Remember the ladies

Yesterday I considered staying in bed all day with the covers pulled over my head. Considering the mood I was in, it probably would have been for the best. However, life is meant to be lived, adversity overcome, and these damn moods really MUST be tamed! This is the stuff of life. Who am I to surrender?

Instead, I will follow the the directive of Abigail Adams. In her March 31, 1776 letter to her husband, John Adams she asked him to "remember the ladies" when helping to build a code of laws for what what they hoped would become a new, independent nation dedicated to liberty and justice for all.

Today I remember the ladies on just one branch of my family. This is not my distaff line, although I could do that. Instead, I am thinking of my paternal grandpa's mother. Let us consider the lives of women in her line as a long, multi-generational Women's March for equality and respect. In honoring them, I also honor all the brave women marching on Washington, D.C. and other cities.

Here is my great grandmother, Emma Frost. She was born in Wayne Co., Kentucky in 1881, and died there in 1963. She and her husband (her second cousin) were tobacco farmers who also operated a small grocery store in their house. Emma and her husband had 12 children.

Emma

Emma's mother was Ellen Ramsey (1857-1938), also from Wayne Co., Kentucky. Ellen was a farm woman who outlived two husbands, had 5 children with the first and 6 children with the second. Ellen Ramsey looked like this:

Ellen

  
Ellen's mother was Sarah "Sally" Rector (1814-1905). Another farm woman! Sally is my 3rd great grandmother through Emma's side, but she is also my 3rd great aunt through Emma's husband's side. Ha! I need a chart to figure these things out. Sally and her husband had 10 children.

Sally

 


Sally's mother was Rutha Simpson. Rutha was born in Pendleton Co., South Carolina in 1790. Her family moved to Rowan Co., North Carolina when she was young, but by 1806 they were living in Wayne Co., Kentucky. Rutha's father was an officer in the Royalist army during the War for Independence, so they had to keep moving after the British lost. They were not welcome in most communities. Rutha, however, married a son of a Revolutionary War soldier who fought at the battle of Yorktown, when General Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington. That must have made for interesting dinner conversations around the farmhouse table after all the chores were done. Rutha and her husband had nine children.

Rutha (from a painting on a commemorative plate)

Rutha's mother was Sarah Sherrill (b. 1746, Virginia; d. 1826 Kentucky). The Sherrill's are historical figures and old settlers. Her grandfather, William Sherrill, was born about 1670 in Devon, England. He arrived in Maryland about 1686 as a bonded passenger. In time, he became a fur trader and a well known Indian guide in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He is also sometimes referred to as "The Conestoga Fur Trader." Sarah was a year old when she and her family left Augusta, Virginia to become the first Europeans to settle on the west side of the Catawba River in North Carolina. Sarah and her husband had as many as 13 children.

Sarah's mother was Agnes White. Agnes was born in Virginia in 1726 and was part of the pioneer North Carolina family referenced above. She died at Sherrill's Ford, North Carolina in 1795. Agnes White and William Sherrill had as many as 14 children, many dying young.

Agnes' mother was likely Mary "Polly" Campbell, born in Ulster, Ireland in 1686.  She married Duncan White, and she died in Lancaster, Pennsylvania in 1728. 

Polly's mother was possibly Mary McCoy, born in Scotland about 1650, married Moses White, and died in Ulster, Ireland about 1689. 

I honor these women today, with all my heart. They are only one branch of women who came before me. In the wheel of life that represents ancestry, there are so many others. 

Moderating Moderately

I belong to a secret Facebook group; sounds ominous, right? It isn't. Secret FB groups are like all organizations people voluntarily join, except they are virtual. The term "secret" is unfortunate because it raises the creepy quotient.

Facebook has 3 privacy settings for groups: Public, Closed, Secret. Anyone can join or see what members posts on the Public group. Closed groups have more privacy protections including the fact that one has to be asked to join or invited by a current member, and only current members can see posts. Secret groups provide the safest space because only current members can see who is in the group or find the group in a search. 

My group is small, focusing on calls to action and verified news. We do not wallow in negativity or fake news inspired hysteria. We want the facts. We are trying to be adults and encourage positive political action. Until I joined, I was reluctant to publicly voice my political concerns on my personal FB page because of rabid comments I received from the extreme left or extreme right of the political spectrum.

It wasn't the disagreement that bothered me, it was the vicious meanness in tone. Dehumanizing one's opponent is a stone cold drag. I am SO done with that nonsense, and I fear it will get worse with Twitter becoming a political conduit.

Which brings me to my point. I volunteer as a moderator for this group, deleting comments or posts that do not adhere to the rules. I am sometimes abused by members who are outraged or embarrassed at having their posts/comments deleted. But the rules are clear. This group is trying to be serious, positive, and effective; we are trying to go high. If your post/comment goes way down low, or directs others to fake news sites, it is GOING to be deleted. There are also the people who join with the sole intent of disrupting the group. They get the boot.

The thing is, this volunteer gig is beginning to remind me of all those years I spent working as a manager or a supervisor. Sheesh. Why, oh why do I "raise my hand" and take on responsibility? I wonder how long I need to wait to retire from the moderator role and just become a member again? I mean, without hating myself for being a wimp?  Because...I don't want to be a wimp. I want to do the right thing, even if it is the hard thing.

Lego of your adult notions

I have a 4 year-old grandson, N. He's my pal. Consequently, Legos are now an important part of my life. We have a lot of them, but nowhere near what we (grandson N, husband T, and I) ultimately need to be happy. The only limit to the number of Legos you need seems to be the amount of space you have to store them. 

I went into this whole grandparent thing totally innocent in the ways of Lego. Now they are my favorite toy. I look forward to playing with them.

I am happy to report Lego has a new line in pastel colors targeted for girls! Yes, at first it did seem a little creepy and sexist to me. Then I remembered social change cannot always take the straight and narrow path. Sometimes being subversive is the best choice.

If issuing these building bricks in pastels make parents feel it is okay to buy Legos for their daughters, or entices froufrou girls to play with them, then I approve. Plus, I actually prefer the pastel colors. As a former froufrou girl, let me say I wish I had developed fine motor skills and increased my concentration early on by playing with pink Legos. 

If girls have their own private stash and are willing to share, all those Legos will eventually become community (i.e., sibling) property, regardless of gender. Their brothers will finally have access to the right bricks for making pink and lavender trucks. Pink and lavender trucks? Maybe with black bricks added for dramatic highlights and definition? I'm in!

Why only use Legos to combat sexism? You know how intricate coloring books for adults are now the therapeutic rage? Well, I am sure playing with Legos is way more fun than coloring inside the lines, and equally relaxing. Lego should offer adult kits with colors like silver, gold, zebra stripes, leopard spots, you name it. One could design Lego furniture, for crying out loud. Playing with Legos could become the next trendy thing. It beats the hell out of drinking yourself into a stupor and/or watching TV. I have to confess that I am no longer sure if I am kidding or serious (yikes!). Wait a minute... Nah, I'm almost positive I'm kidding.

I live near the Orlando theme parks. In this strange land of wildly expensive entertainment destinations there is, of course, a park called Legoland. Another place called Disney Springs (formerly Downtown Disney - a huge shopping district on Disney property) is also a Lego-lover hot spot. Disney Springs has a sizable Lego store with some amazingly large "sculptures" outside, including this sea serpent. I wonder if they sell it as a kit? I also wonder how much it would cost, and if it comes in mauve? 

This is how I want to feel every day!

Do you love it?

This New Freakin' Year

I know I should be filled with Happy New Year cheer, invoking goodness and light. I know this, but I simply do not feel it. Please do not read this if you are already feeling overwhelming despair or you are sick to death of politics. It won't hurt my feelings. I understand the need to protect oneself. Stop reading...now.

The mean-spirited, nationalistic, and violent trends around the world are troubling to me. I could give my opinions about the insanely small minded decisions made by other countries this past year, but I try not to criticize things that are none of my business. 

I could rant on about evil dictators and macho strong-men in other countries, but I am beginning to think, like Voldemort, one should not speak their names out loud. Especially when I find that I get ridiculously large amounts of hits from those countries on my blog stats every week. 

However, this is still a free country, at least for now. I will say that I believe the electoral college of the U.S. elected a man of limited intelligence who is motivated by ego and greed. He is a man who lost the popular vote by nearly 2.9 million votes (the largest margin in history), so obviously does not have a mandate. He is disliked and distrusted by people in his own party, and he seems frighteningly unprepared for the job ahead of him. That, combined with the aggressive actions of troubled nations and the subsequent revival of nationalistic backlash all over the world, fills me with dread for the coming year. 

I have always been happy at the prospect of a new year, a new start. For the very first time I dread the coming year. It seems we are moving backward instead of forward. I am waiting for the next shoe to drop.   

I know reality goes in circles, politics are cyclical. I survived Nixon, Reagan, and the younger Mr. Bush; however, the world has changed since then. Climate change is actually real, and we are in danger of making this world unlivable. We need reasonable gun control reforms that stop criminals from buying guns and killing innocent people. Black lives DO matter, and we run the risk of civil war by not taking our racist inclinations seriously. Social justice is actually righteous and moral, not a "politically correct" idea to be sneered at. Poverty encourages crime and limits our achievements as a nation, and as a world filled with nations. Women's rights are human rights. I cannot even get started on that one. Not yet. Too soon.

Perhaps the foolishness we are unleashing will change people's minds and we will see a progressive and compassionate awakening like we have never seen before? Maybe good people from all sides can come together and build a better world on top of the ruins of failed ideas? That is my hope for 2017. Stranger things have happened.

Pics from a Bike Ride

T and I went for a long bike ride yesterday morning along the right side of Lake Apopka.  I have a new zoom lens for my camera and wanted to try it out.  Lots of fun.

I think these are cormorants? Correct me if I am wrong.

A cute racoon way up in a tree. I would have missed him if not for T's eagle eye

Red Shouldered Hawk

The same hawk

Blue Heron pretending it doesn't see me

Interesting "stuff" left over from when this part of the lake was a farm

An Anhinga on more of that interesting "stuff." I love seeing Nature take back her own

A noble predator, per comment below it is an osprey

Big old alligator, happily snoozing all covered with duckweed

I'm with the band

There were years when a big part of my life revolved around being the wife of a band member. Okay, it would have been cooler to be the girlfriend, but whattayagonnado? I loved seeing him perform on stage. It was always a good time and I got to dance like a maniac. This lasted for about 10 years, through a couple of different bands and musical genres. 

I was a wild child, as was my husband. I realize that is kind of shocking because I'm an older woman now. But don't kid yourself, older women have a past. Expand your mind to allow for it!

Because we were born in 1951, we were considered teeny boppers during our hippie years, which for me started about 1968, for T a little earlier. We were usually some of the youngest hangers-on in that scene.

I loved British punk music, especially The Clash; however, by 1977 we were a little too old for punk. At 26 years-old, NYC style New Wave fit us best.

I wrote about that period of our lives in a post last year. One area band he was in (not going to say the name because it is a little vulgar) opened for Talking Heads when TH was an up and coming band still playing in clubs. I have a great picture of T and Tina Weymouth talking backstage that night. They both played bass in their bands.

I loved seeing a woman like Tina Weymouth playing in a band. She wasn't trying to be sexy, wasn't the lead singer, and didn't try to draw attention to herself. She was just trying to be an authentic musician, and she had a great sound. I wish there had been more women in rock and roll like her. Mothers, please let your daughters grow up to be bass players.

T and Tina 1977, Ithaca, New York

These are my random Christmas Eve thoughts for 2016. In the words of the repairman who came to our house yesterday, "Merry Christmas or whatever you celebrate."  Cheers.

My Mother's Christmas Tree

When I was young we did not put our tree up until 3 days before Christmas. My parents were quite strict about that. My mother said that when she was a child the tree always went up on Christmas Eve after the children went to bed. They woke up thinking Santa had brought it. As an adult she must have felt quite modern putting it up so far in advance...  

The tree was my mother’s pride and joy. She decorated it herself, no children allowed. Great care was taken to get a tree with the perfect shape and density. They were always beautiful, real works of art. Mom liked to spray the tree with canned "snow" so it looked like it was frosted. It must have been a 1950's thing? No one does that anymore, do they? For a couple of years she covered the tree with "Angel Hair", a fibrous fiberglass material she painstakingly spread over the entire tree, making a spider web effect as it encased the large colored lights. I distinctly remember the fibers got into our clothing and became an itchy mess on our backs. Ouch. It is probably against the law now.

The most amazing part of Mom's tree was the tree topper. It was spun glass featuring a paper angel with foil wings who seemed to be floating in a cloud. I was searching for a new tree topper this year and came across an antique one online just exactly like my Mom's. I didn't buy it; however, I have a picture of it.

When I was a child I thought this was the most beautiful thing on the tree

 

Some flounder, but this isn't fan mail.

Here are some end of the year musings if you can stand me yammering on:

We all know that kind of person, the one who means well but falls short. No doubt we all ARE that kind of person, imperfect and floundering as we are. I thought more highly of myself before I retired. Now I have time to think, remember, and analyze my actions in depth. There are many things I regret having said or done. Some things I did because I fell short of kindness. Other things I did because I just did not realize, did not consider, how my actions would affect another. Sometimes I was just plain foolish.

I can forgive myself for those things fairly easily because I know I was not trying to be mean. I am imperfect. I will try harder. I just wish I could apologize to the zillions of people who suffered because of my imperfection. Interestingly, as I begin to forgive myself for being less than perfect, I find I can begin the process of forgiving others who fell short with me. Except for the occasional psychopath, we all live and learn.

Still, the ego-driven transgressions are the worst, and the hardest for me to come to terms with. How could I have been so self-centered? All these years I thought I was trying to be good. Instead, I look back and realize all too often I was trying to make myself "look" good. There are casual things I have said or done because I thought I was better, smarter, or was just trying to dominate the conversation with me, me, me.

I am NOT referring to blog posts, by the way.  Blogging is the absolute right forum for talking about oneself. It is a place for self-exploration, expression, humor, sharing, and grief. I'm good with my blog being about me. My real-life actions are what I feel a bit oppressed by.

A twisted tree still grows, just not straight

Holiday Glitz

The tree is decorated. T put up the outside lights. No tasteful white here! We go full-on gaudy in this house, dontcha know. Not that I dislike white. I quite like other people's all-white lights. I find the all-white shtick soothing and calm, as well as exquisitely beautiful. However, Christmas decorating is personal. It is folk art, so I gotta be me. I have always wished I was a soothing and calm sort of person, but I'm not. I'm shooting for the overstimulated, bouncing off the walls, bacchanal effect. I am happy to report that colored lights and sparkly glitz have made a positive difference in my attitude. I am now feverishly in frenzy mode.

I made my mother's fruitcake. I went ahead and added those red candied cherries I was insufferable about avoiding in previous years. Bring 'em on!

I live in constant fear of chocolate fudge. Homemade fudge is my nemesis. One piece on Christmas Eve and I'm off and running, eating everything in sight until Saint Patrick's Day. Oh gee, now that I've thought about fudge I just know I will end up making some.

I mailed out all my Christmas cards; however, I mailed most of them without putting our return address on the top left. Sheesh. This is what happens when an old lady in complete frenzy mode tries to do more than one thing at a time. Then I had to go on FB and post that I did that.  Why? Well, I didn't want anyone who got the card without the return address to think I didn't realize what I had done.

A postcard my friend Chilly Hollow sent in 1988.  On the back is the best fudge recipe ever. 

 Damn you Chilly!

Our first Christmas tree

We were 16 when we found each other. We were not exclusive those first few years, times being what they were. In 1970, I was in San Francisco and he in Upstate New York. We kept in touch via love letters. I took LSD one night and came to realize that he was the one I was meant to be with. Sheesh, it is a little embarrassing to write these things, but this is our truth. We were part of a generation of magical thinkers. It is only by the grace of God or the luck of the universe that we managed to stay alive and reasonably sane. Some didn't make it.

On the Winter Solstice of 1970, I left San Francisco and returned to Northern Indiana specifically to be with T. His father had recently died. He hitchhiked back "home" from the commune he was living on in Upstate New York to spend time with his mother before moving on.

We started our life together "crashing" on the living room floor of a friend's apartment. We were your average crazy hippie kids with neither resources nor life skills. The first two Christmases we did not put up a tree. Like all our friends, we went to our parents' houses for Christmas in those glory days before responsibilities and real jobs caught up with us.

That third Christmas, in 1972, we had a nine month old baby, entry level jobs, and a scruffy apartment all our own. Some kindly, concerned relative gave us an old, artificial table-top tree and we decorated it with pipe cleaners and construction paper. It was glorious, our first Christmas tree. We put it on the card table we used as a kitchen/dining room table. The presents went underneath the table. Santa came to our house for the first time that year.

I fancied myself an artist so most of the decorations are ridiculously abstract

Getting in the spirit

Yeah, it's December. I suppose it is time to get serious about this Christmas stuff. My immediate family is reasonably small, and for the most part I have stopped buying for nieces and nephews. T and I do not need anything, so I would skip the whole "present exchange with my spouse" thing if I could. However, he seems to want to continue and I want him to be happy. It is also fun to get presents.

When I was a young mother I lived for this holiday. I worked myself up into a Christmas frenzy for the entire month of December every single year. I burned with a bright eyed fever, lusting after the perfect present, the best deal, the cutest stocking stuffer. I would bake at least ten million cookies, decorate with abandon, and loved it all. I used to have trouble sleeping throughout December because of those damn sugarplums dancing in my head. I must have infected my daughter with the Christmas bug, because she is "that person" now instead of  me. 

I am not sure what or when it happened, but I am cured of that bug. Perhaps because it is December 4th as I write this and I am still wearing shorts and flipflops? I have a hard time believing the holiday is approaching. Or maybe it is because the world seems to be falling apart. Whatever. I need to get with the program here! Christmas is fun. I need some fun.

My daughter lives only 12 minutes away, and she is definitely in the spirit. Are the holiday senses dulled as one ages?  Does the capacity for joy diminish, or does it just mature?  Oh no, have I grown up? 

An old friend from Christmas 2007 to help me get in the holiday spirit

The World Gets Smaller

Death is relentless. Last week a cousin died at 66 from cancer. This week my son-in-law's stepfather died in his sleep. He was 76 and very much a beloved part of our small family here in Central Florida. There was a time when these seemed like reasonable ages to die, but not in 2016. Not when I am 65. Now, I just feel like they have been cheated. But then again, who am I to say?

When I was young I found death terrifying. Perhaps I will be terrified when Death comes for me, I'm not making any promises! However, the more "other" deaths I experience, the more dying becomes the new normal. Yes, it diminishes our lives and relationships. Our world becomes increasingly smaller with each passing. We suffer the losses. Yes, this is all true. You know what I mean.

Aging can seem like a great battle; the kind where you know you are losing but it still must be finished with courage and valor. So you fight on, with comrades falling all around. In my last post I talked about how, in an alternate universe, I might have become a good soldier. I feel that way again today. The living endure. Because I am a mother and a grandmother, I will start cooking and baking. There will be people to feed.  

Saw palmetto growing after a controlled burn, Lake Louisa, Florida

Stand!

In an alternate reality I would have made a good soldier. I have a gift, at least I think it is a gift. I don't react to crisis in the moment. Instead, I fight. It isn't until a few days or even a week later that the gravity of the situation fully hits me and I collapse. 

I am exhausted with worry about all the things happening in the world right now. This will pass.  Not the worry, not the need to fight; those are going to stick around for a long, long time. I am talking about the exhaustion. I know fatigue is a natural reaction in times of great loss and extreme stress, so I am not particularly concerned about how I feel right now. I have been taking it easy the past few days, trying to get some rest. Today I have to get up off the couch and start tackling Thanksgiving preparations. That will be a good reason to re-enter polite society. 

My oldest sister, Sister C, shared this with me right after the presidential election. I find this song by Sly and the Family Stone as inspirational now as I did in the late 1960's. It is going to help me stand up and get on with my life. It reminds me how good strength feels. It reminds me that in the dark times of the soul, artists create art, musicians create music, actors allow us to see the world through another person's eyes. They turn their pain into art, and they uplift us all in the process.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the U.S.A. Like so many of you, I will be thankful for my family. Today I am thankful for Sly Stone. Enjoy.

And THEN she told Mom when to die

The Baby Sister Chronicles: Part II 😎

My mother's Parkinson's Disease continued to progress. A couple years after the delirium incident she moved to an assisted living facility for a few more years. It was only in her last year she was bedridden and confined to a nursing home. Despite having a husband, 3 children, and a full time job, Baby Sister went to see her every single day, advocating and watching out for Mom. As you can imagine, they formed a special bond.

In late February 2015, Mom had a massive stroke rendering her more or less unresponsive. I had overnight duty at the nursing home for much of the last week Mom was actively dying. On the morning of the 7th day a favorite nurse came in to check Mom's vital signs. After a few moments the nurse said to me with great tenderness and liquid eyes, "Today is the day; she doesn't have much longer." I called the usual suspects and let them know to come right away. Sister C was the first to arrive. Big D was next. Baby Sister was at work and arrived later than the others. She was kind of dragging her feet! I have anxiety issues and I was afraid she would arrive too late. I repeatedly texted her to get her rear in gear. Baby Sister calmly and firmly insisted there was time. Why do I ever doubt her?

I was not sure if Mom could hear, but I kept telling her Baby Sister would be there soon. When Baby Sister arrived she went straight to the bed, kissed our mother three times on the forehead and said "Ma, we all love you so much, but now it's time to go to sleep." Within 15 minutes Mom took her last breath. 

Baby Sister is getting kind of embarrassed with all the attention, so I need to stop writing about her for a while.  However, I am only lying low and biding my time. This won't be the last you will hear about her.

To my followers - sorry for all the versions of this. 

That time Baby Sister healed the sick

I read (click here) about a medical condition called delirium that can result when older people have surgery. It mimics dementia, but is usually not permanent. This happened to my mother (Teresa) in 2007 when she had back surgery at age 81.

She was fine going into surgery, but a very different person woke up. Angry, distrustful, paranoid, and confused, she thought her children were out to get her. We still laugh (to abate the horror) about when she lay in the hospital bed pretending to read the newspaper. She was actually furtively monitoring my brother (Big D) and Baby Sister. How did we know? Her eyes darted back and forth over the newspaper, which was upside down.

Her doctor knew what was going on. He admitted her to the rehab side of a nursing home for a few months to recover her senses and get back on her feet (literally). However, Mom forgot she was too weak to get up by herself or walk without a walker. Consequently, she kept falling. That made her an insurance risk for the "home." She also refused to follow directions, hallucinated, and was uncharacteristically rude. They labeled her as a dementia patient, even though that was not what she was suffering from.

This took place in Indiana. About a month into her convalescence I went there for a week to help my siblings convince the rehab center that Mom needed further physical therapy. The rehab people thought she was a goner. They were ganging up on Baby Sister, urging her to end therapy and permanently admit Mom to the long-term care part of the nursing home.

Baby Sister was Mom's principal caregiver. She was not ready to give up on Mom. Our mother had Parkinson's Disease. We knew the time would come when she would need to go into end-of-life nursing care, but if Baby Sister (an absolute powerhouse of a woman) thought it wasn't time yet, well, we sure weren't going to argue with her.

The rehab people gave up on Mom. They stopped making her try to walk to the dining hall, keeping her in a wheelchair instead. Baby Sister knew that meant Mom would never walk again, meaning she would never go home, meaning she could be forever traumatized and unable to care for herself. So Baby Sister decided to make Mom walk.

I was there the first time Baby Sister pulled Mom out of the wheelchair and positioned her in front of the walker. It was a little disconcerting, but Baby Sister is no one to trifle with. If she says "Walk!" the lame will walk! It took forever to get from Mom's room to the dining hall. One of Mom's aides passed us in the hallway. I heard her mutter under her breath, "Damn, Teresa is WALKING!"

A couple months later my telephone rang. Who should be on the other end but my sweet, sweet Momma, back from LaLa Land. She wanted to hear how I was doing. She had no idea how long she had been "gone" and remembered very little about the past 4 months. She was back in her little apartment, walking with a walker, happy, fiesty, and ornery. Our Momma was back. Thanks Baby Sister, for never giving up.

To be continued...

Mom in 2009.  She died in 2015.

You can't get rid of me THAT easy.

I just read a comment on FB encouraging angry protesters to move to Canada.  Ha!  That made me laugh. 

Move to Canada? No, I think maybe I'll stay right here in Florida and work for change. 

It cracks me up when people pretend to be shocked and outraged at the backlash from these "marching in the streets" Millennials. The GOP never accepted Obama as their president and obstructed him long and hard for 8 years. The young have eyes to see and ears to hear.

I do not approve of obstructionism or disrespect. Like it or not, our obsolete Electoral College system has given us someone we do not want.  Shit happens. I support working within the system to promote peaceful and rational progressive change. I encourage others to do the same. However, I am not going to lie.  I look forward to watching activism flower in the hearts and minds of young people in these United States.

Guilt Trippers and Fixers

In my not-so-humble, completely non-medical opinion there is no virtue to suffering in silence. Repressing your emotional pain is convenient for some people around you (the ones who do not want to notice you are in pain), but it is bad for your mental and physical health. Words have power. Speaking the truth "might" set you free."

There are obvious caveats to consider. I trust you to know what they are. Still, emotional pain will not go away by ignoring it. It wants to be felt, processed, and released. Unacknowledged emotional pain festers and screams like an angry crowd; it demands to be heard. If you want pain to dissipate then you will have to chew it up and spit it out, not suck it up. Geez-o-Pete, do you want to end up with the psychological equivalent of a sinus infection? Emotional pain is powerful stuff. Left unattended it will find insidious ways to get your attention despite all your good intentions for "soldiering on." 

If you are lucky, you might have a friend who is a good listener. Sadly, I am not talking about a "fixer" friend. Fixers are good hearted people who care about you and want very much to help. However, they have their own pain to contend with. Their pain makes it hard for them to just listen to you speak the unspeakable, even though they really, really want to. I know because I am a fixer... I am freakin' useless sometimes, jumping in ready to fight other people's fights, warding off evil, controlling the hell out of every thing, frantically filled with "good ideas" and best intentions. Sometimes I exhaust myself (and others). Maybe most of the time.

When I am in pain but I don't have a friend who is a good listener, I pay someone to listen to me. Why not? In fact, seeing a gifted therapist is often the best way for me. However, if I cannot afford (or find) a gifted therapist, then I keep a private journal. I write whatever comes to mind. I like to imagine converting emotional pain into words is a magical release spell. Humor me if you can. I'm trying to fix things here. Relaxare!

I try not to pay attention to guilt trippers. You know, the people who infer that your pain is self-indulgent and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. If I feel it, it is real. I cannot help fight the world's pain if I haven't first resolved my own. Guilt trippers want to shut us up and shut us down. That doesn't seem helpful or kind, does it? To be honest (and compassionate) guilt trippers probably do this because they have their own unresolved pain. I get it. I know they mean well. Still, they can get in the way of personal growth just as effectively as us fixers.

I want to be helpful, kind, and compassionate. I also want to be thankful, grateful, and look on that damn bright side. Truly. But I also want to be honest, courageous, and strong. Sometimes that involves facing your own pain first. THEN you can safely help the passenger in the seat next to you put on their oxygen mask.

I might have stolen that last sentence from some other blogger's recent blog. It sounds disturbingly familiar. If I have stolen your thought and you read this, please comment so you can take credit for it. I will apologize. It will assuage my guilt.

Sometimes I think Jiminy Cricket was just a nagging, chirping grasshopper

Cubs Win!!!!

I am a sucker for the underdog.  Here is my litany for this morning:

I believe in magic 
I believe in grace
I believe in mathematics and the laws of probability
I believe in hard work and determination
I believe that curses can be overcome
I believe that hope abounds 
I believe I will never call them "The Lovable Losers" again 

Yahoooooo! 

I wish my Mom was still alive and could have watched that game last night.  The Cubs used to make her so mad, but she never gave up on them.