On January 30th, the Maine chapter of GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network) gave an in-house training to the Gray-New Gloucester High School staff. The goal of the training was to increase awareness of GBLT (gay, bisexual, lesbian, and transgendered) teens and to help them strategize about ways to ensure a safer environment within the school. I was asked to give a parent’s perspective on this issue.

***

From the moment my kid gets on that bus every morning until the moment she gets home, her safety out of my hands and in the hands of others. The bus drivers, the custodial staff, the teachers, the administrative staff, and the students are all responsible for keeping each other safe.

But what does this mean? What are my expectations around this concept of “safety”? I’m not a romantic here. I understand that in a building housing several hundred people of differing ages and backgrounds and beliefs there is always a possibility of friction. I believe that there are good policies in place at this high school outlining what is acceptable and what will not be tolerated. There also seem to be some good procedures around holding people accountable via punishment (I hate that word; I prefer “redirection”) and follow-up. But it’s not these that I have qualms with. How we deal with the infractions is minor. How we identify and modify our behaviours and employ good practices should be the focus. Safety isn’t and should never be about applying bandages, but rather about preventing it from ever happening.

As a parent, here’s where I’m coming from. Things that need to be in place to be safe – personally and within our community:

• recognizing and utilizing our sense of empowerment
• maintaining constant vigilance
• ongoing communication
• a willingness to listen
• thinking outside the box
• understanding our relationship to ourselves and to our community members

OK, so here’s my job as a parent: I have to do the work to keep myself educated and receptive. I have to make sure that I’m operating from a place of authenticity and honesty as all times. Without this work, I can’t be a decent parent or community member. I also get to spend countless hours answering questions around the whys and hows of the universe, trying desperately to explain injustices, and peddling my versions of compassion and appropriate action. My job is to help Morgan unpack what she experiences and to push her to develop her own sense of self and understanding her place in the world. But I don’t operate in a void. I co-parent with my husband and with each of you – which can be scary… or incredibly exciting.

So this means that you, too, have to do this work on keeping yourselves educated and receptive because an educational institution is never just about academics. The periodic table and proper grammar can be learned at any point in our lives. But you have an amazing opportunity here: you get to teach kids about their inherent powers. You get to teach them how to flip their superhero toggle. And what happens when a teacher or a parent shirks that responsibility? A kid with no power is not a kid to be controlled; it’s a kid to be feared. Anyone who views themselves as powerless is someone who’s angry, who lashes out, who seeks to dominate. When any member of the school staff, for example, chooses to ignore or conveniently not see or hear one kid utilizing power-over – whether it’s by name-calling or physical violence or property sabotage, whatever – you are disempowering 3 parties: the kid being victimized, the kid doing the victimizing, …. and yourself. As the adults, we have to set the example of self-worth and self-empowerment. If the kids don’t learn it from the supposed “people in power,” then the wrong messages are conveyed and chaos rules the day.

I don’t want Morgan to graduate with a diploma representing her ability to survive from one day to the next. I want that diploma to mean something – that she was able to have experiences that excited her, learn things that challenged and intrigued her, and met people that mirrored her own self-worth.

This is how we parent together. Because for about 40 hours a week, you’re part of my family.

I am looking out my window at the snow accumulating on the branches. It comes down with such lightness, such silence, that it is almost deceptive. Snow seems to require little effort to fall and yet it covers everything in a heavy blanket. Just one flake at a time, combined with billions of other flakes, falling together to create this icy change in our environment. I can’t help but be impressed: all the nooks and crannies on the trees are covered. And we sit inside and accept this new landscape. We can either bitch about it or stare in wonder.

I know about the personalities of those who bitch; I’ve been there before. Oh, shit! That snow is in my way, so now I’ve got to go out there and move it around a bit to pretend I’ve got some control over nature! Something different is always an inconvenience. A different idea, a different person, a different situation always ensures that I will be spending more time outside of my self-constructed Comfort Box. And don’t even get me started about encountering more than one of these in any given day! I shiver to think of it.

But what if we just took it in stride? Looking out on this morning’s snow, my initial reaction was, Crap. We’ve got a fireside party tonight. What will we do about the plow guy? Where will people park? It’s supposed to be cold tonight. Will people want to come into the house? Will I have enough room? What if I get tired and want to go to bed? One fear led to another and another and another. I could hear my head literally buzzing with worry. So, I stopped my head chatter and forced another mantra on the scene: Isn’t that snow beautiful? … and my head quieted. It was eerie, actually. Thinking about the whiteness and the little animals burrowed down out there pushed the fear talk to the back. I could still hear the murmuring, but it wasn’t dominating. What if, I thought, I just look at the snow and then… do something else I enjoy and then… do something else I enjoy, etc.? What would happen then? And what is that called when I rerecord those mantras? Courage? Yes, this is true courage.

Understanding that all those fears and worries are there seems, ironically, easy to me. I grasp onto them like a drowning woman, knowing that all the cynicism in the world will somehow prove me right, will somehow validate all the other times I’ve feared and worried. Clinging to these habitually is like the most vicious tautology: fear leads to doubt leads to fear leads to doubt leads to fear. This negativity becomes comfortable because it’s what we’ve been taught, it’s what we know. Our world (or at least the one I was brought up in) reiterates our proclivity for “sin,” for screwing up, for making wrong choices, for having to pay repeatedly for our weaknesses. After a while – while we’re still in our single-digit years, I would wager – we buy into it. We believe that our weaknesses can smother our strengths. And as women, this mantle is doubly heavy.

I questioned this mentality in my teens. I remember not wanting to give in so easily. I remember making those first decisions based on what I wanted and finding those decisions turn out to be really good. The euphoria felt afterwards increased exponentially simply because I did it on my own. When I moved into my 20s, my courage receded to the back again. I noticed that standing out and speaking up lost me friends and made co-workers and supervisors distrust my ability to act as “team player.” One who questions is always the enemy of the other’s Comfort Box.

I played the Corporate World Game, always wavering between courage and fear. I noticed these new tools begin to bleed into and inform my personal relationships. I began to doubt and erratically jump between maniacal fear and maniacal courage; there was no middle ground. This was scary territory because I couldn’t put words around my experiences, my feelings, and my actions to explain to others’ why I was choosing to speak and act in that manner. People would initially warm up to me, drawn to my light of courage and genuineness – and then run screaming when I unleashed the Doubt of Lisa Marie. Both could be intense and overwhelming.

After I quit my corporate job and decided to work out of the house and be a stay-at-home mom, all the things I’d struggled with came into sharp focus. All the tools I’d crafted to survive in Corporate America didn’t work here. I kept trying to force the old tool to do new jobs and I just kept coming up against a fistful of broken tools. A period of deep introspection, harbouring on depression and anxiety, began and lasted almost an entire year. No one will really know some of the thoughts I had during this time. I questioned my reasons for living, my usefulness as a community member, my contributions to the world, my connexion to the Divine… all of it. But one theme floated to the surface time and again: you, Lisa Marie, have courage.

What was the one thing that kept me in school and kept my grades up when my family life was abusive? What was the one thing that drove my survival instinct when the money ran out for food? Why get up every day to try again when I’m not even sure anyone really sees my worth? There’s just something in me that niggles, that won’t let go. I know that my ideals are romantic, that my ethics are rooted in some pretty radical philosophies, that my demands on others for authenticity can be seen as tough, but I think we aren’t courageous enough. I think we want too much comfort, too much coddling. I don’t think we push ourselves enough and, when we do get pushed, we whine over our perceived lack of fairness.

There is a new breed of person on the horizon, one that I am hoping to see reflected in my daughter, one that I am hoping to be. This new breed will do the appropriate soul-searching necessary to truly understand the meaning of authenticity, of compassion, of power, and of courage. This new person will strive to reach for places that are difficult in order to obliterate their Comfort Boxes. This new person will honour the strength in others and encourage conversation around old notions of “unspeakables.” This new breed will look at the window on a snowy day and think “beauty” instead of “burden.”

How much power will you allow yourself to have? Are you this new breed?

This is the end. I know this now. As I sit in my warm and dry living room, holding my cup of tea, I realize that the past, present, and future are merging into one moment. Who was I to think there was a difference?

This storm came on with great amounts of gloom and doom from news-makers. As the Observer, I watched each of our reactions. Jim checked and rechecked the forecast, tracking the storm as it made its way up the eastern coast. His face almost flushed to fever, he excitedly started fantasizing about all the ways he could interact with this weather, reveling in the power that was Mother Nature. Mo was attempting to take everything in stride. I could tell that talk of what-ifs and preparedness sent tremors through her desires for stability and comfort, but she attempted a steadfast approach. Secretly, I mirrored Jim’s enthusiasm, but when I tried to speak of it, I found myself speaking of fears. The protective side of me warned of trees crashing through roofs and worried over the dog’s fear of thunder. Our dog, Edgrrr, lives one moment at a time, seemingly oblivious… but not really, I like to think.

As the storm began this morning, the sky was still dark. I woke to Edgrrr trembling on the bed beside me. During thunder, he only seeks comfort in proximity, not contact; he hates to be held in a storm. I got up and performed my usual tasks: checking windows, getting the dog’s breakfast, straightening up. It all seemed so normal. But I felt something in my head clicking into place. And maybe it was just the timeliness of it all. Maybe it was just the realization of the storm, of the reactions to it… of where I was in my life right now.

I’ve heard it said that every 7 years, your life begins a new cycle, that the last 7 years were preparing you for this set of 7. It has been uncanny how this theory holds in my life. Around 7, 14, 21, 28, and 35, major shifts happened in my life that, now looking back, I can see prepared me for the next set. If I had to pick a major theme, I’d say it’s all been about letting go. I am now 42 and am still finding things to let go of, but… it’s easier. There’s so much breathing room, more freedom now than I ever expected. By buying into this theory, I accept that this set of 7 years will define the quality of the next. This is my challenge to myself: to ensure that this one is done well. Can I own and express that Jim-like enthusiasm over things outside my control? Can I remain Mo-like solid in the face of unknown, knowing I have the internal and external resources to problem-solve? Can I accept Edgrrr-like that one moment and be present and oblivious at the same time?

The storm outside undulates like a sky wave. I look out the window and see the trees swaying and hear the rain hissing. Am I the only one waxing philosophical this morning? While Jim and Mo sleep, I am here typing away on the computer. Edgrrr has finally allowed himself to fall into a doze. And I am here, practicing being right here, right now.

This is a good start for groundwork for that next set… assuming the trees don’t crash through the roof.

I move between these two worlds with the ease of a dancer. I didn’t recognize this as an artform until recently, this stepping between Fear and Joy, this undulation between Doubt and Bliss. As an adult, I am now able to give words to something that I’ve taken as second nature. As a child, this took years of learning, programming and reprogramming, to get just the right balance to stay sane, to keep hope kindled. Do other people do this, too?

When I was small, I felt like I was being stewed in a broth of shame and anger. There was so much negativity around me: my mother’s self-loathing, the lack of boundaries, eating disorders, the Southern insistence on secrecy, the verbal sleight-of-hand that always seemed to be teeming on the outskirts of my hearing… These always peppered my pot. At one point, I realized that I could choose to step out. I would make conscientious decisions to be The Observer – even when these things were happening to me. If my mother said something cruel to me, I would rationalize that she was having a bad day, that a series of shitty circumstances led her to this set of beliefs and actions. Sounds mature, right? But at 9 or 10, I shouldn’t have had to do that sort of disassociation.

Maybe that sort of thinking is a way of sideways forgiveness. Maybe by putting the abuser, say, in a victimizing position, I could forgive more easily. I’m still not sure it’s worked, but it makes the burden a bit lighter.

But I believe I’ve created a monster. Each day I wake up and am truly grateful, truly thrilled to have been given another shot. I go through my morning with increasing excitement over what possibilities might unfold that day. And then… something crashes and I start thinking about all the What Ifs that plague me in the dark. (I don’t need to list them out; we all have our own lists of them.) I find myself stopping in mid-stride, my breath catching, and want to run to Jim, my Fixer of Emotional Turmoil. Some days I give in and do take my fears to him, but most days I don’t. There are too many to unload. The weight of them unbearable for someone as unblackened as I perceive Jim to be.

So I waver. I breathe. I keep coming back again and again to this moment. In this moment, I am healthy, I tell myself. In this moment, I am well-fed. In this moment, I have a roof over my head, am intelligent, am well-loved, am able to communicate, am strong. And if I say it enough and in such a way as to only slightly convince myself that I believe it, I can move again. The panic subsides… and no one is the wiser.

This is my day. This happens to me over and over, several times a day, everyday of my life. I used to look for the light patches between the clouds. After years and years of minute-to-minute internal work, I feel like I can finally claim the opposite is now true.

I do feel as if it is a dance between two worlds still. The one filled with negativity is comfortable, familiar. I understand it’s weight. It is unbelievably soft in ways that are almost obscene. But the one that sees the positive, the possibility is lighter – and that, too, can be scary. To be without weight can make one feel untethered; you have to fight sometimes to find ground.

This dance has become my ritual though. Some days it changes in colour, in texture, in speed, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. As long as I don’t fall asleep under the weight, I think I can keep walking toward awakening.

 This article is dedicated to Jim and Mo.
Jim, thank you for always helping me process and heal.
Mo, thank you for challenging me in the most uncomfortable ways possible.
I love you both.

This is the best time of the day for me: between 4:30a and 8:30a, the world seems alive with opportunity and possibility. It is that time between dreaming and title (Mom, Wife, Business Owner). Usually the dark is just beginning to fade back into the light, the dog is getting a little restless, and, in my half-sleep, I mull over my dreams and smile at getting to start another day.

It’s really like this for me. Always has been. I have never taken the act of waking up for granted. Every night I go to sleep, I think, “I did my best today.” I say this so my rest will come easier, so that any guilt that may have accumulated can disperse, so that any worries I have can take a back seat. In the morning, my actions of yesterday are validated: I was given another opportunity, another chance to try again, to love a little more. I have seen so much death and pain that taking waking for granted is an insult to that moody temptress, Life.

Morning routines are pretty predictable: wash a load or two of clothes, straighten the house, check the ferments, feed the dog, plan out the day’s food, check email, and do yoga. But the difference lies in the approach. I am very conscientious about my attitude: am I being present while doing the dishes? How can I creatively call on my compassion today in my dealings with Mo and Jim? What do I need to do for myself today to make sure I’m taken care of? What can I do today to give back to my community?

My mother and grandmother have reiterated their frustration with me for “needing to process” and “always having to analyze.” Others have told me that I “think too much.” I have often been mocked for my questioning nature, for the part of me that always has to unpack. I used to feel great guilt and shame around this. It wasn’t until Mo came along that I realized this was crap. Listening to the questions Mo would come up with – from “Mom, is baby oil made from babies?” (toddler) to “Mom, how do we know when we’re truly being ourselves?” (teen) – have slowly begun to erase all pretenses of shame. We have to ask. It is only in the asking that we can progress as individuals and as a society. It is only in the asking that we can drop the shame and guilt that plague us. It is only in the asking that we are able to let go.

Many people have come into my life and then turned tail when they butt up against my questioning nature, thinking my questions are too personal or inappropriate. I have spent years wallowing in remorse over who I am, years worrying about how I can change to be less like who I am. But this morning I woke up and thought about Mo’s question from yesterday: “Mom, how do we know when we’re truly being ourselves?” I realized that I am walking my path and that others are walking theirs. There may be moments of intersection, but it’s not something to mourn. I tended to focus on the lack when these people were no longer around, but what if I turned that around? What if I began to celebrate the moments of intersection instead? What if I gave myself a little credit for being open and honest, for utilizing my compassion and tact where necessary?

My mother told me once that life isn’t about finding out what you want; it’s about finding out what you don’t want. This was profound for me. At 42, I am finding that I don’t want to make a whole lot of time for guilt and none at all for regret. I am finding that I don’t want to base my worthiness on the number of friends that I have. I am finding, too, that I don’t want to keep berating myself for not having qualities that others deem imperative to Good Character™.

A number of months ago, Mo dedicated the Alicia Keys song, “Superwoman” to me. She said, “This really reminds me of you.” The song is about women pulling themselves up from under, women in pain rising above, women finding their strength when being stood upon. Knowing that Mo sees me as this kind of woman meant more to me than she’ll ever know. It meant that all the work I did was worth it. It meant that all the times I’ve rebelled and brought together have been noticed and appreciated.

To feel this respect is so powerful, but I wouldn’t have been able to feel that if I hadn’t respected myself first.

I recently came across an article I’d written in January of 2010. As I read it, I realized how, unfortunately, this is still relevant today. Given that I am raising a (now 14yo) girl, it struck an especially poignant note. P.S. My weekly phone conversations with my grandmother have now changed into weekly written correspondences. Unfortunately, her hearing isn’t what it used to be. I miss hearing her voice… even though she does still sometimes revel in lamenting.

***

She came at me with her arms outspread, her orange beehive lit up it all its glory… and licking her lips. I never understood the lip-licking thing, but maybe that was how she prepared for a kiss. I always melted into her chest, my face smashed by her hard pointed bras that were so in fashion at the time. She smelled like laundry detergent and Chanel No. 5. And whenever she hugged me, she made this little moan of pleasure, like I was her absolute most favouritest (her word) person in the whole world.

And I still am.

I love my grandma. And though the pointed bras are long gone and I’m now much taller, she still gives the best hugs around.

I spent every Sunday of my childhood at my grandma’s house. My granddad would pick me up at 12:30p to be back in time for our 1p lunch. Lunch was always some type of meat and potatoes and an overcooked vegetable followed by a ridiculously large dessert. One of my favourites was the big slab of pound cake mounded high with Weight Watchers^TM ice cream.

After lunch, we would sit around the kitchen table playing cards or Othello, always keeping a hawk-eye on the other in case of cheating. My granddad would come in and try and start a conversation with us and my grandma would cuss him out for interrupting her concentration. When she turned her attention back to the game, my granddad would give her the finger behind her back while smirking like a kid. “I saw that, Joe,” she would say without turning around. I used to believe she had eyes in the back of her head.

Around 4p, we would go out to dinner, to “beat the crowd,” as she would say. I was never hungry for dinner at 4p, but you don’t argue with my grandma. So, I would order my food and stuff it down, feeling so full I ached. This was the norm. This was how it felt to “get enough” at a meal.

During the summer of my 11^th year, my grandma and mother informed me that I was going to Weight Watchers^TM. I was utterly confused because I wasn’t even really aware of my body yet. I didn’t understand the concept of fat or thin. I went to that first meeting and did the initial weigh-in. I think I was around 100 pounds and was just under 5′. Looking back now, I know this was not fat for a kid. I remember my mother exclaiming, “Wow! That’s more than me!” (My mother was 5’1” and had a very tiny frame.) My mother and grandma then left me to attend the meeting by myself. I was the only child there. I was surrounded by several middle-aged women all bemoaning the hardships of cooking for their families, of resisting temptations, of staying on the plan. Only about a third of the women in the room were women I would categorize as fat.

That summer was spent weighing out all my food, writing everything I ate into my food chart, feeling hungry, and gradually getting more and more pissed. By the end of the summer, I had gotten down to 67 pounds. I look back at pictures of myself during that time and I feel a great sadness. I was too thin. To put this in perspective… I have a 12-year-old daughter who is a little over 5′ now and weighs around 96 pounds. She is a dancer and has a beautifully-proportioned, lithe body. Most people I know call her slender. 67 on my frame was an abomination. How could my mother, my grandmother, and the women weighing me in at Weight Watchers have all agreed that I was overweight?!

When school started in September, people were floored… and not in the way I expected. Girls that had just the year before teased me for wearing glasses and being a teacher’s pet were all now inviting me to their back-to-school parties. Boys that previously tripped me in the halls between classes were now passing me notes. I hated it. It felt fake and contrived. I was starting to realize that this thin thing may not be for me. So, after school one afternoon, I stopped by the convenience store and bought as much candy and cookies as my allowance could afford. I stored this under my bed and ate at night with a rebellious glee. This was the most joy I’d felt in weeks! In the dark… just me and my food… no one bothering me… no one pushing me to weigh anything. I was in heaven.

Over the next few weeks, all my weigh-ins began showing plus signs: +1/2 pound, +3/4 pound, +2 pounds. I remember the last weigh-in like it was yesterday. I was 12, feeling a bit ashamed at lying to my mother and grandma this whole time, but also feeling a strong sense of defiance and independence. As I stepped onto the scale, the woman compared the last week’s numbers to this week’s numbers and looked at me with this great disappointment. “You’ve gained another pound,” she said gloomily.

I stepped off the scale and looked at my mother, who seemed to be processing something. “You don’t want to do this, do you?”

“I never did. You wanted this, not me. I liked being my size.” Ironically, I felt so small saying this. I could never judge how she was going to react.

My mother looked at me for a while, sighed, and said, “OK. Come on. Let’s go.”

We never went back again. I continued to gain weight and, what I would call, “normalize” back to a weight that worked for me. My mother nor my grandma ever spoke about losing weight to me again during my childhood.

It wasn’t until years later that began to understand the effect being raised by these women had on me. There were certain assumptions, certain unspoken truths, in my family. They were all centered around how a woman should look and act and dress and eat. There was this place between girl and woman that was supposed to somehow move from joy and carelessness to obsession and fear. Women were – and still are – to transform from living for themselves to living for others. And I’m guessing now that age 11 is the preferred age of transition.

I am now 41. I have spent these last 2 years consciously trying to reclaim joyful and intentional eating. Ideally this is defined as uncovering your definition of true hunger and eating when that arises and stopping when it’s been satisfied; being totally present in my food gathering, preparation, and consumption; and marveling afterwards at the food consumed and the abundance available to you. Sounds like a fantasy, right? This isn’t the easiest thing in the world, I know. This awareness flies in the face of everything this culture is built upon.

I’ve found though that changing your approach to food consumption changes who you are on a molecular level. Once those changes begin to occur, something shifts in the way you think, feel, and react. Deciding to take control of what goes in determines who you are. The most powerful step on the journey is the one where you realize that it’s your feet that are doing the walking.

Even though we are many states apart now, I still talk to my grandma every Sunday. She’s more vocal now about her desire to diet and revels in lamenting the days when she “could eat whatever she wanted.” When we are talking, a part of me feels a great sadness. I know that she is still invested in the idea of food being the enemy, the one to be battled with. But another part of me feels such appreciation… because this is also the woman who taught me the value and necessity of independence.

What I have here in my hand
Is like faith, but not faith
For those without faith also have
What I have here in my hand
What I have here in my hand
Is like feeling but deeper
That’s why I am here

I don’t think I was raised as a Christian. We never went to church, never talked about Christianity, never prayed, and certainly never discussed God. Still, there was an undercurrent of Southern Baptist assumptions that shadowed me throughout my entire childhood. These assumptions kept me guessing as to the true meaning of faith, trust, and belief. Just when I thought I’d captured their meanings, they’d slip through my fingers. My understanding of the human spirit and its journey developed a gossamer-like quality.

Having said that, that is not to say that I didn’t have faith or trust or belief. Realizing that I’d survived a childhood riddled with abuse gave me great hope later in life. How did I get up each morning? How did I face situations no child should ever have to face or, worse yet, try to rationalize? How did I develop morals and ethics that kept me from internal and external violence? I can only define this as faith… but not faith.

What I have here in my hand
Is knowledge without proof
What I have here in my hand
This is what I feel for you

I remember when I met Jim, I’d convinced myself that I didn’t trust anyone. I repeated this mantra over and over. But, in my heart, I knew this was bullshit. There were several people I trusted, several situations I had faith in. I have an uncanny intuition that has always pointed me in the right direction – even when that direction was seemingly unfounded.

I met Jim online. I knew after first hearing his voice on the phone that he was my life partner. I didn’t know in what capacity; I just understood that this was what it felt like to truly trust and believe. Yes, from an outsider’s point of view, this was irrational, outside the flow chart of anyone’s little logic boxes. But since when is trust logical? When is faith something to be reasoned out?

It’s why the Earth is alive
It makes electricity work
And fire dance in the sky
Feel inside the atoms where the science breaks down
If you don’t believe in love
You’d have to make it up

I’ve been working a lot with letting go, thinking that might be the best option. I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe trusting is really about the tension between the holding onto and the letting go. Maybe trusting is the process as opposed to the end result. Trust becomes the vehicle for the quality of the journey. Are you driving a Pinto or a Mercedes?

What I have here in my hand
Is like faith, but not faith
What I have here in my hand
This is what I feel for you
What I have here in my hand
Is like knowing but deeper
It’s why I am here
It’s why I am here

And so I get up each morning, again and again. I do my exercises, eat my breakfast, read my book. But it’s never the same. I’ve been paying attention to how I feel when I go to bed and when I get up and always come back to the same thing. At night, there is great relief: “Thank you. I made it through another day with committing murder and maintaining some sense of joy.” In the morning, there is great anticipation: “Yes! Another opportunity! What’s going to happen today?” (And that’s without caffeine!)

I don’t know where I got this from. As far as I can remember, these attributes were never modeled. Could they have grown from a sense of rebellion? That doesn’t seem logical because so many other things could have come from that upbringing. So, why the optimism? And why is negativity always easier to fathom than positivity?

I think I’m just going to stop questioning and have faith that it’s there for a reason.

Lyrics: “Faith” by Marillion

How ’bout the power to kill a yak from 200 yards away…
with mind bullets! That’s telekinesis, Kyle.
How ’bout the power to move you?
- excerpt from “Wonderboy” by Tenacious D

It really sucks that I can’t make people do what I want them to. I mean, come on! Imagine these scenarios, if you will.

• Me: “Mo, please have your room clean by 9p.”
  Mo: “How about I just get that done now?”
• Me: “Jim, would you please keep your clothes folded and neat in your area?”
  Jim running to fold his clothes: “You betcha, honey!”
• Me: “You know, what you need to do is eat locally.”
  Friend: “Oh, OK! I’ll do that from now on!”
• Me: “Oh, didn’t you know? Today I get all my purchases for free!”
  Cashier: “Oh, yeah! Thanks for the reminder! No charge!”

You know, I’m reading these scenarios above and an inner peace is steeling across my entire body. You feel it, too? Can’t you see how much simpler and happier life would be for these people if they’d just follow my suggestions? Can’t you see how the Doors of Opportunity would fly open for them?!

OK, sure, it’s all bullshit. I get that. But what is it about us that still insists on believing that we have that much control over others? Have you ever really experienced someone making a little suggestion and have seen the heavens part and the angels come swooping down in some mockery of revelation?

I have… actually. Yeah, actually I have. I mean, not everyday, mind you, but I have. Some call it the A-Ha Phenomenon, that moment in life where you go from Old Self to New Self with Expanded Awareness of Concept X. And it’s amazing. That feeling of lightness, of excitement, of sheer joy at having realized something that, quite frankly, was really freakin’ obvious. We want this again and again and, interestingly enough, we want it for others as well. And so we develop this desire to proselytize about things that, for us, were really obvious. We want other people to experience that A-Ha Phenomenon, to say to us, “Man! You were SO RIGHT!”

Does this make us bad people? Selfish? Arrogant? Nah. This desire to share information is ultimately, I believe, coming from a place of compassion. It seems instinctive to me that we would want to reach back or down or beside and say, “Hey! I’ve figured this bit out! Get this….” This is a good thing. This is how spiritual and intellectual moving towards – I can’t bear to call it “advancement;” something about that sounds elitist – can occur.

The key though is tact. Ah, that lovely temptress called Ego, she is a wily one to reign in, isn’t she? I witness my almost-14yo-daughter going through Situation Y and immediately want to jump in and say, “Oh! I’ve gone through something like this. Here’s what you do…” But is it the right time to say anything? Do I truly understand what she’s going through? Are there circumstances surrounding her situation that I’m unaware of? Are there feelings she’s carrying with this situation that she hasn’t told me about? Would this situation be better served if she were to maneuver these waters herself? Can I negotiate “guiding” versus “instructing”? Should I button my lip and simply empathize? These are really hard questions – mainly because I’m asking these in the space of a few seconds. We approach these situations with a sense of who we are/who we are becoming and try to be the best parent, the best partner, the best friend that we can. Sometimes we get stuck because we think we are about to impart a beautiful A-Ha Moment upon this other person… and find that the real A-Ha Moment is about to be imparted upon ourselves: everything gets turned on its head and you realize that this is really about you learning about you and not you teaching someone else.

After all my introspection, after all the healing, all the work I’ve done on being more tactful and compassionate, I’m still in progress. Ugh. I hate that. I want more A-Ha Moments. I want more moments of lightness. I want to see more angels in glittery wings. Maybe I‘d get these things if I’d stop focusing on everybody else.

But it would be cool to be able to kill a yak with mind bullets, you gotta admit…

I’ve spent the past 25 years trying to do the right thing. Before that I think I must have been sleeping. Or dreaming. One of the two. Anyway, my best friend, Jan, woke me up. She was the one who got me thinking about spirituality and how that informed our choices. OK, she wasn’t that blatant about it, but she did encourage me to question and to think outside the box. And since then I’ve been caught in the middle of my ethics and my practices. How do I subscribe to a certain set of beliefs while contributing to their nullification by my actions? Is it appropriate to turn the other cheek under certain circumstances? What is the middle and is that really the best place to stand?

Another friend, Eddie, pointed me to an article recently discussing how the Internet is increasing our carbon footprint. This article shook me to the core. I was under the impression that by using the computer to transfer my files, to run my company, to communicate with friends… that I was actually saving expendable resources and generating less waste. And there are countless examples of this in my life: driving 45 minutes (one way!) to gather spring water in glass carboys; using cloth toilet wipes and washing them in an electric washing machine; and – here’s the real kicker – producing a line of chocolates with ingredients that come from tropical areas. My intention is always to think things through and make the best decisions I can given what I have to work with, but where are the lines? And why is it that they always seem to be moving?

There are many of us who are disgruntled with the current economic system. We were buried in idealistic commerce, taught that happiness could be purchased – on credit if cash wasn’t readily available. We live in a land where virtually anything you want can be bought. This is America, dammit! Of course all your needs will be met! What was never discussed was… at what cost? Not until our way of life is threatened do we stop and think about it. Some people that I’ve talked to aren’t convinced that our consumption is in peril. Others think that just by changing a couple of habits – recycling or buying foods in bulk – that our system will right itself. And still others – I am in this last group – believe that radical change needs to occur or utter annihilation will ensue. Yes, that’s a dramatic statement, but I’ve witnessed so much destruction on so many levels, that this seems inevitable.

So, those desiring to implement radical changes are caught in the middle. How do we implement these changes while operating in a society that does not support change, that insists that those that want to are paranoid? Jim and I watched the movie “No Impact Man” recently. The film documents one New York City family attempting to live off the grid for a year. The most striking aspect of their journey was the constant need to make exceptions, to say, OK, this is allowed, but this isn’t. They found themselves time and again wrestling with their ethics, their ideals, their goals. I do this, too, on a daily basis. One of my biggest dilemmas – and don’t laugh here, I’m being serious – is going out for Indian. There is this restaurant in my area that I love to frequent. The atmosphere is casual and they now know me there, so I always feel welcome. It’s a place I can go by myself and hole up with a book and be fed sumptuous Indian fare. Do they use local meats? Nope. I doubt it. Are they cooking with organic vegetables? Highly unlikely. Are they using raw milk in their masala tea? Don’t think so. So, why do I go there? Why am I willing to make that compromise but hold firm to the cloth toilet wipes, for example?

The only way I can think to answer this question is by saying that I’m moving toward. We are born walking paradoxes. We wrestle with the innocence-versus-evil aspect of our being constantly. And, no, I’m not saying that we’re evil when we choose paper toilet tissue; I’m making the point that, by nature, we are fluid beings. We want to move toward that understanding of our authenticity, our definition of the Divine, and find ourselves pulled. But here’s the clincher: we find ourselves pulled only if we are questioning.

It is right and good to question. And there is a right and good way to question. This isn’t about self-flagellation, about beating oneself up over an Indian dinner. It’s about understanding where you are right now and what’s the best decision for you right now… and really loving that moment.

Can you be here without the guilt and doubt and just respect where you’ve landed?

So, I’ve abandoned toilet paper. But before you get all freaked out and start brainstorming about ways to get out of shaking my hand in the future, let me explain.

I’ve wanted a self-composting toilet since I used one at a friend’s camp a number of years ago. The idea was so radical, so foreign to me. But, given that we were living in an apartment at the time, I filed it under “For Later.” Now that I own my own home, I’ve dredged that file back up. Currently, we live in a mobile home with a septic system. Converting over to a self-composting toilet system is totally do-able, but it will take some money. In the meantime, I began to wonder if there were other things I could do to take steps towards lessening my reliance on Big Brother (a.k.a. Corporate America or Big Box).

This has been a game of mine for about 20 years now. I ask myself questions like: What can I do without? What can I make myself? Is there some habit I can change. Now the questions also include: How much fuel did it take to get that product to my house? Is there someone I can barter with to get my product or service? Can something local be used instead? This reprogramming of my consumerist mindset has put in motion several changes made around the house. For example, we use cloth napkins instead of paper, cloth handkerchiefs instead of tissues, cloth menstrual pads or a Keeper Cup instead of disposables, and cloth produce and grocery bags instead of the plastic ones supplied by the store.

But toilet paper?! Oh, yes. Toilet paper. I am floored by how many people are vehemently not interested in talking about this subject – and I’m talking about friends who lives are enmeshed in environmentalism and sustainability. Just bringing up the subject has people quickly raising their eyebrows and giving me the I-think-the-cheese-has-slipped-off-her-cracker look. Before I’m even able to explain the process, people quickly started spouting objections. Interestingly though, almost everyone is in agreement over the waste of resources (i.e., trees, fuel) or the use of chemicals for processing, but very few want to make changes in this area of their lives. We have truly developed a “flush it and forget it” mentality. Even citing the 2008 Danish study where BPAs, and, therefore, xenoestrogens, were found in recycled paper did nothing to change people’s minds. “Well,” they say defensively, “I’m not going to just use nothing. I’m not going to become some barbarian.”

Hmpf. So, how did the choices become narrowed to two: “barbarian” or “toilet-paper user”? Let me tell you my set-up and see if I can offer a third option. The following were purchased for my new venture:

• 3 12-packs of cloth toilet wipes (also sold as cloth baby wipes) from TurtlesRUs, an Etsy store that totally rocks the house on reasonable prices and fast turnaround
• a baby wipes warmer, inspired by the Walk Slowly, Live Wildly blog
  
• a small trash can with a removable inner bucket
  

The total for supplies came to about $75.

I have a stack of dry wipes for pee wiping and a stack of moist wipes in the warmer (moistened with a solution of water, Dr. Bronner’s, and lavender oil) for poop wiping or vaginal wiping around period time. Once you’ve done your business, throw used wipes in the trash can. This contains a vinegar-water solution. When I’m doing laundry, I don my rubber gloves and throw the wipes in the appropriately-coloured load. Yes, I’m washing them with my other laundry and, yes, I’m using hot water and, for now, non-chlorine bleach (I’m looking for a more environmentally-friendly alternative). I line-dry them in the sun when possible and rack-dry them indoors when not. No, I’m not worried about cholera or Swine Flu or the heebie-jeebies. And, yes, I keep a roll of toilet paper for those not so inclined.

So, there it is. You can talk crap about me if you like, but when the shit hits the fan, folks, I’ll have the wipes.