Facing the Beasts

"We're going on a bear hunt,

We're gonna catch a big one,

What a beautiful day,

We're not scared.

Oh oh!

Mud,

Thick, oozy mud.

We can't go over it,

We can't go under it,

We've gotta go throught it!

Squelch squelch, squelch squelch"

~ unknown

Awhile back I watched Benh Zeitlin's wonderful film, Beasts of the Southern Wild. In this fantasy, set in a mythical Luisiana bayou community, six-year old Hushpuppy's growing fears take the form of prehistoric beasts called aurochs. Gigantic boar-like creatures with long snouts and even longer tusks, the aurochs haunt Hushpuppy throughout the film until, in the end, she turns and faces them head on. Hushpuppy is one of the strongest female characters I've ever seen in a movie. She is imaginative, resourceful, fiercely loyal, determined, smart, and philosophical. If I weren't 45 years older than she is, I'd say I want to be like her when I grow up. ... What am I saying?! I STILL want to be like her when I grow up. I particularly want to tap into her courage when she stares down the beasts in her world, both real and fantastic. I've got a couple of beasts of my own in need of a good staring down.

I have to get a divorce. And I have to find a higher paying job. I've been separated for over a year and struggling financially for most of that time, so you'd think I might have figured this out by now. I guess I needed to go through a certain amount of grief and frustration before I could take action. But the time for action has most definitely arrived. And I am acting ... at roughly the pace of a two toed sloth, but I'm acting. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. This is hard stuff after all. But I think I've been relying a tad too heavily on two of my favorite defense mechanisms lately: Denial and avoidance. Evil twins, really, denial and avoidance are working in lock-step to distract me from turning and facing the beasts of divorce and job hunting.

I am of the if-I-just-ignore-it-maybe-it-will-go-away school of problem solving. For those of you who are wondering how this is working out for me, let's just say it's not the most efficient way to approach life's challenges. Every once in awhile it actually does work though which, like a random Las Vegas slot machine jackpot, only serves to reinforce this behavior. For instance, a couple of years ago my Toyota Sienna needed a new battery. I kept putting it off and even had to jump start the car a couple of times. Then, one sunny afternoon at the end of my work day, I was slammed into by a car running a stop sign. My Sienna was totaled. Sure, this left me with much bigger transportation problems, but I didn't have to deal with that pesky battery anymore. Problem solved! See how logical this approach is!

I took an online personality test today, just for fun. It rated me as 42% neurotic. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I thought I was at least 75% neurotic so naturally I was relieved. But if I am a mere 42% neurotic on what is surely a scientifically reliable psychological test (I mean aren't these things spot on in determining what Disney character, dog breed, and ice cream flavor one is?), then why am I behaving so neurotically when dealing with divorce and job hunting? I know what I have to do. I can identify the next right step on both paths; I'm just having the tiniest bit of trouble actually taking those steps. I tentatively put a toe out, but can't quite get my footing.

Today I decided to write this blog post as a creative way to avoid doing anything concrete about the divorce and job search. I hoped that writing about it might help me understand my denial and avoidance a little better. And I think it has. Much of what was revealed in this process is not new information to me. I spent the better part of my twenties and thirties in psychotherapy and got a Master's degree in clinical psychology to boot. I'm happy to say that time and money did not go entirely to waste! I am on a first name basis with the demons that tend to hold me back and trip me up. But what this process has done is help me figure out how to move forward.

I've got a lot of people in my tribe, and many of them have been incredibly supportive and patient with me this past year. -- My dad, my mom, and my boyfriend, for instance, are all deserving of knighthood! -- But I think I need even more hand holding. It's hard to admit I can't do it all on my own, but it's time to screw up my nerve and ask for more help. I need to ask my people to assist with specific tasks that seem insurmountable to tackle alone, but probably not that hard with a little help. I need to invite friends over for coffee and problem solving. (I'll even bake cookies.) I need to brainstorm over a cold beer with a friend or five. I need pep talks, advice, and swift kicks in the butt now and then. I need to text or call someone every day to ask if I'm doing the right thing. Just for today. And if I'm not, I need to listen when they tell me. I need to have potlucks and happy hours to celebrate small victories and show my appreciation. And I need to remember every single day how lucky I am to have so many loving, patient, joyful people in my life.

I may be 42% neurotic, but I know I have a pretty darn good life. While I tend to rely too heavily on denial and avoidance, I also turn regularly to faith and gratitude. I have enormous faith that I will be able to face down and move past these beasts. And I have even more gratitude for the many people who will help me. Life is all about obstacles. You can't go over them; you can't go under them; you can't go around them. You have to go through them. But nobody ever said you have to go through them alone. 

And Then There Were More

"Not One More!"

~ Richard Martinez,

father of slain UCSB student, Chris Martinez

There have been three more shootings since I wrote my last blog post. If I hear one more NRA supporter repeat their "guns don't kill people, people do" mantra I think my head will explode. Guns DO kill people. We allow guns to fall into the hands of people with a violent agenda, people with severe mental illness, children for god's sake. Without the easy access of guns there would be far fewer shootings. This is not rocket science. A lot more carnage can be wrought with a semi-automatic weapon than with a knife. It's a lot harder to subdue someone firing an assault rifle with a large capacity magazine than it is to bring down a person throwing rocks. I'm sorry, but guns DO kill people. A lot of people.

It is true that guns are only part of the problem in our culture of violence however. With every shot fired we should hear the anguished cries of people with mental illness who are not getting adequate care in this country, the vast majority of whom will NEVER engage in a violent act. In every gun extremist carrying a loaded assault rifle through a Target store, we should see a man in desperate need of a new definition of masculinity and strength. In the sale of every violent video game (and my son plays these games), we should ask ourselves why we have become so fearful that we would rather our kids engage in violent mayhem in a virtual world, than play outside in the real world. And in neighborhoods where playing outside really IS more dangerous, well that takes us back to the proliferation of guns.

We've got a tangled mess on our hands and there is no silver bullet (pun intended) that can fix it. The problem of violence in our country does not have a single root. It has roots in inadequate mental health care, income inequality, how we define masculinity, social isolation, misogyny, drug trafficking, media coverage of violence and on and on. But there is one constant. And that is guns. We allow guns to fall into the wrong hands, we permit our politicians to remain beholden to the NRA, we give shooters a public platform and the notoriety to inspire the next shooter, we look for arguments and statistics that support our personal views on guns (I know I do), we take sides and shout at each other. We work ourselves up into a panic over guns. And worst of all, we become numb to gun violence. In between shootings we conveniently forget.

There is plenty of justification for anger around gun violence, and there is a place for it. But if anger only leads to shouting matches and finger pointing then we get nowhere. So what do we do? I find that I turn to these words by writer Parker Palmer when faced with yet another tragic shooting:

"In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—
we need to BE light for one another.

That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again

in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence."

So how can I be a light? Well, I can keep writing about our "culture of violence," doing my small part to keep the conversation going. I can put some time and effort into advocating for sensible gun laws, such as assault weapons bans and training and licensing for gun operators akin to getting a driver's license. Gun control is not a panacea, but it is an important step in controlling violent crime. I won't forbid my son from playing video games (turning them into even more desirable forbidden fruit), but I can make sure he has plenty positive masculine role models, and healthy activities that connect him with his peers. I can believe that his positive energy will ripple out to those around him.

Perhaps hardest of all, I can learn to listen deeply, especially to people in pain or those I don't agree with. What if I trade in some of my righteous anger for compassion? What if I help build connections between people? I honestly believe the only way we can begin to see our way out of this thicket of hatred and violence is through compassionate, constructive dialogue. And I can only be a part of that process by holding up a mirror. Whatever I choose to do, I have to ask myself if I am putting my best possible self forward. 

Not One More

"I believe in the truth.

I believe that every good thought I have,

All men shall have."

– Kenneth Patchen, 'What is the Beautiful?'

I wasn't going to write about the May 23 shooting in Isla Vista. I wrote about Sandy Hook. I wrote about Aurora, Colorado. I didn't think I had any more to say. More words felt pointless, like throwing stones into the ocean. Then I thought about two things: The NRA would love it if I got tired of talking about gun control. They would love nothing more than to wear me down and shut me and every other gun control advocate up. They would be thrilled that I'm starting to feel self-conscious about posting articles about gun control on facebook, worried that my friends are growing weary of these posts. They would be ecstatic that I don't read all the emails I get from various organizations to sign petitions or take this or that action for stricter gun laws. They want me to be desensitized, burned out, too tired to fight.

The other thing that struck me was my own proximity to three mass, public shootings. I was actually in Oakland when the six people were shot and killed in Isla Vista, but Isla Vista is only a couple of miles from my home. In 2006 a woman shot and killed six people at a Goleta postal processing facility about a mile from my house. And I was at work in San Francisco in 1993 when a gunman killed eight people in a law firm across the street from my office. We watched from the 22nd floor as bodies of the dead and injured were carried out on stretchers below.

I was not in any kind of danger during any of these incidents, but I find the fact that three mass shootings occurred within two miles of my home or workplace disturbing. This is not the kind of world I want to live in, definitely not the kind of world I want my children to live in. Shootings in the news are the norm for them. This is not acceptable. There has already been another shooting on a Seattle college campus since the Isla Vista shooting. Seems to me there may have been at least one more shooting since May too. I can't keep track anymore. Gun rights extremists around the country responded to the public grief after Isla Vista by openly carrying semi-automatic weapons in Target Stores. I cannot begin to fathom how anyone can call this kind of action a civil right.

I AM tired of these stories. Some days I am emotionally numb to them. But if the family of Chris Martinez, one of the victims of IV, can rise up and demand action and accountability, if they can respond to the loss of a son with a willingness to fight for solutions and a faith in the basic goodness in humanity, then shouldn't I be willing to do my part to keep the dialogue open? If, in his raw, ragged grief, Chris Martinez's father can spark a "Not One More" movement, and his uncle can begin a piece he wrote for The Guardian with a beautiful quote by Kenneth Patchen, shouldn't I add my voice to the call for civil discourse?

I wasn't going to write about this shooting. But it seems I do have more to say. I think I'm just getting started.

Stumbling

"May your life preach more loudly than your lips."

~ William Ellory Channing

A couple of weeks ago I spent a pleasant Sunday at my son's track meet. Wearing a florescent yellow "officials" T-shirt, I helped record the results of the long jump for K-8th grade athletes. All day I watched kids build strength and character as they learned how to run a race, jump into a pit, and win and lose with dignity. One kindergartener was too afraid to jump alone. She stood quietly in line with tears in her eyes. When it was her turn, I took her hand and told her I would run along side her for her first jump. Her confidence grew with each step as we neared the sand pit. By her third jump, she had tackled her fear and was sailing into the pit. It was hard for her, but she did it. And in the end, she was smiling.

My son Miles had kind of a rough track season. He's a good runner, but he's new to racing. He left nearly every meet feeling disappointed by his performance. And yet, he showed up for practice week after week, and tried his hardest at every meet. He pushed himself out of his comfort zone, running races that were both physically and psychologically challenging for him. More than once he came in last place, which was really humiliating for him, but he always got back on the track for the next race and gave it his best. I was proud of him. Sometimes he wanted to give up, but he never did.

Part of my job as an official at the meet was to bring the long jump results for each age group to a tent in the middle of the field where all the meet results were being recorded and tallied. At the end of the day, as I handed over the results for the last group of jumpers, I heard a man angrily shout, "NO!" I looked up to see what warranted this kind of anger, afraid he was yelling at a kid.  Instead I saw him pointing at a small, brown skinned, older woman attempting to collect cans out of the recycling basket on the field. He shouted at her like someone might yell at a dog trying to steal food from the dinner table. All eyes in the tent turned toward her and I could feel her humiliation as the man turned to his companion and said, "I've been trying to keep her out of there all day." He spoke as if she couldn't hear him, as if she were somehow "less than."

I knew instantly that I should say something in her defense. But I froze. If I stood up to the yelling man, called him on his behavior, would he turn his anger on me? And what would everyone else in the tent do? Would they back me up? Would they defend him? Would they stare into their laps uncomfortably? All of this passed through my head as the seconds ticked by and I did nothing. The woman walked slowly off the field, her eyes fixed straight ahead of her. Time slowed down. I considered following her and telling her privately that he had no right to speak to her that way. I considered taking the cans and bottles out of the trash myself and giving them to her. But instead, I stood frozen on the field, my feet rooted to the ground, watching her walk away.

I did nothing. All morning long I had encouraged children to face their fear and give it their best, but when I was confronted with my own fear, I did nothing. Worse than nothing really. I let the yelling man speak FOR me. After all, he was wearing the same florescent yellow T-shirt I was. My silence and my uniform suggested that I supported him. My silence implicated me in his belittling treatment of a fellow human being. I am just as guilty of injustice as he is.

***

A few days after the track meet my daughter, Frances, and I were talking about the famous Milgram experiment, a social psychology research project conducted by Yale psychologist, Stanley Milgram, in the early 1960s. Milgram and his associates measured the willingness of study participants to obey an authority figure who instructed them to perform acts conflicting with their personal conscience. Without going into all the details of the project, subjects were instructed to administer what they believed were increasingly more powerful electric shocks to another person (no real shocks were administered). What WAS shocking was the high percentage of people who, although clearly uncomfortable, were willing to "up the voltage" of the shock because they were instructed to do so by an authority figure.

Frances and I wanted to believe we would never follow an authority figure into cruelty, but we were not cocky about it. I told Frances about my experience at the track meet, and she told me about a time when she could not find the courage to stand up to a classmate who repeatedly made racist remarks about other students. We wanted to believe we would always do the right thing, but we realized that isn't always easy.

I strive to be a person who walks her talk, but that doesn't mean I never fall down. The next time I stumble (and I will again) all I can do is stand up, dust myself off, and say, "I was wrong." I can make amends where I can. Whatever happens I know I have to get back on the track and keep running. There is no dropping out. But like my kindergarten long-jumper, I can find someone to run alongside me if I need to. No one says we have to run alone. 

Here Among Us

"Just to be is a blessing.

Just to live is holy."

~ Rabbi Abraham Heschel

I was standing at the gas pump earlier this week, my attention turned inward. I was worrying about all the usual stuff that can weigh on me like a wet, wool blanket. You know that "stuff." It's scratchy, too heavy for the weather, and smells damp and stale. You're kind of tired of worrying about it, but you don't have the energy to slough it off either. Sometimes the discomfort of that blanket distracts from important things. I stop smiling at people on the street; I forget to engage my Trader Joe's cashier in conversation; I don't notice the way green grass is finally poking through the tired, grey last-year's grass; I am not really present when my kids are talking to me.

As I was filling my gas tank Monday morning, wrapped in that heavy blanket of worry, a man walked up to me and said he liked the color of my shirt. It was just an ordinary T-shirt, sort of a goldenrod color. To be honest I think it makes me look kind of pale and sallow, but he was very enthusiastic about it. He said my whole outfit went together so nicely. He smiled like he'd just seen an amazing sunset or a double rainbow. Then, with true warmth and sincerity, he said, "have a better than imagined day." I lit up at this, smiling back and telling him to do the same. 

Then he was gone. So was that wet, scratchy blanket of worries. And I was left with the challenge of re-imagining my day.

I began to consider the possibility this day carried with it. And I was reminded how sometimes it hardly takes any effort at all to bring someone joy. Because this stranger told me to have a day that was better than I imagined, I was determined to try. I realized the Monday I had imagined up until that point was pretty dull and flat. The day I had been imagining wasn't much more than a schedule and a to do list. Where was the music and color in this day I had imagined? Where were love and connection found in my Monday schedule?

I decided the best thing to do when someone gives you the gift of fresh perspective is to pay attention. Later that morning I was riding the city bus with one of my students. A woman with a small child got on the bus. There were no seats and she was trying to hang on to the child and the bus with some difficulty. A young black man was on the bus too, the kind of young, black man so often maligned in our society. He was wearing a somewhat tattered backpack and was burdened with two unwieldy shopping bags. Still, without hesitation, he stood and offered his seat to the woman and her little boy.

That afternoon I was walking at the harbor with a student who wears leg braces. Walking is challenging for her so we were arm in arm. She also doesn't talk, but she squeezed my arm really hard every time she saw something that delighted her: a wave breaking, a seagull, a flag blowing in the breeze. Each squeeze tuned me in to the every day beauty I might otherwise take for granted. Then, as we were maneuvering through tourists along the sidewalk, we crossed paths with a man wearing a leg brace. He smiled at me appreciatively and put his hand on my shoulder, just for a second. The kind intention of his touch stayed with me long after he passed.

Though I still had my worries and complaints tucked away in my back pocket, my better-than-imagined day carried on throughout the week. On Thursday I was with a student who uses a wheelchair. We had just arrived at her job and were about to say good morning to the security guard. He always greets us warmly and usually has a friendly remark for me or my student. Well, today he stopped me. He said he wanted to tell me how much he appreciated the work I do. This is not unusual. When you work with people with disabilities, people often say nice things about the work you do. But today, this big, line-backer of a security guard actually got choked up talking about how moved he was. He made grand assumptions about me that I could not possibly hope live up to. And then, with tears in his eyes, he kissed me on both cheeks!

The things this man said were so kind and flattering, but what touched me was HIS capacity for compassion and his heart felt expression of it. This big, sweet man needed to tell me how moved he was. He could not contain the love in his heart. That says a lot more about him than it does about me. I was just glad that I was present for it, really present. It warmed me right up! People with love and joy to share are right here among us. They're like the angels in the Wim Wenders' film, Wings of Desire. They look just like ordinary people. I'm learning that if I'm receptive to it, there's a lot of goodness and love to be found in the ordinary people I cross paths with every day. And when I let that love in, I'm better able to give it away.

Almost every evening during this week of better-than-imagined days, I sat down with my kids after dinner, wherever they happened to be doing their homework. I put off the dishes and the laundry and the million other "shoulds" clamoring for my attention, and just sat with them. Amazing things happened. My conversationally challenged teenagers started talking to me! In fact, we had some of the best conversations we've had in a really long time. And all I had to do was show up!

I paid attention. I showed up. I let love in. I gave some way. All while going about my ordinary life. Wow. ~ May YOU have a better than imagined day.

Lighten Up Already!

GAIL: Two months ago, you thought you had a malignant melanoma.

MICKEY: Naturally! The sudden appearance of a black spot on my back!

GAIL:  It was on your shirt!

Julie Kavner and Woody Allen in Hannah and Her Sisters

I have a lot of grown-up things on my to do list right now. I have to figure out how people file taxes here in purgatory (the state between married and divorced). I have to actually get divorced. -- Do we use a mediator or lawyers? Are we getting along well enough to try a collaborative divorce (whatever that is)? -- And I have to step up my job search so that I can inch my way a tiny bit closer to the middle class I pretend to be a part of. All this while managing my current three jobs and two kids. Like I said, this is grown-up stuff. So, my question is, WHERE THE HELL ARE THE GROWN-UPS?! I mean, HELLO??  I keep waiting for them to come home and take over, but it seems they've left me in charge.

A couple of days ago I was feeling really weighed down by all of this big-girl stuff, weighed down and inadequate. Am I really cut out for adulthood? At 51, you'd think I might have figured this out by now, but here we are. It was a gorgeous day. Between jobs I took my dog, Zeke, for a walk on the beach. If a sunny walk on the beach won't snap me out of a funk, what will? Zeke was running around greeting every person we met, wagging like a maniac, dashing in and out of the waves, bringing me sticks to throw, rolling in dead things on the beach, and generally having the time of his life. Me? I was walking as if being pulled down by quick sand, worried the Adult Licensing Board would come strolling up any minute and revoke my license. "We're sorry," they would say. "But whatever gave you the idea you were a grown-up? Clearly there has been some kind of a mistake, Ms. Bregante. You must have cheated on the entrance exam. Or slept with one of the higher ups."

I tried focusing on everything I have to be grateful for. The whole "attitude of gratitude" thing generally works for me, but not that day. I listlessly said things to myself like, "I'm grateful for .... um .... the ocean? Yeah, whatever." I couldn't muster up the energy to feel grateful, just sour and anxious. Intellectually I knew I had a lot to be grateful for. Just last week I wrote about orchards of abundant fruit in my life, but that day the fruit didn't seem as fresh and juicy as it did last week. It seemed more like one of those holiday dried fruit baskets with too many prunes.

So happy dogs and beach walks weren't getting me out of my funk. Gratitude was just making me feel guilty for my bad mood. What's left? 

That's when I thought about Woody Allen. I have been slowly indoctrinating my sixteen year old daughter into the hilarious, thought provoking world of Woody Allen films. I know, I know, the man's personal life doesn't make him much of a role model, but I have to separate the man from his movies. I can't imagine going through life without "Annie Hall" as a reference. I mean, Van Gough cut off his ear for god's sake. I wouldn't want my daughter to date him, but I still want her to appreciate his sunflowers. 

Anyway, so far we have watched "Manhattan" and, just last weekend, "Hannah and Her Sisters," which is a touchstone film for me. In the movie, Woody Allen plays a chronic hypochondriac who, when faced with the possibility of a real illness, is thrust into a hilarious search for the meaning of life. The scene where Julie Kavner reminds him that the malignant melanoma he thought he had was really a stain on his shirt makes me laugh every time I see the movie. I know the line is coming, I wait for it, and I crack up. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

And then it hit me. I'm not a hypochondriac about illness, but I am kind of a hypochondriac about life events. Divorce and taxes really suck, but they're not terminal. Looking for work is daunting in this job market, but I'll be able to do it without surgery. I don't want to minimize how hard this stuff is, but how is it going to help me to wallow in self-pity? As Woody Allen says, "Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon." It's full of other stuff too, of course, like walks on the beach, exuberant dogs, and Woody Allen movies. I need to take a deep breath, figure out the next right step (not the entire dance routine), ask for help when I need it (that's a whole other post), and laugh. Laugh a lot. Especially at myself. It's either that, or go to the bridge. Right now, the spot's just on my shirt. I choose laughter.

Abundance

"Not what we have but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance."

~ Epicurus

My son Miles and I spent a December morning picking tangerines alongside an army of volunteers from Backyard Bounty. Backyard Bounty is a program out of the Food Bank in which fruit or other produce that would otherwise go to waste is harvested and distributed through the food bank, giving low income families a source of locally grown fresh fruit and vegetables. To give you an idea of how valuable this program is, Miles and I and the other volunteers picked 9,000 pounds of tangerines that Saturday. One mature tree can produce well over a hundred pounds of fruit. Just one tree.

I don't have a fruit tree in my yard unfortunately, but I do have lots of other things that yield an abundance of good, healthy fruit in my life. Sometimes I forget that. Yesterday, when I overdrew my checking account, I almost forgot that. For a few minutes I went into scarcity mode and panicked about not having enough. Then I remembered all the people I have in my corner, and how resourceful I can be, and I knew I would be ok. And when I went to my evening job, there was a paycheck waiting for me. As my friend Chuck said, the cavalry arrived.

I spent more money than I probably should have this Christmas season, mostly on the kids. I just sort of forgot that I have less income these days and that the kids would be getting gifts from their dad too. I've always done all the Christmas shopping for the family, so I just sort of did what I always do. And you know what? It was ok. I was not terribly extravagant. I love everyone I bought gifts for and it felt good to give. Giving showed me how much I HAVE. I have an abundance of loving family, fantastic friends, wonderful kids, a man who loves me, a great dog, good work with lovely people, a religious community that inspires me, a beautiful place to live, and more. And more. And more. I have an abundance of everything that matters. I want to start the new year with that knowledge emblazoned on my consciousness.

It's so easy for me to get caught up in what I don't have. I'm good at beating myself up for my faults, focusing on the places I fall short instead of my strengths. And I can be as petty and self pitying as the next guy. But when I remember to look (and I'm getting better at this) I see that I have enough. I have an abundance of what's important, and enough love and support to help me with what I really do need. In fact, I have a veritable orchard of fruit bearing trees in my life. And let me tell you, they produce the sweetest harvest you can imagine.

May 2014 be a bountiful year for all of us.