I'm Still Here

 Herself speaks.

I... am clearly having trouble writing, stalwart readers. 

Things have been Busy.  

The Orange Project has consumed a lot of time.  It is enjoyable in many ways: it feels fruitful, and requires occasional thoughtful writing bits (writing, my favorite!). It does require a certain amount of people-ing, but I actually find that to be helpful, in a growth sort of way (people-ing is not at all my strong suit, and I freely acknowledge that I would benefit from improvement in that area).  

Work is, well, Work. It is busy and usually challenging. Sometimes tiring. I do the best I can. 

The renovations to the house are done. (There are a few tiny things that need doing, like replacing face plates on some light switches, but those are minor.)  All that remains is Putting Everything Back --- which, eeeeeeesh, that's a task that I do not have time for (see The Orange Project, above). Fortunately there is no timeframe on Putting Everything Back. I'm chipping away at things slowly -- I've put my closet back, so I can locate my clothes; I've put the pantry back, so I can find food if I can also find time to cook; I've put the furniture we did not get rid of into the family room, so I can sit in a tidy place. Next step: the study, which will involve sorting all my papers so that I can ensure the file cabinets are all well organized.  That might take some time. I might work on it later today.

Of course, we're now entering the holiday season, which comes with Obligations and shopping and whatnot. (And Feelings. Alas.)

Let's not even discuss the news/politics. Because GOOD GRAVY. So awful. Every day, some fresh new Terrible appears. It's beyond comprehension. 

December is, also, the anniversary of the Inflection Point. It's been two years now since the trajectory changed and I had to learn how to move forward in a slightly different direction. I've come a long way, and have clarity and strength that I did not realize I possessed then. There is still mental work to be done; that is the challenge. Acceptance of what cannot be changed is a slow process. I will get there someday.

All this being said, I find myself disassociating with small online games or through TikTok in my spare moments, rather than using that time to write here. I very much do not want to feel as though I am abandoning myself and this Blog, though. The Blog and I have been through so much together. I enjoy writing. I process best through writing, too. 

At the moment, however, some of the things I am processing are not things I can write about, for they involve people -- and I do not usually write about specific people, for their stories are for them to share, not for me to do so. Other people are entitled to their privacy. 

Someday, the weight of Life and the World will be lighter, and I will feel like writing about trivial things or generic stuff that I find interesting.  And that will be lovely and delightful.

Know, gentle reader, that I have not abandoned you. Or me. Or us. It's all just a bit Much.  We'll get back to ordinary life someday. 

Third Time's The... Charm?

Well.... f**k. 

Sensory OVERLOAD

Alas, I cannot update the blog much at the moment - because house repairs/updates from the flood of last year are in full swing, and HOLY MOLY the amount if noise and shuffling and weeding of possessions and all sorts of furniture and containers and belongings in places where they should not be and clutter and detritus and strangers in the house disrupting the flow of my activities and HELP ME I CAN BARELY FUNCTION. 

I have never wanted more desperately than I do now, to have a safe, quiet, calm place to Just Be. But no. 

And because of Reasons I do not want to talk about, having strangers moving family possessions around in our spaces is upsetting in a very visceral way. These are very nice people, respectful of our things, efficient and hard workers. But I still want to scream, because of Old Buried-and-now-Resurfacing... Trauma (the word, perhaps overly used in pop culture these days, seems appropriate). Beloved Husband, who has not had the experiences I have had, cannot understand. So I must power through the difficulties I am experiencing solo. 

The house will be lovely when it is done, to be sure. My nerves will be frayed. But perhaps once stillness settles over the house again, I will feel better. 

I need a nest. Or a hollowed-out tree. Or the safety of larger-than-life arms to encircle me and tell me it will all be OK (and mean it).  Arms that will not be bothered when I am twitchy or tearful or bent out of shape by the goings on. Because no matter how stoic I try to be, I can only contain so much MUCHNESS at once. 

One day at a time. 

All Squares are Rectangles (But Not All Rectangles Are Squares)

 Do you remember the expression: all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares? It's such a great turn of phrase. I like it for its literal correctness -- few things more satisfying than a specific mirror-image definition like this. 

It occurred to me today that it could also potentially be used metaphorically. (Yes, I'm slow sometimes.)  I contemplated this morning, how it could be applied. (I was doing so, to avoid thinking about current events. Because they are all horrible. THE HORROR. Ironically, it was through mulling over current events that I ultimately came up with a situation that is analogous.) It goes like this:

When someone hurts another person through actions, an apology made through words can help.  But when an injury is caused by words, an attempt to make reparations through actions is not always successful. Even when actions are intended to show remorse or repentance or a change of heart, there will always be those previous words lingering in the background, and the thought that they may resurface again. Words can only be negated by words, not by deeds. 

Perhaps only I place so much emphasis on the value and import of words. (And perhaps that is why I spend so much time trying to explain myself with a hundred billion words.) Am I alone here? Give me the words, peoples. 

But perhaps not. Surely I am not the only person horrified by the words being used in public arenas right now. When our current President says the VERY TERRIBLE things he says, so flippantly, so carelessly, it is shocking and appalling and I cannot watch because the words stick in my head and I immediately want to argue and yet I cannot, because what good would that serve? What kind of terrible timeline are we living in, that the leader of our nation spews forth such cruel and crass verbal garbage? And it's not just him, either.  But surely I am not alone in my horror. 

Could amends be made through actions at this point? No. Absolutely not. The words need to be denounced. Better words need to be put forth. Only with Good Words, can we truly move forward. 

Well, Well, Well... Wellbutrin

Herself speaks.

I've been a bit quiet, because I've been thinking about something that needed my full inner attention. Something small, and yet big. A tiny thing, and yet a Big Thing. A miniscule request, with potentially rippling consequences (some potentially negative, many potentially positive). I thought, and thought, and then decided. 

I looked out over the past six years, all the way back to The Task (since that was monumental enough to be a solid landmark in time), and then looked forward again, and made myself a list of all the Happenings in that interval that were difficult, or required some form of life adjustment or adaptation, or needed a period of time of a month (or more) to get used to/get over/come to terms with the event or change. And I stopped adding to the list after I could reliably identify twenty-five different items -- and none of them were even ordinary daily items like Work or Chronic Migraine or Ordinary Stuff. 

All of them were varying levels of Big: the loss of the Tiniest and Fiercest of Warriors, of my very fine fur friend Mr. Uncle Tio, and of the very fine New Old Dog; the Divergence; minor surgeries and medical events of various levels of annoyance; the loss of my lovely father in law, and of my lovely Daddy (which, in addition to being heartrending, also came with a new set of responsibilities, which I undertook with love to honor my Daddy); the Pandemic and how terrible People behaved, and having COVID -- twice! -- with virtually no support system to help me during that time; the Inflection Point and the arduous recovery from it; and other events of similar degrees of size and shape. 

(I have not included specific mention in the listing here, of events that belong primarily to the Offspring or to Beloved Husband, in which I was a tangential player, for those are their stories; nevertheless, I play a supporting character in their lives, and what affects them, impacts me in certain ways, too.)

As we can see, though, there has been rather a lot. 

I'm Tired. Tired through and through, to the very core of my soul.  And you can read it, too, if you look through the Blog. 

This level of Tired means that my own personal wellbeing became such a low priority, that I could see that I wasn't really taking adequate care of myself -- not finding the time to exercise, not putting in the effort to ensure I was following the best migraine-free diet, not finding activities to do that I enjoyed. Because I enjoyed nothing. There has been no joy. Only Obligation, Numbness, and marching forward, doing the things that must be done. With a little despair thrown in here and there. 

So I gathered all of this, held it all carefully in my hands, and when I went to my annual physical yesterday, said to my lovely doctor: 

Let's talk about anti-depressants, please. 

And she was ever so kind about it. 

We ran through the standard depression and anxiety questionnaires. I inwardly chuckled a bit at the depression questionnaire because the timeframe it asks about is, "In the past two weeks...." Two weeks?! Hell, I can do ANYTHING for two weeks. For two months. For two years, even. And she also asked me what the biggest stressors were, and I told her a few of the twenty-five things, and though I couldn't quite look at her when I mentioned the worst of them, it was pretty clear that what I said was somehow clearly... enough for one person to be dealing with. 

I passed (failed?) the depression questionnaire, though I have virtually no anxiety -- which does not surprise me. Things are going to happen, whether I worry about them or not; at this point, I just hitch up my pants and do what needs doing next.  We agreed on which antidepressant I should try, and it's one that is least likely to have weight gain as a side effect, since one of my side goals is to lose weight. (I probably will, if I can feel my feelings rather than eat them.) The prescription was called into the pharmacy even before the end of the visit. She gave me a hug before I left, and I felt embarrassed that someone actually cares. And her assistant told me, when she walked me to the exit, that it would get better. 

I want to believe that they were being genuine and kind. I am unused to spontaneous kindness from other people. Especially people who don't want something from me. 

It was a tough choice to decide to ask for help.  I spent a lot of time thinking about the ramifications of what it would mean to have a diagnosis of clinical depression in my medical records. Will medical professionals take me less seriously in the future? "Oh, your symptoms are because you're depressed."  Well, it's possible I'll get that. But is that any worse than "It's because you're fat"?  Because we all know that's a standard "diagnosis" for women, too. 

Maybe, with the antidepressant, I'll eventually be able to be less fat, because I'll have the wherewithal to take better care of myself. Really, that's my goal: a few store-bought neurotransmitters, to take the edge off of the level of Terrible, so I can do better for myself.  Someone needs to take care of me. I am that Someone. 

I'm trying not to look at the whole situation as a personal failure. I can only Power Through so much. When I can no longer reach my own bootstraps to power through everything, though, it's time to get some assistance. Even though I would rather chew off my own leg than ask for help, it was definitely Time. 

I debated for a long time about whether I would write here about this issue. The stigma associated with Depression is, as always, very high, and I realize it's a risk to say certain things out loud. (Though I do want to give Kudos to the younger generations for being much more open about mental health and wellness than my generation and older generations.) But perhaps, that's all the more reason to say something. 

If there's a chance that, by reading my story, you can look at your own life and say to yourself, "I have plenty of Terrible and would like something to take the edge off, too", and you can then go ask your own doctor for help, then this is a story well told. 

I will -- either literally, or metaphorically -- be there to hold your hand while you ask for help, too. 

Hand-carved Daggers, and Achilles Heels

 A bit of vagueness ahoy. 

Those who know me well, or have spent time reading here, know that I have abandonment issues. (For purposes of this conversation, let's call them The Issues.) It's not a secret, really. I acknowledge The Issues honestly with certain people very close to me, and have even pointed them out openly (though carefully) when specific situations have arisen in which I wanted to explain that I was feeling a particular way because of The Issues. 

I've been doing better in handling them. I know The Issues are around, so I know to be aware of them and take remedial action with regard to my feelings and actions when they make an appearance.

And then there was a test -- and I passed, and I didn't know I'd passed, until later.

-----

I while ago had a conversation with someone meaningful to me, who told me they'd been deliberately distancing themselves. And my biggest concern in the immediate moment, was the reasons why they had been distancing. I focused on the person's concerns and needs, and on finding some kind of path forward.  

I did not, however, panic about what -- lightbulb moment, an eternity later -- looks like a hand-carved dagger, specifically designed to target my most vulnerable spot: abandonment. 

Deliberate distance. Withdrawal. Abandonment. 

What was once my worst fear, come to life, there in person. 

And it passed me by, with hardly a blip on my radar. 

-----

I once thought the worst thing that could possibly happen to me, would be another person choosing to step away from me. And when that moment finally came, it was terrible, yes, but it was no worse than anything else.  I still needed to address the situation, to remedy what I could, to accept what I could not change, to move forward however possible. And I did, and I am still whole, and I am still me. 

What was once my Achilles Heel, is no more. 

-----

I don't know if I am glad for myself, that The Issues are not as terrible as they once were; or if I should be concerned, in that it seems that my soul on some level feels that abandonment is inevitable (and therefore not to be feared). Perhaps I am a little sad, though. I would like some promise from the Universe that someone will always be there for me -- but the Universe cannot make that Promise. 

What I can do, though, is promise my Important People that as long as I am able, I will be there for them, when they need company. 

That's my promise to you. 

Stasis

A day and a half after our trip away, Mr. Mustache... was not right. He was sitting in the corner, not eating, not hopping around as usual. 

Cue my internal panic.

I know just enough about pet rabbits to know about stasis: the GI condition where digestion slows down or stops. It can be deadly. It's always been in the back of my mind, every time one of the buns has been slow to take a snack, or hasn't attacked the lettuce pile with enthusiasm. 

I watched him for an hour.  Nope, not moving. Not good. I called the vet, and off we went.

Nearly five hours later, he'd had 170 ccs of fluid, five different meds, and we were home with additional meds, instructions for syringe feeding, and more. And for the next forty-eight hours, I dutifully plied Mustache with various syringes of various things, encouraging him to eat, mentally willing him to get better. 

(Statistics show that with early vet intervention, 70% of rabbits do survive stasis. I tried not to think about the other 30%. The very kindly vet student who had been assisting did give me a gentle warning, just in case, so I would be prepared.) 

And, mercifully, he did get better. And he got angrier and wigglier, too, as he got better, until it was nearly impossible to hold him and get a syringe into his mouth.  And then he began to nibble at his lettuce again, and his hay pile, and that's when I knew everything would be OK.

The other three rabbits were mystified at all the fuss and were fine. We have no idea why Mustache chose to have this Moment, but what a relief that it has passed. Let us hope it does not happen again. 

The rabbits are terrible pets: they consume resources, make a mess, eschew patting, and generally are aloof and un-cuddly. But I love them, and want the best for them.

Good boy, Mustache. I am glad you are better.

Memorial

Item three: while we were nearby visiting Offspring the First, Beloved Husband and I took the time to visit a few New York locations: in particular, the September 11 Memorial. 

I have always wanted to go. I feel we owe it to the people who died that day, to remember them. 

It was... even harder than I imagined. 

A locus of ghosts.

One of the first visuals is a piece of one of the original buildings, right there by the escalator leading down into the memorial. It is shocking. It brought me right back to that terrible day, twenty-three years ago, but like yesterday, fresh in its terribleness. 

It was hard to look at all of the exhibits. I went through quickly, and escaped to a bench to sit down in the quiet. Beloved Husband took far more time, digesting each bit, but I did not want to become (more) overwhelmed. 

After we looked at the exhibit inside, we went outside to the water features. They really are quite beautiful, and haunting, all at once. There's an urge to walk around the edge of each, to touch each name inscribed there, to acknowledge. To remember. You are not forgotten. 

We will always remember. 

Bonfire of the Vanities

A bonfire of the vanities (Italian: falò delle vanità) is a burning of objects condemned by religious authorities as occasions of sin.

This will be vague, because the details are not worth sharing. Yet, I think (hope) that I will feel better if I write about it. 

Once upon a time, there was a thing (an ongoing activity) that I always aspired to do. I tried very hard, I thought, to do that. And I thought that I did a good job. Despite hardships, obstacles, I continued to give it what I thought were my best efforts. I was self-satisfied. I didn't talk about my success at this effort, because it was a private effort, but I was nevertheless, secretly proud of myself. Ah, vanity. 

Pride: one of the seven deadly sins. 

Pride goes before a fall.

I learned recently that, although I thought I was being successful at doing the thing (according to my standards), I had not, in fact, met standards that were in fact critical to the job at hand. I had been painting with primarily two colors, and had been expected to paint consistently with three colors. There was an entire part of the rubric that I had not realized was important; my work-product, so to speak, was disappointingly inadequate. And had been, for ages. And I had smugly, vainly, continued to do a shoddy, incomplete and unsatisfactory job, for ages. I did not know. No one told me, until now. 

It was an earth-shattering, terrible realization. 

I have tried to move forward since then. It has been hard. Everything rings hollow. I continue to paint with my two colors, but the motions seem fruitless and insufficient now. I add the third color here and there, as I have done on occasion, and I resent that third color's importance and am bitter about my lack of knowledge about its importance before it seemed Too Late. I do not trust my own instincts any more. I am almost unbearably sad. 

Vanity number two: thinking that I was strong enough, self-sufficient enough, that nothing could break my heart. 

-----

It all seems quite melodramatic as I type it out like this. I don't mean for it to be that way. It is hard, as an adult, to move through life with so little positive feedback -- we don't get gold stars for accomplishing things any more -- and simultaneously try to tackle private failures while mustering a public brave face. 

Time heals all wounds. Or, at least, attenuates the impact of a blow enough so that we can correct our course and move forward again. 

At this point, all I really want is to feel as though I have managed to be a good human being.  A good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good sister, a good daughter. I am doing the best I can.  Will it be enough, in the end?  

My epitaph should read: I tried. 

Inflection Point

 Herself speaks.

Sometimes, there is a moment in time which turns into an Inflection Point: life's trajectory bends one way beforehand, and angles off in a different direction afterward. Such moments may be invisible -- like in the movies, when the protagonist stops to tie a shoe, and misses the fateful bus that would have crashed and cut short an otherwise long and fruitful life. Or they may be profound, as when the villain is at last defeated and the villagers can finally begin to live in peace. 

Or, the moment can be a conversation that causes reevaluation of history, as well as reassessment of how to move forward. Did I do the right things? What are the right things? Did I do all I could, given the information I had? What happens next? 

I participated in one of those conversations this past weekend. It's not (solely) my story to share, and so the details won't appear here. Still, the earth's axis has shifted ever so slightly, and I find myself just a bit uncertain as to where I am. With time, the new pathway will become clearer. In the meanwhile, I am trying to corral a multitude of Feelings run rampant. 

Perhaps I should just let them run for a bit. 

The only thing I know at the moment is: I have always done the best I can. (I think that's what everyone does, really.) And that's what I'll continue to do. 

Book

Herself speaks.

My mother asked me to clean out my lovely Daddy's files. And so I did. It was not a difficult task, but it was challenging.  I had limited time, and a lot of mental processing to do.  

There were some items I was not sure about keeping -- do I need the paperwork for the sale of the condominium a few years ago?  Let's keep that a little longer, just in case. And there were other items I knew needed to stay a while longer -- keep all tax records for a minimum of seven years, Daddy always said!  The travel documents can definitely be shredded, as he's made his last journey. Funeral bill has been paid, that can be disposed of. All done. I wish I had time to go visit his grave. 

There were other things that I wasn't at all sure about.  Credit card statements: well, I only keep mine for a year myself, and I've shut down many of the cards, so I can probably shred those.  The file of business cards and names and addresses of colleagues and such: I'll put that in my backpack and take it home, in case I ever need to reach any of those people.  Plus, it had little scraps, such as the Post-it note where he first wrote Offspring the First's cell phone number, and the tiny tug at the heart was enough to want to keep that, for now. A folder for me and for each of my siblings, with various bits and pieces of useful information -- I'll put that in my backpack too, to sort later. One more trip through the airport with my deceased father's papers in my backpack, like the nuclear football. 

One item I found, that I struggled with most: a book, in the back of a file drawer: The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich - A History of Nazi Germany. It clearly was a gift (not a book he would buy for himself), something he felt compelled to save, but could not bring himself to have out in the open with the rest of his books. A thick tome with small print. I put it in my backpack when my mother was out of the room, because it seemed like a complicated find in his files, and I did not want to discuss it. It was hidden for a reason. 

I know that it is extremely important that humanity remember how the events leading to and surrounding World War Two, Nazi Germany, and the Holocaust came to be. We need always be cognizant of the ability and willingness of people to do horrific things to other people. We need to remember, to make sure these things do not happen again. 

At the same time, the idea of even holding such a book was repellent to me. The amount of horror, destruction, fear and loss associated with the words in the book was nearly audible. What should I do with the book? What could I do? To destroy a book is a crime. Yet to keep a book like that felt like having a Holocaust-era book bound in human skin. Could I give it to someone? Leave it somewhere for someone to pick up and take home? Donate it? That would involve being in contact with it until I could find a suitable place for it. It would feel like a visible stain on my hands, to even carry it around. 

Decision made: when I got back to my hotel, I threw it away. 

I feel that I have sinned in destroying a book, but I could not bear to have it exist near me any more. 

I hope I made the right choice, Daddy. I am doing the best I can for you, and your papers, and your things.

I miss you, and your wisdom. 

Poisonous. 

Existential Crisis

Herself speaks.

I have always tried very hard to be an optimistic and positive person. I want to like people, to trust them to behave in generally benevolent ways, to have a sense of "people are inherently good".  I try to behave accordingly, using those assumptions, so that I can be an example of a tiny positive force in the world. And sometimes it works. And I enjoy being helpful, being useful. It's good. 

The problem is, though, I am caught off guard by malignant intent (or even just generally shitty behavior) by other people. It surprises me EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. And I cannot respond quickly to other people's problematic behavior, because I simply do not have the imaginative capacity to foresee most Bad Things that might happen and how I could respond. It's like a larger-scale version of interacting with an individual I know well, who occasionally says things that leave me *speechless*. I don't know how to respond to what is said sometimes because I simply CANNOT IMAGINE that anyone would say such things.  

I just do not have the brain power or ability to understand why people do what they do. And I'm discouraged that some people may not be inherently good. 

I'm more discouraged, though, by the fact that I seem to be vulnerable to unpleasant people in the world.  Because I cannot imagine All The Bad Things, I no doubt have occasionally inadvertently put myself into the position of having people take advantage of my goodwill/kindness/general desire to be helpful. Truthfully, I am probably lucky that nothing really terrible has happened. That's a somewhat depressing thing to acknowledge. 

And this is why, despite everything, I don't feel safe liking people. Because deep down I know I shouldn't trust them, and I can't trust myself to know what to do when other people behave badly. And the fact that people make me distrust myself, makes me even more angry at them. 

Imagine what a community of trustworthy people would look like.

Wouldn't that be a wonderful place to be? 

To feel safe. A rarely mentioned, yet absolutely vital, part of happiness.

Hankies and Cookies

Herself speaks.

Tomorrow, we lay my father-in-law to rest. 

I have acquired, washed and ironed a dozen embroidered hankies to give to the ladies in attendance. Everything is hard enough, without having to rely on a crumpled Kleenex tissue to get through. 

And for afterward, I have made some homemade cookies, so that we can remember that life can still be sweet. 

Holding Hands

 Herself speaks.
Quite serious today.

Hospice has been called for my lovely father-in-law. It's clear that time is short, and each second that ticks by is an exponential step toward the Unknown. His story is not mine to tell, though, and so I will tell you only my small part, which is this: 

I spent several hours today, holding his hand. 

-----

To be present in this time of need for my father-in-law, mother-in-law, Beloved Husband, and their extended family, is a privilege. To be able to offer consolation is a blessing. Sometimes, all one can do is Be There. And sometimes, having someone to Be There is the greatest joy, even in times of sorrow. 

Life is sometimes hard. Time is both very long and somehow far too short. And I will do whatever I can to ease the road ahead in times of need.

Texas

Serious topic today - abortion. You have been warned.

Texas, where the powers-that-be prohibit requiring children to wear masks in school. Texas, where the powers-that-be prohibit some of the same children -- for according to Texas Family Law, an individual under 18 years of age is a child -- from obtaining abortion services, since abortion beyond about six weeks (a time point where most individuals don't even know they are pregnant) has been outlawed. And the Supreme Court, through inaction, let the law stand. 

Abortion care is necessary health care. I won't spell out the numerous reasons, because I am too angry to do so. There are plenty of other sites that will provide those explanations. 

I don't have to explain how people become unexpectedly or unwantedly pregnant; you can easily imagine all the ways. (Especially if you are a woman -- we spend most of our lives thinking about how not to become pregnant, and a mere fraction of our lives thinking about how to actually become pregnant.)  Remember to include pregnancies due to rape, abuse, coercion. And don't forget, too, those expected or wanted pregnancies that go wrong somehow. 

I don't need to give examples of who might need an abortion, or why. Reasons are as varied as women are themselves -- economic, societal, personal; for safety, be it physical or mental; for health (or lack thereof), of woman or of fetus. So many reasons. 

No one contemplates abortion lightly. I think about all the women I know who have chosen to terminate a pregnancy, and not one was flippant or casual about the decision. It is always a serious matter. Those of us who have never found ourselves in circumstances where abortion was one of the contemplated options, can consider ourselves lucky. I know I do. 

To be able to exert control over one's body and one's biological destiny is paramount. 

Abortion in Texas has become the domain of the privileged: those who can travel, those who have funds to seek out black-market care, will still be able to do so, for a price. Can't pay? out of luck. Back alleys return. Abortion has become much more dangerous. 

I think about the fact that mine is the only generation that didn't have to potentially die not to have a baby. 

We were so fortunate. 

And for those who wondered why we mourned the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg so much: Texas is why. This is it. 

Selfies

 Herself speaks.

I posted a new hair selfie to Facebook yesterday, that showed my face in addition to the new hair style. Hairdo? Coiffure? How does one describe hair these days? A headshot, as it were. Awkward. But it was what I look like, with enough blurring and good lighting. 

I know a lot of people consider selfies to be vanity. (I have some trouble with them sometimes myself, depending on the photo) There was purpose to my posting, though: to come to terms with who I am, and how I look, at this point in my life. 

I turn 54 in a week. That's... not young. It's not old, necessarily. But it's past the bloom of youth, there is no doubt. Like many women around my age, I struggle a lot with body issues and body image issues (two very different creatures). 

On the one hand, we have perimenopause, migraines, stretch marks and scars; that extra bit of weight that it is increasingly difficult to shed; embers of desire that are slower to ignite and need patience and encouragement; small glitches in various systems that need addressing and occasional medications. On the other hand, we have fears about loss of youthfulness, invisibility of middle age, lack of desirability, worries and fears both large and small, that crowd our brains and our hearts and keep us from letting go our doubts and enjoying moments. These are commonalities of so many women like me. 

Once upon a time, when I was young and bright-eyed, with clear skin and taut flesh, I dreamed of being found attractive not just for my body (which met enough societal standards to be the target of men looking to see whether I was an easy lay), but for my intellect, my personality, my self -- for I, like all young women, was taught that men only wanted one thing. It was a fantasy to be desirable in all ways - body AND mind. 

Now in the heart of middle age, those naive dreams have been replaced by a quiet inversion. After years of working hard on who I am as a human being -- through raising other small humans, learning my own flaws, and trying hard to do better and to grow personally and professionally -- I am a bit more comfortable with who I am as an individual. Most of the time, I like who I am as a person. I know my flaws, and I know how I could do better, and I continue to try. I assume on an intellectual level that my mind is worthy of love. (Whether I am ready to accept such love is another matter, for another day's discussion.)  I'm OK. 

It's my body that I have the most trouble with. It's... not so loveable. 

This is why I took a selfie. (Or two. Or twenty. Until I found one that I could tolerate looking at for a full two seconds without cringing.) And then I posted it. So that I could acknowledge my physical form publicly -- to see myself through others' eyes, instead of just through my own. And so that I can reflect on the fact that this is me, and I am within that bodily vehicle, and that despite its difficulties, it serves me reasonably well. So perhaps, even though it isn't physically particularly alluring, it is still worthy of love anyway. 

Indian

 Herself speaks.

Back in the early 1970s when I was a youngster, we were taught about "Indians" in the most vague and benign of terms. We learned very little: snippets of how their villages were ostensibly constructed, what their clothing and jewelry looked like, what they ate. Virtually nothing about where or how they lived, their culture, their myths or creation stories or history, development of medicine or knowledge about nature or the world around us. 

I had an Indian "costume" lovingly sewn by my grandmother, depicting what we, as very white people, saw in the media; I had jewelry obtained during some travels somewhere at a roadside stand. I loved that outfit. I refused to wear tights with it, even though it was chilly, because in my mind, "real Indians wouldn't wear tights".  I had a poster of a cartoon map of an Indian village, and I spent hours wondering and imagining how people might live there, and whether they would accept me living there as well, even though I was clearly Not An Indian.

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Those were days when when we were not taught about the multiple, varied peoples native to this continent before settlers arrived; when we did not learn about the cultures destroyed, slowly or all at once; about the ways of life forever changed, the peoples slaughtered, the land stolen. The Trail of Tears. The schools where children were sent to be stripped of their culture, where many died. Unimaginable, yet true. It is hard to process the level of horror that exists in this part of our nation's history.

And yet, we have people griping about changing the name of a sports team from the Cleveland Indians to the Cleveland Guardians. Really, people? Really? Let's watch a few minutes of footage of tiny coffins being returned to survivors of decimated tribes, and then let's re-think our priorities. All of them. Take your time. Think long and hard. What is important here? 

Young me, so happy in my Indian costume, would have been stuck on the Magnitude of Terrible, if she had encountered a molecule of knowledge of this history. How could it have happened?

It did. 

Let us acknowledge the harm. Heal what we can. And resolve to do better. 

Before I knew better.

Believer

 Herself speaks.

I understand why people believe in an afterlife. 

What a beautiful idea: someday, we will once more be in the presence of those we have loved and those who have loved us, without pain, all made whole and perfect. To forgive and to be forgiven for imperfections and failings. To know that everyone already knows the things that we wanted them to know but left unsaid, either out of fear or misunderstanding, or because there were not words or actions sufficient to convey meaning. To be able to love fully and without hesitation. And to be loved unquestioningly. 

What glory that would be. And what peace. 

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I wish I could believe. 

Perhaps someday, the Universe will send me a sign. 

I like to hope so. 

She's Home

The Tiniest and Fiercest of Warriors

 Today, we say goodbye to Tiny Dog.

Tiny Dog, you have been ever vigilant, ever authoritative, since you arrived in our household in the form of a two-pound puppy. Now a sturdy five pounds of noise and ferocity and sweetness, you have protected us and amused us for ten full years. 

You have had adventures large and small -- gone for neighborhood walks and on camping trips, hiked up mountains, and battled grasshoppers. You have enjoyed all the comforts of home, burrowing in blankets (and inside our shirts with us), demanding snacks, and contentedly surveying your domain from on high on my hip in your dog carrier. You have played "fetch" with tiny tennis balls and "rip-it" with your tiny fuzzy bone. You have nibbled on the edges of all sorts of fabrics, because doing so would soothe you when you were agitated. And you have had zoomies round and round, much to our delight. 

You witnessed the graduation from high school of all three Offspring, and their launching off into college and beyond. You helped me study for the bar exam; you brought immeasurable comfort during the strange and uncertain times of the Pandemic. You have blotted many a tear and brought tremendous consolation. 

You have outlived four other canine compatriots by sheer force of will; Thorbert, Daisy, Tio, and Chico Hank are waiting for you now across the Rainbow Bridge. Go to them - I have no doubt that they will give you a warm welcome. Godspeed, Maya, my Tiny Dog, and thank you for your time with us.