The Grey

Today the sky loomed grey. It does this often in the winter near DC. I feel the effects of the grey, swirled with the gumbo of awful coming down the city pipelines.

When the Grey hits, it paralyzes me. I am not sad or happy or mad or anything. I'm frozen still as time whips by. Hours pass and I've done nothing. It's as if I'm moving in slow motion and the world spins faster. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. This is not my first rodeo on the Grey. I've been here before and I've got some tools, if I can get to them fast enough, I may not lose yet another day.

Today my tool is "treat yo' self" and not like the characters in Parks and Rec. I'm not buying anything. I shaved my legs. I am wearing knit pants and a tank top without bothering with a bra. I'm putting my hair into a pony tail. I am drinking hot tea. I read Mary Oliver. I'm going to put on nice socks. I'm writing this. Then I have a short and simple list. And I'm going to do that list as best I can today, taking breaks for meals. That's it. That's what I have. But I feel comfortable, I feel less overwhelmed. I've given myself permission not to save the world today. I've given myself permission not to write the novel today. I've given myself permission not to make the big to do list today. I'm just going to tackle this small list of three things. That's all.

Words

In the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore has a line that goes something like this: "Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic." J.K. Rowling, the magic-maker herself, has every right to work a phrase like that.

I feel like words are failing me lately. Not for scarcity- no- my God- there are so many words. Too many words. Piles and piles of useless, ridiculous words. I am drowning in the word-piles vomited by people who can't find the edit mechanism in their brain. This might explain my sudden thirst for meditation, silent worship with the Quakers, and as much sleep as I can get. I need to get away from all the damn words. They suffocate me.

It's a bit like losing the foundation to my house.

My sister and I were talking this morning. She shared that she had a bit of an epiphany about doing the best she could at her practice- her skill set. She is a therapist, and she said that she used to have these grand ideas of changing the world- maybe through writing or speaking. She said that now she feels more centered in her new endeavor: to cast aside the "be all things" and focus on the skills that she has already crafted. She is now on a mission to be the best therapist that she can be. She might not have a brand or start a revolution, but her patients will get unbelievable care, and that can be revolutionary.

I was so inspired by that, I thought- wow- if we all just focus in on the thing we are gifted for- on the thing we've crafted within ourselves- on our passion- then maybe all the people- as wholly functioning parts- will make a more whole world.

Then I thought: what the hell am I crafting? I have a book, which might as well be titled "the never-ending writing" for the lack of an end in sight. I have a blog, which I fairly diligently update (not this one) and a handful of folks seem to enjoy. I had a job in a career that was respectable, which I took a break from to do this book. Yet, right now my craft seems to be sleeping and eating Cheezits, and also avoiding housework.

This blog is titled "writing light in dark corners" yet every time I feel compelled to come over here and write, I feel like I'm dumping black ink into the sun's glare. I want people to see the darkness that the light of oblivion seems to be blotting out.

And there again, are those precious words. The words which have been my balm and sacred space are now garbage piles. Putrid, overflowing, smothering mountains of absolute rubbish. Weighty little shits that mean nothing. Even the gorgeous words are rendered plain by the sheer volume.

Too many words.

I don't have my art anymore. Loud and thoughtless mouths have taken my paint and pissed it everywhere, demanding that people respect their art form which took them seconds and zero thought. Or worse- they intentionally crafted the words to hypnotize and paralyze and exploit. My precious words have been transformed from flowers to daggers, honey to piss, magic to tricks.

Too many words.

I feel like protesting with silence. Confronting with SILENCE. You're going to trash words? I will make them sacred again. I will stop speaking, writing.

Even worse, I stop caring. That is what has happened. I used to have this fire inside me, I could not sit still if I wasn't writing it down, thinking it out. Now I just sit and stare into the blue sky aching for silence.

Every terrible thing that happens. Every beautiful thing that happens. I no longer have words for them. They have been stolen. Words are no longer magic. I have become an unbeliever.

So I am lost, and I don't even have the words to describe it.

Beauty

Today I looked through some pictures a relative sent me of her time in France, her home country. The pictures were unbearingly beautiful. Unbearingly is not a word- but it works better than unbearable. It's an action - not a past tense thing. I felt nearly assaulted by the beauty. It was screaming at me: "What the hell are you doing with your life? Get out of your house!" It was also offering me a window into my own salvation. "Want hope and truth and goodness? Stare at me."

When things get hard, when I feel the weight of terribleness sitting on my chest and trying to poke holes into my soul, my breathing reaction is to find beauty. If I can just see the horizon on the ocean, if I can just catch a glimpse of the milky way, if I can somehow stand on a mountain with piercing blue skies and crisp air- then I will be saved. Then I can breathe. Then I won't drown.

I become desperate for beauty. 

Often I just long for it and grow depressed in my despair of not having it. Sometimes I am in the right place where I can see it clearly in front of me. Then times like yesterday, I get off my ass and create it my damn self. I plopped our dinner outside, built a fire in the fire pit, and suddenly, I had beauty. I stayed by the warm fire until it grew dark outside and the creatures of the night began yelling and carrying on in their usual way. I'm hardly ever outside for the transition from day to night and that is a soul-sucking crime. 

The bugs and frogs and who knows what else out there were all screaming at me: "It's about time you came out to hear us! Why do you ignore us?" I don't know. Something of practicality and logic keeps me indoors. It's a plastic wrap trap and I am trying to rip it off. 

Time, money, and adult responsibilities keep me from traveling the world and seeing the northern lights. But why? Time, money, and adult responsibilities are all temporary- and SO IS beauty. Why am I chasing the first? Why not chase beauty? 

Disability Porn

I have thought about this topic for a long time and could never quite find an analogy that stuck, until now.

You know those videos that show a deaf person "hearing" for the first time with a cochlear implant? Or the before and after of a paraplegic who miraculously learns to walk? The video of someone who is in medical debt finding out that they will get that prosthetic or treatment they couldn't afford because of some benefactor? You know what I'm talking about, and before you feel the shame rising- don't worry- I've watched them too and I've cried too.

But I always felt this nagging thought at the back of my mind, like something wasn't quite right. I think that I understood it best when I kept seeing people share the video about the cochlear implants. I found myself feeling bitter. I heard my thoughts scream: she can't hear perfectly now guys- she still has a shit ton of adjustments to go! I heard my mouth say: why the hell did she have to wait so long for treatment anyway? I found myself saying: it's not like she's had a shitty life thus far and everything is awesome now that she can hear slightly better. I realized that it really hit home the discomfort I felt when I knew the disability personally.

And that's when I came up with the idea of disability porn. Sexual porn is all about having access to all the pleasures without the work (or reward) of intimacy. Disability porn is the same. You get to have the pleasure of seeing gratification, happy moments, miracles, without any of the work, heartache, or understanding of the context it took for that person to be where they are. Just like porn, you feel good, you almost mistake the pleasure for a good deed and intimate knowledge of the subject. When you watch these videos and you cry, you actually think that you are contributing to the miracle. You feel good because you felt good watching something good happen.

Here's the problem, you haven't actually helped anyone. And you have no idea that you haven't.

Suzy Q with the cochlear implant? Her life was really lovely before she got it. She figured out how to be human without it. She probably even figured out how to be content and joyful without it. Or maybe she was miserable, but you don't know any of that. She likely didn't have access to the information or funding to get the implant until something magical happened like access to healthcare or marriage to someone with a health plan. Or maybe someone gave her the money. Or maybe she saved up. Or maybe she went into debt for it. After the implant? She has to relearn how to hear. That sound of the refrigerator running? It's going to make her want to tear her hair out until her brain finally learns to shove it in background noise mode. Also, she still can't hear perfectly. She won't ever hear perfectly, because that's how it works. But we don't know any of that story. We just see her visceral reaction to hearing a voice of a loved one like she's never heard it before. What we don't know is what her tears mean. Me? Every time I got a new set of hearing aids I was shocked at how terrible I thought my own voice sounded. It was loud and echoed brashly in my head. Her tears? Maybe she's sad that it's not what she thought it was going to be. Maybe she's happy because she has been waiting for this day for a long time and after many obstacles (maybe put in place by our refusal/ignorance to advocate for her) has finally gotten here. Maybe she's just overwhelmed by the sheer noise that is invading her brain. We have no idea because we don't know her. We don't know what she's been through, and we don't know what happens after.

That's why I feel uncomfortable. Because I glean a little pleasure by sneaking in to this sacred space and consuming her miracle. I don't have to do any of the work. I don't have to think about the consequences. I don't have to struggle. And I get to feel like I'm a good person.

That's disability porn.

I apologize that I may have ruined all your disability porn for you. Now you won't be able to watch a feel-good video about someone getting a miracle without the added frustration of wondering why it took so long, or why they needed it in the first place, or why we think that being deaf/blind/mobility impaired is so horrible to begin with. Actually- no- I'm not sorry- because these are the things we need to think about. We can't consume miracles. We can't get all the goods without the intimacy of the journey.

Why not? Because it isn't real. It isn't authentic, and it doesn't help.

Spring Cleaning with Depression

Welcome to my step by step guide to Spring Cleaning with Depression!

This morning, when you woke up, you thought for a moment about not going immediately back to sleep. Congratulations! Today might be your day!

After you wake up again (about 45 minutes later), you are on your way to spring cleaning.

Drink coffee. Take your kids to the bus stop, even take the dogs for a little spin (walk the long way home and call it a walk).

Get back home. Take a shower. It is now 10am, and you should be proud.

If you are still feeling like you might be able to accomplish something today, then dress for success. That means sports bra (which works because all your regular bras are dirty), yoga pants (you have a clean pair downstairs because your husband folded laundry while watching netflix last night, while you were already asleep), and a tank top.

Now, there is an expression "swallow the frog," which means that you should do the hard thing first. This is a terrible idea. Start with the easiest thing.

Be sure to make several trips up and down the stairs because you keep forgetting to grab what you need. Get your music going, and please don't take too long to decide on a station because you don't have that kind of time to waste. The magic of energy might disappear without notice.

It is 11am, you are dressed, your music is on, your laundry basket has managed to make it to the laundry room with dirty laundry inside. Run the laundry (the easiest task).

Put the superhero sticker from your shirt onto the washing machine and marvel at how it never occurred to you before that you could totally cover the machine in stickers and it might make you smile every time you do laundry. Or will it stress you out because it isn't clean and simple? You decide to leave the sticker on the machine (and another smiley face sticker you find) and figure out how you feel about it later. Laundry is in the wash.

Now you are going to clean the cleanest bathroom, the guest bathroom that no one uses. It will not gross you out and it will feel easy. Your music choice is really working for you, who knew 90s school dance would get you going like this?!

Now you realize the guest bed still has the old sheets on it from when your brother-in-law was here three weeks ago. Take the sheets off. You will make the bed again, once you remember to grab the clean sheets from upstairs.

You found windex under the kitchen sink when you went up to get more paper towels. You don't typically use windex (bc vinegar water works and it's easy enough) but maybe you should just use the rest of this bottle so you can throw it out. So you windex the bathroom mirrors and the glass doors (inside AND out).

Your friend has called and she's bringing lunch over because she's amazing. You switch the wash to the dryer (immediately!) and tell the unmade bed you'll be back later. The windex bottle has three tablespoons left in it and is sitting on the table downstairs. It will likely remain there for another month or two.

Friend arrives and you eat lunch for 45 minutes. Then she asks if the dogs (who have been marching up and down the stairs with you with very puzzled looks on their faces) need a walk. You decide they DO need a walk. SO take a 30 minute walk. Then hang out for another 30 minutes.

It is now 130pm and you have one load in the wash and one in the dryer, and a clean bathroom and unmade bed. And clean windows.

Your friend has left and you think you should probably at least make that bed. You go upstairs for the sheets, see the pile of unfolded laundry on the bed and the sheer sight overwhelms you. SO you sit down and think for about 20 minutes about how you can do this thing. Honestly, you only thought that for 5 minutes, the other 15 was checking email and social media. Anything to distract you from the impending doom of laundry and other unfinished tasks that slowly started to scroll like movie credits in your brain.

You get a lucky strike of clarity and step away from your distraction. You remember what you came for and at 2pm, you grab the sheets, go down and make the bed. The music was no longer giving you nostalgia or pep, so you left your phone playing "My Heart Will Go On" to your laundry pile on the bed upstairs. Downstairs, while you made the guest bed, you came up with an idea for rearranging furniture. You did this rearranging and decided it was OK and left it that way. You aren't sure though. You also remember that one thing you wanted to set up in the guest room, but you can't do it right now. So you cautiously tack it onto the scrolling list and hope to God that you don't get paralyzed again by it.

Before succumbing to paralysis, you manage to switch the laundry, and though the dirty pile is getting smaller, the clean clothes pile is getting bigger. Which is overwhelming. Your energy is running out like you knew it would.

It is 230pm and your child will get home from school in an hour. You feel you deserve a break, so you lie down on the floor and let the dogs lick your arm and lie down beside you. This feels sweet, and you don't want to break the spell, so you stay there. An hour goes by like a flash.

Your child is coming home from school, your day of productivity is done. You made a bed, cleaned a bathroom, and ate lunch. And put clothes in and out of the washer and dryer. But you feel like you cleaned a 15 room bed and breakfast. You wish that you could be normal, that you could power clean a house in 3 hours, but that happens about as often as a full solar eclipse, except you don't have the ability to plan for it.

That's the end of day 1 of spring cleaning with depression. You have no idea when day 2 will happen. It needs to be tomorrow... but you already know that's not going to happen. At least your guest room has clean sheets.

Racist On Purpose

I keep hearing people say that they are not racist. Some even dare pull out the phrase "colorblind" which I've learned is truly a bullshit phrase that helps no one.

Saying that you aren't racist, and saying that you are colorblind, is a quick way to anger just about any person that has faced racism in their lifetime. But I get it, you really don't believe you are racist. Even those of you who really really are racist don't think you are. One guy who marched in Charlottesville spouted some ridiculous tale about how he wasn't racist, but just concerned about white history being erased. Lord have mercy on all of our souls.

I think this is a special (and evil) form of white logic. Maybe it's human, but we white people take a double dip. We are essentially saying that if we aren't racist on purpose, or if we aren't fully aware of it- it doesn't count. Even simpler: we just really don't ever want to take responsibility for anything. Our idea of justice is our assumed innocence. This innocence must stand over every other fact. So a child who is murdered in the street. It can't possibly be about race because I'm not racist on purpose. I was scared, startled, blah blah blah. Every excuse that will keep me from facing a mirror.

Here's a scary thing, racism is not something any of us Americans have been excused from. If you have grown up in America, you have grown up with a culture that has conditioned you to think, fear, respect, suspect, a certain way. It's called systemic racism: where even if you were taught by lovely people to do loving things, you are still part of a system that is bent by racism. Even if you aren't racist on purpose, you are still racist.

OK- so I did sort of just say we are all racist. I stand by that, but clearly there are divisions of racism with 0 being an infant and 10 being Hitler. If we all start our day by saying "at least I'm not Hitler" and then forgetting about it, we're not doing the work. We have to look in the mirror and say: "I locked my door when that black guy walked by. I need to think about why I did that, and possibly get out of my white bubble." That's a start. We need to check ourselves, and listen to people who are not like us- and see what they have to say.

I confess: when the whole Charlottesville thing was happening, I was hiding on vacation and thinking "same old shit." I'm sad that it doesn't surprise me. But I feel like we should stop pulling out the tired "in this day and age" expressions. YES- in THIS day and EVERY age. ALWAYS. So let's do something! I learned that progress isn't linear when Trump was elected. We have to literally never stop fighting. It's exhausting, but letting the darkness win is worse.

After Charlottesville, I thought "same old shit" and my white opinions won't help anyone. But then my friends of color started saying things on social media like "Don't be silent. Speak up. Silence is complicity." And I thought- well shit- I'm certainly not racist, I don't feel like me saying that helps anyone. What am I supposed to say?! But then I remembered- of course I'm racist- I grew up mostly in the south- that stuff sticks. So what do I say?

A friend wrote an article- so I shared her words. A world-renown museum posted a video, I shared that. 

But still this idea of people thinking "I'm not racist on purpose" kept echoing in my brain. So I am writing about it- another white girl talking about racism. But like my friends said: silence is complicit. 

If you are a person, then you have issues with race that you need to deal with. You may need healing. You may need wisdom. You may need a sit down with yourself to talk about your priorities. I don't know- but no more of this "I'm not racist" shit. You are a complex human born into a complex world. Our world has not yet fully developed the tools and wisdom for handling differences. We still get bullied in school if our ears are too big, or if we're really short, or if we like weird music. We're crazy dumb as a species if you think about it. Clearly we have not yet evolved to the nirvana of not being racist.

To think that you have somehow glided through this life squeaky clean of all societal influences is really a great way to label yourself as totally oblivious. If you think that race is not a problem (or not your problem), you have a problem.

Let me get out of the way the people who are legit racist on purpose with a burning cross in their hands and a swastika tattooed on their eyelid. Those folk have some serious issues- but honestly- their awareness of their hatred gets them maybe one step closer to healing if they are ever willing to think about it. But their issues are not our issues- and our issues are so much harder because we're basically a bunch of alcoholics who won't admit we have a problem.

We have to be willing to admit that we are racist. Then we can sort our issues. That's a really vulnerable and humble thing to do. We Americans are shit at humble. We white Americans are even worst. We white Christian Americans- damn near impossible. We have built an empire out of our own piety.

Saying that people aren't racist on purpose only makes it harder to stop getting black people shot. They truly could not give a single fuck about whether you meant to have a racist reaction or not. From what I gather, people of color just want to at the very least not get shot. Of course there are significantly higher goals like equality- but the reason there are so many protests right now is because it is survival mode right now. They are literally suffocating, bleeding, wasting away on the streets and all America has to say is "well it can't be racism, because it wasn't racism on purpose." How absolutely maddening.

So- you are racist. Yes. Stop ignoring it, stop hiding in your self-serving guilt and shame. You're not the one unicorn who completely missed every cultural reference and flew over the systemic tide curved by racism. You just aren't. That's OK. Join me and confront it. It might be humiliating, but we need the fire of that journey if we are to have any hope as a human species. Maybe we in America could be actual beacons of light for racial healing? It's a crazy tall order- but why not?

What am I doing? I fumbling like a moron, but I'm paying attention. I'm paying attention to the stuff that I watch- if it doesn't have any people of color, I take a note and try to watch stuff that isn't all white. I'm reading literature by people of color- and listening. I read Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, a good book. I read Maya Angelou's autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, my first Angelou read ever. I'm reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I have The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead on my nightstand- pretty sure it's going to wreck me. I have really curly hair and I'm using Shea Moisture products for it- which is not to say I have black hair- but the products work for me and I feel stupid for never considering going into the "ethnic" hair section. An added benefit is I'm supporting a company that isn't owned by an old white guy. I'm trying something as simple as attempting to memorize spelling unfamiliar names rather than saying- oh God how can I ever remember to spell that- let me look it up. It's a feeble start but I'm trying. And I will definitely do something wrong, say something wrong, not know something, not recognize something, something. And that's OK- because this is not about me being right. It's about me learning and trying to shed 36 years of living in American racism.

So- just because you aren't racist on purpose, doesn't mean you aren't racist. Start somewhere- anywhere- in addressing that simple fact. 

Fragility

Today I saw a gorgeous butterfly flailing on the concrete sidewalk outside the coffee shop. It was suffering a completely futile fight. The frail wings were failing, with the right one completely rent in two.

I related the absolute frailty of the butterfly to my newfound horror at our human frailty-- to the story line in Battlestar Gallactica. Yes- I made that leap. In the show (spoiler alert) there are humans who are actually Cylons in disguise. Cylons are machines.... with a highly developed evolution (and who had basically eradicated a huge proportion of the human population in this story line- so humans HATED them). There were people who didn't even KNOW they were secretly Cylons. These Cylon human clones had emotional issues. They were super pissed at their creator (another machine? can't remember) for making them so frail. I thought this was sort of cocky on the Cylon's part since they didn't ever die (sort of). But NOW I kinda get what the author was going for (or unintentionally going for- as art tends to do its own thing). These machines knew their potential, they knew their strength. Yet they had been trapped inside this incredibly fragile human body. How humiliating and cruel. How demeaning and torturous. How strangely relatable.

When I saw that fluttering butterfly, I thought- if that insect has any self-awareness- that is sheer torture right there. It hit me that we humans are frail. Super frail. I identified with that butterfly in ways I did not want to. I realized we are a beautiful mess of cells that somehow mostly know how to work. But one bad cell could make the whole thing come crashing down. One wrong turn, bad deed, misstep- can break us.

That's just physical. Our mental capacities for torture are endless. Our bodies might be frail, but our minds have caverns to hold trauma, pain, fears, insecurities, etc. The band Guster has a song with a line "Step on a kid, he'll grow up hating you." We're super frail.

We have very little control over it. We were born this way, with squishy skin and vulnerable minds. Sure- we can protect ourselves as much as we can- but there is NO such thing as secure. In fact in our fabulous design- the more secure we are- the more neurotic. SO if you stay at home and don't actually relate to people- you are also insane. To live is to risk is to have pain is to be vulnerable is to be frail is to be trampled. The biggest joy is inseparable from the most terrifying risks. To that, I feel like the Cylon looking at God and saying: Why the hell would you do this to me? Why is THIS your physics? Metaphysics? Why on earth would we be subject to this? IS the joy worth it?

A man in his twenties just took a picture of the flailing butterfly.

The horrors. He's smiling. Does he know he just took a picture of our souls? Does he find it beautiful? Is it not too much?

If we are so special - why are we so insignificant? If we are so important, why are we so powerless? If we are so influential, why are we a speck?

I am transcribing the information cards of family members who were killed during the holocaust. Their certificates of incarceration are tiny slivers of paper that you thumb through like you thumb through a phonebook. You don't even open it, you just feel the sensation of so many pieces of paper running along your fingertips. These people were significant to very few. Their significance at this point was really only in their addition to the heft of the book of records. They added another ounce to the scale of evil, tipped over by the tons.

The frailty of the human experience is enough to paralyze me. When I stop to glimpse it, like I glimpsed the butterfly, I can't bear it. It's too much. It's too painful. It's torture.