Balancing without Acts

I don’t know how to walk a balance beam and trust that it’s not going to move of its own accord. It seems the most natural thing in the world to me that it should suddenly toss me off, or that a gigantic gap might appear, or an earthquake might force me off. I know what to do when the unexpected happens. When the center of my gravity is shifted without my approval, or when the only ground allowed to me is removed. Uncertainty and disloyalty I can deal with, but security? What is that? How do I take care of myself in such untenable circumstances? How can I possibly cope with a secure balance beam?

Either way, I needed something and I couldn’t grasp it in that moment. Walking on a thinly edged balance beam, arms stretched toward the ends of my vision, seeking some semblance of a straight path. For all the pressing on thin air my palms do, every second or third step comes only after an intense wobbling- an almost catastrophe. And there are no mirrors with which to watch the terror creep up in me. I walk, toe to heel, toe to heel, focused so intently upon my next step that I am utterly ambushed by the sudden cramp, the seemingly unavoidable tension that wracks my ankle, grips my leg, and threatens my body with collapse. It is all I can do to pause mid-step without flailing my arms toward some imagined pole or arm. Anything to keep from the desperation of a fall. Anything.

And the unintuitive reality is that the more I reach for help, after the fear has set, when I’m shaky and threateningly near a meltdown, the more I seek to grip, to squeeze tighter on whatever air is before me, the less secure I am.

I must put my arms out, straight as the wings of a blue jay on the soar. I must step. Only one foot at a time- That is all. Toe to Heel. And again Toe to Heel. And I must learn to breathe. Breathing with each step. Breathing between each step. Breathing to fill my arms with soul. Breathing- that simple action I can repeat without fear- to remind myself that the beam below my feet is solid and beautiful. It goes on and on and my feet are sure upon it. I can learn to let the old expectations pass.

Pretentious

I was feeling rather down for most of today. Feeling out of sorts or down usually prompts me to examine my gut and figure out what's causing the problem. Today was no different and thus I spent a good majority of my solitary driving time lost in thought. I seemed to be no closer to understanding my sadness (though a great deal sadder for all the trying) when a very clear thought cut through the noise:

I want to be

• The sort of person who has an endless supply of patience-
• The sort who can simply listen and validate others without needing to press her own worth-
• The sort who sees the inherent and genuine good in all she meets-
• The sort who knows intrinsically that she is a thing of value, and thus doesn't have to constantly seek validation or value from her surroundings. . .

In short, I want to be super-human.

I am continually frustrated by my shortcomings. I know the argument that one's shortcomings provide the lessons for one's journey. I even believe that argument, but that doesn't mean it's fun to live through the times of utter humanity. Well, at least not always.

I get so tired of growing. I find myself longing for things, for status, for roles, and for people that I somehow believe will fulfill me. I self-righteously proclaim that I know things cannot fill me or make me feel whole. I know. I've heard about the AA god-shaped hole. I'm not 'simple-minded' enough to believe that getting the job, car, house, etc. will make me happy or finally put me at the level where I can sit back and relax til check-out time.

No, not me. I know that that stuff is all empty if you don't have awareness or actualization or whatever other big word I choose for the day.

I clearly know everything, so how is it that I find myself longing for the day when my career will be launched- with the direct expectation that such a day will surely bring with it a sense of total completion in that arena of my life? I find myself thinking of an imaginary future significant other who will not complete me (that would be silly!) but will give me a sense of arrival and I won't feel lost ever again?? Because that's totally different from being completed by a partner, right?

I find myself thinking that the things and people I long for will push me into the next stratosphere, where I will no longer feel down at times and where I will not have to work so hard at hiding my humanness. And in the same thought I look down my nose at others who believe that someday a partner will make them feel whole.

I smell hypocrisy. . .

The funny thing is, I go through a lot of extra hoops trying to avoid thinking that I'm better than others. I spend a lot of time looking for how I am related to others- our commonalities, our shared trials. I abhor the idea of thinking oneself better than others. . . and yet I do it all the time.

I see someone sneer at a homeless person as ze passes by, and I stiffen my neck a bit. I watch lovers quarrel over something petty and my eyebrows shift slightly while the corners of my mouth raise the tiniest bit. A hundred times every day I make split second comparisons between myself and the people around me, and when I decide that I come out ahead, I feel pleased.

Once upon a time I based these comparisons on things like how one dressed or who one's friends were or what books one read (ok, I still do this sometimes), but basically I compared your external status frills with mine. This is not how I think so much today- which is probably why I'm so darned self-righteous. See? See Me? I don't judge whether I'm better based on socioeconomic level! Or style! Or culture!! HaHAH! I have graduated beyond such pettiness and have moved on. . . to the same pettiness re-packaged based on where you are on your personal journey.

Instead of judging your clothing or what you scored on the last test, I've moved on. How grateful are you? Really?? How much do you take your anger out on others? Are you more honest than me? Damn!

And this is better somehow? *sighs*

Why am I so obsessed with the idea of better? The concept of 'better' by definition requires a comparison, which just leads to trouble if you're trying to be at peace on your journey. I acknowledge that sometimes comparison can be a truly helpful thing -it can be a powerful motivator- but the flip-side of that coin is the possibility of obsessively looking to others to gauge whether or not one can be happy, and that is a foolish method of trying to attain any sort of meaningful or lasting joy.

I guess this is really just me trying to hold myself accountable. I'm putting it out there that I know, deep down, that I'm not actually holier than anybody. I also realize that I am my own harshest critic, despite all my countless pep talks and lectures about being gentle with the self.

I just have to continue to remind myself: It's ok that I'm not a super human. Though I wouldn't mind being able to fly. . .

Currently Reading: Bird By Bird

Just Desserts

Today I was going through a notebook from two months ago. I found the following:

I deserve to be more than a rebound. I deserve to be with someone who takes care of hirself. I deserve someone who wants to be sober for a good portion of hir life. I deserve someone who loves hirself. I deserve someone intelligent and optimistic. I deserve someone who generally thinks well of people. I deserve someone who wants me for me, not for my being hir not-ex. I deserve to be with someone who takes joy in the world. I deserve to be with someone who is a great dancer.

This sentiment seems particularly poignant lately. I have always settled on lovers who do not fit this description, and not just because of the dancing bit (which, by the way, refers to taking great joy in dancing and not actual skill). I have long felt as though I were starving for acceptance, such that I have attempted to sustain myself with partners who were neither compatible nor appropriate.

Trying to squeeze blood from a beet and all that.

The thing is, though, I haven't been starving for acceptance for a long time. I've had an amazing community for several years now- women and men who are there for me both when I need them and even when I don't. Almost a year ago I realized for the first time that not only do I like myself, but I think I'm pretty fantastic. Life is great, and I am terribly excited about the future.

So when I look back over this summer and fall, at choices I made and situations I encouraged, I find it difficult to understand my overtly self-destructive actions. If I like myself, if I'm not anemic from lack of love, then why would I allow such an unhealthy liaison to flourish? Why did I put myself in the midst of what I knew, even then, to be an ill-suited situation?

The reason is that I have never stopped to acknowledge that I'm not starving anymore. To continue with the food analogy: I remember once reading a dieting tip in a magazine suggesting that one eat more slowly, as it takes 20 minutes for your stomach to send the message to your brain indicating that you're full. There's a time delay and if you don't realize that you're full you'll continue to nom down on whatever's on your plate. . . maybe you'll even add more.

Which is not to say that I promote diets, but rather that there has been a serious time differential between walking about in the world with new-found self-esteem and self-respect and realizing this new state of being. I've been wandering about thinking I'm still empty when, in fact, I have all I need.

Which means I don't have to settle for shit.

. . .

I don't have to settle. I have the ability to think about what I deserve, not just what I need. I don't need a partner to make me feel special or loved or accepted. I deserve a partner who fits, and if a potential partner doesn't really fit, then I'm better off on my lonesome.

This is not marvelously easy to write, less easy to publish into the ether of the net, and far less easy to put into practice. However, I feel that it is true in the pit of my stomach, in that bit of viscera behind my belly button. I don't need a someone. I would like someone, but not just anyone will do. I deserve someone wonderful.

And I am willing to wait.

Struggling to Communicate

It is absolutely urgent that people become aware of the degree to which this disrespect of children is persistently transmitted from one generation to the next, perpetuating destructive behavior. Someone who slaps or hits another adult or knowingly insults her is aware of hurting her. Even if he doesn't know why he is doing this, he has some sense of what he is doing. But how often were our parents, and we ourselves toward our own children, unconscious of how painfully, deeply, and abidingly they and we injured a child's tender, budding self?

I have mentioned Alice Miller's book 'The Drama of the Gifted Child' a few times already, but this paragraph made me pause, re-read, and nod my head vehemently. I felt compelled to photocopy this bit and thrust it into the hands of every person possible. Instead, I have typed it out for you, dear audience.

With these words Ms. Miller has succinctly clinched my great esteem. This is a book filled to the brim with the most clear of observations, the most profound insights, and the most personal of lessons. This excerpt, though, is in my opinion the supreme point of it all.

This book is all about healing the deep wounds we carry as adults. In great depth and shocking simplicity Ms. Miller explains how poignant our childhood experiences are, how they continue to shape our most intimate and seemingly removed experiences for the rest of our lives. She shows how a person living with such wounds can function without ever examining why they are so hurt. And she spends a lot of time talking about the cyclical nature of woundedness.

I've seen this truth in my own life. A person with the greatest of intentions will wound their child horribly if they do not stop to examine their own wounds before having children. Not because ze is a bad person, nor because ze is a bad parent, but because the wounds inflicted on small children are so intense and long-lasting and formative that adults who have never stopped to examine their own wounds are bound to pass their own pain right on down to their children. It is often so ingrained that it goes un-noticed.

I truly believe that so much of the pain and frustration in the world exists not because humans are basically antagonistic or selfish or evil or even flawed, but because humanity is overwhelmingly wounded. So many people wander around the world with deep abiding wounds, searching for some way to feel loved simply for being. This is a powerful need. A human need. A fundamental human need.

So many people do not realize the extent to which their own woundedness continues to shape their life. Many have learned to cope with their reality so well that they cannot even acknowledge their own wounds. Wounds left unattended fester and spread and beget more pain.

THIS is why I wish more people waited to have children.

Old and New Words

Last night I found a manila folder filled with old writings. I of course paused in my attempts to organize the moving leftovers so that I could flip through my old thoughts. This excerpt in particular caught my attention:

Part of me still longs, just a little, for the sordid comfort of expected unhappiness. At least it is expected and fulfilled. Even if I am unhappy, I know that I am going to be unhappy, and there is a sick sort of satisfaction in the completion of such endeavors.

Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath. Another day in which the things I did made no waves in the pond, during which the most I did was philosophize and drink coffee. There's something supremely beautiful about surrendering to my path, not that that's what I've entirely done. I still fight the journey, stupidly, kicking and screaming at times. When I can walk through the cloudiness and wander wherever it is that I find myself, those days I am beautiful. I don't stop to think about what is beautiful or ugly or what I'm going to do in an hour. I sip at my latte and read a childrens book and think about words that sound nice. Why would anyone long for an existence other than the only one they could have? Why do I?

Words elude me. When I have something profound to write, words never appear. When I have an agenda for my thoughts or writings, the words are scattered, uninspired. No matter what I do, how I orchestrate those thoughts, how I phrase the chosen descriptions, I am unable to be original. Everything I want to say has either been said before or never needs to be said. This is what I feel when I finish a new bit of prose. Poems say so little concretely, and this is perhaps my attraction to them.

Why do I want to write so badly? I could write anything if I were interested enough in any one concept, if I could sustain an interest. As it is, I continue to write because something within me cries to have a voice. I will write until it finds the words it seeks.

Something about this entry fascinates me. It was the phrase "Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath" that caught my eye in the first place. Still it resonates in my mind with more fervor than it has any right to inspire. I don't think I meant these words to say what I am now reading them as.

Today. Today [again] I struggled for breath as I walked uphill. I wrote these words maybe two years ago, and I still need to express them today.

Another intriguing (if I may be so bold) excerpt:

The art of falseness predates my memory, and it has been both my salvation and crucifixion. Though I'm not so good at it anymore after the years of therapy and my new-found repugnance to all things plastic, I wield my only social defense shamelessly whenever I feel threatened by the prospect of [a former lover's] presence. Falseness and pretension are my only methods to compensate for the bile that rises [in hir presence] like so many dogs salivating for bells.

After spending so much time avoiding my shell-like tendencies, I renounced the façade and embraced the real. I- the sad, sorry, velveteen girl made really real- have cultivated my personality, my capacity to love, and the integration of the two with my outward appearances. I've done so much for myself. ME Me me mememe. I am amazing. I am a wonder. It's a wonder they haven't created an international holiday to celebrate me and my genuineness yet.

I really love this bit. I love the venom I save only for myself. And just revel in that writing! I mean, crucifixion? Really?? Insert a thinly veiled Pavlovian reference- was I serious? And did I just throw 'façade' into prose that is pretending to be unassuming? I tried *so hard* to be clever, but all it turned out to be was contrived. Uckghe. Despite the crassness of the allusions, though, I think the underlying sentiments are fairly accessible. I was (and am) so unforgiving of my own humanity.

To give a bit more context, the lover mentioned was such an odd person. I had been in the midst of such chaos and had been seeking companionship, and had found myself lightly involved with someone who made me feel sick to my stomach once I had the ability to look at hir without the blinding intoxication of chaos. I was so embarrassed to have even thought about liking hir.

And I was utterly unable to forgive myself for being human, for needing companionship, for feeling lonely. In many ways I wish I could visit that self and give her a hug- tell her that everyone has a need to be loved. I was so completely starved of attention, affection, and love during that time, and I sought fulfillment of the need for such things any way I could. I'm sad that I was ashamed of my needs.

It's amazing to read such words after such a period of time. To be confronted with tangible records of how much I have changed and what issues remain with slightly different wording is a sobering experience.

I know that I am growing, it is just sometimes a bit slower than I thought it would be. I have faith in the general arc of progress that I am on. And now I have a folder of amusing anecdotal writings with which to bolster my appreciation of the improvement in my writing. Though that has a long way to go as well. . .

Sometimes I have to re-visit old truths

The main thing is this:

Transition is Tough.

I know I've said this approximately 72 million times in the last 2 months (oh who am I kidding. . . since May), but it's once again eminently apparent. This time it's after a conversation with M, a fantastic woman who fits somewhere between the category of former boss and older sister. M is in New York this week with my friend J (M's 6-year old) on vacation from sunny San Francisco.

Over a glass of wine I quickly recounted the shorthand version of the last few months- medical mishaps, romantic entanglements and their eventual (sordid) dis-entanglements, new beginnings, therapy. . . just the good stuff, really. I stayed in and played grown-up for a few hours with J (and G) so M could go out with her long time friend, L, and when they came home later M and I played catch-up a bit more.

Part of my mood for the evening has been a lonely, melancholy reflectiveness. Which is a really silly way of saying that I've been lonely. [which is incredibly understandable] My body has been unwell for some time now, and though it's on its way back to good health, there are still tons of hormones running a muck and dictating far more of my life than I'd like to admit. I also tangibly miss my dearly beloved people, who seem to be perpetually scattered across the country in a most inconvenient fashion. Not to mention I'm still nursing a bit of a bruised heart. It's completely natural to feel a bit lonely at times like this.

Especially when one's friend comes to town and one realizes that she's lost two major front teeth, grown several inches, and learned to respectfully speak her voice when someone hurts her feelings.

During my conversation with M at the end of the night I spent quite a bit of time talking about New York. We talked back and forth about how difficult it is to start over in a new place, about how the East Coast is particularly difficult for social freaks, about how amazing the cultural and artistic opportunities in New York are (especially when compared with San Francisco), and how it was still so early in my move. As I walked out of the biggest apartment I have ever seen and hailed a cab to take me across town and to my bed, I thought again that this is such a tenuous time for me.

It is understandable that I have been feeling melancholy, but it is unfortunate that I have been coloring my impression of New York as a new home with only the grays of my current emotions. I have been understanding of the fickleness of my opinions (having only just lived here two months) but I have not been particularly forgiving of New York for not being San Francisco. Or Michigan.

Tonight I (yet again) realized that transition is difficult. That I will feel completely differently about New York once I have established even a short history here. That though I love San Francisco, what I have really been longing for is the familiar.

Because transition is fucking difficult.

But the difficulty of this particular transition will wane, regardless of my acquiescence or lack thereof. San Francisco will probably always hold the same lure but New York will not always feel so emotionally bleak. The universe will bring more and more people of my sort to my life. I will be part of a beautiful community here, I know it. If I am patient (and diligent in my pursuit of diversion and challenge) I will someday in the not particularly distant future find myself fully entrenched in an active love affair with this town of apples and insomnia.

It's just tough for now.

Sympathy is under-rated

you know, at times like these the urge to shave my head again is almost overwhelming. Of late, the exterior of my life has been a continuous strain of change, transformation, and ordered chaos. Such intensity begs a change- a chosen change- to mirror the extremity of the internal demolition.

It's funny how suddenly the urge to chop off my hair comes. It seems to come almost out of nowhere- a voice clear but comforting- a calm suggestion that seems to emanate from a deeper soul. Release your hair. Let go. Feel the weight move on.

I have no idea if I will give in and remove my hair. Practically speaking, I love having hair. Having long hair enhances my feelings of beauty, of elegance, of distinction. I am proud of my hair.

But the release that letting go of hair brings sounds so attractive. I feel like I need something to latch on to after so much transition. Something tangible to refer people to when they ask how I am doing. Something for people in ongoing interactions with me to see, so they know that something has changed, that I am not the same as I was yesterday. They don't need to know everything, but I need them to know that things are different.

My writing is suffering as a result of sentimentality, emotionalism, intensity of feelings- and I don't have the energy to go back through what I've written and hyper-edit, as I usually do. Maybe I will tomorrow, but for tonight it seems essential to simply document the oddness of my breadth of feelings. Document and publicize.

This has been a grueling week. I know that I have experienced some pretty hallmark weeks in the past, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that this week has been the most trying week I've ever experienced. I think I will be reeling from it, reaping the rewards of its emotionally transformative potency, for quite some time.

I ask that during this time, if you are able, that you send me your love. Send me your hope. Your understanding. Your empathy. I am doing my best to make sense of a set of realities that seem to me beyond comprehension. I exist as I do now only because I have a little faith in the supreme direction of the universe. I do not understand how a person could survive such loss and desperation without any semblance of faith or trust in the ultimate good of existence.

Faithful readers. Unfaithful readers. I entreat you to share your pity with me. Share your love not just with me, but with yourself. Share it with the assholes with whom I am unable at this moment to share my love.

If I am learning anything, which I hope I am, I am perhaps learning more of the simple frailty of life. I know it is cliché to speak of the fragility of life, but I think it is idiomatic because it is true. In one minute I had so many little ducks lined up, all ready for a specific path. In the next minute there was no order, no agenda, and no hope for such. And now, in the aftermath, I find that it is not possible to simply return the little duckies to their plot and continue as planned.

I don't know what will happen, and it's ever more true that the more I experience, the less I know.

Suffism and Giving Up

I've been having a time of it.

Walking back from school this morning, after having been locked out of my first history exam by an obtuse 5 minutes (my own damn fault), I decided to give up.

I have been attempting to give up for at least a month now, and I sincerely hope that this is NOT just another attempt, but in fairness the genuineness of this give-up is not really my responsibility. I was walking down Broadway, stuck in my own head full of self-recrimination and anger, when I suddenly realized that I can't do this. Any of it. I am not able to deal with life as such- lonely, confusing, impossible, standard-driven, ridiculous. I can not cope; the best I can do is spiral downward into a self-shaming puddle of embarrassing goo.

I walked a little farther before realizing- with an almost maniacal laugh- that I don't have to do any of it. Why do I have to make everything such a struggle? What am I so worried about?? I can just GIVE UP!!! If the universe wants stuff done, then the universe will have to do it, because I'm sick of blaming myself for not doing the impossible.

(ahem, by 'give up' I am in no way intimating an immediate withdrawal from classes or a reticence to fulfill regular duties. I am giving up on worthless struggling)

Last night I was reading a book my boss/friend recommended, The Drama of the Gifted Child, when I started to cry. I was so surprised by this. After all, I've had a lot of experiences in my life, but I've been through therapy, and I've talked through my stuff til my eyes were dry. I think I thought that I could get it over with once and be done, but life has added new layers to old hurts. And new actions have greater meanings. I realized that my neurotic episodes of late have been symptomatic not just of the transition inherent in moving cross-country alone, but of a greater underlying problem. Or problems.

Recent experiences and growth and change are allowing for a greater understanding and examination of myself. And I can't do it alone. Goddess knows I spend all my time on public transit in self-'discovery' or other such nonsense, and it always devolves into the stern voice in my head upbraiding the weakness within. Those silly human bits, you know- the ones that continuously have feelings. When I realized that an old habit, a perverse habit from my dark ages, is still hanging out in fully fledged form, I felt truly frightened.

This is when I thought that maybe I ought to think about starting therapy again. It would be so helpful to get out of my head during these times. I need to. I immediately thought about how much therapy would cost in New York, and how impossible an option that was until-

Wait-

I have health insurance! How bizarre. I am arbitrarily allowed affordable help for my mind because my dad works for an insurance company. I'll take it. I need it.

When I got back home after missing my exam, only newly resolved to give up, I sat down to read a little Rumi. I certainly needed a little enlightenment. I flipped the book open to a random page, as I usually do when looking for a little help, and I'll be damned if the following wasn't exactly what I turned to:

Cry Out in Your Weakness

A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.

A courageous man went and rescued the bear.
There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save
anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,
they run toward the screaming.

And they can't be bought off.
If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you come
so quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heard
your helplessness."
Where lowland is,
that's where the water goes. All medicine wants
is pain to cure.
And don't just ask for one mercy.
Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.
Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton
of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.

Push the hair out of your eyes.
Blow the phlegm from your nose,
and from your brain.

Let the wind breeze through.
Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.
Take the cure for impotence,
that your manhood may shoot forth,
and a hundred new beings come of your coming.

Tear the binding from around the foot
of your soul, and let it race around the track
in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed
so tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck.

Give your weakness
to one who helps.

Crying out loud and weeping are great resources.
A nursing mother, all she does
is wait to hear her child.

Just a little beginning-whimper,
and she's there.

God created the child, that is, your wanting,
so that it might cry out, so that milk might come.

Cry out! Don't be stolid and silent
with your pain. Lament! And let the milk
of loving flow into you.

The hard rain and wind
are ways the cloud has
to take care of us.

Be patient.
Respond to every call
that excites your spirit.

Ignore those that make you fearful
and sad, that degrade you
back toward disease and death.

This made me laugh and cry almost at the same time. "Give your weakness to one who helps". As though my needing help is a gift and not a burden. What a message to, ahem, ruminate on.

I must at this time go to work. I'm not sure how this will all turn out, but it's kind of nice to give oneself a break after all of the intensity.


Currently Reading: (actually just finished) Ruby Fruit Jungle

Apologies and Such

I've been neglecting my blog lately.  What can I say?  Life has kept me quite busy.  Though I've had several thoughts and quite a few rants come to mind, I couldn't quite find both the time AND energy to commit anything to the electronic page.

A couple of housekeeping notices, first:

(1). Congratulations to my brother and his wife, who were married last week in Michigan (this lady got to be in the wedding party!!)

(2). Congratulations also to A & G, whose wedding I am currently in the process of attending.  A and I have been friends for more than ten years- ever since I pretended to shoot up with my mechanical pencil during choir.  (this lady ALSO got to be in their wedding party!!)

Down to business, now!  I need to clear the air after my last post.  It was brought to my attention (by one of the ladies I referred to, hereafter known as the assigned name, Veronica) that some of my language was a bit unclear.  This lack of clarity was easily misconstrued, and was thus rather hurtful.  This was not at all my intention.

I sometimes forget that by posting things on this blog I display them to the possibility of the entire world indiscriminately.  This is not to say that I post things I don't want people to read, but rather that I often assume much about my audience.  I assume, for example, that the only people reading my blog are people who already know me quite well.  This has proven itself to be absolutely untrue.  As I found out this week, I cannot assume that my blog audience knows me at all, or that they understand what I mean between the lines.  

So, to clarify, when I said:

These are the popular, chic, pretty students. . . At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

I did not mean this description in a derogatory way at all.  I was trying to establish the fact that I felt out of my element.  I did not mean "pretty" and therefore "stupid" or "pretty" and therefore "snobby".  I meant that I have spent a lot of time with quasi-hippies over much of my adult life, and the situation I found myself in was different from the very start.

I had the excellent fortune of being able to talk about "Cattiness" with Veronica.  She had seen a link to my blog on my facebook page and followed it out of curiosity.  Imagine her surprise (and hurt) when she found that there was a post about her at the top of the page.  To Veronica's immense credit, she responded by contacting me to talk about the entry and her feelings about it.  

I am so grateful that she did so.  It would have been so easy to absorb such hurt and let it play out passively over time.  And I might always have carried a little reservation about her, too.

Instead, we talked.

Thankfully, due to the communication age, we processed all of this over chat.  Though that might sound like a passive way to resolve conflict, I rather think it allowed both of us to be more direct and honest than a face to face conversation would have.  

I will admit that it was a difficult conversation for me to have, even so.  My first inclination was to make everything ok- do whatever I had to to make Veronica happy with me.  Instead, sweaty palms and all, I stuck my ground.  I listened to what she had to say with my listening ears.  I re-read the entry, and I saw how I had been hurtful.

This was such a growing experience for me.  I was able to take ownership for my words and feelings.  I explained the context of my words, and apologized for hurting her feelings, all while maintaining my original point: the conversation I had been drawn into had been uncomfortable and inappropriate.  

A magical thing happened: just as I had listened to Veronica, she listened to me!  She explained that her comments had come out of continued frustration with a fellow student's work ethic.  It hadn't occurred to Veronica that a table in the cafeteria filled with future colleagues (at least one of whom only just arrived from San Francisco) might not be the best place to vent such frustrations.  Veronica apologized.  I apologized.  I felt such relief.  In a funny way, my faith in humanity rose quite a bit. 

People like to rant about how inhuman the internet makes interactions, and often enough they have a valid point.  But after exchanges like this, I feel the need to extoll the possible virtues of the interweb.  Sure, it allows dis-empowering porn to multiply faster than bacteria on stinky tofu, AND it allows trolls to air the most disgusting fruit of their overactive ids to the entire internet-world, but it's not ALL bad- 

sometimes it can be downright revolutionary.