We don’t all know it yet, but it is. Most of us can feel it. We feel something. The option for not feeling is no longer available, unless you are deeply committed to self numbing alternatives. Disassociation still works sometimes. But even that is a conscience effort in response to knowing that something is being felt.
Reader friends, if you are still out there, I am in a place completely unexpected. Not ideal, mind you, but not all in a bad way of the unexpected.
So now what? Is being broke through woke through? And what EVEN can that mean?
I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily against my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; the most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire - why it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. (Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2 by Shakespeare)
Spoiler Alert – I had my first go-around with COVID. SonHerisme was mostly spared (which may or may not be an okay-ish thing). MotherHerisme landed in the hospital for a few weeks, followed by a few more weeks at a rehabilitation facility.
I am struggling to wrap my mind around what seems to be the standard COVID PR messaging where this viral infection is like any other cold or flu virus we see every year. This comparison is absolutely scientifically complete horseshit, but we (including health care and others in public health leadership roles) are lapping this PR up like thirsty puppies having spent days lost in a desert, or Swifties/anti-Swifties melting over glimpses of the newish Americana “it” couple. Until we get this gaslighting righted, we are f*cked.
I am okay and grateful to the g-ds of vascular/breathing body bits plus access to meds and nourishing foods, that I am.
COVID/war/how we treat vulnerable people, and our collective responses are truly congregations of foul and pestilent vapors. About 400 years ago Shakespeare called out humanity in multiple ways for our dedication to being inhumane. There are of course, pockets of helpers even though inhumane behaviors are the prominent societal trope. Despite technological advancements, access to vetted information, and connectivity, we struggle to get our shit together over the most obvious and simple things. We are what we are, I suppose. But I’d rather not spend what little precious time we have left to know each other and love our families/friends/community, on addressing needless dumpster fire end-of-human-times level behaviors. Alas, they do/will need addressing. But, wouldn’t y’all rather meet up for a hot cocoa or even cold cocoa (outside, distanced, natch).
Also, this blog is going away.
It isn’t you – it’s me. I’m the problem, it’s me. I have been “discovered” and this is no longer a safe space for me.
I will continue to write and possibly blog elsewhere. If you’re interested in following me to a new blank space, please send a message and I’ll respond with where the “coming soon” will be coming soon.
This journey has been deeply spiritually meaningful to me. I appreciate all of the space you have held for me, my wandering brainiac, my intense situations, and silly little wordsy waltzing hither and thither.
You all are simply the best of the best, of that I am 100% sure.
Love, Ms Herisme xoxo
ps. While I am not in a position of being counted among the Swifties group, I am in full support of living your best life by courageously showing up creatively and bravely sharing yourself and your work in positive, clever, vulnerable, and inclusive ways.
pps. I am sending out as much love from my heartsoul as you can receive! Meetcha out on the deck sometime soon.
Friends, Romans, country(wo)men, and sentient beings all around, lend me your ears. I come to bury occasional things, not to praise them (unnecessarily).
The evil men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones (from Julius Caesar, spoken by Marc Anthony, written by William Shakespeare)
So let it be with the occasional things….
O judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there (...) and I must pause till it come back to me (from Julius Caesar, spoken by Marc Anthony, written by William Shakespeare)
FatherHerisme loved this speech and quoted it many times over his 83 years. I mean to say that it is stunning to be a world where he no longer physically exists. He was steady and explosive. He was wise and clueless. He was a curious learner and blind to some hard truths. He was my dad who wanted to be remembered as my “pop who was carbonated!” He would have guffawed and cried at the Barbie movie for all of its punchy points at societal flips/missed expectations. He was more than Kenough.
With FatherHerisme goes the knowing of parental guidance and safety (whether real or imagined), buried among the personality, smell, touch, conversation (which was indeed a challenging effervescent carbonation), books, ephemera (a zillion books and santa-embellished suspenders), and the hidden secrets of a life we only understood through our distorted vision from the outside.
Like many of you with your loved ones who have died, there will never be a day where I do not miss his presence. His brain understood my brain, and for that I am lucky and grateful. I am so glad he is not in any more pain. I am so glad he left some support for us to find and encourage freedoms and the betterment of lives around us. This is his legacy. We are his legacy. I hope we can queue up to carry on all of the best things – especially as we grab the torch (as we can) to continue generational healing where he could not.
Sidenote: I loved Barbie. I loved all of the clothes and accessories; all of her iterations; all of her potential. I loved changing everything about her all of the time. I had Barbies with cut/burnt/markered hair, tattoos, marker make-up, and all of the imagined interesting twists on life (including leaf-clothes only). I had Barbies who were treated like royalty (Ballerina Barbie) and never ever scarred or introduced to dirt. I had Ken dolls who performed for Barbie. When Ken was too busy (or lost somewhere) G.I. Joe, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, a weary Benjamin Franklin, and the most beloved Lando Calrissian were always at the ready to fill in for whatever Barbie needed. I made use of my brother’s dolls (ahem, figurines, I suppose). With money being tight my Barbie collection could all fit into one grocery bag, including all of the clothes/cars/furniture/blankets/pillows/spaceship/stick houses I made on my own. I was in middle school when my mother purchased a set of handmade wooden Barbie-sized furniture from a local church Christmas bazzare. It seems so incongruous with middle school today, and perhaps it was then as well (?) but I was thrilled beyond belief! I still have it all packed away somewhere. For what? I do not know. Maybe it will bring a chuckle moment to SonHerisme when it comes time to disperse and bury the ephemera of me. Cue the curation of a future walk of mourning – as the occasional things queue up to be buried. I suppose this is what happens while waiting for your heart to come back to you from the buried coffin of another life.
Life sure is something. I suspect Death is as well.
ps. Currently reading: Enchantment by Katherine May, Persuaders by Anand Giridharadas, 101 Essays that will Change the Way You Think by Brianna Wiest, and Pineapple Street by Jenny Jackson.
pps Yesterday was my birthday. I am queued to crone. Gyno appt next week. Saw Barbie yesterday with a fabulous pink polka-dotted jumpsuited friend. I did not eat Thai food (saving that for the weekend with SonHerisme).
ppss Sinead was a magical mystical awareness blossoming heroine of mine. I admired that she defiantly refused to pander for anyone’s appreciative gaze. I made a Barbie Sinead before I knew what that implied or meant – Barbie underneath the Barbie. Buzz cut with nail polish remover applied to remove her face and feet cut off in order to fit into GI Joe’s boots and Ken’s sneakers. She was best friends with perfection Ballerina Barbie, natch.
pssssst Speaking of barbeques… I do not like bbq sauce or meat, but I like the idea of hanging out by a fire with good company, Olipop rootbeer, hummus on beefsteak tomatoes, and brow-lifting conversations. Unless the world burns itself up first or we all covid ourselves outta here, in which case… Barbie-queue up in pink to synchronize dance with a tra-la, it’s been real. Hug your neighbor. Take care of yourself. Ciao. Herisme out.
(Not the kind which helps emo hero Jedi locate the secret Sith world of Exegol)
(my 4/23 photo)
(or listen here)
Teachers, therapists, swimming, hiking, nutrition, habit formations or breakers, and all of the things which help us find ways to meet our whole presence, futures, or purpose. Although defining and finding purpose is broadly daunting – sort of similar to finding a passion. For some of us it seems fairly straightforward – not so much for the rest of us.
I am fairly certain that my wayfinder was dropped on its head multiple times as a newborn and has never been quite right since. Always a little bit tiltly or entirely shut down in a dream world of its own. Somehow I continue to will it into shining a faint dim light onto a path I am fully convinced will work… until everything tilts, nothing works as expected, and I land even further from where I thought I should be going. Sometimes for the better, sometimes *sigh*
Anywhosies… Anyone still out there? Sweatergawt it has been a hawt minute. Thank you for plodding along and popping in every once in a while to see if I am around. I am grateful and glad that anyone is reading and finding some comfort in being lost alone together in this life. While I have probably aged out of having a wayfinder at this point… Here I am once again, I’m torn into pieces, can’t deny it, can’t pretend, just thought I’d find a path (tra la la la K.Clarkson has her ways and I have mine). Blerg
I am okay. That is the bottom line. I am okay. Somehow during the mundane focus, a large chunk of my anxiety has deeply dropped. Why and how? A flip switched. It felt as if a flip switched. It became apparent in most situations that the anxiety just was not worth it. To what end was I getting myself worked up and attached to impossible outcomes? To what end was I placing insane expectations? If something works out, I guess that is awesome. If something does not work out, I guess that will be what ever it will be as well, and I can either deal with it or not. Who cares?
What seems to be the caring bit is only the presence of love, caring, empathy etc. Not outcome attachment.
I do continue to find myself angry when I read the news. But, the anger quickly dissolves into acceptance of what is. I cannot decipher if this is healthy or if I am pushing towards a middle class version of Grey Gardens insanity. I am not inclined to be bothered with figuring that out.
In the meantime, something is going on with MrexH but I have not followed up with the Parenting Coordinator to find out more information. FatherHerisme has been going in and out of the hospital with UTI’s. MotherHerisme’s status remains unchanged – although, I was somehow able to wrangle getting her to return to her house a few states away for a few days over Easter. She hadn’t been to her house since Christmas 2016. This is was quite an adventure and involved multiple massive meltdowns on her part. At one point I thought I might have to phone 911 to have her go to the hospital with a mental crisis. It all worked out. SisterHerisme came to help with transportation since we have a new puppy since I last posted. The interstate travel included myself, SonHerisme, SisterHerisme, MotherHerisme, new puppy, and two 10-year-old littermate lady Miniature Schnauzers. Lots of Starbucks and boundary reinforcements, but we did it! Three times in 6 weeks!
No exclamation needed. Why did I do that? two days prior to our last trip, FatherHerisme died. He found his way. My soul has yet to understand a world without him in it. Right at this moment, a friend’s sweet husband is in his final breaths in this world. Everything is tilting – this way and that way. I hope that you and your loved ones know the peaceful gentle comfort of love and eternal security of love.
FatherHerisme’s obituary (with editing support from an Inveterate Optimist, and a quote from one of his all-time favorite poems which made him giggle every time he read it):
Somewhere, USA - Our wonderful perfectly imperfect FatherHerisme peacefully passed away under hospice care after a difficult 18 month health struggle. He was loved by so many, and known by many monikers: Husband, Daddy, Grandad, Uncle, Brother, Cousin, Friend, Co-Worker, Flight Instructor, WOW Buddy, and Knower-of-many-things. His presence will be greatly missed.
FatherHerisme was born in SomewhereElse, USA, became a Fightin' Engineer at Rose Hulman, joined the Army, worked as a chemical engineer in research and development for Procter & Gamble in the paper division his entire working career, and enjoyed root beer, french fries, and hamburgers all around the world. He was passionate about many things and felt deeply about contributing to bettering society and the lives around him.
His mother (Z), his father (B), his sisters (M and S), and his in-laws (I and B) preceded him to the Resurrection Point (which sadly works differently with real death). He is survived by MotherHerisme (wife), SisterHerisme and Herisme (daughters), BrotherHerisme (son), NiecesHerisme (granddaughters), SonHerisme (grandson), and other treasured family members. In lieu of flowers, please consider donating to Operation Smile, Habitat for Humanity, and your local PBS station in his memory.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
~R. W. Service
(a glimpse of peace on my tiny mountain foothill which does not have a floating poem on it irl)
(or listen here)
If you peeked around my spot of Earth you would see signs of Christmas decorations here and there. Please do not be a judgy mcjudgerson. I feel the need to open the season a bit more gently. If you are passing by, please visit the Little Free Library at the end of my driveway 🙂
No big gifts planned for this year. Moving a bit gently there as well. Exceptionish will be SonHerisme hopped up on getting a PS5 or new drum kit. The drum kit seems more reasonable to me. Still, it is all SO MUCH. We’ll be making the shed into a music studio over the next two years. Year one will be bringing the shed back to life (new floors/windows, insulation, run electricity, replace roof). Year two will be outfitting the insides as resources permit. He is in it for the long haul. Good luck us.
For the past few decades I have assumed the role of making the merry for all of the people by going big with stuffed stockings/pillowcases/bags and whatnot. Themed and coordinated for each family with splashes of individual nods. I have been cooking all of the things for all of the meals. Carefully choreographing the movements from freezers, to outside coolers, to refrigerators, to sometimes outdoor grill, to oven and stovetops, to serving dishes, to curated tables, to leftover containers, and the inevitable, “dang, I forgot that was in there ewww,” dump to the trash. Since COVID I keep saying that I want to pull back. People of the internets, this habit is HARD to break. The guilt over not making the merry for the humans (and puppies!) is heavy. I’m not budgetless obvs, but I have an (at times) unfortunately creative mind, and a sewing machine, and an oven, and a glue gun, and am intimately familiar with the art of repurposing the things. Which all points to that inevitable push for merry making… *resist the urge, sweet momma, RESIST* We can do the hard things of saying, “no thank you.” Right? Can we? I mean, I can, right? doubt it
Update on evaluating my cell service carrier AT&T: they are often sketch. They oppose net neutrality, which means they advocate for the removal of a free and open internet. They funneled hundreds of thousands of dollars to Drump attorney, Cohen, which appeared to be payment for in kind Drump regime favors to fix their antitrust issues. On the other hand their service range is exceptional for me and this year Ethisphere rates AT&T as one of the world’s most ethical companies for the third consecutive year (I call bullshit). From Ethisphere:
Methodology & Scoring
Grounded in Ethisphere’s proprietary Ethics Quotient®, the World’s Most Ethical Companies assessment process includes more than 200 questions on culture, environmental and social practices, ethics and compliance activities, governance, diversity, and initiatives to support a strong value chain. The process serves as an operating framework to capture and codify the leading practices of organizations across industries and around the globe.
Honorees
The full list of the 2022 World's Most Ethical Companies can be found at: https://worldsmostethicalcompanies.com/honorees.
(laughing internally bc that list has to be some kind of fuckery) Gird yourself, AT&T – letter writing forthcoming. If you are attached to billionaires, I suggest you are not ethical.
This November, I am attempting to tend to the mundane. Writing the letters which need writing. Ironing and sorting the things which need sorting. Reading the stories which need heard – including the hard ones, especially the harder ones. Deep yard cleanup (leaves intact, protecting the future bugs, birds, bees and general wildlifing). Processes begun and contracts signed for MotherHerisme’s apartment on the ground floor. SonHerisme’s room is undergoing transformation into high school teen aesthetic. I am boxing up what remains of my children’s book collection for storage – I think. I don’t know. It is mostly just fairy tales, pop ups and poetry at this point. The cycle in my brain is that of letting go of a life which doesn’t exist in order to make room for the one that does exist. I suppose if I box them all up and need them back, I can reverso that processo. It is hard to let of go of wishes and dreams, for sure. Although sometimes joy is hard to witness as well because there is always the worry of what comes after the joy. At least for the people who have brains swishy walking the spiraled tendrils like mine.
This past week we received the news that a party claiming to be political, but is in truth authoritarian with christo-fascist agendas marketed as populism, has been voted into being the majority in the House of Congress. Yes, I understand that many of us are so afraid that someone from the unworthy undesirables might receive appropriate health treatment or children might receive nourishment at school through tax money, that we would rather have women, immigrants, children, non-white skinned, and LGTBQ humans denied basic rights to be considered as fully human. Spooooooky basic humane care is so unpalatable that you’d rather see everyone (including yourselves) suffer under arcane inhumane rules which essentially eliminate our democracy. One group fomented deadly insurrection of democracy, the other one wants to provide universal health care. I truly *sigh* do not see this as political process in democracy. Politics are discourse over how much and where allocations land, not IF there should be any societal responsibilities beyond policing through a lens, filtered under the guise of divinity, of abject inhumane authority. I am angry/disappointed/grieved that enough of us feel voting against humanity is appropriate at all. I am sorry for all of us.
Upcoming generations will correct this course out of necessity. Brutality cannot enjoy its gleeful covert blanket of hubris as it has since the beginning of time. Facts move too quickly now. GenX through GenZ have ready access to (and ability to identify) accurate information as well as the advantage of being connected in broader communities. Millenials through GenZ have the population numbers to outweigh any outlier nonsense. It is only a matter of time for the collective leadership to be more centrist by design as well as more humane. *fingers crossed* For the least amount of increasing the legacy of damage requiring following generations to clean up.
Iran, all Persians, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Ukraine, Poland, Brittney Griner, Florida, Texas, Indigenous peoples, all of the peoples everywhere, are worthy of humane treatment, dignity in grief and suffering, as well as hope for freedom from suffering. We love the world as it presents itself in all forms, as it is, but maybe we are also tasked with working on nudging the world in a humane direction to be what it ought to be – reciprocally beneficial overall as it can, when it can, where it can be.
Tending to the mundane seems critical as grounding. Voting. Amplifying and participating in messages of truth and humane actions. Community and self care in whatever form that takes. Community care this week involves baking cookies for a neighbor who missed out on holiday treats because of multiple food allergies. I’ll make extras to drop off for the High School staff next week in case any of them cannot enjoy wheat/dairy/eggs etc.
As far as self care, I have concluded this exercise: a few months ago I wondered why I am shaving my underarms. Is it self care? Do I care? I am sure no one else cares because a. they never see my underarms, even in the pool because my swimsuit consists of swimshorts, sturdy bra, swimshirt and 2. I have reached an invisible age where I understand that no one is looking at anyone else unless they are a striking or known human. I am not striking, and people who know me absolutely do not care about any of my hair. Unless you are MotherHerisme or FatherHerisme who feel uniquely obliged to comment on appearances of each of their family members at all times especially when it is, “I’m only trying to help,” negative comment. As a full grown adult, this is a blip on my interactions these days, but devastating when I was younger. I do correct them when they comment on any of the grandchildren. “A bit less of the meal portions and a bit more exercise would help with the way those pants fit,” for example. I am sure that you know from your various family members how this trope-as-reality goes. Zero comments on children’s bodies PLEASE and thank you.
Anywho, I let the underarm hair grow for a while – a wispy blonde tuft. I will say that I think it helped with my *ahem* natural fragrance poking out from beneath deodorant. Once it became a texturey feel nuisance, I began to question if I should keep it and get used to it, or let it go. Letting it go in favor of not thinking about hair just being there has won. Ingrained shame as habit, I suppose.
Another mundane annoyance has been my battle with poison ivy this month. I am allergic because OF COURSE I am. Tiny rash to huge rash to spreading rash to blisters to hives to residual scaly itches all over the everywheres. Super reminder of being a human. I made the mistake of wearing a sweater I knew had been through poison ivy. Classic mushy brained me. Should I visit my GP? Possibly. Although at the moment, I’m sure she is overwhelmed by our societal determination to perpetuate serious viral infections. I do not want to add more to her workload when I know how to use fels naptha, add more antihistamines (oral and topical) along with topical steroids and patience. Meh – it is what it is.
Personal trials of the mundane=accomplished. Achievement unlocked. I can level up to whatever mundane thing is next. It’s probably something to do with laundry or meals or shaving away the subversive shame of the ladies. All hail the mundane because it sure as hell beats the gory days of terror and chaos!
ps more of the mundane: I iron cloth napkins every week as a meditation. It is my mundane tending of the things of the indoor garden.
pps Sending this out to the universe, since it is highly unlikely it applies to you: If you are someone who votes with and/or voices anti-humane rhetoric, please consider the black pit depths of hypocrisy you represent as you offer performative sympathies when the very things you stand for/with and amplify are directly correlated to the harm you claim to feel sad about. Look inward, I implore you. It will be shocking and painful, but so worth it for yourself and all of humanity. Thank you. As a former lovely coworker used to say, “Ain’t none of us getting out of this alive.” Please do try to find your flawed soul (just as all of ours are) and use your position and legacy to amplify making a positive difference in this world. Step outside with the intention of causing less harm. Thank you.
Also… and… in addition… thank you for reading/listening and being on this journey and holding space for all of this with me. I appreciate you.
She wanted the worm to live. She=Me. I wanted the worm to live. The poor thick long brownish pinkish squirmy thing was accidentally caught up in the edge of one of the metal fence pieces I was sending to recycling. The young man helping me haul it all was holding the fence piece as I said, “Save the worm! I want the worm to live!” Followed by appropriate wide-eyed-that-lady-be-krazee look from him. I pointed to the worm and explained that I couldn’t get the worm out myself because I was afraid that the regular salt and roughness from my hands would hurt the worm more. The helper guy had on gloves so could he please save the worm. His partner called over the truck to find out what was happening. Helper guy yelled back, “she wants the worm to live!” I did want the worm to live! I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me because then I had tears over this beautifully reddish brown thick earthworm being precariously caught between the edges of metal fencing. I believe that I scared the guys with my saddnesses. Helper guy then very delicately pulled the metal apart, gathered the worm into his gloved hands, and gently placed the worm back onto the cool damp forest floor so it could live out its wormy days until a bird comes along, or a motivated fisherman, and then it’s bye-bye-wormy (have you heard about Hugo and Kim?!!!?) Also, phoned for more help from those helper guys and they haven’t returned my inquiry. hmmmm
My limited brain has decided that this worm is a Lumbricus friendi earthworm who has no common name (per scientific journal linked through the DNR). A common earthworm with no common name. Friendi no name. Sweet little worm friend. If it is so common, why no common name? Why are some words so weird when you repeat them multiple times in a row? Try it. Common, common, common, common common. Weirdo wordo righto? Fair warning, do NOT do this exercise in the middle of the night to your reflection in your bathroom mirror, or you might summon reflection Common and that will be extremely awkward because of reasons dating back to some 1990’s sleepover voo-doo juju.
Once in the long ago days when I did work stuff outside of my home, I saw Common speak on a panel with Hillary Clinton in Washington, DC. It was a very small, maybe 200 people, study release on screens/multimedia content impacts on different developmental stages of children. I KNOW – Why the heck was I there? Luck of the draw I suppose. I was sent by my work and trained into the city on the silent car. Everything about that day was amazing because I was also able to sneak in a visit to the USPS Postal Museum (woot woot nerd alert!). Pre-baby days of wearing the clothes with important shoes and the doing of the things. It was the day I completely flipped in my regard for Hillary Clinton. A dear bestie sweetness friend had worked with Mrs. Clinton earlier that year at an event in Chicago and had a similar experience. Both of us were flummoxed at Mrs. Clinton’s poise, presence and in-person charisma versus the translation of that onto a wider audience – which polarized and distanced people. She was/is an uncommon earnest articulate soul. Common was pretty awesome too – extremely articulate and intelligent(read: handsome and smooth). But the impact of Hillary Clinton on me that day was profound in how I saw all public figures moving forward.
These current transition times for me, for all of us I am guessing, are so filled with the somethings which have no common names. I feel in a place like my perceptions of Hillary. My deep soul self sees the things which are impactful, meaningful, understandable and all of the things which just make sense until they reach into the outer world where the contrast is so cacophonous, nothing seems to translate well and ends up making no sense. There is no touchstone or prescriptive healthy path. Other than coming from a place of love and returning to that as much as possible as I can when I can.
There is no way that we do not know:
*murdering people and bombing is not the answer to any disagreement
*we have no human rights or moral high ground as a nation to lord over others
*reproductive bodies, like all non-reproductive bodies, have a right to proper health care
*people are being raped in our communities
*people are going unhoused and without food in our communities
*we have enough global resources for everyone to have healthy water, food, shelter, health care, education - without denying anyone resources
*placing thousands of kids into an inadequate building has NOTHING to do with education
*wearing a good mask indoors or in large crowds, helps prevent the spread of airborne viruses which is helpful to everyone's health
*we do not take care of ourselves
*worms are important
Here in my little hamlet, recently unexpectedly thrust into a world of dedicated High School Marching Band parents, I found myself sitting in this parental group at a football game on a portable stadium seat – which has now earned it’s own spot in my trunk organizer, natch. Most of these parents are new to each other. The high school hasn’t had a home game on their field for 4 years due to field conditions and COVID. In our getting to know each other moments over the past few weeks, one common thread has been recognized between 5 out of 7 of us. Domestic violence and divorce. One woman is currently in the thick of walking the path through dv divorce. It is… normal. It is common. We are the mommies showing up, looking the parts, doing the things of, “yay, teams!” We are the everywheres – which is shocking and not so shocking. Slapped, punched, kicked, raped, threatened with murder of ourselves/our children/our spouse as revenge, financially abused, emotionally abused – and also pulling the wagon buggy with extra water/supplies/emergency snacks for the kids and staff along with the stadium bleacher mats we roll out for the kids to sit on. I will be extra clear about how I see this – domestic violence is not an anomaly. It is very common with what we pretend is uncommon by using an uncommon name. Who hasn’t been involved in a domestic violence or abusive situation? I do not think this belittles the significance or trauma of it by calling it out as a societal norm in our culture. It is very gaslighty pretending it isn’t when we know it is – we KNOW it.
What is up with us pretending like we give a flipping flapdoodle about women in Iran being murdered by their country’s religious police because women are being oppressed – and THEN shaming/creating laws to control humans who choose to wear a hijab, not use their bodies for birthing children, want to extricate themselves and their children from abusive situations, or present in a non/other gendered manner?
Also in my tiny community, a 14-year-old male teen/child posted multiple videos to socials while smoking various things, threatening to commit targeted racist violence, and TAGGED some of the people he would initially target, including the school principal’s daughter. One parent response I heard was, “well that kid has just ruined his life and is banned from any school.” What is happening? At 14? Consequences, for sure. Community service, mental health programs, specialized schooling environment, parental support … I mean – how is more isolation and shame going to help anyone in this situation? Consequences and preparedness actions. Violence and especially targeted racist violence cannot be tolerated. That kid is going to grow and be alive for another 80 years. All of it is heartbreaking and I hope for all of our sakes that his consequences are more than being banned from attending public high school, and include some plan for optimizing his ability to atone for his actions as well as prepare him for the next 80 or so years on how to conduct himself as a positive contributing member of society with healthy regard for humanity. If we keep pretending things like this are uncommon, or the feelings/actions leading up to situations like this, are uncommon, then we will continue with societal structures gaslighting ourselves that it is okay to write off a 14-year-old as othered for their next 80 years, without consequences which might serve them and in turn our community.
What am I doing? I do not know. Trying to help facilitate SonHerisme’s transition into a young adult who can transition into a helpful, satisfied, connected, participating member of society who recognizes the humane value of all humans regardless of gender/race/lgtbq-ness etc. I am doing the things of managing two elderly and ill parents and all of the works around those situations. I am trying to figure out how to position myself for my olden times. I have lost about 14 inches of hair (on purpose). I kept knotting the hair onto itself on top of my head like a deranged witch. Over it. Although I continue with the deranged bit by nature. I send money and deliver food locally as I can. I am not enjoying watching my parents’ declines – for different reasons. FatherHerisme is so far away and not in an ideal facility (people are generally kind, but… dudes, have you been in a long term care facility?!!?). MotherHerisme has mentally vanished into a noise-cancelling headphoned world of Asian soap operas, in the middle of my living room. And I… I continue to be juggling all of the things while lost. Lost isn’t quite right – I continue to be something which is an uncommon name, yet entirely common.
Common as in normal. When does something become so common that is it normal? Is there a normal? Should we accept that common as normal? G A H We seem to have with many things. Domestic violence is very common. Is it normal? And if we accept that it is common or normal, would that change how we handle those supremely dangerous and damaging situations? Would it save time, energy, and emotions currently being spent on “OMG can you EVEN” in order to move into actually supporting health? idk peoples
I am thinking that the entire idea of “normal” might be the problem. Is it normal to be molested or emotionally abused as a child in this country? Yes. Is it normal to have bright shiny stretch marks after having a baby or growing quickly? Yes. But we pretend that neither of those things (and many others) are common or normal by shaming, blaming, hiding hush hushing. Because our normal trope is the happy organically fed lovely mannered child dancing in the sunshiney manicured perfectly outfitted public park with beautiful healthy mom, dad, granny, grandad, auntie, uncle etc. Also, no one has stretch marks. If they do, they are lotioned potioned shamed until they are faded or covered up. It is supremely uncomfortable to accept things as they are. Acceptance goes against our very bootstrappynesses. Which we need some of, of course, to challenge ourselves and each other in healthy ways – but have naturally bastardized into the gaslighting denial of shame and blame.
Back to the uncommon name. I do not know if that worm moved on to doing the wormy things of a worm life. I do not know how we would be experiencing this country/world with Hillary as president. I do not know if I am a help or hindrance to SonHerisme’s development. I do not know if I am doing the right things for ParentsHerisme. I do not know if, or how to tell if, I am doing the right things for myself. I have turned some corner, however, where most of the time I just accept how the thing is. If I am doing something right by some standard, then okay, I am. If I am doing something wrong by another standard, then I am. If that makes me a terrible bitch person, then I am. If it makes me seem like an awesome person, then, okay too. What I tend to know most of the time is that whatever centers on, and ultimately comes from, a place of love with healthy boundaries is what I attempt to keep focused on. Even in moments of heavy emotions.
I do know that I love the idea of worms making wormy ways through my garden. I love the idea of reality truths being recognized. I am honored and love being SonHerisme’s guide to launching his own life. I am honored to be tasked with helping my parents, whom I love. I love very dark coffee in my old timey pewter colored Starbucks travel mug with black “leather” attached koozie-ish grasp belt. That mug has seen some things people – many many things, and moves, and vehicles, and airplanes, and places, and whatnots…
I listen to podcasts while working, walking or driving and waiting on SonHerisme. I have books stashed in different places to read – nightstand, cozy chair side table, in the car, and next to the hanging pod chair in the kitchen/mudroom. That’s how I do – how about you? Is this common?
I don’t have a grasp on anything anymore – if I ever did. *concentrates on love and sends some to you* Thank you for sticking with my ramblings. I hope that it brings you comfort in knowing that if you are feeling any of this, you are not alone. Or if you are not feeling any of this, then you can feel some relief in knowing there is someone out here a bit madder than you are so you’re probably okay.
ps do any of you remember the writing I was doing a zillion hawt minute years ago on normal? I wonder if I can find it all again. Was it Being Normal? Becoming Normal? Oh wait – Observing Normal? Adding this to my running task list
pps – for shits and giggles, I have no connection with them so this is just for common bougie fun! UnCommon Goods
I have been thinking about something different than nothing matters nihilism.
If there is such a thing as optimistic nihilism or relief nihilism or some other wording which represents that everything that is happening everywhere is made up bullshit which only momentarily means something when there is a collective who agrees it has some meaning. It could be a positive, negative, neutral, humane, inhumane, destructive, constructive meaning, but it is relative to whatever narrative we are telling ourselves about it. What the nihilistic path, where nothing really means anything, can show us is that clearly the only thing left is the warmth, the love, the soul, the light is what is left from the stripping away.
Love
With all of the happenings of all of things over these past few months, love is all I have left. Which I think is most likely all I have ever had. The struggle comes when the distractions drag us into other beliefs. Inevitably whatever we have been dragged into or to, leaves us wanting because ultimately none of it matters.
All that matters is love.
I am not saying it is easy. I struggle every single day either accepting or refusing to accept what is swirling around inside and outside of me. I find my center when I can strip everything down to love.
Nihilism helps as a reminder of how to get back to that core.
It is all a crapshoot. Lucky, unlucky, beautiful, unable to recognize self beauty, recognized worthiness, the “right” school, the “right” grades, the “right” whatever – is just whatever. You may be privileged or lucky to stumble into one of the “right,” things. Or you may work your ass off and never achieve any of the “right,” things. If you can drop into whatever love you have stored inside and move from that place (with almost constant redirection, at least in my case), I think that is all we can do. Nothing matters except for love.
Anyway… I have an 11 page summary of FatherHerisme’s high medical drama since January 2022 which, out of love, I will spare you from being subjected. As of today he has been moved into a long term rehabilitation skilled nursing care facility and, at last report, is eating a grilled cheese sandwich ON HIS OWN (a HUGE FREAKING DEAL).
Last night I had a toasted gf bagel thin with dill pickles, swiss cheese, and spicey wine mustard (exactly zero spinach involved!).
If you decide to eat a grilled/toasted cheese sandwich today, I hope you can embrace that act of love for yourself. So very many craptasticacity happening globally and personally, I hope we can keep our focus on love and on the doing of the things which reinforce healthy love.
This all sounds corny, I am aware. I am older – reaching that point where nothing else matters but love, recognition of love, acts of love and struggling to maintain in that arena. Otherwise, I am fairly certain that my soul will implode. Currently I am writing to my Governor from a place of love, imploring him to do the humane thing… again. That’s how I do. Hoppy Easter/Passover/Ramadan bock bock.
(Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com)(or listen here)
Howdy do. Sprinkles of nuttiness swirling about here, per usual.
Toss the nuts because…
Something absolutely splendid and wonderful and AMAZING happened at 1:54pm on January 13th and I have waited entirely and very much too long to tell you!
No, not that.
THIS: Sweet Nellie wrote a note to me! She WROTE TO ME y’all. I am still DYING with excitement about this. Such a wonderful unexpected shiny bright spot amidst the absolute shitstorm of serious cRaZy in the world.
YOU GUYS, can you EVEN? omgawd
This is what she said:
Hello Ms. Herisme,
I received your incredible gift of the Sonnets From the Portuguese
with my father’s handwritten Meditations enclosed in the book.
I was completely overcome with chills down my spine to see this
and hold it in my hands. Thank you so much for sending it to me.
I must say that I am shocked at how much research you were able
to do on my parent’s history, along with your beautiful ruminations
of what their history was in those days, and your touching
description of what their romance may have been.
I would love to be able to talk with you, if possible about some of the things.
I must say I never heard of a Nellie Hunter. I was told that my namesake
was a Mrs. Nellie M. Powell, who was a school teacher in Winston-Salem,
whom my father had met at the Baptist in Winston-Salem, whom
he had met when he helped her going up (or down) the front steps
of the church, since she had difficulty with walking. Ironically, I was also
a teacher for many years.
Another curiosity: you mentioned a Ms. Edmondson who is at the
Edgecombe Public Library. I wonder if that could be a relative of my
maternal aunt’s husband, George Edmondson, who lived in Scotland Neck, NC,
near Tarboro.
Again, thank you so much for sending this to me.
I look forward to talking and/or corresponding with you.
Sincerely,
Nellie (Nell) S.
I am so thrilled that she was able to receive the book and sonnets. I am so relieved that they brought happy memories (one never knows). I am humbly overjoyed that she appreciated my make believe about who David and Emily may have been in their worlds. I am insanely over-the-moon that she reached out to tell me these things.
I love all of the love that happens out there. It is a deep leaden grief reinforcement for me, of course, but also a comfort knowing that it does, and did, exist out there somewhere and is being passed on through generations.
Having that book choose to interact with my world has been quite the magic of this wintering. Thank you, Nellie xoxo
ps YOU GUYS… I am… I am… this has been lovely. Thank you
pps I pitched in to do a morning pick-up for two siblings the other day. Their mother is an early morning postal worker, their regular ride fell through, and our school does not have transportation. They are sweet kids – boy, 13, 7th grade and girl, 10, 5th grade. They sat in the backseat while SonHerisme sat in the front seat with me. The 10-year-old girl has a full personality and talked nonstop on the way to school while eating SonHerisme’s leftover after-school potato chips from the prior day. She emphatically explained that unlike another girl at the playground in her neighborhood, she was most certainly not a pickme girl, and never would become one. I asked, “What’s a pickme girl?” Her explanation: “A pickme girl is the girl who says she isn’t like other girls, but she totally is. She is the girl who thinks she’s cooler and better than everyone else when she wears her boots, but her boots are like all the other girls who can afford them. She is the girl that pretends that she likes a sport the boys are talking about but she doesn’t know very much about it really and never ever wants to play it with anyone. She also has her hair the way everyone else wears it but says she’s the only one with it like that. She is rude and only pretend friendly just trying to get the boys to notice her and pick her to talk to. She is the pickme girl playing games and I do not like her.” And now you know too. Don’t be a pickme girl because little Miss 10 is not standing for any of that nonsense. I did not tell her I felt like a different kind of pickme girl because a book of sonnets picked me. I did not want to ruin her fantastically epic sassy rant (she might be a covert pickme girl too and I love it!).
ppss In cleaning up, I stumbled upon a love note SonHerisme has written to a crush. I did not tell him because it is none of my business and I do not want to break his trust. I tucked it into the nearest book it had fallen out from and let it rest there. His love-emotion muscles are flexing! Teenagering it up all over the place lol
“Oh, we’re going to talk about ME, are we? Goody” (goodie, goodey?). A quote from Ms. Tracy Samantha Lord in The Philadelphia Story. Ms. Lord is portrayed by Katharine Hepburn and Grace Kelly in film versions based on the 1939 Broadway play written by Phillip Barry. The play starred, and was financed by, Katharine Hepburn. Phillip Barry specifically wrote the character Tracy Samantha Lord, based on his friend, Philadelphia socialite Helen Hope Montgomery Scott, to be played by Katharine Hepburn. I also happen to love this movie (Hepburn’s film directed by George Cukor is the best). And I adore CK Dexter Haven, along with Mr. Connor, Ms. Imbrie and of course sassy little Dinah Lord!
My point being that I wanted to title this “ME” for “Meditations Epilogue” and instead titled it as is and added a favorite (or favourite) line from The Philadelphia Story which is from the same love era as our David LS and Emily BA.
Confession – I tried to write a sonnet and failed.
On June 30, 1942, in expectation of another wan moon that night, Emily B Anderson and David Lee Stewart were married in Edgecombe County, North Carolina. David, a dashing 40-year-old southern gentleman, and Emily, a southern beauty at 27. David probably wore his very best seersucker suit, white short-sleeved shirt, summer fedora, and tie. Emily probably wore a pale colored smartly satin-belted strapless dress, sassy little lace fascinator, with a modesty shrug as required by those who cared about that sort of thing. They were married in the church by a Baptist minister. Emily's paternal grandparents were witnesses, along with Ms. Pearl Fisher. The wan moon most likely saw the new Mr. and Mrs. Stewart dancing away to Moonlight Cocktail by Glenn Miller and his Orchestra. Couple o' jiggers of moonlight and add a star ...
In 1942, the United States was involved in World War II and had recently banned the sales of new cars in order to conserve steel for the war efforts. Coffee and gasoline were also rationed.
About 55% of U.S. households had indoor plumbing (defined as a flushing toilet, a sink with faucet, and a bathtub or shower).
The U.S. President was Franklin D. Roosevelt.
He ordered the seizure of all Japanese-American's properties and opened Japanese-American internment camps.
He ordered the military to define and guard "exclusionary zones" on the West Coast, where any Asian looking person was not allowed, and on the East Coast, where German and Italian Americans were not allowed.
The Japanese invaded the Aleutian Islands in Alaska, and used a submarine to bomb Ft. Stevens, Oregon.
Bambi and Casablanca were released that year, and Bob Hope was very popular. Bing Crosby starred in a little film titled Holiday Inn, and released a recording of the hit song of the year from that film, White Christmas.
David Lee Stewart registered for the military by completing a United States World War II Draft Card.
Not long after their wedding, David and Emily Stewart moved to Norfolk, Virginia. There is a naval yard in Norfolk, so perhaps David was assigned somewhere near or around there. His brother, Paul, was a mechanic, making it likely that David was called to the war effort to fulfill his draft obligation as a mechanic.
The Stewarts lived in the Washington, DC/Norfolk, VA area for six to seven years. During this time, Emily worked for a large department store. On July 2, 1945, two months before President Truman declared the end of World War II, Emily gave birth to a squeezy squishy bundle of love baby girl, Nellie. It seems as though they must have had a very loving, high regard for and tight relationship with David’s former childhood neighbors, the Hunters. Both the grandmother and granddaughter were Nellie Hunter. Nellie Hunter, the granddaughter, was about 6 years younger than David, and lived nearby with her grandparents throughout David’s childhood. I love the idea of loving memories being bequeathed to the future with namesakes. This is so very poetically sweet.
A few years after the war ended, the Stewart family returned to Edgecombe County where Emily worked in a local sewing plant. With cotton as a staple crop in the area, I imagine our Emily was busy with a variety of cottony softness items. David’s story is proving to be more elusive.
In 1986 there is a deed recording of transfer of property from the estate of Emily’s mother, Fannie Bond Anderson, to Emily and David.
Sometime in 1990, 88 year-old David became ill, relying on Emily for his care-giving.
On October 20, 1995 there is a deed recording of David and Emily transferring the Anderson property back to Emily’s remaining siblings.
Two days shy of seven months later,
on May 18, 1996,
David Lee Stewart,
94-years-old,
beloved husband to Emily Bond Anderson for 54 years,
while waiting for a waxing crescent moon in Gemini (which manifests itself by the need for change),
crossed the Tethys sea back to the land of dreams
as his soul left his body and he died.
After nine more Valentine's Days
(or 8 years, 10 months, and 20 days later),
on April 7, 2005,
back to the Aries wan moon (which manifests itself by uncertainty and quick problem solving),
Emily Bond Anderson Stewart
also crossed the Tethys sea back to the land of dreams
as her soul left her body
and at 90 years-old,
she joined her David in death.
As described in her obituary, "Emily truly exemplified the meaning of steadfast, unfaltering love and care," and I believe it. The second child in a family of ten children, a life partner, a mother, retail professional, seamstress, caregiver to her mother, caregiver to her husband - all steadfast and full of love.
David and Emily’s little Nellie Nell grew up, married, had children and grandchildren. I am carefully packing up the little book as I found it with the sonnets inside, and sending it to Nell with a note and regards. I am grateful that it came to visit me. I am grateful for the moments of magics and imaginations. I am grateful to hold space for the witnessing of big feelings, deep love, creativity, and moving human souls.
Thank you for witnessing with me.
Go, lamp of the night - go to the West,
And take your joy, and your pain:
But the doubt and the hope that stir in my breast
Will linger, to struggle again.
(MEDITATIONS Series to E. p.5, David Lee Stewart, 1936 1:00 am In the Country)
If you are looking for how we all ended up here with notable reader Peter, you may find parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 helpful – or not. You do you, boo.
Series to E. 5
I am myself a little one
Bewildered in this mystic land,
Feeling so helpless and alone
Because I do not understand.
Hold me, dear powers of Love and Good,
In the quiet arms of oblivion’s rest,
As a gentle loving mother would
Hold the infant on her breast!
***
Look! How the curtains of the night
By the pink fingers of the day are drawn!
The pensive moon her paling light
Merges with the fringe of dawn.
Sleep on, little One, till the grey is gone!
Dream, dream away the memory
That you have ever, ever known
A heart so weak as mine can be!
Go, lamp of the night – go to the West,
And take your joy, and your pain:
But the doubt and the hope that stir in my breast
Will linger, to struggle again.
END
Our deeply sensitive David is feeling insecure, in love, worried, protective, and all of the things an expressive handsome man of 34 feels for an engaging 22-year-old beauty. I think he probably drank leftover after dinner champagne and coffee while fashionably smoking cigarettes throughout the night of sonnet writing. No Oscar Wilde-ism here though – rumored to have only consumed champagne, coffee and cigarettes in the last days of his life. Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends! No Fall Out Boy in 1936, of course. Our Em and Davey had opportunity for sweet luscious slow dances to Billie Holiday’s Summertime or Fred Astaire’s The Way You Look Tonight (Ginger Rogers is also the goat) or Pennies from Heaven (Bing is meltingly heavenly) or or or…
David clearly pines for, fervently loves, and adores Emily. But, what about our dear Emily B? As mentioned previously, the book appears to have hardly been opened, and the 5 page sonnet possibly never opened. I did not procure the book in North Carolina or North Carolina adjacent. What happened to our gallant hero and sonnet inspiring heroine?
This is the end of the DL to EB sonnet, but not the end of the tale just yet…
*Peter Reference: possibly my (paraphrased) favorite line from Hook which is a must for all of you Peter Pan fans. Earworm day for me as I will now sing to the Rubberband Man song, “you’re bound to lose control when the Peter Pan fans start to jam!” tra la la Brains are a blessing and an occasional flat-tuned curse *sings anyway* Peter is the name I bestow upon any reader from England when I say, “hello,” to my stats monitoring page. “Hello, Peter!”
Peter Pan was originally produced on stage in London on December 27, 1904. David was 2 years and 10 months old. A very merry toddler Christmas! Except that David was in North Carolina at the time, Pan-less (and pants-less if potty-training), I assume.
When David was 9 years old, Peter Pan and Wendy was published in illustrated book form for children. Maybe he received a copy of the earlier version from 1906 (meant for adults), Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, as a gift and it helped spark his creative imagination. Maybe he had his own bookshelf in the family lounge area with Peter Pan, The Red Fairy Book, The Wizard of Oz series, Alice in Wonderland, Old Mother West Wind, Just So Stories, The Dutch Twins, The Secret Garden, The Ransom of Red Chief, The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, The Story of King Arthur and His Knights, The Call of the Wild, The Wind in the Willows, and Five Children and It! Confession: I am a librarian by study and trade. To be more specific, a children’s librarian with a life-long obsession for popular and classic children’s books. 398’s and 811’s rule! And now you know.
HERISME 