bethwoolsey.

On Welcoming Darkness: A Slow Slide Into Fall

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 05 Nov 2025 02:20:43 +0000

I’ve been spiraling a bit lately if I’m honest.

I am deep inside the process of reworking the ways I’ve always worked. Once upon a time, even this time last year, I was an exemplary Gen Xer who navigated the world without feelings. I mean, I felt. Of course I did. But I felt in ways that were scrunched and hunched. Gathered in on myself. With the effort mainly to suppress rather than express the harder emotions. Except that only works for as long as it works, which is, in my estimation, approximately 51 years before a human who experiences major depressive disorder and often crippling anxiety decides to do psilocybin therapy, bash down every protective wall, enter weekly therapy, and emerge from the crysallis of depression weak and wet and vulnerable to try to build an embodied life. An authentic life. An unboxed life. And that right there is a pretty significant disruption of the emotional status quo.

Halloween and All Saints Day and All Souls Day and the Day of the Dead feel right, all this death and life intermingled. The veil thin between what’s always been and what’s no more and what’s to come. The liminal space. The in between. The waiting stillness. The release of leaves from their anchoring branches, fluttering down to do the hard work of decay. Crumbling and breaking down seems so very dark and dismal and cold. Or so it has always seemed to me, this season. Final. An end. When, in fact, it’s the crumbling and breaking down that releases nutrients into hungry soil. It’s shelter and protection for the microorganisms to create the loamy womb for life. It’s the necessary ingredient for growth.

I have hated that, always. That death is necessary for life. That loss and grief are ingredients. I have fled the darkness at every opportunity. Distracted myself from loneliness and despair and rejection and insignificance and terror. In my defense, I thought feeling any of the hard feelings–feeling them thoroughly, feeling them entirely, feeling them in a way that surrounded and engulfed me–might kill me actually dead. Not that I might kill me dead. I mean I thought the feelings themselves might kill me dead. Without my go ahead. Without my permission. Just that the feelings would eclipse me like a tidal wave and crush me to dust. I was so, so afraid to feel, friends. Just absolutely beyond.

Choosing to try felt like the Greatest Risk. One of the biggest of my lifetime. But also, Not Feeling was, I have come to understand, a Pretty Major Fucking Factor in experiencing depression as I have for decades. I just truly believed on some level that I could grit my way through life. Blunt the effect of the more stabby forces. Become a teflon pan and let everything slide off. And if teflon isn’t the most accurate metaphor, then I don’t know what is with the way it promises to protect but quickly scratches and crumbles and flakes and infects food and causes an adhered mess more profoundly awful than a sear on stainless ever would.

But here I am, feeling feelings on purpose for 8 months now, and they haven’t killed me yet. It’s shocking to me, genuinely, how quickly feelings can flow, in and out like the tide, and that I can flow with them now that I’m not trying to stand rigid in the surf pretending not to be buffeted by the waves.

Still, it’s November now, and I’ve noticed I’m afraid more lately. Afraid of what might yet come. Because this is the time of year every year prior that my mental health starts to tank. Vitamin D leaves for its southern vacation. The days get progressively shorter. But the truth is, depression hasn’t arrived for me yet, and I’m realizing I’m not so much actually anxious as I am anxious that I’ll become anxious. (Trying to exist in this world with a human brain is rough, OK?) In other words, I am experiencing dread because I am habitually trained to fear the fall and approaching winter.

I took a walk today on the trail behind my house. I walked slowly through the fallen leaves. I slipped on the moss and did a slow slide to the earth, bracing my hands in the mud and the grime and the dirt. I started to weep because suddenly, overwhelmingly, I understood I only have one job right now, and it’s this: to welcome this season. To greet the darkness. To allow the shorter days to slow my roll. To accept sinking to the earth. To crumble and break down. To feed the soil and become the loamy womb. To believe in the cycle of life and that this time of death is an integral part.

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What’s in a Grandma Name?

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 25 Oct 2025 00:42:23 +0000

There are stories we tell again and again in our families. Some are new and still pliable. We massage them with each telling, adjusting the cadence, the emphasis, cutting the faff and deadweight, highlighting the bits that get laughs, lifting the poignant pieces, raising our eyebrows at the clever parts, beckoning our audience toward understanding. “Get it?” we’re asking. “Do you feel the heft and shape of it?” “Have I got the telling right yet? Did I convey the humor? The meaning?” And then there are the stories worn with time, smooth around edges; stories that fit in our hands like river rocks, tumbled and familiar. Stories we’ve told dozens of time. More.

I wonder regularly at this human ritual of ours. What we’re hoping to convey. What we’re hoping to learn. Why we choose the stories we do to share on repeat with audiences we know have already heard them. We want, I suspect, to shape reality. To make a truth. To put structure and scafolding around events so they will morph from chaos into order. To mold moments of time into pillars and columns we can lean against as real and reliable and true. To enshrine joy. To understand pain. To make meaning from the miasma. To learn, ultimately, who we are, piece by piece.

When my grandmother was born–and this is a story I’ve told my whole life–her mother let her sisters name her. They were older by a significant margin, perhaps 15 and 17 at the time my grandmother, a surprise, came along. They picked the prettiest name they knew: Betty June. And my grandmother despised it. Loathed it. Hated it with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. In all the time I knew her, she never used it. She went, reluctantly, by B.J. for much of her life, then Bea or just B, which sounded like a diminutive of a much more dignified Beatrice, and was, therefore, an acceptable compromise with the name she’d been given. And then, in 1973, I was born, and I was called Elizabeth, a regal name that delighted her as a dedicated Anglophile who, for decades, faithfully clipped and scrapbooked every mention of the British royal family from every newspaper and magazine she could get her hands on. She promptly changed her own name to Elizabeth, as well, and that is how I came to be the only person I know whose grandmother is named after her.

I’ve paid attention for a long time to the stories my family tells. To the stories I tell. I am intrigued by the hidden meanings. By the deeper motivations. And so, when I notice myself telling a story over and over, I’ve started to consciously ask myself why. What am I shaping? What am I trying to understand? What do I want to codify and capture?

My grandmother was, like all of us who are made out of human, a complicated creature. She was at once imaginative, artistic, petty, witty, smart, charming, and childish. She was also audacious and a little silly while longing to be grand, a combination that makes me feel a little sad for her and retroactively proud. She was poor and would have excelled at being pretentious if anyone had given her half a chance. So I suppose I tell the story of her naming herself after me to highlight her sauciness and defiance. She both wanted to be something she was not and refused to be who others insisted she was. She lived at a crossroads so many of us understand; yearning to love ourselves as we already are and remake ourselves completely.

Lately, I find myself telling my friends, again and again, how difficult it is to choose my grandma name, and the part I like to emphasize is how very much I do not want to choose my own. A grandma name is, I feel, something that should be chosen for me by my grandchild. A name bestowed. A name gifted from the child destined to change my world.

It’s not, I am always quick to note, that I feel it’s wrong for other grandparents to pick their monikers. Not at all. I can understand the desire to choose the label by which you may be known for the remainder of your life, especially by those most precious to you. In fact, most grandparents I know did choose their names, and I begrudge them nothing.

Still, I am reticent. Partly, I’ve realized, because I don’t want to be robbed of this first gift of grandparenting. Partly, too, because I love the risk of releasing control, something I enjoy more the older I become. After all, when your name is dependent on the musings and speech impediments of toddlers, you can as easily be Grumpy as Grandpa or Crapper as Grandma, which tickles me. You may be Lovey or Lumpy, Posie or Poopie, Nana or Nono. It’s the roulette of epithets. The ultimate handle gamble.

Chandler (my son-in-law and the father-to-be), however, iss having none of my refusal to participate in naming myself. “Fine,” he says in all my retellings of this story, eyes twinkling with mirth and mayhem, “then we will teach him to call you Grandma Meth which rhymes with Beth.” And then, after Greg appropriately adopts Grandolf as his grandfather name–dual nods to his gray beard and love of Lord of the Rings–Chandler revises his threat. “Actually,” he proposes, “we will call you Precious.”

And so, faced with the equally hideous choices of Grandma Meth or Precious, I am forced to reckon with a name.

It is harder work than I imagine, friends, thinking about who I want to be.

Who do I want to be in this third act of life? No longer maiden. No longer matron. Entering my powerful, embodied crone era, with all its wit and grace and wisdom, who am I now? And who do I want to be?

I turn to friends both on and offline, and the suggestions are perfect.

Alisa suggests we ditch Grandolf entirely and choose Gollum for Greg so I can retain Precious for the perfect matchy Lord of the Rings (LOTR) names. Gollum and Precious. I die.

Sarah reminds me that Tolkien refers to older hobbits as gaffers and gammers, and I really, really hope some LOTR-loving future grandparents pick Gaffer and Gammer as their grandparent names, because I think that’s genius.

Laney wins for most poignant LOTR-related suggestion with Grandma Goldberry, which others turn into Gramberry or Granberry; strong, beautiful, immortal spirit of the River Withywindle. Gorgeous. Obviously.

Heidi rallies for Grambie, like Grammie, but with a b for Beth, which resonates with me. And several others have ideas along the same lines: Grandma B, Granny Bea, Gma Bee, Gambee.

It is that last to which I return again and again. Granbee? Grambee? Gambee? It feels… so close. Almost right. I text it to a friend. I keep it running in the background of my mind. Then the nurse attending Abby’s labor asks what I will be called. I toss Granbee at her, and she writes it on the whiteboard as GRANDBEE alongside Abby’s and Chandler’s names, where it looks… not quite right.

Abby is in the very early stages of labor. I tell myself I still have time, but I know it’s running out.

In a labor lull, I erase the D, turning GRANDBEE to GRAN BEE, which improves nothing.

So I keep erasing, every letter like the shedding of skin, until I am left with BEE.

That feels better. Less itchy.

And then BE.

I breathe a full deep breath.

And finally just B.

Oh, I think, relaxed. At ease. Oh, there I am. That’s me.

I’m B.

B as in Beth.

B as in bee, switching between queen and honey and worker and bumble. Mother and sweetness-bringer and laborer and chaotic joy-maker.

B as in “god, what an absolute B.” I mean, sometimes.

B as in Bea, named after my grandmother who was named after me, bringing us full circle another half-century on.

B as in betwixt and between, both/and, all at once.

B as in becoming, both the act of growth and the acknowledged beauty already upon us. I am becoming. I am becoming.

And B, in the end, as in to simply be. Enough as I already am. And who I’ve been all along.

It’s a name to live into. It’s a name to live up to.

Waving in the dark, as always,

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He’s here! He’s here! He’s here! He’s here!

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 21 Oct 2025 00:35:28 +0000

He’s here! He’s here! He’s here! He’s here!

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A Foster Cat Story

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 12 Oct 2025 00:01:15 +0000

This is a special one for me.

Over 5 months ago, I took in a new mama cat and 8 kittens, around 6 weeks old. It was clear from almost the beginning that mama wasn’t well. I mean, 8 kittens is a lot of kittens, so it was no huge surprise that mama was skinny, nor that she’d decided to be done feeding them. She wasn’t mean to the babies. She was just DONE, you know? Boobies offline. No mas milk. Shop closed. When the babies sought the breast, mama moved herself elsewhere STAT. As a mama of many myself, I applauded her boundaries. Her babies were fine. They were able to feed themselves and to comfort each other with warmth. She was making choices for her own health now.

What I didn’t know at the time was that mama was in a fight for her life. She slowly kept losing weight and fur, and it took me a while to catch on.

When new fosters come into my home, I like to give them time to adjust. They are, quite reasonably, scared. They don’t know yet that they’re safe. So when this terrified mama needed some space, I gave it to her. I didn’t know yet that being shy and reticent wasn’t her personality or a learning curve; she was just very sick.

Once we figured it out, it was an easy fix. In addition to 8 kittens, turns out a parasite was sucking on her, too. A three-day course of meds changed this girl’s whole world. Her fur grew back silky and soft. She put on some pounds. She rested. And it turns out, she’s an absolute love. Sweet. Gentle. Eager for quiet attention. A treasure, this one.

Still, I worried about finding her a home. It’s hard enough to find homes for kittens, and while I’m genuinely, truly, deeply grateful for every family that adopts the cute babies, there is a special place in my heart for the humans who adopt the adult animals. The mama kitties who’ve seen things. The medical cases. The ones who take extra time to warm up. The adults already grown who have as much to give as the kittens but who’ve learned the world can be hard and harsh, and so they keep their personalities on lockdown until you earn it. Who wait to be wooed rather than tackle the wooing themselves. It takes a human who believes in patience and earned trust to bring a grownup creature home and give them a soft place to land.

Friends, meet my very own aunt, Ann, who adopted this mama kitty yesterday. Ann, who’s known loss. Ann, who knows how to earn trust. Ann, who’s going to have the greatest gift with this precious lady. And meet Minerva, the mama headed home to her reward, a pampered life of leisure and plenty.

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On Fall and Rest

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 08 Oct 2025 23:57:42 +0000

We begin to enter an era when even the light grows weary. It heads to bed sooner, and it lingers there longer, and yet I don’t berate the sun for its laziness. For its lack of productivity. For its languid pace, rising less high in the sky, burning a softer yellow, sharing less heat. I offer the sun no forgiveness the way I try to forgive myself. I know the inherent foolishness of absolving a cosmic leviathan for following the patterns of the seasons. For being subject to the turning of the earth. It hasn’t somehow failed to magic itself into a new contortion in the night sky to adhere to a modern capitalist approach to fecundity. It’s not hanging its head in shame that its light is dimmer for me than it was in June.

Which makes me wonder if I can manage the same immovable grace.

To allow myself to live lower in the sky for a little while. To bank my fire a bit. To give it a rest. To blink on for fewer hours each day. To follow the seasons. To be as wise as a sun who’s known who she is for eons.

…

P.S. When I’m feeling shy and hidey, friends, I sometimes occasionally often convince myself I have nothing to say because what are thoughts like these anyway? But I’m trying both to change my inner rhetoric, especially when it diminishes instead of encourages, and to practice writing, allowing whatever words want to emerge their freedom. Writing is good for my brain. Sharing without judgement is a discipline to which I’d like to become accustomed. So here we are. That’s what this is. Brought to you on my back patio under a pile of blankets while reading Wintering by Katherine May.

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Pregnant Expectation

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 04 Oct 2025 22:38:29 +0000

I am feeling hidey right now. A little quiet and a little uncertain. I am, I suppose, feeling very human. Fragile. Vulnerable. Like I’m shedding a skin, leaving behind a husk that served me well but is past its time, like I’m wriggling incrementally forward, new and soft.

It’s October now, suddenly and inevitably, an October I’ve been anticipating for months. The child destined to make me a gran and my baby a mama is imminent, and we’re lingering in the eternal Before. He’ll be here any week. Any day. Any second. But it also feels like never, in the way the future is always ethereal. Intangible. A shy feeling. A wry wish.

And so we wait in this season of pregnant expectation. Heavy with longing and wondering and want. Abby, my daughter, the mama-in-waiting, is equally calm and crazed. Absolutely zen and frenetic. Told to rest, eager to hustle, struggling to find an outlet that will satisfy. Perhaps it’s that she knows labor is coming, and she wants to get on with it in any form. I want to soothe her or distract her. I want to interfere. But waiting is the work now, and I won’t rob her of its meat.

I am a little listless lately, I admit, tapping my compass, trying to get its attention so it can adjust my direction. I’m not off-course, exactly, but I’ve been sick, and my gut isn’t yet totally OK, and I’m trying to enter this season of change mindfully. I’ve been told to rest, too, and I’m bad at it. Or rather, I’m bad at resting without guilt. I understand the frantic need to work. To do and do and do and do, lest I sit too long with myself and have to listen and hear and see what I really want. What I really need. Who I am.

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A Small Wondering

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 17:34:32 +0000

I don’t know what age it is–maybe 34 or 47 or somewhere in between–that we begin to understand on a visceral, urgent level that we have just this one life to live, but there is such a point which is precisely when we find ourselves wanting very badly to quibble with the idea. Where is the suggestion box for such a moment? The office and department and address to which we can send a letter? Like, whose concept was this, to stick us with one body and that strangest amalgamation–the consequences of our own choices and at the mercy of others’–and still to allow us to see and perceive all the lives around us and some far beyond and make our calculated comparisons?

What if I’d been a doctor? What if I’d been born on the Serengeti? What if I’d married later and had adventures young? What if I’d packed up everything and moved to the Caribbean and curated a barefoot life anchored by sand and sun and buoyed by salt? What if I’d lived in the lowlands of Scotland in an ancient stone cottage moored by fog and heather and made friends with the sheep? Do the “what ifs” end?

I like to think I am, overall, largely, mostly one of the content ones. One who looks around myself with gratitude at the grace and the grime and the magic and mess wryly intertwined and is at ease. I would not change it; I know this is true because I have not. My chicks have all flown the nest except the one planning to go a week from today, but there’s also gravity here and I can see them circling back, again and again, to this life I’ve built brick by brick. I nod in satisfaction. This is my best accomplishment.

But still. Still. Still. The “what if” niggles away. Quieter than it used to be when I was 34 or 47, but there. I wonder if it stays forever? Or only while there’s yet time enough to jump, Quantum Leap style, from one life to another.

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Vacation Dread and Melancholy

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 19 Jul 2025 19:35:44 +0000

Dread and melancholy aren’t the usual words you see when folks are sharing their vacation pics, but they’re the two words that come to mind today as I sit here living my most ridiculous, best life on a beach in a Greece. It is a vulnerable thing to admit to less than 100% gratitude, as though privilege and adventure and respite ought to saturate the experience of travel so thoroughly as to negate the sadness stuffed in my pockets.

They truth is, there’s been much less of the dread and melancholy with this trip than with others. Those of you who’ve been around here a while know that I navigate the world with my constant companions, depression and anxiety, and that means that, as much as I adore traveling and planning retreats, I also get to experience haunting gloom in the dark when anxiety is the loudest. But, honestly, psilocybin therapy + ongoing therapy therapy, has changed the landscape of my brain. So much so that I was caught off-guard by the creeping tendrils of gloom fog that caught me at breakfast. I felt sad (missing my people?), nervous (that I’d flub the retreat?), and guilty (that I get to do this when others don’t?). I’m slowly learning, though, that feeling my feelings won’t kill me actually dead. That shushing them and shunning them gives them more power and extends their stay. That I can kindly and gently let them in. That being tender toward them as an extension of myself is an act of love. That I can believe all this is true not just for other people, but even for me.

Do you know the conscious/competent scale? The one related to the development of a skill? You move from unconsciously incompentent (you don’t have the skill, but you don’t know it) to consciously incompetent (you know the skill exists and that you don’t have it) to consciously competent (you’re good at it, and you know it) to unconsciously competent (you’re good at it, but it’s so ingrained you don’t think about it anymore). I think about it all the time related to Having Feelings. I used to be unconsciously incompetent; I was proud of my ability to stuff my feelings. I reveled in strength. I despised weakness, mine and others’. I kept a stiff upper lip. I thought emotional regulation meant not freaking out, full stop. In other words, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I moved to consciously incompetent when I realized that feelings are a safety valve and a major factor in mental health. That’s when I began to suspect that refusing to feel was oxygen to depression and anxiety. I just didn’t know what to do about it. Fear ruled the day, because I didn’t know how deep the sadness abyss went. If I really allowed myself to feel it all–the loneliness and inadequacy and grief and loss–would I fall forever? Was there a bottom? Could I even take the risk while also trying to parent and work and wife? I’m not being figurative when I say I wondered if it would kill me all the way dead. Ultimately, I made the most loving decision I knew how to make: I decided to bet on myself. I decided to believe in me. I decided to give myself the same grace I give my children, to believe I am good to my very core; that my gut and heart are worthy guides; that I am worthy of trust; that my feelings deserve curiosity and kindness; and that I know what I need. Scary, right? The scariest! And the most freeing.

Today, I’m consciously competent. I’m feeling my feelings, friends, and I’m feeling them all the way. Including the dread. Including the melancholy. I cry frequently, and that alone would have terrified me a few short months ago. But it turns out, feelings wash through like waves, tickling the shore before wandering away, leaving new baubles and detritus in exchange for the old. None linger long. So I cried at breakfast because dread and melancholy feel Big. I mean, please note, I cried discreetly over my Greek yogurt with honey and peaches. I learning it’s OK to have feelings, but remain skeptical that it’s OK to be noticed having feelings, bless my heart. But I did it. I was competent at it. I felt my fucking feelings, friends, and I noted it for the record.

And then, wouldn’t you know it? Right on the heels of dread and melancholy came hope and joy. Hope because I’m getting better. Healthier. More wholly me. A person who feels things. And joy because I opened my teary eyeballs and looked around. At the azure sea, yes. And the ancient olive trees, of course. But also at the craggy-skinned, hard-muscled, tattooed man grinning at his son, laughing at something he said. Children; they break us and remake us. And at the hard boiled egg I cracked and salted and ate while a breeze caressed my skin. Eggs, friends! What a miracle! And moving air, pulled by invisible strings! At the blazing sun, the very same one I see at home. And summer fruit. And the holiness of water. And the beauty of breath. I watched dread and melancholy roll out with the tide, but I’m learning to accept them as part of the same ocean. Dread and melancholy linked inextricably with hope and joy, tumbling together.

I guess this is the point. To live our lives fully. All the pieces of it. To embrace hope not despite dread but amidst it. Beside it and inside it. To chase joy at it pops up like polished agates and tumbled glass, every piece different and precious and worn softly around the edges by all the hard things that smashed up against it.

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A Big Beautiful Betrayal and Pursuing Joy Anyway

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 02 Jul 2025 16:24:40 +0000

Checking in, friends. Especially friends here in the USofA. You doing OK? You hanging in there? You finding ways to cope and breathe and function in this crazy upside-down world?

I don’t know about you, but the Big Beautiful Betrayal hit me pretty hard this week on both a macro and micro level. I mean, macro, of course; we’re watching millions of the most vulnerable Americans lose healthcare, kids lose food security, students lose funding, the national deficit increase exponentially so the rich can get richer on the backs of the poor. It’s a tragedy and a travesty. But also, it’s reeaalll personal over here. I have six kids counting the son-in-law, whom I do, as if I’ve had him all along, and not a single one of the six will get out of this Betrayal unscathed. Not. A. Single. One.

My oldest two are losing their ability to pay back their student loans via the SAVE plan which would have (as the name implies) saved them money while they repaid what they owe for the portion of their education they couldn’t pay up front; an analysis of the new Repayment Assistance Plan found that borrowers’ monthly payments could spike by hundreds of dollars in comparison. For kids who graduated college in May 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic, had to find their footing in the workplace during global chaos and international hiring freezes, who’ve had economic uncertainty as a hallmark of their young adulthood, and who have their first baby on the way, this…well, sucks. That’s what. It sucks.

My next two kiddos experience significant disability. One receives $900/month in Social Security Disability Income and is on the Oregon Health Plan, and the other receives $200/month in SNAP (food) benefits. That is it. The end. Everything these two humans in their 20s, both of whom were in special education throughout their K-12 experience, receive from federal and state governments. Greg and I pay all other expenses. For the eldest, SSDI covers most of his room and board, so we supplement for hygiene and personal expenses and phone. For the other, that’s all healthcare, housing, hygiene, bills, and phone. Those cost us a combined many hundreds per month. Don’t misunderstand, we’re GRATEFUL we’re in a position to do so. But whatever the Republicans are spouting about people taking advantage of the system, grifting off of public welfare, is a lie. Every dime the government provides my adult kids is tightly monitored. The reporting required is extensive. And the amounts provided are miniscule. After the election and before the Big Beautiful Betrayal, services were already being dramatically cut. We’ve been trying for months to get Ace into a job assistance program. Guess what? They’re not taking new clients anymore because there isn’t a budget for it. They’re trying to still service the clients they have, but that’s iffy. I have a kid with disability who WANTS to work. We live in a Right to Work state where Ace is legally entitled to a job and the assistance required to procure one. Still can’t get help, and the federal government’s response is to blame kids like Ace and cut services. FFS.

And my final two kiddos are on the cusp of their college careers, both as queer students. Dear sweet baby Jesus in a handbasket, don’t get me started on the ways the BBB is targeting our gay babies and higher education (all education, really) and student loans. The list of ways these bright, bold humans with their unlimited potential are being dimmed and limited is too long for the socials.

I am, in other words, dismayed. Disheartened. Distressed. Disquieted. Just dis, I guess. And, layered in with it all is the super fun religious trauma of knowing evangelicals made this happen. This harm is their agenda.

I want to fight and rage. I want to change it all. And I’m doing my part, but, friends, the part of ONE PERSON feels so, so small. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by helplessness.

What am I doing about it? In addition to calling my representatives and donating to the causes and advocating for my kids and being a modicum of the safety-net my government refuses to be? I’m pursuing joy. Like it’s my fucking job. Like it’s my everything. Because it’s the only way I know how to survive this chaos and cruelty again. And joy is what I choose to model. Fiery, fervent, incandescent joy, friends. I am on the hunt. Mining every vein I find. Panning for nuggets, and, when those are few and far between, specks and flecks and hints and glimmers. Rumors, even. I’ll take rumors of fucking joy.

So this week, I harvested invasive sweet peas from an abandoned field and made flower arrangements for my house. I plucked suckers off of the first tomato plants I’ve ever grown. I deadheaded marigolds. I watercolored a painting for my unborn grandson’s nursery. I read The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches. I made simple syrup out of cherries and nectarines with a little rosemary and mixed it with soda water and ice for a fancy ass mocktail. I sat in a hammock chair. I took photos of my insanely adorable young humans who wanted to go for a walk to see the sunset as a break from their poker game but kindly paused and posed for a mama who desperately loves them. I lived my beautiful life, in other words. Audaciously. Irrationally. Joyfully. Despite. Notwithstanding. And nevertheless.

What about you? What are YOU doing this week? How are you? Where’s your joy? Check in, please. Role call.

[Originally posted on Facebook]

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We Can Have Nice Things, Just Not the Nice Things We Planned

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 01 Jul 2025 16:49:43 +0000

Spent months hunting for the right patio furniture so I could create the exact configuration I wanted for the space I have at a price point I was willing to pay. The other pieces have been assembled primarily from Facebook Marketplace, Goodwill, and free giveaways over the years. If I could, I’d live outdoors 24/7. I LOVE outside. As my friend Meghan says, I’m not outdoorsy so much as I am “outsidey”. As in, I’m not a mountain climber, I’m a trail saunterer. I’m not a backpacker, I’m a day stroller. I’m not a runner, I’m a hammocker. I’m a read-in-the-lounger. A watch-the-skyer. A listen-to-the-frogser. So, you know, setting up my outside spaces matters to me, and I’ve spent a lot of effort of late focused on comfortable outdoor living. Coffee tables placed just so for outdoor tea-sipping. Trash tucked behind the bar. Cozy rug under the sectional couch so I can eschew shoes and my toesies won’t be bruised by the exposed pebble concrete. Furniture placement easy to walk around for tidying.

It took my adult children and their cohort mere days to reconfigure the patio to their own liking.

The bar? Superfluous.
The garbage bins? Accessible which is far more practical and objectively more hideous.
The coffee tables? Cast aside to collect random detritus.
The furniture? Rounded up, shoved together, and lassoed tight with mishmash straps to create–what else?–a 1970’s style conversation pit. A gigantic puppy pile dog bed. A nest for the birdies about to fly the coup.

The children? Deliriously proud of their creation.

Cai keeps checking in to make sure they can keep it. I’ve already said, “of course,” mostly because, as much as I’d envisioned something lovely–and thought, foolishly, that I might achieve something aesthetically pleasing having all adult children now (HAHAHAHAHA!)–the whole point was to USE the damn stuff, and gosh darn it if it’s not the most popular furniture I own these days. So fine. Whatever. The harnessed furniture will stay bunched together as-is, a joyful, well-used lump.

I would say something snarky here like “this is why we can’t have nice things” except that the nice things I actually want are happy humans who know they’re welcomed and loved and that this space is truly theirs for existing as their whole, entire, true selves, and that’s exactly what I’ve got.

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Announcing: Two Grads, Better Late Than Never?

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 25 Jun 2025 17:07:23 +0000

Just over here really testing the “better late than never” theory by sending Cai and Cael’s graduation announcements weeks after their graduation. In other words, situation normal. I can confirm that all the other grad moms I know had their shit together and sent theirs well before graduation. I’m just here to provide a service to make those of us who definitely are barely managing to hang onto the norms of polite middle class culture feel better. You’re welcome. I give and I give.

P.S. Including the letter I wrote to the Ob/Gyn who delivered my preemie twins nearly 19 years ago to prove I’m a thoughtful human who can occasionally do nice things. However, I did give up after waiting on hold more than 40 minutes with a Missouri Healthcare provider hoping to confirm that Dr. Guinn practices there and that I, therefore, have the correct mailing address. I left a message asking for a call back to no avail, so we’ll see if this darling letter ever gets sent. Your guess is as good as mine. I guess I’m also testing the theory that it’s the thought that counts.

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Time isn’t linear, friends. It can’t be, because sometimes, for sure, we live the past and the present simultaneously. It’s one of the great gifts of age, this time machine we use to traverse our lifetimes and the fact that, occasionally, someone can traverse it with us.

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 22 Jun 2025 17:14:38 +0000

I’ve known this guy since I was 10 and he was 12. We were siblings immediately and argued like it to prove it. We went to the same boarding schools in Indonesia and the Philippines and spent our school holidays in the highlands of Papua, Indonesia, where our families lived next door to each other. His dad was the base mechanic, mine a pilot, our moms cooking our meals on wood burning stoves, and, every once in a while, when we’d splurge by turning on the generator in the evening, we’d gather with our siblings to watch an actual movie on his family’s VHS with a tape someone sent from the States. He knows who the Dani tribespeople are and the cadence of their footfalls and rythms of their nighttime chants. He knows the heaviness of the air during brown-outs in Manila and the feel of the concrete benches behind the gym with our birds-eye view of the city during yet another coup attempt. He knows how we wrapped our hockey sticks in Sentani with colored tape, a special 8th grade privilege, and the giddiness of skate night. He knows church three times each week, Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night, in the open-air cinder block building with geckos falling from the ceiling.

We don’t reminisce much about these things together–we’re too busy catching up on the recent past and building new memories–but there’s no one else on planet Earth who overlaps as much as Jeff Schroeder does with my childhood experiences in Southeast Asia. And, while I’ve thoroughly ensconced myself in my Oregon life and have 30 years now under my belt with a solid and stable community of friends, I often wonder what it’s like for my husband and many of our community who’ve all known each other their literal entire lives. They carry so much of the fabric of each other in their memories, like whole bolts of it, entire blankets. I, on the other hand, handed out hankies of my childhood. Little washcloth memories of Beth, which is all I carry of my childhood friends, too. Except Jeff. I have an entire bath towel of Jeff, maybe even a twin-sized sheet, and can “remember when” with him without explanations of who’s who or where’s where or what’s what. He knows the flavors and the scents and the texture of a unique life and remarkable past.

Is it like this for everyone who moved around as a kid? A crazy quilt collection of memories? Only a few people who recognize the patches and stitching that created the whole? Or does boarding school change it, skipping away, as we did, from our families and forging small paths of our own so that not even our parents carry the full pattern? I don’t know. How could I, living only this one life? All I know is that some friends turn out to be treasures because they last an entire lifetime and know the minutae of you that no one else can access–the trivial, critical minutae of you.

Jeff lives in Alaska now, as a pilot in his own right. I introduced him to his wife who grew up among the Oregon crowd to which I now belong, another serendipity that’s woven our lives lightly yet tightly together. Jeff and Carleta have spent the last week hosting us and making our Alaska dreams come true. They loaned us a truck, borrowed a trailer, gave us their freezer full of fish. They took us to their favorite restaurants and, cherry on the sundae, up in their plane to see glaciers from the sky. Overlayed on the remote landing strip on Sheep’s Mountain, though, was our childhood home in Bokondini, Papua. As we bounced and bumped down the unpaved runway with mountains surrounding us on a perfect sunny day, I may as well have been 14 again, and Jeff 15. We took an entirely unnecessary left turn over the river for my dad, a nod to his dramatic left turns at the Balim River taking us home from boarding school for holidays, and it’s impossible to believe that we’re older now than he was then. Time isn’t linear, friends. It can’t be, because sometimes, for sure, we live the past and the present simultaneously. It’s one of the great gifts of age, this time machine we use to traverse our lifetimes and the fact that, occasionally, someone can traverse it with us.

The post Time isn’t linear, friends. It can’t be, because sometimes, for sure, we live the past and the present simultaneously. It’s one of the great gifts of age, this time machine we use to traverse our lifetimes and the fact that, occasionally, someone can traverse it with us. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Blackberries and Twins: Compound Fruits

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 06 Jun 2025 21:25:44 +0000

I’m supposed to be writing today, I think, about graduations and graduates and mine, in particular. My graduates, I mean. Not my graduations which were dull beyond measure to me. To everyone, probably, other than the parents for whom graduations are a plodding, majestic thing, marking success, at least ostensibly, but perhaps, if the parents are honest, relief. Relief that we’ve raised children this far. Relief that those unfinished, delayed, procrastinated projects were, in fact, completed eventually or at least didn’t affect the final outcome too, too much. Relief that the ways our children were pushed and pulled and failed and rallied and stretched and contracted are done for now. For a moment. For a speck. And they–and we–get to take a mini breather and regroup.

I’m supposed to be writing about that–and supposed to be steaming robes and showering and assembling myself for hooting and hollering and general merriment–but, instead, I’m thinking about blackberries. The invasive kind. The Himilayans with their giant canes and giant-er thorns and reaching, stretching arms and burrowing shoots and opportunistic mentality and incredible, unbelievable work ethic. Never has there ever been an Oregonian or Washingtonian or British Columbian who hasn’t vocally rued the Himalayan blackberry. Who doesn’t know the burning of the biceps and the triceps and the quads and the hams and the glutes after a day trying to wrestle these behemoths from the earth. Who can’t describe exquisitely the feeling of ripped flesh after trying to extricate a hand from a patch that’s coopted earth you thought was yours only to have the blackberries laugh and laugh and laugh at your audacity. To say that the humans in this part of the world view the Himalayan blackberry with spite and malice and rancor and acrimony is understatement. It is, always, war.

Except.

Except in late July when the first blackberries are ripe enough to pull from the tips of the canes, and we start to harvest the fruit, sticking our scarred hands back into that same patch that already stole its pound of flesh, considering the sacrifice worthy. And in August when the fruit is so plentiful, we bake it into pie and can in as jam and puree it for ice cream and freeze it for winter. And in September when the final round of stragglers runs across the finish line, finally reaching full ripeness so we can pluck the hot fruit straight from the vine into our mouths and squish it with our tongues, no teeth required.

Did you know blackberries aren’t true berries at all? A true berry develops from a single flower’s ovary with a fleshy pericarp (the fruit wall) and multiple seeds. Tomatoes are true berries, and grapes, and bananas, and blueberries, and, somehow, avocados, although don’t ask me to explain how that’s true since it definitely has the one seed only. Blackberries, however, are compound fruits, or aggregate fruits, which develop from a single flower with multiple ovaries which cluster and develop tiny fruitlets (that’s a real word) known as drupelets, each of which contains its own miniscule seed.

And IDK why today, of all the days, blackberries and their stamina in the face of revulsion and their sweetness and their shirk-the-definition-of-berry-ness and their use-their-itty-bitty-seeds-to-propagate-the-earth-ness and their insistence on standing their ground and staining our hands and pricking our skin and making a general, delicious nuisance of themselves should lay claim to all the space in my brain. But then I pause for a second and sit with it. In the sun on this graduation day. Looking at the blackberry flowers blooming on the hill beside my house. Looking at my queer rainbow babies readying themselves to walk a stage and shake a hand and accept a certificate.

Knowing that they’ve faced the same revulsion and you-don’t-belong messages. Knowing that their high school years were poisoned by a school board who tried to ban their pride flags and their beings. Knowing that others came along to defend them in court and in the classroom and in their hearts, declaring their sweetness in the midst of the pain. Defending their space in this place. Allowing them to take root and thrive. And perhaps the analogy is a little wonky and heavy-handed, comparing, as I accidentally have, my children’s experience to that of an invasive plant. But perhaps the complexity of it and wrestling with its inconsistencies is exactly right. Because that’s a lot to lay on a plant. And it’s a lot to lay on a child. I dare say, neither deserve the hostility for simply existing as berries who don’t match the nomenclature to which they were assigned. But somehow, magically, majestically, they both bear the most magnificent fruit.

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Upon My Twins’ Graduation, Standing at the Faerie Door

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 06 Jun 2025 01:48:26 +0000

What is it, do you think, about graduations, these endings of one thing and beginnings of everything else? I’m in the middle of them right now. This very second. This week. This sunny day, which is the eve of tomorrow, which is the day of the Actual Event. The gradution. The marked moment when the switch flips. The faerie door when we leave what we’ve known and enter the mysterious, magical future where it’s all potential once again, not yet pin-down-able.

One of my twin children–for I have two at once which is still a surprise lo these eighteen years later–wandered into my office moments ago with his stack of rumpled apparel for tomorrow. It needs to be steamed, which he knows because I told him, my mommy role still activated, and I offered to do it because it is a sentimental task. Not daily laundry; that’s been his for ages. I shall not. But steaming the symbolic robes? Yes, please; that’s mine. This twin child–the boy one–is valedictorian, despite my best efforts. I tried, friends. I really did. I have witnesses. I begged for a B. Just one. Because relinquishing perfection makes for an easier, more pleasant life (I truly believe this) and the benefits of perfection do not outweigh the burden, but my child is a rebel and a revolutionary and rejected my advice and so shall be lauded on the morrow, and I have an additional stole to steam. Which I’ll do happily and proudly because what mommy of worth isn’t just incredibly, stupidly proud of her baby pursuing his own dreams despite her?

The other of my twin children–a girl! who knew??–wandered in, as well, pulled, I believe, by my empty, full heart which is acting like a black hole, a vacuity, sucking its surroundings inside in a desperate bid to hold onto everything all at once, its capacity endless, its need great. She came for a hug as she often does and has reminded me since she was tiny to SLOW DOWN, FFS, AND HUG BACK, despite the fact that a) slowing and b) accepting affection, have, historically, not been my best things. It occurs to me now, as I’m writing this, that she may not know about b. Gosh, I hope not; wouldn’t that be amazing? If my child believes me to be as affectionate as I’d like to actually be? Sadly, though, the “a” ship sailed…none of my children are under the illusion that I’m not a frenetic, frantic rusher, trying to fit in All the Useless Things. I’m working on it, though, I swear. This twin child–the girl one–is receiving fewer plaudits this week than her brother, although it remains a mystery to me how this should be so, for this child has had to be So Brave. The bravest. Going on exchange. Leaving home for a year at 16. Living in Turkey where she realized she’s a she, as if that isn’t impossibly hard far from home in a country where such things are illegal. Coming home. Coming out. Battling her body and her brain and coming out (pun intended) on top of it all–more authentically herself, more humble, more open, more curious, more deeply aware of pain, her own and others’. I mean. Where’s the stole for that, I ask you?

All of which is to say…

What magic. What a miracle. What absolute magnificence.

And also…

Here we are at the faerie door, friends. Amazing.

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Twinsie Pics: SPECIAL EDITION! Someone’s Having a Baby

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 04 Jun 2025 17:29:21 +0000

It’s Twinsie Pics Time wherein my eldest daughter and I pose as twins and you hafta try to tell us apart. And I’M SO EXCITED FOR THIS ONE because I’ve been keeping a BIG SECRET for, like, five months now!

Listen, friends. ONE of us is pregnant. Either my dear daughter or me. But not only are we impossible to tell apart any time, we’ve made this edition extra tricky because the one that’s NOT pregnant is really, really good at pushing her belly out to accurately mimic pregnancy. (Note: try not to be jealous of this skill. It’s a gift. A talent. She’s been practicing for years. If your belly stays slim no matter how hard you try to release its greatness into the world, it’s not your fault. You just have to build that belly with happiness over time and keep trying.)

So your task this time is twofold:
1. Guess who’s who, and then,
2. Guess which of us is preggo.

I’ve included two bonus pics which may or may not help. One is of us with the non-pregnant person’s belly deflated. And one is of the pregnant lady with her partner and an ultrasound pic which they used to announce it to the world this very day. I don’t anticipate these will help you much because of the aforementioned difficulty telling us apart at the best of times, but perhaps you’ll find teeny, tiny tells that will provide little clues and lead you to a conclusion.

Go ahead and guess which of us is due to give birth in October and which of us is simply delirious with joy. And when you guess, tell us how you got your answer so others can check your work.

Good luck!

Bonus Pics:

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Today, Undone on the Unending List of Things I Must Do If Not Right Now Then Yesterday, Is Mostly Everything, But I Grew a Strawberry

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 28 May 2025 17:53:26 +0000

Today, undone on the unending List of Things I Must Do If Not Right Now Then Yesterday, is mostly everything, so I started to write about that.

There is dirt under my ragged fingernails because, once I started on a Patch of Weeds, I was unstoppable. My jeans are muddy. My shoes are filthy. So I started to write about that.

I wore my muddy jeans just like that to the doctor where I had a long overdue appointment to discuss carpal tunnel surgery, because, although I’ve likely needed it for Quite Some Time, I’m also an American and so cannot afford it, so I started to write about that.

I swam in the vast sea of visceral humanity because the nurse offered me Labs, specifically an antibody titer for Hep B because my vaccine expired, and the Labs waiting room hosts the most fascinating random selection of humans. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong section to wait, because I sat with all the Polite People who neither talked nor looked at each other instead of with the delightful woman with Down syndrome who wanted to talk about Pinnochio, so I had to eavesdrop, instead. I started to write about that.

I started to write about the deep faith it takes to leave a religion that’s been co-opted for power and the deep faith it takes to stay and attempt reform. Both/And, friends. Both/And.

I started to write about my twins who are, impossibly, adults and, soon, high school grads. These twins I never saw coming. These twins who unmade and remade me. These twins who ushered in more chaos and magic than I could have imagined.

I started to write about a dozen things. A hundred. A thousand. More. For if a picture is worth a thousand words, a story in its embryonic stage is worth a legion of ideas, colliding and collapsing, and, if the writer is lucky, coalescing into something that makes sense. A tiny nugget of truth.

But I gave up today, knowing that I tried and trying is enough. It’s a step. Often overlooked but of its own value as a building block for tomorrow. Why is it that we value only the finished product, friends, instead of acknowledging all the bricks we painstakingly laid to get there?

So I left my office for the sun and the garden and the dirt and the labor which will pan out or won’t, for it’s impossible to know what will grow from our sowing. So far, a single strawberry. Isn’t she lovely?

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I’m a Trudger and a Lumberer and a Plodder…aka, a Hiker, Who Knew?

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 27 May 2025 19:19:19 +0000

For years, I thought I wasn’t a hiker. I mock my Marine father for it, for he’s the ecstatic Aussie shepherd who nipped at my heals on forced marches up mountains, and so he killed my love of the hike with his unending enthusiasm and zest. In my more contemplative moments, I remember my exasperation with only fondness. What I didn’t understand when I was 6 is that he was 6, too. Not once upon a time. He was exactly 6 when I was exactly 6, for we are, each one of us, every age we ever were, all at once, such that, although he appeared to be 31, he wasn’t. He was a 6-year-old scamperer, scurrying up the mountains, eager for me, his daughter-peer to bound with him. I, of course, was Reluctant. I simply, fundamentally did not understand why we had to romp when trudging was an option. Why gambol when we could plod? Why frolic when we could lumber? Also, why go Outside at all when Inside has couches and pillows and books? WHY?

So, I thought for years I just wasn’t a hiker. Turns out, I was wrong. Oh, not about everything. I AM a trudger and a lumberer and a plodder. I just didn’t realize that my gait and hiking were compatible. My favorite pace for mountaineering is a good, deliberate saunter. Did you know that’s allowed??

I hiked this weekend with friends.

I warned them they might have to ditch me because I move at my own snail’s pace, but they said they’re slow hikers because they stop to look at birds and moss, and I thought, “Perfect.” And it was. We stopped for everything. Every. Thing. Wild ginger, and the Pacific wren, and Oregon manroot, and salamanders, and candy flower, and witch’s hair, and every other fairytale plant and creature along the way.

I thought I ought to throw this out there for two reasons, as follows:

1. So the 6yo inside my dad will be proud of me.
2. So, in case you think you’re not a hiker, you can reevaluate.
3. So you know you can hike with me this summer at Camp Rewind. These very friends and I are hosting camp for grown-ups in the fairytale Oregon forest where we each do whatever we want at our own pace in an inclusive community. It’ll be rad. And you’re invited.

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When Your Parents’ Criticism Isn’t Actually About You After All (Spoiler: You’re Already Enough)

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 23 May 2025 17:55:32 +0000

I talked recently to one of the youths who frequents my home about a thrashing, wiggling, wild conversation they’d had with a parental figure in which the parent said, basically, I’m so, so, so, so, so, so proud of you and all the Things you’ve accomplished, and, WOW, what a Success you are, except in this One Major Area where you’ve Failed Completely, and, if you keep this up, you’re doomed and your children are doomed and so on and so forth unto the infinite generations. It was a clamorous pivot, you know? Of the type that gives one emotional whiplash, so now begins the attempt at recovery. The neck brace so as to not exascerbate the injury, the temporary pain relief to get them over the initial agony, the emotional rehab to learn, gently, how to reuse muscles that have been torn. Where once the young human could lithely spin and dance around or hurdle over emotional obstacles, now they must move slowly, tenderly, picking their way through obstructions that used to be barely noticed. How, they asked me later in a desperate bid to understand What the Fuck Just Happened, can my parent say these things? Why? What is it that they expect to accomplish with the I’m So Proud BUT message? And, most importantly, why can’t we be rid of the guilt, the heavy-handed opinions, the lack of reflection on how the parent’s perspective may not really apply? Why can’t my parent be proud of me for…oh, I don’t know…ME? How is it that I don’t measure up?

And, oh, friends. I hate this for our Youngs. I hate that they have to navigate the nonsense. I hate that they believe these messages are in any way a reflection of them, the young ones, rather than a spotlight on we Olds.

Because, of course, as the person with the outside perspective, the one removed from the emotional and spiritual weapons the parent wielded, I know that this Young One is already enough. And working their ass off to be better. And remarkably aware that this parent is just absolutely batty about this One Major Area. Bonkers. Bananas. Nuts. And so deeply emeshed in The One Way Things Have to Be as to be blinded to this child’s brilliant critical thinking skills. As in, never have I ever met a human more interested and engaged in sussing out What the Fuckery. Never have I ever met a human more determined to be deliberate in choosing for their life What Works and discarding What Doesn’t. Never have I ever met a human more deserving of trust as they pursue a meaningful life well lived. Equals? Yes, I’ve met many. Superiors, though? None.

So I told the Young what I believed they needed to know in the moment, which is this: your parent’s message had nothing to do with the real, actual, living, breathing You. Zero percent. Your parent’s message is one that comes from their own trauma, their own blindedness, their own confusion that your life could possibly be filled with so very much that’s Good and Fulfilling when you’re not participating in That One Thing they were told was the necessary foundation–the only possible framework–for anything of worth. Your parent’s message is a (bizarre, poorly worded, hurtful) compliment, commentary clear that you’ve measured up, although the parent doesn’t understand how.

And, while I don’t regret what I said, I wish I’d added this: you’re already enough. You’re deeply worthy of love for exactly who you already are. The Successes are nice, yes. Lovely, in fact. Great job. Whatever. But they are not YOU, and you are not them, and they have no bearing whatsoever on your value as a human. You can pick your own trajectory, friend, whether it includes the One Major Area–That One Thing–or not. You can, and must, choose your own direction based on the compass of your heart. The thing about compasses is this: they can point you in a clear direction, but you still must navigate the wilderness or the sea or the desert or the complicated, complex life to arrive at your murky, squishy, changing destination. There will be course corrections. There will be confusion, even, as the compass of your heart conflicts with the map of your gut or the rudder of your brain. There’s a lot going on inside, friend, not to mention *the impediments life will toss your way, forcing a reworking of the route, or the voices shouting they know the Best Way. But the truth is this: only YOU get to choose what and where and how is right for you. And you’re going to do great because that’s already who you are: beautifully and wonderfully made. Full stop.

*P.S. Please enjoy the universe’s gift that, as I was preparing to type “the impediments life will toss your way”, I was interrupted, for my small hellhound escaped the backyard, rolled in shit, and came bounding back, tossing shrill barks at an innocent neighbor over her shoulder, requiring a bath that soaked me to the skin. Impediments, indeed. Excrement-laden, cacophonous impediments which will temporarily drown us. Still, we rise.

The little poop:

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My non-Prommers Went to Prom and May Be Prom People After All Except I’m Pretty Sure They Prommed Wrong

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 13 May 2025 17:35:33 +0000

I dunno, I guess I’ve always thought there are Prom People and non-Prommers, you know? Like, I’m not into binaries–I’m very anti-either/or–until you get to the trappings of popularity in our status-focused American culture, and then I’m all, NOPE NO PROM FOR ME THANK YOU because it was never a place I felt like I fit. Listen. In high school I was a cheerleader, but that was at missionary kid school in the South Pacific. Our pleated skirts were barely shorter than knee length. Our bloomers may as well have had lace; they were certainly large enough to support rows of the stuff. More importantly, I was a founding member of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Club. We carried towels and answered “42” to every question asked. That was my vibe. Those were my people. So when I transferred back to the USA for my junior year, I was totally lost. I did not understand why fashion labels mattered. I was more horrified when my friend Christy brought vodka in her water bottle to school than I’d been in the middle of a government coup attempt in the Philippines. I struggled to find my crowd. I mean, I DID master The Claw bangs with the requisite teasing of the hair and barrels of Aquanet, probably because the South Pacific was not so far away that The Claw could not reach us, so the late 80s/early 90s were not completely lost on me, but outside of a couple kids in show choir, I felt very alone. Prom was an absolute no-go. I’d gone to one school dance, felt wildly uncomfortable when a ginger boy asked me to dance, and bolted out the door, more overwhelmed than I was by the cereal aisle at the grocery store. (Sidenote: did you know that in the States there is a WHOLE ENTIRE AISLE devoted to cold breakfast cereal?? My 16yo self did not know, and she could not deal, friends. The USA is ridiculous.)

Fast forward to today. I have five children. The eldest is a Prom Person. She went to her own proms and finagled invitations to other schools’. She had separate dresses for each one. She looked stunning and had a blast, and I loved that for her, though I could relate 0%.

The next two kids of mine experience intellectual disability, and it was through them that I found Night to Shine; prom for folks of all ages with disability. It is truly magical, and if every prom was as open, joyful, fun, and full of chicken nuggets and ranch, I would turn into a Prom Person immediately. They have make-up stations for people who want to be made up. They have dress-up props. Everyone who wants to be is crowned king or queen. There are limo rides and photo booths and food and sweets and bubbles and a dance floor full of people just absolutely jamming. It is pure chaos. I love it.

The last two kiddos are twins, and let me tell you that my Geek Spouse and I bred true, friends. These two children are full-on nerds. They share science facts for fun. They thrive in the theater crowd. They never met a sports ball they knew how to maneuver. And, most importantly, they understand what “42” means.

This is the twins’ senior year, and, due to my binary thinking, I didn’t really expect them to go to prom. I mean, I guess I just assumed they were firmly in the non-Prommers camp, you know? Like, they’re going to Performing Arts Prom (PA Prom rhymes with Gay Prom…coincidence?) next week which is a whole different thing, but PROM Parm? No. That was out, I thought.

I thought wrong.

This weekend, my little geeks went to prom with their theater friends.

A cadre, if you will.

A horde.

A fantastic conglomeration of We Are Wildly Ourselves Without Apology descended upon PROM Prom.

A skosh reluctantly (“the friends didn’t give me a choice”) but with INCREDIBLE fashion sense.

The theme was Rapunzel.

They invited their sophomore friends so more of the throng could attend.

I hemmed slacks. I did up-dos. I did make-up. I told them all they looked fabulous because they did. I knew they would have the best time because they were together, but I also wondered what they would think of PROM Prom.

The next day, I asked.

Me: How was prom?

My children: Fine. [Just like the usual school liturgy. “How was school?” And All God’s People said, “Fine.” I know better. I adjusted the question.]

Me: Did you dance?

My children: No. [said in the That Is The Stupidest Question Ever Uttered voice]

Me: So what did you do?

My children, looking as me like I’m daft: It was at the Air and Space Museum, Mom. We walked around and looked at the exhibits. We read every sign. We discussed the historical significance of the space race. We talked about physics and the future of space travel. [This is a paraphrase.]

Oh. Obviously.

Me, pleased: Well, that’s great! It sounds like they really set Prom up to appeal to all different types of kids, not just the Prom People.

My child, with rising rage: NO. No. NO. Listen. The photo booth was set up opposite the SR-71 Blackbird, ONE OF THE COOLEST PLANES IN ALL EXISTENCE, but it wasn’t set up to, like, frame the Blackbird. So you got a picture while you’re LOOKING AT the Blackbird, but NOT WITH IT. For what reason, I CANNOT TELL YOU. Like, WHY? It’s RIGHT THERE. You have to look at it to take your picture, and it’s black; it would make a great background. But no. Nope! And you know what else they did? They put the DJ right in front of the display about the Thunderbird–which is also one of the coolest planes in that building– AND THEN WE COULDN’T LOOK AT IT OR READ ABOUT IT. It was terrible. TERRIBLE. [This is verbatum. I recorded the rant and transcribed it.]

Me, laughing: Almost as if people go to prom to, like, dance or something and not peruse the exhibits at the air and space museum?

My child, shaking his head: EXACTLY! Unbelievable.

He walked away muttering.

All of which is to say, my binary thinking was challenged this weekend. And my geeks are (kinda) Prom People. And PROM Prom these days is geared toward different types of kids. Sort of. Within, you know, reason. I mean, it’s not as cool as Night to Shine, but what could be, really? (Answer: PA Prom. PA Prom is that cool.) And my kids (not just my twins…all my kids) looked DYNAMITE. And of course I forced them to take a pic with me even in my dirty gardening jeans.

That is all.

Except I’m over 50yo, and I still don’t understand why fashion labels matter, but neither do my children. And I still think an entire aisle dedicated to cold breakfast cereal is excessive. Some things change. Some stay the same.

P.S. Are you a Prom Person or a non-Prommer? Or do you reject binaries like that? What about your children?

The post My non-Prommers Went to Prom and May Be Prom People After All Except I’m Pretty Sure They Prommed Wrong first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Irrational Joy Project

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 01 May 2025 00:15:50 +0000

A few weeks ago, at my spring Oregon Respite Retreat, my friend Heidi asked how we were all…you know…surviving in the current political and social climate, and BOY HOWDY do I get that question. In January 2017, DJT took office and our church denomination of many decades kicked us out due to our implacable stance that queer folks be fully welcome and included. The timing of it all was not coincidental. and we felt very betrayed. Very deceived. Very bereft. Because what we’d been taught about the c/Church was not, in fact, the case. All are not welcome. All are not loved. All are not embraced. And we certainly cannot sit inside the tension of disagreement, as one family, as one faith, and hold each other in the light and love of Jesus. And MAN, was that a blow. Like hurricane winds.

I was filled to the brim with dread and despair. I was enraged. I was full of grief. But I was also presented with the opportunity we all have when we’re burned to the ground. We can remain in the ashes or we can rise like the phoenix. I chose both. What can I say? I don’t appreciate binary choices. I wallowed, friends. In the ashes and the muck and the mire. A good, solid amount of wallowing because wallowing is an underrated stage of grief. And then I rose. A little bit at a time, because that’s what no one tells you about being the phoenix. It’s not all triumph and the overcoming of great odds. It’s not all the remaking of ourselves from loss and hurt. It’s a little bit at a time. Miniscule victories compounded. Sometimes feats so tiny, you’d need a microscope to see them.

One pint-sized such win? I started to study the great civil rights leaders, trying to suss out their paths of maintaining their fight–their unrelenting passion for justice matched with action–without becoming discouraged. And I found my muse in John Lewis. This was a man who was beaten in Selma. Jailed for his work seeking racial justice. Lived to see a brilliant Black man elected president, and watched the backlash of white supremacy still trying to tear that work down. Here is a man who had every reason to give in to dread and despair, but you know what? He declined. Instead, he chose joy.

Isn’t that AUDACIOUS, friends? Isn’t that just the most brash and bold response you’ve ever heard? Joy in the face of folks trying to rob you–AGAIN–of your equality? Your humanity? That’s defiance, that is. And it’s the kind of defiance that FEEDS your own soul.

So I started (slowly) to try joy on for size. Little bits at a time. And I realized joy is totally irrational. It’s like to have to set sense aside to find it. I started fostering kittens, which makes no sense and creates chaos and soothes my heart. I travel the world for too few days on a shoestring budget. I allow teens to invade my home 24/7, to take over the kitchen, to be messy and mouthy and awesome. This weekend, I gardened. GARDENED. Me, the Plant Killer out there in the dirt. trying to keep things alive. It’s ludicrous, I tell you.

And it may not seem like a big thing when it comes to the Tom Fuckery going on right now. I know. I get it. But I’m telling you, it IS. It’s a Big Thing. It’s huge. The most enormous. Because it keeps my heart alive for the fight. It creates safe space for vulnerable creatures, including my own sweet self. And it’s subversive as hell, because you know what they can’t have? You know what they don’t get to steal from me? You know what John Lewis kept for decades? My joy. My happiness. My heart. My life.

That’s why I started the Irrational Joy Project. That’s why I tag so many posts that way. That’s why, while I continue to fight, I’ll continue to pursue preposterous joy wherever and whenever I can find it.

I have so much more to say about this, friends, but I have to run because I’m picking up a mommy cat and her eight kittens. It’s going to be absurd around here.

Waving in the Dark,

The post Irrational Joy Project first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Brief Little Psilocybin Update

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Apr 2025 21:47:38 +0000

(Originally posted on the Socials)

Alrighty, friends. It’s officially been 11 weeks since I had psilocybin treatment, so it’s update time!

In short, so far, so incredible. Exceeds expectations. Mind blown (probably literally :)).

My main goal with psilocybin treatment was to see whether I could reduce or even maybe eliminate my anti-depressant/-anxiety medications. Not because those medications were bad. I mean, they saved my life. But meds work until they don’t, necessitating a change every 3-4 years and suffering major depressive states during the 3-6 month switch to a new drug. It was exhausting, and I wanted off the hamster wheel.

Promising research indicates psilocybin can help combat Major Depressive Disorder, so, even though I was a True Believer in the Nancy Reagan Just Say No campaign (the 80s, man), I decided it was time. I went for it, grateful it’s legal in Oregon.

Following treatment, I stayed on my SSRI to see what Beth’s Brain was like with ONE change (psilocybin) at a time. Two weeks ago, a full two months after my “heroic dose” of ‘shrooms (my psilocybin therapist’s words), I decided it was time. I cut my SSRI out entirely. (Psst…my medical doctor is looped in on all of this.)

And now?

Oh my god, friends, I feel AMAZING. Like the combination of psilocybin + weekly therapy + the sun returning to the northern hemisphere is magic. I’m sleeping at night. SLEEPING. At NIGHT. Like other humans! Without Anxiety driving the bus. Without sleep aids. Anxiety, in fact, is mostly quiet. Sometimes for consecutive hours. And I didn’t know the absense of something could be so loud. So tangibly present. In fact, the loudest Anxiety gets is when I fear this level of peace won’t last, but I have an amazing therapist, so I’m working on that.

[You can find the rest of my posts on Psilocybin Treatment on Facebook.]

(Photo is of wild ginger which I planted because I guess I’m a gardener now? And also a plant whose name I don’t know but is ALSO currently still alive, because I’m living in a fairy land of miracles and magic.)

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What I Did Right (And What I Fear I Did Wrong) in Parenting: A Confession

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 23 Apr 2025 21:16:17 +0000

Today, my therapist asked me if there was anything I wanted to talk about before we picked up from last time. I said no. Then I said, “Well, maybe one little thing.” And then I talked about it for the entire session.

See, there was a time, approximately 16 years into parenting, when I discarded the playbook and decided to do something utterly radical: help my children believe in themselves, trust their guts, and follow their own wild, weird, wending paths, wherever they may lead. And this may not sound radical to you. You might be, like, “Yeah, Beth. Duh.” But to me? This girl raised in the Dr. Dobson Strong Willed Child era of parenting? This human right here who thought the only real parenting instruction was in the Bible, listed under “spare the rod and spoil the child?” This little evangelical to whom Good Behaviour and Responsibility and Obeying the Parents and the Church were the only remedies for Such a Worm as I? The idea of discarding all of that was RADICAL, I tell you. Revolutionary.

And it felt very risky.

Like, *what am I doing gambling with my children’s lives* kind of risky.

See, when you’ve been promised that, if you’ll only stay with the program and follow the rules and do as you’re told, you’ll raise happy, healthy children into productive adults…when you’ve been lured into that White Van with sweets…it’s brutal to turn away, experimentally, with nothing guaranteed at all.

But there was a niggling thought that wouldn’t go away, and a beacon beckoning. “What if?” it kept asking. “What if your kids’ hearts are a better metric than their behavior?” And, “what if your kids’ dreams are a better touchstone than the Rod?” And, “what if their gut is the only compass that points toward happiness?” And, finally, the big what-ifs I couldn’t shake, “What if your kids aren’t worms at all? What if they’re not mired in sin? What if they are good to the core?” All questions St. Augustine and Dr. Dobson would abhor. All questions the American evangelical machine would find reprehensible and a sure path to hell.

The questions circled and circled, stirred as they were by love, under which fear and shame wither and melt away.

So, I shifted the way we operated as a family. I took the Big Risk. I put all my chips on my kids, and I slowly (slooooowly) learned to trust them. Their hearts. Their motives. Their needs and wants and wishes and hopes. Abby, my oldest, will happily let you know I became better at it over time. She was subjected to more of the Old Way than her youngest siblings, our twins. They have freedoms she didn’t. They have fewer rules. They get to collaborate where she was forced to follow. To adhere. To obey. It’s not fair, but it’s true. Abby has received an outsized portion of the apologies I’ve offered to my kids because most were owed to her.

And guess what? My kids are marvellous humans who know who they are and what they need and how to advocate for themselves and others. They know what is good: to act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly in the light of truth. (A paraphrasing of Scripture by this heathen.) And, oddly, although Good Behavior and Responsibility weren’t emphasized, they’ve mastered those, as well, just intrinsically motivated rather than rod- and fear-inspired.

But. But but but but but but but. There is one of my children who struggles in ways the others don’t. One of my babies who had a rough start to life and experiences significant intellectual and communication disabilities. One of my babies whose autism drives them to confusion, trying to parse an abstract, complex world using a concrete mind. One of my babies who hasn’t grasped the “Good Behaviors” or “Responsibilites” of basic adulthood like regular hygiene. Or keeping their space free of grime. Or completing a task without constant supervision. This child, although living with adult peers, is, I believe, lonely. Isolated. At least a little adrift. And the implications for this child regarding health, happiness, safety, and security frighten me.

I wonder what I suspect every honest parent wonders: is this my fault? Did I cause this? Was my grand parenting experiment, while beneficial for most of my children, harmful to this one? And then I think, yes. I have failed this child. I am solely responsible for this person. I did this, and now my child suffers and will most likely die friendless and alone, in filth and squalor. I should’ve been more on top of things. I should’ve buckled down on Responsibility, and I should’ve emphasized its companions, Hard Work, Grit, and Follow-Through. What was I doing? What was I thinking? And my “what ifs” for this child morph quickly into “if onlys.”

Here’s what I have to say about that: thank the Light for therapy, friends. Because these are the questions, the statements–the “maybe one little thing”–I posed to my therapist.

See, we’ve been talking about compassion and kindness lately. I am working (and working and working and working) on believing for myself what I already know-to-my-bones for you: that I am worthy of love exactly as I am. That my value is never measured by productivity. That “Good Behavior” and “Responsibility”, especially as measured by subcultural constructs like evangelicalism, aren’t values, but are simply false metrics for conformity. That I’m not “lazy”, even when my inner critic decides to regale me with all the things I’ve left undone. That that inner critic, as stern and unyielding as she is, is trying in her own darling way to protect me because, somewhere along the way (probably myriad places along the way), I received the message that failing to produce more, do more, be more, and give more are directly tied to whether I deserve love. Whether I’ve earned rest. Whether I matter. So, when the inner critic doubles down, chastising and excoriating me, she’s endeavoring to shield me from feeling worthless.

I’m still in the process, in other words, of shedding that OG parenting playbook. I mean, I discarded it for my kids, but I’m clinging to it for parenting myself. And I’m wondering if I did that one child of mine a profound disservice by scrapping it too soon.

That’s when my therapist grabbed the reins of my runaway horse, galloping toward self-flaggelation. She pulled me back. She reminded me of the big picture.

She reminded me that I provided for my children’s safety, stability, and basic needs. She reminded me that I created safety for emotions and differences. She reminded me that there are a LOT of factors that contribute to this particular child’s challenges and that superimposing a harsher parenting tactic on top of this child’s trama, their disabilities, their neurodiversity, their executive functioning, so that they might DO *clap* MORE *clap* WORK *clap* and CONFORM *clap* FASTER *clap* perhaps, might, just maaaaaaybe have added to the harm rather than solving any problems at all. She hinted that my inner critic could be thanked for her tireless work attempting to protect me and now my child, but that I have a handle on the sitch and she could maybe take a break.

My therapist reminded me that I can reframe my fears as just that. “I’m afraid my child’s isolation is my fault. I’m afraid I failed this child. I’m afraid I parented all wrong. I’m afraid any suffering my child is experiencing is my sole responsibility.” Fears can be acknowledged, friends, without being true.

And then my therapist reminded me of some core truths, which I share now with you–TO you, FOR you–in case you, like me, desperately need to hear them today:

You are not the sole factor influencing your child’s life.

You worked hard–SO HARD–at the hardest job there is.

You will continue to navigate the impossibly complex landscape of your baby’s life and help them for as long as they will let you.

Read. More.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 23 Apr 2025 18:10:45 +0000

Ruth the Librarian and her knuckle tats are what America needs right now. READ. MORE.

I mean, right??

Now, to be honest, we weren’t exactly talking about all the important reading we wish America was doing. Like peer-reviewed science. Or articles from trained journalists rather than, say, pundits who work for news organizations who had to admit in court that they’re not actually news but are entertainment and thus don’t have to report, you know, factual content (coughfoxnews*cough). Or real-life experiences of trans folks whose agendas are are things like grocery shopping and talking walks and paying bills instead of [insert nefarious bathroom plot].

Now, listen; those are fantastic reading ideas! Highly recommend! Strongly encourage!

But, in truth, Ruth and I were discussing our insatiable appetites for cozy reads these days, for which I make no apologies. We’re TIRED, man. Like, POOPED. Fried. Weary. The real world has all the high stakes we need right now, and we’re already doing all the important reading on IRL events, so our entertainment? Delicious, please. Heartwarming and delightful. More orcs setting up cafes, and nervous middle-aged men discovering houses by cerulean ses. More murder clubs on Thursdays, and secret societies of irregular witches. More directions to small, angry planets, and diaries from murderbots. I almost said “more low stakes novels,” except I look at my mini cozy list there and realize they have the highest stakes, really. Discovering ourselves. Finding out we’re brave. Learning to see and embrace those we once othered. Refusing to remain invisible. Wending our way home, even when it’s somewhere we’ve never been. Dare I say… reading things that leave us happy?

Anyway, I’m convinced Ruth has her one-two punches set up correctly to deliver unto us what we need, friends. Read. More.

Amen.

The post Read. More. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Jeanette the Brave

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 07 Apr 2025 23:39:09 +0000

Shout Out to my old/new friend, Jeanette the Brave who attended last weekend’s Oregon Respite Retreat because she wanted to and despite the fact that she didn’t want to. Those of you, like Jeanette and me, who have Anxiety as a sidekick will know what that means.

Jeanette contacted me a couple months ago to see if there was still room for her to join the April retreat. When I said there was, she wrote, “Yay! And EEK” and explained she was hoping I’d say no, because then she could give herself credit for reaching out without having to, you know, actually attend, but she was out of luck. I had one spot left. And THEN she did the Most Courageous Thing and came. Friends, this act always amazes me. Because I know personally how many thousands of times she had to talk herself into following through.

Yesterday, she wrote to thank us for “a lovely weekend with such an amazing group. When I first reached out to Beth and expressed my trepidation about attending the retreat she assured me that everyone attending was incredibly warm and welcoming and she was not wrong! I can’t say enough what a pleasure it was meeting each and every one of you. Thanks so much for all the kindness and support and laughs this weekend. It was the best ‘personal growth and psychological health and safety’ I could have asked for.”

And that’s why I host retreats both in my home town and around the world. For rest and respite. For recreation. But mostly for community and connection and joy. But it only works because every one of these people was, once upon a time, brave, changing our longtime online friendships into a new one, in person. And I just want to acknowledge them and express my deepest gratitude for their trust and friendship.

The post Jeanette the Brave first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Announcing: Camp Rewind, a Summer Camp for Grown-Ups!

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 04 Mar 2025 01:12:00 +0000

And we’re live! After years of dreaming and months of planning, Rewind: A Summer Camp for Grown-ups has arrived!

Registration for summer 2025 is open. You can find all the info here.

If you’re an adult who misses summer camp–or who missed the opportunity to go as a kid–this is for YOU. We’re focused on community, inclusion, and, especially, FUN. Remember fun? Remember playing? Remember the refreshing feeling of separating from Regular Life for a magical moment to sink into that bizarre and beautiful concoction that is frivolity and gravity? Where you fly free and are grounded in equal measure? THAT is our core goal for Camp Rewind.

We’ve planned SO MANY FUN and nostalgic events. Campfires. Singing. Silly rec games. Board games. Card games. Arts and crafts. Canoeing. Hiking. Time to be quiet and minful in the forest. Time to be LOUD. Time to breathe deep, and time to let go. All with a roster of some of the best camp leaders of all time, and a pick-and-choose format that allows you to opt in and out of all activities.

I’d absolutely love to have you join me! Boots on the ground, friends!

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Coming Soon: Summer Camp for Grown-Ups!

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 03 Mar 2025 01:11:00 +0000

SO EXCITED to reveal a New Thing some of my favorites and I have been planning.

Let’s just say if you’re a grown-up who misses summer camp and care-free play and breathing fresh, forest air–or if you’re a grown-up who WISHES you’d had those experiences to miss–we love you and have a wonderful plan for your life.

More details very, very soon. You can keep an eye on us on Facebook @CampRewind and on Instagram @summercamprewind to follow along.

The post Coming Soon: Summer Camp for Grown-Ups! first appeared on bethwoolsey..

It Was, And Is, A Girl: A Story of Grief Redeemed and Coming Out

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 04 Nov 2024 23:46:00 +0000

It was, and is, a girl.

Dearest friends, it is with the heaviest and happiest heart I write this post full of dreams lost and found, stories ended and begun, all at once, overlapping, as life so often is and does.

I told you last week, vaguely, about heartache and the exquisite agony of watching our children grieve while grieving with them, powerless to do anything but show up, knowing that Being There is both everything and nowhere near enough.

What I didn’t tell you, because I never share my kids’ business without their blessing, is that Abby and Chandler were expecting a baby. A girl, although I was the only one who knew because it was my job to get the cake for their private gender reveal. I was stashing that cake in my fridge when they told me there was no longer a heartbeat. The baby had miscarried, the potential little life lost along with their hearts.

It’s been a week now. More. Full of tears and doctors and what ifs and now whats and whens. And the tiny detail about what to do with that goddamn cake. Lord, that cake. Do we destroy it? Consume it? Light it on fire? Bury it with roses?

Abby and Chandler chose to redeem it.

See, Cai told us a few months ago that she’s a her, not a he, after all. And we rejoiced because it’s always a gift when our children introduce us to deeper and truer versions of themselves. When they reveal themselves in their fullness, beautifully and wonderfully made. But we also rejoiced privately because Cai wasn’t ready yet for the world to know. So we loved her and hugged her and waited. And then she said “OK. I’d like to be me now. Everywhere. Out loud and on purpose.” Which Abby and Chandler knew.

So they called Cai. “Might you want the cake?” they asked. “We’d love for you to have it. We’d love to celebrate you with it.” And she did. So we did. And never have I ever been so very full of grief and delight and sorrow and peace and absolute, abiding pride in my children who SEE each other and love abundantly, even when love looks like offering their pain on a platter to transform it into joy.

We miss you, Baby Schur. And we welcome you, Cai.

It is, and was, a girl. And we love them very much.

Waving in the Dark,

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Falling to Pieces: A Vindication for Autumn and Rest

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 01 Oct 2024 22:40:08 +0000

suddenly there’s September.
hopefully it brings things
that August couldn’t.
though I can’t help but wonder
as I watch the leaves descend,
if I could shed and fall to pieces as well
and show up brand new
and beatiful
next spring.

I feel like trying again.

Jessica Jocelyn

Ironic, yet perfect, isn’t it? That I’ve waited for October to start to share this poem that’s taken up space in my September brain? Because it is, after all, about falling apart. Falling down. Fall-ing, if autumn was made a verb. And why shouldn’t it be? Fall, as an action item. Fall, as an occurrence. Fall, my state of being.

I just realized today that the word verb is a noun. Of course it is. Because nothing is what it seems at a glance. Nor should it be. Everything is more complex than the costume it wears. The book more complicated than its cover. The human more labyrinthine than their shell. More tangled. More multifarious. And yes, this is a rabbit trail from my point, but the older I become, the more often I travel the rabbits’ roads because they take me Places I Didn’t Intend to Go, and it’s drifting from the carefully curated life that’s allowed me to cultivate curiousity and eschew expectations and wander a wilderness of beauty and wonder. You know?

I’ll admit, though, that sometimes I follow the Wrong Rabbit, aka the rushing, buttoned-up White one who’s always late, late, late. No time to say, “hello, good-bye,” I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. I guess the problem is that the Wrong Rabbit is a long-time squatter in my brain and his mantra is a metronome, tick-tock, tick-tocking away, reminding me Something Is Left Undone. And also, Productivity Equals Worth.

There’s a reason, after all, that I write and write and write about rest and respite and the Defiant Act of Being when our fatherland is the Dominion of Do and Doers and Doing and our value is assessed only after we check the box called Done. This is my soap box issue, and my audience is myself. It has taken / is taking me years–decades–to begin to work my way free of Do and to learn the language and customs of Be. I’m still quite obviously a foreigner in my adopted homeland, and when I’m tired I revert to my first language, berating myself for all the lonely checkboxes on my lists that aren’t receiving their mark.

September, especially. And now October. The list items left undone are legion, and any I do manage to mark replicate like the heads of the hydra, the list longer even after I Do. Add in the usual seasonal labor of maintaining my mental health while the dread of winter peaks around the corner, and I’m a little sunk. Not bad. Not yet. But slipping a little beneath the surface. Beginning to melt into soft earth. Deteriorating fractionally, with the barest fuzz of initial decay.

But then I wonder. What if sinking is the work of this season? What if the Defiant Act of Being right now is relaxing like the leaves on the trees, still clinging to vibrancy, mostly, and turning our faces to the waning sun, but also withering a skosh around the edges, accepting that our brittle bits are breaking away and wending on gentle currents of air to a ground that’s beginning to cool and deliquesce?

What if Fall-ing is an edict for those of us who are striving to Be? What if Fall-ing to pieces is part and parcel with this cycle of the year? What if shedding and deteriorating and, yes, resting is the same thing as feeding the soil where we build our lives? What if this time of breaking down and staying there a while is necessary to put nutrients back into the earth to make it rich and loamy for a future season of growth?

What if there’s nothing wrong with me or the way I feel? What if I’m exactly where I’m meant to be?

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Nuts and Bolts. Also, Unrelated, I’m Nuts, and I Bolted.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 23 Jan 2024 22:47:33 +0000

It’s been a conundrum, these past few years, trying to figure out how to allot writing time between a blog, a manuscript, a book proposal, and the socials. The socials are, of course, the most immediate and the easiest. Great marketing on Meta’s part. And, frankly, the socials provide the best access and communication with you, my friends. We can see each other’s lives, shout together on Thursdays, and comment/respond quickly (and with notifications). But not everyone is on the socials for myriad reasons: time, self-esteem, mental load. And the other real drawback for a writer is the fact that, while I do “own” my content, I don’t own my accounts or pages, so Meta controls my access and can lock, suspend, or eliminate my accounts whenever they like. It doesn’t happen often, but I do have writer friends who, through absolutely no fault of their own (and usually because someone who doesn’t like them has falsely reported them), have been censored, suspended, removed from feeds, or blocked entirely from their platforms. So throwing all your community eggs, if you will, into the socials baskets seems unwise. I’ll continue to be present there, of course, but HERE? In this blog space? I OWN this. This is mine. It’s backed up and archived, and I have perpetual access to all my own content.

However! However. However. A blog isn’t really a place for all the mini-updates the socials see. It’s not a great place for a tiny snippet. A food pic. A multiple-chins contest. A sentimental sentence without any real writer-craft. Misspellings that are easy to forgive because everyone knows auto-incorrect is involved. I just don’t think y’all want to see all that dumped here. But I also know I’ve put a lot–a LOT, a lot–of content on the socials that could’ve been good here, too. And, realistically, some of that is lost forever because “seek and ye shall find” is not a strongsuit of Meta’s searchability.

So I’ve sporadically posted bits and pieces from the socials here. And I’ve sometimes written stuff just for you. But I’ve done neither consistently enough to serve you well. Not since the Plague anyway. And, while the Plague still feels like yesterday, it’s been almost four years since it began. And two+ since we entered the After Times. The New Normal. The OK, I Guess This is Life Now?

I don’t say any of this to berate myself. I don’t think I need to apologize for Doing What I Could or for Trying to Figure Stuff Out. But I do think I can say “this isn’t working well” while also saying “c’est la vie” and I am made out of human.

All of which to say (and my father always says “why use a few words when all the words will do”…or something like that), I’m going to try a new thing, and it’s this:

I will continue to publish worthy posts from the socials here. “Worthy” meaning anything weird, wonky, authentic, joyful, sincere, etc. But I will likely do these in bulk. Instead of trying to keep up with one-offs (publishing here every single time I do on the socials), I’ll periodically gather posts-of-interest and put them in this space. That will take self-imposed pressure off of me to DO MORE and DO IT BETTER, which are the antithesis of how I’m trying to live my life, while giving me the freedom to share with you the words I think may resonate or amuse or connect.

Will I still write separate blog pieces? Yes. But I’ll put a similar amount of pressure on myself to do that. Which means a little. Some. But hopefully less of the pressure and more of the joy of normalizing this weird, wild life.

In conclusion (ha! we’re not even close), my hope is that I will be more consistent. You know, inconsistently so. But more than before. We’re talking improvement rather than unlikely perfection.

This blog will become an amalgamation of sorts. A bringing-together. A newsletter-style periodic publication of the ongoing pursuit for magic in the mess and wonder in the wild of a life lived off-course from what was, once, a perfectly good plan.

K? K. That’s what I’ve got.

ALSO, this seems like an excellent time to tell you that ALL the prevaling wisdom of the day–every algorithm, every article, every SEOsomethingsomethingsomething–says your blog articles should be short. Super short. Shorty McShortface short. But this is definitely not that, so I guess I’m going down with the Shorty McShortface ship. We are way, WAY too far under the water to try to change our trajectory now. (And now that I’m writing this paragraph, I’m realizing I want to KEEP writing this paragraph forEVER, because people telling me what to do makes me stubbornly want to do the exact opposite. I am a warrior. Fighting unseen forces. In a battle that has nothing to do with me and no possible way to “win” against my foe. This is basically my entire personality in a nutshell, bless my heart.)

ANYWAY, IF YOU HAVE ARRIVED THIS FAR, I AM AWARDING YOU THREE GOLD STARS. You, my friend, are a master of determination, and I love you for JOINING THE REBELLION.

So! In that vein, here are a few recent posts from the Book of Faces and the Instant Grams. [Note: If you want to see all the minutae over there and not just the pieces I cherry-pick, feel free to go to my page on the Book of Faces and hit the “follow” button under my bio; now, if you ACTUALLY want to see all the minutae, hit the follow button a second time (after it says “following” which you would *think* would mean you’re following, but really just means Meta will leave me out of your feed) and change it to “favorites” when that option appears. Listen, Meta does a lot of things well, but it’s a little ridiculous about keeping folks you think you’re following away from you in favor of its own algorithm which shows you random things it hopes you’ll like (aka, paid content) which makes them more ad revenue. Same procedure for the Instant Grams: click follow under my bio, but then click it again and choose “add to favorites.” What can I say? It’s owned by Meta, too.]

January 10.

Oh, lord. One of my teeny, tiny goals in the next season is to open our online community to pursue deeper authenticity, more profound connection, and joy amidst the madness. There are two major parts to that:

1. Nuts and bolts. All the practical work behind the scenes. It’s time for me to create a more intentional content strategy to improve the quality and consistency of what I’m putting into the world. You matter. You deserve my time and attention.
2. The “oh, lord” part. Cracking open the areas where I’ve felt inadequate and unprepared and refusing to use those as excuses to hide. Hide myself. Hide my voice. Hide my face. I had to do some real soul-searching to determine whether I hide because a) I’m an introvert who really can’t (and shouldn’t) send more of myself into the world lest I lose my energy and the spark that keeps me on the sane side of chronic depression, or b) I’m just afraid. Afraid to tackle new mediums and new methods. Afraid to broaden my comfortable circle. Afraid to see and love myself in more photos and *ugh* video. Obviously, my answer was b. And I don’t want to live in fear, friends.

So here we are, making a brand change away from the cartoon hand and facing (get it?) toward a more authentic me. I DESPERATELY want to make a joke here about being sorry you’re getting my face. But I won’t. Because part of this is learning to be kind and gentle, even to Me.

Love to you, friends. Let’s see where this takes us!

{For those of you reading this on the blog, I can’t post the videos I’m making here because the files are just too, TOO large to upload and I haven’t figured out yet how to change that. I’m 1000% positive there’s a simple solution, but it’s a bridge to far for me at the moment. To see those, visit the socials. Please and gracias.}

January 14.

POV: When you’ve been happily married for 20 years but are celebrating 29 years of marriage. Listen; it took us a while to figure some of our shit out and to really, truly, deeply consider whether we were better together or not. Not every marriage is worth saving. Not every marriage is safe or healthy or contains partners who are both willing to do the forking impossible work of being better and doing better and learning to treat each other and ourselves with gentleness. But ours was. So we did. And those unhappy years informed us about the importance of taking fearless and regular inventories of our marriage, never faking perfection, and always involving trusted advocates and friends because the two of us trying to figure everything out alone was a recipe for disaster. There’s a reason our way of saying “Happy Anniversary” is “HOT DAMN! ANOTHER YEAR NOT SMOTHERING YOU WITH A PILLOW!” Here’s to another 20 of the happy ones, and to being our fallible, flawed, fabulous selves.

January 18.

Shared little “This Is Who I Am” snippets, but I just realized I parlayed this into a more thorough, better written version as the new “About” page on this blog. So, you know, you can go there to see it. 😉

January 19

Our 2025 Cruise Retreat to the Magical Mediterranean is NOW BOOKING! You can find the link and more on the Relaxing Retreats for Authentic People page. I hope you’ll join me!

January 21.

So, friends. Here’s the deal with this pic.

1. I tried to use a dermaplane face razor/exfoliator, and I now know that learning to use these is exactly like learning to use a razor-razor when you’re 12, because even though I’m 50 whole years old, I 100% took chunks off of myself with this thing. Like I don’t understand how razors work. I think I was too… enthusiastic, maybe? Regardless, I have these two VERY LOVELY scabs on my nose now. So beauty goals = achieved.

2. If any of y’all have any tips for how to use a face-taker-offer without, you know, TAKING OFF YOUR FACE, lmk. I realize I could watch YouTube or TikTok or something and do my own work, but I’d rather ask the hive mind and see what you’ve got for Olds tryina learn new things.

3. I do really love the lack of peach fuzz. That’s cool. Not worth carving up my face. But, you know, cool.

4. None of that is the point. The POINT is, I’m at the airport, leaving for a few days solo to Mexico on an entirely unplanned trip because my brain really, really, really needs the sun.

5. I decided to take this trip exactly 2hrs and 37min before the plane took off. We live 1hr from the airport. I packed in 20 minutes. I know I have my passport, my wallet, and my swimsuit. It will be a surprise to see what else I shoved in my bag. Even to me. It’s OK, though. I’m wearing my St. Jude medallion, and he’s the patron saint of chaos and impossible causes. So Jude and I? We’ve got this.

January 22.

Made it on the plane to Puerto Vallarta!

How can I travel so last minute, you ask? It’s actually the way I most often travel. Because my dad was a career pilot and flew for multiple airlines, he has standby flight benefits he can bequeath upon family, so I use those whenever and wherever possible. Does it mean flying is free? No. But the discount is substantial. It does, however, mean you only get to board the plane if there are seats available which means waiting until the last minute to see if there’s room and, even then, requires extreme flexibility in the rapidly-changing environment of air travel. Mostly, it all works out. But sometimes I get stuck in, say, Munich for 4 days due to weather disruptions and reaccommodation of passengers. Standby folks are the last accommodated. But for those of us who love to travel but don’t have the funds to do it too often the regular way? It’s a worthy trade.

But, BETH, doesn’t this all make you anxious, you say? Well, let’s discuss anxiety and travel, shall we? Because the surface level answer is no; standby travel, with all its wonkiness, doesn’t make me anxious. If 5 kids taught me anything, it was how to be super flexible and roll with the unexpected. But if I’m going to go deeper? To the heart level? Travel in general does hit my anxiety bone. Hard. Despite growing up traveling the world and continuing that passion in adulthood, the truth is that I always haul Anxiety along. A niggling voice at the base of my skull. A whisper of dread. A cold feeling seeping into my skin. It’s always there on some level. So I’ve learned to bring it along for the ride.

Over the next few months, for reasons I’ll get into soon, I plan to do a ridiculous amount of travel. A truly obscene amount. A obnoxious, glorious amount. And I’m bringing, as always, Anxiety along. So I’ll be writing about that. Starting a new series, if you will. A Traveling with Anxiety series. To give you an inside view of what it’s like, how I plan and prepare, what little tips and tricks I’ve learned, in case it’s helpful to any of you, my friends.

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New Year’s Resolutions Don’t Work for Me, So I Do This, Instead

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 10 Jan 2024 18:47:06 +0000

I spent a while thinking about why New Year’s resolutions make me feel TIRED, ANXIOUS, and OVERWHELMED, especially since I actually WANT to assess the past and set goals for my future. I am, after all, invested in my own mental health–for the sake of myself and everyone who enjoys the privilege of living with me (ha!)–and I also care deeply about this community and CONNECTION and the challenge of living authentically.

My trouble with resolutions isn’t that I’m still stuck in the dark ages of trying to lose weight or go to the gym–I know that way lies danger because I’ve attempted the same path year after year, and, even during the years I “achieved” a smaller body, I was dismantling my self-esteem, my longterm health, and my confidence in my body as resilient and lovely and already worth infinite love.

So I was kinda stumped at my viseral reaction to resolutions until I finally realized a) we don’t give ourselves enough credit for simple survival (and that is PLENTY as a goal), and, b) THE TIMING IS TERRIBLE.

When January 1st arrives, I am done, friends. D. O. N. E. DONE. I have just run the annual marathon from Back-to-School through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas including the mental and emotional loads that entails. And who crosses the finish line of a marathon to a cacophony of shouting about immediately evaluating it and setting solid plans in place for the next one? NOT ME is who. I am collapsed at that finish line with urine dribbling down my legs, knees bloody from falling, waiting for the paramedics to hook up my IV. It is TOO MUCH at exactly the WORST moment to demand my resolutions.

But!
But.
But I still have hopes and dreams and wants and needs that I want to turn into actionable goals.

So I invented a new way in tiny steps that works for me. It’s called “What I Want,” and there are three steps. I use super fancy 3×5 cards to write down:

1) what I want
2) what I can actually control about that thing I want
3) what I’m willing to do about it.

Then I post them where I can see them, on the wall above my desk.

I get to break resolutions into small bites and adjust the timing to what works for ME, and I thought I’d share in case it’s helpful for you, too.

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The Kids Are Gonna Be Alright

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 03 Jan 2024 21:03:37 +0000

Look at the darling young adult humans who let me love them.

I call them all my babies.

Friends, I am here to tell you definitively: the kids are gonna be alright. These precious ones are 17-20ish years old and they already understand community, camaraderie, and deep, abiding compassion. They show up for each other. They share real and vulnerable truths. They try to be kind, and when they’re shites, their friends call them out… and then back in. They’re passionate about justice and integrity. They’re critical thinkers. They challenge each other and the status quo. They wear their weird, geeky, counter-cultural ideas on their sleeves. They sing show tunes at all times of the day and night. They eschew norms, gender and otherwise. They dial in my missing child from Turkey so he can play, too, because they’re includers. They give each other thoughtfully curated gifts (stuck in concrete, buried in a giant hole in my backyard, that have to be literally unearthed and then smashed with a mallet sending concrete shrapnel across my yard), so, really, my only complaint is their creativity.

In conclusion, I adore these creatures. They delight me.

Also, grown-ups could learn a lot from them.

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Wait. You can ACTUALLY SEE things in your brain??

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 02 Jan 2024 03:48:22 +0000

OK, so, listen. Have you heard about this? Aphantasia? It’s the inability to “picture” or “see” or “visualize” things in the mind. Apparently, 2-4% of the population has aphantasia, but most have no idea they have it. IT TURNS OUT, THAT IS ME, and it’s kind of blowing my mind.

So, I read about aphantasia a couple years ago (for example, here’s an article in Scientific American), and I was AMAZED by how very differently our brains work. BUT, I thought I didn’t have it because I have always, always, always considered myself to be very good at visualization.

Like, if you ask me what an apple looks like–to visualize and describe it–I can do it in acute detail. What I failed to understand, because the concept is so completely foreign to me, is that THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO CAN CLOSE THEIR EYES AND SEEEEEE IT WITH THEIR BRAINS. And, in fact, that that is MOST humans.

Wut?? What even is that magical mind power? Is that true? That most people can do this sorcery? I polled the people who live in my house, and ALL OF THEM can do it. Just not me.

Truthfully, I didn’t understand that I have aphantasia until I took the “Vividness of Visual Imagery” test online. I have deep, complex understanding of what images are, and I thought that was the same thing. I didn’t understand people close their eyes and see pictures or 3D images or, like, video, vividly and in color. I only “know” what an image looks like. But unless there’s a picture in front of my eyeballs, I can’t actually, physically SEE it.

And I learned that there’s a genetic component to this phenomenon, so I called my parents and asked if they have aphantasia. They BOTH had the same response as me. “WAIT. WHAT? PEOPLE CAN SEE LITERAL PICTURES IN THEIR MINDS?” Yes, My Parents. YES, THEY CAN. The verbs “picture” and “visualize” AREN’T FIGURATIVE, AFTER ALL. They are REAL, LITERAL actions people can make happen.

Now, Greg is wandering around the house feeling sad for me, but he’s also wondering why I love reading so much if I can’t “see” what’s happening in the books. Except, I feel like I can. I “imagine” in great detail, but it’s with knowledge instead of pictures.

So I am (obviously) totally obsessed with this now, and I must know… WHAT DO YOU SEE IN YOUR BRAINS, FRIENDS? Tell me everything!

P.S. If you take the “Vividness of Visual Imagery” test, you don’t have to give any personal information to get your results. Just don’t check the boxes or give the info. Check the privacy policy box and hit submit.

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Top Ten(ish) Escapist Fiction Books I Read and Loved in 2023

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 31 Dec 2023 00:08:45 +0000

Alrighty, friends! Here’s a short list of books I read and loved in 2023.

For the purpose of understanding whether this list is AT ALL, IN ANY WAY, helpful for you, please note:

1. I only read escapist fiction. I like to fall into a fun book and live there awhile. I’m not into tragedy, and I’m not into triumphing over horrific, abusive odds; I feel like Real Life has enough of that, so frolicking in that space for entertainment isn’t really my thing. NO JUDGEMENT, but if it’s on Oprah’s book list, it’s probably not on mine.

2. I lean heavily into fantasy, whether on Earth or in space, and I like magic and magical creatures of all sorts. Two-thirds of the books on this list fall into the magical fantasy realms.

3. I read these books in 2023. They aren’t necessarily new and weren’t necessarily published in 2023.

4. I like my books spicy. As in sexy. As in sex. If reading that’s not your jam, look away. I mean, not every book on this list is explicit, but if you pick one up and find a few delightful pages of hot and heavy, you’re welcome. I give and I give.

5. I lean heavily toward books that are queer, neurodelicious, and/or center people of color, written by same. Representation matters.

6. I’ve linked these books to Amazon, but please also consider purchasing from your neighborhood, locally owned bookstore.

Off we go!

Because I like to eat my dessert first, I won’t save the best for last. Hands down, my favorite read of 2023 was The Last Binding Series by Freya Marske, a deliciously queer conspiracy-driven fantasy mystery set in Edwardian England. The first book of the series, A Marvellous Light, was published 2021, followed by A Restless Truth in 2022 and A Power Unbound in late 2023. I saved the final book for my Christmas holiday read, and I was 0% disappointed. Absolutely delightful.

“Robin Blyth has more than enough bother in his life. He’s struggling to be a good older brother, a responsible employer, and the harried baronet of a seat gutted by his late parents’ excesses. When an administrative mistake sees him named the civil service liaison to a hidden magical society, he discovers what’s been operating beneath the unextraordinary reality he’s always known.

“Now Robin must contend with the beauty and danger of magic, an excruciating deadly curse, and the alarming visions of the future that come with it—not to mention Edwin Courcey, his cold and prickly counterpart in the magical bureaucracy, who clearly wishes Robin were anyone and anywhere else.

“Robin’s predecessor has disappeared, and the mystery of what happened to him reveals unsettling truths about the very oldest stories they’ve been told about the land they live on and what binds it. Thrown together and facing unexpected dangers, Robin and Edwin discover a plot that threatens every magician in the British Isles—and a secret that more than one person has already died to keep.”

Soulless by Gail Carriger is the first book in the Parasol Protectorate series. Look, I have no idea how it’s possible that I never read Carriger’s paranormal steampunk fantasy romance before this year, but I have absolutely, 100% corrected that oversight by blasting through everything she’s written in this genre. The Parasol Protectorate is joined by other series set in the same universe: The Finishing School, The Custard Protocol, and Delightfully Deadly.

“Alexia Tarabotti is laboring under a great many social tribulations. First, she has no soul. Second, she’s a spinster whose father is both Italian and dead. Third, she was rudely attacked by a vampire, breaking all standards of social etiquette.

“Where to go from there? From bad to worse apparently, for Alexia accidentally kills the vampire — and then the appalling Lord Maccon (loud, messy, gorgeous, and werewolf) is sent by Queen Victoria to investigate.

“With unexpected vampires appearing and expected vampires disappearing, everyone seems to believe Alexia responsible. Can she figure out what is actually happening to London’s high society? Will her soulless ability to negate supernatural powers prove useful or just plain embarrassing? Finally, who is the real enemy, and do they have treacle tart?

“Soulless is a comedy of manners set in Victorian London, full of werewolves, vampires, dirigibles, and tea-drinking.”

And speaking of Gail Carriger…

Divinity 36 by Gail Carriger is book one of a complete trilogy in the Tinkered Starsong series, all published in 2023. This series is a delightfully queer YA space opera.

“Phex is a barista on a forgotten moon. Which is fine – he likes being ignored and he’s good at making drinks. Until one day an alien hears him singing and recruits him to become a god. Now Phex is thrust headfirst into the galaxy’s most cutthroat entertainment industry, where music is visible, the price of fame can kill, and the only friends he has want to be worshiped.

“Welcome to the divinity. Where there is no difference between celebrity and religion, love and belief, acolyte and alien. Where the right kind of obsession can drive a person crazy or turn them divine.”

Starter Villain by John Scalzi, published 2023.

“Charlie’s life is going nowhere fast. A divorced substitute teacher living with his cat in a house his siblings want to sell, all he wants is to open a pub downtown, if only the bank will approve his loan. Then his long-lost uncle Jake dies and leaves his supervillain business (complete with island volcano lair) to Charlie.

“But becoming a supervillain isn’t all giant laser death rays and lava pits. Jake had enemies, and now they’re coming after Charlie. His uncle might have been a stand-up, old-fashioned kind of villain, but these are the real thing: rich, soulless predators backed by multinational corporations and venture capital.

“It’s up to Charlie to win the war his uncle started against a league of supervillains. But with unionized dolphins, hyper-intelligent talking spy cats, and a terrifying henchperson at his side, going bad is starting to look pretty good.”

10 Things That Never Happened is Alexis Hall’s latest novel, a modern gay cozy romance.

“Sam Becker loves—or, okay, likes—his job. Sure, managing a bed and bath retailer isn’t exactly glamorous, but it’s good work and he gets on well with the band of misfits who keep the store running. He could see himself being content here for the long haul. Too bad, then, that the owner is an infuriating git.

“Jonathan Forest should never have hired Sam. It was a sentimental decision, and Jonathan didn’t get where he is by following his heart. Determined to set things right, Jonathan orders Sam down to London for a difficult talk…only for a panicking Sam to trip, bump his head, and maybe accidentally imply he doesn’t remember anything?

“Faking amnesia seemed like a good idea when Sam was afraid he was getting sacked, but now he has to deal with the reality of Jonathan’s guilt—as well as the unsettling fact that his surly boss might have a softer side to him. There’s an unexpected freedom in getting a second shot at a first impression…but as Sam and Jonathan grow closer, can Sam really bring himself to tell the truth, or will their future be built entirely on one impulsive lie?”

The Monsters We Defy by Leslye Penelope, published 2022.

“Washington D. C., 1925: Clara Johnson can talk to spirits—a gift that saved her during her darkest moments, now a curse that’s left her indebted to the cunning spirit world. So when a powerful spirit offers her an opportunity to gain her freedom, Clara seizes the chance, no questions asked. The task: steal a magical ring from the wealthiest woman in the District.

“Clara can’t pull off this daring heist alone. She’ll need the help of an unlikely team, from a handsome jazz musician able to hypnotize with a melody to an aging actor who can change his face, to pull off the impossible. But as they race along DC’s legendary Black Broadway, conflict in the spirit world begins to leak into the human one—an insidious mystery is unfolding, one that could cost Clara her life and change the fate of an entire city.

“The Monsters We Defy is a timely and dazzling historical fantasy that weaves together African American folk magic, history, and romance.”

All the Dead Shall Weep by Charlaine Harris is Book 5 in her Gunnie Rose Series (start here with Book 1, An Easy Death), a dystopian fantasy set in a postmodern United States.

So as to not spoil the series if you haven’t read them, here’s the synopsis of An Easy Death: “In a fractured United States, a new world where magic is acknowledged but mistrusted, a young gunslinger named Lizbeth Rose takes a job offer from a pair of Russian wizards. Lizbeth Rose has a wildly fearsome reputation but these wizards are desperate. Searching the small border towns near Mexico, they’re trying to locate a low-level magic practitioner believed to be a direct descendant of Grigori Rasputin.

“As the trio journey through an altered America—shattered into several countries after the assassination of Franklin Roosevelt and the Great Depression—they’re set on by enemies. It’s clear that a powerful force does not want them to succeed in their mission. Lizbeth Rose has never failed a client, but this job may stretch her to her deadly limits.”

The Once and Future Witches by Alix E. Harrow. Beautifully (and often subtly) queer, and with stunning writing, this book is an ode to women, our complicated relationships, and our power when we work together. (Thank you, Laney!)

“In 1893, there’s no such thing as witches. There used to be, in the wild, dark days before the burnings began, but now witching is nothing but tidy charms and nursery rhymes. If the modern woman wants any measure of power, she must find it at the ballot box.

“But when the Eastwood sisters―James Juniper, Agnes Amaranth, and Beatrice Belladonna―join the suffragists of New Salem, they begin to pursue the forgotten words and ways that might turn the women’s movement into the witch’s movement. Stalked by shadows and sickness, hunted by forces who will not suffer a witch to vote―and perhaps not even to live―the sisters will need to delve into the oldest magics, draw new alliances, and heal the bond between them if they want to survive.

“There’s no such thing as witches. But there will be.

“An homage to the indomitable power and persistence of women, The Once and Future Witches reimagines stories of revolution, motherhood, and women’s suffrage—the lost ways are calling.”

Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki, and I know, I know, I’m late to this one (published in 2022 and wildly popular) but, in my defense, I judged the book by its title and thought it was an Oprah tragic/triumphant novel, not a SUPER WEIRD SPACE MAGIC QUEER DELIGHT. I have corrected the oversight.

“A defiantly joyful adventure set in California’s San Gabriel Valley, with cursed violins, Faustian bargains, and queer alien courtship over fresh-made donuts.

“Shizuka Satomi made a deal with the devil: to escape damnation, she must entice seven other violin prodigies to trade their souls for success. She has already delivered six.

“When Katrina Nguyen, a young transgender runaway, catches Shizuka’s ear with her wild talent, Shizuka can almost feel the curse lifting. She’s found her final candidate.

“But in a donut shop off a bustling highway in the San Gabriel Valley, Shizuka meets Lan Tran, retired starship captain, interstellar refugee, and mother of four. Shizuka doesn’t have time for crushes or coffee dates, what with her very soul on the line, but Lan’s kind smile and eyes like stars might just redefine a soul’s worth. And maybe something as small as a warm donut is powerful enough to break a curse as vast as the California coastline.

“As the lives of these three women become entangled by chance and fate, a story of magic, identity, curses, and hope begins, and a family worth crossing the universe for is found.”

A Lady for a Duke by Alexis Hall. Although Alexis Hall is best known for Boyfriend Material and Husband Material (also on this list), this is my favorite of theirs. Trans regency romance. I loved this book.

“When Viola Carroll was presumed dead at Waterloo she took the opportunity to live, at last, as herself. But freedom does not come without a price, and Viola paid for hers with the loss of her wealth, her title, and her closest companion, Justin de Vere, the Duke of Gracewood.

“Only when their families reconnect, years after the war, does Viola learn how deep that loss truly was. Shattered without her, Gracewood has retreated so far into grief that Viola barely recognises her old friend in the lonely, brooding man he has become.

“As Viola strives to bring Gracewood back to himself, fresh desires give new names to old feelings. Feelings that would have been impossible once and may be impossible still, but which Viola cannot deny. Even if they cost her everything, all over again.”

Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros. I mean, you miiiight have to have been actually deceased to miss the release of this book or its sequel, Iron Flame, which was also released this year, but just in case, I’m including it. A classic fantasy complete with dragon bonding, this page-turner also includes disability representation. Love.

“Twenty-year-old Violet Sorrengail was supposed to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. Now, the commanding general—also known as her tough-as-talons mother—has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.

“But when you’re smaller than everyone else and your body is brittle, death is only a heartbeat away…because dragons don’t bond to “fragile” humans. They incinerate them.

“With fewer dragons willing to bond than cadets, most would kill Violet to better their own chances of success. The rest would kill her just for being her mother’s daughter—like Xaden Riorson, the most powerful and ruthless wingleader in the Riders Quadrant. She’ll need every edge her wits can give her just to see the next sunrise. Yet, with every day that passes, the war outside grows more deadly, the kingdom’s protective wards are failing, and the death toll continues to rise. Even worse, Violet begins to suspect leadership is hiding a terrible secret.

“Friends, enemies, lovers. Everyone at Basgiath War College has an agenda—because once you enter, there are only two ways out: graduate or die.”

And, finally, another series I can’t believe took me years to find. A Study in Scarlet Women by Sherry Thomas is the first book in the ongoing Lady Sherlock series. Witty, intelligent, loveable, and **neurodelicious**. What if Sherlock Holmes was actually a woman?

“USA Today bestselling author Sherry Thomas turns the story of the renowned Sherlock Holmes upside down in the first novel in this Victorian mystery series….

“With her inquisitive mind, Charlotte Holmes has never felt comfortable with the demureness expected of the fairer sex in upper class society. But even she never thought that she would become a social pariah, an outcast fending for herself on the mean streets of London.

“When the city is struck by a trio of unexpected deaths and suspicion falls on her sister and her father, Charlotte is desperate to find the true culprits and clear the family name. She’ll have help from friends new and old—a kind-hearted widow, a police inspector, and a man who has long loved her.

“But in the end, it will be up to Charlotte, under the assumed name Sherlock Holmes, to challenge society’s expectations and match wits against an unseen mastermind.”

Do you have favorite reads from the past year? If yes, pretty please share them! I’m always, always, always looking for new-to-me books!

The post Top Ten(ish) Escapist Fiction Books I Read and Loved in 2023 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Mommy Doesn’t Carry Things: A Shouty Thursday Post

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 28 Dec 2023 23:53:42 +0000

‘TIS SHOUTY THURSDAY, LOVELIES!

FOR CHRISTMAS, GREG MADE ME THE T-SHIRT I MAY HAVE MENTIONED A FEW HUNDRED TIMES. IT HAS A PILE O’ BOXES DEPICTED AND MY FAVORITE PHRASE OF 2023: MOMMY DOESN’T CARRY THINGS.

I.E….

ME, WHEN MY ADULT CHILDREN ARE MOVING: YER ON YOUR OWN, BABIES! MOMMY DOESN’T CARRY THINGS. (I NEED THAT ON A T-SHIRT.)

ME, WHEN I ARRIVE HOME WITH THE GROCERIES: COME UNLOAD THE CAR, LARGE HUMANS! MOMMY DOESN’T CARRY THINGS. (I NEED THAT ON A T-SHIRT.)

ME, WHEN WE’RE PUTTING FLOORING IN, WHICH REQUIRES MOVING 1,436 BOXES UP TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS: A’IGHT! LEMME KNOW WHEN YOU HAVE TIME TO MOVE SHIT, ‘CAUSE MOMMY DOESN’T CARRY THINGS. (I NEED THAT ON A T-SHIRT.)

A FEW YEARS AGO I WOULD’VE DIED A DOZEN SHAME-FILLED DEATHS RATHER THAN BEG OFF CARRYING THINGS. I WAS, THEN, OF THE MINDSET THAT LEADERS LEAD BY GETTING IN THE TRENCHES, GETTING THEIR HANDS DIRTY, PARTAKING IN THE GRUNT WORK WITH THE MASSES WHO LOOK TO THEM FOR GUIDANCE. AND HERE’S THE THING: THAT’S NOT WRONG. IT’S JUST THAT, IN MY CASE, LIKE MOST MAMAS, I WASN’T SIMPLY LEADING BY EXAMPLE. I WAS DOING ALL MY WORK CARRYING THE FULL MENTAL AND EMOTIONAL LOADS, AND THEN FURTHER EXHAUSTING MYSELF WITH THE FULL PHYSICAL LOAD, TOO. THAT’S WHEN MY FRIEND, MARA, SAID A REVOLUTIONARY THING TO ME, “OH. I DON’T DO THAT. I’M THE PROJECT MANAGER. SO I DON’T DO THE PROJECTS.” I WAS AS HORRIFIED AS I WAS JEALOUS. “YOU CAN’T JUST NOT DO THE THINGS, MARA! THAT IS NOT HOW IT WORKS,” I THOUGHT. BUT IT CAN WORK THAT WAY. IF YOU LET IT.

I ADMIT, NOT DOING EVERYTHING HAS REQUIRED ITS OWN HEAVY LIFTING, PSYCHOLOGICALLY SPEAKING. I’M STILL WORKING ON RELEASING GUILT. BUT I ALSO RAISED FIVE HUMANS FROM TINIES TO BIGS, AND WE’VE ADDED ADDITIONAL BIGS AS TIME HAS PROGRESSED. ME CARRYING THINGS WHEN THE YOUNGS CAN STEP IN? THAT WOULD BE SILLY AT THIS JUNCTURE. PURE FOOLISHNESS. AND NOT JUST THE PHYSICAL THINGS, YOU FEEL ME? YEAH, YOU GET IT. I KNOW YOU DO.

SO, WHAT’VE YOU GOT, FRIENDS? WHAT ARE YOUR SHOUTS HERE AT THE END OF 2023? WHAT’VE YOU RELEASED? WHAT HAVE YOU GAINED? HOW IS YOUR HEART? SHARE WHAT YOU’VE BEEN CARRYING. SHOUTS OF ALL TYPES AND SIZES ALLOWED. (OTHER THAN MEAN. MEAN HAS NO PLACE HERE.)

The post Mommy Doesn’t Carry Things: A Shouty Thursday Post first appeared on bethwoolsey..

SHOUT YER SHOUTS (or whisper, either’s good)

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 22 Dec 2023 01:00:45 +0000

IT’S THE LAST SHOUTY THURSDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS, AND IT’S ALSO THE LONGEST NIGHT FOR THOSE OF US IN THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE, SO LET’S SHOUT INTO THE DARK, FRIENDS. or whisper. whispering is ok, too.

i think today is whispery for me, not because i don’t want to shout out my angst, but because my anxiety is a skosh insidious rn, and, inside its whirling, twirling vortex, i fear my shouts will be whisked away to vanish as if they’d never been. i owe my shouts more than that, frankly. so i’ll whisper them until i can yell again.

i’m mostly ok. fine. alright. good. other than, you know, a few headaches and neck tension and goblins of doubt and inadequacy who dance and gambol inside my head, grotesque caricatures of sugarplum fairies ratcheting up the dread that i haven’t done enough and what i’ve tried has failed too often. it’s the pressure of “too,” i guess. the lie that there’s balance to be had if i can only find the landing zone between being too much and too little. it’s that goldilocks deception that “just right” is a stable place to sit, to eat, to find rest and respite, instead of the reality that “just right” is merely a fleeting spot in the pendulum swing, here as swiftly as it’s gone.

two days ago, in the center of the swing, the place of “just right” as i was happily doing the silly thing i sometimes do, wandering around a movie set as an extra, i was suddenly and absolutely struck with the futility of being me. there was no trigger. the light of life and joy just went dark. bleak. i was, without irony, inside of lamentations, certain i am meaningless. it was brief, gone in a few hours, but i recognized my old false friend, depression, who lies and lies and lies and lies.

so now i get to do the work of raising the wards again. checking my security. finding and patching the dry rot where depression found purchase. i’m taking my meds. i’m being gentle with my brain. i’m making tea and putting myself to bed early. i’m taking deep breaths. i’m lighting cheerful candles. i’m reminding myself it’s ok to be a lot. a lot isn’t too much. and it’s ok to do just a little. a little isn’t not enough.

that’s mine, friends. what’ve you got? what whispers? WHAT SHOUTS? SHOUTY THURSDAY LASTS THROUGH THE WEEKEND, SO SHOUT/whisper ‘EM IF YOU GOT ‘EM!

photo: a little pink painted rock i keep in my office shed window with “joy” written in black marker, as covered in dust as my window sill. this tiny friend reminds me to seek joy in the hidden places. the dirty ones. i found it on a walking path during the first days of covid. some kind human leaving gentle reminders for strangers.

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Last Minute Gift Ideas Under $25 That I Really Bought

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 15 Dec 2023 21:55:25 +0000

Here’s a list of last-minute gift ideas under $25 that I actually, personally bought and can recommend wholeheartedly.

A few quick notes:

1. I’ve listed the price of each product as of December 15, 2023, but note that prices change without notice.

2. These are all items I really purchased with my own real money that I really like and continue to use. For real. None of these products are sponsored. They all contain links to Amazon where I have an affiliate account, and I may earn a small percentage of any purchase you make. I also may not. I think there’s a way to look up which products might make me money, but I don’t do that, so your guess is as good as mine. Either way, your purchase price remains the same. Full disclosure, I’ve received $133 total in “commissions” for 2023, so, like, $11.11 per month, so this is clearly not a money-making venture. I’m just hoping to help you out if you’re stumped.

Ready? Here we go.

GEEK TEENS/DND

Stainless Steel Throwing Knives and Sheath $20: My teens have spent countless hours maiming trees with these and come back inside joyful and only slightly bloody, usually not from the knives. Disclaimer: knives, danger, throwing, etc. Choose your teens wisely.

Unsharpened (no blade) Butterfly Trainer Knives, set of 4, $22: My fidgetty kid has broken every fidget ever made including the “unbreakable” ones. These, however, have held up to all abuse as my teens flick them open, spin them, drop them, shut them, and repeat. All the teens adore these.

Wax Seal Stamp Set $20: I purchased this for myself, so it doesn’t necessarily belong in the teen section, but it DOES apply to anyone who’s artsy and who loves the fantasy asthetic.

Sealing Wax $9: Along with the above, I love this set of sealing wax in 12 different colors.

DND Metal Dice $20: Heavy metal DND dice in a choice of colors and a super cool display tin.

Dice Display and Storage Case $20: Too many DND dice already? Get ’em a nice case for their favorite set.

DND Dice Jail $17: For when your dice are behaving badly and need to get their shit together lest you be eaten by a fire-breathing troll. My role-playing children love this. IDK, friends. Don’t ask hard questions.

Erasable Highlighters $7: Great stocking stuffer for your high school or college kid.

Reversable Octopus Plushies that Show Your Mood $10: You know, like, turn them one way, and they’re happy. Then the other, and they’re sad. My personal favorite is the one that’s angry and then rage. It makes me giggle.

BEAUTY AND SKIN CARE

Cuticle Oil $7: The jar puts the “cute” in cuticle, and the oil itself feels lush, especially in the winter when skin cracks and peels. This comes in myriad scents like milk & honey, lavendar, green tea, vanilla, and pomegranate, but lemon is my favorite so far.

Healthy Hoof Cream Nail and Cuticle Care $7: If you have weak, thin nails that need strengthening, this stuff is a miracle in a plastic tub that works in a surprisingly small amount of time. Like, in less than a week, you’ll see a difference with daily application. Was it originally formulated for horses? Yes. Do we care? Not if it works.

Curel HydraTherapy In-Shower Lotion $10: I was bad at remembering to use lotion after showering, and at the same time I hated having itchy, dry skin. Enter: In-Shower Lotion. I put this on at the end of my shower. No need to rinse. Just lotion, towel dry, and go. My skin is SO MUCH HAPPIER.

Juno & Co. Cleansing Balm, $15: Fair Warning: I’ve become somewhat of an evangelical about this stuff, but, in my defense BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF GREAT JOY. I bought this as a make-up remover and was astounded at how gently and thoroughly it worked. A pea-sized amount of balm, warmed in my hands, removes every trace of all make-up including the waterproof mascara I always use. It doesn’t get in my eyes, is soothing on my skin, and when washed off with water, there was ZERO TRACE of any remaining make-up on my towel, which is a first for me. Then, I found out it’s also a cleanser, and I’m in love. If I leave Greg and remarry, it will be to this balm. (And also to this CBD relief balm, which magically removes my lower back and shoulder pain. We’ll be a threesome, me and the two balms.)

Ultra Hydrating Epsom Salt $7: WHAT DO MOMMIES WANT? A BATH! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW! This particular epsom salt is coconut lime scented, and not everyone is into smells, so know your audience. But even plain epsom salt sends the “go relax” messages, and I don’t know a human alive who doesn’t need to hear that.

Satin Heatless Hair Curler $10: I don’t use a hot hair curler anymore. I just stick my hair in this at night and Voila! perfect curls in the morning with zero effort. Fluff and go.

Laneige Lip Sleeping Mask $24: Someone recommended this overnight lip mask on Prime Day, and I bought it on sale, and now I love it so I’ll keep buying it which is annoying because it’s expensive. On the bright side, my lips are never, ever chapped anymore. On the dark side, money.

Detangling Hair Brush $7: Made from bioplastic and without animal hair bristles, this brush is 100% recyclable and vegan, as well as certified carbon neutral. As importantly, it works well for detangling.

TRAVEL

Travel Pillow $20: I’ve traveled the globe, and I’ve tried every travel pillow there is…foam, air, beads, etc…but my favorite is this one because it’s–wait for it–just a miniature stuffed pillow, and, in the end, that’s what I want. Something washable to use on a plane, train, or in my bed. I take this everywhere I go.

Mini Backpack $20: Great as a purse, carry-on personal item, or daypack, I particularly like that I can throw this in the washing machine as needed. I’ve received so many compliments on the simple, streamlined looked, and it’s super versatile. Comes in 25+ colors.

Laptop/Tablet Carrying Case $12: The CUTEST little boho/retro canvas bag carries all my electronics when I travel–tablet, keyboard, cords, and kindle. The inside is soft and lined and has two sections, and the outside is water repellent.

Mulberry Silk Scarf $18: This scarf is made from 100% mulberry silk (super high quality), and it’s large at 35″ square. I use it as a headband, ponytail tie, belt, scarf, hat band, and nighttime hair wrap for curls. It comes in multiple designs, but the solids are my favorite. A little bit of luxury for a great price.

Adorable, Foldable Straw Hat, $24: Stylish and practical, I use this hat to walk through outdoor markets, sit by the pool, and ride in boats. I just roll it to put in my carryon or tote bag, and it pops back into shape when I unroll it.

BEVERAGE and kitchen

Spanish Drinking Chocolate, $10: If you’re a North American who’s traveling and wondered why why WHY we don’t have drinking chocolate like they do in Europe, look up drinking chocolates. This one is Spanish and you simply grate as much as you like into hot milk. (Hint: grate a lot ;)) Amazing.

Lipton Soothe Your Tummy Herbal Tea $10/4 boxes: Listen. This stuff is witchcraft. It’s a potion you brew that makes upset tummies better within 10 minutes. I have no other explanation. I can’t say I love the taste of ginger + fennel + peppermint, but I DO love the results of a small cup brewed with 2 tea bags. Even my kids call it Magic Tea.

High Quality Oolong Tea, $14: This is a loose-leaf “milk” oolong tea from Taiwan, named thusly for its milky, silky taste and mouth feel (no dairy, to be clear). Delicious. Decadent.

Yorkshire Gold Black Tea, $10: For black tea lovers, these tea bags come packaged in a gift tin and are a blend from three origins grown in the top 10 tea gardens in the world – Assam for richness, Kenya for vibrancy, and Rwanda for its beautiful golden glow.

Narrow Head Scraper Spatula $17: These are the only spatulas I use now, and I don’t know why spatuals aren’t always this shape. I was given one as a gift several years ago, and now I give them as gifts, too. The handle is stainless steel, and the head is removable for cleaning.

Stainless Steel Wooden Handle Whisk $16: Because whisks get janky, a replacement is always nice, and this one looks and feels luxurious.

CRAFTING

Ergonomic Crochet Hook Set $15: Padded grips make these rainbow (also in other colors) crochet hooks easier to grasp and use, including for those of us whose finger joints are starting to show their age.

Lighted Crochet Hook Set, $21: For those nights when you want to watch a movie with the lights off but still crochet, the tips of these hooks light up–two brightness settings–to spotlight your work.

Feels Like Butta Lion Brand Yarn $7: I admit I’ve become something of a yarn snob, and my small stash is mostly likely to be filled with bougie, handspun, small farm fibers. But I make an exception for this yarn because it’s super soft, machine wash and dry, and simple for beginners because it doesn’t split. Due to easy care, nice feel, and availability, I’m crafting my family’s stockings out of this as the extended family grows.

Uniball Vision Elite Rollerball Pens, Set of 8 Colors, $17: For the diary writer, bullet journaler, or calendaring specialist in your life, I cannot recommend these pens more highly. The ink flows beautifully (airplane cabin pressure won’t cause leaks), and the writing feels oppulent.

JUST MAKES LIFE BETTER

Titanium Pruning Shears $20: Both the enthusiastic and reluctant gardener (I am the latter) will appreciate a tool that makes the job easier.

Anti-Snore Nose Clip $7: Greg and I are both snorers. It’s not pretty, but it’s true, and my children report that I’m especially terrible. These are little magnetic clips you wear like a bull nose ring (very cute when paired with nightguards on your teeth, braces on your wrists, and an eyemask…so sexy). Thing is? They work. They don’t eliminate snoring, but they greatly reduce the amount and volume of it. I can think of no scientific explanation for this to be true, so I assume these are infused with magic. Greg reports it’s stopped my apnea, too, and since I like breathing, even when I’m asleep, I’m a huge fan.

Yoga Pillow $25: Very firm and filled with sustainably harvested buckwheat hulls for a nice texture, this pillow makes yoga more accessible for those of us with joint pain who aren’t as bendy as we used to be. It helps my posture while sitting criss-cross and eases spine stress, as well as lifting the ground a liiitle higher when I need help touching my toes.

Lens Cleaning Cloths, Pack of 6 $10: These Japanese microfiber cloths clean glasses like a dream and are easily washed and reused. Great as a stocking stuffer for your glasses-wearing folks.

Sunburst Tiara/Headband $15: I mean, on the one hand no one needs this stunning metal halo-style tiara. But on the other hand, yes we do.

Satin Pillowcases, Set of 2 $12: Your curly hair will thank you! Satin keeps your coils coiled without making them frizz out.

Enamel PopSocket, $17: This one is particularly annoying because my kid kept telling me to buy a PopSocket to make my phone easier to hold and to prop up, and I kept telling him NO I DO NOT NEED MORE GADGETS. Then I found these lovely, grown-up, enamel PopSockets and bought one because I guess “pretty” is a good enough reason to buy stuff. (Feel free to roll your eyes at me.) Problem is, my kid was right. This really does make my phone easier to use. Kids these days, amirite?

Personal Vibrating Device $27: There are too many reasons to buy this to list them all. And yes, I know I went $2 over the price limit I set, but that is $2 well spent, I promise. This little player is super soft and squishy but she packs a solid punch with 6+ speed and pattern settings. Add in rechargable and waterproof, and we have a winner! My favorite part, though, is how she’s advertised: “Ultra Soft Squeeze Ball with Vibrating Physical Therapy Hand Exercisers for Hand Fidget and Relaxation.” Suuuure.

The post Last Minute Gift Ideas Under $25 That I Really Bought first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Easter Reasons to Be Thankful for My Weirdos

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 11 Apr 2023 22:19:15 +0000

[Tiny Little Explanatory Note: So, it was recently brought to my attention that I’m doing nearly all my internet interactions on social media these days, and that folks who have chosen (typically for excellent mental health reasons) not to be on the Socials are receiving only radio silence from Yours Truly. Therefore, I’ve made the perhaps bizarre decision to double post. That which appears on my Instagram and Facebook pages shall heretofore appear here on my very own blog, too. Which has the added benefit of *me* owning my words instead of Meta. Since you’re already used to Bizarre Decisions from me, I figure seeing posts in duplicate if you *are* on the Socials won’t be too, too disconcerting. But in case you’re wondering why you already saw this…that’s why.]

Super thankful for these weirdos for many reasons, including but not limited to:

1. They make everything fun.

2. They understand that hunting for Easter eggs is a full contact sport, that there are winners and there are losers, and that the hunt isn’t over until someone bleeds.

3. They bring flasks of whiskey and Fireball, and they share.

4. There’s a critical mass of introverts and people who are barely holding their shit together, so we can knock out an epic, extended family hunt in 20 minutes, have a genuinely delightful time together, and then abandon each other for our own homes with no hard feelings. Get in, then get the hell out. It is FANTASTIC, and I’d like it to be my motto, please.

My hand to God, if these humans weren’t that particular kind of lovely that allow us to be fully ourselves, including encouraging the mentally wobbly among us to nope the heck out when we need to, there would not have even been 20 minutes today. But we’ve fought HARD for this kind of family, and there’s no way we’re giving up now. I mean, we ARE giving up…after 20 minutes… but HOT DAMN those minutes are fun.

Now please excuse me while I put myself to bed.

Waving in the dark, friends.

The post Easter Reasons to Be Thankful for My Weirdos first appeared on bethwoolsey..

How to Express a Cat Bladder: Thoughts on Surviving Winter

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 09 Jan 2023 22:53:58 +0000

I’ve found, as a writer, that two things are very important. They’re fundamentals. They’re building blocks upon which everything else rests. They are: 1. Consistency. And 2. Relevancy.

Which is why, obviously, I’m writing here for the first time in four months and also why I’ve picked the topic of Kitten Urine to discuss. Because what’s more timely than dropping off the face of the writing world for Many Months and picking it back up for Essential Topics? The answer is nothing. Northing is more timely. And since I care deeply about optics and search engine optimization–the tools by which one Looks Good on the World Wide Webs whilst reaching the Largest Audience Possible–I shall bring you here, to talk about pee. I give and I give. You’re welcome.

First, though, let me change the subject completely so I can tell you that I’m oh-so-slowly, sluggishly, with focused determination matched only by my abiding innate reluctance, surfacing after the annual months-long marathon of premeditated joy known as the Holiday Season. Imagine me with only my eyeballs above water, scanning the horizon warily for anything that might try to pluck me from the comfortable familiarity of drowning. I mean, I kick occasionally and dully to allow my nose to breach the surface because I remember that Functional Me requires air but I’m also not quiiiite convinced oxygen is really the element for me. Or, at least, air-based oxygen. Like, why can’t I just choose to mix my oxygen with hydrogen so I can live beneath the surface of the ocean like all the other creatures of the depths? Who decided I have to consume my oxygen with nitrogen and that air is the appropriate elixir for humans, and where do I demand a recount? It feels like we should at least have been consulted.

All of which is to say, I’m still here. If “here” means eyeballs only. Eyeballs and half a brain and occasionally my nose wicking air to my lungs which buoys me in tiny bursts and small starts. But the mismatch that is entering into the winter season, meant for long darkness and hibernation, combined with the frenetic pace of Holiday Greetings and Gay Happy Meetings, and Parties for Hosting, Marshmallows for Toasting, and Much Mistletoeing and Hearts That Are Glowing is just… phew! Exhausting, you know? Like only running marathons at midnight after working overtime. Or hosting a party under general anesthetic.

I told a friend this week it’s felt viscous. Like trying to move through sludge, progress snagged on all sides.

In the midst of the viscosity, I have a very sick kitten who’s recovering from cluster seizures brought on, we think, by encephalitis. Which has also affected her ability to use her back end. Legs. Butt. Bladder. Which is, in turn, why I found myself at the vet this week, learning how to brace a kitten under my arm, feel for the bladder balloon between her back legs and gently-but-firmly express her urine for her lest she pop. It’s a skill I never anticipated acquiring, but I believe I shall add it to my resume. “Beth Woolsey: Cult Leader, Mafia Donna, Writer, Speaker, Cat Bladder Expressor. Always Reliable. Eventually.”

And I know it can seem like Too Much. Tackling bouts with mental illness. Leading the charge on Gay Happy Meetings and Holiday Joy. Having a house perpetually full of juvenile humans, whether in age or in maturity. Fostering seven kittens, one of whom is rather desperately ill. But it’s those kittens and the humans that keep me going some days. Because I refuse to make them go it alone. I need, more than hiding under my covers, for them to know they’re not alone. And that bladder isn’t going to express itself, ma’am, so I best hoist myself from my hidey hole and wade through the sludge and flutter my feet to lift my nose above the surface, you know? Which I share because I’ve made a pledge to Tell the Truth, as best as I understand it, even if it’s just about Survival and Pee.

Sending love to you, friends, and reminders you’re not alone. And hoping for your health and happiness and easy-to-void bladders.

Waving,

The post How to Express a Cat Bladder: Thoughts on Surviving Winter first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Thoughts on Funerals, Beer, Cigs, and Death. It Is What It Is.

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 19 Sep 2022 21:56:49 +0000

I plan my father’s funeral often, which maybe ought to be awkward since he’s still very much alive, but somehow isn’t awkward because it’s a pasttime we share.

I’ve yelled lots of yells at my father for choosing his funeral songs too early–Amazing Grace to be played on the bagpipes (and have you ever heard the bagpipes played in close quarters inside a small church? because I have and our sweet baby Jesus did not make human eardrums to withstand such an assault. why, even Queen Elizabeth the Second who was, in fact, buried this very day, made the piper stand in the hall outside the church for her interment, which Tells You Something, doesn’t it?) and It Is Well With My Soul, the hymn. My father has completely and utterly ruined both songs for me, for when I hear them, tears prick my eyes, and my chest siezes tight, and I pre-mourn his death, the bastard.

My mother and my brother and his wife all detest my abiding hope that we’ll follow my father’s memorial service with a traditional Irish wake, like the after-parties we had following our weddings with booze and laughter and stories at high volume. And I think they’d be OK with the whiskey (which is spelled with an “e”) flowing, but they recoil at the open casket I plan to have, my father’s shell placed prominently next to the fireplace dressed in its finest suit.

“Over my dead body,” my mother says, and then she giggles because even she is horrible sometimes and realizes it might be over her dead body, indeed.

Uniformly, they agree it’s “creepy” and “weird” to have a dead body attend its own wake, and also that, Protestants as we are, “no one wants to see that,” and “if they did–if they really must” then “maybe, maybe” the time for that is at the funeral home during a viewing where people can choose whether or not to look, as opposed to in my living room during a fraught time with heightened emotions, and what if someone splashes him with booze?

And I get it. Sort of. I mean, I know people have Strong Feelings about such things and that maybe I ought not make that decision for them, but the husks of people are, to me, cathartic and lovely, and I feel at ease sitting with the vehicle that transported these people I love for so many years, like the way I want to pet a beloved, worn car that safely moved my family and thank it for its service upon its retirement. For being the outward symbol of the soul I cherish, you know?

Maybe you know. Maybe you’re Team No Thank You for viewings.

Gloria, my friend, died twenty years ago last Saturday, which is impossible to believe even still, two decades later, because she was one of those humans who’s Too Alive to Die. Like, too loud and too joyful and too bouyant to be breakable. But that, sadly, isn’t how it works. Everyone is on the Death Train (something I would rectify if I could just once win my bid to be elected God), and Glo’s stop was earlier than I liked. I attended her viewing (in a funeral home and sans booze because her family is Normal), and I’m glad, and I figured the friends who didn’t would probably regret that by now.

Newsflash: they don’t. Not a single person who didn’t sit with her body wishes they did, so I won’t be able to use that as an anecdotal data point to someday give my father the wake he deserves.

None of which is the point of any of this, but my brain is driving so who knows what our destination will be? Certainly not me.

I do, however, know what I originally intended when I sat at the blank page, and it’s this: to remember Glo.

She had a laugh like the startling blast of a fog horn.

No part of her was dainty.

She was a no-nonsense nurse. Thanks to her, I look at my own urine every time I’m done peeing to make sure it’s Copious and Clear. “Copious and Clear, Beth. Otherwise, drink more water.” I’m typing this with water at my elbow, Gloria responsible for twenty years of hydration. Also, some bright red blood in your stool is fine; it’s the black tar-like sludge you need to worry about. And also-also, if it’s wet and not yours, don’t touch it. I learned more about body fluids from Glo than from any other single human, including my children who covered me in them (“wet and not yours” being impossible to avoid when one becomes a parent.)

Gloria was a devoted sister. Never did any big sister love her baby brothers more. Never was one more proud. Never was one more engaged. I wish my brother had had a sister like her growing up. Probably he does, too.

Glo was a horrible driver. The actual, literal worst.

And she was an excellent friend. We spent the weeks before she died sitting on my front porch at night, smoking cloves and Camel Lights and drinking beer and talking about Jesus, the former because I didn’t know how to inhale without choking and she decided to mentor me, and the latter because we were beginning to suspect Jesus might be wilder and more radical and less conventional than the church gives him credit for.

We visited her grave on Saturday, five of us. The same five who were there back then, grieving together, confused and muddled and lost but also not alone, which was the Grace. One of the friends brought scrapbooks and one of the friends brought Glo’s old music and a pile of pics and two of the friends brought flowers because they’ve all grown up in the last twenty years into thoughtful, adult humans who make lovely gestures. Me? I brought a beer. Not even the kind of beer Glo liked. Just a shitty beer from the back of my fridge where it had been left to wither. Because I knew Glo would laugh her too loud laugh and drink my shit beer and ask if anyone remembered the cigs and be, all, “How about that Jesus, right?? Wilder than we thought!”

It was, in other words, perfect.

So, friends, for those of you who know Grief, I hope you’ve found Grace along the way. And too loud laughter. And also, I think we should all consider funeral after-parties, a.k.a. wakes, someone please make my dreams come true.

P.S. This was us then.

And this is us now.

P.P.S. I came home and looked on Amazon for temporary hair dye before I remembered it took me three entire years to grow out that silvery gray and, by God, I will be glad I’ve lived these years to grow it. Sometimes I just need a hot, shallow minute to adjust to being an Old.

P.P.P.S. If I die young (you know, anytime before age 99), I’d like a satirical rendition of Friends Are Friends Forever sung by a robed, gospel choir, please. And I hope there’s someone who is deeply appalled at the laughter because they think I wanted it sincerely. I have other songs I dearly love, but you’ll have to guess BECAUSE I DON’T RUIN SONGS FOR PEOPLE FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES, DAD.

…..

Housekeeping:

1. I managed to lose my previous email lists because that’s the kind of organized, magical human I am. If you’d like to subscribe to receive emails with new blog posts, you can do so here.

2. I’m back to planning retreats! You can find all the info here. I’d love to have you join us.

The post Thoughts on Funerals, Beer, Cigs, and Death. It Is What It Is. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

An Abridged List of Recent Failures

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 09 Sep 2022 22:04:36 +0000

I feel like…

I feel like it’s important to write, like, DURING the failures, you know? In the midst of them. Before anything is fixed or resolved. Because that’s the space we sit in sometimes, and it seems silly to me–perhaps even dangerous–to share just the wins. Sharing only the wins creates a false narrative. It makes folks think winning is the norm rather than the truth which is that most of us… dare I say, all of us… try and fail and try and fail and try and fail and sometimes clock a win which starts the cycle again because the only way to win is to try and the only way to learn is to fail.

But we don’t like sharing the failures. I know, for me, that feels achingly vulnerable because I’m exposing the things I long for while also acknowledging I may never achieve them. I’m admitting the things that are left undone that I feel I really ought to have finished by now. I’m confessing the places I feel not enough or unworthy or, worse, the ways I may have neglected people I love and generous opportunities I have. It’s a tender place to invite people to visit.

Nevertheless, here we are. Welcome in. Pull up a chair. I promise this isn’t a Woe-Is-Me Condemnation of Self. Nor is it meant to be a downer. Just reality which is so very often unresolved.

So. Today I offer to you

An Abridged List of Recent Failures

1. I have 186 unread texts because it is my habit–My Brilliant System–to leave messages unread that I intend to reply to. The “unread” indicator is supposed to remind me the message exists and, in theory, I will open it and read more than the four “teaser” words when I have time to respond. Some of my texts are over a year old. Probably longer but I’m afraid to scroll that far. So if you’re waiting to hear back from me, I apologize, but also I’ve left your message unread out of respect and because I love you and intend to reply. Bless my heart.

2. Samesies with my personal email.

3. Samesies with my blog email…except that sometimes I become overwhelmed with the sheer volume I’ve neglected and so I avoid this account out of anxiety and dread. If you’re waiting for an initial response about the new cruise retreats, I’ve probably responded and connected you to our travel agent. But if you’re waiting for a response about, oh, anything else, welcome to Beth Woolsey Purgatory. I don’t know what to tell you other than that I’m very reliable. Eventually. But also, eventually may mean the Year 3000. If ghosts are made from people who have unfinished business upon this earth, then I am doomed to haunt us all forever. Sorry.

4. Let’s not discuss all the FB and Insta messages I’ve left unread. No need to beat a dead horse, especially since, in this scenario, the horse is me. (Also, for the record, there’s no need to beat a live horse, either. Stop it.)

5. Sometimes I mention the fact that, in 15 years of writing online, despite the excessive rolling of Greg’s eyes, I have elected not to monetize my blog or my socials. I also am always careful to say that I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward those who do monetize since this is, like, a Literal Job that takes a Huge Numbers of Hours and people really do deserve to be paid for their labor AND there are many, MANY ways to make money with integrity. It’s not about shilling shit. It’s about sharing products that like-minded people may Actually Want and Need. I mean, I say this, but really I mean it’s true for people other than me. And the real reason I don’t monetize? Because, out of a somewhat misplaced sense of duty, a poor definition of “mission,” and an inappropriate measure of my own worth, I don’t believe I should be paid for my work. I pay money to keep my blog running. I almost always lose money on retreats because I care more about affordability for participants than I do about breaking even. I’ve made approximately $512 in six years of being an Amazon Affiliate because why–why?--would anyone want to know about the Things I Love so they can enjoy them, too? And I’ve worn it as a Badge of Honor that I make Worse Than Babysitting Money at my job. Other People deserve to be paid for their work. But Not Me because my purpose isn’t dollars, it’s to free myself and others to be our wild, authentic selves. Ironic from someone who touts Both/And as a more valuable way of living than subscribing to a false binary, I know. I see it. But Being Authentic and Making Some Dollars is nevertheless a Big Hurdle for me. Huge. I’m working on it. I swear.

6. Perhaps my BIGGEST failure of late is the fact that I didn’t update my payment card when the old one expired for my email subscription service. Anyone who’s self-employed understands emails are gold. Every email someone offers carries the ability to contact them directly without relying on social media. It’s like I can knock on your door. Leave you messages under the welcome mat. Because I know where to find you. (Side note: this is why I can’t comprehend businesses selling/giving email addresses. IT IS A SACRED TRUST. It is someone’s living room. Someone please elect me Grand Czar of the World so I can fix this. I’m certain after reading this blog post you’re eager to hire me for an important leadership positon.) So ten years of collecting emails? POOF. Gone. Vanished. Purged is the word they used because I use a service that guarantees your info is safe. If I can’t access it? Then no one can. Did the service remind me? Yes. Yes, they did. Did they give me months to fix this problem? Sure enough. Did I see any of those messages or notice the problem? Please see #3 above. In related news, if you never want to miss a blog post (until I don’t renew my service again because I’m a helpless baby deer), please do subscribe or resubscribe by clicking here with my profound thanks and sincere apology. Lord love a duck.

7. And finally, to end on a positive note, here’s a failure that I’m actually, truly, sincerely proud of, not because I have failed and continue to fail, which is absolutely accurate, but because I’m electing to persevere. My quirky, queer, nerdy fantasy fiction novel has been rejected by 112 literary agents. Nope, that’s not a typo. That number is ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE. But I’ve decided I still think it’s good because every writer needs a certain amount of deluded grandeur to continue writing, so I’m still farming it out to agents. Will it ever be published? The Magic 8 Ball says, “OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.” I’m writing another one anyway, and I have a new series idea I’m super excited about. Nevertheless, she persisted.

And I suppose that’s really the point. Trying. Failing. Trying again. Failing. Quitting and laying flat on my face because I just can not–CAN NOT–muster the energy to do it again, and I fundamentally reject the keep on keeping on mentality…the pull yourself up by your bootstraps mentality…the one foot in front of the other mentality…because HONESTLY, SOMETIMES WE JUST NEED TO REST ffs. And then, when my meds are readjusted and I’ve had time to recalibrate and I’ve reminded myself that I am worthy of Good Things and can treat myself kindly, I persist in the trying and the failing. And eevvvvvery now and then grabbing the win.

So just in case you, like me, are made out of human and you, too, experience *ahem* itty bitty minor failures from time to time, I’m not here to tell you to buck up. But I am here to say Me, Too. You’re not alone, friend. Grace now and always, in failure and in success. You deserve it. And so do I.

Waving in the Dark,

P.S. Here’s that subscribe link again for your convenience.

P.P.S. I’m also on the Instant Gram and the Book of Faces. It’s mostly foster kittens and stuff my kids carve into penises. Sometimes I read articles about how important it is to curate your social media feed and I feel like I could do better, but in the end I gotta be me.

P.P.P.S. Cruise retreats! Here’s more info. There’s still time to come in November; we’re a teeny group so it’s going to be fun to really get to know each other. I know you gotta be extra brave to go on vacation with strangers, but I promise we’re just friends you haven’t met yet.

The post An Abridged List of Recent Failures first appeared on bethwoolsey..

The Wayward Home for Unfinished Youth

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 30 Aug 2022 22:40:53 +0000

I suppose it was inevitable. You know, an “all signs point to go” kind of thing. But it dawned on me recently that we have cultivated a home for untamed creatures, every one of us varying degrees of feral.

There are, of course, those of us who live in this house. The Madhouse, we call it. Or the Shoe, as in, “there was an old woman who lived in a shoe” because we have so many children we don’t know what to do. Except it turns out we do. We do know what to do. It’s just not what I thought we’d do. Or who I thought we’d be. What it is is better. Better and weirder and wilder and more fun. And more risky and and more fulfilling and more breathless and more free.

Because somewhere along the way, increasingly intentionally like rolling a snowball down an avalanche-prone mountain and watching the chaos and power and concussive force of the fallout, we decided to abandon the trappings of “polite society” and live authentically. Our whole family. Deeply, uniquely, unapologetically our quirky selves. We decided to pick apart the ways we were trained to behave, heads down, making no waves, submitting to puffed-up, egocentric authority. We decided to critically assess who we were taught to accept and who we were taught to shun. We decided to look behind the curtain of the gross injustices like “love the sinner, hate the sin” which is cruelty cloaked as love, a way to belittle and degrade our queer beloveds, to pick them apart and set aside their fundamental makeup as flawed and wretched while pretending to embrace them. And we did it together. All of us, the parents and the children, panning for gold, sifting dirt and silt and rocky ground for that which is invaluable and precious. Looking, it turns out, for each other. And for those who were left behind and forgotten.

Last week, I looked around this Madhouse and realized we’ve built the Wayward Home for Unfinished Youth.

Listen. The most mature creature around here is Zoey the Golden Retriever. She’s the most compliant. The most gracious. The most darling and tender and sweet. But even she sneaks shit out of the kittens’ litter box and walks around with rank breath smelling of her misdeeds. That’s it, friends. She’s the most decorous among us. The most civilized. The most compliant and well-behaved. The fluffy senior dog with a literal shit-eating grin.

The rest of us? We’re wild. We’re spicy. We’re loud. We can mimic polite society and we can be seen in public, but there’s a limit. We’re Cinderella at the ball; the clock will strike midnight and we will become our authentic, raggedy selves. We will flee. We will not know where we lost our shoes. We will arrive at home a mess. Except, instead of weeping in front of the hearth, we flop onto our couch, relieved to be home with the creatures we’ve collected.

Most of the creatures here are teens. Our home is open to them 24/7, although they’re mostly noctural, dying with the dawn like adorable vampires, allergic to the morning. They use the nighttime hours for vegging and bickering and Nerf fighting and, my personal favorite, baking. I’ll awaken in the wee hours–2am, 3–to the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar and the BOOMS of the cannons from the Pirates of the Caribbean, and I’ll smile as I drift back off to sleep because those are the sounds of home and happiness and ease and joy, and what else could I possibly want in my Shoe?

The teens bring other teens with them like precious rocks they collect at the store, all look at this one I found! And I admire them, every one, because they are, in fact, unique and beautiful and worthy of my attention. They’re wise and young and kind and sassy and squirrelly and an ever-increasing percentage is queer, in all senses of the word. The walk into my house between BLM and Pride Progress flags under overgrown wisteria past the rusty porch freezer where we keep unlimited Otter Pops and pizzas and fries. There are messes absolutely everywhere 98% of the time except when they inexplicably clean. I mean, there is one teen–ONE–who cleans constantly and who, to my delight, berates the others until they do, too, but the rest are far more gifted in creating entire disasters with their unlimited creativity and detritus. I love them. Every single one.

And then, of course, we have the foster kittens. And it’s these babies who made me realize who we are and what we’ve collectively become. We had mama cats and their sweet littles, and I love them. But in the past several weeks, the feline population we serve has shifted. It started with the BLT litter of five (Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato, Mayo, and Sandwich) and then some went while others stayed and the rescue contacted us, looking for a home for a couple random juveniles who, well, didn’t really fit anywhere else. We took them because of course we did. Who doesn’t want a Beanie and a Weinie? And Cyrus and Finnlay. And Kyra and Brownie. And so it went. Teens coming and going, drifting in and out like their human counterparts, making messes and leaving shit everywhere and learning they’re safe and loved to infinity and beyond.

So now what I really need is a plaque. A brass one that’s worn and dinged like the rest of everything around here. So when folks arrive past the welcome flags and the reaching wisteria–past the rusty freezer and the worn out mat–when they arrive at the door where no one knocks because why would you knock on the door of your very own home?, there’s a formal little sign in place of the doorbell announcing where they’ve landed:

The Wayward Home for Unfinished Youth

Because that describes all of us. Every one.

P.S. Our current kitten babies are Pillsbury Dough Boy who hitched a ride on a semitruck to a warehouse and decided to make biscuits when he was found rather than exhibit any fear or trepidation at all;

Maddie the multi-polydactyl with the extra EXTRA toe beans and wild tufts of ear hair who has a lot to say;

Elio the tuxedo kitten with the dramatic Phantom of the Opera mask who came from a feral colony but has learned she likes domestic living a whole lot;

Petey Pablo the tuxedo kitten who has the biggest, widest WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL eyes I’ve ever seen and who believes all people are the best friends he hasn’t met yet; and finally Tobias, the itty bitty teeny tiny baby tabby with the squinty eye who should not yet be away from his mommy but I shall snuggle him and snuggle him so he knows he’s not alone.

P.P.S. I am DELIGHTED to let you know I’ve begun planning retreats once more, despite being in the After Times and/or some sort of bizarre, plague-ridden alternate universe. Guess what, Alternate Universe? I CHOOSE JOY AND GATHERING ANYWAY. If you’re interested in respite and retreat with an inclusive, fun community, check out retreat offerings here. I’d love to see you there.

The post The Wayward Home for Unfinished Youth first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Didn’t Mean to Write About a Big-Ass Chair and Justice, But That’s What Happened

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 27 Feb 2022 22:58:21 +0000

Today is Sunday, February…I have to check my watch…27th, and the sky is dim, and the air is damp, and I’m sitting criss-cross on the big-ass chair at my half-circle desk, and when I say big-ass chair I don’t mean the chair is huge, I mean the chair was designed with big asses in mind which is a nice thing to find at an antique store for $50 because when I envision the vintage days I envision slim women in tailored pencil skirts who could perch quite comfortably and with plenty of room on a soft-boiled egg.

I have big ass chairs in my home thanks to my friend Bee who herself has a big ass which I say with pride and admiration and the knowledge of It Takes One to Know One, because Bee observed quite recently and publicly that there are not enough chairs for big asses and, in fact, most chairs in most places are made to punish the big ass with ridges and rails and arms that loop around from behind to pinch and squeeze and bruise and literally belittle the big ass. That’s not right, she said. That’s not OK. And I’m paraphrasing, knowing she said it better, but you get the idea, I think.

The thing is, when Bee said what she did, I looked around my house and at my chairs and I was startled to discover I had Punishing Chairs and my life kind of changed that day. I tend to think of myself as someone who’s aware of her own shit. Like, I’m flawed and fabulous, and I’m actively working on embracing both. I try to remain soft and open and aware of where I’ve harmed others and harmed myself, letting my pride and my need to be right fall away so I might make amends and be better. But I also, simultaneously, am not even a little bit interested in being perfect because that way lies self-deception and cover-ups and shame and the unhealthy kind of longing and it is in the pursuit of perfection that you miss the Glory and Freedom and Joy of Imperfection which is one of the most perfect things I know. Including embracing the Glory and Freedom and Joy of having a physical body that is large and lumpy and stretched and scarred and soft and squishy and warm and beautiful. There is a prolonged period of adjustment, particularly in our vogue culture, moving from Maiden to Matron. We’re told rather explicitly to retain the bloom of youth. To maintain the brightness and the crackling and the spark of a new fire, set alight. Instead of accepting the gifts of wisdom and understanding and the steady heat and light of a fire well-tended over the ash and embers of all we burned before. How silly we are to find one fire more beautiful than the other. They’re both as stunning and fierce and powerful as the Crone with her fire banked and waning, and how wide she spreads when she sits on the earth is no factor in her worth. I know this. I do. Well into the Matron phase of the moon. And I’m content with the space I use.

Or I thought I was, until I realized I couldn’t sit at my own table without discomfort. I couldn’t sit in my own chairs without spilling over the butt cutting rails. I couldn’t sit in comfort at my wide farm table–the one we built to feed legions–for a cup of tea or a chat with a friend without punishing my body for its size. And those chairs were NEW. I bought them ON PURPOSE. I never considered, not once, that my ass and I deserve comfort in our own home. Nor that my big assed friends do, as well. And isn’t that a sad commentary on self-flaggelation? On deciding, albeit subconsciously, what one believes one’s worth.

So I bought new chairs that are soft and wide and built for posterity. Which is to say, I recognized where I was harming myself and others and I worked to make amends. And that’s the trick, really, isn’t it? SEEING the problem. Not pretending it’s not an issue. Not belittling or dismissing discomfort, even our own. Not “pushing through” or making ourselves literally or figuratively smaller before we’re worthy. BELIEVING we all deserve better. And WORKING to make the change.

And it’s had a cascading effect, this simple, small change of chairs. It’s opened my eyes. It’s changed my life. Because I see more pain-points now. I see where my worldview was restrictive and constrictive instead of embracing and expanding. I see who I was willing to harm based on who I found valuable and who society is willing to harm, as well. I see what we do to belittle others and where we’ve failed to love each other. And I’m less and less willing to accept pain for any of us. I’m less and less willing to accept “this is just the way it is.” I’m less and less willing to think that triumph is overcoming obstacles rather than working together to clear the track.

The ways to enter into justice are infinite, I suppose. It can start with something as small as a chair. And once justice starts to unfold, it’s bottomless. Neverending. You see and then you see and then you see and then you see.

So I’m sitting here on Sunday afternoon, the…I have to check my watch…27th of February in my big-ass chair, and it’s cloudy and wet and cold outside, and I meant to write about something else entirely, but I’ve forgotten what, and my watch isn’t telling me. That’s OK. Maybe this is enough for now.

I hope you’re well and safe and have a big-ass chair, friend.

With love and waving in the dark,

P.S. We have a new foster mama kitty, and I’ve been positive–and also wildly incorrect–that she was going to deliver kittens every day for 7 days now. If you want to follow the shennanigans, you can join us on Facebook. <3

The post I Didn’t Mean to Write About a Big-Ass Chair and Justice, But That’s What Happened first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Candy Canes and Existential Dread

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 28 Jan 2022 22:53:51 +0000

I have a method for eating candy canes, and it’s not good but it’s mine and I’m keeping it.

Objectively, I understand the best, tidiest, most prolonged way to eat a candy cane is to start at the bottom of the shepherd’s crook–where the cane would strike the earth were it used for walking rocky hills searching for green bits and water. You cut the plastic there with scissors if you’re civilized or tear it with you’re teeth if you’re a savage and unwrap enough to suck slowly, twisting the cane in circles to create a spear. You test the point again and again until it’s a shiv, and then you stab whoever’s stupid enough to wander close even though they can see with their own eyeballs that you’re eating a candy cane. Then–and only then–you can crunch the tip between your teeth, unwrap a bit more, and begin the process anew. The tricky bit comes, as it does in life, with the change of direction. The turn. The bend. Because the circular suck is impeded by your face. Here is where you’re allowed to veer from the Best Way and express your own creativity. Dealer’s choice.

I, however, as my Marine father can tell you, give no shits about the Best Way. I’m more of a Mess. An Immediate Gratification girl. An acolyte of the Half-Assed Is Good Enough philosophy. So when I eat a candy cane, I break its neck just at the part where the J meets the stick, splitting the plastic with the shards of sugar and spraying candy cane shrapnel everywhere. Then I crush the pieces with my teeth like it’s a piece of toast. If I’m being particularly ladylike, I eat the J and then the stick. I’m I’m not, I shove the whole thing in at once. It’s not pretty, friends. You should see me with a turkey leg.

Why am I telling you this?

Because my jeans, my desk, and my chair are currently covered in candy cane fragments, and it’s distracting me from writing. But I’m trying to move back toward a more disciplined writing schedule for Mental Health and also Life Goal reasons, and sometimes when we write we get sheer garbage like this. It is what it is.

Truth is, I spent the morning writing, and it was good. I was able to throw a lot of words on the page about Existential Dread, the Beginning of the Pandemic, Deconstructing from Toxic Evangelicalism, My Athiest Kids About Whom I’m Zero Percent Worried Even Though I Was Raised to Fear Fiery Damnation, Why Quantum Physics Is Really Just Magic Mixed with Faith, and…Hallways. Mostly, it’s about the Hallways. It’s…obviously not finished even though I’ve been ruminating on these subjects for years. They’ve roamed around my head like foggy specters, coming into focus, fading out, disappearing and reappearing with their whims, but they’re still a little bit wild for now. Not quite ready to be totally tamed or trained to the page. I suppose you might say we’re still getting used to each other. I try to reach a hand out slowly, hoping the ideas don’t shy away. They try not to bite me out of fear. We’ll get there. We will. Eventually. And undoubtedly covered in candy cane slivers.

Waving,

The post On Candy Canes and Existential Dread first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Conjuring Energy From Nothing…Because Of Course. And Always.

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 27 Jan 2022 21:34:38 +0000

Last night at 8:17pm, my son hollared “DAMN IT” and slammed his door.

Right before that we replied, “Oh, no! So sorry! No. We forgot.”

And right before that he asked if we remembered the Thing He Wanted to Do which was at 7:30pm.

And right before that he said, “SHIT. I forgot the Thing I Wanted to Do at 7:30pm and now it’s 8:17 and I’m TOO LATE.”

It was Too Late, and he did miss the Thing, which is bad enough for any Human with FOMO (which this Particular Child has in spades) but is infinitely worse when your brother and your friends did not forget the Thing and so participated without you.

He responded the way anyone would to disappointment by turning up up UP the volume of his music and pounding furiously on his keyboard. And I sighed, feeling sad for him and also worried because, whether or not the Leaving Out is intentional, we mommies worry, don’t we? We long for community and connection for our children, more than we may even for ourselves, because we’ve known from time to time what it’s like not to have it and we don’t wish that loneliness on anyone, much less our babies for whom we want light and joy and a deep, obstinate understanding of their own infinite worth.

I went to bed sixteen minutes later, at midnight. Greg tells me it wasn’t midnight at all but only 8:33pm, but I stand by my reporting. I was too weary for it to be merely 8:33pm, and this is the difference between accuracy and Deeper Truth. Was it technically accurate to say it was 8:33pm? Well, sure. But the Deeper Truth of the Long Day–and the ache in my heart, and the weird, tight lump in my left butt cheek, and the strain of my muscles, and the creek of my joints, and the peppered, popping thoughts pestering me with all the Things Left Undone Which I Had Really, Really, IMeanItThisTime Planned to Do Today–was that it was midnight, and I was Done.

As I shuffled toward my room, I pondered checking on the child. I wanted to. Of course I did. I wanted to know how his heart was and whether there was anything his mommy could do to soothe it. But also, I did not want to because, when it is Midnight and I am Done, I have Nothing Left to give. I am a husk. An empty vessel. A grubby shirt turned inside out. And every parent of a hurt teenager knows that Anger is the most frequent manifestation of disappointment and frustration and pain and that the parent is the perfect lightning rod at which to target that energy. I felt very Unable to Can, knowing that if I knocked on the door and gained entry and asked the question–are you OK?–I may very well receive the Lashing Out. And I’ve been doing this parenting gig long enough not to take that personally. Or, rather, I’ve been doing this parenting gig long enough to take it very personally, understanding that being the Lightning Rod is a compliment because the child trusts you with their Feelings which are Big and Overwhelming and Confusing even for those of us with long experience, and even more for newly minted adults who don’t know quite yet how to channel the hormone-addled Rage. So it’s not so much that I couldn’t handle the Lashing Out. I’ve learned how to be a gentle mirror, reflecting back kindness when the Lashing happens, because it turns out kindness and compassion and understanding are the only Lash Defusers out there, and our children’s behaviours are only communication, after all. If we can suss out what they’re saying without words, we’re miles and miles ahead on soothing the pain.

No, it’s not so much that I couldn’t handle the Lashing Out. It’s more that I was just So Tired. Weary. Sore. And this Particular Child has All the Words. And his mommy is an introvert, so Words at Midnight–even the nice ones–are papercuts that slice and sting.

I went to bed.

I sighed.

I was Unable to Can, and it was Midnight, and if I went to check on the child, I’d be pouring from an empty vessel.

But my kid was hurting, and for a hurting child we’ll Can even when we’re Unable, and we’ll rip the empty vessel to pieces to scrape any residue we missed the first million times we poured from it. FYI, there wasn’t any. No residue. Not even a molecule. I had the vessel analyzed at a lab, and there was nothing left. No Thing. So I did what mommies have done from time immemorial and I conjured a scrap of energy from nothing. I magicked it to life.

I got out of bed. I muttered to all the mommies in the dark, “Those of us who are about to die salute you.” And I knocked on my kid’s door.

We talked. He didn’t Lash Out. I rubbed his shoulders. He said he was bummed. I said, “I know you are. I’m so sorry.” He said, “Thanks for checking.” And I said, “Of course. Always.”

Because of course.

And always.

Even when I’m Unable to Can. For you? I will. Of course. Always.

Image Credit: Jonathan Bowers

The post On Conjuring Energy From Nothing…Because Of Course. And Always. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

About That Shaking

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 24 Jan 2022 22:39:20 +0000

Sometimes, when it’s quiet in my house, which is not very often because the dogs bark and the children bark at each other and sometimes I bark, too, but sometimes, when it’s quiet in my house–my sturdy house made of sturdy stuff–I feel a gentle shaking. I wait a minute. I pause. I assess. Is it shaking? Like, real shaking? Or am I just shaky. Like, is my bloodsugar low? Am I having an anxiety attack? And when I decide it is real shaking, as in external shaking, extrinsic shaking, objective shaking, I wonder next if it’s the Cascadia earthquake. The Big One. The 9 on the Richter Scale.

And I simultaneously roll my eyes at myself because the shaking is so small–so slight and unassuming–that of course it’s not the Big One. The last time I felt the earth quake, in, you know, the literal sense, there was a *BOOM* that rattled the windows like a fighter jet was breaking the sound barrier, and that was only a teeny earthquake, a 3 on the Richter Scale, which mostly no one noticed but I did because I was looking out the window and the glass shivered. So no, the rumble, rumble, shake like someone gently nudging your shoulder to wake you when you really should be up, that is not the Big One. And it’s only after these run-on thoughts and wondering and musing that I realize it’s the washer on the spin cycle.

It’s the washer on the spin cycle.

It’s the washer puttering on, working quietly in the background while we run around, barking.

And then I wonder. How is it that a mundane machine, a little box for weary clothes and water, can move my whole, sturdy house?

I have one hundred and twenty unread texts. And triple quadruple that number of unread emails. There’s a splatter of godknowswhat on the wall next to me–exploded ketchup packet, I think. Exploded ketchup packet, I hope, because otherwise I don’t want to know. I meant to put on a bra today, I really did. And I’ve meant and meant and meant to write more here on the blog rather than on the socials because this is a good discipline for me, and over here it’s mine instead of the Facebook’s, but that’s been an Impossible Task for Unknown Reasons. I’m sick with worry about What’s Next in my kids’ schools where the vulnerable kids are told by the school board majority to BUCK UP and QUIT YOUR FUSSING and something about bootstraps and bullies-just-do-that and you-know-it’s-really-the-straight-white-kids-who-are-suffering.

It’s 2:17 and I’m watching the clock because I need to pick up a kid at 3, but my brain is playing a robust game of TAG YOU’RE IT with all the things I ought to do with the next 43 minutes. Open the mail. Pay the bills. Drink my tea. Turn around the laundry. Scrub the toilet. Save the world. And probably zero of those things will happen which is why I feel rattled. Shaken.

Which is when I wonder if the shaking is real.

Which is when I wonder if it’s the Big One.

Which is when I realize it’s just the washer. On the spin cycle. Gently rattling my sturdy house.

Which is when I remember that even the small things can shake up a solid status quo. And that I am a small thing, rumbling and tumbling to make muddy, murky, soiled things new.

The post About That Shaking first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Carey Martell Lies About and Threatens Newberg School Employees and Is Publicly Thanked by Board Chair Dave Brown

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 12 Jan 2022 00:59:22 +0000

Dearest Friends,

If you follow me on the socials, you know the battle we’re fighting for integrity, transparency, and fiscal responsibility on our local school board. You also know I and the Facebook group I started, Newberg Equity in Education (NEEd), have been called a cult, a mafia, and violent mob instigators. It seems ridiculous to have to explicitly state that those are lies. Nevertheless, here we are. We are not a cult. We are not a mafia. We have never instigated a mob, violent or otherwise.

I will tell you, though, that it has been a real struggle to know when and how and whether to address the legion of false accusations. They are so ludicrous that I’d like to count on folks having common sense to see through such transparent efforts to defame individuals and our group. They are so absurd as to be laughable. And yet…AND YET, friends…if we’ve learned nothing since 2016, I HOPE we’ve learned that lies repeated often enough are accepted as truth. It’s a deceptive AND VERY EFFECTIVE tactic. We know that silence in cases of injustice benefits the oppressor. But we also don’t want to give attention to the liars, right? We don’t want to amplify their message. They can do their own work tearing us down; helping them do it seems stupid.

So that’s the struggle. That’s the push-me/pull-you of the past many months. There is one individual who’s declared himself a reliable authority (while being neither) and has spread falsehood after falsehood about NEEd, its members, and myriad engaged community members who’ve spent countless hours and days and weeks and years building up our little town. Personally? If it was just me he was slandering, I’d ignore it. I’ve been slandered publicly before. Whatever. However, it’s not just me. And he has gained a following and traction among a subset of our community. And that means there’s a group of voters who believe his rewriting of this narrative. There’s a group of voters who believe his vitriol. There’s a group of voters who believe our schools are actually under attack from our teachers, staff, and administrators who he (and folks affiliated with him) claims are “indoctrinating” our students rather than educating them, teaching our kids to subscribe to far-left, Marxist ideology rather than learning critical thinking.

And it is SO DISHEARTENING to watch the morale of the employees of our school district plummet. Everyone who knows teachers know they require an enormous amount of education to become educators themselves. They take out loans. They study. They become experts in their field because they care so deeply for our children. They take jobs where they’re likely to be grossly underpaid compared to their peers with similar levels of education. They teach in increasingly difficult circumstances with a lack of funding and now a plague. They’re overworked and underappreciated. And now, in Newberg, they’re accused of indoctrination. It’s just…stunning to watch these passionate, selfless humans being degraded day in and day out.

But the OTHER reason I’ve been reluctant to speak out against the lies has been that THERE ARE JUST SO DANG MANY OF THEM. Like, this dude writes an enormous amount of content full of a neverending cascade of misdirection and untruth, and–I mean, kudos to him–it’s truly overwhelming to know which lies to tackle while also feeding and clothing my children, running to appointments, navigating a plague, fundraising for kids in Kenya, organizing Secret Santa for the internets, promoting the NEEd clothing and supplies drive run by my friend, Tai, who’s been vilified by the dude again and again. Like… WHERE DO YOU EVEN START? Especially when I’m unwilling to give this guy any more real estate in my brain. Especially when I choose to use my time and energy for more proactive JOY-BRINGING than reactive lie-dispelling.

You hear me? It’s like trying to decide when and where and how to deep dive into a sewer to unclog the pipes. You know the crap is gonna keep piling up, but you really don’t want to submerge yourself in it with no guarantees of solving the problem.

All of which is why I was SO GRATEFUL to hear from my friend, Elaine Koskela, because Elaine, an employee of NPS, has taken the time to write an exposé on this dude which holds him accountable for a select few of his lies and unpacks his ties to our school board chair. She wrote to me, in part, “I am thankful to be working with an amazing team at Catalyst High School in Newberg. Having said that, I have never seen morale so low and do not believe I can continue working for this district if the board continues in the direction they are heading. This is true for many of us. I’m also so tired of the attacks. So I, who hate writing, have written this to try to shed light on one small area that has had a huge impact on morale in the district.” Elaine has also filed a more comprehensive version of this as a formal complaint with the Newberg school board.

If you live in the Newberg Public Schools district, I do hope you’ll read Elaine’s piece below and consider it when deciding how to vote by January 18th. And I hope, too, that you’ll VOTE YES so we can restore integrity, transparency, and fiscal responsiblity to our schools.

With love and hope,

Carey Martell Lies About and Threatens Newberg School Employees and Is Publicly Thanked by Board Chair Dave Brown

by Elaine Koskela

I am writing this as a private citizen to share my perspective and thoughts around the Newberg School Board. These are my personal thoughts, and not as a representative of the Newberg School District.

Carey Martell, a former Newberg resident and vocal supporter of Newberg School Board members Trevor DeHart, Renee Powell, Dave Brown, and Brian Shannon, is a self-described journalist and blogger on a mission to take down anyone supporting the recall of Brown and Shannon. He has been using social media to spread conspiracy theories for months, with claims so ludicrous many have chosen to ignore him.

On the Save Our Schools Newberg Facebook page—the page that supports DeHart, Powell, Brown, and Brian Shannon and opposes the recall—Martell has staged a disturbing verbal attack on Newberg’s residents, including me, a Success Coach for Catalyst High School.

In Martell’s attack on me, he claims that “if Joe Morelock had been a good superintendent you….would be fired and no longer working for the school district..” He says I am “poisoning our kids” with my “nonsense.” He tells me, “You deserve to be fired..,” and “you know your time is limited.” These are hurtful and harmful threats and false accusations.

Martell made a similiar threat to my co-worker Josh Reid on a community Facebook page Martell moderates. Josh was not at all involved in the conversation, yet Martell attacked him with another hurtful, harmful threat and false accusation. Josh Reid is an incredibly talented Catalyst school counselor. Martell said “It’s just a matter of time until a new superintendent is chosen and you get fired Reid. Morelock wouldn’t terminate you for the FERPA violation. I bet the next one will.”

On his blog, The Yamhill Advocate, Martell has devoted full articles to attacking Chehalem Valley Middle School counselor Maddie Kozloff and principal Casey Petrie. Staff and family of staff from all our schools as well as the District Office staff have also been maliciously attacked. The school board is supposed to support our staff. What do they think about these wide-spread attacks on Newberg School District staff?

Unfortunately, these are just drops in the ocean of vile lies and attacks Carey Martell has made to many community members. The number of people he has intimidated, silenced, and hurt is astounding.

Martell is an activist in “Free Oregon.” At an online “Free Oregon” rally, Martell promoted himself and stated two lies about the NEEd Facebook group at this gathering (click here: Martell’s comments begin at timestamp 18:39), “There is a movement nationwide called Indivisible… They encourage, you know, what I regard to be paper terrorism sort of tactics where they just constantly call senators and representatives and even private companies overwhelming their phones and email boxes with templates constantly every day in this sort of very aggressive, very militant uh harassment campaign is basically what they like to do. And they’ve done some of this in Newberg, as well, as I’m sure Dave Brown will be able to tell you ’cause I’ve seen the public records requests of his inbox and they’ve definitely done that to him. So uh this Indivisible movement, they’ve made a chapter here in Yamhill County… the Newberg chapter of them is Newberg Equity in Education. They’ve got about 600 people, um most, almost the entire teacher’s union is part of it and their specific agenda with the Newberg group was to get Critical Race Theory into the school system curriculum.”

First, after smearing a group called “Indivisible” (which appears to be a progressive get-out-the-vote group), he claimed Newberg Equity in Education (NEEd) is a chapter of them. NEEd is now and has always been solely a local Facebook group with no ties to any other organization.

In his second lie, Martell claims NEEd exists to put Critical Race Theory in the curriculum. Putting CRT in the Newberg Public Schools curriculum has never been discussed in the NEEd group as a goal.

“Almost the entire teacher’s union is part of [NEEd]” is another lie. Teachers in the union–along with any individual who supports equity and anti-racism in Newberg Public Schools–are certainly allowed be part of the group, but most or almost all the members of the teachers’ union are not part of NEEd. NEEd is grateful for all Newberg school district employees who have joined the local effort because discussing equity in education is essential when we hold a high value of care for all students.

In several school board meetings, Brown has bitterly complained about attacks and lies and said they need to stop. That could sound like he’s ready to stand up to Martell. But does he condemn Martell’s actions against Newberg Public Schools’ employees? He doesn’t. Let’s listen to Chair Brown’s own words as he was campaigning at the same “Free Oregon” event that featured Carey Martell (click here: Brown’s comments begin at timestamp 22:30). “Before I go any farther, I’d like to thank Carey. I haven’t got to do that publicly yet. He has really put a lot of work into what he’s done and, Carey, thank you. You know, I haven’t got a chance in this kind of setting so it’s just amazing that somebody would put this much effort out.”

The truth is, Chair Brown has never checked in with the numerous Newberg staff who have been attacked by Carey Martell. The truth is, Brown is supportive of Martell’s work as shown by his words at this online “Free Oregon” event.

Several long-time employees with the district, including myself, are being threatened about employment on Facebook by Carey Martell in his self-appointed role as investigative journalist on behalf of the board majority. Without a response from Brown or other School Board members denouncing Martell directly for his malicious comments and threats to Newberg staff, and in light of Chair Brown’s public gratitude toward Martell, we can only assume the board majority stands behind his words.

Brown’s public embrace of Martell’s support is troubling, as are Martell’s more personal attacks on Newberg teachers, counselors, and administrators. It’s time to tell the truth about Carey Martell and the dangerous influence he has over members of our district’s Board of Directors. It’s time for new leadership.

Elaine Koskela has worked for the Newberg Public Schools for 14.5 years. She is a classified Success Coach at Catalyst* High School. She holds a Bachelor’s of Science degree from George Fox University in Sociology and Social Work. Elaine is a parent of three Newberg High School graduates, all of whom graduated with honors. Like dozens of other NPS teachers and staff, she is deeply committed to providing the highest quality education to all students.

*Catalyst is an alternative high school model that works to remove barriers to learning. Under its umbrella, it houses an online academy, the “Real World” program (traditional students with a different schedule and smaller class size), and flexible learning (a combination of online learning with traditional high school, Real World, and/or tutoring). One third of the students at Catalyst identify as queer. And a very high percent are dealing with significant Adverse Childhood Experiences. Most importantly, Elain notes “it’s an amazing community that strives to treat everyone with dignity and respect.”

The post Carey Martell Lies About and Threatens Newberg School Employees and Is Publicly Thanked by Board Chair Dave Brown first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Dave Brown says “let’s just talk.” Here’s what it’s like to try.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 04 Jan 2022 03:55:29 +0000

It has been both distressing and disturbing how often in the past 6 months Newberg Public Schools have been in the local and national news. In May, a far right majority was elected to our school board. In June, they took office. Their first actions? To ban Black Lives Matter and Pride flags and to rescind the Anti-Racism Policy established by the board the year prior. When the BLM and Pride flag ban failed to pass muster as constitutional, the board majority changed it to a ban of all “political, quasi-political, and controversial” symbols other than the U.S. and Oregon flags. “Political, quasi-political, and controversial” to be defined by themselves on a case-by-case basis. That move alone cost the district tens of thousands of dollars in rescinded academic and athletic grants and attorney and lawsuit costs.

Then they fired our excellent superintendent for “no cause.” In addition to throwing the district into chaos and the loss of staff who are fleeing for other districts, this move will cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars to buy out the superintendent’s contract and recruit and hire someone new.

It is an understatement to say our school district is in crisis. And throughout it all, the board majority maintains they are simply trying to “get politics out of schools” and rid us of “indoctrination” and thwart the “extreme left” attempt to take over. Which is baffling since the school board previously acted as prescribed, in a NONpartisan manner. And is particularly ironic considering that the board majority members are refusing to speak to their actual constituents while simulaneously making themselves available to speak at anti-masking rallies, with anti-public-school podcasts, and with far right radio hosts. What’s this about politics in schools? And WHO exactly brought them in?

So here we are, six months into this bizarro alternate reality, and we’re trying to recall the two board members who’ve led us into this disaster, Dave Brown and Brian Shannon. And now that the recall election is mere days away, the number of lies and misdirections coming from their side is overwhelming. Honestly, it’s an effective tactic straight from the Trump playbook. If you lie often enough, slyly enough, and with enough conviction, making sure to never give air time to your opponents, folks who are otherwise well-intentioned will believe you.

I don’t have the time or the bandwidth to unravel all the lies. They are legion. But I will tackle one here and now, and it’s this… Board Chair, Dave Brown, who is the representative for my portion of the district, has stated in his interviews and speaking events that folks just need to TALK to him. Just have a conversation. Just sit down and chat over a cup of coffee, and maybe we could work out our differences. Which sounds reasonable, right?? Like, what’s wrong with us that we can’t talk to folks with different opinions anymore? But what Director Brown fails to mention is the dozens upon dozens of people who have tried AT LENGTH to do exactly that. To have a conversation. To dialogue. To correspond. To listen. Only to be lied to, shut down, and ultimately ignored.

I’ve decided to release my attempt to converse with Director Brown from 2020 to provide an example. On June 23, 2020, Director Brown was the lone “no” vote on the district’s Anti-Racism Policy (copied here so you can read the text for yourself.)

As Director Brown’s constituent, I was deeply disturbed by the no vote, particularly because it came without an explanation. So I emailed the full board to ask for one.

I’m releasing our emails in their entirety below, but a brief timeline of my attempt to dialogue with Director Brown is as follows:

June 23, 2020: I asked for an explanation, emailing the full board.

June 24, 2020: Director Penner (Board Chair at the time) emailed me back, copying the full board. She explained their anti-racism efforts and offered to meet to discuss further.

June 24, 2020: I emailed Director Penner back, expressing my concern that Director Brown’s no-vote would undermine our community’s confidence that an anti-racist school district is possible. I reiterated that, as his constituent, he was not representing me well, and that I would wait to hear from him for an explanation.

June 24, 2020: Director Penner emailed again, copying the full board, agreeing it was best to hear directly from Director Brown about his reasons for his no vote.

June 26, 2020: I emailed Director Penner and copied Director Brown to ask whether there was any board policy or understanding that board members respond to their constituents. I reiterated that I wanted to hear from Director Brown and listen to what he had to say but he was giving me nothing to listen to.

June 26, 2020: Director Penner emailed to say she had a meeting and would get back to me shortly. She emailed later the same day to note that there was no board policy to compell a board member to respond to constituents. She noted that she, along with other board members and the superintendent, had also reached out to Director Brown, and that he had not responded to them, either.

June 26, 2020: I emailed Director Penner to thank her.

June 28, 2020: Director Brown responded to me to say a) he was waiting on district “leadership” to communicate with him before he could respond, b) that “school members” do not engage in Facebook chats about school board matters, and c) he was unable to give his statement when he voted no due to computer problems.

June 28, 2020: I responded to Director Brown noting that I was not requesting a Facebook response, that other board members do engage in Facebook conversations about board matters, that Director Penner had already told me I should hear from Director Brown directly so I wasn’t sure what communication from “leadership” he was waiing on, and suggested several ways to make his statement that would bypass technological difficulties in the future. I reiterated that I wanted an explanation for the no vote.

[I want to be clear here that there is NO policy or understanding that school board members do not engage on Facebook and that “leadership” had already communicated to Director Brown that he could respond to constituents directly. Neither of his assertions otherwise were truthful.]

June 29, 2020: I emailed Director Penner, copying Director Brown, just to be absolutely SURE there was no misunderstanding on his part, and that he is, in fact, allowed to communicate with his constituents.

June 29, 2020: Director Penner replied, copying Director Brown and all board members, that she and other board members had communicated with Director Brown and that he was aware that he had every right and responsibility to communicate with constituents.

July 7, 2020: I emailed Director Brown again, copying Director Penner, asking for a response again and expressing my frustration and disappointment that he was not providing his constituents with attention or communication.

I never received a reply from Director Brown.

On July 9, 2020, at a special school board meeting to hear from the public, Director Brown finally read a statement to explain his no vote. You can see it by clicking here, along with my in-line response.

To sum up, I sent three emails before receiving a reply from Director Brown. When he replied, it was with three excuses for why he could not communicate with me, two of which were not true. I emailed three additional times and received only silence.

So perhaps you can understand my frustration and disappointment when Director Brown is willing to speak with outside groups who are politically affiliated and, while doing so, says he wishes his constituents would just be willing to chat with him about our differences. I’ve tried, Dave. On repeat. And dozens more folks have stories strikingly similar to mine.

I can understand–truly–why people are sympathetic to Director Brown when he seems to so reasonably request civil dialogue. Perhaps this will shed light on the reality, however, that he’s not willing to communicate, after all.

Vote YES to Recall Dave Brown and YES to Recall Brian Shannon. Our district deserves better.

Here is our correspondence in its entirety.

Subject: No Vote on Anti-racism Resolution

From: Beth Woolsey
To: All Newberg School Board Members
June 23, 2020

Dear Board Members,

I was thrilled the NPS Board tonight approved an anti-racism resolution. As the mother of two children of color who’ve attended Newberg Public Schools for the entirety of their education and who have experienced racism there, it’s critically important to them and to me to see our leadership take a clear and firm stand against racism.

I was also dismayed that Dave Brown voted against the resolution. Our community deserves an explanation for the no vote, as it deserves to have representation unanimously united against racial bigotry and discrimination. If Dave cannot provide anti-racist leadership, the community deserves to know that, too, so we can take appropriate action for better representation.

Looking forward to your response.

Beth Woolsey

From: Brandy Penner
To: Beth Woolsey
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 24, 2020

Good Afternoon Beth,

Thank you for reaching out with your support and concerns. I am proud of the work that went into creating the resolution and I am proud to be serving on a board that is passionate about addressing racism in our system and creating systemic change.

I’m not sure if you were at the previous board meeting but we also spent time addressing systematic oppression and racism. During our board comment time we had several board members specifically call for a focus and commitment to examining our system and acknowledging our roles in supporting a social system that is historically oppressive and racist. We took 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silence in honor of George Floyd and the countless, known and unknown, people of color that have been killed, assaulted and harassed by police. It was powerful and emotional

Please know that as an individual I am committed to learning about the experiences of people of color, my role in sustaining and benefiting from a system that is built on oppression and doing better as I know better. This work has to start with the individual reflecting on their own bias and privilege, and I am committed to that work. It is within this individual growth that I can help lead, as a board member, a district that honestly confronts and reshapes our education system.

As a board we are in the process of creating our goals for the 20-21 school year. We met this past Saturday for the first of a two part summer board retreat. We have tentatively agreed upon four goals for the coming school year, one of which is a commitment to becoming an antiracist school board. Action items under that goal include conducting listening sessions with our communities of color, board training in bias and antiracism, and adopting an equity lens that will serve as a tool as we continue our work around policy and governance. This will be a huge effort and it will undoubtedly be difficult and uncomfortable, but I feel passionately that we can not ignore the pain and oppression that students, staff and families face.

We will be finalizing these goals at our next board retreat on July 11th. I encourage you to attend and stay informed on board happenings, in order to help us shape a school district that actively works to recreate a system that is not built on historical racism and oppression. I ask that you continue to reach out, provide support and suggestions.

Please let me know if you have any questions or if you would like to meet virtually to continue this conversation.

Thank you again for your time,

Brandy Penner
Newberg School Board of Director
Chair, Director Zone 2
Oregon School Board Association
Region 13 Director

Newberg School Board Emails: The Board chair responds to emails sent to the full board. School board members only deliberate when gathered as a quorum as outlined in the Public Meeting Law. To assure that board conversations and deliberations do not occur on email, the Board chair will respond on behalf of the Board. All Board members and the Superintendent receive communications that come from the community as well as the response given by the Board chair. All Board members will be blind copied in responses made by the Board chair.

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 24, 2020

Thanks so much for your response, Brandy. I really appreciate the time you took for a thoughtful reply.

I question whether a board that can’t unanimously approve an anti-racist resolution will be able to move forward on becoming an anti-racist board. I also realize that the lack of unanimous vote isn’t at all your fault. A board member explicitly voting no on an anti-racism resolution will undoubtedly derail confidence among the community and particularly among the community of color, though. I’m struggling with the best way to address this concern. I live in Dave’s district and he is not representing my family’s interests well.

For now, I’m waiting to hear back from Dave before trying to figure out what to do next.

Sincere thanks for your hard work as a board member.

Beth

From: Brandy Penner
To: Beth Woolsey
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 24, 2020

Beth,

I agree with you and I think that it’s best to hear directly from Director Brown regarding his choice to vote no.

As board chair I always strive to ensure that we have a cohesive board, while respecting individuals. This is always a challenging task on a seven member board, but it remains my goal and I am hopeful that in the difficult work that lays ahead we will continue to grow stronger.

Again, thank you for your involvement and commitment to helping the district in this vital work.

Brandy Penner
Newberg School Board of Director
Chair, Director Zone 2
Oregon School Board Association
Region 13 Director

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner, David Brown
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 26, 2020

Hi Brandy,

Is there any board policy or expectation that board members respond to their constituents? I agree with you that it’s best to hear directly from Dave Brown regarding his vote, but he’s not responding to my request for more information, and, as far as I’m aware, he’s not responding to anyone else’s requests or messages, either. He replied to a former tennis player of his on Facebook to say he had comments prepared regarding his no vote at the board meeting but that he wasn’t able to speak due to a technology issue and that he won’t be responding until the next board meeting. I feel strongly that that delay of response is inappropriate given the urgency of this issue in our community (and nation wide), as well as OSBA’s statement yesterday stating school board members “need to be leaders in identifying and eliminating racism,” asking all Oregon school boards to adopt anti-racism resolutions, and that “equity advocates say those statements matter.”

Dave is my district representative. He’s not representing me or my family or people of color appropriately, nor is he responding to messages. He has advocates asking those of us who are concerned to listen to what he has to say. Unfortunately, he’s given us nothing to listen to.

Please let me know if there’s any expectation or policy necessitating a response from him to constituents.

I’ve copied him on this message as I did on my original message, hoping for a reply.

Thank you for your assistance and any information you can offer.

Beth Woolsey

From: Brandy Penner
To: Beth Woolsey
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 26, 2020

Hi Beth,

I have a couple of appointments this afternoon but I will look into this and get back to you as soon as possible.

Brandy Penner
Newberg School Board of Director
Chair, Director Zone 2
Oregon School Board Association
Region 13 Director

From: Brandy Penner
To: Beth Woolsey
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 26, 2020

Good Afternoon Beth,

In looking over our policies and speaking with Dr. Morelock, we do not have a policy regarding specifics on how and when board members respond to constituents.

Section A/B of the policy governs board operations and governance. Please see the link below for quick access to this section of the policy.

https://policy.osba.org/newberg/AB/index.asp

I, several board members, and Dr. Morelock have reached out to Director Brown. To my knowledge, he has not shared his views or statement with anyone on the board or in the district. Again, while this may be frustrating there isn’t anything that can be done beyond requesting that he makes his views and reasoning known.

I will reiterate my personal commitment, my knowledge of several other board member’s commitment, and Dr. Morelock’s commitment to this work. I apologize for not being able to offer you more assistance or specific information but I continue to encourage community questions, requests, and engagement in all board matters.

Brandy Penner
Newberg School Board of Director
Chair, Director Zone 2
Oregon School Board Association
Region 13 Director

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner
Cc: Joe Morelock
June 26, 2020

This is all helpful information — thank you for taking the time to research and send it.

Beth

From: David Brown
To: Beth Woolsey
June 28, 2020

Beth

I am waiting for my Newberg School District leaders to communicate with me on a move in the right path forward. School members do not engage in Facebook chats about Newberg School Board matters. The waiting is hard and I am sorry this has caused you stress for you and your family.

I could not comment at the last meeting because of my computer only letting me have visuals. I would have loved to make my statement on time and let the people of Newberg-Dundee know my views..

Hopefully this will happen soon and thank you for the email

Dave Brown
Newberg School District
Zone 6 Board Director
503-888-6365

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner, David Brown, Joe Morelock
June 28, 2020

Thank you for replying, Dave.

I am not asking for a response via Facebook. Although I’m not aware of a policy prohibiting Facebook responses, and our former District 6 board member, Mindy Allison, regularly responded and clarified board positions and her own via Facebook, I’m aware it’s not a forum on which everyone’s comfortable engaging. An email response, however, addressing your constituents’ concerns is certainly appropriate, especially given the importance and urgency of addressing adopting anti-racist policies in NPS.

I’m confused that you’re waiting for other NPS leaders to communicate to you on a right path forward. Brandy Penner responded to my email and said “ it’s best to hear directly from Director Brown regarding his choice to vote no.“ That’s what I’ve been attempting to do — to give you an opportunity to respond — but so far, you haven’t done so. I’m frustrated by that.

To be clear, I do expect a response regarding your no vote. I respectfully request you rescind your no vote and pivot to supporting the NPS anti-racist resolution which is what the Newberg community of color — and especially our children of color — needs you to do and which is what the Oregon School Board Association has requested of all boards.

While I appreciate your apology for the stress this has caused me and my family, I am not at all concerned for my own family or myself. I am concerned for those who are marginalized and vulnerable in Newberg Public Schools who are being actively harmed by a board which does not unanimously speak against racism.

I also understand technology is difficult to navigate. However, I understand there were several other ways you could have commented at the last board meeting, including calling, texting, or emailing Gregg Koskela who was running the meeting; calling, texting, or emailing other board members or Joe; or even visually signaling via a wave that you had something to say. Sometimes we have to be creative in overcoming technological challenges, and your inability to utilize other ways to be heard along with your lack of response to concerned constituents signals a lack of understanding about the magnitude of this issue. I hope that’s not the case and that you’re willing to hear those concerns and respond very soon.

Dave, you and I have many mutual friends, and you’re well loved by the people of our community. You have a vast array of staunch defenders. You’ve also done kind and good things for the students with whom you directly interact. I’m asking you to extend your representation beyond the folks you usually hear from and to listen to those who are so often voiceless in our society, especially people of color who desperately need leaders to pave the way and show that we do, in fact, have a board united in loving our neighbors as ourselves and who are willing to take action to do so.

Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you again soon.

Beth Woolsey

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner, David Brown, Joe Morelock
June 29, 2020

Hi again, Brandy.

I’m still waiting for a reply from Dave Brown regarding his no vote. Can you confirm whether or not he’s aware that he’s allowed to email and talk to constituents prior to the next board meeting? He appears to be confused about that, so I’m wanting to make sure that’s not still posing a barrier for him with communication as I try to figure out what’s preventing a response.

Thank you.

Beth Woolsey

From: Brandy Penner
To: Beth Woolsey, Joe Morelock
June 29, 2020

I and other board members have communicated with Dave regarding communication on social media and with constituents in general. He is aware that as an individual board member, he has every right and responsibility to communicate with constituents.

Brandy Penner
Newberg School Board of Director
Chair, Director Zone 2
Oregon School Board Association
Region 13 Director

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner, Joe Morelock
June 29, 2020

Thank you!

From: Beth Woolsey
To: Brandy Penner, David Brown, Joe Morelock
July 7, 2020

Dear Dave,

Per your last message to me nine days ago, you were “ waiting for my Newberg School District leaders to communicate with me on a move in the right path forward.” It is my understanding that other members of the board were able to communicate to you that there are no barriers preventing you from communicating with your constituents. I do not know what your reason is for continuing to ignore the people you represent since I have not heard from you since, but I do want to express my disappointment in your lack of response and that I will continue to try to solicit one from you via private and public channels. I’m also disappointed and frustrated that you continue to neglect addressing the reasons for your vote against Newberg’s anti-racism resolution and reiterate that your constituents deserve an explanation, your attention, and timely, substantive communication.

Beth Woolsey

I never received a reply from Director Brown.

On July 9, 2020, at a special school board meeting to hear from the public, Director Brown finally read a statement to explain his no vote. You can see it here, along with my in-line response.

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The Longest Night

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 22 Dec 2021 01:31:10 +0000

I don’t know. The older I get, the more I’m enamored with…in tune with…drawn by…the passing of the years. The impotence of the days. The importance of the seasons. Maybe this is what it is to get older. To speed up and slow down at the same time. To understand how quickly time passes and the constant of change and the way things stay immovably the same. Or maybe this is what it is to be human. Maybe this is what it is to become real like the Velveteen Rabbit, trading shiny, new make-believe for worn and weary truth but somehow, via mystery and magic as old as time, more beautiful for it.

Or maybe I’m maudlin because tonight is the Longest Night. December 21. Winter Solstice. The darkest of dark days. The longest of long nights. But if that’s true–if I’m “just” maudlin–there’s a truth to that, too. Because today is the day we can’t deny the night its due. We can’t pretend it’s not overwhelming. We can’t pretend it doesn’t bleed into the day. We can’t pretend there isn’t grief and death and longing during this holiday season. We can’t pretend there isn’t lament. We can’t pretend there isn’t loss.

And, friends, I vacillate between the Queen of Spin, the resurrection of optimism, the determination of joy–“THERE IS MAGIC IN THIS MESS. I SWEAR IT.”–and the unavoidable truth that we drown sometimes. Slip under the choppy water. Can’t kick to the surface. Sink, and sink, and sink, and sink until we’re limp and lifeless. Breath gone, and glad for it. Soothed not to work for a few minutes. Soothed not to fight, floating where there is no air.

Which is dark.

I know.

I know it is. And the Queen of Spin, who also bears witness to what is Real and what is True but her own piece of it, the slice she can see, wants to remind us that DARKNESS IS NOT ALL THERE IS. And DARKNESS DOES NOT LAST FOREVER.

But tonight’s not the night for that. Tonight doesn’t belong to her. Tonight belongs to the dark. To being sad. To being lonely. To being willing to feel it and sit with the discomfort and mourn.

Oh, God, we’re bad at this part, aren’t we?

We just suck at lament.

We’re taught from birth to avoid it. To reject it. To focus on JOY and BETTER DAYS AHEAD. And we’re not wrong per se. Not entirely. It’s just that when we avoid grief, we’re missing out on being made real. On being worn. On being torn. On being threadbare and weary and wary and done. We’re missing the beauty of it. The revelation. The decay. Breaking down to become one with the earth. We forget we’re made from soil. Dust and ashes. We forget that we are rich loam and from us, new life begins. Through us, the water gets in.

So in case you’re not just happy happy, joy joy right now…just in case you’re not fully merry this season…I want to say that’s OK. YOU’RE OK. And you are, in fact, beautiful. You are the Longest Night. I see you. And I’m waving in the dark.

With love,

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I Am A Balloon

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 17 Nov 2021 01:32:38 +0000

I am a balloon.

I’ve tried and tried (and tried and tried) to find words that apply in this After Time. Which is to say, I’ve tried and tried (and tried and tried) to find words that apply to this Life. The era in which I exist is just a conceit. An important one, I think, for the After Times is an era of chaos and uncertainty and triumph and tragedy and looking for the helpers and being disappointed and uplifted, sometimes at the same time, but a conceit nevertheless because if we were honest we’d just admit Life has always been thus and thus will always be.

So I’ve tried and tried (and tried and tried) to find words that apply in this After Time, and I have come to a conclusion.

I am a balloon. A stretchy vessel with great capacity for air, and I can be filled and filled until my skin grows thin and taut, and I am amazed that I have not burst from containing too much, when pop! I shatter, withered and undone.

You know what I mean because you’re a balloon, too. A walking container, filled to overflowing. Watching the world. Puzzling over it. Wondering how we’re here and also why and what for and who put us in charge, anyway? Us, with our big feelings and wonky wishes and murky motives. Us, in these silly, beautiful bags of flesh. Us, and our fractured mosaics of pain and pettiness shot through with all that’s noble and holy and precious and perfect. More than the sum of our parts. Impossible art.

We expand and expand and expand, taking on more. Taking in more. Until boom! We burst, and our pieces scatter.

And I admit I wonder: What good am I then? When I’m suddenly beyond capacity. When I can’t take on or in another thing. Not one breath more.

Which is, of course, ridiculous. Utter, confusing nonsense. Because the balloon wasn’t ever meant to hold everthing, dummy. That was never the balloon’s purpose.

The balloon can only hold some air. The tiniest bit, really. The balloon is only meant to give us the shape of the thing. To catch the gust of wind. Fleetingly. So we can hold it for a moment and bat it around, watching it drift and fall.

But we’re not good at impermanence, are we? We’re not good at being temporary or small when we feel so very eternal. So very large. So we put expectations on ourselves to hold more than we were ever meant to carry. And then blame ourselves when we shatter.

P.S. I realize, belatedly, that I’ve been away from this space for months. I’ve kept up on Instagram (@BethMWoolsey) and Facebook (Beth Woolsey), but not here. Our little town has been falling apart, a battle-ground for racism and bigotry, and I’ve been laser focused on doing my small part to remedy that. And on the foster kittens. And on binge-watching Ted Lasso and Sex Education. But mostly the town thing. I’ve popped at least 53 times in the past 4 months.

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How I Give Them Up: Why I’m Not Keeping the Kittens

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:18:16 +0000

OK, one thousand people have asked me if I’m adopting any of the Q or L or Weed kittens. Or the mamas. Are you adopting the mamas? PLEASE ADOPT THE MAMAS. And my answer is no. BUT WAIT. Pull up a chair for a minute and let me tell you why.

Once upon a time, I fostered Golden Retriever rescues. I will do that again someday when I’m off the kitten bent. And it was Very Hard giving them up to their furever families. Very, Very Hard. But the Hardest of All was Nikki.

Nikki was a 4mo baby when she came to us. Deep red like Clifford the Big Red Dog, she was rescued from the meat market in China. (“Aren’t there enough dogs to adopt in America?” you ask. And the answer is yes. Yes, there are. HOWEVER, there’s also an enormous market in the U.S. for pure bred dogs…or mutts that are predominantly a specific breed…and into any dog market vacuum come puppy mills. One of the answers to that dilemma? Provide rescue options from across the globe. Don’t allow the puppy mills a foothold. I love this solution. Then again, I consider myself more a Citizen of Planet Earth than an American, so I figure people and animals in need anywhere deserve our help. The end.)

So, Baby Nikki came to us off the plane from China. She was small and scared and snuggly. They told us she was a Golden Retriever, but that was a lie. Nikki is 50% muppet and 50% bear. Do a DNA test. It will prove I’m right.

Nikki was also blind. Or mostly blind.

A lot blind. That’s what she was. She could see shapes and light. Ish. But she bonked her way around a lot at first. I fell all the way in love with her. And my family fell all the way in love with her. For weeks, I took her to and from the doggy eye specialist arranged by Golden Bond Rescue. For weeks, I held her on my lap and gave her treats and told her everything was going to be OK.

She healed from surgery, but her vision was still pretty wonky. Which was fine, of course. That was fine with me and my family. She was integrated with us. She learned where the chairs were. She used the doggy door. She bonked less. She played with our Golden, Zoey.

And my family begged me to keep her. B.E.G.G.E.D.

I wanted to say yes. YES, OF COURSE WE WILL KEEP HER. How do you fall all the way in love and then say good-bye? Surely, we were too attached. So I waffled. But there was a voice at the back of my head that kept saying, “She’s not yours.”

It said, “She’s not yours. Or, to be more precise, she’s yours, but only for a time. And she will always be yours, but only in your heart.” And I struggled and argued with the voice, as I am wont to do, but the voice won. Eventually. And only because I’ve learned to listen to it. Only because I’ve learned it’s the best guide and it knows things I don’t yet understand.

I sighed, and I told the rescue agency Nikki was ready. She was ready for her furever family. I looked through applications. That’s how they do it at Golden Bond—they have the fosters pick the adoptive family. And as soon as I read their application, I knew. I just…knew.

Diana and Rowan had been watching the rescue’s website for a while.

Just looking. You know, as you do. Thinking about a sister for their first dog, Ella.

Then they saw Nikki. And that was it. She was theirs. They applied, and they waited. Nervously. THEY knew she was theirs, but would the rescue organization know?

Oh, I did. I totally did.

They came over the next night. We had a house full of middle and high schoolers—friends and friends of friends—running amuck and creating havoc and generally living their best, most Cheeto-filled lives. I told Diana and Rowan they were welcome…but it would be Full Chaos, so if they wanted to wait, that was fine.

They did not want to wait. Because how do you wait for Nikki when she’s YOURS?

They folded in seamlessly with our brand of crazy.

They took Nikki home. But only after I made them promise to be my friend forever so I could stay in touch with our girl. A promise they made and kept.

And I remember them asking, “How? How can you have her and give her up?”

But they are how. Beautiful humans waiting for this specific soul.

I have a friend who fosters human children, and I asked her once how she avoids getting too attached especially when she knows the kids she has may have to leave her. “I could never do it,” I said. “It would break my heart.”

“Oh, I don’t avoid getting too attached,” she told me. “I get too attached. It’s what I recommend, actually. That’s what these kids deserve. A foster family who loves them with every ounce of their hearts. That’s what all kids deserve. Get too attached,” she said. “Get too attached.”

That’s when I realized fostering—or at least fostering well—means getting too attached. But it also means the little ones you love are worth the heartbreak.

Don’t worry. I’m not pretending it’s the same to foster a human baby and an animal one. But they are shades of the same color. Reflections in a hazy mirror. To love knowing loss is likely is a particular kind of joy. And to hold a creature that doesn’t belong to you—to protect and shelter and love love love them all the way—is a sacred trust.

So when you ask me if I’m adopting a Q kitten or an L kitten or a Weed kitten or the mommies—PLEASE adopt the mommies!—I’ll tell you no. And it’s not because I’m not in love with them. It’s not because I want them to go. It’s because of Nikki and Diana and Rowan and Ella.

It’s because they’re not mine, and I’m not going to rob them of their people. No matter how much it breaks my heart.

They’re worth it.

P.S. I’m not saying I’ll never fail fostering. I’m just saying that before I keep any of my foster babies, I’ll have to be sure—really sure—damn certain—they’re mine.

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Free Parenting Advice (I know. I know. But hear me out.)

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:17:51 +0000

FREE PARENTING ADVICE:

(I know. I know. But hear me out.)

Perhaps the Single Most Important Thing I’ve learned about parenting in my 23 years working this shtick is HOLD YOUR PARENTING STYLE LOOSELY. Try something. If it works, FANTASTIC. Pat yourself on the back. Give yourself a high five. Because Things That Work don’t come along every day, and also Things That Work morph like gremlins in water to Things That Definitely DO NOT Work faster than a toddler to the cat box. Faster than a baby to a knife. Faster than a teenager to I Was Only Going to Light Off ONE Firework in My Hand. FAST, in other words. Lightning, friends.

I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve had to reevaluate how we’re parenting. Based on the kid. Based on the phase of the moon. Based on my caffeine intake. But I’ll bet it’s in the thousands. 5 kids x 23 years x the Shifting Winds of needs + growth = thousands of times. You can check my math—I’m a big fan of peer-reviewed science—but I’m pretty sure it’s on point.

Well, we had to make another shift today. It’s OK. It happens. It doesn’t necessarily mean we were wrong before. Just that parameters have changed. See, our parenting practice up until this morning was Unconditional Love. It seemed pretty obvious. Pretty solid. But then our teenage boys went with their youth group on a Donut Tasting Mission. (Because Jesus wants us to Know and Understand in our hearts where to find the Best Donut in Portland.) And…I’m almost ashamed to tell you this, but vulnerability is important, so…they didn’t bring us back any. Not ANY. ZERO DONUTS IS THE NUMBER THEY BROUGHT TO ME.

Friends, somewhere along the line during my hippy-dippy, everyone-is-welcome, come-as-you-are, bring-me-your-weird, I-love-you-no-matter-what child rearing days, my children got the message that they do not have to buy my love with donuts.

Now, yes. I could beat myself up about this. I could wring my hands and cry hot tears. But instead I’m just going to use this opportunity to reevaluate my parenting. Clearly, Unconditional Love requires Conditions. So that’s our new parenting style. CONDITIONAL LOVE IS WHERE IT’S AT. I’m telling the kids at dinner.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 16

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:17:20 +0000

Everyone is fine, but Quency shared his tummy bug with the rest of the babies—even though I specifically told him to share TOYS, not ILLNESSES—but kids these days. So yesterday and today we’re eating, resting, drinking fluids, and taking our yucky, yucky, yucky medicine that’s supposed to be fish-flavored but is GROSS, GAG, I HATE THIS flavored, instead. All are on the upswing after brief weight dips, and I am not exactly thrilled about leaving tomorrow but I keep reminding myself that I am not the Only Person in the Whole Wide World who’s ever taken care of kittens. Still, if I look like an exhausted, crazy person in this pic whilst snuggling kittens, that might have a teeny, tiny bit of truth to it.

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Nope Day: Not a Kitten Watch Update

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:16:09 +0000

I noped today, friends. Just looked at all the stuff that needs doing and noped at all of it. Hard nope. And I’m taking a mental health afternoon, instead.

I’ve been spinning lately. My mind whirring and revving. Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts. All full speed all the time. I think all day. I think as I try to sleep. I wake up think think thinking. Even when I’m only waking up to pee. The THOUGHTS. They’re there, waiting for me. Constant chatter. It’s exhausting.

And I know why I’m spinning. Greg and I are traveling Saturday. To Hawaii. For a week. POOR US, right? But I’m split in half, one part of me eager to go lay on a beach and drink a mai tai, and one part of me consumed with panic. Even though I’ve thought through what must happen in my absence. Even though I’ve assigned the precious parts like the KITTENS and the CHILDREN to people I trust. Even though I know it’s irrational. I’m still nearly breathless with panic. Which is DELIGHTFUL for my family. I am DARLING.

So I spun this morning. I did the few things that Actually Needed Doing. I took the kittens to their appointment. I cleaned the litter box. And I took my meds. And then, after much Thought, I decided the rest of the day is a nope. No. Nope.

So I took myself on a date to the Newberg Wednesday Market. I bought myself a Wolves & People Farmhouse Brewery beer and a Honey Pie pizza. And next I’m going to IDK. IDK, friends. We’ll find out together.

P.S. FYI, Honey Pie is the sort of place, when they give you your order number, where you can yell, “OMG! I AM NUMBER ONE! I KNEW IT!” and they will point at you and yell, “YES! YES YOU ARE!” instead of looking at you like you lost your goddamn mind.

Stop Number Two for Nope Day. CREAM ice cream.

I chose the saffron & orange. OMG. AMAZONG. (That was supposed to be amazing, but I feel like amazong may better capture its awesomeness.)

I ran into my friend Shannon and got to see her WHOLE LOVELY FACE. I asked her what’s new, and she said, “I’m doing roller derby now,” and now I’m questioning all my life choices and why *I’m* not doing roller derby. When people ask me what’s new, all I’ve got are 14 cats and a gay fantasy novel without an agent.

Stop Number Three for Nope Day: hanging out at the Newberg Wednesday Market info booth with my friend Polly. No matter what the conversation is, Polly is 100% here for it—politics? Religion? Which market booth has the best cocktails? Why we must support our LGBTQ+ youth? Polly is in with passion. Everyone need a Polly.

Final stops on my Nope Day tour of Newberg Wednesday Market…

I bought myself a bouquet at Pollinate Flowers

Ran into my friend Derric and his double decker bicycle

Bought Greg a zucchini muffin with maple cream cheese icing at Kayts Kitchen

And finished up by buying a half flat of berries because there is no summer pleasure greater than an Oregon strawberry. I plan to eat too many and give myself strawberry diarrhea.

Best Nope Day ever. And my mind is quieter than it’s been in a couple weeks. Almost as if a day of being kind to myself and walking in sunshine and rubbing into beautiful humans and eating great food is good for the soul.

P.S. That was supposed to say running. RUNNING into beautiful humans. But I’m leaving it. Because rubbing into beautiful humans (with Enthusiastic Verbal Consent, as I lecture my teenagers) is probably also good for the soul. Both/And, amirite?

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Kitten Watch Update: July 13

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:12:21 +0000

Quick updates because it’s been a busy 24 hours around here.

1. Quasar and Quark are nut free! They came through surgery just fine and only peed their pants a little bit (read: a LOT, but sshhhhh…no need to embarrass them) afterward. They cleaned up just fine and are back to energetic play with the masses. Other than napping a little extra, there’s no effect from surgery. They’re happy boys, and I believe they’ll be ready for their new homes very soon.

2. Quency, the eyeball model who’s been up and down is UP again. He’s on a second antibiotic now—one that targets more than soft poopies—and his weight is bumping back up where we want it. He’s far bouncier than he was, and I’m crossing fingers the road to health is straightforward from here.

3. If I leave my coffee unattended on my desk, Leap helps herself. A few fast facts: a) no, I do not let her drink it—coffee and milk are bad for cats, b) yes, I do feel TERRIBLE taking coffee away from a young mama—I AM SO SORRY, LEAP, and c) yes, of course I still drink it after her tongue has been in it because I have Priorities and Drinking My Coffee is at the top of that list.

More soon.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 12

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:10:20 +0000

I told Quasar and Quark they get to have a sleepover at the shelter so they can be ready bright and early for their neutering appointment, and they responded by immediately posing for this dark, moody photo. Have you ever seen more somber young men? Oh, bless.

The Q twins, Radia and Qubit, are busy being adorable this morning.

Quency was sick. And then he was better. And now he’s IDK. He takes his medicine, but he’s up and down. And honestly, friends, same.

SAME.

I’m sick. And then I’m better. And right now I’m IDevenK. I take my medicine, but I’m up and down.

Having a body is hard. Having a brain is hard. I’m not sure I’ve learned how to do either yet. At least, not all the way. Like, sometimes I’m all, “OH! I totally know how this body works! I’ve got this!” And other times I’m like, “FFS.” Brain=ditto. Sometimes it’s technology I have figured out. I can run the apps and the programs and I even write a little code. Other times it’s tech on the fritz—THIS JUST WORKED YESTERDAY, AND NOW IT’S @#%&* ERROR CODES AND THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH. I want to hand my brain to someone else. “Fix this please. When it works, it’s wonderful. But rn it’s a fucker.”

So I feel like I get Quency on a visceral level. The needle on the Sick to Well gauge waves violently. It’s dizzying and disconcerting. But we’re gonna keep truckin’ along, Quency and me. We’re going to monitor symptoms and focus on hydration. We’ll get there, back to the Land of the Well. I swear. It might just take us a hot minute.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 11

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:08:43 +0000

I adore the teeny white bow above Ms. Lyra’s mouth. She’s a gorgeous girl and, along with Quency, one of the floofiest floofers. Also, she’s one of the goofiest goofers. When this one’s awake, she’s zipping and zooming every damn where. It’s taken me DAYZ to get a good shot of her little bow tie lip.

Alula and Lynx can’t come to the phone right now. I’m afraid they were no match for this beam of sunlight. It is their kryptonite. If we ever want to see them awake again, we must pray for clouds.

Our baby Jane is darling. Those beauty marks? I die. However, full disclosure, she also likes to sniff her siblings’ butts. It’s OK, Janey. We women can be more than one thing. Stunning, Gorgeous Butt Sniffer is a grand vocation. Way to follow your dreams.

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I put my wireless keyboard in the middle of the bed and let the kittens caption this, and this is what they had to say. IDK what it means but probs something as feisty as it is adorable. If anyone out there speaks Keyboard Kitten, let us know.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 10

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 18 Jul 2021 00:05:50 +0000

The 10 Stages of Bathing Children:
1. Wrestle squirmy babies into the tub.

2. Wash while they wiggle.

3. Wash while they wriggle.

4. Wash while they bite each other.

5. Wash while they kick you in the face.

6. Wonder how this became your life.

7. Think about how you used to use your time and talents.

8. Contemplate the choices that led you to this moment.

9. Look for the kids’ other parent who said they’d help in 5 minutes, they just had to do one quick thing, and now it’s been 11billion minutes, and they’re still not here, and they got to go to work all day WITH GROWN-UPS while you stayed home with the soul-sucking gremlins you love with your whole heart, and you ARE GRATEFUL FOR THEM, DAMMIT, BUT OMG WOULD IT KILL YOUR PARTNER TO HELP ON TIME? “‘I’ll be right there,’” you mimic mockingly. “‘Why didn’t you ask for help?’ THIS IS WHY, YOU FORKING FORKER. BECAUSE I END UP DOING IT MYSELF ANYWAY.”

10. Run away to Mexico. (But only in your mind.)

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Kitten Watch Update: July 9

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:58:08 +0000

I don’t want to disparage one kitten and praise another—that’s no way to foster OR parent—but the fact remains that Qubit sat next to Greg’s shoe and DID NOTHING while Quasar attacked and defended us from its nefarious plans. We are SAFE TODAY thanks to Quasar’s bravery.

I call this little series of 3 photos “Every Tired Mommy” ‘cause I feel this in my bones. I AM SPENT. TALK TO THE HAND. And my favorite photo, the last one, where Mama Quantum has her left hand over Radia’s mouth…shhhhhhhhh, baby, let Mommy sleep.

Leo has no chill. Just none. He’s basically my personality shoved inside a kitten.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 8

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:55:37 +0000

Today on “Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me!” we have Good News Thursday…all weight related.

Weight, Weight Good News Announcement 1: This little muppet made weight yesterday! Mary is *almost* one whole pound which means she got her first set of vaccines. HOORAY FOR MARY! And hooray for Jane, too—although it was less of a surprise that Jane made weight, we’re equally thrilled she has her first set of vaccines on board, as well.

In More Mary News, she ALSO ate her meat/milk-replacement mash out of a bowl this morning instead of a syringe. Pretty soon, she’ll be eating wet food like the Big Kids.

Stay tuned for more Weight, Weight announcements to come.

Next up on Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me: Good News Announcement 2!

Hey, remember how just yesterday Quency the Eyeball Model had the poops and lost weight and had to go on antibiotics? Well, it seems they are working. Robustly. Exceptionally. To give you more information than you EVER wanted, Quency weighed 610 grams in the middle of last week. He gained to 670 grams by Sunday. Then lost to 600 grams by yesterday morning. Kittens are supposed to gain an average of 10 grams/day, so a loss of 70 over 3 days is obviously Not Good. Add in his poopy pants, and the shelter knew we had a problem. He had 2 doses of antibiotics yesterday and 1 so far this morning. Soft poopies are a thing of the past. And this afternoon he weighed in at 700 grams. SEVEN HUNDRED. Like his little body was all THANKS FOR THE BOOST, WE’VE GOT IT FROM HERE.

So we’ll complete the weeklong course of antibiotics (obviously—no need to create a superbug in Quency’s belly), but this kid is already on the mend. As you can see by his wrestling match with Mary.

If he keeps this up, he’s going to find a place on the neutering docket real soon. BUT DON’T TELL HIM, PLEASE. He already hate-hate-hates his medicine. Let’s not discourage him by telling him what’s about to happen to his wee little balls. K? K. He’ll thank us later. Or he won’t, but it’ll be too late then. 😉

Next on Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me: Good News Announcement 3! Which is more like Bittersweet Announcement 3, but such is life.

Guess who’s allllllmost ready to fly the nest? Correct! In a surprise to zero people following the Quantum Leap kittens, Quasar is up for adoption FIRST. He’s the biggest of the kittens (always was, probably always will be), and yesterday he made weight to be eligible for neutering.

His appointment is Monday. THIS Monday we bid adieu to Quasar’s balls. Adios, testes! Sayonara, ‘nads. See ya later, thunder eggs. And then, shortly after their departure, he will heal from surgery with us…and then go on to his Furever Home. Which is WOOHOO! So exciting! And also boohoo. So sad for us. As the natural progression of growth so often is. Woohoo and boohoo. Happy and sad. Consolation and desolation intertwined.

We shall enjoy these last few days we have with Quasar. He plays hard and loves harder, often the first to greet us when we come in the room, purring like mad.

I have one more Weight, Weight Announcement today, coming soon. *Somebody* also made weight to be fixed on Monday. Before I tell you, though, I’m gonna give you a chance to GUESS WHO.

And our final Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me update…

Good News Announcement 4!

In a surprise twist to the story, the other kitten who weighs enough to be fixed on Monday is QUARK.

Remember when we thought he was gonna have to be tube fed for 6 months before he could have surgery to fix his cleft palate? And then they discovered it was just a cleft lip that only mildly affected his ability to feed so he got to come home as long as I syringe fed him? And then he was all, “HECK, NO. I GOT THIS, HOOMAN!” and HE DID GOT THIS??

Well, Quark wasn’t forking around. He gave himself extra boob time AND THEN HE DISCOVERED WET FOOD and there was no stopping him. He was ALL IN.

His reward shall be losing his baby balls. And finding his Furever Home. I believe he’ll decide it’s a worthy trade. You know, eventually.

(Congrats to Bethany Lee who first guessed correctly!)

The post Kitten Watch Update: July 8 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: July 7

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:51:38 +0000

Mama Leap with her little mini-me, Jane. These two look sooooo much alike, and as I learn Janey’s personality, I realize they ACT alike, too. They’re both tender souls who want nothing as much as affection from the Humans.

And I’ve been trying to figure out why it means even MORE to me that Janey and Leap aren’t biologically related. As a mother of children who came to me by way of adoption and biology, I couldn’t care less which of my babies look like me. I ADORE that our family is a mix and mash of skin tone and personalities, talents and quirks, preferences and pet peeves. We’re the most wonderful weirdos I know. Heavy on the wonderful, and EXTRA on the weird.

But I think I finally figured it out. Why it makes my heart swell seeing Leap and Janey together. These two are a visual representation of the Reality of Adoption. They’re an outward symbol of an inner truth. Because while adoption comes with its own challenges—honoring a birth family, processing the bittersweet of love and loss, grieving what once was while celebrating what is—adoption is a connection of hearts. It’s love made manifest. It’s recognizing to the bone—to the soul—that we reflect each other. We are, at the core, the same. Wild and worthy. Gritty and graceful. And the choice to become one family is a sacred a sacrament as I know.

Quency’s been feeling a little blerg-y. To put it as delicately as this little one’s bones, he has the poops. He’s so fluffy, it’s hard to tell his weight has dipped—and that’s why we weigh them every day. He’s on a round of antibiotics and is getting extra food, so he should be on the mend quickly. Someone forgot to tell him he’s under the weather, though—he’s as playful and perky as ever. Fingers crossed that that “oomph” translates into grams added to his light frame.

Photo credit: Mike McConaughey (who agrees Quency is STUNNING)

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Kitten Watch Update: July 6

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:49:21 +0000

Leo says peekaboo. Me, too. We’ve both been hidey for a few days, and now we’re poking our heads back up.

A week ago, I was feeling anxious. Panicky. Full of murky dread. This is what happens with a Wonky Brain. Inexplicable, unreasonable fear. For me, mostly at night. That’s when my monsters come out. And it doesn’t matter that it isn’t logical and doesn’t make sense. At night when it’s under the weather, mentally speaking, the Wonky Brain doesn’t play the Sense-Making Game.

So I did what I’ve learned to do. I let the Wonky Brain be afraid at night. I remembered I’m not alone. I said gentle, kind things to Myself. But I also didn’t let Nighttime Lizard Brain make my decisions. If I’d done that, I wouldn’t have left my house for the weekend. I would’ve locked all my Humans and all my Animals inside. We would’ve stayed here Forever. Instead, I let Daytime Brain choose; she’s still Wonky, still sometimes Filled with Fear, but she’s a touch more steady. A bit better at nudging me toward Healthy Choices instead of Anxiety-Fueled ones.

Daytime (Wonky) Brain nudged me north to Lake Sutherland in Washington. Daytime Brain reminded me that Outside and Sunshine and Water and My Favorite Humans are good for me. Daytime Brain reminded me that, YES, ALL MY PEOPLE WILL DIE AND THE ANIMALS, TOO, but probably not right now. And not because I engaged in Risky Behavior like Leaving My Home. Daytime Brain said “shhhh” and “i know” and “trust me.” So I did. And it was glorious, breathing mountain air. It was glorious, breathing in my people.

This is why I listen to Daytime Brain. And this is why I can poke my head back up. Maybe writing it down will help Nighttime Lizard Brain settle. Maybe writing it down will help our Nighttime Lizard Brains know we’re not alone.

Little Miss Mary is still teeny tiny, BUT I think she MIGHT weigh enough to get her first vaccines tomorrow. Aden took care of the babies while we were at the lake for a few days (he detests, hates, ABHORS fireworks—sensory issues are real, yo—and one of the joys of becoming an adult has been opting out of Independence Day), and the kittens thrived. Good work, man!

P.S. I adore Mary’s giant ears.

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Kitten Watch Update: July 1

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:47:22 +0000

“From the playboys to the gay boys, go and slay, boys.” Lizzo

Quasar & Quency. Boys slaying.

“After a while, you learn to ignore the names people call you and just trust who you are.” Shrek

Qubit and Radia agree with Shrekish wisdom. Trust who you are, friends. This was, perhaps, the hardest lesson I had to learn in adulthood. Trust your gut. Listen to your heart. Abandon the rules that keep you from yourself. Whether you call it the Still Small Voice or the Holy Spirit or your conscience or your heart or your gut, there is a Good and Beautiful Thing inside. It will guide you. You’ll know it’s talking when it reminds you you’re brave and worthy of infinite love exactly as you already are. The Voice is kind. It’s gentle. Sometimes I have to be very, very quiet and shush my Lizard Brain. But it’s there, friends. I swear it.

“People will stare. Make it worth their while.” Harry Winston

Y’all, Quasar forking knows how to pose in his rainbow gear. He’s going to grow up to be a male model and make millions. If you’re sexy and you know it, lick your paw seductively while looking into the camera.

Modeling photo shoots are EXHAUSTING, friends. Quasar took a short breather to rest on top of the scratching post…and fell asleep. Sweet, tired baby.

The post Kitten Watch Update: July 1 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 30, cont.

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:41:34 +0000

“I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. There were so many different ways to be beautiful.” Michael Cunningham

Quency agrees.

OK, friends, gather ‘round, and I will tell you the story of a brave warrior. This is our son, Aden. Except, for 18 years, we thought he was our daughter. And friends have asked, “did you know?” and “did you suspect?” And I want to say yes. YES, OF COURSE I KNEW. THIS IS MY CHILD, AND I KNOW HIM TO THE CORE. But I didn’t. I didn’t know, nor did I suspect. And even though we’ve tried to be Very, Very Open and Very, Very Accepting, Aden was afraid. He was afraid that the messages he’d heard from church (UGH) and society were more true than our love of him. So he waited. And he hurt. And then, at the tail end of Halloween night, he told us. As everyone’s costumes came off, he took off the one he’d worn for 18 years. He held out a piece of his heart to us—a piece of his soul—and said, “is it true? Do you really love ME? Or just your idea of me?”

“We love YOU,” we said. “We love ALL OF YOU. And we’re so glad to know this. Also, CONGRATULATIONS. And let’s get sushi to celebrate.” Because everyone knows sushi is celebration food. And the last year has been one of joy and learning and lancing the pain and really listening and updating medical and getting a good, supportive counselor on board for the Feelings. It’s been a journey. A wild and wonderful journey. And I’m SO GRATEFUL to this boy for inviting us.

Real talk here, though, friends. In the moment Aden told us his News, I wanted to make it About Me. About my sadness that he didn’t know he could tell us. About my grief that we weren’t as explicit as I thought we were that ANY and ALL of the letters— L or G or B or T or Q or I or A or P or MORE—are welcome here. In our home. In our hearts. In our family. But—and here’s a free tip for other parents out there with trans kids—I shut that shit straight down. I took the self-flagellation off the table. BECAUSE THIS WAS NOT ABOUT ME. And I should spend ZERO minutes berating myself and ALL the minutes supporting my son. The end. The end.

This is my boy with Sweet Miss Mary. One in a PROUD 365 shirt. One in a rainbow ribbon. Both darling. Both precious. Both warriors. Both perfect exactly as they already are.

Story shared with Aden’s permission.

Turns out trying to get a group shot of 12 kittens is…well…like herding cats. These are my best attempts using a basket and then my boys. NOPE. NOT A SINGLE USABLE SHOT. Sharing anyway because taking these was HILARIOUS. More #PrideMonth #KittenPride pics to come. INDIVIDUAL PORTRAITS, tho.

“So let me be clear: I’m proud to be gay, and I consider being gay among the greatest gifts God has given me.” Tim Cook

Quark is Very Proud of his Pride Ribbon, and he tried to stay awake to show you. Sweet baby tried very hard.

“Baby, I was born this way.” Lady Gaga

Helen Qubit Quinn wishes you a happy, happy #PrideMonth! And there will be more #KittenPride pics tomorrow because we don’t need a timeline to be #proud of who we are. Stay tuned. Some of my favorite portraits to come.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 30, cont. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: Kitten Pride, June 30

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Jul 2021 23:35:39 +0000

There are two more days left in Pride Month, friends, and all the kittens decided to wear their very best rainbow ribbons to celebrate. Even Mary whose ribbon is as big as she is. That thing darn near dragged her off my lap, BUT MARY PREVAILED. Because Mary’s a fighter. And because pride is worth it.

In conclusion, prepare yourself for the onslaught of Kittens in Rainbow Ribbons that is about to take over your feed. Because ain’t no pride like kitten pride.

Happy PRIDE Month from Our Little Lady Jane!

ALSO, DID YOU NOTICE?? The paw prints emoji completes the rainbow , friends. I just love that. Love that.

“We should indeed keep calm in the face of difference, and live our lives in a state of inclusion and wonder at the diversity of humanity.” George Takei

Lyra, Alula, and Lynx agree wholeheartedly.

“This world would be a whole lot better if we just made an effort to be less horrible to one another.” Elliot Page

Good night, friends. More Pride Kitten pics in the morning. For now, we gotta sleep.

The post Kitten Watch Update: Kitten Pride, June 30 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 29

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 03:30:06 +0000

Dear The Internets,

As you know, I have, for years, been duplicating my daughter’s Insta feed. This is for two reasons: 1. Abby and I look exactly alike so it’s fun to have folks guess who’s who (SO MUCH MYSTERY!), and 2. There is a clause in the Parenting With Sass Handbook that when your kid posts an underboob shot on the World Wide Webs, YOU, TOO must post an underboob shot. Listen. It is what it is. I don’t make the rules. Take it up with the author of that handbook.

Well, baby kitty Radia decided to get in on the action and create her own little collage in the spirit of Abby’s and my twinsie pics. In one, she sexy-crawls toward the camera. VERY sultry, if a skosh inappropriate for a kitten her age. BUT WE DO NOT JUDGE. Her body, her choice, friends. In the other pic, she duplicates her own saucy, sensual pose. And, just like my kid and me, the differences are minute. Minuscule. ALMOST indistinguishable from the original. Frankly, Radia NAILED the spirit of Mother/Daughter Twinsie Pics. It would be remiss of me to neglect to show you her outstanding work.

Hello, friends. My name is Lyra. I am darling, sweet, and snuggly, and I will step on your face and drive my dagger-fingers into your flesh if you piss me off. I am a woman. I can be more than one thing at once.

Enjoy.

Love,
Beth

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Kitten Watch Update: June 28

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 03:26:36 +0000

Good night, friends. We’re off to face the darkness again. Even here—especially here?—there are lessons to learn. Perhaps the greatest is that we never have to face the night alone. There are legions of others. Sitting here. Waiting. Waving in the dark. Believing the dawn will come.

They play their own amalgamation of several games. Hide and Seek. Peekaboo. And I Shall Rip Your Face to Ribbons With My Danger Mittens. All the childhood favorites, really. Except in the case of my brother and me, it w4s Mophfdsnopoly, I Shall Pummel You With Tiny, Rocklike Coconuts, and FINE Then I Will Smash Your Head Into the Concrete. We were adorabl3e children who were aghwesome to raise. Aren’t you jealous of our mothdgher?

P.S. Creative spellings due to Leap. She helped me write thisohngd by walking across my keshtboard and putting her butt in my face.

Quency, our resident Eyeball Model and Captain of Floof.

He’s got ‘em.
He flaunts ‘em.
Ever’body wants ‘im.

My lap is wide and broad and wonderful for a great many things. This might be my favorite. The babies squoosh their way into the soft, cushy spots and conk all the way out. For anxious episodes? Highly recommend.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 27

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 03:21:46 +0000

Sometimes we like to pose for glamour shots, positioning our hands just so and gazing thoughtfully into the distance.

Today’s models: Quasar and Lynx

Oh My Gawd. Is there anything on this earth cuter than a big, clumsy, flailing-armed, hyper brother trying to be calm and quiet to give his baby sister sweet kisses?? Someone hold me.

Quark and Mary. A brother/sister love affair.

Sometimes I fight for words to describe what Anxiety is like. The best I ever manage is a snippet. A snapshot. It’s like sinking in a bottomless ocean and holding up a cup of water so you can see what’s pulling me down. I’m trying to see signs sooner these days but, of course, part of the fun of a Broken Brain is that it doesn’t always give you logic or reason when it’s falling apart. Still, I’m trying. I’m trying to notice when I begin the shift from swimming to sinking. I’m trying to notice the hitch in my breath. The slight slip under the surface. The heft and heave it takes to rise enough for air. For years, I haven’t talked about the initial slips because I don’t want to be dramatic. I don’t want to worry anyone. I don’t want to cause a scene over nothing. “It’s nothing,” I tell myself, or, “I have it under control.” Which is silly, isn’t it? We know both pain and disease are best managed early—best treated at the first sign of symptoms. But I wait. I hold it in. I suck it up. At least I’ve learned to holler when it’s Really Bad. I mean, that’s Something. But I’m trying to shift to hollering earlier. Squeaking, maybe. Being less rigid about containing and controlling the madness. More willing to let the crazy leak. For some of us (hola, Enneagram 8s) that’s harder than others. But if we want to be Well—if we want to be Sane and able to Pursue Joy—we must learn. Le sigh. Growth is hard.

Days are OK right now. Anxiety is there, but it’s tamped down. Nights are turning rough. I’m working on making healthy choices. I’m working on trusting the light and resting in the dark. It’s a hard balance. But I’m trying.

I thought it was kind of Alula to give us a visual. Anxiety during the day, lying in wait vs. Anxiety at night, no subtlety AT ALL. Lord love a duck. If Anxiety was adorable, this is what she’d look like.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 26

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 03:05:47 +0000

I finally introduced a very special guest to the babies. My golden retriever, Zoey. She is a very, very good girl. Still as a statue so she won’t scare anyone. (The labradoodle, on the other hand, will not be meeting the kittens because he thinks they’re snacks.)

Little Miss Mary is continuing to grow despite the odds. I took her this week when the L kittens got their vaccines. I wanted the shelter folks to see her naked belly & sparse fur, her bloated torso & skinny face, & tell me—one more time—she’s OK. That energy and tiny gains are enough. And that’s what they said. But they also said she’s SO underdeveloped compared to the Bigs. Premature, they think. She wasn’t quite ready for this world so she’s playing catch-up. Always catch-up. And I thought, “Isn’t that all of us?” Not quite ready for this world? Always playing catch-up?

Yesterday was rough. Not for Mary. For me. My kid’s wedding was amazing—fun & communal. My meds were on track, my mood was light. I PEOPLED, and I liked it. And yes, it was exhausting, as it is for the Introverts & the Mentally Wonky, but I was grateful. And then I waited for the Aftermath. The Sledge Hammer that follows great bursts of energy. But it didn’t come. Monday I was tired. Tuesday I was fine. Wednesday came. Thursday. All good. And then BOOM. Crash. Hit by the Panic Train. Shallow breathing. Rapid heartbeat. And my favorite bit—The Certainty Everyone I Love Will Die. My 14yo twins hung out with friends—I was sure they would die. Abby drove home from work—I was sure she would die. I suddenly realized I can’t actually leave the kittens in the care of my adult son for 3 days next week BECAUSE MARY WILL SURELY DIE.

Lord, friends. LORD. Bless my darling brain. Bless it to the moon and back. Bless.

So I did what I’ve learned to do when my brain breaks. I tell it to shush. I tell it it’s OK to be afraid, but I’m not necessarily going to believe what it says. I make no decisions while it’s dark. I put myself to bed. I tell myself tomorrow is soon enough to Lock Everyone I Love Inside My House and Cancel All Future Plans. But not yet. Not until the brain has slept. Not until it has a chance to get ready for the world. Not until it has a shot at playing catch-up. And today? Today is a little better.

Today is a little better, and that’s really all I can ask. For Mary. For me. We’re not always ready for this world. That’s OK. We’re not always ready, and sometimes we’re playing catch-up. So in case you’re in our boat—Mary’s and mine—I want you to know you’re not alone. We’re going to chug along together.

Our Lady Jane is tiny like her sister Mary, but not QUITE so tiny. And not quite so hairless. And not quite so wide-eyed. She’s still too small for her 4-week vaccinations, but she’s on the Weight Gain Train. Since I featured sweet baby Mary earlier, I wanted to update you on Janey, too. The weed sisters are coming along, and I only fret about them forty-hundred times/day. It’s FINE. We’re fine. But sometimes we snuggle and listen to each other breathe just to remind ourselves we’re OK.

Zoey the Golden Retriever and Quasar the Giant Godzilla kitten are striking up a sweet friendship, and it’s everything my heart needs rn.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 24

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 03:00:31 +0000

Wedding catering by Costco. And by my bravery for going there.

Final photo montage of the wedding (until I have more than my own snapshots to share). I’ve titled this beautifully curated collection with its elements of whimsy and covert smirnoff “The Aftermath.” Alternatively titled “This is my kitchen now, so if anyone needs a stale Costco muffin or a warm beer, let me know. If I search deeply enough in the filth and the squalor, I’m sure to find what you’re looking for.”

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Kitten Watch Update: June 23

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:57:00 +0000

A personal wedding highlight was watching Abby and her humans dance at the reception. This kid started dancing with several of these women when she was five years old. She was TERRIFIED. Absolutely frozen solid on stage. Stiff as a board. Wide eyed. Rigid with fright. I thought, “OK. Fine. This is not her thing. We’ll try other activities.” But no. Nope. No. She would hear no word of quitting. She HAD found her thing, she informed me, and a tiny thing like terror was not going to stop her. So, again…OK. Fine. We waded further into the dance world. Competitions. Conventions. Performing companies. And I will tell you, there was a part of me that saw all the rhinestone bras and false eyelashes and fire engine red lipstick and was all , you know? Agog is the word. Maybe a touch aghast. Because it was NOT the world in which I was raised. It was wilder and freer and more comfortable with bodies and it took me a while to get it. To really understand what need it fulfilled in my child. But then I watched her confidence grow. And her work ethic deepen. I watched her learn who she is—where to bend and where to remain immovable. I watched her find camaraderie and discover dedication. I watched her push through obstacles and refuse to accept the status quo. And I thought, “Oh.” Oh, THIS is what she was drawn to. THIS is what she saw. THIS is why terror never stood a chance. Because she knew all along there was something more important than fear. Life. Joy. Growth. Friends. So if I was a little teary Saturday watching my baby girl dance alongside her best friends… humans who saw her from kindergarten through college and now beyond… humans who spent months and years honing their craft together… humans who have laughed and cried together, who’ve loved and lost together, who’ve challenged and championed each other…well, who can blame me?

Our fabulous photog sent us a few preview pics.

Alyssa McConaughey Photography

Qubit and Radia make a Quasar sandwich. Delicious.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 23 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 22

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:43:07 +0000

We did it! We pulled off 4 events in 3 days—rehearsal dinner, wedding & reception, the post-college humans’ after party, and the morning after brunch. LORD, WE ARE TIRED. i meant to update all y’all yesterday but instead I slept all night, played with kittens for 2 hours, took a 4 hour nap, ate dinner, and slept all night again. Clearly, my body has its priorities, and the socials wasn’t one. BUT, in these crazy After Times, we accomplished our Main Goal which was to see Abby and Chandler married in front of family and friends. We are deliriously happy. And our house looks like it was run over by a train filled with Costco pastries. Both/And.

How wedding prep actually went. I’m still waiting for my trophy for yelling at zero people the whole entire time. BUT, proving she knows her mommy so, SO well and knows what I truly love, Abby gave me a sweet thank you gift…a trophy for Least Stressed Wedding Planner, and, frankly, I feel like I won mothering for All Time. Stress reduction credit: kittens.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my teens and the post-college crew who took over our house (aka, The Frat House for the week) did a handy job helping socialize the kittens. This is my Cai with Lyra and Lube.

Also, the b is really close to the n on the keyboard so I keep typing Lube instead of Lune. That’s an… awkward typo.

One of the Very Best parts of having a farm wedding is leaning into the rustic theme. Abby used her Papa’s canoe as the beverage station. We used flower pots for iced cans of coffee, sparkling water and soda, and the keg from our local pub went in the back. Nana decorated with potted plants. Worked well. Rustic chic. Would recommend.

My biggest wedding planning recommendation is to choose 2 or 3 things that are most important to you, hire professionals for those items, and then let them do their jobs. When I did event planning 1000 years ago, I watched brides micromanage crap constantly. They’d hire these Amazing Artists, and then tell them how to do their jobs. I mean, I GET it. I do. It feels HARD to trust someone with a day that’s so Full of Expectations. But I’d offer two pieces of unsolicited advice. 1. Your day will be So Much Happier if you release expectations of perfection (also: LIFE SKILL), and 2. Giving professional artists like photographers, florists, and bakers room to express their art within a color palette and theme nearly always produces an end product better than what you would have micromanaged.

Flowers: Elle & Lu Floral Design

Photography: Alyssa McConaughey Photography (first pic in this series is hers… just wait til you see more! )

The Q kittens are all on solids! Which means more boob space for Mary and Jane. (FYI, the weed sisters continue to make gains. More pics of them soonish.)

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 22 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 18

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:37:04 +0000

A few more kitten pics before I inundate my timeline with All Things Wedding. Mostly because I was compelled to show you this midnight creature with her shooting star whiskers. Meg “Lynx” Murry is such a show-off with her teddy bear face. Gorgeous. Sheesh.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 17

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:35:26 +0000

T-2 days until Wedding Madness ensues, but today is our main set-up day, so we’re quickly approaching the Wedding Witching Hour. The Wedding Witching Hour is similar to the Toddler Witching Hour. It’s when it’s been too long since the last nap, we’re hungry, we’re stressed, there’s too much stimulation, and we lose our shit. Also like the Toddler Witching Hour, the Wedding Witching Hour is inevitable. It is bound to come. It’s required by some sort of universal law. It is the nature of Toddlers and Weddings. HOWEVER, if we are lucky and wise, we CAN mitigate it. Bring snacks and distribute them liberally. Stay hydrated. Use a calm and soothing voice. And, when the shit is lost, sit quietly with the one who’s lost it and let them rage it out. Don’t take it personally. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just an overwhelming situation and it’s ok if the response to that is to feel overwhelmed. At the end of the day, the compassion with which we handle our own and others’ overwhelmedness has the ability to strengthen or weaken our connection to each other. So I choose extra compassion. Extra strengthening. Extra connection.

Aren’t we funny creatures? On some level, we expect all bliss and no angst. Especially with things like weddings. IT IS A JOYFUL OCCASION, DAMMIT. WE WILL EXPERIENCE ONLY BLISS IF IT KILLS US. Bless our darling hearts. We forget we’re doing this thing called Life with other people who are made out of human. Fabulous and fallible. Terrific and terrible. And we all bring all of that with us. At a wedding, there’s family, and with family there are a million triumphs and a million hurts. We pour it all into a melting pot and expect only the delightful parts to rise to the surface. God, we are ADORABLE, aren’t we?

Instead of living in an imaginary world the next two days, the most Wonderful and Fraught of times, I’m going to try something new. I’m going to try to inhale it all. The bliss and the angst. The easy and the awkward. The joy and the grief inherent in all things. I’m going pull it all deeply into my lungs. And live the fullness of life. As if this is how it is. As if this is how it’s meant to be.

I’m probably going to need waterproof mascara.

(Pictured: Radia and Lune, venturing forth into this Wonderful, Fraught world. Welcome, ladies. Welcome here.)

Somebody REALLY wants to meet the kittens. But Somebody has previously proven to be an Asshole to our resident cats. So Somebody was told she can LOOK at the baby kitties as long as she doesn’t scare or touch the baby kitties. Somebody has whined and fussed at them but hasn’t barked, not even once. Somebody is trying very, VERY hard to earn Kitten Privileges. Somebody doesn’t understand why it takes days and days—and days and days—of being Consistently Good before Somebody gains entry to the catio. Somebody correctly points out that No One Else in our household is held to such rigorous standards of perfection. Somebody thinks she should be given a real chance to prove herself, and if she accidentally eats just one kitten then we never have to let her in again, ever. Somebody is gonna have to wait a while. Poor Somebody.

Pictured: Somebody (aka, our Jack Russell/chihuahua mix named Nyx after the primordial goddess of chaos and night… because we’re nothing if not dramatic around here) and Leo who’s not afraid of her.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 17 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 16

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:32:41 +0000

It took me an extra minute to find Jane this morning. I wasn’t panicked, exactly; there are only so many places in my tiny office a kitten can hide. But I did have to check each of those places twice before I figured it out. She was in the giant kitten pile with all the others. I didn’t see her because she looks so much like the L kittens now, she blended in. Let me repeat, JANEY LOOKS LIKE A REGULAR KITTEN. She’s put on enough weight and fluff that she BLENDS IN. I just… WE DID IT, friends. She’s growing and THRIVING, and I didn’t eff it up TOO BADLY after all.

And OK, yes, I’m feeling a touch sentimental this week about adopting tiny baby girls and plying them with formula and love. And sitting up in the middle of the night and snuggling them and telling them to grow. PLEASE grow. Because ~23 years ago, in the middle of Saigon, I held my human baby girl for the first time and lost my heart (and my mind and my sleep) forever. And I wondered many times—many, many times—throughout the years how much I was effing it up. ESPECIALLY once I ditched the parenting books and the how-to guides and trusted both my gut and my child to know what we needed. That felt like the Biggest Risk of All. Telling Dr. Dobson to shove it. Allowing my heart to lead us, instead. Allowing Love a significantly larger role than Logic. Responding to my children with compassion instead of punishment.

Well, I know the answer now. I have calculated the amount of EffUps I made. And that answer is Some. I EffedUp Some. Which is not None… but is also not All. So HOORAY! I am a human who raised a strong, smart, capable human! And I just … WE DID IT, friends. She’s growing and THRIVING, and I didn’t eff it up TOO BADLY after all.

The Qs are in vaccine recovery mode after receiving their first shots. It’s no secret around here that we are very pro vaccine. Vaccines for children. Vaccines for grownups. Vaccines for chickenpox. Vaccines for HPV. Vaccines for Covid. All the vaccines! There is an optional vaccine, you say? Sign my people up! We are in!

Now unlike other pro-vaxxers, I will neither deny nor minimize the risks. Are there risks? Yes. Are they sometimes significant? Yes. I hate that part of it. I do. And my stomach churned every time I signed one of those hideous forms authorizing my kids’ vaccines. Thing is, ALL OF LIFE MEANS WEIGHING RISK. And the data is ridiculously clear that the benefits of vaccines—both for the individual and the community—outweigh the risks. And, as a parent, you will spend the rest of child-rearing making hideous, stomach-churning choices. Like letting your elementary aged child walk to school. And letting the teenagers DRIVE ACTUAL CARS on REAL ROADS. Both of which build confidence and foster freedom and responsibility (benefits) but are FREAKING DANGEROUS (ugh, risks). Listen. I HATE this part of parenting. The part where there’s any risk at all to those I love. But there’s also a kind of excruciating joy in allowing our people to live fully and freely. It’s agony and ecstasy, you know? Both/And.

If you or yours are also in vaccines recovery mode, I recommend following the Q Kittens’ Tips. Namely, be gentle with yourself. Sleep whenever and wherever you like. Make no apologies for your lack of productivity. And do whatever brings you comfort.

OK? OK. I’m glad we had this chat.

Also, P.S. I know not everyone is medically able to be vaccinated. My niece who had cancer couldn’t during her treatment. My nephew who is allergic to Planet Earth and medically fragile can’t. It’s for folks like them that I make this point. If we’re not working together to protect the most vulnerable, what are we even doing?

The wedding is in, like, 60 hours, so it’s crunch time, and I know you’re wondering if Greg will be wearing clothes. Well, there’s good news and bad news. Good news is I ordered him two pairs of slacks in different brands so at least one would fit, and they arrived today IN TIME FOR THE WEDDING! Bad news is, neither fit despite my best efforts, and there’s not time to order new ones, so we’re back to the snowman pajama pants or full frontal nudity, neither of which is a traditional look for the father of the bride. Lord love a duck. Since I am Managing All the Things with time running down on the play clock, Greg is on his own. He’s a whole grown-ass adult who’s perfectly capable of dressing himself. Wish him luck, friends. Or, if you’re hoping to see snowmen in June wedding pics, don’t. #TeamSnowman

Pictured: Quency because he’s our fashionista. If anyone has style vibes to send Greg’s way, it’s this guy.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 15

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:28:59 +0000

Kitten of the Day Award goes to Alula WHO IS EATING FOOD OUT OF THE FOOD DISH. And by eating, I mean GOBBLING. Like, this little girl has FIGURED IT OUT.

So far, she’s the only one I’ve seen really catch on to the Joy of Mush—and yes, her tidiness could use a smidgeon of improvement—BUT IT HAS BEGUN. While Quantum and Leap enjoy nursing the masses, they also watched Alula and muttered “thank f*ck.” Both/And, friends. Both enjoying the current stage AND being infinitely grateful it won’t last forever.

The Seven Stages of a Toddler Going to Sleep:
1. I is awake.
2. I SAID I IS AWAKE. SEE? I holding my head up SO HIGH.
3. Mine eyes is droopy, but I IS AWAKE.
4. Mine eyes is droopy, my head is wobbly, but I IS awake.
5. I said I is awake.
6. I is awa…
7. …

Kitten Model/Napper: Leo

One of many reasons I’m not a bit worried about this wedding is because we have a stellar community backing us up. Guarding the family farm are alpacas, Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan, and goat, Raj. They’ve got it covered. It’s all under control.

Quark wakes up early every day to crimp his bangs. Honestly, he’s better at hair crimping than I ever was, and I went to high school in the 80’s. If only Quark had been around back then to give me styling tips.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 14

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:24:04 +0000

Their favorite play place is the Giant’s Feet.

We are T-5 days until Wedding Launch, and preparations are in full swing. By “in full swing” I mean I’m hanging with the cat toddlers, drinking coffee, and writing you. BUT I will shortly head to the Den of Iniquity known colloquially as Costco to buy a wedding feast. So today I am doing All the Hard Things. (Also, I haven’t Costcoed in at least three years because I am masterful at avoiding shopping, so if you’re fluent in Costco and you know what brunch-style food I should buy, DO TELL. I’m flying by the seat of my pants over here.)

Mental health remains iffy. By which I mean I’m fine for now, but as we enter crunch time, I’ll need to be diligent. Take my meds EVERY DAY, ON TIME. Eat breakfast. Breathe 3 deep breaths. Stretch. And yes, I understand intellectually that these are Normal Tasks in which Regular Humans participate without calendar reminders and timers and friends assigned to ask if I’m conducting Basic Self Care… but not me. Wheeee! There is no self-recrimination here. It just is truth. What is required to get me through Big Fun Things in one piece.

In Gratitude News, I’d like to note:

1) We appear to be 4+ days POST-poopocalypse. The poopsplosions are gone as if they never were. The combo of Quantum fully recovering from mastitis and kittens leveling up is a game changer. Which reminds me of one of the Tenets of Parenthood—this, too, shall pass. THANK GOD.

2) Mary and Jane are gaining weight better than ever. Especially Janey who’s determined to be one of the Big Kittens. Mary’s catching on, though. Making progress every hour.

3) I can’t say this one out loud because I don’t want to jinx it, but the W-E-A-T-H-E-R for the W-E-D-D-I-N-G D-A-Y in O-R-E-G-O-N looks like it might be A-W-E-S-O-M-E.

This concludes this morning’s report. If I’m not back from Costco by this evening, I’m lost and injured and scared and you should send a rescue team.

I survived Costco! And now I’m recovering with kittens. This is Quark, peeking over my knee, sucking away stress. That FACE. Gah.

P.S. IDK why I get a sticker when I vote or give blood but not when I survive Costco. Surviving Costco is way, WAY harder.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 13

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Jun 2021 02:20:45 +0000

Well, that’s it for me. I have 7 kittens asleep on my lap, so I’monna be here for the rest of my life. Please send coffee. And a catheter. That’s all I need. And maybe a pillow. Or a casket because I have died of cute and contentment. You know all those inventories they do in high school to assess what your career should be? They’re all wrong. Incomplete. Because Kitten Lap was never one of the options. Never. Not once. So it took me FORTY SEVEN years to find my calling. Silly me. I thought I wanted to be a writer. I even wrote a WHOLE NOVEL I’m shopping to agents. Bless my heart. But I just… I DIDN’T KNOW. So you know, if anyone needs me, I’ll be over here, living my best life with 7 sleeping kittens… and one who refuses to nap. Because there’s always one, amirite?

Quasar and Quark (aka, the Big Brothers) — “OK, Janey, look. That’s the Outside. You go first. We’re right behind you.”

Janey (the Baby Sister) — “Mom said we’re not apposed to go Ou—“

Quasar — “Mom said it’s FINE.”

Janey — “Mom said it’s danger—“

Quark — “Mom said she WANTS you to. All the cool kits are doing it…”

Lady Lune’s colors are starting to really show. Seal point? Maybe?

A little real talk between friends. Qubit and Lynx are sharing secrets.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 12

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:34:47 +0000

Sam “Leo” Beckett, the lone boy of the L clan, doing his morning meditation. Honestly, my mental health would be WAY better if I could figure out how to be this mindfully zen. I’m hoping some of Leo’s cool will rub off on me while I’m hanging with the kits.

Quark exploring the Great Outdoors. “What even is dis pwace?”

Quency and Leap. Outside play time. It’s fun watching the mommies get their playful on.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 11

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:31:36 +0000

Knocking on the door of four weeks old, the Qs are equal parts Wobbly and Playful and quite clearly on their way to the Mischievous Monsters phase. Since the Terrible Twos/Threes were some of my favorite parts* of child-rearing, I am here for it. BUT THE POOR Ls, friends. The Tinies have thus far managed to take cover under the mommies and avoid being pummeled by the Qs, but the Ls have fully entered the Exploration phase which means they place themselves inadvertently in the paths of the Qs who come careening down on them without warning—BOOF!—and bowl them over. It’s basically every big sibling vs. little.

Me: “Oh, Lynx, watch out for—“ BOOF! “…Quasar.”

And Lynx is smooshed. Flattened. But ALSO in the fashion of little siblings, oddly unharmed and… sort of cool with the whole thing? Like, “thanks for paying attention to me, Quasar. I’ll just lay here for a minute and catch the breath you knocked out of me.” Little siblings are made out of Tough Stuff. (Ask my little brother.) Or else all the concussions affect their ability to properly process pain. (Also ask my little brother. Except no I did NOT make him bleed from the ears. HE IS LYING, MOM. He’s a lying liar who lies.)

The past couple days, though, the Ls have leveled up. They’re starting to initiate the shenanigans. We’re officially entering Crazy Kitten Fun.

Pictured: Radia with Alula and Lyra.

*Just to be clear, when I say the Terrible Twos/Threes were some of my favorite parts of child-rearing, I mean it was consuming and exhausting and most days I wondered if I’d survive it. I was a dish rag, squeezed out and wrung dry. HOWEVER, unlike many of my peers, I loved the Defiance Stage. Their squished up little faces, feet planted, yelling NO. I mean, I loved my babies—I did—but the whole Guess Why the Baby’s Crying and Guess What the Baby Needs game ABOUT DID ME IN. So when my kids were having full meltdown tantrums because they asked for crackers and I gave them… wait for it… crackers, I was all AT LEAST WE ARE COMMUNICATING.

OK, to those of you concerned about my daughter and son-in-law and the many ways our Very Laissez-Faire, Very Underdressed, Very Procrastinating family (particularly ME) may Ruin the Wedding, THANK YOU. You are kind, compassionate humans who have the best interests of my humans at heart, and I LOVE you for it.

HOWEVER, DO NOT WORRY. Even though the wedding is in a week, there is no need to fret. Here’s why:

1. As you can see from Abby and Chandler’s 2020 Not-Wedding (when they dressed up on the day we were supposed to have the wedding), NO ONE WILL BE LOOKING AT THE REST OF US. These two are UNREASONABLY BEAUTIFUL. Frankly, there’s no way to steal the spotlight from them.

2. For the 23 years of Abby’s life, we have been Absolutely Unconcerned with Appearances, so we have fully brainwashed her into the Cult of Authenticity. Abby is ON BOARD with us being our wild, free selves, and she spends zero minutes thinking we reflect poorly on her. Poorly on ourselves, maybe , but she correctly knows that Isn’t Her Problem. This is one of the Keys to Happiness.

3. Chandler, while only four years in, has been fully inducted into our Wonky Ways. He chose her, we chose him, and now he’s One of Us, through and through. It’s far too late for him.

4. Yes, I realize there are Things I Should Be Doing for the wedding. And I AM, albeit more slowly and with more kitten breaks than probably makes sense. HOWEVER, there are several factors at play here. Mainly, a) I’m old enough to understand that I can get things done WITH lots of stress or WITHOUT lots of stress, and I choose the latter, and b) I have a handle on my priorities which are maintaining good relationships and protecting my mental health. So I spend my time wherever wedding prep furthers my relationships without detracting from my (literal) sanity. For example, I FINALLY finished sorting decorations because Abby cares about them. But Greg is still slated to wear snowman pajama pants—or go naked—because she couldn’t care less about his outfit (see also: Cult of Authenticity.) I want you to know, though, that Greg DOES have a tie that matches my MOB dress, so his naked torso is gonna look fantastic in that.

I had a Panicked Mommy Moment this morning. I’ve been feeding Mary and Jane on a fairly strict schedule, every 3 hours except overnight when they stretch to 5 so I can sleep. Between the syringe feedings and Quantum and Leap feeding in tandem, though, they’re still gaining only the teeniest, TINIEST amounts. Not even close to the weight gain “norm.” Now, they’re not *losing* weight, they’re latching, they’re energetic, their eyes are open, and the mommies are attentive, so I’m not too, TOO worried. But I am diligent, you know? Careful about the schedule.

So when I woke up today and realized I missed my alarm, stretching the weed sisters from 5 hours to EIGHT, I felt horrible. HORRIBLE. Imagining these itty bitty babies GOING HUNGRY because of ME.

I rushed to the kitty room with the formula and weighed them. AND WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, they had their BEST gain in recent days. So I fed them, but I also decided to stretch out their daytime feedings. And again, much better gains. Almost like my hovering interference has been hindering rather than helping. FFS.

Y’all, raising kittens is, so far, exactly like raising humans. I take my responsibilities seriously. I REALLY don’t want to fuck this up and cause harm. I try hard. I wonder if I’m doing it right. And I work tirelessly… right up until I’m too tireFUL to go on. So I lay off. I HAVE to. My body and brain demand it, and I am at their mercy. Then I beat myself up and tell myself SURELY I BROKE MY CHILDREN. Except… when I lay off? My kids thrive. When I lay off? They become more independent. Better able to meet their own needs. More confident. More self-assured. The ungrateful turds. It is ANNOYING that they don’t need me to be QUITE so obsessed with them. **Almost as if they already have the inherent tools to thrive if I will just allow them the freedom to do so.** UGH.

Friends, it is HARD to release our children to their own devices as they grow. It is so much more comforting to micromanage the shit out of their upbringing. I’m not going to lie; I PREFER CONTROL. But too much control hinders them. It keeps them from growing. NO ONE is more disappointed by this fact than me.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 10

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:26:37 +0000

The tiniest of the Tinies has her big eyes open! Meet Mary’s eyeballs, friends. This little one is making slow gains. She’s a fighter, she is.

Dear Internets,

As you know, I am ONLY focused on the Quantum Leap foster kitties right now. And a tiny bit peripherally on my daughter’s wedding.

F Your I, my entire extended family is taking the wedding preparations as seriously as I am. Reference: the Cargo Shorts Debate in the comments a few days ago wherein my sister-in-law (Aunt of the Bride) threatens the life and limbs of any family member who dons cargo shorts for the Big Day while my brother insists it’s the Right of Every Oregonian to wear cargo shorts and flip flops any place we damn well please.

Well, my father (Papa of the Bride) has weighed in, requesting Enthusiastic Approval/Endorsement of his Wedding Attire. Please see attached. YOUR THOUGHTS WELCOME.

In conclusion, you can pray for the bride.

Love,
Beth Woolsey

The L kittens’ two (and a half) week photos. At 3.5 weeks, the Q kittens are more active than the Ls—oh, the difference a week makes!—but the L personalities are starting to emerge.

L to R Photo 1: Alula, Leo, Lune, Lynx, Lyra
L to R Photo 2: Alula, Leo, Lune, Lyra, Lynx

I love cat eyes. Except I secretly don’t think they’re cat eyes at all. They can’t be. Have you LOOKED into a cat’s eyes? I mean, *really* looked to see what’s there instead of what you expect to find? Because cats walk around with wild dragon eyes. Just right out there, plain as day. So obviously, dragons aren’t mythical creatures, after all. They’re just disguised, and they move among us, hypnotizing us into believing they’re cats. Tricking us into thinking they’re domesticated. The eyes are the only part they can’t conceal because eyes are windows to the soul, and our little dragons’ souls are fierce and free. There’s too much fire and ice inside to keep it all contained. The eyes are where it leaks. But shhhhh… don’t tell them I told you. Don’t tell them we know. Let them keep their secret, but watch them, OK? Watch and you’ll see.

Pictured: Alula the black kitten flashing her baby blues. Ice for now. The color of the glaciers. Melting later to yellow fire.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 9

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:22:34 +0000

Is there anything better than a fluffy body pillow when you’re sleepy? Qubit says yes—it’s even better when the body pillow is your big brother.

As if she hasn’t endured enough, Quantum developed mastitis a few days ago. WHICH ISN’T FAIR. And IDK why some mamas go through All the Tough Things, but I AM convinced this is why we have each other. So we can help ease each other’s burdens. Or, when we can’t be there, we can at least bear witness and sit in the dark together, reminding each other the dawn is coming.

With antibiotics, Quantum is much improved. Still tender. A little vulnerable. But on the upswing. And Leap and I are doing what we can with warm compresses and giving Quantum the smaller, gentler kits while Leap takes the Bigs…the Breast Brawlers who multitask, slurping sloppily while playing King of Boob Mountain.

And I will tell you, I, too, have been feeling tender. A little vulnerable. Because I know fostering felines while parenting 5 children, working, managing mental illness, and planning a wedding makes no practical sense. But I did it anyway because on a deeper, more fundamental level than Sense, there was Need. And also Love. Both of which defy Sense from time to time.

Now, I don’t mind being Ridiculous. I’m comfortable being Absurd. But we’re living in a pandemic, we have a racism crisis, and there is civil unrest. My kids of color, my kids with special needs, my kids who are queer, face rampant discrimination daily. CONSTANTLY. And I? I’m writing about cats. I just…I don’t know, friends…even though I’m all about the Both/And—I can be justice-minded AND laser-focused on kittens—it was a stretch to think anyone would understand how I needed this Quantum Leap as much as they needed me. How I needed them MORE. In the midst of this turmoil. In the muck and the mire. How these creatures are the magic. The spark and the sparkle.

But then you came along. And you GOT it, friends. What’s more? You needed them, too. And you told me so. You traveled with me to the levels beyond Sense. To Need and Love. And I’m not quite sure how to express what that’s meant to me, so I guess I’ll just say this: Thank you for joining me. Thank you for helping me bear witness. Thank you for sitting with us in the dark and for believing in the dawn together. It’s nice not to be alone.

I keep seeing everyone’s super beautiful pics where they cartoonify themselves with that app, so I tried it with pics I already had on my phone. Am I doing it right? ‘Cause I feel like I’m nailing it.

P.S. I tried to cartoonify the kittens, but the app didn’t recognize their faces.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 8

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:17:31 +0000

Look who’s up and at ‘em, exploring with eyes wide open! That’s our Jane. How much do we love her Cindy Crawford beauty mark?

Jane continues to weigh in significantly under the Q and L weights, and Mary significantly under Jane’s. BUT Mary and Jane are both on an upward trajectory, so I’ll take it. They’re still not gaining as quickly as I’d like, but if I’m honest I’m not sure anything short of becoming the Next Incarnation of Quasar would please me. CHUBBY, ladies. ROTUND. CHONKSVILLE is our destination, so saddle up!
Sweet girls, they’re trying. The weed sisters are fighters.

The brothers Q.

Quasar, Quark, and Quency. At 3 weeks old, we’re REALLY starting to see personalities emerge.

Quasar WE HAVE DISCUSSED. He is like an oversized kindergartener, all enthusiasm, hunger, and flailing limbs. He’s beginning to tackle the others to try to get them to play. The Qs respond, batting playfully, but the Ls are like WHAT THE FUCK, dude. A week really makes a huge developmental difference.

Quark is continuing to make good weight gains. He’s also the adventurer. I never know where I’m going to find him, and this morning I caught him RUNNING across the room. This guy is a long distance racer. He’s too young to run, but somebody forgot to tell him. He’s also Mr. Personable, purrs as soon as I touch him, loves to play with fingers and attack toes. BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO KEEP US SAFE FROM THE TOES.

Quency, obviously, is our makeup artist. He’s sweet, quiet, and sensitive like his twin sisters, and SO graceful. The consummate artist.

There are two perches the sisters mommies use when they need a break from their brood. Here, they relax, chat, eat, and bathe until they’re ready to face their precious, demanding, endearing, exhausting children.

If I had a magic wand, I’d create perches like these for All the Mommies in All the World, and we’d wish ourselves away to them as many times a day as we need.

Both Jane and Mary like to hitch rides on the others’ backs. It’s a clever way to get to the mamas without wasting calories. I like their ingenuity and style.

This is Jane on Lyra’s back trekking over Lynx’s face.

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Kitten Watch Update: June 7

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:12:39 +0000

4am Selfie Skills = meh. I tried? Participation trophy.

4am Tuck A Giant Tiny Baby By The Boob And Get Him To Fall The Eff Asleep And Leave His Mamas Alone For 5 Freaking Minutes = ON POINT. Way better than I ever was with the human babies.

Um…I mentioned it’s a Shit Show here, yes? Well, far be it from me to make an accusation without providing evidence. I present Exhibit A: Quasar, CAKED in poo, lying blissfully NEXT to the litter box, trying to wipe his own butt, but smearing it everywhere. Every. Where. He is All Toddlers, bright eyed, cheery voiced, “Look, Mama, I pooped and I cleaned it up all my byself!” And Quantum, Leap, and I are All Mommies, , gently, WEARILY, “Oh…good job, sweetheart. Next time, maybe tell Mommy so I can help you, OK?” And Quasar is all, “I SAID ALL MY BYSELF!”

Sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick, help us now.

In other news, all twelve kittens got baths this morning. Because BARF. And now they smell like Dawn dish soap. It is INFINITELY better. Even the mommy cats were like, “THANK YOU, HUMAN. WE WILL GLADLY TAKE THIS GROSS HUMAN SOAP SMELL OVER POOPY BABIES.”

Yes, they poop their pants, but OMG THESE FACES. Radia and Qubit aren’t just lookalike sisters (and clones of their gorgeous mama), they’re also the sweetest babies. Calm, gentle, charming snugglers. They slay me.

Half of my kitchen table task—sorting wedding crap—is done. And yes, that was supposed to be 100% done days ago, but half is WAY more than zero, so I’m counting it as a win. The trick, friends, is to lower your standards. Like, subterranean level. Then, accomplishing ANYTHING gets an “exceeds expectations” mark on the report card. This is why I write. BECAUSE I AM SO INSPIRATIONAL. Rachel Hollis can keep Girl, Wash Your Face. I have Lady, Lower Your Standards. It is the path to happiness. I am telling you.

ALSO, inspired by Quency, I tackled my MOB (mother of the bride) makeup look today. In the After Times, makeup went the way off the dodo bird. Extinct. Kaput. A relic of a distant time. But then Quency and his eyeballs came along, and I remembered *I* have eyeballs, and I thought I ought to decorate them prior to the wedding day to see if I can actually stand wearing eye makeup for the many hours of the event. I am so far out of practice, it’s anyone’s guess, really. Even odds. The After Times also means grey hair grow out, and I will admit, while I don’t worship at the altar of youth (I EARNED EVERY WRINKLE, DAMN IT—I WILL WEAR THEM LIKE GOLD STARS), it was an adjustment to welcome all the grey. An adjustment that was worth it, TBH, like all journeys toward authenticity are in the end. The path there may be wonky. There may be bizarre twists and turns. But at the end, when you find yourself? THAT right there is treasure.

Anyhoo, this was my wedding project for today, and I like how it turned out so I’m showing you. Also, I’m pathologically incapable of taking selfies without making ridiculous faces at myself. It’s who I am.

Little Miss Lune photo bombed the Q twins but since she showed us her starting-to-open eyeballs, we shall forgive her social faux paw.

(Heh heh. See what I did there? Social faux PAW? )

(That is a joke Greg would tell. And then he would laugh like it’s hilarious. The facts that a) I wrote that and am letting it stand and b) am amused by it prove I have been married to Greg entirely too many years. HEED THIS WARNING, SINGLE PEOPLE. Marriage will change you.)

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Kitten Watch Update: June 6

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:06:26 +0000

When you wake to hear the baby crying, but you both lay there hoping your partner will get it. It’s a tale as old as time, friends. A game of stamina. Mental fortitude. Ability to withstand torture. WHO WILL BREAK FIRST? And how believably can I fake being asleep?

Two photos. Two competing priorities. Kittens vs. sorting the enormous pile of wedding paraphernalia I’ve been diligently thrifting for two years. Kittens vs. tackling the towering Stack of Stuff I made Greg bring in from its long term residence in the middle of our garage. Kittens vs. discovering what, in fact, I’ve collected from Goodwill at $2.99 a pop these many months of COVID delays. Kittens vs. removing one bajillion Goodwill stickers which everyone knows are the Worst, Most Rippy, Sticky, Annoying Stickers in the World. Kittens vs. THIRTEEN DAYS TO ORGANIZE THIS HODGEPODGE INTO SOMETHING LOVELY Like The Pioneer Woman’s Daughter’s Wedding Except Way More Lowbrow.

Gee. I wonder which one I’ll pick.

VERIFIED SIGHTING! Alula let me capture a pic of her eyeballs. The Ls have eyes, y’all! I didn’t make it up. I’m not a liar, after all.

Hey, listen. I say this in love. I do. But it is a real Shit Show around here these days. I mean, there are poopies, like, everywhere. All of the places. Poopies here, poopies there, poopies in the kitties’ hair. See, for the first couple weeks, the cat mommies eat all the kitten poo. Which is objectively gross if you’re the cat mommy, and delightful if you’re the human mommy who gets to clean up zero poopies. HOWEVER. However, friends. However. Then kittens get bigger and so do their poopies. And, well, that’s a lot of crap for the mommies to swallow. Which is… sometimes what it’s like to be a mommy. Adorable, needy creatures who own your very soul. And also A LOT OF CRAP TO SWALLOW. Too much, sometimes. Too much, if we’re honest. And then our job becomes Crap Mitigation. #WhateverItTakes to reduce the crapload. You know what helps? Other mommies who are wading in crap, too. Other mommies who will lend a nonjudgmental hand and remind us we’re not alone. That’s why Quantum, Leap, and I are all working together.

It will be a few more days before the Bigs learn to use a litter box. A few more days during which the Youngers and the Tinies will hone their poopsplosion skillz. It will be messy. Motherhood always is. And then it will get easier. Then harder. Then easier. Then harder again. Motherhood always does. Life, too.

A Shit Show. I’m telling you. And also a grand, messy adventure.

Photo: Qubit the kitten with the Bigs’ brand new litter box… literally the only place they *don’t* poo rn.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 6 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 5

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 29 Jun 2021 00:02:13 +0000

Morning SitRep: Mary is making modest gains. But Jane has decided to play Mary’s game. BECAUSE AS SOON AS YOU FIGURE OUT ONE KID, ANOTHER POOPS ON YOUR PLANS. We’re working on it.

In other Tired Mommies news, Leap tried to hide behind an ottoman to get the eff away from the babies for a few gd minutes of peace and sneak-eat Oreos and Doritos without getting caught, but Quasar and his state-of-the-art Boob Radar tracked her down in zero minutes to play with her face and try to talk her out of some snacks. The look on Leap’s face is EVERY MOTHER I KNOW, all, “FINE. You can play with me but ALL I’M GOING TO DO IS LAY HERE,” and also, “It’s a good thing you’re cute, you little fart.”

Leap is back to nursing. And Quasar has decided he’s permanently attached to her. If he’s not eating, he’s insisting on a piggyback ride. In conclusion, we can pray for Leap. Jesus take the wheel.

It’s been a long day, and we are three tired mommies hanging out on the couch together, grabbing a bit of rest before the next fussy baby wakes.

Important Updates:

1. Mary and Jane are hanging in there. Weight gain is less than desired, but I took sweet Miss Mary to the shelter this evening and they said she’s looking OK. Energetic. Latching to mama Leap. Good temp. And Ryan the Shelter Cat Whisperer pumped her full of formula before I brought her home. I’ll be following Ryan’s lead and being a little more pushy with the weed sisters. Wish us all luck.

2. I ordered clothing for my four boys, so they won’t be naked at their sister’s wedding, after all.

3. I realized Greg WILL be naked, however, because I forgot he’ll need clothes, too. Yes, he’s an entire grown-ass man, so technically he can dress himself. It’s just that right now his wardrobe consists of cargo shorts and snowman pajama pants, so a birthday suit is the most formal thing he owns. Will Greg or I actually do anything about this? Who knows, friends? Your guess at this point is frankly as good as mine.

4. I got in a little social media kerfuffle thanking a fellow blogger for supporting queer folks during pride month.
[Me: Thanks for supporting the queers like me and mine. Thanks for supporting love.
Some Lady: YOU MEAN SIN.]
And I’m old enough and confident enough that I do not care. I’m old enough and secure enough to pat Some Lady on the head and tell her it’s adorable she thinks she can tell me what I mean. I mean, hahahahaha. BLESS HER HEART. But I AM going to just put a tiny note here for my fellow queers. I see you. I love you. Ignore the Some Ladies. You are beautifully and wonderfully made. The end.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 5 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 4

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:57:44 +0000

Quency says good morning. Quency does not say what makeup products he uses nor how he applies eyeliner to achieve that particularly spectacular effect. I told him it’s rude not to share. He told me a gentleman needn’t reveal all his secrets. Fine, Quency. Fine. Whatever.

I booped Quark’s blep. I did it for all of us. You’re welcome, world. I give and I give.

What wedding?

(JOKING. I am getting some wedding things done. We have cups and napkins now. I mean, my children still have nothing to wear and will therefore be naked when their sister gets married in two weeks, BUT ISN’T QUBIT THE MOST ADORABLE?)

This is Mary who is asleep on Quark who is nursing from Quantum. Mary and I will be up off and on tonight because she needs to gain more weight instead of plateauing, which is what she’s been trying to do the last 48 hours. If there is ANYONE who knows how to gain—anyone who can be a WEIGHT GAIN MENTOR—it is me. I was born for this. Send your good vibes Mary’s way. We have a mountain to climb. Nighty night, sweet friends.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 4 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 3

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:54:01 +0000

Some of you have asked how Quantum is doing with the Tinies, Mary and Jane. When we last left our tired mommy, she was willing to allow Leap and me to care for them, as long as we required nothing of her. It was an easy deal to make. We need to know when we can take on more and when we need to say NO, reinforce our boundaries, and hunker down. So GOOD JOB, Quantum. And GOOD JOB, Leap. And GOOD JOB ALL OF US for doing what we need to do to protect and preserve our mental and physical health.

Leap and I carried on with Tiny care. And Quantum and Leap tag-teamed to raise the Qs and the Ls.

But in the last couple days, Auntie Quantum’s interest in Mary and Jane has ticked up considerably. She has appointed herself Monitor of the Tinies. She keeps watch over Leap as she feeds them, and then Quantum steps in to assist with the cleaning and pottying.

Then this morning, I caught Quantum sneaking Mary from Leap’s pile and carrying her to her own. When she saw me watching, she glared at me like, “shut UP. I can feed my niece if I want to.”

So our agreement stands. Quantum is under no obligation to take care of the Tinies. But we’ve added the addendum that she can if she wants to.

The Ls are soooort of starting to open their eyes, and I keep trying to get a pic that shows you but my photography skillz are not on point, so instead here’s a pic of Lyra with her eyes closed but at least you can see the cool spiky hair her mama gave her.

Another size comparison. This is Mary, asleep on Lune. That’s right—that’s the SMALLER of the white kittens and Mary really is that teeny.

I asked Alula to pretty please open her eyes for us, but she got confused between eyes and mouth, and then she fell back asleep. I SWEAR the L kittens have eyeballs. I’m just not sure I’ll ever be able to prove it.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 3 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 2

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:49:17 +0000

Quasar says, “Good morning.” It sounds like, “FEED ME, FEED ME, FEED ME.” But he means “good morning.” Maybe.

Listen, friends. It is VERY IMPORTANT TO USE OUR TIME WISELY. All the experts agree. Early birds and worms and all that. Which I bring up because, in a much-prolonged process due to the After Times, my daughter is FINALLY having a WEDDING where there will be PEOPLE who breathe (outdoor) air near each other. After postponing for a year and wishing and dreaming about when this day might become real, the event is in 17 days, so, as you can imagine, there is much to be done. Seating arrangements, set-up plans, schedules, lists, supplies, orders of ceremony, purchasing food, hemming dresses, cleaning the house for (vaccinated) visitors, etc., etc., etc., and on into infinity. There is NO TIME TO LOSE, in other words. There are more than enough tasks to fill every minute. We’ve entered the MUST FOCUS phase.

And that is why I asked Greg to build a catio for me. A playground for the kitty mamas and the babies to get fresh air. A classy addition to my office so they’ll have more room to roam. BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND PRIORITIZATION and TIME MANAGEMENT.

Built from exquisitely sourced materials because QUALITY AND STYLE ARE EVERYTHING, friends, we used only the finest used chain link panels and roofed the structure in a compellingly bold blue-and-brown tarp colour palette, bringing the whole creation together with bits of frayed nylon string and faded orange rope. It really adds a WOW factor to my backyard JUST IN TIME to have folks over for a formal event.

And I know this whole post sounds like bragging, but if you’ve been around this online space at all, you know how seriously I take my role as an aspirational leader. How important it is to me to Set a Flawless Example. How critical it is that I be a Role Model for High Standards and Exceptional Taste. Frankly, I give and I give. You’re welcome.

P.S. None of this is stressing my daughter out. She is FINE when I answer all her texts about coffee supplies and cupcake quantities with pics of kittens and msgs like “LOOK AT DAT WITTLE FACE.” It’s working out swimmingly. Everyone is very zen about my Hail Mary approach to this once-in-a-lifetime event, so, you know, FOLLOW ME FOR MORE LIFE HACKS. I am here to inspire.

The Tinies continue to grow, and I am very proud of their soft, round bellies. Honestly, I wish we could all feel about our bellies like I do about the Tinies’. They are perfect vessels for processing energy, expanding and contracting and expanding and contracting, little furnaces diligently supplying us with life. How strange that we’re not enamored with our bellies the way we are with our hearts and lungs and brains and limbs. How strange that we don’t adore these engines that sustain us.

I’m continuing to supplement the Tinies’ feedings during the day, and I give them alone time with Leap when the opportunity presents itself. To be honest, though, they’re doing an excellent job holding their own with the Bigs. I mean, sure, the Bigs win every time in a slap fight, but the Tinies are wily and squirm under the Bigs, stealthy, acrobatic boob thieves, swiping all milk that hasn’t been locked down. Eyes schmeyes. Who needs open eyes? With mission impossible skills like these, eyes are overrated.

Name Update:

OK, so we named the Q kittens together—physicists and physics-related nicknames. And we named the L kittens together—time travelers and cosmos-related nicknames. And we inherited the Tinies’ names from the shelter—Knapweed and Pigweed—because we want them to grow like weeds.

The ONLY PROBLEM is that my brain has renamed the weed babies, and I cannot for the life of me remember to call them Knapweed and Pigweed. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. I’m going to accept my failure and move on.

See, my thinking is this: the Tinies are the weed sisters. And weed is called Mary Jane. Therefore, according to the Transitive Property of Kitten Naming, the Tinies’ names are Mary and Jane. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. It’s math, and math is the foundation of the universe. There is nothing I can do, friends. I don’t make the rules.

To recap, the names of the whole, entire family are as follows:

Quantum (mommy sister cat #1))
Leap (mommy sister cat #2)
Sir Isaac Quark Newton
Marie Radia Qurie
Erwin freQuency Schrödinger
Galileo Quasar Galilei
Helen Qubit Quinn
EQUAM Quicksilver
Sam Leo Beckett
The Doctor Lyra o’Gallifrey
Allison Alula Hargreeves
Meg Lynx Murray
Claire de Lune Fraser
Chickweed
Mary
Jane

The end.

Pictured L to R: Jane, Mary, Lynx

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 2 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: June 1

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:45:11 +0000

Time for the good morning stretches.

When Quark came home after his overnight stint at the shelter for tube feeding—when he miraculously came home to his mommy and auntie and cousins and siblings after we thought he was going to spend six months under medical supervision before undergoing surgery for cleft repair—we had a little chat. Quark and Quantum and Leap and I sat on the couch and had a heart-to-heart.

“We got him back,” I said, “but we only get to keep him if he gains weight. This is going to be a TEAM EFFORT, friends. We’re gonna all need to work together. We need Quantum’s boobies and Leap’s boobies, and Quark’s gotta be ALL IN. Like, he’s gotta go for gold. Suction CHAMPION status. Cover of Time Magazine. Box of Wheaties. Nike sponsorship. WORLD CLASS athlete. Which is a BIG ASK, I know. BUT THE REWARDS ARE GREAT, and I am not asking you to go it alone. I am stepping in as coach. I will monitor progress, set goals, and dose the little dude with performance enhancers like I am part of the Russian Federation. STATE SPONSORED SYRINGES OF FORMULA, y’all. It’s kitten doping, and I am HERE FOR IT.”

It was a very serious meeting, as you can imagine, but we hashed out the details swiftly, and we walked away on the same page. Hands in. Team cheer. Focused on success.

Well, I am happy to report Team Quark has exceeded all expectations. Quantum, Leap, and Quark apparently got together behind my back and decided to edge me out entirely. They were all, “We got this, but we’re playing a clean game. No formula. Just consistent training and hard work.” This little man has stayed attached to a nipple at all hours. He takes breaks to run cross country on exploration missions, mapping routes for the sibs as part of his endurance training. And he’s gaining weight apace the others or surpassing them when he’s feeling like a show-off.

I’m still weighing him multiple times per day—along with the Tinies who still need the Russian Federation—but it’s been DAYS now sans-supplementation, and he only continues to improve.

Praise be!

We good. We just over here thinking deep thoughts. Contemplating the universe. Breathing deep breaths. Remembering that BEing is just as important as DOing. Embracing the value of rest.

I used to think animals were a wonderful conduit to help children understand the circle of life. Especially in western culture where we tend to ignore loss and pain. Where we shove grief down or aside. Where we are stunned when the humans we love die because we feel like we ought to be able to prevent accidents with wisdom and caution and to heal disease with knowledge and foresight. We are, in short, not inclined as a culture to embrace lament. To feel our feelings. To sit with heartache in tragedy. So I used to think animals were a wonderful conduit to help children understand all that. And now that I’m older, I think animals are a wonderful conduit to help grownups understand, too. Because God knows I need help with the understanding. Help with the sitting. Help with the feeling. Help with the enduring.

With animals, we’re willing to suspend our disbelief in death because, with animals, we know death will come. And so we’re able to hold the duality of love and loss better than we are, perhaps, with each other.

Recently, Kira Purlyte asked about the Q kitten we lost when Quantum went in for her emergency C-section. “What is the name of Q6? Did it inadvertently became ‘the one who shall not be named’? (I know, I know – just kittens. But as a mama of multiple Q6s I can’t let it go…)” And I responded, “NOT just kittens, and I totally understand. I have 3 Q6s, so I feel you. I almost named Q6 Schödinger because he’s not alive here but he’s alive in Heaven, but then I didn’t because I was afraid ppl would think I was making light of Q6’s death. There are too many mommies like us who are tender about this. To answer your question, I didn’t name him, and I love your heart for caring about this. Would you like to name him?”

Well, friends, I’m honored to let you know Kira did. And his name is… EQUAM “Quicksilver”.

Kira explains it’s “a spinoff to the Schödinger’s cat idea, a project EQUAM managed to ‘see’ the cat both dead and alive at the same time. It’s not a famous physicist, because nowadays breakthroughs are teamwork. And Quicksilver for the symbolism of slipping through our fingers.”

Good night, friends. Sweet kitten dreams. Until tomorrow.

The post Kitten Watch Update: June 1 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 31

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:38:14 +0000

Good morning! The Q kittens all have their eyes open. Here are Quantum’s “twins”—Radia and Qubit—showing off their eyeballs.

Meet the Tinies!

Since the Tinies arrived on Friday evening, there have been zero minutes to do anything other than weigh, feed, clean, and monitor their adjustment. Thus the dearth of photos and updates. HOWEVER, now that we’re three days in, we’re finding our rhythm again. Leap has fully accepted the Tinies as her own, and Quantum allows them to nurse alongside her children and other niblings, leaving the cleaning to Leap. Quantum knows her limits, and we shall respect her boundaries.

Now that the Tinies are more stable—eating and growing and less touch-and-go—we can take pics and introduce them to you!

The Tinies received their names at the shelter, each named for a weed in the hope that they’ll grow like them… fast and strong and soon making a nuisance of themselves by being EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME. Plus, we’re in Oregon so weed seems appropriate.

Please join me in welcoming Knapweed, the tiniest of the Tinies after Chickweed passed. This little one is energetic and VOCAL, doing an excellent job to ensure it’s not overlooked.

Meet the Tinies, Part Duex.

Lots of folks have asked what happened to the Tinies’ first mama. Answer: we don’t know. These babies were found without a mama on someone’s property. The people responded perfectly. They watched from a distance and waited for the mama to return. They left food for the mama. When she didn’t appear, they set a live trap with the babies inside. Unfortunately, she never showed. They’re still keeping an eye out for her, but when the Tinies were clearly without food for several hours and were struggling, they took them to the shelter. The folks at the shelter put them in the incubator to bring their little bodies up to temp since they were already growing cold. And they syringe and tube fed while they looked for a foster to take the bottle babies…or a new mama cat who might accept them as her own. They texted me, “Do you feel your 2 moms would be able to feed 3 more?” And I headed over to pick them up. And listen, I’ll be honest. I have NO IDEA how the shelter folks manage. They have literally DOZENS of animals, they’re constantly seeking fosters because we all know animals thrive with focused attention at home, and then they deal with high-needs, all-the-questions folks like me. I text them CONSTANTLY at all hours, and they RESPOND IMMEDIATELY, professionally, and compassionately, ensuring every single animal has timely, expert care. Which is why Tinies like these have a chance at all.

I’m so excited to introduce you to the biggest of the Tinies (whose whole self is about the size of Quasar‘s head)… Pigweed.

I’m also very entertained that Leap’s new babies look more like her than her biological babies. That’s such a fun twist.

Two-week Q kitten portrait. L to R: Quency, Quasar, Radia, Quark, and Qubit.

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 31 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 30

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:34:21 +0000

Good morning! I’m hoping to be back online today with Quantum Leap +13 updates. Yesterday, every spare minute was spent making sure the three new babies were adjusting well and making needed weight gains.

How did it go, introducing three new Tinies to Quantum and Leap? I posted a video on Facebook a few minutes ago, and you can see Leap took it in stride, all “no big deal” and “you got any more of those?” We’re not quite 48 hours later, and Leap is treating them like her own, cleaning and nursing and responding to their cries. I’m supplementing their feeding to be sure the Bigs don’t crowd out the Tinies. But otherwise, Leap is convinced it’s business as usual.

Quantum, though? Well, it’s been an adjustment for her. An ADJUSTMENT, you know? In the video you can see Quantum check them out initially, then grumble and growl (at 1:02 in the recording), then hide under the couch. She was very NOPE. No. Nope. No more.

After I had the Tinies settled, she and I had a mommy heart-to-heart. Quantum said—and this is a direct quote—“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? I HAVE ENOUGH BABIES, YOU FREAK.” And I said, “I know. You’re right. You’ve been through the ringer, mama. THROUGH IT.”

Vaginal birth x5 INCLUDING Quasar , then C-section to save her life. Then surgery recovery, the mama blues, dehydration, and another emergency vet visit. Then, immediately on her return, acting as Leap’s doula and co-parenting ten—TEN—babies.

In other words, QUANTUM IS NOT WRONG. If some asshat had arrived at my front door after I delivered my 4th and 5th babies—my twins—and handed me three more premies, I would have ripped her face off and there is no court in the land—no jury of my peers—that would’ve convicted me. SELF-DEFENSE, they’d call it. So I sympathized with Quantum, and I did not push her.

Leap and I had a separate chat about the Tinies and their needs, and New Mommies and their needs, and how we’re ALL fragile and vulnerable. We went back to Quantum together and said, “We got this. Do not worry.” And she relaxed, trusting us, which makes me a little weepy because that’s, like, the highest honor, but also, what choice did she have, you know?

And yes, I may be projecting THE SLIGHTEST BIT. I may be remembering the unbridled joy of adopting our first child, followed by the devastation and despair of adopting the second and third amid marital trauma and depression, and the shock of discovering our fourth child was bringing a FIFTH along with him. I may be remembering the isolation of new mommyhood; the expectation that I was finally joining the Mommy Club only to feel lonely and sad; the feeling of hardwood under my ass as I sat alone in the hall outside my baby’s room at night, listening to her cry, not knowing how to comfort her. Or how to comfort myself.

So I may be projecting. Maybe.

But also, maybe not. This may just be a universal experience. This being maxed out and at our wit’s end and truly overwhelmed. This I CANNOT WITH ONE MORE THING. I cannot. Looking at the world’s endless needs—the innocent ones suffering—and WANTING to help but feeling growl-ly and grumbly because WHAT PART OF MAXED OUT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?

And I can’t help but think Quantum and Leap are here to teach us. They’re here to show us the complexity of our experiences and our desperate need for connection. WE CANNOT DO IT ALONE, friends. We cannot LIFE alone. That’s not a failing. That’s how we’re built. To rely on each other. To share burdens. To give and take and work together. The grief we feel in isolation? That’s the longing for connection… that’s our bodies and minds and hearts driving us toward being vulnerable, reaching out, admitting when we CANNOT. EVEN. And we really must stop beating ourselves up for it. We really must stop believing the lie that we can go it alone. We really must learn to sink into each other. Whether we’re at the Quantum stage of NO. Nope. No. Or at the Leap stage of I Can Help. Let Me Help You Carry This Burden. EITHER way, BOTH ways are acceptable and valid and normal. It’s easier, frankly, when we’re Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. It’s more comfortable to be the Helper than the Helpee. But the truth is, we will vacillate between the Quantums and the Leaps, like a pendulum swing, many times throughout our lives. And we need to learn to embrace both. It is, truly, the only way forward.

Sad news, friends. The tiniest of the Tinies didn’t make it. She was holding her own for a while but not gaining weight. When she grew more tired, not seeking the nipple, not willing to swallow, I bundled her up and held her fur-to-skin on the way back to the shelter so they could incubate and tube-feed her. They tried valiantly, but they just let me know she passed away. This is the part of rescue that’s the hardest. It’s impossible to save everyone. We will try anyway, and we will celebrate both our successes and the lives of those we lost. Celebration always. Celebration anyway, even while we grieve. Both/And. I’m comforted that this little one was surrounded by love for her short little life. (Picture from when she first joined us. She’s the one with the blue collar. Her name was Chickweed, given to her at the shelter in the hope she would grow like a weed. Now she’ll grow in our hearts, instead. )

Just a few sweet kitten pics before I put us all to bed. Quantum snuggling Quasar. And Lyra, Quasar, and Quark nursing side by side. Good night, friends. Until tomorrow…

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 30 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 29

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:29:16 +0000

I haven’t been able to be online today. This picture is why. Let me know when you see it.

THIRTEEN! I’ll post more info later but long story short, three abandoned babies arrived at the shelter in need of foster mommies and we thought Quantum and Leap may be able to nurse them, too. They’re VERY tiny and VERY fragile, but we’re making progress, so . Hoping and praying and working hard for a positive outcome.

Size comparison. Quasar is the giant white kitten. He’s 12 days old. The smaller white one is Lune. She’s 6 days old. The tiny black and white one is one of the newest fosters… maybe 3 days old. The size difference of babies only 9 days apart is STUNNING to me. Stunning.

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 29 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 28

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:25:00 +0000

Good morning, friends! We’re still waking up over here. Some of us are less motivated than others.

L kitten name reveals begin now!

But FIRST, the caveats, disclaimers, and explanations, as follows:

1. With all my YouTube expertise, I have sexed Leap’s babies. So, you know, you get what you pay for. We may learn later I was wrong. HOWEVER, the shelter confirmed I got all 5 of Quantum’s kittens RIGHT, so hopefully I’m on a roll! We’ll adjust later if needed, as we do with humans.

2. Leap’s kittens presented an interesting naming challenge. Our western culture has presented us with primarily men as time travelers, but four of Leap’s kittens are female. WAY TO CHALLENGE THE STATUS QUO, LADIES! Your suggestions and ideas were invaluable in sourcing iconic women travelers. I hope you love where we’ve landed.

3. In addition to a time traveler icon, each kitten received a nickname from the cosmos. And each has an L in its name.

I’ll be sharing the kittens in birth order along with new photos of them at five days old.

First is our boy. Given that there was only one, and in keeping with the Quantum Leap theme, please welcome…

Sam “Leo” Beckett of Quantum Leap fame. Alternatively, you can call him Scott “Leo” Bakula. Initials are the same either way. Leo is, of course, the lion constellation.

Introducing L2…

The Doctor “Lyra” Gallifrey

Because there simply cannot be time travelers without the Doctor. Yes? Yes. Of course.

(Also, yes, I know the Doctor’s last name isn’t Gallifrey. But I’m treating her like the British royals who take surnames like Wales as needed.)

Welcome L3…

Allison “Alula” Hargreeves

You’ll know Allison Hargreeves is Number Three from Umbrella Academy. L3 and Number Three? It was meant to be!

And speaking of perfect pairs, L3 and L4 are Leap’s twins. I’ve been waiting and waiting for them to be side-by-side so I could get a pic to show you, but no luck. So I took this opportunity to have Greg hold them together for us. When Megan Backman suggested Alula as a cosmic nickname, I knew we had to use it for this little one. Alula is the first of twin stars and is Arabic for “leaping” across the sky. Ideal for the first of Leap’s twins!

Introducing L4…

Meg “Lynx” Murry of A Wrinkle in Time. Lynx is a stealthy, quiet, feline constellation and, of course, Lynx “links” to her twin, Lula.

And finally, L5…

Meet Claire de “Lune” Fraser of Outlander fame.

I have loved Outlander for years (by which I mean JAMIE IS ON MY LIST) so Claire was a natural choice. When Betsy Rabkin Fishman paired it with Lune—clair de lune is moonlight in French—I knew we had our moniker for the last of Leap’s babies. Little miss Lune shines bright, a beacon of light.

P.S. Sorry this took so long today. I meant to get them all announced quickly but then my human children required time and attention. Don’t worry; I punished them. (And by “punished” I mean I gave them ice cream. )

Sister kitty mamas like to hold hands while they nurse their babies.

The mommies are going to bed now. Good night! More soon.

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 28 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 27

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 28 Jun 2021 23:18:22 +0000

Good morning from the kitten farm.

Leap is on duty. Ten kittens is a lot of kittens.

And Quantum’s turn. They’re tag-teaming.

Fluff nuggets Quasar and Quency providing support and leverage to keep Quark latched in the background. Whatever works!

When you and your cousin partied too hard at the milk bar and gotta sleep it off.

A new side-by-side of our palest babies, Quasar the Galaxy-sized kitten and his cousin L5 (actual name TBA). Quasar was far and away the biggest kitten in Quantum’s litter. One week later, L5 was tied-with-tiniest in Leap’s. They don’t look like they’re only a week apart. Pretty sure both are Seal Point, though… you can see a grey colour starting to develop in their ears and tails.

Mama sisters feeding their babies together. Oh, my heart.

Good night, friends! Radia and Quency have laid their little heads down to sleep, and the rest of us must follow their fine example. Tomorrow we’ll be announcing the L kittens’ names! See you soon.

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Kitten Watch Update: May 26

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 28 May 2021 02:15:18 +0000

Wednesday, May 26:

Good morning from Kitten Meowntain. Everyone is well and on track with weight gain, including Quark.

Several of you have asked how the reunion was between Quark and his mama and siblings. These pics tell it best.

In the first, Quark is back in the middle, nursing on Quantum while they BOTH purr. I didn’t even know 8-day-old kittens COULD purr, but Quark’s little motor is running up a storm.

And, boy, was he thrilled to hunker down with the sibs and cousins in their massive snuggle pile when he was full. Quantum and Leap were overjoyed to see him. HOWEVER, they are LESS thrilled that I’m supplementing his feedings, remaining quite convinced their own feedings are more than sufficient. They grudgingly allow me to bundle Quark in a washcloth and feed him ~1ml (about a third of a feeding), watching me VERY condescendingly—like, “look at the hooman, thinking she’s a helper.” Then they can’t stand my meddling and intervene, tag-teaming me to take him back, lifting him by the scruff out of my hands and carrying him back to the nest. Since his weight is on the rise, though, I feel like it’s a compromise we can all live with.

Yes, Quantum is sticking her tongue out at me (I suspect due to her disgruntlement at the supplemental feedings for Quark) but her eyeballs in this pic make me swoon. What a pretty mama.

These two. (Also, get a load of those toes. )

That look on your face when they leave their kids with a responsible adult and you suddenly realize that responsible adult is YOU. #SomeoneMadeAHorribleMistake #SENDHELP

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Kitten Watch Update: May 25 in which we receive amazing news!

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 26 May 2021 17:46:39 +0000

Tuesday, May 25:

Good morning, friends! THIS IS THE OFFICIAL CALL FOR NAMES! It’s time to generate suggestions for Leap’s kittens. We had two clear winning ideas for naming convention: the cosmos and time travelers. So! Each of Leap’s kittens will be named for an iconic time traveler (i.e. Sam Beckett/Scott Bakula, Marty McFly, etc.) AND receive a nickname related to the Cosmos. Extra points for nicknames that start with L AND for diverse time travelers. Please share your ideas!

Also, I’m getting ready to do this morning’s weights on our newest babies to make sure the olds aren’t keeping them from boob access, but right now everyone is still asleep in a massive kitten ball and they’re too sweet to disturb.

Look whose eyes are open! Erwin fre(Quency) Schrödinger may not want to be observed, but he apparently wants to be an observer. Quency is the first of the babies to look upon his world.

Two sister mamas, very deservedly proud of themselves and their broods. Those expressions! Love.

Leap using 8-day-old giganto-kitten Quasar as a pillow. As God intended.

Well, I had to go back to the shelter this afternoon BUT FOR THE VERY BEST REASON. Do you see who’s in these pics reuniting with his siblings??

At 2:15pm I got a message from the shelter. They said, “We found out last night that Quark’s cleft mostly just affects his lip. He has trouble latching fully and creating a good suction. So likely he gets knocked loose by siblings easier. They think he could be with mom, monitored closely and supplemented. They said he may occasaionally need tube feed boost if he loses weight but think supplement support should go well. Would you be interested in giving syringe supplemental feeding a try?”

HE COULD BE WITH MOM.

AND WOULD I BE INTERESTED IN GIVING IT A TRY.

So baby Quark is HOME WITH HIS FAMILY, and we have a shot at keeping him here, and I cried AGAIN tonight but the TOTALLY GOOD kind. Rejoice with me! Our boy is back!

This yawning baby is all of us tonight. We are tired. FIERCELY tired. Adorably tired. Tired. Good night, friends. More from the reunited family tomorrow.

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Kitten Watch Update: May 24 in which we meet Leap’s babies! And get some news about Quark.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 26 May 2021 17:37:39 +0000

Monday, May 24:

Time to show off Leap’s babies! I’ll upload pics as fast as I can tag and weigh these tinies… with maybe a touch of snuggle time in between. Special thanks to Greg, the hand model, for his assistance.

Welcome, L1!

Welcome, L2!

Introducing L3!

Welcome, L4!

And finally, because Leap had to match her sister, five for five, please welcome L5!

I’m determined to give Quantum and Leap space and privacy to adjust to caring for their TEN kittens, so I’m not under the couch with them, traumatizing them with close-up portraits from my loud, flashy camera. Instead, I’m laying next to the couch, taking Shitty Pics from a polite distance of two feet. I’m certain they feel the difference. Or at least they’re willing to tolerate the obnoxious human. Since they keep crawling out periodically for Purrs and Pets, I feel OK about my compromise.

Sometimes, they each feed their own kittens. Sometimes, one sister will gather all ten to herself and give the other a food and potty break. Here’s Leap with all… and Leap observing Quantum with all. Not gonna lie—they’re pretty precious.

OK, friends. Our kitty mamas are working hard, and we must follow their example. We have work to do, too! Namely, NAMING.

YOUR HELP REQUESTED: Before we come up with actual names, we must choose a naming convention. Each of Quantum’s babies, for example, was named for an iconic physicist and given a physics-related nickname. For the L kittens, what should our theme be? Mathematics? The cosmos? “L” names? My only requirements are a) we must stick with the Quantum Leap theme in some way, shape, or form, and b) we must embrace our Inner Geeks. Like, really let our geek flags fly.

I’ll announce our naming convention once we have it, and then I’ll ask for specific name ideas.

Ready? Go!

Side by side cousin comparison — Quantum’s Quasar with Leap’s L5. Because L5 was born after midnight, these two are a week apart in age… and more than a week apart in size.

In my family, we have a rule whenever something scary happens. If everyone’s OK—or going to be—that’s where we start the story. So, unless there’s a true tragedy, we say things like, “everyone is OK, but I’m calling from the hospital” or “everyone is safe, but I was in an accident.” That way, no one has to spend that split second after hearing “hospital” or “accident” and wonder if someone we love didn’t make it. All of which is a very long preface to say I’m following the family rule.

Everyone is OK. Everyone is going to be fine. But I had to take our sweet Quark to his new home at the shelter tonight. I’ve been monitoring all the kittens’ weights daily since low gains or losses are often the first sign of a problem. And that monitoring is especially important with Quark’s cleft palate. He gained weight very well for his first four days but has only had minor gains the past three. The vet said he’s going to need to be tube fed for the next few weeks and then they’ll see how he transitions to dry food. He’ll probably need to be at the shelter for six months until he can have a corrective surgery.

So I bundled up Sir Isaac Quark Newton, explained to his mama and auntie why he needed to go, and the baby and I may or may not have cried together on the way to the shelter to drop him off.

I’m home now with two mama cats and nine kittens. And I’m sad. But I’m also grateful Quark will receive expert care from compassionate human mamas. Heartbreak and heart eased, hand in hand. It’s Both/And, friends.

I did go ahead and bump up our little Newberg Animal Shelter fundraiser goal to try to supplement the cost of little Quark‘s care, in case you’d like to contribute. You can find it here.

Thank you for loving these sweet babies with me. I’m so glad I’m not doing this alone.

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 24 in which we meet Leap’s babies! And get some news about Quark. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 23 in which Leap’s Kittens Finally Join the World!

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 26 May 2021 17:23:38 +0000

Sunday, May 23:

No Leap kittens yet. I’m pretty sure Leap’s feelings match all of ours about The Long Wait. IT’S TIME TO COME OUT, BABIES.

I do not know how it’s possible that Quency’s eyes aren’t open AND he’s giving Quasar the side-eye, but somehow he managed. In Quency’s defense, Quasar really is a boob hog.

Things That Are True:
1. Greg is reluctant to have foster animals.
2. I get fosters anyway.
3. Greg is Quantum’s favorite.
4. Quantum is Greg’s favorite.
5. You’re welcome, Greg.

This afternoon did not go according to plan. Quantum has been tired. But what new mama of five wouldn’t? Still, she had the blahs. When her food and water intake decreased and she grew barfy, I contacted the shelter, and they had me take her to the vet where she received fluids, meds, and an appetite enhancer. This mama girl feels SO MUCH BETTER now. Her energy is back, her appetite is up, her babies are healthy, and she is once again reunited with her sister. The *second* mama and babies returned, Leap…well, leapt…into the transportation crate with Quantum and kittens and hunkered right down. These two, friends. These two.

11PM: IT IS HAPPENING! LEAP IS IN LABOR. A KITTEN HAS ARRIVED. No pics because it’s dark and OF COURSE she’s delivering under the couch. I’m not going to camera-flash her, but I can see one baby so far, and both Quantum and Leap are licking it clean.

This is Leap a couple of hours ago, babysitting her niblings while Quantum took a break to eat and then lay on me for pets. AND NOW LEAP IS IN LABOR. She waited for her sister to get back.

Leap has two kittens so far! Pictured is neither of them because Leap is delivering under the couch, it is dark, kitten #1 is dark, and kitten #2 is dark (with possibly white feet). So, you know, newborn kitten photography is on hold. Instead, here’s a pic of the Quantum Leap sisters’ reunion this evening. It’s apropos since they pretty much look like this under the couch rn, both caring for the new babies, both purring up a storm.

Leap has delivered kittens 3 AND 4! Pictured is neither… for the same previously mentioned reasons. As far as I can tell, all 4 are black or dark tabby. They look like a matched set. Morning should shed some literal light on the situation. (Pictured are Quasar and Radia)

This is a picture of the fence board ceiling in my office. I’ve been staring at it for hours as I wait for Leap’s babies to join us earth-side. Since I can’t get pic of the new kittens without disturbing their mama, you get to see what I see. My ceiling. BUT you also get to know what I know, which is that Leap has delivered a fifth kitten, this one light. Cream? White? Orange? TBD.

Leap is nursing the new babies and purring. Quantum is cleaning Leap and the new babies and taking breaks to feed her own. It’s nearly 1am now, and everyone’s quiet and content in this tender, sacred space.

I think Mama Leap is done delivering, at least for now, so I’m going to leave her and Auntie Quantum to rest and try to get some myself.

I’ll be weighing and tagging the babies in the morning and will hopefully have pics to share soon. Thank you for being as into these babies as I am. Good night, friends.

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 23 in which Leap’s Kittens Finally Join the World! first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch Update: May 22 in which Quark is Pentacostal

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 26 May 2021 17:09:28 +0000

I am behind on all the kitten watch updates here on the blog because so much has happened SO rapidly. But I’m going to try to get all the stuff from the socials uploaded here today, in bite-sized, one-day-at-a-time pieces.

We last saw our sweet babies on May 21st. Here’s what happened next:

Friday, May 21:

FUZZY KITTEN BUTTS. WITH TINY LIZARD TAILS. AND T-REX LEGS. I just… I can’t.

Good night, friends! All of Leap’s kittens are still inside. See? She’s showing you.

See you in the morning.

Saturday, May 22:

Good morning! All is well on the western front. No new news. Just working on resting and growing. (And one human is working on patience. COME ON, LEAP. YOU ARE KILLING ME. )

Quark is Pentecostal. Or a sorcerer summoning the elements to battle the enemies of his people.

In case you haven’t had a phantom milk let-down for a while, here you go. ( . Y . )

Quantum and Leap are in a rhythm. Feed the babies, love the babies, lick the babies, then leave the sleeping babies and snuggle. I feel like these sisters have figured out All of Life.

The “twins,” Radia and Qubit. Or Marie and Helen. Or Q2 and Q5. Whatever names you use, these baby girls are Quantum look-alikes. I’ve been trying to capture pics of them together so you can see how similar they are, and I finally managed a few! These babies are straight sugar.

Good night, friends! We’re headed to bed soon ‘cause we are TIRED. Well, Quantum and I are. Leap isn’t yet done with her rounds. She’s still busy checking vital signs and charting. Auntie’s gotta aunt. More tomorrow. Over and out.

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Kitten Watch Update: May 18-21

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 22 May 2021 00:37:43 +0000

Just in case you’re not following along on the socials—aka, The Book of Faces or The Instant Grams—here’s a recap since the last blog post on our Only Cats blog.

One quick caveat first: if you’re wondering when we’ll EVER get back to the stuff we used to talk about—the IMPORTANT STUFF like depression, navigating the unexpected wilderness, waving to each other in the dark, and pooping the closet—the answer is NO. WE ARE NEVER GOING BACK. Until, you know, we go back. Eventually. That’s the Official Timeline for a return to Other Topics. It will be Someday in the Indefinite Future. And listen, I know there are shitty, hard things happening in the world right now. Heartbreaking, terrible things. War, pandemic, civil unrest, rampant racism. Things that, on a macro scale, are far, far more important than Two Sweet Foster Kitties. Not to mention the weights we each carry personally—the medical bill we’re not sure we can pay, the unhappy child we don’t know how to help, the relationship trauma—you know. All of It. Shitty, Hard Things. And they will be there waiting. But my heart needed these Sister Mamas more than I can adequately express. Right now, they are joy and solace. A difference I can make on a micro scale…a micro scale that is, to them, the Whole World. So here we are and here we shall be for a while. As always, you’re welcome to join my heart and brain and the weird, wonderful places they take us.

Here’s what’s happened since we left off, copied from the socials. M

Tuesday, May 18:

Sweet little Leap has relaxed enough to catch some well-deserved zzzzzzs. I think she finally believed me that Quantum and babes really will come back. I should have a Q update very soon.

FINALLY! News! Wonderful news and sad news. Sad news is the sixth kitten didn’t make it. It was wedged in the birth canal and likely would have been stillborn. The wonderful news is the surgery saved Quantum’s life and we have 5 healthy Q kittens. Sisters are reunited, and Leap is stealing Quantum’s kittens. Quantum seems grateful for the break.

My Children: Did you take this many pics of us when we were babies?
Me: Probs no.

I finally managed to weigh and tag the Q kittens. Q1 in white, Q2 in green, Q4 in yellow, Q5 in purple. Did you notice one is missing? That’s the kitten Leap stole. This time, anyway—she appears to randomly take and return them. I’ll put up a pic of them in a bit. Haven’t had time to work on names… will eventually.

Here’s the “missing” kitten. Q3 with its Auntie Leap (who has now returned it and kit-napped Q4… apparently every kitten gets special Auntie time.)

When you have eight full sippy cups but the kids all fight over one. This photo is pure #motherhood.

OK. It’s time for me to feed myself and try to get some sleep before waking up to check on the mamas and babies in the night. Leaving you with these two pics of Quantum and her littles, safe and sound, even if they’re all fighting over the favorite boob. More tomorrow. Unless Leap goes into labor in which case all bets are off. See you soon!

Wednesday, May 19:

Good morning! All are safe and well over here and had a good night. Nothing new to report. We’re just worshipping at the Altar of the Boob. And how are you?

When I brought Quantum and Leap home almost 2 weeks ago, I set up two birthing boxes and lined them with soft quilted blankets. The sisters promptly ignored them, and, as we all know now, Quantum chose to give birth under the couch on my rug, foregoing all the sanitary birthing pads I laid out. Bless her heart. Of course she did. TBH, I couldn’t care less about the rug, but it’s hard to take decent pics of baby kitties under the couch. My iPhone 8 is doing the best it can—I’d take more pics with my Canon but the shutter is loud and it has a red-eye reduction light, and I didn’t want to startle a laboring/new mama with noise or flashes. I’m sure there’s a setting to turn off the lights, but that would require Brain Power, and all mine is devoted to the fosters rn. All of which is to say, some photos are higher quality than others, and somehow Quantum failed to prioritize choosing a birth location based on how images would look on the socials. Cats these days.

HOWEVER, I’m beginning to have hope Leap is more social media savvy because she has been nesting in one of the boxes. A sign of kittens to come soon?? Only time will tell.

This morning, Quantum has decided that Leap’s box is for sure, definitely, absolutely big enough for both of them AND all the kittens, and when I had the audacity to question her she looked at me like, “What? I fit FINE.” Then Leap backed her up, all “WELCOME TO MY BOX. THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE.” And while I agree with that philosophy in principle, I’m unsure of its practical application. Plus, it’s hard to get pics when everyone’s squashed inside a small box.

In conclusion, we might need a bigger box.

OMG, these squarshy baby faces. Like, I understand objectively that newborn kittens look like lumpy, flailing rodents with their scraggly limbs and naked paws. And I understand objectively they’re indistinguishable from leeches that attach themselves to their host, suck up body fluids like tiny, parasitic balloons until they’re too saturated and fall off in a drugged haze of gluttony. BUT STILL THOSE SQUARSHY FACES, FRIENDS. They are ADORABLE. Do not try to convince me otherwise. I will fight you.

Pictured here: Q3 (the hugest kitten) and Q5 (the smollest nugget). I’ll try to get better pics another time to show the actual size differential.

P.S. Also don’t try to tell me squarshy isn’t a word. If you look at their faces you can see it obviously is.

My friend Christy, who went to 40 weeks with twins, delivered the first vaginally but the second went into distress so she delivered twin number two via emergency C-section. When I was expecting my own twins, I hoped for one kind of delivery—EITHER kind—but PLEASE DEAR GOD NOT BOTH. Both of my twins vacated the premises at the south gate, proving dreams DO come true. But also, my labor shut down to 6cm between twins and I had to RE-labor for 3 hours back to 10cm for the second, proving one really should be specific when making wishes. So obviously watching Quantum is bringing back memories of Christy’s story and my own because Quantum DID IT ALL. Birthed out of both gates? Shut down and had to relabor? Poor girl. And IDK about you, but my outside face doesn’t always match my inner dialogue, so when the vet tech handed Quantum and babies back to me yesterday post emergency C-section and said her shaved belly and giant incision shouldn’t bother her while nursing her 5 brand new littles, my face said “that’s nice” while my inner dialogue said “I know you’re the expert, lady, and I should trust you, but HAHAHAHAHA. No. Bless your heart, that’s not how it works.” It’s now 24hrs later, and I’m thrilled to report my inner dialogue was wrong. Quantum is moving with ease, purring while nursing, and very content. Tired. But content. Never have I ever been happier to be wrong.

P.S. Autocorrect says vaginally should be spelled “magically” and for once autocorrect may be right. But then it should also correct C-section to “magically” because I don’t care how babies come out, it’s all magic. Every bit.

Final post for today…unless, of course, Leap goes into labor. She has spent quite a bit of time in her nesting box, but I keep checking her magical area, and, well, no magic yet. The time she wasn’t in her box she spent valiantly defending Quantum and kittens from a ribbon that attacked out of the blue. (And, by “out of the blue,” I mean it was laying on the ground next to her.) You’ll be relieved to learn the ribbon was slain by our fearless Auntie and poses no more danger to the Q clan.

Speaking of the Qs, they’re all doing splendidly. Quantum is eating well, resting, and purrs while nursing. The tiny Qs are all gaining appropriate amounts of weight. No fab pics of them yet because I only move them once a day to weigh them… but hopefully soon. AND if you have physics-related name suggestions, speak now! I’m planning to announce them tomorrow!

One final thought before I check on the kitties and put myself to bed: THANK YOU to those of you who’ve messaged to ask about costs for Quantum’s emergency surgery. Newberg Animal Shelter will have to pay that, and they absolutely could use our help. The more we cover, the more assistance they can provide to animals in need. So I set up a fundraiser. If you’re invested like I am in Quantum and Leap’s journey, please consider a smol donation. Any amount helps. Link here.

Thursday, May 20:

Good morning!

Leap is next to me, and this is how she feels.

It’s time to announce the Q kittens’ names! SO! As you know, we’re sticking with the Quantum Leap theme with physics-inspired names. BUT ALSO, they’re the Q kittens. In the end, each kitten is named for an iconic physicist, each kitten has a nickname, and each kitten has a Q somewhere in their name.

And a quick note on gender. Although I’ve watched 3 YouTube videos on sexing kittens, which makes me an undisputed expert, we may discover later that I was wrong. These things happen. Gender is a construct anyway. We’ll update later as needed. Just like we do with humans. That’s how we roll around here.

OK. It’s time! And it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Q1.

Sir Isaac “Quark” Newton — First to succumb to gravity and drop from the womb, this little Quark boy is black and white like his Auntie Leap. He has a slight cleft palate but that doesn’t slow him down a bit. Welcome to the world, Quark!

Introducing Q2!

Marie “Radia” Qurie—this baby girl is hard to capture on film! She’s elusive, preferring to hide in her mama’s fur and snuggle. A challenge to isolate, just like Marie Curie‘s discovery of radium… you KNOW it’s there, but it doesn’t rise easily to the surface. Little Miss Radia is white and tabby like her mama. I also call her twin #1 for reasons that will become apparent soon.

Meet Q3!

This white boy is a chunk—the biggest kitten by far—so it’s appropriate to name him for the whole galaxy. Introducing Galileo “Quasar” Galilei. Sweet, chunky lump.

Welcome to the world, Q4!

Meet Quantum’s dark grey tabby, Erwin “(fre)Quency” Schrödinger. Quency is the third boy (as far as we know ;)) and another challenging one to photograph. He likes to bury himself under his siblings. I suppose he doesn’t want us to open Schrödinger’s box and observe him.

And finally… drumroll, please …Q5!

Last AND least in weight BUT NOT least in our hearts, I’m very happy to introduce you to…

Helen “Qubit” Quinn—our final quintuplet. Qubit means quantum bit, and, as a baby who looks just like her Quantum mama, white and tabby, this little one practically named herself. I also call her twin #2 because she and Radia look nearly identical. I’m going to have to be sure I have a way to tell them apart before I remove their colored tags.

And that’s a wrap for today from Quantum, Leap and the gang.

No movement today for Leap’s littles. Or rather LOTS of movement, but all still inside her ever-growing belly. Kitten Watch continues! She’s increasingly spending time in her nest.

Thanks to everyone for the name suggestions. Y’all really came through. Which is good practice ‘cause I’m gonna ask you to do it all again soon.

AND ALSO thank you for contributing to the Animal Shelter fundraiser for Quantum’s surgery. You reached the goal in less than 24hrs. I’m leaving the fundraiser open in case you’d like to still contribute.

That’s all for now. Good night from Quantum, Leap, Quark, Radia, Quasar, Quency, and Qubit. Sleep tight.

Friday, May 21:

Leap Update: Still Waiting!

Leap is growing rounder by the minute. Just before Quantum gave birth, she looked like she’d swallowed a cantaloupe. Leap looks like she’s swallowed a pomelo. From the beginning, I’ve assumed Leap was smaller in the belly because she’s having fewer kittens. Now I’m not sure. She might just be far enough behind Quantum that she wasn’t showing as much yet. There’s lots of in-utero movement; I can see babies rolling under Leap’s skin and feel them kicking.

Auntie Leap has stopped stealing her sister’s babies. I think she was just kit-napping/kit-sitting while Quantum was focused on labor and post-surgery. Now that Quantum is in the swing of things—mostly laying with her kittens and taking food/potty breaks every couple hours—Leap has backed off. Although, whenever Quantum steps away, Leap leaves her nest to stand watch over the sleeping kitten pile, a self-appointed sentinel. And when the babies start mewling for their mama to return, Leap chirps at Quantum, like, “Break’s over. You’re up!”

Look, I am not saying Quasar is fat. Not at ALL. He is a growing boy who eats food when he’s hungry, and that right there is a LIFE SKILL. I will defend it to the death. I mean, I’m 47 years old, and I’m JUST NOW learning to eat when I’m hungry instead of starving myself and then bingeing when starving myself makes me hungry. Bless my heart. Quasar, though? That boy is smarter at four days old than I’ve been in four decades. So I am definitely NOT saying he’s fat. I’m just saying he can’t fit his magnificent, galactic self into the kitten ball. There are four whole kittens in a cluster… and Quasar’s head.

Have you heard of the Fuck It Diet? It is a real thing and Quasar and I are on it. The end.

Randie Sanders noted that one of the Quantum Leap pics looked like a formal pose for a photo shoot, and then she used it to make these. These two mamas hopped a time machine to the 1980s and went to the mall for official Quantum Leap glamour shots, and it would be a disservice to the Universe not to share them on the world wide webs. I would never do the universe wrong like that. Thanks, Randie! You’re rad.

AND NOW YOU’RE ALL CAUGHT UP, FRIENDS. If you want to visit The Book of Faces, there are also some videos of Quantum, Leap, and babies.

ENJOY! I’m headed back to Kitten Watch 2021 now.

Waving in the dark as always,

The post Kitten Watch Update: May 18-21 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

All You Need Is A Sister Cat Doula

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 18 May 2021 22:07:32 +0000

A LOT HAS BEEN HAPPENING ON THE KITTEN FRONT AND I’M SORRY I’M YELLING BUT A LOT HAS BEEN HAPPENING ON THE KITTEN FRONT.

It’s been a busy, busy 24 hours, friends, and I’d like to do a full, complete recap in case you’ve missed the saga on the Book of Faces or the Instant Grams, but I don’t have the time or the mental capacity…for reasons you will soon understand…so I’m going to post the updates from the socials in chronological order plus a few bonus pics and extras. That way you can catch up, and I can pretend I’ll have time to deep clean my office.

SO. We left off 5 days ago, on Kitten Watch 2021 with our Sister Cats, Quantum and Leap. For the first post announcing their arrival and Why I’m Fostering them (see also: Jesus made me), click here. For the second click here.

The ensuing days looked like this.

Sisterly love, support, encouragement, and snuggles.

And begging the hoomans for belly massages. Which worked because who’s going to say no to these faces?

And that brings us to…

Monday, May 17, 1pm: Sitting in my office, I looked down at the sisters sitting at my feet. Quantum stretched and squawked. It was a brief noise but I hadn’t heard it before, so, since I have zero respect for private space, I lifted her tail. And what to my wondering eyes should appear?? A baby cat bubble! And soon Kitten #1.

THE KITTENS ARE COMING! THE KITTENS ARE COMING! I am the Paul Revere of baby cats! Quantum’s first baby has ARRIVED. More soon.

(Calling it Q1 for now. We’re working on physics-related names to go with the Quantum Leap theme. And because we’re Giant Geeks. Feel free to share ideas. We know a couple names that Must Be Used, but open to suggestions, too.)

Monday, May 17, 1:10pm:

And then there were two! Q2 is here.

Monday, May 17, 2:00pm:

Resting btw babies. These labor faces are on point. I feel you, mama.

Monday, May 17, 5:00pm:

Third time is the charm! Kitten #3 has arrived. White or orange? We’ll see when it’s dry and fluffy.

Monday, May 17, 5:30pm:

Q4! A full quartet. Quantum’s sister, Leap, has helped with each delivery and cleaned Quantum in between. They’re the sweetest.

Monday, May 17, 6:30pm:

Q5. You can see this little nugget resting under its mama’s arm. This birth was rough. Quantum is tired. Q5 emerged in its sac and Quantum didn’t respond. I pulled the sac open, suctioned the baby’s mouth, and dried it with a clean washcloth, trying to stimulate it to breathe. I thought maybe it was stillborn, but it started to move and then to squeak. Took it a while to really breathe and cry. I tied of its cord and cut it with sanitized scissors, then put it at Quantum’s head. She licked it a little but didn’t have much energy to continue, and the baby seemed just as tired, growing more still and not searching for a nipple like its siblings. So I held it to a nipple for about an hour—it latched immediately and its energy picked up. I’m hoping this little one makes it. I’ll be keeping an eye on it.

Monday, May 17, 7:00pm:

Quantum appears to be done delivering… unless she’s taking an unseemly intermission (which I hear is possible). I think we can all agree that 5 kittens is a lot of kittens! And plenty for now. All 5 are active and I’ll be checking on them throughout the night.

As my last update for the evening, SPECIAL SHOUT-OUT TO SISTERS. Leap has been there every step of the way for Quantum… cleaning, comforting, snuggling. The first pic is after all 5 kittens were born… they have the kittens laying between them, and Leap is hugging Quantum’s neck. Pic 3 is my favorite, though… Leap kitten-sitting while Quantum takes a good break…I love how Leap is all WTF WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME ALONE WITH THEM??

Only complication with sisters is that I tried to weigh each kitten and Leap is NOT having it. Quantum? She’s fine. She’s all “take my kittens, pleaseandthankyou.” But Leap comes over and takes the kittens off the scale and back to Quantum. She thinks I should keep my hands to myself. So fine. I’ll weigh them later. No need to stress the auntie out.

Tuesday, May 18, 2:00am:

It’s 2am. I went to check on the kittens and found the sister mamas like this. The #kittens are between them, nursing from both. They slay me. Putting myself back to bed. More soon.

Tuesday, May 18, 8:15am:

This is not a drill. It’s 8:15am and Quantum is back in labor. That’s Sister Doula Leap monitoring progress.

Tuesday, May 18, 9:45am:

Welp, I’m at the vet now with Quantum. She was pushing too long with no result, so they’re doing X-rays to see how many are left and then they’ll decide next steps. Mama and babies are all well and in the right hands, even though this is a tad more dramatic than we’d hoped. In the meantime, this is a pic from about an hour ago of pregnant Leap, nursing her sister’s babies while Quantum labored. I’ll let you know as soon as I have more info.

Tuesday, May 18, 11:30am:

Ha! My sister-in-law, Kim, just sent me this! Greg and I co-own @cairns_farm with Kim and Jeff, and THE GOATS WERE NOT TOO BE OUTDONE BY THE CATS. Please join me in welcoming goats twins, born this morning to Bernadette. (Our goat herd is named for the characters on The Big Bang Theory, proving we were uber-geeks way before Quantum and Leap.) More vet news about Quantum coming soon, but for now, enjoy the baby goats.

Tuesday, May 18, 12:00pm:

QUANTUM UPDATE: Quantum (pictured earlier at home) and her 5 kittens are at the vet where she’ll be having a c-section to deliver a kitten that’s stuck. Unknown at this time: whether the kitten is alive and whether there are other kittens. It may be a few hours before we know more. I feel that this expression on Quantum’s face epitomizes this situation. “I delivered 5 kittens already. WTF, Universe?” The good news is Quantum is receiving excellent care, she’s exactly where she needs to be, AND Q5 is doing great—active, suckling, warm with a round, full belly. This afternoon I will be focusing on Leap who’s feeling pretty lonely and deep cleaning my office to prepare for Quantum & Kits’ return.

Tuesday, May 18, 2:00pm:

No news yet on Quantum. Leap is OK without her sister and niblings BUT ONLY if she’s on top of me. Turns out she’s less than helpful in deep cleaning my office, but I’m determined to sanitize before Quantum and babies return. It’s a battle of the wills. So far, she has me pinned, so she’s winning.

And now it’s 3pm Pacific Time, and you’re all caught up. No news from the vet yet. But I’ll be on the socials with updates as soon as I have them.

For now, I’m waving in the dark, waiting for dawn,

The post All You Need Is A Sister Cat Doula first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Kitten Watch 2021

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 13 May 2021 22:40:15 +0000

I have nothing to report.

This is what we look like these days.

It’s all laying around.

And belly rubs.

And farting.

So, SO much farting.

They have no dignity at all.

Zero decorum. It’s just sloth and gas at our house and sitting awkwardly with our legs spread.

In other words, these foster ladies fit in perfectly.

And they love each other well.

No babies yet.

Kitten Watch 2021 continues.

Stay tuned.

xoxo,
B.

The post Kitten Watch 2021 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

This Is Just A Blog About Cats Now

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 08 May 2021 21:08:03 +0000

This is just a blog about cats now. It used to be a blog about mental illness, finding relief, questionable parenting, pooping my closet, foster dogs, torturing Greg, and waving to each other in the dark. But then I got a pregnant foster cat.

This is Quantum.

She is a very young kitty. Just a baby herself.

Our local shelter took her in, full of babies, along with her equally young sister, Leap.

Who is also full of babies.

And now here we are.

To truly understand how none of this is my fault, one must first understand the circumstances under which Jesus made me foster pregnant cats. In this essay, we will explore Gregory’s culpability via negligence and the redemptive movement of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Greg has worked from home for the entirety of the pandemic until Thursday when, fully vaccinated, he went into the office. So he wasn’t home when the shelter called to say they had pregnant kitties in need of foster care. And yes, technically I’ve emailed the shelter a few times to ask WHEN IS KITTEN SEASON and DO YOU NEED ANY FOSTERS? But how was I supposed to know they’d call when Gregory wasn’t here to consult? I mean, what’s a mommy to do, friends? MOMMIES HELP OTHER MOMMIES.

I said, “DO NOT WORRY, LOCAL SHELTER. I SHALL COME GET ONE RIGHT AWAY.” AND THIS IS HOW JESUS WORKS, friends. IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS.

Did I tell Greg? No. No, I did not. FOR THERE WAS NOT TIME. It was an EMERGENCY. (The shelter said it was not an emergency and I could come anytime, but I know how to read between the lines. I AM VERY GOOD AT SUBTLE COMMUNICATION.) I just made a tiny alteration to our online calendar which pings Gregory when there’s an update.

I wrote BETH’S VERY SPECIAL APPOINTMENT.

And then he called me on the telephone which was a very dramatic thing to do and said, “Beth? What is this Very Special Appointment?”

And I said, “Wut? Nothing. No time! Can’t talk!”

And then he said, “Is it for Mother’s Day?”

And I said, “YES. YES, IT IS FOR MOTHER’S DAY” because it is definitely about a mommy and her babies, so TRUE.

Then he said, “I thought you wanted breakfast in bed and then to clean up the kitchen we wrecked while making it, like usual.”

But I said, “No. Nope. I’M MIXING IT UP THIS YEAR. I want this other thing.” And he asked more questions, but the phone line cut out and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Then Greg texted.

And I reminded him IT WAS TOO LATE HE ALREADY SAID I COULD. So he texted me back. A defeatist yep. And then the telephone magically worked again, and I told him THERE IS A PREGNANT KITTY WHO NEEDS US. And he responded with enthusiasm and joy.

“Of course there is,” he said.

That’s how we got Quantum.

Who is a complete and total love bug.

BUT WHILE I WAS AT THE SHELTER, I asked—as any kind, caring person would—who was coming for Leap.

“Who is coming for Leap?” I asked.

And the nice shelter lady cried giant tears and said, “NO ONE. No one is coming for Leap. SHE WILL BE HERE ALL ALONE, BEWILDERED AND AFRAID WITHOUT HER SISTER, and they would really, really do better together. Also, did you know cats help raise each other’s babies??” Except she said all that minus the tears, and she pronounced it, “We’re still looking for a foster for her.”

So I casually responded, “fine i guess i’ll take her, too.” Except I pronounced it, “OH MY GOD, WE CANNOT SEPARATE SISTERS. THEY ARE ALL EACH OTHER HAS IN THE WHOLE WORLD. AND NO ONE—NO ONE—SHOULD HAVE TO RAISE BABIES ALONE. WE ALL NEED A VILLAGE.”

And that’s how we got Leap.

Who just wants to snuggle.

In conclusion, I regret nothing.

Now we’re all on Baby Kitty Watch.

And my office smells like cat litter.

Welcome to my new blog. It’s called Only Cats.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. Do not worry about Greg. As soon as I came home with the baby mommy kitties, he spent an hour laying on my office floor petting and scratching rumbling purr-engines and telling me what they each like best. Accordingly, I now know both like under-chin scratches, Leap likes gentle belly rubs, and Quantum is partial to a rapid scritch behind the ears. He is planning further kitty-petting experiments. Results pending. More soon.

P.P.S. This is a blog about Cats and Only Cats…but ALSO PLEASE BE SURE TO VOTE IN YOUR LOCAL ELECTIONS because OMG, folks, THE CHILDREN NEED US. And we ALL need compassionate, diverse representation with deep understanding of myriad perspectives. This is urgent. There’s a HUGE push in our community and others, backed by a nationwide campaign, to roll back anti-racism policies like the one our school board passed a year ago. This is real, it’s wrong, and it makes me desperately sad. And our students, especially our students of color, deserve SO MUCH MORE from us. We have to show up for them. That’s why, for Newberg School Board, I’m endorsing:

Tai Harden — click here to visit her website and see her platform

Ines Pena — click here to see her website and platform

and Ron Mock — click here for his website and platform

P.P.P.S. But this is a blog about Only Cats. Quantum and Leap, friends…

xoxo,

The post This Is Just A Blog About Cats Now first appeared on bethwoolsey..

If I Could Visit Myself in the Past…

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 06 May 2021 00:31:59 +0000

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d have a few things to say. Things Past Me didn’t know. Things Past Me couldn’t tell.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “Being Thin is not the goal. Being Not Fat isn’t either.” If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to eat food when I’m hungry. “Eat,” I’d say. “Love eating. Love YOU.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “Available Time is not the same as Free Time and, in any case, you owe no one either one.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to be unhappy out loud and sooner. Bottling wild depression makes it fester like closing an infectious wound. Don’t trap the poison. If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to see my doctor and try the pills. Don’t accept the stigma. Just say no to saying no to drugs.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to worry less about skin cancer and more about Vitamin D. “Soak up some sun. Not ALL of it. Sunscreen is still your friend. But some. Your brain and your body will be glad.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “You didn’t spoil your kids by not spanking them or by letting them be mouthy and opinionated or by letting them swear or by letting them challenge your authority.” If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “Your kids are going to be fucking awesome. They’re going to be the shit. Just wait. You’ll see.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “You’ll never regret skinny dipping. Not once.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself, “You’re trying, and trying is enough. Trying is all life is, really. It’s OK. You’re OK. Try and fail and try and fail and try. And sometimes, don’t try. Take a nap.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to worry less about social norms and upholding the status quo and more about justice. Less about civility and more about compassion. Less about rocking the boat and more about reaching over the side to pull the drowning to safety. If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to learn to say, “Oh my God” sooner and also louder. OH MY GOD. To reject the lie that that’s taking God’s name in vain. To understand that it’s a prayer and that taking God’s name in vain is, instead, using God to maintain harmful power structures and to distract with pointless rules like not saying oh my God.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself not to worry about defending evangelicalism. Evangelicalism isn’t Jesus. And Jesus can take care of himself. He’s a big boy. “You just worry about loving your neighbor,” I’d say. “And remember your neighbor is the one hurting on the side of the road. That is all. That’s enough. The end.”

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself it is, too, worth it to buy the whole flat of strawberries. There are areas to economize, but local strawberries isn’t one. Buy all the strawberries. Eat all the strawberries. Strawberry diarrhea is the best diarrhea.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to quit trying to be highbrow with my reading. To quit reading literary fiction just because you think **pinky raised** lit’rature is better. No. Read what makes you happy. If that’s paranormal romance, then bring on all the vampires and werewolves. Live in those giddy, joyful, dark, delicious places.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to practice the art of talking to myself kindly. Practice and practice and practice turning off the dripping tap of self-flagellation.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to say no to more committees and yes to more laying under clear skies.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself to let my kids pack their own backpacks and lunches. Packing crap is not the measure of a mom. They can make their own damn sandwiches.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d foster more dogs and invite my own to sleep in my bed. The claws and the kicks are worth the snuggles. That goes for kids, too.

If I could visit myself in the past, I’d tell myself I’m not a lazy sack. “You’re not a lazy sack,” I’d say. “You’re TIRED and OVERWHELMED and cleaning the toilet just is not important right now. GOOD FOR YOU FOR SURVIVING. That is HARD, PROACTIVE, invisible work. And you are doing it. Here’s a trophy.”

So.

Off the top of my head, that’s what I’d say.

What about you? What would you tell yourself?

Waving in the dark,

The post If I Could Visit Myself in the Past… first appeared on bethwoolsey..

This Is Where All My Words Have Gone

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 07 Apr 2021 00:02:45 +0000

I’m writing to you today because I’ve been neglecting this space, and I miss you, and I want to explain where my words have gone.

Once upon a time, I set out to write a nonfiction book about the myths I once believed and the truths that replaced them. Myths like we’re supposed to strive for balance. And we should put our best foot forward. And motherhood wouldn’t break and remake me. I had an agent from a big New York literary agency. I had publisher interest. And I spent the next seven years Not Writing the Book. Or rather, I wrote the proposal myriad times. Sample chapters. Comp titles. Outline. The entire shebang. But I never finalized it with my agent (who deserves a special award for long suffering) because…I don’t even know…it never felt right?

Oh, I beat myself up about it. I told myself how lucky I was to have an agent when other writers struggled to find representation. I told myself I was squandering my opportunity. I told myself I wasn’t shooting my shot. I told myself I was probably lazy…while, you know, working full time, writing, raising five children including two who experience significant disability. I was definitely lazy, I said to Me. Or maybe I couldn’t write a book, I thought; maybe that was secretly why I didn’t. Despite writing multiple books’ worth of words here in this place, maybe that was it. Laziness plus lack of ability. That was my bludgeon.

But you want to know the real secret?

***whispers***I wanted to write fiction.

Did I write fiction? NO, OF COURSE NOT. I spent my time on the nonfiction book proposal because who blows off that sort of chance? Especially when I deeply care about the topic? (And I do. MYTH-BUSTING MATTERS.) Especially when a nonfiction book is a powerful way to wave in the dark to folks who feel so alone? (And it is. WHY, HELLO THERE!)

Nevertheless, I was stymied. Every time I sat down to write The Book, I felt…bored. Like, god, I do not want to talk about myself AGAIN. This blog is cathartic. It’s confessional. It’s the truth as far as I understand it. It’s the evolution of my life. And it meets the need to dive into my head and my heart and suss out what’s happening there. It meets the need to scoop bits out and hold them carefully like baby birds and show you the vulnerable pieces. But I discovered this blog is all the time I want to spend unpacking myself. I mean, I have to live with Me all the time, you know? And that is ENOUGH without writing the literal book about it.

So I delayed and I delayed. I set deadlines and let them pass. I finished whole book proposals and didn’t hit “send.”

But I also didn’t write fiction because then I would be Wasting My Time. First, I don’t have a fiction agent, so I’d be starting over from scratch. Second, fiction isn’t my platform; it’s not what I’ve built. And third, fiction is…frivolous…and while I LOVE that other writers willingly spend their one wild and precious life writing the fiction I devour, I questioned whether that was how I wanted to spend mine. What if…what if I come to the end of my life, and I only have make-believe to show for it?

But then, dear friends, then I wondered…what if I come to the end of my life, and I only have joy to show for it? What if I come to the end of my life, and I only have a fantastical world to leave behind? What if I come to the end of my life, and I realize I gleefully lived it weaving tales of magic and mayhem?

So, a year ago—right before the After Times—I started to write. Frivolously. Joyfully. Gleefully.

A year ago, I let myself off my leash and allowed myself to have a go at fiction. I released all of the Should Haves with the book I was Supposed To write. I told my (former) agent I’m Very Sorry and Maybe Someday but Not Right Now. I went on indefinite hiatus from My Own Expectations, and I decided to do this other thing at which I might Spectacularly Fail.

A year ago, I started plotting and plodding and writing obsessively. I experienced Full Pandemic Brain Shutdown and laid it aside for several months because I was Unable to Can. Then I picked it back up and finished a Shitty First Draft with too many words. I corralled and co-opted my librarian and editor and book store friends. And, based on their feedback, I redrafted and reorganized, and drafted again, breathing life one lungful at a time into a story about magic and adventure with quirky, queer characters and slow-burn romance and powerful platonic friendship.

And now there’s a book. A fantasy novel. Which isn’t what I thought I’d write at all. It’s a book without an agent. A book that may never be published. A book I wrote for sheer pleasure with no future guaranteed. And although I’ve begun querying fiction agents—although I’m going to try to birth this book into the world—I’m strangely content with the unknown.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So there it is. I spent seven years not writing the book I didn’t want to write and a few months writing a book I did. I thought about hanging onto this info. Keeping it to myself until I know whether it will amount to anything. But then I thought nah. Being Successful and Having Things Figured Out has never been a prerequisite for writing in this space. And I thought you ought to know where all my words have gone.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. I’ll keep you in the loop as I begin to navigate this world of querying agents. I’m sure I’ll write more about it as I dive deeper. It can take months—even years—or never happen at all. And finding the right agent doesn’t guarantee a sale to a publisher. So we’ll find out what happens together. Welcome to the unknown.

P.P.S. In the meantime, I’ve begun another novel.

P.P.P.S. Last time we talked, we discussed the Fucking Terrible Scale. I can report I remain Somewhat Fucking Terrible. During the After Times, I’ve decided this is Normal. It’s Good. I’m Fine. But I’ve also contacted my doctor for a medication update because even though I believe Somewhat Fucking Terrible is perfectly acceptable right now, and I’m trying to be kind and go easy on myself, I’m setting my sights on the even loftier goal of being Less Fucking Terrible. What can I say, friends? I’m an overachiever. Follow me for more Motivational Life Tips.

P.P.P.P.S. How are you?

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Henceforth, I shall answer all how-are-you queries using the FT Scale.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 16 Mar 2021 19:02:15 +0000

Yesterday was my COVID Isolation Anniversary. One year of lockdown. One year of paying attention to toilet paper supplies. One year of stasis and rapid change, of everything-stays-the-same and it’s-all-different. One year during which life has become infinitely more simple and relentlessly more complicated. One year.

Friends check in occasionally. And I check in occasionally with them. How are you? they ask, and I ask them, too, even though I have no answer because how do you access that kind of information? How do you peel those layers? How do you know which crayon color in the box of 64 accurately evokes the color of a heart? The color of a mind? The color of a soul? Which crayon color is frustration? Which crayon color is gratitude? Which crayon color is laying awake at night and staring down invisible monsters? Which crayon color is I Don’t Know What’s for Dinner? Which one is Liberty and Justice for All? Which one is I’m Tired of Isolation? Which one is I Don’t Want to Return to “Normal”?

What color is it when you melt them all together? Mud? Sludge?

How are you? I am mud. Thanks for asking.

How are you? Sludge.

If I tell that truth, will they see the joy in there? That there’s also laughter in the muck and warmth in the mire?

That’s my problem with answering. It takes too many words to explain. It takes too much thought to calculate and unpack. I’d prefer a go-to answer. Something pre-packaged like a cake mix. Just add egg and water. But “fine” is a lie I’m not much interested in telling. It’s a scratchy sweater I don’t like to wear. “It’s complicated” is better—perhaps the best Facebook relationship status of all time. I mean, if we were honest, wouldn’t we change all our statuses (statusi?) to “it’s complicated”?

What’s for dinner? It’s complicated.

How long will you be on the toilet? It’s complicated.

WHAT DID THE DOG BARF ONTO THE RUG? IDK, IT IS COMPLICATED. (FWIW, it is probs not complicated, but also I don’t want to look. Did you know you can clean up dog puke without ever looking directly at it? All peripheral vision and mouth-breathing? This is just one of my many talents.)

How are you? OMG. Complicated, complicated, complicated!

But, of course, you can’t answer this way. Kind people ask kind questions and deserve kind replies. So it’s a conundrum.

Except I asked my friend Sarah how she was the other day, and she replied quickly.

How are you doing in the After Times? I said.

Ha ha, she replied. Very fucking terrible but somehow still here. How about you?

And instead of being paralyzed by this question, as I almost always am, I had an answer. A true answer that wasn’t a scratchy sweater. A true answer that embraced the sludge without trying to untangle the colors.

Only somewhat fucking terrible, I said.

So I’ve come to a conclusion—an important discovery. How are you? is a squishy question. It’s too broad. Like trying to nail jello to a wall. But the Fucking Terrible Scale? THAT is something my muddy self can understand. That is enough substance to pin down.

And so I turn this question over to you.

How are you?

Answer using the Fucking Terrible Scale please. All answers from Not Even a Little Bit Fucking Terrible to REALLY SUPER EXTRA Fucking Terrible are welcome. This is a Fucking Terrible judgement free zone.

With love as always,

The post Henceforth, I shall answer all how-are-you queries using the FT Scale. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Adrienne the yoga teacher keeps telling me on the YouTube to move into positions “with ease.”

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 23 Feb 2021 00:54:16 +0000

The COVID After Times are like becoming a mother. Never was there ever an experience so common, so universal, and so bewilderingly isolating. Everyone’s doing it. And everyone’s doing it alone.

When I became a mother, I thought I was becoming part of a club. Part of a whole. Part of a unified conglomerate. So I was mystified when I felt disconnected, instead. Separate. Detached. As if I was forging a path through the jungle, unsure what dangers lurked around me, equipped with a malfunctioning compass that refused to point me toward the village. I knew one was out there. Somewhere. The elusive village where the other mothers laughed as their children played. Where there was sleep and respite because there was someone willing to hold the baby.

Imagine my surprise when I figured out the village wasn’t very populated at all. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled across the other mothers with their own broken compasses, as stuck in the jungle as I was.

I’m not sure there are many things harder than change. Especially when the changes alter the course of a life, the course of a plan, the course of our expectations of How Things Will Be. Especially when the changes cause our old lives to die and plunge us into grief and force us toward rebirth.

I planned for motherhood. I didn’t plan for a pandemic. But I’m finding my reaction much the same. An old life gone. The Before Times full of joys and flaws, but familiar. The After Times full of joys and flaws, but unfamiliar, so unsettling. I catch myself doing the same things now that I did then—telling myself I have it easier than some, that I ought to be grateful, that I’m weak for the grief and confusion I feel. I should adapt better. I should be more able to flex. I should focus on the good.

It takes energy and time and conscious effort to slow that reaction down. To remember this isn’t the Suffering Olympics. To remember I don’t have to have it The Worst to have permission to feel loss. To remember sad feelings don’t undermine The Good or make it lesser. Sad feelings are just sad feelings. They exist simultaneously with The Good. They’re valid. They’re allowed. It’s rough in the jungle, trying to cut a path forward.

I told you I’ve been doing some Real Things lately to treat myself as kindly as I treat my dogs. Yoga is one, and I will tell you the hardest part for me. It’s not getting my ass on the mat. It’s not the twisty shapes. It’s not the waiting or the quiet. It’s not the dogs chewing my ponytail and licking my face or my kid bellowing from the stove that he doesn’t know how to scramble eggs while I’m supposed to be resting in corpse pose. It’s that Adrienne the yoga teacher keeps telling me on the YouTube to move into positions “with ease.” Adrienne the yoga teacher keeps telling me on the YouTube not to sit in any sharp pain. Adrienne the yoga teacher keeps telling me to slow down and be gentle with my body.

And I have that running around my brain on repeat. Because every time Adrienne the yoga teacher reminds me to move “but with ease,” I realize I’m clenched. My muscles are taut. I’m squeezing and squeezing, trying to hold myself rigidly in place. “Table top position,” she says, “but with ease.” And that’s when I release the tension. That’s when I remember releasing tension is even possible. That’s when I realize even my face is tight, and that I can choose to relax my cheeks, my jaw, my forehead, my neck. The weird part? I can hold positions of strength longer when I’m doing it “with ease” than I can with my body tight and shaking.

And none of this leads me to write you with kind of conclusion or any kind of Knowing or Deeper Understanding. It’s not that kind of Look at This Lesson I Learned blog. Instead, it leads me to wondering.

I wonder how we might adjust to all this change. I wonder whether there’s a different way to exist in this Strange Communal Aloneness. I wonder if I can learn to approach more things with ease and without sitting in any sharp pain.

I just… wonder.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. That’s a stock photo. I just thought it looked like she was at ease while looking into the unknown. I also realize those are probably her footprints, but I like to think they’re buttprints and she just scooched one little butt-hop at a time because walking in deep sand is really, really hard, and now she has sand in her pants. But she has sand in her pants with eeeease. Because, honestly, if you can have sand in your pants with ease? I feel like you’ve officially arrived at zen.

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Lesson from a Foster Dog (You Is Such a Gud Human… Yes, You Is)

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 16 Feb 2021 01:36:11 +0000

Daisy was the dumbest dog I’ve ever fostered. Bar none. Hands down. Dumb. Est.

Don’t get me wrong; Daisy was also Top 3 for Sweetest Foster Ever. Never did you ever meet a more darling rug. Her eyes and smile could light up a room. But a genius she was not.

We had Daisy for five months because the poor baby needed surgery, and in those five months she never learned to use the dog door. Other dogs showed her how. My kids demonstrated. We used treats and pets and consistent training. We bribed and cajoled. And nothing. She wasn’t afraid. This wasn’t one of the weird hang-ups foster dogs sometimes have. She’d happily go through the hole if we held the flap for her, and she’d sit next to it all day long, cheerfully watching the others go in and out, delighted whenever they reappeared. She was functionally a small child without object permanence; if the flap was down, the outside and anything in it ceased to exist. Every once in a while—SURPRISE!—a friend would pop through like a magic trick, and she’d look at me, astonished and thrilled, like did you see that?! And every time, I’d say, “I did, Daisy!” matching her excitement because it was infectious.

Daisy ran into chairs, not because she couldn’t see. She’d navigate her surroundings perfectly, then turn around, forget the chair was there, and—boof!—hit it on her second go. Same with walls. Same with humans.

Did it matter that Daisy was dumb as a pile of bricks? Nope. Not a bit. Not one lick. When I looked through applications from prospective families, I just screened accordingly, because Daisy was dumb, and she was also perfect. The perfect companion. Perfectly loyal. Perfectly happy. Perfectly zen.

Now, I’ve been working for a number of years on being more compassionate toward myself instead of, well, a huge dick. I used to spend a lot of time telling myself I was stupid. Usually in threes, sometimes with a fourth for extra emphasis. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, Beth,” I’d say, “I can’t believe you [did/said] something so stupid.” I do that less often now. Years of practice makes it merely a regular occurrence rather than an endless mantra on repeat in my head. So that’s… progress. At least I can hear it now, recognize it as self-destructive, and choose to treat myself like I’d treat a friend. Eventually.

But lately, I realized I still have a tiny bit of work to do on the self-talk front, and I know this is a little departure from the Daisy story, but bear with me. We’ll get back to her, I swear.

We’re 11 months into the After Times, 14 months into 2020: the Extended Version with added coup attempt scenes, and 4 years into a real rude awakening about xenophobia, racism, exclusion, and power-mongering in our nation and our churches. So I suppose it’s no mystery why I’m tired. Spiritually. Emotionally. Intellectually. Socially. Physically. Psychologically. Mentally. All the -lys.

No, it’s no mystery why I’m tired. It’s no mystery why any of us are. And it makes sense, too, that stress will find a way out. It must. It’s meant to. If we don’t give it an escape-hatch, or, better yet, multiple emergency exits (white lights lead to red lights), it’ll dig its way to freedom, and our bodies will bear the pain.

That’s what my body’s been doing. It’s been telling me ALL about the stresses I’m feeling. And when my body communicates with me, I most often respond with anger, shame, and derision.

Weight gain? God, Beth, you have no discipline.

Insomnia? Fatigue? FFS, just calm down and SLEEP.

Pain? Aching? Swollen joints? You’d have none of those if you had a better exercise regimen, you lazy sack.

It’s a real treat to live here inside my head, in other words. I’m a DELIGHT, and I love being with me ALL THE TIME.

The thing is, I would never even think—much less say—unkind things like that to a friend. And I especially wouldn’t shower such cruelties on someone experiencing trauma. And yet, that’s what we’ve been enduring. A collective, extended trauma.

And I realized… I’ve literally been treating myself worse than a dog.

See, Daisy came from a traumatic situation. When I picked her up, she was filthy, matted, and injured. She made a mess of my tub when I bathed her. She pooped and peed on my floors. She ruined a pair of shoes because she didn’t have any inside manners yet. She was anxious at night. She was disoriented and scared. But did I call her a lazy sack? Sure didn’t. Did I tell her she sucks at discipline? Nope. Did I yell FFS, Daisy, just calm down and SLEEP when she cried? Of course not.

I petted her until she relaxed. I used a quiet, gentle voice. I told her she’d be OK, that she was safe now, that I was here to help. I moved slowly, and I backed off if she seemed nervous. I was careful about introducing her to new situations, and I told her it’s OK to be afraid. I snuggled her when she sought comfort. I let her have toys and treats that brought her joy. And I told her over and over, her is such a gud gurl. Yes, her is. Such a gud, gud gurl.

And look, I understand this is one of those Well, Duh epiphanies, but being kind and compassionate to yourself is more than just ceasing and desisting with the “stupid, stupid, stupids.”

Being kind and compassionate to yourself is recognizing the trauma you’ve endured, the stress you’re under, and treating yourself like the scared, fragile, valuable being you are. It’s whispering “there, there, sweet bunny” while you run a warm bath. It’s providing comfort when you’re scared. It’s allowing treats and toys with no atonement or suffering attached. It’s stretching that aching muscle. It’s reading a book without berating yourself for being lazy… it’s reading a book just because the book is delicious and you enjoy your time inside it.

At its core, being kind and compassionate toward yourself is just saying, you is such a gud human. Yes, you is. You is such a gud, gud human. And saying it over and over until it starts to sink in.

I know for sure that’s what Daisy would say if she could talk. Which I suppose makes her a very smart dog after all.

With love and waving in the dark,

P.S. A few Real Things I’m doing to treat myself as well as I’d treat a dog:

1. Reading AntiDiet by Christy Harrison, MPH, RD to detox from diet- and weight-based-culture. This book was a fast read and A REAL EYE OPENER. I had no idea—NO IDEA—I might not be the problem. I just thought my weight gain was because I a) was weak and/or b) didn’t know how to have a body. Turns out, I was wrong on both counts.

2. I’m putting myself to bed as if I’m a small child. I have an alarm set every night for 8pm as a reminder to get ready for bed. I brush my teeth, allow myself a glass of water, a trip to the potty, and a book. Lights out by 9:30pm. This has helped my mental health immeasurably.

3. I made doctors’ appointments to try to dial down some of my aching and joint swelling. I was trying to power through the pain. “It’s minor,” I said. “So many people have it worse,” I said. Turns out, I needed different drugs and they really helped.

4. I’m eating food when I’m hungry and not congratulating myself for skipping meals (i.e. “being disciplined”)—this is related to #1, obviously, but I didn’t realize I’VE BEEN HUNGRY FOR 25 YEARS. Eating when I’m hungry instead of trying to decide if “it’s time” or I “deserve/have earned” it has been good for my body and my brain.

5. Yoga. My sister-in-law swears by Yoga with Adrienne on YouTube so I finally searched for Adrienne’s beginner workouts, and WHAT DO YOU KNOW, KIM WAS RIGHT AS USUAL. Mostly, I love these because they’re truly gentle, kind movement and they’re reinforcing self-compassion. It’s a physical practice that feels good and soothing instead of hard and painful.

P.P.S. PRETTY PLEASE do not use that last P.S. to be mean to yourself or feel badly if you’re not doing those things. I only say this because that’s my reaction every time I read a list like it. As I said, I’m PRECIOUS. It took me an entire year to get those 5 things on board.

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Once upon a time there was a woman who lived during a pandemic, and she was tired.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 26 Jan 2021 20:52:46 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived during a pandemic, and she had expectations about herself and who she was and how productive she ought to be, and isn’t that a funny thing?

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived before a pandemic, and she was in a river, metaphorically speaking, rushing along, pulled by the current of parenting and productivity and progress. The Before Times, she calls it now that she lives in the After Times. The Before Times with a social schedule and appointments and meetings and seeing whole faces at the grocery store. The Before Times, that rushing river, sweeping her through her days from alarm bells in the morning, running running running to What’s Next, usually late, blaming herself that Functional People seemed to be stronger swimmers, heads above water, accomplishing more than her, even while navigating the rapids.

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived before a pandemic, and she saw the warning signs along the bank that Danger may be Ahead. A worldwide sickness. A deadly force making its way steadily forward. But it was the Before Times, and she’d seen warning signs before that didn’t come to fruition—earthquakes, hurricanes, snow storms, fires—so she didn’t worry much. Even if the pandemic came, it would be for a season, she thought, like Spring. Perhaps through Summer? Maybe even a year. But she didn’t expect—not really—that she’d be ten months in and anticipating ten months more. At least. Initially, she thought in terms of weeks. Two weeks? Three? Four is a whole month. Then she thought in terms of months. Then a year. A year and a half. Now, she realizes it may approach two. Two years. Next Spring? 2022? If we’re lucky. If enough people are vaccinated. If the vaccines protect against the new variants. If we learn what percentage of the population is required to achieve herd immunity. If if if if if if if.

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived during a pandemic, and she was both glad to leave the river of the Before Times—adios, packed schedule!—and disoriented in the spill and swell of the After Times. Her introvert self didn’t mind all the Not Talking and Not Socializing. It was nice not to say no or need a reason to lay low and be quiet. But it was also stressful to swirl in the eddies of the unknown, caught in conflicting currents, dragged ‘round and ‘round. How do we do this safely? How do we protect mental health? When is an eddy a whirlpool? When is it a maelstrom?

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived during a pandemic, and she noticed changes in her body. An invisible weight on her shoulders. Aching in her joints. Tension in her jaw. Increased, generalized pain. More dips into the ibuprofen bottle. Depression? She wondered. Time for a medication adjustment? Or just, you know, living during a pandemic and political upheaval and civil unrest and racial injustice and economic crisis? Hitting the pandemic wall. Smack. Straight to the face. Or both. Maybe both. Probably both. All of the above.

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived during a pandemic, and she was tired. Viscerally. And realizing this could have been a much shorter blog post, because that really captured the whole essence, anyway. But she wasn’t the only one who was tired and turning turning turning ‘round and around, and sometimes it’s enough to know you’re not alone.

So, you know, I just thought I’d throw this out there to let you know. In case you’re that person, too.

With love and waving in the dark,

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Memories of Coup Attempts Gone By

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 07 Jan 2021 02:21:09 +0000

There were two reasons school was canceled when I was in ninth grade—typhoons and coup attempts—and in the manner of privileged and oblivious youth everywhere, I was afraid of neither.

I was 13 when I left my parents for boarding school in the Philippines, making the four-day trip from Indonesia with two 15-year-old boys and another 13-year-old girl who never knew where she’d last seen her passport. In retrospect, it strikes me as wildly irresponsible and not a little crazy that our parents shooed us off with no adult supervision, crossing fingers we’d end up at our final destination, and, since I’ve become a parent myself I’ve asked them in a calm and measured tone, WHAT IN THE WORLD WERE YOU THINKING. Their answer? YES, IT WAS WILDLY IRRESPONSIBLE AND NOT A LITTLE CRAZY, Beth, but {{shrug}} everyone was doing it, so…

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And, honestly, they’re right. Everyone in our little missionary circle was mailing their children to other countries, and who were we to swim against the current? Also, I begged to be allowed to go. Begged and begged and begged. And also-also, I knew to my bones I was easily old and mature enough to handle it. The hostels. The airports. The midnight taxi rides through Jakarta following crates of chickens tied to motorbikes. Defying Jeff Schroeder when he told me to behave in the Customs line and proving to him you can, too, do cartwheels without being arrested. Confiscating Bethany Ketchum’s passport and keeping it with mine because I swear to God, Bethany, if you lose your passport one more time, I am leaving you in Singapore.

And I suppose I’m thinking about all of this today because the last time I was in-country for a coup attempt was 1987. I was 13. I had just arrived in the Philippines with the boys and Bethany and my big blue trunk. We had a few weeks to settle in at school, and then one morning we got to sleep in.

I shared the small pink room at the end of the hall with a senior named Kim. Years later, after we both coincidentally moved from Southeast Asia to Washington state, the age difference in our friendship came in handy; she was 21 when I was 17, so I had someone on hand to buy me Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers by the bushel.

But at 13, newly arrived, Kim was assigned to me and me to her, and we lived in relative harmony in our dorm with a dozen other girls. Which isn’t to say we didn’t drive each other insane, but is to say our squabbles were all petty and we knew it. And on the morning of August 28, 1987, which I only know because I looked it up on Wikipedia, Kim shook me awake.

When I pried open my eyeballs, she whispered, “You can turn your alarm off. No school. Coup attempt.”

Those two striking words.

No. School.

I smiled and fell back asleep.

My other memories of that day come in fits and starts.

I remember walking downstairs mid-morning and asking what a coup attempt was.

I remember sitting on concrete benches behind the gym on the hill that looked out over Manila where it all unfolded.

I remember my grandfather calling me from Oregon, on the telephone, the only time in the three years we were outside the United States that I heard his voice. I sat on the floor by the clunky black phone. “Beth? Are you OK?” his voice crackled over the line with giant pauses as his words swam the whole Pacific. “We’re watching the news,” he explained. I was confused, honestly. Baffled. It took me several expensive minutes to correlate the call with the coup. “Oh! Yeah, it’s fine, Grandpa,” I said, “I think the US Air Force sends helicopters if the rebels get too close?” Strangely, he seemed no less worried.

And I remember watching the news ourselves that afternoon, bunched together on our dorm parents’ red rug. Seeing the gunfire live. Feeling utterly removed from events happening just miles away. Like it was unreal, as make-believe as an action movie and as impactful on my life except that it’s a weird story from a weird childhood.

And I guess that’s how I feel tonight, too, after watching a coup attempt unfold in the United States capitol today. Like it was unreal, as make-believe as an action movie. Except this time it’s a weird story from my kids’ weird childhood.

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Watching Things Burn and Defying the Dark: Thoughts on 2020

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 06 Jan 2021 01:17:06 +0000

Once upon a time, in the 1980s, I lived in the Stone Age. I didn’t use a time machine to get there, but only technically.

I was 11 or 12 or 13 then, on the cusp of adult awakening, and I vanished from the land where Madonna’s Like A Virgin and Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean and Olivia Newton John’s Let’s Get Physical with their deliciously lascivious lyrics played over the speakers at K-Mart, whisked away by my parents to a literal jungle in the Pacific where women tied strings around their waists for modesty, and men used dried squashes as clothes, and tools were fashioned from rocks and sticks, and everything smelled like barbecued sweat except when it smelled like monsoon rains as if the air had congealed into liquid, breathable earth.

Life was… more real in the jungle. Less pretend. And I was at ease on mud paths beside thatched huts in a way I wasn’t with the material girls and fluorescent lights of ‘civilization.’ Perhaps that’s how it always feels to come of age, though. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that the jungle was where I started to feel more at home in my own skin. Perhaps it’s always in a jungle of sorts where people discover themselves, and mine just happened to be literal.

We lived, by local standards, a life of outrageous luxury. Our floors were made of wood, not dirt, and our walls were preserved with used airplane oil, slick and black and less likely to rot. We cooked on a cast iron stove which vented outside, instead of over naked fire in a haze of smoke like the neighboring tribe. We had gravity-fed water on demand—except when the pigs uprooted the pipes—and a tiny propane heater to light for hot showers in our single bathroom. And we shared a diesel generator with five other aristocratic families which meant electricity nearly every afternoon and into the first couple hours of darkness. It was, in Bokondini, Papua, the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

At 11 or 12 or 13, I was an avid reader, and I preferred trashy novels, the smuttier the better. Also at 47. But in the jungle in 1980-something, book-beggars couldn’t be choosers, so I used my electric hours to read a few dog-earred Grace Livingston Hill romances (sadly lacking much smut at all) and an enormously thick Victor Hugo double-feature hardback housing both Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. In a pinch, I pulled out The Encyclopedia Britannica and scoured it for anything salacious, with little luck. And when the evening electricity died, I defied the night with the battery-operated light over the kitchen table, reading to the background music of rats thundering through the rafters, a sound that strikes me only now as one that ought to have been unsettling.

My job during the late nights when I was 11 or 12 or 13 was to stoke the fire in its compartment of the wood cook stove.

Before she went to bed, my mother laid the logs for the next morning in the oven. Then she rose before dawn, a good Proverbs 31 wife, and used the baked, dried logs to kindle the fire again to boil the water to make the coffee to fuel my father’s day, flying humanitarian aid and missionaries through the villages of the Papuan highlands.

It was a system that worked until it didn’t, because one night I stayed awake later than usual and although I was studiously lazy and pointedly unreliable about chores at 11 or 12 or 13, I was, for whatever reason, diligent about stoking the fire. I stoked and stoked that night. And stoked and stoked. And instead of keeping the fire at a low burn, I managed to raise the heat enough to set the logs in the oven on fire.

Our little oil-soaked cabin filled with smoke, and I thundered down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, a sound no doubt unsettling to the rats. “There’s a fire!” I yelled. “In the oven!” And my father leapt from the bed, naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden, and neither of us cared as we otherwise might, my father in his 30s and me at 11 or 12 or 13 confronted thusly. There was a fire. A hierarchy of needs. No time for modesty or embarrassment. He grabbed a robe and threw it on as he followed me back down the hall, tying the sash, peering through the smoke.

And then he snagged the logs, one by one, whether with tongs or magic or his bare hands I don’t remember, but I do remember he carried them carefully—so, so carefully—past the oiled exterior where he laid them on the rocks where they burned and glowed and eventually sputtered and died, my dad watching for stray sparks while I shook and cried and said, “I’m sorry, Imsorry, Imsorry, Imsorry.”

We tell the story now with humor. HAHAHA REMEMBER THE NIGHT BETH ALMOST BURNED THE HOUSE DOWN BECAUSE SHE LOVES TO READ? It’s part of the family archives. The sacred texts we pass along, generation to generation. Our oral history. And I laugh along with everyone else when we, the matriarchs and patriarchs, the sages and crones, sit by the figurative hearth and spin our tales to the youngers. But at the same time there is a whisper that flits through my mind—a tiny ghost on a figure-eight infinity loop from brain to gut, crossing always through the heart—pressing the story deeper. Compacting it. Condensing it. With children, with their every failure, imagined and otherwise, we have the opportunity to build trust or rob it. And that night when my father could have railed and stomped and unleashed the fear of his family burning in the night—when he could have said, “what were you thinking” and rightfully so, since I was old enough to know fire begets fire—he said instead, “It is not your fault. It’s mine. I should’ve told you when to stop.”

That night when I was 11 or 12 or 13 was stillness first, a tiny light in the dark, then panic, then relief, then shame, and finally one of the great miracles, Shame Absolved, when my father, standing by the embers, proclaimed me innocent, though I’d nearly burned our house down in the middle of the jungle.

All of which is, I suppose, the long way around to say I don’t take power for granted. Not the power of fire. Not the power of a parent. Not the power of crafting relationship, building a child. Not the power of a pandemic. Not the power of the people rising. Not the power of a year upended. Which I know is a jumble, but bear with me?

The 1980s are history, as is the version of me at 11 or 12 or 13. And my parents in their 30s, drying wood and building fires and putting them out. And that life in the jungle full of days and nights and defying the dark but at a cost, whether of fuel or battery or danger or mental health. And now 2020 is gone, too. Past. Final. Done. Over. With all its complexity. With all its angst. With all its sudden danger in the night. And stillness. And scurrying. And rats in the rafters. And watching things burn. With its costs for defying the dark.

We’re a few days into a new year, and I keep trying to make sense of the year gone by, as though it’s a substance to be neatly packaged and shelved. I sat down at my desk today to do just that. Wrap up 2020. Stow it and look forward. But instead of writing something simple—something linear and defined—I keep thinking about fire and power. And jungles and privilege. And about how nothing is simple, especially not a fresh start.

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There’s a Dead Bird in My Bed: The COVID Diaries

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 31 Dec 2020 00:45:34 +0000

Dear Diary,

Does it mean something nefarious if you end 2020 by waking up to a dead bird in your bed?

Like, if the morning gifts you a deceased flying creature, is that a portent of things to come? Is it a severed horse head, a la The Godfather? A harbinger of dread?

Or is simply an acknowledgement, like the universe is saying, “Yep. 2020 WAS SOMETHING, amirite? HERE’S A DEAD BIRD TO COMMEMORATE IT. YOU’RE WELCOME.”

Please LMK. I feel like I’m on a need-to-know around here.

Love,

P.S. Gregory believes the dead bird is neither a warning nor a nod from the universe. He believes a dead bird in bed is a natural consequence of putting our bed in the living room.

He says when you give the animals direct access from the outside to our bed, this is what happens.

He says when you put our bed in the main thoroughfare, such things became inevitable.

I say Greg is out of touch with messages from the universe.

P.P.S. The universe put other things in our bed this year, as well.

It occurs to me, belatedly, the universe may just be effing with me. If so, well played, universe. Well played.

P.P.P.S. Speaking of things in beds, if you ever wonder if your children will stop crawling in bed with you, the answer is no.

No, they will not. And they will bring their giant, muddy 80 pound puppy with them.

P.P.P.P.S. Seven people and three dogs and two cats and one dead bird is a lot of creatures in one house. I am wildly grateful. ALSO, BEING STUCK INSIDE TOGETHER IN WINTER IN A PANDEMIC WITH BIG PERSONALITIES IS A SPECIAL TREAT. I would provide a full account of all the arguments we’ve had this week, but I can’t count that high. Just know we’re fighting about Critically Important Things like Who Stole My Pen, and No Really Someone Took It, and Who Would Steal a Pen That’saStupidThingtoSteal, and Oh Yeah?WellYour Face Is StuPid.

So, you know. That’s how it’s going.

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I’m Alive and Dead Simultaneously: The COVID Diaries

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 30 Dec 2020 01:03:49 +0000

Dear Diary,

It is four days after Christmas and three days until the New Year, and I have done everything this month, and also I have done nothing at all. I did the Necessary Holiday Things; there was stuff in stockings, there were presents under the plastic tree, I was wildly grateful for my ridiculous gaggle of loud, obnoxious, sweary humans, and I also felt like a lump who accomplished Zero… a lump who maybe should have done more? Been more? Like there should have been more hot meals prepared with my hands and perhaps some mopping of the muddy floors? Like I should have made cheerful Christmas cookies for the neighbors and peppermint fudge. Or written a few letters by hand instead of shooting emails into the ether.

I don’t know quite how to describe this “Being a Human in 2020” phenomenon. It’s like a forced rest with no rest at all. Like sleeping without being refreshed. Like someone took an ice cream scoop to my brain, turning it into an homage to Swiss cheese and causing random system failures. The ice cream scoop is stress, I’m sure, but an exacerbated variety that causes me to Fight, Fly, and Freeze all at once, instead of choosing just one of the Lizard Brain responses. As a result, this year feels like I’m nervously standing still while running screaming into the dark. Like I’m Schrödinger’s Cat and 2020 is the Box; I’m alive and dead simultaneously.

Is it strange living through a global pandemic? For absolute sure. It’s surreal to pause so many parts of life and not know when to reboot while other parts proceed, full steam ahead. And it’s particularly odd knowing this year will be a formative memory for my children. This—this right here, right now—is their childhood. This is what they’ll tell their children and grandchildren. What feels like a holding pattern to me is the actual journey for them.

But at the same time, I feel like my weird, wild family had a jumpstart on Living in Ludicrous Times. We, after all, have been Very Bizarre for decades now, eschewing what’s Normal whenever Normal failed to deliver joy. I just didn’t expect that to give me a leg up, easing our transition into the After Times.

I keep wondering, especially during the holidays, what magical fairyland people lived in before 2020, because it seems that Chaos and Uncertainty are entirely new to some folks. On the one hand, I’m sympathetic. Chaos and Uncertainty are hard and heartbreaking because they inherently carry elements of loss; it’s not a simple thing to mourn How Things Were Supposed to Be. On the other hand, Chaos and Uncertainty can be gifts that rip through our carefully constructed boxes and, if we dare to look, show us a whole world beyond them. A world that’s more flexible. A world where we’re more compassionate to others and to ourselves.

In small ways, I’m starting to see some constraints crumble and freedom leak into the cracks. There was no real debate this year, for the first time I can remember, about when trees and lights can go up and when we’re allowed to sing about Rudolph and Silent Nights. Instead, everyone was all, “IT’S ALL EFFING CHAOS, PUT YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE UP IN SEPTEMBER, TAKE IT DOWN IN MAY, LISTEN TO CHRISTMAS MUSIC WHENEVER IT MAKES YOU HAPPY, EAT CANDY CANES ALL YEAR LONG.” Like this year we collectively decided light and joy are invited on all the days in all their forms, and it doesn’t make sense to ration or confine them.

I find myself nodding along and saying, “Yes, yes! Welcome to the Wilderness, friends. Our rules out here are Compassion, Love, and Joy. The end. Anything that helps further those aims is encouraged.”

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Hibernating — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 08 Dec 2020 19:32:12 +0000

Dear Diary,

The fog is thick this morning, a cold cocoon chrysalis shielding our house and holding it suspended in time.

It has been 38 days since my last confession.

I’ve been quiet, I think, because I’m hibernating.

The isolation and confinement of trying to be wise, trying to protect our people, has forced a sort of inward focus. Like an owl tucking its face in its wing for slumber. Or a dog curled up by the fireplace, tail over its nose.

Oh, my home is still Chaos Made Manifest. Large humans prowl at all hours and yell fuck at their video screens and thunder up and down the stairs and leave evidence of whole meals made in the wee hours of the morning. Gummy sauce splatters decorate the counters. Noodles, cooked then spilled then dried, grace the stovetop burners. Crumbs from bread and cereal and crackers litter the kitchen table. Bits of shaved cheese turn into oily stones. Dogs leave muddy footprints on the floor and the couch and my bed. There is no shortage of Things Which Must Be Done: bills to pay, food to buy, chores to manage, school to monitor, and on and on and on and on.

Still, I feel as though I’m hibernating. Hunkering down. Curling in on myself. Not in a bad way. Nor just because it’s winter. But because it’s the season for it. The spot in this, the strangest of all timelines, when hunkering is required of me.

I have a routine for this time of year. Or I did, in the Before Times. Now that routine, full of bustle and haste, is gone. It didn’t flee. It… evaporated. It was there one day, then it became air and floated away. And I know that’s hard for a lot of folks right now who are craving Normalcy, but it’s not very hard for me. I’m not mourning that this will be a different Christmas. Or, I’m not mourning it much. I long to hug my mom and my dad; other than that, I’m oddly content. Like the molecules that make up my cells recognize this blueprint, the twin demands of active rest and passive growth. Like it’s physiological. An urge like hunger or exhaustion for which the solution is clear. I want to resist it no more than I want to resist gravity. Which is to say, I sometimes pull against it anyway, but not a lot and not for long.

I guess… I just wanted to say I’m still here.

Hibernating, but here.

And waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. I’ve been using this time to write and write and write and write. Not here in this space. On something wholly different. Maybe I’ll get to show you those words one day.

P.P.S. How are you? Are you hanging in there?

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Sorry Our Kids Left Their Beer Bong on the Porch

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 01 Nov 2020 22:51:59 +0000

Last night was Halloween, and it was weird for us. For the first time in 22 years, we took no children trick-or-treating. The combination of COVID days and mental health and older kids who don’t feel the need to trick-or-treat made it an easy decision. A non-decision, really. We discussed it for less than a minute, and then we moved on.

Now, listen. If you have younger kids—or really kids of ANY age—who DID care about trick-or-treating and you were out and about walking the streets, you’ll get no judgement from me. I saw all the masks and candy chutes and drive-by trick-or-treating. All y’all were creative in finding safe ways to celebrate, and I’m here for it. Good for you!

I’m just saying we didn’t do it.

I carefully made sure our lights were off. I closed the garage door. I shut the front curtains.

My only real mistake was that I failed to go around to the various members of our household—the four adult children, the two teens, and the spouse man—to tell them THE LIGHTS ARE OFF ON PURPOSE. And PLEASE DO NOT TURN THE LIGHTS BACK ON. And IT IS HALLOWEEN; WE ARE UNPREPARED FOR TRICK-OR-TREATERS.

So, you know. My bad. The whole thing is pretty much my fault.

Now I should back up here just briefly to mention people walk through our front yard on the regular. It’s a long(ish) story, and I won’t go into the whole thing, but there’s a lot of property behind ours, and it houses a school, a mile-long walking trail, and a church. And the only way to access any of it is from a busy highway. Unless you walk through our yard. Greg and I decided long ago we’d rather have all the school children from our neighborhood traipsing through our front lawn than making the longer and more dangerous hike to the highway and walking alongside speeding cars and semi-trucks to get to class.

Eventually, our lawn gave way to a well-worn path, and finally, during COVID, we paved a sidewalk to make it easier for strollers and bikes and skateboards as the neighborhood (with our blessing) uses it as a thoroughfare. We have the weirdest front yard of all the front yards in all of suburbia, as far as I can tell.

Bonus: we know a lot of our neighbors, at least by sight if not by name. Dozens of people walk through every day. Often, whole families walk younger kids to and from school. Or young mamas trying to get outside for a stroll in the oak grove.

Well, no more than ten minutes after I doused the lights last night, the door bell rang.

I popped my head ‘round the corner to see the front lights blazing and a sweet young family—one that often walks through the yard, taking their daughter to the *very conservative Christian school* behind our house—stood there with little ones to trick-or-treat.

Earlier in the evening, the oldest children—the ADULT children who are twenty-two years old and married—were playing with a homemade beer bong. You know, a funnel with a valve and a plastic tube. You pour a (really crappy) beer in the top with the valve closed, hold it up high, position a person at bottom with their mouth wrapped around the tube, and release the valve. The whole beer shoots down the tube.

Honestly, if you’re anti-drinking, you should be pro-beer-bong, because the whole beer rarely ends up inside the human at the other end of the tube. Inevitably, the carbonated liquid moves too fast, the person ends up sputtering, and the beer sprays out onto the ground.

Anyway. Earlier in the evening, the oldest children—the ADULT children who pay their own bills—were playing with the beer bong, and, while they cleaned up their empties and spills, they left the beer bong there.

Out of the way. But THERE.

Which really isn’t a problem because the sweet young family with the sweet small children who attend the sweet Christian school probs didn’t know what it was. Just a red funnel and a tube. One hundred percent guaranteed that wasn’t the weirdest thing they’ve seen at our house in the months and years they’ve been walking through. And even if they DID know what it was, we could just all pointedly ignore it, yes?

Yes.

We could just ignore the beer bong on the front porch while the trick-or-treaters trick-or-treated.

No harm, no foul.

Just another Weird Woolsey Event.

EXCEPT THAT GREG—the dear, sweet, CHATTY human I married—opened the door, gave the tiny darlings candy, and said…

“Oh! Sorry our kids left their beer bong on the porch.” And then he scooped it up, brought it inside, said, “Happy Halloween!” over his shoulder, and closed the door.

And I stood there, dumbfounded.

“Did you…”

“Did you just…”

“Did you tell those small humans we had a beer bong on our porch?”

Greg looked at me blankly.

“Did you tell those people who walk their precious babies to the very conservative Christian school—past our Pride flag and our Black Lives Matter sign—we had a beer bong on our porch?”

Greg’s eyes got wider. The horror I felt was dawning on him, which was satisfying because I definitely felt like it was a burden I should not share alone.

“Did you tell them that OUR KIDS LEFT THEIR BEER BONG ON THE PORCH without, oh, say, MENTIONING THEY’RE ADULTS and we’re not letting our underage children pound back cold ones as a fun Halloween activity?”

“Oh no,” Greg whispered. “Oh no.”

“‘Sorry our kids left their beer bong on the porch?… SORRY OUR KIDS LEFT THEIR BEER BONG ON THE PORCH??’”

Friends, I don’t even know…

I’m not sure what to say.

How do you recover from ‘sorry our kids left their beer bong on the porch?’

So far, we’ve just laughed. And laughed and laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. And I haven’t stopped wandering around the house yelling, ‘SORRY OUR KIDS LEFT THEIR BEER BONG ON THE PORCH.’

Because, well, we’re sorry our kids left their beer bong on the porch. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And, um, if you had to explain to your first grader last night what a beer bong is, sorry about that, too.

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The Most Impossible Task: Saying I’m Not OK

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 21 Oct 2020 22:59:45 +0000

If you struggle with depression like I do, and if you haven’t yet read M. Molly Backes’ viral twitter string about the Impossible Task, I highly recommend it as something to help put words to a common symptom of this insidious disease.

Depression commercials always talk about sadness but they never mention that sneaky symptom that everyone with depression knows all too well: the Impossible Task. (Other sneaky symptoms they don’t mention are numbness, anxiety, and inexplicable rage—just FYI for folks trying to figure this crap out. Depression comes in disguise, folks. It rarely announces itself via sadness.¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

The Impossible Task is rarely actually difficult. It’s something you’ve done a thousand times. For this reason, it’s hard for outsiders to have sympathy. “Why don’t you just do it and get it over with” “It would take you like 20 minutes and then it would be done.” OH WE KNOW.

We DO know. And M. Molly Backes addresses this later in the string, but it’s not just hard for outsiders to have sympathy. This is also the whip those of us with depression use to flagellate ourselves again and again. “I can’t return that phone call; GOD, I AM SUCH A LAZY SACK.” “I just need to do ONE load of laundry, and I can’t get up from the couch. I AM SLOTH PERSONIFIED.” We are, in a few words, truly terrible friends to ourselves. These task SEEM so simple. But they are agonizing.

The Impossible Task could be anything: going to the bank, refilling a prescription, making your bed, checking your email, paying a bill. From the outside, its sudden impossibility makes ZERO sense.

And from the inside, too. It’s baffling, even to live it. It’s baffling, especially to live it. The cognitive dissonance is profound. Intellectually, one thing is clearly true — like, it takes less than three minutes, maybe less than one, to start the load of laundry. Experientially, the opposite is the case — the load of laundry is Mount Everest, and you’re at its base without the gear or training to summit. And the war of logic vs. reality is disconcerting to say the least.

In my time, I’ve had hundreds of Impossible Tasks, but I will tell you the biggest one—the most persistent and reliable of all the Impossible Tasks. The one that breathes down my neck and assaults me at night. The one that has the sharpest teeth. And it’s this:

The most Impossible Task is saying to someone else, “I’m not OK.”

Like the other Impossible Tasks, there’s no rhyme or reason to it. There’s no cause I can point to that makes sense. Depression is never about making sense, though; in fact, it’s effective at undermining us because it ignores logic entirely.

The most Impossible Task is saying to someone else, “I’m not OK.” And it’s not because I think no one will be kind. It’s not because I think no one will understand. It’s not because I think no one will help. Now that I’m an Experienced Depression Survivor, it’s not even because I’m embarrassed or afraid of appearing to be weak or in any way ashamed.

Still, the most Impossible Task is saying to someone else, “I’m not OK.” The idea of uttering those words makes me breathless every time. It makes my hands go clammy. It makes my heart beat molto allegro. It makes my body flush warm from my belly. It is exactly the same feeling I had standing on a platform 40 feet in the air and jumping for a trapeze ring; I was harnessed to a wire above my head; I knew in my mind I was safe; but my body was telling me otherwise, and there was a long while when I didn’t know which would win. It was, aptly, called the Leap of Faith. And I did it. I leaped. Just like I’ve managed, eventually, to leap each time depression has reared its head. But it hard, friends.

Saying “I’m not OK” is hard.

It takes Herculean strength.

It takes monumental effort.

And I want to say it gets easier with time, but I’m not sure that’s honest. I mean, I’ve been living with and battling depression for years, and I know things now I didn’t always. I have behavioral and coping strategies in place. I can recognize, given enough time, a downward spiral. I will notice myself picking at my skin or pulling bits of hair or staying up too late or wanting to sleep all day. I can see my frenetic, squirrelly nut-gathering and its foundation in panic.

But the idea of saying out loud, “I’m not OK” remains difficult in the extreme.

Saying, “I’m struggling” is, in and of itself, an overwhelming struggle.

Which is rough because the Most Impossible Task is, in my experience, the only way out of the hole. Telling someone is necessary to seek healing. Acknowledging the storm raging within is the only way to navigate a path away from it.

I had to say this week I wasn’t OK. I’m not OK. I’m not horrible. I’m not drowning. But, as my friend Heidi says, I am unable to can. I’ve cut All the Things from my calendar because I’m unable to can. I’m not returning phone calls because I’m unable to can. I have a list of To Do items on hold because I’m unable to can.

It’s the right choice to back away from the tasks for a bit. I have enough Depression Management under my belt to know this is a boundary I need in order to protect and repair my brain. I still hate it. I hate that, every so often, I have to send Cease and Desist letters my activities. But I also know intervening earlier on behalf of mental health is way, WAY better than waiting.

I just wanted to note, though, out loud, that the most Impossible Task is saying to someone else, “I’m not OK.”

And I wanted to say it important to take the leap anyway. Breathless and nervous, sweaty palms and all, it’s the most important thing to say.

Waving in the dark, friends,

P.S. Also…

If you currently have one or more Impossible Tasks in your life, be gentle with yourself. You’re not a screw up; depression is just an asshole. Impossible Tasks are usually so dumb that it’s embarrassing to asked for help, but the people who love you should be glad to lend a hand. Girlfriend knows what she’s talking about.

P.P.S. In behavioral therapy, I’ve learned when faced with Impossible Tasks to try to do one thing. It doesn’t have to be the Impossible Task. It can be Anything. I just have to try. Like, if I can’t make a phone call, maybe I can eat a bowl of cereal and try to give my body some energy. Not so I can make the phone call; just so I can accomplish One Healthy Thing. Just to do something kind and helpful for myself. I’ll tell you, friends, doing One Thing at a time—one gentle thing without reprimanding yourself and without a secret agenda to sneak in All the Things—can help illuminate the path back to health.

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On Doing Way Too Much and Not Nearly Enough: What October 2020 Feels Like

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 19 Oct 2020 03:33:44 +0000

I drive four mornings each week up the winding roads of Parrett Mountain, past alpaca farms and vineyards and into the Douglas Fir forests as I climb. It’s a slow drive by necessity; there are steep drop-offs and no guard rails or shoulders to offer forgiveness if you stray.

It always feels peaceful to me, that drive: the forced slowing of my typical pace, the tiered ruffles of the fir branches like a designer got carried away layering petticoats, the falcons that circle overhead, and the deer that dive down the canyons.

It’s fall, though, so right now it’s Squirrel Suicide Season, and it’s impossible to make the drive without grey fuzzballs dashing from the underbrush and streaking toward my tires.

Multiple squirrels with death wishes. All of them out of their minds. Never a single trip without myriad close calls. It’s a phenomenon, I tell you; it’s a whole bizarre thing.

Except I know what they’re doing, of course. They’re trying to survive. They’re feeling the biological pull and imperative of impending winter. Their minds are bent to their nut-gathering task to the exclusion of everything else. These squirrels, friends — they’re so focused meeting one need, they’re totally blind to the car barreling down on them. Their preparations for survival are going to be what lays them flat. And I feel nothing but sympathy and understanding this year.

I get it, squirrels.

To my bones.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written in this space, friends, for good reasons and busy ones and also a few that feel too murky and messy to explain very well because my brain is muddy right now and I’m not sure I can squeeze a lot of sense from it. I will say, though, that these times are something else. Something ELSE, folks. These Pandemic / Election / Civil Unrest / Fight for Justice / Back-to-School-but-also-Not-Back / Do Everything Differently / But Try to Retain a Sense of Normalcy / Don’t Get Discouraged / Keep Your Chin Up / OH AND ALSO the Holidays Are Coming SO MAKE THEM MAGICAL times are really something else.

So I’m doing that thing I do when I feel overwhelmed, which is DO EVERYTHING FRENETICALLY… except when I give up and do nothing at all.

Instead of All or Nothing these days, I feel like I’m deeply invested in All AND Nothing. Simultaneously. Every day. I’m giving 110% and also making backward progress. Like, not so much “one step forward and two steps back” as one desperate sprint forward only to discover I’m on a treadmill pointed in the wrong direction. Like I’m stepping on the gas as hard as I can but the wheels are just spinning without finding purchase.

Anyone else? Anyone doing Far Too Much and also Not at All Enough? And also reminding yourself YOU CAN’T ACTUALLY DO EVERYTHING, DUMMY, and, therefore, whatever you’re doing IS enough? Yeah, me, too. These are the thoughts that swirl in my mind, and I’ll be honest, it’s all a little confusing and disorienting up in here.

It’s all a little confusing and disorienting to try to make my kids’ childhood a good one when everything is out of whack and off kilter. We’re homeschooling in a small group. We’re following all of the “lowest risk” protocols to prevent COVID. We allow them to see friends outside with masks on. Is that enough? Is it too much? Are we adequately protecting the older folks in our community? Are we making good choices for the medically vulnerable? How do our actions affect our family and our mental health? How do our actions affect the community writ large? I do not have the answers to these questions. We’re just bumbling along over here.

It’s all a little confusing and disorienting to try to make wise financial choices while the economy plummets and my adult kids have moved home to cobble together gigs outside their fields of study when, truth be told, we have no earthly idea how well we might weather this crisis. I mean, is “Fingers Crossed” a good financial strategy? Because that’s the way we’re playing it. Also, is there any other option right now?

It’s all a little confusing and disorienting to continue to watch people and institutions I once respected and admired disregard the crippling and horrific consequences of the current administration on vulnerable populations. To watch them excuse and minimize the damage on refugees, widows and orphans, the poor and disabled, and the generationally disenfranchised. To watch them belittle the concerns of those who are suffering and to dismiss them so thoroughly. I’m baffled, really. I mean, I watch it happening, and I see the Evangelical Church double down and increase their support of the current president, and I understand that means they’ve abandoned the example and words of Jesus, but I still find myself in this strange stupor. Like the catastrophe of what the Evangelical Church has become — or always was? — isn’t real, despite the overwhelming evidence in front of us.

So here I am, in the last days before a presidential election, a little confused and disoriented. It’s certainly the most important election of my lifetime. The most consequential. The most heartbreaking as I watch folks choose between being insular and isolationist versus expansive and inclusive. The most meaningful as I wonder how our collective choice of national leader will affect our children — particularly our children of color, like my two daughters and one of my sons — and the opportunities and safeguards available to them.

And I feel like a squirrel, racing to get my provisions in line before the first frost comes. Frantically running back and forth across the road, cheeks stuffed with the next task, and the next, and the next. My cheeks are bulging with tasks. I feel compelled to finish All the Things. I feel a biological urge to do this work well because I understand in my rapidly beating heart and adrenaline infused limbs that our collective survival depends on it. Get out the vote so ALL the people are truly represented. Pass the school bond so ALL our kids have equitable, safe facilities. Champion anti-racism because ALL our kids are harmed when we ignore systemic racism.

Every single nugget is important right now — every nut I can squirrel away to make a kinder future possible. AND ALSO, I’m exhausted, and I’m not sure I’m doing very well from a mental health perspective. I feel compelled to keep doing the work. We only have a little while left. But I can also hear the tires squealing as the car barrels toward me, and I haven’t been doing my due diligence to avoid being run over. I haven’t been looking both ways before I cross the road. I’ve just been running back and forth.

I guess, in the end, all I really want to say is this:

Friends, we are engaged in critical, life-saving work, whether that work is election-related or just keeping our families afloat. And also, it’s OK if you’re struggling in the middle of it. This is a complicated time full of enormous pressure. I get the need to do more. To keep on keeping on. To push through and past our endurance because we’re racing against time and we want to see our people safe. Just… take a minute to assess the traffic, will you? Take a minute to make sure you’re safe. Take a minute to value your own survival as much as you value those you’re trying to provision.

I’m struggling right now, and even though the timing sucks — THE PRESSURE TO GATHER NUTS CONSUMES ME — I’ve decided to wait at the side of the road until I can cross safely. I’m saying no to worthwhile, important endeavors because I’m no longer in a position where I can say yes and protect my mental health.

In case you’re here, too, I wanted you to know you’re not alone.

With love and waving in the dark,

P.S. I started rewatching the West Wing last week so I could live in an alternative universe for a while where flawed people with good intentions try and fail and try and succeed to do well by the American people. They don’t always do the right thing, but they own it when they get it wrong. I know it’s a fantasy, but it’s bliss to live there for a few hours. Here’s hoping for kinder, more honest times ahead.

P.P.S. I’ve also been reading steampunk romance. Because Victorian London + political intrigue + steamy vampire(ish) love scenes = fabulous escapist fiction. And fabulous escapist fiction is working for my tired brain at the moment. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Equally escapist, steamy, and easy on the brain:

Polaris Rising by Jessie Mihalik — because who doesn’t love telepathic pirates in space?

Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews — mystery, action adventure, and hot superheroes. I’m just saying.

FYI — each of those are the first books in series. Sharing in case your brain needs a happy break, as well. Friends help friends’ brains chill the eff out.

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15 Realistic Recipes to Feed Your Family in an Apocalypse

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 13 Sep 2020 00:05:41 +0000

The pandemic continues, Oregon is on fire along with the rest of the West, and even though the fire a couple miles from our house is now 75% contained (THANK YOU, FIREFIGHTERS!), my brain is broken. Just totally kaput. Zero percent battery, and I forgot where I put my brain charger.

I was feeling badly about this, as though my inability to get anything done is proof that I’m a lazy sack who doesn’t deserve the air I breathe, even though that air is currently full of smoke and so dense we could chew it. But then several friends reminded me that our brains and our bodies are reacting exactly as they were built to do. There are fires in our forests. Visibility is shot due to opaque air. We’ve been at a heightened state of emergency for six months. OF COURSE WE’RE EXPERIENCING MENTAL SHUT DOWN. Our bodies are priming us to fight or flee. Our brains don’t need to form complete sentences right now. They don’t need to do anything other than basic survival.

Nevertheless, because I am a frickin’ hero, I made three new recipes for dinner this week. And because I know you, too, sometimes need dinner ideas, I shall graciously share them with you.

When my darling children whom I love more than life itself asked what was for dinner, I made:

1) Why Do You Ask Hard Questions?

Ingredients: Plastic container of smooshed limited edition powdered pumpkin donuts from the grocery store bakery section.

Instructions: Eat 4 of the 6 while doom scrolling Facebook for forest fire updates and leave everyone else to fend for themselves. If they want limited edition powdered pumpkin donuts from the grocery store bakery section, they can fight you for the 2 that are left.

2) It’s Like You Don’t Remember Where the Cereal Is

Ingredients: Five boxes cereal from Grocery Outlet (or other discount grocery store) that sounded Not Horrible, all open, all stale, and one half-gallon expired nonfat milk.

Instructions: Tell the humans in your house There Is, Too, Plenty of Food and you are ABSOLUTELY NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, buying more cereal until they finish what they already opened. They will eat Lean Cuisine Vermont White Cheddar mac and cheese they microwave themselves — leaving every bit of trash from those meals on the counter directly above the garbage can — except for the one child who (incorrectly) thinks the Hostess Twinkies cereal is awesome. Also, you will, too, buy more cereal before those boxes are finished because you’re a sucker and that’s how you roll.

3) IDK, What Are You Making Me?

Ingredients: Nothing.

Instructions: None needed, because no one is making me anything. I’m on my own. Am currently choosing between frost-bitten green tea ice cream and the dregs of the pretzel bag. It is what it is.

And, because sometimes we need more than just three recipe ideas, I asked my friends what they’ve made for their families this week, as well. Here are their contributions to your dinner table:

4) For the parent of teens: The last three days, I’m like, “Here’s some granola bars and beef jerky. I’ll be in the living room eating a bag of chips and stress scrolling on FB.” — Heidi

5) For the health conscious parent: Find a protein. Find a carb. Eat something that actually grew in a tree or in the ground. — Aj

6) For the parent of toddlers: i’ve prepared “my toddler will only eat four things and i’ve given up here are some chicken nuggets for the third time this week at least you’re putting protein in your body” so many times i’d go so far as to say it’s my specialty. note: do not recommend this recipe to sanctimommies. they will judge you and instead tell you to make “eat what i make or starve” and then judge you more. — Laney

7) For the parent diligently preparing her children for the future: My favorite thing for dinner is whatever leftover thing that isn’t growing something on it you find for yourself and microwave for yourself and clean up for yourself. I do cook on occasion, but every. dang. night? No, thank you. How will they ever survive if they don’t practice discerning which leftovers are still edible and which might leave them on the bathroom floor for the night? The time is NOW. #lifeskills — Hillary

8) Illusion Pasta
Ingredients: A seemingly full container of left over pasta and sauce from dinner two nights ago.

Instructions: See Illusion Pasta in fridge and declare it to be ‘left over night’ because there was plenty from the prior meal to feed everyone. At dinner time, open the Illusion Pasta container only to discover the middle child DUG ALL THE PASTA OUT OF THE MIDDLE and there’s maybe a half a cup left just clinging to the sides so it still *looks* full when you see it in the fridge. Declare everyone to be on their own and go eat a bag of Doritos in the living room with a bad Netflix show. Note: You can use your favorite pasta, sauce, and child assistant and substitute your own chip flavor as needed. — Andrea

9) For the parent who wants to ensure her children have a well rounded diet with all the food groups:

Ingredients: Popcorn contains all the food groups.

Instructions: Put popcorn in air popper and melt a stick of butter. Considered both carb and vegetable, popcorn also has protein and fiber! It’s a whole grain. Success, you’ve included all of the food groups in one meal. Plus, since fat is good for you now, make sure to melt a whole stick and salt vigorously. Repeat as needed until full. — Maryl

10) I Don’t Got This Tonight: I made I Don’t Got This Tonight, and when it arrived it looked suspiciously like Subway. — Tamara

11) Grilled Pizza Cheese Sandwiches: Was able to scrounge expired pepperoni and half jar of grocery store sauce to make “grilled pizza cheese sandwiches” for lunch. Kids dubious there is enough food in house for dinner. Husband tells them “I work tonight, Mom will probably order you a surprise for dinner.” Follow me on Pinterest for more tips. — Stephanie

12) Go Make Pancakes: “I dont know? Go make pancakes. I taught you to make pancakes didn’t I?” This is valid any time of the day. — Jenniffer

13) Surprise Dinner: On more than one occassion I’ve announced tonight’s the night for Surprise Dinner(tm) as in “Surprise! There is no dinner!” It’s usually as big a hit as you can imagine. — Beth

14) Highbrow Foody Dinner: I’m usually all foody and health conscious but Wednesday dinner was rocky road ice cream and Pinot gris. — Jenny

15) For parents who care about their kids’ education:

Ingredients: Frozen corndogs, frozen chimichungas and burritos, frozen fish sticks.

Directions: read what the box says and do it. For young kids it can count as homeschooling – reading with a comprehension test. Pass food is good, fail it sucks but you have to eat it anyways. Helps spure on good reading skills. — Chrissy

Please feel free to add your own favorite dinner recipes in the comments.

ALSO, let’s be gentle with ourselves. We’re doing the best we can, and we’re not alone, friends.

Waving in the dark, waiting for dawn,

P.S. When I said my three recipes were “new,” that was an alternative fact. I’ve actually made those recipes for my family thousands of times.

P.P.S. Maryl Kunkel, who gave us her coveted popcorn recipe, is running for Newberg City Council. If you live in my hometown, VOTE FOR MARYL!

P.P.P.S. I know it probably doesn’t need to be said, but just because this post is lighthearted doesn’t mean we’re not also grieving with the many thousands in Oregon and beyond who are currently displaced and have lost homes and businesses. You’re in our hearts! I just wanted folks to know that being at a minimum functioning level is OK right now. And I know as a mama we tend to judge ourselves so harshly. Let’s not do that right now. Let’s choose to be kind to ourselves, instead. We’re doing the best we can.

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And Now Oregon Is on Fire: The COVID Diaries

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 10 Sep 2020 04:30:25 +0000

Dear Diary,

When I started my COVID Diaries, I thought it would be for a while. A season. An interesting few weeks, maybe? I thought our national response would be different. I thought, even if we didn’t eradicate it within our borders, we’d control it.

I did not think I’d be sitting here, almost exactly 6 months later, writing about wildfires sweeping the West, including the fire that’s about 3 miles from our own little house in Oregon while the pandemic rages on, as well.

And I don’t even know what to say about it, Diary. I’m typing in slow motion trying to wrestle words from a brain gone soft.

This is the third night we’ll head to bed with our Go Bags packed — one backpack allotted to each human with a change of clothes, medicines, the most basic toiletries, and “valuables” however we define them. There’s a ragged stuffed bear in one kid’s bag, the final book of the Wings of Fire series in another’s, and the kids’ passports and my grandmother’s ring shoved in mine. It’s a strange exercise, this parsing of things.

Yesterday, we packed the cars, as well, with camping and survival gear. Water. Canned food. Sleeping bags.

And last night I set alarms to wake up throughout the night and check the direction of the wind and the progress of the Chehalem Mountain fire from which many of our friends have already been evacuated.

Last night, the fire reached a 5th alarm, and then a 6th, but by the 6th there was no one left to respond. All local, state, and national resources are being used at (and really beyond) capacity. Still, the firefighters here slowed the progress of the flames we could see licking the hillside behind our house. And today, more good news. The fire is 50% contained as of this writing. We were finally able to receive some desperately needed air support just before sunset, and so we’re hopeful. Alert and prepared to move at a moment’s notice, but hopeful.

Whole towns in Oregon have burned, though. We have friends whose homes and businesses are already lost. Entire cities are at Level 3 “GO NOW” evacuations. Roads are congested with people fleeing, and some have had to move to safety more than once, as previously “safe” locations are hit.

How much danger are we in, personally? Sometimes I think I’m just completely and fantastically overreacting. Nothing will really happen here, right? Other times, I look out my window at the mountain on fire and think of Paradise, California and feel the wind gusts and look at the apocalyptic sky and think overreaction is impossible.

I’m weary, Diary, of being constantly alert. Just so, so tired. And if I’m terribly honest, it’s a weariness of months, not mere days. Because our world has been on a slow burn for a while now, topsy turvy and upside down.

I feel guilty being exhausted, though. I’m not a firefighter up there battling the flames; I’m a spectator watching the lights flash. I’m not sick from COVID; I’m just keeping my family in masks. I’m not a teacher relearning everything I knew about how to connect with students; I’m a writer still writing, putting one word in front of another, trudging a familiar path. What right do I have to be tired?

Then I remember it’s not the Suffering Olympics, and I’m allowed my exhaustion without the need to measure its worth by another’s experience. I’m weary. The end. No justification required to admit I’d like to catch my breath.

So. That’s where I am, Diary. That’s it. My world is on fire, and I’m spent.

I’m going to drink a glass of water to take the edge off my brittle, scratchy throat. I’m going to set my alarms for the night. I’m going to try to get some sleep. And I’m going to send all the love I have — every scrap — to the rest of our weary, parched world.

With love, and waving in the glowing, ashy night,

HUGE THANKS to Todd Klingler of Todd Klingler Photography who allowed me to use the stunning images of our small Oregon town he’s captured over the last few days. The sky really is that yellow and red. It’s surreal. Like we’re walking around on Mars.

The post And Now Oregon Is on Fire: The COVID Diaries first appeared on bethwoolsey..

All of 2020: A Story about Dog Poo

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 02 Sep 2020 19:40:54 +0000

This is Abby (the human) and Lulu (the dog).

That pic is from 3 months ago, which means Lulu is now 45x bigger.

He is not a labradoodle, after all.

He is either a small, black bear, or a moose, or a husky, feral, adorable kindergarten boy named something that ends with -y. Like Kenny. Or Jeffy. Or Tommy.

You know the one. He’s the kid who has NO IDEA how long his limbs are. He’s Bambi on the ice, made from 73% sweetness and 27% flailing. He takes corners too fast and runs into walls. He eats with pure joy and creates a colossal mess. Never did he ever finish a meal without spaghetti sauce or jelly to his eyebrows and wiping his face on his shirt.

That is Lulu.

Abby’s chore is loading the dishwasher, and Lulu is her helper. He’s a toddler — an enormous, almost 6 month old toddler — so he still likes to help with chores. Abby puts the dishes in, and Lulu prewashes every single one with his tongue. He is very thorough.

Last night, Lulu’s collar caught on the lower basket as he was enjoying his task, and, as he pulled back, the entire basket came with him. Loaded with dirty plates and bowls. Flatware in their smaller containers attached to the whole contraption.

Lulu flipped out.

Flipped. Out.

A dish monster had attacked his neck and wouldn’t let go. So he did what any small bear/moose/kindergartener would do.

He ran.

He yelped, and he kept yelping, and he sprinted, hauling the dish monster with him.

He was terror personified.

Dishes were flying.

Flatware became aimless projectiles.

Lulu tried to scramble away, but howling and bolting only increased the cacophony and therefore his fear. His barks became desperate. He sounded like a dying bull seal.

He and the basket demon clinging to his neck came tearing around the kitchen table toward where I was standing, and BECAUSE I AM A GD HERO WITH YEARS OF MOMMY EXPERIENCE, I sprang into action.

I was a ninja, friend. A cool-under-pressure, graceful ass ninja as I instantly understood my three-fold goal — stop the dog, calm him down, slay the basket monster — and, heedless of the danger, threw myself in their path.

I hit a steel chair on the way down, bruising my left flank, but every hero knows sacrifices must be made when we’re saving the world.

I flung my arms around Lulu’s neck as I skidded under his body like I was sliding into home plate. A sharp pain pierced my foot, but it was irrelevant in the scheme of things. I hugged Lu to my chest, holding him immobile and crooning, “I got you. I got you. It’s ok. You’re ok. I got you.”

He licked my face as he began to calm down, relief apparent in each slobbery pass. Old chili from someone’s days-old dinner stained his mouth, which he gladly wiped on mine. Such are the rewards of valor in the midst of peril.

“Shhhhhh,” I whispered. To Lulu and also to me.

Greg and Abby laughed as they picked up scattered dishes.

I didn’t let Lulu go. We just stayed on the floor comforting each other.

His heart was still racing, and so was mine, and, frankly, it was thoughtless and inconsiderate of my family to indulge their mirth when they should have begun planning my Courage in the Face of Grave Danger parade. Or raced to my side with a neck brace and smelling salts. Or at the very least grabbed a paper towel so I could wipe chili off my face.

It’s fine, though. No, no; keep laughing, Greg. It’s FINE.

I eventually hauled myself to my feet, one of which was gushing blood. (Full disclosure: it was either gushing blood or just missing the topmost layer of skin and not bleeding at all. One of those things is true, and I know which one I’m standing by.)

Except I didn’t make it all the way to standing before I slipped in Lulu’s poop and fell back down. Because yes, of course the sweet moose shat himself in the commotion. And of course I fell in a big old pile of poop while trying valiantly to fix the cascade of things gone wrong.

And if that, friends, isn’t a metaphor for 2020, I don’t know what is.

It’s a crisis. It’s sudden. It’s barreling toward us. The noise and chaos are overwhelming. We do everything in our power to mitigate the danger and manage the catastrophe. The universe laughs at our efforts. And we end up sitting in a pile of crap.

There.

That’s your uplifting story of hope for the day.

You’re welcome.

Sending love,

But OMG LOOK AT THIS FACE.

The post All of 2020: A Story about Dog Poo first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Bearing Witness

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 01 Sep 2020 21:21:07 +0000

Before we begin, please imagine me face down on the couch, head smooshed into the grubby cushions, cereal shrapnel and muddy dog prints decorating my periphery. That is where I metaphorically am. I am not sitting upright at my desk typing. I am using telepathy from my frazzled, stuttering brain. Nothing is happening in a linear fashion around here. No thing. It’s all illusion and mirrors. I am stuck on the couch now, and here I shall remain for all eternity because getting up would require energy and I don’t know what that is anymore.

Friends, the world has imploded. We’re all underwater with culture shock. Violence is on the rise, the pandemic numbers are spiking again, we’re headed “back to school,” and people are responding the way people respond to this type of upheaval. With grace. With flexibility. With denial. With love. With kindness. With hatred and vitriol. With compassion and understanding. And with pride and elective deafness. Sometimes all of the above.

We are running a race, and we don’t know where the finish line is or whether it’ll materialize at all.

We are learning who we are under stress and duress, and we’re learning what our communities are made of. Some of what we’ve found is stunning and beautiful as we stand for and with each other. Some of what we’ve found is a hellscape of exclusion and pain.

And through it all, we’re plugging away. Trying to work. Trying to parent. Trying to reach out a hand to lift up each other. Trying sometimes just to stay afloat.

I see you.

I see you out there one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-ing it. Wading through the sludge. Looking for goodness and light. Sometimes sinking below the murky surface. Sometimes clawing your way back to air.

I see you with your slippery feet trying to find purchase and wondering where steady ground is.

I see you watching the news and trying to stay informed and awake and also beside me, face down in the cushions singing LA LA LA at the top of your lungs to drown out the noise because it’s trying to smother you.

I see you and your masterfully patient self who didn’t say the mean thing your tired brain and weary heart held out for you on a silver platter. And I see you when impatience won a battle and the frustration fell out of your mouth for others to see. You still get credit, friend, for all the things you didn’t say that no one knows. I see you. I see you’re trying.

I see us, edgy and exhausted and shaky with adrenaline and willing to fight because we finally see the harm being actively perpetuated against our brothers and sisters.

I see us, using our words and our bodies and our brains to shift the status quo, pulling and straining at the ship’s wheel, hoping our efforts are turning this behemoth culture toward kinder waters before we run aground on treachery.

I see us working our dozens of jobs, most of which are unpaid labor, as we worry about cash flow and mental health and whether that’s hope coming over the horizon or just a cloud of murder hornets and fire tornados.

I see us mourning so many we’ve lost. To COVID. To gun violence. To cancer. The pile of our grief is as high as Mt. Everest and feels as insurmountable.

I see us. I do. I see me and you.

And I don’t have a solution. Or a magic wand. Or comforting platitudes.

But I want you to know I see you. I see this time and space we’re muddling through. I know you see me, too. And there is power in bearing witness to all this. Don’t discount it. Don’t dismiss it. There is power in bearing witness and in SEEING and telling. That’s our job now. One of the most important ones.

Eyes open, friend.

Even if you’re face down on the couch.

In this together,

Image credit Edi Libedinsky via Unsplash

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Why I’m Not Saying “I’m Picking the Lesser of Two Evils” This Presidential Election — And Why You Shouldn’t, Either

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 12 Aug 2020 21:42:56 +0000

Here we go! We’re off to the races.

Joe Biden is the Democratic presidential candidate and Kamala Harris is his pick for V.P.

Neither was my top choice.

Both are imperfect.

Both are also solid candidates.

And I’ll spend the next weeks leading up to the election giving Joe Biden and Kamala Harris my robust, wholehearted support.

One thing I won’t be saying is “I’m picking the lesser of two evils.”

Listen. I get it. I understand why folks say it. “I’m picking the lesser of two evils” is a way to signal centrism. It’s a way to straddle two camps. It’s a way not to offend our friends when their politics and their ethics differ from ours. It’s a way to campaign for the candidates of your choice without actually endorsing them. It’s a way to assuage the “other side” that you don’t mean anything personal by your vote. You, after all, are long-suffering but reasonable, forced yet again and as usual — Eeyore/Ho Hum style — to choose between achingly unqualified, horrifically partisan candidates. If it was up to you, we wouldn’t have a two party system; we’d have better choices. People of integrity. People who are articulate. Or true conservatives. Or true progressives. Or insert the adjective and attribute of your choice.

But, to be honest, that’s weak.

It’s an excuse.

It’s an escape from wrestling with the depth and complexity — the nuances and blessings and blemishes — of our reality.

After 2016 and the ensuing four years with a president who has caused excessive and extensive damage to the American people, our allies, and the most vulnerable among us, including refugees during the largest displaced persons crisis the world has ever known, I won’t do it.

I won’t pretend that Donald Trump represents one evil and Joe Biden represents another evil and my decision is to choose which will cause the least amount of harm.

Joe Biden is an imperfect candidate. There are aspects of his behavior that are troublesome and problematic, the largest of which is the discomfort he’s caused myriad women with his physical familiarity and the accusations of Tara Reade that he sexually assaulted her. It doesn’t do anyone any favors to gloss over such a serious allegation, nor to dismiss or discount the reports of women’s discomfort.

I’ve felt the distress and uneasiness of men’s hugs and kisses and touches. I dare say most women have. It’s not shocking or unbelievable, especially for a privileged, powerful white man who grew up in different time and in a society that puts him in the right by default, that he behaved in such a way that he — perhaps obliviously — made women feel uncomfortable. He has admitted a lack of understanding of the way his behavior was perceived and apologized. Whether women at large believe and accept that apology is their prerogative. I do believe and accept it, not because of this apology alone, which is frankly fairly weak, or because I believe forgiveness should always be the course of action when a man says “oops, my bad” for making women feel desperately uncomfortable, but because he has a history and track record of growth and change which indicates a posture of ongoing learning. His opponent doesn’t. That matters to me.

Tara Reade’s accusation of sexual assault is far more troubling. If I had to choose a side, it would be to take her very seriously and conduct an in-depth investigation. Believe women. As in, don’t dismiss their allegations out of hand or because of the power and prominence of the person they’re accusing. Investigate alleged criminal conduct. Investigate thoroughly. Bring it to trial. Unfortunately, this incident has passed the statute of limitations and there is no investigative process for presidential candidates. But there SHOULD be, and we should work to change that. There should be a way other than the court of public opinion to drill down on accusations like these. There are many processes to change for the ways we select a president; this is one. But in this case, if we’re intellectually honest, we have to say we don’t know. We need to both believe Tara Reade — take her seriously and not dismiss her claims — and to hold to the “innocent until proven guilty” tenet in our justice system.

This is what I mean by complexity and nuance. We have to be able to admit there are things we don’t know and may never know while simultaneously advocating for change so that, in the future, our political candidates can be held to a higher standard. As Americans, we are truly terrible at Not Knowing, though. There are folks who will SWEAR ON THEIR GRANDMA’S GRAVE that Joe Biden assaulted Tara Reade, and there are folks who will SWEAR ON THEIR GRANDMA’S GRAVE that Tara Reade is a money-grubbing attention seeker and a lying liar who lies. We don’t have to do that. We don’t have to pick. But we do have to sit with the discomfort of Not Knowing.

Besides those big issues with Biden’s candidacy, there are other imperfections. Depending on where you fall on the political spectrum, he’s not progressive enough. Or he’s too progressive. He’s the most progressive candidate to ever run for the presidency. Or he’s a moderate shill who’s conservative in disguise. He’s well spoken until he commits huge gaffes. And he has to overcome the bumbling idiot Uncle Joe image. Like I said, imperfect.

But also, Joe Biden is a good candidate. A solid, steady, capable, experienced candidate ready to lead America to a better future.

He has, quite literally, dedicated his entire life to public service and he stayed the course for the people he represented even when struck with unimaginable personal tragedy. By all accounts, the early loss of his wife and daughter just before taking his senate seat for the first time, shaped the rest of his public life. Instead of embracing bitterness and despair, he became compassionate and sympathetic to the plights of others. Including when no one is looking.

There is little I long for more than to have compassion back in the White House. And Joe Biden brings that with him, allowing it to shape his policy goals for improving access to healthcare, bolstering public education, and increasing equity for folks who are in desperate need of change.

Joe Biden is for criminal justice reform and the elimination of private, for-profit prisons.

Joe Biden supports families and is for paid sick leave; the need for which we understand during the COVID era better than we ever did before.

Joe Biden wants to reform student debt, invest in public education instead of striping it, and boost teachers’ wages.

Joe Biden wants to limit campaign finance spending to level the playing field so not just the wealthy are elected.

Joe Biden believes in science and will listen to peer-reviewed research and recommendations to combat coronavirus and climate change.

Joe Biden wants to reform immigration, preventing the illegal entry of criminals, creating a path to citizenship for Dreamers, and treating asylum seekers and refugees with care and compassion.

Joe Biden understands we have an enormous fight ahead of us to battle COVID, keep our people safe, and recover the economy.

The list, frankly, goes on and on and on. Plans for our future. Plans for justice. Plans that don’t leave people behind. The contrast to the current president who hasn’t bothered to update his platform from four years ago — a platform that benefits the wealthy at the expense of the vulnerable, a platform that doesn’t speak to our current situation in an ever-expanding pandemic crisis — is stark.

And Joe Biden selected a qualified, outspoken woman of color — someone who’s disagreed with him and challenged him in public on multiple occasions — to run alongside him.

Kamala Harris is an imperfect candidate. She wasn’t my top pick because of her complicated history with criminal justice reform and police brutality. To be clear, she did some excellent work as a prosecutor, district attorney, and eventually Attorney General in California, but at the same time, some of her positions weren’t equitable or just. Yes, she’s evolved on these issues, and I do favor candidates who are willing to change and grow (“when you know better, do better”), but we’re also living during a time in U.S. history when it’s wise to take a deep and thorough look at every leader’s record in this regard. I’d be remiss to fail to acknowledge this.

And Kamala Harris is a good candidate.

She’s experienced. She’s capable. She’s articulate. She’s willing to learn and to do better.

And it matters that she’s a woman. It matters that she’s the first woman of color on a major party ticket. It matters that she’s Black and Asian American. It matters that my children of color, including the girls, can see themselves represented on a presidential ticket. It matters that I am represented on a presidential ticket.

So, no — I’m not voting for the lesser of two evils this year.

I’m voting for a good ticket with good candidates with good experience who represent the American people and hope for our future.

Would you really, truly vote for someone you believe is evil? Yeah, me, neither. So own it. Own your choice, and if you’re telling people who you’re voting for, tell them why. You can ALSO say “hey, this makes me uncomfortable because I don’t want to alienate people who are voting otherwise,” but let’s at least be honest, OK?

I AM voting against Donald Trump. I DO believe he has perpetuated evils upon the American people, and that must stop.

And I am also proudly voting FOR Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. Because they’re good candidates, imperfect candidates who are right for America.

The post Why I’m Not Saying “I’m Picking the Lesser of Two Evils” This Presidential Election — And Why You Shouldn’t, Either first appeared on bethwoolsey..

11 August 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 12 Aug 2020 01:31:44 +0000

Here are the four things we’re doing with our kids for school this year:

1. Trying not to stress the eff out.

2. Remembering there is no such thing as “getting behind” because a) “on track” is a manufactured and ever-changing target based on an imaginary student’s potential for “success” in an outdated world, and b) EVERY student is currently affected by this crisis.

3. Prioritizing safety, kindness, health, and equity before academics.

4. Looking out for ALL the kids in our community, not just our own.

And here’s how we’re doing it, practically speaking:

1. Even though we’ve homeschooled for the past couple years — and even though folks with wealth and privilege are leaving public school in droves and turning to homeschooling and “pods” — we’re doing the opposite. We’re enrolling our kids in public school because public schools need to be well funded in order to serve the children who need it the most — those who experience disability, those who experience poverty, and those who are not safe at home. This is the time to be POURING INTO public schools and social support systems, not taking out. And while I don’t fault ANY parent for pulling their kids in an attempt to ensure their students are properly educated and healthy, I also KNOW IN MY BONES that now is the time to be looking out for ALL the kids — especially the vulnerable kids — and not focusing on just mine.

2. We don’t feel that in-person schooling is safe from a health perspective at this point in the COVID pandemic. At least not where we live. Not for the students, and especially not for the teachers. Fortunately, our state governor and school district agree. Since we haven’t locally met benchmarks of lowering the infection rate to a point where there’s low risk in opening in-person in some sort of reduced manner, our public district is offering two options — a) comprehensive distance learning (as differentiated from last spring’s abrupt yet heroic “Hail Mary” attempt at distance learning), and b) a “hybrid online learning program blends online instruction and regular contact with highly qualified teachers while parents maintain a leadership role in their child’s education…” in other words, online homeschooling with teacher help. We’ve selected option “b” which allows us to continue much of what we were already doing for our kids but puts funding back into public schools. Honestly, it’s a hassle for us to do this — we have to figure out a whole new system of tracking and monitoring, my kids have to do extra check-ins with staff, we have to meet different standards — but that puts us in THE SAME BOAT as 99.99% of Everyone Else. We’re all Doing New and Unexpected Things. Will it be a pain in the ass? Yep. It’s ALL a pain in the ass right now. Would it be easier to just hunker down with our own program? Also yep, but that doesn’t benefit others. I’ve already explained to my kids that they’ll have extra tasks this school year in order to plug back into public school. And I will tell you the truth — they were NOT THRILLED with that news, but they also understand and agree it’s the right choice.

3. We’re working with our adult kids to create learning support for students in our community. They’re calling these “Distance Learning Clubs” and they’re a kind of anti-pod, or pod antidote. Limited to groups of 10 total, including 2 adult mentors, the clubs provide assistance for students to manage their distance learning. Not everyone has a parent or adult at home who can track what’s needed to progress through an online school program — whether it’s the homeschooling option or the one with way more teacher support. That’s where our adult kids come in. Each club is 3.5 hours/week, uses masks and up-to-date health protocols including remaining outdoors as much as possible, and is open for anyone in the community to register at as low a cost as we can manage. They’re raising funds to provide scholarships to students with self-identified financial need, and we’re working with a guidance counselor at one of the local schools to identify students who might need that assistance and this program. To be honest, it’s a lot of work and means quite a lot of sacrifice — it’s a financial loss for us because we’re subsidizing it, the adult kids will each receive a modest stipend, and it takes time and commitment to make it happen. But if we’re going to make it though this situation — and if we care about having a healthy and safe community — we have to do this together, Ohana style. And in the immortal words from Lilo and Stitch, “Ohana means family, and family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.”

Listen, I feel for families right now as they try to make impossible choices. IMPOSSIBLE, imperfect, hard choices. And I’m not suggesting in any way that others should make exactly the same choices As us — there are infinite possibilities out there right now and infinite challenges. Every family’s needs are different. Every student’s, too. But I AM suggesting we can work hard at making choices that benefit more humans than just those we call our own.

Love to you and waving, waving in the dark,

P.S. Here’s the system our adult kids have put together. I’m sharing it here so you can copy it if it meets your community’s needs, because it’s time to share ideas, not hoard them:

We’re excited to offer this Distance Learning Club for students from 1st through 8th grades.

As students move from in-person models of learning to hybrid or distance learning, there is an increased need to learn time management skills, goal setting, how to keep a detailed assignment calendar, proactive communication, and more.

At a 4:1 student to adult ratio, in a group no larger than 10 total in keeping with State of Oregon public health recommendations, and with plenty of fresh air and breathing room, Distance Learning Club is offered in an open space with attentive adult mentors who can help students learn the skills to be successful in the new school model. You can choose which day you want to attend: Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, or Fridays. Or register for more than one!

COST: Distance Learning Club is offered in 5 separate sessions — Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, or Fridays — and costs $625 for Fall Semester. If preferred, payment can be made in 5 equal installments of $125 per month.

DAYS AND TIMES: Choose which day you want to attend: Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, or Fridays. Or register for more than one! Distance Learning Club is offered weekdays, 8:00am-11:30am, during Fall Semester (September 8-January 29). Clubs will be open on public school conference and in-service days. Clubs will be closed during public school breaks and holidays. We follow the public school for inclement weather cancellation.

HEALTH PRECAUTIONS: We take the current global pandemic very seriously and will follow all public health requirements and recommendations from the State of Oregon. In addition to a limited group size — maximum 2 adults and 8 students — students and adult mentors are required to wear masks. Club will be held in a sheltered outdoor environment to allow fresh air flow. Propane heaters will provide warmth on cold days, and students will be asked to dress warmly. Restrooms and common areas are disinfected between groups. Each student will receive a temperature check upon arrival, and students with fevers, cold and flu, and/or coronavirus symptoms will be asked to remain home. These precautions reflect requirements and guidelines at the time of publication; we will update club members whenever there is a need to update these parameters in order to ensure ongoing compliance with public health authorities.

PLEASE PLAN TO BRING:
*Comfortable mask
*100+ page spiral notebook dedicated to Distance Learning Club for organizing assignments and communication with parents
*Electronic learning device provided by school district or parent (i.e. Chromebook) and associated passwords
*Any supplementary supplies required to complete distance learning assignments (i.e. notebooks, pencils, crayons, etc.)
*Clothes appropriate for staying cool or warm in an outdoor, sheltered location
*Snacks and filled water bottle

NOTE: We can also provide access to any of the items above if needed.

The post 11 August 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

10 August 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 10 Aug 2020 21:45:13 +0000

Dear Diary,

I have come to this conclusion: if we are not helping our neighbors now, we will never help our neighbors.

If we’re not loving them now, we never will love them.

If we’re not actively looking for ways to make systems more equitable and just, we never will look for ways to do it.

If we’re embedded in and committed to complacency and selfish ambition, this is where we shall remain.

All of which is, of course, unfair to say and perhaps not entirely correct, given that humans can grow and improve and change, but even if it’s not fair or correct on a micro scale — not fair or correct for every individual — I believe it is accurate in the aggregate and on the macro scale. If we, as a nation — as a society, as a culture — are unable to see the suffering of the masses in our midst and aren’t proactively compassionate and helpful while people of color are crying out for justice, and refugee children are stuck in cages at our borders, and our schools are closed for in-person learning which will disproportionately affect students who experience poverty and disability, and our economy is in free fall for those without stocks and property investments, then we are willfully ignorant.

We are living, Diary, in a time of social upheaval, and the way we behave right now — the things we see and the actions we take — define who we are. We know now how we will behave when crisis is upon us. We know now whether we are people who are expansive and welcoming, more eager to give than to receive, looking out for those among us who are vulnerable and need help, or whether we are exclusive and afraid, looking out for ourselves before others, shutting down and blaming the “other” for the harm and hurt they’re experiencing.

I often wondered how folks who lived through the 1960s were able to emerge from those years even more racially isolated and entrenched in camps that allowed them to fall so gleefully into systems that expanded their own personal wealth and power at the expense of people of color. I wondered how we emerged from the Civil Rights Era with churches more segregated than ever. And I’ve wondered only recently — after discovering my own profound blindness to injustice — how we managed as a white culture to collectively convince ourselves we’d already overcome racial disparity.

But I don’t wonder anymore.

I can finally see incredibly profound tools our leaders and mentors have wielded to keep us complacent and ignorant and quiet. And I can finally see how I’ve participated in all of the systems to ensure the Wealth and Privilege Ship stays on course.

It starts with tribalism — the idea that if we push back against our tribe, our church, our family, our town, our friends… if we challenge the status quo in any way — we’ll be rejected. Excommunicated. Booted into the wilderness. Forced to fend for ourselves and survive on our own. And that’s a powerful tool. We’re biologically driven to remain ensconced in community. We understand intuitively that we’re safer in greater numbers. So we fundamentally balk at the idea of moving beyond what we’ve been told is “safe.”

And then, of course, the tribe utilizes whatever tools it has at its disposal to create pressure to stay inside the boundaries. An Us vs. Them mentality (“they” will harm you). Using God’s name in vain (“God told me to tell you to behave like this _____.”) The stick of fear (you’ll be outside of “God’s will” or headed for Hell) coupled with the carrot of reward (you’ll one of the “faithful” or headed for Heaven.) Manipulation. Passive aggression. Shame. Control.

It’s no surprise to me, the more I study these tactics, that a) those in power use them, b) we’re so very susceptible to them, and c) they’re so effective. I mean, we’re trained to these structures from infancy. The surprise is, I suppose, that we can ever overcome them. That we can reject coercion and control and even attempt to view our world through a different lens — one created from love, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, and self-control.

But every once in a while, we’re given the opportunity as a culture — as an entire society — to see through the veil. Every once in a while, the curtain is lifted for those of us who are the product of privilege. Every once in while, we’re gifted a glimpse of the lives of those whose entire existence has been behind the facade of Everything’s Fine. Every once in a while, we’re given the eyes to see and the ears to hear.

We’re living through such a time right now.

The shroud has been pulled away.

Even those of us born with rose colored glasses can see the rampant racism running at speed through our nation. Even those of us who’ve been oblivious have been gifted the opportunity to see the plight of immigrants and refugees. Even those of us who’ve never wondered whether there will be dinner on the table are being shown the strictures and stressors of poverty and an economy that’s stalled for everyone except those who already have plenty.

If we can’t see it now — if we’re still desperately holding the scales to our eyes, afraid of what the light will reveal — that’s on us.

We’re making the choice right now.

Who have we been?

Who are we?

Who will we become?

And where will we throw our lifelines?

With love and waving in the bright light of day,

P.S. I’ve struggled for a few weeks now with writing. Primarily, it’s because everything right now feels Very Big, and I don’t know how to break it into bits small enough to consume. I think about the protests in Portland just a few miles from my house, and racism in my tiny town, and enrolling my children in public school to try to counter the folks dropping out so that there will be funds left for kids who don’t have the options we do, and how to take specific anti-racism action, and involvement in local politics, and whether I should feel guilty I’ve totally stopped making food for my family, and on and on and on and on and on. I’ll write more in the days to come if I can manage to remind myself that snippets and spurts are sufficient and than ANY writing for me (which is an emotional and mental release) is better than NO writing, like how brushing my teeth for 30 seconds is better than not brushing them at all. Wish me luck.

The post 10 August 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

This Is Worse Than the Day I Pooped My Closet

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 02 Aug 2020 23:23:34 +0000

Listen, friend. I will give you one — and only this one — opportunity to stop reading. If periods gross you out, you should be done. Right now. Click away. Abort. SAVE YOURSELF. Or carry on. I don’t care — *shrug* — I’ve done what I can. Now it’s on you.

I don’t really know what to say about this other than it’s worse than The Day I Pooped My Closet. And I do not believe Hallmark has made a sympathy or apology card that quite covers the “I’m sorrys” I owe my son-in-law so I’m a little stuck on how to make this right.

On the bright side, I suspect we’ve officially reached the all-time low point in our mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship, so it’s nice to get that out of the way. No more wondering. No more anxiously watching the passing of the years to see when the Most Awkward Moment will rear its head. No more heightened awareness to prevent the slide of a relationship from supportive to cordial to tolerant to rotting decay. Nope. None of that for us. I managed to take us off the Relationship Cliff and plummet to the bottom of the canyon where we lay in bloody ruins, unable to look each other in the eye. So it’s all looking better from here. No where to go but up!

For background purposes, know this:

1. Periods get weirder as humans who have them get older.

2. Actually, everything gets weirder as we get older.

3. And, by weirder, I specifically mean more sporadic. Messier. Gooey-er. Chunkier. Sweatier.

4. There are night sweats that ignore polite perspiration and set far wetter “body of water” type goals.

5. There are baby hot flashes that drive one to sit naked in one’s bedroom window in desperate bids to cool off.

6. And there are periods that arrive without warning, as sudden and furious as every natural disaster before them, and as unpredictable in the swath of destruction they leave behind.

Look, none of this is pretty but all of it is true, and, perhaps worst of all — and pertinent to this story — one doesn’t always know which squishy, squashy, mushy event is happening in one’s pants. It’s like being twelve years old again, except at age forty-six, which leads me to conclude I may never learn how to have a body.

So, yesterday.

Yesterday was hot outside, and yesterday I went swimming.

Also yesterday, I changed out of my swimsuit when I was done. I threw on the clothes I had in the bathroom — a bra and a dress.

All of these are things, I feel, that normal humans do. None of these are things, I feel, that should have given me a sense of foreboding, which is why I did not have any such sense.

So yesterday, I went to the kitchen where my husband and my son-in-law were making themselves lunch, pulling carne asada beef from the fridge, planning to cook it on the stove.

And yesterday, I felt squishy and squashy — par for the course these days, but information I usually keep to myself for propriety’s sake because I am nothing if not a model of decorum — and I went to feed the dogs, puttering around, pulling out the bowls, and scooping out the kibble.

“What is that?” asked the son-in-law.

“What IS that?” asked the husband.

Which is when I glanced over to see what the “what” was to which they referred.

Which is when I realized it was blood — a whole puddle of it — in the middle of the floor.

Which is when I realized it came from me. That that squishing and squashing I’d felt was productive squishery and squashery. That as I crossed the kitchen, minding my own business, my own business was not minding me. That I’d somehow failed to notice I’d leaked. In a dress. Sans panties. Onto the floor.

Which is when my eyes widened and brain seized and my words froze.

BECAUSE HOW DOES ONE SAY “THAT IS PERIOD BLOOD” IN A WAY THAT DOES NOT SAY “THAT IS PERIOD BLOOD” BECAUSE SAYING “THAT IS PERIOD BLOOD” IS GROSS?

The gentlemen leaned in to examine the pool upon the floor. And I watched them in horror.

IN HORROR.

THAT IS HOW I WATCHED THEM.

“Is that blood?” asked my husband.

“Is it?” asked my son-in-law.

And my brain unseized far enough to think YES. YES, IT IS BLOOD. And also, OH NO. NO NO NO NO NO.

But my brain did not unseize far enough to think what to do. What to say. HOW TO STOP THEM. HOW TO MAKE THEM LOOK AWAY AND FORGET WHAT THEY’D SEEN.

“Where did it come from?” asked my husband.

“Where did it come from?” asked my son-in-law, looking from the floor to the package of raw beef in his hand. The not-at-all leaking package of raw beef in his hand.

The dogs began to approach, sniffers sniffing.

And all I could think was I KNOW WHAT IT IS. And I KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM. AndTHEY HAVE TO STOP LOOKING AT IT. And OMG STOP THE DOGS.

And normally I like to think I’m good under pressure.

Normally I’m good in a crisis.

Normally I’m the one to call in an emergency like my cousin did when he cut off his thumb with a skill saw and needed someone to drive him to the hospital. Because normally blood doesn’t freak me out, and normally I can think on my feet, and normally I can make things better instead of very much worse.

There was nothing, sadly, about this situation that was normal, however, and so my stuttering brain prioritized things in this order:

1. Make them stop looking at it.
2. Make sure they don’t have to clean it up.

“STOP,” I commanded, and they all looked at me. The men. The dogs. “Just BACK AWAY,” I said. “And look away. It is blood,” I explained, “and I’ll clean it up.”

I thought that might be enough. I thought that might work.

Unfortunately, it is normal to want an answer to the question about the origin of a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, and so they persisted.

“But where did it come from?” they asked again.

Which is when I made the Biggest Mistake of Them All, and I told them.

Listen, friends, and listen well. There is a time and a place for the truth, and there is a time and a place to lie. THIS WAS A TIME TO LIE.

But did I?

No.

No, I did not.

Instead, I told the truth.

“That is blood,” I said again, and added, “from my vagina.”

FFS, Beth. SMDH. COULD YOU NOT HAVE LIED AND SPARED EVERYONE?

The rest, to be honest, was a blur. The son-in-law, wisely, made a run for it, raw package of beef returned to the fridge where it stayed. The husband heroically held off the pack of dogs. And I somehow managed to clean up while rewinding and reviewing the play-by-play in my head for what I should have said, how I should have lied, how I should have deflected.

“What, that? Oh, that came out of the package of beef. Weird that there are no holes in the package, but I KNOW that’s it BECAUSE I SAW IT. No worries, though — I got it.”

…or…

“What, that? Oh, that’s so weird. Looks like blood, BUT I’M SURE IT’S NOT BECAUSE WHERE WOULD IT HAVE COME FROM? No worries — I got it.”

^^^Two things that would have been better than what I actually said.^^^

And so, here we are.

The son-in-law eventually returned to our house. I apologized for telling the truth. He graciously said it wasn’t my fault and that these things happen EVEN THOUGH IT WAS MY FAULT AND THESE THINGS DO NOT HAPPEN. He even — sort of — is looking me in the eye again, which speaks to both his kindness and his bravery because THIS IS THE WORST.

I feel like there has to be another way to say I’m sorry, though. Like, a way to make this right, you know?

But I haven’t found any Hallmark cards that say “I’m sorry I have a vagina and that you know this now,” or any gift baskets online that say “I’m sorry I told you the truth; I hope in time you can learn to trust me again.”

So I guess what I’m saying is a) there are worse things than pooping the closet, after all, and b) if you have gift basket ideas, I’m all ears.

With love,

The post This Is Worse Than the Day I Pooped My Closet first appeared on bethwoolsey..

20 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 20 Jul 2020 21:59:42 +0000

Dear Diary,

There is so much coming at us these days, it’s hard to keep track. It’s hard to know how to respond. And it’s hard to distribute spoons appropriately.

A few nights ago, United States Congressman John Lewis — a towering figure of the Civil Rights Era and continuing vocal proponent for racial justice — died at age 80. I’d like to use my spoons to honor his legacy.

And for the past several nights, after 50 consecutive days of protests for racial justice in Portland, Oregon — 35 miles from my house — we learned federal agents have been deployed here. They’re grabbing protestors off the streets in unmarked vans without cause. They’re not identifying themselves. They’re beating peaceful bystanders. They’re lobbing tear gas and flash bangs at the moms who’ve come out to try to protect the protestors. I want to use my spoons to rally for justice. I want to use my spoons to honor the folks who’ve been subjecting themselves to this treatment for weeks, hoping for a better city and a better world. To honor the Wall of Moms who will be out again tonight.

“We got gassed last night and it did suck, but we’ve all been through childbirth, IEP meetings, and long barf-filled nights. We got this.” Maureen Kenny Mimiaga, Portland Mom

And, of course, we’re in the middle of a pandemic and trying to figure out how/if/when to send kids back to school. We have a national election in just barely over three months, one that could not be more critical for our future, individually and as a country. And our economy is tanking with Congress stuck in gridlock and unable to act. Millions are unable to find work. Millions have lost health coverage. Millions are — or shortly will be — unable to pay rent and mortgages. The level of outrageous and deadly politics currently costing tens of thousands their lives and livelihoods is overwhelming. The confluence of crises is staggering.

And I only have, like, twelve damn spoons per day.

Early in the pandemic — mid-to-late March — I was worried about hunkering down, feeding my family, and staying distanced. I was focused on a new routine without external appointments. I was cooking daily. I was feeding my sourdough starter and making yogurt. I was trying to manage just two things — my mental health and my humans — hoping to emerge from this time with our hearts and our heads intact. Hoping to minimize the trauma. Hoping we would be the community we need for each other.

Now we’re mid-to-late July — four months in — and with no shortage of breakfast cereal at the stores, my family is on their own. Sourdough pancakes have left the building. They’re hungry? Good thing they know how to work a toaster and a microwave.

My twelve spoons are used to 1. Get myself out of bed in the morning (1 spoon), 2. Put on clothes and perhaps evaluate my personal hygiene (1 spoon), 3. Feed myself food throughout the day (3 spoons), 4. Work on anti-racism action in our school district (4 spoons), 5. Speaking to my family — mostly to tell them they may use their own brains for deciding what to eat as mine is at full capacity and has no additional resources to allot to things they’re perfectly capable of doing on their own (2 spoons), and 6. Getting myself to bed at a reasonable hour so I don’t steal spoons from the next day (1 spoon).

There just aren’t enough spoons to handle the tidal wave of crises demanding our attention, Diary. There’s a dearth of spoons. A severe shortage in the national spoon stockpile. A gross mismanagement of spoon distribution.

So, unfortunately, we’re left with doing what we can even while knowing it’s not enough.

Which is why we need heroes — people like John Lewis — to cast a light in the darkness and show us a way through it. To remind us we’ve been in places like this before. To remind us we’ve overcome great odds by combining our spoons. To remind us we can do it again and push the needle still further toward justice.

“Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year; it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.” — John Lewis

With love,

The post 20 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

16 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 Jul 2020 22:59:01 +0000

Dear Diary,

I have been doing three things over the past several weeks, and only three things.

1. Taking action for anti-racism in my school district.

2. Reading and rereading Anti-Diet: Reclaim Your Time, Money, Well Being, and Happiness Through Intuitive Eating by Christy Harrison, MPH, RD.

3. Ruminating on trust. Especially trusting ourselves and why some folks can learn to do it and others, well, can’t.

I’ve taken the long way ‘round to learning to trust myself. To learning I have a voice and ought to use it. To learning to listen to the Still, Small Voice we call our conscience or Love or the Holy Spirit that guides us intuitively toward loving our neighbors as ourselves… and the implication that loving ourselves is a good place to start.

I’ve taken the long way ‘round and was derailed by Other Forces competing for leadership and direction in my life.

I’ve taken the long way ‘round and listened to Systems and Structures convinced in no uncertain terms that they ought to be in charge of me, in charge of my heart, in charge of the way I raised my kids, in charge of my politics, in charge of my vote, in charge of my manner and my mouth and my beliefs, and in charge of all the minutiae therein.

I’ve taken the long way ‘round because I’ve tried to be polite and civil and not rock the boat too, TOO much lest I be tossed overboard or made to walk the plank and thus forced to make my own way in the vast, fathomless ocean, left to drown there, subject to the dangers inherent in losing the safety of my vessel.

It was all vulnerability out there, I was told. Precarious in the water. At the whims of waves and wind and storms that arrive without warning.

“Trust us,” said the people in the boat. If I just followed the fundamentalist rules of the church, I’d be safe. Both in life and in death. If I just read Dr. Dobson and put my faith in those Wiser Than I, I’d raise children to fear God and wear the breastplate of righteousness and wield the sword of truth and, most importantly, sleep through the night because I didn’t spoil them with physical proximity to their mother. If I just voted Republican and worshipped at the altar of prosperity and capitalism and decried the evils of Democrats and the satanic principles of socialism, I would remain steadfastly within the bosom of Right American Thinking; there would be justice and liberty for all, and I could blithely ignore evidence to the contrary, for the Constitution tells me so. I would be a patriot. If I just ignored the desperate cries of our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters and nonbinary friends and ignored that they were dying in larger numbers inside of churches than outside of it, I would remain on the side of purity.

But I will tell you, the parts of life in which I am most content, most certain, and most at ease are the parts where I have learned to trust what’s inside of me.

The parts I’m most sure I have right are the parts where I’ve loved others and myself most deeply.

The parts I most value here in my 40s are the places I’ve been thrown out of the boat. The places I’ve learned not to fear the depths because it turns out I’m made of water. They’re the places in the fathoms I’ve established myself and people, at one with the movement of the current and at peace with the creatures of the deep. Places of love and acceptance and welcoming the stranger and believing in my humans. Places that don’t rely on rules meant to constrict and contract and keep us within bizarre boundaries and keep others outside of them, but only rely on faith in the author and perfecter of Love and on Love’s domination and dominion over the earth, and on the belief beyond all reason that Love can win in the end.

I dunno if any of this makes sense, Diary, but this is where my thoughts have rested recently. And while I haven’t rejected the Church universal, nor my little church with which I have an ongoing fond affinity, I’m pretty mad at the Church in general and the way it robbed me and continues to rob others of the ability to listen to that of God inside them. I’m pretty mad that the evangelical American church has worked for so long to tie itself to politics and exclusion. I’m pretty mad that I was taught to trust a series of white men whose loyalty was and is to a gospel of money and power and keeping people in their place rather than to the expansive, welcoming, encompassing love Jesus called us to.

I’m pretty mad.

Which is another way of saying I’m grieving as I continue to realize the full extent to which I was brainwashed into being a part of a cult of control rather than shown the path toward true freedom.

And after reading Anti-Diet, I’m starting to become comparably mad at Diet Culture. I mean, not AS mad as I am at the Church. But I can see the Church from my Diet Culture anger horizon. Did you know YOU CAN MAYBE ACTUALLY TRUST YOUR BODY to make food decisions and keep your weight at whatever it was biologically programmed to be?? THIS MAY BE A REAL THING, DIARY. I’m just now starting to explore it, and as someone who has weight-cycled (losing 30 lbs and gaining 32, on repeat, forEVER) and tried to diet/starve myself to thinner-ness for more than 25 years in a row (which turns out scientifically to ONLY make people heavier), I’m feeling a little bitter. And also a little hopeful. Like, if trust hasn’t led me astray yet (though there are plenty of folks who’d disagree with me there) and the areas where I’ve learned to trust myself and my humans are the most deeply fulfilling/loving, MAYBE BODIES CAN BE TRUSTED AS WELL AS HEARTS AND GUTS AND SOULS. And wouldn’t THAT be revolutionary?

All of which is to say, I’ve been thinking about trust. And how to love our fellow humans. And how to love ourselves. And it’s a strange and sad and mad and heartening place to be.

With ,

P.S. I was having a convo about the religion bit with my friend, Emily. Gonna share it here because I feel like it’s so very relevant to the rest of this magical mess and perhaps explains better than I did above.

Background: Emily is a unicorn. She grew up without religion. And with the abiding, internal conviction that she could trust herself and that her job — her purpose — is to love others and help them. She knew it intuitively, and she’s built her life around it. I call it the Divine Spark inside her. She calls it common sense. Understandably, the mixed messages of religion are baffling to her at times. As they’ve become increasingly baffling to me. So as Emily works to understand what in the world the churchy people in our small town are trying to say at times, I can help interpret. And as I work to understand how this whole “trust oneself” thing works, she can help me interpret.

Em: We are all God’s children. So actively loving & helping each other is loving god. Why does it ever need to be more complicated than that?

Me: It doesn’t. It’s not. That’s LITERALLY THE ENTIRE THING. But humans are tribalistic and brainwashed from infancy to follow their tribal leaders, and those with power don’t want to release it. IDK why some folks can break out of it and others can’t.

Em: It feels like the reason some people can’t is because they have literally had to disconnect from their own thoughts if they wanted acceptance & to live peacefully within their own family unit. They were required to disconnect from their own soul. Their own knowing. Their own truth. From such an early developmental stage. That reconnecting, sifting & reflecting is often a lifetime worth of work. And pain. And discomfort. And loss. And unknown. It’s like right when you get to an age when you are supposed to be the one “who knows”, the one who would be ready to teach as they were taught. They would have to face discovering that they know nothing at all. In fact, they know way less than nothing. They have a huge mountain to unlearn. So it’s not like having no money. It’s like having 500k in debt. When you thought you had a huge nest egg.

They hadn’t been listening to their inner self. They had been following instructions blindly and without question. And often seeing family and church as people that have harmed you. So often Unintentionally. Unknowingly. But harmed you all the same. Doing that work while also navigating your own young adult survival (financial , emotional & spiritual) is just too much to take on with all of the other things life requires from you.

Just rambling. This feels like an enormous root of where we have gotten lost as humans. So watching so many preach that religion is the answer vs the literal reason our world is filled with such a lack of humanity. It’s crazy making for me. I so appreciate knowing you. You & Heidi have truly changed my life by allowing me to say these thoughts out loud.

Me: This is it entirely. There’s been an entire process of unlearning what I was taught so I could learn to trust myself. In the conservative Christian paradigm we’re literally taught we’re sinful worms (worms… I shit you not, friend) and worthless without God. Ironically, the Bible doesn’t say that — the Bible says we’re made in the image of the Divine, wonderfully made — but MAN, centuries of Christian theology and “the total depravity of man” and power-mongering has done a NUMBER on the Bible. So we’re taught to trust others’ interpretations of God, to comply with our leaders, to follow the crowd. It’s a cult. And it’s gross and harmful and it’s why we’re so enmeshed in white supremacy power paradigms and have historically overlooked gross injustice and abuse. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. I cannot even BEGIN to express how FREE I feel now that I know I can trust myself. And I’m not gonna lie, I’m SUPER PROUD I’ve taught my kids to trust themselves. That was the biggest risk I took in parenting — it was the literal opposite of what I was told was the way to raise children. I was explicitly told it would wreck them and harm them, so trusting my gut over all the methods and strictures and rules felt VERY DANGEROUS to me. But if my gut COULD be trusted, then my kids were ALSO made in God’s own image — the image of Love and Divinity — and so I took the risk. AND MY KIDS ARE FUCKING AWESOME. They know and trust themselves. They made amazing choices. They’re confident and outspoken and world changers because they were NOT taught to comply and they were NOT taught complacency and they were NOT taught Tribe First, they were taught love yourself and others first. It’s a RADICAL CHANGE from where I started. To you, it’s basic humanity. Like, DUH — OF COURSE this is how it should be. To me IT IS A MIRACLE. It feels like I jumped off a cliff trusting the wind to catch me and IT DID and NOW I CAN FLY. I cannot even, friend. It’s the most amazing thing ever.

The post 16 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Point-by-Point Rebuttal Against Anti-Anti-Racism (aka, A Rebuttal on Behalf of Anti-Racism)

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 11 Jul 2020 21:22:34 +0000

On June 23, 2020, the school board in our little Oregon town passed an Anti-Racism Resolution (see screenshot at the bottom of this post). The vote was 5-1. Five voted yes. One was unable to attend the meeting but sent a message of support. And one board member voted no.

That no vote was from the board member who represents my area of the school district. And I’ve spent every day since trying to simultaneously find out why and also ask him to rescind that vote and support anti-racism in our schools because that’s what people of color in our district are asking us to do.

Dave Brown is widely loved around these parts. He has positive relationships with current and former students. He’s a coach and a friend. He retired with a happy legacy in place. And so the backlash was swift and severe when I started to push back on his no vote.

I get it. Folks around here have felt I was on an Attack Dave mission. And, although my focus is now and has always been a Champion Kids and Equity mission, I understand it’s difficult to see one’s friends be questioned and challenged in public forums. I’ve been asked to calm down (I felt very calm), sit down, be patient (I think I was too patient, to be honest), and, based on his years working in our district, trust that Dave has the best interests of our students at heart.

And I’m here to say no.

I know this is unpleasant for some folks to read, but no.

I’m zero percent concerned about being calm. I’m calm at the moment. I’ve been calm throughout the process. But calmness is not a virtue. Calmness is not righteousness. Calmness is not justice. Calmness is not loving my neighbors (including Dave) as myself. So calmness is not a value nor is it something I’ll be elevating on my radar. I will be truthful. I will be measured. And I will, in concert with truth and thoughtfulness, be alternately calm and outraged.

And as far as sitting down, being patient, and trusting my elected leadership, the answer is also no. I get that my silence makes folks more comfortable. I get that people don’t see the urgency of anti-racism and therefore don’t understand unwillingness to wait or the unfairness of waiting. I get that it bucks the systems I’ve grown up in — systems dominated by white male leadership in church, government, on boards, and in employment — and that I’m perceived as “aggressive,” or “the mob,” or “mean” because I value pointing out where folks are being harmed above protecting the feelings of our leaders. It is my job and responsibility as a constituent and a community member to agitate for justice. And historically “be patient” and “trust your nice leaders” benefits the folks in power and keeps those who are marginalized silenced. As Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “We are now faced with the fact that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history, there ‘is’ such a thing as being too late. This is no time for apathy or complacency. This is a time for vigorous and positive action.” And so I’m willing to be viewed unfavorably in order to keep leaders accountable to their constituents. That’s my job. Push for fairness and equity. And push for it now.

Two nights ago, our school board held a listening session for the public to make comments on the Anti-Racism Resolution, and Dave Brown shared a 3000+ word response regarding why he voted no.

Below, I’m sharing his response in full, as well as my in-line (point by point) response to it. I believe even more strongly than before that Dave Brown’s no vote was wrong, that it does not represent the majority of his constituents, that it more importantly does not promote justice and equity for the children in our district, and that he should rescind it. He voted no based on flawed logic, conflating the Anti-Racism Resolution with things it does not state. And he has exhibited a recalcitrant unwillingness to listen to constituents of color. Dave, as you will see from his statement, is anti-Anti-Racism (which is not to say he’s pro-racism, but which is to say he has not heard the need to be anti-racist.) This is my rebuttal against his anti-Anti-Racism.

Dave’s statement is in the regular font. My in-line comments are in blue.

Sending love and hoping for a more equitable world,

From: Dave Brown, Newberg School District School Board Member for Zone 6
Subject: My No Vote on the Newberg School Board Resolution on Anti-Racism

With recent events unfolding, I have been hearing from you, my constituents, that you would like a broader explanation of my no vote on the Newberg School Board’s 2020-04 “Anti-Racism” resolution. As many of you may know, due to technical issues during the vote, I was unable to comment on my decision during the July 23rd board meeting. Today I would like to explain the decision I made as a public servant, as I believe full transparency in matters of such importance, are necessary.

I have committed the majority of my life to working with and supporting youth and our community as a coach, mentor, Newberg School District employee, volunteer, and now as part of the School Board. In my 20 years of public service in the Newberg School District and more than 30 years of direct interaction with thousands of youth in the Newberg community I have prided myself on ensuring the importance, safety, and development of all individuals regardless of race, gender, age or background. I have always lived my life this way, will continue to do so as long as I live, and expect the same from my community.

My voting against this resolution has been perceived by many as a denial of racism’s existence or an outright condoning of racism. We are all too quick to draw the conclusion that, “A vote against this “anti-racism” resolution, means you must be racist or condone racism.”

The paragraph above is a response to Dave’s perception of others’ responses to his no vote. This in no way explains the initial no vote. It is also a deflection from the words of those of us who have challenged his position. He appears to be unable to differentiate challenging a public position and the vote of an elected official charged with representing his constituents — an action that results in continued harm and racism toward people of color in our community — from personal attacks. We the people must bear the responsibility of keeping our elected officials accountable to our full community. That is what we’re doing in challenging Dave’s no vote.

I consider this reflexive reaction one of the main issues we face today in our country. The breakdown of our ability to have objective, nuanced, and open-minded discussions about critical and highly complex issues is a major downfall of our current society and, in my opinion, the primary reason for the polarization of our country.

Stating a non-popular, dissenting or divergent opinion in our society today is no small matter.

It will likely result in hate-filled responses, character attacks, censorship or even violence. This is a sad reality of our current culture.

We have the freedom to speech by inalienable right, but we are failing to remember that right comes with the responsibility to listen and try to understand. If all we do is preach and speak at each other and no one is on the other side to listen or try to understand then what is the point? We have to consciously and proactively want to, and encourage, rational discussion between opposing viewpoints as well as honest self-reflection and the challenging of our own viewpoints and biases. Myself included, most especially when considering such high gravity issues as that of racism. If we don’t, if we cancel, if we blindly renounce, if we attack character and not content then our world will nose dive into extremes and polarization.

Again, the four paragraphs above are a response to Dave’s perception of others’ responses to his no vote. This in no way explains the no vote. It’s also sadly ironic that Dave is asking for others to listen and understand when that is, in fact, exactly what he is failing to do with people of color.

By voting against this resolution I am in no way condoning racism or diminishing its impact on certain communities, but rather my disagreement with the approach, methods, and message this resolution sends to our community. I also disagree with the viability of the resolution to affect meaningful change in our community and the assumption of the resolution that we are not already committed to these goals in our community. This seems to be a gesture without any verifiable action plan or solutions.

Isn’t this literally what the board does? Passes policy? Are there usually detailed action plans in policies? What isn’t viable about the resolution’s statement to thoroughly review “policies, practices, and district cultural norms”? Is Dave opposed to that method and approach? A resolution is merely a first step in taking action. Resolutions are not complete action plans or solutions… they are a step in a larger process… and Dave’s failure to understand what a resolution is and does is problematic in a board member whose job it is to enact policy.

Dave is saying above (and throughout this statement) that we’re already committed enough to opposing racism as a school district and we don’t need to do anything further — despite people of color (POC) telling us otherwise in every way they can. It is striking to have a white man in leadership so thoroughly discount voices of POC and say everything’s already fine.

While our country, like every other country has a checkered past, we have made some incredible and unprecedented strides towards combating many issues of oppression and equality, but I also believe that we have plenty more work to do, and likely, always will.

Agreed — so why is Dave opposing a resolution that will do more work on combating oppression?

However, I believe that much of the currently promoted ideology around racism and race relations is rooted in a very narrow and unnuanced understanding of what is obviously a very complex and emotionally loaded topic. The current public debate around race relations is not one that I think is being had in a constructive way. There are a bevy of nuanced thoughts that are not being heard and in general, detract from some of the very difficult conversations that we must have. With this in mind, I am continuing to listen and learn from other perspectives.

Dave should be reviewing resolutions based on their content, not on his political understanding of outside ideology. His inability to judge the resolution based on its own words and his insistence on reading the “current public debate” into it is a concern.

I fully believe the intent of this resolution was coming from a good place and with benevolent intent; the intent to put a stop to the wrongs and ills that racism and bigotry have caused and still are causing in our country.

If the above is, in fact, true — if Dave fully believes the intent was to put a stop to the wrongs and ills that racism and bigotry cause — then he should have voted for it UNLESS the language included ideas with which he doesn’t agree. Dave should provide the public with which statements in the resolution he finds unacceptable.

But I believe the approach and rationale is misguided. Where I differ in my views are 1. I believe the “anti-racism” movement reduces all issues to race and will lead to polarization, not progress 2. how we go about addressing and combating the issue of racism, especially as they apply to political policy and 3. the pervasiveness or “systemic” nature of racism in our society and the Newberg community today.

In #1 above, Dave states he is against an “anti-racism” movement in general. He fails to see that HE is causing the polarization here by assigning the resolution to an entire movement instead of reviewing it as it was written. In other words, he has assigned the anti-racism resolution an entire host of other ideology and political perspective it in no way professes.

The Newberg School District already has policies (JB/JBB/AC/JFCF-AR/GBA) that deal directly with students, staff, and parents. These policies have been reviewed within the past year. In them, there is coverage for any wrongdoing in our Newberg School Community. Nondiscrimination, racism, bias, hate speech, and mistreatment is explicitly addressed in our policies. This leads me to believe that this latest resolution is less about combating racism and more about adopting and being influenced by current cultural “anti-racism” ideologies rather than addressing the specific issues and possible solutions as they pertain to our community. If not, then why is it necessary to create an additional resolution on top of the existing policies that clearly state the same clauses and condemnations of discrimination based on race?

Having policies in place — even recently reviewed policies — does not imply that they are comprehensive or sufficient. If the people who are affected by policies (the way POC are affected by policies regarding racism, bias, hate speech, etc.) are telling us the policies are insufficient or that they need a clear and unequivocal statement from the highest echelons of district leadership that we will collectively stand with them in proactively addressing embedded racism, a responsive board will take appropriate action. That’s what this resolution does. It takes appropriate action as requested by a group who needs us to step up our game on their behalf.

As a coach, volunteer, and school staff member hate speech, discrimination, and racism have always been antithetical to my worldview and everyday interactions with youth and individuals in our community as I believe they also have been for our school district and education system at large. If these policies have already been in place in our school district then why are we just now attempting to tackle the issues stated in this resolution?

“Why didn’t we do this before?” is an invalid argument. When we know better, we do better. We’re learning better right now, and so we’re responding. The idea that any appropriate action always should have happened “before now” — and that if it hasn’t already been done it shouldn’t be done now — is ridiculous and wholly illogical.

At what time or in what specific instances has our school district, employees or students not stood up, not punished, overlooked or excused grievous instances of racism?

People of color have provided the board with countless instances of racism. Dave is responding by discounting and diminishing those instances. I can provide emails to that effect with Dave’s responses. The main point, though, is that Dave doesn’t get to decide alone what instances of racism are “grievous” or rise to a level he considers high enough for his personal attention. Dismissing the many concerns and instances that have been brought to his attention — his failure to listen — does not in any way mean these instances didn’t, haven’t, and aren’t continuing to happen.

Whatever racially motivated issues in our community have happened in the past or even recently may not be as brightly illuminated as they are today due the national attention on the issue, but I cannot believe there was no fight or justice for these issues in the past. I believe it is because our community, employees and students are already onboard with this and have been for a very long time. But this is not about nondiscrimination anymore. This is about our society and policy makers being influenced by national organizations like Black Lives Matter and their push to not only be against racism, but to be “anti-racist”. These ideologies claim that America and its citizens are inherently racist. Perspectives that claim if we are not actively “anti-racist” then we are by default racist. I refuse this mindset.

No one said there was no fight or justice for these issues in the past within Newberg Public Schools. What a strange conclusion to draw from the request for an anti-racism resolution.

Dave is equating a local school district anti-racism resolution with the BLM movement. They are not the same thing. The anti-racism resolution is not a pro-BLM resolution, and Dave’s inability to understand the difference between the two — his inability to divorce himself from his political assumptions — is very concerning.

The “anti-racism” movement is reducing all human relations to a rudimentary correlation of skin color and inequality. Any inequality in outcome, therefore, must be solely attributed to race. In this view racism can no longer just be understood as the belief that someone is inferior based on race. Rather, racism must be defined as the belief that any differences in outcome must be assigned directly to racism. Thus, any system that ends with different outcomes must be racist. This is a dangerous, misguided precedent that I do not stand for. I stand for, and believe in, equality of opportunity, but equality of outcome is not possible to guarantee and seeking it only results in the reduction of groups to individual characteristics and factors and not paying attention to the holistic nature of our society, the multitude of factors at play in any individuals lives, and human nature. Absolutist thinking of this kind can only lead us to extremes and furthering oppression, not suppressing it.

This is one of the most troubling statements Dave makes. The fact that Dave is unconcerned that our children of color are experiencing differences in outcomes — that he believes there’s no racial component here — that he believes we shouldn’t look for ways to ensure an egalitarian outcome for all of our students and proactively look for ways to champion better outcomes for those experiencing racial (or financial or psychological or socio-economic) disparities is alarming. There is ample and sound research that shows Dave is, frankly, completely wrong about this, and it will undoubtedly negatively affect the very children we should be championing to allow this type of leadership to continue.

The OSBA Caucus of Color also made a resolution and, along with the OSBA, stated in their resolution statements that they were in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter organization. Our Board followed the OSBA, as we nearly always do on educational matters. While the intent is noble, we must ask if doing the popular thing is in our long-term best interest. Some of the wording and much of the theme that Newberg School District used to frame its own resolution was from these resolutions.

It is unfortunate that Dave has cast himself in the “unpopular” role here and cast the OSBA Caucus of Color as “the popular thing” when in fact data historically support that calls for justice are minimized by folks inside power structures — government, legislature, judicial… and in this case, school board members. That’s why MLK, Jr said that the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice. He was acknowledging the extraordinary and painful amount of time it takes to bring our established systems into alignment with equity and equality for all.

Furthermore, Dave’s assertion that the Oregon School Board Association [OSBA] Caucus of Color and the OSBA stated that they were in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter organization is false. The only place I can find reference to the words “black lives matter” (words which are TRUE, by they way… black lives DO matter) is in the joint OSBA and OSBA Caucus of Color statement which reads in one sentence, “We stand with the message that “Black Lives Matter” and believe that racial discrimination and injustice are intolerable in any form.” [You can read the full statement from the OSBA and OSBA Caucus of Color here.] They said they stand with the message that Black Lives Matter. They don’t mention the organization. The OSBA letter to its members [which you can see here] makes no mention of the organization. Nor does their sample resolution for school boards to adopt [which you can see here].

To be clear, this resolution has direct ties and influence from the Black Lives Matter organization.

See above. This is a statement not backed by evidence or facts. I actually agree with Dave’s assessment that national events and the BLM have influenced our understanding of the local need to act in anti-racist ways. But to directly tie an increased understanding of our need to act in an anti-racist manner to the the BLM organization and conflate the NPS Anti-Racism Resolution with the BLM organization is false. What follows is an argument from Dave against the Black Lives Matter Organization. To be clear, the NPS Anti-Racism Resolution was not a Pro-BLM resolution. It was exactly what it purported to be — anti-racist. For Dave to state that black lives matter (as he does in his next sentence) and acknowledge the wrongs of racism and bigotry that are still happening in this country (as he does in the 11^th paragraph above), but reject the calls from those black lives for a more just and equal school district is appalling.

The following twelve paragraphs are Dave’s statement against the BLM organization. Again, since the NPS Anti-Racism Resolution was not a Pro-BLM resolution, these comments have no bearing.

To me all black lives matter, they always have. But these three simple, lowercase words have been co-opted by the organization Black Lives Matter. I think it is critical this distinction is made. The Black Lives Matter organization stands for much more than the simple slogan they have titled themselves after and is not the same as just believing “black lives matter.” The popular viewpoint in our society has become that if you don’t side with, believe in, or support Black Lives Matter (the organization) then you don’t believe that “black lives matter” and by proxy are racist or condone racism. And so by default we have to also accept the additional ideological baggage of the Black Lives Matter organization.

This is false reasoning. I also vehemently disagree with much of what the Black Lives Matter organization stands for and is promoting. This does not make me oblivious to the multitude of issues faced by minority communities in this country. I personally am very concerned about racial inequality, but I care about finding actual solutions to specific and clearly defined issues in our community and country as a whole. I believe the Black Lives Matter ideologies, and similar or like-influenced, ideologies are either willfully trying to undermine finding solutions to racism in our country or ignorant to the fact their methods are actually damaging and will set back race relations and the opportunity for justice and equality that is desperately needed.

My first action at my first Newberg School Board meeting was to take the Oath of Office. In this Oath, I solemnly swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States Of America and all of its laws. I solemnly swore to uphold the Constitution of the State of Oregon and all of its laws. I solemnly swore to uphold the Policies and rules of the Newberg School District. I take these vows very seriously and will honor them to protect EVERY person no matter what.

But the Black Lives Matter organization, amongst other ideological movements, has led a charge into our society that flies in the face of our Constitution and the values that this country was founded on. The values that are the only thing standing between systems of oppression and freedom and equality for all people in our society. But these values and our Constitution are being renounced by not only BLM, but the strong undercurrents at the root of the organization and undercurrents in the ideological beliefs of the socialist left in our country that are actively trying to, not reform, but absolutely and fully tear down the system of values that have made our country a beacon of hope.

The Black Lives Matter organization states in THEIR OWN WORDS that they believe in a Marxist/socialist form of government:

“We actually do have an ideological frame. Myself and Alicia in particular, we’re trained organizers. We are trained Marxists.” — Patrisse Cullors, Co-Founder, Black Lives Matter (video source)

When their leaders say “Burn It Down” they mean taking down our democracy, our Constitution and our current form of government and they will not stop until they get what they want. This is their agenda and their goal and they are succeeding today in many places, especially the minds and hearts of people who think this is about George Floyd and justice for people of color. What happened to George Floyd was wrong and justice needs to happen, peacefully. This movement is taking advantage of Mr. Floyd’s tragic death to advance their agenda. Black lives do matter, absolutely, but we must distinguish between the true statement and the organization that uses this statement as a title to mask their true, nefarious intent.

The Black Lives Matter organization believes in THEIR OWN WORDS that they want to, “disrupt the Western-prescribed nuclear family structure requirement,” in the United States of America (see third from last paragraph on their “What We Believe” webpage). Why? Because the strength of the individual and a solid nuclear family unit undermines Marxist/socialistic movements because these ideologies rely on all citizens to be reliant on the government, not themselves. Strong individuals and families are antithetical to socialism, because Marxist/socialist governments’ success depends on central control of indoctrination and morality which is not possible with the nuclear family intact.

Further it has been shown time and again that the primary factor that leads to poverty, higher crime rates, and poor quality of life are fatherless and broken homes. If the goal is to lift minorities out of systems of oppression then why is the primary driving force behind race relations in our society today (the BLM organization) promoting “disruption” of such a fundamental value?

The Black Lives Matter organization believes in THEIR OWN WORDS that they want to dismantle and defund the police in the United States of America. Our police are not perfect and never have been. Reforms are needed and we have to do better. But our laws and the 800,000 police officers that serve our county and protect us like no other country in the world are and should be respected. I support police reform that is done wisely, peacefully, and respectfully and I believe the majority of the police officers who do this amazing and demanding job would agree. For the police officers murdered during these so-called peaceful protests, to the over 700, and counting, who have been injured, and to the rest who are waiting for our country to stop this incredible disrespect they are being shown, I say thank you for protecting our country, our communities, and my family every day.

The Black Lives Matter organization wants and seeks a Marxist/socialistic form of government, but just as disconcerting is the fact they are actively trying to undermine our current values and actively working towards policies that will actually harm, not help, minorities. Whether this is intentional or not I won’t speak to, but I cannot support these ideals. Unfortunately, there are many in our society today that do not see this as a bad thing and, in fact, encourage it.

And while BLM may not speak to everyone in the broader movement, I cannot in good faith stand behind a movement whose leaders espouse such radical positions for the reordering of American society. Unfortunately, this movement has perpetrated our country far-and-wide, and is now influencing our community and policies here at home.

So I’ll just reiterate here. The Anti-Racism Resolution is not and was not a Pro-BLM resolution. It was also not an anti-police resolution. Nor was it an anti-constitution resolution or an anti-America resolution. It was not an anti-family resolution. It was not a pro-Marxist resolution. It was not a Burn-It-Down resolution. It in no way asked anyone to “stand behind” the BLM organization. It simply asked NPS board members to unequivocally reject racism and discrimination in our district.

Many in our society today also believe the values of this great country we live in are founded on lies, racism, and oppression. They fail to understand the Constitution and founding documents were not declarations of successes or claims of a job well done, but rather ideas that we have, still are, and should always continue to strive towards. They were declarations of what this country can be, not what it is. They are ideals we will never live up to up, but should never stop trying to attain.

Again, this was an Anti-Racism Resolution. It was not a tear-down-American-ideals resolution.

I cannot sit back idly while our youths are indoctrinated with ideas that our country is inherently evil. I cannot sit back and accept that racism is part of our “DNA,” as has been widely claimed recently.

And once again, this was an Anti-Racism Resolution. It was not an indoctrination resolution or an our-country-is-evil resolution.

The idea that racism is fundamental to our people in either our “DNA” or as a “virus” is one of the most damaging ideas I can think of and will, and has certainly, set back race relations possibly by decades. The only natural conclusion to such statements is that the vast majority of the people in our country are inherently racist and without cure. How does this solve anything? How can anyone look at the progress of this country and believe such things? The answer is there is no solution here, just further division and polarization.

Not to beat a dead horse, but this was an Anti-Racism Resolution. It said zero things about our “DNA” or a “virus.” The fact that Dave uses statements that were not made by anyone in the Newberg Public Schools nor by the resolution itself to reject an Anti-Racism resolution — and uses straw man arguments to declare that the “only natural conclusion… is that the vast majority of the people in our country are inherently racist” — is a failure of logic and a display of an ideology that makes it clear Dave is unable to read a resolution or policy document without assigning baseless accusations to it.

The resolution also outwardly assumes a “systemic racism” in the Newberg community. systemic racism is defined as:

systemic: “fundamental to a predominant social, economic, or political practice”, and racism: “a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race; or racial prejudice or discrimination.”

I understand we all have biases, and many of us may, and likely do, hold biases of race. Bias is inherent to human psychology. But our individual biases are not fundamental to our existence, a bias is something we can build awareness to, something we can learn-out.

The statement in this resolution that our community is “systemically racist” is an acquisition against all of the people of Newberg that we are innately and predominantly racist. The Newberg community should be upset and enraged that a small group of people are willing to claim for them that they are racist.

This statement is also false and yet another example of Dave conflating one thing with another, baselessly. Systemic racism (which is easily google-able… I recommend reading the Wikipedia article on the subject — here — at or this USA Today article — here — which shares several definitions of systemic racism) is specifically differentiated from individual racism. It is literally about processes, systems, and institutions in our society which, due to embedded bias over decades and centuries, affect POC in inequitable ways. It is literally the idea that racism is not mainly the product of overt, individual racist words and actions — racism endures because it’s subtly woven into the fabric of our society. Systemic racism requires us to take actions exactly like the Anti-Racism Resolution proposes — to thoroughly review areas where our systems have cause racist outcomes that have, before now, been invisible to the individuals in power. It is the unpacking of our current system so we can see where we need to improve. It is NOT IN ANY WAY an accusation against any individual, much less “against all of the people of Newberg.” It is the OPPOSITE, which is the point.

We as Americans who love this country need to stand up and say NO MORE. Not just for the sake of our country, but for the sake of actually finding real solutions to the problems of racism and discrimination in our country. If we want to solve a problem then we first must accurately and specifically understand the truth and nature of the problem. By reducing the worldview and values of our country to being fundamentally racist we are setting the stage for the destruction of a nation that was, and is, a pioneering force in human rights and justice. The only natural drawn out conclusion to such extreme ideas are to raze not only the structure, but the foundation itself. To think about this happening should scare us all.

I could not agree more with Dave’s statement that “if we want to solve a problem then we first must accurately and specifically understand the truth and nature of the problem.” Unfortunately, by rejecting anti-racism as unAmerican, or unconstitutional, or accusatory of individuals — or the other host of ways Dave has rejected anti-racism — Dave is hamstringing Newberg’s efforts to do exactly that. It’s impossible to see a problem and understand the truth when he refuses to listen to the very people who are being harmed by the system.

Are we genuinely deciding to slide into a belief that there is nothing good or just about this country? That we have to “tear the system down?”

No, we’re not. This is Dave’s interpretation of the Anti-Racist Resolution. There is nothing in the resolution that states or implies there is nothing good or just about our country, nor that we have to “tear the system down.” Again, a baseless accusation and faulty interpretation without data or merit.

That is why I voted NO on this Newberg School District Resolution to further this movement by using “anti-racism” as their voice. I took an Oath of Office that gave me no choice to follow this movement. I will never apologize for defending the United States of America and the Constitution of our Nation.

And again, the Anti-Racism Resolution in no way violates any board member’s oath of office. It is not an anti-USA resolution. It is not an anti-constitution resolution. Dave’s assertion that it is is alarming and troublesome.

If I see or hear racism, I will stand with you and fight it. But I will not allow myself, my friends, my family, and community to be deemed racist by default and you should not either.

If you truly care for others no matter who they are, you will treat others well every time.

I hope Dave will listen to and hear POC when they say that in order to treat them well they need him to stand together with them and support anti-racism in NPS.

You will stop hating those who disagree with you.

It makes me sad that Dave believes disagreement with his position is hatred of his person. That’s untrue.

You will engage in healthy discussions and dialogue that seek positive change and aim to help all people no matter their race, gender, or age.

I agree, and I hope Dave will understand that challenging his vote and his harmful words in this document is a healthy — and necessary — discussion.

You will love this United States of America and all the wonderful freedoms we enjoy.

It is because I love my neighbors in this United States of America and the ideals we purport to follow that I will continue to raise my voice for liberty and justice for all.

You will respect Americans who came before us and fought to make this country great. They had flaws and they didn’t always do what we think is right. They may have been completely wrong at times. However, they lived in a different time and place. Things were vastly different than today. Instead of damning their missteps, how about we also celebrate their foresight and progress. We have a 20/20 lens of hindsight that they did not. Let’s learn from them, good and bad, to not repeat their mistakes and to build upon the good.

Yes, let’s learn from them, good and bad, which includes taking a hard look at our systems — which is what the board is charged to do — and making changes where they inequitably affect POC and other vulnerable humans.

John F. Kennedy said, ”Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” The time is now to take that to heart. The United States needs you and I to step up with honor and civility and bring this country together. We must heal one person at a time and quickly. We must stop the violence and hate. We must stop seeing each other through lenses of color and race and seek the heart of the person. This will not be easy. There have been many wrongs. We again have to be better than those wrongs and today, move forward. We move forward with every single encounter with every single person we meet. We must work hard to take care of our United States of America because this country has given us so much and can give us so much more! We must remember and not forget all the blessings we have.

I hope Dave will ask what he can do for his city in his position as a school board member. Folks who are marginalized here are showing him how to help make our town and our country a better place for everyone.

To those of you who have spoken harsh words directed at me I say, let’s move past words of hate and move towards words of healing and seeking to serve others and not ourselves.

Again, I’m so sad Dave believes challenging his ideas and words and no vote are words of hate. Despite his misconception, though, I remain focused on raising the voices of our hurting minorities. Dave isn’t my focus or concern except where he acts in his position as a board member to affect his community. I will continue to challenge voices who are unwilling to listen to and believe people of color.

God Bless The United States of America and all the people in it.

Sincerely,
Dave Brown

This is a screenshot of the full Anti-Racism Resolution adopted by Newberg Public Schools:

The post A Point-by-Point Rebuttal Against Anti-Anti-Racism (aka, A Rebuttal on Behalf of Anti-Racism) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

7 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 08 Jul 2020 04:33:48 +0000

Dear Diary,

Pretty much, I just want to walk around these days yelling I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW BEING ANTI-RACIST IS CONTROVERSIAL.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT’S SO HARD FOR 99.999999% OF PEOPLE TO WEAR MASKS.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY BEING COMPASSIONATE IS POLITICIZED.

But I do understand.

I understand we’re selfish.

I understand we feel attacked.

I understand it’s hard work to self-analyze.

I understand we’ve bought all the way in to lies that MY liberty and sense of privilege is more important than YOUR life.

I understand it. As in, I comprehend it on an intellectual level. Yes, I understand, but I also refuse to accept those as legitimate reasons to continue to put others in harm’s way.

I understand that this is how it’s always been even though it was invisible to me, but I refuse to accept that this is how it always will be.

Living in the After Times is strange, indeed. You’ve seen this meme, right? The one right after we found out a Saharan Dust Storm was headed for the USA?

And the dude who replied, “Awesome! I always wondered what it was like to live during the times of the Civil War, Spanish Flu, Great Depression, Civil Rights Movement, Watergate, and the Dust Bowl. Not all at once, mind you, but ya know, ‘beggars/choosers’ and all.”

My dad shared it on the Book of Faces. But I admit, Diary, this meme gives me shortness of breath. I see the humor in it, but also it really does feel like this right now. All at once. A country more divided than I’ve seen in my lifetime, actively egged on by our president. A global pandemic and a U.S. president utterly incapable of taking the most basic measures to protect the populace — so much so that Americans are prohibited from crossing most borders (oh, the irony of being walled in!). Job losses and business closures that have already outweighed the numbers seen in the Great Depression. Protests and demonstrations and even some riots because we’re still a racist country no matter how much we say “BUT WE’VE CHANGED.” Constant scandals. Murder hornets. Cocaine boars. And I wonder, Diary — is this whole sitch short-term or long? Are we going to make progress on any of this or are we sort of stuck here in Bizarro Land?

I’ve said it before that it’s the Uncertainty of the After Times that’s really causing the angst. A crystal ball would come in handy about now. Will there be a vaccine? Is herd immunity possible with this virus? Will we ever go back to the “normal” of the Before Times? Do we even want to go back when forward holds more promise? Will our country come out of the protests having made any real change toward equity? Does the long arc of the moral universe really bend toward justice? I want to think so. And maybe that’s what hope is, in the end. Thinking good is even possible.

So I guess that’s what I’ll sit here tonight and practice.

Thinking good is even possible.

Thinking we can maybe figure out a way to collectively prioritize compassion.

And focusing on hope.

Hope, anyway.

Hope, despite evidence to the contrary.

With love,

The post 7 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

1 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 02 Jul 2020 05:20:28 +0000

Dear Diary,

Just a few quick things.

Thing 1: I went to the food cart pod in our little town today, and this dude showed up, went to two carts, said, “I don’t need anything today, I just didn’t have any cash to tip last time I was here,” and then he popped cash money into their tip jars. DEAR LORD, DIARY, I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU HOW MUCH I NEEDED TO WITNESS KINDNESS. I legit teared up. Swear to God Almighty Maker of Heaven and Earth, it was a GIFT to watch that. It was like rain after drought. It was like sparkling joy in the midst of whatever cluster we’re in right now with rampant unkindness and a global pandemic and folks unwilling to listen to people who are being harmed. I wanted to follow that dude home like a puppy. Just to soak in his goodness for a little longer. But I didn’t because I occasionally, every now and then, just to mix things up have appropriate social boundaries. Not following the dude was like my gift back to him. You’re welcome, kind dude. Keep being excellent.

Thing 2: I haven’t been able to write for a few days because all my time and energy has been consumed doing two things…

Thing 3: Our school board voted for an anti-racism resolution. Which OH MY GOODNESS, SHOULD ALREADY HAVE BEEN POLICY. But also, HOORAY! Because the first best time for proactive, deliberate anti-racist school policy is Way WAY Before Now, but the second best time is Right the Hell Now Already, so I’ll take it. Unfortunately, one board member voted against the anti-racism resolution. And when I saw that, I thought, “GOOD GRIEF, WHOEVER IS IN HIS DISTRICT BETTER SPEAK UP IF THEY DON’T WANT TO BE REPRESENTED THAT WAY” and that’s when I looked up his district and realized he’s my representative. So, in addition to ruining Zoom Church a few weeks ago by speaking out against racism, now I’m ruining Civil Discourse in All the Local Land by doing same. Ladies and Gentlebeings, I will tell you what: it is Not Fun to repeatedly request an explanation for a no vote on anti-racism and be roundly ignored. It is Not Fun to repeatedly request your representative rescind said vote only to hear crickets. It is Not Fun to be characterized for “attacking a nice man” because, of course, he is beloved in my community and has done good things and people have a Real Hard Time understanding the Both/And concept. That this man can be Both nice and held accountable for a no vote on anti-racism. He can be Both lovely to talk to in person and making the wrong choice for our community in his leadership position. But just so you know — especially those of you who are just finding your voices and testing the waters to rock your comfy boats because you’re seeing injustice and you’re not willing to just watch anymore without saying something — it is Not Fun and it is also Deeply, Abidingly Worth It. What you learn along the way is, it’s not so bad living with the tension of being unliked for the Right Reasons. You learn it becomes easier to speak out. You learn it is survivable even when you find yourself on the outside of what was once your village. And you learn the air is clearer and the path is straighter and the way forward is more transparent as you follow your conscience and listen to that Still, Small Voice who begs you to champion the vulnerable and amplify the voices of the marginalized. In short, the cost is worth paying when the cause is actual justice and liberty for all. Still, Diary, I haven’t had a ton of time with you because All the Writing time has gone to Writing Board Members and Writing My Representative and Writing About the Results (read: zilch so far) in Public because Public is the only appropriate place for transparency even though Writing in Public makes folks really, extra mad.

Thing 4: Phew! I’m tired. That’s not really Thing 4, but that’s where I’m at in this Diary entry. The Tired Part. I’m pooped, Diary. But I shall carry on because THERE’S ONE MORE EXCITING THING…

Thing 4, Take 2: We officially, actually, for REAL opened Cairns Farm on Sunday.

Now, technically, we thought we’d be open this time last year.

Ha! Bless our optimistic hearts!

And we certainly didn’t think we’d be opening a welcoming, inclusive place to gather in the middle of a pandemic.

But, to be perfectly honest, a) it’s not the Very Worst Time in the world to open an outdoor gathering place with sufficient room to socially distance, and also b) our mission has changed not at all.

We’re still here to serve our community and welcome the stranger and love our neighbors and find, in the end, everyone’s our neighbor.

We’re still here to pursue kindness and joy and an expansive, whole life.

And, yes, our world is shifting and unkindness appears at times to be winning.

But there’s nothing really new under the sun, is there?

Our world has been here before. Our world has always been here. We humans are kind and cruel. Generous and miserly. Loving and enamored with power. It’s in all of us. It’s the air we breathe. But we each choose daily whom we serve. Each other and Love. Or ourselves. And it’s a mixed and muddled murky mess nearly all the time.

I have hope, though.

Hope in the little things like baby goats and kind food cart dudes.

Hope in the wide open spaces.

Hope that we’ll keep showing up for each other and speaking out even when it’s Not Fun.

And hope, always, that Love wins in the end.

Waving in the dark,

The post 1 July 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

27 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 27 Jun 2020 21:23:41 +0000

Dear Diary,

Welp, we knew it was coming… or not coming as the case may be… but Abby and Chandler’s wedding wasn’t last weekend.

Like brides and grooms everywhere, these are Strange Times.

I called Saturday the Nonwedding day.

And you know what, Diary? They were happy anyway.

They dressed up in their wedding gear.

We grabbed our fab photographer friend.

Abby tapped her bridesmaids to throw on their dresses.

She bundled together silk flowers for the ladies.

I did her hair in my bathroom.

My rad friend Bethany assembled a stunning silk flower bouquet for the nonbride.

We spent 45 minutes in a flash-in-the-pan photo shoot at Cairns Farm, holding our breath for the pics with not-our-housemates.

And VOILA! One Nonwedding in the books.

I admit, Diary, if my kids had been unhappy, I would be having a much harder time with plans going awry and wishes scattered on the germ-infested wind.

No guests. No food. No officiant. No vows. No emotional walk down an aisle.

But these two are resilient and they’re determined to be content and gracious no matter what life throws at them.

(And let’s be honest, Diary — graduating without a graduation into the present economy as an interracial couple navigating the racist tension in this country with a wedding on indefinite hold is a lot to handle. A LOT a lot. Not sure I’d be as zen in their shoes.)

It was, all in all, the loveliest Nonwedding I’ve ever spent less than an hour attending.

But I REALLY HOPE we can do the Real One next year. Not gonna lie.

Waving in the dark,

The post 27 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Thought I Was Fostering Diversity. Turns Out, I Was Amplifying Oppression.

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 25 Jun 2020 02:49:01 +0000

In 2016 I was super concerned about making sure I wasn’t in a social media “bubble.” I wanted to proactively avoid exclusively following, friending, and interacting with people who could provide me with a nice, comfy echo chamber and who would parrot back to me what I already think. I wanted to be open minded. I wanted to cultivate diverse perspectives. I wanted to be able to listen well and learn and grow.

None of which was wrong in intention. Turns out, though, it was horrible in execution.

2016 Me: A SOCIAL MEDIA BUBBLE IS BAD

2020 Me: Rethinking Social Media Bubbles Entirely… And Kinda Digging Them

Now it’s 2020, and I’ve realized that, instead of giving myself diversity in my Facebook feed by keeping all my friends on equal conversational footing — by fostering and engaging in conversations with all players as though all ideas were created equal — I was ACTUALLY amplifying oppressive, discriminatory voices.

My main problem arrived in thinking “diversity” and “equality” meant listening to people from “both sides.” I value open-mindedness, and I measured it based on whether or not I was willing to converse with people with whom I disagree. I accepted at face value that there are two binary “sides,” and it’s that thinking that actually ended up keeping me mired in discriminatory practice.

As a white, cis female who’s become a politically non-affiliated progressive despite being raised within the paradigm of the “religious right” or “moral majority,” I patted myself on the back for “not having a social media bubble” since “I talk to friends on both sides of the political aisle.” In other words, I MISSED THE POINT OF DIVERSITY ENTIRELY. I mistakenly and wrongly believed I had a “diverse feed” by pointing to my many discussions with Democrats and Republicans and entirely failing to notice that 95% of my “diverse feed” was white, cis, and middle class just like me, and that those WHITE, CIS, MIDDLE CLASS HUMANS WERE STILL GETTING ALL MY ATTENTION AND AMPLIFICATION.

When people talk about “invisible privilege” this is what they mean. I genuinely DID NOT SEE that my feed wasn’t diverse, particularly because I’d taken such pains to cultivate diversity. I thought I was being diverse and open minded. I was actually being myopic and centering the white, cis, middle class experience and ensuring my demographic was the LOUDEST and received the most attention.

So I started keeping a deliberate eye on who I was paying attention to and who I was trying to converse with, and guess what? I was spending an inordinate amount of time responding to, debating, and expending mental and emotional energy with conservative extremists who are mostly interested in insulating themselves from any change that might threaten their power or position in our society. Then when I looked more closely at their own Facebook feeds and pages, I realized they were sharing fanatical, false, and oppressive articles and ideas AND ONLY 1-2 PEOPLE WERE “LIKING” THEM and, like, ZERO people were responding to them, so when *I* responded *I* was the one ensuring the Facebook algorithm showed their stuff to other people.

**facepalm**

I was, in other words, giving extremists a wide and broad platform.

Now that it’s 2020, I’ve figured out the problem is NOT in having a bubble or an echo chamber. A bubble of equality and change agents is a bubble I’m OK with. The problem is that I CONFUSED DIVERSITY WITH ENGAGING WITH EXTREMIST POSITIONS RATHER THAN UNDERSTANDING I NEEDED TO ADD DIVERSITY OF RACE, GENDER, EDUCATION, SEXUALITY, ETC.

So I’m unfollowing folks with alacrity these days. And unfriending judiciously. Not out of spite. Not out of anger, even, although God knows injustice makes me mad. I doubt folks even notice the buttons I’ve clicked to quiet their sound. The point isn’t to make a grand unfriending statement. The point is to ask myself, “Is this a perspective that should be amplified?” If the answer is a GIANT NOPE — like the lady who shared her very first piece regarding racism in the form of an article that says we should affirm the phrase “black lives matter” but roundly dismiss the movement — then I don’t waste any time responding. No. NOPE. No. No one needs to see yet another white lady thinking she’s “engaging” on the topic of racism by sitting in radio silence on the topic for years, inviting zero listening conversations with people of color, only to share from her White Woman Perch an article that minimizes and trivializes the ongoing and brutal deaths of black people in our country. Uh uh. Hard pass. Unfriend. Not interested in engaging or helping anyone else see that swill. Thumbs down.

Because engaging the racist white lady centers the wrong part of the conversation. It amplifies the wrong voice.

Instead, I’m clicking “follow” on the voices of black women who make me think and make me uncomfortable because they relentless reveal injustices to which I’ve been utterly — and sometimes willfully — blind. And I’m clicking “friend“ on people I should’ve friended in my own community LONG ago — voices for equality, change, representation, and safety and stability for people of color in my little town.

I’m cultivating an ACTUALLY DIVERSE feed rather than encouraging my own faulty belief that reading articles from FOX NEWS and CNN — and having convos with followers of each — makes me a diverse thinker. Because hint: it doesn’t. And, frankly, articles and humans who perpetuate injustice and who try to retain power rather than pursuing ways to share it, don’t deserve my time or attention.

You know who does deserve my time and attention?

People of color.

Indigineous folks.

Humans who are trans, queer, gay, lesbian, and bi.

Undocumented immigrants.

Asylum seekers who are being unlawfully detained and who are dying in U.S. custody.

People who are sick and vulnerable in the middle of a global pandemic.

The problem isn’t one of intention, it’s one of focus. Is my focus on the powerful? Or is my focus on the powerless? Am I centering those with privilege? Or those without it? Where have I turned my attention? Who’s getting the bulk of it?

I can look at my white friend who posts something wrong (unjust and minimizing others’ experiences), and I can spend my time, attention, and energy yelling “THAT IS WRONG,” debating with them and drawing others into that conversation. OR I can look at my black friend who posts something right (about equality, justice, centering the black experience) and I can spend my time, attention, and energy yelling “THIS IS RIGHT.” Now, whose voice do I want to amplify? Where — dare I say — should I be looking?

That’s not to say there’s never a time to call out my friends who are in positions of power. Those of us who enjoy any measure of privilege need to shoulder that work so our friends who are vulnerable and who’ve been systematically disenfranchised don’t have to keep doing it alone and so they don’t have to keep putting themselves in harm’s way to be heard. But I also try to BE SURE when I’m calling folks out (or in) that I’m centering the right people. That my gaze is where it should be. That the voices I’m amplifying are being amplified on purpose and not out of a misguided understanding that diversity only includes people who look like me.

So my social media bubble is alive and well in 2020. And it’s still not anywhere close to where it needs to be in terms of diversity. But I’m slowly figuring out whose voices to raise and whose to quiet. And you know what? The noise which was deafening is less so all the time. I’m homing in on where my attention belongs.

Waving in the dark,

Image Credit: Paul Esch-Laurent

The post I Thought I Was Fostering Diversity. Turns Out, I Was Amplifying Oppression. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

14 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 15 Jun 2020 00:19:36 +0000

Dear Diary,

Alrighty, I started talking to you in March, Diary, so I could keep a record of what the After Times are like. I knew then we were entering a New Phase — hopefully a finite new phase, one limited to weeks, perhaps months — and I wanted to Remember what Really Happened. What it was Really Like. How we Really Coped.

Well, I’ll tell you, Diary, I’m Fatigued at the moment. And yes, technically it’s been an Era of Increasing Fatigue, starting with Becoming a Mother, followed by Becoming a Mother of Children Who Experience Disability, followed by Becoming a Mother of Twins, followed by Realizing I Have a Mental Illness and Depression Sucks Ass, followed by Realizing I’m a Person of Profound Privilege and Have Used My Power Poorly by Staying Quiet in the Face of Injustice, followed by Trying to DO Better Now That I’m Beginning to Know Better, followed by the Election of Donald F. Trump (yeah, yeah, I know his middle initial is J — I just feel like my interpretation is more accurate), followed by the Dissolution of My Church Because It Turns Out Exclusion Has Always Been a Main Tenet of the Christian Faith, followed by Living in a Country That Cages Asylum Seekers — including babies — During the Worst Displaced Persons Crisis the World Has Ever Known, followed by Horrific Crimes Against People of Color and Folks Who Are LGBTQ (which has Always Been Happening, but bless us Whities for Our Willful Blindness in the Face of Injustice), followed by… oh, IDK, Diary… it’s just Basically a Shit Show rn, you know?

So, yep. I’m tired.

And there are a lot of things on the Tired-Of List — Systemic Racism, LGBTQ Prejudice, a Lack of Advocacy for Kids Living in Poverty, a Dearth of National Leadership — but COVID is right up there, and, like White Folx everywhere, I sort of feel like Bad Things Should Be All Done when I’m tired of them. Definition of privilege much? Why, yes. Yes, there it is. I see it. It’s kind of hard to miss once it becomes obvious. Like the glare of the sun off a glass high rise — BLINDING. But also, I realized this past week I’ve been much less diligent about COVID precautions. I’ve seen more people. I’ve gone more places. And yes, I’ve still worn my mask and abided by the rules, but I can feel my diligence slipping. Because I’d just like for it to be Over now. OK? Please?

We’re three months into the After Times, and I understand why there’s a spike in COVID cases. We’re not very good at maintaining a high level of vigilance. Those of us with a measure of privilege — which we often mistake for freedoms everyone has (hint: they don’t) — get weary and decide we’re done. I hear it in the demands for schools to open at full capacity no matter what science says. I see it in the cries for business as usual. I recognize it in the criticism that the mask-wearers are foolish fear-mongers and that we should let the vulnerable look out for themselves while the rest of us get back to normal.

And don’t get me wrong — I’d like for schools to be open, and I’d like for businesses to be back to work. I don’t love wearing a mask, and I understand the desire to return to more familiar times.

But I also see that my desire for all those things is a result of exhaustion plus privilege.

Exhaustion + Privilege = Imaginary World Where Everything Is As I Wish It Would Be

It’s easier for me to “get back to normal” because my norm met my most basic needs. I had food. I had shelter. I had education for my kids. I had justice. I had safety and the ability to turn off screens when the news was overwhelming.

Now, all of that is harder. If I’m going to maintain COVID vigilance, I have to be more organized. I have to plan my shopping and my family’s meals and prepare ahead of time. I have to manage our environment in a way that facilitates kindness and cooperation. I have to think about how to get my kids on a learning trajectory and inject exercise into their days so they don’t go BONKERS or lose themselves inside YouTube. I have to stay on top of health recommendations and safety standards and adjust as we learn more from public health officials. And, if I really, truly desire to stand beside people who are vulnerable and marginalized, I can’t just shut off injustice when it makes me brain numb and weary. They can’t turn off their lived experience, and if things are ever going to change, I can’t come and go from What’s Right as I please.

But if I’m going to be honest and say How It Really Is for Me right now, I haven’t been doing well. I’ve been falling down on appropriate self-care which means I’ve been mentally unable to engage in any of the above.

I’m staying up too late at night, trying to shut off my revving brain with Netflix. (SPOILER: that delays the revving — it doesn’t shut it off. Although I’m not sorry for loving Jane the Virgin.)

I’m making less nutritious food at home and DoorDashing more food from “out.” Partly because I haven’t done a good job of getting help from my family to clean up so I have a place I can cook without wanting to beat my head against the (filthy) counter. And partly because I’m feeling Blerg and Bleck and Meh so, you know… motivation is an issue.

I’m functionally ignoring all the thing I know are most helpful in calming myself — getting enough sleep, reading for fun, following a simple schedule, cleaning my room, setting screen time limits and small-step action plans rather than just spinning out on helplessness.

So I’m just naming that all here, Diary. Just saying that’s what Exactly Three Months Into COVID is looking like. Feeling like. Acting like.

And yes, awareness and naming it will — cross fingers — help me make changes. But that’s not really the Ultimate Goal this second. The Ultimate Goal this second is simply Telling the Truth. What’s Really Happening. Where I’m Truly At.

Over and Out, Diary.

Image Credit: Maria Azzi via Unsplash.

The post 14 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

9 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 09 Jun 2020 22:44:28 +0000

Dear Diary,

Confession: I legit don’t get it when white people say they’re not racist.

I’m white. I’m racist.

Oh, I’m trying to be anti-racist, as in ACTIVELY WORKING AGAINST RACISM.

And also, I’m racist in that I’m participating in an ongoing way in upholding structures that discriminate against people of color.

I mean, if racism is the systemic oppression of a minority by the group with power, and if I benefit from that system in terms of wealth, access, and safety, and if I continue to use those benefits with alacrity, am I not more than simply privileged? Am I not engaging with the system? Am I not passively prospering due to it? And if I am — if I fight some things that are racist but not everything that is racist — can I claim to be not racist?

No? I can’t behave in ways that uphold racism and be not-a-racist?

Then I’m racist.

Right?

Like, I’d really love for there to be another option here, but I’m afraid there isn’t one. I just feel like if I’m going to do an actual, fearless, honest inventory of myself — my thoughts, my actions, my benefits — then I can’t be afraid to look at the truth that I, too, am racist.

Now, listen, Diary. I don’t like this about myself. I’m not saying this like, meh, whatever, this is just the truth. I’m not saying this in a way that’s blasé. I’m saying this like I NEED TO SIT UP AND PAY ATTENTION AND CHANGE. I’m saying this because it’s ugly. It’s something I’m working to correct. But it’s also an insidious and entrenched part of American culture — particularly the white, suburban culture in which I was (mostly) raised — so to assume any white person has purged it entirely just seems to me to be… naive? Ignorant? Blind? I’m gonna go with D: all of the above.

If we’re going to really reckon with the current state of affairs — which is, to be accurate, also the historical state of affairs, rampant and rife with injustice — don’t we need to take hard looks at ourselves like this?

Don’t we need to confess things like this?

Don’t we need to admit who we are, right now, as raw materials, so we can build something better?

I have racist thoughts, Diary. In my mind, I often default first to assuming the person in authority (aka, the police officer) was right and the person being pulled over/arrested/charged/harmed must have done something wrong. Even though I know better. Even though I’ve learned otherwise. Even though I can consciously correct myself when I do it, this is still my default. My go-to. My initial assumption. That which is most deeply embedded within. And that’s racist. When “innocent until proven guilty” is applied first or foremost or only to the authority figure and not to the person of color being prosecuted — particularly in a country with massive racial disparities in criminal justice — that’s racist. It just… is.

And I act in racist ways, too, Diary. I hang out in places frequented by white people. The restaurants I choose. The stores. The areas of Portland I visit. Where I spend my money. Oh, I do it subconsciously, sure, but an actual assessment of where I go and the places I consider “safe” have low populations of people of color. And that’s racist. Embedded racism I need to confront. Actions I need to change. Starting with frequenting more businesses run by people of color.

I’ve whitewashed my own history. I use the number of years I lived in countries without majority white populations as evidence that I’m not racist while conveniently leaving out the fact that the mission field was one of the most racist experiences of my life, spent predominantly in international schools in secluded, gated compounds. Do you know how many friends I have who are native to the countries I lived, Diary? One. That’s how many. After years living in Indonesia and the Philippines, I have an enormous number of ex-pat friends from New Zealand, England, Scotland, Australia, and other Western countries. And I have one Filipina friend. Whose dad was a white ex-pat missionary. From living overseas, I learned exclusion and separation. That’s racist.

I’ve used my own children in my mind as proof I’m not racist. I don’t know if I’ve ever said it out loud — I hope not — but I’ve definitely thought it. “I can’t be racist! I have children who are Asian and Latin.” I even believed that. As though adoring my children with abandon — as though being willing to die for them — is an inoculation against racism. POOF! NO MORE RACISM FOR ME! Pfffttt. Ugh. PLEASE feel free to roll your eyes with me, Diary — or barf. Barfing is probably more appropriate. Because loving one or two or twelve people of color does NOT make someone not-a-racist. And, in fact, using people I love as tokens to prove something about me is probably extra racist. I am DELIGHTFUL in SO MANY WAYS.

I could go on. I could write myriad more examples. But my point is this.

I’m white. I’m racist. I’m trying to be anti-racist, but I HAVE A LOT OF INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL WORK STILL TO DO to achieve not-a-racist status. So, you know, pardon me if I don’t believe all the white people out there claiming they’re not racist. Every time I see that, I just translate it in my head, “Oh, you’re racist. You just don’t know it yet.”

Image Credit: Chris Slupski via Unsplash

The post 9 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

8 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 08 Jun 2020 22:26:31 +0000

Dear Diary,

Thursday was Demonstration Day.

Because black lives matter.

Friday was working through feelings with my middle baby who’s not a baby.

Because she’s ANGRY, and she’s SAD, and she doesn’t understand why precious people like her aren’t treated fairly. And I don’t have answers for her other than It’s OK to be furious — THIS IS RIGHTEOUS ANGER, BABY — and it’s OK to be distressed — THIS IS HEARTBREAKING — and it’s OK not to understand inequity and injustice and the horrific treatment of our fellow humans — BECAUSE RACISM AND OPPRESSION AND ABUSE AND MURDER SHOULD NEVER MAKE SENSE — and I am WITH YOU in all these feelings. Me, too, baby girl. Me, too, with the rage and the grief and the confusion.

On Saturday, she graduated high school in the middle of a global pandemic…

…at an alternative, drive-through style, individualized graduation ceremony which I was worried would feel lackluster and less-than, but which, instead, was marvelous and beautiful and thoughtfully personalized…

…an obvious labor of love from teachers and staff and administrators who bent over backwards to make the day special.

And we even managed to take Graduating Sister Pics before the sky opened and heaped a celebratory deluge of water and hail upon us.

On Sunday, the little church where we’ve raised our kids assembled a graduate slideshow and special message particularly apropos for Such a Time as This as our students reel from being upended, as our nation protests, as we wait to curb the pandemic, as their futures are uncertain. She felt honored and loved, and, to be honest, I was pretty into Zoom Church from my couch with a warm dog on my lap and my baby girl next to me and a smile on her face after a cacophonous weekend.

It was a respite.

A relief.

A sprinkling of calm.

Until it wasn’t.

Because at the end of church, in the prayerful silence Quakers reserve for congregants to share any leading or messages they feel are from God for the whole group, a white man shared at length his angst that he’s being asked to apologize for or be ashamed of his whiteness and how hard this national situation has been on him.

And listen closely, please, Diary, because I want to be SUPER CLEAR. This man did not mean to hurt anyone. He did not intend harm. He is not evil. He is not “bad.” He was sharing his feelings and sadness.

AND ALSO, he hurt people, and he caused harm.

Not just to my daughter who stiffened beside me and then buried her head in her hands and started to cry. Also to the other people of color who were witnessing the centering of white fragility over centering violence being perpetuated on black, indigenous, people of color. In short, “but my feelings are hurt” shouldn’t be part of a conversation about people being murdered. And it especially shouldn’t be shared as a “message from God.”

Of course, we’ve been trained from infancy in white, evangelical culture to be polite. Not to interrupt. Not to confront. And we’ve been trained in white, Quaker, evangelical culture to be silent after someone speaks so we can digest the message. Contemplate it. “Sit with it.”

I’ve known for some time I’m not a good evangelical. I’m no longer polite.

I’ve known for some time I’m not a good Quaker. I’m tired of prolonged discernment meetings which allow vulnerable people to continue to be marginalized and harmed in favor of giving the powerful “time” (years) to “come to consensus” about fully welcoming vulnerable people into the church. I’m no longer willing to be patient. I’m no longer willing to pat Quakers on the back for their historical work on the Underground Railroad and Abolition and Women’s Suffrage without the acknowledgement that the Quaker church actually split over those issues with a HUGE number of Quakers opposing those efforts and dragging their feet (for years) the same way Quakers today are splitting over or prolonging fully welcoming LGBTQ+ humans into their midst or ending their silence over racial injustice.

I just… NOPE. I’m very nope about the whole thing.

I can’t participate in it.

I can’t stay silent about it.

I’m frustrated.

Also, angry, sad, and confused.

AND I love my Quaker friends and family.

AND my Quaker pastors are doing critically important work for justice and community.

AND I’ve been slowly returning to Zoom Church and finding succor and solace there.

It’s ALL OF THE ABOVE. Anger, hurt, frustration, confusion, separation, love, admiration, and connection.

So perhaps you can imagine, Diary, as I listed to that man — that well-meaning, hurting man who was trying to share vulnerably and openly inside a safe community — the way I was experiencing spiritual whiplash. On the one hand, I wanted to be kind and gentle to him. On the other hand, my daughter and other people of color needed that shit shut down. On the other-other hand, I wanted to honor the silent space Quakers are supposed to reserve after someone speaks. On the other-other-other hand, I wondered who was going to say This Isn’t OK.

Eventually, I realized that last one was gonna be me.

So I ruined Zoom Church.

Oh, not in the sense that it’s a wasteland of destruction. I wasn’t Godzilla in Tokyo. But I did unmute as soon as he was done and NOPED it hard. That’s not a message from Christ, I said. And white people aren’t being asked to be ashamed. We’re being asked to acknowledge historical, systemic ways we’ve benefited from privilege that hurts people of color.

I was blunt. I was not focused on being kind. I feel I can say with certainty I hurt his feelings because I can’t imagine my feelings not be hurt if I was on the receiving end of what I said. I can’t say with certainty that I made any point with clarity other than the NOPE.

And I feel now, after processing it for a day, that it was necessary AND I may have done it poorly.

I did the Most Important Thing which was to center people being harmed over people “intending” not to harm. I did the Most Important Thing which was to stand up against injustice while it was happening. BUT I also called the man out when I could have possibly accomplished the Most Important Things by calling him in. And I’m not going to sit here at my kitchen table and suggest that I don’t have some reflecting *I* need to do about my own words, too. Or my demeanor. Or my adrenaline fueled justice complex.

I’m just saying, Diary, this is a messy time, and we humans are messy beings, and in order to navigate it well we’re going to need to evaluate and then reevaluate and then reevaluate where we’ve caused harm — even if we didn’t mean to, and even if we were trying to do the Most Important Things, and even if we did the Best We Knew How at the Time.

We’re going to need to make the perpetual choice to listen and learn and know better and do better. Me, too, Diary. Especially me, too.

Zoom Church ended quickly after that. The pastors had a meeting. There’s going to be follow-up, which is right. And my baby girl left her celebration service from our living room in tears. Followed that evening by socially distanced strawberry shortcake with the neighbors to celebrate. There were cards and cash. There were words of congrats. There was camaraderie and sitting in the street and talking about Life and Justice and Sorrow and What’s Next. And we finished the weekend with heavy hearts and also with smiling. Which is, in the end, its own kind of blessing — this real, true, complex life of Both/And.

With love after a loooonnnng weekend,

P.S. Friends, it’s SUPER tempting when people write things like this to weigh in on who you feel was right or wrong, but I’m going to ask you not to do that. PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE refrain from telling me I did a good job or that the man didn’t. I don’t need reassurance here. I need, instead, to be able to sit with my thoughts and evaluate my words and behavior like a big girl. I don’t want votes on my behalf or against the man. I feel like I can say with confidence we’re both complex people trying hard to be better. And I feel like any comments about me or him centers US in this story — two white people — over the community who’s being hurt. INSTEAD, please feel free to share RESOURCES, ARTICLE LINKS, BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS, etc. — especially those written by people of color — that you’re finding helpful or meaningful as you’re learning how to navigate racism and/or privilege.

THANK YOU.

The post 8 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

5 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 06 Jun 2020 06:34:13 +0000

Dear Diary,

Is there a kind of tired we’re not right now?

That’s the only sentence I wrote all week. In the back of a spiral notebook I was using to make lists and organize details for my parents’ move.

Is there a kind of tired we’re not right now?

Jotted between moving boxes and assigning jobs to my children and reading the news about pandemic updates and protests across the nation and the president alternately hiding in the basement of a White House gone dark and sending military force to remove priests and parishioners from church steps to pose with a Bible for a propaganda photo-op to pander to the Religious Right.

Is there a kind of tired we’re not right now?

Is there?

If yes, I don’t know which kind.

Intellectually? Tired.

Spiritually? Spent.

Mentally? Exhausted.

Physically? Sore.

Emotionally? Weary.

Socially? Wary.

Politically? Drained.

Generally? Consumed.

And I’m WHITE, Diary. How our black brothers and sisters, our neighbors of color, these precious humans made in the Very Image of the Divine are even upright right now — much less putting one foot in front of the other and continuing to fight so relentlessly for justice, a slog of centuries, a marathon so many of the privileged refuse to acknowledge — I do not know. I can not fathom. But I will say this, Diary — I’m in awe. And I’m heartbroken.

I’ve spent my week the way many in America have, listening to the cacophony of injustice. Watching. Learning. Believing. Grieving. And, last night, finally, protesting in person.

I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. Not from a lack of longing to march. Only because my family and I moved my parents this week from one home to another, and, since we’re in the middle of a pandemic — one that targets folks my parents’ age — we had to stay isolated for their safety. We quarantined starting three weeks ago, and we maintained it until we finished the move, yesterday afternoon. Just in time to race home, make signs, gather the kids and our face masks, and head toward our little downtown where hundreds — hundreds, Diary, in a city of 20,000 — gathered peacefully to protest the murder of George Floyd, and the murders of other black men and women before him, at the hands of authorities sworn to serve and protect.

At the demonstration, I witnessed black speakers — my nephew and niece among them — eloquently tell their stories of growing up in rural, racist Oregon. Because sadly, Diary — horrifically, unjustifiably — Oregon’s history of racism is rampant, extensive, and also not “history” in the “it’s in the past” sense.

Racism is our present reality.

It always has been.

It abides.

Whether we see it or not, like the air we breathe.

And then we lowered ourselves to the brick pavement for 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silence — the amount of time it took a police officer to choke the life out of George Floyd. When it was over, my middle child, the one who is ENDLESSLY proud of her Latin, Native American, and African DNA, AS SHE SHOULD BE — tugged on my sleeve to get my attention and asked whether she could lay her “Justice Now” sign down at the hasty memorial erected for this man we didn’t know but whose story is too familiar.

Of course, I told her. Of course you can. And that moment in the sunshine, breathing our own sweaty air inside our masks, watching her walk to the front of the crowd in her sparkly blue shirt and put a piece of cardboard in front of a painting of George Floyd’s face, was holy. Holy as in sacred. Holy as in full of lament. Holy as in a pure offering of her heart.

Then we marched. And she sometimes held my hand even though she’s eighteen. Even though she’s not much of a hand holder. Even though she’s more reserved and reticent than her more gregarious siblings.

A white man in a truck drove by and flipped us off.

Another white man in a truck tried to push slowly through a crosswalk, into our friend, Liz, who offered her body to stop him from reaching the others.

A white man on the sidewalk — a businessman in our community — yelled at him to run her over. Those were his words, top of his lungs. RUN HER OVER.

I moved into the street behind Liz with a few other protesters. A physical symbol of the crowd he’d have to push through to keep going. And my kid walked into the street beside me.

You don’t have to stand in the street, I told her. You can go back to the sidewalk where it’s safe behind parked cars, I said. But she shook her head, defiant. I’ll stand here, she said.

So we did. Until the truck with the angry white man turned down a street that had been open to him the whole time.

Other cars honked their support.

Bystanders cheered us on and were kind and smiled and encouraged.

It was, by all accounts, just about as peaceful as a protest can be.

Mostly supportive.

Most of the noise made for justice.

And my baby girl cried when we got home. Because the ricochet of cruelty in the midst of injustice is loud. And it takes hundreds of voices to drown it out.

Thousands.

Millions.

Which is why we continue, tired or not, with our solitary, meager voices.

We hope to add our drops to an ocean of protest, to create a tsunami of change.

P.S. If you want to watch my stunning niece and incredible nephew rock their statements at this rally and share some of their stories, you can click here. The whole thing is worth watching, but Shali’s comments begin at minute 12:53 and Kaream’s at 18:49. Their bravery, honesty, and conviction are breathtaking, and I’m so proud they’re both part of our family now.

P.P.S. My absolute favorite photo from the protest is this candid I caught of Kaream adjusting his niece’s face mask.

How adorable are they?? SERIOUSLY. Be still my heart. And THIS IS WHY WE MARCH.

The post 5 June 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

29 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 29 May 2020 21:23:09 +0000

Dear Diary,

I didn’t watch the video of George Floyd’s murder.

I couldn’t.

I can’t.

I didn’t watch the video of Ahmaud Arbery’s murder, either.

Their dying breaths.

At the hands of White Authority.

Modern lynching.

Careless disregard for lives deemed less valuable, less worthy — just LESS — than their own.

I hide the videos as they pop up in my Facebook feed, even while I read the articles, the calls to action, the statements of outrage, and the cries of grief.

I hid the photograph of Alan Kurdi, the 3-year-old Syrian refugee whose body washed up on the coast of Turkey after his boat capsized in the Mediterranean, too. And the picture of Oscar and Valeria Ramirez, the father and his toddler daughter who died trying to swim the Rio Grande from Mexico to a better life in the U.S.

And I can’t decide whether all the hiding means I’m selfishly protecting myself from the horror and gross injustice — an act of privilege since I don’t live the life of a person of color in the U.S. nor that of a refugee balancing peril and hope — or whether the “hide” click is an act of sacred solidarity with the mommies of those who are lost. Because I would never want video of my sons’ violent deaths to be internet fodder. Because I want to honor the stark grief and impossible pain of Ahmaud’s mama Wanda Cooper-Jones, and Alan’s mama Rehana Kurdi, and Victoria’s mama Rose Ramirez. I want to honor the sanctity of George Floyd’s cries for his dead mama.

But if I’m honest, it’s both. Both the privilege that exemplifies whiteness in this country — I can “hide” what’s horrific because it’s not embedded in the life I live or the air I breathe — and respect for these precious lives lost.

So I keep wondering if I should watch the videos. If I should see the photographs. If that’s its own sacred act of bearing witness to the monstrous, seething underbelly of our culture and the way it crushes people of color to retain its wealth and power.

I keep wondering what are the boundaries I need in order to maintain my own mental health versus where do I need to pull my head out of the sand?

On the one hand, with the advent of the internet, there’s too much constant access to every horrific event in the world. Our human brains can’t possibly cope with the firehouse of all of it, and trying to consume it all, all at once, will surely kill us. On the other hand, by not consuming it, we’re allowing others to die in our place from existing in the midst of the horror. If those of us with privilege corporately took off our blinders and LOOKED and FELT the repugnance and disgust and dismay inherent in the maltreatment, oppression, and abuses of our fellow humans, would we finally act? Is this what it means to die to ourselves that others might live? Is this what it means to have our hearts broken and remade in the Image of Love? Is this what it takes to put others first and fight for equity?

I don’t know, Diary. I don’t know whether I’m just a coward for hiding or a human whose heart is open to learn. Or, more accurately, I don’t know what percentage I am of each. 40% Coward and 60% Open? 99% Coward and 1% Open?

I don’t know.

But these are the questions running through my heart and my mind this week, and you’re my Diary, so you have to listen.

P.S. This post is all about ME which is a Classic White Person Blunder in responding to inequity. I want to acknowledge that, friends, while also noting that the COVID Diaries are just that — real diary entries — so they contain my real thoughts, even when they’re unflatteringly self-focused. However, here are some articles I’ve been reading and humans I follow who have Important, Helpful Perspectives instead of, you know, self-centered ones:

“I need white mamas to come running” — a CNN Opinion piece by Christy Oglesby

Everything by Ally Henny of The Armchair Commentary — the truths she writes make me uncomfortable on the regular, and that’s made me change, for which I’m grateful

5 Racist Anti-Racism Responses “Good” White Women Give to Viral Posts — FYI, my blog post above is guilty of the one about making this about me — #confession

How to Be an Anti-Racist by Ibrim X. Kendi — because **hint** YOU ARE ALMOST CERTAINLY RACIST, and I am, too — it’s not enough to declare yourself “not racist,” you actually have to actively counter the insidious racism that permeates each of us and our culture

The post 29 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

26 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 26 May 2020 19:17:49 +0000

Dear Diary,

I found a turd on my desk this morning.

An actual poop.

Just one tiny tootsie roll, all by itself, still fresh. Puppy sized. But there was no way for the puppy to get on my desk, and, also, he wasn’t in my room. Which means the turd just spontaneously materialized there. Or someone put it there. Except WHO WOULD DO THAT so I’m going with Option A — spontaneous materialization. I cannot accept the horror show alternative that I’m STUCK IN MY HOUSE QUARANTINING with a MONSTER who deposits mini poopies, hot off the presses, ON MY DESK.

So we have a puppy whose poop has the magical ability to transport itself. Is it sentient? Did it intentionally beam itself up? Did it choose my desktop as its Final Resting Place? Did I thwart its nefarious purpose when I picked it up with my bare hands because I incorrectly assumed it was a dry, petrified poopy and flushed it down the toilet? Or was it simply, instinctually drawn to my desk because I just washed it? Like, is the poopy in cahoots with the Rest of My House to frustrate and impede Every Effort to clean it? Did it sense a recently decluttered, scrubbed surface and, because it was created in my home, inherently understand neat and orderly places are not allowed to exist herein? Was it therefore obligated by some sort of Law of Filthy Dynamics to foil or stymie or circumvent any of my aspirations toward a more hygienic environment?

That’s how quarantine is going, Diary.

The End.

P.S. It was this butt nugget.

I’m sure of it.

But also, I don’t care because OMG HE SLAYS ME.

The post 26 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

24 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 25 May 2020 01:27:33 +0000

Dear Diary,

a) Back pain is NO JOKE, Diary. I’ve spent the last 48ish hours rapidly breathing short, unsatisfying breaths, pausing to mentally brace myself before I stand up or sit down, and icing, medicating, yoga-cat-posing, and generally fussing. Bright side = caught up on a lot of Riverdale. Down side = overall malaise.

b) The overall malaise may not be from back pain. Or may not be only from back pain. It may also be slightly, marginally, minimally, somewhat a side effect of the Third Quarter Phenomenon (TQP). My friend, Doreen, who was once, is now, and forevermore shall be smarter than I am, is also a psychologist, and wrote last week about TQP in Psychology Today:

After nine weeks of physical distancing, it seems clear that we are entering a period reminiscent of what researchers refer to as the Third Quarter Phenomenon (TQP). For individuals living in space, submarines, and Arctic research facilities, TQP is characterized by agitation, irritability, depressed mood, and decreased morale in the third quarter of periods of social isolation.

So, you know, Diary — that could be a little bit it, too. But blaming the ppfffftttt feeling on back pain is dysfunctionally soothing. It’s an excuse to have the full spectrum of responses if I’m not allowing myself permission to just… feel however I feel right now… if I’m not being kind and compassionate toward my scattered brain and erratic emotions… if I’m not recognizing that of course I feel wonky and weird during a global pandemic and of course I’m blah and bleh and blerg. “I’m down because I threw out my back” allows me to point to a concrete reason for my malaise. And, perhaps even more appealing, back pain has an end in sight — a solution and a finish line — so it lets me pretend for a while that this state of being is only temporary. Back pain is treatable. It’s uncomfortable, but it’ll be over soon.

I keep wondering why I’m being such a whiner about my current discomfort. I’m usually more stoic than this. More “Power Through” and “This, Too, Shall Pass.” But honestly, I think it’s because it’s easier to live with Back Pain Reality than it is to live with Global Pandemic Reality. It’s easier to shove all the feelings of uncertainty and the prolonged suspension of “normal” onto a fleeting injury because then I can pretend it’ll all be better soon. It’s a math equation I’m manipulating:

If “I Feel Gross” is added to “Global Pandemic,” then we get “This Could Continue Indefinitely.” But if “I Feel Gross” is added to “Back Pain,” then we get “This Will End by Thursday at Noon Given Sufficient Rest and Medication.” And I like the second equation better. The problem is, it’s probably not the most thorough, most accurate of the two, which also means it’s not the most helpful when it comes to problem solving.

c) Doreen has good ideas for what to do with our agitation, irritability, depressed mood, and decreased morale. (Check out her website for more suggestions — going there is part of my COVID: Staying Sane toolbox.) But for today, I’m just picking One Thing because One Thing is all that feels manageable to me right now, and that’s Box Breathing.

Today — right now — I shall breathe three deep breaths.

Even I can do three deep breaths, Diary.

So I’ll be over here, breathing. Which may not solve the whole Indefinite Pandemic problem, but definitely helps me manage it for the minute. And that’s enough for now.

With love and three deep breaths,

Photo Credit: Kyndall Ramirez

The post 24 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

22 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 23 May 2020 00:31:04 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today I turned “I Threw My Back Out” years old. I feel like that’s a legit rite of passage. Like getting my period. Or passing the test for a driver’s license. Or finding my first grey hair. I have plenty of friends who’ve already passed the Licking Flames of Back Pain Fire threshold. I’m a late bloomer, I guess. No surprise, though, that I’ve taken longer than the others to mature. I mean, I still feel like I’m sneaking something when I watch shows with “for mature audiences only” warning, like I’m getting away with doing something underhanded and deliciously nefarious.

(Psst… if deliciously nefarious is your thing, too, I recommend The Great on Hulu for historical fiction peppered with “loosely based on a true story” tidbits. In a time of Global Pandemic, it’s alarmingly delightful how much I feel I have in common with Catherine the Great of Russia — an optimistic woman full of ideas thrown into an unfamiliar and uncomfortable setting and forced to contend with the gross injustices of a corrupt and ego-centric national leader. SOUND FAMILIAR, AMERICA? Yes. Yes, I thought so, too.)

But my point is, today I turned “I Threw My Back Out” years old. I decided to move rolls of sod alone, and those suckers are HEAVY, Diary. There are only a few of them… just enough to put under my hammock chairs so I’m not dragging my feet through the brown clay dirt when I want to swing and read and decompress under the wide open sky… but when you lift them wrong — say, trying to protect your shirt by holding them away from your body instead of snuggling them to your belly and lifting from your legs like Every Single PE Teacher Ever in the History of the World taught you to do — your back may protest. Your back won’t care there were only a few rolls to move. Your back will yell, “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, BETH.” And you won’t even chide your back for swearing out loud in the back yard where any passers-by, including those with small children who should theoretically be able to go for a walk without hearing cursing from the neighboring homes, can hear. You’ll just bundle your back up, hobble it and the rest of yourself inside, throw some pain relievers down your throat, and call it a day.

It’s a day, Diary.

And since it’s Friday, it’s family movie night, a new ritual for Quarantine Time. So far, we’ve watched Jumanji: The Next Level (recommend), Dead Pool 2 (recommended for “mature audiences” — we don’t really qualify, but we liked it a lot anyway — definitely DO NOT watch if you’re offended by, oh, you know, sex, drugs, violence, swearing, etc., etc., and so forth), Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (recommend — this one holds up to time), The Hustle (a remake of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels which was… meh — I was excited because it was a remake with women, but it was fat shaming, and that sucked), and a smattering of TV shows like new episodes of Doctor Who and Picard (both phenomenal). Tonight is Toy Story 4 which my entire family — other than me — has already seen, but they all want to watch me cry, so here we go.

Now if I can just figure out a way to sit on the couch with my ancient, barking back, I can get this show on the road.

You can pray for me, Diary.

Ouch.

P.S. Unrelated, our kids’ youth leaders showed up as an ice cream truck, handing out treats.

And I just think it’s rad the creative ways people are spreading joy in this weird, weird time.

With a lacrosse stick for 6-foot distribution purposes.

Thanks, Sammy, Rachelle, and Cara with a C!

You’re pretty damn cool.

P.P.S. IF ANYONE HAS “I THREW MY BACK OUT” TIPS, I’M ALL EARS. So far, I’ve taken ibuprofen, rubbed my favorite CBD lotion on it, and taken a hot shower. I’ve got prescription meds I can break into. I’m contemplating making a rice bag I can microwave for heat, but that seems VERY productive and I’d rather… well… not. I *could* call my doctor, but that would be proactive, and we’ve already covered that I’m not necessarily doing that right now, so… help?

The post 22 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

21 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 22 May 2020 02:16:22 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’d prefer to avoid writing to you today because I’m in a state of transition and trying to figure out next steps and it’s easier to Avoid Everything right now by watching YouTube videos and season 4 of Riverdale with Abby than it is to Engage My Brain, Figure Out What I’m Thinking, and Make a Plan.

There. I wrote that sentence, got up from my desk, made a cup of tea, ate a cookie, wandered around the backyard picking up dog poop, snuggled the puppy, texted my neighbor about the merits of walking vs. not walking, chatted with Chandler about tuna salad recipes, and now I’m back at my desk.

In other words, I’m Avoiding Everything SO HARD I’m willing to pick up dog poop to do it.

Bless my heart.

Also, I just left my desk again to make bread dough. Do we need bread dough? No. Not right now. Bread dough could have waited. But I’m employing all my Avoid Everything tactics. I went potty. I told Greg we need to change our sheets. I scrolled the Book of Faces for 46 hours. I watched Sarah Millican videos. I watched the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge pull bingo numbers via virtual chat for a retirement home. I researched Agnes Sorel — official mistress of France’s King Charles VII in the 1440s — to discover whether she did, in fact, have her dresses tailored to expose her favorite boob.

{Spoiler: She did have her dresses tailored to expose her breasts, but she appears to have loved them both equally.}

This is how I’ve used my time today.

I feel simultaneously annoyed with myself and “meh, whatever” because sometimes days like today are inevitable.

My brain is operating like a sputtering engine, and even when I try to rev it up and let it idle awhile so it’ll be warm and ready to run, it coughs and chokes and dies at inopportune moments. I’m trying to be patient with it. I really am. But also, I just want it to work, you know? I want to use it to drive to my destination and actually arrive there without pushing it through intersections where it stalled or calling for roadside assistance for a jumpstart on the side of the highway.

I really only need to do one thing which appears on the surface to be small, but which — as every parent knows — is HUGE. I need to adapt to a new reality, change my rhythms and schedule, and figure out What Works Now. Just like when I was a parent of littles who FINALLY had a baby taking two reliable naps per day — I knew when I’d do laundry! I knew when I could sneak Oreos! I knew when I could flop on the couch in sheer EXHAUSTION for a freaking break! — only to have the baby decide one nap was plenty, thank you very much. I’m realizing I settled into a rhythm of sorts these past two months — a weird, new, unsettling, but somewhat reliable schedule — and now that my oldest two babies are home, I have to make adjustments. GOOD adjustments, but still adjustments. And adjustments are stressful, even when it’s stress caused by positive change.

So I’ve been Avoiding Everything, subsisting on a diet of distraction, because it’s going to require Brainwork and Focus and Conscientious Flexibility to adjust. What time do I need to head to bed? Can I watch just one more Riverdale episode, or is it best to be quiet in my room for a bit, reading in the dark to settle my mind for sleep? What time do I need to wake up? What tasks are necessarily mine and what tasks need to be distributed to the rest of the family? Should we restructure dinners so I cook less and others cook more? Are chores assigned fairly? And how are my Bigs adjusting to This New Life, too? How do I need to flex to ensure they’re free to assess their own needs and let us know whether we need to make changes? Can I squeeze a Regular Writing Discipline back into this New World? Because I’m missing that part quite a lot, and I suspect I can reprioritize it if I’m willing to lean on the Other Humans here. I suspect I’m using them as a Convenient Excuse at this point for not Doing This Things That Breathes Life Into My Days.

Do you see what I mean, Diary? Or is this all gibberish?

I have a task in front of me. The same task as always. It’s Adjust to the New Normal. It’s Embrace Change or Refuse to Acknowledge It, but Change, it seems, arrives either way. And I’m usually pretty good with Change. With Flexibility. With Adjusting to the ways life waxes and wanes and rises and falls and ebbs and flows. But there’s been a LOT of Change lately, Diary. And a lot of Uncertainty hitching a ride with it. So I think I’m just a little punch drunk over here. Weary, you know? Not quite sure I’m ready for the Work involved in Being Proactive.

So that’s all, Diary.

That’s where I’m at.

Ppffftttt,

The post 21 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

19 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 20 May 2020 04:15:21 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today was our annual meeting in cooperation with Ian, his social worker, and his care provider to write and edit his Individual Support Plan (ISP) and update the detailed report of his needs, interests, and preferences, as well as what services he requires as an adult who experiences intellectual and developmental disability. It comprises an enormous battery of information, including his areas of strength and vulnerability in medical, financial, behavioral, social, emotional, and vocational arenas. Everything from yes, he balances well and can walk up and down stairs unassisted to no, he still doesn’t like pasta. Also, he wants to own a macaw someday. But, really, who doesn’t?

The ISP meeting is as encouraging as it is stressful because it’s an honest and frank conversation that includes victories and celebrations as well as what was hard last year, what’s not going so well, and what did or could cause harm so we can mitigate that together in the year to come. I’m grateful for Ian and Ian’s team who are committed to helping him live his best life. We all need a kind community — and an honest one — to thrive, and that’s what he has. It’s why he’s happy most days. It’s why I can rest easy, knowing he’s active and learning and content living with another family and with other young men who experience similar challenges. He is, in every sense, not alone. He’s with people who understand. He’s with people who cheer him on. And he’s with people who don’t put up with his bullshit. May we all be so lucky.

But I admit, Diary, as much as the ISP — like the IEPs before them — are full of highs and lows, they’re also… funny. Mostly when I realize my son and I are essentially the same person. Functionally the same person. Deeply and unalterably the same person. If anyone was writing an ISP for me, it would include much of the same information.

Beth is able to participate in housework but she needs periodic reminders and prefers someone else do the cleaning.

I mean, obviously.

When Beth cleans, she goes through the motions but doesn’t necessarily complete the task thoroughly. It’s more of a… symbolic cleaning.

Yup.

Beth prefers to have others complete her laundry.

…duh.

Beth’s goals include owning another dog. Also, a macaw.

Also-also, a miniature horse and baby skunks.

Beth sometimes uses her attitude and body language to communicate her displeasure instead of using her words.

I’M WORKING ON IT, OK?

So, you know. As far as I can tell, an ISP is pretty much the same thing as A List of What It’s Like to Be Human.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Like mother, like son.

Yours truly,

P.S. “Symbolic cleaning” is my new favorite phrase. Also, it shall henceforth be my specified threshold for chore completion. “Are you done with your chores? Well, I don’t know. Would you say you at least symbolically cleaned? Yes? Well then, excellent. Let’s mark that shit done.”

P.P.S. “Symbolic cleaning” works seamlessly with my life motto: Half Assed Is Good Enough.

P.P.P.S. And also with the remarkably applicable adage by G.K. Chesterton: Anything Worth Doing Is Worth Doing Badly. I mean, really — if I have to choose between perfectionism and joy, two states that rarely coexist, I know which one I’m picking. Joy. Hands down. Every time. And only “symbolically cleaning” the toilet.

This is an old, OLD pic of this kid, but it’s one of my faves because LOOK AT THOSE GORGEOUS EYEBALLS.
Now he looks like a man. Someone hold me.

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18 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 19 May 2020 01:14:29 +0000

Dear Diary,

I couldn’t write to you over the weekend. Too crazy with Normal Life — almost at a schedule and pace like the Before Times.

Picked up the Cutest Puppy Friday.

Did not sleep much Friday night (see also: Cutest Puppy and synonyms Peeing Puppy, Barking Puppy, Bitey Puppy, I’ll Eat Your Hair Puppy, and I’m Only Happy on Your Face Puppy… aka, BABY CREATURE).

Woke up Saturday to an Actual Alarm I Set the Night Before. It felt nostalgic. But not in an “I Desperately Missed It” kind of way like Radio Flyer wagons or stale Brach’s Caramels from my great-grandma’s hutch drawer or Little Debbie’s Oatmeal Creme Pies. More like in an “Oh, I Remember Alarms Fondly But I Also Don’t Need Them Back” way like avocado colored appliances and wide flare bell bottoms in chartreuse and burnt umber and Farrah Fawcett feathered side-wings hair styles. (Except I’ve kinda been digging avocado colored appliances lately, so I’m not necessarily to be trusted. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

I set the Alarm because my ADULT CHILDREN CAME HOME and I picked them up from the airport and now they’re going to live with me forever. Minus the part about living with me forever because they haven’t technically promised the remainder of their lives will revolve around me, but we’re living in the After Times now, and no one knows anything concrete, and it’s all wonky and weird, so I’m just going to go with whatever fantasy suits me in the moment. Tomorrow’s fantasy may be Running Screaming from the House and Living as a Hermit in an Enchanted Forest with Pringles Trees and Chocolate Rivers and a Beer Waterfall (or Nacho Cheese — I need to give this more thought) and a Constantly Regenerating Library Who Intuits What I Want to Read Next and Magically Materializes It. And yes, the Library is a “who” and not a “that.” Obviously the Library is sentient. But for now, while we’ve lived together for three whole days and it’s still going swimmingly and they’re in charge of the Cutest Puppy/Peeing Puppy/Barking Puppy/Bitey Puppy /I’ll Eat Your Hair Puppy/I’m Only Happy on Your Face Puppy during the nighttime hours, the fantasy is still We Live Together Forever.

The airport was weird. It was fully abandoned. The most apocalyptic scene of the current apocalypse. Just… nothing. No cars. No security humans moving the stragglers along. No vying for curbside spots. No looking in twenty directions so as not to run over pedestrians. No bearing witness to parting embraces or joyous reunions. No one chain smoking under Pillar One because flying sans nicotine for Many Hours requires swift re-saturation. Just my Adult Children waiting outside baggage claim with all their worldly possessions and my pressing need to bundle them up and drive them home where I get to pretend they’re Safer than they are in the Real World. Another fantasy I like.

Saturday afternoon was the Great Pandemic Bake-off — my first ever attempt at scratch puff pastry, complete with the promised technical difficulties (we eventually connected to sound) and tripping over the Cutest Dog — an event that was SO MUCH FUN and is also now available online for rewatching:

{{SPECIAL THANKS TO BETHANY LEE and her humans, Bryan and Hannah, who pulled off an amazing escape and much needed bit o’ fun. }}

And Sunday was the Great Shopping Extravaganza during which I shopped for the seven of us for three weeks of supplies because we’re going into lockdown as of today a) in case the Adult Children brought the plague home with them, and b) because we’re planning to be the Moving Crew for my parents and I’m a freaking freaker who freaks so I need to be ABSOLUTELY 100% SURE we’re not infecting them while we’re mucking about in their space at the start of June.

It was, in other (fewer) words, a busy weekend, and we accomplished a lot — mostly pulling our people back into one state, HOORAY! — and now we’re hunkering down.

I’m sitting at my kitchen table drinking a Widmer Brothers Russell Street IPA. The Adult Children are playing MarioCart on the Wii, putting their business degrees to excellent use. Gregory just told them they need to be role models because they were fighting over who’s gonna win. Chandler said, “I thought Beth was the role model.” And now we’re all dead from laughing because ON NO PLANET EVER HAS ANYONE THOUGHT I SHOULD BE THE ROLE MODEL. Bless his heart. That was an adorable thing to say.

And I’m signing off, Diary. It’s 6pm, and in the After Times I actually cook dinner for my family. Which proves we’re living in the Weirdest Timeline.

More soon.

With love,

The post 18 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

15 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 16 May 2020 01:28:19 +0000

Dear Diary,

No time to write today. TOO BUSY SNUGGLING NEW GRAND-PUPPY.

OMG, Diary.

Also, GAH.

Also-also, x Infinity.

Also-also-also, I’m picking up these two at the airport tomorrow morning.

Also-also-also-also, it’s a good thing they’ll be home to snuggle their new fluff ball because I’m going to be competing in The Great Pandemic Bake-Off and it would be awkward, while all the other competitors open the secret recipe and bake their hearts out, to be the contestant who quits before it starts because she won’t put the fur baby down. I can see all the video feeds — bakers measuring and mixing and pouring and kneading, flour clouds in the air, wiping brows with the backs of their hands, furiously working for perfection — and then a video feed of me in the hammock chair burying my face in puppy hair and reading a trashy novel. It would make a riveting show, to be sure, but it wouldn’t be exactly keeping with the spirit of the bake-off.

OK, Diary — gotta go. There’s a puppy belly to sniff and downy soft fur to pet and a tiny heater with a heartbeat I need on my lap. STAT. I’m sure you understand.

Over and out,

P.S. LOOK AT THE EYELASHES ON THIS ANGEL BEAST.

P.P.S. Weren’t those good selfies up there??

I’M SUCH A GOOD SELFIER!

It wasn’t even a little bit hard to get a good shot.

And I definitely don’t have 27 photos of just the sky

or the hammock wall

on my phone.

P.P.P.S. This is the livestream link for The Great Pandemic Bake-Off which takes place tomorrow (Saturday, May 16th) at 2pm Pacific Time. The Great Pandemic Bake-Off is the brainchild of Bethany Lee who decided it would be hilarious to recruit friends willing to bake the secret recipe of her choice… and, well, here we are! If you don’t want to watch all 2? 3? hours of live-streaming, Bethany will put a recording up later. I have NO idea what the recipe will be, but I DO know it’ll be fun.

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14 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 15 May 2020 01:13:22 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today I made yogurt, a loaf of sourdough bread, crumpets, popovers, swirled cheese buns, and rhubarb jelly which is a LOT OF THINGS. And now I’m Very Tired, and I’m going to go sit in the bathtub with M&Ms if there are any left over after I accidentally showed them to the rest of my family, and I’m going to read my book.

Greg Woolsey, bless his heart, just walked into the kitchen, looked at the bounty I created, and said, “Wow. Did you just feel like making all of this?” He also said to the children a couple weeks ago at dinner, “Aren’t we all glad Mom likes to cook?” And, Diary, I am grateful in my HEAD to be married to a human person who is working hard to be appreciative out loud of the work I do, but also, Diary, I want to yell things like, “NO, I DID NOT JUST FEEL LIKE MAKING ALL THIS, GREG,” and also, “I AM NOT DOING THIS BECAUSE I ENJOY IT SO, SO MUCH,” and also-also, “I AM TRYING TO BE WISE AND DILIGENT DURING A FORKING GLOBAL PANDEMIC and USE WHAT WE HAVE and IF I DIDN’T MAKE THE RHUBARB INTO JELLY, IT WAS GOING TO GO BAD and IF I DIDN’T USE THE SOURDOUGH DISCARD IT WAS GOING TO EXPLODE IN THE FRIDGE and MAKING YOGURT EQUALS ONE LESS TRIP TO THE STORE WHICH EQUALS LESS EXPOSURE FOR ALL OF US” and I especially wanted to yell, “I SPEND EVERY SECOND THINKING ABOUT WHAT I NEED TO DO NEXT TO HELP ALL OF US GET THROUGH THIS — emotionally, physically, mentally, etc. — AND I AM VERY GLAD I’VE MANAGED TO DO IT KINDLY ENOUGH THAT YOU THINK I *LIKE* ALL THIS, BUT OMG, I DON’T.”

And did I mention I’m Very Tired?

Because I’m Very Tired.

Very, Very Tired.

And I’m not going to yell all those things at my family, so you get to listen to me vent, instead, because YOU’RE THE LUCKIEST, Diary.

But also, this is part of the emotional and mental labor women talk about so often. The invisible work we do. The way we can’t shut off our brains because there’s always Someone Needing Something, and a List of More To Do, and If We Don’t Do It, It Won’t Get Done.

As quarantine goes on, I’ve found myself resentful every time Greg lays on the bed to read or watch a show or otherwise put his feet up and relax. The same way I resented it when our children were younger and he’d go in the bathroom AND LOCK THE DOOR to do his business. On the one hand, I fully recognize that I AM RIDICULOUS, and I AM ALLOWED TO ALSO LAY DOWN AND REST, and I AM ALLOWED TO ALSO LOCK THE BATHROOM DOOR. But on the other hand, I’m not ridiculous at all because I actually, truly couldn’t leave the baby unattended to spend 45 minutes taking a shit in peace, and I actually, truly can’t just lay down and rest unless I’m willing to a) delegate the work I was going to do in the house or with the children or b) have it pile up and tackle bigger messes later as a consequence of “resting.”

None of which I’m saying as a way to bitch at or about my partner. I have it Better Than Most women because I have a partner who cares about inequity and is open to conversations about All of the Above. But having it Better Than Most women doesn’t mean it is equal or equitable, either. So my challenge is trying to figure out how to have conversations that are positive and kind and still push the needle toward the other humans in my house (offspring included) Seeing What Needs to Happen without my intervention.

It’s SEEING ALL THE THINGS that requires so much energy. I’m the person charged with Seeing What Needs to be Done — the cooking, cleaning, inventorying, yard work, homework, daily exercise for the humans and beasts, hygiene, mental states, and everything else into infinity — and then, after the Noticing, I must choose to Do the Things Myself or Delegate the Things to Others, but when I Delegate, I also must Continue to Manage to Ensure the Things Are Actually Done, which involves Knowing Who’s Assigned What, Noticing Whether They’ve Done What They’s Supposed to Do, and Reminding as Needed Until It’s Done. All of which multiplies my workload exponentially.

All of which is highlighted during quarantine.

All of which is building to a head because this Cannot Go On.

All of which requires that I Invent a New System, Explain the New System, and Enforce the New System because it’s past time we Change How This Works.

All of which makes me feel Very Tired.

But Changing the Rules is part of relationship. We’ve done it in our marriage after assessing which things are ruts and which things are working. We’ve done it in parenting as our children grow and learn, and as we do, too. What Once Was needn’t be static. What Once Was shouldn’t be static just by virtue of habit or ritual or tradition. What Once Was must be evaluated so we can keep that which fosters growth and love and discard that which weighs us down.

And this pandemic is a catalyst for change. Of course it is. Crises always are. The pressure cooker of extreme situations condenses our natural timelines for noticing What Works and What Doesn’t.

I don’t have a solution yet, Diary. I’m just noticing What Doesn’t at the moment. I’m in process. Making observations and letting them percolate before turning them into a Plan for Change.

But Change is on the horizon, Diary.

I can feel it coming.

With love… and making a beeline for the tub even though I know the messes will mount in my absence…

P.S. Along these lines, I asked Greg a couple weeks ago to make a list of what he does to get ready for bed. I told him it wasn’t a computer programming test — as in, he needn’t write down the minutiae of each task — but he should cover all the main things he does from the point he thinks “I should get ready for bed” until he’s in it and ready to sleep.

Here’s his list:

Brush teeth
Wash face or shower
Get clothes for next day
Change into bed clothes
Put on wrist brace, nightguards
Turn off unused lights
Watch a show if time
Solitaire/Sudoku

Here’s my list:

Is it going to rain? Did we take the hammock chairs down? Did we leave anything outside that can’t get wet? If yes, take care of it or ask someone else to do it.
Are the oven and stove off? Check.
Have the kids come downstairs to ask for a later bedtime/screen time? If yes, do nothing. If no, check in with them re: bed/screen expectations so they’re not coming into our room at midnight to ask.
Feed dogs (or make sure they were fed tonight), check water, give meds.
If dinner food is still out, ask Greg to put it away. Remind kids to do their kitchen chores.
Lock back door, garage doors, turn off garage lights, mantle lights. Lock front door, turn off porch lights.
Brush teeth/wash face/Shower. Wipe down shower with cleaning spray and sponge. Spot clean shower curtain liner.
Wipe down bathroom counter.
Change into bed clothes.
Put dirty clothes in bin, evaluate how full it is, if full either start laundry or ask Greg to. If starting laundry, add towels and get new/clean towels for bathroom.
Nightguards, earplugs, and sleep meds.
Turn off unused lights (check with kids re: upstairs lights, too).
Read.

I share these not to suggest I do more than Greg to get ready for bed. Often, by the time I’m done delegating tasks or asking Greg to follow up with kids on my list of things, he does more than I do. I share these to point out the mental labor of Seeing Things and Making Sure They’re Done. And this is JUST bedtime. It’s not dinner time or game time or yard chores or daily chores or weekend chores or school work or grocery shopping or bills or car maintenance or any of the other Infinite Things that Need Seeing.

P.P.S. I’m Very Tired.

P.P.P.S. This is my friend Paul watching kale grow because that’s the kind of thing we do in COVID times. Also, he looks in this pic like I feel.

P.P.P.P.S. And how I feel is Very Tired, which I may or may not have already told you.

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13 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 14 May 2020 02:49:04 +0000

Dear Diary,

Just before we moved into self-isolation, I hit a new stride with book-writing. I was managing 2500+ words per day, and not all of them were crap, so that was a major win. I’d spend the morning writing at home, and then, when my family members interrupted me for the billionth time, I’d bail. I’d head downtown in our little village with its old brick buildings and coffee shops and bakeries and ice cream counters, I’d grab a snack or a caffeine boost, and then I’d go to the library, heavy bag in hand, laden with computer and research materials and post-it notes and multi-colored pens because everyone knows Only Good Things Happen when multi-colored pens are involved.

I’d walk upstairs to the Quiet Zone in the library — the Please Do Not Talk to Me section, as I like to call it — and I’d stake my claim at one of the two large wooden tables under the windows facing Hancock Street. I’d write until closing time, around 8pm, then drive home feeling like I’d done the Work of Showing Up, Facing the Blank Page, and Filling It Without Judgement, knowing most of the job of writing is just that. Show Up. Write the Shitty First Draft.

I don’t know about where you’re from, but in our small Oregon town, the library is a sanctuary. A safe place. A refuge. And it’s fiercely protected by its Librarians, a cadre of humans who fight for equality and equity, and whose mission it is to expose us all to Story because they know Stories are what help us access our Hearts and Imagination and Compassion so that we might See Each Other more fully. Our Librarians aren’t the Shushers and the Tsk-Tskers and the Harsh Rule Monitors of stereotype. Our Librarians are passionate adventurers and match-makers, finding books that lure their readers to New Worlds and Open Spaces, and I’m grateful several of them are my dear friends.

All of which I was thinking about, Diary, because one of those dear friends, Korie, celebrated twenty years at our library this week. There are people who come into your life sometimes who disrupt it and remake it and change you inexorably. They’re the storm, announcing their presence with thunder and lightning. And then there are people who come into your life quietly and gently but with conviction and strength and subtly change the pathways you tread. They’re the rivers, slowly cutting through the earth to shape channels that flow more easily. Korie’s a river for me. She’s changed the way I read, exposing me to authors with minority perspectives — female authors of color and authors who are LGBTQ who write escapist fiction, my genre of choice — who have, in turn, changed the way I think. She’s released me from my former belief that every book, once begun, must be read to the end — now I sample and taste books and commit just to those that draw me in, and I allow myself grace to lay down what’s not working for me in any given time — a lesson that’s transcended to other areas in my life in need of the grace of letting go. And she’s changed the way I expose my children to books and story — with more freedom for them, too, to pick and choose, and try and quit, to read with their eyes or their ears, and to learn for themselves what stories they love (which is a reflection of them) rather than what I want them to love (which is a reflection of me and isn’t the point of handing my child a book.)

So, Diary, I thought I’d just put down here in writing what Korie shared she’s learned in her twenty years at our magical library. Because they’re not just library lessons, but life lessons worth recording:

Todayis my twentieth anniversary at the library. I started as an unpaid college intern helping with storytime because I love Children’s Literature. Twenty years later I still love Children’s Literature, but it didn’t take me very long into my career to realize the truth of this job — it’s about the people, it’s about connection.

Here are my take-aways from twenty years as a Children’s Librarian (in no particular order):

1. I don’t know if you have library fines when you come in the library and I’m certainly not judging you for it. I couldn’t care less and I probably have more fines than you. I don’t think libraries should have fines, and doing away with them is on my to-do list. So there.

2. You don’t have to finish the book. Seriously. There are too many good books in this world to waste your time reading something you don’t enjoy. I give a book 50 pages. If I’m not into, I’m done. I learned this from librarian Nancy Pearl. She also thinks that after age 50 you should subtract a page for every year. Life is too short and getting shorter.

3. If you want to read the classics fine, but I can find you books you’ll enjoy more. I’m over books by dead white men; there are more interesting people to read.

4. Also, don’t be a book snob. Read what you want to read and stop judging what other other people read, it’s annoying. Okay, to be fair we all do this. I’m judging you if you only read dead white men (also, Terry Pratchett doesn’t count as a “dead white man” because he gave us Tiffany Aching). I’m also judging you if you say Moby Dick or Ulysses are your favorite books. I do not believe you, and I’m judging you to be a boring person. Hmmm, this is sounding pretty judgmental.

5. Please don’t make your child read a book because it was your favorite book as a child. Most of the time you will both be disappointed. Just leave it laying around the house. Slip it on their book shelf. Put it in the middle of their floor (I think this works really well). Talk about it, sure, but don’t MAKE them read it.

6. Graphic novels are, in fact, “real books.” A graphic novel (New Kid, by Jerry Craft) won the most prestigious award for American Literature for Children in 2020. Does that help convince you? Back. Off. Jeez.

7. Audiobooks are awesome, and they do too count as having “read” a book. Some people remember better having listened to a book. Also, audiobooks can be AMAZING reading experiences. (Obviously if your child is learning to read and needs to practice I get that. But I bet they would also enjoy listening to a book on audio to relax).

8. No one is too old to be read aloud to.

9. If you get a book assignment and it says “read a Newbery or Caldecott book” ask for that list to be expanded to include Coretta Scott King Award books, Pura Belpré Award books, American Indian Children’s Literature books, Asian/ Pacific American Award for Literature books, Stonewall Award books… There are so many excellent choices out there, can we please stop limiting our choices?

10. You get to decide what your child reads. You do not get to decide what other children read.

11. If you are selecting books for yourself or child may I suggest Grace Lin’s “windows and mirrors” approach? We all need books to help us feel seen and books to show us people who are different from ourselves.

12. So many “classic” children’s book are racist. Yes, we still have them in the library, but we have better books too. Just because you read it as a child doesn’t mean there isn’t something WAY better out there now. I’m looking at you Indian in the Cupboard, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, Little House on the Prairie…

13. If you want your child to “be a reader” it’s a good idea to model reading. Your kids want to be like you. At least when they are younger anyway. Talk about what you are reading. Ask your kids what they are reading. Ask them to tell you about their favorite part of the book, or favorite character. Ask them to pick out a book for you to read that they loved.

14. Read to your baby, your toddler, your teen and all the ages in between. You are your child’s first teacher. When you read to your pre-reader you are building the foundation for reading and writing when the time is right.

15. For goodness sake please don’t try teaching your toddler to read. Yes your baby is brilliant (truly, babies are amazing) but put your ego away please. Does your child know their shapes? Teach them shapes, it’s the foundation for learning letters. They will read when the time is right.

16. Reading time is a great reset tool. For toddlers, kids, and grown-ups. It’s also a great time to snuggle.

17. You don’t have to finish the book. Not as a grown up and certainly not if your child isn’t interested.

18. Reading should be fun and never used as a punishment.

19. You should never ground your child from reading. When they grow up to be librarians they will frequently tell the story as a “can you believe how I suffered” woe-is-me story and you will be the villain (love you anyway dad).

20. I started out as a struggling reader who was in “special” reading classes throughout grade school. Thank goodness for parents, teachers and librarians who encouraged me and helped me find books I wanted to read. Especially Mrs Howard who realized I needed reading glasses, my mom who forced me to do my eye exercises, and Marilyn Jackson, who was my reading specialist and gave me Anne of Green Gables because I was a “kindred spirit.” Anyone can learn to love reading with the right story.

For the love of a good book,

P.S. In case you didn’t believe Korie when she said she probably has more library fines than you (I definitely did NOT believe her the first time she told me this), she probably has more library fines than you.

“I paid our library fines today: $54.42. This was a year’s worth of overdue items. Considering we often have about 50 books checked out at a time (English/Spanish), I feel good about this. There. Feel better now?”

Every now and then, Korie shares her library fine total. The last one was her standing on the library steps with the receipt cascading down the stairs. I have never since felt ashamed or like I was being judged when I have to go pay our fines. Also, the last time our puppy ate a book (which was not very long ago), I texted Korie a photo of the book we were going to have to replace for the library, and then she texted me back a photo of the book HER puppy had eaten that very night. WE NEED MORE PEOPLE LIKE KORIE IN OUR LIVES SO WE KNOW WE’RE NOT ALONE. Lord love a duck.

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12 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 13 May 2020 01:42:52 +0000

Dear Diary,

This is Hazel.

She’s the one in the middle, bookended by my dogs, Zoey and Nyx.

I found Hazel on my porch today, just sitting like a good girl, patiently waiting to be let in so she could play with her friends.

Hazel, of course, wasn’t supposed to come over.

Hazel was supposed to stay home.

Hazel was self-isolating with her family, nine houses away from mine.

But Hazel snapped today.

Hazel lost it.

Hazel was all NOPE! NO MORE QUARANTINE FOR ME, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. IF ANYONE NEEDS ME, I’LL BE AT THE WOOLSEYS. OVER AND OUT.

Then Hazel used a tiny rock hammer and spent 19 years digging a hole from her cell to the Outside, which she cleverly hid behind a poster of Raquel Welch, and no one knew she was gone until roll call the next day.

Except minus the escape scene from Shawshank Redemption. The rest is pretty accurate, though.

And I think a lot of us feel like Hazel right now.

Like we’re willing to dig under a fence and run down the street in the rain and sit on a friend’s porch ‘til she lets us in for treats and playtime.

For now, though, since that’s not possible, we’ll just have to live vicariously through Hazel.

She broke free for ALL OF US.

What a good girl.

With love,

P.S. Other than the Hazel Event — a VISITOR! Inside my HOUSE! — I made a new chore chart today.

‘Cause that’s what passes for excitement around here these days. Dog visits and chore charts.

P.P.S. The chicken I thawed for dinner tonight didn’t thaw so we’re having goldfish crackers and ice cream, and now I’m wondering why I tried to thaw chicken in the first place since the dinner I’m having is equally delicious and a lot less work.

P.P.P.S. I also don’t really want to dig my way out of my house yet. I like my new schedule. I just want us to collectively figure out a way to break out of the pandemic. Can we do that, please? Who has a rock hammer?

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11 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 12 May 2020 04:03:43 +0000

Dear Diary,

Had sex last night and a quite excellent orgasm, and I’m trying VERY HARD to treat you like the Real Diary you are — a true and accurate record of What Goes on During This COVID Crisis — even though you’re available on the world wide webs for others to peruse. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I made a commitment to myself when I began this project that you weren’t going to be an adorable depiction of a fantasized experience — all sourdough starter and waffles and no existential angst or actual challenges — so here we are, and this is what I need to say.

Gregory Woolsey, whom I love and with whom I am well pleased, and I had sex least night, and it was the first time during quarantine, and we may very well have set a new record for Longest Time Without Sex in our marriage at 56 days. Or we’ve at least come within shouting distance of that record. I mean, we had some gnarly lows in our marriage, so who knows? But, any way you slice it, Diary, 56 days is a LONG TIME for us.

I’ll be honest. I’m not usually one to measure time like this when it comes to sex. We’ve had times when it’s been frequent — and high five, woohoo, gold stars for us and stuff. But we’ve also had times when it’s been infrequent, and I’m not going to start deducting stars for that. That’s just… life. And everyone who’s lifed knows life gets lifey. Having young kids is exhausting. Work can be stressful. Finances can get in the way. There are a thousand thousand reasons my libido might tank. And while it freaked me out when I was younger — OMG! Is this NORMAL? How often are we supposed to do it? Daily? Weekly? Is monthly too little? Do I owe him sex if he’s into it but I’m not rn? Should I feel guilty or compelled? — I don’t do much of that anymore. I finally figured out there IS no “normal” and there IS no “supposed to” and no one owes anyone sex EVER and guilt and compulsion are fantastic ways to drive a libido even lower. So now we have sex when we both want to, and we take care of ourselves in the meantime, and, since we’re both happier when we have it, we make an effort to do it regularly however we choose to define “regularly” at any given time.

Pandemic sex, though?

That’s been a challenge.

Mostly because lockdown happened and my libido got locked down with it.

Just no libido at all, whatsoever.

Not a twinge.

Not a twang.

Not a little spark or an “ooooh” or a gasp.

It been, sexually speaking, a veritable wasteland ‘round here.

And I guess I’m telling you, Diary, because I don’t know if an absence of sex drive is a common pandemic experience, but it is mine, and since I’m keeping records of what this is like, I figure that’s an aspect that’s a real part of it.

Until yesterday, when I finally felt it! DESIRE.

Not, like, overwhelming, throw me against a wall and bang my eyeballs out desire.

But, you know, NOT NOTHING, either, which is infinitely more than it’s been lately, so I jumped right on it.

And you know what I mean by It, Diary.

And it was good.

I’d like to do it again sometime.

So I’ve spent some time contemplating what was Different about yesterday. What lit the spark. And I’ve come up with two things:

1. Time. I’ve had some time to get used to this New Reality we’re in. Some time to assimilate. Some time to calm the Anxiety of a Global Pandemic. Not that there isn’t low level anxiety all the time. Not that it doesn’t come and go and rise and fall and wax and wane and ebb and flow. But Uncertainty is part of life right now, and I’m folding it into Normal. Taking it in as part of the air I breathe. So the fight and flight and freeze responses have managed to give way, for a few minutes, to fornicate. So yay!

2. Rest. I let myself relax yesterday. It was Mother’s Day, so I felt like I was “allowed” to take a day to read and rest. I took a bath. I sat in the hammock chair. I did no dishes or laundry. I just completely let my constant state of vigilance slide and didn’t think about the next family meal or who needed me emotionally or whether the sourdough starter was fed or what to put on the grocery list or what I “should” do next, trying to see twenty moves ahead like I’m playing a giant chess game.

Which, of course, makes me realize how very little freedom I’ve been giving myself to just “be” instead of do, do, do. In my defense, the Things don’t get done unless I do them or delegate them, and since delegating — and then following up 46 times to ensure the Thing was Actually Done by Someone Other Than Me — is usually more work than just Doing It Myself, guess what I usually pick? Yep. Like every mama before me. Nevertheless, Diary, I’m seeing the flaw in my system. And I’m seeing the mental health — and sexual health — benefits of chilling the eff out. So the plan going forward will be changing — incrementally, maybe, but changing — because I need to figure out in the New Normal how to prioritize Marital Connection, how to prioritize More Orgasms (HELLO, ENDORPHINS — HOW I HAVE MISSED YOU), and how to prioritize Rest Sans Guilt.

Wish me lick, Diary!

I’m hoping we’ve turned a Libido Corner over here.

With love,

P.S. That was supposed to say “wish me luck” up there, but I figure “wish me lick” equally applies, so I’m leaving it as is.

P.P.S. I’ve realized only now, as I’ve finished this post, that today is ALSO my son-in-law’s birthday, so I could’ve written some sort of lovely tribute to my newest child, and instead I wrote about Chandler’s mother-in-law’s sex life. So YOU’RE WELCOME, CHANDLER. Welcome to the family. Yes; yes, it is always this awkward. You’re the luckiest to have us in your life FOREVER MORE. Happy Birthday, son.

Image Credits: Ladybugs by Gritte, Danishes by Annie Spratt, Teddy Bears and Fruit by Dainis Graveris, Lightbulbs by Michael Prewett

The post 11 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

9 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 09 May 2020 19:55:53 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today’s the day. Abby and Chandler’s college graduation in the stadium in Honolulu.

The cheering and being the Too Loud Mommy one more time as they walk across the stage.

The chaos of trying to find them afterward and lei them with the flowers I sent Greg to buy in Chinatown this morning.

The big party on the lanai in Abby’s building with all their friends, thrown with Audrey’s family — Abby’s bestie from kindergarten through their senior year of college — seventeen years in a row of school together, seeing each other through triumph and trauma.

The birthday cake we’ll sneak into the party to surprise my mom, Abby’s nana, on this, her 72nd birthday even though she said she didn’t want the day to be about her.

Today’s the day, but none of that will be our reality.

Today’s the day, but we didn’t get on the plane on Wednesday.

Today’s the day, but we didn’t stay up late last night decorating Abby’s mortarboard.

Today’s the day, but I didn’t get to wreath Abby’s head with flowers. I Venmoed her, instead, so she could make the run to Chinatown herself to buy the flowers to go with her quarantine-mates to take the photos to commemorate this momentous occasion, with its non-event.

Today’s the day, and I’m sitting in the sun, but in Oregon, not Hawaii.

Today’s the day, but I didn’t have to pull my kids out of school for their sister and brother-in-law’s graduation because they’re not in school anymore and we didn’t get to go.

Today’s the day, and I’m sad, but I’m not just sad.

Today’s the day, and I’m disappointed, but I’m not just bummed.

Today’s the day, and I’m still shell-shocked that this is the way college ends for them, but I’m not just stuck in disbelief.

I’m also proud.

Fathomlessly proud.

Endlessly proud.

And filled with abiding respect for these adult humans.

Can I be truthy here for a sec? And tell you things we don’t usually talk about on Graduation Day? Yes, I think I can, Diary. That’s what you’re for.

College wasn’t easy for my kid. She had to work hard for every grade in every class — and every semester, from the mid-point to the end, was filled with a relentless text stream from my girl to her mommy saying “I’m probs gonna fail” and “no, for real.” Eight semesters in a row of frantic fear of falling behind. Eight semesters in a row of my kid wondering the things all humans wonder — am I doing enough? Am *I* enough? What if my best doesn’t make the cut? What if I can’t give every second “my best” because I also need rest? How will you see me if I fail? Who am I if I can’t keep up?

And every semester, I told her I loved her. Every semester, I told her to a) work hard, b) communicate her fears to her professors (communicate, communicate, communicate), and c) if she did fail, she’s still OK, it’s OK, and we’ll handle it together. And every semester, she shot her shot.

She feared failure — was convinced she’d fall — and she kept working anyway.

And she did that when the odds were stacked against her.

She kept working after injuries and surgeries and accidents and blood loss could’ve kept her down.

She kept working through extreme criticism of who she is and what she believes and unwaveringly chose to be her authentic self instead of the easier path of acquiescing to gain approval.

She kept working through the grief of losing a friend to a sudden heart attack on the basketball court.

She kept working when we thought North Korea had launched a missile at Hawaii and she had to take cover in the stairwell and, even though we learned later it was a false alarm, they spent the rest of college marking spots for refuge in case the threat was realized.

She kept working during a global pandemic, quarantining with her people for months, finishing a semester and packing up a life to move home.

She fought for her friendships and she fought for her husband and she put love first again and again.

She decided who she is and remained steadfastly committed to that inner guide.

She is fierce.

She is smart.

She is determined.

She chose a life partner who is kind and funny and driven.

And I know graduation is about celebrating academic success — and, believe me, after all those texts, I am FOR SURE celebrating that — but I’m celebrating Bigger Things today, too.

I’m sad I’m not with her today to say Well Done to her beautiful face.

But I’m insanely proud of who my child has become and is becoming.

I’m far more proud of her character, her tenacity, and her choices than I am of her grades, even though she got good ones.

I’m proud of the humans she’s chosen to surround herself with.

And I’m proud of the steadiness and resolve with which she’s met the myriad disappointments the pandemic has dealt.

The future is uncertain for these brave humans.

But the future is uncertain for all of us all the time — it’s just more obvious right now.

I am convinced, though, that these people are ready to take on whatever comes.

Congratulations to my babies.

With love,

P.S. I’m so, SO sad I didn’t get to do Graduation Twinsie Pics with Abby.

I would’ve ROCKED this white bikini.

But, honestly, since no one can tell us apart in bikini pics, it probs would’ve been redundant to do a twinsie photo shoot, anyway.

Right?

Right. #SameSame

Graduation Photo Image Credits: Emma Gohman (center)

THANK YOU, EMMA!

The post 9 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

8 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 08 May 2020 23:14:13 +0000

Dear Diary,

Summer arrived in Oregon yesterday with clear skies, summer winds blowing immature cherry stems off the trees, and temps creeping steadily upward into the high 80s. It’s swimsuit weather. Play outside weather. Linger in the sunshine weather. Spring will be back with a vengeance on Monday, though, if the weather reports are to be believed. It’ll be rainy day followed by rainy day followed by rainy day and repeat. Oregon’s never really been one for adhering to dates on a calendar for determining what season it is. Sometimes we rip through winter, spring and summer in a single day. But for now, and through Sunday, Diary, you can find me outside, which is my Happiest Place.

I’m not going to lie; I need all the “happiests” I can get right now. All the soothing. All the “shush shushes” and “there theres” and “oh sweet bunnies.” I need the calming of the wind as she runs her warm hands over my skin, and the hot massage of the sun melting my rigid muscles. I need to spend an hour, at least, in the hammock chair with a good book releasing the weight, for just a bit, of trying to dispel misinformation which is my job in the way that it’s everyone’s job but isn’t mine to carry alone no matter how often I behave as though it is.

Read a book, Beth.

Drink a glass of cold water.

Relish the heat from the sky.

Breathe in and breathe out, intentionally, and then repeat the way Oregon repeats the rainy days. There are things we can count on. In Oregon it rains. And breath sustains life. Biologically, yes, but breathing on purpose — sucking in oxygen and holding it in taut lungs and sitting in stillness while it swirls through our blood before releasing carbon dioxide, its transformed counterpart — sustains the life of the soul, as well. It’s a multitasker, this Breathing.

There’s a whole long list of Things I Should Do. Things That Would Be Productive. Cook black beans for dinner. Sweep the patio. Patch the grass with top soil and seed. Weed along the east side fence. Put away the clean laundry that’s been sitting on my desk for four days. Change my sheets. Pester the children until they change theirs. Wash the spilled juice off the cupboard. Vacuum the stairs. Say what the hell and rip the carpet off the stairs so I never have to vacuum it again which was and is and evermore shalt be a waste of time, as vacuuming can’t fix what’s wrong with it.

I could make sure the kids have done their homework and their chores. I could pick up the garbage that spontaneously manifests in my backyard — empty pop cans, ripped napkins, plastic dishes with dog chewed edges. I could put the cover back on the grill where it belongs instead of leaving it on the ground where it’s rested for a week. Or two weeks. Or very possibly three.

I’m not going to do any of that, though. I’m going to take my own advice and still my heart and my mind. Which is better for me. And better for my people.

So if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the hammock chair. For an hour, at least. Cross fingers for longer.

With love,

P.S. Not that the children will leave me alone there.

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7 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 08 May 2020 03:11:33 +0000

Dear Diary,

Let’s discuss entertainment whilst self-isolating, specifically of the television and book varieties. When we began this regimen — 53 days ago, which astounds me — my concentration was shot. My brain backfired. I had no ability to focus. I could read only fluff — entertaining, fast-paced, sexually racy fluff. Since then, I’ve regained bits and pieces of my brain, such that I’m able to read books I couldn’t early on. And I thought it would be entertaining to keep a record of what I’ve actually read and actually watched while in quarantine. Not a list of aspirational consumption, you understand. Not the books on the 100 Books to Read Before You Die lists which are literarily stunning and also edifying to heart and soul. No, I’m talking about just the word- and screen-based stories that have made me happy and let me escape a while to rest this weary brain.

Here it is. In chronological order from the beginning of isolation to now.

The List of What I’m Really Reading and Watching:

BOOKS

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern (author of The Night Circus) — This is the book i was reading when quarantine began. It’s a book club pick, and we were scheduled to discuss it at the end of March. I liked The Night Circus — it’s extraordinary and different than anything else I’ve ever read. Erin Morgenstern is brilliant. I was 10% of the way through The Starless Sea, which looks to be every bit as twisty and turning and surprising as The Night Circus, when we started isolating. I’m now at 12%. And I’d tell you what this book is about, Diary, but I honestly have no idea. My brain just can’t do it right now. It’s not Erin; it’s me.

Thunderhead by Neal Shusterman — Sequel to Scythe, a fascinating YA SciFi thriller about the small band of humans legally charged with keeping the population under control (read: selectively and randomly killing people) after humans achieve medical immortality. If everyone can live forever, there has to be some way to not overpopulate. I was super into Scythe. I intend to finish Thunderhead eventually. But it went the way of the The Starless Sea for me. I made it to 57% (from 45% pre-quarantine) before laying it down for another time.

Lover Unleashed by J.R. Ward — This is Book 9 of the Black Dagger Brotherhood series which is basically vampire erotica/fluffy romance with a very light veneer of action/adventure. When The Starless Sea and Thunderhead proved to be no-gos, I turned here, and my brain was ALL ABOUT IT. It required NOTHING from me. No deep thinking. No pondering. Just a fantastic suspension of disbelief. Best of all, there are, like 47 billion more books in the series, so whenever my brain stutters in the future, this is where you can find me.

Smoke Bitten by Patricia Briggs — This is Book 12 in the Mercedes Thompson series. Mercedes (Mercy) is a coyote shapeshifter raised by wolves. She’s also a Volkswagen mechanic and lives next door to the alpha of the local werewolf pack. Not as racy as the series above, it’s more mystery + action/adventure in an urban fantasy environment. I mark my calendar for each new release in the series, and I was THRILLED this one was coming out on March 17th. Unfortunately, my brain wasn’t having it, so I didn’t even try to start this one for a few days. I wanted to wait until I was sure I could enjoy it, which I’ve since done.

The Fiery Cross by Diana Gabaldon — As I’ve mentioned previously, I reread each book in the Outlander series before watching the corresponding season on TV. Since Season 5 was released in February, I knew I needed to get on with it if I wanted my visual fix of Jamie and Claire. As soon as I was done with Smoke Bitten, this was in my hand. It’s taken me a few weeks to finish it — like, at least 4 weeks — because Diana Gabaldon is not known for brevity. But I successfully finished this one, too, just a few days ago.

House of Earth and Blood by Sarah J Maas — And now I’m reading the first book of Sarah J Maas’ new Crescent City series. Released March 3rd, I was waiting to read this one until after my March retreat, when I’d really be able to concentrate on it. But then came my nephew’s wedding. And next we went into lockdown. So, even though Maas holds a Top Ten Favorite Authors spot for me, and I’ve been SO excited about her newest series, I finally picked it up two days ago. I’m on Chapter Two. So far, it’s interesting, but I haven’t fallen in love with it yet. I’ll let you know how it goes.

One Long River of Song by Brian Doyle — An outlier from the rest of my reading material which most often focuses on escapist fiction, Brian Doyle’s essays captivate me. They’re short enough to be readable, even when my brain isn’t fully online, and they’re stunning in depth, even though (or because) his subjects are almost always the mundane bits of life. I said before that this book is one of the things keeping me sane right now, and it’s still true. I haven’t finished it yet. I intend to savor it still for a while.

TELEVISION

You on Netflix — Narrated by the sociopathic main character, this series is dark, but delightfully so. I just finished Season Two, and it lived up to and then surpassed Season One.

The Crown on Netflix — I admit to stops and starts in this series. I watched a few episodes when it first came out, liked it fine but quit because I didn’t really have time. Then I picked it up, watched through the end of Season Two, but had trouble making the actress transition to Olivia Coleman, even though I LOVE her. Quarantine gave me the opportunity to finish Season Three, though, and I’m back on board the Crown train.

The Rookie on Hulu — Nathan Fillion’s newest role, and Greg and I both love it. It hits all the right notes — funny, earnest, poignant, fast pace, solid dialogue. Fillion plays the oldest rookie cop the Los Angeles PD has ever accepted into its ranks, and I love the way it plays both with what it means to start over in life and how age and experience can pay dividends of wisdom… or not.

Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist on Hulu — sweet and quirky, this is like a more grown-up Glee, folding music and dance into everyday life. Less teenage angst. More, well, going to work and dealing with dying parents. Which makes it sound awful and exactly why I refuse to watch This Is Us — too much sadness in a world already full of it. Somehow, though, Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist manages to be fun and funny and not, you know, destroy me.

The Good Place on Netflix — I made a MAJOR STRATEGIC ERROR and failed to watch the latest season as it was released on ABC.com, and now only the final four episodes are available there. So even though I finished the second to last season in quarantine, I’m currently STUCK on starting the last season until it’s released on Netflix this fall. Gah!

Sex Education on Netflix — VERY graphic, very funny, very sweet, very heartbreaking, this show somehow manages to be obviously fictional and SO realistic at the same time. I adore the characters, the writing, the actors they cast, the themes, and the handling of a subject that doesn’t have to be nearly as awkward as our culture makes it. This is far and away one of my favorites of the last couple years. Did I mention that it’s very graphic, though? Because it’s VERY GRAPHIC.

Jane the Virgin on Netflix— I’ve had SO MANY friends recommend this to me, but — confession — I tried to watch it a couple years ago and felt meh about it. I WAS WRONG, though, Diary. I’ve just started it again, from the first episode, and IDK why I thought it was anything but delightful.

And I’m sure there are more, Diary, but those are top of mind for now and I need to quit writing so I can go watch more Jane the Virgin.

I’m sure you understand.

TTYL,

P.S. Please share your book and show recommendations. IDK what I’m watching or reading next, so suggestions are welcome.

The post 7 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

6 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 06 May 2020 22:34:41 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today’s northwest Oregon weather looks like my feelings and my Facebook feed. Bright and dark, clear and stormy, warm and cold, and general mayhem — predictable in that it’s all chaos all the time right now, and unpredictable as far as when, exactly, the next deluge will start.

I admit, Diary, I’m becoming increasingly distressed by the viral spread of conspiracy theories and debunked scientists/doctors’ videos, and disheartened by the swirling funnel clouds of disinformation wreaking havoc on people’s minds and hearts. I have no problem with disagreements regarding Staying Home vs. Reopening our economy; I just wish folks would use peer-reviewed science and respected epidemiologists and public health experts to make their arguments. Not all the experts agree — there’s a discussion to be had here, a debate to respectfully curate — but just as America failed the Ability to Source Reliable Data test in the 2016 presidential election which, in retrospect, was grossly influenced by bots and bad actors reporting an enormous amount of false information via alarmist headlines that fed confirmation bias and encouraged viral spread, so America is failing the same Ability to Source Reliable Data test in this 2020 global pandemic in exactly the same way.

I genuinely do not understand why people choose to believe two Bakersfield urgent care doctors who have no background nor expertise in epidemiology or public health over tens of thousands of experts in the field of infectious spread and people who’ve spent their education and careers preparing for a pandemic. I do not understand the hubris of people who fail to see that the very definition of Confirmation Bias is saying “AH HA! I KNEW IT” when they decide a debunked anti-vax activist is more reliable than the actual scientists who’ve capably led our nation through previous health crises like the AIDS epidemic, among many others. I do not understand why conspiracy theories and belief in a “deep state” are so appealing to so many. I don’t understand how “the media” came to be so reviled, as though it’s a monolith or a homogenous entity acting in cooperation with itself to discredit a noble president and administration.

I am baffled. And I have no idea how to combat the determination of so many people to believe the liars and false prophets and twisted pied pipers leading them down bizarre and nefarious paths — all while they look at those of us trying to vet sources and use peer-reviewed data from respected scientists and call us the “sheeple” who are being led astray.

What do we do, Diary?

Is there a solution for this?

How do we reason with the unreasonable?

I was a history major in college, my fascination with the past sparked by an 8th grade assignment — a semester long project — to research a Major Historical Event and write a ten page paper, with sources, describing what happened and why. I chose the Holocaust. I wrote about it again in 10th grade Composition Class. And again throughout college whenever I could shoe-horn the subject into an assignment. And also along the way, I felt in equal measure a) confusion as to how it was possible that so many could turn a blind eye to the injustices and inhumanity and hatred all around them, and b) gratitude that we, as a western culture, had evolved beyond that behavior.

Isn’t that ADORABLE, Diary?

Wasn’t I PRECIOUS?

Thinking we’d learned the hard lessons about propaganda and “Us First” nationalism and “othering” our fellow humans and following leaders who are racist and xenophobic?

Thinking we were living in an era where everyone actually enjoys the same civil rights?

Thinking we were smarter than stoking fear through the wide and broad spread of noxious, faulty information?

Tell me, Diary, do you think we might be able to ditch the national effort to teach our children via distance learning during this crisis and instead expend that energy on teaching grown-ups critical thinking skills and source vetting and how to tell the difference between “a difference of opinion” and, well, lies?

Yeah, I don’t think so, either, but a girl can wish.

It’s sunny again, Diary, so I’m going to go build a compost pile in my backyard. I’ve heard it’s easy, alternating browns like leaves and twigs and cardboard with greens like grass clippings and veggies. And, quite honestly, if I can make rich, fertile soil out of rotting bits of plant and earth and water, well, then, that feels like a measure of hope.

Maybe the rot around us can be turned and churned and shaped and, with patience, become a place where beautiful things grow.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Here’s hoping.

With Love,

Photo Credits: Hands by Gabriel Jimenez, Compost Pile by Edward Howell

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May the Fourth Be With You — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 05 May 2020 02:23:35 +0000

Dear Diary,

Briefest of all possible entries today because a) I went grocery shopping which was exhausting in the Before Times and is all consuming now that we live in the After Time, so I’m pooped, and b) it’s my kids’ 17th Gotcha Day (aka, adoption day) so I’ll be spending the rest of the day celebrating. While sitting on my butt. Probably with a beer. And some ibuprofen. ‘Cause I know how to party, man.

{Sidenote: I feel like a wussy whiner for being tired from buying groceries when there are folks out there who are first responders and essential workers and go to work in an anxious grind every day, but it is, nevertheless, the truth, so I’m telling you anyway, Diary. I suspect most of the weariness is the tension and anxiety of staying vigilant, trying to find the stuff my list or viable substitutions while limiting contact and practicing good distancing skills and generally not bringing home the Death Virus to my family. It melts my brain.}

These are the kiddos we’re celebrating.

As always, May the Fourth breaks me and unmakes me and reminds me I’m terribly, horribly human. It’s an exercise every year in forgiving myself. And it’s pure joy every year, too, to know how very far this family has come. We learned, somehow, against the odds called Life, to be present for each other and love one another and seek health and happiness and wholeness. And if we haven’t quite “arrived,” in that the work of Showing Up is never done, we are at least all present and accounted for, which wasn’t always mentally the case.

And so adieu, Diary. I’m off to celebrate like the party animal I am.

With love,

P.S. This is where Greg is right now.

Idk what’s wrong with the sink or the disposable or the pipes. I haven’t asked because I’ve learned asking questions is a good way to get answers, and, well, I don’t really want to know. 😉 I’m digging Greg’s shorts + socks + old leather slippers look. Quarantine chic, for sure.

P.P.S. Ian’s home just for tonight. It’s been two months since we last saw him due to stay at home orders. I’m really feeling for families who share custody of children — it’s impossible to know how to minimize exposure and also meet the emotional needs of our young humans. It’s been hard enough to explain to this one, who experiences intellectual disability, why it’s been so long between visits. So we moved Shopping Day to coincide with Gotcha Day so we could be exposed all at once and then go into our respective lockdowns for two weeks again starting tomorrow. He’s so excited to spend the night.

P.P.P.S. I told him to smile for me, AND HE ACTUALLY DID, which proves he’s an adult now and not the squirrely child who’s refused to smile for pictures for the last DECADE.

Also, I that his hair made devil horns on his head.

#Accurate #ThatsMyKid

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2 May 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 03 May 2020 02:55:49 +0000

Dear Diary,

I spent all day reorganizing the pantry because I decided I’m going to feel like a fantastic idiot if the Cascadia Earthquake hits and I didn’t use this time I have at home to ensure we’re adequately prepared.

Like, you know what I’m saying, Diary?

Who lives through one massive crisis and fails to learn lessons for other potential crises?

And SINCE WE’RE LIVING IN THE WEIRDEST POSSIBLE TIMELINE where we keep FOOLISHLY saying “yeah, but how much worse can it really get?” and therefore FORCING FATE to keep dealing us crappy hands, I feel like I need to do whatever I can within my power to KNOCK ON WOOD. In this case, sorting the pantry = Wood Knocking. Because the Fate Centered Approach — which everyone knows is the Most Scientific Approach and not at all superstitious — says If You Prepare for the Worst, the Worst Will Not Happen.

Fine. I don’t really believe in Fatalism. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t want to feel dumb after an earthquake hits. There are about to be 7 humans and 5 animals in my house for the foreseeable future. That’s a lot of daily calories to ensure we have on hand.

We almost got to increase the animals number to 7 yesterday when two peacocks showed up.

Because OF COURSE peacocks showed up.

And roosted on our roof.

I already said, Diary, we’re living in the Weirdest Possible Timeline.

Donald Trump is the President of the United States. (Old news. Still BLOWS MY MIND.)

There’s a global pandemic.

We already have a Porch Chipmunk…

…and a Daytime Raccoon who just wanders around our property like he owns it…

… refusing to be limited to the nighttime hours just because we keep telling him he’s nocturnal. (I hear you, Raccoon. I don’t want to be put in a box, either.)

A terrified dog materialized in our car one night last fall…

… on a mission, we eventually discovered, to be adopted by the neighbors.

So why in the Wonky World would we NOT manifest peacocks?

It’s 2020.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s definitely not the weirdest thing that’s happened. And it’s far from the worst.

Sadly for my neighbor Mo and I, who were prepared to keep them and love them forever — BECAUSE ONE DOES NOT JUST TURN DOWN A GIFT OF PEACOCKS FROM THE UNIVERSE, GREG — these two already have an owner.

Although, IDK if he’s caught them yet, so I’m not ruling out moving them in with the rest of this menagerie if they come knocking on the door.

Love forever,

P.S. For the first time EVER — and just to prove you should never say never — I was SO EXCITED to get cock videos in my email inbox.

And now I shall share them with you. Cocks, wandering around my house:

http://bethwoolsey.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/IMG_8908.mp4

http://bethwoolsey.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/IMG_8906.mp4

P.P.S. In other words, WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING ANYMORE?

P.P.P.S. I wish I knew, but the peacock parts are OK with me.

Raccoon Photo Credit: Abigail Lynn

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30 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 01 May 2020 04:10:22 +0000

Dear Diary,

In sixteen days, our adult college students/newlyweds, Abby and Chandler, are moving home. To OUR home. To start their marriage during a pandemic. While living with her parents. And that sounds fraught with danger, and also I’M SO EXCITED, and also-also, I hope I don’t mess this up.

On the bright side, we all really love each other and enjoy spending time together — they are, quite literally, two of my favorite people in the world — so HOORAY!

On the fraught side, we’re about to have ALL THE FAMILY TIME with NO ESCAPE so you can pray for them.

On the bright side, I will have five children back in my house, so HOORAY AGAIN!

On the fraught side, three of them are adults now, so this isn’t so much “parenting” as it is “transitioning” to the adult parent/child relationship.

On the bright side, we’ve been intentionally making that transition for years now, because we’re raising adults, not children, as my father always says, so this isn’t an abrupt change.

On the fraught side, we’re about to have new, full-time adult roommates, as opposed to holiday visitors, with all the usual adjustments that entails.

On the bright side, we are always charming and never annoying, so it should go smoothly.

On the fraught side, that last claim was a bald faced lie.

You see the issues.

There are, in other words, infinite sides to this plan. Infinite ways for it to be bright or fraught or, most likely, some of each since we’re all made out of human at my house, and humans are historically weird and wonky and wonderful — bright lights and fraught with turmoil, every single one.

But we do have a big advantage when it comes to having the adult children move home right now, which is the fact that they decided several months ago to live with us, so they’re going with the original plan rather than making a sudden, emergency decision due to the pandemic upheaval. With canceled graduations and weddings and honeymoons, it’s nice to have something go according to plan.

Now, you may be wondering why in the world married adults would choose to move home. And the answer is I DON’T KNOW BUT I THINK IT’S BECAUSE THEY’RE WEIRDOS. Which isn’t really true. I mean, they ARE weirdos — that bit is spot on — but I do actually know the answer. It’s because a) we said “you know, you’re always welcome to live with us,” b) we meant it, and c) they can pay off their student debt way more quickly if they’re not also paying for housing. Since their main financial goal is to get out from under that debt as soon as possible, they felt like it was an easy call.

Of course, that was when there were — at least ostensibly — jobs available. Now that we’re in this timeline, that whole Making Money and Paying Off Debt concept is a purely intellectual exercise. So… we’ll see what happens.

I’ve said before, including recently, that the way we do life according to the prescribed American Dream — that is, a house for each nuclear family of parents and children, separate from extended family or involved community — causes more harm than good. I mean, we did it. We raised our children that way. And we had involved grandparents and community, which makes us far, far more privileged than others. And we still barely survived it. I mean literally, physically we barely survived it, and also our marriage barely survived it, and I’m not even sure I can say we mentally survived it since the toll on my mental health was so high. It was agonizing. It was exhausting. It was overwhelming. And I understand there are schools of thought that say That’s Just How It Is … or, You Gotta Pay Your Dues … or, I Survived It So Now You Have To, Too. But, to me, that’s like saying I Was Lost at Sea in a Leaky Dingy in a Raging Storm and I Almost Drowned But That’s Just How You Have to Get From Point A to Point B, so GOOD LUCK, WISHING YOU ALL THE BEST, and LMK WHEN YOU ARRIVE. When, in fact, there are better ways to cross the ocean. Bigger, more stable, watertight boats. Better navigation. Weather reports. FLYING OVER IT.

That experience of child rearing plus the state of our economy (pre-pandemic) and the fact that my children are unlikely to have what Greg and I did when we started our adult life together — college degrees without enormous school debt, full time job offers before graduation, both with medical, dental, and vision benefits — we’ve known for a while that our children, as they become adults, may need to be in and out of our house as they establish themselves. Which is fine. We want to be a resource for them, and we truly do believe to our bones that no one should have to go it alone. We are ohana — family — and every Disney lover knows ohana means family, and family means no one gets left behind.

I guess I just never imagined they’d want to live with us. Like, that it would top the list if they had other options, you know?

And as much as I, at the ripe old age of 46, think intergenerational living is the only thing that makes sense if you can do it in an emotionally healthy way, I didn’t figure my kids would agree.

I thought they’d pat me on the head, tell me I’m adorable, and do whatever they could to avoid moving home.

Nevertheless, here we are. They want to be here. We want them to be here. It is… oddly simple.

Abby and Chandler move home in 16 days, and it didn’t make any sense to me to have them set up in her old 10×10 childhood bedroom. Even though they‘re willing to be there, I feel like they need someplace they can retreat from the rest of us while they’re establishing their marriage.

So I came up with a Weird Solution. And then I told myself it would be dumb, and I shouldn’t do it. And then I reminded myself I LOVE doing dumb, weird things. It’s who I am. It’s what I live for.

And that’s how Greg and I moved out of the master bedroom and into the living room.

Because what is a living room for? That’s right — it’s for LIVING. Ours, however, was just sitting there, mostly unused.

It’s the room just inside the front door, and it’s smaller than the kitchen/family room which is where we spend all our group gathering time.

So even though I thought, it’s gonna be weird for guests to come over and… essentially walk straight into our bedroom,

I also thought, this house needs to FIRST work for our family and then, as space allows, for our guests.

So, last fall, before the surprise wedding, and before Depression took its pound of flesh, Greg and I moved.

And now that we’re home in isolation and no one can come over anyway, I’m more glad than ever that we’re using our house the way it works for US.

Abby and Chandler will be home soon. And I honestly can’t wait.

With love,

P.S. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THE CURTAIN SITUATION. I took those pics soon after we made the move. Greg was happy with the new space with the exception of the lack of doors. So approximately 25 minutes after we moved (or a few weeks… which is practically 25 minutes in Woolsey Time), Greg built us sliding barn doors.

I still have to paint them.

I’m thinking white like the trim?

But we HAVE doors, and they CLOSE, which was the main goal.

P.P.S. Obviously, I pulled up the covers on our bed for you. (You’re welcome.) But I didn’t actually make the bed for you or pick up the blankets in the hall or anything. That’s just the kind of friends we are. I regret nothing.

The post 30 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

29 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 29 Apr 2020 22:32:02 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’m finding in a time of global stress it’s very important to manage interactions online, which are, while we’re in isolation, our main outlet for interactions of any kind. And, not to brag, but I’d like the record to reflect that my social media game is on point, especially following Beth’s 3 Basic Tenets of Conscientious Engagement — 1. Post what’s truthful, 2. Post what’s just, and 3. Post what’s kind.

For posterity’s sake, here’s the kind of thing I mean, Diary, and bits of what I’ve learned:

1. Post what’s truthful. It’s just super, super important we look out for common pitfalls both in our own posts and in our friends’. EVERYONE is susceptible to wonky thinking from time to time, and to fake news, and to confirmation bias. It can come in the form of bad scientific data or adherence to harmful cultural norms or in myriad other ways, so we must be on the lookout, like when my friend Laura posted this:

We really must correct wonky thinking with Scientific Data, challenging the old way of doing things with a healthier approach.

Now, I admit, I could’ve responded more gently, with fewer ALL CAPS and less frustration, but I’m still learning, like everyone else. I made my points, though, about SCIENCE and HEALTH.

2. Post what’s just. I know I say it all the time, but WE HAVE TO LIFT UP VULNERABLE PEOPLE and HELP CHAMPION MARGINALIZED GROUPS, and we do this best by a) Telling people out loud that we support them, and b) Being fully, authentically ourselves… i.e. …

Is this true? YES. Is it just? YES. Check and check and said out loud so folks who are gay and folks who stealth deposit geese know they’re not alone. BUILDING SAFE COMMUNITY — that’s what we’re after. Not necessarily safe from midnight goose attacks, but, you know, emotionally safe.

However, sometimes when we post things like this, our friends will help clarify any confusing parts of the message. WE NEED TO LET THEM.

We need to listen. Take their words to heart. Consider them thoughtfully. Decide where we can do better, and then do better.

Also, DO NOT ABANDON THE CONVERSATION. If our friends have questions and want to further the convo, let’s engage in that together.

Sometimes, our friends will take our ideas and run with them, improving the original concept immeasurably.

THIS IS WHY WE HAVE EACH OTHER. We are greater together than we could ever be apart, and our collaborative work nets better results than anyone going it alone.

Finally, when speaking of the importance of justice, empty threats do no one any favors. If we SAY we’re going to do something, we need to BE ABLE to follow through. We need to BE ABLE to do the legwork. We need to BE ABLE to demonstrate our commitment to the cause so that when we’re called out on it — say, by one’s father — we have the receipts

Street cred is everything. It’s the only way people can trust our commitment to justice.

3. And, lastly, post what’s kind. Look, there are a lot of folks out there hurting right now. They’re tired. They’re down. They’re vulnerable. And they’re reaching out for help and hope.

Let’s be there for them. When they express a need, like my friend Josie did, let’s do whatever’s within our power to meet that need. After all, this is what it means to love our neighbors as ourselves.

It is the work of God.

With love,

The post 29 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

28 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 29 Apr 2020 04:03:39 +0000

Dear Diary,

2020 was going to be a big year for my kids. A high school graduation. Two college graduations. A wedding.

Turns out, 2020 is a big year for my kids. And also for all the kids worldwide. Just not for the reasons we planned or expected.

Yesterday, my oldest kids (because they’re both my kids now) made the tough decision to postpone their June wedding to some unknown time in the future.

But in a twist that sure seems fateful now, they’re already hitched.

They have been since September.

After weeks of conversations with their financial aid advisor, and weighing the pros and cons, and calculating student debt, and realizing a) they stood to save a lot of money as married college students, and b) they would get married in June anyway, they decided to have a legal ceremony.

They called to let us know, from college in Hawaii, that they were headed to a Justice of the Peace the next morning. Everything else about their senior year would remain the same including living separately with their roommates as previously planned. The June wedding would be the real ceremony and celebration. No need for us to fly to Hawaii, they said. They had it covered, they said. No big deal, they said.

But my mama heart said BIG DEAL. And I wanted to be there, whether it was just technical legality or not.

IF YOU WILL WAIT FOR ME, I said, I WILL BUY YOU DINNER AND FLOWERS. And they’re poor college students, so I had them at free food. They were sold. They were having an engagement party anyway. We could roll the wedding into the engagement party and two birds/one stone the situation. And I was online buying tickets in minutes, paying no attention to my budget or my plans or my mental health or anything other than showing up for my kid… and my kid-to-be.

I’ll be honest, though; given the way Depression reared its head while we were there — a consequence of both brain chemistry and the inability to care for myself while I was laser focused on caring for them — I wondered later whether I should’ve gone.

Was it a mistake?

Should I have stayed home?

Should we have let them do their thing without me playing the role of Interfering Mommy switching the venue from the courthouse to the beach and the officiant from a judge to a minister?

Even though they were glad we were there? Even though it emphasized in a Real Way everything I’ve ever told my kids about Being There for Each Other and Supporting Their Decisions and Loving Each Other Well?

It’s human, I suppose, to second guess ourselves, but even in hindsight and knowing the mental consequences, I didn’t regret it. I’d do the same thing again. I’d do it a hundred more times. A thousand. In every timeline, I’d choose to be there.

The cost would have to be way higher to regret showing up for my people.

And I felt that way before I knew that the real wedding — the longed-for celebration with family and friends — would be postponed indefinitely due to a global pandemic.

Before I knew that this would be the real-est wedding possible for a while.

Before I knew we wouldn’t be back in May to celebrate their graduation.

Before I knew that was the last time I’d visit them while they were still in college.

Before I knew I wouldn’t get to help them pack or move or say good-bye to four years of their lives and the place they met.

Before I knew they’d be starting their life together in circumstances far more uncertain of the future and more unpredictable than generations before them.

And now that I know all that? It just drives home the importance of Showing Up. Never have I ever been more glad I ignored Logic and Fiscal Responsibility in favor of Following My Heart to My Humans.

I feel like it’s fair at this point if Greg is worried I’m going to come out of this pandemic the least reasonable, most irresponsible person of all time, listening only to my heart and my gut and parking my brain on the sidelines for eternity.

But I gotta say, that’s likely.

He’s right to be scared.

With love,

The post 28 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

27 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 27 Apr 2020 21:47:12 +0000

Dear Diary,

I was the fastest girl in the third grade at Ladera Elementary School in Thousand Oaks, California. Or, at least, I won the 50 yard dash once, and I was competitive in the other sprints on that Field Day in 1981 which was, to me, the same thing as being the fastest girl in the third grade. For a kid who otherwise considered herself uncoordinated and the opposite of athletic, it was a surprise. “I’m fast,” I thought. “I can sprint. Who knew?” Sometime around then, plus or minus three years in the way that time is murky and ethereal when we’re children, I won a swimming race, as well. Two lengths of the pool. I overheard another mom tell mine that I was fast, that she should sign me up for swim team, and, while swim team didn’t materialize — I don’t recall wanting to join or even really knowing what a swim team was — that comment on my speed was so astounding that I can sit here, nearly four decades later, at my aqua desk with its peeling paint on a soggy spring day in Oregon and recall it with the clarity of any of my most formative memories.

I was fast. I was powerful in the short races. I knew how to harness my energy and send it to my limbs and use it all in one burst, leaving what I had on the field or in the pool, and what I didn’t know then but do know now is that that’s not just a third grade talent — it’s a personality characteristic.

I like to do things quickly.

I like to hit tasks hard.

I like to power through projects and crush them.

I like to do a chore once, do it thoroughly, and then never do it again. Which is probably why my table looks like this:

And my counters look like this:

I already cleaned them once this month, so I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN.

I’m excellent at demolition and awful at methodical creation.

I always say I’m horrible at gardening, but that’s not really true. I love to hack at wisteria vines and lop the tops off bushes that have grown outside their boundaries. I love to turn over soft, wet earth with a sharp bladed shovel. I love to sever limbs that weigh down trees.

What I’m bad at is the planting and the weeding and the constant vigilance of maintenance. There’s no quick win there. No powerful burst of energy on my part to accomplish the tasks of growth and health and life and breath. Those things take time, and I am always impatient to cross the finish line.

I’ve been trying to find words to put to the feelings I’ve been having for the last week-ish. The sense of constant grind. The sound of an engine wearing down. The faltering gait of a sprinter trying to run a marathon with no feel for proper pacing. The panicky sensation of being trapped.

And this is what I’ve got so far: I know this is a marathon, but I’m not prepared to run it.

I’m historically good in an emergency. I respond quickly. My brain organizes priorities in the appropriately cascading order of most important to least. I’m the person my cousin calls when he severs his thumb with a jigsaw. I’m the one barking orders to Greg in the middle of the night when our daughter chokes on the blood she’s hemorrhaging, I’m the one driving her to the hospital while assuring her she’s not going to die, and I’m the one catching her blood in a bag so the doctors can measure it to see how much she’s lost. I’m the one who tells Greg we are absolutely not, under any circumstances, going to panic when we’re new parents to our first child and the new company he’s just joined folds and we’re suddenly without income. I’m the one who invents the next steps and keeps everyone breathing, sometimes by bullying and sheer force of will.

I’m good in a crisis. I know what to do when there’s an urgent need to respond.

But this is not the emergency I planned for.

Even though I spent a decade working in international public health and medical humanitarian response. Even though I did know a global pandemic wasn’t just possible but inevitable in our increasingly connected world.

No, the emergency I planned for was an avalanche in terms of impact and speed. Sudden. Overwhelming. A total white-out of a crisis; one which would command our full attention. The emergency I prepared for was an illness that moved faster than this one. Or a war perpetuated by a wholly incompetent president. Or the Cascadia earthquake that’s due to hit my Pacific Northwest region sometime between this afternoon and three hundred years from now. I have water stored in my garage and camping gear in places we can easily access if our house isn’t stable enough after the shaking stops. I have a wind-up radio so we can get information when our cell phones cut out.

I didn’t plan for an emergency where I’d be pressure washing my sidewalks. Or noticing how many hummingbirds flit through my backyard, poking their needle noses into bushes and blossoms for nectar and bugs. Or unable to show up in person to help our community because physically showing up is more harmful than helpful right now.

I didn’t plan for a slow moving but still devastating catastrophe. I didn’t plan to be a bystander. I didn’t plan to stay still for weeks. Months, probably.

I’m a sprinter running a marathon, and I feel grossly ill-equipped.

But I’ve done this before.

Oh, not this this. I haven’t run this course. The COVID-19 Marathon route is new to everyone.

But I mean, I’ve run a marathon before. As a sprinter. One I didn’t see coming. One I had to train for even while I ran it.

“If I could go back fourteen years to the beginning of this Mama Gig, there are things I’d tell New Mama Me.

Things she should hear.

Things she should know.

Things I’d deliver straight to her heart, like that violent Pulp Fiction through-the-chest resuscitation shot, to help her breathe just a little in that time when new mamahood first destroyed her but before she really lived again.

Oh new mama, I would say, this beginning, it’s hard. It is. It’s hard.

Your feet are moving on a marathon that’s just begun, but you haven’t trained because there’s no way to train for this. No way to build your muscles or increase your endurance or improve your time other than to start running. And that is okay. It’s the way this thing is done. You won’t always feel this exhausted. This off-balance. This delirious. But I know that doesn’t matter right now and that you want to punch people who say, “It gets better” right in teeth. (But it gets better, mama. It does. And the secret is you get stronger…)

That IS the secret, and it’s worth remembering.

The secret to the Unexpected Marathon is you get stronger.

It’s exhausting but you get stronger.

It’s painful, moving forward when you’re weary and sore from the day before, but you get stronger.

It’s relentless, this run, because it’s a work of grief as we die to What Once Was and are reborn to What Is to Come. That’s normal; birth is usually arduous. And new life takes time. But we are the phoenix again and again, rising from the ashes. It’s this Burning to the Ground bit that sucks.

This beginning, it’s hard.

It’s hard.

And also, we can do hard things.

With love,

Image Credits: Woman running in snow by Mauro Paillex, Man running on road by Luke Stackpoole

The post 27 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

25 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 26 Apr 2020 00:37:46 +0000

Dear Diary,

I spent hours yesterday trying to write to you before giving up at 3pm, turning on Netflix, and finishing Season 2 of You. (Sidenote: OMG! ) The problem was, I wasn’t well, and I also forgot about my vow to take care of myself. Instead, I spent the first many hours of the day chastising myself for failing to be more productive. Failing to keep the kitchen cleaner. Failing to write in my Diary. Failing to write for Other Purposes. Failing to shower. Fail, fail, fail.

It’s all well and good to say we need to be kind to ourselves. We MUST be better friends to our own wonky brains and tender hearts. But putting it into action is MUCH HARDER because kindness as a lifestyle and kindness as muscle memory and kindness as the automatic first reaction takes PRACTICE.

But I’m not going to chastise myself for failing. That feels… like the opposite of the point. I caught on eventually, and then kindness and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream on the couch kicked in.

The main problem yesterday was the fact that I was awake until 2am the night before puking my guts out.

The reason behind that is a mystery, though.

It could be food poisoning. It could be a gluten or dairy intolerance. It could be a sudden inability to drink two whole beers in a row which I did for the first time during quarantine. It could be my gall bladder. Or infection? Inflammation? Obstruction? Who knows?

Since it was very sudden onset, though, I assume it was food poisoning which is embarrassing because I’m the only person making food around here, so if it is food poisoning, I essentially managed to poison myself, and I have zero restaurants to blame. [Note to Self: Eat out more often so I have a ready scapegoat.]

Either way, I spent a couple hours draped over the toilet.

And then I was exhausted yesterday. And so I was unproductive. And so I was unkind to myself. Until I figured my shit out, corrected that oversight, and set my expectations for Getting Anything Done to zero. Lowest setting available.

What kind of ridiculous, productivity-obsessed culture have I subscribed to, though, that I felt Less Than for being unproductive WHILE SICK during a GLOBAL PANDEMIC? Oh, bless my sweet, darling heart. Also, NO. I refuse to CONSCIOUSLY submit to that level of bullshit. Subconsciously? Can’t always control that. But when it comes to mind? Yeah, NO MORE OF IT. It’s got to go. Adios. No welcome mat for that around here.

Today, I’m still not as productive as I’d like to be, but the difference is that I’m patting myself on the head today, being gentle and kind, living with the mess, and accepting This Is Just How It Is right now. There’s time to DO again later, but doing can wait, and so it will.

With love… and kindness,

P.S. Our Fairy Message Mother left us this message today:

Take courage, my heart.

And so we shall.

The post 25 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

23 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 24 Apr 2020 01:39:33 +0000

Dear Diary,

Am I staying sane, though, in this time that’s not? I mean, I guess I ask myself that question even when we’re not in the middle (at the beginning?) of a global pandemic. That’s part of the fun of monitoring clinical depression. It comes in disguise at the best of times. And by “part of the fun,” Diary, I mean decidedly not fun at all. Because depression affects the brain and processing and discernment — because depression lies and says “you’re just like this,” “this isn’t depression; it’s who you are,” and “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” — the Depressed Human is often not aware she’s depressed at all. So I spend a lot of time wondering, trying to stay on top of it, trying to learn the symptoms, even though the symptoms are always changing.

And now? In this Bizarre New Place? I’m still trying to monitor myself, but I’m not sure what’s “normal” in the New Normal and what’s “abnormal,” as in “not OK.”

I’m up and down and back and forth and living in a state of suspended animation, but aren’t we all?

I feel alternately fine and like I can’t quite breathe, but doesn’t everyone?

I’ve had the blahs the last couple days. The blergs. The ho-hums and the mundanes. And I mostly think those feelings are Just Part of It right now. But, also, I wonder if I’ve begun the depression slide.

I have an Impossible Task right now. That thing that, if I would just do it, would take me 10 minutes. Maybe seven. It’s not hard. It just requires a modicum of effort. I have to look up an order number. I have to write that down. I have to package a return and figure out how mailing things is happening these days. And it’s less that I don’t want to so much as I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t muster the motivation or energy. Which is a classic sign of depression. But also a classic sign of resisting change.

So, in between bouts of food productivity — my people still want to eat, no matter how blergy I feel, the monsters — I’ve done things that don’t need to be done. By far the weirdest was ironing my dish towels because I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE.

Are abrupt personality changes a sign of depression? Probably. But also, Doing Weird Shit that’s out of character is a sign of Being Quarantined. So, see? It’s all a mystery.

Honestly, though? I don’t think this is depression.

The sun appeared for a couple hours this afternoon after a gloomy, rainy couple of days. More a typical Oregon April than we’ve had thus far. And that mini blast of light beckoned me outside where I pruned my lilac bush and made bouquets for folks who wander by our house, and I felt… happy.

Content.

Utterly at peace.

The sun is gone again, hiding behind clouds heavy with rain. And I’m back at my kitchen table with the blahs. The Impossible Task still remains. It won’t get done today. But there’s a bunch of lilacs sitting next to me now, fragrant and full, and I’m a tad less blah than I was before.

I’ll take it.

With love,

P.S. Here’s the full pic of the kitchen. You can see the part of the table I cleared to take the Pristine Pic of the lilacs.

P.P.S. I’m not sure you can tell from this photo, but this little girl’s nose is on the mend, poor thing.

P.P.P.S. But ALL DAY LONG she yips at the cat whose favorite pastime it is to MOCK HER with his presence on top of the fridge.

I swear to God, if it’s not the kids griping at each other, it’s the animals.

FFS.

At least they’re cute.

The post 23 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

21 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 22 Apr 2020 02:32:26 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’m popping up and down from the kitchen table while I’m writing this, trying to keep Family Pizza Night on track, so we’ll see how this goes.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine. They say it takes three weeks to form a habit. I don’t know who “They” are, but it’s one of those things that’s accepted wisdom like don’t go outside in the winter without your coat on lest you catch a cold — things that are verifiably, conclusively false, but things we say and believe regardless. So I suppose it’s not surprising that I feel on some level like I should be used to this by now — less bewildered, more settled, further along on Quarantine Adjustment, coming to terms with the uncertainty — but I’m not.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and while there are changes in me — I check the news every hour, say, instead of every 15 minutes or 5 minutes or 1 minute like I did mid-March — I’m still as back and forth, as up and down, as calm and anxious, as adrift and anchored, as in it for the long haul and ready for it to end as I was at Day #1.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and I still feel like I’m suspended…

Checked the pizza. Sprinkled on the cheese. Popped it back in the oven.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and I still feel like I’m suspended midair. Like I’m caught in that moment when you draw breath to speak, but before the words come out. Like I’m between one step and the next, foot raised and off balance and falling forward, but not striking the earth yet. Not making any real progress. I’m all Gathered Momentum but no Execution. All Potential but no Follow Through. Not because I don’t wish to move forward, but because there’s no where to go yet. Nowhere to land. The next step hasn’t materialized yet. This is the Waiting Place.

Kids: Mom, when is dinner going to be ready?
Me: First pizza in ten minutes?

I don’t actually know. I’m just guessing. It feels like that with everything right now. No certainties. All guesswork. People depending on my answers, anyway.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and we’re in the Waiting Place, but I’m starting to make guesses because I need Some Sort of Plan and my kids need one, too, so my guess is that we’ll be doing this #StayHome gig for the rest of the spring and at least the beginning of summer, and maybe off and on and off and on for months after that.

Pizza #1 — just cheese — is out of the oven.

Pizza #2 is in. I put turkey bacon on Pizza #2; it was in the fridge, and its Use By date is today. It will either make Pizza #2 a hit or no one will like it and I’ll get lots of feedback to Never Do That Again. I regularly try to sneak things into my family’s food. I’d say I get away with it maybe half the time. That’s a good enough batting average to keep doing it.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and I’m just throwing stuff together. “Hey! Turkey bacon on pizza! Sounds better than throwing it away!” And also, “Hey! Let’s tear up the backyard lawn for an inflatable above ground pool!” Do I think either of these are good ideas? I DON’T KNOW. I mean, PROBABLY. Maybe? Hopefully? Will Turkey Bacon Pizza and a Pool-ish Place to Hang Out make Sheltering Together kinder and funner? ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT. Also, is funner a word? NO, BUT THERE ARE NO RULES ANYMORE.

One of the children just slammed a door upstairs, so things are already funner around here.

OH, AND THERE IT GOES AGAIN NOW. A double slam!

The slammer descended the stairs to let me know I put too much cheese on the cheese pizza and I cooked it too long. Then he took 4 pieces. I only nodded my head in sympathy at How Terrible It Must Be to Have a Mother So Inept at Making Pizza from Scratch During a Goddamn Pandemic which I believe officially qualifies me for sainthood. YES? Yes.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, and there are No Rules Anymore, and I am Trying to Do Good, Fun Things and Build Happy Memories, and I’m learning that partly means Keeping My Mouth Shut so I don’t Say Things I’ll Regret.

Pizza #2 is out of the oven, and Pizza #3 — the Pan Pizza for the Grown-ups — is in the oven.

Two more children have acquired pizza for themselves and the turkey bacon pizza is a success.

I’ll take the win.

Today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, Diary, and I honestly thought I’d be further along on Quarantine Adjustment by now, but I’m not. Instead, I’m suspended in the Waiting Place and trying to make Some Sort of Plan and trying, also, to do kind and fun things but not always getting credit for the effort.

The Door Slammer reappeared in the kitchen.

He’s sorry for what he said about the pizza — it was good, after all — but he was hangry, and he was upset about something his friend said in an online game, and he thinks he’s just anxious in general right now, and he said thank you for making dinner. All that unprompted.

I said it’s OK, and thank you for the apology, and I get it, and we’re all a little off right now.

So today is officially Day #37 of Quarantine, Diary, and I suppose I thought ALL OF US would be further along on Quarantine Adjustment by now, but we’re not. I need to remember we’re all suspended in the Waiting Place together, and we’re all trying to make plans, and we’re all trying to be kind but not always getting credit for the effort. Me. Greg. The kids. All of us.

For now, though, I’m going to grab a piece of pizza — and probably a beer — and let the rest go.

With love,

The post 21 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

20 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 21 Apr 2020 03:58:20 +0000

Dear Diary,

My sister-in-love, Kim, asked our fam the other night what’s saving our minds and hearts and sanity right now, and ever since I find things throughout the day that bring me back to center or settle my spotty anxiety or soothe my soul enough to get to the next minute or the next hour or the next day.

Here, in no particular order, are some of them.

1. The total weirdos I live with.

2. These baby monsters:

3. This book series which I loved for years before it came to TV:

I’m currently reading Book 5 in the series — The Fiery Cross — because I’m a chicken and I can’t watch Season 5 of the TV show until I remind myself what’s going to happen. SO MUCH STRESS and TENSION and BEAUTY and TERROR. Speaking of which…

4. Outlander, the TV series.

I’m really very rarely/almost never a fan of books-to-TV or books-to-movies. I watched the first two Harry Potter movies, for example, and they were fine depictions but I still loved reading them more, so I ditched the remaining films. I was wary of Outlander on a screen, therefore, but IT’S MY FAVORITE and I LOVE IT. Greg and I started Season 5 last night — it took my brain a while in Pandemic Mode to be able to read again, my focus was shot for a few weeks, but now that I’m more than halfway through rereading Book 5, I figured we were safe to start watching.

5. Sunshine.

Look, I know I’m not supposed to be happy about Climate Change, and I promise I would choose Rain over Sun to Save the Planet if that was an option for me, but I DO love sunny April days in Oregon. We didn’t always have them, there’s likely (hopefully) loads of rain to come in the next few months, but this reprieve from dreary days and, instead, getting to sit in a vat of Vitamin D is good for my brain. Definitely a sanity saver.

6. Blackhead extraction videos on YouTube.

[Not including a photo here. You’re welcome.]

I don’t know why they’re so soothing, but they are. Right now I’m making my way through all of the Loan Nguyen Acne Treatment videos. Greg and my mother both assure me this is an objectively disgusting thing to watch. I feel sad for them that they can’t experience this level of joy.

7. Homemade bread and yogurt.

Honestly, I know NO ONE ON PLANET EARTH wants to hear ANY MORE about sourdough, but it’s giving my days a rhythm, and that in turn is giving me life.

8. Did I mention dogs?

Because dogs.

9. Little puffs of fairy magic spilled all over my lawn.

I know, I know; like the zit videos, I’m supposed to dislike these. They’re messy. But I love them. I wish on them. I blow their seeds into the wind. I create more dandelion puff babies.

And, hey, the leaves and flowers are edible SO WHO’S SMART ENOUGH TO HAVE AN EDIBLE LAWN DURING THE APOCALYPSE? This girl.

10. Also, dogs. And OH, I said this was in no particular order BUT I SAVED THE BEST FOR LAST because my adult humans are moving home in exactly 26 days AND THEY’RE HAVING A BABY.

A little puppy baby AND LOOK AT THAT FACE. Diary, meet HonoLulu. Lou for short. LouLou. Louie.

This is his baby picture:

OHMERGARSH.

I’d carry a hard copy in my wallet and show it to EVERYONE like EVERY proud grandma EVER, except we’re socially distancing right now, so please prepare yourself, Diary, to be the repository of All the Puppy Pics in the meantime. It’ll be an onslaught. A barrage. A deluge.

I. Can’t. Wait.

With love,

P.S. Pretty please tell me what’s giving you life and sanity right now. Both to check in and because we can all use ideas.

The post 20 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

19 April 2020– The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 20 Apr 2020 01:42:28 +0000

Dear Diary,

It’s Sunday again, and even though the days are a little bit of a blur, there are little bits of routine that remind us now and then how to mark time. Monday through Friday are, in fact, Thisday, Thatday, Someday, Whatday, and Whensday. But Saturday is Farm Workday because there are still small projects that help improve our space so we can maybe, someday, eventually, hopefully, cross-fingers open to the public.

And Sunday is church via Zoom which, for reasons I haven’t yet considered, feels more accessible to me than church via Getting My Physical Ass Over to a Building.

It’s no secret I’ve taken — am taking? — a prolonged break from church. I suffer no guilt for this. I show up in certain seasons. I actively check in with God and with my heart to try to suss what my role in the church ought or ought not to be, and, even though my best friends and my husband and my parents and many of the people I respect and rely on most in this weird, weird world still attend the tiny church of which I’m a member — the tiny church that was booted from the broader group of churches — I haven’t felt any regular compunction to return.

I maintain an evolving faith centered less and less on the evangelical church of the modern era and the tenets of its faith which appear to be Nationalism, Republicanism, and Capitalism — and a relentless defense of that trilogy — and more and more on the rag-tag, radical, inclusive, mouthy, justice-mongering, power-shunning, establishment-upending person of Jesus whom the Religious Right of its time and the Government loathed.

Jesus is still my jam. Church is still a jumble; a mixed bag of good and bad, which is fine because so is everything run by humans, but also not fine if I’m adhering to a system based on personal comfort or long-held tradition and that system does more harm than good. Do some churches do more good than harm? No question; of course they do. Many feed the hungry and visit the imprisoned and bend the arc toward social justice and equity and meeting desperate needs in their communities and the world. But when the bigger, broader church system has morphed into a political engine in America that justifies jailing asylum seekers during the worst displaced persons crisis the world has ever known, seeks to make the poor poorer, fails to care for widows and orphans and, well, fails to care for all of the vulnerable and marginalized; when the bigger, broader church system votes as a coordinated block for policies and politicians who ensure the excessive prosperity of the rich at the expense of everyone else; it makes me wonder. Do I make things better by participating? Like cleaning dust and grime off a window so we can all see better? Or am I perpetuating an entire system that’s polluted beyond what’s reasonable to sort and separate into healthy vs. harmful? Like trying to separate fly shit from the pepper? When is it better to just toss it and start over from scratch?

I know the answer, actually. Or I think I do. I just don’t like it very much because it’s not clear cut. It’s complicated and messy, and I want it all to be better Right Now. I hate waiting. I hate that most of life is murky. I hate that the church is in a messy, revolutionary transition and is busy birthing a new thing, with all the blood and shit and goo and gore and beauty birth entails. But the truth is — and the answer as far as I understand it — we’re all assigned to different bits.

Some have to stay and work from within. They’re rebuilding the plane while it’s flying — mechanics shoring up weaknesses from inside, flight attendants calming passengers and meeting basic needs, pilots gauging the weather, navigating around storms and through them when they can’t be avoided, and trying to find safe places to land.

And some have to move apart and away. Freefalling, it feels like, from great heights. Hoping our parachutes deploy. Learning we love drifting the currents. Wondering when we’ll land and whether we’ll survive it and what we might build on the forest floor if we make it that far.

I’m the latter.

I jumped, and I’ve been floating here a while. More at peace outside the confines of the plane than I ever imagined, especially as someone who never wanted to take the leap in the first place.

Which is why it’s so strange, Diary, and something unexpected to be upended by a pandemic and to find myself lingering near the plane. If someone had told me a few months ago that we’d be quarantined to our homes, with churches closed, and that that’s how I’d find myself closer to church than I’ve been for a while, I would’ve been baffled.

Is it that I crave familiar faces and rhythms when so much else is wonky and unsettled? Is that what’s appealing to me about church right now? That would make sense, but I don’t think that’s it.

Is it that Greg Zooms from the kitchen table so church pretty literally comes to me and it requires little effort on my part to participate? That’s reasonable, but I don’t think that’s it, either. I mean, I managed to be 15 minutes late to Zoom church on Easter even though it was in the kitchen, so clearly proximity is not the great motivator.

No, I think it’s a host of things, petty and profound.

Petty as in the fact that I’m an introvert and the Quarantine Life, while still draining of my energy at times and fraught with its own strains and difficulties, isn’t nearly as exhausting as Regular Life with its endless appointments and carpools and meetings and errands, etc., etc., to infinity and beyond. So in quarantine I have enough energy come Sunday morning to engage rather than trying to participate from an empty well.

And profound as in the fact that these people I know and have known — who have challenged and succored me — who have allowed me to come and go from church, believing that God speaks in and through me whether my butt’s in a pew or not — are everything I understand to be the face of God. Folks linking in from Kenya. Sisters joining from the retirement community across town. Families sitting on couches with toddlers crawling on their faces and heads because everyone knows a parent who sits down is a toddler’s jungle gym. The preschool boy whose “prayer request” was in fact a remonstration of our worship leader for failing to make his mic live so he could provide percussion back-up to the morning’s music. The fact that nearly everyone stayed on the Zoom call after it was supposed to have ended so that same boy could demonstrate his music skillz and give us a tour of his mashed playdough creations — flowers, a starfish that bore a stronger resemblance to a slug, and, best of all, in true preschool child fashion, a pile of poop. The show and tell in the after session from the elementary child whose mama is teaching her how to knit a pale purple scarf and whose face lit up with pride in the 8 perfect inches she created.

Faces of God. Every single one. Love made flesh and dwelling among us. And the reminder that, whatever my issues with church — and they are sometimes legion — God is still on the move. Still Love incarnate, which is God’s real name. Still active and moving. Even sometimes in churches. Even in America which feels like a dumpster fire right now. Even in the middle of a pandemic.

Maybe especially now. Because Love isn’t showy. It’s not bossy or rude. It’s the undercurrent that pulls and pushes and sculpts the very ground beneath our feet. And it’s alight most especially in each other. A divine spark whose image we bear.

And today, I got to see it. Which was pretty damn cool.

With love,

The post 19 April 2020– The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

18 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 19 Apr 2020 02:15:19 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’M SO SORRY I FORGOT TO TELL YOU WHICH WIENERS WE LIKED BEST.

I wrote to you yesterday about our very official, blind taste test: Nathan’s Beef Franks vs. Hebrew National.

Honestly, Hebrew National has been my favorite for years, so I assumed they’d be the winner even though I’ve never had Nathan’s.

Then I looked at the hot dogs and they look virtually the same in the package, so I thought they’d tie.

Then I tried them, and everything I thought I knew was upended.

We all liked Nathan’s wiener best.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Unanimous agreement.

Also, SO MUCH CONVERSATION ABOUT NATHAN’S WIENER. “Nathan’s wiener is saltier.” “Nathan’s wiener is a little oilier, in the good, slightly drippy way.” “Nathan’s wiener bends when it gets hot, but bendy wieners are JUST AS FUNCTIONAL — and tasty — as straight wieners so I’m not judging Nathan’s bendy wiener or anything. I’m just saying.” Overall, we just liked having Nathan’s wiener in our mouths more than the competitor. And that was pretty much the exact conversation on the subject. I’d like credit, though, Diary, for not saying to my children how much I enjoyed swallowing Nathan’s wiener. Fortunately, my friend Jessica gave me a trophy for that — — so I’ve received the recognition I deserve.

So. Now that I’ve corrected that oversight, Diary, we can carry on with today.

Today, so far, has been wiener-free.

But I did have to take this baby…

…to the vet for that thing on her nose.

It’s swollen and lumpy and raw and crusty and the vet doesn’t know what it is but maybe mites, sunburn, ringworm, bacterial infection, bite of some sort, or f) all of the above. Also, it could be something else entirely. It was like taking a human child to the doctor when they’re sick.

Doctor: Why are we here today?
Mama: My baby is sick.
*exam, test, etc.*
Doctor, final diagnosis: Your baby is sick.

Except in this case it was…

Vet: Why are we here today?
Me: The puppy has an unknown wound on her nose.
*exam, test, etc.*
Vet, final diagnosis: Your puppy has an unknown wound on her nose.

I feel fine about that, though, because even though I can expertly diagnose things like “sick child” and “puppy with an owie,” I can’t prescribe the pile of medications the vet sent home with me to treat f) all of the above.

Of course, it was a different experience going to the vet today amid the pandemic. There’s no waiting inside anymore. You call when you get to the parking lot and a technician comes out to take the puppy inside while you wait in the car.

I listened to How I Built This on NPR and watched pearl zit extractions on YouTube while I waited. And I observed other folks who pulled in for appointments.

The aged and rusty Jeep with two malamutes.

The silver Lexus with the German short haired pointer.

The red Toyota Tercel with the senior humans and their beagle with his faded fur, talking to him, petting him, keeping him entertained while they waited longer than the rest of us.

The technicians came and went, masked, medications and clipboards and remote credit card readers in hand. Dogs in. Dogs out. Tails wagging, thrilled with an outing.

And then the tech finally arrived at the red car. The couple got out — he in his thin white shirt and blue jeans, she with short curly brown hair and a shuffling walk — and they walked up the ramp to the building together. Beagle held close. Technician leading, then unlocking the door, then letting them all inside.

I’m not gonna lie, Diary. My heart contracted, and I whispered a quick “no,” hoping I was wrong.

But a few minutes later — no more than twenty, which doesn’t seem long enough for a life to end and lives to change — the couple came back out. Alone.

Still, I thought. Still, maybe they just left him for surgery?

But no.

They wept as they closed the door. They wept as they moved slowly back down the ramp. They wept as he helped her step off the curb and into the parking lot and to the car and into her seat.

And I missed the end of How I Built This, which, until then, had been riveting. I was watching them, instead. Fully focused. Wondering if I was intruding on their private grief and yet compelled to bear witness and not look away.

I wanted to tell them I’m so very sorry for their loss.

I wanted to tell them they’re not grieving alone.

But I sat in my car, and I stayed silent, knowing nothing I could say in that moment would matter. Knowing it might cause embarrassment and was unlikely to provide comfort with pain so fresh and raw.

And then I came home and sat here all day at my kitchen table thinking about that little beagle sitting on his lady’s lap with his big, floppy ears and wide open eyes watching me back through our windows. I thought about that beagle between jumping up to do loads of dishes and remind kids for the bajillionth time to do their chores and stretching and folding dough and contemplating the merits of slow rise bread versus immediate gratification.

I thought about how many losses are so much greater right now than this trinity of two senior citizens and one beagle in a small Oregon town, now short a member.

I thought about the losses larger in scope and more profound in numbers and depth. And I thought about how nothing feels bigger to those two people than the loss of their companion anyway.

I thought about how I, a stranger, am mourning with them, crying real tears, and hoping they have glimpses of peace and moments of comfort. And I thought about how that’s right somehow. Proper and good. That there are humans assigned to mourn the tiny losses, too, which are as fathomless as the sea. And that I’m privileged to have been assigned to this one.

I wonder how often we grieve and move inside the bubble of our pain, not knowing that others grieve with us. And how we might feel about each other and our place on this planet — our purpose, our community, our own feelings of isolation and loneliness — if we understood that sometimes there’s a human across town shouldering just a bit of the burden, and we’re not alone, after all.

At least, not really.

With love — and thinking of you, too,

P.S. On the one hand I feel like I should apologize for the whiplash of wieners and then loss. On the other hand, if authenticity and Both/And matters — and obviously I believe it does — then apologies aren’t needed. I’m going with the other hand. I hope you understand.

The post 18 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

17 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 18 Apr 2020 03:48:34 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’ve now limited my grocery shopping to twice per month. I don’t know if it’s because I’m all Barney Stinson about this whole #StayHomeStaySafe campaign — CHALLENGE. ACCEPTED. — or if I’m somehow living out my Little House on the Prairie fantasies or engaging my latent skills from growing up in the jungles of Indonesia, but I’m all about making stuff from scratch and stretching a dollar and sorting and organizing and building up an appropriate pantry stocked with items to See Us Through.

Yesterday was Shopping Day. I visited two stores — the cheap, surplus food store for As Much As Possible, followed by the regular store for the Remainder. It took me seven hours in total. Seven. Hours. The stores are less than four miles from my house. But that was the time it required, armed with hand sanitizer and homemade face mask (thanks, Mom). As much as I wanted to be in and out quickly, it was slow going. I spent a LOT time waiting for people to move so I could peruse the shelves I was after, and even though I know one of the goals of #StayHome is not to linger in places where people gather — like the grocery store — I prioritized being patient and kind. Slowing down to watch out for others. Smiling — with my eyeballs, since my mouth was covered — and saying thank you to the folks working hard to restock (SO MUCH RESTOCKING HAPPENING) and answer questions and wipe things down.

When I shopped in the middle of March, I didn’t wear a face mask or gloves. I just washed my hands before I left and when I got home. By the beginning of April, it was gloves but no mask — and removing gloves after each store, before getting in my car so I could leave the store germs behind me. Yesterday, it was face mask but no gloves per my latest reading — just LOTS of hand sanitizer to supplement the soap and water hand washing and a giant can of Lysol in my car so I could decontaminate my phone and debit card between locations.

It’s strange shopping in bi-monthly snippets. Like leaping forward in time with over-sized steps. The stores look different each time — which shelves are full, which are bare, which have social distancing reminders and protocols listed, which are no longer sporting the “Buy 10 for $10” signs because the modern supply chain was never set up to sustain everyone making simultaneous bulk purchases. And the people look different each time, too — cashiers behind plastic barriers, all employees in masks and the patrons, too, kids virtually no where. It makes me wonder what it’ll look like by the beginning of May.

What will we know then that we don’t know now? How will we have adapted? How will humans and businesses be responding?

It’s both fascinating from an intellectual “gee, this is interesting” perspective and disconcerting from a “gosh, this has changed rapidly” perspective. Especially because we don’t know how long we’re doing this — or, if we’re able to take a break, when we’ll have to restart measures like this again.

How long will I be watching this Stop Motion Show in two week increments? How long will I maintain this regimen of Taking Food Inventory, and Managing Supplies Carefully, and Trying to Wisely Plan Far into the Future, but also Not Take Too Much and Leave Enough for Others? Will I live at this level of readiness indefinitely? Or will I tire of it as it becomes part of the new normal and be able — wisely or not — to let go of some of this obsessive desire to control what I can? Am I acting, or reacting, or overreacting?

I have no answers to any of those questions.

This morning, I made No Knead Sourdough Bread, and Cinnamon Swirl Bread— which came out of the oven shaped like Noah’s Ark…

…and a little wonky in the middle —

— and homemade yogurt which is shockingly simple to do and objectively better than anything sold prepackaged. I felt accomplished and like I was Doing Important Work to Nourish My Family. By dinner, though, I was too tired to cook anymore so we played the Hot Dog Edition of “Who Makes It Better?” — a game I invented where you buy two different brands of whatever you can find at the discount grocery store (in this case, processed meat formed into the shape of a tube) and feed it to your family, forcing them to wax eloquent on the finer points of each before collectively selecting a winner.

In this case, Nathan’s Famous Beef Franks, which none of us have had, versus Hebrew National Beef Franks, my personal favorite.

We let the children play with sharp objects and fire, and roasted the hot dogs over open flame like God intended.

They enjoyed it every bit as much as having Dinner Homemade by Mommy — and they loved the fluffy, nutritionally vacant pillows that call themselves hot dog buns as much as the bread over which I slave — which simply highlights how much of the Scratch Cooking and Inventory Management is for my own emotional health and sense of well being and not for them. I mean, it IS for them. Obviously. But also, they’d be perfectly happy with a freezer full of wieners until May.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

As humans, we don’t really have the ability to neatly unpack our motives or sort what exactly incites us to one action or provokes us to toward another. Only years from now — decades, probably — will the cooperative research be complete so the experts in social behavior and mental health and twenty-first century anthropology can tell us how our society ebbed and flowed and waxed and waned during this global crisis. They’ll be able to pinpoint the trends of how we responded and make educated guesses as to why. But they’ll never be able to unravel a single mind or understand these experiences viscerally unless they lived them. Which is wild to me — the sheer volume of experience which will never be known — and also strangely comforting. What we’re living now is both collective and communal. And as individual as a fingerprint.

How remarkable.

The post 17 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

5 Things We Must Do to Light Our Path Forward

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 Apr 2020 02:32:24 +0000

The sun is setting and the air is cooling fast. Another day of #StayHome is ending. For my family, today marks one month. One month of this bizarre new normal, as if the word normal even applies. One month of Not Knowing What’s Next. One month of wondering. One month of watching the kids to see if they’re OK or too anxious. One month of keeping my own reactions to myself so I don’t cause that anxiety. It’s been one month (plus) of being bombarded with news and information and press conferences and having fewer answers than we did before. And one month of thinking “When will it end?” and “MAKE IT STOP.”

Only recently have I begun to think “What lights our way through this dark tunnel?” and “How do we do this together?”

How do we wave to each other in the dark so we know we’re not alone? How do we sit and wait when we don’t have a timeline? And how do we emerge as stronger, more compassionate individuals who look out for one another?

I don’t have many answers yet. But I do have 5 small ideas. Things we must do to light our path forward.

With love,

5 Things We Must Do to Light Our Path Forward

1. WE MUST CHANGE OUR MINDSET FROM “WHEN WILL THIS END?” TO “HOW DO WE MOVE THROUGH THIS?”

Right now, our questions are a) “When will this end?” and b) “When will things get back to normal?” Unfortunately, both questions reveal our denial of the current situation, and the answers are a) no one knows, and b) probably never.

I don’t say that to be discouraging or pessimistic. I say it based on science, history, and our best economic projections. I say it to be encouraging and realistic. I say it because the world’s leading experts in epidemiology say it. I say it because all the global events — WWI and WWII and Vietnam and 9/11 changed us. I say it because the Great Depression and Great Recession changed us. I say it because I hope COVID-19 changes us; how sad would it be if, after all the devastation and heartache we have endured and is still to come, we fail to learn the lessons of this time?

When will this end? Not in the near future. Even if states relaxed their stay-at-home orders today — something not even within the realm of possibility — there are months, possibly years, until we have a vaccine. Until that happens, we will have to learn to settle into a period of time that includes the relaxation of stay-at-home orders and the renewal of them.

So if we know we’re in an indefinite waiting period — something I, like most Americans, personally detest — and, even after that wait is over, life won’t look quite the same again, what do we do?

We change our mindset.

We understand change is inevitable. It’s always inevitable, and that’s especially true now.

We ask different questions like “How do we move through this?” and “What do I have control over that allows me to impact how my new normal emerges?” Because the only way out of this is through it, and if that’s our path we can choose to be proactive wherever possible.

2. WE MUST CHOOSE TO BE FLEXIBLE INSTEAD OF REQUIRING ANSWERS NO ONE HAS.

I hate Not Knowing. I hate Waiting. I hate that I was provided with neither a manual titled How to Live Through This Pandemic nor a Crystal Ball so I can navigate it more precisely. I hate that our leaders with intellectual integrity aren’t giving us an end date or deadline or a red circle on the calendar to target. I hate that the most accurate information right now — the most actionable — is Do Not Worry About Tomorrow for Today Has Enough Worries of Its Own.

I’d rather have a plan that lets me see further into the future than Right Now because Right Now I feel uncomfortable and off kilter. I don’t know whether my daughter’s wedding will happen at the end of June. I don’t know when my kids will be able to have friends over. I don’t when we’ll be able to open our shuttered small business. Next month? Next year? It’s all a mystery.

But if we can’t have a plan, what do we have?

Flexibility.

‘We’ve never faced a pandemic like this before in modern times, so we’re going to have to be flexible,’ said Caitlin Rivers of the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security.

As much as I want a plan, I also want people in power to tell us the truth. I want to operate based on factual information from the best minds the world has to offer. And they’re going to need time to figure this out. Which is going to require us to be flexible. It’s a challenge but we can do hard things.

3. WE MUST ENGAGE OUR INTELLECTUAL CURIOSITY AND CRITICAL THINKING.

Listen closely, and I’ll tell you a secret. The world presents us with a constant stream of false binaries. Loads and loads of Either/Or thinking. Forcing us to assume we must choose between one thing or the other as they’re presented to us. But it is not very hard to shift to Both/And thinking, instead. Even toddlers can do it. There comes an inevitable day when our little ones realize that the correct answer to “Do you want a cookie or a scoop of ice cream?” is “I want both.” Yes, of course you want both. WHO DOESN’T? And compromises may be required, but both is definitely an option. Half a cookie and half a scoop of ice cream? A cookie tonight and ice cream tomorrow? Both now? So many choices other than Either/Or!

We forget as grown-ups, but we can reject false binaries, too. We do not have to either prioritize people’s health or prioritize the economy. We can hold both as non-negotiable priorities while at the same time recognizing we’re going to have to get used to a pendulum rhythm. Right now, the swing is toward staying home and saving lives. Slowly — more slowly than we’d like (BUT I WANT THE ICE CREAM NOW) — we’ll begin to reopen a few things. Then a few more. Then a few more. Taking care to watch the pendulum and pull the arc back when we need to recalibrate the rhythm.

That’s the new normal. The Both/And and moving with the rhythm. It’s a change. A BIG one. And also, we can do hard things.

I sympathize with the myriad people who ask, “Why can’t we understand that the economic devastation is potentially worse than the number of lives lost?” I get why you’re asking. I do. You’re not without compassion for the sick or the dying — you’re trying to do the calculation of which way the least number of lives will be lost and ruined.

But the truth is this: we save the economy by saving the lives.

“On one side, countries can go the mitigation route: create a massive epidemic, overwhelm the healthcare system, drive the death of millions of people, and release new mutations of this virus in the wild.” <— Which will all negatively affect the economy! “On the other, countries can fight. They can lock down for a few weeks to buy us time, create an educated action plan, and control this virus until we have a vaccine,” writes Tomas Pueyo.

4. WE MUST UNDERSTAND WE’RE COLLECTIVELY GRIEVING AND THAT EVERYONE RESPONDS DIFFERENTLY TO LOSS.

We are in a time period of collective loss and collective grief — folks are losing loved ones, financial stability, future opportunities, and the very structures we understood as foundations of the rhythm of our lives — schools, jobs, exercise facilities, entertainment options, community, and more.

IT IS NORMAL TO WONDER when it will end and when we get to revert to what’s usual and comfortable.

IT IS NORMAL TO RESIST and even DENY CHANGE.

IT IS NORMAL to grieve our losses.

We are all, collectively, sad and confused and upended, and WE WANT ANSWERS and A PLAN and CLEAR LEADERSHIP, and IT IS NORMAL TO BE ANGRY that we’re not consistently receiving any of that. As Americans, we are not used to uncertainty. We will do nearly anything to avoid it. And yet, here we are, confronted with it and powerless to either avoid it or change it.

We are swept up in the tide, and we’re swimming as hard as we can for shore, but we don’t know when or whether we’ll reach it, and we’re afraid of what awaits us in the vast unknown of the sea. Of course we’re frightened. We wouldn’t be human if we weren’t. We’re smart enough to understand there’s danger out there in the unknown. A thousand ways to flail and fail and take water into our lungs and drown. We’re all waving our arms in a bid for help, hoping the life guards or Coast Guard or a passing ship or fishing vessel or even a goddamn buoy will come to our aid. And, because we’re adorable, bless our hearts, we’re arguing over which way to swim and in what direction lies safety and who we need to abandon to save the rest.

We’re hearing the full gamut of how people respond in crisis, except we’re all in crisis at once, so the volume is deafening — a veritable cacophony of distress.

Which is why…

5. WE MUST BE GENTLE WITH OURSELVES AND EXTEND GRACE TO OTHERS.

OH, BELIEVE ME, I’m as annoyed by all the simplistic memes and efforts to double down on our previous biases as everyone else. My most oft-uttered phrase while perusing articles and my Facebook feed has shifted in recent weeks from the mildly annoyed oh, brother to the always classy and outright irritated for fuck’s sake.

But it’s been helpful for me to remember that everyone’s battening down the hatches right now. They’re reverting HARD CORE to the people and perspectives and institutions that have fed them and brought them comfort in the past. We are currently seeing everyone in their underpants which isn’t necessarily our best look. No one is operating as their best self. Anxiety is high. Confirmation bias memes are reassuring; they make us think our world hasn’t shifted as much as we fear. And people do and say weird shit when they’re freaked out. This article from the CDC on the Psychology of a Crisis explains in detail; give it a read if you want to understand your brain and others’ right now.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t call folks out on their weird shit. Call them out if their messages are harmful, and especially if they’re harmful to marginalized or vulnerable people. I’m just saying we can all take an extra big kindness pill and handle one another with grace.

And be gentle with yourself, too. Go easy on yourself when you don’t initially respond the way you wish you would have. Be kind when your productivity doesn’t look like you think it should. Say you’re sorry and own it when you’ve caused harm. And then forgive yourself and move forward. We’re all one-step-at-a-timing it right now. The next step. And then the next one. And then backtracking to course-correct as needed. No one is walking in a straight line right now. Be gentle with your crooked path.

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13 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 14 Apr 2020 02:31:11 +0000

Dear Diary,

I spend most of every day worried about the Mommies of Littles.*

(*And probably the Daddies of Littles who are the primary caregivers, as well… it’s just that my experience is as a Mommy, so feel free to substitute gender as you see fit.)

I think about the Mommies constantly. It is, I’d say, the most consistent thought I have during this period of isolation.

We had a Problem of Connection before this pandemic. The fact that we primarily raise our children in nuclear families — and there with the vast majority of childcare falling to the Mommies to do on their own — is already troublesome. Even though it’s normal. Even though we assume based on our culture this is how it’s Supposed to Be. Even though we think it’s part of the American Dream to live this way, isolated from others and protecting our privacy and Independence. The Mommies, though — nearly all of them that I know now or have ever known before — barely survive it. It’s mentally taxing. Physically draining. Emotionally overwhelming. And I don’t know why we keep doing it. We’re communal creatures. Biologically predisposed to live in extended families, tight-knit villages, tribes and clans. Both the children and their Mommies benefit from a collective approach to child rearing. And yet we eschew it. We stick to our live-alone guns. We go through our days with stress that feels like an elephant is sitting on our chests and we can’t breathe. It’s breaking us. And it’s not OK. And I don’t know how to fix it because it’s so entrenched in the way we operate. It’s how *I* operate. It’s how everyone I know operates.

These are the things I think when there’s not a pandemic.

Now that there is? And Mommies are shut-ins? With the usual unbearable pressures except increased by a thousand million hundred gazillion? I think about it non stop. Without ceasing. Like an itch I can’t reach.

I want to move in with All the Mommies. I want to share baby-walking shifts in the middle of the night and trade off for naps during the day. I want to do a load of their laundry which is ironic since I never want to do mine. I don’t want to raise my babies again — I did it already, and I did some things better than others, but I don’t wish for do-overs. Also, I’m not sure I’d survive it a second time. No, I don’t want to raise babies again, but I don’t want to see Mommies go it alone, either. Go it alone AND feel inadequate because they’re not “enjoying every minute,” blissed out on love endorphins.

I feel like Mommies are the unsung heroes of the global pandemic. Healthcare workers, yes. And grocery store employees. And teachers. And everyone who’s upended their life to make #StayHomeSaveLives happen. But the Mommies, Diary — the Mommies work as hard as doctors and as relentlessly to keep their people alive and well — but there are no international campaigns to thank them. No applause in the cities at 7pm. Their work is unseen.

I want there to be a solution.

I want there to be a fix.

But like so many ways people are suffering right now, I don’t know of a way to help other than to say I SEE YOU. And I’M WAVING IN THE DARK. And maybe someone smarter than me knows how we can assist?

Still, today was sunny again, and in Oregon that’s always a win.

And even with thoughts of helplessness, it was a good day.

Our neighbor’s daughter turned 11, and birthdays suck in quarantine. No parties. No friends. No waxy grocery store birthday cake with black frosting that turns your poop green. So our neighborhood rallied…

…and gathered small things we already had — candy, small bills, gifts bought for Christmases past but never given away — and crafted them into a scavenger hunt with clues and presents and very distanced well wishes along the way.

She enjoyed it, but I’m positive it made me even happier.

There’s something about getting out of our own heads for a bit to do a kindness for another that’s healing.

I should probably remember that more often than I do.

And I didn’t want to make dinner tonight so we played “Will It Waffle?” instead.

FYI, Diary, cheese sandwiches…

…and pumpkin bread…

…and scrambled eggs…

…and especially brownies…

…waffle very well. In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ll never make brownies another way. They were UNBELIEVABLY DELICIOUS. The exact right middle ground between chewy and soft and crispy. The first time EVER we’ve all agreed — both those of us who are edge-of-the-pan people AND those of us who are middle-of-the-pan people. A shocking all-around victory.

On the other hand, pizza…

…and spaghetti and meatballs…

…and jelly beans?

Yeah, not so much.

It was a worthy experiment, though. I have no regrets. Although, I’m making Greg clean the waffle maker, so I’ll have to let you know later if he has any.

So, you know, Diary. It was a normal, sad, good day in quarantine. I felt helpless and helpful. Somber and ridiculous. Up and down. Happy and sad. Most of those at the same time, all day long.

It’s very Both/And around here these days, Diary.

And I suppose that’s fine.

With love,

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Easter Day, April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 13 Apr 2020 03:13:13 +0000

Dear Diary,

Today was Easter, and I expected it to feel profound or somehow fraught with meaning — like especially hopeful because RESURRECTION and NEW LIFE and THAT’S THE HOPE WE NEED RIGHT NOW — or especially sad because no Hunger Games style Easter egg hunt with the cousins — but it didn’t feel like any of those things.

It was just a day.

Another day of quarantine. Pleasant. Ordinary in the new sense of the word. The sun shone, and we worked in the yard, and I cooked and cleaned. And cooked and cleaned. And cooked and cleaned.

We had coffee cake for breakfast, my only nod to celebration. And dinner was spaghetti and meatballs — an Easter first. I love balls of meat. I was excited about the balls of meat. But the balls of meat were bland. Sort of meh. Which was fine.

That’s what today was.

I’ve put my finger on it.

It was fine.

But the cherry blossoms are starting to drop from the trees that ring our yard, and it looks like thick snow flurries when the squirrels race across the super highway they’ve made of the branches.

And the wisteria is blooming across the porch.

And the dogwood is flowering.

And Enid is still somehow, miraculously alive. (THIRTY TWO DAYS.)

And the puppy is utterly destroying my clean, pressure washed patio by digging a hole and flinging dirt from yesterday to tomorrow, head buried in the earth, ass raised in a salute to the sky.

And I can smell someone’s barbecue.

And there’s a hummingbird flitting around my yard, little fairy of the bird world, impossible emerald hovercraft.

And a cherry petal is stuck to my dog’s nose.

And I’m sitting outside, watching the sun set, feeling the cold set in, quilt on my lap, fingertips frozen. Content.

So today was Easter. And it and my meatballs were fine. And also today was beautiful. In tiny bits and small bites and sweet puppy butts and falling petals.

And that’s more than enough for now.

One day at a time.

With love,

P.S. The puppy enlisted a helper.

Lord love a duck.

This is why I should know better than to clean things.

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10 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 11 Apr 2020 04:15:48 +0000

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, I was Tired. Tuesday was fury. Wednesday was grief. Yesterday, I felt like my head was too heavy for my shoulders.

I found myself distracted, unable to settle. Stuck between tasks. Unsure why I left one room or entered another. Backtracking to try to remember. A recipe halfway completed, then abandoned for reasons I couldn’t recall. Clothes gathered to take a shower but left as bathroom floor decor with bathing forgotten. Water boiled for tea, then boiled again, then boiled again, and tea unmade.

My brain was foggy. I wasn’t surprised. I understand exhaustion is part of trauma and grief, and that, Diary, is what the world is collectively engaged in right now. So I tried to be kind to myself in the midst of the mental puzzle. I succeeded, and I failed. I was gentle with my state of distraction at times, and, at others, I felt that I could have Done More. Managed Better. Completed More Tasks. Been More With It. Had My Crap More Together.

I feel, Diary, that uncoupling ourselves from earning self-worth by Doing Things is one of our biggest American challenges. We don’t know how to be quiet. We don’t know how to wait. We don’t know how to be still inside our minds and our hearts. Yes, we’re living a collective trauma right now, so we’re anxious and stressed. But also, we’ve lived inside the trauma of hyper activity for years. Decades. And, forced to stop cold turkey, we’re realizing we’re addicts with jitters from withdrawal.

I’ve spent three days with a pressure washer, cleaning our driveway and patio and sidewalks. Are my bathrooms clean? No, Diary. Of course they’re not. The toilets could use work, and the floors are sporting muddy paw-prints, and I don’t want to work at my desk right now because it’s sticky. But I was jonesing for a job. Not little things that need to be done. Something Big I could complete that would make me feel Useful and Worthwhile. Something with discernible progress that would prove I’m not Wasting This Time. I have never — not in the 17ish years we’ve owned this house — washed the sidewalks. What does it take to get me to wash sidewalks? Apparently a global pandemic.

I don’t regret the sidewalk-washing, Diary, even though I understand it’s a symptom of a larger issue. I can envision washing sidewalks because they need to be washed rather than in a frenetic bid to Stay Busy and Distract Myself from Thinking. Washing sidewalks — washing anything — because they need to be washed sounds healthy. But I’m not going to berate myself for distraction right now. I’m going to be kind, instead. Acknowledge that my motives for sidewalk-washing might be a little wonky, but also that it Felt Good. Acknowledge that I need to practice being still, but also that bouts of maniacal productivity are a Coping Mechanism, and Coping Mechanisms are OK when they… you know… help us cope. Acknowledge that I need to be mindful not to allow the Coping Mechanisms to take over and become Everything as though a Frenzy of Activity is the Solution for feeling helpless and a little afraid… but also recognize that Agitated Action is just a part of the equation for now.

I don’t know if any of that makes sense, Diary, but it’s where I’m at. It’s what I’ve got. Well, that and clean sidewalks.

With love,

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8 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 08 Apr 2020 22:39:41 +0000

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was fury. Today is grief. Can tomorrow be joy, please? Or peace? Or even numbness? I’m also willing to consider disinterest or indifference.

Today, though. Blerg.

I remember the first day of kindergarten for this kid.

It was 2007, she was five years old, and she was officially part of the high school Class of 2020.

There were signs — WELCOME, CLASS OF 2020 — and news articles.

Clear vision, bright futures for these babies born just after 9/11.

And a rough road for this one.

She’s navigated it, though. Developmental and learning disabilities. Countless I.E.P. meetings. A few suspensions while she learned the tough lessons that there are consequences for some of our more nefarious, less kind actions.

But SHE DID IT. It was harder for her than for others, and she did it anyway. I COULD NOT BE MORE PROUD OF THIS CHILD. She can do hard things. She’s proven it again and again. And she’s supposed to graduate in June. A marker of all she’s worked so hard to accomplish.

Today, though, Oregon schools officially closed for the remainder of the school year. No prom. No good-byes. No yearbook signings. No hugs from teachers. Just an abrupt halt and a murky future. What are the next steps? No one knows.

Yes, we knew it was coming. But no, that doesn’t make it easier.

So today I’m sad. For her. For her peers. For their dedicated teachers who are also torn up by this. For all of the bright and beautiful Class of 2020.

And I’m sad for my kids who are part of the college Class of 2020, too.

Who won’t get to walk for graduation. Or have their parents and grandparents travel to celebrate. There will be no parties with peers or final gatherings on the beach. No moving of the tassels or tossing of the mortar boards.

Just quietly finishing classes online, packing up alone, and flying home to live with us indefinitely. No jobs available, and, when they are, a workforce of millions applying for them. College loans to pay without a way to pay them. No government stimulus checks for them at all. The wedding they’ve planned for June? Who knows? The honeymoon? Unlikely.

Life on hold.

In about five weeks, we’ll have a house of seven again. Greg and me, three of our four adult children, and … are they officially 8th grade now?… teenage twins whose peer relationships have moved online.

And we’re the lucky ones because — for now — our shelter and food supply aren’t threatened. For the foreseeable future, we keep our house and heat and beds and bread. And we have each other. I’m grateful for all those things. I really am.

Also, I’m sad, Diary.

Really sad.

Yours,

P.S. Today’s also the day Bernie Sanders left the race for the Democratic nomination for president. Joe Biden will be the candidate opposing Trump. Neither Sanders nor Biden was my first choice. Or my second. Or my third. Or my fourth or fifth. But I want to acknowledge the sadness Bernie supporters are feeling today. It’s a huge blow to have someone who gave you hope of change to be stepping down. Sending my love to you. We can move forward together another day on rallying the vote to defeat Trump. For today, I’m sad with you in solidarity.

P.P.S. I’m going to go make cookie dough and stand in the sun.

P.P.P.S. Waving in the dark, friends.

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7 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 08 Apr 2020 02:59:01 +0000

Dear Diary,

I have apparently reached the I AM FURIOUS portion of Quarantine 2020. Because here I am, and I am mad. I am outraged and angry and all the synonyms for livid.

Diary, NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS FAIR. And, as usual, EVERYTHING DISPROPORTIONATELY AFFECTS VULNERABLE PEOPLE. And, yes, that’s obvious. And expected. And I typically walk around with a constant level of Injustice Anger. But today, for whatever reason, it’s all Too Much and Overwhelming and Gross and WHY CAN’T WE DO BETTER THAN THIS?

I’ve seen the reports and articles and interviews that say COVID-19 is the Great Equalizer because it’s affecting the rich and the poor alike. Prince Charles has it. Tom Hanks had it. Boris Johnson’s been admitted to the ICU with it. Senators have it. Pop stars have it. Super hot CNN prime time hosts like Chris Cuomo have it.

But, Diary, COVID-19 IS NOT THE GREAT EQUALIZER. And it DOES NOT affect the rich and poor alike. The rich have access to tests. And places to self-isolate. And teams of people to deliver groceries and check in and ensure they’re receiving proper care. They can purchase medicine. They can rest in comfortable beds and entertain themselves with books and movies and cable as they while away the hours. Their livelihoods are not threatened. They can die, yes — a hazard of being human — but they’re less likely to perish with early interventions and top notch medical attention.

The poor, meanwhile, aren’t being tested at nearly the same rate. In myriad countries — including my own — they don’t have expansive places to remove themselves from contact with others. I have my home and my family and a place to walk and toilet paper and flour. Folks in India and Haiti and swaths of Africa and American Indian Reservations don’t even have access to clean water in their homes, much less the level of grandeur I experience daily.

Black Americans are dying in disproportionate numbers. Almost as if our healthcare system is broken and generations of suffering from health disparities and other gross inequities have caused embedded problems.

Donald Trump removed the inspector general who was charged with overseeing the government’s $2.3 trillion coronavirus response. Because, you know, who would want that money safeguarded against waste, fraud, and abuse at a time like this? This move, of course, comes after Trump fired the intelligence community’s inspector general on Friday. Then today he falsely accused the Health Department inspector general of faking information about shortages of supplies in American hospitals. If I didn’t know better, Diary, I’d start to think he’s systematically dismantling oversight in general so he can continue to operate on a foundation of corruption and lies. In other words, President Trump is a supreme fuck widget. A manky ratchet troll. And, both generally and specifically speaking, vile.

I feel OK about name-calling at this point, Diary. It’s what Jesus the Table Thrower would do. He did his best to disrupt people with power taking advantage of the vulnerable. And he called them names while he flipped their livelihood on its ass. Brood of Vipers. Hypocrites. Blind Fools. Names that were the Supreme Fuck Widgets of their time.

WWJD, Diary? J would fracture the power paradigm. It’s what J always did. It’s who J was. It’s who J is.

I’m furious that Wisconsin voters had to choose today between casting their votes and exposing themselves to the coronavirus or being disenfranchised. Thousands requested absentee ballots that never arrived.

I’m furious that Navy Captain Brett Cozier was fired for trying to get medical help for the people under his command.

I’m furious that all 17 year olds and 20 million college students will not be receiving any financial assistance from the $2.3 trillion government economic stimulus. They won’t get $1200 checks. They get $0 — and it doesn’t matter if they’re their parents’ dependents, either. It’s $0 for them and $0 for their parents. Not only were my adult children’s job prospects already heinous before the pandemic, now none of them — my 18 year old who was supposed to graduate high school in June, and my 21 year old who was supposed to graduate college next month — have job prospects at all. AND they’re left out of the government checks. So they’re left with less than nothing. Wheeee!

I’m furious that we’ve forgotten there are still asylum seekers in cages who we’ve treated like criminals, abandoning both our moral code and our adherence to international law.

I’m furious that we defend America’s unconscionably high incarceration rates and continue to support unjust for-profit prisons even in the midst of a pandemic sweeping through the buildings.

I’m furious that our system is based on who can acquire the most wealth and that it leaves millions in the dust.

I’m furious that our system abuses the very people we should be sheltering and feeding and providing succor and solace.

I’m furious that my fellow Americans justify our collective abuses by equating capitalism and the religious right and a small-minded, cheap, warped theology with God’s will which should be wide and broad and high and deep — an unfathomable love and immeasurable grace, expansive and all-encompassing, putting the last first, and championing the vulnerable, and bringing everyone in.

I’m furious today, Diary.

I’m just really, really mad.

So I’m going to sit here awhile and just let myself be.

Wishing we were better than this,

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6 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 07 Apr 2020 03:06:12 +0000

Dear Diary,

The note posted next to my desk asks me two questions: “How do I feel?” and “What might I do right now to feel more peaceful?”

The regular reminder to pay attention to myself, to work on positive self-regulation, to meet my needs like I rush around trying to meet my family’s needs is unbelievably helpful. My answers are as wide and broad as the day is long. (And some of the days are REALLY LONG, Diary.)

I might need in any given moment to suspend my incessant Facebook scrolling, to go for a walk, or to stick a pillow behind my back.

I might need to read a book, snuggle a dog, or take a shower.

But I’ve found one thing I need more often than the rest. Whether I feel tired, restless, uncertain, or scared, there’s one thing I turn to again and again to feel more peaceful.

And I kind of wish it was more profound and deep. Like GOD. Or REGULAR MORNING DEVOTIONS. Or a DISCIPLINED SCHEDULE.

But… most often, I just need a drink.

I’m doing SO MUCH DRINKING in quarantine, Diary. ALL the drinking.

It’s probably not the kind you’d expect, though.

It’s not boozy drinking. Oh, I’ve had a beer with dinner a couple times. The occasional glass of wine from one of the Fancy Bottles I was Saving for a Special Occasion; I figure it doesn’t get more special than a global pandemic. But nothing more than that and definitely not every night. Not because I’m opposed to a drink every night; just because I don’t feel like drinking that way right now, and I’m trying to pay very close attention to what I need instead of just operating on muscle memory and habit.

But drinking as in consuming fluids? Liquids running down my gullet?

I’m drinking all the time. Constantly. Every minute of every day.

Coffee with cream in the morning — one small diner mug, freshly ground beans, brewed dark and strong in the French Press to start the day.

Caffeinated tea the rest of the morning. Greens are my latest love. Chai Green. Moroccan Mint. Plain green tea bags. Each with a small spoonful of honey and a splash of milk.

Decaf for the afternoons and evenings that are cold and rainy. Spice Dragon, mostly, or lower brow teas like Lipton’s Soothe Your Tummy with ginger, peppermint, and fennel… or, before bed, Stress Therapy with camomile, cinnamon, and lavender.

I go nowhere lately without a cup of something comforting along for the ride. One hand is always full, managing the liquid intake. The other hand is free to scroll or cook or write or manage humans.

It’s a habit I’m embracing, this constant drinking. It’s centering. Grounding. The feel of the warm mug. The scent wafting from it. The flavor on the back of my tongue. Like meditation or prayer. A reminder I matter. That my body and brain deserve comfort and care.

Today, I added drinking vinegars to my beverage repertoire.

I’d never heard of such a thing before last summer when I saw it on a bar menu. And, honestly, it sounded terrible. When I see vinegar, I think salad dressing, not drinking a glass of it. But I like trying new things, so I ordered it, and — surprise! — I loved it.

Drinking vinegar is an infusion of vinegar (obviously), sugar, and fruit or herbs… or both. Added to club soda, it resembles a fizzy lemonade, but lighter. Brighter. Just a little sweet and a little tangy.

Of course, you can add liquor to it — vodka or gin are great go-tos. But you don’t have to. It’s lovely on its own.

So I made some, and it was easy.

I swiped rosemary from a neighbor’s garden (left on her porch — no humans were seen or touched in the exchanging of goods), and I harvested lemon balm on my daily walk.

I used fruit from my now every-other-week trip to the grocery store.

And, using a 1:1:1 ratio of vinegar:sugar:plants, I assembled three types. Left to right: Strawberry Rosemary Balsamic drinking vinegar, Raspberry Lemon Balm Champagne drinking vinegar, and Strawberry Raspberry Apple Cider drinking vinegar. The only special ingredient I bought at the store was the champagne vinegar… found at our discount grocery store for the win.

I strained and taste-tested this afternoon, and YUM. My kids hated it. I love it. It’s refreshing and pretty and perfect for the warm, sunny days we have ahead, and I don’t have to share ANY AT ALL.

It’s a quarantine win, Diary.

Cheers,

P.S. Our Fairy Message Mother has an important question for us, friends:

How are you really?

It’s time to check in.

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5 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 05 Apr 2020 23:55:27 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’ve been keeping a close eye on hope.

You remember we found hope two weeks ago? Our Fairy Message Mother left her for us where hope is usually found — on the paths where we meander, consumed by angst and despair, a quiet reminder sits by the wayside, waiting for us to notice.

Hope.

It was there on a painted sand dollar in white scripty font.

And I don’t know who our Fairy Message Mother is — although I suspect we have more than one — but I envision her, sitting at home in quarantine at her table with paints and brushes and canvases made of bits of the earth and the sea, the messes of everyday life around her, the squawks and squabbles of her children or the squawks and squabbles of her own thoughts to keep her company, crafting pieces of joy to share with strangers.

She paints rocks. She puts messages in itty bitty fairy bottles. And she gently prods us to remember to be gentle with ourselves, that we are loved, that we’ve got this.

I smile when I see them.

For just a few seconds, I stop spinning on maudlin thoughts.

I take pictures because I know for sure and certain our Fairy Message Mother’s missives are for all of us.

But I don’t take any home with me.

They’re not “mine,” you know? They’re doing Bigger Work than riding home in my pocket. They’re Bringing Joy to many. They head home, I’m convinced, with the folks who need to have them, to touch them, to remember they’re not alone. And I decided I’d take one when I knew beyond a doubt it was meant to live with me.

I walk the same trail every day. Although I usually resist taking the same route — literally and figuratively — the path is becoming my contemplative labyrinth. I’m learning the steps. I know where the grass grows in the cracks of the asphalt. I know where to pick lemon balm to crush between my fingers and release its sharp, bright scent into the air. I know where the moss covered oak creates the arch that leads to the creek that burbles across the rocks right before the house where the people smoke pot in the rocking chairs on their porch.

And I know where hope is — around exactly which bend — because I check every day.

While every other message has gone home, hope remains.

At the base of the same pole sits the little sand dollar with her simple message.

And it makes me happy.

Every time I pass it I think, “ALL IS NOT LOST. HOPE IS STILL THERE.”

I walked by it again today, except today it was obscured.

By a literal bag of shit.

Yup.

OMG and LOL and FFS. OF COURSE HOPE IS COVERED IN SHIT RIGHT NOW.

Of course it is.

Bless our sweet human hearts and the bags of poo we’re leaving just everywhere. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. Physically. This is CrapFest 2020.

But listen. HOPE IS STILL THERE, Diary.

YES, we have to look for it.

And YES, we have to move the poo aside to see it.

But EVEN THEN, hope is constant.

Hope is unwavering.

Hope endures.

Hope abides.

And I finally figured out that hope is for me. I can keep it. Today, I realized I can take it home, and this way we’ll know for sure where to find it.

I picked it up. I popped it in my pocket. And I brought it here to live with me.

P.S. So if anyone’s looking for hope, LMK, friends. I brought it home to share.

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4 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 04 Apr 2020 23:21:39 +0000

Dear Diary,

Three of the humans who live here in my house left for the day to go work at the farm, AND IT IS SILENT AND I LOVE IT AND MAYBE THEY COULD STAY THERE A FEW NIGHTS??

Now, listen, Diary; I LOVE those humans. I do. I ADORE them. But two of them are the Talkers around here. They’re the Extroverts. They’re the Insatiable People Needers. They’re the Men of ALL THE WORDS.

So, SO many words, Diary.

They talk to think. They talk to muse. They talk to figure out the whys and the wherefores. They talk because they Saw a Meme. They talk because they Read an Article, so [Statistics] and [Projections] and [Experts Say] and [They Can Therefore Deduce.]

They talk because they’re contemplating clipping their toenails or considering making toast or weighing the merits of going for a walk now vs. later, morning vs. afternoon, overcast vs. sunny, one dog vs. two, short lap vs. long, wooded path vs. neighborhood — ‘oh, and does anyone want to come along and chat?’

They talk about what’s for dinner. Also, what might be for dinner tomorrow. Also, what they had for dinner yesterday. Also, what were their Favorite Dinners of All Time. Also, Favorite Ethnic Foods. Also, Favorite Car Snacks. Also, Favorite Breakfasts and why aren’t beans on toast common in America? And how come mom has never made blood sausage? And what’s the difference between Vegemite and Marmite? And why don’t we eat more cantaloupe?

They talk about the mail. Has the mail come? How about now? How about now? Who has checked the mail? Do we know for sure the mail hasn’t come? Did we go all the way to the box and look or are we just making assumptions? What came in the mail? Anything for me? How come the 3-pack of duct tape I ordered from Amazon isn’t here yet? What do you mean duct tape isn’t an essential item? What if I’m having a duct emergency?

It goes on, Diary.

And on and on.

Of course, I’m not being fair to them. Not very fair, anyway. Because they’re not getting credit for all the chattering they’re NOT doing. They’re not receiving trophies for all the times they think of talking but zip it because I beg for No More Words. Just, like, FIVE MINUTES OF NO WORDS, PLEASE.

I really feel like we’ve made a Massive Quarantine Error, though, in sorting folks by household. Boxing people up with their families. Making us live and breathe and eat and talk with these humans 24/7 instead of 14/7 like we’re more accustomed to.

It would have made much more sense to sort us by common interests.

A Reading House full of couches and fireplaces and tea and crumpets and bathtubs.

A Productivity House for the folks who are all QUARANTINE = ACCOMPLISH ALL THE GOALS. They get access to spreadsheets and protein powder.

A Makers’ House with sewing machines and a wood shop and crafting supplies and welding tools and STRICT INSTRUCTIONS to leave all safety guards in place BECAUSE THE EMERGENCY ROOMS CAN’T HANDLE SEWING YOUR FINGER BACK ON RIGHT NOW… although I suppose you could ask the quilters for assistance.

A Green House for people putting in victory gardens, with starts already poking out of their egg carton containers, and for all those with a menagerie of indoor plant children in adorable pots.

A Gaming House.

A Reality TV House.

A Talks-During-Movies House.

A Pristine Cleaning House.

WE COULD HAVE HAD ALL THE HOUSES.

When we have a president again who believes in things like Pandemic Preparedness and doesn’t, you know, fire the team of experts working to ready us for such an event, do you think we can add House Assignments to their list, Diary? I feel like it’s a reasonable request.

With love,

P.S. My Talking Humans are back home now, and, indeed, I have been unfair, for zero of them are currently talking. #WhenYouRealizeYouMightBeTheProblem #TheCommonDenominatorWhenYouAreIrritatedIsYOU

P.P.S. I DID use my time wisely while they were away. I taught myself to play I’m Not Wearing Underwear Today on the piano.

Badly. But also… accurately. I feel it’s the Song for Our Time.

P.P.S. I can’t decide which house I belong in. I mean, obviously the Reading House is my first pick. But I feel like I qualify for the Gardening House since I’ve kept Enid alive for a record-breaking twenty four days now, AND I’m so good at vegetable gardening I can do it without even planting a garden.

That’s a sweet potato plant right there.

Or possibly a yam.

Are you allowed to apply for the Gardening House if you don’t know the difference between a sweet potato and a yam?

P.P.P.S. Um… do I plant that now, or what?

P.P.P.P.S. Please let me know what house you’d join, what houses we need but I failed to mention, and any additional qualifications for said houses. I feel like it’s a good idea to give the Pandemic Preparedness Team a head start when they get back to work (HOPEFULLY AFTER THE 2020 ELECTION) — they’ve got to make up for lost time.

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3 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 04 Apr 2020 03:15:59 +0000

Dear Diary,

Apologies for failing to write to you yesterday. I’m certain you cried giant crocodile tears of anguish and despair. I would not have left you in your hour of need except that it was a GIGANTIC, BUSY DAY. I had TWO THINGS TO DO outside of my house.

Word of advice, Diary — it’s not the wisest choice in the whole universe to give blood and then do your massive, now twice-monthly grocery shopping. Wrong order. If you do that, you’ll wonder why you’re so dramatically exhausted. Why you feel a little barfy in the middle of the dairy section. Why you’re light headed and boneless when you get home. Then you’ll recall, AH, YES — less blood = more tired. And you’ll sit on the couch where you’ll decide to watch just the opening sequence of Tiger King so you can figure out who the eff Carole Baskin is and why everyone thinks she offed her husband even though you know you won’t like it.

Diary, you will not watch just the beginning.

You will stay on your couch for HOURS and watch five of the seven episodes, and then you will head to bed with visions of Joe Exotic dancing in your head.

And you will regret nothing.

The moral of the story is grocery shopping first, blood-letting second. Tiger King is still, inevitably, third, but with far less exhaustion and wondering if you’re going to make it all the way to the eggs or not.

Today was filled with putting away the shopping aftermath…

…and trying to breathe through the uncertainty of this time.

There’s an oddness factor in living through an emergency in stasis. The surreal feelings strike from sideways and other strange angles, and there’s no predicting when they’ll arrive or how long they’ll stay. It’s like trying to live a wholly normal life in the most abnormal fashion while being randomly cloaked in emotional fog.

It’s weird, Diary.

Weird.

Yours truly,

P.S. Wishing my parents a Very, Very Happy 49th Anniversary today.

I’m sad it’s from behind a fence, but grateful beyond words for these perfectly imperfect humans.

P.P.S. THIS IS WHY WE’RE SOCIALLY DISTANCING, FOLKS. To preserve and honor this.

P.P.P.S. Gotta go finish Tiger King now.

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1 April 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 01 Apr 2020 23:59:34 +0000

Dear Diary,

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TOLD YOU I’VE BEEN SLEEPING LATELY. I didn’t knock on wood which was FOOLISH, so the Universe used this day, April Fool’s, to remind me I chose poorly.

I tempted the Fates, and the Fates, as they are wont to be, were unkind.

I woke up at midnight. I had to pee. I was awake again at 1. I had a pounding headache. I was awake from 2-4am concurrently. I wandered around the house. I took medicine. I drank water. I ate pumpkin bread in bed. I did not brush my teeth post-pumpkin-bread. I read Patricia Briggs. I looked on the Book of Faces. I contemplated life and death and stress and authenticity like the Little Bundle of Nerves I am these days.

Today, I am tired.

Also, sad.

Exhaustion makes it a little less possible to push away my feelings. Which, I suppose, is a benefit of exhaustion.

I usually like to eat my feelings. They taste like cheese. Sometimes like ice cream. Today, they just taste like green tea with a little honey, though, because I’m trying to learn to sit with my feelings. To actually feel them. This is the effort of a lifetime for people like me who prefer to push through and past feelings. To distract ourselves with infinite tasks and the tyranny of the urgent so we don’t have time for the discomfort of sorrow or grief or anger or pain.

Now, though? I have All the Time.

The structures and strictures of everyday life are gone.

Life has been distilled, stripped of everything except the basics. The essentials. Family. Food. Refuge. The things that are the focus of much of the rest of the world day in and day out, but which I, in my privilege, mostly take for granted.

I notice my pursuit of the Latest News and Scrolling Facebook and trying to stay Up to Date are ways to fill the silence that unsettles me. They’re ways to take up space in my brain so I don’t sit and spin on the wondering and the what ifs. They’re ways to create noise and fill hours because I’d rather face facts and figures than uncertainty. The Not Knowing feels like a black hole, sucking me toward its infinite blackness with irresistible gravity. I fear it will crush me, so I boost my engines and point my ship in the other direction, caring little for which way I go as long as it’s AWAY and FAST. It’s the panic response. Very Lizard Brain in its potent desire to flee.

We don’t know How Long this pandemic will last. Or What the Ramifications will truly be. Or How Our Lives are Changed Forever in ways we don’t yet understand and can’t fully comprehend.

But our scrambling is just creating more noise.

And the fleeing only delays the inevitable.

The black hole IS overwhelming — uncertain and unknown — but it’s also a wormhole. A gateway to a different place and a new future. It’s the dark tunnel through which we must journey to reach the next destination. The problem with wormholes, though, is that we must enter them on faith. No promises. No guarantees.

We’re funny creatures, we humans. Especially those of us used to a certain level of safety and security. We get cocky, thinking we know the future. Thinking we’re the main effectors of change. Thinking we have far more influence than we do. So it’s a real disruption when we’re faced with the fact that the black hole was always there. The future was always uncertain. The pathways to our destiny always murky and opaque.

We have control over the things we always controlled. How we love our neighbors. How we love ourselves. Whether we will be kind. Whether we will be generous. Whether the doors to our homes and our hearts lead to sanctuaries where we offer safety and succor for others and ourselves or jails where we imprison them.

But we don’t control the wormhole.

We’re not the gatekeepers to the future, try though we might.

And I’m not making any promises for how I might feel tomorrow, Diary. Or an hour from now. But for just this minute, I’m going to cut my engines. I’m going to quiet the noise. I’m going to let my ship drift.

I’m going to abandon the things I use as distraction and let the wormhole distract me, instead.

I’m going to feel its vastness. I’m going to look into its maw. I’m going to feel tiny beside it.

I’m going to abandon the doing and the avoiding and the equally obsessive and futile pursuit to Know More.

And for just for one quiet minute, I’ll drift toward the future. No rush. No buzz.

Just me. Sitting in this space.

With love, and waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. We’re still on our DnD campaign. Making progress. Today was only, like, 43% arguing amongst ourselves.

The other 57% was campaigning and potty breaks.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It is what it is.

P.P.S. These two children are pretty much mirroring exactly how their mother feels:

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FINALLY THE FINAL DAY OF March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 01 Apr 2020 02:39:03 +0000

Dear Diary,

IT’S FINALLY THE FINAL DAY OF MARCH.

I don’t say things like “egads!”, Diary, because people who say that are a billionty years old, but I FEEL like I’m a billionty years old after surviving March 2020, so

EGADS! WE DID IT!

And now we head into April which VeryPossiblyLikely will be even longer than March, BUT WE ARE NOT GOING TO WORRY ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW. We are just going to take a deep breath, Diary, high five each other (from a safe distance), and worry only about one day at a time. Or when we can’t do one day at a time, we’ll decrease our goals to one hour at a time. One minute at a time is also an acceptable increment.

These photographs have zero to do with this diary entry, but I took them on a walk and they make me happy, so VOILA! Here they are.

I’ve been experimenting with sleep since we entered self-isolation on March 16th.

It’s a Top Contender for Ways to Stay Sane in a Time That’s Not.

For years, I’ve read the articles and seen the studies on Sleep Deprivation in the Western World, our unhealthy obsession with cramming an increasing number of activities into each day, our harmful attempt to build a sense of self-worth on the items we’ve checked off our infinite “to do” lists, and how, really, we and our children would be psychologically better off if we could slow our breakneck speed and get the rest our minds and bodies desperately need.

For years, I’ve seen the suggestion — and the data that support it — to set a bedtime and a wake time and stick to it. Consistently. Instead of running at a deficit during the week and trying to make up for it by sleeping in on weekends. And I’ve seen the similar suggestion that we head to bed at a regular time and then allow our bodies to wake up when they’re ready, instead of to the blast of the alarm.

But ALSO, HAHAHAHAHA!, I have children. And jobs. And appointments. And children. And errands. And social engagements. And flights to catch. And children.

So a Regular, Reliable Sleep Schedule was only a fantasy.

A pipe dream.

A mirage. Something that appeared real at a great distance but impossible to capture in reality.

“The world would have to stop for me to have a consistent bedtime, much less Adequate Rest every night,” I thought.

But then the world DID stop.

And I have no place to be other than home for the indefinite future.

And my babies only wake me up every 4th or 5th night at this point.

So I’ve been experimenting.

For the first ten days, I went to bed by 9:30pm and set my alarm for 8am.

The last five or so, I’ve gone to bed by 9:30pm and set no alarm at all. I’m waking up between 8:30 and 9:30am, well rested.

WELL RESTED.

As in, I don’t feel drunk on exhaustion every morning. Or dread upon hearing the alarm. Or intense and overwhelming stress at all the To Do’s on the docket for the day. Or nausea at the thought of leaving my bed.

It’s weird.

Lovely. But strange.

Now, I still have to take medication to fall asleep (thanks, Depression!), and that medication is aided significantly by CBD balm which I swear is a miracle product, and I wear earplugs because of the aforementioned children, but all things considered, IT’S BEEN A DELIGHT.

So much so that I’ve started to wonder how I’ll ever manage to go back to the Way Things Were.

So much so that I’ve wondered not just Which Things This Crisis Is Highlighting in Our Broken Society That Simply Cannot Continue (*ahem* I’m looking at you, healthcare-for-profit *ahem*) but also Which Things This Crisis Is Highlighting in ME That Simply Cannot Continue.

I have no answers yet, Diary. I suspect it will take a Very Long Time before any of us really understand the ramifications of what’s happening currently.

But I do know I’m in a better mental space for allowing myself to rest.

Finally.

…

Also, Diary? Here’s a picture of an alpaca.

I can see it from my house.

With Love,

P.S. We have another missive from our sweet and kind Fairy Message Mother:

You are loved.

True truth.

You are.

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3,000 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 30 Mar 2020 22:53:04 +0000

Dear Diary,

I made waffles for breakfast last Thursday. I prepared my sourdough sponge the night before. I was awake before All the Children. I made myself a cup of coffee, and I puttered around the kitchen, and I thought, “Oh, this is why Morning People like getting up before everyone else. It’s so quiet and calming and lovely. I have a Start on the Day. I have time with a Quiet Brain before everyone chatters at me.”

It was peaceful.

It was fabulous.

I considered for One Second the idea of making it a New Habit. An Industrious Practice I take away from the apocalypse whenever it ends. A More Organized, Prepared Beth, with her Ducks in a Row and Hot Breakfast lovingly prepared for her family that they might Go Forth with nutritious food in their bellies and tender thoughts of their mother in their hearts.

That was a nice second.

I liked it very much.

And then I laughed at myself — hahahahaha! — because I’ve met me, and That Will Never Happen.

It’s fun to fantasize, though.

I made waffles for breakfast last Thursday, in my pajamas, sipping my coffee and cream, and I asked Greg if he wanted some before work, hot off the iron.

“Um… yes?” he answered suspiciously. And said, “This is weird.” And asked, “You’re not trying to tell me something, are you? Like, is this your way of breaking some Awful News to me?”

Diary, he behaved as if I’m not a Proverbs 31 woman.

As if I’m not like the merchant ships, bringing him food from afar.

As if I do not get up while it is still night to provide food for my family and portions for my female servants.

As if I did not literally consider a field and bought it.

Do I not select wool and work with eager hands, Diary? I have at least seven unfinished crochet and knit projects I worked on with total eagerness.

Does my lamp not stay lit at night? There are several lights I know damn well are on, but do I go into the garage and turn out the one with the switch that’s hard to reach? I do NOT. Lamps = LIT, Diary.

Do I not always speak with wisdom? And watch over the affairs of my household? Am I not clothed in purple (pajamas)?

“Gregory,” I said. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you’re acting like I don’t always make fresh waffles on Thursday mornings.”

“You’re right,” he replied, nodding. Satisfied. Suddenly unafraid. “If you were going to break some bad news to me, you definitely wouldn’t do it with waffles.”

Which isn’t technically what I said, but is absolutely true. I’m much more likely to verbally bulldoze my way through bad news. No waffles to soften the blow.

In other words, Greg’s a lucky, lucky man.

Q: For a wife of noble character, who can find?
A: Greg.

Regards,

P.S. Our Fairy Message Mother left us a new note.

In a teeny, tiny bottle, hanging from a Hawthorne branch.

The message says, “Be gentle with yourself.”

Word, Fairy Message Mother. Word.

P.P.S. Enid. Day eighteen.

EIGHTEEN!

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29 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 29 Mar 2020 22:34:33 +0000

Dear Diary,

I saved a small green spider today.

It was an act of great heroism.

A very Zen/In-Tune-With-The-Earth thing to do.

I confess, though, I’ve committed arachnicide in the past. Intentional, premeditated, cold blooded spider murder. Serially, in fact. My weapon of choice is toilet paper. I wad it up in my hand, and, with heartbeat racing and a tiny, not-quite-voluntary scream, STRIKE QUICKLY, like a squeaky cobra, hoping my lightning reflexes will capture the spider under the paper which I then squish and squish and squish, hoping to mash its body and absorb any associated goo, all in one motion. In a pinch, a paper towel will do. And I’ve been known to use the occasional shoe. This is how I know I’ll never be Buddhist. I’m disqualified on the basis of my priors.

Oh, I know most spiders are innocuous. Beneficial, even, in eating less desirable bugs. But what I know factually in the logical part of my brain is not the same as the electric buzz of adrenaline that lights up my skin when I witness one descending from on high. In my house. Over my bed. Or, worst of all, in the shower where I am vulnerable — weaponless — too wet to use the toilet paper which would just dissolve in my hands. There I must face my opponent in hand to hand combat. Hand to tarsus combat? Irrelevant what the correct term is, I suppose, since I simply wave the white flag and quit the field. The spider always wins the Battle of Shower Run (where run = what I do when I see him.)

Yes, I am a spider murderess. But not always. Sometimes, overcome by compassion, I run, instead, for a jar and piece of paper, imprisoning the creature using the same maneuver as the Toilet Paper Crush. *WHAM* Trapped spider. And I whisper gentle kindnesses while I slip the paper underneath the jar and carry him to freedom. “It’s OK, little spider,” I say. “Nothing to fear.” If spiders ever made a True Crime documentary about me, I’d be one of those baffling, multidimensional characters — brutally killing spiders in rapid succession followed by inexplicable mercy. “It’s how she got away with it so long,” the narrator would say. “Releasing her captives to spread word of her great benevolence. Maintaining her reputation as a Defender of the Species whilst keeping her nefarious acts of violence under wraps.” It would be riveting, I’m sure.

But I saved a small, green spider today.

He popped up from behind the kitchen sink and proceeded to fall into it. None too gracefully, I might add. He might not be as coordinated as the other spiders.

There he sat, surrounded by drops of water and dirty spoons and dried bits of sourdough, with nowhere to escape.

He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he was very brave. He didn’t run, unlike a Certain Human in the Shower. He didn’t plead for his life. He didn’t squeal or strike like a cobra. He just waited, motionless, until I positioned a spoon like a getaway car, idling in front of him, at which point he jumped in its bowl and waited for me to lift him to safety. Which I did.

P.S. Unrelated: My son asked me if used tampons are, like, vampires’ tea bags. AND, NO, I DID NOT WARN YOU BEFORE I SHARED THAT LOVELY TIDBIT OF MY LIFE BECAUSE I DIDN’T GET ANY WARNING, EITHER, AND THIS SEEMED MORE FAIR. In times of crisis, we need to share one another’s pain. Thank you for sharing mine.

P.P.S. I don’t know the answer to his question. On the one hand, I think, NO, GROSS, VAMPIRES ONLY LIKE BLOOD TAKEN FROM A VEIN, PREFERABLY DURING SEX, HAVEN’T YOU READ ANY SMUTTY VAMPIRE NOVELS *AT ALL*? On the other hand, humans drink milk from other animals — and then we also ferment it so it coagulates and let mold grow on it and then cut it into wedges and charge outrageous prices at cheese mongers’ shops — and we eat, like, hot dogs and sausages and haggis and stuff, all of which is objectively disgusting but still delicious. So if we consume gnarly bits and also rotting secretions from various animal organs, then maybe??

P.P.P.S. I am neither prepared to answer my child’s question nor willing to let it go. I feel like this sums up All of Parenting.

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28 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 29 Mar 2020 03:14:48 +0000

Dear Diary,

I’ve always considered myself a cook, as opposed to a baker. One is art; the other, chemistry. As a cook, I can chop and dice and whip and purée and maneuver around my kitchen by feel, turning the heat up or down based on whim and desired result, tasting and tasting and tasting again to get the sweet:salt:fat ratio right. Baking, on the other hand, is a precision sport with rules and measurements. It’s exacting and if, like me, you’d rather push boundaries than stay neatly inside them, it’s also exasperating.

Mind numbing.

Time sucking.

I didn’t have time to be a baker, Diary.

Until I suddenly did.

Oh, I baked, but my preferred recipes all involved beating the clock and cheating the rules so I could get within waving distance of a great product with the least amount of time and effort possible. Close enough to delicious to fool all but the most discerning palates. After all, there’s a lot that can be forgiven in an easy-peasy cinnamon roll that’s hot from the oven, and if there are no leftovers to heat the next day in order to witness that the bread bit is less buttery and supple on Day 2, well, then, that’s good enough for me. I regret nothing. Did I make my family homemade cinnamon rolls? WHY, YES I DID, AND I’LL BE ACCEPTING MY TROPHY ANY MINUTE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Cinnamon rolls in my book are an Above and Beyond gesture. Noble and selfless in the extreme. Even the kind that’s easy and peasy and cheats time.

Yet, here I am, in self-isolation following the recommendations and mandates of my local and national government, and I have fallen in love.

Head over heels.

With sourdough starter.

My time right now is spent thusly:

25% — Reading News About COVID-19
25% — Trying to Stop Reading News About COVID-19
30% — Playing with Sourdough Starter
20% — Touching My Face

Now, I’ve always been interested in sourdough. I’m a geek at heart — I’m interested in nearly everything. But I’ve also always turned starter offers down. The LAST THING I needed in the WHOLE WORLD was ANOTHER OBJECT to keep alive.

It was a doctrinal position. A personal survival imperative. NO MORE ITEMS in my house that required feeding and cultivating and watering and worrying and precious, precious brain space.

Humans? Yes, I’ll expend effort to keep them alive. Sometimes minimal effort, but I’m still counting it.

Dogs? To be honest, most days I like them better than the humans. They’re a yes, always and forevermore.

Cats? Fine. My kid loves them, and I love my kid, and fortunately the cats are chatty and mouthy which are my favorite features in cats and toddlers. I like them with a little sass.

Fish? Hell, no. I can’t snuggle them. They smell horrible. And I’m not responsible enough to clean a tank.

Houseplants? Nope. Strictly no. They’re lovely. They’re popular lately. Very hipster chic. But I just Cannot with an Extra Thing to tend. I can barely tend to myself, ffs.

So I probably should’ve known the world was about to go topsy turvy when this little one entered my life.

Meet Enid.

I have kept her alive for 17 days.

SEVENTEEN.

No one is more surprised than me, Diary.

No one.

And then Samantha joined us for self-isolation.

Samantha the Sourdough Starter.

And she is pure magic, Diary.

She is a witch in the Village Healer sense, full of history and carefully maintained lore. She carries the stories handed down from grandmother to mother to child from time immemorial.

She’s a spell from an ancient spell book, like chicken soup or cheese — things that are more than the sum of their parts, transformative in nature, a revelation if we’re paying attention.

She is bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, except not too much toil and surprisingly little trouble. Maybe bubble, bubble, roil and double, instead, if it’s important to get the incantation right.

But her best magic is this — she is a reminder of the human spirit and the indomitable will to survive.

Dozens and hundreds and thousands and millions of people for centuries and then millennia have taken flour and water and mixed them and molded them and tucked them away and fed them and fostered them to make bread.

Bright bread. Dark bread. Sweet and sour bread. Daily bread. Leavened bread, lifted up, risen high, resurrected again and again from two plain things. Flour and water.

Over and over.

Flour and water.

That’s all.

Flour and water and loving hands and hungry hands and old hands and young.

From a time before we can imagine.

She spread out from ancient Syria through medieval castles and crossed oceans and whole continents, and she endured.

She survived war and plague and famine.

She met Moses and Muhammad and Jesus and Elvis. She dined with Roman emperors and sat on paupers’ tables and traversed the Oregon Trail.

She witnessed travesty and tragedy and triumph. And she lives, still, to witness them all again.

And so she’s a thread that binds us and reminds us.

We are tied to our history. We are a people born of people who ate bread. And broke bread. And needed bread. And gave bread. And made more bread. From just water and flour. And flour and water. Again and again. As meditation. As prayer. As sustenance.

Bigger than a virus ever was. Or ever will be.

With love,

The post 28 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

27 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 28 Mar 2020 01:22:58 +0000

Dear Diary.

Only the briefest of missives today, I’m afraid. I’ve been migraining all day. Fortunately for me, that doesn’t include much of a headache — just an excessively foggy brain — I can do NOTHING without having to retrace my steps and do it a second time because I inevitably forgot what I intended to do the first time — plus lethargy and jaw/face pain. Weird. Uncomfortable. But tolerable.

Migraines are a monthly event for me, so I have some experience to fall back on. And I’m one of the lucky few without light or noise sensitivity. I drink lots of fluids, take ibuprofen and acetaminophen, drink caffeine, and try to rest. If we weren’t in the middle of a global pandemic, I’d push this one a little farther. Try to knock out a few more tasks. Mamas everywhere do it all the time. Discomfort doesn’t keep us down. The world would stop if we did. But since the world is already stopped — and I really, desperately don’t want this one to get away from me and end up the ER right now — I’m going to give it a rest. Literally.

Dinner tonight is Easy Peasy 5-Ingredient Fried Rice, made earlier so I don’t have to cook. I made the rice in my Instant Pot, which is honest to goodness one of the devices that’s saving me right now; it makes All the Food infinitely faster and easier. AND since it cooks all the rices at once with the same water ratio (1:1), I get to put brown and white rice together and sneak a few extra whole grains into my children. #ParentingWin

Other than letting a swath of juvenile Kobolds — high on magic mushrooms — escape from a cave where I’d promised the City Guard I’d kill them but reneged because I’m a softie, I can’t think of a single other productive thing I did today. Or non-productive thing.

Migraine.

I’m bad at Dungeons and Dragons, and the City Guard isn’t going to pay me.

Made rice.

Going to bed.

Good night, Diary.

More tomorrow.

Yours truly,

P.S. If the migraine allows, I’m going to catch up on one of my favorite hot werewolf series, Mercy Thompson by Patricia Briggs, so I can read the latest book, just released. Light escapist reading sounds about perfect right now.

P.P.S. My resident Pokemon lover is on a Pokemon Focused Conference Call with her cousins right now, and for the life of me I CANNOT figure out why we haven’t been doing this all along.

I’m willing to bet every single chocolate chip in this house that these children are paying better, more focused attention on this call than any adult in any business conference call ever.

They are riveted.

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26 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 27 Mar 2020 01:09:39 +0000

Dear Diary,

It’s been a week since my last trip to the grocery store, and I’m trying to stretch it by one more. So far, we’re good on all the staples.

I’m used to having a house of seven people, but Abby and Chandler left early Sunday morning, 15 March, to go back to Hawaii for the remainder of their last semester of college — such as it is with everything closed and classes online — and even though I very sweetly invited them to return to Oregon so I can control their every move and ensure they’re abiding by both the letter and the spirit of social distancing law, they declined. I can’t imagine why, Diary. It’s a mystery.

Abby’s been kind enough to let me boss them a little, though.

With a house of just five people now, we have plenty of food. More than enough. Oh, we’ve already run through the preferred cereals and the store-bought bread and we’re lower than I’d like on my latest favorite tea — Moroccan Mint with a smidge of honey and half-and-half. But we have ingredients to make things, and I’m trying to actually, truly only go to the store when I need to go — to really minimize exposure as much as possible — even though grocery shopping is an acceptable excuse to get out of the house.

In other words, integrity in this whole process is cramping my style, Diary. If it wasn’t, you know, life and death, I think I’d just go wander the craft supplies aisle or put my germ-infested hands on all the jar candles, opening them one by one to smell them. Change of scenery. A tiny break from the extroverted humans inside my house who need to chatter incessantly at me forcing me to choose whether I shut them down so they go insane or listen patiently so I do.

But the risk isn’t worth the payoff.

It’s a basic cost/benefit analysis.

Do we have enough to go another week without a store run? Yep. And so we wait.

Even though it’s hard.

Even though waiting is my Worst Thing.

We wait like that’s our job now. Because it is.

On the bright side, I did find one way to add an out-of-the-house stop to my calendar.

On the down side, my appointment to give blood isn’t scheduled ‘til next week which is about the same time we’ll need groceries. I would’ve liked to spread them out a bit, but, as I keep reminding my sweet Self, this isn’t about you, girlfriend. This is about saving lives. MAKE. GOOD. CHOICES.

Waiting,

P.S. Today we had High Drama — one of the teens learning how to have Appropriate Boundaries and block humans online who are unable to be kind. Ugh. It’s rough. And also an important life skill. We don’t just have Kindness Standards for how we treat others — we also have them for how we allow others to treat us.

P.P.S. Tonight, we’re gonna eat popcorn and watch movies. Enforcing Appropriate Boundaries is EXHAUSTING. Popcorn + movie = relaxing, regenerating, and being gentle with ourselves. So let it be written. So let it be done.

P.P.P.S. This is how I feel.

Howling the song of my people.

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25 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 26 Mar 2020 03:48:45 +0000

Dear Diary,

Greg is not traditionally …um, how shall I put this?… empathic? In tune with others’ feelings? Intuitive? I suppose any of those will work. They’re not his strong suit. He’s more adept with the concrete and logical. The tangible and clear. He’s a “Facts, ma’am — just the facts” kind of guy.

But he’s also compassionate and kind in that he wants to know what’s happening under the surface. He wants to respond with sensitivity. He just sometimes needs an assist so he can be looped in on WTF is going on.

I’ve found it works best to supply him with his lines rather than wait and hope — futilely — that he’ll guess them.

Say, for example, I tried to make a frittata last Tuesday and it LOOKED magnificent but the potatoes were, you know, mostly still raw. And say I worked really hard on it — cutting a forking lot of spuds on a mandolin, whipping up the egg and milk mixture, seasoning it just right, adding turkey sausage — on top of managing the Whole House and All the Children and — worst of all — MYSELF. And say I’m normally very laissez faire about culinary failure. Very willing to laugh at myself. Very, “Meh. Whatever. Ice cream for dinner. THREE CHEERS FOR MOM!”

Well, Diary, you can see the potential for disaster, yes? The boat drifting down the river with no oars and the sound of a waterfall too close for comfort? The huge yellow caution sign that says CALAMITY AHEAD?

Do not fret, though. Do not worry. Greg and I have now been married 25 years, which have all been deliriously blissful (you can put more emphasis on delirious than blissful, Diary), so we’ve worked out a few of the communication glitches. So I simply said, with WORDS instead of the magical mind meld maneuvers I’ve tried in the past, “Dinner didn’t go according to plan, and I’m feeling a little sensitive about it. We’re going to microwave individual portions to finish cooking the potatoes and all pretend it’s a really lovely meal. Now you say, ‘THIS LOOKS AMAZING’ and ‘GET IN MY BELLY.’”

Diary, USING WORDS IS INCREDIBLE. It is the BEST. All the Woolsey people said, “THIS LOOKS AMAZING” and “GET IN MY BELLY,” led in their chorus by one Gregory A. Woolsey because he Knows How This Works. He’s already passed this class. He’s in the honors program.

It was exactly what I needed: team buy-in and positive feedback whether or not the frittata deserved it. (Hint: it didn’t.)

Sometimes we just need to give others their lines. Sometimes we know what we need to hear, and we can save everyone a lot of effort and angst, a lot of hurt feelings and shattered expectations, if we just coach them like they’re on stage and we’re the ones holding the script. Their performance is better. And the playwright in each of our hearts is happier with everyone staying in character. It’s a win/win.

My point in telling you all of this, Diary, is I’m about to feed you some lines, and I’m going to need you to understand how to respond.

See, this is the calm before the storm. At least here in my little part of the world. Others are in the middle of it already. We’re tracking numbers and stats, reading articles, listening to reports, and it’s all important for us to know — we have to take this seriously, and that’s impossible without knowledge — but, honestly, it’s also too much.

I feel like a child who’s had too much stimulation. I’ve reached my saturation point for the day.

So I need you to shush my mind, Diary.

You know how a parent shushes a baby?

They hold this tiny being — this sweet little screaming treasure, this darling magical oppressor — to their shoulder, and they bounce, and they rock, and they pat the baby’s back, and all the while, to the rhythm of the bouncing, they say, “Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.” Four quarter notes followed by a whole. The eight count dance of rest.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

On repeat.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

Their feet walk a beat back and forth and back and forth.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh..”

Until their heart beat and the baby’s find a synchronized beat.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

And the baby burps, her tight belly easing.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

And her head falls forward on her parent’s chest.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

And the white noise of the shushing drowns out everything else.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

The parent can slow their steps.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

The parent can draw out the tempo.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhhhhhhh.”

The parent can put the baby down.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhhhhhhh.”

And if the merciful heavens shine down upon them — if the stars align just right — the parent and the baby can rest.

That’s what I need you to do, please, Diary. And you should feel free to do it for the World right now, too.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

We’re over-stimulated. Drunk on a cocktail of input and anticipation and grief.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

It’s not that we won’t pick up the information again soon. We will. It’s the cycle of day and night, up and down, go and stop, news and rest.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

It’s just that I’d like to lay my head down for a bit…

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

…and close my eyes…

“Sh. Sh. Sh. Sh. Shhhhh.”

…and sleep.

…

It’s your line, Diary.

With love,

P.S. A few other small notes:

It was a horrible rainy day in Oregon.

The kind of rainy day we don’t like to tell people about, lest they learn our secret.

My sourdough starter was finally robust enough to make BREAD.

And it didn’t suck even a little.

Our Fairy Message Mother didn’t leave us any words today.

Instead, she sent us a symbol.

I approve.

And, finally, I’m reading this in small snippets, one small essay at a time.

One Long River of Song: Notes on Wonder by Brian Doyle

Brian Doyle soothes my soul and reminds me to Pay Attention and that the good is mixed in, inextricably, with the difficult and mind bending and bad. And even though he left our world not long ago, I can’t help but think he wrote it for such a time as this.

The first section of the book is titled:

That the Small is Huge,
That the Tiny Is Vast,
That Pain Is Part and Parcel
of the Gift of Joy,
and That This Is Love

And that, friend, is where I shall leave us.

The post 25 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

24 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 25 Mar 2020 00:58:14 +0000

Dear Diary,

I caught Greg in the living room SORTING THE JUNK DRAWER. The hour after he replaced all the burned out lightbulbs in the house. The day after he repaired the extensive dry rot that’s been present for, oh, ten years-ish around our two back doors.

PLEASE EXPLAIN, Diary.

Do you know what is happening? Because I DO NOT.

I asked him why he was organizing the junk drawer and he said it was because we couldn’t close it without shoving stuff down, we couldn’t find anything in it, and random items were falling out the back.

???

I mean, yes. Of course. It’s the JUNK DRAWER. That’s what it does. That’s who it is. That’s its heart and soul and the purpose for its existence. That’s how it’s always been, from time immemorial, and how it shall evermore be.

Except now it’s not.

So now I’m faced BOTH with a Global Pandemic AND an Existential Crisis — if a Junk Drawer isn’t junky anymore, WHAT IS IT? Just… a drawer?

I don’t understand the world we’re living in anymore. All my foundations are disrupted. Even the immutable things I thought were UNCHANGING are changing.

Someone hold me.

With love,

P.S. Pro Tip: If you leave mini marshmallows next to the tub and they dry out into the shriveled white raisin forms of their former plump glory, just take a hot bath. By the end of your two hours hiding from your family, those mallows will have absorbed all that humid air and are reconstituted. Brought back to life. Resurrected. THAT WHICH WAS LOST HAS BEEN FOUND.

P.P.S. Yes, of course I ate them. That makes this Day # “Ate Rehydrated Marshmallows” of Quarantine. You know what they say — waste not, want not.

P.P.P.S. Our precious walking path fairy left us a new message today.

I came across it as I was thinking about how lovely it must be to be one of people who thinks COVID-19 won’t hit them or their loved ones hard.

“It won’t happen to me” sounds calming. Anxiety reducing. Like zen on a pogo stick, hopping up and down on repeat in front of my face.

Of course, the truth is, if I knew for sure everyone I love would be spared, I’d STILL be tripping on the communal grief of Someone Else being visited by the Angel of Death.

Anxiety + Compassion is such a treat.

But my point is, because I’m a ray of sunshine, I was right in the middle of ruminating on… well, you know… Death and Despair when this message appeared.

Hope.

OK, Fairy Message Mother.

I’m listening.

And, more importantly, I’m willing to disrupt my Regularly Scheduled Gloom for the reminder that that’s not productive.

It’s essential right now to prepare. To listen to and follow instructions from knowledgeable sources. To do our part to slow this thing down and give our hospitals a fighting chance. And then hope.

That’s the next right thing.

Our path forward.

Hope.

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23 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 24 Mar 2020 00:18:33 +0000

Dear Diary,

The rain arrived in Oregon again today — the same day the governor shut down most businesses and issued the Stay at Home orders. It feels fitting. I’m looking out my window now. The wind is howling and the rain is falling sideways, but I can see the Cascade Mountain Range in the distance, and it’s a crazy quilt of dark, heavy clouds and fluffy white ones with patches of intermittent blue to break up the grey scale motif.

It’s like the sky is dancing in rhythm to this crisis — cold and ominous interwoven with breaks of optimism and the reminder that our source of light and life may feel hidden, but it’s actually not gone away, and it’s sure to show itself again soon.

The sky can’t make up its mind how it feels, and neither can I, but, unlike my brain, the sky doesn’t seem bothered by it. It’s big enough to hold more than one thing at the same time. And it’s a reminder I am, too.

This time is full of uncertainty. Our best scientists and epidemiologists have predicted the storm that’s on its way — it’s made landfall in some parts of the world already — but here where I am, we don’t know the extent of it yet. We prepare and we read and we listen and we hope. But we don’t know, you know?

We sit here full of darkness and heaviness and sideways rain in rushing wind and also full of sun breaks and bits of blue sky while we try to catch a glimpse of what’s coming over the horizon. But our crystal balls are murky and vague, and the future is a translucent fog with shapes that only fully materialize as we get closer. We’re used to thinking in linear and binary fashions, so we’re far more at ease when we can either tackle the storm or bask in the sun and do so in an orderly, predictable manner. We get jittery when it’s storm and sun simultaneously.

I’ve been jittery, Diary.

I’m mostly fine. Mostly good. Mostly feeling guilty because Stay at Home is an easier mandate for me than for most — as an introvert, I’m predisposed to prefer it, and my work was already here. The COVID-19 Stay at Home order has made my life simpler in many ways.

I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to be jittery. My babies aren’t little anymore. This isn’t like the snowstorm thirteen years ago when Greg was away on a business trip, and I was trying to transition two premature babies to my breasts after their tube-feeding stint in the NICU (HAHAHAHAHA — good times), and a windstorm knocked out the power, and I “slept” on a foam pad in the babies’ room because all the other rooms were battered by falling trees, waking up with an alarm every two hours to feed and pump and pray my emergency pump batteries didn’t fail.

Now my kids can make their own ramen if I poop out. It’s pure luxury.

But I’m jittery anyway.

And even though I laid down All Expectations for my children to be academically productive during this time — we shall count Stay at Home a RAGING SUCCESS if we can Do Chores intermittently and Be Kind(ish), the end — I realized today I have not been similarly easy on my own productivity.

Instead, I’ve been telling myself I should be MORE productive than usual. I have NO DISTRACTIONS. I have NO APPOINTMENTS or ERRANDS or CARPOOL. I have NOWHERE TO BE. I should be like SHAKESPEARE and NEWTON who did their BEST WORK under quarantine.

Until it occurred to me that neither William nor Sir Isaac was busy with All the Other Tasks like managing a household, managing a household under a completely new set of rules, avoiding laundry, baking bread like it’s a new job, helping young humans work through Big Feelings amid Global Pandemic, etc., etc., and so forth into infinity.

So today I revised the rules for myself in an attempt to offer Me the same kindness I’ve offered my children. In an attempt to help Me work through Big Feelings amid Global Pandemic. In an attempt to recognize that this situation is a Trauma on every level, from the broad international scope to each individual. In an attempt to start spreading peace with the person in the mirror and hope THAT pandemic will go viral.

In light of that, here are my new personal rules:

1. Care for your most basic needs. This is a Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs move. You can’t take care of anyone else if you’re not surviving yourself. For me, this means I make sure I take my meds and feed my body when I’m hungry. It sounds a lot easier than it is. I’m working on it.
2. Check in with yourself frequently. I’ve put a sticky note next to my computer that has two questions on it: a) How do I feel? and b) Is there anything I can do right now to help myself feel more peaceful? So far, honest answers to both have had me taking breaks from screen time, making myself cups of tea, reading chapters of escapist fiction, making myself toast, and watching the resident chipmunks outside my window as they scurry along with their Busy, Busy, Busy lives. Tiny things. Big brain changes. SO helpful at this juncture.
3. Do less. I was writing 2-3,000 words/day on my Big Project before this crisis hit. I felt SO GREAT about that. I was GETTING SHIT DONE. Now? My brain is more scattered, and I’m just going to allow it instead of fight it. I’m decreasing my daily word count goal to 500 words. That feels tiny. But also possible. And tiny but possible feels like the wisest way forward.
4. Adapt as needed. Honestly, the stage we’re entering right now is Constant Change. We feel like there should be more structure — like we should be able to have a daily schedule. How hard can that be when we’re suddenly Just Home? But the reality is far more complex. We’re receiving new information daily — sometimes hourly. We have family members with fluctuating abilities to cope, mentally, emotionally, and physically. We have OURSELVES with fluctuating abilities to cope, bless our sweet hearts. So instead of Figuring It All Out, I’m taking a posture of flexibility so I can bend and move and dance with these new rhythms. Each day will be what it is. And that’s enough for now.

With love,

P.S. I could’ve saved myself a lot of time and angst if I just followed my dog’s lead on this whole Schedule/Productivity thing.

She’s already figured out self-care, feeling more peaceful, doing less, and adapting as needed. I got out of bed this morning to Tackle the Day, and she was all, “Uuummmmm, nope. I think not. I’ll just stay here under the covers, thankyouverymuch.”

P.P.S. I made waffles this morning instead of pounding out my 2000 words.

Aren’t they pretty?

I think that pic looks like pure magic.

Here’s what the kitchen really looks like, though:

Meh. Whatever. It is what it is.

P.P.P.S. Our secret, magical fairies returned to the path behind my house with new messages for us today.

You are loved.

And you’ve got this.

The post 23 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

22 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 23 Mar 2020 00:40:16 +0000

Dear Diary,

Am currently contemplating doing laundry but facing Serious Obstacles. For example, I have to walk upstairs. And, also, I Don’t Want To. NOTE: See how much COVID-19 and Self-Isolation is changing my life, Diary? Before this I NEVER contemplated doing laundry; I just forgot about it and forgot and forgot until one night at 11pm I’d remember I had no clean clothes for the next day at which point it because a Choose Your Own Adventure — Do you stumble upstairs and throw in a panicked load you’ll forget to dry? If yes, turn to page 20. Or do you decide it really is OK to wear the same jeans you’ve worn the last 10 days juuuust one more time? If yes, turn to page 82.

Quick note in case you can’t stand the suspense, Diary: it was always page 82. Always.

But now here I am, on a Sunday afternoon, remembering there’s laundry and that it’s not going to wash itself.

That right there’s PROGRESS.

Disappointing that’s how I’m using the extra brain space. But still progress.

I went for my daily walk this morning, Diary.

It’s presumably our last sunny day here in the western wilds of Oregon with 10+ rainy days in the forecast.

I didn’t used to walk every day. I mean, between my room and the refrigerator, yes, with detours as needed to the pantry and the coffee pot. But not on the path behind my house, even though it’s lovely and available.

Now that I’m trying to proactively stay sane in a time that’s not, though — and now that it’s suddenly a privilege to go ANYWHERE rather than an obligation — I’m eager to get out. (When this whole crisis is over, maybe someone can convince me the gym is a privilege. <<

And you know what? It really IS helpful. I’m more at ease and zen on the path than I am most other times of the day. I like it SO much, in fact, that I think someone, somewhere should do a scientific study on the benefits of exercise on mental health. (I KID. I hear it’s been done and the results are rather conclusive. )

In conclusion, Diary, I may be slow to catch on, but I DO catch on eventually… if I’m motivated by a once-in-a-century global pandemic.

Bless my heart.

With love,

P.S. DO NOT WORRY TOO MUCH about my new exercise regimen. Last night, I made cookie dough for dinner. I meant to make cookies for dessert and something nutritious and healthful for dinner, but I must be used to this new laissez-faire schedule already because the evening snuck up on me. Before I knew it, I had only 45 minutes before I had to head out to the Massive Neighborhood Party.

A strict, 6-foot socially distanced party.

One of the neighbors brought a pitchfork in case anyone tried to get too close.

THAT right there is social distancing dedication.

“Get too close to me AND I WILL STAB YOU.”

In other words, we partied like it’s 2020.

Highly recommend.

P.P.S. Remember yesterday when we talked about finding magic in the little things? Well, THERE ARE MAGICAL FAIRIES AMONG US SPREADING IT AROUND.

Along my walk today, I found small painted rocks an enchanted creature left WITH MESSAGES FOR ALL OF US.

I left them behind so they could spread their magic to others.

But I made sure to take pics.

So we can remember…

…we are in this together.

Amen.

P.P.P.S. As SOON as I said amen, my children began a knock down, drag out verbal fight over who’s a bigger dick. OH MY GOD, IT’S BOTH OF YOU! IT IS A FREAKING TIE. <<< Where is my trophy for not saying that out loud??

In conclusion (again), PEACE BE WITH YOU, friends. We are in this together.

The post 22 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not first appeared on bethwoolsey..

21 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 21 Mar 2020 21:10:19 +0000

Dear Diary,

Once upon a time, when I was 13ish, I lived with my family in a remote village in the highlands of Papua, Indonesia. The Dani tribeswomen wore string skirts and no tops and would sit on the ground in a field on market day to sell greens and sweet potatoes, handing a dangling breast like it was a sandwich to whatever child was sitting next to them feeling peckish. The kids held the boobs like sandwiches, too — flattened with two hands and gnawing on the ends. The tribesmen wore hollowed, dried gourds tied with strings around their waists and up their butts like g-strings to cover their bits — the bigger the gourd the better, obvs — and they stood near the women to make change for their purchases, grabbing money out of their wallets, shuffling it around, and shoving it back inside when the transaction was complete. Their gourds weren’t just their penis covers, Diary; they were also their wallets. So we learned thorough hand washing and not to ever — EVER — put money in our mouths earlier than we otherwise might have. #LifeSkill But even though the men’s gourds were a feat of magic and engineering, I was WAY more fascinated by the boobs. Never had I ever seen body parts stretch so far. And the VARIETY. My goodness. The shapes and peaks and valleys were as varied as the mountains, each pair like a fingerprint — totally unique. And uniquely lovely, especially in their practicality.

None of which is what I came here to chat about today, but I got distracted. Because boobs. What can I say? I am apparently still a child.

Once upon a time, when I was 13ish, I lived with my family in a remote village in the highlands of Papua, Indonesia.

And a British family lived nearby with their four kids. The mother’s name was Mary and the father’s name was David and I thought they were Very Fancy, because — hello — British accents. One day, Mary invited my mama and me to tea. TEA! The fanciest of the fancy! Tea in the afternoon, and not just the beverage. Tea as repast. A time to linger and chat. With crumpets Mary had made on her woodburning stove.

CRUMPETS! I didn’t even know crumpets were real. I thought they were an imaginary, literary food like Anne-with-an-e’s cordial or Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey. (Imagine my surprise years later when I learned those weren’t imaginary, after all.)

Oh, Diary, Mary’s crumpets were DIVINE. Light and spongy. Coaster sized pillows with itty bitty pockets of air. An epiphany! Wonder made manifest in bread as wonder so often is. And it’s funny to look back on the events of a childhood through the lens of an adult. Because now I’m certain Mary didn’t know she was creating a formative memory for the awkward woman-child up the path. Now I’m certain Mary will laugh when she learns I thought her family was fancy. Now I’m certain Mary and my mama didn’t know they were making magic. Now I’m certain it was just an afternoon for them. A bit of batter and circular rings and a pot of hot water and a minute with friends in an otherwise overwhelming life filled with stressors and pressure and the uncertainty inherent in raising children and wondering if you’re doing it right.

But it was magic.

Whether they knew it or not.

It was a gift they gave a foundering young human full of her own uncertainties. A brief and very real taste of joy.

Which is where we are today, Diary. Overwhelmed. Under pressure. Smack dab in the middle of a jungle. Uncertain whether we’re doing right by our kids in an increasingly stressful environment while they’re engaged in a formative experience. While they’re building memories and their understanding of the world.

So I’m deciding now to try to shape what my kids will gain from lockdown with us. I’m deciding now to move my expectations away from Formal Education and Productivity and the Harder You Work The More Valuable You Are. I’m deciding now to move my expectations away from Task Completion and Box Checking and the Frenetic Attempt to Keep Up or at least Not Fall Further Behind. I’m deciding now that I have permission for my family’s Lock Down to look different than others’.

I’m deciding now to pivot toward Crumpets.

That’s the plan for my family right now. Just Crumpets. As in, just little things that are ethereal — here one minute and gone the next, but created with love and given in the spirit of generosity.

Just Crumpets — looking for ways to love my neighbors as myself, to feed their hearts as much as their bodies.

Just Crumpets — taking the time to add the bits and pieces together, then mix to create a sliver of comfort.

Just Crumpets — choosing what’s simple and brings us together instead of elaborate Schedules and big Plans which are just More Pressure I don’t need right now.

And — don’t tell, Diary — but I have a sneaking suspicion that the crumpets are where we’re going to find the memories in this crisis. It’s those small spaces and tiny efforts where our kids will receive the magic. Years from now, they’ll regale us with the tales of This Strange Time with “remember when…” and “oh, but my favorite part was…”, and we won’t carry the same vivid memories they do. We’re likely to miss them in the now, even as they’re happening. We won’t know which pieces are Significant. Or which bits will stick in their minds. Good or bad.

But we will know we made the crumpets on purpose. We created room for all of us to be. We just did tiny things. And that was more than enough.

With love,

P.S. I’ve been playing with sourdough starter. Which isn’t to say I’ve made sourdough bread. It’s just that I have starter from my friend, Becky, so I’ve been feeding it and hoping it will become “robust” soon so I can try to make bread. FINGERS CROSSED. But it turns out “feeding” starter also means “discarding” some of it so you make sure you’re feeding the right amount, and it ALSO turns out I DO NOT LIKE throwing away stuff I’ve worked hard to make. (There’s a life metaphor in there somewhere.) So instead of actually discarding the daily leftover starter, I found a recipe for — YOU GUESSED IT — CRUMPETS!

P.P.S. Despite waxing eloquent about crumpets and children and memories, I haven’t necessarily SHARED these with them. They seem to be fine with Captain Crunch for now. THE CRUMPETS ARE A METAPHOR.

(Ugh. Fine. I’ll share.)

P.P.P.S. If you’re interested in making sour dough starter, Becky made hers from the King Arthur Flour recipe.

And there’s no need to have fancy silicone rings that cost a whopping $6.89 from Amazon as pictured above — pro tip that greased canning jar lids work just fine. I just happened to have the rings because one of my kids is like Mary — SUPER FANCY — and he asked for them for Christmas, and I was all “$6.89 for a Christmas present? SOLD.”

If you’re interested in making Sourdough Crumpets from discard starter, I used the King Arthur Flour recipe. You can also search their site for “discard” and it’ll bring up lots of options to use up the discard starter. NO DISCARDING FOR THE WIN.

If you’re interested in making traditional English Crumpets, IDK — we should probably ask Mary. Or maybe one of our fancy British friends can post one? Is this a thing people make? Or do you just buy them at Tesco like I do when I’m visiting?

P.P.P.P.S. Did you think that table pic of my crumpets looked SO PRETTY and like I POSSIBLY HAVE ALL MY CRAP TOGETHER?? Me, too! That was a fun second and a half. Here’s another angle at that pristine table, friends.

Just keepin’ it real.

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20 March 2020 — The COVID Diaries: Staying Sane in a Time That’s Not

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 20 Mar 2020 21:51:29 +0000

Dear Diary,

The last time I wrote to you, I was in the 5th grade. I believe we discussed my disappointment in the durability of the press-on nails I’d purchased from the grocery store with my best friend, Tracy. If Facebook and Twitter had been a thing back then, I would’ve BLOWN UP THEIR FEEDS with complaints about how they DO NOT HOLD UP to digging gopher holes by hand in Tracy’s backyard. Total rip-off. I want my $1.49 back.

I suppose that event was so traumatic, I abandoned my relationship with you. What can I say? Extreme disappointment causes us to do strange things.

I’ve decided, though, in light of the Cancelation of Planet Earth due to COVID-19, it’s time to renew our relationship. There are simply Too Many Thoughts racing through my brain these days, and I’m not able to corral them to my satisfaction. I need a way to pull them apart and put them into bite sized pieces so I can figure out what the eff I’m dealing with here. So you’re up to bat, Diary!

Since we spoke last, in 1983, I moved to SE Asia, moved back to America, got a Bachelor’s Degree in Church History (hahahahaha! that was useful!), married, put my marriage in the crapper, adopted and birthed 100 children (or 5 — CLOSE ENOUGH to 100, tho), pulled the marriage back out, and learned I have chronic, clinical depression I get to manage for the rest of my life. So, pretty much all fun and games. WHEEEEE!

Now we’re in a global pandemic, and our family is sheltering in place. We’re not being ordered to yet. We’re being told to “self-isolate” here in Oregon — or self-quarantine if we’ve been exposed. But we’re not going out for reasons other than grocery and pharmacy runs or a brief walk along the rural path behind our house because we really, really EXTRA don’t want to be the cause of folks dying. The current goal is to slow the spread of the virus so we don’t all overwhelm the hospitals at the same time. Frankly, the projections don’t look good, but you and me, Diary, are going to HOPE ANYWAY. And stay home.

My MAJOR goal in all this is to Keep My Shit Together. NOT to Keep From Freaking Out — oh, there WILL be freak-outs, Diary. That’s just part of what Living in the Unknown means. No; by Keeping My Shit Together, I mean managing my mental illness. Remaining sane. Which in turn means Paying Attention to my mental health and enacting the best Self Care models I can stand.

That’s where you come in, Diary. You and I are going to track this together. I’m going to tell you on the daily what’s happening so we can gauge what’s going on.

Today’s check in: doing well. I’m mostly upbeat >>>AS LONG AS I DON’T SCROLL ON FACEBOOK TOO LONG<<<. That’s something I’m going to need to watch. I can actually FEEL my mental wellness depleting itself like a battery if I spend more than, oh, an hour on the Book of Faces. As a result, I’ve made myself a schedule LIKE I’M 8 YEARS OLD with strict screen time limits for checking in BUT NOT DWELLING there. I believe to my bones that digital connection is A WONDERFUL THING and suddenly MORE IMPORTANT THAN EVER for human interaction. And also, I need to be careful to stay in the positive spaces of the Book, rather than fly down the rabbit holes of What If and Oh No and WHEN WILL THE STORE HAVE TOILET PAPER AGAIN? I’ve never been excellent at moderation, Diary, but I’m gonna try on this one. OK? OK. Deal.

More tomorrow on methods for Staying Sane. In the vein of Not Trying to Do Too Much, I’m just sharing snippets with you at a time so this is sustainable.

Love,

P.S. I got in a bar fight today. I tried to snatch a coin purse from a Dwarf who was just letting his money dangle there. Unfortunately, his friends flipped the table while I was underneath it cutting the purse strings. DO NOT WORRY TOO MUCH, THOUGH: a) I DID get to finish my beer, and b) I got away because a dragon ripped the roof off the pub and everyone was distracted. Close call, though. Need to be more careful while thieving in the future.

P.P.S. Lunchtime Dungeons and Dragons with the children is more enjoyable than I imagined.

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5 Plausible Explanations for What’s Happening in Our World Right Now

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 13 Mar 2020 21:21:27 +0000

It does not snow where I live. Or rather, it snows approximately one quarter of one day during the winter. Everyone gets VERY excited, we cancel everything, people from snowy climates mock our hysteria, folks crash their cars, our children try to sled on icy gravel, and stores sell out of every apocalyptic supply item: bottled water, hot chocolate, mylar survival blankets, and hot dog buns. Don’t even ask; I do not know why with the hot dog buns — I just report the fact, folks.

We already had our snow hour this season, in December. Our Facebook feeds were full of second by second weather reports. All the media sent their junior reporters into the field to stand on highway exit ramps in their branded Columbia gear with their hoods pulled over their heads clutching giant wired mics with puffy gloved hands so they could relentlessly bring us “breaking news” while literally zero precipitation marred their reporting. And we already saw all the Snowpocalypse and We Will Rebuild Memes.

But today it’s snowing in our little snowless Oregon town BECAUSE OF COURSE IT IS.

A global pandemic is on the loose, the world is closed, it’s Friday the 13th, and now it’s SNOWING. Big, huge flakes of snow. Like mini snowballs falling from the sky. And it’s supposed to keep snowing until noon tomorrow.

Also, the host of Celebrity Apprentice has been president of the United States for almost FOUR YEARS.

Also-also, Tom Hanks is stuck on an island with Wilson again. Except this time FOR REALS.

Also-also-also, we’re hesitating to close our schools during a worldwide disease outbreak because they’re the ONLY SAFETY NET for vulnerable kids to get the food, clothing, hygiene supplies, etc. that they need. <— THAT’S how we’re taking care of kids in this country.

Also-also-also-also, now that kids are headed home for an indefinite number of weeks, the families who are living paycheck-to-paycheck, *one crisis away from bankruptcy and houselessness*, are getting one/two punches to the face. You gotta work to keep food on the table and make rent. Honestly. Just work harder. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. *BOOM* Also, please simultaneously be home with your children lest you spread disease and cause vulnerable people to die. *KA-POW*

And finally (because I’m running out of alsos, not because I’m running out of shocking items), AMERICANS SEEM TO THINK HOARDING TOILET PAPER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN HOARDING COFFEE. Which is factually, demonstrably false and just goes to show our priorities are grossly out of whack. I went to the store to overfill my cart (for a local middle school, STOP JUDGING ME) and the paper products aisles were decimated but the caffeine products were all still available. Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary pals, YOU CAN WASH YOUR BUTT WITH A SQUIRT BOTTLE OF WATER BUT THERE IS NO CURE FOR A LACK OF CAFFEINE WHILE YOUR CHILDREN ARE ALL HOME.

In other words, WHAT THE EFF IS EVEN HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

That’s the question.

>>>WHAT IS HAPPENING? <<< Lord love a duck.

I’ve been asking myself this question rhetorically, on repeat, not really expecting an answer, but then I realized I MAY HAVE FIGURED IT OUT.

There are actually SEVERAL POSSIBLE REASONS, friends.

Reasons that EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.

5 Plausible Explanations for What’s Happening in Our World Right Now:

1. THIS IS THE WEIRDEST, MOST CONVOLUTED EPISODE OF TWILIGHT ZONE EVER. Honestly, though, I feel like the writers tried to focus on too many plot points all at once and created a show that’s unwieldy and unrealistic.

2. Someone opened the gd Jumanji box. HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU TO STOP PLAYING JUMANJI? #ffs #smdh #humansthesedays

3. March has been jealous of April Fool’s day forEVER and threw down. April’s always all, “I’m putting plastic wrap on the toilet” and “I stuck a fake spider in the mayo” and March finally shook her head. April gets all the attention and makes minimal effort. “Hold my beer, April.”

4. This is some sort of cosmic practical joke gone horribly wrong. It’s, like, an elaborate prank that started four years ago and won’t end because whoever’s pulling it thinks it’s HILARIOUS that no matter how ridiculous they make it we keep BELIEVING IT’S REAL. Does this end when we all collectively say, “OK, HA HA. Very funny. You’ve had your laugh, now give us back our reality…” ? Because I feel like we should at least give it a shot.

5. We are, in fact, residents of the dumbest possible timeline. TBH, I’m pretty sure this one’s it and that we can only fix it with a time machine. We’re going to have to decide which one to use, though. We’ll need to pick between Bill and Ted’s phone booth, the Doctor’s tardis, Marty McFly’s DeLoreon, and Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner. Frankly, I’m inclined toward Hermione. I realize her United States presidential campaign — erstwhile called Elizabeth Warren 2020 — came to naught, but I still believe Hermione Granger has the best plans and the proven ability to execute them well. I am, however, willing to listen to arguments in favor of the Doctor. {SIDE NOTE: If we Absolutely MUST put this project in the hands of another white dude like Bill or Ted or Marty or Joe, can we AT LEAST agree on Granger or Warren or Abrams as VP, tho? Seriously, people. SERIOUSLY.}

I don’t know about you, but I feel marginally better now that we have an explanation for this madness.

The End

And waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. Lest this post appear as though I’m not taking COVID-19 seriously, I am. We’re taking all recommended precautions around these parts and isolating ourselves as much as possible. Were it not for the Life and Death realities of this situation, I’d be saying as an introvert that Social Distancing is pretty much living the dream. I’d just like a shot at that dream minus people dying, please.

P.P.S. Like other small businesses who desire to serve our community and depend on local revenue to do so, we’re still open at Cairns Farm, and we’re ready to host your smaller, more intimate gatherings if you’re looking for a place. We are following all CDC and Oregon State guidelines, and we will close the farm — with refunds — if the CDC or Oregon government recommend we do so. For now, we’re still planning on baby goat yoga — with plenty of space between participants — March 22 and 29. And we’re still accepting bookings for our mini weekend retreat (no more than 6 people) April 17-19. So if you’re in need of some time with other humans, but not in large groups, to rest and rejuvenate, we’d love to see you!

The post 5 Plausible Explanations for What’s Happening in Our World Right Now first appeared on bethwoolsey..

What if this IS the view?

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 07 Mar 2020 22:31:49 +0000

The Oregon Coast is busy behaving like it always does. Like it’s sentient. Like it’s human. Full of consistency and contradictions tumbling in upon itself. Moody and wild and untamed. And also reliably pulled by unseen gravity to approach land and recede and approach and recede and approach and recede, like it knows it belongs in both places — on the shore where it stretches so thin it’s transparent and also in the briny depths where its weight is acknowledged for the opaque and crushing force it has the inherent capacity to be.

I watch the ocean out here almost constantly; so much that my pupils are tiny pinpricks, and the inside appears dim, and every time I try to focus away from the crashing waves and bright foam to read a book or eat a bite of the chocolate bar I stole out of the pantry, I have to blink a lot to clear the phantom flashes of light that stick behind my eyes. I don’t want to be looking inside when I’m here. I know intuitively and experientially that something far more grand is mere feet away. My attention has a will of its own, and I usually let it play out here, abandoning the rules of focus I try (and fail) to impose at home.

It’s sunny now. And cloudy. And sunny. Literally as quickly as I’m typing. But this morning was just clouds, laden with too much water to retain, and so they unleashed their excess on us, delivered to our windows with gusting wind, like the drops were schools of fish pushed by currents beyond their control, their patterns weaving and dipping, coalescing and scattering, a kaleidoscope of change.

And my internal thought in the midst of the majesty was, “Bummer it’s raining. It’s hard to see the ocean. Hopefully it’ll clear soon.”

Which is when my friend Kathy said, “Did you ever notice how we resent the water on the windows because we’re trying to see the water in the sea?”

And I thought, “Oh.”

And then, “Oh yeah.”

And then that water is the stuff of life. Literally. But we’re so often focused on what the view should be — what life should look like — that we’re frustrated by the life right in front of us. By the life smashing against our windows. By the life demanding our attention and focus. By the life dancing in stunning combinations in front of our noses.

Which made me wonder. What if the stuff of life that’s happening right now is not obscuring our view? What if it IS the view? What if the water we see — and the water we can make out in the distance, hazy and murky and dim — are of equal value?

What if we think about the phrase “we can’t see the forest for the trees” and think, yes; yes, it’s an important reminder to see the big picture. To not forget that what’s right in front of my face isn’t the whole thing. To remember there’s a bigger perspective than I can truly imagine. BUT ALSO, what if we reframe it and really study the tree that’s right here? What if we appreciate the tree for its beauty and strength? What if we look at its rough barky skin and feel its scars and contemplate the resilience and flexibility that’s kept it alive?

What if we can see the forest AND cherish the individual tree? What if we didn’t have to minimize one to uplift the other?

What if we can see ourselves and our humans — our children, our partners, our friends — in all our grimy, whirling, slamming-against-the-windows chaos and glory? What if we allowed ourselves to adjust our attention away from what we expected to see so we can be present with what is?

What if we can still turn our eyes toward the ocean and wish and long for the pristine seascape to come back into focus — because there’s nothing wrong and everything right with wishing and longing — but also note we needn’t worry all the while? The return of seeing into the distance is inevitable. It’ll come. Clarity will be restored.

What if, just for now, we let ourselves enjoy the rain?

With love, and waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. I’m INCREDIBLY EXCITED to announce the addition of baby goat yoga (OMG, RIGHT??) this month… and also weekend mini-retreats at our very own Cairns Farmstarting in April. We’ve spent the last year and a half working and working and working on the farm, AND IT’S TIME TO SHARE IT. WOOHOO!

One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me.

Click here for general retreat information. Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM, for any of the following:

P.P.S. It’s not raining anymore. And I’m glad. But I’m also glad I didn’t miss my opportunity to pay attention to the rain while it was here. Both/And, y’all. I feel like I need constant reminders that this isn’t a binary life of Either/Or.

P.P.P.S. How you doing? What’s the rain on your window rn? Or the tree in front of your face? What’s the thing you’re staring at that you wish would make way for something prettier or more vast or full of sunlight? For me, it’s the relentless drag of all the tasks and humans I feel need me and not enough of me to go around. I want simultaneously to be enough — for myself and others — not to value myself based on busy-ness (or, as I call it, the Constant American Temptation), and not to make the mistake of thinking I need to be all things for all people all the time. That’s definitely the deluge striking my figurative window. So I think I need to SEE that rain, you know? Like, acknowledge that it’s there — that it’s a LOT and right in front of me and this season of life beautiful and chaotic all at once — but also recognize a) it’s not going to be like this forever, and b) I can SEE and LOVE and GRIEVE the rain without feeling like it’s my personal job to handle every rain drop or divert the storm.

I’m not sure that makes sense. But it’s the best I can do at the moment.

You?

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These Are Our Consecutive Weeks of Unprotected Grinding

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 14 Feb 2020 21:09:40 +0000

This isn’t a real post.

This is a check-in because I haven’t written a real post.

In brief, here’s what’s happening around our house:

1. I’m writing. All the words. All the time. Morning ‘til night. Weekdays and weekends. Just writing and writing and writing. More soon.

2. The dog ate Greg’s dental night guards a couple weeks ago and it’ll be at least one more before he gets the replacements. That means all I’ve heard and will hear for the foreseeable future is that these are our Consecutive Weeks of Unprotected Grinding.

“Hey, Beth. We’re on week 2 of Unprotected Grinding.”

“Headed to bed now. For more Unprotected Grinding.”

“Guess what? They lost my impressions. You know what that means. Extra Unprotected Grinding.”

It cracks Greg up EVERY TIME HE SAYS IT. And he says it a LOT. So much that I’m starting to think it’s funny. Pretty soon, I’m going to break, friends. I can feel the burble of giggling in my belly. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome — I AM STARTING TO IDENTIFY WITH MY CAPTOR. It’s only getting stronger with time.

Send help, in other words. SAVE ME FROM THE UNPROTECTED GRINDING.

3. I thought about starting a new series from now through the election of 2020 called This Week in Nope: Why Donald Trump Gets Zero Stars. Just to, you know, DRIVE HOME WHY WE SHOULD NOT RE-ELECT HIM. Then I realized that’s likely to piss people off who really, really want people to sympathize with their desire to vote for him. Then I realized — meh, whatever —I don’t care; sounds like Not My Problem. Then I realized I’m unlikely to follow through on anything weekly and if I were to follow through on something weekly it should be, like, bathing or something. Or maybe responding to my children’s texts. Or maybe finishing a whole cup of coffee. There are several items in my life that ought to get prime time billing over DJT. Still — This Week in Nope could be an occasional thing. I haven’t kept my mouth shut yet. Why start now?

Speaking of which… This Week in Nope: Why Donald Trump Gets Zero Stars, His Fiscal 2021 Budget. “This fiscal 2021 budget, released Monday, includes cuts to the Social Security program. So why aren’t retirees up in arms? That’s because the reductions are aimed at the part of Social Security program that provides benefits to about 8.5 million disabled workers – and not the monthly retirement benefits.”

FYI, cruel shit like that is why Jesus invented a barf emoji.

4. I have nothing else to add. Except I tried to go to an appointment early this week — I just thought it would be interesting to see what it’s like to feel proactive and prepared — so I PLANNED AHEAD and I GAVE MYSELF ENOUGH TIME and then, as soon as I was dressed and caffeinated and ready to go, the dog escaped and I had to chase her around the side of the house in my nice clothes. You’ll be happy to know she enjoyed herself very much, including the part at the end where I had to tackle her in the mud to catch her. Lord love a duck. So I was late to my appointment, AND I was sweaty, AND I was muddy which is pretty much exactly like always, except I wasted a TON of time “planning ahead.” In conclusion, two thumbs down to preparation. Do not recommend.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. I would to retreat with you!

Retreats in March to the Oregon Coast and July to Italy are currently sold out. If you’re interested in being wait listed, please let me know! Registration is still open for November at the Oregon Coast. We also may be adding two smaller retreat experiences for April and May — stay tuned!

Click here for general retreat information. Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post These Are Our Consecutive Weeks of Unprotected Grinding first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I’m Biased Against Fat People and I Just Found Out: Especially Awkward Since I AM One

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 24 Jan 2020 23:25:37 +0000

WELL, THIS IS QUITE A SHOCK, FRIENDS. Especially given the size of my butt. And also my thighs. And also my belly. All of which are, objectively speaking, according to science, fat.

To be clear, I’m not using the word “fat” in a derogatory sense here. I’m using it in a factual sense. I’m not suggesting fat is unattractive or that it makes someone in any way inferior to folks with less fat.

Furthermore, I have been fat nearly all of my adult life. My weight has fluctuated in significant amounts — up and down by 50+ pounds. I have been healthy and active at a high weight, and I have been sick and inactive at a high weight. Same same for my lower weights. Fat, in other words, has not been an indicator of health for me, and I know it’s not always for others, either. I reject the BMI scale because it’s archaic and outdated science. I have fat friends, and I adore them and feed them cookies and carrots without paying a lick of attention to who’s eating what.

I HAVE FAT PERSON STREET CRED is what I’m saying. And, as a result, I’ve considered myself unbiased toward fat people.

I learned recently I was wrong.

IT IS AMAZING HOW BLIND WE CAN BE TOWARD OUR OWN BIAS UNTIL IT’S REVEALED TO US.

For me, the veil was lifted because of chairs.

I have a friend, Bee, who’s on a personal crusade to help herself and others disassociate fat from health. The relentless pressure to lose weight created in her a rather horrific eating disorder and decades of precarious health as a result. **Sound familiar, anyone??** Instead, she’s spent the last year+ eating food and releasing the worry about weight. She eats foods high in vitamins, fiber, and protein. Whole grains, lean meats, fruits, and veggies. ALSO, she eats pie and cookies and chips. She prefers — wait for it — real food made from real, naturally occurring ingredients. Butter over margarine. Nuts and seeds. Organic fruit. Cheeses made with whole milk. ALSO, Taco Bell and Umpqua peppermint candy ice cream. She eats FOOD because bodies need it, and she enjoys it BECAUSE ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL? And she has not lost weight. Instead, she’s GAINED HEALTH. Her cholesterol is down. Her heart, which was ready to fail from all the starvation programs she’d tried, is functioning better than ever. She used to get sick ALL. THE. TIME. And since she quit dieting, she hasn’t been sick ONCE. ALMOST AS IF A BODY DOES BETTER WHEN YOU FEED IT.

I’ve been cheering her on.

I’ve loved that she’s sharing her journey publicly.

I’ve learned SO MUCH.

And, because Bee came over a few weeks ago, I also learned I’m biased against fat people.

The chair situation at my house is this: I have an ever-dwindling supply of cheap, wooden IKEA chairs that are so flimsy a small child could break them. They’re a hazard and a liability risk, and we ONLY throw them out when they’re broken beyond repair. I’ve been sitting in them and standing on them to reach tall shelves for years. It’s like a fun game I play — will I crash to the earth? Will I break my bones? Will I end up in the Emergency Room explaining to the attending nurse that IT WAS ALL WORTH IT not to buy new chairs? Wheeeee! Free (read: potentially very costly) fun for everyone!

And, in addition to those heirloom pieces, I have 4 equally flimsy chairs I pulled out of my brother’s dump pile and two sturdy benches I picked up at a yard sale in 1997.

For Christmas, I asked for and received 4 brand new, beautiful, metal Bistro chairs. HALLELUJAH! So I proudly discarded the IKEA mess for my new, improved chairs.

Bee saw them when she came over and said, “I can’t actually sit in those.”

???

I was confused.

They’re CHAIRS. For SITTING.

She explained, though, that they have a rounded back with metal bars that connect to the sides of the chair, about 1/4 of the way up the seat. Meaning only butts that can fit within the bars can sit there. She demonstrated. She sat in one of the chairs sideways, perched on her right hip, the rest of her body tilted for balance. It looked colossally uncomfortable, which she verified was, in fact, the case.

”That’s OK,” I said. “DO NOT WORRY. I have a solution. STURDY BENCHES. No arms. No curved back. A place for you to sit!”

I felt like a Problem Solver.

A Champion Hostess.

A Good Friend.

And Bee truly could not have been kinder when she gently said, “I sometimes like to lean back, too.”

We finished our conversation, she left the house, AND I THOUGHT ABOUT THAT CONVERSATION NON-STOP for WEEKS afterward.

Somehow, friends, my solution was, “Do not worry! You can fit your ass on this hard, backless bench. TA DA!”

In other words, my solution was NOT, “OMG — what can I do to seat you, my beautiful and valuable friend, comfortably while you’re visiting my home?”

Implicitly, my bias was this: My chairs are not too small. Your butt is too big. This is YOUR problem. Not my problem. Not my chairs’ problem. Not a broader, cultural problem that we think chairs are a one-size-fits-all commodity.

Did I think any of that consciously? Of course not. I was fully oblivious to my bias.

And to make matters worse, I have prided myself over the years about the way we WELCOME ALL COMERS to our home. We’ve worked hard to create a hospitable, warm environment. We literally designed our house around our 4’x8’ farm table so we could BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER.

AND, those bistro chairs? Aren’t comfortable for MY ass, either. But I never — not ONCE — thought, “Hey, Beth. You deserve to be comfy in your own home, sitting in your own chairs, around your own table. Maybe get some different chairs. Maybe treat your body and yourself like they’re precious and worthy of kindness. Maybe purchase something you can sink into and rest on while you eat dinner with your family.”

Nope. Never even CONSIDERED that. My only thoughts about my chairs were a) they’re pretty, b) I like how they look with my farm table, c) they’re sturdy — YAY! I’M UNLIKELY TO DIE TRYING TO REACH THE TOP OF THE BAKING CUPBOARD, and d) I really should decrease the size of my butt.

Bless my darling heart.

Confronting bias sucks. Especially inside ourselves. But it’s SO IMPORTANT we do it anyway. It’s the only way to change the world. So let it be written, so let it be done.

In conclusion, I’m keeping the bistro chairs — they’re going to be excellent supplemental chairs for children at holiday events. Also in conclusion, I’ve been on a month-long quest to replace my kitchen chairs with something comfortable for a WIDE (get it?) variety of people even though I detest spending money and extra detest shopping. Also-also in conclusion, IT IS VERY HARD TO FIND CHAIRS WITH WIDE SEATS that are sturdy and list a weight limit. Also-also-also, after several tries, I HAVE FOUND THE PERFECT CHAIRS.

Love to all y’all, and waving, as always,

P.S. I haven’t been writing much in this space but instead of for shitty, mental illness reasons, it’s for healthy productive writing reasons. HOORAY! If I’m a touch quieter than usual, that’s why.

P.P.S. I’m not suggesting everyone go out and buy new chairs. But I am suggesting we rethink how we treat our bodies and others’. Because kindness matters. It’s the Only Thing.

P.P.P.S. COME RETREAT WITH ME IN MARCH!

One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. Our next retreat is in MARCH at the Oregon Coast — a PERFECT time for a break after the craziness of the holiday season.

Click here for general retreat information. Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

P.P.P.P.S. This is my butt:

It’s glorious, I know.

The post I’m Biased Against Fat People and I Just Found Out: Especially Awkward Since I AM One first appeared on bethwoolsey..

25 Real Things I’ve Learned in 25 Years of Marriage {and the One That’s More Important than All the Others}

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 Jan 2020 02:12:16 +0000

Greg and I have been married 25 years as of yesterday which, as we say every year, is a long time not to smother someone with a pillow. A long, LONG time. And, in that time, we’ve learned a few surprising things, 25 of which I’ll share with you here.

25 Real Things I’ve Learned in 25 Years of Marriage

(1) Any amount of time is a long time not to smother someone with a pillow. Listen, I do not care if you’re married 1 year or 100 years, (2) LIVING WITH ANOTHER HUMAN IS HARD. No matter how precious and wonderful and thoughtful and well intentioned that human is, that human also makes horrific, wet, gagging/choking sounds — above 80 decibels which has the ability to cause permanent hearing damage — when clearing his throat in public. Or that human, no matter how many times you tell him over 25 years, will never — NOT EVER — take some butter and pass the dish before meticulously and painstakingly buttering his own roll so that others at the table might have a go at the butter before he’s finished. It’s TERRIBLE but true. So BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE, we all deserve ALL the credit in the world for never — not once — sitting on a pillow on their face. WELL DONE, MARRIED FRIENDS. High fives all around.

(3) Divorce is, too, an option. And it’s an option you should use if you are harming yourself or your partner or if you’re being harmed by them. Be in a marriage because you WANT to be in it. (4) Be in a marriage because it’s HEALTHY to be in it. Be in it because it’s WORTH THE RELENTLESS WORK to be in it. DO NOT BE IN IT BECAUSE “DIVORCE IS NOT AN OPTION.” Of course divorce is an option. In an equal society, divorce should be an option. In an equal society, all contracts should have an exit clause; otherwise, it’s slavery or feudalism or another form of ownership and the human with the traditional, structural power in the relationship (hint: usually the man) is afforded the ability to abuse that power. DO all humans in power abuse it? OF COURSE NOT. Can they, though? YES. Which is why an out is CRITICALLY IMPORTANT and why saying “divorce is not an option,” even if what you mean is “we’re both going to do everything within our power to make this thing work for a lifetime” is unhelpful. Divorce is, too, an option, and if you’re only in your marriage because you think it’s not, you need to rethink your marriage. Greg and I did. We rethought it. And it saved us. Because all of a sudden, we weren’t in it because we lacked options. We were in it because we PICKED IT. Over and over. After assessing our personal and mutual mental health. After taking a fearless inventory of the harm we were causing ourselves and each other. After personal and joint counseling. We put the divorce option on the table. And we’re married not out of some bizarre commitment to marriage for marriage’s sake. We’re married because we choose to be a team. We’re married because we’re each and both able to champion ourselves and each other to be healthier and happier.

(5) The two real problems with marriage are that we keep asking humans to do it and we’re expected to participate EVERY DAY.“Honest to God, I feel like someone should’ve thought this whole thing through a little more thoroughly before implementing the plan. Like maybe we didn’t have our best strategic thinkers on this. Or the project engineers used my college work ethic, procrastinated like hell, pulled a last minute all-nighter, and turned in a half-assed, ill-considered product hoping the professor wouldn’t notice. Hey, Project Engineers — WE NOTICED. I mean, you have some serious potential here with the whole “human component” of your plan — there is magic there, for sure, and there’s genius and mystery and surprise and discovery — but there are some kinks, folks. Some messiness and murkiness and muddling and muck. Which we can deal with — we can — and even turn the mess into magic, conjurers of hope and harbingers of healing that we are. It’s the every damn day part that messes us up.”

(6) BUT ALSO, it’s OK to be human and fallible. And it’s OK to be married to someone who’s human and fallible. I mean, that’s what we have to work with, so the sooner we come to terms with imperfection and failure as part of the warp and the weft of ALL our human relationships — the sooner we can look at what we’re weaving as WHOLE and BEAUTIFUL and VALUABLE both despite and because of the fact that it’s raw and rough and frayed in places — the sooner we will be able to breathe and to take the joy alongside the sorrow, accepting both as intricate to the whole experience.

(7)Marriage is not 50/50… (8) and marriage doesn’t require both partners to give 100% all the time. Look, marriage is too complicated to split duties in half. That’s silly, and it’s never going to happen. Quantifying everything alone would take the rest of a lifetime, much less negotiating who gets which bits of the minutiae. And, truthfully, the people who say “you can’t give just 50%, you have to each give 100%” are onto something, but in the end they’re wrong, too. No one can give their ALL to EVERYTHING ALL OF THE TIME. So setting up your marriage to think you’re either going to put in HALF which is FAIR… or to think you’re both going to be hustling with everything you’ve got like paratroopers jumping into a war zone, all “Go! Go! Go!”… is the same as setting up your marriage for failure. People don’t work that way, so neither do marriages. Sometimes we’re TIRED. Sometimes we can BARELY MOVE. Sometimes we’re dealing with health crises or job woes or money issues, and focusing with laser precision on marriage cannot happen. And that’s OK. “Honestly, Greg and I aren’t in a 50/50 marriage very often. Oh, we strive for equality. And we try to bear one another’s burdens. Sometimes we even hold up our ends of our public marriage bargain. Sometimes, we rise above the difficulties and each give 100%, which is when the toilets get cleaned and the children are bathed and we don’t forget parent/teacher conferences. But sometimes we fall down on the job, friends. Sometimes, I give 5% and Greg gives 5% and we’re grumpy and petty and we both wonder where the hell the other 90% went.” And that’s part of it, too. It just is.

(9) It’s better to let the sun go down on your anger than to stay awake trying to hash things out while exhausted and strung out. SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED TO SLEEP ON IT. Look, the principle is still true — don’t let your anger fester. Deal with that crap. Deal with what’s underneath the anger which is almost always hurt. Deal with the causes and effects of how you treat one another. Take the necessary steps so resentment and bitterness don’t get a strong foothold. But NO ONE IS BETTER FOR A LACK OF SLEEP, and your relationship won’t be better for it, either. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger” IS NOT LITERAL ADVICE. Or, if it is, it’s BAD advice. Studies have shown that lack of sleep causes the human brain to behave as though it’s drunk. If you wouldn’t say”being drunk is excellent for solving marital woes,” then trying to solve them without a rested, in tact brain makes equally little sense. GO TO BED, FRIENDS. Rest. Tackle the issue again tomorrow.

(10) Also, sometimes you just need some protein. For reals. Being hangry is a fast pass to marital rage. Drink a glass of milk, take 10 slow, calming breaths, and give yourself a half hour. TRUST ME. I know that of which I speak.

(11) Also-also, sometimes you just need a break from each other. There really is such a thing as too much togetherness. There are ZERO PEOPLE in the world who are not intensely irritating if given enough time together. Frankly, I’d take a break from myself if I could; I am EXHAUSTING. It is decidedly Not Terrible to take time apart. An hour. A day. A weekend. More. It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other to pieces. It means you’d like to see if the axiom “distance makes the heart grow fonder” is true. <— THAT IS A WORTHY SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT. Try it.

(12) Do not throw a bar stool at your partner. Not even if you really, really, really want to. For real. I mean it. It doesn’t end well. As in, Class C Felony “not well.” Also, be careful when you’re picked for a jury and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, because an attorney might ask you for marriage advice in a court of law, and then you will feel obligated to give it.

(13) Counseling is THE BEST, and individual counseling may be EVEN BETTER than marriage counseling. It’s AMAZING what can happen in a marriage when there’s more than one partner who’s willing to work on and own their issues. Sadly, you can’t force your partner to do this. But you CAN set the example yourself, and dealing with your crap is surprisingly worthwhile.

(14) Love is made of a thousand successes. But it’s also made of millions of failures. And that’s OK. It’s even, maybe, how it should be. “When we were first married, I knew about love. I did. And I wasn’t wrong because love is, in fact, gentle and love is kind. Love is a two-way street. And love is a choice. And love, it’s true, is what conquers against all odds. I knew. I did. And I wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know that love, also, was made up of failure. And of bruises. And of falling down. And of getting up. Sometimes. Eventually. And of a thousand thousand tiny moments and little sighs and brief caresses and small hurts and exhaustion and healing and time…”

(15) We are not still together by the grace of God. God’s grace is for everyone, no matter where you are in (or out) of marriage. There are people who are miserable in marriage, and God’s grace is there for them. There are people who are happy in marriage, and God’s grace is there for them. There are people who are miserably divorced, and God’s grace is there for them. There are people who are happily divorced, and God’s grace is there for them. The end.

(16) Sometimes, the problem inside a marriage is YOU. And sometimes that’s not your fault, but you need help anyway. Take a fearless inventory. Ask your friends if you seem healthy. Really listen if they’re concerned about or for you. And if, after you’ve done this, you (like me) discover you’re enraged by your partner because depression has taken over — again — get medical help.

(17) Lower your expectations. It’s more fun down here anyway. Real marriage is not Hollywood marriage. Romantic marriage isn’t always roses or chocolates or jewelry or inspired poetry. Do what you ACTUALLY want to do with your relationship instead of what Instaglam tells you you SHOULD be doing. Let it look messy instead of meticulous — you’ll be surprised how much magic is in that mess.

(18) Find things that bring you joy and bring them into your life, even if your partner disapproves. Like pianos and puppies. Listen, some people are practical, and some people marry people who are practical. Greg is the former, and I am the latter. And while, YES, TECHNICALLY the Practical Person keeps the Impractical Person from doing things like selling all their belongings and moving to Belize, the Practical Person can ALSO try to Out-Logic the Nonpractical Person when it comes to Things That Bring Joy. “That Thing that Brings You Joy makes no sense,” they will say. “That Thing That Brings You Joy costs too much money,” they will say. “We have no room for That Thing That Brings You Joy,” they will say. And then the Nonpractical Person can become bitter and resentful. Hypothetically. 😉 So if you’re the Nonpractical Person, it’s important to remember YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE PRACTICAL ABOUT EVERYTHING. And you don’t always have to justify which items do or do not bring you joy. “Practical joy” is not a thing. “Logical joy” is not a thing. DO PLEASE listen to the Practical Person prior to emptying the bank accounts and selling your house to build a yurt and live off the grid in the tundra; I’m not saying you can’t do it, just that this is the sort of decision you need to get the Practical Person’s buy-in on first (unless you’re good with using the divorce option). But truthfully, if you need a puppy in your life or fairy houses or to fake purchase a miniature horse to simultaneously torture/teach a lesson to your Practical Person and bring you unfathomable joy, DO IT. Eventually, even the Practical Person will admit it’s more logical to live with a joyful partner than to live with one who’s resentful and sad.

(19) ~~Lose weight and stay physically fit for your partner~~. HA HA HA HA — JUST KIDDING. Instead, do the work necessary to love your body and let your partner love it, too. Now, Greg’s the luckiest because I have a natural Burrito Body, and I’m happy to share it with him, so this one’s easy for us. <— Lies. For real, though, IT IS HARD TO CHOOSE TO BE HAPPY WITH OUR PHYSICAL SELVES, but it is critically important for happiness in life and in marriage. Weight is rough for me — I have lots of Big Feelings about it, and in the meantime my weight goes up and down the way the moon waxes and wanes. Predictably. Inevitably. I have worked for YEARS on believing Greg when he says I’m sexy. It gets to the very heart of whether or not I’m willing to trust him in general, and it affects everything from basic affection and sex to trusting his judgement in every other area. Confronting feelings of self-worth related to weight is REAL WORK, and at least in my case it takes decades. It’s also one of the most worthwhile tasks I’ve undertaken to improve my relationship with Greg. In related news, Greg and I are going to go eat chocolate raspberry cake now. And then we’re going to do it like bunnies.

(20) Your partner does not have to be your best friend. My friend Tiffany-Lin always says she has 30 best friends because they’re all best at something different. I LOVE THIS because I find it so deeply true. And while I’m totally fine with all the folks (and they seem legion) who shout from the rooftops how glad they are to have married their “best friend,” I’m more in line with Tiffany-Lin on this one. Greg is 100% ONE of my best friends. And he’s my lover and my partner and my co-parent and sometimes the person who drives me more crazy than anyone else breathing on Planet Earth, which to me goes far, far beyond best friendship. I also have about a dozen Best Friends who are each best at something different. There’s the best friend who’s allowed to call me on my mental illness bullshit (not Greg). And the best friend I like to go to Whiskey Wednesday with to work our way slowly through the menu and find our new favorites while catching up on life (not Greg). And there’s the best friend I confide in when marriage is REALLY, REALLY HARD (not Greg). And the best friend who would absolutely, 100% stay calm while helping me bury a body and hide the evidence (not Greg). Greg is good at a lot of things. SO MANY THINGS. But Greg is not good at everything, and he can’t meet all my needs or even most of my needs, and that’s OK. BETTER, even, because a marriage partner is not meant to fulfill us. They’re not meant to complete us. They’re not Magical Beings who can suss out and proactively meet all our needs. They’re not our other half who makes us whole because — spoiler alert — we’re already whole and complete and also we’re all in need of a deep and broad community of fellow humans to help us and hold us and sustain us in times of trouble. We need EVERYONE, is what I’m saying, and it’s not fair to put that much pressure on ONE HUMAN to do the work of dozens.

(21) THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MARRIAGE IS KINDNESS.

(22) THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MARRIAGE IS KINDNESS.

(23) THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MARRIAGE IS KINDNESS.

(24) THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MARRIAGE IS KINDNESS. Bar none. My 25 Things really should’ve just read kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness. Nothing is hotter than kindness. Nothing is sexier. Nothing is more longed for or desperately needed. Nothing is more healing. Nothing is more of an opening to authenticity. Nothing is sweeter. Nothing is more loving. Nothing better motivates us to stick with the relationship. And so I will say again, THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MARRIAGE IS KINDNESS. Because when our humanity and magic and mess and madness is met with kindness, we know we truly are — finally — home.

(25) But a sense of humor is a very close second.

Waving in the dark, friends,

P.S. For our anniversary, our beloved children gave us a list of “the 25 things mom and dad have taught us,” a few of which I’ll share here in order to inspire you. First, I’d like to point out their use of the word “the,” as in the 25 things mom and dad have taught us, making it clear there are only 25 things and not to get cocky about having taught them anything more.

Mom you taught me how to cook and not starve. (Please do note the implication that if I hadn’t taught him to feed himself, no one else was going to do it. I mean, accurate.)

You taught me how to care for one another.

How to drink whiskey. (You can hope with me that this one was written by one of the children who’s over 21. No promises, though.)

Sarcasim. (But not spelling.)

How to not shit on the floor. (Maybe you should try that with Nyx.) — I’ll be honest, this is obviously none of my doing. Everything in my background would indicate my kids would be floor shitters like their Mama. I assume Greg taught them this one.

Mom you taught me how to swear even though I sometimes use it incorrectly. (True. I’m working on it.)

That it’s OK to be different.

Dad you taught me that I don’t need to buy everything I see.

You taught me how to follow the rules. (Again — OBVIOUSLY just Greg is responsible for this one.)

How to love everyone equally (or at least pretend.)

How to be strong, passionate, and crazy.

Open arms wherever and whenever.

How to be a role model, how to be a family, and how we want to be as amazing to our families as you are to us. (But my favorite part of this card is that two of my children signed their last name in case we weren’t totally sure which Aden or which Cai. )

P.P.S. One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. Our next retreat is in MARCH at the Oregon Coast — a PERFECT time for a break after the craziness of the holiday season.

{Also, more info soon on our July Food and Wine Retreat in ITALY!}

Click here for general retreat information. Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post 25 *Real* Things I’ve Learned in 25 Years of Marriage {and the One That’s More Important than All the Others} first appeared on bethwoolsey..

How to Apologize to Your Wife When You’ve Wronged Her in Her Dreams

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 11 Jan 2020 04:03:21 +0000

If you don’t know why Greg had to apologize to me, read this first. Once you understand the Horrible, Horrible Things He Did, you can read his apology below. I thought this might be instructive for those of you who have wives and need to know how to apologize for the Ways You’ve Wronged Them. You’re welcome.

Waving,

Dear Beth,

Eating your birthday cake without asking was thoughtless and cruel. It was not the last scrap of food in the house, and if it were, I have a key to the neighbor’s. I’m sorry I did not think before I acted, and ruined your three-day labor of love.

Shifting your birthday from October to January is hard for me too, but that’s no excuse when the cake says “Happy Birthday Beth” right there in pink icing. Please forgive me, once again.

Also, that cherry tree is both our responsibility, even though I was against it in the beginning. I could have picked up the pruning shears as well, rather than quietly feeling smug and vindicated by its increasing presence as a barrier to both our door and our marriage. Had I helped maintain it properly the frog spider never would have made it’s home there in the first place.

If you are willing to move past this with me, I promise to change, but not until tomorrow. I’ll greet you every morning with “I’m sorry” instead of “good morning” from now on.

Love,

Greg

PLEASE NOTE:

1. Greg took responsibility.

2. He explained but he did not excuse his Heinous Behavior.

3. He thought through alternative behaviors and outlined What He’d Do Differently Next Time (i.e. steal food from the neighbor.)

4. He showed understanding for the way this affected me and noted how Thoughtless and Cruel he was.

5. He did not continue to hold our indoor cherry orchard against me, even though he wasn’t for it in the beginning. <— KEEPS NO RECORD OF WRONGS. Instead, he acknowledged it would be petty to continue to wash his hands of our bedroom arbor, and the mature response in marriage is to help one another bear our burdens… even the burdens we didn’t pick.

6. He asked for forgiveness.

7. He demonstrated his knowledge that it may take a while for me to believe and accept his apology, greeting me daily with “I’m sorry” instead of “good morning,” which, frankly, is always a wise move before I’ve had coffee because a) he won’t necessarily know yet how he wronged me in my dreams AGAIN, and b) I’m the tiniest bit grouchy upon waking and an apology will undoubtedly soothe me better than the unseemly and jarring cheer he usually heaps upon my head.

There you have it, friends. How to apologize to your wife when you’ve wronged her in her dreams. Greg is masterful at it, and I’m glad you have his sincere*, heartfelt** example to follow.

* and ** — because I’m POSITIVE he meant every word

P.S. My apology to Greg will arrive sometime in the Spring and will resemble the following.

It’s not pretty. It’s just true.

{Also, more info soon on our July Food and Wine Retreat in ITALY!}

Click here for general retreat information. Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post How to Apologize to Your Wife When You’ve Wronged Her in Her Dreams first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Why I’m Mad at Greg — and Thoughts on Whether Cat Butter is Humane

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 06 Jan 2020 19:26:27 +0000

I woke up with a sick feeling in my gut. You know that foggy state of Near Awake when you viscerally remember Something’s Amiss but you don’t yet have the mental faculties to remember What Exactly Happened? It was That. I woke up sad and somehow lonely. I knew, at least, No One Had Died, so thank God for that. That Feeling is more Charcoal and Ash Grey, like sticky soot on the gut. No, this was different. I was just Hurt. Like the way your heart falls on top of your stomach when someone who loves you is thoughtless or cruel in a way that’s impossible to understand.

That’s the Feeling I had when I woke, and, when the fog began to dissipate, I remembered it was Greg who’d hurt me. And as the fog cleared completely, I remembered in full What Had Happened to rip the fabric of our marriage in two.

I was late taking my daughter to elementary school this morning. She’s in high school, but that’s irrelevant. I was late, and I’d forgotten my pants, so I had to walk her into the elementary school building — in the winter, in the rain — while pulling my Kelly green Henley shirt (which I don’t own) over my panties, because everyone knows if you tug your T-shirt low, no one notices you’re not wearing pants.

My friend, Nicole (who hasn’t worked there for at least 6 years), was in the office when I arrived, and her gaze skittered over my pale thighs, but she didn’t mention my pantslessness because she’s a good friend, and also because she definitely wouldn’t lose her job as an elementary school learning resource teacher if she let a pantsless mommy wander around the school. I was frazzled at being late, and she could tell I was doing my best to get my kid to school at all, so she led the way to the library where my daughter’s class was busy at work at small tables having Quiet Reading Time.

After my kid scampered off, Nicole sat me down in the closest wheelchair and asked if I was okay.

I mean, how do you even answer that question after the morning I had?

First, I got stuck in my bedroom because I hadn’t trimmed the cherry tree I let grow there, so a branch jammed the door, and I couldn’t get it open. I was ashamed to admit it — no one else seems to have trouble staying on top of their tree-trimming household chores. Like, I don’t mean to compare my reality with others’ Fakebooking, Pinteresty, Instaglam lives, but seriously — it’s not that hard to keep Bedroom Cherry Trees trimmed before they get out of hand. Everyone else manages their indoor orchards just fine. Why not me?

So after being temporarily trapped and breaking brittle branches with my bare hands to release myself, I made my way to the kitchen where I checked my birthday cake in the freezer.

Look, I obviously don’t check on my birthday cake every day — that would be crazy — but even though my birthday has been in October for the past 45 years, now it’s in January, on the same day as my wedding anniversary, so I spent the last three days making the Perfect Birthday Cake, ensuring my whole family, no matter what their food allergies, preferences, and intolerances are, would be able to eat it, and let me tell you, cat butter is VERY hard to source, so that was no easy feat.

This particular cake is made with corn meal, sugar, eggs, and corn syrup and baked in a bundt pan. That’s Day One. After the cake cools, you cut it in half horizontally and fill it with fresh fruit — specifically with watermelon and pineapple slabs cut into letters to form the word “Louise.” After Louise is sandwiched between the cake halves, you wrap it tightly in plastic and place it in the fridge to set overnight. That’s Day Two. And on the third day, you slather it with cat butter and pop it in the freezer.

It’s a lot of work, but it’s SO worth it. And, because I’m the Smartest and I Know My Family, I made sure to write “Happy Birthday, Beth” on top of the cake in pink icing so no one would mistake it for a cake immediately available for eating.

My eyes filled with tears as I told Nicole what I found when I checked on my cake.

Half of it GONE. With fork marks and crumbs. And when I asked my family what happened, Greg admitted eating it after getting home late from work last night. Because he was hungry.

I just… I couldn’t believe it.

He KNEW how hard I worked on that cake.

He KNEW how long it took.

He KNEW it was for my birthday.

He KNEW how challenging it was to switch from being born in October to being born in January and the emotional upheaval involved.

He KNEW how conflicted I was over the cat butter and whether the mama cats miss their kittens, and whether they’re allowed to wean them appropriately, and whether they’re milked with kind, warm hands or hooked up to horrible cold metallic cat milking machines. And he KNEW I vowed to purchase no more cat butter until I answered some important questions about the humane milking of cats.

He KNEW all of that, and he ate the cake anyway.

As I poured the story and my devastation out to Nicole, a giant black spider — like, softball sized — jumped from my purse to the library floor and scampered under a book shelf.

I forgot I’d lost the spider when I snapped one of the cherry branches in my bedroom. I apparently disturbed its home, and it ran away from the tree. I couldn’t find it in my room, and I was late anyway so I didn’t have time to look thoroughly, and then, after the Cake Incident, I was so distraught, it slipped my mind entirely. I guess it crawled into my purse, though, and it was suddenly loose in the library, which wasn’t a problem until we realized it was a Frog Spider — as evidenced by its hind frog legs — with Enormous Leaping Capacity and Deadly Venom and needed to be dispatched before any of the kids were bitten.

DEAR LORD, friends.

It really was the WORST morning.

Don’t worry, though. We did manage to kill the Frog Spider after the principal pulled the fire alarm, got all the kids out of the building, and armed the adults with specialty hammers where the heads had been replaced with giant plastic thumbs and long, pointy thumbnails, which everyone knows is the only way to reliably off Frog Spiders. I’ll admit, I was pretty impressed with the agility of ancient Mrs. Adler, the welding teacher, as she hit a home run with that hammer, using the Frog Spider as the ball after it leapt off the top of the Clifford the Big Red Dog bookcase. FYI, they don’t offer welding at the elementary school so IDK exactly why Mrs. Adler was there, but it was definitely a Serendipitous Right Place/Right Time thing. That woman has an arm.

In conclusion, I’m still very upset with Greg. Understandably. And I haven’t talked to him about it yet because I don’t really know what to say or how he can make this better other than researching a humane (and local) source for cat butter and remaking the cake which seems a touch unrealistic given how much he detests baking. You can pray for us, in other words. And for reconciliation, for which I’ll hold out hope even though it currently seems impossible.

Sigh.

Waving, as always,

P.S. In case you think this is all just a dream, and I shouldn’t be mad at Greg for things he didn’t do, MAYBE.

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

P.P.P.S. I feel you, Phoebe. I do.

The post Why I’m Mad at Greg — and Thoughts on Whether Cat Butter is Humane first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Church and I Are on a Break. But Here Are 10 Reasons I’m Back for Advent.

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 19 Dec 2019 04:13:01 +0000

I’m back at church this month because it’s Advent, and of all the seasons in the liturgical calendar, Advent is my favorite. Also, church is a tough place for me at the moment, so this is a very Both/And time for me. It’s both light and heavy to make space for church. Both a relief and a burden. Both a joy and a sorrow. I suspect that’s true for a kaleidoscope of reasons, so I keep twisting the glass ‘round and ‘round, looking at it from all the angles I can find, watching pieces slip into place only to move and rearrange themselves as soon as I shift the perspective.

I don’t know how to adequately describe the mixture of Shy Hope and Profound Grief I feel at church these days. In an era of American evangelicalism more defined by Donald Trump and conservative nationalism than by the life and example of Jesus Christ — and in an era when our evangelical church denomination simultaneously booted us from the fold for championing the full acceptance and inclusion of our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters — I’ve been taking a prolonged break as I try to puzzle out where Love abides and whether the universal Church really plays a necessary role as I seek to live by the Greatest Commandment, that we Love our neighbors as ourselves.

Does the Church as we know it matter? Is the Church as we know it what Christ intended it to be? I’m not talking about whether Christ is viable. Or whether the complexity and tenderness and truths and horrors of Scripture are viable. I’m talking about the Church and the ways it’s twisted and deformed Christ’s message and example. Is the Church as we know it viable? Is it the very best vehicle for loving our neighbors? Are there real ways to mitigate harm and maximize good inside the structures of the Church? Are we capable of doing the kind of fearless inventory we need to do to suss out how we’ve hurt others and make substantive change? What if substantive change means opposing authority? What if substantive change means opposing denominational tradition? Are we prepared to confront that? Do we even know what repentance means?

I don’t know.

But I suspect the Church as we know it is dying. I suspect we’re feeling its death throes. And I’m far enough in the deconstruction of my theology and the reconstruction of my faith to feel like the droves of young folks leaving the Church is a good thing. An authentic thing. A longing after truth and integrity and righteousness thing. A running toward Love thing. A tired of the bullshit thing. A recognition that Love is at work in bigger and broader and more magnificent ways than the rigid and restrictive and exclusive models in which we were raised.

And because I suspect that the Church writ large is dying — because I suspect we’re in the fiery-furnace, breaking-down-to-ash part of the Phoenix cycle — I’ve been content, mostly, to meander into my own (little “c”) church (writ small ;)) only occasionally, and I’m working, instead, on the stages of grief and the careful art of breathing through loss.

I love the humans at my little church. In every real sense, they were and continue to be my community, made up of my dearest friends and family. They are earnest. They are honest. They are working hard together to love people well, and they are meeting real needs in our community every day. So I enter in when I can be authentic about engaging. And I trust them to be gentle with me as I come and go. At the same time, I’m trying to be gentle with myself, to acknowledge that the universal (big “C”) Church has committed atrocities in our own time, to recognize the ways the universal Church and, specifically, our former denomination has abused its power and the vulnerable among us, and not to rush myself to some sort of conclusion about the viability of the Church as I once knew it.

I need time, is what I’m saying. And I’m taking it. But, also, it’s Advent, and Advent is a thin space for me. Advent is a time when the veil between our tangible world and the spiritual one seems to become especially ethereal. Translucent. Like a spider web with its gossamer thread, sticky enough to catch the light and the dew at the same time and hold them suspended so we can really see.

I love Advent because it marries my own childhood memories to those I’m creating for my kids.

I love Advent because, in the winter, as darkness waxes and light wanes, and I’m overcome with the usual fears of children in the night — what’s in the closet? what’s under the bed? what dangers wait for me in the future that I can neither see nor adequately prevent? — Advent reminds me that darkness doesn’t last forever. Light is on the way. Dawn is inevitable. And we’re not alone while we wait.

I love Advent for its story, set during the political occupation of an oppressed people, and for its reminder that Love belongs to the vulnerable and upsets the powerful, and that even the tiniest human, suffused with Light and saturated with Compassion and focused utterly on the Expansion of Love instead of the restriction of it, carries the potential to transform the world.

I love Advent for its relentless hope.

I love Advent for its quiet longing for peace and forgiveness and kindness and grace.

I love Advent because it upends the neat, modern Christian narrative of a prescribed faith and a tidy set of rules that govern morality, ethics, and which of a binary set of political parties one must idolize, and instead weaves a mystical tale that elevates astrologists, and monsters from heaven (angels so frightening they open, always, with “fear not”), and fleeing refugees, and both painfully young and old, barren women as the harbingers of Divinity and agents for religious subversion and radical change.

I love Advent even while my relationship with the universal Church remains fraught.

I love Advent because it’s like Narnia, bigger and wilder and more complex on the inside than the box that contains it. All of God — all of Divinity — all of Love and Wisdom and their unlimited potential — wrapped in the fragile package of a human infant. Phenomenal cosmic power; itty bitty living space.

I love Advent because it reminds me we’re all bigger on the inside than the bags of flesh that contain us. We’re all inhabited by Love and can choose whether or not to access and acknowledge it. Feed it and champion it. Expand it and unleash it.

I love Advent because it embodies Mystery and Magic and Madness and Mess. Which is what this life is about, after all, and what we’re all made of.

I love Advent because it can bear the burden of all my Hopes and all my Doubts. Advent can handle the juxtaposition of Light and Dark. Advent can embrace all my Angst and all my Strength. And Advent doesn’t balk. It just keeps coming, steady and sure despite the anxious anticipation walking alongside. It knows dawn is coming. It knows Love is on the move. And it holds my hand while we wait.

Waving in the dark to you, friends,

P.S. One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me.

{HINT: A retreat is an excellent thing to ask for for Christmas! If you need more info, always feel free to contact our retreat registrar, Maggie Peterson, at petersonm1@spu.edu.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Church and I Are on a Break. But Here Are 10 Reasons I’m Back for Advent. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Sometimes I Think We’re Not That Weird. Then I Realize NOPE.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 11 Dec 2019 02:17:55 +0000

You know, sometimes I think we sort of have our crap together around here. Sometimes I think we’re Not That Weird. Or rather, if we’re weird, we’re weird like Everyone Else now. We have our quirks. We have our adorable dysfunctions. We try to love each other well, and we succeed and fail and succeed and fail, but we keep practicing. So I look around these days, and I figure we’re Normal.

Like, it’s been a while since a Woolsey child surreptitiously undressed himself in the church sanctuary and then streaked through the fellowship hall mid-church-potluck. Not to shock anyone, you understand. Just because Clothes Suck and being naked is Better.

It’s been a while since my kids tried to see how high, over days and days, they could fill a bathtub with urine.

And it’s been a while since I tried to thaw frozen eggs in my bra. Or taught my kids to draw on the furniture. Or fixed a hole in the wall with a bigger, better hole (although I should note I still intend to do that stairs project, and Greg’s leaving on a trip soon so it’s anyone’s guess what happens next.)

Overall, though, I feel like we’re just like all the rest of y’all. Slugging it out day to day. Talking about anal beads around the dinner table. You know, the usual.

But then someone comes over and remarks on something like my dog, who sits on my other dog’s face.

Continuously.

And by “continuously,” I mean “Every Minute.”

Like it’s her Place.

And then I realize NOPE. We’re as weird as ever. Even the pets.

Nyx is like Zoey’s personal awning.

Perhaps that will give you context for the fact that I keep walking around the house with Sit on My Face stuck in my head.

[The sound on this video doesn’t start until 10ish seconds in, so don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear anything ‘til then.]

It’s mostly just the first line, over and over, on endless repeat, which is Greg’s fault because every time he sees the dogs he says, “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me.”

I caught myself mumble-singing it at the grocery store yesterday. Of course, I didn’t realize I was singing, and definitely not audibly, until the produce guy looked at me weird. I’m not sure what Emily Post would say about the proper way to apologize to a grocer for propositioning him for lewd acts with song next to the potatoes, but if it’s looking at him like this…

…and then like this…

… then I nailed it.

In conclusion, Greg is a bad influence.

Waving,

P.S. I’m sorry I posted about anal beads last time, and now I’m writing about face-sitting. I usually try to keep it classier than that. You know… classier than anal beads followed immediately by tongue tickling the lady wattle. I usually try to space it out a bit. But I failed even my low standards today. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I’m tired. Sometimes that happens.

P.P.S. I feel like now is the best time to tell you I run a small number of retreats each year. Because who DOESN’T want to chat about relaxing retreats right after chatting about face-sitting? As I’ve mentioned previously, I AM SUCH A GOOD MARKETER!

Truly, though, one of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me.

{HINT: A retreat is an excellent thing to ask for for Christmas! If you need more info, always feel free to contact our retreat registrar, Maggie Peterson, at petersonm1@spu.edu.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Sometimes I Think We’re Not That Weird. Then I Realize NOPE. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Why It’s Important to Eat Together as a Family: A Story About Anal Beads

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 04 Dec 2019 03:12:42 +0000

Just popping in to say hello.

HELLO.

And to ask whether you’re hanging in there since it’s the HOLIDAYS and holidays are, traditionally speaking, traumatic and terrible. And occasionally magical. But mostly fraught with Big Feelings and also Expectations which Anne Lamott says are resentments waiting to happen.

ARE YOU HANGING IN THERE?

I am.

I’ve lowered my expectations which has helped IMMEASURABLY.

We, in fact, ditched Thanksgiving entirely this year, and it was EVERYTHING I HOPED AND DREAMED IT COULD BE. We went to a movie. We went out to eat. I put up a Christmas tree and coerced my niece into decorating it for me. There’s also a wreath over my mantle which to me totally says Making an Effort.

I’m hopeful I’ll find the stockings before Christmas Eve but since I haven’t looked and I’m just sort of hoping they magically appear, no promises.

And that may very well be it. Everything I do this year. Not because I hate decorating. Some years, I’m really into it. But this year I’m kind of digging the Half Assed is Good Enough philosophy.

Instead, we’ve been our usual amount of Too Busy and Trying to Accomplish Too Many Things with Too Many Demands from Children and Too Many Appointments, etc., etc., to infinity. BUT we’re NOT our usual amount of Too Busy AND Cramming Holidays on Top of It, so PROGRESS, friends. We’re REGULAR exhausted and overwhelmed instead of HOLIDAY exhausted and overwhelmed.

Instead, we’ve been focusing on What Really Matters this season. Like trying to eat together more as a family instead of rushing past each other on our own separate schedules.

And in case you were hoping for More Guilt and Pressure in your life, I’m here to tell you, fellow parents, YOU SHOULD MAKE TIME TO EAT TOGETHER AS A FAMILY because your children will relax and share their days with you and you will bond and feel a special closeness you cannot have if you don’t break bread together.

If you don’t eat together as a family, you won’t get to hear your kids say your cooking isn’t as bad as usual.

If you don’t eat together as a family, you won’t get to hear your baby-most child let you know your potato soup has an “earthy” taste “exactly like dirt, really.”

And most especially, if you don’t eat together as a family, you won’t get to see which words Amazon’s Alexa understands and which she refuses to acknowledge.

Like, you won’t learn that Alexa is FINALLY willing to put “fuck” on your shopping list because, without family dinner, you won’t have a conversation reminding everyone it’s THEIR job to put things on the list — not YOUR job to read their minds — and, as a result, you won’t have a teenage human yelling, “ALEXA. PUT FROZEN PIZZA ON THE SHOPPING LIST” And then another teenage human outdoing him by yelling, “ALEXA. PUT A *FUCK TON* OF FROZEN PIZZA ON THE SHOPPING LIST.”

But now you know, because YOU CARE ABOUT FAMILY DINNER, so you got to hear Alexa read that back to you. She bleeps herself when she does it, but she does record it correctly now instead of failing to understand exactly WHAT KIND of ton of pizza we need. ADJECTIVES MATTER, Alexa.

I mean, LET’S HEAR IT FOR MORE ACCURATE SHOPPING LISTS, friends. Shopping lists where EVERYONE takes responsibility. Shopping lists recorded with PRECISION. Shopping lists that don’t leave you hanging in the middle of the frozen food aisle, wracking your brain trying to remember the EXACT AMOUNT of pizza your children need.

TECHNOLOGY IMPROVES LIVES.

I mean, Alexa still isn’t recording EVERYTHING correctly.

She won’t, for example, put a dildo on the shopping list. Not even if your teenage human asks repeatedly. Also not even if he Enunciates. Very. Carefully. And. LOUDLY. while eating potato soup that tastes exactly like dirt.

I know, because I’m a Good Mother who makes eating dinner with my children a Priority. I know because my children Let Me Into Their Lives around the family table. I can tell you unequivocally that Alexa will not put a dildo on your shopping list even if you say, “ALEXA. PUT. A. DILL. DOH. ON THE SHOPPING LIST” no fewer than 9 times.

Also because I love my children and want to know everything about them, I can tell you Alexa won’t put anal beads on the shopping list.

Also-also, I can tell you that as soon as the words “anal beads” left my sweet baby’s lips, I finally called a HALT to torturing the Spying Altar To Consumerism that is Alexa.

Even I, with standards so low I buried them underground, have limits, friends.

And apparently that limit is listening to my children request anal beads. Sometimes it’s a mystery even to me when we’ll hit the end of what I’m willing to hear hollered through my house.

Besides, it’s all fun and games until someone accidentally orders anal beads, amirite?

“OhhhhKay,” I said. “That is E. Nough, Child. Annnnd we’re done now.”

I said it sternly.

I said it seriously.

I said it because NO MORE ANAL BEADS AT THE DINNER TABLE.

And also-also-also, I can tell you that when the same child lowers his head to his bowl and whispers, “so I guess that means no cock rings” to his Disappointment Soup, I will laugh my fool head off. A fuck ton.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So that’s it. Just wanted to say hello. HELLO. And to ask whether you’re hanging in there. ARE YOU HANGING IN THERE? And to let you to know our Thanksgiving weekend was precious and charming.

Waving, as always,

P.S. IDK how my kid found out about cock rings, but I’ll be following up because one of the BEST PARTS about having me as a mother is we DISCUSS ALL THE THINGS IN AGONIZING DETAIL and I feel like it’s best we chat about the potential downsides of sticking restrictive loops around one’s bits BEFORE I have to make a midnight run to the emergency room to access the Jaws of Life to set him free. THE KEY IS COCK RINGS WITH STRETCH, SON. #TheyreSoLuckyToHaveMe

P.P.S. I know how they found out about dildos and anal beads, tho. BEFORE YOU HAVE OPEN AND HONEST CONVERSATIONS WITH YOUR CHILDREN, FRIENDS — before you actually ANSWER any and all questions — PLEASE BE AWARE THEY MAY SOMEDAY TRY TO PUT ANAL BEADS ON THE SHOPPING LIST. No one tells you that ahead of time. NO ONE. It’s in zero parenting books. You’re welcome.

P.P.P.S. I feel like now is the best time to tell you I run a small number of retreats each year. Because who DOESN’T want to chat about relaxing retreats right after chatting about anal beads? I AM SUCH A GOOD MARKETER!

{HINT: A retreat is an excellent thing to ask for for Christmas! If you need more info, always feel free to contact our retreat registrar, Maggie Peterson, at petersonm1@spu.edu.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Why It’s Important to Eat Together as a Family: A Story About Anal Beads first appeared on bethwoolsey..

35+ Things We’re ACTUALLY Buying for Christmas (in Case You Need Ideas for Real Humans)

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 27 Nov 2019 06:38:53 +0000

OK, you’ve seen the lists, right? 100 Top Christmas Gift Ideas! Great Holiday Gifts for EVERYONE! 50 Stocking Stuffers Under $50. I mean, I’ve seen them. I READ them every year hunting for perfect presents for all the folks on my list. But I also spend a lot of time laughing at HOW RIDICULOUS some of the ideas are for those of us *ahem* on a budget (!) and I ALSO wonder if any of the list writers would Really, Truly, ACTUALLY spend their Very Own Money on those items for their humans. I LOVE my kids — to the MOON — and I’ve scrimped and saved in years past for Big Ticket Items like bikes and computers when the time (and job market) are right. I don’t begrudge any families that type of gift or spending. But I ALSO am Extremely Unlikely to purchase my teen daughter a $135+ face lotion from GOOP (or wherever), even if it does show up on every single “hottest items this season” list. I just… no. Nope. Not for us. And so, sifting through all the ideas lists becomes something of a slog, looking for a gem in pile of otherwise unusable info for me.

I found myself wishing someone — ANYONE — would share their Actual, Real shopping list with me. Like, there are TONS of items I categorize as “good ideas” … for someone else. As in, they’re nice gifts that are THEORETICALLY lovely for a THEORETICAL person. But I wouldn’t buy them for MY people necessarily. And then I realized — duh — I can share MY Real List. And ask other Real People for theirs.

^^^MIND BENDER^^^

So! Just in time for Christmas, here’s a compilation of Real Things We’re ACTUALLY Buying Real People for Christmas. I’ve divided it into sections. Real Stuff I’M Buying This Year. Real Stuff We’ve RECEIVED and Loved. Real Stuff My Friends Are Buying This Year.

Crossing fingers this helps those of you who, like me, search for thoughtful items AND have a strict budget and limited time.

Here we go!

REAL STUFF I’M BUYING THIS YEAR

1.WHAT: Shave Bars, Shampoo Bars, Lotion Bars, and CBD Balm from Simple Alchemy
COST: $9-$23
FOR WHO: Shave bars for All the Shavers in our fam, shampoo bars for the Travelers, lotion bars for the Humans with Purses, and CBD balm for me and my mama
WHY: Simple Alchemy is hand crafted in small batches by magical forest fairies* here in Oregon. ALL of Bee and Col’s products are high quality, eco-friendly, zero waste products. And they last FOREVER. I asked Col why her soaps last 3x longer than other soaps (they don’t advertise that — BUT THEY SHOULD), and she explained it’s because they use a third of the water other soaps do. There’s LITERALLY more soap in their soap. The shave bars work like a dream and mean I don’t have to buy those clunky metal cans of shave foam anymore (and clutter the landfill with them when I’m done.) The shampoo bars mean I can travel without liquid shampoo, and since I travel with only a carryon bag most often, that’s a game changer for me! The lotion bars come in the perfect tin for my purse, and I just heat it in my hands so there’s no gooey liquid lotion everywhere squirting out of plastic tubes (and lotion is SO helpful during dry winters.) And the CBD balm is ideal for muscle aches and pains… I’m sort of a zealot about it, so I’ll leave it at that except to say IT’S A MIRACLE and I LOVE IT and IT SMELLS AH-MAZING. I’m spending approximately 20% of my Christmas budget at Simple Alchemy this year.
*BONUS: I asked the magical forest fairies if there was ANY CHANCE I could get a discount code to share with you, and they said YES. To my knowledge, this is the ONLY discount code they offer. They also said I could pick whatever code I wanted. For 10% off your purchase, you can use code: BETHSNAKEDGOODTIMESCLUB (aka, Beth’s Naked Good Times Club) because Simple Alchemy is guaranteed to make your naked time in the shower (or anywhere, really) AWESOME. ENJOY!

2.WHAT: Absorbent Ceramic Car Coasters
COST: $6
FOR WHO: Humans with cars
WHY: Maybe you already knew about these, but I didn’t, and I love them. You drop them into your car cup holders and they soak up spills and condensation on cups. To clean them, you just rinse with water. Look, our family SPILLS STUFF. All the time. These little disks make clean up so much easier, and my cup holders aren’t constantly sticky and gummy. WIN!

3.WHAT: Flat Top Foundation Brush
COST: $9.85 (on sale right now, normally $25)
FOR WHO: Humans who put foundation on their faces
WHY: I fell in love with Mary Kay’s foundation brush last year, and then I LOST IT. Blerg. (If you have a MK consultant, do consider buying one from her for just $14 and supporting a local business, instead.) Once I started using a foundation brush, I couldn’t go back to sponges or my hands. The brush applies the foundation so smoothly, the finish is better, it’s faster, and my hands don’t gunky.

4.WHAT: Old Spice Wild Collection Wolfthorn Scent Deodorant
COST: $9.52, package of 2
FOR WHO: All the humans who are more likely to use deodorant if it appears masculine and cool
WHY: Yes, we TOTALLY buy our young humans body care products for Christmas. They’re into it as long as they think the product is cool. So fine. I can work with that. I’M into it as long as I can stand the scent. (Read: no axe body spray. I’m gagging just thinking about it.) These go in our boys’ stockings, and they get matching body wash.

5.WHAT: Kissral Bluetooth Wireless Earbuds
COST: $49.99 (on sale right now, normally $129)
FOR WHO: My teenage boy
WHY: He thinks these are awesome. He loves that they’re black. He loves the charging case. He loves the digital readout that shows how charged they are, etc., and *I* love that they’re on sale and not over $100 (which seems WAY TOO expensive for earbuds to me.) HOWEVER, for wireless earbuds, I actually prefer the following…

5a.WHAT: SoundPEATS True Wireless Earbuds 5.0
COST: $33.99
FOR WHO: Anyone who wants Apple AirPods without the cost
WHY: AirPods 2.0 are $130+, and that’s a tough pill for me to swallow. These are highly rated, Bluetooth enabled, wireless, adjustable earbuds with a charging case that do everything Apple AirPods do except at a $100 discount. For my budget, that’s a no brainer.

6.WHAT: Poprocks
COST: $15 for 18
FOR WHO: All my humans’ stockings
WHY: Perpetually popular! A cheap, fun “add” to the stockings. Everyone loves them. They disappear quickly.

7-10.WHAT: Consumables!
COST:
FOR WHO: Everyone who’d rather not collect more THINGS
WHY: We just really, REALLY don’t need more STUFF in our house, and I’ve found many of the people to whom we give gifts don’t, either. That’s why I love giving consumable items (like Poprocks, above.) Some of my favorites this year are: Oregon Chai ($13 for pack of 2), Spanish Olives stuffed with lemon ($11), Oregon Truffle Oil ($15-$55), World’s Hottest Chocolate Bar ($17)

11.WHAT: How To: Absurd Scientific Advice for Common Real-World Problems by Randall Munroe
COST: $16-28 depending on whether you can catch it on sale
FOR WHO: Humans who like to Know Stuff
WHY: Randall Munroe is an all time FAVORITE for my science-lovers (read: my partner + my 13yo children.) He writes the hilarious XKCD comic — “a webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math, and language” — and is the author of What If: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Scientific Questions, a book that kept my science geeks engaged and happy for WEEKS as they worked their way through reading it together. HIGHLY RECOMMEND either of these titles if you have curious Smarty McSmartpantses to find gifts for.

12.WHAT: Supernova Era by Cixin Liu
COST: $28
FOR WHO: Adult SciFi fans
WHY: A few years ago, Greg read and LOVED Cixin Liu’s “The Three-Body Problem.” Now the author’s back with Supernova Era: “Eight light years away, a star has died, creating a supernova event that showers Earth in deadly levels of radiation. Within a year, everyone over the age of thirteen will die. And so the countdown begins. Parents apprentice their children and try to pass on the knowledge needed to keep the world running. But when the world is theirs, the last generation may not want to continue the legacy left to them. And in shaping the future however they want, will the children usher in an era of bright beginnings or final mistakes?” The thing is, when Greg reads, that’s ALL he does — nothing else can happen until he’s done with the story. So when I give Greg a book, it’s also the gift of Time to Read It. And this is the sort of all-consuming book Greg digs. Guess what he’ll be doing starting Christmas afternoon?

13.WHAT: Simple Modern 32 oz. Double Walled Stainless Steel Water Bottle
COST: $21
FOR WHO: Teens, young adults, water bottle lovers
WHY: It’s a Hydroflask, which is all the rage in water bottles — like, EVERY teenager/young adult I know is carrying one — except at 2/3 the cost. Cold drinks stay cold for hours. This version has a straw and leak-proof lid. If you’re looking for one that has a handle lid, instead, and no straw so it works for hot AND cold beverages, this 24 oz. Simple Modern Water Bottle is also rad.

14.WHAT: Audible Audiobook Membership
COST: $15 for 1 month, $45 for 3 months, $60 for 6 months, $150 for 12 months
FOR WHO: Ear readers, lovers of verbal story telling
WHY: I have two children who have mild dyslexia. Both thought they hated reading. They didn’t. They just struggled with decoding. I wish I’d embraced audiobooks years ago. Audiobooks have revolutionized their love of books and stories. As a family, we use our Audible membership to pick books for road trips, too. Our favorites this year were Artemis by Andy Weir, Armada by Ernest Cline, Ready Player One by Ernest Cline, The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet by Becky Chambers, Skyward by Brandon Sanderson, Eragon by Christopher Paolini, and (for just me) Becoming by Michelle Obama. I’ll be renewing our membership for Christmas this year.

15.WHAT: Carhartt Men’s Black Beanie
COST: $15
FOR WHO: Teens and Adults
WHY: My male humans love this classic black beanie. It’s durable and warm, both things we need this time of year.

16-20.WHAT: Small Items Suitable for Christmas Stockings
COST:
FOR WHO: Teens and Young Adults
WHY: These are some of our favorite stocking stuffers… bath bombs ($11 for 6), extra long iPhone charging cords ($12 for 2), extra long Android Micro charging cords ($10 for 3) — yes, we’re a mixed phone family , PowerAdd Portable Charger ($15 on sale, regularly $25) is a highly rated, high capacity external battery, transparent cell phone ring holder/stand ($7 for 4) works like a PopSocket except more subtle and less expensive.

REAL STUFF WE’VE RECEIVED AND LOVED

21.WHAT: Kindle Unlimited Membership
COST: $10/month
FOR WHO: Voracious Readers who use an e-reader
WHY: This is MY annual Christmas gift. I read constantly. Incessantly. Relentlessly. And, as much as I sympathize with my many friends who prefer paper books for their feel and smell and heft, I ADORE carrying an entire library in my purse. To me, the only thing better than books is more books. AND, partly because I’m a writer so it’s important to me to support authors financially and partly because I suck more than the average person at returning library books, I REALLY love to BUY books. Unfortunately, I can’t afford all the books I want to consume. Enter Kindle Unlimited. For $10/month, I get unlimited reading of thousands and thousands of titles, and the authors get a cut. Oh, I still buy copies to keep of my favorite authors’ books — Kindle Unlimited doesn’t have everything — but this has been a great reading supplement for me.

22.WHAT: 23 and Me DNA and Ancestry Kit
COST: $99
FOR WHO: Humans who want to learn about their genetic history
WHY: We bought five of these kits for our family last year — one each for me, Greg, and our three kids by way of adoption. We left out the two bio kids because we figured getting our genetic history at least lets them know what they might have. I have to say, this was a DELIGHT for our kids by way of adoption. All three loved this and waited impatiently for their results. The findings were fascinating, too. One kid’s genetics were completely in one, small, Asian region without other genetic influences as far back as they can measure, whereas another kid’s lit up practically the whole world with hers — Native American, Sub-Saharan African, Iberian, Scandinavian, and more. For people who don’t have much information about their ancestry, this is a true treasure trove.

23.WHAT: 15 lb. Weighted Blanket
COST: $36 (on sale currently, regularly $110)
FOR WHO: Teens, and also humans who experience anxiety or feel more secure, comfortable under a heavier blanket
WHY: Weighted blankets simulate “deep pressure touch” which can calm people who experience anxiety. This has been ENORMOUSLY helpful to two of my teens, both for use during the day while sitting at a computer or reading a book and for use falling asleep at night. The blankets have been used for years for people with sensory processing disorders, as well. The one big drawback has been cost, since they usually cost upward of $100 (and easily $200 or more.) Fortunately, prices are coming down and it’s not impossible anymore to find a weighted blanket under $50. This one currently on sale for $36 — 48”x72” and 15 lbs — is a steal.

24.WHAT: Ninja Smart Screen Blender / Food Processor
COST: $99 (on sale currently, regularly $129)
FOR WHO: Folks who enjoy cooking and/or making smoothies, margaritas, etc.
WHY: After my ancient KitchenAid blender bit the dust a few years ago, I just lived without one. I didn’t want to buy more plastic that would break quickly, and even though my KitchenAid blender was cute in a retro/50s way, it wasn’t the most durable, especially since I was pulverizing ice more often than not. But after my Cuisinart food processor also broke, I decided to do some research. I’d used mine for sauces and soups and dry rubs and baking blends, and I was pretty reliant on it. When I found the VitaMix blender, I was SO excited because it’s easy to clean, rugged, durable, and would do everything I needed from both a blender and food processor. Alas, at nearly $300 (more if you want the professional grade), I just couldn’t justify the expense. Hooray for this find! My sister-in-law clued me in to the Ninja blender, and it’s been PERFECT. Crushes ice easily. Leaves no prisoners when I’m making a smooth soup. And at $99, I could afford it as a Christmas gift last year.

25.WHAT: Owl Socks
COST: $12 for 5 pairs
FOR WHO: Humans with feet
WHY: Like many of you, we buy socks for Christmas every year. Last year, these were for stockings, and they were a huge hit. They’re adorable, comfortable, and good quality. This was a win.

26.WHAT: Emile Henry ENORMOUS Rectangular Baking Dish
COST: $80-$85
FOR WHO: Humans who cook for large groups of other humans
WHY: I looked for this baking/casserole dish forEVER. For YEARS. And then I had it on my wish list for MORE years. And then I finally broke down and bought it with several gift cards, and I’m SO GLAD I did. I have 5 kids, so when we have anyone over — holidays, birthdays, Saturday nights — I’m cooking for a crowd, and regular 9×13 casserole dishes just weren’t working. This one, though, is 10.6×16.5, and those extra cubic inches really add up. I use this pan for lasagna, creamy potatoes, roast and veggies. It’s big enough to fill people up and looks pretty going straight from the oven to the table. I have the “flour white” one, but it’s available in 8 different colors.

27.WHAT: Russell Hobbs Retro Style Electric Kettle
COST: $73-80
FOR WHO: Humans who like hot water, fast
WHY: I use mine for coffee (French Press) and tea several times every day. The temperature gauge allows me to heat water to different levels — lower temp for coffee so it doesn’t get bitter, higher for black tea. I have the white one, but it’s available in 5 colors. It looks pretty on my counter and it’s constantly in use. We’ve planned for years to put an instant-hot water dispenser in our kitchen sink, but this solution has turned out to be far cheaper AND more versatile.

REAL STUFF MY FRIENDS ARE BUYING THIS YEAR

I also asked my friends what they’re Actually buying for Christmas this year. Here are their Real purchases:

28. “Bought my girls wrap towels for after showering.” Ryann Ge-Jo

29. “Gotta love Paper Clouds Apparel. Got my son a Logan’s skull and cross bones shirt. Designs by artists with disabilities that raise money for non profits that help people with disabilities or illnesses and employs people with disabilities to pack your chosen shirt, bag or other product.” Kristen Wilker

30. “My kids are getting Kiwi Crates in the relevant ages, then my son is getting a week of life saving training and a CD player. My daughter is getting jewellery making stuff and maybe a painting form a local artist.” Josie Yar

31. “My son is getting an overnight at Great Wolf Lodge! There are deals on Groupon :)” Catherine Danford

32. “The nieces/nephew are getting a yearly subscription to a worldwide snack box! It comes with snacks from a different country every month. ” Kristin Irwin

33. ”For sure getting a new family game (we have an 11 year old and 9 year old)- Telestrations– I tried the adult version with friends and it was hilarious!” Lindsay St John

34. Two years ago I started getting Snackcrate for my kids. With each country we also prepare a meal, read folk tales, do a craft, whatever. It has been a lot of fun! Last year I got them a ninja line, because please everyone go outside and leave me alone. This year, the entire collection of I Love Lucy episodes because TV is crap (and we already did MASH). A metal detector for my 8yo who notices everything tiny and has already found everything there is to find above the ground. Ami Segna Jones

35. “We buy our teen girls significant gift vouchers to our favourite bookshop, and in January we all go into the city spend hours and hours in bookshop – with half-way break at pastry shop or sushi train. This year we might stay overnight in posh hotel with indoor pool with starry roof to complete the whole “experience” gift. It will be the last proper conversation with them for a week or two till they finish their books…” Nicole Wulee

36. “If you are looking for a quality sci-fi book for middle school age (I think my oldest and your twins are the same age), The Rithmatist by Brandon Sanderson is great. He writes amazing sci-fi for grown ups, too, btw.” Genevieve Raines

Agreed! We are HUGE Brandon Sanderson fans. We just finished Skyward, and the next book in the series, Starsight, just dropped TODAY. Brandon Sanderson books are a great idea. For ALL ages, since he also has childrens’ series like Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians.

37. For those water bottles, this is a good addition! “STICON 100 Pieces Vinyl Waterproof Stickers for Car, Laptop, Luggage, Skateboard, Motorcycle, Bicycle Decal Graffiti Patches (Series A)” Amy Tift

Alrighty, folks! There are a few more things I’m Really Considering for Christmas gifts like these men’s plaid shirts for $15, but for now that’s all I KNOW. I hope this has been helpful and maybe even saved you some TIME and $$$. If you’d like to share more ideas in the comments, I’m all ears!

Signing off, and waving in the dark, always,

P.S. I know this whole blog post is about STUFF TO BUY. And I know that’s a real struggle for a LOT of reasons. Affordability. Consumerism. What we NEED vs. what we WANT and how we teach our children to handle purchasing responsibly and ethically. So I wanted to also share (below) this little exchange with a friend and one idea for how to tackle this in a meaningful way this season. FYI, EVERY school district in the U.S. is required by federal law to have a liaison who works with children and families affected by homelessness — connecting with that person is a great place to start if you’d like to help people in your community.

“I’m struggling this year. The teen wants an updated bedroom, and the 9 & 7 year olds want every single thing they see in catalogs but need NOTHING. I can’t bear to buy more stuff! We live in a very small town, so “experiences” like movie tickets are limited. Travel with 4 kids is expensive, and having a 1 year old puts a kink in day-tripping to places. We even have too many books – a sentence I never thought I would say. Maybe they will all just sponsor a cow to a family or something.” Alexa Nowland

“We’ve BEEN THERE. My least favorite part of Christmas for years was all the STUFF it generated. Both because we didn’t need it and because 5 kids means a LARGE amount of “new stuff” clutter. It got easier for me as my kids got older. So much less “plastic toy” stuff! Having a broke college kid is the BEST because she appreciates EVERYTHING now… warm socks, a $5 starbucks gift card, etc. My other kids are pretty reasonable now, too — I guess the YEARS of me reciting how little we NEED and how much we have to already be grateful for FINALLY sunk in. This year, we’ve partnered with some friends and are sponsoring two families in our community who experience poverty and houselessness. I connected with the local McKinney Vento liaison in our school district (that’s the person who assists kids and families with the federal homeless program/funding), and she provided Christmas lists for families. We don’t know who they are — their anonymity is fully protected, which I LOVE — but we get to love them and pick up some of the burden in our community. Consider asking your school district who their McKinney Vento liaison is and see if there are any needs you and your kids can fill — it’s a game changer for our family! And there are easy, inexpensive ways to help, too, like providing snacks and microwave meals for the liaison’s office so kids have something to eat when they stop by.”

P.P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me.

{HINT: A number of previous March retreat participants have asked for that as their gift for Christmas. #GiftIdea! If you need more info, always feel free to contact our retreat registrar, Maggie Peterson, at petersonm1@spu.edu.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

Disclosure: There are affiliate links in this blog post. I belong to the Amazon Affiliate program, and if you purchase products via those links, I may earn a percentage of the sale. For example, I earned $33.14 in 2019 from affiliate links, of which I’ve been paid $24.83. (They only pay out once you’ve reached OVER $10, so $8.31 is sitting in my account waiting for another $1.69 to join it. YOU CAN HELP MAKE THAT DREAM COME TRUE.) FYI, $24.83 means I’ve been able to purchase more than 24 rolls of Presto Mega Roll Ultra Soft toilet paper, folks. MORE THAN 24 ROLLS! Of the FANCY stuff that does NOT feel like sandpaper on the arse. In conclusion, WE’RE ROLLING IN IT, friends. We’re living our best lives. And my family’s butts thank you.

The post 35+ Things We’re ACTUALLY Buying for Christmas (in Case You Need Ideas for Real Humans) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

What Do I Plan to Do with My One Wild and Precious Life? Well, Mary, I Plan to Take a Nap.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 06 Nov 2019 04:31:06 +0000

Listen; I love Mary Oliver. I do. The wild geese. The exhortation to Pay Attention. But I have a new plan for my one wild and precious life, Mary, and it’s to take a nap. A LONG one.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary wrote, and it’s a poignant and powerful question. THIS IS IT, after all. Our ONE SHOT. One go-around. One lifetime, for however long it lasts. So the reminder to use it well is apt, yes? To correctly value it as priceless and use it accordingly. To remember we’re creatures of the wild, born to be freely and fully ourselves because we’re the only one of us there is. And I am ON BOARD. I am here for it. I get it, and I’m all in.

Except I’ve also always read this as a call to achieve. Anyone else? I’ve always looked at this — “tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” — as a call to do more and do it better. “STOP WASTING TIME, friend; YOU WILL NEVER GET IT BACK.” You know? I’ve always viewed this as a timely call back to being driven and goal-oriented when I’ve maybe gotten off track. I’ve always read this and felt the pressure to squeeze the marrow out of life. To carpe every second of the diem. To wake up daily, ready and eager to go, Benjamin Franklin Early-Bird-Gets-the-Worm style, with a plan in place that I implement the hell out of.

But here’s the thing, Mary: I’m tired.

That’s really the crux of it.

I’m tired.

I’m constantly self-assessing and deciding I’m Behind Schedule.

I’m constantly self-judging and deciding Enough is Never Enough.

I’m constantly comparing myself to others my age and younger whom I consider “more successful” or “healthier” or “more well-adjusted” — or even just “wakes up and puts on pants every day” — and finding myself wanting. Which means, I think, I’m under the same amount of pressure as the rest of my peers. I suffer from the same wondering whether I’m doing enough and accomplishing it on time. And what I need, I’ve decided, is an effing break.

Is that OK, Mary?

Can I just plan to take a break with this one wild and precious life?

I went back to my therapist today to talk about how my efforts at a Consistent Activity Level are going. The answer is, not horrifically. Given that I didn’t know what that was just two weeks ago, I’m giving myself an A for effort. Some days I’ve been frenetic and flustered. But most days I’ve remembered to make myself a warm beverage, light a candle, and brush my teeth like a real grown-up, and I also gave myself screen time limits like I give my children, so I’m feeling OK about my progress. Like I’m actively trying not to do everything.

I’ve always read your question rhetorically, Mary — “tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” — where the answer, clearly, is DO BETTER, BE BETTER, and GET THERE FASTER.

But all good art, including poetry, is meant for interpretation by its audience, and I believe you would’ve been OK with mine. I think you would’ve celebrated it, even. I think you probably didn’t mean this question rhetorically at all. I believe you meant to make us stop and think. REALLY think. The problem is that our Achievement Culture coupled with my own sense of Not Enough conspired to place this question solely in the Actions Category. The Measurable Objectives category.

I forgot there’s always going to be something on the To Do list. That there is no destination labeled “Enough” unless I decide to name it so. My therapist reminded me of that today. There will always be more to do. Always. Which means the only way to rest is if we allow ourselves to do it before the list is complete.

So I’m just here for a second, Mary, to let you know I know what it is I plan to do with my one wild and precious life. At least for right now.

I plan to take a nap.

And give myself a freaking break.

The rest will wait ‘til tomorrow.

Kiss,

P.S. Speaking of visiting my therapist, REJOICE WITH ME; I’m on the mend. My brain is ALMOST BACK. It’s Nirvana to be able to think and focus and not experience overwhelming dread when I see I have an appointment on my calendar. I’m not sure I can adequately express the relief. It’s like trying to explain being pain-free. What are the words for that? I can MOVE. I can BREATHE. I REMEMBER WHO I AM. I not only see the light at the end of the tunnel, I actually believe I may eventually be able to make my way there. So thanks, friends, for sitting with me and waving in the dark in the meantime. I owe you.

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post What Do I Plan to Do with My One Wild and Precious Life? Well, Mary, I Plan to Take a Nap. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby. (No, really — I need your thoughts.)

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 04 Nov 2019 04:50:56 +0000

I’ve been invited to speak at an event for moms of young children this month, and the topic will be sex, which makes me ECSTATIC. The topic makes me ecstatic. And sex done well makes me ecstatic. I meant the former, then I realized it sounded like I meant the latter, then I realized both apply, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Whatever. We’re just going to leave it as is and go with it.

Now, USUALLY when I speak, it’s about topics like adoption and faith and waving in the dark and finding magic in the mess when life goes, well, a little off plan. Last time I spoke with this group, it was on the reality of marriage — beautiful and brutal and, if we’re lucky, beautiful again. I’m an expert on zero things, and so I don’t approach speaking gigs from a “how to” or “what you should do” perspective. Instead, I simply share what I’ve learned and what I’ve experienced — even the parts that aren’t all that pretty — and invite the audience to pick and choose from my life lessons to see if they might use any bits for themselves. I’m less like high end, boutique, carefully curated shopping and more like bargain basement, hand-me-down shopping. You’re welcome at my event in your yoga pants and messy bun, and we’re going to rummage through the bins together, laugh at some of the offerings, recognize there are a few things that could use a good washing, pick up some useful items we were missing, and maybe even find a treasure we want to take home and keep forever.

It’s less like attending a lecture or a class and more like hanging out, chatting with friends about the stuff that may be harder to admit out loud.

And, over the years, I have DEFINITELY hung out and chatted with friends about sex because, to be honest, there are things you can learn from friends you’ll never learn from books or magazines, and there are ways friends help normalize sex that no trashy novel is going to replicate. Not that one can’t get fantastic ideas from bodice rippers. 😉 As the direct beneficiary, Greg always loves it when my reading material goes downhill from literature to smut.

So I’m deep in preparation mode at the moment, working through what I want to share with this group. And, really, I’m working through what I wish I’d heard earlier in my relationship and building a family. I know some of the stories I’m going to tell. I know which ideas I’ve clung to for my almost-25-year marriage, and which I’ve patently discarded.

But I’m also one person with one person’s experience, and I feel like, especially with this topic, it’s important to share what others have learned, too. Or what others wish they’d known.

If I’m going to tell the whole truth as I best understand it (which I am because it’s my best flaw), I’m feeling both excited and cautious about the topic. I’m excited because an opportunity to unpack something so integral to most relationships but so hush-hush in many circles is a privilege and a sacred trust. And I’m cautious because I want to be as vulnerable, authentic, and open as possible while also honoring the women in the room who don’t share my experience. Not everyone there will be heterosexual, or married, or monogamous, or cisgendered, or sexual at all (hello, ace friends), and, while I feel no need to apologize for my background, I also want anything I share to be as sensitive and inclusive and non-assumptive as possible. And the very best way to do that, I believe, is to include others’ experiences, as well.

So I’m asking you, friends.

If you had the opportunity, what would you share with a group of moms with youngsters?

What do you know now that you didn’t know before and wish you had?

What did you always know that still feels essential and true?

Or, for bonus points, share a story with us. When did you have an “ah ha!” understanding about sex? What conversation or book or article stands out in your mind as instructive? Who’s the person you can ask All the Things? What has that human shared with you that would be fantastic for the rest of us to know? Or share something else entirely. It’s up to you.

I’ll go first so you can see the kind of stuff I’m talking about, but I’ll be very brief because no one has time to read through an entire speaking engagement transcript. Here are a few of the tiny things I’ll be sharing:

1. I’m really grateful to my mom for the way she framed sex. She came from a family that didn’t talk about sex but she chose to change that for her children. She was always open with us and couched sex as something wonderful and not gross or sinful. She used correct terminology for body parts and I never felt I should be ashamed of having a vagina any more than I was ashamed of having lungs. They’re just body parts with different functions, and it’s OK to use them for their intended purposes.

2. I have a lot of Big Feelings about growing up in the Church and the messaging about sex from modern, American Evangelical culture vs. what’s actually in the Bible. To be clear, those two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. There’s overlap, obviously. And the Bible is also not an Instruction Book or Blueprint for Life-ing Correctly; it’s much bigger and broader and more nuanced than that. But both the evangelical subculture and that culture’s interpretation of the Bible had an enormous influence on what those of us who grew up in the Church were taught about sex and our bodies, so they have a long reach as we consider sexual health.

3. I carried a LOT of assumptions about sex into the early years of my marriage. That’s both OK and normal. It’s also OK and normal to reevaluate what we think about all aspects of seasons of our lives after we actually begin living them. That applies to marriage, sex, parenting, money, and more. Infinite things, really. We simply CAN’T KNOW EVERYTHING going into a new era so the wisest course of action is to take what we knew (or thought we knew) and assess it based on what we’ve learned since. Case in point, I believed (truly and completely) that I should receive 100% of my sexual pleasure from my husband after marriage and 0% from myself. I already felt somewhat embarrassed and ashamed of masturbation prior to marriage — like, I thought it might be OK since the Bible didn’t mention it, but oh my gosh, what if self pleasuring led to obsessive and objectifying thoughts?? — that would be TERRIBLE. I was conflicted to say the least, but I was pretty positive any Sex for One activity was downright reprehensible post-vows. Now I think it’s rather silly to expect anyone to have a fantastic sex life without figuring out how their own body works. We were 4 years into marriage before I sheepishly asked Greg if he ever did it and confessed I might have once or twice and hoped he wasn’t mad. Can I just say?… we’ve come a LONG way since then about openness and bodies and sharing valuable, helpful information, and now I think we were ADORABLE. Repressed, but adorable. What we thought we could and couldn’t do early on was less than helpful. Bless our earnest and well-intentioned hearts.

There are approximately 100 other stories and personal life-lessons I’ll be sharing (presuming they don’t read this, gasp in horror, and cancel the engagement ), but I’ll sign off for now.

Tell me, folks. What are your thoughts? What are your life lessons? What do you wish women with littles could know that they might not know yet?

With love (and waving),

The post Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby. (No, really — I need your thoughts.) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

It’s November! Why My Christmas Season Starts NOW (and Why You Should Let It)

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 02 Nov 2019 03:34:50 +0000

I’m about to take a stand on a CONTROVERSIAL ISSUE, friends. Because I, apparently, have no sense of self-preservation. That coupled with Big Opinions means we’re doing this.

We’re talking about the fact that it is the very dawn of November, but Christmas starts NOW, and why that’s actually a good thing and you should let us do it.

Confession: Holidays have, in the past, stressed me out. Which is not much of a confession since it’s most people’s experience. It’s like saying CONFESSION: I sneak Oreos when my children aren’t looking. Tell you something you don’t know, right? Holidays have, in the past, stressed me out. NO SURPRISE. Except, of course, there’s an expectation that holidays are JOYFUL, dammit. OUR CULTURE DEMANDS IT. And it especially demands that mothers Make It So. Culture demands we make it so, AND we’re overjoyed by it ourselves. We are, in other words, supposed to be the Opposite Of Stressed Out by the holidays — we’re supposed to be CELEBRATORY and SERENE — or we’re somehow doing it wrong.

That’s a lot of pressure, friends. To be stressed out but to be told it’s not supposed to be stressful while carrying the weight of All the Expectations. WHEEEEEEE! Free fun for mamas this season.

But I’ve been doing this mama gig for 21 years now, and I’ve figured a few things out in that time. Namely, how not to lose my entire mind during the whirlwind that is October through December.

Now, I’ve made my stance on holidays quite clear in the past, and you can read all the details here.

My main problem is this: Halloween comes, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then New Year’s Day. THAT IS NOT ENOUGH TIME. It’s too much, I tell you. Too much to cram four separate holidays — each of which requires separate thought, planning, activities, decorations, and family time — into a 62-day window.

And that’s why I begin celebrating Christmas at the tail end of October.

Halloween is but the first event of Christmas season. We half-ass our costumes, we listen to Christmas music, and we put up Halloween Christmas lights which other people call just “Christmas lights.” Followed by the second event of Christmas which is Thanksgiving (unless you’re Canadian, in which case you’re allowed by law to flip those), by which we usually have the tree up and twinkling; yes, before we cook the turkey. Followed by the third event of Christmas which is Christmas Itself, where we minimize gifts as much as possible. Followed by the final, wrap-up event of Christmas which is the New Year.

It is ALL Christmas. Unless you’re from another tradition, in which case you’re welcome to make it all Kwanza or all Hanukkah or all I Don’t Worship at the Feet of Dominant Culture So Back Off, Lady, and Quit Telling Me What to Do. If that’s true for you, then fine. Really, it’s my whole point anyway. Quit telling us what to do.

Today in America — November 1st — we began that Holiest of Modern Holidays in America. No, not All Saints Day, although it’s coincidentally the same day. I’m talking about the other November 1st holiday, a day I lovingly refer to as Loudly Complain All the Christmas Stuff Is Up in Stores Day. Alternatively called NOTHING FOR CHRISTMAS SHOULD BE UP ‘TIL AFTER THANKSGIVING Day.

So, in case you, like me, feel pressured to Wait for Christmas and then cram All The Christmas Stuff into Not Enough Time, I’m going to explain why and how I gave that whole idea the finger and started doing Christmas my way…. October 31-January 1.

Here’s what I finally figured out:

1. It is Very Weird that Americans think our national Thanksgiving holiday — which is celebrated nowhere other than our country — should be the universally accepted marker for when Christmas season is allowed to begin. I mean, HOW WILL OTHER COUNTRIES KNOW THEY’RE ALLOWED TO DECORATE FOR JESUS’ BIRTH? It’s bizarre that we’ve established the first Friday after the fourth Thursday of November as the Universal Starting Line for the Great Race that Christmas has become. Right? It’s odd. “ON YOUR MARKS… GET SET… G—… OH NO, FOLKS! We’ve had a FALSE START! Someone tried to buy peppermint bark TOO SOON. Someone jumped the gun on Pentatonix Silent Night. Now EVERYONE GO BACK. Linda ruined it for all of us by putting up her lights mid-November.” So down with that. I mean, YOU are welcome to wait until American Thanksgiving is over. Go for it! But you are not welcome to tell me I should wait, too. Because no. Nope. Uh uh.

2. It is Very Weird there are people in this world WHO CARE about restricting other humans to a narrow window of when they’re allowed to celebrate anything. Who have made themselves the Arbiters of When Christmas May Begin. Who are morally incensed by seeing Christmas ornaments in mall stores before we’ve handed out Halloween candy. Who take time to lament on social media and ask What the World Has Come To that they can purchase candy canes before turkey and cranberry sauce have even touched our lips. I am baffled. I do not know what’s really bothering them that they take time out of their lives to both grieve the loss of store shelf space to red and green wrapping paper and chastise humans who grab egg nog from the dairy case while leaves are still falling from the trees. Is it symbolic of their frustration that People Refuse to Follow the Rules? Is it a specific expression of the more general Kids These Days frustration? Someone please help me understand why anyone is troubled by this. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

3. Insisting that Christmas season with all its trappings (family gatherings, celebratory meals, Advent Sundays, wrapped presents under a decorated tree sourced tromping through the mud in the forest, lights and candles, hot cocoa, stockings and related stuffings, sitting on a red suited stranger’s lap, sucking on candy canes, and Christmas goddamn cheer), for which the vast majority of the organizational, physical, and emotional labor falls to women, be shoehorned into a 4-week window that cannot start until the crack of the gun on midnight following American Thanksgiving is pure madness. Madness, I tell you. Madness.

And, really, it’s that third point I wanted to get to. Yes, the arbitrary start of Christmas season makes no sense. And yes, it’s strange that folks assign themselves to police the timeline. But mostly it’s not OK that women are simultaneously expected to pull off All That Is Expected of Christmas in order to Make Their Children’s Memories Magical while also being told — explicitly and implicitly — by the dominant culture that they ought to be happy and unstressed while doing it in an artificially small timeframe, neither thinking about nor purchasing the supplies they’ll need while they’re supposed to be focused solely on the joy and non-stress of Thanksgiving.

Ha!

That’s what I want to say.

HAhahahahahahahahaHA!

Now, OBVIOUSLY I’ve seen all the articles and admonitions that we just need to SIMPLIFY the holiday. That we need to MINIMIZE. That we need to FOCUS on the REASON FOR THE SEASON. That modern society is too focused on STUFF. That we’ve commercialized JESUS.

But guess what? WE ALSO EXPECT WOMEN TO DO THE EMOTIONAL LABOR OF RETHINKING THE HOLIDAY. Rethinking which things to simplify. Prioritizing what stays and what goes. Communicating our New Plan and New Expectations to our children and extended families. And you know what? I HAVE. I HAVE simplified. I HAVE minimized. I HAVE focused —> which is why Christmas begins on Halloween now <— but it turns out I still have children and parents and in-laws and church and “secret Santas” for every school group and extracurricular activity. It turns out I still have to use brain space to think about literally dozens… probably hundreds… of details including thoughtful gifts; stocking stuffers that won’t break the bank; menus for Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas breakfast, Christmas dinner, and additional family get-togethers; activities like tree-trimming and seeing Santa and playing together in the snow — activities that build our family and create memories and make this season one that’s not reduced to just checking items off my To Do List.

The truth is, I want to do these things. This season is joyful. And I love the work of making magic happen.

I love the anticipation.

I love sitting in the dark with idea that Love takes the form of a baby and grows and walks among us in flesh.

I love cozy slippers and hot tea and fire in the fire place.

I love giving my kids their childhood and making tiny dreams come true.

I love thinking about what each person on my list might truly enjoy.

I love brown paper packages tied up with string which are the only kind I wrap anymore because a) they make me happy and b) it’s SO MUCH EASIER to just keep a roll of butcher paper on hand than it is to manage wrapping paper and bows.

I love all of it. Truly. Especially once I figured out I could reach inside the Enormous Bag of Expectations and pull out only those that serve me and my people well.

And that’s just it.

The crux of the whole thing.

I love all of the bits I choose to do. I just don’t love folks trying to force me into a tiny timeframe in which to do it.

You know?

You know.

So it’s November now. HOORAY! Christmas has begun! And I’m prepared to apologize for that 0%.

Waving in the dark, friends — or, actually, waving by the light of my Halloween Christmas lights,

The post It’s November! Why My Christmas Season Starts NOW (and Why You Should Let It) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

My Therapist Said to Try a Consistent Activity Level, and I Don’t Know How

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 23 Oct 2019 00:17:46 +0000

OMG, friends. Bless my darling heart. I went to see my therapist yesterday, she said to try something called a “Consistent Activity Level,” and I don’t know how.

Yesterday, it made sense.

I’m at the part of mental health recovery where the medication is probably working again. So, WOOHOO! But also, CAUTION.

BEWARE. ACHTUNG. Because I am starting to feel better. I have a working brain on occasion. I can complete WHOLE THOUGHTS and remember why I went to the kitchen, like, 50% of the time. It only took me three trips to remember to bring my tea back to my desk this afternoon, and that’s WAY less than infinite trips which is the number I was making while the meds were withholding their love. And all of this is wonderful — it really is — except for the fact I fall so easily and quickly into the NOW I AM BETTER, I MUST DO ALL THE THINGS trap.

There’ve been weeks now — 5? 6? — when I’ve been wholly unproductive. So when the brain starts to come back online, I’m all, “TIME TO MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME.” And I get cracking on my to do list. TIME TO CHECK BOXES! TIME TO GO THROUGH EMAILS! TIME TO RESPOND TO TEXTS! TIME TO SCHEDULE ALL THE APPOINTMENTS!

I take my wonky brain with its fits and starts and sputtering, and I jam that sucker into drive, hit the gas, and peal out into the fast lane on the Highway of Acheivement. I drive it long, and I drive it hard. (That’s what they said.) I drive it until it’s running on fumes. I give it no breaks. I give it no rest. And I am shocked — STUNNED — every time it breaks down on the side of the freeway and refuses to keep going once it’s out of gas.

So I sat in the behavioral psychologist’s office yesterday, and I confessed that it’s going well — my brain is getting better — but I’m pushing it too far, too fast, and I probably need to figure out a way to knock it off. At least treat my mental machine a little more gently. Give it time to be “getting better” without forcing it to maximum throttle. I confessed that I’ve spent several days lately, working 12 hours at a time, trying to give people stuff I feel I owe them, trying to erase the unproductivity of the last several weeks, and trying to make amends for falling off the face of the planet. And then, of course, the days following my manic bursts of accomplishment, I pass out. I use all the energy I have, and my body and my brain force me to rest whether I like it or not. (Hint: I don’t like it.)

The therapist looked across the office at me and said, “OK. We’re going to address several things eventually — like the words “owe” and “amends” — but for now we’re going to focus on just one. Have you heard of the Consistent Activity Level?”

And, I mean, I know what those words mean. I’ve just never thought of how they might a) go together, and b) be applied to me.

What she said next now seems basic, so you’ll have to bear with my incredulity since I’m sure you’re going to be all, “Um, yeah. Duh, Beth.” But it actually blew my mind. She said, “On the days when you feel full of energy — like your brain is fully functional — what if, instead of doing 10 out of 10 things on your To Do list, you do 6 out of 10 things? And what if, on the days you’re exhausted, instead of doing 0/10 things, you do 3 or 4?”

Then she drew a wave graph to illustrate.

What if, instead of vacillating back and forth between extremes…

…like DO EVERYTHING inevitably followed by the NOW I CAN’T MOVE crash, you slowed the waves…

…to a more gentle roll?

WUT?

Honestly, friends. This concept has never once, in all my 46 years, occurred to me. My plan has been the Erratic Activity Level, by which I mean, on the days I feel full of energy and like my brain is fully functional, I MUST MAXIMIZE THE SHIT OUT OF IT and DO EVERYTHING because God Knows when I’m going to have an opportunity like this again. I treat those high energy days like they are COMBAT and I am being deployed by air drop into the hostile zone to TAKE DOWN ANYTHING THAT MOVES. Swear to the Lord God Almighty, it’s like I’m being shoved out of the helicopter too close to the ground to fully deploy my parachute, hitting the ground too hard, and then being yelled at to GO, GO, GO, running parallel to the earth while enemy fire strafes me. Then on the days I’m exhausted, I ALSO try to DO EVERYTHING because I’m paralyzed by the twin fears that a) I’ll Get Behind and Never Catch Up and b) I’m a Lazy, Worthless Excuse for a Human Being if I can’t Accomplish Simple Tasks I’m certain Everyone Else Can Manage. So on high energy days, I accomplish 47 out of 10 tasks. And on exhaustion days I accomplish either 0 out of 10 tasks, for which I berate myself with guilt, or 26 out of 10 tasks, but all of them poorly. And the result is, no matter what, I am MORE exhausted by the end of ALL days than when I started.

More exhausted by doing Way Too Many Things on the high energy days.

More exhausted by Feeling Consuming Guilt for doing nothing on the exhausted days.

Or more exhausted by doing Way Too Many Things when I was already operating on an energy deficit.

All roads lead to more exhausted, in other words.

Which, for those of you who need the answers provided (**raises hand**), is NOT A HEALTHY WAY TO LIVE LIFE.

You can see, then, why this whole “Consistent Activity Level” concept is causing a mental nuclear explosion. There’s a mushroom cloud lifting off my scalp as we speak.

What is this “DO NOT USE ALL THE ENERGY YOU HAVE” idea?

What is this “SAVE SOME FOR LATER” notion?

What is this “Do SOME things but not EVERYthing and Call It a Day” approach?

I have literally never — not even one day in my adult life — felt full of energy without feeling obligated to spend every scrap of it. I mean, I have absolutely had days when I didn’t spend all my energy, but I also badmouthed myself for being “lazy” and “not using my time wisely.”

GOOD GRIEF, Self. COULD YOU BE SILLIER RIGHT NOW? I mean, I’m going to try to be kind and gentle to myself, even though this feels like very entry-level adulting information, but I really feel quite ridiculous that this is such a revelation.

Here’s the thing, though…

I met with my therapist yesterday. My mind was blown. I had an enormous “AH HA” moment. I came home ready to implement the poop out of a “Consistent Activity Level.” And now I’m sitting here at my desk staring out my window WITH NO IDEA WHAT TO DO TO JEAN-LUC PICARD THIS SHIT.

How? How, dear friends? How does one Make It So with a Consistent Activity Level?

How do I identify 10 things and pick 6 when there are 548 things on the To Do List?

I’ve been thinking about this all day, and, frankly, I’m stumped.

So far, I’ve assembled a Daily To Do List.

And I’ve begun a Running To Do List which is my compilation of ever-changing tasks.

My current idea is I’ll work on always doing my Daily Tasks because they’re just an expansion of the coping skills my therapist and I agreed are a Good Start for treating myself kindly. And I’ll do… some stuff… on the Running Task List every day without trying to do everything. Like, I’ll purposefully leave some of it undone like not doing everything is my literal job.

I’m currently convinced it’s impossible to have a Consistent Activity Level and meet the needs of my family, my job, and myself. I’m currently convinced this will result in Stuff that Needs Doing Never Getting Done. I’m also currently convinced I have to try this Radical Concept anyway because the way I’ve done things so long, well, sucks.

In conclusion, I’m going to attempt to have a Consistent Activity Level even though I feel like it’s a graduate level exercise and I have an elementary school education in this field. WISH ME LUCK, please. And if any of you have tried — or tried and accomplished (which seems like a miracle)— a Consistent Activity Level, PLEASE SHARE. Especially if you have any How To tips. ‘Cause I’m all ears, friends.

Yours truly, and waving in the dark,

P.S. I AM working on being kinder to myself than this post indicates, and on not doing all the things. It appears to be the work of a lifetime. You can read more about finding our way to kindness and gentleness here, and here, and here, and here. And a million other places on this blog. I’m working on it, folks. I swear.

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post My Therapist Said to Try a Consistent Activity Level, and I Don’t Know How first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Asked My Friends if They Think They’re Good Looking. Here Are the Results.

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 19 Oct 2019 04:03:09 +0000

I had a wild hair last month while I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, and I asked my friends to let me know if they think they’re good looking. Weird, yes, but I was intrigued, and my friends tend to be the honest types, so I thought I’d throw it out there and see what happened. There were two main causes; a sort of aligning of two stars that day that resulted in the questions rolling around in my head. 1. I don’t know how to keep my daughter’s iTunes music from autoplaying in my car. 2. I find whatever wave of feminism we’re currently surfing completely fascinating.

A year ago, after totaling my favorite car ever, we bought a new one, and I still don’t know how it works. I mean, I know how to drive it. That part I have down. I just don’t know how to sync it because, apparently, these days cars sync to phones and wireless networks and probably satellites and Russian spy networks and the Google so all my mesmerizing moves are tracked, recorded, compiled, and sold in order to better tailor ads to my social networks. The joke’s on them, though, because instead of participating in their nefarious, big brotherly schemes, I’m playing my kid’s iTunes music on repeat. I hop in the car. I plug in my phone because I will 100% have forgotten to charge it overnight. And it auto plays my music list. Except it’s not my music list. To be fair, it’s not even my kid’s music list. Instead, it’s a randomly selected song from all the music my kid, now 21, has downloaded over the last 10 years since she started collecting music in the first place. That means there’s a lot of Glee mash-ups, friends. And some Bieber. Mariah Carey often serenades me with Christmas music in the summer. There’s John Legend, a little Beyoncé, and every song from all three High School Musicals. And the list goes on into infinity.

I apologize to people who ride in my car.

“Something is about to happen,” I tell them. “My stereo is going to play us a song. I don’t know which one. It chooses for us. It’s one of those injustices in the universe. If we’re lucky, we can sing along to All the Single Ladies. If it goes badly, we’re stuck with Hannah Montana. I don’t know what to tell you. It is what it is.”

I’m fairly certain, if I was willing to invest the time, I could find a solution for my auto-playing car. But a) I’m definitely not willing, and b) it’s honestly pretty entertaining, so I leave it alone, and we all get to suffer equally.

Last month, though, on the Day in Question, I was serenaded by One Direction singing What Makes You Beautiful, the premise of which is, of course, the fact that you don’t know you’re beautiful is what makes you beautiful. Or, in the words of All Women Everywhere Who Live in the Wonky World of Infinite Social Dichotomies, bullshit.

World: Here’s what we’re going to need you to do. I’ll make it super simple. A) Be beautiful. B) Don’t know you’re beautiful. Got it?

Us: ???

World: Right. So, we’re going to need you to actually BE beautiful. Whatever effort, appliances, substances, time, research, self-examination, etc. that takes. But then please maintain grotesquely low self esteem ensuring you perpetually question your beauty because you’re not beautiful unless you don’t know you’re beautiful. Am I clear?

I mean, really, this is a concept that’s been roundly covered in the media, both satirically and seriously, during whatever wave of feminism we’re currently experiencing. Like this full-on brilliant schedule by Amy Schumer:

So I knew my frustration last month wasn’t anything new. And I’m grateful to be living in an era when women everywhere are roundly and unapologetically flipping off this entire concept.

But what I was curious about — what captured my attention and imagination — was how this very blatant cultural expectation that we must be but not know we’re beautiful affects real people. Like, my real people.

I wondered whether — even though we know the above expectation is complete excrement — we feel free to admit, even privately, if we know we’re beautiful. I wondered how many people allow themselves to even believe they’re beautiful. I wondered if folks would be able to quantify their beauty. And I wondered, for those who feel that they are beautiful, if it would be possible to say so without minimizing their beauty, providing disclaimers, or otherwise downplaying it.

My Facebook post read:

Your Assistance Requested:

1. Will you please “like” this post so I know how many people saw it? Because I’m going to compare that data with the following…
2. Will you please send me a private message if you consider yourself good looking? (Just a yes is enough, but if you’re willing, you can also answer #3 via PM.)
3. If yes to #2 and if you’re willing to be super honest, a) how good looking (average, not “bad” so must be good, above average, very, extra, etc.), b) how does answering this question honestly make you feel (nervous, awesome, afraid, vulnerable, happy, etc.), c) if you somehow downplayed your looks or gave any disclaimers/caveats/etc. in any of the above, why did you feel like that was necessary… or were you tempted to downplay them but then saw this question and decided not to, and d) at what age did you start to think of yourself as good looking?

No need to private message if you feel like you’re not good looking… a “like” is sufficient so I know you saw this but didn’t message. I won’t be tallying your names or anything; just the number of views.

NOTE: I may use this information (anonymously) in an article. All answers will be kept in confidence UNLESS you give me explicit, written permission to quote you, but I reserve the right to anonymously quote you without any identifying information. ALSO, this is a judgement-free zone, just FYI.

I thought it would be an interesting social experiment.

It was.

Here are the results:

186 people saw the post
41 of those (22%) believe they’re good looking
Not everyone answered the quantifying question “how good looking,” but of those who did, most (more than 25) of the 41 think they’re “average” or “not bad”, and few (less than 5) of the 41 think they’re above average or “very” good looking
29 of the 41 answered the question “at what age did you start thinking of yourself as good looking,” and, of those, 22 said under 18, and 7 said somewhere in their 20’s-40’s.

Now, this was an anecdotal exercise. Obviously. It lacks the scientific rigor of an actual poll. But it was FASCINATING to me nonetheless. 145 people out of 186 DO NOT consider themselves good looking. Since I didn’t ask for additional data from them, we don’t know whether that means they consider themselves OK? Fair? Poor? Ugly? Or other. We also don’t know if their self-assessed NonGoodLookingness bothers them. Maybe they couldn’t care less. But it is fair to say that 78% of people who saw this post thought about it and answered “nope” in their own heads.

That is staggering to me!

I don’t know about you, but I find nearly everyone good looking. Classically, culturally gorgeous? Maybe not. But good looking? Absolutely. I think “good looking” is a pretty low bar. In fact, there are strikingly few people I find homely, and, when I do, it’s nearly always because they’re unkind or bigoted or bullying or otherwise treat people terribly. I’ve been accused of being more charitable than most people (which is untrue — I judge the crap out of people who treat others poorly), but I’m still going to guess that most of us find most people good looking. But that’s not true of how people feel about themselves. Fascinating!

I’m going to include a whole bunch of anonymous quotes from people’s responses below, so you can see what the 22% of people who DO think they’re good looking said, but before I do, I want to share two quick observations.

The first I want to note because it was exactly the response I would’ve given if someone had asked me whether I consider myself good looking. And, according to others’ responses, it’s extraordinarily common. I would’ve said yes. Or, more accurately, “Yes, BUT…” or “Yes, sometimes?” Because I have moments when I see myself in a mirror or a photo and think “YOU ARE PRETTY, BETH,” but I have many more moments when I see myself and think “oh dear” or “you are VERY FAT” or another, equally unkind observation, and I would have 100% felt vulnerable answering in front of someone else because WHAT IF I SAY YES AND THEY DISAGREE? What if, in the moments when I think I’m good looking, I’m WRONG? What if my perception is WAY OFF? Which is sad, really — that so very much of what I think “counts” as “good looking” requires someone else’s analysis and buy-in. I really didn’t realize before asking this question and receiving the responses how precariously I value my physical self. And how I qualify and quantify it based on the ways I perceive others’ input.

WOW. I must say, THIS IS NOT HOW I WANT TO DECIDE WHETHER OR NOT I LOOK GOOD. Comparatively. And only if others agree.

I’d rather, during those moments when I see myself in a mirror or photo and think “YOU ARE PRETTY, BETH,” just… let myself feel that way. You know? Like I’m good with how Physical Me is represented. Like my confidence and how I feel isn’t dependent on anyone else. Like my “good looks” aren’t based on YOUR evaluation. They’re only based on MINE. And you’ll have to forgive me, because I know this is basic, but it feels revolutionary to me. I guess because I’ve KNOWN these things in my head, but I didn’t realize how very little they’d permeated my heart.

Huh.

Food for thought.

And now, after I’ve said good-lookingness (pretend that’s a word) shouldn’t depend on what others think/say/believe about me, I’m going to say that we still should tell other humans — particularly the young ones — they look great. 😉

That’s the second observation I have. One surprise in my friends’ answers — the 22% who feel they’re good looking or at least “not bad” — is how young each was when they came to believe that. The overwhelming majority of folks who answered said they started to believe it before age 18 which indicates that what we’re told when we’re young informs how we view ourselves going forward.

I have to admit I’ve been uncomfortable with the “don’t tell girls they’re pretty” movement for quite some time. I understand the intention, which is to uncouple worth from looks and to send the important message to young women that their brains and ideas and inherent value are what’s important. You’ve seen the memes, right? “Don’t tell her she’s pretty. Ask her what she’s reading.” And I get it. I really do. I think those things are important, too. Definitely more important than cultural expectations for physical appearance.

At the same time, we tend to get sucked into Either/Or thinking when we ought to choose Both/And instead. Look, our bodies are how we interact with our world. And we are social creatures dependent on our communities, living in physical environments. Why in the world would we discount the body in favor of the mind when we can praise and uplift both? Why in the world wouldn’t we continue to tell young humans they look good AND ask what they’re reading? You know? We don’t have to pick.

If so many humans are forming their thoughts about and confidence in themselves so young, isn’t it important to instill in them as many positive thoughts about as many different aspects as possible? Don’t we all deserve that confidence and consideration? To truly believe that our bodies are as wonderful as our minds? Our faces as cool a feature as our hearts? What if we were allowed to embrace ourselves holistically? What if we didn’t have to respond to a culture too focused on looks by rejecting our bodies entirely? What if we could have a healthy attitude about brains AND brawn AND beauty?

Imagine!

Take a look at the comments below, though, friends. I’ll bet once you read them you’ll feel like you’re in good company. They’re all just very… human and honest. I’ll love to get your comments, too.

Do you believe you’re good looking? Do you care? Do looks even matter or am I giving WAY too much time and attention to them by writing this? And did any of these comments make you think differently about your looks and how you view yourself? Inquiring minds want to know.

Sending you love, friends, and waving in the dark, always,

Here’s a sampling of the comments from my informal poll:

Answering makes me feel nervous and a little embarrassed. I feel like I’m “supposed to” be more unhappy with how I look than I am. I was totally planning on downplaying [my looks.] “I think this, but here’s an annotated list of the things I still wish I could change …” I went and had kids in my mid-20s, which meant I got a new list of things to dislike about my body (extra weight, loose skin, stretch marks so numerous my stomach may as well be purple). Took me at least two years post-pregnancies to start to accept the changes and revert to “sure I’m attractive.” And typing the last sentence made me feel kind of gross.

I consider myself average looking WITH MAKEUP. Without makeup I feel like I’m definitely below average, but not horrifying, just… not cute… yaknow?

Please don’t tell me if I’m the only one who pm’s you about this. lol But Yes. I think I’m good looking. Slightly above average looking despite having distinct asymmetrical features. I’m not embarrassed to say so- but I try not to often because it feels awkward that other people don’t see or talk about their own beauty.

Of course I think I’m pretty!!! Just kidding, there’s a little insecurity in there because my body type isn’t “firm”. But I think that I clean up nice and when I make an effort to wear flattering clothes and style my hair I can look really pretty. That self confidence definitely changes with weight gain though, I’m pretty insecure about weight.

I consider myself good looking. Answering makes me nervous, and uncomfortable because it feels braggy. I also worry that my perception is flawed, that I’m less than average looking. I worry that I’m a narcissistic if I really love the way I look. I have very little shame about my body and my looks, and that’s usually pretty uncommon for my peers my age/sex so I second guess my confidence occasionally. I remember the day I started considering myself good looking! I was at 5th grade camp and one of the mom volunteers called me a “timeless beauty”. I considered myself pretty since then. Before that day, I don’t think I considered myself or my looks much other than the clothing I wore.

I think I’m good looking. Felt pretty cute starting in the 4th grade, had a slight crack in my self esteem in middle school but did some mind set work/boundaries work and told myself I was not allowed to speak or think poorly about myself and have felt beautiful ever since. At one point later in middle school I questioned if I truly felt this way or if I had tricked myself into feeling this way. I decided I didn’t care which one was true. As long as I was always kind and loving towards myself, that was all I wanted.

I think that the way I look is often not valued in our culture (a curvy, somewhere between hippy-comfy and nerdy butch woman is not our culture’s definition of hot). There are days when I look in the mirror and think, daaayum. And there are days when I think, ugh, who is that frumpy wench. Generally, I think I have the raw material to be very good looking but usually range in the pretty good looking range. I feel all kinds of things talking about my attractiveness as a woman who has been large my whole life. I wonder how many of my opinions are those of the people who teased me in middle school or of movie casting directors. But in recent years I’ve gotten pretty comfortable with my looks and my body and feel good about saying that I look good. I was really romantically frustrated in my teens and 20s, never having boyfriends or sexual partners and really wanting that. In my early 30s I took the plunge and really committed to dating for a while and through a combination of trying harder and getting older found a number of partners who were really into me. I joke that reaching the age where men in their 40s is an acceptable target range changed everything – young men think they know what they want and a mouthy, curvy, butch brunette with no make up on is rarely it. Older men appreciate what I bring to the table in terms of brains and charm. As a feminist, I feel some kind of way about this, but I can actually pinpoint a couple specific partners who’s appreciation of my body has made a big difference in how I feel about myself. Hearing those words and knowing them to be true, even if I can’t always accept it, has worked like a buoy and a prayer – “I am hot! He thinks so so it must be true.” Yeah, man… we spend a long time healing from being a teenager. It sucks.

I guess I consider myself “not bad-looking.” Or maybe average overall. I really like my face, especially my eyes, and my hair is pretty great. But, also, I’m working really hard to de-program myself from evaluating people, myself included, based on looks. I don’t know where this quote originated, but it’s to do with the whole “being pretty isn’t the price of admission for being a woman in this world” thing, or something to that effect. And also body positivity and radical fat acceptance etc. etc. But of course I still look in the mirror and evaluate myself. And I mostly like what I see, even though I’m fat. Not just fat, but I think fatter than I’ve ever been with the exception of when I was pregnant. Objectively, wears-plus-sizes-now fat. So I guess answering the question makes me feel nervous, because I know for a fact that I don’t meet a single societal beauty standard other than being white, but also vulnerable and maybe a bit annoyed because, like, can we please move on from equating people’s value with looks??? (Not that I think you’re doing that, but it’s a thing that’s deeply tied in to considering this question, you know?) So yeah I provided caveats because I have a lot of complicated thoughts and feelings about evaluating looks, whether mine or others.

I only sometimes feel like I’m good-looking but I thought I would send the message because I know there are times when I see my reflection or (less usually) a photo and think “Oh I look quite pretty.” Times this is more likely to happen – when I’m wearing make-up, when I’ve managed to blow-dry my hair nicely, when I’m wearing sunglasses. At least 50% of the time though and probably more, I have the opposite reaction so in terms of category I would say average at best. This question makes me feel quite stressed because I don’t want to sound vain. I was brought up being warned that two of the main things we should seek to avoid in life are showing off and drawing attention to yourself and this feels very connected to those ideas. I felt qualifying my answer was necessary because so much of the time I don’t think much of my looks. To be completely honest I nearly did avoid when I read this question but then I thought conveying the idea that I think I’m always stunning would be worse than getting into the explanation.

I consider myself good looking in an average sort of way. I recall thinking of myself as a beautiful little girl as early as I recall. People used to tell my mother I was beautiful in my hearing. All little girls are pretty. I think I looked good partly because my mother sewed my clothes and dressed me in dramatic things like black, orange, and shiny gold that couldn’t be bought in children’s sizes in the early 60s. It went well with my black hair and my extroverted style. My mother and girl cousins were truly beautiful – like movie star gorgeous. I was content with average. My perception is my adolescence was easier because I wasn’t as beautiful as my cousins. I had an easier time being taken seriously than they did. My mom and I would get in strange arguments where she wanted me to say I was beautiful and I would say “I look pretty good.” I wanted that to be enough for her but it never was. SHE needed me to be stunning and I wanted her to be okay with pretty enough. I know I’m fat and old now but I still have times pretty frequently when I look in a mirror and think, “Hey I look good today!” I think that early feedback really sticks.

I do think I am attractive. I have always been told that I am beautiful by the people I love and trust – my grandmothers, my grandfather, my parents, my god mother, my closest friends, my husbands (I’ve been married twice). I don’t think that they would all lie. I don’t think anything much about being beautiful (though writing that felt a little bit odd lol) because it is more important that I am nice, and compassionate. Mostly I felt lucky because I had people in my life make me feel beautiful. Oh, and I have always felt that way. As an aside, I remember (when I was at university) comforting one of my beautiful friends because she thought she was ugly (she is not ugly) but her family had not built up her self esteem. I really felt lucky that mine had thought that was important (they also thought it was important that I thought I was smart and could do anything – for some reason I find this harder to accept.)

I guess so? Not like a model or anything striking but I can look decently put together? How’s that for a bold answer? Ha! The question makes me feel weird because I think it’s a combo of my own efforts (brushing my hair—my mother’s urging finally paid off), my genetics, and honestly my fortunate wealth (good makeup, nicer clothing, dentistry, skin care). And it also makes me feel weird because I know it plays a role in my professional success and that feels gross.

I feel a little anxious [answering this] but also really happy, it took a long time for me to feel good about how I look. I feel like I might have added caveats like my face is good but my stomach is bad, my arms are fat, qualify it somehow so I’m not being overly full of myself.

[I consider myself] slightly above average, I definitely feel vulnerable about that because I have doubts about whether others would agree. I have been working on healing my relationship with food, learning to eat intuitively, and accepting my body as it is. I have gained some weight and I’m still working daily on accepting this. Some days I feel amazing and other days all I can see are the physical changes through diet culture-influenced eyes. Even though I have spoken to very few people about it, I spend (probably) too much time wondering what people think.

In answer to your survey, yes. I did start thinking of caveats but then noticed your question and stopped, I guess because it feels weird to tell someone I know that I consider myself good looking–as in, if this were anonymous it would be easier but there’s definitely something… Shaming? About admitting it. I think maybe it’s because other people are “supposed to” rate our attractiveness, we’re not supposed to claim it. I always had this love-hate relationship with being good looking: it’s nice and it gives me power, and I don’t want people to just like me or give me power because of my looks.

Yes, I consider myself good looking. As far as ranking myself, I’d say I’m about average. However, I’d say I’m a “real” version of good looking. I’m not perfect, super skinny, tall, etc. I don’t fit the criteria set in society’s standards. Answering that question made me feel somewhat insecure. I don’t want to answer too strongly one way or another and be judged as being way off. It also made me feel inquisitive because I know I’m decently good looking , but I don’t know exactly how to qualify it. I do typically downplay my looks. Like, if someone compliments me, or is even attracted to me, my brain goes “yeah, but…” and reminds of all the things I’m insecure about that counteract the things that are good looking. Or my brain reminds me of how I’m only good looking because of “blank” effort I put in and it’s not going to always be there or last.

Yes, I would say that I have always thought of myself as beautiful, radiant and pretty but not necessarily sexy or hot nor have I really felt the need to feel that way (although in my adult life when there are people who make me feel that way it hits a vulnerable spot of desire that usually doesn’t emerge it’s face.) I have always lived into my given beauty rather than trying very hard to cover up or excentuate with make up or fancy hair. But I want to acknowledge that I had the benefit of falling in love very early in my life to a man who doesn’t need or want me to be that way.

What a question! I’m going to answer yes, good looking, but not super, just sorta. I will add that I was raised by a covert narcissist who outright told me I was NOT good looking. I was “average” or “funny looking.” It took until a few years ago, and about 18-20 years hearing how gorgeous my husband thinks I am to finally be able to look in the mirror and see someone who ain’t bad. Some days? Yikes. Old, double chin, bad hair. Lots more days the past few years, hey, how ya doin’ beautiful? Middle age weight gain hasn’t helped, but I recognize now that I have an hour glass figure, and if I dress it right I still look pretty good. So I’m gonna go with yes, not magazine cover material, but pretty good.

Hi I’m nervously answering that mostly when I look in the mirror I think I look OK and not as old as I actually am. Sometimes with more make up on than usual, I would up that to pretty. But I feel really embarrassed about saying that I look OK and also really vulnerable because now someone could laugh and say that I think I’m pretty but that I’m not.

I consider myself good looking. I realized in college that good looking didn’t mean tiny and slim and it didn’t mean I had to look hot in pictures. It meant that when I smile and laugh other people do too. It meant that all my features come together to create my whole picture and none had to be picked apart, studied, or criticized in isolation. I also realized that I had this face and body for the long haul. I might as well appreciate and enjoy it! I am so lucky. No one who matters in my life has ever loved me more or less based on how I look. No parent felt I wasn’t slender enough, as for me husband he is just happy if I am naked, and for my job: students need me to be present and welcoming and available to see and support them, so my looks couldn’t matter in the least. Consequently, I think I can be a reasonable judge of my own looks without caveats or evasions.

Interesting, right?? Remember, I’d love to hear your comments, too.

P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. {Note: we’re more than 90% full for November, but if you’re hoping to attend that retreat, we can still squeeze you in! Feel free to contact Maggie, retreat registrar, at petersonm1@spu.edu if you have any questions about registration.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post I Asked My Friends if They Think They’re Good Looking. Here Are the Results. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Engagement Parties. And the Importance of Showing Up. Haphazard Lifestyle Advice: How to Wedding, Part 4

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 15 Oct 2019 22:32:07 +0000

{I originally wrote this at the beginning of September, but, you know, things happen. I’m publishing this now, out of chronological sequence for events in my life. So, you know; the timeline is off, but whatever. Most of me is “off” anyway, so it may be more authentic this way, anyway.}

Alrighty, friends; I’m about to disclose everything I know about parenting, friendship, and being a real, live community, aimed at caring well for each other.

Ready?

SHOW UP.

BE KIND.

APPLAUD YOUR HUMANS FOR BEING DEEPLY, TRULY, AUTHENTICALLY THEMSELVES.

This is the same thing as “love one another,” just using different words, but sometimes we get confused about what love looks like. Or what love does. Or who Love is. So I thought it might be helpful to spell it out a little, in case you, like me, sometimes need instructions.

SHOW UP.

BE KIND.

APPLAUD YOUR HUMANS FOR BEING DEEPLY, TRULY, AUTHENTICALLY THEMSELVES.

That is all.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

The End

Or maybe a few more tiny words on this subject, as follows:

It’s been a week, friends.

A long one.

A lovely one.

A week I didn’t see coming.

I flew to Hawaii for my kid’s engagement party — the one she and Chandler planned with their college people — because I decided suddenly I didn’t want to miss it.

It was a last minute gathering, really. They planned it only a few days in advance. And I gave myself the Usual Chat. The Be Responsible convo. The “Your Budget Can’t Afford a Trip to Hawaii” reality check.

“Beth,” I said to me, “you cannot be there for everything. You have to let them do some things on their own. You really don’t need to invite yourself to Every Event.” But I had a Moment. And I wanted to buy them flowers. And see them play on the beach on the island where they met. I wanted to breathe their joy deep into my lungs. And I’ve lived long enough to Listen to my Heart. So I texted my children — the one who’s already mine and the one who will become mine — and asked if I could come. Also, I bribed them by promising leis and to take them out to eat, and God knows one of the best things about parenting Poor College Students is their susceptibility to bribery.

“Can I come?” I asked. “I WILL BUY YOU FOOD.”

“YES, PLEASE,” they said. And, “WE WOULD LOVE THAT.”

And I said, “EXCELLENT — I WILL BE THERE AS FAST AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.”

Now, I will tell you an important truth here: there is nothing I want more in all the world than for my children to include me in their lives. But I have also learned from watching the masters — my own parents who had to create the entire system from scratch because their parents … well… sucked at this — that the only way for your children to want to include you rather than be obligated to include you is if you wholly, completely, transparently, vulnerably accept them as they already are and CHAMPION THEM OUT LOUD for those very things, praising, loving and respecting them for being themselves.

When there is conflict, hash that shit out. All the way. Uncomfortably. Take a fearless inventory of the ways you have wronged them. Believe them when they tell you they’re hurt rather than defending yourself. Apologize for the ways you’ve caused harm. Because you are human, and you will misstep, and they are watching, and they will learn How to Human by following your lead. They will learn how to be humble. They will learn how to be open. They will learn how to listen. They will learn that apologies are survivable and healing and critically important for healthy relationships.

Then do this over and over until you have communicated to them times infinity — for decades — that you will do Whatever It Takes to have an authentic, whole relationship absent the quiet disapproval and subtle judgement and residual hurt that poisons so many parent/child relationships. Let them know through words and actions and showing up again and again (and again and again) that You Have Their Backs and Will Defend Them to the Death. <— This cannot be a one-time conversation. This has to be consistent and reliable. Perpetual.

You can say you love your children, friends. You can believe you love your children. You can actually love your children. You can be willing to die for your children. Your children can wholeheartedly believe that you love them. And you will still never, ever have a close relationship with them until you show your children — in the ways they need to be shown love — that you love them.

This is all parenting is, really: show up for each other. As much as possible. As early in their lives as you can manage. As often as you can. In big ways, sure — I mean, the Grand Gestures are always nice — but in small ways especially. In small ways most of all. In tiny little touches, and with ongoing effort. A text. A thumbs up. A “hey, I was thinking of you.” A “you’re important to me, just F Your I.” A “that sucks” when they’re sad. —> The benefit of the doubt when they’re squirrelly or mean. <— A look inside their heart to see and remember that the only thing any of us want, truly, is connection and to be found precious and worthy of infinite love. Acceptance. Inclusion. Making sure that all of Your Places also welcome them fully so that Your Places can become Their Places. You know? Opening up your whole world so it can become their whole world, and so they know they’re safe and loved with you, everywhere and always.

Listen. I have no desire to pretend I’m perfect in the parenting arena. I can occasionally, from time to time, equate my Task List with Loving My People. Don’t get me wrong — I’m pretty damn good at letting my kids know how thoroughly they’re loved. BUT ALSO, I drop balls all the time. I’m basically standing in a vat of dropped balls. It’s a Ball Pit around here. I am DROWNING IN BALLS. I’m behind on at least 47 parenting tasks right at this very moment. School started 10 days ago, and there’s paperwork I haven’t finished, permission slips I haven’t signed, calls I haven’t returned, and emails with presumably important information I haven’t read. I’m scrambling, and I’m behind, and I often feel like an ass and a failure because of it. I am often afraid I’m not loving my people well BECAUSE OF ALL THE BALLS ON THE FLOOR. But — and THIS IS IMPORTANT — DO NOT CONFUSE THE TASK LIST WITH SHOWING UP.

Do not confuse Checking the Boxes with Loving Your People.

Do not confuse Ball Juggling with Loving.

Do not do the thing I always want to do and say, “HOW COULD YOU THINK I DON’T LOVE YOU — DID I OR DID I NOT JUST MAKE YOU A TUNA FISH SANDWICH?” Or, “LOOK AT MY INFINITE TASKS! OBVIOUSLY I LOVE YOU.”

Is accomplishing the To Do list part of loving your people? Yeah, I guess, but it’s the smallest of all the pieces. Which is very hard to accept for those of us who’ve believed the lies of the western world. We LIKE To Do Lists. We LOVE to point to all the Things We’re Doing to prove our worth and our love for one another. And, yes, tasks have to be done and we should totally get credit for doing them — I prefer trophies, as a matter of record — but let’s not confuse doing the dishes for our family with grabbing a distressed child and cradling his face in your hands and reminding him he is BEAUTIFUL, and SMART, and FUNNY, and PERFECTLY HIMSELF which is ALL HE HAS TO BE, EVER, and that is Always Enough, and you love him to the ends of the earth.

You know?

You know.

In conclusion,

SHOW UP.

BE KIND.

APPLAUD YOUR HUMANS FOR BEING DEEPLY, TRULY, AUTHENTICALLY THEMSELVES.

I promise you, it’s worth every second.

Waving,

P.S. I just want to acknowledge here that I know it’s not always possible to show up IN PERSON. Like, it’s not always possible to hop a plane to Hawaii. My bank account strongly agrees. But it’s ALWAYS possible to show up metaphorically. To be there emotionally for your people. And that’s the most important. That’s where it’s at.

P.P.S. Not to steal the spotlight from my stunning children, but my favorite photo from the engagement party is of Aden and me. I wasn’t going to share it with you. It feels kind of mean to the bride-to-be. But I also don’t think we should to hide our gorgeousness under a bushel, you know? We need to let our light shine.

When being photogenic is your spiritual gift, it would be wrong to keep it to ourselves. #WWJD, amirite?

P.P.P.S. This was originally supposed to be a post on how to throw a pretty (but also very inexpensive) engagement party. We threw Abby and Chandler one in August before they went back to school. But then I got sidetracked, monologuing about showing up for each other.

So here it is, in brief.

Pretty Party, Tip #1: Throw it at your house. Even if your house, like my house, isn’t always perfectly neat or tidy or lovely. Make SOMETHING pretty, and ignore the rest. It’s about the PEOPLE, friends, not about perfection. Besides, imperfection is a gift you can give to your friends.

Pretty Party, Tip #2: Something pretty, you say? For A&C’s wedding, I’ve started collecting silk flowers at Goodwill. We used them at this party to make a flower ball backdrop. And we made 2 other balls with moss we stripped off oak trees at the farm. Balls. BOOM.

Pretty Party, Tip #3: With apologies to all the AMAZING bakers out there who (deservedly) charge big bucks for gorgeous cakes, I buy mine at the grocery store. Just like I was ecstatic that mismatched socks became a legit fashion trend when my kids were little (WINNING), I am overjoyed that “rustic” or “boho” are party trends. For this cake, I bought 3 cakes — 2 lemon filled, 1 raspberry — at Safeway for $5.99 each. I would’ve picked just one flavor instead of two, but they didn’t have 3 of one flavor, so I improvised. When I got home, I scraped the icing off the edges (see also: “rustic”), piled the 3 cakes on top of each other, and put the whole thing in the fridge so it would stay stacked and not melt and crash. Then I put a bunch of (on sale) flowers in the cake.

Voila! Fancy cake for $24.96 (including the flowers.)

Pretty Party, Tip #4: Speaking of flowers, buy whatever’s on sale. When we had this party, roses were discounted at our grocery store for $6.99/dozen. I bought 6 dozen of the neutral tones and then used one bunch of eucalyptus (also $6.99), one bunch of burgundy mums ($7.99), and blackberry vines (free from my yard) to create lush-looking arrangements. $56.92 for flowers total. I’m not sure I could’ve gotten even one of those vase arrangements for that if I’d gone through a florist.

Pretty Party, Tip #5: Check Goodwill for vases and cake stands. These are all from Goodwill. The most expensive of the bunch was $5.99, and we’re reusing them all for the wedding. Vases and cake stands, $22.95.

Pretty Party, Tip #6: Buy your food and snacks at a cheap grocery store. We have a Grocery Outlet near us, and I LOVE it, even though it’s much maligned by some of my friends. We were able to serve several gorgeous cheeses, prosciutto, berries, nuts, veggies and dips, Belgian chocolates, etc. for under $100 total.

Pretty Party, Tip #7: Invite pretty people. 😉

And finally, Pretty Party, Tip #8: Serve easy beverages. We had bubbly wine (Grocery Outlet again) with mix-ins folks could customize (Orangcello and Huckleberry Liqueur) and ginger ale and sparkling cider for our alcohol-free friends.

A pretty party doesn’t have to be an expensive one, and it’s not cost prohibitive to celebrate people well.

P.P.P.P.S. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up — especially mine — but I think the latest anti-depressant may be WORKING. I’ve been able to access my brain part of EVERY DAY for a WEEK, friends. Please cross your fingers, say all the Hail Marys, and wave in the dark with me.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. {Note: we’re more than 90% full for November, but if you’re hoping to attend that retreat, we can still squeeze you in! Feel free to contact Maggie, retreat registrar, at petersonm1@spu.edu if you have any questions about registration.}

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Engagement Parties. And the Importance of Showing Up. Haphazard Lifestyle Advice: How to Wedding, Part 4 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Note to You While I Sit in the Dark

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 09 Oct 2019 03:33:29 +0000

It’s been a grueling ride lately, through some rough territory. Dry deserts by day. Lonely plains at night. Scaling steep mountains. Standing at the edges of the world on a precipice or two, trying to catch my breath at the heights where the air is thinner than I like. Slogging through the valleys where the air is thick and soggy and hard to pull into my lungs. Sometimes the ride is like this, though. Breathless. Relentless. Even as the scenery changes around me, and summer turns to fall, and there’s a chill on my skin urging me to wrap up tight. This is what it is right now to navigate my wonky brain and try to move forward at the same time.

I’ve been in the dark lately. And I’m tired from both the journey and the uncertainty, not knowing when it will end. But I’m also not as afraid of the dark as I once was. I’ve seen the sun rise too many times to fear the night wholeheartedly. And I’ve sat around too many campfires, listening to the crickets and the wind, relishing the delicious contrast of bright heat and biting cold, turning myself around from time to time like I’m on a rotisserie, configuring my own temperature balance where there really isn’t one to be had.

On the fall equinox, shortly after my brain failed so spectacularly, I gathered a few friends in the dark on purpose. It felt important to mark the moment in time when the nights would overtake the days; when the darkness would gain a foothold over the light; when we’d sink, finally, into the slide we’ve been on since solstice, with the light gradually waning and the dark carefully waxing, gently coaxing day to sleep so night might take its turn. It felt important to be awake on the equinox while the darkness stole over the mountains where we perched at our farm. It felt important to light our own fire and to watch the infinite stars and add more logs — the biggest ones with crackling sap and dry moss as tinder — to send our own tiny flame as high as she could go, knowing she wouldn’t outlast the night but was making a stand, anyway, like hope always does.

It felt important, on the fall equinox, to welcome the dark, too. To acknowledge our need for light and heat and sight and sparks that crackle and pop and dance and fly… but also to pet the darkness and soothe her and thank her for reminding us to rest and urging us toward slumber. It felt important to treat the dark, for once, like a welcome guest — a refugee in need of solace and succor — instead of an intruder bent on harm and mayhem. It felt important, this time, to let the darkness in through the front door, intentionally, instead of forcing her to slink and seep through the cracks and crevices, and, when she arrived, to offer her a quiet place to linger. Maybe a blanket and a pillow. A hot apple cider, spiked with whisky. And soft, kind words, instead of blind panic and flailing, as is my custom.

I don’t know; maybe this makes sense to no one but me, but I’ve treated the dark like an enemy for the whole of my existence. The actual dark of night. And the figurative darkness of mental mayhem as I wrestle my wonky brain for control of the ship. And, in my defense, the dark is a wild creature with enormous strength and ferocious teeth and shaggy fur who makes no apology for the space or time she inhabits. She has the capacity to cause damage, you know? But I also go at her, always, with sharpened sticks, poking and prodding, hoping to strike hard enough that she’ll leave with alacrity. And it occurred to me, I might be exacerbating the problem. The darkness comes and goes — as surely as the light — and my capacity ebbs and flows with it. But what if, instead of spoiling for a fight as soon as I see her lumbering my way, I accept that she’s part of the cycle? Part of the circle. Part of the circadian rhythm of both the physical world and my mental space.

What if I acknowledge, on a soulful level — in the deepest places breath goes — that night follows day follows night follows day? What if I acknowledge in the soft center of my bones that light doesn’t exist without the contrast of darkness? What if I admit this is the dance of time immemorial? What if I note that the darkness is coming — that the darkness is upon us — and work to beckon the dawn while also letting darkness work her own, slow magic? The magic of quiet. The magic of peace. The magic of stillness and whispers and rest and sleep?

What if darkness comes for a reason to teach her own lessons and cast her own spells?

What if darkness is here to protect me for a little while from the speed and rush and blinding fury of the light?

What if darkness has her place? And what if I let her have it?

On the fall equinox, shortly after my brain failed so spectacularly, I gathered a few friends in the dark on purpose, and we sat around a fire of our own making, built of wood and dried flowers, telling quiet truths while the witching hour came and went without our intervention. We sat in the dark, together, unafraid. We sat in the dark, in our own small circle, watching the clouds and fog roll in and out, blanketing and revealing the sky and the valley by turns. We sat in the dark, together, until the equinox came and went and the wee hours of the morning arrived to release us to head home.

And somehow, it felt right.

Like we’d done right by ourselves and each other, and we’d done right by the seasons, too. Like we’d maybe broken a little of the spell that keeps us alone and afraid. And like the darkness helped us along.

I am, as always, friends, waving in the dark. And I may be here a while this time, sitting through the season with the darkness wrapped around me. But it feels OK for now. Not so lonely or afraid. Like maybe this is just part of it. And we can stoke the fire together while we wait.

With love, sweet ones,

P.S. I realize this post may be super weird. Cryptic? Melancholy? I don’t mean it that way. I mean it hopefully, if that makes sense. Peacefully. Patiently. But I’m not sure I’m in Sense-Making mode right now, so who knows? I’m just going to cross my fingers and hope this isn’t too bizarre or murky to parse.

P.P.S. I’m still not better, mental health wise. This one’s been a real puzzle. The last medication I tried was a bust. Then, last week, I had Really Awful side effects that made me feel like my brain was literally short circuiting. So I was on different medications on Tuesday, Saturday, and Monday during the past week, and now we’re just crossing fingers and saying all the Hail Mary’s that yesterday’s medication works according to plan. Long story short, this has been going on for just about a month now, and that’s not my very favorite situation. But I’m beginning to realize that this episode is going to take a while to fix. That I’ll be in the dark longer than I like. That I’m going to accomplish less than I’d hoped — less work at our farm, less social events, less of everything other than a laser focus on recovery. And I’m starting to see this time for what it is — a reminder to rest. An invitation to Do Less. An opportunity to scale back to just the essentials. A chance to be quiet and to read and to drink tea and to light a candle just because I like to see the flame dance. It’s the invitation of equinox, really. And I’m starting to see why I needed to welcome the dark.

P.P.P.S. You’re invited to the darkness, too, you know. Especially if you’re smarter than me and don’t wait for a crisis to scale back All the Things. You’re invited to sit by the fire and listen to the quiet and wave to the rest of us in this space. And I know, I know; there are still Things You Have to Do — like work and eat and run kids to All the Places. I’m doing those things, too. It’s not all Peace and Rest around here. It’s Peace and Rest and Orthodontist Appointments and Cleaning Up Puppy Pee. It’s just that I’m crossing off a lot of the stuff I had firmly in the Must Do bucket. I’m ruthlessly cutting back on activities. I’ve put “NO” on all the days on the calendar as a friendly neighborhood reminder that my mental health is more important than adding items. I’ve texted “NO” (I hope kindly) to All the People who issue invitations. And I’ve decided that’s all fine. That I’M fine. That it’s OK to go dark like plays do when their performers needs nights off. It’s the cycle. It’s the circle. It’s the season for rest.

The post A Note to You While I Sit in the Dark first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Here’s How It’s Going: Not Well. Also, Fine.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 01 Oct 2019 01:16:52 +0000

Here’s how it’s going ‘round about now:

Not well.

Also, fine.

I thought I’d update you while still in the throes of this delightful mental illness episode, because a) I’M STILL ALIVE which means, b) I’M WINNING, GODDAMMIT, and c) I’ve utterly abandoned the idea that I need only reveal the pretty parts of life or write only after I have an inspiring, Oprah Winfrey Book Club story of tragedy-turned-triumph to share. I mean, I’m not opposed to triumphing. Triumphing’s rad. It’s awesome. It’s the best. But right now, I’m slogging, and slogging is the biggest part of triumphing, so slogging is what we’re discussing today.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a med change. Which means I mostly cancel appointments, and text people to say “I’m sorry I can’t be there,” and stay home, and look like this.

And sometimes I lay down at the top of my stairs because walking all the way down them is too much effort.

I just can’t do it, you know? Like, I get to the top of the stairs, I do whatever Thing I went up there for, then I stand there blankly, trying to figure out What’s Next. Am I supposed to do More Things upstairs? Was I headed downstairs for the More Things? Was there something to grab? A kid I needed to talk to? My brain just fizzles. Like a transformer exploded somewhere in my circuitry so there’s no more electricity available to run it. I’m like a robot that powers down. I’m there, at the top of the stairs, fully useless. So I lay down and become a puddle of human.

Ever-y-thing takes too much effort right now. But here’s what I need to work on (and also, because you’re human, probably you do, too): CREDIT FOR WALKING UP THE STAIRS IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I mean, yes, technically, you’re the cat stuck in the tree who got herself up and can’t figure out the rest of the equation, but let’s be honest — no one ever finished a task without going through the middle of it. No one walked back down the stairs without first walking up them. No cat ever got to call herself a Tree Climber without clawing her way up there. No one ever completed a race without moving through the course.

Why do we only pat ourselves on the back when we’re finished? Why do we fail to understand that middle steps of progress are as valuable as the final one? Why do we denigrate rest? Also, if we’re stuck in a tree, doesn’t that just mean there are hot firemen on the way to rescue us? And are we really meant to climb trees without help anyway? Or is it OK to make tree climbing and stair climbing and race running and med changing team sports? Where we get to request assistance and hand holding from time to time?

^^^I’m just saying.^^^

The thing is, I detest med changes. They’re a necessary evil for managing Clinical Depression. Also called Major Depressive Disorder. Also known by its Benedict Cumberbatch name, Brainblighter Fuckweasel. Aka, Mungminded Waffletwat. Aka, Headcase Ragecrumpet. But meds only work for as long as they work which, unfortunately for everyone, is never “forever.” And so we enter the slog of weaning off the one that doesn’t work and onto one that… might. If the new one does work, HOORAY! If it doesn’t, we repeat the process to infinity until we find one that does. The difficulty lies in the fact that there’s no definitive end to muddling through the madness. No specific finish line.

I HATE this stage of managing mental health. Partly because I’m underwater and stuck at the top of the stairs. But partly because I am not very PRODUCTIVE in this mental place, and god knows I use productivity to gauge my value as a human. Practicing what I preach — that we are all already valuable and worthy of love exactly as we are — is ANNOYING, friends. I have no patience for this. I mean, I have patience for this for you. You are definitely already valuable and worthy of love exactly as you are. This is as deep a Truth as any I know. But I have no patience for this for me. I like saying we’re all valuable and worthy of love exactly as we are while feeling productive and on top of my game. You know? I like saying we need do nothing to prove our inherent worth whilst I prove my inherent worth by getting shit done. <— SO MUCH EASIER.

Med changes make me feel like a lump. Like a bump at the Top of the Stairs. Like a barely breathing sack of mush. And I’ll admit to being kind of bummed that this med change hasn’t been easy. Even though I knew it probably wouldn’t be. Ppppfffttttt. Also, blerg.

That’s it, friends.

That is all.

That is how it’s going.

I’m not well.

But if I’ll listen to the Truth for a second, I also know I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing right now, which isn’t doing at all. It’s being. And breathing. And believing I’m already infinitely worthy of love. Exactly as I am. Right now.

Which means I’m fine.

Love to you, friends, and waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. This is the nipple light at the Top of the Stairs. And the smoke detector.

I’ve spent a lot of time looking at them lately.

P.P.S. Med changes are like trying to trade out floatation devices in the middle of the ocean. Like, you realize the raft you made out of coconuts and palm fronds on that desert island you escaped has been sinking for longer than you’d like to admit, so you’re kind of under water already. FORTUNATELY, there are helpful people around who have FOUND YOU and are EAGER TO HELP. So they toss you a life preserver and your job is to eeeease off the raft and onto the ring, slowly and carefully so you don’t breathe in too much water during the switch. Only, you’re on the ring and the raft is out of sight when you realize the ring isn’t actually floating. It’s sinking, too. I mean, since you’re under observation at least you’re not the only one who knows you’re still drowning, and the helpers start tossing all sorts of things at you, hoping something will stick. Eventually, when everything sorts itself out, you’ll be clutching a basketball and have one leg flung over a pool noodle, and then you’ll see how long you can float on those before you have to switch again. I bitched about this to my doctor until she reminded me we didn’t use to have floatation devices at all, so they used to lock up people like me on the desert island where we’d play checkers in our pajamas all day. Since my doctor has to use floatation devices, too, she’d be on the island with me. I have to admit, the island doesn’t sound all bad some days. And I’ve already got the pajama part down. But since I’m bad at checkers, I’m going to go ahead and be grateful for the flotation devices. I’m just saying… this part sucks. Someone throw me a yacht next time. We can all cruise around the island together.

P.P.P.S. I’m seeing my doctor again tomorrow. Wish her luck.

P.P.P.P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. And I’m not making promises or anything, but maybe we can lay down at the top of the stairs together.

Click here for general retreat information. We’re 90% full for November 2019. If you’re thinking about attending this fall and have any questions at all — like, “OH NO! There aren’t many spots left and I want to be in a bed/room where I’ll feel comfortable!” — please contact our registrar, Maggie Peterson, at Petersonm1@spu.edu. I’d love to see you there. The Oregon Coast is one of my happy places.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Here’s How It’s Going: Not Well. Also, Fine. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Careful What You Wish For: A Story About a Dog and Finding Our Way Home

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 21 Sep 2019 01:22:48 +0000

You know how people who are super Woo Woo are all, “Manifest what you want to see in the world, and it will come to you?” And then it’s annoying because often they’re right and you’re all, “DAMMIT. I SHOULD’VE MANIFESTED MORE?” Well, let this be a cautionary tale.

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU MANIFEST, friends.

I, for example, forgot to be manifesting millions of dollars.

I forgot to be manifesting the surprise discovery that I’m a Cadbury heiress and, per the terms of the will left by the great, great grandfather I never met, will be forced to move to a private island off the coast of England in order to focus all my attention on a quiet life of personally ensuring Cadbury samples are up to par. It’s the family legacy. I must do my part.

At the very least, I forgot to be manifesting a full time housekeeper and gardener and cook.

And speaking of cooking, I forgot to manifest calorie-free potato chips and ice cream, which, let’s be honest, would’ve benefitted all of us, so now I owe the world an apology.

Instead, I allowed my subconscious to run the manifestation ship, and I’m sorry to tell you there’s something I love even more than a stupid amount of money, Cadbury chocolate, not doing my own housework, and all the consequence-free potato chips and ice cream a girl could eat.

Dogs.

I’m sorry, World. I really am. I’ll try to focus in the future. But for now, I’m manifesting animals.

No sooner did Nyx the Magnificent, Tender of Dreams and Soother of Her Skittish Boy, enter our lives, another soul showed up.

In my car.

Do you see him?

Yeah, we didn’t see him at first, either.

I was sitting quietly in the family room, minding my own business, working hard (read: trying to watch Harlots and eat Oreos without getting caught by my children) while my humans loaded the car with our latest Goodwill run.

They folded down the back seats and loaded from the back doors and hatch until the car was ready to go. Greg hollered he was on his way with the child who drew the short straw and had to join him for the drop-off, and they walked out the front door.

Only to walk back in.

Twenty seconds later.

With the most bewildered looks on their faces.

And, TBH, a little bit accusatory. Like they wondered if I was pranking them. Heads tilted to the side. Pausing to see if I’d break the silence first.

I thought they’d figured out I had Oreos. So I admit I looked a tiny bit guilty.

But instead of sternly holding out their hands for cookies, as we do when we catch someone in the act, my child said, “We can’t go to Goodwill right now.”

And I was all, “???”

And she was all, “…”

And I was all, “No, seriously… ???”

And she was all, “Because of the dog…”

What dog, you ask? EXCELLENT question. I had the same one.

Me: What dog? Which dog? Did our dog get out? Is a neighbor’s dog racing down the street? Do they needed my help catching it?

My Kid: No. None of those. It’s just the dog in the car.

And you know that moment when people say words you know are real… like, you technically understand the words “the” and “dog” and “in the” and “car”… but they don’t yet make sense put together? It was that moment.

Me: A dog. In our car?

My Kid: Yes, Mom. A black dog.

Me: But not our dog?

My Kid, rolling her eyes: We don’t have a black dog, Mom.

Me: Not a dog we know?

My Kid: Do we know any black dogs?

Me: I mean, not very well. In our car? Like, our car? The car we own?

My Kid, sighing because her mother is Very Slow: Yes. In our car.

Me: Where in our car?

My Kid: In the front seat.

Me: Like, it just jumped into the front seat? Just now? You saw a dog on the loose and let it jump into the car so we could help find its owner?

My Kid: No, I think it’s been there a while.

Me: What? How? How has it been there? How do you know? Did it magically appear? Did it apparate? Does it know how to use car doors? Did it break a window with a hammer? How long has it been there?

My Kid: Oh, probably since last night because the door was open and that dog was running around.

Me: Wait. The car door was open last night? And you saw it open? And you did not close it? Like, you weren’t like, “Oh. The car door is open. I shall close it.” And now it’s a new dog’s den? And you can’t go anywhere because there’s a big, black dog growling at you in the front seat? That’s what you’re telling me. Yes?

And that is, in fact, what she was telling me. Which meant someone needed to Handle the Dog Situation, and clearly that someone was me.

So out I went to the driveway to the see the dog who was in the car.

He was very growly.

Very scared.

Very ears-back-leave-me-alone-or-I-will-eat-your-face.

And I know we don’t know when dogs are just bluffing and when they will actually eat our faces, but I’ve previous had a dog dine on mine — I have the years of plastic surgery and the nose reconstructed out of my ear and the fake teeth and the scars to prove it — so I have a firm Take the Dog at His Word policy.

You’re growling, Dog? You can tear me to bits? I believe you. I do.

But also, I love you. And maybe I can prove to you that I’m not scary. And maybe we can be friends.

I will tell you, the dog did NOT believe me.

Not at first.

And so I spent a long time walking around the car, moving slowly, keeping my distance, but also talking in soothing tones, and telling him he’s a good doggo, and bringing him water and food, and making no sudden moves.

What might happen, do you think, if we treated ourselves that way when we’re tired and afraid and growly and ready to take off faces?

What might happen if we were just kind to ourselves, and used low voices, and said “there, there” a lot, and reminded ourselves we’re good humans, and maybe got ourselves a glass of water and a bowl of food, and made no demands, and just tried to soothe our beasts?

I wonder, don’t you?

I wonder if we treated ourselves like vulnerable, lost creatures, if we might settle more quickly.

And heave BIG sighs.

And stop snapping at the hands trying to feed us.

And finally let them pet us and keep us safe.

I wonder if we might, after a time, stop trying to bite off faces and instead … relax.

Calm down.

Trust that we can be good friends to ourselves.

And if, like this sweet one, we might eventually participate more actively in ensuring we’re well cared for. Loved. Comforted.

I mean, maybe we could learn that. Maybe if we remember we’re worthy of love even when we’re at our growliest.

I sent a kid across the street to our neighbors’ house for supplies. They’re some of our besties so a) they put up with our shenanigans like A STRANGE DOG IS IN OUR CAR AND WE ARE GOING TO SAVE HIM AND YOU SHALL HELP — ALL HANDS ON DECK, STAT, and, b) they’d just lost their own, gorgeous, darling 9yo wolfhound so I knew they’d have a collar and a leash I could borrow.

I named this baby Vicious Dog.

You know, to protect his pride. I didn’t want him to feel his growling was wasted.

And then I begged for temporary shelter for him from the same neighbors. We, after all, had a new, unvaccinated puppy at home, and it became very clear very quickly that Vicious Dog hadn’t been well cared for.

He was filthy, of course, and over the next several days we learned neighbors had seen him running on the highway close to our house and through our neighborhood. No one could catch him. He wouldn’t come willingly. Too scared, I’m sure. He had scabs and scars on his head and back. No microchip or collar. And, after myriad ads on Facebook in all the local groups we could think of, dozens of shares, ads on NextDoor and Craigslist, calls to the police department and the local animal shelter, and flyers in the neighborhood, no owners, either.

It makes me wonder what happened. He’s young — barely a year, if that — and strong. Several sketchy people tried to claim him as theirs, I assume for dog fighting rings, but they had no proof and gave themselves away with bizarre claims and newly constructed Facebook profiles to try to snag him. Best case scenario, he was an active puppy and folks often aren’t prepared for the months after a dog is no longer an adorable puppy and before he’s fully trained not to be a destructive asshole. So maybe he was dumped. Abandoned. Worst case scenario, he made his way out of an abusive situation. Somehow. Miraculously. Which is what we suspect.

Maybe he manifested what he wanted.

Maybe he was guided to a safe place.

Maybe he just got really lucky.

But he has, for sure, found his way home.

As of yesterday, having completed all requirements under the laws of our county, Vicious Dog became our neighbors’ own, slipping into their lives like a special gift from their dog in heaven.

Congratulations, Cosmo (the artist formerly known as Vicious Dog), and congratulations, Melissa, Webb, and Leigh. I could not be happier for the four of you.

So, shhhhhh, do not tell my long lost pretend Grandfather Cadbury… or Greg who is practical and therefore prefers millions of dollars and/or private islands we can sell… but I did manifest exactly what I wanted.

Another vulnerable soul.

Safe.

Home.

May we all be so lucky.

Waving in the dark, as always, and wishing us all a gentle place to land,

Click here for general retreat information. We’re 85% full for November 2019. If you’re thinking about attending this fall and have any questions at all — like, “OH NO! There aren’t many spots left and I want to be in a bed/room where I’ll feel comfortable!” — please contact our registrar, Maggie Peterson, at Petersonm1@spu.edu. I’d love to see you there. The Oregon Coast is one of my happy places.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Careful What You Wish For: A Story About a Dog and Finding Our Way Home first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Why I Can’t Ask My People for Help When I’m Depressed: Also, a Historically Murky Story About a Saber Tooth Tiger

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 19 Sep 2019 02:19:24 +0000

I wrote Monday about hitting the Depression Wall again. About what it’s like when I don’t see it coming. About how I’ve learned to cope. About steps I take. About the reality that I don’t ask my people — my closest friends and family — for help. And about texting the 24/7 Crisis Text Hotline (741741), along with screenshots so you, too, can see what it’s like to contact a crisis assistance network, what happens, and demystify the process.

Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I don’t ask my people for help. About whether I have legitimate reasons or if it’s just a standard mental illness brain malfunction (hint: I have reasons.) About whether I regret it (spoiler: I don’t.) About whether there’s a way to change it (I mean, probably? But I don’t plan to.) And about whether or not that’s OK (I’m going with yes.)

Now, I’m going to throw a little caveat in here that this post is only about me and you shouldn’t extrapolate my conclusions for other humans who experience depression — not unless they tell you this applies to them, too, or not unless you ask them if any of this feels familiar and true. In fact, I’m going to say three very specific things I’d like you to hear before we go further:

1. I am not implying that asking your people for help when you’re depressed — particularly if they’re caring, compassionate people capable of providing real assistance — is a bad idea. Or insinuating you’re somehow doing depression wrong if you a) are able to reach out, and b) do reach out. Neither of those are true, obviously. I’d even go so far as to say it’s better to reach out to your humans. … Actually, now that I think about it, I did say that in Step #2 of my 5 Steps to Managing Depression, and I stand by it, even though I don’t ask my people for help myself.

2. I also am not implying that those of you who are mentally healthy shouldn’t be checking on your friends who struggle with mental illness. That’s also not true. Feel free to check in. More about that below.

3. It’s important to note that, while I don’t ask my (caring, compassionate, capable) people for help, I DO NOTIFY THEM when things are going to shit. I’m not talking about keeping depression a secret here or somehow trying to handle it magically alone. Secret-keeping when there’s the possibility that you could be harming yourself or another being is always a bad idea; ALWAYS. Don’t do that. And going it alone in a depressive state is also horribly misguided. When I talk about asking for help from my people, I am talking about involving them beyond the “notification.” I’m not keeping secrets. And I am getting help elsewhere.

With that said, I do want to share my real life experience, in case it’s helpful to either the Person with Depression — to put words to an event that often feels impossible to describe — or to the Friend of a Person with Depression — to invite you inside so you can better understand why a thing that seems so very simple, like saying “help” to the people you most trust in all the world, becomes an impenetrable barrier you can’t cross.

If you like, you can turn to the last piece I wrote, which describes the physical sensations of depression. The jitters. The buzzy brain. The dark pit beyond my stomach. The clammy feel of my skin. The clenched jaw. The brittle bones. The shortness of breath. The depressive mood and, sometimes, no feelings at all. I may be helpful to understand what depression feels like. That’s important because all that joy and sunshine is caused, physiologically speaking, by the fight or flight responses in our brain. Or, technically, by the fight, flight, feed, fear, freeze, and (my personal favorite) fornicate responses in our brain. The 6 F’s are also known as Lizard Brain because these are our most primitive and basic responses — our survival instincts — which, in a dangerous world, keep us and our species alive. The physical symptoms are clues about what is happening. The Lizard Brain response informs what happens next.

OK, look; we don’t want to trust our Lizard Brains all the time. I mean, clearly. That’s why meditative practices like mindfulness can be so helpful to people who struggle with anxiety, stress, and impulse control; we learn, essentially, to calm the Lizard Brain the fuck down. To soothe it. To remind it that Logic and Facts get to have a say — a louder one, please — than DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. And that’s why, even though I think flying through the air in a tiny tin can held up by magic and fairy dust (aka, modern aviation) is an act of the purest stupidity, I keep getting on planes. My Lizard Brain isn’t wrong, per se — NOT flying seems like it would keep me safer than hanging out 30,000 feet in the air with nothing between me and the ground except a thin metal carcass and a bunch of vacation luggage — but my Lizard Brain is also not capable of accepting reasonable risk in trade for quality of life. Sometimes, we have to shut Lizard Brain down to live a life worth waking up for, you know?

HOWEVER… however… however, friends, Lizard Brain moves very much into the driver’s seat during a depressive episode. And, I would contend, IT SHOULD be driving. See, when you’re depressed — like, actively, clinically, Major Depressive Disorder depressed, as opposed to a brief sad/depressed mood which is entirely different — your Lizard Brain is sending EVERY POSSIBLE DANGER ALERT to your body. And do you know why? BECAUSE YOU ARE IN DANGER.

Lizard Brain is a little bit like Chicken Little. It runs around constantly with its arms flailing, yelling THE SKY IS FALLING which is basically the same as WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. The trick is to determine when to snuggle up to Lizard Brain, get it a warm cup of tea, practice your mindfulness techniques, and remind it that a conflict with your kid’s teacher is not the same as going toe-to-toe with a saber tooth tiger like the primitive core of your brain would have you believe — INTERPERSONAL CONFLICT! OMG! EVERYONE PANIC! — vs. when to salute Lizard Brain as your leader, yell, “SIR! YES, SIR!” and gather all your offensive and defensive weapons, as assigned by L.B., because that saber tooth tiger has already entered your camp.

Major Depressive Disorder? That’s Go Time, friends. That’s salute, acknowledge, follow orders, and go to war time. “YES, LIZARD BRAIN, SIR.”

And here’s the part where asking for help from friends and family gets really tricky to navigate:

I am busy fighting a saber tooth tiger. I am taking hits. I am doing everything I can on the front lines to beat back the beast before it swallows me whole. All of my energy and time and brain power are focused on this. I have barely — barely — enough breath, literally since I am physically gasping for air, to say, “I’m not OK right now,” or “I’m unwell,” which are my two go-to statements for family and friends. I definitely do not have enough breath or energy or brain power to say, “please help me” because I know what comes next from people who love me, who are of sound mind, and who respond like reasonable humans would respond to one of their own in crisis. They will do several things:

1. They will ask how I’m doing.
2. They will ask how they can help.
3. They will ask if I need help around the house with chores or children or anything at all.
4. They will ask if they should call a doctor and help me make an appointment.
5. They will ask if I have a counselor, and, if not, if they can help me find one.
6. They will ask how I’m feeling.
7. They will call me on the phone.
8. They will text me.
9. They will email me.
10. They will offer to hang out.
11. They will ask if I want to come over.
12. They will remind me they love me and they’re here for me and they will drop everything for me as soon as I say the word.

And on and on, into infinity.

Please understand; I am not complaining about ANY of this. All of this is exactly what a positive, involved community should do. I don’t want them to avoid doing any of these things. I don’t want them to second guess their response. In fact, I think they should teach classes on how to be AWESOME HUMANS who know how to show up for each other in times of crisis.

But here’s the crux of the situation:

I AM BATTLING A SABER TOOTH TIGER.

Please visualize with me.

There’s a prehistoric woman in a remote village at the base of barren mountains. She does well at subsistence living — she gathers in the summer, she prepares for the winter, she preserves the meat the hunters bring in. She loves her family. She nurtures her children. She tries to be self-aware and mindful and not spend too much time on Facebook. (It’s an alternative pre-history, OK?) It’s the beginning of fall, after the gathering is done and the native plants are starting to rest and the animals are going into hibernation, so it’s the perfect time for the rest of the village to head out of town on their annual Hunter/Gatherer Equality Awareness Retreat. And the saber tooth tiger — who’s hungry — arrives without warning to pillage the village which will, naturally, involve killing the woman because she’s made out of meat.

So, fine. Whatever. The murdery tiger is back. The woman is bummed — she sighs and shakes her head — but she’s also fought it before. She knows where the weapons are. She’s added to her armory every time she’s battled it. Her health and life stats are high, which is good, because she needs deep reserves to face what’s ahead. She starts working her way through the plan, fully focused, never turning her back on the threat.

The villagers return. They’re happy and chatty. They really loved the keynote speaker this year and her topic, Brains and Brawn: How to Hunt and Gather Equality in the Post-Neanderthal World. Sure, a few villagers failed to grasp the complex concept that, by embracing brains, she was not putting down or minimizing brawn, but mostly they were happy and chatty, and they didn’t notice the woman fighting the tiger.

Honestly, noticing the tiger wasn’t their job and it wasn’t their fault they couldn’t see it. The tiger, because it’s an asshole, makes itself invisible to everyone except the woman. And, as much as some villagers pressure other villagers to check in on everyone all the time, lest they miss the arrival of the tiger and its attack on the woman or someone new (“check on your strong friends”), it’s unrealistic, don’t you think, to put that kind of burden on the villagers? And for the villagers to blame themselves somehow for not seeing what’s invisible? The woman thinks so. She’s pretty sure, since she’s the one who can see it, she needs to take some responsibility to note its arrival. That’s why she gives them a quick heads up. A notification. “Yo. Saber tooth tiger is back. Over and out.” And then she goes back to fighting.

The woman has taken some flack — mostly from herself and imagined from others — for not asking for help to battle the tiger. Which makes sense, I suppose, since it is a tiger and it is deadly and she’s only one sac of flesh, after all. But the logistics of asking the villagers for help are nearly impossible to navigate. The villagers care about the woman. She’s one of their favorites. So they jump in straight away when she yells, “HELP.”

”GOTCHA, LADY,” they say. “Now, where’s the tiger? What does it look like? What’s it doing now? Which weapons should I use? Where do I get those, again? Do you remember which shelf of the armory has the maces? What’s the current status of the battle? Who’s winning? Have you considered calling in a weapons expert? You have? GREAT. What’s her phone number? When are you available to meet with her? Maybe you should also consider some other weapons. Do you want me to get you a list? You can circle which ones interest you? How about I bring you a casserole and fold your laundry since you’re busy tiger-fighting? Does Tuesday night work? I’ll be there sometime between 6 and 7 and we can have tea and chat then and create a new battle plan with heavy stock paper and my best, archival quality scrapbook pens. What’s the tiger doing now? … How about now?… How about now?”

And you can see that all those questions are kind. You can see that the villagers want nothing more than to HELP. You can see that they LOVE the woman and do not want her to go it alone. Not at all. But also, THE WOMAN IS FIGHTING A TIGER. She does not have the time, ability, energy or brain power to comprehend the words they’re throwing at her, much less process them, make choices and decisions, and respond. The woman is ENGAGED IN ACTIVE BATTLE. She is swinging the sword to distract the beast and trying to gut it with her dagger when she’s inside its guard. She can’t be the battle commander, too. She can’t see the whole field. She can’t pause to strategize. She’s trying to stop the immediate swipe of claws and avoid being impaled on its jaws.

It’s not that the woman doesn’t want to give the villagers instruction or updates or even a play-by-plays. It’s not that the woman doesn’t want to reassure them that it’s all going to be OK and to handle their feelings about her battle and sit with them and chat. It’s that the woman very literally can’t. She can’t turn her back on the monster. Not for one second. She’s fully consumed by the work at hand.

Depression is hard, friends. It’s no joke. It’s no fun. It’s serious. It’s an asshole. It’s invisible, and, frankly, the outward appearance of the inward fight is embarrassing because it looks an awful lot like being wide-eyed, short-tempered, lazy, non-communicative, lethargic, unhygienic, and lacking follow-through. But battles were never pretty.

And you DO HELP, villagers. I need you to know that just because I don’t — or can’t — ask for help doesn’t mean your presence is irrelevant. The fact that you’re there HELPS. The fact that I can say “I’m unwell” and “The fight is on” is meaningful and important. The fact that I know I never have to be alone matters. But I also hope my people understand why I don’t follow up with requests for help. It’s because I can’t help you help me. I’m already doing everything within my power.

And not asking YOU for help doesn’t mean I’m not garnering assistance from elsewhere. That’s why I texted the crisis hotline (741741) this week. I hoped I’d find someone already geared up for battle who had the magical powers necessary to see the beast — and he was ready when I called. That’s why I saw my doctor. That’s why I have appointments with a behavioral psychologist. That’s why I’m doing my Least Favorite Thing and changing my meds. Because I’m asking for help. Just not from my closest people. And I hope it’s for good, healthy reasons.

Help doesn’t always look like we want it to look. Hey, if I had things my way, my people would be able to help. I’d have the capacity to answer questions and guide my treatment. I’d be able to respond to texts with something other than and . I’d be wise and sage and kind instead of a mute puddle of aching, shaking muscles in the middle of my bed. I’d be able to listen to a question without feeling total and complete panic. But we don’t always get to pick our reality. And this is mine.

I’m on the mend, friends. I’ll get there eventually. With med changes, it’s hard to say when because we never know exactly what will work, how effective it will be, and whether we can tolerate the side effects or have to try something else. I had a really great run on my last medication. I’ll be grateful for that. And I remain determined to drive the tiger back out of the village as quickly as possible.

More soon on hopefully more cheerful topics.

Until then, I’m waving in the dark, as always, believing dawn will come,

P.S. There’s technically no such thing as a saber tooth tiger. It’s a saber tooth cat. But that doesn’t have at ALL the kind of punch I was going for. Other than that tiny detail, the rest of the story was historically accurate.

P.P.S. I didn’t realize until today that I posted my texts with the crisis line out of order. Bless my sweet heart and wonky brain. I’ve fixed them now, so if you had troubling viewing them, you can take another look.

P.P.P.S. I cut 3 oranges into wedges last night and put them on a plate for dinner. My kid asked me why I made dinner so fancy. He wasn’t kidding. So I just want you to know I’m well enough to be making fancy dinner. #Winning #HowToMom #WheresMyTrophy

P.P.P.P.S. Nyx the Magical Puppy has been keeping me company while I write.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. (And who WOULDN’T want to hang out with me after these posts about depression? Amirite??)

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post Why I Can’t Ask My People for Help When I’m Depressed: Also, a Historically Murky Story About a Saber Tooth Tiger first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Hit a Wall on Thursday Before Dawn: An Honest Post About Mental Illness, Steps to Take When You’re Down and Out, and What It’s Like to Call a Crisis Hotline

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 17 Sep 2019 04:55:47 +0000

{CW: Depression, Mental Illness, Suicide Ideation}

I want to write about my kid’s engagement party, how to throw one that’s pretty and cheap, and how to show up for each other and celebrate well. The post is drafted. Finished but for a final read. But it’s going to have to wait, because I’m writing this instead.

I want to write about the dog we found… inside our car… because that’s a normal place to find a dog you’ve never met before. I have pics and a story about being lost and found, and starting over and redemption, and somehow finding our way home. But I’m writing this instead.

I want to write about my bedroom and why it’s in the living room now and what it’s like to create a home that’s weird but works. But I’m writing this instead.

Frankly, I’d rather write about almost anything else. Anything but mental health and illness and what it’s like to navigate this on a daily, weekly, sometimes hourly basis, to infinity and beyond.

But here we are. And I’m going to be very transparent with you, even though I don’t like it much right now. Honesty in this case means profound vulnerability, and I feel like I’m cracking my own chest and exposing the viscera to you; my heart, yes, but also my gut and the dark ball of anxiety and unease that lives under my stomach at the base of my lungs and expands sometimes, stealing air to feed itself, and growing tendrils that crawl like cancer through the rest of my body until it reaches the tips of my clammy fingers and and the electric edges of my brain, fighting for control of the ship. It’s an extra organ, really, and I call it the Borg because it insists resistance is futile. Sometimes it consumes me whole such that my breathing becomes shallow, and my bones feel brittle, and my jaw chatters, and it’s all I can do to keep sucking air in and out and in and out and in and out.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn.

Sometimes I can see the walls coming. Sometimes I have enough time to put on the brakes and slow the speed of my life to lessen the impact of another bout of depression. Sometimes I can sense the natural disaster upon me, and I can carve out some quiet moments to rest my brain. Queue up some mindless, fluffy novels to read. Lay on my couch in the most slovenly manner possible and reduce my schedule to the bare minimum of keeping cereal in the cupboard for the children and refilling my medications so I don’t run out. Those are the days when I know I can handle this thing. When I congratulate myself for being aware and paying attention. When I know resistance is NOT futile. When I’m grateful for years of learning hard lessons like It’s OK to Rest, and Everyone is Worthy of Infinite Love Exactly As They Already Are… Even Me.

But sometimes I don’t see the walls coming. Sometimes, I crash into them at full speed. Sometimes, I push myself past my limit, except I didn’t know the limit was there until I see it in my rear view mirror. Of course, this isn’t something that’s limited to depression; all of us who are Human do this on occasion. We don’t know how much we were counting on rest until it doesn’t arrive. We don’t know how desperately we needed our partner to be home on time because we Cannot Parent Alone for One Minute Longer. We don’t know when the Grief Train will come barreling down the track and smash us into oblivion. We don’t know we’ve committed to Too Many Activities and Too Many Committees and Too Many Projects until we’re overwhelmed and drowning in them. And also, for those of us who experience depression, we don’t know when the Borg that is Depression will shake off its slumber and raise its hackles and growl its aggression and go to war with our insides.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn. I’d scheduled breathing room into my calendar for the whole week prior, but, well, my planned rest didn’t happen for reasons I don’t regret. Instead, I sped at high velocity toward my college kid in a spontaneous act of love and support; I’d do it again, but the truth is there’s a limit to my brain capacity and, when I blow past it, there are consequences.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn. I’d hoped rest following my trip would be enough to stave off a crash. I’d hoped my limits were farther down the path than the length of the journey I took. I’d hoped to arrive home Wednesday evening, put myself to bed, sleep well and long, and awake refreshed… or at least awake in tact and not splattered all over the wall. But the wall, I’ve found, has its own unpredictable trajectory, and so, instead, I arrived home Wednesday evening, put myself to bed, and started to shake. By early Thursday morning, I thought I might just shatter. Not figuratively. I wondered if it was possible to actually shudder to pieces like Jenga in an earthquake. I wondered if Greg would wake up next to a large pile of small Beth bits because I broke like porcelain in the night.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn. I didn’t see it coming. But I knew it when it arrived which is a strange blessing. I was blindsided, yes, but I knew by what which is far better than the times Depression came in disguise. I’ll take being just broken over being broken and bewildered any day. And Thursday, before dawn, I did. I accepted Broken as my current state of being — Depression had arrived with a vengeance — and I reminded myself of the next steps which are:

1. Be gentle with yourself. Be kind. Say, “there, there, Sweet Bunny” and pet your hair and give yourself a figurative kiss on the forehead. Treat yourself like you would any sick innocent. You deserve only compassion right now. Be a good friend to yourself.
2. Understand that being still and unable to function is Really, Really Hard, Important Work. GOOD JOB, you! Your brain is trying to reboot. It has all hands on deck for Emergency Response, so if the other stuff in your body and mind is a little whacky, FINE. Your brain will deal with the jitters later. It will be able to perform tasks again eventually. It will need assistance (see #4), but just because you appear to be doing nothing does not mean you are doing nothing; it just means it’s all happening behind the scenes and you should give yourself a freaking break and also a pat on the back and probably a cookie.
3. Be vigilant looking for the lies — that you’re bad, that you’re weak, that life is too hard, that you’re a burden, that you ought to apologize for being unwell, and that this will never end. Lies, every one. They enter unannounced and make themselves at home, and you are allowed to send them on their way. “I see you, Lies. I note your presence. Now SCOOT.” And when you need help removing them from the premises…
4. Get help. A wellness check at the doctor’s office. An appointment with a therapist. A call to a hotline. A text to a prepared, capable friend (preferably one who has worked out a Plan with you in advance so they know What Steps to help you take…. but if you don’t have a Plan, still text a calm, steady friend — the kind who will listen and help with the “there, there, Sweet Bunny”ing but who also will not put up with your bullshit, will take charge if needed, and will get you to the help if you can’t get yourself there.) A trip to the ER if necessary. An admittance to a psych ward. An outpatient program. Anything other than nothing.
5. Keep getting help. <— This is the hardest, but probably the most important one.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn, and I tried to take the next steps — at least Steps #1 (Be Gentle) and #2 (You’re Doing Hard Work) — and I’m going to give myself an A+ even though my steps were wobbly and slow like trying to make my way wading through a murky, rocky stream; I was making progress, technically, but also stumbling and splashing and making a general, muddy mess and spraining my ankle and getting soaked to the skin. Steps #1 and #2 are harder than they look, and I hadn’t started on #3-5 yet, but I get an “A” for effort anyway because, in this game, effort is everything.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn, and I worked on Steps #1 and #2, but I don’t remember much of the rest of Thursday. I assume I fell asleep at some point. I made it to an IEP meeting for my kid. I wore a bra, I’m pretty sure, and maybe make-up. For the first time in 15 years, I forgot the IEP snacks. I smiled at teachers, though, and I said thank you because they’re doing impossible work and I try not to be an asshole. But also, my kid is a senior in high school with 2 elective credits left, so I mostly phoned it in. Her IEP this year probably says, “fuck it — she’s almost done.” I’ll sign it when I get my copy.

I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn, and by Friday, I was on a downward trend because taking steps toward health doesn’t always mean health arrives when I think it should. I was definitely sinking on Friday. Like being rolled at the bottom of a waterfall.

You know you’re out of air. You know you’re being crushed by a force stronger than you can stand for long. But you also know you may be pushed closer to the bottom before riding the current back to the surface. The problem is, you really have no idea how long it’s going to take to pop back up, and you recognize your life is on the line, but it’s hard to feel very powerful in that situation or capable of sussing out the difference between lies which will suck you down and the rescue line your people can toss you to help you up. You’re flailing down there, and it’s tricky to grab ahold of the correct pieces in the dark.

By Friday, I was, by turns, jittery, bone weary, anxious, angry, and numb. My brain buzzed like an electric razor on its lowest setting. I wanted to do nothing other than lay in bed and try to breathe, and, honestly, both of those felt like I was trying to summit a mountain without oxygen. And I was consumed with the idea… compelled?… to look up pills used in suicides. I wasn’t suicidal. I wasn’t making a plan. I wasn’t hoping I had any of the medications or thinking about where to source them. I just was fixated on learning what people use. Most of me felt very “meh” about it. Like, “What’s the big deal?” But, after I did what I’ve never done before and actually looked up the info, there was also an emergency red strobe light spinning in the back of my brain in sync with an overhead announcement that was all, “NUMBER 4, BETH. GET HELP. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING, FRIEND? HELLLLLOOOO. EYES ON ME. THE TIME FOR HELP IS EITHER NOW OR BEFORE NOW. PICK ONE.” <— Step #3 Spotting the Lies. Looking up suicide drugs = alarming behavior, not “no biggie.” Lie spotted. Check.

By Friday, I knew I needed help. Or, at least, if I didn’t feel like I needed help because I felt mostly nothing, I intellectually understood my feelings didn’t matter; I objectively needed assistance. But getting help is hard, friends. It’s really, really ridiculously hard. The hardest. Because getting help requires two things I don’t have when I’m in the midst of depression: 1. Energy. 2. The ability to complete a task. And I will tell you, pushing past those barriers is overwhelming. Like being asked to rise from the dead. And to keep rising. Endurance and will aren’t enough; it always feels like asking for a miracle, too. For divine intervention. And I’m one of the lucky ones, because I have people. Humans who are mine. I can ask any one of them at any time to get help for me. To take over. To make the calls and stick with me until I’m on the upswing. But I don’t ask. Not ever. Not because I don’t trust them or don’t need them; only because I can’t muster the energy to use words, to explain what’s happening, to reassure them that I’m not dying, to answer questions, to provide information, and, because I love them, to assuage their fears and Big Feelings when I can’t even process my own. I have prepared, capable, calm friends who know the plan, and I never text them. Never. Which might make me a hypocrite. Or it just might make me a typical human who deals with depression. Who can say?

Still, by Friday, I knew I needed help. I’d already told Greg I was unwell, but Greg knows that means I’ll keep him updated and not to intervene except in the ways I ask for intervention. It’s too much pressure on our relationship to ask him to monitor my mental health all the time. It’s too consuming. And I’d end up fighting him for control because I am a delight all the time. I know some married people who step in this way for each other — and that is super awesome for them because this isn’t One Size Fits All mental health / marriage over here — but for us, I need Greg to be my partner, my co-conspirator, my lover, and my friend. I need him to step aside on the mental health monitoring front. I need both of us to believe I’ve got this. I need us both to be confident I’ll triumph over this thing. As many times as it takes. Again and again.

But did I mention that by Friday I needed help? I couldn’t muster the energy to involve my people. My doctor’s office doesn’t open until Monday. I wasn’t at risk of imminent harm (just, you know, the slow, mounting kind of harm which is way better as everyone knows), so the ER and psych ward options weren’t necessary. Which left me with a crisis hotline.

Now, I want you to know, I immediately discarded the crisis hotline as a viable alternative, for several reasons: 1. I wasn’t in crisis. 2. Calling a crisis hotline is unnecessarily dramatic. 3. It’s a good option for other people but not for me because I have People and crisis hotlines are only for people without other choices. And 4. My brain wasn’t working properly (see also: depression) so I couldn’t see that my first three reasons were DUMB AS SHIT. Mostly it was the fourth reason.

And fortunately, that red strobe light with the disembodied voice clued me in. I mean, it wasn’t very good at being gentle or kind about it, but it managed to punt the Truth to the frontal cortex with a swift, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Beth. You are NOT TOO GOOD for a crisis hotline. Situations like this are LITERALLY WHY THEY EXIST.” And then the voice reminded me how annoyed I am by people who say they think counseling is a great idea but never, ever go themselves. There’s a disconnect between what they think is good for others and what they’re willing to accept for themselves. “It’s fantastic that resource is there. For other people. Who need it. Who are not me because I’m fine.” (Seriously, Karen. YOU ARE NOT FINE. GO TO COUNSELING ALREADY.)

So, early Saturday morning, for the first time, I contacted the 24/7 Crisis Text Line* at 741741 and chatted with Luke. Who I kept calling Kevin inside my head. I was inordinately concerned I’d call him Kevin on the text string — like calling out the wrong boyfriend’s name in bed — and then… what? What did I think would happen? That Luke would suddenly realize I’m not right in the head? Psst… i think he was already on to me. But I managed NOT to call him Kevin on the text string, so I considered that a serious brain win under the circumstances. And you know what? Luke helped.

He validated my concerns. He assured me I’m pretty normal. He reminded me of truths I already knew. Coping skills I already have. And gently led me toward next healthy steps to take. It was, to be honest, the hand-holding I needed without the added stress of worrying about his feelings or worrying I was traumatizing him like I would with one of my people. It was a turning point. And I’m grateful.

I’ve spent the last three days doing as little as possible. Running a few kid-related errands. Saying no to anything extraneous. Making myself nourishing food. Starting Season 9 of Shameless, FINALLY on Netflix. And trying to make sense of my jumble of brain. The good news is I’m on the upswing again. The bummer news is I know it’s a process and I’m not through the woods yet. It’s OK, though. One step at a time, right?

So, the truth is, I hit a wall last week, on Thursday, before dawn. And it’s been a little dark over here. But I think dawn might be on the way.

Either way, I’m waving in the dark, as always, friends, and waiting for the light. And the best news of all is, none of us waits alone.

With love,

* I could’ve called the Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1.800.273.TALK (8255)) but a) there was no suicide to prevent, b) I didn’t want to clog up the line in case someone who really needed it was calling, and c) I hate talking on the phone even when I’m at my healthiest. {{To be clear, a) calling the hotline even when there’s NOT an imminent suicide threat is still a good idea, b) it’s not clogging up the line because they’re literally there to prevent suicide and would rather get your brain help earlier in the process, and c) they do have a messaging option in addition to talking on the phone, but go back to the part where my brain wasn’t functioning well, and you see the dilemma.}}

P.S. I’m including screenshots of my texts with Not Kevin. I thought it might be helpful to see what it’s really like to contact a crisis line when you need help.

And, P.P.S. Did you know I run a small number of retreats each year? I do! One of my very, very favorite things to do is hang out with members of our incredible, worldwide community and offer rest and respite from our regular lives. I would LOVE to have you join me. (And who WOULDN’T want to hang out with me after this post about calling a crisis hotline? Amirite??)

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post I Hit a Wall on Thursday Before Dawn: An Honest Post About Mental Illness, Steps to Take When You’re Down and Out, and What It’s Like to Call a Crisis Hotline first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Severe Case of the Not Enoughs: An Opportunity

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 03 Sep 2019 19:53:38 +0000

Sometimes, I feel pretty good about Me. I suspect it’s a result of getting older and giving fewer shits. Like, take me or leave me, you know? I know who I am. I know where I fall short. I’m doing my best except when I’m doing my mediocre, which, let’s be honest, is way more often, but I’ve also realized that doing my best on Every Single Thing is unrealistic and, frankly, unhealthy. Do I REALLY want to do my best while grocery shopping? Or do I just want to run in, grab eggs and milk and off-brand bread, and call it a day so I can save my “best” energy for more important things, like handling the 47th question from my children about the Exact Same Thing and still choosing not to run screaming into the night? “I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHAT’S FOR DINNER, CHILDREN. I THINK I’VE MADE IT CLEAR HOW TO FIND THE CEREAL, THOUGH, SO — GREAT NEWS — NO STARVING FOR YOU TODAY.”

Yep, sometimes I feel good about Me. Like I’m good with the choices I’m making. Like I understand I’m not perfect, and, frankly, no longer strive for perfection like I strive for kindness or sanity. Sometimes I feel good about Me, like I have my priorities figured out: 1. Do NOT smother Greg with a pillow, 2. Show up for my humans, 3. Spend enough time at base camp so I can gear up for the next summit, and 4. Binge reading trashy novels is more important than personal hygiene.

Sometimes I feel good about Me. Like I’m doing enough. Like I’m being enough. Like this life is what it is and I’m striving for what’s important and letting the rest slide, and that’s OK.

Sometimes I feel good about Me. But today isn’t one of those days.

Sometimes I feel good about Me. But today I’m frustrated and at odds with myself. Like, I’m a little jittery, you know? I’m looking at the To Do list, and the budgeting, and the meal planning, and the shopping, and the professional goals, and the farm work, and the kids’ needs (I swear I’ll answer your texts eventually, Abby), and the STUFF, right? The never ending stuff. And then I look at myself, and there’s just one of me, and I keep listening to the lies which are loud right now.

Lies:
1. You are LAZY, and that’s the main problem. If you were simply more EFFICIENT, and if you’d GET UP OFF YOUR BUTT instead of sitting to drink your coffee or sneaking another chapter of your book on the toilet, you would be able to accomplish EVERYTHING.
2. You are FAT, and that’s the main problem. If you had self control and more tightly managed yourself — if you made time for daily aerobic and weight-lifting exercise — if you joined a gym and woke up early to go — if you made yourself breakfasts with only protein and vegetables — that would permeate all areas of your life, and you would be able to accomplish EVERYTHING.
3. You are NOT DRIVEN, and that’s the main problem. If you would just set GOALS and be more DISCIPLINED — if you had an immovable ROUTINE to which you dedicated yourself — you would be able to accomplish EVERYTHING.
4. You suck at TIME MANAGEMENT, and that’s the main problem. If you made a schedule and stuck to it, there are enough hours in the day to accomplish EVERYTHING.

Sometimes I feel good about Me. But today is… hard.

Sometimes I feel good about Me. But today I don’t.

And so today is an opportunity. **sigh** Sometimes, I HATE opportunities because they’re hard work and I have to confront the lies I feed my brain and my heart.

Still, today is an opportunity. An important one. A critical one. A life-changing, earth-moving, heart-healing one.

Today is an opportunity to be gentle with myself.

Today is an opportunity to practice kindness, even with me.

Today is an opportunity to feel the feelings of frustration and to grieve being human and finite and fallible instead of what I’d prefer to be which is God, omnipotent and omnipresent, capable of All Things, simultaneously.

Today is an opportunity to treat myself like I’d treat a friend who confessed the same thing. To whisper the Truths and Light which overcome the Lies and Darkness. To remind myself I’m already on the Right Track, which is loving the humans around me. To look in the mirror and remember I’m made from Worth and Value. To make a Small, Achievable List of the Most Important Things for the day and to let the rest go, knowing they’ll wait for tomorrow. To take One Very Deep Breath on Purpose — a long intake of air to hold and hold and hold and release — and One More, because deep breaths incrementally release stress like tiny bits of magic. And to remember our merit isn’t measured by ticking off boxes on a list — the importance of our life isn’t measured by getting everything done. We are all, instead, inherently worthy of love already, even worthy of loving ourselves.

So in case you’re here, too, having a Day of it, I want you to know you’re not alone. And we have an opportunity together.

Sending you Love and Light, friend, and waving in the dark, as always,

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

The post A Severe Case of the Not Enoughs: An Opportunity first appeared on bethwoolsey..

We Have a New Puppy But This Isn’t Really About That

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 28 Aug 2019 21:30:33 +0000

I’ve been quiet for a couple weeks around here. We adopted a new baby dog, and I thought I’d just jot down the story for you the day after we brought her home. Instead, Giant Feelings swallowed me whole with their gaping maws, and it’s taken me this long to figure out where they came from and why telling you about a Tiny Puppy overwhelmed me completely.

I’m still a little paralyzed, to be honest. I’ve combated that in the usual ways — eating cookie dough in bed, scrolling endlessly through the Book of Faces, reorganizing chore charts so I can have a more accurate record of everything we never get done, rearranging furniture, reading trashy novels, and binge watching Harlots and Good Girls, not that there’s a theme there or anything.

But I’ve realized a large part of my hesitation in telling you this story is that it’s not all mine to tell. In fact, I don’t know if you’ll ever see this post because this is one for which I’ll have to ask permission, and I don’t have any idea how the child it references will feel about it. It’s good for me to write anyway because I can’t usually work out my feelings until they appear on screen; there’s something about the mechanics of brain to fingertips to keyboard that acts as a translator for my heart. Maybe it’s the pauses between words that let me think more clearly; I’ve always found there’s more depth and meaning in the gaps and spaces of life than we give them credit for. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m forced into a discipline of sitting quietly and thinking actively that lets me unlock part of my core I can’t otherwise access. I dunno, friends. It’s a mystery.

There are times in parenting that are like little deaths both because they slay your heart completely and because you have to die to your basest instinct to Control the Shit Out of a Situation That Is Causing Your Child Pain and instead provide leadership and kindness and gentleness and guidance so they can slay their own dragons.

Here’s the problem: one of my twins, who are 12 years old at the moment, is very, very, very extra much like his mother, which is wonderful when it comes to being compassionate to others, and fighting for justice, and being unapologetically, outrageously himself, and is terrible when it comes to mental health and anxiety and depression. And a year ago the latter surfaced in him in all its angsty, consuming glory.

Y’all, it is SOMETHING to watch a dragon you’ve fought for years and years and years and years sidestep you and make for your kid. It is SOMETHING to stand there in the mangled armor you’ve acquired with your dented sword by your side and see your vulnerable kid targeted only to find you can’t throw yourself in the dragon’s path and save him from contending with it himself. It is SOMETHING to be forced to the sidelines, in the role of coach instead of Dragon Slayer, and to try to spot under which bushes and around which corners your kid might find his own armor so you can holler at him to pick them up — please, please be willing to pick the tools you need — so he’ll have a shot at overcoming the beast.

And you KNOW that he’s capable. You KNOW that he can develop the strength to fight. You KNOW there’s a light at the end of the tunnel he finds himself in. You KNOW he’s not alone because you’re there, always and forever. But, also, until he fights, you DO NOT KNOW. You DO NOT KNOW that he will survive this. You DO NOT KNOW whether this is the one event or season that begins a downward cycle into depression and self-harm. You DO NOT KNOW if THIS is how he ends up trying meth or liquoring up or on prescription opioids to try to dull his pain. You DO NOT KNOW if this is a phase or if he will end up spiraling and shattering and if you will spiral and shatter with him.

Here’s all you do know while you’re in the midst of it: your child is in pain, and you’re trying, and he’s trying, but you’re not sure if what you’re doing is helping at all.

You’re trying everything you can think of. Counseling. Talking. Being open to feelings. Creating a relationship of trust. Researching Childhood Anxiety on the Google. Sharing Tiny Bits with Trusted Friends to see if they know something you don’t.

It seems endless, of course, because while you believe in the light at the end of the tunnel, you can’t see it yet, so you have to take it on faith — and memory — that it’s there and you will arrive at it eventually. And no one provides a timeline for you, so it’s like running a marathon when you can’t count on crossing the finish line at 26.2 miles. It’s like running a marathon that may turn out to be a 5K (surprise! hooray!) or an ultramarathon which is 100 miles when, let’s be honest, you only trained to 10.

It’s like All of Life, I suppose, except it’s your kid this time and not you, so pppttttffffffff… impossible.

Last summer was frightening. My kid was falling all the way apart, and watching a small human who owns my whole heart — who is smart and compassionate and funny and wise — flounder was agonizing. Overpowering.

I practiced compassion all summer. There were tears and outbursts. A lot of catastrophizing. A lot of talking through our feelings because preadolescence and huge hormone shifts plus a changing body and a wonky brain are a lot to work through. A LOT, a lot. And there was much apologizing on my part when I forgot those things and snapped too quickly, or expressed exasperation at my child acting like a child, or laid blame instead of sowing kindness.

Last year we were grieving together. The loss of church. The loss of a structure we thought we could rely on. The loss of people we thought had our backs and would welcome and include us unconditionally. The loss of my kids’ camps. Their safe and happy places. Last year was All New for us. It was abrupt. We didn’t see it coming. We felt adrift. And like any death, we had to discover who we are now with the irrevocable changes loss brings. Add to that entering middle school. And mental health challenges. And it was a dark place for him. A dark and lonely time.

We sought professional help, and counseling was good. We sought new friend groups and new camps, and those were good. We sat with our anxieties. We spent a lot of time being as gentle as possible with each other and tried to be gentle with ourselves, too. We learned to better trust our guts — to listen and to opt in or out of things faster, based on what our guts were telling us. We learned to never, ever make decisions after dark, but to always wait for dawn and examine our fears by the light of day.

And things got better.

Imperceptibly at first.

But eventually, after months, immeasurably.

He found his way to musical theater, and he learned to be confident in his clear, bright voice.

He found his way to friends who have his back and accept his quirks like he accepts theirs.

He learned middle school is survivable and fine, but he also quit middle school after trying it for a semester, because he wants more than “fine” and “survivable” in life, and I want that for him, too. He has a new plan now, and a new supervising teacher, and is flying through his curriculum joyfully and at the rapid pace he prefers.

The anxiety is still there, but it’s no longer all-consuming. We can see the dragon breathing smoke from its cave and poking its head out from time to time, but he hasn’t charged us for a while. Not outright, anyway. It’s sort of menacing from a distance. It’s become… manageable.

In the meantime, this kid’s twin has become more independent. There’s no resentment there. These boys are polar opposites and bonded brothers. Both/And. They’ll defend each other to the death, but they — especially the introverted one who doesn’t struggle with anxiety — wanted time apart, too, so, for the first time, they have separate bedrooms and no longer crawl in bed with each other when they’re scared.

So things are better, yeah? Better than they were. And also, it’s pretty rough when you’re an extrovert who’s always had a companion — an extrovert who’s prone to anxiety — to face the night alone. To face the days without someone to talk to and snuggle with and love on. To lose, in some ways, the warm presence at your side who’s always eased that nervousness and quieted that voice.

I stayed up late a few weeks ago, looking and looking and looking online for a new companion for my boy. You know, someone who might bark at the dragon and help keep it at bay.

And not to sound too woo-woo here, but when I saw her, I knew, and I emailed the rescue organization at 1am, and I took my baby to see if this might be his baby the next day.

This little one’s story is not so hot, either. She was tossed over a fence into the yard of a pit bull rescue in Southern California when she was just a few weeks old. Not the easiest start in life, I think we can agree. Fortunately, the other dogs didn’t decide she was breakfast, and she was scooped out of there and sent to Oregon to find her forever home. She met my boy,

and she decided he was hers,

following him and snuggling him and chewing on his fingers with her little needle teeth, which we’ve been having little chats about.

We brought her home, and the very first night, even though she’s still just a baby, she found a crook of his body to sleep in — behind his knees or in front of his belly or next to his neck — and slept the whole night through. As though she knew she was home. Safe and sound. And with her new pack.

He named her Nyx, after the Greek primordial goddess of Night, a daughter of the Greek god Chaos, and the mother of Light and Day, which is perfect because she waits with my boy through the night, reminding him he’s not alone. And she brings the joy and happiness that banishes the fears. The fears of the night hold no sway when you’re not alone, after all. Darkness holds no sway once you remember the dawn is coming.

Waving in the dark, friends,

P.S. We took Nyx camping last weekend for the first time. She was ADORABLE. Also, she pooped the tent. Not a little bit. Like, she pooped the WHOLE TENT with liquidy, soft poopies, and then she WALKED IN IT and spread it everywhere. Never have I EVER seen so much diarrhea shrapnel. Maybe when my babies were tinies. MAYBE. But the sheer quantity of poopies this tiny one can produce is MIRACULOUS, y’all. Stunning. A force of nature. And my children will never, ever sneak her bites of Dairy Queen ice cream ever again. Not after the poopy prints decorating their sleeping bags and pillows and backpacks and socks and water bottles and pants and shoes and ev-er-y other item they brought with them. #LessonLearned # #FitsRightIn #GoodThingShesCute #SrslyThoSOCUTE

Click here for general retreat information.

Or, if you want to head straight to the registration pages, you can register via my farm website, CAIRNS FARM:

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Save the Date Cards. Haphazard Lifestyle Advice: How to Wedding, Part 3

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 12 Aug 2019 20:08:38 +0000

Next in our How to Wedding series: save the date cards.

Honestly? We considered skipping them. There’s a huge part of me that feels like the double-invitation trend (save the dates and then invitations later) is a waste of time, effort, and dollars. I mean, why not just send an invitation? One and done. Half the cost. Voila!

In the end, though, Abby and Chandler chose save the date cards for the reason I imagine many do. While we’re fully ready to ignore any of the traditional wedding protocols that don’t make sense to us (like waiting until 6-8 weeks prior to the wedding to send invitations when we could send one months in advance, instead), we weren’t ready to settle on all the final wedding details that would appear in the invitation — ceremony time, reception time, etc.

Now, there are LOVELY save the date card templates and options ALL OVER online, and a lot of them offer pretty cool services like allowing you to input all the guest names and addresses so you can get save the date and invitation envelopes addressed and save yourself a TON of work. Minted.com is one example, and their products are both gorgeous and easy to use. Compared to other similar sites, they’re even cost effective. But compared to our budget, they’re expensive. Like, we would’ve been into the save the date cards at least $250 by the time we were done with postage. That seems… a little silly when I think of all the other ways we can spend $250, you know?

Enter: a friend with a good camera and Walgreens.

Abby and Chandler’s friends, Audrey and Emma, captured their engagement photos at Sparks Lake in Central Oregon.

Cost = Free

And so for save the dates, Abby and Chandler picked one of their favorite photos and created a very simple card with basic info using the Over app, then sent it digitally to Walgreens for printing. Since Walgreens is always running some kind of a discount on photos and cards, we took advantage of a 60% off code for a heavy-enough cardstock, and, for $117 including all postage, sent these:

Which I think are perfect!

A few other thoughts while we’re here:

1. Some photographers include an engagement session as part of their wedding packages. It’s worth checking out to see if you can bundle some of your photography expenses this way! The photographer Abby and Chandler selected, Alyssa McConaughey, does this. Also, photography hint: try to find someone super talented like Alyssa who’s an up and coming photographer in your area. We love Alyssa’s images and she’s still a little less expensive than more established photographers around here. I suspect demand for her services will soon mean an increase in price point, especially since she’s already booked parts of summer and fall 2020 and is filling fast, but I feel like we caught her just in time! Photography is one of our Top 3 budget categories where we feel the investment is absolutely worth the return, so this one’s a big decision.

2. Abby and Chandler are using The Knot as their wedding planning program. It allows us to keep all the info in one spot, the app is free, and the templates for wedding websites are simple to use. Via the app, Abby and Chandler can customize and track their To Do checklist (with helpful suggestions from the software regarding timeline and planning), input and manage their budget, create a wedding website so guests have all the info, manage the guest list, addresses, and responses, and curate registries. It’s a SUPER helpful tool that hands down beats the enormous three-ring binders I used to keep back in my event-planning days. Technology is cool.

3. Figuring out wedding guests is tricky! But not too tricky if you keep your ultimate goals in mind. In Abby and Chandler’s case, they’re inviting the people closest to them — friends and family who’ve played important roles in their lives growing up and on into their adult years. That’s going to be a little different from Greg’s and my wedding, when our parents also invited all their close friends. We’re not doing that, so the invitation list is smaller. There’s always the risk of offending people, but in the end Abby and Chandler want to be able to recognize the folks who are there and celebrate with the core who made them who they are today. I love that.

The End

P.S. Summer is exhausting. The sprint of constant activities hasn’t done me in yet, but I’m not gonna lie — it’s been a close call. Is it bad that I’m grateful we have a foster dog who had to have a hip replacement surgery last week? She’s gonna force me to be home with her for the next 10 weeks of recovery. THANK YOU, DAISY. Tell you what — I’ll help you save your hip, and you help me save my sanity. I feel like that’s a fair trade, girlfriend. In conclusion, I’m waving in the dark, friends. And waving and waving.

P.P.S. I JUST updated the Retreats page with brand new info. If you’d like hang out sometime, check it out.

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10 Things I Used to Think… What About You?

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 09 Aug 2019 01:48:41 +0000

1. I used to think brindle colored dogs were ugly, and tortoise shell cats, too, like a coven of hyenas held a secret midnight seance and magicked bits of their coats onto domesticated animals to make them mottled and homely and less likely to be adored than other, more beguiling creatures, but then I realized I was the one busy assigning worth based on appearance which seems to me now to be both silly and reprehensible, and I wonder what else I’ve gotten wrong.

2. I used to think broccoli and Brussels sprouts and lima beans and beets were horrible and should be abandoned as foods altogether, and now I think they’re the most misunderstood of all the vegetables and if folks just knew how to treat them we could all get along.

3. I used to think 1960s and 70s architecture and interior design were travesties and irredeemable, aesthetically speaking, but I found myself admiring a retro lamp in the store the other day and reminiscing fondly about the enormous, cascading capiz shell chandelier that commandeered the corner of my parents’ bedroom in my childhood home and wishing it was still around so I could hang it in mine.

4. I used to think I had to fold laundry and iron it and put it away in drawers. And now, well, I don’t.

5. I used to think men were the heads of households by virtue of their genitalia and a poor interpretation of the Bible, and I used to think a woman’s place was in the home due to same. Now I think adults are leaders together, are in charge of and responsible for themselves, ought to use their power over children wisely — by which I mean collaboratively and kindly and relinquishing as much control as possible — and that humans of every stripe belong everywhere, including the workplace and the home, because the more types of people we have in All the Places the more likely we are to learn to SEE each other and SEE the beautiful pieces we each bring to this Kaleidoscope World.

6. I used to believe people when they told me to be quieter and smaller and more “polite” and less crass and more civil and just sssshhhhhhh, Beth; SHUT UP already. Until I figured out their concern wasn’t for me or for the vulnerable and marginalized — and their concern wasn’t about ensuring equality and the right of everyone to pursue life, liberty, and happiness — but was instead always for the comfort of those in power and aimed at upholding the traditional power paradigms and not rocking the cozy boat for those of us who live with an outsized amount of privilege.

7. I used to think a liar and philanderer and vow-breaker and megalomaniac and money squanderer and, you know, white nationalist/racist like Donald Trump could not possibly be elected president in the United States of America because our people are better than that. But what’s the opposite of Nailed It? Because that’s me with that whole sitch. I did not nail it. I UNnailed it. DEnailed. DISnailed it. And I’ve spent the last three years coming to terms with how wrong I was and how much more I need to listen to the folks who’ve tried to tell us, for decades, for centuries, how deeply our nefarious system harms those who are already hurting.

8. I used to think the Church Universal was the defender of the broken-hearted and comforter of the grieving and protector of the children and the widows and the place to turn for strength in times of weakness and despair, and now I realize I confused “the Church” for Jesus Christ / aka God / aka Love Incarnate and that I idolized and worshiped the wrong one. Oops.

9. I used to think I had to comply and conform to be accepted in my community and in society at large, and I was right, but only in certain circles. I’ve learned, instead, I can Be Myself and not just survive but thrive outside those ancient tribes I once called home — those locked villages I once thought were “safe” — and I’ve found unsurpassable beauty out here in the wilderness meeting other wonderful, weird wanderers who are forging paths of kindness together, our own wonky tribe on the fly.

10. I suppose, in conclusion, I used to think what I used to think would remain what I thought. Steady. Reliable. Unshakeable. I thought I had my foundations figured out. The Evangelical Church a la Jerry Falwell circa 1980. ‘Murica post Civil Rights battles because We Already Figured Everything Out, right? And total and utter rejection of avocado appliances. Instead, I’ve found foundations must be rethought. Especially when they’re cracked and crumbling. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Who knew?

So I’m curious, friends… what did you used to think?

With love, and waving in the dark,

P.S. I need you to know I’m absolutely, 100% committed to Betty the Stove and Genevieve the Fridge, but I also need you to know I believe it’s time as a society we broach rethinking avocado appliances.

Just saying.

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The Ring! Haphazard Lifestyle Advice: How to Wedding, Part 2

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 22 Jul 2019 00:43:53 +0000

Can we have a frank discussion about money, please? And the wise spending of it? And how to STOP and THINK about funds and goals and the best paths forward? And how to make decisions based on What Actually Works for Your Budget and Your Life instead of on Cultural Norms?

Because I have some Words in that regard to BLESS YOU WITH today, friends. Some Haphazard Lifestyle Advice, Beth Woolsey style, with special thanks to my very own Abby and her very own Chandler, because they’re letting me tell you All the Things, and I’m grateful.

So.

As we so recently discussed, Abby and Chandler are ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED…

…and this mommy is over the moon about it, 95% because they are delightful and darling and prepared to be fallible and fabulous and horribly, perfectly human together and 5% because I decided very consciously to quit freaking the heck out about their Young Ages (21) and follow my own advice about trusting my children to make their own wise, wonderful, wild choices and to support them even though my own young marriage (also at 21) was at times more fraught than one (aka, ME) might have liked.

Now, I’ve known for a little while that this engagement may be coming, first because Abby and Chandler told me so, and second because Abby asked if I remembered — and meant — that thing about my ring.

Once upon a time, I told Abby if she ever wanted my engagement and wedding rings for her own union, I’d give them to her gladly.

Turns out, I gave them gladly and also a little sadly because I loved the dainty engagement ring Greg and I so carefully picked together — a far-from-flawless 1/3 carat center diamond with three tiny diamonds in triangles on either side, set in 14K yellow gold we bought for $850 at Shane Company in 1994 — but I’m content with my choice. To be honest, I seldom wore my wedding set in recent years, opting for something more rugged in both silver and gold tones — a $49 center stacking ring from Brighton and two $5 silver rings from Something Silver in an airport mall — because I could knock it around while kayaking, camping, and traveling without ever worrying about losing it or breaking it or otherwise ruining it forever.

It seemed silly to me to keep my own wedding set in my jewelry box when my daughter could wear it and cherish it, you know? After all, my sons are unlikely to want it — I have other small bits of jewelry if they prove equally sentimental — and my other daughter would far rather I gift her a set of giant, fancy dragon wings or black quartz imbued with magical powers or the next Pokémon plushy on her wish list than a ring I’d expect her to keep track of.

I knew Abby and Chandler had been discussing engagement, and they’d shown me rings they liked online. So when Abby asked if my ring might still be an option, I let her know it was hers and they could alter it into something they chose together. Because Abby’s enamored with oval center stones — something larger than my smaller circular diamond — they decided to remove my center diamond (which we’ve made into a bezel set necklace pendant I can wear all the time) and add a larger oval instead.

Now, here’s where the haphazard lifestyle advice comes in, because Chandler and Abby asked how much I thought that might cost and whether I could get them a quote from our favorite local jeweler.

Y’all, it’s 100% OK if you disagree with what I’m about to say, but at this point in my life — and the season of Abby’s and Chandler’s lives — DIAMONDS SEEM LESS THAN IDEAL. And simulated diamonds seem really, REALLY worth considering if you’re after a specific aesthetic rather than a stone that can only be recognized as “genuine” under a jeweler’s loupe.

Listen; I get that that’s kinda controversial. My brother went to Conservative Evangelical College (not its real name) and took the Christian Man Class (might as well be its real name) where they told the young men they needed to pony up for as large a diamond as humanly possible to prove to their intendends that they valued them like Christ values the Church — extravagantly, lavishly, sacrificially, endlessly. The size and expense of the ring, he was told, was in direct proportion to the love he harbored for his fiancé. To buy something less expensive — something, dare I say, affordable whilst carrying student loans — was tantamount to saying she was so much chattel; her bride price worth no consideration at all, she was valued so little.

Hopefully, you’re rolling your eyes as hard at Christian Man Class as I did. And fortunately for my brother, his future wife thought that was ridiculous. But I think if most of us are honest, our ideas about engagement rings and cost and expressions or symbols of love are at least a little tied together. A little bit linked. A tiny bit enmeshed. Like, is a cubic zirconia engagement ring even ALLOWED? Who DOES that?

Turns out, Abby and Chandler do. AND I AM SO PROUD OF THEM.

They priced all the options.

They looked at the pros and cons of each.

They narrowed it down to three choices, each in a new 14K yellow gold setting (to securely hold the center stone), each with my 6 tiny diamonds, each to look like this:

Option 1. Diamond center stone — prices start at $10,000 and go to infinity. (For example, Sarah Hyland and Wells Adams announced their engagement last week — her ring is almost identical to this, minus the tiny diamonds, and is estimated at $100,000-200,000 depending on the quality of the diamond.)

Option 2. Moissanite center stone — $2,500-$3,000.

Option 3. Cubic Zirconia center stone — $635.

They chose Option 3, and it’s GORGEOUS.

And, not to brag, but Richard Muller, professor of physics at UC Berkeley, agrees with their choice. The value of diamonds is in their rarity, but their rarity is artificially manufactured, set by diamond cartels that restrict the flow of diamonds onto the market. Simulated diamonds, meanwhile, are more clear, more colorful, and less flawed than mined diamonds, and, frankly, no one except a jeweler can tell the difference.

The only real con of cubic zirconia is that it isn’t as hard as a diamond. Diamonds are a 10 on the Mohs Scale of Hardness.* Moissanite is a 9.25. Sapphires are 9. Cubic Zirconia is 8.5. Topaz is 8. Emerald is 7.5. And so on. However, similar to the way Seismic Magnitude Scales** like the Richter Scale reflect an exponential difference in magnitude as the numbers increase to describe the intensity of an earthquake, diamonds are exponentially harder than cubic zirconia. More simply, you can’t just say CZ is “close enough” in hardness*** to diamonds. Oh, it’s hard. It’s just not that hard.****

The fantastic news is, if at some point a CZ stone is scratched or otherwise marred, it costs a whopping $10 to replace the stone itself + $50ish in labor. AND, if Abby and Chandler or any super savvy spenders like them decide in the future they’d rather have moissanite or diamond, it’s incredibly simple to make that swap. They’re not “stuck” having made the CZ choice they same way they would be with a more expensive option.

In conclusion, MY CHILDREN ARE THE SMARTEST CHILDREN THAT EVER WERE, and this is today’s Haphazard Lifestyle Advice in How to Wedding.

With love,

*P.S. Greg and I are going to play Mohs Scale of Hardness later. He doesn’t know yet, so shhhhhh… don’t spoil the surprise.

**P.P.S. We’re also going to play Seismic Magnitude Scales.

***P.P.P.S. “Close enough in hardness” is not part of the game.

****P.P.P.P.S. “Oh, it’s hard; just not that hard” is not part of the game, either.

The End.

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Haphazard Lifestyle Advice: How to Wedding, Part 1

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 16 Jul 2019 01:27:59 +0000

I’ve said for quite some time, when describing it to people who ask, that this blog space is like a lifestyle blog, except the opposite. You know? Like, when I think lifestyle blog, I think Martha Stewart or Goop or Chrissy Teigen (whom I and with whom I am well pleased) . Someplace neat and tidy and pretty and delicious, right? I definitely do not think of a mentally ill mother of five who pooped her closet. Or who plays I Spy with the items found under her couch. Or who shows off the Ancient Horrifying Golem Stubs , ℠, ®, © that exist underneath her dental makeover.

At the same time, I’ve spent the last couple decades living in abject chaos — just utter emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual messiness in degrees that ebb and flow as constantly as the tide — and I’ve learned a thing or two about making magic in its midst. Finding grace in the grime. Seeking joy in uncertainty. Finding the thin places where the divine and sacred meet the mundane and monotonous. And realizing that I don’t have to have a stream of beautifully styled photographs full of light and bright, open spaces to have a LIFE that is beautiful and full of light and allows me room to breathe.

To be sure, I’m not bad-mouthing lifestyle blogs. I LOVE looking at the pretty pictures and visual inspiration and sheer art humans can create in their clothes and hair and makeup and homes and food — especially the food — and I know they’re frequently accused of being fake, but I don’t believe that at all. I think there are people who are called toward loveliness. And people whose life work it is to beckon beauty closer. And I think it says more about us and our jealousy and sometimes rage when we assume there’s deceit involved than it says about them. I love lifestyle blogs, and I can admire them and also admit my bedroom usually looks like this:

And my bathtub is actual a depository for dirty dishes:

And this is my kitchen table when it’s VERY, VERY CLEAN:

It’s sometimes hard for me to remember that I was a professional event planner in a past life. In charge of making beautiful days happen for others. PAID for it, like I was CAPABLE OF IT. I mean, it’s a good thing no one had a crystal ball or they never — not ever — would’ve trusted my judgement to the degree that they’d entrust me with a WHOLE WEDDING.

I think that’s why the Oregon Coast and International retreats have been so fun for me to host. And why I’m ecstatic that we bought the farm. The events I get to run marry all the joy of beauty and planning grounded in living authentically and vulnerably and messily and in deep community with others. The very best of the Both/And world in my book. Like I’m allowed to bring my full self to the table and offer my mess as a feature and not a bug. Like I’m allowed to exist in dichotomous states simultaneously; order and chaos; beauty and grime; fear and faith; weariness and wonder; grounded and ready to take flight.

Which brings me to the MOST EXCITING NEWS, friends. Because the VERY BEST THING happened.

My oldest kid, my virtual twin, the child who made me a mommy for the very first time has FOUND HER HUMAN, folks. And he found his human in her. And so they’re engaged. TO BE MARRIED.

And, not to pat myself on the back too, too much, but NEVER HAVE I EVER been more glad we welcomed Chandler warmly from Day One. Like he was already family. Like he had already earned our respect. Like he was good and smart and kind. Because I will tell you, as a How to Wedding prequel, the way you welcome your child’s humans — friends and romantic interests alike — helps inform your child regarding how much and how completely they can reveal themselves to you. NEVER HAVE I EVER been more glad, now that we get to keep him forever and ever, that we’re doing this based on a firm foundation of friendship and mutual admiration.

So the next many months of my life, until next summer, shall be in Wedding Mode at Abby and Chandler’s direction. And because a) they gave me permission, b) I like to share all the Big Things with you, and c) I have a background in wedding planning tempered with 20+ years of murky, marvelous life experience, we’re starting a How to Wedding series today. Tips and tricks. How to plan a wedding on a budget. How to navigate the ups and downs of meeting more needs than just the bride’s and the groom’s. And more.

For today, part one of How to Wedding, in short, is just this: risk trusting your people.

That is a HARD THING, friends. Because, from my perspective as a mama who’s now launched a couple kiddos to adulthood and who has three more to go, trust feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, especially because trusting your children as wise, capable, savvy humans in their own right — even from the time they’re young — means casting aside all of the authoritarian methods of parenting. And nothing — no thing — in my life has felt more risky than ditching the very clear, “how to” parenting books and strategies in favor of trusting my humans and myself to navigate their childhood with the kind of flexibility, grace, and kindness that’s required if we want to create compassionate, critical thinkers instead of rules-based bots.

For us, this looked like assuming the best of our kids. Trusting their motives were pure. Over and over and over again. It meant deciding on rules together so there was buy-in. It meant answering them when they asked “why,” instead of supplying the much easier “because I said so.” It meant focusing more on privileges and responsibility than on consequences (even though there were still consequences.) And it meant finding ways to constantly praise and reinforce the positive rather than wait for a negative behavior to correct.

It meant that when two of them were fighting, we’d separate them, talk to them individually, and, instead of scolding them for arguing, we’d start with a statement like, “You’re trying really hard right now, aren’t you? Tell me how you’re feeling and what you want to accomplish.” Now, YES, the Very First Statement from them was often “Well, he…” or “Well, she…” followed by an Itemized List of the Ways Their Sibling Wronged Them, and YES, my Very First Statement was usually “YOU ARE DRIVING ME ALL THE WAY CRAZY WITH THIS BICKERING,” but, eventually, with a nearly unfathomable amount of talking and trying to give benefit of the doubt and especially trusting our people, they have, mostly, learned to trust themselves and trust their people — their sibs AND their parents — too. And I will tell you from this vantage point with an adult child all the way in love with her person, standing on a foundation of mutual trust gives you a LOT of room for building a sustainable relationship with your kids in the future.

You WANT to arrive at this destination, folks. The view from here is STUNNING.

Listen. There will be times during their childhood or adolescence— frequently or infrequently depending on the temperaments of you and your child — when you will want to SHAKE SENSE INTO THEM. When you will question where they have EVER listened to ANY words you say. When they sneak out of their bedroom window in the middle of the night to hang out with their friends in the park down the street and you catch them only because they’re very, very terrible at sneaking out and leave on the lights in their room and the screen off the window, and you will wonder if THIS IS IT, the BEGINNING OF THEIR DOWNWARD SPIRAL into a LIFE OF DRUGS AND SEX AND CRIME and ultimately end up in PRISON where they will wear orange jumpsuits and trade sexual favors for packs of cigarettes a la Orange Is the New Black.

There will be times during their childhood or adolescence when you will BEG God to give you PATIENCE even though you KNOW BETTER THAN TO PRAY THAT PRAYER LEST GOD GIVE YOU UNLIMITED OPPORTUNITIES TO PRACTICE, because if you hear any more whining about how they have to do “EVERYTHING — ALL the chores, ALL the time — and no one else ever does ANYTHING” while you’re driving them to dance rehearsal after picking them up from school in between trips to the grocery store, the pharmacy, and taking your other 27 children to doctors’ appointments, the orthodontist, and soccer practice… because if you hear ANY more whining and if God doesn’t give you patience, STAT — like INSTANT PATIENCE — you are going to pull over, leave the car running, get out, and walk all the way to Mexico.

There will be moments you will think about a relationship with your child built on trust and making rules together, and you will SCOFF because HA! THIS CHILD HAS THE BRAIN POWER OF A SNAIL and the impulse control of the masturbating monkey at the zoo who throws poo on his cage mates. And there will be times you will have to pull the authoritarian parenting card because that’s the only way to keep them, you know, ALIVE.

But circle back to trust, friends. And to telling them until it becomes super annoying how worthy of that trust they are. Give them amounts of freedom that aren’t completely reckless but that make your heart stutter a little. Remind them every time they have a privilege — biking to the store, walking the dog alone, staying up late — that it’s because they deserve it. They earned it. They’re worthy of it. And you know you can trust they’ll use their privileges wisely. THIS IS AN EFFECTIVE FORM OF BRAINWASHING. It totally works . Eventually.

There’s nothing to date I’ve found more powerful in parenting than being able to say, “You know I trust you. You know I give you a whole lot of freedom and privileges. But every now and then I’m going to have to pull the parenting card and say no… or say not yet… or say we have to pull back on this privilege and try again later.” Y’all, they actually listen. And acquiesce. Sometimes while grumbling, but still with the listening.

It’s a game changer, I tell you.

And it’s a gift to yourself, too. Because when your child is no longer a child, and you’ve spent the time and energy learning to trust her, knowing for Certain Sure she makes good decisions (other than the sneaking-out blips when she didn’t make good decisions because she’s human and fallible and has to learn from failure just like the rest of us) and picks good people to bring into her life, you will reap the rewards of that trust.

And entering this season of life with joy and a light heart?

Priceless.

With love (and excitement! ),

P.S. More soon!

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I’ve Been Thinking About Kindness a Lot Lately. Really, I’d Say It’s All I Think About Anymore.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 03 Jul 2019 06:35:59 +0000

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. Kindness and strangers. Kindness and kids. Kindness and politics. Kindness and cages. Kindness and marriage. Kindness and sex. Kindness and time. Kindness and self. And kindness and how to push more into the universe like a brilliant shaft of light from my belly, Care Bear style.

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. I loaded my groceries into my car in the hot parking lot the other day. My car is black. The interior is black. The asphalt was black. Heat was radiating from every direction. My kid and I were soaked in sweat by the time we loaded the last bag. As I grabbed the cart to put it away, a woman pulled into the spot next to me, and I realized, walking back, that she was parked so close it would be impossible to open my door and slide into my seat without hitting her car. No problem, though, because she was still in her seat, so I went over to her and said, “Hey — any chance you can move your car a little? I can’t get into mine.” There was an empty spot in front of her to pull straight into, as well as one on the other side of her, so I figured no big deal, right?

Wrong.

She said, “Nope.” Clipped. Clearly pissed. And I thought, weird, but whatever. I figured I could just explain.

”It’d be a big favor if you could, even just a little. I just need to slip into my car.”

”Fuck you,” she said, “I’m parked inside the lines. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

And, I mean, she was right. She was parked inside the lines. There was nothing I could do about it. She hopped out of her car, got her two kids out, and walked toward the store.

Now, there’s a part of me that wanted to tell her off. You know, YELL ABOUT KINDNESS at her. Tell her what an UNKIND EXAMPLE she was to her kids. That she should MOM better and HUMAN better. That there’s a thing called COMMON COURTESY, and she should shop for that inside the store since she was clearly out.

But there was a bigger part of me that didn’t want to do that at all. There was a bigger part of me that felt genuinely devastated for her that that’s all she had available in her heart for a stranger. That that’s how on edge she was. That that’s the kind of anger she was, at least for the moment, harboring inside.

The urge to tell her off was minuscule in comparison, because I’ve had moments when I had nothing left to give, too. When I was exhausted and overwhelmed. When I was grieving and despairing beyond what I thought I could handle. And while I probably would’ve moved my car for the stranger — while I probably would’ve saved my vitriol for my family (lucky them) — it would’ve taken an ENORMOUS amount of energy, you know? Like a massive Herculean effort. There are times in my life when my marriage was in the crapper and my mental health was in rapid decline and my children were young and incessantly needed everything, and moving my car after I managed to park it would’ve felt IMPOSSIBLE. Gathering breath was hard enough. Doing a task I’d already done? Parking twice? Unfathomable.

So I said to her retreating back, “You parked inside the lines. I need you to know I’m not suggesting you did anything wrong. I was just asking for a favor.” And I wanted to add, “I hope you have a better day,” but I didn’t know how to make those words sound sincere, the way I meant them, instead of snide and sarcastic, so I kept them to myself, and went around to the passenger’s side to crawl across the console and shoehorn myself into my seat, thinking I may perhaps need to lay off the Cheetos and do more yoga so I have less mass and more flexibility to achieve that feat in the future.

As I was working my way into my seat, she turned around and yelled, “I’m fucking hot, and I’m fucking tired, and it’s fine if you hit my car with your door so you can get in; I do not fucking care.” And I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I think she meant it as an apology. I really do. I think if she’d had a minute to think and maybe not a hundred bajillion other things on her mind and in her heart, and if she had maybe an iced coffee and someone to remind her she’s doing enough and being enough, she’d have said it like, “I’m tired, friend. I’m so, SO tired. And this heat is killing me dead. And I have these small humans consuming me. And I cannot move my car. I CAN’T, even though I know it’s a totally reasonable request. But you can dent my car. It’s OK. Do what you need to do. Solidarity, momrade. Over and out. And, also, send help.”

My kid and I drove home, and all the way we talked about kindness and strangers and how you never know what interactions you might get, and how you get to choose your own reaction, always. There’s power in choosing kindness — maybe even more so when it’s not the obvious choice — and there’s power in letting mean words go even though that’s hard because we’re better at dwelling on them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. I’ve been thinking about the evangelical church and its unholy marriage to the Republican Party which has resulted in a baffling loyalty to Trump and defense of his brutality to the weakest among us — children and asylum seekers. I’ve been thinking about the resounding accusations I regularly receive that I’m unkind to fundamental and evangelical Christians, with whom I once belonged, when I call out their cruelty via political allegiances or exclusion of marginalized people. And I’ve been thinking constantly about where my loyalty belongs.

I think about kindness and kids. And kindness and politics. And kindness and cages. And the fact that Jesus’ shining example was refusing to kowtow to the rules-based faith of his time, turning away again and again and again and again from the religious establishment in favor of the vulnerable. I’ve been thinking about political systems that reward callousness and self-preservation and wealth accumulation above equality and justice. I’ve been thinking about my words and how I use them and how critically important it is not to confuse being “nice” with being kind. I’ve been thinking about my words and how I use them and how critically important it is to champion compassion over cruel power paradigms, which is kind even if it’s not always nice.

I used to believe the old adage “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” and so, in the face of injustice, I was quiet. I was “polite.” I was “civil.” And I was, as a result, actively supporting the oppressors and harming the oppressed.

Now I believe something different.

Now, nice isn’t the measuring stick. Now, I’m kind of horrified it ever was.

Now, I ask myself other questions, like: If you don’t have anything nice to say, is it necessary to say anyway? Is it just? Does it protect the marginalized? Does it help someone vulnerable know they’re not alone? Does it lift up the fallen? Does it shelter the weak? Does it amplify the voices of those who are shunned or shamed? If my silence benefits those in power at the expense of those who are hurting — even if that silence is what I was taught was “nice” — then it’s unkind to keep quiet. Wrong. Unloving. Harmful. And I won’t do it anymore because kindness is bigger than nice. Better. Fiercer. More wild and free.

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. Greg was away on a business trip last week, and he posted a goofy pic of himself on Facebook.

“One of my favorite things to do at a conference is use this profile picture for my badge,” he wrote. “It breaks the monotony for the session attendance scanners and makes for a good icebreaker.”

It was cute — and I enjoy New Greg who’s SO much more confident being himself in recent years —but you know what I really noticed when I looked at that photo? Greg wearing a “my pronouns: he/him” on his shirt.

He told me there was a vendor booth at the conference with a bowl of pins so folks could note their pronouns in order to facilitate full inclusion for all attendees. He wore his the whole week in solidarity and to normalize sharing pronouns upon meeting new people. Kindness in a pin.

And so I thought about kindness and marriage… and then about how kindness affects sex, because DAMN IT’S HOT to be inclusive and to welcome all humans well. HOTTER than hot. The HOTTEST, really.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. And I thought about it a lot on Friday night when my oldest kid and her boyfriend and my middle kid were in a car accident.

Not their fault. Hit from behind. Shook up pretty good — physically and emotionally — and still dealing with the fallout.

Through a stroke of luck, Greg and I were nearby and able to be there a few minutes after it happened. We did all the usual parental things. Made sure our people were OK. Went to the ER for All the Tests and Scans and Images and Instructions. Took care of paperwork and insurance info. Got the car — totaled, we’ve been told — to the collision center and figured out alternate transportation. And of course, all of it was an opportunity to practice kindness.

But the biggest kindness we got to offer was to the other driver. Y’all, he was young and earnest and so, so sorry. A second of inattention, and WHAM, he hit them. He owned it. He apologized a dozen times (which they say not to do, but I think “they” are NUTS.) And he was also kind of lost. Like, he had all his insurance cards and documents in his hands when we arrived, and he said, “I don’t know what to do next.”

I held onto his shoulder and asked if he was OK. (Yes.) I told him what I tell my kids… it’s all going to be OK because no one died, and we can fix anything except dead. (He nodded.) I told him I’d been in his position before and it SUCKS and I was so sorry he was going through this. (He said it had been an exceptionally crappy day.) And then, in between checking on our people, I walked him through next steps… photograph our info, call your insurance, file an accident report at the DMV, BREATHE IN AND OUT, remind yourself that you’re human like the rest of us, forgive yourself for your lapse, let the insurance companies do their job, and pay the kindness forward like I got to do because someone at an accident scene that was fully my fault was once kind to me.

So, yeah. I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. About how to be kind to others even when they’re not kind to me. About what true kindness looks like when it means championing the hurting and broken-hearted and not just shutting up. About how kindness is a turn-on. About the ways I need to practice kindness to myself so I can readily give it away. About how to model it for my kids. And about how to forgive myself when I fall far short of the kindness bar.

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. Really, I’d say it’s all I think about anymore. In one way or another. And I think you are, too. I think kindness is on the move.

With love, as always, and waving in the dark,

The post I’ve Been Thinking About Kindness a Lot Lately. Really, I’d Say It’s All I Think About Anymore. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Your Thoughts Requested: Democratic Presidential Candidates (Also Some Thoughts on Cash Ransoms that Have Zero to do with Anything Else. You’re welcome.)

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 28 Jun 2019 23:49:43 +0000

Alrighty. I’ve learned two important things in the last two days, as follows:

1. I’ll never be able to pay a significant cash ransom should any of my people be kidnapped, so cross fingers that doesn’t happen.

and

2. I just turned I Have to Be Home in Time for the Democratic Debates years old.

Regarding Thing #1 — free tip from me to you — do NOT try to do bookkeeping in your head. Or, if you DO try to do bookkeeping in your head, be better at remembering expenses than I am. Here’s the sitch… I paid a big farm bill via check. And I was pretty sure I had enough dollars in the farm checking account to cover it. So I didn’t double check. And then, in a shock to me and to zero other people because everyone else seems to understand my brain better than I do, there were NOT enough dollars in the account to cover it. That’s because I left the dollars in a different account. And did you know if you write a check without enough dollars in your account that the bank WILL NOT COVER IT just out of the goodness and generosity of their hearts? IT’S TRUE, friends. THEY WILL NOT. And then, because you don’t want to be more of an asshole to the People You Were Supposed to Pay than you’ve already been by writing a bad check, you will try to pull out All the Monies in cash so you can hand them a wad of bills like a drug deal instead of another check they may or may not want to trust.

And THIS is how you will learn, like I did, that coming up with a cash ransom quickly IS NOT EASY because banks have things called Wait Times to transfer funds from one bank to another. And they have Holding Periods for funds to actually clear. And suddenly you will realize your ability to source cash dollars is woefully small.

For many years, we’ve had a rule in our family. It’s concise and clear. We call it the No Dying Rule, and it’s pretty self-explanatory. We shout it every time one of the kids leaves the house to run around with friends. NO DYING, CHILD! Kind of like our version of Make Good Choices, you know? Which is just another way of saying I Love You, really. And even though not all our family members have followed the No Dying Rule (which I’m UNPLEASED by), we stand by it as principally sound.

Now we have to have a new rule. No Getting Kidnapped for Cash Ransom. I sat them all down and let everyone know yesterday. NO GETTING KIDNAPPED FOR CASH RANSOM, CHILDREN. TURNS OUT, MOMMY’S NOT GOOD FOR THE MONEY. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. I mean, we’re still allowed to be kidnapped, but we’re going to have to make it clear to the kidnappers that we’re only going to be able to pay in, like, farm fresh eggs or All the Crap We Have Stored in Our Garage (IDK what all’s in there, but you’re welcome to take a look, kidnappers, and take what you like) or broken plastic patio chairs. I feel like maybe we should apologize to the kidnappers in advance ‘cause we’re seriously cramping their style. No killing us because of the No Dying Rule and also no $$$ because I’m bad at maths.

So that’s Thing #1.

And Thing #2 is that I HAD to watch the Democratic Debates. I was COMPELLED. Both nights. Like I’m an irrevocable Grown Up now. I have these memories of my dad sitting in his brown leather chair when I was a kid, our golden retriever draped over him, boring us into comas because he insisted on watching shows like 60 Minutes and, in later years, CSPAN. CSPAN, folks. And he would tell my brother and me to shush while we sat on the brown shag carpet lest he miss Important Things while we squabbled. It was the actual WORST. We were DYING of BOREDOM, and he cared 0%. ZERO. But last night and the night before, I sat on my couch with a golden retriever draped over me, and every time a child came into the room to ask me why “there’s never anything to eat in our house” (OMG) or how come “I have to do every chore around here and no one else does anything ever” (kill me now), I told them to shush lest I miss Important Things.

And now I want to discuss those Important Things with you. Because I have Thoughts. And Questions. And I want to know what your Thoughts and Questions are, too.

Here’s where I’m at right now with the Democratic Candidates. Although I will say first, I’m not a Democrat. I’m registered unaffiliated. I don’t think either party has a corner on the intellectual or policy or problem-solving market. I think some of the Democrats are bat shit crazy. Like, all the way on the Crazy Train. But I’m also so deeply distressed and disturbed by the direction of the Republican Party as a whole and the full and complete abdication of morality, compassion, justice, and ethics on a national scale (happy to site actual reasons if anyone needs more info on why I believe this way) that I’m finding myself moving well past my more moderate leanings of a couple years ago and well into progressive, if not liberal, territory as an antidote to the agony the vulnerable peoples in our community are experiencing.

OK. That said, here’s where I’m at:

Candidates Who Appear to Have the Intellect, Policies, Judgement, and Demeanor we desperately need to navigate the murky, difficult waters ahead for America:

Pete Buttigieg — I liked him before last night, and he continues to impress me. I dig his policies. I LOVE that he’s more centrist/moderate than some of the other Democratic candidates. I think his experience in the military is important. I love that he’s a millennial. (Although I don’t love the other millennial candidates so .)
Kamala Harris — She’s strategically brilliant, especially taking on Biden last night like he’s her only real competition. I mean — SUCH a good strategy. She’s articulate. I agree with most of her policies. She has some pretty awesome ideas for folks to rally behind. But my question about her is her record. What’s troubling in her record? I keep hearing this criticism, but I need to know more.
Amy Klobuchar — Again with the policies. She’s also steady and calm. I don’t know that she has the “star power” to capture America’s imagination, but I also think that’s a GOOD thing if only America could get on board with not having the Personality Cults of recent years.
Julian Castro — I mean, I knew before the debates that he was the only Latino candidate, but I hadn’t done my research on him. His ability to articulate thoughtful policy swayed me. I’m a fan. But I also don’t know enough about him yet. He’s on my radar, but what do I need to know that I don’t already?

Candidates who are 2nd Tier for me — generally, I think these folks would be… fine? But there are some bigger questions/issues I have with them.

Kirsten Gillibrand — I love that she’s campaigning on strong support for women. I think that’s critical. And I think she’s articulate and has the demeanor of calm confidence (and fire) we need in a president. I also worry (and you’ll see this more with other candidates below) that she has too narrow of a focus. I care about women’s issues. But I want a candidate to be more well rounded and concerned about ALL the critical issues. Am I wrong with her? What have I missed?
Elizabeth Warren — I actually love Elizabeth Warren. I agree with 90% of her policies. I love that she’s fierce, clear, confident, and articulate. But I worry that she’s too extremely on the liberal end of the spectrum. I worry that she’ll inspire more fear in moderate voters than excitement. I worry that the conservatives will be able to rally too much support against her. But maybe those things shouldn’t be my focus? Maybe I’m way off?

Candidates I’d really rather weren’t because I think their time is past and it’s time to clear the board for others. I have Other Thoughts on them, but that’s the basic gist.

Biden
Sanders

Candidates I feel “meh” about at this point in time:

Booker. I know. I’m sorry. People love him. I could get all the way on board if he runs against Trump. But at this point, I’m just meh. He didn’t stand out for me.
Bennet, Bullock, Delaney, Gabbard, Hickenlooper, O’Rourke

Candidates too focused on Just One Issue:

Inslee — I TOTALLY AGREE climate change is a critical issue and a crisis. But we also need a president who can juggle myriad crises and treat them all with the urgency they need.
Yang — I need more from a candidate than $1000/month. It’s just… not enough to sway me at all. Not the $. The idea that that’s his main push.
Swalwell — Dude. I get it that it’s your generation’s turn. I even agree. But you have to run on more than that.

Candidates who rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps unfairly to them. Their demeanor and ways of expressing themselves just didn’t work for me. Am I wrong here?

Ryan
DeBlasio
Williamson, although bless her heart

OK. That’s all I’ve got right now.

1. No Getting Kidnapped for Cash Ransom.

2. THOUGHTS on Democratic Candidate.

Pretty please share your thoughts, too. I’m learning here, and I’m all ears.

With ,

The post Your Thoughts Requested: Democratic Presidential Candidates (Also Some Thoughts on Cash Ransoms that Have Zero to do with Anything Else. You’re welcome.) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

You Don’t Need the Oxford Dictionary to Go Hiking: Some Thoughts on Walking and Life

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 26 Jun 2019 01:50:27 +0000

I had a dream the other night. I was hiking with friends, and there was something in my shoe stuck to my sock just past the ball of my left foot. Not enough to hurt me immediately but enough to be irritating and cause a problem if I left it there too long.

I sat down in the middle of the trail in my nylon runner’s short shorts, navy blue with white trim like the kind I wore to Ladera Elementary School in the 4th grade when I got called into the principal’s office for being immodest by showing off too much of my nine-year-old legs. I sat down in the dry dust on the mountain pass, and my friends stopped, too, and I pulled off my shoe to examine my sock and find the burr or the rock or the gritty ball of sap stuck there.

I found it, sure enough, a tiny pebble caught in the knit mesh, and then I picked my shoe back off the ground to take a quick look inside and make sure there weren’t any other obstructions. Good thing, too, because I found a book in there — the Oxford Dictionary, an abridged copy from 1984, with worn corners and no dust cover, faded blue, well used. Also, two pennies, a mallet, one Tylenol tablet partially squashed, a tube of 1% hydrocortisone cream, and a board game called Clue/Monopoly/Scrabble which was missing the top hat and all the X tiles, but not to worry because Miss Scarlet thought she knew where they were and went back into the shoe to find them.

My friend said, “How did you even walk with all that in there?” But I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure. I suspected I’d just grown used to it all and didn’t feel it anymore, like when your house has been a mess so long you no longer notice the enormous pile of paper on the kitchen counter you meant to file months ago.

I pulled off the right shoe even though it wasn’t bothering me. After the Left Shoe Experience, I thought I ought to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and it was totally empty other than a DSLR camera and a telephoto lens.

I dunno, friends. Dreams are weird, and occasionally they don’t make sense, but my subconscious, like the rest of me, is not very subtle, so this one was pretty clear.

A few years ago, when Depression was bearing down on me again, I had a recurring nightmare that I was driving a car along a local highway and traffic was stopped ahead but my brakes wouldn’t work no matter how hard I stepped on them. I knew every time I woke up that my subconscious was yelling my deepest fear — that I was hurtling toward disaster with no way to stop even though I was trying desperately and with all my strength.

This dream was like that one, clear and obvious, like my subconscious knows I can’t be trusted with anything obscure. Or like my subconscious knows I’m trying to walk with too many self-made obstacles and is giving me a freaking break by not forcing me to figure out anything else with my compromised brain power. I appreciate the assist, Subconscious; I really do.

The thing is, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about obstacles. About how many things I’ve believed I “have” to do. About how many mercurial objects I carry with me on each day’s journey — my feelings, my guilt, my longing, my obligations, my schedule, and the ever-expanding list of Things Left Undone. About the ways I keep moving without even noticing the burden of everything weighing me down, slowing my progress, making me feel like I’m wading through mud instead of walking through air. About how much effort it takes to stop and sit down and get dirty paying attention to the small irritant and examining it — trusting it like the helper it is — to lead me to a larger problem. And about leaving the things by the wayside that I don’t need on the journey, after all — even if they’re good things.

Listen. You may not have heard this before, but you don’t need the Oxford Dictionary to go hiking. Not even the abridged one. Not even though dictionaries are good and helpful in other situations. I do not have to carry the Oxford dictionary just because it was useful in 10th grade composition class.

And I don’t have to maintain a breakneck schedule to feel that my life is being spent meaningfully. Even if that schedule is full of good, meaningful things. I don’t have to grab every opportunity presented to me. I can pick and choose. I can consolidate appointments. I can protect an entire day on my calendar with no To Do items and no doctors’ appointments and no grocery shopping and yes breathing without berating myself for “wasting time” or being “lazy” even though I’m so exhausted I can hardly move.

I don’t have to sign my kids up for All the Activities or All the Sports or All the Tutoring or All the Camps this summer so I can assuage the fear that I’m not giving them enough opportunities and thus robbing them of the only childhood they’ll ever have. How silly. How heavy. How unnecessary and harmful to pass along the dominant culture’s idea that Busy = Valuable. How sad to fail to take their lead and teach them to follow their passions, instead. How heartbreaking to substitute Doing with Being and to rob them of the joy it is to find themselves.

I don’ t have to carry everything with me all the time. I don’t have to chronicle every moment — not even in my heart. Minutes pass by and hours and sometimes days, and they’re not wasted if I didn’t carpe their diem. Not every second can be carpe-ed. Not every second should be. Some seconds are just for breathing. Or sleeping. Or pooping. It’s OK that they’re ethereal. It’s OK not to seize them all.

I walk my path panicking a lot. Like I’m doing it wrong. Not fast enough. Not attentive enough. Not successful enough. Not intentional enough. Not clean-laundrying enough. You know? My lawn is too weedy. My patio’s too dusty. My focus is too blurry, my goals too murky, my list too long, my face too zitty because I sleep with make-up too often and care for my skin too little, and also I eat gummy bears in bed.

How silly. How heavy. How unnecessary and harmful to reinforce with myself the dominant culture’s idea that Busy = Valuable. How ridiculous to think there will ever be enough when only shoving more things into my life — until it bursts and kills me — will fulfill me. I mean, I suspect our lives weren’t meant to be vessels for Endless Doing, just like my shoes aren’t meant to be vessels for pennies or mallets or hydrocortisone cream. I suspect our lives are instead meant for meaningful connection. For each other. With each other. Not to each other. Not at each other. Not running around each other to get to the next thing or cross the next obligation off the everlasting lists.

So I had a dream. And now I’m thinking. About what I carry. And about the rules. And about which rules to break and which items — even the good ones — that need to be left behind because they’re weighing me down.

”How did you even walk with all that in there?” I don’t know. But I’m going to try to walk with a little bit less, even if the “less” is just less guilt.

Love to you, friends, and waving in the dark,

P.S. Miss Scarlet isn’t back yet, so IDK the status of the top hat or the X’s. Maybe she figured out she didn’t need to carry them and left them behind. I hope so. You go, Miss Scarlet.

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New Plan: Communes. Everywhere.

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 20 Jun 2019 02:32:28 +0000

Last month, I traveled.

And traveled.

With you.

Or maybe not specifically with YOU-you.

But with humans who are fun, and funny, and fully unapologetically themselves, and willing to be real and have vulnerable convos, and break bread and clink glasses, and make inappropriate jokes, and welcome others in.

So PRACTICALLY with you, yes? Which is probably not much consolation when others got to eat the fresh Italian pasta, but I have an idea to fix that, and it’s this:

COMMUNES.

EVERYWHERE.

Communes for the wary and weary, please.

And the quirky and queer.

Communes for the lonely.

And communes for the lost.

And communes for the humans who aren’t either — just wondering and wandering as they find their way, please.

Communes for the faithful. And for those who feel their faith was betrayed.

And communes with tables…

and tables…

and tables. For days.

So there’s always room for one more. And another. And one more after that.

With simple food for the belly and the soul.

And silly simple pleasures to laugh and connect.

Every retreat, I feel the same — deep gratitude that I get to share time with such stunning humans and deep sadness that it’s not with EVERYONE. All of you who, like me, wave in the dark, waiting for dawn to come. And who need the reminder that you don’t wait alone. And who need a safe space. And maybe a nap and a glass of something bubbly.

Communes. Everywhere.

Although I’m open to other ideas while we wait to be given the treasure trove to fund it all. Seriously. OPEN TO ALL IDEAS that facilitate human connection and full inclusion of all comers. HOW DO WE DO THIS, FRIENDS? I’m convinced it’s Step One for Healing Our World. Step One for Love Your Neighbors as Yourselves. Step One for I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke and Teach It How to Sing.

I’m just so… tired. And tired of being tired. And ready to do the Opposite of participating in the xenophobia and exclusionary politics and religion that are gripping our country and our globe.

Communes. Everywhere. Or at least bus stops where we can go to hug strangers in need. Or an event tent that hands out DingDongs? Or an Enormous Arena full of cots for naps, stocked with squishy pillows and fuzzy blankets and fluffy reading material and someone kind to tuck you in and pat your head and say, “There, there, Sweet Bunny; it’s all going to be OK.” How about one of those? Pretty please? I’m free on Tuesday to help set up the event tent. DingDongs are one sale, BOGO, at my local supermarket.

Communes. Everywhere.

Yeah, I know it’s unrealistic. But shouldn’t we at least TRY? I mean, come on.

Waving in the dark, and waving, and waving some more,

P.S. I could’ve written a blog post about Italy. It was rad. Even when I had to drive our Humongous Van up the Narrowest Ancient Road with an inch to spare on each side — a LITERAL INCH, bless Siri’s darling, darling heart. And, really, it would’ve been better to time an Italy Blog Post around whenever we announce our International Retreat for 2020, but I’m bad at marketing, and I wanted to talk about communes, instead. Sorry. I’ll market better later.

P.P.S. About Italy, tho.

This is Brent.

And this is Greg.

And this is Greg fixing a flat tire with Brent’s blood all over the ground.

Because sometimes sacrifices must be made, and Brent’s blood was the sacrifice to the Tire Gods this time. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Wasn’t that a fun Italy story?

IKR?

I give and I give.

P.P.P.S. I meant to write to you sooner, but I was distracted this week because the doe we got from a goat breeding farm due to her sterility GAVE BIRTH TO A BABY GOAT…

and so, instead of writing, I’ve been running iodine for umbilical cord soaking to our farm and alternately oohing and aahing over Baby Goat and giving Mama Goat high fives for THAT bad ass surprise. You can read more at Cairns Farm, including baby’s new name. Here’s a hint, though…

BEST. NAME. EVER.

P.P.P.P.S. In the vein of Communes Everywhere, we ARE hoping to do some day retreats and additional outdoor adventures … eventually … via Cairns Farm. I’d love to hear what else you’d hope to see happening at our farm. (IDEAS, please!) But for now, I only have two things officially on my schedule — 1. a Parent/Youth trip to London in the Fall. End of October, specifically, via Cairns Farm, and 2. an Oregon Coast retreat in November which is filling rapidly. If you want in on either, I’d adore having you attend. And I hope this final P.S. proves, once and for all, I can, TOO, market. In a P.P.P.P.S. At the end of a blog post. Where no one’s still reading. #BlessMyHeart #ItStillCountsRight??

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New Teeth! Hot or Not? (Hint: HOT. Obviously.)

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 12 Jun 2019 01:57:00 +0000

Hello, lovelies!

Just a very quick update from me (even though I’m behind on telling you ALL THE THINGS, which I hope to fix soon) because TODAY was Phase One for NEW TEETH.

NEW TEETH.

All for ME!

Strictly speaking, having one’s face mauled by a dog in early childhood has its downsides. Reconstructive surgeries starting at age two. Plastic surgeries starting at seven. Oral surgery, braces more than once, and five fake teeth installed 30 years ago that have aged about as well as you’d expect. Those things were… less than pleasant.

But I’m not gonna lie, there were upsides, too.

Did you know when you’re a kid you get to have UNLIMITED POPSICLES when you’re in the hospital? It’s TRUE. Unlimited! ALL THE POPSICLES FOR ALL THE DAYS. And they used to keep you in the hospital for loads of days back then. I mean, sure: they didn’t let parents see their hospitalized kids outside of 9-5 visiting hours in the 1970s, so my mommy couldn’t snuggle me at night, and, also, the nurses were trained more as Battle Surgeons than Care Givers, and would lay on top of my thrashing body and call me a sissy when they gave me shots, BUT THEY ALSO DIDN’T MAKE ME EAT THE ROOTBEER OR BANANA POPSICLES, folks. That’s RIGHT. Not only did I have access to unlimited frozen, dyed sugar pops, I ALSO got to high-grade which flavors I wanted. It was CHILDHOOD PARADISE, I tell you. Heaven on Earth for a kid whose only other sources of sugar were Flinstone Vitamins and the occasional tub of frosting I managed to secretly purchase at Vons and hide under my bed.

Also, my nose is made out of my ear, which is pretty damn cool if I do say so myself.

So, UPSIDES. There are some. And TODAY’S upside is NEW TEETH. Or rather, Prep for New Teeth which may be even better than New Teeth. IDK yet. Stay tuned.

Anyway. I didn’t want you to miss out, friends, because Phase One was pretty much exactly the same as having Glamor Shots done, and, to be honest, the world needs more beauty right now. It would be wrong if I held back out of a false sense of modesty. Criminal, really. Cruel.

And so, without further ado, I present to you… my mouth.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

I SO PRETTY!

STUNNING, really.

Like, I’d deny it except I’d be fooling no one.

Come on. Don’t be shy. Who wants to get with this?

In conclusion, please specify: Hot? Or Not?

We all know there’s one right answer.

With love, and waving, as always, in the dark,

P.S. This is Phase One of Phase One, where they cut the fake teeth in half so they can pry the remaining bits off the golem-like stubs below.

P.P.S. And this is Phase Three of Phase One, where they’ve completed removing the Old Teeth and mistakenly leave you to your own devices (aka, Selfies for Dayz) while they prep the Temporary Plastic Teeth you get to wear for a couple weeks while the New Teeth are crafted.

P.P.P.S. My dentist, Dr. Chris Brecke, located at 200 N Edwards St in Newberg, Oregon — phone number: (503) 538-7358, email: chrisbreckedds@frontier.com — was Very Clear that it was OK I took selfies as long as did NOT, under any circumstances, mention that he’s the one doing the work lest people think my 1970s/80s Ancient Horrifying Golem Stubs , ℠, ®, © (my trademark, not his, because he’s the Kindest, Gentlest Human and would DIE before he would ever say anything horrific/true to his patients) are his work.

P.P.P.P.S. I Dr. Brecke and his professionalism. And I hereby vow to eventually show the Final Product which IS his work, and not just this American Horror Story, even though it Amuses Me Greatly.

Have a lovely day.

The post New Teeth! Hot or Not? (Hint: HOT. Obviously.) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Dear Charmin, I Have Questions

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 07 Jun 2019 03:24:39 +0000

Dear Charmin Toilet Paper,

I love you. I do. And I feel like it’s important to say so right up front. I love you, and I have good reasons. You’re soft. You’re dreamy. You’re durable. And you’re not likely to break under pressure, which I always admire because I can’t do that. At all. Like, not even a little.

Oh, no; I definitely break under pressure. This very day, for example, one of my kids looked me in the eyeballs and said in a vaguely threatening monotone, “I know you do,” after I assured him I do not have chocolate hidden in my bedroom. Like this:

Him: Do you have chocolate hidden in your room?
Me: Nope.
Him: I know you do.

And you know what I did next, Charmin? I cracked. Immediately. I lasted 3 — maybe 4 — seconds, tops, before I said, “OK, FINE,” and “JEEZ,” and “Stop giving me The Eye like you’re a Sicilian grandmother; I’ll show you the chocolate,” which explains why I’m now bereft and utterly chocolateless. ALL the chocolate. Gone. POOF. Adios.

You wouldn’t have done that, Charmin. You wouldn’t have broken under pressure. You would have been able to keep your crap together like it’s your literal job.

I love you, Charmin. I love you, although I confess I usually use inferior products under the guise of “saving money” even though you and I both know money is not saved when one must use 10 linear feet of transparent paper-like product (make of one part cardboard to three parts air) to equal two squares of Charmin. Let’s not judge me for pretending to save money, though; OK? Sometimes we need our illusions. And I feel as someone who prefers Charmin, even if she doesn’t always buy Charmin, we can have this little heart to heart anyway, yes? Yes. I thought so. I’m glad you agree.

So I love you. To the moon. I believe I’ve covered this adequately. But even though I love you, you’re not usually Top of Mind for me, Charmin — more Bottom of Bottom, to be honest. Until recently.

Recently, you’ve been stuck in my brain.

Now, I admit, it took me a while to parse the words of your jingle while roaming the grocery store. I was probably on my third trip after first hearing it before I finally understood, and, since they play the jingle every 5 minutes or so, and the average grocery shopping trip takes me 45ish minutes, I’m gonna say I heard it roughly 32 times before it dawned on me that the words aren’t “sharp and shiny” and are, instead, “Charmin shiny.”

I’ve learned since that there’s a whole song to really flesh out the concept, but since that song isn’t played in full at my local store, I was left wondering for days why Fred Meyer Grocery Stores were celebrating their hiney, so sharp and shiny — and celebrating so frequently over the P.A. system.

“My hiney, so sharp and shiny. My hiney, so sharp and shiny.” times infinity

Was it like the Parable of the Lost Sheep, maybe? Was Fred Meyer making an important declaration? “REJOICE WITH ME! For my clean hiney was lost, and now it is found!” Was it meant to encourage us all to make merry on behalf of our sharp, shiny hinies? Was the sharp, shiny hiney a metaphor? Was it meant to move us to broader gratitude for the many things we take for granted every day?

I figured it out eventually, Charmin. “OH! CHARMIN shiny. Not sharp and shiny. It’s a JINGLE, not a praise song.”

I gotta say, Charmin; I’m grudgingly impressed. I mean, I’m as happy as the next girl to have a clean anus — I truly do love a shiny hiney — but even I, who have detailed for the internets how I pooped my closet, failed to see the opportunity to publicly celebrate by bursting into chronic song about it. Kudos, Charmin. Mad props to you. I mean it. Well played.

Still, I find myself with a few questions I’m hoping you’ll answer, as follows:

1. Who, specifically, wrote your Shiny Hiney jingle? I’d like a name, please. First and last. Other career highlights if you’ve got them, although that last is sheer curiosity regarding career trajectory for butt jingles.

2. To what address can I send them a congratulatory card? Or a trophy. Probably a trophy. And not an Advertising Awards Trophy, either. I assume there are myriad official congratulatory ceremonies for marketing magnificence. I mean I need to send a PERSONAL trophy. Like, a Pinnacle of Your Career Trophy. Because OMG THERE IS A HUMAN ON THIS EARTH WHO RHYMED SHINY AND HINEY, PUT IT TO MUSIC, AND GOT PAID FOR IT TO BE DISTRIBUTED NATIONWIDE. And THAT is a human who deserves a trophy, dammit. Now, I realize that could read like I’m being sarcastic, or belittling, or somehow condescending, but I need you to hear — I COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE MORE SINCERE. The fact that I’m living on Planet Earth with that human at this moment in history makes me ridiculously happy. Giddy, even. And frankly, anything that lifts the heart during the crap we’re all living through right now gets two thumbs up from this girl.

In conclusion, Charmin, although it’s a touch disconcerting to have visions of pristine poopholes dancing in my head while I’m choosing between Country Oven and Kroger bread, I am, overall, quite delighted by you in both deed and in song. Keep up the good work.

Yours,

The post Dear Charmin, I Have Questions first appeared on bethwoolsey..

One Quick Twinsie Pic, A Life Motto, and Thoughts on Wrong Turns Which Is Really Just Another Way to Say Turns

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 23 May 2019 12:47:11 +0000

Today’s the first day in a few I’ve had time to stop for a bit and breathe. I’m in Italy, sitting at a cafe in the plaza outside the Uffizi Museum, knocking back a cappuccino, and finishing the last bites of a fresh croissant, warm on the inside, flaky on the outside, dusted with powdered sugar and faintly flavored with orange. So you can see I’m suffering. THANK GOODNESS this trip isn’t like our last one to Italy. Those of you who’ve wandered around this blog for a while will understand the significance when I tell you my brain has been calm. THE MEDS ARE WORKING, in other words. HOT DAMN.

I’ve been running retreats at the Oregon Coast for several years, bringing in experts on writing, mindfulness, spiritual formation, and food and wine. This is our first international retreat, to Tuscany, Italy, with a small group of 14, taking the food and wine theme to the next level.

Imagine my relief that my brain’s not an asshole right now. Honestly, half of managing mental illness means staying on top of medical care and being diligent about making regular appointments whether I think it’s “bad enough” or not. The other half, I’m starting to suspect, is managing my own expectations about how my brain “should” behave and the anxiety I have over whether or not I’m going to be anxious. I’m darling, friends. Just darling.

Yesterday, we had a four course dinner catered by the winery where we’re staying. It was as magnificent as you imagine, but the prize I value above good wine and stunning Tuscan food is, ever and always, human connection. We sat at a long table last night covered in plates and glasses and roses and bottles of wine grown and crafted and bottled within a few short meters of us, and we were LOUD. Laughing. Toasting. Telling ridiculous stories of our own human failures and shortcomings and giggling until our stomachs hurt. But the conversation that stands out here in the light of a new day was about expectations and travel and hopes realized or dashed. About money and how much we spend hoping for respite somewhere far from home. About how nervous we are about the things we don’t know and how to navigate new places and cultures to get our needs met without feeling out of place or ostracized or like we look stupid. About what we’re really after — experiences? Adventure? Memories? Or clear air and a path forward? An epiphany that will stick after we head home? A life lesson to carry with us always?

I thought about all the trips I’ve taken that I consider failures. The times I felt I’ve spent too much money and time and angst for too little a return on investment. The large family vacations where there was criticism and sighing and conflict and hurt feelings. The trips when my kids were small or my son with intellectual disability required constant care and supervision and melted down continuously, and I felt exhausted and alone and forced to maintain a happy facade for my own sake and the sake of others lest I ruin for them what felt ruined already for me.

But I’m beginning to understand now that each of those experiences, while I have no desire to repeat them, carried their own valuable lessons. In how to manage expectations; mine and others’. In demanding too much of myself and making incremental changes to honor what I can reasonably give. In taking a ruthless inventory of what I enjoy and what my family enjoys so we can find and focus on the places those intersect, rather than insisting one group or the other suffers sporadically. In traveling with groups large enough for a variety of social interaction (for Greg) and small enough not to feel overwhelmed (for me.) In unapologetically opting out of some activities (see also: Uffizi museum and sitting my butt down in a cafe instead) so my brain can rest and recharge.

Along the way, we’ve done some pretty unorthodox things, like no longer taking all our kids on vacation at once. Our son who experiences intellectual disability does best with one-on-one attention and a reliable routine. You know what’s the opposite of one-on-one attention and reliable routine? A vacation with five kids. So we do things separately with Ian now, and EVERYONE is thrilled. The way I thought family vacations Had to Be — all together, obvs — was shattered, and it took some time for me to adjust my mommy-brain around a new concept that didn’t force us all to be miserable together. But the New Thing, based in Reality and Lessons Learned and Meeting Actual Needs instead of forcing us into a culturally standard format I wanted to work but didn’t, is so much better. So. Much. Better. Like, infinitely. To the moon. BEYOND better, really. Because now we get to do things happily. It’s a game changer, I tell you.

And it makes me wonder… were those earlier trips when we were uncomfortable and angsty and miserable really mistakes? Or were they just another way to pay tuition for life lessons we could then either learn or reject? Were they opportunities to pay attention? Chances to re-evaluate our expectations and methods? To examine the box we’d placed ourselves in and ask ourselves whether there might be a way to think outside of it?

I found my life motto — or a version very closely related — in California recently.

Wrong Turn O.K.

Wrong turn? O.K.

Almost as if the circuitous route is fine.

Almost as if the bumpy path is the only real one available to humans.

Almost as if the crazy ride through the wilderness is the way to the elusive village.

Almost as if the strange turns we didn’t see coming aren’t actually wrong, in the end.

Almost as if Wrong Turns is just another way to say Turns.

So, friends — whatever turn you’re in at the moment, I want you to know I am, as always, waving in the dark.

With love,

P.S. Here’s one quick twinsie pic I took with my oldest kid. We do this periodically, just as a fun game for you, because we’re so hard to tell apart. In no particular order, here we are. One is Abby. One is me in Abby’s shirt. You decide who’s who, but don’t worry if you can’t tell or if you get it wrong. It’s a really hard game.

And here’s a side-by-side, in case you need extra time to study before making your guess.

P.P.S. We’re almost certainly doing another small international retreat next year, especially given how ridiculously fun this one already is. But we’re just now in the planning stages. If you have hopes and dreams of time of year and/or location/themes of international retreats you’d like to attend, do tell! We take suggestions seriously. And I’d LOVE to hang out with you.

P.P.P.S. Via the farm I co-own with my family, we’re also doing international youth trips. To see our current offering — to London with a Harry Potter themed trip at the end of October — head over to Cairns Farm.

P.P.P.P.S. AND we’re still doing our Oregon Coast retreats, as well. Only one left for 2019, in November, and it’s more than 2/3 full, so if you want a spot, we’d love to have you!

P.P.P.P.P.S. IMPORTANT — I need to make a gelato choice for this afternoon. Chocolate or lemon? Or head WAY out of the box and try a new flavor?? You already know, like I do, that the correct choice is All of the Above, EXCEPT that we have an enormous dinner planned in Florence at an amazing restaurant, and I’m afraid if I eat All the Gelato, I can’t also eat All the Dinner. CHOICES ARE HARD, friends. This is a cry for help.

The post One Quick Twinsie Pic, A Life Motto, and Thoughts on Wrong Turns Which Is Really Just Another Way to Say Turns first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Mommy Photo Shoot: The Realistic Kind

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 May 2019 22:31:07 +0000

I mentioned recently that I cleaned my room and rewarded myself by soaking in diarrhea water. It’s just one of the blessed realities of being a busy mom.

FORTUNATELY, before said cleaning, my friend Rachel came over to take some photos for me.

See, I’ve wanted to do a REALISTIC photo shoot for quite some time. You know, like, wearing the things I usually wear. Without cleaning or decluttering my house. Without avoiding the angles full of dirty dishes. I’ve wanted to do an AS IS photo shoot. What You See Is What You Get. Partially for you because EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW THEY’RE NOT ALONE in their lack-of-pristine living. And partially for me because I actually want to remember how life really was. Not a beautified version of it, but the nitty, gritty, grimy truth with its laughter AND dust bunnies, its joy AND dried ketchup, its camaraderie AND moldy flower stems, because this life is lovely. This life is wonderful. This life is gorgeous in its own muddy way, no covering up required.

In other words, welcome to my home.

I curled my hair and put on mascara — I can make a minimal effort, after all — but I stayed in my pajamas, man. Not flattering ones I picked out especially for this. Not pjs that minimize my squishy bits. Just literally what I wore to bed the night before.

Because this is me.

And this is our home.

Where we work, sleep, and play.

Where we’re kind and sometimes unkind to each other.

Where our stuff piles up.

Where we’re inexpressibly grateful for and annoyed by each other.

Where we listen well and not at all.

Where we’re goofballs…

…and nut jobs…

…and leave messes in our wake.

And also where we’re working hard to be fully ourselves — and to allow everyone else the same privilege — with all the magic and mess that entails.

That is all for now, friends.

Just these little glimpses into life as it’s really lived.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. Rachel took some sexy shots, as well, akin to the bikini twinsie pics I take with my kid on the beaches of Hawaii. View at your own risk. And by “own risk” I mean “prepare to be WOWWED.”

P.P.S. We also did a more formal headshot shoot later. You know, for professional business purposes. I was equally fabulous for that. As you might expect.

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A Romantic Post About Mental Health and Diarrhea. Enjoy.

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 12 May 2019 22:38:58 +0000

I don’t want to brag too, too much, but I cleaned my room (mostly) and my bathroom (the clutter and a quick wipe-down, not the layers of dust, lint, and shame that have accrued in the corners), so I celebrated by taking a bath and reading a book and not being mean to myself for 5 minutes.

It was a great bath, too. Oh, the kids interrupted — and so did the dog — but that’s the Mommy Bathtime Standard in these parts, so no worries. Besides, who doesn’t love lying naked in the tub whilst arguing with a hormonally muddled and enraged child hovering above you?

“Mom, there is NO BREAD even though you PROMISED you’d BUY BREAD. ALL I ASK FOR IS BREAD. That’s all I want. ONE piece of toast. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? If I was old enough to drive to the store to buy the bread myself, I WOULD DO IT, but I CAN’T, so I rely on you. I RELY ON YOU FOR BREAD, MOM.”

“I did buy bread…” “No, I’m not going to get out of the tub to show you where, specifically, I put it…” “Um… because THE BREAD IS IN THE PLACE BREAD USUALLY GOES and HAS GONE for the TWELVE YEARS you have been alive in this house…” “Well, contrary to your vehement opinion otherwise, it is not too much to expect you to USE THE EYEBALLS IN YOUR HEAD to locate it ALL BY YOURSELF even though there was no bread there when you looked three days ago.”

It was bliss, I tell you. Bliss. But less because of the fun convos with my precious babies and more because I discovered a whole pile of fancy bath stuff under the sink.

Friends, I used to save Fancy Things for a Special Occasion. Candles. Lotions. Perfume. Bath salts. Pretty soap. The Good Dishes. You name it, I saved it, hoarder style, until a day I reflected on the life and death of my friend Gloria and realized Life is the Special Occasion I’d been waiting for, and burning candles in celebration of breath makes more sense than hiding them in the cupboard like I’m not worthy of wax and string and fire.

But I haven’t cleaned out the junk in my bathroom for years. YEARS. So I didn’t remember what I’d squirreled away in the cavern below the sink with the poorly painted drywall and the dust-coated pipes. Finally, after unearthing paint cans, and ant poison, and crumbling make-up — after finding inexplicably gummy bobby pins, three broken curling irons, a pregnancy test, two expired condoms I gave to my children to use as water balloons, and seven kinds of cleaner we’ve never used — I reached the far back corner. In that corner was a sturdy red gift box. And in that box were bath sachets. Bath “tea” to be exact. Like softball sized tea bags full of yummy, smelly bits. Lavender. Mint. Cloves. Tea leaves, obviously. And they were all tagged aspirationally with words like Pampering and Relaxing and Invigorating.

I don’t remember whether I received them as a gift or bought them intending them for someone else, but, either way, they were past their “use by” date, which was sometime around 2012, and my choices were toss them or use them. I mean, they had clearly lost some of their scent, but, in a Woolsey House Miracle, they’d stayed dry and clean, so I put them by the tub.

When I took my Victory Bath, I tossed in Pampering, and I was pleased when the lovely, mild scent of lavender wafted from the tea-infused warm water. Sure, it was a little Boston Tea Party-ish, soaking in a beverage. And yes, the adhesive that held the bag closed gave out after a few minutes, spreading potpourri into the tub with me so I had to fish out the bulk of it before it fully steeped. But it was also nice. And I did feel pampered. Despite the bread conversation. Which is the goal of, like, every mama I know. A minute of peace amidst the chaos. Treating ourselves like we deserve intentional care. Giving zero effs about bath product expiration dates.

I did feel pampered in my tea bath.

Until Gregory Woolsey came in.

And looked at me.

And looked at the bath.

And looked away.

And looked back in a rapid double take.

And said, “Beth?” He waited to get my attention. You know? He waited until we made Eye Contact like he was checking for pupil dilation. And then he asked, “Are you… sitting in diarrhea water?”

Which is when it occurred to me.

I was bathing in tea. Which turned the water a sort of translucent brown. And bits had broken loose from the bag so there were floaties.

It looked EXACTLY like I’d Soft Poopied in the tub. Where I’d remained. Casually reading a book. Up to my neck in my own filth.

Y’all, I was offended for 3 seconds. This is how far I got, “How could Greg even THINK I would POOP in my own bath wat….”

And then I remembered I don’t have the best track record RE: sitting in my own soft poopies. And I also am not, technically, the very most sane human, and we’ve missed a few, teeny, tiny mental illness relapse indicators in the past.

All things considered, it’s probably best he checked.

After all, nothing says I Love You like making sure your partner’s not soaking in her own diarrhea.

Waving in the dark,

The post A Romantic Post About Mental Health and Diarrhea. Enjoy. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Courage to Heal: A Haphazard Series of Brief (or not) Thoughts, Part 2

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 10 May 2019 04:03:46 +0000

Abby, my oldest, lost a lot of blood last Christmas after an arterial bleed in her throat following a tonsillectomy for recurrent Strep. The bleed started at home, at bedtime, 24 hours after surgery, and steadily trickled into a bowl she held on her lap while she cried and I ran red lights to the hospital. After a second, emergency, surgery, I wasn’t surprised when he doctor recommended a transfusion; after all, I was the one in the ER catching vomit bag after vomit bag of the increasing stream and the massive clots she purged from her stomach.

And I was the one using my calmest voice to assure her they would fix her while making wide-eyed contact with the doctor who kept nodding to me to assure me I was telling her the truth. I don’t like that memory or the memory of holding her warm blood bag in my hands, and I’m still coming to terms with it so I can process it and deal. Obviously. But I don’t like the sad feelings or the scary ones, and I especially don’t like feeling out of control or weak, so allowing myself to feel feelings or admit I have needs has always been a particular challenge.

I flew with Abby back to college after Christmas because she was still too weak to travel alone. When we arrived , there was a note waiting from her friend. It said she was praying for Abby to have strength and courage to heal, which I thought was kind and sweet. But, because I’m a writer by both profession and at heart, critiquing word choice is an ever-present, back-of-the-brain activity, so I also thought, “Well — Abby needs physical strength to heal, sure, but her body will make more blood whether she has courage or not.”

I know; my brain’s an asshole sometimes. Don’t worry — I scolded myself for it. :/

Abby propped the note next to her bathroom mirror here at school, so I’ve had the opportunity to see it again getting ready int he morning to do Important Things like binge-watch the third season of Gossip Girl or try to convince the roommate with a car to make a Starbucks run, and this morning I read it with a tiny headache while I engaged in Fretful and Premature Panicky Thinking, afraid if it grows into a full-blown, unmanageable migraine like last week’s, I’ll be forced to miss graduation tonight and the celebratory dinner and possibly my flight home, and Abby will have to take me to the hospital on her moped in the dark (it’s daytime) in the rain (it’s sunny) and that will be dangerous and I will have ruined everything. Bless my dramatic heart.

“I pray you have the strength and courage to heal.”

”OH,” I thought.

Oh.

Oh, yeah.

There are things our bodies do on their own to heal — like make more blood when ours is depleted — and there are choices we can make to aid our healing like hydration and seeking good counsel and taking our meds and facing our Fear but refusing to let it control our hearts or our minds. Acknowledging we have been — and are — in pain. Acknowledging we have been and are anxious. Acknowledging we don’t want hope to disappoint us so remaining jaded is tempting.

And choosing to be gentle and kind to ourselves anyway.

The courage to face ourselves.

The courage to heal.

Oh.

Waving,

P.S. I treated myself as kindly and gently as I could this morning. I drank coffee. I drank water. I drank more water. I ate an orange. I sat in the sun. I ignored all the quick tasks I felt like I “should” do in favor of taking care of myself first. And after a few hours, my headache disappeared.

P.P.S. Now I have the world’s mildest back pain — so mild that “pain” is an exaggeration — and I’ve decided I’m going to need gall bladder surgery. I am just the very most precious human. Jesus take the wheel.

The post Courage to Heal: A Haphazard Series of Brief (or not) Thoughts, Part 2 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

A Haphazard Series of Brief (or not) Thoughts, Part 1

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 08 May 2019 00:07:12 +0000

I left my house at 3am today, the first of 20+ days of travel this month, home after this only for farm work days every Saturday I can manage to be there. Farms, man; they’re a lot of work. But there’s so much clean air out there — and constant earth magic — so the trade-off will do.

{Gotta say, though, Dax Shepard’s new sitcom, Bless This Mess, about a couple with less than zero farm experience (I mean it — mathematically negative farm skills) giving up their NYC life for a barren bit of land in Nebraska is cracking us up. It feels very REAL LIFE to us right now, minus barren/Nebraska, plus blackberries/Oregon.}

Yep — I left the house at 3am today after zipping my bag, and hoping I remembered everything (more crossing fingers than actual planning), and giving the dog — who will miss me most of all — a treat, and whispering I love you to my family…

… and hoping I see them again because travel always makes me afraid even though I refuse to let Fear drive me. I opened my front door, and stepped outside, and snuck my hand back through to click the lock before pulling it closed behind me.

The world is oddly still in the few hours before dawn. The wind from the mountain behind our house has died down by then and the crickets have shut down their programming. The wisteria even seems to pause its ambitious land war to conquer first my house and then Planet Earth. While it sleeps, its petals fall and dry like it’s a mini-autumn in the late spring, making drifts of petal piles the fairies probably play in.

I heard a frog, then an owl, and I watched a raccoon gambol away from the elementary school and into the hazelnut orchards as I drove out of town.

Next stop: Honolulu…

…for Abby’s roommate’s graduation and two days with my oldest kid in the sun as we pack her up to head home to the wisteria and the frogs and the owl and the farm.

I love launching young humans into adulthood. I really do. There’s something stunning in bearing witness as they embrace their power and wisdom.

So that’s what I’m up to this week, but I’ve also been wrestling with finding time to write as we prep Cairns Farm for her grand opening this summer, and my biggest reticence about travel was having even less time to put words on a page. I cherish my connection with you in my online space, and I feel like we need each other more than ever as we wend our way into messier, more magical living — louder, more loving, more honest about our weariness, less apologetic about our joy. So this is my experiment — writing to you longhand in shorter, more frequent (?) bursts as I travel… and hoping you’ll cast a line my direction, too — just to say hi and tell me how you’re doing.

Waving in the dark, as always,

The post A Haphazard Series of Brief (or not) Thoughts, Part 1 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Rachel Held Evans. And friendship. And grief. And grace. And what we do now.

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 06 May 2019 03:55:03 +0000

I was in the hospital yesterday when Rachel Held Evans died.

I’d had an unusually bad migraine, and just past midnight, I woke Greg up to tell him I needed more help. I cried on the way to the Emergency Room with Greg’s hand on my knee, thumb rubbing gentle circles through my ancient, stained sweatpants, and I can’t tell you which was more overwhelming — the pain pulsing in my head, the gratitude that I didn’t have to navigate it alone, or the unreasonable feeling of shame flooding through my body for not being able to stick it out on my own. The shame was a real contender, though; I felt I’d failed, somehow, by needing assistance. As though I don’t know better. As if I haven’t reminded myself thousands of times that we humans aren’t solitary creatures. As though I’m not aware that independence is one of the most dangerous lies we peddle and that we aren’t somehow viscerally and foundationally communal, seeking at a cellular level our tribe and a place of belonging.

I felt shame anyway; even more when the Reglan kicked in and I was suddenly, magically better. Like relief negated my desperate desire for it and retroactively rendered it mute. Like maybe I didn’t need to short us that co-pay, after all. That if I’d just stuck out the pain a while longer, we’d be ahead $300 + whatever dollars they charge us after the fact.

May 4th — May the Fourth — is a day that’s somewhat fraught for me, though it eases with the passing of the years. It’s the day Greg and I adopted our 2nd and 3rd kids and weren’t ready — emotionally or maritally — to tend to their needs or our own. It’s a day I feel flooded with guilt for failing to be present in a way our children desperately needed us to be. And it’s a day I feel gratitude that we’ve cobbled together a good life out of the rubble. It’s very Both/And, in other words. Both sad and triumphant. Both reckoning and reconciliation. Both loss and love. You know? Like all of life, I supposed, just magnified.

So I began May the Fourth in the hospital, and I woke up in the very late morning in my own blessed bed, having missed the celebratory Gotcha Day donuts and orange juice and pre-cut cantaloupe and giant, bland, shipped-from-far-away strawberries because my body required rest and refused to wait another minute for it. I woke up and sighed. I woke up and felt like Not Enough even though Greg told me, correctly, that it was OK to skip donuts in favor of healing and that the kids would understand. I woke up and went to the bathroom, and I let the dog into my room, and I tried to be kind to myself for not being the first to holler “HAPPY GOTCHA DAY” at the kids I was once unhappy to get and forever after feel the need to make it up to.

I woke up and checked my phone and saw the text from my oldest that said, “Rachel Held Evans died?!?!?!? HOW?” And I said the saddest and quietest of all the prayers which goes, “oh fuck.”

It’s the prayer of resignation. It’s the prayer of grief. It’s the prayer of the most reluctant kind of acceptance — the kind that acknowledges it’s true, but only conceptually and not yet real for the heart.

Those of you who’ve grieved know “oh fuck.” You know it’s the point when your toes cross the line on a journey you’d hoped to avoid. And you know the sinking of the shoulders, the caving of your chest, and the crumbling of your posture as you look toward the infinite horizon of grief and wonder how you’ll ever be able to travel so far.

oh fuck, friends. oh fuck.

I knew Rachel was sick. I followed the news of her illness with thousands of others, first as her Facebook friend when her husband Dan posted via her account, and then along with the world while he updated us every few days on her blog.

I refreshed regularly to see how she was doing.

And I prayed in the way I’ve learned to pray — less formally and “dear Jesus-y” and more full of sighs and pleading, and hope and desire, and thoughts and wishes, and wondering and waiting, and grace for myself and others. And swearing. Like, “Shit” with a stuttering heart. And, “Goddamit” wherein I’m actually asking God to damn Illness and Suffering to hell from whence it should not return.

She died anyway.

Rachel was my friend.

Not a bestie.

Not close.

Not someone to whom I can lay claim.

But Rachel was my friend.

She ate at my table.

We laughed in my car.

We talked about vulnerability and authenticity and what happens when people are jerks on the internet.

We took a picture together with my Christmas tree… in May.

She didn’t make fun of me for having ketchup stains on my couch.

And, most importantly, she let me — and all of us — into her life and her expansive heart as she deconstructed a Christian faith built on fundamentalism and reconstructed her Christian faith upon Christ alone.

Truthfully, Rachel’s and my connection was minuscule compared to others’ connections with her. You’ll hear in the coming days and weeks from folks who knew her far better. But Rachel’s magic was this: she made those around her feel valued and heard and loved. And she was willing to allow the vulnerable and marginalized — those who are the very heart of God — to reshape her into an agent of Love. This the Work of God. I can think of no greater eulogy.

On Saturday afternoon, hours after Rachel passed and I came home, we hosted our first wedding at Cairns Farm.

The bride wore plaid. The minister quoted The Office. The couple said their vows under an arch my 12-year-olds constructed of sticks and twigs, with fairy lights and pictures from their lives bearing witness, and their son as their attendant.

I flirted with the handsomest two-year-old I ever did see while we sat in the sun.

It felt surreal to watch love play out in front of us when Rachel so recently left.

And felt so very, very right that love was multiplied this day.

Because that’s where we go from here. To Love One Another. As Christ loved the church. Unto death. Running the race. Until the finish line, whenever that may be.

May the Fourth.

What a strange, terrible, wonderful day.

I was in the hospital when Rachel Held Evans died. I belatedly wished my kids a Happy Gotcha Day. I witnessed the miracle of lives intentionally joined. I sat in the sun. I watched it go down.

May the Fourth. Fraught with confession. Fraught with vulnerability. Fraught with pain. And full of gratitude. Full of grace.

May the Fourth. When duality is made real, like Samhain when the veil between Good and Evil grows thin. A day when we wonder whether Light or Darkness will win.

And yet a Light shines in the Darkness, and Darkness has not overcome it. Not yet. Not ever if we can help it. And we can help it. Lives like Rachel’s teach us so.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. Rachel invited me to guest post on her blog in 2012, on Mother’s Day, about faith and parenting. I worked on that blog for three weeks, word by word, to make them as truthful as I knew how. It was a fissure in my facade; a cracking point in Truth Telling and Living Out Loud; a final acquiescence to honesty about a complex faith. Ask. Seek. Knock. Breathe. was the product of that effort. And I’m forever grateful to Rachel for tending to that flame.

P.P.S. This. Because Rachel loved it. And it’s oddly instructive for right now as we consider what the fuck we do next. I’ll tell you. We build our nests.

P.P.P.S. Finally, to you, Rachel — Eshet Chayil. You, my friend, were a woman of valor. Well done.

The post On Rachel Held Evans. And friendship. And grief. And grace. And what we do now. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

The 5 Stages of Grief: Thoughts on 2016, Privilege, and Hope Headed into 2020

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 27 Apr 2019 00:14:02 +0000

I’ve been thinking a lot about hope lately. And about Spring since that’s the season in Oregon right now. And about resurrection, and the pain and joy of birthing a new thing; about mourning what we thought we had but never did, and about where we are now in the stages of grief.

We’ve been doing nonstop farm work lately, getting it ready to open, and it’s been both awesome and exhausting, you know? Like, everything we wanted and also all-consuming. I haven’t had a lot of time or energy to write here, and I miss it terribly, but baby goats soothe me in the meantime.

I’ve felt tired lately, but it’s mostly physical instead of the overwhelming mental, emotional, and spiritual weariness that has dogged me since 2016, and that’s a change I welcome. OPEN ARMS, Change. COME ON OVER. Sit with me on the couch a while. Let’s snuggle and whisper sweet secrets and share a glass of wine and laugh together. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the reasons behind this shift, too. What changed? Why, after three years of living under a cloud of unwavering sorrow, am I starting to feel like I can breathe again? How come my laughter has felt free-er? Why, when there’s still so much pain and suffering in America and in our churches — harm caused by exclusion and discrimination and division that’s getting worse, not better — am I feeling a lightening? A lifting? And the slightest bit of dawn on the horizon that outlines, just barely, a path forward?

I’ve concluded there are two primary reasons for the change. First, I’m moving through the stages of grief. And second, and more importantly, I’ve shifted my focus entirely.

When our country, fueled by white, evangelical Christians, decided party lines were more important than truth, integrity, decency, and treating marginalized humans with a modicum of respect resulting in the election of Donald Trump, followed shortly by the sudden decision that our church denomination would no longer allow those of us who desire the full inclusion of our LGBTQ+ friends and family to remain part of it, I found my foundation severely shaken. I, after all, have lived with a nearly obscene amount of privilege, perhaps the highest of which was the the fact that my blindness to my privilege cost me nothing.

I had, in other words, every advantage (other than a penis), and moved through the world with so much ease that I didn’t need to see or acknowledge the challenges of others. Oh, I was compassionate. You don’t grow up overseas in the highlands of Papua, nor do you make a career in humanitarian aid, without a deep-seated desire to help people who are suffering. But I thought — truly — that America was getting better on an equality front. I mean, we revere Martin Luther King, Jr., right? There’s a whole holiday celebrating his work on civil rights. He has a monument. Surely, America was post-racial-discrimination other than tiny pockets of bigots we’d root out eventually. Right? I thought we were on a continual upswing. I believed in bootstraps — that people had them, first of all, and that they could use them to leverage themselves up in the world. I failed to see that I have wealth (by which I mean stable housing, food on my table, education for my children, health insurance, employment, and a retirement plan) because my parents had wealth and their parents had wealth. I didn’t understand to any level of depth the way that systematic and generational discrimination affect enormous swaths of our population. I thought Flint was an anomaly. I didn’t know that 1.6 million — million — Americans don’t have access to any running water, safe or otherwise, and that we don’t even keep records of the millions more who don’t have safe water to drink. Furthermore, I didn’t listen well to my LGBTQ+ friends who told me horrific tales of their treatment at the hands of the Church universal and our churches specifically. I told them to wait. I told them we were trying. I told them we had their backs. But we allowed them to continue to be harmed. We didn’t have their backs at all. We didn’t know how to. And we didn’t know we didn’t know so we perpetuated the harm, having meetings upon meetings upon meetings to “discern” whether and to what extent they’d be included. Accepted. Loved as they already are. Made in God’s own image. Worthy of marriage in the church. Able to teach Sunday school. Able to preach. Able to be wholly and fully themselves.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I built the life I have on the foundations of America and the Church. I have believed in inherent opportunity, a hard work ethic, the pursuit of happiness, a country and a church who welcome the outcasts and champion those who have suffered. I worshipped both, and neither were worthy of my reverence. Neither were what I thought they were, because what I was trying to do was build my foundation on Love, and I misinterpreted institutions that said they welcomed all comers for actually welcoming all comers. And so it was with an enormous sense of shock and despair — just an utter sense of loss akin to death — that I discovered that what people and organizations and communities and whole countries purport themselves to be is not necessarily what they are. GOOD TO KNOW, right? Good to know — truly — but the knowing ushered me into the first stage of grief. DENIAL. This cannot be. We are better than this.

Two thousand sixteen and early 2017 were heavy, friends. I didn’t understand how what was happening was even possible, because I couldn’t accept the reality that our country chose to be lead by a man with a complete lack of values, morals, or ethics, and I was stunned that the church to which Greg had faithfully devoted all of his four decades no longer had room for him or his family.

DENIAL. I walked around for months just shaking my head and going WUT? with buggy, bewildered eyeballs. And denial was followed by its friends — Anger, Bargaining, and Depression — sometimes all at once, because nothing about grief is linear or tidy.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed a change.

An anticipation.

A small, sweet energy buzzing barely under the surface, edging out, just slightly, the rage and sadness.

There’s a willingness to laugh a little more readily.

A gentler attitude toward myself.

A change of direction to face into the truth rather than turn my back on the challenges we collectively face.

Which I’m realizing is the fifth stage of grief: Acceptance.

Not acceptance as in “it’s OK” that things are the way they are. It’s NOT OK that people are shunned and belittled and othered. It’s not OK how our country treats asylum seekers and immigrants. It’s not OK how we treat people of color or women or those who experience disability. It’s not OK how our country or our churches treat gender and sexual minorities. It’s not OK that we don’t listen and won’t hear their stories. It’s not OK that we don’t believe them when they’re loud enough to overpower our fingers in our ears. It’s not OK the way our government and universal church representatives vie for power. It’s not OK the way we excuse their behavior. It’s not OK that we continue to “discern” what we already know is true and keep putting vulnerable humans in dangerous situations while we cater to what makes the majority comfortable. Is the majority ready yet? How about now? How about now?

But I accept that this is our reality right now. As in, I’m no longer blind nor pretending that we live in a prettier, more just world than we do. Denial doesn’t hold sway over my understanding of the barriers and obstacles my fellow humans face. I’m actively working to unclog my ears, and to JUST STOP when I feel defensive. To take time to sit with vulnerable populations’ criticisms of me and “my kind.” To accept that I have a kind, that I’ve benefited from being that kind, that I have forgiveness to ask and reparations to make, and that it will take more than the rest of my life to join in the long walk toward equality and kindness.

And, finally, there’s this: my attention has shifted. I used to be focused on the people who have wronged others. Those who worked actively to eject us from our church. Those who ensured we were no longer welcome at the places we’d once called home. Those who believe Trump’s lies and refuse to see the unequal yolking of evangelical Christianity to the Republican Party. Those who’ve rejected Jesus Christ’s words and lived example of Love in favor of a rule-bound faith that resembles him not at all. I mean, I’m still angry and baffled. Obviously, bless my heart. But I realized belatedly that I’ve already spent as much time and attention as I’m willing to spend looking back and trying to rebuild bridges others burned. What a silly waste of energy.

Instead, I’m looking toward those who continue to be marginalized. I’m looking for ways to amplify their voices. To aid in the telling of their stories. To build havens of safety and belonging. To welcome folks home. To build a new foundation based only on Love which is where I should’ve built all along. And gauge that Love by action and not words alone.

It feels more hopeful over here. And weirder. And more wild. And wonderful and riddled with grace.

I think I’ll stay.

With love — and waving in the dark (and at dawn) as always,

The post The 5 Stages of Grief: Thoughts on 2016, Privilege, and Hope Headed into 2020 first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Depression, How to Tell if It’s Getting Bad Again… and Vibrators. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It Is What It Is.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 17 Apr 2019 02:29:30 +0000

Once upon a time, I went on a trip with Greg to Southern Italy, which should have been AMAZING but was, in truth, the Most Terrible Vacation Ever. I felt the whole time like I should be able to Gratitude my way through it. Like, WHO GETS TO GO ON VACATION TO SOUTHERN ITALY, BETH? I mean, other than people who live in Southern Italy. Like, people from Oregon, you know? Who gets to go on vacation to Southern Italy from Oregon? Who have 5 kids. And a mortgage. And who shop at discount grocery stores and refuse to replace towels no matter how threadbare they get because towels are really expensive, guys. REALLY , REALLY EXPENSIVE. The good ones cost $20. EACH. Or lots more. And it’s not like you can buy one towel and tell the family to share it. You have to buy at least 4 at a time. That’s the Rule of Towel Buying. And if we don’t want the humans in our household yelling at each other over Who Gets the Good Towel (“HE HAD IT LAST TIME!”), then we have to buy seven. SEVEN NEW TOWELS. For $140. Who has that kind of towel money, friends? Not me. Which is why trips to places like Southern Italy always feel like a MIRACLE to me. We can’t buy new towels, but, by God (and by my dad because he’s a pilot with travel benefits) we CAN magically arrive in places like Southern Italy upon occasion. If we stay in super cheap AirBnbs. And if we eat only cheese pizza and gelato and zero fancy restaurant meals.

Southern Italy isn’t a hardship. Or it shouldn’t be. If there’s one priority Greg and I have had throughout our marriage, it’s travel. We finagle it every chance we get, and we scrimp and save in other areas (see: towels) to make it possible. But we’ve always understood it’s a privilege. We’ve never taken it for granted.

And we didn’t take it for granted on the Most Terrible Vacation Ever, either. Which is part of why it was so horrific. I spent the time knowing it was a privilege, knowing literal millions of people would’ve happily traded us places, and it was still just awful.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in the throes of Massive Depression. And that’s one of the funny (not at all funny) things about depression — you can’t actually Gratitude your way out of it. Massive Depression sets its own agenda, and it takes neither your plans nor your privileges into consideration.

So we went because we said we would. We went because we didn’t want to regret not going. We went because we believed time away together would be good for our marriage. We went because we could and because Travel Is A Priority. And I went because I didn’t want to disappoint Greg.

But I also knew my Children Would Die while I was away. I knew because Depression told me so, and Depression on a roll is way louder than Logic.

We drove through the Italian countryside, but we’d elected not to Spend Money on international cell service thinking we’d just use WiFi when we could get it, so there were hours and hours — and hours and hours — I had no way to contact the kids, and their caregivers had no way to contact us. Logic tried to get a word in edgewise. Logic kept saying Constant Contact does not = Children Stay Alive. But I was in a full panic mode and unable to hear it. Short, shallow breaths. Tight muscles. Tension headache. Rising shoulders. Staticky brain. Masking my distress and fear and clenched jaw with bolts of anger like lightning.

Greg was having a blast. Note: Greg was not having a blast. Depressed Beth was having None of It. But, I decided in an abundance of wisdom, we might at least have good sex while we were away. I mean, God knows Greg deserved Something Fun on the trip, and I figured an orgasm might calm me the eff down, you know? Besides, I was Very Savvy and had packed my best, most powerful vibrator which we’d be able to use to get me over the mental hump* of Panic and into the mindset of Team Work necessary to accomplish our goal.

I hadn’t packed the converter, though, for my vibrator with a cord. [Here’s the wireless, rechargeable version.] Oops. Which means it took less than half a second to burn that sucker out on 220. For future reference, an appliance built for 110 doesn’t work on 220, not even if you set it on low, cross your fingers, and hope it works.

At least I’d packed my Kindle with books and books and books and books which can Almost Always help me live in another world for awhile and forget my own bizarre terror.

I dropped it on the tiled bathroom floor. It smashed into bits, taking my library with it.

To sum up, I went to Southern Italy with Greg in the midst of one of my largest despressive episodes, unaware of my mental state, without cell service to contact the children I was certain would die in my absence, burned out my ability to achieve sexual release, and ended up with one of Greg’s Horrible , Mindnumbing Science Novels with Zero Erotic Vampire Sex as my sole source of entertainment/mental escape.

By the time the vacation came to its blessed end and Greg inadvertently gave me the wrong directions to drive to the airport that was the Gateway to Home (aka Hope), I lost my everloving shite. All of it. All at once. Shite just EVERYwhere in a terrific, toddler-style meltdown the likes of which has never been seen before or since. There was screaming. There was crying. There were recriminations. Snot and spittle flew involuntarily from my face while my head spun around, exorcist-style. Red laser beams emerged from my eyes. Logical Beth floated above my body, watching in stunned disbelief at how thoroughly I lost control of myself. Logical Beth was stuck there for a while because there was no room for her inside. She’d been shoved completely apart from the tangible experience. She was assigned an Observational Role only, and she was all, “WHOA” because she had no better words to describe it.

We were on our way to the airport years later to go to Germany when we turned around and went home, instead. One of our kids was sick which made me feel panicky, even though Logical Beth reminded me it was only a mild fever. We’d learned a thing or two about marriage, though, after our ill-fated Southern Italy trip; namely, I’ve learned to Say When Things Are Not OK, and Greg’s learned to Listen. We made it 5 minutes from home when I said, “I’m sad,” and “I don’t want to leave him,” and “I’m trying to be OK.” And we made it one more minute before Greg, instead of saying, “It’ll be fine,” which I already knew, said, “We don’t have to go. It’s OK. Let’s just stay home.”

Last week, we finally took that trip to Germany.

And we had fun.

Together.

Which feels like it’s own miracle, honestly.

And not just because I remembered to pack the converter.

Coming to terms with Mental Illness means understanding I need to always be on watch. Vigilant. Paying attention. Assessing and reassessing. It means learning from failures and painful pieces of the past but not letting those be the whole story, nor define the future. But that’s easier said than done, and I find myself often tiptoeing toward events and treating trips like they might bite. I’m wary, I guess, because I don’t want to harm myself or others, but I don’t have a great track record of knowing when I’m about to bite the dust. I have a hard time trusting that I know more now or believing that I have the correct tools in place to appropriately manage my own mental health. But I suspect starting to believe in and trust myself is an Important Step toward Living Well with Mental Illness.

I’ll start by celebrating One Success. This one. And I’ll hope for more. And, because you and I spend time waving to each other in the dark, I wanted to celebrate this success out loud.

Sending you love, and waving in the dark as always,

P.S. I’ve found this helpful lately. Maybe you will, too.

P.P.S. Pay attention. Send that to someone if you need to. Highlight which ones are falling apart. Ask for help. Taking care of mental health is a series of baby steps. ANY steps are to be celebrated. Any at all. They accumulate and make a big difference eventually. I promise. Keep looking. Things will get better. You just may need a hand to get there.

*P.P.P.S. Speaking of Mental Hump, I think there should be a trashy novel about a young, beautiful, self-disciplined psychiatrist-turned-best-selling-author in Hollywood who has to move back to her small town in the Midwest — a town she’d NEVER planned to return to after she promised herself she’d make it big and show the mean girls from high school that it was a GOOD thing to be smart instead of something to be mocked — to care for her ailing father where she becomes reacquainted with the One Person who was kind to her back then, the carpenter’s son who’s taken over the family business. There, she has to confront her long-repressed feelings of lust and love for the only boy (now man) who made her want to let loose and laugh and truly LIVE, unfettered and free to be her full self, as smart and lovely and savvy and funny and wild as she can be. In other words, the doctor who’s become a nationwide household name for her advice and books teaching others how to tame their fears and implement a strict regimen of self-control to achieve success discovers she must choose; maintain the rigid structure and aloof demeanor that lead to all her dreams (but one) coming true or give in to the vivid dreams that plague her nights (and increasingly her days), filled with one carpenter in particular. The novel shall be titled Mental Hump, and the readers will be left to discover… can she overcome her mental hump? So all those hot mental humps might become reality? Or will she keep herself “safe,” well out of mental hump territory, and live the predictable — and strangely unsatisfying— life she’s made for herself?

The post On Depression, How to Tell if It’s Getting Bad Again… and Vibrators. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It Is What It Is. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Am Not Qualified to Have Conversations. Nevertheless, I Persist. Sorry.

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 01 Apr 2019 00:43:16 +0000

Alright. I don’t know if this is advice or anti-advice, but it’s something, and now you’ll know it, too, instead of me just carrying it around in my head all by myself where it should probably stay locked up forever.

Here’s the sitch: We bought a stunning farm in Oregon. And we’re working on the farm — a LOT these days — hoping to open early summer as a private park.

Most things, we’re doing ourselves. Because money.

Some things, we have to contract out. Because we have a No Dying Rule in our family, and it has recently struck us how easy it could be to break that rule if we have to, say, lift a deteriorating, ancient barn by its rafters to replace a fully rotten foundation. Or mess around with a 650’ well to replace a pump.

We like to Parent by Example, after all. That’s very important to us. And we figured there’s no better way to do that than Not to Have a Barn Crush Us to Death and Not to Fall Sixty-Five Stories Into a Mountain. This is, frankly, a helpful parenting system. Next time I think I’m not very good at the whole parenting gig, I’m going to remind myself of All the Things I’ve taught my children by example. I have NEVER ONCE been crushed by a barn. Not in all my decades of life. And I ALMOST ALWAYS remember to put on clothes before I leave the house. So next time I think about the number of green vegetables my 12-year-olds are willing to eat (one. spinach. if it’s well hidden in other foods like they’re toddlers), I’m going to shake it off by recalling the number of times they’ve seen me recklessly climb the roof of a house in search of mini booze bottles, which is ONLY ONE, just like the veggies. A VERY limited number. Hardly any at all. I am a Paragon of Virtue, in other words. A Mother Exemplar. I mean, if I look at it pragmatically, the number of things I’ve taught by example are LEGION. How to warm a frozen egg. How to never, ever waste your time folding laundry. And the ways I haven’t died? Could fill an OCEAN.

Which brings me back to contractors whom we need lest all our good intentions to keep breathing go awry.

We hire them. We live. The less fortunate part of hiring contractors, however, is the host of conversations I’m suddenly having for which I am vastly unqualified.

The latest was last week. About trenching. With the Pump Guy.

It turns out, water doesn’t magically go from a well to a reservoir tank. Not even if you build the tank a fancy house.

You still have to build a real, physical conduit from the source of water to the tank and then from the tank to where you ultimately need the water.

I KNOW. THAT IS A LOT OF SCIENCE.

Or rather, it seems incredibly simple until you find yourself standing with the Pump Guy in an open field and telling him exactly where you need a trench to go through the rocky landscape so you don’t, say, kill ancient trees, mar the landscape irreparably, and generally eff up your property.

The Pump Guy, of course, because he’s professional, kind, collaborative, and cares about doing excellent work will ask you for your preferences and opinions. And you, of course, because you try to play a Normal Human Being on occasion will try very hard not to answer every query with a shrug, a vacant expression, and by quoting your preschool niece in a sing-song voice… “I just no know.” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Thus, the Pump Guy will share important information about your property’s topography and what it will take to trench through, basically, solid rock.

He will talk about trenching devices.

And eventually he will sigh a little and say, “I really prefer a vibratory plow.”

And you, pretending to be knowledgeable, will feel the need to respond in a coherent, sensical manner.

You will hear, “I really prefer a vibratory plow,” and you will think you need to share what kind of plow YOU like, and your brain, because it ceased development at 12, apparently, will think — VIVIDLY — of all the kinds of ways you’ve been plowed. And you will settle, ultimately, on the Exact Same Conclusion as the Pump Guy, which is… “I really prefer a vibratory plow, too.”

Y’ALL, I TRIED NOT TO SAY IT OUT LOUD. Especially, I tried not to say it out loud with a GIGANTIC SMIRK. I really, really did. But I have very selective impulse control, and I have spent zero minutes trying to strengthen it, so I said it anyway.

“I mean, I really prefer a vibratory plow, too. It’s my favorite kind of plow. Of all the types of plows I’ve ever had, the vibratory kind definitely gets the job done.”

I stood in a field on a gorgeous, sunny day with my sister-in-law WHO WATCHED THE TRAIN WRECK COME OUT OF MY MOUTH and giggled while I told the Pump Guy THE KIND OF PLOW I PREFER.

Jesus, take the wheel.

Folks, listen up. (Especially you, Anita, who is married to the Pump Guy and is, therefore, my likeliest informant for insider information.) The Pump Guy either a) is THE NICEST HUMAN ALIVE with ONLY THE VERY MOST APPROPRIATE THOUGHTS, EVER, or b) has THE WORLD’S BEST POKER FACE. His face did not even twitch, friends. Not a muscle out of place. Nothing. Nada.

All of which is to say, I am not qualified to have conversations. Nevertheless, I persisted. And now I’m wondering if Hallmark makes an appropriate apology card I can send to the Pump Guy who I need not to fire us as clients.

You can pray for us.

Waving,

P.S. When you Google images of vibratory plows, nothing naughty come up (that’s what she said), so evidence suggests I’m the only human with a 12yo boy brain who’s unable to talk about them without the giggles.

P.P.S. F your I, there are lots (and lots and lots) of kinds of vibratory plows for all your vibratory plow needs. You can get a mini vibratory plow. A clamp-on vibratory plow. An earthmoving vibratory plow. A 6-way vibratory plow. A rear vibratory plow. And a Pro Sneak 365 vibratory plow, which sounds a little kinky if you ask me, but I’m game.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not ready for a dedicated vibratory plow, I hear the vibratory plow attachments are very nice.

P.P.P.P.S. I’ll leave you with some helpful quotes about how vibratory plows work. You know, for those of you who care about plow-related science.

“It took us half a day, but we learned so much more by “doing” instead of “reading.””

“The vibratory plow increases flexibility.”

“The shank you see is the magic.”

“It keeps homeowners happy.”

P.P.P.P.P.S. Unrelated (except that I can’t promise I won’t talk about vibratory plows), under the auspices of our farm, my sister-in-law and I are offering a $50 gnocchi-making workshop at my house this Thursday. We’ll be eating several types of gnocchi, making some so you can take home a fresh potato-pasta meal, drinking wine from my friends at Sandro wines, and generally chatting and having a fab time. There are still some spots open. Email info@cairnsfarm.com for more info and to sign up. Bring a friend! Spaces are limited to 12, so it’ll be a fairly intimate gathering of friends. Talking about gnocchi and plows. You know; the usual.

The post I Am Not Qualified to Have Conversations. Nevertheless, I Persist. Sorry. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Being the World Changers

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 27 Mar 2019 03:30:38 +0000

I’ve begun to wonder lately what it was like to be a woman in 1918 fighting for the right to vote. Or an abolitionist in 1862. Or a civil rights advocate in 1962. I’ve begun to wonder what it was like for them before they knew they’d win — at least legally — and how they felt, beyond what we can research. Beyond their rousing words. Beyond their determination to stay the course. Beyond the paragons they’ve become in the annals of history.

What what it really like for them? What thoughts plagued their minds? How did their bodies feel? How many times did they wish for resolution?

I always see the World Changers as strong and courageous — probably because they are — but I also wonder, were they weary beyond words? Did they doubt their voices mattered? Did they long for a Saturday to sleep in, and an end to jaw clenching and tension headaches? Were they heartsick over being misunderstood and labeled Angry and Aggressive and Bitter and Shrill, and did they have to practice deep breaths and mindfulness or read smutty vampire novels to escape reality a while?

Did they put themselves to bed early because they were Unable to Can? Not even for one second more?

Did they sit in the bathtub until they were wrinkly because it was a good place to hide?

Did they grieve, all the time, under the surface (and on top of it when they couldn’t hide it), the families and friends who cast them aside? Did they think constantly about the disphoria and dissonance of being excluded from the institutions and clubs and churches and parties that insisted the World Changers were the problem, instead of the diseased subculture that rewarded complacency and compliance?

Did they eat whole packages of Thin Mints or equivalent in the car on the way home because it was soothing, and they chose on occasion Any Kind of Soothing even though they knew it was temporary?

Did they mourn the way their kids had to pay the price for their parents’ Loud Voices and Refusal to Accept an Unjust Status Quo? Their kids’ loss of friendships? Their kids’ lack of intimacy with extended family? Were they proud of the way their kids innately understood the fight for equality and championed their parents and rallied to their parents’ cause because kids aren’t yet marred by Cultural Expectations and still innately understand the Way of Love?

I used to wonder whether there would be a profound cultural shift in my lifetime. A rise of evil so great we’d have to act.

I’d read about Jesus’ fight against the Pharisees with their rule-bound faith and checkboxes and narrow lists of Who’s In and Who’s Out. I’d studied the Holocaust and mass genocide and the way whole countries stood aside to wait, even after they discovered the atrocities. I’d researched Women’s Suffrage, and Martin Luther, and Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and I wondered how Good People could stay on the sidelines, silent. Claiming “civility.” How could they willfully refuse to see the injustice and cruelty perpetuated on the vulnerable on their watch?

I’d read about it all, but, as a privileged, white, middle class human, I wondered whether I’d ever face my own Moment of Truth when I’d have to pick between What is Right and What is Comfortable. And in the meantime I (willfully) failed to see the injustice and cruelty perpetuated on people of color, and people who experience disability, and people who experience poverty, and sexual and gender minorities. I lived through the vilification of folks who are LGBTQ during the AIDS epidemic of the 1980’s. And I was complicit in their suffering because I was comfortable in my own life — untouched by their trauma, assured of my own righteousness — and, therefore, silent.

Then 2016 happened, and Donald Trump was elected President of the United States. Hatred and Exclusion and Fear and Xenophobia had a mouthpiece aided and amplified by the White Evangelical Church. The vulnerable were afraid, which should always be a red flag; a canary in the coal mine. When the vulnerable are afraid, SOMETHING IS GRAVELY WRONG, friends. <— This is how we know we’re fucking things up. And then, the (White Evangelical) Church I had loved split because it could not love, welcome, and include folks who are LGBTQ.

It occurred to me recently — like, yesterday, at noon — that we’re all living through collective trauma, those of us who are awake and listening to the sets and subsets of society who are crying out for help. We’re in our own societal crisis. We’re living through our own cultural genocide where the goal is to eradicate the vulnerable groups. To minimize the suffering of people of color. To belittle those who are LGBTQ. To vilify the immigrants. To dismiss heartache and hurt. To make sufferers “other” rather than “us.”

I don’t wonder anymore when evil will rise in my lifetime or when it will be time to fight. It’s risen. It was here long before I recognized it. And the time to fight is now. And yesterday. And tomorrow.

To be honest, I feel inadequate for the task ahead. I’m no MLK, Jr. I’m no Son of God. I’m not tireless; I’m tireful. Full of tired. And also, full of Thin Mints. But I have a voice. And I’ll use it.

We’re living through a collective trauma, and we’re unsettled the same way I bet the Suffragettes were unsettled, and the folks who ran the Underground Railroad were unsettled, and Luther was unsettled when he nailed his 95 theses to the church doors to protest corruption by the Church. I’m starting to suspect being unsettled is part of it. Part of change. Part of reformation. Part of slowly turning the ship of cultural norms toward compassion.

Which means we’re World Changers, too. Feeling the same aches and agony and uncertainty World Changers have felt for centuries. Eons. Feeling the same inadequacy and carrying on regardless. Which is what it takes to be a World Changer, I bet. Seeing the trauma. Saying out loud it’s not OK. And wishing for more time in the bath.

So here’s to the World Changers, friends. Me. And you.

And here’s hoping we all get to go to bed early.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. IDK if any of that made sense, but I’m putting it out there anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I figure, it’s a weird time we’re living in, so it’s OK if what I put out there is weird, too. Yes? Yes. Thx for understanding.

The post On Being the World Changers first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Home Which Is on My Heart

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 20 Mar 2019 03:17:14 +0000

I grew up in Papua, Indonesia, which is not to say I spent my whole childhood there like some of my friends. I was a late arriver — perhaps foreshadowing my lifelong relationship with timing — at age 12 in the coastal town of Sentani where I went to boarding school for the first time.

Sentani is the place I learned to run barefoot on gravel and spin in hot monsoon rains and slip notes under the the adjoining door to my friend, Liz, during enforced “nap” time. We wrote whole book series plots via underdoor note, nearly all of them starring boy/girl twins stowing away on British ships during the height of the British Empire.

Sentani is the place I learned to drink hot Tang and to strategically use too much Ovaltine for hot cocoa so there was a delightful sludge left at the bottom of my mug, and it’s where I learned to twirl spaghetti with a fork perched on a spoon, because our dorm parents were Italian, and they had Standards for Culinary Behavior, even at the edge of the jungle.

And Sentani is the place I first felt at home somewhere other than where my parents were. Like I might be able to be a full part of my peers rather than always circling the perimeter looking for an opening. Like I might be my own whole person — capable and confident — even apart from my family.

No; even though I didn’t spend my entire childhood in Papua, that’s the place I grew up. The place that sticks in my brain. The place that embedded itself in my heart. I think because, in Papua, I experienced life and death and pain and freedom and love and loss in a way my previous, Southern Californian, suburban life couldn’t deliver with its safety nets and grocery stores and peers who cared about what brands of jeans one wore in the 3rd grade. Life was muddier in Sentani than Simi Valley. Messier. More magical for me. More devastating. More real. Maybe it was the age I was at the time. I’m sure that’s part of it. But I’m equally sure that’s not all of it. There’s something about living on the precipice of the jungle that drives home how wild this place we call Earth really is.

Sentani is the place I discovered God doesn’t always grant magical wishes for someone you love to live.

And Sentani is the first place I received a note from a boy that said, “I like you. Do you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.” I still have it in a box somewhere; I never replied because I was positive I was being mocked. Now, it makes me smile — both that I’ve kept that piece of carefully folded paper for 34 years, and the tender memories of trying to learn my way through social mazes more intricate and intimate than I’d previously known.

I’ve been sitting in the sun all afternoon at a picnic table with a scarred wood surface, and I’ve been thinking about home in all its iterations while the wind billows and blows. There’s a Mary Poppins wind today. The kind that won’t be tamed, like the air needs to remind us every now and then that it’s here and powerful. A force to be reckoned with, instead of one to be taken for granted.

I’ve been thinking about home; the home where I grew up and the one I created for my own kids. I’ve been thinking about the childhood I gave my oldest two — now launched, each in their own way, to adulthood — and the fact that I can’t give them another. I’ve been thinking about the three I have still under my roof —one 17 and two who are 12 — and what will shape them in the years to come. What stories they’ll remember. Which friends. What sweet sludge at the bottoms of their cups. Which skills and loves and losses.

Which is all I came to say, really. That home is on my heart.

With love,

P.S. Part of the reason Sentani is on my mind this week is because it’s under water. Like Nebraska. Like Mozambique. The devastation is staggering. And heartbreaking. And will never make it broadly into the international new cycle.

My childhood friend, Kim, is on the ground there now, helping provide shelter and food and respite in the midst of the storm.

P.P.S. The other reason Sentani and Papua are on my mind this week is because my friend, Malcolm, just lost his dad, John Wilson, and was reminiscing about his childhood home, as well. I’m reminded that, despite the losses precious humans are experiencing in Papua right now, there are helpers, too. Always helpers. Like Kim. Like Malcolm’s dad. And like our friend, David Marfleet. Who are heroes. Here’s some of what Malcolm has been sharing, just in case you, like me, need to be reminded on occasion of the awesome power of love made real.

“In the late 1980’s there was a massive earthquake that primarily affected the Soba valley of what was at that time known as Irian Jaya (now Papua), Indonesia. In the following days my dad and Dave Marfleet flew countless missions to rescue numerous stranded villagers. Many of them had horrific injuries and some of the rescues were incredibly dangerous with rocks falling and subsequent earthquakes making their every move precarious. Many years later I was talking to my dad about those days, and he broke down as he described how physically and emotionally exhausting it was. He said the stress of some of the rescues, the tragedy they saw, and going non-stop for days on end shattered him. (He did all of this w a broken rib, caused when he fell from the helicopter and hit his ribs on the step).”

Malcom’s brother wrote: “August 1, 1989, 9am. Will never forget it. Malcolm and our friends and I were among those who nearly didn’t live to tell the tale. After the rescue phase, in the relief flying, I flew as a kind of crewman…Dad nearly died in one of those rescue attempts (the one where the blue Hughes is touching its skids). A truck sized boulder and mudslide nearly took him out.“

David Marfleet wrote back: “During the first day we had decided our priority had to be to find the injured so we ignore the many dead bodies lying in mud. Then ‘something’ prompted us to go back and have a look at three ‘bodies’ we had spotted earlier. Your dad yelled ‘One of them has just moved!’ I had to hover with a skid on a boulder, blades only inches from the mountainside, rocks still coming down everywhere from after shocks, and John Wilson had to climb out on the down slope side, a drop of about 2m, to reach the victims. I never did work out how he got them all back in the cab then climb back up himself! He also managed to take this picture of the moment.”

Malcolm’s own story that day is, in itself, incredible:

And, finally, this, from David Marfleet: “[After we] completed the rescue of all the injured, there was still many weeks of work to keep the survivors on the mountains fed. There were many outbreaks of dysentery etc in the temporary camps set up at Oakbisik and elsewhere. It was probably the most demanding flying I had ever done outside of combat operations. … When Mary and I went back in 2014, this lady, Diana, ran up to me and said she was just 7 years old when the earthquake struck. Her home was up on Sebu ridge and was swept away in a mud slide. She lost both her parents. As she lay in the mud she watched me flying round the valley for several hours and she kept praying I would find her. Eventually I spotted her and lifted her to safety. It was a very emotional reunion for me. Not often that [Mission Aviation Fellowship] pilots get to see the end result of their hard work. This made it all worth while.’”

P.P.P.S. If you’d like to donate to Sentani flooding relief efforts, Malcolm recommends Papua Partners.

P.P.P.P.S. I’d love to hear about your home, too. Not necessarily about where you lived. But about what you lived and where you first discovered community. Because home matters. And helpers and heroes are everywhere.

The post On Home Which Is on My Heart first appeared on bethwoolsey..

New Plan: It’s OK to Rest

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 16 Mar 2019 00:07:01 +0000

I took the day off yesterday.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t feel great about it. I detest asking for help because my Lizard Brain believes Not Doing All the Things is a clear and obvious sign of weakness and is, therefore, the very WORST activity in which I can (not) participate. But I’ve been working lately on a Grand Experiment I’ve creatively named It’s OK to Rest. I’m a firm believer that, if you repeat words to yourself enough times, you’ll begin to think they’re actually true. That’s why I thought I was stupid for so long — also ugly and fat, bless my heart — so I figure if I can use my Awesome Mind Powers for Monumentally Damaging Evil, then I can turn that poop pile around and use it for good.

My friend, Polly, has this incredible personal policy that blew my mind when I first observed it a few years ago. We work on Oregon Coast retreats together, and, as a result, get to spend significant chunks of time in each other’s company, so I’ve witnessed this first-hand on many occasions. I mean, she actually does this, and regularly. Possibly daily, friends. Polly takes a nap when she’s tired.

Seriously.

If Polly’s tired at 9am, she lays down and rests which allows her to be kind, personable, and productive for the remainder of the day.

WUT?

I admit, at first I was genuinely bewildered. A) I have always believed I am not a good napper. If I allow myself a nap — and I only nap under the most extreme circumstances, usually pneumonia or unmanageable jet lag — I completely crash for hours, and then I wake up with Nap Hangover. As in, I wake up slooooowwly, confused and groggy, and I’m generally unpleasant to be around. And B) IF naps are allowed in my world, they are DEFINITELY prohibited shortly after waking for the day. There are strict napping rules. Customs which must be observed. Taboos not to be broken. I’m very much the Dowager Countess about the whole thing: there are things that are simply Not Done.

Or I was Violet Crawley about the whole thing until I saw the most beautifully flagrant breaking of the nap rules, after which I was all, “I WANT IN.”

Isn’t it funny the ways we harness and hamper ourselves? Isn’t it ridiculous how we put in place illogical protocols that are more harmful than helpful? Isn’t it a mystery that our ingrained habits and “Must Do’s” are cloaked in invisibility, making malignant mischief, until we get a peek behind the curtain and suddenly their machinations are made clear?

I woke up yesterday morning, took my kids to school, and drank coffee in a failed attempt to convince myself I wasn’t exhausted after a rather sleepless night, didn’t have a cold worsening with every hacking cough, and certainly was able to manage my usual work schedule. I found myself, instead, at my desk slumped all the way over in my chair. Aching. Drained. Lethargic. Weary. AND, because I’m a special treat, telling myself I needed to get my ass in gear, stop being lazy, and tackle my endless To Do list.

That’s when I started to laugh. I was physically unable to sit upright AND beating myself up for failing to accomplish more. Good grief. With friends like me, who needs enemies… am I right?? It suddenly struck me how deeply, INCREDIBLY absurd I was being. And how trapped I was, assuming I had no other options.

So I rolled my eyes HARD at myself, and I put myself to bed. As though it actually, really, truly, might be OK to rest. EVEN at 9am. EVEN when there are Things That Must Be Done. EVEN when my brain is an asshole about it. EVEN though it might mean Asking for Help.

I know; I can hardly believe it, either.

Know what else? I’m starting to suspect that if I let myself rest regularly — if I don’t wait until I’m literally limp with exhaustion — if I maybe try napping when I start to feel tired instead of as a last-ditch, emergency-level, nuclear-code, CALLING ALL RESPONDERS event, I might mitigate the crash. I might not be bad at napping. I might not get Nap Hangovers. I might be able to take brief rests without a full shut-down/restart protocol. Like — and I know this is crazy, but I’m going to say it anyway — bodies might need REGULAR CARE and Maintenance, and operators who Pay Attention and Heed Warning Lights. I mean, it’s just a concept at this point, but maybe, right?

In conclusion, new plan: It’s OK to Rest.

I’ve decided I’m going to give it a shot. Starting yesterday. I’ll let you know how it goes.

With love (and waving in the dark,)

P.S. Over at Cairns Farm, we’re super excited to announce our Spring 2019 Workshop series — 26 introductory-level classes for fun, for community building, for rest, for restoring our hearts and minds. We’re calling it a TRYathlon because it will allow us to try new things in 3 “event” categories — Make, Taste, and Tend. We’re currently selling all-access passes (only 15 people per class, so spaces are limited), and will open remaining spots very soon. For more info and to register, you can visit us on the Cairns Farm workshops page. I’m going to be at many of these (and teaching a few… and a few are at my house), and I’d LOVE to see you.

P.P.S. We’ve also updates the Retreats page here on this site with some new info on our 2020 Oregon Coast retreat dates .

P.P.P.S. ALSO-also, Cairns Farm will be posting information in the next few weeks on additional adventures in which you may want to participate… including international youth trips (we’re coming to you, London, in October!) AND a weekend kayak camping trip in June. I get to go on all of them, and I’m over the moon. If you can’t wait for details because you want to join me and need to know STAT, email me at info@CairnsFarm.com, and I’ll give you the inside scoop. Just put “I NEED TO KNOW NOW, BETH” in the subject line. 😉

P.P.P.P.S. This is our new foster dog, Theo.

He has nothing to do with the rest of this post, except he’s a really good napper, so, since Polly has thusfar refused to move in with me an act as my Visual Napping Aid, Theo’s going to have to step up.

P.P.P.P.P.S. My kids call Theo “Humper Dumper” because he was VERY nervous his first night with us and, as a result, took a dump on the kitchen floor and humped a few couch cushions. Vigorously. And with great enthusiasm.

He’s calm now, and we’ve had no further incidents, but I’m afraid the name might stick.

He seems fine with his choices, though, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Whatever. You do you, Humper Dumper. Solidarity, kid.

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Kindness Is Messy: So Is Spaghetti, But I Still Recommend It

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 13 Mar 2019 06:25:33 +0000

I gathered my retreat makers together last weekend in a cabin in the high desert of Oregon with snow piled high outside, and we worked on how we might gather humans in 2020 and beyond for rest and respite from our weary world — and how we might convey the message we’re all worthy of infinite love exactly as we already are. We talked about ways to hone our craft. We talked about ways to be authentic, supportive community. And we ate as much as possible at little, local restaurants, braving the icy sidewalks in search of sticky Thai chicken wings and Cuban pulled pork served on fried plantains.

I was rushing as fast as the ice would allow to get to the Next Warm Spot on Saturday when I passed a sign in a shop window and went back, even though my fingers were frozen, to snap a quick pic and put it on Instagram.

“Spread Kindness Like It’s Confetti,” it said, and it seemed apropos of our weekend efforts. Spread kindness. All the time. All the ways. All the wheres. To all the people. And Cute + True = Insta Worthy, so I posted. But, like, three seconds later, my college kid, who’s on top of All Things Insta, texted me.

“Not everyone likes confetti.. or maybe it’s situational confetti. So situational kindness? Story time… It was senior night at my school and there was a party and we threw confetti at our friend who was a senior, inside the house. The owners of the house did not like the confetti. Moral of the story, some people don’t like confetti so how do I know who wants my confetti and who doesn’t?”

Some people don’t like confetti so how do I know who wants my confetti and who doesn’t?

Excellent question, baby girl. Excellent question ‘cause we’ve all tried to throw our kindness out there only to be hollered at for making a mess, yes? See also, 1. challenging the Church to be fully inclusive of folks who are vulnerable, 2. holding up traffic to let people cross the street, 3. fighting for social justice, 4. pointing out corruption, 5. and myriad other Acts of Tenderness, Love, and Concern. I tell you, you try to scatter kindness like confetti — especially kindness toward folks who can’t give you money or power or reciprocity — and you WILL piss other people off. It’s as inevitable as the sunrise. As in, it won’t stop until the sun burns out and the Earth grows cold.

BUT YOU CANNOT LET THAT SWAY YOU, darling.

You cannot let the kindness nay-sayers win.

People don’t always love kindness.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But we can’t let the kindness-shamers keep us from offering it. Right? I mean, how sad would that be?

“Doesn’t matter! Smother them with kindness confetti whether they like it or not. Some people will complain. Some people are mean and joyless. Whatever. Let them be. But don’t let them influence whether you sprinkle it. Joy-suckers don’t deserve that much power.”

Kindness can be messy, friends. So is confetti. So is spaghetti. So are relationships. And living deliberately. And loving well. So are Cuban pulled pork sandwiches served on fried plantains. But I still recommend them.

Yes, I do.

I recommend them all.

In all their messiness. In all their gooey-ness. In all their dripping and hard-to-clean-up-ness. In all the spaghetti sauce dried at the corners of our mouths. And all the tiny pieces of paper stuck in the carpet after we toss them in celebration.

Because I know a secret.

The messes can be hard to navigate, for sure. And distracting. And disheartening if we pay them a lot of attention. We will naturally try to focus on the reprimands we receive for making them because we’re human, and we’ll tear ourselves down if we’re not vigilant. We’ll look at the sauce we dripped on our boobs. We’ll listen too closely and be hurt too greatly by the voices of our critics. But if we can keep our heads — if we can rise above the fray — we can remember a Very Important Truth:

There is magic in the mess, and the mess is a tiny price to pay to conjure it.

There is magic in the mess, and I know no truth greater than that, because magic in the mess is the same to me as watching Love in disguise. Love on the move. Love telling us that dripping sauce and greasy fingers are part of a wild and worthy life. Love telling us to look closer. To search deeper. To embrace the grit and the grime because therein lies grace.

There is magic in kindness, even though it’s messy. Maybe because it is. Magic in loving our neighbors and seeing Divine Love in each and every one. Magic in that perfect bite of pasta and just the right chew of plantain carmelized in oil. Magic in a rain of confetti that, yes, I’ll be finding in the carpet for years to come.

There is magic in the mess, and the mess is a tiny price to pay to conjure it.

Be on the lookout, friends.

Kindness is messy. And I highly recommend it.

With love (and waving, waving),

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BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: We Bought a Farm, and You’re Invited.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 05 Mar 2019 04:13:57 +0000

OK — in an extraordinary feat of patience (aka, not my strongest suit), I’ve been waiting ALMOST A YEAR to share this news with you. The REAL news, instead of the previous *hints* of news. The REVEAL of the Thing We Did. The IF WE’RE GOING TO FAIL, AT LEAST WE’RE GOING TO FAIL BIG announcement.

So here it is:

WE BOUGHT A FARM.

A WHOLE FARM!

Cairns Farm in Newberg, Oregon, in fact, overlooking the Cascade Mountains in the wine country region of the Willamette Valley.

And here are the Most Important Details, in descending order of importance:

1. YOU CAN VISIT. Y’all, this is why we bought a farm. You can read more about our story here on the Cairns Farm website, but the gist is, after losing our church and whole swaths of our community due to our conviction that ALL people deserve to be fully included, affirmed, celebrated, and loved not in spite of who they are, but BECAUSE of who they are, we realized we wanted a space much larger than our individual home to engage in the beautiful, freeing work of welcoming others. Enter: the farm dream and our search for a property that would accommodate a place for folks to gather. That’s it. That’s our grand hope: that our farm will provide a sanctuary, a place to breathe, and a place to play for all comers. I cannot adequately express how excited I am to invite you over.

2. I CAN HAVE ALL THE BABY ANIMALS NOW… MWAHAHAHAHA! Let us pause a moment and say a prayer for Greg who is longsuffering and who promised me a domesticated fox but never delivered for which I shall now get endless revenge.

“Dear Jesus, be with Greg now, in his time of distress and despair. Let him know You are not far from him, and that You — and not the absence of tiny, furry creatures — are from whence True Joy comes. Help him not sprain his eyeballs from rolling them so hard every time we tell him which animals we’re adopting next. In Your Holy Name, Amen.” If you’re not Jesusy, no sweat — please pray to your Higher Power or Send Good Vibes — Greg needs all the help he can get.

So far, we have 10 lady chickens, 6 baby chicks, and, as of yesterday, 4 baby pigs.

Tomorrow, we’re getting the pigs’ mama, who’s likely already pregnant again, and their daddy, too, so we can have infinite baby pigs (aka, bacon seeds) from now until forevermore. Next on the list are goats, perhaps a lone llama, maybe a miniature donkey, definitely a miniature horse because Greg owes me for the time I got him Not a Miniature Horse as a gift, and other animals to be named later.

3. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT BETTY THE STOVE BECAUSE WE’RE NOT MOVING.

I know it’s weird. We bought a farm but we’re not going to live there. We created the Cairns Farm vision and bought the farm with my brother and sister-in-law, Jeff and Kim, who are living there with their three youngest kids because you helped me remodel my kitchen, and there’s no way I’m leaving Betty. Not ever. Also, Jeff and Kim might be living at the farm for their own farm-loving reasons and not just because Betty and I are True Love Always and Must Not Be Separated. But whatever. They have their reasons; I have mine. Let’s not get judgy about whose reasons are better.

4. I’M SOMETIMES WRITING THESE DAYS ON THE CAIRNS FARM BLOG, TOO, and I’d love to see you there. You can follow us at CairnsFarm.com, @CairnsFarm on Facebook, and @Cairns_Farm on Instagram. The website is brand new and evolving as we go, but there’s a LOT more information over there, as well as ways to follow our progress on projects like renovating the century old farmhouse. Do join us!

In conclusion, and long story short (too late), we bought a farm. You should come visit and bring your people. Greg and I live 10 minutes away with a dog Greg didn’t want, two cats which is actually one cat if you do the math correctly, and a new baby bunny named Niffler we had no choice but to buy because Greg forbid it. And now we get to have All the Farm Animals, too, which is, as Michael Scott would say, a Win/Win/Win, which is different than a mere Win/Win because everybody wins. Even Greg. He just doesn’t know it yet.

With Love… and waving in the dark,

P.S. We’re targeting June or July as our Grand Opening month for Cairns Farm — LOTS of work ahead for us! — but our 3-acre Wood is already available for recreational games and LASER TAG if you’re looking for something fun to do with friends or family. You can check out the Cairns Farm website for more info or contact us by email at info@cairnsfarm.com. Be sure to say Beth sent you! Mostly because I think it’ll be funny when I get messages that say I sent you to me. 😉

P.P.S. In addition to day-long rentals of Cairns Farm, we’re looking to offer educational workshops. You know, stuff like How to Forage for Cocktail Fixin’s. And Baby Pig Cuddling. And Lay in the Big Field, Watch the Clouds, and Breathe. Weird workshops, in other words, that make us laugh and rest and find peace — at least for a while — in our weary souls. Stay tuned for more!

The post BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: We Bought a Farm, and You’re Invited. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Turns Out, I’m Coffee: Thoughts on Managing Mental Illness

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 27 Feb 2019 04:25:25 +0000

I hit a mental wall last week, on Thursday, at noon.

I pulled into my driveway after my morning tasks, sent a few urgent texts, crafted my plan for the afternoon which consisted of Too Many Commitments and No Time to Shower, and couldn’t shake the increasing sense of impending doom. It wasn’t a feeling, per se; not an emotion, necessarily. It was more of a physical response. Fight or Flight. Or Freeze. Or, my personal favorite, Fall Apart. My heartbeat was rapid. My breaths were shallow. Everything on my schedule felt overwhelming and unmanageable, as it had for days, and I could acknowledge to myself in the quiet of my car that the mental illness wall was rising, brick by brick, and getting consistently higher.

I could’ve vaulted it.

It was a surmountable wall still, of a size I’ve overcome before.

I could’ve pushed through. Soldiered on.

But I’ve met the wall before, and it’s nothing if not determined. Tenacious. I could surpass it if I wanted to, but it would only be bigger when it returned, and I’d only hit it harder in the long run and do more damage to myself.

I’m trying to be wiser, friends. Trying to beat myself up a little less. Trying to make incremental progress on becoming a healthier, happier person. Trying to do what I always tell my kids to do — MAKE GOOD CHOICES, and LISTEN WELL TO YOURSELF, and IT’S OK TO CRY. So I put my head back on my headrest. I took a breath and held it. And then I texted all the folks I wouldn’t be able to see that afternoon because I was sick, and I needed to put myself to bed.

GOD, THAT’S HARD. To admit I’m unwell when it’s “just” my brain that’s sick? It’s rough. Every time. I DO NOT LIKE MAKING GOOD CHOICES. And I really don’t like managing mental illness.

I feel like it picked the wrong person, you know? I prefer to DO THINGS and to glean self-esteem from external markers, not intrinsic value, bless my heart. I prefer to be proactive, accomplish tasks, reach goals, and follow through on commitments. It’s important to me to be reliable, and I feel like Mental Illness should’ve taken that into consideration before signing me up for a lifetime subscription to Mental Fuckery Weekly without my permission.

Unfortunately, Mental Illness seems committed to teaching me how to fail to meet my own expectations. And then I get to pick whether I’m going to do that with kindness and compassion or cruelty and derision. I’ve tried the latter — I gave it a very solid try — and I don’t recommend it, so now I’m giving the former a shot. We’ll see how it goes.

I’ve been shallow breathing a lot lately, a sure sign my mental space isn’t doing that hot. As tension and panic increase, so does the height of my shoulders, and I’ll catch myself with my neck muscles tightening and my head trying to sink into my torso. It’s like my upper body is so anxious it’s trying to implode with the black hole centered in my throat, sucking shoulders, neck, head, and back into its vortex. I’ll catch myself clenched with rapid breaths reaching just the top 1/3 of my lungs, like I’ve forgotten I have full lung capacity and can choose to breathe more air — choose to send it all the way down — choose to give my body access to enough oxygen.

I spent the rest of Thursday in bed, practicing breathing and trying not to call myself mean names.

On Friday, I got out of bed and made myself a cup of coffee.

I bought an electric kettle for Christmas.

It’s a fancy one, chosen specifically to complement Betty the Stove. I needed it to look pretty and heat water, and that’s it; sort of superficial and practical all at once.

Now, DO NOT TELL OUR BRITISH COMMONWEALTH FRIENDS lest they feel horror and shame on my behalf, but this is my first kettle. Ever. I just felt like… a kettle’s not all that vital. I can boil water in a pot on the stove, so a whole separate appliance sitting next to the stove to serve the same purpose felt redundant. Extravagant.

Still. Nearly-instant hot water was appealing so I broke down and bought a darling little Russell Hobbs with one redundant, extravagant job. As though I’m worth it.

AND NOW I DO NOT KNOW HOW I LIVED WITHOUT IT. It’s dreamy, friends. Magical and perfect, and I use it all the day long.

What I didn’t expect to love, though — what I didn’t think about at all — was the temperature gauge on the side.

Yes, as an Oregonian in the heart of Snooty Coffee Country, I’ve heard about the importance of temperature in brewing the perfect cup, but come on. Precision is hardly my strong suit. It’s not that I don’t appreciate others’ emphasis on the exact craft of coffee-making. It’s just, who has the time? Not me is who. As much as my Marine father tried to teach me to do tasks correctly the first time — “would you like to see a Better Way to do that, Beth?” — I live these days by my own mantras: Half Assed is Good Enough, I’m Doing the Best I Can (lie), and Get Off My Back, Man (usually directed at Me.)

Upon acquiring Mr. Hobbs, though, I found myself with a temperature gauge, and, shortly after Christmas, I decided to use it.

My prior method of brewing coffee was a) boil water, b) grind beans (I am an Oregonian with some standards), and c) poor boiling water over grounds and let steep in a French Press. They’re smaller items to wash than a coffee pot, and I made it in a single serving size so it felt like an acceptable method. (Spoiler: IT WAS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE METHOD.)

Friends, the optimal temperature for brewing coffee is 195-205°F (90-96°C), a few degrees shy of boiling. Turns out, water at a rolling boil makes coffee bitter. Terribly bitter. With an awful, lingering aftertaste.

Oh, you have to let the water get hot to make a good cup. REALLY hot. Hot enough for the beans to feel it.

But not so hot that the beans have nothing left to give but exhaustion and resentment.

Not so hot that the beans burn out in a flash.

Not so hot that they lose the purpose for which they were created and become so much sludge, wasted in an environment for which they were never intended.

You have to let the water get hot for good coffee, but not too hot, which means you’ve got to keep an eye on gauge and pull it before it’s too late. And then you have to let it rest a while before it can release all the goodness it has locked inside.

Listen; coffee was meant for hot water. Coffee isn’t asking to be kept at room temperature. Coffee doesn’t want to be kept in the cupboard where it’s safe and secure. Coffee knows it can take the heat. Coffee welcomes it, in fact. But coffee also knows how much it can accept and when to call it quits before it becomes bitter. Coffee understands the boiling point and that it needs to avoid moving past what it can handle. Coffee knows what it takes to be robust but not acrid. To get the job done but respect its own boundaries because moving past them only creates something harsh and unpalatable.

And, finally, coffee knows you can’t pour water over the same used grounds and expect them to give anything but weak results. Coffee knows you have to refresh your supply — every time — if you want a strong cup.

I hit a mental wall on Thursday, at noon.

My brain space was past the brink and starting to boil, so I did what I’ve only recently learned to do, and I took it off the heat. Let it rest. Let it steep. Let it cool down.

On Friday, I got out of bed and realized I’m a cup of coffee. And that that’s a pretty fine thing to be.

Sending you love, friends, and waving in the dark,

P.S. I’m not better yet. My brain’s not done needing rest. This one’s going to take time. But I think we’re out of the immediate danger zone as long as we keep a close eye on that gauge. Wish me luck, and I’ll wish you the same.

P.P.S. I rearranged stuff in my kitchen so Mr. Hobbs would look his best. Now that you’ve seen his glamor shot, this is the reality.

I mean, coffee’s amazing, and I am coffee, but coffee’s also a mess, and I’m coffee then, too. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

P.P.P.S. If you ever find yourself past boiling, and you need immediate help, please call the suicide prevention hotline at 1.800.273.8255. They can help you, and they know how to take boiling water off the heat.

The post Turns Out, I’m Coffee: Thoughts on Managing Mental Illness first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Quick Life Tip: Frosted Mini Wheats with Brown Sugar and Garlic Salt Is Not OK, After All

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 18 Feb 2019 23:28:20 +0000

I had Frosted Mini Wheats with a sprinkle of brown sugar and a dusting of garlic salt today which I initially decided was fine.

It was the usual situation. Four hours after waking up, I decided I ought to feed myself. Some people make themselves and their physical needs a priority, understanding that providing their own bodies with nourishment upon waking allows them to better care for others. I imagine they set their alarms for early in the morning, rise cheerfully before their children, make themselves multi-grain avocado toast or a two-egg omelette, and eat it from an actual plate while sitting at the kitchen table with a dare-I-say hot cup of coffee or bright lemon tea. I can only assume people like that are generally rational and well-adjusted with an appropriate balance of self-care… and that they don’t wake up in a high-strung panic after hitting snooze thirteen times, thinking of all the tasks they must accomplish immediately, or yesterday, or last year, and itemizing the ever-expanding list of people they’ve let down with their lack of follow-through on their Very Good Intentions.

So. The usual situation. For four hours, I’d been doing Just One More Thing before allowing myself to eat which shockingly led to crabbiness and the shakes, and so, defeated once again by Being Human and Requiring Sustenance, I grabbed the fastest food I could find. Bowl. Spoon. Box of cereal (with sugar but also WHOLE WHEAT, therefore health food.) Milk. And brown sugar to sprinkle on top because sometimes the sugar crust on the blocks of wheat shards is spotty and sparse. I spilled a little sugar on the table (see also: shakes from not eating), but fear not; I have low standards, so I just brushed that spill straight into my bowl. Sugar saved. Nothing wasted. Problem solved.

Unbeknownst to me — although it should have been knownst since I know the infrequency with which my kitchen table is cleaned — the location of the brown sugar spill was the same location as a previous garlic salt spill, and so I sprinkled both on my cereal.

Mini Wheats with brown sugar and garlic salt are less than delicious, FYI. I know this is true because I ate 3/4 of the bowl just to be sure. And because I didn’t want to waste food. And because I need to do some work on treating myself like I deserve better than Garlic Frosted Mini Wheats.

But I will tell you what: I did NOT eat the whole bowl which is PROGRESS, and progress is VICTORY dressed in yoga pants and slippers. Victory on the down-low, if you will. Casual Victory. Victory with her hair in a messy bun and no bra.

I made it 75% of the way in, and I thought to myself, “Self? This is not pleasurable. This is not yummy. This is GROSS. This is not something you’d feed to any other human on Earth. This is something that’s OK to wash down the disposal. You, friend, can have a FRESH bowl of garlic-free cereal. You, sweet thing, are ALLOWED. You, darling, are WORTH a garlic-free bowl of cereal.”

In conclusion, quick life tip: you don’t need to actually eat the bowl of garlic-infused cereal. And, I suspect, you don’t always have to play the hand you’re dealt or lie in the bed just because you made it. I think we have more options than we let ourselves realize. You’re allowed to get a new bowl of cereal. You’re allowed to quit the card game and reshuffle the deck or swap out for another game entirely. You can strip the bed and remake it or leave it unmade, and you STILL deserve rest and respite and time to close your eyes where you’re safe and comfortable. I mean, right? We so often subject ourselves to situations we’d never dream of inflicting on anyone else. We so often leave ourselves trapped there. What if we don’t do that anymore? What if, even if we’re 75% of the way through, we say enough is enough? What if we treat ourselves like we’re worthy of more?

I don’t have any answers. But what if?

With love and waving,

P.S. Related: I haven’t pooped today. Not because I don’t need to go. I’m working on it, OK? Baby steps.

The post Quick Life Tip: Frosted Mini Wheats with Brown Sugar and Garlic Salt Is Not OK, After All first appeared on bethwoolsey..

We Accidentally Got Our Dog a Pet Bunny

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 16 Feb 2019 03:00:03 +0000

We got our dog a pet bunny. Not on purpose. It was very much an accident. Still, that’s what happened, and now here we are.

This is my lap at home.

ALL THE TIME.

Someone please bring me coffee and a bedpan. I’m not moving anytime soon.

So what happened, you ask? Fine; I shall tell you. Here’s the long version.

My kid has a friend, and the friend’s name is Rowan.

Prior to last summer, my kid and Rowan were not friends but then they went to camp together, and they realized they love all the same things like fire and ball jokes and running through the woods with knives. They laugh a lot. It’s usually maniacal and centered on what types of readily-available accelerants make the highest flames but they haven’t burned the house down yet, and, if one can judge by the number of times one overhears them say things like, “oops,” and “maybe we shouldn’t do that again,” and “or at least stand further back next time,” they’re learning, so ONWARD, BOYS. LEARN AWAY. TRY TO KEEP THE INJURIES TO A MINIMUM.

So. Rowan lives on a farm.

It’s adorable.

And Rowan has one dog, two cats, two goats — maybe three, but I spent all my time talking to this one so I can’t be sure —

and at least one chicken. Probably more, because I don’t think anyone in Oregon has just one chicken, but that’s all I saw the dog chase so I can’t be sure. Maybe there are 20 chickens but only one dumb enough to bait the dog. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It’s a mystery, and it shall remain a mystery because I’m not going back to count.

Rowan also has bunnies.

He used to have three bunnies: Petunia, the rescue bunny who likes to live alone and growls at everyone except Rowan’s sweet mama; and Bracken and Seth, the lop-eared boy bunny besties whom Rowan adopted several months ago as wee little ones and who spend all their time snuggling.

But then Rowan had seven bunnies because Bracken and Seth loved each other very much and very often, and it turns out Seth had a teeny tiny secret which resulted in four baby bunnies, discovered by Rowan one day at approximately one week old, hiding in the straw of Seth and Bracken’s cage.

And finally, after Rowan had seven bunnies, Rowan had thirteen bunnies, because it turns out bunnies can get pregnant again 24 hours after they give birth, and, well, Seth and Bracken had a window so they humped like rabbits and made six more baby fuzzies.

Happily, Seth is an excellent mommy. Or a daddy. I don’t know (or care) how Seth identifies; Seth should just be the best Seth he can be. He’s a good caregiver and his babies are ADORABLE. Bracken is a good daddy, too. In theory, anyway. Truth is, he hasn’t been around his kids much due to the fact that ten baby bunnies is a lot of baby bunnies, and Seth needs some alone time.

Thus began Bunny Campaign 2019 wherein my children BEGGED to have one of Seth’s babies.

Listen, I am a reasonable human being. Responsible above all else. Rational. Logical. Sensible. Those are the words everyone uses to describe me. We already have the world’s greatest dog and two new kittens; no need to get greedy and add a bunny. I mean, seriously, like we need ONE MORE THING to keep alive at our house. One More Thing capable of peeing on stuff. Clearly, we were NOT getting a rabbit.

Unfortunately, there were two problems.

Problem #1: OMGBUNNIESARESOCUTE

Problem #2: Greg said no.

Imperiously, y’all.

He put his foot down.

Buck stopped there.

Gregory made a Grand Proclamation: There Shalt Be No Resident Bunnies, Now and Forevermore.

Now, technically, to be completely fair, Greg realized a split second after he said it What He’d Done, and the Error of His Ways. He tried to take it back. He tried to shove that NO back in his mouth and swallow it, but it was already out there, you know? Just sitting there egging me on, begging to know what I was going to do about it. Which, gosh darn it, Greg, I didn’t even WANT a bunny, but then you went and made a declaration like your word is law, and now I have to get a rabbit.

What’s a logical human to do? I don’t make the rules. (I do make the rules.) And the rules were clear. We had to get a rabbit.

We went to the farm. We chatted with Seth. We picked out a bunny. And we let you know Greg said no, so you helped us name him.

Meet our newest family member,

Niffler the Raisin Maker of Clan Very Droppy Floppity Loppity

At first, Niffler’s ears were technically 1 floppity loppity and 1 very droppy floppity loppity…

…so we thought we his clan might be Partial Droppy Floppity Loppity, but, since then, both have become very droppy floppity loppity, so we’re confident we’ve named the correct family.

Thus Niffler became part of the family.

But one member of the fam is convinced Niffler is JUST HERS.

Honest to God, there is no convincing Zoey we haven’t just given her a pet.

Whither Niffler goest, Zoey will go.

Where Niffler lodgest, Zoey will lodge.

Niffler’s people shall be Zoey’s people.

And Niffler’s God, Zoey’s God.

And every morning, when I wake up, Zoey greets me with excessive wagging of tail and eager barks until I go get her bunny out of his hutch so they can play.

Don’t get me wrong. ALL of us love Niffler. But there is no question who belongs to whom.

Which is how we accidentally got our dog a pet bunny.

Not the worst thing we’ve ever done. Not by a long shot.

Sending you and yours love, and waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. Subscribe to my email newsletter here. You’ll receive exclusive content of questionable value on a wildly irregular schedule. I mean, who wouldn’t subscribe to a deal like that?

The post We Accidentally Got Our Dog a Pet Bunny first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Butting In and Why It’s Important if We Want to Build a Healthy Community

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 11 Feb 2019 21:32:56 +0000

I met a man at 8:27am on Friday — let’s call him Rick — at a hospital where I’d dropped off my sister-in-law for an appointment. I was in the lobby waiting for her and considering the two-story glass and steel flower sculpture suspended from the dome in the ceiling — and, because there’s nothing like an anxiety/depressive disorder to steal joy, wondering how wise such a spectacular, delicate piece will seem after Cascadia, the Grand Earthquake tasked with killing us all, shakes it from its mooring — when Rick appeared on a cell phone call with his adult daughter.

I like to think of myself as someone who pays attention, but I don’t know if I would’ve noticed Rick under normal circumstances. Perhaps I saw him because I was already contemplating disaster and full of heightened awareness. But it was more likely his gasps on each intake of breath and slight moans on each release that tipped me off. The lobby was fairly full, and people were in and out, generally minding their own business like we’re trained from birth to do. But Rick was in clear distress as he explained to his daughter that he wasn’t going to be able to wait until his 11:15am appointment with his doctor.

Discharged from the ER for the same pain two days prior, nothing had improved. He’d somehow managed to drop his wife off for her appointment at the hospital, but he was going to have to head over to the VA clinic because part of American healthcare and insurance coverage means the VA won’t pay for emergency care again unless they see him first and validate his need. He paced while he talked, unable to sit still, and he alternately leaned on walls and pillars with shaky hands and quietly moaned with each movement. By the time he concluded the call, the plan was clear — he was going to have to drive himself to the clinic because he couldn’t afford to call 911 for ambulance transport or ER care without VA assistance.

I watched him the whole time, unabashedly. He didn’t notice. His attention was limited to what was important — the call, breathing, and trying to make his way to the elevator a few steps at a time, stopping to put his hands on his knees to rest and try to remain upright. I grabbed my purse, and, along with another woman in a red coat, accosted Rick at the elevator doors.

“Do you need help?” she asked him as we made eye contact. She was Paying Attention, too, and recognized a Fellow Human in Need. And I followed up, “Are you headed to the VA clinic? Is it close?” I asked because I was waiting for my sister-in-law to finish her appointment, and I needed to let her know how long I’d be gone. There was simply No Way on Planet Earth I was letting this guy try to get to the VA on his own, and I prepared myself to convince him because older men — or, you know, men — sometimes don’t like it when a woman tells him what to do. It makes us hesitant. Nervous. Afraid of being treated harshly or berated or shamed for being ~~bossy~~ leadershippy and failing to protect men’s pride.

“It’s close,” he said, and it was — only a couple miles.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll grab my car and meet you out front. I’ll drive you over. You can’t drive right now.”

Red Coat Lady backed me up. “I’ll help you down to the lobby. We’ll get you a wheelchair and wait.”

He didn’t argue. Thank God; that would’ve just wasted time. Instead, he just said, “OK,” and then, “Are you nurses?” clearly wondering why we would butt in with such authority and command.

“Just bossy,” I said with a wink, and she simultaneously replied, “I’m a mommy and a grandma.” We nodded and smiled at each other, totally simpatico, because we’d said the same thing, and we both knew it. Once mommies and grandmas and humans get their groove on — once we realize the deepest truths of all, which are that we all belong to each other and that the way Love spreads is human to human contact — we understand caring for one another is our literal job. The only one on Earth worth doing. Our calling. Our drive. Our reason for sticking with life and seeing it through.

There was a time in my life I would’ve watched and not imposed myself on Rick or the situation. There was a time in my life I would’ve prioritized my assumption of his pride over his clear need for help. There was a time I wouldn’t have wanted to offend him or to appear “leadershippy” or foolish or to have my offer rejected. There was a time I bought into the notion of individualism and self-sufficiency.

Now, not so much.

Now, I try to remind myself to Pay Attention.

Now, I understand it’s not enough if I thrive while you’re in pain.

And so I butt in. And I believe in it so much, I want you to butt in, too.

You have to cultivate both the ideology and the skills for butting into others’ lives. You have to believe to your bones that it IS your job to take care of your community. That human suffering IS our business. That we all NEED each other. And — here’s the worst part for those of us who are tightly wound or in love with our own sense of self-sufficiency — you ALSO have to cultivate a willingness to be the one who receives help. I will tell you in advance, I HATE that part. I’d much (to infinity) rather play the role I played on Friday of helper rather than helpee. It casts me in the light in which I prefer to see myself — magnanimous, kind, strong, helpful.

But I will tell you, Rick had the much harder role.

He had to be both in excruciating pain AND navigate help from strangers, and you know what? He did both graciously. He recognized immediately that driving, both from a personal safety and community safety perspective, were unwise and that compromising safety wasn’t a worthy trade-off for self-sufficiency in that moment. We discussed none of this. I told him what was going to happen next, and he nodded. We executed the plan together. We were a seemless machine, both prioritizing that which needed to be prioritized — getting him medical assistance as soon as possible — and abandoning every other, silly, cultural expectation.

Red Hat Lady met me with Rick as I pulled my car in front of the hospital. We situated him in the front seat and closed the door. She hugged me and whispered thanks in my ear, and I squeezed her a little extra and said thanks back. We weren’t thanking each other for being Good Samaritans or otherwise congratulating ourselves. We were thanking each other for fostering community above comfort; for letting each other see, tangibly, that there are legions of strangers on the same mission. We were thanking each other for the reminder in this bizarre modern context that there are other folks in the vanguard of the Kindness Army. We were thanking each other for letting a sister know we’re not alone.

I drove Rick to the VA clinic, and I rubbed his arm as he moaned. I muttered the kind of platitudes and assurances one does in such situations. We’re almost there. We’ll be there soon. We’ll get you help. I won’t leave you alone. Which are the same assurances we all need all the time, anyway.

I pulled up in front of the building and parked with my emergency lights blinking as I hopped out of the car to usher Rick inside, his arm tucked in mine. He told me he’s retired now, but once upon a time, he used to repair all the copiers inside. He told me he has two daughters named Jessica and Beth, and I told him I’m Beth and I’m honored to stand in for his daughters — one of whom was on the way — for a tiny bit.

Rick checked in, and I hovered until he promised me they care for him well there and until the receptionist assured me the nurse was on her way to assess him and get him to emergency, and then I bid him farewell, knowing it was time for another piece of the community to do their part, and I left, back for the other lobby.

The entire thing took 20 minutes. No sacrifice at all. No inconvenience. My sister-in-law was still with her doctor. And the glass flowers were still suspended from the ceiling. Nothing had changed. Just three strangers coming together to be the community we ought to be all the time.

Sending love, sweet friends, and hoping you’ll join me in butting in,

P.S. I’m sending out my February email newsletter soon. Exclusive posts and all kind of other bizarre info. If you’re a new newsletter subscriber, you’ll also receive the exclusive “The Day I Peed My Office” story. Worst reason ever to join an email list. Do it. Subscribe here.

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Twinsie Pics: I Duplicated My Daughter’s Instagram Feed, Part 3

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 06 Feb 2019 05:21:50 +0000

Hey! Remember when I posted last in our questionable series wherein I duplicate my college daughter’s bikini-laden Instagram feed? Me, too. It was last May, and I promised more soon, bless my heart and good intentions. Now it’s February, which is to say, I’m not a full year behind yet. And, since I’m usually WAY more behind than that, I am officially AHEAD when compared to myself. So GOOD JOB, Me! #NoShame

Without further ado, I duplicated my daughter’s Instagram wearing, as always, her actual outfits because we’re totally the same size. Now it’s up to you to guess who’s who.

Good luck.

Wishing you all the best.

(But because I’m not cruel, I’ll include a hint after each pic so you’re not left guessing and you can check your work.)

Here we go!

{HINT: She’s the one with the tattoo that says “wanderlust.” Mine is a fake, and it just says “lust.”}

{HINT: If you look closely, you can see a few people in the background of one of the photos. That one’s mine.}

{HINT: The unicorn’s struggling a TINY bit more in the pic that’s with me. Also, I couldn’t put my hand on the handle on the unicorn’s neck because every time I tried, I leaned on the neck and the unicorn took a nose-dive for the ocean floor. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯}

{HINT: If you look really carefully, you’ll notice one of us has a tiny bit of purple-red hair falling out of her messy bun. That one’s me.}

Sending love, friends, and hoping we can all learn to love ourselves a little better, too.

Waving,

P.S. Here are a couple outtakes from our shoot. The first where I’m Quite Certain there’s no way on Planet Earth I’m going to be able to pull Abby’s minuscule band top around my own top…

…and the second where I SUCCEED.

SO HA.

P.P.S. Of all the photos in our twinsie pics series, this one’s my actual favorite of yours truly. I’d say it’s my favorite “even though” my butt crack is peeking over Abby’s TEEEEENY tiny swimsuit bottoms, and “even though” they’re so tight my belly makes a fold-over flap, but I feel like those are features of this photo, not bugs.

Truth is, I’m happy in this pic, and it shows. Standing in the water of the Pacific Ocean, holding a 1/2 deflated unicorn, shunning body shame on purpose, and playing with my kid in the sunshine? There’s no place I’d rather be.

P.P.P.S. Other Posts in our Twinsie Pics series:
I Duplicated My Daughter’s Instagram Feed (Because the Internets Need a Laugh, Dammit) — with a lengthy explanation for the inspiration for this series
Twinsie Pics: I Duplicated My Daughter’s Instagram Feed, Part Deux

P.P.P.P.S. Photo credit to my fab friend and partner in crime, Marguerite Rose Peterson. ILY, Maggie!

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When Things Become Undoable, We Shall Henceforth Use This Phrase…

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 01 Feb 2019 01:52:49 +0000

New Plan: When things become undoable, we shall henceforth use this phrase…

……………………

Last night, I was texting with my friend Heidi. She may or may not have had a few blackberry lemon drops from The Grain Station in McMinnville, Oregon, where the Very Best blackberry lemon drops are made, and I may or may not have been bored out of my mind at a college basketball game where I really just went to watch my daughter’s dance team perform.

I want you to know I am TOTALLY INTO BASKETBALL, but I only want you to “know that” because I feel like it’s cooler for me to be into basketball than into choosing alternative activities like blitz-texting my tipsy friend while fake farming on HayDay. {I harvested a lot of cotton, FYI, but I’m low on tomatoes.} In my defense, my kid, after losing all her blood over Christmas break, wasn’t dancing, and, although her dance friends rocked it, they were on for, like, 10 minutes of the 4 hours we were there, and the referees blocked them for at least 3 of those because refs apparently feel like timeouts are for conferencing with each other and not for being transfixed by dance moves. It’s a mystery, I tell you. Baffling.

Anyway. Heidi and I were discussing a Very Important Topic: The List of Things That Are Undoable.

THE LIST OF UNDOABLE THINGS IS LONG, y’all; I DO NOT CARE WHAT RACHEL HOLLIS SAYS. I mean, bless Rachel Hollis to pieces. I’m a fan of the Just Do It philosophy of life as much as the next person. I know how to put on my Big Girl Pants and push through until I Have Accomplished the Thing. And I will defend to the death Rachel Hollis’s right to Wash Her Face and tell others to do the same if she wants to — go, face washing! — but I will also note for those of us who are struggling that Sometimes Facewashing is Really, Really Hard what with all the required steps like Standing Up, Walking to the Bathroom, Finding the Facewash, Forgetting the Towel, Going to the Laundry Room, Realizing There ARE No Clean Towels, Wondering What Fantasy World I Was Living in That I Thought There Might Be Clean Towels, Telling The Kid Who’s on Laundry Detail to Wash a Load of Towels NOW and NOT After the Next Level on Animal Jam, Walking BACK to the Bathroom, Tripping Over Someone’s Shoes, Being SUPER PISSED Someone Left Shoes in the Middle of the Hallway Again, Realizing They’re My Shoes, Seeing Whether There are Any Dirty Shirts Clean Enough on the Bathroom Floor to Sub for a Towel, Realizing One Shirt Might Technically Be Clean Enough But Can’t Absorb Worth Crap, and Deciding to Wash My Face Anyway Even Though I’m Going to Drip Water Off My Elbows and I Don’t Have a Towel to Clean It Up.

I’m just saying, friends, face washing can be hard, and there’s a lot of room for Both/And here. I can BOTH do hard things AND sometimes find them Undoable. K? K. #RealLife #GoodTalk

However, Heidi’d had a blackberry lemon drop or two, plus she’s a human, so the word Undoable became a little Undoable. Like, you know how you look a perfectly good word sometimes, and it becomes gibberish and makes no sense? That’s what happened to Undoable. And so Heidi wrote, “IS THAT EVEN A WORD?” And I was all, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ because that’s a hard question when you’re too busy not watching a basketball game + texting + fake farming to ask Google. But it turns out we didn’t need to know, anyway, because HEIDI HAS A MORE DESCRIPTIVE PHRASE, which is “Unable to Can.” All the drive of “can not” and “undoable” in more words, which makes it BETTER.

Cannot = unable to can.

SEE IT?

I mean, yes, if we want to be complacent and boring, we can continue to say, “That’s undoable.” Or, “I cannot.” But I really feel that doesn’t have the same punch — the same feeling of urgency and exhaustion which are the driving forces in my life right now — as “I AM UNABLE TO CAN right now. LISTEN UP. I’m trying, but I am UNABLE TO CAN.”

For example,

Should I be doing the dishes?
Yes, but I AM UNABLE TO CAN.

Should I be scrubbing the toilet?
Yes, but I AM UNABLE TO CAN.

Should I be making a phone call that would literally take one minute and make my life infinitely easier? Say, a call to my doctor for a mental health check?
Obviously, but I AM UNABLE TO CAN.

I think you can see where we’re headed here, firmly on the path to a far more expressive, pathetic, and suitably dramatic way of saying, “I caaaaaaaaan’t. I want to. I will probably in the future. But for right now, I am unable to can.”

It is, in other words, one more way to say how things are, how we are, and that it’s OK. We’re OK. Exactly as we are in the moment. We can do hard things. And we can do hard things later if we’re unable to can right this second.

Be gentle with yourselves, friends. Be kind.

With love,

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Free Marriage Advice

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 27 Jan 2019 04:08:35 +0000

I would like a massage, please. The hot rock kind even though I’ve never had it. I feel like hot rocks might push through the muscle tension keeping me wired like a preteen at a sleepover. Also, I’d like my hot rock massage to be on the cliff of a tropical island, inside a gazebo with loose, gauzy curtains rippling with the warm breeze. There shall be butterflies drunkenly making their way through the usual air mazes invisible to human eyes, and no flies or fleas or stinging bugs.

I always think “what a weird week” every week. And “what an exhausting season” every month. I’m pretty determined to believe the occurances ‘round us are anomalies, but if I lift my head long enough and look at the accumulation strange things, weird crap appears to be the norm, so IDevenK anymore.

Still, it’s been a weird week.

I sat on a jury this week — a domestic violence case wherein we the jury found the defendant guilty of a Class C felony, which turned out better for him than the prosecution was hoping and was actually Best Case Scenario according to the defense attorney.

Before we heard the case, though, all we knew was that the charge was assault with a dangerous weapon — a barstool, to be precise. The attorneys started asking prospective jurors questions — you know, figuring out which of us would be all “LIGHT HIS ASS ON FIRE” vs. “poor baby, he’s just misunderstood” — and the defense attorney opened with, “What marriage advice would you give newlyweds?”

To recap:

It’s a domestic violence case.

All we know is it’s alleged assault with a barstool.

And the defense attorney wants to know what words of marriage wisdom we have. In general. For the freshly married.

Literally all that came to mind was maybe don’t hit your partner with a barstool?

I mean, I don’t know exactly how many Adulting Points I get for not saying that out loud, but I’m pretty sure it’s A Lot. Like, definitely enough Adulting Points to level up, yes?

So I kept my mouth shut. Sealed. No marriage advice from me, even though I had that perfectly good nugget of truth right there. Instead, I’m sharing it with you. You’re welcome, friends.

I didn’t, however, manage to zip my lips when the attorney followed up with, “Do you think people give up on marriage too soon these days?” While every other potential juror around me sagely nodded their heads “yes” and murmured agreeable noises, I blurted, “NOPE. No, I DO NOT think people give up on marriage too soon these days. That is UNTRUE.” It just fell out of mouth, and sat there. I was clearly riding too high from my previous silent success. I got cocky and forgot to keep a leash on my mouth. My mouth, y’all; IT’S MY KRYPTONITE.

“How long have you been married?” the defense attorney asked as he zeroed in on me. Ha HA, I’m sure he was thinking, SUCKER.

“Twenty four years,” I said, and he looked confused.

“But you’ve stuck it out that long…” he said, implying, of course, that my long marriage = success which must mean we Didn’t Give Up.

“USUALLY, WHEN IT’S OVER, IT DOES NOT MEAN THEY GAVE UP,” I said, with feeling. “It usually means they already tried really hard to save it, you know? Or it means getting out of the marriage was what it took to save themselves. It’s just pure silliness to paint a huge swath of people with the If Only They’d Tried Harder/Tsk Tsk/Shame on People These Days brush. The fact that *I* am still married or that *others* are should in no way suggest that “hard work” is the cause for that outcome, or that its lack is the cause for divorce.” Not gonna lie; I was just warming up. “This is not an Either/Or proposition, folks,” I said using my Public Speaking/Projection/Righteous Indignation voice. “And I’m So Tired of hearing it. There are miserable people who are married and who stay that way — miserable and married — for myriad reasons; kids, fear, trauma, complacency, finances, health insurance, more. There are wildly happy people still married, too. Marriage does not equal “didn’t give up.” Marriage does not equal “success.” Divorce does not equal “didn’t take marriage seriously.” Divorce does not equal “failure.” The human condition is complicated. And sweeping statements about who tried and who didn’t aren’t helpful. By and large, we’re all trying, and we’re all succeeding and failing at All the Things, All the Time.”

I said that out loud in a court of law after taking an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Bless my sweet little heart. I was like a runaway train.

The defense attorney looked bemused — entertained and confused. And he moved swiftly on to another question about British monarchs, the Tower of London, and death by beheading, which was a little dramatic, but effective, given the environment.

During jury deliberations, I came down with a poison oak rash. I assume it’s a pox visited upon me for rejecting the standard “they should’ve tried harder” wisdom.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Whatever.

#WorthIt

Also, the court case was sad, and there were no winners. I hate that. I really do.

In conclusion, it’s been a weird week, and I want a massage in a blissful, tropical location, please. And I’d like to take my fellow mamas who’ve taken it in the head with a barstool. Also, the ones who haven’t. We can talk about real life, and how things are complicated, and how we wish we were all better right now while we rest by the ocean. Reasonable, yes? Yes. I think so, too. Let’s go.

The End

Waving, as always,

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Words Matter. Right Now, Not Mine. The Legacy of MLK, Jr. and Amplifying the Voices of People of Color.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 22 Jan 2019 00:04:19 +0000

The life, words, and example of Martin Luther King, Jr. matter, and, not unlike Jesus Christ, not a diminished, sanitized, coopted version, either. MLK was a visionary, a revolutionary, a justice-monger, and a pot-stirrer. He sided with people who were powerless, poor, disenfranchised, and marginalized. He was mocked, criticized, and, ultimately, violently slaughtered. It’s popular and pretty to share our favorite quotes by MLK, Jr. in January every year. It’s not very popular to recognize, as a white person, my culpability in supporting the racial power paradigm that persists in America. The truth is sickening and uncomfortable, but it’s the truth nevertheless: if I’m not standing up for justice today, I would not have stood up for justice then. If I’m not marching now, I would not have marched then. If I’m not making the complacent and corrupt in power uncomfortable— and afraid that I will fight tooth and nail with increasing masses to unseat them— then I’m following neither MLK’s example, nor Christ’s.

And words matter in the fight for equality and justice. If they didn’t, people would quit telling us to shut up. But my words matter only as much as the words of my brothers and sisters — and, frankly, my words matter less than those who experience the deepest cuts and most terrible effects of racism in America today. So the rest of this post is dedicated to the words that matter the most in this fight; the words of people of color.

White friends? Share these words.

Those who have ears, let them hear.

The Civil Rights movement was not victorious. The assault on Civil Rights was successful.

Challenging the Easy Narrative of MLK, Jr.:

Trevor Noah, of course, is the host of The Daily Show and author of Born a Crime: Stories of a South African Childhood, which I highly recommend, particularly as an audio book, read by Trevor himself. Engaging. Fascinating. Deeply troubling. Humbling.

Vann R. Newkirk II is a staff writer at the Atlantic where he covers politics and policy. His most recent article is The Consequences of Martin Luther King Jr.’s Canonization. “Every year, on the third Monday in January, people play their hand at the same game. “What would Martin Luther King Jr. think?” becomes an unwritten essay prompt for op-eds, a topic of speeches and sermons, a call to action, and a societal rebuke. In this annual pageant, there are few who would ever mark themselves as living in opposition to the legacy of King, even as they work to dismantle it.”

‘Celebrate is not the word that comes to mind.’

Last week, Ijeoma Oluo honored Martin Luther King in King County, Washington which was originally named after former U.S. Vice President and slave owner William R. King and renamed for MLK in 2005. Ms. Oluo is the author of So You Want to Talk About Race. This is a portion of the transcript of her speech.

In thinking of what it looks like to speak with truth and live in the love of the great Dr. King, ‘celebrate’ it not the word that comes to mind.

When 25 percent of my brothers and sisters live below the federal poverty level in this county, in an area with one of the highest costs of living in this country, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When black people make up 6 percent of our population and 44 percent of the population of our youth detention centers, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When Hispanic and Latino people make up 9 percent of our population and 19 percent of our youth detention center population ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When Indigenous people make up less than 1 percent of our population and almost 6 percent of the population of our youth detention centers, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When the average black household in King County makes just 35,000 dollars a year while the average white household in King County makes over 75,000 dollars a year, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When 17 percent of Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islanders in King County who are expecting are lacking prenatal care, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When 9 percent of indigenous people and 8 percent of black people who are expecting in King County are lacking in prenatal care, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind applause.

When the suspension and expulsion rate for black students in our schools is four times higher than white students, and two times higher for Latinos and Indigenous students than white students, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When I see budgets to build new youth detention that far outweigh our budgets to reduce youth detention, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

When children of color make up one third of our child population, and over half of our population in foster care, ‘celebrate’ is not the word that comes to mind.

And as I watch friend after friend, community member after community member, be pushed out of their homes and away from the safety, security, and resources of their community by gentrification — further solidifying all of the frightening statistics I just gave, ‘celebration’ is not a word that comes to mind.

So no, as a county, as a society, as a country, I do not think we get to celebrate yet.

So no, as a county, as a society, as a country, I do not think we get to celebrate yet. I do not think Dr. King would celebrate yet. So perhaps there’s another word, a word that I wish came up more often when I am asked to speak at these celebrations. Honor.

What does it look like to honor Dr. King? What does it look like to honor his words that were chosen for today? “I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality.” I have given truth. Truth that does not care about your excuses. Truth does not care about your complications. Truth that says that for over 400 years, our people have been abused. For over 400 years our children have not been allowed to be children. Truth that says that this country and this county has failed and is failing its people of color every day in countless ways. This is a truth that cannot be argued, a truth that must be reckoned with and accounted for.

‘King pissed off a lot of people. King’s demonstrations were controversial.’

Austin Channing Brown is a leading new voice on racial justice, and author of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. Austin is committed to exploring the intersections of racial justice, faith and black womanhood.

And, finally, a gentle reminder from a friend of a friend…

Dear White Friends,

This weekend (MLK weekend), you’ll likely hear speeches, sermons, interviews etc that may be hard for you to process in the moment. Speeches about American racism, oppression and injustice that may be hard for you to not take personally or feel hurt by. You may be tempted to shut down, resist and block out every word because some words are difficult to receive. I encourage you to consider most Messengers have toiled over how to reveal truth and truths that help us to become The Beloved Community.

You may be tempted to shut down, resist and block out every word because some words are difficult to receive… Where you feel challenged, lean in, ask questions, and wrestle to consider the merit of the truths they share.

That is their motive — not hurting or disrespecting you. Where you feel challenged, lean in, ask questions, and wrestle to consider the merit of the truths they share.

I pray your strength.

~ Michelle

And I pray our strength, too. May love cast out all fear.

Waving,

The post Words Matter. Right Now, Not Mine. The Legacy of MLK, Jr. and Amplifying the Voices of People of Color. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Sometimes My Naked Butt Surprises Even Me… Isn’t Really What This Post Is About

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 17 Jan 2019 04:00:59 +0000

Sometimes I run away to escape my family and write, write, write. Tonight is one of those nights, so here I sit at one of my favorite local spots — reopened after a fire — drinking an IPA, which I’ve recently come to enjoy because, I assume, 2016-Present has numbed me to bitterness and I can swallow more than I did before.

The folks next to me at the bar are talking about the Sicilian mafia, how many bottles of wine fit in the sink of an RV (consensus = five), and their abiding desire for more bread, and I’m trying to decide what point is appropriate to introduce myself as their new best friend. Meanwhile, the bartender is alternating between describing ube, a purple yam from Southeast Asia, and decrying the state of the beer taps which are too full of air and dispensing too much foam this evening. I want to be all, “THE BEER IS DOING THE BEST IT CAN, MAN. LET’S GIVE IT SOME CREDIT FOR TRYING IN THE MIDST OF CHALLENGING TIMES,” but I might be projecting the tiniest bit, so I decided to leave the bartender alone.

It’s commuter hour here in our little berg, and I’m watching the parade of cars through the rain-decorated windows as they wend their way down the main drag from the city to towns beyond ours. The streetlights are on, the sky is dark, and I wonder about the lives of the masses behind their steering wheels; how many will be relieved to be home, how many are dreading it, and how many are too weary to know.

I’m attempting to remember there are very few problems I must solve this exact moment. Not because I’m saturated with problems any more than usual but because I’m working hard to learn the art of living in Now, and Now is too limited in scope to spend it focused only on the “to do” list. I’m trying to breathe deep breaths — one at a time, on purpose, expanding my lungs’ til they encroach on my belly, and holding it just until the tips of my ribs ache.

My problem tends not to be resting too frequently, but, rather, taking on too much. ALL THE THINGS ALL THE TIME is my mantra. It’s why I talk so frequently about learning compassion — even for me — taking time to rest, and remembering “doingness” is not tied to “enoughness” I succeed fairly often these days, but I do it defensively, all, “I AM RESTING, GDAMN IT, BECAUSE IT’S HEALTHY.” A paragon of self-care, I am — A SHINING EXAMPLE.

None of which has to do with anything I intended to write, but you know; this is sometimes the way it goes.

With Love,

P.S. Unrelated: I surprised myself with my own ass the other day.

I delivered my kid back to college, given her inability to travel alone after losing all her blood.

Walked in her front door to this poster on the wall.

I forgot I made them a poster of our butts last summer when they weren’t home as a surprise so they could come home to all this beauty and make sure their friends could enjoy it, too.

Sweet Baby Jesus on a graham cracker, there’s nothing quite like walking in a door to this in your face.

Nothing. Quite. Like it.

In conclusion, friends, pranks may turn around and bite you on the ass. Plan accordingly.

And P.P.S. We’ve released our 2019 retreat dates! If you’re looking to get away and rest with a group of like-minded folks, consider joining us, please! I’d love to hang out with you. It’s one of my favorite things.

P.P.P.S. Now the ladies next to me are arguing over whether “it’s 8 inches or 10 inches.” I don’t know what It is, but I’m still convinced our friendship is destined.

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How to Rock an Emergency… Temporarily

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 15 Jan 2019 04:43:37 +0000

It’s been quite a month, friends.

Since my last post, Christmas Eve, describing the way our holiday went Not at ALL to Plan, we took another (final) trip to the Emergency Room with my eldest child — the one who tried to lose all her blood — and, well, I’ve been trying to stay afloat ever since.

Good news is, she’s on the mend. Slower than we’d like, but on the mend.

Bad news is, the crisis has passed, so it’s time for my nervous breakdown.

Y’all, I AM SO GOOD IN AN EMERGENCY.

I am Wonder Woman times infinity.

Magic arm braces. An unflagging sprint. Knockers for dayz (and confined in a spectacularly uncomfortable rig.) Flowing locks. Furrowed brow. Srsly, I’m so, SO good.

I’ve found all it takes to rock an emergency, really, is putting one’s feelings on lock-down. In a vault. With chains. And a laser beam grid protecting the perimeter lest one finds oneself tempted to approach them. Then one may operate from a place of pure logic and calm. It may be a teeny, tiny bit Dexter-style psychopathic, but it’s SUPER effective.

Until it isn’t.

Eventually, a crisis ends. Which seems like a nice time to unlock those feelings, assess them, and manage them maturely. To feel the feelings, you know? Which I hear won’t kill you. But I like to keep them on lockdown, instead.

Shoved deep down inside.

To the molten core of the Earth.

Where at some point, they will overheat and explode, causing more damage in the volcanic, erupting inferno than they ever could have had I unpacked them proactively.

It’s a fun game.

You should try it.

All the cool kids are doing it.

So here we are, several weeks past the crisis, and I’m starting to feel the shakes.

It’s a bummer, man.

I’m coping how I usually do. I’m eating my feelings which taste like potato chips and discounted Christmas candy. I’m having occasional moments of clarity and self-compassion. And I’m in full-on hiding mode.

Except I’m not dressed and my room’s not that clean. ^^^

I’m more like this:

Maybe I’ll get dressed tomorrow. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It’s impossible to say.

For now, I’m going to take one deep, incredibly slow breath, and I’m going to use my nice words, even about myself.

More soon, friends.

Waving,

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My Christmas Isn’t Going According to Plan — How You Doin’?

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 25 Dec 2018 04:04:01 +0000

I have to type this fast before my kid throws up again.

I should be using my time to make cinnamon rolls since Christmas is tomorrow, but cinnamon rolls require standing, and OMG I JUST WANT TO SIT A MINUTE.

Our Christmas isn’t going according to plan.

It’s OK. Truly. I’ve been doing this parenting gig long enough that I can flex with change like a ninja. Like a superhero who can slow time to dodge machine gun fire. Like a contortionist-turned-master-thief avoiding the impenetrable grid of laser beams in the private bank vault of the nefarious (but unbelievably hot) villain. Change of plans? Yippee ki yay, mother effer. Do your worst.

Abby came home from college, and, to thank her, I took her to get a tonsillectomy. After repetitive strep throat this fall, doctors’ recommendations over several years, and, rounding down, 58 billion texts that read, “My throat hurts,” and “What do I doooooooo,” and “I’m dying for reals this time,” she was finally willing to have surgery.

I mean, she was willing until she wasn’t.

The day before surgery, Abby was all, “NOPE. Not gonna do it. It’s going to be horrible. I’m going to have Every Complication. Cancel it, please.”

And I said, “NOPE. Not canceling. This will improve your quality of life. Your tonsils are HUGE from all the scar tissue you’ve accumulated. It’s a miracle you haven’t choked on those suckers. The complications are rare. It’ll hurt like the fiery furnace of hell for two weeks. Then you’ll be better. It’s TOTALLY WORTH IT.”

She went into surgery Wednesday. Everything was fine. JUST AS I SAID IT WOULD BE.

On Thursday, she started hemorrhaging.

I’ll spare you the details because not all of you are planning to see Anna and the Apocalypse — the newly released, heartwarming Christmas zombie horror musical — but if we had a few undead and more singing, it was basically the same, gore-wise.

In the end, Abby was rushed into emergency surgery at midnight and lost enough blood to be offered a transfusion (7.2 g/dL hemoglobin count for those of you keeping track at home). I sat in the surgery waiting room — locked and deserted for the night — under the dim emergency lights, wearing the dirty sweats and shirt I’d pulled from my bathroom floor, sans bra, which were the closest clothes to grab when I rushed her to the hospital earlier that evening.

“The complications are rare,” I’d said.

“It’ll be totally worth it,” I’d said.

And here we are, four days later, while she channels all her energy into making new blood — she turned the transfusion down as soon as she heard the words “there are rarely complications” — and I channel mine into rather ineffective attempts to keep her pain and nausea under control.

So our Christmas is a little different than normal. We canceled our Christmas Eve plans. The extended family is on hold. The candlelight service at church was minus a few Woolseys. I’m going to stick with a festive wardrobe rotation of dirty clothes from my bathroom floor. God knows if the annual cinnamon rolls are going to make an appearance. And tomorrow, I’m hoping Santa brings me a shower and a coffee IV drip.

But you know what? I really do have everything I want. First, my nephew didn’t die. And now my daughter didn’t either. And I don’t say that flippantly. I mean it to my toes.

Greg just took the healthy children to a movie. I’m home on Abby Watch, feeding her Gogurt and narcotics. In a bit, I’m going to snuggle up in a fuzzy blanket with a mug of Rooibos tea and watch an episode of Harlots while waiting for Santa to come. That seems jolly.

And then in the morning Love and Light will be born anew.

Dawn will come as relentlessly as the Dark before it.

If we’re lucky, we’ll remember for a day to look for the Divine in Unlikely Places. The face of a baby born in a stable. The trembling hands of a weary mama. The father who makes the impossible choice to race for asylum in a foreign land, hoping his child will live. The pagan astrologers who see what the religious cannot; that Love has been made flesh and dwells among us; that Hope is worth the long journey; that those who see Truth find it; and that Light will lead us to Joy, even if we have to take the long way ‘round.

And so tonight I wish you and yours a Very Merry Christmas — especially if, like me, it’s not at all the way you planned it.

With love… and waving in the dark…

P.S. How you doin’?

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To My Pontiac Who Saved a Person I Love: Thank You for Your Service

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 19 Dec 2018 01:06:19 +0000

Do you ever wonder what a car sees? The things to which a good car bears witness?

Tiny humans moving from infant carriers to car seats to boosters.

Potty accidents and coffee spills.

Singing and laughing and playing. And screaming and tears and the quiet of grief.

Windows rolled down while the radio blasts. Ice cream drips and gummy bears that melt in the inferno of summer.

Dew, and dawns, and dusks, and dust, and the lonely life of a chariot-in-waiting.

First drivers. Fast drivers. Confidence followed by WHOA, That Was Way Too Close.

I bought you ten years ago, my Bright Blue Pontiac. I was 35 then, and I was afraid.

You were the first car I picked all by myself, and I bought you as the economy was taking a turn. A bad one. A dive. I was a mommy of five, and money mattered like money always does, but it mattered extra back then, you know? Extra because five kids is a lot of kids, and I wanted to be able to keep feeding them. It felt like a Hail Mary at the time to use money for you. We needed a car, though, and I’d done my research.

A LOT of research.

Days of research.

Nights, too, pouring over Consumer Reports, comparing and contrasting, running numbers on my calculator. Running probabilities on keeping or losing our jobs to the Great Recession. Reviewing safety ratings.

So many safety ratings. And safety charts. And safety checkboxes. Side impact. Front impact. Driver side. Passenger side. Airbags in their various iterations.

I was new to parenting five, after all. My tiny twins were not quite two. And I knew lives may depend someday on choosing a car that would survive a crash.

In the end, I picked you because I thought you’d survive a crash well.

Live through it, even. Maybe. And you did, too. A new driver fender bender when the oldest kid turned 16. The delivery truck that backed into you outside Costco. The rear ending from the guy who felt awful and cried in the street.

You survived them all.

Until you didn’t, Pontiac.

Until the final crash last weekend.

You died in that crash, Little Car.

But my nephew survived, and never have I ever known such gratitude toward an inanimate object.

You died in the crash, but my nephew lived because some humans somewhere along a Pontiac assembly line — humans who did lose their jobs the next year to the downturn in the economy — did their work well and built you to cradle him when he hit the ice and careened off the road in the middle of the night into the tree that could’ve ended him.

I told his mama who called with a shaky voice to tell me about the crash — who said her boy would be OK eventually, after a long time healing — and that the car he was driving was you, Pontiac — that, “I don’t give a flying fuck about the car. If Kaream is OK, we’re good. We’re fine. We’re fantastic. I have zero other concerns. ZERO.” And I meant it because we learned a very long time ago a) that any situation that ends with people living is fixable, and b) to never loan anything — ever — that we would resent not getting back.

Accidents happen. And there’s no telling who will live through them and who will die because there are sadly, despite my many complaints to Management, no Magic Protection Wands in stock right now. We will never care — not ever — more about a car than we do about our children. But I’ll tell you a tiny secret, Pontiac — I do care that you’re gone.

You were, in a way, a symbol of my independence, bought as you were during an epic argument with Greg, my beloved partner at whom I was enraged because he enjoys a constant sense of I-am-right-ness — a sense I lack, preferring, apparently, to assume I’m wrong or have made a mistake or otherwise misunderstood, misinterpreted, or mishandled a situation. Greg suffers no such ailment, and, with the addition of his years being raised by a car dealer, considers himself an expert on All Things Car Related. Until I bought you, Pontiac, Greg had assumed the self-appointed position of Car Finder, Car Chooser, and Car Purchaser. He was, functionally, our Car Midwife, Doctor, and Priest, present to birth the cars, diagnose the cars, bless the cars, and read them their last rites when (and only when) he decided Their Time Had Come. Note: Their Time was not necessarily up just because they frequently didn’t start, stalled, were held together with duct tape, and/or dropped transmissions in the road like pregnant women giving birth on their way to the hospital, all, “WHOOPS! I didn’t mean for that to fall out just yet.”

It wasn’t so much that Greg didn’t like YOU, Pontiac. It wasn’t personal. He came to like you in time. It was just that Greg and I had different standards when it came to cars. My standard being “cars that don’t spill their guts in the street.” And Greg’s standard being much more fluid and flexible.

We were still in the era when I listened and obeyed better than I do now. Although I was smart enough not to offer obedience in our wedding vows, if Greg insisted on A Thing, I nearly always caved. He was wise not to insist often, so it played out like this: Beth made Every Decision about Everything, All the Time, and maintained her Boss of the Universe status except when Greg decided otherwise; to wit, where we live (small town Oregon — no other options), what we drive (), whether he should go to grad school (no), whether we should get a dog (no), whether we should get a cat (no), whether we should get a miniature horse (no), whether we should buy a farm (no), whether I should get a tattoo (no), whether the children should be allowed to sleep in our room when they’re afraid (no), whether we eat seafood inside our actual house (no), whether we spend money on house repairs (no), whether we can order anything at Wendy’s except what’s on the value menu (no)… you get the idea.

OBVIOUSLY, very little of that is the case anymore. That’s why we call him PLG, Poor Longsuffering Greg, who now has a dog, two cats, a close call on a miniature horse, partial ownership in a farm, children regularly snoring on our bedroom floor, the occasional odor of shrimp in cream sauce (aka, “GROSS. What is that SMELL?”) drifting through the house, and a tattooed wife who both threatens to call handymen for house repairs AND who picks cars. Greg is, in other words, deliriously happy these days, if a tiny bit in shock, but you, Pontiac, were one of the first chinks in the armor.

He sighed a lot.

He made other “suggestions.”

But in the end, you and I won him over, in large part because you swore you’d protect us and get us safely from place to place, and there’s very little a man who would die for his family won’t give for that promise.

I’ve told Greg over the years how wrong I was to mock him for demanding air-conditioning in the house we built long ago. It just took being pregnant with twins during a summer for me to sob in gratitude for his insistence on optional subzero temps year-round. And Greg told me over the years how wrong he was about you, Pontiac. He came to believe in you as much as I did.

I really did love you, Pontiac.

I loved your grey cloth seats that absorbed stains like it was their job.

I loved that I never had to worry about scratching you because you weren’t uptight or fancy.

I loved your coin drawer that popped open every time we hit a bump and that slamming it closed was the rhythm by which we drove.

I loved that you were never quite saturated by stuff so we could always fit a little bit more, like you were doubling as a clown car or Mary Poppins’ carpet bag or the Tardis, bigger on the inside than you appeared.

I loved that you never broke down on me. Not once over 10 years. You never failed to start. You never stranded me.

And I loved most of all that people thought you were low-brow with your Pontiac moniker, but that you and I knew better. Like it was our secret. You and I knew you were a Car of the People, down to earth, unapologetic, and you didn’t feel the need to pretend to be anything else.

I don’t mourn you, if that makes sense, Pontiac. Not exactly, anyway. But I did love you, and my gratitude to you for this grown child’s life — and my memories of our time together — are so profound, I weep. My jaw is tight. My breaths both rapid and deep. My heartbeats delivering delayed electric adrenaline through my torso to my shaky fingers and toes. You died. He could have. And it’s a trade I would make again and again. Because you did what you were made to do. You fulfilled your ultimate purpose. Which is, even for you, Pontiac — even a thing made of plastic and steel — a life well lived. May we all be so lucky.

Is it strange to wish a car adieu which, directly translated, means go with God or I commend you into God’s keeping? If so, too bad. Because that’s what I must do, Pontiac, for you were, like the Velveteen Rabbit, very well loved, indeed.

Adieu, little Pontiac.

Go with God.

And thank you.

With love,

P.S. Thanks for your service, Pontiac.

P.P.S. This is the Boy Who Lived. Be still my heart.

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Rebrewing Coffee: A Brief Cautionary Tale

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 07 Dec 2018 00:29:13 +0000

In a grand fit of laziness or misguided frugality this morning, I decided I could rebrew my coffee grounds from yesterday. I figured tea leaves are good for more than one cup (although I feel certain there are Tea Afficionados out there who will set me straight), therefore, why not coffee?

IMPORTANT: You cannot brew coffee grounds twice.

You can’t.

Truly.

I have done the lab work. I’ve conducted the study. Just… don’t, OK.

Now, yes; this is already obvious to those of you with brains who think things through, but for the rest of us… no. Do not try this at home. You will end up with coffee-colored water, and, more critically, YOU WILL HAVE WASTED TIME YOU COULD HAVE SPENT BREWING REAL COFFEE which means you’re delaying the caffeine infusion required to make good choices AS EVIDENCED BY THE COFFEE TRAINWRECK YOU JUST MADE.

OK? Got it? Dear friends, learn from the ways I have failed.

Honestly, on the scale of Kitchen Experiments, this one wasn’t the worst. I mean it wasn’t the time I put raw, frozen eggs in my bra to try to warm them enough to crack. (SPOILER: I warmed them up enough, and they cracked. Mission accomplished.) But it wasn’t my brightest move, either.

The rest of the day has gone swimmingly, though.

I arrived 5 minutes early for a meeting today because I tried to be an hour early so I could sit in the coffee shop and get some work done first. Basically, I tricked myself into being on time for something, and now I want to try it every time, but I’m afraid I’m too smart for me and I’ll figure it out and wreck it next time.

And… that’s literally all I’ve accomplished.

Made coffee. Remade coffee. Got dressed. Went to a meeting **TECHNICALLY ON TIME**. But somehow I’ve been at a dead run all damn day. I suspect I’m actually an invisible alien’s hamster rushing on my wheel to nowhere. At least I’m fluffy, adorable, and entertaining. I’m sure my alien loves me very much. (He should clean my cage better, tho — that place is a mess.)

The End.

Waving,

P.S. I shall be accepting the following trophies at tonight’s Self Awards Ceremony:

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Happy Inertia Day!

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 04 Dec 2018 22:15:25 +0000

Happy Inertia Day, friends!

If you didn’t know that was a thing, SURPRISE! I invented it this very day, and I shall henceforth celebrate it whenever I can’t get off my butt to get things done.

I was inspired by literally nothing, which is what I’ve accomplished so far today. Oh, I have Stuff to Do. I have a Lengthy List. I have the Usual Chores plus all the Holiday Extras. What I seem to lack, however, is Oomph.

I have no Oomph today. Zero. Just none.

It’s 2pm, and I’m wearing mismatched sweats — tie-dye blue bottoms and a mint and gray striped top — I found on my bathroom floor when I got out of bed too late this morning. No undies, of course; those were too hard to find because I would’ve had to look under things or in the dryer or through the masses of clean clothes on the laundry room floor. No socks, either — same reason, so my toes have been cold for hours even though a 60 second excavation of the piles could have solved that problem. I’m hungry and my coffee is cold, but food requires some sort of effort, and the microwave is at least 12 steps away.

You see the problem.

Good thing today is Inertia Day or I’d feel bad about my lack of productivity. Inertia Day, though, makes my dearth of accomplishments OFFICIAL. ON PURPOSE, even. I mean, you can’t finish things on Inertia Day or you’re doing it wrong. And God forbid we fail at being inert.

So if you’re feeling kind of Meh today, just know it’s OK. Me, too. It’s Inertia Day, and you just didn’t know you were succeeding so well at it yet.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. I’m going to be a hypocrite now and try to do Something.

P.P.S. Actually, I’m going to try to do Three Tiny Things because I think they’re the healthiest choices I can make right now, and as someone who’s gotta watch her mental health, that’s important. 1. I’m going to do something my body needs. Like eat food. 2. I’m going to do something that will make me feel better when it’s done. Like the dishes or a shower. 3. I’m going to do something frivolous I want to do like paint my nails or bake cookies or read a whole chapter of my book. With permission. Without guilt. Knowing breathing, resting, and self-care are far healthier than mentally spinning on Everything Not Done.

If I get more done after that, great. Tomorrow’s list will thank me. But if I only do those three things, I’m going to give Self a pat on the back and two thumbs up. And probably a cookie.

P.P.P.S. If I crap out at #1, though, it’s back to Inertia Day, friends. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ What can I say? I’m doing the best I can.

The post Happy Inertia Day! first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I haven’t pooped my closet for, like, a really long time. Greg gave me a trophy. In other words, Greg + Beth 4Ever. True Love Always.

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 30 Nov 2018 02:27:49 +0000

Folks, if you have a partner to flirt with, might I recommend you take a page out of Greg’s book and gift your significant other a personalized trophy?

Look, no one on Planet Earth doesn’t want to be recognized for their fine work. Or, without the double negative, All the People want to know they’re doing a good job. Yes? Yes. Of course, yes. Which is why a trophy is the perfect medium for appreciation. It’s an award. It’s a forever keepsake. And, personalized appropriately, it shows how well the giver knows you. How deeply you’re seen. How well you’re understood and valued.

In the past, all the trophies I own have been given to me by me. Which is fine. Sometimes we need to show Self appropriate regard and esteem. Sometimes we need to remind Self to abandon Self’s wilted posture. Sometimes Self needs to feel fully valued and loved.

But today, Greg gave me a trophy.

A trophy that shows he’s been paying attention.

A trophy that shows he sees my hard work.

A trophy that marks veritable years of successfully not pooping my closet. Twelve to be exact. More than twelve, actually. OVER A DECADE of not pooping my closet.

He could’ve just ignored it.

He could’ve just let the fact that I’ve not pooped the closet year after year slide by unnoticed.

But Greg, because he loves me, marked all the times I didn’t trust a fart — marked the fact that I’ve finally learned important lessons — with an award I can treasure forever.

If that’s not true love, I’m not sure what is.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. Because this is a lifestyle blog (the lifestyle being “filth and squalor”), I had a hard time picking the correct backdrop to showcase my new trophy. My choices were:

Bed,

Office,

Laundry Room,

or Master Bath.

I hope I chose correctly.

P.P.S. I asked Greg why he repurposed a soccer trophy for this particular award. He explained that it’s not a soccer trophy, which is obvious in retrospect. This is, instead, clearly a human whose poopy has just fallen out of her pants, and she’s mid-leap trying not to step on it.

Since I’ve lived out this very scenario, I’m not sure why it took an explanation for me to see it. Sometimes I’m just a little slow.

P.P.P.S. Tomorrow — Friday, November 30th, the last day possible because OH MY WORD, NOVEMBER TRIED TO KILL ME DEAD — I’ll be sending out my November newsletter complete with an exclusive blog post, book and gift recommendations, stuff that floats my boat, giveaways, and more. Feel free to subscribe here. For signing up, I’ll send you a horrible story about the day I peed my office. It’s the worst reason ever to join an email list. Do it. 😉

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NEW HOTLINE for Your Questions: How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Nov 2018 18:22:07 +0000

If you read How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey and found the directions helpful but insufficiently detailed — or helpful, but, now that you’ve tried it, you’ve run into some unforeseen difficulties — you’re not alone. I hear you, friends. I see the profound need as we prepare for Gluttony Day here in America. We are a community, and we care about each other! And that’s why we’ve set up this New Hotline — right here in the comments section — to address any specific needs you may have.

For example, I heard from my dear friend, Sally, this morning.

Sally writes:

IMPORTANT QUESTION, SALLY. And one ignored in the 11 Step Directions for How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey. But FEAR NOT, because I can help you, and — little known fact — you do NOT need a bigger microwave.

Good advice, yes?

NO.

I mean, yes — most of it was good advice, but my brother noticed one big problem.

Folks, THIS IS WHY WE NEED EACH OTHER. THIS IS WHY COMMUNITY IS SO ESSENTIAL. We have GOT TO STOP thinking we can go it alone. THINK OF ALL THE DAMAGED MICROWAVES WE WOULD HAVE were it not for cooperative and kind collaboration.

Which leads me to the Hotline:If you are new to microwaving your 25 pound turkey, you may have questions like Sally. Of COURSE you do. So Jeff and I are here to help.

Post any questions you have in the comments, and we’ll get back to you ASAP with info so everyone can have a microwave disaster this Thanksgiving. Consider it our gift to you.

With love,

P.S. PLEASE DO ANSWER QUESTIONS IN THE COMMENTS, TOO. It takes a Village to microwave a 25 pound turkey. We need all the collective wisdom we can gather.

P.P.S. Jeff technically doesn’t know he’s participating in this, because I haven’t told him yet, but he’s my baby brother, so I’ve trained him to do what he’s told. Honestly, he was better at doing what he was told when he was a child and didn’t have troublesome roadblocks to following orders like “a backbone” and “high self-esteem” and his “own family, so I can’t do what you want every damn time, Beth; my wife and kids need me, too,” but I feel it’s important, when you love someone, not to give up on him. I’m resilient, is what I’m saying. I am resilient, and I persevere. I SHALL OVERCOME. #BigSister #BossForLife

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How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 16 Nov 2018 18:51:23 +0000

My 20yo texted me from college this morning, asking how long to microwave a 25 pound turkey. In case anyone else needs to know, here are the directions

How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey

In conclusion, she got me. But I’m still pretty sure I’m right.

Waving in the dark,

The post How to Microwave a 25 Pound Turkey first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Stuff Under My Couch: A Cautionary Tale of Doom and Despair

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 12 Nov 2018 22:24:03 +0000

I moved my couch last week, which is always a big mistake. Huge, really. And in retrospect, I can think of no worthy justification. Just literally none.

I mean, moving it for a party so more people will fit? It seems like a good reason to displace furniture, but now that I know what sort of dust and allergens, biohazards and malice I’ve stirred up, I really should’ve just let traffic flow suffer. Let people trip over the couch arms. Risk folks being trapped in the living room with no good exit strategy. But I failed to conduct the proper cost/benefit analysis for Couch Moving, even though I have excellent raw data that show the precarious predicament we always face.

God knows what sort of heinous diseases our unsuspecting guests were exposed to. It was a bad long term decision; there’s no way, years from now, when the Center for Disease Control traces a mysterious cancer contracted by dozens of humans back to the Big Gay Wedding at the Woolseys’ in 2018, our home owners’ insurance will be able to bear the liability payments. We’ll be bankrupt. Broke. Destitute. Not to mention the suffering of the innocents.

The good news is, I have zero photographic evidence of the piles and piles — and piles and piles — of dust and garbage and socks and hair and panties and wrappers and LEGOS and shoes and gloves and bones and spoons and toys and paper and games and germs and the inexplicable lake of sticky goo glueing it all together, so I have plausible deniability.

The bad news is, I’m a slow learner, so I moved the couch back.

And I do have photos of the supplemental pile that emerged from the black hole of horror thereunder.

Friends, this is what materialized on the second move, two days after the first. This is just what’s leftover after Move #1.

That’s what we missed the first time.

Worse, no one knows if this is all of it.

There could be legions still underneath.

Hordes.

Throngs readying themselves for attack.

That stuff probably has reinforcements as plentiful as the massive garrisons of Mordor.

It probably hasn’t yet begun to fight.

It probably has yet to unleash its full fury upon the world.

Y’all, I don’t want to be hysterical or anything, but I took a tiny peek under the couch to see what may remain, and this is what I saw:

In conclusion, SOMEONE SHOULD GO GET HELP. I mean, far be it from me to overdramatize a situation or breed fear, but WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Also, maybe think twice before you move your couch for the holidays.

#TheMoreYouKnow #HelpMeHelpYou #SaveYourselves

With love, and waving from the dark,

P.S. It’s time to play I Spy again! WOOHOO! Take a look at this FAB photo and let me know what you spy with your little eye. Extra points for rhyming.

P.P.S. I can’t decide what my favorite item is, but I’m leaning toward the single serving of months-old Ranch dip. Not the kind that’s actually preserved or sealed, either. The kind with the loose lid that could give at any moment.

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The Midterms and the Lost Art of Waiting

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 06 Nov 2018 07:24:49 +0000

TODAY’S GOAL: DO NOT LOSE MY GD MIND ON ELECTION DAY.

UNA PROBLEMA: I AM ME.

ENTER: My friend, Doreen, who’s one of the raddest people I know because…

a) She’s FIERY.

b) She’s good times.

c) She listens to humans like they’re really wise and really wonderful and INHERENTLY WORTH hearing, especially children, so I’d like to elect her President of the Universe, please. STAT.

d) She’s the inventor of My Favorite Shirt of All Time which reads, “only i can prevent narcissism.” TRUE TRUTH, folks.

And, last but not least…

e) She helps lead the way toward better self-care during these Crazy Times, and I NEED THAT BAD about now. You probably do, too, so Doreen’s agreed to let me share this with you. THANK GOODNESS. And thanks, Doreen.

Waving, friends, always,

The Midterms and the Lost Art of Waiting: Why Re-Learning How to Wait Can Help Us Stay Sane as We Wait for Results

We’ve reached the time in the midterm election season where all we can do is wait. We’ve spent ourselves, in these past months, working to ensure our desired results today and now we find ourselves spun up, over-stimulated, exhausted, and frazzled. And now, we must wait. It’s tempting to stay tethered to our phones, to click on the next news alert, to get into another argument on Facebook. It makes us feel like we’re doing something if we keep checking in.

It’s tempting to stay tethered to our phones, to click on the next news alert, to get into another argument on Facebook.

The problem is that doing something is really not doing anything to bring us to a place of calm and steadiness after what has been a veritable storm, and we need both now. This is the trouble with our 24/7 plugged in reality. We’ve practiced keeping our finger on the pulse of everything election related via our many devices and digital platforms but, at the end of the day, we must now wait and waiting is something we’ve rarely, if ever, practiced at all. The plugged-in lifestyle has made waiting a foreign concept to many of us. This may feel like progress, but as a psychologist who has studied the effect of technology on mental health for two decades I know there is another side to it. Knowing how to wait well is a skill that could save our lives. Research tells us that boredom tolerance and healthy coping skills in times of anxiety (both akin to waiting) are highly associated with life satisfaction, creativity, and health. Further, being capable of waiting allows us to be comfortable in the awkwardness and discomfort that life often hands us. When we are able to be centered and calm within ourselves in the in-between times of life, we become capable of handling all manner of experience.

Waiting, or the ability to pause, must, in today’s economy, be a self-taught skill. Rarely do our lives force us to wait in healthy ways. Instead we fill up opportunities to pause with constant scrolling and streaming and all manner of activity. Waiting in line without looking at our phones? Never. Pausing to fully wake up and greet the day before rolling over to grab our devices in bed? In earlier eras waiting was foisted upon us, and while we need to be careful about lapsing into nostalgia, this presented daily opportunities to slow down, be with the discomfort, and cultivate the self-soothing skills.

Waiting is hard. It’s acknowledging the limits of our control and being reminded of the unknown: experiences that most Americans avoid at all cost. Waiting is gut-wrenching and exhausting and full of nothing-you-can-do-about-it realities. Most of us hate it and many of us avoid it by pretending it doesn’t exist. We compulsively keep ourselves in action mode, unconsciously believing that checking news updates and staying fully immersed in non-stop information gathering keeps us active and, somehow, in control. It does not. This avoidance activity only adds to our anxiety. The good news is that we can choose better coping skills, we don’t have to be captive to our screens, even though the lure of them is powerful.

To that end, why not take today to power our phones all the way off? Given what we’ve gone through it can only help to direct our attention to our own well being for just this one day, to turn away from the news, and to find some grounding. There is much to be gained from a long walk or bath, from reading a novel that has nothing to do with politics, from staring at the clouds or savoring a meal without a screen nearby. What about standing barefoot, on the ground, and forcing our selves to find ten things to be grateful for? Or twenty? How about listening to uplifting music and letting it seep into us or finding something beautiful to gaze at for awhile? Whatever technology-free, news-absent experience refills your cup, today is the day to indulge it and to inspire others to do the same.

We’ve worked hard these past few months. We’ve educated ourselves and helped others do the same. We’ve used that knowledge to get out the vote. Now, I believe, it’s time to get off our devices and give ourselves a bit of breathing time before whatever happens happens. Regardless of what that is, we are going to need to wake up on November 7th and keep going.

To do that, we all need a collective deep breath, a slowing down, and a centering within the depths of our beings. The health of our beings and relationships depend upon us and our care must begin with ourselves. Whatever is to come, we will benefit by being healthy enough to live into it.

Doreen Dodgen-Magee, Psy.D is a psychologist who specializes in helping people live balanced lives in the digital age, and the author of Deviced! Balancing Life and Technology in the Digital World.

www.doreendm.com
fb: doreen dodgen-magee, psy.d.
insta: drdoreendm
twitter: @drdoreendm
speaking requests: info@doreendm.com

P.S. You’re invited to hang out with Doreen and me at the launch of her new book, DEVICED! Balancing Life and Technology in a Digital World. I’d love to see you!

The post The Midterms and the Lost Art of Waiting first appeared on bethwoolsey..

No Shame November

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 03 Nov 2018 01:09:49 +0000

I’ve never participated in No Shave November.

There are people who do. Beard-growers glory in No Shave November, and so do those eager to put away the razor and let the leg locks run wild.

Good for them, I say. Way to TAKE A BREAK from being sheared and shorn and neat and tidy. Way to say ADIEU to expectations. Way to find REST and RESPITE from the Usual, Methodical Things we think we Have to Do.

But I’m something of a compulsive shaver. I actually enjoy it the way some strange folks like to fold sheets or put away underwear or vacuum under the couch. It’s a task that gives me pleasure, so I’m bypassing No Shave November.

And even though I’m a writer and a fan of books, I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), either. It’s a fantastic discipline, writing 50,000 words by month’s end. A great way to jumpstart a writing practice. But that’s not going to work for me right now, and I’m learning I don’t have to partake in every good thing, so I’m laying down that one, too.

I thought about what I DO need right now. And what might have the BIGGEST impact if I did it for four full weeks diligently.

I’ve decided on No Shame November.

I was laying on my back this morning, on a thin rug on the living room floor, practicing Mindful Breathing under the direction of my friend, Heidi, at our annual Mindfulness Retreat.* The Pacific Ocean played its static dissonance in the background, and Heidi asked us to put our hands on our bellies to feel ourselves breathe. My friend, K, mentioned later how horrible that was — to have to touch her belly. To feel like it’s too big. To feel yucky and ashamed. And I understood what she meant because me, too.

I put my hands on my belly this morning and thought about how my waistband bent and my tummy bubbled over it. I thought about how my elbows don’t rest on the floor completely when my hands are in the middle of my belly because my gut pulls my arms ever-so-slightly up and leaves the elbows suspended.

I thought those things, and then I let them go when Heidi reminded me to feel my breath, instead, rising and falling and rising and falling, and I tried to give myself gentleness and compassion. Which is what mindfulness is at its core — paying attention, noticing, then responding with love.

It’s a muscle to strengthen, Seeing the Things, nodding to them kindly, and letting them go. Rising and falling. Over and over.

So here’s what we’re going to do, those of us who need this practice rather desperately. We’re going to practice No Shame November.

We’re going to see what comes. What feelings. What thoughts. What joys and sorrows and judgements. And then we shall note them. “Ah! There’s anger.” “I feel sympathy.” “I see you, Fear.” We shall note them, and, while we may have judged them good or bad, we will let them go at the noticing and not continue to cling to them and berate or shame ourselves. “Judgement! There you are! I see you. Let me hold the door for you on the way out.” We shall note them and let them pass.

No Shame November.

Greeting all the pieces of ourselves with curiosity instead of shame. Showing love to ourselves where we’re been rather mean in the past. Forging a new path of kindness and generosity as though we’re worth it like everyone else. BECAUSE WE ARE.

Now, here’s the trick — we’re also not going to feel shame about feeling shame. We’re going to simply notice when we feel shame — like, “Oh! Hello. There you are again, Shame.” — and then we’re going to be compassionate to ourselves.

And breathe in and out. Rising and falling. Rising and falling. And teaching ourselves a new way to love.

Waving in the dark,

*2019 Retreat info coming soon!

The post No Shame November first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Here’s the Sitch…

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 19 Oct 2018 20:40:47 +0000

Y’all, here’s the sitch…

I’m doing too many things, and they’re all important so I won’t stop doing any of them.

Sound familiar? Yes? Yes. I figured I was in good company around here.

I was so tired last night my teeth hurt. Like, into my jaw. And my eyelids were sticky. I think it’s their cry for help. I pulled the feverish, puking kid into bed with me, kicked Greg out, and stayed up until 3am reading Spellbinder (Moonshadow Book 2)" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Spellbinder by Thea Harrison and eating a tub of chocolate macaroons I found hiding in the back of the pantry. Not the whole tub, though. I left one because moderation is important.

Understand, I’m well. As in, mentally healthy. You know, ish. As much as can be expected. I’m not drowning. Not lost right now or sitting in the dark. I’m just… so tired. And yes, technically staying up ‘til the wee hours of the morning isn’t helping that situation, but I’m a mommy, folks, and mommies will beg, borrow, and steal time wherever we can get it.

My twins turned 12 last weekend. We partied hard.

I turned 45 more quietly with a fire and marshmallows and my family playing tag on the lawn.

One kid needs dyslexia testing. Another is in counseling for ongoing anxiety. (Like Mother like Kid — wheeee!) The college kid is having her regularly scheduled Midterm Panic Attack with a side of the flu. We have new kittens who are the Very Best Kittens in the Entire World.

And we’re probably buying a farm next week.

Tomorrow, we’re hosting our final Meet Your Local Politician event because Everything Changed in 2016 (or rather, we finally realized folks had been suffering all along), so it’s no time to sit back and accept business as usual. LMK if you want to come hang out in our backyard with hot cider next to the fire. Not to brag, but we weeded and everything.

And next weekend, we’re hosting a backyard wedding reception for Bee and Col, aka the coolest humans ever. I Cannot Wait to celebrate them.

And finally, we’re Nose to the Grindstone / Balls to the Wall / Feet to the Pavement working on getting our oldest boy into a group home right now. He’ll be 19 next month, and he reports he’s READY with ALL CAPS to move out. And I’m ready to let him because it’s clearly Time. He needs more than we can give him these days. More social interaction. More friends. More purpose. More structure. More aid. So I’m ready except when I’m panicky and not ready at all because who will he talk to when he’s lonely and afraid? And what will happen in the middle of the night when he misses his dog? And who will reassure him when he starts at a new school or a new day support program or a new job that He Can Do Hard Things and He Has Wonderful Gifts and He Will, Too, Make Friends? Who will understand his bottomless need for encouragement and remind him he’s smart and funny and talented and the fact that his brain works differently than yours or mine doesn’t change the fact that those things are true?

After mountains of paperwork and myriad meetings, we’re visiting a home this afternoon that may be a truly excellent fit. He’s excited. I’m excited. And I feel guilty I don’t want to keep this kid at home forever. I get the transition to adulthood for my other kids. I welcome it, actually. I find it exhilarating and fun, and I love the evolving friendships with my kids as they grow into their majority. This one I’m not sure how to navigate as well. Where to keep him tethered. Where to set him free.

I don’t know — maybe that’s always the question anyway. Where do I drop my anchor? Where do use my wings?

Friends, I know this is a jumbled mess, but such is life this October. This is my sitch for now. I’d love to hear about yours, too.

With love, and always waving,

P.S. If you’re waiting for your St. Jude pendant and necklace, DO NOT FEAR. I’m behind on All the Things, as usual, but they’re coming soon. And I have a few more options for those of you who still want them.

P.P.S. Seriously with these babies…

The post Here’s the Sitch… first appeared on bethwoolsey..

5 Ways to Celebrate World Mental Health Day

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 10 Oct 2018 21:26:07 +0000

Hey! Guess what today is?

RIGHT.

It’s World Mental Health Day.

Here are the 5 Things I’m Doing to Celebrate:

1. Breathing. Not, like, mindfully or anything. I mean, Mindful Breathing is AWESOME. An excellent discipline to practice. Highly recommend. But for today, I’m simply celebrating that breath is entering my body and leaving it, over and over, like living people do, because BREATHING means I’m ALIVE which means I’ve KICKED MENTAL ILLNESS IN THE TEETH. Boom. Breathing.

2. Taking my meds. Medication isn’t for everyone, but it IS for me. Taking meds is THE BEST. On the right combo, I feel feelings, I can speak with other humans, and I can accomplish some tasks some of the time without the Panic Elephant sitting on my chest. Those might seem like normal things to you, but I can assure you they’re not normal for me unless my brain receives assistance. I took my meds this morning, and I clinked my water glass with myself in the mirror. Here’s looking at you, kid. Well done.

3. Sitting. I’m sitting. Upright. At my messy kitchen table, which I’m not planning to clean today and for which I shall feel no guilt. Honestly, I would be celebrating if I was still laying down, too, because that happens, and I’m not going to shame myself for it. But for today I’m sitting, and that deserves its own praise. SITTING. UPRIGHT. And I haven’t pulled a blanket over my head yet today. Maybe I will in an hour, and that will feel nice, but not yet.

4. Releasing the Shoulds and Giving Myself Credit. I have a List, friends, of all the Things I Should Be Doing and all the Things Left Undone. You know how some people invite Jesus to live in their hearts? Yeah, well, I did that, and I also invited the List to live in my brain, and now I use the List to beat myself up. I recommend the Love in your heart part, but, honestly, the List is an ass. I excuse its presence by telling myself it keeps me accountable to necessary tasks, but given how often I forget important things, I’m not sure why I don’t give the List a poor performance review and have it leave the building under security escort. So for today, in between the breathing and the sitting, I’m reminding myself I can let go of the Shoulds and give myself credit for all the things I AM doing — which are legion but which somehow don’t count once accomplished because an undone task is always allowed in to fill the void.

5. Reminding Myself I’m Made of Magic. Depression is a liar and a fraud, and it shows up in disguises we don’t always recognize. But I AM A SPY MASTER, and I have hunted it down in all its forms. I win battles ALL THE TIME (see #1), and I’m favored to win the war. I know what it is to hope slowly and succeed eventually and to wish there was a cure instead of a learning curve and treatment. I feel — achingly and always — so very human in the Adam sense of the word; made of mud and destined to screw up the Garden of Eden like a putz. But then I remember how the Story starts and how we all — even me — are also made in the image of God, or Love which is God’s other name. Divinely inspired. Love breathed. Made of mud and mayhem, yes, but also of Magic.

So, friends, in case you, like me, find yourself mired in the madness some days — weary and disheartened and feeling small — and in case you, like me, live or have dear ones who live with mental illness and wonder how in the world to celebrate something as big and ethereal as mental health, I invite you to join my celebration. Breathe. Take what you need. Sit or lay yourself down. Let the shoulds move on. And remind yourself you’re made of magic.

We fight together.

And we shall overcome.

With love, and waving in the dark,

The post 5 Ways to Celebrate World Mental Health Day first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Well, That Sucks. Here’s What We Do Now. Also, Pictures of Kittens.

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 07 Oct 2018 00:46:37 +0000

So. Here we are. The voices of millions of victims of sexual assault were ignored, and, although two of the literal qualifications for a United States judge are a) maintaining public confidence and b) having the kind of impeccable integrity not to, say, sidestep direct questions from Congress or minimize one’s past flaws under oath, we’ve got him anyway.

Well, that sucks.

Yesterday, I had the poops. Food poisoning, I’m pretty sure, since the condition arrived suddenly and departed a mere hour later. But it could’ve been the political situation, which is a lot less delicious than shrimp ceviche. I feel like either could’ve caused the rolling sweats, the dramatic drop in blood pressure, the excruciating cramps, and the certainty that THIS TIME I WILL ACTUALLY DIE because my EMT cousin told me they find people dead on the toilet all the time. (Thanks, Kevin.)

It was a public restroom, too, because of course I couldn’t do this in the privacy of my own room. Nope. Gotta be as disruptive and humiliating as possible. So I sat there trying to have the quiet poops, which everyone knows is impossible but necessary to attempt so you and your potty compatriots can pretend together nothing happened.

I succeeded.

For a while.

Until I reached the part where you cannot continue unless you strip yourself of all clothing. I don’t know why this is. I can’t explain it. I just know there reaches a point in the poopies where your poops are stymied unless your flesh is free. So I divested myself of clothes in deference to the poopies.

The problem was the poopies liked that. They liked it so much, they decided to all flee my body at once.

My vision started to go black. I stopped caring about the quiet, which is a good thing because the poopies and the keening weren’t having it. I nearly passed out, and I realized, if I didn’t want my lifeless body to be found on the floor of a locked stall, blocking the door completely because there was no where else in the tiny closet for a body to go, I ought to seek assistance. I ought to at least pass out in an environment where other humans have access to me that they might give me oxygen or CPR or at least put me on ice before I start to rot and create an even bigger problem. I wouldn’t be doing it for me, I convinced myself. I would be doing it for others.

And so I cracked open the door and starting saying “excuse me” in my calmest I’m Having an Crisis voice. “Excuse me,” I said but too quietly. The lady at the sink didn’t hear me. Or she was still in Politely Ignore the Situation in That Stall mode. “Excuse me,” I said louder. No luck. “I NEED HELP,” I squawked, WAY TOO LOUD because I lost Quiet Poopy Time focus, and she heard me and turned.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry but I need help,” I said because GOD FORBID we have needs without apologizing for them. And that lady spent the next 20 minutes tracking down help, finding Greg, and taking up watch outside my stall until he arrived to escort my sorry self back to our condo. Then she gracefully disappeared without waiting for thanks.

Of course she did. Because that’s what we compassionate humans do for each other in crisis. We listen. We believe.We tell the hurting soul trapped inside the stall to quit apologizing. We help as requested. We station ourselves to protect the vulnerable one until she’s safe. And then we bow out. No need for thanks because our literal job on this earth is to care for one another.

So here’s what we do now, friends.

1. We open our ears as WIDE as possible.
2. We listen to the cries for help.
3. We believe each other.
4. We run for help.
5. We protect the vulnerable.
6. We expect no thanks for doing the right thing. For treating each other as human. For creating a ruckus until help comes. Even though other people walk by. Even though not everyone is compassionate or kind or helpful. Even though standing by the stall takes 20 minutes away from other things we had planned. Even though people will try to tell us we’re extraordinary for lending a hand. We know otherwise. We know this is basic decency. We know that, while not everyone would do it, everyone should do it, and we will fulfill the Love One Another contract despite the behavior of others.
7. And finally, today, we remember we don’t “depend on the Supreme Court to defend the rights of poor people, women, people of color, dissenters of all kinds. Those rights only come alive when citizens organize, protest, demonstrate, strike, boycott, rebel, and violate the law in order to uphold justice.” And so we prepare ourselves for the fight to come.

Sending love, friends, and waving, waving, waving in the dark,

P. S. Yes, I just turned a story about the poops into one about the ways we help each other. I work with what I’ve got, folks.

P.P.S. IMPORTANT AND TIME SENSITIVE: Remember a couple days ago when I announced that I FOUND FOUND OUR PATRONUS, aka St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Chaos and Impossible Causes…

…and that I found 4 additional St. Jude medallions and chains should anyone want to purchase one? Well, one of you LOVELY, AMAZING HUMANS offered to purchase one for someone who needs it but can’t afford it. DEAR GOD, I LOVE OUR TRIBE. Also, there were more than 4 of you who wanted them. As a result, a) I’m going on a hunt tomorrow, our last day in Mexico to try hard to scoop up more, b) I’D LIKE TO KNOW IF ANYONE ELSE WANTS TO FOLLOW THAT RAD PERSON’S LEAD AND SPONSOR ST. JUDE MEDALLIONS FOR OTHERS because that’s the Very Best, Most Healing Idea I’ve heard in FOREVER , and c) if you ARE the human who needs (which, in this case, is defined as really, really wishes she could have) a St. Jude medallion necklace but just can’t do the $35 right now, would you please let me know? In the case of b or c, pretty please email me at Beth@BethWoolsey.com with Expecto Patronum in the subject line. I can’t promise you I can find more or that I can give more than one away, but I’m going to TRY. Because HOPE is especially important right now.

P.P.P.S. And now it’s time for an announcement I’m super stoked to make.

Friends, I BROKE GREG.

As a refresher, we fostered kittens which Greg had STRICTLY forbidden because Greg is opposed to joy.

THEN Greg said he wanted a kitten for us. To KEEP. ForEVER.

I kid you not.

That’s a REAL THING THAT HAPPENED.

THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO KEEP THE FAITH, friends. I KNEW WE COULD BREAK HIM EVENTUALLY.

And so, because I love Greg and listen to everything he tells me, we’re adopting Luna next week:

But because I’m still me, we’re also adopting her twin brother, Griffin:

I feel like kittens are the most logical response to America right now, and I’m nothing if not logical. :*

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I’m Here and I Found Our Patronus

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 05 Oct 2018 04:44:19 +0000

This is me.

CLEARLY I’m not in Oregon right now.

Also, despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not naked, either.

I’m in Mexico, friends! To work on the latest draft of my book proposal, thanks to a friend with a free-to-me condo. (EVERYONE GO MAKE FRIENDS LIKE THIS. It’s OK. Go ahead. I’ll wait.)

This is me trying to take a picture that shows I’m wearing something other than just flesh.

I like it because it makes me look far, FAR thinner than I am. I shall henceforth only take photos from this angle because I’m body positive all the time but I’m strangely body positiver when I feel like a pic is flattering.

I’m part of the problem.

I’m working on it.

FYI, I’ve been working on said book proposal nigh about 5 years. That’s 35 dog years. And in that time, it’s morphed at least 3 times into wholly different books than when I started. That’s because I started by writing a book proposal about parenting, which HAHAHAHAHAHA turns out I know ZERO THINGS about. I’m trying to figure out how to human myself, by God.

This is my whole parenting book:

First, figure out how to human. Be gentle.

Second, try to raise children who will someday be self-sufficient enough to pay for their own counseling. Also, be gentle.

Third, trust thine tiny humans. EARS WIDE OPEN. Their hearts are more clear and less clouded than yours. If you let them, they’ll teach you how to be gentle.

And finally, give grace, give grace, give grace. To everyone. Even yourself.

The End

It was gonna be a real short book, friends. More of a pamphlet.

But it led to where we are today, so hooray! And today means writing about murky things. And messy things. And mayhem and magic. And challenging what we thought we knew about how to live a life of freedom, community, and kindness, so we might be able to actually live a life of freedom, community, and kindness. Because — and I know this will surprise you, so buckle up — our culture may not have given us the Very Best Tools to build that outcome. WHO KNEW, friends? I mean, probably you. You probably knew. But NOT ME. I did not know. Thus I shall spend my time writing an entire book about it.

And I shall also spend my time taking selfies.

This is me forgetting I have my camera screen reversed, for example.

And this is me trying to improve on the I Swear I’m Clothed pic.

That was with my tummy sucked in.

And that was my tummy back out.

See the difference?

In.

Out.

No, I don’t see the difference, either. My tummy’s not built for sucking, yet I keep trying. NEVERTHELESS SHE PERSISTED, friends. I should write a book about GRIT and RESILIENCE in the face of great odds. A book about TRIUMPH and HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. Relentless optimism. My tummy shall lead the way.

So far on this writing expedition, I’ve decided not to write the book, after all. At least a dozen times.

I’ve also decided Deciding Not to Do the Thing is a critical part of Doing the Thing, so I carry on anyway and check Deciding Not to Do the Thing off my To Do list. I am VERY good at making lists.

This is the view from my pool chair.

Truth is, I’m not carrying on right this minute with book writing. But I have been carrying on. And I will carry on again. I find it best to believe in oneself despite evidence to the contrary. Believing in oneself means there’s a chance of success, where as not believing in oneself is a certain path to failure.

This is Greg’s left breast.

He prefers I call it a pectoral, but he also prefers I call his undies boxers instead of man panties, so DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY, I say. It’s a PROTEST. #ManPantiesForDayz

Also, we don’t call that front piece of armor a pectoralplate. We call it a breastplate. It’s a breastplate, Greg. It’s in the Bible. You’re supposed to clothe yourself with the breastplate of righteousness. The Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it. GOD IS ON MY SIDE.

This is the view on the way back from the baño.

There wasn’t toilet paper this time, but there was all the other times, so I’m not complaining. Also, they distract you here with cerveza and sunsets, and I approve of their priorities. I feel like I should always be able to choose.

“Toilet paper or beer and sunsets, madam?”

“I’ll take the beer and sunsets, please and thank you.”

“Excellent choice.”

This is a picture of my finger. I feel it accurately represents how strong my selfie game is.

And this is a picture of my favorite activity in Mexico: finding our patronus.

In Mexico, they call it a patrono. A patron saint. Which, obviously, is more accurately translated as patronus. Used in a sentence? Harry Potter’s patronus is a stag. Ginny Weasley’s patronus is a horse.

But if you or I had a wand — especially a wand in America in 2018 — and we were to cast a corporeal patronus, you know what would emerge? Or who?

Judas Thaddeus. Otherwise known as Saint Jude, the Patron Saint of Chaos and Impossible Causes… OR, as he’s known in Mexico, the Patrono de las Causas Imposibles.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Truth be told, our patronus isn’t very easy to find. I usually have to search and search. Which just makes it more real since everyone knows your spellcraft must be magnificent to beckon your patronus in times of need.

But find him I did! Eventually. In a tiny shop at the back of the market in a small drawer like secret treasure.

And so I sit watching the night come, and reading the news, and listening to loud uncertainty all around us while yelling EXPECTO PATRONUM in my heart, which is a prayer, really.

Expecto Patronum. St. Jude, who understands impossible causes, carry my prayer. And come, Lord Jesus; listen to the cries of the vulnerable. May Love light our way home.

Waving in the dark, friends,

P.S. I picked up a tiny number of extra patronuses. Four, actually, which is all the shopkeeper had. I felt like there are some of you who may want one. An outward remembrance of an inner prayer. If you’d like one, email me at beth@bethwoolsey.com with Expecto Patronus in the title and your name and address in the message. Cost is $35 for the medallion and the sparkly chain I picked to go with it. Both are .925 silver, so they will tarnish and require occasional polishing. I WISH I COULD GIVE THEM TO ALL OF US. But this is not that budgeting month. So you know. I’ll pass along the cost to those who want their very own. You can pick PayPal or Venmo for payment. First come, first served, friends. And love to you.

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For the Women Who Need an Extra Spark of Magic…

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 30 Sep 2018 20:20:51 +0000

On a still fall evening, a woman in a long, loose dress emerged from her house on a tree-lined street. She closed the door softly, walked down the porch stairs, and crossed the street to the mailbox.

There was nothing remarkable about her, and nothing remarkable about the street full of boxes or the murmuring people living their simple, complex lives inside them. The streetlights flickered, a descant to the melody of TV screens glimmering behind shaded windows.

Outside, nothing stirred. No cats prowled. No dogs barked. No cars moved down the street. For one lone minute, it was just the woman and the world. A pause. A single catch of breath.

The woman waited. For nothing in particular. It was just a waiting kind of moment, full of memory and anticipation, like she’d waited there before, and like something was coming.

Leaves stirred on the next street down, and the woman turned to watch the warm wind come, tree by tree, stirring one to life before breathing into the next, the Wind herself tending each brave branch, honoring the leaves lost and those preparing to fall.

The wind arrived at the woman’s feet and bowed to her, serious and grave, before she lifted her eyes with a wink and skittered and flew and danced and spun around and through and past her.

The woman’s hair waved to the wind, let loose with gravity suspended, and her dress fluttered and snapped like a wild thing set free.

The woman breathed.

In.

And out.

Living air filling her lungs and rushing from it.

Again.

And one more time.

And then the moment passed.

The wind kissed the woman good-bye, gently on the cheek, like a mama laying her baby to sleep, and the woman watched her steal away, into the darkening night.

On a still fall evening, a woman in a long, loose dress gathered her mail and herself, crossed the street, and went home. There was nothing remarkable about her.

Except for an extra spark of magic gifted by the wind.

………..

In case you need a measure of magic today, friends, this is for you. Be on the lookout. The wind is on the way.

The post For the Women Who Need an Extra Spark of Magic… first appeared on bethwoolsey..

We Are Here. We Are Here. We Are Here.

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 29 Sep 2018 02:36:33 +0000

I walked today, going nowhere, and I listened to my heart beat as my feet shuffled on concrete.

I breathed consciously.

Air in. Air out.

I felt heavy, but calm. Like the weighted blanket of our collective grief — the grief of women who know what it is to speak out and be derided and dismissed — anchored me to the earth.

I read.

I sat.

I studied.

My heart broke again and again as story after story filled the headlines of my news feed. Some folks stay off social media at times like this. I get it. I do. There are times I must do the same. But today, reading the headlines and status updates was a spiritual exercise. A prayer, if you will. A way to bear witness to one another. To fashion a community from our distress. To gather us in. To be ears that hear. To be eyes that see. Because there have been too few of those for the Christine Blasey Fords. And too many trying to rewrite our pain to boost their own power.

I asked how you are, which feels both trite and like the most important thing I can do.

“I’m enraged,” you wrote, and, “I’m barely hanging on.”

“I’m sick, and I’m scared.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to see suicide rates jump among women.”

Me, too, friends. Me, too. We’re weary. And hope seems a long way off. Which is why we need each other now more than ever. To carry hope for our sisters who can’t carry their own. To be free to sit in the mud awhile and rest.

And while we do — while we sit here together in the muck and the mire — let me offer this tiny piece of light.

This isn’t the end of our story.

This isn’t the end.

This is the middle, and the end has yet to be revealed.

On November 5, 1872, Susan B. Anthony voted in the United States presidential election. It was illegal. She was arrested. That was the middle of the story. It would be another 48 years before American women received the legal right to vote. We’re still seeking an equal voice.

On December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a bus. It was illegal. She was arrested. That was the middle of the story. It would be another 9 years before major civil rights legislation would be passed. Racism and the systematic disenfranchisement of people of color remains a major problem in America.

In October 1991, Anita Hill testified Clarence Thomas, candidate for the Supreme Court, sexually harassed her. She submitted to and passed a polygraph test. He refused. He was elected to the Supreme Court by the narrowest margin in American history. That was an end of one story. And a shitty middle part of our current one. Harassment of women and the protection and elevation of the men who assault them is endemic in our culture.

And now, on September 27, 2018, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford testified Brett Kavanaugh, candidate for the Supreme Court, sexually assaulted her. It’s the middle of her story. It’s the middle of ours. And it feels like the Dark Night part, because it is for the millions of women who’ve been harmed and not believed. Harmed and silenced. Harmed and dismissed. It’s still dark. It’s not better.

But we’re louder.

Like the whole Who village finding our voice.

We are here. We are here. We are here.

It’s the middle of our story, and we are louder than ever.

Harder to ignore.

Harder to belittle without defenders and momrades rising to speak up.

Harder to push down because together, we rise. As inevitable as the tide.

Have you heard the racket we’re making? The clatter? The din?

We are here.

Have you seen how angry we’re making the people in power? How threatened they feel? How the status quo shakes and shivers?

We are here.

No; this story isn’t done.

We’re writing it now.

So do not worry, dear friend, when you need to rest a little.

Do not worry when your feet falter, and you’re sad and afraid.

Do not worry that your race is done, because there are hordes of us following in your wake, ready to take the baton for a while. Or to offer you water. Or to hold your hand.

Mr. Rogers said, “My mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.”

Have you seen us?

The helpers?

The people amplifying your voice?

We are legion, and you don’t face the dark alone.

Look and see, sweet ones. Pay attention. Now you know who will listen to you. Now you know who won’t. Now you know who has the ferocity and strength to hear you and hold your words and help. And you know who’s said nothing, willing to let this pass.

So, for now, rest. And for as long as you need.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Listen to your heart beat.

Know you’re not alone.

We fight together.

With love, and waving in the dark,

“Listen to the Mustn’ts” Poem by Shel Silverstein

The post We Are Here. We Are Here. We Are Here. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

ALERT: The Most Important Election This Fall Is, Surprisingly, in Newberg, Oregon

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 21 Sep 2018 23:31:03 +0000

Here’s a true truth for you, friends: I’ve never put a political sign in my yard.

Never.

Not once in the 26 years I’ve been eligible to vote.

Not a yard sign. Not a bumper sticker on my car. Not a pin on my person.

It wasn’t like I had a problem with people who did. They’re passionate, I thought. Outspoken. And good for them!

But me? No. Certainly not. Those outward declarations of political support weren’t for me. I, after all, have friends and family on both sides of the political aisle. The need to be polite and ruffle no feathers exempted me. Right? That was the rule in my tiny, white, evangelical world, anyway. Politeness first, which folks around here call “civility.” I’m not sure when civility was redefined as silence, but it was definitely before my time. I inherited the system. I’m not to blame. (Says the white, suburban girl with systemically granted power. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Then came 2016 and the election of Donald Trump to the White House.

Then came shock. How is it possible that a human utterly devoid of moral character was ELECTED? By REAL, LIVE PEOPLE? On PURPOSE?

Then came dismay.

And then hopelessness and wallowing.

Not gonna lie, friends — that wallowing lasted a while. It was very Dark Night of the Soul around my house. Our country fell apart. Our church fell apart. Folks just everywhere hunkered down in their ideological bunkers and proceeded to boot out the reprobates like me and mine. It was Boot Fest 2017. Excommunicate the Riffraff. Cut Out the Cancer where we = the cancer. Thus for the first time, my family experienced a minuscule slice of what marginalized populations have experienced all along. No room for our ilk in the inn. It was, in other words, a major bummer.

I don’t know when the awakening happened for me. Dawn arrives so slowly, doesn’t it? It’s Night, and then eventually it’s Not, but no one can pinpoint exactly when the change occurrs. I think I was still drowsy from the Dark Night — still a little drunk on despair — when it belated occurred to me that I might have contributed in some small way to Trump’s election. That I might need to conduct a tiny amount of self-examination. I might need to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself like addicts everywhere. I might need to admit my wrongs to myself, to God, and to other humans. I might need to make amends. Except not to the people I’d tried — and failed — to please. Not to the people in power. No; I might need to make amends to those who’ve been ostracized, wounded, excluded, and abused. Because I benefited from the power structure that disenfranchised them, and I did nothing to tear it down.

I might need to admit my wrongs. I might need to make amends. Or I definitely do.

I’m going to go with the latter. Admitting wrongdoing and making amends is harder than sticking my head in the sand, but it’s the only way to heal the world. And if we’re not here on this planet for that purpose, then why bother?

Things are Not Right in America right now. Turns out, things have been Not Right for huge swaths of Americans for centuries, but some of us **ahem*me*ahem** were too blind to see it. Some of us — I kid you not — thought we were in a post-racist Age of Enlightenment in the States. Oh, we knew things weren’t perfect, but we certainly thought the general trajectory was upward for everyone. For people of color. For gender and sexual minorities. For women. For asylum seekers. For All the People, you know? All of them.

Bless my darling little heart, I could not have been more wrong. People were suffering (see links, paragraph above) — people were dying — but I wasn’t, so I easily believed other folks were fine or getting there.

Turns out, I was using my privilege to remain silent because I could afford it. My world changes very little based on who’s in power — that’s what it is to be privileged, after all — so I kept quiet even as people continued to be systematically disenfranchised.

Power and comfort are the drugs. I’m the addict. Inertia was easier than action, and more comfortable than being criticized as a trouble maker and a rabble rouser.

But I don’t want to be someone who is a bystander while people suffer.

I don’t want to set that example for my children.

I want to be someone who loves my neighbor as myself. I want to be someone who helps light the path to safety and succor. I want to be someone who knows to my bones — and who acts on that knowledge — that all people are my neighbors. That their humanity makes them so, and I need know nothing more about them to offer what I have and to reach out with help.

I’ve spent some months thinking. And I’ve spent some months flailing. I’ve spent some time figuring out the next small step forward, and then the next, and then the next. Because self-awareness is great — fantastic, WONDERFUL — but amends mean nothing without action.

So here we are in the election cycle, and it’s another next step. A small opportunity to Put Up or Shut Up, and everyone knows Shut Up’s not my thing.

I’m Putting Up.

My friend and I organized a BBQ for our neighborhood. We invited everyone, especially people we didn’t know. We fed them hot dogs and watermelon in the street while kids ran in and out of the house playing hide-and-go-seek and spilling sugar-free, fake juice product on their shoes. And we invited the local candidates we support in our little town of Newberg, Oregon. Rick Rogers for Mayor. Casey Kulla for Yamhill County Commissioner. Sarah Grider for Oregon State Senate. Jennifer Chapman for Yamhill County Circuit Court Judge. Elizabeth Gemeroy, Patrick Johnson, and Stephanie Findlay for City Council.

What do you mean you’re reading this in California or Texas or Illinois, and you’ve never heard of Newberg, Oregon or Yamhill County?

THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION THIS SEASON.

This is the most important election this season.

It IS.

And so is YOUR local election.

You know why?

Because a population involved at the local, grassroots level is a population with a voice.

A population sharing a few minutes to stand together in the warm September sun over crappy hot dogs is a population that will move mountains and bring mighty winds of change.

A population that knows its neighbors — ALL of them, including the ones those of us with power and privilege formerly failed to SEE — is a population that understands that all children are our children. There is no ME or MINE. It’s only ever been WE and US, even if some of us were pretty slow on the uptake.

It’s trickle up economics, folks. When we bolster the needs of those around us — when we amplify aching voices instead of failing to pass their message along — we bolster all of us. Every single one. To be clear, and selfish really, I WIN when our community is healthy. MY FAMILY wins. It’s just SO DOES EVERYONE ELSE. The sum becomes more than its parts. We’re all healthier, happier, safer, kinder, more magnanimous and aware when we’re plugged in and pulling for the whole instead of protecting our piece and hunkering down. And… psst… healthy communities are able to speak truth to power… truth to bigger platforms… truth to huge campaigns… with more unity, more energy, more conviction, and more clarity.

Small battles win big wars, friends. Every journey begins with one step. Insert any overused-but-true cliche you like, just understand that starting with your community — starting where you can — matters.

Caring for our neighbors — our literal, next door neighbors — and wading into the mayhem and majesty of human relationships and the human condition teaches us tangibly to love others as ourselves. And when we begin to love others, we realize everyone is our neighbor. It’s a vicious cycle minus the vicious. An abundant cycle. A lavish cycle. A generous cycle.

So this voting season, we’re educating ourselves on who’s running, who benefits from their leadership, what their platforms are, and how we can help put people in office who will help us work together to lift up our community. Our WHOLE community.

Our yard is filling up with signs.

I have bumper magnets on my car.

I’ll be wearing my pins to the grocery store with pride.

And so it begins.

Yours truly,

P.S. In other new news, those of you who’ve been around here before will notice there are NO MORE ANNOYING ADS popping up. That’s because I could not stand them. (Could. NOT.) Instead, I’m selling right side bar ads to companies I like and approve. No pop-ups + visibility for brands I like + a way to pay for this site = WINNING. If you or someone you know would like to advertise with me, shoot me an email at Beth@BethWoolsey.com. Put “I Want to Advertise With You” in the subject line, if you’d be so kind.

The post ALERT: The Most Important Election This Fall Is, Surprisingly, in Newberg, Oregon first appeared on bethwoolsey..

GRAB THOSE BALLS: How to Cheer for Goalies at Soccer Games

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 17 Sep 2018 20:57:52 +0000

Know what the internets need? MORE HOW TO ARTICLES. Because knowing how to do stuff is always better than not knowing. Yes? Yes. Correct. Always.

So here’s a quick tip for y’all.

This is my kid, Abby:

Abby goes to university in Hawaii because Abby is the smartest person I know.

This is my kid’s human:

Chandler also goes to university in Hawaii ‘cause he’s no dummy, either.

Abby dances.

Chandler plays soccer.

He’s the goalie.

Which means he grabs the balls. All the balls. He’s the ball grabber. It’s what he does.

Chandler came to the mainland with his team to play last week.

We went to his game to cheer him on.

So, friends. Here’s how to cheer on a goalie:

Yell, “GRAB THOSE BALLS. GRAB THOSE BALLS. GRAB. THOSE. BALLS.”

Loudly.

And on repeat.

You can yell it as an encouragement to grab the balls.

Or you can yell it as a celebration of the balls just grabbed.

It’s a versatile cheer is what I’m saying.

It goes over especially well when your team is playing on the home field of the opposing team. The opposing fans love it. They chuckle because everybody loves a good ball joke. Everybody. Except the guy who keeps turning around and shaking his head at you like you should be ashamed of yourself. Which forces you to yell it more than you originally planned and at higher volume, but that’s OK. Part of life is about flexibility. About learning to adjust plans on the fly. About knowing when to STEP. IT. UP.

Now you know.

I give and I give.

You’re welcome.

Love,

P.S. My daughter’s human grabs balls. Lots of balls. He grabs them hard. And fast. He’s a fierce, fast ball grabber. So I made him a bumper sticker.

It’s arriving in the mail this week.

I’m assuming he’ll be putting it in a prominent place so all his friends will see and know how dedicated he really is.

The post GRAB THOSE BALLS: How to Cheer for Goalies at Soccer Games first appeared on bethwoolsey..

We Have to Stop Saying These Things to Our Kids

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 13 Sep 2018 01:30:49 +0000

OK, friends. QUICK PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT because we have to stop saying these things to our kids:

“There are going to be bullies his whole life, so he needs to start learning how to deal with that now.”

“She’s going to have to learn to work with people who make her feel uncomfortable.”

“Welp, life is unfair. Welcome to reality, child.”

And I know especially that last one is going to get someone’s goat. Like, real bad. Like, someone is going to stake his LIFE on that particular “life’s unfair” statement like it’s a doctrinal issue or protected in the Constitution or required for our very life on Planet Earth. But let me gently suggest something here — something that will be wholly new to some of us — children are hard-wired to seek justice and equality, and that’s a good thing, not something to tamp down or snuff out. We need to be really, really careful, friends, and also intentional about exactly what we’re teaching our kids.

Now, listen. I get it. I’ve been in the car with kids fighting over the front seat. I’ve watched them bicker over who got a skosh more ice cream. I’ve witnessed them fall all the way apart over whose turn it is to crack an egg, or stir the brownie batter, or lick bowl vs. spoon. I’ve said it myself when they’re stomping their feet or crumbling under the weight of their It’s Not Fair grief. “TOO BAD,” I have said. “LIFE IS NOT FAIR.” But I’ll tell you this, too — I’ve said it more to shut them up than because I believe in the veracity of the statement. I’ve said it to preemptively end the drama and pull rank. I’ve said it because I was TIRED and DONE and OVERWHELMED WITH MOMMING. What I was really saying was, “I believe this situation is minuscule. I believe this situation isn’t worth the emotion you’re investing in it. I believe this isn’t a big deal that’s worth my time and effort to correct. So I want you to Just Let It Go.”

My response, in other words, had nothing to do with how I feel about life or fairness. If the situation were bigger — if it was one I deemed “worthy” — I’d never come at my kids with a “life’s not fair” response.

Say my kid did every assignment in class, got full credit, aced all the tests, and ended up with a C- grade. When my kid comes to me and says, “This isn’t fair,” you better bet I’ll be meeting with the teacher to figure out what happened. I wouldn’t shrug my shoulders and say, “Oh, well — life isn’t fair, you know.” You wouldn’t expect me to. No one would. Nor would I accept that response from the teacher. We’d be looking at the grade book, ensuring our understanding matches, discussing, and problem solving. Right? Because we all seek to make things fair. All of us.

Or say I go to the grocery store and they give me less change than I have coming. I’m going to point it out, and the clerk isn’t going to look at me and say, “Life isn’t fair, lady — say ‘bye to that $5 forever.” That’s … totally ridiculous. We can’t even fathom that situation happening.

We all expect to be treated fairly. We expect it, and we should fight for it, yes? Life is NOT fair. That’s true, but it’s not an axiom we should use as though that’s the end of the story. Or as though that’s OK. And we certainly shouldn’t be teaching it to our kids as though they should simply accept unfairness. That’s … totally ridiculous, too.

It’s important to say what we mean and mean what we say. It matters that we help our kids understand the truth behind our words. So it’s not acceptable to spout easy phrases like “Life’s not fair,” when what we mean is, “This feels like a Big Thing to you, but I’m too exhausted to make who’s sitting in the front seat my top priority right now. Because this is a safety issue, we are not going to debate this standing in the Target parking lot. Abby gets the front seat. We’ll chat at home about how to ensure we’re all getting turns, right after Mommy gets a REAL BIG CUP OF COFFEE.” Let’s be sure to differentiate, shall we?

We wonder why justice is continually battered. We wish for better ways to fight inequality and inequity. We’re frustrated by the complacency of bystanders and their unwillingness to get involved when justice has gone awry. BUT WE KEEP SAYING THESE THINGS TO OUR CHILDREN, the “this is just the way it is” statements, and — listen up — THEY BELIEVE US. We’ve trained the people of our culture to be unresponsive. We’ve coached each other into conformity for generations. We’ve schooled ourselves to shut down our hearts and guts that tell us otherwise. We’ve managed to still our consciences. And now it’s up to us to change that.

THE GOOD NEWS IS OUR KIDS ALREADY GET IT.

The good news is the kids can lead us in the way we should go.

The good news is that that sense of what’s right and fair and just is already etched in their hearts, and if we can listen to them for a few minutes and not squash it, we can create substantive cultural change.

I sat in a meeting with school officials a few years ago. One of my kids was being treated rather terribly, similar to last week’s situation but not entirely the same. There was a child lashing out, and my child was being hurt. I emailed the teacher. I accepted the invitation to meet with the principal and teacher. We sat at a tiny table in tiny plastic chairs and discussed.

And they said to me, “There are going to be bullies his whole life, so he need to start learning to deal with that now. He’s going to face this in middle school, and high school, and college, and someday in the work place. There are mean people everywhere. You need to let him know it’s just life.”

I admit there was a pause in the conversation because I was dumbfounded. Like, my brain stuttered, and I couldn’t quite get it to cooperate. I even wondered for a moment if they might be right before I came to my senses.

“OH!” I said, “No. Nope. No, I’m definitely not going to tell him that, because that’s not true.”

What they were really saying was this, “This is just how it is. It’s not going to change. We will not help you make it change. Deal with it. Accept it. Acquiesce. Succumb.”

But I will not teach my child to be powerless. I will not teach my child a sense of defeat. I will not teach him to accept that environments with mean people are the only environments in the world. I will not teach him to accept a world that’s not fair and not right, because it’s OK to want things to be fair. It is OK to protest unfairness. It is OK to seek justice. It is GOOD to challenge a system that supports systemic injustice.

I’ve heard a lot of statements I used to think were normal that I now find quite bizarre. “Life isn’t fair” said with fatalism. “He’s just going to have to learn to deal with this.” “She needs to learn to work with people that make her feel uncomfortable.”

That’s a hard no from me, friends.

All the nopes.

False.

I will teach my children they have choices and can take action. I will teach my children not to accept unfair as the norm. I will teach my children to speak up. I will teach my children I’m on their team. I will teach by example how to use my power — as a white person, as an adult, as a person who experiences privilege — to champion those without it. And I will teach my children they don’t have to remain in situations where they are being harmed or are uncomfortable or are being treated unfairly.

We cannot have it both ways. We cannot teach children both to trust their gut — one of the main skills emphasized in self-defense classes so they know to GET OUT when they feel things aren’t right — and to shut down their instincts at school because “life’s unfair” or they should “learn to be uncomfortable.”

My oldest daughter, Abby, called me from college two years ago when she was just starting out. She wasn’t sure she’d made the right choice to be out of state. She was homesick. She wanted to quit and come home. I told her to do it. If she already knew she was in the wrong spot, I said, COME HOME NOW. Life’s too short to stay in a situation that’s not right. She decided to stay. She thought it through, decided this was a situation to overcome rather than give in, and she stayed. Greg complimented me for my excellent reverse psychology in getting her to stay at school. I told him I wasn’t kidding. He looked like he was going to vomit, but he came around once he had a few minutes to think. But that’s the thing; SHE decided. She knew how to listen to her gut because she’d practiced. She knew whether this was a situation to abandon or a situation to stay.

Here’s what I need us to all understand, friends: YOU CAN QUIT, AND SOMETIMES YOU SHOULD. The trick of parenting is not — I repeat, NOT — to teach our kids to persevere at all costs, although perseverance is an important skill for sure. The trick of parenting is helping our kids suss out when we need to persevere — when the THING WE WANT TO ACCOMPLISH is WORTH the cost of the hurdle we have to overcome — and when it’s OK to lay it down and say, “OH! HEY! Look at that! I just discovered that thing isn’t worth pursuing!” so they can channel their precious reserves of mental, physical, and emotional strength into something better.

Those are the life skills I’m looking at building in my children, because I’m playing the long game here, which is this: I’m aiming for a world full of humans who are emotionally and mentally healthy. I’m aiming for a world full of confident humans who’ve fanned the flame of justice in their hearts. I’m aiming for a world full of humans who know they’re worthy of infinite love and worthy of respect and who will create kind spaces because they know what those look like. I’m aiming for a world full of humans who listen to their hearts, who trust their minds, who know right from wrong — which is the same as knowing love from not love — and who know how to build communities of other humans who do, too.

Now — who’s in?

Sending you love, friends, and waving in the dark, as always,

P.S. And sending EXTRA love to those of you in the path of Florence. You’re on my heart tonight.

P.P.S. I sent out our very first newsletter last week to those of you subscribed to the email list. I had an unreasonably good time writing it. If you want to never miss a post — and to get exclusive posts for email only — feel free to subscribe here. I’ll send you a horrible story about the day I peed my office. It’s the worst reason ever to join an email list. Do it.

P.P.P.S. Just reread this whole post, as one does when one edits one’s writing, and noticed I said “quick” public service announcement at the beginning. Bless my heart for thinking I could be quick. I really should know better.

The post We Have to Stop Saying These Things to Our Kids first appeared on bethwoolsey..

When Bullying Is Real

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 11 Sep 2018 04:01:45 +0000

{Content Warning: Use of a homophobic slur.}

Alright. Middle school began last week for my two sixth graders, which always makes a mama’s heart flutter, and here’s how it’s going: MOSTLY WONDERFUL.

My kids are feeling confident.

They’re finding their groove.

They appear to have other sixth grade humans to sit with at lunch, so the Very Worst, Most Awful Part of the Day seems handled.

Mostly wonderful, see?

Mostly wonderful except the part where a kid called my kid a faggot in gym class.

That bit was decidedly unwonderful.

My kid replied. “I don’t appreciate you calling me a faggot.”

To which the kid responded, “Shut up, faggot,” as one might unfortunately expect. I guess not everyone got the memo to Be Best.

After the kid told my kid to shut up, my kid found a time to let the teacher know. The teacher says he’s got it, and my kid feels overall OK about it. Overall supported. Overall unconcerned, which is saying something for this one since he’s Sometimes Anxious like his mommy. Sometimes on Edge. Sometimes Afraid. This kid of mine humans hard, in other words. It’s like watching middle school me all over again. So many feelings. So much tender uncertainty. So every time he says, “I’m good,” or “I’ve got this,” I exhale in relief. Whoosh. He’s good. Whoosh. He’s got this. I mean, I know he’s got it, but I remain proactively distressed until he knows he’s got it, you know?

We were standing at the bathroom sink together the night after the Event, trying to clear a path through the detritus to our toothbrushes, and I could see a bit of his self-assurance slip. Just a touch. Just in the barely watery eyes and biting the inside of his cheek.

“Mom,” he asked, “how come kids bully me, though?”

Ugh.

How come kids bully him?

He had a tough time a couple years ago, in elementary school. Sensitivity and a longing to be liked coupled with tiny humans trying out different ways to treat each other makes for a tough combo, and his feelings took a beating.

How come kids bully me? I think a lot of us want the answer to this one. I think a lot of us feel like the targets. I think a lot of us wonder if we’re ill-formed or lacking or repellent in some secret fashion we can’t see.

I felt like I should’ve known he was wondering. I felt like I should’ve anticipated the question and addressed it before he had to ask. But I was surprised by the simple and the obvious. I look at him and see a super hero. I look at him and see resilience. I look at him and see talent and smarts and compassion and exhilarating individualism. I look at him and hope to be more like him when I grow up. So I forgot he might be thinking what the rest of us think… what’s wrong with me?

“OH!” I said. “Oh, sweetheart.”

I abandoned the toothbrush search, and I turned to his face, because this isn’t the kind of conversation to have in the mirror.

“Listen. Listen very carefully. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. I know it seems like it does. I know it feels like it does. I’m not telling you not to be upset; I sure would be. But I need you to hear this loud and clear… the child who calls another child the f-word is like a feral, wounded animal. The child who lashes out with cruelty — whose opening conversational gambit is to cause emotional harm — that child is consumed by extreme anger and more than likely an enormous amount of pain and a desperate need for power and control, which probably means he doesn’t have those things otherwise in life, right? I mean, can you imagine, baby? Can you even conceive of ever calling anyone the f-word?”

His eyes were huge. “No,” he replied. “I would never.”

Which is true. He would never.

“Right. But do you think that kid has a mama who gives him snuggles? Do you think he knows what it feels like to be treated as smart and savvy and kind? Do you think the adults in his life have been gentle and championed him well? Do you think they say they’re sorry when they screw up? Do you think they’ve taught him that mistakes are normal, and that we’re all deeply worthy of infinite love, and that there are ways to be strong other than hurting others?”

It was like a light dawned. An “ah ha” moment for sure. I could physically see him understand. And understanding was followed by relief.

“It’s not me!” he said. And he was right. It’s not.

We went over what the reality for that kid must be. We developed compassion for people who hurt us and talked about how HARD it is to look up from our own pain long enough to recognize that. We remembered we still have to protect ourselves from harm; we don’t pet feral animals and expect them not to bite. We don’t cuddle up to them because they’re definitely not our new best friends. Nope. We get ourselves to safety, and then we call in the no-kill animal shelter. The one with the expertise to handle an animal that’s lashing out coupled with the compassion to see its underlying terror. The one with the ability to hold it firmly without causing additional damage to it or anyone else.

Yes? Yes.

We talked for a while that night, and then we snuggled, and we never brushed our teeth. Turns out some things are more important than good dental hygiene. I regret nothing.

Sending you love, friends,

P.S. I sent out our very first newsletter yesterday to those of you subscribed to the email list. I had an unreasonably good time writing it. If you want to never miss a post — and to get exclusive posts for email only — feel free to subscribe here. I’ll send you a horrible story about the day I peed my office. It’s the worst reason ever to join an email list. Do it.

The post When Bullying Is Real first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Brief Update: Your Response Requested

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 20:54:14 +0000

Quick updates, friends, on this, the first day of school 2018:

1. Got up early this morning! BEFORE my alarm went off. I AM ON TOP OF ALL THE THINGS. THIS IS MY NEW ROUTINE. I SHALL BE UP EARLY EVERY DAY THIS SCHOOL YEAR.

2. Fell back asleep.

3. Slept through my alarm.

4. Woke to the face of a child asking if I would, because this is the First Day and therefore a Special Circumstance, “do that thing where you at least look like you tried.”

Um. Pardon?

5. HARMED NO ONE. I shall throw myself an awards ceremony later, as per usual.

6. Did that thing where I at least look like I tried — aka, mascara + pants.

7. Walked my babies into school ON TIME. Completed all the Parent Tasks. Lost my keys.

8. Searched the school. Saw my babies on the way. Said, “HI, BABIES! I LOVE YOU!” Except quiet, because there’s no need to embarrass them on the first day. “Hi, babies. I love you.” SO quiet. Like, zero decibels. “hi, babies. i love you.” I pretty much just mouthed the words.

9. Was told by the sweet munchkins I labored for FOUR DAYS to deliver to SHHHHHHHHHHH.

“MOM. SHHHHHHHHHH!”

10. OK, fine. Whatever. Assured them I shall not proclaim from my mouth my love for them at school again.

11. Found my keys!

12. Stopped by the school counselor’s office — who’s also my brother and my babies’ uncle because it’s a Small Town, folks —and gently requested he make one teeny, tiny announcement over the loudspeaker to tell “CAI AND CAEL WOOLSEY” that “YOUR MOMMY LOVES YOU VERY MUCH.”

He won’t do it, of course, because he’s kind and that request is wholly inappropriate, so I shall follow up with the principal to let her know the counselor was unresponsive to my needs. I also swiped a stack of Parent/Counselor Comment Forms so I can keep him apprised of My Thoughts and Helpful Suggestions throughout the school year. That should keep me busy for a while.

In conclusion, the school year has begun, and it’s going to be the Best Year EVER.

Also, you can pray for my children and the school counselor.

Also-also, how are YOU? I need updates, please. What items have you lost lately? Are you wearing pants? Do you at least look like you tried? If not, let’s hang out.

Also-also-also, if you have any Helpful Suggestions for a middle school, I have some forms I need to complete. Just saying.

Love to you and waving, waving,

The post Brief Update: Your Response Requested first appeared on bethwoolsey..

School’s Starting (In Case You’re Not Ready, Either)

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 01 Sep 2018 00:54:05 +0000

Summer raged and reveled through our house. The couch is covered in dog fur and dirt. So are the kids. So is everything else. Dog Fur and Dirt are our decor theme, really. We should market them as paint colors. Like Martha Stewart, except different.

The sun is etched in our skin, and all semblance of discipline — which was mostly self-deception, anyway — eroded weeks ago. The chore chart was effective the first 25 minutes of summer. Now it’s bulletin board litter. I’ve decided to rename Fortnite and Minecraft “chores” and “reading” so when people ask us what we did all summer, I have an answer that makes me look like a diligent parent.

My kids’ shoes are run through with holes in the soles, and there are broken laces and rips in the fabric where their big toes are poking through. All their t-shirts are stained and torn, their pants are high waters or blown out in the knees, and our school supplies consist of partially used composition notebooks, broken protractors, and crayon nubbins — except 12 pristine crayons, all Burnt Sienna.

There are three days ‘til school starts, so I suppose it’s time to start thinking about cobbling this madness into something ostensibly appropriate for school.

Three days is plenty, right? To pull it together enough to fake it? I mean, I don’t need to go to extremes. I don’t need to look like I’m actually prepared . That ship sailed a thousand years ago. Then it hit a huge storm, shipwrecked, and sunk in the deepest part of the sea. The Preparation was a pretty vessel, but she was never heard from nor seen again. Come on in; we’re not ready — that’s our theme these days, anyway.

I used to spend time chasing the back-to-school ads. Not for the deals themselves, although I do love a good deal, but so my kids looked like the photos. Perfectly assembled. Shiny, shorn, and shod. It was the best armor I knew, both to protect myself from the judgement of other mamas, and to protect my kids from feeling afraid. It’s a tribalistic instinct, after all, to want our children to fit in so they’ll be protected by the masses. It’s a tribalistic instinct for we mamas, too. Safety in numbers, right? Standing Out = the Danger of Exclusion, and Exclusion = Less Access to the things we need like food, water, shelter, and clothes. It’s primal. There’s no sense in apologizing for it. Nor is it wrong. It’s just not enough, and it fails to dig down to kids’ core needs.

Once upon a time, I mistook my kids’ new clothes and unstained shoes for confidence, community, and emotional safety. I primed and primped my babies to go to school like they were lining up outside a nightclub, hoping the bouncer would choose them as pretty enough to enter the inner sanctum. Trying, ultimately, to help them avoid the pain of possible exclusion, the loneliness of being left out, the self-imposed shame of feeling awkward or unliked.

But I’ve had kids in school now for 17 years, friends. A cumulative 59 years if you add all my kids’ school years together. And things have shifted for us in that time.

Oh, we still buy a few back-to-school clothes, and I try real heard to remember to tell the kids with long hair to brush it — AND their teeth — before they head out because being prepared and clean helps. But we also acknowledge that those matter the same way house paint matters. It’s important. It provides a small protective barrier. It matters a LOT for those who don’t have any. But if the insides are crumbling or the structure isn’t sound, the paint isn’t going to make much of a difference in the end.

So we spend minimal time these days searching for and buying the Stuff. And we spend a hell of a lot more time preparing the Heart. We address — out loud and on purpose — What’s Underneath the facade. What’s Deep Down Inside. What our Real Needs are and how to meet them.

And our Real Needs are all the same, aren’t they?

To be safe.

To be fed.

To sheltered.

To belong.

To be accepted as already worthy of love exactly as we are. Valued and appreciated. Encouraged.

Which is why I’m sort of “meh” about the usual school prep. Not really concerned that I have three days to get these young humans ready. We’ll run out to buy shoes tomorrow. Or Sunday. Monday at the latest. Or Tuesday after school. Because I’m laser focused on what matters… and, psst… it’s not the clothes, or the first day pics, or the book bags and pencils. It’s not even the grades, friends. Nope. I’m laser focused on what matters, so our Back to School looks less like highlighters and pens and more like convos about confidence, kindness, and community, instead.

It looks like teaching my kids to keep an eye out for the kids who are more afraid than they are.

It looks like learning to be kind to ourselves and others.

It looks like shutting down our darling little lizard brains — the cerebral cortex that tells us to fight, fly, or freeze — so we can seek out others in distress and help calm the storm.

It looks like leading other humans to safety and changing the status quo, which is what will change our schools, ourselves, our communities, and our country.

Yep. School starts in three days, and we’re not ready. Or maybe we actually are.

With love, sweet friends,

The post School’s Starting (In Case You’re Not Ready, Either) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

John McCain and the Paper Girl: The Story of a Man Who Saw People

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 26 Aug 2018 21:44:18 +0000

Helen Howard is a legend in her own right. At age 55, she retired from her 23-year career as an insurance claim adjuster to follow her passion, building Desert River Outfitters, a premier canoe and kayak guiding outfit in northwestern Arizona. Now age 70, in addition to the thousands of hours she’s racked up on myriad U.S. rivers, Helen is gearing up for her twelfth trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon; the third in the Susie Too, a dory boat she built herself.

Before that, though, Helen was John McCain’s paper girl.

In 1983, Helen was 35. She was two years into her career in insurance, and, although the job was good and covered her mortgage and regular bills, it didn’t cover the extra $18,000 in physical therapy expenses that hit after an accident. Healthcare in the U.S., amirite, friends? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So Helen started throwing 225 papers per day for the Arizona Republic. More on Sundays. The job paid $220 a week. It took 18 months plus squirreling away other funds to pay off the bill, and, along the way, Helen delivered the paper to Senator McCain — House Representative McCain at the time.

“I picked up papers in bundles at 3:00am, drove home to band them, then drove my route with the route cards on my lap to make sure I hit every address. John McCain was close to the end, so I usually got to his home about 5:15am, finished up at 5:30am, went home again, showered, and drove to work for a 7:00am start,” Helen said.

“One morning, Representative McCain was standing on his driveway waiting for his newspaper. He stopped me and asked if he could get his paper delivered a little earlier since he had trouble sleeping and really wanted to read it before he started his day. As a political junkie, died-in-the-wool Democrat, and conservation activist, I knew, of course, who he was. We’d met a time or two at public functions but he didn’t recognize me in the dark, in sweats, doing what I was doing.

“By driving his street first on the way to banding the papers, I added about a mile to my route, and it wasn’t too much trouble. He got my phone number and had one of his staff call me when he was back in Washington and did not need it delivered early, then had them call me to start up the early deliveries when he came back to Phoenix. Representative McCain gave me a big tip every three months when the bill was presented and sent a personal Christmas Card to my home address.

“I have since met Senator McCain several times over the years, either at public events or at funerals of people we both knew well — and I called and wrote his office frequently to discuss policy — and he has always remembered me. I did not agree with everything he said or did, but he was a fine human being and a great resource for Arizona and the United States. I will miss him.”

I saw Helen’s tribute to Senator McCain this morning on Facebook, and I asked if I could share it with you. Helen, you see, is one of my most loyally liberal friends. A Democrat through and through. I’ve spent nights with her on paddling trips, cooking over an open fire — the woman can cook a full turkey dinner with all the trimmings on a campfire — while she tells story after story, and she’s not one to shy away from politics or their implications on America’s land or her people. Helen is fierce. Helen is confident. Helen is smart. And there’s no question in my mind that Senator McCain heard Helen loud and clear. And often.

The thing is, though — he listened.

And he saw her. Even when she was “just” a paper girl.

And that’s what this story is about. That’s why it’s important.

The tributes coming out today on John McCain cross political barriers. Words of praise from conservatives and liberals alike. In a country full of people who are desperate to be seen, who long to have open and authentic discussions full of grace, respect, and compassion, who wish to preserve friendships with people whose positions we sometimes vehemently oppose, we crave this kind of leadership. We yearn for this kind of example. We want this kind of backbone and kindness and relationship ethic. We want to disagree with policies and positions while tending, always, to the people.

If we’re going to honor the career and service of a man like John McCain — who was human and fallible and sometimes an ass, but also kept trying and thinking and changing and seeing the people he worked so hard to serve, which made him, frankly, as great as any of us can hope to be — then we owe it to ourselves not to simply long for days-gone-by when there were McCains in America who treated their colleagues with respect. We owe it to ourselves to build McCains into our future. To champion them. To elect them. To defend them, human and all. To listen. And to see.

Here’s to you, Maverick. May you rest in peace.

The post John McCain and the Paper Girl: The Story of a Man Who Saw People first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Bread and Body Fluids: I’d Come Up With a Less Gross Title, But I Have One Kid Crying, One Harfing, and One Bleeding… I’m Sure You Understand

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 20 Aug 2018 20:30:58 +0000

Took my kid to the orthodontist this morning.

He had to have brace wires removed so I could take him to the dentist to get four teeth pulled.

Spilled my coffee.

All 20 ounces. All over the floor of the orthodontist’s office. I put it on the floor, then immediately kicked it over. I hadn’t had coffee yet, so I couldn’t clearly think through coffee placement. It’s a Catch 22, I tell you, this whole Had to Perform Coffee Tasks Before Having Coffee situation. It’s not right. We live in a broken world, friends.

Went to the dentist.

Handed over an 11yo for medieval torture.

I lied and lied and told him it would be fine. “You’ll be FINE. Walk in the park. No big deal, man.” I didn’t feel like the truth was particularly helpful in this case. Like, “YES, IT WILL BE AWFUL. Hopefully not for long, though. Hopefully, there will be less than 30 minutes while the dentist widens your bone socket, slowly rips your ligaments, and wrenches your tooth free. FOUR TIMES.” <— I didn’t say that. Not even with my eyes. I expect a trophy later, please.

Kid did fine.

He thought it was no big deal, just as I said. This is what we parents call Positive Reinforcement for Lying. They say we cling to our dysfunctions because, on some level, they function for us, yes? Thus continues the cycle of falsehood and deceit. As my parents lied to me — “we’re not lost, Beth; we’re just having an adventure” — so I lie to my children. It’s important to have family traditions.

Home now.

I have one child leaking gauze and bloody spittle while playing Fortnite on the couch, one child vomiting in the hall bathroom because blood freaks him out, and one girl child standing in the backyard yelling, “TELL ME WHEN THE BLOOD AND VOMIT ARE GONE. I AM NOT COMING HOME UNTIL THEY ARE DONE. BROTHERS ARE DISGUSTING AND GROSS AND SICKENING [note: we’ve been working on synonyms, so is was a win — I shall be accepting a trophy for this tonight, as well], AND THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD HAVE ME ANTOHER SISTER, MOM.”

In conclusion, I live a life of glamour.

That is all for now.

Just a quick update.

Also, bread photos below because they’re prettier than bloody mouth pics.

With love (and waving, as always),

P.S. How you doin’?

P.P.S. Bread pics:

Know what that is? Besides bread? It’s No Knead Bread. The famous New York Times recipe. It requires thinking a day in advance, which isn’t always my strong-suit as a mama, but it only takes 10 minutes of hands-on time TOTAL, and I DO love that.

And here’s a tip in case you’re having an insane, make-everything-from-scratch phase like yours truly: save the whey from yogurt or cheese making, and use it in place of water in the bread recipe.

It’ll make you feel like a rock star homesteading miracle worker. Even with twelve kinds of body fluids erupting from your children. PLUS you get to comfort yourself with homemade carbs.

Win/win, I tell you.

Win/win.

The post Bread and Body Fluids: I’d Come Up With a Less Gross Title, But I Have One Kid Crying, One Harfing, and One Bleeding… I’m Sure You Understand first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Milk and How to Use it… Yogurt, Cheese, and Labels: Oh, My!

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 Aug 2018 19:20:09 +0000

I have a few “rules” this week as I try to eat no commercially preserved, packaged, or processed foods, the foremost of which is DO NOT BECOME A HANGRY JERK, BETH.

Greg and I learned through the joy of travel early in our relationship that there is no jackass jackassier than a hangry, exhausted jackass, and that, unless we wanted to go ahead and file for immediate divorce and save ourselves a world of hassle, we ought to travel with snacks. Snacks = Marital Harmony. Snacks = Marital Bliss. Snacks = the difference between being kind, flexible and accommodating of each other’s tiny flaws and foibles and I AM GOING TO RIP YOUR EFFING FACE OFF. We were precious, I tell you. Darling.

The problem with creating food from scratch, of course, is it takes TIME. And you know what Americans don’t have anymore? You know what we’ve destroyed along with the ozone layer, the climate, and the hope of the next generations for a better future? Yep; TIME. It’s gone. POOF. Nada. No more. It’s not even our fault necessarily. I mean, yes, we all make choices, but our choices these days look more like WORK MORE or don’t eat, you know? Until two years ago, Greg and I each held two jobs, and often one of us would take on a third. Four or five jobs total between us was our norm for a long, LONG time, so I get it. There are seasons of life when we gotta hustle or not pay the medical bills. None of that makes for extra time to peacefully make pasta.

So this week, I knew success would depend on setting myself up with easily available, non-processed foods. As much as I’m trying to slow down and create space for this project, things happen in families, and my attention is captured by the tyranny of the urgent. I needed to make foods I could eat — and enjoy — on the fly.

Granola is a good start as an easy breakfast and snack food, but woman does not live by granola alone.

Enter milk.

I’ve wanted to make yogurt in my instant pot since I was gifted it for Christmas, but it felt daunting.

Like there were too many ways to screw it up, you know?

But I love yogurt — thick, fatty Greek yogurt especially — so I thought I’d give it a shot using these detailed directions from Kristen of A Mind Full Mom.

Friends — the first time through the process takes a LOT OF TIME AND ATTENTION. Not gonna lie. I felt like I was parenting milk. There are thermometers involved. And checking to be sure I haven’t killed anything. And wondering if I’ve ruined it forever. And questioning why I thought I could do this.

But after that first time? It’s a breeze. Easiest thing ever. Takes almost zero hands-on time and very little attention. UNlike parenting. And the yogurt tastes AMAZING. More creamy, less tangy.

I put mine in 8 oz. jars, filled halfway so I can pull one out of the fridge whenever I’m hungry and add granola and honey …

…or my mom’s homemade raspberry jam.

I cannot even tell you how decadent it tastes and how smug and satisfied I feel when I eat it. It’s like love in a jar. Not that I have food issues or anything. #BlessMyHeart

And while I was playing with milk, I decided to make ricotta, too. I mean, why not? I had the milk out, I had the strainer and cheesecloth. I’d asked the Google for the very easiest recipe, and the Google delivered as the Google does.

After making it (15 minutes max) and tasting it (as often as possible), I honestly wondered why I don’t do this more often.

Not only do you end up with mild, salty, spreadable cheese (and whey to add to things later… stay tuned), you get to hang what looks like a giant ball sac on your kitchen cupboards and giggle whenever your middle schoolers walk in.

It’s a culinary and adolescent win, friends. And I’m pleased.

More soon.

With love,

RECIPES:
Instant Pot Yogurt by Kristen at A Mind Full Mom
Fresh Homemade Ricotta by Richard Ferretti at Epicurious

TIPS:
1. Labels! Oh my gosh, I just learned this trick from Food52, and it could not be more easy to label things now. You just use regular paper, dab it with milk, put it on your jars, lids, etc. AND IT STICKS LIKE MAGIC. Stays on while you need it, comes off under water. No more sticky goo or writing on my lids with Sharpie. I love this trick.

2. Cheesecloth! WHY IS IT SO EXPENSIVE?? I suspect it’s for the same reason women’s razors and women’s shaving cream is more than men’s. Because we keep paying for it. NO MORE, I say. LET THE REVOLUTION BEGIN. Dollar Shave Club for razors. This shave bar from Simple Alchemy that replaces those rusty cans, lasts longer, and is pure olive oil. And these cloth diapers for cheesecloth — washable, reuseable, and I don’t have to a) remember to add it to my shopping list, or b) gawk at the ridiculous price.

The post Milk and How to Use it… Yogurt, Cheese, and Labels: Oh, My! first appeared on bethwoolsey..

It Looks Like Granola, But It’s Really Self-Care

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 16 Aug 2018 02:17:08 +0000

The first step was to stop saying, “Stupid, stupid, STUPID, Beth. How could you be so STUPID?” to myself in the car on the way home from work. It didn’t matter, really, what I’d done during the day; I’d slide onto the cloth seats of my Pontiac in the late afternoon and berate myself, like clockwork, sure I’d done something unforgivably foolish or said something truly humiliating.

There was nothing special about the day I stopped. Nothing that triggered the change of heart, necessarily. Why do “ah ha” moments come when they do? Is it the inability to take more? Divine intervention? Some sort of profound evolutionary force that insists we improve? The little, unrelenting voice of my mother, who would never let someone else talk to me the way I talked to myself? I don’t know. Maybe it’s a combination. But for whatever reason, it occurred to me I had a choice about subjecting myself to verbal self-abuse. And I decided to stop.

That was the day I began to treat myself way I treat my friends. With kindness. With empathy. With grace. I mean, yes — also with the occasional “OK, you really need to knock that shit off, sister” — but always with compassion.

It’s been a process, friends. Not gonna lie. And it’s taken a very substantial amount of practice to move the needle from being a real a-hole to being someone I, by and large, like hanging out with. But I’m Doing the Work, which is what’s always required to be a Change Maker, and it’s Making a Difference, like all work does, eventually.

It occurred to me, however, that, while I have forward momentum on Using My Nice Words, I’ve continued to flagellate myself with the whip of of my schedule. It’s been very Mortification of the Flesh around here, moving relentlessly from activity to activity; a Forced March wherein I ignore my figuratively bleeding feet and torn muscles and press on, regardless of my feelings on the matter. And while I don’t regret much of it — I’m not super into regrets — it has come with a price, mostly to my body and my brain.

I’m exhausted a lot. Nearly all the time. And I’m better mentally than I was at this time last year, but like all humans who face chronic mental illness, I’m perpetually on the brink. Forever looking at the precipice. Always trying to keep my footing sure during the gorgeous, treacherous climb that is life. Putting safety measures in place, but also taking risks so I can summit. So I can bear witness to peaks and valleys. So I can participate in the fullness of the journey.

So it occurred to me recently, that, while I have forward momentum on Using My Nice Words, perhaps I could extend similar kindness to my physical self.

Perhaps I could allow myself rest. Not when I’m simply too tired to move. But because it’s kind to offer our weary friends respite. And it’s comforting to read a book on the couch in the middle of the day. Or to serve myself milk and warm cookies.

Perhaps I could feed myself good food. Not to lose weight or begin another regimen — though, again, I don’t regret the times I have — but because I enjoy the preparation of it, and it’s soothing to eat a meal made from scratch.

Perhaps I could treat myself like company. Paying attention to when my glass is empty and refilling it. Using the best towels. Putting something special on the table. Baking and making for no better reason than it brings me joy.

I made myself granola the other day — my favorite, basic, honey granola recipe (included below) that allows for endless additions and easy creativity — and I included nuts, even though my kids don’t like them, just because it sounded good to me.

Thus begins a week-long experiment. Not for my health. Not to “work on my diet.” Not for any reason other than that it sounds fun and delicious and requires me to slow down. For one week only, unless I change my mind, I’m going to eat only things I make from scratch. Nothing processed. Nothing prepackaged. But nothing else excluded, either; all basic ingredients allowed. Milk, butter, sugar, vanilla, oats, veggies, fruits, and more.

I can eat all the bread I want — as long as I make it. And cake and brownies, if I’m willing to put in the time. I can eat pasta from scratch and play with homemade yogurt and whip up omelettes with fresh, local tomatoes. I can eat corn on the cob and green beans, and I can try that Bobby Flay stir-fried kale recipe people seem to like even though it’s made out of kale.

I made meals from scratch all summer with Abby. She was home from college, and when that happens, we run a tiny business making meals for people so she can earn money for books. We call it Bite Me: Occasional Food because it makes us laugh. It’s one of several jobs she holds, and it gives us a way to play in the kitchen, spend time together, and feed our community, and the week we made cinnamon rolls, I remembered how much I love making dough. How zen it is to smell yeast at work. How viscerally pleasing it is to wash my hands in warm water and dry them on my plain, cotton towels, and dip them in a large block softened butter to smear on the dough I just rolled out. I remembered how soft flour and brown sugar feel and the sound of my ancient metal scraper slicing the rolls in rhythm. It made me… happy. And calm. And although my back ached eventually with the work, I could feel the same tension sliding from my mind. It made me wonder why I don’t make more often. Why baking and cooking and creating with food isn’t my yoga or my prayer.

So this week it will be.

I like Pringles and Oreos as much as the next girl. But it’s funny how I never choose them over home fries and eggs or my mom’s oatmeal cinnamon chocolate chip cookies. So I thought maybe, for this week only, I’d make sure the treats I like best are the treats actually available to me.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

With love,

EASY HOMEMADE GRANOLA

Ingredients:
6 cups (540 grams) rolled oats
2/3 cup (160 ml) vegetable oil (I use canola)
1 cup (340 grams) honey
2 teaspoons (10 grams) salt (or 1 teaspoon… or zero… entirely your choice)

Optional Mix-Ins BEFORE Baking:
1 tablespoon (13 grams) vanilla (you can also use bourbon or rum… YUM!)
1 tablespoon (8 grams) cinnamon
1-3 cups (100-300 grams) nuts (I used 1 cup each almonds, walnuts, and pecans)
2 tablespoons (30 grams) seeds (I love pepitas, aka hulled pumpkin seeds, and flax)
1 cup (75 grams) coconut flakes
1-2 tablespoons (8-16 grams) grains like millet or wheat germ
2 tablespoons (16 grams) cocoa powder

Optional Mix-Ins AFTER Baking:
1-3 cups (150 grams) dried fruit

Directions: Combine ingredients and optional mix-ins (except dried fruit). Pour mixture onto a large, parchment paper or foil lined baking pan, and spread it evenly. Bake at 275F (135C) for 30 minutes. Stir (to avoid edges browning too much). Repeat, stirring every 30 minutes for a total of 2 hours. Stir a final time, turn off oven, and leave granola in the cooling oven for 2-3 hours. Remove from oven and finish cooling. Add dried fruit if desired. Break into pieces and store in an airtight bag or container.

TIP:
Oh my gosh, do y’all know about Molina Vanilla??

You can order from Amazon this REAL VANILLA that TASTES AMAZING for a fraction of the cost of vanilla at the grocery store. Highly recommend!

Off to eat! More soon.

The post It Looks Like Granola, But It’s Really Self-Care first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Maybe It’s a Poem: Thoughts on All of Life

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 23 Jul 2018 03:07:29 +0000

Alrighty, folks. I wrote to you a bit ago about my new welcome mat which reads,

Come on in,
We’re not ready

And I told you about the joy and angst it brings me.

Joy because YES, THE DOOR IS OPEN even though WE’RE NEVER READY. Joy because COME IN, ANYWAY, and “ready” is overrated. Joy because we choose Welcoming the Wanderers over Pristine Pretend. And joy because there’s something intimate and vulnerable and real about allowing others to bear witness to the mess and the madness.

But there was angst for me, too. SO MUCH ANGST when I saw…

Come on in,
We’re not ready

…BECAUSE THE PUNCTUATION ISN’T RIGHT.

It should read:

Come on in.
We’re not ready.

Come on in;
we’re not ready.

or even, if one wants to play a little loose with punctuation, like I often do, but remain creatively within the realm of what’s acceptable:

Come on in —
we’re not ready.

And I realize I shouldn’t care, folks. Language, after all, is fluid and evolutionary, as constantly changing as a child, and as likely to go to school in ill-fitting, high water pants for weeks before his mommy realizes he’s utterly outgrown them. We ought to be more concerned with whether the message is understandable than we are with strict adherence to rules of grammar and punctuation. I mean, do we really not comprehend the meaning when people mix up you’re and your? Are we confused when they let us know something is over their? No. We understand perfectly; we’re simply the self-assigned arbiters of Correct Speech like the old, crotchety human who hollers at children to GET OFF MY DAMN LAWN. Except in this case, it’s KIDS THESE DAYS; DON’T KNOW HOW TO USE A DAMN SEMI-COLON. It’s not pretty, in other words. <— But I am like this! This is a legitimate struggle for snooty Grammar Nazis like me.

Which is why Cherice’s comment stopped me in my tracks and made me gasp as a Bigger Truth suddenly dawned on me.

After seeing…

Come on in,
We’re not ready

…Cherice’s response was, “Maybe it’s not bad punctuation — maybe it’s a poem.”

MAYBE IT’S A POEM, friends.

Maybe it’s a poem.

And maybe — probably — definitely — all of life is a poem, too, defined less by strict parameters and rigid compliance and more by movement, deeper meaning, and flow.

There is a lilting quality to this life. A cadence. A pulse. A tempo. But so often we fail to recognize it as poetry; something beautiful and wild and purposeful exactly as it is. Instead, we watch life skip and trip and rise and fall — we watch life leave off without tidy conclusions or directions for where to pause or where to breathe — and we think, THAT DID NOT END RIGHT. Or I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHERE TO STOP OR MOVE FORWARD. I think, perhaps, we’ve misunderstood the medium. We’ve insisted life is a thing that it’s not.

Maybe it’s a poem.

Do you think?

Maybe it’s a poem, after all.

With love,

The post Maybe It’s a Poem: Thoughts on All of Life first appeared on bethwoolsey..

5 Things People With Tidy Homes (read: not me) Don’t Do

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 21 Jul 2018 00:05:18 +0000

So, for months now — MONTHS — Facebook keeps showing me the same sponsored post in my news feed. It’s by Myquillin Smith of The Nesting Place, a stunning home and garden blogger, and it’s titled 5 Things People With Tidy Homes Don’t Do.

Now, I want to be CRYSTAL CLEAR that I have no problem with my fellow humans who keep tidy homes. I LOVE PEOPLE WHO KEEP TIDY HOMES for many reasons, the main one of which is I get to live vicariously through them. Thank goodness, because God knows I don’t keep a tidy home myself. I mean, it’s gotten better as my kids have grown older — less “filth and squalor” these days and more just “mayhem, muck, and madness,” you know? — but tidy is definitely not a word applicable to our situation.

I adore looking at magazine photos. I feel inspired by whitewashed rooms with splashes of color. And I keep unrealistic hope alive that Someday This May Be Me. For example, I bought a white enamel clawfoot tub in fine condition the other day for no other reason than it was $50. I COULD NOT HELP IT. It’s a tub WITH CLAW FEET, friends, so the money leapt from my hand of its own accord. Do I have a place to put said tub, you ask? YES. OF COURSE I DO. WHO BUYS SOMETHING WITHOUT A PLACE TO PUT IT? It’s in my garage as I type. … Oh, you meant do I have a useful place to put said tub? Like, a sort of bathing-related space with extras like plumbing and soap. Well, no; no, I do not. Which is IRRELEVANT, as I told Greg while he was lifting the twelve ton beast from our rusty truck, because NOW I OWN A CLAWFOOT TUB. HOORAY!

Still, even as the proud owner of a clawfoot tub who is not anti-tidy, every time I see the 5 Things People With Tidy Homes Don’t Do article fly through my feed, I think I ALREADY KNOW 5 THINGS PEOPLE WITH TIDY HOMES DON’T DO, and they are these:

People with tidy homes don’t have one child.
People with tidy homes don’t have two children.
People with tidy homes don’t have three children.
People with tidy homes don’t have four children.
And people with tidy homes definitely don’t have five children.

RIGHT?

Right.

CAN I GET AN AMEN?

Amen!

And we shall politely ignore the fact that my 5 Things are lies, because there are plenty of people with children who have tidy homes. We shall ignore that because these 5 Things are clearly in the Necessary Lies category; the lies we must tell ourselves to remain functional; lies like bacon is not a carcinogen, and maybe the baby will sleep all night. SURVIVAL LIES is what these are. Capiche?

Now, I’ve put together a few photos that showcase Myquillian’s house and then mine from a similar angle in the home, just for visual aid purposes.

I like Myquillin’s home. Truth be told, I love it. And I’m seriously contemplating buying her book, but I couldn’t help but notice she’s not as prepared as me for this Christmas by proactively leaving wreaths hung in the kitchen.

Nor does she decorate her home in my more classic motif, which I like to call “Unpaid Bills and Dirty Dishes.”

And she seems to have a pronounced lack of broken end tables taking up all the usable sitting space.

I mean, to each her own, but in case “tidy” and “beautiful” and “a relaxing oasis inside your home” isn’t want you’re going for, feel free to take some inspiration from me and drape your couch in wrinkled bedsheets, crushed plastic drink containers, and game controllers.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You have options, is all I’m saying.

With love,

P.S. No criticisms of Myquillin Smith or The Nesting Place, please. Her motto is It Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful, so she’s our people.

P.P.S. We might be getting more foster kittens before the current ones are adopted because MORE KITTENS IS ALWAYS BETTER THAN LESS KITTENS, and also because our local shelter can’t take any more right now. My child, who has been listening far too much to his father and is therefore too practical for an 11yo and not nearly enough OMG MUST HAVE ALL THE KITTENS, asked where these kittens are supposed go. “The laundry room,” I said. “They can’t,” he replied, “or they’ll get all the clean laundry dirty.” That’s when I told him Something That Blew His Mind: some people do a chore called Putting Away Clean Laundry. As in, when they’re in need of clothes, they don’t dig through the pile on the laundry room floor. They look in places like closets and dressers, an activity most of my children have literally never done. I feel in retrospect like I didn’t need to share the entire post above. This little snippet explains in a nutshell our exact tidiness level.

P.P.P.S. I didn’t tell him about folding clothes. I felt like his brain had enough new concepts for one day.

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5 Things I Learned on the Portland Naked Bike Ride (Warning: Butts Ahead)

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 17 Jul 2018 00:06:29 +0000

Maybe it’s the Celt in me, or the Gael — a Druidic ancestor beckoning me back to the spirit of my homeland — a skyclad priestess spinning with her arms aloft to welcome the Wild at dusk or dawn — or maybe it’s just that there’s freedom in being bereft of barriers, but, for whatever reason, I’ve wanted to join the Portland Naked Bike Ride for years.

I already knew from my research that the Portland Naked Bike Ride wasn’t about sex or debauchery, drinking or drugs. The culture of the event was tame by all accounts, and I suspect since I grew up among the tribespeople in the highlands of Papua, who wore only grass skirts or phallic gourds and took the body and its parts as a mundane matter of course, it was easy for me to believe. Bodies are bodies are bodies. They serve myriad purposes. And one of them is riding a bike. Through Portland. On a beautiful summer evening. Naked.

I don’t know, honestly, whether I would’ve participated if my family hadn’t been booted from our broader church organization last year. Maybe? I at least would’ve thought about whether being the object of disdain was worth the momentary joy of flying free. Or tried to keep my participation a secret. But I have no one left to impress these days. No one whose approval I must seek in order to stay in good standing, safe inside my community. No one whose contempt carries any power anymore. It’s just God, Greg, me, and our family these days whose respect I seek, and, frankly, we’re kinder and gentler for it. Laid more bare, pun intended. Back to basics, if you will. And far less afraid.

So the superfluous things are falling away. The trappings of our faith becoming clear. The ways our rules have been more about maintaining the power structure and less about following the radical example of Jesus who constantly upset the religious people of his time to love his neighbors as himself.

And as we sift through what it truly means to follow God, whose other name is Love; as we suss out what it is to love God and our neighbors as ourselves; as we learn how to become people of love, joy, and peace, I’ll tell you a little secret…

I saw it all on the Portland Naked Bike Ride.

Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. And Self-Control.

And…shhhh… don’t tell, because I think it might upset them… but I think the Christian Church could learn a few things from the crazy naked people.

To wit,

5 Things I Learned on the Portland Naked Bike Ride

1. All are welcome. All colors. All identities. All body paint. Every kind of glitter. All ages. All shapes. Even white suburban mommies. Everyone is welcome.

2. Come as you are, and be how you like. Naked isn’t a requirement. “Bare as you dare” is the official motto of the ride. Some folks were fully clad, neck to toes, and others au natural. They all fit in. Every single one. No judgement. No staring. Spectators and participants alike. Just an enormous crowd of people with people-shaped shapes smiling people-shaped smiles like everyone’s allowed.

3. It is a sacred privilege to bear witness to each other’s stories as embedded in our flesh, and everyone seemed to fundamentally understand amidst loud celebration that we received a glimpse of holiness unveiled. Worthiness written as skin and folds and bone. Scars and ink chasing each other up and down bellies and spines. Every person made in Love’s own image.

4. Jesus is a middle aged woman with a flower print dress and sensible shoes standing outside her affluent home, waving at the naked riders she didn’t know would disrupt her street that night, shouting, “WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD. YOU’RE GORGEOUS. ALL OF YOU. WELCOME TO MY NEIGHBORHOOD.” Love Incarnate. Divine come to Earth. I’m not saying I cried on the Portland Naked Bike Ride, or that my breath caught in my throat as I rode by her, but I’m not saying I didn’t, either.

5. Chafing is a real thing, but not as much as you might think. Like LIFE — right, friends? IT’S FULL OF CHAFING. It rubs us the wrong way on occasion. But really, we probably avoid more things because we’re afraid it might possibly chafe than we face actual, real chafing. “BUT THE CHAFING” becomes our excuse. And it’s the one I heard most often about the Naked Bike Ride. “THE CHAFING,” folks say, and also, “WHAT ABOUT THE BIKE SEAT??” And here’s the truth — there was no chafing. And if there had been, a) there are mitigation techniques like baby powder, and b) it would’ve still been worth it. As for the bike seat, I feel like you may need to consult your physician — I mean, what is rubbing off on your seat from your private bits that a little Lysol and a paper towel can’t remedy at the end of the ride?

In conclusion, friends, the Portland Naked Bike Ride was the BEST NIGHT EVER, and I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.

Sending love, as always, and waving in the dark,

P.S. TOTALLY UNRELATED, except that they love being naked, too: our foster kittens are SO GOOD, y’all! Lily, our wild beast, is hardly hissy at all anymore, and these two will be ready very soon for their forever home.

So if you’re in the Portland or Salem areas of Oregon, and you’re able to provide a gentle home where these darlings can learn they’re safe, let me know.

I’d love to introduce you!

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The Kittens Have Landed. (Sorry, Baby Skunks.)

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 11 Jul 2018 04:52:07 +0000

THE KITTENS HAVE LANDED.

I REPEAT: THE FOSTER KITTENS HAVE LANDED.

Despite a WHOLE ENTIRE DINNER last week during which my beloved partner, my mother, my father, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my eldest daughter all tried to convince me foster kittens are the Worst Idea in the Known Universe, the kittens are here. Because NEVERTHELESS, I PERSISTED, friends.

Honestly, I saw through my family’s wily scheming. They know nothing motivates me more than being told no or that my ideas are terrible; these are humans who’ve been in deep relationship with me for decades, after all. So I knew as soon as they presented a United Front of Objection, it was the same as receiving their blessing to go forth and procure baby cats. It was incitement to rescue kittens. The very best kind of personalized encouragement.

Therefore, it is my pleasure to introduce you to our two temporary babies.

George (formally Gorgeous George), a 3-month-old grey and white Purr Machine, and…

Lily (formally Peanut), a 3-month-old tortoiseshell Scaredy Cat.

Our job? To help these two understand they’re safe after a rough start in life and to get them ready for adoption and family. So far, our focus is on changing Miss Lily’s skill set from Run Away in Abject Terror to eventually Ignore Humans in a Dignified Feline Manner. Girl’s got zero chill right now — just none — so I’m trying to gently break the news that she’s going to undermine the aloof reputation of cats everywhere if she’s not careful. She keeps coming out from her hidey hole to listen to my extensive lecture series, though, so I feel like we’re making progress.

Tonight’s speech was You Can Be Scared and Brave at the Same Time; in fact, there is no brave without scared, girlfriend. She came over to sit near me after that, so I think she got it.

I told her she might feel small and vulnerable, but secretly she’s a Fierce Warrior Princess.

I told her the Wild in her is a feature, not a bug.

I told her she’s Already Worthy of Infinite Love, exactly as she is right now, no fixing required to be wholly valued.

She didn’t buy it at first because of all the Hiding and Shaking and Occasional Lashing Out she’s doing right now, but I reminded her hidey holes and fear and anger are OK — smart, even, especially once we understand what we’re facing in this world — and that Venturing Forth isn’t something we must do relentlessly. Venturing Forth isn’t something we must do all the time. Venturing Forth isn’t for every single moment.

Venture Forth sometimes, Lily. And Boldly Go as soon as it’s time. You’ll get there, sweet, scared girl. You will. And you’ll find you’re braver than you ever imagined.

In the meantime, we’ll be here, helping you remember.

Your Foster Mama,

P.S. Sorry about this development, Baby Skunks. You might have to wait a while.

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We’re Getting Baby Skunks Because We’re Good Americans.

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 09 Jul 2018 23:52:36 +0000

Now hear this: if I can’t physically rescue baby humans from cages, I am going to rescue All the Baby Animals.

All of them.

Every single one.

I mean, YES, I am ALSO taking action on behalf of the small humans. But no one is letting me march into those detention centers with my wire cutters while holding a separated mommy’s hand so we can reunite her with her kid and stop this insanity, so I’m finding I need to take other actions, too. Tangible ones. To soothe this world and myself. To reduce the amount of harm. And it doesn’t hurt my mental health if those actions require me to snuggle tiny, furry creatures.

I started with foster puppies.

I’m moving on to foster kittens next.

And we’re getting a domesticated fox as soon as I find an extra $9,000 hidden in the couch cushions, because Greg said we can have one.

Now, foxes are technically not rescue animals, but I fail to see how Beth Woolsey Has a Fox does not make the world a better place, and I’m willing to try all angles right now for World Improvement. Also, does that animal not look like the cuddliest? I mean, no; no, it doesn’t, but I’m pretty sure that’s just ‘cause it’s sad it doesn’t live with us yet.

In the meantime, though — while waiting for the next foster felines and canines to arrive — what’s a girl to do?

DO NOT WORRY. I HAVE SOLVED THIS PROBLEM thanks to Zoey, the Very Best Dog Ever, who came inside last night sprayed by skunk.

SHE BROUGHT WORD FROM THE SKUNKS, FRIENDS.

At great risk to herself!

I mean, sure; at first we were dismayed. It was 11pm, and all the children were in bed when the Most Terrible Smell filled our senses and every crevice of our home.

And yes, we had to rush to The Google to discover the Best and Fastest Way to Remove Skunk Stank from thick, absorbent fur and sweet doggy eyes.

But while we all washed and scrubbed and rinsed in a Heroic Group Effort in Our Underwear, I REALIZED THIS IS THE SKUNKS’ CRY FOR HELP.

I told Greg. New plan! WE ARE FOSTERING BABY SKUNKS. Clearly the poor dears are lashing out at this cruel, cruel world. They just need a little loving. It’s going to be awesome. Baby skunks everywhere, y’all. We are going to be a Baby Skunk Sanctuary. A Baby Skunktuary.

Then we can develop a domesticated skunk program like the Russians did with the foxes. America is pro-Russia now, so this is PERFECT. The ideal way to show our patriotism.

THERE IS NO DOWNSIDE. Especially because I’ve heard baby skunks can’t spray. I’ve verified that in zero places because verification of facts occasionally undermines what I want to believe. So YOU may say “baby skunks can’t spray = alternative facts,” but *I* say you can’t trust what the media says because they have their own liberal ANTI BABY SKUNK agenda, and you’re just too stupid to see it. Why have facts when I can have harmful opinions instead?

In conclusion, we’re getting baby skunks because we’re good Americans. BABY SKUNKS FOR EVERYONE.

I can feel the world healing already.

Sincerely,

P.S. Greg is ecstatic at this news. He keeps staring at me and shaking his head, speechless, so great is his awe and joy.

The post We’re Getting Baby Skunks Because We’re Good Americans. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

We’re Getting a Kitten! Don’t Tell Greg.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 27 Jun 2018 04:20:59 +0000

We’re getting a kitten!

Don’t tell Greg.

Also, don’t tell Abby.

Also-also, don’t tell my parents.

None of those people will approve, and the first two will be downright hostile about it — Greg because he feels we already have enough living creatures around here costing us money (FALSE, Greg), and Abby because her soul is damaged and she doesn’t like animals.

Actually, as long as you’re not telling people, don’t tell my younger kids, either. They WILL approve, but they’ll tattle on me to Greg and Abby, which will undermine my strategy: “Oh, do we have a KITTEN? How did that get in here??” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, if I tell my younger kids, they’ll think they have a say in Which Kitten and Its Name, and then I won’t get to be the Kitten Picker and the Kitten Namer, so SSHHHHHH — tell NO ONE.

Why a kitten and why now, you ask?

Well, Aden, my 16yo kiddo who experiences disability — and who’s often overlooked around here because she’s generally quiet and well-behaved unlike the rest of these helions who DEMAND ALL THE ATTENTION ALL THE TIME — has been asking for a kitten forever.

She’s also requested a horse, chickens, a unicorn, a pegasus, a dolphin, and a dragon, and we have, to date, failed to procure her a single one.

I think we can all agree a kitten is the easiest and least expensive of all these options, so really I’m doing Greg a favor. Yes? Yes. I couldn’t agree more, friends. I’ll tell him you said so.

Know what else? In an epic display of self-restraint, I specifically did NOT get a kitten earlier this month, even though I was offered one FOR FREE.

Which means, technically, I’ve already given Greg No Kitten. A kitten he gets to NEVER HAVE. An absence of THAT KITTEN forever. So I’ve met Greg’s need, and now it’s time to meet Aden’s.

The math works in my favor, too. See, we used to have Zero Kittens, but then I released a Kitten We Didn’t Have, so now we have Minus One Kitten. A single negative kitten, if you will. So if we ADD a kitten for Aden — (Aden’s kitten MINUS Greg’s Not Kitten) — that will bring our household back to zero kittens again.

^^^ This is what Zero Woolsey Kittens looks like.^^^

I am, in other words, a Problem Solving Miracle Worker (aka, a mommy) who magically meets everyone’s needs at once.

AND WE’RE GETTING A KITTEN!

Sincerely,

P.S. In my defense, I have actually mentioned this plan to Greg, but I’ve also mentioned, among many other things, that I’m buying a mini Jersey milking cow and that we’re moving to Belize. Since I’ve so far failed to deliver on any of these promises, he remains blithely optimistic, as though they can’t befall him anytime. His mistake, friends. His mistake.

P.P.S. Current lady kitten name options are as follows: Maeve, Lucy, Freya, Maisie, or Uma. Please provide your critiques.

P.P.P.S. We may not get our own kitten if I can convince my local animal shelter to let me foster all their kittens, instead. If, after all, we get All the Kittens and keep Zero, then our kitten numbers will be WELL into the negatives, which means we get pretty much Unlimited Kittens in the future without counting them toward our positive total. This seems to me to be excellent long term planning. I’ll provide an update as soon as possible.

The post We’re Getting a Kitten! Don’t Tell Greg. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Feeling Sick Is Part of It: A Response to Kids in Cages

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 19 Jun 2018 00:57:26 +0000

I’m eating white cheddar Cheetos — the fancy kind with no preservatives, flavors or colors. The elitist cheese puffs were only $0.29 more than the regular, neon orange, radioactive kind, so I decided not to get cancer, just this once. I’m drinking diet ginger ale, too, because cheese dust and ginger pair well, and, also, everyone knows the word “diet” counteracts all calories consumed in that sitting.

I’m in Honolulu right now, staying in my college kid’s apartment while she’s home earning money for the summer so she can come back here. I’m next to an azure pool with the sun shining, and my eyes squinting, and palms waving, and a pregnant cat patrolling the perimeter. All I can think about is the fact that those kittens will be born more free than children on the mainland who needed compassion and asylum and got cages instead.

Every Cheeto I eat tastes like It’s Not Fair, and every sip of soda like What Am I Doing, and Why Am I Here, and This Luxurious Life is Obscene in the Face of Such Great Suffering and Evil.

I keep thinking about whether I can convince Greg to eat dimsum two days in a row, and also how to do more than just contact my senators and keep posting on Facebook about kids on concrete clinging to chain link. Are any of the activists and amnesty organizations and attorneys making headway? How do I help? And will the dimsum restaurant have more mochi fried rice balls?

My littlest kids splash in the water after visiting Pearl Harbor and studying Japanese concentration camps today, and, unlike when I was 11, they’re under no illusions that war and injustice and cruelty on massive scales can’t happen again; that they’re not happening right now in our country, in our churches, in our communities. They can’t pretend America is better than this. They already know it’s not. These are their foundational and formative experiences. Maybe they’ll fight harder and earlier than we did because they didn’t get to play make-believe. Maybe? Maybe they’ll stop splashing each other in the face and bickering about who had the last turn on the floating mattress. Maybe.

The wind is blowing in my face, making my eyes water, and I’m contemplating whether it’s worth the effort to repaint my badly chipped toenail polish. I feel sick, and it’s not the Cheetos. Turns out, I couldn’t stomach many of those, although I made a heroic effort. I’m doing what I can for our babies in prison — because they are our babies, every single one — even though I know I’m not making a dent in their boxes made of steel and stone.

And I suppose it’s OK that my thoughts are tangled and torn and intertwined, the superfluous holding hands with the significant. I suppose it’s OK that I can’t do a thing without thinking of our babies crying in cages. I suppose it’s OK to feel sick about the state of the world and the tiny ones suffering in it. OK, and right. Feeling sick is part of it. Action, too; of course action, as much as we can. But mourning, as well. To my stomach and my bones. Sitting under a clear sky, next to a pool.

Sending love, dear friends,

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I Saw an Old Woman

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 14 Jun 2018 21:44:28 +0000

I saw an old woman last night wearing a loose shift in the lobby of my daughter’s condo building. She was tiny in every direction; her arms the size of my wrists, her head as tall as my chin. She must’ve been pushing 80, both in years and in pounds. Her skin was ivory white under the florescent lights, translucent almost, like it was the color of her bones leaching through and not so much the color of skin at all. Like she was turning inside out. Transforming in her skin cocoon in front of my eyes.

Why are we captured by some people? What is it about a glance at an atrophied arm somehow strong as steel and graceful as snow that enthralls us? Why that lady with her short, short hair and almond eyes the same deep black as the iron rail where she rested her hand?

I wanted to stroke her skin to see if it was as soft as it appeared, like satin draped over her frame. I looked at my own skin, firm and fleshy, swollen like ripe fruit, freckled with proof of the sun; tougher than hers, but only superficially; new leather that hasn’t had time to fully transition from raw hide to supple luxury.

I wondered if she knows she’s beautiful. Not “beautiful for an old lady” or “beautiful in her own way” or “beautiful in the eye of the beholder.” Just objectively lovely, a crone pixie queen.

I wondered if she was kind. I wondered if she was cruel. I wondered what she knows now that she didn’t when she was young. I wondered what she’d do over. I wondered what she’d never do again. I wondered who her lovers were and about her moments of great passion and crippling grief. I wondered if she’s learned to love others and herself well.

I wasted my day yesterday. I spent time mindlessly doing things that didn’t need to be done and failing to do the things that did. Self flaggelation and shame had no effect. I berated myself and was still unproductive. Measuring my self-worth by the things I DO and not who I am, you say? Why, yes; yes, that’s it exactly.

I saw the woman after I tried to get some work done. It was after 7pm, and I was tired of myself, so I’d gone outside to sit by the pool to feel the wind and see the sky to try to write. I made it through a sentence or two about wishing for wings that work and wanting to fly free. I made it a sentence or two about the oddity of being a creature born to fly who must use the earth to launch and land. I made it a sentence or two, trying to somehow capture the sense of what it’s like to long for more time in the air with a simultaneous gratitude for and resentment of the muddy patch in which I stand.

It started to rain.

Then it poured.

Sheets of water on the patio and through the trees and on me with my noble, wistful, drama-laden words.

Two sentences in, and I retreated under a slip of roofline that didn’t quite protect me from the rain, taking cover like the rest of the flying creatures when the weather doesn’t cooperate with our grand plans.

I read a novel.

I drank a beer.

I waited for the rain to abate, and then I packed up and went inside where I saw and old woman wearing a loose shift in the lobby of my daughter’s condo building.

The post I Saw an Old Woman first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Someone Left an Exercise Bike on My Front Porch So I Can Do the Thing I’m Best At

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 05 Jun 2018 22:44:07 +0000

Someone left an exercise bike on my front porch.

I don’t know how long it’s been there.

It just appeared sometime after I left the empty paint cans out to dry fourteen months ago, and before today, when my son decided to prove my neglected garden box is truly decrepit by ripping it from the earth and depositing it next to the front door.

F Your I, that kid didn’t tell me he would be digging up my garden. He just left the rotting wooden frame for me as a decoration, as if to emphasize to anyone misguided enough to visit exactly how green my thumb is not. This is my kid who experiences disability and often has a hard time expressing himself verbally. This one isn’t too hard to interpret, though. I’m pretty sure he’s saying, “Guys. Guys. Guys. My mom is SO BAD at gardening, she doesn’t just kill the plants. She kills the container, too. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BEFORE YOU KNOCK. I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU.”

So now there’s a bike, too. Just hanging out. On my front porch. Amid a mounting pile of debris.

Because my front porch needed one more thing to complete its junk collection?

Or as a hint?

Perhaps it’s a not-so-subtle message to get my ass in gear. Which is fine, really. I’m not offended. God knows I’ll be able to disregard that bike easily as I’ve ignored my garden and those paint cans. Ignoring miscellaneous detritus is well within my skill set, after all, as is putting off exercise. I mean, those are two of my main spiritual gifts. It’s really like whoever dropped that contraption off is simply giving me the opportunity to live my best life, you know? By doing what I’m good at.

That is all for now. I need to get to work Not Seeing that Bike, STAT.

Sending love and waving in the dark,

P.S. I’m hoping that bike is a gift and not a loan because, frankly, I’m not responsible enough to return it in like condition should its deliverer ever want it back.

For example, my neighbor came over yesterday to loan me the meatball pages from his recipe binder. I’ve complimented his balls of meat repeatedly, as one does, so it was a kind gesture on his part.

Kind, but unwise. I meant to take good care of those pages. I meant to bring them inside and not leave them on my patio table where he’d found me and deposited them. I meant to, but Somebody in my house bugged Somebody Else, and small humans were VeryHungryPracticallySTARVING, and the dog absconded with a tampon which she subsequently deemed a Serious Threat and therefore Slaughtered in Defense of her family, leaving , and on and on and on, so I was beckoned repeatedly and at top volume by my most common name, MomMomMOMmomMom. I don’t know how it happened, but I left the pages on the patio table where they were viciously attacked by the sprinklers in the night. Now I have wads of toilet paper shoved in their plastic sleeves, attempting to soak up the water so they can dry.

I’m basically being kept company by Balls of Meat pages that look like they don’t know how to correctly stuff their bra.

P.P.S. My sweet teens just came home from school and let me know I look like Actual Death with no make-up on. They suggested I maybe take a shower and clean myself up.

That has nothing to do with the rest of this post. Just wanted to let someone know so the authorities will know who to arrest for Their Actual Death which is imminent.

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Come On In. We’re Not Ready.

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 26 May 2018 04:08:57 +0000

Come on in. We’re not ready.

I was at the discount grocery store last week when I saw the stack of welcome mats between the soda and the giant bags of brownie brittle. They said,

Come on in,
We’re not ready

I laughed out loud because YES. YES; THIS IS US, EXACTLY.

Come on in. We’re not ready. BUT WHO CARES? Come in, anyway, because Being Inside Together is More Important than Preparation. Opening the Door Wide to the Wild and the Weird is More Important than Pretending We Have It All Together. More wonderful, too. Yes? Yes. This is true.

Come on in! We’re not ready.

Then I thought about the terrible punctuation situation on that mat.

Come on in,
We’re not ready

That comma is wrong, I thought, and who starts the next phrase with a capital letter and doesn’t finish with a period?? I’m not proud of the fact that this matters to me; it’s just the way it is, friends. I mean, I understand language is evolutionary. I’m working hard, actually, to care more about Clear Communication than about Following Arbitrary and Convoluted, Gate-Keeping Language Rules. But the struggle is real. Putting out a literal welcome mat celebrating poor punctuation? It’s a stretch, I tell you.

I checked the price — a whopping $7 — and walked away. Bad punctuation plus SEVEN WHOLE DOLLARS felt like a bridge too far. But I only made it an aisle away — to the off-brand women’s gummy vitamins and discontinued wrinkle creams — before I went back, talked myself through spending $7 on something unnecessary that brings me unreasonable joy, and threw it in my shopping cart.

I figure it’s even better with the horrible punctuation, actually. Like the mat is saying, “Come on in, We’re not ready … AND I DID NOT HAVE TIME TO PROOFREAD THIS WHICH JUST PROVES I’M UNPREPARED.” It’s like a visual aid for what’s happening inside my house so that visitors aren’t surprised by the used socks flung halfway down the stairs, or the blanket fort ruins in the living room, or the paper towel confetti the foster dog created as a special backyard thanks-for-hosting-me decoration.

Come on in! We’re not ready.

The floors are filthy. The counters are cluttered. There are broken bits of Nerf bullets every-damn-where. But the company is good, the drinks are usually cold, and we don’t care if you drop an eff-bomb in front of the kids, because we went ahead and took care of that for you so they’ve heard it before and will love you anyway sans judgement regarding your mouth.

Come on in! We’re not ready.

My make-up is on, and my hair is done, except for most the time when that’s not the case at all. Also, I can’t guarantee anyone is wearing pants or appropriate undergarments. Not the kids. Not the grown-ups. We focus more on kindness than grooming around here. We fail at both, but at least we try, try, try again. Priorities, folks. We have them.

Come on in! We’re not ready.

Not even emotionally. At least not always. I mean, God knows if you’re going to walk in on someone bitching or being uncharitable or laying underneath the kitchen table writing graffiti and declaring she is DONE, cannot take ANY MORE, and is GIVING UP on ALL the THINGS. But meh. Come in anyway. Someone’s probably stuck on the toilet with the bathroom door open, hollering for toilet paper, but come in. Come in.

Come on in! We’re not ready.

But Ready and Put-Together are overrated anyway, aren’t they? Like facades for regular life. An illusion. A masquerade. A veil that obscures in the name of beauty but really only separates us from the grimy, glorious, gorgeous truth of a complex reality better and brighter than Pristine Pretend.

So come on in! We’re not ready, and that doesn’t matter at all.

Come on in where Ready is irrelevant. Welcome, instead, to the chaos, the madness, and the mess.

Psst… there’s magic here.

With love,

The post Come On In. We’re Not Ready. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Twinsie Pics: How I Duplicated My Daughter’s Instagram Feed, Part Deux

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 16 May 2018 02:13:01 +0000

or, alternatively titled,
How I Ended Up Topless in Hawaii…
on Not-a-Topless Beach

I’m really not to blame here.

Hawaii’s to blame.

After all, I have terrible ideas and am historically irresponsible. A quick search of the internet by Hawaii would have revealed this and more. So the fact that Hawaii failed to avail itself of a simple online background check before allowing me on her beaches demonstrates negligence on her part, and everyone knows negligence = culpability.

Therefore, it’s Hawaii’s fault.

I think we can all agree.

…

It started innocently enough, as it always does.

I was visiting my daughter who’s at college in Hawaii.

I do this on occasion because I’m an excellent mother who cares about her kid’s wellbeing. I do this so I can cook Abby a few well-balanced meals. I do this because I am generous, kind, and involved, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she picked Hawaii for school, where she lives in a condo with a rather lovely pool close to the beach.

I’m certain I’d visit just as often if she’d gone to school in Saskatchewan.

So I was visiting my kid, and we decided to take a few mother/daughter twinsie pics. You know; twinsie pics… where you take photos together and see if people can tell you apart.

We’ve been doing this for a few years now, ever since Abby wanted to take a dance photo — accomplished dancer that she is — in a Japanese garden.

She wanted the photo, but she was too embarrassed.

I told her it’s OK to be embarrassed. I’d be embarrassed, too, if I had a mom like me who’s an even better dancer than her. I mean, that’s got to be hard for her, you know? To have a mom who’s so young, beautiful, and athletically gifted? Hard row to hoe right there, with me as a mama.

But Abby expressed skepticism about my dancing prowess. I assured her I’m an excellent dancer. She told me to prove it. I did, and that’s the way our twinsie pics were born. Just like this:

(I’m the one on the right.)

Since then, we’ve taken dozens more.

(I’m on the right again.)

(Right.)

(Left.)
(HA! Switched it up on you. Bet you didn’t see that coming.)

And then last fall, I decided to start duplicating her Instagram feed, because WWJD, amirite?

(I’m on the right.)

(I’m in the middle.)

But in all our efforts, something was missing.

Something was wrong.

Something made it clear we’re not quite exactly alike.

It took me a long time, but I finally figured it out.

MATCHING OUTFITS, friends. We needed matching outfits. Like, duh.

And what better way to match than to wear the EXACT SAME THING?

I really don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I mean, Abby and I share clothes all the time. Obviously.

So I asked — and received permission — to wear Abby’s swimsuits this time to duplicate her Insta feed.

And that’s how I ended up on a public beach in Hawaii dressed like this:

For the sake of ART.

(I’m the second one.)

After all, what’s a little sand in your crack(s) when you’re giving the world a gift of unparalleled beauty?

(Second again.)

…

What we failed to realize at the time, however, was how precarious that bikini top’s clasp was…

…and how it was under, shall we say, a rather enormous amount of pressure…

…like the current volcano in Hawaii, such that something had to give.

And give, it did.

^^^(Actual photo of the clasp erupting)^^^

That clasp gave with such force, it flung the top up into my face.

KABOOM!

My boobies sprang free in the same way Ursula the Sea Witch erupted from her human body,…

…one second tastefully and demurely contained; the next, bursting forth to wreak havoc on the innocent.

Which is how, dear friends, I ended up flashing a Very Public Beach in Hawaii.

And why Hawaii owes the very sweet young families and lovely older couples there an apology.

Just thought you’d want to know.

With deep and abiding love,

P.S. Abby is now the proud owner of a brand new black bikini top to replace one destroyed in a terrible and mysterious accident.

P.P.S. More twinsie pics are on their way soon. Cover your eyes.

P.P.P.S. Join my email list at the bottom of this page. You’ll receive blog posts straight to email, as well as other exclusive content, so you won’t ever miss a thing. In fact, as soon as you subscribe, I’ll send you a bonus story, exclusive to email. A sequel, if you will, to The Day I Pooped My Closet. This one is The Day I Peed My Office. Greg says this is more of a threat than an enticement. I say you’re my people; you totally get it.

The post Twinsie Pics: How I Duplicated My Daughter’s Instagram Feed, Part Deux first appeared on bethwoolsey..

5 Real Ways I Eased My Depression This Year

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 09 May 2018 02:36:48 +0000

SERIOUS ACCOMPLISHMENT TODAY, friends.

I called the pharmacy. On the TELEPHONE.

Like, I was out of medicine, so I casually picked up the phone, all la-dee-da as though I do this every day, dialed, talked to another human, and ordered more meds.

TRUE STORY.

It took less than two minutes, as opposed to the usual two weeks of crippling inertia and dread.

It took no brain space and carried no anxiety, as opposed to a full mental shut-down, clammy skin, and racing heart.

Then — then, friends — I put in a full day of work. Like it was no big deal. Like work is feasible. I called the pharmacy, I worked, I made food for myself and others, and I didn’t want to die or hide or cry.

That’s when I realized I’m truly on the mend.

I’ve found whole, big pieces of myself. And I also remembered how very slow is the road to recovery.

I’m on the upswing now, though. Really for real this time, as opposed to all the other times in the past 12 months I thought I was better.

Last June, I was able to get out of bed and sit on the couch. That was it. Just walk downstairs in the clothes I’d worn the day before (and the day before that, and the day before that… times infinity), put my butt on the couch, and turn on the TV. At night, I reversed course. And that’s when I knew I need medical help. Again.

By July, I could make myself food. Sometimes even a sandwich, which requires enough brain space to think about multiple steps. It felt like a miracle because, frankly, it was.

In August, I traveled with my family, and while I still found breathing an extraordinarily difficult task — probably because of the trash compactor practicing on my lungs such that short and shallow gasps were my only option — I didn’t eff it up for my kids; I did one activity with them per day, even if it was just sitting next to a pool, before I put myself back to bed.

I’m still waiting for my trophy. It shall read Didn’t Eff Up Family Vacation. Or perhaps instead of another trophy, this one should be a medallion like the participation awards handed out at the end of marathons. That seems fitting.

By December, I had the energy to decorate the house in my signature half-assed style, which included setting up the tree I trimmed three years ago, throwing stockings in the general direction of the mantel, and making two ingredient fudge. I spent three hours, max, on decorating, and I felt like a hero. CURED, I thought. Or at least in Depression Remission. I mean, the contrast with June was stark. I pretty much passed out for the rest of the Christmas season, but three whole hours of productivity — during which I breathed full breaths — was infinitely more than I’d had all summer.

This week, though, I MADE A PHONE CALL. Undeniable proof of mental stability.

Rejoice with me, friends, for that which was lost has been found.

For those of you who may be in the same boat — on the long road home — I’m sharing the following five real actions I took this year to ease my depression.

None of these is a substitute for medical and/or counseling help, but all of them played a role in giving me measures of relief along the way.

5 Real Ways I Eased My Depression This Year

1. We Bought a New Mattress: Anyone who reads here often will know we are not New Thing Buyers. We like old things, used things, and cheap-ass things.

Greg, in fact, was trying to dry himself after his shower yesterday, and it took him forever; he had to go slow so the towel wouldn’t rip more. Because big, rippy holes? Not a good reason to buy new towels. Truth is, Full Towel Disintegration isn’t enough to force such an extravagant purchase. We’ve never bought a towel in our lives, and this is no time to start.

You won’t be surprised to learn, then, that in 23 years of marriage, we’ve spent exactly $399 on mattresses. That’s cumulative for everyone in our house. Because if friends and family are giving them away, who are we to say no?

Unfortunately, though, my mattress wasn’t doing me any sleeping favors, and it turns out sleep is a critical part of mental health. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ So Greg and I succumbed and bought a Purple mattress.

Worth every penny, folks. Every penny.

(Don’t buy the Purple sheets, though — they suck. I mean, they’re great for a couple weeks, but then they start to pill, which is a real bummer. Stick with your regular sheets. The used ones you got from grandma. 😉 )

2. CBD Oil: Yep. Hemp oil. I’m going full Oregonian these days. Cannabidiol is the non-intoxicating, non-high-inducing extract of marijuana.

NOTE: You really do need to be careful with this for two reasons. First, the manufacturing of CBD oil isn’t regulated, so it’s important to be sure you’re getting a product that is exactly what it says it is. And second, the research on CBD has been minimal. It’s been proven to help with epileptic seizures and looks promising for social anxiety and as an anti-inflammatory, but there’s no conclusive information on the last two. A lot of anecdotal data, but nothing FDA approved.

I’m using a minimal amount of CBD oil (from a provider for whom I can vouch personally with a product that is what it says it is) 2 hours before bedtime as a sleep aid. I don’t know if it helps with sleep or not, to be honest, nor do I know if it’s the CBD or a placebo, but it’s helping me heaps with the anxiety of falling asleep, which is a Big Deal in my universe and, combined with Camomile and Lavendar Tea, is allowing me forego ambien most nights. For the win.

3. A Consistent Bedtime Routine: …. HA! Just kidding. At the time of this writing, it’s 10:30pm, one kids is crying because life is unfair (literally nothing triggered this — he’s just deeply troubled at the unjustness of All of Life), one is waxing eloquent about toast, a dog is barking, I can’t find my hairbrush, and I’ve just remembered 27 things I need to do before I sleep. Bedtime routines are probably helpful. I’m not maligning them. I’m just saying they’re apparently not for me.

Actual #3. Trashy Novels: Trust me here, recovering from a depressive episode is no time for deep thinking or self improvement. Staying alive and moving closer to health is all the improvement you need right now. Cross my heart. This is where trashy novels come in. They’re escapist fluff that allow you to shut your brain down. Some people can do this with trashy Netflix, so you do you. The key here is evading reality with brain candy. Give yourself permission to just rest that noggin.

4. Foster Dogs or Do Some Other Unreasonable Thing That Brings You Joy: Now, if it were up to me, I’d have two dogs. Maybe six. Possibly nine hundred. But because Greg’s heart is a hardened lump of coal, I get one. He tried for zero, but I solved that by not buying a miniature horse, thereby proving what a sensible choice a Golden Retriever is. To make up for the dearth of dogs in my life, I asked Greg if we could start fostering Goldens. He said no, so now we’re fostering Goldens. In conclusion, do something that Makes No Sense to the people around you but brings you Great Joy and Soothes Your Soul. The sense-makers will understand eventually. Probably after you don’t buy the miniature Jersey milking cow you’ve been eyeing.

5. Sunshine: Because Vitamin D, folks. Those of us in climates like Oregon have to get creative sometimes to find it, but it’s a biological imperative — especially for brain and bone health — and no source delivers Vitamin D better than the sun. Thank God my kid goes to college in Hawaii so I have to visit her. Time with my baby girl + Vitamin D + twinsie pics replicating her Instagram feed. I mean, I can’t go wrong.

That’s all for now, friends, but I am, as always, sending you love and waving in the dark,

P.S. Speaking of Vitamin D and twinsie pics, there’s more of this magnificence coming soon to a blog near you:

P.P.S. Yes, my daughter and I can share clothes. Obviously.

P.P.P.S. Sorry it’s so hard to tell us apart. You’ll just have to guess which one is me.

P.P.P.P.S. #Twinsies #MotherDaughter #CantTellUsApart

P.P.P.P.P.S. I genuinely can’t think of a better way to end a post about mental health than by adding a photo that ensures you’ll question mine.

The post 5 Real Ways I Eased My Depression This Year first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I Tried Revenge Chores So You Don’t Have To

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 02 May 2018 22:06:59 +0000

Got in a fight with Greg yesterday about a Tiny Thing. For the record, it was categorically his fault and zero percent mine, and we shall ignore the fact that I’m the only one telling this story without giving him a shot at sharing His Side. Yes? Yes. Excellent. I’m glad we’re on the same page.

Don’t worry, though; I got back at him by Revenge Weeding, Revenge Dish Washing, and Revenge Dinner Cooking. That’s when you do all those things, but with anger in your heart instead of love. Well, I suppose with love, too, but only technically speaking. Revenge Chores are like when the love is definitely there, but it’s buried deep, deep down under the Muttering and the One Sided Conversations in Your Brain Where Everything YOU Have to Say Is Brilliant and Wise So That He Acquiesces, Admits Fault, and Begs for Forgiveness. That’s very satisfying if you, like me, are interested in maintaining the fantasy of Righteous Anger and stoking the flame of simultaneous Self Pity and Superiority, but it’s not very satisfying if you want to, you know, do anything actually productive in the relationship. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Sometimes you gotta make hard choices.

Now, I’m not usually one for Revenge Chores. I’m much more inclined to Revenge Take a Bath or Revenge Sit on the Couch or Revenge Go to a Pub. I am, in other words, not very good at getting Actual Revenge, as all of these usually go unnoticed by the object of my actions. It turns out, Taking a Bath at someone does rather little to get one’s point across. And in fact, now that I’ve tried Revenge Chores, I don’t recommend them, either; if possible, Revenge Chores are even less effective than Revenge Bathing. I mean, I understand it’s probably already occurred to you that Revenge Chores are more like a Reward than Revenge for the culprit, but I’m a little slow sometimes. Greg didn’t pick up on my back-stabbing Choring at all. He seemed to appreciate it, so that sucked.

I finally had to resort, as a last-ditch effort, to Talking to Greg. In my defense, I often start with Words before Revenge Bathing, because I’m Mature and Reasonable; my Words, of course, being always Calm, Logical, and Kind where Calm, Logical, and Kind sound like, “GAH!” and “ARGH!” and “OH MY GOSH, I DID TELL YOU THE THING YOU SAY I DIDN’T TELL YOU… WHY DO YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME?” Because everyone knows using words like Always and Never and I Did SO is the best way to be heard and understood by one’s partner.

So we talked. Eventually. By which I mean argued. In the kitchen. In front of our kids, which I don’t recommend. Not because I think it’s important to show children a United Parenting Front and that You’re Always on the Same Side — I think that’s wholly unrealistic and unhelpful as it doesn’t teach kids Conflict Resolution by example. No; I don’t recommend arguing in front of the kids because they’ll call you on your Bullshit, folks, which I can tell you from experience is a real bummer.

”Yes, Mom, you’re technically correct,” inserts an 11yo, “but you always tell me you can be Right AND Kind about it, and you say You Can Be Mad AND Express It Nicely.”

”Yeah,” his brother pipes up, “I’d say you’re kinda being a hypocrite right now.”

ಠ_ಠ

Lord love a duck. KIDS THESE DAYS, y’all. Both Right AND Annoying. <— THIS IS WHAT COMES FROM TEACHING YOUR KIDS APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR AND HOW TO EXPRESS THEMSELVES. Think twice is all I’m saying, friends. Think twice.

In conclusion, this is a post about nothing. Just being human over here.

Waving at those of you humaning, too.

P.S. Greg and I are good now. We didn’t smother each other with pillows. The Awards Ceremony is tonight.

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Why It’s OK To Cry at Writing Retreats (or, At Least Ours): A Guest Post by Melanie Springer Mock

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 26 Apr 2018 02:26:20 +0000

Dear Friends,

Today I’m delighted to share this space with my friend, Melanie, who is one of my major writing inspirations.

Although I was initially intimidated by her — she’s a real writer, after all, has authored several books, and is an award-winning professor of writing at a university — I soon learned that Melanie is also an encourager, a kindness monger, a humble advocate and mentor, and a loyal friend. Now Melanie has released her latest book, my favorite so far, and I think you’ll see immediately why I’m sharing it (and her) with you. It’s titled Worthy: Finding Yourself in a World Expecting Someone Else. For those of us who grew up in conservative Evangelical Christian culture and have felt enormous pressure to conform in order to fit in — for those of us who have desperately longed to be wildly and truly ourselves with all our magic and mess, as though that is who we were created to be all along — this book is a life-giver and a game changer. Vulnerable, funny, heart-wrenching, and deeply true, Melanie shows us the way to discover that we’re already worthy of love exactly as we are. Which is what I hope we do here every day.

I asked Melanie to write a guest post, which I offer below, AND we’re also doing a giveaway of Worthy. Leave a comment here on the blog post, and you’ll be entered to win. (But also go buy it… you’ll be glad you did… and you can always give it to a friend if you win.) I wrote a post not long ago about my own sense of vulnerability at the retreats we offer at the Oregon Coast, and Melanie picks up the theme for us below…

With much love,

…..

Last week, when I took my dog Nellie to a new-to-us veterinarian, I noticed an unlit candle at the front desk, with a sign that said something like “If this candle is lit, please be quiet and respectful, as someone is saying good-bye to a beloved companion.” The candle and sign slayed me, and I cried right there in the vet office. And then at home. And several times since, telling people about the candle, the sign, the thoughtfulness of it all.

Something about middle age has made me weepy as hell. Part of this may well be genetic, and part might be because a lot of people I love are going through really hard things. And part of it is totally inexplicable—like, when my dad texts me cute videos of dogs doing cute things, or when my own cute dog needs to see her doctor, and I find myself weeping in the vet lobby.

What else can I do, but admit that I’m a middle-aged woman who cries in vet offices whilst holding the leash of a healthy dog? And cries at movie trailers, home renovation shows on TV, and the overnight (and sometimes short-lived) maturity of her two teen sons?

Then there was that time at the Magic in the Mess writing retreat, two years ago, when I was leading a session and started crying, so much so that no one could probably understand what I was saying. We were talking about something—vulnerability in writing, maybe—and I shared about an article I’d recently published in Christianity Today, one that had gone viral(ish), but that had narrated a childhood experience that was deeply painful for me. And, given my tears, apparently still was.

The cool thing about the Magic in the Mess writing retreat is that it’s okay to cry. Heck, if the facilitator can cry at the retreat, then anyone can, right?

The other cool thing is that the article in Christianity Today, alongside some of my other published work, opened the doors for a book contract, which opened more doors for my most-recent book to be published last week. Worthy: Finding Yourself in a World Expecting Someone Else is part personal narrative, part cultural critique, and all vulnerability, as it discusses what it means to hear, over and over again, that you are not worthy: of acceptance, of community, of inclusion, of love.

In one way or another, we all hear and internalize those messages of unworthiness, and we spend our lifetimes seeking validation for who we are, not always recognizing that we are inherently worthy, and that nothing we do changes that inherent worthiness. Also, because I am a believer, I write about how God’s love for all of us is unconditional, despite what the church says about who deserves inclusion and who does not.

So I spent about nine months writing that book, in bits and pieces, as I continued teaching university writing classes and trying to survive my sons’ teen years. And then, I spent another year revising what I’d written, working with the publisher to create a marketing plan, and checking and rechecking the minutia of my manuscript.

I cried a bunch then, too, because deadlines seemed overwhelming, and my stories a little too raw to relive, and (okay, I’ll admit it) once or twice because I wrote a cool sentence. The writing process can be all that and more sometimes.

Last week, the book was published, and my community came out to celebrate my accomplishment. One of my closest friends threw an awesome launch party, because she has mad skills for that kind of thing, and the loving willingness to share her gifts with me. While I’ve panicked about whether people would come to my party, and whether I’m even worthy of celebration or attention (oh, the irony in wondering if I’m worthy to have a Worthy book launch party!), I’ve mostly been grateful for all the people who have been in my life, helping me become the person God created me to be. I’ve cried tears of gratitude then, too.

The Magic in the Mess Writing Retreat is one place I’ve found supportive community in the last few years. The other people on the retreat staff are part of my community already, and they work hard to make sure that everyone at the retreat feels welcomed, supported, and encouraged: in writing, and in life. We’ve been holding these retreats for three years now, and at each one, people have found the loving community that lets them know they are worthy, just as they are. The relationships I’ve made there, and will continue to make, will last a lifetime, I’m sure.

So tell me, what has made you inexplicably cry lately? Post in the comments below, and you will be entered into a drawing for a free copy of Worthy: Finding Yourself in a World Expecting Someone Else.

(We still have two spots left for the next retreat, May 3-6, where we will explore together the power of story to express our amazingly unique, wonderful selves. Consider joining us! I imagine there will be crying, maybe even by me. Because I am a weepy middle-aged woman, yes, but I’m also so grateful to be retreating in a beautiful setting, with beautiful people, writing beautiful things.)

……….

Melanie Springer Mock is Professor of English at George Fox University, Newberg. She is the author or co-author of five books, including most recently Worthy: Finding Yourself in a World Expecting Someone Else (Herald Press, April 2018). Her essays and reviews have appeared in The Nation, Christian Feminism Today, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Christianity Today, and Mennonite World Review, among other places. She lives in Dundee, Ore., with her husband and two sons. In her free time, she likes to run, take naps, and watch reality television. Feel free to join her author’s Facebook page here!

The post Why It’s OK To Cry at Writing Retreats (or, At Least Ours): A Guest Post by Melanie Springer Mock first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I’m My Kids’ Friend AND Their Parent (Psst… You Don’t Have to Pick)

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 25 Apr 2018 03:25:32 +0000

I spent much of my early parenting life afraid.

True truth.

And although some of my fears made sense — as in, I’m pretty sure it’s a biological imperative and plain good sense to want to keep your child from harm — many of my fears were based simply on the Great Unknown of Parenting. I was afraid I’d do it wrong. Afraid of being too lenient. Afraid of failing my kids and somehow Ruining Them Forever.

Experimenting with parenting, after all, seemed wildly irresponsible. Why in the world would I trust myself with this gig when I might Wreck Everything, you know? So I turned to the parenting books and the experts, and I listened well to, well, anyone who had a formula. A sure-fire way to raise kids correctly. A bonafide fool-proof plan, in which I played the role of the fool who needed to be thwarted. I turned to every Bible-based parenting book out there, because I still believed at the time that the Bible was a blueprint and a rule book and that I was not to be trusted. Which makes me sad now; sad that I missed the Larger Point of the Bible, which is to put relationship and love first — and rules last — and that I missed out on believing I was made in Love’s own image, capable of loving my children in turn and learning from my gut, my God (whose other name is Love), and a compassionate community how to raise them well.

In my early parenting days, I believed I needed to be my kids’ parent and not their friend, as though friendship would undermine my authority and unravel everything I was trying to teach them. But, friends, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I just returned yesterday from visiting my oldest kid at college.

Six days in Hawaii in her condo with her friends…

… and there’s no question I was there as both her Mommy AND ally. Both advisor AND confidante. Mentor AND friend.

We hung out, we ate food, we were baptized by sun, surf and sand, and Abby and her people told me All the Things. The real stories about college. What’s going well and what sucks. What they’ve done and would do again in a heartbeat. What they’ve done and never want to do again. What was smart and what was wildly stupid. They’ve formed a community with each other, they have each other’s backs, and they cracked open their hearts to let me in. I got to say, “Oh my gosh, you all are the VERY BEST,” which is true — they’re remarkable — and I also got to say, “SHIT, that sounds scary — NEVER DO THAT AGAIN,” which they already knew.

They, in turn, were like every friend I’ve ever known — smart, savvy, deeply human, messy, magical, and in need of the occasional reminder that they’re wildly worthy of unlimited love exactly as they already are. Like all of us, right? Every last one.

And — here’s what I need you to hear, friends — I was never more glad I abandoned the notion that I’m only Abby’s mom and embraced being also her friend. I would have missed so much if I didn’t.

So here’s my confession: I’m my kids’ parent AND their friend — all of them. My adult at college. My teenagers in high school. And my preteen babies with their high-pitched voices and sweet hugs and irrational outbursts fueled by hormones on the rise. Parent and friend. Every day. Every hour. Both/And forever.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, and I’m perpetually confused by all the blogs, memes and videos out there in which parents declare they’re NOT their kids’ friend. Like they have to be either parent or friend, instead of deeply, eternally both. You know? Am I the only one who finds this perplexing?

I’ve hesitated to say anything because the “I’m not their friend; I’m their PARENT” bits are so prolific. But perhaps because they’re so prolific, it’s time to say I’m both. And you can be, too. You don’t have to pick, friends.

I mean, I get it on the one hand. There’s an impression somehow that being our kids’ friends is equivalent to abdicating parental responsibility, letting our kids walk all over us, and failing to teach them to be disciplined humans who will contribute to society.

Might I posit, though, that that couldn’t be further from the truth?

Might I suggest that befriending our kids — ensuring they know we’re in this together, we are a team, and we have the same goals of a bright future — is actually a crucial part of the parenting gig? That it’s an absolutely critical part of creating a relationship centered around listening to each other and mutual respect?

And might I also say that equating friendship with letting another human walk all over us is a pretty crappy and unhealthy definition of friendship? Because it is. Like, really a lot. We can do better than that in the friendship arena and with our babies. We can model healthy friendship WITH our kids, not just in front of them.

I asked my kids about this a couple years ago, on a day I was particularly confused about all the online “Parent, NOT Friend” posts, so I’ll leave you with their thoughts in a few videos below, because I think they say it better than I do anyway.

Sending you love,

P.S. I suck at making videos, so we’ll all just deal with the crappy quality, yes? Yes. Just as I thought.

And P.P.S. My favorite part of these videos may be that I was getting ready for work in between making them, so you can see the make-up and hair getting ever more intentional… not necessarily BETTER, you understand… just more on purpose. Ha!

P.P.P.S. Also-also, video #4 is a continuation of #3 because see the first P.S. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

P.P.P.P.S. I’d really love to know if I’m alone here on this Parents AND Friends thing. Thoughts?

UPDATED: P.P.P.P.P.S. Here’s the All-Important Beer Bottle video Cai mentioned in the first vid. #TheMoreYouKnow #HowToHoldABeerBottle

The post I’m My Kids’ Friend AND Their Parent (Psst… You Don’t Have to Pick) first appeared on bethwoolsey..

On Moving to Belize

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 19 Apr 2018 05:29:32 +0000

Exciting news, friends! Greg and I, along with our kids, are moving to Belize! We don’t have a timeline yet, as we’re just in the initial phases of looking for riverfront property in the Cayo district — probably on the Macal River — but stay tuned for more info.

Also — IMPORTANT — don’t tell Greg yet, please.

I haven’t technically mentioned it to him yet because I’ve learned it takes a while to break news like this to him.

First of all, he has no sense of spontaneity, so as soon as I say, “GREG! EXCITING NEWS,” he won’t wait to hear what it is. He’ll just say no by default, and then when I actually tell him, he’ll begin a litany of Why The Amazing Thing Beth Is Planning Is Impractical, Financially Impossible, and Against The Natural Order. As a result, I’ll need to both craft a slow and subtle way to ease him into this news — my current plan is to manufacture a surprise confrontation while he’s pooping so he can’t escape — and also prepare My Defense so when he says, “The kids have to finish school, Beth,” I can say, “There are schools in Belize, Greg, OR our kids could drop out of school and become billionaires like Richard Branson, or awarding-winning directors like Quentin Tarantino, or rappers-turned-entrepreneurs like JayZ.” I feel like that logic is infallible.

Secondly, Greg tends not to believe me when I make Exciting New Plans for our lives, so I’m going to have to invent a way to ensure he knows I Really Mean It This Time. See, THIS is why it’s dangerous to get someone a fake miniature horse instead of a REAL miniature horse; I SHOULD’VE FOLLOWED THROUGH ON THE HORSE, y’all. I KNEW I should’ve followed through on the horse. If I’d followed through on the horse, he’d know I mean it about Belize. So, you know, if you have any suggestions for convincing him I’m serious, LMK, K?

That’s really all I’ve got for now. I’ve been radio silent around here for a couple weeks because I’ve been on a homeschooling road trip with the youngest two, and now I’m visiting the oldest at college. I think I had a day and a half at home in between the two (five kids’ needs is a lot of kids’ needs, friends), and so I spent it wisely — researching real estate in Belize.

More soon.

Love to you all,

P.S. Abby and I are busy creating new twinsie pics for you.

Because we care.

The post On Moving to Belize first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Help Settle an Argument…

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 05 Apr 2018 01:38:10 +0000

OK — help me resolve a tiny family squabble…

My parents’ 47th wedding anniversary was yesterday, and I shared my congratulations on Facebook along with the observation that that’s a LOT of years not to smother each other with a pillow.

My dad says I’m recycling that line because I’ve used it before.

*I* say, YES, I’ve said it before, but it’s a UNIVERSAL TRUTH, and universal truths ought not be categorized as “recycling.”

I mean, really; do people accuse Jesus of recycling “love your neighbor as yourself” just because he says and/or implies it a lot?

Do people accuse others of recycling Ghandi just because “be the change you wish to see in the world” shows up everywhere?

Do good readers accuse St. Anne Lamott of recycling “You can safely assume that you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do?”

No. No, they do not. You know why? Because Universal Truths must be reused and repeated. They stand the test of time. They DESERVE to be reiterated so we can wrest every grain of wisdom from them.

In the same way, “Happy Anniversary! That’s a lot of years not to smother each other with a pillow” is a universal fact beyond time and place, the very definition of a Universal or Absolute Truth.

I mean, I don’t want to pat myself on the back too, TOO much here, but I do want you to feel free to let my father know his daughter is a wise philosopher whose observations and salutations should be revered as such.

Thanks, friends. I knew I could count on you.

Sincerely,

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A Letter to My Daughter’s Other Mom

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 27 Mar 2018 21:09:06 +0000

26 March 2018

We found her. Finally. After nearly 20 years and an international investigation, we found our daughter’s birth mom. So I’m sitting here on a Tuesday, at my desk, with paper and a pen and a view of the rainy Oregon foothills trying to decide what to say to a mama across the ocean. A mama in Vietnam who shares my child. A mama who’s waited and wondered and longed for news. A mama who didn’t know if she’d ever hear. A mama, it turns out, who wanted desperately to keep her baby and who didn’t know her daughter would be swept away to America. A mama who, through no fault of her own, was caught up in a fraudulent baby adoption business.

Dear Mrs. Ut,

Oh, she released Abby for adoption. Thank goodness at least that happened, and Abby wasn’t stolen away. But she thought Abby was going to Saigon to be adopted by a Vietnamese family. She felt she couldn’t take care of her baby’s needs so she trusted a neighbor to take her, but she thought she’d see her again, too. She thought she’d know Abby was OK.

I hope this letter finds you well.

As for us? Turns out we were naive, and we didn’t know then what we know now about the international adoption scene. About babies for sale. About bribes and coercion. About kids who could have stayed with their birth families. We went through a reputable agency. We had lawyers on the ground in Vietnam. We did think Abby was awfully young at only 6 weeks to be available for international adoption, given all the paperwork and legal hoops one must jump through, but, assured everything was on the up-and-up — and very young ourselves — we proceeded with unbridled joy.

I’ve wanted to write you for a very long time.

God, how do I even start this? What do I say when words can’t scratch the surface? My palms are clammy, and my heart is in my stomach. I’ve thought about this letter since Abby was a year old. That’s when we discovered more than one woman claimed to be Abby’s biological mother. That’s when we first suspected fraud, and our guts twisted, and we contacted our agency, and they shrugged, because what could they do? Two women claimed her. Both said they’d released her for adoption. No one was contesting it. All paperwork was legal. And, DNA tests not being what they are today, there was no real way to know. Still, I thought; even though there was nothing to do — nothing I was willing to do — I couldn’t help but think “one of these women is telling the truth; one of them is desperate for news of her baby.”

I’ve thought about you often and hoped we might find you one day, and I’m glad that day has come.

She has been in nearly unimaginable pain and uncertainty, while I’ve had 19 years of joy. That my relationship with my precious baby girl, now a woman in her own right, came at the cost of this woman’s agony is unthinkable. And yet I wouldn’t trade it, even to take away her pain. What does that say about me? That I’m willing to pay for my deep joy with another person’s deep pain? But if I’m honest, I wouldn’t change it, even if I had a time machine and a do-over. Does that make me horrible, or just a mom?

Most importantly, I want you to know your little Bé is safe and happy.

Do I overwhelm her with info? I would want to be overwhelmed with info. I would want every detail. I’d scour a letter about my baby again and again. But there’s a language barrier, and translation still needs to happen, and I need to choose whether to spend days and days on this letter or send it off, the first volley of what I hope becomes an exchange of information.

We call her Abby, and she’s been a light and love of our life.

I’ve already spent 10 days going through thousands of photos from Abby’s childhood, trying to choose a representative few to send. Age two with Santa Claus. Age 4 in the pumpkin patch. With her cousins. In the snow. On her first day of school. Except now I’m looking with a new lens, different than my own nostalgia and sweet memories. Now I’m looking with a new measure of joy and sorrow; Abby was so happy, and Ut will only have these images captured of seconds in time. I got the minutes and the days and the months and the years. She will have a tiny pile of colored paper. Proof her baby was well loved, yes, and proof of all she missed.

I’m sending photos for you of Abby growing up, playing, with her siblings — she’s the oldest with three brothers and one sister — with her cousins, and with Greg and me, her mom and dad.

How do I describe who Abby is to the woman who longs to know her as well as I do? A list of adjectives seems so very paltry, such a meager offering in return for the Greatest Gift. But adjectives are all I have. I feel like the drummer boy at Jesus’ birth, wishing I had gold to offer but standing here with just noise. I mean, I know she’d rather have the noise over nothing, but it’s not enough.

Abby is smart, beautiful, funny and talented. She’s an accomplished dancer and is currently attending university in Hawaii.

Gah; this sounds like a job recommendation. “In conclusion, I would highly recommend Abby as a biological daughter.”

Will she see the pride behind the words? The love? The fact that I would die for our child, hers and mine? Do you think she’ll know? I just… don’t want her to wonder anymore whether Baby Bé‘s second mama loves her as deeply and truly as she does. Whether I honored the unspoken Mommy Contract to give my very soul for this child. Whether her baby became also my blood and also my bone, tied as securely as any umbilical cord ever was. Will she know, somehow? Is there a way to imbue this letter with magic to ensure it?

We are so very proud of her and the woman she’s become.

We would love to hear from you and about your family and life. Our address is enclosed.

With love,

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Trophy Time: GOT DRESSED

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 22 Mar 2018 03:21:04 +0000

Hey, BIG NEWS. I got dressed today. To my shoes. In Not Pajamas. With everything right side out. BEFORE NOON. I have thus been awarded the following trophy.

GOT DRESSED!

To be clear, by “I’ve been awarded,” I mean I awarded it to myself which is only appropriate as I’m the Governing Body that oversees Dressedness in my home.

You may remember last month, when I accepted trophies in myriad categories including Smothered Zero People With a Pillow and Injury Free Workplace: 60 Minutes. Well, this trophy was available to me then (in a burst of unbridled optimism, I’d ordered it for myself from the Trophy Store), but the time never seemed right to bestow it, partly because I avoid getting dressed whenever possible, and partly because 1. Getting Dressed, 2. Remembering I’m Dressed, and 3. Taking a Photo to Prove I’m Dressed was two steps too many. My three steps looked more like 1. Getting Dressed, 2. Getting Undressed as Soon as Socially Feasible (i.e. upon walking one step in my front door), and then, 3. much later, going, “DAMN. I FORGOT MY TROPHY AGAIN.”

In other words, it’s been a long, hard road to the trophy podium, friends. I had to get dressed, like, a dozen times at least, practicing and persevering like all elite athletes. Sometimes, I awoke before dawn to dress, and sometimes I found myself still wearing clothes when the sun went down. There were days of Clothes-Wearing that seemed endless, y’all, but I never — not once — took my clothes off during a school district meeting that ran late, or while having fancy dinner with my cousin when my waistband pinched, or in the grocery store parking lot even though the drive home would’ve been way more comfy without jeans.

I earned this award, in other words, so I’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone to work hard and TRY. Success comes one pant leg at a time unless you’re smart enough to wear a skirt which takes way less effort. And, in the end, dreams DO come true.

With love,

P.S. I ALMOST FORGOT PROOF. Jeez.

Special thanks to Greg who took this pic in which I’m DRESSED…

…thus reminding me to award myself this long overdue prize. Sure, I’m both dressed AND back in bed in that pic (because what’s a girl to do when her puppy and her kid want to snuggle?), but that just means I ALSO get the “Made the Bed: HA HA JUST KIDDING” trophy today.

P.P.S. Did anyone notice this in the first pic?

Yeah, me, too. IDK what that is or how it got there, but, y’all, I just left it the hell alone because it looks dangerous. I feel like that’s a solid choice. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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On Eating and Life: I Know You Understand

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 17 Mar 2018 05:43:21 +0000

I’ve been a little radio silent around here for a bit. Mostly because I’ve been eating. Or thinking about eating. Or planning the eating.

To be fair, this is the case for me All the Time. I like food. But in my defense at this particular time, my friend Maggie and I just held our first ever Food and Wine Retreat, so All the Thinking About Food = LEGIT.

I cannot adequately express how very much I needed the time away at the Oregon Coast to just hang out and relax.

It’s been a month, friends. One of those sort of Stunning, Beautiful, Brutal MONTHS. Anyone else?

And these pictures from the retreat have nothing to do with the Month I’m about to share, but, perhaps against the backdrop of the Real Life we’ve been living, you can see how grateful I am for Rest and Good Humans and Amazing Food by the Sea.

A friend approached Greg at church a few Sundays ago. She’s kind, and she knows our family, so she thought we’d want to know about the post in a public group on Facebook, describing a teenager on the path near our house who was threatening a young family, aimed at hurting or robbing them. A teenage boy who, when physically described, sounded too much like our oldest boy to ignore.

Since the post mentioned his service dog, too, we had no doubt, really. I also knew he wasn’t going to hurt or rob anyone. Ian is very much like his Golden Retriever, Zoey; he’s much more likely to lick you to death than do anything to hurt you, ever.

But his disabilities — intellectual, verbal, and developmental — none of which are visible, mean he’s regularly misunderstood. And, if I can be perfectly frank here, our Guatemalan son is no longer seen as an adorable little boy with big brown doe eyes; now that he’s a 5’10”, 190 lb, brown male, people see a threat. I cannot adequately describe how much, over the last 15 years, our eyes have been opened to systematic and entrenched racism and to our own enormous privilege as white people.

So I did what any mommy would do. I joined the Facebook group, read the message about the lurking boy who followed the family, read the comments encouraging police involvement and warning the public to be wary of him, and attempted to defend my kid and dispel the idea that he’s a danger.

I wrote: “Hi. The boy you mentioned is my son, Ian. Ian is significantly intellectually disabled, and the dog, Zoey, is his service dog. As you noticed, Ian’s disability affects him socially, as well, and he is unable to accurately identify how others feel. His speech is also significantly impacted (he’s unable to understand others well or make himself clearly understood) — not sure whether you talked to him or not, but thought I should let you know that, too. I’m so sorry his behavior caused fear and anxiety for you and your kids. The good news is he wasn’t going to rob or hurt you; he cares deeply for others and isn’t violent or dangerous in any way — he’s just awful at understanding social cues. Ian’s only unsupervised activity each day is walking Zoey for 15 minutes on that path. He’s 18 now, so, alongside his therapists and teachers, we’re trying to give him “more responsibility” to do a few things on his own. Taking Zoey for a walk is his one thing right now. We regularly talk to him about the fact that people respond differently to him now that he’s “man sized” than when he was small. He’s very interested in and likes people, so it’s difficult for him to understand that lurking beside people, their kids, their conversations, etc. makes people feel nervous. Please know this is something we’re continuously working on with him and also that we had a long discussion with him about your experience. He said he “didn’t mean make them feel bad.” We’ve emphasized the importance of giving strangers a lot of space so we don’t appear threatening. Wishing you peaceful walks in the future…”

I hit send, and then I cried for a really long time.

There’s a grief inherent in raising children who experience disability. I haven’t met a parent yet who hasn’t felt it. But I’ll tell you… the last two years have been extraordinarily hard. Defeating. Exhausting. Relentless.

We adopted Ian when he was 3, and, until he was 16 or so, we dealt in possibilities. He could possibly drive some day, we thought. Or maybe one day he’ll have his own apartment. While kids his age were earning trophies for their sports teams, we were happy for them… and grieved that Ian will never experience the camaraderie of going to State with water polo or wearing a letterman’s jacket on campus. But still, we thought; he still has potential for Some of the Usual Things.

Until we didn’t think that anymore.

Until his childhood was over.

Until we arrived at the barriers he cannot climb.

And then we grieved again, both for the life he cannot have… which we long suspected… but perhaps even more for the end of the possibilities.

Now, please don’t misunderstand me. Ian has a LOT of potential and will learn and change and grow as the years move by. But the goals are different now. The capacity isn’t there to drive and it would be both foolish and dangerous to try. Now the goal is learning public transportation. Similar with independence; he won’t get to go away to college like his sister or live in an apartment unsupervised or handle his own finances. And so we look to what he CAN do… but we grieve, too. There’s a lot of that.

And the grief over the “threatening teenager” was founded in the reality that he will face this sort of thing forever. That he can’t live only inside our family bubble. That he’ll go out into the world for more than 15 minutes at a time, and more people will feel threatened by a man-child who really would love to have a friend. That 15 minutes is all the time it takes for that to happen.

I mourn that he can’t go into the world like I can and disarm people with words. I mourn that he’s 18 and must still be supervised 23 hrs and 45 minutes a day. I grieve that he will be judged “creepy” or frightening or a danger to women and children.

It’s impossibly hard to love a child and not be able to give him the world. You know? Impossibly hard.

The community response to my message was beautiful, really. Strangers sending love, letting us know they’re eager to meet and greet Ian on his walks, and telling us about petting Zoey and chatting with Ian. “I’ve met this young man and his beautiful dog, as I walk the trail very often. I also have taken the time to stop and talk to him and Zoey (who he was kind enough to let me pet) I never felt a threat or worry around him, to me he just seemed a little lonely and a friendly hello seemed to really brighten his day. I hope they continue to enjoy the trail.”

I cry again, every time I read that. I needed the reminder that some people are magic and have the power to see past the surface to the precious person within.

But the whole experience threw me for a loop, especially coming, as it did, on the same day my oldest girl asked us to find her birth mom. I’m a fan of that plan. I’m really excited for her… and also for me, truth be told. I’ve wanted to hug her bio mom for years. To thank her for giving my girl life. To tell her Abby’s been happy and healthy and well loved. To share how proud I am of our girl, hers and Greg’s and mine. But dealing with the emotional aftermath of the Path Situation AND trying to figure out how to hire a private investigator in Vietnam? That was something, friends. Just a teeny, tiny bit overwhelming.

So it’s been a little radio silent around here. And I think I’ve made the case for Why Food, and Why Retreat, and Why Rest and Respite.

Because life is lifey. Yes?

Yes.

Life is lifey.

But life can also — at least for a little while — be fixed with fresh pasta and pizza and risotto and local wine…

…with outstanding people and human connection…

…with goofballs and laughter and a frickin’ break from the grind…

…and with the reminder that we’re all in this together.

None of us alone if we’re brave enough to reach for each other.

Signing off for now (and headed to get myself some food, because obviously),

P.S. Retreat season is a busy time for me. Lots of thought, planning and energy go into these events, none of which would be possible without my steady staff, Maggie and Polly Peterson, who have made my dream of rest and respite built on human connection happen. The retreats are how I’ve met and spent time with many of you, dear readers and friends, and I’m grateful for every minute. (Including the naked on the beach ones.)

P.P.S. We do have two more retreats coming in 2018 — the Magic in the Mess Writing Retreat in May (for new and experienced writers alike) and the Mindfulness Retreat in November. There are still some spaces available at each, and I’d love for you to come. Maggie will be cooking. You can find all the details here.

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Your Advice Needed: Prank Emergency

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 09 Mar 2018 23:13:53 +0000

EMERGENCY, friends. We have an emergency, and your advice is needed.

You may have heard that Easter is on April Fool’s Day this year. THIS GIVES US BARELY OVER 3 WEEKS to create a Master Prank Plan to Fool the Children. This is TIME SENSITIVE, folks. We have Things to Do, Plots to Scheme, and not a whole lot of time in which to accomplish it. I feel like it would be ungrateful to the cosmos that went to so much trouble to align these two events to waste this opportunity. I also feel like Jesus would want us to celebrate his resurrection by tricking small humans. I mean, WWJD, right? J is cheering us on here. I’m sure of it.

Here’s the thing, though; we need to make this April Fool’s Easter-specific. THEMED pranks, if you will. The plastic wrap on the toilet seat and the rubber band on the kitchen sprayer are good tricks for a Regular April Fool’s Day; I just feel like they’re insufficient for EASTER April Fool’s, you know? Like we’re required to step up our game here and make this super Easter-y.

Our family usually does Extreme Egg Hunts, Hunger Games Style, so our kids are primed for egg hunting as a full contact sport. We make all the kids stuff the eggs (because that’s a lot of work, man, and we had children for the free labor), and then the adults head outside to hide them in trees, on roofs, duct taped to top of the swing set; basically anywhere our children must risk life and limb to retrieve them. Obviously, this can take us a significant amount of time involving, as it does, ladders, rope, tape, and the occasional garden hose.

I feel like the Easter Egg Hunt is a prime opportunity to commit acts of foolery this year. Like, the kids can stuff all the eggs per usual, and then we can swap those eggs with pebble-stuffed eggs for the actual hiding. OR we can simply take all the eggs under the premise of “hiding” and make a run for it. The kids won’t notice we’re gone for at least 20 minutes. We can head to a neighbor’s house, hide the eggs there instead and have a glass of wine while the kids try to find us. That feels like a win/win, you know?

BUT THAT’S ALL I’VE GOT so far. Two egg-related ideas. Which is why I NEED YOUR HELP, friends. I need a more comprehensive plan. I need better tricks. I need more tom-foolery. I need bigger ways to celebrate the Risen Savior by pulling one over on my kids.

EMERGENCY. TIME SENSITIVE. Help a mama out?? What ideas do you have?

With great anticipation,

P.S. I do have some teeny, tiny rules for pranks. I don’t like pranks that make people feel stupid or that make them feel sad. Except for the time I made Greg feel sad by faking the purchase of a miniature horse and having it delivered to our house. In my defense, he had it coming by telling me I couldn’t have one. I really had no choice. Pranks that force children to run all over the neighborhood to find the egg hunt I stole? Approved. Pranks that make them think it’s canceled altogether? I can’t do it. I’m too much of a softy. But other than sadness or making people feel dumb, I’m all ears. Minor physical jeopardy is fine. Emotional jeopardy, not so much. I can’t wait to hear your ideas.

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On Standing for Good When Evil Is Loud

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 01 Mar 2018 00:28:58 +0000

I wrote my first term paper in the 8th grade. It was on the Holocaust. I rewrote it again in 10th grade and one more time in college, partly because it was easier to build a paper on earlier work and partly because the Holocaust fascinated and horrified me and birthed an intense desire to work out why it happened, how it was possible that people could allow it, and how we might ensure it never happened again.

It was the first time I heard the clarion call of Good versus Evil, and it was the first time I suspected there may come a time in my own life when I would have to choose between championing the outcasts or protecting myself.

Eighth grade is an odd time of self-discovery and trying on new selves to find one that might fit. Rapid growth, of course, ensures nothing, not even our favorite clothes or selves, fit well for long. They get ripped and torn, threadbare, or suddenly too small to contain us anymore, and so we let most clothes and shoes and selves go, picking only a few bits to remain with us always.

In 8th grade, I was kind, and fierce, and funny, and creative, and a liar, and in love with Certain Boys after my friends and I had divided them amongst ourselves, careful to allot crushes the same way we divided treats, as equitably as possible. My hair was permed and feathered, my teeth were askew, my legs were perpetually covered in bug bites and scabs from scratching, and I longed to be pretty more than Just About Anything. Studying the Holocaust didn’t change that, but it added a depth, perhaps; a dimension I didn’t previously understand with only 13 years under my belt.

I waited during my teen years for the Crisis of Our Age to come. It would be war, I thought. Or the persecution of Christians, which the Church promised me was inevitable. I watched, and I waited.

I thought it had arrived when we went to war in Iraq in the early 90’s. I sat in my little Toyota Tercel hatchback, and I heard the announcement on the radio. But, as is true for so many of us without close family and friends in the military, it affected me very little.

And then the Twin Towers were hit on 9/11. I was a mommy by then, and I watched the second tower fall while my toddler slept in the next room. This is it, surely, I thought. But again, I wasn’t directly affected, and, well, life proceeded as life does. No gas lines. No rationing. No concentration camps. I mean, I don’t like taking my shoes off at the airport, but all things considered, no real change for me and mine or, I dare say, the majority of my countrymen and women.

I thought I would recognize it when it came — the Time I Would Have to Stand Up for What Is Right at Great Cost to Myself — but it came slowly, and I didn’t see it while I raised my babies, and went to the grocery store, and fought with and loved my husband, and went to church, and volunteered, and started writing. I didn’t see it, and I don’t blame myself much, because I’ve learned as I’ve aged how subtly Evil moves. How quietly. How insidiously. How it masks itself as Rules and Righteousness and Right Thinking. How it plays on our need for Belonging, afraid, as we are, of being Cast Out. How it cows the Questioners and shuns Those Who Will Not or Cannot Subscribe or Conform. How it creates Tribalism and Exclusion and Fear of the Other, lest we be infected or destroyed by the Them.

But here we are.

Here we are, living in a world where Evil has arrived. Where we turn away widows and orphans and refugees at our borders. Where we steal healthcare from the sick. Where we mock our young as immature and entitled while we steal their educational and financial future, and they beg us not to keep letting them die at school. We live in a world where our churches truly believe that their 20th century interpretation of the Bible is the One Correct Reading of Scripture and use that to excommunicate people who love God and love their neighbors as themselves, because that last is, somehow, no longer the litmus test, no matter what Jesus said.

Here we are, friends. And I’ve heard it said that people who compare this current time to the Holocaust are overreacting. Being dramatic. Being hysterical. While we let the world’s largest refugee crisis continue, millions suffering and dying. While we refuse to listen to our children. While we stand stalwart behind the closed doors of our churches and use Jesus to justify our rampant nationalism, our goal of self-preservation, our hoarding of weapons, and our lying leaders.

Here we are, and I can’t help but feel that the world right now is covered in a shroud, like the alien planet in A Wrinkle in Time. We’re covered. The heartbeat of Evil is loud, and many have believed Evil’s lie that it is Good or that it is Necessary or that it is the Best Way Forward. It feels… opaque right now, like trying to see through ash and move through mud. No wonder we’re exhausted. No wonder we’re sad. No wonder we’re groping about in the dark, trying to find our people, tentatively, by feel. We’re living in the darkness we all suspected may come.

The time has arrived. Our Crisis is upon us. Millions are dying — our refugee neighbors, our minority neighbors, our LGBTQ+ neighbors, our children in school — physically and emotionally, literally and spiritually, we’re dying.

It seems horrific, which it is, and hopeless, which it’s not. Evil is winning, as Evil does, but Evil doesn’t win forever, and I keep coming back to this one thing: we know that it is dark. We’re living under the shroud right now, and it’s oppressive and disheartening, but there are many of us who can see it. Who know that it is Not OK. Whose eyes are wide open to see that this is Wrong. Who are resisting. Who are fighting the crawl of Complacency and Compliance. Whose hearts still beat to their own wild rhythms which echo the image of God and who listen for the heartbeats of others, which is the way of Love.

Oh, friends, it’s hard right now. Just… hard to be under cover of darkness with only pinpricks of flickering light in the sky. It’s hard to be Betwixt and Between and to wonder when — when, dear God — the dawn will arrive. It’s hard not to feel helpless tumbling in the tidal wave, trying to stop its destruction. It’s hard not to give in to its power and be swept away. It’s hard, always, when the old is passing and the new is not yet come.

But this is our time. This is the one. This is when we Stand for Good or Fall for Evil. And the world needs us even though it’s hard. The world needs us especially because it’s hard. The world needs us to see through our fear stricken societies and find new ways of living. To lead the charge. To keep reaching out for each other.

All of which is an incredibly long way to say, I’m waving to you in the dark, friends. I see it. I see the dark. And I see you, too. Together, we’ll beckon the dawn.

With love,

P.S. In case this post is too heavy for you, here are some pictures of our latest foster puppy. Her name is Nikki, she’s 4 months old, has survived parvovirus and pneumonia in her short tenure on earth, and she’s partially blind, but the darkness doesn’t stop her. Not ever.

P.P.S. And this…

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A Letter to the Youth of Today Who Deserve to be Heard

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 22 Feb 2018 00:10:09 +0000

Young friends, there are things you need to know. Things that must be said. Things you’ve hopefully heard, but just in case… just in case…

You’ve heard it said that you’re the leaders of the future, friends. But I need you to know that’s a lie. You are NOT the leaders of the future. You are the leaders of NOW. Your time is NOT still to come; it has ARRIVED. You already know this, or you sense it inside. You are ready to join the ranks of the resistance. You already have. You are its soul. You are ready to persist, and you will. You are fierce and on fire, and you have a perspective our world desperately needs.

There are those who will tell you to slow down in the days ahead. They’ll tell you that change takes time. They’ll tell you there are more polite ways to protest. They’ll tell you to use your nice words and to be content. They’ll tell you it could be worse and they’ll ask why you can’t just be happy with what you have. Guess what? They told Martin Luther King, Jr. the same thing. And Sojourner Truth. And Malala Yousafzai. And Adam Rippon. Every great Change Maker has heard the same message. And every great Change Maker ignored it in favor of Justice and Equality and the Wild Call to be more Fully Free.

There are those who will tell you you’re simply pawns, that you don’t know your own minds, that you’re patsies and proxies and being used for causes you can’t possibly understand. They’re wrong. They’re attempting to quiet you. They’re afraid of your voice. They’re eager to undermine your senses of agency and conviction. Know why? Because you are POWERFUL, and when your generation speaks together, you will CHANGE OUR WORLD. You’re changing it already.

There are people who will try to belittle you. They will try to undermine your confidence. They will try to shame you. Dare to speak anyway.

They’ll say you’re reacting out of trauma instead of truth, as though trauma isn’t an author of understanding. They’ll say you’re being manipulated. They’ll tell you your political opinions are worthless because you’re too young to know better. They’re wrong. Dare to speak anyway, friends.

They’ll say you’re undeveloped and immature. They’ll say you’re responding to strong emotions as though strong emotions don’t tell us Important Things. They will do whatever it takes to maintain a power structure that benefits them. Dare anyway. Dare and dare and dare again.

You will face hard things in the days and weeks and months ahead, and you are up for the task. You can do hard things. People will be mean. Ugly words will be hurled at your entire generation. They will be wrong, but you will feel discouraged at times. Dare anyway. Your world needs you to.

You will lose people in this fight. There will be those who cannot stand to let you speak. But there will also be those who encourage you. Those who champion you. Like Mr. Rogers said, “When things are bad, look for the helpers.” Look for the helpers. We’ll be here, daring with you.

You will make mistakes along the way. Hooray for mistakes! Mistakes — failure, even — means you’re in the arena. You’re trying. And it’s only by striving for positive change that it’s ever happened. This is the meaning of persistence. We try. We fail. We try. We make mistakes. We try. We LEARN. We make smarter mistakes next time. And then we succeed. We succeed because we DARED to persist. We dared to stay in the arena and damn the booing crowd.

Here’s what you must do — TRUST YOURSELF. You feel it in your gut, the things that are Right. Listen to that voice. Question what you’re taught and what you’ve been told; the things that are Truth can always withstand the questions. Always.

Listen. I will follow you. I will follow your lead when you say enough is enough. I will sign my own youth and children out of class when you say it’s time to take to the streets. I will back you with my words, my money, my time, and my actions.

I will believe you. When you say you’re being harmed, I believe you. When you say our schools aren’t safe — physically or emotionally— I believe you. When you sound the rallying cry, I will amplify your voice. And when you tell me it’s time for boots on the ground, I’ll cinch up my laces.

And I am not the only one. Those of us who BELIEVE IN YOU are legion. In the thousands. In the millions. Look for us. We’re your support troops.

You know things we no longer know. You hear the Polar Express bell, and we’ve grown immune. Hardened. We need you to hear the clarion call. We need your passion, your energy. Your knowledge of right and wrong. Your clarity. Your wisdom. Your strength.

You, friends, are of deepest worth. You are worthy of our respect. You deserve to be heard.

With love,

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I Love You, and I Have a Wonderful Plan for Your Valentine Life

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 14 Feb 2018 19:29:08 +0000

Dear Friends,

I love you, and I have a wonderful plan for your Valentine life. Now, USUALLY Greg and I like to have the flu on Valentine’s Day. Or watch Demolition Man because we’re die hard romantics. I know, I know — #relationshipgoals. It’s just, as I’ve said before, the problem with Valentine’s Day is it’s in February, and the problem with February is it’s trying to kill me. As much as I WANT to buy into a culturally manufactured holiday to prove we love each other, I JUST DO NOT HAVE IT IN ME. I’m tired. Exhausted. ALL I WANT IN ALL THE WORLD IS TO SIT ON MY COUCH WITH PIZZA.

This year, though, my friend Bryan Erwin solved Valentine’s Day, and he didn’t just solve it for me, he solved it for US. The thing about Bryan is, we can trust him 90%. He’s been a stay-at-home dad, he has a wicked sense of humor, and he GETS IT. He is AS TIRED AS THE REST OF US, friends. He UNDERSTANDS IT ALL. In the interest of full disclosure, I assessed the other 10% on the fact that Bryan is his kids’ PTA president, so he’s an overachiever who occasionally makes the rest of us look bad, but we shall forgive him for this lapse in judgement because none of us is perfect, yes? Yes. I knew you’d understand.

Bryan made us a movie! It’s called FIXED, and it’s the story of Allan, a father of three who, as is wont to happen, finds himself with an appointment for a vasectomy and an epic midlife crisis. Oh, bless Allan’s sweet heart. (It’s gonna be OK, Allan. I’m on, like, my 6th midlife crisis, and it gets better after every one.)

Bryan met his cowriter, Alonso Mayo, in the yard of his son’s preschool, and they developed FIXED from their desire to show marriage and parenthood as “the raw, loud, sticky, scary mess of hilarious human emotions that it is.” Um, yep. Right up my alley, man. Magic and mess; I’m always in.

BEST PART, though? YOU CAN ONLY SEE FIXED SITTING ON YOUR COUCH AT HOME. Preferably with pizza. BRYAN GETS US, y’all. It’s available on Amazon Video, iTunes, YouTube, and cable-on-demand.

Happy Valentine’s Day, folks! And if you screwed up and made plans to go OUT tonight, never fear… you can still watch FIXED this weekend.

With love,

P.S. No, this is not a sponsored post. I don’t do those. I received zero compensation for this post. (Blah, blah, blah.) I just think sitting on my ass with a funny movie on V-Day is a good idea, and I think my friends are cool.

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Greg Said I Can Have a Domesticated Fox

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 13 Feb 2018 00:11:01 +0000

Greg said I can have a domesticated fox. He also says he did not say I can have a domesticated fox, but he’s wrong about the second one.

Specifically, our conversation went like this:

“Hey, Beth, did you know the Russians spent the last 60 years selectively breeding wild foxes to create a domesticated version? They actually did it. The science is amaz…”

“OH MY GOSH, WE’RE GETTING A FOX?”

“No, we’re not getting a f…”

“We’re getting a fox! WE’RE GETTING A FOX. KIDS?? Listen up! Dad says we can have a FOX.”

**kids cheering**

“Beth. Beth! We are NOT getting a fox.”

“Of COURSE we’re getting a fox. You JUST SAID there are DOMESTICATED FOXES in the world. What POSSIBLE REASON do you have for NOT GETTING a fox?”

“Well, they make terrible pets. They’re only domesticated. Like, they can’t survive in the wild, and they’re happy around people. But they’re not necessarily good at living in the house, and they tend to mark their territory, including indoors.”

“OMG. That’s the stupidest reason EVER, Greg, not to get a fox. Our children are all feral, and we keep them. One of them peed on the inside garage walls. Several kept a poop collection under the front porch. God knows, we’ve cleaned urine and feces off nearly EVERY surface and textile in this house, thanks to myriad small creatures, human and otherwise. And I pooped the closet. Marking his territory is just a reason why a fox will fit in perfectly with this family.”

Greg rolled his eyes. It’s how he flirts with me. “You can’t just import a fox to the States.”

“According to Google and PBS, though, you CAN, Greg. You CAN import a domesticated fox to the States for just $9,000.”

“Right. NINE THOUSAND DOLLARS, Beth. Nine THOUSAND.”

“I hear you, Greg. I hear what you’re saying loud and clear. Got it, kids? We just need to raise $9,000 and then we get to have a fox. A WHOLE FOX.”

“And they’re specifically outlawed in Oregon…”

“So noted. Step 1: Raise $9,000. Step 2: Change Oregon State law. Step 3: WE’RE GETTING A FOX.”

In conclusion, Greg made sure to let me know there are domesticated foxes and then helpfully outlined what I need to do to procure one of my very own, which is pretty much exactly the same as saying I can have one. Yes? Yes. I knew you’d understand.

With love (and great excitement),

P.S. FYI, I think we’re going to start with a girl fox. I shall name her Megan (obviously). Then we’ll get a boy fox and name him Michael J. They will have sweet baby foxes. We will keep one of the boy kits and name him George because George Fox was a weird weirdo who was weird and counter-cultural and founded Quakerism because he radically believed there is that of God in every person, made, as we are, in God’s own image. I cannot think of a better reminder of the tenets of our faith than a baby fox named George. Next time Greg panics even though he said I can have a fox, I’ll remind him it’s because it’s what Jesus wants for us, else why would he have brought the article to Greg’s attention in the first place? WHY are we getting a fox, Greg? DIVINE INTERVENTION is why. And also, it will remind us of our FAITH. Don’t argue with me about this; argue with GOD.

P.P.S. OMG! GUESS WHAT? I JUST REALIZED WE’LL NEED TO SELL THE OTHER KITS. To good homes, of course. But the average litter for a fox is 4-6 kits… and it’s not uncommon to go significantly higher… up to 13 (!). THAT MEANS I’VE ALREADY SOLVED THE $9,000 QUESTION. I just need to buy Megan and Michael J. for $18,000, have one litter of minimum 4 kits, keep one, and sell 3 for $27,000 total. I JUST MADE US $9,000, GREG. You’re welcome.

P.P.P.S. While we wait for our foxes to arrive, our next Golden Retriever foster dog is coming. Her name is Nikki, and she’s 3 months old. I CAN HARDLY STAND HOW ADORABLE SHE IS.

P.P.P.P.S.

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I Accepted on Behalf of All of Us. Also, I’m Going to Need a Trophy Case.

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 02 Feb 2018 00:00:08 +0000

There’s always a fine line to walk between celebrating one’s success among friends and tooting one’s own horn. I’m going to go ahead and call this the former as I tell you I WON A LOT OF AWARDS THIS WEEK.

A lot, a lot, friends.

But I want you to know, as I accepted these and had my moment behind the podium* to speak to the masses**, I made sure the crowd understood I was accepting them on behalf of ALL of us. All of us mamas. And all of us parents. And all of us HUMANS who somehow ENDURE and BEAR WITNESS to each other again and again.

I was nominated*** in myriad categories, and I won a bunch of them, but I’m only going to give you a quick tour of my favorite hardware from the ceremony because I don’t want to brag too, too much. I’ll save the rest for another time.

…..

Award #1: SMOTHERED ZERO PEOPLE WITH A PILLOW

Lots of humans have smothered zero people with a pillow, and I am one of them! Huzzah! I accepted this award with a lengthy speech to itemize All the Things for which I COULD HAVE Smothered People but DIDN’T. It was very passionate. Also, loud. Also-also, some of the crowd put on headphones and Stopped Listening, and there were a few who Rolled Their Eyes****, but I don’t feel like any of that undermines the fact that I both earned and deserve this trophy which so beautifully memorializes my excellent Self-Control.

…..

Award #2: TOOK MY MEDS

It’s true! I did.

…..

Award #3: INJURY FREE WORKPLACE

Sixty minutes, friends. Sixty WHOLE MINUTES injury-free around here. I’ll be honest, we almost didn’t qualify, but somehow, at the last minute, we pulled it off.

…..

Award #4: HA HA JUST KIDDING

Awarded for all kinds of Ha Ha Just Kidding situations, this trophy only symbolically says Made the Bed, which is obviously not a thing that happens around here because science, thank God, has put the kibosh on bed-making. I mean, I was given this trophy for Making the Bed (Ha Ha Just Kidding), but I also qualified for other categories of Ha Ha Just Kidding, including Showered Today, Found Clean Panties on the First Try, and Drank My Coffee While It Was Still Hot.

….

In conclusion, I’m going to need a really big trophy case, because there are more***** where these came from******, and I’m bound to keep winning and winning.

With love,

*Podium: aka, the kitchen table.
**The Masses: Several children, all apparently mine, some sans pants, two muddy dogs, and Greg.
***I Was Nominated: with special thanks to Me for nominating myself.
****A Few Who Rolled Their Eyes: Greg Woolsey.
*****There Are More: OF COURSE there are more. There are more already made, AND there are more to come. For example, I am currently reading Bonk: the Curious Coupling of Science and Sex by Mary Roach and have decided my next trophy ought to be for Not Coercing Greg into Having Sex in Front of a Medical Audience for the Purposes of 4D Research like Mary, my hero, did her husband, Ed. I mean, YES I made Greg believe we were getting a miniature horse, and YES, I’m blessing him with a house full of Golden Retrievers, but it turns out I HAVE NEVER, EVER FLOWN HIM TO ENGLAND TO PARTICIPATE IN SEX STUDIES. I am a Paragon of Virtue. Now to make that concise enough to go on a trophy. I’m open to suggestions.
******Where These Came From: My friend, Shelley, who, for reasons I don’t understand, was getting rid of trophies, instead of awarding them to herself. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Also from our local trophy store where the receptionist was very, very confused and troubled by how I intended to repurpose these. On the bright side, I think that lady prayed for me when I left.

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Today’s Avoidance Technique Brought to You by the Letter P

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 30 Jan 2018 23:17:37 +0000

Do you ever feel like pterodactyl is an inside joke? Like, do you look at that word and think, “That cannot possibly be right?” Do you see pterodactyl and suspect it was maybe, probably, actually spelled teradactile until one day, at their top secret, annual, global conference, All the Paleontologists decided they were sick and tired of being belittled by the Other Scientists as the Ross Gellars of the Science World and never, ever invited to sit at the Cool Kids’ Table with Neil DeGrasse Tyson or Lisa Randall? Do you think the Paleontologists were bitter they’re never invited to play themselves on Big Bang Theory like Stephen Hawking and The Wild Thornberrys like Jane Goodall? Do you think they were enraged their conference is always during the mid-summer heatwave in Fresno, California or Trenton, New Jersey while All the Physicists toast each other with fine wine just after the new year in French ski villages like Val Thorens and Alpe d’Huez?

I do.

I think they were all, “NOPE,” and “DONE,” and “OVER AND OUT, Other Scientists,” and that’s when they made their pact to just EFF WITH US FOREVER AND EVER by agreeing to insist teradactile, which makes sense, is spelled pterodactyl.

Tommy was all, “We could throw a P in front of that.” And Patrice went, “And spell the end with a Y.” And then Robertta goes, “Let’s just arbitrarily change the A in the middle to an O,” because she’s still angry her mom spelled her name with two t’s.

I mean, it was a joke, obviously, after a few too many fancy cocktails at the conference center bar themed to look like a tacky Tiki Shack, but then they all looked at each other. It was an instant mindmeld as they simultaneously thought, “We could pull this off. Who’s going to tell All the Paleontologists in All the World that we’re Wrong about how to spell pterodactyl?”

They were drunk on power. And a little bit on rum punch. So they pulled the trigger.

They never meant it to go this far. They were in a bad mental space, and they didn’t think it through.

They never meant to harm all those Second Grade Spelling Bee hopefuls, dashing their dreams on P’s and O’s and Y’s.

But it’s just too late to come clean now.

They have to live with it.

Every day, they have to live with regret.

Let’s think about that for a while, shall we?

Sincerely,

P.S. Did you know that the pterodactyl’s scientific name — pterodactylus— means winged finger? I bet you dollars to donuts every single time a paleontologist says pterodactyl, that’s exactly what they’re flipping the world, y’all. #TheMoreYouKnow

P.P.S. I have a lot of laundry and dishes and children’s hygiene issues to attend to today, friends. Also, news and politics are depressing. Thus this dive into the word pterodactyl. Today’s avoidance technique is brought to you by the letter “P.”

P.P.P.S. Also, anyone but me think narwhals are a hoax? Because seriously.

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I know what to do now! All is not lost.

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 24 Jan 2018 07:10:53 +0000

Sometimes Greg asks me weird questions. I mean, I think he means well. He’s just not always logical.

Like, when I told him we were getting a free piano last week, Greg said, “Where are we going to put it?” Which is also what our kids said. I can only assume it’s Greg’s influence on them.

I think a more appropriate response is, “Oh my gosh; YAY! How did you manage to snag a free piano, Beth? Are you made out of MAGIC?” Or, “That is the BEST NEWS EVER. How soon can we pick it up?”

Instead, I got, “Where are we going to put it?” Followed by, “And who exactly do you think is picking it up?” Followed by eye rolling and sighing and what basically amounts to All the Cues of Grave Reluctance.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s OK, though. Greg I have been married a Very Long Time now, so I know he responds this way to Good News. He just needs time to realize my plans are the Best Ever.

Last month, just in time for Christmas, I told him, “I Know What to Do Now.” And, “All Our Problems Are Solved!” And, “Even Though Our World Is Absurd and Sad Right Now, I HAVE A PLAN FOR UNLIMITED JOY.”

“WE ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL THE PUPPIES, GREG.
Did you know the Golden Retriever Rescue organization in Oregon
LETS YOU FOSTER DOGS?
UNLIMITED GOLDEN RETRIEVERS.
(Well, they might have limits, but, still…
DOGS FOR DAYS!)”

Greg said, “Hooray!”

Except minus the word hooray and plus the word no.

ESSENTIALLY THE SAME THING.

Then he looked at me disdainfully for a while.

Then he sighed for a couple weeks.

Then he said, “Fine. You have to pick up all the poop.”

YAAAAAYYYY!

So our free piano is lovely…

… and we’re on foster dog #2, the handsomest, sweetest, funniest, hugest, FARTIEST Golden Retriever in the world. (Food transitions are hard, man.)

In conclusion, I know what to do now. Or, at least, a teeny, TINY bit of what to do, which, mathematically speaking is INFINITY TIMES more than what I knew before. I mean, YES, our world is all effed up. And YES, the news is discouraging Every Single Day; devastating on the days it’s not discouraging. And YES, sometimes it’s really, super extra hard to put on clothes and to know how to exist in a world like this. BUT WE CAN FILL OUR HOUSE WITH GOLDEN DOGS, SO ALL IS NOT LOST. All is not lost when we spread compassion wherever we can.

With love to you, friends, and extra dog hairs if anyone needs some,

P.S. What are you doing that brings you joy these days? ‘Cause I could use a longer list.

P.P.S. The gigantic baby above — a 90 lb. bag of awesome — is moving to his new home on Friday which means ANOTHER GOLDEN IS ON THE WAY TO OUR HOUSE SOON. YIPPEE!

P.P.P.S. This is pretty much Greg and me, where Greg plays the role of Karen:

I DID IT FOR US, GREG.

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I Got Dressed Today (and I Don’t Think That Bar Is Particularly Low)

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 18 Jan 2018 04:12:09 +0000

I don’t want to brag, but I’m a big goal setter, and I usually accomplish my goals, too. Last night, for example, I thought about what I really wanted for myself today (it’s important to plan ahead, you know), and I decided I’d set a goal to Get Dressed. Friends, I DID IT. I got dressed today! All the way dressed, including panties and shoes, because when I do goals, I do thorough goals.

I realize this sounds like a Setting the Bar Low piece, and it is, I guess, but it also isn’t. It’s been hard lately to get up while it’s still morning, to wash my face, to brush my teeth, to shower more than once/week, and, frankly, even that often feels like a chore. I mean, I like being clean, it’s just that that’s becoming more of a memory or an ideal at this point and not so much a reality.

I’m not worried, yet, about depression rearing its head. To be clear, that’s exactly what it’s doing, but I’m still winning, and this is just part of it. A new skirmish in an ongoing war, but I have depression outgunned for now.

Last night, I just wanted to lay on my couch, face down in smashed Cheerio shards and wispy dog hair, prone and unmoving, breathing through the corners of my mouth. I managed to make it through yesterday, but barely, and I wanted today to be better.

Now, if I had my druthers, I’d wave my magic wand and be All the Way Better, Right Now. Like the magician who reappears after her trick in a puff of smoke, a slinky sequined dress, and stilletos, hair perfectly coiffed and hand upraised. TA DA! Sadly, though, my wand is on the fritz, so I have to try for better the old fashioned way. Incrementally, which is a real bummer.

So I set a goal. One thing about today that I wanted to be different than yesterday. I picked Wearing Clothes. I wanted to pick wearing clothes, grocery shopping, writing, actually responding to emails instead of reading them and intending to respond, showering, scheduling, budgeting, and cleaning my room, but I know better. One thing at a time, Beth, for sustainable change. One thing at a time for a lot longer than I would wish. One thing at a time because, in a shocking twist, Something Sometimes is often healthier than the All or Nothing I prefer.

In conclusion, I got dressed today, friends. I planned it, I prepared diligently, and I achieved my goal. Rejoice with me! And feel proud of yourself, too, please. Sometimes, reaching for the goals that seem small to others are, in fact, making a choice to live.

With love,

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In Case You Need Thumb Seeds, Tiny Watermelons, Or A New President, Which Are Basically The Same Thing…

Beth Woolsey — Sat, 13 Jan 2018 00:07:06 +0000

You know how sometimes you wish you had more than two thumbs to give? Like, when you’re all, TWO THUMBS UP to your friends but then you wish you had three thumbs because they brought cookies? Or four because they said your kids probably won’t all grow up to be serial killers? In those moments, I’m all, “I REGRET THAT I HAVE BUT TWO THUMBS TO GIVE, friends.” They deserve so much more.

This isn’t just me. It can’t be. I mean, I know it’s just anecdotal evidence, but Facebook added a love button because sometimes like simply isn’t enough. I think they still need to add a vomit button and a rolling-eyes button given our current political environment, but still, Facebook is at least attempting to allow us to share the scope of our emotion, and I appreciate that.

I texted my friend Kasey a four-thumber the other night…

“Four Thumbs Up <- That’s if I had 4 thumbs.”

…and right away, she understood not just my approval but my deep desire for additional thumbs.

“If you cut off your big toes thumbs might grow in their place.”

Kasey gets me. She really does. I like her because she’s not just a problem solver, she thinks of practical solutions. Still, I had a few questions, for clarity, you know?

“Do I cut them off with scissors? Or a knife? Or pull them off? Like, does the cut have to be straight and even for the thumbs to grow? And do I have to put thumb seeds in my empty toe holes? Does it only work with my big toes? Or can I cut off all my toes and have 10 thumbs down there?”

I’m so glad I asked, friends. Kasey initially assumed a certain level of Toe Thumb awareness on my part, but I’m a true Toe Thumb novice.

“For sure a knife. A really really big one. Make sure you cut from the bottom up if you want the thumbs to be up. Thumbs down on your feet would be embarrassing. Yes you need thumb seeds in the big toe holes. Make sure it is centered and not wonky. Very bad things happen if your seeds are placed wonky. You can get thumb seeds at Home Depot. It only works with your big toes. I highly recommend not cutting off all your other toes.”

Conclusion? ASK QUESTIONS. Nobody likes a know-it-all, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say the very last thing you want is upside down Toe Thumbs.

Sincerely,

P.S. If you’re looking for toe seeds at Home Depot, Kasey offered some advice on where to find them.

“Thanks! Do you know where at Home Depot the Thumb Seeds are? I assume not with the vegetable seeds; that would be weird since thumbs are obviously not vegetables. I just need to know where to tell Greg to look. I thought maybe with the pipes and/or screws since those are the parts for making robots?” “Defs not by vegetables that would just be inappropriate and disgusting. I believe they are near the screws and you should probably tell Greg to pick up a couple of those screws just in case too. They can be helpful in the rare case that they fall off.”

P.P.S. I also looked up “Thumb Seeds” on Amazon, as one does, hoping to find out whether I can have them shipped to my door and save myself the trip to Home Depot.

I have several take-always from the search results, as follows:

A) Amazon verified Kasey’s advice by providing product info for a prosthetic thumb in case growing your own thumbs from seed proves too difficult, a pocket knife for toe severing, and thumb seeds. Well done, Amazon. Well done.

B) Clearly the seller has to call these “thumb watermelon seeds” because the selling of human body parts is prohibited, presumably even in seed form, but, by looking at the picture, one can see they are, in fact, advertising the thumb.

C) Microscopic watermelons are also a thing, which I didn’t know prior to this search. I presume these watermelons, each of which must be peeled separately in order to eat them, are for people who are exceedingly bored and thus can allot time to tiny watermelon peeling. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I know not who these people are, but I would like one afternoon to be them, please.

P.P.P.S. Following the horrific “shitholes” comment by President Trump yesterday, one of you (I’m looking at you, Mehera) suggested we elect Jed Bartlet president, instead. I’m in favor. Also acceptable, in no particular order: Jean Luc Picard, Michelle Obama, Mike Rowe, a bag of chips, my Golden Retriever Zoey, Sarah Silverman, Elizabeth Warren, a rock, The Rock, that one flight attendant who had enough of his job and pulled the emergency exit door on the tarmac so he could escape via life raft slide, my favorite barista Ian from the Coffee Cottage, Stampy the Minecraft YouTuber, Boss Baby, Gayle King, Ira Flatow, or these teeny, tiny watermelons that look like thumbs. Sheesh.

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A Jumbled Mess That Makes No Sense But Maybe I’ll Write About Watermelon Thumbs Tomorrow

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 12 Jan 2018 09:12:31 +0000

I keep trying to write to you but my brain is all over the place in the current political and religious environment in the U.S., so half the time I want to unload my thoughts on serious subjects like our president’s abhorrent use today of the word shitholes to describe Nearly All the Countries Where Black People Come From, and the other half of the time I want to ask you how many Maturity Points I get, exactly, for not posting the photos I took of Greg sporting the kitten speedo I gave him for Christmas.

In other words, my thoughts are like a tumble dryer spinning on the infinite cycle, a symptom, I suspect, of the anxiety of our modern era, and it’s difficult to stop the spinning long enough to pull out Just One Thing and write about it well. Do you do this, too? Do you spin and spin and spin and spin? Or is it just me?

I tried again tonight, and no luck. Zero. So I stream-of-conscienced it, instead, which did no good at all.

All I want in this moment is five minutes of quiet — five minutes to gather my thoughts and take a deep breath and just, you know, try to release a modicum of the pressure that’s been building in my neck and shoulders and back all day — and, because I’m a good communicator who doesn’t expect my family to read my mind, I have told them this. With words. And also with the red laser beams shooting from my eyes, dramatic sighing, and saying, “Seriously, you guys. SERIOUSLY.”

Here’s how it’s going:

I have one kid reading me all the titles in a cookbook — “Pressure cooker Chinese chicken, Mom. Tex-Mex beef and rice casserole! Bacon apple pork chops. That sounds good. You should make that one, Mom. Mom? You should… oh! Souvlaki! What’s souvlaki? Mom? Mom. Mom. MOM. Are you even listening to me, Mom?”
I have one kid with expressive language disorder and an abiding desire to be the Boss of Everything correcting the first kid on his pronunciation — “Dude. That’s SHELL LOCKEY.”
I have one kid who just slammed his toes on the leg of the couch, jumping on one foot and yelling, “FUCK. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” because of science.
And I have one kid turning up the volume on his Minecraft YouTube videos because “EVERYONE IS TOO LOUD FOR ME TO HEAR. EVERYONE. EVERYONE IS TOO LOUD,” which I couldn’t agree with more.

^^^That’s it.^^^ That’s all I was able to write. It felt like my brain was cross-eyed and on fire.

But now it’s after 10pm and the children are in bed, which means I’ve got approximately 9 minutes before someone comes back out with a question about this week’s schedule… or a request to make cookies tomorrow… or a permission slip to sign. I will remind them that bedtime is Not the Time for These Things and tell them to ask again tomorrow, they will fuss because they forgot and they neeeeeeeeeed to know noooooooowww, and I will threaten to take away their screens which obviously distracted them from remembering. I’ve wasted 2 minutes already telling you this, which, if you have children, you already know, so that’s 2 minutes I’ll never get back.

Friends, I am weary. For real. So, SO tired. I mean, physically tired, yes, but also emotionally, mentally, and spiritually spent. And trying to raise kids right now? Knowing the Trump presidency and the church’s complicity in it, along with the church’s exclusion of us and of gender and sexual minorities, will be a major part of their formative memories? It’s overwhelming.

So, in lieu of a brain that works, I’ll leave you with the encouragement to go watch this today, on the 8th anniversary of the Haiti Earthquake: Anderson Cooper’s emotional tribute to and defense of Haiti whose people deserve our love. He explains more eloquently than I ever could why we need to treasure each other and learn from the dignity of the Haitian people.

Waving in the dark,

P.S. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about watermelon thumbs. That will make more sense than this jumbled mess. Maybe.

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Greg Thinks My Cooking Looks Like an Open Wound

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 04 Jan 2018 01:54:07 +0000

Greg thinks my cooking looks like an open wound.

“BETH?” he yelled from upstairs. “WHY DID YOU POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON YOUR BLOG?”

Listen; with a family our size, we have to yell from one floor to the other. Yes, our parents taught us not to hollar throughout the house because we are humans and not elephants trumpeting in the wilderness —“Go FIND people and TALK TO THEM WITHOUT YELLING,” my mother would yell — but we have too many people in our house for that to work. Do you have any idea how much exercise we would get if we always talked to our people in person around here? Every request and reminder? For all five children plus the spouse? THAT’S SO MANY STAIRS TO WALK, y’all. We’d get repetitive stress injuries like extreme marathoners, and, healthcare being what it is in America, WE CANNOT AFFORD THAT. So we yell. It’s just practical.

So. “BETH?” Greg yelled from upstairs. “WHY DID YOU POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON YOUR BLOG?”

And I yelled back, “I DID NOT POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON MY BLOG.”

And he yelled, “YES, YOU DID. I’M LOOKING AT IT RIGHT NOW.”

And I yelled, “I DIDN’T.”

And he yelled, “OH, YEAH. I SEE IT NOW. IT’S JUST PIE.”

Which is when I realized my beloved partner — the man to whom I committed my life and body — can’t tell the difference between my cooking and torn flesh.

There is no point to this post other than to make you feel good about whatever you’re putting on your table. I live to serve. Simply ask yourself from now on, “Does this look better than a fresh, bloody lesion?” If the answer is yes, you’re doing better than me.

You’re welcome. Weird encouragement is better than no encouragement?

Love,

P.S. Click here for the recipe for Heinous-Rhymes-With-Anus Flesh Wound Pie

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On the New Year, Choosing a Word, and Being Wilder on Purpose

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 03 Jan 2018 04:18:02 +0000

I’ve never picked a personal Word for the Year, even though I’m pretty sure all the popular kids do it.

I assume I don’t pick one because I’m lazy.

Or maybe because I’m busy.

Or, more honestly, probably because I’m too invested in making sure I don’t have time alone with myself to actually sit and be quiet and think about what I want, who I want to be, and how best to love this broken, shaky, beautiful world around me.

So, instead of sussing a Word for the Year, I’ve spent the last week trying new Instant Pot recipes, baking No Knead Crusty Dutch Oven Bread, and researching whether or not it’s possible to dry the starter for Amish Friendship Bread, like this, so I can eat it whenever I want without needing Actual Friends to pass it along to me. (Answer: I STILL DON’T KNOW AND THIS BOTHERS ME).

My friends come up with cool words every year like BRAVE and LET IT GO and LOVE BIGGER, and you know what? They do it. They Pay Attention to their words. They let themselves be challenged. They try and they fail and then they keep trying which is success as far as I’m concerned, and so they change themselves in important and profound ways.

I want to be like them.

But I’m not.

I’m more… muddled, I guess. Murky. A maze of both Magic and Mess. And also, I don’t know what to make of Things Lately. Like 2017. I don’t know what to make of that. Cluster Fuck seems too mild, and Dumpster Fire is downright adorable now, from Good Old Days of 2016. Remember that? When the fire was still contained in the dumpster? THAT WAS SO FANTASTIC, friends! I feel like we should apologize to the dumpster, you know? Like we maligned the dumpster without cause.

So, while I love seeing my friends’ words like Hope, and Thrive, and BE, and Listen, I can’t quite wrap my brain or my heart around just the joyful, contemplative goals right now. They feel… important, but also… incomplete. I’m happy for the New Year, I’m grateful for a symbolic fresh start, but I’m also mourning all the things that died last year, and I’m not sure my Expectations and Mirages are done dying yet. I still hear the death throes, so brushing off my hands and declaring Mourning Over feels premature. But I can’t choose Mourn as my word, either, because I don’t want to only lament what’s lost. I’m too grateful for that. Too glad to have my people. Too thrilled with this utterly strange, wild life.

Is there a space, I wonder, between positive and negative? Between darkness and light? And, if so, how do I choose Dusk or Dawn, where light and dark converge, instead of Midnight or High Noon? What’s the word for that one? Where I’m content and confused, mixed and a little mangled, heavy-hearted and hopeful, but OK with all that? Where’s the quantum magic that takes us more than one place at once? Lost and found at the same time and somehow more free because of it?

Where do we get to be complex? Fully human with all the grand, gory bits that entails, and still made in the very Image of God? In the Image of Love? In the Image of all that is Divine and perfect?

Where is that place, and how do I find it in 2018? Remember it in a word?

I sat on the couch tonight, my back and brain aching from Doing All the Things this holiday season; my heart on cruise control because sometimes I Just Cannot Deal with all the Heart Things; my mouth running to remind kids of chores and chastising them for “not remembering” their work, as though that’s not simply part of the Human Condition.

I sat on the couch tonight, and I thought about the complexity of the year gone by and the undoubted challenges in the year ahead.

I sat on the couch tonight, and I thought about the joy and grief of wandering in the wilderness, which is where we’ve found ourselves in this season. I thought about how glad I am discard the false idol of safety and to release the pressure to conform in favor of being free to love my neighbor as myself.

I thought about what it is to be wild like the earth shakers and game changers.

I thought about what it might be to be wilder than I allow right now.

I thought about what it would look like to acknowledge I’m complex.

To be fierce and a little feral.

To welcome both strength and weakness. To rest in either one. To fight neither.

I thought about what it might mean to allow myself to be intense without apology; to stop listening to the voices that tell me I’m too much; to give free rein to fervent kindness, bold joy, deep grief, and love which never fails. Even when they arrive in rapid succession. Even when they overlap and make things messier.

I thought about being wild.

I thought about what it might mean to be wilder. To be more free. To be more me, as I was made to be. As though I’m worth pursuing, even in the tangle and chaos of the wild. Especially there.

So I picked my word.

Be wilder.

Which is, of course, also bewilder.

Because I want to remind myself that it’s good and right to become ever more free. And it’s also OK that there’s going to be some confusion. Some consternation. Some complexity. Some muck and some mess.

Welcome, Wild Ones. Come and be free.

With love,

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Easy Peasy, Two Ingredient Jam Tart

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 21 Dec 2017 23:26:43 +0000

Alright, folks. It’s 5 days ‘til Christmas, and I don’t know about you, but I still have 85,000 things to do and the energy for, like, 6 of them. It’s OK, though. I am not panicking, and do you know why? Because I intend to half-ass All the Things from here on out. I will give partial effort that LOOKS like full effort. I will do what delights me and spreads magic, and I will let go of all the things that do not qualify.

My house is partially decorated, and that’s AWESOME. Let’s hear it for PARTIALLY! We put up our lights six weeks ago and left a string dangling because we intended to put up more. Half of those have burnt out now, and the other half are dimming and on the way toward death. In other words, you can tell by looking at the outside of our house that WE TRIED, DAMMIT, and that is good enough for me, friends. Good enough for me.

My tree is up and lit, there are stockings hung by the chimney without care because I CANNOT CARE ABOUT EVERYTHING, and there’s still a giant garland in a heap in a corner of the family room — one we got out of its box on November 1st — that hasn’t made it to the mantel. You know what we’re going to say about that? THAT I AM SO GOOD AT DECORATING, I’M EVEN MAKING SURE THE CORNERS HAVE GARLANDS. I hereby declare myself the Queen of Half-Assery, and I am content.

So. In that spirit, I offer you this easy, peasy, two ingredient jam tart that looks Very Fancy, tastes delicious, but is still completely and utterly a half-assed effort. It is, in other words, one of my favorite desserts of all time.

Easy Peasy, Two Ingredient Jam Tart

Ingredients:
1. Jam
2. Frozen Pie Dough

I prefer to use Marie Calendar’s pie dough because they bake up flakey and perfect like my mom’s pie crust, but with, like, ZERO work. Any pre-made pie dough will work, though.

Directions:

1. Thaw pie dough. Since Ms. Calendar puts hers in a disposable tin, I pop them out of the tin still frozen and let them thaw so I can mush them into my own pie plate, thus making this dessert look fully homemade and procuring credit I don’t deserve. WIN/WIN.

2. When soft, mush it into your own pie plate, cutting off the top edge. (This is a thin tart, so you don’t need the excess dough, plus you’ll use it in a minute to be Extra Fancy.)

3. Add 1 cup of jam, any flavor and spread it into the crust. My favorite is a berry mix or lemon curd. OMG, SO GOOD.

4. Roll the remaining dough into a ball, roll out to 1/8” (3mm), and, using whatever cookie cutter you decide is fanciest, cut a few shapes to decorate the top of the tart.

5. Optional, depending on how fancy you want to be: brush crust with egg and sprinkle with sugar.

6. Bake at 425F (220C) for 10 minutes, then decrease the temperature to 375 and bake 15-20 more minutes. Remove from the oven when the crust is browned and the jam is bubbling. Let cool, then cut and serve.

Serves 4. Since the Marie Calendar’s pie crusts come in sets of 2, I make at least 2 at a time.

ALTERNATIVELY — I just made these last night, and I bypassed steps 2 and 4. EVEN EASIER. I rolled the dough into a circle approximately 1/8” (3mm) thick, put it on a greased baking sheet, put the jam in the middle, spread it to within 2-3” (50-75mm) of the edges, then folded the dough edges over, galette style, to make a rustic tart, instead. It was SUPER easy and worked beautifully. Of course, I only remembered to take a picture before I baked it — HELLO, HALF-ASSERY — but this will still give you a good idea of what I’m talking about:

(Psst…She was REALLY pretty with egg wash and sugar, all bubbly and brown from the oven. You’ll just have to imagine with me.)

In conclusion, friends, half-assery for the win! And Merry Christmas to all. Unless Christmas isn’t your jam, in which case I still recommend jam tart. And half-assery.

X’s and O’s,

P.S. You can find all the Easy Peasy recipes — including my other holiday favorite, Two Ingredient Fudge — by clicking here. Enjoy!

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Sometimes We Can Walk Through the Mystery and Not Even Know It’s There: Thoughts on the Cluster That Is 2017

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 18 Dec 2017 01:37:24 +0000

I have been moving at a frenetic pace, friends. Every minute of every day it seems, and I hardly have words to put to the whirlwind of desperate activity in my mind.

Two thousand seventeen has been a series of flash floods; powerful, destructive, and pulling everything off its foundation. I feel like I’ve spent December trying to distract myself from the devastation — QUICK, BETH! DO ALL THE THINGS! COOK! CLEAN! TRAVEL! MAKE CINNAMON BREAD, STAT! — and simultaneously picking through the rubble to see what’s left.

Refugee crisis = FLASH FLOOD.

Brexit = FLASH FLOOD.

America elected the Lyingest President of All Time = FLASH FLOOD.

Trump, who brags about sexually assaulting women and bans immigrants during the largest displacement of vulnerable populations the world has ever known is mainly supported by Christian Evangelicals. FLASH FLOOD.

Our umbrella group of churches has removed us from membership. FLASH FLOOD.

The camp our kids have always attended — the one at which Greg and I met and volunteered for 24 years — has notified those of our ilk (who are affirming and inclusive of our gender and sexual minority (GSM) neighbors) that we are no longer allowed to be in leadership roles. FLASH FLOOD.

And, of course, the knock-down, gut-punch, breathless realization that our GSM friends were systematically wounded by our churches and our camp all along, while we remained silent and were complicit in maintaining the power structure that caused such pain. FLASH FLOOD. And ugh.

Flash floods, friends — calamity after calamity — are running down the hills of 2017 and crashing together at the bottom, the confluence too tumultuous to separate into streams that can can be crafted into concise explanations. Words become hard to shape from the madness, and my pace in trying to outrun the landslides keeps increasing. It’s like being manic, I suspect, this relentless frenzy I find so appealing lately. Like being on uppers, rushing from cooking to baking to cleaning to shopping to wrapping to cooking again. Running to events. Running up the stairs because I forgot my wallet. Running out the door to the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing, and the next. No time to rest or else 2017 will catch me, and I’ll be swept away.

My right butt cheek hurts — it has for days, so if anyone can explain why and what to do about a butt injury other than, you know, rest, please do tell — and also my left bicep, the space between my shoulders, and the back of my skull. I should sit down. I should go to sleep at a reasonable time. I should stop watching zit popping videos until midnight. Instead, I pop ibuprofen like it’s candy and keep going as fast as my internal monologue which never stops. “THOSE 6 LOAVES OF CINNAMON BREAD ARE NOT GOING TO MAKE THEMSELVES, BETH. DO MORE.”

Do you get it, friends? Do you know what I’m saying?

I mean, I realize I could blame “the Season.” There’s so much to do for Christmas, after all, but if I’m honest it’s not Christmas. Sadly, no. The pressure comes from me in my haste to busy myself out of feeling all that 2017 has had to offer.

But I went to church this morning — our church that kept us when the other churches had no room for us in the inn — and I sat with the cool college humans, and I sang the Christmas songs, and I discovered I have something important to tell those of us who are the Frenzied Folks right now. I remembered something critical.

We are in the middle of the mess.
Yes. OBVIOUSLY.
Which also means we need to be on the lookout for the magic.

I FORGOT for a while. I forgot that there is ALWAYS magic in the mess. Even though we talk about it ALL THE TIME here, I forgot until Pastor Kim talked about the Mystery.

Pastor Kim is our children’s pastor. She wore her grey dreads up in a yellow wrap this morning, and she was very beautiful and very brave as she taught her lesson to the kids on the big brown rug, with us, the host of larger humans, looking on.

“Sometimes we can walk through a Mystery and not even know it’s there,” she said. “And this is a time of Mystery, because we are waiting for Jesus to be born, but Jesus is also already here.”

Now, remember, friends, that you can substitute “Love” for “Jesus” anytime we get too Jesusy up in here, and the point is the same. Love made flesh and dwelling among us. Love that challenges everything we thought we knew. Love that champions the lonely and distressed. Love that is fierce. Love that makes the weak strong. Love that never fails.

Sometimes we can walk through a Mystery and not even know it’s there. And this is a time of Mystery, because we are waiting for Love to be born, but Love is also already here.

THE WORLD IS SUCH A MESS RIGHT NOW. But there is magic in the mess, friends. There is magic here, too, for those of us on the lookout. There is magic, called Love, and even as we’re longing for it, not sure we can wait for it to be made REAL, to be BORN already and dwell among us, it’s also already here. And we get to make more.

The flash floods of 2017 took out some of our foundations, sure, but only the faulty ones. False worship of America. False adherence to Silence and Compliance. The false idol of Maintaining the Status Quo. But I’m digging through the rubble now, and I’m starting to hit bedrock; a firmer foundations than the former could ever be. Two thousand seventeen has given me the gift of sight. The cards are on the table. We know where folks stand. We know who’s in. We know who’s out. And we get to pick where and with whom we stand. We get to pick what we stand for.

As for me and my people, we serve Love. That’s it. That’s the foundation. So we stand with the vulnerable. We make camp in the wreckage with the outcasts. We share whatever little we have as refugees of another life, even if all we have is our words. We are the Magic-Bringers, after all. The Agents of Love. The Justice Mongers. The Voice Amplifiers. We are the Hope-ers who sit in the darkness and believe the dawn is coming. We are the ones grasp the hands of our neighbors and whisper, “You don’t wait alone.”

This year has asked a lot of us. A LOT, a lot. And next year looks to bring its own share of the mess, so we must be very brave. But remember how the Christmas story started, with an angel saying, “Do not be afraid.” Do not be afraid. We have every reason to be, but we can defy fear anyway. We can embrace the promise of dawn after darkness. We can search for the magic in the mess. And we can stand together on Love…

…which I’m sending you now,

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This I Believe: On Self Acceptance by Eleanor Gustavel

Beth Woolsey — Fri, 08 Dec 2017 05:27:59 +0000

Eleanor Gustavel is one of my heroes. She spins words like magic, she’s not afraid of the mess, and I hope to be like her when I grow up. Eleanor is also 16, and I’ve never met her in person — not that in person matters when we’ve met by heart.

Eleanor’s mama, Wendy, introduced us a while back. Two years ago, maybe? I remember it was Christmas time, and I remember Eleanor wasn’t OK. She wasn’t well. She was mired in the mud and the muck of which I’m far too familiar as her brain sucked her under, into the mental darkness. Her mama was wasn’t OK, either, as mamas never are when their children suffer and don’t know their way out of the dark. And so Wendy and Eleanor and I spent that Christmas texting and emailing, sitting figuratively together and waving in the dark, hoping dawn would come swiftly, but whispering to each other that we weren’t alone while we waited.

And dawn came, like it always does. And then day. And then dusk. And then dark. And then dawn again. Eleanor lived. Then Eleanor thrived. Then Eleanor found her voice, which is brilliant. And her brain still betrays her. And she is still the Phoenix, rising from the ashes, again and again.

I love Eleanor to the moon. And it’s with a tender heart, I share her words below with you, knowing you’ll love her like I do.

On Self Acceptance
by Eleanor Gustavel

I believe in self acceptance.

Self love is simply a stupid, fabricated, superficial idea. We never love ourselves 100 percent of the time, but we can learn to accept ourselves. We can learn to look at ourselves and accept what we see, even if we don’t love it.

As a child I loved who I was as a person, but as time passed ideas seeped into my brain like slow, black, cruel molasses saying I wasn’t good enough.

I started to notice how my hair doesn’t fall like a perfect silk curtain, and I grow out of my child sized jeans and suddenly I start to pay a lot more attention to those little embroidered numbers on the tags.

I start to measure my worth in the calories in an apple, slip smoke out of my nostrils and eat the ashes of who I used to be because they’re calorie free, and I’m not pretty unless I can fit in a size zero.

Zero.

Nothing.

I am nothing.

I drink my tears to drown my sorrows.

I start to notice my nose and how ugly and hook shaped it is. And I hate my cheekbones because Angelina Jolie wears them better.

I cover up my feelings with foundation and put glitter on my eyelids because I just want to shine like a crystal slipper, but I look more like a crystal pipe.

I live in a funhouse, full of carnival mirrors. Bending me, breaking me. I shatter.

Acceptance came when I decided to breathe in and out without the smoke, without the tears, without the calculator in my head.

Acceptance came when I decided to fight those monsters that snuck into my head.

Acceptance isn’t easy.

Acceptance is a tear streaked face. Acceptance is red puffy eyes. Acceptance is many hours of self hatred turned into determination.

Acceptance is messy, and beautiful, and scary, and necessary.

This I believe.

Beth told me to write a bio about myself. I was going to write it last night, but I’m a procrastinator. Oops. My name is Eleanor Gustavel. I am 16 years old and from Rhode Island. I enjoy dying my hair unnatural colors and playing as many instruments as I can teach myself. I’m a trapeze artist, an animal lover, and a free spirit. Oh, and I’m clinically depressed, suffer from Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and have Anorexia Nervosa. I have self harmed, attempted suicide, been in an abusive relationship, and been bullied. That is my icebreaker. I‘m laying it all out for you because my writing is my therapy, and those who read it are people I could be helping out of a dark place. I lay it all out because I want people to know they’re not alone and it’s okay to be not okay. My writing has helped me through my darkest moments. From being hospitalized, to being bullied in the halls at school, when I take pen to paper I feel a little bit better. I don’t write for sympathy, but for empathy. I hope for my writing to make people more empathetic, not towards me, but towards the rest of the world and the struggles people may be going through.

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I Had It All Together

Beth Woolsey — Thu, 07 Dec 2017 00:31:18 +0000

I had it all together yesterday. I woke up early. I ate breakfast. I drank an entire cup of coffee. I wore clothes that weren’t pajamas. I put on makeup so I didn’t look like the living dead. OK, fine; I had to throw the hair into a bad braid because who has time to do hair after all the above? But still, I had it all together yesterday.

I had it all together yesterday because I had a Place to Be; an Appointment volunteering at the local high school which made me feel magnanimous. I was both dressed and volunteering which qualify me for at least a few hours of super hero status, yes? Yes. I’m glad we agree on the criteria.

So I had it all together yesterday. I volunteered at a school, and then I had a break, and then — wait for it — I volunteered again.

Now, I realize there are parents in this world who volunteer regularly, in all the schools, all the time. They are not super heroes. They are magical, mythical creatures of light and love, imbued with benevolence and grace. They are better than super heroes, is what I’m saying. Still, being a Sometime Super is nothing to sneeze at, and I was super, if only for a day.

I had it all together yesterday. I walked with confident strides and shoulders back and smiled at All the People, as one does when one has it All Together. And so, to celebrate, I took myself to the Fancy Restaurant in town for lunch. Just Me, who had it all together, ordering the Cheapest Thing on the menu so I could sit and soak in the atmosphere, look at the giant, expensive Christmas decorations, and enjoy being pristine a few more minutes before going home where there are rice crispies ground into the couch and our giantest decoration is the tumbleweed of dog hair and spilled sprinkles roaming from room to room.

I had it all together yesterday until I laid my napkin in my lap and thus glanced down at my Super Self… which is when I realized I had my sweater on backwards and also inside out… which is when I hightailed it to the ladies’ room to fix the sweater… which is when I saw the Giant Spot on my pants… which is when I remembered my son “blessing” them with a handful of cupcake frosting… which is when I remembered I’d meant to wash these jeans but had relegated them to the recesses of my mind where all the non-urgent things go. You know, all the non-urgent things that don’t have to do with stopping someone’s bleeding or telling the legions to TURN DOWN THE TV VOLUME OR I’M TURNING IT OFF or running to the store for emergency toilet paper because no one ever puts that on the shopping list.

I had it all together yesterday until my clothes were on backwards and inside out and decorated with a spot that looked like feces but smelled like chocolate frosting. And until, while standing at the Fancy Sink in the Fancy Restroom of the Fancy Restaurant, using their Fancy Cloth Hand Towels to try to scrub the icing from my pants, I glanced in the Fancy Mirror to see that my hair had fallen out of its braid — or rather, half of it had while the other half struggled valiantly but futilely to stay coiffed. Really, by the time I noticed that, I just felt the hair was trying to fit in with its peers. The sweater and the pants had jumped off the cliff, so, by God, the hair was going to jump, too, and damn the consequences.

But I had it all together yesterday, and even though I didn’t — not really — it felt good while it lasted.

Sincerely,

P.S. We are officially in Christmas Christmas season now, as opposed to Halloween Christmas or Thanksgiving Christmas. This is FULL CHRISTMAS, friends. Thus we begin our Christmas Christmas posts on this blog.

P.P.S. Christmas Christmas posts on this blog are the regular mish-mash of posts that wreak havoc and have no overarching theme other than the usual magic and mess and bizarre, beautiful bits about being both human and divine.

P.P.P.S. I have things Planned — thoughts on faith, thoughts on politics, easy peasy recipes to share, an Escapist Book Club book for December, a Gorgeous Piece on Authenticity and Grace and Mental Health by my friend Eleanor who is Wise and Beautiful and Amazing, and more. When I listen to my fears, I’m afraid I’m going to give you whiplash, diving as I do from the mundane to the meaningful in rapid succession. When I listen to Love, which drives out fear, I realize this jumble of shallow and deep is simply Real Life, and Real Life is worth sharing.

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20 Gifts UNDER $20

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 29 Nov 2017 02:04:54 +0000

A few days ago, I saw a “Presents Under $50” list that made me roll my eyes HARD and then ask my family to roll THEIR eyes, too, because my own two were an INSUFFICIENT NUMBER of eyes to roll in response. It wasn’t the general idea of presents under $50. I’m at least theoretically all for that. It was this specific list that caused the eye gymnastics.

First, the list called its 30 items “white elephant gifts,” which, at least as far as I understand it, means these are the items the list-makers assume are good for either a) general gift-giving appealing to all sorts of people when you don’t know who’s going to end up with them, and/or b) gag gifts. I mean, if you’re spending $50 on gag gifts, more power to you, friend. Also, I want an invitation to your party, please, because that would be a cool cross-cultural experience for me. But at no time, in the history of my life upon this fine earth, have I ever, EVER spent $50 on a white elephant gift.

Second, the list called $50 the “sweet spot price,” and “cool, cheap presents,” and “affordable.” Which… maybe… except for the fact that…

Third, the list includes items like:

a $47 mini mug
a $16 velvet hair ribbon
a $35 hair comb
a $45 bottle of handwash clothes detergent
a $10 one-time-use, plastic drinking straw
and more items that made me cock my head to the side and go… what??

For a while, I thought the list must be satire — surely it was a joke — but a little sleuthing uncovered the fact that it’s legit. That’s when the eye rolling began. And when I started typing in all caps. PLEASE HELP ME UNDERSTAND WHO SPENDS $16 FOR A STRIP OF VELVET. PLEASE HELP ME UNDERSTAND $35 FOR A COMB. I mean, does the comb LIGHT UP? Does it BRING ME A BEER FROM THE FRIDGE? Does it MORPH INTO A GENIE AND OFFER ME THREE WISHES? I’m on a Need to Know basis over here — I NEED TO KNOW HOW THIS IS EVEN A THING. I can get 3 YARDS of velvet ribbon at Joann Fabric for $4, y’all. And a 3-pack of hair combs is $0.99 at the grocery store… or, if you want to be extravagant, you can get a fancy comb with a HANDLE for $1.49. Right? I mean, a small bottle of detergent for A TASK I REFUSE TO DO costs $45? And that’s a “cool, cheap, sweet spot” gift? Gah. Don’t worry about me, friends; I’ll just be over here hyperventilating on the floor.

Eventually, once I forced my eyes back down out of my forehead, I decided to put together my own list of gifts for under $20. Because clearly SOMEONE MUST. While $20 STILL may not be the “sweet spot” for gift pricing, it’s a heck of a lot sweeter than $50. Besides, the prices for the gifts below go down as low as $5, AND they’re not gag gifts. There’s stuff in here for kids and adults, bigger presents and stockings, picky teens, travel gear, jewelry, and more.

Enjoy!

{And…psst… A BIG HUGE THANK YOU to all of you who helped put together this list of BETTER STUFF for $20 or less. You’re the raddest.}

20 COOL GIFTS UNDER $20

Fred Bonehead Folding Dinosaur Comb, $14 — OK; I couldn’t resist starting with a comb. While I must admit, $14 is still, in my opinion, too pricey for ONE COMB, this one is a far cooler version than the $35 number, AND it’s fun enough to perhaps convince my kids to actually use it.

4M Science Kits, $9-17 — a wide variety available, great for kids elementary age on up. Tin can robot pictured. Other options include crystal growing, kitchen science, potato clock, hover racer, water rocket, weather science, solar rover and more.

Mobile Phone Camera Lens for Macro and Wide Angle Photos, $15 — Not gonna lie — I’m hoping Greg reads carefully enough to put this in my stocking. Highly rated mobile phone clip-on lens to improve photo quality. Two lenses in one… a wide angle and a macro lens. Excellent for amateur photographers who want to up their photo quality. (THAT’S ME, GREG.)

Stainless Steel Reuseable Straws , $7 — Honestly, who wants a one-time-use plastic straw for $10 when you can get SIX REUSEABLE straws for $7? This one’s a win, and it comes with cleaning brushes. Hooray!

Infrared Flying Hover Ball, $12 — This looks like an amazing gift for older kids, teens, and grown-ups like me who think we’re still children. We’ll be launching these on Christmas morning. Sure, a lamp or two may get broken, but let’s be honest; that was going to happen with or without dueling hover balls.

BEAST Double Wall Stainless Steel Tumbler gift bundle, $18 — You know what I hate about stainless steel tumblers? The fact that they’re handwash only. Not this one, though. This one’s dishwasher safe and comes with some of those stainless steel straws I mentioned above. I’ll take this over a $47 mini-mug any day, no matter how cute that mug is.

Handcrafted Cutting Boards, Cheese Boards and Coasters at Swamp Otter Designs, starting at $15. The board pictured is handmade with cherry, walnut, red oak and maple, finished with food-grade mineral oil, measures 8”x7.5”x1.25”, and sells for $15. Beautiful AND supports a small business owner and artist.

Ladies’ Owl Socks, 5 pair, $14 — Guess what’s going in my kids’ stockings this year? Yep! These have already arrived at my door.

John’s Crazy Socks, $6-12 per pair — John has a very cool story! Click that link to learn more. He sells ALL KINDS of cool socks, most for $6/pair. I’m currently trying to decide between Talking Goat Socks, Nasturtiums, and Portraits of Barack Obama. I just need to find out from John how well those Obama socks are going to soak up my tears.

Sterling Silver Mesh Chain Bracelet, $19 — I bought this bracelet for myself two years ago, and it’s become my all-time FAVORITE. I wear it almost daily. It lays beautifully on my wrist without flipping, the mesh adds visual interest to a basic bracelet that goes with everything, and the price is right. Love this one.

VERO MONTE Slipper Socks, 2 pair for $20 — choice of grey or white. Classic sock slippers in white and grey options.

Long-ass, Fast Charging, Durable iPhone Cable, $11 — While technically “long-ass” isn’t part of this product’s name, it should be. That’s what makes it great. It’s 6’ long, Apple certified, and charges FAST.

Hummingbird Purse Mirror by New Hampshire Pewter, $16 — A lovely artisan product, this is the perfect small mirror to carry for those of us who care about such things.

Never Trust An Atom (They Make Up Everything) T-Shirt, $8 — Also available in a women’s v-neck, these are awesome science-geek-approved daywear. I get Greg a geeky shirt for Christmas every year. He always needs new t-shirts, and the price point is perfect. Last year’s shirt pictured a cat and a box and said, “Schroedenger’s Cat Wanted: Dead and Alive.” There are hundreds of clever shirts to choose from once you start looking online, and most are under $10.

Handbag Hook, $5 — I love mine! This sucker unfolds so that the disk in the center can be placed on a table, and the linked metal around the disk forms a hook. It’s an easy, reliable way to hang my purse on the table when I go out. No more putting it on the floor, and easy to carry in my bag with me. Holds a surprising amount of weight.

Mini Backpack, available in 6 color combinations, $7 — I felt like I was taking a risk with these when I bought them for my kids last year. I mean, a $7 backpack can’t be perfect quality, can it? I took a risk and bought two anyway, and they’re one of my best purchases. We’ve been using them for 18 months now, through several trips, as kids’ daypacks. They’ve been awesome. Perfect size for kids to carry their own gear! Up mountains, through airports, they’ve been fantastic. The adults keep borrowing them, too.

Gerber Paraframe Knife, $17 — High quality, durable, all purpose knife. My 11yo bought this one with his birthday money last year on the recommendation of my father, the Marine. It has lived up to every expectation. Gerber makes excellent products, and this knife has served my kid well while camping and whittling in the backyard. My favorite part is it sharpens easily and maintains a sharp edge which (believe it or not) helps reduce the risk of injury. Has my child cut himself with this knife? YEP! Sure has. Even though a Marine trained him in its use. Nothing a bandaid can’t fix, though, and a great knife to learn on.

Camping Hammock, $18 — Speaking of outdoor gear, hammocks are just all-around rad and an ongoing favorite of my kids. This one is highly rated and comes with straps and carabiners for hanging.

Flingshot Slingshot Flying Screaming Monkey, $7 — For parents who have lost their everloving minds and simply no longer care what gets broken. You thought the hover balls were bad? I have no doubt these are worse. Which is why we’re getting at least two. I DID discover there’s a way to dismantle the screaming portion, though. I mean, I AM out of my mind, but I still have some standards.

Bottle of Wine: Myriad Options Under $20 — There’s a reason a bottle of wine is a perpetual favorite. The bottles are often lovely, you can find very decent wines at reasonable prices if you know where to look (hint: ask the wine merchant at Trader Joe’s for the best bottles at your price point), and it’s always classy. Pictured here: wine I love from Anne Amie in Oregon’s beautiful Willamette Valley

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Quick Reminder, You Glamorous, Glamorous Moms: You’re Not Alone

Beth Woolsey — Sun, 26 Nov 2017 03:42:12 +0000

Hey.

So you know how you’re sitting quietly on the couch, minding your own business, next to the Christmas tree with the soft lights all around, and you think to yourself, what a wonderful world?

And you know how you’ve stayed in your short, cotton nightie all day because you have that sniffling, sneezing, stuffy head cold going around, but it doesn’t matter because no one’s going to see you anyway? You’re comfy and the ibuprofen’s working, so who even cares that your legs are prickly, your bra is God knows where, and your make-up is left over from yesterday so you’re sporting that whole strung-out raccoon look?

And you know how you have a quilt on top of you and a pillow behind your back, and nothing pressing, and the children, praise Jesus, are all busy elsewhere and quiet so they’re probably setting the house on fire but who cares because you have, like, ten whole minutes entirely to yourself?

You’re with me, right?

Yes?

You know how you got yourself a cup of French pressed coffee with just the right amount of cream, and it’s warm and perfect, and you set it down on the little table next to you, and you’re actually, for once in your life, drinking it before it gets cold?

And then you know how one of those children, bless his heart, decides to get the games down from the very top shelf of the bookcase behind the Christmas tree? And so said child must step over you and onto the arm of the couch and lean over the coffee and hang onto the tree for balance?

And then you know how the child overbalances and the tree tips and the games fall and the coffee crashes to ground and so does the child and most of the ornaments and there’s coffee and game pieces and shards of glass everywhere?

And you’re fine with all of that because the child is OK and you don’t have to go to the emergency room, so you pull the child from the mess and send him to get a towel and a broom and tell him it’s OK and everyone makes messes and I’ll clean this one up because, in our family, we help each other?

And you know how you feel rather kind and very heroic and like you rocked the poop out of motherhood, reacting with grace and compassion even though you’re sick and you could have been a total ass to your kid?

And then, you know how, in an effort to step in neither coffee nor glass, you drape yourself decorously over the couch to clean the mess? With grace and elegance? Pretty much exactly like a 1950s housewife who wears heels and pearls to polish her already pristine home?

And you know how your kid, that little turd, grabs your camera and takes a pic so you get to find it on your phone later and reminisce?

You know?

You know, right?

Well, me, too. And I just want you to know when that happens… you’re not alone, friend.

You are definitely not alone in this glamorous, glamorous life.

With love,

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Quick Thanksgiving Tip

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 22 Nov 2017 00:05:33 +0000

Hey, friends! Super quick Thanksgiving tip for ya…

Here’s the situation:

This is my son, Ian.

Ian experiences disability. Communication disorder. Intellectual disability. Post-traumatic stress disorder from early-life trauma. And myriad other challenges. His life is harder than mine, in other words. He has to navigate a rerouted brain every minute of every day. It’s unbelievably hard work, and he never gets a break from it.

So when it’s this kid’s birthday — his 18th, no less — a BIG ONE — I try to actually organize a celebration. Like, plan ahead and everything. Invite friends from his class more than the night before. Prep his preferred foods. Make him feel special and at ease.

Not to brag excessively, but I ROCKED it this year. I invited the friends FIVE DAYS ahead of time. I sent Greg to get the pizzas. And, best of all, I snagged frozen pumpkin pies — his ultimate favorite dessert — ON SALE. Really, this should be a lifestyle blog because I HAVE MY CRAP SO TOGETHER I SHOULD BE TELLING OTHER PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.

The morning of the party, we found some 4th of July streamers, wrapped them around our Christmas tree and, VOILA!, we were even decorated.

I pulled the pies out of the freezer to thaw and patted myself on the back for thinking ahead and honoring my kid in the way he wanted that was also EASY ON ME. Win/win, folks! Win/win.

Toward the end of the party, I put candles in the pies, and we sang Happy Birthday.

Which is when I saw the candles … leaning …

Like the Tower of Pisa.

And I noticed the filling was a little… soupy.

And the crust was kind of… doughy.

And that’s the moment I figured out THESE WERE NOT THAW-AND-SERVE PIES, friends.

These were RAW pies that needed to be COOKED.

RAW PIES. At the END OF THE PARTY.

Which is why I share this teeny, tiny Thanksgiving Tip with you today:

If you buy frozen pies, friend,
CHECK THE BOX to see if those suckers need baking.
And, if they do, I don’t know —
maybe BAKE THEM before serving.

In conclusion, the Pioneer Woman and I are basically the same person, and you should come here for lifestyle and baking techniques more often.

With love,

P.S. I did bake those pies.

P.P.S. They were ready 45 minutes after the party ended.

P.P.P.S. My kid was Not Unhappy because Less Pie for his guests meant More Pie for him. So we may still be working on social skills around here, but in my kid’s book, this was a major win. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

2018 Retreat Dates are Published!
Click here for more information.
I’d love to hang out with you next year!

The post Quick Thanksgiving Tip first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Introducing the Newest Member of Our Family… Genevieve the Refrigerator

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 21 Nov 2017 05:53:47 +0000

Dearest, dearest friends,

Please believe me when I say this comes as much a surprise to me as it does to you.

Please do not feel as though I’ve withheld information.

Please do not feel as though I’ve been keeping secrets.

I think by now you and I have Built Trust in such a way that you’ll believe me when I say secrets are my worst thing. I mean, I rock the heck out of keeping Other People’s secrets, but I have very few left of my own. I pretty much tell you All the Things, or, as Greg likes to say when he’s being Particularly Complimentary of my writing, “She’s not inaccurate.” Like, I have two secrets at this point, tops, and one of them is that I put Cadbury Mini-Eggs in my bra so they get partly melty before I eat them. The shell is PERFECT for that — thick enough to hold in all the gooey chocolate without smashing, thin enough to shatter in my teeth when the chocolate’s properly prepared. Now, yes; one could technically hold the mini-eggs in one’s hands until they get warm-but-not-too-warm and accomplish the same purpose, but the bra speeds that process right up, and everyone knows the More Melty Mini-Eggs, the Better.

So I’m down to one secret now, and withholding information about adding to our appliance family is Not It. This was not part of the Plan, but life so rarely proceeds according to Planm right, friends? I’d like that on a bumper sticker, please: LIFE = Not Plan-Friendly. While sometimes the surprises are difficult and challenging, though, sometimes they’re AWESOME. Amazing. Serendipitous. And Just Delightful. This surprise is one of the latter, which is why I’m ecstatic to introduce the newest member of our family…

Genevieve the Refrigerator

Born in 1949, sweet Genevieve is a Hotpoint Super-Stor refrigerator, a behemoth in her day — top of the line, baby — and now a petite little darling.

I found her on Craigslist in a moment that can only be called Divine Inspiration.

Now, listen: it’s been a month, friends. A hard, long, amazing, awful, invigorating, life-draining MONTH. Situation Normal, in other words. Still, we’re TIRED. We’re very, VERY tired. In part because we’re made out of human, and as fallible and fabulous as that implies. In part because our kids who experience disability are in the midst of massive transitions to adulthood with all the angst and agony and triumph and sighing and paperwork one might expect. In part because OMG, AMERICA MAKES ME WANT TO FACEPALM TIMES INIFINITY. And in part because the Great Church Disintegration of 2017 continues to be laden with grief. There’s nothing quite like the heartbreak, friends, of watching my husband and young son curled around each other, sobbing because we’re no longer welcome at the camp we once thought was a safe place to learn and live and love each other well. And there’s nothing quite like the fierce joy of releasing things that were never really ours so we can pursue a wider grace and a deeper mercy and a love that knows no bounds. It’s all very Both/And around here these days. Loss and Longing and Love commingled. A month full of Neverending Tasks and Life Lessons and Clinging to Each Other and Really Big Feelings.

So I did what anyone in my position would do. I went online. I scrolled through Facebook. I read articles. I watched every Michael McIntyre video I could find. I drafted Christmas lists. I decorated for Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas, which is just one holiday now instead of three because I do not have time for 3 holidays in less than 2 months. There are pumpkins on my porch and stockings over the fireplace. The tree is up and fully decorated. I planned a living room remodel I’ll never execute, and then I planned two more. I ate 37 bowls of cinnamon rice crispies and made 3 giant pans of lasagna. I started selling furniture we’ve stored in our garage for far too long. And I shopped Craigslist for things I don’t need.

Which is when Genevieve appeared.

And the heavens parted.

And light shone down.

And Jesus said, “DO YOU SEE HER, BETH? SHE’S ONLY $300, AND SHE MUST BE YOURS.”

I agreed with Jesus except the part about $300 — sometimes Jesus doesn’t understand Craigslist pricing — so I offered $200 and bought her for $250.

Then I told Greg our Good News; that we were replacing our Much Larger, Modern, Functional, Ice and Water Dispensing Fridge with a Much Smaller Fridge from 1949 that Probably Works and Has a Tiny Freezer and No Ice Maker and Will Need Defrosting! ALSO, SHE’S SO PRETTY AND MATCHES OUR STOVE.

Greg was ecstatic.

Then I told him he got to drive two hours in the middle of his work day to deadlift it into our truck, but not to worry because I also volunteered my father and my spindly little 11yos to help with the lifting, and — BONUS — my pretty princess self to supervise.

He was over the moon.

And so Genevieve has joined our lives and our hearts. And I am love-loving her all the livelong day.

Please join me in welcoming this newest addition to the Woolsey home.

With love,

P.S. Little Ms. Genevieve lived the first 68 years of her life in beautiful old craftsman house here in Oregon. She shared her space with a wood and oil burning stove. When the house was purchased recently, the new owners decided to remodel the kitchen. God knows why. Thus the need for G’s rehoming. Our research says she may run quite happily for another 30+ years. Or she may crap out next week, in which case she’s getting a new compressor and becoming the world’s raddest kegerator. This is what we call a classic win/win.

P.P.S. As you may already know, given our crowd-sourced kitchen remodel project of yesteryear, Ms. G joins Betty the stove (1956) and Bud the Wiser, our bear beer bottle opener (2016). Betty, of course, is named for my grandmother, Betty June, who wanted Everything to be Fancy All the Time, and Genevieve is named for my great, great aunt, Betty June’s older sister. Bud is named for Budweiser because beer. We’re all doing well and settling in together, and so far Bud and Betty haven’t smothered Genevieve in her sleep, so I assume they adore their new sister.

P.P.P.S. Not to brag too, TOO much, but Genevieve is the easiest and quietest and prettiest little fridge that was ever born, and I loved her the moment I laid eyes on her.

P.P.P.P.S. Greg asked if he gets to have a 1950’s housewife to go along with Betty and Genevieve. I think Greg might be trying to commit suicide. Kind of like Death by Cop, except this is Death by Wife. Betty, Genevieve and I are still offended. Also, we three cuss like sailors.

THE END

Except that I JUST POSTED THE 2018 RETREATS. I would love (love, love) to hang out with you at the gorgeous Oregon Coast in 2018. Check out the link to learn more about the 4, small group retreat we’re offering this year — a retreat for book lovers, one focused on food and wine, one on writing, and one on mindfulness. If you’re looking for rest, respite and relaxation in a warm, welcoming community, these are the retreats for you. If you’re offended by stories about stuffing Cadbury Mini-Eggs in my bra, on the other hand, you might want to skip these.

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Quick Life Tip

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 06 Nov 2017 21:41:38 +0000

Dear friends,

Just a teeny, tiny quick tip for you today.

If somebody says, “Hey! You look really nice today,” maybe just say thank you.

Thank you is enough.

Thank you is not as awkward as Other Options.

Thank you is socially appropriate. And, sweet friend, you actually do not need to offer an excuse for looking nice.

Maybe, for example, do not say, “Yeah, I would’ve worn my usual jeans except I put them on last night to go out, and I realized they smell like butt. I suppose I should’ve expected that since I can’t remember the last time I washed them, but it still came as a surprise. I sprayed them with perfume, which, as you might suspect, made them smell like Perfume and Butt. It really wasn’t an improvement over Just Butt, but at least it’s the smell of I Tried, you know? I wore them anyway because I was already running late, but I vowed I would not wear them again until I actually wash them because I have standards. Eventually. I have Eventual Standards. So, because I’ve put on, like, 30 pounds over the last couple years, I only have the one pair of jeans right now, which means the inner thighs are practically see-through and in imminent danger of ripping and presenting a serious social hazard. This dress is the only other thing that fits. So, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, that’s why I look nice, I guess. My butt-smelling jeans are on the fritz.”

Maybe do not say that, because then the complimentor will look at you, and you will look at the complimentor, and there is no where to go from there.

In conclusion, YOU MAY SQUIRM at compliments. They may make you itchy and uncomfortable. But I assure you — and TAKE THIS FROM SOMEONE WHO KNOWS FROM RECENT EXPERIENCE — it is way, way less awkward to just say thank you.

Repeat after me: JUST SAY THANK YOU.

Your Friend,

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Gun Rights AND Gun Control: What If We ACTUALLY FOLLOWED the Second Amendment?

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 06 Nov 2017 04:10:12 +0000

I can start this blog post one of two ways: I can either tell you I’m the proud daughter of a Marine who responsibly owns guns, in which case you’ll think I’m a proponent of Gun Rights, or I can tell you I’m a pacifist Quaker married to a conscientious objector, in which case you’ll think I’m a proponent of Gun Control.

You’d be right.

Yes, I am.

I’m also, quite frankly, BAFFLED by the conversation about guns in the United States of America, and if I could just take one minute to Piss Off All the People, I’d like to propose a solution.

It’s just, I have this idea, after 1,000 conversations with my gun-toting father who floated it first, and after 1,000 more chats with my peacenik friends… that we could do this RADICAL THING in America and ACTUALLY FOLLOW THE SECOND AMENDMENT.

Usually, public conversations on guns go like this, “I HAVE A RIGHT TO MY GUNS BECAUSE THE CONSTITUTION SAYS SO,” and then, “BUT PEOPLE ARE DYING,” and then, “BUT GUN RIGHTS,” and then, “BUT GUN CONTROL,” and I realize I may be being simplistic here, but the Second Amendment LITERALLY ALREADY SOLVED THIS PROBLEM.

Have you read it recently? The Second Amendment? It’s only 27 words long, but I rarely see it quoted in articles debating gun rights and gun control. It goes like this:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

In other words, yes; Americans have the right to keep and bear arms. And yes; that right shall not be infringed. AND ALSO, these rights are to be exercised within the parameters of a well regulated militia. TRAINING, in other words. ORGANIZED. Within a COMMUNITY of people that supervises and monitors the use of said weapons.

Listen; I get it. I understand that there are Originalists and Textualists constantly debating what Militia means… what well-regulated means… what exactly is “necessary to the security of a free State”… and whether any of those refer to individual rights, community rights, states’ rights or all of the above. But regardless of how you interpret any of those definitions, it remains that our Founders set parameters and presumed some type of coordination, administration and management of our arms-bearing citizens. And it remains that we currently have none.

I’ve heard my friends and I’ve seen the memes that if we did nothing after Sandy Hook, we never will. I’ve felt the same hopelessness watching the innocent die month after month, year after year, and I doubt that today — the day 26 more Americans died in a mass shooting, this time while sitting in church in Texas — will be the reason we finally act. But although I give in to despair for a time, I refuse to dwell there. I refuse to stop talking about it. I refuse to stop pushing for solutions that both protect the fundamental American right to bear arms AND the fundamental human right to basic safety.

Maybe we could start by actually following the Second Amendment. Or maybe that’s far too practical. I’m curious what you think…

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I Have Won at Low Expectations

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 01 Nov 2017 18:31:22 +0000

I have won.

I’m pretty sure I have won for all time.

I have won at helping my children set the very lowest of low expectations for their mother so that all their tiny dreams can come true.

As I mentioned previously, we are, for practical reasons. already celebrating Christmas. Therefore, I asked my child what he wants this year. He replied, and I quote,

Could I please have a bar of soap all to myself?

That’s what he wants. It’s currently the only thing on his Christmas list. He considered asking for a giant cardboard box but thought that might be too pricey. I kid you not.

In conclusion, I expect my Low Expectations Lifetime Achievement Award to show up soon.

The End

P.S. Another Woolsey kid has the following items on his Christmas list: potassium nitrate, aluminum powder, iron oxide powder, and, if there’s room in the budget, fireworks fuses. I’m not to worry if we can’t afford the fuses, though, because he says he can always use finely rolled toilet paper if necessary. Furthermore, he assures me he doesn’t need brake fluid or gasoline at this time because we have plenty. So, while I’ll be putting my gold plated Low Expectations trophy on my mantle any day now, I haven’t yet won the one for Discouraging the Making of Homemade Bombs. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Ah, well. We can’t have everything at once, now, can we? Baby steps, friends. Baby steps.

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Happy Halloween! This post is about Christmas.

Beth Woolsey — Tue, 31 Oct 2017 02:51:02 +0000

Happy Halloween Eve, friends. This post is about Christmas. Obviously. Because who doesn’t write about Christmas for Halloween?

If you’re thinking, “OH, MY GOSH; I HATE IT WHEN STORES PUT UP ALL THEIR CHRISTMAS CRAP BEFORE HALLOWEEN. NOW BETH IS DOING IT. WHY? Dear God in Heaven, WHY??,” I will tell you. It’s because I can only do one holiday, man. ONE. One is the number of holidays I can do. Not one per month, either. Those of you who can do that are totally down with 4 back-to-back holidays in 2 months, BUT I CANNOT. I can do one per year. One only. And I am very, very, very, extra reminded of that fact right now.

My main problem is this: Halloween comes, then Thanksgiving 23 days later, then Christmas, then New Year’s .

THAT IS NOT ENOUGH TIME to plan costumes, buy costumes, inventory costume pieces, manage costumes, buy costume makeup, decorate for Halloween, throw a Halloween party, make gooey, gross Halloween treats, clean up from Halloween, put all the Halloween gear away, plan Thanksgiving, decorate for Thanksgiving, bake and cook for Thanksgiving, put all the Thanksgiving gear away, buy the Christmas tree, get out all the Christmas gear, decorate for Christmas, put up the Christmas lights, plan the gifts for we 7 Woolseys plus extended family, get my butt out the door to actually purchase those gifts, hide the gifts, wrap the gifts, plan the stockings, buy stuff for the stockings, realize one kid has fewer stocking pieces than all the rest, realize we’re out of milk, realize no one bought the oranges for the stockings, make 12 emergency trips to the store, plan the food for Christmas Eve, Christmas breakfast, and Christmas dinner, make Christmas cookies, make fudge, decorate the gingerbread house, and properly herald the New Year.

It’s too much, I tell you. TOO MUCH. And you guys, we are the family that ONLY BUYS 2 PRESENTS FOR OUR KIDS. You’ve heard that idea on how to minimize Christmas gifts for kids who already have too much, right? “Something they want, something they need, something to wear, something to read”? I know loads of people who see that and are all, “THANK GOD FOR A SYSTEM WHERE WE CAN FINALLY PARE DOWN.” But I must be the Weirdest Weirdo EVER, because I see it and go, ARE YOU KIDDING? You know how much FOUR THINGS for each kid costs when you have five kids? I have to buy 20 PRESENTS for Christmas, just for my kids, not counting anything for the nieces and nephews? I mean, that four-thing idea is great for those of you who do it — I don’t begrudge you that in any way — but my kids get 1) something they want, usually negotiated to be smaller and/or cheaper than whatever unreasonable thing they really, really want, and 2) something else I think they might like that was cheap enough for my budget.

In other words, I CANNOT DO ALL THE THINGS, and so I’ve decided I won’t.

Instead, we Woolseys start Christmas today, and we will celebrate four phases of Christmas over the next two months. This is much, much (much, much) easier than trying to cram four separate holidays into a 62-day window.

The Four Phases of Christmas are really rather like the four phases of the moon: new moon, then first quarter moon, then full moon, and, finally, third quarter moon. Except in the Christmas scenario, we have Halloween Christmas (New Christmas), then Thanksgiving Christmas (First Quarter Christmas), then Christmas Christmas (Full Christmas), then New Year’s Christmas (Third Quarter Christmas) which is whatever dregs of Christmas we’ve got left over by then. Got it? Just like the four phases of the moon are all made up of moon, so the four phases of Christmas are all made up of Christmas.

Thus, although some will call today and tomorrow Halloween season, we Woolseys are going to celebrate Halloween Christmas. We’re carving pumpkins while listening to Christmas music, and Greg put up our Halloween Christmas lights, which is what you call Christmas lights that are up for Halloween. Halloween Christmas decorations = DONE. That’s right. You know what I’ve planned for my kids’ costumes? Nothing. I’ve planned zero things. I told the kids to find their own costumes this year because Halloween Christmas means I don’t have to do all the usual Halloween things. That’s the WHOLE POINT. So far, two are using rags to transform themselves into zombies and one is wearing his dad’s white bathrobe so he can go as White Jesus.

He figures this way he can make subtle social commentary on racism in the United States, and, most importantly, he can trick-or-treat everyplace twice — once as Jesus, and then again as the Second Coming of Christ. I wondered for a minute whether this is really appropriate, but then I realized a) it’s not, b) I don’t care, c) it’s hilarious, and d) it’s Halloween Christmas, so way to get into the spirit of the holiday, kid.

For Thanksgiving Christmas, we’re going to have a Thanksgiving Christmas tree. It’s like a regular Christmas tree, except it’s already up at Thanksgiving. And probably Thanksgiving Christmas stockings. And definitely turkey Thanksgiving Christmas dinner with cranberry sauce and stuffing. And twinkly lights in fake fir branches because I will have had TIME to pull those out of their boxes.

Honestly, for the first time in forever, I’m not feeling overwhelmed by the holiday season. We’re going to take it slow. We’re going to let go of the tiny things that don’t matter. And we’re going to rock the heck out of the Four Phases of Christmas.

In conclusion, wishing you a very happy Halloween Christmas, friends, from my family to yours,

The post Happy Halloween! This post is about Christmas. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

Me, too. But I didn’t realize it for 25 years.

Beth Woolsey — Mon, 16 Oct 2017 22:46:03 +0000

Have you seen #MeToo rolling around social media? It goes like this,

Me too.

If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “me, too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem. Copy and paste.

#metoo

So first I want to say, if you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted, you’re not alone. Me, too.

Second, if you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted, you should ONLY copy and paste this as your status if YOU ARE READY TO DO SO. Because not only need we not feel shame for being harassed and assaulted, we also need not feel shame about when we’re ready to talk about it. Some of us are ready. We have processed enough of our stories and/or trauma that we can say it out loud, even to the world wide webs. Some of us haven’t. Some of us aren’t ready. Some of us, by sharing now, would be retraumatizing ourselves and making it worse, not better. Pretty please, dearest friend, share when YOU are ready, not when the world decides you should be. OK? OK. Glad we had this chat.

And third, this is my story.

[Trigger/Content Warning: Sexual Assault]

I didn’t let my teenage daughter have a job in high school. Instead, I paid for dance tuition — usually hundreds of dollars per month we had to scrimp and save — so she could dance 20 hours each week and participate in conventions and competitions that cost hundreds more.

I was alternately embarrassed and relieved by this decision. Embarrassed because we were choosing to live a rather elitist lifestyle, pouring money into our child and not requiring her to earn it. Relieved because she wouldn’t be dry-humped and felt up by her McDonald’s manager in the drive-thru like I was at age 16.

Oh, sure; dance taught Abby a hard work ethic, physical fitness, goal setting, and time management. It was a fantastic part of her education, and she was grateful, but still; LOTS OF MONEY and rhinestones and my kid graduated high school without ever working a job beyond the occasional babysitting gig. This was not at all how I was raised, nor is it how my husband was, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we were setting her up for a lifetime of entitlement. After all, we hear all the time about today’s teenagers who are “too good” for honest, hard work at less glamorous places like fast food restaurants. But every time I thought she could at least work a fryer during the summer and pursue dance, every time I tried to convince myself that just because it happened to me didn’t mean it was going to happen to her — every time I thought of her alone, closing the restaurant at midnight with a man bigger and older than her, my hands got sweaty, and my heart pumped faster, and I knew I was never going to ask her to apply to grill burgers. Not ever. I couldn’t do it.

Which is how, at age 40ish, I finally realized I was sexually assaulted.

It wasn’t that I’d dismissed what happened to me working swing shifts at McDonald’s. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten. It was simply — and this has come to be even more terrifying to me than assault amnesia — that I believed my experience was wholly unremarkable. As normal as tripping over a curb or missing my seat in 6th grade math class and crashing to the ground. Which is to say, an experience that is memorable and uncomfortable but not anything out of the ordinary or worth commenting on.

THAT is how ingrained sexual assault is in our culture. THAT is how embedded. THAT is how common and mundane. That 16-year-old me thought having a man push me into a corner and rub his erection on me while trying to grab my boobs was just another, normal, unfortunate work condition. A bummer of a surprise like seeing how much of my paycheck went to taxes. A meh, whatever, shrug-it-off situation. Something we girls bitched about in the work room while we ate our $3.49 of free food per shift. But also something none of us even considered reporting. Not because it wouldn’t do any good, but because clothed sexual assault didn’t seem to rise to the “Must Report” level. Any ejaculate was contained in his pants, after all, and, if we said no and pushed him off enough, if we smiled at him so he wouldn’t be mad, he left us alone for the rest of the shift.

I read that now, and I go, DEAR GOD. I mean, DEAR LORD JESUS IN HEAVEN, WHAT THE HELL? It seems impossible to me now that I didn’t see it then. But it’s still true.

I didn’t tell my parents. The same parents who were always so good about telling me no one has the right to touch me in the bathing suit area and that I could talk to them anytime about anything which was true. I didn’t tell them because it didn’t cross my mind. I didn’t tell them until they, too, wondered why Abby wasn’t doing time at a local burger joint. My dad pumped gas as a teen. My husband washed cars at his dad’s used car dealership. I flipped burgers and worked a cash register. Shouldn’t Abby learn the same way? I didn’t tell them until we were having the conversation in my kitchen, and I answered casually, “I just don’t think I want my kid to be dry-humped by her manager.” I said it casually because I still felt casual about it. But as soon as it fell from my mouth, I did a mental double take. And ever since, I’ve been realizing how very ingrained assault is in our culture, our communities, and our lives as women navigating an unfriendly world.

My story is unbelievably common. Unbelievably normal. Obvious assault and harassment experiences we didn’t see as obvious or as assault because we are subconsciously, insidiously trained not to recognize it. One of my girlfriends posted this yesterday, “I was just about to post how extraordinarily lucky I feel to have never been a victim of assault as a woman. Then I remembered the time I was drugged in a bar and (thank goodness) passed out while still in the bar, spending the night in the hospital. I guess that’s another “me too.””

We are trained not to see it, and we are trained to belittle it when it happens to us. “Well, sure; I’ve felt unsafe hundreds of times around men, but it’s not as bad as what happened to ____.” Or “He only felt on top of my clothes so I wouldn’t say it was assault, exactly.” Or “It wasn’t technically rape, so… Or I knew better than to go to his room alone.” We have unlimited excuses and dismissals, really. I know I did. Until I had to decide what was OK for my daughter. It turns out what happened to me is definitely Not OK if it happens to her. Which means it’s Not OK that it happened to me. This particular assault was Not OK, and neither are the other times I was grabbed and groped; neither are the dozens of times I was sexually harassed with words and actions. Who knew?

I’m telling you this story, friends, for specific reasons, which are these:

1. I refuse to be ashamed or embarrassed about this, and I will absolutely do my part to name the things that are Not OK — the things that Must Change — so our world has to face it and do better.

2. Not everyone can share her story. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I want you to know, whether or not you are able to declare your “me, too,” I still see you. And so do countless others. We know you’re there. We know that for every person who can share, there are myriad more who can’t. We see you. We’re waving in the dark. You’re not alone.

3. You’re also not alone if you, like me, have suddenly become aware. You’re not alone if you realized belatedly you were assaulted. You’re not alone as you reluctantly claim membership in this club. You’re not alone as you realize how widespread this problem is and how brainwashed you were not to see it earlier. You’re not alone as you grieve your discovery of both your own experiences and of our culture as it actually is, rather than as you thought it was. And you’re not alone as you wonder what in the world we might actually do to change it.

Me, too, friends. Me, too.

With love, always,

The post Me, too. But I didn’t realize it for 25 years. first appeared on bethwoolsey..

I have poop-water on my floor. Wanna hang out?

Beth Woolsey — Wed, 11 Oct 2017 01:10:22 +0000

We spent the weekend with our toilet in the backyard because a visiting child tried to flush it. This, of course, caused water to overflow the bowl, gush from the floor, and flood the bathroom. I don’t know how the water gushed from the floor, exactly. Greg told me, but all I caught was plumbing, something something, seal, poop-water, and locking the bathroom door forever. So a kid broke our toilet, and it’s Situation Normal around here; an ongoing bio-hazard and Greg is gagging in the corner. To be clear, I don’t blame the child. I blame the child’s parents for a) teaching the child to flush, a mistake we certainly haven’t made, and b) failing to teach the child that Nothing Works at the Woolsey House, Ever.

Also, our fence gate latch and garage door are broken, our car has a flat tire, the fridge water dispenser won’t stop dispensing so we fixed it with masking tape, one kid is having a (series of) meltdown(s), two kids are recovering from feeling barfy, and, while we had a lovely time on our trip, we’re also glad to be home again. Truly glad. This is us, and I like us, even with poop-water on our floor and really poor plumbing skills.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

We are who we are, friends.

I started writing this post to let you know about retreats I have coming up next month and throughout 2018, and to invite you to join me, but it’s suddenly occurred to me that I just wrote about living in poop-water, and now I’m going to see if you want to hang out. I’d rewrite this whole thing, except I feel like our relationship is past the point of pretending, so I’ll just say…

I have poop-water on my floor. Wanna hang out?

We won’t be hanging out in poop-water. The retreats are in a pristine and lovely house that’s sort of Anti-Poop-Water. Or not anti-poop-water necessarily — like, I don’t think the house has some sort of doctrinal position that’s specifically opposed to poop-water, because, let’s be honest, poop-water happens — but rather absent poop-water. Like, it’s a whole retreat to get away from poop-water, both literal and figurative. A Poop-Water Respite Retreat, if you will. Which suddenly makes me feel like I wasn’t nearly creative enough — or accurate enough — in naming these retreats, because, while I suspect there are a whole lot of parents like me who would like to attend a Writing Retreat, or a Food and Wine Retreat, or a Book Retreat, or a Mindfulness Retreat, there are probably many, many more who would love to attend a retreat that lets us rest from All the Poop-Water, you know?

You know.

I know you know.

That’s why you’re my people.

Do come hang out with me if you can. Details below.

With love, as always,

2018 RETREAT DATES

I’m getting ready to release our 2018 Retreat dates. Mostly, the retreats are how I get to hang out with you, introduce you to other friends of mine who are experts in their fields and all-around rad people, while doing things I think are, well, fun. This year, in addition to the Magic in the Mess Writing Retreat where we give shape to the messy and beautiful stores in each of us, and the Mindfulness Retreat where we learn to be kind to ourselves and to breathe, we’re adding a Food and Wine Retreat — self-explanatory — and a Book-Lovers’ Retreat, with three books, one memoir, one fantasy, and one TBD to read ahead of time and discuss together. I could not be more happy about these options, and I hope you’re excited, too! Here are the dates:

Book-Lovers’ Retreat — January 25-29, 2018
Food and Wine Retreat — March 8-12, 2018
Magic in the Mess Writing Retreat — May 3-6, 2018
Mindfulness Retreat — November 8-12, 2018

These four, small group retreats will be located at our previous retreat venue — a stunning, 8-bedroom home with panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean in Seal Rock, Oregon — and will continue our tradition of rest, respite, supportive community, incredible food and wine, and new friends all around.

Registration for the 2018 retreat will begin soon. We’ll be releasing all the details shortly. However, if you want to get a jump on registration and hold your spot first in line, please contact Maggie Peterson, retreat registrar, at petersonm1@spu.edu to let her know which retreat you’d like to attend. This does not obligate you to attend, but does ensure you’ll be contacted via email as soon as registration opens.

The post I have poop-water on my floor. Wanna hang out? first appeared on bethwoolsey..

beth​woolsey.

On Welcoming Darkness: A Slow Slide Into Fall

What’s in a Grandma Name?

He’s here! He’s here! He’s here! He’s here!

A Foster Cat Story

On Fall and Rest

Pregnant Expectation

A Small Wondering

Vacation Dread and Melancholy

A Big Beautiful Betrayal and Pursuing Joy Anyway

We Can Have Nice Things, Just Not the Nice Things We Planned

Announcing: Two Grads, Better Late Than Never?

Time isn’t linear, friends. It can’t be, because sometimes, for sure, we live the past and the present simultaneously. It’s one of the great gifts of age, this time machine we use to traverse our lifetimes and the fact that, occasionally, someone can traverse it with us.

Blackberries and Twins: Compound Fruits

Upon My Twins’ Graduation, Standing at the Faerie Door

Twinsie Pics: SPECIAL EDITION! Someone’s Having a Baby

Today, Undone on the Unending List of Things I Must Do If Not Right Now Then Yesterday, Is Mostly Everything, But I Grew a Strawberry

I’m a Trudger and a Lumberer and a Plodder…aka, a Hiker, Who Knew?

When Your Parents’ Criticism Isn’t Actually About You After All (Spoiler: You’re Already Enough)

My non-Prommers Went to Prom and May Be Prom People After All Except I’m Pretty Sure They Prommed Wrong

Irrational Joy Project

A Brief Little Psilocybin Update

What I Did Right (And What I Fear I Did Wrong) in Parenting: A Confession

Read. More.

Jeanette the Brave

Announcing: Camp Rewind, a Summer Camp for Grown-Ups!

Coming Soon: Summer Camp for Grown-Ups!

It Was, And Is, A Girl: A Story of Grief Redeemed and Coming Out

Falling to Pieces: A Vindication for Autumn and Rest

Nuts and Bolts. Also, Unrelated, I’m Nuts, and I Bolted.

New Year’s Resolutions Don’t Work for Me, So I Do This, Instead

The Kids Are Gonna Be Alright

Wait. You can ACTUALLY SEE things in your brain??

Top Ten(ish) Escapist Fiction Books I Read and Loved in 2023

Mommy Doesn’t Carry Things: A Shouty Thursday Post

SHOUT YER SHOUTS (or whisper, either’s good)

Last Minute Gift Ideas Under $25 That I Really Bought

GEEK TEENS/DND

BEAUTY AND SKIN CARE

TRAVEL

BEVERAGE and kitchen

CRAFTING

JUST MAKES LIFE BETTER

Easter Reasons to Be Thankful for My Weirdos

How to Express a Cat Bladder: Thoughts on Surviving Winter

Thoughts on Funerals, Beer, Cigs, and Death. It Is What It Is.

An Abridged List of Recent Failures

The Wayward Home for Unfinished Youth

I Didn’t Mean to Write About a Big-Ass Chair and Justice, But That’s What Happened

On Candy Canes and Existential Dread

On Conjuring Energy From Nothing…Because Of Course. And Always.

About That Shaking

Carey Martell Lies About and Threatens Newberg School Employees and Is Publicly Thanked by Board Chair Dave Brown

Carey Martell Lies About and Threatens Newberg School Employees and Is Publicly Thanked by Board Chair Dave Brown

Dave Brown says “let’s just talk.” Here’s what it’s like to try.

The Longest Night

I Am A Balloon

How I Give Them Up: Why I’m Not Keeping the Kittens

Free Parenting Advice (I know. I know. But hear me out.)

Kitten Watch Update: July 16

Nope Day: Not a Kitten Watch Update

Kitten Watch Update: July 13

Kitten Watch Update: July 12

Kitten Watch Update: July 11

Kitten Watch Update: July 10

Kitten Watch Update: July 9

Kitten Watch Update: July 8

Kitten Watch Update: July 7

Kitten Watch Update: July 6

Kitten Watch Update: July 1

Kitten Watch Update: June 30, cont.

Kitten Watch Update: Kitten Pride, June 30

Kitten Watch Update: June 29

Kitten Watch Update: June 28

Kitten Watch Update: June 27

Kitten Watch Update: June 26

Kitten Watch Update: June 24

Kitten Watch Update: June 23

Kitten Watch Update: June 22

Kitten Watch Update: June 18

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