Month: June 2021

Bat-By

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One of SonHerisme’s buddies since babytimes turned 13 a few days ago, and also had her Bat Mitzvah. It was a COVID style celebration with zoom services (except for the young lady and her immediate family) and an outdoor drive-by celebration at home with an option to park and stay, unmasked if vaccinated, masked if not vaccinated. There were unvaccinated children, so we opted to remain masked, just in case. Save the babies!

I parked because I wanted a photo of SonHerisme and his babytimes buddy. They were both adorably uncomfortable, very sweet and super generous to cooperate with my photo request. Everyone is turning into teenager adult-prep times. Squeezy squishy human morphers! I also parked because I wanted to give a huge hug to the young lady’s awesome mom – one that’s been on hold for over 18months. And I did. I have missed my friends. I have missed the hugging. I got so carried away that I also hugged her ex. He’s the father of the lovely young lady, and a former member of our merry troop of parents. I say “former” because he mid-life crisis-ed himself into a divorce and total life relocation to Florida, so our community interactions with him are very rare. Although as a busy musician he’s easy to follow on the socials, it just isn’t the same. *sigh* Back in the day when we all thought life was on a certain path that it never was… 

Me:  Congratulations!  She's a lovely young lady and I am so honored to be here to celebrate with you all!
He:  Yeah.  Look at me, I'm just the baby daddy.
Me:  You should get a t-shirt with that on it so that everyone understands your role here.
He:  Ha ha ha, yeah maybe.
Me: (in my head - holy shit, I am a bitch and wtf and now it's time for me to leave)

And I did leave after giving the final rounds of hugs and congratulations, we left. All of the AWKWARDS.

Another awkward this morning – MotherHerisme’s cardiologist asked me if I was married yet. I heard him speak and I heard the words, but I could not respond – I think I froze. He asked again. I responded, “oh, no, married? no.” “Oh. I wondered because I asked your mother how you were doing every time we had telehealth appointments.” I just could not say anything because I did not know what to say, so I didn’t. The appointment otherwise went well. MotherHerisme is fine – her heart is tick-tocking in the manner it should be. But this. This was the AWKWARDS.

I’m best at not being seen, even though as a human I would like to be seen. I excel at not being seen. It’s my jam. I guess at least I didn’t make a snarky remark, scream, cry, or run away. All of which I suspect are realistic options, considering it was me there. Maybe next time you can take MotherHerisme? Kidding – I’ll take her. Somehow I like the return after an awkward encounter. It gives me a sense of accomplishment to show back up despite the awkwards. It’s all of my years of Oprah channeling to get through the really terrifying awkward rough spots, I suppose. Or maybe the maturitys again…

Yes, I am pluraling things on purpose despite grammar rules because StarFire helps everything turn into the funnys rather than just weird discomfort.

Yes, I am grateful for the awkwards. They not only provide occasional entertainment when recalled (unless they are scary as frick), but they also give me pause and notice about where I am in this life experience. Like a touch back to the reality of humaning rather than constant survival mode. Humans gotta Human. We can do this… sometimes we can do this… very occasionally we can do this… it’s okay to sometimes not be able to do this – right?

Hahahahha – my friend just texted me and asked if the cardiologist is an old white dude. He isn’t, and I am pretty sure he is married, but that gave me a giggle.

Embracing being grateful for the awkwards reminding me that I am human.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. I have a lot of awkwards, obviously the nature of being me, so these are not anomalies, just recent experiences.

(hi Peter!)

Cultivating

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I have been thinking that if I were to place my priorities into a garden, these are the things I would tend to first (not in order of significance):

Health
SonHerisme
Relationships
Career
Artistic Expression
Home
Adventure

Really trying to nail down the things during this Summer of Strength. Well, loosely nail as I am prone to removing all nails thinking that will bring me freedom – which, it rarely does since I am frequently pulling out nails I have no business touching as they do not belong to me. You know how it goes. Focus on everything but yourself to feel any sense of control at all, justifying ignoring your own needs, then shame and regret *repeat.* You feel this – no?

Well, I do feel it and I am heartily soulfully sick of it.

Confession: I have been sick of it for a lonnnnnnnggg time and I do not know if this time I will be able to choose growth consistently. I think I will have to make an intention to do so every day or perhaps multiple times each day? Maybe this is part of the battle I’ve mentioned before (I don’t remember the post, apologies!). This sounds like an addict trying to give up whatever drugs, alcohol, sex, food, shopping etc. Perhaps it is the loneliness, need to feel some control somewhere, shame, hyper trauma response or ? that makes us all feel this similar pattern? Or just a part of maturing up in life? I’m not a mental health professional, so I’m truly stabbing at guesses here.

I have added intentional reading each day, extended yoga practice, a pressure point mat, and at least two flights of stairs. “Added” might not be correct. I’ll rephrase to say, I am intentionally doing these things as they have already been in my life hither and thither – just not intentionally incorporated into my days.

I’m printing out my garden priorities, otherwise I will instantly forget them as soon as I leave this post. When I was doing yoga, I couldn’t remember by the next day if I had done yoga or not – heck, I can’t even remember if I’ve done yoga in the morning by the time I hit the pillow at night!

Scrambled Brain

Carry on peace warriors

Summer of Strength

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. please take good care around that Delta COVID variant – I am sending bubbles of health out to you and your loved ones. My heart wants to grab everyone and bring them to my house for safety and a delicious meal. I have two blow-up beds which do not help the world pains, but maybe a neighbor’s pain which is the same. {hugs}

Also, thank you for reading/listening and not judging my spinach addiction which I am about to indulge again lol

Flop Brain and Wreck ‘Em

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“Flop brain and wreck ’em,” is old timey diner style for scrambled brain. Which is what I have. Unless I am in Olde Towne wherever U.S.A. and then it is olde tymey dinere flope braine and wrecke thine. Still: scrambled brain.

In the way back times I worked, taught, managed and trained in early childcare centers, preschools, before-and-after care, and summer camps. One thing, out of many, that I learned, was that people are people are people, no matter how ridiculously wealthy or desperately poor, people are people are people and want to feel worthy. So, Old or Olde, it is what it is. A lesson learned BITD which I can say because I am *ahem* of a certain age maturity and such now. So very mature that I am perhaps slipping into pre-dottiness, which would explain the scrambled brain of course. Side note – I do not enjoy a scrambled egg. I will make them for SonHerisme and MotherHerisme, but I do not want to eat them.

I eat eggs – but I’m more of a Flop Eve on a Raft with Salsa. Over easy egg on toast with salsa. Not the salsa music. Rather, I am talking about the chilled tomato based deliciousness with cilantro and peppers. I used to have a primary care physician who would play music during appointments. Music which he curated especially for whatever he thought you needed. He would say, “Some people need Mozart, some a tango, and others need to salsa!” Eventually he lost his license for over-prescribing pain medications. No surprise there, I suppose. He was a rebel physician who believed that everyone should be using whatever tools available to live their best life. I imagine he is completely content on a beach somewhere outside of the U.S. still practicing as he is able to do so. He could probably use some Mozart.

Eggs are consumed here in my version of quiche, which makes an appearance at the table a few times each month. A debatable crust might make it a frittata. It is rare that I use a flaky dough crust, because it would need to be gluten free and my brain energy is too low for that most of the time. I either forgo any crust altogether or I use shredded root vegetables (sweet potatoes, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, beets, etc), which I pre-bake before adding the eggy filling.

SonHerisme and MotherHerisme also enjoy an egg salad. I do not. I like making the things. My digestions usually respond, “oh hells to the no’s we are not permitting that in here NO WAY NO HOW.” While I enjoy making the things, I typically do not enjoy consuming the things. Don’t worry though, because believe me, my body finds plenty of things to keep it full. More than P L E N T Y. The plentish of plentifuls plenty. Just not scrambled eggs. Or egg salad. I’ll eat the quiche on occasion. Mostly the spinach out of the quiche because I have a serious spinach problem. Maybe spinach unscrambles brains and that is why I am craving it… all of the time? Cooked, not raw because raw gives me massive migraines. See? Scrambled brain. Nothing makes sense. It’s okay. I’m used to it.

My point is, in response to the question I received, “How do you plan out or know what you are going to write about on your blog?” I can only say this: I have no plan. This is my default plan, knowing nothing about any plan. My scrambled brain being able to take note of something on occasion and filtering it into words which might, through divine serendipity, find me at my laptop for a brief unusual period without interruption, is my plan.

Sometimes I see someone turn across the street and the wind picks up the hem of their shirt in a way that reminds me of someone else’s shirt hem, or the color of their eyes, or the smell of them, or the smell of dry-cleaning and those irritating plastic bags and hangers with paper ads on them.

Sometimes I see the half moon so clearly that its splotches make me wonder how thousands of years ago someone thought they saw a face in there and if I am supposed to say, “hello,” every time I do see that in order to honor that ancient ancestor, or the moon. Does the moon get offended? Am I supposed to be showing deference to the moon? Maybe that’s my problem…hmmmm

Sometimes I grab my cozy blanket in bed and try to make the bruising on my heart go away by holding the blanket tightly enough that all of the hurt energies get absorbed in its softness, so that I can breathe and get up to make it through my day, or at least the next thing in my day.

Sometimes RelativesHerisme say or do wacky things which make me think of other things or how other people walk through those moments of crazy in their lives (because we all have this – yes?).

Sometimes SonHerisme is so brave and generous of spirit that it takes my breath away and I want to do anything and everything to give him structure, love and a deep sense of worthiness, love, and belonging.

Sometimes I am flattened by how adept we are at dehumanizing and pretending or not knowing reality.

Sometimes I am flattened by the properties of a dandelion (including the wish making).

My scrambled brain takes these kinds of things in, as we all do, and then brushes them out here, worthy or unworthy. I do not have a plan. Even if I had a plan, the first thing I would do is not follow the plan. My floppy wrecked brain is difficult but I am glad to have it most of the time. Some days I wish it fit more in line with the people so that I could feel more fit in as well. But, who knows? Perhaps I am beyond the age of fitting in.

Thank you for reading/listening and for making it through my scrambled brain word salad. I appreciate that you are here and that I have this teensy amoeba in a grain of sand platform to express my non-plannesses.

I am thinking of you – especially YOU because I like your brainiac – sending you lots of Summer of Strength vibes!

Today’s Summer of Strength finds me making egg salad for the people, running laundry through, tidying the basement (probably mostly a dance party if I’m honest), and chomping on pizza (cauliflower crust, natch and yes I know it isn’t 2005). It is a very rainy day here, so I imagine boots and coats will make an appearance shortly for some outside adventure as well.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

—————————————–

If you are vegan and eating eggs is abhorrent to you, then I am sending you extra love and {{{hugs}}}. We eat local organic eggs because we can and I am too exhausted (and possibly too cheap) to embrace flax alternative. But I am with you in spirit, vegan hearts! You are worthy of being considered too.

Oh! yes and my little friend who is allergic to eggs! You are worthy too and much too young to be reading this, so I’m touching base with your mother asap. Also, please don’t forget to send me a pic of you taking your neighbor’s on-purpose pigeons walking in a pigeon harness. Or is it quails now? Either way, thanks! xo

(psst… I know brain scramble is trauma)

S. O. S.

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Summer of Strength

Not that we are building actual 6-pack 20-inch python muscles (no judgement if that is your actual jam), but rather more of overall mental/emotional/maybe a little physical strength. Time to flex and shape our post-COVID or COVID-normative muscles in general. Setting intention to do so by:

S  Setting smile goals
T  Tell ourselves we can do this
R  Rest and relax
E  Eat/Exercise well
N  Notice Priorities
G  Giggle
T  Track progress
H  Hold accountability

Summer of Strength

SonHerisme’s school year officially ended on Thursday, June 17th. I gave us the weekend to flex and stretch our commitment muscle before diving full in on Monday.

Is this an overly optimistic set-up so that I can get sucked into the muddy squish muck mire of depression when we inevitably fail to meet our goals? Possibly. But for today, I am all about it. Both SonHerisme and I have used the phrase, “Summer of Strength,” for the past few days to encourage each other to accomplish some little things like: getting onto the treadmill, finishing laundry, driving to the park for a bit of soccering, putting away the last few Christmas and Easter things (judgementors, I patronous thee), and putting more donation boxes into the car.

Summer of STRENGTH!

I am determined to continue to lower my inflammation, and to read more. SonHerisme wants to fine tune some soccering things (SV2 style!), and up his maths game. I would like to make a lovely something out of some sheets we will never be using as bed sheets. SonHerisme wants to build raised garden boxes with tops to add for winter for year-round greens. SonHerisme also wants to clear out his room and paint it black and white (he’s turning teenagery this summer as well!).

Summer of Strength

SonHerisme wants to grill steak all on his own, and make fried chicken all on his own(blech – do you boo). I would like to finish cleaning out the garage and paint it (on the inside).

Summer of Strength

Both of us want to go to a few minor league baseball games, spend some time up at the local State Park lake, NGADC it up, and drive out to the beach for at least a day.

We are very fortunate people to be able to even think about doing these things. *fingers crossed* We are able to do some of the things.

Of course, COVID times have sucked many patterned discipline limits away… but, I’ll take that over any horrific alternative any day. SonHerisme also has a phone call with MrexH in a few hours *sigh* which he does not want to do so the anxiety energy is high up in these here parts of the universe world.

Ready? Set? Go!

Send us strength to make it through the Summer of Strength… and to be strong enough to let the sadnesses and unworthinesses and griefs and all of that to just be. Sort of strong enough to be soft enough to be enough.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

(still wearing a mask on occasion, as needs must)

ps also, I have been… difficult to define this past week or so which is why I haven’t been here. koyc and ciao and I hope that you are well and near something beautiful like the ocean, a lake, river, canal, swimming pool, filled up tub, or maybe a clear glass of water. I hope it so very much for you!

Currently at 284 sent Weekly Progress Reports to MrexH regarding SonHerisme

We are safe, we are healthy, basic Maslow’s have been met (repeat on a drum beat until bedtime with extra cozy duvets for both of us please and thank you)

Black Sarongs and Rabbit Manure

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A friend of mine recently entered into a committed relationship with a farmer.

A widowed Hungarian mother of 4 sons, a friend of mine for about 8 years or so, recently entered into a committed relationship with a local hero, community feeding, farmer.

I knew her husband. His sudden death rocked our community, and of course devastated his family. I had a related pre-death experience for him, which is for another day(or not- it’s very hard). SonHerisme was given a pair of his shoes to wear to help work through his own grief, which had burbled up many other griefs. We know how to carry that grief better now.

We’ve been included in a group planting/caring/harvesting plot on one of the Hungarian’s Farmer Friend’s fields, which begins this week. In the organizing-of-us thread, someone asked what we should wear to our first gathering. Paraphrased thread: 

The Hungarian: clothes for gardening and dirt 
The Farmer cheekily: oh, I was thinking I'd wear my black silk sarong 
The Hungarian: save that for the luau
Me: efficiency - let's all wear black sarongs
The Farmer: yes!
The Hungarian: who's bringing rabbit manure?
Person I don't know: that's me - I'm bringing it
The Farmer: in a black sarong
The Hungarian: just rabbit manure please

And so goes life. A day where black silk sarongs and rabbit manure get to be in the same brief text thread about planting veg and flowers. Wacky makes the world go ’round.

I have had a very emotionally rough few days or possibly week or so. My sweet friend asked me to explain what was happening with my grief cycle and I run-on spewed it at her about a day later when I felt I could get it out without completely succumbing to it. It was not pretty or enlightening. I did this via text and ending with something like, “I’ll be okay. I’ve been doing this my whole life. I can rally for another 15 or 20 years.” To be clear, I don’t wish to be dead but I also don’t wish to live without whatever it is that might fill up, or at least drip drop, satisfaction in my cup of life. Feeling stuck without any hope of not being stuck, and mired in grief and shame, is an awful dark place to be.

It was my choice to just let those feelings be whatever they were going to be. I didn’t try to add anything to take them away. I chose to keep moving through my day and do the Instagram scroll, ironing, reading, listening to SonHerisme, prep for a board meeting(although my agenda notes were woefully late), coordinate and schedule the summer camps, doctor appts, bandage changes, laundry, cry here and there, and make the things like chicken salad/quesadillas/hummus sammies/white chili/hamburgers and such for the people to eat.

The food is for the people, not for me. I can eat some hummus and white chili – but no meat for this lady’s digestions. For the past 5 months I have been taking celery juice in the morning and diligent about no meat in anything, along with serious dairy limits. The biggest change has been in improved movement by about a zillion. Also, I no longer want to fight that battle anymore either. If my body can’t handle it, f it, I’m not eating it or doing it. It may be boring and uncomfortable for others, but I am done.

Yesterday afternoon I started wondering what is it that I would find satisfying about myself. What feels good, right, or whatever and does not hurt? I really have no idea, honestly. I have theories, but nothing very concrete – except some movements and some limited foods. It’s okay to celebrate bouncing up the stairs, isn’t it? Actually, I don’t care really because for me it is a celebration! I could not do this even 3 months ago. It is a scary but necessary step, I think, to admit these things to myself and then to follow up with all of it.

If someone handed me notes with a briefing, I would be completely fine with standing in front of any group of people and saying whatever (an appropriate “whatever,” of course) and answering any questions I could. If you and I sat down together at a friend’s house, I doubt I would even speak other than maybe asking you questions so that you would talk the entire time. I am the opposite of my live-out-loud friends – by circumstance or nature, who knows?

Awkwardly doing the things and trying to be okay with it – that’s all of us, yes? Or? Doesn’t matter because it turns out, I cannot be anyone other than me anyway. I have tried and done it well (?at least outwardly – high functioning inward failure?) for a long time, but it hurts too much- even more than being myself, if that’s possible. I could wear a black sarong. I could also facilitate the spread of rabbit manure. And I would do it for SonHerisme if it was necessary or asked of in-the-past me on a triple dog dare with cherry on top. But, it isn’t me. It was just a joke – a pretend joke belonging just where it is – in a thread. I cannot do all of things and I most certainly cannot do very many of the things very well.

Thank you for being patient with me irl and for reading/listening/following here.

I hope you find something helpful and satisfying of and for you today.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

PS. Wondering about the brood x cicada emergence in the Eastern US? (Peter?)

Here is what they look like:

Here is what they sound like as I enjoy my spinach lunch, drowning out every single bird and squirrel by a zillion:

(cicada symphony)

Also, I KNOW everyone possibly listen/reading this in the UK is not named, “Peter.” I do an “oh, there you are, Peter!” (my favorite line from Hook after the boy smooshes around on Peter’s face trying to find the Pan inside), whenever I am brave enough to peek and there is a UK ping on the stats. Be the Pan.

Whytest

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Do you ever hear something that enters the depths of your ears like the smoothest yellowist not-too-sweet gently warmed custard? Murmur of poems. yummmmy

I would like to be pentagoning or decahedroning back, but I can only ever figure out the circle back to poets.

"To rest is to give up on the already exhausted will as the prime motivator of endeavor, with its endless outward need to reward itself through established goals."  -David Whyte (poet writer human)

I got sucked into the massive mind muck again last night. I climbed out enough to play with SonHerisme a bit and then drowned myself in list making. It’s the opposite of rest, but it is distracting enough to at least get my breath and carry on with the things that need doing before collapsing into bed. Missed my shower though. I hate this grief process. I know its necessary and I am meant to feel it and embrace it to move forward to the blessings that are just around the corner waiting for me (blah blah platitudes blah). For today, I cannot stand myself and I am letting that be.

PIVOT

Our tiny town had a unity march again yesterday. Before anyone gets their panties in a wad, unity is a good thing. Promoting unity in a culture built on and institutionally conditioned to be racist, is a good thing. Acknowledging that a marginalized disproportionately targeted group of people are worthy of humane consideration and treatment is a GOOD THING. It’s a good thing for all of us. Despite my understanding of herd mentality, I truly struggle to accept the reality of inhumane frenzy thoughts, words, and actions with the increase in access to information and community that we have had for many decades. This struggle of mine is an indication of my whiteness. I recognize that I am privileged to be able to step back to even ask the, “why,” rather than fighting against being trampled on.

We all know that the welfare momma is a false trope - yes?  
We all know that the storming of the US borders by criminal Central/South Americans is a false trope - yes?  
We all know that humans, regardless of any biases, deserve to be treated humanely - yes?  
We all know that access to food, water, shelter, healthcare (including basic necessities health care), education, and purpose for all humans benefits all of our survival - yes? 
We all know that marginalizing people is destructive for all of us - yes?
We all know that we live on an over abundant planet with an over abundance of creative humans - yes?
We all know that by sharing our resources increases all of our wealth - yes? 
It isn't a pie.  It isn't a zero sum game.
Unless we make it a pie and zero sum game, and then we ALL LOSE no matter where you stand.

During a conversation about the unity march and SonHerisme’s latest read and school discussions on being anti-racist, MotherHerisme insisted she has never been a racist. She doesn’t see people’s color (ummmmm….). As long as people are nice and work hard, that’s what matters to her (ummmmm…). She even ate dinner with a black family when she was in school (ummmmm…). She just doesn’t want to have to give her money away to people who don’t deserve it because she and my father worked hard for their money (ummbrainglitchmmmm…).

My mouth popped opened and this is what came out: MotherHerisme, we all want to see ourselves as good, kind people, and as individuals, most of the time, all of us are. 

The reality is that you were raised in an openly racist home and that you are a racist by your words, actions, participation in and endorsement of racist institutions (examples like STILL BEING associated with the Republican Party and others).  
You absolutely can see that my skin is lighter and that XXXX's skin is darker - you can see the color of people's skin and it influences your opinion of people (examples like assuming the darker skinned people taking up a parking spot you want are just going to be clogging up the aisles in COSTCO because they bring in all of their extended family so maybe COSTCO should have a time for people without extended family, while you are getting ready to bring two carloads of family in to shop with you). 
EVERYONE WORKS HARD - EVERYONE. Who is not working hard?!!?  Who has met someone who is not working hard?  I bet if you have it is a white privileged teen - everyone else is working hard.  Actually, even that privileged teen is working hard, even if it's internally, they are working hard. WTfreakingH does "working hard," even mean? You and daddy worked harder than the single mom with three crappy minimum-wage jobs who has no retirement or savings because she has been constantly struggling to raise her child and survive? Who isn't working hard?  Who doesn't deserve to eat, have clean water, go to the Dr? Who exactly are you talking about?
The mid 1950's in Montgomery, Alabama - what do you think would happen to that black family if they refused to be kind to you, to bring you into their home or to feed you?
Again with the divide between worthy and unworthy humans - who isn't working hard?  Is it me that you're talking about?  Because we do have family members who describe me this way. Is it me, and then SonHerisme, that do not deserve humane treatment? Who is it exactly that is deserving of being treated inhumanely?

Context – my parents have always worked hard and are also products of the cultural normative thoughts and behaviors of their time in history.

FatherHerisme was raised in extreme poverty, losing both parents at a very young age. He was raised by his older sister who quit school and got married so that she could take care of my father and he wouldn’t be sent away. She tried to also keep their three sisters, but the two youngest were taken by their father (different father than the older children) and the sister closest in age to her, ran off and got married when she was in 8th grade. Welcome to Kentucky in the 1950’s. A local librarian gave my father a job as a shelver when he was in High School because that’s where he was always hanging out. This librarian also paid for my father to apply for college and to take his entrance exams. My father attended a prestigious private engineering school with scholarships and Army funding (he served for some years after college), and spent his entire successful career as a chemical engineer with the same company.

MotherHerisme was raised in a military family (Army then Airforce) where her ambitious father became a Colonel and head of the ROTC program at a large southern university. Growing up she lived in California, Virginia, Japan, Alabama, France, and very briefly in Ohio. She met, got pregnant and married my father when she was working as a secretary in the Pentagon. FatherHerisme was temporarily at Fort Belvoir for specialized training while stationed in Germany. She was 19, he was 24. A rushed January wedding in Germany followed by the April arrival of my sister. ParentsHerisme raised three children, lived in Ohio (USA), Germany, and Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. They are both always themselves and insanely photogenic. I am lucky to still have them and to know them.

Also, I am not woke. I am just me and am a product of the cultural normative thoughts and behaviors of my time in history. Free to be you and me, Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers – all of the people showing us the ways of unity, consideration, healthy boundaries and acceptance. In my smaller than a grain of teensy crushed glorious stardust glass particle sand moment of this particular lifetime, I am trying to guide the humans in my wee circle towards recognizing the infinite circle as they can. Anti-racist, pro-unity, pro-acceptance and healthy boundaries. Many days I am failing. I’ll just keep going until I cannot.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

Have you found yourself Yankovic-ing songs?

It’s not the pale you that incites me, that scares and so frights me. Oh no, it’s just the whiteness of you. (sing to the tune of the soulful Norah Jones, Nearness of You – jippity jolly good funnesses).

7 Year Itch

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(helicopter flower by me on the trampoline)
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I left the house yesterday evening, sat in my car on the front passenger seat with my door open in the back driveway, and listened to the heavy post-rainstorm drops clap down through the trees to make their final splash on the rocky ground. Those giant three-pronged sassafras leaves happily sproinged up and down with each plop-plop-plop of exhausted expended cloud remnants. Drip, drip drop little April (June-y) showers…

My usual evening grief was trying very hard to become a full blown panic attack. I did not intend to sit in the car and listen to the results of the storm. I didn’t intend to sit in the car at all. I left the house to leave the house before I screamed. I did not want to frighten SonHerisme or make any attempt to engage in explanatory conversation with MotherHerisme. I just wanted out of the house quickly. I could feel the squirming firey swirls of panic burbling around in my stomach and radiating down through to my knees. It’s like my nerves are on itchy fire and screaming at me to just do something, anything, just go, go, go… total flight response. I’m not the only one, right?

I thought about walking and phoning someone. I walked up and down the steepest bit of the driveway hill a few times before I decided to sit in the dry car for a bit while I contemplated who to phone. As I listened to the water falling and birds settling into post-storm nighttime routines, I decided not to phone anyone. I decided to just be and see how long I could be there without screaming, running away, driving away, or phoning anyone. I did send one text at some point, reading, “I need an entirely different life.” I deliberately sent it to someone I knew wouldn’t receive the text until the following morning as they would be well into children’s bedtime routines. Just in case something happened, I wanted to reach out. I don’t know what I thought would happen.

Since early 2014 I have been expecting a complete breakdown. It hasn’t happened, not even close (I don’t believe), but the expectation has been there. And not just from me – family, friends, therapists, my primary care doctor were all on high alert for some time, watching, assessing and speculating about when I would finally break. At some point I suppose I passed an invisible threshold where this became unlikely. I suspect due in part that I have also passed some other threshold in my brain where I am absolutely broken without hope of mending, but have accepted that to be whatever it will be.

No breakdown. No walk. No phone call. No screaming. Just sitting in the front passenger seat of my car as if I’ve arrived home (having been driven by someone else I suppose) or am about to head out somewhere, listening to the late evening post storm noises of the woods.

It occurred to me that I have been driving to and from this house for 15 years. This is by far the longest I have ever lived anywhere. I have been getting in and out of this car in this driveway for almost 13 years. WHAT the WHAT WHAT I know the rocks I am looking at because we have been looking at each other for a very long time now. I know where invasive plants are finally giving up and over to the native plants. I know where trees were that aren’t anymore and where there were none now there are some. I have witnessed how the hill changes throughout the seasons and where the chipmunks go to nest. I know that turtles, snakes, skunks, and groundhogs swap out residence underneath the shed by the back fence. The other night, I spotted a new small Mr. Jeremy Fisher who will soon be big and fat, over behind the rose bushes.

I thought about what changes might happen over this next year with the woods. I thought about how I will be completely different in another year on some cellular levels. My liver will have completely turned over all of its cells by this time next year. And on a total body cellular level, I am in all ways not the same person from 7 years ago. There is nothing physically about me that is the same – every single cell in my body is different. Only ideas, thoughts, memories have carried over – nothing tangible about my cellular physical me-ness.

I am different, regardless of my will to be different or to stay the same. I am not the same.

“I understand that nobody understands me, but I can’t be someone I’m not.” – Audrey Tautou

Maybe this is my heartbreak. I cannot be someone I am not, but I keep thinking I should try to be. “I need an entirely different life,” is what I wrote to my friend, not remembering I already am an entirely different life. Why am I trying so hard to be or to do something different when I am going to be different no matter what? Instead of spending my energies trying so hard to be different than, why not stop fighting, shaming and blaming myself, and just be and see what happens? Time is going to pass anyway. I am going to be someone completely different again in another 7 years no matter what.

Have you read The Midnight Library yet? I read this from the book today, “To be part of nature is to be part of the will to live.” Oftentimes, just about everyday at some point, I do seek solace outside. I try to eat outside at least once a day (unless the weather is too awful), even in 90F heat, rain, snow, etc unless extreme. I love walking outside. The trampoline is ridiculously bougie but fun. My healing body is so happy to be able to move around outside and walk to the creek or lake. I go outside because I need to not hear inside noises and I need to breathe. For 5 months in 2014 I couldn’t open any of my windows in the house or sit outside because of fear. I remember when I knew we finally had some safety secured, I went around the house to open all of the windows, and just breathed. I wonder if I need to be doing the outside things more. Outside in nature or water play were always my go-to’s when troubled emotions became too much for SonHerisme or NiecesHerisme, and they worked every time. hmmmmm

I don’t know what is going to happen next, except that I am very glad to know that I am cellularly not the same person from 7 years ago. I am also glad to know that my liver will be entirely different on this day next year. And I am most grateful that none of this change requires any effort on my part – it just gets to be.

I hope that you enjoy the new you.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps MotherHerisme tears brought to you today by no one (myself or SonHerisme) bringing milk to the table for her on her timeline (SonHerisme was in virtual school meets in the back of the house, and I was not at home). The refrigerator is maybe 20 feet from her dining room table seat… She texted me while I was driving to ask if I could bring her some milk as soon as possible. She is struggling y’all and refuses any outside or water time. Although she was later convinced to shower before the home health nurse arrived for her final visit. Bandage changes and health monitoring for MotherHerisme falls back to me again. It will be fine – just another regroup/reset for my own expectations, which I am skilled at. She is currently loudly cursing (damnit, shit, g-d damnit etc) at her iPad. Yup – just fine here.

If you were hoping to hear something about the movie Seven Year Itch, released in June 1955, then I will say something about that now. The guy is a creepy creeper. Marilyn Monroe is beautiful, funny, and underrated as a complex interesting person. I used to have a Marilyn Monroe CD. I have enjoyed martini’s and also have put clothes in the freezer.

I hope that you go outside today, if you’re able. If it isn’t safe for you to be outside today, know I am looking at everything twice in order to send outside vibes (with productive cicada sounds) to you too!

Pig Coup! Pig Coup!

/ herismeorg / 2 Comments
(Photo by Leah Kelley on Pexels.com)
(or listen here)

Pig coup, pig coup! Bless you!

I suppose this could be the introduction for any number of things at the moment… but it isn’t unless you want to metaphor up, which you are most welcome to do.

This is an introduction to an actual pig coup. As in the excommunicated pigs appear to be rallying and setting the stage to embark on a coup for penultimate reign over the farmette down the hillside. Yes, the farmette currently being governed by the very Goat King I’ve spoken about before. The pigs’ sudden boldness comes in part due to a complete upset in rank expectations as it turns out that the Goat King is the Goat Queen (now nursing two tiny hippity hoppity blonde prince and princess goats).

Don’t worry. This is not about to be a “back-in-the-day” share because 1. it is taking place right now and 2. I am my own self, not a former caterpillar, infamous Central American wrestler, or wandering meteor pretending to be a star.

Almost at the bottom of our mountain (which is truly just a very large hill but people insist on calling it a mountain), before the two creeks merge (working together making the journey quicker and more fun to the mighty river, out to the bay and eventually the vast endless ocean), there is a fork in the road. I always know what direction I am going to take at that fork in the road. More importantly, at this fork is a lane which leads back up a smaller hill upon which sits a white two-story farmhouse complete with wrap-around porch and green shutters in the middle of rolling fields making a farmette. A large white barn sits offset from the front of the house and close to the lane, tucked into the side of the hill. If you’re at the top of lane near the house, you can walk into the top of the barn where farming work things are stored. If you’re near the middle of the lane, you can walk into the lower part of the barn housing the seat and court of the Goat King (now Queen). At night there are twinkle sparkle lights all through the barn, just in case there is a spontaneous celebration or other entertainment at court.

The farmette has a few paddocks over the hills, food and water storage distribution huts, and shade areas scattered about. The farmette owner drives a tractor with an American Flag hoisted up on a flag pole behind his seat. It waves this way and that way as he drives around doing the things farmette owners do. Each time we pass the farmette, which is to say everytime we leave our house to go anywhere else other than the woods surrounding us, we have tipped our head in deference to and greeted the Goat King(now Queen), his court, and flock(s). Let’s move forward acknowledging officially the Goat King as Queen. Or maybe she can still be King as a lady goat? Yes, let’s do that then. We greet the Goat King first – respect – then the goat court, and finally the flock(s). The flock are mostly egg laying these days, but the meat flocks (chickens and turkeys) rotate in and out, so to speak.

Almost a month ago now, a new group entered the goat court area, keeping to their own quarters, natch. An entirely new pig court. Sweet little spotty squirmy pokey nosed piggies. We were worried a bit one of the hot days because all of the pink pigs took over their pig court shaded area, leaving the little black pigs out in the sun. It seemed to have been quickly sorted out, as the next time we passed, all of the pigs were snuggled together to fit the entire group into the shade.

I’m not privy to exactly what happened to cause the rift, but it happened just after the Goat King revealed her ladyness by birthing kids so I believe it had something to do with that. One day the pig court was fully integrated and supportive of the Goat King and goat court. The next day the pig court was removed to an entirely new spot on the farmette, two fenced paddocks away. The pig court was excommunicated from the Goat King’s presence.

When we pass by now we see signs of insurrection and an impending pig coup by the manner in which the pigs line up and stare back over the hill at the Goat King’s exclusive domain. Trouble is brewing at the farmette. I hope that the owner is prepared to foster a delicate diplomacy or accept a Pig King in the very near future.

This is my story and I’m sticking to it (as told to little sister friend who, once again, graciously receives it full of interesting questions and an appeal for me to ask the owner for an audience with the Goat King to see if I can help smooth things over).

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

a pivot from yesterday where I also only logged about 4800 steps according to my iphone. blerg. Best foot forward today (or… f the iphone calibration)

today in my brain is another day of challenges with mucking in the mire – I wish there was predictable relief. Maybe driving past the Goat King and excommunicated pig court later will help

pssssst hello Peter(imposed moniker of anyone from the UK reading this)!

Unpostable (a truth share)

/ herismeorg / 3 Comments
(from TinyBuddha)
(or listen here)

Maybe this is unpostable because I am uncomfortable. Very. I began this as a vent with the title “unpostable” so I would remember that I wrote it to not post it. Here it is anyway…

I should be dead. I should’ve been dead in my 20’s, but I wasn’t. Now I have SonHerisme to raise so I need to make it through until he is settled into adulthood. Some days I don’t know if I can make it. But time passes and I always do. Then I feel immensely guilty for feeling the way I do because: what am I teaching my son if I value myself so little? I’m not sure that I value myself so little, its more that I do not see my value in this life other than to raise SonHerisme. Most everything else involving me is just pain. Of course, even parenting has its usual pains but it does bring so many more joys for me. I know that I am very fortunate in this regard. SonHerisme just came into the world this joyful way. I literally have nothing else bringing in or reflecting any personal value. I do see value in other things/people, though. Maybe I’m jealous of the dandelions painting the ground and the cicada music? My digestion prevents me from enjoying consuming food – nevermind the food/fat shame in my family. My digestion also prevents any blissful alcohol numbing. I’m too poor for drugs. I’m too stuck to travel or enjoy much beauty beyond my local reaches – which are beautiful of course, but limited.

It’s almost like a Socratic paradox where the more you know, the less you realize you actually know. But instead of knowing, its living. The more I know about living or have lived, the less I’ve actually lived.

Hey now – I am grateful for things. I’ve had journals and journals and journals recording my gratitude attitude. Also pointing out that no matter how dire the circumstances or how deeply I feel the loneliness, grief and pain of being, I always find something to push me through the day. Always. Courage, I suppose, because I clearly see it in some of you, so perhaps I have some as well.

As my brain was sinking into unworthiness the other day (damn you instagram, lovehate you forevah koyc!) on my self scheduled “break” outside on the trampoline (yes, instagram voyeurism whilst trampolining is a thing provided it’s a gentle tramp), MotherHerisme was crying because her ice had melted in her tumbler, SonHerisme was beginning his own meltdown over maths grades and works, plus he was pre-teen belly starving, one of the puppies vomited on the floor, front doorbell rang with another large Amazon package full of potato chips and coffee flavored peanut m&ms for MotherHerisme, breakfast and lunch dishes were sitting in the sink while a clean dishwasher was waiting to be emptied, the nurse was on her way to change MotherHerisme’s bandage(which now falls to me because the home nurse visits have expired again), I tripped over two bags full of soiled adult diapers left in front of the door by MotherHerisme so that I would take them to the trash while dodging her dirty clothes she tried to throw close to the staircase for the laundry room (MotherHerisme moves around as little as humanly possible) and I just needed to go to the bathroom… and on and on and on in case you wanted a snapshot of a typical post-lunch moment in my house of wack-a-doodely doodah.

Anywho – you get it. Minus a screaming baby and the electricity going out… chaos.

I turned around from the bags of soiled diapers and saw mud all over the floor. Scattered in clumps and smears all the way around the kitchen entryway, stopping just where SonHerisme had deposited his riding boots next to his hanging cocoon chair (which must be where he’d finally removed the boots). In that moment, that one tiny moment, I saw him in my mind’s eye, with his determined focused face grabbing onto Dusty’s mane with his left reign hand, pulling his body up to cantor and smiling with all of his everything as they galumphed up the hill together for their first intentional cantor moment (there have been unintentional cantors as well as jumps with other horses). All of the unworthy focus washed out of my body immediately. Thank you, stinky mud (at least, I hope you’re mud). Then my body forcefully reminded me that I truly had to go to the bathroom myself – probably a combo of soiled diapers and mud triggering the everythings. There’s a song I internally sing to my pelvic floor in these moments, in order to coax it into cooperation as I make for the back of the house to the bathroom. Natural birthing – amiright? Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, don’t fail me now, don’t fail me now. Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, you know I love you…. la la la la la It worked. No worries.

Then back to the doing of the things until something else swoops in and knocks my breath away pushing on my reverse heart bruises with the griefs and sadnesses.

And so go my days. Evenings are usually the most difficult for me. I just want to get dinner made, served, cleaned up, dessert the people up, grab tea for myself, shower (ending with freezing cold water natch), go to bed, read and pass out until the next day. Currently reading: A New Earth (again), Seasons of the Soul (again), Midnight Library, Amber Spyglass (again), and When the Apricots Bloom. That’s right – fiction is back!

Most nights I awaken at some point and struggle to return to sleep. Often I’m awakened by my body having some reaction to whatever. My face and pillow will be completely wet, the muscles in my face will be tired from crying in my sleep or something like that. So I know that stress is exiting me at points regardless of my conscious participation.

These days SonHerisme is soccering or tennising in the evenings, so I do get a little moment to walk around the park or watch him having fun with buddies and coaches. He is definitely a team kind of person, thankfully unlike me. I was a swimmer because there is very little noise under water and I love(d) that.

This is a hard share for me because of the things. My entire being pushes for a gentle, calm, peaceful, cozy, giggly, love existence. The physically painful unworthiness and grief moments throughout the day are gut punching paralyzingly difficult. The resets are unpredictably random and welcome reliefs. I have been thinking that at least I am feeling something other than constant shock numbing, which might be a good thing despite the pain. It does feel like my heart is continuously breaking and I will try not to fight it anymore because that truly seems to have been pointless.

How are you?

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

btw I am not so buried in my own wacky miasma where I’m rendered unaware of the world grief and its impact on all of us. COVID, racism, Palestine, guns, mental illness, fascist movements, day-to-day life hardships etc. I know I am lucky to have occasional space for my griefs. I think about all of these things outside of myself everyday too and send love out into the universe to soothe and comfort.

today’s MotherHerisme tears are brought to you by having to take a shower and also remembering that her meals work better with her medications when she is on a somewhat regular schedule

(now, as needs must, laughter by watching clips from belly-laugh inducing comedians)

We can do hard things – we are doing them already, so we might as well own that we can – go you, go!