Pharmaceutical Grade Solitude

The Value of a Good Time Out

December was a nightmare. It always is. Thus, the complete lack of postings here. We have been musicians our whole adult lives and December is busy season for anyone who sings or plays with any kind of skill. I only took one playing gig. Hot Swede more than made up for it with his (slightly insane) choir schedule and ad hoc gigs at church. I stupidly

8203770426_e3a7382ed5_nvolunteered to do the costumes for our church’s live Nativity. (It is so easy to say yes in October.) I had to make 6 adult angel costumes, in addition to finishing the gifts I was making for my own giving. I attended the children’s “winter concerts,” (If we‘re not going to do a Christmas concert, I humbly ask the public schools to save their “winter concerts” for January. Please.) did the daily everything, and solo parented while Hot Swede was singing all evening. I have never wanted Christmas to be over so badly. The weekend before the big day, Hot Swede got home from singing out of state (!), and I crumbled into about 289 pieces. I was completely used up, empty. I had a lot of work left to do and people to be kind to and I had no idea how I was going to manage it.  I needed to restock and repack my mental toolbox. I needed serious alone time.

I use pharmaceutical grade solitude, 100%pure, to calm my nerves and smooth my feathers. This isn’t a break from the people driving me nuts. It isn’t watching a movie by myself, or even going to the bathroom without someone knocking at the door and asking for something (although that would be nice.) Therapeutic solitude is free of other human input- no books, music, talk, art, conversation, people watching. It is a time to just be with myself, reconnect with who I am, find my balance and ground.  Lucky for me, I learned the value of purposeful solitude early.

In 10th grade, the experiential education department at my school sent a handful of us on a solo trip. We hiked into the mountains where we were given our boundaries and rules:

3400140191_9b165fe386_nNo contact, even visual, with other soloists, no fires, books, writing, no yelling except in case of bears. Our leader handed each of us a tarp, length of rope, and a Ziploc with the following: 2 hard candies, 2 oz of cheese, 2 granola bars, and a tortilla.  We treated our creek filled water bottles with iodine and each of us set out to find a secluded campsite where we would spend at least the next 24 hours completely alone.

Beforehand, I was curious as to how I would react to the experience. Would it be uncomfortable? Would I like being so alone? Would I spend it talking to myself or to God? It turned out that, as I couldn’t go anywhere, I had no other purpose except to be, and that’s what I did. I listened to the air, studied all the mosses and lichens in my little camp. It was so different from anything else I’d ever experienced. I took naps in patches of sunlight, delighted in the sun-warmed rock.  I was asleep when the sun went down and rose when it did.

The experience didn’t change my life. There was no mountain top experience, just an opportunity to commune with the quiet inner voice that can be heard only when the loud outer voices, the ones that communicate with others, are not coming in or going out. I kept company with myself, listening and observing, and realized that I liked this girl and wanted to be kind to this person who is me. If that isn’t an important realization for a 16 year-old girl to come to, I don’t know what is.

Some people use solitude for prayer and meditation, and that has its own value, but there is something sweet and nutritive about listening to my own soul and body. It’s self-5712953278_9986cfe40e_ndating and therapy all in one- getting to know myself, listening, watching, not trying to change or solve problems- just understanding. It’s a chance to let mental knots loosen and unravel, a chance to stop reacting to outside demands, a chance to sort and restock the mental stores.

20 years later, my daily life is never free of other humans, and I take solitude very seriously, if infrequently.  The weekend before Christmas, with about 24 things on my to-do list, my husband, whom I had essentially not seen in two weeks, kicked me out of the house for some alone time. He is sweet and knew I needed it. He is also not an idiot; He knew his life would be better if I got some solitude.

Hear no people. See no people. Speak to no people.

Hear no people. See no people. Speak to no people.

I ate breakfast that someone else cooked. I drove in silence. I’m a gal who likes to have music or talk on at all times, but not during therapeutic solitude. I ran one nightmare errand to the mall (barf) and got out of there as quickly as possible. Then, the best part- I went to the art institute because it’s beautiful and quiet and sat on the same bench for 1.5 hours. What piece of art took my attention for 1.5 hours? None. Art was too much of other humans. I sat looking out over a deserted snow-covered park, just breathing, just being. Stress sloughed off in big flakes and by the end, I was ready to go back to my life, picking up the gallon of milk that I knew we needed on the way home.

I am fortunate to have a healthy, inexpensive tool for renewal, and family who supports it. Massages are nice. Pedicures and manicures don’t appeal to me. Shopping is short-lived. Drinking, movies, and other escapes have their place, but they don’t make coming back to reality any easier. Medicinal grade solitude is it. It is what works for this woman who is never ever alone unless someone else helps make it happen.

Christmas Eve prep was done at 3 am; I was fine. Christmas day was fine; I even enjoyed it. My in-laws got everyone ice skates and we made good memories and better bruises. The day after was lovely. New Year’s Eve, hanging out with friends while our children watched a movie and fell asleep, was the top social event of the month.  And that day apart, given to me by Hot Swede, was the second best gift of the season.

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends.

I had a terrible morning with the children. The youngest is sick and cried. The eldest threw a full bore tantrum. The middle child, typically, said not a word and got ready for school. After dropping the older two at school, I came home and cried into a dishtowel for ten minutes. I was at a loss; I didn’t know how I should have handled the tantrum.  I was sure I was a terrible mother; no one knows how bad it really gets around here except me. My nerves were shot; a tornado of chaos and banshees knocked me over, and I had no idea why or what to do about it.

3609775194_df351a29b9Out of frustration and a touch of desperation, I posted something about the bad morning and feeling inept. I wasn’t fishing for compliments or platitudes; it was just something I had to say somewhere.  Within minutes, my phone rang. It was my friends, a couple I’ve known for years, asking if I was okay and what was going on. The concern expressed in their words and the act of calling comforted me greatly. They gave me a couple things to try. Mostly, they listened and confirmed that parenting is hard. It is hard for everyone, but lots of other people get through it and so will I, and so will they.

I had forgotten what a powerful support it is to have someone show concern and listen, especially someone who is walking a similar path. When I was a newish parent, I was lucky to be part of a wonderful program through our public school system, ECFE. It is a program designed to support and help families navigate the baffling early years of parenting.

We met once a week for one hour with children, and then one without- the kids exploring their world, the parents exploring theirs. This group of wonderful, average, every day women saved my bacon. We saved each other’s bacon. Each week, we’d share our joys and bring our concerns to the group in uncommonly open, kind, and honest conversation. Everything was game: kids who wouldn’t stay in bed, kids who’d only eat cheese, disagreements with partners, divorce, illness, infidelity, our own weakness and frustrations. It may be the healthiest thing I did for myself and my young family.

We all need those places to unload, commiserate, re-direct, tell the truth, hear the truth, and offer support. This job is completely bananas. Almost any yahoo can make a baby and that’s where the easy part ends. Billions of people have raised children under all kinds of conditions, difficulties, and advantages. It is hard every time. If parents care about their children at all, it is hard. It’s the most intense challenge I will ever face.

I want to be the mother each of my children needs, but there are three of them, one of me, and I have my own soul trying to be the person she needs to be. Dealing with myself is hard enough, much less trying to be good for three children. Children come with their personalities, temperaments, weaknesses, and strengths intact and active. Grown humans must teach them how to make the most of what they’ve got. My children’s proclivities, talents, and issues may be widely disparate from my own, but it is still my job and I don’t get a pass because I feel ill suited to it. At some point, we all fall short of expectation, but we don’t get to quit.  Decent parenting (I’m not talking stellar, just decent) is utterly vital to the health of society and individuals.  So we pick ourselves up, open up a bottle of wine when the kids go to bed, and do the best we can.

A compatriots make difficulties easier to bear.

Compatriots make difficulties easier to bear.

Except sometimes, we can’t pick ourselves up quickly. Quickly is important, because the battle doesn’t stop because we’ve fallen down. Today I was overwhelmed. I no longer have that group of pre-school moms to lean on, strategize with, and encourage. My friends picked up the phone and were the support that I needed. I am so grateful. They may not even realize what it meant to me to have them reach out and pull me up. They patched me up and sent me back into the fray, reminded that I was not alone and that any parent worth her salt feels inadequate at times.

Let's go for coffee, I mean, cheap therapy.

Let’s go for coffee, I mean, cheap therapy.

I will look for places to do the same for others, when they hit a rough spot. It increases goodness and we all need help eventually. Ask for help when you need it, and be there when others need you. Both sides of the equation make this hard and vital job of raising people easier, kinder, and less harrowing. Be kind to each other. Kids, be kind to your old moms and dads. We’re actually working hard at this, even if it doesn’t look like it.

Six Year-Olds, 29 Years Later

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I went for a walk with a soul I met in kindergarten, my first friend who was not also my cousin. My mom joked that we became close because we were the only two minority, less than upper-class students in the class. I can’t corroborate that because the only division I noticed at the time was that we were all brown from a high desert summer except Catherine, who glowed with an ivory pallor and crown of blond plaits that I found mesmerizing. I had never seen someone that fair.

Keeping touch with childhood friends makes me think like an old woman- seeing the full length of my life, feeling the stretch of years as one event. Our shared experiences took place when we were shorter and had smoother cheeks, but it hardly matters. We are shaped by the sum of our experiences, not just the recent additions.

il_fullxfull.132528183Friends from youth are as much a part of my life as those who currently inhabit it. No matter where we are in life, our interactions with people follow a pattern. We come into each other’s lives, walk along side for a time, and then continue on our individual paths.

After kindergarten, my friend and I went separate ways until 6th grade, when we were once again at school together and our paths ran parallel until high school graduation. We now live on opposite ends of the country, but are digitally reconnected. While separated geographically and politically, she is a woman who’s decency and solid mind I admire greatly.

I can only think of one person I wish I had never met, whose interactions were onerous and pedagogically fallow. The upper classman concertmaster who dressed down 11 year-old me in front of the rest of our combined 6-12th grade violin section- I could have done without that arrogant ass. The only thing I learned from him was that some people are just jerks and that grudges can be carried easily for decades. Even the violist in my most dysfunctional chamber ensemble ever was diverting enough to make for good stories. (He threw a telephone receiver in a fit of anger- the big clunky kind that used to be attached to walls- over a spat about tuning his 3rd.)

I appreciate people who come into my life. I admire them for what they’ve accomplished, or skills they’ve mastered that I have not. I esteem their strengths, especially when I am aware of some of their weaknesses. If people approach me honestly, I will respond in kind.

20121217-163827I cannot imagine being any other way. It would be exhausting to try to impress people, or to put up facades and keep distance. I’m too lazy for that. Here I am, a 6 year-old, a 16 year-old, a nearly 36 year old- adding years and people one by one, filling my memory with the richness of walking with my 6 year-old friend, 29 years later, toting her son, unpacking our families, careers, and ideas. For all the distance of space and years, knowing her is part of my whole.

Maybe my nostalgia is syrupy. Maybe it’s easy to feel like people are wonderful as I sit here, alone, in my house. Maybe I get caught in waves of emotion. Eh, so what? There are worse things than liking people easily.

The illustrations are all by Joan Walsh Anglund, a favorite from my childhood. Her website is here.

Love, Despite Efforts to the Contrary

I didn’t want to fall in love. Fresh out of a long distance relationship on life support, I wanted freedom, space, and a chance to be unattached- for the first time in my adult life. I didn’t want you. Okay, I wanted you, but I didn’t want to love you.

Three weeks after our mutual interest was acknowledged, I was in trouble. I knew you for two years as a fellow student in my major- not studying in the library, screwing around in piano class, playing Frisbee on the lawn.  But as soon as I got close enough to smell your laundry soap, I couldn’t get close enough.over-the-town-1918.jpg!Large

I fought it. I told myself your earring was ridiculous. You weren’t a serious student and what did that say about your ability to make the most of life, which demands more grit than does college? You were newly released from a 4-year relationship that had run its course and you were ready to sew some oats; everyone around you could feel it. You would, rightly, not be serious about me and, if you did fall for me, you would be fickle and lose interest before long.

To protect myself, I held this picture of you in front of my mind’s eye every day. I believed the intellect had a big say in who I would “choose” to love. Love is too impactful to be left to the heart. Yet, while my mind raged against it, ringing alarm bells that I wasn’t ready for this, you couldn’t possibly want it, I was being a silly ass, there was no way I wasn’t going to get hurt- my heart, body, and soul were quickly losing their protective armor and becoming the terrifyingly vulnerable things that they are in love.

I was mad. You asked me what was wrong and I told you that I was falling in love with you and it pissed me off. And then I may have listed my reasons why- to your face. You looked at me and said, “I love you too.” That was it. There I went, over the precipice, never to return, still a little miffed by my lack of control.

This partnership is the greatest blessing of my life. The faults my “clear-thinking” mind found in you turned out to be trivial or wrong. You took the earring out when you changed careers. You are a capable and skilled man and you work harder than most people I know. Most of all, you are true- loyal to us and devoted to the family we’ve grown. You are a better match for me than I ever imagined and I love you without reservation. Finally.

bond-of-union.jpg!Blog

Happy Anniversary, Hot Swede. I know how you love public displays of affection. But since you won’t hold my hand in home improvement stores, I’m putting it here. Tee hee.

I’m Not Lazy; I’ve Got Priorities

Last week, my parents flew across the country to see us. I let the lawn grow long. I let the blog idle. I didn’t clean the basement, workout, scroll through Facebook, or do any solitary things that could wait. The weather finally turned from garbage to gold, and I shifted everything of lesser import further down the list. I spent the week eating, walking, and laughing with, cooking for, and talking to these people who first believed I was worth the trouble, while soaking up beautiful weather with all my senses.  To do otherwise would have been foolish.

Relationships are the richness of life. It is incomplete when not shared, in some way, with others. Loved ones come first. Work will always be. People are precious and temporary.

5500724272_a8f55edbe4_z(Not my family, just another one, doing the most important things.)

How to Lose Friends and Irritate People

I like social media. It connects me to people I would never see in person, but who enrich my life through our digital society. That said, I am sometimes made ill by the behavior I see online- the vile way people talk to and about each other. We behave abominably online in ways that, I hope to God, (I actually do; this is not a taking-name-in-vain violation.) we would never ever behave face to face. After years on Facebook and being witness to much keyboard ugliness, I’ve developed a rule for myself. If you are tired of rabid pedants, aggressive strangers, and other senseless bile, read on.

The Cocktail Party Rule

Old-Fashioned

Old-Fashioned.

Here’s the groundbreaking idea: If you wouldn’t do something at a cocktail party, don’t do it online. Mind blown? No? Good, then there is hope for us.

Before I flesh out this common sense, shouldn’t even have to mention it idea, let me say that all this assumes that the reader has basic adult social skills and is not a complete ninny.

Other People’s Houses

Pages, updates, editorials, etc.

When you arrive at a friend’s house/online space, you are on her turf, interacting with her life and her family/friends/co-workers. For goodness sake, be on good behavior. Assess the tone of conversation; watch your language; engage in charming and mindful small talk. Save complaining about your gouty toe until after dinner and a few glasses of wine. While the other guests there are strangers to you, you are all valued friends of the host.

If someone starts talking about a movie they hate and you love, do you call them a tasteless hack and curse at them? No, because that shows disrespect for your friend’s friend and, by extension, your friend. Also, you are an adult and understand that people have different opinions about every single thing in life.

There are a few types of individuals who damage good social interaction, in person or online. Here are a few of most odious.

The Blowhard

This individual operates under the false notion that passion and knowledge for a subject override common decency towards complete strangers. Even more confounding is when her passion overrides respect for people she does know and calls “friends.”

316350341_00239c8fc2The Blowhard typically sees herself as exceedingly correct in her opinions and feels the need to enlighten or shame everyone within range with her brilliant take on a given subject. She thinks she holds the monopoly on truth and that only misled, bad, or stupid people could have an opinion different from hers. It is a precariously high pedestal on which to balance, and if you rock it, even just a little bit, she will respond defensively with a hiss of vitriol and anger, instead of setting her feet on solid reason.

Don’t attack your friends’ friends, ever- in person or online. Learn to disagree on point without belittling the individual. No one was ever persuaded to change his mind on a subject by being called an idiot.

Changing opinions is a long process, unless the opinion under pressure is not well formed in the first place. We are far likelier to succeed at increasing the understanding of both parties. The best way is to welcome the examination of ideas. This requires both sides to remove their opinions from their person, lay them out and examine them together, as partners. This is far less emotionally satisfying because it requires us to control and scrutinize ourselves. Unfortunately, a lot of people seem incapable or unwilling to do this.

If you want to rant against the Republicans or excoriate the President, that’s fine; do it on your own wall. I don’t like this either because vitriol is poison, but at least don’t inject it into others’ space. I have seen countless good Facebook conversations hijacked or ended by a blowhard with an ax to grind. The great thing about social media is that you don’t have to get involved in a conversation if you are angry or can’t set aside your righteous indignation. Rest your fingers; you might get carpal tunnel.

The Honest Jerk

“I’m sorry, but I’m just being honest.” This is a common excuse for being rude, as if honesty and respect are mutually exclusive.  What exactly is the Jerk being honest about? It can’t be the facts of an argument because facts and logic stand on their merits and are not dependent on verbal muscle to be convincing.

This is an honesty of emotion. The Jerk is irritated/threatened/mad that others don’t share his view, so he expresses that to the detriment of his argument. Because the Jerk is ruled by his emotions, he will call you names and make wild, hysterical assumptions about the other. I recently saw a comment by a woman who said that she teaches her children that any man who is pro-life is a child-molester… – wild, hysterical assumption. Oh, her lucky, lucky children.

I’m not sure why people hold public emotional honesty in such high esteem. When children indulge in it, we call it a ‘tantrum.’ It must make Jerks feel better and they justify it by its being honest and natural. Body odor is also honest and natural, but I don’t particularly enjoy my own, why should I put up with yours?

If you are interested in a good exchange of ideas, a dance of minds- temper your temper. It takes self-control and effort to construct a disagreement around ideas and not emotions, but you will get your point across better. It will not be overshadowed by a tantrum. Yell your anger/fear/disdain at your screen, in the privacy of your own home where no one will see the ugliness.  Don’t put it on a public forum, where the outburst will live forever.

The Quoter

You know that guy you knew in your 20s, the one who communicated almost exclusively in movie quotes? While impressive in the sheer volume of minutia committed to memory, that guy is tedious. Don’t be his equal in digital society- the person who only posts third-party links and never has an original thought. If I’ve added you to my social circle, it is because of you, not because I need you to filter for me everything that Huffington posts.

All those memes are not funny either, not in aggregate. It’s like the drunk at a party who holds everyone hostage with a chain of knock-knock jokes. Share one or two, then give it a rest. Political memes are the digital equivalent of protest signs and are therefore obnoxious by default. Use them sparingly.

Tell me what you are thinking. Hell, show me what you’re eating for lunch. Show me your cute pets. Tell me about your kids. Give me a good book review. Express yourself directly because we are friends and I want to read about you.

The Competitor

Red Boxing Gloves Hanging on WallThis one is easily combined with the other social irritants. The Competitor sees any argument as a win or lose proposition. She does not let up. It is as if she wants her “opponent” to tap out and declare her the winner. Sorry, hon, that is not how the real world works. State your case as best you can, answer any resulting queries, and leave your brilliant rhetoric to simmer in the brains of your conversation partners. If you argument is convincing and you have not been a Jerk, they may come back for a second helping of your wisdom.

Be A Bouncer

It is so easy to fall into these patterns. We’ve all done it, but we need to control ourselves, like we do in real life. Because, in modern culture, digital society is real life. Unfortunately, social media is a terrible medium for dialectic. Only telegram could be worse. Good written arguments take a lot of time and words to construct, and even then, nuance is tricky and the recipient can’t interrupt and ask for clarification. A public space full of knee-jerk writing is simply not the place to discuss important and delicate issues. It is barely the place to take a stand on something as benign as feta vs. chèvre. There is always some troll lurking about.

We can encourage good behavior by practicing it ourselves, and reminding ourselves that a difference of opinion is just that. It does not lessen or threaten anyone’s validity or humanity.

Let’s be less tolerant of rabid pedants. Don’t engage with a name-calling jerk. Don’t respond to a blowhard. Tell them that you won’t continue the exchange because of their rude behavior and failure to control their emotions.  Then, stay away or unfollow the thread.  If the pedant is on your wall, insulting your friends, remind them to be civil and, if they persist, erase their comments and send them a private message explaining why. I would love to know how you respond to bad behavior in your online space.

Please, let’s hold ourselves to a higher standard. I will likely have to log out during the next election year. And then I will miss out on countless pictures of dinner and trifling cat memes.

Getting the Girl You’ve Got

End table- really, I have no idea what graphic to put here, but isn't it purdy?

End table- really, I have no idea what graphic to put here, but isn’t it purdy?

The other day, Hot Swede and I were having a discussion about end tables (titillating, I know,) when he started in on a story from his boyhood.

He told me of a six-year old Cute Swede, playing alone in his parents’ basement, wondering if the story about the boy crying, “Wolf!” was true, if people would come running if he cried out. So he laid himself out, limbs akimbo, and screamed for help. It worked! Dad came running down the stairs, and after assessing the situation, became very angry.

It was my first hearing of that story, and it made him utterly charming. What a nice thing- to discover an amusing new detail about a treasured companion I know so well. For those moments of the telling, he was new to me, and I was as smitten as ever.