New Year's Resolutions

The Solstice is a few days past and the calendar new year is a few days ahead. The earth keeps on turning, which seems like the same as always, but it is also ever changing, moving more like a helix than a circle. So while it may appear predictable, the view is different, sometimes by a little, sometimes by a lot.

It is a time for introspection and hope for the future.

Sometimes, hope gets trampled by despair. It is easy to be of the mindset that all is lost. With a strong history of New Year's resolutions that fall to wayside by mid February, it is easy to expect failure. But what if the resolution was a goal of activities that improved one's personal world and the world as a whole?

This year, I will plant a tree
This year, I will serve someone in need
This year, I will shake someone's hand
This year, I will pick flowers and put them in a vase
This year, I will bake a souffle
This year, I will clean the ...
This year, I will make dinner for a friend
This year, I will buy coffee for someone I have not met
This year, I will attend a celebration of a culture that is not my own
This year, I will walk in the woods
This year, I will dance in the rain
This year, I will feel mud between my toes
This year, I will listen to the ocean
This year, I will sing
This year, I will laugh
This year, I will cry with gratitude
This year, I will learn
This year, I will trust
This year, I will honor

This seems like a good place to begin.

Nurse Log Tattoo

 The nurse log represents my spiritual beliefs, those beliefs I feel in the center of myself and know them to be true.
  All organisms are connected. If life is allowed to just be and not interfered with, there is no birth and death as separate events, but a constant circle of degradation and renewal with each organism experiencing every stage of this circle at some level.  My brain, or societies brain, wants to see life as linear, but if I can let go of that, I can see life is more spherical and unending, but in a constant state of change.
 The idea goes beyond survival of the fittest, because what is the fittest today will be fodder for the next wave and still vital to the well being of the whole. And one is not better than the other as all are vital.
 If the collective exists, then the well-being of one affects the well-being of all, so it is self serving to honor every organism.  That cannot mean I cannot eat or should try to prevent the death of other organisms, but that the death of one organism is vital to the life of another and will be again and again.  It is to my benefit and the benefit of the collective to have a healthy eco-system and political peace.
I am not suggesting that the Borg is the optimal arrangement, but as my sister would say, "we all have our gifts" and it is important, I think, to recognize that. Separate, yet connected and without a hierarchy of status as status is constantly changing.
 And so it is my goal or my quest, to be ever mindful of the needs of others and of myself and that it is in our best interest to honor life in all its stages.

Self Care

It has been a long time since I wrote anything here.  For quite a while, my brain hasn't seemed capable of doing any creative thinking.  I haven't daydreamed in ages. I feel so much joy when my brain chews on things, speculating, analyzing, reformulating ideas.  It is a kind of intelligence that I value in myself.  But for last... huh, I can't remember for how long, my brain has been has been in a standstill.  I have been coping.  Which means lots of coffee, lots of sugar, pain, exhaustion, low emotional response, self degradation. I don't know why these chapters happen and not really sure how to get out of them.  I was saying awful things to myself for a while, then I increased the dosage of my anti-depressant and that has abated.
  Last year, I wrote gratitude every day on social media and it was so uplifting to my soul. And this year, I couldn't even begin to start. I had forgotten all about it until I read someone else's posting and though I thought about making my own, I did not.
I suppose I could call this depression, though I am not sure I want to.  A label makes it seem like it is the same thing for everyone, easily identifiable. I don't want to sound like I am the only one with this condition, nor do I seek pity. Instead, I want to identify where I am at this moment. Sometimes it is like moving through a swamp that is chest deep. My wishing will not get me through it any faster or easier, only my effort.  And some days I don't get very far or even sink deeper.  And it also doesn't mean that there isn't a swamp on the other side that I will have to get through again.
  I have some things in place that help me.  I am on medication. I have good friends that I trust. I am signed up with an on line exercise class that I can use.  I have scheduled regular massage.
It is daunting when I think of how far I have to go. So instead I want to think of each step. Grateful that I can take that step. I can breathe deeply, center myself and try again. There really is no success or failure.  It is not a black and white thing.
So I set an intention for the day...I  breathe deeply, filling my lungs with clean air. I move gently and with purpose.  I feed my body nourishing food and water. I am present.

Depression

The essay below was written by a friend of mind after the suicide of a local teen.  It is painful to read because it resonates so much.  I have struggled with depression since I was at least 13, but it was never something I was comfortable talking about.  Like if I acknowledged it, it would gain a foothold or maybe be more real somehow.  But maybe the opposite is true, if I could only talk about it, it might release some of its power over me.  But like it says in the essay, talking about it tends to freak out the listener.  I have had a few friends who can listen when I talk about it, but not many.  I feel as if my words become burdensome, so I carry it all alone, when what I so desperately need is someone to help me.  Depression has ties to loneliness and insecurity, no matter how high functioning the depressed person is.  I don't think anyone is looking for pity, but we could all use compassion.

In light of the recent loss of a local teen, I feel as if people need to understand what having suicidal thoughts is like. It's not that you are selfish but more like the feeling that you need the pain to go away. Those inner demons are hard to conquer and sometimes they win the fight. Teach your children to be strong and help them fight those demons. Sorry for the long post.

I am writing not about any plan to kill myself, but rather about those lingering thoughts that haunt not only me, but others suffering from depression as well. Suicidal ideation is a taboo topic, not allowed in most groups for fear of triggering others and being misunderstood by anyone who has not suffered themselves.

Most people who have depression know these feelings well. It’s that little voice, that devil on your shoulder, that constant companion who overstays their welcome like an unwanted house guest. It internalizes everything in my life and makes me feel helpless, my life hopeless. It is the constant weight on my chest controlling my every breath, the elephant in the room I cannot ignore.

There are times I greet that little demon on my shoulder as I would an old friend. It has been there more consistently than any friendship and has been the only one to offer any real “solution” to my continuous suffering. I know, however, this demon is a bully. It does not care for me and is not looking out for my best interests. It is ever present, always badgering, forever insistent that giving up is the only way to stop the pain.

That demon is the personification of all the trauma and abuses I have endured. It wants me to give up. It wants me to fail. It wants to win.

I cannot tell you the number of times over the years I have written out my goodbyes to people I loved, apologizing for being me, the mess I am. I apologize for not being strong enough, good enough, for just not being enough. I have cried, “No more. No mas. Please, make all this pain stop.” I have begged for those I loved to not give me another thought because I’m truly not worth it.

I admittedly have daydreamed about acting on my thoughts many times. I imagine those final moments, knowing my pain would finally be over, drifting away. Where other people fantasize about far off, white sandy beaches or beautiful crisp nights under a starry sky, my bliss is simply a world where I am no longer suffering and no longer in pain. When life feels unbearable, a piece of me longs to surrender to that inner voice, to say, “You win!” and just fade away.

MIGHTY PARTNER RESOURCES

If you need to talk, call 800-273-TALK (8255) for free, confidential, 24/7 help.

Get help for yourself

Get help for someone else

If you are outside of the US, please visit iasp.info to find resources in your area.

via National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Anyone who has not walked in my shoes cannot understand what it’s like to constantly battle my own brain, my own thoughts and emotions. They cannot comprehend having an inner voice who is always poking at me, telling me I’m not enough, that life will never get better and that this pain will never stop. When I’ve spent years in constant torment, any escape seems almost blissful.

I’m constantly haunted by these feelings while simultaneously being afraid to speak about them. The hardest part about having these feelings is that I’ve never been able to talk openly about them. The moment I verbalize having these thoughts, even if I do not intend to act on them, there’s the very real fear people will panic me for my own safety. People are comfortable with me suffering in silence, but panic when any of the despair I feel every day spills out. Rather than let me acknowledge and discuss these feelings, some will ultimately try to use my vulnerability against me.

Perhaps worse than those who want to lock me away out of panic are the naysayers and the minimizers. Those who have never suffered through depression assume expressing these thoughts is akin to having a pity party. If I even bring up these thoughts, some people accuse me of wanting to take the “coward’s way out.” I’m accused of being a drama queen. Some people swear I’m not serious or even dare me to follow through, declaring I only want attention.

I Don't Want to Die. I Just Don't Want to Exist.

What It's Like Going to the Emergency Room for Suicidal Thoughts

Others cannot grasp I’d even consider giving up on life. They assure me my life cannot possibly be as horrible as it seems right now. They toss out cliches about there being a rainbow after the storm, encourage me to keep my head up or that things can only go up from here. There needs to be a middle ground where everyone feeling this way, myself included, can openly discuss our feelings, without fear of judgment, rejection or being locked away against our will for using one of those trigger words that make others uncomfortable. Thinking about suicide does not always mean we are actively planning to kill ourselves. Finding bliss in the thought of there being an end to our suffering does not mean we intend to follow through with it. Many times suicides occur because someone has been suffering alone, without a voice, for so long that their demons begin to make sense. If left alone with our demons long enough, some will succumb to their will.

Those who want to talk are still trying to survive their battles. Suicide often occurs when someone loses the will to talk or to fight. Listening non-judgmentally to us venting our feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, while moderately uncomfortable to you, may save our lives in the long run. It lets us know we are not alone and validates our voices.

We would not be reaching out if we did not want help. We would not be speaking up if we didn’t want to fight, want to survive. We’re putting our trust in you by letting you see us at our most vulnerable. Please, do not let us down.

This post originally appeared on Unlovable.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

Safety in compliance

It has been a while since I have written anything because it has been a while since my brain has thought about anything.  Not sure why, but it seems to be back in gear this morning, so hooray and let's let it out to play...

I follow a woman of color on Facebook who often writes about her experiences as a black woman in America.  She recently sent parts of the country into an uproar by going into a predominantly white establishment and commenting about how it made her feel a bit uncomfortable to be black in a white world known to be less than welcoming to people of color.  She got hit with a backlash of really ugly comments, which always shock me. But what gave me pause was when another woman of color said she should not have been surprised and really should not have gone in there in the first place.

The part of me that likes things to be peaceful agreed with this second woman.  That side seeks peace at any cost.  It is absolutely not a risk taker. It is not safe to go into places where you are the only X. It is a bit like a human in the lions' den. There is a good chance that bad things will happen to you.  The world may be full of awful things, but if I dot my i's and cross my t's, then all is well.  An apple a day keeps the doctor away and all that.  I look both ways before crossing the street.  I wear my seatbelt and my bicycle helmet. I may be bored at work, but I am working. I keep my opinions to myself.   I follow the rules. I am safe. I am also part of the problem.

Fortunately, or perhaps not so much because it can make me feel crazy, I have other facets to my personality. So some of the other parts of me say "Wait a minute now. If people don't shed light on the ugliness, the ugliness wins." Like the women who insist on being let into the moose lodge or the masons. The women who demand to compete with the men, even if they lose, they demand the chance to try. Rosa Parks sat down because she was tired and her feet hurt. The folks that sat at the lunch counter. The little girl who went to school.  The women who demand to wear what they wish to because others should be able to have restraint.  They were all so brave.

There seems to be a common thread. The folks willing to stand against the status quo did not buy what was being said about them. They didn't believe they deserved less or were the cause of other people's misbehaviour.  I have seen a t-shirt that says "Well behaved women rarely make history". I have been well behaved my whole life. And have been really uncomfortable being brave. Even thinking about being brave ratchets up my anxiety. Maybe the meek shall inherit the earth means "You didn't fight for it to be better, so you get to keep this damaged place because it is what you deserve."

I want to be brave.  I am scared to be brave. Courage is being afraid and doing it anyway.

Driving (me crazy)

I am teaching my son to drive.  He is the third and likely the last I will teach.  But teach is really an inadequate word.  It is a side by side experience that requires everything I have learned as a parent over the last 19 years.  Each of my children learns differently.  I have known this since they were babies.  My oldest would go to the play centers and observe the other children, learning by watching and eventually trying it herself.  She is shy with new people and experiences, which I forget because she is not shy at home.  In any case, she would have to visually analyze an event or activity for what I thought was a long time before venturing forth.  My middle child would fling herself into things and figure it out as she went.  Watching her swim was so frightening.  My oldest, after watching and listening, would swim gracefully.  My middle would thrash around eventually figuring out what to do by trial and error.  My youngest is unique unto himself.  As a little one, he was terrified of things he could not control, going down hill in the car, being a swing, riding a bike was a long time in coming.  9 years ago, when he was 6, we went to a cabin in the woods during the winter.  He found a sled and a little hill and started sledding on it and did so for hours.  No one else seemed to notice what a novelty this was.  This was the same kid that screamed in the back seat of the car!  But he had to take change in doses he could tolerate.
Now he is 15 and learning to drive.  He is definitely more willing to challenge himself with new things and adventures, but he was very anxious about driving.  I think what convinced him to take the class was that he didn't want to have to rely on others to take him places. We opted to take the class early, at just 15, rather than wait the 6 months, so we could have a longer time to master this skill.  He pays attention to the minutia and misses some of the big stuff.  It is maddening, I won't lie. There is an expediency to one's actions when learning to drive.  If I say "stop", it means right now.  He hears me, thinks about it, then eventually gets to it.  ARGH!  "But I didn't know why I needed to, I didn't understand."  "You don't have to understand, you just have to do it when I say to."  This is so not how I parent, but it is how I teach driving.  After he ran over the stop line a few times, he realized that he was keeping his body, but not the car behind the stop line.  He didn't clue into the fact that his body was now significantly longer than it was when he got out of bed.
He was trying to explain how he learns yesterday.  He said he is bad at things until he is good at them.  The family looked at him crosswise.  I think he meant it like instead of a gradual improvement, he is bad for an extra long time and then he gets it.  I wonder if that is true or if that is just his perception of the truth.  If I were to graph it, I think it would look like an anaconda that has swallowed a pig, rather than a steady ascent up the mountain. As his driving teacher (he did take a course as well), I see that he doesn't make the same mistakes as the last time, he just makes new ones as he avoids those he made before.  But he has embraced the challenge of learning, even though it is difficult for him.  I appreciate his tenacity.
He wants to know he did better than yesterday.  It is hard to answer because he did differently.  So I say, "We didn't die." Like my dad says, "Any flight you can walk away from is a good one."  Sometimes that is enough.

Motherhood

Yesterday was Mother's Day.  Some mothers got breakfast in bed or lovely cards of construction paper and markers.  Though these are lovely, for me and for many of my friends, it is our day to celebrate how being a mother has changed us, transformed us into people we would otherwise never have become.  It is a day for a us to remember, not only that we are loved by our children, but how much we love them and who we are now because of it.
I can only speak of my own experience, but I do not believe it is radically different from the experience of others.  When I held my infant child, be it my first child or second or third, I felt profound gratitude.  Love was no longer something ethereal, but formed into flesh.  This little being did not need to love me back.  I could pour and pour and pour from this unending source of love for this small thing.  It was something divine.  As the infant grew older, it became necessary to guide and teach, so the love became funnelled into something more controlled.  Only during times of worry over sickness or injury was my love freed from its constraints to wash over my beloved child.  When the worry would pass, I would again reign it in so that I could again guide.
As my child grew, they were able to affect me with their words and actions, cause hurt or sadness or disappointment.  My love for them had to be hidden away lest I become overbearing.  When they wouldn't hug me in front of their friends or would let go of my hand to show they could do this on their own are moments burned into my memory.  As they grow older, there are more and more opportunities to be independent, to push my love away.
So Mother's Day becomes sacred.  A day where I get to open up the floodgates and feel the love I have for my children and they can't push me away.  They are obligated to let me love them.  To let me feel all that I do.  I don't mind that I still have to do the laundry or empty the dishwasher because this is life and I am damn lucky to have it.  I am blessed beyond measure to be able to love and to show my love in ways that are simple.  Would I love to have someone else do my chores?  Of course, I am not a glutton for punishment.  But I would not trade anything for this. For this is life worth living, the ability to love without need of love in return.  It is a priceless kind of love, one that fills my being almost every day.  As the children begin to leave the nest, I know that I have to control my love for them again to give them confidence that they don't need me.  But in the safety of my thoughts I can love them as loud as I wish.
To answer my son's question, "What do you want for Mother's Day, Mom?"...  I want to love you without reservation and I want you to take it as much as you can.

Rain

It is dark this morning.  I am awake earlier than usual due to an obnoxious cat and a pounding headache.  Fortunately, both were easily remedied and I am feeling better now.  So is the cat for that matter.
It is raining hard this morning, but it often rains hardest before the sun rises.  I am sure there is a reason for that, but I rather like keeping it as a romantic notion over a scientific fact.  The area in which I live always has a lot of rain, but this year has been rainier than most.  I think I need to qualify that, because over the last couple of years, our seasons have been shifting.  Weather has been something predictable in my life.  I recall one winter when I rode my bike to work so I passed a bank sign that showed temperature and time and every day it was 41 degrees.  Not 40, not 42, but 41.  And it was that way for months.  No, the sign was not broken as eventually spring arrived and the temperature rose to something more reasonable.
Mt Saint Helens blew in 1980 and my sister who is a few years older than me noticed a shift in the weather after that event.  I was 12, so the only thing I noticed was myself.  My birthday is in February, and often I would have a week of unseasonably warm weather for a week around my birthday.  Again with my life centered around myself, it felt like a birthday gift.  It rained this year for the entire month of February.
One of the best ways to record the seasons is not by the calendar, but by how things grow in the yard and garden.  It gets me to pay attention to things smaller than myself which is a good thing.  Last week, I wandered around my yard with camera in hand searching for signs of spring.  I raise (that is a stretch of a word) mason bees and they often emerge the last week of March when the apple trees are blooming.  Our winter came late this year and was a bit harsher with days of below freezing temperatures and some snow.  Spring seems to be coming later as well with plenty of rain to feed the earth.  On my photo journey around my microclimate, I did find signs of spring.  Buds were beginning to swell and a few flowers were showing up on my Indian plum and flowering currant.  In the week since, they have flowered more dramatically which is lovely to see.  The apple tree is still keeping to herself, so the mason bees remain in the fridge for a week or so more.
The rain is a bit of a burden though.  I have good rain clothes to keep me dry enough to work in the yard, but if I weed this time of year, I really just get clumps of mud along with the small sprouts.  I could certainly do clean up.  I like to prune things, but admit I tend to leave piles behind to pick up later.  Sometimes much later.  I tell myself I am leaving it for the wildlife, but seriously, I am just being lazy about picking it up.  In my landscaping job, I have to pick up after myself and it remains my least favorite part of the job.  However, it looks really nice when I am done.
It is getting time to plant peas and lettuce and maybe some of the flower seeds I bought.  I think the flower seeds my rot in the ground with the rain as heavy as it is.  Just because I want it to be planting time, does not mean it actually is planting time.  Ah, life lessons in the garden.
The rain is vital.  It is also annoying.  It refreshes my soul.  It makes me stressed when it is hard to see while I am driving in the dark trying to go somewhere I have never been before.  It brings life to some and takes life from others.  It forces me to be flexible, to be prepared, to make hay when the sun shines, to appreciate seeing the stars or the blue sky.  It helps me sleep, to rest, to reflect.

Gray

Written January 8th initially:
Though winter is officially only a few weeks old, it looks so similar from beginning to end, that it seems to always be mid-winter.  We had an extended summer and fall stayed warm enough for flowers to bloom into early December.  And then it changed, like the flipping of a switch.  It is disturbing to see the weather change so severely without warning.  I am surprised that plants can survive with such a dramatic turn.  One day my shrubs are covered with leaves and the next those leaves hang limply if at all.  Like the death of a body, one moment a heartbeat, the next all is still.  I know there is a transition from life to death, but we often have some degree of warning.
For the past few days, the winds have been blowing, making the cold temperatures feel even colder.  The ground is frozen with patches of ice in places.  The trees require flexibility in order to not break.  The air is dry and uncomfortable to be in for me as I seem to require a certain amount of moisture in the air for my skin to feel pliable.

Continued March 2:
Winter is our longest season, emotionally at least.  With the warm fall, winter did not really begin until the calendar said it should or close enough anyhow.  But now we are coming up on our third month of winter and with the occasional snow flurries and frequent rain and constant cold temperatures (mid 30s to low 40s), it gets dreary.  With the bile that is coming down from the the Oval Office, there has been an uptick of racial and ethnic violence.  A teenage boy was raped with a coat hanger and the offenders were given community service.  Every day there are bomb threats at Jewish Community Centers and Synagogues as well as Mosques.  A Muslim teen was found hanging in a tree in Seattle.  Every day there is a new story of hatred and violence, some perpetrated by thugs, other by immigration officers.

Does winter make things worse or just inhibit our ability to bounce back? Seasonal Affected Disorder is a real thing and particularly prevalent in the Pacific Northwest where the skies can be gray for days at a time.  Has there really been an uptick in racially motivated violence or is my awareness of it heightened because it has finally become newsworthy?

A number of my friends as well as myself have expressed feelings of despair of late.  Our self esteem has taken a nose dive and we struggle with finding our worth.  Is it due to this winter that drags on, at least in our perception, or the heightened awareness of violence in our own communities?  I can say for myself, I feel that no amount of phone calling or letter writing or marching will dissuade those who would do violence in the name of white supremacy.  I believe we are at war, but haven't realized it yet, nor do we really have the first clue how to fight.  Our side is still hoping for diplomacy and the system of government we have trusted to represent us.  The system is not without its shortcomings and has certainly failed a number of people over the years, but it gives us hope still that there are intelligent minds at work to solve the problems we face as a country.  But I am beginning to think we are all ostriches with our heads in the sand if we think our government will save us from ourselves.

There have been folks that have been offering up suggestions on what we can all do today.  It is helpful ideas, though I admit I haven't begun to participate.  I believe I must so as to not be bowled over by this despondency that threatens.  I must find my footing and fight.  It is winter, there is nothing I can do about that.

A poem for me

My son used a poem by e.e. cummings and modified it for me.  I was so moved by it that I wanted to share it with you.

Kindness of strangers

I smile at the person at the checkout stand, chatting amicably.  I am polite at intersections, waving the other car along.  I say "good morning" to people I pass on a walk.  I try to cultivate kindness in my every day, non personal interactions.  It makes me think I am a good person.  It is a facade.

When riled, I fight dirty.  I bring up old things once thought put behind, but actually make an arsenal for me to use.  I turn to phrases that begin with words like Always and Never. Kindness, compassion and gentleness slip away to see the real me, a more vicious me, a backed in a corner, teeth bared me.

Which is real?  Both or maybe neither.  They are conventions of circumstance.  Some days I am empathetic, other days apathetic. I desire to be my authentic self, but which self is that?  The one that feels everything or the one that feels nothing?

Years ago, I took a Vipassana Meditation course, the only time I have been even moderately successful at meditation.  There was a common theme to let it go, to respond thoughtfully rather than emotionally.  I had a difficult time moving past the emotional self.  But I think I understand the idea, to not be ruled by my own impulses, which are emotion driven.  Can I be compassionate without emotion?  I can't be angry without emotion, that I know.

But hurt stays with me.  It gets under my skin and rests there.  It becomes another skin, keeping me from others, keeping me safe, or that is what it is supposed to do.  But it doesn't.  It cultivates apathy and distance.  But the idea of removing its protection scares me beyond measure and paralyzes me.

So I am polite.  It diffuses the hurt.  I don't think it makes it go away, but it makes it so I can live with it.  I know that my life, if not a lie, is untrue. But I cannot be any other way.  I believe we all modify our impulses or we would road rage routinely.  We breath it out, blow it off, run it out.  But sometimes it sticks like ash to our skin until we are only pale versions of our selves. Maybe I do not want to know my authentic self.  I fear she would be the snarling one.

Too Much, Not Enough

I find myself off kilter of late.  It is not a good place to be and I am unclear as to what to do about it.

With the election in November, there was turmoil.  I really never believed that he could be elected.  It was like finding out the Jerry Springer show was a documentary.  I had friends and loved ones on both sides and it became very divisive for me personally. For those more on my periphery, I chose to let them go rather than absorb it.  I just couldn't take it all in.

Through it all I have found this undercurrent of guilt.  The guilt of privilege, my own lack of activism, my suspicion that activism doesn't change anyone's mind and certainly not those who have something to lose if change happens.  I want to believe this new president is powerless, that they dogma he holds dear cannot affect me.  But maybe the Jerry Springer Show is a documentary after all.  Oh to bury my head in the sand where it feels safe again!

I try to see both sides, to weigh and evaluate, to reflect, to make a decision.  My leftward leaning friends say there is no time for that.  My rightward leaning friends say that is reasonable.  It reminds me a bit of when I read the Left Behind series and I wanted to strengthen my Christian faith as an insurance policy against what may come.  Fear propelled me.  Well, years later, I no longer call myself a Christian because I could not maintain the momentum of fear, only love could stay.

I did not march yesterday in the Women's March, not in Seattle, nor Washington DC nor in any of the cities where it occurred around the world.  People marched for different reasons and I did not.  I was afraid.  I was afraid that if there were rioters, I would not be able to stand up to them.  I was afraid it would be only words of hate and not of love and empowerment.  I did not want to be part of a hate march.

Am I feeling guilty because I am not radical enough?  I don't have a desire to be more conservative, but I do have a desire for balance.  I want fair and equitable treatment for people of all races and religions.  I want access to quality of education for all children.  I want people to behave with a moral center than considers the needs of others along with the needs for themselves.  I want people to have the freedom to make choices for themselves without anyone saying they should or should not behave in this manner and to face the consequences of those choices (free will and personal responsibility).

I also believe that people should make educated choices and education takes time.  If I choose to not wear my seatbelt because I don't care for being restricted, but do not know that  the reason the seatbelt is there is to safe my life in case of an accident, then I am not making an educated choice.  Some may argue that we do not have enough time in the day to educate people in all the things they need to know.  That may be true, so there will be consequences until the lesson is learned.  Another example and a little more personal this time, I have seen trees hacked off at the top all over my region.  I have always thought it looked weird and unnatural and other than to keep the trees out of the powerlines, I could not see the purpose in it.  I reacted, but I was not educated, not in the reason for nor against the practice.  I have since learned that hacking off trees in this way often makes the problem worse as a plant will put out multiple arms in response to being damaged in this way and it can cause the tree to die before its time. It would be better to remove the tree entirely and plant one whose growth habit is more appropriate for that space.  But that is an educated answer.  But I did not learn it until later in life.

Are we obligated to teach our fellow humans?  If someone had marched down the road shouting for the hacking of trees to stop, I would not likely be moved to find out why.  It does not compel me to listen.  If someone came to my door, I would be tense that they wanted to teach me something I did not want to learn, so I don't know if that is helpful either.  But maybe if I see beautiful and healthy trees, I may be moved by example to learn more how to have beautiful and healthy trees.

There is power in marching.  But the power is more to the marcher than the observer.  Will our new president say as a result of the march, "Hmm, maybe these women are more than what they seem.  Perhaps I should respect them instead of simply trying to fuck them."  Not likely.  At this point, he is who he is and his view of women will not likely change.  But maybe he will say, "Hmm, these members of the country that I now represent should be considered as there are an awful lot of them."  Maybe he won't even do that.  I don't know.  But for every person who marched, they can say "I am part of something bigger than myself."

I did not march and I cannot say that in the same way.  I did something self affirming which I found personally important, but not so impacting as marching.  I know I needed to fill up my own spiritual tank and I may not have achieved that, but I had fun and I challenged myself.

I suppose the takeaway is that I really do need to be true to myself and honest that I am not what others may wish me to be.  I will never be enough and I will always be too much.  So I must just be me, with my free will and my personal responsibility.