Our Aurora Safari

So I have finally--finally!--started going through some of my Northern Lights photos.  Well, maybe not all of them yet, but I might have skipped ahead to at least some of these.

Our Aurora Safari was toward the end of our Norway trip, leaving out of our northernmost stop in Tromsø, 200 miles north of the Artic Circle, to drive even further north up into the mountains  With our booking voucher in hand, we found our pick-up point and were welcomed on to our bus where we waited for our remaining party members.  They gave us a reflective slap bracelet, some instructions, and a sign in sheet before we closed up the door and watched a video about the Aurora Borealis, what it is and why.  A drive later, we bundled up into the thermal suits--or as I prefer to call them, "Marshmallow Suits." 

Whenever I'm at a concert or a fireworks show or any other kind of event, I scoff at least a little inside when I see someone recording through their phone for the entirety of the event.  It seems that in some ways it's more important to be seen having fun that to actually have it.  There are some people, therefore, that only experience everything through a screen, even when they are present.  I want to tell these people to stop documenting and start experiencing. 

But this time, I found I had to eat my words.

While we managed to find clear skies, the activity was still low.  Andy and I stared up at the sky and saw streaks in the sky of grey streaked with a bit of green, looking almost like clouds against the stars.  It was decidedly there, but not as brilliantly as maybe it could have been, and I'll admit that was a little disappointing. 

However, a part of that information sheet we were given upon boarding was a specific section regarding camera settings and our guides certainly knew how to get us on the right path.  We figured out the loaned tripod, fumbling around in the dark or by the headlights of our bus.  The first few were blurry, sure, but once we started honing down on the focus and all else, then the color and context started to become clear.  The camera picked up more of the color and the brilliance that we could with the naked eye.  Soon, we had a cluster of people behind us that would hold their breath with us, waiting the eight seconds for the shutter to finish so we could collectively admire the colors in the latest picture. 

This time, seeing through a screen was the best way to have and share the experience.  Please, enjoy!

And this one was taken by our guide with his camera.

Why Andy and I Schedule in Advance

On the whole, I reject the idea of "training" one's spouse.  I don't seek to break Andy of specific habits (or create them) through ringing a bell or handing him an Altoid.  However, there are those components where we can recognize that a particular way of saying something or small little habits can make a huge difference for the other, one of us is willing to make a change of our own to accommodate the other.  For example, I unload the dishes when my magnet is on top on the dishwasher and check in with how awake Andy is before launching into the day's logistics.  

Guess who's the morning person?

In that spirit, there is one practice that I have asked Andy to do for me.  Now, with my health as it is, I run out of energy but not in the typical way that people run out of energy.  When your average person is tired, they rest--maybe just a good night's sleep--and can move on with their lives.  When I get a certain kind of tired, it's flat-out dangerous.  Other persons who live with chronic fatigue or those wishing to understand them, I suggest this article as a great resource.  I have to constantly budget my energy.  It's difficult living with an invisible disease, in that I have few external markers to what I might be feeling (partially because I'm good at putting a smile over it), and the constant calculations, well, I have to balance my need to belong with my need for self-care.  And it's exhausting.  And it's oddly lonely.  

Enter Andy's new habit:  I have asked Andy to ask me "How's your energy?" at least once a day.  Now, part of this habit was to say this EXACT phrase.  We'd had a couple discussions on this where I told him that he wasn't meeting that need because of the misunderstanding that "How are you?" counted with the same weight.  "How are you?" is a ritual, part of a call and response that while polite does not seek an honest answer.  Similarly, "How was your day?" is an invitation to talk about work or other things that I have been thinking about.  "How is your energy?" by contrast is specific and more importantly a sign by Andy that he recognizes that this is something that I'm constantly dealing with.  In that moment, he's with me in solidarity, and he's supportive in a way that I don't tend to receive a lot of support when I'm not actively hospitalized/recovering from something massive.  I also have an invitation, then, to talk about a subject that otherwise is often quashed.  My disease is chronic.  It can get better, but it's never over.  

I've mentioned before that every time I am told about an event or am invited to join a group or asked to be part of something, I immediately go into some calculations in my head, trying to size up what my energy might be at that time.  This has led to more and more planning in advance for Andy and I.  On the one hand, work already has me slated for a few things next February, Andy even further out from that, so we plan vacations with a certain amount of care anyway, making sure that we at least have time blocked off where we can, penciling people in.  On the other hand, seeing how my week is spread out, I can assess much better how I need to prepare for my week.  Maybe I need to skip the gym on Monday to have enough umph on Wednesday or I should skip choir this week so that I can enjoy a drive out to see some friends and family that weekend or I might decline spending time with friends to take a night in and recover.  I plan.  I stratagize.  I ensure that I have enough self-care time to balance out.

What does this mean, then, when faced with spontaneous plans?  

Well.  Sometimes it's okay; sometimes it's not.  On the whole, I don't think that anyone holds a grudge when I decline; when possible, I do try to follow with an alternative date, since someone made the initiative to reach out to me.  

However, I always tune in to how the ask is made, regardless of my decision.  Scenario A "We're blowing through town on Xday--hold Xday open for us!" is vastly different from Scenario B "We're blowing into town on Xday; would you be available any time between X and Y?"  The former isn't really a question--my time is demanded and expected.  Sometimes Scenario A comes in a more subtle form that involves a series of emotional pleas settling down to the main point of "drop your schedule for me;" the demand is still present, just wrapped nicely.  (That being said, there is a difference between "it's an emergency" and "this is planned but we didn't bother telling you before now.")   My brother said something recently that resonates with me:  a question that you can't say no to isn't really a question.  Yes, I'm not obligated to go in augmented Scenario A, but I don't feel that way, with how the emotional leverage has been dumped in.  

Scenario B, firstly gives me an actual choice.  It recognizes that I have a schedule instead of making assumptions, extending a courtesy not shown in Scenario A.  While I will want to be there and be included, I don't have the added pressure.  I am wanted, but I am not demanded.  

On the event that I do refuse, asking the question "Are you sure?" or variants thereof up the resentment factor twenty-fold:  it is hard for me to refuse when I would much rather do everything, so trying to change my decision feels like a total disregard for my feelings and all of that careful, constant calculation.  I know my body best, unless there's a status bar floating over my head that I've never noticed.  

Yes, I'm bloody-well sure.

I wouldn't want anyone reading this to be afraid to ask Andy or myself to a last minute anything--sometimes, it fits in the schedule magically and we're all glad for it.  We love spending time with people and having adventures.  We try to fit in so many things to our schedule that we've hit burn-out far more than is healthy.  

How we check in with each other is different because we have different factors; how we plan is different because we have different elements to consider.  And so does everyone else.  I try to treat people's time with the same courtesy that I expect them to extend to mine.  I like to follow up the "How are you?" ritual with a genuine question about the other's well-being because I know deep in my bones that there are people that need that invitation, outside of the surface pleasantries.  

I have a few key moments that stick out in my mind where someone reached out to me unexpectedly and how much it meant in that moment.  Jared O. asking once how my health was specifically one day at church; Craig C. with some probing questions into what some of my euphemisms actually meant; separate reminders from both of my mothers pointing out that they understood that I was hurting more than I let on (both fathers on separate occasions, too, now that I mention it).  Those points stick out so vividly because they are rarer than I would like.  I do not mean to imply that others don't care if I did not list you specifically, but these are samples of a significant moment where that concern made it through in a way that touched me, addressing a need I didn't realize was there in that moment. 

I want to spread that on.  Even if it's something as small as setting plans with someone in a way that acknowledges them and their needs.  This is a small olive branch of courtesy, but I believe it is appreciated on many levels.  In doing so, I recognize in one breath that they have components in their life happening that I may not know about while also stating that I appreciate their company.  I find that these simple shifts in wording, potentially opening the door for deeper connections, can continue to build more empathy around us. 

Quick Note

Hey, all!  

A quick and heartfelt thank you to everyone who submitted an entry for Andy's "Build-Up Book" for his birthday.  

For anyone who missed the memo (because I ultimately did lose track of whom I had sent what), this book is now full of entries from different people in Andy's life reminding him why we love/appreciate him, words of encouragement, stories, etc.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for helping me make this real.  

Anyone that would still like to add something, it is no longer a surprise now, but additional entries are certainly welcome.  Feel free to email me (or Andy) directly with anything you might like to add.  

Thank you all again!

Our New Pool Table

A small excerpt from the Peterson Household:

So Andy has had a life goal of having a pool table.  Naturally, this was not an option in our previous residence, but upon moving, Andy quickly sized up our new basement and started plotting.  The ideal was a slate table, something that we could enjoy a casual game whenever we wanted to.  I was not opposed to the idea, however I was watching the moving costs and keen on not spending any more money at the moment, aside from some kind of extraordinary deal.   

Well, Andy has uncanny luck for finding good deals.  He found a new table from Sears for $200.  However, after we received notification that delivery was completed, we were very confused to have a pool cue and no other piece of the table in question.  Long story short, Sears messed up and we came out with a free $200 pool cue and a lot of ill-will to Sears for how little they were interested in helping us.  Andy was disappointed but undeterred. 

And THEN, he found a table on Craigslist.  Being out of town, he asked if I was okay going to take a look at it.  While I wasn't pleased, I told some people where I was going (with a well-being check-in time established) and went to look at it anyway.  The fellow who sold it to us was very pleasant and, for a small fee, helped us move it in.  I stayed out of the way for that one, but it involved a lot of grunting, a small gouge in the wall, some lightbulbs/light fixtures we had to put back once the table made it past that point, and a couple trips to Lowe's for a few screws and nails that needed to be replaced after dismantling. 

Andy set immediately, then, to a gleeful reassembly.  I stayed upstairs, a couple shades of annoyed:  the timing was rushed, the final product wasn't exactly what Andy wanted, we were recovering financially from moving, and it had involved a reshuffling of schedules a couple times over.  But at least Andy was happy with it, feeling accomplished in meeting that goal.  Eventually,  Andy called me down to test out his new table. 

And now we get to the part I want to tell today. 

Andy sets up for the first game.  We put the triangle to the side and he lined up for the break.  One sharp hit, the crack of the balls scattering away, and the cue ball went right into the pocket--instant loss.  I had a good long laugh and asked if he wanted to play again.  He scowled. 

So then we set up for a second game.  I broke on this one, getting us off to a new start.  After a few balls in, Andy connects with one ball, sending the 8-ball right into a pocket, slow motion "no no no no no!" and all.  He had a long sigh as I started laughing again. 

Third game, Andy was determined that this was going to go better.  He got a ball in on the break and proceeded to get a commanding lead, knocking in one after the other.  While I still had three balls left on the table, Andy was ready to call his final shot.  He aims, and sinks the 8-ball in...followed immediately by the cue ball. 

Why have you betrayed me, table?

Between bouts of laughter, I declared that winning 3-0 was enough for one night and headed upstairs, feeling much more cheerful about the prospect of our new pool table than I had before. 

To the Random Fast Food Worker Last Week

I went to Dairy Queen the other day.  It was a slow part of the evening, after the rush had left where the people remaining might have been thinking about closing, but it was certainly too early to begin any of those procedures.  As such, there was a small group of their employees talking to each other.  I was greeted upon arriving, but since I headed directly for the cakes, they gave me space to look through the cases at my leisure.  After a couple of minutes, I found my cake in question and walked it up to the counter.  The conversation was continuing and while my person was trying to pull away in her body language to tend to me, the rest of the group was not letting her go so easily, even as the group started dispersing.  

As such, her first words to me were "Sorry about that."

I replied with "No worries, I know what that's like."  I've worked fast food and retail--I've had coworkers that wanted to continue on our conversation and found it difficult to politely extract myself so that I could take an order, offer assistance, etc.  I wasn't upset in the slightest.

What she said next though, confused me:  "It's just Dairy Queen--I don't take it seriously anyway."

I did not have a reply to that.  I just felt uncomfortable.  I know that she was trying to brush off her own embarrassment, but her self-depreciating statement about her job was at the least a little gauche.  

Naturally, the whole way home, I was thinking about what I should have said.  Here's the best that I came up with.  

Firstly, I reject the idea that "it's just Dairy Queen."  As a society, we expect these services to be available.  What would happen if all fast-food and similar service industries stopped? Along that vein, I will also group other kinds of "undesirable" jobs.   Garbage collectors as another example have an un-glamorous job, too, yet leaving all of that garbage around is gross, unsanitary, and down-right dangerous.  Driving a truck may not be the job you hear bragged about at your high school reunion, but we rely on goods being delivered and available on time.  These are important parts of our current world.  That means that we need people to work those jobs.  These workers are an important part of our society that we take for granted.  They deserve to be treated with respect.  These people should also receive a living wage--I do not accept the idea that people in these very necessary jobs "deserve" to be poor. 

Additionally, if we presume that she was not taking it seriously because it was a first job or a part-time job for spending money, even if it only temporary, the experience is still worthwhile.  Working in some kind of service industry, too, is important to build that empathy--it is inevitable that you will run into some kind of service industry on a routine basis, whether that is Comcast, your insurance company, or a last minute lunch.  And it is a good skill to learn how to serve and care for other people, building empathy in that capacity as well. 

The best comeback that I came up with, though, was "you should always take your job seriously; you should never take yourself too seriously."  Even if the job didn't mean much to her, she should still be present in it.  All jobs are worth doing well.  However, we should have a sense of humor about ourselves. That's how we can laugh at ourselves when we spill milkshake down our front and allow that one particularly cranky customer to roll off our back.  It keeps you grounded and purposed and yet allows room for fun. 

Any other thoughts out there?

The Tier Test

When Andy and I are driving around town, inevitably there comes a moment when we're behind a slow driver.  Maybe it's the kind of person that is driving ten miles under the speed limit.  It could be one of those cars that has to slow down to two miles an hour to make a turn.  Perhaps they are the sort that goes over train tracks as though their vehicle were held together with wishes and a little duct tape.  Regardless, we both found ourselves easily and thoroughly annoyed, in a very particular sort of road rage.

So we started making a game of it.  I call it the Tier Test. 

One day, when behind one of these kinds of drivers, I angrily made a comment that they were driving "like they have an unrestrained cake in the back seat."  I still have no idea where that came from.  We both paused and had a good laugh.  Soon enough, we were much less annoyed at our pokey motorist (if still relieved when they moved into the turn lane).  This has turned into measuring other drivers by how many tiers of stacked cake must hypothetically be in their car to explain their driving habits, finding that outline a reason--even a ridiculous one--helped us brush it off.  Below are the following levels of situations I project into strangers' cars. 

1.  Buckled-In Sheet Cake
Have you ever buckled a box into your car?  We do it.  Keeps it from sliding everywhere.  At this phase, you are confident in your turns and otherwise drive more or less normally, quick off the line and a bother to no one.

Accordion as example for cake, here

2.  Loose Sheet Cake
There is some shifting around as you accelerate, the kind of light shifting that makes you think "right, I picked up that sheet cake from the bakery," but you're also aware that a little shifting back and forth isn't going to hurt it too much.  However, turns start to slow down a bit because even though a back/forth motion seems okay, there's something ominous about the long, slow sliding sound as it moves the full way across the seat/trunk.  As a result, turns are slightly slower, but no real impediment to your fellow motorists.

3.  Two Tier (all assumed loose henceforth)
These shift a bit differently, sliding with a slow, dense decisiveness on turns that seems a little unsafe, once it does start moving.  The change in weight distribution likely means that it doesn't seem to move too much on acceleration/deceleration, but those turns are now officially slowing down.

4.  Three Tier
The cake is beginning to slide more aggressively now when it starts sliding and you're suddenly concerned about how a bump might affect that cake--with that added height, what if part of it were to hit the ceiling?  Considerable slowness around any kind of bump in the road, slower turns (if still relatively confident) and beginning to consider how your acceleration might shift the cake around, too.  Overall speed begins to slow.  The light turned yellow?  Likely continue.

5.  Four Tier
Now you're getting worried about stability more urgently.  Very slow off the line, afraid that any sudden acceleration change might shift the cake and topple parts of it over.  Overall speed reduction is officially noticeable and vexing to your neighbors.  Turns are taken quite slowly.  The light turned yellow?  Likely stop.

6.  Five Tier
Why did you come down this road if you knew there were speed bumps anyway?  Each one is delicately approached, with as gentle a roll-over as possible for both axles.  Turns are taken in such a way those most prone to travel sickness barely notice, nearly gliding to a complete, calm stop for each one.  Other people might be following you closely, since your speed now is at least ten miles under the limit.  The light turned yellow?  Definitely stop.

7.  Five Tier WITH Delicate Spun Sugar Work
Your driving like you're trying to diffuse a bomb at the same time.  Every bump is a cause for concern and everyone knows it behind you.  Sure hope no one wants to go the speed limit, and you might be the reason a minimum gets posted here next week.  Turns are agonizingly slow.  By the time you're off the line, the light is almost ready to change back.  This cake will be there in one piece with the delicate sugar arches in place, dammit, even if that means it gets there tomorrow.

Have fun next rush hour!