Yesterday, I had this strange dilemma while driving home from work in a snowstorm. It was heavy, wet snow. It was very slippery. And I saw this guy walking on the street in jeans and a sweatshirt -- no coat or hat -- carrying a couple of grocery bags. I didn't notice if he was wearing boots, and I couldn't see if he had on gloves. My first thought was to stop and offer a ride. But then I thought better of it. I didn't know this guy at all. He was much bigger than me, and could easily overpower me. Although I knew that it would PROBABLY be completely fine to offer him a ride and that MOST LIKELY nothing would happen, I couldn't take the risk. There's a registered sex offender living in my neighborhood (at least one, that I know of). Many years ago, I was engaged to a boy who had lunch a couple of times with a guy from school he felt sorry for -- that guy turned out to be a serial killer. The same one who murdered my brother-in-law's cousin. So, I know something about how small the world is. I know that a girl on her own who has no means of defending herself needs to be smart about the risks she takes. And it breaks my heart that I feel that way.
Tonight, I was eating dinner and I heard my guinea pig Stan cough a couple of times. It's not all that unusual. But then I got up to wash my dishes, and I saw that Stan had died. We've had a lot of snow here the past week (almost every day). Today was the first warmer day when some of it finally melted. But I still had to climb through the snowbank behind the house to get to the place where I buried my cat Mazzy almost three years ago and my other guinea pig Fiona almost two years ago. Even once I'd shoveled away a patch of snow, the ground was pretty much frozen solid. I had to put Stan in a shallow grave and cover it with a cairn of heavy rocks. It still didn't feel right, so I added the piece of limestone I'd kept from Misadventure Vermont and the big rock I snuck out of Hopewell Rocks during Misadventure Canada.
As I did that, I thought about how almost exactly nineteen years ago, my mom dug a hole in the frozen earth to bury my first guinea pig for me. I thought about how I got Mazzy for my birthday just a couple of weeks after that. (My mom thought a kitten would be good consolation after having my beloved dog and guinea pig both die within a couple months of my sixteenth birthday.)
I don't know that I got it right with the guy in the snow last night. I don't know if I got it right burying Stan in the backyard just now, trying to build a little monument of remembrance with those rocks that carry a reminder of my grief and my healing.
All I know is that, in all of these things, I've tried my best to do the right thing and sometimes it's really hard to tell what that is.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
President's Day*
Shards of ice
sprinkling
like glitter.
Stabbing.
Sticking.
Freezing to the core
of anemic bones,
she ripped apart the earth
in the heart of a vicious winter
for a daughter
holding a shoebox.
I was at the stage when
everything sucks,
and Mom is the anti-Christ,
except when I had the flu
and when someone died...
even if it was
just a guinea pig.
The lump would not go away,
so the doctor helped him sleep.
It was more humane that way,
she said.
I stood trembling
without gloves
in the sneakers that came in the box I held.
He lay still, wrapped in a towel.
Later,
we would plant
Forget-Me-Nots
and keep the dogs from digging there.
She did not say anything when we went back into the house.
But I was grateful.
And I couldn't help noticing how
the sky reflected
colorless
in the new snow.
* I always say I only write bad poetry, and this pretty much proves that. I wrote this about my mom and another guinea pig many years ago, but tonight I am remembering it in honor of Stan.
sprinkling
like glitter.
Stabbing.
Sticking.
Freezing to the core
of anemic bones,
she ripped apart the earth
in the heart of a vicious winter
for a daughter
holding a shoebox.
I was at the stage when
everything sucks,
and Mom is the anti-Christ,
except when I had the flu
and when someone died...
even if it was
just a guinea pig.
The lump would not go away,
so the doctor helped him sleep.
It was more humane that way,
she said.
I stood trembling
without gloves
in the sneakers that came in the box I held.
He lay still, wrapped in a towel.
Later,
we would plant
Forget-Me-Nots
and keep the dogs from digging there.
She did not say anything when we went back into the house.
But I was grateful.
And I couldn't help noticing how
the sky reflected
colorless
in the new snow.
* I always say I only write bad poetry, and this pretty much proves that. I wrote this about my mom and another guinea pig many years ago, but tonight I am remembering it in honor of Stan.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Some days I get it right
I've had this cold for about a week now, and I still feel pretty crummy. (Although I think I might finally be able to make it through the day without any cold medicine! Huzzah!)
There are days when, no matter my intentions, I mess everything up. I'm in a bad mood or I stumble over the words I use or I just want to be left alone. I make a rash decision that results in problems for me and/or others. I have these days a lot, and mostly I try to think of them as learning opportunities. (Especially the bad decisions.) If I learn something from all the mistakes and all the bad days, that helps make them mean something, right? (It sounds good in theory, but living with it can still be hard.)
I often say there are many things I regret (I remember the line from Reality Bites where Ethan Hawke said, "I have this planet of regret sitting on my shoulders" -- a line I remember even though I haven't seen that movie in 20 years), but I wouldn't undo any of my regrets, because I would lose the things I learned from them, too. And then I would be less me.
Anyway, there are lots of those days, but there are also days when I get it right. Days when I do something small that has a big impact. Like Goldie thanking me a second time for the stress liver I mailed her in my most recent postal ninjery. Like Kraken thanking me for "being awesome" as we discussed officiating lineups. Like Roo and her mom.
When it was time to hand my free pass to someone else, I posted this on Facebook:
Roo said her mom really needed something like that. So, I sent it to her mom. I think the gesture confused her more than anything, but at the very least, it gave Roo an opportunity to tell her mom how great she is and that she deserves to take a break for herself sometimes. Roo and her mom thanked me as if I'd done something great when all I'd done was send a little token (literally!) in the mail.
Because, sometimes, that's all it takes.
I realize that the days I get it right are the days when I'm not overthinking things, not oversharing things, not complicating things. They're the days when I think of something small and maybe a little sweet and I do them. Just because.
I ordered a bunch of stamps from the post office -- Harry Potters and two kinds of Pixar montages. I bought them because I thought getting mail with those stamps on them might be fun for people (if they look at the stamps, and I hope they do). So, I'm going to keep postal ninja-ing random things to people, but I'm also going to start sending more 1-stamp notes (at least until these three sheets of stamps runs out...) because I can and because it might make the difference in someone's day.
Starting now.
There are days when, no matter my intentions, I mess everything up. I'm in a bad mood or I stumble over the words I use or I just want to be left alone. I make a rash decision that results in problems for me and/or others. I have these days a lot, and mostly I try to think of them as learning opportunities. (Especially the bad decisions.) If I learn something from all the mistakes and all the bad days, that helps make them mean something, right? (It sounds good in theory, but living with it can still be hard.)
I often say there are many things I regret (I remember the line from Reality Bites where Ethan Hawke said, "I have this planet of regret sitting on my shoulders" -- a line I remember even though I haven't seen that movie in 20 years), but I wouldn't undo any of my regrets, because I would lose the things I learned from them, too. And then I would be less me.
Anyway, there are lots of those days, but there are also days when I get it right. Days when I do something small that has a big impact. Like Goldie thanking me a second time for the stress liver I mailed her in my most recent postal ninjery. Like Kraken thanking me for "being awesome" as we discussed officiating lineups. Like Roo and her mom.
When it was time to hand my free pass to someone else, I posted this on Facebook:
Have you ever felt like you needed a Free Pass on something? (The homework or dishes or exercise you don't want to do tonight but feel guilty about putting off? The way you took out your bad day on someone else? The opportunity you let slip through your fingers?) I've got ONE free pass to hand off to someone. Tell me you need it (you don't need to say why), and I'll postal ninja it to you. Go!
Roo said her mom really needed something like that. So, I sent it to her mom. I think the gesture confused her more than anything, but at the very least, it gave Roo an opportunity to tell her mom how great she is and that she deserves to take a break for herself sometimes. Roo and her mom thanked me as if I'd done something great when all I'd done was send a little token (literally!) in the mail.
Because, sometimes, that's all it takes.
I realize that the days I get it right are the days when I'm not overthinking things, not oversharing things, not complicating things. They're the days when I think of something small and maybe a little sweet and I do them. Just because.
I ordered a bunch of stamps from the post office -- Harry Potters and two kinds of Pixar montages. I bought them because I thought getting mail with those stamps on them might be fun for people (if they look at the stamps, and I hope they do). So, I'm going to keep postal ninja-ing random things to people, but I'm also going to start sending more 1-stamp notes (at least until these three sheets of stamps runs out...) because I can and because it might make the difference in someone's day.
Starting now.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Oh, David Levithan
I did a search to see how many times David Levithan has shown up in my blog posts.
There's this one about the time I met him -- I had no idea who he was before that night. And this one, titled with one of the few words that reaches deep into my guts and twists them up and causes so many feelings just by its mention (every time I hear it), that describes how his words helped pull me out of one of my darker grieving days. And this one, which talks a bit about the Red Notebook or this one, which mentions the idea in the first place. There's this epiphany-style one which, upon re-reading, is one of the truest things I've ever written about myself and my connection to words. And there are a couple other off-hand references as well.
This is probably going to be a bit scattered because I myself am scattered most of the time anyway, and because all these thoughts are still unraveling in my head. Because I'm getting a cold and I feel worn down (not just physically, but psychically, too).
I dislike journals. I used to buy them, because I'd get lost in the pretty covers or the page design or the secret back pockets (I love anything with pockets). People buy me journals regularly. There's a shelf full of blank journals in my library. I tend not to write in them, because I don't know what to put in them. I'm better at writing in front of a keyboard with a delete button and options to cut and paste, where my fingers move as quickly as my thoughts. And writing long-hand tends to make my hand hurt. Sometimes my wrist pops and dislocates. It's uncomfortable. On the rare occasion that I do start scribbling in a journal, I pretty much never fill all the pages. Often, I go back and rip out the pages I have filled -- because the words aren't right or they no longer fit or I'm afraid someone might find them one day and read them and get the wrong ideas about me. I take the pictures from the covers and scattered phrases from the torn pages and I make collages.
I realized recently that I haven't made a collage since the Red Notebook. I'm not sure why this is. (It also strikes me as interesting that I spearheaded the Red Notebook Conspiracy, which was all about filling a journal. A journal that, to this day, still has some blank pages.)
I'm thinking about journals and collages partly because of David Levithan, because his words inspired the Red Notebook Conspiracy, because his words have so often shown up in my collages.
I'm thinking about the River Song journal a friend gave me for Christmas (along with a TARDIS pen) that made me feel like I needed to fill its pages, because it was special (partly because of who it came from and partly because of the Whovian reference). I started filling that journal with quotes I find inspiring (things I'd normally put in collages or keep in a list in a draft email to cut and paste into my email signatures...back when I wasn't too lazy to do that). Late one night, I flipped that journal over and started writing from the back, a strange little entry about who I am. Who I really am, in all its simplicity and complexity.
And I was thinking about all of that just now because I was reading one of David Levithan's early books -- Are We There Yet? -- in the tub just now.
Like I said, I'm not feeling well. It's currently snowing like crazy outside and the water heater got fixed yesterday, so I figured I'd take a nice, hot bath with a mug of tea and do some reading. I got so absorbed in the book that both my tea and the bath water went cold. (At least the bath water could be warmed up without too much inconvenience.)
The book is about two brothers who are very different and don't get along well who have been tricked by their parents into taking a vacation together in Italy. Like every other David Levithan book I've read, I'm enjoying it. I like the characters and I like his analogies and the subtle lyricism in his writing. But I started dog earing pages when the lines reached in and twisted up my guts the way the word Lovely does.
And also
I feel like there are people who probably think that my gestures of kindness are not completely true (hell, sometimes I believe it, too -- I often say, "I'm not that nice"). But the thing is, I'm also not a liar. I can't even remember the last time I knowingly said something untrue. (Like, it's painful for me when I say something that I realize could be interpreted in a way that's untruthful, because it "feels like lying" -- a phrase I often use and think people probably find...well, weird.)
I got to thinking about how there's a bit of both Elijah and Danny in me, even though they seem like such starkly different characters.
All of that wrapped around to me thinking about this strange email exchange that happened between me and a friend (at least, I think we're still friends, but I'm not totally sure) about a week and a half ago. I'd spent some time thinking about a conversation we'd had and I sent an email I thought was trying to be kinder than where we'd left off. My friend mistook my tone (and I can see why, although I think there was a bit of an overreaction to it) and sent a response that was a bit exasperated, to say the least. In that response, my friend made a point of telling me that not everyone checks their email as often as I do.
Here's the thing about that: I try really, really hard to respond to people's emails quickly. Always. At work, I do it because that's part of professionalism, I think. I know not everyone does this. I know people notice that I do (they often comment on it and thank me for it). I know I get mad when something I'm working on grinds to a halt until I can get a response from someone who is not as timely as I try to be. At home, I try to respond to emails quickly because it's my way of telling people, "You matter to me."
And, yes, I do check my email a lot. And yes, I sometimes email people a lot (because if I'm thinking about something that has to do with them, I want them to know it -- it's important for people to know THAT you think of them and WHAT you think of them -- and because I worry about forgetting things if I don't write them down).
This is why I get so tense about being on time, too. I used to think it was because my mom was always ridiculously early for everything and insisted that if I wasn't 15 minutes early, I was late. Maybe that's part of it. But more than that it's this: I hate waiting for people. I feel self-conscious and weird while I wait. I worry that something has happened to the person meeting me or that I've somehow mixed up when or where I'm supposed to be. So, I try really hard to always be on time when I'm meeting someone. It's my way of saying, "You matter to me" and "I don't want to waste your time" and "I don't want you to experience those icky feelings waiting for me."
The weirdest thing about these two habits of mine? The reverse is not true. Yes, I appreciate a quick response to an email (especially in a professional context, but in a personal one, too). And while I do get mad about delayed professional emails, I don't get mad about friends who take some time to respond to personal emails (unless I'm trying to plan something and need information from them to complete the plan). I don't think they're trying to say "You don't matter to me." Same goes with my friends who are chronically late every time we get together. I might get anxious and feel crummy while I wait, but I don't get mad at them for it. I don't think they're trying to tell me my time is unimportant to them or that I don't matter.
And somewhere buried in all these contradictions and neuroses and attempts at both kindness and truthfulness, I know that I can overwhelm people (even when that's the last thing I want to do -- in fact, when I try to stop it, I seem to only ever make it worse).
I didn't write all of this down in the back of my River Song journal, because it's too much to write by hand, because it's too much to think about. (The quotes will, I hope, end up in the front part, though.)
Once again, David Levithan has given me much to think about.
But, for now, I'm going to just go back to letting myself get lost in the story.
There's this one about the time I met him -- I had no idea who he was before that night. And this one, titled with one of the few words that reaches deep into my guts and twists them up and causes so many feelings just by its mention (every time I hear it), that describes how his words helped pull me out of one of my darker grieving days. And this one, which talks a bit about the Red Notebook or this one, which mentions the idea in the first place. There's this epiphany-style one which, upon re-reading, is one of the truest things I've ever written about myself and my connection to words. And there are a couple other off-hand references as well.
This is probably going to be a bit scattered because I myself am scattered most of the time anyway, and because all these thoughts are still unraveling in my head. Because I'm getting a cold and I feel worn down (not just physically, but psychically, too).
I dislike journals. I used to buy them, because I'd get lost in the pretty covers or the page design or the secret back pockets (I love anything with pockets). People buy me journals regularly. There's a shelf full of blank journals in my library. I tend not to write in them, because I don't know what to put in them. I'm better at writing in front of a keyboard with a delete button and options to cut and paste, where my fingers move as quickly as my thoughts. And writing long-hand tends to make my hand hurt. Sometimes my wrist pops and dislocates. It's uncomfortable. On the rare occasion that I do start scribbling in a journal, I pretty much never fill all the pages. Often, I go back and rip out the pages I have filled -- because the words aren't right or they no longer fit or I'm afraid someone might find them one day and read them and get the wrong ideas about me. I take the pictures from the covers and scattered phrases from the torn pages and I make collages.
I realized recently that I haven't made a collage since the Red Notebook. I'm not sure why this is. (It also strikes me as interesting that I spearheaded the Red Notebook Conspiracy, which was all about filling a journal. A journal that, to this day, still has some blank pages.)
I'm thinking about journals and collages partly because of David Levithan, because his words inspired the Red Notebook Conspiracy, because his words have so often shown up in my collages.
I'm thinking about the River Song journal a friend gave me for Christmas (along with a TARDIS pen) that made me feel like I needed to fill its pages, because it was special (partly because of who it came from and partly because of the Whovian reference). I started filling that journal with quotes I find inspiring (things I'd normally put in collages or keep in a list in a draft email to cut and paste into my email signatures...back when I wasn't too lazy to do that). Late one night, I flipped that journal over and started writing from the back, a strange little entry about who I am. Who I really am, in all its simplicity and complexity.
And I was thinking about all of that just now because I was reading one of David Levithan's early books -- Are We There Yet? -- in the tub just now.
Like I said, I'm not feeling well. It's currently snowing like crazy outside and the water heater got fixed yesterday, so I figured I'd take a nice, hot bath with a mug of tea and do some reading. I got so absorbed in the book that both my tea and the bath water went cold. (At least the bath water could be warmed up without too much inconvenience.)
The book is about two brothers who are very different and don't get along well who have been tricked by their parents into taking a vacation together in Italy. Like every other David Levithan book I've read, I'm enjoying it. I like the characters and I like his analogies and the subtle lyricism in his writing. But I started dog earing pages when the lines reached in and twisted up my guts the way the word Lovely does.
Sometimes I want to simplify my life into a single bare thing. And other times I want to complicate it so thoroughly that everything I touch will become bound in some way to me. I've become quite aware of my contradictions, but there's no true resolution in that.And then
Elijah fundamentally wants everyone to be happy.
And also
Danny sees that Julia can't decide whether he's being true or whether he's just being kind. It doesn't occur to her that the two can be one and the same.
I feel like there are people who probably think that my gestures of kindness are not completely true (hell, sometimes I believe it, too -- I often say, "I'm not that nice"). But the thing is, I'm also not a liar. I can't even remember the last time I knowingly said something untrue. (Like, it's painful for me when I say something that I realize could be interpreted in a way that's untruthful, because it "feels like lying" -- a phrase I often use and think people probably find...well, weird.)
I got to thinking about how there's a bit of both Elijah and Danny in me, even though they seem like such starkly different characters.
All of that wrapped around to me thinking about this strange email exchange that happened between me and a friend (at least, I think we're still friends, but I'm not totally sure) about a week and a half ago. I'd spent some time thinking about a conversation we'd had and I sent an email I thought was trying to be kinder than where we'd left off. My friend mistook my tone (and I can see why, although I think there was a bit of an overreaction to it) and sent a response that was a bit exasperated, to say the least. In that response, my friend made a point of telling me that not everyone checks their email as often as I do.
Here's the thing about that: I try really, really hard to respond to people's emails quickly. Always. At work, I do it because that's part of professionalism, I think. I know not everyone does this. I know people notice that I do (they often comment on it and thank me for it). I know I get mad when something I'm working on grinds to a halt until I can get a response from someone who is not as timely as I try to be. At home, I try to respond to emails quickly because it's my way of telling people, "You matter to me."
And, yes, I do check my email a lot. And yes, I sometimes email people a lot (because if I'm thinking about something that has to do with them, I want them to know it -- it's important for people to know THAT you think of them and WHAT you think of them -- and because I worry about forgetting things if I don't write them down).
This is why I get so tense about being on time, too. I used to think it was because my mom was always ridiculously early for everything and insisted that if I wasn't 15 minutes early, I was late. Maybe that's part of it. But more than that it's this: I hate waiting for people. I feel self-conscious and weird while I wait. I worry that something has happened to the person meeting me or that I've somehow mixed up when or where I'm supposed to be. So, I try really hard to always be on time when I'm meeting someone. It's my way of saying, "You matter to me" and "I don't want to waste your time" and "I don't want you to experience those icky feelings waiting for me."
The weirdest thing about these two habits of mine? The reverse is not true. Yes, I appreciate a quick response to an email (especially in a professional context, but in a personal one, too). And while I do get mad about delayed professional emails, I don't get mad about friends who take some time to respond to personal emails (unless I'm trying to plan something and need information from them to complete the plan). I don't think they're trying to say "You don't matter to me." Same goes with my friends who are chronically late every time we get together. I might get anxious and feel crummy while I wait, but I don't get mad at them for it. I don't think they're trying to tell me my time is unimportant to them or that I don't matter.
And somewhere buried in all these contradictions and neuroses and attempts at both kindness and truthfulness, I know that I can overwhelm people (even when that's the last thing I want to do -- in fact, when I try to stop it, I seem to only ever make it worse).
I didn't write all of this down in the back of my River Song journal, because it's too much to write by hand, because it's too much to think about. (The quotes will, I hope, end up in the front part, though.)
Once again, David Levithan has given me much to think about.
But, for now, I'm going to just go back to letting myself get lost in the story.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Free Pass
A ref friend of mine sent me this funny little poker chip in the mail the other day. "Free Pass" was stamped on its face. The enclosed note described how it was a part of an interactive art project, the idea being that everybody needs a free pass on SOMETHING once in a while.
But what on earth could I use it for?
I spent days thinking about this. I have a tendency to both work very hard and be very lazy. When I'm lazy, I give myself a hard time for not working harder. When I work too hard, I give myself a hard time for not being gentler with myself. (Being a Pisces isn't easy.)
In the end, the Free Pass inspired me to do the exact opposite of what was intended: It got me to finally get some decent work done on the query letter for my books.
Writing about grief is hard, especially when it's rooted in your own experience. Sharing that with others is difficult, but EXPLAINING it to strangers is excruciating. At least, that's what it's felt like for me for the last 42 days as I tried to both gather the courage and organize my thoughts to write this all-important letter so that I can take the next step toward getting my books out into the world.
Tonight, I felt exhausted from the moment I got home from work. I ate dinner and then sat on the couch watching TV and futzing around on the Internet. I read a little more of the book I've been reading. I was going to use the Free Pass to put myself to bed early (an exceedingly rare occurrence in my life), and I felt glad to finally have figured out what to do with it.
But then as I was passing that little orange disc on my coffee table on my way to bed, I was struck by an explosion of sentences in my head -- an opening to the query letter that's been plaguing me since the beginning of the year. I could have gone to bed. (Maybe I even SHOULD have.) But instead, I thought about how I've given myself ENOUGH free passes on this. Sometimes, it's important to face the things that scare you, the things that are hard.
I just emailed my writing partner with my first and very incomplete draft of my query letter. And I haven't felt this good, this accomplished in quite a long while.
I may not have used my Free Pass exactly as it was intended, but I think I got just about the best result I could have.
But what on earth could I use it for?
I spent days thinking about this. I have a tendency to both work very hard and be very lazy. When I'm lazy, I give myself a hard time for not working harder. When I work too hard, I give myself a hard time for not being gentler with myself. (Being a Pisces isn't easy.)
In the end, the Free Pass inspired me to do the exact opposite of what was intended: It got me to finally get some decent work done on the query letter for my books.
Writing about grief is hard, especially when it's rooted in your own experience. Sharing that with others is difficult, but EXPLAINING it to strangers is excruciating. At least, that's what it's felt like for me for the last 42 days as I tried to both gather the courage and organize my thoughts to write this all-important letter so that I can take the next step toward getting my books out into the world.
Tonight, I felt exhausted from the moment I got home from work. I ate dinner and then sat on the couch watching TV and futzing around on the Internet. I read a little more of the book I've been reading. I was going to use the Free Pass to put myself to bed early (an exceedingly rare occurrence in my life), and I felt glad to finally have figured out what to do with it.
But then as I was passing that little orange disc on my coffee table on my way to bed, I was struck by an explosion of sentences in my head -- an opening to the query letter that's been plaguing me since the beginning of the year. I could have gone to bed. (Maybe I even SHOULD have.) But instead, I thought about how I've given myself ENOUGH free passes on this. Sometimes, it's important to face the things that scare you, the things that are hard.
I just emailed my writing partner with my first and very incomplete draft of my query letter. And I haven't felt this good, this accomplished in quite a long while.
I may not have used my Free Pass exactly as it was intended, but I think I got just about the best result I could have.
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