Lori and Melsha talk whims and joy. To start, how do we notice whims in our lives? And, what do we do once we see them? Melsha talks about her experience, and how it has brought so much more joy to her and those in her world.
Read MoreOne day after Bell Canada's Let's Talk initiative, where this company raised the profile of mental illness while raising over six million dollars, I'm thinking about thriving alongside depression more than ever. Alison Gresik's book Pilgrimage of Desire: An Explorer's Journey Through the Labyrinths of Life dives into a real account of moving through it all. About expanding and finding glimmers of joy, even while feeling unwell. Her tremendously popular article 10 Signs of Walking Depression talks a bit about what near-constant, low-grade depression feels like. I have experienced extreme depression, the take-over-all-functions-for-a-few-years kind, but I can relate.
The following encompasses my thoughts on Pilgrimage of Desire, and are also posted on the book's Amazon.com page.
I finished reading, tears streaming down my cheeks, with fist pumped in the air for the labyrinthine journey of the heroine. For the journey of Alison, and her way-finding.
Alison's writing style brought me in from the start. I was curious about this studious and proper young girl, and wanted to know, "Will that shell crack?" "Where will she find happiness?" "Where will she find fulfilment?" And, "Seriously, are there people who stick it together from first teenage kiss through marriage and families and moves and kids and unwellness?"
And what I discovered was depths and breadths—the expanse—of human experience. Some of us journey geographically; some, internally; others, interpersonally; and beyond. I felt the intensity of Alison's journeying through all of it, and felt invited along. I felt like I was tasting spicy chicken curry along with the protagonists, feeling the heat of the sun in Penang and the breeze-on-skin while biking the Netherlands. I felt hope in the possibilities of doing what I want to do, of finding the friendly guide in resistance on my own river-path. Now, I feel delighted by the travel story, inspired by the heroine story, and invited to try the flow exercises. I empathize with the physical and mental unwellness—like I could reach out and touch it from the writing—and understand how these moments can be guides toward our better lives.
In a word, I feel touched. And I have been well entertained along the journey.
I Mean Well original mixed media painting by WhimsicalFunk on etsy.
I have had it up to here lately with "shoulds." And not even my own! It's a word that I've been hearing frequently, and I don't think that the people who say it are even thinking about its meaning when they throw it out there. In seemingly well-meaning phrases like,
"You should call me!"
"You should totally watch [TV-show-of-the-moment]. You'd love it!"
"You should eat more green smoothies: they are so good for you."
"You should come to yoga class. It's really good right now."
And all without any lead-up questions like, "What are you watching these days: are you looking for a new series?" Or, "You're looking for a new yoga class? Maybe I can suggest one."
But when people butt into my life, pushing (I can't even say "offering") solutions to things that I haven't identified as problems, I get edgy. What is it that you are thinking that I need to do in my life that you are convinced that I am not taking care of?
Oh. Is that me being touchy? Yes. I don't like being told what to do. Especially, completely out of context. If I need advice on my diet, I'll ask. I don't need to feel guilted into calling people: I already have a family of origin. Your shouldding me takes the energy between us to a new low. Actually, it's an energy dead-end. Like you know better than me about my life, you with your "shoulds."
Meanwhile, I understand that it's a figure of speech. It's a control-gathering way of trying to be helpful, or offering up friendship. I have compassion for the breakdown of language, and the time it takes to explore a topic before prescribing a "solution" that's on your mind. Our media culture is filled with solutions: how to "get rid of that belly" (really? I'm kind of okay with mine), "reduce your wrinkles" (ditto) and "downplay figure flaws" (seriously. I'm flawed?!) Isn't that we have a body completely human and completely ridiculous?
And here's where I politely ask that when you're thinking of giving me advice that I didn't ask for, could you please reconsider what it is that you're really after. Is it that you think I might like something that you like? How about asking, "Hey Lor, have you heard of XX? I think you might like it." Or, "Remember when you used to come to our yoga class? What's happening for you that you can't make it? We miss you there." And then I have a chance to respond. Having a chance to respond is critical to kind communication. It deepens connection. It keeps energy flowing. And it reminds me that we are, both, completely compassion-filled: for ourselves and for each other. We don't play with the sharp edges that stick out of "shoulds." We're simply friends sharing our care for one another, on whatever topic comes up.
(originally published on January 14, 2014, at my now defunct former space borealtrim.com)
emerald city, original illustration by yanivshimony on etsy
In the early 90s, I worked on a local crew at arena shows. Most of them were in Red Deer, Alberta, so: lots of country-pop bands. It was fascinating at first. I got to turn down the lights for Rita MacNeil! (She had faux Turkish rugs and silk umbrella trees, packed in road boxes, like the amps and mic stands. They made up her set.) I wrapped cords for Kenny Rogers! (His stage was in the round, with band members underneath. When we cleaned up, it was another kind of false floor made up of dozen-clutches of red and yellow roses, heaps of them, thrown there by the made-up, gold-chained women in the stands.) I worked the green room for Sharon, Lois, and Bram! (They cursed violently as soon as they left their audience of four-year-olds. Surely, for the sole benefit of those locals delivering their half-time buffet in the green room.) And I ran a band manager down highway two to his Calgary flight in my 1981 Toyota Tercel. We were late. I got a speeding ticket. He split the fine with me. But mostly, he seemed grumpy about being woken from his between-shows nap.
What glamour!
But really, you know that there was no glamour at all. There were shall-not-be-named jerks, who were full of themselves. They hired travelling crews who were full of themselves and screamed profanities, over headset, at local crew. There were thoughtful souls, like Alan Jackson, who had a complete suite of road boxes to himself. We thought he was the most egotistical EVER, until we realized that he was NBA-sized. All of his equipment was at least a foot taller than anything ever seen before. He was kind, thanking the crew and everyone else. His crew was kind, calling us all together, team-meeting-style, to thank us for working the show. They gave everyone T-shirts.
Now that I am more of a grown-up, I can see more clearly from these productions, where fear and love lie. Fear: must scream at local crew before I get screamed at and love: t-shirts for the people!
I can see more clearly how the constructs of on-stage and off-stage work. On-stage: delight the children! Off-stage: shock the staff! On stage: make it look like my living room. Off stage: these comforts I present to you go in a case on the bus like everything else.
We each choose our show times, and how we will show up for them: they want to see me, so they will only see me, not the people who make the music. And what happens after: the roses are great, but clearly I can't take them.
And I more clearly see among my contemporaries now, how we make these choices every day. We decide when we go "on-stage" how much we reveal. We decide how we treat our helpers and our audiences. We decide what our "off-stage" looks like, and how much of a performance that might also be.
We choose how we set up our presences, we choose how we show up for them, and we choose whether we bring the roses home.
And sometimes, what we really, really want is a nap.
Life is beautiful street art graffiti print by StreetArtOnCanvas on etsy.
That's what to say about someone else's weight: zilch. In their presence or away from it. Unless you are a health care professional, who is in this moment hired to advise on someone else's weight, there is nothing to say. Nada.
A friend once told me how she was so shy, she nearly didn't go to university. She said, at that time, that when she went to her local coffeeshop, the server would bark at her, "Hey, fat girl. Wanna coffee?" She'd nod and take her drink, not speaking because it wasn't okay to be the size she was.
When I met her, she was strong and lively. She ultimately lost a lot of weight. We didn't talk about why or how. She looked sick. And then she died.
In this part of the world; at this time of the year, in particular; people want to talk about their weight. How they think they are too fat, and they made a resolution. Or, how happy they are that they are the same size that they were last year. Much widely-distributed communication is about how we need to think about changing our size. In particular, to become smaller.
People get bigger; people get smaller. We observe. We don't know if it's due to physical illness, mental illness, physician-demanded weight change, healthy or unhealthy dieting, and so on.
But really, aren't there more interesting things to talk about? More interesting than size and weight? I want in on those conversations.
Because life, in all of its sizes, is beautiful. Isn't it?
Where indicated, banner images by Jovi Klak + FO Photography. Other photographs and words (c) Lori Claerhout 2014-2024
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