31: day 13

31 days of gratitude. Day 13.

Reflecting on the mottos and expressions I was raised with...

"...no use crying over spilled milk."

"If that's the worst thing that happens to me then I'm a lucky girl."

"Always gayly forward, never straight ahead."

The first may sound curt and unfriendly. The second may sound dismissive. The third may sound aimless. But that's not how they were used in my upbringing. These sayings were the chapter titles of my unwritten education. My family legacy that I am proud to carry forward is a way of life that sometimes from the outside seems eccentric, at times irreverent, careless, or even absurd. There have been times in my life that I have actively resisted this attitude. My response was "there is something to get angry/upset/frustrated/outraged about. This needs to be taken seriously, confronted, complained about, dealt with."...The nuance I didn't understand was that you can look for the positive and still be realistic about the negative. You can be proactive *and* patient. You can respect and be grateful for this life and still be doing what you can to make more good things.... I know it's not a solid ideology. And I'm not preaching so much as expressing my gratitude for the perspective that was handed down to me to put in my tool belt for coping with life. I stand on the shoulders of giants.

31: day 14

31 days of gratitude. Day 14 

Yesterday I bought a couple Winnie The Pooh books from a thrift store for myself. Not for a young cousin or for some future child I might have or babysit. Nope, just for me. It wasn't the philosophical "Tao of Pooh" or even the original A.A. Milne Winnie The Pooh. Nope, it was two edition's of Disney's "My First Winnie The Pooh" series. The text is larger. The sentences are shorter. There are fewer words on each page and fewer pages (equal emphasis is on the illustrations). Intended for beginning readers or even pre-verbal children possibly.

When I was in second grade my teacher, (I loved this teacher. I accidentally called her mom once), told me that I could be reading more challenging books. I was encouraged to put down my beloved chapter books and push myself to tackle more advanced texts. Her influence lead me to look through the bins with the largest books (this was still when books were in categorical bins) with more unfamiliar words and long paragraphs. By nine years old, although I derived little pleasure from it, I was trying to work my way through a 400 page novel written in the 1950s because it was the book with the smallest font I could find, and I thought doing so would win the approval of my educators. At twelve I was reading "Memoirs of A Geisha" and novels by Patricia Highsmith who wrote about psychologically disturbed acts of murder. By that point there was not only no limits to what I would pick up to read there was definitely no censorship, as long as it was "literature."

I loved reading and I was engrossed in these books, but there was definitely a part of me that was doing it because I thought it was impressive and, again, would earn the approval of the adults in my life. To be honest, even though few people if anybody would tell me that reading was "bad" for me, I think I didn't always have a healthy relationship to reading. Often I would emerge from the world of my books moody and wishing I could escape from reality back into fiction again. Later in life, I traded fiction for self-help books and religious texts. I was still driven by a need to be better, to be worthy, to be loved.

It was Sister Lilli Anna at the Community of St. Mary who showed me what the love of reading could look like at any age. A trip back from the library and she had a bag full of children's books. She kept them by her bed, she said, to read at night. Sister Lilli Anna was a kind and intelligent middle aged woman. She could be reading anything she wanted, and she chose books with colorful illustrations and simple stories for the ultimate "easy reading."

At first I embarrassed by the idea of walking into the children's section of the library unaccompanied by any smaller human being, but Sister Lilli Anna let me borrow some of her books. I was hooked. I had forgotten just how poignant a children's book could be. Just enough said with the right words and delightful illustrations to tell the rest.

I am so happy and so grateful I no longer feel the same pressure to only read what might "improve" or challenge me. I am so grateful I can lay down in bed before sleep and open a Winnie The Pooh book and be entertained by the pictures and comforted by the no-frills narrative, and even, after resonating with a simple message or moral about life, feel worthy and feel loved.

31: day 15

31 days of gratitude. Day 15.

Heads up: Womyn's bodies and "body image"...
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Today I cut out the breast padding in my dress. I didn't see the need for it, other than making my breasts look slightly padded/larger, and it was getting kinda crumply in the wash. So, snip snip.

When I was thirteen I would've sewn the padding *in* to make my cup A breasts look like a B cup. I would've been convinced that I was just filling in the gap until my adult breasts grew in. Turns out "adult" breasts can look just like puberty-cusp breasts.

In my teens, I thought I had to make up for my breast size in all kinds of ways. I told myself, that if my breasts were smaller, at least I was an XS size zero everywhere else, at least I could be reassured by a narrow fashion beauty standard. Then I became a size 2 and then a size 4, 5, sometimes a 6. So I found out that maybe I was "pear" shaped. Well, at least I could dress for that. The internet gave me all kinds of ways to make my thighs look slimmer and ways to frill-up my bust to "flatter" this pear shape and hide "problem areas." Shopping for clothes became about the pear shape rules. Dark bottoms, pattern tops, boat-neck cuts, blah, blah, blah. I stopped wearing anything tight against my stomach.... Fast forward a few years later... I stopped giving as much of a fuck.

I am grateful I don't feel the same need to hide or "enhance" my body. I am grateful for the color pink, summer dresses, hiking sandals, and silk scarves.

31: day 16-18

31 days of gratitude. Days 16-18.

Heads up: ... Hormones, Bodies, & Brains.
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Life is crazy sometimes. Or at the very least my perception and experience of it certainly is. I strongly identify as a HSP (Highly Sensitive Person, a term made popular by Dr. Elaine Aron). Alongside this aspect of myself, I've come to accept that I am especially sensitive to hormone fluctuations. However, it is one thing to have a basic understanding and expectation that I will, on a somewhat regular basis, be hijacked by fatigue, mood swings, irritability, and extreme depression. It is another to live though these bouts.

I can say this, I have survived so far. I am so grateful for the moments of clarity that come between these episodes. Moments of clarity where I can take a kind and caring perspective on my struggles, and do my best to take care of myself by maintaining the routine of going to work, exercising, eating well, sleeping consistently, spending time with friends, practicing mindfulness, and taking my medications. It's easy to do these things for myself when I have the physical/emotional/mental capacity to carry out these activities and enjoy them. It is very challenging to accomplish basic self-care when my body seems convinced it is on death's doorstep. No matter how many times I emerge from these valleys and again reach my peak, it can feel like there is no escaping that eventual plunge back into my personal hades. When I arrive in those moments, the moments when it feels like there is no guarantee that I will surface again, it is so hard to do anything but hold on. I wish in those moments that I could have some certainty, some promise, that I'll be okay... But who am I to know the future? I can truly only hope that this time like all the times before I will make it through to the other side... What I have done is try to surround myself with reminders of that obscured light. I write affirmations and inspiring quotes on post it notes. In the in-between periods I set intentions, say my prayers, and live by my values as best I can. I burn incense and put crystals on my supine body. None of these rituals are silver bullets.

I am grateful for moments of clarity. I am grateful for the friends who support me through my journey. I am grateful for the trust that emerges, the trust in the unfolding, trust in possibility. When I start to catastrophize in my mind about all the possible terrible things that could happen, I try to remember that those scenarios are just that, possibilities. And if there is a possibility of _________(every terrible thing my brain can imagine) then there is at least an equal possibility that everything will be amazing. And beyond possibility, there is a high probability that it will be a mix of both, the terrible and the amazing...

Making my education (my life) my own.

Pulling out interesting cartoon art books at the library, I came across "The Educated Woman" by Cleveland and Andersand. Loving the empowered title, I also got another kick out of seeing an "Athena" ghost on the first page.

 The cartoon style reminded me of The New Yorker, so nostalgic and thinking I'd find some fun I checked the book out. The text and illustrations are divided into two sections "Part I: College" and "Part II: Life After." At first I was tickled by the current relevance of jokes made 50 years ago. The authors poked fun at the hoity toity academic atmosphere and the students taking themselves too seriously, and they pulled out the humor in ambitious women pursuing the vision of redeeming civilization, and some of the disillusionment that comes with that.

"Although each generation of students has sought a different set of values . . . Knowledge, Independent Judgement, Freedom, Social Conscience, Political Action, Rediscovery of Woman's Role, Detachment . . . the essence of the four year experience remains constant. . . ."

There is time for serious discussion . . ."I can't just go to bed and leave you on the horns of a dichotomy!" . . . and search for absolutes. [SPINOZA] "It gets easier as it goes on--I used to think you had to BELIEVE it, too!"

Some of the "jokes" were an instant flashback to the movie "Mona Lisa Smile" set in the 1950s where Julia Roberts teaches at a women's college that educates women mostly destined (and even encouraged) to settle for being housewives. Nearly half of the pages of "The Educated Woman" show students juggling writing their theses and finding a husband. And in "Mona Lisa Smile" it becomes clear the administration doesn't really expect the women to do much with their degrees, except perhaps serve on the board of some philanthropy group, attend the occasional town council meeting, and educate their children. 

In "The Educated Woman" the authors seem to use humor to cope with the absurdity of seeing many "empowered" women with degrees end up with mundane lives in which their daily challenges come from caring for their families.

The AFTER-COLLEGE years

What upsets me is that I see my mother in some of the later cartoons. and it's kind of sad. it's a sad cycle. because it seems like both society and the individual's fault. the woman is just giving too much of herself to "family" she's not doing enough for her own achievements. . the self-esteem problem is terrible. and it makes college seem kind of pointless. why can't people just lead their dream lives? why can't my mom change? why does she have to be so senstive?

She will no be content with ignorance--the habit of research remains with her. "Does that answer your question, dear?"


What does it mean to "START NOW"

Men, numbers, and the 1 who called me back. Not what you're expecting.

Part 1 

One night this summer in Midtown Manhattan I couldn't sleep. I was restless. So around 2AM I went out for a walk. It was drizzling and chilly. I put on a full length black flowy skirt and a black sweater turtle neck. I put my hair in a ponytail, put on some black flats, grabbed a red and black umbrella and hit the streets. I had no intentions, except to escape the apartment and my cooped up thoughts. I crossed the street whenever I had the light and turned a corner wherever it felt like I was following the flow of least resistance. 

I paused on the corner of 41st. I had been walking relatively empty streets, but knew as I approached 42nd St I would be making the choice to enter more crowded territory. My night of solitude might lose its quality of introspection and turn to disgust if I encountered people in the setting of 24/7 consumption of fast food and clothes and stuff and stuff. 

But I wasn't there yet, on the corner of 41st I was on the block of bus parking and the whale mural, and the belly dancing bar, but that was unobtrusive. The sidewalk had that film noir quality of the lamplight being reflected in the puddles. Behind me, but on the other side of the street walked an amber-dark coffee colored skinned man, bearded, wearing a white tank top and sagging jeans carrying only a cardboard box and blinking out the rain. He paused also on the corner. He turned to see me looking at him. He pointed and asked if 42nd St was in that direction. 

"Yes," I replied and smiled, "What are you looking for?"

He wiped his face, "Uh, the bus station."

"Which bus are you looking for? There are two port authority buildings. There's an old and a new building, but both have buses."

"The 42nd street one. I'm homeless and there's a place I heard about."

"Oh, I think I know what you're talking about. The entrance on 8th avenue. Why don't I walk with you to make sure you find it?"

I can't remember exactly what happened. But I believe I ushered him under my umbrella and we started walking toward 8th avenue. In some sequence I can't recall, we exchanged names, he asked me where my rosary was, what I was doing, did my my parents know where I was. He told me about how he was looking into getting off the streets. We stopped at one spot under the bridge between buildings, which he said would be fine. 

He asked where I went to church and if he could call me sometime. I asked where he went to church, he said the Times Square Church, and I told him I'd been there for Bible Study and was actually planning on going to the Friday fellowship tomorrow. I told him he should come and I would see him there. He didn't have paper, but he had a small psalm book in his box, and I had a pen. So inside the front cover I wrote my name and number and "Friday Fellowship," so he would remember why I was giving him my number. As I was about to say goodbye, he said he'd rather go to the other side of the building. He just wanted to put his box down to rest his arms. I sympathized that his box must be heavy. 

"May I carry it for you?" I asked.  

He grinned. 

"You wanna carry my box for me?"

I picked up his box and as we started walking he draped his arm around me. He told me I made him think of his daughter and about a book he wrote called "Destiny." More and more, I started to think he was a little out of his mind. But I couldn't stop smiling. I thought we must look like an unusual couple and I could feel the crowd staring as we turned the corner on 8th avenue and started walking towards 42nd st. 

We stopped again, now at a set of stairs with many other nomads. I put down his box, and made a little speech in preparation to depart. He asked me where I was going. I lied and said a friends house, afraid if I said I was walking around with no place to be he'd insist I stay with him. As friendly as he'd been and as delighted as I was to talk with him and make him smile, I was also growing equally nervous. He hadn't said or done anything salacious. But his eagerness was mounting, and the comment about his daughter had slightly shocked me. 

He asked if he could walk with me. I said politely that I'd rather walk alone, but thank you. I was afraid I might upset him, but he continued smiling and said "I'll be here all night", "you know where to find me." 

I crossed the street without lingering, not quite sure if he'd follow me. When I was certain enough that I'd gone far enough in one direction, I made my way back, a little uneasy expecting I might see him again. 

I had been touched when I hugged him, it was a kind of hug, that made me think he hadn't been hugged in a long time. I felt some sort of perhaps naive missionary joy thinking I'd given him a vision of God's love or something.

But the evening was tainted. It wasn't a perfect service of love. I hugged him, walked with him, and carried his box, but our communication was jumbled with his randomness. And I thought of his daughter, if she existed, and how much pain must be involved to have a father like him, as sweet as he seemed. 

He was just slightly out of his mind and living on the street, and I couldn't fix that. 

Before I returned to apartment 5D that night . . . I would encounter a couple more eager and lonely men.  

"selective ignorance"

I picked up this term from Timothy Ferriss' book "The 4-hour workweek."

Obviously he didn't invent the concept. His succinct pitch for "selective ignorance" as a sort-of personal philosophy has been captured by many. My encounters include Sherlock telling Watson he didn't need to know things like the fact the Earth revolves around the Sun, because his memory is like a hard drive and he doesn't see the point in keeping in filled with irrelevant information.

In and after H.S. I was very disturbed by how quickly I forgot course material. Even though I'd gotten great grades in AP Calc, in only a couple months when peers would ask for help on their homework although the problem sets looked familiar I could not conceive how to solve them. When I confessed this concern to a friend's mom, she told me not to worry. She said the brain remembers what it needs. Basically, use it or lose. So if you didn't have it anymore it didn't matter because it wasn't useful to you (immediately so anyways).

When I read A Teenagers Guide to Liberation- something like the philosophy of unschooling, and autonomous education, I was amazed by the possibilities. I didn't have to follow a standard curriculum. Typical public school classes didn't necessarily teach all necessary information, they didn't even necessarily teach how to think let alone how to teach myself.

But slowly I became overwhelmed. I was supposed to explore what interested me? But the library is so huge. And sometimes my interests are based on my experiences thus far. And past experiences seem pretty arbitrary. It seemed like I needed to go out and explore different life experiences. But there are so many of those too. Overwhelmed by choice and paralyzed. and depressed. and i creeped forward slowly, looking for routine, meaning, joy, and peace. Routine to save me from whims, (bad ideas), lethargy, and fatigue (lack of motivation). Meaning to motivate me, and distinguish between my choices, assign them value. Joy to not fall to pieces (although obviously physically that was unlikely to literally happen). Peace to save me, save me from myself, my hatred, my sadness, my confusion, my despair.

And then it college I was reminded of this dilemma of choice reading Annie Dillard's The Writer's Life.  "Careful what you read, because what you read is what you'll write. Careful what you learn, because what you learn is what you'll know."

Again, it seemed like my experiences, my knowledge, my worldview, my life, was up to arbitrary decisions made by me. That scares me, again, basically to the point of paralysis.

His writing has a fuck-the-odds-and-succeed-at-life kind of tone, and my grouchy side surrendered to his compelling arguments and humor. . . . draft in progress