In response to BHD

I posted the following comment in response to a blog post by my dear friend, C, over at Blue Heron at Druid Labs.  

"Our ability to acknowledge, yet forgive, wrongdoing in others is inextricably linked to the ability to see hope and forgiveness in ourselves and by extension, to our ability to love and be loved -- in short, to our very humanity.  It doesn't mean that we have to become doormats.  It doesn't mean that we have to accept abuse and neglect when we recognize it.  It doesn't mean that we have to welcome the perpetrators of wrongdoing into our homes and our lives.    It means, simply, that we recognize the right and ability of each and every human on Earth to love and be loved.  The capacity each of us has to be better than we are."

Forgiveness and compassion allow us to rise from adversity and to accept the love of others in our lives.  It is absolutely essential to our survival as healthy humans.

My comment only addressed half of BHD's question, however.

In some respects, forgiveness and compassion are the easier part of the equation when it come to how we can both hold wrongdoers accountable and still treat them with compassion.  Those who would point to the story of the crucifixion of Christ as an example may be tempted to say that forgiveness and compassion trumps all -- that we are unfit to judge others and to mete out punishment, and that only the divine can judge the actions of humans.  We may similarly point to the Buddhist tradition to justify wimping out on holding others accountable.  If we hold ourselves the lowest, how can we judge?

If you examine the teaching of Christ and the Dalai Lama in more detail, however, neither instructs us to tolerate abuse and wrongdoing.  Christ called upon sinners to "Go forth, and SIN NO MORE".  The Dalai Lama says of the balance between compassion and accountability:

"It is not enough to be compassionate. You must act. There are two aspects to action. One is to overcome the distortions and afflictions of your own mind, that is, in terms of calming and eventually dispelling anger. This is action out of compassion. The other is more social, more public. When something needs to be done in the world to rectify the wrongs, if one is really concerned with benefiting others, one needs to be engaged, involved."

We have a system of social justice that punishes criminal activities.  But that system does not address the individual wrongs we perpetrate on each other and ourselves.  Part of loving each other, and part of loving ourselves is to acknowledge wrong actions, and to recognize and choose right actions.  To reject wrong action is not a lack of acceptance or forgiveness.  It is the ultimate act of love, and self-love, to insist upon right action and right thought.

I believe we can forgive, recognize the humanity and the ability to change in every living being, and still not expose ourselves to wrong action.  It is OK to say, "I forgive you.  I feel human love for you.  But I have not seen a change in your action, and I will not allow you to damage me further. Until you can demonstrate to me that you will 'sin no more', I cannot allow you in my life.  Be well."  Our challenge is to mean every. single. word.

On Venturing Outside the Safety Zone.

"A ship in port is safe; but that is not what ships are built for. Sail out to sea and do new things"

-- Admiral Grace Hopper

RADM Grace Murray Hopper has always been an inspiring character for me, and a source of practical wisdom.  One of my FB friend posted the quote above on her status the other day and I was reminded of the lessons Admiral Hopper's life taught me in my earlier years.

Born during an age where women were not expected to learn math and science, let alone use them, Grace Murray Hopper not only learned them, but bent them to her own will to help design the computer language that would later become COBOL, to attain the rank of Commodore (later renamed Rear Admiral) in the US Navy, and at the age of 79, to retire from the Navy to become a senior consultant to Digital Equipment Corporation.  She was a tireless educator, an engaging speaker and an inspiring leader among women.  She. Was. Awesome.

She is widely credited with discovering the first computer bug, a literal moth that had lodged itself in a Navy processor relay in 1947.  She's also credited with being the first to utter my second-favorite phrase:

"It is easier to ask forgiveness than to obtain permission." 

She pushed the envelope.  She challenged those around her to be more than they thought they could be.  She refused to be ordinary.  She lived her life with genuine passion.

She also, as nearly as I can tell, refused to compromise her non-negotiables. 

This last year, as you all know, has been a period of change and painful self-assessment for me.  The "rules", as I knew them, all have been squarely up-ended.  I am left with the reality that my life is NOT going to be what I expected.  That means, of course, that it's time to take a more active role in determining where it goes from here.  I got reminded of what it feels like to get burned last week.  But the thing about getting burned is that it means you have a fire under you.  And that may not be a bad thing.

I'm getting a chance to operate in a more strategic role -- my "Happy Place" -- at work. And my boss, having watched me all last week, is finally backing off and just letting me do it.  I forgot how good it feels to be doing what I'm naturally good at, instead of having to make myself good at whatever needs to be done at a given time. It's riskier -- screwing up at this could cost me my job, and I'll take others with me if I fail.  But it's a damn sight more satisfying than plodding along in the safer task-related world I've been living in for the last several years.

Time to cast off.

Boy, Did I Need To See THIS Today

Brene Brown on the power of vulnerability, from TED.  


 
To Mak, who had the wisdom to turn me (and others) onto this:  Thank you.  It's like you crawled inside my head and pulled out the very thing that's holding me back.  I respect you so much and I'm so grateful for the influence you have on me and all the others in our community.  You rock, girlie.

Chapter 8: In which Beanie begins to get her groove back, but only part-way

 
"Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink, the walls of your bower closing in about you, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in? So fair, yet so cold, like a morning of pale Spring still clinging to Winter's chill."

----

“'What do you fear, my lady?'   'A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.'”

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

I was accused last week of having been "domesticated".

The person who spoke these words quickly backtracked, citing only respect and regard for what I knew and what I had accomplished. 

"Still", he said, "you are not a follower.  Why aren't you leading these people?"

He does not know my history, nor of the heartbreak that has crippled my mind and my spirit this last year. He does not know that I'm normally leading these groups.  He just reported what he saw there and then.  I'd lost my edge.

Obviously, I saw more than a little truth in his words, as they are still on my mind now.

As if to prove him wrong, though, I spent the rest of last week in a whirlwind of meetings, with late night strategy sessions that included generous helpings of scotch, cognac and harmless flirtation, and resulted in at least three separate plans to take over the world.  I gave talks, told jokes in public, and found myself, more often than not, dragged to the back of the room during meetings, with one person or another whispering details into my ear about the motivations and machinations of the other players in the room.

In short, I was in my happy place.

This week, I am back to my real life, resplendent with personal and professional dramas, petty intrigues, heartbreaks, and administrivia.  Still, I sort of felt like last week let me start to get my groove back.

That is, until Monday afternoon, when the character from the beginning of this chapter called to tell me that he was likely going to work for my main competitor in this little game of professional Risk. 

The blood drained from my face.  I gulped.  I tried not to cry.  To put it bluntly, I felt like I'd been lured into getting naked in a public restroom, only to have my clothes stolen.  My voice instantly betrayed my feelings.  Many apologies and explanations followed:  he'd only found out that morning, he said, and this didn't change anything we'd discussed strategically, and of course he would keep anything confidential, strictly so. He pleaded that he had called me first, before his own loved ones, because he didn't want me to feel like I'd been played.

But it was too late.  I felt like I had been played. Worse, it was my own fault.  I know better than to show my hand too early, my spider sense had been tingling the whole week, and I ignored all that in a heady rush to be the first to have new information, to out-compete and out-perform someone who had challenged me.

I think he was/is sincere:  I don't think he meant any harm, and I'm looking forward to continuing a fun and challenging friendship.

But maybe I have lost my edge. Time will tell if my trust has been misplaced.  At the very least, I dodged a dangerous bullet.

I used to be a fairly astute business strategist.  In fact, if you look at my LinkedIn page, those are the first two words in my description:  "Business Strategist". Whether or not I am still that woman remains to be seen, as I'm getting ready to embark on what will likely be a 2-year project to define the next major portion of my career.  In the last eight years working in the non-profit sector, I haven't had as much chance to use that strategic edge as I used to.

I wonder if there is still enough of Eowyn in me to slay the monsters and protect what I've worked so hard to build.  Should be interesting.  Might be dangerous.  Hope that it's at least a little bit fun.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Whatever your faith, whatever your circumstance, this night is meant for us to stop, breathe, and remember what is most important.  I hope each of you is with someone you love, in spirit if not in presence.  If you are stopping in to read this, chances are you have touched my life in the last year, and so I am thankful for you.  My love is with you this night.

Merry Christmas.

What makes us American.

Today, President Obama signed the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell into law.

I wish it would suddenly fix the economy.  It won't.

I wish it would end these intractable wars we're in (see one of the main reasons for our economic woes, above).  It won't do that, either.

But it will begin to demonstrate that we are who we say we are:  a nation that values tolerance, justice and human rights.  That's a good start.

Bravo, Mr. President, and the members of Congress who had enough personal integrity to vote for this bill.

The Christmas Run-up

  
You have to wonder about a day that starts off by setting fire to your underpants.

I always take my underthings into the bathroom with me when I shower.  It's a habit I developed when the Bug was little; she had no sense of boundaries and it was not uncommon for me to come out of my bathroom and into my bedroom, to find her sitting there wanting to discuss the latest developments in the world of Pokemon.  Or perhaps to debate why she was starting to believe her dad's theory that I was, in fact, a reptile.

Yesterday morning, I accidentally grabbed two pairs of underpants; leaving one on the counter while I donned the second.  My bathroom is small, and gets pretty foggy, and because Mr. gets up several hours after I do, I keep the door closed while I'm in there getting ready in the morning.  As a result, I normally need to use my hair dryer to de-fog the mirror.  Rather than shutting it off, while I combed and gelled my hair, I left it running -- the hair dryer is getting old and it won't re-start if I shut it off -- in the (dry) sink.

I began to smell smoke and looking down, took note that my gonch had slipped off the counter into the sink and, under the influence of the hair dryer, had commenced to smoldering.  I grabbed the flaming underpants, only to realise that they were, in fact, hot.  I know this may have occurred to the rest of you earlier, but it was 5:40 in the morning and not all of my neurons fire at that hour.  I burned the bejeebers out of my index finger, which had the misfortune to make a connection with the then-molten waistband of my now-former underthings.

 I spent much of the rest of the day attempting to create a haiku to commemorate the event. 

Yeah, so that doesn't have anything to do with Christmas.  I should get out of the habit of writing titles first.

Christmas.

I've been addressing my inner control freak in therapy lately.  I recognize that my compulsive need to control those things that I can control is the direct result of not having been able to control the one thing that meant the most to me.  But it goes deeper than that, and we can explore this later.  For now I'll say that for the first time, I'm getting the message that "getting my control freak on" is probably not a bad thing.  So there.

The problem, of course, is that I'm trying to do too much for Christmas and I'm planning, planning, planning the days running up to it and external things (weather, sewing machine needles, cold-process soap curing characteristics and flaming underpants) aren't cooperating.  There are times I wish I was the kind of person who could swing through Big Lots on December 23rd and buy six each of four things and hand them out with a kiss and be done with it.

Last night, I read the Gospel of Luke, which describes the nativity of Jesus in Bethlehem.  I came to realise that Mary's day wasn't exactly going as planned.  I'm pretty sure she didn't turn to Joseph and say, "You know, honey, let's just chill out about this whole birth plan; I'll just find a nice pile of straw, we'll pop out this kid and order a pizza.  It'll be just fine." 

She had lost control of everything she thought she knew; pregnant without her consent, wandering in a strange town, nowhere comfortable to have her baby, no idea what the future would hold for them, and probably pretty freaked out about this whole visitation by the Archangel Gabriel.  But in the end she did end up giving birth on a pile of straw, and while there was no pizza, things did turn out just fine.

Better than just fine, in fact.

Take the Bible for what you will:  the enlightened word of God or a wonderful mythology.  No judgments from me, either way.  But whatever else you think, there's a lot of wisdom there.

Hope your Christmas Run-Up is just fine.


Confidential to R.D.:  Thank you for putting your trust in me.  I can't make this not hurt for you, but I can at least warn you what's around the next corner.  I'm honored that you're letting me do that.  Peace.

The Archangel

Sunday, April 11, 2004.

I stumbled into the office in an allergic haze and pulled my computer out of my laptop case, stabbing the power button with my finger before I headed downstairs to make coffee.  I had been up most of the night, working on a grant, and had forgotten to take my allergy pills before I fell into bed.

When I came upstairs 10 minutes later, coffee in hand, I was surprised to see that my laptop hadn't finished booting; it just hummed to a blank screen.  I hit the power button again, and noticed for the first time that my keyboard was wet.  It was then that my husband entered the room.  "Man, it smells like cat piss in here!"

My cat, Hoover, had somehow managed to balance himself on the edges of my open laptop case, and then urinate into the vents in the back of my computer, effectively flooding the machine.

This did not come as a surprise to me.  It did, however, horrify the manager of the computer core at work, causing him to don a pair of rubber gloves before taking the machine from my hands Monday morning, as I begged him to save my grant files.

Over the last fourteen years, Hoover has urinated on nearly everything I own, including my favorite $200 silk Stuart Weitzman pumps.  The things he hasn't urinated on, he has puked on.  At least twice a day.  He eats my house plants.  As a kitten, he used to fish my stockings out of laundry baskets and shred them. 

Why on Earth would I keep a cat like this?

Hoover is a Russian Blue, a breed known for their lush fur and quirky personalities.  The Russian name for the breed is the Archangel, and like the Angel Gabriel, Hoover begins each day with a glorious announcement of the previous night's events.  He is possessed of a gentleness of nature that I have never seen in a cat, before or since.  Hoover has the soul of a poet.  He will lay on my lap for hours, belly-up, and will allow me to roll his paw pads between my fingers like worry beads.  He waits, patiently, for me to acknowledge his presence when I get home from work, and then head-butts me and purrs.  He licks the tears off my face when I cry.  He hugs me when I pick him up, wrapping his body around my neck and shoulder.  Until a few years ago, he could jump three times his height to catch a feather on a string or a cat-nip mouse.  He loves to sit next to me while I sort laundry, hoping that I will drop articles of clothing on him and give him the fun of wriggling back out of the bottom of the pile.  He fetches.  He somersaults.  He is an awesome cat.

For a few years, poor Hoover was the unwilling recipient of the amorous attentions of my dog, Angus.   He accepted this with as much humor and good grace as a cat can muster, just before trying to rip the dog's face off. He puts the two younger cats in their places as only the "old man" can do.  He has fostered a life-long friendship and romance with Mudge, my 18-year-old calico who, at 5 pounds 9 ounces, is the undisputed alpha cat in the house. Seeing them sleep together is a comfort, no matter how I feel.

This morning, we said good-bye to Hoover.  His kidneys have been failing for some time, due in part to  a  terrible bout of urinary tract disease as a young adult, and we have probably held onto him a little longer than we should.  He was ready.  He purred a little, but didn't fight me.  He left this world in peace, wrapped in my arms and assisted by our gentle, kind and most caring veterinarian. 

Thank you for being my friend, Hoover.  I hope that cat heaven is wonderful.  I will miss you.

Some random thoughts for this week

No, I've not given up blogging; I'm just on an extended business trip that is mostly destroying my will to live.  I used to love business travel.  Now I hate it. 

As a result, we don't have anything particularly cogent for tonight.  Just a few random thoughts:

I had the distinct pleasure of sitting next to remarkable young man on my flight to Atlanta on Sunday.  Sometimes, we see in the next generation a reason to feel hopeful.  So to Andrew, in seat 7A:  I salute you!  Remember, if you do your job well, I won't have to work so hard at mine.  So I'm counting on you.

Every time I go to Orlando in the winter, they have a record-breaking cold snap that arrives the day I do and ends the day I leave.  I'm the Snow Miser.  Who knew?

My conference the first part of this week was on the Disney resort property, so I couldn't help but try to avail myself of a little of the magic while I was there.  I made my first trip to Disney when I was 30, and for me, it was as magical then as I think it would have been if I had been 8 years old.  When I was pregnant with Kiersten, I remember being at Epcot Center for the Millennial Parade.  There was a little girl seated on the other side of the parade route, who looked exactly as I imagined at the time Kiersten would look at the age of six.   I remember that looking at her filled me with a combination of excitement, expectation and intense sadness.  I cried through most of the parade. 

I was wrong about how Kiersten would look.  But last night I saw a dozen different children running through Downtown Disney, each caught out of the corner of my eye, who looked so much like Kiersten that I was finally driven to flee the property in tears.  By the time I reached the car, I was choking on my sobs.  I have few regrets.  Not having a chance to take my baby to the Magic Kingdom was one of them.   We often think we have a lifetime to experience things.  And we do.  But sometimes that lifetime isn't as long as we think it will be. 

I am looking forward to going home this weekend and getting the Christmas decorations put up.  I hope that Mr. Bean and Daisy help.  I hate decorating by myself.


I really like Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.  I sang Ooo La La in the Karaoke bar last night.  (lol)

This afternoon, on my way from Dulles Airport to the hotel where I'm staying, we passed Arlington Cemetery.  There was a funeral going on for one of our service members.  They were on a small hilltop, and they set off the 21-gun salute, just as we were driving by.  It was beautiful and desperate and dignified all at once.  And somewhere in there, a mother was saying good-bye to her child.  My heart was with her, for a moment.

Chapter 7, in which I fail to "make the noise"

There's nothing like taking your car to the shop, after it's been making a "noise" for awhile, and having it run perfectly smoothly for the technician.  It makes you wonder if the car ever made the noise, or if somehow you're doing something dysfunctional to make it make the noise.  In any event, leaving the repair shop after one of these episodes invariably fills one with a combination of disappointment, confusion and a touch of dread.

Yeah; so this isn't really about my car.  But I think you know that.

In the interest of not buying into my own hype, I've starting seeing a new therapist.  I've been so focused on being supportive for everyone else in my life that I haven't taken the time to check in and make sure I'm working my own program well.  And the fact is that I'm pretty stressed; I can't concentrate well at work, I feel completely overwhelmed in balancing work and home, and my husband and daughter are both telling me, "dude, you need to talk with someone."

So today, I had my first session.   I  had the luxury of 90 minutes to talk about meeeeeee.  We covered a  lot of territory.  He asked the normal questions about "Tell me about your support network.  What are you doing for you?  Do you have any guilt about your daughter's death?"  We probed denial, diversion, and re-direction.  We talked about the afterlife.

And we got to the end of the session.

"So what do you think?"

"I'm wondering why you're here."

"What do you mean?"

"You're already doing just about everything I would tell you to do.  I'm wondering what you're looking for here."

"A magic elixir might be nice.  Just sayin'."

"It's always going to hurt.  That's never going away."

"Well, crap."

We agreed to spend some time working on making sure I wasn't spoofing myself over the next few sessions, finding tools to let me better support Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae, and finally to working on strategies for making this year less painful than last.  But in the end, it was rather like going to your doctor with a hacking cough and having him tell you that you have a virus, you're already taking a decent cough suppressant and getting enough rest, so it's really a matter of gutting it out.

But I like him, and not just because he was validating today.  He's a good listener.  He's obviously got his ducks in a row.  So I'll keep going back.  But at the end of the day, nobody expects to go see a psych and be told, "you're pretty healthy; go home." You wonder if there's another shoe to drop.

With my luck, I'll develop a shimmy in my front passenger wheel on the way home.