Amusing Ourselves to Death

“Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.” – George Orwell, 1984

Neil Postman first floated into my consciousness in the 70s. His 1985 book, Amusing Ourselves to Death, was a seminal critique of television and similar distractions and their alarming place of their increasing influence in society.

Postman said that the contemporary world was better reflected by Aldous Huxley‘s Brave New World, whose public was oppressed by their addiction to amusement, rather than by Orwell’s work, 1984, where they were oppressed by state violence.

Postman’s theory was that the frivolity and ubiquitousness of “entertainment,” as so easily available and consumed on television, would ultimately diminish society in countless ways. Television, Postman argued, denuded thinking, originality, innovation and creativity in individuals.

Below Postman comments on two iconic works of the twentieth century. Both 1984 and Brave New World focus on the gradual dehumanization of society, if by two very different modalities.

As articulated in Brave New World, distractions (or amusements) would create, ultimately, a lessening ability of the masses to focus and apply problem-solving skills to solving social problems.

1984 takes another tack and is a study in a society subjugated by powerful politicians who keep the electorate in check through fear and violence.

Postman predicted back in his 1985 book what the future could eventually look like if frivolous entertainments took precedence over intellectual development and character-building.

Welcome to our overarching modern day dilemma.

“Postman references George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World that was published in 1932.

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one.

Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism.

Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance.

Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy.

As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions.”

“In 1984“, Huxley added, “people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure.”

In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us.

Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us. ~ Neil Postman

(Book: Amusing Ourselves to Death https://amzn.to/3OTfAfr)

Still, Small Voice

In university, I studied a concept called symbolic interactionism (SI). It was an evolutionary and revolutionary reframing of the fundamental worldview in the “science” of sociology.

The discipline of sociology started its’ explorations in the early 20th century based on a normative world view. That means, sociology aimed to understand humans and society through the impact of culture, social structure, and socialization on individuals and society.

I apologize if that is too academic. I realize it certainly is dry. Simply put, sociologists believed most humans act the way they do due to external forces that had influenced and molded them: where they were raised, how they were raised, what they learned and internalized from the world around them. In short, people usually acted in accordance with how people around them behaved. “To be normal.” “To fit in.”

My studies focused on this crossover evolution in sociology from a “normative” paradigm to a emerging and more individually centered theory of “symbolic interactionism.”

Symbolic interactionism posits that individuals form their ideas and act in concert with their personal interpretation of the world around them. Those interpretations influence their behavior and life choices more than what is expected from them as they grow up.

Think how you might answer a set of questions like this: What is a home? What is the definition of a good person? Create a list of animals that are good to eat.

Depending on your personal experience, the answer to those questions will differ widely. And how you feel and think about them will influence how you behave in the world.

To understand society and how it operates, the SI argument goes that you must understand how individuals personally interpret what is going on around them. They make life choices and decisions according to those beliefs.

If your home experience was full of joy, fun and excitement, you will seek that out in your life and recreate it when you are able. But if home wasn’t a “happy place,” it may be hard to know how to start making a “happy home” yourself. For one thing, you likely don’t have a clue how.

I am thinking of this these days in the wake of the rape of the old oak forest behind us. The builder isn’t doing anything “wrong” per se and certainly not illegal. But morally? Ethically? The answers to those questions are harder to answer. According to who?

I realize that I see what he is doing in vastly different terms than he does. He did not see the value of the old trees. He does not care about destroying the peace and tranquillity his neighbors formerly enjoyed. He sees a fun-filled, happy future for himself and his family.

Like many life experiences, how we see something is influenced by how we have personally experienced it. There are many universal experiences we can relate to with others, but the actual experience is different for each person.

We can all empathize with someone who is “going through something.” Especially if we have gone through it ourselves. Marriage. Childbirth. Divorce. Death of someone close. Failure. And success. But we cannot experience exactly what someone else is experiencing. We are all inherently alone.

I feel stronger than ever about the affirmative need for humans to follow their individual dictates and passion. Everyone – and I mean everyone – around you at various times in your life will have an opinion about what is best for you, what should and could work, whether a step you are taking is wise or not. Especially when you are young.

As we get older and stronger and more comfortable with our own views and perception of the world, those internal dictates should by then be better understood and adhered to. The succinct advice to “pursue your bliss” evens the odds of fulfillment and happiness in your pwn life. In the end and at the end of our lives, it will be all that mattered.

The biggest errors of judgment I made in my life were because I ignored the dictates of the “small, still voice” deep inside. Sometimes, in fact, it was neither small nor still. It shrieked at me like a banshee. I still didn’t listen. And I paid a very high price because I didn’t.

In light of the current environmental inconvenience and distress we are going through in our home environment, I am trying to rely on the messages coming from my own internal dictates and direction. I have already made some choices. I will make more. My future direction and plans are changing in light of this development.

This was to be our “forever” home. Turns out it is just another pit stop. Change of plan. It happens. The private, deep-seated grief I am experiencing is mine and mine alone.

As it always is.

Scorched Earth

“Happiness obtained by taking away the happiness of others is built on rocky ground. It will neither last nor grow.“

As someone who has lived much of her life waiting for the other shoe to drop, I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am by the depth of pain caused when “it” did.

You have to shake your head at the stealth, speed and secrecy with which the lot beside us was razed this week. I later realized it is part of the construction game.

Move fast. Destroy everything (scorched earth policy). Give your enemies (who in this case are their neighbors) no time or opportunity to consult or react.

In a capitalistic society, community doesn’t matter. In fact, people working together in community dulls the edge of capitalism. Capitalists don’t push the agenda that people can actually get more out of life by working and sharing together when they do.

We humbly approached the owners, in a state of great distress, about buying their lot. Their response was swift and decisive. They didn’t say no, but set an asking price so high, they might just as well have. I am all about profit but it was clear this was way above reason and fair market value. It was designed to deflect us. (I told you they were good at this.)

We are heartbroken and over this past week have watched a dream we saved and planned for our entire lives disappear. When I met him walking his dog, our younger next door neighbor was similarly shaken and did a sharp intake of breath when he talked about the owls in the forest.

He said they had calmed him before bed each night. Since their habitat has been destroyed, they have not returned. They disappeared after the trees were taken down. Our young neighbor is confused and upset over why this had to happen to him in his very back yard so soon after the purchase of his first house. Like us, he closed in May, too.

The owners of the building lot are happy though. Full of dreams and plans. They tell us they are looking forward to making memories with their kids. It is clear it hasn’t occurred to them (or they simply don’t care which is my husband’s take) that they have diminished and destroyed the happiness and dreams of several other people around them to get there. Neighbors, in fact.

I am not so sure there will be many potlucks when the new house goes in. The entire neighborhood is quietly reeling and seething even though they are not directly affected. There was a shared pride and quiet pleasure in preserving that beautiful old forest. The 97-year-old gentleman across the way will surely miss its comfort and beauty out on his morning walks.

I hate learning about unpleasantness in another person’s character. I also don’t want to ever have anything to do with that type of person. I doubt very few in the neighborhood will either. Our neighbors’ comfort, happiness and peace of mind have been disturbed, too.

And the line of trees at the edge of the property the builder assured would be kept intact to help protect our view? Ya. They’re gone. High marks for consistency.

I sure hope the owners enjoy their new place. They are young yet and it is unlikely their hearts and minds have been too deeply etched with the lessons of loss and humility. Those lessons will come later as they do to us all.

My focus has now turned from personalizing our new house toward calculating the minimum operational requirements to get through the upcoming assault from the build. I am reminded of a story. Of course, I am not drawing any analogies with myself so we are clear.

On the cross at Calvary, Jesus said of his tormentors: “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” I believe this about our soon-to-be neighbors.

They have claimed their own happiness through utter disregard and disrespect not only for their new neighbors but for the ancient and beautiful natural forest that surrounded them. Those trees stood for hundreds of years before any of us came along.

The builder cheerily assured us as part of his “calm the concerned clients” pitch when we first met him: “I’ll be putting in trees 109% when the house is finished.” Next February. Maybe.

I am reminded of a small child who comes into the kitchen to “help Mom” but doesn’t actually know enough to be of much use. The eggs break on the floor. The milk is spilled. Flour everywhere. It’s okay. The little kid is just learning and doesn’t know too much.

Now that analogy is apt.

What I Said

I was your age, maybe younger, when I started hitting brick walls. Those brick walls were largely my own creation. It took me time to see and admit that.

My parents were no help. In retrospect, and even during my greatest struggles, I wondered how they might have helped me. If they had been so inclined. I know for sure that completely ignoring I had any legitimate or addressable emotional problems was not helpful at all.

This is what I thought they might have done. I thought it would help if they acknowledged they could see I was confused and suffering. I acknowledge that you are confused and suffering.

I also would have found it helpful if they acknowledged they could see through my “grown up” act to the struggling little child I still was within. I see that you are still a hurting and struggling child. Acting all grown up.

It would have been helpful for me to have one of them say that they would be there for me and would stand by me as I resolved to solve my internal turmoil.

It was poet Alden Nowlan who said: “The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise.”

You are still some distance from adulthood and I grieve that. I also grieve that you carry and disperse so much anger and vitriol to people who love you.

My mom once said of me that she “loved” me but she didn’t like me much. Truth was, I didn’t much like myself.

I extend my hand if you want to seek help for whatever it is that is going on in you. I learned that the longer we ignore the source of our distress, the bigger it becomes and harder it is to resolve.

I know you have great ambition but I also know they are unachievable or will quickly fall apart when you are tested (as you will inevitably be) with your level of emotional turmoil and anger. The world won’t tolerate it. They didn’t tolerate it from me. I know that from hard experience.

I’m here for support if you want to make an honest effort at healing your wounds and repairing your relationships. It is easy to look a gift horse in the mouth until it is too late or ends in disaster. I hope that is not what awaits you.

What I know now for sure is that I am not the sole source of your grievances and troubled soul. I am just another scapegoat whom you choose to blame. What I had to eventually learn – the hard way – was that I was the common denominator in my fractured life and relationships.

You may find yourself scared or uncertain by times now. Just wait until your emotional bank account is empty and all of your support has fallen or been pushed away and you are left to manage everything all on your own.

That will be a very hard day indeed. Whether I am still on the planet or not.

As always, your choice.

Screaming Hypocrite

How calm and cool and reasonable was I in the face of the ravaged lot behind our house, I told myself last week? The destroyed view from our backyard. The disturbance of not only our solitude but our peace and quiet. And worse, the upending of our dream. That was the impression I wanted to convey to the world and to myself.

As the story and project have unfolded, the story is textbook irony. I had looked for a more suitable house for us for over a year. We must have looked at 20. Made an offer on a few. But there was always a dealbreaker.

The beautiful wood paneled walls of the three acre country estate with the many fruit trees but maintenance issues and the shredded birdcage around the pool. As we countered back and forth with the seller, I was slowly undone by the amount of work it would take to bring this beautiful property back to life and good health. And it was far too far to drive to amenities for my liking. Pass.

Then there was the country place that was called the “cow house” by our agent. Five acres and a massive, meandering house. Again in need of maintenance and much love. Too much of both were required for our taste. And there were no trees to speak of on the property. A definite dealbreaker.

There was the stunningly decorated “wow” house that t sat directly on a golf course. It had an adorable little lap pool. That deal fell apart over a misunderstanding about whether it was being sold “turnkey” or not. But we learned no furniture or decorations were included, as we initially thought. As tempting as it was, that deal fell through, too.

It is often said in real estate circles that buyers often know they have found “their” house within a few seconds after crossing the threshold. So it was with the house we recently chose. Perfection. For us. Until last week when trees began to fall.

When I wrote about my emotional evenhandedness in the face of lovely old oak trees coming down in front of our eyes and our old forest view being obliterated, I was kidding myself.

I now realize I was in shock. We had no forewarning of what was coming. I kept myself super busy on Friday just to get on the top of the situation and to quell my panic.

That denial fell away this morning when the dozers and chainsaws came back. When they were done, there was a huge hole in the view from our pool where there used to be lush greenery and old trees dripping with Spanish moss. And a pile of leveling dirt. The pain set in with a vengeance.

I am heartsick. And I realize that I am powerless. Except in how I react. And 72 hours later, I am reacting like a very sad and angry little girl. I am full of swear words and useless anger. So much for my great healing journey.

I know “this too shall pass.” Like other sudden losses and disappointments, this pain will lessen and change with time. We have talked to a landscaper to fill in the hole from our side with thick and fast-growing foliage.

So as much as I would like to experience all of life’s insults in a calm, beatific and philosophical evenhanded way, I have to accept I am only human.

It’s a sad and disappointing development. It is not the first time and will not be the last time that life throws me a curveball. I appreciate that it is also not the end of the story.

Best to shore up and fortify those emotional management skills now. Surprising to me is that short-term rage and anger appears to be one of them.

For Charlie

Not my words but words I agree with in every fiber of my being.

Have you ever thought about this?

In 100 years like in 2123 we will all be buried with our relatives and friends.

Strangers will live in our homes we fought so hard to build, and they will own everything we have today. All our possessions will be unknown and unborn, including the car we spent a fortune on, and will probably be scrap, preferably in the hands of an unknown collector.

Our descendants will hardly or hardly know who we were, nor will they remember us. How many of us know our grandfather’s father?

After we die, we will be remembered for a few more years, then we are just a portrait on someone’s bookshelf, and a few years later our history, photos and deeds disappear in history’s oblivion. We won’t even be memories.

If we paused one day to analyze these questions, perhaps we would understand how ignorant and weak the dream to achieve it all was.

If we could only think about this, surely our approaches, our thoughts would change, we would be different people.

Always having more, no time for what’s really valuable in this life. I’d change all this to live and enjoy the walks I’ve never taken, these hugs I didn’t give, these kisses for our children and our loved ones, these jokes we didn’t have time for. Those would certainly be the most beautiful moments to remember, after all they would fill our lives with joy.

And we waste it day after day with greed, greed and intolerance.

Anon

Natural Conclusions

My mother once owned 40 houses. You’d think she (and we, her descendants) would have lived and been as rich as royalty. We weren’t. Not by a long shot.

I came to see it this way. Humans being creatures of habits and all, we tend to get into behavioral grooves as adults. Call them what you will. Rituals. Routines. Habits. They can be a great comfort and source of strength in managing one’s life.

When the rest of the world appears batpoop gaga, those peculiar habits are things we can do for ourselves to assure us – fleetingly – that all is well in our world, if not in “the world.” I often struggle with this. There are things I do repeatedly that I am not convinced are the best use of my time and energy. But damn, they are a comfort.

It used to be said of “ladies” that to steady their nerves or comfort themselves, they might buy a new hat. The “lipstick economy” referred to the odd economic pattern of women buying more lipstick in economic downturns. It was a comfort and vanity they could still easily afford.

My mother epitomized these two phenomena. She had been a real estate broker when she was still married and miserable with my father. That world shattered and dissolved. But in her dotage she circled back around to “house buying” for comfort and distraction.

It had to be those reasons as there didn’t seem to be any major economic game plan, like securing her retirement or passing a substantial inheritance to her children and grandchildren.

I observed that her most frantic and frenetic house-buying activity was in the midst of a Herculean power struggle that she and I were engaged in. The house purchases angered me. For several reasons. The lack of a game plan to start. Who was going to manage and maintain all of these acquisitions, I wondered?

But if I’m honest, I was more angry because my mother’s relentless search and the process of buying houses deflected her energy from coming to any peace or resolution with me. It was like her old addictions to pills and booze which were always more important than I was.

She had a similar deflection strategy at night. I always appreciate the time before sleep as a time to review the day and put my thoughts and priorities in some kind of order. Badly and imperfectly but I at least allow myself that private, quiet time.

Mom slept with every major broadcaster in the industry for years. I should probably phrase that differently. Mom went to bed every night and slept with the radio on, listening to the likes of Larry King or Peter Gzowski and Stuart Maclean reruns or anyone else with the gift of gab.

What that said to me was that she was not comfortable in her own skin and at peace with her own thoughts. She had to cram the words of voices of others into her head so as not to listen to voices she didn’t want to hear. Like mine. It was her habit.

Deflection and distraction only hold up as coping strategies for awhile. If important things in your life are consistently deflected and ignored, there will be a day of reckoning. Hitting the proverbial brick wall as it is colloquially known.

And so that is exactly what happened to Mom and her empire. Low cost houses in poor shape attracted low rents and the renters that went with that scenario. Mom had a perpetual “soft spot” for birds with broken wings. The irony, of course, is that she never did accept and realize that she was a flightless bird herself so rendered by multiple losses and tragedies.

The “do-gooder” dynamic is pervasive and well-known. There are legions of folk out there who help others primarily to feel good and generous and to deflect any suggestion of neediness they might have themselves.

That sounds cynical I realize. I also believe there are genuinely generous and good people out there. There are also plenty of the others.

Mom lost all of the 40 houses. Short sales. Foreclosures. Tax disputes with the authorities which they inevitably won. She shrugged off the losses years later: “They served a purpose at the time.”

Healing her own emotional wounds or those between her and her eldest daughter went by the wayside. Healing between us was not to be. We were in an emotional stalemate at the time of her death. Civil and superficially affectionate. Each of us wary and cautious around the other, playing our assigned roles. We circled each other emotionally and psychologically like two lionesses each wounded by the other in previous battles.

I didn’t have a mother. She didn’t have a daughter. Not in any real way that might have mattered long term that left me awash in tender and loving memories. If we are lucky, even after a antagonist’s death, healing keeps happening. It has to if we are to make sense of what we lived through and why what happened, happened.

I am taking stock of my current habitual distractions and deflections. In that regard, for all my insight and bitching about my mother’s dysfunctional habits, I sometimes realize the apple hasn’t fallen all that far from the tree.

Change Happens

Today I had the kind of day I recently wrote about. I wrote about the Chinese farmer whose stallion ran away. What his neighbors initially thought was very bad news, soon became good news in their eyes. The stallion eventually returned bringing several wild mares with him. The new mares substantially increased the farmer’s wealth.

That story contains a wise lesson about perspective as it demonstrates a back and forth that can happen between “bad news” and “good news.” Is it really one or the other? It depends.

So “bad news” happened to us today. We woke up this morning to the sound of bulldozers and brush being cut nearby. I unraveled inside. The lot beside the lot behind our house was being razed. We only recently bought this house based in large part on the “back forty” behind us which is full of trees and bushes. It is essentially a forest.

The prospect of seeing this forest disappear before we’d even had time to enjoy it caused my stomach to turn and my heart to drop into my stomach. The dream we had for our home and cozy, private surroundings was falling apart before my eyes.

I did what I usually do in a crisis. I went into crisis management mode. “What can I actually control in this situation?” The bush whacking was happening. The trees were coming down. Outside my control.

What was in my control was information gathering. Who was building? What are they building? What is the plan for the “natural forest” in our backyard? My mind was racing. Would it all be ravaged and cut down to make way for a bunch of new houses?

First, I called the county property assessment office. I found out who owned the lot. I researched the adjoining lots. Different owner. Still the distressing niggle: is there a development going in back there?

Then I called the president of our homeowners’ association. What does he know about what is being built there? How could he help? Could he help? Would he help? All big question marks.

I finally found the name of the new owners on the county property assessors website. But no phone number. No email address. Just a street address. About a fifteen minute drive away from here. I jumped in my car and fired up the GPS.

I turned off the main highway and down a twisty road. One more turn and I landed in what I thought was the address I was looking for. No number on the house though. I was initially wary of the dog on the front porch. That was until I saw him wagging his tail so hard I thought he would fall over.

Encouraged, I braved the porch. My hands and legs were promptly and enthusiastically licked nearly to death. By, I later learned, Groot the dog. A love hound if ever there was one.

The nanny who met me at the door confirmed that her employers were indeed the owners of the lot and they were planning to build a house behind our house. Sigh. I gave her my name and address and phone number and email address and what I hoped was a cheerful note to the impending house builders.

Back at home, I comforted myself I had done all I could do and learned all that could for the day. I resigned myself to the uncertainty and started licking my wounds, inspired by Groot.

A couple of hours later, our insipid front door bell rang. (I really must do something about that.) Acting on the note I had left with the nanny, the builder/homeowner came directly to see us at the end of his workday. The stallion brought several mares back with him.

A standup guy. Concerned about some of the same things we are, specifically, taking down trees. Losing the “natural” vibe. We talked mitigation strategies to make up for our compromised view. Vibernum vines. Night-blooming jasmine. He even wants to do extra planting before the building begins. To give it a head start.

We shot the breeze for awhile. Found out where he came from. What his wife does for a living. The names of their two kids. And, of course, I reported on my near-death licking experience with the dog I then learned was known as Groot. His owner grinned. “He’s full of love.”

Look, if I could, I would revert to what we had yesterday. An unfettered view of natural overgrowth and old oak trees. The endless peace and the quiet. But in a nod to the inevitability of change, our new neighbor made all the right and wise moves.

Showing up immediately as he did and being as concerned about as many things as we are went a long way to soothing our distress over the impaired view.

In only a few moments, it felt like a friendship and alliance was made. The day ended much happier than it began. With a minimum of hand-wringing and drama. If change is inevitable, today was a master class for me in how to handle it. I look forward to meeting the mares.

Build on, Macduff!

Stay Open to Mystery

And here I share and thank poet Susan Frybort for this powerful and affecting poem. I believe she is married to writer, Jeff Brown. Strong creative pairing right there.

I am all for writing that explores aging as the stage of wonder and grace it can usher in.

Sure aging is tough on the body. Life is generally tough on the body. And everything else.

Our youth centric, immortality deluded society keeps a very tight lid on aging’s upside. Let’s face it. Impending death (whether 10, 20 or 30 or 40 years in the future) is bad for business.

Our main North American society is painfully arrested in advancing widespread integration of and honoring our elders. We can look to indigenous tribes and many immigrant cultures for much better modeling of how to treat senior citizens.

They are just people after all.

Archaeology for the Woman’s Soul

No one told me

it would be like this—

how growing older

is another passage

of discovery

and that aging is one

grand transformation,

and if some things become torn apart

lost along the way,

many other means show up

to bring me closer

to the center of my heart.

No one ever told me

if whatever wonder

waits ahead

is in another realm

and outside of time.

But the amazement, I found,

is that the disconcerting things

within the here and now

that I stumble

and trip my way

through, also

lead me

gracefully

home.

And no one told me

that I would ever see

an earth so strong

and fragile, or

a world so sad

and beautiful.

And I surely

didn’t know

I’d have

all this life

yet in me

or such fire

inside my

bones.

~Susan Frybort~ With gratitude for this Soul Deep Poem

Soul Seeking Self Succor

Today I went for a drive in the countryside. I don’t do that half often enough.

We live by a forest. It is a blessing. If nature really does contribute to good mental health, then I have it made.

Lately I have come to that point where me and myself need to have a good long talk.

We have been metaphorically burning the midnight oil for weeks – maybe months – now. It is catching up with me.

The signs are subtle. I am losing patience with things that normally don’t bother me. I feel wired like my “on” button is always “on.” I can’t seem to shut it off.

It amuses me that what I wrote about yesterday was the singular focus and tenacity of hammers. Hammers get into a groove where hitting nails is all they know. They keep hitting nails because they are woefully underserved in the intellect department.

I am beginning to feel the same way about myself. Having taken on a project where its outcome is all up to me, I find myself back in familiar emotional and psychological territory.

I think at some point all of my self-esteem must have been tied up in being a finisher. That was such an overriding drive that if there was something offered to me that I didn’t think I could finish or do well, I wouldn’t engage.

That probably saved me from a world of heartache. But I also clipped my wings a little looking back. Fear is a ruthless master.

So I am at that point of burnout where the task is feeling beyond me. At least in the timeframe and to the standard I initially imagined.

Somewhere I read that the world’s shortest prayer is also the simplest: “Fuck it!” Let go of whatever you cannot comfortably handle. Relax. Tall order for a Type A, PTSD-recovering, alcoholic, trauma survivor like me whose entire worth on the planet rests on “accomplishments.”

I think it is time to read a page in my own book and start disengaging from that which has become an anchor more than a mooring. A mooring is a lovely spot to hole up in for a time. An anchor has nowhere to go but down.

So I am heading into a brief period of rest and renewal. I will continue my commitment to this yearlong, daily blog but I am going to find me some workarounds and shortcuts.

I am trying to retire the hair shirt and unceasing mantle of responsibility I have always worn. And, in truth, picked up and put on.

Even “saying” out loud that I am human, life is difficult and I need a break feels like a commendable first step.

Therapy by blog post. Thank you very much.

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