issues

In short: I have been emotionally, mentally and intellectually overstimulated for the better part of a 12 month period. 

I have to say, I think that the only way to keep me from completely draining all of my mental resources is to be depressed. The more I think on this the more I think that there must be two kinds of depression. This is not the Depression that Lies™ as Wil calls it. 

The Depression that Lies™ tells you that you are crap, that everything about you is wrong. It tells you that no one likes you, your friends are not your friends, that you are never good enough. It tells you that every paranoid thing you think is true. It hates all the things that you used to love. And by hate I mean that when you think of doing the things that you like to do, you become enraged. Anger is the first response to an impulse to do something you enjoyed about two days before Depression that Lies™ showed up at your door. This is the depression that brings out suicidal thoughts. This is the Depression that hates everything. 

The Depression that Lies™ is not the depression that I feel right now. This is the kind of depression that says, "slow down you are moving to fast for your ability". It says "You will burn out if you don't sit this out." This is the depression that says "You need to be alone to get rid of everyone else's garbage." This is the Depression that is a Time Out. 

Neither kind of Depression is lessened with distractions. Neither kind will be sped along with platitudes. Both kinds require help, but the kind of help differs. The time out requires time. Good chunks of alone time. And it requires that you not be afraid to be a lone. So, for those of us who are not good at being alone, we need help learning to be alone. And we might need help with keeping things clean for a few days. The need to do nothing is paralyzing. But that doesn't stop the animals from needing fed or walked. And it doesn't keep the garbage from stinking. We might need help being fed. In this day and age of take out and delivery this might not be much of an issue for some. But for others, friends will have to make sure there is something to eat. The real challenge in a time out though is being left alone with yourself for too long. 

And you never know how long that is going to be. The Depression that Lies™ needs medication and regular therapy. Without treatment it is a short slide into anxiety. And the Depression that Lies™ is probably not a stand alone disorder. It comes with its own bag of garbage like PTSD, bipolar, dis-associative and personality disorders and probably is a part of every spectrum disorder in addition to being able to stand on its own. That kind of Depression is rather insidious because we might not always know where the root of it is. And, as in the case of PTSD, knowing the root cause does not guarantee we can find a fix.Time out Depression could probably use a boost with a temporary med, like taking an antibiotic to prevent pneumonia, but the real fix is time. I think. 

I don't know. I am not a professional. I have been afflicted with both kinds of Depression. And I can honestly say that Time Out Depression, is rough and painful and you think you are going mad. But it is short term. It has a root cause, its progression can be traced and it is not a life threatening mental disorder. In fact, I think the Time Out Depression is a defense mechanism that our minds need to calm down the chaos that caused us to feel weird in the first place. But this kind of depression can slide into the Depression that Lies™ if we don't use the Time Out efficiently.

I have always been able to be alone. And I have always preferred to be alone. I joke with the housemate that I was born wanting to be left alone. I am easily overwhelmed with people. Animals not so much. But people fatigue me. I am an introvert. That is the way I was built. And that is perfectly okay. I get lost when I try to fit into the extrovert world, try to force my Sherry shaped personality into a box designed for someone else's shape and that brings on the Depression that Lies™. I can handle being in the Time Out Depression because I like being alone. 

Oh... one thing about the Time Out Depression is that when you do not distract yourself there is a still place in your brain that can take over. Literally, nothing conscious is happening. It looks like you are sleeping, loafing, being generally unproductive. And it drives extroverts absolutely MAD to see you "doing nothing". It isn't like meditation because you are not actively trying to achieve the state of mental stillness. But you become still. Your brain spins on its hamster wheel for so long that it does eventually get tired of spinning and just stops. The only thing that is actively happening in your brain is the automatic functions that keep your body alive. The thoughts just stop. The feelings just stop. 

It is like taxing your brakes driving in the mountains. At some point the brake pads are so hot you have to stop and let them cool down. This is what happens in time out depression. You brain is cooling down. It's a little like being in a hyperbaric chamber. There is no stimulus internally because your brain just stops. It conserves energy by preventing you from doing things (distractions). There is no stimulus externally because you are usually hiding in your bed. 

Because everything just stops we freak out. In the freak out you get uncomfortable with the silence, the stillness, yourself and you undo all the good being in time out was doing. So the process has to start all over again. And I think that is where we get into trouble. The perpetual cycle of being sick and pale with grief. I am totally ok with being depressed today because I can see that it is a time out. I have been over stimulated by change, grief and a few other emotions that I don't want to share right now. I do not mind being alone. I relish it in fact.

I am only having trouble because of the conflict between want to do and need to do and feeling like I have to do the things that need to be done when, in truth, the world will not fall apart if it isn't done.

And I think that I can safely cancel my walk this afternoon.  

Building Worlds Inside

When the world hurt you used to build a tented fort at the foot of your bed. Your freshly laundered sheets in a monotone floral hooded over a pile of pillows and stuffed animals. The interior isn't dark and cave-like but it isn't the offensive brightness of streaming, unaffected sunlight either. You've dragged coloring books and crayons into the fort. A pile of notebooks and a stash of pens are ready for you when you are ready for words.



Another secret stolen and shared
Another boy torments
Another friend gone
Another funeral attended
Another pet has run off
Another round of verbal abuse
Another episode of apologies made for being yourself,
   having an opinion,
   for daring to contradict a lie,
   for telling the truth & betraying a disloyal friend
Another week of forced socialization under your belt
Another task failed because you were not trained to do as you were asked
Another anxiety flare
Another sweat soaked nightmare
Another fight
Another bully runs you off your own property
Another day you doubt your own validity

Furiously scribbling color onto a page through the glaze of tears that cling to your eyeballs instead of falling, the furor fives way to a kind of meditative peace. Every mark is magnified because your brain wants to do something other than think of the pain that forced you into the fort in the first place. Every mark is a balm, each color a salve over the wound. Detachment replaces hyper-attentive focus.

Another stroke... little less pain.
Another layer of color... slightly drier eyes
Another page is complete... more even breathing
Another hour in the warmth of your cocoon... more lightness in your chest
Another daydream of idealistic reality.... it is easier to breathe
Another nap in the mid day when your mind reels.... more clarity

Then there are words.
Another word becomes
another sentence becomes
another paragraph becomes
another complex thought becomes
another idea becomes
another experience becomes
another reality becomes
another way to cope.

And you begin another page to begin
another book of thoughts to become
another you.

Year after year the pattern of pain and panacea becomes a method of operating that is dependent on no one else. You have found a kind of self sufficiency that no one in the world can affect.

You are an adult and your tree fort is a coffee shop. Your coping skills involve the ability to retreat into the depths of the mind, to dwell in a Region of Time and Space to which you alone hold a key. More than a mind palace... it is an undiscovered country unblemished by ego and avarice, free from the subjugation that caused the pain in the first place.

Art and words transport.
The inner life is now that only life.

Reflecting Today... my cousin Michelle

My Pintrest boards have been filing up with lots of inspiration for the Boho/Shabby Chic lifestyle. I have to say, honestly, if I win the lottery the first thing that I am going to do is commission a Vardo. I don't know how I will use it, but I want it. While all of these images are flooding onto my board, I keep thinking of my cousin Michelle.

I love all of my cousins for a variety of reasons. I think Michelle stands out because she was always different and didn't really care what anyone thought of her choices, her style or opinions. She went with the flow.

Michelle babysat us for a few Summers. We were always barefoot. It was the early 70s so there weren't laws about having to wear your shoes in the car, or stores, or anywhere. And I remember the Summer that I learned the hard way why shoes are important: I split my big toe open on the running board of the Galaxy 500 while we were clamoring to get into the car so Michelle could take us to the beach. She didn't freak. She didn't call me names. She stuck my feet in the sink, hosed me down with Bactine and put a bandaid on it.

Mom, on the other hand, freaked. And forbade me to be barefoot ever because I could get ringworm, or some other thing. And she freaked out on Michelle for not paying attention. So Michelle and I conspired to more antics that would potentially damage either of us... but not permanently. Michelle was one of those people who challenged the rules, not because she was an anarchists at heart. But because some rules are far too limiting and keep us too safe, too comforable and don't challenge us to creativity or strength. When we are coddled overmuch we do not grow in any productive manner. We only grow in fearfulness.

And that is one of the things that I liked best about Michelle. She was fearless. At least she was to me. I was 4, 5, and 6 when she stayed with us for the Summers. She was exotic in her hippie maxi's with the long hair and big sunglasses. The staid housewives in polyester Carol Brady housewife attire looked at her askance. The uptight men in suits seemed in equal parts curious and appalled by her flamboyancy. We just didn't have many hippies in Traverse City. I guess. We certainly didn't have a lot of people who made alternative choices. And by alternative I mean there might have been 4 shades of nail polish that were acceptable back then, peach, pink, rose and red. And given the choice, Michelle always chose something other than those. Or no polish at all. Which unless you were a farm wife that was unacceptable as well. Ooooh...... danger on the rise!

But truly, I don't know much really about her life and choices back then. I just knew everyone worried about her until she was about 35. Much the same way that everyone worried about me. All I needed to know about Michelle was that she was encouraging, sympathetic, convivial and patient in explaining things to a child. Other than my grandparents, Michelle was the only one who ever explained anything.

She explained why she said no on the rare occasion that she did say no. She explained to me why the things that I was afraid of in my dreams needn't be scary. She explained how things were made (foodwise). She explained how nature cycles worked. And she explained adults to me. Nothing is more valuable to a kid than understanding how the adult mind works in the face of an adult episode of kid rage.

She explained that sometimes adults get mad because the things that we do scare them and they are too busy being scared to know that they are scaring us in turn. Sometimes adults get mad because they forget what it is like to be curious kids and they are too busy being addled adults. And yes, she explained what addled meant. Sometimes, she said, adults get angry because they don't have time to stop and pay attention to the things that kids want explained or to share. And sometimes adults get mad because they don't know the answers to our questions, because it makes them feel dumb. Most of which are silly reasons to get mad at a kid. But with an explanation life was a little easier to understand and navigate.

photo from C'est si Bon! La Joie de Vivre 

Michelle also had interesting friends. She had interesting ideas. And she liked to get out and do stuff instead of stay in the house. As I've been absorbing all the boho-design goodness and thinking about Michelle, I've come to realize that the friends that I have share one quality with her that I treasure the most. They are safe, or make me feel safe by fostering an understanding of the things that I don't know or reminding me of the things that I have forgotten. Not all of my friends share the gypsy aesthetic. But they foster understanding. In some sense all of my friends are teachers; though I doubt all of them would see themselves that way. In a safe environment I feel like I can do anything. I do not see my limitations as a stop sign. I see them as an inspiration to sneak around a roadblock or a fence.

Michelle was sneaky like that. Sometimes evading the rules, bending them and breaking them got her into trouble enough to warrant worry. But sometimes, more often than not I suspect, evading the rules gave her greater strength of character and a whole lot of perseverance. Rebellion is not without its problems. Rebellion is also not the problem that authority would make it out to be. Certainly it makes the figures of authority uneasy, fearing they will be toppled by a pitchfork wielding mob. But for the most part rebellion is how we learn who we are as individuals. Michelle took a lot of chances. She made a lot of bolder choices. Some of them worked. Some of them did not. As a result of the ones that did not work, her life was a bit harder than it had to be.

Similarly, as a result of some of my choices, my life is more difficult than it need be at the moment. But I am stronger than otherwise I would be. I have a mental and emotional strength that I had not thought possible. I might have a few edges that were not there before. But I am stronger. I know that nothing bad that happens is the end of my world. I might not like what happens. But I know that I can survive it. And.... getting back to those friends, I know who will be with me through everything in spirit if not in person.

Perhaps that is the best thing that Michelle taught me. How to really know who your friends are. They are the ones who caution you but encourage you to make your own choices; who cry with you when you make a wrong choice and will hand you the shovel so you can dig yourself out instead of playing keep away with it. It's the playing keep away that annoys me. It is not a friendly thing to do to dangle the tools of self help in front of someone. Real friends also do not defile your personal limits. If you are deathly afraid of spiders they will not dangle one in front of you. If you despise practical jokes they will not play one on you. Friends understand that your fears and limits trump their joy. Really, what kind of friend enjoys humor at your expense (except when of course it is a natural consequence of reality)? Friends don't take pleasure in your suffering. And those who derive the greatest joy from your discomfort can not be called friends.

Somehow, slowly through the years, I have regressed into the people pleasing mode and forgotten a large part of who I am. As I indulge in these Pintrest boards, a little voice says, "You might like this, but others will think it weird." In greater leaps than I imagined possible, the boldness returns, I see Michelle's smile and recall the fabulous patterns of her maxi dressed dappled in the shade of our large maples and I remember more and more what she inspired in me. Coupled with my Gramma's assertion that we are all made differently to make the world more interesting, I grow increasingly confident in my own direction. And I grow increasingly indifferent to other people's opinions.

I am told that there are many colorful characters in my cousin's branch of the family tree. I have found a few colorful characters in the Gerbstadt branch. The part of the tree from which I stem is rather dull by comparison with only Gramma and Michelle there. It would appear I am to be another colorful leaf in the tree.

Another Chicken and Egg Problem

Have seen a bunch of articles on feminism and why it hurts men lately. I have also seen a spate of memes in which it is suggested that if girls would act like ladies men would be gentlemen. My favorite image is this one which was attached to some Dr. Laura pages. On the surface this is a little kitschy, a bit clever and thought provoking. The thought that it provoked in me was this:

 

What comes first the gentleman or the lady? Is a woman a lady because a man is a gent? Is a man a gent because a woman is a lady? It really is a bit of a chicken and an egg question. But then something else was provoked.... anger.

 

 

How very 50s. How very Stepford. How very typical to make a Woman's behavior the crux of the issue. At least that seems to be what this picture and its text are saying. Why not the reverse? Why not wonder if men would be willing to be gentlemen, more women would feel challenged to be ladies?

 

Feminism exits as a backlash against centuries of oppression and repression. You can be a lady and have an education. Unless you live in most Middle Eastern countries today, Asian and Pacific Rim countries a few decades back, Victorian England and Industrial America. South America and Africa have not been forgotten. I know little about my southern neighbors and all I know about Africa is too grizzly to think about beyond Oprah opening a few schools so girls can have an education.

 

You an be a lady and cast a vote based on either an educated or uneducated opinion, the same as every man. It is foolish to think that because a man could vote, he was smarter. There are idiots of each gender and those idiots have valid voter IDs. Until the early 1900s, the only idiots who were allowed to vote were men.

 

You can be lady-like and study religion. Throughout most of recorded history after Roman conquest the only religious authority given  woman was what she could get away with and not be called a witch.... until a man got mad. Hildegard of Bingen, Joan of Arc to name but two.

 

You can be a lady and be a scientist.



You can be a lady and be in business for yourself or in the upper echelons of major corporations.
You can be a lady and a lawyer, barrister for our friends in the UK.
You can be a lady and be anything you want to be....
... if a man gives you permission.

And that is oppression. The idea that a man can do what he will because he is a man is idiotic, as we have proven over an over again. The contribution of women in the economic sector during WWII is evidence of that. Was every woman who entered the workforce perfect at it? No. But then not every man who worked was perfect at his job either. Hence the Quality Control departments. Was every woman who worked through the war cut out to keep it up when her man got home? Of course not. But there are a lot of men who seem to think they don't have to perform to the same standards as their counterparts. And they kept their jobs. To this day many a man is rewarded for slacking off, under producing and is allowed to keep his job because... well it's his. Not saying chicks don't get away with it. I experience that first hand.

The problem isn't men versus women.
The problem is a systematic rewarding of mediocrity in both genders. The problem is that we give lip service to feminism when we give it service at all. Girls can do whatever they want, whatever they imagine... just like boys. But when the kids of either gender won't step up to the work load either in education or work, and cry until they are rewarded for the weakest of contributions instead of being encouraged first to dig in and find the wherewithal to compete, or find the field in which their ability and interests match to inspire participation and competition, the whole fabric of society is weakened.

Your top level producers, unless motivated by greed or intense gain, cease to strive as hard. If everyone is rewarded equally and does not produce equally there is no incentive. Communism failed in Cold War Russian on this leg of its principles. Mediocre producers who struggle to keep up either due to disinterest or poorly matched skills set to job stop producing all together. Teachers see this in classrooms. I see this in the work force. Instead of getting rid of the weakest link, we dumb down entire production systems to appease the poorer producers.

Why be a gentlemen if you don't have to?
Why be a lady if you don't have to?

If you can be a rowdy jackass, a douche frat boy, a lazy bit of white trash, as ghetto as ghetto gets and still get everything you want, why would you do more? It is the rarest of human beings for which self improvement is a motivating factor. Very few people look at what they have done in one day and said, "I will strive until I can do more everyday." For those who's motivation is to compete with themselves it matters very little what reward the rest of the world gets. And you can imagine how many of those people there are out there.

Competition for resource is the largest motivating factor in humanity with rare exception. So when the standards are lowered the entire system slowly grinds to a halt.


From my perspective I ask a few questions:

• Why should I invest in over priced make-up and expensive and mildly affective hair products if men aren't going to do the same?
• Why should I invest in it at all? I am pretty enough without the extra garbage. Why isn't that good enough?
• Why should I wear high heels, and impractical clothing to do my job when a man is allowed to be as comfortable as safety allows to do his?
• Why must I wear a dress around the house when a. I find them uncomfortable most of the time, b. they get in the way, c. they lack a certain practicality for most household chores if a man is going to wear jeans & tees all the time?
• Why must I be demure and polite and ask for something four billion times before I get it but a man can make a single demand before he starts swinging his fists at my face?
• Why must I keep my opinions to myself when a man is allowed to spout off whatever he feels?
• Why must I be lady-like when a man is pig-like?
• Why must I hide my assets (physical attributes) while a man is allowed to strut his?
• Why is my property communal while a man may horde what he likes?

I ask those questions in part from past experience, in part from a survey regarding ones' status as privileges and found myself lacking. Severely lacking. And in part because of the classic arguments between respect and repression. I have lived my entire life, all 44 years of it, listening to men claim supremacy by virtue of gender. One would think that I live in the deep, deep, deep south. But I don't. When the gender card lacks sufficient trump, the religion card is played.

I rather resent that. Christian men, read your Bible more closely. Better yet, study your apologetics more closely. It was only a select group of gossiping women in Corinth who were told to keep their trap shut. Paul didn't mean the entire gender. If he did then the letter he wrote to Timothy explaining what the value and character of a deaconis (Greek for priestess) would not exist. After all, if a woman is not allowed to speak in a church, she can't very well lead a mass. And for all of you men who want a Proverbs 31 woman to keep your house, read exactly what proverbs 31 says. It commands a woman to work in and out of the home, to run a business, to educate the children.... TO LEAD while all you guys have to do is sit on your haunches while your girth spreads.

The Bible entreats us all to treat each other with respect. Husbands are to value their wives in the same way we read how women are to worship their husbands in a Christian ceremony. It's just that we almost never hear that part. Read all of the Love Chapter.... the whole thing.

The problem with every argument for male supremacy and against feminine equality is the tendency for males to abuse the power that they claim and the false belief that a wife is property. A demure lady makes a good punching bag. A woman with the spitfire to fight back makes a guy think twice about hitting her. a demure lady is easily cowed into thinking that she is deficient in every way that counts and is easily emotionally abused. Emotional abuse leaves no scares on her, but in many cases puts a bullet in him. She is the one who gets into legal trouble. But no one does anything about the man in those situations until he is a corpse. A demure lady may be enticed into giving up her assets because the world is a big scary place. That kind of financial abuse leaves no physical marks until ruin throws them out onto the streets (worst case scenario of course). Financial abuse lets a man have as much freedom as can be debauched when he lacks solid moral character while a woman is left defenseless at home. You might think that I speak of Victorian era issues. But it still happens today. The newest gadgets come into the home to entertain the man while the basics leave a woman without a phone for emergencies, trash piling up in the house because the garbage service was cut off or with no utilities until he decides he is cold enough to pay the heat. I lived it. Don't tell me it doesn't still happen.

Beyond that, men who act like asshats make it 1000 times more difficult for those who don't. I have a wonderful new boyfriend who wants to hold open doors, who wants to open the car door for me. I'd love to wear dresses more often. And when we get to live together perhaps I will. He is the kind of guy who likes to get things done and will help do them. So I won't be in jeans doing all the work all the time. But I grew up with two gentlemen who were mocked for being gentlemen. They were mocked by asshats. And I see where men of a lesser constitution would cease to be gentlemen under that kind of bullying. I've lived with and dated men who could not be bothered to be helpful, men who liked to get in the way and demean other people's accomplishments. The effect on my life is that I hardly am able to imagine my boyfriend is for real. The effect on society is that there are fewer men like my boyfriend.

And that is your biggest problem. It isn't girls who wear what they like, it isn't the girls who throw themselves at men from the TV screen or in person. The biggest problem that men have are the asshats who dominate everyone else. Men who run the music industry tell men what they want; tell women what men want and collect the money from all those dumb enough to believe that the scantily clad, boozy, stupid hot messes are what they are supposed to want. Men who tell other men that being a gentlemen makes them a sap are the problem. Men who tell women that they can do whatever demeaning things they want to do and then use fists, cash, status to back up that statement are the problem. The men who mock the British Gents slowly taking over the hearts and minds of American women are the problem.

Men who mock kindness, generosity, peace are the problem.
Men who mock the quiet, strong silent types are the problem.
Men who solve problems with theirs fists, a gun or any other weapon are the problem.
Men who mock hard work, dedication and devotion as weakness or stupidity are the problem.
Men who can not stand up for what they know is right are the problem.

In a world where these men are in control it is little wonder that the tools most used to survive by women and weak spirited men are capitulation and submission. The will to survive will always trump logic and reason until we are all a little more enlightened.

For myself, I have no doubts that I have a boyfriend of strong character who will value me as he was meant to, who will care about me as a person and not as a possession. It is still a strange enough experience for me to find it a miracle. I have a boyfriend of estimable merit whose behavior as a gentleman is not dependent upon my behavior as a lady. That said, the more he treats me like a human being, a precious part of his life an himself, the less defensive I am and the more willing I am to go beyond myself for him.

That is the way it should be.

What I Did on My Christmas Vacation

I didn't really go on vacation. I had four scheduled days off because the tourism industry gets funny like that in the dead of Winter. With the weather being the way it has been, all polar vortex-y and junk, I was stuck away from home for those 4 days.

Stuck carries the connotation of inconvenience, annoyance, and being somewhere you do not want to be. Nothing, however, could have been further from the truth. While it is true that I had not planned to be away from home for more than one of those 4 days, I was in the perfect place for me. When I accepted the invitation to Christmas Eve dinner I had to cancel other plans. The warning was put out that this cancellation was a possibility because the place that I was going was somewhere that I had been asking to be for a very long time. And the person who issued the invitation was a complete and utter surprise to me and the fulfillment of another one of those "Ask and Ye Shall Receive" things I've been doing with the Universe.

Christmas Eve began with the traditional knots and nerves that usually came with all the Christmases Past. We've discussed how in the last three years the day after festivities' major barf-o-rama never materialized because I made the changes to make sure I had stress free holidays. So the pre-event symptoms were a shock. Though, I have to admit, not completely unexpected. After all, I was going to meet a guy that I had only recently met. We hit it off in a grand fashion. So I should not have been worried. Not at all. But I was. And the second that he met me at the door all the nerves disappeared.

I do not even remember when the last time was that I could feel so at ease with someone so quickly. As he is a Scorpio, I have vowed there will be no details of him until he is ready to grant sharing permission. I will only share the experiences.

He lives off the water in my dad's home town. So on an emotional level several things happened all at once. For one, that meant I had to make longer drives than I have been comfortable with since the hamstring incident. Honestly, I don't know why that has been the damper on my activities. I couldn't sit in the seat because  I tore myself a new ass along with the hammie; it's not like I was in a car accident and developed a logical phobia. But I've had a phobia anyway. This from a woman who drove over 1500 miles a week for work. For two, I haven't been in dad's home town since he died. And for three, I haven't gone to sleep with the Bay in my vision, or found myself waking to the light on the waves since grampa died in 1986.

Water is a significant thing to me. I grew up with these waters permeating every aspect of life in my own home town. Dad was from up the Bay on one side and Grampa lived on the other while I grew up in the middle in a city at the delta of a sliver of a greater lake. We spent Christmas Eve at Grampa's house. The harrowing ride out the winding road along Old Mission peninsula, the darkened night lit by Christmas lights, a feast, egg nog and the debilitating & terrifying trip, backwards, down the drive way, aimed at the dark waters of the Bay. If the brakes failed we were in the water. Dark. Cold. Anything-could-be-lurking-in-those-inky-depths water. Then Christmas day we were home. And a day or so after that we were back at Gramma and Grampa's for an overnight.

The water is mesmerizing. I could stare at it for hours, watching wave forms & patterns. I scanned the currents in hopes that we had our own Champ or Nessie until I was about 12 and discovered science fiction. Then I started scanning the skies. Beyond being reminiscent of my childhood Christmases on the Bay, the deep connection to my Grandparents was rekindled. Not the whole German thing that I've been doing on other blogs (as well as here). The personal connection.

The Bay, with its steely grey blue color in Winter was calming. Things were slower at my grandparents house because that is just the way life is with the 70-somethings. But, as the back drop for a gorgeously trimmed tree which required concentration to see through the pine boughs, the bay was one of those things that encouraged a person to stop. To stare. Or to let go. Some how in most of those moments of reflection, one of my grand parents found me. A quite question asked opened a door for expression. As long as I was looking at the bay the turmoil inside of me stilled enough to be communicative and methodic in my answers instead of the hot chaotic mess that I was at home. I reflect my surroundings and the persons in them. And that was always the best atmosphere to reach the heart of me.

Besides their willingness to understand their frequently distraught grand daughter, the opportunities the Bay gave them to catch me when I was calm was their best advantage to helping me. The willingness is the key though. Most everyone gives up because the strength of the feelings that I feel and how deep everything goes is a daunting mountain to climb; or spelunk if I happen to be stuck in a cavernous maze of exquisite dwarven confusion in the heart of said mountain.

Any body of water will do that for me. But it is the Bay that connects me to my grand parents. And now in a way to a new friend with the potential to be someone more than I expected. During my four days I found myself drifting off into that calm state of peace that I haven't felt since my days in Marquette with another body of beautiful water. There were many opportunities for reflection. And I felt my grandparents more keenly than I have in many years. My gramma is never far from me. Grampa, grampa is another matter altogether. He's been a busy lad on the other side. Gone for nearly 27 years, this Christmas Eve was the first time that I have felt him near enough to me in spirit that I could have sworn that he was standing with me looking out the window.

Two week prior to Christmas I had a dream in which Gramma, mom and dad and a set of cousins were present. I normally dream Gramma and parent dreams. And normally dream the setting we were in. In a decade this is the first time that I was able to approach their house to find people in it. It's been empty and abandoned every time I have been there. I have care taken it in those dreams and lamented the lack of persons in the home, worried about them. In one dream a few years ago there was a message on the answering machine (that they did not have in their life time) from Gramma stating that they would be gone a little longer but that they would be back; that I should not worry. I closed up the house and went on again. That is how they usually go anyway.

But in this dream when my new friend and I went around back where the lawn chairs often were, Grampa was tramping across the yard toward the house and met us on the way. His voice boomed a grand "Hallloooo" and I got the sweeping swinging hug that I always missed out on because I wasn't as giddy? as some of the other grand kids. And there, sitting under the birch were mom and dad (who also are never in this dream scape) and a set of cousins who are alive. That was perplexing. I've never been so relieved to see my Grampa in all my life! I woke up from that dream, crying happy tears.

To find myself on the Bay two weeks after that dream with the kind of peace that comes of being still.... my Christmas was perfect.