Sleep Is Special

First: 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.

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).

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."

Me, the loving wife I am: "huh?"

He repeats himself and I am now slightly more cogent and respond "yeah, sure."

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!

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.

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.

I'm thinking, maybe I should really try this morning thing!

1130am. I've done some work, I've run the dishwasher and *boom*. I remember why I don't start the day so early.

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).

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.

Sleep is special.

I'm going to sleep in tomorrow.

I'm Sorry Elizabeth

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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:

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.- Laurie Goff

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I really am sorry, Elizabeth.

Interruptions

My 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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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? 

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? 

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? 

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.

D to the pressing

When 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?

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.

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.

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?

I really don't know the answer.

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.

House, Family, Body

I 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.

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.

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.

At one of the gatherings, a mom talked about something she was passionate about. She apologized for it.

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.

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?!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Body Memories

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I feel wonderful after a long walk. I wonder if walking is my adult version of dancing. I'd like to try dancing again.

Dafka

• Dafka/davfka/dafke (yiddish):
• -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.)
• -"definitely or exactly stated; specifically" (Weiser)
• -just to annoy, just to be contrary

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.