On Focus

Last night I saw a news story about this new viral trend: Silent Walking. It’s this hot new trend where you just walk. No headphones, no companions. Just feet. 

Stop and think about this.  Not the walking part, the “new viral trend” part. The expert is a consultant who advises people— even if it’s difficult at first to imagine it— to go for a walk by yourself without headphones or a companion. This is radical, he said. Radical. Taking a walk quietly in 2023 is radical. 

If you are under 35, you’re likely yelling at me now: You don’t get it!!  Actually, I DO get it. I am just stunned by it. He’s not lying and I’m sure it IS radical. 

This morning on the train to work, there was a woman next to me fully engaged in a zoom call with 8 people. I routinely see people on the train in meetings, having phone calls that signal: still working. Constantly working. This is hyper-connectivity.

In my own home, I’ve observed both my children doing what most in the under-25 crowd do. (I assume) I could call it multi-tasking but multi-tasking sounds like a productivity plan. This is them watching one thing on a screen and listening to something else through headphones. A movie AND a conversation. Online gaming AND music. I only observe this.  The ship has clearly sailed. But I wonder.

I read a quote this morning: “What everyone wants to belong to is community, but they keep winding up in audiences instead and I think this is the cause of a tremendous amount of suffering right now.” So I’m thinking about the value of focus. The expert who advised people to go out for quiet walks talked about both the psychological and physical benefits of doing it. No question. Facts, friends: this may be radical in 2023 but it’s not new. Many traditions have advocated for this for millennia. Silent retreats. Silent religious orders. Walking a labyrinth. I will add swimming to this list because: the rhythm of laps and the absence of music = focus (for me). 

You have to define focus for yourself, but I call it “clarity”. I call it: a good idea, a problem unlocked and sometimes, inspiration. It’s vital. To do the work I care about— building community rather than audiences— having focus matters. 

And truly, I am not criticizing this, for lack of a better word, trend. (Though yes, I find "influencers" deeply troubling.) My pitch today? IF this sounds radical to you, if you are someone who only walks (or runs) plugged in, consider giving this radical idea a try.. I love music while I’m working but I am also aware that it serves as a distraction. Give yourself the opportunity to experience a deeper focus. Take that Quiet Walk. You and the world will likely be better for it. 

Peace

On Reunions (Again!)

A week ago today, I was at my 45th high school reunion. 

I have written about reunions before (https://whattodoforanencore.blogspot.com/2018/06/on-joys-of-high-school-reunions-really.html?m=1) In fact, that post was read more than any other blog post I ever wrote which is still amazing to me.

Five years ago, everything was a revelation.  That I could do it, go back and face my anxieties. I did, and it was one of the best leaps of faith I ever took. Spoiler: what you realize when you go is that it isn't your 16-year old self that going. It's your decades-older-and-wiser self. I wondered: how was this year going to go? Was our 40th an outlier? 

A related thing -- at least for me, it's related -- is that I work at a university. Yes, I work at THAT university. Big, famous, smart, blah, blah, blah. Students who go there call this "the H bomb", because of everything that's assumed. Some is true; some is not but for me: it's been a really good job that suits what I discovered were skills. People say: "oh, you must be super-smart to work there" which I promise is NOT how interviews go. Working at a school is not the same as being admitted TO a school. Nevertheless, this relates because in high school, I was a mediocre student. I *loved* my English classes but otherwise, could not get myself to care about anything else, which always meant a terrible report card. "You can do so much better," I was told, repeatedly. I don't remember thinking that I could or couldn't at the time. I just knew I wasn't going to. Honestly, I felt stupid.

I have said before that I had stayed away from reunions because I didn't feel "good enough". It was going back five years ago that showed me sad that assumption is. I think about what education means a lot. For many many years, I thought education was only about grades. It's kind of a cliche that we wish we could go back and tell our younger selves how much of that crap DOESN'T matter but I really wish I could.

I can't go back but last weekend I said it repeatedly: that crap from our youth doesn't matter. What matters is now.

Our class has had losses in the last five years. We're getting to that age. Folks are retiring; few of us have parents alive any more. We are aging.

And yet. Yet, there is something about those of us born in 1960-ish. We are technically Baby Boomers but really, we are not. We are our own thing. There is something perpetually youthful about us. Don't believe me? You should have seen the guys from my class dressed head to foot like a hot dog, walking by the float in the parade. You should have seen us dancing at the reunion. There is a kind of impish, creative spirit we have. Ageless, engaged, connected.

I am delighted to report that last weekend was as much of a joyful revelation as it was five years ago. There were people I saw this time who weren't there for our 40th. I picked up where I left off with the ones I saw before, and I shared a room with two classmates, one of whom I literally hadn't seen since graduation. She shared with me a memory, going back to 7th grade when I was going through hell at home. She offered me kind compassion; I had no idea she knew. It was like having a hundred siblings around.

If you are assuming that this group is homogenous, I promise you: we are not. We are a diverse group with differing opinions. One example: in the parking lot at our reunion were two vehicles with bumper stickers. One said "NH Tea Party - Don't Tread on Me" and across the lot, another vehicle with a bright yellow sticker with a snake and the words: "Sweetie, No One's Treading On You." When we are together, we put that aside. That's not what we're there for. We are there to be together.

And so, we came together. We put together an amazing float for the parade, theme: Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet. We got soaked during the parade when a downpour opened up on us. AND we won first prize. We took down the float afterwards, eating pizza and laughing that sure, NOW the rain stops!! And we gathered at night, connecting and reconnecting.

In the movie Cars, James Taylor sings the theme song; Our Town. When I first heard, it just broke my heart. I thought: Dear God, this is about Claremont. It's not, but it could have been. Claremont. "You never see it coming when the world caves in on you." Like so many small towns. "Lights don't shine as brightly as they shone before". Yes, my youth in Claremont was different than it is now. It still makes me sad but the refrain goes "it's own town, love it anyway. It's our town." It is. No you can't go back to your youth. You can't go back in time. But you CAN live in the now. Last weekend, our older-and-wiser selves got together. In five years, God willing, most of us will still be here to gather for the milestone: our 50th reunion. The last time I wrote about reunions, I said that my takeaway advice was: Go to the reunions. Make the connections. This year, I say it again. Go. Life is too short not to live.

Peace

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fP8JS-MjG5c

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.