thin perils

a kind of average of my size and shape then

When I lived in Austin I had a large friend group of women, and we often included their boyfriends and husbands in group events (their choice, never mine, and not because my husband lived in NYC . . . I wanted to be with my women, and when the men were there things changed a lot). During the period I was at my thinnest, one woman told me every single time her partner attended, “Don’t you sit near him,” and then she’d look me up and down and position them at the far end of the group from me. I never could figure out which one of us she wouldn’t trust:  me, as if I’d try to lure him, or him, as if he were not in control of himself.

Throughout that long period of my thinness, I heard similar comments from other women. I also heard all kinds of mean things about my size and shape, catty things, insulting things, things that derived from a kind of jealousy. I know women internalize misogyny, and I know a lot of it centers around physical appearance, and I know I’ve made my own share of such comments and judgments about thin women, and I know that for myself, they came very squarely out of jealousy. Cut that bitch down so she doesn’t ….WHATEVER.

around the time a couple of friends told me I’d gotten too thin

Still, it surprised and hurt me when these comments were directed at me, and especially by women who were my friends. I tried always just to smile back — for they were always smiling at me with all their might, and adding in nervous laughter too — and I knew I was no threat to any of them because I don’t like men and I really don’t like attention from men. Nothing makes me dash to the other side of the room faster. But more than that, I was no threat to them because they were my friends! I did have friends who were supportive in a number of ways, and some who pulled me aside in concern that I became too thin for a while, but the one(s) who saw me as a threat never saw me as anything but a threat.

It always made me so sad. It made me sad for myself, and for the jealous (or whatever) women, and about this stupid culture. But I’m thinking about it again because I think I’m back on track. Today marks one complete and uninterrupted week of daily yoga and walking and eating better. The scale is moving but the part that matters most is that my relationship to those things feels like it has found its groove again. I do look forward to having my thin body back; golly did it feel good. For me, feeling light physically went so beautifully with feeling light in my mind. I felt so good in my clothes, and no matter what anyone else thought, I thought I looked good for the first time in my life (misogyny directed at myself all those heavier years). I want that physical feeling back, so light that I can run, so light that I can pull on my skinny jeans and Converse and bounce lightly out the door. I want that feeling where my breasts were so much smaller and lighter that I could sleep easily, and clothes looked better and felt more comfortable. That body was just for me. Like many women with profound trauma histories, and especially profound sexual trauma histories, when I felt threatened I raced back into my fat body where I felt safe from men, so when I feel heavy, it drags along the implication that I must feel threatened. (And of course I DO, we have the Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief who is an existential threat to us all, and to the whole world.)

It can be disheartening to find myself out of breath 10 minutes into a level 1 class, when I could take a 90-minute level 2 class without even breaking a sweat, but you work with who and where you are, and you work with the body you actually have. I need to be in better shape when winter comes and my daily wood-hauling work begins. But this is the eternal lesson of mindfulness: drop the story and be where you are. Child’s pose if I need it. The discipline of showing up on the mat is the biggest point, not what I do or how long I do it. I haven’t yet found the inner quiet, but I assume that will come. One thing that occurs to me that’s very different this time than the last time I started this path is that we now have a nightmare government. When I started my last mindfulness reboot, we had President Obama, and now…..well, we have this terrifying country.

One challenge I have now that I didn’t have when I lived in Austin relates to my husband. My experience with husbands is a common one, based on what I’ve read: sabotage. “C’mon honey, just eat some ice cream with me.” “You don’t have to diet this weekend, right? I’ll make us some lasagna.” Etc etc etc. In Austin, I had ~18 days to focus hard on eating only and exactly what I wanted to eat, to do yoga whenever I wanted, to walk when and for how long I wanted. When you live alone, some things are just simpler. Then I’d go to NYC for ~12 days and either give in and then regain ground when I got back to Austin, or struggle with him about food. His cooking is heavily based on frying things, and he uses gallons of oil. (I almost never use oil, except some drizzles of olive oil, and I never ever fry anything.) And his cooking is delicious! But he’ll accommodate me by making a big salad…..with glugs of his homemade blue cheese dressing. Or a Caesar salad and if you know what goes into that salad you know it’s not healthy. Or he’ll deep fry some vegetables for me. NOW, I am alone Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday for dinners. He gets here Friday afternoons around 4, and leaves for the city Mondays after dinner. We have a lot to figure out. I tend to walk more when he’s here, and I can easily roll out my yoga mat and do yoga whenever I want (plenty of space here, unlike in our apartment in the city), but the eating thing is HARD.

I want my most comfortable body back. It’s my body and it isn’t for anyone else. I don’t look forward to women’s reactions when I get it back. To be honest, I never noticed any different reaction from men no matter what I weighed; I’m older now and largely invisible to them which is also a relief. But it’s the women’s reactions that were the most problematic, and I have my own shaming self to deal with, my own jealous snarky commentary to grapple with.

Onward. It’s a rainy Monday here at Heaventree, but another beautiful day. xoxoxo

abundance

My life is filled with abundance. The world is abundant.

sunflowers

Right now, so many of my friends and loved ones are facing difficult times — and in the way these things go, many of them are having one after another difficult thing piled on top of them in an overflow of trouble. There are health scares for them and their loved ones, and life changes, and work trouble, and interpersonal trouble, and loss of all kinds. Having been through my own periods like that, I empathize so deeply. I’m glad I have experienced all those things myself so I can stand beside them however I can.

For me, right now, I am not in the midst of a rain of trouble. For me, right now, it’s a time of great abundance of every kind. Of great joy, of great peace. And I’m grateful for that too because it gives me resources to spare so I can be there for my loved ones a little more readily. When I was in my own huge storm a few years ago, I remember feeling the dreadful focus of all of it, the power of it, the overwhelm that kept me unable to connect to trouble others were having. My own troubles were so consuming they blocked the view. So now it’s my turn to get to have space and energy to spare, attention to give, concern and love to offer, an ear to listen, a shoulder to bear, a back to help carry. It’s a nice thing about the world that when some of us are in trouble, others of us can help.

And so I recognize the grace and wonder of my particular moment, and appreciate it all the more. And what a moment it is. Among all the rest, my oldest daughter Katie’s birthday is in just a couple of days, a celebration of the day that has melted me for 35 years, now. The anniversary of the day my life changed forever, and forever for the better. The day this wonderful woman was ushered into the world, through me. I love and admire her with all my heart.

there she is with HER beloved child, our darling sweet Oliver
There she is with HER beloved child, our darling sweet Oliver, taken a couple of years ago. I have hundreds of pictures of her taken since then, with Oliver and now also with Lucy, but I’ll stick with this one. She is a wonderful mother.

Katie is without a doubt one of the strongest people I know. She’s hilarious. She’s one you can count on. She loves her family more than anything. She’s solid, and tenderhearted. She knows what matters to her.

And Marnie, also in the vast field of my abundance. Marnie, whose earnest heart feels so familiar to me; Marnie with her adoration of her boy and her husband; Marnie, with her big quiet voice. For 32 years I have watched her flower.

Marnie and Ilan, taken early this year. Again, I have a bunch of other photos of her but this will stand in.

And Heaventree, my glorious Heaventree, the ground of my abundance. And poetry. And music. And beauty. And books. And friends, far-flung for now but no less mine. And my health, which at the moment includes mental health of the shiny, happy kind. And my husband, who will drive up from the city today bearing food and my big camera and his beautiful eagerness to cook for me. And my wisdom, which allows me to know that the wheel shifts and turns, it can do nothing else, and this abundance will shift too. Who knows what the fall and winter will bring, I sure don’t, but I am swimming in great abundance for now so if you need an ear, or space, or an arm, count on me.

* * *

As long as I’m thinking about my daughters, here is a wistful poem about the experience of being a mother.

The Mothers
Jill Bialosky

We loved them.
We got up early
to toast their bagels.
Wrapped them in foil.
We filled their water bottles
and canteens. We washed
and bleached their uniforms,
the mud and dirt
and blood washed clean
of brutality. We marveled
at their bodies,
thighs thick as the trunk
of a spindle pine,
shoulders broad and able,
the way their arms filled out.
The milk they drank.
At the plate we could make out
their particular stance, though each
wore the same uniform as if they were
cadets training for war.
If by chance one looked up at us
and gave us a rise with his chin,
or lifted a hand, we beamed.
We had grown used to their grunts,
mumbles, and refusal to form a full sentence.
We made their beds and rifled through their pockets
and smelled their shirts to see if they were clean.
How else would we know them?
We tried to not ask too many questions
and not to overpraise.
Sometimes they were ashamed of us;
if we laughed too loud,
if one of us talked too long to their friend,
of our faces that had grown coarser.
Can’t you put on lipstick?
We let them roll their eyes,
curse, and grumble at us
after a game if they’d missed a play
or lost. We knew to keep quiet;
the car silent the entire ride home.
What they were to us was inexplicable.
Late at night, after they were home in their beds,
we sat by the window and wondered
when they would leave us
and who they would become
when they left the cocoon of our instruction.
What kind of girl they liked.
We sat in a group and drank our coffee
and prayed that they’d get a hit.
If they fumbled a ball or struck out
we felt sour in the pit of our stomach.
We paced. We couldn’t sit still or talk.
Throughout summer we watched
the trees behind the field grow fuller
and more vibrant and each fall
slowly lose their foliage—
it was as if we wanted to hold on
to every and each leaf.

in hiding

endure

SO. From my childhood, I developed a sense of myself as a standing ox. (Side note: did you know that ‘ox’ isn’t a different kind of animal than a cow? It’s just a domesticated bovine that has been trained to carry weight, more or less. I always thought it was an entirely different animal.) My idea of ‘standing ox’ is very specific, and I have no idea where it came from, but to me, being a standing ox means being able to stand while being whipped and just keep standing. Maybe even while being whipped with barbed wire — but to keep standing. To keep your head down and stand, to endure, to take whatever abuse is lashed on you. I envisioned myself as a standing ox from childhood on. One of my spine tattoos is the kanji character for ‘endure’ and when a Chinese woman read my spine to me, she read that one as “you able to keep doing hard thing even though it nearly impossible.” I remember her reading of that character most specifically. That’s when I broke down crying, because her explanation of the character fit my own understanding of it so clearly.

So that’s something I can do, and do well. And nota bene: that’s not necessarily a strength. It doesn’t necessarily carry value. It’s stupid to keep standing while someone is trying to torture you or kill you. There is wisdom in knowing when to say ‘no more,’ when to leave, and I don’t regularly have that kind of wisdom. I am too firmly standing ox for my own good — but it is my approach to difficulty, and something I can do without even thinking about it very much.

An ability I do not have, but others do, is to resist insanity. To laugh in the face of gaslighting. To hear the lies and be unswayed by them, unmoved, to have my own psyche be unmarred. Nope, I do not have that ability. Even if I don’t feel swayed, or wonder if the gaslighting and lies are right, it makes me feel like my sanity can’t endure. I feel instantly panicked, it’s hard to breathe, my eyes fill with burning tears, my shoulders rush to my ears, and I struggle to put words together in a sentence. I literally pant.

So you can imagine how awful our country is for me, with the insane Republicans and their alt-right/Fox News-lies spouting craziness, their fake version of “reality” that doesn’t connect at all — this is my specific flavor of the misery, most of us have our own and this is mine. It’s debilitating and I have not been able to develop any ease with it, even after nine months of the administration. I was nearly shredded by the campaign season but I just kept thinking, as most of us did, that there would be no way. No way. Yes way, it happened and every day it’s insane.

Gradually I’ve withdrawn from the world. At first I thought I could fight alongside everyone, and when there are very specific experiences to join, like the Texas Handmaids, or anti-T rallies, or the Women’s March, I can do that. I can link arms with all those others who see what I see, who see what the whole damn world sees, and I can resist. But I can’t participate in the dailyness of it, and one thing I’ve realized here in my Heaventree haven is that perhaps what’s best for me, now, is to more fully withdraw. I’ve unsubscribed from the podcasts I listened to so regularly (Pod Save America and Pod Save the World, and the NYTimes Daily Briefing, etc.), but kept the storytelling ones. If Fresh Air is about politics, I just delete the episode. I don’t look at the Washington Post or the New York Times any more, unless it’s from a specific link to an article about something non-political. If you need to cope with all this by sharing it on Facebook and engaging in dialogue there, I support you — we all need to deal with it however we can in order to get through — but I just can’t do that any more. It’s too painful, too debilitating, too destructive to me personally. It’s not tapping my strength, it’s assaulting my most terrifying weakness.

So I am pulling an ostrich, and I feel a good bit of shame about it. Lucky me, with my immense privilege. I’m white and I own a home in the mountains. My daily life is not under any threat, nor is the daily life of anyone in my immediate family. I live in a progressive state that has mostly good politics. I sure don’t feel wealthy, and worry non-stop about not having work, not earning money, but relatively speaking I am. Lucky, lucky me being able to hide my head in the beauty, here. Lucky me, being able to act as if the government doesn’t exist. Lucky me, hiding in paradise and worrying about ticks.

I’m grateful to all of you who fight and keep all the insanity in front of our eyes, who work to keep all this from being normalized. So grateful. I thank you for carrying the load where I can’t. But if you ever need a standing ox, you know where to find me. I’ll be here at Heaventree, or in NYC, making or consuming beauty in one way or another. Marnie and I are going to collaborate on a quilt (she the designer, me the implementer….drawing on both our strengths!). I am writing. I will bake bread, and make good food. I will be doing yoga and walking and taking photographs. Time to get some knitting done for the winter, which is surely coming. And I mean that in a Game of Thrones way too, because my friends, winter is here.

the monster just needs orange hair, right?

Mindfulness project day 3 underway….day 2 was beautiful. <3 [and new post up on Heaventree]

Don’t Mess With Mr. In Between

Remember this song?

You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between

You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith, or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

I’m no real fan of the lyrics; I think if your pointed mission is to focus only on one part of life and ignore the other, insisting on walking only on the sunny side as I heard someone say, you’re not really living your life — but maybe that’s just me. The lyric came to my mind this morning because I was thinking about how very bad I am at living in the In-Between.

Finally, thank heavens, hallelujah, oh praise be, I am not living in between. I’m not in between two places, as I have been for 4.5 years, and as I have intensely been since we decided to buy this house. I’m not in between the leaving and arriving. I’m good at tolerating that experience, I’m just not good at taking care of myself in the midst of it. I kind of psychologically pant, like women in transition (ha, that’s kind of interesting), and just try to let it all be all around me without pushing it all to finish. So I’m very good that way, but I do it at the expense of really living, somehow. I float along on hold and don’t really put my feet down on the ground — I guess because I feel like the ground is shifting.

Huh. How clear it is now that I’m writing about it.

In the most practical way, what this means relates to self-care in all its manifestations. I don’t tend to my appearance in any way at all. I don’t even try to eat well. I don’t do the things that nourish me, in any way at all. If I take in something that sustains me, like poetry and art and movement, it’s almost accidental. It has to happen into my path on its own and I just kind of sniff and keep going.

And then there’s the devastation wrought by the election, and the nuclear impact that has had on my psyche. I’ve put on thirty pounds since the election. Thirty. I haven’t done yoga since before we went to Indonesia. I’ve walked, but not in an engaged way. I just drove 1,933 miles, only a handful of weeks after driving more than 2,000, and you don’t eat salads and drink spring water when you’re doing that. My body is rebelling, and some of it is temporary, like the way my hips and knee joints are kind of frozen from the long drive. But my hair is lifeless and hard looking. My skin is dull. My posture — never my best attribute — is somehow even worse. My mind is a mess, thoughts frizzled, peace and stillness nowhere to be found, clear thoughts unavailable. I feel the panting of my psyche.

But now I’m here, at Heaventree, and I just get to be here. I return from transition to living, with my feet on the ground. Ever since the election, I’ve tried to return to my best way of being, but always by trying to reincorporate something lost, like a decision to do yoga at least X days/week. I think now I’m going to return most pointedly to where I started a few summers ago, with mindfulness. I’m going to simply try to be present, and do just one thing at a time. No demands on myself beyond that, though my goal also is to focus on food again, my morning green smoothie slowly absorbed. Grains and vegetables and fruit, again. And I’ll hold the possibility again of yoga and meditation, maybe starting with some peace-instilling yin classes just to allow me to reconnect to my body in a way that feels so good.

And so I sit here in my still unsettled house, nothing on the walls because we’re going to paint, no living space set up because we’re still without a couch, but I am here among the trees. I allow the frazzle to settle, the water to clear. What do I hear? Birds, in stereo, and at all distances around me. The rushing water of the larger creek down below, moving quickly again because of all the rain we got yesterday. I feel my heart pounding because I drank a lot of coffee this morning, the pleasures of returning to my own coffee routine, enjoyed out on the deck and surrounded by peace.

I feel so deeply this poem, this morning. You can listen to him read it here.

The Peace of Wild Things
Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Thank you for that, Mr. Berry. It’s always what I need. Mindfulness Project Day 1.

added bonuses

Moving into this house has been complicated by the fact that everything had to be unloaded into the basement, since the former owners were still living in the house. While it was a relief to be able to do that, instead of renting a storage unit (especially since they left three days later), it means that everything is in the basement. I want the empty boxes to be there instead of in the living space, and the boxes are kind of heavy (especially after the first couple), so this means that I go downstairs into the basement, collect a giant armload of stuff, walk up the basement stairs, and for all the bedroom and bathroom stuff, then also up the stairs to the second floor. It doesn’t take long to put away an armload of stuff, so a few minutes later I walk down two flights of stairs, and repeat.

This is obviously good for glutes and thigh muscles. And exhausting. Yesterday I think I made 7.3K trips, and boy did I sleep well last night. So there are two added bonuses to life at Heaventree, right off the bat. Lemonade!

Another added bonus is that it’s critical that I am mindful, here. It’s critical that I not just dash around with a distracted or unfocused mind, because I am here all alone, in a remote and rural place. I am alone in this house, and if I am out of the house, I couldn’t call for help. I am kind of a weirdo on stairs — worse going up them — because my foot plans to take one step at a time and my brain says, “No! Take them two at a time!” so my foot gets confused and strikes the riser between the stairs, and I stumble. The basement stairs are wooden steps, and I am afraid of heights so seeing between them, as I get nearer the top, always produces a kind of scared paralysis in me, also not good. This combo could obviously be bad news, especially if I were to fall into the cold basement . . . and especially if I didn’t have my phone on me.

It’s critical that I pay attention and be present, and how wonderful is that? I’ve gotten so far off my mindful track, ever since the dreadful election and the ensuing chaos and trauma of life under this nightmare administration, and what I’ve needed most was the ability to return to myself, to stay present, to be. And now I live in a place that both makes it a necessity, and provides me the most beautiful sanctuary (thank you for that word, Dixie, you’re so right) in which to do it. So when I am ‘forced’ to be present, what I see is beauty, what I feel is peace, what I hear is nature, what I feel is the quiet brilliance that surrounds me.

This doesn’t feel at all like making lemonade out of lemons — it feels like the biggest gift I ever could’ve received. Sometimes life is like that. Once in a while, more often than a blue moon but not so often that you take it for granted.

It’s Friday, which means that Marc will head to Heaventree after he sees his last patient for the day, and he’ll be here until we leave Tuesday morning for the airport. I have the kitchen fully unpacked now, so cooking will be less stressful for us both (“Honey, do you have X?” “I do honey, but it’s not unpacked yet.” [said for the millionth time] “Sweetie, where is the X?” “It’s not unpacked yet sweetheart.” [said for the millionth time]). He’s bringing a cooler full of food, stuff that’s more expensive to buy here than in NYC, and my little 3-day period of complete silence means I welcome his conversation with eager anticipation. Happy Friday y’all, I hope you are happy today. xoxox

disorientated

It’s so cute the way Brits add that extra syllable to the word ‘disoriented.’ I want to be disorientated too! If I have to feel the way I’m feeling, let me make even the word itself be different. BOY am I disorientated.

All night long I keep waking up not knowing where I am — such a literal experience of my metaphorical state. And not only don’t I know where I am, I’m just so confused in time. After I figure out that I’m in my own bed in Austin, certainly a familiar place, and certainly a place that feels like my home, then I have to make sense of the next day. When is it? Is tomorrow going to be Tuesday? Or Saturday? And what do I have to do, am I meeting someone, when, where? Is it a day I can just hunker down and pack? What’s going on? When is it?

And last night I fell asleep to a playlist on Amazon Music of rain sounds. I either sleep with my kindle in my hand or my phone in my hand every night, and last night it was my phone. Every time I’d wake up, I’d start the playlist again and eventually fall back to sleep. Once I woke up and heard thunder and rain sounds and I was so confused; my playlist wasn’t going, what’s happening? It took me several minutes to realize that it was really raining and thundering, in real life.

It’s obvious why I feel all this, no need to explore. I’m moving after 4.5 years. I’m back and forthing and my days have no rhyme or reason. And I remain deeply disoriented by the election and what has happened since. I still can’t get my feet on the ground. Most of us on this side of the fence are feeling this. Our hair is falling out. We’ve put on weight. We have sudden bouts of rage, or sobbing, or confusion. We are disorientated — not just by him and his government, but by his supporters who remain happy with him despite all this chaos. So that’s underneath my real confusion, but I wish I weren’t so psychically fragile, or tenuous. I’m not happy with either of those words, I don’t think they’re exactly what I mean, but I wish I weren’t so whatever. I wish I were more emotionally solid, psychically immovable, psychologically stable. I wish I weren’t so easily pushed around by things.

I wish I weren’t so rattled by this move, because I am very happy about it in 95% of the possible ways. I know how to do this, it will be my 82nd move (a conservative number, to be honest), no one knows how to do this better than I do! Why am I disorientated. Get boxes (check!), put things in them, arrange for utilities to be disconnected (check!), arrange for movers (truck and transport, check! helpers, still TBD), change mail (check!), say goodbye to people (ongoing, Lori Farewell Tour[TM] underway, and sleeping at Katie’s the last three nights for baby kissing, check!). I know how to do this! I want this move! I daydream about my new home in the Catskills and easily see myself there! Why am I rattled?

Flux has never been my favorite state, I’m much happier in a solid state, and God knows I’ve lived in a kind of flux for 4.5 years…so maybe it’s not simply the flux I’m in the midst of at this specific moment but rather the accumulation of all these years of it. That feels a little better. Maybe now that I’m facing the end of this period (which includes its own necessary period of hyper flux), maybe it’s just catching up with me.

And what a waste of time, hating that I’m like this. I’m like this. I’m 58, and I’ve always been like this, and I can smile sagely and wax on about the probable good side of being so psychically fragile, but it’s the downside I’m in the midst of and can’t seem to get on top of and it sucks. It sucks. I’m not breathing well. My shoulders remain at my ears. My teeth hurt from all the jaw clenching and teeth clacking. My hands ache from being clenched. My throat ought to hurt from having my heart up in it all the time. I can’t sleep worth a damn. I don’t know what day it is. (All this has been true since early November, post-election, although it was true and coated in fear during the campaign, too.) (But it’s all ramped up and so in my face right now and it sucks, I tell you. It sucks.) (And I’m so happy to be leaving this hateful state, and to be going to a state run by Democrats, and to the most beautiful Catskills, and to my own home, my name on the deed, my own property, my own private paradise……so COME ON, LORI.)

There’s an article I’ve been meaning to read on Medium about how to cope in this horrible time in the US — it’s bookmarked and flagged and I want to read it closely but I keep forgetting. The first point, I think, is that we have to accept that it IS. We set aside judgments about it and find a way simply to say IT IS. It is. No more “I can’t believe this!” or “Did you hear, I can’t believe, can you believe?” That state feels terrible. Yes. Believe. Accept. It is. It is. And of course the challenge for doing that is it feels like it requires a fuller kind of acceptance — acceptance of his message, his tactics, his actions, etc. But no: a simple acceptance that it is. It exists. He exists and has been elected. That is.

I suspect that’s my task. I’ve been trying all the various coping techniques I know (or not trying them, feeling unable even to look at my yoga mat, or lace on my walking shoes). Trying to lower my shoulders when I notice them, etc. Or trying to rail against myself: don’t be this way! You know how to do this, snap out of it! What’s wrong with you! Get it together! Why are you like this? Why are you being like this! COME ON.

Accept. Accept that my psyche is a fragile one. It is. Accept that I’m going to be feeling disorientated by this move. I am. Accept that the country is being held by looters and traitors. It is. Accept that his followers continue to think he’s great. They do. Accept that, like Popeye, I am what I am and that’s all that I am ’cause I am what I am.

Time to grow. I hate that. As my dearest former therapist always said, nobody likes the FGOs. (fucking growth opportunities) But I’m tired as hell of scootching along the floor with my shoulders up by my ears and my teeth clacking and insisting that I know how to do this so what’s wrong with me. Accept, dear Queen. Accept.

art and a reboot

OH MY have I been in trouble with myself. Ever since the nightmarish election, I’ve been in trouble. I keep trying to stand up, find myself, breathe, reorient my mindset. I’ll make headway — return to the mat, the street, the vegetable market — and for a moment I am back. But I’m back in that moment, still surrounded by chaos. And it’s a specific kind of chaos that’s my own worst nightmare. The incessant (even when it’s nonsensical) lying and gaslighting, and a country of people who are just fine with it. (Mercifully almost all of my own people see what I see, but not all do.) And that’s not even considering the hideous political stuff he’s doing, the destruction, the looting.

And so I’ll rally and pull it off for a few days: oh yes, yoga, how delicious. A daily walk, hard again at first but after a week getting a little easier. My wonderful food, lots of cool water, clear mind. And I won’t put pressure on myself about it (great! Now I’m completely back! That’s all behind me!) but the constant falling off and then struggling to right myself has been especially awful. I’ve tried being gentle with myself, tweaking expectations, setting low bars, surrounding myself with people who support me, and that’s all gotten me through but I haven’t sustained a reboot.

At this point I’ve gained 22 pounds, from my lowest weight. I’m not quite back where I started a few summers ago (and having sustained my comfortable self for a couple of years, this is hard to take), but I’m in the neighborhood. I was talking to a friend yesterday who asked if I wanted to let HIM have this effect on me — and of course I don’t, of course, but that doesn’t make this stop. It’s actually a thing, the “Trump Effect” — like the ‘freshman 15’ people are eating their misery.

This past week I’ve had a social date every single day, a meal or a drink, and all week I’ve been anticipating today as my next reboot. I’m taking a class this afternoon (watercolor, “bold blooms” — flowers and blossoms, just the perfect medicine) and stopping at the grocery store on my way home to buy fresh, beautiful, healthy food. After dinner I’m either taking a walk or taking a restorative yoga class. It’s not a clear, sunny day here, but I’m filling my day with beauty and color in the hopes that it helps.

Intro to Watercolors: Bold Blooms Workshop
Sriracha Rainbow Noodle Salad!

Fingers crossed, y’all. Is there any worse feeling than just being out of control, unable to stop yourself from doing what you don’t really want to be doing? Unable to start yourself in the direction you really want to go?

How are you?