Honoring the Sabbath

I never make plans for Sundays, if I can help it. 

I have violated my rule the past few weeks, but today I felt I needed to honor my Sabbath (biblical usage purely coincidental). 

On Sundays, I like to let my brain do whatever activity it wants, be it laying in a dark room in silence or reading articles or watching TED talks. These are things I hurriedly consume in the mornings before I start a hectic work day, but on Sunday I can quietly read and fully absorb the information without distractions or feeling rushed to move on to a new task.

Today I began learning about addiction from a neurological standpoint, from a free class offered on Coursera called "The Addicted Brain". It is FASCINATING!! Just this afternoon, I discovered how different drugs affect the neurotransmitters in our brains, and I finally came to understand why addiction is considered a disorder, and why often mental resilience is not enough to kick certain habits. 

As a terrifying aside, I learned that alcoholics have a smaller prefrontal cortex than schizophrenics - a commonly recognized and very serious mental disorder. I'm sharing because it was absolutely jarring, and my mouth literally dropped when I saw this graph in the lecture. You can read here for deeper info. (Credit to the instructor, Michael Kuhar Ph.D, for sharing this graph)

I spent some time on Pinterest, allowing my creativity to be sparked by the various work outfits that are there. Pinterest led me to an interesting blog post on the importance of morning routines, which then took me to a wonderful blog. There, I stumbled across a video that spoke to my SOUL as well as a number of other highly inspirational words. I very quickly subscribed to both blogs. 

I even took the time to file and clean up my now horribly bitten nails, as well as change the very old polish on my toes. 

I get to learn a lot about myself on Sundays. With no interference from work or friends, I am able to tap into my inner voice and truly hear what my body craves: a chance to read and write freely. Going back to basics and remembering what I used to pass my time doing as a child gives me energy and drive that I can share with others. I love it!!!

Anyone out there in the world have their own Sabbath? What do you do? 

The Great Flood of 2014

The night seemed normal enough

It was just after 10:00 at night. A powerful, loud thunderstorm had been raging for about 3 hours. After picking Jay up from work we laid in our quiet, dark room, discussing what we would eat for dinner. We didn't want to leave the house, but there were no delivery options so we settled on a trip to McDonalds.

I walked into the back room for my purse and saw a small puddle on the floor, about a foot in length and not deep at all. I told Jay, who grabbed towels and put them down, then banged on the ceiling and yelled something in Spanish to his dad upstairs. At the time I had no idea what they were talking about. He then turned to me and said "Start moving your stuff out of here. Put it on the bed."

Still not thinking anything big was happening, I slowly grabbed the loose shoes sprawled across the floor and some of the boxes that were close to the flood. He yelled at me. "Why are you moving so slow??" I responded that it didn't seem serious and the stuff on the floor would be okay.

"Go to the room and pick the wires up off the floor," he directed, so I did. I piled everything on the top of the TV stand, then on second thought moved the Xbox up to the top as well.

I still had no idea what was coming

I don't remember the next few minutes very well - at some point, his dad came down to the front and yelled for him, and that's when we saw it: a foot of water collecting at the front door. Buckets were grabbed and the two men tried to scoop out as much water as they could.

I finally started to move a little more quickly, and started picking more stuff up. Then I realized that some of my clothes, which were elevated a few inches off the floor, were already wet. Panic began to set in as I was now running about, stacking boxes and clothes precariously high. The bed became the savior where shoes and clothes baskets were stacked.

And then I caught a look at the bathroom - water was coming up through the tub, and it had already made its way to the bedroom. So worried had we been about the front that we didn't foresee it coming from the back as well. I grabbed Jay's attention and said "it's over...it's all over." He asked why, and I pointed to the rising water in the bedroom. It was then that the loss of hope became palpable.

That kind of fear results in action or paralysis...or both

We now had a bigger operation: move the very important stuff out of here, and hope for the best with the rest. So we evacuated the electronics and the cats, and moved them upstairs to the guest room on his parent's floor. While Jay and his dad worked on getting the old sump pump working in the front, where over two feet of water now rested, I sloshed through the house grabbing our essentials: wallets, his work keys, toothbrushes, cat food and a litter box.

Charlie was laying on the couch peacefully; he's been through disasters before with us. Larry stayed on the floor as long as possible, watching the water circle him. He jumped into one of his boxes and batted at the rising waters surrounding him, until he finally had to escape to the couch. My heart melted. Like a captain with the ship, he refused to go down until it was the end - but it was the end.

With the essentials moved, I could do nothing but sit and feel my heart sink as I helplessly watched the water rise higher and higher. Our bed was ruined. Items floated around in the water, things that we just couldn't get out of the way in time. I wanted so badly to cry, but couldn't - adrenaline was coursing through my veins and would allow no time for emotion.

We might as well have been stranded in the middle of the ocean

After what felt like an eternity, the pump started working and water gradually faded out of the apartment. Jay and I worked in the back, sweeping water as he scooped it into the bathroom. It took until about 2:30 am to clear most of it out - at which point we headed upstairs for showers and finally, some dinner.

The next day was more hectic. We emptied the whole apartment, dried all of the water, swept, cleaned the walls, and mopped, before bringing the stuff back in. Jay had to buy a new bed, which we put up on a frame and elevated several inches. At about 10:30 pm, we had cleaned everything and were able to take showers in our own bathroom, and sleep in our own bed.

I had a strong bourbon and coke that night.

We had the beacon of experience to guide us to safety

This is not the first time we have had to hurriedly move our stuff, nor that we were faced with the notion of losing everything - our quick apartment moves made sure of that. But this was the first time I ever felt quite so helpless about it. It was out of our control - there simply was nothing we could have done to avoid the floor, and at many points there was little we could do to the ever rising waters.

Many good things came from the flood, though. Just like the Biblical flood, it was a true day of purging and cleansing. Having to move all of our furniture and items out of the apartment afforded me a much overdue opportunity to scrub the house down, which I'd been too overwhelmed to do before. Jay's quick thinking and knowledge of the situation enabled us to save most of our stuff, particularly those things that were most important. I was grateful for having a cabinet stocked with cleaning supplies, which meant not needing to buy a ton of stuff other than the bed, garbage bags and a mop. And having a place to go for the night, along with the support shown to me by my friends (many of whom also had flooding) reminded me that we are not alone in this world nor without help.

The caveat: everything happens for a reason

You never have warning when stuff like this happens; nobody gets an alert when they open their eyes that tells them "tragedy will strike you today, be ready". Life is just like that. Before the events of the past month, I was always looking 10 years ahead, always worried that I was not where I should be in life, always concerned about having everything on lock. Being blindsided by LIFE has forced me to stop looking so far ahead, and instead to take every event of every day as it is in that moment. It isn't always easy, but letting go of that stress has been immensely helpful and quite honestly, a savior during a time when I've shed enough tears to flood the world.

What experiences have you had that made you reevaluate the way you thought about life?

The Great Leg Uncrossing Experiment

For a few months now, I’ve been spiraling into this horribly unproductive way of speaking to people. I was stressed and easily agitated, but at least I could escape now and again to try and calm down. Then I got a 3 am phone call saying my dad was in the hospital, had a stroke, and everything changed – as did my defense mechanisms. Suddenly I was a raging ball of fire, spewing snark at anyone who dared utter a “hello” to me. I looked a mess, I felt a mess, and my productivity bottomed out as I could barely focus on the simplest of tasks. My own internal Hell had broken loose and started firing out at anyone I thought was hurting me.

Of course, though it was relieving to be brutally honest with everything I said and to release that pent up rage, it didn’t do so much good for my relationships with the people around me. I started to get the sense that I was firing off at people who didn’t deserve it, and didn’t want to be that “snappy bitch, don’t ask her anything”.

I can't be the only one in the world who gets like that.

So today I did an experiment, based on an article I read on Entrepreneur (side note, I saw the TED talk that was referenced quite some months ago). I decided that for at least one day, I would give up sitting with my legs crossed. To ensure I would stay on track, I put a rubber band around my arm so I could snap it every time I caught myself doing it. I was only accountable to myself; nobody else would know or see what I was doing.

The result? Between 12:00 pm and 4:00 pm I had already lost track of how many times I snapped the rubber band, and almost caved into my body’s uncomfortable pleas twice. I also am writing this to you sitting with my feet nicely placed apart.

While I did notice a slight change in my interactions, I also discovered something I had never noticed about myself:

I have such a fear of vulnerability that I will do whatever it takes, physically or mentally, 

to avoid being open to pain.

The discomfort I felt keeping my legs straight was a reaction to my midsection suddenly being left unguarded; I was no longer affording my body the ability to close into itself. My uncrossed legs also brought something new to my awareness: it is far more painful to hunch over when your legs are straight . But I definitely found myself hunching more than a few times. With option 1 being removed, my body was doing whatever it could to protect my midsection.

How deeply rooted are my fears to keep me in a perpetual fetal position as I move through life, forever damned to simply react to those pushing and prodding at my curled back until I lash out, retreating right back into the comfort of my own arms? Just how hard has life beaten me down until I no longer attempted to try and pick up the broken pieces but instead, hovered over the smashed figurine convinced the shards were as valuable as the masterpiece used to be? How many demons have not only taken abode in my psyche but have become the manipulator to my marionette, yanking my strings this way and that until I lost all sense of control?

There is no easy button for this, no quick answer, and I’m pretty sure that as soon as I get home I will give myself permission to cross my legs again. That’s probably when I will need to keep them straight the most.

UPDATE: It took a few days, but I now sit very normally with my legs uncrossed, particularly at work. I have started to breathe and sit better, and my mood has calmed down a bit. Maybe there is something to this stuff.

Solar Recharge #1

I'm sure many people know the feeling: you're sitting at your desk, eyes barely open. You would like to do anything but look at the documents in front of you as you pick up your phone every two seconds to check Facebook.

I couldn't take it - so I went out for a walk. Thankfully it's starting to get nice outside, which makes an afternoon stroll much more pleasant than it has been for the past few months.

The sun was mostly hidden behind thick gray clouds - rain is coming - but I still squinted painfully, the brightness too jarring for my florescent-tolerant pupils. The air was muggy but comfortable. I didn't walk far; just a circle around the lot that was once Cabrini Green, now a humongous Target and a wide field where geese roam even in the icy winter.

As I walked, I noticed a small tree in front of a closeby school was beginning to spout some beautiful flowers:

They remind me of tiger lilies, my favorite flower in the world, and also of the tiny flowers that used to grow from my Bigmama's bushes.

As I continued on my walk and crossed over to the goose field, I greeted this little big guy, who had no problem walking almost right up to me:

We locked eyes, and he gave me a silent "what up though" before he continued noshing on grass. Believe it or not, our feathered friends here are as gangster as the people.

And to think, I work about 5 minutes away from downtown! I guess beauty lies everywhere in the world, as long as you take 15 minutes to walk around and find it.

Common Sense Is Not So Common - The Reboot

Last night I got an email. 

It was a new comment on my very first blog baby, Common Sense Is Not So Common. The subject was a post in which I described my difficulty remembering a piano song I'd once played well, and how I was able to remember it by letting go of my thoughts. 

I re-read the post and was struck by what I saw. It was so heartfelt, so descriptive - so unlike anything I've written in a very long time. 

I miss that. 

The best part about writing is the ability to share a story, to put readers where you are, and to make them feel what you feel. I've been too busy trying to instruct, trying to push my opinion. It happens. 

So, I'm closing my eyes and writing from the heart, just like I used to. I'm allowing the words to flow directly from my brain to my fingers with no sensory interruptions to skew my thoughts, no external influences to change my words. No invisible fears to keep me from hitting the "post" button. 

The weight of a thousand worlds is lifting off my shoulders.

Living The Dream

Over the past few days, I have been considering embarking on a new business venture in addition to my full time job and side projects.

To determine whether I wanted to do this or not, I sat down and thought about what I hoped to gain from it. My truthful answers were as follows:

•  Money
•  A new car
•  More time to write
•  A skill I’ve run from my entire life

The third answer has been plaguing me since I first thought it up: more time to write. Why, on a list of goals and aspirations from a completely unrelated job, did this particular goal spring to mind?

That’s a rhetorical question – I know why it came up. I’ve always romanticized the idea of the writer, swathed comfortably in loosefitting clothes and grasping a steaming cup of coffee, face brightened by the backlights of a screen as fingers flew fearlessly across a field of letters. I’ve also always wanted to write a novel; about what, I don’t know, I’ve just always wanted to do it.

When I wasn’t a novelist by 12, I pushed it to 15. Then 20. Then I realized everyone was writing books, so it didn’t appeal so much to me anymore. I didn’t want to get lost in the crowd of self-publishing. So I gave up. Then started again, then gave up again. Maybe I’ll still do it.

I had a blog, a blog that I nursed for a year, that could have really been on to something if I’d kept it up. But it was too scattered, and I wanted to make money. Focused blogs would be better, I thought, so I started a slew of themed blogs. That failed miserably.

I should have known – my themed journals failed too, often within one or two entries of announcing said “theme”. It was too hard to stop my wandering mind, and before I knew it I’d gone off track before I could even develop the theme and that idea went out the window. I still keep journals though. I got my first journal sometime around the fourth grade. I’ve been through countless since then and still write to this day, usually when I’m ready to tear something apart or feeling particularly reflective. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I turned my journals into books, but then people would really think I had mental issues.

All throughout my life I’ve had a guard up when it comes to writing, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it came from the impression I had of a writer, that most of them are not quite as successful as they should be. Maybe it came from higher expectations of me, that I was supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer or something and not just a writer. What torture, to be ashamed of a dream! Ashamed of your passion! To feel as though you have to eschew the thing that flows from you as easily as blood from a pin prick, without warning or even thought, is a horrible way to spend even a minute of life, much less decades. Decades!   (I would like to note, as an aside, that I DID have support from my closest family, those who had read things I'd written dating back to the first grade and saw something I probably will never see. But most others wanted to see me wearing a fancy title.)

Despite all of my attempts to the contrary, the urge to write always comes back. And when it comes, it just bowls me over. The fibers in my heart start firing and my brain explodes with ideas and regardless of what I’m doing I run for a pen and paper or the laptop and just let my fingers fly. And fly they do.

When I write, I experience a disconnect from the world like no other. I develop tunnel vision as my writing implement and the deepest folds of my imagination become one. I do not think through what I write before I write it, often have no idea of what will come from the blank pages; I simply let my mind talk through my fingers and survey the damage later.

I recently started writing for hire, and though I enjoy it, it’s every bit the chore sometimes that I imagined being paid to write would be. It’s one thing to stay up all night satisfying a deep internal urge to write; it’s quite another to burn the midnight oil the day before a deadline because I couldn’t muster up the energy to start earlier. Surprisingly I still get the same flow effect, but it's a lot harder to start in the first place. At least I know why I’m not a professional novelist – I would not be able to survive under that kind of pressure.

My eyes itch and burn – I’m supposed to be doing something else – and yet I sit here, glasses off, eyes squinted, barely able to see the words on the screen – and I continue to write. I have to. It pumps my blood. It’s a large part of who I am. It IS me.

It’s completely against standard logic to think that taking on an additional responsibility will free my time to write, but I know better. I don’t need more hours in the day, I have enough. I need less restrictions – less fear. Less pressure to earn money. More confidence. Perhaps this new opportunity will help with that.

If nothing else, I got a nice blog post out of it.

Letter to My Hair

Dear My Hair:

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for the first time I ever used a curling iron myself and developed an addiction to it.

I'm sorry for my at home relaxer, too. And for allowing you to break and break until my hair would not even touch my shoulders anymore.

I'm sorry for the various shampoos and conditioners I cycled through, hoping one would be a miracle for my hair for longer than just one wash. (Wallet, I'm sorry for this too)

I'm sorry for thinking the current trend against sulfates was anything but a trend. I hope you'll understand this one - after all the bad advice I've gotten from hair forums, I thought that was another routine that would just make things worse. Next to nixing relaxer, it's been one of the best things I've done for my hair.

I'm sorry for trusting the wrong people with my hair, and for the horrible salon experiences. Though I've always been finicky about letting people do my hair, I thought that the gamble was worth it and more times than not, it wasn't.

Nobody knows you like I do. Nobody. So...

Thank you for growing. I know I often do things that work against you, like the occasional straightening, but I am working on doing better with that.

Thank you for being curly. It's not that I hated you - I absolutely love the curls - I just didn't know how to treat you before, so you never looked your best.

Thank you for loving water. Nothing is easier or more accessible than water, and it instantly gives you new life. I'm glad I don't have to do hour long moisturizing rituals to get you to spring to life: some water, a little leave in cream and some gel and I'm ready to go, every single time.

Thank you for changing colors and being naturally shiny. Half of the time my hair looks white or silver just because the light bounces off of it so much - and I'm excited to see just how light brown you've gotten. I see I have my mom's hair - and I'm happy about that.

Most of all, thank you for being patient with, and forgiving me. I'm still learning. I still like to play with you, and braid and twist you, and straighten you, and wear hats and headbands and bows and flowers, and I appreciate that you take it all in stride. I know we fight every so often, but those days are getting few and far between. Sometimes I want you to do things you don't want to do, but I'd rather work with and not against you.

I love you, dear hair.

It's been a long road to get here.