begin again
It’s July and we are still in the throes of Covid. In addition to a great, much-needed civil rights movement. As a white woman, I am doing my best to not f*ck up. That’s the honest to goodness truth. It’s a minefield and there are so many things I did not learn. We — collectively, as a country — did not learn.
When everything reached a fever pitch in early June, I felt overwhelmed. So much information, so much coming-to-terms with my own damaging behaviour. So much hate toward white women. It was — and continues to be — a lot. I’ve always said about myself that I exist on the ends of the spectrum, I see things in black and white. And what I keep learning over and over is that life and existence only exists in the in-between. Not even the primary colors like red, yellow and blue. But in every shade, every variation. Truth exists like that — my truth, your truth, the world’s truth, the historian’s truth. Everything told and played through perspective, different angles and glass tones and lighting.
I spent some time in my youth studying light design for theatre. (I loved it). There is a world of difference between a human standing on an empty stage in stark white light versus the same person, standing on the same stage, in any other combination of light, intensity and gel color. It doesn’t look the same.
This, I believe, is true of the human experience. We are all looking through filters, we are informed by our own experiences, the things we’ve been taught, the things we’ve seen. Some of us can try to step outside ourselves and critically look at how we behave, how things have influenced us — but many of us never do that. We are caught in the emotions, the anger, the hurt. We have created our experience and there is nothing outside of that. it is all-consuming.
In my brief study of yoga, we discussed the idea of our minds creating our entire reality. Aka, what blue means to me, how I see blue, versus anyone else. How I smell orange, describe cold, consider air. Our minds create this world that we live in, but it isn’t the stripped down truth of reality. Our minds organize things and allow us to have an enjoyable life experience, rather than being caught in a caucophany of infinite assaults on our senses. It molds our reality to our likes and dislikes; what we are struck by, intrigued by, turned off by. How wild is that?
~*~
It is very hard to accept the new terms being asked of us — that we have unknowingly committed harm over years, decades, centuries. That all of the accomplishments of great men are tarnished by loathesome behaviour that was commonly accepted. It is hard to keep trying even when you are told every day you are wrong, that the rules have changed again. It is asking a lot of humanity to do that. To accept that the reality and the history of the world cannot be determined solely by who wrote it and it cannot be defended solely by who speaks loudest. There are subtleties and information that is uncomfortable and downright shameful. That is f*cking hard. I have watched people I love and respect say and do things that have horrified me in defense of the history they have accepted and perpetuated for themselves and for humanity.
We are living through unprecendented times. We are being told that while we might be capable of nearly anything, we have to stay home and wear a mask because an invisible virus could be lurking. We are being challenged to question the status quo of history, of mankind. It is not easy. It is hard, hard work. It is exhausting (especially when you’re handicapped already as I am).
But we need to do it anyway. Because we decide to.
xo, g
floating
I find myself swirling down the rabbit hole of obsessive thoughts a lot right now. Maybe ‘obsessive’ is the wrong word. I just get focused and then … and then … and then.
COVID-19, self-isolation and the growing dissent of half the country definitely changes priorities. It changes the fabric of life. It changes how we get information, process information, react to information. How we value food, necessitites and commodities. It inspires nostalgia for a time not so long ago when we didn’t think twice about sitting next to a stranger on public transportation.
I read email chains among my family (spread across the globe) touting the strength and resolve of the WWII generation. It isn’t something I can speak to directly. One set of grandparents fought, the other were involved in the homefront war effort. But my grandparents’ experiences were informed by incredibly different situations. Two were British citizens, and WWII for the people of the United Kingdom was a different war than my American grandparents experienced. There is no way to compare one country to the other or place higher value on one person’s experience over anothers. (It doesn’t stop everyone from trying, though).
Taking this thought and expanding upon it, I would propose that it’s nearly impossible to compare one generation of humans to another due to each generation facing uniquely time-stamped obstacles, privileges, etc. War as it was in 1943 could never exist in 2020. Technology, communication … the very way in which we live our lives has completely changed. Just as war during medieval times is not what WWII looked like.
What we are collectively experiencing globally isn’t like war, because there are no ‘good’ guys or ‘bad’ guys. There isn’t universal support for the sacrifices made by the men & women on the front lines because war is war. Political agendas inform what stance each person takes. Agendas of all kinds and manipulation of information leaves us all pointing fingers at each other. This pandemic is murky and insidious and frightening in its mystery. As citizens of the globe, we are suffering differently but perhaps, not less.
I’m tired and irritable. I vacillate from one extreme to the other multiple times a day. I don’t know myself half the time, I don’t know how I keep going. I want to sleep. I want to give up. I want something to sweep in and save me.
But real life isn’t usually like that. I have a book of poetry entitled “The Princess Saves Herself in this One.” Yes. Yes to this. The princess has to save herself because believing that anything or anyone else is going to swoop in and take all the stress and worry away is just flat out niave.
But it doesn’t stop me from … sometimes … wishing for just that.
xox, g
Because I Just Decided To
Oftentimes I begin the explanation of “Because I Just Decided To” with its origin story in my life. It resonates with me because it inspires the rumbling in my belly of inspiration every time I think of it. I don’t know that it has the same impact on people I share it with ….
But I’m going to share it again. Because that’s just who I am. Sometimes —even if I recognize something isn’t working — I insist on repeating it, as though repetition might change something. (The definition of insanity comes to mind as I type this).
The very first episode of The Newsroom is titled “We Just Decided To.” If you haven’t watched this HBO show (it aired from 2012 to 2014 and has just 25 episodes) do yourself a favor and commit to it.
Husby and I watched it when it aired and we have watched it several times since. We both love it. To me, it speaks to humanity and the very best and worst of what we are capable of … merely by what and how we choose to present information.
The first episode sets the premise of the show — presenting news that is unbiased, fully researched, vetted and verified. Presenting the news and allowing viewers to make their own decisions. Ground-breaking.
What has always stayed with me is the idea that a group of people had an idea and then put it in motion just because they decided to. Now, obviously it takes muscle and grit and determination. The ability to keep going when you hear a lot of NO. But the concept that it all began because THEY JUST DECIDED TO … I loved it. I love it still. I love it always.
I’m a big believer in choice. (Even after watching Devs …which will have to be its own blog post). Every day, every moment, we all have choices. And our choices define our reality. I choose to wake up every day, make the bed, put on workout gear, do my job, ride the Peloton, shower, make dinner, etc etc. Because I decide to. I choose to.
Quarantine has been an interesting microcosm to examine this phenomenon of choice and destiny and life. As humans, we could choose to fight to maintain as much ‘normalcy’ as possible in our day-to-day lives. Or, whatever ‘normal’ was before COVID. We *could* choose to stay in sweatpants, not shower, and eat junk food watching trash TV all day. Ignore the hours on the clock, and just define time as awake and asleep. We could choose to give ourselves goals … learn a language, play an instrument, write a generation-defining novel. Completely change our identity … because we can.
I think — in general — we all fall in the ‘in-between’ of this spectrum. There are good days and bad days, good meals and hiccups, good sleep and restlessness. We’re overloaded with content — TV and movies and podcasts and documentaries and books and blogs and vlogs and You Tube …. I could go on. For me, the overload creates ennui.
The thing I have noticed is that I will put the effort and research and investigation into the things that interest me. And because of limited resources and many hours at home, those interests have distilled. I’ve invested in the life of my plants (something I never thought would hook me); I talk to them and touch them and check on them. I water them and make sure they are warm enough if frost is coming. I have committed.
I’ve baked. I’ve made bread. I’ve even made ice cream. (Crazily easy). I’ve shared bits and pieces on social media. I’ve kept other things close to the vest. This morning I began feeding my sour dough starter (a gift from our great friends who endeavored to begin a starter back at Easter).
I realized, as I mixed the flour and water, that even though I ended up in food service for myriad reasons, over the forty years of my life I have fallen more and more in love (even when I have decried it). I am committed to food. Learning it, making it, seasoning it, growing it. Understanding it. I may not have played my piano or been consequent about my French lessons on Duo Lingo. But I’ve committed to my food.
It’s interesting to consider.
And all these things … all these deviations from life as I had previously known it, are because I just decided to. I decided to grow tomatoes and strawberries. And zucchini and lettuce greens and herbs. I decided to learn bread-making and commit to sour dough. I have done all of these things because I just decided to. Kinda crazy … and powerful. If you ask me.
Think about what we as humans could be capable of … if we just decided to.
strange times
Three weeks ago I made a list of errands to run the next day. John had a busy work day, and we’d already been to the hospital for my monthly Tysabri infusion. The errands weren’t important, just little ‘to do’ things I wanted to clear off the list and I didn’t want to spend our Friday night doing chores. It could wait.
Saturday morning dawned clear, crisp and sunny. The world felt strange — virus news was coming in fits and starts, some information more reliable than others. Schools had been shut the day before for two weeks. We were supposed to social distance. None of it felt suddenly immediate. J+I had already stocked up the fridge and freezer. We’d done ‘the things.’
We went to UPS and mailed an Amazon return. We went to CVS to grab prescriptions and deodorant. Even CVS was devoid of basic necessities — no milk, no butter. How, I wondered to myself, could I buy oreos if there was no milk?
That thought seems ludicrous today. Also — why was I so blasé in my actions — why did I go to two stores in quick succession without hand sanitizer? What was I thinking?!?
It’s pretty grounding to consider how much has changed in such a short amount of time. By that Monday following our errands, our county in PA had been issued ‘stay at home’ orders for two weeks. Everything was being cancelled. Businesses were closing their doors. Zoom was becoming the most popular thing … in the world.
Now we’re at ‘shelter in place’ until the end of April. I have an appointment with my neurologist via Zoom on Monday, and I’m doing yoga teacher training virtually. It all feels … odd. And a bit uncomfortable. Like hammering square pegs into round holes just because we don’t know what else to do.
I’m overcome daily with gratitude. My husband and I were built for crisis’ like this. We’re homebodies, introverts; people who work from home, enjoy each other’s company, and love our Peloton and having conversations over dinner. These blessings are not lost on me. I think about them when I fall asleep and when our day begins … every single night and every single morning.
I have become acutely aware of the running monologue in my head — my thoughts, observations, worries …. And I knew that I needed to write because writing has always been my outlet. So I’m back here, clicking the keys, writing down my stream-of-conscious thoughts.
Because COVID-19 is real. And it’s changed our lives. And things might never be the same. … But maybe, they’ll be better?
xox, g
strike that, reverse it
As this year nears its inevitable conclusion, my mind has been full.
Maybe it’s the big 4-0 that’s rapidly approaching, or the fact that nearly twelve months have passed since I lost my mother. But I have moments when I look in the mirror and I don’t know who I am anymore. Things that used to rip me apart don’t phase me, while other minutiae niggle in my brain incessantly, causing me undue stress and reflection.
I keep thinking about the idea that when I was young, I had very clear ideas about life. What was right and wrong, what the ‘correct’ way to live was … and as the years slip by, and I learn more about life and perspective, it has me questioning everything I thought I knew.
I wonder at how, as time passes, people seem to blur the edges of memories, and re-write history. Is that how things should be? Is that how we cope? Is that how we edit our lives so we can sleep peacefully at night? Does that forgive us our flaws, short-comings and grudges and re-paint history so that we feel comfortable in our own skin?
And if that is the case, what then drives those amongst us who are actually kind, and thoughtful, and amazingly forgiving, to continue to walk those pathes without straying rather than behave badly and edit it as time goes by?
Am I cursed with a memory that should be more fickle but is not? Or … is my memory as biased as those I feel to be re-imagined? I’m puzzled by it, perplexed. Irritated and simultaneously, exhausted.
I have infinitely more questions than I have answers.
doctor, doctor
Last week I was fairly certain that I was getting wildly ill.
So certain that I went to see a doctor. Which — while seemingly counter-intuitive for a person with an autoimmune disease — is unusual for me. I see enough doctors on a regular basis that voluntarily going is not high on my list of things to do.
I was convinced that I would be reprimanded for not having gotten a flu shot. Told I had the worst possible version of the flu. And subsequently spend a week (minimum) near death.
Nope.
I was told I have allergies.
Yeah. Anti-climactic. And also, infuriating. Allergies are the worst. Just … awful. There’s no real cure (sort of like the flu, right?) with the added benefit of coming back seasonally to torment my head, my balance, and my sanity.
And here’s where I’m at, nearly ten days since ‘diagnosis’, post-steroid treatment, and saddled with the prospect of squirting sh*t up my nose indefinitely — I’m depressed.
Health is such a tricky thing. My health is compounded by the added bonus of multiple sclerosis, chronic, low-grade inflammation and a myriad of other, delightful maladies associated with the former. But health — for all of us –is tricky. Navigating it is sort of like taking a leap of faith on a wing and a prayer. Hoping that what works for the majority also works for me. Trying desperating to interpret the messages my body is sending me — messages sent in a foreign language that I do not speak and can only vaguely de-code.
Always in the back of my mind are the following (thank you, Dr. M). Is this MS? Is it aging? Is it nutrition? Is it digestion? Is it a reaction to my medication? Am I getting ‘normal’ sick? What did I eat that I shouldn’t have?
Maybe I’m tired all the time because I’m worrying all the time. Because I’m working so effing hard to be as healthy as I can be … and still, sometimes, failing. What a letdown.
And our health system (let’s separate it from health insurance momentarily because — woof — I cannot tackle that thought process tonight) is a mess.
Acute illness and chronic illness are treated … the same? Here’s the diagnosis, here’s the drug protocol. Come back in three months and let us know how you are doing. Thanks and have a nice day.
But wait…. Acute illness can be treated — usually swiftly and effectively — with modern, western medicine. But chronic illness? Why aren’t we talking about food?!? Why are doctors trained with only 16 hours of nutritional education? Why have we abandoned that which saved us for centuries? Because it doesn’t make us money? Because drug companies can’t produce it, market it and profit from it? Because I can grow lettuce in my back yard? Is that why it isn’t a factor anymore?
And functional medical doctors — the ones who do believe in food as medicine, and whole body wellness — yeah, they aren’t covered by insurance. Because that would be crazy, right? Helping people get better and reducing medical costs would be bad, right?
Writing this blog post won’t change anything. Systems take more than angry words to topple. And if there isn’t a better alternative … why destroy what exists? I’m just frustrated, I’m tired. I would really like to not feel completely off balance and woozy every moment of every day.
Ce la vie. Such is my life currently. God Bless America.
xox, g
mondaze
I wish I had something insightful to say today.
I don’t.
I feel so overwhelmingly tired. Every part of my body feels like a one-ton weight. My arms, my legs, my neck. My head is screaming with pain. It is a migraine … something that has become all too frequent of late.
Today felt full … that feeling of eating too much, too fast. It went by in a blur … and I’m fairly sure I accomplished things. But not the things I’d set out to do in the morning. So regardless of how much I accomplished, today feels wasted. How did I run out of time? How did I get to the end with so many things unattended?
Perhaps that’s a mental issue I struggle with. I certainly struggle with perfectionism and OCD. Two things that dictate my day … doing, being, performing perfectly. Checking all the boxes. Doing all the things.
Am I rambling? It doesn’t look like I’ve written much but my brain is running, overflowing. I am frustrated by my disease, by the pain in my body I cannot fix, by my unrelenting fatigue and how it steals my time … my days. Angry at the fog of my brain and the unresponsiveness of my body.
I think about Dr. Markowitz and how he infuriating responds to so many of my concerns … “It could be MS. Or it could be your age.” A pause. “Or something else.”
So, um, life? It could be life. The aches and the pains, the stiffness and the desperate, constant need for more sleep. Of waking unrested. Yes. Life.
I start every Monday with a fresh slate. I begin again. I set goals and strive to achieve them. Hitting road blocks along the way just isn’t my favorite thing. And yet, here I am. On Monday. Exhausted. Fuzzy. Ready to be done.
Reframe it. Find gratitude. It feels nearly impossible. But I sat down and I typed. For the fifth day in a row. And for that, I am grateful.
Ha! I did it.
xox, g
nine weeks
Nine weeks ago today, I decided to stop drinking.
I didn’t necessarily think I was an alcoholic with a destructive addiction. But I did think that maybe, I wasn’t my best self when I was drinking alcohol. And maybe I drank too often and when I did, too much. And maybe I needed to get that under control.
Y’know how in life, you hear certain things, and you don’t hear other things? And the things that you hear are usually the things that ring true for you, the things you can get behind and believe? Well, way back in 2016 a man came to speak to the upper management of the company I worked for. He talked to us about culture, and creating a positive environment. He talked about a lot of things I can speak about in theory. But one thing he said — the thing that stuck with me and I have encorporated into my life — was a concept about habit.
Most people believe that it takes 21 days to create a new habit, or break a ‘bad’ one. This man said no, 21 wasn’t the lucky number. That in order to truly create new patterns and new thought behavior, you needed to commit to something for 66 days. Now, to be fair, I poo-poo’ed a lot of what he said, because I thought that at the time, we didn’t need to be having seminars about culture and vision statements — we needed to tighten up systems and control our cash flow more effectively. But that’s neither here nor there.
I put his theory of 66 days to the test when I decided to start riding the stationary bike that had — for several months — been collecting dust in our spare room. I began riding every day on March 1, 2016. And today, November 3, 2019, I still ride the bike most days. Because those 66 days DID create a habit. So, I’m a believer. And I put that concept to work every time I want to change something in my life. I commit for 66 days.
To be honest, I should have waited until Wednesday to write this. On Wednesday it will be 66 days since I stopped drinking. But the change really begins to be noticeable around the 50-55 day mark. It’s almost as though your whole body, your whole brain, kinda gives into this new ‘normal’ and it stops being an effort, and it stops being strange, and it just becomes who you are.
I really like being sober. And sometimes, it isn’t easy. When people think you aren’t honoring a situation or occasion because you are not raising a glass in a toast. When you realize that you don’t know what to do with your friends because all you’ve ever done is socially drink. When you ponder what you will do on vacation when all the guidebooks talk about is drinking. When you become truly concerned that all your friendships will change … or fade away. Just because you don’t drink alcohol anymore. It’s grounding. But … still, I really like being sober.
I like being clear-headed. I like sleeping well. I like having energy (always a challenge with MS). I like not worrying that I said or did something offensive or stupid or just … ill-advised. I like being able to drive home at the end of the night.
I like most things about sobriety. But culturally, socially, it’s hard. As each day goes by, it gets easier to handle. I feel more confident. I own it more. I realize that I could probably drink again and have a lot more control … but do I want to?
It’s an interesting question.
xox, g
pause
I’m not a very nice person. I mean, I try. But I don’t succeed.
I get grumpy when I’m tired. I get down right vicious when I’m hungry. I snap. I say mean things. For no reason, really.
It’s an interesting thing to contemplate. This evening I snipped at my husband because he asked me a few times if I was okay with the movie he picked for us to fall asleep to (I almost need a movie and background talking to fall asleep. It’s probably not healthy). Maybe he asked me more than once because he didn’t hear my response the first time. Maybe he wanted to make sure I wasn’t just humoring him. I don’t know. He wasn’t being malicious. But I spewed venom for no reason.
And here’s the thing. Words are very powerful. Words can heal. But they can also hurt. They cripple. Do untold damage. They stay with you for years, a haunting echo in the back of your brain. I can name multiple things that have been said to me over time that I still carry with me — that have affected the way I live my life and the person I am. And who knows if I truly need to be carrying those weights? Who knows if I even understood the message at the time … if I’m even remembering things correctly. I know how they made me feel. And when something hurts you, wounds you to the marrow of your bones … it isn’t easily forgotten.
I want to pause for a moment and remind myself that it is important to always think before I speak. To consider the consequences of my words. Is hurting someone instantly worth it in the long run? What do I get out of that? What does it say about me?
I find that oftentimes my words are most harsh in moments of my own insecurity. When I feel vulnerable. My ability to cut someone down is a defense mechanism. Trying to be conscious of that is a forever job. I don’t think it ever gets easier. Perhaps, with time, I just get a little more thoughtful and I pause.
begin again
I don’t know if anyone reads this blog. And I’m totally okay with that. I like having a space to talk (even if it’s just to myself!). I like having a space to think things out. Oftentimes, after I’ve written I feel lighter, as though heavy thoughts that have burdened me are no longer weighing on my shoulders.
I began this blog in June 2011 as a way to learn to cook. And in January 2013 when I was positively diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, it became a place I came to to work through things. To share the chaos in my mind. This past year, it has been an outlet for the grief that has pulsed through my veins since losing my mother.
And now, I need it to be something else. I need it to be where I write every day and share my world view. Because I’ll turn 40 in just over a month, and I need to feel like my life has purpose. As though it has shape. We all spend an amazing amount of time running the rat race — pushing through minutes and hours and days to get to a nebulous destination. I have had the great priviledge of not having to work for the last few years. And it has given me such perspective on the question “Why?”.
I thought about beginning this month as daily postings about gratitude. I love the exercise and I think it’s so worthwhile to focus on what we are grateful for, and give thanks to those people who positively impact our lives. But … I can do that on Instagram. I can do that anywhere. What can I do here that will mean something?
Honestly. I don’t know.
Life feels fraught at the moment. We are all doing the things we need to do to survive, to be part of society. We hand out candy on Halloween, our front stoop a riot of mums and pumpkins and scarecrows. We do the laundry and call the contractor about the leaky roof. We make sure to order our dog’s medicine and pick up the dry cleaning. We do the things.
To what end? What are our goals? Why do we do the things we do? Have we prioritized our time? Are we acting in the best interest of our loved ones — and more importantly — ourselves?
I have deeply struggled for many months … perhaps years … with the question of “What’s Next?” What should I be doing, what am I obligated to do … what will garner the least judgement from my peers (this is a real concern, and I’m not proud of it, but I do worry about judgement).
It hasn’t been an easy road. And I have had many other things to consume me, as well. I have wavered, I have tried things, I have made decisions only to renege. I have wondered and soul searched and felt completely and utterly lost.
I don’t know if I’ve found my way. But I do think I have an idea. And for right now, I’m beginning here. I’m starting small. And I will grow, one day and one moment at a time. And if you are reading this (if anyone is reading this! haha!) — Thank You. And I hope you enjoy this new journey.
xox, g
D5 Creation