Still Angry About It

 Today I went for a walk on a rail trail with two other friends. I had my two young daughters who had escaped their double stroller and were wandering wide, and one friend had another stroller. We had left a hole for people to get through, but we were a complicated group, to be sure. One man, jogging toward us, remarked with a smile, "You all are taking up too much of the trail!" With a smile he said it. 

The moment he had passed us, I raised my middle finger while staring straight ahead. It was cheap and rude of me, and I wondered for the next four hours including now how I have not grown out of that urge to put some passerby in their place? In the following minutes, I understood better his... plight... and was more sympathetic. 

But I also still feel this: don't talk to me. I have a lot going on and am doing my best and don't need one. single. comment. more. about how children (any children!) are in the way. Furthermore, are you a White Male Boomer jogging alone on this trail and you experienced some inconvenience? Please make sure you tell me about it immediately. Here are some cinquains about how angry I feel.

Raising Children
It's you.
In the morning,
All day and at meal times,
I carry your weight, and at night.
It's me.

Fuck Off
For real.
You who do not
Have little interrupters
Denying even a bathroom break
Just go.

Potty Time
Just go.
What do you need?
If you need it, then go.
Why make everyone miserable?
Rest room.

Are you shocked at me? My friends were. And I too was shocked that I did that--showed publicly and in front of children one of the rudest gestures I know, and to a stranger who did almost nothing to me. I'm ready for a civil conversation now. I feel sorry for how I acted. And I still feel angry. What does it mean, that this is such a hot button for me?

Something I Actually Believe

This is something I believe even though I don't want to. But I feel that circumstances have forced my hand, like how so many people don't believe in God because bad things happen. 

I believe that all computer cables were created by a set of wizards who hate women and put a curse on the cables so that when, in the middle of a young woman's presentation tonight, a blue screen appeared, flicked black, then blue, then in white letters "HDMI 1." 

This has happened to her before, as it has all of us. You start by making sure all your cables are firmly connected; maybe one was jostled out of place. She did that immediately and competently to no avail. Another woman came up, checked the cables, and moved the mouse to be sure things weren't going to sleep: no change to the blue screen. So far, no one had touched a button or clicked on anything, as best I could tell. Then a young man, a bit older than the presenter, came up to the computer, moved cables around in just the same way she had, and the screen immediately returned to her presentation, none the worse for wear. That happened.

And then we have my own printer. It allows me to command it to print using any of my connected devices. But then it will say "load paper." I open the paper tray to find that the paper has been loaded, and is in fact loaded to an appropriate level, just over three quarters full. I'll firmly and gently close the paper tray, and then it will begin to turn as if to print, but stop to say that I must "load paper." We do that dance sometimes four or five times before my husband hears my distress and comes to take a look. He opens the paper tray and closes it, and it prints right away. Right away. 

What am I supposed to think? 

The data is just these two things, granted, but they happened and continue to happen in my life. Enough for me to be thinking about how my printer may very well have feelings and preferences. It just makes me wonder about if it's my gender... maybe it's some other marker entirely. My height, weight, voice, scent? What is it? And is it connected to the young woman giving a presentation? Is there anyone investigating this right now?

Special Immigrants

 It only takes one car accident to ruin your life as you know it. That could deplete your accounts, make you unable to work, dependent on disability and on your friends and family for care. Or it could take one short bout in prison for you to lose your job, your lease, or your house, and maybe even some of your dearest friends who can't support you as a matter of principle. Because now you've been in trouble with the law.

Let's start to assume that people who have been in prison may have been there for good reasons. I'm going to assume that about you. Would you please assume that about me? And would you please make sure my kids are okay? I'll look out for yours, too.

There are suddenly a lot of good reasons to go to jail, prison, a detention facility. Maybe you spoke out against the Trump Regime deporting American citizens. Maybe you tried to hide immigrants from ICE. Maybe you helped someone that the President said was not a human, but you don't call humans animals. Humans are not animals. Maybe you called for an end to the genocide in Gaza. Maybe you called so loud that people started to look for reasons to make you be quiet. But you can't be quiet, because people aren't animals. As an aside: animals also should not be deprived of food and water.

This morning, I sat next to a woman who had to leave Afghanistan because the Taliban was threatening her family. They had sided with the US in some way during the US occupation, and now she could not leave the house without facing certain danger. They fled to Pakistan, where they could not legally work. What were they supposed to do? It was the TALIBAN. Remember them? Beards, guns, extreme religious beliefs about gender and patriarchy, they ride around in the backs of pick-ups trying to pick fights and intimidate people with violence all in the name of God. 

Are you asking me if she was immigrating legally to Pakistan when she was being pursued by the TALIBAN, running for her life? Of course not! But Pakistan made life hard for immigrants, and they sometimes cooperate with the Taliban. So she had to keep going, keep searching for safe haven. And now they are here in the USA, the place they sacrificed so much for while living in their own country. 

"It's good here," she said, "Not like Afghanistan, with the Taliban." Oh, how I wanted to agree with her. A strange presentiment crept over me, that we have a parallel to the Taliban and it's growing in popularity. Instead of infidels, people are looking for illegals. Instead of men gathering together in the backs of pick-up trucks with their guns, riding around looking for infidels, we have... 

First Time Writing

I attended a writing group for the first time tonight. Write Now. 

We met in a co-working space I'd heard about from a friend a long time ago. But I never had an invitation nor a reason to go it. It seemed like such a big-city thing to have nearby, let alone to own: a co-working space. And here it is, absolutely gorgeous. It's a well-lit section of old brick warehouse in the downtown. Updated air ducts, wiring, windows. Lots of tables all equipped with wheely chairs, lamps, and outlets. There is an astonishing number of green plants when you first walk in. All the sunlight comes through eight glass doors on one side of the building, and if it weren't night, I can imagine being overwhelmed by the unfiltered light. But of course, anything to distract me from my work. What is it tonight? 

One, Jake said we need to feed the children less ice cream. Have I made a mistake in giving them too much? Haven't I said that recently, too? It feels to me that he is saying, "When you're on with the kids again, it's up to you to give them less ice cream. But because it's easier, I am going to capitulate tonight." Not sure if this is true. But I don't give him much room when he offers an improvement. I hate criticism. I hate the whiff of it. 

Two, everyone in this room is a writer. How intimidating! It makes me want to be a writer, too. I want to hear how they talk about process. I want to hear how they move their ideas forward. Most of all, I want to know what compels them to write. Why am I not writing more often? What would it be about, anyway?

Three, rain tonight. I wonder if it will be enough to pull us out of this drought. October saw only sunny days. It was beautiful. It occurs to me that watching news is very much like looking at the weather forecast. Not much you can do about the events. You can decide what you're going to wear, to an extent. You can make indoor plans as opposed to outdoor plans. You can call your local weather station, but it won't change the weather. That's how big issues in the news feel to me: they might as well be the weather. 

The gathering begins at 7 PM. People are all seated as I arrive, but I don't feel intrusive in this social atmosphere. Jamie comes over to me, rightly guessing that I was a bit lost. Sign in, get a snack, sit anywhere, and in a few minutes she'll call attention for introductions. Around 7:20, Jamie calls attention: she directs us as we go around the room and say our names and what we're working on. She says if you want to be asked about it later, we'll ask you, but otherwise, we won't. There are 23 of us scattered about the tables, with three working in a loft behind me. I am sitting with a fascinating woman with gray hair pulled back with barrettes. During the introductions, she mentions that she's working on some non-fiction about the stained glass in a local church, but before this, it was always non-fiction, but classified, so no one is ever allowed to read it. It turns out, she worked for the CIA. I asked if she was proud of the work she did. She is. She was there through the beginning of the Biden administration.

The writers here write mostly fiction. I am astounded by how much fiction is in the world. And I am called even now to the fiction I am reading. I want to know what happens. I want to get to the good parts. There are a few people who write non-fiction. All in the more advanced age group, I notice. One man is a food and travel writer. One person writes poetry and non-fiction. Two or three write memoirs. Several people are published. Some are self-published. A few are students at local universities or trade schools, and one of these is writing songs tonight. Inaudibly. 

Am I in the right place? 

One thing seems certain. It's going to take me many hours and days of writing to ever come out of this... this... I wanted to say "funk," but I believe I mean stage of life. Motherhood. Why couldn't I do one thing I wanted to do? I wanted to work for World Relief and answer emails. Instead, I found myself barely opening my computer. On the occasions when I wasn't on with at least one kid, there was work to be done in my house. Work that needed doing. Has it been a lack of discipline all along? Can I blame Jake? I do blame him, a bit. But mostly I've just been too damn tired. And writing isn't breathing for me. Writing is nice. Writing is an old friend. Writing is the wise mentor I long to ask my questions to. But I'd rather sleep. I'd just rather sleep.

2023 in Retrospect

 I went all of the year 2023 without writing here. With my life feeling so very finite, my trusty ole blog didn't seem a worthy enough place to expend energy.

Since the last time I wrote here...

• I have had a whole pregnancy and a whole baby. Now I have a three-year-old and a nine-month-old. They're sisters, and this morning we woke up to them talking and singing together in their room. 
• We took a trip to Guatemala, Jake, Tessa, and me.
• I have had and ended a full-time job with the county's Housing Authority.

• We have gotten roommates, a family from Nicaragua. 
• I have spent three months babysitting two toddlers and two infants.
• I have helped my toddler potty train. There is incredible emotional weight to this milestone, and I felt entirely unprepared for that. She'll never be a baby again, and she deals with that by playing "Baby," in which she tells me what to do, and is therefore no different from any of our other games, except that she uses a whiny voice.
• No one in our immediate families has died.
• No new cars were purchased. 
• Our house looks a little different. My brother-in-law installed a few new outlets. Jake installed a pot rack. Edwin repainted the bathroom. Uncle Tom put a door in the side of the garage. 
• We look a little different. Our hair is greyer. Our bellies are a bit saggy. We can't seem to catch up on sleep. 
• I have started a part-time job answering helpdesk emails for a non-profit. 

I used to have a Xanga. Remember how it was the same thing as this, but with the option to choose music along with your post? I remember people doing this, giving "it's been so long since I wrote"-type update posts every six months, and then nothing. And then Xanga died, and I lost years of writing. 

I see I just did that; an update, I mean. I wonder if it means that a blog is no longer the place I hang my thoughts. I don't have a more pressing place to put them: I'm not suddenly running for office, or writing a book. I imagine I'll be back little by little.

Theology of Suffering

I was in an Urgent Care this evening, crying my eyes out due to the pressure in my ears. I remember when I was maybe three years old, sitting on my mom's lap and crying my eyes out for the same reason. I remember saying something about God to her, like, "Why does God let this happen?" or "Why does God hate me?"

Tonight, I practiced all the breathing techniques I know (maybe three... mostly different counts of inhale-hold-exhale) to deal with the pain. I paced, I sat, I prayed. I prayed not just for myself but for a few other people I know to be in pain right now, including people who are literally in war zones or being tortured. I pray for them most. I told God that he is still good, even though I was in pain. I thanked him for being with me while I was in pain. And that's my entire theology of suffering. That's it. 

I drove to the pharmacy and acquired at little cost: Sudafed, amoxicillin, and prednisone, all of which I dosed up in the parking lot, and prayed to drive safely home in spite of my compromised reaction time. All was well. I lay down on the couch and writhed and wailed until the medicines took effect. 

"Only Physical"

Something else is going on with these thoughts. While I was waiting for the doctor, I thought, "at least it's not losing my child. She's safe at home, going to bed. At least this is only physical." But I don't believe in "only physical." If I had lost my child, the pain would be so acute as to actually be physical, not just psychological. And is any pain psychological only? Aren't we experiencing it with our physical mind? Praise God for the physical. "Only" nothing. It's a seamless everything. 

Moving to East Lancaster

Right now, we have a bedroom dedicated to storing the puzzle we're working on. Another bedroom is just laundry drying. An office upstairs contains a blow-up mattress and an old rug. We move the rest of our stuff in on Saturday, when, I assume, I will find our plates in an unlabeled box. We've been eating all our meals out of the same three bowls around a card table in camp chairs for almost three weeks. I'm not complaining. I can't believe we get to live in a city where we've already made and begun to make friendships. I can't believe we get to live in a big house with guest rooms! I can't believe how many people we're going to be able to host for dinners, or for a weekend, or much longer! I can't believe how yellow our kitchen is. 

All our books are in boxes, still, and the bookshelves waiting to be wedged into vans from various quadrants. We live in meanwhile, and there's something serene and sad about how empty the house still is. We don't know who will share it with us, or when. We don't know how full it will get, or how empty. We're hoping. And hope can fill a house.