To See and Be Seen

           

A favorite song of mine is Mr. Cellophane from the musical Chicago. So much so that I think I’ve quoted it in this blog before.

Cellophane! Mr. Cellophane

Shoulda been my name, Mr. Cellophane

‘cause you can look right through me,

Walk right by me

And never know I’m there.

This song is a lament, not a celebration.

Being invisible hurts.

Ok, so this being a favorite song is maybe more related to my non-existent self-esteem/social anxiety thing that plagued me for years.  Well, that and that it is a great soft shoe number.  I wanted to be a part of things but EVERYTHING WAS TERRIFYING AND I WAS SO AWKWARD. All capital letters awkward.  In social situations words left me completely, and I floundered, sputtering and incoherent.  I remember in high school the boy I liked once asking a friend if I even talked.

My husband would undoubtedly find this question hilarious, based on the word tsunamis he endures when he gets home from work each night.  

Being invisible hurts.

Honestly, I think this is partly why the lack of closure at my old job rankles, that sense of being unseen, unworthy of engagement hurts.

I have been reading a fair amount about people in America who feel invisible, who exist unseen by those with more economic means, educational opportunities, social stability. My heart hurts for how so many Americans feel like cellophane, like something invisible and discardable. 

I have been guilty of not-seeing people when they have hurt me—of using that same disregard as a weapon. I am not proud of these times. Intentionally NOT seeing people is hurtful and there really is no excuse for it. I am sorry for those times.

On the flip side, being SEEN creates profound joy and connection.

My third-born and I trekked up to Maine last week to see my survivor kid on her 21^st birthday. When we entered the camp where she was volunteering, we were overwhelmed by the love, joy, and greetings of friends galore. Hugs, smiles, cheers—it was like we were the long lost travelers returning from dangerous journeys abroad. Like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes in about the first 10 minutes.

SO MUCH SMILING!

Buoyed, strengthened, flooded with positive emotion and connection—being SEEN just for being THERE in all our goofy glory--not for doing anything or bringing anything or anything other than just BEING THERE-- had a powerful effect on my spirit. It is hard to explain, but the connection and solidarity of being seen made me feel like I could get through another year. I could do the hard things. I could keep going.

I felt heart-full in a way I rarely experience.

What if we could do this for each other all the time? What if we could practice seeing those who are often unseen? The poor, the immigrant, the sick, the elderly, the cashiers, the baristas, the sanitation workers or linemen working in our towns? What if through a little smile and friendly comment we could foster those connections and make people feel SEEN?

What hurts could be healed? What hard things could we all do if we knew we all truly SAW each other, not just the good parts, but the tough parts too? 

             Certainly the folks at Camp have seen me at my neurotic worst (yeah not listing these), at my most vulnerable (Exhibit S for Sorafenib, aka Crazy Crying Lady 2012), at my weirdest (Exhibit O, head banging ORFFAPALOOZA!!).  And yet they do not turn away. They see. They embrace. They celebrate.

I just read Dignity by Chris Arnade, which explores those “unseen” in America. While a bleak sort of book, Arnade does suggest that if we really listened to each other, REALLY saw/heard what those in different parts of American society had to say, maybe we could fix some of the hate swirling around.  I have to agree. Seeing is the first step to connecting, which can grow into solidarity.

I am not sure how to make this happen on a broad scale, especially in the current climate of name-calling, “alternate facts”, and different moral priorities. But I know that on a small scale, I can practice truly SEEING those around me without judgement, without fear, with friendly curiosity and cheerful camaraderie. No cellophane on my watch.  Maybe, just maybe, we can figure out how to move right along with those we have not seen before; and that, I think, will make this world a better place.

The Slug Returneth

I wish I could say that I missed a full week because 

           a)      I won the lottery
           b)      Tim Gunn called and said, “We should do lunch, let’s make it work!” and I spent the rest of the week figuring out what to wear.
           c)      We were so busy raising money/doing advocacy work/saving the world that I had No Time to Write.

Unfortunately, the correct reason is 

d)      I am a slug.

Even this photo is sluggy.

But if I try to get it perfect, I may retreat into utter procrastination again. 

I guess self-awareness is the first step to improvement, but ugh. Slug-o-ramba. 

I have words. 

I have plans for words. 

I simply had no oomph to sit and type words. 

Some weeks are more ugh filled than others, for whatever reason. Chemical imbalance + work stress + schedule stress + a lot of friends getting medically smote AGAIN + holidays on the horizon just left me wandering the house a bit and trying to breathe deeply. I did get a lot done, but I just could not rouse myself to write anything down.

That is ok.

Ok, so it’s really not, the whole POINT of a deadline, even a self-imposed deadline, is to create some self-accountability. But in the big picture of life—so what? I missed a few days. 

This can be a tough time of year. Last year at this time things were very difficult. We lost a few good friends to the same medical situation my daughters face.  Facebook kept reminding me of our terrible December 5 years ago (and the weeks leading up to that, which in retrospect read like a horror novel where you know something bad will happen as soon as the protagonist opens the door, and you are like NOOOOOOOOO Don’t open the door! But they do anyway…ugh).  The early dark really oppresses my brain.

In listening to a podcast last week, the speakers referenced how when we try to get ourselves together, all sorts of things hit the fan or pop up—this has so much been my experience the last month or so. But they went on to add that things come up so they can be healed and worked through. Woo! 

But yeah, it still is a WORK. 

This year I am in a better place mentally, physically, emotionally. Cadbury made a fall chocolate, which helped take the edge off the early dark and kept me going until the Christmas ones appeared at Target last week. Even so—I have to be ok with the occasional slug week. 

I read a pretty mind-blowing little meditation this morning, written by a man named John Hull.  He spoke of how he needed to set “little, immediate goals” to get through the days:

“I must be content with little answers. This requires the careful planning of each day, which must be broken into its compartments. Each hour must have its particular skills, its various techniques, its little routines which enable something to be accomplished successfully. Otherwise, I will have a sense of pointless desolation, a feeling of being carried helplessly deeper and deeper into it. This becomes so sharp that I am almost overwhelmed….one fights such a thing by minute steps. One adopts tiny techniques which help one to do tiny things step by step.” 

EGADS!

Get. Out. Of. My. Head.

I am not the only one.

Tiny steps keep us moving right along. And I am not the only one who some days can only take tiny steps, or who needs to actively map tiny steps forward (like, writing “walk dog” on my to-do list in my bullet journal so I feel like I got something done, even if I add it after I actually walked her). 

I am grateful for the podcasts and writings that push me forward, and for the bullet journal that gives me a place to organize my distracted brain.  I am grateful (AGAIN, times infinity) for the medical respite that allows me to work on getting in better shape mentally and emotionally.  I MUST use this respite to be there for our friends in the thick of the battle—to be there for my children, who are growing up (or already grown up) before I could even say “Bob’s Your Uncle”—to be there for myself instead of avoiding thinking about life. 

So slug week is past. Onward. I can do it. We can do it!

Peace out, friends.

Cleaning out my Closets

the picture is my 8 year old's bed. note the shoe box lid and the softball mitt... ?



I find shows about hoarding inspirational.

I know, that’s alarming. My husband, a Neatnik par excellence, is appalled that I watch these shows. Granted, our house is cluttered, but we don’t have 57 birdcages or paths carved between boxes or mountains of garbage anywhere. Except in my teen’s room, but that’s another story.

Still, when I see these sad shows about people who are paralyzed by stuff, I feel motivated to clear out the clutter I don’t even know I’ve held on to. While my spouse claims Nothing In This House is His, as soon as I try to purge baby clothes or stuff that the kids owned when they were tiny, or the tattered copy of Raisin in the Sun he had to read as a freshman in high school, Mr. Neatnik turns into Mr. Sentimental. So I have to use my motivation while he’s at work.

Since my last post I have been once again trying to make progress against years of closets being so accommodating to my emotional inability to get rid of some things. I also suspect that in a previous life I must have survived (or not) the Great Depression, I always feel like Things Could Be Useful. Just often enough, they ARE, and this simply enables my mini-hoard.

Back in November/December I dug through old boxes of fabric to find the material I used to make maternity clothes when I was pregnant with my teen & my tween (now maternity clothes are Super Cute, not so much the case in the mid 90s)…and I used the dang floral and knit stuff to make American Girl doll clothes for a Christmas gift for my girls. Voila! A Rationale for my Hoard!

Still, I really, really like things to be clean and neat, and my brain functions MUCH better when the clutter levels are low. But just because I’m motivated doesn’t mean my KIDS , aka Heaps, Spreader, and Squirrel, are all equally on board with my Tidy Plan.

I find, too, that cleaning out closets really is a trip down Memory Lane. Some memories are happy ones, like finding my teen’s first Yankees outfit (in newborn size…it is so adorable), or discovering a ticket stub from a long ago trip to Broadway. Unfortunately, there are a lot of hard things hidden in closets. Maybe that’s why one famous rapper refers so darkly to cleaning out his closet. He wasn’t talking about cute outfits and ticket stubs, but the scary, hurtful things that we bury.

I hold onto stuff. I know it. Sometimes by holding on to THINGS, it helps keep pain at bay. But healing requires facing things, too. To quote a song my daughter is blasting in my house at this very moment, This is Where the Healing Begins…where light meets the dark.

Recently life has kind of raised the Joystick of Smite at our family again. I think every family has this experience at some point, we just kind of specialize in long drawn out smite. Either way, I now have a tv style deadline to de-clutter. I finally got the little baby clothes down to one sentimental bin (although there might be one more in the attic. Oops), I organized all the gift wrap, managed to fit the baskets for next year’s big fundraiser INTO a closet (instead of all over the basement & guest room), cleaned out my sock drawer, aka The World’s Most Futile Task If you Have a Hungry Laundry Room that Samples Socks…I have been busy, when I’m not wandering vacantly around my house pondering smite.

The point of all of this is that I finally at least attempted to de-clutter The Box. Probably every family has some equivalent of The Box. Even here it’s really a white basket, one see-through file thingie, a few books, and 3 magazine holders. The Box is like mixed martial arts. Some of it’s cool to see, but there’s a punch or a hidden kick that’s gonna come when you least expect it.

Honestly, the magazine holders only got a cursory glance. Some of them I had organized a few years ago, filing one failed plan after another in manila folders, bringing at least paper order to emotional and physical chaos. There are a few old calendars which I didn’t open. I know what’s inside, the daily record of a particular season of our Long Smite. The medical info in those magazine files stay.
The slant board, Braille work book, and foam Braille cell got put in the top of a closet. I don’t need those now (although the slant board would likely still be helpful), but I NEED to save them. Those are evidence of a small miracle, of eyes that literally were nearly blind and now see. Not perfectly, but they see. The Braille stuff stays.

Facing the white basket with the see-through file thingie and the photo box was bittersweet. In this box are the emotional records of our first active go-around in the Long Smite. Cards upon cards…scribbled pictures on hospital letterhead…notes from a pre-Make a Wish shopping trip…a Braille Mother’s Day Card…a picture of SpongeBob for a friend who succumbed to the same smite we fight, as well as elaborately stickered posters that same friend made for my daughter. A manila envelope full of addresses for thank yous I never wrote, to people all over the world who sent hats to my little girl.

A week ago, when we returned to the hospital, we brought a bag full of unworn hats from that time to donate to the kids in the clinic. Another bag waits for winter.

Admittedly, I did have the thought that perhaps bringing unused hats on a scan day was a bad idea.

Still, the Box holds more than cards and pictures. There’s pain in the Box, for sure, but there’s so much love. Love from people we didn’t know, love from friends we only know because we share the same pain, love from family and acquaintances, love from people who just happened to hear about that kid who needed encouragement and thought they should do a good thing.

When I look in the Box, I see the goodness of people that sometimes is so hidden in modern society, in berserko style Jersey traffic, in customer service calls gone awry. The Box holds goodness and love.

My child wants to look through the Box again. Hopefully in looking there SHE can draw the strength she needs for whatever lies ahead. Again to quote that loud song, “grace collides with the dark inside”…the Box does have grace within. I truly hope this IS where the healing begins. The Box stays.

I guess I’ll stick to purging t-shirts and working through the multitude of scrunchies in my girls’ room, and leave the Box alone. Maybe my spouse will finally let me get rid of that copy of Raisin in the Sun…