If you would like a catch up : Meditations part 1 with lead in links at the top of that post.
To sum up: 85 years ago, DLS wrote EBA a 5-page MEDITATIONS sonnet, found folded inside an EBB book of sonnets.
Series to E. 2
Cold silent orb that from the sky
Hath watched a hundred thousand years,
Hast thou learned wisdom to reply
To one poor doubting mortal’s fears?
For surely since ascendant man
First felt his soul within him burn,
You have found why, in that eon-span,
The hearts of men and maidens yearn?
Yes! Forty thousand years ago
Some fierce barbaric man of yore
Lifted his mute eyes to your glow
As he trod the sands of the ocean shore.
O fierce and mute and savage man
Beating your breast by the Tethys Sea.
Whose blood with fiercest passions ran, -
I am come from you! you are come to me!
All the wild longings in your blood
As you stood on that moonlit shore
Came back again like a mighty flood
And surge – in my breast – once more!
Wan moon! Could but thy beam impart
The answer to my spirits tears,
And lend some solace to a heart
That burns with longings and with fears!
Tethys Sea is lovely to think about imo. Not only is it an ancient salt water sea from hundreds of millions of years ago, but also carries the name of the sister/consort of the Greek G-d Oceanus. Tethys and Oceanus were Titans, children of Gaia (Earth) and Uranus (Heaven). Back in the day when the Earth was thought to be flat, Oceanus was the river flowing around the Earth, separating Earth from the underworld and the land of dreams. Tethys was the Greek G-ddess of all freshwater – rivers, lakes, streams, rain, clouds and could manipulate all water forms at will, natch. Tethys birthed 6,000 children and was the grandmother of the G-ddess of war, Athena. I do NOT have an unusual obsession with Stephen Fry or his books or listening to him read or listening to his podcast appearances or anything like that at all never ever ever… ever… maybe just a teensy passing brainiac admiration.
Apropos of nothing related to this, I welcome you to pizza Friday with 85% potential screaming sonnets on tonight’s set list.
I feel the need to all cap MEDITATIONS, to honor a man of certain distinction: Mr. D.L. Stewart
Series to E.
Wednesday, Aug. 12, 1936, 1:00 A.M. -
In the Country
MEDITATIONS
Rise, golden orb of the midnight skies,
And show me with your mellow beams
The window where a maiden lies
Dreaming sweetly - pleasant dreams.
'Tis one o'clock: your golden rim
Reflects its final-quarter glow
And lends a mystic radiance dim
To the tired sleeping world below.
Sleep, tired world, both beast and man!
The hands of yesterday need rest:
And sleep your tired bodies can,
But, not the struggle in my breast.
Thou silent orb - whence comes the power
Inherent in your mystic glow?
And why do you, in this dim hour,
Disturb my throbbing spirit so?
Is it because in former tide
Beneath your full-resplendent charm
She walked, so meekly, by my side
So soft her hand within my arm?
End page one, y’all. Sheesh to the woosh. Mr. DL gots the pinings of the heart loves something fierce for Miss EB. At 1 am.
to be continued… but first I must digest page one.
ps I KNOW that I just lost any librarian credibility by using a few (out of approximately bazillion) rocks from SonHerisme’s rock collection to gently hold the papers open. I know. I know. I know. I also know that most likely I will continue to make sketch decisions like this, so if this image burns your librarian curator conservationist historian sensitive eyeball brains (which I ADORE but blatantly disregarding consideration for atm), then now you know to avert your eyes on at least the next four MEDITATIONS posts. Fair warning and you’re welcome.
Emily was 22 that year and her David was 34. Census records show Emily Bond Anderson born 23 October 1914 in Edgecombe County, North Carolina, and David Lee Stewart born 14 February, 1902 in Edgecombe County, North Carolina. Our prose prone Carolina gentleman was born on Valentine’s Day!
On Wednesday, August 12, 1936 at 1:00am, when David wrote his 5-page sonnet for Emily, he had already celebrated his birthday in February, and his Emily was waiting to turn 22 that upcoming October. David Lee was 12 years and 8 months older than Emily Bond.
On page 14 of the book’s introduction, Mr. David Stewart has underlined in red:
“There is, of course, no Portuguese original for them.”
“had called her his ‘little Portuguese.’ It has been suggested that this may have been the origin of the purposely misleading title.”
“the finest Sonnets written in any language since Shakespeare’s.”
The book was given by David Stewart to Emily Bond Anderson with “Best Wishes for Valentine’s Day.” This might suggest that Dave, Davey, David, Dada diddle cheeks is underlining these phrases in red to emphasize his admiration for Emily, Em, Emsters, Eba darling’s talents as well as his devoted love for her. Perhaps like Robert Browning’s for Elizabeth Bennett.
Then again, he did only send “Best Wishes,” and not, “all my love,” or some other gooey sentiment.
Using red pen might be due to Valentine’s Day, or might also be an emphasis on 1930’s mansplaining to settle a point or disagreement.
Either way, I think that Mr. Stewart went to a lot of trouble to get attention from Miss Bond Anderson. I prefer to think that our pal David was nervously attempting to express his deep regard for beautiful Emily.
He uses full names in the inscription:
TO Emily Bond Anderson
FROM David Stewart
WITH Best Wishes for Valentine's Day
He uses red pen on Valentine’s Day for “TO,” “FROM,” and “WITH.” His writing is very straight, cursive, neat and precise. His cursive capital letters at the beginning of the proper nouns are just textbook lovely.
I bet David wore a tie, matching vest, and pleated ballooned out in the frontage area pants when he delivered the book. I bet she had on a well-appointed dressed-for-work outfit of matching untucked belted blouse/skirt when she answered the door. I bet they had a lot of fun and trying times figuring each other out but never reaching the thankfully elusive I-know-everything-about-you times of boredom. I bet they had days they wished could last forever and days they wished they could forget. I hope that they mostly had ultimately satisfactory lives full of love.
Let’s choose mischievous green eyes for both. Darker brown hair for our David and reddish brown hair for our Emily.
Census records show both David and Emily coming from farming families with neighbors like Hill, Crickmore, Pittman, Bryan, Pope, Gavin, Price, and the Hunters. The Hunters are listed as a black family with a grandmother and granddaughter (6 years younger than David) named “Nellie.”
I tear up every time I look at this inscription. Is it tear worthy? Is it the intention or mandala-type impermanence that hits me? Fleeting feelings? Teeny tiny moments of a sparkle of life? Most likely my imagination gone rogue once again.
Also, today is MotherHerisme’s birthday! She is 77!
Today we are safe
Today we are healthy
Today we know love
Today we have access to clean water
Today we have access to good food
Today we have a comfortable home
Today we have access to health care
Today we have reliable transportation
Today our bills are paid
Today we have access to education
Today we have access to the internets
Today we have plans with friends
We are okay. Luck/Blessings are abundant. We are okay today.
Yesterday SonHerisme got punched in the face at school. No lingering physical effects – redness on his cheek without bruising because he was turning his head away towards something else, when the kid jumped up and punched him. He is hurt, angry and confused.
Attending a small Montessori school, and SonHerisme being who he is, this is unexpected. He says he hasn’t felt safe around this other kid for a while because he has seen him punch and knock people to the ground at school this year, and then the kid lies about it. The other kid has been suspended at least once already this year. The other kid’s older brother was a menace when he was at the school and the dad has massive creeper vibes. Pre-COVID, I saw the dad trying to take covert upskirt photos at the grocery store cafe until I pushed my cart over, stood in front of him, blocking the rest of the cafe. He left. Man, my heart hurts for whatever abusive machismo environment those boys have been raised in and for any of their future partners.
My heart hurts more for my SonHerisme.
He is constantly being asked to rise above it all, to be resilient, to be brave, to be better than… I want him to have more moments of not building resilience, bravery, maturity above and beyond crappy adults. He is worn out y’all. At 13 my baby is wearing out and building a skin so thick I’m not sure anyone will ever be able to break through and he will not be able to break out of it.
He has always been big for his age which brings the expectation that he behave more maturely than his peers with harsher consequences when he developmentally appropriately did not. “You’re bigger, you should’ve known you would hurt them when you pushed them out of the way or beat them every time in the race or jumped higher and got all of the monopoly money…” Guilty here as I probably have said those things too in context of, “I know it isn’t fair buddy, but you will be blamed when something goes wrong with the physical play because you are a boy and you are the biggest boy.”
I did tell him about MrexHbeing moved to a facility. MrexH is going to a place where he will not have access to electronics for some undetermined amount of time. This means that SonHerisme is not required to try and meet his father on RoBlox, or plan on any parenting coordinator psychologist facilitated phone calls, until further notice. I was told, but did not share with SonHerisme, that MrexH expressed concern that he will ever receive access to his electronics. My friend believes that MrexH will not be going home from this place, whatever it is. If I think about the situation MrexH is in, I am going to break down into a spiral I’m not sure I can get back out of. I’m hoping by popping it out here, I can get it out of me enough to avoid that.
I do not know what kind of “treatment facility,” MrexH is going to. I do know that the facility is closer to us than where he has been living and makes us accessible by bus/car where before he would have needed to board an airplane.
I suspect it is not voluntary, based on the electronic access issue.
It’s it all too much and I am having to type almost every single word 2-to-3 times because my brain-to-finger function is not operating correctly. Everything everywhere is hitting everyone so very hard.
My forehead is numb.
Throughout the day I will remind myself
Today we are safe
Today we are healthy
Today we know love
Today we have access to clean water
Today we have access to good food
Today we have a comfortable home
Today we have access to health care
Today we have reliable transportation
Today our bills are paid
Today we have access to education
Today we have access to the internets
Today we have plans with friends
We are okay. Luck/Blessings are abundant. We are okay today. I hope that you are okay as well. {{{hug}}} your loved ones if you can as you can.
ps I had the most vivid lucid dream last night with a person in it that I do not personally know and they were really struggling with themselves. I tried to change the dream, and was able to switch around some of the things so that I was less impacted by the person, but they continued to struggle. I hope that is not their case in real life, and I send them peace and comfort. It just occurs to me that maybe this was my dream life trying to make sense of my life… I don’t want to do this anymore.
bookswap at the park this afternoon and a day of laundry/helping MotherHerisme/all the things of being me
Legality does not define morality.
A reminder that at one time
it was legal to enslave people, but it was never moral
it was legal to deny women the right to vote, but it was never moral
it was legal to rape your wife, but it was never moral
it was legal to torture people out of their love interests, but it was never moral
it was legal to rape children, but it was never moral
Denying people basic food/water/housing/clothing/comprehensive healthcare/humane dignity is amoral in any and every situation
imaho
In other news, I reinvigorated clean-out mode and dropped off more things to the peoples and the Goodwill. I know there are controversial feelings about the Goodwill, but that is where I went to bequeath the things to their new life elsewhere. As I waited my turn for drop off, I started the Instagram search scroll. Bad choices. I cried – not full-on, just the trickling kind. As I was scrolling, I thought about why I was doing that instead of just waiting the few minutes for my turn. And why is it that suddenly I was able to load things into the car and drop them off after they had been sitting around for probably a year? Then it hit me. I am back into we-might-be-murdered mode. Clean up and out so there isn’t too much of a mess for everyone else, just in case. Which is nonsense because who even knows what the situation really is? I certainly do not.
then the loneliness sinks in
then I have to get to school to wait in carline for SonHerisme. I have not told him about his father’s move. I cannot do it. Yet, I know this is a “yet.”
I gathered up my sweet tiny newborn giant baby bear teenager person. I completed the pumpkin carving and storm preparations for today. We had more vege chili and sushi (because we did the awkward combo dinner). We watched Glee. I explained “happy ending,” “celibacy,” “under-the-shirt-over-the-bra,” “premature ejaculation,” Salt ‘n Pepa’s “Push It,” and, as always, wrapping up with a generous dose of what “consent,” means… again. An evening of single mommy to teen boy conversations. I hope SonHerisme has a hefty therapy budget for his adult times and pre-apologies to his future partners for anything I may be or have been completely screwing up.
Tonight is Monopoly, pizza, movie (SonHerisme’s choice) night. One time a sweet friend asked me if I could choose any movie to watch just for myself, what that movie might be. I couldn’t answer. There are a million and none. None because I think if I had the wherewithal to choose my own thing to do for two plus hours, I am not sure that I would choose a movie. Or perhaps I would – I have no idea. How about you?
I send out comfort to all of you struggling parents and struggling humans. I also send some to non-strugglers to bank for as needed.
some of my favorite movies are Philadelphia Story, Mindwalk, His Girl Friday, Holiday Inn, Bringing Up Baby, Best in Show, Princess Bride, Much Ado About Nothing, Sense & Sensibility, and a zillion others I cannot think of at the moment. For a long time I would only watch films in other languages so that I could just enjoy the cinematography and sounds without the verbal nuances of the storytelling. That’s how I roll tootsie roll.
(Photo by Nicolette Leonie Villavicencio on Pexels.com)
(“While greasy Joan doth keel the pot” Love’s Labour’s Lost, ActV/ Scene2, Winter)
(or listen here)
The night before I was notified about MrexH’simpending move, I was sitting by the fire outside listening to the great horned owl hooting up a storm, and wake-dreaming about fires, smoke, fuel, and oxygen. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to stoke my own life spark into a flame. I still do not know and am afraid to have any hope of that since I am not sure I can survive another heartbreak chisel when my wishes billow into smoke as the flame dies again.
There comes a point in the leaves turning time, where I can stand outside of my back door in the evening, whistle across the side of the rocky woodsy hill I live on, and get an echo back. I love it so much – I think everyone loves a good echo moment like that – no? The silly whistle echo fills my heart with joy for a brief moment. That night I was able to whistle to my echo a little bit too.
If you ever have a chance to go on a mid-late October woodsy night hike in the Mid-Atlantic American States, I encourage you to do it! Owls are so magnificently super stealthy, you won’t even know they are flying overhead until you feel the top-down breeze from their gloriously expansive wings as they swoop past post inspection because while you smell tasty, you are too big for them.
It is the tiniest moments like sitting by a good fire with my little vegan marshmallows and unsweetened chocolately dipped gf cookies (s’mores shout-out y’all), hot lavender chamomile tea, listening to the last of the cricket season chirping and the hooting owl, whistling to my echo, seeing the waning moon plus sparkle stars, hearing SonHerisme giggling inside at some television nonsense, that I feel closest to okay. I begin to think that in this moment perhaps the universe is helping me hold the burdens. Just for a few stolen breaths.
I recently read the following in a Time article written by Abby Vesoulis, titled, “Why Literally Millions of Americans are Quitting Their Jobs.” Economists describing the situation of American workers as having a, “grab bag of diffused burdens,” to explain why they are quitting their jobs. As opposed to a compact bag…? What the actual f. Generationally speaking, I can say with certainty that it is not a grab bag – it is an overfilled bag of burdens forced upon us by a previous generation who refused to acknowledge their own personal responsibility to basic humanity plus their own mortality. And now we have to sit in the middle and watch our children have to resolve the burdens we have been too few and are too weary to deal with anymore because we’ve never been able to catch our footing from carrying all of what has been piled upon us. Unlike the meme of the burdens people born in 1900-1920 faced throughout their lifetimes, with information dissemination and consumption, it seems that we are globally hell-bent on self destruction.
I suppose a compact bag might be more convenient for everyone. We have tried our best to compact it all for the rest of humanity, pull up our big girl panties and bootstraps, carry on and all of that. Especially women. Especially minority women. We cannot be convenient anymore.
In return for carrying the burdens, we have a rapidly deteriorating climate, no paid family leave, ridiculous maternal mortality rates, diminishing rights to women’s healthcare/control of our bodies, highest medical bankruptcy rates in the world, fascism/nationalism/authoritarianism on the rise, fucked up arbitrary bureaucratic educational system, and basic infrastructure decline with rising global debt. Most of this stuff is just made up crap to keep lining pockets of people who are already so wealthy that none of these rules or consequences affect them or their families. Except for climate change, which of course affects every aspect of any life. In the zero sum game, the players cannot see their own complicit behaviors or certain mortality(accelerated by hubris).
A recent conversation with a woman I have known and worked with for over seven years revolved around her unwillingness to vaccinate herself or anyone in her family because in her view, the unproven vaccines are killing more people than they are saving. She asserts that if people were healthy and took better care of themselves, COVID would not be an issue. W T actualF. I just cannot engage with that other than to say to her, “it sounds like you are right to explore other options for connection for your family if COVID precaution requirements aren’t going to work for you.” Her family have had COVID twice and are, in her words, “just fine.”
If you are serving her family, playing sports with her family, going to worship with her family, unmasked at school during lunchtime or recess with her family… and, G-d forbid, you or someone in your family have cancer/heart issues/Lyme/Lupus/organ transplant recipient/MS or any other illness which either prevents you from being able to receive the vaccine or your body to build up enough COVID immunity, or you have a young child who has yet to be vaccinated – or a young child with any illness which prevents them from being vaccinated or able to build up enough COVID immunity even with the vaccine, then this family of four (among SO many others) are out there spreading this until it kills themselves or someone else. Perhaps they already have. Our current local infection rate is at 5% and rising again. Our little county hospital is bursting at the seams, last I looked, with 36 COVID patients, 12 in ICU. BTW, both this women (regardless of her ability to absorb and acknowledge information or to let go of her privileged attachment to drama) and myself know people and children with these conditions in our mutual community.
So, yes, we carry an overflowing bag of burdens in our working-aged generations in this country. We cannot carry them anymore. A diffusion is necessary to lay them all out on the table, acknowledge them, put accountability in place, THEN we can carry on. #carryonpeacewarriors
In the meantime, I will concentrate on giving myself permission for stolen moments. Where are you going for your moments? If you, like me, are without a support partner, I send you oodles of burden-easing wishes.
ps please stop equating troubles and tragedy with measures of morality. thank you.
pps also, boundary setting with accountability is critical for recovery
CRITICAL (for the peeps in the back)
ppss I recognize and acknowledge my privilege in being able to carry and articulate burdens plus dream of solutions
pppss Laughing is helpful so I look forward to when I can watch more than clips of The Cleaner bc, y’all, that guy is hilAIRious. In the meantime, it’s a brief binge of What We Do in the Shadows (if I can force myself to watch something when I cannot sleep at night which is… another topic for another day)
This was meant to be a different post. Same title, different content.
I wanted to write about how if we don't fuel the spark of drive, curiosity, creativity, and fun then the fire never gets going and at best what we give out is just smoke from dying embers.
I wanted to write about my musings on where I might find oxygen, heat and fuel for my flame.
I wanted to wonder about where you might be finding yours as well.
I wanted to see the stories we send out into the world like smoke signals out into the universe to be received wherever they may land in whatever form they land.
I wanted to wonder about how, in the end, we are all the stories that we've lived and shared, with the hope that mine wouldn't end up being some choking smoke no one cares for.
Instead I received news that MrexH is moving closer to where we are.
This news is most unexpected and has knocked me off to be even more threadbare with my connection to living.
It feels as if everything inside of me has fractured just that much more and I can no longer grab any significant pieces back up together or reassemble correctly. It is as if I am one of those grosgrain heavy wefted ribbon people unraveling in a surrealism painting. But instead of seeing some beautiful sky or poignant landscape as I unravel, there is just a bunch of smoke billowing out from a very poorly fueled dying spark.
Before you say it, I already know that even though I am not responsible for all of the circumstances and stories in my life, I am responsible for figuring out how to oxygenate and properly heat/fuel my own fire. It is my job as a human lady person.
Perhaps I will get there. Perhaps I will be too unraveled and too late. Today is not the the day, I can assure you. Today I am reassembling the fractures as best as I can so that I am prepared for a conversation with SonHerisme to explain the changes with MrexH.
If you see some smoke signals coming from me, I hope they aren’t too difficult to breathe through. I hope they can get refueled to tell a different kind of smoke signaled story – one more hopeful and satisfying.
*fingers crossed* No falling in the river for me today – I would disintegrate at this point. The smoke is wispy at best.
I'll take deep breaths and keep moving through the day-to-day things.
I'll deliver the clothes to an immigrant family.
I'll make vegetable chili.
I'll do the laundry.
I'll carve the pumpkin.
I'll tend to SonHerisme and MotherHerisme's needs.
I'll give the doggies some puppy loves.
I'll tread lightly until I can go to bed and read a little bit (nonfiction fuh sures).
That most certainly is not me in the pic fyi. Not that I wouldn’t be in a canoe doing the things, but still … anyway
Living Your Best Life kind of thing, I suppose. Which is what we are all doing regardless of intention or attention. Is anyone else constantly feeling as if they are LYBL all wrong? I do 100% I do. With the exception of SonHerisme, I have always felt as if I am life-ing in a place without understanding how to get traction. The job, the family, the overcoming challenges stuff… I truly do not know how everyone is doing it.
I feel as if I am constantly both falling into the waters and rowing about rescuing myself, and others, and I am exhausted.
Just after the incidents which led ultimately to my divorce, I remember FatherHerisme telling me to just hang in there because my life was going to change for the better over the next year, so much so that I wouldn’t even recognize how I had been so worried and low (thought I was about to be murdered, Daddy…).
Just after my relationship with HighSchoolBoyfriend/CollegeBoyfriend/AdultConnection ended, I was told multiple times how time heals every thing and that I would find my special someone one day.
Just after I left one racist toxic workplace environment, I was told I would find something even better that filled my passion to the point of overflow and would not even feel like work.
Give it time, they said. Focus on gratitude, they said. In the meantime, concentrate on living your best life, they said. It’s all fucking bullshit, I say. Calls it how I sees it- time of death: varies (mood/sieve brain dependent).
Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they do not. Life is mostly luck with some positioning, which you may or may not have control over, but are required to be able to take advantage of the luck. Mostly luck.
LYBL is just living. The added drama of trying to force something based on a pr scheme of what “best life” means, is self defeating and crazy making. We have set ourselves up to be swayed that anything less than the picture we have been sold of LYBL is high drama fueled moral failing. For many of us it is someone else’s moral failing we attach our inability to achieve LYBL drama tether onto. Shame and blame, baby!
Culturally we are damaging ourselves and our kids by clinging onto self-created perpetuated drama as the destroyer of morality and the destroyer of our ability to live our best lives. Culturally we do not accept that life IS our best life – the shit days and the great moments.
None of the toxic positivity crap I was fed ever came true. Maybe it is because I am a complete loser and horrible person – maybe. I find that a hard pill to swallow though because there are plenty of folks who are complete shit people who sit in those pictures of what we worship as living your best life. I think it is luck with positioning (ie privilege) tilting the scales a whole fucking lot. Or maybe I am stuck in complete life dysmorphia too…
This is the truth of what I am doing.
I am recycling. I am careful with my detergents. I only mow the lawn to keep down snakes etc from cozying into human/puppy spaces. I rescue the wayward snakes, turtles, bats, baby rabbits, birds etc when they breach our space anyway. I am hyper-vigilant 90% of the time with the food we consume. I cook and clean the things. I write the letters. I try to be present as I can with SonHerisme(which I am shit at – but somehow he is an amazing human despite me). And all of the things I am trying to do to be a good human mommy person, but I make zero headway on anything even closely resembling our cultural version of LYBL.
Honestly, I think LYBL kind of sucks. Which admittedly may only indicate I am not good at it. I am glad that some of you are, though. Or at least some of you have found your peace overall so that you can move through the day-to-day struggles. Or have you? I don’t know. You appear as if you have/are/do. So perhaps that is something. Maybe?
I’ll try and shine more light on my truth to possibly help with my own truth doing. This is my life and I suppose the best one because it is all I’ve got.
By request, I used school funds to purchase Chick-fil-A last week for a teacher appreciation dinner. I carry that heavily because I vehemently oppose how those franchise monies get used – but still I did it in order to not rock the boat. LMBL
I’ve allowed SonHerisme to binge-watch Schitt’s Creek over the past few months. He is 13. Is this okay? I don’t know how to know. LMBL
I accidentally took a selfie yesterday evening and it rocked my world in an entirely unpleasant way. My own body dysmorphia has me seeing things disproportionately, I know this but I do not know how to unsee what I see or how to process it appropriately. I used to stand up against my bedroom wall throughout my tween/teen/young adult life and trace my body with a pencil trying to get a grip on how or where I fit in comparison to the rest of the world. LMBL
Which is all to say that today I will be out and about my town doing the things which need doing – typical Saturday. If you notice a knotted witch haired lady person in a blue sport dress, sneakers, and black hoodie floating down the river, please be careful if you stop to pull her up – she is heavy with the things today. If you are in the river, I hope that someone ever so gently and carefully pulls you out. I suppose the one to row upriver to see why I keep falling in … is me. And I am too exhausted today.
pps I cannot think of my own future without crying bc I suppose LYBL is ingrained, but I am full of hope for SonHerisme
ppss golly – I am gloooomy today. More clean out will help – maybe? Or head back to the celery juice (I stopped about a week ago bc I forgot to buy celery). Inflammation is a mighty fucking bitch y’all
It is that kind of gentle but firm softness in the power of comfort, compromise, caregiving, with a determined focus on nourishing, sustainability, developmental appropriateness, holding space and grace to meet people where they are and provide humane supports.
It is difficult to bear witness to the reality of not valuing, of not cherishing PowerSoftnesses.
imhyauo
(in my humble yet arrogant unsolicited opinion)
We have tapped out our educators at all levels having been dismissive at best pre-COVID, now devolved to vitriol.
We have tapped out our healthcare workers at all levels.
We have tapped out our grocery, gas station, restaurant etc workers.
We have tapped out our librarians, first responders, and other public servants.
We have tapped out parents, grandparents, caregivers.
Our cultural values don’t allow for appreciating these critical roles in our society, other than occasional lip service or *clap, clap, clap* or perhaps a pizza luncheon. All of which, frankly, resonate like praising a dad for “babysitting” his own children or “helping” to clean the dishes *insert generous eye roll,* whilst internally judging the mom who came up so lacking that she needed “babysitting” or “help.”
*sigh* that’s how we do
as a culture – not as individuals, of course (natch)
As individuals we:
Advocate for our educators and staff through letter writing, encouragement, and voting power
Listen to healthcare experts, science, are respectful, get ourselves vaccinated, and vote.
Make humane eye contact with all interactions to the helpers/servers/healers/teachers/encouragers etc, tip generously (as we are able), volunteer for the organization, clean-up after ourselves, recognize innate humanity and right to dignity, use grace and courtesy, and vote.
Recognize and publicly acknowledge that in order to keep our current economy working we are relying on unpaid or severely underpaid caregivers by counting on their compassion to override our responsibility to them, and vote.
Use grace and courtesy with these recognitions, and then we vote.
We are the lucky ones who get a choice, not only by our thoughts and actions, but also by engaging with our opportunity and choice to vote.
On the Rashida Jones “Ask Big Questions” podcast (the episodes are about a year old), one of their science expert guests commented that the number one way we all impact climate change is by voting. This kind of power awestruck me in a pivotal thinking way. I am a voter. I have voted in every election I could since I turned 18. I love voting and celebrate every time I get to vote from which fundraisers to approve on our local school council to national presidential elections. But have I payed attention and voted what truly has matched my conscience? Or, have I voted by public relations rhetoric? I suspect a mixture until midterm elections during President Obama’s first term when I recognized my essential need for my own deep pivot. I do not worship any leader or politician. They are human people doing human things on varying levels of the human scale of emotion, action, and thought. While I do not worship any ideology, I do make every effort to use my votes in support of those things where humane choices are at the forefront and Powersoft things are acknowledged and valued.
(insert rant on how we approach parenting, educating, healing, nourishing – too much for my squishy brainiac at the moment)
The essence of my soul knows that without the soft powers, we do not exist (whether acknowledged or not). I would Iike to be part of the nudge to humanity that the soft powers are worth culturally recognized value.
That’s what I’ve been thinking about as well as how to not abandon my post. Not my blog post – I mean my post as in carrying on with whatever I am responsible for doing (from my bolt-hole apparently and YES this noun is funny to me also I seem to be more of the female Mr Fox in that scenario). Although I do abandon blog posts regularly. Blogger fail CHECK. I know, posting posts are not the point – it is an outlet for my being. Thank you for bearing witness and space for that. I am restless with grief and I suppose this is how it blooms.
ps I stopped at Chipotle as a crutch last night to grab dinner for SonHerisme and myself (MotherHerisme was Panera-ed up, don’t worry!), having app ordered for pickup. The place was packed. I could not move through the store to the pickup shelves without bumping through people. Less than half of us were masked in this packed place. Only 1 table had anyone eating inside – the rest of us were waiting to order food or picking up app orders. The orders seemed to be running about 30 minutes behind the app time. The staff were nonstop efficient superfast motion, and looked very exhausted and stressed as people began complaining about their wait time. It hurt my heart for everyone. I sent an extra $$$ tip along with prayers for peace, comfort, empathy, patience and compassion. WHAT are we doing? I’m so sorry Chipotle people. I’m so sorry frustrated customers. I’m so sorry children watching. What are we? The collapse still hasn’t hit, I suppose. *sigh* Everyone is trying so very hard and carrying so much. Too much. Or? Maybe it was an off night and I am annoyingly sensitive. Anyway – I send out more compassion, Chipotle. SonHerisme adores you and I wish you all of the positive things with the resilience and beauty of the flowers to all (grumpy customers as well).
Dia de los muertos – Day of the dead is coming up next month according to my calendar. For many, their day of the dead is already here, or recently passed or imminent. Our collective grief at knowing much of the death might have been postponed with accessible resources until some other future old-aged kind of thing reached us, is shaking about palpable everywhere.
Oh – do you think I am referring to COVID? I suppose my sentiment applies to COVID as well. However, it’s domestic violence that’s on my mind this dia.
As you may have guessed, I have some thoughts…
The story of Gabby P is horrific. It is awful. As soon as she went “missing,” we knew she was dead. Every victim of domestic violence knew she was dead. All of us. We need to talk about domestic violence. Our willingness to push shame, passively or outright, on the victims, is killing us. We are sending mixed messages while ignoring the heart of the matter. Perhaps the police should have been better trained – but my goodness, they do not have the superpowers of reading the future and peeling back layers of narcissistic deceit. Perhaps Gabby should have phoned a hotline for help – but holy cow people, I doubt she was able to fully perceive her situation or predict these consequences (much less communicate her needs to a second or third party). Perhaps her online community should have seen through the cracks and offer support – but sweet beegeezus people, we were not able to save the person in our real life community from being a victim of domestic violence, much less recognize what is happening over the plastic programmed filters of perfection on the socials.
But, Herisme, I want to do something. So I will post a meme.
Memes are great at pounding home an image or message. I must admit, it is difficult for me to see your memes about how we should reach out, tell someone, know how many women are raped at what frequency in this country or around the world. It is hard.
It is hard because while you might be able to feel that something is not right with your relationship, you might not know you’re being abused. It sounds silly because to you it is obvious. He coerces and forces himself inside you – you are being abused. He controls all aspects of the finances and hides things from you – you are being abused. He belittles you, gaslights you, threatens you, threatens your child etc – you are being abused. What you see is that you: haven’t tried hard enough to do the right things, forgot to be compassionate towards his challenges, made your choices and must pull up your bootstraps and make the best of it, help him by role modeling love, etc. You are groomed to pull everything back into a space where it makes sense to gain some semblance of control. If it is somehow your fault, then you have a chance of correcting whatever it is in order to make things better. This takes away any recognition of what you know of as abuse because you are smart, intelligent, a problem solver, a doer, a thinker, a feeler, and in control of the solutions.
I know this does not only happen to cis women – but that is what I am and what I can speak to.
Maybe we can change the meme or conversations into speaking the truth about what it is to have been in a domestic violence situation. It is not all Hollywood sunglasses and smokey make-up to cover up a bruise. Sometimes it is forced penetration, sometimes it is you in the hospital after he’s slammed your head into the corner of the countertop, sometimes it is finding out he has cut off your access to the bank accounts, sometimes it is email/phone/socials tracking and using the information against you, sometimes it is accusing you of being crazy and threatening to have you lose your children and be locked up.
Instead of the, “why didn’t you reach out sooner so I could help?” or, “why didn’t you leave?” Maybe we could flip that to, “who is doing these things and how can we prevent them from doing them?” I think we need places to go and support resources for sure. I also think that those things are far too often not accessible, either due to our own feeling of disconnect from the idea that we are being abused, or fear of the fallout if you do reach out (loss of home/income/family/children etc).
I think we need honest, often and early conversation about how to recognize healthy and unhealthy relationships.
I think we need to use our voices of hindsight to lift up the next generations.
Will this eliminate abuse?
No.
I’m not that naive.
But, will it ground and save some people (in addition to support resources)? Yes, I believe it will.
Professional support to stop generational cultural normative abusive patterns, is critical. Dialogue and hearing about what people have learned and experienced, is critical. The situations I mention are either my own or someone I have an irl connection with. That is just me, one teeny tiny little glittering piece of sand on an endless beach, and I know so many more. I am sure that you do as well. If you say you do not, you have not opened a safe dialogue with enough of the people that you love and care about. Open it. I implore you to OPEN that box and talk about what we are doing to each other in our communities and how we can best support each other, and our sweet children for a healthier tomorrow.
To be silent does not work – it only enables more abuse.
To meme it up gets the word out there (important) but it is not enough.
To talk about it openly, honestly, and sit with the reality that we all know someone who has been abused, and hold space for that grief, recognition with a focus on health and safety, is vital.
My truth is that I know for sure both maternal and paternal grandmothers were abused, my maternal grandfather was abused, MotherHerisme and FatherHerisme were abused, SisterHerisme and BrotherHerisme were abused… as was I. I hope that the buck stops with me. Sadly SonHerisme has early abuse, one NieceHerisme was molested as a young tween, and other NieceHerisme had suspected physical abuse. My G-d. I never processed that truth until this moment. It is so ingrained into our culture … wth
HERISME 