On Being Worthy

The Fella gave me a laptop for my birthday.  It's the nicest computer I've ever owned, the kind of computer that I would look at when computer shopping and dismiss immediately because there was just no way I could justify the purchase.

But now I have Fancy. (Because of course I named my computer. Doesn't everyone do that?)

When he gave Fancy to me, The Fella said, "I want you to have something really good -- I want you to have the best tools for your writing." He was earnest. He believes in me.

My first thought was, "Oh, but I'm not a real writer."

My second was, "I don't deserve this gift."

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In retrospect, this is pissing me off.

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Fancy lived in the box she came in until today. Today, I fitted her with a hot pink, lace printed silicon case to protect her so she can live out in the open, where I can snag her and write whenever I feel like it.

Before today, I think I opened the box maybe -- and this is a generous estimate -- fifteen times?

I could see the box from where I slept -- it's a small apartment -- and would often see it first thing in the morning. It always made me feel guilty, because there was this amazing tool that the man who loves me got me so I could do the thing that makes me happy, and I wasn't using it -- further proof, I thought, that I didn't deserve it in the first place, but I couldn't figure out how to articulate that without also confessing what a huge loser I was.

One morning I thought: he believes that I deserve this.

And then I thought: what if he's right?

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It's interesting to me, the way people -- I think this is especially true of women, but I have also observed it in men -- are quick to declare themselves unworthy. "I wasn't really qualified, so I didn't apply." "I couldn't ask him out -- he's so HANDSOME and I'm so ... blah." "I really liked that dress, but ... it was for something special and I don't have anything." "My car is kind of falling apart, but ... it still runs. I shouldn't get a new one." "I couldn't audition for that role -- they wanted REAL singers."

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You are real.

You are qualified and attractive and special and deserving of feeling safe and warm and happy. You also have art -- all kinds of art -- flowing through you and whatever that art is, if it is singing or dancing or painting or writing? It counts and it is REAL.

It is real and you are real and you are worthy. You are worthy of the job and the date and the fancy dress that makes you acknowledge your own beauty and the car that works and runs and auditioning for the role because you ARE a real singer.

You deserve the chance and the evening and the sparkle and the horsepower and the spotlight.

You deserve it because you are here and you are amazing and you are worthy.

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You won't get everything you want. No one does. That doesn't mean you don't deserve to try. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't believe in yourself.

You should.

And you should believe in the fact that other people believe in you.

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When other people believe in you, embrace their belief. You are worthy of it.

When other people offer you blessings and gifts, take them. You are worthy of them.

When other people offer you praise, take it. Thank them. Don't dismiss it. You are worthy of praise and they are allowed to praise you -- by dismissing their praise you are telling them that you don't believe they are worthy.

They are.

You are.

I am.

WE are.

Stopping ... And Starting

Once upon a time, many years ago, I started a blog.

It was fun.

I mean, I guess it was also work? But it was fun. 

Here's what blogging did for me: it gave me a voice. It gave me an outlet. It created friendships. It created some super awkward situations a couple of times, but I figured out how to negotiate through those and (I hope) became a little more savvy.

Here's what it has never done: made me famous or rich. There are people that happens for, and that's incredibly awesome. I have never generated any income from my writing. I don't have a secret book deal -- and since I hate ads, I'm not making revenue that way.

I have never cared. Not once. That wasn't why I started writing; I started writing because writing brings me joy.

Which probably makes you wonder why I kind of stopped.

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When I started this blog, I worked from home. Working from home has some major perks, like never wearing shoes and unlimited access to coffee and snacks and having Facebook open all day and having the time to write a blog. In my case, those perks came with a challenging employer and no personal life, but whatever.

Eventually the "whatever" became intolerable and I had to find another job -- my (admittedly shaky) mental health demanded it. 

So I did. But now I had to wear shoes and cut back my coffee obsession and eat fewer snacks and couldn't be on Facebook during the day and ... I didn't have time to write.

I couldn't figure out how to make time for it either; when I tried, it felt like ... Work.

That was a problem.

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Another problem was a friend of mine. You know how I said I don't do it for the money or fame because... There isn't any?

For a friend of mine... Someone I like a lot ... There is. It's wonderful. I'm thrilled for him.

Or I was until the day we found ourselves at a party where he was being introduced to people as an important writer and I wasn't being introduced to anyone at all. 

He had asked me for help when he was getting started, and I was happy to do it. I'll always be happy that I assisted him in any way, because he's a bona fide rock star.

But suddenly he was a writer. And I was ... Not even worth introducing.*

That was... Not exactly a problem?

But it wasn't NOT a problem.

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Somewhere along the way I lost my joy. Every time I picked up a tablet or my laptop or even my phone and tried to find it again, it was with crossed fingers and the hope that this time the words would come and I would remember how much I used to love this thing that is pretty much the only thing I've ever felt good at.

I would occasionally get near it, which was... Well, it sucked a little because almost getting there is not the same as actually getting there. It's like peering at an amusement park through a fence but never going in and riding the rides. It's disappointing.

After a while, I stopped looking through the fence.

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I'd started thinking, lately, that I might have some things I wanted to talk about. A lot has happened in the two years since I stopped blogging daily. I'd like to talk about some of it, I thought. I might have some things to say.

 Another thing that began happening -- just recently -- is that people (other than my mom) began asking about the blogging and telling me they missed it.

Which made me realize: I missed it too. I missed looking at the screen. I missed watching the words assemble as I typed. I missed thinking about how to say what I wanted to say.

I missed it.

I got out my laptop, took a breath, and began writing.

And just like that, it was making me happy.

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You have to make time for the people, places, and things you love. You have to work it in. I think my biggest problem is that I wasn't willing to let go of some things I thought I was supposed to do in order to do what I wanted to do. I couldn't give myself permission to let the dishes sit for an hour while I did the thing I loved. I think too many of us do that and, in doing so, begin to endure life rather than live it.

We're not here to suffer through our days. We're here to dance and laugh and sing through them.

And sometimes, we're here to write.

*i don't believe this was intentional but it was crushing.

Friday Randoms

I

"That is a really good idea!"

"I have them regularly. You just, um, ignore them."

"You only think I'm ignoring them. Really I'm stealing them."

"... That's... Wait. What?!?"

"I'm kidding... OR AM I?"

II

"The shiv. For when you only LOOK unarmed."

"Oh my God, that is my new motto."

III

"There's a notice posted on the door of that house."

"That's never a good sign."

"How come notices on doors never say anything like 'please come in and play with the unicorn'?"

"They're usually warnings like, 'we're citing you because your unicorn is rabid and frothing rainbows out of its mouth.' "

"Eeeeew!"

"I know, that's why there's a notice."

IV

"Ugh. She sent me an email in all caps. So shouty."

"I wish there was a way to respond to that."

"There is!"

"What?"

"All lowercase. In a teeeeeeeny font. She's gonna yell? I'm going to whisper."

V

"The trouble with insomnia is that it causes you to look at your partner, the person you love most in the world, sleeping peacefully beside you? With rage. Because -- how is she sleeping? WHAT IS THAT?"

"But you don't elbow her?"

"Because I am a SAINT."

No, Marriage Equality Does Not Threaten Your Religion

It is irritating to me that I feel as though I have to write this post, but I do so I am.

Here we go:

Marriage, historically, is not about religion.    Marriage has traditionally been about property -- a commercial exchange that had very little to do with religion, or love, or even sex and had a lot to do with dowries and bloodlines and power and politics.

If you are going to argue for "traditional" marriage? The tradition of marriage as a property exchange is far older than what you're referencing and -- so that you're aware -- is still how marriage works.

Wait, did you say no? Did you say that I am incorrect?

Then please allow me to submit to you:

The Prenuptial Agreement

The prenup is the best (but not the only) example of the fact that marriage is not a religious institution but a civil and legal one that is -- in many ways -- defined by an exchange and blending of property. If that were not the case, prenuptial agreements would not -- and could not -- exist. If marriage were simply a religious institution, no lawyers would be involved before, to discuss how property is to be protected and distributed in the chance that the marriage fails, and -- if marriage was only religious in nature -- lawyers and judges could not create divorce decrees. Only clergy could.

There are words for societies that let their religious beliefs dictate their laws and the rights of their citizens. There are names for policies designed to oppress groups of people because you think they're worth less than you are.

I hate to think that the United States would be willing to become such a place. I hate to think that it could become a place where something as simple as  -- writing a blog, say -- could be transgressive and threatening and potentially illegal.

Did you say no, no, that couldn't happen? That there is a separation of church and state, and there is freedom of speech?

There SHOULD be a separation of church and state, I agree. But if you start allowing religious beliefs to dictate the legal rights of citizens then you have also to agree that separation of church and state is a myth. Once you start down that path, it is a very short journey to a country ruled by religion -- and you'd better hope that religion is yours, I guess, because otherwise? You could lose a lot.

You could lose everything.

That's another lesson that history teaches.

If you think that I am arguing for a country in which churches are forced to perform marriage ceremonies that are against the code of conduct that their faith demands, however, you are wrong. Marriage is a legal institution. A wedding? Frequently is not. Churches and clergy can feel free to say, no, we won't perform that ceremony and they can do it for a variety of faith-based reasons. I have personal experience with this, as I was not allowed to get married in the church I attended all of my life, due to ... Um ... 

Well, probably the fact that I write stuff Iike this didn't help. 

When that happens? You make other plans because a wedding might be able to be a religious event but ... And here it comes again ... Marriage is always a legal one. As such, if a clergy person won't marry you, it is possible (and easy) to find someone designated as an agent of the law who will and BECAUSE marriage is not a religious institution, your marriage? VALID. Real. You are legally married with all of the rights and legal obligations that come with your newly wed status.

Marriage equality does not threaten your religion. Your religion will be just fine if two people of the same sex are legally allowed to marry. Unfortunately, a religious insistence on marriage inequality being written into law could have a damning impact on the future of this country, creating laws that legalize discrimination and intolerance. 

Who's threatening who?

What Wouldn't Jesus Do?

I am continually amazed... and bothered... by people who argue against loving your gay neighbor and uplifting the poor and taking care of each other but who claim to love and follow Jesus. 

Really, y'all should be ashamed. 

I am not any kind of theology student, but thanks to my parents, spent a LOT of time in a Fundamentalist church, so I know a couple of things (even though I'm a girl, which -- and this is a Fundie joke -- renders my knowledge useless) about Jesus.

I know he fought for the underdog. The poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden? They were Jesus's homies. If you said to Jesus, "I can't serve this person because she's Latina/Muslim/gay/illegal/transgendered/an addict/a Yankees fan" he would look at you sadly. Because Jesus? Did not care about those things. Jesus believed everyone is worthy. Everyone is valuable. Everyone deserves rights and fairness and love simply by virtue of being human and alive, which makes everyone -- everyone!!! -- a child of God.

I might not be a good Christian ... I've been publicly prounonced a crappy one, actually ... But I get the Jesus loves everyone (even you, Yellie, with your shitty Christian-ness) thing.

So. People being mean to other people but at the same time declaring themselves as being FOR Jesus bother me, because I feel like Jesus? Would be sad to see how much meanness is done in his name, how much cruelty is inflicted on his "behalf," and how often he is invoked as a reason to for people to be hateful to each other.

It makes me sad.

And it makes me sad when, as a society, we punish a crime by committing a crime. It makes me sad when we say, as Ron White once put it, "if you kill someone... we'll kill you back" because I don't understand the death penalty on any level, but it is especially confusing to me that it is supported by so many people who claim, sometimes feverishly, that they love and follow Jesus. Because I don't claim to always know what Jesus WOULD do, but I know that he was big on forgiveness and love and redemption, and execution sort of ... Negates ... Anyone's opportunity to turn her or his life around; if I'm remembering my lessons properly, Jesus actually died to offer that opportunity for everyone. Not just some people. Not just good people or people who agree with you or saintly Red Sox fans. ALL PEOPLE.

I don't always know what Jesus would do.

But I feel like I know what he wouldn't do.

Maybe that's the more important question to ask.

Bikini. Body.

I have friends -- people I love lot -- who have recently become weight loss crusaders. They are not personal trainers, exactly, as much as lifestyle coaches. Their social media feeds are filled with workouts! Diet shakes! Wraps!

Which ... Okay. I want them to be happy. I want them to be successful.

And I don't want to unfollow them, but I've been thinking lately that I might not have a choice.

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I've spoken of this before, but I don't think it can be stressed enough. I was the fat girl growing up, which... Well, it sucked. Children can be mean. I was also the sick, nerdy, fat girl, so getting picked last for everything? Was just the way it was. Being made fun of meant it was a day that ended in "y". That's how it was. Whatever.

I started losing weight in college. For a little while, I looked great. And then I passed into another plane of weight loss, the one where people were afraid for me. The one where people asked me if I was really sick, if I had cancer or some other potentially fatal illness. The one where I was actually afraid I might die.

Then my grandfather did die, and I realized that I needed to -- and wanted to -- live. 

It wasn't an easy decision. 

It wasn't an easy path.

But I'm still here, goddamn it. I'm still here.

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I weigh more than I want to weigh. I weigh more than my ex-doctor wants me to weigh. Despite her knowledge of my history she harps on my weight to the point that I avoid her -- even when I'm really sick -- because I can't bear the lecture, and I can't keep my brain from cycling through a horrible litany of the ways in which I am wrong, my body is wrong, and I am not worthy of being here.

This is a lie, by the way.

But it's hard for me to remember it.

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When The Fella tells me I'm beautiful? It's hard to stifle the voice in my head that says, "no. But you were once. And you could be again. Just stop eating. It's easy."

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For the record? It's not easy.

For the record, it's horrible, painful, and all consuming.

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So. I can't sign up with you, coaches and wrap sellers and purveyors of lifestyles. I can't. Because I'm trying to learn to tie my brain and my body together and live in both of them. I'm trying to make our relationship here mildly less dysfunctional. I'm trying to believe that beauty and worth can't be found in a shake or a size or a reading on a scale.

I'm trying to ... And getting better about ... Wrap my arms around the notion that to have a bikini body? You take a body (yours) and put a bikini on it. I already believe that everyone else on this earth is beautiful and amazing and worthy.

I'm still working on the part where I am.

Maybe I always will.

Still We Rise

For Christians, Easter is the most important holiday of the year. It is the holiday that defines the essence of Christianity, the cornerstone of the faith. It is meant to be joyous.

And yet.

Like all holidays, it is easily overtaken with memories and personal meaning. When I think of Easter (poor Christian that I admittedly am), I think of blowing bubbles on my Nana's porch on a foggy Sunday morning. I think of canatas and solos in the choir. I think of spending the afternoon with my friend Neha and her family. I think of the year that my family and I decided that steps should be taken, and I should move in with my grandfather (in the same house where I had once blown bubbles) who had a brain tumor.

And I think of the years after my marriage ended, when I had no marriage and no church and no faith and felt terribly and horribly alone.

Easter is meant to represent the love of a God who wants the best for His children. It is meant to be celebrated accordingly. 

But to me? It felt lonely. A celebration for people who had hope when I couldn't recognize it.

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Hope, by the way, is a strange creature. It's like a faithful dog. It doesn't leave you -- despite how you may banish it -- and will sneak back into the house, belly low to the ground, because it loves you and wants to be near you. I have (and this is just my experience) found that it comes back, determined and eager, long after there is any justification for its presence. Which is to say this: hope will find you when you no longer know if you can find it. It will nuzzle warmly against your heart and beg for a space in your life even at those moments when you have forgotten all about it.

You may not be able to find it in yourself to embrace it. You might be too tired or too anxious or too sad. Hope won't care. 

It will wait for you.

And it will be saying, "You are not ready for me. I get it. But when you are? I will be here and eager to hold you."

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The future -- and the present -- and the past, when it comes to it? They don't always resemble what we want them to. That is a fact.

But hope -- who snuggles up and doesn't let go -- reminds us that the best future is a result of outcomes and struggles and learning. It tells us that there is a reason. It tells us that where we have been and where we are will help us to arrive at a glorious and inspired future.

If we believe.

If we can trust.

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I am a terrible Christian by the standards of the church I grew up in. Divorced, painfully liberal, headstrong, determined, bossy, disobedient.

For all of that, I feel like I know this to be true: the message of Easter is one of hope. The notion that things can be terrible and seem hopeless -- because what's more terrible and hopeless than being betrayed by the ones you love and left for dead? -- and that despite that, despite everything, despite how bad it looks... You can survive. You can triumph.

You can have hope. 

The Christians say that this was God's gift: sacrifice with the hope of salvation.

I think that the gift is the idea that you can be as low as you can possibly be and yet still get up and face the promise of another day.

We can all be knocked down and hurt and defeated.

And still we rise. We all can rise. Every one of us.

That, to me, is the lesson of Easter. That hope and love are the most powerful forces in the world.

We rise.

We all can rise.