three things: 12/27/16

1) Headaches, of which I am the chief taxonomist, the God of Knowing, the Linneaus, the Webster. My dad was a headache-haver, I am the inheritor of that misery, and my daughter Katie carries it on another generation. I have a headache nearly every single day, and know the specifics and instigator of so many. There’s the one that exists in the top of my left eyeball (and the very different one that dominates my right eyeball). The one that sits on the top center of my head. The one that presses on my right temple. The one that wraps like a belt. The one that comes from a low pressure system. The one that arises from smells in the environment. The one that comes from specific bad sleep. The different one that comes from insufficient sleep. The one that comes from perfume or cologne worn by others. The one that I get when it’s too cold. Etc. Etc. Etc. The one that’s treated with hot, wet cloths. The one that’s treated with Sumatriptan. The one that’s helped by beer and a Sudafed (only if both at once). The one that’s helped by massage. The one that’s helped by sleep. The one that is helped by nothing. And all combinations of all.

People want to help, and I inevitably hear that I should go to a doctor. But the issue is that I am a headache-haver, and that isn’t treatable. I know how to identify and treat the different ones, so what would a doctor say? You have sinus headaches, tension headaches, sleep-related headaches, you’re sensitive to volatile organic compounds, all of which I already know. It’s a terrible thing, being a headache-haver, because my day can be derailed so easily and often there is nothing to do but wait for the next day in the hope that it’ll be better. This part of the post brought to you by today’s low-heavy-shaggy-gray-sky-headache. I was in my mid-20s when I learned that not everyone has a headache every single day, and it blew me away. Lucky you, if you don’t!

I have 953 pictures of just him, and only 6 of those are from the past 13 years. I always loved this one, he is so beautiful.

2) My son is breaking my heart anew. I got a message from his ex-boyfriend about a box of Will’s stuff — did I want it, or should he throw it away? It’s filled with pictures from Will’s childhood, mementos, gifts I gave him, an album his sister assembled with pictures and letters from us all when she was trying to lead him back to our family, all just abandoned by him. I’m honestly not sure I can bear to collect them, but I know I can’t bear for them just to be tossed in the dump on Staten Island and so I will collect them. They will smell like Will. He told me that Will lost his job in the spring and he doesn’t know if/where he’s working, and that he doesn’t have the same phone number. He knows he is (at the moment) staying with a friend in Sunnyside, Queens, but nothing more specific than that. The thread is getting so weak that allows me to tug him, frayed down to a single twist. Will knows he is hurting me, and that doesn’t make my pain any less, it doesn’t allow me to just reside in anger at him. I still fill the weight of him in my arms, smell the smell of his baby head, smell the smell of his teenage years, hear the sound of his boy voice and his deep man voice. I still remember his humor, his pleasure in beating me at Scrabble, the way he called me Ma just to crack me up. The way he said I’d be Granma Pete instead of just Pete, to make me laugh. It’s holding the full complexity of it all that breaks my heart. If I could simply be furious with him, or let him go, or just feel all the love, it would be so much easier.

3) I’ve been trying to sit very still and quiet with this terrible feeling in order to understand it. I set aside the headache as its own thing, and focus instead on the heartache. Why is it so painful? What, exactly, is the feeling of it? I realized that I feel chaotic and not whole, that this feeling is one of fragmentation, and an inability to cohere. It might cohere if I had a simple story I could tell, if I had more answers (whatever they might be) than questions, if I had a simple set of feelings. Just grief, for example. My mind feels like threads exploded outwards, my body doesn’t feel whole and comfortable, and my feelings are all over the place, changing with my breath. I’m doing my best just to let this all be, to be present with it and not try to force it into one category, one thing, and to notice that I can do that. Super hard, y’all. Super, super, super hard. I keep suddenly standing up and preparing to walk somewhere, but I just take a few steps, turn around, hold my head, and sit down again. This is just part of life, it’s just part of my life, it just is, and it will not always be like this.

apathy is privilege

It’s like a death has happened. Enough people in our country voted in just the right places (note: not the majority of us, though) to elect a demagogue. So the majority of us are grieving, and mourning, and aching, and lost, at the moment. We’ll get ourselves together, we’ll rally, we’ll organize, we’ll work to protect the vulnerable among us . . . unlike the stated plan of the Republicans had they lost, which was to call the election rigged, to fail to concede, to imprison the opponent, to bring out guns and violence. No, instead we will organize and work, once we get through the pain.

But you know, none of whatever Trump does will affect me personally and immediately. I’m white, not a person of color. I was born in this country, and my family has been here for generations. I’m straight. I’m not in the stage of my life where reproduction is a concern. I have a bit of work. I don’t have any family in the military, serving in dangerous places. I’m not disabled. I will be nowhere near our new president so I guess my pussy is safe from him, at least. I don’t have a pre-existing condition that will disallow me from getting health insurance. Of course he will affect me quite personally, down the road, when he ignores climate change, and when he and his Republican Congress gut Social Security, which I’ve been paying into my entire working life and have depended on as a substantial part of my retirement because I am so far from wealthy it’s not funny.

But the part that has me grieving the most is the threat he poses to others, people who just barely have the same rights I have already, and whose rights will probably be snatched away. Marriage equality, for instance. Reproduction rights, already unavailable to most poor women in my own [current] home state of Texas even though they are currently granted by a Supreme Court decision — which I expect they will try to overturn. Gun reform? Forget it, now. Ending Citizens United? No way. And so all the dark money, all the Koch Brothers etc machinations to make the rich even richer and screw everyone else, that will continue on. Giving refuge to immigrants, that ain’t gonna be happening, no way. Climate change? Oh, didn’t you hear that it’s just a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese, and so no worries, man. Fair treatment for women? Tossed back a decade or two, if not more, because you can bet they’ll post Supreme Court Justices, even though they failed to do their job when Obama was obligated to replace Scalia. The sheer irony I choke on is that everything the far right complains about most, corruption and money in politics that keeps the little guy down, they just voted to ensure.

But you know, I don’t have any money anyway, so whatever. I pay 100% more taxes than our president-elect has paid, and there’s not one thing I can do about it. Not one.

Can I, though, sit in my privilege and just shrug, since I won’t be personally and immediately affected? Because my daily life won’t be impacted. I don’t have to worry that a knock will come on my door, or when I’m moving around in the world. I don’t have to worry that I’ll be brutalized on the street because I’m gay, or brown, or of another religion. I don’t have to worry that some ignorant white thug with a trucker’s cap and an assault rifle, newly emboldened by his president-elect who has championed that violence, will kill me. I don’t have to worry that during a routine traffic stop a cop will kill me and get away with it.

Instead, I have to get up. I have to fight. I have to pick which fights I can engage in, because although I want to engage in all of them, I don’t have the available time that would require, and I’m not in any one place long enough to have a sustained commitment to a local group, in a meaningful way. But I have to fight, however I can. I have to be prepared for trouble, because I also have to speak out when I see something terrible happening, whether it’s a cop harassing a black person, a thug harassing a gay person or couple, or a Muslim, or anyone harassing another woman. I have to be honed and ready, and not be caught off guard. It’s go-time, y’all. It’s get off the Facebook meme and go time. It’s speak-up time. It’s speak-out time. It’s self-defense time. Here is a list of outlets you can study to find when and where you can fight back, if you’re interested.

My friends helped me through the worst of the immediate aftermath, and now I’ve found the little crack where the light is getting in. Let’s hold hands and do this. Let’s remember

John Lewis, who has fought for civil rights relentlessly since the 1960s, slow and steady and never giving up, or giving in.
John Lewis, who has fought for civil rights relentlessly since the 1960s, slow and steady and never giving up, or giving in.
Hillary Rodham Clinton, who has been fighting her whole adult life for women and children, and who simply gets up every single time she is knocked down, and gets back to work.
Hillary Rodham Clinton, who has been fighting her whole adult life for women and children, and who simply gets up every single time she is knocked down, and gets back to work. I admire her for this more than I can ever say.
Martin Luther King, who said "I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word."
Martin Luther King, who said “I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality… I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.” Still waiting.
Fred Rogers, who said, “Love isn't a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.” Very hard.
Fred Rogers, who said, “Love isn’t a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.” Very hard.

These people will be my touchstones, my sources of energy and persistence when mine flags, because mine flags too quickly. Help me, let’s help each other, because I meant it when I said with her that we’re stronger together. Let’s make her rallying cry reality — for her, for ourselves, and for everyone else. I’m still with her.

Grace Louise

A year ago today, Katie delivered little Gracie, her full-term stillborn daughter. It was just a knot in the umbilical cord, and I haven’t yet been able to figure out if that makes it even worse. Some days it feels like it does. There was nothing wrong with Katie or Grace, she would’ve been perfect, fine, alive.

It’s been a hard year. My own grief is probably 80% for my dear, dear daughter and her terrible loss and suffering, but there is a very potent ache and suffering for the loss of our little Gracie. Her quilt and Christmas stocking remain unfinished, and I think that’s such a good metaphor for this lost member of our family. Perfect and beautiful, but unfinished.

Gracie shows up most often in my dreams. In fact, a couple of nights ago I had a dream that was very clearly about Gracie, and I woke up in such terrible grief I was crying. But today we are all remembering October 21 of last year, the biggest tragedy my little family has experienced, by far. My divorce from my kids’ father was wrenching and devastating, but we all lived. It pales in comparison to this.

I don’t have anything new or insightful to say about our family’s loss; I’ve grieved and grieved over this past year, and witnessed Katie’s and Trey’s ongoing grief and efforts to find their way forward. The sharpness of the grief has lessened for me, into something like a dull ache that can still stop me, but I don’t experience that every day. It comes in waves. Three weeks ago I was putting groceries in my car at the supermarket and got hit by such a powerful wave of grief and anguish, I had to stop and get in the car and burst out crying, clutching the steering wheel to steady me. It lasted for five minutes, and then I continued putting away the groceries. It’s like that. Grief is an animal that has its own life and it takes up residence. It hibernates sometimes, but it’s still and always there, waiting for you.

And so today I can only acknowledge this one-year anniversary, and honor the memory of our little Grace Louise. We all loved her so much. I didn’t write a post on this day last year, obviously, but I wrote a lot in the 10 days afterwards. This post, written the night before I left to return to New York — never dreaming of the devastation that awaited me — is the most ‘popular’ post I’ve ever written. It has been shared widely, it received a lot of comments and caused so many people to write me private emails, and it’s received the most hits of anything I’ve ever written. It’s titled ‘notes from the mother in the middle of the night‘ and I think it really captures the moment in a way that is true and honest. I cannot read it without crying.

Poetry is such a comfort, and in the days around our loss I posted a good bit of poetry. Sometimes the comfort is nothing more than a clear articulation of the formless feeling that haunts you, but that is a comfort. I just found this one, and it speaks to the effect of time, how easy it is to forget, and how awful it can be.

GRIEF, by Stephen Dobyns

Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewhere people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.

Your name was the food I lived on;
now my mouth is full of dirt and ash.
To say your name was to be surrounded
by feathers and silk; now, reaching out,
I touch glass and barbed wire.
Your name was the thread connecting my life;
now I am fragments on a tailor’s floor.

I was dancing when I
learned of your death; may
my feet be severed from my body.

Today I am also flying back to Austin so it’s a difficult day in so many ways. Tomorrow will be better. I know it will. xo

oh yeah, I forgot!

Dawn. Which just happens to be my middle name.
Dawn. Which just happens to be my middle name.

I forgot this is my life.

I forgot that it’s mine to do with what I wish.

I forgot that others are in my life and in my heart, but it’s still my life.

I forgot that I’m the decider (shaking my tiny fist at GWB on that one).

I forgot that there’s still an awful lot of it to come, probably.

I forgot that there are so many things I can do with it, places I can take it, things awaiting me, surprise good and surprise bad.

I forgot that this house is mine and I can take up all the damn space. Drink out of the orange juice bottle. Have gas. 🙂 Walk around at 3am. Sing as loud as I want. Do this and then that just because. Eat M&Ms for dinner if I want, so there. I can listen to The Partridge Family on repeat without (much) shame.

I forgot that I’m a happy person. Gee, it’s been so long I forgot all about it. Remember that time I was stopped by the gate check person at an airport, and when she looked at my ticket she asked me what my specialty was….and I was so confused and almost said, “Well, I’m really good at being happy?” and then I realized that my ticket said Dr. Lori H. I just adore that that was my first and only thought to the question of my specialty.

How could I have forgotten all those things? Grief puts blinders on you in some strange way, like those blinders a horse wears in the city so it’s not distracted by the world all around, by the life all around. So all the griever or the horse can see is just the street in front, under the feet, no other life.

Happy Tuesday, y’all, I hope it’s a beautiful day.

good thing of the day: memory. just think how awful it would be to forget.

meeting up

Well, I have to say that of course there are good ones and bad ones, like everything else, but Meetup.com is the most amazing resource for finding a social network, as long as you’re willing to put yourself out there, interact with complete total strangers with an open heart, and let the poor fits roll off your back. (That is an excruciatingly tall order for a shy kid who also happens to be depressed, though I am getting so much better.) As long as those willingnesses are in place I highly recommend meetup, even if you’re not new in town but just want to turbocharge your social life, find new friends, or find a gang. I joined 15 meetups here in Austin in an effort to find a new social world and explore my interests with other people:

I’ve had one bad experience, with the knitting meetup (though perhaps I bear a responsibility too, since I was in the throes of the bleak black nonstop crying depression when I went), but otherwise it’s been a fantastic experience. Last Saturday I found My Gang, a bunch of wonderful, warm people who took me in as one of their own, who brunched with me, talked and listened to me, commiserated with me, gave me recommendations, held my hand and smiled at me, and danced with me. I can’t wait to see them again. I’ve never had a gang! I wasn’t that kind of kid. I was the kid with scabby knees lingering near the fence at the edge of the school grounds, with greasy hair and one book under her arm and another close to her face. With crooked glasses and unkempt hair. And a wholly terrifying back story, a secret horrible life at home. My only friend back then was the other school outcast, whose great sin was that she wore pantyhose in 5th grade — the thick beige kind, with snags and pills. Only teachers wore pantyhose, but Pamela (also referred to in gossipy whispers as “trash”) wore them too. So yeah, that’s the kid I was. And those kinds of kids don’t really have gangs. But now, at 54, I have me a gang hell yeah.

Last night I went to a happy hour that was only open to women, and DADGUMMIT Y’ALL those women were amazing. They were all mostly my age (this being a “boomer” meetup after all), and you get a buncha 50+ year old women together and whoo boy. It reminds me of a joke I’ve heard a few times, making fun of that trashy store Forever 21, which apparently sells kind of slutty clothes. The joke is that Forever 31 sells yoga pants and white wine. The women at the happy hour were not having any of it, they had already spent their lives taking care of men and children and parents, they knew wine and they read books, and they had opinions, dammit. Mercifully (and this is because I’m in Austin) they were of similar political mind to me, and the language was salty, the opinions were passionately shared, the book talk was relentless, and the lives were rich and fascinating. Lots of the women were new to Austin, some coming back like me, others coming from elsewhere in Texas, and plenty coming from other states. I sat next to Dee, who just moved here from Seattle, and found a kindred spirit. We chattered throughout the happy hour. I’m Comanche, she’s Kiowa (her grandparents came from Oklahoma, obviously). I met a woman who is also an 8th generation Texan (!) and we talked about injuns and rambling and history and roots.

It was so much fun.

Things have shifted inside me, and lest you think “gee, that was quick, in and out!” I think I’ve been deeply depressed for months and only just realized it, finally, when the nonstop crying started. All medications work quickly for me, which is a real treat (especially with antibiotics, hallelujah, and antidepressants). I’ve been able to read more of Parallel Lives, which I heartily recommend. It pulls you in with the first sentence, and paragraph, and a little later the writing feels denser, more Hungarian-translated. Perhaps, though, the difficulty is my temporary inability to focus very well (even my eyes can’t focus! fascinating) but it’s really got something worth sticking with. I can’t explain it well yet, maybe when the rest of the glass gets cleaned I can say it more clearly. I decided I wanted to own a hardback copy because it’s obviously a book that I’ll want to annotate and re-read, so luckily I found a brand new copy from another vendor through Amazon, for $9. With free shipping (since I’m a Prime member). That’s pretty good! When I can get more engaged with the book, I’ll say more but for now, I really recommend it.

Tonight I meet my gang at Pinthouse Pizza for conversation, pizza, and handcrafted beer. I really look forward to seeing them. It helps me enjoy the rest of my time alone, knowing that at some point I’ll be seeing people I can talk to, because you know the forks just don’t talk back. I’ve tried. They’re terrible conversationalists. “How the hell did you get in the refrigerator? What the hell?” I ask. They’ve got nothing.

Partly because the glass bottom boat is starting to gleam; partly because I actually have people to talk to when I want; and partly because, I think, I’ve grieved so intensely for the last three months that perhaps I’ve got it mostly done, I am feeling good in my quiet and peaceful home, on my quiet and peaceful street, in my busy and getting-rich life. Everything in this old world is multiply determined, so there are probably a lot of other factors in this, but I honestly don’t care why. I’m relieved to find some peace, and some happiness, and contentment with the solitude and pleasure with the social stuff. I’ve been a life-long member of the Overthinkers Club, and I’d really love to turn in my card if I could figure out how. Getting older helps, getting relief from depression helps, and learning acceptance helps too, learning that not much is really under my control.

Happy Thursday, everyone. I hope it’s a good day for you, with something wonderful that you don’t expect.

good thing of the day: people. people who need people. are the luckiest people. in the world. and i need y’all, real bad. 🙂

a how-to guide

I am a strong person, I believe that. I’ve been trying to be honest here (and in the rest of my life) about what it’s like to be going through the devastation of the past two and a half months. I think a few people mistake that honesty, misinterpret it, to mean something else—weakness, even—but that’s their deal, not mine. To me, a big part of being strong is being able and willing to feel whatever there is to feel, not to pretend it’s not there, not to hide from it, not to ignore it, but instead to stand there, with as much strength as possible, and face it.  When I was in college, and had three young kids at home and no help, I had to get it while I was sitting in class; I didn’t have the luxury of time to let my mind wander during lecture and then get it later. I had to get it right then, be present, pay attention. And I think of this period of difficulty in a similar way; whatever is happening to me now, I want to go ahead and experience it and face it and deal with it while it’s happening so I don’t have to handle it showing up later, or over the next however long it might reappear.

So it’s terrifying at times, and I feel terrified. It’s so sad sometimes that I have to lie down and clutch the furniture to bear the sorrow, but I do that, and then it eases. It’s lonely, so I sit with the loneliness and try to understand it. It’s empty, and so I absorb the emptiness and try to feel that, and think carefully about how to fill it in the most meaningful way. The losses feel like a tsunami, and so I try to anchor my feet and absorb the wave and still be standing when it washes away. When happiness, or even joy, appears, I try to open my hands and arms and soak it up and get as much restoration from it as I can. When I feel the truth of there being no one here to take care of me, no one to pet me or give me a hug when I’m having a hard time, no one to rub my back, I try to face that feeling and then take good care of myself. It’s hard. It’s exhausting, on top of the exhaustion from grief.

Some people have been very good to/for/with me, good at helping, being there, doing what they can. And other people have pointedly not. I haven’t been surprised by who falls into which group, especially the not-helpful group, though some of the helpers have been a little surprising — not that they helped, but that they were particularly thoughtful in a specific way, usually born of having experienced hard times themselves.

I don’t know how useful this how-to guide will be, because it may be so idiosyncratic to me that it won’t apply to others. That’s probably true of a couple of items, but I’ll bet it’s generally good. If you have a friend or acquaintance who gets blasted by life, here is my advice:

What to do or say:

  • Just say you’re thinking about her! That’s helpful. If it occurs to you to drop a little note of some kind, even a text or an email, you might be surprised just how much it can help. You might send it at just the right time without knowing it (because for someone facing a lot of stuff, it’s actually always just the right time).
  • Listen. That’s always good.
  • Real mail! Man alive, I can’t tell you what that did for me, the several times someone went out of their way and sent me something in the mail. I got the boost when they asked for my address (a real boost that day), and then a surprise second boost the day the mail arrived. It can just be a small thing — you know how great it is to get real mail.
  • If you’re nearby, propose meeting for a drink, or coffee, or a walk, or a movie. Be specific! She’s probably glad to do something you suggest, and unable to suggest something herself. People in sorrow and trouble welcome distraction, even when they are trying so hard to be strong. You can let your friend set the pace of whether to talk about the trouble or not, and just follow her lead.
  • Periodic short encouraging notes. And really, brief is just fine, it does the trick.
  • Be patient.

What NOT to do or say:

  • Just for a while, handle your own little problems, or turn to other friends. Just for a while, don’t make demands on your overburdened friend. If you hear her say that she’s feeling fragile and her resources are low, take that information as a cue not to ask her to handle your life too.  (And p.s., it doesn’t count if you make a demand but say, “I probably shouldn’t be asking you.”) And then, especially, do not be critical of her for not helping you. Of course, if something big happens to you, good or bad, share it with your friend anyway.
  • Don’t comment on the “drama.” No one but an actress likes to be told that, in the first place, but in the second place who would ask to have a string of terrible things happen, who wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by it without it being labeled “drama!” There’s something kind of blaming in that, or at least it’s so often used that way that it carries the connotation, whether you mean it or not.
  • Even if you think her grief is dragging on too long, keep that thought to yourself. If you just have to talk about that, talk to other people, though who likes to be gossiped about behind their backs. (But if it’s really getting worrisome and you are scared for your friend and her well-being, you might eventually ask, in a loving way, how she feels she’s getting through the grief, to open a conversation.) If you’re feeling this way, instead take the opportunity to quit thinking about your own irritation or annoyance and think about helping her.
  • Don’t simply say, “If you need anything — anything at all — just call! I’m serious!” Or if you do, don’t sit by the phone waiting, because that call isn’t going to come. Really, you’re just saying that to make yourself feel better so you can believe you helped (and we all know that, because we’ve all said it, and we’ve all heard it). So don’t do that — there are very very easy things to do that really will help, and won’t demand too much of you. Like a quick email or a note.
  • Do not be impatient. If that’s too hard for you, then do what you have to do for yourself, of course, but don’t take it out on her. She’s got all she can do trying to be patient with herself, I’m pretty sure.

And one between here and there: If you are the primary support to someone who is in need, be sure to rely on your own support network! As my friend reminded me (and I know very well from the first 6 months of last year), it’s draining and exhausting being the primary support to a suffering person, and if you get plenty of your own support, it’ll help keep you from doing things on the “don’t do that” list. But more importantly, it’ll help you keep going, too. We’re all so connected to each other.

So that’s today’s how-to guide, born of a particularly hard day.

good thing of the day: thoughtful friends and family, blue skies, and inner strength.

so touched by the human condition (+)

I was watching a PBS show called “On Story,” where entertainment creators talk about their process. The particular episode I watched was about making comedy work, so it was writers of Seinfeld and Freaks & Geeks and Curb Your Enthusiasm talking about how they made their stories work, and what worked of the stories their writers brought. Inevitably, they said, what worked were the concepts that were from someone’s real life. And then Alec Berg, a writer for Seinfeld, said that even in the emergency room, there’s someone trying to make a joke, trying to make the situation lighter. And that just touched me so much. Because it’s what we do, isn’t it? Someone tries to help, someone tries so hard to remind the suffering people of other things, to distract them. And isn’t that so dear? Too many times there is little or nothing to do to help someone, and we all know the agony we feel when we face that, our inability to help. So our hearts reach out, we do these little things, these tiny little connections, because we long to ease another’s suffering. 

None of us gets out of this alive. We suffer. Terrible things happen to us, and we try so damn hard. We slip and fall, trouble finds us when we’re minding our own business, we betray ourselves, we do shameful things out of our own pain, we have dread secrets we hope no one discovers. But we try, so hard. We want good things for ourselves, we want good things for other people. We think we’re not such good people, but really we are.

And story shows us who we are, even if it’s stretched out pretty far. I’ve always thought that Tolkein’s trilogy was really the story of Sam’s faithfulness, his loyalty to Frodo, come what may. The beauty of that part of the story always reaches me, no matter how many times I read the books. The Wizard of Oz, about our deep misunderstanding of ourselves, that we go in search of what we had all along; we think we’re stupid so we want diplomas, but we were always smart, all along. (OK, that was kind of personal there.) We’re not here for very long; we appear and disappear, and flail our way through this life trying to make our stand, leave our mark, express ourselves — and isn’t that the tenderest thing there is? How can you feel anything but tender toward us?

There are terrible people — this isn’t to deny that there are terrible people. There are people who scheme, and who just want to stir up trouble, and people who have no conscience or qualms about destroying others. That’s true too, of course. But in a way doesn’t that make the rest even more precious?

I’ve got a bunch of stuff to share, some links and a poem, so hop to it:

And finally, Temma sent me this poem that someone shared in her poetry group meeting last night. She knew what it would mean to me, and to be honest, it’s so hard for me to read because it breaks my broken heart so so much. But it’s so true, so I save it here, and share it in case you like it too.

Time Does Not Bring Relief: You All Have Lied (Edna St Vincent Millay)

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!  

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,  

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;  

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.  

There are a hundred places where I fear  

To go,—so with his memory they brim.  

And entering with relief some quiet place  

Where never fell his foot or shone his face  

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”  

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Happy Thursday y’all. Be really good to someone today.

good thing of the day: blue skies! beautiful, beautiful blue skies, never to be taken for granted — and days of rain help me remember that.