New Year’s Restoration

mental health,

While the trend about now is to look to the future and decide to achieve things in the coming new year, I’m thinking about going a slightly different direction. Metaphorically of course. This post is not about a newly discovered worm hole or alternate universe. Sorry.

It started with a blog post “Lessons Learned in 2023” I was working on. See below…

It doesn’t matter what you look like, how much money you have, or what you have accomplished. Insecurity, self-doubt, sadness, and loneliness do not discriminate based on these criteria. 

It doesn’t matter who you are, where you have been, or where you are headed, chances are you have a friend who believes in you and encourages you to remember the best version of yourself. (If this isn’t true, email me…I’m happy to remind you!)

It doesn’t matter if you are good or right or socially conscious, someone will spread rumors to tear you down. Refer to paragraph one. 

It doesn’t matter where you are in your career, your relationships, or your stage of life, there will always be hurdles, both external and internal. These are merely opportunities to overcome. How do you know this? Because they are in front of you and the best direction is forward.

It doesn’t matter if you are weary, disheartened, betrayed, wounded, or destroyed. The choice to persist will always be in your hands. And moving forward will never negate the betrayal or condone the yuck hurled in your direction. It’s merely a chance to redirect your focus to something productive.

But, it’s the beginning of January so I started thinking how this relates to the common, albeit annoying, practice of resolution setting. “Ignore the ugly voices and try not to talk crap about others?” Perhaps a good start, but seriously? 

After further consideration, it turns out I don’t want a resolution – by definition, a seemingly benign practice that masquerades as a vehicle destined to deliver large doses of guilt or foster internal accusatory dialogues to deepen self-doubt. Pass. 

Don’t misunderstand, I have intentions for 2024. I want to improve as a human. For example, I intend to go on a word diet. If words have the power to create or destroy, maybe I should be careful how I brandish them. Also, I do not wish to be one of the “spreaders of rumors”. But still, it felt short sighted. It wasn’t enough. The question plagued me, beyond simply moving forward, can we affect the past at all? Do all the decayed and burned-out buildings of yesteryear get to stand as monuments to pain and error? Do we simply give a nod periodically at their existence and try to move on? Or…is it possible to deconstruct some of the crap and haul it out? I realize our scars define us in beautiful ways, but do I have to keep all the dilapidation that’s taking up valuable real estate? Can I tear it down, leave a plaque, and build back better? 

I don’t want a shallow resolution. I want some restoration. Maybe that’s a lot to ask but I’m learning if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Can this be a sort of both/and situation? I will purpose to choose my words more carefully, and also, walk into 2024 with hope toward a new stretch of internal skyline? Sounds idyllic, but honestly, I’m not sure where to start so I consulted some wise council.

“Carefully watch your thoughts, for they become your words. Manage and watch your words, for they will become your actions. Consider and judge your actions, for they have become your habits. Acknowledge and watch your habits, for they shall become your values. Understand and embrace your values, for they become your destiny.” – Gandhi

Easy enough (sarcasm), so I guess I start with my thoughts. Wish me luck. And before I forget, I have another idea for the next blog post already. “Don’t be an Octopus.” I promise it relates. It’s on my calendar to post the beginning of February. 

Cheers everyone and Happy New Year! May 2024 be full of joy, peace, and discoveries of better.

P.S. I’m still using my treadmill, but also thinking the above practice might affect my mental health in a positive way as well. Worth a shot.

snowy night in Nevada

If I’m being honest…

mental health, On Life
snowy night in Nevada
Snowy night in Nevada

Anyone else notice this phrase infiltrating most conversations? “If I’m being honest, I really prefer this restaurant.” Are we starved for this level of honest? But I’ve caught myself saying it, if I’m being honest.

Seriously though, it makes me wonder. What is it about our current psychological state that we feel the need to convince others, or ourselves, that the next words to escape our lips will be truth? I have a theory, but first a story.

Once upon a time, in a town buried in snow, there lived a woman. If her life were to be measured in Facebook posts (of which she never actually makes), they would likely garner lovely comments, and small hieroglyphic responses. She does not find herself struggling with hunger, or bombs exploding, leaving a haze of dust, debris, and chaos. She plans trips, enjoys her job because she works with amazing people, is happily married, has children who call and text her and friends who reach out…Webster might define her existence as nearly idyllic. 

But as in all good stories, there must be a villain—a force to test the mettle of our heroin and give rise to the triumphant. There have been villains that have crossed her path. She has woken from a routine surgery only to find herself in an oncology ward. She has started and failed a business, damaged her children and generally struggled with her identity and existence. She has crossed oceans and swam in grief. But if she were being honest, there is one particular villain, perhaps even a nemesis, who, like her shadow, cannot be truly vanquished. It has followed her for nearly half a century. 

Perhaps the power it wields lies in its shape shifting essence—frequently transforming and donning a clever disguise veiling its true nature and confounding at every turn in her story. But she finally recognized this menace, after months of turmoil, and to vanquish or at least send this threat back into the subtext of her life, she bought a treadmill. 

***

I think the whole “if I’m being honest” thing gets to be me because unless you are a sociopath, or just icky, your goal during engagements of conversation is to be honest. And in a world inundated by half-truths, media hype, and tortuous levels of advertising, we have to wonder if we ever hear a grain of truth in the course of a day. On top of that, I think honesty is like onions, and parfaits. It has layers. We want to be honest, but do we want to be totally, brutally honest about where we are and how we are feeling? Can the world handle our own brand of naked transparency and vulnerability? Can we handle our own truth(s)?

Here’s my onion (at least some of it regarding this topic). I bought a treadmill (spoiler alert, the woman in the story was me) because I don’t like being cold and apparently Nevada is having an identity crisis and it thinks its Alaska. And one should exercise. Layer one.

I bought a treadmill to attempt to shed the poundage delivered by the bitch menopause, and attempt to fit back into my clothes again. Layer two.

And if I’m being brutally honest, the kind of honesty that deflates justifications and sears through self-righteous nonsense to reveal the vulnerable, if I’m being that kind of honest, I bought a treadmill to hold at bay the familiar foe of mental illness. 

A perfect storm of normal changes and new life adjustments knocked me sideways recently, and experience has taught me the consequences of not recognizing the familiar signs indicating I’m headed down a dangerous path. If I don’t acknowledge the indicators and fight back at the onset of these signs, a thick presence of indifference will settle in around me like a soupy fog, blocking joy and love, and isolating me until I begin to believe there is no way out. Then a spiral of despair and depression begins…therefore I bought a treadmill. (I’ll get to the connection between spiraling and treadmills later but for now, you’ll just have to go with it).

In a conversation with a friend recently (we were making jewelry so of course the conversation went deep) she pointed out I had written a book that highlighted my husband’s struggle with PTSD and the reverberating repercussions, several posts about marriage as it relates to horses (shameless teaser), but seldom have I (if ever) gone deep into my own mental illness struggles. What the hell is that about? (She didn’t say those exact words. She’s not a monster).

But it got me thinking. Why am I avoiding? And, it seems the best chance of finding out would be to just stop avoiding and start writing. Hence, this prologue post to a series on mental health. (EEK! The word “series” makes my palms sweat a bit, which means I cannot promise a consistent release of posts. But I’ve started at least. And maybe you feel this is simply a self-indulgent, narcissism fueled attempt to garner sympathy and attention. You can tell me that as long as you start with, “If I’m being honest.” Because then at least there will be a bit of irony, which will make me chuckle and it will be easier to absorb your opinion).

On that note, I realize perhaps I’m only adding one more strained note into the cacophony of voices shouting into the ether. I have no ideas of grandeur that what I have to say will be anything new or revelatory. But, what the heck. Nothing ventured nothing gained. 

Perhaps I have painted this blog with enough self-doubt for now. Until next time, when I either discuss crippling abandonment issues or postpartum depression. Either of which sound equally riveting, I’m sure. 

P.S. I am not a trained professional. I’m just a woman, who appreciates sarcasm, sharing a story. This post is not a plug for treadmills nor is it a claim that treadmills are a cure for depression.  

It’s Time to Let Go!

On Life, PTSD, , ,
Photo from Katman1972 (free images.com)

Top Gun Maverick. Rotten Tomatoes gives it 97%. You read that correctly. 97%! For those of you who didn’t have a stellar math teacher, only 3 out of every 100 people that saw the movie were like, “Meh.” Only 3.  

I’m with you 97%. I cried. I cheered. I felt elated. And thank you, Hollywood, for the power of the cinema. Thank you for embracing a bit of the real. Just a bit. But I’m struggling to say it was truly real.

For those of you who have been around for a beat, I have some experience in the PTSD arena. (I may have even written an entire book dedicated to the cathartic journey of being married to someone who has been diagnosed with PTSD. Insert tireless self-promotion here.) 

It’s time to let go!

Absolutely no disrespect to Val here. That man is a warrior. But I think Hollywood missed the mark a bit. PTSD cannot be reduced to a simple act of “letting go.” I appreciate the fact that they went there. Especially since I know the military doesn’t do “mental health” all that well. (Topics for a different time.) Maverick is still struggling with the past. That’s real life. But maybe there could have been a better way of representing the theme of the movie.

In true Hollywood fashion, the one-liner foreshadows the ending. Several men, intimately aquatinted with grief, and one (ahem, Maverick) who clearly struggles with PTSD, find themselves wrestling with the past. (I’m not a psychologist but willing to go out on a limb if for no other reason than the literal flashbacks and nothing says PTSD like flashbacks.)

Don’t get me wrong, there is now another musical score that rivals Chariots of Fire and Harry Potter for moving and inspiring. Duh duh duh dadadada duh duh…it’s moving. It’s heroic. It makes you want to kick ass. But is it entirely real? 

It’s time to let go!

I honor what Ice was trying to say. And at some level his intent seems legit. But it doesn’t seem to work quite like that. At least from my experience. It’s more like, “It’s time to practice reprogramming the guilt and it’s going to take a long time…a very long time…and oh, it never fully goes away because it’s a scar on your soul.”  Yeah, I hear it. Maybe not something 97% want to hear. 

But here’s what they did get right – it’s engaging. And maybe, hopefully, it moves us a notch closer to being able, as a society, to reconciling the impact PTSD has had on our culture and our oft ineptness at knowing how to deal with it. 

It inspires me to think that 97% connect with the movie. But do 97% think PTSD can be conquered, and in 2 hours no less or do 97% watch and feel a sort of solidarity with Maverick? 

I’m hoping for the later. I’m hoping a national audience walks away with not only the intense thrill of being in a cockpit, but a sense of understanding of the sacrifices made by those who willingly chose to put themselves between us and danger–fighter pilots, service members (but a shout out to Marines), law enforcement (and CHP because, you know), firefighters, even those who work for state transportation agencies (maybe like NDOT) who are tasked with running into the road to pick up the sh!t that fell out of the back of your truck so someone who is slightly distracted doesn’t hit it and crash. When you see those people, doing those jobs, remember the 97% elation you felt after this movie. 

Remember that such a level of dedication and risk comes at a price. 

Here’s to the 97%. May it spark awareness, conversation, and empathy for those who choose to wear a uniform that bears a weight they may never be able to take off. 

I Dwell in Possibility…

On Faith

                                                                   

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – For Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And an everlasting roof

The Gambles of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

-Emily Dickenson

Over twenty years ago, someone told me one should never ask, “What if?” I still struggle with this idea. For one, I’m a writer. In the most obvious sense, if I never asked what if, my stories would be very short and rather boring. The exploration of the “what if” is the very thing that propels the protagonist through the angst. 

But that’s pretend. Should one never ask “What if” in the real world? 

I went to bed last night wondering a what if question. My last blog revealed a recent health detour from normal (another word I’m wrestling with, so stay tuned.) The follow up appointment after surgery ended with a referral to an oncologist. The massive tumor met the definition of the dreaded “C” word. (I used this phraseology recently to someone and they asked which dreaded “C” word I was referencing.  I’m still trying to figure out the other dreaded “C” words. I didn’t ask. One is enough for the time being.) The oncologist requested a PET scan to see if there is more cancer and said we would discuss future steps depending on the outcome. The follow up with the doctor was today. So for several weeks, my family and I have danced with “What if?” 

A common phrase has been, “I hope it’s clear.” But I never want to use words like hope or love frivolously. So before I could embrace the hope of a comma in this chapter of my story, I sat with Hope for a bit, to get reacquainted. She reminded me of the time we spent together in England. She would meet me every day (not exaggerating) when I got off the bus and then she would walk with me the 10 minutes I had until I arrived at work. Adjusting to a new school is a challenge. Adjusting to a new school in a foreign country was at times, daunting. So, Hope and I would discuss the possibilities that lay ahead each day. It would have been easy to focus on the numerous things I could almost count on going array. But Hope kept whispering in my ear, “What if?” What if? What if today, you make a connection with that student that keeps misbehaving in class? What if today, you get a smile out of the student who is mute? What if today, you make your students laugh and for a few minutes, it’s actually fun. What if? Hope helped me climb atop the shoulders of dread and see the possibility.

We often erroneously accuse Hope of being fragile. On the contrary, she’s rather resilient. She has withstood battle fields strewn with stories ended too soon. She has survived the starvation and anguish of multitudes caged in concentration camps. She has persisted through famines and pestilence and all manner of suffering. And in the midst of all of it, she stands in the middle of the decay and chaos and says, “What if? What if our lives stretch beyond our death? What if every breath we breathe ripples through eternity? What if?

Hope is a brilliant artist. She takes the drab, life-less colors of our fears, and she spins the most beautiful tapestry.

I woke up the first morning after my surgery in the oncology department. I was supposed to be waking up in my own bed after a routine procedure. In the midst of my processing, I heard a voice. (This time it was a real person, I promise.) “Good morning, Rebecca. I’m Meridith.” Before I could even respond with any amount of civility, I was uncertain the social protocols of conversation between two cancer patients separated by a sheet, she kept going. “I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer over a year ago. I know a little bit of what you are dealing with in this moment. If you ever have any questions, I’m right here.” 

Tears streamed down my face. Much like they are now. Sometimes, Hope shows up in people. For five days, Meridith walked me through the first parts of my cancer journey. She laughed at my jokes (she seriously may be a saint), she helped me process, she cheered me on, and she whispered, “What if?” But even more profoundly, she exuded life in the unlikeliest of places and she reminded me what Hope looks like.

So, if you haven’t met my friend Hope, the next time your mind is swirling in a cacophony of fear and chaos, listen for her. Her currency is possibility and if you chose an encounter with her, I can’t guarantee your circumstances will change, but your perspective might and maybe that’s the more important of the two anyway.

P.S. The PET scan was clear! Thank you all so much for your prayers, positive thoughts, and best wishes! You have no idea how you lifted us and helped sustain us! Muah!!!

A Female Bedtime Story

On Life

Once upon a time, there was a woman. The doctor kept referring to her as a “woman of your age” until numerous witty retorts danced across her face and emblazoned her eyes. He then found a different way to explain to her that she didn’t need her uterus any longer. To this she argued, “What if I wish to surrogate for one of my children someday?” Her husband looked at her with a small degree of alarm and the doctor shifted his head very slightly to one side. The woman wasn’t trying to be difficult or irksome, she only wanted the doctor to be sure he was guiding her down the best path. You see, he wanted to remove all of her reproductive organs, along with a fibroid they had found on an MRI. This course of action seemed like a big deal to the woman. But the doctor persisted in his explanation and a date for surgery was set.

The woman soon discovered there’s work to be done to prep for this kind of surgery. She was asked to conduct a bowel cleanse the day before. Her initial thought was to imagine she was simply doing a juice cleanse until the numerous trips to the toilet made it impossible to paint the experience in a different light. The evening quicky focused on her success in ridding her body of everything. The next morning, feeling empty, hungry and anxious, the woman and her husband drove to the hospital where they waited and waited for her surgery.

The two-hour surgery turned into three and a half hours when the doctor opened her up and found the fibroid was a nasty tumor the size of a cantaloupe attached to her small intestine. He removed the tumor, taking part of her small intestine and appendix with it, as well as the lady bits they had discussed originally. Once she was patched up again, he sent her to a room in the hospital to recover. 

The next morning, when she awoke, she was told she could not have anything to drink until she was able to pass gas and that she would not be able to go home until she could have a normal bowel movement. Brushing aside the initial injustice of it all, she reminded herself she had been doing these activities since the day she was born. It surely couldn’t prove to be that difficult. 

With great determination she put her mind to the task at hand. She took walks, practiced the child pose, and generally concentrated on getting things moving. By the end of the first day, she was frustrated and exhausted. How could something so inane and base be so difficult? The nurses, seemingly convinced it would happen, encouraged her as best they could, and it turned out they were right. The next day, her body remembered and what a joyous moment it was when the gas finally arrived. She continued to progress until they announced her fit to return to her home. The end. 

As with all good bedtime stories, we must discuss the moral. During the struggle, the woman could not escape the irony of the situation. She was required to poo to have the surgery, then required to poo to go home. (The exclusion of the “h” is intentional as not to confuse this topic with a small adorable yellow cartoon bear.) Many times, her roommate heard her say, “The outside world is far less concerned with excrement as the medical world. In fact, we poo-poo it.” The woman thought she was clever. Regardless, the irony just would not leave her alone. 

Being in a hospital for several days gave her opportunity to explore this idea further and sit with it awhile. Is the outside world missing something? Beyond the obvious obsession with bowel movement, was there a lesson to be found? Understandably, the doctors and nurses didn’t want to send her home until they knew all was well and things were functioning as they should. But the woman continued to ponder the irony. Her life experience had taught her there is often great profoundness to be found in the presence of irony–like standing in front of a magnificent wisteria tree in bloom and expecting the alluring scent to find its way to your nose. 

And then the profound whispered to her. 

Maybe we should spend more time thinking about what we waste.

 If her exit from the hospital was determined by her waste, perhaps there is something to be gained in the outside world by being mindful of what we metaphorically flush down the toilet. Clearly this is the current idea as we strive to eliminate plastic and superfluous materials out of our landfills. There’s one application of the idea. She knew she was on to something and pondered further until another whisper. 

Maybe we are measured by what we waste. 

We furiously endeavor to be defined by what we accomplish. We want to be measured by our achievements or our image or by our successes. But maybe we should give as much attention, if not more, to the things or people we push aside. 

Maybe we are more defined by the opportunities, relationships, moments that we allow to pass by–those glimpses of eternity that we discard–the “base” things we waste.

That was it. That was the profound hidden in the irony. The woman took a deep breath and pondered this, wrapping it gently in the folds of her mind so that she could cherish the lesson found in the struggle. 

****

In case you missed it, I’m the woman. And as I’m sure this will spark some questions, it was a tumor, but possibly the best-case scenario. I see the oncologist next monthand will know more but for now…I’m visiting the bathroom often, which means ample opportunities to ponder the lessons learned in the hospital. And as the journey unfolds, I will share more profound lessons as I learn them. At least I will try. 

It is easy, natural even, to measure the day in minutes and hours. It is a far different and more difficult practice to measure the day in moments. 

All I’m askin’

On Life
A cold day in Paris

The French have a saying. “Pfffft.”

Okay, saying is a stretch. It’s really more a sound of derision–the expulsion of emotion in a puff of hair through the lips. (Seriously, it’s a thing.)

Several months ago, the phrase “the new normal” seemed quaint and clever. Isolation. Lockdown. Change.

The new normal.  Pffft. We had no idea. 

I thought of writing something at the beginning of this journey fifteen weeks ago. And then the cacophony of voices erupted from the internet. How could I compete with “Some Good News” by John Krasinski? 

But that was really only the beginning of the great disgorge. It’s as if staying in our homes has caused a divergent response in what once felt like loud talking has now become maniacal screaming. Here me or maybe I don’t exist! And that’s when I noticed something. Something disturbing. 

Some of the caustic posts are discomfiting enough all by themselves but I began to see a pattern. The two-by-four between the eyes moment came when I read a post full of the words “anti” and “pro.” 

When did we start choosing titles over traits?

When did we come to believe that “anti” and “pro” statements are adequate descriptors of who we are?

Shakespeare coined the phrase about wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. Someone unable to hide how they really feel. Is it just me or have we magnified this ability and turned it into a cultural phenomenon? Our opinions become our titles we wear like badges on our chests to distinguish what camp we live in, who we vote for, what we vote for, who we hate, what we hate… 

I’m “anti-…” “I’m pro-…” 

We have chosen titles over traits.

Who we are and how we see others has been compressed into inane descriptions of our opinions. I don’t want to be defined only by what I think. I want to be defined by who I am. Who I really am. I’ve worked hard to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I know a lot of others who are involved in the same tough work. But it is beginning to feel as though all that work goes out the window if my “anti/pro” statement doesn’t align with someone else’s. 

Pfft.

Is it possible to go back to traits?  I’m talking about things like kindness, honesty, respect. You want to spell that last one don’t you? Or sing it? With abandon? Throw in a finger snap?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

And then, of course that makes me think of her. 

Oh yes, the indomitable Queen of R&B. The great Aretha Franklin. Do you see what I did there? I gave her a title. “The Queen of R&B.” I promise I did it on purpose. I’m about to prove a point. Technically, Aretha is going to prove my point. I could not do this moment justice. You’ll have to see for yourself. Watch this!

There’s no way a woman who changed the music industry with her 1967 release of “Respect” could be relegated or defined by a title. It’s a nice title but still—it doesn’t come close to defining who she was. The “Queen of R&B” rocked the Grammy stage in 1998 as “a stand in” for Luciano Pavarotti and smashed it. Aretha a “stand in?” Pfft. 

The so-called Queen of R&B shook the roof and swept the audience with opera. I want to be like Aretha. I want to be defined by more than titles. I want to be known for my contributions not captions depicting my opinions. I want to learn how to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I think Aretha nailed it. A little more respect has to be a great place to start. 

No more titles. They’re just so “pfft.” 

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not opposed to opinions. But can we have more? Can we expect more? Can we be more? I care what you think. But more than that, I care why you think it. I would rather know you. The you beyond the titles. 

Unprecedented: adjective

life in the UK, On Life

“never done or known before.”

The landscape looks different depending on where you stand. This is applicable in wrestling with a vacation destination and equally so when contending with the truth from an event in our past..

I am struck by the extreme vantage points as I read the opinions of close friends, acquaintances, people from my past and present. There’s a militant strength on both sides. “Take this seriously,” shout some of you. “Make the media stop freaking us out! It’s just the flu,” others scream. Then there are those dancing somewhere in the middle posting memes about beer and toilet paper, giving us a chance to smile and breathe if only for a split second.

The master bedroom of our house is on the third floor and our house sits atop a hill overlooking South London. We stand at our window in the early morning and look down on rooftops, tendrils of steam rise into the cold London air, like flags rising on masts to furl in the wind and declare life below. On our way to bed, we look out our window and a sea of millions of colorful lights twinkle in the distance like fairies watching over the masses. Skyscrapers become the stuff of puzzles. The lyrics of Bette Midler’s song “From a Distance” find a home in reality.

From our third floor rooftop view, the world looks normal. All is as it should be. Reality is setting the alarm to get up for work. Scheduling a trip to the theatre next weekend. Making dinner reservations at our favorite Turkish restaurant down the street. Only two floors down, the view changes drastically. On the first floor, images flash on the news and words from solemn strangers paint a far different picture. Most recently, a story of a neighborhood in Italy, the inhabitants have been forced to stay in their homes under a government lockdown. Can we even imagine? And yet, they have been heard singing, blending their voices and instruments into the streets below. Uniting through music and keeping them together as their economy, plans, maybe even dreams shatter around them.

I wonder if this whispers of a previous time. Never before have I known anyone to have to cancel a memorial service for their 45 year old husband who has died suddenly out of a conscious decision not to put anyone at risk. March 16th’s memorial for Dave has been cancelled. There was a wedding in three weeks, now postponed indefinitely. The bride saddened, mourning a day that was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

I was speaking with a colleague yesterday (the UK hasn’t suspended school yet) and she used the word “unprecedented.” It definitely feels like that. Unchartered waters. High school sports suspended. Schools around the world canceled regardless of weather conditions. And yet, history whispers of moments when such chaos and confusion have altered lives, stories, and families. It is a rare moment to meet a survivor of global tragedy. Perhaps for that reason, we steel our hearts and our determination.

It would be much easier to stay on the third floor with the expansive view of a silent sparkling civilization. Of calm and peace and rationality. Much easier. And although even my parents cannot recall a time when food and goods were rationed, such living conditions are not entirely unprecedented. History is awash with stories across the globe of opportunities missed. When tragedy has struck and the thin vein of humanity went into hiding. In this current unprecedented moment, we have opportunity again.

I hope and pray we allow ourselves the space for our opinions to change. I hope and pray that if things do change, we transfer our strength of opinion into strength of community and remember, unprecedented or not, and like it or not, life is only lived out on the bottom floor.

The Queen’s English

life in the UK, On Life

Photo by Suserl just me from FreeImages

Halloween, at least the American version, has jumped the pond. People put a lit Jack-O-Lantern on their porch and hand out candy to those dressed in costumes. Only they don’t dress in “costumes.” They call it “fancy dress.” We noticed this a couple of weeks ago on an outing. We passed a pub with sandwich board advertising a Halloween Party and “wear your fancy dress.” I had seen other signs on thrift stores for “fancy dress” and wondered if they sold prom dresses or cocktail wear? Which then made me wonder how often the common British folk were required to wear “fancy dress,” and should I start to worry if we ever were invited somewhere. The sandwich board regaling “fancy dress” in the same sentence as Halloween put my anxiety regarding dress code requirements to dinner parties at rest.

Translation: Fancy dress simply means, “come in a costume.”

However, this led to an interesting exchange in our house several days later, and I thought I might use this opportunity to practice dialogue. My day job is a math teacher (maths teacher in the UK) but I like to write. Someday, I may even publish a second novel (I have started it…about 37 times. And finished it…twice. Stay tuned.)

Here is one more example that the citizens of Great Britain speak a different English…

David is gone for three days. It may not sound like a big deal, but he is the one who has kept the rest of us alive. Grocery shopping, meal planning, dinner execution. Literally, keeping us alive. It’s a job I’ve done before. A point the two of us have discussed recently with great overtones of irony. But, one cannot subsist on irony, so, I tie on the apron, and get to work. Dinner for us girls. I haven’t had to focus on work for the past week so I have time to visit the store, and plan a meal. Sausage and butternut squash risotto. The recipe called for red wine. Sold.

I’ve missed the creative outlet of cooking. Not that I’m ready to take over the task of keeping us all alive. I am probably enjoying it because it’s not something I’ve had to do everyday.

Dinner finished, my two daughters and I sit down to eat.

“Are you girls excited to go to Wicked in a couple of days? And just so you know, my friend from work told me it was going to be way better than the musical we saw here in Wimbledon.”

“Oh really?” My youngest doesn’t look up from her dinner.

“What are you wearing?” My middle daughter joins the conversation.

“I’m dressing up. “ I assume this means conversation is in full force, so I continue. “It is in Central London this time and not a matinee. So, dress up.”

“In a costume?” In the incredulous tone of voice only a teenage girl can fully and wholly articulate.

“Um, not a costume.” My age is showing and I’m trying not to sound confused. “More like fancy. More dressed up than before.”

“Fancy dress?” Both girls are now looking at me.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So a costume?” A small choir of two teenage girls in unison.

“Why would I wear a costume to the theatre? I’m not planning on joining in.” Do you ever have that feeling like you are missing something relevant? Both girls are now staring at me. Awkward half seconds tick by. I’m wondering how long they have known me. Have I ever worn a costume outside of a Halloween Party? Why would they even…and then a flash of light and I get it.

Images and lines from Abbot and Costello, “Who’s on First,” flash through my mind in rapid succession. “I don’t know…no, I Don’t Know’s on third…”

The only rational thing to do at this point is to carry the entire conversation on my own because I now think it’s hilarious.

“Why would I wear a costume?” I ask. And before anyone can answer, I keep going. “But you said you were wearing fancy dress…” I change the pitch of my voice slightly. (Think King Julian of Madagascar.) And I thoroughly amuse myself as I proceed to parody the best duo in comedy.

In mid-stride I hear, “Like Who’s On First. I get it.” At least my children are educated. But her recognition can’t slow my roll. I feel as though I just found my stride, so I obviously keep going. Another two lines at least.

“Right, fancy dress…so a costume…Why would I wear a costume?…”

Both girls have gone back to eating. But that is the beauty of writing. I get to re-live what I think was a hilarious interlude and now the frivolity has been transcribed into the written word for all of posterity. Heavy is the head…

Happy Halloween! Be safe and have fun in your Fancy Dress!!!

Cheers!

In the Queue with Qualls

On Life

I had a post written about Isaac and how he is in boot camp and how it’s the first time we have been apart as a family. It’s a bit of a tear-jerker. Quite frankly, I’m tired of crying. I’ve cried because I miss that kid like crazy. I have cried because I am overwhelmed at work. (They call the trunk of a car a boot. Extrapolate that out and you get how education might be extremely different as well.) I’ve cried for my girls when they have felt overwhelmed. I’ve cried because of hormones. I’ve cried. 

So, let’s move on. 

Today, I had a training day in a different part of London. It was called “acclimatization” training. There’s a great deal of irony here. It was just under 60 degrees Fahrenheit (I won’t do Celcius yet) when I left the house and clear, but it’s London. Someone sneezes and it starts raining. “Never leave home with it,” means rain coat and umbrella. But now, I’m literally underground, in my trench coat, in a heard of people. They are British so it is rather civilized. No eye contact. Never talk to anyone near you. And pretend this is what you do everyday of the week. 

I proceeded to transfer to a different subway line, and then walked at least half a mile through a small homeless camp to arrive at the building where my training was to be held. I was soaking wet and it hadn’t started raining yet. Thank God I’m still on my American strength deodorant. I found the bathroom (or toilet as they call it-they can be literal, just mostly choose not to be) just to take a moment to collect myself and attempt to look like a professional teacher, not a professional athlete. Toilet tissue came out as an attempt to absorb the aftermath of my trip. 

Ok. Breathing back to normal. Sweat was no longer pouring down my back. Progress. Until I began to wash my hands and I glimpsed in the mirror. There were a dozen small flecks of white all over my face and neck. Like I was a recently pubescent boy learning how to shave and my first attempt was my whole face. 

Remember when I said the day was about acclimatization training? I seriously thought of turning around and repeating the journey home. How much more acclimatization training can one person endure in a day? The queue alone was so incredibly British! But I stayed. The rest of the day was spent listening to a British lady who spoke rather fast and I spent half the time trying to decide if she was saying “half” or “have.” (More irony.) Remember I am a math teacher so the distinction is rather important. I’m not going to lie; I was thrilled when I thought the day was over. I finished my survey and enthusiastically headed for the door, only to find my acclimatization training was yet to be over. A short bus ride to the tube station and a quick switch to the second train when two stops in, the conductor comes on the intercom to say the train will no longer go to my stop, but will “terminate” early. We all pile off the subway, stand on the platform, again with a great deal of British decorum. I desperately wanted to ask someone if they thought the next train would actually come. They all stood so poised and assuming. They make sweatshirts that say “Keep calm and carry on” for an actually reason. It’s how they are. But in my American head, I was already planning two alternate roots. I could ditch the subway and find a series of buses that would get me home, or say, “screw it” and hail a cab. But today was after all, acclimatization training, so I held fast to the British decorum and continued to “carry on.” 

The next subway train came. Maybe it was the British who can claim the whole, “If you build they will come” ideology. We all got on, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and of course, I had to process this. I’m standing again on a train I hope will get me to the literal end of the line and I realize today was really about one word–capacity. We spend a great deal of time determining if we are “glass half-full” or “glass half-empty” and I think we are obsessing about the wrong thing. We are asking the wrong question. Who cares how much is in your glass? (I’m tempted to insert a gin comment here.) The question you should be asking is this, “Am I allowing my ‘glass’ to grow?” 

We all think we have our capacities. We believe there are limits to patience, grace, strength, insert your word here. And consequently, we spend a great deal of energy managing the ends of those limits. “I’m running out of patience.” I felt that today. Standing on and off subway trains for almost two hours, but then I saw a little boy take the gum out of his mouth and proceed to wrap it around his thumb after he has subsequently touched every public surface within a foot radius. 

That made me chuckle. So much so that I actually made eye contact with the girl standing next to me who had obviously seen the same thing. Maybe I’m not almost out of patience. So then I had to think what if our limit is really only a construct, a feeling? What if, in reality, there’s an endless supply? Today’s training could have been a test. How acclimatized am I? If it’s a test, there is a limit. The glass will reach a certain measure. That’s it. Pass. Fail. The end. 

But maybe it’s not a test. What if it’s just an opportunity? A chance to change the capacity, to grow the glass a little, to stretch the boundaries.

I used to think patience was a string. It could be consumed. At some point I would run out. But now I’m not so sure. I think it might be a rubber band with a tremendous capacity to grow. Or maybe a piece of gum wrapped around and around and around your thumb. Maybe it has the capacity to keep going. Maybe we have that same capacity.

We all need a bit of acclimatization training now and then. It stretches us. Pun intended. 

The View

On Faith, On Life
an evening view

I have been thinking about my last post and I feel I need to paint a more accurate portrait of our current status. The last post shows the view from our rooftop terrace. That really is the view but there are two things that I feel may have been overlooked by the singular perspective. 

First addendum. My mattress currently resides on the floor. Sure, we have a great view, but I can literally roll out of bed onto the floor. Last night, my dog curled up next to me. That was a sobering moment. If my mattress is on the floor, do I really sleep on a giant dog bed? But 3 hours in the local IKEA store on the morning we got the okay to move into the house could only yield so much fruit. We had four carts (aka trolley) full of necessary items to sustain life in a house. I’m talking ice cream scooper, pots and pans, and other necessary housewares. We were fortunate enough to grab a few things for every room, including mattresses and sheets. Bailey was the only one ready to pull the trigger on a bed.

I was walking home from the bus stop the other day and thinking about what we left behind. We have rugs, and beds, and headboards, and a drawer full of kitchen utensils. I remember putting a large plastic box of Band-Aids into an even larger cardboard box to store in the garage in Nevada. I think it safe to say that counts as surplus. Thankfully, Bailey was insightful enough to bring some Band-Aids with us. I chose another pair of shoes above a box of Band-Aids which is ironic because that leads me into the second issue that needs rectifying.

I brought with me several pairs of heals. It’s what I wore to work in the States. But I drove to work everyday. Here, I ride the bus. Which also means I have to walk. No one would want to walk a mile in my shoes. I don’t want to walk in my shoes. My feet are killing me. I have had a neon blue Band-Aid on the back of my heel for a week now. Not covering a blister but an actual area where I rubbed the skin off. We traded the rural country drives, for the slick streets of London and the sometimes running to catch the next bus. The amazing rooftop view comes at a price.

The four of us hung out up there yesterday afternoon. It was a sunny day in London and perhaps the last one for a while. We can see a long ways into the distance. Alternately, if we look down, we can peer into the lives of our neighbors. It reminds me of the Hitchcock movie, “Rear Window.” For those of you who haven’t seen it, the moral of the story is don’t be a voyeur. We could easily be drawn from the expansive view by the daily, often mundane routines happening around us. But thanks to Mr. Hitchcock, we know that generally doesn’t end well. 

Here’s what I see when I look down, metaphorically. I’m super stressed at work. There are a couple of classes where I have spent far more time teaching behavior and impulse control than math. It’s so frustrating! And in my forty plus minute commute to and from work, I have time to reflect. There are days when I struggle to see anything more than the mundane task of behavior management. It becomes a cycle where I feel ineffectual as a math teacher and then I’m falling down the rabbit hole where my current life choices come under intense scrutiny. I could be in Nevada with a bed off the floor, more kitchen utensils, and a house full of stuff, not to mention several pairs of boots I left behind. 

I know I’m not alone in this. Literally, I have three other people here struggling on different days with similar issues. We have replaced the familiar with everything that is not familiar. And in the moments of high stress, it’s so important for me to take high ground. To stand on the terrace and look out as far as possible. In the future my foot will heal. In the future, the consistent and patient care of my students will reap reward. In the future, the unfamiliar will grow to be familiar. In the future, I will have a bed off the floor. While I can’t live in the future, I can allow a bigger perspective to breathe hope into the chaos of the present. And I’ve found an amazing thing happens. It isn’t limbo to live between the chaos of the present and the hope for a different future. I think this middle ground is a garden that grows gratitude. I’m far more grateful for the smile or greeting from a student. For the moments of laughter with colleagues. For a seat on the bus on the way home. 

I find myself saying this a lot. Through different stories or blog posts, I apologize for repeating myself. But I need to be reminded so often. Reminded how my perspective, what I choose to look at, makes all the difference.  

P.S. Since I started writing this post, we have obtained beds. Just didn’t want anyone to worry unnecessarily.