When the Darkness Comes Calling

You think too much.

You don't need to feel anxious about this.

Calm down. It's not that big a deal. Don't be so sensitive.


I am a healthy, happy person.

I have a quick smile and a loud laugh that erupts more often than trips out of my mouth. I dance in my kitchen and moonwalk my way out of my socks at night. I can make it through my day to day with no true fear that (barring some horror) I won't make it, even on my worst days.  And I'm pretty good at laughing things off - like those fun statements above that helpful and loving people use when I look at them with that expression.  You know, the one that's stuck somewhere between panic and despair, with a little bit of "This is what drowning feels like" thrown in.

At least, that's where the feeling sits, so I assume that's where the expression lies.

It's a bizarrely colored feeling, too. Have I told you that I see colors? I mean - yes, I can see the world in technicolor - but emotions and feelings, concepts and ideas...they're colorful in my mind. Although, they're not exactly in my mind, in my mind. They take up space outside my head, sometimes running to hide behind me so that I can't deal with them. The hiders, to be honest, are usually the negative things - fear, anger, anxiety, or - the most frustrating - a character who isn't letting me see her clearly just yet. These are the things I have to coax to the forefront of my mind, and often when I see them they are a sickly yellow, or maybe a CAUTION!! orange.

Somehow this looks cute? How is that possible?

Google tells me this is synesthesia, a brain dysfunction (or whatever) in which sensory paths cross and mingle or tangle. The outcome is that our senses manifest in abnormal ways. The most common form of this is having colors attached to letters and numbers, or seeing sound.

(The brain is a bizarre and beautiful thing, isn't it?)

It took me just under 30 years to realize that other people don't see the world in this way, that other writers don't first discover their stories as colors. My therapist was fascinated by it, but since it never seemed to negatively impact my life there was no real need to explore it or have it officially diagnosed. My current functional medicine practitioner encourages me to embrace it.  You are a vibrant color girl! That's who you are! 

It's just the way I see the world.

My anxiety is electric blue - and when I say electric, I do mean electric...it jolts and zaps when you don't tread carefully. It can be frightening, but there is a strange sort of luminescent beauty to the fear. More often than not it's only charged to the level of static cling. But sometimes it reaches levels of Jurassic Park Electric Fence Danger.  (I've talked about that before...check it out.)

This scene terrified me as a kid.

Sometimes, though, these colors go dark. It's not quite like someone turned out the light as much as it is that they poured horrible, sticky, inky tar over my brain. The brightest pink turns sour, rancid even, and I feel like I'll either explode or suffocate. Feelings have always been waves to me: they begin at my feet, and when they reach my chest is when they're most intense - often why it takes me a loooooooong time to feel and react to things - and when they are inky they threaten to drown me. My mom reminds me that as intense as they are, my feelings can't actually kill me, and so I do the things I've learned to help the tar go away - or at least to help the wave recede.

I am grateful that, though I have grappled with that Darkness, I have never felt abandoned in it. I have heard from those who have been left, untied, with no light, in that dark and scary place. And their stories frighten me. People with depression actually believe others will be better off without them alive. It's like walking through pitch black with no light and no idea of where safety is, or if there even is safety.

When the Darkness comes calling it can be disguised as many things: anger, fear, pushing people away when we need them the most. Because when the Darkness comes calling it isn't simply about turning on the light switch again. (No shade, Dumbledore...turning on the light can help.) No, it is about somehow extracting yourself from the tar, and it feels like all you have is a Q-Tip.

I am grateful my mental health has never pulled me that deeply into the tar. That Darkness looms, and dampens my colors sometimes, but ultimately I am alright. That's not the case for others. (If it's not the case for you, don't listen to the voice that tells you everyone else is better off without you. We aren't. We need you. Call 1-800-273-8255...they may have something better than a Q-Tip for helping you escape the tar. At the very least, they can Q-Tip with you.)

I guess I'm asking you to take a moment and remember that even the healthiest among us suffer. Even those who "have it all" struggle. The loudest laughers may actually be mired in an inky bog. This is not lack of courage. It is not lack of love.

It's just the brain, doing it's bizarre and beautiful - sometimes horrible - thing.

When The Answer Is No

I have been thinking a lot about rejection lately.  That's probably because I've faced it pretty regularly during this season in my life.  Some of this rejection has been career-related.  Some has been in the ever-constant search for that Special Someone.  And some has been self-rejection.  Rejection has seemed to become a recurring event in my life.

And it always sucks.
Hard.

My experience with rejection seems to go like this: I read/see/hear the "No."  It's like someone has just up-turned a bucket of numbness over my head.  As the numbness trickles down my body I start to wonder if maybe this time I won't feel so horrible about it.  That thought, though, is evidence that the numbness is wearing off, because suddenly I can feel the acid burn in the pit of my stomach.  There's a pressure in my chest that makes breathing difficult.  It squeezes and squeezes until one fat tear spills onto my cheek.  And then...well.  The floodgates have opened.

Actually me once I start crying

"How to Deal With Rejection" has been a session at pretty much any conference I've attended.  I've sat in several of these sessions and here's what I've learned: Rejection sucks and it is all a part of the process.  You will be rejected. Everyone will be rejected.  It's not personal, so once you accept that it becomes easier to deal with.

Helpful, right?  You're left with little nuggets like this:

I mean, it's a good quote, but seriously...Not helpful in the moment.

So I decided to write down the ways I actually, practically deal with rejection when it happens.  Maybe it'll help you, too.  So, without further ado, here we go:

- Take a deep breath.  And then take another one.  And another.  I know it feels like it will hurt to breathe.  There's a pressure on your chest that seems to be shoving your heart and lungs down into the burning in your belly.  It seems safer to take shallow breaths.  I know.  But I promise you, the pressure will actually let up as you breathe.

- Related: Get some fresh air.  I don't care if it's 7* outside - you need some fresh air.  Crack the window in your car and crank the heater.  Hug your heating pad and wrap yourself up in a blanket so you can stay warm while also being able to breathe something other than stale air.  I can't overstate how important oxygen is right now.  It is major.  

- Drink some cold water.  And I do mean cold.  Everything is kind of burn-y right now, so you need to counter that.  Later on you can have the comfort of hot tea, hot cocoa, or hot coffee, but right now just try some ice water.  It will help.  I promise.

- Also related to water - wash your face.  Seriously.  It's amazing how refreshing and humanizing this simple act can be.  Yeah, mascara may run and your eyes may still be red, but you feel better.  You know that first shower after you've been sick for a while?  Yeah...this is a miniature version of that.

- Eat something good for you.  I know the instinct is to drown your sorrows in fried food, chocolate, and alcohol.  And those things all have their place.  But if that's all you consume your body is going to feel crappy.  Try some sauteed veggies (I like fajita veggies, myself), or a fresh salad.  Something refreshing, that will help your physical self feel better.  It translates to the emotional self.  Really.

- You'll have to walk a fine line with this one, but listen to a song that expresses how you feel.  Personally, I like Chasing Dreams by Dave Barnes for creative rejection, and Sad by Maroon 5 for breakups/romantic rejection.  As I said, it's a fine line, because it can be too easy to be sucked into the vortex of "Woe is me," but sometimes we need to hear someone validate what we're feeling, and music can do this in ways nothing else can.

- You know that movie/TV show/book that never fails to make you feel better?  Yeah, go watch or read that.  Your brain will probably try to convince you to stick with the sad song.  Don't.  And I bet when you first press PLAY or open the book you'll want to stop.  Just sit with it for five minutes.  My most recent choice was You've Got Mail.  It didn't disappoint.  It was like being hugged by an old friend.

- And speaking of being hugged...find someone.  If you're a hugger, ask for a hug.  Sometimes I stop at my sister's house just because I know I'll get a hug from her and at least two of my nieces.  If you aren't a hugger, that's fine.  But find your someone anyway.  You know that someone - the person who can sit with you without saying something, or who can listen to your disbelief and pain, or who can make you laugh (or at least smile).

- Go to sleep early.  This one is tough, I know, because when you go quiet is generally when your brain is finally able to run through all the things.  And it's easy to replay the rejection again and again.  Do what you can to stay in this uncomfortable place.  You may cry (I always do).  You'll probably need to focus on those deep breaths again.  But turning to face that rejection head on will lessen its power.  It will allow you to stand up and try again sooner than if you try to ignore and/or power through the pain.  Also, as an added bonus, this quiet time is when you are finally able to hear what you need to recover.

Because that's what all this really comes down to.  Your body will tell you what you need.  If you can sift through all the noisy pain of rejection, you'll be able to know exactly what will help.

And at some point, you'll be able to face the idea of trying again.

From 'Truce,' by Twenty-One Pilots

Counting Seconds

Once, when I was very young, my dad shook me awake in what seemed to me to be the dead of night.  I'm sure it was only about 8 o'clock or so, but to my sleep fogged mind it was midnight at least.  I don't remember everything about that night, but I do remember the disoriented fear that melted into relief when all was well.  He hadn't woken me up because something was wrong.  He had woken me so I could join the rest of the family as we watched a storm.

Thunder storms are rare in southern California.  Rare enough, at any rate, that I remember sitting in the living room in my sleep shirt, watching through the sliding glass doors, counting seconds between flashes of lightning and deep rumbles of thunder.

1...2...3...4...5...

It's not a scientifically sound way to tell how far a storm is, but it works as a rule of thumb.  

Thunderstorms are rare in Southern California, but they are decidedly un-rare in Nashville.  And so I find myself counting seconds an average of once a week.  

Sitting at my desk at work...1...2...3...4...5...

Cooking dinner in my apartment...1...2...3...4...5...

On the edge of sleep...1...2...3..4...5...

Listening to hear whether the storm is moving toward me or away, trying to guess how intense it will be when it's directly overhead.

Friday night I visited my Mimi in the hospital.  She had fallen a couple days earlier, had been stricken with pneumonia, and was gasping for breath.  We were told to see her if possible.  

So I did.

I glanced at the monitor showing her heart rate and breathing, looking for some sort of answer, some sort of clarity.  In an odd, sort of disconnected way, I noticed I was counting seconds once more, though this time with no real reason to do so. 

1...2...3...4...5...

She passed away yesterday morning.  

I am reminded, once again, that this part of grief - the beginning of the eternity that is grief - is a thunderstorm.  Something triggers - a smell, a song, a memory - and I start counting seconds, waiting for the boom of thunder, wondering whether the storm is moving toward me or away.

I hum a Dean Martin melody, and I remember when I was in ninth grade.  Mimi telling me that no, the song was wrong.  Being loved by someone doesn't make your life valid.  You are certainly already somebody before somebody loves you.

1...2...3...4...5...

Standing in my kitchen, remembering mealtimes with her, remembering that she may have told me not to get my hopes up when trying out a new recipe, but that she was also the first to sing my praises when it turned out well.

1...2...3...4...5...

Giggling during Pascha liturgy, laughing when we were absolutely not supposed to.  

Being SO MAD when she flew out to be with me after knee surgery, because she made me walk around the next day.  She made me pick up the project that had led to the injury.  She told me in no uncertain terms that the danger was not in the setback, but in the giving up. 

Learning that, "as a seamstress you rip what you sew," and not understanding the pun until far later.  

Looking up after a mistake or a setback to hear her say, "Oh well," before laughing about it.

1...2...3...4...5

Counting seconds.  Wondering whether the storm is moving toward me or away.  

Trying to guess how intense it will be when it is directly overhead.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

With the saints give rest to the soul of Your servant, oh Lord, where there is no darkness, so sighing, so sorrow, but everlasting life.

And for our funeral song, we sing the song: Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

Thoughts from the Road

There's so much space.

Not in my car, mind you.  No, that is packed to the brim with as much of my life as I could fit in a VW Bug.  Just around.  There's space.   Space for imagination to roam.  Space for tall tales to grow.

Space.

I am not, and never will be, a desert dweller.  It's so dry - too dry.  But I have to admit that Disney certainly gets their landscapes right - I felt like I was driving through Cars.

The bugs on the windshield are a nice touch, don't you think?

210 miles into New Mexico every thought cleared from my mind except one:  What the actual f*** am I DOING???

Six miles later I thanked God and the sky for the torrent that expressed the sadness I couldn't.  On and on we drove, eastward, through all that space, cutting in and out of rainstorms as sudden and angry as my grief and fear.

I like the driving.  It's surprising, if I'm honest.  I wiggle and fidget and can hardly sit still at a desk, but driving hours on end seems to fit well.  I enjoy the sense of kinship I feel with other drivers, even the faceless long-haul truckers.  Especially the long-haul truckers.  I can identify them by their cabs, and I want to wave as we pass each other, following those unwritten rules of road etiquette.  Instead I just tap my thumb on my steering wheel and whisper, "You're doing great, girl," though whether I'm speaking to my car or myself I don't know.

I'm a terrible travel buddy, able to sit in silence for hours, listening to podcasts or music, or just caught up in my own thoughts.  What do I think about that conversation?  How different would that experience have been if I had acted on impulse instead of following whatever social script has been downloaded into my brain?  What will my job be like?  Do I already love my empty, little apartment?  (Yes.)  What are my characters doing?  When will I be able to let them soar again?  What will life be like in Nashville?

My mom doesn't mind the silence, either.  She says I'm the perfect travel companion.

I'm so glad she's here.

Every so often we pass a cross on the side of the road, and this is somehow a great comfort to me.  These odes to loved ones lost not only offer a reminder to be careful, but are evidence that we will never be forgotten.  After all, if a stranger moving her life from Santa Barbara to Nashville can see them and offer a silent prayer for the unknown, then how many others do the same when they pass?  In Orthodoxy we do not offer "Rest In Peace" as a wish for the dead, but rather, "Memory Eternal."  May his/her/their memory be eternal - everlasting - ongoing.  I feel as though, in the split second it takes to zoom past, the memory of these people is, indeed, eternal.

We are now over halfway to Nashville.  I haven't yet changed the clock in my car to central time.  I don't have it in me.  Not yet.  I am in between homes right now.  Once I'm there I'll make the change, but for now I'm appreciating that feeling of connection with my California tribe.

Amarillo smells like cow dung, and somehow this makes me sadder than I think I would be in another place.  The sad and tender part of me feels the smell as an insult, even though I normally wouldn't mind it.  Tomorrow we land in Little Rock, and I hope - oh, I hope! - it smells better than here.

 And then?  And then Nashville!  And then my sister, my brother-in-law, my four incredible and hugable nieces.  Friends and relatives and a church community, all already rooted, ready to make me feel like less of a transplant and more grounded.

And then the adventurous side of Steph will be bigger than the sad side.

Pray us there, friends.  Love to you all.

Me, My Anxiety, and I

Several months ago I wrote a post in which I promised I would talk about why I'm going to therapy: My anxiety.  It's taken 6 months for several reasons, two of which I feel I need to state here.

1. I don't want to give anyone the idea that I'm a big bundle of nerves all the time and am therefore not capable of doing anything, or that I need to be handled with kid gloves.  I am a bundle of nerves much of the time, but I am capable as shit.  And I promise you, the kid gloves only serve to make the anxiety worse.  Give me your authenticity - what you really think and feel and dream about and fear and hope for and can't abide by - give me something to connect to.  None of that will make me feel anxious.  I promise.

2. I feel gross using the phrase, "my anxiety."  Too often I've seen it used as a way people justify rudeness, flakiness, or just a general sense of discomfort.  I truly believe in removing the stigma - please, God, can we get rid of the mental health stigma?? - but seeing people flippantly say, "Oh, my gawd, I am so stressed I'm literally having a panic attack.  Literally." while standing in line at a coffee shop doesn't do much for the cause and makes me question the validity of using that language in my own life.

So, disclaimers presented, I guess I should  tell you a little about my experience as a fairly anxious person.  Here I go:




It's normal.

Guys.

My life?  It's a normal thing.  I'm a normal human.  (Well, maybe not completely normal, but my abnormality has less to do with anxiety and more to do with a goofy sense of humor and quirky view of the world.)

I go about my day and do my work and see my friends and family and laugh and cry and generally experience one or more anxiety episode a day.  I think of these as my "anxiety responses."  What am I responding to?  Any number of things, really.  I've started paying attention to my triggers, and have compiled a partial list for your entertainment.

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Trigger An Anxiety Response in Stephanie
- Not getting enough sleep
- Eating sweets
- Eating some "healthy" foods (I'm lookin' at you, sweet potato)
- Not eating enough throughout the day
- My (very peaceful and gentle) alarm going off in the morning
- Slicing vegetables
- Making eye contact with another driver at an intersection
- Feeling unprepared for an upcoming event
- Feeling unprepared for a hypothetical event
- Having a busy schedule
- Having an open schedule
- Sitting at my desk at work
- Parking my car
- Coffee hour at church
- Walking in a large crowd
- Literally nothing at all

None of these items always causes an anxiety response!  They just do sometimes.  These are some of my general triggers.  Something happens (or doesn't) and the wave of anxiety hits.  I've learned to breathe through this experience, or to maybe take a nap or hit the gym.  It's certainly uncomfortable, but not debilitating.

Sometimes it feels like this.

Or maybe this.

Sometimes, though - sometimes it almost is debilitating.  Sometimes the wave of anxiety gets stuck in my chest.  Every so often I blow something from that list way out of proportion, or maybe more than one combine to make a SUPER RESPONSE that I can't seem to shake.  Or maybe something happens, something bad or good (like signing with an agent!) that trips my brain up enough that my body can't tell the difference between fear and excitement so I end up stuck in the anxiety cycle.  Or maybe - and this is the worst of all - maybe I find myself in a waiting season of life.

I am a doer.  I do.  And when I do, I do well.  I am confident and capable.  Powerful.

One could even say I'm super.

But when I've done all I can and am stuck waiting?  When I'm chained in the train yard when I should be powering along the tracks?  That's when the anxiety kicks in.  This anxiety:

This is the anxiety that shuts me down.  This is when my skin is electric, jolting not only me, but those near by.  This is when I don't want anyone to touch me, because even a pat on the shoulder might tear apart the tenuous grasp I have on myself, and I might actually explode.  This is the anxiety that makes me forget how to breathe.  It is the voice that tells me I will never be good enough.  That no matter what I do, it won't be enough.  It traps me in a loop, endlessly caught between the need to DO and the knowledge that it won't be enough.  I become a malfunctioning oscillating fan, clicking over and over again, unable to move to the next position.

Until I remind myself to breathe.

And breathe again.
Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.

And then I text my mom, or I walk through my office and find my dad, and I say to them, "I am feeling anxious about ________."

Suddenly the fist around my heart relaxes, and the knot in my chest loosens just enough.  I am okay again, at least until the next time it hits.

I'm learning, thankfully. I am discovering things that help.  Things like talking about it: telling someone, joking to the people at the gym about a workout being a good place to direct my anxiety, laughing at the fact that, "surprise, surprise, I'm anxious today."  It helps.  And so do a lot of other things.

Look!  I made another list!

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Relieve Anxiety In Stephanie
- Talking to my parents
- Being with loved ones
- Public speaking
- Working out
- Eating a nutritious meal
- Taking a nap
- Laughing REALLY hard
- Roller coasters!
- Writing
- Talking to my therapist (duh!)
- Prayer/mediation
- Seeing people talk about things they really love
- Sitting at my grandma's graveside

See? Normal. Ish.

Friends, I am doing well - so freaking well - and I hope you can see that.  I hope you are doing well, too.  If you're not, well, drop me a line.  And maybe we can breathe together.

"Here Is the List Of Jews You Require."

You know, usually I sit down at my computer with fully formed thoughts.  Maybe the post isn't formed in its entirety, but the major ideas are fleshed out.

Not tonight, though.  I can't think.  It's loud out there.  People are frightened and furious - and with good reason.  This most recent 'transfer of power' has been anything but peaceful, and the things being rolled out of the capitol are hurting people in a very real way.

I generally try not to post about politics because they elicit such a passionate response, and also because, like many Americans, I am not as informed as I should be.  (I'm not proud of that fact, but there it is.)  That's changing - partly because I'm somehow becoming a grown up, and partly because we now live in a world in which you have to actively try not to know about what's going on.

Do you know what's sad?  I've written three, not-very-expressive paragraphs, and I am already afraid to post this.  You see, I'm a people-pleaser.  I want people to feel encouraged and uplifted by what I share, and I'm sure some people I respect are probably mad at me for that second paragraph.  And other people I respect are probably upset over my third.  Even mentioning what's going on in our country right now is upsetting to people.  Some are angry about Trump, and what he's done.  Others are angry at those protesting.  "But look!" they shout.  "Other people have done this, that, and the other."

And you know what?  If you're saying that, you're right.  Obama did this.  Bush did that.  Clinton did the other.  That doesn't invalidate what's happening now.  Life doesn't work that way.

So I have to decide where I stand.  Amazingly, I may stand shoulder to shoulder with someone on one issue, but against them on another.  And that's okay.  I have to be able to look in the mirror and know that I am treating people - all people - with dignity and respect.

And with that in mind, I have a story to tell.

On September 9, 1943, Nazi forces landed on the Greek island of Zakynthos.  The Nazi commander went to the mayor of this island and demanded a list of the local Jews.  There was no secret as to what would happen to the people on such a list; they would be deported to death camps.  The mayor went to the local church leader, Metropolitan Dimitrios Chrysostomos, for help.  Chrysostomos went to the Nazi commander and tried to reason with him.  It was pointless.  The Nazi would not listen to reason.  He demanded the list.  So, Metropolitan Dimitrios did the only thing he could do.  He took a list from his pocket and handed over.  "Here is the list of Jews you require," he said.

There was one name on the list: Metropolitan Dimitrios Chrysostomos.

Here is the list of Jews you require.  It is a phrase that plays through my mind again and again, day after day, and it has become louder in the past week.  I am in awe - what a courageous thing!  And I am frightened - will I have the courage to do the same?

Make no mistake, I will be faced with this choice.  I am faced with this choice.  It's easy to look back at history and wonder what we would have done in that time.  Today, now, we are offered a rare gift: the ability to see that what we are doing now is what we would have done then.

I know thing are never as simple as we want them to be.  I know that there has to be some sort of protocol in place to ensure everyone's safety.  Turning away people who are fleeing the horrors of war, detaining people who have already worked so hard to find a better life - denying an entire swath of people entry into the 'Land of the Free' because of their religion - this can't be the way.

I don't have the answer.  I can only act the way I have been taught:

"'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
"Then the righteous will answer Him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go visit you?'
"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" -- Matthew 25: 35-40 (NIV)

I know these words aren't much - my words in this post, that is...Not the Lord's - that they are gentle where some would rather see strength, and soft where others prefer power.  I know.  I know some people are probably rolling their eyes because I am making the leap from what's happening now to the horrors of the Third Reich.  "That would never happen in America!" you say.  And I hope and pray you're right.  I believe you may be right.

But know this: when I am asked to hand over a list of names, I will take a deep breath, and - shaking, no doubt - offer my own name instead.

New Year, New View

Happy New Year's Eve, friends!!

During this time of transition, as one year (finally) ticks into the next, our thoughts naturally turn toward change and growth. We talk about it with our friends and coworkers. Are you making any resolutions this year? We acknowledge that we should probably start eating better, drop a few pounds, quit smoking, save X amount of dollars, or some other such ideal, and we set a super ambitious goal. We may even map out a plan that we are determined to follow. We're amped up for the new year, and we can't wait to get started!

And then January 3rd rolls around.

We didn't make it into the gym, we ate outside our predetermined meal plan, we miscalculated our budget. We stepped off the track we set for ourselves. Discouraged and annoyed and guilty, we decide to just give up. We give in. We're done with those stupid resolutions – until next year, that is! It's a vicious cycle.

Or, "Sincerely, January 3rd."  Either way.

But maybe this year don't enter into it. Don't make a resolution. Set your intention instead. There's a difference there, folks. In making a resolution you set yourself up for discouragement. Resolutions are outcome oriented, and as such can easily connect our sense of success and value to a very specific result. Intention, on the other hand, is not connected to any outcome, but rather the way of being. With this in mind, I have spent the last few nights journaling. I reviewed 2016 and looked honestly at my hopes for the future, and I asked myself this question: What do I want 2017 to look like?

This applies to all areas of my life: family, social, love, career...everything. I jotted down some of my hopes for 2017. Some are major and specific (being published! a book deal!), and others are a little more general (“tasty food and healthy choices”). Rather than making a resolution to wake up every morning and write 1,000+ words, or to eat by a very specific diet, I asked myself how I wanted to go about achieving these things. How do I want to live this year?

Good ways to live here, friends.

I believe that typically, when asked these types of questions, the first word or phrase that comes to mind is what you should go with. This has been true for me in the past. I have set intentions to be independent, courageous, and – last year – purposeful. All of these words jumped to mind almost the exact instant I thought about setting my intention. This year, though, it took a few days. I let the question roll around in my mind and then, yesterday, I landed on it: Release.

It's a print!  Get it here.

My intention for 2017 is to basically live my life and see what happens. Rather than stress about how I am not achieving some resolution I pressured myself into, I am going to follow the things I love and consciously let go of trying to control the outcome. Here, from my journal, is what I'm hoping for in 2017:

But I am looking for release.

Release from fear.

Release from anxiety.

Release from perfection.

Release from the past.

Release from old ways.

Release – to give me the freedom to...live the life...set out for me.

I'm sure we're all eager for 2017 to hurry up and get here already, right? Let's make this year mindful and intentional. I would love to hear (or read) your intentions for 2017...share in the comments!

 Happy 2017!!

In Which I am Overwhelmed by a Shirt...

So you may be wondering, "Who is Emily Rose? Which series is she in?"

It's a sensible question.

She's mine, friends. She's in the Light-Bearers Series, which is neither published nor even completed. My agent is pitching Emily's story to publishing houses, and while I am SO EXCITED that some editors have asked to read my manuscript I am also SO ANXIOUS because I can't do anything to make them take it. So I wait.

I work on the sequel to Book One. I plot and plan another project. I work not one, but two jobs. I go to church and choir rehearsal. I try to make time for a social life. I scrap and I save and I cobble together a living and I make sacrifices in order to write. I go to conferences instead of visiting friends, buying clothes, or going out very often. Because that's what you do to chase a dream. Sweat, blood, and tears, right? Oh, so many tears.

I get discouraged and disappointed.  And I get so tired.
SO. TIRED.

I tell myself that it's okay; what will be will be, and it's good that I have some distance from Book One, seeing as how I'll probably have to deal with editors passing on it. I start to wonder if maybe this book won't sell. I remind myself that this is the writer's life, the #writelife I tag on so many social media posts and photos.

And then --
Then I open a gift from my sister-in-law. I see my girl, my Emily Rose, sharing space with Frodo and Harry, and I make a sound that frightens me. I double over in tears, completely overwhelmed by emotion. Even as I am crouched crying, holding a white t-shirt in my hand, I know that my family is worried....even the Littles got quiet. All I can do is lay the shirt out so they can read it.

Mom cries, too. As do Sisters, and probably Dad, too. I am reminded that no matter how solitary the writer's path seems, I am not alone. I am reminded of how much my stories mean to me, and am given a hint of how much they may someday mean to others.

It's amazing. Sometimes the simplest things - like a white t-shirt - can hold an ocean of meaning.

Here's hoping you and yours have a wonderful day, friends. I hope that you, too, are gifted with reminders that your sacrifices are worth it.

Much love and Merry Christmas to you,

Beast.

I've recently started seeing a therapist.

As an aside, I would recommend this to anyone everyone.  We can all benefit from speaking to a professional, even if just for one session.

I've been going to therapy for a few weeks now, due (in large part) to my anxiety.  I promise there's an anxiety blog post coming.  I just have to slog through some things before I can get there.

Yesterday my therapist and I were talking about romantic relationships and, more specifically, my fears surrounding them.  He asked me to identify something inside me that feels that fear.  Some people, he said, feel like there is a younger version of themselves, which suddenly rises up, hurting and angry, triggered by some sort of hurt/rejection/disappointment/whatever.  He wondered if I ever experience anything like that.

Folks, I knew what he meant by a "younger self."  More often than I like, I have had to talk to my 8th grade self.  When someone tries to cross boundaries I've set, 8th Grade Steph suddenly remembers what it was like to have boundaries crossed by a teacher.

(NOTE: This person no longer teaches.  Also, while there was no "officially" inappropriate touching in a sexual sense, there was a definite discomfort and ambiguity in his touch.  Also, I think hitting someone in the stomach and telling her to, "suck it in" on a daily basis counts as inappropriate touch.  Don't you?)

When this happens, when she rears up, I let my mind travel deep inside me and I meet 8th Grade Steph.  I wrap her tightly to me, the way I do to Little Sis when she looks angry or hurt or sad.  I hug 8th Grade Steph to me and tell her that I know, and that she is safe.  I ask her to forgive me for not taking better care of her, and I tell her that I have incredible grace and compassion for her.  I remind her that she was in eighth grade.  Of course it was confusing, and of course she didn't want to get herself, or anyone else, in trouble.  I know.

So you see, I knew what my therapist meant when he asked that question.  But 8th Grade Steph didn't come to mind yesterday.  Neither did 3rd Grade Steph, or Kindergarten Steph, or any other Steph.  What came to mind was the memory of a statement I made to Mary about 4 or 5 years ago:

Mary and I sat outside Starbucks as I cried about my relationship insecurities.  I summed it up by quoting one of my favorite movies.

"For who," I asked, "could ever learn to love a Beast?"

Ouch.

Now, I know my friends and family who read this are eager to tell me that they love me.  They'll feel the urge to inform me that I am not a Beast.  To them - to you - I say, "I KNOW."

I know that I am not a Beast (excepting, of course, the times I'm in total beast mode at the gym.)  And, to be perfectly honest, I'm embarrassed to admit I have ever felt this way about myself.  I wouldn't claim I feel this way now.  It's not an open wound; it's a scar, albeit a relatively recent and still tender one.

But I am afraid of that place in my past because it hurt so much.  I don't want to go back there, and in therapy I realized that I am afraid of relationships because I am afraid they'll send me back.

And, more importantly, I am worried by the fear, because the fear, I think, implies that it's possible to go back.  Which, in turn, makes me wonder if there is still a part of me that thinks so poorly of myself.

Of course, as is often the case, we stumbled upon this breakthrough? discovery? thought? with five minutes left of my session.

I left the therapist's office with a lot on my mind.  Where, I wondered, did this thought come from?  I have a few theories (being an overweight child/adolescent/adult with frizzy red hair that has garnered a lot of teasing comes to mind).  But more importantly, How can I remind myself that I'm not Beastly?  How can I recognize the Beauty within me?

So that's where I am.  Fun, right?

I think it comes down to self-care, self-love, and self-trust.  Which is not, as some may say, synonymous with selfishness, narcissism, and pride.  No.

It means recognizing my worth and not jeopardizing my mental/spiritual/emotional/physical health so as to be sure I don't make waves or cause others to feel uncomfortable.
It means treating myself kindly.
It means filling myself up with things that make me feel beautiful - sparkly, even.

Lots of ideas have danced through my mind.  Some are simple and straightforward, others are complex and out of my comfort zone.  Some will be done.  Others may not.  We'll see.

For now, in a terrifying turn, it means sharing one of my deepest hurts with the world.  It means trusting that you won't look at me with pity or disdain, but that you'll look at me the way you always have.  Like I'm Steph.

Because I am.

Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

I Heard the Bells

Oh, what a day.

Fear, excitement, panic, hope, dread...the list goes on and on and on.  Sitting at my computer (at work...shhh) I felt it all rise up within me.  I became suddenly overwhelmed.  How on earth will we go on after this election day?  No one can deny that this campaign process has incited and ignited passion within people.  And not just good passion.  No.  Anger...hatred...vitriol...

I wondered how our nation could move on after all this.  Surely we are more divided than ever before.

Except -

As I let my mind spiral downward a song came on my Dave Barnes (Holiday) Pandora station.  (Yes.  Holiday.  Judge not.)  As I listened I felt tears come to my eyes and peace wash over me.  The carol was a song based on a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Christmas Day, 1863.

Folks, 1863 was the middle of the American Civil War.  A time when our nation was more divided than ever before, a time in which it seemed we could only splinter apart.  Longfellow, the widowed father of six children, had recently learned his oldest child had been severely injured in the war.  So he did what the artists and dreamers do: He put his pain and hope on paper.

I think it applies now, just as surely as then.

Here is his poem (emphasis mine):

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.