tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83890210681789905482024-03-13T11:40:31.808-04:00Writing Light in Dark CornersMusings on life, politics, religion, motherhood and anything else that animates my soul.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.comBlogger298125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-52749451979752289912021-07-14T11:42:00.000-04:002021-07-14T11:42:01.234-04:00deaf superpower: Missing Out<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The other side of being hyper-observant is missing out. I know that *something* is going on, but unless I get the scoop, I miss out on the details.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This is an odd take, but I stand by it: I missed a lot as a kid (still do as an adult), and a lot of it was worth missing.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Whispers? Rumors? Gossip? Missed most of that shit. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was never in the know, never up to speed on the lingo, trend, story, whatever was traveling along hushed whispers and mumbled stories at the lunch table. And I was better for it. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Ignorance was bliss. I didn’t know if someone was laughing at me or the dork next to me. Thank God. We were all dorks, anyway.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I didn’t have access to the *DRAMAAAA* and therefore didn’t get drowned in the drama. My childhood was fairly drama-free.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Even as a teenager, the edge was shaved off by my lack of access to the underground of shenanigans. My parents, undoubtedly, did not mind.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A few years ago my high school graduating class celebrated our 20 year anniversary. I couldn't make the reunion, but enjoyed seeing the current and "throwback" pictures that everyone posted in our Facebook group. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">But it was kinda hard to look at sometimes. So many pictures were of parties and gatherings that I most definitely was *not* invited to. I saw groups of folks that were friends, hanging out at someone's house. But I wasn't there. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Some were from my senior year when I was indeed, not there. (I had moved with my family- but then I came back to graduate- it was weird but it worked.) But many were from the years that I was most certainly around.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'll be honest, I felt sad about this, like, why wasn't I invited?! But I think part of the answer is that I wasn't clued in. I didn't connect to the undercurrent of whatever was happening, so I missed the organic process of knowing where the hang out was. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Also I was a churchy girl, so they probably assumed I wasn't interested. At the time, this was mostly true. It was a good thing I didn't go to those parties. I would've hated every minute and been super awkward about it.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I went through my wild stage in seminary, which was a much better age and group to be wild with. (Seriously, the BEST parties.)</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Here's the thing, I didn't know I missed the parties until about 20 years later. I would have been devastated at the time to know how much I was missing out. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">What a delightful gift, to only learn I was left out when I am emotionally capable of processing the fact. The parties I was not invited to were hosted by people I wasn't that close to, it was not any real betrayal or conspiracy. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">All I really missed out on was the drama.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Why didn't I even know about the parties? Parties are whispered about. For me: whispers are indiscernible, even with hearing aids. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">If you have ever whispered anything to me in my entire life and I “understood," I was <i>absolutely</i> faking it. I didn’t hear and have learned not to care. Most whispers are not that important.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Quick tutorial on etiquette for deaf and hard-of-hearing folks. If we missed it and say “what?” and you say “nevermind,” or “it wasn’t that important,” we immediately <strike>hate</strike> dislike you. It’s so dismissive. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">By saying "nevermind" you’re deciding whether we are worthy to have access to what you said. Even if it IS stupid, you said it, so we deserve to decide for ourselves how dumb it is. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">If you continually whisper and mumble important things, we stop hanging out with you. It’s just way too much work. I thought about making this paragraph less bitchy but decided against it.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">You know what else I missed out on? </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Most of the dialogue in movies and TV shows. Without captioning, it's truly a guess at 75% of what people are saying. I am *not* your go-to for pop-culture trivia. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My lack of access to closed captioning meant that misogyny and racism in television and movies was muted. Not a miss. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">SO many sexualized jokes and innuendos that I missed not only because of my naivety, but because I literally didn’t hear it. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Same with racist comments or homophobic comments, I missed so much of that. I’m not saying I missed racism, homophobia, and sexism altogether, I’m just saying I didn’t get as much as my hearing friends.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I missed some good stuff, I’m sure, but so much of the noise out there is pure noise, and I’m OK with missing a mountain of it. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Here's a good story of missing out: my great-grandfather, August, grew up in Berlin, Germany and had a sledding accident when he was a child. He broke his leg so severely that he was bed-ridden for months. During that time he read books to keep himself occupied. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">August became a journalist. His broken leg healed slowly, it was a good inch or two shorter than the other. This mild handicap disqualified him from serving in either world war. His journalism career, however, allowed him to get out of Germany (although he did get stuck in Amsterdam under Nazi rule), and eventually to the US with a job at a newspaper. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I say those were good misses. All because of a short leg.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Growing up, I also spent lots of time reading. My cleverness with words and editing is probably at least partly a result of my deafness. If I wasn’t deaf, would I want to spend hours in silence with a book that was my easiest access to stories? Not sure, but it makes me wonder.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Sometimes missing out on stuff is a good thing. I'm grateful for my deaf superpower of missing out. I don't catch all the drama. I don't shoulder all the needless worrying of details that don't really concern me.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'm also used to not getting the whole story. FOMO does not have a hold on me because I've been MO all my life. No fear of it here. That's freedom for me.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Did you miss anything that may have contributed to who you are today? It’s fun to wonder. </span></p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-20215998633958971612021-07-13T10:58:00.000-04:002021-07-13T10:58:37.441-04:00deaf superpower: Observant as hell<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When I call out, name, and highlight the superpowers that come from my disabilities, misfortunes, and otherwise; I am NOT saying that these are born out of a purpose. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I am not saying that God (universe, whatever) gave me a jacked up spine, mental illness, deafness, and a uterus SO THAT I would have these superpowers. I do not think that I am deaf because God needed me to learn a lesson, or to teach a lesson to one of you.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I haven’t solved the theological conundrum of why shit happens yet. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Here’s where I am at the moment: being human comes with pain and suffering, joy and love, and a crap ton of imperfections. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The only sure reason I know that I am deaf is because my parents both have a recessive gene for nerve deafness and I had a 1 in 4 chance of having the recessive gene from both sides come to full expression. (Yay punnet square!) </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Cause and effect: I won the deaf lottery.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">You may believe your imperfections were given to you as a purpose. That's OK! Whatever belief helps you fully embrace and love yourself is the one that helps. Just don’t get hung up on it. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We do not need to understand the theology behind our imperfections to come to terms with them and glean our superpowers.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Now let's move to superpowers.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I am deaf (lower case because I don’t know sign and didn’t grow up in the deaf culture).</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was talking to my child the other day without my hearing aids in and he said: "Wow! You sound really different!!” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I sound deaf. Because I am. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">For so long I’ve tried to be normal, blend in, present myself as a hearing person (with lots and lots of help). But now I’m realizing that my deaf voice- THAT is my voice. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As I embrace my deaf identity, I can finally recognize my deaf superpowers.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">One of my deaf superpowers is: I am observant as hell. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Deaf people lean on their visual observation to fill in the missing auditory gaps. W</span><span style="font-family: arial;">e read lips, body language, eyebrows, and I swear there’s a sixth sense for some of us. We need all the help we can get, so we become experts at reading our visual (and vibe?) clues.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Here’s a fun trick I have: I can often tell what accent a speaker has in a muted video. It's automatic, I'm not *trying* to figure it out. I just watch the video on mute, and the voice that plays in my head has an accent. Voila!</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My observation superpower makes me pretty amazing at a lot of things. Sometimes I might know what you're feeling before you do. Our bodies often speak before our brains compute.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My older sister is a therapist, and she is also deaf (she won the deaf lottery too). She is realizing the superpower that her hearing loss has been in her career as a therapist. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Can you imagine having a therapist who can see through your bullshit within seconds? Scary, but helpful! </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It takes years of training and practice to get to the top of your game in reading body language, but as a deaf therapist, she has been amazing at that since the beginning. She has a *lifetime* of hyper-observation practice to glean from. Add a master’s degree and over a decade of experience, and she is one bad ass therapist. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She gave a talk at a recent online gathering of therapists, encouraging them to find their own superpowers:</span></p><blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I have a superpower. I am ninja quick with microexpressions. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">It’s how I’ve survived my entire life... </span><span style="font-style: italic;">My attunement and ability to move in quickly - I contribute that to being </span><span><i>hearing impaired... I hear with my eyes.</i> </span> </span></p></blockquote><blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">-Kelly Bourque, LMFT, owner of <a href="https://redtherapygroup.com" target="_blank">Red Therapy group</a></span></p></blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">See what I’m saying? Superpower. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was a hospice chaplain for a handful of years and always worried that my patients would be telling me some deep dark death-bed secret and I’d miss it. Whispers, mutters and mumbles are impossible for me to hear and discern. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The reality is that most people who are in their last moments do not talk. They look. My observation powers and sixth sense means I often had a feel for what they were looking at. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">One patient had nothing but fear in her eyes. In our previous visits, she told me stories of her life. In her eyes this time: was her dead abusive husband waiting for her on the other side?</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Aw hell no. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I don’t claim to know exactly what happens when we die, but I could say with absolute certainty in her ear as she struggled to release this life for the unknown: </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You are safe, you are loved, it’s OK to go.” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Mean-ass husbands are not going to touch you.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She died peacefully that night.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I won't take the credit for her peaceful passing, but my soul tells me I helped by telling her what she needed to hear to let go. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My intuition is highly developed. I trust my gut as an integral part of my observation tool box.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">SUPERPOWER: Observant as hell.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Do you have something “wrong” with you? What’s your superpower hidden underneath? The way you've coped, that's likely made you a master at something. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Example: Folks who are dyslexic, they are solving complex puzzles EVERY time they read. EVERY time. That's impressive. It's also exhausting. Think about your superpower, and think about the energy you spend doing it. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It's impressive, but you might need to rest. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I am hyper-observant, as a skill, but also as a necessity. Large gatherings friggin exhaust me. This is why I nap and take baths. I will not apologize. I just gave a handful of folks my FULL attention for two hours. Nighty-night. (I'll write more about resting later.)</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'm going to keep listing more of my superpowers in the coming blogs. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I hope you'll start to accept the "imperfect" parts of yourself and discover your superpowers.</span></p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-35991029912350845572021-07-12T13:15:00.001-04:002021-07-12T13:16:25.824-04:00Intro: Dafka-energy (exploring my superpowers)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The idea for this blog (and the next few) came to me while I was reading in my bath tub (inspiration portal). </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was reading “We Should All be Millionaires” by Rachel Rodgers. The section that lit my brain was on the history of women and our lack of access to wealth building opportunities.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It occurred to me that not only are women quite impressive for the success garnered from a limited amount of time (and resources), but *I* am impressive because I am deaf and people with disabilities are also on the list of historically blocked opportunities. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This epiphany moved me.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I am inspired and <i>determined</i> to be successful. Simply for the sake of having achieved it. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Quick story: my grandfather's cousin returned to Berlin after WW2. Friends asked why she, a Jewish woman who had lost so much during the Holocaust, had chosen to live in Germany, the author of her misfortunes. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She said “Dafka!” </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This is a Hebrew term I will loosely translate (her intention) to mean: “Because, fuck them!”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My current energy has a little <i>dafka</i> to it.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I should not succeed. There is plenty about me that says the opposite (and why I have a chance), but as a stereotype, or a statistic, I’m low on the “best chance to succeed” list. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That makes me ANGRY.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am going to use this anger to transcend and transform: <i>dafka</i>.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There is ABSOLUTELY NO LOGICAL reason why I shouldn't be successful. It’s my uterus and failed nervous system that our inherited systems point to as a sure-fire predictor for mediocrity. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My "statistical" chances of success are not based on my abilities, but on the failure of the system around me. Our culture, education, and infrastructure are not equipped and cultivated to create successful deaf women. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Don't I know it.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Folks like me with their own adjectives that don't get full cultivated support of the system, they have to figure out a path to success outside mainstream. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This makes us badasses. We don't realize it.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">History tells us that women (especially women with a disability AND mental illness AND children) should not succeed, CANNOT succeed, and better find herself a good husband.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At the very least, we should be shocked and amazed when it happens. Newsworthy! Who takes care of the kids?!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I am a deaf millennial descendent of German Jews and mid-west farmers with mental illness and a uterus? And I have two kids? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Damn, not a good formula.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Well, DAFKA.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I got myself a good husband, and I am on my way to be HIS SUGAR MAMA. Thankyouverymuch.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Imma show this world what I can do. On MY terms, MY rules, MY body, MY super skills, MY compassion, MY generosity, MY empathy, MY love of beauty and FREEDOM. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">MY whole self is fully and completely qualified to build success.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am human just like everyone else. I’m also not a millionaire (yet). But I will be.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Because, <i>dafka</i>.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In the next few blogs I’m going to unpack some superpowers that my disabilities and bad statistical odds have given me.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"> (I hope you see yours.)</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Why tell this story? Because I want to. The bath tub told me to. I also want to shift the mainstream. I want people like me to see themselves as whole, with no caveats. I want to generate space where we have no reason to feel inferior or odd. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Can you see yourself as a person with superpowers?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'm going to prove to you that our humanity is not a liability, it’s our superpower. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Then we can go be our full selves, unrestricted. Successfully.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Get <i>dafka</i> with me.</span></p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-57174858304633847502021-07-01T17:15:00.002-04:002021-07-01T17:15:39.445-04:00How to not be an Asshole to your kids<p>If you're an asshole, they'll be assholes. </p><p>So I came up with this list of how not to be an asshole to your kid. </p><p>Partly to remind myself, partly to feel good about my parenting, and partly to be helpful. You can decide the percentages.</p><p><b><u>Chores!</u></b></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>1) Be honest. </b> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Chores suck, don't expect them to love them. You don't, why would they? Commiserate with them and then share the load. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>2) Delegate.</b> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">DO give them chores for the love of God. They will be assholes if they don't learn the essentials of how to be a human and take care of shit and be in community. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">But scale it down from Cinderella to... I don't have a fictional character to point to- but the one Disney should use to show a normal person helping out. </p></blockquote><p><span><b> <span> <span> 3) Communicate.</span></span></b></span> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">If your kid is overwhelmed, listen to them and work with them on how to make it manageable. Don't be all overwhelmed yourself and expect them to just handle it like you're (not) handling it. Delegate, communicate, and treat your whole house like a group of humans who are all capable but not servants. Mmkay? Remember - you also have to not be a servant. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">There's actually a lot here in the chores section that I could talk about- but imma move on.</p></blockquote><p><b><u>Electronics!</u></b></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>1) Be realistic.</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">It is actually annoying to work on something for 55 minutes and be two minutes away from the "save and quit" and someone is screaming at you. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Why are video games made like this? To piss us all off. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">But it's not your fault (unless you design video games- and then I ASK YOU WHY). It's also not your kid's fault. Give like five minute warnings? I don't know. Figure it out. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Even if you think video games are weird and lame and your parents didn't let you play except for Dr. Mario and Tetris and Super Mario Brothers on your gameboy (just an example)- have some grace and come up with a system that doesn't involve screaming. You know how they say "just a sec!" You do it too. So... work it out. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">This is my least helpful section- I know.</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>2) Give yourself a break.</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Obviously the time of quarantine was a time to throw all the rules out the window as far as screen time. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">If it wasn't for you: dear God honey- go watch ALL of the Lord of the Rings movies (extended version), and the Hobbit movies, and then also the Harry Potter movies. You earned that screen time.</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">For the rest of us: it's maybe still OK to have less rules. My family watches SO many movies together. Is it lazy? Maybe. Is it fun? Yes. Are the children and adults happy? We are. So I'm not going to be an asshole to myself OR my kids if we want to watch a movie. Call it theatre if you need to feel better about it. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">My main point: the screen time you're stressing about is probably not as bad as you think. </p></blockquote><p><b><u>Emotions!</u></b></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>1) Allow space for it.</b> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Just because it makes you uncomfortable, doesn't mean they're bad. It's OK if it makes you feel uncomfortable, but don't throw that on your kid. Go be uncomfy in the bath, or outside, something. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> Emotions are part of the essence of being human, so if you try to lock that shit down, you're locking your human down. Don't do that. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Kid is freaking out over losing their ice sword in the video game? Absolutely that is the lamest thing- BUT- if they can't figure out how to be sad/mad/frustrated and then move on from the ice pick loss- then you got problems in your future. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">2) <b>Don't judge.</b> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Don't judge the emotion or the reason, just give space for the kid to process the important thing in their life- even if it's not your important thing. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">My sisters are therapists and said that emotions have like a 90 second cycle. If you accept the emotions and don't try to make it something else, they resolve like an ocean wave. Or maybe they don't. But have you ever tried to manipulate an ocean wave? Just ride it and hug and breathe. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">If your kid learns to have emotions without locking it down or escalating it - then their emotions will function the way they are supposed to: as a temporary and therapeutic response to the situation at hand. They might not do "emotion right" all the time, that's OK- that's literally what childhood is about- learning. They learn through experience, not micromanagement. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Help your kid not be a zombie robot or hot mess. If you are a zombie robot or hot mess, try being less of an asshole to yourself. It takes time and practice. You can start at 40, and it'll take time. But there's hope! </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">If you let kids feel free to process a hard thing emotionally now - they won't have to do all the hard work like you're having to at 40. How nice is that?! Stop the cycle and don't be an asshole. </p></blockquote><p><u><b>Body!</b></u></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>1) STOP TALKING MEAN</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">To yourself. Yup. I know you don't say nasty things to your kids. If you do- stop that rightthisminute. You might be doing it not on purpose, like: "Ooh, I wouldn't eat that, you've put on some weight! You cute chunk!" Doooonnnn'ttt saaaayyyyy thhhaaaaat. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">If your kid grows up hearing you say "I'm fat, I hate my thighs, My face is weird, I can't take good pictures" they are going to absolutely believe all of that and more about themselves. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Why? Because you look perfect to them until you tell them you aren't. Once they realize that their own beautiful parents are ugly, they will automatically assume they are. That's all super bullshit. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Don't be an asshole to yourself, and you will automatically not be an asshole to your kid. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> Take pictures. When you look dumb in a picture- laugh- because you are a fucking human and no one is paying you to take a picture in the moonlight. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">You are documenting the fun time you're having. If your face is funny- you have captured the fun time you are having while making a funny face. Why are you taking it so seriously? (I mean- I'm no idiot, I grew up in the US as a girl- I get it.) But for real, fake it if you don't believe it yet. Talk about yourself like you are a goddamn movie star!</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>2) Body, Not appearance</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Think about it this way, if all of a sudden you could hear turkeys talking and half of what they talked about was the size and color of their feathers, weird thing on their throat, whatever, you would be like: DUDES- NO ONE CARES. That's us. We're the idiots. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Now, can you take those feathers and make art with it? Absofuckinglutely. I want to see Turkey artists now... </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">You ARE art! But you are not a commercial or a product. You get me? JOY with art. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">So when you talk to your kiddos about their body: talk about function (and art if they like that). Your nose is to smell. Your ass is to cushion your sitting and expel the literal shit your body doesn't need. (Maybe use different words). </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Try to make your language and conversation around bodies be about the actual body, and not always the appearance. It's such a default for us. Lips: LUSCIOUS. No- speaking, eating, kissing, delish. See the difference? It's so much more fun to see the body as this masterful organism that does SO many cool things (we self-heal- that's amazing). </p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b>3) Normal Real Words </b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Do use normal words, please for the love of all that is holy. There are VERY real safety reasons why your kid needs to know the real words for things, but also it's just annoying when a kid says his "boo boo" and his means his penis. Like- I was looking for a scratch but now I'm confused. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">ALSO- and this is especially for girls, please teach them what is actually in their body - I still look at a chart of my lady organs and get lost. I know there are books that help with this. Check those books out of the library. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Talk about bodies with real words, real functions, and real joy. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Think about the Wild Kratt brothers and how geeked out they get about the immortal jellyfish - do that with your own body. (Go look up those guys- they're delightfully cheesy.)</p></blockquote><p>I'm sure there's more to this, but I ran out of steam. </p><p>If you haven't figured it out yet, a lot of not being an asshole to your kids is really not being an asshole to yourself. If your kid asks you if the microwave would work when the power went out, refrain from making them feel like an idiot. (It was hard, but I did it.)</p><p>We all have said and done stupid things, your home should be the SAFEST place to be an idiot. Make it safe for yourself too.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><p> </p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-37561838022838531172021-05-21T18:26:00.000-04:002021-05-21T18:26:46.598-04:00Shame Flare<p>My hands are still shaking, I've poured myself a glass of wine. I tell myself: it's fine, it's not a big deal, just breathe. All those are right except it is a big deal. Right this minute my body is flared up like that feeling you get when you're embarrassed and the heat rises up through your throat, surrounding your neck like a turtleneck of choking shame.</p><p>I decided to write in this moment because my body forgot how to cry. I started to cry but then I shut it down with the German efficiency that my German body is trained for. </p><p>"Is that the young lady I spoke with on the phone?!" said the chief from the fire department. </p><p>No sir, I am the shame-spiraling deaf woman that just wants you to tell me if I should be afraid to go to bed tonight, because I can't sleep well with my hearing aids in and I probably won't sleep well anyway with them out. But sure, patronize me and call it friendliness.</p><p>The carbon monoxide alarm went off. I'm at a friend's house, trying to do a writing retreat. What a fantastic idea. I am by myself and I have done so many things by myself. Hell, I flew to Germany and stayed in Berlin a whole week by my fucking self. </p><p>And now I'm wondering if I have been so stupid all this time. If the alarm was telling the truth and it went off at night, do you know what would have happened? Death. I mean- not to be dramatic, but I wouldn't have heard the alarm and I would have slept until my body died or woke up with severe enough symptoms. </p><p>Right now I'm sitting in the house, doors and windows shut to make sure the false alarm was indeed a false alarm. </p><p>When I called the fire department, they answered with quick words, a sense of humor "Your house is on fire?!! Haha- just kidding." I just wanted to feel safe. I'm taking care of three animals that I have no known way of moving and transporting. I can't just leave the house and them. </p><p>The first time I called, I thought that the final words were "we're on our way." I heard him say something about 911 and asking me more questions, and I was like- I don't know why he's telling me about this, he's on his way. </p><p>I made sure all the windows were open - the cats wouldn't be harmed - and I sat on the front stoop for 30 minutes, missing a meaningful call I had scheduled for myself as part of my self-care for the writing retreat. OH- and the alarm went off during my therapy session and it was my therapist who told me what the alarm was saying.</p><p>That's the other thing. When I called they asked me so many questions: how many times did the alarm go off? How frequent and many were the beeps? </p><p>I didn't know- a lot? </p><p>What did it say? </p><p>Something about carbon monoxide? </p><p>How do you feel? Do you have a headache? Nausea? </p><p>I don't think so. I had a headache earlier. (I almost said- but I'm a 40 year old woman, so that tracks. I didn't.) They don't have a clue that many women feel headaches and nausea intermittently without being poisoned. </p><p>I finally went back inside from my front stoop perch after realizing that I was not the top priority. I decided to just wait- but by the window. No writing was being done. I waited, trying to decide if I had a headache or stress. Anxiety or carbon monoxide poisoning.</p><p>I finally call back: no one home, voicemail. I left a message. Now I'm afraid they'll hear that message and make fun of it. "That's that woman who was scared of carbon monoxide."</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>It was two hours past the first call and I knew that I would not be able to sleep at night if no one came to check. If I sleep- I lose consciousness and control. I can't hear. I felt so vulnerable and I absolutely HATE feeling that way.</p><p>I called again, this time the jokester picked up. He talked so fast. I told him I had called and no one came out. He said- yeah they came out. Nope, no one did (oh God did I actually miss the fire dept?!). When did I call 911? I didn't- I called you. Then he asks why or something and I said: "I can't hear, I thought the person said they were on their way." </p><p>Shame flare is in full force now.</p><p>"Where do you live again?" I tell them where I'm staying, it's not my house. More talking, more words, I can't track it, what are they saying? Are they coming? They're talking so fast, I tell them I'm having trouble hearing them.</p><p>How do you feel? You've been in the house this whole time? You're probably fine.</p><p>I'm fine, I guess, but I've been sitting next to an open window. </p><p>Well- if the windows are open, the alarm won't detect anything now! </p><p>OH MY GOD, I know, I have cats here that I can't move and I didn't want to endanger them. </p><p>If you feel fine, you're probably fine, you can call 911 if you need to. </p><p>I don't even know what I said, but I said, I called YOU. I don't know if it's an emergency, I don't want to try and see if I get sick. I can't go to bed tonight with the windows all open and hoping for the best. </p><p>Phone shifts. This is the chief, when did you say they came out to your house?</p><p>I've been handed off. I'm a problem. </p><p>They didn't come out to my house, repeat repeat repeat everything I just said. </p><p>He asks more questions: how many times did it beep? Can you hear gas? </p><p>I don't know if I made this clear: I CANNOT HEAR.</p><p>Ok now, here's what we'll do, I'm just going to come over and check it out myself.</p><p>Patronizing, but I am finally getting results.</p><p>He pulls up in the fire truck, says his "young lady" comment, I don't give him the smile he was aiming for, and he walks in. He has to repeat himself four times, and I think he is finally understanding that I can't fucking hear. He looks at me when he talks, starts to treat me a little more human. He explains his gas meter, that nothing is detected, and that it's OK. He tells me what to look for and what to do if something happens.</p><p>Another man in the group is smiling, almost a snicker, and the chief smiles knowingly back. Like a cute little inside joke they all have about this young lady here.</p><p>I can't wait for them to get the fuck out of my face. Thanks so much, bye.</p><p>They leave. The door is left wide open.</p><p>Tears try to come and they stop, just short. I feel it instead throughout my body as it trembles, flares, tightens, and desires a glass of wine. </p><p>I poured myself a glass and tell the universe to shut up if it disapproves. All the windows and doors are shut, the blinds drawn, and I don't even have the satisfaction of a good sob.</p><p>I'm scared of what else I am so vulnerable to. I'm mad about that. I'm angry they made me feel silly for needing information, needing to know if I would be OK or not. They don't realize I don't have all my senses available to me. They don't realize I sleep like the dead because of my hearing loss. They don't realize that I just thought about being dead because of my hearing loss.</p><p>I feel stupid. Dumb. Vulnerable. Mad. Angry. Pissed. Helpless.</p><p>That was my shame flare.</p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-26454967537346353212021-03-08T14:48:00.001-05:002021-03-08T14:48:13.185-05:00How to Be a Better Parent: Lower Your Expectations<p>I'll start this article with a caveat like all sophisticated writers do (they don't): I am not a child psychologist. I have two children, both are healthy in mind and body as far as we know. I have no idea what it is like to parent a child that is not one of my two children. </p><p>So, obviously, I know exactly what you should do with yours.</p><p>Here's the deal: I live in Northern Virginia (NoVa for locals). If you don't live here, it's the suburban area southwest of DC in Virginia. It's home to one of the top-rated school systems in the US. Our neighbors are government officials, politicians, government workers, military officers, business owners, corporate execs, medical professionals, and I'm sure a handful of shady folks who make a lot of money unethically. </p><p>There are folks from all walks of life mixed in. It's diverse here in almost every way. The cost of living is sky high, but the demographics and household income vary greatly from town to town and block to block. But, as a monolith, NoVa is stereotyped as a wealthy, highly educated population with at least an osmotic taste for politics. In my experience, this stereotype is pretty close to accurate.</p><p>What happens when you get a bunch of rich, educated people together? </p><p>Miserable kids.</p><p>But really, the kids here are truly not OK. </p><p>My husband and I lived one town over in Fairfax at the beginning of our marriage, before moving to the Tidewater region of the state, where everyone moves about a quarter of the pace of NoVa. We visibly relaxed after the move. My husband even felt a little like he was being lazy because he was so used to the breakneck speed of NoVa life. I told him NoVa speed wasn't a forward motion, but a spinning vortex.</p><p>After four years in a beach community, we got a call about a job back here in NoVa. It was a good opportunity and we'd be stupid not to take it. But both of us had the same thought: we have to protect the kids!</p><p>We wanted to protect them from the poison of perfectionism, performance-driven everything, and the insanely high expectations that the culture of this area has put on the children. This is the land that grooms astronauts, olympic gymnasts, doctors, and lawyers. Success happens. A lot. Mostly because the kids have no other choice. I mean, maybe they wanted to be those things. Here in NoVa, if you want to help a kid excel at something, there is a program or tutor or arena there for you. This is seen as a good thing by most people: opportunity breeds success! </p><p>Yes, but at what cost?</p><p>I'm gently hugging the border of hyperbole in my descriptions here, but you have to understand that it is not a big stretch from reality to exaggeration. I know that we are not the only community that has this culture. In fact, it has become sort of a suburban nightmare across the US. I don't know if it's because my generation was told "you can do anything!" and has discovered that they didn't do everything, so now it's our kid's turn to try? I'm sure there are actual sociological and psychological studies out there about this. </p><p>But I'm just a parent of my two kids, and I think I'm doing a good job, so I'll share my experience and see if it resonates.</p><p>They way my husband and I have endeavored to combat the insanely high expectations of the community on children... is to have really low expectations for our children. For clarity, I don't mean I have expectations that my kids will "perform low" (whatever that means), I have less actual expectations. There's a key in that subtle difference.</p><p>My children are very smart. One of them is in honors classes, but we didn't put him in the extra-honors math class (yes, this is a thing), mostly because he didn't want to. And also we didn't want to. I hate math, and I don't want to learn it all over again to help teach my 12 year old something that he has never expressed an actual interest in. He can do it, but should he? We decided no. This is what I mean about less expectations. Do I expect that the kid *could* succeed and do the math? Of course! I know he can. Do I expect the kid to be a math superstar? No, because why? I have placed no expectation on how "high" he should go with math, or how hard he should push himself, because I don't have any expectation that he rival Einstein in mathematical success. Here's the thing: if he was a math genius, he likely would have chosen that class (or not). Actually, if he were a math genius, he probably would have found a way to be successful with or without it. </p><p>This "lower expectations" method is slightly frowned upon in these parts. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of parents like myself who also make these choices to skip out on higher level "opportunities," but I have a nagging feeling it is so their child can fully participate in all their other extra-curricular activities, or focus on their "thing." </p><p>This is a tangent for further discussion, but why do we force children to specialize their interests at such a young age? Why can't they literally play around with all the different stuff and never choose any of it? Isn't that the point of childhood: playful practice? Yet so many of us feel like our kid must pick a thing (or four) and stick to it to show their commitment and responsibility. But really, why? Does a 9 year old really need to learn how to show the kind of commitment on par with a sacred vow? Why do we want kids to "stick with it" so badly? Do we feel guilty that we didn't play tennis longer, or stay on the swim team? I bet you do actually feel guilty about that, I do a little bit. But guess what, maybe you were not meant to be a tennis player or professional swimmer. In fact, maybe your quitting saved you from having 5 shoulder surgeries like one of my friends who grew up here in NoVa and "specialized." Also, I'm sorry those lessons cost you money, but if you expected every investment to have a life-long return, you should probably stop investing so much money into a child's play. Let them play without making it about giving you your money's worth. Let them play without projecting your own regrets on to them.</p><p>Part of what makes these lower expectations feel so wrong to many parents, is that we feel like we're lowering our expectations on ourselves as parents. If we don't sign them up for all the things, we're the lazy ones. I bought into this for a while. I can't even tell you what the magic turning point was for me, other than my kids continually didn't want to do all the things and I continually didn't feel like fighting it. I was forced to relax about it, and when we were all happier, I found the freedom in it. I decided that it was not only OK to lower the expectations, it was GOOD.</p><p>You know how many extra-curricular activities my children have? None. I mean, none that are constant. They've both taken classes with the local rec center, they've both done nature camps in the summer, they've both attended church and some of the programs associated with that. My youngest likes basketball, and as long as he keeps liking it, he'll ask to sign up for the next session. He mentioned last year he might want to try soccer. OK. My oldest doesn't like sports. Fine. Don't do them. He takes walks daily and seems physically fit.</p><p>When the pandemic hit and children and parents alike were devastated by their sudden absence of extra-curricular activities, my kids were like: cool, more time at home. This isn't a judgment, I remember wondering if I was a bad parent since my kids didn't really have much to miss. I was second-guessing my "lower expectations" motto. Was I depriving them of a well-rounded life? Should I have pushed them to commit to more activities or at least choose one to hone in on? Should I have pushed them to at least try more stuff?</p><p>I've decided, no. </p><p>(I'd like to note how weirdly twisted it is that my kids' happiness in the face of difficulty was a moment for me to wonder if I'd done something wrong as a parent.)</p><p>I have once again decided that I'm a great parent to my kids. That is not specifically because of my choices (or lack of activities for my kid). I mean, that's how I roll, but more importantly, it's how my kids roll. Their resilience and how they have risen to the challenges this past year reminds me that I haven't been "spoiling" them or keeping them from cultivating commitment and perseverance. They have persevered better than my husband and I!</p><p>I think I'm a great parent *to my kids* because my kids are enjoying their childhood as far as I can tell. I know that other parents make different choices based on their kid's needs. By all means, get that kid in all the baseball games, let your dancer dance in all the classes. Maybe their kid is the kind that needs a lot of social interaction or physical exertion, great, as long as the play fits the kid, I think we're in good shape.</p><p>Being a good parent is less about setting expectations, and more about believing and trusting our children to be... well.... our children. We don't need to micromanage their childhood.</p><p>My oldest really likes Marine Biology. A lot of his books are around that theme, some of our family outings are geared towards that, we invest in memberships to aquariums and that sort. He still likes Marine Biology, and we still give him opportunities to learn more and see more. </p><p>But there's no pressure about where that will lead. </p><p>I mean, I did tell him if he ever owned an aquarium, I want an apartment with a wall of fish or Belugas or something. He agreed to this arrangement. I am supportive, but I'm not whispering in his ear everyday "One day you will discover the key to the next revolution in Marine Biology!" No, what I say during the documentaries that we watch is, "that looks fun, maybe that's a job you might like in Marine Biology." But if he says "nah, I don't want to do that," I say "OK." Let him lead his life.</p><p>Same with my youngest. His current career goals are to partner with his brother at their future aquarium, be a professional basketball player, or a pastor like his Dad. I have said "cool- those all sound interesting!" I secretly do not want him to become a pastor because it is a ridiculously challenging job. But if he wants to, I won't stand in his way. I suppose I'd have to answer to God if I did. </p><p>My guiding principle right now in parenting my kids is allowing them to follow their curiosity. I try very hard to keep my expectations of how long they stay curious about things to myself. I stay low budget on how much I assist their curiosity (I've been known to splurge from time to time, probably because I'm curious as well). If they're curious, they'll explore and engage. If not, they can follow their nose to another thing. My kids don't need to decide their career path right now, they don't even need to decide their hobbies. Nothing they experience or learn will be a waste.</p><p>My hope is that they learn that there are some things that hold their curiosity, and that it's fun to delve deeper into something like that. I hope that they learn that the world is full of amazing things to be curious about. I hope that they learn that you can do what you love as a hobby, a job, or a calling. But it doesn't necessarily need to be all three of those. </p><p>Maybe my oldest decides he likes a job that isn't based on his curiosity, but more his skill set. Maybe he will be an accountant. Then he can go on exotic trips all over the world to see and experience different marine life. That would be OK. (My uncle teaches computer science and his hobby is underwater photography, it's doable!) Or maybe my son does want to be a scientist and discover new things, also great. Honestly, maybe he decides marine biology is just something he knows a lot about and he finds a new curious path. Also fine. </p><p>I wonder how much of my vocational discernment might have been made easier if I didn't put so much pressure on it to be EVERYTHING: calling, career, passion. Or to be the BEST at the thing. </p><p>I don't know, but I do know that this last year when all the extra stuff was stripped away, my kids adjusted pretty well. Not because they are better or I am better, but maybe it was because their identity and lives are not defined by what they do, and more by who they are. They are still two boys, playing video games, going for walks, doing chores, sword fighting with large sticks, creating paper crafts, reading books, complaining about longer walks, whining when we drive so that their parents can get a change of scenery. They feel like real kids who aren't worried about falling behind in something. They feel like, well, my children.</p><p>So, for what it's worth, I wonder if being a crappy parent like I thought I was, might actually be a good thing. Invest less. Do less. Expect less. Then they can grow and flourish without the weight of our expectations.</p><p>In a way, this "lower expectations" method is simply a way of trusting our children to be themselves. If we trust them, they will have the confidence to become who they want to be, and that is more than good enough. </p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-21469216628477158662021-03-02T11:59:00.001-05:002021-03-02T13:40:58.675-05:00Body Grief, Part 2: Spinal Cord Injury<p>When I was born, I was born with a narrow spinal canal, which I wouldn't know about until middle school when something happened that bruised my spinal cord. My fingers itch to tell you that it's not a big deal. I'm totally fine and it could have been so much worse. I could have been paralyzed or something. It's a non-thing. </p><p>But, my grief has something to say about it. She's actually got a lot to say.</p>I was born with a narrow spinal canal. Because of that, I bruised my spinal cord at the age of 13 by dancing hard or maybe it was when I fell that one time. I'm not sure, but it happened when most kids are working on perfecting daring jumps and pool dives. Instead of talking about puberty and figuring out what it means to be a woman, I was in and out of doctor's offices for two years to have them tell me that my numb fingers and tingling body was maybe growing pains, or in my head. Maybe it was Lyme's disease. Maybe it was something wrong with my brain. Let's take another MRI of your brain to be sure... I would stump the doctors who repeatedly said that they never saw anything like this in someone as young as me. When they finally took an MRI of my neck, they realized that I was suffering from a spinal cord injury.<div><br /></div><div>"Someone your age shouldn't...." is not a phrase you want to hear.<div><br /></div><div>In the pivotal moment of learning about my body and its changes, I learned that I couldn't trust my body and that changes were bad. I learned that my youth had not saved me. I learned not about my mortality, but about my frailty, at 13 years old. Weirdly, that seemed worse.</div><div><br /></div><div>I learned at 15, before my first surgery (after they finally figured out what was wrong with me), that I was a "walking time bomb" and that if I had so much as a whiplash, I could easily be paralyzed from the neck down. After that information was shared, they scheduled my surgery for a few weeks later.</div><div><br /></div><div>What was wrong with me? I was born with a narrow spinal canal (congenital spinal stenosis), and had bruised my spinal cord, which I only recently made the realization is categorized as a "spinal cord injury." The doctors always talked about my spinal cord as being bruised, but I think that was their way of making it feel less scary to me. Note to self (and any of you): call the condition what it is, because it helps in the future. It is a spinal cord injury to my C4-5 area, and my symptoms are consistent with that term.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first spinal surgery was a brutal one. Military surgeons are not the best of the best, and that actually does make a difference when you're getting spinal surgery.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember going in to the pre-op room, along with others in their hospital beds, we were lined up and waiting our turn with the anesthesiologist. As a 15 year old, I had never broken a bone or been to the ER; hospitals and surgeries were new to me. I was worried, how could I be sure that I wouldn't feel anything? The man next to me was waiting his turn to go in for knee surgery. He was a giant man, with a hearty smile and comforting words for me. I don't remember what he said, but I do remember watching him fall quickly and deeply to sleep within seconds of the anesthesiologist walking to his side. I thought, well, if they can put that guy out that quickly, I should be good. And I don't remember anything after that until I woke up post-surgery. <br /><br />The surgeon did a laminectomy of C3-C6, which means the back of my neck was rendered boneless for three notches, my long neck like a stack of horse-shoes, with no other support but my neck muscles (which had all been cut through).</div><div><br />After my first surgery, I was homeschooled during recovery with the help of a public school aid who visited once every week or two. I did work from my couch, although I don't remember it being that much. I remember that I failed a test that was given right before my surgery, which alerted me to how nervous I was (I was a very good student). My "homebound" teacher told me not to worry about it, and the test disappeared off my record.</div><div><br /></div><div>I came up with clever ways to maintain some independence. I used a compact mirror to see around me since I couldn't turn my head. I had a whole station at my side of all that I needed: the remote, a drink with a straw, my mirror, and some books. My Mom was always there if I needed anything. My older sister was a little annoyed that I wasn't required to help clean up. She had no understanding of what spinal surgery entailed or what the recovery was like. All she knew was that I was lying on my butt, asking for things and getting them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember the day my mother helped me take my first post-surgical bath. We took my soft neck brace off to clean my imprisoned neck, and when my mother wet my hair to help me wash it, the mere weight of my hair pushing down on my neck caused me to cry in pain. We had no idea hair weighed so much, or that my neck was so weak.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was no physical therapy. No follow up, except the surgeon (who was kind) who told me he could see my spinal cord breathe when he removed the bones from the back of my tight spinal column. The surgery was not a corrective surgery, the spinal cord damage had already been done. This surgery was to prevent future injury or risk of paralysis. The surgeon mentioned in passing that I might get a thing called "swan's neck" when I was old and grey. I, with my "I'm fine" attitude, said "who cares if my neck bends when I'm 80; I won't care what I look like."</div><div><br /></div><div>No one corrected my understanding of what "swan's neck" was.</div><div><br /></div><div>When describing my symptoms, which usually followed a curious friend's question about my scar on the back of my neck (very Frankenstein-esque), I would try to tell my story as succinctly as possible. There was no elevator pitch story about my neck, and I grew tired of telling it and trying to make sense and be accurate. I used to tell people my symptoms were like wearing a thin glove over my hands at all times. I stopped telling people about any of it because it was so hard to explain, and took too long. I could tell people lost interest pretty quickly, and I was basically over it myself.</div><div><br /></div>Besides, it wasn't a big deal. It was in the past.</div><div><br /><div>Five years later, I was 20 and in college. I'd fully recovered from surgery, but the numbness from my bruised spinal cord had become my new normal. I couldn't put earrings on unless I could see them clearly in the mirror because my fingers couldn't feel the tiny backings. It was a lot of work, so I decided that I would only wear the earrings that hook on. Eventually I gave up even on that and decided not to wear earrings at all. My ear piercings have closed up. Any jewelry with tiny clasps are out. Playing the guitar is not a real possibility. Anything that requires dexterity is off the books for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>By 20 years old, I had given up tiny things, lots of little tiny things.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, I started to feel even more numb, my pinky fingers became like extra appendages that I had no control over. I was more tingly. My typing was slower, because my hands weren't responding as well, they were more clumsy. I struggled to tie my shoes because my hands just wouldn't work efficiently. I struggled to walk with my normal stride because something wasn't quite right. My brain felt like it was not in clear communication with my body and it was weird and frightening. But I ignored it. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sister, who was with me at the same college and saw me struggle, ratted me out to our mother. I said that it was nothing. It was so subtle and slow that I couldn't even tell you what was different. I'd completely forgotten what normal felt like. I knew it was getting worse, but I was afraid of what that meant.</div><div><br /></div><div>With the new symptoms, my surgery wasn't in the past anymore.<br /><br />I found myself in the office of yet another neurosurgeon. It was in this office that I started to understand just how bad my first surgery was, and just how complex my problems really were. Every 20 year old wants to hear: "Wow, you're young to have this problem. Your last surgery was a hack job. You need another surgery." I thought, "this is a bigger deal than I thought it was." I hoped that whatever this surgeon did would officially close the chapter on my neck problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>This happened the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college, when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, what dreams I wanted to follow. With my whole life ahead of me, I got this reminder: You are not strong and young, you are fragile. You thought that surgery was a one-and-done, but you were wrong. You can't hide from your body, it will fight you and fail you again and again. You are not like the rest of your friends. You were already different, and now you're even more different. </div><div><br /></div><div>You are fragile, so so fragile. </div><div><br /></div><div>This surgeon was one of those fancy south Florida surgeons that makes the medical journals. The surgeon got to do something new and fancy, just for me: a medical anomaly. With my hearing, I had my sister to commiserate with. With this, I don't even know where I would look for someone with. common experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember medical residents coming in to see the doctor demonstrate my over-active reflexes. I was a teaching moment, a fun weird thing for them to see. I gave permission, but I wondered why my reflexes di that. No one ever told me.<br /><br />I had my second spinal surgery fairly soon after my appointment with the fancy surgeon. The reason I needed the surgery, the reason my symptoms were increasing, was because my neck was bending; that swan's neck thing was happening way before I was 80. The missing bones in my neck were the culprit. My neck muscles couldn't do all the work of holding my head up without the literal "back bones" of my cervical spine. So slowly my neck had been slouching, bending, sighing down under the weight of my head (I promise my head is a normal size). My spinal cord was squished against bones that were straining to hold my neck straight like a superhero under a giant rock, saving my spinal cord from doom. The bones needed help. </div><div><br /></div><div>For folks who need a visual, put your hand out, palm up and flat. Imagine a pencil (or get one) lying straight on that hand: eraser at your middle finger, lead tip at your wrist. Now start to curl your hand up, like a cup or how you'd hold a little trinket in your hand. Imagine that pencil isn't supposed to move (and also doesn't). The parts of your hand that curve are pushing on to the pencil, especially at the top and bottom. Your hand is my neck (lying down) and the pencil is my spinal cord (getting squished).</div><div><br /></div><div>What I needed was a little straightening out and extra support. The surgeon went in through the front of my neck this time, which would significantly decrease the post-surgical pain, compared to what I had experienced from the last surgery which cut through all the muscles in the back of my neck. This new surgeon straighten my neck by fusing the existing bones to a straight cadaver bone (no idea where it came from) with fancy flexible screws he invented, straightening out my C-3-C-6. My cervical horseshoes were now welded together in a straight stack.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember in the recovery room right after my surgery, I was given a phone. They told me it was my Dad, so I said "Hi, Dad!" I heard my Dad say "Hi" back, but his voice was squeaky and strained. I'm not sure I have ever seen my Dad cry, but I have heard emotion in his voice, and this was the first time I heard it so clearly. It hit me then that perhaps I should have been more worried going in to this thing. If my Dad had been scared, it was a big deal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I treated my surgeries as "this thing to get over." I didn't really process what I was feeling, I worked hard not to feel anything, to skip to the end, to recovery.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first day in the hospital I was visited by both the occupational and physical therapists. I was severely nauseated by the mixture of powerful pain medication and limited food. It was a vicious cycle, not feeling like eating because I was nauseous, and being nauseous because I hadn't eaten. When the OT came in and wheeled me to their therapy room while I had a wet rag to my head, I may or may not have told them their vocation was a huge waste of time. They wanted me to use tweezers to pick up beads and put them in a cup. I told them I couldn't do this task before the surgery and had no interest in spending time doing it now. Then I threw up, so they took me back to my room. The PT was a little more helpful, she taught me how to get out of bed without putting too much strain on my neck, a method I still use out of habit today. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also received a phone call to my hospital room from the insurance department telling me my surgery had been refused coverage by my insurance company. Luckily I was still under my parent's insurance and did not have to bear the burden of that news, only the confusion and frustration of them calling me mere hours post-surgery to tell me that. (Long story short, the insurance did cover it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I was discharged and rode in the back of my Mom's minivan home for the two hour drive from Miami to my parent's home in south Florida. I laid flat in the middle seat, with my Mom supporting my head and my older sister driving. Every bump was agony. I tried to put on a brave face. I realized how traumatizing that must have been for my sister, so I texted her and she has no memory of it! So funny.</div><div><br />I wore a hard neck brace this time, with strict instructions to keep it on and not move my neck. The bone needed to fuse over time, basically like a slow welding inside my neck. My mother and I had learned our lesson and this time took hair-washing much slower. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did make the rookie mistake of taking it off while lying outside in the sun, airing my neck out and trying to catch a tan. I now have a nice reddish scar on the front of my neck that glows a little if I've had too much to drink. </div><div><br /></div><div>My neck brace stayed on the duration of the summer. At one point I was healed enough to travel and visited my grandparents for what was the last time I would see my Grandfather (Opa) alive. He had Alzheimers, but he remembered us. and did not seem thrown off by the fact that I had a neck brace on. One afternoon we sat on a bench waiting for my parents to pick us up, two invalids. It was a sweet, sweet moment with just the two of us. We sat there on this mild summer day, watching the trees swaying in the wind, as the birds chirped and the sun shone down on us, and Opa gestured towards all of it, saying "I'm so lucky to be here, isn't it so beautiful?" I'm so grateful for that moment, even with the neck brace. It's my last memory of Opa.</div><div><br /></div><div>My recovery was much easier after this surgery, but it was still a long haul. When it was time to go back to college, I was hesitant, feeling like I had only just healed. My sorority at the time was hesitant to give me a pass on "Rush" week. I barely participated and felt guilty like I was using my neck surgery as an excuse not to do anything (even though I hated Rush in the first place). Looking back - what the actual hell was I thinking? Of course I shouldn't have done any of that! I had just had SPINAL surgery! </div><div><br />After each surgery I felt fragile, like I would never be whole again. And yes, I did heal, but I think I fooled myself when I said I was 100% back to normal. No I wasn't. I had missing bones, a fused spinal column, screws in my neck that I was terrified would set off the airport security checks. (They didn't.) And my muscles were still tired. My hands were still numb, even more so than before, the damage again was done, and the surgery was again preventative, not corrective.<br /><br />I told that surgeon: "Thank you, and I never want to see the likes of you again." The surgeon seemed confident I was never to return. Which was true, I would never return to him again because life goes on and you find a new neurosurgeon in your current town the next time something happens. Which apparently, there is always a next time once you start messing with the spinal column. </div><div><br /></div><div>No one told me that.<br /><br />Fast forward over ten years, I'm a wife and a mother with a master's degree. </div><div><br /></div><div>I woke up in the middle of the night with excruciating pain in my right arm. No warning, just shooting pain. I couldn't adjust anything, crack anything, take anything to make the pain go away. At first I thought: wow, this is the next level of sleeping on your neck wrong. Then I started to realize: shit, no, this is something more dangerous. My right hand had become significantly less functional. This was my neck doing its thing again. I had allowed time and my two healthy pregnancies temporarily blind me to the frailty of my body. <div><br /></div><div>Off to the neurosurgeon I went. This time on my own insurance, with two children, and a husband who had never seen a person close to him go through major surgery. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was smart, got two opinions. Neither of them suggested anything other than surgery. The only difference was the type of surgery. This time was different. This time I had pain. Apparently I was "lucky" that hadn't happened before. I had a disc at the bottom of my neck pressing on my spinal cord, popped out by the pressure of holding up my head without any help from the discs that had disappeared so many years ago. Once I settled on the surgeon, he said, we need to move quickly, you may lose the use of your right hand if you go too long. So on a Monday, I scheduled my spinal surgery for that Friday. </div><div><br /></div><div>A discectomy with a fusion of C6-7 going through the front again. Two scars, almost perfectly lined up on the front of my neck. </div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I got to the hospital that Friday morning and said "I'm here to get cut up." The receptionist was notably shocked and said she'd never had anyone say that to her. I felt like saying, well you've never had me, so here I am with my morbid humor, trying to make my way through my third spinal surgery. Also, really, no one had said that? </div><div><br /></div><div>My Mom was there, as she had been for every surgery, it would be a strange bond we would have. This time she was there more as a support to my husband, and to be with the kids. I went in for surgery. I didn't allow myself time to think about things or feel things. I was focused on the pain and the hope that the surgery would relieve it.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I woke up, I saw my husband, Jason, and my Mom walk into my hospital room with looks of anticipation, and concern? I said "Hi!" And they both laughed and smiled and visibly relaxed. Apparently, while I was in the recovery room, the surgeon had told them I wasn't talking yet, and he noted that he had to really move things around in my neck, so there was a slight chance my voice would be different, or maybe perhaps, gone. You know, small side effect. My speaking was a relief to them. I had no idea that was even a risk I had taken. Of course, the other risks like paralysis were more prominent on the list of mentionables.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had been told earlier that I may have to wear the kind of neck brace with screws in my head. I was.... not looking forward to this possibility. I didn't end up having to do that, although the surgeon never really indicated why. He did say my bones were like butter, and not in a good way. Everything was very fragile in there. But as all neurosurgeons say when they're finished: "I fixed it and you're good to go!" </div><div><br /></div><div>The nerve pain did not go away immediately. The surgeon said it may take some time, but it "should" go away. I had spent a few weeks incapacitated by the pain, and now in recovery, I was still in pain with some extra incisions. I was terrified that this could be my new normal, and that the relief would never come.</div><div><br /></div><div>One morning, about a week after surgery, I woke up, and the shooting pain was gone. I was afraid to even sit up, because I was afraid it would break the spell. I knew that the morning was a good time to judge if the pain had gone because usually the pain relievers had started to wear off by this point. I sat up, and the magic remained. No nerve pain. I started crying, calling my mom and my husband in to tell them the good news. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next time I cried, it was after my sweet boys had danced around me, but very careful not to touch mommy, because if they jumped on me or tried to hug me in their usual rough way, my fusion might be jeopardized. So they were trained to be gentle with me. I cried because I missed them. They were there, but at arms length. They had to be so careful, we had to be so careful, that I felt like I had some invisible bubble around me. I was so tired of being fragile. SO tired of it. I didn't get to fully participate in the life right in front of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>In due time, I healed, and my surgery became another memory I would tuck away and put behind me. I asked this surgeon: "I should be done now, right?" He said I should, and that it wasn't common for the discs below the sternum (past the cervical spine) to buckle under pressure. Essentially, now that my entire neck was essentially fused, there wasn't anything left to pop out. The next set of discs were supported by a larger system than just neck muscles.</div><div><br /></div><div>About a year or two later, after working full time as a hospice chaplain, my hands started doing something weird. If I leaned to one side and put weight on my elbow, they would go numb or twitch. I went back to my neurosurgeon who told me the medical equivalent of "stop doing that." He said I basically had a wonky nerve now, it had been messed with to the point where now all the signals were a little crossed and electrified. Any slight pressure on the nerve would be translated exponentially into some sensation, be it numbness, twitchiness, or pain. He said if the wonkiness turned to pain, there are procedures that could be done to remove the nerve from the elbow where it was getting tight. I was like, seriously, I'll just "stop doing that." I still have to be mindful of the positions of my hands and arms, I even have to switch my hands often while driving, because I mindlessly rest my elbows on the door or armrest, making my hands weird.</div><div><br /></div><div>I definitely can't lie sideways like the French girls, I'll get numb hands. Super sexy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I moved to a new town, and so far I have not had to have any new surgeries. *knock on wood* However I have had a few MRIs, where they found a herniated disk in my lumbar (lower back) that gives me mild pain on good days, and the week of Thanksgiving when I was hosting my family: major pain. Fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>Strangely enough, the first time I really came to grips with all that I have lost to this narrow spinal canal, was when I was painting our family room a few years ago. I am cheap and stubborn. So when I wanted to change the color of my family room, I decided I could do it all by myself, thankyouverymuch. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I did, but what would take a normal person a day or two at most, took me a week. I was so angry at myself. I got so tired so quickly. I couldn't keep my head up long enough to paint the top trim. Like, I literally couldn't hold my head up. I had to hold the back of my head with one hand while painting with the other, and then switch when my hand got tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, and only then, did I stop and think about why that might be the case. And why this wasn't normal.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally got down and took stock, I realized, holy shit, I've had to hold my head up with my hands for hours to look at what I'm painting because I have had three spinal surgeries. My neck can't look up for long periods of time. It just can't. My back was aching because it's jacked up. I've "thrown it out" at least three or four times and I'm not 40 yet. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's when I realized that I should not physically be painting a family room. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need you to know that I literally had not considered this. I was so in denial of my body's history that I did not understand why I had to hold my head up. I was fighting myself because I was so worried that I was just being lazy. Instead of listening to my body who was saying "STOP DOING THAT!" I just pushed forward until all I could physically do was lie exhausted on my back in the middle of a half-painted room. And I felt guilty! Lazy! Why couldn't I paint a damn room?! </div><div><br /></div><div>I think my denial was partially a result of my continued adjustment. I have become a master of adjusting. I'm so good at it that I don't even realize I'm doing it, or why. With my hearing loss, I have been over-performing physically every day of my life in order to be as close to normal as I can be. So of course the normal warning signs like exhaustion and weariness were lost on me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is what my grief has to say about that: I'm *so* tired of adjusting. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've adjusted everything to be able to hear people and engage in conversation. I have adjusted everything to be able to physically move and function without things being too difficult or cumbersome, and without needing any help. I'm constantly adjusting down, adjusting to function at increasingly lower levels. I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of needing to hold my head at the end of the day because my neck muscles are tired. This happens at the end of every day and I didn't even notice until the painting incident. I'm tired of lying flat on my back at night and feeling the pain radiate down my spine. I'm tired of knowing that I can't do certain things but still feeling lazy about it because I can't say something obvious like: I have "spine-weak-muscle-inconsistent-nerve-weirdness-ism." But that's not a thing, and my thing isn't a word I can say. So I continue to navigate whether I can do something, or whether I shouldn't, or whether I am lazy, or whether I'm wise for not trying. I still don't know those boundaries. </div><div><br /></div><div>I watch these dancers on the TV and my soul aches, my body just sighs. I will never be able to move my body like that. That makes me sad. I wish I could still do a back bend. I used to be able to do a backwards dive into the pool.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I have stopped doing all of that. And I miss it. More than I realized. </div>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-71100698039387738712021-02-15T12:31:00.001-05:002021-02-15T12:31:56.748-05:00Body GriefSometime about a year or so ago, I decided to pay closer attention to my body. Not for reasons of appearance, but more about reconnecting to my body in ways that honors and appreciates all that it has been for me. I fooled myself thinking that I could reconnect with my body by remembering only the good things, the positive things.<div><br /><div>But Grief demanded my attention. </div><div><br /></div><div>Grief said to my positive memories: Me first. I don't blame her. I've been shoving my body grief down deep within me, in hopes that it would disappear in a black hole or somehow filter out with no pain or process. That never works. Like, ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>Grief needs to be felt and heard. She needs me to see her.</div><div><br /></div><div>It hurts for me to look so I've been ignoring her all this time.<br />
<br />
When I was born, I was born into a muted world. My fingers itch to tell you that I was OK, everything was OK, there is nothing special about any of it and I can do anything I want, thankyouverymuch do not show sympathy for me because not only do I not need it, I do not deserve it. </div><div><br /></div><div>*Deep Breath*</div><div><br /></div><div>Grief is trying to say something but it's hard for her to get a word in edgewise with all my words and caveats and comparisons and I'mfines. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here is what Grief says if I give her a chance to speak...<br />
<br />
I was born into a muted world. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I will never hear music like most of you do. If I could hear, I think I may have been a composer. I love hearing a violin sing above the orchestra, a small stringed instrument with the power to soar above the crowd. If I could hear, I might have been a singer/songwriter playing the guitar and trying her best to put the world's emotions to music. I may have had an outlet for my own emotions, one that was as easy as humming a perfectly placed tune. What would it be like to open my mouth and have music come out?</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could sing in church with my full voice instead of lip-synching. I can't remember when it was that I first understood that "make a joyful noise" was actually not suitable for worship. No, sorry, you are distracting with your imperfections. So I made myself quiet. To this day I do not sing out loud in church. Those who were so sad when the coronavirus took away their ability to sing in church, well, it kind of made me sad in a mad way, or mad in a sad way. I haven't been singing for years.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could catch all the little witty sayings in the movies, and laugh at the same time as everyone else without feeling like I was annoying someone by asking them what was so funny. "What did I miss?" Those who love me tell me, the rest will say something like "never-mind, it's no big deal." But they don't know that half my life was never-minded, and I was deemed unworthy of deciding for myself if something was a "big deal" or not. I still have the experience of watching an old movie from childhood "for the first time" because they have captions now. I keep learning how much I missed the first time around.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could discern the music playing at the restaurant and enjoy it like you do. I could burst out with the song lyrics that you know, just from hearing it on the radio. I wouldn't have had to memorize the lyric sheets from old tapes and CDs. I might know more than just the chorus of famous songs. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could understand your whispers. I would be included in every aspect of life that includes whispering, most of them funny, many intimate. I can't hear or understand whispers, so I either throw the game of telephone into hilarity, or I just simply miss the moment. So many missed moments.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, maybe I would have been cooler as a kid, maybe I would have understood more jokes and hidden meanings muttered under our breaths. Maybe I could have been in on whatever scheme or inside joke was running around. Maybe I would have caught all the innuendo or pop-culture references. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I would hear my children wake at night, and instead of going to their Dad, they would come to me. If I could hear, would they feel more connected to me? Would they feel like they could depend on me more? </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could get a good nights sleep when I am alone, without worrying about whether something bad would happen the moment I took my hearing aids out, that I would miss a child crying, a door creaking, an alarm going off, a dog whining. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I could save money to go on more trips instead of buying hearing aids. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear I wouldn't know what it was like to sit at a table and not be able to join the conversation because it was too hard to focus on reading lips that long, or across that many faces. I wouldn't have to choose only one conversation to focus on and hope it held my attention or that I would be included for the totality of it. If I could hear, I wouldn't have to work so hard at the easy things like having a conversation. Maybe being around people, ones I care about, wouldn't exhaust me.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, maybe I would feel more easily connected to new people. Maybe I wouldn't be so isolated. Maybe I would feel like less of an outsider, in every group, every space. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I wouldn't have worried as a teenager about a boy kissing me and then being horrified that my hearing aids would squeal with feedback if he touches my ear. Maybe that's why I didn't have my first kiss until college. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, maybe I wouldn't have been so awkward and anxious at pool parties and going to the beach with friends, when I had to make sure no one got my hearing aids wet, because even my best friend would forget and playfully push me in the pool with my hearing aids in. If I could hear, maybe when I take my kids to the neighborhood pool I could actually talk to other parents AND play with my kids, instead of having to choose between the two because I can't get my hearing aids wet. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, maybe I wouldn't be so angry when people shushed me, because I wouldn't have spent an unbelievable amount of energy listening to what *they* had to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, I wouldn't be paranoid about remembering to bring batteries with me everywhere in case a battery went out and I suddenly can't hear out of one ear, our God forbid both (it happens more often than I care to admit).<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If I could hear, perhaps waiting rooms, airports, public transit, and other places where it is important to hear announcements, even your name, wouldn't be so tiring and taxing. I wouldn't have to be the equivalent of a night guard, always awake, always alert. Maybe this is why I sleep so heavily at night, because once I don't have to work so hard at hearing, I can finally fully relax.</div><div><br /></div><div>I honestly don't know what would be different about myself or my life if I could hear. I'm not really trying to figure that out definitively, mostly because it's impossible to do that. I want to give myself space to recognize what was, and what is. I didn't allow myself to grieve whatever losses I had, because I was so busy trying to change it, or ignore it. Or minimizing it by saying itsfineitsOKitsnotabigdeal. (I'm trying very hard not to do this now.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to relax into what is, and the best way I know how to do that is to grieve what isn't, and then move forward. </div><div><br /></div><div>I grieve that things weren't easy, and by doing that simple act, I'm giving myself permission to name that things weren't easy. Just because I am finethankyouverymuch, doesn't mean that it wasn't hard, or that it isn't still challenging. Giving myself permission to see that is a revelation in itself. It allows me to accept help, without shame even! </div><div><br /></div><div>Naming the challenges hopefully will allow me to appreciate myself, my supports, and give myself grace and care when I need it. Hopefully I will be more realistic about my capabilities, my needs, and the limits of my energy. Weirdly, by acknowledging my limitations, I will free myself to be at ease with who I am. I won't be actively trying to mask my limitations, to go into overdrive to prove I can do something I shouldn't. Freeing indeed!</div><div><br /></div><div>I grieve the hearing I never had. I think somewhere deep down inside I thought that I could somehow adjust, compensate, focus hard enough to make up for the loss. I can't do that. The loss will always remain, no matter how hard I work. I need to stop expecting myself to be "normal" and allow myself to be me. This is actually kind of revolutionary for me, and I still struggle to do that.</div><div><br /></div><div>I Grieve, therefore I can be. I wonder what unprocessed grief you have that keeps you from being. I won't tell you it's easy to let your grief speak, but it is good.</div></div>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-30763909177404943862021-02-13T11:52:00.001-05:002021-02-17T11:00:40.855-05:00Rest is not Scarce<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I have been following Tricia Hersey’s Instagram Account “The Nap Ministry” (Follow on Instagram here: @thenapministry; and visit her website here: https://thenapministry.wordpress.com). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Hersey has proclaimed herself the Nap Bishop, and for the new year I have resolved to learn everything I can from her. Her message is not specifically for me, though. At least not directly. Her message is for the Black community who need to hear her central message: that rest is owed to them as reparations, and that they must take it. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is not a trite message, although it sounds simple. It is far from simple. Hersey has reached her current prophetic message through in-depth study, and by acknowledging her community’s inherited trauma of the Black body exploited for free labor. The intrinsic worth of the Black body has been for generations equaled to their productivity. Hersey posits that if every Black person refused to produce for the rest of their lives, it would only begin to heal their community and pay the debt our country owes them. That's how long and how wide the collective need for rest is in that community.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As a white person, I'm struggling to answer the question of what I can do to both enable (and empower) rest for the Black community, and also embody rest myself. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Hersey is not saying that only Black people need rest, she's saying they are OWED rest. Rest has been stolen from generations of Black people. Her message is that white people, all people need to rest too, for the sake of rest itself, but more importantly, because rest is resistance to the capitalistic system that disproportionately burdens people of color.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">All people need rest. We as white people are terrified to make room for more rest within our own communities, because deep down inside we know that the systems of capitalism and white supremacy favors our rest over others. Our rest is needed, and the systems in place are favorable for us to get it. We fear that if we make space for everyone to have rest, we'll lose our own.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Our fear and selfishness puts the security of our rest above the availability of rest for others. If you suss it all out: we've decided white supremacy is OK and necessary as long as it keeps our access to rest in quick supply. That's pretty crappy. It's also based on lies.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We all fear that rest is scarce. Short version: it isn't.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For Black people, the supply of rest has been limited either in reality (forced labor), or in manipulation (double standards). Black people have said they have to work twice as hard to get half as far. For Black people, rest might feel like giving up the fight. The system we have now, forces Black people to "hustle" just to get by. If they don't work harder than everyone else, the fear is not that they won't make it to the top, it's that they won't make it at all. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This system is unjust. That's why Tricia Hersey says a big, fat NOPE to that. She's gonna bypass the system. She's challenging the established rules.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">White people have secured access points to rest over a very long time. The way our economy works today protects that access. We work to uphold the systems that have supported our successes: capitalism, and what Hersey calls the "grind culture." We keep functioning within these systems because they are the only way we know how to get the "luxury" of rest and leisure. It's worked for us so far, right? </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If we work hard enough, we make enough money to take a vacation. If we work hard and long enough, we get to retire someday. If we work hard enough, we make enough money to hire other people to do the work that exhausts us. We can have a house cleaner, eat out, get the car detailed, the lawn maintained. We'll save time from all our hard work for rest. Work begets rest. It's worked for us for years, hasn't it? </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span>Ah, but it hasn't. The irony is that this doesn't seem to pan out for everyone, does it? In fact, more so than ever, it seems our system is working less and less, even for the people it was built to support: white people. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">We're still busy; ceaselessly </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">working toward the next goal. We kick </span><span style="font-family: arial;">the finish line </span><span style="font-family: arial;">down the street by our own unsatisfied determination and desires. We wonder when we will "arrive" and the answer is never, because our goal is no longer rest. Our goal has become power, money, and prestige. These goals are mirages that shift as quickly as the slant of the sun on a desert road. This is the grind culture. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One of the things I have learned with Hersey's message, is that work does not beget rest; rest begets rest. When we rest, we give space for more rest, for others to rest. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It feels counter-intuitive, but think about it. When I decide that my work email does not need to be answered 24-7, I am setting a boundary that allows my colleagues to not feel like they need to answer <i>my</i> emails ASAP. By setting my own boundary, I am giving space and permission for other boundaries to be set. By de-escalating a situation from "urgent" to "normal," I am setting the tone for how (and how fast) we do things. We have been steadily inflating our speed to match each other in a weird time-speed race. Why are we rushing? Why are we trying to become machinery? Isn't life so much more than that? If we start to scale back, re-set the time-warp speed at which we expect things to be done, we will find rest and we will foster rest in our community.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Our community needs rest. We're in the middle of a pandemic, both physical and mental. Everywhere you look, you hear lonely and exhausted people, with very shallow wells of rest and reprieve to draw from. We blame it on the pandemic, but the truth is, the pandemic only revealed how shallow our wells were to begin with. The pandemic also revealed how heavily we relied on the productivity and grinding of the lowest paid, hardest working people of our society, a category of workers who are disproportionately Black and Brown people. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A while ago, before the pandemic, I remember reading a post on social media by an exhausted local mother and thinking, I remember when I was that exhausted with young children, why aren't we helping each other more? The answer was and still is that we are all so caught up in the grind-culture that we can only maintain our own existence, our own rest. We feel like we have none to spare. Some people are lucky enough to have a functional village or family nearby for support. But most Americans today live isolated in a sea of people, hoarding their resources because they know they are close to exhaustion.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In order for rest to be realized at the communal level, we must resist the antithesis of rest: the grind culture. This grind culture is the "time-race" I'm talking about above, where everything has to be better, faster, more efficient to the point where we expect machine-like quality and efficiency without stopping to ask if it is even necessary (it isn't). </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Tricia Hersey states that at the base of this grind-culture, and what fuels the ugliness of capitalism, is white supremacy. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The grind culture demands that everyone do and produce so that we may uphold some invisible standard (possession of power, privilege, and prestige). The grind culture inevitably forces that invisible standard to ceaselessly rocket higher and higher out of reach. Someone will always reach the goal, and therefore the goal must escalate, because someone else wants it. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Most of the time, the person at the top is white, and not because they are awesome.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The whole idea built into white supremacy and grind culture is that someone wins. Someone gets to be at the top. Since there are millions of people in this race, there is almost never a winner, but rather a steady, recycling turn-table of the same rich, white people who were born two feet from the finish line. White people like to pride themselves if they were born ten feet from the line and by sheer hard work and skill, sprinted to the top. It feels like a victory. They shout down to the lower echelons of society: "I did it! I made it! Just keep moving, working, racing! You can make it too!"</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, on Tricia Hersey's plane of existence, she is not concerned with the apoplectic and out of breath humans on the mountain top. She's napping. She opted out of the whole ridiculous thing. And she is telling her Black community that they can opt out too. They work hard enough. They don't need the race to be whole people.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Grind culture at its very basic function is a traumatizing and racist enterprise. Those who have had rest stolen from them for generations are asked to just keep producing more to keep up, catch up. Tricia Hersey is *done* with that. And we should be, too.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The problem is not whether we are working hard enough. The problem is the system that requires us to grind like machines.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She says that if we rest, we resist this manic operation. We stop the machine from churning out more broken Black bodies (and others who are crushed in this grind). We create space within our communities for all to rest.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So as a white person, when I rest, I am not only seeking that which is needed for myself, I'm squatting in protest on the foundation of white supremacy. I'm using my body as a clear signal that I will no longer participate in this culture that grinds all bodies to dust, particularly those with Black and Brown skin. I am putting a speed bump in the middle of a demonic racetrack. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Rest begets rest: when I rest, I am communicating that I will not put my body into this cycle of burnout and needless urgency. I am setting a boundary which redefines what the social norms could be. As a white person, I have the privilege and responsibility to set those boundaries in ways that can shift social norms.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Tricia Hersey is calling on Black people everywhere to take a nap. While they nap, white people need to do the work of tearing down the grind culture. White people need to take turns napping and dismantling. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We need to create a community where everyone has access to rest. We need to create a community where everyone has access to the good things in life: love, community, food, shelter, beauty, work, and the pursuit of happiness. We need to redefine the parameters of what success looks like. We need to take stock in what it means to be human, and what we need to feel whole. Spoiler: it's not power, prestige, or hoards of cash. Rest will teach us all. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Follow #thenapministry on instagram for more on this revolutionary concept, and start your practice of rest today. Start resisting white supremacy, start resisting the grind culture, start embodying the wholeness of what it means to be human. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Start where you can and build up. Take a nap, don't answer the email right away. Take time off work, and really take the time off. Don't be productive for a whole day and practice turning off that shame portal when you rest. Empower others in your family to rest. Empower it in your work space. And not the kind of rest that comes because you worked extra hard, hobbling to collapse at the finish line. Genuine, regular rest, before exhaustion. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Change the small systems around you. Is someone doing the lion's share of work in your home? At work? Is it you? Or is it someone else? Create a system where the work (and rest) is shared. That might mean lowering expectations, and that is not a bad thing. Decrease urgency. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">De-stigmatise rest. It is not laziness. In fact, if you have any religious background, it is built into the foundations of nearly every major religious practice as Sabbath. For some, it's a commandment!</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Challenge the current culture! Don't "try not to burnout"- be rested! Don't "try to balance life and work" - be rested! Resist productivity as an intrinsic virtue and value. View "well-rested" as the epitome of whole human experience. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If you think you have no space or time for rest, The Nap Bishop will tell you that's not true. She knows. You have to brush your teeth every day and you have to rest every day.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Rest is not scarce. We must shake the bounds of white supremacy and embrace communal rest.</span></p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-22351661569197787692021-02-10T17:33:00.003-05:002021-02-10T17:33:54.741-05:00Weight<p>I did the dumbest thing a person can do in the tenth month of a pandemic: I weighed myself. I had intentionally stayed away from the scales because I knew it was a dumb idea to start my morning with numbers. I added insult to injury by weighing myself on the first day of my period, which if you don't know, is like getting a portrait done five minutes after you've woken up. It's just a bad idea all around.</p><p>SO I weighed myself, couldn't stop my impulse and there they were: the numbers. And they told me exactly what I expected them to tell me: I had gained weight. OBVIOUSLY. But I gained ten pounds and this felt a little harsh for my scale to thrust at my face.</p><p>Now let me tell you a little secret: I feel great. I mean, even though I'm more anxious and I haven't worn a bra or makeup for an untold amount of time, even though I can't even imagine wearing anything with buttons or anything other than cozy socks, even though I am becoming an expert at stretching the acceptable length of time between showers, I actually feel pretty confident in my body. I've been walking lots, wearing sexy yoga pants, that kind of thing. </p><p>Just to be sure I wasn't doing something terrible to myself (because I felt fine and even though I'm sure I could eat more healthy, I feel like I've been doing OK), I looked up my BMI. Because that's a perfect measurement of health. (Please say that last line with all the sarcasm you can muster.) But seriously, it's at least a tool that can help me know if I should maybe be less laissez-faire with my choices. </p><p>Get this: my BMI is in the normal category. </p><p>I am certain that about 90% of the people who read that last line just uttered (possibly out loud): </p><p>"This Bitch." </p><p>And that's not entirely unfair. I get it. Here I am whining about gaining ten pounds and I'm in the "normal" BMI range, whatever that means. I'm on the top of it, but I made it.</p><p>This is when it hit me. I feel fine because I AM fine. The numbers are just one measurement that I have had to learn not to take too seriously. If you're fighting with me in your head (as some voices in my own head are trying to do), then you might have some body image issues. It's OK- join the universal club- it takes a long ass time to work that shit out, and the entire capitalistic society is working overtime against your efforts. </p><p>I had forgotten how huge the market was for us feeling crappy about our bodies until I watched cable with commercials for the first time in months at our Airbnb (aka: we need to be ANYWHERE ELSE other than home). Wow. SO many commercials telling you SO many things about your body and food. All of it conflicting, none of it helpful. If you grew up before streaming shows was a thing (which is most of us), then you grew up with at least one source of "your body sucks," aka commercials. Forget about whatever family baggage you have. Body image issues seem to be a foundational part of being human, specifically, American.</p><p>But here's the other realization that I had: weight has nothing to do with your body image issues. I'm going to repeat it because even I don't fully believe it: </p><p>Weight has nothing to do with your body image issues. </p><p>Y'ALL. How many skinny-gorgeous-people do you know who are complete lunatics about their bodies? I can name a few. In fact I remember this one baby doll-eyed gorgeous woman confessing her low self-esteem and I was like: "This Bitch." But she wasn't lying. She was *gorgeous* and had body image issues. If you think about it, the list of people who have body image issues is about as diverse in actual body shape/size/ability as the fish in the ocean. </p><p>SO therefore, if you change your numbers, it won't change your mind. The body is a friggin miracle and also an insanely delicate and resilient thing. Human bodies really are bizarre. They deserve a whole lot more than stupid numbers. They deserve to be moved in fun ways, touched, bathed, rested, walked, lotioned, all the nice things you should wish upon an entity that carries your heart, soul, and mind. </p><p>She's working hard y'all! Give her some love, and watch your body relax into the safe space you've created for her. </p><p>$#@%^ the numbers.</p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-78743608217862776272020-11-07T14:45:00.000-05:002020-11-07T14:45:23.518-05:00What Am I Doing Today?<p>Crying. Smiling. Breathing. Laughing. Hoping. Preparing.</p><p>I know that presidential elections are not the whole story. I know that there is work to be done. I know that there are people I know and love who thought Trump was their answer. I don't understand it, I don't agree, and it makes me a bit devastated. However, I know that all of those people are not monsters.</p><p>I refuse to say that someone is a garbage human being if: XYZ. Because as naive as it may be, I'm backed by the saints and prophets of nearly every religion and philosophy when I say that we are all connected, we are all valuable, and we are all worthy of love. So I will continue forward with that because it feels right in my body and soul. It is the one truth that has never changed for me- and many things have changed for me.</p><p>Today I cried big fat and small streaming tears. My body released a small portion of four years of stress, anxiety, and the strain of the struggle to hope.</p><p>My child said "Yay!" and then he quipped: "And we get a woman too, right?" This is the innocence I want to keep. We don't demonize our political opponents here. We don't sugar-coat our disagreements with them either. We simply state what we think is good and right and what we hope for. My child still hopes. Because we have created a home where hope is still alive. </p><p>Today, for the first time in a while, I felt a little less like our hopefulness was a strain on reality.</p><p>Like I said before, we have a lot of work to do. This is not an easy flip of a switch where everything is OK now. No political person is the savior. But I do believe the work has a chance to get done now. There's actually a chance that the debates could become conversations and collaborations. There's a chance that the trajectory of hate and anger can shift to reconciliation and facing the hard stuff with integrity and hope. And compassion. </p><p>Friends: do not demonize the other. We HAVE to figure out how to build relationships. If you hear me saying this as some white girl trying to get us all to get along, don't. I have ulterior motives. Relationships were what helped me grow as a human. It's how I became less bigoted, racist, patriarchal, homophobic, ethnocentric, etc etc. Only when faced with a human being (or a force of nature) who was not like me that I still connected with- that is when change happened. I want this to keep happening to me until all the shit has been burned out of me by love. I want the same for all of you, because how else can we be fully and beautifully human? </p><p>This is how we're made. We're all connected because that connection is the maker and savior of us all. The earth, and all living things are connected. I don't care what religion or non-religion you are. This is a universal truth. The more we are in relationship with all that moves and has breath, the more we all will recognize the divine in ourselves and each other. When we see this divine spark in each other: we will be forced to change what we thought was divine and good. We should face this continually until we can't help but see the divine. We recognize it everywhere. It should blind us.</p><p>This world is not dual, binary, or flat. Our universe is profound and gorgeous. Why oh why would we want to miss out on experiencing it? </p><p>Let's get to work. Go.</p>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-47486912142644786982020-10-11T14:22:00.000-04:002020-10-11T14:22:00.700-04:006 Reasons Your Pastor is About to Quit- RevisitedAn<a href="https://churchanswers.com/blog/six-reasons-your-pastor-is-about-to-quit/" target="_blank"> article</a> by Thom Rainer made the rounds in my pastor circles a while ago, titled "6 Reasons Your Pastor is About to Quit" and the six reasons listed are all related to Covid. The author alludes that these issues have been there, and this is just a boiling point, but I was hoping the author was going to go a little deeper and explore that point.<br />
<br />
I felt inspired to write this not as an argument against the article, but sort of an attempt to unfold some of what's underneath it all, to go a little deeper.<br />
<br />
Thom Rainer gets to it here:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Why has this period of great discouragement ensued? Of course, it is connected to COVID-19, but the pandemic really just exacerbated trends already in place. We would have likely gotten to this point in the next three to five years regardless.</span><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"> </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I also want you to know that these pastors do not think they will be leaving ministry. They just believe the current state of negativity and apathy in many local churches is not the most effective way they can be doing ministry.</span><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"> </span></blockquote>
This is the real stuff. I am going to springboard off of Rainer's points and offer some insight based on my own experience in ministry. I've held a few jobs in the local church (youth minister, congregational care), my husband is a pastor, and I have a LOT of friends who are in ministry, as well as membership in some online groups of clergy women. Not all of what I have to say stems from my specific personal experience (some does), but all of it stems from real experiences of people I actually know. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">1 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">Pastors are weary from the pandemic, just like everyone else. </span></blockquote>
Rainer states this truth, reminding people of the humanity of pastors. I want you to take it a step further. What do we do when a major transition happens, or something traumatic in our lives? We tend to have some serious introspection. Many clergy (and I'm sure many others) have been confronted with their mortality, the meaning of life, and all the other existential stuff that a pandemic stirs up. You are not the only ones having that conversation with yourself.<br />
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When that happens, you start to ask questions that our busy life didn't allow, like: is this what I'm supposed to be doing? Is this what I *want* to be doing? Could I be doing more in a different setting? All of a sudden, we see the ways we are spinning our wheels. 2020 has offered a stark background for our questions. The weight of our questions (and their answers) seem much heavier and more important than before. Our calling actually feels heavier, and we are asking ourselves: are we spinning wheels here or getting somewhere? We think to ourselves: the world needs help, and I feel like I'm working overtime and not even making a dent!<div><br /></div><div>Right now it doesn't feel like we're getting anywhere, which leads to the next point...<br />
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<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">2 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">Pastors are greatly discouraged about the fighting taking place among church members about the post-quarantine church.</span></blockquote>
Bingo. In the midst of the existential questions, we look at our "office," which is the church for clergy, and see some really terrible (and ineffective) behavior. There are businesses that are completely re-writing the playbook for their future (do we even need an office building?). Clergy are trying to do that with their churches, but the Church has been in fight or flight for a while, and right now a lot of them are choosing to fight, with the pastor and each other. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am a part of an online group of clergy women, and trust me when I say that people have been behaving badly for a very, very, very long time. You probably already knew that, but you may not have known they were behaving so badly to the pastor. Let's go ahead and exclude the crappy Pastors who are abusive and power-trippy. I would venture to say most pastors are actually just trying to be good people, and help other people be good and connect to God. The conversation around whether their theology or methodology is good, we can save for another day.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Covid hit, a lot of Pastors knew they were walking onto a minefield with every decision they made. Church people can be pretty awful to their pastors. It's not the exception, it's the rule. <div><br /></div><div>So if you think you have something to offer the world and your response to that is being a pastor; there's nothing like a pandemic to make things bad enough for you to look again and say "maybe there's a better way, a way that doesn't kill me." And yes, we're talking life and death for some of these pastors. Pastor suicides are not uncommon, and if they don't do it intentionally, they do it by overworking and becoming so unhealthy that their bodies give up under the strain. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's hard for pastors to prioritize their own mental health when their congregations demand they sacrifice it for theirs. And time and again, the pastor obliges, putting their lives on the sacrificial altar for the church. The tragedy is that this is entirely unnecessary, (and actually terrible theology) but a pastor often stops just short of helping themselves, because it is their calling to help others, and in their minds the sacrifice is a necessary one. I'll get into that more later, but this may be one of the most toxic and prevalent behaviors I've seen in pastors today. They tell everyone to rest, to prioritize family, etc, and forget that they deserve the same basic human rights and privileges. <br />
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<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">3 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">Pastors are discouraged about losing members and attendance.</span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;"> </span></blockquote>
This might seem, like the author said, "all about the numbers," but he's right, it's not. However, he talks about pastors worrying about losing friends in the congregation. I don't think it's about losing friends either. Not to burst any bubbles, but pastors are learning that church members make for very challenging friendships. There's always a line and boundary when you cease to be a friend and become their pastor. This is not an equitable relationship, no matter how hard you try. </div><div><br /></div><div>Many pastors confess just how lonely they are, making the irony of being surrounded by people that much more painful. I have learned first hand just how fickle church friends can be. There's a reason why seminary talks a LOT about boundaries and the importance of having social connection outside of the church. Unfortunately, the pastor's schedule makes it challenging to be social outside of church. You can't even go visit family for the weekend because you have to be home on Sunday. </div><div><br /></div><div>So many pastors are trapped in one-sided relationships with people whom they love and would do anything for, with no real commitment on the other end. The needs of these people are so consuming, that it leaves very little time for the pastor to invest in more genuine and mutual friendships, so they are often left either very lonely, or in forced ignorance that the relationships are mutual. This ignorance is often burst by some tragedy or event that leaves the pastor even more heart-broken when they realize just how conditional the friendship was. <br />
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The other part I want to note is that the numbers <i>are</i> important to some extent because that is how your efficacy as a pastor is measured: NUMBERS. It's also the determination of whether you have a job (or get paid). And I don't care how committed you are to your job, you need to be paid to live. Most pastors don't expect to be millionaires, but it would be nice if they could pay their bills, which many cannot. I feel the need to reiterate this: many pastors struggle financially. I'm talking people with 3 higher-level degrees struggling to pay rent and medical bills. </div><div><br /></div><div>So the question returns: do I want to continue to use my gifts in such a way that will be measured (incorrectly) by numbers, at the price of my social and mental health? Do I want my livelihood to be attached to whether my "help" is attractive enough to people? For pastors who live in parsonages, the job is more than just a salary, it's your home too. That's scary. Our entire financial security is owned by the church. Those numbers are scary. It's why many have stayed, not knowing if they can make it outside the church. "Hi, I'd like to be your newest account manager. I have three theology degrees."<br />
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<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">4 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">Pastors don’t know if their churches will be able to support ministries financially in the future. </span></blockquote>
This is basically the same thing as number 3. Less people, less money, less ministry. Which staff person do you have to cut? Do you offer to cut your own salary? Many do, and many have it cut for them. If you are faced with the survival of your church (and staff) or your salary, it looks un-Christian to say "I need the money." Aaaaand now you can't pay your bills. But you can't ask for help, that's tacky. God provides, and all that.<br />
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But deeper than that: is the church even effective? See number 2. A pastor is thinking: these people are arguing over the color of the walls, the quality of video, the mandate of masks; they are not making great disciples. Maybe, just maybe, the Church (universal) is changing to something new? Maybe the pastor is being called to do ministry in the New Church, and let go of the four walls and toxic dynamic. Maybe these pastors have all felt a calling out of the church, and the pandemic just made it even more painful to stay. Maybe the pandemic finally put even the minuscule safety net of the church at such a risk that they have nothing left to lose. </div><div><br /></div><div>They have been trying to bail out a sinking ship, and the pandemic has shown them that maybe the ship sank a long time ago and they've been drowning with it. Or, more optimistically, they've reached shore and it's time to move on to discover what's ahead. <br />
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<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">5 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">Criticisms against pastors have increased significantly. </span></blockquote>
So this is a follow up of 2 for the most part. All that fighting is mainly directed at the pastor (with some exceptions, of course). And all that fighting does not effect lay people's livelihood. A pastor who loses half their church in some uproar: they may lose half their salary or all of it. They certainly lose sleep and sanity.<br />
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In normal times, a pastor's patience has to build up enough stamina that you can mostly handle the people behaving badly. This is not always true though. Before the pandemic, there were plenty of pastors leaving toxic congregations because no amount of resilience and thick skin could withstand it. Plus, most pastors have families, and it's hard to ask that resilience of your entire family. I for one have zero patience for bullshit when the health and wellbeing of my family is in jeopardy. <br />
<br />Female pastors and pastors of color who do not look like their congregation have been disproportionately bearing this burden of congregational (and colleague) meanness. It gets really ugly. Now that the pandemic has added some fuel to that fire (forget the already insane political climate), and you're reaching the boiling point. A pastor is smart to get out of that pot, and fast.<br />
<br />And while I'm talking about people being awful to their pastors and church staff, it begs the question: Why should we expect pastors to endure this abuse? Many pastors have deluded themselves into thinking this is their "cross to bear." (I mentioned this earlier.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Hear me pastors: just because God calls you, doesn't mean you're immune to trauma (or your family). It doesn't mean you're literally immune to this pandemic. It doesn't mean that God gave you some magic potion to make all the emotional and physical stress roll off your shoulders. Enduring trauma is not an item on a gold-star chart that God has, saying "Oh she survived that traumatic experience and then stayed there, she must love me." </div><div><br /></div><div>No. Full stop. No.</div><div><br /></div><div>We shouldn't expect our pastors to be martyrs AT OUR OWN HANDS. Martyrs are for tyrannical governments, not pissy people. </div><div><br /></div><div>There, I said it. Go read that sentence again if you need to. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes blazing a trail means leaving the trail.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f1f3f6; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px;">6 </span><span face="laca, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit;">The workload for pastors has increased greatly. </span></blockquote>
Last but not least, because everyone else is exhausted, the pastor picks up the pieces like the infinite source of energy/love/spirituality robots they are asked to be. Churches are generally understaffed with volunteers and overworking staff. Also, pastors aren't trained in AV/internet/whatever. Most of them figured it out, only for people to have an opinion on how it could be done better.<br />
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But here's the deeper part. They were already working too much. They were already working weird schedules. And I'm not just talking about the time clocked. I'm talking about the mental load. The emotional load. A pastor's job is so fuzzy in terms of what is "work" and what isn't. It can be all-consuming if a pastor doesn't set proper boundaries. And pastors that set proper boundaries? Yeah, the church doesn't usually like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now it's like the pressure has increased on every part of what made their job hard and defeating.<br />
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The knot in their shoulder has a giant fist grinding into it. They can't miss it. What is it? It's that final recognition that none of this was sustainable. It's realizing that this is not working. This is not what I want. This is not what anyone should want. This is broken. </div><div><br /></div><div>Much like many systems that have crashed under the pressure of a pandemic, pastors can see that the church is in some serious need of reformation. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the only way they know how to help is to leave.<br />
</div></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>So, this was all up-lifting. </i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>What can you do? </div><div><br /></div><div>If you are a pastor: follow your call, but make sure it's not the calling of fear and scarcity, but rather the calling of God who literally made stuff out of nothing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Set boundaries for yourself and stop trying to be Jesus. In the words of my new favorite theologian, Tricia Hersey (the "Nap Bishop"): "lay yo ass down and take a nap." This comes from her very serious, very deep understanding of who God is, and who we are as humans. You are not a sacrificial lamb. You are not a martyr. You are not a part in the production line of human productivity. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you act like that, you actually diminish the Kin-dom of God and feed into what Hersey calls the "grind culture" (which she will point out has White Supremacy at its foundation). Stop doing that. Stop modeling that kind of behavior. It's not healthy for you or anyone else. </div><div><br /></div><div>You as a pastor, by resting, you are resisting the very culture and systems that threaten to undermine the Church and Kingdom of God itself. Rest is holy resistance. And for people of color, rest is OWED you; rest is reparations. (Seriously, follow The Nap Ministry on instagram.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Clergy: you are a fully embodied and complex human with needs, hopes, dreams. Listen to those. That's the magic God works with. Do some inside work if you haven't already. Go to therapy, meditate, sit outside and stare at the trees. </div><div><br /></div><div>And if you need to hear this: it's OK to leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you are a member of a church: maybe just start by taking a little more responsibility for the future of the Church. And I'm not asking you to be a martyr, we're changing that dynamic, remember? It wouldn't hurt to show your church's staff a little love (especially the pastor/s). Treat them like the full humans they are.</div><div><br /></div><div>But more than that, I'm talking about thinking of your role as someone who can support and move with the Spirit. Someone who feeds and waters the dreams born of the Spirit. Don't be afraid.</div><div><br /></div><div>Start thinking about what a sustainable, inspired model of God's Kin-dom looks like. If your pastor has mentioned some ideas that actually make sense: publicly throw your support at it. Think communal, collaborative. Think rest, repair, healing, wholeness. Dare to imagine and engage in creating something new.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stop trying to be right or look right. </div><div><br /></div><div>Start trying to be loving. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do some inside work: go to therapy, meditate. Remind yourself that your staff with years and education experience might know something. Remind yourself that you have gifts too, and it might not be running a religious institution. This is OK. Very OK. Good. So let it go. </div><div><br /></div><div>We need you where you're gifted. Hone those skills.</div><div><br /></div><div>To all of us: we MUST remember that we're all human. Not machinery. We're all connected. Not islands. </div><div>Re-assess our expectations. Are they healthy, helpful, and do they help others thrive? Do they help you thrive? </div><div><br /></div><div>When we start to answer those questions honestly, when we start to rest and love, we might get to follow our prophetic leaders into the next iteration of Church. We shouldn't be running off a burning, sinking ship. </div><div><br /></div><div>We should be following a light.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last but not least: we may not all be going to the same places. This is also OK. Let the people go. Pastors, congregants, neighbors. Let them all go. Let yourself go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe we're being led to the promised land. </div>Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-90103197088360125192020-04-26T12:09:00.001-04:002020-04-26T12:09:36.550-04:004-6 WeeksNow that many of us have been in this quarantine for over a month, I feel a shift in the way we're operating. It's not the best shift. The grace and forgiveness that flooded our veins in the beginning of this when we were all figuring out our "new normal" has started to subside. I'm not saying people are being less helpful or kind, but we're ramping up our expectations of normalcy. We are sure that it's time for things to be OK (whether or not they indeed are).<br />
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Some of this is evidenced by states and localities who are planning to open up despite evidence that this is unwise. Some of this I see in work places when folks are now expected to go back to their usual work load (or be able to increase it), as if now is the time when we should have this work-from-home thing figured out. (Thank God not my work place, but I have friends who are back to the grind times ten!) Some of this I see in ourselves, where before we said "it's OK, I can be gentle with myself in this time," we are now saying "well, I really should have this figured out by now, why am I so stupid?"<br />
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I don't know what the science or sociology is behind all of this, but I suspect that there is something empirical about 4-6 weeks as the amount of time humans expect to adjust and be back in business. I wonder if this has anything to do with how long we expect mothers to be able to adjust before rejoining the work force, as 4-6 weeks is often the amount of maternity leave offered (if they are lucky enough to be given the time and rejoin). That time frame is also a pretty common time given for healing from surgeries or broken/sprained body parts. About 4-6 weeks after a death, we find it sort of uncomfortable if someone is still raw with grief. Again- maybe the science is against me on this, but I have a feeing there are some correlations between that time-frame and our patience level for adjustment.<br />
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After 4-6 weeks, no matter what is actually happening, something in our brain says "This should feel normal now, all unrealistic expectations are invited to return!"<br />
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We're at that mark, when folks are antsy, what was good-enough is now not. What was reasonable is now ridiculous. What was above-expectations is now sub-par. But here's the problem: just like a mother in week 6 postpartum, we're not fully adjusted. We're not fully healed.<br />
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Also, I don't think we're ever supposed to be fully adjusted to a pandemic. Just sayin.<br />
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So instead of being fully-adjusted and completely ready to move into this new way of being, we're actually losing it. We're less adjusted because what we've really been doing is holding our breath. We've been holding it as long as we could, still functioning and moving around, but knowing that it was weird. We've just all finally broken and taken a collective breath of pandemic and I think all of us just went "OH Hell no. This cannot be what it is."<br />
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So we close our eyes and walk off a cliff.<br />
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Sorry, no, I mean, we close our eyes and just imagine that it is in fact, normal. That this is all fine, we are fine, you are fine, it's FINE. And in order to fuel our collective delusion, we just will normalcy into being. I am now fully functional, and so are you. So help me God, or I have to open my eyes to see the truth.<br />
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I believe that there is a new normal in all of this, but we're not there yet. It's going to take a little longer, and it's OK if you are not feeling OK yet. It's going to take a lot longer than 4-6 weeks. We are doing good work, we have made lots of adjustments. Now we need to give ourselves some time to adjust to the adjustments.<br />
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It's OK if this is still hard, or actually harder.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-90753428329808282012020-04-25T17:17:00.002-04:002020-04-25T17:17:20.769-04:00Sleep Is SpecialFirst: I am not a morning person. I have never been a morning person in my entire life. I had to be woken up every Christmas, and nearly always would have chosen more sleep if I was given the choice.<br />
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This morning my husband shakes me awake around 730am. This is not a terrible time to be awake, but in our quarantine time, my night owl tendencies have increased (bed by midnight if I'm lucky) and sleeping in has become a pastime rather than a luxury (up and at em by 9am, maybe).<br />
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He asks me: "Would you mind getting Luna (our St. Bernard who is whining to pee)? I've been up in the night with Kenzie (our storm-fearing shitzu-yorkie mix who barks at thunder), and I'd love to try to get some sleep."<br />
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Me, the loving wife I am: "huh?"<br />
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He repeats himself and I am now slightly more cogent and respond "yeah, sure."<br />
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I woke up, let the beast out and fed her. She falls immediately back to sleep on the couch and I can't go back upstairs for fear that Luna will suddenly wake up and then wake the sleeping house. I decided that it is a lovely time to be awake and I shall enjoy this peaceful morning! No one is awake, I can drink my coffee, eat my breakfast at leisure, and enjoy playing some word games on my phone. Delightful! I should do this more often! It's like getting an extra hour with no obligations!<br />
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My youngest comes down, looks at me in shock and asks why I'm up (even at 830, it's a valid question). I chat with him, we look at his birthday wish list, and it is a lovely time.<br />
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Once the rest of the house starts waking up, I make my way back upstairs to shower, get the laundry running, do little odds and ends before I start another weird day of work-from-home-in-a-ministry-job.<br />
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I'm thinking, maybe I should really try this morning thing!<br />
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1130am. I've done some work, I've run the dishwasher and *boom*. I remember why I don't start the day so early.<br />
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It's 1145am and I'm ready for my nap. I fixed myself tea to try to hold it off. And now I'm typing this because I'm entertaining myself and trying to stay awake. My eyes are dazed. I feel that feeling like when you move your head from side to side and the room is delayed. You know what I mean? Your vision and brain aren't as fast. It's like when the sound is a second or two after the mouth moves. You think I'm exaggerating, but this is my body on less sleep (which admittedly is enough for 95% of people, me excluded).<br />
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This is not a pleasant feeling for me. I don't like fuzzy brain and loopy eyes. I don't like looking down the barrel of a full day into the night when I finally get to sleep again. I don't want to muscle through and get used to that feeling for one or two measly "free" hours in the morning. It's not that special.<br />
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Sleep is special.<br />
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I'm going to sleep in tomorrow.<br />
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<br />Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-40624147961224419152020-03-07T17:34:00.001-05:002020-03-07T17:34:49.916-05:00I'm Sorry ElizabethI voted for Biden in the primaries. I said my apologies to Elizabeth as I did it, and I meant it. I was sorry, but not for what I did, at least not completely. I was sorry that the world isn't fair.<br />
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People have been so upset that a well-qualified woman will not win the democratic nomination. I am upset. I am also not surprised. Should anyone be? But I am also part of the reason it happened. The reason: I've learned a very humbling, hard lesson. That is that the world really isn't fair, and I cannot always have what I want, and that sometimes (many times) I have to put others before me even if it looks like I'm submitting to the status quo. Sometimes progress isn't always for me right now, but it's the long game that counts. Others who have more to lose than I do showed me Biden was their best shot. So I fell in line.<br />
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Before Super Tuesday, there were articles swarming everywhere, all saying basically the same thing: "She can win if you vote for her!" But the problem was, she had already lost. Not in the numbers game necessarily, but if people are writing articles trying to convince me not to count someone out, the truth is that the unfair world has already done so. My submitting to this truth was, in my opinion, a smart move in potentially unseating the current president. Our current president is not in office because of fairness, intellect, capabilities, debate prowess, or anything else other than pure corruption and racist hatred.<br />
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It makes me laugh when people say Biden can't win because he'll lose a debate or not be able to speak intelligibly. Um. Do you see who is in office now? Wisdom and eloquence was not his path to the position. Intelligence has only been a small part of the political process, a fact that has not changed since the beginning of politics. Intelligence helps, for sure, but it's not the only tool.<br />
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I saw that candidates were backing out and endorsing Biden, I saw that the governor of Virginia endorsed Biden, I heard from a well-connected political person that they were supporting Biden. It was clear that the party was bolstering Biden. My experience as an educated woman who likes plans made me love Warren, but my experience is not everyone's.<br />
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What really hurt was when I texted my Dad, a lifetime Republican, and basically your typical old white dude (sorry Dad). My Dad is not a fan of Trump, he is a member of the old guard Republicans, with Reagan and George Sr. as models. I asked him: in this election, would you vote for Biden and/or Warren against Trump? Then I asked in parentheses, because I already knew the answer, if he would vote for Sanders. His answer: "Sanders: definitely no. Warren: probably no. Biden: it's a toss up."<br />
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Then I kept hearing from black women that Biden was their pick. Here is a quote from one woman who explained why Biden had proved himself for her:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let me explain something to you about Joe Biden and why some of the shit that he’s done in his past doesn’t matter. This old rich white man played second fiddle to a black man. Not just any black man, but a younger black man, a smart black man. Not just for a day. Not 1, not 2 but eight years. He took his cues from this black man who had more power than him and was virtually unknown when he took the presidency, and Joe Biden had been around forever. He was willing and proud to be his wing man. Not once did he try to undermine him, this black man. Instead Joe walked in lockstep with him, he respected him, he loved and trusted him. He was led by him and he learned from him. And Joe did not have a problem with it. You tell me what 40+ year “establishment” white politician has ever done that. Joe Biden is cut from a different cloth. And black folks understand that and for good reason. He has shown it. This is what showing up and being an ally looks like. When black people say they know Joe, this is how we know.</span>- Laurie Goff</span></blockquote>
So there it was: the old white dude and black women had spoken. Biden was the best shot. I listened to the women who had everything to lose, and took heart that the old white dude could potentially be convinced to vote blue.<br />
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At 38 years old I hated asking my Dad who was more palatable to him so I could have that nugget of information going forth. I wasn't asking for instruction though. I wanted to know- who has a shot? When we have the luxury of choice, we can write in our candidate and feel proud to vote our conscience. When we have the luxury of choice, we get to choose from a list of highly qualified candidates and hope, even expect that the best person wins.<br />
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That's not where we are today. The luxury of choice is gone. The choice is cake or death. I choose Not Death. In 2016, our collective liberal and moderate conscience decided that we had luxuries. My Dad, not liking his choice (knowing Trump would be a disaster), wrote in his choice to keep his conscience clear, assuming he didn't need to "hold his nose," that the work would be done for him. Others picked their favorite progressive candidate because luxury. Still others held their noses to vote for Trump because of one issue they really wanted to have power over, even though they knew that he would be a disaster otherwise. But for them, they didn't have much to lose either, so luxury again. And here we are. Luxury got us here. I can't lean on my luxury anymore. Not even if I'm a woman. Especially not if I'm a white woman.<br />
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There are much bigger things happening behind the scenes than most of us (including me) know. So when I, a regular citizen, can see that there is purposeful movement to bolster Biden, I take notice. I can probably survive another Trump term, many cannot. So for those who cannot (and then for me), I will fall in line. It sucks not to vote for who I loved, it hurts, it feels like submitting, but in this moment, I don't want to lean on my luxury and pick the underdog. I want to kick Trump out.<br />
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Everyone has been saying that the Democratic Party needs to band together, fall in line, unify. Then when it happens, everyone gets mad. Obviously, we hoped to fall in line behind whomever was our favorite choice. I know. I did. I wanted to vote for another woman in the 2020 elections and have Trump's ass kicked by a school teacher. But it wasn't to be.<br />
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Biden is not a bad choice. He wasn't my first choice, but when it comes to my future, my children's future, and the future of the country: I choose democracy over Trump. Every damn day. And Biden was where the cards were falling.<br />
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I really am sorry, Elizabeth.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-60239068525789185422020-02-06T15:59:00.001-05:002020-02-06T15:59:54.193-05:00InterruptionsMy sisters and I have been talking recently about the idea of interruptions. I mentioned that I was almost late to a dentist appointment because I was so wrapped up in a good conversation with my husband.<br />
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My older sister thought that perhaps it was completely worth being late to my appointment to have that conversation. She talked about how relationship never really seems to know what time it is. When we want to celebrate a special anniversary, the relationship doesn't feel all that special, but at 945am on Tuesday before a dentist appointment, a beautiful connection happens. </div>
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I thought about how profound that truth really was, and how it applies to just about every relational or emotional process. Grief, for example, never cares what time it is. It will show up in the third aisle of a grocery store on a Wednesday afternoon with far more zeal than the day of the funeral. </div>
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My younger sister, who is a therapist for individuals who have experienced trauma, mentioned how this happens for people who have trauma in their lives- the effects of the trauma don't know the proper time and place to show up. </div>
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We all excitedly wondered out loud: what would life look like if our sense of time and routine prioritized the things that give life meaning? Like connection, grief, joy, inspiration, and all the other parts of relationship that make us human.</div>
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What if the dentist appointment was second to a deeply connected conversation? What if being on time for school gave way to that rare moment when your child opens up? What if swim practice gets skipped this time because your family and the other family are making really lovely memories? </div>
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You're already setting boundaries, aren't you? "Well, that sounds nice, but we can't go avoiding all of our commitments just because we're having fun!" Sure, I hear that. But why do we make these commitments? What is the purpose of swim team, but to have exercise and community? If your child is happily running around with her friends - isn't that fulfilling the same goal? Yes, I know- we want to teach our children to honor their commitments. But why? SO that they can be trustworthy, and dependable in relationships. If they choose relationships over timeliness- maybe that's the best kind of trustworthy there is? </div>
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I know that it's uncomfortable, but I wonder if we just experiment in trying to prioritize what we usually call interruptions. What would it look like if we re-framed these holy moments as being our real life, and the routines and check-ups as the offending interruptions? </div>
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It dawned on me that when we get so locked in to our routine and daily "to-do" list, it seems as if we are bombarded by interruptions. Perhaps that is just life saying "you have interrupted me long enough with your routine, I'm going to have to barge in if you won't make me a priority." So our beautiful conversations have to sneak in edgewise, our children have to come talk to us while we're pooping. You have to run into a friend at Costco. But life can only work so hard, if you keep blowing it off, it might not visit for a while.</div>
Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-30383936179097671222019-10-08T13:17:00.001-04:002019-10-08T13:17:52.087-04:00D to the pressingWhen you *know* that today is a day that depression has a wee bit more of a choke hold on you- what do you do? People say "be gentle with yourself" and I'm not exactly sure what that means. Does it mean I can lie in bed all day? Then depression wins but I've been gentle. Can I watch Hocus Pocus and ignore the things that need to be done?<br />
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The truth about depression is that it does what I've decided to call "D to the pressing." You know how the things you need to do each day have a certain sense of urgency to them? Maybe not even urgency but just a level of importance that means you tackle them first and get it done. Depression is D (down) to the pressing. The things that should be pressing - should be normal catalysts for action (like- get out of bed, shower, eat, pay that bill, get your car's oil change, etc)- they are just somehow tied to an anchor somewhere in the middle of the ocean. SO now, instead of hopping out of bed, showering, eating and going to get your car's oil changed and paying the bill while you wait: you have to swim through an ocean current and added weird gravity to get out of bed. Everything takes forever. Everything is hard. Your brain knows all these things are "easy" and also "pressing" but somehow your brain also knows "meh" and "in a minute." What could be completed by noon is begun at noon, with no hope of finishing. And carries every promise of defeat.<br />
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What do you do with that? Do you be gentle by acknowledging that every task today is going to be a marathon but go ahead and do the marathon with an injury anyway? Do you be gentle by giving yourself the day off? Take a knee and the next day you hope you can do the things. The issue is, you never know when you'll wake up injured or when you'll wake up healed, or to really mess you up: IF you will ever wake up healed. Also- we don't live in a vacuum or on an island or any of those metaphors that remind us that while yes, we have a village, that village needs us too. Some of those village people are kids that expect to be fed dinner and have clean clothes. The gall.<br />
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So just like the American Dream says: hard work pays off. So should I work hard through it, even though I know I'll go an inch and feel like an ass?<br />
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I really don't know the answer.<br />
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Today everything is D to the pressing. I did call about that bill, though. And I showered and ate and fed the dogs. Doesn't seem like a monumental achievement but it took a lot to get here. Maybe I'll go watch Hocus Pocus as my reward. For doing the bare essentials.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-8707495798995119212019-10-07T12:50:00.001-04:002019-10-07T12:50:13.333-04:00House, Family, BodyI have become hyper-aware of what women talk about when we are in groups- whether men are present or not. I have been to a few gatherings lately and most of the time the conversations revolve around these three things: house, family, body.<br />
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Notice I didn't write "home" because there is a difference between a house and a home. I absolutely love a happily decorated home, and I love when people make a house a home. My soul begins to cringe when the house topic comes up in a "Keeping up with the Jones'" kind of way. I have tried my absolute hardest not to utter the ever-recurring phrase "Excuse the house/mess!" with some fill-in-the-blank excuse. NO.<br />
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I had a whole paragraph just now where I talked about my house and how I was FINE with how it wasn't clean, and then I slapped myself and said "STOP IT!" My soul cringes, not because we need to have a discussion about the realness of the expectations/guilt/shame that women deal with when it comes to whether their house is clean or designed or updated. (Which is not a bad discussion to have, but not my current point.) My soul cringes because unless your PASSION is building/decorating/whatever, your house is NOT the most exciting thing about you. Can you please, please tell me a story about something else? I've heard everyone's house stories and they are startling in their similarities. They aren't that interesting. YOU are more interesting.<br />
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At one of the gatherings, a mom talked about something she was passionate about. She apologized for it.<br />
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At another function, one of the women, whom I had never met, told me about her diet. And how she couldn't possibly have a cookie. (She actually ended up having one, which I delighted in.) She definitely had things that were more interesting about her, but I only know a tiny bit about that and a detailed version of what food she eats and what amount gravity tells her her body is worth.<br />
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There is this really uncomfortable dance that we do when we talk about food this way. We talk about how much weight we need to lose and then are confronted with someone who has a view that is different. "You don't need to lose that much weight!" This statement elicits the cringe-worthy self bashing of bodies. It's a war that no one wins. "I am the fattest!" "I am actually not as skinny as you think I am!" "I have body parts that are gross that you can't see!" The idea is that we're complimenting the other person, but we do it by degrading ourselves. NO ONE WINS THIS WAR. I always feel awkward because you can't enter this conversation without adding to the ridiculousness of it. SO it's awkward. Can't we talk about something else?!<br />
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We can't help but talk about our family. But most of the time we talk about the socially acceptable things (I do). Like: my son is so messy and eats so much, oy, pre-teens!! Or: my kid loves his/her sports sport thing. Or: things are different now from when I grew up! Also: I wish I wasn't such a terrible parent (cue laughter at your own darkest fear). This might be my biggest pitfall when it comes to socializing. I use my kids as shields to hide talking about me or real things. My kids are real things, but how much they eat and how well they aim in the toilet is not the most interesting thing about them either. Even when we talk about the things we struggle with, we talk about them like they are all some cosmic joke. "I have NO idea why I can't clean my house! I am so overwhelmed with society's expectations of me- HAHAHAHA. I guess we're just *that* family (nervously hoping everyone is also *that* family or at least mine is funny enough to serve a function). My kid hates sports- oh well! (Is that OK?) I don't feed my kid vegetables because it's a pain in the ass and I'm tired of the effort! (That doesn't feel OK but I'm going to crack a joke about it so that somehow I seem TOTALLY fine with it.)" And on and on and on.<br />
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What is interesting about you and me? How do we talk about those things? I understand the role of small talk (even though I hate it), but I think we just keep repeating it rather than moving forward/deeper. I also don't know how to share the interesting stories about ourselves without also maybe crossing some boundaries of vulnerability. We maybe shouldn't start with the body in the suitcase (I'm re-wording 'skeleton in the closet' and this re-word makes me really uncomfortable- which I think gets to the actual thing we mean when we say 'skeleton in the closet'). Let's start with things we enjoy and are passionate about.<br />
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I like to write, paint, sew, lie under the rays of the sun, take long walks on the beach (seriously, I do), and travel/explore. I went on a few life-changing trips over the last ten years that has brought me to a point where most of what I do is pointed towards creating the chance to travel with family, friends, and by myself. I like being by myself or in small groups of people. Large groups make me uncomfortable. Singing and dancing in large groups make me very uncomfortable. Unless I'm drunk, which I try not to be. Or unless it was that one time I was barely tipsy and danced like a fool at my sister's 40th birthday bash. I still don't understand why I felt so free to dance in front of all her friends. Maybe because my sisters were dancing with me?<br />
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Those are some of the interesting things about me. At least I think they are. Yet, when I start talking about those things I'm afraid people get bored, or they think I'm being cliche about the long walks on the beach. I think maybe I'm talking too much about this important stuff and I'm trying to get attention or affirmation or --- connection. That's what I want but it's super scary. So I go back to cracking jokes about boy farts and giving the 2 second version of my life-changing trips because I'm pretty sure your attention span can't handle much more than that.<br />
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What is interesting about you? Why don't you talk about it more? Why do you need to apologize about getting excited about something? Why do you need to joke about the things that scare you or make you feel shame? I mean - we kind of all know the reasons why, but could we try not talking about the house, your cleaned-up family, and your body? Unless you're talking about the time you cleared out the living room and had a dance party with your family. I want to hear about that.<br />
<br />Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-84892469390285504102019-04-02T09:59:00.002-04:002019-04-02T09:59:51.799-04:00Body MemoriesIn an effort to connect with my body in positive ways, I've been thinking about body memories. That sounds like I'm about to tell you I remember my own birth. I don't. I'm talking about those memories that are felt in my body when I remember them. These are positive memories of feeling grounded and whole within my skin and bones.<br />
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Like that time I first saw the Milky Way in the sky. I was lying down on a bale of hay at a farm. Our church at the time had these yearly "Farm Days" when a family from the boondocks (as we called it) would invite the church members to come to their farm for good ol fashioned farm frivolity. There were food, games, hay rides, and then the most magical part of all: the night. This was my absolute favorite part of the day. Once the sun went down a large bonfire would rise up, but there was enough space to get away even from the light of the fire. And there, on a bale of hay, around the age of 12, I saw the Milky Way suspended in the sky before me. Nothing else mattered. I didn't speak to anyone. I didn't think about anything. In that moment I was a human being, small and cognitive, with hay itching and soothing my back all at once- and the sky was my blanket. I was hypnotized by the stars. They were twinkling, steady, glowing, glaring- daring me to think I was alone. I felt in my body a tether holding all of it- all of me- to all of that. I felt peace, awe, small and precious. I rested under the blanket for as long as I could. Nothing mattered but feeling that way. I can still feel that blanket of stars if I sit with that memory long enough.<br />
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I have a collective memory of sun-kissed skin. It's not one memory but a gathering of all the summer days and beach trips and boat rides. That moment before you go inside, when the sun is dipping down and you feel the coolness highlight your taut skin. I remember feeling the warmth of the day still on my arms and face. The air still in my hair. The salt in my teeth and under my nails. The sand surprisingly soft between my toes. Sun had baked me for the day and I felt bathed and ready for bed. I didn't feel dirty or gross. I felt sacred. I felt like I held the day's joys within my skin.<br />
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Another collective memory I have is of being under water. I used to submerge myself under the water and remain there as long as I could. Water was my second home. First a terrestrial, second a water nymph. I opened my eyes under the water, watching my hair flow free all around me. In my ears I felt the humming silence of muffled everything. The world was slower, quiet, fluid. I moved my arms against the water to stay under until at last I had to break the seal of solitude and bliss to join back with the air.<br />
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I remember what it felt like to be hugged by my maternal Grandmother, Memaush. She was a bigger woman, with cushiony limbs and chest- it was like being enveloped by a warm pillow with a beating heart. Often her hugs would send my hearing aids squealing, which would make me insecure in any other setting, but with Memaush there was no shame or worry. Squealing hearing aids were a byproduct of her squishing love. I felt safe.<br />
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I had a boyfriend who was a terrible kisser but an exquisite hugger. His hugs were strong and warm, holding my entire torso to my melting point. He didn't know this, but he could probably have solved every disagreement with one of those hugs.<br />
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I remember the feeling of my body relaxing during a yoga relaxation session. I was an adult, with new anxieties and sore shoulders and back due to the weight of a child distributed either within me or outside of me. As I felt my body loosen, fall, let go- I felt so much peace. I had forgotten what it felt like to be fully relaxed. My body slept while my mind enjoyed the feeling.<br />
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When I was a child, I often slept on my stomach. I loved the feeling of slight pressure against my stomach. Like I was snuggling with Mother Earth. I would lie on the ground, my arms embracing the earth and my body fully submitting to the forces of gravity. It made me feel connected. It literally grounded me. It was the terrestrial equivalent to my submerged experience in water. I realized recently that I no longer sleep on my stomach because my neck surgeries have made it uncomfortable for my head to stay turned while lying flat. That made me really sad. I still lie stomach down when I need to feel secure. Like I'm reconnecting and recharging. Even if for a few moments.<br />
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When I was little, I used to dance. I danced nearly every day. It's something that I miss about myself. I was not a dancer in the educated sense. I had a boom box and about 6 feet by 4 feet of open floor. It was enough. I would move with the music, alone and happy without an audience. It was an immersion experience. I could dance for hours. I remember feeling free and unpredictable. I remember feeling light. I remember lots of twirling.<br />
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I feel wonderful after a long walk. I wonder if walking is my adult version of dancing. I'd like to try dancing again.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-29312585630229201102019-03-19T08:58:00.000-04:002019-03-19T08:58:04.100-04:00Dafka<ul class="definitions" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li style="line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px;">Dafka/davfka/dafke (yiddish):</li>
<li style="line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px;">-even; despite expectations to the contrary -- often with a slightly amused or ironic feeling of "wouldn't you know it?" or "of all things" ("of all people" ... etc.)</li>
<li style="line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px;">-"definitely or exactly stated; specifically" (Weiser)</li>
<li style="line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px;">-just to annoy, just to be contrary</li>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">A lovely woman in my family died earlier this month. Her name: Renate. She was my Grandfather's cousin, and died after struggling with cancer for many years. She was the epitome of "Dafka" - defying anyone who dared to suggest that she wasn't allowed somewhere or to do something. She had a twinkle in her eye, full of mischievousness and dirty jokes. Her life had not been easy, but plenty of it was fun. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">She was born in Berlin, in 1939 when the whole world was getting wiser about Hitler's true intentions. She grew up under the protection of her mother, a non-Jew who successfully hid the truth about Renate's Jewish father. Renate lost everything in the war: the steady presence of a father (who was taken to a camp), her home (bombed in raids on Berlin), and any sense of stability. She and her mother traveled to Italy to meet her father, who survived the war, and later they returned to Germany, despite her father's fears and trembling. Her father was my great-uncle. He had that same twinkle in his eye. Renate made a life in Berlin. When I met her for the first time, she told me to look for the woman who was "a little fat." She told me story after story of my family that I had never heard before. She was the keeper of the family stories, and I was so grateful to receive them. I will miss her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">On my second trip to see Renate in Berlin, she used this yiddish word in telling me a story. She was with a group of folks who were speaking English, not exactly wise to her level of understanding. They talked amongst themselves conspiratorially, wondering out loud how a Jewish woman could possibly live in Germany after everything she had been through, and after what Germany had done to her family. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">She glared at them, revealing she understood what they were saying, and said "DAFKA!" I'm here, because they didn't want me to be, because they tried to smash us under their thumb and I survived. Because they didn't want me here, I will stay in defiance. Dafka.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I absolutely love the shrewd hope involved here. It's not a Pollyanna hope but one that faces the challenge head on, and tells it to suck it. There are things in our lives that we need to say Dafka to. To speak it with a gleam in our eye, ready to take up space where we weren't supposed to be. To challenge adversity with a stubborn heaping of hope.</span></span></div>
Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-12222812671025190002019-03-18T12:01:00.002-04:002019-03-18T12:01:21.992-04:00Shell in my pocketI have a jacket that I wear regularly in the winter. One day I put a tiny shell in there, the kind that looks like a miniature conch. I just looked it up and it is called a nutmeg. I think that is precious. I have a small nutmeg in my red jacket pocket.<br />
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I put it there one day without thinking, I can't remember where I was or why only one shell remained (or made it) in my pocket. But I do remember every time I put on my jacket that it is there. I reach in and grasp it between my fingers, feeling the gentle pierce of the shell on my skin. I love doing this. Sometimes I am with someone, having a conversation, while also my hand is feeling the shell, a small secret in my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.<br />
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So I put a small, flat stone in another jacket pocket. Now on colder days when I need to pull out my large blue jacket, I reach in for that same tactile secret. This time it is a smooth, barely rectangular stone with hardly any sharpness or roughness at all. It's soothing to run my fingers along the smoothness and turn it over and over in my hand. I can be walking to get the mail, and my flat stone is with me, offering a simple delight of the presence of the earth inside my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.<br />
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I wonder if maybe there are other small things that might be joy-giving, ways to surprise myself like a note from a lover. Perhaps more shells and stones in more pockets. Perhaps the "I Voted" sticker I pressed on to my brand new washing machine. I defied the feeling that my vote didn't count by putting it there to see every time I do laundry. I defied the teaching of my mother that you should never put a bumper sticker on a car, write on your body, or likely she wouldn't think it a good idea to put stickers on appliances. A tiny rebellion, in good fun. I don't know why, but it gives me joy.<br />
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I wonder what tiny little things I might be able to do for others to give a little joy, it doesn't need to be a great sacrifice or a huge effort. My son likes to have his head scratched, much like a puppy. One night I scratched his head in desperate attempt to get him to fall asleep and remembered the love I felt when my mother or father rubbed my back on nights when I struggled to sleep. So I made a mental note to scratch his head every night that I could, just for a little bit, and maybe he will feel the love I felt. Maybe he and I will both have a little joy.<br />
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My oldest son gets the giggles if I try to scratch his head. He wants me to lie down next to him and talk to him. What he really wants is to unload his thoughts from his brain stream-of-consciousness to someone who will listen. I remember the feeling I have when someone actually fully listens to me, the gift and joy that is. So I lie down next to him, sometimes I'll rub his arm if he isn't too ticklish, and I'll listen to facts about wildlife pour out, mixed in with stories about school, a documentary, and friends. I can only stay for a little bit, but I hope when I kiss him goodnight, he feels that feeling of love and joy from being heard.<br />
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My husband wants me to read his sermons. I like it when I can read and tell him it was great, nothing to change. Sometimes though, I write comments throughout and there's a long night ahead. Tonight I'm sitting here awake, just so he knows that I'm here. That he's not alone. And that I care. I don't have to stay up, but maybe it gives him a little bit of joy, a feeling of being loved.<br />
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I will miss my shells in the summer when my jackets stay in the closet. But I'll find other things, small things, for a little joy.<br />
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That's my new life experiment: trying on joy so that it becomes comfortable and natural. Giving myself permission to feel it and freeing myself to have the space to offer it. It started with a shell in my pocket.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-9566370760924635242019-02-12T10:10:00.000-05:002019-02-12T10:10:28.096-05:00NoticeThe rain has come, inches falling over the last few days. Some of it freezing, most of it just soaking right into the already swampy ground.<br />
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The last couple of nights I've been tired, hungry, lazy. I ran out of steam and all I wanted to do is sit and eat things. I've thought more about having a glass of wine and poured myself a glass each night. <br />
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The last handful of mornings I have been slow to rise, slow to move, and slower to get out of the house. Even when I had plans, I have been running late.<br />
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This is the "notice" phase of depression. Before I ignored it and then internalized it as some sort of failure on my part. I'm trying something different today. I'm noticing it, and attempting to address it. I don't mean fix it. I mean temper it, lean into it. I'll try not to shame myself for the morning laziness. I will do what it takes to get going, if that means stepping up the tools then I'll do it.<br />
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In noticing, I need to look around me and see what else is happening. Sometimes I think depression just means that your mind gets jammed more easily than others. We don't have enough oil to keep the parts going consistently. So it's not always a *thing* that makes the brain slow down, but maybe for whatever reason, this particular piece of paper was loaded weird and now we have a paper jam.<br />
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I think it's hard to pin-point the *thing* that caused the jam, because it's not necessarily special or different, sometimes it's just a missed opportunity to process, a rainbow swirl in our subconscious. Sometimes it's too many little things. Sometimes it is a big thing.<br />
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Today as I notice, I think it's a combination of little things and a missed opportunity to process.<br />
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The weather does affect me. I wish it didn't, but I guess I spent too much time living in the sunny state of Florida and other southern states. When I don't see the sun for days, I start to dip. Even with my fake sun and my vitamin D.<br />
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I have a few things on my "to-do" list that I don't really want to do. One in particular comes around every year and makes me anxious every year and makes me angry every year: taxes. I should be less grumpy about it, but if I knew my taxes were paying for higher teacher salaries and world peace and proper health care: I'd be less grumpy. Doing taxes confronts me with the intoxicating power of money and its hold over local and global politics, and I feel sick every time. Maybe I shouldn't get so existential about my taxes, but I can't help myself.<br />
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Then there is the casual battle every household faces: the long-term vs the short-term/daily tasks. When I take a dip in my emotional state, there is usually a feeling that I am not keeping up in this battle. The sheets and towels need to be washed, and I want to organize the garage, and clean out the storage room, and wash the cars, and make sure the kitchen is clean and the tables wiped down. I feel guilty even for my little vacuum robot sitting idle because I haven't been able to decide which floor it should vacuum and when.<br />
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When I'm feeling this little dip, the litany of little things is paralyzing. I start looking for short cuts, for ways to make it easier on myself and others. Every short cut comes with an unhealthy dose of guilt for not being able to do it myself. It is very hard to feel overwhelmed and also not shamed. Think about it- when was the last time you said "I have so much to do, I need help" without following it with some sort of "I brought this on myself... I should have been able... If only I..."?<br />
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Even now my heart rate is picking up a bit. I feel anxious about the tasks to do. I've turned on my sun lamp for another cycle of sun, feeling guilty like I'm procrastinating (which I haven't convinced myself that I'm not).<br />
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Then there is the processing that I haven't done. It is hard for me to intentionally process something. It feels a lot like being asked to come up with a creative solution - here- now, in the next 5 minutes. I want this sort of thing to happen organically. I want to be able to have my thoughts evolving up in my brain cloud until one day while I'm driving- it comes to me out of the blue- without even thinking about it consciously. I think that method actually happens a lot to me. But this one is jamming the system. This one I have to actually put in front of my here/now brain and I don't know how to do it. It isn't organic and I don't trust anything I think or feel about it.<br />
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I'm processing some discernment about career/vocation/calling/passion/dreams. It's only literally the only thing I have ever struggled with in terms of decision making for my entire life. No big deal. I'm learning that there are some deeper elements to it rather than "pick a job" and I don't even begin to know how to tackle those foundational elements.<br />
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I'm noticing, that when I dip down, the cause is also the effect. I am feeling overwhelmed by decisions, tasks, and lack of clear sunny space. Because of those things, I'm struggling to make decisions, do tasks, and - well- I can't control the rain. It's a cycle. The less I can get a feeling of getting above the minutia that is overwhelming me, the more I find myself drowning in it.<br />
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There isn't a fix to this. The taxes will get done and I'll hate every minute of it. The to-do tasks will eventually be accomplished maybe, but no one will care that much about it but me. The sun will come back out, and so will the rain. But with each dip, if I take the time to notice, maybe I'll learn some techniques for hunkering down better next time. Maybe I'll figure out how to load the paper a little better next time. If nothing else, it'll be an opportunity for me to practice grace for myself and others. And grace is always a worthy balm.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-68168821941207254652019-02-04T21:00:00.000-05:002019-02-04T21:00:03.619-05:00The Gift of DepressionUgh, that title makes me want to slap myself.<br />
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But in my effort to "Struggle Good," I've learned that there's some truth to "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."<br />
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My name is Sarah and I have the disease: depression. It's truly a dis-ease. I do not feel at ease when depression is in full force. It's a disease that has phases of remission and returns. Currently I'm doing pretty awesome, all my struggling is working- medicine, lights, and some moving around. But I don't have much control over the day I wake up and my body goes "ooof- nope- today just will not do." Sometimes it just will not do. And that's OK.<br />
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You might ask: "What do you do for a living to keep yourself happy?"<br />
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I work as a hospice chaplain.<br />
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"Oh, OK. What do you do as a hobby to ease the depression in your down-time?"<br />
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I'm working on a book about my family story in the Holocaust. I also write sometimes about depression and current events/politics/religion/philosophy. I enjoy dabbling with existential thoughts.<br />
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"Super. Seems normal." You might say. Buuuuut, I'm guessing you're not thinking that. You're probably thinking- "lady- you got problems. Why the hell would you do those things, knowing full well you have the capacity to nose dive into a black hole of depression? People who study the Holocaust and hang with dying people need to be like, waaayyy up in the happiness stratosphere so they can handle the bummer of a time." You clearly have a lot of opinions about this. Or at least I am imagining you do.<br />
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Here's the conundrum: my disease equips me for the sad stuff. I am perhaps more qualified to hang out with the dying, and tuck into the details of horror in the Holocaust.<br />
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There's one reason for my qualification: via Henri Nouwen, the concept of the "the wounded healer." This simple, yet profound idea is that those who are wounded and feel the pain of the world are more able to understand the wounded among them, and therefore able to assist in healing through that understanding or empathy. It's why support groups are so effective. We don't need someone with zero experience of soul-wrenching grief telling us "it gets better." We need a co-traveler, or someone who has pioneered before us on a path even more treacherous than ours. We'll follow a guide that has been here before, not one who just flew in for the cookies at the welcome station.<br />
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There's another reason I haven't explored as much... my very illness is my method for healing. Like allergy shots. I have been dealt bouts of sadness and struggle that have no logical bearing. I get depressed or my energy depleted for literally no reason at all. I have to deal with that. My tools for functioning despite nothing helping me function- are well sharpened. I'm like a video game character that has ALL the weapons necessary for the battle (I might still lose but I'm doing better than the newcomer with barely a shield).<br />
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I have a skill set for functioning while facing the existential wall. A happy person may not have those tools. When confronted with darkness, their eyes have to adjust from the blinding sunlight they spend their lives in. My life has episodes of light and dark, and my eyes don't have to adjust as much when facing death or genocide. I also know, because of my experience, that the darkness never lasts forever. And that in that darkness, there are often glittering specks of light like stars in the night sky. I'm adept at looking for that. I'm not as afraid of the dark, and I'm skilled at finding my way and feeling around for clues and sparkles of hope. I've been here before, it's not so scary.<br />
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I also know that I'm not alone, and that I can't do it alone. People who are inexperienced with certain challenges feel ashamed about those challenges and attempt to get through it on their own. They don't want to lean on someone else when they expect they should be able to handle it. I have tread that path and found it totally terrifying and ineffective. I lean hard. I am in a circle of dominoes. When I lean hard, it might knock someone over a bit, but with all of us leaning- somehow we all help each other stay upright, even if a little sideways for a bit.<br />
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The biggest tool in fighting depression is discarding shame. It's one of my most powerful weapons ever. Without shame I can use all my tools to fight like a warrior, and I might lose a few but I'll win a bunch. And when your battle comes, I'll lend a hand, I'll let you lean on me, I'll know that you and I both have the power to win, eventually. Shame makes it where we feel stupid for even showing up, for needing to fight. Discard that shame and we are living life, battles and beach trips mashed together- all worth our time and all worthy of our showing up.<br />
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When I look at the Holocaust I can weep and rejoice at the same time. I know that humanity is despicable because I've hung out in the dungeon for waaaay too long, which makes me look at despicable things as a sort of a morbid source of "well see there's that terrible thing- now I feel even more justified feeling this way." But I also know that humanity is gorgeous, because once I let go of the shame of feeling sorrow- I am able to also fully embrace the emotion of joy. I can sit and look at a person doing something kind and selfless (no not those cheesy FB videos where people record themselves helping a homeless person)- more like the millions of tiny good things like when someone moves a turtle out of a busy road. We do big and little good things all the time. Like when someone risks their life every day to hike with people over a mountain to freedom from tyranny or famine. There are thousands of these type of people whose names were never recorded. Like the man who snuck my Grandfather across the German/Netherland border without uttering a WORD. I'll never know who he was.<br />
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And then there's the sunset. Beauty always reminds me that there is a source of Good that is constant. Beauty is the most useless and useful reminder of goodness. Useless because beauty does not feed my body, useful because that's the whole point! Beauty has no other purpose but to delight, and what else but Goodness would dream of such inefficiency?!<br />
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So, my depression is my staff. It's that cane that shows my weakness and strength at the same time. Kind of like when you see a war veteran with a missing limb. That person knows things we don't know. That person is strong as hell. And when you are as strong as hell - you can beat it.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-70293636124271104732019-02-02T10:15:00.000-05:002019-02-02T10:15:00.661-05:00Honest ResumeEveryone in the work world is told to keep their resume up to date. Because you never know when the next great opportunity will pop up, and then you'll be ready for it.<br />
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I suspect my resume reads like many women my age, and perhaps many people in general. There are part time and full time gigs, gaps of time in between, or abrupt transitions with the end date and start date within a week. Just like the cliche goes about the dash in between the birth and death dates: everything interesting really happens in those gaps and transitions.<br />
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I wish we could write honest resumes. Like Honest Trailers, only instead of mocking our lives it reads like a tell all, the kind that makes you realize how impressive it is that a person could hold a part time job while also navigating an extremely challenging home situation or paralyzing illness.<br />
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What my resume tells you is where I went to school, what job I did when, and what were my responsibilities. Some of the online applications now have an extra detail where they ask you why you left a particular job, but even that leaves little space for honesty and the full story. "Moved," "Babies," "Grandma needed me," "Boss was impossible," "Company ran out of money," "I was miserable"- how can you really tell the story? The idea is that if you have a series of short-term jobs, you're a terrible worker. But maybe you're actually a really lovely human.<br />
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I struggle with this. I look at my jobs and I used to think maybe when I was younger I wasn't a good employee. But, I always did what was asked of me. I always had integrity. I just didn't always love my job, so I felt like that made me a bad employee. I didn't always want to put in the extra mile, which made me feel guilty. But at 24 years old, I think it's fair that I hadn't figured out exactly what I was gifted to do yet. I had some learning to do. I did the job, but I could only do it so long before I lost my sanity.<br />
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Here are the gaps I want to explain to my potential employers:<br />
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I quit a part-time job under a negative boss to be a caregiver for my newborn son and Grandmother. The part time job would not have paid for the childcare I would have needed. My Grandmother would have been alone in her declining health due to dementia if I took a full time job. My newborn would have been fine, but I don't know if I would have been OK to spend my entire salary for someone else to watch him. Without that gap in my resume, my Grandmother would not have known my son. I would not have the memories from those two years that I treasure now that she's gone. I would have never discovered the old letters she kept that included letters from my great-grandmother to my Grandfather who was a refugee from Germany during WWII. It's one of the best decisions I ever made, and it made me a better human. But I can't put that on my resume because I don't have a 401K to show for it. So what you see on my resume is a two year gap between paying jobs.<br />
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I quit one job to take another job that I was better suited for. I knew that if I remained in my old job (which I had been successful at even though I was miserable), I might have negatively affected and stunted an entire program because my heart wasn't fully in it. I was actually doing the program a favor by leaving it. I also wouldn't have learned that I really was gifted with the skills and desire to do one-on-one work in the ministry setting, which led me to chaplaincy where I have excelled. It was a smart choice, but on my resume I quit one job after a year.<br />
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I had a challenging internship. It was one of the most humbling learning experiences I ever had, but if my supervisor were called up, I'm not sure she would speak highly of me. Our personalities clashed. Her issues and mine did not mix well. I worked through a pregnancy, un-treated depression, and made calls and visits and attended meetings with a newborn nursing. I thought I was weak and useless, but my God I was superwoman! I learned incredible lessons on humility, and about who I am and how much I need to worry about who others think I am. It was trial by fire and I made it. My liaison who supervised me in the ministry setting would tell you good things about my work- that's why he's on the resume as a reference. The supervisor who watched me struggle in a group who was forced to be vulnerable in an "instant intimacy" expectation: she might not have the best things to say. But she's the one who signed the paper on my internship, so she's the one you'll think matters more. But on my resume, it's a referral I might not get.<br />
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I moved after that internship and spent time getting my children settled in their new environment. I took master gardening classes and was involved in my children's classrooms and volunteered in an underprivileged school. None of those details are pertinent to my resume, that dash was just wasted time where I didn't work. But I worked really hard. I invested in my family and in my community. It was one of the first times I felt connected to my community, and as a child of the military, that was ground-breaking. I set down roots when I didn't even think I had any to set down. I learned how to put my compassion into action in ways that didn't pay. On my resume it's another two years between jobs.<br />
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In that time I also researched those letters that I found. I made trips to Germany and Kansas, tracing my family's history. My parents and my spouse were all on the journey with me and we will all be forever changed by that research. The book I am writing and the blog I keep are just small (and barely seen, especially not on my resume) evidences of that transformative journey that I am still on. I learned more about family dynamics, history and trauma. These things shape how I see people today and the world we live in now. I am no longer blind to my global community. If I did not have the time and attention to do this, then my Grandfather would not be a part of the new exhibit in the Holocaust Museum in DC. I am very proud of this project. Where do I put this on my resume?<br />
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I worked as a hospice chaplain almost two years before my husband's job moved us. I was working full time, well-liked and respected by my peers and supervisors. I had been given new responsibilities that reflected their value of my opinion (being in interviews). I also had been given flexibility to work 4 day weeks and convinced my supervisors to hire an on-call chaplain so I didn't need to be on call 6 months out of the year. They valued me as an employee. (And I set the stage for the next chaplain not to be burned out.) Then I had to quit because we moved. That supervisor will say wonderful things about me, but if you quickly glance at my resume, it's another short stint of two years and gone.<br />
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When we moved, I took time to help my children adjust to their new environment. I almost took a full time job as a hospice chaplain but turned it down to focus on my book research and my kids. It was the right thing to do for my family and for myself. I finally got the right treatment for my depression (medication is a beautiful thing). I volunteered for hospice, I made friends so that this new community can be a place to call home. I got a part time job as a chaplain. But on my resume it looks like I dawdled and then became underemployed.<br />
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Everything in my resume, gaps included, are life choices I made that made me wiser, healthier, and my family stronger.<br />
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Looking back at all of these gaps and dashes and learning experiences, I am sort of amazed. I had no idea how much all of this was good, to the core. If I were to have any regrets, and believe me, I have plenty about the little things, but my main regret is that I didn't give myself enough grace in the learning process. I expected myself to be confident, competent, and omnipotent almost- at every step of the journey. What a ridiculous thing! I am a human who has learned beautiful things. I wish I could have given myself a break from the shame in the learning. Pain was inevitable, but I didn't have to think I was weak or unemployable.<br />
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In fact, now I think I might be the best employee you'd ever have. But my resume can't tell you that. I do wish that somehow when we talk to our children, and even our peers about resumes- that we could give space for the learning process. That we could lend value to the gaps and short stints that taught us how to be more fully ourselves. That even though our resume doesn't show our career as a steady diagonal line up to the right, it has nothing to do with how employable we are, and certainly not how valuable we are as humans. Very few people have that steady soaring success on their resumes, and honestly- I'd rather work with the person who started out as a bat biologist and then became a pastor (true story- a friend of mine!).<br />
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My honest resume might not make me more exciting to a potential employer, but it has made me more grateful for my life's experiences. Maybe we should keep our resumes up to date, but maybe we need to have an honest one for ourselves that we keep up to date. It might remind us why we make the choices we make, or refocus us if our gaps and dashes aren't telling our true story.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389021068178990548.post-10499435310195533092018-11-14T13:53:00.002-05:002018-11-14T13:53:34.691-05:00I Struggle GoodA couple of weekends ago we went to Chincoteague Island, a favorite not-crowded (at least off-season) retreat for my family. We walked everywhere and up and down the lighthouse, we ate ice cream, we explored. And one of my favorite activities: we watched the ocean breathe water in and out onto the shore.<br />
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We even did something so weird: we went to church. I know, it's weird to say that as someone who is married to a pastor. But when we get our rare Sundays off, I am often found sleeping in bed on Sunday morning. But this Sunday was different. It was daylight savings (which is the WORST), but that meant that I woke up at 7am thinking it was 8am. And the pastor of the Methodist Church on this little Island was none other than Joe, a DS (sort of boss) from Jason's previous church assignment, and someone I really connected with while we lived in Hampton. So we thought we'd go to church as a family, actually sit together and not be in charge of a damn thing. It was nice. It was interesting to see how yet another church in the same denomination can worship in such a different way with their own faithful traditions and intentional participants. I enjoyed it. Joe got up and preached, also a nice experience to hear a different voice (and to not know ahead of time what the sermon was about because I had edited it the night before). I honestly don't remember the gist of the whole sermon, because I kinda fixated on this one part: in the midst of talking about inevitable change, he said something about not necessarily being able to be perfect but at least struggling on the path towards it. And not perfect by our standards. Methodists have this weird thing they talk about "moving on to perfection." It's like being a really amazing love-filled person- basically being like Jesus. A good Methodist really wants to be like Jesus. So Joe says we aren't perfect, and change is aways happening, and we're constantly adjusting, and it is a struggle, but we can Struggle Good, and that is moving on to perfection (really: love).<br />
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Struggle Good. Somehow that struck a chord with me. The struggle is there, no denying it or taking it away (as much as I hoped I could). But we can struggle good. (I know- it's not good grammar, that's intentional, just deal with it.) Here's the thing about depression and struggling good: it is still a shit-show, but maybe it can be one with a dousing of grace. I'm super terrible about the grace part. I don't even know what it feels like to struggle good, because it all feels like struggling bad. (Just- seriously, don't worry about my grammar.)<br />
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In fact, I get really annoyed with how terribly I struggle. Annoyed? No- 100% shamed. The lovely writer Liz Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love; Big Magic, seriously- go read her stuff), just recently lost the love of her life to cancer. Do you want to know something insanely irritating? She has somehow figured out how to be vulnerable, sad, miserable, and do it well!! She says to people to create while they are grieving- to let their grief and whatever emotion move within their creations. I kinda want to punch her in the face for that. CREATE?! I can't do shit when I'm sad. I can't put a pen to paper, I can't paint anything. How does she get to express her grief in creation when I sit here just working on the basics? But somehow she is doing that too. I feel like SHE is struggling Good, and I am struggling bad. But this is not helpful, to me, to you, or to anyone (says my therapist and logic and pretty much all the voices but the gremlin in my head that wants me to wallow in shame). So I have to think about what it looks like for me to struggle good, and then inject grace into it and be proud of myself. Somehow. My internal gremlin is rolling her eyes at me but she can shove it.<br />
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Here's what Struggling Good with depression looks like these days for me... I started medication last March? April? Medicine was like a light bulb flipped on. I was like OH THIS IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE FEEL LIKE?! It was fantastic. Every part of my body was *awake* in a way I thought never possible. Not only did I accomplish normal daily tasks, I did it like it wasn't even a thing! Then it rained every day of May. I was still fine, but I started feeling the grey creeping in. The sun shone out enough to keep the grey monster at bay for a little while, I got through an uncommonly rainy summer, and insanely, INSANELY short Fall. Things were still GOOD though. And now, it's November 14th, the time has changed so that now the sun sets at 5pm, and the Grey Winter is here. Technically, we are still in "Fall" but Mother Nature did NOT get the memo. And inside my sweet, diseased brain, the winter has come. Expletives. Hello, darkness, my old freaking enemy. (Simon and Garfunkel should have told darkness what was what.)<br />
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I feel like a grizzly bear. I'm ready to hibernate, and if you mess with me too much I'll rare up and growl at you because I just want to go lie down and you're in my way. I'm not even a powerful grizzly, I'm like one of those sad, malnourished polar bears. The ice (sun in my case) is melting away underneath me and I just can't seem to get what I need to make it through the day. I find myself this last week going to bed earlier (and not in a healthy way, in a 10-12 hour sleeping sprint way). I'm staring out at space a little more. Negative thoughts are nesting in my head. Energy is eroded. The Winter Witch is getting nice and cozy inside my brain.<br />
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Shit. I'm back to struggle. It's so frustrating! I thought I was good! I thought everything would be easier! And... I confess- it is. I'm still functioning. I'm just struggling after being fairly effortlessly functional for a while. Now I'm facing my old struggle routine. The checklist of medicines I need: Sun (fake or real), Food (real food, Sarah, REAL food), water, vitamins, MORE Vitamin D, Fish oil, good coffee, movement, engagement, medication, therapy, writing (I'm trying to create LIZ).<br />
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I now find myself again making those stupid checklists for each day, to remind myself of what I need to do to stay human: Monday- eat food/take meds, shower, go outside, SUN, snuggle a dog, drink water, get off social media, read a book, SUN, talk to a human, don't talk too much (or listen too much) to a human. FIND THE SUN SOMEWHERE. Make appointments only and always between 1030am-230pm. By February, Jason is going to have to walk me to the shower again. But it's all on the evolving struggle medication checklist.<br />
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So I'm struggling, but this winter I'm going to try to Struggle Good. This does not mean I'm going to be particularly awesome at being good at things, or doing more things- it just means that I am going to try my hardest to take care of myself, and bathe in grace as often as I possibly can. I'm going to try REALLY hard to tell myself that I am struggling GOOD, not Bad. That I am not a loser, but a struggler, and somehow that is different. It IS different. I Struggle Good.Sarah Snowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10680153203009020803noreply@blogger.com1