Almost Pug

Herself is fond of pugs. She is not entirely sure why she is drawn to them; she just is.  I think that perhaps there is something about their enormous dark eyes and their vaguely worried expressions that calls to her.

She keeps tabs on various pug-related pages and organizations on Facebook, including several pug-specific rescues.  Late last night, one such rescue put out a message asking for pug fans in Herself's city. She responded to the call, and spoke with the Director of the pug rescue, who let her know that there were two pugs at the local animal services shelter.  He asked that she take responsibility for retrieving the two pugs from the shelter and care for them briefly until arrangements could be made for transport of the pugs to the rescue.

On the one hand, Herself was a little terrified of getting involved. Would she be able to accomplish all that was necessary at her job that morning (there were several projects that needed to get out by noontime), and still retrieve the pugs? It seemed likely, but still worrisome.  And there were a multitude of practical concerns:  did she know how to get to the shelter? Where was her portable dog crate? Did she need to bring collars and leashes? She has no pug dog food, should she get some? What if the pugs had health issues?  How should she separate them from Tiny Dog, until she knew that they were healthy and safe for interaction? 

All night long, she dreamed about fetching the pugs.

This morning, she cut her time on her elliptical trainer slightly short, so that she could fill up the car with gas and get to her employment early enough to ensure she could handle work matters before leaving to go to the shelter.  She had the telephone number of the shelter so that she could call right when they opened at 10 AM to inquire about the status of the pugs; she had her mapquest directions of the route to the shelter. 

At about twenty after nine, though, she received a message from the Director of the pug rescue, who was in direct contact with the shelter himself.  The pugs had already been retrieved. There was no need for Herself to take action.

Herself thanked him, and let him know that she would be available should the situation arise again.

__________

On the one hand, Herself was relieved that there was no need for her to determine all the final logistics of dog crates and kibble and leashes, and that she didn't need to drive to unfamiliar territory and take responsibility for a pair of small canines. 

On the other hand, she was disappointed. She has been worn down by her unmooring and changes and wistfulness about things that cannot be, as well as by family gatherings and the accompanying memories. She would have enjoyed an opportunity to be momentary savior to two humble furry lives. Heartache is eased by the wag of a tail. 

Perhaps an opportunity will arise again.  We shall see. 

You hurt and have sharp desire,
yet your presence is a healing calm.
-- Rumi, The Big Red Book

This sad pug was found in the Wikimedia Commons, 

here at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sad-pug.jpg.

Emotional Girls

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill.

"Well, obviously, she's feeling very sad, because of Cedric dying. Then I expect she's feeling confused because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, and she can't work out who she likes best.  Then she'll be feeling guilty, thinking it's an insult to Cedric's memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she'll be worrying about what everyone else might say about her if she starts going out with Harry.  And she probably can't work out what her feelings toward Harry are anyway, because he was the one who was with Cedric when Cedric died, so that's all very mixed up and painful.  Oh, and she's afraid she's going to be thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because she's been flying so badly."

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this speech, then Ron said, "One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode."

- J.K. Rowling, Order of The Phoenix

Sometimes Herself wonders what emotions are like for other people.

She knows and accepts that her feelings can be rather intense.  She has learned to ride their ebb and flow.  She considers them to be an asset; a strong sense of empathy helps her to understand -- and possibly be more able to help -- the people she encounters.  Unfortunately, though, there is no sliding scale of empathy; either she is either fully engaged, or she has shut out all feelings. For self-protection, "off" often seems to be the safest emotional position; it is, however, the most difficult tactic to use, since it stifles and denies her emotional core. Better to feel -- even pain -- than to be numb.

Sometimes Herself wonders whether the strength of her emotions is a gender-based characteristic.  Do other women feel as intensely? Perhaps they do. Herself doesn't know a sufficient number of women personally to make any kind of scientific assessment. She assumes, however, from her paltry experience that it is so. And as far as she can tell, too, men's emotions emerge very differently from women's.

Are male feelings as intense but just not as noticeable because men have been trained since they were wee little tykes to be stoic and silent and unemotional?  Or do men operate at a lower level of emotional intensity? We genuinely wonder. We do not know.

One thing we do know is that men on the whole do not deal well with the intense feelings of women.  The sight or sound of a woman in emotional distress, however mild, is oftentimes enough to send most men running for the hills. What is it about the emotions of women that is so very alarming for men?

Is the showing of female emotions an unseemly display of what must be suppressed in accordance with some mysterious Man Code? Do men perceive visible feelings as a disappointing lack of self-control by women? Does a woman's emotion make a man uncomfortable because he (thinks he) cannot, must not, allow his feelings the same freedom? Do men perceive a show of emotions as an unacceptable display of weakness?  Is it akin to seeing a wounded animal limp around on the savanna when there is a pride of lions nearby?

Do men more often, or more easily, resort to "off" as an emotional position and thereby not know what to do when someone's emotional switch is "on"?  Are strong emotions somehow seen as contagious, so that men avoid interaction with emotional individuals in order to avoid "catching" them?  Or do men worry that they have somehow caused the woman's distress, and are fearful that they will not be able to repair any damage they have caused? Does female emotion frustrate the inherent male desire to FIX things, since sometimes emotions are about things that cannot be fixed?

 Or is it all something else entirely that Herself, as a woman, will never be able to understand? We do not know.

Nevertheless, no matter how hard men try to stay away from situations in which a woman shows strong feelings, there are circumstances under which it may become unavoidable.  And so, behold, Men:  we have written instructions for you to take to survive encountering a woman's emotions.

Preface: generally speaking, unless there is blood, fire, flood, or active weaponry in the immediate vicinity, give the woman your full and undivided attention. Women will certainly understand if an imminent danger requires your heedfulness, but will be (further) wounded if you interrupt a moment when she is expressing her emotions to attend to less vital distractions. Note, too, that a few minutes of your complete attention will in all likelihood reduce the duration of an emotional storm.  Everyone wins there.

Now, the instructions:

First, acknowledge the existence of the feeling. "I can see you're really upset."  Name the feeling if you can -- "You sound really mad."  If you're wrong, she will correct you. "I'm not mad, I'm sad." (It's not likely that any initial misinterpretation of her emotion will create a further problem; under most circumstances, a woman will be grateful that you are communicating with her about her distress). Even if you do not understand the particular emotion or why it is happening at that moment, you can nevertheless legitimize it for the woman by verifying its presence. Many women have grown up hearing phrases such as, "You're overreacting" or "you shouldn't feel that way" (or "you should feel this way instead"). To affirm that her feelings are exist and are valid, whatever they may be, is tremendously empowering for a woman.

Second, provide words of reinforcement. Sometimes, a verbal statement akin to "it will be OK" is enough. Or put yourself in her shoes (I know, that's impossible -- but try) to show you understand what's bothering her:  "I'd be really angry about that too" or "that was a hurtful thing for [the person at whom she is annoyed] to say/do." If you are not sure how to be supportive, make a statement in a way that highlights the competence of the woman -- "you've got this" or "good for you for taking the higher road, that must have been difficult." If all else fails, "I'm here for you" will always be extremely helpful, as it will let her know she is not alone while she is distressed.  Knowing someone is there for her, and believes in her and encourages her, is again tremendously empowering.

An empowered woman is a brave woman.  She is a capable woman.  She has been comforted and given strength, and now she can move on to what needs to be done.

One caveat, above all:  do not attempt to provide solutions to any described problem unless you are specifically asked to do so.  Sometimes, it's not about the nail.  Truly.

This advice, when condensed, is brief enough to be scrawled upon a single sticky note to hang on the fridge among the dinosaur magnets, thusly:

1. Validate
2. Reassure
3. Do not fix.

That is all.  It's complex.  And yet simple.

One final piece of advice:  if all else fails -- or if she's upset beyond talking -- just hold her. Don't be afraid of tears; they don't last forever. And neither of you will melt.

Good luck, Men.  We know you can do this.

Today's Earworm

R.E.M. - Fall On Me.  I hope you enjoy.

Buy the sky and sell the sky
And lift your arms up to the sky
And ask the sky, and ask the sky
Fall on me (what is it up in the air for)
Fall on me (if it's there for long)
Fall on me (it's over, it's over me)

Face

Herself is still processing the recent trip.  It was a family reunion, full of all the wonderful and difficult moments associated with collecting a disparate assortment of individuals linked solely by the fragile and yet enduring bond of DNA. It was good, and it was tricky, and it was full of memories that were vaguely embarrassing, slightly wistful, and occasionally surprisingly sweet.

Herself finds these gatherings to be draining.  She must put on her sociable face and spend far more time than to which she's accustomed making small talk with people whom she has not seen for quite some time (ranging from a few years to a few decades, in this case).  She tried hard to do and to say all the right things.  Did she do enough?

She put on a brave face when asked about her employment and talked about her recent unmooring, providing a positive spin on what has actually been a difficult time for her.  She kept an eye on the Offspring to ensure that they were not cornered by any particular relatives for too long.  She tried to soothe the ruffled feathers of those who were disappointed to discover they were not the center of attention at the dinner table. She tried to interact with the nephews and nieces in a quiet and peaceful way so that they were not overwhelmed by another unfamiliar face. She listened to the elderly widower reminisce about his lovely wife, and noted how he still referred to "we" when talking about the home in which he now lives alone.

They all needed a moment to say what was in their heads and their hearts; the best she can do, always, is listen fully and attentively.

When things were strained, she mollified and pacified and cajoled.  She tried to ask thoughtful questions and tend to the needs of others.  Even when she realized that she was exhausted and needed to go recuperate alone in a quiet space, she could not retreat for long; social rules required her participation. She drew strength from her Offspring, who were charming and conversational, and she found joy in seeing how kind and thoughtful they have become. The Offspring are Good People.  They warm her heart.

Herself looked at the newly-found pictures of her beautiful aunt who has been gone for over thirty years (how can it be so long?), and remembered the shy admiration she always felt in her aunt's presence.  She realized that she never knew -- until she saw the photograph -- that her paternal grandmother played the violin.  Such a remarkable woman, grandmother was; never did an unkind word leave her grandmother's lips.

Even though the pictures were black-and-white, Herself could readily bring to mind the bright clear blue of her grandfather's eyes. Shaina maideleh, he would call Herself as he briefly cradled her chin, and in that moment, Herself's unkempt braids and crooked teeth and spattering of freckles did not matter, because she knew he found her pretty, even when she did not understand his words.

All the tiny details, still so crystal clear after all this time.

She realized how much her own Offspring look like the grainy old pictures of their ancestors.  Do they feel a kinship with their kin?

Herself is now back in the safety of her own house, and yet the busy pace of daily life continues.  She has had precious few moments to digest and absorb the whirlwind of the trip. She is in need of a long walk, some quiet contemplation, and a bit of time with her Safe People.  Only then can she put on her Self Face, and let go.

Underneath my outside face
There's a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole lot more like me.
~ Shel Silverstein

Midstream

Such a lovely painting of words.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Grandma's Teacup

Both of Herself's grandmothers were fond of tea.  This weekend, she was given a teacup that once belonged to her paternal grandmother.  It is lovely.

Grandma's Chickens

As we have mentioned before, Herself's maternal grandmother was a marvelous seamstress.  In addition to fashioning the much-loved goose, she also made a flock of three chickens -- two in floral patterns, and one in a rich brown fuzzy fabric.  Herself is extraordinarily fond of the chickens. (She has always had a certain affinity for chickens. Perhaps that stems from her very beginning:  when she was a newborn, at a wee bit under 5 pounds, her parents observed that she was no bigger than a rather puny chicken, and so, she was nicknamed "Miss Chicken" for quite some time.)

Herself's mother allowed Herself to bring the chickens home this weekend.  Herself is very pleased to have them.