Normalcy

Another discussion came up for Andy and I as we were reflecting on our time together as a family.  In the context of coping with my permanent ostomy, the idea of finding "a new normal" has come up many times, that I am struggling with an ongoing grieving process and attempting to establish how to live with this permanent fixture in our lives.  It's like losing a loved one--grief isn't about crying for two months and then being magically better.  With each new experience, there's a part of you that wonders what that missing person would have thought or how they would have enjoyed that particular event--another wave of grief rolling in, fresh and painful as it ever was, even if you've found a few ways to cope more easily.  Grief is a process.  So is living.  Living with grief is a different process.  

Anyway, Andy's observation was that "normal" once it has been found only lasts for maybe three to six months at a time.  I had to chew on that.  Obviously, since I'm scribbling it out here, I'm still chewing on it.  I cannot disagree in principle, though I might have a few thoughts on the timeline.  

As a general example, right now, I reserve early Saturday afternoons to get some writing time in, I teach Sunday School at church on Sunday mornings, Wednesdays are choir practice, I go to the gym on Mondays and Fridays, and I play D&D with two separate groups on Thursdays and Fridays.  Andy and I tend to reserve Tuesday evenings, Saturday mornings and evenings, and Sunday afternoons for each other, or otherwise taking in some individual decompression time as needed.  

BUT, Tuesdays can also be times we invite folks over to our place.  Saturdays sometimes change to different adventures.  Choir is ending for the summer.  I've added in rowing with my normal Zumba times, and, actually, one of my normal scheduled times is not meeting over the course of the summer, so I'm gearing up to get back into the pool again.  The next two weekends I'll be out of town on Saturday and Sunday.  Even though the hours at work are the same, seemingly as a constant, I have a number of different projects that I'll find myself immersed in that make for a very different feel on any given day.  

These are all comparatively small changes.  But my "normal" schedule for the week is wholly disrupted.  The scaffolding is similar, but it's definitely different.  Even some of these consistencies have not been consistencies until comparatively recently.  

But as human beings, we like patterns.  We're comfortable in patterns.  We stand in the same place in gym class and even get territorial when someone takes our stall in the bathroom at work.  I've been going to the same Starbucks to write, even though there are several options in town.  Although, I admit it is fun to sit in someone's spot and watch the confusion on their face from time to time--some people will even confront you about it.  

Andy and I had recently been hurting for a normal week, that we needed to not be doing everything for a little while; and yet, I'm still not sure what that even means.  How much of the week has to be the same in order to "count" as a normal week?  If I have a substitute gym instructor, is that significant enough to knock out the routine?  If D&D is cancelled, does that make the week out of sync?  What are the necessary parameters that need to be in place to make something normal?  When does something happen often enough for it to become the normal?  Does the speed at which things change affect how soon elements are considered normal?  When we want a normal week, do we really mean a boring or predictable week, or are we needing to recognize that the week we're living is actually quite normal and our perspective is what isn't?  Are there different levels of normal based on the person that make the week count as normal or not, getting into macro v micro?  Where is the line for when we can and cannot comfortably break the pattern?  

At what point can we shed the illusion and just live?

On Six Years of Marriage Communication

Andy and I celebrated our anniversary this year by going to see Hamilton (which was fraggin' awesome), and revisiting our tradition of watching our wedding video.  This year, we also considered updating the Peterson Family Scroll.  This is a gift that Andy gave me for our second wedding anniversary, a stretch of cream-colored fabric between two stained wooden rods, a special place to record significant milestones in our lives.  We've fallen behind on this--our Norway trip or moving to our new place from last year on it as of yet, and I believe that we were also intending on retracing a few other significant dates, like when we started working at Skyward if they weren't already present.

This sparked some interesting conversation--what counts as a significant event, worthy of being scribbled onto our permanent, family legacy?  What things are significant now that we don't realize are the start of something larger?  What have we learned?  

Even as Andy and I reflect on our six years of marriage to one another, it's fascinating to me to try and quantify what moments really meant a lot to us, which thoughts over these few years pop up first when we reflect back.  Our Norway trip was a big one, understandably, not only for the adventure and positive memories but for a few different, deep conversations and even a couple of heated ones.  Oddly enough, these arguments and some of those hard conversations stuck out to us, too.  I can remember clearly one of the first major breakthroughs we had in our marriage communication, when everything was falling apart with my health in our first year of marriage, and we each had to convince the other person that talking about what we were really feeling was better for our relationship than trying to shield the other from any additional negativity.  I wouldn't say that we have this perfected by any means, but we have some solid communication groundwork.  Some of this we've learned out of necessity and some of it stems from who we are--I don't have a lot of patience for passive-aggression; Andy doesn't appreciate mind games.  As a result, we are predispositioned to honesty and a bit more bluntness.  

Some conversations are still hard to have, but the framework that we've built in, that we have a way to fight, makes it easier.  As an example from the Norway trip itself, I didn't feel Andy was trusting me with directions; I had had more experience with mass transit as well as the half-memorized itinerary, and I was rather frustrated that he had to confirm each stop, action, platform, etc. with staff (e.g. the train route name indicates the final stop of the train but it still stopped at our necessary location; I was heading to our correct platform only to turn around and find that he had peeled off to find someone who worked at the train station to ask).  After a long plane flight and a few of these in short succession and we arrived in our first hotel room, I let him know what was on my mind.  Later on in the trip, Andy expressed his frustration that he didn't feel I was respecting my body's limits in the effort to try and pack in too much into our time there.

And when I say "expressed frustration," things can get a little sharp and it's on the edge of argument in that our emotions are definitely heightened and that we're tackling larger concerns but respect is still maintained.  I can tell Andy that there's something I need to get off of my chest and trust that he will listen to what I have to say.  He can trust me that this is a safe arena to discuss his concerns without being "punished" for it.  Even though we can be furious with the other, we have strategies and boundaries established in how to talk about some of these larger issues or grievances.  That's not to say that everything is solved in that one conversation.  We have a few reoccurring fights--I feel that I carry the emotional weight of the house without adequate appreciation; Andy feels that I'm too tight-fisted with elements of our budget and that I try to pack too much in to our collective schedule without respecting his schedule--but we actively talk about them.  

However, what makes the biggest difference in my mind is how we end the conversation--we brainstorm ways to try to prevent the issue from happening again.  His feelings are important to me, so even if I don't understand why he's upset, I listen to him work through it out loud and try to make any behavioral changes that might be necessary or suggest some alternations in mutual conversation that can stand as a flag to the other or otherwise approach the concern more smoothly.  As an example from a recent conversation, both parties can invoke the right to digest the current issue before coming up with the right apology, additional questions, etc. so that they can consider the issue fully rather than feeling bombarded in that moment, once both parties have had the opportunity to feel fully heard.  Another helpful one:  "is there anything else you would like me to understand?"  This one is useful in a few context, but in this one it helps the argument feel complete, that there's nothing else lingering or incomplete now that there is a space where it has been welcomed.  After any additional components are addressed, we move on to that planning stage, the mutual problem-solving state where we're both suggesting strategies and working together once more, with honest "what would help you in those moments?" or "what would you like from me when you're feeling that way?" or "how could I be more clear for you?" kinds of statements.  Effectively and intentionally, we're a team again.  Sometimes, we still need to be reminded to follow through on some of those changes, but that's a part of the process, too.

And with these parameters on how we bring up important matters and hurt feelings as a couple, we're able to move past them more healthfully.  Being able to work through the concern, too, also gets us back to other things faster, to move on to other things and adventures.  I wouldn't say our communication is perfect, but it's damn strong for six years, in my humble opinion.  

That's my Secret

There was a point when I was getting back into lap swimming again, as I have for a couple different intervals in my life, where I clearly remembered just enough to realize how very out of shape I was.  I have taught swim lessons through the Red Cross, and I've been part of swim teams--I remember what I needed to do to have the most efficient and effective stroke, but convincing my body to do it correctly took a lot of retraining.  I knew the theory, but I had to help my body remember the right movements, particularly with any new changes in my body at that age, at whatever point I was now in my life.  

Whelp.  Now I have something similar happening in therapy.  I'm aware of certain things and different components that I need to work on, but actually implementing them and acting on them, that's the tricky part right about now.  And it's immensely frustrating.  I know that I need to look toward my body with compassion, for example, but I'm so indoctrinated into thinking of it as an "other" or at least outside of my sense of self that it's no easy trick just to snap out of those habits.  Lots of retraining and mental frameshifts.  Plenty of guilt and annoyance as I don't make good on the things that I know I should be doing.  

What really felt weird, though, was when we discussed how inauthentic I am to my experience sometimes.  

I balked at that.  I mean, I would go as far to say that I pride myself on being able to pour out thoughts on my blog of those different things that really matter to me, to lay bare the experience as I see it and discuss it with others.  What he said next though made some parts of it really click:  "you don't have to be nice about your experience with Crohn's."  

I don't have to be nice about this.  Well, that's just weird.  But I know with how hard his words hit my chest that they were true.  There's a part of this experience that I hold back. I filter out parts a little too thoroughly sometimes.   

I'm giving myself permission to be angry today.

I'm angry.  Deeply angry.  I'm goddamn fucking furious.  

I know you in that moment, Bruce.

At my body.  At the things I have to do to get stuff done.  The roadblocks and adaptations and appointments and setbacks.  Why that anger comes out as tears and is so intertwined with grief.  I don't know how to let it out "safely," but I'm damn good at ignoring it until it hits critical mass.  It's always there, sometimes triggered by dropping something on my foot or forgetting my coffee at home that morning.  I can channel it sometimes into getting things done or exercise parts of it out, but there's a part that remains...or recharges, I suppose.  

I'm deeply envious of people who can just ignore what their body is doing for 90% of the day, pausing when they are hungry or thirsty or when they're trying to get into the correct yoga pose.  I'm envious when people don't know the name of their doctor or make it to August without having to update their insurance information at Walgreens.  Or have no idea what their deductible is because they've never come close or are angry that they have to have insurance that they'll never use anyway.  Or people who wonder why there are that many lines on the medication part of their medical forms (or people who make these kinds of forms with only ONE LINE for previous surgeries/procedures).  

Want to complain about how that shirt makes you look fat?  I'll think about how I'll always have this asymmetrical bulge underneath mine once the bag fills up.  Crunches from the gym hurt your stomach?  Well, at least you can make them without worrying about the giant hole in your abdominal wall.  Tummy hurts after some greasy fast food?  Golly gee, that sounds like the worst thing ever!  Totally hungover after a weekend of drinking and revelry?  I've never been actually drunk because of how it can counteract with my medications or how it could cause/exacerbate a Crohn's flare.  I've never been okay with casual sex because trusting someone with my fragile body is a HUGE issue, hell, even in my marriage it's still an issue, but, please, make another sixteen sex jokes in this conversation.  When are we having kids?  Well let me just subject my body and all of its unpredictably to match your ridiculous expectations and timelines, even if getting pregnant is likely to be very dangerous on some levels for me; just for you, Champ, I'll put all of my very real fears through a whole slew of new symptoms and variables that change how successfully I can monitor my own health.  Oh and please tell me how eating X food or Y food is bad for my health, since you must somehow be an expert about my particular situation--I'll put back the enriched white bread with the extra vitamins I need and pick up that whole wheat which has parts in it that I cannot digest right now.  Chiropractor, essential oils, fresh air, and a positive attitude will fix everything?  Gosh, thank you, Internet, for curing me!  I feel better already.  Only have two weeks of vacation this year?  I had to use most of mine to go to different doctor's appointments and procedures that I don't even have enough time for a staycation.  You don't want to go the bathroom because I just emptied the bag and it smells bad?  I'm sorry that I don't fart sunshine and rainbows like you (please teach me how!), and how silly of me to think that the bathroom was the right place to go for this!  I'll try to keep all my bodily functions completely contained from your delicate sensibilities.  

I'm not singling out anyone in particular in the above and I further rationally recognize that my experience does not invalidate anyone else's, but I'm also not apologizing nor will I deny that these thoughts don't spring up my mind from time to time.  It happens.  I swallow it.  I ask for changes in habits/conversation as I need to if it becomes a concern.

Even as I sit here writing this I'm trying to think of a way to add something positive at the end, to add an uplift or word of encouragement and reassurance, because that's also a part of my experience, how I've chosen to react to it.

But today, I'm so very tired.  And my heart hurts.  And these parts are valid, too.

Anyway, here's an owl that I drew.

I call him Doodlesworth

Larissa Takes a Stand

I have long waffled on how inflammatory to be on certain subjects.  On the one hand, I do not want to instigate an argument if it's not needed or won't be productive, while on the other I recognize that this fear can ultimately lead to too much self-censure.  I have tried to be gracious about giving the benefit of the doubt to the point where I have not said some things at all, which ultimately can read as complacency.  Whelp, I intend to purge a few of these out today.  I could very easily write an entire blog post on each of these, but the main point today is just to get them out there.

• Vaccines do NOT cause autism and their ingredients are safe taken in the prescribed amounts, unless (in the rare situation) you are specifically allergic or immuno-compromised.  The evidence for this is overwhelming.
• Black Lives Matter.  This statement does not (and never has) meant that other groups don't matter but instead highlights the inequity of treatment to this demographic that is patently unfair and racially motivated.  Furthermore, they are not a hate group.  The purpose of this group is to highlight the effects of systemic racism and make steps to rectify it, particularly in our justice system.  On that note, White Privilege is a thing.
• Science and religion are not incompatible. 
• Forcing your religious beliefs on another person is not okay.  As an example, I have yet to hear a good argument against gay marriage that does not involve Judeo-Christian beliefs, regardless of whether those individuals looking to get married hold said beliefs.
• I would also like to be clear that the God I know loves everybody.  There are no exceptions for race, sexuality, gender, nationality, or whatever other barrier one might try to erect.  
• Free speech means that you can say what you want (barring safety issues like shouting "fire!" in a public space), but it does NOT guarantee you an audience nor protect you from the results of such speech.  If you come out with a false, vitriolic stance on something, people calling you out on your bullshit is not infringing your right to speech.  This rule is to protect you from the government punishing you, not from all consequences.  Similarly, if no one chooses to listen or host your event, that is also not infringing on your right to speech; again, you are not guaranteed an approving or even a placid audience. 
• Climate Change is real.  The evidence is overwhelming (differing only in the degree/speed it is happening [and most studies that stated otherwise have since been proved to have flawed methods], which in any case is too damn fast), and we are heavily contributing to it.  Even on the very slimmist of possibilities the projections don't happen, doing an extra something and being wrong is FAR less costly (financially, ethically, and in many, many other ways) that doing nothing and being right.  
• Even if we don't like people, we're still social creatures and we have to get along with each other.  You can only play "Biggest Kid on the Playground" for so long before everyone else goes to a different playground without you.  We have the capacity to get along with each other even if we disagree.

That's enough for this round.  

Art and Suffering

I remember hearing once in, say, middle school that in order to be an artist, you have to suffer.  I cannot say specifically why this stuck with me, but I do know that I was upset because--and I remember this thought exactly--that I didn't feel I had suffered enough to be a writer.  The older I get, the more ridiculous this idea seems to me, particularly having gone through everything I have by age thirty-one.  "Have I suffered enough yet for it to count?" is such an absurd question.  Not that I asked for suffering, exactly, but I think I've hit enough now to at least be interesting.  

Reflecting on this adage, I don't think it's the suffering itself that matters, but rather the developed ability to identify with people through their sufferings, those elements where we all come together as kindred spirits in a human experience.  I've never lost a parent or a sibling, but I understand grief.  I have never had a child, but I understand wanting to protect someone while still allowing them the freedom to learn through their own choices and mistakes.  It's not about suffering so much as a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, before trying to make comments and grand generalizations about life.  It's about perspective and being able to stretch outside of yourself.  

Those choices that build us, it seems to me that the moments in crisis are where a lot of those choices happen at once.  How we carry those experiences onward, how we wear our burdens and display our scars, that shapes our sense of self as well as the person that we project.  

Andy and I were having a heart to heart recently and we rehashed a few things with new perspective that I have brought up in a previous blog post about what it means to be strong.  Andy proposed that I'm not only strong because of what I've gone through or how I've worn it, but also because of the way in which I wear my weaknesses, the vulnerability with which I can share elements of what I'm feeling, that those are where my strength truly lies.  I'm still chewing on that.  I don't know how else to deal with what I'm going through except to be open about what I've gone through; I want to make it safe for others to talk about their experience and to be able to identify through some of those points where we can all meet as humans, despite having very different experiences.  

At any rate, I enjoy how paradoxical it sounds to have strength by displaying your weakness.  I know a handful of folk that are afraid to ask for help, but I have seen seeking help as a sign of strength.  It's hard to let your pride down and reach out.  There is strength in admitting that you are hurting.  There is strength in working on bettering yourself, whether that means seeking counseling, taking steps toward developing better health habits, or juggling umpteen doctors' appointments.  Strength can look like perseverance, through some very apparent concerns.  

Whenever I see an article passed around detailing the accomplishments of someone with severe disabilities, I baulk a bit when the verbage turns to "they're so inspirational!"  That individual is trying to live their life in the way that is normal to them--they're not there to inspire you, be a motivational poster on your wall.  Rather than framing them on the wall, see them as a person working toward their own dreams and hopes.  There is beauty in that.  I'm not here to inspire you either, but I want to connect with you as another person that has their own richness and context.  And I'm finding that it's hard to phrase some of those nuances, to identify the differences and what it is specifically that I would want instead.  

So I'll try this instead:  I've been more aware recently of the very real truth that everyone has their damage.  No one is completely free of pain or frustration in their lives or, once they reach a certain age, devoid of worry or the remnants of some kind of past trauma.  I bear a few of my scars openly; others aren't aware of what they are burying until it explodes.  And there are different levels for different problems, even within the same person. 

To come back around to it, I find strength in telling my story.  Art is about expression, in some capacity or another.  Those pieces that we're burning to talk about, to get off of our chest, to share with someone else, they have a particular kind of power.  Sometimes it is about sharing simple joys; sometimes it's about sharing buried hurts.  Sometimes there is a compulsion to create very specific thing; sometimes it doesn't make sense until after it has been made; sometimes it still doesn't make sense but it still means something to you.  To be an artist, one has to create.  So, no, I don't think there is a correct perspective or amount of suffering that has to happen in order to make good art, but that conditioned openness and finding the strength to put yourself out there--typos and smudges and all--is its own force of nature.  

Doodle Power--ACTIVATE

So, I've had a recent discovery with the help of some friends.  I like to doodle--pull out some pencils and charcoal from time to time--but it takes time to pull out all of the materials and put them away and I cannot pick up my phone or touch anything else with graphite and charcoal all over my fingers.  As such, a lot of my art supplies sit waiting for intentionality and time to coincide.  

Whelp. I've learned recently that I can draw on the computer.

Still working on this one

Okay, I know that sounds a little silly.  Of course people can create great art on the computer, but in my head, all I could picture was the scratchy garbage I made on Paint.

Yeah, shaky mouse and basic scribbles

Apparently, I already had the tools I needed all along (something something ruby slippers something).  Shout out to Melissa for showing me a few things about how it can be done and her patience in doing so.  

I've already had the opportunity to start playing with different materials that I'm just not used to working with.  I'm comfortable with drawing, but painting throws me off.  It's fun to experiment with materials that I'm not really sure about, particularly without having to invest the money in said materials.  And I can put it down and come back whenever I need to and without smears of black all over my skin or any surface I bump into--seriously, I cannot even use markers without wearing a streak here or there.  

Watercolors confuse me, but I can make a something

There are a lot of perks to this.  But mostly I've been delightfully tickled to have another medium to be creative.  I truly do enjoy drawing, and it feels good to dabble again.  A new outlet to express something, whatever that something happens to be.  I have less excuses to sit down and make things, which seems to be both good and bad.  It turns more into a matter of getting out of my own way and not taking myself too seriously, allowing myself the freedom to explore.

...and sharing them to put on your metaphorical refrigerator from time to time. :)

Immortality

I haven't done one of these in a while, now, but there has been this song in my head for the last bit of forever.  I'm sure that Andy is tired of hearing it coming out from the bathroom as I'm getting ready in the morning.  The first time that I heard it was in an episode of Welcome to Night Vale (hence the picture for the course of the video), which, if you haven't heard of that, is a delightful podcast of surreal horror--think H.P. Lovecraft meets Monty Python.  Here's a link to the first episode, if you'd like to check it out!

Anyway, here's the song embedded below.  It's called "Pyramid" by Jason Webley. 

Now, according to the top comment, there is some fascinating backstory to this song. 

I choose to accept that it is a good story, based on real events or otherwise.  The depth that it adds to the lyrics and the emotion in the song still strikes me in particular place in my chest every time, with something that's not quite melancholy or regret but still sits with a peculiar kind of weight that has left me introspective but not sad.  

The narrator is speaking to the memory of a woman named Margaret who has presumably died some time ago.  He starts with some basic questions that one might ask a ghost, asking about their perspective, now that they're dead as they have been watching other people carry on with their own experiences, too.  Then, the narrator notes with some real sympathy "They started stacking stones the very day that you were born," referring to the tomb that she would eventually be buried in, asking her whether it haunted her that regardless of whatever she did in her life that she would still end up there in the family tomb:  "Does that long shadow follow you?"  

And then the next stanza  starts to see her more as a full-bodied person, recognizing more feeling and character than just a generic, sympathetic figure.  The narrator takes this into account, still acknowledging that he doesn't really know anything about her:  "Forgive me, Margaret, all the liberties I've taken...I've projected you in costumes I don't think were quite your size."  He knows that even in the lines of poetry that he has of her, these scraps and pieces of her do not truly capture who she was nor necessarily how he has chosen to present her.  After the narrator has acknowledged this, he expresses in the next stanza a particular longing to truly know her while still recognizing that she is unreachable, coming to the conclusion that she could even be hiding.   

The final stanza, then, turns to the narrator.  How does he want to be remembered when he dies?  "Would it please me when someone lights a candle and says my name?"  He's not sure what Margaret would want still, asking would she prefer "To be left at the bottom of a garbage bin or dusted off and pulled up on the stage?"  Would she want all of this pomp and ceremony to be the subject of a song or to be left alone in the quiet darkness of the garbage bin?  When he is asking Margaret here, he not only seems to be asking for additional forgiveness for potentially exploiting her, but he's also asking himself what would he want.  Would he want to be left to the garbage bin--completely forgotten and lost to time and memory?  Or would he have someone whispering prayers and condolences by lighting a candle, held up with warmth and ritual?  The final option seems to be something in between:  "Will I say 'leave me in my pyramid, blow out the flame, and close the lid/ the story's done; why can't we turn the page?'"   It is the final option for a reason, almost demanding that we stop asking already--just let the past be the past and move on.  Stop thinking about it and live your life.

The song then ruminates over those three options.  The lament of being forgotten, reverberating  sixteen times in the sad, descending chant of "at the bottom of the garbage bin."  The fear of being lost shifts to nine instances of gratitude, uncertainty, and reverence in the flowing question of "would it please me if someone lights a candle and says my name?"  Bridging the two together are four iterations of the urgent, maybe even exasperated, cry to be left alone in the tomb, a relic of a previous time as the world continues on with "Leave me in my pyramid." 

I don't think he comes to a conclusion.  And for that matter, neither have I.  But I certainly have been thinking about it a lot.  To be fair, though, I think I've thought about death more than the average person my age.  There is a cultural norm to joke about your age at a certain point, that it's something to be ashamed of.  In those situations, I tend to shrug and say "I'm just happy to be here."  There have been a few points in my life, with all of my health hoopla, that I could have died--I've said as much in other blogs before.  That particular awareness of my own mortality has led to a lot of interesting shower conversations, but I don't think I can claim to have sorted out every piece of it.  Death itself doesn't scare me, but I realized somewhere that I hadn't thought as much about any kind of legacy.  

There's a lot to unpack there.  Seeking to be remembered is seeking immortality.  Average people--not just supervillains--can be obsessed with immortality.   I've met more than one person whose drive to do something or be someone in this lifetime is ultimately more about being a beacon that the future can look back on, as a shining example or someone to be grateful toward or just a name that would be familiar to people years down the road.  Memorials.  Scrapbooks and videos.  Tombstones and mausoleums.  A plaque on the wall.  We cannot control how our story is told (*cue Hamilton soundtrack...*), but people want to, and not always for themselves, sometimes in an effort for another loved one, to see that they're remembered "correctly."  If I had the opportunity to control it, how would I want to be remembered? How does this obsession drive us?  

To complicate it further, I know that I have no real understand of what my actual impact is in the world.  I know, without ego, that the world would be a different place without me in it--my life intersects with so many others in ways that I can never understand, even if I'm just the friendly face that was kind to a cashier.  I'm a background character in the lives of so many people.  

Mostly, I'm at peace with that.  There are those who think I'm a terrible person--maybe I accidentally cut them off in traffic or beat them out for a position or was overheard with a comment out of context in the brief crossing of paths that we had, where I was a faceless antagonist.  My best hope is that I leave a more positive impression on people as a whole, that maybe kind words, authentic smiles, and the like outweigh those other impressions, where I am still nameless and quickly forgotten by that individual but with a particular residual warmth.  And the people that know me better, I hope something similar, that whatever impact I have weighs toward the positive.  

When trying to evaluate existential questions of purpose and philosophical tangents of truth and identity, it's a subtle but important point for me to not fixate on trying to be immortal.  I'm sad to let important periods of time pass and end, but I also don't see much point to fighting it, even if that ultimately means after I die that I have less and less to do with the world as the memories of those that loved me die, too.  My sense of self exists independently, even if we take the idea that it fades to nothingness after death.  I will have touched countless lives--for better or worse--just as others have graced mine, short brushes of interaction to deep friendships.  As such, my own attitude towards death and time seem to culminate as a thirst for purpose but not immortality.

I think it is more important to change the world you're in for the better because it is the right thing to do, rather than seeking to be remembered for it.  Perhaps finding immortality as a lasting, positive impact on the world, whether or not your face is tied to it, is more of the point, that the ripple effect of your presence inspiring others mostly toward something good.  I have been affected by family members I've never met in this way, so why not strangers, too?  What immeasurable changes have I brought to those around me and those I've never met simply by being who I am?  Those experiences and the choices that I make live on in a way that is no longer a part of me anymore.  How will I be remembered through that presence?  

Does it matter?

Refractory Period

There's probably a German word for that particular kind of depression that sets in after you've finished a really good book or completed a long-term project and feel a certain pang of loss, sorting through what to spend your time and energy on next.  Hell, I remember being fortunate enough to get my dream car when I was still in high school (yellow VW Beetle; it was a great little car and my dad joking that I had nothing to look forward to now.

We reached a big milestone in paying off Andy's student loans, overstretching the budget considerably for that final push. Now we're in a refractory period, assessing our goals with fresh eyes and catching up on things that we let slide in the meanwhile.

Compared to all of our other spending that month, yeah,
"Education" by means of Student Loans was definitely the kicker.

So we've been waffling between celebrating and sorting through that post-goal depression. The last couple of weeks, we've both been eating terribly and eating out frequently - - the budget was already blown, so what was another restaurant? Additionally, now that I wasn't plotting out how many more payments before we could close that chapter, I felt more inclined to just say "sure." But that's not sustainable. We have other goals to attend to now.  And in the same breath, we need to flounder for just a moment as we find our footing again.

So the end of April became a time I was excited to see, if only to welcome May with fresh attitude and eyes. The best way I've found to pull out of this funk is to start on a new project. The budget was changing to no longer anticipate paying as much in student loans and feel a fresh slate, sure, but also a good time to bring other elements to focus--we need to declutter the house  for example. I want to refocus how I eat and track my health. And we want to meet on the same page of what we're looking forward to as a couple.

This means that we're in credit card catch-up while trying to truly stick to our budget again. We're getting back to cooking. We're considering how we might want to rearrange parts of our home. And to keep us engaged in our current saving goal, we did give ourselves a couple of things to look forward to:  in honor of our anniversary and paying off Andy's loans and the general proximity of our mutual birthdays, we found non-egregiously priced tickets to go see Hamilton in Chicago.

Super pumped!

So the mourning of a goal met, odd as that may seem, is starting to fade. The first paycheck of a new month starts us on the next step, wherever that'll take us.

People as Mosaics

Firstly, thanks, all, for the birthday wishes!  I've been thinking about the wonderful people in my life, when I met some of you, how relationships grew and changed, and it invoked a thought or two.  

I was at a friend's house the other day, meeting some new folk and re-meeting some others.  At one point, one of their cats braved the people-filled room and was, of course, immediately loved on.  I remember someone saying that this cat reminded them of a male version of another cat of their acquaintance.  I had the immediate reaction in my head "well, that tells me nothing.  I don't know that cat."  But it definitely meant something to the person he was talking to, since they had some similar context.  When I got home and began to fill Andy in on the day's adventure, I told him about some of the people that I had met, referring to one individual as a composite of two other people that we know, working on the same principle.  

I've noticed other people do the same thing, now that I've been paying attention to it a little more.  I don't know at what point that we start to do this, but sometimes I describe people based on parts of other people I already know instead of their traits individually, even in my mind.  What I was left wondering, though, was if I was doing that new individual some kind of injustice, seeing them as a mishmosh of other people instead of appreciating them wholly for themselves?  Did I put them in a box too confining from the start?  At what point in a relationship does a person stop becoming a composite and become their own person in my mental categorization?  In other words, at what point am I far enough away from the mosaic to no longer see the pieces but instead get a glimpse of the whole image?  When did I know enough people to start doing this?  

Once I have experienced enough "colors" as traits--kindness, generosity, snarkiness, awkwardness, loudness, etc.--then an individual and what makes them who they are in my mind as a whole person is still comprised of those kinds of colored tiles, filled in through our mutual experiences.  There might be a bit of orange in there, but a lot more green, so that the overall color and picture ultimately frame a clearer perception of that individual.  Stating that they are part this person and part that person brings in a sampling of a specific color palate to mind immediately.  The mixing of these different palates is still its own uniqueness--so maybe there is no wrong in using this as a shortcut to highlight specific characteristics that I think of when invoking one individual to describe another.  

...but that his still assuming that the listening party has the same impression of the invoked individual as I do.  

I suppose there isn't a harm in using people as complex adjectives as long as I continue to remember that no one fits in a box I put them in and they should be given the same grace and freedom to grow and change as I would hope that they give me, an ever-expanding mosaic of color, traits, and shared experiences.  That a person could be an untranslatable adjective follows, too, in wondering what colors I bring to the table when I am used in such a way, but that's enough overthinking for now.