Who am I offending now?*

August 13, 2020

“I could never, ever vote for someone who is openly racist, misogynistic, and bigoted. Who continuously proves how inept and ill-equipped…”

He threw his hands up in the air, interrupting with a chuckled, “Ok, lib-tard” and an eye-roll unlike that I’ve never seen.

Wait. That’s not true.

The eye-roll looked exactly like the previous dozen Jim had thrown at me from across the patio table during our first, and only, date.

My steadfast statement in regard to the Cheeto-in-Chief didn’t come out of left field. Jim had been poking and prodding throughout our relatively brief conversation, all the while basking in his privilege as a white, CIS man. The conversational tension had reached its crux.

From his open disdain at my using an iPhone and other Apple products (apparently that’s a thing?), to scoffing at my mention of affordable housing and healthcare not tied to employment, to firmly denying the existence of the scientific process (wuttt?), to defending Trump around every corner…I was flabbergasted this human sitting an arm’s length away was just so…rude. And because “Jim” was very well aware of my political and ideological beliefs before our date, I began to believe I was on a low-budget, hidden camera reality show.

It was time for me to leave, even if it meant my dream of becoming an accidental, D-list Bravolebrity would never come to fruition. I could not stay tethered to this social interaction for a second longer.

Having called him out on his dismissive and boorish behavior more than once, I became acutely aware of his 6’2”, 240 lb. frame as I zipped my purse, secured my mask, and ordered an Uber. I knew the color rising in my cheeks would betray my confidence if I didn’t move quickly.

I thanked him for the drink and braced myself to stand. As I did, he grabbed my wrist, planting it firmly on the table, and stood fast. Towering at least a foot overhead, he looked down at me.

Taunting.

“Get your fucking hands off me, now.” I managed through my face mask as I wrenched my arm away from his grip.

It was then other patrons took notice and I scanned the small patio in a desperate attempt to make eye contact with someone. Anyone.

Without another word he turned and walked off the patio and away.

I just wanted him to disappear. Or maybe I wanted to disappear.

It’s not lost on me that I’ve been really lucky in situations that require a getaway car and even luckier so that in every one of those situations, I’ve been cared for by a virtual stranger via a ride-share app.

I thanked Rafael as I climbed in his car, and there’s no doubt in my mind he heard my voice shaking. “Are you ok? Do you need anything?”, he inquired. Kindness felt foreign in that moment and I teared up a bit.

“I’m fine. Thank you. Worst date of my life.

All definitive. All mostly true.

Rafael and I talked the entire ten minutes back to my car and then sat parked for another 20 or so. First, he listened to my emotive account of the evening, interjecting with empathy and a genuine concern for my well-being (I and then we got to the root of my horrid evening interaction.

See, Rafael immigrated to the United States from Nicaragua when he was fourteen years old. Drawing situational parallels between the current state of US democracy and what he and his family experienced in Nicaragua, he graced me with a history lesson I never received in school. I listened with purpose.

He saw first-hand what a right-wing upheaval, backed by foreign powers (including the US) does to a country. What it does to its people. What he didn’t see he learned from his parents via their stories, photos, and detailed accounts.

Rafael reminded me that the “Jim’s” are the same in every country. They might speak different languages, and they likely spew different types of hate, but they are all the same.

Unknowingly, and maybe more profound for me in that moment, Rafael reminded me that people like him exist. People I – and you - would be proud to know, and proud to call friend.

He listened, and taught, and provided comfort. A stranger did all that for another stranger, simply out of the goodness of his heart. I felt seen and heard and I can only hope he did as well.

I drove home in silence, reflecting on my encounters with two humans that couldn’t be more different.

Differences that had nothing to do with age, race, wealth, career, background.

And everything to do with empathy? Kindness? Compassion? Altruism? Love? Respect?

I’ll let you choose.

*all names have been changed.

The struggle bus.

April 2, 2020

I’ve read and heard a lot of inspirational think-tracks about utilizing this time to find your best self. About turning inward to find strength and resiliency. Lots of suggestions for DIY projects at home, recipe inspirations, reading and writing recommendations, home work-outs…the list goes on and on. No doubt you’ve all seen them as well.

All of the above are fantastic, really. Keeping your mind occupied and body moving are critical to mental and physical health, and never more so than during times of crisis. But for many of us this upheaval triggers a trauma response. Calendar dates no longer seem important, time becomes subjective, and life is in limbo. Our bodies feel tired while our brains are working in overdrive; we are in survival mode.

It’s a familiar feeling.

These are not easy days, and there’s no telling when they will get easier. So in order to find my best self, I am committed to:

Understanding that while current timelines are arbitrary, there is so much value in believing a brighter future is ahead
Getting outside as often as I can (given current isolation/distancing guidelines)
Being open, honest, and admitting when I am riding that struggle bus
Listening to my body and giving it what it asks for via exercise, good food, and sleep
Reminding myself that there is no shame if I struggle to write

I am my best self when I give myself grace. And I encourage you all to do the same.

Love thy neighbor.

March 13, 2020

When I began my journey with Nymph, I had no idea where it would take me. My goal was to ingratiate myself with as many people and communities as I possibly could given the relatively limited time I would have to spend at my destinations. But time was no issue, as it didn’t take long to break bread with neighbors in Barcelona, feel loved by the locals in Merchiston, or to make friends in Petit-Rocher.

I felt welcomed into every home and every establishment I entered and subsequently, felt part of something bigger than myself.

I am privileged. I acknowledge it and understand what that means in our present society, and I do my utmost best not to take it for granted. Food, water, a home, a vehicle, a healthy lifestyle – they are all readily available to me. So during this time of suggested “social distancing”, I am not wanting for any necessities.

But the same cannot be said for everyone. People who can’t work from home will struggle to find childcare due to school closures, the elderly dependent on care-workers could be stranded due to an overwhelming demand on our healthcare system, and hungry folks dependent on food banks/school meals could be left wanting.

So, now I harken back to that sense of community I’ve been lucky enough to find all over the world. Even during a quarantine, we are, quite literally, more connected than ever. Calls, text, emails, social media, hundreds of messaging platforms – they are all still readily available.

If you have an elderly neighbor, give them a call. Maybe they would appreciate a box of toiletries and non-perishables delivered to their door (you can leave it on the steps and avoid contact if necessary). Or if you are able, volunteer for Meals on Wheels!

That single parent working for hourly wages, shoot them a text. Maybe they need a friendly ear to vent to, or even someone to sit with their kids for a couple of hours so they can pick up a shift.

Do you have a friends or family working in healthcare? I bet they could use an e-gift card to their favorite local coffee shop or lunch spot. Or a simple note to say “Thank you.”

It’s really easy to complain about our sporting events being canceled, our trips to Disney that have been thwarted, and our concerts that have been postponed. Really, really easy. And justifiably, because it is a total bummer. I myself have travel planned in the very near future that is up in the air, and to say I’m disappointed it may be rescheduled is an understatement.

it takes a whole lot of energy to feed that disappointment, and even more so if folks become angry or resentful. But guess what? it’s not just about you. So what if we siphon that energy and instead, direct it towards finding compassion, understanding, and a sense of community? Just imagine what we could accomplish if we think beyond our own sense of fulfillment and gratification and truly loved our neighbors.

It might just make that missed concert or vacation seem like a drop in the bucket.

Time isn't always on your side.

March 6, 2020

“My life partner and I had just signed a new lease, had finished merging finances, and were planning on a life of love and togetherness. And then he died. Suddenly; a heart attack at 36 years old. That forward momentum stopped instantly and time began retreating like the tide. I lost my home and my job. I lost my sense of agency. I moved back in with my parents in my hometown, searching for some semblance of who I was in the before. I was aging backwards – a kid once again seeking guidance – and not willingly. A toddler re-learning how to eat, how to sleep, how to breathe, all without my person. 34 going on 3.”

A true story, an abstract of sort, written for The Moth’s First Line Prompt. The topic? “Tell us about a time you found yourself going backward.” Backward, indeed. If only my wrinkles and sprouting grey’s dissipated along with my ability to go grocery shopping. But alas, no such luck.

The day you died, time as I knew it stopped completely. Seconds turned into minutes…minutes into hours…and hours felt like weeks on end. And that’s not an exaggeration. The way my brain and body perceived time was unlike anything I had ever, ever felt in my life.

From what I’ve read the perception, or reality, that time slows down is one of the many ways the human brain responds to shock, fear, and/or danger. There are a couple theories as to why this occurs. One is that conceptual time really does slow down due to an evolutionary adaptation we can attribute to our ancestors. They needed more reactionary processing time while dodging saber-tooth tigers and the like. Another well-received theory states that during times of stress, our brain increases the number of memories stored. as such, the ordeal seems longer than it actually was (ie: time slowed down) because we can recall that much more of it.

The latter (increased memory recollection) could be an effect of the former (time slowing down) rather than a separate theory, right? Time slows down and as such, our brains have more time to process the acute danger (grief, tiger, etc.) and we are able to absorb more information or “memories.” But I digress.

It was during this slow down – whether actual or perceived – that I began my backwards descent into adolescence a la Benjamin Button. It wasn’t a case of not wanting to do things (although truth be told, I didn’t) but rather a case of now knowing how to actually do them anymore.

Watching television. Listening to music. Walking and body movement in general. Decision making.

I have no recollection of eating food unless I was specifically told to. Cooking a meal felt like a foreign concept, never mind going to the market. All those people, the bright lights, the god-awful elevator music; it was out of the question. How could I maneuver a grocery store when you were no longer here with me on this earth? It just did not compute.

Driving was possible but only during the day, as the darkness brought on a host of fears I couldn’t name. The therapist’s office and the gym were the only places I could get to and from without a melt-down largely in part because they were new-to-me destinations. I didn’t equate them to you as I did practically everywhere else.

Inhaling and exhaling felt wildly different. Yes, I’m referring to breathing oxygen, something our biological predecessors were able to do over 2.4 billion years ago. This one I can’t explain, but it wasn’t the same.

Sleep became a serious struggle. “What side of the bed do I sleep on? Which blankets do I use? This mattress feels alien and these pillows (brand new pillows, because I just couldn’t keep ours) are basically cinderblocks.”

Calls of, “Mommmmm!” and “Daddddd!” and “Brotherrrrr!” permeated my lips more than they have in decades. Sometimes I sought emotional support, while other times it was simply, “I can’t open this.”

The most punctuated night of regression I can recall was the night you left. A night I rarely talk about…

I was curled up on a couch in my parents’ living room with my phone on speaker, alternating between dry-heaves, and sobs, and rocking myself to some measure of comfort. My Mom was on the other end of that phone call; 2,000 miles away and on stand-by for every and any flight available to get back home.

I don’t remember words. But I remember her presence. I remember being able to hear her breathe. If I couldn’t have you, the only other thing I wanted was my Mom. And much like a fussy child, I didn’t sleep for a minute that night. Nor did she.

I truly was 34 going on 3 from that night on, all while trapped in some strange land where time as I knew it no longer existed.

We rarely talk about the times we view as devolving and really, that’s exactly what happened during those months. I devolved. I traded in my agency and passed the torch of responsibility onto family and friends and healthcare professionals. Not because I was lazy. Or unwilling. Because I simply had to in order to survive those months that felt like decades.

Reflecting on that period of time is difficult, and it’s even more difficult to document it via the written word. But I think it’s important to do so. It’s rare to hear about, or read about, but I know I’m not alone.

I’m here now typing away after a bananas morning at the gym (I drove there myself), sipping an iced coffee (ordered and paid for myself), and sitting in a comfy chair in my new house (I’m sure you can tell where this is going). While my agency has mostly returned, decision making still requires a fair amount of effort. Every day presents a new challenge re: grief, but sunrise to sunset no longer feels like an eternity. So, what changed?

Time. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

Feeling small, volume one.

February 20, 2020

I’ve been wanting to do some photo-centric posts for a while, as I have taken more photos than I know what to do with. But with so many memories entangled in each pixel, so many stories jumping at me from each frame, to post them with no context would be doing a disservice to said photos.

As I’ve been nonchalantly sorting through albums, a commonality popped out almost immediately: how often I felt small. And not in a self deprecating way. In a literal, physical sense. It’s the feeling of "…this ocean/mountain/forest is so vast/looming/impenetrable, and here I am. I’m just a little human.” Nothing makes you feel tinier than the expansive nature of…well, nature.

Lofoten, Norway was one of those expanses for me. There is a plethora of stories attached to the experiences I had there and the folks that I met; stories that will assuredly be shared. But for today, I’m going to let the photos do the talking.