The Misnomer of "Feminist Movement"

The feminist movement has missed the point, or at least half the point. I had this epiphany the other day when I was reading an article about feminism. I was raised to embrace independence in women. Equality, respect, assertiveness, self esteem, drive, career goals, all of it. I don't recall what exactly I was reading, but it suddenly dawned on me that feminism has often been defined as women acting more like men. I've always known intuitively that this was happening, but to view it within the framework of the feminist movement was appalling.

It's about embracing male characteristics in women. Not a bad thing in itself. I'm all about a culture that accepts a woman who is analytical, strong, and assertive. However, what saddens me is that in order for a woman to become a CEO in this society, the way she gets there is by only showing her masculine characteristics.

Male=strong=powerful=CEO. Female=nurturing=(perceived) weak=not a CEO. Remember when Hilary Clinton cried? I don't recall her being applauded for that.

We may think we've made great progress, but America is still steroids-heavy on male traits. Male characteristics are the ideal. They equal power, America's crack. And we've never seen it go through power withdrawals. I wonder what that would look like.

When I think about all the instances that led to where I'm at in my career, it was because I polished up my male characteristics. I had to show assertion and self confidence at job interviews. I had to speak with authority and conviction during class presentations. I had to show these traits during my internship and first post graduate job. When I feel emotional about a client's story, I hide my emotions and tears from them for fear of not looking professional or capable.

Carl Jung is a psychologist who explored unconscious universal archetypes. These are aspects of personality that are present in all humans. They take shape as thoughts and images. All humans have a masculine and feminine side to them. Yin and Yang. Action and reflection. Dominance and passivity. This is separate from biological sex and even gender. It might be thought of as how the spirit is androgynous.

Carl Jung used the terms anima and animus. The anima is the feminine side of a man and animus is the masculine side of a woman.  As a culture we don't accept feminine traits in females, and especially not in males. This isn't a reference to homosexuality or transgender individuals. I'm referring to feminine tendencies (anima) such as sensitivity, receptivity, reflection, nurturing, gentleness, and intuition that are often repressed in men. And male tendencies (animus) of courage, assertiveness, analytical thought, decisiveness, and drive that women are beginning to access through the "feminist" movement.

For example, some of my male traits are drive, perfectionism,and criticism (of myself), which tends to attack my female side. This might be effective in the American workforce and job interview, but it stifles my creativity. Perfectionism and self criticism slaughter most of my creative ideas before they have a chance to bud. It's like I'm going through life with only the right side of my body. The right limbs break the left and I'm only accessing half of my Self. No wonder I'm limping, stumbling along in some areas of life.

I discovered this when I went on a retreat in a community that embraces Jung and his follower's ideas. I was sharing my writer's block despair with someone, and they suggested my male side (traits) might be dominating and attacking my female side (traits). I'd never thought of it that way before. Read more about my retreat experience.

I can't do Jung's work any justice in a single blog post, but here's something from Wikipedia (under anima/animus) that goes a little deeper: "Because a man's sensitivity must often be repressed, the anima is one of the most significant autonomous complexes of all. It is said to manifest itself by appearing in dreams. It also influences a man's interactions with women and his attitudes toward them and vice versa for females and the animus."  We project our anima/animus on people we're in relationships with (of the opposite sex). This is fascinating!

Feminism is a misnomer because we're not about embracing feminine characteristics. It should be called the "masculinist movement." Please just call it for what it is: In order to be treated as equals women have had to act more like men.

I'm sure you noticed that "masculinist" is not actually a word. There is no equivalent to "feminist". That alone should clue us in.

It might be better suited to have a "masculinist movement" that encourages men to acknowledge their intuition, sensitivity, and tenderness.

Autumn

This moment. Fleeting, but I grasped it for a few seconds this morning. Too many times, I get caught up in my life and I miss the fall season. Suddenly it's November and very brown. I don't know how this happens. But this morning while driving through rolling green hills peppered with cows, I was awed by the splash of colors. The sun was brilliant, which is best for showing off the leaves. I noticed that this moment is part of the autumn peak. The glorious reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and deep purples. Vibrant and healthy. The leaves aren't dead yet. A mix of green and autumn confetti. They're making their loud finale, grand performance. Soon it will transition to browns and burnt colors. As I grasped this, I noticed how many of the trees look like they've been touched by an artist's paint brush. Just the tips on this one, a corner on another, broad strokes for another. The perfect array of a 1000 shades of orange. As if an artist had diligently worked last night to blend the colors, insert the intricate details of brown bark and green stems, and shivered in anticipation that I would awaken to this surprise. The peak of autumn is short, a couple of weeks. I didn't miss it this year.

P.S. On a sunny day, notice the difference in the leaves in mid morning light compared to dusk kissed light, and all the variations in between. My favorite is mid morning.

Facebook Sobriety

So I'm in the midst of trying what I'm call an "experiment." It's less anxiety provoking than saying I'm going cold turkey and never going back to it. I'm on day 13 of my Facebook sobriety. I even have an accountability person for when I'm feeling weak. Actually, two. Yeah, it's that bad.

There were many factors that went into the decision, but one was time. Some things such as my day job aren't negotiable and it takes 45+ hours out of my week. Sleep is not negotiable. Showering is not negotiable.  I realized that despite the advantages Facebook gives to writers to get in touch with their readers or provide a link to their newest blog post, if it's taking time away from when I could be writing, then there will be no audience. Nothing to share with readers.

In case you're considering it, a hint that's helped is that I temporarily deactivated my account so no one can comment or message me and therefore, I'm not as tempted to check it. It's also a relief though that not everything is lost (it's the closest I ever came to compiling a "wedding album" of pictures) so I can go back to it at anytime and everything will be there. I also removed it from my "bookmarks" on the computer. My "experiment" is to take it one day at a time and see how long I can go.

I was aiming for more time, but I've been surprised at how much it's decluttered my mind. I don't need to know all those details about everyone else's lives. I don't need to witness the drama that sometimes unfolds from a simple post or picture. Why fill my mind with unnecessary information about everyone I know? I'm learning to be more thoughtful about what occupies space in my mind. The same applies to commercial ads, TV, the Internet etc. If I'm going to have more room in my mind for creative ideas and story tidbits, decluttering your mind is just as important as providing yourself with more time in a day.

Maybe it's something about fall and hibernation, but I've also felt a need to close some of the shades in my life. I'm naturally a fairly private person, but removing myself from Facebook is also my way of focusing inward, and regaining more privacy so I can be more aware of the creative thoughts that bubble to the surface.

The first week wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I worked through my withdrawals, the urges to check, the jittery feelings. After a few days I stopped thinking of status updates I could post.

So far I've fallen off the wagon twice. The first time wasn't so much about feeling compulsed to check but  about a  Facebook event I'd created that had disappeared from everyone's view and was causing some confusion. The other time was a weak moment. I've noticed that when I'm feeling down or a need to numb myself from whatever is going on, I have the urge to check it. It's an easy way to zone out. A favorite blogger of mine wrote about her experience of unplugging from social media and I agree with a lot of her points: Momastery.

If you're one of those disciplined individuals that checks Facebook once a week or once every few days, this may not apply to you; maybe there's something else that's a time suck or that clutters your mind. For me it was Facebook. I might go back when I can be more balanced, but then again I might not.

It's a relief that you can't "like" this. That's awesome if you do, but it's not essential for me to know either.

my depression

Day One
My depression is much like when you're at the beach, kids are playing in the sunshine and water, and you see distant dark clouds gathering. There's not much you can do about it. It's most likely going to storm. You get a a little anxious seeing them roll in and decide you better pack up your gear so you can make it back to the car before it rains. It's disappointing. There's not much you can do. It's coming. I never know how violent it will be, or if it might pass overhead with a few sprinkles. Either way, the gray clouds are gathering around my head.

I've never experienced a severe depression and it usually doesn't last more than a few days when it comes, but once it "hits shore", it's like going into a dark room when your eyes haven't yet adjusted from the bright light outdoors. You can't see clearly and you know you just have to wait it out a bit. It's familiar, you've had this before so you don't exactly panic, but it's also irritating.

When I get like this, the best way to ride it out is to watch TV. Mind numbing TV where I can be passive. Where my brain doesn't have to work too hard. I might try other things like writing, reading, or something active like riding a bike, but my motivation is so low that I'm lucky if I can get off the couch. Reading is almost impossible. I have to reread a paragraph and I still don't know what I just read, mostly because I don't care about it. It feels like so much work. And that says a lot because I love reading.

Sometimes I don't notice the depression until I catch myself being bored by everything I try  to do. I've finally realized that if I'm bored of reading, it's a sign I'm depressed.

Day Two
I don't always know the why. I'm an analyzer. My own therapist once hinted that I tend to intellectualize rather than feel things. That surprised me because sometimes I feel like I feel too strongly, and that I'm too sensitive. I don't know.

Sometimes the depression is about something bothering me, or it's a sign that I've been too busy.  Sometimes I've been too hard on myself. My inner critic has gained the reins of my thoughts.

There's a little chipmunk that frequents the shrubs and garden in my backyard. He scurries from bush the bush, jittery, and skittish, eventually scurrying back down the drainage hole from where he came. I feel like him when I leave home during a depression. I'm hesitant and dart quickly in and out of the library. I pray that I don't run into someone I know. I barely brushed my hair and teeth. My glasses and hole-y sweats look like I'm ready for bed. I'm the classic depressed person from a Cymbalta commercial.

I test myself to see how quickly I can dart in and out of the library. I have a book on hold and it expires after today. That's the only reason I'm going. It's also another valiant effort to see if a new book might spike my attention, pull me out of the engulfing sadness.  Typically I take my time, people watching, noticing the park across the street, moseying between library shelves, purposely getting distracted by shiny new books, breathing it all in. But no, I'm on a chipmunk mission. In and out so I can go back to my hole below the ground. I'm skittish, certain that everyone suspects I did a half ass job of brushing my teeth today. That my clothes are dull much like my skin that day. That everyone is looking at me, judging me.Thank God for self check-out.

 I consider stopping at the store for junk food- maybe Doritoes. Normally I eat healthy, but when I get like this, I don't care.

I consider whether it's the risk of darting in and out of the store, only because we are low on junk food at home. I decide it's too much effort, and all I want is to crawl back into my hole. It's enough energy focusing on the traffic so I don't get into an accident.

Despite my tendency to isolate at those times, I still check social media, email, and text messages. When I'm in the fog, when everything looks like a bleak and blustery November day, I still have a crevice of receptivity. By chance, someone will do or say something that gives me a droplet of happiness. I hold my empty cup out and I take that drop. I don't think the person has a clue. I grasp at it, clinging- on a day like this.

The big question is how does one get through a work day like this? Do you take a sick day? Because we can all admit there's still a stigma about mental health problems. You just don't call in to work and tell them you're too anxious, depressed, or angry. Do you go to work but do it half-heartedly? Do you go and avoid everyone you possibly can? Or do you put on a completely fake facade? I haven't found an answer. You muddle one way or another.

Sometimes I give myself short pep talks that the only thing I expect of myself is to show up and do the minimum. That I'm allowed to leave Miss. Perfection and Ms. People Pleaser at home. I even give myself a time frame. This week you get to leave parts of yourself at home, but your physical body is going. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I've learned the most important thing is to be gentle with myself. Much like you would treat a five year old who's walked two miles and legs are hurting her. Two more baby steps? Need to rest awhile on the bench? You need to be carried? Whatever you need.

Day 3
I felt normal-ish for part of the day. I survived a difficult day at work and can't help but feel a little like super woman for accomplishing that.

Chi-Town

I hate packing. And unpacking. But I love to travel and I don't do it nearly enough.  Last weekend we went to Chicago- beloved Chicago- I adore this city!

It was unseasonably cold for July (sweatshirt weather), but we were just happy it didn't rain.

I love how all of my senses are stimulated when I travel to an environment that's outside of my normal ho-hum routine. My stepdaughter was quick to notice some of the back alley garbage smells that drifted to seemingly clean streets. We assured her it was normal.  

Here are the views from the Sears Tower (Still seems weird to call it Willis Tower). It was a cloudy day so we couldn't see four states like you're supposed to, and it was an hour and half wait. We played several rounds of 20 questions while we were in line. It's a good game for a ten year old.

Grass and shrubs growing on the tops of some of these buildings! We saw a few pools too.

                          View of Shedd Aquarium and museums

Chicago River
















Windy city means getting wet by the blowing fountain!

Impromptu chess game

We had a beautiful window bench with plush cushions in our hotel room. Perfect spot to take a nap or people watch. I liked watching how confused people got at this particular crosswalk.

Sunset from Navy Pier...

Shedd Aquarium. GOBS of people because it was a Saturday in the middle of summer, but we spent the entire day and saw just about everything. This is a humongous crab.

Anaconda...I'm really surprised I didn't have nightmares that night.

Stingray! Love these creatures.













                                   Can you see him??

Jellies! These had to be the most inspiring creatures of all. No blood, brains or bones, but living creatures that are 95% water and sting their prey. It was a hectic day absorbing all kinds of facts but the exhibit talked about how millions of these came together, preventing some form of pollution in the ocean. I wish I remembered more. I just remember being awed.

The sea otter was a favorite of ours! They're so playful (and fast). It was hard to get a good pic of them.

We had the chance to touch the stingrays. They were soft and a little squishy. I was surprised by how playful they were. We laughed at how many of them flocked to my stepdaughter but flapped away my husband's hands.

The aquariums are soothing to watch (minus the 20 people bumping into you).

The Shark tank

Captured this pic during our evening speedboat ride on Lake Michigan. As the sun set, the city lights dotted our view.

My camera was having fuzzy-ness issues but I kind of like the effect in this pic.














Cloud gate at Millenium Park. I had fun taking creative pics with this sculpture. It's one big mirror.

Standing underneath.












Our reflection. Where's Waldo? Can you see us? I learned to not put the camera in front of my face.

Fountain at Millenium Park. This place is a blast for little ones on a hot day.

Nap time on the window bench.

Whenever I come home after a trip like this, I not only feel rejuvenated and happy, but I get a better view of my life. Travel is like the zoom function of a camera. I live in this world, but my zoom is always fixated on the autumn tree on the left side of the picture. It's pretty, it's nice, I know all the angles and nuances of that tree, much like my daily life. But if I can zoom out and see the whole picture, I get a new perspective. Better yet, if I can zoom in on the trickling brook on the right side of the picture, I start to think differently and how it fits in relation to the tree. I can see how that one broken branch on the tree needs to be trimmed or better yet, how magnificent that autumn tree really is. My perspective blossoms. I don't know if it's how the neurons fires in more parts of the brain as different areas are stimulated by new and unusual environments or if the mind just needs the flexibility of a "zoom function" from time to time. 

I'm awed by this world, and the array of places that exist. The big cities, the people there I rarely come in contact with in my mid-sized conservative town, different transportation (hey-taxis were fun for us!), new ways of thinking, the city noises, and changing up your schedule for a few days. And you don't have to travel halfway across the world for this. We drove three hours. 

So long Chi-town. We shall return!

A half finished book

I'm trying something new today. I'm doing a book review before I've finished the book. A book that's about two boys who grow up in Afghanistan. The author is from Afghanistan.

First though, I have a confession. I like my comfort zone when it comes to books. I'm also a bit of a picky reader. Not a reader that bashes other authors or one who only reads literary novels, but I'm impatient. The story really has to grab me by the nape of my neck and hurl me across the room.  It has to give me a hangover the next morning because I was up until 5 am. If I'm going to invest 8 hours of my time in reading this book, it better be a damn good story.

But I digress.

I subscribe to Writer's Digest and that's where I found this book. I don't typically read New York Bestseller books and I often don't have the same taste as the masses. (i.e. never read the Twilight or Harry Potter series). But the topic and setting intrigued me, and I enjoyed reading the interview with the author.

My husband served in the Middle East twice. I like learning about cultures different than my own. I'm an American who really doesn't have a clue when it comes to Middle Eastern countries. I decided to check it out.

 The book takes place mainly in Afghanistan, starting in the 1970's, spanning thirty some years. It follows the lives of two young boys growing up in this country and weaves in the details of how their country changes over the years. That's all I'm saying. I REALLY don't want to give anything away.

From reading the interview, I learned that the author started writing the book before 9/11. And sales were initially slow (published in 2003).  I like that it doesn't have a political agenda and he didn't write it as a money making opportunity. After 9/11, he mentions that he actually stopped writing it for awhile until his wife urged him on because it was a good story. And that's what it is. The bare bones of a good story. Raw. Difficult. Honest. In 2007, the book became a movie. Every author's dream. I haven't seen it yet, but please read the book first. The writing is stellar.

Granted, I'm not done with the book. I'm a quarter of the way through, but I will probably finish it in the next couple days and wanted to write this before I start his next book.

It's a fictional story, but I'm learning a lot about the history and culture. I know these things happen, but as an American, I've become desensitized by the news. I'm physically and mentally distant. I can read a book in my bathing suit in my backyard without worrying about a bomb landing on my home or being shot. And I forget that THAT is a luxury, not a given in this world. I forget that torture, ethnic cleansing, and mass killings did not end with the holocaust. It's alive and breathing in 2013.

First pages: There wasn't a flashy attention grabber and I did have to reread a few sections due to the unfamiliar names (apparently reading books about "Bob" and "Mary" are easier for an American?). After I got through a handful of pages and figured out who was who, I was hooked.

As a writer, I've been trying to slow myself down when I'm in the midst of a book I love and ask myself, why am I so hooked? What is this author doing that works so well in telling this story?

This is what I've come up with so far:

• Good pacing
• Vivid and concise language (relates back to pacing)
• Characters I care about
• Good plot: not over-the-top (i.e. action movie), but has MEANING and keeps me intrigued
• I don't really know, but it has that IT factor

This book keeps bringing up emotions in me. I feel the character's sadness. I'm angry with the protagonist. I'm shocked and have to take a break. Everything a good writer should be able to elicit in a reader.

___________________________________

A Day Later:

I've finished the book. I'm moving on to his next book, A Thousand Suns.

I really enjoy his writing style. Simplicity is the backdrop, allowing the plot its profound moments. 

What they don't teach you in graduate school

When I entered the field of psychology, it was (at least consciously) for reasons that many therapists have: a strong desire to help people. I've always had that passion, that drive to help others grow and seeing the potential they have. I wanted my career to have deep meaning and to make a tangible difference in this world. I'm also fascinated by human behavior and feelings, and wanted to understand why people behaved the way they did.

My passion of writing almost surfaced into a career of journalism when I started college, but my personality didn't mesh well with the field and I switched my major to psychology. I told myself writing would be my hobby, and some day I'd make something of it, but I wanted something more stable to pay the bills.

It's been over ten years since I made the decision and I've struggled over the last few years about whether I made the right decision. Some days I love psychology and other days I'd rather hide and not deal with the public.. or personality disorders.

Hate and love are too strong of words, but I do have a like/dislike relationship with the field. Like many therapists, I'm an introvert, and while I like making connections with people and helping them, it's also incredibly emotionally draining. By Friday, I am depleted. I have very little left for anyone else in my life, and so I spend the weekend "recovering" and recharging my battery. And you start all over on Monday.

There's a high rate of burnout in the field, especially if you work with severe mental illness and the underprivileged (in other words, not in private practice). When I try to explain this to people who aren't working in mental health, they nod, but it's always clear that they don't "get it." Typically people I meet in every day life are more concerned that I'm analyzing them and I reassure them, "I'm off the clock."

I had an "ah ha" moment while talking to a colleague of mine. Do you know that feeling you have when you think you must be the only person in the world that has ever felt a certain way about something? And then you're talking to someone who, on their own, start spilling how they feel and it's the exact same thing? Suddenly you feel relief and a closer connection to that person. Thank goodness I'm not the only one!

So my colleague tells me how she has a hard time socializing and being around people outside of her immediate family when she's not at work. How it can feel draining and almost like work to even be around people, because after a week of doing therapy, all she wants is to be alone or just alone with her husband. As an introvert, after talking and dealing with people all week, after giving and connecting emotionally with so many people, she needs some quiet alone time.

Ding ding ding! That's been my experience too, ever since I started my career. It was frustrating to watch my social life dwindle. I was spending much less time with family and friends than I did five years ago, but there was a reason for it. I was exhausted. I had a period of time where I was starving for alone time or chilling alone with my husband. I craved it and wondered if I was turning into a hermit.  However, after I granted time to myself and felt rested, I found that I enjoyed and really missed spending time with people in my personal life.

In graduate school they don't teach you about burn-out or vicarious trauma*, which is really unfortunate considering psychologists have one of the highest rates of suicide of all professions (or last I heard they did). 

You learn as you go, you reach near burn-out points, you suffer through burnout, you have periods of depression, you try to manage a challenging job while managing the stressful life events that all humans go through.

You look for support from colleagues who (thank goodness) are therapists and lets admit, it's pretty convenient to have coworkers who are therapists. You learn from them. You observe. You struggle with set backs and kick yourself for not being social one weekend and then realize, you probably need to relax and there will be another time to socialize with those people.

You wonder whether it's all worth it, if your career is consuming your life, if you need to draw better boundaries between work and personal life. You catch yourself thinking about work problems when you're at home and you remind yourself of boundaries. You decide maybe you need to get back into therapy yourself to sort all of this out and then you're not sure when you have time to squeeze it in. But if you tell your clients the importance of being engaged in therapy, shouldn't you be modeling that yourself?

Then after all that, you realize that all your body needs is a nap, and that the most important message you give your clients and should model for yourself, is to take care of yourself.

*Note: vicarious trauma is when a therapist is traumatized by hearing and treating people who have been through trauma.

Fire and Stuff

“It’s just stuff, it’s just stuff” The paramedic offered a few pronounced pats on my back as I was walking up to my house. I was blubbering between tears about my deceased grandpa’s letters, photos, and journals I’ve kept since I was 8-years-old. She meant well, I know she did, but I wanted to shout, “It’s not just stuff!” That “stuff” has meaning, memory attached to it.

Looking back, I really appreciated how she walked along with me after that, not saying much, but was there and concerned for me. I didn’t know anyone else there. My landlord and husband were on their way. There were all these strangers- bystanders, firemen, paramedics, police, local news- all of them standing around gawking at my house. The house that I’d JUST left a few hours ago. I had rushed to eat my cereal in that dining room, and made sure the door was locked as I ran out to work. I was just here. How could this be?

She wanted to make sure I had someone to support me and asked if I wanted to be near my “duplex” neighbor, but I declined. I’d never met the woman officially. She’d moved in over winter and it was awkward to meet her now. I looked for my landlord, I scanned faces. I was balling and I started making phone calls. I had to let people who knew me know what was happening.

 I don’t recall all the specifics but I remember this sense that the paramedic didn’t want me to feel alone. She let me know when she had to leave for a second and that she would be back. She said she’d make sure Red Cross was contacted. For some reason I do remember about 4 different people- firemen, paramedics asking me if I wanted to have The Red Cross called. I murmured again and again that I thought they’d already been called by someone else. 

I was dumbfounded because the firemen were doing their job, dousing the place with water, but it seemed to be in slow motion and it wasn’t doing anything. It kept burning. I hoped it was only in the roof. I told myself, they’d put it out soon and everyone could go home; everything would be okay and we’d be able to sleep there that night.

People floated in, my landlord and his wife, my husband. My landlord asked if we had renter’s insurance and I said no. My phone continually rang- family, work, people wondering how it was, if it was still burning. I felt detached from everyone. I told myself this wasn’t for real.

The roof started to disappear. Then the bedroom collapsed into the living room and the window smashed open; cockeyed furniture jutted through. I burst into tears again- my illusion of an attic-only fire was gone. We wouldn’t be sleeping there again.

I couldn’t watch it anymore, so I sat in a chair offered by my neighbor in his driveway, with a tree that perfectly shielded my view. It seemed absurd to sit as if waiting for a parade or fireworks show, but what else could I do? I took calls from concerned family, friends, and coworkers. My mom said she could tell I was in shock. I was calm and matter-of-factly told her what was happening, no different than telling her about any other day.

Someone asked me what size pants my husband and I wear. I couldn’t figure out why they would ask such a thing. I have plenty of clothes. I couldn’t get my brain to process it, much less answer, but apparently I did because they soon returned with clothes from a local resource center. Another person asked if I wanted pizza. The Red Cross or someone had ordered it for everyone and it was set up on a table in the street. They asked three times, but I wasn’t hungry. 

The Red Cross volunteers were kind and asked many questions, none of which I remember now. One was training the other.  It was very sunny. I wished it would rain and put out the fire. A transient thought passed that I really shouldn’t be sitting in the sun considering I’d been horribly sunburned the week before in Florida. One of the people who had first seen and reported the fire, came up to us to tell us his story, but all I could do was stare at him. I should have said thank you. I needed to use the bathroom and it felt odd that I couldn’t use my own bathroom in the house that sat before my eyes. The neighbor kindly let me use theirs. It was calm, dark, and quiet inside their house.

After they put the fire out, I wondered, now what? Can I see what’s left? Can I get my stuff? Stuff that has memories attached, stuff that I need to use before bed tonight, stuff that I’ve had since I was four–years-old. How does this work? Does a professional team go in later to clean it up and salvage what’s left? Where do I go now? I managed to ask the fire chief and he said that the firemen would go inside to salvage what we could and that now was our only chance.

My mind went into warp speed, trying to remember where exactly I’d been storing those letters from my grandpa. Where had I last placed (blank) and (blank)? And when it came down to it, what was most important to me to save? I realized my Ipod had no value to me.

The blessed firemen made numerous trips and everything was scattered across our lawn. Some stuff in okay condition, everything smelling of horrid toxic smoke. No one could find my grandpa’s letters. I knew the room, but I couldn’t remember the exact spot. Terri, this is your only chance, my mind screamed! They kindly looked in every place I suggested.

One made a point to show me where he’d safely placed my social security card and marriage license. Another came out with my precious teddy bear I’ve had since I was four covered in dark soot. My white bear was now a black bear. How silly to be 30 and blubber in front of these men how happy I was to see a teddy bear. I was overjoyed.

I could go on and on. It was chaos. But I’ve never felt such gratitude as I did for those patient firemen. Family and friends from out of town arrived with their trucks, trailers, and cars. We problem-solved by the seat of our pants. Several people were asking me if I wanted to keep things and where to put them and who should put what in which cars. I was whirling, unsteady, my phone was still ringing.

I stood in disbelief in my kitchen, looking at the carnage. Strangers stopped by, including a pastor who prayed with us and said the most helpful thing (to paraphrase): “This is a loss, and it’s going to take time and it’s okay to grieve.” That stood out in my mind for the next several months. Simple but affirming.

We spent that evening and the next three months at my mother-in-law’s house. That first evening was strange. I knew we’d saved a lot of “stuff”, but it felt like I had nothing. It was scattered at 6 different households in four different cities- and I still didn’t know what all had been saved and what was lost. I had a general idea, but specific things I didn’t have a clue. I knew I didn’t have a toothbrush, contact solution, cell phone charger, or underwear. I had the clothes I was wearing and a few I’d grabbed from the lawn so I’d have something to change into. 

Thankfully we have very supportive family, friends, and even strangers who helped us out. My sister made a special run to the store that night so I’d have underwear, a new contact case, and a toothbrush. I was nervous to go to bed- what if it happened again? My sister had bought a new cell phone charger, but I couldn’t plug it in that first night. I knew it was irrational, but what if something happened with that plug? What could I trust in a world that had just been flipped upside down?

For the next several days we cleaned and sorted what could be saved versus trashed. It was heart breaking. I’d see a gift that my husband had given me years ago and realize that it couldn’t be saved. It was ruined. I relived that over and over. I burst into tears when I came across something that I’d been wondering about for days. I found my grandpa’s letters clean and safe in a storage bin.

Why are we so attached to our stuff? I never realized how much it defines us and gives us a buffer so we don’t feel naked. I felt superficial for this.

In a sense it was liberating to still be alive without my stuff, and yet in a very practical sense, it was incredibly frustrating. Out of what we did save, I couldn’t find anything. You take it for granted that when you want to put makeup on, you know which room to go to, take it out of the bag, put it on, and all set, you’re done. Or when you feel like reading a book, and you know which shelf to go to, read it for a little while, and you put it back. I felt lost and disoriented. 

Some of the basics, like deodorant, you buy and slowly rebuild your organization so you can function in daily life. But it took a lot of time and I lived in limbo for months-- between a temporary living situation, to house hunting, to moving into a new home.

Most people don’t realize that they take this for granted: knowing what belongings you have and where so that you can say, get dressed and go to work. Or in more complex situations, find your last income tax returns for the next tax season. I found it frustrating that many people still didn’t fully get that. Their concept of a fire was the horror of the day and maybe the following couple weeks. I’d run into someone a few months later and they’d ask about it as if it were in the past, when in truth I was still living it.

For several weeks I had this odd experience where I would be in a store or any building, and I could easily visualize what it would look like if a natural disaster would occur. I didn’t see the Meijer store the way you see it; I saw the carnage, missing sections of the roof, the soot, and smell the smoke. I’d never had that experience before. I also missed that sense of safety, that all is well, that most likely this building will remain clean and intact. I couldn’t stand any smoke smell, even from a grill or campfire- it triggered too much for me. Thankfully, I rarely see through those dark lens anymore.

The stuff I mourn:

Many of my journals and some of my recent writing. I lost my first journal that I started in second grade.  I still grieve over this, especially as a writer. I kept journals all throughout childhood. I found a couple and spent an afternoon scraping soot page by page, and using a hair dryer since they were still wet. I’ve struggled in restarting a journal, disgruntled and thinking--what’s the point--it could be ruined in the blink of an eye.

If you haven’t noticed, I’m sentimental and so I mourn losing so many of our wedding gifts. We’d been married 11 months when the fire happened. When I made a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond to replace some of the items, I felt a twinge of resentment as I saw another person with a wedding registry in hand.  

Lessons I’ve learned:

I’m less attached to stuff.

I throw things away more easily that I no longer need.

I don’t save expendable gifts for a long time even if they are sentimental (i.e. special stationary). I use them much sooner.

We have no control over many things in our environment and that’s okay. That’s life. Triple checking that you turned your flat iron off before you leave for work is no guarantee that you’ll never have a fire.

After a year, I still have days when I suddenly realize that I lost something in the fire. Today I had 30 seconds of frustration when I realized that I’d lost more picture frames than I’d thought in the fire. These were special frames I’d used to decorate at our wedding. But I let it go quicker than what I used to.

I work in mental health and one of the best treatments for anxiety and trauma is exposure therapies- essentially recounting the trauma experience (with the guidance of a professional). My trauma was not nearly what many others have experienced in this world, and yet I can’t bring myself to go back to the site. The house is no longer there and it’s been just over a year, but I can’t drive by. I still slightly cringe when I drive by the town’s exit. Some day, but not now. I have great admiration for those who have healed from their trauma.

My husband and I were incredibly fortunate to save a portion of our belongings and to have an amazing support system of loving friends, family, and people who we’d never met. You know who you are. Thank you!

Nature's Grace

I do not understand nature.

I try to step back and observe humans from nature's perspective. One of the best ways I can do that is by slowing down and watching nature more closely.

I see chirping birds in the morning minding their own business, scolding each other from tree tops, darting between bushes, and skydiving from pine trees. I'm hurrying out the door when I realize I forgot my coffee and so I mutter under my breath and rush back in. I catch the time on the stove and sigh in exasperation. In the five seconds before I get into my car, I pay attention to the glorious birds. Their cheer is contagious and I'm jealous for a fleeting moment. I'm jealous of birds. Think on that.

The highway curves and above the treeline I see billowing black smoke flowing from an industrial building. I have no idea what kind of building. I estimate it's five miles from my house and realize I'm breathing that in every day.

A good portion of my commute is on country roads. No writer could ever do justice to the sun rising over an expanse of farm fields, dappled by morning frost that reflects its dazzle as if to entertain the sun. My Monday morning cobwebs disappear and I am soothed. I notice the brown and white cattle, lazy in contented boredom. I squeal to see there's now baby cattle nestled close to their mothers. I'm guessing they see a blur of green (if they see in color?) as I speed by, but do they wonder why? I doubt it. They seem to accept what is. I'm a little jealous of this too.

I don't have a lot of time for lunch so I order a salad to go and they put it in a Styrofoam container. I'm irritated with myself for not bringing my own container and stare at the Styrofoam when I'm done. How can I throw that in the trash knowing it will never disintegrate in the landfill? Well, maybe if there's a nuclear bomb. I didn't even stop to think this through until a few years ago...And I'm guessing my diapers from when I was a baby are still in some landfill somewhere, not disintegrating.

When you watch humans from nature's perspective, it's appalling and I can't understand why nature hasn't destroyed us so she can start all over and regain some dignity. Why doesn't she enter an ice age? It would really serve us right.

We've paved millions of ugly roads, built fast food restaurants at every intersection, dotted roads with huge billboards, constructed mega shopping centers filled with junk that will end up in a landfill within 10 years, thrown away our Biggby plastic cup without a second thought, and run over animals with our cars. Have you taken a second to see how ugly it all is?

We've stampeded all over her beauty. We've raped, burned, suffocated, and scarred her.  Do you see any other creatures doing this? Have the skunks dumped toxins into the water supply? No, they manage despite our violence, despite our blatant disrespect.

A pair of ducks have been courting (yes, I read up on this and they court) in our back yard. It's been amusing to watch them. The male follows close behind her, always on the look out, and she eats constantly since she's eating for 8 or 12 or whatever number eggs she's hatching. Apparently, ducks are monogamous for a season of mating, although the male will take off for one night stands and then return to his mate. Anyhow, it's made me wonder how they survive in the midst of human waste and destruction, and they are completely oblivious to the danger they are in. I don't see them popping Xanax. They just go about their business. And I'm not referring to their natural predators. The creek could easily be polluted. They could easily take their ducklings on a stroll across the road. She may have used litter that's always being thrown in our yard to build her nest.

We've started a new project: an organic garden. I've been reading and doing research, while my husband has been building and getting the supplies ready. Yesterday I read how 100% organic is nearly impossible in our world. Think of it. The rain that falls is contaminated by the air it falls through. The manure or compost is contaminated by the growth hormones given to animals, which then pollutes our garden. Nature is interconnected, including us, and the toxins are seeping into everything.

This isn't meant to be a scare tactic or reprimanding lecture for that time you were too lazy to recycle the milk jug. It's awareness. We are all asleep, in denial, or dismiss it as hippie lore. We change our behaviors for maybe a week after watching An Inconvenient Truth.

As I awaken and become more aware, I wonder what my country, my own backyard would look like if the white settlers had never come and Native Americans had been allowed to live in peace on their land. Think about it.

Monday Musing...Dream Vacation

So I'm very much behind. I've been running about a week behind since I had my wisdom teeth surgery about a month ago, but I refuse to miss a Monday Musing- even if my posting doesn't fall on a Monday!

It's Dream vacation week! Well, the topic anyways. I believe I'm still stuck in Michigan winter purgatory (AKA March) and my 9 to 5 job.
Remember to check out my fellow blogger's dream vacation spots:

Chris Allen Riley
Leigh Jones
Tess Grant

My dream vacation is still a work in progress, but here's a rough draft of it.

Europe is a must. Narrowing down the itinerary is difficult, but I have to for sure visit England and Italy. I admit I might have a romanticized view of Europe and I try to remind myself it no longer looks like it did in say, 1500. I read so many historical novels that take place in Europe that it's what I visualize when I think of England, despite modern day media images. However, I know many of the historical sites and buildings are still there and have to visit. Touring the Tower of London would give me goosebumps. To see where Anne Boleyn was imprisoned and beheaded, where the two princes disappeared, and George Plantagenet was rumored to have been drowned in a vat of Malmsey wine.





In America it's hard to find a house that's older than 1860. Even that is stretching it. How many century old structures or castles do we have? Can you wonder why I have a fairy tale image of Great Britain in my mind?

I'd also love to go to Tuscany, Italy.



Need I say more?
Wine.
There, no need for anymore words.

I don't know a lot about Italy, but I might stop in Rome, check out the Colosseum since I'm such a history nerd.



When I was researching places for our honeymoon, I came across the Amalfi Coast and realized that I have a painting that looks very similar. It's going on the Italy itinerary.



After eating lots of pasta, wine, and bread, I'll head to India (a la Eat Pray Love) to meditate and do some yoga...and shed those 20 lbs of carbs.




Maybe a yoga and meditation retreat.
I don't know a lot about India itself, but I have an interest in many of their philosophies and the culture's background.



I'd have to do a lot more research on these countries, but here's a list of activities I'd love to do on any dream vacation, no matter where I am:

Ethnic cooking class
Read
Yoga
Write
Meditation
Tour local historical spots
Kayak
Massage/spa
Hiking
Meet people from different cultures
Try new foods
Any activities that are unique to the country that I can't do at home....

So there you have it!
Where would you love to vacation?