On Shame

 Today, I did something I've been intending to do for awhile: I cleaned out my fridge.

If your fridge is anything like mine, then you know that the front is where the trustworthy, reliable food is. Things you can eat. Behind that first flank though, it gets murky. Leftovers roam, but how long have they been there? And then, the back, where sideways condiments -- the flotsam and jetsam of the refrigerator -- adhere to the glass surface, it becomes a no man's land. Use that stuff? I won't even look at it. If I need to actually grab something in the vicinity, I make a quick grab and pretend everything is great back there. Oh, it most definitely is not. 

But today, I did the thing. I was thinking I could at least empty out the produce drawers since the contents were visible to all. What was there -- two brown (?!) grapefruits, shriveled up cranberries from Christmas, the last of my garden carrots, and some (again: brown) liquid -- made me feel ill. It seemed like a straightforward start. 

After the bins, I realized there were containers of leftovers that could easily be cleared out and of course, once I had the bins and the bottom shelf emptied and wiped, I was on a roll. 

I hate wasting food but when food has other forms of life growing on it, safety wins the day. 

The project didn't take as long as I'd imagined and after an hour, I finished. I wanted to just keep standing there, in front of the open door, to look at my work. I would say I felt good, but really, it wasn't "good" in the sense of pride or happiness. What I felt was: relief.

This might or might not make sense to you. I am describing the inside contents of my refrigerator, something that in our particular culture and geography, is an ordinary thing.  It may be that most people at some point in their lives have a fridge with old food. But that isn't what this is about. Even if I found out that everyone has moldy food in their fridge, that their vegetable drawers all have liquified vegetation, that doesn't matter. What matters is that I did. 

After I closed the fridge and had lunch, I thought how I am now living in a house with a fridge that if anyone were to open it, what they would see is: just a bunch of food. No second thoughts, no judgements. Knowing that is relief.

You may be saying; Yeah, so? 

But the other side of the story is the ugly one. If you had come to my house yesterday and opened my fridge, you would have seen.... it. The mess. That stuff I kept pushing to the back, consciously even, hoping no one would notice it. 

That's shame. 

I say this because I hate it. The relief I felt? It was because I know I have done something to give myself some reprieve from it. I have never written about this before.  I was thinking how my mother did this too. I wish I could talk to her about it. 

I know consciously that it's not just the fridge. That's just a symbol. Cleaning can be powerful. "Clean house" we say. "Cleanliness is next to godliness" we say. This is not very deep, I know. It's a control issue. 

What was different about today for me was that I recognized in the moment how thinking about this and deciding to write about it felt like a liberating opportunity. 

Shame has exhausted me, over the years.  To feel not just that you aren't good enough... but that there is something fundamentally flawed about you others will see... is heartbreaking. I don't want to see in my friends but also, I don't want to see it in myself. 

Life is too short for shame. 

I know I'm not the only one who gets this. Lots of us feel like we are hiding something that makes us less-than. Today, I am holding myself with the same kindness that I hold all of you. I know that my sometimes filthy fridge doesn't make me any less deserving of the life's goodness. 

I feel like I put some pieces together today. This isn't relief. This feels good.

Peace.

On Postpartum Depression

   There is a terrible story in the news where I live south of Boston, this week. A local mother was arrested after having killed her three children and tried to kill herself. The children were 5, 3 and 7 months. Seven months, so tiny. And the news coverage has been what you would probably expect: interviews with neighbors dumbstruck by the event. Prayer vigils and a GoFundMe have been started. Some of those interviewed have said that there is a lot to be learned but mostly, the reaction has been shock. 

When I heard the story, my heart broke for the family, especially the father. The magnitude of this loss. What he has to live with now is unimaginable. 

But what I didn't feel was shock.

I wasn't shocked because I understand postpartum depression. I've been there. 

To be clear, this woman had postpartum psychosis, which is must more severe and dangerous. With psychosis, you lose touch with reality.  

I've been thinking about this the last few days because when I went through it, I thought I was losing my mind and for weeks, I couldn't even acknowledge it. I also know that women don't talk about this openly. When it's talked about, details aren't shared. Often, the question is; how does this happen? I don't know how it is for others, but this is how it happened for me.

The day after I had my first baby, I felt great. I had made it, he had made it, and side note -- because I'd experienced two miscarriages before him -- it felt like the biggest miracle I would ever know. The nurses were kind and nurturing. Then they sent us home.

It took his dad and me almost twenty minutes to change the first diaper. We didn't know what we were doing. After two days, his dad went back to work. No paternity leave for us. 

When you come home with a baby and especially the first, everything literally changes overnight. There is no amount of preparation to be ready. Eating, sleeping, and pooping are all that matters.  Whether you are nursing or not, this little life initially has to be fed every two or three hours, around the clock. Sleep deprivation kicks in. After a week, I found myself crying a lot and began to feel something new: dread. Dread for me became my norm. The moment I woke up: dread. What had I done? How could I take care of a baby? I was terrified, every day, every minute. 

On Mothers Day, when my son was two months old, my Dad came for a visit. He was thrilled; I was a mess. I tried to tell him how lost I was but he didn't get it. I think he assumed that what I was experiencing was normal. I wasn't sleeping, even when I could. I adored my baby but couldn't imagine that I was able to take care of him.  I couldn't imagine ever being able to go back to work. I was in a stuck place of fear. 

When my best friend came for a visit, she couldn't believe what she saw. I was a mess. I couldn't figure out how to brush my teeth or take a shower. I simply couldn't take care of myself. The energy I had was given to the person who needed it, my bright-eyed baby, but that was all. 

By Father's Day, I knew I needed help. A former therapist of mine suggested I reach out to psych nurse she knew. It was an appointment that changed everything. This nurse was *the* person I needed, right then. She was unfazed with what I was telling her and was able to suggest that I try some meds to help get me back on track. I left that appointment being grateful for the prescription AND for being taken seriously. 

After that, it got better.  It wasn't easy but I began to feel more like myself. More present, more grateful, less dread. 

By the time, my baby turned six months old, I was significantly better. Six months may not sound like much time, but when you are in deep despair, when every day feels like hell, weeks feel like years. I look back on this time of life and it feels like it must have gone on for years, because that is exactly how it felt.  That's how it works, and when you are in hell, you have no idea that you will ever emerge

When I see new mothers, I ask them how they are doing. Even when I say I experienced postpartum depression, they often quickly tell me they are fine. I always hope that's true, but if not, I am hoping I planted a seed for them to reach out and ask for help. 

I also think about the healthcare I have access to; I know I have been privileged to get what I needed. What about those without good insurance, access to doctors? How do they get any kind of care for themselves and their babies? When we talk about generational poverty and inequity, this is part of it. How do we break that cycle?

People also wonder: why? Why do some of us experience this but not others?  There are ideas about there being a history of depression, either diagnosed or undiagnosed, but to me, that's less important than simply having an awareness of it at all.

Having a new baby is tough whether or not you experience this. The percentage of women experiencing it range from 6-20% of new moms. It's just a guess. No one one knows.  I just assume all new parents are struggling. Think about it. Why not assume that? It takes a village to raise a child, remember? 

When my baby turned one, we celebrated. My Dad couldn't come but when I talked to him, I was able to tell him how much better I was doing. I got choked up, reminding him of something he had told me once. He said that he knew others who'd had parents late in life and never regretted it. I was 40 when my baby was born. I told him: "I thought I was going to miss out on this, this being a mom. I am so glad I didn't miss this."  

It's still true. My baby will be 22 soon, still with bright eyes. Joined later by a sibling. My heart can't possibly love them more. 

Every baby should be so loved.

Peace.

On the New Year

 It's been a quiet year for me. Looking back, the blog post I thought I wrote over the summer, I wrote in January. I posted in April and after that, nothing. I knew it had been awhile but nothing? Ten months? It took me by surprise. A quiet year, as I said, though if you could read the posts in my head, you'd know I've been busy. But, as I wrote years ago, "thinking writing" is -- surprise, surprise! -- not the same AS writing. 

But here I am. 

This "new year" we are about to ring in at midnight is arbitrary. Like so many of us in academia, we tend to agree that the Jewish New Year is a better marker. But like all rituals, they offer the possibility of both meaninglessness and engagement. Today, I engage.

I saw a Facebook post this week with the question: What gave you hope in 2022?  

It made me stop. It was a weird year, but really, they all are. Just weird in different ways. For the last five or six years, I've approached 12/31 with a fatalistic attitude. I know some use the image of a dumpster fire for the year passing, eager to get to this new date that will make all the difference. But I laughed. WHY would a different year change anything? The freight train of hate that began barreling down the tracks in 2016 seemed to have boundless fuel; it poisoned me. It brought out the worst of my cynicism. 

You may never have seen that side of me. That's because I work to rein it in. 

As my Dad used to say when he would go to bed at 9 on December 31st, "Tomorrow is just another day" which is to say: It's not magic.

But there can be something to stopping and taking stock.  The question: what gave you hope in 2022 made me realize that I had an answer for the question. 

For the last year, the house at the end of my street has had multiple MAGA flags flying, including that included the words: Make liberals cry again. Think about that. Think about the raw fury and those bullying words, flapping against a fence. 

I am a Unitarian Universalist. Our First Principle is the "inherent worth and dignity of all people". I struggled. I still struggle. The best I could do was to pass by with my dog and not encourage him to do his business there, in front of their house. 

By the evening of November 7th, I surrendered to the exhaustion of anxiety. I went to bed, offering up Buddhist Metta meditations. The next morning, I avoided the listening to the radio. Bad news would find me, I figured. Why rush it? That red tide was going to end democracy. It's what most of the pundits were saying. 

When I got to the office, co-workers were smiling. The early news was encouraging, and Maura Healy had made history. By the afternoon and evening, the truth revealed itself: most of the MAGA candidates were losing. Predictions were wrong. Young people came out to vote, motivated in record numbers. 

I was astonished. I still am. I remember my Dad telling me that in politics, the pendulum swings back and forth. That's just how it works. In my life, that's been pretty damned predictable, especially in midterms. Except this year, the pendulum didn't. Yes, the House has flipped but only by a very small margin. And not to put too fine a point on it but the reports about the budget bill being passed seemed to happen only because there were politicians who met in the middle and made compromises. Is it perfect? No. Is everyone happy? GOD, no. But I think the spirit of John McCain is smiling. 

So this, my friends, is my long answer: the midterms gave me hope. 

I am not a person who does resolutions on New Year's Eve; I am a believer of life-long changes which mean a commitment, not a laundry list. 

But today, I DO make this one resolution to you. I resolve to do better. I resolve to not sit in my silence. What I also know is that in the darkness of keeping it in, cynicism breeds. By drawing myself out and engaging with you -- though blog, through conversation -- we connect and share our pain and our vulnerability. We can have hope and we can make a better world. 

Whatever you do tonight and the rest of the year: I send you hope.

Peace

-Leslie

On Rest and Resistance

 A confession: there is a moment, pretty much every day, when I am in bed, the snooze button has been hit a few times, and I look at the clock and wonder: can I do it today? Can I actually get up?

But that’s not the confession. The confession is that many times , possibly half the time, even though it’s already “later than it should be”, I sink back down and literally pull the sheets over my head. Perhaps you know what I’m saying? There used to be posters and mugs with sayings like: Not a Morning Person Doesn’t Begin To Cover It. And we laugh because it’s so funny. Except it’s not. And on the days when I’m going into my physical office, there is also always a moment of surprise for me when I’m riding the train, realizing: okay, I’ve done it again. I got up. It’s kind of a surprise though it also comes with wondering what I forgot in order to get out of the house. My lunch? Check. Makeup on? Check. My phone? Check. I’ve forgotten each of these over the last few weeks, so I check off the basics and let that be enough. There are connected ideas here. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a Night Person . In my perfect world, I’m up until 1 or 2 am and sleeping til noon. Pre-pandemic, I was working 9-5, in the office, 5 days a week. I sucked it up, imagining that someday things might change. The complete surprise, of course, was that things changed. Everything changed.

I have no way of knowing the stats on this but it seems like we night people are in the minority. Early birds are great for jobs with 9-5 schedules. And that was how it was in the Before Times. Lots of us Night People working hours that were unnatural for us, five days a week. When we arrived at work late, even with kind coworkers, the underlying assumption was that we were outliers, which also meant those of us who aren’t are perceived as lazy or weird.

But then, it was Covid and we were all home, all the time-- a complete upheaval.

Last summer, I offered up a sermon at my church: What Covid Showed Me. It was a numbered list of items and number 1 on this list was titled: I Don't Have to Be Chronically Exhausted. It offered this observation:   

 I discovered had extra time in my day and didn’t dread every morning. It took several weeks for me to realize what was happening but one day last June, I told a friend: I’m not chronically exhausted anymore.  It was a revelation – and I hadn’t realized it was possible.

For me this was -- and still is -- a miracle. But here's the thing. I am a person who knows how privileged a world I live in. I am grateful to be able to now be more able to give my body what it needs, when it needs it. For so many in the world, this is not a possibility.

There is a woman in Atlanta -- Tricia Hersey -- whose Facebook page: The Nap Ministry caught my eye a couple of years ago. I assumed it was a call for those of us who were tired to take naps, which it does -- but more importantly, it is a call for us to resist the Grind Culture, for people of color especially.

She has been working on a book which will be published in October called Rest is Resistance. I have already preordered my copy. I cannot do justice to the power of her words, though I try to live up to her mission every day. In the description of her book, she is described this way:

    Rest Is Resistance is rooted in spiritual energy and centered in Black liberation, womanism,     somatics, and Afrofuturism. With captivating storytelling and practical advice, all delivered in     Hersey’s lyrical voice and informed by her deep experience in theology, activism, and            performance art, Rest Is Resistance is a call to action, a battle cry, a field guide, and a     manifesto for all of us who are sleep deprived, searching for justice, and longing to be     liberated from the oppressive grip of Grind Culture.

I listen to her words because she is dead-on right. The Grind Culture can only kill us. Certainly it means we don't live our own lives. We are addicted to a system that profits off of us. That is not life. 

This is powerful stuff. If I truly care for collective liberation, how can I not answer this call?

If you are interested in reading more of Tricia's work, here are the links to her book preorder.

Rest Is Resistance by Tricia Hersey | Little, Brown Spark (littlebrownspark.com)

Listen to your bodies, friends. Take a nap. It's good for the soul.

Peace

On Gender

I have a non-binary child.

I've been thinking about writing about it for awhile, and the time is now. One important note: I am not a expert; I am a mom.

First of all, in spite of what one might think, people didn't  start talking about gender identification last year.  It may *feel* trendy and it may be something that you never thought about until last year or the year before but that doesn't change reality.

It’s not a trend. It’s not new. What’s IS new is that it has entered a current moment of conversation. 

So my non-binary child legally changed their name this year. Yes they use they.  Now I use they. I used to teach writing and grammar, so I understand about plural and singular pronouns. Is it "hard"?  One may perceive it as hard, but honestly, there are lots of things in life that are only as difficult as you make them, and this is one. If adjusting your language to respect what someone is asking for in the name of mental health is the most difficult thing you're doing, then you have a really easy life. In other words, get over it

Here's my position. This is MY KID. I love my kid. My kid says; "I identify using they, which isn't exactly right but I'm figuring it, so bear with me." So I say; "Okay, I’ll use they."  Which I do.

I have friends who say to me: "You NEVER slip, using they" which I wish was true.  I do slip sometimes and the kid and I have had to talk about this.  At first, they took it as dismissive and disappointing when I slipped. But we've progressed. We've had to work it through.

The last few years have been hard.  Getting appointments during a pandemic has added a layer of stress on top of the usual, but I am unbelievably grateful to be living in Massachusetts where we have access to amazing medical care and resources. So many people don't.

As I've entered this journey with my child and gotten myself educated, it's been heartbreaking reading the stories of what trans and nonbinary people have endured to be themselves. Going broke just to get medications and surgeries. Living double lives to be safe. 

I am so proud of my beautiful, creative kid. This kid has bloomed in the past year. Finally able to express themselves with their clothing, make-up and hair, their joy is simply contagious. And as for the hair! I have told them that I need help with my hair! Their ability to cut and color is amazing --and they certainly didn't get that gene from me. 

If you're wondering about how much I worry about them, the answer is: more than I'd like to.  Parents worry; that's our job -- but this is different. Any parent watching their child go out the door  who worries that their child may be a target just because of how they look gets it. And there is plenty of that going around. It's partly why I wanted to write. 

As we know, representation matters. It won't fix everything but getting an understanding that the world is more than we know -- or certainly, more than we've seen in media and perhaps even been directly told -- can begin to open minds. We need open minds. 

If you haven't thought much about folks who are non-binary, I would ask you to keep your heart open. 

Life is too short not to get a chance to be yourself. That's true for all of us.

Peace.

On Photographs

 I took pictures today as the sun was setting.  Almost every day I take pictures, whatever catches me: rocks, plants, water, light. Tonight, walking the dog, the setting sun took away my breath. No picture I take ever does justice to what I see, but it doesn't discourage me. Even dim reflections bring me back to the moment. 

This is an ordinary thing. Phones with cameras have made photography easier and also, more equitable. Certainly, the opportunity to be unconstrained by the fear of screwing up the shots and wasting film liberated me. As a kid, I saw photography like all visual mediums: only talented people can do it. The rest of us are embarrassing ourselves. 

My parents took pictures. They documented our childhood, up to a point. There was a period with very few pictures, and then later, when my siblings and I were older and leaving home, they began taking pictures of seasonal changes. Pictures of flaming sugar maples in fall, deep snow piles in winter, shining branches that looked like they were coated in glass, after an ice storm. And their cats, so many pictures of the cats. These weren't very good photos, but that didn't seem to matter. My mother put them in albums. 

When my brother and I sold the house in 2004, it was a gut-wrenching project to clean out that house which three generations had lived in. The photographs were everywhere.  At the time, I remember thinking: Why the hell do I have boxes of pictures of the old tree? And all this snow? And these cats? WHY did they take these pictures??? 

Recently, I was having a discussion in a group where we were asked if we had a spiritual practice. Many shared that writing was theirs, and though that's true for me, what I said was that one of mine is taking photographs, usually every day, and looking through them to return to the immediacy of presence.  

When I look through the pictures on my phone, or in albums, or in one of the digital vaults where everything goes -- like heaven after death, it's all in the cloud -- it feels like sacred ritual. Each piece connects to the next. Bead next to bead on a string, like a rosary or Buddhist mala, image after image. Each unique, each part of a whole. 

The visual mantra of life.

This week, for the first time, I imagined my parents looking through all those pictures. Not just taking them and stuffing them away, but taking them out, looking at the storms, the snow, the trees, the cats. Remembering. Reliving. Imagining this, I thought: I understand. As a child, you don't often feel like you can ever get your parents. I was 39 when my mother died. By my age, my mother was already fighting cancer.  Because I've been a parent without either of them alive, I've wondered a lot: how would it have been?  But I won't ever know the answer to that question, so when I make a connection like this, it feels like finding buried treasure.

As I write this, it's 10/31, Halloween. Samhain. Tomorrow is Dia de los Muertos. Is the veil thin? I'd like to believe so. Sometimes when I write, I imagine my parents are with me, over my shoulder. Certainly, they are in my heart. 

So friends: take all the pictures. If it moves you, if you want to remember it, do it. Go back; relive that instant. Life is only instants. You get to choose what to keep and what to savor. 

Peace

                                                                          


 

On Not Being Taken Seriously

I had an experience this week that I am still processing. There are parts of it I can't share but the parts that I can, I realized, connect to a bigger truth: lots of us are not taken seriously.

On Tuesday, a car on the train I use for commuting derailed. I wasn't on it, and in fact, no one was injured, thankfully. It was just another the-MBTA-is-a-broken-down-system event. 

But. But the immediate affect was that trains stopped running and shuttle buses were brought in. It was a rainy day, too. Bonus. I left work early, hoping to avoid some of the worst of what was sure to be commute hell. When I got to the station where the busses began -- Park Street, the hub of all commuting in Boston -- it was worse than I imagined. A sea of people and no buses. Waited, waited , waited. People were stressed and wet, since it was drizzling. 

A tall guy in front me started to yell: Where are the buses?!! where are the goddamn busses? 

To which I -- already pissed off from an earlier conversation in the day, a conversation where I felt passed over for something I knew I could do -- added: Yeah, haven’t you been doing this all day?!

At which point, the tall man turned and yelled at me: Hey lady, calm down! 

Let me repeat that: he then yelled at ME to “calm down “

Think about this for minute. He did it because of course, sexism. I am a short, dumpy middle aged woman so very tall guys can do that. They get to decide who says what. 

Now, you may be saying: Leslie, stop being so sensitive. 

I hope to God you aren't saying that because if you are, then you are part of the problem.

Let me restate the problem: some of us are not taken seriously.  I can only speak to my experience, but as someone who recently discovered she doesn't even reach 5 feet tall anymore (4 ft 11 3/4 inches!), I am often, literally, not seen. Ask me how many times I've gone up to a counter, only to have the cashier speak to the person behind me. (HERE, here. HELLO!!!)  

I could give more examples but here is the thing: I am aware that my needing to already assumes that I am not believed, that I need to justify this truth with enough "evidence". 

There is much eyerolling in the world about the phrase: microaggressions. Even among those who care about it, there are doubts. Why worry about those, they say, when we haven't even eradicated the macro ones?  

I also know that after the last administration, there is deep exhaustion and PTSD. That's real. But here is the thing: being able to step away from compassion is a sign of privilege. If you are saying: This doesn't affect me, then you are using your privilege. 

I woke up this morning thinking about the end goal. I thought about all the times I've not been taken seriously, when I had to defend and argue, how something felt. Now let me be clear here. What I am talking about are the moments when I have stated how I felt. 

When I think about the cry for social justice, how the marginalized --refugees, indigenous people, people of color, trans people, gay people -- have often said how they feel, only to be disbelieved, it breaks my heart. 

In my world, the Unitarian Universalist world, we have 7 Principles, the first of which is: the inherent worth and dignity of all people. ALL people. 

I might be challenged: why do you only care about the feelings of minorities? 

My reply: I don't. I want ALL people to be believed, cherished and certainly: taken seriously. The historic truth is that those in power have used that power to control speech. In this time, I am working to give voice to those who have not always had a voice, and certainly, not felt safe and believed.  This feels important to me and yes, because part of me understands how this feels. I have written about this before. Though I may have my story and my life, if I hear your story, then I can get a glimpse into who you are and what you have known. 

So here was my first thought this morning: How about we assume that when people, especially from marginalized groups, say how something feels, how about we believe them? Rather than doubt their perspective, rather than overanalyze it because it's different from what we thought we knew, how about we just trust that they know themselves well enough to just say how it is??

I know this isn't a novel idea, but when I think about all the contortions I see some good-hearted, like-minded folks I know get into about microagressions, all I can think is: Why can't we just say yes? Why can't we just listen to that truth and let it sit within us? 

And on a personal note, I will add that after my awful commute, I emailed the person who'd I'd felt had not taken me seriously. The person replied to me, apologized, and said that they understood that I had a lot to offer. To me, this is how change in the world happens. To hold the truth, to speak the truth, to listen to the truth, and not deny its existence. 

In Zoom conversation this week with a wonderful friend who lives across the country, a woman who is well over six feet tall, we commented on how virtual conversations leveled the playing field. So many of the assumptions we had experienced when people met us in real life disappeared on Zoom. What clothes we wore, how tall we were, all of it -- meaningless -- and how freeing this was. 

My prayer for all is that we can reach this place, where our hearts lead the way and our stories are heard. 

peace