tiny flower
pushed through
hard earth
grew
lifted its face
to light
to life
tiny flower
beautiful
blooming
by 
Summer Poem
by by Anything but Writing
Read.
Read about writing.
Sweep the front porch.
Then the back deck.
Hose off the back deck.
Empty the bird bath.
Scrub out the bird bath.
Refill the bird bath.
Make hummus.
And frosting.
Eat a graham cracker with frosting.
Fix a graham cracker with frosting for my son.
Go outside to listen to the thunder.
Come inside to get scissors.
Go out to cut some flowers.
Come in to arrange flowers in a vase.
Sit at desk.
Read more about writing.
Check Instagram.
Get up to get a drink of water.
Text a friend.
Look at my calendar for the week.
Write a paragraph.
by On Writing
So, I have a little issue with perfectionism. Well, a big issue to be honest. And I’m finding that it gets in the way of posting here. I have had times in my life when I just wrote. I would pick up a pen and write what was in my head and that was it. Done. Anymore, it’s like I have to go over every sentence with a fine-toothed comb, and at some point I completely lose track of what I wanted to say. It’s a very frustrating situation and, as a result, I don’t write or post much.
Now, I don’t imagine many of you who have read my blog, when you notice that the posts are few and far between, are laying awake at night wondering what the heck is going on. And that’s good. But I do, I wonder what’s going on. Perfectionism, that’s what. It has messed with me for as long as I can remember. So I say “no more!” At least for now, I will write and post and have less regard for what I publish being “just so”.
As a result, you may read something that doesn’t flow. Guess what? I read stuff online (and sometimes in books) that doesn’t flow. All the time. And I still can learn from what I read and be encouraged by it.
So there you go. My goal is to write more and worry less.
by Reframe
If you know me well, you know how much I dislike Summer. I really do. I remember as a child, begging my mom to let me stay indoors rather than sending me out to play in the heat. My mom was the only other member of my family who felt the same way about the heat, so she sometimes relented and let me stay in. For much of my life I have felt apologetic about my dislike of Summer. It’s not the norm; most people look forward to the season of heat and light, barbecues, picnics and vacation. Not me. Heat makes me feel ill and long days with lots of light send a message to my sensitive circadian system that I don’t need to sleep when, really, I do.
I am coming to a place of acceptance of my feelings about this popular season. I admit it, talk about it and feel less guilt than I used to. Maybe the guilt has something to do with having siblings who are always cold unless it’s over 90 degrees. Or possibly from being married to a guy who handles discomfort without saying much about it. Regardless, I am coming clean about my true feelings for (almost) all things Summer. In other words I’m accepting that the way I feel is the way I feel. Full stop.
And I’m changing my thinking. Yep I’m doing that too.
It occurred to me recently that maybe I can think about this season differently. I’m not talking about pretending I like it when I don’t, but rather reframing it so that I can be a little less miserable.
It’s similar to how I approach walking the dog, our dog anyway. When I’m walking, what I want to do is walk. Not Libby. She wants to sniff. Everything. And her sniffing gets in the way of my walking. Sometime in the recent past I realized that instead of standing there, pulling on the leash and muttering at her under my breath, I could look around and notice the beauty of Nature. This may sound silly to some but, let me tell you, it has made a huge difference in how I feel during and after a walk.
In applying this practice to Summer, I have decided to notice a few things everyday (usually three) that are beautiful. Often it’s stuff like the way the sun gleams on the back of a black horse, or the pure green of the aspen leaves. It really doesn’t matter. It’s been helpful for me to change my focus enough to see that there are some things I truly like about Summer. Not many, but some.
I do want to make reference back to the fact that my acceptance of my feelings about Summer is foundational to this practice of finding the good in it. Too often, in my opinion, we attempt to change our unwanted thoughts or emotions as soon as possible. I have found acceptance to be a critical first step in any process of change. When I reject an emotional experience, because I’m uncomfortable with feeling the way I feel or because I’m unpopular for feeling the way I feel, my options seem quite limited: repress, pretend, and the like. Yet when I turn toward the emotion and accept that, yep, this is how I feel, I have more options.
In paraphrasing something I learned from Kristin Neff, one of the founders of Mindful Self-Compassion: when I am rejecting myself in some way (usually with judgment and criticism), I am both the attacked and the attacker. When this happens, my fight or flight system kicks into high gear and the adrenaline and cortisol start pumping. But how can I get away when I’m the attacker? Good question! I can’t. Another interesting thing I’ve learned is, that when we are in such a state, the areas of the brain that help with motivation and change became inactive. After all, the brain is more concerned with survival when I feel under attack, not with figuring out how to exercise more. The flip side of this is self-compassion (think of it as turning the kindness we show to others, inward). Self-compassion causes those same parts of the brain to light up and become active, thereby promoting motivation, change and growth. Sounds like a little acceptance is a pretty good deal.
So, Summer. I don’t love you and I’m okay with that.
How about you? What’s something you dislike or struggle with that you then are hard on yourself for? Please share! I’d love to hear your story.
by The Path
Oh Yeah
Two words. They were in a text I received and felt like a splash of cold water in my face. For the second time in less than a week, I was experiencing one of those “oh yeah” moments. It’s so easy at such a point to turn and berate myself for losing sight of something (2 somethings, actually) so integral to my wellness. But I am human and I forget and get distracted and carry on as expected, until I can’t. Then, I remember.
This time though, life itself sent me reminders before I found myself in a full blown free fall.
A few days ago, I had a hard conversation with one of the few people in my life I feel safe enough to have hard conversations with, my husband. Afterward, I found myself on the sofa because it had been a long day and my pain was front and center. Within about 2 seconds I found myself weeping and lost in the grief of life. I am learning to let my emotions be present and move through me (that’s the hope anyway), so I continued to rest and cry, as memories of one hard thing after another rolled over me like waves. I wasn’t crying from the physical pain, but I think it’s often the vehicle for stripping me of my very last “I’m ok” mask- the one that feels so familiar I usually don’t realize I’m wearing it.
Later, as I was catching up on some reading, I found myself reading an article about a woman’s experience with Bipolar 2 and that’s when it happened: “oh yeah, I have that.”, and then, “Maybe it’s contributing to my current emotional chaos”.
Now this particular writer just happens to have what’s commonly referred to as Rapid Cycling, which I also have. Plus, she put her finger on what it’s like to live in Mixed States, another nuance of this disease that applies to me. As I read, I felt so much relief. I mean, so much! First, just the reminder that I’m not alone in this living with mental Illness thing. But more than that, it gives me a hook to hang my life experience on, a container it fits into, and that helps my brain to rest. Believe me, my brain at rest is highly sought after yet seldom experienced.
So for those of you who may be thinking something like, those words (Bipolar, Rapid Cycling, Mixed States) are just labels and labels cause damage or add shame, or something similar, let me clarify. Labels are just words, and while I do believe strongly in the power of words, I think the “power” attributed to mental illness labels has more to do with stigma and shaming that comes from culture. In my opinion, a label is an explanation not a definition. The labeling words I use to describe my own experience of mental illness help me in the process of self-understanding and self-acceptance, and they can make it more likely that I will get the help and support I need.
My second “oh yeah” moment occurred yesterday and involved the text message I referred to earlier. The two words? High Functioning. In this particular text, those words were not about me, but they are. I have a friend who has a similar struggle with Bipolar 2 and is also considered “High Functioning”, and we have had many conversations about the consequences of being so put together and capable. Really! We both agree that showing up and doing life as expected (and often more) day after day, month after month, while you simultaneously feel like you’re dying inside or going crazy because your brain is in overdrive, makes it really hard to get the help and support needed to maintain stability. Looking good on the outside turns out to work against us.
I’m grateful for these reminders. Please don’t hear me say I love having this illness, as if I’m trying to silver-line this cloud. But, as the saying goes, “it is what it is”, and my life is much better in every way since I have (mostly) accepted my diagnosis. I’m enduring my least favorite season with a little less dread and a little more medication rather than suffering through it like I normally do. That only can happen because I accept my illness and work within its parameters to be as healthy as I can be.
Bipolar Disorder is not who I am but it is a part of me. It brings gifts of many kinds and my intention is to keep my hands open. I don’t want to miss the gifts.
by Stories From Childhood, Part 7: Canal
I loved to play among the icy wonderland of the canal in winter. I spent the hours from stepping off the school bus until dark, creating frozen imaginary worlds. My nose runny, fingers numb, I squatted in the bottom of the ditch, protected from the fierce wind- outside and in The House- in a world of my own.
by Stories From Childhood, Part 6: Mean Man
We think he shot our dog. At least dad thinks so. I’m not sure he had a wife but sometimes, some woman or other, lived there. He had 2 girls; one was friends with my sister but the younger one was mean like her dad. Maybe she was just scared. Rumor was he was cruel to his horses. His place was run down and surrounded by old run down cars. And his goats were always getting out. One day, a mean old goat butted poor Mrs B. (who dad said was “big as a barn”), all the way from her mailbox at the end of the road, home. When riding my bike by his house, I pedaled extra fast.
by Stories From Childhood, Part 5: The Hill
The Hill was where the rich people lived, I guess. But most of all, The Hill was for careening down, on bike in summer and sled in winter. Once in 5th grade, the boy I liked called me the “B word”. Affronted, I ran home to tell my big brother. He promptly accompanied me back to the scene of the incident. Confronting my would-be love, my brother wrested the sled from his hands and shoved it, sideways, down and over the nearest post. I can still feel the shocked look on my face.
by Stories From Childhood, Part 4: Wayne
Standing and looking out the living room window, I could see the mountains. And in between the here and there was a small house, sitting alone. My grandfather’s house. I did not know him. If I met him in the street, I would not smile and say hello, for he was a stranger to me.
My mother- how she loved him! In later years, she told me how she visited him in the hospital as he lay ill with whatever stole his life from him, and us. They had a wonderful conversation, then he asked, “Now what did you say your name was?” When she told him, he turned his face to the wall and did not say another word. That was the last time she saw him. Her Daddy. His name was Wayne.
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