Birthday Heart Inventory and Grandmom’s Still Lives

Despite the grief, despite my predictable frustration with summer for being over, despite even the errant landscapers who tore out my blue morning glories just as they were starting to bloom, I would call this one of my happiest years. My work is getting closer and closer to being exactly what I want it to be—my commute is nearly gone! I feel the most at home I’ve ever felt and I have so much hope for the future—my own and, even a little bit, for the world.

I’ve learned, sometimes, in a still-flawed way, to dole out anger constructively. I’ve lost, most of the time, the conviction that the world is actively trying to push me out of it.

This summer, I had to get good at grief. Grandmom died in June and just last week a favorite mentor succumbed to a second onslaught of cancer. It’s a dubious thing to be proud of, but I think I’ve done my best job ever with grief. Rather than lash out (or lash inwards) I was able to simplify, to focus on the lives well lived, to just go ahead and sleep as often as possible. Grief feels a little like the task of learning bifocals: hurt a little or a lot, feel dizzy, sleep, let the connections grow in my brain and let my vision reset. If post-traumatic growth can be a thing, so can post-grief growth. I’m proud of that growth. I’m proud of the sad strength it took to photograph Grandmom’s house without her in it. The light and colors were new, so may angles I had never seen before.

This year, at the tender age of 44 (oh, to stay Obama-age forever) I learned something like attachment. I was swimming in the ocean with my family a few weeks ago, surrounded by baby jellyfish or some other kind of gelatinous not-stinging aliveness, and I had this thought: “I’ll probably see these people again.” I knew I was loved. I knew I was part of the family—I’d never known it quite so deeply before. I can maybe attribute this shift to a higher Prozac dosage, but the less scientific part of me sees something supernatural—something like Grandmom’s grace reprogramming and refocusing my brain.

Right now I'm having trouble saying anything else about the year, so I'll let Grandmom's Still lives take over:

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Love Letter to Another Bookstore

Today, a team of corporate folks and bookstore pals are helping my BFF/ex-wife pack up what’s left of the Rosemont College Bookstore so the company that took it over can move in. That doesn’t sound like a situation that should feel personal, wrenching, and melancholy/beautiful, but it is.

Three summers ago, when Amy was offered the job and it turned out she needed an assistant, I was recovering from Philadelphia School District induced Acute Stress Disorder and panicking  my way through a fun but demanding summer camp job, realizing that I wouldn’t be equipped to handle long, loud days with kids any time soon. I knew the assistant job was for me, so I expressed my regrets to the camp and took what turned out to be one of the most happy-making jobs I’ve ever had.

I worried that it was CRAZY to work with my ex-wife, even though we’d already morphed into being best friends. I dreamed we were stuck on the Lost island together, bought myself a necklace with a little airplane charm so I knew I could escape. I worried that proximity to the snack section would make me fatter, and it totally did, but who cares?

Even though it was a corporate bookstore, letting me use all of the deliciously tedious and emotionally neutral skills I’d gained in twelve years of day-jobbing at different colleges, the Rosemont store meant so much more that that. The time spent grumbling about politics with my best friend, the time we helped register young voters during the 2016 election, all of the deep conversations in the back room, (okay, and also at the register, when I couldn’t help myself) it all reminded me of the old-fashioned Seventies feminist term consciousness-raising. Amy, with her bajillion years as a philosophy major, is much more equipped to handle disagreement, so she was able to form an even deeper bond with our brilliant student employees, almost all of them young women poised to take over the world in their own precious, unique ways. I learned so much from those young women,and will continue to treasure them as beacons of hope in my social feeds.

I love the way feminism and politics merged with pop culture joy at our store. I love the way we were able to revel in the brilliance of Hamilton ( R.I.P. Hamilton Wednesdays, which really were to sweary for work…) and also talk about what a rapey colonizer Thomas Jefferson was. I love that I know everybody’s Harry Potter house and that they’re who I was with when I took the Pottermore quiz and finally admitted I’m a Griffindor. It sounds braggy, I know, but the quiz said! I loved fangirling my way to the Gilmore Girls reboot and disagreeing with a favorite customer whether Jess was trash or not. (They all are. Glad that (spoiler alert) Rory’s true love was her writing.)

I loved parking my little red Yaris next to Amy’s (formerly our) little blue Yaris, with our matching rainbow Hillary stickers. I loved making us coffee maybe too many times a day. I loved our matching purple Rosemont travel mugs, which I hope we’ll use for road trips. I loved when, because a mean lady made fun of the Matthew Shepherd Foundation charity bracelets, Amy and I immediately bought ourselves matching ones. I loved watching each year as the campus’s flock of baby Canada geese waddled their way fuzzily to adulthood.

I loved having Pheobe Robinson’s You Can’t Touch My Hair and Other Things I Still Have to Explain at the register, giving me an excuse to lecture snide undergrad guys about consent. I love the day I convinced a curious young woman to buy Nasty Women: Feminism, Resistance, and Revolution in Trump's America (Which I just discovered you can get for $2.25! OMG! )https://www.barnesandnoble.com/p/nasty-women-samhita-mukhopadhyay/1125780108/2679971094578?st=PLA&sid=BNB_DRS_Core+Catch-All,+Low_00000000&2sid=Google_&sourceId=PLGoP212586&gclid=Cj0KCQjwjtLZBRDLARIsAKT6fXxXhlKJgubXV_KosqoiJ-jtT9de69XyUct_4KTwFifgFOv198sfJE0aAnPkEALw_wcB)

On the day I was banned from campus, (A Nasty Woman story in itself, which I will someday have the strength to put into words even though it is the stupidest thing that ever happened to me. I’m assured it’s not why our contract wasn’t renewed…) we had a Student Walkout poster on the door, and I feel grateful to have made such a small gesture in support of students who wanted to walk out. (You can read about my own Walkout experience here: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2018/04/activist-kids-rule.html)

Not long after I was banned, I found out the store was changing companies, and I feel really sad that I won’t be calling Amy at that store anymore, that I won’t hear the voices of those wonderful coworkers in the background. But I’ve realized something about happiness, about college bookstores. Although, like all institutions, colleges can be very stupid and sometimes terrifying, I need the combination of exquisite boredom, mundane-to-miraculous chitchat, and walks past lovely architecture that college bookstores can provide. My new bookstore home doesn’t have an intersectional feminist book section, but it does have heart, and beauty, and the lively workout of carrying heavy books. This line of work is one of the great loves of my life, and I am so grateful.

112 Ways to Be Soft with Myself

This post owes a lot to my favorite piece of street art from the DC Women's March (below) and to Elizabeth Gilbert, Gretchen Rubin, and Elizabeth Craft, whose podcasts Magic Lessons and Happier  have been steering me back toward my happiness wheelhouse these past few weeks. 

            Last Monday in therapy, I got to a breakthrough point that was as relieving as an exhale. Closing a volume on a particularly ensnaring story, I felt space open up around me in a way that I haven’t felt in years. The urgency, defensiveness, and vigilance that has always fueled/plagued my life has, for the moment, receded.

            Friday afternoon, just before being let out of a phone session early (Because of happiness!) I told my wonderful therapist (SERIOUSLY. Call Women Organized Against Rape if you need help even a little. (215) 985-3333. https://www.woar.org/ ) that in order to preserve this lovely margin that has opened up for me, I want to make my life as soft as possible, to give myself every advantage over the harshness that is unavoidable both in my head and in the world. Here’s what I have so far, in no particular order:

1.      Be imperfect.

2.      Just sit for a minute.

3.      Take pictures of flowers and other beautiful things.

4.      Think about chakras.

5.      Plant things and see if they grow.

6.      Read chick-lit books and pretty magazines.

7.      Read in bed.

8.      Sit in the park.

9.      Treat the neighborhood mini-libraries as oracles.

10.  Write whenever and whatever I want.

11.  Build up my money cushion.

12.  Read children’s books, especially biographies of cool-as-heck ladies.

13.  Keep Hillary in my heart.

14.  Do yoga at home and in classes.

15.  Leave places whenever I want and then

16.  Go back whenever I’m ready.

17.  Never have a classroom again.

18.  Call a hotline whenever I need it even a little bit.

Women Organized Against Rape: (215) 985-3333

William Way LGBT Community Center Peer Counselling: (215) 732- 8255

19.  Always have a therapist.

20.  Keep taking Prozac.

21.  Give others margins too--be slower to judgement.

22.  Learn to distinguish between microaggressions and annoyances and then

23.  Push back as often as needed.

24.  Block any number I want to, for any reason.

25.  Date in real life, not online.

26.  Expect softness from partners, and give it.

27.  Continue to not watch Twin Peaks. Fuck off, Dead Girl Town!

28.  Sleep in.

29.  Go to bed early.

30.  Go back to bed.

31.  Take naps.

32.  Keep being addicted to Insight Timer and sending strangers around the world “Thanks for meditating with me” messages.

33.  Keep loving Yoga Nidra and other guided meditations.

34.  Keep swimming.

35.  Keep getting on the elliptical, even if it means sometimes having to watch the news.

36.  Be late for stuff.

37.  Or be early.

38.  Earn the amount I deserve to, which is at least $50 an hour for tutoring and creative coaching.

39.  Keep having jobs that allow me to regularly stop and put cash in the bank, I’ve loved that feeling since my waitress days.

40.  Look at baby animals.

41.  Walk in the woods and around my magical neighborhood (which has woods too).

42.  See my niece and nephews.

43.  See my siblings.

44.  Go to the beach, alone or with family.

45.  Get haircuts.

46.  Get my car washed.

47.  Canvass for candidates I believe in.

48.  Donate to good causes whenever I can.

49.  Call the government a few days a week.  (Daily Action and ResistBot really help with this!)

50.  Get in marches, protests, and demonstrations whenever I want to.

51.  Make, enjoy, and photograph street art.

52.  Use my art museum membership.

53.  Draw.

54.  Paint.

55.  Collage.

56.  Color.

57.  Bake.

58.  Make soup.

59.  Have breakfast for dinner.

60.  Look at gemstones.

61.  Visit the Hope Diamond, which I think is the most existing thing I’ve ever seen.

62.  Learn the names of birds, butterflies, flowers.

63.  Read Rumi every day.

64.  Listen to happy podcasts! (Right now I’m bingeing Magic Lessons.)

65.  Write a haiku sometimes.

66.  Wash the dishes and do the laundry.

67.  Enjoy my time working in the bookstore with Amy.

68.  Buy one feminist book per month.

69.  Watch movies.

70.  Accept invitations but

71.  Cancel plans whenever I need to.

72.  Ditto for calling in sick.

73.  Keep fresh flowers in the house.

74.  Send mail.

75.  List gratitudes and accomplishments daily.

76.  Say thank you, I love you, and I’m sorry easily.

77.  Be a guest house for emotions and other things recommended by Rumi.

78.  Go on mini-artist-dates whenever I get a little pocket or time.

79.  Or do nothing.

80.  Always be doing The Artist’s Way.

81.  Do self-help books, or “emotional sudoku” as Maria Bamford calls them.

82.  Watch, read, and listen to funny ladies. (And, okay, other funny folks too.)

83.  Honor my sacred alone times: Fridays after yoga, Sunday morning swimming, whatever else comes along.

84.  Make alone time on family visits.

85.  Always have good candles, notebooks, incense, and meditation stones.

86.  Goof around in thrift stores.

87.  Drink wine and watch Steven Universe.

88.  Believe that the Universe loves me and wants to shower me with gifts, blessings, and synchronicities.

89.  Admit to being a romantic.

90.  Have pretty clothes.

91.  Say yes to free stuff.

92.  Keep umbrellas, headphones, lipstick, cardigans, and chargers EVERYWHERE.

93.  Increase my IRA deposit whenever I can.

94.  Turn off the phone.

95.  Or just go ahead and scroll through Instagram.

96.  Play games.

97.  Watch sitcoms.

98.  Notice and enjoy silence.

99.  Celebrate having a body.

100. Say no to things I don’t like.

101.   Allow for the possibility of grey areas.

102.   Assume good intentions.

103.  Use and celebrate my voice.

104.  Treat everyone, especially myself, as if we were The Prodigal Son/Daughter/Non-Binary Child.

105.  Look at collections, varieties, arrays.

106.  Enjoy my friends.

107.  Have some tea.

108.  Believe fortune cookies, encouraging tea bags, and other messages from the Great Whatever.

109.  Keep a stock of tea lites.

110.  Notice magic every day.

111.  My neighbor once told me that “Living in a community is a constant state of forgiveness and self-forgiveness.

112.  Put loving myself first, always.

What are your ways? ❤ ❤ ❤

Gratitude List for 2016 (Brought to You in Part by Prozac)

Depression is a superpower. Because I have to fight hard to see the good in order to survive, this damaging, heartbreaking year still looks like my best one yet—even with getting hit by a car!

1. I’m grateful that I had Hillary Clinton with me in my heart every day. Her courage helped me to stand up to the biggest bullies in my life and pushed me to fight for my ideals. Fighting for her was fighting for me, for all of us. She married me to the premise that women are people and that LGBT people deserve equal rights and equal respect. She faced so much ugliness, gaslighting, horror, and humiliation and stayed herself throughout it all—working hard, doing her homework, having a plan, and standing up for those who need it. She and my wonderful campaign organizers and fellow volunteers made me into a better, stronger, and more hopeful person, and any future good I get to do will be thanks to them. Working on the campaign made me more connected to my neighborhood, my country, the world, and myself, and I hope to cultivate and honor that connection for the rest of my years.

2. I’m grateful that I fell in love this fall. It didn’t work out, but he’s a good sort, and something that doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal profoundly changed me. He got me writing a million paragraphs (and one poem!), kept me company through my election work, made lots of art with me and the library kids, and reminded me what it’s like to feel beautiful and sparky and ridiculous with someone. I remember the day I went ahead and let myself feel it: I drew stars all over the paper he’d given me to read and gave him an A+. Oh yeah, and then there’s the music—what if Frank Ocean hadn’t found his way into my heart? The most exciting thing is that even though the love is unrequited, I can still enjoy it—the love itself feels like a companion, even separate from him, and it keeps me warm and hopeful most nights. I think I’ll owe my future loves partly to him.

3. I’m grateful for retracing my steps and reconnecting with dear friends whom I briefly lost to divorce grief. It’s so heartening how friendship can just stay there and wait for you to be ready for it, how these reunions sometimes feel like no time has passed. I’m lucky to have so many generous and reliable hearts in my life.

4. I’m grateful for Hamilton, especially getting my niece and nephews obsessed! I got my four-year-old nephew a “Not throwing away my shot.” T-shirt for his birthday. My niece and I bond over our love of Lafayette (Well, he IS everyone’s favorite fighting Frenchman!) (Did you know he’s currently on black-ish? Merry Christmas to me!) I’ll never forget the drives to the comic shop belting out the king’s song, or the drive back from apple picking belting out everything. As a bonus, it seems like Hamilton might be one of the things holding our nation together, so yeah, I’m pretty glad it exists.

5. I’m grateful that I got to march for the Pulse victims, for Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, for reproductive rights, for religious freedom, against the evil Nazi president elect. It’s a good thing I like marching, because it seems like it’s time to do a lot more of it.

6. I’m grateful that I got to thank John Lewis, Hillary Clinton, and Cecile Richards for their work. Also very grateful that I didn’t faint when I met John Lewis—his handshake was so warm and his “Thank you for your work” was so humbling that I’ll feel fortified by it for years to come.

7. I’m grateful for my neighborhood. In Mt. Airy, you can staple a watercolor to a phone pole and it just stays there! That’s how loved and safe and curated I feel.

8. I’m grateful for my jobs. All three are rewarding, relaxed, and fulfilling. I’ve gotten to make so much art and friendship and happiness at the library, help so many students at the bookstore, and create a warm and productive bond with my tutoring student and his family. I’m especially grateful for my Lego Day playlist, for singing “Lean on Me” and “Shine Bright Like a Diamond” and “Love on Top” and “Everything is Awesome” with the kids and feeling like the luckiest person in the world, like a goddess surrounded by beautiful treasures, because that’s exactly what this year let me be.