To Be a Witness

A huge part of chaplaincy work is witnessing people in the midst of the hardest moments of their lives. It is one of the most interesting, devastating, and humbling parts of the job for me. It also means that the illusion of safety and fairness that most adults live in so as to carry on in the world is largely refuted every time I come to work. I tend to take risks under the premise of “what are the odds that x, y, and z will actually occur?” Well, in the hospital setting, I am regularly confronted with the exception to those odds. I’m spending time witnessing a mother whose baby did drown in the bathtub or the spouse whose husband did commit suicide. It’s harder to maintain my self-imposed delusions that I live in a world where I can control the outcomes of circumstances related to the people and things I care about most. It is its own form of unraveling.

I am regularly overwhelmed by the tragedy of the human experience. I know my lens right now is specific to hospital work in a pandemic, but some really shitty things happen in the world. It can be so horrific to play my part as witness. There is no way to be a witness and remain disengaged, nor should I remove myself emotionally even if I could. The purpose of the witness is to hold space, document, reflect, and create a sense of solidarity in the horror of what is happening. And while the patient or the patient’s family is in fact living their own story and I am living mine, the intersection of my story with the stories of the suffering day in and day out creates a level of vulnerability and fatigue that has changed me in a real way. Not in a traumatic way or in a way that I think I would regret, but there is a way of navigating the world without really knowing and seeing the depth of what is possible in a moment of freak miscalculation or accident. I will never go back to that space of not knowing. And while that means I am operating without as many protective illusions about life and safety and fairness, it also means that I am holding gratitude and deep appreciation for what is. What I have, what I may lose, who I come home at the end of the day. As cheesy as it sounds, all I have is now. And I am infinitely blessed.

I’m still working out my theology of suffering. I know that the “everything happens for a reason” and “God’s plan includes this” kinds of frameworks do not work for me. I personally cannot navigate a world of suffering with the idea that God approves it all or that suffering is okay. I absolutely cannot. I do believe in a God of redemption and restoration. I believe in a God who does care for humanity collectively and personally. But shit happens and it happens lethally and unfairly. That is a hard thing to witness every single day. There is so much in this hospital system and in the realities of life that are not mine to hold or fix. But this much I know. I can be a witness and I personally can only do it through faith.

CPE - A Marathon of Unraveling

I had a friend ask recently how things were going for me at the hospital. For those of you who don’t know, I am almost done with a unite of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) that began right as everything shut down because of COVID-19. That means I started a full-time unpaid job at a hospital in the final weeks of my master’s program in the middle of a global pandemic. I’m weird. My kids’ first day home from school was my first day at work at the hospital. My graduate degree is done now (Yea!) and I’m closing in on my final weeks of CPE. It’s weird to think about what it will be like when all of this is done as the job I planned to return to for the summer at the Y probably won’t be up and running still. Eh, if anything COVID-19 has taught me is to just plan on today. I’ll think about that later.

Everyone I talked to before starting CPE who had done it themselves described it as “intense.”* I thought I was well-suited for the work because I’ve done a lot of personal work and therapy and have a disposition for connecting with strangers. Turns out, that’s all true. AND my work is ongoing. Like, some of it is just beginning. The difference between chaplaincy and other spiritual or counseling work is that the chaplain’s presence IS the intervention, which means the chaplain must connect to their own emotions and story in order to engage the person at their point of need (rather than meeting their needs). We do not provide guidance and information. We go into the valley where the patient is and engage the feelings of what that’s like. We do not escort people out of their valley nor do we skirt around the valleys we’d rather avoid. This means my story is regularly activated and I have to care for myself as I stay present with people in sometimes the hardest moments of their lives. I’ve seen some real shit, you guys. So. Many. Hard. Things. This means I cry at work. This means I’m sometimes triggered by interactions. There is no “fixing” things or experiences for others. I cannot and will not rob others of their work to do. It is their story. Our stories just cross paths for a moment. I am an enneagram 2 called to witness the human experience and not fix it. I’m called to engage the pain and tragedy of what it is to be a human being.

In this process, I have experienced a beautiful unraveling. I’m shedding narratives about myself that are no longer serving me and I’m realizing what I can and cannot do. It’s an experience in exploring my own spiritual authority and allowing my intuition to participate actively while keeping my personal curiosity in check. It’s an experience in examining all my relational and emotional patterns. It’s unblocking certain feelings and experiences I haven’t attended to or receiving feedback from my peers about things I don’t know about how I come across to others. It’s bringing myself to the table of engagement without making the moment about me. My story becomes in service to theirs. I’m discovering the types of encounters I really enjoy (post-partum moms with their babies) and the ones that require a shit ton of care after (turns out, code blues aren’t as sexy as I’d anticipated).

It’s coming into a patient’s life for just a moment in the hopes of providing transitional care and shoring up their support systems for their long-term work. In some ways, my scope of practice is small. Most patients I only see one time. But I like to think that just having someone hold space for your reality in the midst of a traumatic experience can help lessen the work leftover when the trauma has passed. It also means that my role can be as a conduit for someone to practice their faith the way they prefer, which can be totally different from the way I practice mine. So sometimes I get to be a part of someone connecting to their spiritual leader or to words and methods of prayer or meditation I’ve never experienced in my tradition or even my religion. It’s an incredible honor to be that link. I really love it when I get to do that. One time I got to stand in for a Catholic priest (visitation for them is limited to end of life circumstances) and rather than activating my semi-regularly present impostor’s syndrome, I felt ELATED by it. My Catholic grandparents were with me with my arm raised above my precious friend who requested a blessing.

I don’t know what’s next for me. I feel like I have so many emotional internet browser “tabs” open right now, so many things I need to work on within myself. And plenty of shifts to cover and Zoom meetings to attend. But in the midst of this tornado, I’m being reborn. I’m growing. I’m coming into my calling. I’m being integrated into a more mature, authoritative version of myself.

* In case you’re unfamiliar with the process, CPE is done in units of 12 weeks of work. If you’re lucky enough to get a residency (my long-term goal), you can do 4 units consecutively and get paid. I’ve almost completed an internship at Legacy Emanuel in Portland, which will give me one unit. I can’t do a ton with one unit, though many places hire someone with 2. CPE involves shift work, classes, supervision, reading/writing, group work, and mentoring. I’ve got mainly 12 hour overnight shifts where I’m the only chaplain there for an adult hospital, children’s hospital and the Oregon Burn Center. It’s over 550 beds. I go to all the codes, deaths, attend to requests for spiritual care, and round on all our trauma admits. I pray with people pre-surgery, assist patients and their families with naming feelings, sifting through their experience in the hospital and what brought them to us. I attend to families who have lost a family member. I help people fill out an Advance Directive (including things like a DNR). I’ve sat with a lot of people who were on the brink of death, including infants. I help people pick out funeral homes and figure out how to honor their dead in the midst of a pandemic. The work is varied. I never know what’s on the other side of that door. The 12 hour overnight shifts are covered by interns every night for the whole 12 weeks, so on the days we have class, one of us was always on the night before and one of us is always on the night after. It’s a fascinating experiment in what the human body and heart can handle.

#2 (Not Poop)

I’ve been around the enneagram for six or seven years now. I self-diagnosed as a three (I was raised to be a three) initially and went about my merry way, occasionally being so proud to be a perfectionist achiever. (If you don’t know what the enneagram is, this will be a terribly boring read so I suggest a quick google search or you can fall down the rabbit hole like many of us and in that case, you’ll probably get back to this post, never). But I had also heard that whichever number you are determined not to be, is probably the one that you are. Drat. I knew the one I didn’t want to be and this is #2. Each number has a “title” that has just been made up, that is supposed to give a little guidance as to what that number is about. #3’s title is “achiever” so you know I was down for that, especially in my years at home where I felt a little like I wasn’t doing enough (even though I was doing a lot, as usual). Are you ready to know what the title for #2 is? HELPER. My mind immediately goes to Debi Pearl and “helpmeet” and the Garden of Eden and ew. I do not want to be somebody else’s sidekick. Ugh. It’s so sexist and insulting. Unfortunately, here’s the problem - I am deeply happy when I’m helping people. I definitely don’t want the moniker of “helper” like I’m not even the lead character in my own story. No thanks. But do I find deep satisfaction in dropping everything and running to another person’s aid? I really, really do. And while that type of savior stuff can certainly be codependent, I am looking for ways to feed my inner 2 instead of resenting her or putting her in the “assistant” category.

One of the things I’ve come to is that I will always have a furry pet. We adopted a rabbit in April and I LOVE having a fur baby. And she’s perfect for a 2 because she isn’t a lap pet. Who would go through the trouble of caring for an animal that won’t even snuggle them? A 2, that’s who (yes, I rhymed and I am not ashamed). I enjoy the duties of taking care of her. I’ve also come to terms with the moments my 2ness is deeply zen and fulfilled and that is when I am holding a newborn baby. I am one of those weirdos who LOVES babies. The smaller and needier the better, people. I know, I know. But they can’t even talk or hug you. Yup. 2’s don’t need that. So I’m finding ways to nurture life without creating any more (no thanks!)

Another thing I’m acknowledging about myself as a recently admitted 2 is that broken relationship is deeply, deeply painful for me, more than it would be for any other number. Rather than using the title “helper”, I see 2’s more as “lover.” It is deeply fulfilling for me to “learn” someone I care about. I love to know the things that bring them joy and to find ways to give them to that person. I love that level of knowing someone and I enjoy being known well as well, though that’s secondary to getting to give the love. Hell, I love Christmas because I get an excuse to spend money on the people I care about. The fun for me is watching the joy they experience opening gifts. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them for myself. I do. But my energy around the holidays is centered around the joy of bringing joy to others. It almost sounds braggy because we elevate giving as superior in some ways, but it’s just honestly what makes me tick. It’s not awesome or terrible. It just is. And I think in some ways, I’ve repressed some of that.

The material that helped me finally own my number is a podcast by a musician who is writing a song for each number and consulting with a friend who is an expert in the enneagram. It’s really positive and fascinating to learn more about each one. The song for 2’s is all about deep, unboundaried love. Love with no strings. I have to tell you, and I know it can be unhealthy, but I love to love without strings. I love giving and sharing for the sake of it, not because I’m desperate for reciprocation. As you can imagine, a lot of work has to go into a 2 being a healthy person. And I’ve done some of that work (is anyone really done?) But his song (which I listened to with my best friend who shared it with me, both of us with tears streaming down our faces with our children racing around us) showed me how deeply I love and how painful it is for me when relationships I thought were for life end. I’ve had some of that occur in the last year or so and it has really unmoored me and been a great source of pain for me. No wonder. It doesn’t occur to me to hold back in my relationships. What is the point of loving people if you’re always afraid to lose them? But that makes the loss a giant, horrifying shock for sure.

This new insight into myself also broke my heart for ministry me. Of course, I was drawn to ministry! Of course, I took it really, really hard when we got fired. I poured myself into that work in a deep, personal way. Of course, I let it seep into my identity. Of course, I felt lost when it was taken from me. Oof. Big oof as I wonder, even now, if I will end up back in a ministry type context. How do I open myself back up again? Should I? It has to be about the value of doing so, not about the deservingness of the object of the love. It’s always been that way for me, but it’s something I need to lean into a lot if I’m going to put myself in that position again. It’s not about the receiver. It’s about the act of love, the beauty of giving. Then, if the receiver bites my hand, the work was still worthy. And believe me, sometimes the receiver does bite. That doesn’t always mean you did something wrong. Their actions get to be at least somewhat about them (of course, it’s natural to question if your choices “made” them bite).

I’ve been toying with the idea of chaplaincy. I’ve always been drawn to the work (even when I was studying psychology 15 years ago) and I think a 2 could give to people in crisis and not know the outcome beyond that moment. I enjoy interactions with strangers that are meaningful and transient in nature. It happens to me all the time! I am drawn to crisis and the people in it. I’ve been through a good bit of trauma. I know how critical it is to not say something stupid to someone living in what I call “trauma brain” and also how impossible it is to avoid that if you interact with traumatized people often (each person has their own hidden landmines and without intimacy and superhero abilities, the fuck up in inevitable). I’m hopeful I could maybe make space for that. I’m not sure. I don’t like getting yelled at and chaplains get to be the face of God for people who are going through the worst moments of their lives. Yelling is part of the deal. Although, I’ve been projected on a lot the last few years (yea, writing!) and I’m learning to better differentiate between what is my shit and what belongs to others.

All in all, I’m proud to be looking out for my #2 self. I am at peace. I think this lost part of myself deserves the nurturing she needs from me after years of denial. I’m going to stop judging her. I’m going to stop devaluing her work by trying to “be productive,” knowing that nurturing is just production in a different form. I know she has a place in the world and I’m confident she will find it.

Enjoy Abundance

Maybe I'm the only person who needs to hear this, but just in case: if you're experiencing a time of abundance, it's okay to enjoy it. And by enjoy it, I mean, soak it in, embrace the certainty and blessing you feel and do not feel ashamed that you have abundance. I think it's my ministry baggage talking that makes it hard for me to enjoy myself too much. Like, if I have much, much is required of me. And of course, that's true. If you have a shit ton of stuff and you're not willing to share any of it, even the excess, you're an ass and karma's gonna get you. I totally get that. And that is all around us and it's gross, truly. 

But maybe that's not you. Maybe you've had some lean years and this year is actually okay. You have what you need to buy gifts and donate to charity and you're not panicking about the next bill going through and that's something to celebrate! And celebration doesn't mean feel terrible that you're not homeless or give so much and out of shame that you end up having a hard time making your bills after all. It's okay to sit in the warmth and feel good. It's okay to buy people gifts because you enjoy it. It's okay to not be moderate with your giving. Don't rein in your joy!

I've spent some time in my adulthood, hell, my whole life with a niggling feeling in the back of my head. This idea of waiting for the other "shoe to drop." And I've written about that before. Like, if you prepare yourself that shit is coming, it won't hurt so much when it happens. Not only is that fundamentally untrue, I'm realizing that it also diminishes your joy in the moment when things are actually great. I'm taking time this year to savor the splendor that is stability. I feel more stable in my marriage than I've ever been, more confident in the growth projection of my business, more comfortable with my children's safety and development outside of our home (and within it) and more at peace in my spirit than I have in a long time. Isn't that great?!?!

I love holidays. This should come as no surprise to anyone. So I'm going to concerts and I'm exposing my children to beauty and wonder and faith. And I'm giving. I'm finding ways to contribute to my community. And in those moments, I'm acknowledging that it's not hard and in the past, sometimes it has been really hard. When things are lean and you feel compelled to give, sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it means you go without. And that's okay. But this year, I'm going with and I'm not ashamed. I'm grateful and kinda in wonder, to be honest. 

I've tended to be judgemental of wealth and we are by no means wealthy. But in the grand scheme of the world and in the ways that truly matter, my soul is crying out in joy, radiating this sense of abundance. I feel safe. I feel loved. I feel proud and confident. And I'm happy! Maybe you're in a season of deprivation and things are tight and scary and dark. That was us 2 years ago. Know that your light and your deliverance are coming. Hold on tight and live in hope that things will get better. Give how you can, ask for help when you need to and try to find something to be grateful for. Maybe you think your life isn't abundant because you're comparing yourself to everyone else, what they have, how they look, how they perform, how they celebrate or live in their version of abundance that somehow still looks better than yours. Take the comparisons away. Take the guilt and the perfectionism out. Are you safe? Are you loved? Do you have food and shelter? If so, REJOICE! It's okay to give thanks, not out of fear but from a place of solidarity. 

Yes, the shoe can and will drop. Need can be very cyclical. And when we are in abundance, of course, extend a hand to those who are not in that position. But don't squander the gift. Don't feel embarrassed and don't feel ashamed. Savor the gift. Smile. Laugh. Dance. What is the value of a gift if it isn't opened?

Loss and Leaving

I have a friend who has a wonderful coaching business and a great website. She's a fellow perfectionist and has a lot of great things to say. She posted a blog about fall and loss and it really resonated with me. Fall is my favorite season. I love the colors. I love the weather. My birthday is near Halloween and I have so many cherished childhood memories of this time of year. And yet, the combination of this time of the year and this season in my life prompted me to do some additional self-care this morning. I went on a leaf hunt, like we do with our kids. But I did it alone. I did it without being prepared (I got very wet!) and I just chased after all the beautiful trees in my area that I keep driving by and admiring. I got all up in them and breathed and picked up their discarded leaves and I exhaled my pain. This poem and these pictures came as a result. 

The transition swift, inexact, excruciating

I feel out of control, targeted, brutalized

The pain is hot but also cold with terror

Sometimes fall comes to places you thought were safe

The leaves start falling and you can't pick them up fast enough

They don't ask permission

The trees transition at random

Not just the ones you don't mind losing

But some of the ones most precious and dear

The colors change swiftly

The leaves start falling indiscriminately

But I didn't authorize this!

I scream, I cry, I panic

This leaving, this impending death

No, I didn't. 

But the seasons change around us still.

The winds rise up and take what they want

They don't seem to know or care

About what falls down

They're already off to another place

Another tree

Another life.

In the wake of the destruction I feel shell-shocked

How did this happen

Why couldn't I stop it

Don't I have a say in what stays or goes

No. No I don't.

In the midst of it all,

I look around and see beauty

There is so much beauty in loss

In pain, in death

It's horrible and it's devastating

But life is on the other side of it

I can't see it now

But I've lived through enough falls

and desolate winters to know

Spring is coming.

It's not soon enough and there's a lot of darkness

in between me and that light

But it is coming.

And so I hibernate

I grieve.

I find beauty.

I hold pain.

I don't fling it around.

Pain becomes art, 

becomes new life, growth and even

Hope.

Sometimes You Just Need to Be Home

I've written in the past about how being with Tim is like being in a cocoon. That safe space we create together gives me a sense of calm and confidence that I can face the world again. Similarly, being with my closest sibling, my brother Reid, gives me a sense of rightness. It just resets me within myself. Many of you with siblings probably know what I'm talking about. My family is an interesting hodge podge of relations. My parents' story is similar to the Brady Bunch (6 kids between them) except that they had a mutual baby soon after their wedding: me. My brother Reid, is only 3 and a half years older than me so we grew up keeping pace with each other, though we're technically half siblings.*

As you can imagine, being the only shared kid and the only one whose parents stayed married created an interesting dynamic for me. Being that kid wasn't always easy and often children in a position of privilege end up living very fucked up lives, to be honest. That would make a great blog post for another time, but I share that with you to say even though I was given preferential treatment in some ways, somehow my brother never resented me for it. Or if he did, I never felt it coming from him. 

When I was born, my grandmother took her little 3 year old grandson, whose parents had only recently been divorced, to buy him a present to congratulate him on my birth. We didn't have much in our early years and my grandma gave him the opportunity to get any one item from Toys R Us as a way of making him feel special. I cannot overstate what a big deal this was. He could have chosen a bike or something else major. But what did 3 year old Reid choose? He chose a soft pink baby blanket for his brand new sister. I kid you not.

Growing up behind this generous, curious, havoc-wreaking (in all the best ways), brave, wild brother was and is one of the greatest joys of my life. He was such a trail-blazer and still is. He lives completely on his own terms. That hasn't always been easy as the world has a way of arresting people who don't pay parking tickets and he's landed in rehab before as well. There is so much emphasis on conforming. And his little religious, serious, sponge-like sister was so, so good at it. But somehow, he liked having me around and I know I am the better for it. I was the kid that would only climb the tall tree if he did it first so I knew it was safe and could follow in his footsteps. As we got older, faith diverged our paths and I ended up a missionary and he ended up being exactly who he is: my favorite rebel. He rebels for all the right reasons. He's the one who feeds people for free even if he goes hungry. He just calls bullshit on all the injustice and ridiculous red tape in the world and creates beauty and community wherever he goes. 

When we were teens, if we were out in public, sometimes we were mistaken for a couple. Ew! But we don't look like siblings and there is a clear closeness between us, which can easily be misconstrued at that age. He was the punk kid with the skateboard and green hair and I was the blonde in clothes from Old Navy. On the outside, we could not be more different. Yet somehow, I feel like he is such a part of me. Being at his place tonight in the city, watching him teach my kids how to cook and garden, leaving with a car full of food and a belly full of homemade salsa, I just feel reset. Like I can face my week, face my responsibilities and face the world. He bolsters me. There's nothing like having a sibling nearby, even if we don't get to see each other as often as we'd like. Just knowing he's there, in that garden in the city gives me roots. We all need roots. 

Many times siblings take different things from their childhoods. But when I'm with Reid, I'm not reminded of the differences; I'm reminded of the similarities. We both love to be outside, to work hard, to cook and share good food. We both love music and don't care about dirt or having everything be just so. We both get caught up in projects and forget to take care of ourselves. We both love people more than stuff. We both fill with righteous indignation when we witness injustice and find ways to respond. We both have found incredibly perfect spouses, who balance our crazy and help us even out the extremes in us. We both know how to get in the middle of something and feel our way through it. We both value freedom and personal style and working with our hands. We both care-take in our own ways: he with the earth and with animals, me with children and friends. We both do too much and forget we're merely human. We both know how to read all day long. And while he's so much cooler than me and always has been, I'm so grateful to have access to his beautiful garden where I can touch back to childhood and lean in to the future all at the same time. 

* I absolutely HATE the term. As someone who doesn't technically have anything but half siblings, I find these distinctions to be unhelpful and overall unnecessary. Let's not draw lines in family. 

Representation is Everything

Tim and I just got back from seeing Wonder Woman and I am on fire. I've heard people of color describe how much it meant to them the first time they saw someone who looks like them in the media, how that made them stand taller and feel proud of who they are. I've lived in white privilege my whole life so I heard those stories but I didn't know what that felt like, not to that extent. However, I am a woman and have always identified strongly as such. In fact, on the way home from the movie, Tim and I were discussing our most firmly held identities (between race and gender) and mine is gender. I identify as female before I identify as white. And I know that alone is evidence of my privilege (ask a black male. My assumption is he identifies as black first because that is always the first thing our culture names him). But what I mean about identifying as female first is that I feel so grounded in my gender identity. It is a huge part of who I see myself as and I see my gender as an incredible asset. Of course, not out in the world of male privilege, but I believe in, and have written as such, very strongly in the power of women. Tim enjoyed hearing all my arguments on the way home about how technically, we are the superior sex because we carry and sustain life and to me, that means, the human race begins and ends with women. Sorry, dudes. Although, not sorry. Not really. Quit underestimating us, already.

I have to tell you, as someone who in my heart knows my female-ness (I don't say femininity as that feels like a social construct to me) is a significant contributor to my personal power, it genuinely moved me to watch Wonder Woman. She is so powerful. And not as one of many, but in and of herself. She doesn't join men. She leads men. To see men follow her was healing for me, in particular because I was raised in a church that believed female leadership was rebellion against God. That male leadership was the only way to worship God rightly and to desire leadership as a female is a sign of greed, vanity and selfishness. But know this, men should follow women when they know what the hell they're doing and they're brave enough to not take no for an answer. It did my heart so, so good to see that happen, to see her stand alone in strength and truth and fight for peace. Is that not all our mission? To make sense of the wars of this world, hell, the war in my own city? She is so strong, but her strength is directed deliberately. No offense to the Hulk, but she is not a senseless rage beast (again, love you buddy). She wields her power for good, for love, for peace. Not in a Disney princess way. Dude, lady can kick some ass. And her view of pleasure is freaking hysterical (in case you missed it, she concluded that men are necessary for procreation but not pleasure). I so admire, not just power for power's sake, but discretion in the use of personal power. Above all the superheroes (the Cap comes in a very close second, but he's Marvel so we don't have to decide), she exudes the ultimate discipline, the truest north star, the deepest integrity, the utmost compassion. She is both warm and fierce. She can knock down buildings and want to help animals. This is what it means to be a woman to me. Not because those roles are placed on us, but because we know power does not have to mean might. We know when to wield it and when to show mercy. The world needs powerful women in leadership, now more than ever. And the idea that my daughters will grow up with Wonder Woman being a true hero in her own right makes me honestly excited for how that will equip young women coming after me. How would I have developed in my identity had I been exposed to this film as a young girl? I'll never know. But based on my reaction today, I think it would have mattered.

Her journey from a black and white sense of justice and worldview to embracing nuance and still choosing love (spoiler alert) so mirrored my own spiritual process. I think so many people identify with her story. Steve, her love interest, helps her come to terms with the fact that all people are good and bad, that we have a desire for war and peace within each of us. That has been one of the hardest things for me to reconcile in my adult life, to hold both of those realities and not allow them to freeze me from action. I only want the good to be true and the bad slaps me in the face every day. You can't ignore that and yet I so wish it wasn't the case. But when you can no longer ignore the reality of evil, accept that you can't kill it with a gun because it is inside the person shooting the gun and the one being shot, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU DO? In my life, I do exactly what she did. And I believe many people, many women, do the same. We choose love. We believe in the enduring power of love. We embrace the things that make us one, the points of commonality and we make peace. 

Above all of these things - her representing me, her character, her paradigm shift, the thing that moved me the most was that she never asked for permission. That damn Steve repeatedly told her what she could and couldn't do, wear, be, everything. I know she loves him in the end and he's essentially dealing with someone from an alternate reality, but how many women picked up on the boxes he kept trying to put the wild woman into? Yes, to blend in. BUT, isn't that what they always say? This is what's appropriate. This is what's expected. Who do you think you are? Stay behind me. I got this. I know what I'm doing. Follow my lead. You stay here. It all falls under the basic assumption that women aren't capable. I don't hate Steve but I have felt many, many times the weight of his assumptions. Am I right, ladies? I was raised to follow the rules, to meet or exceed the expectations of others, starting with God himself. This is not something easy for me to shirk off, even though so often it is total and utter bullshit. I know I can do more, be more, contribute more. I KNOW I CAN.

Just because I can't save the world doesn't mean I can't do good. Do the good you can. In your life, in your corner of the world, in your generation, in your family - this is your life. Do something good with it. Don't let the liar tell you it's futile so save yourself. Release yourself from greed and do the good you can do and do it without strings attached. What a world we could live in if we all did our best to do that. To at least try. We must stop asking permission to live our lives, be ourselves, embrace our power, use our voice. Don't let someone tell you what you're about. Show them who you are based on the power you don't let them take. Show them what you're capable of by not backing down. Stand your ground. Hell, take some ground. Stop being so fucking nice. Be the warrior you already are. And follow Wonder Woman’s lead. Do it with grace. Wield your power for good. You don't need permission. So live without it if you have to.

The power of receiving permission falls away when you stop asking for it. Just do what you need to do.

There's Only So Much You Can Do

I don't consider myself someone who has fear around dentistry or doctors. I'm the nerd who actually likes putting money in my old cars (if it's planned) because I believe firmly in the value of maintenance. It's a huge reason why nutrition and supplementation make sense to me. Why not just prevent what you can from deteriorating rather than try to clean up the mess of disease after the fact? (I recognize all health stuff isn't preventable so please don't feel any shame coming from me if you have a difficult health situation). 

That being said, I've had a lot of painful dental work done in the last 6 months. I've been framing it through the lens of gratitude because I know so many people can't afford dental work. And even now, that holds true in the sense that sometimes people just go without troublesome teeth. That is not what's happening with me. HOWEVER, the gratitude frame officially broke today. And the pain, fear, frustration and even dread all came pouring out today while the tears trickled out of those giant sunglasses under the big lights of the dentists office. 

Much to my horror, the tears came and came. I could tell it was the kind of cry that needed to happen and that ideally would include lots of sniffling. I did not allow myself that luxury in the chair, mainly because I was not done facing the fear that created the tears in the first place. So in the midst of my fear and pain, I had to bolster myself for more. Here's what happened:

2 years ago, after not having dental insurance for 7 years, I went to a dentist for a consult on a painful tooth. Without doing anything, he charged me $150 and told me I should have the tooth pulled (at 33 years old, mind you) and get a bridge that would cost upwards of $1k. I said thanks and left for a second opinion. I signed up for insurance and went to the place that went with it. They charged me $25 and put a GIANT metal filling on it. That was that.

So I thought. The tooth started hurting again. About 15 minutes every night while I lay in bed not eating or drinking, the throbbing would pulse and eventually leave. Tim had started a new job, which meant work-issued dental at another office. So off I went. Turns out, the initial cavity had gone below the surface of the gums (which was why the filling failed) and they wanted to put a crown on it. And possibly a root canal in the future (they can just drill through a crown for a root canal so the order of crown first is okay). Unfortunately, the tooth had deteriorated to the point that there wasn't enough tooth left to put a crown on.

So off to surgery I went (this was in February). The procedure, called crown lengthening, exposes more of the tooth by removing bone underneath. Couple of stitches and a 2 week liquid diet. Bada Bing Bada Boom. Ready for a crown. Of course, my insurance was used up at that point. And the surgery was scary (totally awake with just Novocaine) and the recovery was problematic because the things they left in my mouth to "recover" were incredibly irritating to my tongue and I was covered in painful sores and couldn't speak. 

2 weeks ago, I went in for the crown prep. This tooth is so sensitive they had to numb me repeatedly. And my jaw was sore for days. But the old filling was removed and I got a pretty white temporary. Today was going to by my "crowning" moment. Take off the temporary, apply the $1k beautiful crown I paid for and FINALLY put this baby to rest. 

Only that didn't happen.

First, when the hygienist went to pop off the temporary, I wasn't numbed at all and he had pliers trying to pull it off. That's when the sobbing started. I thought it would just pop off. It did not. The pain radiated down and down, well after he stopped touching me. It was so painful and I was filled to the brim with fear. I literally wanted to just leave. But they hadn't put my pretty crown on and so they numbed me all up with tears rolling down my cheeks. Then he popped off the temporary. Only half my tooth came out with it. Yes, the tooth that was carefully excavated months ago decided to break, removing all the margins we had worked so hard to create, rendering my beautiful crown sitting on the counter completely useless. There wasn't enough tooth to attach the crown to. 

So guess what? I need another surgery. This time, the big one. The one no one wants to do because it's freaking expensive. And it's the only thing you can do besides just not having a tooth. I'm getting an implant. That means they will pull the tooth and the root, fill the root with titanium, leaving an ugly hole in my mouth (in the front, mind you) for 3 months while my bone tries to make friends with the titanium. Then they screw a crown into the titanium and there's your "tooth." I'm only 35 and it's in the front. This is the only way I feel comfortable going from here even though the time with nothing there makes me feel embarrassed. But an implant has a very low failure rate over a lifetime so if this tooth decides to cooperate once and for all, this will be it forever. 

Of course, all the pain, all the expense, all the time and effort feels as if it was for naught. I know in my heart that's not true. The crown lengthening? Yes, that effort literally fell out of my mouth this morning. But as a maintenance person, I know that I did everything I could to save this tooth (except go to the dentist for 7 years - the one time I delay maintenance!) and that will help me justify this large expense for my family. It's hard for me to spend money on myself, even medically necessary money. Somehow it's easier for me to spend money on myself when it's a massage or clothes. How weird is that? Maybe it's because it's so much cheaper. No matter, I'd rather do something else with thousands of dollars. Thankfully, my dentist felt so awful today (though this was no one's fault) that he refunded me the money for the crown so it can apply to the implant. And he is going to recommend the surgeon for the crown lengthening do the same (he'll be performing the implant as well). Who knows? Maybe it won't cost a fortune with all the credit I have coming. Seriously, who racks up credit at the dentist?  

All of that to say, the divorce proceedings between me and this tooth are coming up shortly. And I can say with confidence, that our relationship is irretrievably broken. 

When Reality Ends Up Being the Best Story

I finally watched La La Land last night! This feels like a victory in and of itself in the days of Trolls and Moana (as discussed a few days ago). Since I just wrote about Moana and I often have feelings to process after being exposed to film, I figured I might as well say a few things about La La Land too.

I'm going to get the dirty stuff out of the way right now. I wish Ryan and Emma's voices were better. There. I said it. The film was great and the ending moved me. But if Ryan can learn how to be a jazz pianist in three months, why isn't the singing better? Also, does anyone else experience an awkward pause whenever a new musical starts the first song? It always feels so weird. I love musicals, don't get me wrong. But there is a moment where you don't want to be cool and appreciative of the artistry. You just want to laugh at the audacity of making a film where people burst into song in the middle of scenes and even end up dancing in the stars at the observatory. If you feel like awkwardly laughing when you see a new musical, you're not alone.

Okay, shove that under the rug now so we can be friends again and get to the real meat of the movie. I had two distinct thoughts about the film. One, when two artists come together, even for a period of time, they will both be greatly affected and inspired by the other. It's beautiful to watch. And spoiler alert, neither of them would have gone on to fulfill their dreams had they not met each other. I was just discussing this with a friend the other day. She's an incredible artist and we dialogue about our writings and pursuits often. She's one of my greatest cheerleaders in my artistic endeavors. And we are both with people who support our artistry but are not our artistic partners. I find this to be common, especially for someone like me who discovered her abilities way after she got married. If I didn't know I was an artist (writer), why would I have known to pick someone who is interested in my writing? I wouldn't have. For what it's worth, my dear is interested in some things that bore me to tears so we have a very mutually respectful slight distance in these areas. To each their own.

But Sebastian and Mia are both actively pursuing their dreams when they meet. And she's so inspired by getting to know him that she leaves the schlub she's with (right in the middle of dinner!) to chase him. Love it. One of my favorite moments in the movie is when she calls him out for settling with the band (love me some John Legend). True love is not allowing the other to drift too far. I'm all about evolution. I've written about it quite a bit. Tim and I are both nowhere near the people we married and I'm so thrilled and happy for us that there is enough space and respect between us to have fostered that kind of growth. But in this case, Seb wasn't growing; he was back-sliding. And Mia cared for him enough to call him on it, even if it harmed their relationship. That's love.

And he believed in her when she couldn't go on putting herself out there. In the end, his pursuit and encouragement made all the difference. She went on to become the person she was meant to become as a direct result of his influence. That leads me to my other thought. No matter if you end up with someone forever or not, they can leave an indelible mark on your life. That's beautiful. And that connection stands. Before they went their separate ways, they both confessed that they would always love each other. I believe that love held up through the final scene. I have had many special people in my life that are no longer in my life or are no longer the love in my life. That in no way negates the influence they had on me then or even now. Love pays itself forward. I imagine some thought the film had a sad ending. I believe it was the ending many people have in life. And you can spend your time re-imagining everything that's happened (loved that scene too, so trippy!) or you can take the gift, cherish it always and live in the bounty that loved reaped in your life. They are both better because of each other. And after the film, Tim pointed out that Mia seemed genuinely happy in her marriage and with her child. It's not a tragic story. It's nostalgia meets reality. It's a place I live in all the time as someone who is very emotional and loves looking back. It's not tidy, nor particularly commercial (though the film was obviously celebrated), but it is true. And I'd rather live a true story than a perfect one any day.