Three words we should strike from our vocabulary

I remember the first time I received positive affirmation about my writing. It was in 1991. I'd entered an annual poetry contest for a private, liberal arts college in Erie, Pennsylvania. I had written creatively, both poetry and prose, since I was 13. But I was a senior in high school. Writing was a "hobby." How good could I be? I sent off my entry - just one poem - and didn't think about it again until I'd gotten the news. I'd received an award for a poem I'd scribbled off haphazardly. I was shocked.

It's been 25 years since that award that made me realize that writing could be more than "just a hobby." Working in any kind of art, frequent criticism and rejection are a way of life. For several years, I kept rejection letters for story and poem submissions in a folder like they were some rite of passage. But lately I've been thinking a lot about rejection and three words that have extended their reach into almost every facet of my life: "not good enough."

In the 25 years since that contest, I've finished two degrees, have published many articles, and have over a decade of teaching experience. But no matter what milestones I accomplish, there is still a voice that says to me, who do you think you are? You're not good enough to enter that writing contest? You're just an imposter, and those others will see right through your bullshit. Give up, go back to waitressing.

Anne Lamott said "We're all afraid of the same stuff. Mostly we're afraid that we're secretly not okay, that we're disgusting, or frauds, or about to be diagnosed with cancer." And more ... “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor ... It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.” 

My own fears of inadequacy - and that inner voice that says I'm "not good enough" - span to include almost every facet of my life. I've told myself I am not good enough, whether it is as a writer, a photographer, an employee, a lover, a wife, a mother, a woman, or teacher.

So how do we obliterate these three awful words, "Not good enough?" 

• Show up. No matter what those inner critics in your head say, show up. Keep writing/shooting photos/knitting/racing half marathons or whatever it is that you love. Because when we do what we love, our passion shines through. We gain confidence with practice. Malcolm Gladwell said in Outliers that the way to achieving expertise in any skill is to practice it for 10,000 hours. You can't practice if you don't show up. 

• Be vulnerable. Be real. Getting real about our inner critic and fears of inadequacy is difficult, but there's no better way to squash the inner critic demon than to say its name. Part of that inner critic is shame. But when you confront that shame - and better yet, share it with another person - its effect on us lessens. Brene Brown said in Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent and Lead: “If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can't survive.” 

• Own it. The hard part of being real is owning our imperfections. We are taught from a young age to be the best, make the grade, don't make mistakes and above all make sure you compare your successes to others. With age and experience, I've learned to admit my mistakes and imperfections because it lessens their grasp on me. Sometimes owning our emotions can be really difficult. Owning it to others even more so. But acknowledgement of imperfections is the first step toward growth. 

• Celebrate what's unique about you. Walt Disney was originally fired from his job at the Kansas City Star because he "lacked imagination." James Joyce, Irish-born writer and poet, flew in the face of conventional writing styles when he published A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in 1916 in a modernist, stream-of-consciousness style of writing. Find those anomalies about yourself and celebrate them. They are what make your consciousness and perceptions of the world uniquely yours. 

If you have additional thoughts or ideas about ways we grapple with inadequacy, you can share them in the comments section or write to me at shannonsbucketsgotaholeinit@gmail.com 

Cheryl Strayed said of grief "You let time pass. That's the cure. You survive the days. You float like a rabid ghost through the weeks. You cry and wallow and lament and scratch your way back up through the months. And then, one day you find yourself alone on a bench in the sun, and you close your eyes and lean your head back and you realize you're okay."

There was a time I was so shattered, I could not see returning to the things I had formerly loved and defined my life by. Time stopped, for awhile. And then suddenly finally, I've found myself on a bench in the sun. That bench came in the form of a four wheeler in the Upper Peninsula.

It's been awhile since I've written here regularly. Slowly I have been celebrating returning to myself, and coming back to the things that I love after such a difficult and trying time make them all the more savory and beautiful. Fall brought a peaceful reassurance that the things that define me will always be there, and are what I will always return to: dogs, a warm fire in the wood stove, the smell of autumn leaves in the woods, the feel of my favorite winter hat, teaching and talking about writing and writers. This fall I have returned to myself completely, stronger than I ever was before because now I know the pain of a loss that brought me to my knees and lived to walk again smiling.

After a glorious weekend in the Upper Peninsula - the land I love - here are some of my favorite photos:

Lake Superior on a beautiful fall day. I have also seen this same beach when she's not in such a great mood and it's treacherous. Deer Park, MI

My favorite type of tree along a trail that leads to a cabin I once lived in. Deer Park, MI

A dog that belongs to my good friends Joann and Larry Fortier. Deer Park, MI 

Elise and her five month old pup, Mallory, looking over Lake Superior. Deer Park, MI

Wanderlust

Sitting in one place for very long drives me nuts.

I recently read in The Sports Gene: Inside the Science of Extraordinary Athletic Performance, of a study involving rodents at the University of Wisconsin. Mice who were bred for running were restricted from running, and then had their brain activity measured.

"The researchers presumed that when the mice were deprived of running,"says author David Epstein, "their brain activity would decline. Instead, it went into overdrive, as if the mice needed exercise to feel normal" (p. 237).

In college, sitting in class, I felt an irresistible urge to walk, to move. Later, my long-term college boyfriend caught me running in my sleep like a dog whose paws move with the instinctual call to propel forward.

Along with my urge to move, traveling comes naturally to me. I travel well... as long as I get ample time moving. It's never the traveling part I dread; it's the stationary part: time spent sitting in vehicles, busses, planes...

I remember taking a cross-country trip from San Francisco through the Cascade Range across Oregon and into Seattle. I had been running avidly in the months before, and it hit me hardest in South Dakota. Watching the wild sunflowers go by in a blur along Interstate 90, my legs itched to move, to be outside, free of the confines of the hippied-out Ford Aerostar my boyfriend and I practically lived in that summer. Once, I made him stop along the highway just to run around in a field of sunflowers for awhile.

Traveling, I feel my mind open up. Sitting still, words seem to settle and stagnate like sand in the bottom of a pond. I blossom in movement.

Excerpt

Here's what I know: you can do a lot of things that at first you think are unbearable and don't think you can do. 

The men from the funeral home came, finally, after my family grieved around my dad’s small body in the hospital bed in the spare bedroom. They put a thin gurney in the narrow hallway. It didn’t look wide enough to hold an average-sized person, but it was perfect for my dad. They began removing the blankets that covered his lifeless body, and I asked routinely “do you need help with anything?” not expecting an answer. Surprisingly, one of the men said, “Yes, in fact,” and asked me to stand at the head of the gurney to steady it for placing my father’s body on it. I did what I was asked. I am the daughter of a Marine, after all. 

I stood holding onto the cold metal rail at the head of the gurney, bracing myself for him to appear. The hallway and time seemed to stretch, becoming longer, narrower, and my head started to spin. I began sobbing in anticipation of seeing him carried out of his house this final time, questioning to myself whether I had the strength for this duty. And then he appeared. Wrapped in a white sheet, naked except for an adult diaper, the big man I’d known as my father appeared a gaunt, tiny frail person in the funeral man’s arms. He carried him like a baby, cradling his head against his arm and chest and walked slowly, carefully toward me. As he lay my father down before me on the stretcher, I looked down at my father’s face from above and great swells of sobs took hold of me uncontrollably. The funeral man placed a navy blue velour blanket over my dad, pulling it taut up to his chin over the white sheet. I could see his thin legs under the blanket in repose and the knob of knuckles underneath where his hands were folded neatly over his rib cage. He looked peaceful finally as I looked down at him there. His mouth finally closed. 

I pulled the stretcher out of the hallway with the two funeral men, our informal private calling hours now taking place in my parent's living room, and my mom began to wail. “I can’t let him go!” she repeated, and leaned down and kissed my dad’s sunken eyes and cold cheeks and forehead. I wrapped my arms around her sobbing body. She shook with grief. I wanted so much to protect her from this pain. But I couldn’t. Grief is a process, and it comes in waves, and the waves crashed hard within my parent’s living room that morning.

Seven steps to healing a broken heart

 One of my favorite authors, Cheryl Strayed, said in Tiny, Beautiful Things

     "Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can't cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It's just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.”

Recently, I have emerged from a very painful break up from a marriage that shouldn't have been so difficult to leave. My husband never loved me, and the heartbreak happened years ago when I first realized this. Because he never loved me, leaving should have been easy, but it wasn't, and I waited 14 long years before I was able to break free for good.

This experience has me thinking a lot lately about grief, the process of healing and Elizabeth Kubler-Ross's stages in the acceptance of death. Divorce is, after all, what the French call le petite mal -- the small death. Here are some things that have helped me on this journey.

1. Strengthen your heart - with activity. My first real heartbreak happened in college. At the time, I was running 5-6 miles a day and heavy on gym time. With that breakup, I hit the gym harder with this mantra in my head: I was strengthening my heart (emotionally) by strengthening my heart (physically) with activity. I added visualization to it and pictured my heart actually building muscle, getting stronger along with my emotional heart. And it worked.

This time, I am running over seven miles at a time and chanting the same mantra in my head. There might be a tendency toward inactivity with the depression that comes with heartache, but do your best to not fall into the slump. Physical activity boosts endorphins - the natural chemicals in our brains that combat depression and increase our sense of well being and happiness.

2. Don't go it alone. Find support - through a trusted friend or family member, support group, a counselor, or your church or religious organization. When we try to stoically push through pain in solitude, we often don't realize that isolation can only increase our depression. Seek out the support of others.

3. Detach. Buddha said attachment leads to suffering. For me, this was difficult because my husband was such a part of my life for most of my adulthood. I began detaching from him by detaching from his friends, places and activities we would do together. I blocked him on social media. I disconnected any thing I could that tied me to him, with the exception of our daughter.

4. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here: rid yourself of all of the reminders, mementos, trinkets, or otherwise emotionally-charged paraphernalia that remind you in any way of your ex or your relationship. My soon-to-be ex husband and I have a beautiful daughter together, so I have kept my wedding dress, rings, photos and anything that she might want when she is an adult. As for the cards, memories and other items of love, I've gotten rid of everything he ever gave to me. Use this time to clean and redecorate your space. There is no need to look back, only forward onto better things.

5. The only way to get through is through - not around. My relationship with my husband ended years before I finally ripped off the band-aid and filed for a full-on divorce. I put off filing because of fear of his reaction and I was overwhelmed when I tried to decide where to start the arduous task of unraveling our lives together. So I attempted to go around the pain and upheaval by dragging things out over years in an attempt to negotiate "graceful ways" of ending things. What I ended up doing was dancing around the truth and avoiding the turmoil of an abrupt and harsh end that had to happen and keeping my children in a dysfunctional environment where they could not thrive in the process.

Sometimes the only way get something done is to just do it. Like the Cheryl Strayed quote above, sometimes I know I have a tendency to want to ruminate over all the past mistakes and wallow in suffering. This is not productive. Likewise, once I finally ripped the band-aid off, I wanted to escape feeling the gush of blood and pain of that freshly opened wound. I wanted to run from the discomfort, and it's probably second nature for anyone to want to avoid feeling grief, pain, and heartache. But what I've found is, it's best to feel the pain and sit with it. It can teach us a lot of what we need to learn: about ourselves, the world around us, and the paths that lead us to making the same mistakes. Write about your feelings. Talk about them with a trusted friend. Purge the difficult emotions, but don't try avoiding them.

6. Forgive yourself. Going through a break up is one of the most emotionally trying things a person can go through. We all have break up stories and have likely done things we aren't proud of while going through the grief process. Don't add to your stress by "shoulding" on yourself and saying "I should have done this better" or "I shouldn't have done that, then maybe it would have worked out." Chances are, if you're like me, you look back over your relationship and realize there were red flags waving right in front of your face all along, you just chose to ignore them. Let it go.

7. Take care of yourself. Trust me: this has been the hardest thing for me to do. I've found it difficult to sleep, eat, or concentrate during this tumultuous time. Sometimes, we just have to force ourselves to do these things. Eat. Shower. Sleep, even if it means taking occasional supplements. Melatonin is a gentle holistic method for gaining zzz's found in most drug stores. Take a multi-vitamin. B vitamins can help combat depression and help strengthen our immunity which might be worn down from stress. Don't drink alcohol to excess. While it might sound appealing to want to let loose, alcohol is a depressant and can only wear down the immune system and ultimately make a depressed person feel worse. It also can lead to lowering our inhibitions that can allow emotions to get out of control.

The old adage is that time heals all wounds. Amazingly, the bitterness of even the worst of break ups eventually gives way to forgiveness.

The room

"These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them." ~ Rumi 

In psychology, rooms of a home can be representative of a person's psyche. Psychologist Carl Jung had a famous dream about a house. He and Freud dissected the meaning of this dream house to reveal hidden meanings about Jung's unconscious mind. Each room of the house represented a different part of Jung's mind. You can read more about the dream house here.

Two months ago, I began the process of dismantling and redecorating the biggest room in my house: the living room. The room and subsequent dismantling and redecorating of it became quite symbolic. My estranged husband had called the living room his bedroom for over three years. Indeed, the rest of us -- my daughter and myself -- didn't go in there; only the dogs frequented the large, dark, drafty room. The walls were a dingy, dark beige the color of dirty sand, and the carpet was of the same hue. He rarely moved from the sofa, which was also of the same color palate, except to go to work, eat and occasionally shower.

Over the course of three years, nothing was moved or touched; in stagnation, dust collected on all stationary objects, covering books, shelves, and even the baseboards in over an inch of filth and debris. The dogs, often left to their own devices when he would fall asleep on the sofa, had done their business on the carpet countless times, so the acrid aroma of dog piss hung thick in the air. I never knew how he could stand to be in the room for five minutes much less live there. Elaborate, intricate systems of cobwebs of all variety and design hung in corners and from light fixtures.

When I began tackling the room, I ripped up the stinky carpet first; it was stained clean through the padding to the wooden planks below, and made my fingers visibly wet with dog urine to touch it. I hated the dark tan walls, so I decided to paint a bright color and let our 11-year-old daughter choose it: a bright goldenrod. She said it was a happy color, and I agreed. We began the arduous task of removing everything from the room: shelves, curtains, books, other furniture for cleaning.

He reluctantly went along with the deconstruction, but was clearly disturbed and anxious by the changes. But as disturbed as he was by this changing environment and my taking back my living room, I was more disturbed by the state of the room, appalled and startled at the shape of things. I had no idea he had neglected it to the point that he had. He struggled with depression, but anyone would be depressed living in such a place. Like a hyperbolic chicken-and-egg scenario, I wondered which came first: his depression? or was he depressed because of the state of the room?

The room had become a metaphor, a representation of his disconnect not only from me and our family, but from much more. As I cleaned an inch of dirt and dust from the shelves and books, I saw clearly what depression looks like. It doesn't just look like someone who gives up on themselves; it looks like someone who gives up on everything. I could see the places where I had come unglued on the walls like tea leaves: splatters of coffee stains told the story of anger and frustration with his apathy; dents in walls from the impact of fists revealed past unrest. My own grief overwhelmed me.

Anger can be a huge motivator if directed properly, which ours never was. And each of us had things to be angry about, and each held onto that anger like a precious stone, unwilling or unable to let go.

During the week the redecoration of the room started, tension reached new levels between us (partially spawned by my discovery of many lies and pressuring him for answers, and partially from his lack of empathy for the hurt he had caused), he abruptly moved out. Tension had built to a breaking point over that week the details of which I will save for another story. Our relationship had spanned 14 years of roller-coaster-like ups and downs, break ups and abuse, infidelity and pain, and neither of us had clean hands. Like the room, we'd uncovered dirt and cobwebs and, like the room, we reached a culmination, an ugly crescendo that shattered like a million points of glass.

After the initial trauma of the abrupt vacancy, I set out to finish the room, mostly as a final exorcism of the hate that had lived there. I bought a new sofa and recliner and burned the one he'd used as a bed for three years. I purchased a flat screen TV even though I rarely watch it. I picked up a few accent tables at thrift or discount stores. I burned sage and tried everything I could think of to rid the negative pallor from the room. But no matter what I did, I was haunted by his hate. It followed me in my sleep causing nightmares. It would not allow me to sleep more than four hours at a time. I bought several large plants and brought home some small sections of birch trees from my favorite places in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I began meditating in the room. And then I discovered something.

I was not myself. I am still not myself. I lost myself in a vortex of a loveless, abusive marriage and an abrupt severing of someone who had been in my life for a very long time. Discovering someone I knew for 14 years was living a double life and lying about everything - even things that would be easier to tell the truth about - has fragmented me. And I don't know how to begin the process of getting myself back. And I've realized that, like the room dismantle, I have been dismantled, and so now I have to find a way to clear the cobwebs, paint the walls and find a new healthy space. In the process of creating that new healthy space, I have gone through a metamorphosis, and the changes have not always been attractive or things I am proud of.

But here's what I know: the way to repair what's been destroyed is to start at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop.

I am starting from ground zero. I am creating a clean, safe space in my home and my mind.

I am spending time sitting with myself. 

Sit in silence with yourself, and you will hear all of the things your spirit needs. 

I am returning to the places I have grown up. I am no longer afraid to show up. 

#Akron

I am returning to the things that ground me. That have always grounded me. Like this...

The runs just get longer

I will return to myself through finding my voice and speaking my truth.

Lake Superior shores

Along the shores of that giant lake I found a rock shaped like a heart. I picked it up and held it close to my own heart, thinking about you. All of the hurt. All of the anger. I placed within that rock-heart all of my anger and hurt and replaced in my own heart good intentions and love. I wanted to throw the rock-heart back into Lake Superior, let that clean Big Lake wash all of those bad feelings and ill will clean but for a second, I couldn't resist wanting to hold onto all of it: the love and the hate.

Then, instead of throwing the rock-heart into the clear cold water, I simply gently let it go. It shimmered under the cold waves. I let go. 

Rolling silver

Today on my lunch break, I walked to a little made-to-order pizza place two blocks from my office. While waiting for my small pesto-broccoli-red pepper-mushroom-and-spinach pie to come from the fiery inferno, I grabbed some plastic silverware and tossed the fork and knife diagonally across a napkin, rolling the napkin around the utensils. Then I smiled, catching what I'd done, what anyone who's ever worked in the food service industry will recognize. I just rolled silver.

It seems like a lifetime ago since I returned to waiting tables for the first time since I was 26 when I lost my job in 2011. Then, rolling silver became a rote activity - something I could practically do in my sleep. Rolling silver was both a blessing and a curse. Like all side work, it was admittedly a pain in the ass and a mandatory requirement for all servers, a necessary evil. But it also signaled the end of a shift and sometimes brought with it the welcomed relief of sitting down.

Ah, sitting down. Such a luxury to those in the service industry. How we take this simple thing for granted. I often grumble now in my job as a writer that sitting all day at a computer and desk will be the death of me.

When I inadvertently 'rolled silver' today, I remembered to be grateful for how far I've come since those days waiting tables, and not to take what I have for granted. I've worked hard to get where I am, and I'm still not satisfied. But I am thankful for the year I went back to waiting tables, because it taught me humility and just how strong I can be. It taught me to be thankful for everything and not take anything for granted.

Namaste

Everyone poops, but please don't do it at work

I recently had a most unpleasant experience. It's an experience we have all undoubtedly had, but one few will talk about.

I was writing like a fiend at work, churning out words and drinking coffee; drinking coffee and churning out words, when suddenly, I had to pee. Badly. I could be so productive if it weren't for my bladder. Finally, I could deny it no longer: I had to stop the creative flow of my brain and pay attention to the flow of my bladder. I reached a good end point in a paragraph, hopped up from my desk and headed for the head.

As soon as I opened the door to the restroom, however, a stench hit my nose like a foghorn. My eyes fell on the closed door of the stall closest to me in the two-stall bathroom. A pair of shoes sat within the stall guiltily, no doubt belonging to the owner who produced the stench. For a second, I considered trekking up to the north end of the building to the other restroom, but then quickly scratched that thought. I was under tight deadlines this week. I had to be brave.

I choked back a gag and entered the stall next to the stench. I winced, hoping for the quick release of my bladder. It couldn't come fast enough - both the relief of peeing and the thought of escaping the smell.

Just then, on the tail end of my stream, the owner of the stench flushed and left the stall.

"No!" I thought to myself. "If they leave and someone else comes in, the new person will think I  created such a stench!"

I peeked through the stalls to find the source of the stench. I was shocked to see a tiny older woman dressed conservatively in a pair of khakis and brown sweater gingerly washing her hands and arranging her hair in the mirror. Invariably, it seems like those skinny bitches at work are the ones who make the most stank.

Panicked, I quickly wiped and exited the stall, washing my hands while holding my breath and making my way to the door.

Here's the deal. We all know everyone poops, but save your coworkers the agony of this situation and don't do it at work.

No one wants to experience your own personal aroma during their work day.

"But what if you really gotta go?" you're undoubtedly asking.

That's what lunch breaks are for. You smoke cigarettes during your break, and would never think of making your coworkers breathe the toxic gasses released from your Marlboro. Why would you think it's okay to make them breathe the toxic gasses released from your ass?

Poop etiquette demands to be learned!

Social media is a virus: step away

Lately, I keep thinking of Laurie Anderson, more specifically, a particular line in one of her songs.

I had grown up, an angst-filled teen of the 90's, listening to Anderson's classics "Language is a Virus" and "O Superman." You wouldn't recognize her, I'm sure (you're likely too young to know who I'm talking about, hipster). A performance artist, composer and violinist who was married to the now late, Lou Reed, Anderson hung in the camp of Brian Eno, David Bowie, Devo, Kate Bush and other eclectic, ambient musicians. Often a commentary on the overabundance of industrialized growth and the irony of "success" and society, her music had a message that fed my 20-something brain; her songs often dissects societal norms while interjecting small tokens of sarcastic humor.

In a gripping performance in 2005, she brought tears to my eyes during the encore when she performed the 1995 classic "Same Time Tomorrow." If you care to listen/watch it, click here.

I often think of the lyrics to that song now, 10 years later. It is amusing when she refers to a VCR in the beginning of the song - clearly dated. But in an eerie, thought-provoking recording, the trill of a morning dove is played repeatedly along with the beep, beep, beep of what is ostensibly a VCR or an alarm clock. And the lyrics poignantly ask tough questions, most notably,

What I really want to know is 
are things getting better or are they getting worse?

Lately, I think of these lines in reference to many things. But, more often than not, I think of them in reference to social media.

There are many who have waxed poetic about the disadvantages of social media, ironically on social media. The idea of social media is fantastic. We can "connect" to friends, family and like-minded people from across the globe. Social media has been a fantastic tool, helping so many people and organizations raise money, spread the word about important causes and news, and connecting those whose relations are far away.

But there is a darker, insidious side of social media, and it's one I have been thinking a lot about lately.

Social media allows us to only present to others the personae we want to present to the world. And, many times, that personae isn't entirely based in reality. This has happened recently with someone I know who has been outed as having fashioned an almost entirely fictitious reality in order to swindle people. Not cool.

On the flip side, social media also gives fodder to our every passing whim and thought. We all have that one friend who spouts off on Facebook about highly personal details of their life, details that probably should be kept private. And social media is often used for darker purposes: stealing identities, trolling for sex or, even worse, trolling for sex from teens, and virtual bullying. And how many stories have we seen in the media lately where lovers post photos of their murdered spouses on Facebook, or teens post angry threats of violence on their Twitter sites before committing such atrocities.

Last night, as I was flipping through my Facebook newsfeed, an ugly side of me started coming to out. Like Sigourney Weaver in the 1986 James Cameron classic Aliens, a repulsive monster started to rear its hideous head, a cynical, flippant nastiness that snorted at what it perceived as naivete and pretense.

"Oh aren't you loving life," it quipped sarcastically.

"Freaking narcissist," it scoffed. It jeered at the annoying, inspirational memes.

It rolled its eyes with contempt at your political leanings, thoughts on abortion, God, the death penalty, the weather...

Ugh. Normally, I am hopelessly optimistic and positive-minded. But not last night.
I had to put it down, step away. And lately, I have had to put it down more often than not.

If I'm being honest, life was better before I knew the intimate every thought of the people in my life, or every political/religious belief they had, or every self-righteous proclamation.

What I really want to know is 
are things getting better or are they getting worse?

Winter love affair

I am in love with winter.

Sure, the other seasons are nice. Summer is easy, with its barefoot strolls and cricket calls. Fall bombards the senses with colors and smells of burning leaves and wood stoves fired up after six months of dormancy. It's easy to love other seasons.

Winter is for quiet. Winter is for those who love solitude. Give me a cold day, the kind that keeps others indoors. It is then you'll find me among the icy shores.

Miles walking on the docks, frozen lake in the background

The best moments of my life have been outside. Nature has been where I have sought solace for as long as I can remember. But, right now, my body is in revolt. It is June, and nature's procreating like a dog in heat. Hot and horny, she is throwing her pollen into the air like so much snow, plant life fornicating wildly. I am reminded of one thing I can't stand about summer: allergies.

Some seek closeness with their Creator in a chapel. I feel closest to Him in a green cathedral

But my body is launching a full-fledged attack on the outside world. Or, rather, it is pulling out all the stops to build up a fortress against the outside world. A fortress of snot. Itchy, weepy eyes scream "keep out!" My sinuses, with their constant sneezing, shout "stay back!" We will have no plant fornication here!

Despite doses of extra strength 24 hour allergy medicine, I still sneeze. Yesterday, my 10-year-old daughter asked what happened to my eye; it was so irritated and stuffy and puffy, it looked as if I'd been socked.

It is probably not wise, then, that someone with these types of allergies live in the hay field that is the Ranch. It is so beautiful here. How can my body reject such beauty?

One of the apple trees silhouetted against a fantastic sunset at the Ranch

Others are happy for summer, I'm counting the days until fall!

Has Social Media Gone Too Far?

I suppose I am an idealist.

I moved to the country because I wanted my children to embrace a slower, simpler and ostensibly safer way of life. Cows are our nearest neighbors. Country music is played on school buses. People wake early and go to bed the same. Out here, I wanted to believe in some idealistic tenets of Americana.

While my role as a professor of writing and literature is to teach, my students at the college never cease to alert me to various (ahem) other things as well. Today during class, a vibrant discussion about racial profiling and how the events of September 11, 2001 have changed our view of society and people in this country led them to enlightening me about a video on social media where a man believed to be from a Mexican village beheads his wife for cheating. Facebook won't remove the video, stating that people are "sharing the video to condemn it" and a spokesperson for Facebook said "Facebook has long been a place where people turn to share their experiences, particularly when they're connected to controversial events..." A BBC article offers an excellent discussion here.

The video shows a woman in a hot pink tank top and jeans on her knees outside in the dirt, hands bound behind her back, with a man - assumed to be her husband - holding her head up by her hair. Another person presumably is filming, and there are others around. She does not struggle or fight; she seems to accept her fate, only wincing at the first cuts of the knife. Within 15 seconds, she is gone. The last seconds of her life taken from her by her husband in such a gruesome way, recorded and put out on the Net for anyone with a connection to the interwebs to witness. A warning to other women, perhaps. A misogynistic hallmark that says boldly: cheat, and you will face a similar fate - a fate of humiliation, domination and control.

Social media has changed our culture (says the blogger), and not always for the better. Sure, it's made marketing to many different audiences easier, connects us to loved ones far away and is a source for information and entertainment. But at what expense?

I remember in high school, back in the days of VHS tapes, a buzz circulating about a movie called Faces of Death. We have a morbid curiosity for pain and hurt in others, and while I didn't see the movie, I know it depicted real and graphic scenes of death and dying.

In the early 1990s the Net - the "Information Superhighway" as it was called - was unheard of yet. There were computers, but not in every American household. I learned how to type on a typewriter.

Today, one can conjure up real and graphic scenes of not only death and dying, but torture, rape and mutilation in a 10 second Google search.

I am angered and disturbed about multiple elements of this particular video, which has spawned a debate (ironically, across social media and the Net) about how social media has or hasn't gone too far. Where do we draw the line? Has social media gone too far? Is freedom of speech worth exposure to such graphic forms of violence? Or, more importantly, worth potentially exposing our youth to?

And while these issues are certainly key, this video has me thinking a lot about other issues, like control. Like the insidious nature of domination and control. Like the control of men over women, or even people over other people; the control of a culture which is still so obviously rooted in archaic and barbaric means; and our own lack of self-control with regard to social media.

I am a mother to two daughters. I am a sister, and an aunt. And I shudder with rage and disgust to think that my girls could be exposed to such graphic images. Some things should be left to crime scene investigators, not exposed on social media.

Call me an idealist, but I want to insulate my daughters, sisters and nieces from a world in which such hatred for women exists.

And yet, they must learn sometime the realities, that life isn't always good.

I hope they learn that through me, with my guidance, not through their Facebook page.

What does it mean to be "American?"

I am beyond excited.

Ironically, during the second time in American history when our government has shut down, I have been offered a position at a local college teaching, among other things, American Literature.

My textbooks

In the eight years it took to finish my masters degree, I read my share of European literature: A whole year of Shakespeare. Semesters with Ulysses, Madame Bovary, The Canterbury Tales. But my favorites were, by far, writers from small American hometowns like my own. Annie Dillard. Jack Kerouac. Gretel Ehrlich. Tom Robbins. Walt Whitman. e. e. cummings. Toni Morrison. Ernest Hemingway. Mark Twain.

Which got me thinking: what does it mean to be "American?"

There is an underlying sense of curiosity in American writing, a desire to turn over rocks to see what's underneath. Annie Dillard said, "I walk out; I see something, some event that would otherwise have been utterly missed and lost; or something sees me, some enormous power brushes me with its clean wing, and I resound like a beaten bell." She continues, "'Never lose a holy curiosity,' Einstein said; and so I lift my microscope down from the shelf, spread a drop of duck pond on a glass slide, and try to look spring in the eye," (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek).

There is certainly a penchant for unbridled freedom, self-reliance and a spirit that cannot be caged. Walt Whitman embodies this American spirit for freedom, "From this house I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,/ Going where I list, my own master total and absolute..." (Song of the Open Road). 

Being an American means having a wacky sense of humor and a simple good-natured desire to do good, "If you tell the truth, you do not need a good memory!" said Mark Twain (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn).

It means, according to Jack Kerouac, living by the seat of our Levis: “...we all must admit that everything is fine and there's no need in the world to worry, and in fact we should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we're not REALLY worried about ANYTHING,” (On the Road). 

And pride in having dignity and principles, “Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree,” (On the Road). 

It's a certain rebellion: 

“To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.” e. e. cummings

It might not pay a lot, but oh how excited I am to share these authors with others and to return to a classroom. And if American literature is a testament, somehow I think we Americans will survive, despite our government. :)

Cracked

In the summer of 1996, when most people in their early 20's were partying or falling in love, I attended cadaver lab at the medical school nearby. Like "Henry," the nickname we gave the 58 year old man who had donated his body to science - and to us - the experience cracked me open.

Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?

Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.

I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.

One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."

Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed. 

I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.

After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.

The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.

During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.

This was a far cry from chicken marsala.

This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.

But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.

I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.

But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.

We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.

I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.

I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.

Reinventing oneself in an uncertain economy: gratitude and grace with aside of biscuits and gravy

I've just accepted a second waitressing job.

Evolution is a powerful thing. Just a few months ago, I wrote about my job as a server with a certain amount of shame. I made sure to tell at least one of my tables on any given night that I was just "in transition" - that I had a master's degree and years of professional experience.

As if that means anything.

Our silly little egos. We must soothe them. We tell ourselves what we need to in order to make ourselves feel better.

The truth is, who am I not to be grateful for what I am, or what I have been, or what I have been given?

I've been a lot of things that might surprise you. I was once a telemarketer for a very large portrait studio chain. It was my first job. I called people, usually interrupting their dinner, to try to persuade them to buy portrait packages. I was 14. From then, a long line of job titles evolved, and not all of the titles are impressive: dishwasher, camp counselor, horse trainer, camel handler, zoo keeper, camp cook, landscaper, marketing associate, dog sled handler/guide, cashier, waitress, tutor, substitute teacher, adjunct professor, health educator, research associate, communications specialist, addiction and tobacco treatment specialist, and now...freelance writer/photographer/waitress.

I have lamented my fate in the job market over the last year, becoming more and more despondent  with each rejection letter. I've taken them personally even though I know in my heart those letters were simple form letters and not personal in any way. I've spent sleepless nights asking myself what am I doing wrong? I've read books on cover letter and resume writing, blogs on job market and interviewing skills, felt jealousy and anger at others who have comfortable, predictable salaries and savings accounts. I've scoured job search engines all over the Midwest, crafted cover letters that were conventional and not-so-much-so. I've cried, prayed and wished upon stars.

And all the while, I didn't realize a transformation was taking place inside of me.

I started becoming better at what I do best: following my creative heart. I started reinventing myself. I started saying thank you. I started to enjoy being a waitress almost as much as being a writer or photographer. Once, the two jobs intersected. I was called to photograph beautiful food at my friend's restaurant, and, the next thing I knew, I was waiting tables and serving IPA beers behind her bar!

A "Farmhand Burger" at the Farm Girls Pub & Grub in Alliance, Ohio

Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar: “You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt with. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding and my dear one, you and I have been granted a mighty generous one.”

I have been waiting: for the right time, the right job, the right moment when things will miraculously open up for me.  I've been sacrificing now waiting to relive then. Suddenly my mind has shifted, like a "forest for the trees." All we have is now. And, right now, I am a waitress. I am a writer. I am a photographer. And not one of those things is shameful or less important than the others. The best thing we can do in this life is to play the cards we are dealt.

And, to again quote Cheryl Strayed, “The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherf*%king shit out of it.”

Indeed.

Quiet or, the twelve year goodbye

It happened again today. 

A friend wrote me an email to ask why I'd been so quiet lately. Another friend did the same thing about a month ago. 

I have been quiet lately. I don't like to put things out there that are draining or depressing, and that's what I feel lately. If I'm being honest, I am quiet because I am processing a lot of sad emotions.

But tonight, some thoughts surfaced. Maybe they are worth offering.

Twelve years is a long time.

Chris and I had our first "date" on June 29, 2001. Both musicians, we decided to go to see live music. We ended up stumbling onto the scene of an obnoxiously loud punk band that hurt our ears. I went to the bathroom for some tissue to stuff into my ears, and brought him some too.

Before long, we were on our fifth date. He came to play music with me at a homey little bar called the Luna Grille during a time when I was regularly playing drums. He made me laugh until my sides hurt. He was talented, seemed gentle and compassionate, and although he had a job as a reporter making just a couple bucks above minimum wage, I took a chance. We were married on September 12, 2003.

Like so many, the foundation of our marriage whittled away, buckling under the weight of parenting, responsibilities and financial stress. After I lost my job in 2008, I dove into writing again. Who knows what caused the beginning of the erosion, but during those quiet nights, as I tried to write, seven words floated up from some dark abyss despite my best efforts to muddy the waters and bury them deep. 

 
I don’t want to be married anymore. The words echoed in my mind, until the idea started to take hold. I don’t want to be married anymore. At first, I tried to block the words out. We hung on, trying to make it work for the kids, for the finances, for any number of reasons. We hung on until last summer. Then I could bear it no more. I initiated our separation, and in a short amount of time, Chris agreed. It was time to move on. We wanted different things. We had become different people. Our marriage was over.

But even though it was a mutual decision, and even though it's been, for the most part, amicable, there's still a certain amount of grief. There are still certain things that sting. When I said my vows, I meant them. I envisioned us as old fogies together and took refuge in the idea of "forever." I think often about how it is some people, like my parents, manage to weather changes and tough times and stay together. My parents just celebrated their 42nd anniversary.

Here's what I've come up with. And, if I could have a "do over," these are some things I would do differently.

Be Polite

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 - Love is patient, love is kind. One of the most quoted verses in weddings. But how many of us can actually say we are loving or kind to our partners on a daily basis? First, I have to say, I still believe in love. But enduring years intimately involved with another person takes more than love. It takes consideration and basic manners - the common courtesy you'd give your coworkers or a fellow passenger on the bus. If I could have a do over, I would try my best to always be polite. Say excuse me. Fill the toilet paper holder. Simple courtesy can go a long way.

Check your tongue

I won't lie: I'm all about peace, love and happiness until you cross me. Then, I brandish words like weapons. Chris and I have thrown some awful verbal barbs at each other in the last ten years. We're taught when growing up to apologize for our wrongs, as if two simple words "I'm sorry" can erase hurt. And while saying you're sorry is certainly a start, it doesn't undo the hurt caused by verbal sparring. If I could have a do over, I would zip it and not ever say crap I had to apologize for.

               Compassion is the guide star

This goes beyond being polite. When we need something (time, attention, help with a project, etc), it can be difficult to step outside of ourselves and remember that someone else may have had a crappy, long day at work, been chewed out by their boss, be tired or dealt with some other mishap or disappointment throughout the day. If I could have a do over, I would try to be more compassionate of my partner's needs and limitations, and realize when he had a bad day.

Take time to connect

It's easy to lose sight of this one. We get busy. We need time to unwind after a long day. We seal ourselves off from the world, and sometimes even our partners. Time slips away, and suddenly it's been years since we have done the things we used to do to connect. Shortly after the honeymoon, Chris and I stopped playing music together. We would make plans to spend time with friends, but never made spending time alone together a priority. Taking time to connect is vital. Otherwise, you're left with a disconnect that eventually cannot be repaired.

Humility

Have respect. Admit when you're wrong. Simple. We're human. We can get boastful or moody or otherwise act like jackasses. Having the humility to step outside of yourself and recognize when you are being a jackass takes skill. If I could have a do over, I'd recognize when I was being a jackass more readily and apologize sincerely.

Shut your mouth and open your ears (and heart)

In an argument, this is especially difficult. We get caught up in thinking of our point, what we're going to say next, that we don't shut up and listen to what our partner is saying. Even when we shut our mouths, our minds might still be preoccupied with our own concerns. Listening to another person's point of view/thoughts/feelings can go a long way. Telling that person you heard them can go even farther. If I could have a do over, I'd shut up. I'd invest in some Q-tips ®. And I would reflect back to my partner what I heard him saying, to let him know I was listening.

I am sure I will come up with more thoughts over the next few weeks. But if you are one of the people who has wondered why I am quiet lately, this is why. Healing, for me, takes patience, solitude, thoughtfulness and reflection. It's been a long process, but I think I'm finally rounding a corner. To those of you who have written with concerns, thank you. It means more than you know.

Namaste