Depression Update

In a continuing examination of my mental illness, I periodically try to make sense of my experience. It's my goal to share with others who might be experiencing similar things in order to support and comfort them. I am not interested in drawing attention to myself, except as just one of a million stories of mental illness. 

In case you need to catch up, here's my life in brief: I have had severe depression since my teens, if not before. It manifested in rage and anger, so I seemed to many who dealt with me to be an arrogant, snotty, angry, rebellious teenager. Mostly I just hated myself. Back in the 70s, in a small midwestern town, getting mental health care was fraught with stigma, and I wouldn't have known to ask for it anyway. In the 80s, I got married and started working. I was a mess inside, but trying super hard to hold it together on the outside, not always successfully. In 1989 I had my first child. 

Motherhood is hard enough, but so much harder when you have a mental illness. I had no time to focus on myself and my needs. Two  more children came along. The thing that saved me during this time was breastfeeding. As odd as that may sound, the hormones released when you nurse a child are calming and create feelings of well-being. I am convinced that if I had not breastfed my kids, I would have probably gone to a mental hospital. I was not at my best during those years, but the hormones helped. 

However, that didn't last forever. I reverted to my tactics of presenting a good mask to the world, while inside I was dying. Rage and anger were frequent. 

Finally, I reached a breaking point. I was in a deep, dark hole that only got deeper and darker. I was never going to get out. My husband, who was one of the few people who knew the true me and who never wavered in his support, suggested I seek out help and medication. (Until this point, I had a strong bias against the medical world, and a very strong bias against meds.) I started antidepressants and therapy. It was a rocky road, but it helped. 

That was about 15 years ago. Since then, I have been on meds continuously, went through years of therapy with a very kind and wonderful counselsor. I have an excellent psych nurse who has monitored me and guided me through this medical maze. If you are so inclined, you can read about those years in other posts on this blog. 

So here I am now. My psych nurse last year informed me that I am her most stable patient and she only needed to see me every six months. At one appointment she brought up the idea of potentially weaning off meds to see how I would do. I immediately squelched that idea. The mere thought returning to my darkness scared the shit out of me. 

Since then, I have taken a good hard look at where I am. In these 15 years, I have learned a lot about self care. I have learned where my limitations are and when I need to step off the runaway train of modern life to take a breath. I have supplemented with nutrients that help support my mental health and observed how much I need constant outdoor exposure to be well. In short, I have been able to put my own needs first. This is a hard thing. 

I realized recently that I have made friends with my depression. Sounds weird, but it's true. Depression has given me a lot of personal insight and growth. It's helped me have compassion for others, to have compassion for myself. It's strengthened me like nothing else. I have had to learn to accept things about myself. It's connected me with others. And, although I'm still working on this, depression has taught me how to strip off the mask and be authentic with everyone, especially myself. 

So I am ready for this step I'm now taking. With my psych nurse's blessing, I am weaning off my meds. It's scary to say. It's only been a few days. I don't know what lies ahead. It may not work for me. I have often said during these 15 years that if I have to take meds forever, I will. And I stand by that. However, in taking care of myself, I have a sense that now is the time for me to work with my mental illness in a different way, a way of not being in crisis, but in cohesion. I have no doubt that there will be ups and downs. I am stronger now and I hope I will be able to weather the downs. I have better support now, and the stigma in society is less than it was 40 years ago. 

I am not suggesting that anyone else should try this. I can't speak for others. And if you want to try, make sure to do it with medical supervision. I am not going cold turkey. I am going extremely slowly, so it may take more than a year before I am off entirely. (I was on such a high dose that I can cut by tens or twenties of milligrams and still be on a super high dose, so it will take time.) 

Why, you might ask, would someone do this when they are finally stable and in a really good place? My mental illness is stable, but my physical health is facing some risks that I believe might be exacerbated by my long-term, high dose of antidepressants. I feel like I am in a place now where taking care of my physical health needs to balance with my mental health. And I am ready to try to do that. I have spent nearly my whole life dealing with my mental state--either trying to hide it, live through it, or treat it--that my physical wellness has taken a back seat. That's not good for me any more than living with an untreated mental illness. So, before I get to some sort of physical crisis, I am going to see if I can find a balance to my physical and mental health so that I can live into old age with good health. 

I will continue to share my story, if only to honestly portray what one person's experience is like, if it helps someone else. 

Memories of My Dad

My dad died on September 8, 2016. I have never known a world without him, so it will take some getting used to. I want to share some of my random memories.

Let's be honest right up front. My dad had a temper, and there were many times as a child that his big booming voice combined with his six-foot height looming over me had me quaking in my shoes. Which was probably the effect he hoped for. We had a tumultuous relationship at times, both of us prone to yelling and anger, while also staunchly stubborn in our belief in our own rightness. But that's not all there was to him, and I think the delightful memories outweigh the difficult ones.

I could tell stories all day long, just like my dad, so it seems apt to tell a few stories. I'll try to be brief.

When I was a kid, I got great delight out of hiding from my dad when he came home from the office and jumping out to scare him. I'm pretty sure he always knew exactly where I was, but he played along, and we'd laugh.

On Sunday afternoons, at least when there was no football or KU sporting event on tv, we would sit cross-legged on the living room floor playing the card game War, which can tend to last for hours, especially with just two players. We had a great time as the game tilted back and forth. He never once looked at his watch.

He used to tease me with a rhyme: "There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid." It's not very nice, and I don't think it ever made me behave any better. I was not an easy child, and I'm pretty sure that he recited this rhyme the way some people count to ten--as a way of calming himself down instead of lashing out, which no doubt is what he really wanted to do. (I've had those moments as a parent, so I know.) What made me most mad about that rhyme was not the truth that I was horrid when I was bad. I knew that. But it referred to a girl having a curl, and my hair has always been as straight as a pine needle. I always wanted the mess of curls my brother Mike has, and dad knew it. I always got mad and yelled that I didn't have any curls. Good times.

There were other genuinely good times, like walking into his office when I got off the school bus each day, just to say hi and have a moment with him all to myself. Weekends when we'd hop in the pickup truck and head to the ranch. He fixed up a cushioned area for me in the back of the truck and I loved sitting back there as we bounced down the back roads. When he stepped up often to drive me across state for debate tournaments. When we went to Happy Joe's in Rapid City after seeing the movie American Graffiti and we laughed and laughed. He loved to laugh, and he had a great sense of humor. My dad was at every event any of his children ever did--whether it was sports, music, theater, debate. He was so proud of everything we did.

My teenage years were particularly hard for all involved, but he didn't hold that against me. In between all the yelling and crying and slamming of doors on my part, he still showed he loved and cared for me. I remember one time when my mom was in the hospital for surgery--back in those days you stayed in the hospital for several days. As I recall, our kitchen was in the middle of being remodeled, as well. But dad and I made some lame attempts at cooking. I decided to try sweet and sour meatballs, which is not a difficult recipe for an experienced cook, but for a 15 year old who had never done much more than bake cookies, and a middle aged man who could fry an egg, it was a challenge. It would have been easy for the ordeal to turn into another fit of anger and yelling, but it didn't. It turned into one of those moments where you can only laugh at your own absurdity, and boy did we bust a gut laughing that night.

By the time I got married just after college, I was delighted to have my dad walk me down the aisle.
And later when I had my first child Melissa, I have fond memories of him holding her tiny body and singing "Oh My Darling, Clementine."
                 He and my mom stayed at our house waiting for Emily to show up (ten days after her due date), but the death of his own mother called him away, the very day she was born. That was hard and bittersweet. He had no pride when it came to playing with the grandchildren, including tea parties with Peter. My parents visited us frequently--as they did my brothers and their families as well--and gave my children their own sets of memories.


And when we visited the Black Hills, there was the inevitable trip to Flintstones.  And fishing.

We started a family tradition of gathering every five years to celebrate Mom and Dad's anniversaries and their legacy of family. These were always full of fun and laughter, some alcohol for the adults, and my dad at the head of whatever table we were at.




I loved listening to my dad's stories. About his childhood and large extended family. About his Navy days. About his park service adventures. One year for a family reunion celebrating my parents' 50th anniversary, we were in north Idaho and we visited Farragut State Park, which was my dad's naval basic training base in 1944. He walked us around, showed us where he learned to swim, and delighted as his grandchildren found his photo among the many photo albums of sailors who had trained there.

A couple of years ago, when he and mom were here in Boise for a visit, we were at an exhibit on WWII. There was a big map of the Pacific, and dad proudly showed me all the places he had been during the war, answering all my questions happily.

At another anniversary reunion, their 60th, the whole group of us attempted to play Apples to Apples. What a riot that was. Most of us had had quite a few drinks in us, and my dad kept saying "This game is stupid," because he didn't really get the point of it. But he nevertheless kept playing. I hope he realized by the end that the point was to be silly and laugh a whole lot.

As I grew farther and farther into adulthood, my relationship with my dad changed and deepened. As a child, I had been afraid to stand up to him, because he belonged to the authoritarian school in which children were to obey their parents without question. (Something I never really managed to do.) But by the time I was a parent myself, I was brave enough to stand firm on a few things, and he was gracious enough to learn a new way to be my dad. There were even a few times when he humbly acknowledged that I was right and that he had actually learned something from me. The last 10-20 years of his life, my dad was a more mellow fellow, as often happens with age. Heart surgery, I think, gave him a second chance for more time with his family, and he took hold of that opportunity with an open heart.

This past summer, we came for a visit to the Black Hills for the Wind Cave reunion associated with the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service, which was my dad's career. It was so fun to reunite with old friends, and I think he especially enjoyed sharing park service stories with old colleagues. I certainly enjoyed listening to his yarns.

When he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and told he did not have long, we stripped away any leftover veneers and had the blessed opportunity to share final weeks with him in utter honesty and love. We had hoped for more time, a few months for final goodbyes and making arrangements for my mom. We didn't get that extra time, but we did have those two weeks of time to make sure we said what we needed to say. I can't say for sure, but I have a sneaky suspicion that, knowing he was dying anyway, he was able to let go quickly and painlessly, knowing that his children would take care of his wife and that going now would lessen our agony in experiencing a protracted ordeal with much emotional pain. He was an independent guy who didn't really like asking for help, and wouldn't have wanted his family to suffer along with him. He made a clean break of it. (Just my theory.)

Before he started chemo, he had his hair shaved off, just because it was going to fall out anyway. He texted us this last photo of himself:

He said, "I haven't had hair this short since I went to boot camp in 1944!" And he laughed. His laugh was so big, boisterous, and frequent. I'll always be able to hear it in my heart.

I can imagine him now setting up a cribbage table with his old buddies Bruce, Bill, and Doug telling stories about the war and the parks, laughing it up, maybe a beer in hand. I hope that's what heaven has in store for him.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

More in the Continuing Pat Saga

More people read my blog than I realized, several of whom thought they were "Pat." Including the real Pat. (Remember, Pat is a gender neutral name, as I don't feel comfortable using this person's real name or gender.) In some ways this is good. I mean, probably many of us have acted like Pat in the past, ignoring our friends, making a mess of our lives, and being generally jerky. So if you were one of those people who saw a little of Pat in yourself, then that might be a good thing and you can work on your weak areas. (Heaven knows, I have plenty of areas to work on, so I would never presume to suggest that I am above all of this.) Or if you have a friend who has acted like Pat, perhaps you might email them a link to my blog so they might see themselves in a mirror, so to speak.

But the real world Pat about whom I wrote in my last blog post was, in typical Pat-self-centered fashion, very upset about that post. Pat did not want to end our friendship and promised to do better. I believe in second chances, so I have tried to give Pat the benefit of the doubt and have observed Pat's actions both toward me and other members of our group of friends. And here is what I have noticed:

Pat is a horrible listener. Pat will ask you about yourself and then turn to look at a photo on someone's cell phone. Pat likes to talk more than listen, but Pat is a horrible communicator. Pat cannot complete a full thought in any cogent way either speaking or writing, which makes it very hard to have much of a conversation. Now, I realized this is not entirely Pat's fault. I think Pat has some kind of neurological problem, maybe adult attention deficit disorder or some kind of asperger's syndrome. So I can accept that Pat is not perfect and I have definitely put up with this for years upon years, always making excuses. But what I have noticed is that Pat doesn't listen very well because. . .

Pat is completely, 100% self-centered. Even when things happen to other people, Pat makes it all about her/him. Recently, another member of our group had to make a very difficult decision--part of life, right? Well, Pat clearly felt that this mutual friend had based his/her decision on Pat's actions, and that everyone was going to hate Pat because of it. So Pat went into fix-it-make-it-better mode, talking with members of the group about how the other person just had to do what was right for her/him, and that Pat was shocked by the whole thing. (Note: If Pat had listened more and talked less, he/she might have been able to help our mutual friend avoid the decision, so Pat does have a role in the whole drama, but nobody blames it on Pat, per se. Several of us did try to talk to this friend about other options he/she could have taken, but none of us were able to stop this person from the final decision she/he made. And we know it was made with full forethought and not out of anger at Pat.)

Pat can't stand thinking that anybody in the world doesn't like her/him. So whenever we are together as a group, Pat constantly harps on his/her innocence and victimization in Pat's problems. Pat-think says Pat didn't do anything wrong. Pat-think says Pat is always careful, thoughtful, and dedicated. In reality, Pat is none of those things. Pat doesn't want all his/her friends to abandon Pat, and Pat says he/she will try to do better, but never really does.

Now, I know Pat's life in the past few years has had some major problems. What Pat fails to recognize (because he/she is so self-centered) is that this happens to lots of us, and that it is not the universe particularly picking on Pat. However, Pat contributes to Pat's own problems by not listening to others, by not caring about anybody but Pat, and by worrying constantly that nobody likes Pat. This is because, as I have mentioned before, Pat has absolutely no self-esteem.

As a result, I think Pat has begun surrounding herself/himself with people who constantly tell Pat how great Pat is, even when Pat is not being great. Which is kind of sad, because I think what Pat really needs is a good, old-fashioned come-to-Jesus kick in the pants. Pat can't take that, because Pat would assume the pants-kicker is being mean, or mad at Pat, and all Pat would be able to think about is how to fix that person not liking him/her. And because Pat is such a bad listener, Pat wouldn't really hear the advice anyway.

Pat also seems to like having drama in Pat's life. It has become clearer to me since I wrote my last post. Pat seems to create drama where there was none, either by the people Pat hangs out with (who are drama addicts) or the choices Pat makes. Pat doesn't seem to have any real impulse control, ability to delay gratification, or conscience. Makes Pat sound sort of like a sociopath, doesn't it? Could be. No matter how much our group supports Pat or encourages Pat or whatever, Pat will continue to make and bring drama to the scene, and I really don't like Pat's constant drama.

So, Pat, while I have continued to give you second, third, tenth chances, you continue to disappoint. I can see that you might have been making an effort at it, but your efforts are so lame, because you really don't understand what true friendship is. You think that by spending two minutes a week in a one-sided conversation that you are communicating. But you're not. You have absolutely no clue about the lives of those around you. So your efforts lack substance. You have not changed, and while I realize sometimes change takes a long time, I have not seen a real change of heart, which is the first step to lasting change. Instead of trying to make everyone like you and stop being mad at you, perhaps you should examine in what ways you have hurt these people and think about their point of view for a moment. If you can. Because you're really too self-centered that I have no confidence you'll be able to do this. Keep trying. Maybe someday you'll get there.

Friendship Betrayed

So, at my wise old age of 49, I have figured out a few things. One of them is that very few relationships last forever. My marriage has lasted close to 28 years, and we had six years before we were married. I hope it will last for the rest of my life, and I'm pretty sure it will, because my dear husband and I view it as more than just being "in love." We view it as a partnership, a friendship, and mutually happy way to live, a place we both get to be what we are meant to be, and the most important part of our lives. Also we view it as a two way street, in which we are both asked to sacrifice for the other at various times, and do so gladly, knowing it makes our partnership stronger.

But this isn't about marriage. However, friendships can be like marriages at times. Like marriage, friendship is a two-way street. What happens when only one of the friends is putting forth effort, support, caring, and consideration? That's really not friendship anymore.

If you're like me, you might have different groups of friends. I have writing friends, church friends, music friends, college friends, neighborhood friends, etc. I don't necessarily try to keep these groups separate, but sometimes they are just because they never intersect. Sometimes whole groups of friends fall away, either because you move away, you discontinue the activity or organization in which you saw those friends, or something else happens.

But what's on my mind today is the situation in which a friend becomes a non-friend simply by being a jerk. In one of my groups of friends, there is a person who has, through his/her own folly and self-centeredness, alienated everyone else in the group. (I'm going to call this friend "Pat" for the rest of the post, so I don't have to keep using his/her. I don't want to out this person on such a public forum, and Pat is a nice gender neutral name. Plus, remember that character on SNL?)

Pat is the kind of person with charisma and talent. People are drawn to Pat, and often will go to great lengths to support Pat and help Pat achieve goals. In our group of friends, most of us would have done almost anything to help Pat out. I mean anything. We were supremely loyal to Pat. We scheduled our lives so we could see Pat, go out with Pat, do whatever Pat asked.

In the last couple of years, Pat has had some particularly hard times. Nothing life threatening or so horrible it couldn't be overcome. We rallied around Pat. We comforted Pat. We held long sessions where Pat got to sob and fret and basically bare his/her soul. We believed that Pat had been basically innocent in the situation and all the bad things that came Pat's way. We have all worn ourselves out with loyalty and support for Pat.

But it has ceased to be a two way street, and I'm beginning to see that maybe it never really was. Pat does not care about our friendships. Pat seems to assume that whenever our group gathers together, it is so we can listen to Pat's endless accounts of how life has been cruel. Pat never asks how any of us are. Pat never offers to help one of us, but of course does not hesitate to ask for our help. Pat basically acts like a selfish two-year old.

And I am completely tired of it. I am tired of giving so much to a friendship that gives nothing back. I am tired of feeling like an urchin waiting for some crumb of acknowledgement to fall my way. Pat does not thank us for the things we do, for listening, for caring, for giving up our own time to help Pat. I am tired of this. If I want to sacrifice my life, my time, my energy for someone who does not respond in kind--well, I have children. (Just kidding, kids. I love you a ton.)

But really, am I supposed to continue being someone for Pat to turn to without ever having any of my needs met? No. I think most everyone else in our group of friends feels the same way.

What I feel worst about is this. I have realized in the last few months that Pat is not innocent in all the troubles that have come his/her way. Pat makes stupid decisions, because Pat has no backbone, no self-esteem, and a need for constant affirmation and approval. Pat appears to others to have it all together, but really, Pat is immature. Pat wants to portray to others that Pat has a perfect life, but Pat makes one stupid choice after another and doesn't see how the dots connect to create the trouble he/she has.

Some of us in this group would like to help Pat by providing advice, but we know that Pat won't listen. Pat doesn't like conflict, and would never take our advice. Instead, Pat would decide that we had turned our backs and were part of the problem rather than the solution.

So, sadly, I am going to have to acknowledge that Pat must be left to his/her own devices and make all the stupid decisions over and over until Pat figures out how to make better decisions. I feel like a parent letting my child grow up. And that is an icky feeling when this is a fellow adult who is supposed to be my friend, not my child. So Pat, even if you do read this, you are so clueless I am sure you won't recognize yourself in this post. (And if those of you reading this think this is about you, then it's probably not. That would mean you have some self awareness, which Pat does not.)

I am not sorry for the years I have tried to be Pat's friend. I say that because it hasn't been a real friendship has it? It has been a one-way street. I am not sorry, because the experience has brought me close to the rest of this group of friends, for which I am eternally grateful and blessed to have in my life. And I have learned some things about friendship that will help me be a better friend.

So Pat, while I am not saying good-bye, because I will see you regularly, I am saying I can't be your friend anymore, which is really not saying much, because you were never my friend. I hope you grow the capacity to be a real friend before you are too old or alienate too many people. If so, maybe we can revisit the issue. Until then, good luck.

Looking Back, Leaping Forward

A Look Back at 2011

2011 was a good year for me in many ways. Here are some of the highlights:

• SCBWI RA retreat. Even though it was a cruise to the Bahamas, it was fun. I’m not big on the whole cruise scene, but the people we were with made it all wonderful. I enjoyed getting to know my colleagues better, learning their individual personalities, and feeling more connected to this group. Sea kayaking also topped the list.
• Our own SCBWI conference in Boise. It was a fantastic conference with agent Jen Rofe, publisher Lori Benton, and author Carol Lynch Williams.
• Attending Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers in Utah. AKA, the Carol conference. I took Ann Cannon’s boot camp class, and it was fantastic. We had an intense week of reading, writing, and revising. I respect my fellow class members and all were amazing writers. I learned so much, and I’m still revising that manuscript.
• Camp Sawtooth. Senior high camp. Love these kids. Love the mountains. Love the food. (How many camps can you say that about?) This is a frenetic week of intense stuff, but always incredible. Teenagers are some of the most awesome people.
• SCBWI LA conference. The 40^th anniversary of SCBWI, an organization that has made many a children’s author/illustrator’s career. My favorite part: the round-table intensives. Again, learned a ton, and am still revising.
• SCBWI Utah/southern Idaho novel revision retreat with Emma Dryden. I had so much fun meeting Emma and hanging out with her for a day before the retreat. She is one amazing lady. And she knows SO much. Wow. The retreat participants were also amazing writers and human beings. And the Stonefly Lodge: stunning.
• Charleston, SC. I knew nothing about Charleston when I arrived. By the time I left, I had learned so much really interesting stuff. I never knew rice was one of the first crops grown on plantations. Fell in love with shrimp and grits. Love it. Will return.
• My recorder pal, Pam Piper-Ruth, and I dedicated our year to learning to play the alto recorder, which is in a different key and has different fingerings than the soprano/tenor recorders. We have almost learned all the notes, and we are able to play altos with the larger group. That is affirming.
• I decided to take bagpipe lessons. Hopefully, I will learn how to play well enough to get real bagpipes at some point.
• I served meals to the needy in our community. This is a very gratifying thing to do. Not because it makes me feel important or superior. Quite the opposite. I know that it could very well be me standing in that line. These folks are fellow human beings, and their dignity is important.
• Saw my old friend Jennifer Cochern for the first time in several years. Need to see more of her.

In short, this year involved a lot of travel to interesting places, lots of writing classes with very, very talented folks, and lots of learning for myself.

Probably the only thing that wasn’t great about this year for me was that my weight loss journey stalled in a big way. I’m still doing Weight Watchers, and I refuse to give up. But I didn’t lose any weight this year. (Well, I lost weight: the same five pounds over and over again.) Still, I am wearing clothes two sizes smaller than when I began this path, so I’m still hanging in there. I have Melissa to thank for being my cheerleader in this.

Looking Ahead to 2012

This has potential to be a big exciting year for me. I have hopes for some amazing things to happen.

• I applied for the SCBWI Nevada mentorship program. I am anxious to find out if I got in. If so, it will be another intense year of perfecting my craft and learning from the best. If not, I will still be intensively perfecting my craft in some other fashion. Maybe a return to WIFYR.
• I will turn 50 this year, and I’m planning a trip to my birthplace to celebrate. That would be Yosemite National Park. Yes, I was born IN the park. There was a hospital there at the time when my dad worked at the park. He was a National Park Service ranger, which is why we lived in so many interesting places. I am very excited to go, because I have absolutely no memory of the place, as I was two years old when we moved away.
• If things line up, I will be dean of Camp Sawtooth Senior High Camp this year, and that makes me very excited. I go to sleep at night thinking about how much fun we will have. I have Gregory Taylor to thank for talking me into this adventure three years ago.
• I am recommitting myself to myself. Specifically to getting back on the weight loss horse and continuing this journey. I want to be healthy, more fit, and disease free. And I will not give up. This is a landmark year for me, and I want to be as fit as possible when I hit Yosemite in September.
• I’m looking forward to seeing what other things pan out. My freelance business is going well, my writing is going well, and I would like to start submitting to some agents again.
• Maybe, just maybe (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) that oil money will start rolling in, and we’ll have enough money to fund all three kids’ college educations, fix up our rattletrap house, and give lots of it to very good causes. If you haven’t heard our oil money story, feel free to ask.

In short, I hope this year has as many rewarding writing experiences as last year, more weight loss that stays lost, and more opportunities to help others.

My Love Story

Happy Valentine's Day.

I don't need big diamonds, fancy dinners, or weekend trips to romantic beaches (although I would not turn down any of these) to know how much my husband loves me. He shows me in a hundred different ways each day. Like when he makes a quick trip to the grocery store because he knows I hate grocery shopping. Or when he empties the dishwasher to surprise me. He has been the primary breadwinner in this household for nearly 27 years. Wait, I take that back. For three of those years, while he was in law school, I was. But I digress.

I know Valentine's Day is mostly inhabited by those of us in the throws of young, excited, blooming love. That is a wonderful time of life. I feel more deeply in love with David all the time, but it is not always that fluttering heart kind of love. It's a love that knows anger, heartbreak, hurt, sickness, depression, and pain. It's a love that has been forged in a fire of living. Raising three kids. Making dumb financial choices and having to dig ourselves out of it. Muddling along together as a team, as partners. The kind of love that "does not alter when alteration finds." (I hope I quoted that correctly. I'm too lazy to look it up right now. If you catch me in a mistake, please comment with a correction.)

So I feel compelled today to tell a little of the story of my love affair with David, the man I've loved for 33 years. (Yikes.) Just a little.

My first memory of David is from second grade. That's right. We grew up in the same tiny South Dakota town of Hot Springs. My first day of second grade, a new kid in school, I remember seeing him across the room. Then I don't remember him at all until sometime around middle school. Our families went to the same church, so we were in youth group together. He also played flute in band--poor little thing. He was not a very good flute player. And he had to compete with me!I remember jr. high youth group trips when he and his friend Doug Tinaglia would sit on the bus or the van or whatever we were in and recite Bill Cosby routines. (Reminds me of my son, Peter, who now does the same with today's comedians.) They would pull silly pranks in restaurants. And in general be typical middle school jerks.

Another good friend of David's was Al Twocrow. We were all in debate, band, and almost everything else together. When there's only 400 kids in your whole high school, everyone has to be in everything. So we knew each other very well before we ever dated. In sophomore biology class, I could tell David kind of liked me because he sat right behind me and he would tease me. How mature. But it worked. I took notice.

I remember our first date. It was a dance in the city auditorium. I had spent the day downhill skiing and was really tired and sore. Dancing was not really what I wanted to do. But we went. He was very nice and asked if it was okay if he danced with other girls since I was too tired. I said okay. But I really didn't want him to. Despite that rather lackluster beginning, we went to many more dances, movies, and whatever else one could find to do in Hot Springs--some of it not so wholesome.

We ended up being debate partners our junior and senior years. We made a really good team. And we won lots of tournaments. I think I first knew I loved David when we were at debate camp in Denver. Spending two solid weeks together, even if was in such an academic environment, was wonderful.

David and I have always liked to joke about who is smarter. I was a valedictorian of our high school class. I had straight A's. He had one B in all of high school --in shop class no less. I studied harder, but he probably was more genuinely brilliant. He became a National Merit Scholar.

We started out at separate colleges, but I ended up transferring to Carleton where he was. Yes, mostly because he was there. Sounds sappy and hopelessly romantic, but I've never been good at being apart from my other half. Carleton was a wonderful place where we got to be total academic geeks and theater nerds. We got married two weeks after graduation.

That was nearly 27 years ago. It's really unusual for high school sweethearts to still be married. Although I have to say, it is probably because David is a practical and reasonable person, while I am more ruled by my emotions. I wanted to get married after high school, but he wanted to wait. Obviously, he was right. Who knows if we would still be together had we married at 17 or 18? But here we are.

There is so much story that goes with our lives together, but the main one is this: I love David because he is an honorable, loving, kind, considerate, smart, and noble person. Heaven knows why he loves me. I feel very lucky. He always has a comment to lighten the moment with humor, and that has made a huge impact on our lives. If we can laugh at ourselves and our situation, then we can probably get through it.

Happy Valentine's Day to my adorable, funny, loving husband.

Random Musings

My mind is in a whirl the last few days, so I am going to unload here. If you want cogent, thoughtful commentary, I suggest you look elsewhere. However, if you want an insider's view of a crazy person's mind, keep reading.

Okay. For starters, 14 year olds are difficult to raise. I'm in the midst of that with Peter, who is usually an even-keel kind of person. But he IS 14. As such, he has his moments. The last few days have been one giant moment. As far as I can tell, there is nothing of any major catostrophic urgency that is wrong, but that doesn't matter when you're 14. It's ALL catostrophic at this age. Thank goodness he is my last child. I am getting too old for this. I am sympathetic, and at the same time annoyed. Patient, but agitated. My children don't seem to realize that long after their problems have resolved, a mother's heart still carries the hurt for a while. We will get through this and many other times ahead, I know. It just sucks when you're in the middle of it.

Speaking of sucking and being in the middle of things, we have officially become the sandwich generation. David's dad has been in the hospital for a month with pneumonia. He was in ICU for two weeks, and finally this week, things seem to be going in the right direction. His white blood count continues to fall, he has a little more energy every day. David and his siblings have taken turns flying out to Oregon to help out. David is on his second stint this week. I hate having him gone. I have been very lucky in life that my husband has not had a job requiring travel. He is almost always here. And even for mundane things like teacher conferences or dentist appointments, he has always been available. I hate having him gone. Did I say that already? Oh. It's because I hate having him gone. Oh, I manage okay and stuff, but we are such a team that it's very hard to lose half your team for a week. He will be home Sunday. And I don't begrudge his dad the attention and care of his children; certainly he needs to be with his dad.

So my dad's birthday is next week. Wow. (So is David's dad's birthday, actually. Their birthdays are two days apart.) Happy birthday!

Living in a very conservative state like Idaho can be tough when you're a liberal like me. Frequent letters to the editor will use the word communist or socialist to desribe anyone more to the left than the right. I don't care if you're a centrist, independent; in Idaho you are a commie. Which makes me realize that my opinions are confirmed; most people don't think. At its base concept, communism is just the idea that everybody puts into the pot and everyone gets out their fair share. It's not really intended to be a centralized form of government. It works better in small community situations--kind of like Jesus and his disciples. Feeding of the 5,000 was communism. Living in community strikes me as a great thing. Really, that's what a family is. Out of five of us, only one makes a livable wage. The rest of us throw into the communal pot what we have. But we all get out what we need. Very fair and rational.

When you think about it, what is the system we have now. We all pay in taxes, varying levels depending on our income. Those taxes go out to various places, often in the form of someone's level of need: medicare, medicaid, welfare, social security, education. I'm okay with that. What is so bad about us all chipping in to make all of society better?

Then I think about facism. In my understanding, that is where the corporate world pretty much owns the government. Hmmm. Think it's not how it is in the good ol' U S of A? Think again. Look at all the lobbies in Washington. Who's lobbying? Monsanto. Tobacco companies. Pharmaceutical companies. Look at how many former Monsanto employees now work in the agricultural agencies of the government. Coincidence? Not at all. Look at the votes congressmen and women are making, then look at who is contributing to their campaigns and try to tell me with a straight face that the government is not beholden to the corporate world. We in the US like to think of ourselves as so wonderful and advanced, but we're not. I think most of the rest of the westernized world has a better grip on things than we do. Of course, we have a huge country and they don't. But still. I would rather have individuals paying taxes to help out fellow citizens than have my government owned by the corporations. If that makes me a communist--why, then, hello comrades.

I don't even want to get started on our own state government. It is so messed up I have lost all hope. Our superintendent of public education, whose name I will not print here in order to keep a little dignity on my blog, is such a lunatic that he wants to force high school students to take two classes a year online--not by choice, but by mandate. He thinks this will improve education. Yikes. Guess who contributed to his campaign? Educational software and related companies. Hmmm.

Lest I come off as uber curmugdeonly, let me say that I am heartened almost every day by the spirit and effort, mostly of young people to make their world better. I am heartened by my dogs' tail wagging every time they see me. I am proud that my city gave us all enormous recycling bins so that I can fill it up and leave my own garbage can barely filled at all. I am heartened by the aborist who came out to tell me how he could make my trees healthier and his love for what he does. I am thrilled that Emily loves her gas-saving car. I like working for people who believe in small, local businesses and making connections in that community. And I am in awe of the farmers and local businesses who deliver me a bunch of delicious stuff every week and every month. People right here, down the road a ways, who I can talk to if I want. Real faces, not corporations. See, I'm not really that much of a downer, am I?

Of course, I haven't opened today's newspaper yet. Don't even get me started....

Life, the Universe, and Everything

No, this post isn't about Douglas Adams, and if you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry. Someday you will.

This is about my life. To sum up briefly, I have spent the last 21 years being a mom, a writer, and a volunteer. A few years ago, I had the urge to go out into the workplace and add more money to our family income. I began substitute teaching. That was okay, somewhat fun, and at least intellectually stimulating. I love teaching, love kids, love the idea of helping them make their way in the world. I've worked with kids for years and years. I love being part of their lives.

After a while of that, I thought I'd much rather be a permanent teacher with my own classroom and in charge of my own teaching. So I got my teaching certificate. For two school years now, I have tried to find a teaching job to no avail. There just aren't that many openings for secondary English teachers here. If I were in special ed, science/math I might be having better luck. But I'm not going there.

For the last several months, I've applied for other kinds of job as well, mostly writing jobs for which I at least have the necessary skills. Again, to no avail.

I realize there's a recession on, so I am not so much dejected at not getting a job. Sometimes I am, but mostly, lately, I am of the opinion that the universe is telling me that I am not here for that kind of work. Sigh.

Okay, universe, you win. I accept the closed doors as verification that I am here for other work. Whatever that might be. And thank goodness, someone else in our household has steady, secure, income-producing work so we can remain housed, fed, and clothed.

Just for fun, here are a few of the ways the universe has been communicating with me, aside from the lack of job offers:

1. a sudden increase in available freelance jobs coming my way, which indicates to me that working at home is where I still need to be.

2. a massive creative surge with numerous new book ideas, writing events, opportunities, etc. that indicates to me my writing is the best way I have to help kids make their way in this world.

3. a blog post by a teacher detailing her horrific experiences with an administration that did not support her worthy, innovative, and effective teaching techniques and instead copped out when parents suggested the literature she was using should be banned, which reminded me that I don't do well in situations where I have to do what the authorities say even if I disagree.

4. the still small voice within reminding me that I have much to offer the world but that I will not be paid for it, indicating to me that I have the unique position of being financially supported so that I can offer my time to those in need. And indeed, the most rewarding pieces of my life are in service without pay, again indicating that my work may not be paid, but pays great dividends.

5. dozens of articles, horoscopes, quotes, and reminders that come my way through serendipity to remind me that a job would only deaden the impact of the gifts I have been given and should be embracing and using.

So, universe, I am starting to listen and pay attention, okay? I realize you have been bashing me over the head with messages, and I have been too stubborn to heed them. I realize I don't always like to hear the truth about my life. But I get it now. I'm here. I'm trying to open my heart and mind to the work I am here to do. (It seems I have to go through this about every ten years or so.)

Which is to say, I'm focusing on writing and helping out those in need wherever I can. I'm still not totally comfortable giving up the idea of getting a job. I still look at all the job boards I was on. They still have nothing for me. It's going to take time to refocus and get to work. I'm going to have to re-accept that my position in this world is one in which I am a helper, a guide. And I am called to that in whatever capacity it comes for me.

Trying to Find a Teaching Job

I realize the economy sucks right now, and has virtually since the moment I started trying to find a job. Lucky for me. But this goes beyond finding a job for me. It goes to what I want to do with my time at this point in my life.

I've been applying for every teaching job that I feel even remotely qualified for or interested in. That's a lot of jobs. Not a nibble. School starts in two days and I have nada. I've applied for other relevant jobs that have nothing to do with teaching but that sounded fun or at least interesting. Nada.

My friend Paul suggests I should focus on writing and give up this crazy notion of working at a job. I want to agree with him. I love writing. I want to spend all my time writing.

Here's the thing, though. I also want to work, to feel that I'm making a difference to other people. Yes, I know writing makes a difference. How many books can I name that impacted me? One for every day of my life. But until my books are published, I also feel the need to be of use right now.

I love working with kids. I adore them. Especially teenagers. They are awesome. That's why I decided teaching was the thing for me. But evidently, teaching doesn't agree. Or at least potential employers don't agree. Or the economy doesn't agree.

This has caused me to spend the summer pondering my place in the universe and other big thoughts like that. In a big way, not just a small way. I seem to go through this kind of upheaval every ten years or so.

I also really want to contribute to the income and financial stability of my family. Sometimes, especially in the current economy with one child in college and one about to be, with one still coming up, I feel the need to earn actual money. (As opposed to the projected sort of money that I might earn when I get my books published.)

I suppose all artists go through this kind of thing. How to earn a living while still working on your art.

So my ponderings and ramblings have left me with this: I want to be of use to the world, I want to work with and teach teenagers, I want to write, I want to earn some money. There you have it. And that brings to mind my mantra from the Rolling Stones: "you can't always get what you want." Sigh.

This morning I had the freeing thought that what if I just quit trying so dang hard? What if I just acknowledge that there is nothing out there for me at the moment, and in the meantime I can do what my heart desires with the trust that if and when something appears, I will be here waiting for it? That is scary. That requires letting go and not trying to control the situation. That requires that I allow God, the universe, and whatever fates affect the state of education and the economy to work while I throw up my hands. Can it be done? Should it be done?

Well, I have always believed that if you put out into the universe what you want, somehow it will materialize. (I don't mean lottery winnings or stuff like that. I mean intangible things.) So this is me, putting it out there. Universe, it is in your hands now.

Tribute to Paul Aitken

We just returned from a trip to New York to participate in and be audience members for the New York premiere of Paul's work "And None Shall Be Afraid." This is a five-movement piece of music, the text of which is from five different religious traditions' prayers for peace. It is stunning musically, spiritually, emotionally--every way possible.

I've heard this piece many, many times. I never tire of it. It always lifts me up and inspires me. It makes me want to be a peacemaker.

All throughout rehearsals, Paul kept telling his choir members (two of which we children of mine)that his main goal was for the text, the words, to really come through. He really wants this piece to advocate for peace in the world. Even up through the dress rehearsal, his constant direction was "more text." The singers like to tease Paul about his "more text" admonitions. He takes it well. That's the kind of guy Paul is. He doesn't mind being teased, and he gives as much as he gets.

When performance time came, the text shone through loud and clear. I was transported. Really. Some music is so familiar, so common now that it has to be extra special in performance to transform me as a listener. And even though I've heard this peace so many times I can almost sing it through to myself in my head, this performance was transporting. It lifts my heart. It makes me want to stand up with a loud "Amen." (Which I am happy to report, I did not do in the middle of Carnegie Hall.)

And here's the thing about the music: it came from the soul of Paul Aitken. I pondered this for some time during our trip. What is it about the music that truly takes one to another level? Paul put everything of himself into this music, that's what. It contains all of his theology, all of his world view, all of his life and love. I know I'm sounding pretty cheesy and corny here, but it's true. What else would make hundreds of singers and their families pay tons of money and time to go to New York to sing this piece? It is something about Paul that makes people want to participate in these adventures with him. It is his ferocious fearlessness to put all of himself out there in order to create a musical experience that will inspire others to do the same. He lives his life with constant conviction that we can each make a difference.

And just so you don't think this is all groupie worship, let me just say I've been friends with Paul for a number of years now, and he is no saint. He has plenty of human faults and failings, which I won't go into, because anyone who knows him is well aware of all these. But his soul is full of good. His music is, as I recently described to my brother-in-law, fresh, classic, and global all at once.

I want to thank my friend for bringing this music into being. For being willing to put it all out there. For lifting up the hearts of so many. And for daring to make a difference. My daughter Melissa has said that music is my religion. I don't deny it. It is how the highest of spiritual experiences can best be expressed. "And None Shall Be Afraid" would be the statement of faith for my music-based religion. Thanks, Paul.

Life in the Slow Lane

Something I've learned about myself in recent years is that I'm slow. And I like it that way.

Now, I realize slow has many connotations, so let me try to add some lucidity to my statement. I don't mean slow as in stupid, although my 17 year old might tend to disagree. I don't mean slow as in I move slowly. Sometimes I move very quickly.

What I really mean is that I do not embrace change quickly. Not quite right. I embrace change almost instantaneously, but making the actual changes, that takes me a long time. There, that's what I mean.

Let's take weight loss, for example. I have been following the Weight Watchers plan for a little over 5 months now. I have lost almost 25 pounds. I have a LOT more to lose, believe me. I have several acquaintances who have taken different routes to weight loss and have achieved their goals much more quickly. But I'm okay with the slow way. Here's why: I will not give up cheese, bread, pie, chocolate chip cookies, or french fries. I haven't and I don't plan to in the future. Weight Watchers is a program that helps me to enjoy all my favorite things while making healthier choices and giving me wiggle room to enjoy celebrating Mother's Day with some strawberry shortcake or eating a big juicy burger at my favorite restaurant. Granted, I'm not gonna lose my 100+ pounds by my birthday, but that's okay with me. I am taking the long view. I plan on living around 40-50 more years. I don't want to spend those years eating tiny helpings of carrots or baked potatoes with nothing on them. I want to be able to enjoy my food while being healthy. So I'm going slowly. I'm learning many things about myself, and I'm happy to be making progress.

Here's another example. I have had my fair share of medical headaches to deal with. Low thyroid function. High cholesterol. Depression. Migraines. Etc. My kids laugh at me and the other similarly aged friends of mine as we discuss our various aches and pains, our need for bifocals, and the best chiropractors. I'm a little like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I've always known that I have the power within myself to deal with my medical issues. I know I am a very, very strong person who has enough will power to shatter a skyscraper if I want to. But I have spent the last twenty years basically using that strength to raise my kids. As many of you know, this is a hard job, parenting. Hard doesn't even touch it. It's enormously taxing. It's outrageously exhausting. You get the picture. So even though I had it in me, 'it' got zapped out of me. This infuriates and frustrates my health care professionals who have preached and preached about the importance of taking care of yourself, meeting your own needs, blah, blah, blah.

I felt all kinds of guilt for a while. Then I realized, I'm slow. I'll make the changes I know I need to make when I'm darn good and ready, thank you very much. In the meantime, better living through chemistry is nothing to balk at. It has kept me going for the last ten years, and I'm have no shame in doing what I needed to do to make it through. Now I find myself motivated to get moving on these changes. Weight loss is one thing. I'm also working on weaning off my meds. It's exciting, really. And it feels empowering. And I'm doing it slowly. I'm in no rush. I'll get there eventually.

Writing is another thing I'm slow about. I don't write 1,000 words a day most days. I do write often, and I love it, and if I had absolutely nothing else going on, I probably would write more, but I probably would still be going slowly. It's just how I am. I have to let my stories percolate in my head for a long time. Then I write scene by scene, thinking a lot as I go. I get there eventually. But I'm slow.

There's been a lot of press in the last few years about the powerful benefits of living slow. Slow food. Slow lifestyle. Slow everything. I'm on it. I've never been a big fan of instant meals. I do utilize them when I need to, but I would much rather eat real food that took me time to make. Slow. I have never fit into the corporate fast track, preferring instead the slow life of daily diaper changing, writing, weeding, and growing. Even now, as I contemplate going into the full-time workforce, I don't want something fast-paced and go-go-go. I want to teach literature and writing, slowly. I want to delve deeply into a subject. We'll see how well that works out. I know from experience that today's classrooms are all about fast and furious.

Slow is I. (That is, by the way, grammatically correct. Even I typed 'me' originally, though.) I am slow. It's a content way to live. If you can ignore the fast movers around you. Thank goodness the world has Type A folks to get stuff done, NOW. But I think it also needs those like myself, who will take a thoughtful, long view of things. It's about balance.