Consider Claiming Halloween, Feminists

I was better than Beyonce.
What a fun sentence that is to write. But, it's true. Last year, I was hands down better than Beyonce and her Halloween costume. While she has more money, fame, and skin pigmentation (so jealous of that last one) than I do, her version of Frida Kahlo paled in comparison to mine. I can prove it.

Her Frida Kahlo:

Photo credit: US Magazine

My Frida Kahlo:

I look fierce and pale as my skin is, I otherwise nailed it. The surprising things about this was people's reactions. First, the majority of people did not know who I was (sad), and presenting myself to the world with atypical beauty (a lot of facial hair) made people uncomfortable: staring, staggering backwards, not looking at me when talking. It was quite the experience.  I wasn't fitting their mold. 

And it made me remember what Tina Fey said in Mean Girls and reminded me of Community Season 1 "Intro to Statistics" episode:

Annie: Oh Britta! You look adorable.

Britta: Thank you! I hate when women use Halloween as an excuse to dress up like sluts, you know?

Yes, I do know. Do you?

I've been thinking about it and the expectation that women will wear a sexualized costume on Halloween is wrong. To be sure, women can be all the things: smart, funny, cute, strong, sexy. 

But October 31 feels like a messed up Neil Armstrong quote:

That's one skimpy costume for women, One giant leap backward for womankind. 

As a woman I want to be taken seriously. I want to be able to work and be paid the same as my male counterparts. I want justice when people harass and abuse me/us. And yeah, I want to look sexy, but for me, I want to do that on my terms: my own time, in my own way, not on a specific date with a costume from a bag that frankly should involve more cloth. 

So, I submit to you an idea:

If you're a girl, reject the Halloween costume industry. Here are some reasons why:

1.) Education & Appreciation

I was a famous historical noteworthy woman who everyone should know. It was a little discouraging that people didn't know who Friday Kahlo was, but that makes it all the more important to educate them on WHY she's a big deal.  

2.) The Whole Enchilada: Brains, Beauty, and Creativity

You won't be dressed like anyone else because you thought of it yourself. No hiding in the bathroom for you. You can proudly say you thought of your costume yourself, made it and are owning it. Those are pretty hot.

American Girl Dolls

3.) Living It Out

This year, I dyed my hair red on a whim. It was late at night when my inhibitions were down, but in the morning was embraced as Kimmy Schmidt---my favorite role model for resilience in 2015. By being like her, by committing to the role, I felt stronger. It came at a good time, because I was feeling more brittle than unbreakable. 

4.) Womanhood

Think of the future. I want to use this holiday from here on out to be someone notable and praiseworthy and to inspire other women to do likewise. Who knows, maybe it can propel us into a better place. Maybe that way our daughters won't understand or be able to understand Mean Girls. Now there's a thought. 

Who will I be next year? Brene Brown? Marie Curie? Not sure. But I can promise to keep the bar raised high and my hemlines low. 

Remember, Every Night is Ladies' Night

It was about 2 weeks ago that I declared to a complete stranger and a friend
"I hate ladies' nights."

This was not a good way to respond to an extended invitation to go out with some women later that week, yet there it was.

I'm not sure how this conversation went precisely, because memories are a tricky thing, but I can try to recreate what I believe truly happened.

Looks. 

Silence.

Me, instead of back peddling, charging forward.  

"I've been thinking about it and I don't know if I am going to find and meet a man, but I know where I am definitely not going to find him.

He isn't: 
1.) in my house (and if he is there, he's a creepy stalker) 
2.) at my parents' home or
3.) at a girls' night."


I think there was some feedback at this point, but the truth in my logic was finally finding words and I didn't stop.

I went on to explain that I keep getting invited to girls' nights by my women who are primarily married and dating. They want to hang out with all women. They get excited about these times, while I fight off mounting feelings of frustration or even anxiety when invited to one. For me, every night is ladies night. It's called going home.

When I unlock my apartment door I might as well yell inside "Welcome to ladies' night. WOOOOOO!!!"

Or really upon entering any establishment:

"Helloooo coffee shop. This lady has arrived, so the drinks are on me!"

Not sure how to respond to a "Let's do a girls' night!" I may respond with sound effects. Sound effects are highly open to interpretation and aren't exactly lies.

"Ohhhh"
"Eeeee" 
"MMMM"

What do those mean? It's up to the listener to decide.

What I am doing in that moment is doing mental math. I'm tallying up all the hours I will be surrounded in the land of women and all the money I spend in that world. And I am freaking out. "Nooooo. How am I going to ever find someone if I am spending all I have in this insular bubble?? I'm not. I'm just not! Men don't like to  go to wine painting parties. And I don't either!! I can't afford this." 

Meanwhile what I really want to do, if  not be with a significant other of my own, is hang out with BOTH sexes. Provide the opportunity to meet someone. To not sit around and hear about husbands and boyfriends or kids when they aren't around. I'd much rather be around all of them and get to know them.

Is this too honest for you?

With my wits about me I realize that it is nice to be invited to things. And I also see that possibly women who are requesting these events are striving to strike up balance in their lives. Possibly they are feeling an inequity in how their time and money is being spent. So much time around their spouse/ boyfriend/ kids is time not spent around other women.

So if that is sound, then logically it holds that the feelings that I am experiencing are equally valid and true. I have an over abundance of "girl time" with myself and 80-90% of my free time activities are spent with women and it's too much. I need something in the middle.

So, if you invite me to anything girly in the coming future, thank you. I'm grateful. But can we make it a Co-Ed night? Dinner party, poker, laser tag, dancing, bowling, movie, whatever??
Bring men, women, and children and we'll have a good time.

Chain of Hearts

"I know you're sad. I'm so so sorry."
These were the words my mother said to me the moment stepped into her home after I'd finished my drive from St. Louis city to Illinois the morning of Tuesday, November 26th.

After a night of unrest and protesting in my neighborhood, I decided to leave early for Thanksgiving. "Leaving early for Thanksgiving" was the rationale I applied, but it did not help me lessen the feeling I'd relinquished something dearly loved without any opposition. It didn't undo the label I earned and given myself, coward.

The words would not come then; they barely come now.

If my heart were to break, I would not be surprised to find a rusted box of tangled chains within. I can feel them: heavy, tarnished and cold chafing together inside me. I can taste the bitter metal in my mouth, I can feel the corrosion on my fingers. These are the chains, twisted into a grotesque Gordian knot, that I wish I could undo. Let me name them:

This one is fear.

This one is anger.

This one is shame.

This one is helplessness.

This one is love.

This one is hope.


This chain is fear.
This is the fear that drove me to Illinois. Not the fear of white. Not the fear of black. Not the fear of law, enforced or broken. I feared the fear of what one fear-filled person can do. Then another. Then another. For fear grows like a disease and anyone can catch it.


This chain is anger.
Searching #Ferguson on Twitter to see if I was safe or not in my home, I saw cold, bald, distilled hatred. Hatred I had never seen before. My stomach lurched. Like a reflex, I suppose it tried to purge the poison I'd read. But it was too late. No retching can unsee the wretched hatred I beheld there.

This chain is shame.
How can a man or woman hate another? How can any one race hate another? How was I so blind? How could I so naively trust that others see what I do--the image of the Almighty? How can I ask someone to trust my fair skin if there's is different? How can I ask that now?

This chain is helplessness.
Lord just--
Lord, just--
Just--
My prayers, so charred and brittle, they break off and fall silent for the Spirit to interpret.

This chain is love.
I cannot fix what I do not feel. I cannot find what I do not see. I love. Help me to love more. Help me to love honestly and boldly. Help me to learn of Your perfect love and teach it and learn it again when I forget. I am so forgetful.

This chain is hope.
These are the magic words my dearly loved student taught me to say.

Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: It's ok.
Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: I heard you sweetie. It's ok.
Her: (Starting to weep) I said I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: Hey...shhhh. It's okay...I'm not angry...I...I forgive you.
Her: Okay. 

It took me far too long to learn to extend this forever forgiveness.

Me: I'm sorry.
Her: It's okay Miss Martin. I still forgive you.

I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.

The words of our children. The words of our Savior. The words that He will speak to un-knot the
chains of my heart and then beat them into crown.

Come Lord Jesus and heal our world. Heal my city. It groans for you.

Where Do You Go with Your Artist's Heart?

Tonight I got the very wonderful experience of going to an enchanting studio space in Shaw neighborhood.
First of all, if you are not from St. Louis, you likely now have heard about Shaw neighborhood, the recent violence, protests, vigils and Ferguson October. This story, this coverage, this light shone on our prejudices and hate of my beloved city is heart rending.
And when my heart is rent, I need to condition it and coax it back into being whole.

This need for nurturing led me back to the Shaw neighborhood. [Isn't this how so many things go? You go to the painful place to help heal?] I lived on Shaw, worked at the corner of Tower Grove and McCree, dog sat near the corner of Klemm. For four wonderful years, this was home.

Here I was, at the place I had scouted out months ago not knowing what would be inside. I loved the outside sign, font, and name. If there is a such thing, I had shop window love at first sight, I had it. The only other time that has happened was when I saw Winslow's Home going in. And boy was I ever right about that place. And I was right again.

As it happens this window and once empty space I became smitten with while commuting to work turns out to be an artists studio. Union Studio has several artists' work and wares on display, while also providing them with place a to work. I happened to be there after learning about an open studio night. Show up and make things in this gorgeous space? Yes, please.

I met two of the artists, Mary Beth and Leah and after a little chatting was put to work--exactly what I needed. There was a cooked fiber(I don't recall the name, but it's not indigenous of North America) in a pot that one of the artists, Leah, showed me how to pull apart, reform, and flatten into a shape. She seemed concerned and apologetic for using me in this way. How do you tell a virtual stranger, "I can't control or shape anything else in life, let me have this thing?" Slow, methodical, tactile, this helps free my mind and spirit.

I kept at it for 2 hours. And we talked the sort of talk that you have when you're making, about St. Louis, the art scene here versus Kansas City, our backgrounds, the history of paper making, the art in the room and the stories behind the pieces. I'm not exaggerating when I say everything in Union Studio is art: soap, scarves, paper, the table, etc. Even the wet fibers  the ugly semi sticky masses I was mashing together, flattening into discs will turn into something translucent and beautiful.

It was a relief. To come out of the dark into a bright and inviting space to talk and to learn and to try. I recommend, if not here, that you try this "making" with your friends or find an artists guild and meet them.

Oh and guess what? I'm back to writing again. Surprise.

How to NOT Wait by the Phone

We've all played the waiting game at one time or another, staring at a land line or cell phone willing it to ring or vibrate. Be it for the doctor calling with test results, the verdict on the job you interviewed for or the fulfillment of the "I'll call you" promise, it's downright uncomfortable.

I've been in each of these scenarios, but the most frequently occurring for me is waiting to see what a guy meant when he said he'd be in touch.

I have come to conclude (without criticism), that often a guy will say "I'll call you"  when he really means "please get out of my car, now." This seems to be the simplest way to get me to go away. I can't say that I fault the men-folk who have promised a call in the past and not honored it. I wonder if they thought I would burst into tears or refused to get out if they had simply said the truth, which is: "Yeah, let's never do this again. Ever." All this translates to is that I never know what will happen after stepping out of the car.

Often I catch myself creating elaborate stories to explain the silence. I try them on one after another like I'm shoe shopping.
Maybe he was caught in a hold up at the bank and is the only hostage still inside.
Perhaps there was a family emergency and he is fine, but grandma? Well...
He's somehow dramatically injured and whispers to a friend that they need to make a call to a girl, but they don't understand his gibberish.
After trying out a few of these scenarios, I know I have gone a bit batty. Perhaps it's a bit romantic to kill off a potential leading man or to put him in harms way, but also it's really morose and twisted.  Essentially this line of thought says, "I like you enough to fantasize your death as a plausible reason for you not contacting me; this collateral damage is superior to thinking you were lying."
Not good.

What I do know is the waiting game is full of wasted time, emotional energy and fantastical deadly stories, and I'd rather just re-channel all of it.

Here's what I've come up to do instead of waiting for technology to beckon me to converse... or not.
You should try some.

1.) Do something you typically put off.

For me that means either painting my nails and or shaving my legs.
How do girls do these things consistently?
Both take way too much time. And wet nails are essentially a prison sentence. I can't not use my hands, so it's always a mess.

2.) Go on a walk and find things.

While on a long ramble, I found this rock. It told me to turn it over,

and I was in a listening mood, so I did,

and I gave it some relief.


3.) Begin a series of hilarious pranks.
This is Yolanda the pregnant (and formally naked) paper mache yogi. I discovered her after she'd been kicked out of her home. Perhaps she was banished for being with child. Since the time I found her, she's been outfitted and passed along from friend to friend.

 

This week she baked cookies for a friend and delivered them in person.

I plan to write Yolanda a genesis story sometime in the near future.


4.) Write a blog post about not waiting by the phone. 

See what I did here? Yeah? Enough said.



5.) Put your phone somewhere where you can't see it and dance.

Really dance. And shoot, sing too. No one will see or hear and you'll feel better because that's how we were wired.

Be who you are, singing and dancing on the earth. When you do that, a phone, ringing or silent is of little importance.

Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.” 

― Rumi

Shushing the Summer "Shouldn't you....?"

I have bouts with doubt.  Doubt bouts about myself.
Recently I wrote about the void that comes between school ending and summer beginning.  I developed a list of things I'm looking forward to doing to help cope.  I even explained to some people that it's a period of grieving.
"Yeah right" one said.
It's possible she thinks Summers for a teacher are like this Buzzfeed article.
Hilarious, open it in a different tab and enjoy, but don't forget to come back here.
And no, it's not like that.

And though prepared for it this time, the jolt of summer that is like stepping off of one of those flat escalators at the airport came.  You know the thing I'm talking about.  The one you nearly fall off with all your bags those first few steps.

Then came this new feeling, one I didn't make a list for, and I don't think I could have anyway.
This is the "You are Being Lazy" feeling.  The "Shouldn't you be  __________ today?"
Don't be fooled.  That blank looks innocent enough, but a whole lot can fit into it.  See?

Shouldn't you be....
getting married/ 
running in a marathon/
investing in the Stock Market/
backpacking through the Amazon/
cooking a turducken 
today?

It's an oppressive blank.


Here are 2 books that delve into it.

1.)

2.)


The latter book, I started reading but it really bummed me out.  Because I am an empath through and through and even when I wasn't feeling or thinking thoughts of acedia or it's impact spiritually, well there it was.  Thanks Kathleen Norris, you made me cry.

The former, I haven't read, but doesn't the title just say it all?  I'm getting it from the library perhaps it can resonate in a non-buzz-kill sort of way.  Some thoughts need laughter to dispel.

Yet again though, bookless (which is a form of vulnerability for me) I decided the only way to tell myself I'm not lazy (besides saying it in a mirror in a creepy way or piling more into my days) was to...you guessed it:

Write 

A

List

If you haven't figured it out already, I write lists.  What's more I'm quite prolific.  If someone would ever pop into my apartment they would see half cooked scraps of lists strewn about.  This is just my mind's way of showing itself scattered as it is and how very easily I lose the thread.
Nevertheless I write because I am a writer.


This reflective act of typing it all out however, really worked well.  It would totally blow if I found, "Oh yeah, I am really lazy.  I've done nothing all month," but that wasn't the case.

Here's what my June has looked like.

June 2: Last day of school with co-workers.  Co-worker happy hour.  Acquired 5 new Llewelyn's cups.  
They are red this season.  Grab them up, St. Louis!
June 3: Clean apartment and "pack" suitcase (quotation marks intended to show procrastination)
Finish book. Paint furniture
June 4: "Clean" apartment. Take Captain to parents' house.  "Pack" suitcase. Paint furniture.
June 5: PACK SUITCASE!  Fly to Denver. Finish book. Reunite with college roommate.  Mountains.
June 6: Denver exploring. Hiking.
June 7: Denver exploring.
June 8: Denver exploring. Hiking.
June 9: Fly to St. Louis.  Attempt flirting on plane. Unsuccessful. Pick up Captain from parents'.
June 10: Start internship at MediaCross (happening Tuesday-Fridays, so assume on each day hereafter)
June 11: Host book club (hosting includes: cleaning and baking and being nice).
June 12: Accepted into University of Missouri St. Louis.  Finished Firefly series. (Only 1 season!?!?!?!)
June 13: Take Kelly to Train station (6:00am) Welcome lunch at MediaCross.
June 14: Nothing (except internship) oh and watching Serenity, the movie that ends the Firefly series.
June 15: Hike with family at Hawn State Park. Celebrate Father's Day.
June 16: Take Captain to vet. Oil Change. Speak to UMSL Advisor.
June 17: Host book club (yes, a different one). Enroll in UMSL course.
June 18: Start grad.class. Get student ID and parking pass.
June 19: Dinner with Kate at Vin de Set.
June 20: A.M. coffee with Natalie. Wedding coordinator training @ rehearsal.
June 21: Wedding coordinator training @ wedding. Homework.
June 22: Attend church with Annie.  Lunch.
June 23: Pick up Kelsey from airport. Homework. See Grand Budapest Hotel. Fall in love with Wes Anderson.  Again. 
June 24: Meet with Kate to discuss Communications Team volunteering. Finish book.
June 25: Dinner at Martha's house.
June 26: Nothing????
June 27: A.M. coffee with friends. Cookout.
June 28: Unknown.

Verdict= Not Lazy
Alternate verdict= Potentially Crazy



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Adding Beauty

I woke up feeling brittle today.
Sad is a better easily defined feeling word, but brittle, able to break easily says it better.

I wandered around my apartment, read, moved one strange thing: a single bead, a paperclip, a glove, a power drill, from one unlikely spot to another.

And then I heard my good friend's voice in my head.  It's what she says to me after I've been dumped.  Yes, she's developed a line for that.

How will you put beauty into the world today?

Indeed.  How?
I wandered around more and out onto my back porch and spied my wall.
It's been heavily pooped on lately, because some black birds have nested and are in a family way there.

Sadness. Determining to end, halt, delete, or bypass it typically doesn't work.  It leaves a void.  And sadness is a kind of void, so the antidote isn't in cessation.

What seems to have a lasting impact is the manner I address sadness.
Shifting my thoughts toward beauty means then that I can add and contribute.
It assumes I am worthy and capable.
It says, you can do this.

But how?
The poop gave me an idea of what to do.


It also reminded me Madeline L'Engle's book A Two Part Invention.  In it she writes:

I come across four lines of Yeats and copy them down:
But love has pitched her mansion in 
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not be rent.

The place of excrement...How do we walk through excrement and keep clean in the heart?  How do we become whole by being rent?

I had a thought on how, found my flower pot sidewalk chalk, and set to work.

A flower pot of sidewalk chalk?  Yes.
Again, I have unlikely things in unlikely spots all over my apartment.

I set to work and clearly I am not able to do Mary Poppin's worthy sidewalk art, but the exercise broke into some of my thoughts, which was the point.

Here is my wall of doodles.  My chalk is at the ready and is now stationed outside for the next time.


Now, dear readers,
How will you put beauty into the world today?"

How do you "keep clean in the heart?"

A Weighty Matter

Do you think about math often?
I bet you do.  Let me prove it.

Yesterday I held up an archaic bathroom scale in my class.
I asked my students, do you know what this is?

They did, and then I kicked it up a notch.

What does this thing do?

And my beautiful student gave me her best answer.

It tells you what number you're standing on.  

Oh to be 100% right and 100% wrong all at once.


It's not who you are.
It's not what you aren't.
It isn't that you are too much or too little in this world to be loved.

It's the number that you're standing on.

Frankly, I needed someone to tell me.  And then tell me again.

So if you are staring down at this thing that is telling you about your heart, and being, and loveliness (and if you are a person, you have let this happen), then
Let me tell you and tell you again: it's what number you're standing on
and you can't be defined by one number.

Dish It Out and Take It like a Person not Cookie Monster

A wise person once said:

When someone does something well, or beautiful, or kind, tell them. It costs you nothing. There are too many people walking around not knowing the differences they are making. That silence costs them a lot.

That wise person was me on Facebook, the best place to wax eloquent.  

It was a flash of insight that I had in December.  I was seeing hard-working people strive and succeed in so many areas of life but hearing so little by way of praise.  I can count myself in that group as well, but I was surprised at how often I said nothing.  I was aching for some positive comments for myself, and saw how unmet that need was, but all the while I wasn't meeting it for others.  I wasn't praising them for the everyday things.
I was and am part of the problem.

As an attempt to rectify that, I am trying to seize moments to slide in tiny and big praises for others.  There are probably studies that show that this is a good practice for my health in the long run, but that's not why.  Like identifying gratitude and thanking others, noticing their greatness and accomplishments and skills and calling them out just feels good.  

Well, let me back up.  It doesn't always feels good.  At first it just feels misplaced.  After work is over, I remember and reflect on all of the times I missed saying "good job," so there has certainly been an uptick in co-worker text praise in the evenings.  Similarly my words can be
jarring.  Let's take into account that sometimes I start talking while in mid-thought, which means we might both be caught off guard by the words that do come out of me.   
But even knowing my timing can be a bit off, so can the words themselves.  For instance, it probably wasn't a good idea to tell the Business Manager that I loved her new cropped haircut and that it made her skin look dewy.  Dewy.  I said this in an email.  Certainly it had an unrehearsed quality to it and was meant as a way to convey something heart-felt, but learn from me; strike all moisture words from praise.  

Finally, depending on who it is, it can take some courage and gearing up to say, 
"Woah ___(work superior/ complete stranger/ frenemy), you handled that _______(whatever it was) really well.  I was impressed."  
But no matter the amount of courage or discomfort involved in speaking up, come out they must because to quote myself "silence costs... a lot." 

Prepare yourself; There is also the moment post-compliment that you and your audience need to lean into.
This is the hard pause.  They can do many things on the receiving end, but one thing I know is that taking a compliment is an uncomfortable thing to do. 

It's so strange.  People want compliments.  They crave them.  And then once one is given the impulse is to knock it away, crumble it up, or volley another right back. 
The mental picture I have is of cookie monster.  
Cookie monster wants cookies and then in his voraciousness to possess them never gets a single crumb in his mouth- all are marred in the process.

I'm going to coin this phrase: He totally cookie monstered that compliment. 

That's right, this is a weighty enough topic to reference Sesame Street and I turned monster into a verb.    

Take this as an example (it happened yesterday).
My friend has been wearing her power color all week.  It's pink.  It means she needs to drill down to get through the week.  It means I need to pay more attention to her.  
At the end of the work day I pointed out something she was wearing and said I liked it.

And then there was the moment; she cookie monstered it. 

"Well, they're really old and it's falling apart right here," she said. 

Then came the moment we each didn't expect.

"NO!"


I shouted at her.  We both jumped.

"No!  You say 'thank you.'  Try again!  I like your shoes."

"Thank you."

Then we both felt weird and didn't look at each other.  

It's challenging to know I am right in principle but that I both yelled and spoke condescendingly to a close friend in an attempt to build her up.  Maybe by "challenging" I mean I imploded my primary objective.  I tried. 

I do know that complimenting small things is just as important as recognizing those over the top, million hours put into it deeds.  And that compliments about things I do (think, say, create) hold more weight and meaning than one about appearance.  

In fact I have several compliments rattling around in my head from this week.
And when I review them, and I find myself doing that often too, it makes me feel how I do in that second moment that comes after being praised.  It feels comforting and reassuring. 

"You are a really good hugger." -dear friend and co-worker

"I just want you to know when you went out into the gym floor you looked like someone who really cares about her students." -dear friend and co-worker

"That outfit is cute!"  -eccentric [possibly fashion forward??] guy walking down the street 

"Wow your hair is soft."  -stylist (genuine shock in her voice)  

"I don't get to see a lot of long healthy hair like that." -colorist

"This meal was a labor of love."  -a dinner guest

"This food is really good." -Mom 

"You are too funny Miss M." -my student 

"You are a good teacher Miss M." -my student

I have to confess I am trying to collect and store up compliments.  In February, after I noticed this void of articulating compliments, I was complimented on some work I had done. It took almost all of my face-energy (if there is such a thing) to not cry.  
It fell on me forcibly because it was something I had not heard in perhaps 6 months from anyone anywhere.  And when you (or at least I) do not hear praise for that long you begin to assume the worst about what you are doing and how well you are doing it.  You begin to doubt.  And that doubt can grow up into insecurity and become your shadow.  Insecurity is not a haunt you want around.  
So.  I'm shoring up, savoring, and rehearsing them again now and preparing for low times. 
And I am striving to point out the good I want people to see in themselves, so they don't have to wonder and doubt.

A Soapy Sliver of Gratitude (with implied Nudity)

"Hi mom, I wanted you to know I'm okay."

Freeze.

Moms, future moms, and really friends of any gender, when you answer a phone call and these words just tumble out, it is code for:

Be worried.

Or

You should have been worried, but I spared you the worst parts.  And also, continue to be concerned because I'm not quite out of the woods yet.

A week and a half ago, I picked up the phone and told my mom I was okay.  Or I was closer to okay than I had been.

Overwhelmed, too busy, unable to say no to activities, and trying to fit in friends because relationships can't be cryogenically frozen in time I was at my limit.

After a few moments talking, I saw mine was a veiled call for help.  The revelation came when my mom said, "Oh.  I wasn't worried about you."

Isn't it funny when your script falls apart?  It's so unearths my desires and upends my plans.
Rather than say, "Oh but you should have been very concerned, in fact you should be actively fretting right now about me.  I want to hear your hands wringing."
I stuck to my original, now revealed, bold faced lie:

I am fine.

As we continued chatting, I started drawing a bath.  I was boiling water in the electric kettle and running the water to fill it.  Because of it's size and age, I can never fill my porcelain tub without running out of hot water when it's 1/4th full.  I was determined this time.  I was in need.
The stress that I was "okay" with managing was in fact pulling my vertebrae into pinchy places that resulted in finger tingling.  (Yes.  Not good, I know.  Seriously, don't worry about me, okay?)

About the time I had boiled 2 kettles of water and filled the tub 1/4 full my plan hit a hitch.  Still on the phone I discovered, "I don't have soap.  How do I not have soap?"  I was quick to add I do have the expensive bath bar with exfoliants and oatmeal my mom got me, but I needed something strong.  Something that kills microbes.

After hanging up, because how can a mother help you find soap? I recalled seeing a sliver of soap somewhere in an unlikely spot, likely batted there by my cat.  I found it in the kitchen.  2 inches long a few millimeters thick, better than nothing, and really was what I needed; I was grateful for this fragment.

I was able to get in the tub.  Mom recommended I stretch out in it, but that reveals the difference in our height.  I can never fit well in a tub.  So while I recognize it is conventionally seen as relaxing, I reject it.  If one body part is always jutting out of the water, how relaxing is that?

Furthermore, I am not good at soaking.  I am a 5 minutes in the shower and that's plenty kind of woman.  Lingering while bathing is not my thing.   Maybe if I still had my My Little Pony Seahorses set this would go better.

But that day I decided a bath was what I needed.  I was soaking.  I tried to clear my head.  I would for a few seconds and then have to clear it again.  It was like playing thought whack-a-mole.
I just wanted to get out, but I also wanted full feeling in my fingers and toes at all times, which meant soaking some more.

Then, when I thought I couldn't be in the tub any longer, the light went out.
The light in my bathroom has a secret timer or a wiring problem.  At any rate, it goes out when it is left on for about 13 minutes.
This darkness felt creepy.  I was juggling which part of me was out of the water, trying to soak and free myself of thoughts and now, on top of it all, ghosts were about to attack.  That would teach me to take a bath.  I bet they would electrocute me.

But after about a minute of unrealistic paranormal fear, I challenged myself.  Or ordered myself.

"You will not get out of this tub until you are pruney."

If you have ever read Once Upon a Potty (it's one of my childhood favorites), my tub time was similar.
I sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and...you get the idea.  [Or maybe you don't.  For clarity's sake I didn't go to the bathroom in the tub. How could you think such a thing?]

It was not enjoyable.  And I could not see my fingers to assess if I was or wasn't done pruning up.

I kept thinking very solid thoughts.

This is life now.
You have just enough soap.
I wonder if I have enough soap for another bath.
The lights are out.
I don't like this.
Do not get out of the tub.
Be still.
You have to stop moving.
It's really dark.
My knee caps are cold.
Why do people like this?
They probably think to light candles.
Candles prevent creepiness.
I should get candles.
Ah!  Stop thinking about what you should do right now.
You do need soap.  Don't forget that.

This continued for what I thought was a long time.  Finally I decided I had to have gotten wrinkles on my digits.  I climbed out, turned on my more reliable light and discovered no raisins.

But my back felt significantly better, and I had, to the degree that I could, not written out a long to do list, save one thing:

Buy soap.


I now I have soap.  And don't worry, I'm okay.

Why am I Still Single? The Answer.

Why are you still single?
A bold question if ever there was one.

You would be surprised how very many times I have been asked this.  I believed and assumed (until writing this) that the question was born from a person's deep courage that (unfortunately) overflowed into words. But since finishing writing this post (on paper), I have circled back and concluded that maybe it isn't a surplus of courage but a deficit of tact.
Whatever attribute that is present or absent when asking something so personal, my response is fairly standard.  I reel.
I can't manage to say, "Oh that's private" or "How dare you."   Instead, I typically am so taken aback and startled that I generally give an honest, though halting, answer, not because my audience deserves to know, but because the only thing that comes to the surface is the truth.
But, if I weren't taken aback this is the sort of real-life moment I could relate as my answer.

Why?
Because I am a grown woman who leaves work after a hard day to go buy a chocolate chip cookie and coffee.  But I can't simply buy a cookie and coffee.  Life makes it much more complex than a simple money for goods transaction.

While in line, a person managed to sidle up behind me in my blind spot and stand questionably close- so close that his musky cologne wafted over alerting me.  The scent said "There is a man nearby," so I can only assume the cologne was doing it's job announcing an aura of male-ness.
As I stepped  up in line to order a chocolate chip cookie, I caught sight of him in the corner of my eye and it caused me to jump a little. (He was in fact standing that close.  Had he been a ninja, I would be dead.)
And this is how I recovered after jumping.

Me: Oh!  I'm sorry.
I looked at the man and noticed he is very attractive.  This observation typically ends all chances of a coherent conversation.

Me: I smelled you before I saw you there.

Let that sentence that I really said out-loud hover in the air and 
sink in. 

A feeling of horror passed over my body.  Yes, I said what I heard myself say.

Him: (weak smile) Ah ha.

I stepped forward and started to order.

Me to the barista: I'd like a chocolate chip cookie.

I noticed now that the barista is also attractive and realized how juvenile I sounded at this very moment in time.

Me turning to the smelly man: But that's a good thing.  I mean, it's a good smell.

Me turning to the barista: And I'd like a cup of coffee

Barista: What size would you like? 12 oz.... 14 oz?

Me: Of cookie?

Barista: (silence)
Me: Oh.  I'd like a 12 oz coffee and a 16 oz cookie (joking).

I paid.
I apologized to the man behind me a second or third time.
I gave the barista another "help me" and "did that really happen?" look.
Barista said telepathically: Yes, that really did happen. Walk away now.

I and slink away to find a seat.


Yes world, I say whatever comes to mind instead of mindfully flirting.
I eat cookies after work and lick the chocolate from my fingers in public.
I attempt to be complimentary but instead tell men they smell and forget to tack on the oh-so-important word "good" until it is essentially too late.

You may find that adorable.  That's fine.  It is a true representation of my daily life.  I can say my personality and ability to stumble over words when ruffled gives me plenty of reasons to laugh.  It's good that I am able to laugh at myself while keeping my dignity.

But if you are asking me why I am still single, then that, the above story, is now "The Answer."
I'm going to rehearse it so it comes out smoothly.

Thank you so much for taking such a keen interest in my life, but really, stop asking.
The people who need to know why, know already.  And if you have to ask instead of me telling you voluntarily, then you aren't on my emotional life VIP list.

An Adopted Family that Stays Together

I would like to preface this post by saying, I love my family.  My mom, my dad, my brother and I are very close in all senses of that word.  I turn to them in times of trouble and times of joy,
but this post is not about them.

Not everyone has the benefit and blessing that is a close biological family,
and that is a shame.

But I have another family that I'd like to tell you about today.

I have friends that I consider to be family.  We have been there for each other over the years and have survived a lot of joys, sorrows and have remained intact.

When we are all together, I often sit back and pull out of the moment and start trying to figure out how this came to be.  I have no idea how my face looks in these moments, quizzical no doubt.
Especially lately I wonder, even aloud, how did I get these people?

And I mean this not as a criticism to myself or to them.  It's a compliment.
This is an astounding bunch of people.

Such a wide span of knowledge and interests.
So many dreams, aspirations, talents, adventures, and accomplishments.
So many different employers and specialties:
The St. Louis Zoo, Boeing, The Covering House, NISA, the VA Hospital, Wash U, Juniper, etc.

One way that this particular branch of my family tree came to be was at one point in time we all were part of the same Community Group, which is similar to a Bible Study.  A lot of us have gone our different ways, but to keep in touch we've started having Family Dinner every 2 weeks.

It doesn't matter if I am sweaty with no makeup, had a horrible or great day, or am running early or late.  By the time I get to dinner, it doesn't disappear, but I am in a safe place.  It's like declaring sanctuary against the world, which feels so good.  Don't we all long to do that?

This week at the table we discussed All the Things as usual.
From Indian food, to Zoo stories (one of my favorite parts of any dinner), to travel, to the Old Testament linking it to the gospel, the St. Louis Beard and Mustache Club, fermentation, raising chickens, where to get nutritional yeast, and the highlight of our friend's year, since it was her birthday.  It's deeply inspiring to hear how they spend their days and live life.

And as I said before, not everyone is blessed with a wonderful biological family.  And not everyone has the benefit of a vibrant support of an adopted geographic family.
But you can get one.

It took work though, and it takes time.  Now it takes planning, because as much as I love my friends, our interests and schedules are so diverse that we don't bump into each other without mapping it out.  (Or maybe it would intersect for me if I would start indoor rock climbing...but, NO.)

I do know that the first step to getting friends is to have the courage to say, "Hey, we should be friends."
I have had the best relationships sprout from this simple sentence.

And the another tip is to have the presence of mind to notice when you miss them and to reject that.  It seems so simple to say and mean, "Hey, I miss you.  Let's fix that," and then make a time right then to see each other; it takes watchfulness to identify and rectify.

I can share more about how to cultivate and be open to friendships, because it has taken so much time and tries and failures and successes over years and years to better get a handle on what it is to have and be a friend, but I won't do that here now.

Instead, for today, in the middle of Spring Break, I am glad to say:
I have a family of friends in the city I love, and I am ever so grateful.



*It is also extremely important to mention that there are even more family members to speak of outside of this branch that shares meals together.  It's just easier to speak of one group rather than the many individuals I love.

With My Whole Heart. For My Whole Heart.

I want to open my closet and see possibilities.
I want to feel contentment.
I want to clothe myself in contentment.
I want to cast burdens off and down.

But when I open my closet door, I realize there are hangers I avoid and corners I avert my eyes from.
This awareness took time to realize and even more to pin words onto it.
Yet deep down, I now know the aversion stem from my "reject" clothes, the clothes I wore when being rejected or rejecting someone.

Fine clothing.
Favorite clothing.
Through no fault of their own now each piece has memories woven into the cloth.
Maybe it's imprinted because in those moments I desired to disappear into the folds, pleats, patterns, and hems. Whatever the reason, there is a remaining hurt that can't be washed or ironed out.

I might even wear the clothes still to prove that a memory can't control me.
But why require such defiance in getting dressed? Why keep such a touchstone?  Why wrap myself in it?

People, people other than myself, must also have this closeted issue.  This un-shared thought and gut response to our breakup clothes.

I've decided to cast off burdens and bless.  Why not give these and donate them to someone with a clean slate for their benefit and for mine?

Because blessing others heals.
Because giving heals.
Because giving freely opens up a world of possibilities, a world where less is more.

I will cast off my burdens to bless.
I give these clothes with my whole heart.
I give these for my whole heart.

Looking for a place to give?

I will be donating here:

image from revivethrift.org

.
Opened February 1, 2014
Read about their mission, and donate.

For your whole heart and theirs.

Flirt, Write, and Talk Boldly: Listed Resolutions and a Revelation

Here is my short list of New Year's Resolutions.

I will at any point expand or annotate it, because I love a good list.

(Yes, this is written on a Christmas card envelope.

I love writing on envelopes.)

Typically I don't commit to a list before the new year.  Nor do I kick it off right away or broadcast it.  I try (if I do have some resolutions) to adopt new habits, not abolish them.  They are born out of necessity, not convention. 

Can you see the pattern in my list this year?

It took awhile for me to spot.  

Think on it a moment.

Actually, the pattern, was revealed in a quiet moment of prayer.  It came during one of those liturgical moments of silence, during a prayer of confession, while praying for sins to be revealed. 

The thought without lead-in came fully formed: 

"You're hiding."

And so I am.  And so I have been.  Daily pulling a metaphorical huge hoodie over myself.  The soft folds swallow and comfort all of me and conceal me as well.  We all are at times, hiding, and need to be to heal or grow, but my time and need for hiding is over.  It has become a protected, easy, and admittedly lazy place.  

I know it's high time that I am seen again.  Full on. 

Not quite metaphorical spandex unitard with visible panty-lines "seen," but...this metaphor is unraveling fast. I hope you understand.  

Not to say that this list came out of those revealing two words.  

It came before.  

I'm so glad that they align.  

But of course with a listening heart, they always would. 

Guidelines, of sorts

As is my custom, the order of things, even with as few as 2 posts is disordered.

And so is reflective of every research paper I've ever written and is an interesting reflection of life as well. 

In an attempt to have a touchstone in this blog, here are a few clarifying statements for when I lose my way.  

1.) Safety first. 

In the event something inappropriate happens, be it comments, strange emails, being found and contacted on other media, etc, it will be addressed.  I will never disclose my habits, haunts, workplace, address, phone number, etc. 

I am a proud St. Louisian, that you will know. 

2.)  Story-telling does not mean "tell all."

I will respect my private life and take strides to not compromise it. 

In the same vein, I will respect the privacy and lives of others, post things with permission and/ or change names when appropriate. 

3.) This is an honest portrait of myself not who I want you to think I am.

I am a human.  I make mistakes.  I am sensitive.  I am messy.  

I will not pretend to be better than I am.  I will not clean myself up for you.  At times I imagine will discuss messiness and struggle, when it is processed enough inside myself.  Not to hide, but to honor my feelings.  

4.) This blog is to have a positive voice.

I will highlight creativity, curiosity, learning, and joys through sharing.

It will not be a forum to vent my problems or opinions.  Those are for true conversations with people face to face to work through and learn together.  

5.) This blog will have some variety.

To the extent that I can now and that I can grow into, I will develop and write posts on various topics and in different formats to stretch myself as a writer.

6.) This blog will be pleasing to the eyes. 

There will be some pictures, but above all I want the content to speak for itself.

If I ever stray from these, I promise to myself and to you (readers) that I will make strides to make my way back.