Because I Can't Let it Go

Some weeks ago, I found myself engaged in a one-sided battle on my favourite social media site, Facebook. It was one-sided because all the pain the other person caused wasn't something I addressed. All I did was absorb it and hurt.

I did the unthinkable in public. I said I was tired and crabby. I said that about attending an event at my kid's school. Suddenly, I found myself wearing the frame of the portrait of the Not Good Enough Parent.

And it blew me away.

I wanted to stand in a room with the other person and download my whole experience as a mother, to have that person lay with me as I cried myself to sleep, to panic with me as I fell behind on bills, to sit with me as I scrabbled to keep my civility when my kid was being a (totally normal, totally within the average parameters and completely infuriating) jerk and I couldn't tell another soul to just "deal with it" while I hid in the other room with a good book. I had to stay Right There, mothering and Being Amazing and remembering all the Love & Logic training I had and not responding like any other human would... by ferociously barking.

You see, though I am in a serious (and amazing) relationship, I am functionally single. My mate, my partner, my other half is on the other side of the Atlantic ocean. We're four thousand, five hundred and two miles apart. Give or take a few yards. Or meters. Whatever. Somewhere out there, on the other side of a gigantic body of water filled with whales and sea cucumbers and darkness and rogue waves, is my support system. We don't exchange supportive looks across the room. He can't feel my temperature rising in ire, he can't take my kid for a man-to-man walk, he can't provide the third person perspective so agonizingly necessary in parenting.

Nor can my mate contribute to the household's finances. The money he budgets with barely covers his own basic needs. Thus, I'm on my own here. Not enough money for bills and groceries all in the same week? I weigh the priorities. I'm no longer growing. I can survive on my physical storage units (read that: my muscles because I'm already pretty skinny) in favour of supplying my offspring with the nourishment a kid needs during the adolescent growth spurt. I tell myself that I'm from pioneer stock. Before that, I'm from warriors. Between the bloodline of oxen crossed with Viking, I should be alright. Just don't ask me about my bone density. Or my teeth. Or my brain function when I'm faced with bouts of malnutrition. I get my nourishment from watching my son grow strong and healthy.

So, in being admonished for not being glitteringly grateful for every photographable, scrap book worthy and bragging rights firm event... I found myself utterly furious. I spent days examining the root cause of the fury and I came up with this: privilege. From a position of privilege, my exhaustion was being criticized.

And I realized it was bullshit.

Every night, I put my kid to bed with snuggles and assurances. I tell him to have sweet dreams and I tell him I love him and that I will do everything I can to make things be okay. Every morning, I wake him up with a silly story of "what is this chicken doing taking photographs" or "well, I'm sorry but I lost the car to a giraffe who wanted to drive to the Statue of Liberty. We're walking today." Every night, he snuggles down in his bed and tells me it is the safest, most wonderful place in the world. Every morning, he smiles himself awake and tells me I'm silly.

My son wakes up and goes to sleep feeling loved, secure and happy.

I can't make myself be grateful for every event. I can't see how other people with harder lives have more of a right to feel pain. I can't imagine telling another person that what is hard for them shouldn't be and that their struggle isn't valid. All I know is that I do the best I can and that my son feels safe. I see in his beautiful, content face that however I do this parenting thing, it's right. It's good. It's valid.

And I do judge the people who discount and belittle that. I do judge the privileged who dare to judge me. I swear on the contented, sleepy sighs of my kid that I will not do that to anyone else. I am a single mother of an amazing child. No matter how I do it, that my kid is doing alright is the only confirmation I need.

On Pacifism, Compassion and Empathy

I was chatting with a friend yesterday who often doubts the things he is saying are valid. He never says, "I doubt the things I say are valid" in those words. He says it by apology, he says it in hesitance, he says it in ways that approach the fear from the side. By my observations, it's very, very common for people to apologize for their thoughts, to belittle themselves and to assume that they are somehow flawed or freakish for thinking as they do. But... if most people feel that way, then how can they be freakish? And how can I express to people that they're okay?

Thinking about this, I realized, in talking to him, what my whole purpose in life is. That's a pretty sizable revelation to have while sitting on your living room floor with a cat at your side and a cup of not very good coffee at hand. That's a pretty sizable revelation no matter what the circumstances. I was struck by the notion that here, in the midst of the mundane, I was being presented with one of those moments of clear vision.

My vision? Compassion. I'm here, on this planet and in this space, to be a vessel of compassion and to study the art of empathy. What I'm finding out about myself is stunning and I'm struck repeatedly by how difficult it is to maintain this kindness. Am I the first person to think this way? Not by a long shot. Will I be the last? Not hardly.

Let's take a moment to explore empathy and it's outward expression: pacifism. Pacifism isn't easy. It means I have to stop the up-rush of adrenaline that flows when someone says or does something hurtful. It means I have to bite my tongue. That hurts, both physically and emotionally, but the real kicker is that it doesn't injure. There's pain involved with turning the other cheek, taking a step back and a deep breath in, but there's no actual harm being done. To the contrary, the sharp sting of holding myself back results in non-injury.

I'm not talking about taking a physical swing at someone who's being a dick. I'm talking about reserving the sharp blades of my tongue and not taking a vicious bite out of the offending person's soul (soul? self-awareness? ego? whatever). Here, in my head and in my heart, I have this extraordinary ability to harm with words. My predilection for empathy means I have the ability to see and feel the very core fear of someone else and, if I choose, to use that fear and vulnerability as a point of attack.

I choose not to do that. I choose it all the time. I have the opportunity to strike out at that core in every person around me and I consciously choose not to do that. In my youth, I wielded that power a couple of times. I watched the people I turned my emotional violence on melt into fear and hurt. There were tears and there was begging and there was, born of my cruelty, a real hate lit up in them. I think I caused lifetime scars. I know I scarred myself.

I look back on those times and I find my only true regrets. I am ashamed of the pain I inflicted, but there isn't a thing I can do about it now but remember and (try!!) never do it again. Not even when it seems like the smart option. Not even when it seems like the only option. Seems like. Appears to be.

It isn't. There's always another way to deal with someone else's bad behaviour.

That's pacifism. As much as I want to berate, belittle and browbeat folks from time to time, I don't do it. Why? Because every single person out there feels like my friend. Strange. Apologetic. Wrong. Vulnerable. I don't need to add to that. I don't need to carve the foundation out from someone because they are, quite likely, already doing that to themselves.

Does that mean I'm going to smile and nod and agree with everything other people have to say? Oh my, no. Does it mean that I won't stand my ground, discuss uncomfortable things, point out flaws and dickish behaviour? No. It means that when I do stand my ground, I do so from a position of realizing that every person comes to conclusions based on the information they have and experiences they've lived through. Including me. It means I have to remember (I choose to remember) to accept that everyone has the same motivation: doing the right thing. It doesn't matter if they're doing the right thing for themselves, doing the right thing for all beings, doing the right thing for their church, doing the right thing for a reward or doing the right thing because their heart tells them so. They are all acting on the premise that what they are doing is the right thing.

Because of that, and because I seek to be a better person than I am right now, I'm choosing to use my empathy in a loving way. I'm going to love even when I'm so pissed off I can hardly see straight. I'm going to love enough to think through my anger and respond to dickish behaviour with strength and compassion. I'm going to love each person enough not to go for the emotional jugular, even when they go for mine. Pacifism, to me, is about strength and balance, mercy and mindfulness. Pacifism is about having the courage to weather my own anger long enough to come out the other side and recognize that the other person in front of me is worthy of love.

I can't fix fear with fear. I can't fight hate with hate. I can only apply more love.

I'm willing to do that. For everyone.

1. 
   

So Passes the Time

It has been a year since I spoke here.

For a full year, I've been wary of words written in electronic space. For a year, I've been occupied elsewhere, still full of thoughts but hesitant to express them. The reasons why are a different story altogether, and not one I'm willing to share just now.

It is the end of easy. Summer has gone and the winds are coming out of the north, stiffening flags and tearing leaves from trees. As the seasons change, so do the concerns. My birthday is fast approaching and I'm forced to consider my mortality and my obligation to the world. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I must think.

What do I think about? Life choices. I realized not so long ago that by default, I've made food service my career. This isn't to say that I can't up and choose a new path but in the current atmosphere, that seems unwise.

So, given that I've chosen food service (whether by accident or by design I don't know), I've been thinking that I might share what I know in the context of servings and service, behaviour and appetite, expectation and nuance.

First of all, I know that most people have no idea what they're doing if it involves more than the daily grind. No one seems to know which fork to use. They know they need to be up at 7 and back from lunch at one. They don't know if they're allowed to use teeth when they smile or what words to use in asking where the bathroom is. They don't know that, aside from the rare unincorporated (socially) individual, they all make the same faces that imply the same questions. People who walk in the door expecting to meet other people have a look. People looking for that bathroom have a look. People who come to pick up take-out orders have a look.

In those looks, they look the same.

Bathroom people. You have a faraway, distracted and urgent look. Take-away people, you have a near-sighted and purposeful look. Those meeting others, you don't see what's right in front of you. You're looking into a vague want.

It's amazing.

It makes me think. If we're that predictable about something as simple as enjoying the privilege of eating outside our home (and, if you'll grant me this assumption, there's not a whole lot of survivalist pressure there), what common looks do we have for the bigger things in life? People who have survived war. People whose parents did, inasmuch, torture them. People who can't stand themselves. People who can't see anyone but themselves. You all, in your struggle, have the same tenseness of mouth, you share a focal point, you hold your bodies at the same angle.

Because of my years and years of service to the public, I can see you coming from quite a distance. All of you.

And that's the crux, isn't it? We're all hiding our fears, our weaknesses, our trepidation about what others think. The last thing we want is for someone to see us. To really see us and judge us unworthy.

What makes me sad is that each and every one of us seems to expect that these so-called flaws are going to make others think we are weak or not as valuable or suspect in some way. But, when you consider that every single person you meet or interact with or pass by on the street is afraid and vulnerable in some way... you've got to realize that it is our individual struggle that makes us so able to attach to each other.

So you picked up the wrong fork. I've done that. So you stumbled right to pass someone instead of left. I've done that. So you were embarrassed to ask where the bathroom is because I might know you need to use the bathroom. I've done that. We have all done that. We are all vulnerable. We are all flawed. We are all afraid.

The reservations you make with me for parties of five are actually reservations of asking to be allowed to be who you are. And I'm going to honour them. I will save you a place in this construct. I will help you find your way. I will ease your confusion with grace.

All I ask is that you accept this grace and sometimes return my kindness with some of your own. I need it as much as you do; as much as every one of us does. I thank you in advance for your mercy and I tell you that you are always welcome to mine.

Damn you, Mr. Akin.

On gender and inequality: theoretical causality and consequence.

Translation? Why the hell are women still considered the weaker/lesser sex and what the hell does this mean to me as a woman. I don't know why we are, but I'll tell you what it means to me.

It means that no matter how much personal and physical power I have, no matter my training or available weaponry, I am (at best) skittish about going to a restroom in a public place by myself.

Why? Because if you match my skeletal frame exactly with a male of my species, by evolution and physics alone and by (dis)virtue of my reproductive system being the receiving vessel, I am vulnerable to rape. I don't need an erection to have sex. I only need to be there. My muscles and my tendons and my bone density are lighter than my male counterpart. I. Am. Vulnerable. And when you look at the statistics of 1 in 5 women having been sexually assaulted, it should be clear that my fear (and my entire gender's fear) of attack are not only well founded but wise.

That sucks. It's horrible but I live with it and in it and I hope I never again have to process an incident of sexual assault in my life. Still, I live. I live cautiously and carefully and nearly always on guard. 

Times like these, when elected or elect-hopeful people start messing with the nuances and wording of legal rape and the means by which the survivors deal with the consequences (pregnancy), I get frightened. Not only do I have to consider how to survive a possible future attack, I also have to consider how to deal with the aftermath. 

Tell you what: the week following an attack is hell. The months following are horrific no matter whether you are single or involved in a relationship. In a relationship, the one you love cannot touch you without triggering a body memory and reams of guilt and emotional anguish come pouring out of you and spill all over everything. Ruby Red Squirt (a soda pop that i don't even know if still exists) makes me dizzy and start to gag. So does a certain kind of curtain. A certain posture or body type of a man. Specific types of blades. Scents. Seasonal light in the evening. Architectural design of hallways. Triggers exist all over, but at least I know they are specific and rooted in the past.

However, every time some bastard in Congress or on his/her way there starts to mess with my ability to feel safe (relatively speaking) and I see the masses of support for this sort of thinking, I am drawn inevitably back to frightened for myself and for every other potential victim out there. These are broad stroke triggers. Because every dig at my freedom and pursuit of happiness shakes the foundations that suffragette sisters over human history have fought (and been brutalized) for. Every thoughtless action being leveraged into law sends a clear and awful message to the constituents. Somehow, somewhere, it's okay to belittle and objectify women. The more we become objects, the less hesitance people have to feel about marginalizing us.

Women's wages tell us we can be marginalized. Our frequency (or lack thereof) in positions of power, our still accepted traditional roles as workhorses and doormats, the multiple states that have made medical rape both acceptable and required, and this old but new again rhetoric that we, as women, cannot be trusted or allowed to make decisions about the only thing we have that will ever really be ours... our bodies... tells me loud and clear and threatening: You Are Not Worthy of all the human rights; therefore, you are not fully human. You're not as human as some other humans.  Two legs, good. Two legs and a dick, better.

Are they honestly trying to tell me that muscle power and a penis are the qualifiers of a worthy person? 

Wow.

How some folks wonder why I would take such offense to that notion both baffles and infuriates me. Do I think all men believe this? Not by a long shot. Do I think it's only men who think this? Not hardly. Do I intend to sit all quiet and nice while someone else attacks my freedom? No.

No, I do not.

And, as ever, NO MEANS NO.

I'm Not Jesus.

The premise of this blog is the general state of opinion as offered on and witnessed by social network (read: facebook) and the feelings and reactions I've encountered because I have finally decided that I will never again sit down and shut up to make someone else comfortable about controversial subjects that are worth considering because they are important.

I've said it before and I'm going to say it over and over until I am heard: It is okay to be uncomfortable.

I'm also going to say that I do not need to offer any proof or justification of my "rightness" because all these things are my feelings and my opinions. There is no empirical data for opinion. There is no scale of relative perfection of judgement because I am not divine, I am not a beacon of understanding and love, I am not omniscient. I am perfectly human.

I'm not Jesus. I don't unconditionally love everyone. I don't forgive everyone. I will hold people accountable for their actions and choices because I don't believe in original sin or underworld influences. I do believe in right and wrong, without need from demonic or divine direction.

I believe we all have the power and the ability to be accountable and should be held thus for our choices. I'm not Jesus and nor am I waiting for a divine father to hand out all our punishment.

I believe in peer pressure, in society, in pack behaviour and in shunning.

Why?

Because it is here and now that the impact of our behaviour makes all the difference. Every drop of water in the ocean has an effect on its immediate neighbours. The ripple effect of social conscious will change the tides.

I am an agitator. It is not my human duty to pacify the masses, as it is quite clear to me that this runaway train of needing to feel comfortable and undisturbed has lead quite directly to a very uncomfortable and very disturbed global consciousness. I am here to wake the people up and if I need to do it with sharp elbows as well as kind words and deeds, then that is what I will do. I don't do this for a reward at the end of my human life. I do this because this is my human life. It is now, and I will not sit back and allow the belief that I should play nice and not hurt any feelings stop me from doing what my heart says is right.

In all our names, Amen.

Zen Monkey

Perhaps it was dangerous of me to study both philosophy and debate while supplementing it with an examination of the world's religions.

There were times in history when a woman like me had two choices: shut up or escape. Lately, I've been half tempted to do both. Being me, however, prevents me from doing either and instead I have to find my footing again.

I hadn't realized until today that I wasn't totally grounded until someone I cared about made an easy (and calloused, thoughtless, and cowardly) choice of disconnecting from me on the big ol' playground called facebook. I spent a good half an hour wrestling with whether I would be hurt or dismissive. For most of my life, I would have chosen to be hurt.

Today, I choose to dismiss. It's incredibly significant that it only took me half an hour to reach this decision. I thank my previous marriage for teaching me expediency in matters of the heart.

Here's the rub: I'm worried about my soft heart and how hard parts of it have become. I should spend some time focusing on positive thoughts directed toward them. Instead, I find myself standing back and considering how every bridge burned puts them closer to a terrifying loneliness and I just don't care.

Dear god, I don't care. That's really weird in the course of my life. I have yet to see a road killed animal that doesn't hurt my feelings or a spontaneous act of kindness that doesn't make me cry a little with exhausted joy. Here, now, I'm contemplating this dismissal with surgical precision and in a framework of logic based on abnormal psychology. That is, I'm thinking about this disconnection in a scientific way and without judgement. The Nice Girl part of me thinks I should be sorry or gentle or try and *fix* whatever this is.

But I am done fixing situations that I did not cause. These little social blunders, the wicked sharp ones that only family seems capable of, no longer concern me. Sure, we're related. There are a million words and proverbs and rules that say I should keep caring, keep trying, keep suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous blood relatives. I say no.

No more. You will no longer bully me, whoever you are. It doesn't matter if I "should" forgive you because we "should" care for each other. It doesn't matter if you are a stranger, an acquaintance, a friend, or family. Because I was kind and gentle and acquiescent, I have been shoved down and I have been emotionally disregarded (if not abused).

The world has broken me of my entirely soft heart, but I have come to understand that putting up walls and crafting my own armor is not the terrible sad thing of many philosophies. It is, simply, the only way I know how to survive.

With that, my demons, you are dismissed. Go play elsewhere. I'm busy loving cherry blossoms and salamanders.

Working Class

There's something kind of horrible about going back into food service. I'm part waitress, part catering floor staff, part cook and part barista in a huge museum after a merciful ten year hiatus from anything restaurant-y. For your foot pain, you get quick and wry and strong or you get out, which I think are good things, but you also get beat up and, in my case, feel like you've just slipped down a notch in the classes.

Yes, I'm sure there are classes.

Now, I don't really know if this is my perception of how we are treated, collectively, or if there's an unfortunate wealth of truth in how I feel. Not the part where I'm of a lower class, but the part where I'm treated like that several times a day. I'd love to say that no customer has ever said the words "your class" with an unmistakable sneer down the nose, but that happened last week.

The opportunities for my mind to expand and my future job application to be padded nicely are huge. I'm making friends with the museum librarian and the biology lab curator, get to take my kid there for free as many times as we want, and am making sweet coffee music on a gorgeous roadster of a cappucino machine. If there is some way in my life to own a coffeeshop with books and freedom to have my family with me, I want that.

Meanwhile, I'm slinging hash in an environment full of fascinating things and learning loads about people who think they're pretty darned important and impactual despite their utter greyness. Grey is a lovely colour, but the grey mixed with a touch of mean is just plain unpleasant to deal with... and I'm supposed to wait on these people.

Museum castes. Now I've seen them in two museums and they both frustrate and amuse me. From a sociological standpoint, it would be handy for me to move up from this museum to something truly spectacular... maybe the Smithsonian. Studying the human to human behaviour there would be incredible, particularly among the staffers. I can barely imagine the bullshit that flies inside their hallowed halls and perfect exhibit spaces.

All I can do to combat the classism is to surprise my guests with stellar manners, excellent service, and a warm smile. If that fails, the walk-in cooler is really great for swearing mightily without witnesses.