tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55752098517316213032024-03-13T19:47:52.682-04:00The Beveled EdgeThe story of my growing painsBevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.comBlogger857125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-50564654064923717472020-12-20T15:05:00.002-05:002022-01-12T10:36:32.637-05:00A Should-less Christmas<p>There's a list of words and phrases I don't allow my clients (or myself) to say. The aforementioned 'what if' is one of them. Another, perhaps the biggest and most important of the outlawed words, is should. In my experience, this the most destructive word in the English language and it's message comes through loud and clear- sometimes in unspoken ways.</p><p>The spoken is obvious. I should do this or that, I shouldn't have done this or that, I should be this way that I'm not. When heard from outside, it's you instead of I, but all the rest is the same. It's a comparison to some idealized reality or a command to improve in ways we can't. It comes from media, our families, friends, and yes- ourselves. And it hurts, every time. It's a one way ticket to shame town on a bullet train that gets faster the longer we're on it. And the number of shoulds seems to grow the more we listen to the messages. </p><p>The particular breed of shoulds I've been hearing a lot lately are about the holidays. And despite being in the midst of a pandemic where 3k plus people a day are literally dying there's still a ton of them going around. Shoulds about holiday decor. Shoulds about the perfect Christmas meal. Shoulds about gifts and showing love through monetary means (as if that's ever worked in the first place). And most of all shoulds about family togetherness. And right now I think that's the single most dangerous should we can buy into.</p><p>No, no one wants to zoom Christmas dinner. No one wants to exchange gifts virtually. No one wants to celebrate with Netflix and takeout instead of home-cooked family dinner and games. But right now I think that's the most loving thing we can do.</p><p>I don't know what's safe and what's not. I've given up on trying to figure out if I'm being overly cautious or taking really unnecessary risks. All I know is that one family dinner isn't worth dying over. And certainly not worth killing over.</p><p>So I'm telling that voice in my head that I should go see my parents to shut the hell up. I'm forgiving the part of me that is scared of doing the wrong thing, hurting people's feelings, and generally fucking up. I'm sitting in the quiet resilience that trusts that there will be another Christmas in the future that looks a lot more like ones of the past. Because if we all stay safe, there will be.<br /></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-69596826068463762372020-12-06T13:50:00.001-05:002020-12-06T13:50:28.696-05:00What if?<p>It's funny, what if is normally something I don't allow my clients to say because usually it triggers panic. "What if I get COVID?", for example, is a question that could easily trigger a panic response in any one of us that are sitting primarily on the outside of this thing with no first-hand knowledge to fact check or allay the fears that come from thinking about the possibility of contracting a potentially fatal disease. Which is why normally, I outlaw that phrase. Don't say it, don't feed into the negative thought spiral. It's simply not a productive line of reasoning.</p><p>But sometimes, I think it can be a powerful exercise to think about that question in the big scheme of things. What if, for example, I'm never known for anything other than what I mean to the people who love me? If I never get famous, never publish that book I sometimes still dream of writing, never revolutionize the field of psychology, never get a Wikipedia article written about me, and never have anything on my epitaph other than "Loving"? Would that mean that my life wasn't worthwhile?</p><p>What if I never "figure it out"? What if the meaning of life, the great spiritual answers to the universe, the wisdom of the scribes is something that I'm always questioning and never answering? Would that mean that all those questions beat me? That I never learned?<br /></p><p>Or what if I never have "enough money"- whatever any one of us dreams of enough money to be? What if paying bills always causes me stress,
tax season is always something I experience some small amount of anxiety over, my credit card bill is always more than I thought it would be?
Would that mean that I wasn't successful?</p><p>What if, and this is my biggest fear, I fail? At life. What if I never achieve whatever it is that I think I'm meant to? (Which, to be fair, can change on a daily basis.) What if, on my death bed, I look back and am overwhelmed with a sense of missed opportunities, chances not taken, experiences not experienced? Will that mean that I failed, that everything I fear is true? Or what if that's just a perspective? One that I don't have to take?</p><p>I try not to take that perspective. On a daily basis. I try to look at the black and white thinking my mind does and see it as just that. To realize that if even one person I love has a better life because I'm in it, that I am winning at this whole life thing. To consider that if I help even one person in my work as a therapist, that what I do every day is worth it. To look at only the experiences I've already had, rather than focusing on all those I've yet to, as enough. To see my life exactly as it is as worthy, important, and big enough for this life I've been given. What if I, actually am, enough?<br /></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-4347700442680494072020-11-07T13:05:00.006-05:002020-11-07T13:17:24.880-05:00A Break in the Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yRXrIO6pP8M/X6bjCjDfLqI/AAAAAAAAFcI/NriaSogsA9UTDC5bckVgEttFZpxeqoWbACLcBGAsYHQ/s962/35369536-8924425-PHILADELPHIA_People_celebrate_Saturday_in_Philadelphia_after_Dem-a-22_1604768673750.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="962" height="387" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yRXrIO6pP8M/X6bjCjDfLqI/AAAAAAAAFcI/NriaSogsA9UTDC5bckVgEttFZpxeqoWbACLcBGAsYHQ/w579-h387/35369536-8924425-PHILADELPHIA_People_celebrate_Saturday_in_Philadelphia_after_Dem-a-22_1604768673750.jpg" width="579" /></a></div>This is the first time I have allowed myself to give more than a cursory glance at the news in weeks. I've been staying off MSN for anything more than a second or two once a day to see the headlines simply for the sake of my own sanity. But this morning, watching countless videos of people recording the din outside their apartments in major cities all over the country, I started crying.<p>I've been too scared to let myself get optimistic. Too cynical to let hope lead me to believe that it was only a matter of time like so many thought it was. Too tense to let myself relax. And I'm still not relaxed. True to form, the toddler-in-chief is starting the hissy fit we all knew was coming by swearing that his team of lawyers will prove fraud and put all those news sources in their place for calling it. But even with all the bullshit that will go on over the next month as he wages battles he is sure to lose, I feel confident for the first time in this race that it'll end up the way we need it to.</p><p>I'm not thinking about what will come next. I'm not worrying about the impossible feat ahead for this new president of ours. I'm not letting my mind drift into the future and think about logistics or senates or the political climate. Right now I'm just thinking about the fact that there may be- for the first time in a LONG time- reason to hope. <br /></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-39104926558635729572020-09-26T14:40:00.003-04:002020-09-26T14:52:01.405-04:00So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo (Takeaways)<p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo" height="278" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1569300188l/41717572.jpg" title="So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo" width="185" /> <br /></p><p>I am grateful beyond my ability to express to Ijeoma Oluo for writing
this. It is truly a gift to white people who want to learn but are
sometimes/often afraid to ask because, as she points out repeatedly, it
is not the responsibility of the black person you are talking to to
educate you. She breaks down everything from what racism is and isn't,
how deeply ingrained it is within all of our psyches, and how it's
intrinsic in basically every single facet of American society and
culture. From checking your privilege and the importance of
interesctionality to police brutality and the school-to-prison pipeline
to cultural appropriation and microaggressions all the way down to why
hair is such a huge and illustrative issue showing how deep the roots
(no pun intended) of all this brainwashing goes.<br /><br />SO MUCH came out
of my reading of this. For one, I will never again say "I'm not racist"
because, as she points out "<i><b>if you are white in a white supremacist
society, you are racist. If you are male in a patriarchy, you are
sexist. If you are able-bodied, you are ableist. If you are anything
above poverty in a capitalist society, you are classist. You can
sometimes be all of these things at once.</b></i>" And recognizing, as she
states several times, that none of this has anything whatsoever to do
with being a good or bad person but simply everything to do with being
American. That's something a person like me who is prone to violent
storms of self criticism needs to hear, and I'm grateful to her for
pointing it out as often as she does.<br /><br />For another, the importance
of distinguishing systemic racism from racism not only because of what
she pointed out above, but because "<i><b>We can get every person in America
to feel nothing but love for people of color in their hearts, and if our
systems aren't acknowledged and changed, it will bring negligible
benefit to the lives of people of color.</b></i>" <br /><br />And from that, the
single most important take-away of the whole thing, that the power of
being white is that we get to be, as Hamilton taught us "in the room
where it happens" and subsequently we have the power to ask questions,
point out mistakes, and speak up for the people who aren't in those
rooms. Because "<i><b>Racial oppression starts in our homes, our offices, our
cities, and our states, and it can end there as well.</b></i>"<br /><br />On the
whole, I can't possibly recommend this book highly enough. It is not, by
any means, an easy read for a white person. But it is written by a
woman who seems to genuinely want to educate, assist, and share with
people on the outside looking in. She is not harsh, she is not
chastising, she is not trying to shame white people into change. She is
human, often identifying her own privilege and how much that has made
even her blind to, and she is funny in ways that do not soften the blows
of the things that need to hit hard. Again, what a gift.<br /><br />*Quick
note: I've written all this from my perspective as a white person and
not even mentioning how useful it would be for a black person to read
because if this has taught me anything it's that I can't even begin to
imagine what a black person (or any person of color) would think of it.
While she does speak directly to the black reader on certain topics,
mainly to legitimize and defend their experiences, I think the bulk of
the book really is for white people who want to learn. And that is so desperately needed.<br /></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-76811481517612325832020-09-09T11:43:00.008-04:002020-09-26T14:45:54.596-04:00Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott (Takeaways)<p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott" height="275" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1403182174l/10890.jpg" title="Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott" width="175" /> <br /></p><p>This is one of the core literary sources for my church; it gets
referenced often. Though Anne Lamott is clearly Jesus-centric in her
beliefs she came about it the best way: through pain, addiction,
death, failure, and the loving devotion of humans who refused to give
up on her. Though I tend to be Jesus-phobic (and really scared of
anything echoing classical Anglo-Saxton sensibilities) I could relate to
most of everything else. It’s a great reminder that whatever you call
it- spirituality, faith, religion, even Jesus- it’s all the same thing.
Which is, of course, how I got to join my faith in the first place.<br /><br />And,
side note, but I'm not sure I've ever heard such an equally charming
and accurate description of UU: "<i><b>Mine was a patchwork God, sewn together
from bits of rag and ribbon, Eastern and Western, pagan and Hebrew,
everything but the kitchen sink and Jesus.</b></i>" Of course, she's not
actually referring to UU there. Well, at least not consciously. But it
describes my faith pretty damned well so I'm taking it.<br /><br />This was
my first exposure to this author and I can understand the praise I've
heard for her from several different sources. Her prose is beautiful. At
times poetic, other times purely perfunctory. Alternately achingly
painful and hilarious. Deeply personal always, in a way that lets you
sit right next to her through these encounters and stories of hope. She
never sells herself as someone with answers- she confesses to being a
deeply flawed, perfectly fucked up human being. And that is, of course,
what makes her lovable. And what lets you feel as close to her as you
end up feeling by the end.<br /><br />She shares stories of everything from
her bohemian childhood to her early dive deep into addiction to alcohol
and substances. Her eating disorder. Her first exposures to church. Her
unplanned pregnancy and the child that ultimately saved her. Her deep,
deep grief over the loss of her father as well as the pain she inflicted
on herself by trying to fit every man she ever loved into the hole his
death left in her heart. She lays everything bare with humility and
acceptance. It's inspiring to see someone own up to so much without
shame. Or rather, having come through the shame with a new owned sense
of identity and acceptance that only comes from looking the darkest
parts of yourself straight in the eyes and saying 'thank you'.<br /><br />Which
isn't to say that she doesn't have a lot of deeply poignant and
powerful insights about spirituality. She does. But in my experience
most of the powerful insights about spirituality come from humanity- not
from the heavens. And sure enough, all of hers come from her own deeply
flawed and perpetually imperfect existence.<br /><br />For instance, her
thoughts on grief: "<i><b>I'm pretty sure that it is only by experiencing
that ocean of sadness in a naked and immediate way that we come to be
healed- which is to say, that we come to experience life with a real
sense of presence and spaciousness and peace.</b></i>" Or on Grace: "<i><b>Grace is
the light or electricity or juice or breeze that takes you from that
isolated place and puts you with others who are as startled and
embarrassed and eventually grateful as you are to be there.</b></i>" Or failure:
"<i><b>it breaks through all that held breath and isometric tension about
needing to look good: it's the gift of feeling floppier.</b></i>"<br /><br />While
clearly contained within the timeline of her own life the bulk of these
stories feel timeless. Or at least, the wisdom within them does. I can
see myself going back to these pages again and again searching for that
one highlighted line that perfectly and gorgeously sums up a thought or
an insight or a desperately needed reminder during dark times. It's an
encyclopedia of pain and wisdom I can easily reference: a gift. And I'm
grateful to myself to have finally read it.
</p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-65993221848601926642020-08-24T19:18:00.009-04:002020-08-24T20:15:10.618-04:00Some thoughts on spirituality and grief<p>Ever since I joined my church- about three and a half years ago- I have wanted to give the sermon. I can't entirely say why but it felt like a place where I could really speak, where my experiences would have greater meaning by my reflecting on them in front of an audience. I finally did for the first time last month and I loved it.</p><p>My first sermon was about my favorite movie- why I love it, what it means to me, what I feel like it can teach those of us willing to search for spiritual messages in contemporary media. It was challenging on a technical level- my church, like most responsible churches, is all virtual now- but not on a personal one. It was relatively easy for me to speak to something that's had a comfortable place in my heart for so long.</p><p>But what I've always thought of speaking about, what I thought of when I first formed the desire to give a sermon, is my brother. His suicide is something that still haunts me, still offers endless unanswerable questions, still hurts in the deepest places. Of course I want to speak about that.</p><p>Well, I recently volunteered to do so. I'm on the calendar for a little less than two months from now. And because of that, it's been on my mind a lot.</p><p>He died a little over three and half years ago (gee, what a coincidence). He was just two months shy of his 38th birthday. My 38th birthday is tomorrow. It's so strange to think that I'm older than my older brother.</p><p>What has become the norm, at least for the past year or so, is that I don't think about him all that often. Of course I still get the waves of grief- the rage, the sadness, the questioning. And of course they still come in completely unexpected ways. But they don't hit nearly that hard anymore and they don't throw me nearly as far off course as they used to. Nowadays the boat rocks, I feel it move, and then I just go back to rowing.</p><p>But since I formally made the request to sermon on this- and not just on him, but suicide in general- I think about him everyday. About him, the topic, the billions of things about it that must have changed since the world went into pandemic mode. I start formulating my sermon in my mind, start editing without specifics, start thinking of things I need to research or messages I need to incorporate. </p><p>Here's what I have so far: I would start with a picture of him. One of the many things I am sad about is that I don't have a recent picture of him that I can just look at whenever I feel the need. We were so estranged by the time of his death that there hadn't been a family photo with both of us in it for years before- and all of those I left to my mother because I didn't care at the time. The only physical, holdable photos I have of him are from when he was a child that show an impossibly adorable toeheaded boy with a bright smile and visible warmth. I don't remember that version of him, and I don't mourn him. I mourn the man who's face showed the dreariness he felt about life. And I don't have a picture of him.</p><p>Technicality aside, I would start with a picture of him. And I would talk about the stories- the one I don't like to tell, the one I don't know, and the one I like to share because it's a rare bright moment the two of us had.</p><p>The story I don't like to tell is the shortest, easiest, and most utilitarian. It explains why this person would choose what they did without leaving any questions behind. That story goes that he struggled on and off with heroin addiction for 20 years before ultimately taking his own life. See? Perfunctory.</p><p>The one I don't know is much longer, more complex, and contains a sea of questions. And that is the story of who he actually was. I don't know that story at all. I have random facts: he was extremely computer savvy, he watched the Simpsons religiously as a kid, he believed in a lot of conspiracy theories, and he had a chuckle he made when teasing that I absolutely loved. But that's nothing of the lifetime of this man I never got to know because he never let me get close enough and I ultimately gave up trying. I don't know if I'll ever know that story and not knowing hurts more than anything else.</p><p>The last story, the one I like to tell, is a rare moment of joy between the two of us. He was in 8th grade, I in 5th. Our social studies teachers had gotten together so that we were all studying the same thing at different levels: Billy Joel's "We didn't start the fire" and the machine gun list of historical events that form the verses. We'd both been given handouts with the lyrics and one afternoon, for reasons I can't remember, we decided to sing it together. He stood in our empty driveway- my parents weren't home yet- singing the verses while I rode circles around him on my bike singing the choruses when the times came. I love this memory of him because it sounds like something a brother and sister who love each other would do. I love this memory because I like to think that we loved each other in that moment.<br /></p><p>These stories all illustrate some deep points I would then go into with considered attention: the statistics and the trauma that tends to unite individuals who ultimately complete, the experience of those they leave behind who all have unanswered questions that haunt them, and the moments that shine brighter in the memories of those who will never be able to get over their loss. There's a lot there, and I haven't even gotten to the end.</p><p>Because in the end, and the most important thing I want to leave people with, there is hope. There has to be hope. It's like air to a person gasping for breath and it's the most important spiritual principle I know. I can see it, sort of, in my mind. I just haven't worked out the map for how to get there yet.</p><p>I'm ok with the pain that I will willingly invite into my life as I take the steps to prepare this. I'm fine with the research I'll need to do, the other personal stories I'll read with tears in my eyes, the sorting of songs and movies and moments that I connect with, the narrative that I'll painstakingly form. I see purpose in this, and hope for healing.</p><p>But right now, the thing I'm dwelling on the most is how deep my ocean of grief still is, and how tumultuously the waves still crash. It's not something I've been consciously aware of because I haven't been paying such close attention. But I see it- the storm still rages under the surface of my everyday calm. And I realize that I'll need to ramp up my self compassion as my little boat gets tossed around again.<br /></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-25087631436380115632020-08-14T16:56:00.005-04:002020-09-10T10:59:31.875-04:00Takeaways: 13th<p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="13th poster" id="inserted-img-1" src="https://www.montana.edu/assets/images/9ojeo/image3.jpg" /> <br /></p><p>This was, by far, the hardest watch yet. I Am Not Your Negro was a fluffy hug by comparison. While not necessarily designed to shock or appall, the information and media used in this film is both shocking and appalling, and I was <i>HURTING</i> by the end of it. So, for those squeamish, fair warning. </p><p>Like a lot of average Amerian kids, I grew up with the white-washed version of history:<br />Slavery happened, back in the <i>dark ages</i>, <br />segregation was terrible,<br /> the civil rights movement fixed it,<br /> thank god- lets move on.<br /></p><p>I didn't experience a massive amount of white guilt in learning this Disney-version of history because that's exactly what it's designed to do: help white people forget the horrors of the ancestry of this country. Regardless of whether or not there are slave owners on your family tree we all live here and unfortunately the sins of the fathers are passed down to ALL of us.<br /></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">The ACTUAL history of slavery in America, I have now learned, is this:<br />Slavery happened, <i>in an America so much more similar to the one we currently live in than anyone would like to admit</i>,<br />and never... <b>actually</b> went away.<br />It changed form, and now the systems that support it are so deeply ingrained in society that the only way to actually fix it is to rebuild... pretty much <b>everything</b>.<br /></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">WHAT!?! Pretty fucking horrifying. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsxukOPEdgg" target="_blank">John Oliver related it to</a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsxukOPEdgg" target="_blank"> the shock many experienced when learning about the Tulsa massacre from watching Watchmen</a>. I've heard the expression "waking up white"- I think that's what this feeling is.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">To learn that the absolute worst period of American history is not in any way, shape, or form actually <i>history</i> caused me actual physical pain. I was at times nauseous, tearful, clenching, fidgeting, and ultimately drained by the end of it. And that's an appropriate response, I think, to discovering just how truly horrific the state of this country actually is.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">So, here's what I learned: As soon as slavery 'ended', white supremacists (who did <u>not</u> stay in the south) extorted a loophole in the constitution- the 13th amendment (thus the title of the film) which states:<br /></span></span><span><span data-dobid="hdw">"<b><i>Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, <span style="background-color: #fcff01;">except as a punishment for
crime</span> whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist
within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction</i></b>." </span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">This enabled the re-enslavement of black humans by the thousands under the guise of protecting communities from "criminals" after blacks were arrested (often for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Codes_(United_States)" target="_blank">nothing at all</a>) and used as free labor through <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convict_leasing" target="_blank">convict leasing</a>. In order to prevent the majority from becoming sympathetic to the plight of these "criminals", the media created the false narrative that black men were dangerous, violent, and actively looking for ways to harm the whites they resented for their past treatment and thus the <u>black man = criminal</u> myth was born.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">The word criminal comes up in this film so much that I actually started to get a bit sick of it. But I recognize what they're trying to do: point out how deeply ingrained this idea is within the entirety of the American psyche. Countless psychological studies have proven that the average white person, regardless of their actual beliefs about race, will label a black man as suspicious when shown a series of neutral photographs of different races. And there's an automatic, unspoken assumption that is deep within the mind of everyone who lives in this country- regardless of whether or not we recognize it.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">This brainwashing is so destructive not only to people like me who grew up unaware of the racism I was trained to believe, but to the black identity in and of itself. As one of the scholars pointed out: "<b><i>So you have educated a public deliberately, over years, over decades, to believe that black men in particular, and black people in general, are criminals. I want to be clear because I'm not just saying that white people believe this, right? Black people also believe this and are terrified of our own selves.</i></b>"</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">Fuuuuucck, Anyway, back to history: media continued to influence the American psyche and got a particularly big boost in 1915 with the release of "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Birth_of_a_Nation" target="_blank">The Birth of a Nation</a>" which depicted black men as, you guessed it, criminals and rapists and white supremacists- the KKK specifically- as heroic forces preserving the value of the American way of life. (Horrifying fact: this was the first film in history ever to be screened at the White House.) As a result of the popularity of this movie, people flocked to join their local chapter of the KKK and lynching became a fun evening activity for a lot of people who believed they were simply helping to keep their communities safe.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">When this murderous form of racism became unpalatable to the average American, segregation was created as a solution to the problem. I think most of us got some education on the horrors of segregation and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Crow_laws" target="_blank">Jim Crow laws</a> but were also taught that the civil rights movement ultimately solved all the problems of this time. Fun fact: it didn't. The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1964" target="_blank">1964 Civil Rights Act</a> and 1968 <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1968" target="_blank">Fair Housing Act</a> were supposed to end segregation, pay inequality, and discrimination by businesses and public facilities. Housing is still very much <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2018/national/segregation-us-cities/" target="_blank">segregated</a> as are <a href="https://www.epi.org/publication/schools-are-still-segregated-and-black-children-are-paying-a-price/" target="_blank">schools</a> (no longer by force but by economic inequality). The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racial_wage_gap_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">pay gap</a> between white and black Americans is larger now than it was in the 60s when the civil rights movement was in full swing. And discrimination by businesses is still rampant in this country and has been emboldened by the current sitting president and other outspoken white supremacists.<br /></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voting_Rights_Act_of_1965" target="_blank">The Voting Rights Act</a> was supposed to end <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerrymandering" target="_blank">gerrymandering</a> (it didn't), voter discrimination (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voter_ID_laws_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">it didn't</a>), and voter suppression in general ultimately failed to end any of those practices that still very much take place today. And thanks to the fact that any individual convicted of a federal crime is ineligible to vote the whole black man = criminal myth pretty much all but guarantees that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voter_suppression_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">voter suppression</a> remains intact. Which brings us back to crime.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">The film then goes on to explain how being "tough on crime" became one of the core requirements for anyone, regardless of political party, to get elected. They site specific laws advocated for and enacted by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_strategy" target="_blank">Nixon</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Race_and_the_war_on_drugs#The_Reagan_Administration" target="_blank">Reagan</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Race_and_the_war_on_drugs#George_H.W._Bush_Administration" target="_blank">George Bush Sr.</a>, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Race_and_the_war_on_drugs#The_Clinton_Administration" target="_blank">Clinton</a> and give the statistics on the number of jailed individuals going up by 200k increments, then a 500k increment, and finally a 1 million increase each decade since 1970. And 40% of those now more than 2.2 million prisoners are black. (That's in 4 black people in the country.)<br /></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">With so many people in prison, and so many billions of dollars going into the creation of prisons, this birthed the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prison%E2%80%93industrial_complex" target="_blank">prison industrial complex</a>. To learn that this complex is not only a multi billion dollar industry but that there are several <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Legislative_Exchange_Council" target="_blank">legal systems</a> in place which support it was disturbing on a level I was previously blind to. And the fact that 97% of prisoners were sentenced by plea bargain rather than by trial ensures that this will continue. Not to mention the legacy of police <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racial_profiling#United_States" target="_blank">racially profiling</a> and outright <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_brutality_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">murdering</a> black people. We are living in the age of mass imprisonment. The way that things were after the civil war when people were arrested, quite literally just for being black, and then imprisoned by a system designed to keep them in jail, and used as free labor while there- well, that's exactly the way things are now.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">That's the primary point of this movie- slavery never really ended in the United States. It simply changed forms. It was always an economic institution first, driven by racism and white supremacy, and it still is. And given the amount of profit the current system makes, it has become that much more difficult to try to dismantle this multi systemic machine. Which means that it will take that many more of us fighting it for things to change.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">The <a href="https://www.aclu.org/other/solutions" target="_blank">ACLU</a>, <a href="https://www.vera.org/ending-mass-incarceration" target="_blank">Vera Institute of Justice</a>, <a href="https://www.brennancenter.org/issues/end-mass-incarceration" target="_blank">Brennan Center for Justice</a>, <a href="http://criticalresistance.org/" target="_blank">Critical Resistance</a>, and many, many other organizations have been working hard to make changes on all levels and to empower individuals to fight the systems within their local communities as well. I as one person may not be able to do much, but there is strength in numbers and if enough of us educate ourselves to the way things really are (and this film is a good way to start that process) and start actually doing something about it, it will have to change. It has to.<br /></span></span></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-90299846009163889052020-08-09T12:26:00.001-04:002020-08-09T12:26:29.372-04:00On Claiming My Own Voice<p>I am white. Cisgendered. Heterosexual. Able-bodied. Neurotypical. White collar. Middle class. Suburban American. All of which can contribute to a feeling of not being particularly special and therefore not having anything particularly special to contribute to a lot of the important conversations going on. (Black and white thinking, I know, but true.)<br /></p><p>I also identify as a suicide loss survivor, mental health advocate, and individual who herself struggles with mental illness. I work very hard in my role as a therapist to normalize the difficulties my clients face and to enable them to talk about everything from serious trauma and suicidality to every other thought that can make a person feel completely alienated and alone. And I work very hard on myself in my efforts to not only practice what I preach but also integrate greater levels of spirituality and universal compassion. All of which leads me to feel like I have quite a lot to say on the subject of mental health and its countless intersections within all of those aforementioned important conversations.</p><p><span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">In the end, though, the most accurate term I can use to label myself (for as useful as labels can be) is human. I think that best captures all the similarities and differences. Not only of myself, but of everyone. Human describes all people on the planet regardless of what they do or don't identify as. And therefore dehuamization in any form is what I hate the most. And one of the most dehuamizing experiences a person can have is being denied their voice. Especially when the person denying it is them.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">So regardless of how special or completely ordinary I may be I have to speak out. About what I know and what I don't. I have to share information and ask questions. I have to point out what the world looks like from within my own skin and try to get a better understanding of what it looks like from inside others'. I have to amplify my own voice and also hand the mic over to those being silenced.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">It's not about being special. If I believe in human rights then I have to believe in my own. Especially the right to my own voice.<br /></span></span></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-83531533253394151222020-08-08T12:29:00.002-04:002020-08-14T16:58:07.175-04:00The Cycle of Grief<p>First, the trigger: John Oliver informing me about an entire culture being systematically eradicated in China. Chinese Uighurs- have you heard about this? If not click on the link below. But be warned: it's pretty fucking brutal.<br /></p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/17oCQakzIl8">https://youtu.be/17oCQakzIl8</a></p><p>Here was my reaction-</p><p>Phase 1: Cynicism<br />Usually my first go-to. My brain can't fathom what I'm hearing and in an initial reflexive defense move goes straight into cynicism. These are the thoughts: Well, figures. Of course there's an entire culture that's being thrown into what are basically concentration camps. It's certainly not the first time this has happened and it won't be the last. Humans are such shit.</p><p>Phase 2: Anger<br />As Bren<span><span data-dobid="hdw">é Brown points out, anger can be way more comfortable for a lot of us because it feels empowering. Self-righteous rage feels a shit ton better than what comes next. It sounds like this: Why isn't anyone doing anything about this? How the fuck is this happening now? We have to shut down Nike and all the other companies that are capitalizing on this bullshit NOW!</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw"><span><span data-dobid="hdw">Phase 3: Despair<br />The most painful phase
and one that can trigger a full-on "life is pointless" thought spiral if
my brain gets away from me. It goes like this: What the fuck can I
do? Is this just going to keep happening because no one gives a shit?
How can I possibly help? I'm so fucking useless. If I were more active
I'd find a way to do something but I'm such a lazy piece of shit I
guess I'll sit here being appalled.</span></span> <br /></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw"><span><span data-dobid="hdw">Phase 4: Blame/Shame<br />Even with all the work I do on self compassion it's still a trap I fall into. It feels like this: Nice work, Bev. Like life isn't hard enough right now without you putting yourself through this? Do you fucking enjoy feeling this way? Like it's going to help, really? You're so fucking stupid.</span></span> <br /></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">Phase 5: Self- Compassion<br />I'm incredibly grateful that this has become as automatic for me as it now is. It'd be nice if it came along faster in the process but I'm trying to appreciate that the pain I go through en route serves a purpose. The self talk goes: That was really hard to hear. Of course I feel powerless, anyone would. I'm not a bad person because I don't know what to do. I bet I'm not the only person who feels this way.</span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">Phase 6: Action<br />Sometimes I think the internet is a horrifying cesspool of the absolute worst impulses of humanity. Other times I thank fucking god that I have the true magic of being able to literally google the phrase "How can I help the Uighurs?" and instantaneously gain access to people who have already done the leg work for me, like this Muslim woman who provides a whole list of links to petitions I can sign, organizations I can donate to, and other resources I use to do something:<a href="https://www.amaliah.com/post/57754/six-ways-can-help-uyghurs-muslims-china-right-now"><br />https://www.amaliah.com/post/57754/six-ways-can-help-uyghurs-muslims-china-right-now</a></span></span></p><p><span><span data-dobid="hdw">I sign a couple of petitions, make a donation, feel a little bit better. My initial cynicism pops back up for a second and I think "Like that'll do anything" before my self-compassion rationalizes "something isn't nothing."<br /></span></span></p>Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-79762000967851514532020-08-02T12:26:00.005-04:002020-09-26T14:47:13.607-04:00Takeaways: Daring Greatly by Brené BrownThis is my second book by Brené Brown. It has only strengthened my
resolve to read all of her books (not to mention listen to her podcasts,
watch all of her interviews, and so on, and so on). I have so much hero
worship for this woman I think I’d all but explode if I ever actually
got to meet her. All of which is to say that I’m a bit biased, so fair
warning.<br /><br />Like the last book, my life is just a bit better because
I read this. The concepts she discussed here were a bit more familiar
and I was just a little bit braver in trying to practice them. Just
about every time I finished reading I’d go bug my boyfriend with another
vulnerability practice in which I’d let him know something else about
how I was feeling, what I was afraid of, how I was struggling. It’s
never fun, it’s always scary, and it’s always incredibly rewarding. I
feel braver, we feel closer to each other, and things are always just a
tiny bit better.<br /><br />This time around she goes into specifics about
the scarcity culture and the myths it leads us to buy into as a way to
break down the initial barriers to practicing vulnerability. Then she
looks at the primary shame triggers we face and the things the
"gremlins" use to get us- in less details than in "I Thought it Was Me"
but with more specifics for men. Then she looks at the "armor" we use to
shield ourselves from shame that has to be taken off so that we can
live in vulnerability. And finally she breaks down putting vulnerability
into action at work, in school, in one's community, and finally at home
in parenting and cultivating a wholehearted family.<br /><br />As always,
there's more of my copy that is highlighted than is not so it's all but
impossible for me to pick out the core passages that resonated.
Everything did. Most from my own experience but anything I haven't
directly encountered myself I've seen and been effected by. But if I had
to pick one core take away I think it would be this: don't hide your
humanity.<br /><br />The lesson she illustrates over and over again is that
to be alive is to make mistakes and that you cannot ever achieve
anything worthwhile without doing so. So it's less about doing the right
thing and more about owning up to doing the wrong thing with grace and
using that to lead by example- certainly a very different message than
what I grew up believing about self improvement and what it means to be a
good person. She says it's not about what you know and even less about
what you say but all about what you do and therefore if you want to live
wholeheartedly at home, at work, in whatever leadership role you may
find yourself in the challenge is not to hide your mistakes from those
who follow you but rather to purposefully draw attention to them as the
lessons they are.<br /><br />And she gives some good, important pointers as
to how to do this in a world that still uses- in larger and larger ways I
would argue, shame to keep people in line and shut up those who dare to
speak out against the systems that require their silence. It's an
incredibly important message for this time when a lot of us are waking
up to the dangers of our own inaction and trying to stand up for what we
believe in. Our world is full of individuals who have been
disenfranchised by shame and the only way to change that is for each and
every one of us to cultivate shame resilience and start fighting back
against those who would use shame to control us. It's a daily battle and
it's hard. But, as she concludes: "<i><b>nothing is as uncomfortable,
dangerous, and hurtful as believing that I'm standing on the outside of
my life looking in and wondering what it would be like if I had the
courage to show up and let myself be seen.</b></i>"
Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-36667893661721657542020-08-01T15:25:00.002-04:002020-08-09T14:16:52.359-04:00Takeaways: I Am Not Your Negro<div><img alt="Raoul Peck's documentary uses the words of James Baldwin and archival material to examine the history of race and the civil rights movement in America." src="https://www.wvxu.org/sites/wvxu/files/styles/medium/public/201801/CorePubImageTemplate_1.jpg" /></div><div><br /></div><div>*From time to time I'll be talking about media I'm consuming in pursuit of knowledge, growth, or help understanding some of these difficult concepts. These are <u>not</u> movie/tv show/podcast reviews as I'm not discussing how well made they are, rather what I learned from watching them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate to admit that I'd never heard of James Baldwin before this film. Now that I have I've got several books to add to my reading list as I've heard from multiple sources that he was an amazing writer and had a lot of incredibly powerful spiritual messages. In my brief exposure to his words in this movie I was struck by how poetically he described heartbreak in the moments of learning of his friend's deaths. (His friends being Medgar Evers, <span class="st">Lorraine Hansberry, </span>Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King Jr.) <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if I've ever heard it explained before- of what it feels like to grow up black in a white world, and how strange of a revelation it is to learn that you are black and that this world you live in is not <u>your</u> world. This one quote sums it up perfectly: "<b><i>It comes as a great shock around the age of five, or six, or seven, to discover that when Gary Cooper was killing off the indians, while you were rooting for Gary Cooper, that the indians were you. It comes as a great shock to discover the country which is your birth place, and to which you owe your life and your identity, has not in its whole system of reality, evolved any place for you.</i></b>"</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the things that has been recommended by activists, to help white people learn a tiny bit of what it feels like to be black, is to watch only black media and see what that feels like. I've only dipped my toes into the pool so far with things like Dear White People and Never Have I Ever but even with that tiny amount of exposure I'm already struck by a barrier. I can admire these characters, and love them, and even empathize with their emotions- but I can never emulate them. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We white people grow up watching all these role models (for better or worse) and thinking that we can grow up to be them. To grow up in a world where there are no heroes who look like you, share your history, see the world from inside the same skin- how demoralizing that must be. And don't get me wrong- I'm not saying I had a lot of great role models. I see more and more how much of the media I was exposed to growing up portrayed only negative female stereotypes. But at least there were females I related to. White females. I could turn on the tv and see myself in the individuals whose stories I connected with. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Looking at the drive of capitalism and the worship of consumerism as the things that enable people to maintain their ignorance is also pretty profound: "<b><i>For a very long time, America prospered. This prosperity cost millions of people their lives. Now, not even the people who are the most spectacular recipients of the benefits of this prosperity are able to endure these benefits. They can neither understand them nor do without them. Above all, they cannot imagine the price paid by their victims, or subjects for this way of life, and so they cannot afford to know why the victims are revolting.</i></b>"</div><div><br /></div><div>How could I have known that the nice, safe suburban neighborhood I grew up in was built on the literal corpses of an entire race of people? Especially when I was not taught (and lord knows I wasn't) that not only was this the case, but that this was the way the world worked? I grew up believing that people survived and thrived based on their own merits (one of the core American myths still being widely perpetuated today). <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The core message that is presented here, and my primary takeaway is this: there is no such thing as a negro. Much like the fabled black sheep, the black people of this world have inherited the sins of those who cannot and will not look at themselves. "<b><i>I have always been struck, in America, by an emotional poverty so bottomless, and a terror of human life- of human touch, so deep that virtually no American seems able to achieve any viable, organic connection between his public stance and his private life. This failure of the private life has always had the most devastating effect on Americans' public conduct, and on black-white relations. If Americans were not so terrified of their private selves, they would never have become so dependent on what they call "the negro problem". This problem which they invented in order to safeguard their purity has made them criminals and monsters, and it is destroying them.</i></b>"</div><div><br /></div><div>That's the first time that that concept- of black humans as black sheep- has ever been explained to me with such clarity before. It makes so much goddamned sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, I'm left with the final words of the film as a call to action. Of deep, personal reflection, as to the why- the driving force behind our need to defame, dehumanize, disenfranchise, and destruct:</div><div>"<b><i>It is entirely up the the American people and our representatives whether or not they are going to accept and deal with and embrace the stranger they have maligned so long. What white people have to do is try to find out, in their own hearts, why it is necessary to have a N*</i></b> {we all know what racial epithet that's short for. I'm not writing it out.} <b><i>in the first place. Because I am not a N*. I'm a man. But if you think I'm a N*, it means you need him. The question the white population of this country has got to ask itself, if I'm not the N* here, and if you invented him, then you've got to find out why.</i></b>"</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm trying James Baldwin. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.<br /></div><br />Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-84259497461372808482020-07-29T22:13:00.000-04:002020-07-29T22:17:05.134-04:00Coming Soon: A New BlogIt's been 4 long years since I gave up on this. I've lost count of the number of times I considered re-launching. Every time I did, I was struck by the reasons I gave up on it in the first place and despaired. So why re-launch? Because this is a completely different blog.<br />
<br />
I did my best to write my manifesto in the about section. But put simply, this will be a blog about my growing pains in my journey to become a better person. I'm going to write about what I'm doing to change all these parts of myself that I normally hide because of shame. It's all that Bren<span><span data-dobid="hdw">é</span></span> Brown I've been reading: this is vulnerability in digital form.<br />
<br />
My hope is that by giving myself permission to write this for me I will avoid all the traps I fell into last time: worrying about how many visits I got, the comments I got on each post- the popularity, basically. I'm sad that I let that take me down last time because there were moments when this thing was really good for me. Hopefully it will be again.<br />
<br />
So here goes...Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-26287836760298278922016-06-01T18:24:00.000-04:002016-06-12T18:29:20.647-04:00The Promise of SummerThe birdsong is constant, all you have to do is listen. The sun is strident, a force on the body as heavy as gravity. The green is relentless, creeping out from crevices too small to contain it. And the wind carries on the promise of summer.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-65024174390976400482016-05-31T18:12:00.000-04:002016-06-12T18:19:34.084-04:00HaplessIt was an accident. Freak, unfortunate, random act of shit. But like many of those horrible events that permanently alters the course of one's life, it happened. And much like those events, it couldn't be undone.<br />
<br />
But she didn't know that yet. And she plummeted into the bottomless pit of self hatred searching for a way to change that past. She could not forgive because she still hoped that by hating she could somehow alter the course of her life. She could not let go because she still believed that by holding on she would be able to force another path, another future. One that wasn't based in the pain she'd experienced.<br />
<br />
And so her journey became what it was, because she couldn't release what it couldn't be.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-71774416712958599132016-05-30T18:11:00.000-04:002016-06-12T18:12:00.223-04:00Face ValueThere's no sense in lying, he thinks. Who would know anyway? Random
strangers believe whatever they take at face value. And wherever he
went, all anyone ever saw was the face.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-5162726962925963152016-05-29T09:06:00.000-04:002016-06-07T09:14:42.848-04:00EtherEverything is everything- that's been one of the lessons here. And although our practices haven't specifically touched on it they don't have to because of that. Because in everything- every element, every person, every experience, every moment- there is life. A universal life force that energizes everything.<br />
<br />
We are all connected- on a cellular level. Whether we know it or not, whether we notice it or not. My breath is the same breath that fills the lungs of all living things- even the trees, the plants, the ocean breathes. My movement comes from the same energy that every life system uses- nutrients in, energy out. My manifestation is the same. My body feeds off the sunlight the same as everything in this world- all of it dependent on the life-giving light. The same water molecules fill my body as those that make the waves of the ocean undulate.<br />
<br />
There is no difference, not really. When we consider the smallest, simplest components we are all made of the same things. Not just the four elements- but that fifth element, the one the scholars talk about. It's in us, in all things, all life the same. <br />
<br />
We don't have to search for it, we don't have to toil to reach nirvana, we don't have to try and strive and push and struggle to try to achieve it- it's already in us. Just breathe- it's there. Just listen to your heart beat- it's there. Just sweat- it's there. Just feel and hear and feel and smell and see- it's there, it's there, it's there. Not separate, always connected.<br />
<br />
We are all made of the same things. We are all connected.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-28277947889792956812016-05-28T09:05:00.000-04:002016-06-07T09:05:55.102-04:00EarthA single blade of grass. Sand sticking to the sides of your feet.
The smell of pine needles and moss in the forest. A small yellow
dandelion. Everywhere, everywhere are reminders of home. My mother,
Gaia, keeping me grounded and calling me back when my head gets too far
up into the clouds. Sit, she says. Stay. Be.<br />
<br />
So I do...Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-76842307299630972842016-05-27T09:01:00.000-04:002016-06-01T09:01:30.658-04:00AirShe breathed and she felt it- the life force entering her lungs, filling her body, moving her forwards. She felt it along the surface of her skin: sometimes like the gentle caress of a lover, sometimes with the force of a shove. She heard it whistling through her ears and howling over the bluffs towards the ocean. And she smelled the sweet scent of the sea of it as she inhaled.<br />
<br />
And she remembered, or made a promise to remember, that this was the connector- the invisible power giving her and the world around her life. That this same stuff that filled her filled everything else- every animal, every plant, every part of this world she called home. Always part of, never separate, breathing in and breathing in one unbroken loop, forever.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-25739591981235897782016-05-26T13:30:00.000-04:002016-05-27T13:30:49.405-04:00FireThe sun awoke her with unrelenting heat. It beat against her back through the open window and her skin began spitting perspiration before her mind rallied for movement. The elements seemed to demand her attention, her action. "I am here," it demanded. "Get up."<br />
<br />
As she moved through the day she felt it- beating down on her scalp, pushing up the back of her neck, filling her face with solid, heavy weight. The weight of the sun, just as real as gravity, pushing from above rather than pulling from below. Her skin rose to meet it and the pigment erupted and darkened. A chemical change within her very cells as they reacted to the immutably powerful orb above.<br />
<br />
And she remembered, always reminded, that her own sun shared these qualities. The heat that her own body generated. The strength of her movement, her muscle, her core. And she radiated outwards just as powerfully. The sun and she, she and the sun, one and the same.<br />
<br />
And she was.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-31405873070882073342016-05-25T13:13:00.000-04:002016-05-27T13:23:58.836-04:00OceanShe had forgotten. She hadn't realized that the memory was there until the scent crept into her nostrils again. The salt, the rotting, the dampness. The foam and mist and violent summer storms. The waves and sand and crustaceans. The tumultuous cycle of life, death and rebirth in undulating rhythm. The rocking and bobbing of the boat, the swirling of the eddy. <br />
<br />
All of these lived inside of her, just as surely as her heart pumped blood. And they followed the same rhythm. The same violence and peace, the same cycle of life and death and rebirth, the same rocking and bobbing. Her blood moved in the same fluid waves, a smaller ocean inside of her.<br />
<br />
She breathed in, fully, and swallowed. Willing her body to take in the nourishment, to consume the nutrients, to absorb. She felt the mist on her face and begged her skin to open to it, to let it in. She leaned back and felt the moisture turn warn with the baking sun above. And she prayed her mantra: "Thank you, thank you, thank you."Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-42982949206884870882016-05-24T07:57:00.000-04:002016-05-26T08:27:55.539-04:00DiceIt was a sound Morg was unfamiliar with and it startled him from sleep, leading his body to jolt upright well before his mind could begin to guess the cause. He looked around, straining his neck against the metal breast plate and cursing the armor he felt too vulnerable to take off while sleeping.<br />
<br />
All around him the world gave an idyllic picture of serenity. The birds chirping and singing, the mist on the early morning grass threatening to turn wet and warm as the sunlight began to creep, slowly, over the hill. The pumping motion of some animal in a tree branch as it dug for insects or perhaps syrup. Morg turned and turned, looking for the sound that had awoken him and found it nowhere. He also found no other soldiers in camp.<br />
<br />
At this he jumped up, grabbed his helmet and sheath, and ran to load his horse. The other animals were still there, tied to the same tree they had been we he slept, and there was no sign of the others having packed anything to depart. Morg scanned the scattered belongings for signs of struggle or a fight when he heard the sound again- a light clacking or something with a smoother surface hitting, bouncing and landing.<br />
<br />
Morg ran toward it, drawing his sword as he did so, leaving the blade until he could find a stance to defend. Down the hill he clattered, his armor rumbling like a topple of pots and pans in some poorly organized kitchen. He jumped a large bounder and landed hard in a stone courtyard he hadn't seen and been aware of only a moment before.<br />
<br />
"What in the gods anthems are you doing?" Lox yelled at him.<br />
<br />
Morg straightened and looked up at the familiar forms of his fellows, sitting or kneeling or in Lox's case decidedly sprawling on the stone. Between them was a circle in the stone, a large flat space where the grass and moss hadn't overgrown the ruins, and in that circle were cubes of bone carved with patterns on the faces.<br />
<br />
"Oh, ignore him- you're rolling or I'm slitting your throat and taking the coins the old fashioned way," Berks said, pushing Lox with his boot.<br />
<br />
Lox, clearly having already tasted the wine that morning, grabbed up the cubes and cradled them in his hands, blowing and then seemingly talking to the small objects.<br />
<br />
Morg observed this with puzzlement, his brain unable to define it and sorting through a list of options. Were these sacred objects being used to cast some circle of protection? No, certainly not with Lox wielding them, despite his ritualistic treatment of them at the moment.<br />
<br />
"Get on with it!" Berks called, and lifted his foot for another push.<br />
<br />
Lox drew his dagger from it's hidden sheath in the arm hole of his armor and held it Berks' shoe- the tip pressing into the bottom and threatening to penetrate if he pushed any further forward. He shot him the death stare, the one he swore he'd used to turn a man to stone once when the gods had still blessed him, and Berks withdrew.<br />
<br />
Then, as if tossing aside a bone he'd cleared of me, he let the cubes fall from his hand. Morg heard the familiar clacking sound as they landed on the stone, and then a yell from Lox as he cheered the symbols appearing on the upturned faces of the cubes, and then an angry growl from Berks and an amused chuckle from Kindl who before now had sat quietly grinning at the whole thing.<br />
<br />
"Yes, that's what happens when you test the gods will!" Lox cried, pointing a finger at Berks whose face was rapidly reddening.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" Morg demanded, finally unable to ignore the obvious question any longer.<br />
<br />
"Following the laws of the land," Lox said dismissively and grabbed up the cubes again.<br />
<br />
Morg looked at him puzzled.<br />
<br />
"What, hasn't anyone told you?" Berks asked, "Always gamble near a holy site in the morning."Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-14261300440702275942016-05-23T07:47:00.000-04:002016-05-26T07:56:52.824-04:00OpenGoal setting, while necessary and valid, can be a tricky thing. Because no sooner can one envision a potential future than feel passion for it to happen. Pressure for it to happen. Expectation. And we all know what expectations do to us.<br />
<br />
And my logical brain wants to know why. It wants to assign numbers and calculate likelihoods and analyze data. And yes, if we're being perfectly honest here, it wants to blame. My dear god does it want to blame.<br />
<br />
But my intuitive mind, the one that doesn't feel like it's in my skull but rather my heart or perhaps my gut, knows better. There is a quiet, gentle voice reminding me that there is a lesson in everything if I can only open myself up to it.<br />
<br />
Not only in the moment itself- the sounds, smells, feels, tastes and sights all around me which can pull me out of that worrisome place and back to blessedly tangible reality. But also in simply accepting rather than judging. In asking rather than complaining.<br />
<br />
No, things didn't go according to plan. But what came in that plan's place? <br />
<br />
"Be open," the gentle whisper tells me.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-49579238994197974732016-05-22T14:52:00.000-04:002016-05-23T14:53:25.585-04:00Letting GoIt was a thought so long before it became a reality that to truly understand its path from the source one would have to go back an entire lifetime. The thought, in and of itself, was nothing revolutionary. It was, in fact, something so commonly espoused that it was found on bumper stickers, t-shirts, billboards and hit song lyrics. An yet the action it described was so revolutionary it was almost never seen.<br />
<br />
Let go. That was all.<br />
<br />
She'd said it herself a million times to people who were compulsively obsessing over issues now long past. Ended relationships, stupid mistakes, embarrassing moments, angry remembrances. She'd said it in the same flippant manner everyone said it, as if it were a simple, immediate thing. As if people didn't spend years in therapy, on religious retreats, consulting with gurus trying to understand how to do it, trying to actually bring the idea into action.<br />
<br />
And yet now, in a situation that seemed to demand she ignore every single utterance of that word, she found it to be the easiest thing she'd ever done. Easier than breathing, easier than blinking, easier than a thousand other automatic, unconscious behaviors she'd done innumerable times. <br />
<br />
So with a quiet, almost inaudible exhale she did. She let go.Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-64710523997696920962016-05-21T14:20:00.000-04:002016-05-23T14:21:08.748-04:00Fiona St.The light was harsh and intrusive, even through his closed eyelids. And the truck backing up seemed to make the light pulse. Each beep was a red flash behind his eyelids, as if beating against his brain. He tried to assess the situation- but with the pain occupying his skull he was far beyond the task.<br />
<br />
He became aware, in a sad, slow sort-of way, of pressure on his upper back. And underneath his left hip. He couldn't get a good feel of anything exactly, just vague and horrible sensations. Every investigation threatened to tear him further from the now blissful-seeming detachment he'd felt from his body before he started to awake.<br />
<br />
He tried, briefly, to breathe deeper and fall back into the darkness. But the light and the sound and the pain kept at him, insistent and relentless. And with each beep, each engine turn, each yell from someone in an echo-ey alleyway he became more aware. Not only of the pounding in his head and the pressure against him as he leaned in some awkward position but also of the quickly developing nausea in his stomach and dizziness that seemed to revolve in his head.<br />
<br />
Before he could think he felt a new sensation in his hand- a body-part he hadn't previously been aware of. As if something had been pushed into it, forced into his loose grip. His eyes shot open against his will and he saw what it was- a crumpled up bill. He heard rather than seeing the person who had bestowed it as turning his head to look threatened to topple him. It was the sound of footsteps made by nice shoes- black patent leather with heels. He knew the sound so well it registered instantly even without sight and his mind began to piece together the information.<br />
<br />
He was slumped against the building in the early morning of city activity- like the bakery truck delivering flour across the street, and a business man en route to one of the high-rise office buildings had inserted a bill into his outstretched hand, thinking him a vagrant.<br />
<br />
The scene blossomed in his mind, clear and concise. He was a bum, or at least, that's what everyone saw. How else to describe someone in his state- still somewhat drunk from the night before, slumped against a wall in an alleyway, probably reeking from sweat and god only knew what else, wearing clothes worn down by a hard night. It was a scene so instantaneously recognizable his mind couldn't reject it and it sunk in.<br />
<br />
The full awareness hit him, washed over him, drowned him. And in the aftermath there was only one question left over: How the hell did he get this bad?Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5575209851731621303.post-81178224418806052002016-05-20T00:00:00.000-04:002016-05-20T08:22:02.218-04:00The Summer PorchStashed. That was the word. Hidden under a million objects, memories, pictures, emotions and scents. Easily dismissed when met with the realities of the day. Filed away in the safest, most treasured part of the mind.<br />
<br />
Going there was an indulgence, certainly. It wasn't productive, it didn't help her get any work done or catch up on the mountain of papers sitting on her desk. But sometimes, just for a moment, when the sound of typing threatened to drive her mad or the endless ring of the phone up front started to drown out her own thoughts she would stop and allow herself to drift.<br />
<br />
It began with the scent of saltwater. Or seaweed. Or sand. Whatever that smell was. She knew it better than anything else and it enveloped her completely, invading her nostrils as much as her memories even as she sat in that sterile office closed off from the world. It was a scent written on her soul, inextricably linked to a feeling of peace that nothing else could deliver. She followed it now, down the path of her own memory.<br />
<br />
Next came the sounds of the street- lawnmowers, dogs barking, kids yelling at each other as they shot waterguns or chased the leader down the sidewalk. She heard her father's old dodge idling away in the driveway as he worked on the engine, telling her brother to "turn it off" for another adjustment. She heard her cat Missy mewing as he sprawled on the wooden railing of the porch.<br />
<br />
She reached out a hand and felt the old wood- painted and re-painted so many times the wood underneath could never be recovered, and yet worn smooth by hands like hers grasping and sliding and sometimes holding on. Her grandmother's firm grasp as she slowly mounted the steps one at a time, smiling as she did as if the pain in her hip wasn't excruciating. Her brother's tapping fingers as he skipped up the way he always did. Her mother's smooth, fluid ascent earning a groan from each step she walked. The physical touches of her family etched onto the smooth surface.<br />
<br />
And finally, blessedly, she opened her eyes and observed. The window always caught her eye first, the pane reflecting the nearly blinding light of the late sun as it drooped languidly in the sky and the orange glow that illuminated and bounced and spread like ivy. It always reminded her of a creamsicle, sometimes so much her mouth would water and she would strain for the sound of the ice cream truck.<br />
<br />
She allowed her gaze to drift, her eyes touching upon each object and surface the same as her hand had caressed the banister. The swing- her mother's favorite part of the house, where she would curl up with a book and Missy and an icy glass of lemonade or tea that would collect condensation and soak the pages of whatever novel she pretended to read as she looked out at the street. Sometimes her father would join her with a beer in hand and she'd protest his dirty pants on her white wicker bench. He would put an arm around her, which she'd initially scream at him for before relenting and sinking into the cuddle.<br />
<br />
The sand-dollar wind chimes they'd made together one summer, after carefully and meticulously combing the beach day after day looking for the perfect ones. For every one successfully connected by fishing wire there were at least a dozen broken, or stepped on, or found lacking upon the return home to consider the day's findings. She'd always loved it, perhaps because of the size of the endeavor and the devotion they'd given it.<br />
<br />
The floor, oh the floor. Worn smooth in the main pathway by hundreds of feet scraping across the surface. Sandy shoes and dragged beach bags. Her father's heavy work boots. Her wet flip-flops. Her grandmother's cane. The wood had originally been a deep, chestnut brown but in the center of the porch where everyone walked it was worn back, obsidian and perfectly reflective of that brilliant orange light. As if the entryway itself were a path of lit fire. She would stare at that spot on the porch as she sat on the railing, losing longer moments than she ever intended.<br />
<br />
A million and one memories. An endless list of stories and jokes and repeated dialogues. The tapestry of her family before her grandmother died and her parents broke up and they had to sell the house in Avalon. Before childhood stopped being magical. She indulged in them, allowing herself to feel.<br />
<br />
A pile of manilla folders landed with an audible thud on the already tall pile of paperwork on her desk and she startled, jolting violently and bouncing in her office chair. Her boss didn't even look back at her as he continued his march to his office and she shot daggers at the now crumbling tower on her desk. She sighed, resigned herself to get back to work and leave the summer porch again to regain her seat in the firm, unforgiving confines of reality, and reached for the top of the stack.<br />
<br />Bevimushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14924337684790883853noreply@blogger.com0