- Elf you: Are people really taking the whole Elf on the Shelf thing this seriously? I thought that whole thing was a marketing scam. Apparently, I’m not alone. And PS: I am way too tired for this shit.
- When less is more: I’ve been following Grist’s #shiftthegift discussion about doubling-down on less materialism for the holidays. It might not be the coo-coo idea you think. According to one of their tweets, “According to a national survey, more than 3 in 4 Americans wish that holidays were less materialistic.” If you’re intrigued and want a place to start, check out the Simplify the Holidays Pledge. There is also this post, Nothing Corporate Holiday Shopping.
- Shift the gaze: And while we’re thinking about shifting or pondering our own culpability in this consumerist culture… how about we take one for the team. And by team, I mean humanity. If we want our daughters (and sons) to change their view about female beauty, if we want a new world order where the old archetypes of “beauty” are deconstructed and replaced with the fabulous flesh and blood we really are… then why not start by telling our daughters that we are beautiful? Not just them (because we all know they are the embodiment of beauty and joy personified). But us. The tired mommies. The exhausted dads. The weary role models upon whom they gaze to understand all the wonders of the universe. Start today. Tell them you are beautiful!
- Feminist Christmas: I found a post while doing a search for feminist Christmas gifts and I am in love with it! For all you Tired Marketing Fail! fans, this post is for you! The only thing I would add is that we have to be equally cognizant of gendered gift choices for boys (and to take it even further, that we should not will a gender on our children at all).
- The Land of Toys: A look at how one store’s move toward breaking down gender stereotypes in the toy aisle goes a long way toward breaking down rigid gender roles placed on children.
- I need a benedryl: Where’s the little Nasonex Bee when you need him? This Jezebel post titled Fuck You, Allergies! I Hate You! had me seizing with laughter. The author is plagued by allergies to cats (which she loves). If you want to feel my special brand of allergy torture, just substitute chocolate (yes, delicious chocolate) for my source of unrequited love.
Consider this fair warning: This post is going to have warm squishy feelings and talk about spiritual matters. So if that’s not your thing, best to scroll on to the next one.
I have been doing some soul-searching lately. Well, maybe that’s not exactly right. What I’ve been searching for are answers, guidance, help, solutions to my health problems. As I’ve already shared, I have hereditary immune system disorder and was diagnosed with IBS earlier this year. In actuality, the IBS is most likely an out-cropping of the immune system disorder. But that’s all semantics, really. When it comes to my daily life — chasing a toddler 12 hours a day, being a domestic goddess, trying to remember how to write sentences at a computer at 1 am, etc. — I don’t really have time to figure out the chicken-or-egg problem of how I got here. I’m here. Now what?
So IBS has come to live with me. I am at once non-plussed (oh, another “diagnosis of exclusion”? whatever.) and, well, frightened. And mad. And frustrated. And… I think you get the idea. I don’t have time for this!
But, here is what I know about being a person who has to wrangle that nasty beast of “chronic illness”: You don’t get to decide what is convenient. You don’t get to decide if it hurts too much. If you’ve thrown up too much. If you’ve missed too many meetings or important events. Or if you had plans for your day, your summer, your year or your life. And you definitely don’t get to decide that you are somehow in control. It’s happening. Get on board. Or don’t. Either way, it’s happening.
(And before I go too much further, let me just say that I know that the chronic illness that I deal with is not as bad as many others. While I do have episodes of pain and other uncomfortable things in my life, I recognize that what I am dealing with is not nearly as difficult as MS, cancer, AIDS, rheumatoid arthritis and many others. I am not that obtuse. I realize there are degrees of illness.)
These are things I’ve been ruminating on, especially as I have been recuperating from out-patient surgery to fix an umbilical hernia (I now come with non-factory parts!), which was (I hope) my last parting gift from pregnancy. When you are laid-up in bed and your abdomen hurts, it’s almost impossible NOT to think about anything else that ails you. C-section. IBS. Then more surgery. It’s been a rocky 14 months for my mid–section. And maybe it was the pain killers. Maybe it was all that free time. Eventually, TV is boring. You’re too tired to read, but too awake to sleep. And you are staring up at the ceiling and the thoughts just roll up on you.
But I assure you, it was not a pity party. (Well, there was that one moment when I did get a little caught-up in some negative thinking. But I’m only human!) No. My thoughts kept circling around the pursuit of answers. Why is this happening to me? How can I go from surviving this new chronic problem, to living my life and being some who happens to have this issue?
Mine is a mind that often spins with questions. Sometimes I get lost in all those questions.
Why is this happening to me? What a tough question, right? But I have not been looking at it from the “why me?” perspective. I spent much of my late-20s and early 30s feeling angry about being sick. I’ve moved on from that. There’s nowhere to go with that. But there is another way to look at that question: What has changed? What is out of balance? What new variable has come into play? “Why is this happening” becomes the search for clues. It becomes a detective show, rather than a tragedy.
As you might imagine, the why question has dominated my thoughts on this issue. But what I am learning is that the why question and the how question are intertwined. “What can I learn about why this is happening?” quickly melds into, “How can I use what I learn to unlock solutions so I can get back to my happy life?” (Because I really do have a nice life going, not to brag or anything, aside from the health stuff.)
Unlike other forms of my immune system problems — like allergies or asthma — I can’t just take a pill and stop feeling the symptoms of IBS. I can’t avoid IBS, like I avoid smokey bars to avoid asthma attacks. In the past, my approach has been to trust in modern medicine. And honestly, that has served me fairly well in most cases. I’m down with science. But I also have an open mind regarding alternative, or non-traditional, forms of therapies, too. I do yoga every day. I have dabbled in meditation. And yes, on more than one occasion, I have lifted my heart to God and prayed, for help, for relief, for courage, for patience.
However, even with an open mind toward alternative medicine and non-Western traditions, I would say that I have not ventured very far into that pool. Until now. Modern medicine falls off a cliff when it comes to IBS. Even the diagnosis is one based on the elimination of all other known or possible causes. “Well, you don’t have any of these… so it’s IBS.” It’s the ultimate catch-all. It’s a professional educated guess. Not exactly comforting. And as for treatment? Well, they don’t have much to offer there either. I have some pills for nausea. That’s about it. Since “every patient is different” they can’t even recommend safe food choices. So I get to be my own guinea pig in an endless experiment of “Will this make me puke?” and, “Will this give me debilitating stomach cramps?” After six months of trying to feel my way in the dark, I’ve decided that expanding my search for answers to include “weird hippie shit” — as one of my friends so delicately puts it — is just another rock to overturn in my quest for peace in my body (which, you know, is connected to my heart and soul).
So… this finally gets me back to the real subject of this post: The healing power of love. I have been reading up on chakras lately, having decided to start my research on metaphysical and non-traditional healing methods in an arena I already had at least a passing knowledge (meditation and yoga). I admit that my pursuit of learning about chakras has been hindered a bit by ambivalence. There is a part of me that agrees with my friend that maybe this is all some hippie bullshit, like psychic surgery. But I am also really tired of feeling sick, so I try to just tell that part of my brain to shut up and keep reading. What does it hurt to read about it, anyway?
In really general (and grossly over-simplified) terms, chakras are points in the body that, when open, let energy flow through you in a healing and positive manner. There are seven chakras. It starts with the Base (or Root) Chakra and extends upward all the way through your body out the top of your head at the Crown Chakra. But, if any of your chakras get blocked, then the flow of energy is stopped like a dam. The idea is that blocked energy is what creates the environment for disease and other problems to flourish in your body.
Yesterday I read about the Root Chakra, which as far as I can tell is adjacent to your genitals but actually just under your butt (if you were in a seated position). Anyway, it is the first chakra in terms of the energy moving through your body. It is responsible for many primal needs such as safety and security and sexuality. It is where your “fight or flight” instinct comes from. Stuff like that. So, as I’m reading it talks about how one of the things that can block your Root Chakra is childhood trauma and sexual abuse. Now I’m listening (or rather, reading)! I am a survivor of sexual abuse and had some trauma in childhood. Even though I have gone through conventional therapy for those issues, this connection intrigues me.
As I keep reading, I learn about yoga moves and other methods that can help unblock that chakra. One section I almost flip right by is the crystals section. (I know, I said was going to be open-minded, but crystals? Really?) What stops me is a photo of an emerald. My daughter’s birth stone is the emerald, and therefore I have a special place in my heart for it now. So as I read on, it says that emeralds are particularly good at healing those who have experienced sexual abuse. I think Oprah calls this an “Aha moment.”
Now here comes the squishy feelings part:
If emeralds are healing for survivors of sexual abuse and my daughter’s birthstone is an emerald… Is it possible that having my daughter is healing for me? (Or at least my Base Chakra?) And since my daughter is a pure expression of the love my husband and I share — which is amplified a hundred-fold by the love we feel for our daughter — is it possible that love is what is going to heal me? I believe God brought my husband to me (sometime I’ll tell you the story of how we met, and you can decide for yourself). And I know that God opened my heart (and yes, there is a Heart Chakra), when the time was right, for me to see a path I had never considered before: motherhood. And there is no doubt in my mind that becoming a mother has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. Did God send me my very own “emerald” in the form of my daughter?
It is true that as I’ve been watching her grow up, it sometimes triggers me to think about issues related to my own childhood that I never thought about before (in good ways and bad ways). Sometimes it’s something as simple as a normal motherly impulse to protect my child from danger. And while I’m checking for open electrical outlets, I suddenly wonder if my parents did that for me (they lived on a farm when I was that age) and what might have been happening in my life when I was my daughter’s age. Sometimes it’s just watching my daughter’s pure joy for life. And I wonder how anyone could look at a beautiful child and do the kind of terrible things that happened to me.
A skeptic will tell me these are all coincidences. I don’t see coincidences here. In fact, I am starting to see some light in the darkness. What I see is evidence that maybe God answers our prayers when we aren’t looking or in ways we don’t readily recognize. Sometimes miracles come in cute little packages, indeed.