Spirituality

Thoughts on Community and Withdrawal

By / October 29, 2012 / 3 Comments

In years past I’ve written glowing descriptions of our church Halloween carnival. I described how the community of congregation members creates this event for each other and how the creation draws the members of the community together. I’ve loved that aspect of it, just as I’ve loved how trailing a trick or treating child lets me feel part of a larger community of parents. I love these things about Halloween, so the arrival of the carnival last night should have been happy. It was, in a distant sort of way. I felt like it was a generally happy thing, without being made happier because of it. I was at the event, but did not truly engage with it. Certainly not in the way that my kids did. They were decked out in costumes and helping run the games. I did not have a costume, not really. Throwing on Howard’s old lab coat does not qualify as a costume in the same way that Kiki’s autumn elf with pointy ears and leafy skirt did. Kiki spent hours on her costume. I decided ten minutes before departure that I did not want to be completely boring.

The challenge is that I’m currently in a social withdrawal phase. I recognize this as part of my regular emotional cycles. Sometimes I’m reaching out, ready to give energy to the world. Other times I draw inward trying to conserve that energy to myself. Lately I’m pulling in. At some point in the future I’ll reach out and connect again. Paying attention to these cycles is important, because knowing why I’m withdrawing can make a huge difference in making my withdrawal into an effective and temporary retreat rather than into a prolonged period of self-imposed social isolation. Noticing that I’m withdrawing is an important indicator.

My current withdrawal cycle has, in part, been driven by shifts in my extended family. My grandmother’s health has been up and down in the past six months. I’ve often felt worried about her and about my parents who are acting as her primary care givers. All is currently well, Grandma is getting around the house with a walker, which she mostly needs for balance. Yet I worry about them. Several of my siblings have gone through periods of unemployment and financial stress. I’ve spent time sending them prayers, trying to think how I could help, and hosting people in my house as they pass through while on trips or relocating. Mostly there isn’t much I can do to help. I just wish I could, and the wishing takes emotional energy.

The withdrawal is also driven by internal shifts. This past year has taught me much about myself. I’ve found deeply hidden lies which were driving my behavior. I’ve rooted out sources of anxiety. I’ve made lots of progress on building new patterns of thought. Some of that involved figuring out which sorts of events feed my demons of self doubt and which fill my soul. I’m also trying to re-organize my life around writing. This requires that I have empty spaces in my mind and heart for the stories to grow. To create those spaces I need less input, fewer new things to think about.

This school year is being good for my kids, but I can also see how it is a preparatory year. Three of them are shifting and preparing to leap into new things next year. The changes have already begun and I want to savor this space before those changes are complete.

So the withdrawal makes sense. It is logical. I have good reasons for it. And yet…

Today at church during the Relief Society lesson I felt strongly that I should engage, participate in the lesson. I’ve mostly been drifting through church without doing that. In fact there have been weeks when I’ve spent time in the hallways because the meetings felt claustrophobic. It is all part of the withdrawal, I drifted through the Sunday meetings, just as I drifted through the Halloween carnival. But today I raised my hand and said something not particularly brilliant, but it supported the point the teacher was making. Discussion on the topic continued to bounce around the room, and I thought of another thing to say. I raised my hand again. For the first time in months I was not merely a passive member of the congregation, sieving inspiration from the lessons as they washed past me. Instead I was in the middle, speaking, sharing thoughts, helping to shape the lesson. It was powerful. I’d walked into that room idly noting all the familiar women who were there with me–even feeling a little frustrated that I ended up surrounded instead of off to the side where it is easier for me to observe. When I left the meeting, I loved the women, or rather I remembered that I’ve loved all of them for years. Somehow I had lost that connection and I got it back. I felt connected again because I reached out, not because someone reached to me.

Communities work only as their members make them work. You get out of it what you put into it. Often, through some incomprehensible divine formula, you get out more than what you put in. Which leads me to wonder whether withdrawing to recharge is a wise strategy at all. It is certainly the one my instincts would have me choose. When my resources are slim, I should conserve them carefully. Except I then feel like I’m continually having ever lessening amounts which I can conserve. Sometimes a withdrawal fills me up and I’m ready to engage again. Other times pulling inward is itself draining and what I need is to trust that I can continue to feed everyone with what feels like a mere handful of meal and a few drops of oil. I’m afraid to give more. I have so many things to tend already, but I think I need to connect with my communities. I need to be willing to give, particularly when I’m afraid that I’ll run out.

Withdrawing is good. Reaching out is good. Giving is good. Conserving is good. It feels like a test where all the answers are based upon context and interpretation. The best I can do is to muddle my way through trying out the different options as they seem called for.

All I Can Do

By / October 25, 2012 / 2 Comments

…for we know that it is by grace we are saved, after all we can do.
2 Nephi 25:23

I always trip over that “after all we can do” part of the verse. I believe it too thoroughly, trying to make the job of giving grace and blessings easy for God, as if He is more likely to grant them that way. In fact, I try my very hardest to put God out of work by doing all the work myself.

Then I hit a place like this week, where the things I want most are out of my control. Howard is in the midst of plotting the climax of the current Schlock storyline. He’s gathering all the threads of story to pull them together into a satisfying conclusion and there are threads everywhere. I know he can do this, he is brilliant with this, but the only help I can provide is to listen when he needs to talk plot and to read the occasional script.

Howard is also working hard on a yet-to-be-announced prose project. I’m excited that he gets to do this project. I love that he is getting to write a story for which he does not have to draw pictures. It lets Howard grow in new ways and that is good. But growth is not easy and I can’t write the words for him.

Then there is the calendar project. We need the calendar to launch our holiday season and pay for Christmas. It will get done in plenty of time. Howard is already half done with the line art and a third done with the coloring. Again, there is nothing I can do except support Howard’s efforts.
And pray.
Because when I run out of things to do, I have to acknowledge how much of my life is beyond my control. I turn to deity and pray for Howard’s good health, that the hand pain will stay away, that he’ll be inspired with the story bits he needs, that he’ll have a run of good work days, that he won’t feel too stressed or depressed or frustrated.

I read the scripture again and it feels very odd that all I can do is support and pray. I want something else, something active. I want my writing to be part of the solution, right now it adds an additional time burden without providing anything measurable in terms of payment. I want to be filling store orders, shipping merchandise to excited customers, but the orders ebb and flow. We’re currently in a lull before the holiday rush. Our next big merchandise push will be for the calendar, which is not yet ready.

I’ve done all I can do, now I need to exercise faith. Faith in Howard, who has always come through. Faith in God, who has already–repeatedly–informed me that everything is going to be fine. I know it is going to be fine, I just want to get to the part where it already is. I want to have things to do again, work which obviously helps to support our family financially. I wish I could carry more of the financial burden; Howard has been over burdened with work for years. Instead I must wait patiently in this one area of my life and focus my doing on the parenting, household, writing, and gardening parts of my life. It is not as though I lack for things to do, I’m just antsy like a child who has many things but wants something else. I must learn to wait and trust. That is all I can do.

Swirls of Thoughts on Conference Sunday

By / October 7, 2012 / 1 Comment

My brain is full. Usually when my brain is full it feels like a chaotic muddle, a mess to be sorted. Today most of the fullness is the result of listening to four sessions of LDS General Conference. All the thoughts, impressions, and inspirations I gathered from the speakers are not a chaotic muddle. Instead they are like colors of paint swirling together and mixing as they are carried on a current. I feel no need to snatch or clean because I can trust that the things I need will stay with me while the rest will move onward.

I am thinking about a bird of prey tangled in a net. Rescue workers approach carefully, trying to cut the strands so that the bird can fly free, but knowing that the bird will not understand and will attack them for their efforts. Threads part and the bird does fly, but sadly a portion of the net is still tangled on the bird, possibly to get caught on something else and trap the bird again. I think of the be-netted bird when I can see that someone is trapped in a net of habits and compulsions that they can not even perceive. I see it. I want to cut them out, but unlike a bird that can be rescued, people treasure their entrapping nets and they dive back into them. I am left standing with my hands in my pockets knowing that all I can do is hope to help my friend see the net for the trap that it is and then to begin to cut threads for themselves.

I think about the cultural shifts and how so small a change as the minimum age for missionaries can have rippling effects. Suddenly a decision which seemed years off moves much closer. Will there be a missionary boom for a couple of years like the baby boom after the first world war? Will BYU be easier to get into next year as more high school graduates opt for mission before college? In a couple of years it will all settle out, but during the settling process some things will shift. It will be interesting to watch.

My thoughts drift to the many family members and friends who are suffering from lack of employment, under employment, and health issues. The amount I can do to help feels paltry in the face of their needs and I feel guilty for feeling stressed by my own financial strains which are so much less dire. Yet I remember years ago when I was pregnant with Gleek and it seemed that every female relative and friend was suffering from fertility issues. I was growing with blessings that they longed for. Within two years every single one of those women became pregnant. Their longed for children came on a schedule different than the one they wanted, but the children still came. I feel that this is the same, that employment and health are nearby and that the desired security will arrive by faith, not by frantic efforts to exert control. So I try to exercise faith on their behalf. Do what you can. Trust for the rest.

I think much about Simon Peter and Christ. I think even more on the command to pick up discipleship and never put it down again. I ponder what service I am to give in making the world a better place.

Then I close my eyes and think of nothing in particular because I’m still fighting a head cold and too much thinking makes me sleepy. The things I need to do will stay with me, brought back to me over and again by the whisperings of inspiration and divine guidance. For now, I rest.

Prayer, Scriptures, Church, and Parenting

By / August 5, 2012 / 4 Comments

For someone who believes in prayer, it is amazing how often I forget to use it. I believe that God listens to my prayers and answers them. I also believe that when I pray on someone else’s behalf that my prayers have an effect, even though my logic brain is stumped to explain the mechanics of exactly how it works. I know for sure that when I pray it changes me; my internal landscape alters, calms, shifts and I step away with a clearer view of what is and what needs to be next. Sometimes the changes to my internal landscape unlock floods and rivers of inspiration which wash through me. Other times I realize that God has been waiting very patiently for me to ask before helping me. I’ve seen all of this over and over in my life. Yet I’m usually fairly well established in my stress or crisis before I think to apply prayer to the problem. I need to be better about that.

There are other religious observances which I also neglect such as daily study of scriptures. Somehow it gets lost in the middle of everything else and I don’t even think to miss it until it has been absent for weeks or months. Every time I put it back, it fills my soul. I find greater reserves and strength for managing everything else in my life. It is exercise and good nutrition for my spirit, yet it fares about as well in my schedule as exercise does.

Fortunately I have weekly church attendance to nudge me and remind me of the importance of prayer and scripture study. It is like a regular appointment with my personal trainer, the day when I have to account for my choices during the prior week. Sometimes I slouch into the appointment resentfully, knowing that I’ve been lacking. Yet I’m not scolded there, just encouraged, reminded, nudged. And on days like today, when I’m feeling a bit cracked open and raw, I am healed. My spiritual practices bring me closer to my loving Father in Heaven who only wants me to grow and is sad that sometimes the growth process is painful. I can sympathize with that today as I look forward to this coming school year and know my kids have some difficult emotional terrain ahead. I keep forgetting that Howard and I do not have to do this alone. My Father in Heaven is also there for my kids and when I remember to apply prayer to our challenges, miracles happen.

Monument Walk Washington D.C.

By / May 23, 2012 / 1 Comment

“Where are you headed next?” the docent asked as we walked back to the rotunda in the National Museum of Art.
“I wanted to walk down to the Lincoln Memorial.” I answered.
Her eyes grew wide. “That’s a long walk. I know it doesn’t look that far, because of all the open space, but it’s about two miles.”
I smiled at her. Two miles was not too far.


The docent was right about distances being deceiving on the Mall in Washington D.C. Much of this is because the architecture is so over sized. The first designers made everything huge and impressive, sized for the cultural giants they hoped that Americans would aspire to become. The buildings can be seen and admired from afar, then as one draws closer awe grows. They go up and up and up.

The walk was long, past museums and sculpture gardens. The sidewalks were full of tour groups and school groups, each rushing about to make sure they saw everything on their lists. For most Americans trips to D.C. are rare, every moment there is precious. I too came with a list of things I hoped to see, but more important to me was to be there, to experience the place. I decided from moment to moment whether to walk, sit, or photograph. It was a unique freedom not to have to consult the wishes of others about these things, my visit was my own.

I saw the World War II memorial long before I reached it. Like everything else, it is made large. So large that it is hard to fit into a single photograph.

I was impressed by the towers and fountains. I saw the from afar that each tower was labelled with the name of a state and that the matched structures on each end declared Atlantic and Pacific. The logic and planning was evident in the design. Then my feet stepped from sidewalk concrete and onto the flagstones.

Awe and reverence rolled over me in a wave, as if the stones themselves were steeped in them. My eyes began to water and I looked about with my mouth open. I was standing on sanctified ground. A hundred photos of the place will never capture that feeling, because the feeling does not exist in the shapes of the stones or the water. It does not even exist in the words etched into the walls at intervals.

Nor is it in the fountains as they shoot skyward.

All of these things contribute, are part of it, but there is something else there. I think that the builders gave it something and every one who visits adds their own piece. The collected awe and gratitude of a hundred thousand visitors are accumulated in that cirque and focused on the memory of those who sacrificed. One can not stand there without wanting to be a better person to live up to those sacrifices.

To be truthful, it was a bit over powering. I walked up the ramp to exit, curious to see if the feeling would leave as abruptly as it came. Stepping off the flagstones was rather like stepping through the down blast of air in an open-front grocery store. Despite the lack of barrier, the feel of things was different. I turned back for one more look, knowing I needed to come again someday.

The reflecting pools were all under construction, and had been for years according to a local. Someday they will reflect again, but years of wear needed to be fixed first. I followed a winding detour which led me to the Vietnam memorial. I was very curious to see if the Vietnam memorial would affect me as strongly as the World War II memorial. It was one I saw twenty years ago when I visited D.C. as a teenager. At that time it affected me profoundly, teaching me name by name the costs of war.

The Vietnam memorial is a quiet place and the feel of it was quiet. It invites reflection by showing us ourselves in the surface of the wall covered in the names of the dead. I ran my fingers along the names, feeling their roughness against the glass-smooth marble. The Vietnam memorial is a cautionary monument, telling me to be careful what battles I pick.

One thing saddened me. When I came as a teenager the most impressive moments were looking at the flowers and notes left for loved ones whose names were etched there.

This recent trip had an even more abundant litter of notes.

But none of the notes were personal. They were all from “The Students of Lincoln Middle School” or “Mrs. Jeffrey’s Fifth Grade.” That seemed sad to me. Our national memory is fading and the meaning of the monument is changing into something new. On the other hand, there is power in asking a child to pick a name on the wall, picture that name as a loved one, and then leave a note.

Once I knew I was coming to D.C. again, I was filled with a need to sit on the steps of the Lincoln memorial. It seemed powerful to my teenaged self, but she was distracted. By the time we reached Lincoln, I’d met a boy on the trip and things were edging into complicated territory. I wanted nothing more to sit there and absorb the feel of the place, but awareness of the boy was like pebbles thrown into a calm pond, changing the shapes of the reflections. Twenty years later, I wondered what my adult self would feel there.

You first spy Lincoln in his massive building as a lighter shadow in the darkness behind the pillars.

The steps are over-sized, forcing one to stretch to ascend to the heights where Lincoln sits enthroned. “Enthroned” is definitely the right word.

The creators of this monument wanted visitors to feel small and humble. This effect was somewhat mitigated by the crowds of visitors. It was hard to take a picture that didn’t have other people in it.

Yet I didn’t mind the other people. We stood together, pondering equality and freedom, all of us equal visitors no matter what our origins, skin color, or ethnicity. I don’t know what Lincoln the man would think of his giant statue and throng of visitors, but Lincoln stopped being a man long ago and is instead an icon. I think the icon would be pleased to see many who came to visit him.

After paying my respects to Mr. Lincoln I sat on the front steps with my back tucked into the curve of a pillar. Much of the walk had been hot, I was tired, but I closed my eyes in the cool breeze and felt peace. This was why I’d come two thousand miles on an airplane and two miles on foot. I came to feel peace, to tuck a small portion of it into my heart so that I could carry it home with me. I sat there for a long time at the end of my pilgrimage.

I watched the other visitors, including the child who managed to sneak a forbidden slide down the slanted marble next to the stairs. Mostly I thought of nothing in particular. Eventually I had to climb down and leave. I had a long walk back to the metro station. I passed the Korean War Memorial, but was too tired to enter. My path led right by the World War II Memorial. I went inside again to see if the feeling would roll over me again. Instead it sneaked in and filled me. I sat for a time near the Pacific fountain.

When I left to trek back to the metro station, I did so knowing that someday I would love to return. Washington D.C. is a place worth knowing.

Things That Made Today Good

By / January 20, 2012

1. Teaching an art project to twenty five 3rd graders. It involved throwing scraps of colored paper on their desks, handing them scissors, and telling them “have at it!” As they cut and glued I would talk about negative space, color contrasting, and over lapping shapes to create textures. The variety of things they created was really cool. More heartwarming for me was the fact that they recognized me and obviously liked having me in class.

2. Going out to lunch with Howard. Despite the fact that I was fairly low-energy, Howard kept making cheerful conversation. Some of it had nothing to do with our shared business. Also the food was happy-making food.

3. Napping.

4. It is Friday. This means that the kids and I all ignore homework for the entire afternoon and evening. We replace it with movies, video games, and staying up later than usual.

5. Taking a sledge hammer and crowbar to the final vestiges of wall in my office. It is nice to have the project ready for the next phase. It was even nicer to get to wield the sledge and crowbar. There is something really satisfying in demolition. As a bonus, I got the work done and my wrist was fine. The painful twinges from a week ago did not return.

6. Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate and Caramel

7. The weather was sunny and warm.

8. Sitting in my front room next to a potted hyacinth in bloom.

9. Someone else did the massive pile of dishes.

10. My kids, just by existing. Somehow today they just made me glad every time I saw them.

11. Scriptures and hope. Read the first, felt the second. I still have a couple of things at the forefront of all my prayers. It is my job to keep them there, but I feel strongly that the things I’m petitioning for are on the way.

12. Howard. He makes me laugh.

13. My opera wallet and new business card case. I got them a few weeks ago, but they are pretty. Holding them in my hand and feeling the slight click as they shut makes me happy. It is a little like the feeling I had as a little girl when playing dress up. I’d try on the clothes and feel like I was grown up. Now I am grown up, but holding these slightly old-fashioned things still gives me that sense of pretending to be someone I aspire to be. The right props can really make a difference.

15. The fact that one of my LTUE panel topics is something I suggested last year. This means that one of the symposium planners liked the idea enough to remember it a whole year later and put it on the schedule.

16. The fact that I arrived at the end of the day with a list of happy things.

Kiki’s Church Talk

By / November 13, 2011 / 2 Comments

The phone call came on an afternoon early in the week. Kiki was asleep when I poked her awake and handed her the phone. Then I stood there and listened because any time I serve as a telephone delivery service I figure I get to know whats going on. The shape of Kiki’s semi mumbled answers indicated that she’d been asked to speak in church. She’s had this type of assignment before and public speaking is not something that scares her, so when she handed back the phone we both proceeded through the rest of the week without giving it a second thought. It didn’t even get second thoughts it should have had. The next time we thought of it was when Kiki was greeted with “So, you ready to give your talk?”

I arrived in the chapel to see Kiki hunched over with her hands covering her face. She was mortified. This piled on top of other stresses in her life and seemed to show, once again, that she was doomed to fail in all her endeavors. The meeting conductor assured her it was fine and that she could just speak some other week. All Kiki could do was nod and try to hide her tears.

I watched her down the bench. The prelude music still played. We had two hymns, announcements, and a sacrament service between us and the moment when she was assigned to speak. Kiki probably had 20 minutes to prepare, if she could focus on preparation instead of mortification. As my daughter’s parent, I had choices. I could tell her that she would be speaking and had better scramble something together. I could tell her to let it go so that she could be properly prepared on some other day. Or, I could take the less active path, the one where I did not declare what she ought to do. I knew what I hoped she would do, what I thought would be best for everyone concerned. I hoped that she would, of her own accord, find the courage to scramble a three minute talk together from a scripture and the thoughts in her head. I wanted that for her, because to pull success out of apparent failure is a triumph. It is the sort of triumph which grants future strength and can never be taken away. I wanted so much for her to reach out and grab that triumph, but all I could do was point out that if she chose, there was still time.

The meeting began. Kiki still surreptitiously wiped tears as the opening announcements were read. During the first hymn I watched out of the corner of my eye as she opened a book and began to sing. I could not tell what thoughts were churning through her mind. I could not know what story she was making from the events of the day. Was she telling a story of victim hood: “why does this always happen to me?” Was she pounding out a story of failure: “I always forget things, why can’t I be better?” I hoped that her rigid posture was because she intended to seize her chance. During the sacrament service she opened her scriptures. I closed my eyes. Please let her have the courage to speak. Please give her the words to say.

The moment came. Kiki stood and walked to the front of the chapel to take her place on the stand. She spoke and her thoughts formed a coherent, amusing, uplifting talk. She spoke about things she’d learned in her seminary class. She touched on the assigned topic. She brought in an example from her own life. In the moment of crisis all these little preparations came together and combined to be the words she needed. It was a talk for which she thought she had been unprepared, but for which she was completely ready. In less than four minutes she was once again seated. This time she had her head high and was smiling.

After the meeting was over she came and hugged me. I hugged her back. She had found courage to reach for triumph. I’d found the strength to stand out of the way without knowing what the result would be. Both of us are more confident in the brightness of the future. It is well.

Weekly Course Corrections

By / September 18, 2011 / 6 Comments

I sat at one end of the chapel bench and Howard sat at the other with our children in between. We were singing the opening hymn, all of us with books open in our laps. The requirement that the kids sing along for the opening hymn was a new one for our family, but through it the kids are learning that music can bring a special spirit to us. The song concluded and the heads of three kids bent back over their drawings. Supposedly they were also listening while they drew. I’m sure Kiki listened. Gleek listened sometimes. Patch listened if the speaker was telling an interesting story. Link did not draw. He sat quietly, which did not guarantee that he was listening. Whether or not they were paying attention, we were all there together for the first time in weeks. I look down the row at them, I can see the contentment in their bodies. Church is a good place for all of us and we are glad to be there together.

I closed my eyes and asked the same silent question I ask every week. It is a prayer of sorts, almost wordless as I reach out. It comprises several things from “any messages for me?” to “What should I be focused on this week?” to “What next?” or even occasionally a petulant “what now?” I don’t remember how long it has been that I’ve been making this overt weekly request. I think it began last year when I was pounded with unexpected inspiration several weeks in a row. I finally figured it might be better to just ask instead of waiting to be shouted at. I ask, and answers always come. It is a little frightening this receiving of answers. Sometimes I want to wrap myself in a little cloak of sameness. I don’t always want answers which may ask me to change or do some other difficult thing. But lately I have been glad of the answers, they help me set a path for the week to follow. I can’t see much beyond a week right now. However if I can get the week aimed right on Sunday, I can follow through long enough to get me to the next Sunday when I can adjust, change, or continue.

So I sat with my eyes closed and asked “What new thing shall I undertake this week? What am I to do with my time and energy?” Sometimes the answers are loud and clear, almost like being spoken to. Other times it is like I have to sort them from my own thoughts and it takes most of the meeting. Today the answer was so quiet I almost missed it, rather like a hand waving gesture which indicates “carry on.” I opened my eyes and looked down the row of my people. We’ve set a good course and it is time for us to do some calm sailing.

Inspiration, radio signal, shadow, and Worldcon

By / August 28, 2011 / 3 Comments

Inspiration and spiritual guidance are like a radio signal. I can fine-tune myself so that I can hear them more clearly. I can adjust my location to get a louder signal. Many of the lessons at church are instructions on how to tune in to those signals and interpret them. I’ve grown to rely on spiritual guidance and connection. It is like a soft radio playing in the background of my day. Then when I experience moments of doubt, I can send a query “Am I on course?” and get a quick response “Yes. Keep going.” Some days I am making hourly or minutely queries. The communication keeps me grounded and I can find peace despite the chaos. I’ve had people express amazement at the quantity of stuff I manage on a daily basis. This is the reason I can. I am never alone and I regularly tap into resources of strength outside myself.

The casinos at Reno are in a spiritual radio shadow. I did not realize it when I first arrived. I only knew that I did not like them. I thought it was the noise, the lights, or the air of quiet desperation which rolled off of some of the gamblers. The absence of a noise is hard to notice, particularly if it is a quiet noise, even more particularly if I am distracted by dozens of new noises. So I did not notice at first. The convention was full of bright, wonderful, good things. Unfortunately I failed to give myself adequate breaks from these wonderful new things. I took care to make sure all of my people took breaks, but I neglected to take any myself. Usually when I do that, I get a message on the guidance circuit. “Slow down Sandra. Take a break.” But I was in radio shadow, a barrier between me and the signal. So I ran myself past my strength, then when I was beyond my capabilities I tried to tap into my spiritual resources. They were not there. I was left to my own strength and I was not strong enough. Fortunately I had surrounded myself with good people and they took care of me. Mostly what they did was make me go to bed. Sleep is restorative of many things.

Upon opening my email box the next morning, I found an email from a friend who does not usually email me. It said all the comforting responses that I’d been reaching for the night before. Signal was bounced off of my friend so that I could receive it while still in shadow. It helped me get through the last day of convention until I could get into my car and drive to a place where I had signal again. The experience was unpleasant in the middle, but is enlightening in retrospect. If I had been aware of the radio shadow, I could have taken steps to boost my reception. Most of those steps would also have provided me with the rest breaks in my days which would have helped prevent me from getting over-stressed in the first place. These are important things for me to know as I attend conventions in the future. Also, I’ll think twice before attending a five day event in a casino hotel again.

Today I went back to church for the first time since coming home from the convention. If a casino is in shadow, then church is like standing on a hill top in clear view of the transmitter. Light and strength poured into me. It washed over my memories of the convention, clearing away the remaining fatigue and worry so that the treasures from the event shine clear and clean. Going to WorldCon was the right thing for us to do, even though it put us in radio shadow for a time, even though it stressed us all, even though we had to drive all night to get the kids back home in time for school. I have a wealth of treasures from the convention which I could not otherwise have gained. The prize is worth the price, but this does not prevent me from planning ahead so that perhaps next time I can arrange to pay less.

The Line Between Normality and Abnormality is Wide and Murky

By / August 25, 2011 / 8 Comments

I have been pondering how to measure psychological normality. This may be a simple process to those who address such questions professionally, but I rather doubt it. The human mind is a complex thing and I suspect that there is not so much a line between normality and pathology as there is a large murky area which may be one or the other. When my daughter needs to take a small object to school so that she feels secure, this is normal. When she fills three quarters of her backpack with small objects and is insistent that she needs all of them, there is a larger emotional issue which needs to be addressed. For a long time I’ve had a functional definition for a disorder. Something becomes a disorder when it interferes with the things the person wants to accomplish. It is a good and solid definition, except for the fact that the human mind is wired to adapt and it will gradually change its perception of normality. Then I’m left wondering how we all came to consider as normal my daughter hauling seven pounds of erasers, small toys, pencils, pencil sharpeners, and trinkets to school. Once we identified the issue as a problem and found the root causes, my daughter was much happier and life was better. These days she skips off to school, her backpack empty of everything except school work.

Our own lives are always normal to us, except where they compare with recent history. My life feels normal to me, which is why I am bemused when someone tells me that reading my blog helps them feel like their life is more manageable, because they have less to handle than I do. I am then left to ponder, have I inched my way out into some abnormality without recognizing I have done so? If I have, why did I do it? Does it need fixed? Is my life structure a problem? On nights when I lay awake with my mind spinning and my heart racing I think that perhaps yes it is. On days when I get everything done and the sun is shining I think that perhaps it is not.

Standing in the middle of my life, it is hard to see past all my things to tell if the whole thing is running out of kilter or straight on course. An outside perspective is necessary. I rely heavily on prayer and inspiration for my outside perspectives. I get daily, sometimes hourly, feedback about whether to stay the course or shift things. I also depend upon several perceptive friends. I talk until my voice is hoarse and they see things which are invisible to me. I am extremely fortunate. Perceptive friends keep turning up in my life just when I most need them. They function in many of the ways that a good psychologist or therapist can function. Sometimes I get to be the perceptive friend for someone else. I always feel honored when this is the case. The truth is that we all need rescue sometime, often when we can’t even tell that we’re drowning.