To the Women Who Want to Take Us Back

Dear Republican Women,

If you are sincere in your desire to “get back to the vision of the country that the founding fathers intended”, there are a few things you should do immediately.

·      Relinquish ownership of, well, everything you own, to your husband, father, brother, or any male relative that has a remote claim to them. If you are single or widowed, you will need to move back in with your parents or with a male relative who will begrudgingly take responsibility for you. If you have significant wealth, it may be just a little less begrudgingly.

·      Shred your credit cards, you will need one in your husband’s name only and be sure to solicit his permission for all of your purchases.

·      Close your bank account and transfer all that money to any male in the vicinity, lacking a direct relative, remember, a third, fourth, or fifth cousin will do, should you choose to marry said relative you may even get to pretend the money still belongs to you.

·      If you have young daughters, groom them to be submissive and compliant and begin the search for their husbands ASAP as it is the only way they will have any kind of decent and comfortable life with a respectable social standing. They should be ready to wed by the time they’re in their mid-teens, and preferably no older than early twenties, after which time they will be cruising toward spinsterhood and virtually unmarriageable. Don’t fret if your child’s suiter is well past his prime, she will learn to tolerate and appreciate his shriveled ass, after all, her only purpose in his life is to carry and birth as many of his offspring as possible. If she dies in the process, he will simply replace her with another. And if she is unable to conceive, he may return her to you, shamed, used, sullied, her use by date expired.

·      Stop driving. It is unseemly for a woman, and, oh right, no cars—duh!

·      If you have an opinion, keep it to yourself. The female brain is feeble and unable to articulate or process complex thought. Don’t expect your daughters to go to college or to advance far past grade school for that matter (if you are not middle or upper class there is a good chance you and your daughters will receive no education), or if you are a young woman eager to excel after high school, don’t expect institutions of higher learning to welcome you. Education is wasted on a woman and quite frankly, dangerous. With knowledge women may begin to expect more, or, heaven forbid, might even demand to be treated equally to men some day!

·      Recall your female judges and politicians. As women, they have no business holding positions of power.

·      Stop voting! You do not have that right! Trust that the men in your life will choose the candidate that will best represent your, I mean, their interests, yours are of no consequence.

And, by the way, abortion wasn’t illegal in this country until male doctors wrested maternal care from midwives. Before that, it was quite commonplace and was known as “restoring the menses” (https://www.npr.org/2022/05/18/1099795225/before-roe-the-physicians-crusade).

Words can Paint a Thousand Pictures

Advertising executive, Fred Barnard said, a picture is worth a thousand words, I say, words can paint a thousand pictures.

            This morning when Winnie and I set off on our jaunt along the lake, I recognized that my first instinct, not a minute into our walk, was the urge to photograph the moment, to try to capture it to add to the rolling updates and notifications punctuating cups of coffee, exercise routines and morning commutes. I stopped, my hand hovering over my back pocket before letting it drop back to my side, while at the same time releasing a long, slow breath. On the inhale I smelled sweetness, the sweetness of damp earth and wet needles, fallen leaves beginning their slow return to the soil. I noted the relief, the way my shoulders dropped into place down my spine, my lungs filled again with sweetness and my jaw relaxed. My feet found their way on the familiar path, landing with a lightness that comes from throwing expectations to the notably windless forest, expectations to capture magic in order to prove it is real.

            I vacuumed in countless images through my retinas and sent them to neurons that I don’t understand for processing and at the same time ruminated on all that I cannot capture with my iPhone. The sound of the leaves underneath my green rubber boots, swishing, not yet crunching—the carpet of fallen oranges and yellows is new and so it is soft, fluttery, light. Shadows play a game of hide and seek with the rays of sunshine, the newly naked branches aiding the soft light. The water of the lake, so still, so crystal clear yet at the same time a clarity that is broken by the still-life reflections of blue sky and vibrant mountainsides. I hold my breath involuntarily and let it out only as I turn my face upwards and close my eyes. This, I think, this I cannot capture for Instagram. The sights and sounds and smells become a part of me, my cells, my memories, not a half a second in a scroll through a feed. 

            A picture can’t capture the mushrooms, more than I’ve ever noticed in all the years I’ve lived here, every few feet along the path. Some of them are slimy, dark brown, gelatinous blobs, others mimic the tans, oranges, and deep purples of the leaves, with sharp, ruffled edges, their stems twisted and leaning, heavy with the weight of their own bodies beckoning them back towards the earth. A picture can’t capture the way Winnie runs twenty feet ahead and then turns back to look at me, ears slightly perked, eyes quizzical until she is content that I am following and returns her nose to the trail moving easily and with purpose, every step bouncing with pure, unadulterated joy. I have never seen such joy as is bound up in that little creature!

            A picture can’t capture the sound of the apple, plucked fresh from the tree as I sink my teeth into its perfect crispness—just cool enough, but not too cold to hurt my teeth. My jaws work, first through the flesh and then the thicker skin, textures teasing my tongue, sweet-tart liquid escaping in tiny rivulets down my throat and seeping, just a bit, to wet my lips—a jolt of life, nourishing and reassuring.

            These are the moments I live for, the moments that make me feel whole and wholly alive. When I share these moments, I share so they can become a part of you, too, your imagination, your memories, your cells. I cannot do that with a picture, but I can do it with words.

            I’ve never minced words when it comes to how I feel about the necessary evil of social media. I am not convinced of how necessary, but especially with the news coverage as of late, I am convinced of the evil. I want to share with you, not mindless chatter, a barely conscious scroll, but something of substance, part of myself, half an hour of my morning, half an hour of quiet renewal.

No, I Won't Forget

I was in London when the towers fell, only arrived a few hours before. We’d flown from Boston on a red-eye the previous night, stumbling our way through Heathrow airport at 5:00 in the morning, blurry-eyed and jet-lagged, our only thought being to pass through immigration as quickly as possible and find our way to the train and from there to our hotel where we could sink into oblivion for a few hours. I could already feel the tell-tale signs of a cold settling in, scratchy throat, runny nose, head pounding in rhythm to the pulsing of fluorescent lighting. I seemed to inevitably contract some dreadful virus every time we flew and all I wanted was to sleep it away.

I drifted in and out of delirious slumber on the Heathrow Express to Kings Cross station, settled into that strange limbo of not-quite-arrived-in-a-new-country-yet, fellow riders moving in and out of the frame, but never completing a picture. I barely remember hailing the taxi at Kings Cross or the forty-minute ride to our Bed and Breakfast in Muswell Hill, but I do recall with clarity, the relief of lifting our packs from the back of the cab and up the short flight of stairs, the welcomed feeling of letting them fall to the floor and crawling under the covers without even bothering to change.

We were instantly dead to the world, but only a few hours later I was awakened by my worsening sore throat and headache. I glanced at my sleeping husband and turned the TV on, volume low, and stared blankly at the news for a moment until the image on the screen snapped me out of my stupor. I increased the volume, the frantic voice of the news anchor filling the room and one of the towers smoking on the screen. 

I shook Mateo awake. “That’s weird,” I pointed at the screen, “a plane just ran into one of the towers of the World Trade Center.” We watched in silence for a few minutes before he drifted off again. The next time I shook him awake, it was with more urgency. “Another plane just hit the other tower!” The reporters were still assuming the collisions were accidents.

“There’s no way that was an accident,” I glanced at him for confirmation, noted his jaw working the way it did when he was worried. “You can’t accidentally fly into two buildings right next to each other.” 

Mateo agreed, although, like the rest of the world watching the tragedy unfold in real time, we had no explanation as to what could be happening. We stayed glued to the TV, feeling utterly helpless as the story only got worse. By the time we were forced to leave our room to go look at flats to rent (we couldn’t afford more than a couple of nights in a hotel), it was becoming clear that our homeland had been attacked, and not only that, two of the flights had left from Logan airport, one of them a United Airlines flight—we had flown on a United flight from Logan just hours before. Of course we had been in no danger, but in moments of intense fear and emotion, the mind draws connections any way it can, in an effort to empathize I think. There’s always that, it could have been us moment, a moment we experienced repeatedly as cab driver, after real estate agent, after barista, after random person on the street, expressed their condolences, shock, and solidarity. It was hard to accept condolences—as far as I knew, there was no one close to me who had been hurt or lost their life and it was a challenge to feel like I was a part of the national trauma when I was so far away. I worried that the distance would make it difficult for me to share the grief, fear, and later, communal rage. 

I can’t say why I haven’t written about it until now, but I think that at the time, I knew that anything less than unbridled patriotism would have seen me thrown to the wolves. I assume the same to be true today, although we have twenty years of aftermath and prospective at our disposal. While there is no denying that my heart swelled with patriotism and my tears flowed freely for a long time after, and even now when I hear survivors’ voices on the radio, a degree of clarity that could only come from having traveled for three years before, a sort of juxtaposition I suppose, made the whole experience more complex. While I shared the horror and the condemnation of my fellow countrymen and women, I didn’t share the shock, the how could this have happened? I had spent too much time learning about the less savory aspects of US foreign policy and one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind, one that I swatted away, quashed, and buried was, I guess we finally pissed someone off just enough.

And that made me angry. Angry because I didn’t want to think that, angry because I didn’t want to wonder why—because when something so horrific happens there is no why, right? There’s no excuse, there’s no good reason, there’s no way to make sense of it. I was so young, so righteously appalled at both the terrorists, and the policies that, to my mind, invoked such blind hatred. 

We all remember where we were, or weren’t, as the case may be. We all remember because everything changed, not just for us, in the United States, but for the whole world. War had come to us, on our own soil, but not war as we had seen in the past. It was a new kind of war, unpredictable, irreconcilable. It changed the way we lived, the way we traveled, the way we trusted or distrusted. 

So, no, I can’t forget. I can’t forget how helpless I felt as my country came together, but I wasn’t there. I won’t forget how adrift I felt, how disconnected. We tried, in our small group at school, at local candlelight vigils and in sharing circles to feel like we too, were a part of the unity, even from so far away, but it just felt like we were alone, cut off from the massive waves of grief that our country was suffering from but also from the tides of togetherness. I guess I never wrote about it because I didn’t know what to say, almost, like I felt I didn’t have the right to write about it because I wasn’t home. 

POCKET BOSSES

I wrote this a while ago, but a recent conversation with friends reminded me of it again.

I was trying to fall asleep last night and, annoyingly, my mind wouldn’t shut up. I should have the discipline to hop up and write down all of the ideas and light-bulb moments that fly around in my brain at inopportune times, but, most of the time, I’m too exhausted. So, I made a few notes, rolled over and slept hard. Luckily, this morning, it all came back to me. I was pondering computers and cellphones and iPads and how they’ve slipped so easily and silently into our lives and taken over. Technology has given new meaning to the phrase tied to your desk, only there isn’t a desk, just a tiny, vibrating rectangle of demands that lives in our pockets and purses before, during, and after business hours. It has been on my mind a lot lately because I have children. We who are currently parenting any child between infancy and the teenage years, are the first generation of parents who are being challenged to navigate this world of burgeoning technological advances. New ones happen before we can even catch up with the old ones and our children roll with the leaps and bounds, daring us to keep up. There is no rulebook, very little research and limited incentive to take it slow. 

I have boomeranged between wanting to monitor every moment, restrict screen time completely or give short windows of access, to throwing up my hands and admitting that the uphill struggle is too exhausting. I try to explain to my children that this is uncharted territory, that as a parent, I need to keep their best interests front and center, but because I don’t know exactly how the world of technology is going to effect their development, I have to go with my gut. That elicits sneers and laughs, because in their world, gut instinct is extinct. If you can’t google it, it must not be true. If you can’t find a study to prove it, it isn’t real, and if you do find a study to prove it, it’s just as easy to find an opposing opinion. This opens up a messy world of concerns. Are we raising a generation that will put more faith in their phones than in their instincts? When their existence is more about persona than person, how does that translate into being?

My instinct right now is to try to teach self-regulation. Logically, that can only happen by modeling self-regulation. That is the hard part. When we, as adults have come to depend so completely on, and live so completely in, the world of our tiny pocket bosses, telling children to put them down now and again, falls on deaf ears. They can’t differentiate the line between using technology as a tool or simply as a vehicle of mindless occupy. It is an age old adage that children live what they see. It doesn’t matter if we are answering emails, reading the news, or checking Instagram, all they see is our eyes focused on a screen for most hours of the day, and they don’t understand why the rules should be different for them.

I’m not so sure that they should be. We don’t know yet how those countless hours effect our mental and physical health, the health of our relationships, or the health of our family units. Clicking fingers are now as common as lit cigarettes were in the fifties. Everyone’s doing it with abandon, at the office, in the restaurant, walking down the street, driving in our cars, lying in bed. Cigarettes turned out to be lethal, and brutally addictive. We are quick to condemn all sorts of addictions. Is technology exempt? It is here to stay, so why not teach ourselves how to use it, while we teach our children? Why not have email business hours, just as we have regular business hours? If, in the past, we wouldn’t consider calling someone at home, after hours, why is it suddenly okay to text and email at all hours? I say, if we’re not willing to pick up the phone and interrupt dinner or bedtime, we shouldn’t be willing to send that email or text. Technology removes us from the situation just enough that it feels okay. If we’re setting boundaries for our youth, why not try setting boundaries for ourselves? Let’s remind ourselves, while we teach our children, that our phones and computers are important tools for communication, development, and yes, even research and creativity, but the real world is what’s happening around us. It happens fast and furious and the years slip through our fingers and time throttles us forward. I, for one, want to cherish every single moment.

ON THE EDGE

I’m angry.

Not at any particular person, but at a system. A system that’s trained us all to believe that unless we’re always pushing the boundaries, always walking the line, always bumping up against the the thing that could be possible, barely possible, or even barely reasonable, unless we’re always taking the risk, all the risks all the time, then we’re not living and we’re not growing.

I’m angry at a system that has left us all in a place where there’s no back-up plan, no plan B, no contingency, nothing to catch us. In this system, the only acceptable way to live is to be in hyper mode constantly, not just moving, but speeding, rushing. If the speed limit is 65, we go 70, if it’s 75, we go 80. The people we admire and emulate are the people who are always pushing the boundaries, doing the unimaginable, driving their bodies and their minds to the edge. Just think about the last time you watched a show or a movie about someone who didn’t do something extreme or wasn’t some sort of superhero, superhuman, supermom.

Our entire world economic system is based on risk. We hear constantly, “the bigger the risk, the bigger the return”. So our markets live on the edge, our businesses live on the edge, if you’re not in debt as a business it means you’re not growing, and by extension, we all live on the edge. No wonder we’re collectively just a little bit crazy. 

Because of all of this living on the edge and valuing risk over contingency and planning, we are now in a situation where everyone is frantically scrambling for a plan B. No matter the size of the business or corporation, even the giant ones with tons of money, they still have nothing to fall back on, they can’t survive a month of upheaval because they have no backup plan. We’ve been forced into a structure that can’t sustain us, even when we really need it, especially when we really need it.

If you’re someone who doesn’t like to take risks, people dismiss you, they overlook you, they tell you there’s no way you’re gonna get ahead in life. If you’re cautious, you always hear, “aww, come on, live a little.” If you like to look before you leap, “where’s your sense of adventure”? 

I don’t have a message, or any kind of conclusion in this post, I just have to say that I’m angry. Of course, taking risks is good for the mind, the soul and probably the economy. But so is planning and being cautious. Where’s the balance?

And how is it that the entities that run the world economy want us to save them yet again? Maybe someone should come up with a better structure. 

As for me? I’m always going to have a plan B, and maybe a C, D and E as well.

I would love to hear other people’s thoughts about this. Leave a comment! I’d love to hear something besides my own brain screaming at me.

MIRROR, MIRROR

I normally spend a lot of time pondering, well, everything. These days that odd habit of mine has been thrown into overdrive. I feel like I’ve been plopped down in front of the mirror of human existence, our history, our present and even our future, reflected back. Mirrors don’t always show things as they are. Sometimes they reflect extreme distortions and the images we see are often clouded by our own interpretation. 

With that in mind, the reflections I keep returning to at present are of beauty and newness, the uncanny ability of human beings to face struggle and uncertainty and emerge refined, renewed and determined. Like thousands of others, I assume, I continue to grapple with the “why” of the situation, the need to make sense of something that can’t be rationalized. It is human nature to want to find the reason because things without reasons are disconcerting, unnerving and frankly, frightening. When something is beyond my control, I usually refuse to accept it and try to control it anyway, which of course is an exercise in futility. This time I think that all I can do is to ask, what can I learn and how can I grow? I am keenly aware that opposites abound, dark and light, love and hate, double edged swords. A time of chaos, tragedy and fear must inevitably force growth, newness and hope. So I ask myself, how can I evolve? How can I rise to this challenge and emerge better than before?

Presently, I feel the togetherness of not just our friends and family, but of people around the world, all of us strangely united, freshly aware of the generosity, beauty and love that surrounds us. Not only am I uniquely conscious of these qualities in people, but in the universe and the earth itself. Spring is still springing, plants are still growing, the sun is still warming the planet, the seasons, the cycles, the bounty, is unchanged. And now, because I am stuck, because I am compelled to stay in one place and it happens to be a place where nature is on my doorstep, I am forced to take note. And I am grateful for these moments.

Because, at other times I am consumed by worry, one of my most irritating traits, the gift of a mind that never shuts up. What happens next? What happens when the collective of humans begins to feel like we’ve had all we can take? When our patience is wearing thin, when our capability for compassion is hanging on by a thread? Desperation is sure to creep in, to challenge our resolve. Ugliness is bound to rear its head when the entire world is bathed in so much fear and pain for so long. What happens if people who are sick begin to experience ridicule or ostracism or blame for being victims of something over which we have no control? 

I return to the reliability of opposites. Expressing fear and anxiety to each other or even simply yelling it out to an empty room, can be cathartic. It is for me. Stepping into that mirror and looking closely at the distortions that become obsessive concerns, serves as a release, a deep breath out. And I can return my focus to the integrity and calls to action that are unfolding in a world that seems to be inspired to put its best foot forward. It is this forward movement that gives me hope. I have watched as people everywhere have seemed to remember that they can create beauty in the world, beauty that matters and will have a lasting impact on our collective experience. Again, there is nothing like struggle to remind us of what we are capable of.

I’ve also been forced to ponder tradition. I am once again face to face with some of the traditions I was raised with, obviously not by choice, but by necessity, such as homeschooling my children, baking my own bread, being the ultimate “keeper of the home”. I’ve pushed back against those for years because, where I came from, it was all there was for a woman, it was her only purpose. Traditions can be comforting, I am glad I know how to bake bread, but they can also be rigid and confining. If I’m embracing an old tradition, I want to be certain that it is because it makes sense, not simply because it is familiar. It is normal to crave familiarity and the comfort of tradition’s predictability in a time like this. The tendency is to look back, at a time before, times that seem better or safer or simpler now that they’ve past. Facing fears like these may give rise to a desire to retreat to the comfort and predictability of tradition, but that is the opposite of where I want to be. I want to be moving forward, trying to imagine what comes next, what kind of new world we are going to create together because of everything we’re learning right now. The opposite reaction to looking back, the one that I want to be a part of, is embracing change and movement and learning to trust. Trust, in the people around me, in the goodness of humanity and in our ability to do the right thing when it really comes down to it. I know that it would be easier to to hunker down for a while, perhaps when the dust settles, nestled into the sense of security that traditions and societal norms can offer after surviving a period of angst. But I hope that I’ll remind myself that forward movement is essential, that the assumed stability of the past may feel right, it may feel necessary, but a cataclysmic experience like this must move us forward, not back.

Where will we be in a year? Who can tell? I know where I want to be. In a place where integrating balance and harmony into my world isn’t just a concept, but a habit. I want to be in a place where stability, security and the ability to prosper isn’t dependent on what is happening in the world around me but rather on the reliability of my inner world, trust in my intuition and trust in my ability to heal, to rise from the ashes like a phoenix. The earth goes through a cycle of death and darkness every year and every year it is reborn. It is dependable, reliable, unequivocal. As is the ability of humanity to gather together and begin a new phase in our existence, one that is guided by the kindness and grace and determination that we have been forced to reconnect with over what will probably be not weeks, but months. I want to trust in that. We all have within ourselves the ability to manifest the best qualities of our species here on this powerful, awesome planet that we live on.

I AM DIFFERENT

So, for a few days I was eerily calm. Then one day the panic hit and I felt like I couldn’t breath. Not even sure where it came from and it wasn’t about one particular thing, it was just an overwhelming sense of everything being really wrong. Mostly, it’s easy to barely notice up here. I’m not leaving the farm at all and in that sense, my days aren’t much different from before. My kids are home, always, that’s different. I’m not going grocery shopping, that’s different. But, for the most part, if I didn’t tune into the news, I wouldn’t notice much. Except I would. It’s in the air. Waves of panic, then deep sadness, then pure fear, washing over me. I never know where they’re coming from nor can I predict when they’re going to hit. 

Today we had a good day. Structure, predictability, kids doing their school work diligently at the table. I moved my office downstairs so I could continue to write and do my work while the kids do theirs. It’s dark outside, the clouds are heavy, the wind is howling and we lost power briefly. I built a fire because I just couldn’t shake the chill. We moved smoothly from breakfast to lessons to lunch to quiet time and back to lessons. I almost felt normal. And that’s the point. I can lose myself in my hermit routine and feel safe and settled. But then, someone shares a news story or I get a frenzied text from a friend or family member and I feel my throat tighten—I am reminded, that the world is out there and people are hurting, people are scared, people are dying.

The past week I have spent trying to locate myself in the chaos. I have wanted to dive into this challenge from a place of clarity, logic, trust (in my own instincts) and courage. I’m no stranger to chaos and drama and trauma, but this time I didn’t want to let it control me. I had a Zoom appointment with my therapist and had a bit of a breakthrough. I am consciously speaking of therapy because it is so helpful and so important and frankly, I’ve grown tired of the shame and stigma that is attached to seeking emotional and mental support from a professional. I had been feeling the old zero-to-sixty panic trying to worm its way in, trying to control me instead of me finding a place for it. Triggers are real and they aren’t simply some “liberal snowflake” phenomena, as I’ve often heard them referenced. It’s very simple. You find yourself in a situation where you are feeling the same as you have felt in the past and so, on some level, you revert to that past self even though you are in the present and whatever crippling emotions may have been associated with that past kind of take over. 

I’m so done with that. I wanted to be present now and move forward from now. As my past chaotic and fearful experiences cascaded through my consciousness, I came to rest on one very important truth. I am different. I am not the person who had those experiences any more. She will always be a part of me, but just one of many parts. This situation is different because I am different. Seems ridiculously simple.

It is one thing to know that and to feel better for a moment because, of course, that makes sense. It’s a whole other thing to be able to find that place of logic every time the fear, sadness or panic creeps up again. It’s not about denying those emotions, rather, it’s simply about carving out a room for them, giving them the “tip of the hat” so to speak, but not letting them MC your day. Again, as I said in my previous post, there’s not a lot I can do up here except to share and encourage. I have loved how close friendships and family relationships have been solidified during these past couple of weeks. I have seen kindness and compassion and have experienced empathy and support. We human beings are capable of incredible amounts of courage and determination. Every day is a new day and now that the future is so uncertain, it’s all we have. I am determined to try to move intentionally into each moment without a clue of what comes next. It’s the only thing I know how to do.

HUMANITY AND VULNERABILITY

I was homeschooled, mostly, so that doesn’t rattle me.

Every day of my childhood, we were preparing for “the end”, so that’s nothing new. 

I grew up with very little and know how to survive with a bag of beans and a sack of flour.

I was built for this. So why do I feel so unsettled?

It was always conceptual, something that was coming in the future, something that if we practiced and prepared for, we would survive. When I abandoned my upbringing  and walked away from the prophecies and the doomsday predictions, I also walked away from the idea of the apocalypse. I’ve spent years and countless therapy hours moving away from the panic and fear that ruled my childhood.

But now, that panic and fear is all around me. Uncertainty is sweeping the globe and it is bringing out both the best and the worst in people. And I don’t know what to feel. I’m surprised by how calm I feel, possibly because I was trained for this very scenario. I also feel the panic, that old urge to be prepared for every and any situation, the very thing that I’ve been working so hard to move past, knocking at my door demanding an audience.

I don’t want to open the door.

My kids are oscillating between downplaying the whole situation to anger and frustration to buried fear. There are an unbelievable number of opinions at their fingertips and if it is draining and disturbing for me, I cannot imagine what it’s like for them. As a parent, I have tried to give them stability, predictability, love, empathy, compassion—a childhood that I hope will launch them into a fulfilling and productive adult life. I have tried to manage, perhaps too much, any experience that could leave them scarred and confused and unbalanced. But this, this is way beyond my ability as a parent. This experience will be seared in their formative memories. This experience, this trauma, will help to write their stories. I can’t protect them from it. I can only bolster their resilience.

My therapist often talks about being present in your adult self. I love that image, especially in this situation. It means simply, being grounded, acting from the logical brain and not the flight or fight brain. In the past I have been able to do this ridiculously well, the problem being that switching to logic for me was not actually being grounded, it was survival. So while I went through the motions of a crisis, I was completely consumed by panic and terror underneath the grounded exterior. Which means I wasn’t present and not actually grounded at all. So as I am engulfed, as everyone else is, by this crisis I want to practice being present, so I am actually grounded and solid and not just stepping into a persona that I know so well. 

This has been the challenge for me. Now more than ever I need to step into my adult self and model for my children how to find your way through something that you have no control over. Doing so is a monumental feat as it is so much easier to fall back into the patterns I’ve known for so long, that place I go where I become more of a robot than a person just to get through.

I think that it is likely that there are a lot of other people falling into those same patterns, judging by the insane panic shopping and hoarding. I’m sharing my own journey through this just in case there is someone else out there who is struggling to stay present and steer clear of old patterns. Many of us have experienced traumas that have formed us and the way we approach challenges in our lives. We don’t have to let this be another one. 

I’ve learned through years of being a very fearful person, that often it’s not actually the thing itself that is terrifying, it’s the fear of the thing. Fear is debilitating, it’s irrational, it’s all-consuming. It serves a purpose—hardwired into us to keep us safe, but when it has total control, it can hijack the rational brain and keep us from making solid decisions. We are all vulnerable. The nature of being human is vulnerability. We can harness that feeling that is so unnerving to tap into our humanity. It is the only way we will get through this.

I’m not an expert. I’m not a healthcare provider. But I can offer words of support, compassion and empathy. If you find yourself in need of these, feel free to contact me at: askme@angelakehler.com. 

FORCES OF NATURE

When I was a teenager, I held my body close, shoulders curved inward, back hunched, hiding. I was covered from head to toe with clothing and with shame. My body, evil thing that it was, thing that needed to be abhorred, disciplined, resisted, was a burden that I would carry with me until I was liberated by death. The flesh, “bring it under subjection” the pastor preached, “resist the temptations of the flesh”—the flesh, the physical body, literally the thing, the living, breathing thing that carries us through our journey on this planet—was our worst enemy. He wasn’t the only pastor to preach that, it’s kind of a thing that’s out there, a thing that people actually teach their children. It was worse that my flesh was female. Female flesh is worse than male flesh because female flesh is what causes male flesh to stray. How could they give in to temptation, if we didn’t tempt them in the first place?

When I left the church, the message changed. My body wasn’t evil anymore, well, not totally, as long as I used it the right way, but it was wrong, all wrong. My legs weren’t long and lean, my abs weren’t well defined, my boobs were too small and my ass was too big. My hair wasn’t long and wavy and blonde and my cheekbones weren’t high enough or defined enough. When I was nineteen I bought a work-out VCR (yes, I’m that old) called “brand new butt” and tripped around the living room trying to follow the steps of those perfect ladies, those desirable ladies. 

In the church I felt shame if I was desired, out of the church, I felt shame if I was not.

Then I got pregnant and gained too much weight. My baby bump took over my whole body instead of just being the perfect little round ball in the front, the rest of me remaining stubbornly unchanged, sexy. My face swelled, and my feet puffed up. I dutifully pulled out the maternity yoga DVD tried to follow along, but I was so exhausted! I dutifully counted out the kegels so my husband wouldn’t have to suffer after I pushed a giant alien out of my vagina. 

As a forty-two year old mom, I worry about thinning hair, wrinkles and back fat, my body changing shape every three months without consulting me beforehand. I realize I have been at war with my body my whole life and I know that I’m not alone. I want to unlearn all of the bullshit and break the cycle. As that mom, with two beautiful children who believe in the power of humanity, self-respect, and mutual respect no matter your gender, identity or race, is it no wonder that seeing women—mothers—rock the Super Bowl with their grace, independence, and power would leave me with tears of joy?

And now, watching the backlash unfold, my thoughts rest with my kids and their friends. I hope that they will always have the courage to move through the world, not with their eyes covered, but wide open, resisting the shame, the pressure and the confusion of trying to fit someone else’s mold of what is desirable and proper, never feeling like they have to hide any part of themselves because it doesn’t fit that mold. 

MOTHER'S DAY

The choice to become a mother was probably the most courageous choice I’ve ever made and I didn’t even know it. It’s not like I sat down and wrote up a list of pros and cons, or weighed the positive to negative. It was just something I did, the next step in my journey—it was time, I simply knew. What I didn’t know is that, while opening my heart wider than I knew it could open, and compelling me to love more deeply than I’ve ever loved before, (not like being in love with my spouse, a different kind of love that comes from my very cells and reverberates out through the universe), being a mother also had the potential to expose me to a world of hurt, should anything ever happen to my babies. The kind of hurt that you never recover from, that leaves a gaping hole, a bottomless void, forever. That is where the courage part comes in. I have been blessed to watch them grow and thrive. I am in awe of them daily. When I stand back and let them be, they astound me with their vision, so unclouded by experience and cynicism, their enthusiasm for life, the simplicity of their lens, their undaunted commitment to pursuing the things they believe are important. I hurt when they hurt, I smile when they smile—never before in my life have I been, nor in my future, will I be, so entwined in another person’s well-being. As a mother, I don’t only bathe myself in the precious moments, the magic minutes, stowing them away, treasuring them, I’m also bathed in the anxiety, the moments of panic, those moments every mother knows, when you turn around and for five seconds you can’t locate your toddler, or when your teenage daughter isn’t at the top of the driveway waiting for the bus as usual even though you just saw her walking up there not five minutes prior. Either someone swooped in and your worst fear has been realized, or she simply hopped on the bus, oblivious, and didn’t tell the driver to wait for her brother—in which case you’ll have to have a conversation with that girl about accountability.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

The future is female—is the refrain I’m hearing regularly these days. I sure hope it’s true. But mothers, perhaps, have had the power all along. Because, mostly (please note that I say mostly), we shape the future. If we claim our power, we can inspire our children, male and female, to do the same. To reject injustice, to speak the truth, to stand up when it matters most, and to demand the change and the forward movement that they know the world needs. The wisdom of children is no longer an abstract concept to me. And I’m not only speaking of my own, but of the many young ones that I’ve come in contact with who inspire me with their no-nonsense dedication to dreams that aspire to give birth to a world that they believe they can thrive in. I am deeply flawed as a human, and as a mother, but if I can give my children anything, I hope that it is the power to believe in themselves and the courage to be present in every moment of their lives, be they painful or triumphant.

This Mother’s Day was for me, less about my kids and husband showing their appreciation, (although that is always nice), and more about my connections with other mothers. I began the day with a smile, that turned to a warm glow and the comfort of camaraderie as, throughout the day, email, after text message, after facebook message, appeared on my phone from other moms, all of them lifting me up, saluting me, giving me the nod—it’s a tough job, but we’ve got this, right? The message was, “hey, it’s a pleasure to be mothering with you.” Those confirmations made my day, because, yes, I am so fortunate to be mothering with so many amazing women—non of us perfect, but all of us dedicated, to those precious beings that we so courageously chose to give our hearts to.

To mothers around the world, believe in yourselves—they are the future, we are their present.

SPANX

I’d love to see a guy in Spanx. A guy who gives enough of a crap about his beer gut to huff and puff and squeeze and groan as he struggles with the unforgiving elastic, stuffing the rolls in and trying to breathe afterward. Then smiling cheerfully as he sits at the table in his best suit picking at the food on his plate because he knows there is no way it is possible to have both food and Spanx sharing the same space in his body. I’d love to watch him grab the back of the chair, trying not to pass out from the shallow breaths he’s been taking all night and the too many glasses of wine that have replaced his meal.

I’m forty-one. I know, still young in the grand scheme of things, but physical evolution hasn’t quite caught up to mental evolution nor to our continuous redefinition of what it means to age, to be past our prime. We’ve decided that because we still “feel” young, we are still young, even if our bodies haven’t gotten the memo. So we struggle against them and their constant reminders that age comes for us all no matter how young we feel. I know that barely a century ago, I would, at this age, be past my prime and resigned to that fact. But now, I feel like I’m just beginning. My mind is clear. I am grounded and sure. I’m excited about possibilities. I know that I matter. Hard to say the same of my twenty-five year old self, or my thirty year old self, or my thirty-five year old self. 

My body has decided that it doesn’t care what my mind feels like. I struggle with sleep. I struggle with my hair and skin. I struggle with exhaustion that creeps up from out of no where. I work hard to keep all of these things in check. Almost a year ago I decided that my eyelashes were woefully inadequate. I’d never noticed before, but when someone offered me a serum to make them grow I looked closer and bemoaned the fact that they, too, were deserting me! 

My dermatologist told me that I should be using a retinol cream every night for age spots and fine lines. I have age spots? I tried the cream for two nights and woke up to dry, flaky skin on my forehead and cheeks. I tossed it into the trash. He had assured me that every woman over the age of thirty-five should be using a retinol cream just as a matter of fact. Every woman? Guess men don’t get age spots and fine lines. He also told me with a chuckle that even botox wouldn’t help the deep grooves of worry on my forehead. I’ve studied them in the mirror more times than I’d like to admit, stretching the skin out, imagining what it would be like without them, despising the permanent scowl they have etched into my face.

As I age, I don’t want to run from it or be afraid to talk about it. I’d rather embrace the crone. Wisdom comes from experience, experience can only come with time. Why is youth the ideal? My youth eluded me. Now is all I have. And I’m curious about the double standard that seeps in from all directions between aging men and women. Why do women have to try so much harder? Why do we have to care so much more?

I was thinking about how our bodies change after giving birth. We kill ourselves trying to make them go back to what they were, bombarded by the tabloids about all the celebrities who bounced right back. I figure that if men gave birth, saggy boobs and stretch marks would probably be sexy.

Like “dad bods”.