'Tis the Season; Awaiting the Sparkly Unicorn and Happy Chrisnukkanzaa

I am going to say it outright and I am sure it will piss people off on both sides of the theological aisle (for the record, I know there are way more sides than that, but I am purposely simplifying here): Both American Christians and American atheists appear to be trying to ruin Christmas for me. Am I taking it personally? Yes!... But, maybe I should back up the context truck a bit.

I have no idea why (but I suspect it is related to our ability to send and receive messages at super-fast speed and across huge audiences) but the past few years has, to me, seen an increase in the intolerant banter between Christians and atheists on the topic of Christmas. One side bemoans the loss of "Christ in Christmas" while the other takes the supposedly intellectual high-ground and constantly reminds us that it is a made-up and power-based manipulative holiday in the first place. For now, I will leave alone the over-consumerism and ploys by retailers to suck us dry on yet more stuff (but that might be another post). Both of these "sides," however, in this game are starting to irritate me. Frankly, I wish everyone would just lighten up. And OF COURSE, this post uses broad generalizations. I am not aiming at anyone and I know certainly not everyone will "fit" the descriptions I am making here. But it is food for thought...

Now, I will freely admit that my perspective is one of believing in a higher power (but I don't give it a name, gender or any emotional attributes) but I do not subscribe to the bible as "the word of God" or any other organized religion. Additionally, I am a BIG supporter of the separation of church and state so any arguments in that topic are lost on me. But Christmas is also one of my favorite holidays, so maybe it is my place somewhere in the middle of these two factions that makes me tire of the lack of mutual respect.

Now, don't get me wrong. Some of the "barbs" that are lobbed across the proverbial fences are hysterically funny to me. I belong to a FaceBook group that is made up of like-humored people and there are loads of posts that crack me up, but they are away from the broader forum that might include offending people we wouldn't want to hurt. (One of my favorites is a painting of a very sad Jesus with the caption: "Figs. I said I hate figs!" - a brilliant message, imo, but I digress) Interestingly, the same does not seem to be true of my Christian friends; they post for all to see, but I am lucky in that my friends are kind and inclusive and I am rarely offended by what they have to say (but again, that is me). I have seen, however, public posts that are hurtful, judgmental and incredibly intolerant (from all sides). There are people who say we are too politically correct; that people need to learn to laugh at themselves and take a joke. In part I agree, but the beliefs being mocked aren't mine, so it is easy to say. Values are those beliefs that people will use resources (money, time, energy) to uphold and protect. Making jokes of someone's belief system and therefore also their values, is bound to be taken to heart.

I personally think you can and should believe whatever makes your life purposeful. If you want to believe there was a Jesus and all that the bible prescribes, then go for it. If you want to follow the path of Mohammed and the Koran; good too. If you are Jewish-awesome! Frankly, if you worship a magical, sparkly unicorn that will sprinkle peace and love on the Universe, I am fine with that too. My caveat: please don't tell me how to live my life and that I am going to be somehow damned for not believing as you do and don't use your beliefs to persecute or oppress or hurt other people.

Likewise, if you want to believe in nothing, I think that is perfectly appropriate if it works for you, but please don't mock me for what I may or may not believe. What irks me is when personal beliefs (whatever they are) turn ordinarily nice people into hate mongers. Hate comes in many forms and is spawned from all sorts of beliefs and insecurities, so an atheist can be just as hateful as any Christian, Muslim or Unicornian. Atheists who mock the beliefs of Christians and use science as their weapon of choice are just as bad as any intolerant, Regent University-graduating, Pat Robertson-following Christian. Christians were once persecuted (in some places they still are, but I would argue not so much in America) and now are often seen as the persecutors (which many are; ask any LGBT person). Oppressed people often become defensive and push back; hard. In this case it seems to have resulted in a tit-for-tat about who is "right," more inclusive, on higher ethical ground, and/or more intelligent. In fact, there are many lovely, open, intelligent people of faith, as there are those who do not follow a religious doctrine. The truth is, a belief is a belief. Science tries to deal in facts, but is, for many things, still just guessing (black holes: we don't actually know what happens inside, we just think we do). In a similar way, we will never really know about an afterlife until, well, after life. Both perspectives rely on a certain amount of "faith."

Now back to me (it is my blog, after all ;) All this bickering between two disparate belief systems is bumming me out! Most of us, at least on some level, know the origins of the holiday that is Christmas; its mish-mash of pagan beliefs amalgamated with Christian stories, meant to bring diverse cultures together and solidify the power of The Church back in the day. Over time, elements from other cultures have found their way in and we even created some of our own, truly American variables (you can thank Montgomery Ward for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer). Even knowing all this, though, I still love to decorate a tree and I like the idea of Santa Claus. Admittedly, Christmas is not a religious time for me. Rather it is a time to bring some light into what can be a dark and somewhat depressing time of year (a snow bunny, I am not). That being said, I love the carols, religious and not, and the diverse traditions of food, gifts (although I prefer to keep that bit simple), decorating, and even as a non-Christian, I like the idea of the three wise men following the star, Mary giving birth in a barn, etc. It is a nice myth in my mind and it symbolizes peace (which we could all use a little more of), but it means much more to others and I respect that too.

This "battle" about Christmas is a symptom (of course) of the larger issue of intolerance of our differences.

When I taught courses on interpersonal communication, I did an exercise during which I would initially divide the group up into small groups of three. Their task was to identify three things that they had in common (no obvious stuff such as "we are all college students" or "we are wearing clothes," etc.) The first phase was not usually a big deal. After reporting some samples out, I would bring the groups of three into groups of six with the same task. This time there was some moaning as to how it would be harder, but they accomplished it just the same. And so it went, each time making the groups larger and the moaning that it was "impossible" getting louder. Each time, however, they succeeded. Finally, the group as a whole was asked to meet the same objective (sometimes this was 50 students). By then they knew they could do it and succeeded fairly quickly. The last part of the exercise was for me to ask some questions: Could a group of 100 do this exercise? The answers were mostly an immediate yes. How about 1000? Slower response, but still yes. How about the entire Nation? Debate now, but ultimately, yes. Then, why not the world?
It was a great exercise to help people remember that we are all made of the same basic stuff and we value the same basic things (caring for those we love, being healthy, having a good life, etc.).

My mother raised me with the philosophy that differences shouldn't separate us. Rather, they should bring us together because of how interesting they make our world. Our differences mean that we have access to a huge variety of information, experience and perspective; the chance to ask questions and examine who/what we are. Yet, here we are in the 21st century, dividing ourselves and each other along political, religious, sexual identification or orientation, and even color lines. Rather than embracing each other in our differences, we hide behind our basic beliefs, and push those that we don't understand (and thus, fear) as far away as a possible. It is sad to me because I am convinced that we could solve the problems we face globally, if not for our own silliness keeping us apart. If you really think about it, Christmas is the perfect example of tapping our differences and bringing them together to make something wonderful!

Every holiday is "made-up," either outright (my nemesis-Valentine's Day!) or from some sort of tradition that may or may not be pure of heart in its actual origins. I am not saying we created a holiday out of the Spanish Inquisition or the Crusades, but Halloween, for example, was originally a somber pagan ritual that was, perhaps not surprisingly, commandeered by the Church in the 8th century and we have transformed even more over time. Christmas is the same. For every culture that celebrates this holiday, there are as many variations and elements as there are shades of red or types of cookie. So why can't we just enjoy what is clearly an integral part of our American culture in the way we see fit and with mutual respect?

The Bishop's Wife - 1947

Besides, you can't fool me. I know plenty of atheists who still get sappy watching, A Charlie Brown Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life and The Bishop's Wife. On the other hand, I know plenty of Christians who maintain the existence of Santa Claus to their children and grandchildren; hanging stockings and retelling the story of a certain 9th reindeer. Amid all the commercialism and religious schisms, here is a season that can be beautiful to the eyes, ears and nose (and maybe a little hard on the waistline). A season that, if we are doing it right, reminds us that there are people we love, people who need our help, a world that should strive for peace, and a heritage rich in stories and faiths of all kinds.

So, if/however you celebrate Christmas, whip out the cookie recipes and the decorations, turn on some holiday music, get ready for Santa Claus and allow each other the space to do as s/he will.

As always, my wish for you, and for all, is a season of merriment, peace, health, happiness and love.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and a very Merry Sparkly Unicorn!

A Charlie Brown Christmas - 1965

Free Bird (and Mouse, and Snakes...)

My family has always been into animals. If you've read my posts before you know I have dogs and cats. My family has had, over the years, dogs, cats, parrots, bunnies, geckos, rats, mice, hamsters, fish, horses, chickens, ducks, goats, a tarantula (not the cuddliest of creatures, but whatever), raccoon, snakes, and the list goes on. As long as I can remember, I have loved and been fascinated by animals. As I have gotten older I am more content to see them from afar, but when I was young, I wanted everything for a pet.

When I was little, I spent lots of weekend days at my grandparents while my Mom worked. At times I would play in my grandmother's button drawer or "help" my grandfather in his shop, but mostly I was left to my own devices. One day, after watching the busy and very vocal blue jays going about their daily duties I decided I wanted to catch one. These birds were not tame but they were used to us as my grandparents often left bird seed and peanuts about for the locals. And blue jays, it always seemed to me growing up, were bold, brave, and "in your face" kind of birds, to each other, cats, other birds, etc.

I asked my grandfather for a cardboard box and some string (bear in mind, I was young-maybe six or seven). He asked, "What for?" and I told him I was out to capture a Blue Jay. He chuckled and provided me with my requested materials. I found a stick in the  yard that would hold up the box and also be the mechanism for capture when I yanked the string. I then asked Gramma for some peanuts, and she too asked me what I was doing with them, She feigned enthusiasm for my hunt but asked what I was going to do with the bird once I caught it. "Let it go, I guess." She gave me a handful of peanuts with which I could bait my trap.

My grandparents, at that time, lived in a large house in South Pasadena, California. It sat across the field from the Junior High School and had an amazing yard for kids. Lots of large trees in which to play hide and seek and a good-sized front lawn. The property ran up against an alley that had once been railroad tracks but that were long gone. The back yard was smaller, but had plenty of trees (the first figs I ate where from that yard) and plants and flowers growing all year as only southern California could inspire. The first floor of the back of the house was mostly glass; floor-to-ceiling windows and a sliding glass door. It was from the kitchen table or the rocking chair we would often watch the birds. On this day, the back yard would be my stalking grounds.

I set the box up just outside the sliding back door. I trailed a few peanuts from the table, down to the ground and leading to the box. I then put the peanuts just in from the stick at the entrance to the box, and let the string out as I backed up. I hid behind a slight corner that demarcated where the kitchen ended and the small back porch entrance started. Then I waited. My grandfather came by once and asked how it was going. I lectured him that it would be impossible to catch a bird with him just walking up and talking to me like that! He chuckled again, asked if I needed anything and went back to whatever he was doing. I am not sure how long I sat there. The Jays were not so easily tempted it seemed. Then one decided to grab the peanuts from the trail I left. And still I waited...

If you think this is a story about a child learning that, just because she saw such a trap on Wonderful World of Disney, doesn't mean she could spring such a trap in real life...

You'd be wrong. A few minutes later, the Jay entered the box and I yanked the string! I got him. Let me tell you, he was PISSED. He was flopping against the box determined to get the hell out of there. Meanwhile I called to my grandfather and for the first time all day, he was not around. I then called to my grandmother who was, for the moment, out of earshot. So, I walked casually up to the box....and sat on it. By now the bird had calmed down and was only making a few pecking noises. A couple of minutes later (it seems to me now), my grandmother came out and asked what I was doing. "Remember, I was going to catch the Blue Jay?" "Oh yes, well honey, they are very fast and smart, it wasn't likely that you would catch one." (She thought I was sitting their in despair! Ha!). I wish I

From the National Geographic book,
Complete Birds of North America, 2006

could say that I said something sassy like, "Well this one must be dumber and slower than the others because I caught him." But my smart-ass sensibilities didn't develop until later. With huge pride and excitement I said that I had caught one. My grandmother leaned in and heard the slight noises emanating from teh box and stood suddenly and said (in her, I-can't-believe-you-did-this-voice), "Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayy, come here please! Hehehe. Grampa showed up and Gramma told him what I "had done." "Did you really catch one?!" My grandfather was trying to hide his proud surprise. "You MUST let him go!" Frankly, I didn't get why my grandmother was so upset, after all, she TOLD me I could and she GAVE me the bait! So I stood from the box and lifted it on one side. The bird stood there a second, squawked loudly (at me, I thought) and took off. Interestingly, the rest of the peanuts were gone from inside the box. Clearly he wasn't THAT traumatized. For some reason, my grandparents would not let me use the box trap anymore after that...

Norway Rat

When we were young, my cousins went through a rodent phase in their pets.  They had mice and they had RATS. Napoleon was the rat I adored. He was a big Norwegian Brown rat, the kind you see as extras in movies where the hero is walking in abandoned houses, or by dumpsters in an alley, or, more famously when Indiana Jones was navigating the catacombs that intersected the sewers of pre-World War II Venice. Napoleon should have been a movie star, he was big and smart, but with his brindled brown coat, thick grey tail, and alert eyes he could freak people out if they weren't expecting him. I remember one day my cousins and I were sitting in the TV room at their house. We were watching ON cable or maybe we were playing Pong (yes, it was that long ago). I had Napoleon on my shoulder, behind my hair where he was snuggled up against my neck, behind my ear. He was usually there on one of us if he wasn't wandering around the room. Anyway, one of my Uncle's tennis-playing friends (who didn't know this rat) came over and there was conversation back and forth between my Uncle and his visitor. Stealthily, because he was a rat, Napoleon peeked his head out from behind my ear and the visitor suddenly saw him and I swear he jumped two feet into the air while letting out a yelp. Napoleon was so startled that he went back behind my ear. The three of us just looked at the guy like he was a moron. "But it's a rrrrrat!" Yes, he was, and he was clean and sweet and a great pet. A couple years later, I went to that house to feed Napoleon and his mate, Desiree. Poor Napoleon had died in his sleep. Not knowing what else to do, I left a note that said,    
                              "Anybody, Napoleon is as DEAD as a door nail,
                               please take care of him. PS -he is stiff as cardboard"

My Aunt still has the note :)

Common garter snakes - photo by http://wdfw.wa.gov/

In 1974 my aunt, cousins and I took the train to Oregon to see my other aunt, uncle and younger cousins. They lived in Rainier and what I remember most about the place was that it rained alot, the grass was tall and it was teeming with garter snakes. I was nine, my older cousin was ten and my younger was seven. The little ones we were visiting were really young and didn't scour the yard for snakes with us. One day, I remember the three of us caught so many that our hands were full and we weren't quite sure what to do with them. So, in order to make room for more in our hands, we stuck bunches of the little snakes in our raincoat pockets. Then we tried to go in the house to show everyone what we found. We didn't make it far. My uncle intercepted us before we hit the back door and we had to let the little wrigglers go. Looking back I have no idea what we thought we would do with them, but the excitement of catching so many just completely overwhelmed whatever good judgment we might have otherwise shown. Funny, I don't remember much else about that visit.

By the time I was a teenager my love of animals had made me a zealous rescuer of all things deemed "in distress." During my short career, I found injured and stranded birds, bunnies and domestic animals of all types. During EMT school, I even ran over a squirrel with my truck (no tires, just the wind from the truck knocked his wind out) and I was so upset that I gave him a head-to-toe exam. When he awoke, he shook it off and scurried into the woods. The oddest part of that moment was when a guy stopped to see if I was OK (on the side of the road) and he was met with a rather upset ME, cradling what he assumed to be a dead squirrel. But it seemed that no matter how good my intentions, my poor grandmother got the brunt of my single-mindedness. One day her cat brought in a mouse she caught in the field across the river. The feline was doing what felines do; playing with her prey before she ate the hapless little thing. Not on my watch. I shooed Alice away and grabbed the mouse. I took it in the house and asked Gramma for an eye-dropper and some water because I found an injured animal. Now, to her credit, my grandmother had been more than patient when we brought kittens, dogs and even birds into the house to be treated. So when she asked what I had, I offered to show her. I opened my hand... There was a lot of yelling after that. Something about getting vermin out of her house, what could I have been thinking, making sure to wash my hands, and did I touch anything, etc. It was all a blur as I ran outside. Later, my grandfather had to give me the requisite lecture as to just why field mice, injured or otherwise, do not make appropriate pets.

I suppose, reading some of this context, it helps to understand why I take in so many dogs who need help, why I let the mouse we caught in our (humane) trap go at the park, and why I ask my husband to take spiders outside. My eight year-old daughter has the same leanings and today she asked me for a cardboard box and some string...

A Tattooed Lady

When I was a teenager my aunt came home with a tattoo. It is a small shamrock (her boyfriend at the time was Irish). It was her first and only tattoo and she had the good sense to put it in a place that is easily hidden. When she got hers, the stereotypes around women and tattoos were still of the "biker babe" and "women in prison" variety, so she kept her ink to herself. She did, however, show it to me and I was immediately smitten with the idea of someday getting a tattoo.

That infatuation never left me and when I turned 18 I dragged a couple of friends down to the red light district (because that is where such things were to be had...) in Honolulu and got my first "tat." It was on my hip (again, a place easily concealed) and was a simply drawn, small butterfly. I think it cost me $20 in 1982. The woman who did the work was a little startled when I walked in to the shop (NOT parlor). She said I wasn't the clientele she was used to seeing (wasn't even sure how to address that statement). Thirty-plus years ago my tattoo garnered lots of attention. Not that I showed it to many, although there was one night at Moose McGillycuddy's in Honolulu, after a particularly festive Happy Hour, when I showed the New Zealand National Rugby Team (at least, that was their story) my butterfly...but I digress.

Simply admitting that I HAD a tattoo back then elicited questions such as "Are you a biker chick?" ("Yup, Schwinn Beach Cruiser is my ride.") or "Are you in a GANG?" ("Yeah, don't mess with us, we drink Crystal Light and Vodka and ride the bus to the beach!"). Tattoos at the time were not about straight-arrow middle class people, they were about rebels, and margins and bucking whatever system. But I had always been fascinated by how humans had decorated themselves across time and cultures. I had no idea that the little butterfly would start something...well...bigger. It took four years before I would get my second piece.

I now have seven.

Tattoos have enjoyed quite an explosion of popularity since I got my first. No longer the purview of sailors, rough men and fallen women ;) ink is widely considered an art form that continues to expand itself in terms of what is possible. Old School is a style that represents clean lines, bold colors and iconic designs, but there are gorgeous pieces that look like watercolor; photo-realism pieces of people, animals and places; a resurgence of tribal-inspired tattoos; and every hybrid imaginable. Tattoo artists pride themselves in the fact that they are artists. Many specialize in certain styles and colors, or black and grey. My artist of choice, Prakash Spex, the man I have gone to for my most recent tattoos, is amazing with color and interpreting ideas into design. I have very fair skin with no yellow or olive cast to it, unlike my husband who is olive-skinned,  so color is "my thing" and the pieces can show amazing detail and bright hues. But none of that would be possible without the talent of the man holding the tattoo machine.

Spex Tattoo

The thing about tattoos; people tend to either love them or hate them. There is not much middle ground. Oh sure, there are those individuals who got one when they were young (often in the military) but now don't mention them and are almost loathe to show their old ink to anyone. There are also some expected questions/arguments against tattoos I heard over the last three decades that are pretty generic in nature:

1. But would you show your grandmother? I have, as well as the rest of my family. When I was young they remained wisely quiet thinking, perhaps correctly, that if they railed against them I might get more-I was young, you know?

2. What does your Mom think? She was cool but never wanted one until she got cancer and HAD to have these little dot tattoos to identify the borders of her radiation. Then she asked if each dot could be a flower or a diamond or a butterfly...The party-poopers (her words) said no.

3. How will you get a good job? Well, I was not going to apply for a job that required me to show my hip, or ankles or shoulder, so I was sure it wasn't a problem. Now I work at a National Laboratory and half the people I see have tattoos (Which tells me more of them have them, but they can't be seeeeen). Now, I am not a fool so that is why each of mine can be hidden if I wish. It's not like I have a Tweety bird holding a N.O.W flag permanently inked onto my forehead...

4. What about as you age? Listen, I spent most of my life in the sun without sunscreen (or worse, with UV-encouraging oils slathered on my body), I have bigger concerns than how my tattoos will age.

5. People who don't like tattoos (on themselves or other people) tend to think that people who get tattoos are doing it as some form of "look at me" expression. That may be true for some, but I am more of the belief that people who tend to love tattoos (to the point of getting several), love them as intensely personal artifacts.

Finally, if the tattoos have any kind of size and detail, they represent what might end up being a significant investment of time (each section done must heal before the next is completed), energy and money. I would hope that anyone getting something so significant would be doing it only for themselves (or their gang leader--oh, just kidding!).  

My tattoos are for nobody but me. I can hide them when I don't want to deal with whatever vestiges of the stigma I may run into and if I show them I am showing what I think are beautiful pieces of art that happen to adorn my body. Recently I finished (well, you know what I mean, my artist finished) a large piece on my lower leg. It sits on my outer calf and runs from my ankle to just below my knee. It is bright and detailed and stunning, but it was done for me. When my husband said I needed to start wearing skirts more to show it, I said, "No I don't, I got it for me, nobody else." This is not to say that I am not immensely proud of the work and I do have every intention of showing it, but that wasn't my purpose in getting the work done.

I would submit that for every tattoo done, there is a different reason for getting it put on the body.

By the time I was 33, I had four small pieces. Each tattoo represented something to me; whether it was a special event, good friends I shared time with, or a personal value. When I was 35 I covered my first tattoo with a larger piece. The change was mostly because I wanted something more intricate and something fun to represent what felt like a newness in my attitude at the time. So, the simple first butterfly was gone, covered by a Cheshire Cat not quite the size of my hand. That was it for a long (11 years)  time.

People used to ask me if getting a tattoo hurt and I would blithely say that they aren't bad, that it reminded me of  a pin scratching against the skin for a few minutes. Well, duh. When the tattoo is tiny and has maybe three colors, max, in its design, the tattoo doesn't really hurt. Then I started getting bigger tattoos. My fifth piece resides on the (tender) inside of my forearm and is about the size of a standard playing card. Between the placement, the size, the detail and the array of colors, that piece was downright uncomfortable. My unpleasant surprise, however, was how much discomfort I experienced after the piece was done. It was sore for a couple of days. Two years later I decided on a design that incorporated a tribal manta ray with additional elements drawn into the piece. Including some color, the effect was that of a very subtle mosaic and this piece is about ten inches across and eight inches tall at its furthest points. This ray lives on the back of my left shoulder and took about three and a half hours to complete. It hurt. It hurt during and it hurt after. I was tired and sore when we were done. I am fastidious about after-care so it was also somewhat of a pain in the ass to ensure it stayed clean and moist while it healed. I wondered if I would ever get another piece that big.

Spex Tattoo

I didn't; I got a bigger one.

The decision to get the piece on my calf was a serious one. I wanted a certain look and feel for the design and my artist demonstrated that to get what I wanted, I needed to go big. Additionally, unlike the ray on my back, this tattoo included many colors, lots of detail, and loads of shading that created even more depth and detail to the final effect.Now, it should be admitted here that I realize that my tattoo is not big by any means compared to some. A friend has her entire back done and my brother has a half-sleeve. That being said, my calf took four sessions of over three hours each.  I have heard people say "Oh wow, don't you love it when the endorphins kick in and it doesn't even hurt; like its numb?!" ........Uhhh, NO, because that has never happened for me. On the contrary, from the moment it started to several days later, I felt EVERYTHING. First, for the three-plus hours it took to get the session done, and then for a few days when it felt initially like my leg was 2nd degree sunburned to finally just being irritated. And god forbid I let something like my pants touch it too soon because then I would need to peel it off and hope some of the newly inked skin didn't go with the material, in which case I would end up looking like some hack-job home tattooist had done the work (and risk the ire of Prakash). I learned a brutal lesson after the second calf session when I had the work done on a Wednesday evening and had to go to work the next day. After a day of my pants (flowy as they were) rubbing against the "wound," I had irritated the piece directly into Scabville. From then on, I only had sessions on Friday evenings so I could keep all fabric off the ink for a couple of days.What is interesting is that during my last session (thank the Fates I made it that far), I said to Prakash, "You know what the worst part of getting the tattoo is?" He responded, "The wiping?" YES, the damn wiping! I understand the need for wiping the piece while working it; to remove the excess ink, to keep it lubricated with ointment, etc. But, in order to keep little fibers from sticking to the new tattoo, less-than-soft paper towels are used and let me just say...OMG. Three hours of wiping is almost enough to send me off the table.

Now when people see my ink and ask if it hurt, I say "Of course it hurt, it's a f***ing tattoo." I mean really, single and multiple needles puncturing your skin (and with them dragging ink into the dermis-contrary to myth, the ink isn't inside the needles, it is not a syringe-like effect) at high speed? Yes, it hurts.

Prakash calls the process (especially for larger, detailed pieces) sort of a right of passage. Sitting still (and I am a stoic rock during this process, if I do say so myself) for several hours uses energy. While I do relax somewhat during the process, I strive to remain alert so when the needle hits an unexpectedly sensitive area, I don't jump and ruin whatever is being worked at the time. I spend a lot of time telling myself to "be still." You would be surprised at the strange array of nerve responses across what one would assume is the same area of the leg.

Three large-ish tattoos in three years. I think I am done for a while, but when I stated that out loud, Prakash simply said, "Suuure." He has a point, people who like tattoos tend to keep getting them. Then again, I suppose you are never too old. He told me he had recently given a small tattoo to an 81 year-old woman. I have no idea why, but she did it and was obviously not worried about one of the aforementioned main arguments against tattoos: that when the skin ages, the tattoo will be unrecognizable. I have already assumed that in another 40 or so years, I will spend lots of time reassuring my doctors that I don't have a giant hematoma on my calf.

A Shared Epidemic Can Spur a Selfish Choice

This year we lost an American treasure. Robin Williams, actor, comedian, philanthropist and, if the press around him is to be believed, all around good guy, took his own life at the relatively young age of 63. It was sad news for those of us who grew up watching "Mork and Mindy" and listening to his comedy albums. I enjoyed his work for decades, be it comedy philanthropy for Comic Relief, comic and dramatic turns in films and TV and even his talk show appearances and interviews. He was brilliant and more importantly he seemed kind. His audience also knew that he battled substance abuse occasionally throughout his career and he even spoke about depression. Perhaps it was that candor that made the news of his untimely death so shocking. We thought (hoped!) he had it all in hand; that this funny, smart and charismatic charmer would tame those demons and come out once and forever in charge of his own psyche. When he didn't, we found ourselves devastated, disappointed and in some cases, angry.

How could he be so selfish? How could he put his family through such pain? What was he thinking!? How could he be such a COWARD?

So, this is where I take a little stand and say something that may piss people off: I am not talking in this post about suicide that is committed by criminals who are caught dead to rights brutalizing children or women or anyone and then commit suicide in their cells. I know how ugly this is to read, but I think that is cowardice; "escaping" before they face their accusers, not having to pay for their crimes (although, if you are religious you will say they will pay elsewhere; fair enough). There is evil in the world and this post is not about that.

Robin Williams photo from Collider.com

Robin Williams was no coward. 

I know that people who grieve (even for others they may not even personally know) sometimes lash out, and when death involves the object of a para-social relationship (we all thought we knew him, didn't we?) such grief can feel even more acute. The bottom line, however, and this will irk many, is that we never really know what is going on inside someone's mind/soul. And maybe that shock and disappointment is really what makes people angry. Also, people tend to judge (often harshly) what they do not understand.

Taking one's own life seems like such a drastic, final and hopeless act (and it is all of those, really), that people who have never seriously considered it can't possibly see it as a way out or a solution. For those who have been in the throes of deep and unbearable depression or other mental illness; fighting the battles over and over, without seeing permanent or acceptable victories, suicide may be the last ditch resort to finally achieve some sort of peace.

In my own experience with mental illness, my depression was like a heavy darkness. Yes, there seemed to be physical weight to it. Like my sun had been totally eclipsed by a giant, thick and immovable tarp, only the shadow just stayed weighted there, not moving incrementally so I could know that the sun would return. Humans don't tend to do well in prolonged darkness. Darkness reminds us of what we fear. Fear becomes exacerbated and our sense of self-determination and efficacy erodes. Not to mention all the physiological effects to our brain chemistry if we are in the dark too long (and some people are more affected than others). The longer we are in the dark, if not reassured (and by that I mean at a core, intrinsic level) that the light will return, the greater the pain and fear we must face. Add to that a scenario of feeling alone (let's face it, some of our loneliest moments happen within earshot of others), then the demons get exponentially larger and impossible to vanquish. If we get help, whether in the form of psychological, medical, religious or spiritual support we may find our way out of the darkness. The thing is, the darkness is always just a horizon away. I am lucky, I am able (so far) to recognize depression when it rears its insidious head and I can get help. There was a time in my life, though, that ending my life seemed like a perfectly reasonable outcome to  perfectly unreasonable circumstances in my soul.

I once read an article that said that women tend to commit suicide in relatively "clean" ways so as not to cause a mess for those they leave behind. Rubbish, says I. There are a million reasons people commit suicide and an equal number of reasons they choose a certain method. Suicide is personal and selfish. After all, it is our brains rebelling against us! By all accounts, Robin Williams was a kind and generous soul, but the darkness and pain in our souls can make us behave against type.

Anytime I hear of a suicide I feel pain for the victim's family and friends. I can't imagine how it must feel to be left with what must be infinite unanswered questions and the inevitable wonderings about what real or imagined role they might have played. Did they miss the signs; did they say the wrong thing? I have heard people say not to feel bad for the person who is dead because their pain is done, but I always feel sadness for them too. I am sad because they could not see the light or even imagine what it would look like when it came back again (or that it could). Their pain was so great that it muted the sound of their children's laughter, it blinded them to beauty around them, it erased the memories of their impact on this life. But that is what mental illness does, it invades our innermost realm, the part of us that is most individual and, perhaps, sacred; the source of our intellect, communication, and personality.

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, 39,518 suicides were reported (imagine how many aren't given the stigma suicide has in many cultural and religious contexts) in 2011. That number put suicide as the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S for that year. Well, no wonder people aren't doing anything about mental health issues! We have heart disease and cancer to worry about! Umm, no. Suicide as a cause of death is greater in its societal implications than its relatively small number of victims. The idea that someone is choosing to take their life; deciding that ending their life is the only way to end their pain, is SIGNIFICANT. In the small town where I reside, a friend noted that she knew of four teenagers who committed suicide within an 18 month period (anecdotal - I couldn't find current data). If accurate, that number represents a huge chunk of potential; of kids who were so hopeless that they couldn't see beyond ending their lives. THIS IS A TRAGEDY.

Losing Robin Williams was so very sad, but the truth is we lose people every single day to mental illness and it doesn't necessarily mean suicide. I don't care of they are iconic celebrities or the kid down the street, the loss of human potential; whether because someone disappears in their mind or because they feel ultimately disposable, is tragic and heartbreaking. As a country, we should be more concerned about our people battling such demons and feeling like they are losing. Unfortunately we, as a society, seem to only prick our ears up when such difficulties surround someone famous. Additionally, while there was suddenly more talk about mental health issues shortly after Mr. Williams' death, our short attention span was quickly distracted by something else hitting the top-ten of whatever media circus of the week was playing.

Mental health is a difficult subject, partly because it is so damn complicated. Our brains are complex, mysterious and fragile (although sometimes remarkably resilient) mechanisms. Chemical imbalances, drugs, genetics, stress, trauma, disease and goodness knows what else can all wreak havoc on the computers inside our skulls. There are so many "types" (for lack of a better word) of mental illness; simply getting an accurate diagnosis can take months or years of effort and resources. Sometimes diagnoses remain elusive and even if properly diagnosed, finding the right treatment can be an equally mysterious crap-shoot.

Another variable that makes mental health "difficult" is the level of social discomfort it presents, especially to those who think they are completely healthy (ha!). Mental illness has always scared people. From before we understood anatomy and physiology and we blamed mental illness on demons and spirits, to now, when we see the behaviors of a schizophrenic and it feels too close to home, the idea of mental illness in whatever form, scares us as a society. In less enlightened times we simply locked mentally ill people up and hoped they never got out. In frighteningly recent times, mentally ill patients were basically tortured and forgotten. So-called "hospitals" decided they were perfect subjects for experiments (after all, who was going to miss them?). Relatives of the mentally ill would hide them away out of fear; of what they might do or how they might end up. Even now we likely see a disproportionate number of mentally ill people living on the streets. It is easier to walk by, maybe spare some change, than to attack the many roots of this particularly devilish tree.

With more people on the planet comes more chances (statistically) that someone we know (like, umm, us) will be affected by mental health issues. I admit I get a little paranoid when I feel "down" that maybe my depression is creeping back up on me. But at least I am aware of it, I own it, I admit that it is a possibility, and I am more than willing to work to mitigate it if necessary. As a society we must accept these issues as real, medical complexities that need research and attention. It took decades for alcoholism to be socially accepted as a disease, we need to be willing to accept these illnesses with the objectivity and practicality that we do other diseases.

Suicide is a result, a consequence, a symptom of a larger epidemic and as such it is often perceived as a selfish choice. Is it not more selfish, however, that we, as a supposedly enlightened society, allow the epidemic that is one of the root causes of this choice to go unchecked, potentially destroying countless brilliant, funny, intelligent, and kind souls in its wake?

Old Man in Sorrow - V. Van Gogh

Dog Farts, Kibble, and My Hairy Lifestyle

Let's see, can I remember them all by name?

Butterscotch, Wiggles, Ashes, Bear, Gypsy, Muffin, Sequoia, JB, Miko, Bastion, Cowboy, Cammo, Cricket, Calvin, Baci, Blue, Mei-Mei, and Grapes.

I have, by my reckoning, have had at least one dog for as far back as I can remember, except for a cumulative period equaling about two years when I lived in dormitories, etc. The last four of those names up there are still with us. I honestly cannot imagine my life without a dog.

I'm ready for my close-up.

I am one of those people (and luckily so is my husband and most of my immediate family) who includes their dogs as part of their family. Our dogs know no difference between outside and in and they have no understanding whatsoever of the phrase,"off the furniture." They are where we are, albeit sometimes it is a distraction when Blue decides he wants to see what I am doing in the shower, or when I am reading quietly and they (all) decide to demonstrate their affection, and they provide my husband with a reliable alarm, even on weekends.

Just another night at our house.

Cesar Milan would be extremely disappointed in the way we live with our dogs.

Ahh, dog ownership. Every evening they bring my slippers, and on Sundays one of them retrieves the paper. They sit quietly and obediently at my feet or by the fireplace.They proudly and with dignity guard my home and family. They find missing children and rescue small woodland creatures... O.K. sorry, getting a bit off into Fantasyland. The truth of it is that our dogs splay themselves shamelessly anywhere they deem comfortable, they beg for food, the 60+ pounders think they are lap dogs, they bark at anything that moves and they crowd me out of my bed on an irritatingly regular basis. One of them barks at level TEN all the time because he is 90% or so deaf. And, being the leader, when he barks the others MUST. One of them has a favorite treat-paper. One of them has allergies so bad that we treat her with Benadryl and her already short Shar-pei coat gets seasonal "patches."

He said, she said: Blue and Mei-Mei

They eat a lot, they are expensive and they are lots of work. We can't travel unless we have a house-sitter because they get neurotic if we are gone too long. We have funded a wing at our local Vet's office. We have dealt with heartworm, tooth extractions, mystery impalings and attendant abscesses, and a particularly nasty and heretofore unidentified intestinal issue that had our Papillon vomiting blood and spending the night in the emergency room (as my cousin the Vet said,"Sometimes you never know the cause." How comforting.). At one time or another most of them have been on special diets or special instructions ("You need to keep Blue calm"...riiiiiiiiiiight). They are vaccinated regularly and get bi-annual heartworm tests and preventative medication. Cha-ching!

They are a pack and act as such. The level of group-think is as astounding as the traffic when they all move at once through the house. They ALL shed (you'd think that I would learn to rescue poodles or Maltese or some other non-shedding pooch) and all come with their own special needs: Grapes is a Mexican street dog (ancestry complicated) who was shipped here by my brother because I can't say "no." She craves attention to the point that if she were human,s he would be a stalker. Blue is a mostly deaf Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler mix who needed a home after my friend's husband threatened to poison the area for feral dogs and didn't much care if he was collateral damage (and because I can't say "no."). Mei-Mei is a Shar-pei "mix" found on the streets and taken to the shelter and who it turned out is a purebred but she was so underweight they thought she was a mix. I call her my Land Manatee. We took her because my friend introduced us and...yup...I CAN'T SAY NO. Baci was my last (and final) purebred puppy purchase. We bought him (and drove to South Dakota to pick him up so he wouldn't be shipped) a year after I lost my other Papillon,Cricket (who was a rescue). He is my little old fella at 11 years.

The velveteen dog.

They also chew. They have four trillion toys in the house and out and yet when Blue and Mei-Mei first arrived (two and a half years apart) they insisted on letting us know they were part of our world by chewing up shoes, wood blinds, my passport, various and sundry toys, and several books. I am grateful they don't chew on the cat and, thankfully for my shoe budget, that the behavior in general corrected over time. I have yet to get my passport replaced...

Now, the one thing I have going for me in my house is that I am alpha. The pack respects me and when I say "no" (with a hand signal for the deaf one) they tend to obey. My poor husband set the wrong tone from day one; he is a member of the pack which makes him a target for rough-housing even when not convenient (Blue considers my husband's feet, once his work boots are on, as fair game for picking a fight).

Additionally, to not put too fine a point on it, dogs smell. Now, honestly I don't mind the smell of "wet dog" when they come in wet from rain or playing in the snow. They also, however, can discharge the most noxious gas; something akin to what I imagine is emitted on lifeless planets. It is amazing to think that they can create such confounding odors on a diet of kibble and free range chicken broth (and the occasional piece of paper, in Blue's case).

Grapes and "Dad" chillin.

So why in the heck do we do it? Why keep all these beasts?

Because, as someone wise once said, they love us the way we think we deserve to be loved; unconditionally and timelessly. At our worst moments they are there, offering a hairy head to pet and lower our blood pressure from the day we've spent with people that will never love us as these canines do. They do not judge (a least not outwardly) our size, fitness level,
income bracket, IQ, business acumen, job placement, religious inclinations, choice in partner (well, that could be debated), sexual orientation, sports fandom, or taste in shoes. They ask to be with us and to be loved, to be given adequate food and water and some exercise. Small price to pay for a lifetime of love, affection and surprises (and in our case, a share of the blankets on cold nights). I see Cesar's disapproving looks in my mind more than occasionally.

Sharing the warmth

When I don't feel good, my dogs know it and get as close as possible. When I am sad they try to comfort me in their way. When I am grouchy they don't hold it against me. When I am happy they seem even more joyful.

And if you really pay attention, you know on some abstract level how they are doing too. The day we lost our 13 year old Rottweiler-Shepherd mix, we knew it was time, he had lived (well)for a month after his initial diagnosis but one morning (after sleeping with him through the night) I knew he was done and he slipped gently away. They also seem to know when we are trying to help them. When my Papillon was mysteriously impaled (stick, teeth, spider bite?), he patiently put up with me irrigating and dressing the wound twice daily; never a whine or a nip (he healed beautifully, by the way).

Baci

 It is this amazing ability to be there for us and let us be there for them that makes me so sad when I see abused or neglected animals. When I read stories of dogs who are brutalized, murdered, starved or just forgotten. To quote Dr. Doolittle, "Why do we treat animals, like animals?" SCience is just now beginning to admit (because THEY have finally figured it out) that canines are vastly more intelligent than initially thought and that they truly feel emotion beyond the basic instincts of living creatures. Well, DUH. Dog guardians have been saying that FOREVER, only to be told we are anthropomorphising (as if being human is so very special?).

So for our part we make some small sacrifices. My house never stays clean for long and even my clean clothes end up with some sort of canine hair on them before I leave the house in the morning. I usually just chalk it up to my hairy lifestyle. The UPS guy is a little nervous when he comes to the house, and we don't entertain much. Additionally, as I get a little older, I think that maybe four dogs is more than enough and will not replace more than two of them when they finally go to the Rainbow Bridge.

Then again...I have a hard time saying no.

A girl and her dog, circa 2006

"Old age ain't no place for sissies." Or, How Half a Century Caught Up to Me in One Summer

That title quote is often attributed to Bette Davis, and I will tell you, I love the idea of her making that iconic quip while drinking a glass of champagne with pals from the "old days." Further research, though, credits the above to journalist/humorist Henry Louis Mencken. Whoever said it, though, hit that particularly sensitive nail on the head. Like most of my peers I have watched wrinkles appear on my skin, fought with the fruitless persistence of a moth at a light bulb as certain parts of my body try to go permanently, umm, "south," and continue to discover new creaks and cracks and slight aches generating from my vessel just about every day. This year, however, has seen a noticeable increase in, oh good grief, "age-related" changes to my body and mind. It isn't pretty and I find myself more disconcerted than I thought I would be at this point.

First, I think I should make clear that my angst is not related to some sort of fear of my mortality. On the contrary, I am confident that I have much more life to live and if it turns out not to be the case, so be it. I don't live my life worrying about my death.

Partly though, I think my emotional discomfort stems from the fact that I have an almost nine year old daughter and I desperately want to be able to keep up with her. When my bones ache or fatigue seems to prematurely set in, I worry that I won't be able to be "present" for my her in the ways I wish. When I decided to try and get pregnant at 37 I grappled with the pros and cons of that choice. Not actually having her until the day after my 41st birthday has presented some challenges, but mostly in terms of other people's perceptions (see the "Actually I am her mother" post). I must admit, I didn't honestly think there would be any physical limitations (how naive can one person be?).

This year brought two significant changes within a relatively short period of time. The first occurred in early summer when, while at work, my thumb started to ache and within two hours was unusable. Did this freak me out? YES IT DID. I visited my employer's occupational medicine office (no mere nurses clinic, mind you; working at a National Laboratory has its perks). After some palliative therapy and some x-rays, the determination was "degenerative changes" to my hand. Actually, the Physician's Assistant who treated me came in after looking at my films and said, "I'm surprised your whole hand doesn't hurt." Apparently those "changes" (effectively causing arthritis) are all over my hand (probably both, but let's not go there). So, I bought a paraffin bath (lovely on so many levels), try to keep it moving (no bracing it) and if my thumb flares up too badly, I take an OTC anti-inflammatory. Not too bad,I thought; I got this.

Suuuuuure I do.

I also made some positive changes this year. A giant one: I gave up sugar Except for the odd occasion). This is huge. Sugar, in any but the smallest amounts makes me nuts; makes me hungry and craving foods I know I shouldn't consume in more than occasional amounts (mainly refined carbohydrates that taste oh-so good and stick to my body like a tick on a feral dog). Giving up refined sugar calms my appetite and clears my head. Usually. So over the course of a couple of months I started eating quite well, moving my body more and I began to see the incremental changes from both. It should be noted that I have always been overweight (to varying degrees) but have also always been active and healthy and now, closing in on 50, I am not so emotionally defined by my physical shape. But something was very wrong. My efforts were not paying the dividends I was expecting; I wasn't feeling any better than when I ate something sugary every day washed down with a soda. Oh, I am losing a little weight (cool) but I am not feeling better. On the contrary, I am TIRED. ALL.THE.TIME. I wake up tired. In fact, if I am to be honest, this is how my day goes in my head, starting from getting up the morning: as I stumble to the shower, "I must not have slept well, I am exhausted," as I get to work, "(sigh) it is going to be a long day," midday, "I wonder if I could fall asleep in my car for a few..." later, "omg, I am not going to make it," sometimes when I get home, "I am too tired to cook- what can we do that is easy?" but usually, I cook dinner and then fall down into a chair wondering "when can I go to bed?" and then the day begins all over again, way too soon. As an engaged mother and trying to be a good wife, I carry a lot of guilt about my inner dialog and inability to muster more energy.

Then started the mood swings. I am a naturally sensitive person. I have decided, after living with myself forever, that it is basically a good trait. I am much more prone to empathy and seeing other points of view. But it can be hard. I am very sentimental and tend to take my own shortcomings and mistakes as apocalyptic. And criticism? I have learned to take it better than compliments. Mostly I cope with humor. But lately, I cry. A LOT. Over nothing. Look at that butterfly in the sunshine (tears form in my eyes). Oh, I would love to go back to the Caribbean (sniff). Can I get change for a twenty? BURST INTO TEARS. OK, it's not that bad, but still, even just TALKING about emotions, gets me teary. May I just say................W.T.F? Honestly, my mood swings are giving me whiplash.

Then, a couple of months ago my sleep started to be affected. I am a persnickety sleeper anyway (for about the past ten years). My husband, bless him, can sleep through my congestion-related snoring, but if I don't fall asleep before him, the noises emanating from his nose/throat send me packing to another room. If it is too hot, I can't sleep. If it is too bright,I can't sleep. If Mercury goes retrograde, I can't sleep!! So, when my already precarious sleep started being disrupted; when I couldn't fall asleep, or worse, when I woke up in the early hours and then couldn't get back to sleep, well, you might as well have told me that disco was back; I was just plain bummed out. I tried everything; soft music, reading, visualization, Benadryl®, getting myself even more tired during the day/evening. At best I would fall into bed, get comfy, and then my mind would start humming.

I thought maybe it was Depression.

I have battled depression in my life. I am not ashamed to tell anyone that I was on anti-depressants for years (at this writing I have only been off for a year and a half) and am not above the possibility of going back to them should the need arise. Why it was EVER some sort of stigma is beyond me. But this is different. I know depression and how it affects me. This time, I am not "checked out" emotionally, I am not without joy. On the contrary, I laugh heartily every chance I get, I love engaging with other people and activities (as much as any introvert does), I love doing things and planing for other doings. I just don't have the same level of energy to do any of the above. Sample: Last week I worked in the morning as I do every Friday. Then I went to the doctor, called the insurance company, made a "cake" out of fruit for a friend's B-Day, spent three hours getting a tattoo finished (takes more energy than you might think), got some take out chicken for dinner and drove home from Santa Fe. I. WAS. DONE. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed. Instead I tried to make meaningful conversation with my husband and daughter. I was in bed by 930 ish (felt like midnight). Such a day should NOT wipe me out, but before it was over I wanted to strand myself on a beach somewhere and let nature take its course...

Turns out, I am not sick, nor am I depressed.

I am old.

That is a hard word. Right now anyone older than me is thinking (maybe saying or even writing, "speak for yourself baby, I am hitting my stride!"). I don't mean old in a judgmental sense, or in a societally comparative sense. Rather, I am speaking strictly in a reproductive sense.

Whoa! She didn't go THERE did she?!?

Why IS this still such a taboo topic to discuss in the 21st flippin' century? (so, as an interesting anecdote, when I posted about this on FB, only three of my male friends "liked" -one of them was my husband, just sayin')

I included this just to increase the discomfort level :)
Look-they made it a happy little reproductive system!

So, to get what will, for some men, be undoubtedly the most uncomfortable bit of this post out of the way...For 36 years (THIRTY-SIX) I have had the potential to reproduce. My body saved, then discarded its eggs on a monthly cycle that included, pain that ranged from mild to crying in my pillow, mess (I went there again, didn't I!), mood swings that were pendulum-like in their extremes, cravings that would put any stoner to shame, and fatigue that could take down a bull elephant. I have dutifully bought and used "feminine protection" (I always hated that term; seems better suited to describe bodyguards for women against the GOP...), every OTC pain med approved by the FDA (the invention of Naproxen Sodium was a game changer-thank you, whoever you are), utilized heating pads, warm baths, exercise, herbal teas, Midol®, Pamprin®, Seagrams®, Cuervo® and any other suggested or proven way to make the inevitabilities bearable. I stayed out of pools (when I was young and nervous), avoided white pants (yes, I am going to keep going there), stayed home from work or school,  and spoken to (male) doctors who basically told me that the "discomfort" was just part of the process. It was during moments like those when my inner Zena wanted to reach down, grab, and do a hearty twist of those docs' "pride" and ask if they were experiencing "discomfort." ...And yes I have performed one of the ten tests to a healthy marriage; I sent my husband to the store for tampons and chocolate ANYTHING (he gamely went- he is a keeper). But really, after the first ten years or so as "a woman," I basically just integrated the whole kit and kaboodle into my expectations of daily life and moved forward with relative panache (my story, my summation); learning as the years went, to plan as best I could. e.g., no lion safaris or shark feeding excursions between the 5th and 12th of the month, etc. (Yep-went there one last time :)

As with just about anything, menstrual cycles affect women differently. My maternal grandmother never experienced cramping, which made for a less than sympathetic perspective when I was doubled over hoping to be put out of my misery. I had friends who were routinely in the hospital because the pain was so bad. I could go on, but mercifully I won't. Let me just say that the idea of this monthly "visitor" (yes, some people call it that!) no longer showing up, causes me no whimsical longing WHATSOEVER.

BUT (and avoiding any "being a woman is hard" language), the physiology of reproduction is complex. Thus, there is not a start/stop button. Like most things designed by Nature (let's keep religion out of this), when things are past their usefulness, they tend to wind down and in this case, when women's bodies go into non-reproductive mode, all sorts of side effects occur. So, basically for who knows how many years, the excitement will continue.

Another interesting aspect to this shift, is that it will take my blood chemistry perhaps a year to catch up with my sysmptoms. So, doing blood work only showed that in other areas (sugars, cholesterol, TSH and even FSH [if it were high I would have chemical evidence of menopause]), I am perfectly healthy. This result is good and bad as part of me hoped that my thyroid was simply misbehaving again and then we could have "fixed" it. This, well, there is no fixing this. I am not broken, I am changing. And as with most progression in our lives (growing up, growing wise, etc.), this process will be protracted and at times just plain miserable (for me as well as those around me- I am sorry in advance). I will not list the symptoms beyond what I already have. They vary so much between women and as my doctor most eloquently put it (she is so smart and knows all these amazing technical terms)--this shift "SUCKS" physically and sometimes emotionally.

Well alrighty then.

Finally, I think it is key to note that I have no drama behind this next phase of my life. I bear no fear about the so-called loss of femininity that women believed occurred (were made to believe???). I don't feel less a mother or wife. I don't feel any less a sexual or, more importantly, a sensual being. I am still me, I don't fear all the possible diseases or weaknesses that may or may not come. What good would it do? Besides, getting older and greeting all that comes with it is certainly better than the alternative (being dead).

So, if you see a two-headed gorgon dragging herself down the halls, give her a moment (and don't look directly in her eyes), it will be me again shortly.

...But you might bear gifts of fans and ice.

Caravaggio- Medusa

Learned Helplessness; Eve of Destruction?

Ostriches, contrary to popular myth, DON'T hide their heads in the sand. Have you ever seen an ostrich in real life? They are huge. They are fast. They can kick the crap out of something attacking from the front. True, when threatened they run (as the world's fasted two-legged animal, they can run from almost anything) or they can lay themselves flat and appear as a mound of earth. No, my friends, it is we humans who tend to bury our heads in the sand when we are afraid.

There are few on this planet, at least in the "developed" world (notice how even our lexicon has made us think there is more than one world!), who can honestly convince themselves that we are not nearing critical mass in the way we abuse our home planet. While the media may focus on the political nonsense du jour, there are still outlets and information sources to learn just how badly we are at peacefully coexisting with the less destructive creatures (umm-that would be most of them) on this orb. Honestly, I don't think it is because people don't care--well, some of them clearly don't; many of those in a position to make enough noise on their own or influence large numbers, for example. No, I think we all get choked up when we see the rape and murder of our natural world. Whether it is photos of dead dolphins and turtles caught in fishing nets; wild horses starving to death because their habitat is too small to support them; rhinos and elephants being slaughtered for horns and tusks; bears being kept on "farms" so their bile can be extracted; forests being ravaged for invasive agriculture; the stripping of mountains for coal; plastic in the oceans; metal in our waters; it is frighteningly endless (almost like this sentence). Fracking, sealing, polluting (light, noise, air, water, land); fossil fuels, damaged nuclear reactors, nuclear waste, chemical waste, bio-hazard waste, plastics...All of these (and countless more) are products of us; human beings. Our greed, vanity, indifference and cruelty fueled these actions and as such we are finding ourselves closer and closer to environmental catastrophe.

Candian Seal Hunt

 I worry most about our indifference (which leads to inaction). But are we actually indifferent??? Of course there are pockets of people who struggle every day in the face of insurmountable odds to try and rectify some of the damage we have caused. For the most part, however, we simply go on; living our lives in our energy-sucking homes, using products that are more packaging than useful and then tossing it all in the garbage. I think, and it is one small opinion in the enormous scheme of things, that even our perceived indifference is based on learned helplessness. I believe when faced with the sheer enormity of our planetary problems, it is a coping mechanism to ignore and not act. We don't honestly believe that as single organisms we can actually make a difference. We have been told this; perhaps not explicitly, but everyday in subtle but powerful ways.

Mountain top removal (mining) West Virginia

Plastic1; Seal 0

Plastic 1; Turtle 0

Photo: A selection from Message from the Gyre/Chris Jordan

 I mean, really, I see so many stories on a daily basis about things over which I might be able to have a small affect; abused and neglected animals, for example. The stories are heartbreaking, depressing and constant. Even that issue seems painfully overwhelming, how can I possibly affect how much plastic ends up in the oceans, eaten by all sorts of animals, causing their destruction and bringing even more toxins into our food chain? Ugh.

Here's the thing: IF we don't act we will destroy ourselves and probably all but the most adaptable and hardy of species. Game over. The planet will rest and regenerate and very likely be the better without us. Thus, the vicious irony of it all is that our inaction will lead to our own destruction. Heavy enough for ya?

You'll notice that throughout this post, I have never said "them, they, others or you," although it would be classically hypocritical. I am not trying to be above anyone else in this moment.The fate of our planet is my problem as much as the next person's. I understand that it is much easier to focus on our own lives (and all the challenges and complications therein) and very difficult to figure out how to make a change; a difference in such, well, global issues.

Personal example from today: I went to the grocery store with the specific intent to avoid plastic as much as possible; a conscious mission to do "better." I didn't think it would be difficult given the fact that we don't eat many (all things being relative, I suppose) processed foods. Please bear in mind that I live in a small town with exactly two grocery stores (the same brand). My first irksome moment came when I realized I had forgotten my Trader Joe's and Whole Foods (Whole Paycheck?) reusable bags. Ugh, ok, no worries, I thought, I will buy some here. Moving switfly on...I stuck to the outside aisles as usual and still came home with too many plastic produce bags. There is something crazy about putting organic apples in a plastic bag and buying organic steaks that are vacuum sealed in plastic. One answer; I will no longer bag my produce (images of apple and Brussel sprouts rolling all over the conveyor belt), or perhaps bring my own paper bags in which to put the produce (and now the irked expression of the cashier as s/he must take out one of each to see what I am buying)-this is going to be harder than I thought. I did manage to find some biodegradable (compostable) trash bags for our kitchen bin. They were $12 for two boxes of 12. Suffice it to say that I came home slightly discouraged but even angrier (at myself, at SC Johnson [a family company], at Monsanto [I am always mad at Monsanto], etc.). Like most people, we must work for a living. we have obligations associated with our so-called careers, our daughter and her school, our pets. Suffice it to say we are, like most, busy people. So when I buy the occasional frozen breakfast food (pancake and sausage on a stick) in order to make breaky both interesting for the 8 year old ("Please Mom, no more eggs for a while.") and quick in the mornings, it dismays me to open the box and find twelve individually wrapped (in plastic!) portions. When I stick to my usual grocery list I still come home with  ridiculous amounts of plastic; cheese, chips, yogurt (organic!). Even the organic milk, packed in a cardboard carton, has a plastic spigot through which to pour the milk!

How does someone not earning a CEO's salary manage to be green (and not because they are sick when hearing the tab at the grocery store)? How do we stop using things wrapped in non-recyclable materials until the big companies get the message? It all seems so very far away...And yet--we are all the same-made up of the same stuff, requiring the same stuff to survive; and we are squandering our own survival.

In the interest of full disclosure- I work at a nuclear facility-struggle with my conscience every day - the only way I am able to stay where I am is in the knowledge that I am trying to help clean up the mess (but sometimes it is cold comfort). And it is with no small ping to my conscience that I stay here because I can earn enough money to try to be somewhat green...The fact that it is more expensive to live a "greener" and healthier life than not to now, is criminally absurd.

It's like trying to wrap our minds around the Ultra Deep Field shown by the Hubble telescope; ten thousand galaxies, each with billions of stars within...And we are on an invisibly tiny spec. So maybe we really don't matter in the Universal scheme of things, BUT it certainly matters to me (an even tinier speck on our tiny speck). We should rename our planet Whoville.

Ultra Deep Field as viewed by Hubble Telescope

So what do we do? Well, most of us do "what we can." We recycle what we can (often, what our municipalities allow). Maybe we change our incandescent light bulbs for CFLs. Perhaps we take mass transportation or bike to work. Maybe the more diligent of us do all that and more. Most of us, though, feel better when we can do some of those, some of the time.

Frankly, even with lots of "experts" telling us all what to do, I am not sure of the answer. Maybe we just hope for incrementally less destruction? I do know that in lots of ways, what we need to do, is impractical; culturally, financially, and personally. We will not stop traveling, we will not stop buying conveniently packaged foods and we won't stop buying our technological gadgetry. And in the meantime we are bombarded by all sorts of "campaigns."

The media campaign has got to be an activist's favorite invention. Campaigns have been around as long as people who wanted mass support for one cause or another. The tools have simply evolved. We are typically faced with many campaigns, one of the most recent that is seeming to gain momentum is the battle to get companies to label GMO foods. Oh boy is this a campaign for the ages. It has people divided and passionate and, at times, completely irrational (on both sides). I have an acquaintance who was grumbling the other day that "... these people who gripe about genetically modified food..There wouldn't be sweet corn if there weren't GMO foods!" Now, while I tend to lean towards the "there is a difference between grafting and selective breeding and injecting matter at the cellualr level" school of thought, I will admit that this campaign suffers, in my mind, from what many well-intentioned campaigns do; the all or nothing mantra.

The all or nothing mantra says that if we don't do everything, we might as well do nothing (again, teaching us to be helpless), which I consider to be utter nonsense. I think we need to focus more on baby steps. For crying out loud, label GMO foods (I want to be able to choose, tyvm) but don't expect that they will somehow, magically and instantly go away; they can't because too many people rely on them whether as a source of food or a source of income. The all or nothing mantra tries to convince us that unless we are "all in," we can't possibly do enough or make a difference. Absolutism like that promotes inaction because while a small percentage of people might be able to give "their all," most people can only give some (of their money, time, energy, etc.). I understand the all or nothing mantra; it is a scream in a huge crowd; an attempt to get the attention, but sometimes I think it serves to backfire against its own cause.

So what is the answer? Fourteen paragraphs in and I still have no idea. For myself, I will continue to struggle along in my own capacity; I will recycle and reuse where I can. I will buy as conscientiously as possible with a mind on personal and global heath. I will adapt my tastes and my pleasures to be more in line with what can support the Earth rather than destroy it. I will also be a voice. I will tell my elected representatives what I expect from them. I will tell grocery suppliers what I will buy (my little rewards card does that for me). I will teach my daughter how important these baby steps must be-if only to add hope to what might be seen as a hopeless situation.

I think what we do need to remember, amidst the cacophony of causes, whys and why-nots, political ramblings and jockeying for position and power is this;  that we must do something, each of us and in our own way, to make a positive change on the planet.

Because Life goes on, but it won't have any problem going on without human beings...