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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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? ❤ ❤ ❤

The Day I Met John Lewis!!!

Over the summer, I felt like Congressman John Lewis was one of the people taking care of me. Reading parts one and two of March gave me a deeper perspective on the Civil Rights Movement and a wider lens on what’s at stake in the current election. During the time of pain, fear, and frustration that followed Orlando, the sit-in on the congress floor gave me reassurance that someone cared, that someone was fighting for both LGBT safety and gun control improvements. John Lewis was at the center, giving me a sense of purpose and forward motion in what could easily feel like a brutal and broken world.

So when I heard that he would be stopping by our local Philly for Hillary office, I very nearly swooned. I was grateful that I happened to be in the office for a canvass when they found out, or I might have missed it—one of the synchronicities that always keep me just a little bit mystical about things. I couldn’t believe I would have a chance to thank him, and thank him, and thank him again for how much he’d done for all of us all of his work and pain and sacrifice to try and help our nation live up to the democratic, egalitarian place it is supposed to be.

Amy found me a copy of March Book Three to get signed. I wore my favorite blue-flowered Democrat dress and left the bookstore early so I could get in a little phonebanking before the big event. We were out on the back patio calling because it was too loud and crowded inside. It was a hazy, warm morning and everything was a little damp. Lots of the people I was calling were getting their second call of the day because of multiple event invitations, I guess, and they didn’t even mind, that’s how hardcore our local Democrats are. One woman told me that she was setting up a voter registration table outside of her house. Another asked me how she could work the polls on Election Day. Even though I was being a pain and calling people while they were a work, they often very kindly gave me a time to call back later. I love Democrats, that’s one thing I know for sure.

I got through a LOT of call sheets while we were waiting for the congressman to arrive. The phonebankers were antsy that we might miss out, but our organizers assured us they’d bring him to us first. I was on a call when he came through the back door, and I had to hastily say “I have to let you go now, John Lewis just got here!” to the nice voter on the phone.

I was shaking as I took March out of my purse for him to sign. I was afraid to monopolize him and didn’t know how to approach him even though he was right there, on the back patio of the what used to be the coffee shop where I hosted poetry reading way back when. Luckily for my hero-struck self, my new favorite organizer said “Let me introduce you to your biggest fan!” and brought him right to me.

So far this year, I’ve shaken the hand of a former president, our god-help-us-if-she’s-not-the-next president, and the president of Planned Parenthood, but shaking John Lewis’s hand was by far the warmest, deepest, and most meaningful. People snapped pictures as he signed my book, and I blithered on and on, saying many, many, thank yous and trying not to fall down. I got to tell him that his books inspire me every day. The local paper took a picture of us with the book and I would really, really like to have that photo.

One of the most humbling and awe-filled moments of this fraught year came when he thanked me for my work—the man who fought and suffered and worked harder for good than almost anyone was thanking me for a few cozy calls, a few sunny days of knocking on doors. I felt tiny and universal all at once.

After he was done thanking phone-bankers, he went inside the packed headquarters and gave a rousing speech about how he cried when Barack Obama won Pennsylvania, and then again when he was inaugurated, and how he plans to cry when we inaugurate our first woman president. He led the headquarters in a chant of “Yes we can!” before he was quickly spirited out the back door and on his way.

I turned to the woman next to me, who was looking as awed and joyed as I was, and said “That was a big moment.” and she said “Yes it was.” And we were together in it then, in the strength of unity and progress. I could feel the project of justice moving forward, even though it is almost always maddeningly slow.

Sometimes it feels crazy to believe in progress. The systems and blindnesses that oppress and brutalize America are so massive and entrenched, sometimes it feels stupid and hopeless to fight. Though sometimes I’ve felt lonely and lost, meeting John Lewis reminded me that if we keep going, we can be a little piece of progress every day. It galvanized my heart to keep working for racial justice, for gender equality, and for LGBT rights because there is such a powerful wave of good history and work behind us, pushing us forward like a wave. The warmth of his hand let me let go of my failures and really touch the little bits of good I can accomplish in this life. I will never, never stop saying thank you.

Pope Week is All of the Panics, the Parkway Is all of the Violated Places

 

***Please note: I would like to acknowledge a bout of empty-womb sorrow that informs the general frustration of this post.***

Geez, this is a lot of dark topics lately for a happiness blog, you might be thinking, but sometimes, there’s anger, sometimes you have to dig through three thousand porta potties of shit to unearth joy, or in this case, get to God.

Here’s what I see when I see the “Welcome, Pope Francis” signs everywhere, including at my own usually-liberal Unitarian Society:

Welcome, institutionalized rape.

Welcome, marriage and childbirth as coercion.

Welcome, only being worthwhile as a woman if you serve a husband and have lots of children.

Welcome, only being worthwhile as a man if you own a woman and have lots of children.

Welcome, birth control as sin and overpopulation murdering the planet.

Welcome, narrow definition of love that doesn’t apply to me.

Welcome, my ex-wife and I being told we’re sinners at most family weddings.

Welcome, even babies have inherent sin.

Welcome, the thought is as bad as the deed.

But the thing that makes me angriest is how Catholicism taught me that some of the best things about myself are what keeps me separated from God. My questioning, my strength, my sexuality—not even queer sexuality but the very fact of out-of-marriage desire; that these things kept me from feeling entitled to a relationship with God make me feel enraged. God made me this way, and the Church separated me from God.

I happen to be in a phase right now where I’d like a more openhearted relationship with the divine, where I want to come out and come to terms with my not-atheism. I’m not a cool agnostic, and I’d like to find some ways of expressing it. I do believe in a benevolent force that loves me. I do want to be grace-filled and joyful and accept that love. But right now all I can feel is anger for how long I was told I didn’t deserve that connection, that god belonged to more straight and well-behaved girls. I know it’s my fault for not realizing it sooner.

Mostly, like all things are to me, it’s personal. I am angry on behalf of child me, as is way-too-often the case. An example is this: When I was fourteen, I had sex for the first time. I did it right then because I was feeling sad and ugly and I thought I might never have the chance again. I thought it would make some sort of connection with the guy but he treated me like a stranger afterwards. It was so sad as to seem like a cliché.

I told my aunt, my favorite confidante. That evening, we were in church and I mentioned that someone had on my (recently deceased) Great Grandmom’s perfume. “Maybe she’s telling you she forgives you.” said my beloved aunt.

Here is what she should have said, and I’ll say it to myself now—

You are worthy and good and there is so much happiness and love in your future. Sex is yours and you will have it in the happiest, most playful, most exuberant, most loving ways. You can and should expect more from partners, and you have so much in body, soul, and heart to offer them in return.

Being shamed about sex, believing somewhere inside that it’s something for which I need forgiveness, has caused me so much pain and loss that at 41, I’m still working to heal the consequences.

Welcome Pope Francis, chip in on my therapy bills.

So, during Pope Weekend, I will do every kind thing for myself. I’ll pray for everyone who was hurt in large and small ways by the Church. I will take the opportunity to stay home and work on my sex memoir, so that this woman, at least, will continue to have a voice, so I can honor the hot-pants spark inside me that IS God, and it will be, loved, celebrated, and will know it never needs to be forgiven, that it was born forgiven. My family’s faith may have hampered their ability to raise me (and themselves) with love, but I can still raise myself, and still find my own path to God.