We Are So Fragile

Maybe you have to know darkness before you can appreciate the light. 

Madeline L'Engle

Sunday was like any other. I was running late and to my car, 1/2 my makeup on the other 1/2 in my bag as I locked the front door and turned to dash down the stairs. That's as far as I got. The back window of my car was bashed in. I took one look, said "Oh" and pivoted to go back inside.

This was dangerous -- not the circumstance itself. I knew it would be costly and cumbersome and rain was on the way. Those weren't the dangers. Those were the facts. My danger was emotional, knowing that one random act of violence could set off a chain reaction in how I see the world. How I would respond. How it would strike my thoughts and could shatter my emotions. This isn't the first window I've had busted out, so I knew. The first time I convinced myself it indicated a coming lifetime of navigating the world and it's problems alone, unsupported, and vulnerable. It was damaging train of thought triggered by broken glass. Since it happened again, what would follow?

That past reaction let me knew I needed to proceed with caution. This isolated act of destruction could destroy something far greater, if I'd let it. I started the mental list and the calls: police, insurance, glass repair, car dealership. I studied the weather and reached out to a few friends.

Then I started to catalog and collect things of the day the good things. I knew the stress and heightened sensitivity would allow me to remember vividly, so I tried to shore myself up attending them rather than my feelings.

I remember things like:
The black cat chasing robins in the lawn;
The cashier's "I'm New" badge;
A bird that pooped on my hand (Ok, who wouldn't remember that?)
That my neighbor drank chilled white wine on her porch;
Someone left a frying pan on top of the dumpster.

Those were just things, but good happened too.

My friend drove his car around a marathon to help me buy groceries.

The sun came out.

All of the neighbors clucked their tongues and shook their heads.

Passers by looked at the scene in a horrified way, revealing what I think to be true, that this is not normal to do or to see.

Just when I thought it was impossible, I got those blasted UMSL parking stickers off the window after all. (P.S. UMSL, I still want my money back.)

In addition to the good things I observed, I learned a few things I maybe wouldn't have. And for me there's something inherently thrilling about learning things.

Things I learned: 

1.) Bricks can't be dusted for fingerprints because they are too porous. (I don't believe this, but that's what the dispatcher told me.)

2.) The police department when filing a report takes down (seemingly) irrelevant information like birth date, marital status and ethnicity before they ask you what's wrong. I get it! I'm single in my 30s and white, okay? It hurt my feelings.

3.) I like motive. I want to know the motives behind people's actions. The thrill of destruction was too foreign  a reason for me in this case.  Instead I decided the person had a vengeful dislike for Ernest Hemingway. Therefore, I learned I shouldn't have 3 Hemingway novels in my car at any one time, since it evokes an irrational brick wielding wrath.

4.) I'm sensitive. (See number 2.) I didn't learn this, just confirmed it for the zillionth time.

5.) I want to reason with people and set some ground rules. So you're going to destroy my car, okay. Please do it in a somewhat controlled and considerate way and heed these:

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it on a Saturday night. Every repair place is closed on Sunday.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it in April. There's so much rain to contend with and it will be a mess.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then make sure they have a garage.

6.) My neighbor gives good hugs. She unhesitatingly took me into my arms and said, "This is such a violation." Then she let me use her garage until I got everything fixed up.


7.) The support of others makes a world of difference.

STL Heart Card
julie.johnson11007@gmail.com

Thank you to everyone who helped me. You reacted with protective compassion when I needed shielding.

Oh, You'll Do.

It was an unfortunate evening to come home to an empty house. Empty, describing the amount of chocolate there. She dug around in various places for plausible stashes and then uncovered some Baker's chocolate. "You'll do," she said. But, like all encounters that begin this way, it ended badly.

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.

Compare and Contrast: July 15, 2013 vs. July 15, 2014 in St. Louis

Do you remember where you were a year ago today?

A few days ago, I was struck by the contrast of July 15th, 2013 with July 15th of 2014.

Last year, everything seemed to hit the fan at the same time.
I was sitting on the back patio at MediaCross and received a call from my landlord.
Earlier that day, I'd called to tell him there was mold in my apartment and could he relocate me into another unit while the problem was addressed.

 

This was a proactive step for me and very unlike my first dire thought: that the situation was unsolvable.
The call was not the rosy one my friends and family had encouraged me to hope for.

Explaining there was mold and that was why I was calling, he challenged with, "Where's the mold.  Where? Where is it?"  He cut me off, crescendo-ed, and then declared, "All the apartments have mold!"


Oh.


Years before, I had asked, and he told me it was coal dust coming through the plaster. This year it spread more than it ever had. After it appeared in every room from floor to ceiling following the air ducts, I thought he was either wrong or lying.

This declaration told all: lying.

This was upsetting, indeed, but instead of losing composure, I proceeded to sit and listen to my landlord break up with me.  By that I mean, he used all the language of a typical breakup.

"I think we just want different things."

"I don't think I can provide the standard of living you want."

"We've had a lot of problems, none of them were your fault, but I am ready to have us part ways."


I did want different things.
I desired my car to not be towed by my inebriated neighbors...again.
I wanted my oven to work during all months of the year, including November and December.
I did not want my dishwasher and sink to require bailing with a bucket after a rain.
Lastly, I wanted mold to not be growing up every wall in the house impacting the air quality.

"This is the best for each of us."

But this impacted everything. First of all, it meant the death of a dream.
My whole childhood I dreamed to live in Tower Grove.  It's the only dream I remember articulating, beside saying that I wanted to marry with Elvis. (This was an ill-fated desire.)
I had to let go of living near the Botanical Gardens, the park and my daily walk to the library.

Also, I had to put my cat into a emergency care because of his panting and labored breathing.  (This behavior was what caused me to challenge the coal dust explanation in the first place.)

Then, I held a garage sale to purge belongings and was helped by very loving and attentive friends.
Finally and frantically, I moved furniture into friends' homes and moved myself into my parents'.

I continued interning at MediaCross and started preparing for a new school year.

I found a new apartment, moved everything in and then found...more mold.

By August, I had moved 3 times, and then needed to move all of my school materials, files, filing cabinet, etc to a new classroom before the first day of school. By August 15th, I had picked up and moved every object I own in the world at least once.

It was too much. I was buckling under the stress and strain. My life felt fragmented, working in the city and sleeping and commuting from Illinois.  I had a wonderful network of family and friends around me, but they were bewildered as to how to help. One friend confessed it felt like watching a multi-car pileup as it was happening.  You want to help, but how?
It felt just like that.

I won't go through the whole domino effect. Use your imagination and fast-forward one year. (Don't forget to add in being rear ended.) I recommend picturing a montage; it goes faster that way.

On the other side of that series of unfortunate events, I can breathe.

.

Also I can take pictures of my feet, which is a growing symbol for free time.

To my knowledge, I haven't taken for granted having a safe, warm, dry, apartment that would pass health inspections.
I cherish that I am healthy and that Captain is too.

I'm glad to know I have solid relationships and networks of people who want to pitch in even when they don't know where to begin, and there is the likelihood of an explosion or two.

I'm so glad to know that after bouts of stress, unknowns, and lack of direction, the mind can re-awaken:

to beauty,

Credit: Julie Johnson

to humor,

to laughter and playfulness, 

Credit: Photomaton

and to serving others.

Credit: Gretchen Borzillo

I'm glad I have a second chance at MediaCross, one where I haven't shed tears over housing or anything else. I've just been cheerfully productive!

Mostly, I'm glad that I can wake up to my life everyday.  As unknown as some of the pieces are, as different as it is from what I anticipated it would be, I'm glad call it mine.

Credit: Natalie Waymack

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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A Brave and Beautiful "No"

I tell myself I live frugally.  At times meagerly.  Truthfully, my income is less than many of my peers but I con myself into thinking, often thinking, I am deserving of more.
And in this entitled state I buy what I need or want.  Granted, I buy the cheaper version of whatever it is, be it a generic, on clearance, previously owned, etc.  Never-the-less I consume and create a large cache.

I've become aware of this trend.  It's a stealthy mindset, being deserving, craving more.   I spot it in my heart on occasion, seeing it like spotting something in my preferential vision.

But I have a trick to spotting it full on, to freeze, and to examine it empirically.

How?
I have started strategically, in the bathroom, where so  many of my days wind up and down.

Here, in the bathroom, I take stock of things.  Not in a compulsive sort of way, but as a way to push back on my voice when it says, "I need," because this voice can be true, and it can be false.

"I need face wash," it might say.

"Oh really?  Let's go see."

And this is what I found.  (Three other bottles didn't make it into the frame).

Clearly my "need" vanished facing this.

"I need nail polish" it might say.

"Do you need that?  Let's take a look."

And then I look at my inventory of goods.
"Nope.  You  have 20 bottles of nail polish.  You don't need more."

This line of inquiry and resistance is productive and real.
It also gets to the very real question of "why."  Why do I say I need when I clearly don't?
What is consuming and commercialism hiding?

More often than not, my need masks a desire to change without working; instead I varnish the surface and neglect the core of who I am, which is ultimately cowardice.

And bit by bit I know what I have and don't and enact voluntary embargoes with myself.  Like no buying new face wash for 30 days.  I'm 1.5 months into this one and still quite well stocked.

So I spy on myself, catch the thoughts with sidelong glances, test my motives, and finally, say a brave and beautiful no.
Saying no can nourish.

“Most of the time nowadays we human beings are referred to as consumers. What does the consumer think? What does the consumer want? How ugly. Forest fires consume. Cancer consumes. I want us to be nourishers.” ~Madeline L'Engle

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.