Soft Skills in Food Lion

What if what comes easily to you matters?
What if you never thought of it as useful
because it came so naturally that you assumed 
everyone felt the same way inside?

I don't know what makes sense to you,
what you do that feels like reflex?
Do you look at numbers, and they all just jive?
Did you hear someone explain how engines work
and you nodded, "Yeah, man, I get it.  

No need to say it twice."
When a child looked confused, did you know
exactly how to rephrase the instructions so
she'd bravely try again?

Did you think everyone knew how to do these things?

I don't know how.

But I did think that everyone was like me,

that the world was their cocktail party.
I didn't know it was anything special to feel
safe in this world.  

Whether by my history or inclination,
I move about the earth ready to meet you.
Not everyone makes sure their resting face
isn't bitchy.  
But I try.  Good god, do I try.
Even in Food Lion, 

okay, especially in Food Lion,
where no one is having fun,
If you happen to catch my eye,
you can bet it'll be watching yours just in case
you need me.

I try to say with my face, "Hey, this too will pass.
You're almost done, and the Cheezits are on aisle 4.

It's hard in here, and 

none us looks healthy in this

harsh lighting, but you're pointed towards the eggs,

and some of them won't be broken.  

Press on, little sibling.  You're doing a good job."

Yes, it IS a lot to say in a two second passing,

but I try.

If I had to be a color, I'd want to be warm yellow.
So, when you passed me, you'd feel warm,
you'd think of dawn and feel encouraged.

New days, new chances, your potential

and your value.
Because look at you; you're delightful!  
That's why I'm shining, so we'll remember.
Or maybe no one ever told you, 

so I'll tell you now.
RIGHT now, here, in front of the bag salad.

The brown bag salad.

Hey, don't blame the manager.

She's doing her best, 

but she's up front renting Rug Doctors,

and it's too much for Vanessa.

I never knew that not everyone is thinking this
while they're out and about town, 

looking for the intersection of the Venn
believing every two humans can connect.
I didn't know everyone doesn't feel they are 

living in a commune,
just out for the day, working our beats,
in TJ Maxx, in the brewery, in the church,
at the gas pump, 
I didn't know we all weren't self-designated customer service reps.
And I didn't know it might be a gift

given by my DNA or god

or the privilege of a safe childhood.

But maybe The Why is just another excuse to say your gifts

don't matter, because "Nothing good is easy."

What a sad sentence.

At best, it may be faulty;

At worst, it may be sacrilege.

Be easy with yourself.

You're almost to the Cheezits.

 

future you

I read a book that asked me to picture my future self.  In ten years, how did I want to look?  What did I want to be like?  If I were free to grow and be truly, fully myself, what would I want?  So I tried to picture myself completely free of other people's expectations.  At first, I pictured myself as one of those women in soft flowy comfortable clothes that curl themselves up in a chair with their feet under them and listen to you talk and make you feel good and offer you tea that does something for "gut health," and behind them are colorful pictures on the wall and their homes are eclectic and fun and exciting but somehow still calming.  And I like those women.  But then I thought about how I hate clutter and tea and clothes without defined waists, and decided maybe I don't want to BE that woman as much as VISIT that woman.  

 So I tried again to imagine future me, and I started to worry that maybe if you let me feel really REALLY free, I might get really really weird.  And not a fun weird.  Left to my own devices, maybe I'd walk around town with a sketch pad, full of stick people with orange ponytails.  Maybe I'd set up an easel on the corner and offer to do caricatures for passersby, but I'd just draw THEM as stick people with orange ponytails, because that would make me laugh.  And I'd require payment in candy. And if I got too comfortable, in every store I visited, I'd be patting cashiers on the hand saying, "You're doing a good job, Honey," which is cute if you're 90, but maybe creepy before 90.  

And what if I started feeling so free I wore a live cat for a hat, or maybe a fluffy pomeranian.  Maybe I'd finally find my left wireless earbud and roam around singing out loud with my music - which is what I do already when I'm running on a street with loud traffic, so I can tell I'm only a few years away. 

And what if I felt sooo free that I always wear knee socks and sweaters no matter the season, bc that's what I basically always wish I had on now, and a hat with earflaps on the days the I can't find the cat, bc I hate and i mean HATE for any part of me to be cold.  What if I patted trees as I passed them, and talked to cute patches of moss, and trained a robin to ride on my shoulder like the old man in The Secret Garden... 

and it's times like these that I just wonder if maybe too much freedom is frightening.  

 

 

Brave New Commune

Are you outdoorsy?  Do you miss being in some sort of club that also is based on survival?  Are you like a Thoreau stuffed inside a Whitman.  Then maybe you are a woodsy turducken who'd like to join my new enterprise. 

I just want to live on a plot of land, tend my baby otters, and grow my own Cheezits.  What am I saying--you know--it's what we all want.  And I suspect we'd thrive in a commune.  I don't mean one of those disorganized hippie groups.  There's no need for chaos.  We'd have a chore chart.  No Lord of the Flies conchs allowed, just one lady with a bullhorn surrounded by a whole lot of nudists.  I've got a glue stick so I'll be in charge obviously, but there will be a place for each of you. 

Say now, who is good at pep talks?  We need you the most.  It'll be fun for sure, but it's not like there won't be blue days.  When you live in a cult community, not every person will be on the same page all the time.  There'll be days when someone struggles, and they're all "Oooooo I miss my family," or "Ouch, my scurvy hurts."  Another guy might be all "I want back on the grid," or "I'm tired of watering the beets."  You get the idea.  We'll need someone who is good at talking folks down from the ledge, figuratively and literally (obviously we'll settle near a canyon, so we somewhere to throw our empty absinthe YooHoo bottles.  We don't want the baby goats to step on them).

Or hey, maybe you are super tall and strong, but way too handsome to work.  There's a place for you too.  You can be our totem pole.  We'll need something to meet around for the fireworks each morning and the hair braiding trains every night.

 
What if you are good looking and smart? You can be in charge of repopulating.  Handle that however you see fit.  I'm not one to micromanage.

My point is that there is a spot for everyone, but I can't think of everything.  I'll be tired from the gluing.  You have to find your own place, but there are plenty of openings.

Streaming: When you are leaving something wrong or starting something right

For the friends starting a new art, new job, new life role, or even life in a new country...
For those who are leaving wrong relationships or starting a new phase of an existing one...
For when you start a new school or degree and you're scared shitless...
On the days you've started a new diet or lifestyle, and you're pretty sure you'll have blown it by 10am because that annoying coworker is forever bringing donuts to the work break room...
For when you look around you and think, "Something has got to change, or I will lose my freaking mind!"
So for all of us, starting out bravely and blindly and for when the first or thirtieth speed bump comes:

You're in a stream, and it's a good stream.
You did a good job choosing this stream, and you're headed forward.
You're walking up the stream, because that works better for my analogy, and because riding in a kayak is a sure way to flip upside down and bang your face on a rock.

When a rush of water and strong current come, don't go backwards.
I know you see that tree behind you.  It's where you held on for years.
It wasn't the worst tree, but it's no longer your tree.
It may look strong from here, but it's skinny and weak and worn out.  You knew that, that's why you started upstream in the first place.
You knew something better was up ahead.
Don't you want to see what it is?

I know you're worried you headed the wrong direction.  No one made you.  Maybe people even warned you against it, but you've started now.  You knew you needed it, and you were right.

If the current is too strong now, be still in this spot for today.  You don't have to make it all the way upstream in a week.  I didn't want to tell you this before you began, but it's a long ass stream.  If you're like me, you like to check things off.  You like a stream that ends each day nice and neat, with closure, a check mark and a gold star.  But listen, honey.  You had nice and neat back at that old tree.  Or you had something you no longer wanted.  Don't you want to see a new way?


Not everyday will be full of music and gold stars.
But listen, look around.  Where are you?  Look up.
Is it sunny?  Find something that's going well or at least not shitty,
Dig those toes into the muddy river bed a moment.
You're stronger now.  Kelly Clarkson said so.  You can handle this current passing through.

Maybe you brought your partner, spouse, kids, friends, coworkers, or pets with you.
Oof.  That's enough to weigh you down with guilt and question whether you should've come at all - much less drag others with you.
But listen, they can learn too.
Hold their hands tightly, teach them how to dig their feet into that ground.  Wait together and appreciate where you are a moment.  It's easier, or at least distracting, to learn and develop those digging in muscles together.  Being still isn't going backwards.  Even waiting out the wave takes growth and strength.

Quit looking back at the "safe" tree.  The fact you left it, shows you'd outgrown it.  It wouldn't hold you now anyway.  At some point, you will be ready to move again.  If there are others with you, sometimes one of them will be ahead, sometimes you will be.  Even the youngest or smallest will pull at times.  They're already growing; you've seen it and it's a gift.

POSTHUMOUSLY

I have written stories that I won't tell the Internet, and brother, they will make your eyes pop.  Those words will change the world, but they would also change my life.  I haven't decided whether it'd be for better or worse.

So when I die, go to my mattress.  Cut open the box springs and you'll find a tiny gold hammer.  Take the hammer to my neighbor Miss Olive's house, and ask for the Jelly Jar of Secrets.  If she's moved, this part will be slower.

Take the jar and break it with the hammer.  Inside will be a key.  Thank her and, as you leave, use that key to lock the door behind you.  Side note:  You are now, her emergency contact in case she locks herself out.  And if I know Olive, she will.
More than once.

Go back to my bed.  This time, cut open the top mattress.  Feel around until you find a notebook.  Now it's yours.  It's time.  The world is ready for my words.

Almost.

Find a publisher.  We aren't self-publishing this; it's way too important.  There will be some legwork and a fair amount of promoting involved.  My published friend Deedee said it's pretty time-consuming, but she didn't have you.  Feel free to call her for tips.  Also, return her leggings I borrowed in 2014.

You'll need some blurbs from famous authors for the book cover, so I hope you've been networking the last couple of decades.  There will be some other tasks and costs, but don't worry, it'll totally be worth it.  

Don't get lazy and just slap it on my blog like a lazyass.  However, if you could shut that blog down, the password to everything I own is Channing Tatum's waist size and inseam.
I hope he hasn't let himself go.

A Nice Lady Wandering the Moors

Once upon a time there was a nice lady.
She was a lady wandering in a fine mist.  She wouldn't describe herself as lost exactly, and she wouldn't describe it as a fog.  She knew both of those terms from past experience, and to use them would be dramatic.
And she wasn't a drama queen.
Not exactly.


She was a nice lady who enjoyed her children, camped with her husband and remembered to call her parents sometimes.  Even wandering in the mist, she remembered to feed the dog.  Because you see, she carried the mist around her, sort of like Pig-Pen's cloud of dust in the Peanuts.


The nice lady hadn't always been in the mist.  In fact, she didn't notice it at first.  The mist crept in gradually, and thickened over a period of time.  Maybe you're thinking, "It's starting to sound almost like fog," but I told you already it wasn't a fog, so stop that.


At first, the mist didn't create much trouble.  She carried on with her normal life.  She went to work, she drove the carpool, and she made dinner several nights a week.  She didn't make dinner every night, but no one noticed, because she'd never been very good at dinner, even before the mist.


The problem with the mist, however, was that it was a barrier between the lady and everything else.  Maybe barrier is too strong a word.  The mist was more like a lens that distorted her vision, or a cataract that blocked it.  When she peered through it, everything looked very far away.  It made her feel very separated from everyone on the other side.  That made her feel weird and alone.


However, there was one place that made her happy:  the cozy nook.  The nook was a corner full of twinkle lights and office supplies, two of the lady's favorite things.  So, as the mist thickened, she visited the cozy nook more and more.  And at first, it helped.  Early in the morning, she'd wake and go straight to the cozy nook.  She'd draw and write and pray and ponder.  And the time in the cozy nook would refresh her and fill her with wonder.  And strangely, the mist didn't seem like a hindrance there.  When she was in the nook working, the mist was like gentle white noise that only enhanced her focus.


One day in the nook, she read about the poet, Theodore Roethke.  Based on his poems, she suspected he'd been funny, but also very sad.  She wanted to hug him for all the words he'd given her, so on impulse, she drew herself as a cartoon hugging him.  It made her laugh a little, and it made her feel better.


Drawing it made her feel so much better, that she drew herself with more dead authors whose words had helped her over the years.  And then she drew more.  And some more.  And it was so fun...until it wasn't.  But even after it wasn't fun, she kept drawing, and she spent more and more time in the nook.  Except now, she wasn't feeling refreshed anymore.  The nook was feeling like a compulsion, like she couldn't stop.  She felt stuck in a skip, like every dvd that you get from a public library.


And she didn't want to stop, because things outside the cozy nook and the mist were starting to feel very difficult.  When she left the nook, there was so much work and life waiting.  She didn't seem to be able to do it anymore.  She felt flat and saddish.  She just wanted to nap.  A lot.  And watch Bob's Burgers.  A lot.  At first the kids watched with her, but eventually wandered away.  Only the dog never grew tired of watching and napping.  She considered scheming up a Bob's Burgers reenactment club, but couldn't find takers, even though she'd only asked the dog. 

Eventually, inside the nook wasn't fun either.  She looked around and realized it was full of dead people, and not in a cute way.     


And then one day a friend or two asked her if she was okay.  And when she said yes, they looked at her like she was lying.  And she wondered if she was lying.  Maybe she should go to the doctor, they suggested.  She'd suspected she needed to go for a long time, but it seemed time consuming and nap-conflicting.  Finally, she went. 


The doctor said, "Nice lady, you are stuck.  I know you're scared, but let's try something different, and get you out of that fog."  The lady said, "It's just a mist."  And the doctor said, "I have a lot of patients today, and I'm wearing very uncomfortable high heels.  I don't have time to argue with you, and if I say it's a fog, then it is a goddamned fog."  (It was okay, that the doctor said GD because God hated the nice lady being in a fog too).


So the lady went home with her insurance-covered new shiny pills, and they worked.
They worked.  She couldn't believe it.
The lady felt a little better the very next day, even though the shiny pill bottle said "full-effects not experienced for four to six weeks."  She was an over-achiever.  It was like a miracle.
A quiet miracle. 
The lady didn't jump around and hoop and holler, but she woke up. 
She felt capable. 
Wide-eyed.  Aware. 
She saw her kids -- really saw them-- without the mist.  She saw her husband.  She saw her dog. 


She saw the cozy nook with its twinkle lights, and she loved it again.  And she looked through the drawers of her desk and found so so very many pictures of herself with dead people.  And she was surprised.  She thought, "I didn't know there were so many.  I barely remember doing them.  I was quite prolific in my misty fog."  Frankly, the quantity and the lack of memory scared her and her husband a bit, but otherwise, everyone in the family was pleased.


She decided she loved the dead people even more.  They couldn't help her out of the mist, but if you have to wander in one, you might as well keep good company.  And so, the nice lady pressed on.  She put on her fingerless typing gloves her sister had given her for Christmas, and she sat down and typed-- really typed--for the first time in months.  And only the dog was disappointed, because it knew the napping would be reduced significantly.

[Art of Dead Friends Photo Album in other attachment]

palm sunday

palm sunday never arrives without me thinking of donkeys.
once i heard the kindest, most gentle man preach on palm sunday. he asked us how we pictured god. there are many aspects of god, and i don't claim to understand a fraction of them,
but i remember this man asking us over and over to remember that god could've blasted into the world, given us the shake down, set things in order and told us off. but instead, he entered as a baby, and near his death, he rode on a simple, humble animal.  and when i'm down or feeling guilty or wretched or just sort of simple and dumb, i know he gets it. and welcomes me into his arms everytime. 
and you too.
that pastor had a hard life. he went on to have an even harder one after that sermon, as well as a very shortened one. he struggled with depression and things beyond his control, and eventually, he lost.  but he loved well and he loved gracously.  maybe that's why i listened to him so carefully, and remember him every palm sunday.

when life gives you lemons, just be glad they weren't apples

My entire basket has spilled, and I have apples rolling every damn direction.  Can you see them?  It's a big mess in aisle three, and Macayla at checkout is texting her boyfriend instead of responding.    Don't come near me unless you are ready to slip all to hell on these things.  Or, better yet, do come, and pick some up on your way. 

Since I've been out of the hospital, I've struggled knowing exactly which parts of my life I'm supposed to be doing or not doing as I recover.  A wise friend told me to think of my life as a basket that has turned over.  Imagine that all of my apples have been dumped.  The basket is empty.  The apples are all of the parts and tasks of my life.  Then ask, why am I in such a hurry to refill the basket?  Why even assume every apple goes back into the basket? 

In reality, people are picking up my apples, as fast as they can.  I haven't carried my own apples in weeks.  My basket is empty, and I'm staring at it wringing my hands.  Does wringing count as being proactive?

At first, I was okay with letting everyone else carry my apples.  The first weeks out of the hospital, no one allows you to carry them, and you sure as hell don't feel like it.  In a way, that phase is easy.  But as time passes and you start to look normal, maybe shower and put on zippered pants, you notice how hard everyone else is working.


You see everyone carrying your apples but you.  And it's gracious of them, but you feel shitty about it, because people have so many of their own apples, you know?  Everyone is eager to help, but frankly, a thought tugs that maybe they need help more than you. 

But even the tired people want to help.  People who seem like this guy...is he a hundred?  Why should he be working so hard for me?  Yet there he is struggling with that bucket.

And how 'bout this lady?  She's got to be a THOUSAND (maybe older).  Sure, Honey...pick up my apples.  Why should I do anything when you're fit as a fucking fiddle.  If you weren't carrying my apples, you'd probably just be lazing about taking hits on your oxygen tank, wouldn't you?



But wait -- I have many more apples to carry.  Who ELSE can we put to work on my behalf?  These women don't look busy.  Obviously, my life is way harder than theirs.  Pick up some apples, girls.  What?  I know you're carrying a baby, but it's on your back.  Put my apples on your head and quit whining. 

And didn't you know?  It takes a village to carry Pam's apples.  Sure people have cancer, MS, incapacitating paralysis, but maybe you haven't heard; my peripheral vision is the slightest bit off.

PICK UP MY APPLES NOW.

This kid resisted carrying my apples.

I'm having him arrested.



So..
...
...
[Ahem]. 
I guess I wouldn't say I was in the best frame of mind today.

Honestly, I'm confused.  My doctor reminds me the hemorrhage in my brain was large.  Another doctor says, "Hey, your eyes seem decent-ish!  Hooray!"  The neurosurgeon says, "Try not think of yourself as a stroke victim," but the doctor who knows me personally says, "Pam, probably you shouldn't forget that just yet."

People ask if I'm stir crazy at home, and I think, "No.  I'm really not.  I can't get quiet enough."  And that seems strange too.  Sometimes I wish I had a cast on my leg, so I'd know that when it comes off, I'm ready for the next step.

And always, always there's the voice in our heads that says truthfully, but with a tinge of condemnation, "You should be thankful.  Things could have been SO MUCH WORSE."  That's the death knell for some of us.  Because, instead of sitting gratefully, we tell ourselves,"Get on the stick, Honey.  Take back those apples!"


A friend gave me this and it's above my ash heap--I mean desk--I'm not a drama queen.  Shut up, you are.

I am trying to read it and pray and discern

which apples to carry and when to pick them up again.

Maybe life will go back to normal,

or maybe it will look different in some ways.

Who even knows?

Seriously, who even knows?

cat got your keyboard?

sometimes it feels like there's no time for anything fun, fluffy or flighty.  you want to sit and draw or write and scribble, but too many tasks press in from the out.

but other times, like today, you are home,
it's sunny,
ye windows be open,
ye birds be chirpin',
and ye sit down to write but have jack shit to say.

but you click and clack anyway, because just LISTEN to how productive that sounds!
do you hear it?  I certainly do.
that is the sound of smarty pants thoughts.
deep poems and profound insights being put into the cybersphere --
and they don't let just anyone in here,
it's not like social media is free.

it's not as if just anyone can climb onto the internet
and say any words about anything.
it is exclusive and highly selective
the internet suffers no fools.

the internet separates the wheat from the chaff
and it won't allow just any mom to crawl in and chat
about how her windows be open, and her birds be chirpin',
and she sits down to write but has jack shit to say.

but she clicks and clacks anyway, because just LISTEN to how productive that sounds!
do you hear it?  She certainly does.
that is the sound of her smarty pants thoughts.
deep poems and profound insights being put into the.....you get the idea.

seen

I wonder whether it's worse to be seen or unseen.  I guess it's depends on who is looking.

On one hand, I think to feel invisible would be the death knell for most people.  Most of us just need to be seen, loved and valued.  I think about orphans, and how maybe all they want and pray for is to be chosen.

But to be seen can be hard also.  To feel exposed, scrutinized and judged unworthy might be just as wretched as being unwanted.

I am forever fantasizing about what I'd have tattooed on my left wrist, because, basically, I use it as a Post-it.  What do I need to remember the most?
"Kept?"  As in, God is taking care of me, so quit flailing.
"Loved?"  Basically, same idea.
"Honey?"  Remember he calls me Honey, and probably not Jackass.  That's my inner voice, not His.

This morning, the word "seen" sprang to mind, and a good feeling rose up in my heart, but a twinge followed close behind.  Because to be seen, can mean judgment.  And there is almost no one who takes criticism more poorly than me.  But why did I assume that judging would follow?  Do you feel that way too?  Does being seen mean being evaluated OR being enjoyed to you?  And why?  Does it mean I judge when I see others? 

Hagar was treated badly by Abraham and Sarah.  She was bossed, manipulated, despised, and rejected.  But God saw her.  Really saw her.  With love.  She said, "You are the God who sees me."  Beforehand, she wasn't sure whether a person could see and be seen by God and survive.  But she did.  And she knew his eyes looked on her with pity, mercy and love.

I guess that strengthened her.
Being seen is risky, but being seen with the right eyes can make all the difference.

tiny journal, big-ass questions

 

I'm sort of a journal purchaser and hoarder, so I have empty ones floating around the house.

This morning I found this tiny one. 

When I opened it, inside I found only one used page,

only one written sentence.

It made me sigh, but also laugh, because as much as I write,

basically, I write this same question over and over again, varying only sentence length and ink color.

 

 

 

humanity

every person is, at once, a complex mysterious visitor from a far away land,
but also, a kindred spirit and sibling-
none of them boring.
but a few are way more kindred-ish than others - be very very thankful for these.

wordy

I have an idea, neither new nor clever. 

A word to the people who do well in writing...
I don't mean you write well necessarily.  I mean you do well emotionally, mentally or intellectually when you write.  I think it's true for me. 

I wonder whether writing helps us tell the truth. 
In person, maybe you are the funny guy who jokes and keeps things light.  Or, conversely, you are a quiet type who'd rather observe and listen.  Either way, you might have trouble saying what you think when it comes to discussing serious issues or expressing vulnerability.  I do, and did even more so in the past.

In a group, I feel genuinely happy and excited to be there.  I joke a lot.  I joke so much so, that once in a bible study, I started to cry and everyone started laughing because they thought I was kidding.  Don't feel badly when you read that - it makes me laugh really hard now.  I guess they'd never seen my face do that, and thought, "What's she got going this time?  This is gonna be funny."  And then two minutes later, when they realized I was crying, they thought, "Oh shit.  She's not joking.  Abort, abort!  Arrange faces in empathetic expression fast!"  I could see the back-peddling happening, which was so fascinating, I stopped crying.  However, I also remember thinking, "Wow.  People don't know me at all."

I can't speak for the quiet types who mask their feelings or opinions.  I love you dearly and am drawn to you, but I love you because you are foreign and exotic, like a rare beautiful bird.  Or a hedgehog. 

Regardless of your personality type, maybe writing helps us practice truth-telling.  In a journal or a blog, the exercise of writing words that are hard to verbalize seems less intimidating...well, over time, I mean.  Sometimes, even in my journal, I lie.  I used to write pages, before I'd get around to writing the truth - which is usually way shorter: 
I am sad; or
My heart hurts; or
I am scared I am a bad parent, and not in the cute normal way everyone else jokes about.

Writing seems like a safe way to practice truth and vulnerability.  The magical bonus gravy, however, is that the more I practice in fonts, the more I can do it in voice and relationships.  Maybe not everyone needs to go around blasting the truth at others and pontificating.  I mean, I enjoy it, but it's not for everyone.  But maybe getting to the point where, at least, we tell ourselves the truth is of the utmost importance. 

And then if we need to, we can share it with the people who matter.

Rilke said it well...that wise, well-dressed dandy:

"Letters to a Young Poet #1"
You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

Mockingbirds - Finding your Voice

In stand up comedy, the seasoned comics tell the noobies that "finding your voice" is the hardest part of the job.  Even experienced comics admit they struggle as their "voices" emerge over time.  Writer friends say the same.  I guess any artist or performer struggles to find their unique bent and style of communication, but I'll go further and argue that any human shares the same challenge.

In comedy and writing, I don't think it's finding your voice, as much as it's letting your voice out.  I think most of us know what we want to say, we just aren't sure how people will receive it.  What we say = who we are.  Therefore, if they reject the words, they reject us.  And the more personal the message, the more personal the potential wound.

But how is this unique to artists?  Don't we all guard ourselves in every relationship?  Don't we present ourselves a certain way, whether consciously or unconsciously? Aren't we making choices about our "voice" everyday?    Usually I know exactly what I think, I'm just afraid to say it.  And often, I know what I want to write, but I'm afraid to say it my way.  Maybe my way is too weird, or maybe it's too cliché.  Maybe it's just too damn...too.

Then again, I could be wrong.  Perhaps I'm a self-obsessed people-pleaser, but the rest of you are well-adjusted, independently-minded badasses.  If so, I congratulate you.  Either you are very fortunate, or just a bit ahead of the rest of us.  But keep helping those of us behind you, because fear is the mightiest silencer.

And it's a tragedy isn't it?  Because if the point of the world is that we each have a role to play and a unique spot to fill, what's the good in us hiding our true voices in art or everyday life?  My favorite art, books and conversations, are the ones that surprise me--the ones which only that individual could have given me.  This poem about a mockingbird is a beautiful take on it.  In the beginning of the poem, the author listens to the bird mimic many sounds before he settles down to use his own voice here...finally. 

 
from The Mockingbird by Mary Oliver

"...I have to wait a long time
for the softer voice of his own life
to come through. He begins
by giving up all his usual flutter
and setting down on the pine’s forelock
then looking around
as though to make sure he’s alone;
then he slaps each wing against his breast,
where his heart is,
and, copying nothing, begins
easing into it
as though it was not half so easy
as rollicking,
as though his subject now
was his true self,
which of course was as dark and secret,
as anyone else’s,
and it was too hard -
perhaps you understand -
to speak or to sing it
to anything or anyone
but the sky."

know thyself...then go sit next to someone different (i heart introverts)

I like introverts.
I'm attracted to them.
I like to force my way into their happy cocoons-
although I'm afraid I might repel them the way a north pole magnet makes another north pole magnet scoot away from it.  I know it seems counterintuitive, since an introvert and extrovert should attract like north and south pole magnets.  But you know what they say about science...
only the minotaurs are allowed to understand it.

These days, there are a lot of books on the power of introverts, and I believe all of them.  Okay, I only read one.  Okay, it was only a article in a magazine.  But I live with two introverts, so I do constant home study.

In addition, and I know this sounds like a totally different topic, I'm also drawn to those magazines and art that reflect a bit of what I like about introverts.  I like simple calm images that don't have a lot of noise or clutter around them.  I want to climb into them and soak up their chi and what not.

The same is true for me at home with my two human examples.  When they are sitting reading or watching tv, if you need comfort, you can sidle up to them, sit down, and just quietly exist.  You can soak up their quiet energy.  I just realized that sounds very parasitic.  And maybe it is.  If you meet my introverts, don't tell them why they suffer from chronic lethargy please, because the system is really working for me.

In contrast, if you sidle up to either of us extroverts in the home, regardless of whether we were engaged in a book or show, we will turn and interact with you.  Picture the Venom suit in Spiderman.  Know how it moved and stuck like tar to whomever touched it?  Well, picture us peeling ourselves out of our book and onto you.  If that's too dark for you, just picture trying to clean up glitter.  It's on the table one minute, but it's perfectly content to move to your hands.  And stay and stay with you.

Maybe I'm being too hard on the extroverts.  We must have a purpose.  There has to be more to us than interrupting Sunday school lectures, heckling stand up comedy sets, and "helping along" other people's anecdotes.  Are we really just here to invade the introverts' bubbles?  Maybe we need an introvert to write the other side of this.  I mean, c'mon.  Wouldja?  Wouldja?  Wouldja?  Whatcha doin'?  Can't it wait?  Wouldja?  Wouldja?

wouldja?

mimes for rent

At a nursing home yesterday, someone on staff CASUALLY asked me if I, or a co-worker, would like to come DRESS AND ACT LIKE A MIME TO MUSIC WHILE THE RESIDENTS ATE A FRENCH-THEMED DINNER???!!!

She said, "You'd just have to paint your face and go through the motions."
I said, "In a way, aren't we all just going through the motions?"
...
...
Her "So you'll do it?"
Me "Oh. Hell no."

Anxiety 101: "No, YOU don't understand!!!"

It was just a double date for dinner. 
With nice people.
And good food.
We said yes, we'd be there.
What's the big deal?

"You don't understand, Pam.  We're going to be late; I'm not cancelling again."

"No, YOU don't understand.  I will die fighting you before I leave this house.  And I'm wiry; I can do it!"
----------------------
If you've never struggled with anxiety, it sounds crazy and unfounded.  However, if you have, or if you've lived with an anxious person, you get it.

I have found myself re-explaining it to my husband lately, trying to help him understand, because the anxiety has reared its head again.  In the early years of our marriage, it surprised even me.  I couldn't understand it, much less help him.

I look back on my 20s of living single, and then early 30s of being a newlywed, and I think, "Go get some meds.  Tell someone about this and get some help!"

In my 20s, I just felt helpless, thought it was my personality...maybe I was just flaky and couldn't follow through on commitments, was a bad friend...and all of those things resulted eventually.  It meant changing clothes 20 times before I left the house, examining myself in a mirror, watching the clock tick and becoming panicky, telling myself "IT DOESN'T MATTER JUST GET DRESSED AND GET OUT THE DOOR!" 

But then still not deciding, missing the appointment time, calling to cancel or just not showing.  OR saying finally with anger and resignation "SCREW IT!" and wearing something really unusual (and not in a cool way but in a "screw you, world for making me feel this way...I'll wear my 90s Adidas running pants and combat boots because they're my comfort items.  It's your fault; you did this to me").

I was the friend who would never go take road trips.  I might say yes, but by the day before we left, my friends could guess I'd flake out.  I was not leaving that town, and no one could make me.  As I got to know myself better, I learned to say no the first time.  And I really didn't mind missing the trips, because leaving felt impossible...like death...not my death, but something dying that, even though I didn't understand, I must fight against.

Anxiety hindered my friendships, but it was nothing compared to what happened with marriage.  Add another person to the mix, and things exploded.

On my own, I could cancel a date with minimal backfire, but involve a husband...it becomes a real shit storm.  I'm sorry, but that is the ONLY way to describe it.

Chris might be sympathetic and agree to cancel an event or date with another couple the first few times, but after awhile, he was confused and fed up.  Understandably.  Why did I agree to go in the first place?  Why didn't I want to see those people whom I liked?  Why wouldn't I want to HAVE FUN?  And there was no way in hell he was going to embarrass us again and offend them by cancelling another time.

But what he didn't understand was that there was no way in the deeper hotter part of hell that I was going.

For me, when the anxiety is ruling me, there is something in me that feels--no, KNOWS, that I will not go...cannot go because it will kill me...it is fight or flight inside, and this little argument we're having is nice, I'll participate in it, but it's really just a prelude because YOU WILL LOSE.  You might end up going to meet those people, but you will be alone, Skinny White Boy.

Here's a photo montage to help you understand the progression of Chris and me trying to get out the door in the early years (I'm all of the dogs being forced to the bathtub; Chris is the teenaged girl):

You see I won...not touching the water.
(end of part one).

Just three young white rappers with the world before them...

Laying down sweet rhymes by day, and catching mosquitoes in their tall bangs by night.



Actually, we're just three more girls who grew up in the 80s, but does it EVER get old to see these hairstyles? So much glamour. So much frosted pink lipstick. So much...taller with those bangs. Chris calls that style the "Flycatcher," and if by that, he means we used it to catch super fly guys at Carolina Skateland or the Irmo Okra Strutt, then I guess he'd be right. (And in case you're too young to know, "fly" was once used as an adjective).

Kimmy (with the jaunty pointing gesture), says it's good to be with people who "knew you when." I'd have to agree. It's always good to see Amy and Kimmy. And after seeing them, about 25 years beyond the bangs, I am happy to report that everyone survived the 80s; only the ozone suffered.