Quelling the voices

I love my life. Sometimes the events really suck, but this new life that I'm building since I got into recovery is scads better than the one I started to leave behind when I finally admitted that I needed help. 

Occasionally though, voices from my old self rise up and accuse me. At least it's in my old self's voice - though I'm inclined to believe it comes from another quarter that's more sinister. Be that as it may, the voices do come in and tend to mess up my thoughts, make me sour and sometimes even bitter, and I experience a good deal of discontent as a result. Peace leaves. The waters of turmoil start to come to a boil.

It's the discontent that usually alerts me to the fact that something has gone awry. When I step back and take stock, usually I find that it's a voice or two from my prior lifestyle that has crept in unawares and wreaked havoc in my thinking. My focus has shifted; I am no longer living life from the inside out, but from the outside in... allowing what others say and do - and even what they might think or believe (and it doesn't even have to be about me; I'll MAKE it about me) - to get the better of me. 

Inner statements like, "They like her better than they like me" or "What did he mean by that?" or "How dare she imply that I would think / do that?" or "How come I am always the one to give and give some more and this other person just sucks me dry?" rob me of precious joy. 

Thanks to nuttakit for this photo,
"Barbed Wire" which I got at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

When I finally realize that the focus has shifted from maintaining my center to reinforcing the barbed wire fence in an attempt at self-preservation, that's when I need to quell the voices, the ones that accuse me, the ones that tell me I'm no good, that I'm not worth anyone's time or effort, that nobody will ever like me for ME, only for what I can DO for them. 

I start with the basics of recovery. Being responsible for my own actions but nobody else's. Letting go of the need to control what someone says, does, or thinks. Setting boundaries that prohibit others from controlling what I say, do, or think. Reminding myself that I have just as much right to exist and to occupy space as the next person does; and so do they. 

Then, the truth about the situations I've been struggling with becomes clear. I can return to enjoying my life; the voices fade into the background. The thoughts and opinions of others about me, or of others about other people as compared to me, or even of others about my choices or my beliefs, matter less and less the closer I get to my center - the part of me that is key, that makes me who I am. 

I know the voices are likely to return. I've accepted that. I can only hope that the length of time that it takes for me to realize that they've returned, gets less and less as time goes on. 

In the meantime, I can enjoy each day as it comes.

The Acid Test

The term, "the acid test" has been around since the days of the early gold prospectors. They needed a way to determine if the metal they found was real gold or some other metal. So, they would mark the metal with nitric acid, which would melt other metals; gold, not so much. That term came to mean the way by which someone would know if something was genuine or not - from merchandise to someone's promises or beliefs. 

I got to thinking about this expression this morning as the face of this one person came into my mind, someone to whom some people react one way while others react the opposite way.

I first met Joseph in the late 1990s. He's an itinerant - a man who chooses to be homeless. He has a "home base" - the home of a relative in a different province - but he only goes there once in a while to catch up on his mail. Most of the time, no matter what the season, he walks and sometimes hitch-hikes from place to place.  He has a full beard, wears layer upon layer of clothing (because there's no other place to put it) and smells of spruce, wood smoke, and sweat. He makes no apologies for his appearance or his lifestyle. He sleeps in the woods, sometimes in a sleeping bag and sometimes not. 

It's intriguing to see the reactions of different people to this man. The first time I saw him, I was a receptionist at a church office. He walked into the office one day in 1998. My immediate impression was that he was a homeless man in his mid-fifties, in need of a bath, a good meal and a change of clothes.  There was something about him, though - something in his eyes, which contradicted what my sense of smell was telling me. My boss at the time, a wonderful pastor, caught sight of him and came out to greet him warmly. I decided to watch him, talk to him, and get to know him a bit better. 

Taken at Picadilly Circus, London.
Thanks to photographer Mantas Ruzveltas
for this photo, "Homeless Man" - obtained at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Over the course of the next week, as he used the woods behind the church to sleep in (with the pastor's permission of course!) I learned that he loved his life, that he enjoyed country and western music (well, nobody's perfect), that he was a diabetic, and that he had the most gentle, humble character you would ever want to meet. I instinctively knew that if I ever needed anyone to look after my preschool children, I could trust him implicitly to guard them with his life. 

I began to look forward to his visits; he was always so full of joy, so content with his chosen lifestyle, so grateful for every bit of help offered to him, and so accepting of others. About once or twice a year he would show up, stay a few days and then move on. Whenever he did, he'd stop for a church service on a Sunday morning. He'd usually sit at the back, close to the door, so that he could slip to and from the washroom unnoticed. It was there that I noticed the varied reactions to his presence. They were much like my original impression had been - except that they were a bit more (how shall I put this nicely? oh never mind) "in your face."  Some reactions were downright visceral; they were clearly repulsed by this man and got as far away from him as possible. 

Many of these people are the first to attend prayer vigils and go to spiritual retreats, talk about the glory days, and tell others exactly what they believe. 

But Joseph is the acid test  -  his very existence challenges people and he isn't even aware of it; he just is who he is. Yet the challenge hangs in the air, "Do you really believe what you say you believe?"

A few months ago, as winter melted into spring, I found myself wondering where Joseph was, if he was still out there tramping the roads and touching lives with his uniqueness. 

And then one Sunday morning recently, I saw him - sitting by himself in the back near the door. His hair and beard were more gray; his face was more gaunt, but it was him. He was beaming, basking in the simple but profound pleasure of good music and shelter from the rain. When the service was over, I rushed over to where he'd been sitting, but he was gone. Disappointment settled on me like a wet blanket. I made my way back to my seat and began to pick up my purse and other items.

Then I turned and saw him, not ten feet away! He'd been in the washroom (most likely) and was coming up to the front to talk to the pastor and ask for a drive. My eyes misted over; what a beautiful soul. I shook hands with him and was delighted that he remembered me - his grip was a little weaker, but still firm. He was wobbling a bit with age and the ravages of life on the road - but it was the Joseph I remembered. His eyes were still as bright, and his smile as ready as it always was. 

Given the rainy day, the pastor asked a young man (a student interning at the church) to drive Joseph to where he needed to go next - across town - and I wondered if yet another generation would come to appreciate the inner beauty of this simple man ... and pass the acid test. 

I sure hope so.

Even when they don't "get it"

When I was a few decades younger, my parents would never allow my brothers and me to fight. Not once.

When we disagreed or got angry at each other (which invariably happened) we were told that we didn't hate each other, that we loved each other, and what would we feel like if something horrible happened to that other person and we never got a chance to make things right? Guilt and shame were the weapons used to coerce us into "making up" ... we were never allowed to work it out between ourselves.  We weren't allowed to feel what we felt.

All that really succeeded in doing was to make us doubt ourselves, to doubt our own feelings, and to not know how to resolve issues we had whenever they arose. We were forced into forgiveness before we'd even gotten a chance to fully define the problem. We learned to be insincere and to get away with it. This had far-reaching repercussions on our own emotions. Depending on our personalities, we either withdrew into ourselves, exploded in angry outbursts, or poured on the guilt and manipulation to make the other person capitulate. 

 Nobody said that he or she was sorry. We instead tried to make it up to the other person by doing something nice for him or her. We also never learned what true forgiveness was. 

Thanks to Tina Phillips at
www.freedigitalphotos.net 
for this photo, "Young Love"
Notice how what appears to be love ... isn't.

It wasn't until much later (many years after I left the family homestead) that I learned that an apology is actually being sorry and saying so, not for being caught but for hurting the other person. And in the same way, I learned that forgiveness isn't saying that nothing is wrong, that I was wrong to feel what I felt, or that what the other person did wasn't really all that bad. 

That kind of mentality kept me in a type of emotional slavery to my own sense of self-justification. I held onto things that people did to me out of a sense of not only being wronged, but of wanting someone else - anyone else (but especially the ones that wronged me) - to admit that I was the victim.

I learned, through therapy and some intensive working on my inner self, that forgiveness is recognizing that there is a moral debt that someone owes you, but choosing to write that debt off and not expect repayment. 

Ever. 

And that it is a process. It takes time. Sometimes a LOT of time.

And over time, I also learned that forgiving someone doesn't require the other person to apologize or to change in any way. In fact, very often the other person doesn't know that he or she has committed an offense and - if confronted - would never admit to any wrongdoing. Or, if they admitted it, they'd go right back to doing whatever it was all over again.

Instead, I learned that forgiveness is not really about the other person at all. It's about the person who forgives. It's about letting go of the need for justice. And what happens when you forgive is that it frees you. There is a lot of energy expended in maintaining a grudge. Forgiveness makes that burden disappear. 

And it does more. It actually liberates the other person to experience the consequences of his or her own actions without my help or influence. Don't ask me HOW this works; I just know that I've seen it over and over again. And every time I struggle with forgiving someone and finally come to that place of letting go, I learn it all over again. 

Even when they don't get it, even when they continue on in the same behavior, forgiving them allows me to acknowledge the wrongness of their behavior, and then to choose to release myself from the obligation to extract my pound of flesh from them. 

That's energy I get back. That's strength I need to live my life every day, unencumbered by the torture of "what they did" or "what they said." 

Forgiveness, even when the other person doesn't know or does not care one bit, does what very few things can do in the inner life of the one who forgives. It does what Abraham Lincoln did for the slaves after the American Civil War.

It emancipates. 

Self-talk

Any new venture can be exciting, but it can also be overwhelming.

Since I was accepted into an online grad school, I've been quite busy preparing for September. Whenever there is a lull in the activity, my meta-brain kicks in and I start having doubts, second-guessing myself.

It's been over twenty-five years since I graduated from university with a Bachelor's degree. I'm over fifty years old - what am I doing by launching out into a new career path at this stage in my life? how many years would I have left?

Taken right down to its most basic message, my doubting and questioning boils down to one accusation: "Just who do you think you are?"

Interesting question! Still more interesting that once reduced to its most basic nature, it becomes clear where it's coming from: the well-worn recording I have in my head that was etched deeply into my psyche from the time I was a child. That recording says, "You're a screw-up. You'll never amount to anything. Nobody's ever done anything like that before in this family. What, do you think you're better than we are?" 

Oh really?

This kind of thinking is part of the old life. That was the old me - and I am not that person any more. I don't have to listen to it and I certainly don't have to accept it, because it's not true.

The key to getting a song out of your head, they say, is to have an "eraser song" lined up that is more powerful, more meaningful, and more positive than the one you just can't shake. It's the same with thoughts, beliefs about yourself. 

"A new day dawning" - I took this photo
in May 2010 when we were staying at
Killarney B&B, a scent-free space
in Bedford, Nova Scotia.

My "eraser thoughts" look something like this lately: "I need to do this! No more cow-towing. Even if nothing ever comes of this latest venture, I am doing this for me, not for anyone else. I'm not my past, nor am I stuck there. The voices from that awful, hurtful place don't hold any power over me any more. I can do this. I can take whatever comes, one day at a time, just like always.  I'm worth the extra work and expense. It's time to look after my own well-being." 

Self-talk is important. What I say to myself about myself can make quite an impact. It makes the difference between being swept away on the wave of the opinions and thoughts of those around me, and being built up to withstand the onslaught of criticism and negativity - even if that stuff comes from me ... or from some person in my past who, perhaps out of some sense of inadequacy, paralyzed me with shame, trampled on my dreams and crushed nearly every spark of individuality out of me. 

I'm not that person any more. Sometimes I barely recognize myself. On the whole, I like myself better now. That someone else might still see me the way I used to be, needn't dictate the choices I make now. 

And if they can't handle or accept who I am now... that's their loss, not mine.

Drawing the line

At the edges of my perception, as I was concentrating on something else and trying to finish up my own work, I overheard what sounded like a conversation about the rain. Someone hadn't thought to bring an umbrella, and then noticed that there was one at the desk of someone who was on vacation. 

The person seemed to be talking to herself. She then convinced herself, in the space of about twenty seconds, that the person on vacation would not mind if she used the umbrella. She decided to take it.

Interesting. 

I was brought up to believe that if you take something that belongs to someone else without that person's permission, that's stealing, and it is wrong. 

Occasionally, if there is a relationship that is very close, where both people trust each other and know each other very well, such liberties might be taken occasionally, but it would be expected to tell the person as soon as possible afterward of the temporary borrowing - and give the item back! Anything less would erode the relationship and eat away at trust. 

Thanks to imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net
for this photo,
"Young Lady Holding Umbrella"

I've noticed that in recent years, the sense of respect and consideration that was endemic to the previous generation - perhaps out of an emphasis on the Golden Rule - has been more and more reserved only for strangers... tourists ... or the people who appear to be more well-off financially. The common courtesy to which every person has a right ... is getting more and more rare. 

I found myself thinking along those lines, even taking pleasure in my own assessment of the situation. And then it hit me. 

If I concentrate on what others are doing, it will drive me nuts. Plain and simple. And that's where I need to draw the line. For ME.

It took me a lot of time to realize that I can't change what anyone else does. However, I can be true to what I believe, and behave accordingly. I spent too many years trying to manipulate people into doing the "right" thing, nearly losing everything and everyone that was important to me in the process, to want to risk alienating them or anyone else by acting (or even thinking) self-righteously. No, I can't draw that line for anyone else, but I can draw it for me. 

Like one day about a month or so ago, for example. I was running late for work, and couldn't find a blazer to put on that would go with my outfit - and noticed my daughter's jacket on the back of a chair; it went perfectly! She was sleeping. I wore the jacket because I knew that if I'd asked her ahead of time, she'd have said yes without hesitation. Nevertheless, when I came home, I took it off, put it back where I got it, and told her immediately. As I suspected, she was fine with it, but I was fully prepared to apologize for my actions and to respect her wishes if she told me not to do it in the future. 

Acting according to my own beliefs, following my conscience, protects me in often confusing surroundings. Many times I find that the line between right and wrong is smudged, unclear. Often it's because I am not sure how I feel about a given situation or my own part in it; it's that ambiguity that gets me into trouble. When I am centered, when I am most self-aware and confident in my relationships with myself, with God, and with other people, that is when I can make the choices that are right for me, and treat people with the respect that they - and I - deserve.

Level and True

When tiling a floor correctly, one learns how to use a tool called a level to make sure that the tiles are even with each other (true) and that they are parallel with the Earth's gravitational pull (level), especially when creating a large project. Smaller ones might be able to be done by "feel" where one runs a hand over the surface of the tile, but for larger surfaces, it's not enough to go by how something feels. There has to be an independent measure going both ways (east-west and north-south, if you will) that the floor is safe. 

It's about balance, really. A level is a straight edge that houses a bit of liquid in a tube that has an air bubble in it. When the air bubble is in the middle of the liquid, the surface being tested is level. It's balanced. The bubble will show to the left or right of the center of the tube if the floor, in this case, is not level. And the straight edge will rock back and forth (or show a gap underneath) if the pieces of tile are not true (lined up to the same level) with each other. 

It's important to make it level, because once that soft stuff underneath it dries, it will be too late to go back and make it right ... without taking a jack-hammer to it. 

Taking care at the beginning of a process can avoid a great deal of work and anguish later. True in construction, true in life.

A little over three years ago, I went to a special clinic to be assessed for the presence and severity of Multiple Chemical Sensitivities (Yes, the tests were positive; my MCS is in the range of moderate). One of the tests they asked me to do was the balance test. They hooked motion-sensing electrodes to a few points on me and then asked me to stand on one foot, then the other, while a computer measured how much I wavered. I did pretty fine with it. And then they asked me to do the same thing with my eyes closed. 

Not fine. 

Most people can do that with only a few centimeters of difference between the two results. I was all over the map on the second test. For some reason, people with MCS have a more exaggerated loss of balance than regular folks. Who knew! 

By the end of the three-day assessment, I'd been poked, prodded, hooked up to machines, and had an intravenous treatment to mark the second phase of a 48-hour urine test, not to mention talks with an occupational therapist, a psychologist and an MCS specialist ... and finally I got my diagnosis. 

Best of all, I was able to discuss the things I needed to do in order to put some balance back into my life. My body was missing or low on an essential mineral, and the specialist instructed me on how to get the correct supplement, what to look for and how much to use. This mineral was what he called a "chelating [KEE-late-ing] agent" - which essentially is something that binds with the toxins in the system so as to allow the body to flush them out. Otherwise they build up and can't be released. The more toxins are there, the more quickly any further exposure to them can trigger a neurological reaction: headaches, lack of concentration, disorientation, even stuttering, dizziness, breathing difficulties, and nausea.

Since I started taking this mineral, I've noticed a very slow change in my sensitivities. Slow because each exposure brings the toxin levels back up, the change takes place over time and is cumulative. It takes a long time to work. However, I have seen progress. It takes more concentrated exposures to scented products like hair spray, deodorant soaps, and even room deodorizers to make me have a reaction now than it once did. I still need to be careful, of course. I still avoid the detergent aisle in the grocery store and I can't go near the perfume counter at the drug store. Sometimes I can't even go into the store itself. Some stores are absolutely off-limits (the Body Shoppe for example). 

Still, my life is much less restricted than it once was. There was a time when I couldn't go to work without wearing a mask over my face. (I remember one poor person thinking I had H1N1 and that I was going to die... and others ostracizing me for what they thought my motives were. They had no idea.) 

Today, I went into the washroom at a local grocery store and I was immediately struck with waves of fragrance from an overpoweringly scented soap that the store keeps in its soap dispensers. I immediately went into self-protect mode and was able to do the bare minimum in that room, only by employing filtering strategies I've developed over time. However, three years ago, those two minutes would have given me an instant headache even with the filtering. 

Thanks to artur84 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net for this
photo, "Construction Level"

Today it didn't. My balance is coming back.

It's come through an insistence on self-care that is based on consistency, sometimes in spite of evidence that the pills seemed to be doing no discernible good. Yet, here I sit, able to discuss this issue frankly and without accusation, without ranting or being unpleasant. This was not possible when this process first started. 

I'm more on a level with my world - and true to those around me: I can get along with other people better too, much better than before. 

Will my sensitivities eventually disappear? I don't know. Maybe. I haven't excluded the possibility. Nevertheless, I am glad to have gone through this process, because it has made me passionate about the rights of those that suffer in this way, for all those who are marginalized because their disability is "invisible" - whether it's MCS, deafness, mental illness, or what have you. 

The important thing for me in this whole process is to make sure that I am first true to myself. Then my life will be true with others and I will achieve the balance I seek.

Breaking a Few Eggs

I'm the kind of person who likes to feel safe. I know that some people thrive on conflict; I'm not one of them. I like to have things planned out, predictable, and no-risk. 

There comes a time, though, when it's necessary to take a few risks to achieve a desired result, to no longer settle for the "status quo." The expression, "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," sometimes applies. 

Thanks to Apolonia at www.freedigitalphotos.net for
this photo called "Omelette with Vegetables"

Lately, though I can't exactly pinpoint when or how it started, I've been taking a few risks in my personal life, in my spiritual growth, in my finances, and in my professional life. Yes, it's outside my comfort zone; yes, it's scary. Very scary at times. However, I came to the point where the same-old-same-old was just not acceptable. Something had to change. My attitudes slowly evolved and I found myself making choices that I would never have considered even a year ago. 

Even something as simple as expressing an opinion that might not be considered popular, was unthinkable for me several months ago, but I find myself doing it on occasion. Just on occasion... but at least it happens instead of me suppressing my feelings and suffering for it physically.... with symptoms that typically range from headaches to acid reflux to backaches.

Do I know how all this happened or what started the ball rolling? No, not exactly. In a way, I kind of grew into it, as my relationships with myself, with God, and with others healed, and I automatically began to feel more comfortable inside my own skin. All I know is that the more I look after myself, the more I let go of the things in my life over which I have no control, and the more I refuse to try to influence the outcome of other people's stuff, I find that I have more energy for the things in my life that I can change ... and I also notice that my body fights less against me. 

That's one omelet I could relish.

Big Deal

The sound of the vacuum cleaner greeted me as I walked through the doors and into the church foyer. It was 1998 and I was volunteering a few hours a week as a secretary. The man holding the hose - the custodian of the building - saw me. A half-smile flickered across his lips and he leaned over. He flicked a switch, and the vacuum's engine wheezed to a stand-still, rumbling its last bit of protest as he approached me. He had his "I got something to tell ya" look on his face, all serious. I wondered what in the world was next.

"You heard that Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, did ya?" he asked me.

I nodded. "Yeah, I heard that somewhere or other." 

He leaned in closer and his voice became a hoarse whisper. "Well - he didn't get this far north!" Then he rocked back on his heels as I laughed ... and grinned as he turned back toward the vacuum. 

He was like that. 

He loved a good laugh. He loved food (cooking it and eating it!) He loved his dear wife. And he loved his Savior. Everything he did, he did with his whole heart. There were never any half-measures. It was whole hog - or in his case, whole "Jiggs dinner" (corned beef and cabbage) - or nothing.

He took particular delight in making people laugh. With him, not AT him. Though he and his wife were never able to have children, kids loved this guy. They flocked around him, calling him by his first name with the title "Mister" before it. "Mister Merrill" was a fixture at the preschool that was housed in the basement of the church for many a year. 

He was a living example of joy and of how the flame of romance never had to go out. He never lost the wonder that his little slip of a wife, whom he considered to be the most beautiful lady on the planet, was in love with him. And my, how he loved her. He always referred to her as "the bride." His bride. Wow.

This photo, "Wedding Day Thoughts"
courtesy of Timeless Photography at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

One friend tells me that he'd say her name over and over to himself as he worked. Out loud - so her name would echo in the halls and come back to him. He did all the cooking, all the housework. He drove her to Costco nearly every weekend and filled up the van with whatever she wanted. And speaking of the van ... since she was small of stature, he would outfit any new van he got with running boards, so that she could step up into it with no trouble. He'd hold the door open for her. He doted on her every whim. 

On the days I'd come in a little late to the church office, the vacuum would be silent. I knew he was catching a little snooze in one of the back pews - a habit he started in his youth and never saw any reason to stop - and that he would be awake in a half hour or less, full of energy to face the rest of the day. 

He shared his philosophy of daily living with anyone who would hear. "We're here for a good time," he'd tell me. "Not for a long time." As a matter of fact, he shared his opinions on a bunch of things with anyone who would take the time to listen. I remember him telling me about what he thought the problem with the modern church was. "Unbelief." He'd shake his head. "Unbelief, pure and simple." Religious people, he shared with me, were more concerned with the right way to do things (and whether everyone else was doing it right) than they were about enjoying the life they had and the relationship with God that they had. 

Over the last six months, he had not been coming to church because he was physically unable to get out. And this morning, as we were worshiping, his wife, mother-in-law, niece and nephew gathered around his bedside in the hospital as he quietly slipped into the presence of the Master. 

He truly found out, as former Imperials singer Jake Hess sang, "Death ain't no big deal." The "big deal" awaited him as he made his entrance this morning.

I'm sure they had a great big rotisserie bar-b-que (with all the utensils) waiting for him when he got through the gates of Heaven, and a big ol' apron with "Kiss the Cook" written all over it. I can't imagine anything he'd like more to keep him busy until his bride arrives.

Life will never be the same.
For him  ...  or for those left behind - those who love him.

It's me

It happens occasionally. 

I hear something that touches my heart, and I weep. Or I get to sing something that means a lot to me and my emotions take over my voice box and I choke up and can't make the notes come out the way I wanted. 

Once in a while that happens in public. And every so often, I can tell when someone is puzzled by it, because that individual questions me on it and makes assumptions that I must have experienced some great loss recently. It's as if the person believes that the singing is the performing part of Judy (first wrong assumption: I don't perform. Music is a part of me; I can't "not sing"), and the emotions have only to do with something that people are "supposed" to get emotional about. Like, say, grieving a death or something like that. And only a recent death. If I behave otherwise, it's instant judgment (or at the very least, bewilderment) because the attitude is that one should maintain a "stiff upper lip." I'm regarded as weird if I am affected by something beyond the accepted time frame, or if I am moved by something that means a lot to me. Like music. Or the beauty of nature. Or yes, even the death of someone who's important to me - and it doesn't have to be recent, or even someone I know personally. 

Thanks to David Castillo Dominici
who took this photo,
"Little Boy Covering His Face"
and posted it at www.freedigitalphotos.net

This happens to a lot of people; it's not just me. I remember a young girl of my acquaintance going to school a year after her older sister's sudden death (which happened under mysterious circumstances and to which there was never any closure), appearing "down" one day, and being told by a teacher that it had been long enough for her to "get over" her sister's death. 

As if you ever get over something like that. Really. 

I have a great deal of trouble with the mentality that denies and subjugates emotion as something "bad" or at least embarrassing and to be avoided. 

Here's the thing. I'm me. I'm a sensitive soul and I know it. I don't make apologies for it. In fact, I find it odd that people aren't more affected by beautiful sights or sounds, or by the misfortunes of others, because I am. I've wished in the past sometimes that I wasn't affected by things so much. However, even though sometimes I still want to not be quite as affected by the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," I've come to understand that it's my sensitivity and my empathy that make me who I am, and I don't need to apologize for it. It's my ability to have compassion and to 'weep with those who weep' - or to access the emotions attached to memories from my past - that will eventually (one day) make me a good counselor ... even if it is hard on my head sometimes. 

Emotions are part of the human experience. They were designed as a built-in early-warning system and pressure relief valve for the human spirit. They're normal and healthy. I would rather feel the things I feel, even if they are unpleasant, than to shut off those emotions, and then eventually, never be able to feel ANYTHING ... even the nice things. That is what happens when one makes a habit of clamping down on emotions too consistently. I've seen the results of that, and they are not pleasant. 

So - this is me. Bumbling with emotion sometimes, tongue-tied and thinking of a million things I could have said after the fact. Emotional and glad to be so, given the alternative. 

As the song goes, "I just want to live while I'm alive."

My "Other" Family

Okay, I have to admit it. Sometimes I can be a funny duck. Funny like .... strange. 

Having multiple chemical sensitivities, I enjoy the company of house plants: they clean the toxins from the air and give back oxygen in return, and they're pretty! 

I got away from having plants at home unless they were up high where the cats couldn't reach them; so many house plants are poisonous to cats and dogs, and even if I could find one that wasn't, I was not fond of the idea of having it destroyed by a furry buddy with a vine-chewing fetish. So at home, I only have a couple of plants, set up where the four-legged kind can't reach: a hoya plant which I raised from a cutting, and an umbrella plant that I got on sale for a buck fifty at Wal-Mart. 

But at work - where there are no four-legged critters - I've amassed quite a family. Most of them I have inherited from other people who were willing to give them to me. One came from Wal-Mart, and grew from just a little shaver into a bushy fella I've taken cuttings from to give to others.  Another came from a plant that I bought in a flower shop and which grew so big I had to divide it and give three-quarters of it away. 

Helen sitting and rooting between the spider-twins.
Yes, each plant has its own label on my shelf.
I'm just that quirky.

I have the twins, Anson and Anna, children of the now-deceased Queen Anne (a huge spider plant). There is Nigel, a robust and friendly English Ivy I bought at Wal-Mart three years ago or so; he kept hugging every other plant set beside him, so I had to keep him by himself until he learned to behave. Now he's better, so as of Thursday past, he has a new companion, a lovely philodendron I have named Philomena, given to me by a friend who was leaving the building to go to a different job. That same friend allowed me to have a cutting he was growing of a baby rubber plant. Since I'm a great Pixar fan and I'm fond of their latest superhero movie, "The Incredibles" - I named this one Helen, after Helen Parr, the secret identity of "Elastigirl". She sits between the spider-twins at the moment and keeps them company, concentrating on growing roots in a big Santa-Claus mug. 

Serena, next to the pot which will be Helen's home.
(My neighbor's peace lily is in the background.)
The only critter I let near my plant family is Tigger,
a crocheted critter made for me by
my friend Dorothy, whose e-store
is at http://dorothyscritters.ecrater.com/

And finally, I have Ireney, the Peace Lily. She is the other of the plants that I purchased (Serena) who got so big that she needed to be divided. I gave the other three plants to good homes. She's higher-maintenance than the others, but every so often she gives me a treat: a lovely white blossom that graces my cubicle for a couple of weeks.

And yes, if you haven't already guessed by now, I name my plants... which is why I said that I'm a funny duck. 

Of course they're like family to me. They brighten my work space, clean my air, and help me remember that there is a world outside the four walls of both my cubicle and the building in which I work. They remind me of the people that gave them to me. They help me remember that differences make life interesting. And they have opened quite a few conversations ... just by being there.

I guess that's the main reason I keep potted plants: as an object lesson to me that one doesn't have to grunt and strain and strive in order to grow; one just IS. With proper care, the growth will look after itself.  In some ways, plants are self-sufficient: they send out roots and they make chlorophyll out of light, a process that boggles my mind. However, these indoor plants are also completely dependent on the water and the care that I provide. Without me, in a very real sense, they can do nothing. I need to be reminded that while it is all well and good for folks to be self-sufficient and pull their own weight, everyone is dependent on others to provide a safe place to grow and thrive. 

We all need each other, whether we want to admit it or not. 

Philomena settling in. You can just see Nigel
peeking over the top of my cubicle to her right.