Because I have had so much trouble getting this blogger platform to do what I want it to do, and so many of you have been unable to post your comments, I decided to move. My new blog is now cedartreemarathon.wordpress.com
I hope you can take yourself off the followers list at this website and follow me there.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Gone But Not Forgotten
Got a call from my sister today. I'll call her Betsy. Why Betsy? Well, it's a rather old-fashioned name in my mind. And my sister is stuck in some old fashioned world that is far away from mine. She is schizophrenic. The gene is strong in our family. My mom, my sister, my cousin, probably an uncle.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Summer Time And The Livin' Is Easy
This is the day my daughter, Mosey, gets to switch back from the Incredible Hulk to a sweet, likable teenage girl. School is out today. Yearbook signing, paying lost book fees, shouting "woohoo!," all those things are being repeated in school hallways around the city. I'm doing my own little woohoo too. Mosey dreads school. She will not say that. If you ask her she will tell you school is fine, but for the last three months she has been late almost every single day. There is a reason for that.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
One more year and Mosey is out of the public school system. Yes, I look forward to that day more than she does I think. In the meantime sweet summer is here. Mosey has a job she loves and NO pressure. Under these circumstances, a delightful young woman emerges. She has a sense of humor and energy to do things. She is good company, talkative, cooperative, patient. Last spring, a mom - daughter weekend trip away from all the pressure of school gave me a glimpse of this exceptional young lady. I'm glad she'll be back. I'm hoping the peaceful, laid back mom will be hanging out too. Good times.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Advantages of Being Disorderly
I had a lot to do today.
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
So what's my point? I guess my point is that although I am now in an anxious state about all the things I didn't do, the friend that I spoke with on the phone is doing better, my dog is happy, the woman in my ward who asked for my help will get her internet list of cars for sale, and because I blogged I will be more content, having exercised my writing muscles today.So it's all right to give myself a little Pooh Bear pat and say ta-ta to the guilt. The unexpected and fulfilling things took priority, and for me, that's usually how it goes.(tiddley-pom)
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Just When You Thought It Was Safe
That's why I stopped and took a good look this morning when I noticed a circle of birds gathered on the lawn of a house a few blocks away. I was walking the dog and saw at least a hundred birds in a clump, cooing, and pecking at the ground. I took a firmer grip on the leash because my dog loves to chase birds. I thought she would try to dart across the street to their position the minute she noticed them, but she was oblivious, busy smelling some dog smell on our side of the road.
I couldn't resist however. This was really weird. Why were there so many birds in one place? I crossed the street, staying far away enough so that they wouldn't scatter at my presence. I talked to my dog and told her we had to stay back, but she made no attempt to go over to them. That was very strange too. Then I noticed another creepy thing. There were birds sitting on the roof, lined up on the edge, just like in the movie. And there were also some on the porch, perched along the railing.
I thought about walking close enough to see if they would startle and fly away, but I decided to leave the scene undisturbed. Somebody probably dropped a loaf of bread and a dog scattered it on the lawn, or a child wanted to see if she could lure a flock in with some unexpected treat. That's probably all it was, right? Right?
It's so interesting how something so harmless can be made to appear evil through film, editing, and music. Hollywood has even made inanimate objects, like cars, suspect. I mean don't ever name your car Christine.
When I was in school, I made a short film for my beginning filmmaking class that used the same type of story, only the evil lurking behind the seemingly benign was in the form of a therapist. (I 'll let you decide for yourself whether you think there could be a grain of truth to that one.) When I replace my ancient computer with a brand new Imac that has a DVD player, I'll post it.
In the meantime, watch out for those things you consider most harmless. Keep an eye on the family cat, cicadas, potholders, cans of tuna. You never know when they can turn on you. :)
Monday, May 30, 2011
BluTang On His Birthday
Yesterday was my son's birthday. I'll call him BluTang because he's a big fan of Wu Tang Clan, and has a very strong melancholy side to him. Blutang loves rap, but has a sense of humor about it. He loves to sing some of the more ridiculous lyrics from the genre. I never listen to any of it on the radio, so my first exposure to all rap hits are through BluTang's renditions. If I happen to hear the real version I'm usually disappointed. Blutang is way better. If all rap music were translated through him, I'd love it. Lyrics so stupid and serious, are thrown out with a deadly dry humor that is irresistable. I swear when I am taking my last breaths, I'm going to call BluTang to my bedside and say, "sing 'Cash Rules Everything Around Me' again."
So BluTang turned 22 yesterday. The day before, we took him to lunch, and then, last night, had dinner at grandma and grandpa's house. BluTang was a good sport. He endured an hour of Mexican Train before he and his girlfriend took off. His girlfriend, (I'll call her, Idina, because my daughter thinks she looks like Idina Menzel, the Broadway star) is very competitive and was getting into the game a little. Likable girl this, Idina. I'm glad BluTang has someone like her in his life. Very glad.
When BluTang's birthday rolls around each year, I do the obnoxious mother thing and recite all the stories about him from his childhood. It drives him crazy I'm sure, but I'm hoping that as irritating as it is, it will help him remember those days, and send a strong message that he is, and always has been loved.
Sometimes Blutang breaks my heart because he doesn't know how really good and smart he is. He has grown out of the overwhelming shyness he had as a child, but I see a look in his eyes now and again--the one that is still searching for a weighty, solid sense that he is worthwhile. I believe he is gaining on that realization, although it does its best to stay just out of his reach.
Blutang has some holes that he has to dig himself out of right now. But I see the shovel flying. I'm hoping that the next step is to build a big beautiful structure, one that he can design, and put together from the ground up, one brick at a time. He has so many things going for him, including liking the movie, Annie Hall, like his mom, and loving to hike in the wilderness like his dad. But most of the amazing qualities in Blutang are his own in every way.
BluTang's big brown eyes have always held a secret knowing of something. Even at 6 months old, as he stared down the ridiculously solemn judge at his adoption proceeding, it was obvious to everyone in the room that BluTang was going to touch some hearts. The court clerks smiled and tried to stifle giggles while they watched BluTang zero in on the judge with a wide-eyed gaze that was not going to break until there was some kind of connection. BluTang was peaceful, but unwilling to look any other place but into the face of the man in the robe. Finally, the judge couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't maintain his distant attitude. He smiled. BluTang won.
I hope he keeps winning.
So BluTang turned 22 yesterday. The day before, we took him to lunch, and then, last night, had dinner at grandma and grandpa's house. BluTang was a good sport. He endured an hour of Mexican Train before he and his girlfriend took off. His girlfriend, (I'll call her, Idina, because my daughter thinks she looks like Idina Menzel, the Broadway star) is very competitive and was getting into the game a little. Likable girl this, Idina. I'm glad BluTang has someone like her in his life. Very glad.
When BluTang's birthday rolls around each year, I do the obnoxious mother thing and recite all the stories about him from his childhood. It drives him crazy I'm sure, but I'm hoping that as irritating as it is, it will help him remember those days, and send a strong message that he is, and always has been loved.
Sometimes Blutang breaks my heart because he doesn't know how really good and smart he is. He has grown out of the overwhelming shyness he had as a child, but I see a look in his eyes now and again--the one that is still searching for a weighty, solid sense that he is worthwhile. I believe he is gaining on that realization, although it does its best to stay just out of his reach.
Blutang has some holes that he has to dig himself out of right now. But I see the shovel flying. I'm hoping that the next step is to build a big beautiful structure, one that he can design, and put together from the ground up, one brick at a time. He has so many things going for him, including liking the movie, Annie Hall, like his mom, and loving to hike in the wilderness like his dad. But most of the amazing qualities in Blutang are his own in every way.
BluTang's big brown eyes have always held a secret knowing of something. Even at 6 months old, as he stared down the ridiculously solemn judge at his adoption proceeding, it was obvious to everyone in the room that BluTang was going to touch some hearts. The court clerks smiled and tried to stifle giggles while they watched BluTang zero in on the judge with a wide-eyed gaze that was not going to break until there was some kind of connection. BluTang was peaceful, but unwilling to look any other place but into the face of the man in the robe. Finally, the judge couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't maintain his distant attitude. He smiled. BluTang won.
I hope he keeps winning.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Blood Lessons
I went to the temple last night. I picked up a friend and met JJ for the 7pm session. For those unfamiliar with LDS temples, they are sacred places set aside for worship, and for making covenants with the Lord. We also do baptisms, and other ordinances, by proxy, for the dead inside of temples. If that sounds unfamiliar, check out 1 Corinthians 15:29.
In order to go inside and participate in an LDS temple you have to be a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter-day Saints. You also need to meet certain standards such as faith in Christ, honesty, fidelity in marriage, etc. It is the house of the Lord, so keeping it pure and holy is paramount. Of course, none of us is perfect, but those who are sincere in their efforts to obey God's word, and seek to apply the atonement of Christ in their lives daily, can enter. The temple is a place for Latter-day Saints who are trying their best, and asking God to make up the difference.
When you go to the temple you change into white clothing. The white is to symbolize the purity of Christ and the purity that can be attained through relying on His atonement. Street clothing, and fashion are left behind. Inside temple walls; we become followers of Christ instead of shoppers of clothes. No one knows if you are a banker, a secretary, a food stamp recipient. Removing the trappings of the outside world takes away all those labels and restores spiritual perspective. We meet there as children of God, worshippers, humble servants.
Last night in the temple I had a rather unexpected object lesson about my reliance on Jesus Christ. As I sat in my white dress waiting to move into another room. I did something really dumb. It was one of those things that you do even while having a fleeting thought that maybe you shouldn't. I rubbed my hand against my opposite elbow and felt a tiny little scab underneath my dress. It was a scab that I didn't know was there. It wasn't even a quarter of an inch, but there it was presenting itself to me. "Surprise! Hey, here I am. Pick me, pick me!! Come on, I'm so little. Just get rid of me." It did cross my mind that it could bleed, but it was so small and harmless, and there was that overwhelming desire to PICK. So, I did.
I'm sure you can guess. After a quick little scrape of my fingernail, the scab came off, and my mind went on to others things. I forgot about it-- until we started walking down the hall. My friend suddenly stopped me and asked, "Are you bleeding?" Yup, there it was, a bright red spot of blood about an inch wide. As we moved into the Garden Room I showed JJ, and looked at him with wide-eyed expression of "Now what do I do?" He just smiled and said, "I'm sure you'll survive."
So I went ahead with the temple session. I knew the wound was minuscule. Hopefully, not a lot more blood would be pouring out. The thing that was upsetting to me was that there I was, in the temple, in the midst of everyone dressed so beautifully in white, with a horrid. red blotch of blood on my dress. I could keep my arm low and hide it, but we would be getting up again, moving around. Surely everyone would see, and wonder why I would come to the temple with an ugly stain.
I sat with my hand covering the spot, and awkwardly kept it there when we walked to the next room. Finally, my friend asked me, in a whisper, "Do want a safety pin?" She took my sleeve, doubled the material over the stain, and pinned it. It looked little strange, but was hardly noticeable compared the scarlet circle it was covering.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and let myself relax. I could go home later, put some stain remover on, and maybe it would come out. In the meantime, it was hidden. That's what we try to do with our shame. I'm not talking about illegitimate shame that we sometimes carry from difficult childhoods. No I mean the that stuff that clings to us when we screw up and we know it. We do anything to hide it. We awkwardly, childishly, contort ourselves to cover it up. We don't want anyone to see. We know we are not pure or clean. And the longer we try and hide it, the more anxious we become. Instead of focusing on what's before us, we are focusing on the very thing we are trying to hide.
As I sat in God's house with a big old stain, it felt disrespectful. However, no one was scolding me, giving me dirty looks. The discomfort was within me. Why didn't I just leave the scab alone?. I could have waited. I could have resisted, but I didn't. I did the thoughtless, impulsive thing to do. It was just a small thing, with no ill intentions, but still it bled, and as much as I wanted to be clean like the others in the room, I wasn't. Are the parallels here not obvious?
Thank goodness for a Savior. Thank goodness for His power to wash our stains away. So ironic, so intensely astounding is the fact that He has done it with His own blood. Should it really surprise me this lesson was taught in His Holy House? While I sat in my shame, the realization came that He has done all things for me, for you. He can lift us out of the mortal struggle if we look up and see His outstretched hand. I will go back to the temple next time, with my dress crisp and white.
In order to go inside and participate in an LDS temple you have to be a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter-day Saints. You also need to meet certain standards such as faith in Christ, honesty, fidelity in marriage, etc. It is the house of the Lord, so keeping it pure and holy is paramount. Of course, none of us is perfect, but those who are sincere in their efforts to obey God's word, and seek to apply the atonement of Christ in their lives daily, can enter. The temple is a place for Latter-day Saints who are trying their best, and asking God to make up the difference.
When you go to the temple you change into white clothing. The white is to symbolize the purity of Christ and the purity that can be attained through relying on His atonement. Street clothing, and fashion are left behind. Inside temple walls; we become followers of Christ instead of shoppers of clothes. No one knows if you are a banker, a secretary, a food stamp recipient. Removing the trappings of the outside world takes away all those labels and restores spiritual perspective. We meet there as children of God, worshippers, humble servants.
Last night in the temple I had a rather unexpected object lesson about my reliance on Jesus Christ. As I sat in my white dress waiting to move into another room. I did something really dumb. It was one of those things that you do even while having a fleeting thought that maybe you shouldn't. I rubbed my hand against my opposite elbow and felt a tiny little scab underneath my dress. It was a scab that I didn't know was there. It wasn't even a quarter of an inch, but there it was presenting itself to me. "Surprise! Hey, here I am. Pick me, pick me!! Come on, I'm so little. Just get rid of me." It did cross my mind that it could bleed, but it was so small and harmless, and there was that overwhelming desire to PICK. So, I did.
I'm sure you can guess. After a quick little scrape of my fingernail, the scab came off, and my mind went on to others things. I forgot about it-- until we started walking down the hall. My friend suddenly stopped me and asked, "Are you bleeding?" Yup, there it was, a bright red spot of blood about an inch wide. As we moved into the Garden Room I showed JJ, and looked at him with wide-eyed expression of "Now what do I do?" He just smiled and said, "I'm sure you'll survive."
So I went ahead with the temple session. I knew the wound was minuscule. Hopefully, not a lot more blood would be pouring out. The thing that was upsetting to me was that there I was, in the temple, in the midst of everyone dressed so beautifully in white, with a horrid. red blotch of blood on my dress. I could keep my arm low and hide it, but we would be getting up again, moving around. Surely everyone would see, and wonder why I would come to the temple with an ugly stain.
I sat with my hand covering the spot, and awkwardly kept it there when we walked to the next room. Finally, my friend asked me, in a whisper, "Do want a safety pin?" She took my sleeve, doubled the material over the stain, and pinned it. It looked little strange, but was hardly noticeable compared the scarlet circle it was covering.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and let myself relax. I could go home later, put some stain remover on, and maybe it would come out. In the meantime, it was hidden. That's what we try to do with our shame. I'm not talking about illegitimate shame that we sometimes carry from difficult childhoods. No I mean the that stuff that clings to us when we screw up and we know it. We do anything to hide it. We awkwardly, childishly, contort ourselves to cover it up. We don't want anyone to see. We know we are not pure or clean. And the longer we try and hide it, the more anxious we become. Instead of focusing on what's before us, we are focusing on the very thing we are trying to hide.
As I sat in God's house with a big old stain, it felt disrespectful. However, no one was scolding me, giving me dirty looks. The discomfort was within me. Why didn't I just leave the scab alone?. I could have waited. I could have resisted, but I didn't. I did the thoughtless, impulsive thing to do. It was just a small thing, with no ill intentions, but still it bled, and as much as I wanted to be clean like the others in the room, I wasn't. Are the parallels here not obvious?
Thank goodness for a Savior. Thank goodness for His power to wash our stains away. So ironic, so intensely astounding is the fact that He has done it with His own blood. Should it really surprise me this lesson was taught in His Holy House? While I sat in my shame, the realization came that He has done all things for me, for you. He can lift us out of the mortal struggle if we look up and see His outstretched hand. I will go back to the temple next time, with my dress crisp and white.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Do I Want to "Toe" The Line?
Had a job interview today at a charter school. I'm applying to be a teacher's aide, or an instructor, as they call it at the American Preparatory Academy. I know the interviewer liked me. I think I will be offered a job. But the big question is, do I want it?
This school is different. In the lower grades, everything is taught by script. The teachers, and aides, use them in the classroom and in smaller groups. There is repetition and choral response. We were taken to observe classes. We saw the adults holding their well worn books that give them all the words to say. They poured out information in a singsong way. The pace was brisk, and what happened, happened as a group. I can see how this helps kids to remember. I can see how it keeps them engaged.
I asked a lot of questions, of course. Here are some of the answers. This method has existed since the 1960's. Many schools rejected it because it didn't allow enough creativity on the part of the teacher. (Kids either, I suppose.) It was developed by brain scientists who came up with a very structured, but apparently successful, way for kids to learn and retain information. Only about 10 percent of the communication between the students and teacher in the classroom is unscripted and relationship oriented.
I can see how the constant interaction through choral repetition keeps the kids focused, but only 10% unscripted interpersonal interaction? That kind of blows my mind.
I am an actor. I am a teacher. Could I pick up the script and be full of energy? Could I engage the kids? Yes and yes. But what about the kids who come to school from a home where dad just beat up mom, or there is no food, or a divorce is in the works? Does a content oriented approach to education really serve them? Will being in an environment where the top priority is that they learn content, allow them to feel emotionally safe? Will it give students the time they need to learn about relationships and how to play and get along with kids and other adults? On the other hand, does it engage them so well that they forget their problems and really learn? Is it a good way to distract them from their worries so they can grow in their abilities?
I like aspects of the approach, but it seems so unbalanced. It was made very clear to me that getting the content into the heads of the children was THE focus of the school. It is the priority. I feel queasy about the whole thing, but I also hate to turn down a job. And I want to be open minded.
I was able to watch a group of kindergarteners rehearse their end-of-year program. They stood in a line and recited nursery rhymes. Two kids, who happened to be the only black children in the class, barely participated. They stood with their hands in their pockets most of the time. Why?
I asked the interviewer how kids who were having a bad day were handled if the teacher was constantly engaging the group as whole. They are taken out and helped, or dealt, with by him, he said. And he would give the teacher and aide, any known information ahead of time, about a child who has an issue that might interfere with their learning. Then they could adjust their expectations.That sounds a bit unrealistic to me.
I think the thing that bothered me the most was the fact that the nursery rhyme program was pretty boring. The aide seemed stressed and was VERY concerned that the line was straight. She prompted them to put their toes on the edge of the step. Nothing wrong with that, except she obviously was very, very invested in making sure that EVERYONE was doing exactly what they were supposed to do toe-wise. Can you really enjoy kids when all you are looking at are their toes?
I'll give it a day or two to think this over, but I already have a pretty good idea about whether I will accept an offer.
This school is different. In the lower grades, everything is taught by script. The teachers, and aides, use them in the classroom and in smaller groups. There is repetition and choral response. We were taken to observe classes. We saw the adults holding their well worn books that give them all the words to say. They poured out information in a singsong way. The pace was brisk, and what happened, happened as a group. I can see how this helps kids to remember. I can see how it keeps them engaged.
I asked a lot of questions, of course. Here are some of the answers. This method has existed since the 1960's. Many schools rejected it because it didn't allow enough creativity on the part of the teacher. (Kids either, I suppose.) It was developed by brain scientists who came up with a very structured, but apparently successful, way for kids to learn and retain information. Only about 10 percent of the communication between the students and teacher in the classroom is unscripted and relationship oriented.
I can see how the constant interaction through choral repetition keeps the kids focused, but only 10% unscripted interpersonal interaction? That kind of blows my mind.
I am an actor. I am a teacher. Could I pick up the script and be full of energy? Could I engage the kids? Yes and yes. But what about the kids who come to school from a home where dad just beat up mom, or there is no food, or a divorce is in the works? Does a content oriented approach to education really serve them? Will being in an environment where the top priority is that they learn content, allow them to feel emotionally safe? Will it give students the time they need to learn about relationships and how to play and get along with kids and other adults? On the other hand, does it engage them so well that they forget their problems and really learn? Is it a good way to distract them from their worries so they can grow in their abilities?
I like aspects of the approach, but it seems so unbalanced. It was made very clear to me that getting the content into the heads of the children was THE focus of the school. It is the priority. I feel queasy about the whole thing, but I also hate to turn down a job. And I want to be open minded.
I was able to watch a group of kindergarteners rehearse their end-of-year program. They stood in a line and recited nursery rhymes. Two kids, who happened to be the only black children in the class, barely participated. They stood with their hands in their pockets most of the time. Why?
I asked the interviewer how kids who were having a bad day were handled if the teacher was constantly engaging the group as whole. They are taken out and helped, or dealt, with by him, he said. And he would give the teacher and aide, any known information ahead of time, about a child who has an issue that might interfere with their learning. Then they could adjust their expectations.That sounds a bit unrealistic to me.
I think the thing that bothered me the most was the fact that the nursery rhyme program was pretty boring. The aide seemed stressed and was VERY concerned that the line was straight. She prompted them to put their toes on the edge of the step. Nothing wrong with that, except she obviously was very, very invested in making sure that EVERYONE was doing exactly what they were supposed to do toe-wise. Can you really enjoy kids when all you are looking at are their toes?
I'll give it a day or two to think this over, but I already have a pretty good idea about whether I will accept an offer.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Helpless
Wouldn't it be nice if music accompanied us through every scene of our lives the way it does on TV? Yesterday I called the Corrections Department here in order to ask about a known sex offender who has gotten out of prison and is living with a family in my neighborhood. Also living there are two kids, ages 4 and 6.
This whole situation has been a mess long before the sex offender showed up. The woman who lives there let her son, daughter-in-law, and kids move in years ago. She supports them since they aren't working, for reasons that seem a bit of a stretch. Her partner, husband (I'm not really sure) doesn't want the anyone else there, and is trying to evict the son and family. So what does he do? He lets his recently released ex-con brother move in. I found out about the sex offender part on a visit, when the woman walked me outside and told me in whispered tones that she doesn't want him there. Are you kidding me? Why is everybody whispering. Get him the hell out!!!
You would think that this turn of events would cause some sort of reaction, some sort of move on somebody's part, but no. They are all just staying put. So I called to see if this sex offender person is violating parole or breaking a rule. Guess what? He isn't . I was informed that he is no longer under any restrictions, and any authority they had over him has expired. So that is why I wish we had that background music playing in our lives. Anytime this guy approached a child, there would be an ominous tone. It would be unmistakable. People would hear the deep, eerie strains, grab their children and run.
The crazy part is, that this family have those deep, eerie strains sounding in their ears all day long. They know the risk here. They know that this is absolutely dangerous and wrong, but they do nothing. And after having gone to the authorities myself, guess what? They are doing nothing.
All I can hope for is vigilance on the part of those parents. If they don't have the sense to get out, then I hope they have the sense to never leave the side of those children. But I imagine they don't sleep with their kids. How could you even close your eyes at night? I realize that they probably have no place to go, but if it were me, I'd get creative real fast. I'd do what I had to do to keep my kids safe.
This is one of those situations that is horribly, horribly wrong, and I don't understand why there isn't some sort of law that protects these kids, some sort of restriction that disallows sex offenders, whose crimes involve children, from coming within 20 feet of them EVER There is no law against stupidity either. So the man who let his brother move in is free to do it. And the others are free to stay in this dark and awful mess.
How does Heavenly Father stand it? Seeing all the evil in the world. My gut is in knots.
This whole situation has been a mess long before the sex offender showed up. The woman who lives there let her son, daughter-in-law, and kids move in years ago. She supports them since they aren't working, for reasons that seem a bit of a stretch. Her partner, husband (I'm not really sure) doesn't want the anyone else there, and is trying to evict the son and family. So what does he do? He lets his recently released ex-con brother move in. I found out about the sex offender part on a visit, when the woman walked me outside and told me in whispered tones that she doesn't want him there. Are you kidding me? Why is everybody whispering. Get him the hell out!!!
You would think that this turn of events would cause some sort of reaction, some sort of move on somebody's part, but no. They are all just staying put. So I called to see if this sex offender person is violating parole or breaking a rule. Guess what? He isn't . I was informed that he is no longer under any restrictions, and any authority they had over him has expired. So that is why I wish we had that background music playing in our lives. Anytime this guy approached a child, there would be an ominous tone. It would be unmistakable. People would hear the deep, eerie strains, grab their children and run.
The crazy part is, that this family have those deep, eerie strains sounding in their ears all day long. They know the risk here. They know that this is absolutely dangerous and wrong, but they do nothing. And after having gone to the authorities myself, guess what? They are doing nothing.
All I can hope for is vigilance on the part of those parents. If they don't have the sense to get out, then I hope they have the sense to never leave the side of those children. But I imagine they don't sleep with their kids. How could you even close your eyes at night? I realize that they probably have no place to go, but if it were me, I'd get creative real fast. I'd do what I had to do to keep my kids safe.
This is one of those situations that is horribly, horribly wrong, and I don't understand why there isn't some sort of law that protects these kids, some sort of restriction that disallows sex offenders, whose crimes involve children, from coming within 20 feet of them EVER There is no law against stupidity either. So the man who let his brother move in is free to do it. And the others are free to stay in this dark and awful mess.
How does Heavenly Father stand it? Seeing all the evil in the world. My gut is in knots.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Bad Parent Day
You know those mornings when your hair won't go the direction you want it to? Well, today, my parenting ability to think, be patient, and know what the hell I'm doing, has a huge cowlic in it. I wish I could just take out that flat iron and straighten everything up. It's late afternoon, and I feel like I am swimming around in a big stewpot of tension. Instead of carrots and potatoes next to me, I have stress, stress, stress. I could really go on and write that word several more times, fill up the page even.
Today I am failing at motherhood. I'm just not in the place where I can be rational, pleasant, thoughtful. I'm more in the areas of easily triggered, frustrated, and about ready to snap in two.
I need to make some changes. I am not good at making the changes. I feel guilty that I'm not good at making those changes. Feeling guilty tends to make me run away from God and not consult Him. It can only go downhill from there.
So I am stopping to write about this. I am forcing myself to look in the mirror and say, CedarTree, ask God for help--RIGHT NOW!
Ok that's better. That's a start. Oh yup, yup, there's that Serenity Prayer popping into my mind.
And there is that little chill that lets me take a deep breath. And there is the thought of taking another deep breath, and another. I have been trying to decide which book to buy on the topic of Mindfulness. I know mindfulness is a powerful thing. I know that Dr. Dan Siegal has created a whole new area of study with the brain and mindfulness and interpersonal neurobiology. He has also helped a lot of people who struggle, which means even the most contracted soul can soften and change shape. As hard as it seems I can do better. I can do this. I can find my way down the path of change, and find the strength and patience that I currently lack.
I can let myself feel and learn and cry, and tomorrow will be different, and maybe even better. In the meantime, I'm asking God to take over.
Today I am failing at motherhood. I'm just not in the place where I can be rational, pleasant, thoughtful. I'm more in the areas of easily triggered, frustrated, and about ready to snap in two.
I need to make some changes. I am not good at making the changes. I feel guilty that I'm not good at making those changes. Feeling guilty tends to make me run away from God and not consult Him. It can only go downhill from there.
So I am stopping to write about this. I am forcing myself to look in the mirror and say, CedarTree, ask God for help--RIGHT NOW!
Ok that's better. That's a start. Oh yup, yup, there's that Serenity Prayer popping into my mind.
And there is that little chill that lets me take a deep breath. And there is the thought of taking another deep breath, and another. I have been trying to decide which book to buy on the topic of Mindfulness. I know mindfulness is a powerful thing. I know that Dr. Dan Siegal has created a whole new area of study with the brain and mindfulness and interpersonal neurobiology. He has also helped a lot of people who struggle, which means even the most contracted soul can soften and change shape. As hard as it seems I can do better. I can do this. I can find my way down the path of change, and find the strength and patience that I currently lack.
I can let myself feel and learn and cry, and tomorrow will be different, and maybe even better. In the meantime, I'm asking God to take over.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Just Have To Say Thank You
You know that feeling when you figure something out? When you finally see a way off that cliff that keeps you from moving on in your journey? It feels so good. You notice a path. You get a new piece of information--everything makes sense. You have spotted yourself on the map, and there's a marker saying, ok, this is where you are; you're not lost anymore.
That happened yesterday when I went to Barnes and Noble with the gift card I got for my birthday. Walking in to a bookstore with 25 dollars to spend is heaven for me. I wander, taking on each section, noting the books that give me a little "oh yes" feeling when I see them on the shelf. But then I have to circle back around, look again, figure out which ones I would be content to to check out from the library, and which ones I would like to have lying around the house permanently so I can pick them up and find that quote I love so much.
Yesterday I looked in the History section, the New Paperbacks Section, and the Writing Section. There was a book my sister recommended, "How To Write a Sentence" by Stanley Fish.Yes, I want it. Yes, it's a keeper, but I had to let it go, because on my trip through the Psychology Section I found a book called Stop Walking On EggShells that gave a perfect description of a certain situation I have in my life. I skimmed. I felt a tug, a rather strong one, an emotional response that told me that this here book could be really, really GOOD! So I bought it and spent the afternoon in my bed with this genie in a bottle, appearing with each turn of the page, ready to grant me my most important wish--the answer to the question of how to deal with a very confounding relationship in my life.
No it's not my relationship with JJ. It doesn't really matter who it is for the purpose of this blog. What matters is that the smallest things, like getting a Barnes and Noble gift card for your birthday, can lead to the most amazing breakthroughs. Was this random? Was it God guiding my path when I didn't even know it? Whichever it was, I think it calls for a prayer of thanks, an acknowledgment that there are answers to what seems to be impossible situations. God is truth, and so He most surely has something to do with every light bulb moment. So today I stare out my window with my heart a little more open, my hope re-kindled. I'm not alone with my problems, and the map I need to find that hidden treasure just became a little clearer.
That happened yesterday when I went to Barnes and Noble with the gift card I got for my birthday. Walking in to a bookstore with 25 dollars to spend is heaven for me. I wander, taking on each section, noting the books that give me a little "oh yes" feeling when I see them on the shelf. But then I have to circle back around, look again, figure out which ones I would be content to to check out from the library, and which ones I would like to have lying around the house permanently so I can pick them up and find that quote I love so much.
Yesterday I looked in the History section, the New Paperbacks Section, and the Writing Section. There was a book my sister recommended, "How To Write a Sentence" by Stanley Fish.Yes, I want it. Yes, it's a keeper, but I had to let it go, because on my trip through the Psychology Section I found a book called Stop Walking On EggShells that gave a perfect description of a certain situation I have in my life. I skimmed. I felt a tug, a rather strong one, an emotional response that told me that this here book could be really, really GOOD! So I bought it and spent the afternoon in my bed with this genie in a bottle, appearing with each turn of the page, ready to grant me my most important wish--the answer to the question of how to deal with a very confounding relationship in my life.
No it's not my relationship with JJ. It doesn't really matter who it is for the purpose of this blog. What matters is that the smallest things, like getting a Barnes and Noble gift card for your birthday, can lead to the most amazing breakthroughs. Was this random? Was it God guiding my path when I didn't even know it? Whichever it was, I think it calls for a prayer of thanks, an acknowledgment that there are answers to what seems to be impossible situations. God is truth, and so He most surely has something to do with every light bulb moment. So today I stare out my window with my heart a little more open, my hope re-kindled. I'm not alone with my problems, and the map I need to find that hidden treasure just became a little clearer.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Little Intellect That Could
This morning I attended a fundraising breakfast for a non-profit public health organization that works against those who would bring nuclear waste into our state. They also are trying to stop the ridiculous plan to build a nuclear power plant here. It would be the first.
Noted author Jonathan Schell spoke. I got a free copy of his book "The Seventh Decade: The New Shape of Nuclear Danger" because I volunteered to help with set up and registration. I was told not to read it at night. It's too scary.
I've gotten a big boost from being in the same space with people who will take time to consider these issues, who enjoy listening to someone compare our relationship with nuclear power to that of Gulliver and the Lilliputians. Yes, we are the puny Lilliputians with our flimsy web of imagined security, woven with weak threads by small hands.
It has been my nature to underestimate my ability to thrive in environments where people are really, really smart. I tend to feel inadequate. I have never, EVER, considered myself to be smart. I guess that's because I was always the least intellectual in my family. I wasn't valedictorian. I dropped out of Latin class after two years. My siblings hung in for all four and can still recite Cicero 30 years later.
I was the social one who left my tests unstudied for my senior year. My memory was good, but my use of it centered more on memorizing lines for school plays. Although I did fine in school, I was not in the "smart crowd."
My siblings went to the University of Illinois, and I can remember listening wide-eyed at their stories of all night paperwriting, and professors who gave difficult assignments with the intention of scaring students out of the class. I knew I couldn't go there. It seemed to be a world that was over my head, and so I stayed in safe places where I thought my intelligence would not be severely tested. I came to believe that's where I belonged. Not that the place I attended college was inadequate by any means. I just didn't see it as the intellectual equal of my siblings' school. And I could take classes that would not put me in the cross hairs of professors eager to discover how inadequate I felt myself to be.
I mean after all, I watch Survivor and and no matter how blatantly someone may manipulate my emotions in a book or movie, I still break down and cry. I don't turn up my nose at all the junk in the media, and my idea of fun is an evening of cut- throat Mexican Train (Dominoes). I doubt Thomas Friedman or Noam Chomsky would ever say that! In fact, as I wrote that reference I had to look up Noam Chomsky to see who he really is!!!
So you can see my self-image has never included the idea of strong intellect.
But that is changing. My older sister has been telling me lately that I actually am very smart, that I have to the capability to write well, that the reason I often feel alone is not because I'm defective. Somewhere, in some small place inside me, I'm starting to believe it. Maybe I DO think well on my feet, maybe I CAN hold my own in an intelligent discussion, maybe my perspective IS worth stating in spite of the fact that one of my favorite things to do is watch cooking competitions on TV, or do really easy crossword puzzles.
Today felt good, and tomorrow I want to find more of it--this space where people meet and think and discuss things beyond the ordinary every day. I think I can.
Noted author Jonathan Schell spoke. I got a free copy of his book "The Seventh Decade: The New Shape of Nuclear Danger" because I volunteered to help with set up and registration. I was told not to read it at night. It's too scary.
I've gotten a big boost from being in the same space with people who will take time to consider these issues, who enjoy listening to someone compare our relationship with nuclear power to that of Gulliver and the Lilliputians. Yes, we are the puny Lilliputians with our flimsy web of imagined security, woven with weak threads by small hands.
It has been my nature to underestimate my ability to thrive in environments where people are really, really smart. I tend to feel inadequate. I have never, EVER, considered myself to be smart. I guess that's because I was always the least intellectual in my family. I wasn't valedictorian. I dropped out of Latin class after two years. My siblings hung in for all four and can still recite Cicero 30 years later.
I was the social one who left my tests unstudied for my senior year. My memory was good, but my use of it centered more on memorizing lines for school plays. Although I did fine in school, I was not in the "smart crowd."
My siblings went to the University of Illinois, and I can remember listening wide-eyed at their stories of all night paperwriting, and professors who gave difficult assignments with the intention of scaring students out of the class. I knew I couldn't go there. It seemed to be a world that was over my head, and so I stayed in safe places where I thought my intelligence would not be severely tested. I came to believe that's where I belonged. Not that the place I attended college was inadequate by any means. I just didn't see it as the intellectual equal of my siblings' school. And I could take classes that would not put me in the cross hairs of professors eager to discover how inadequate I felt myself to be.
I mean after all, I watch Survivor and and no matter how blatantly someone may manipulate my emotions in a book or movie, I still break down and cry. I don't turn up my nose at all the junk in the media, and my idea of fun is an evening of cut- throat Mexican Train (Dominoes). I doubt Thomas Friedman or Noam Chomsky would ever say that! In fact, as I wrote that reference I had to look up Noam Chomsky to see who he really is!!!
So you can see my self-image has never included the idea of strong intellect.
But that is changing. My older sister has been telling me lately that I actually am very smart, that I have to the capability to write well, that the reason I often feel alone is not because I'm defective. Somewhere, in some small place inside me, I'm starting to believe it. Maybe I DO think well on my feet, maybe I CAN hold my own in an intelligent discussion, maybe my perspective IS worth stating in spite of the fact that one of my favorite things to do is watch cooking competitions on TV, or do really easy crossword puzzles.
Today felt good, and tomorrow I want to find more of it--this space where people meet and think and discuss things beyond the ordinary every day. I think I can.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Who Is CedarTree?
This is my second attempt to start this blog. The first was lost in Blogger Hell after some sort of technical disaster by the blogmasters. Starting over on a new day, of course, will lead to a different introduction. First of all, it's raining today. When I started my soon to be lost blog, it was sunny.
Also, when I started my other blog last week, I was younger. Now a few days later, I've had a birthday and am further entrenched into middle age. So life is older and cloudier today, and my mood is sleepier and bit grumpier because I just can't reproduce that brilliant first attempt at bloggerhood.
Why start a blog? It's an exercise in self care I suppose. I put my thoughts on the page, give myself time to consider my life, define what it's about, and then share that portion with an unknown, and right now imaginary, audience. I like to write, as all bloggers do. This gives me a forum in which to discipline that impulse. I have a place to go to with my words and thoughts. It is mine, and it waits for me everyday. (unless of course the technical gods decide to make it disappear again.)
I could have chosen a private diary instead, but this page is also a way to connect. I love people, love talking about the important things, the funny things, the things that rend our hearts or expand our minds.
I don't see myself as fitting into any particular niche. I'm a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). I'm a Democrat. I have a trauma background that tends to keep me feeling somewhat different in the way I view things. I also have had to deal with family members with severe mental illness for the majority of my life. I love to talk politics and religion (the no-nos), as well as ideas, stories, history, movies. My family members and most of my closest friends are spread out and far away. Although my husband's family is close by, and I fit in with them well.
I will call my husband JJ because he loves the movie Jeremiah Johnson and would be happy to live in an isolated mountain cabin for the rest of his life. In reality he has a job that takes him around the world talking to people, and he holds a very socially intense ecclesiastical position in our church. He's a good man, who loves doing the right thing and helping others, but he also revels in time alone. His solution is to bike, and bike, and bike and bike.
And of course there are the kids. Kids I love. Kids who have no idea how much potential they really have even though I have done everything I know how to help them see it. Ah yes, my kids.
The rain has turned to snow!! Time to turn up the heat and let winter take one more swipe at me while I sit in my warm house. This blog has turned out so differently than the other, and, to be honest, the other one was much better, but that's ok. Each day and each mood is different, and unless the crazy preacher predicting apocalypse in yesterday's newspaper is right, there will be many more.
Also, when I started my other blog last week, I was younger. Now a few days later, I've had a birthday and am further entrenched into middle age. So life is older and cloudier today, and my mood is sleepier and bit grumpier because I just can't reproduce that brilliant first attempt at bloggerhood.
Why start a blog? It's an exercise in self care I suppose. I put my thoughts on the page, give myself time to consider my life, define what it's about, and then share that portion with an unknown, and right now imaginary, audience. I like to write, as all bloggers do. This gives me a forum in which to discipline that impulse. I have a place to go to with my words and thoughts. It is mine, and it waits for me everyday. (unless of course the technical gods decide to make it disappear again.)
I could have chosen a private diary instead, but this page is also a way to connect. I love people, love talking about the important things, the funny things, the things that rend our hearts or expand our minds.
I don't see myself as fitting into any particular niche. I'm a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). I'm a Democrat. I have a trauma background that tends to keep me feeling somewhat different in the way I view things. I also have had to deal with family members with severe mental illness for the majority of my life. I love to talk politics and religion (the no-nos), as well as ideas, stories, history, movies. My family members and most of my closest friends are spread out and far away. Although my husband's family is close by, and I fit in with them well.
I will call my husband JJ because he loves the movie Jeremiah Johnson and would be happy to live in an isolated mountain cabin for the rest of his life. In reality he has a job that takes him around the world talking to people, and he holds a very socially intense ecclesiastical position in our church. He's a good man, who loves doing the right thing and helping others, but he also revels in time alone. His solution is to bike, and bike, and bike and bike.
And of course there are the kids. Kids I love. Kids who have no idea how much potential they really have even though I have done everything I know how to help them see it. Ah yes, my kids.
The rain has turned to snow!! Time to turn up the heat and let winter take one more swipe at me while I sit in my warm house. This blog has turned out so differently than the other, and, to be honest, the other one was much better, but that's ok. Each day and each mood is different, and unless the crazy preacher predicting apocalypse in yesterday's newspaper is right, there will be many more.
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