Feeling Down

Originally written 11/19/18.

I am sad. The sadness is heavy, like a blanket. It rests on my head, on my eyes, the bones of my face, my hands. The sadness is confusing. It has me turning around from one activity to the next, seeking, searching for some unknowable treasure that will cure me. My heart is heavy. Each beat feels dull, almost painfully inevitable. I sit/fall into a chair, my legs splayed, hands limp in my lap. My head lolls to the side, pulled ever downward by the weight of despair. The future feels grey and empty. There is nothing there to grasp at, nothing to pull me through.

I am sad. Sometimes the feelings rise up in my throat to choke me. The invisible hand that grips my neck tightens its grasp and I well up, defeated. I am dead-weight, hanging by the fact of my existence, unsure of any reality besides that. The tears track icy trails down my face. Angry, I swipe at my eyes, but they refuse to dry. In this place of despair, there is nothing besides me and the four walls of the room. I am trapped in a living hell. 

I am sad. Questions rise up from somewhere below my heart. Why? Why me? Why now? And, how long? There are no answers. Only silence. So the questions repeat themselves. Why? Why me? They sail upward into the black like smoke from a flame, wisped away by unseen currents as if they had never been.

Sometimes I pray. It’s hard to pray - hard to find the will to move towards the siddur, take it off the shelf. Sometimes I pray in my mind. Sometimes I whisper the words that my heart feeds me, prayers for help, for salvation, for anything hopeful. Hope is an elusive being, which, like light, fills the space its in. Where hope is, there’s little room for sadness. And so I pray for hope. The prayers don’t leave. Instead they fill my heart, ballooning outward until the knot of pain can’t reach the walls of my chest. I can breathe now. The air revives me. It tastes sweet, like mothers’ milk. I hold that on my tongue and allow my mind to settle, relaxing outward, beneath the weighty blanket that still enfolds us.

Yes, I am still sad. I still don’t know why, why me, but I’m thinking that it doesn’t matter. The sadness simply is. I observe it with still, patient eyes, eyes still wet, but no longer crying. I write about it. I notice how I can shift beneath the weight, learning the contours of the pressure. Here it weighs more, here it weighs less. I lift my chin. My spine straightens.

I am sad, and I am also okay. 

Did it fall?

It's an old riddle: if a tree falls in a forest, and no-one is there to hear, did it emit sound? Philosophy might say no. Physics might argue. I don't know.

This idea came to mind as I considered a personal need, one that has troubled me for as long as I've had a self-concept. What need?  The craving for external reflection on my existence. Or, to put it mildly, the need for compliments.

See, it's more than an ego asking to be stroked. It's a question of by what measuring stick I determine how I'm doing in life.

Consider that much of my day I spend in my home, devoted to housekeeping and childcare. Children do not provide helpful feedback, nor does the laundry. I rely on adult responses to measure my accomplishment. This places the burden of complimenting on my husband. Fair? Not really. But that's my reality.

Now, to go back to the riddle, I feel like the question forms a perfect parallel to my life: if I receive no feedback on my progress, have I even achieved? Without compliments to reflect on my achievements, do I even exist?

I'm fairly confident that I exist. And compliments are not always forthcoming. But the need remains. And that's where the work begins for me, because living with an unmet need is not a viable option. The question becomes, how can I fill my own need for external reflection? It's a difficult one to answer. In most arenas, I would use a positive affirmation to fill the void. I just don't think that self-reflection is an adequate replacement for external reflection, since by definition, they are not the same thing.

So how do we obtain compliments without going 'fishing'?

Here are my thoughts on the subject:

The first point is to be ready and willing to hear other feedback besides compliments, because you just don't know what will manifest. (This is a good idea in any case.)

The second: ask for what you need in simple English, without inflection. No sarcasm. No passive aggressive implications. Because while 'fishing for compliments' has a bad rap, that's not what you're doing. You're trying to garner external reflection. There's nothing wrong with asking, "How'd I do?".

The third: to overdo it with the 'fishing' thing, spread your net a bit. Don't expect to fill your need from one source. Apply steps one and two with friends and family. Socialize. It helps.

I believe that the tree falls in the forest with a roar of rent wood and a cloud's worth of snapped twigs, whether the sound reaches an ear or not. It has to make noise. It fell, didn't it? That fall generated energies that reverberate through the landscape. Likewise, my actions, my behaviors, all generate vibrations that impact my environment. This is the reality, irrespective of whether I receive external feedback or not.

But thinking about this reminds me how important it is to extend the courtesy to others, notice their actions, and reflect on what I see. There's no harm in complimenting. There's only positive energy to share.

The Dragon

Originally written 01/03/18.

The dragon came on a rush of black scales, huge gusts of air, and the overwhelming stench of ozone. It swooped low over the panicked sheep, scattering them like ants. The sound it made was deafening, wings smacking the air, stirring clouds of dust that rose amid the herd. Blind and deaf, the poor animals didn’t stand a chance. The dragon plucked two sheep and rose into the air. It cut a fearsome, reptilian silhouette against the blue sky, with the sun shooting glances of silver off its hide.

Across the countryside, heads turned, following the dragon’s flight into the mountains. Doors were barred, and children gathered close. Superstitious hands made signs to ward off evil.

In the palace, the ministers wiped sweat off their powdered brows and stowed trembling fingers in silken sleeves. The king looked thunderous.

“How dare that beast maraud the skies and torment our countrymen further! It was sheep today - tomorrow it could be a child! This cannot continue!” The king’s heels beat a frenetic pace along the shiny rim of the royal dais. “Come, my good men, advise me. How might I rid my country of this terror?”

He clasped both hands behind his back and pointed his bearded chin at one counselor after another.

“Hmm? What good word have we to share?”

The advisors shifted. Their eyes darted around the chamber. 

“Who would believe it?” scoffed the king. “The finest minds in the nation stymied by a glorified snake!” He snorted, but the color was high in his cheeks. “Give me one man with a take on this dragon and I will be that man’s solution for the rest of his life. Any challenge of his, I will resolve. Any desire of his, I will see granted.”

The offer hung like diamonds in the air.

“I will do it,” said a voice. The attendants whirled to gape at the speaker. 

“You?” squeaked the king.

“Yes, me,” said the prince. “Give me my desire and I will take on your dragon.”

“Your desire,” the king repeated. His eyes were wide and shiny like coins in his face. “What is it you desire, son? The kingdom is already yours!”

“Ah,” said the prince. “Well that is a slight problem.”

“This is madness,” barked the king. “You shan't go slaying dragons, boy. You are the crown prince of this kingdom, and you belong right here.”

“You asked for one man,” said the prince. He pointed to himself. “You have one.”

“Gah,” said the king. He turned a beribboned back on the room and took a long look at his throne. The prince waited, hands clasped before him. The courtiers shifted and looked around the chamber. “So be it,” said the king at last. He whirled on his son, eyes flashing like dragon scales. “Find the beast. Destroy it. And come home.”

The prince bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.” He strode from the hall.

The king seated himself on the royal throne. He raised his chin, beard pointing straight ahead. His hands gripped the golden arms of the chair, the carved lion’s faces imprinting in his palms. “Well?” he demanded of the nearest attendant. “Next order of business!”

Bullet Journal Reflections

I've been back and forth with my husband regarding investing in a new journal so that I can begin bullet journaling. Of course I found a lovely journal and some really cool pens, and I said to myself, "it's only $20, between the lot"... but for the sake of integrity, I ran it by my better half. He has his reservations. I can imagine what they sound like:

More spending?
Does she need it?
Will she even stick with it?

But I really really wanted to try out some of Ryder Carroll's ideas. After reading up on the concepts, I found a lot of similarities between the BuJo method and the notes I take. The difference is, BuJo is organized, consolidated, intentional. My notes fill simultaneous legal pads. The lists take various forms. A typical page is a rat's nest of arrows, boxes, and lines, and I'm forever searching for the most recent 'to-do' list... that's if I even think to check the list. I'm notorious for making lists and forgetting about them.

So here's what I did:

I took a blank composition notebook that I had overstocked from this year's school supply spree. I began setting up the notebook as Ryder Carroll instructs on BulletJournal.com: index, future log, month calendar (did not do this properly, on reflection), day log. I added a couple relevant collections: my library list, a supper menu... numbered the pages and logged them in the index. And voila! A bullet journal.

Mind you I did all this in plain ol' Bic pen.

The lesson? Sometimes things are possible if you scale down your standards. I did not have to spend $20 to have a satisfactory bullet journal experience. On further exploration, I found that many dedicated BuJournalers use, and even prefer to use, regular comp notebooks of different shapes and sizes. After all, it's not the materials you use but the practice that counts.

Monday Musings

Being home with a sick child is a recipe for doing wholly nothing. This has been well documented. Yet here I sit, adding my two cents to generations' worth of knowledge. I wish I could do something productive, explore new music, write something worthwhile... but I must temper my expectations. Today shall be a "Moderate Monday". If I do no more than care for the children, I will have done plenty - or so I tell myself.

But my heart resists. Do, do, do! screams the inner voice, the same persona that quivers, critically aware of the minutes scrolling by. She helpfully presents me with flash impressions of the items on my theoretical "to-do" list: clean up, find a cleaning lady, do the front closet, make supper, fold more laundry, pay bills, ad infinitum.

And my daughter whines because she lacks the tech skills to navigate my phone and locate the videos her siblings watch. I refuse to sit there showing her video after video until we both snap, screen-crazed and foggy, hungry and neglected. There has to be a way to engage her in real creative play. Or even to "cuddle her", as she sometimes requests.

It's the tedium that gets me, I think. Mundanity has ever been a problematic subject. (I touched on this yesterday when considering the value of intelligence versus hard work. See "You're So Smart." - not.)

What will it take to impress on me the value of, and blessing that is, a normal day? Don't answer that. I need to look at today as an opportunity to flex my gratitude muscles.

Today I am grateful for:
1. Family.
2. Shelter.
3. Security.
4. Spirituality.
5. Theyeshiva.net.

"You're So Smart!" - not.

It's been a while since I've written. And by that, I mean, since I've written anything beyond my journal. (I don't think the journal counts as real writing - it's more stream-of-consciousness than craft.) I'm not sure why, but my creative drive moves in cycles, from music to writing to nothing, or some other sequence of the same. I don't seem to control it, and I have zero discipline, so those artistic practices recommended by William Kenower (see Fearless Writing, here and here) don't actually work for me.

That's the problem.

In the real world, it seems, talent alone doesn't cut it. One needs discipline, consistency, and above all, effort, in order to produce results. I was raised to value genius. For the longest time, I entertained the secret hope that I would turn out to be a prodigy. My husband, on the other hand, grew up valuing effort and results. "You work/ed hard," is a common form of praise for his family.

I've come to recognize that effort and consistency are more likely to produce results than genius alone. Genius can sit in a corner preening, while effort actually moves the blocks. I don't say this to put myself down. Rather, my values are shifting, and this will impact how I parent my children. No longer, "You're so smart". Yes, s/he is smart. But is that worth praising? Did the child do anything deserving of praise? "You gave it your best" actually notices a behavior.

I'm reminded of a period in high school where my peers liked to tell me how smart I was. It was meant as a compliment, but it did not sit well with me. My secular education had been more complete than theirs, plus, I'd spent my whole childhood reading books. I'd picked up a couple things, that was all.

When I entered the real world, I was unprepared for real work. I'd coasted through school on 'talent', never learning the value of effort or consistency. And now as an adult, I'm paying the price.

I only hope that recognizing the value in targeting praise to behavior will enable me to better raise competent successful adults.

Shopping Woes

Tight finances have been an unfortunate reality for most of my life. A frum lifestyle, complete with multiple children, will do that to even the best prepared.

So what's with my shopping patterns?

I'll describe them for you. I finish browsing my email and all the news sites and social media. Then I turn to my 'promotions' box. There I find a favored site broadcasting a fantastic sale, and I must go see how low the products actually are. Lo, I find something I like, and you can't beat the price. So I buy that. But while browsing, I discover a different product that I really want. I begin shopping around until I find the best possible price on Amazon. I buy that too. Amazon shows me some related products, and I'm hooked.

That's one scenario: classic advertising tactics working like a charm. There are others, but I won't waste your time. There are the non-compulsive, "necessary" purchases. There are Amazon products that I never get around to returning. You get the idea.

Most of my compulsive shopping takes place online, where simple clicks lead to purchases, many of them unnecessary. It's no wonder that my husband moans over the credit card bills. I mean, did I really need another tube of lipgloss? "But it was only $3.99!" Yeah, and such things add up shockingly fast.

I know I'm not the only one struggling with this. I also know that 'this' could be rightly termed an addiction. I could qualify for Shopaholics Anonymous. I'm not going to go. I have nothing against 12-step programs. In fact I've enjoyed and appreciated my experiences with Al-Anon. The reason I'm not going to go is because despite bulging credit cards and a stressed-out husband, I can't bring myself to take the matter seriously. I tell myself I'm not that bad. I don't go out and spend $800 in a single shopping spree. I'm not 'out-of-control'.

Am I?

Oh yes. I am.

That there is the issue. I'm supposed to be a mature adult. I'm responsible for the wellbeing of others. There are words we use to describe the qualities of a good homemaker. 'Responsible' is one of them. 'Effective' is another. How can I be effective when I lack discipline? And if I'm lacking in fiscal discipline, in what other areas am I falling short?

These are challenging questions. It could be that I don't take the shopping issue seriously because I don't want to confront these bigger questions. I don't want to look in the mirror. But at the same time, I pride myself on being one of those people who values health and continued growth. Something doesn't add up.

In how many ways do I delude myself? I say it's ok to buy one more tube of lipgloss. I say the small numbers don't count. I tell myself I'm in control of my shopping. I have enough discipline to be effective. And yes, I value growth.

But I recognize the issues. They torment me like shadows that refuse to fade. I know that for me it is a victory to close a tab, abandoning a shopping cart filled with bargains.

So I close out Coldwater Creek, and Cents of Style, and H&M... and I congratulate myself on a victory for today.

Shiva Call

Last night, I went with some classmates to pay a Shiva call. It was not something I wanted to do. In fact, I came very close to not going at all. We had just come back from an extended weekend away. I was tired. I had showered, and my mother had warned me that it's insensitive to come to a Shiva house freshly showered and glowing with health. I had the perfect excuse not to go.

But then I remembered how my father had flown to pay a Shivah call to my aunt and uncle when they had lost a child. My parents were tight on money back then, and a flight was a big deal. I took from this how important it is to make that visit, even if it's uncomfortable.

So I went.

There were five of us, but there were many more people in the house. That helped. It was less intense. I didn't say a word. I sat and watched and listened and mourned, until it was time to go. Then I said the traditional phrase, "Hamakom yenachem etchem betoch shaar avlay Tziyon viYerushalayim". It was my first time saying those words. They tasted powerful. And I realized that those were the best words to say, because the grief at a tragic Shiva is so overwhelming. There is literally nothing to say or do besides pray that G-d bring comfort to the mourners.

In retrospect, I am grateful that I went. It was the right thing to do, and it was educational. I feel strengthened from the experience, more connected to G-d and to my community. But I hope and pray that I will never have to do such a thing again.

A TED talk by Eli Nash

Watch this. Just... trust me on this one, take the fifteen minutes, and watch this video. Right now.

This guy is my new hero.

In the video, Eli Nash speaks about his struggle with porn addiction and the associated shame attached to that illness. He speaks in candid terms about other peoples' reactions to his openness. It seems like his goal is to break the stigma around discussion of pornography as a dangerous, and damaging addiction.

I can't even imagine the amount of courage it took for Nash to bare himself like this. Giving a TED talk about fighting porn addiction is the ultimate in vulnerability. I'm reminded of Brene Brown's book, Daring Greatly, in which she lays out her case for vulnerability as the stuff of life. According to Brown's research, vulnerability lays the groundwork for connection, which, as Johann Hari claims, is the opposite of, and antidote for addiction.

If Brown and Hari are correct, Nash really is conquering addiction, and we are watching him do it. In delivering that speech, Nash is not just breaking a stigma. He is actively forging new connections with people around the issue of porn addiction. He is moving towards health.

That is why Eli Nash is my new hero. I have boundless admiration for a person who conquers his shame in pursuit of health.

You go, Eli. You've got this!

Grieving

Every day I write
The words descending from the ether
Filling up the page
Spilling out into forever

Senses come alive
All the world is in my pen
I reach out and I find
The phrase that whispers like a friend

But now, today
The page before me's empty
'cuz far away
Somebody's story's ended

I reach for the words but nothing comes...

Maybe now is not the time for fancy turns of phrase
Maybe now is not the time to speak at all
For no words can ease the pain, the sorrow, the loss
No words, I have no words.

On Writing

I haven't even finished editing Spirit Song and already I'm thinking about the sequel. Don't tell. I know this is not smart. Just this morning I received a kind rejection letter from an editor. He suggested I re-format the story as a script, or for film. While I think those are interesting ideas, I haven't let go of the novel's lure. All I know is novels.

Well, that's not true. I've written scripts before. But these were scripts for private high school productions. They were very specialized, very specific in their structure, and very primitive. I don't know anything about the official formatting of a script. Nor do I consider myself a script-writer. Again, I know novels. I've spent my whole life reading novels. I'm attached to the structure, to the ups and downs, to the narrative.

I suppose I should take the advice I was given and file it along with all the other advice, on a special shelf for consideration. It's got to be a hefty shelf, given the sort of stuff I'm getting back. I keep telling myself that few of the greats ever sold right away. Even Rowling suffered multiple rejections before she became a giant. And I'm not aiming for giant. Maybe I should. I don't know.

The Mountain

Today I climbed a mountain and alone I stand at the peak. Around me the world stretches in every direction like a patchwork quilt spread at my feet. The wind is brisk and chill up here, cooling the sweat of the climb. My fingernails are black and my palms lined with dirt from contact with the trail. I take off my shoes and socks to feel the pebbly earth between my toes. Everything is dirt and rock, and the clouds passing overhead deluge me in whirling shadows.  My ears are full of the wind. My skin is chill with it. The sound reminds me of the surge of ocean waves. It too is dull, deep, and ever present, surging in and out, enveloping this mountain of stone, bouncing off the surfaces and sending echoes in every direction.

First Memory

My earliest memory is one of morning. There is light in the room. It streams in from windows somewhere to my left. I stand in my crib, hands on the bars. I am alone, but not anxious. I wait. And sure enough, my mother enters the room, her nightdress billowing about her like scintillating aura. She lifts both hands to me, palms to the ceiling, and her eyes crease with her smile. My mother carries me across the hall to her bedroom, where my parents’ futons checker the floor. My father joins us, yet in his pajama pants. He indicates the window air conditioner unit with a wry expression, “We blew a fuse”. I do not understand the words, but they imprint in my memory. I am not concerned. In fact, I have no concerns at all. It is the beginning of summer, 1990. I am not yet one year old.

Mystics & Rogues - Ch. 1

The bookseller ventured into the guard post, to whispers and catcalls from the bystanders. He was a thin and wispy man, though not especially short. His skin was pale, and his brown hair was straight and just a bit too long. He had very blue eyes that were usually glassy and unfocussed, but just now scanned the courtyard with feverish haste.

The bookseller appealed to the watchers.

“I’m - I’m Alin Landerson,” he said in a low voice, slightly hoarse with disuse. “I need to find a guard captain.”

Several guards chuckled.

“And why, perchance?” asked the boldest among them.

The bookseller sucked in a breath. “I’m going on a treasure hunt.”

There was silence. Then the guards burst into raucous laughter.

A wash of color flooded the bookseller’s face. He waited, blinking rather fast, until the noise subsided.

“You’re serious?!” said the questioner in a tone of disbelief. “Come on, man, you must be mad. It’s too late in the season to launch an expedition… if that’s what you’re trying to do. No one here is fool enough to risk exposure to the winter storms.”

The bookseller’s face fell. Apparently, this was news. He seemed to gather his resolve. “I still need a guard captain. How do I find one?”

Most of the young guards had lost interest and wandered away. The few that remained, debated amongst themselves. Finally one returned to the bookseller. “There’s a fellow that might do it… only one that I can think of.”

The bookseller looked up, hope sparkling in his eyes.

The guard hesitated. “His name is Wilder.”

“Brigham Wilder?”

The guard nodded.

“Wilder who sided with the Russos last spring and fought for Inglade through the summer?” shot the bookseller, sounding slightly wild himself. “The Wilder that hires his sword out to whichever hoodlum pays the most? That Wilder?”

“He’s not that bad,” offered one guard, trying to be helpful. “I heard he’s gone straight.”

“Yeah, he only hires out on legitimate need now… no more ‘hoodlums’,” said the other.

The color was still high in the bookseller’s face. “Fine,” he husked. “Where can I find this Wilder?”

“He shoots dice with the boys behind the stable,” offered the helpful guard. “I’ll show you, if you’d like…”

The bookseller bobbed his head, so the mismatched duo made their way through the guarding complex.

The infamous mercenary was indeed involved in a dice game. He stood head and shoulders above the others. He had ruddy cheeks stretched taut over angular bones. He had a black pointed beard, and curly black hair. His laugh boomed around the walls of the room.

At a loss, the bookseller turned towards his companion, but the young guard had disappeared. “Furies,” the bookseller swore. He hesitated a moment more, then called the guard captain’s name as loud as he could. It took several tries before he got the big man’s attention. Wilder squinted down at him, then frowned, but he backed out of the dice game and prowled around the players to where the bookseller stood. He loomed over the bookseller.

“I’m Alin Landerson,” said Alin.

“Be quick,” said Wilder, “They’ll skip my turn.”

“Can - Can we talk somewhere more… private?”

The guard captain’s face darkened, and the bookseller talked. Fast.

“I’m going on a treasure hunt. I need protection and guidance.”

Wilder’s brows shot into his hair. “A treasure hunt? You?”

Ah, thought Alin, he’s interested.

Then Wilder spoke again. “Let me see the map.”

“That’s the thing,” said the bookseller, “There is no map.”

“Well, where is the treasure?” demanded Wilder.

“I’m - not sure.”

“Huh,” said Wilder. “So you want protection and guidance, on a quest for treasure, without a map, and with no real idea where it is we’re going.”

The bookseller flushed. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“It’s hard to supply a trip without knowing its length,” Wilder muttered, his brow furrowed. “It will take time to assemble a crew.” He squinted. “What do I get out of this… Alin?”

The bookseller took a deep breath. “I can give you fifty golds up front and ten percent of whatever we find.”

“Thirty,” said Wilder.

“Twenty?” Alin countered.

“Twenty.” The guard captain extended a monstrous hand and crushed the bookseller’s fine-boned one. Alin carefully counted out fifty golds from his purse. He watched them disappear into Wilder’s pouch. “Meet us here in seven days’ time, packed for the road,” the guard captain ordered. “I’ll bring the horses. And Alin - ” He bent down, and Alin leaned in, expectant. “Don’t call me ‘Wilder’, eh? It’s Brig.” He clapped the startled bookseller on the back, sending him stumbling.

Alin caught his balance and watched the guard captain walk away with half Alin’s savings tucked into his shirt. Brigham Wilder, he mused. An odd choice. Alin considered himself a good judge of character. The ruddy man who’d stood before him and asked about maps was more the action type than the intellectual type. The guard captain would, of course, focus on the task at hand and not ask questions. But the bookseller did suffer a moment of doubt: Brigham Wilder could not be savvy enough to wonder about the nature of the quest…could he? Certainly not.

Annoyed with the thought, Alin shushed himself and went home.

To Speak or Not to Speak?

It occurs to me that a lot of the famous people who have shared about their personal struggles with mental illness (think Demi Lovato, Adele, Chrissy Teigen, Lena Dunham, even Dwayne Johnson - I could keep going) can perhaps afford to do so. Why would a person fear stigma when they bear a cushion of wealth or fame?

For the common person, things are less simple. I don't know how it works in mainstream America but in my community, people have good reason to fear stigmatization. We have children. Those children will need to get married one day. It's hard enough to find a good match without a parent's mental illness in the picture, to say nothing about the plight of a single who's ill. The way thoughts work in our community is, 'If I can marry a person with no mental illness in the family, why would I consider someone with?'.

A little cold. Callous, perhaps. But this is the reality when we filter through candidates on paper before agreeing to meet them.

Of course the logic is flawed. As a psychiatrist once told me, there is also a strong likelihood that a healthy person, with no family history, will develop a mental illness at one point in their life. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI),

"Approximately 1 in 5 adults in the U.S. (46.6 million) experiences mental illness in a given year".

Current research, including a report from the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), indicates that we can't yet quantify the predisposition to mental illness based solely on genetics. This is especially true since environment plays a strong role in the development of said conditions. It might be fair to conclude, then, that we ought to pay more attention to the environment people experienced while growing up, and hey, who can claim to have had a perfect childhood? No one I've met, that's for sure.

While I'm pleased that celebrities have been normalizing discussion of mental illness, I'm skeptical of the impact. It's not enough for Lady Gaga to talk about her condition. We regular people have to do the talking. There need to be more op-eds about our experiences, and our struggles. This is not simply a matter of social comfort, or a ploy to get our kids married. Talking about mental illness breaks down the barriers that isolate our friends and family. Feelings of isolation are a leading cause of suicide.

When you frame it like that, sharing our stories could save lives.

Musical Pains

Why does art hurt me so bad?

This question recurs in my life every time I encounter something heartbreakingly beautiful. I've experienced this brand of pain at concerts, plays, minor displays of talent... pretty much any time I encounter someone else experiencing music. It's like my body needs to participate. I can't be a bystander. But guess what? I'm not that good at music! I can't match up to most people on any instrument. I have enough knowledge to recognize genius when I see it. And that's about it.

It hurts. I don't know why.

Today's obsession is Hallelujah, performed by Pentatonix. I'm sure you've heard the track. Hasn't everyone? It's been viewed more than four hundred million times. And that's just on Youtube. I play the song in the car when I'm driving and it plays in my head when I'm busy in the kitchen. I can't shut it off, can't get away... and I'm not sure if I want to. It tears me up inside and I can't tell if I love it or hate it.

What do you call this pain from beauty? I've heard of 'beauty in pain' before, but never this.

They say that in order to build confidence, one needs to build skill. So I ought to be practicing an instrument, right? Does singing count? I sing a lot around the house but my kids complain so I stop. I don't know why I don't feel satisfied with mediocre. It feels like I'm supposed to be more than that. Perhaps it's all a consequence of high school, where I was told, "you're so smart!" almost every day for three years. For someone 'so smart', and 'so talented', there must certainly be great things in store. Right?

Wrong.

In reality, the bar set too high discourages me from even making an effort. As a parent, I suppose the lesson is never to label the child, even with positive labels. Label behaviors instead. That action was kind. That behavior was brave. That choice was smart. This builds self-esteem in children without destroying their sense of satisfaction with life.

(Great, now I'm giving parenting advice? Oh the irony.)

For me, the daily practice is beginning with something - anything - small. I can't look at the entirety of the task or project lest I get overwhelmed and defeated before I've begun.

The Internal Debate

Honesty, again.

This topic haunts me. Because, as Batsheva Shomer, I cannot be completely honest. I can share from a select few topics, which, I grant, could be plenty. But I cannot share from the topics closest to my heart. And that just about flattens me. It makes me wonder if I ought to be blogging anonymously. At least in anonymous form, I could share the real deal - the stuff that people might relate to. But as an anonymous poster, how honest would such posts be, even if the topics were genuine?

So it's a complicated bind I'm in, from a 'values' perspective. If honesty is my goal, and connection my pursuit, which path ought I travel?

The Forest

The trees are tall and all around. The water trickles over the rocks in a low gurgle and the sun beams filter down through the canopy of foliage. It’s a beautiful spring day and the woods are alive with the chirping of birds and the low rustle of squirrels scurrying underfoot. A playful breeze tousles the tree tops, sending shadows whirling across the ground in a kaleidoscope of color. The water is cool beneath my touch, though the face of the stones is warm from the sun. All is gentle movement. Nowhere is it still, except perhaps the base of the trees. Sticks crackle underfoot and pebbles shift with playful delight. I can almost hear the clomp of a horse passing through and the whicker of its passage. Its coat gleams burnished chestnut in the golden rays of the sun, and no shadow dulls its sheen. Beautiful, majestic being, it steps carefully among the rocks, wearing new trails out of the wild woods. 

Pandering

In the conversation in which my sister reflected on my manuscript, she mentioned that putting romance in the book was "pandering to the reader". I wonder about that. Dani Shapiro, in Still Writing (link), states that we write for one specific reader. That reader might change from work to work, but usually remains consistent for the length of the piece. And of course, the identity of the reader is entirely up to the writer.

So we do write for a 'someone'. Be it my neighbor, my sister, or myself, the act of scripting words generates the potential for future reading. We cannot write in a wholly selfless manner. We are human, after all. And this brings me back to my initial question: to what extent does that reader's identity impact our craft? See, if I was writing for my sister, I'd remove all hints of romance from the work. But if I was writing for myself... let's just say bring a fan. (As I was writing the book, I kept having to pull the characters back from these really steamy situations. They'd just go there by themselves! I had nothing to do with it.)

The point is, we pander to the reader all the time. The act of writing generates the inevitability of a reader. There is little point in fighting it. Words are meant to be read.

And so I wonder about the extent to which outside forces, such as the identity of our audience, influence our craft. This, I feel, is worth fighting. If we let our readers influence our content, we are not involved in genuine creativity. Yes, in order to sell, we are supposed to cater to our intended audience, but I feel like that is a polishing step. While we are doing the writing itself, we need to be ruthless in our honesty, and to hell with the reader.

Rainy Day

It’s a rainy day. The skies are grey streaked with silver and coal. The air is brisk, the wind snappish and scented with ozone. Raindrops flick through the air like afterthoughts or warnings. Cars make watery hisses down the road, with the occasional splash. Wipers swish rhythmically. The sidewalk is dotted with umbrellas. In the puddles that foot my driveway I glimpse the other worlds - tree limbs against endless sky, shattered and blurred by the periodic showers. The rain marks time on my tin awning - an arrhythmic rat a tat, in harmony with the hiss of passing cars. It’s a rainy day. People put on rain boots and raincoats. The umbrellas are everywhere. And I stand in the rain as it dots my clothing, turning my hair to frizz, soaking into my hem, revelling in the white noise that fills my ears.