50 for 50 day 7: Self Care

This is the 7th of 50 posts leading up to my 50th birthday. You can see them all here.

Someone told me recently that I am a model for good self care. I was stunned. I feel as though I often fail at self care, that you need only look at me to know. Her comment led me to think about how important it is to take care of ourselves and, equally, how part of self care is forgiving ourselves for doing the best we can.

As I approach 50 I hope that I have learned that I must care for myself before I can effectively care for others. This lesson doesn't always hold true - sometimes my own care must come second - but in general I know I will be better able to write, tell, create, love, live if I take care of myself. I've also learned that sometimes self-care means not trying to engage in self care. After Kevin died I watched hundreds of hours of River Monsters. That may not have looked like self care from the outside, but it was the best I could do.

Self care is more than pedicures and baths. It's knowing when to say "no" and knowing when to ask again. It's knowing how I respond to difficult situations and taking steps for recovery afterwards. It's asking for accepting help, even when I don't want to. Sometimes it's Godzilla movies. And sometimes it's just taking a deep breath before moving onto the next thing.

There is a lot of jargon and privilege-speak around self care. All we can do is the best we can.

I'd love to know how you care for yourself and what pitfalls you know to watch out for. Maybe we can help each other be a little more tenderly cared for.

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50 day six: oh, my aching back

Oh, the arrogance of youth! I remember when I was younger not really getting what it was like for people with aches and pains. Sure, my knees hurt sometimes and I got migraines, but nothing like what grown ups had to contend with. I tried to be sympathetic, but I didn't really get it.

Now I do.

My back hurts today (I'm writing this at an improvised standing desk). I still get migraines though not as often. I have arthritis in my feet, occasional stomach issues and did I mention the asthma? I'm sure there are more complaints I could mention, but really, who wants to read a shopping list of aches and pains? I'm annoyed and bored writing this, it must be worse for you.

All of this leads me to two thoughts that I hope are more interesting and certainly more useful than my whining.

1. Your pain is real and so is mine. What is painful to one person may not be painful to another, so I can't tell you that your aching back doesn't really hurt, just as you can't tell me that my back isn't as bad as yours. My younger self would sometimes question the validity of another's experience. I'm sure I still do this. I wish I didn't. All I can do is try to remember that yes, my back does hurt even if I look fine. Yours might, too. This can, of course, be extended to other experiences. Subjective experience is valid.
2. I am grateful for the body I have. There are a lot of things I can (and maybe will) say about my body and my relationship with it as I blog to 50, but for the purposes of this post what I want to remember is that my body is doing the best it can. It will respond appropriately to how I treat it. If I do things to encourage healing, it will try to heal. If I ignore it by (for example) forgetting to stretch when undertaking a three-day drive across country, it will let me know that it needs attention. 

As I age, as most of us age, we will encounter more aches and pains. We won't heal as readily and will eventually have to contend with the breakdowns that accompany a longer a life. That's perhaps what I'm really grateful for. I have lived long enough now that I need to care for my body differently. I am old enough that I can no longer take good health for granted. This realization is a huge gift as I walk towards 50. Achey and with care, but still walking. Being here that long is a gift.

This is what 50 looks like. A bit sore but still upright. And 50 smells like Icy Hot patches apparently.

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, Day five: History

Today is September 11th. It is (among other things) the birthdays of several people I love and others with cultural weight including O Henry, DH Lawrence and Harry Connick Jr.; the anniversary of Krushchev's death; and the date upon which "The Star Spangled Banner" was first sung at a baseball game. It is also the anniversary of the September 11th attacks in the United States. This date has become a kind of secular holy day. The president will say something about it that will be broadcast on tv. If you knew people who died in those attacks, you'll think of them. If you were in any way affected by it, at some point today you will pause and remember. I cannot help but remember where I was when I heard. You'll probably think about that, too.

That's the thing about living long enough. You have personal memories linked to larger events. You have personal context.

I remember when I was little, asking my mother where she was when JFK was killed, how she found out. I asked about King's assassination, the moon landing, the bombing at Hiroshima, on and on. Every time I learned about a new 20th century historical event I would ask her where she was, what it was like and how she felt. I think I was hungry for both a sense of history as something in living memory, and some understanding of the personal impact.

I was a year old when humans first walked on the moon. I don't remember it. I have vague memories of the Vietnam war, Nixon and Watergate, and the Iran Contra scandal. The first moment that I know I can tell you where I was, what it was like and how I felt was when Elvis died. I was ten years old and in summer camp. The flag was at half-mast and we were told, "Mr. Elvis Presley died last night." I remember this date not because Elvis mattered to me but because I didn't know who Elvis was. I remember being mocked and feeling the shame of not being in the know. Later, when John Lennon was killed, I reacted personally and immediately (my mother told me as I was eating breakfast before going to school. I remember the cereal spoon pausing on its way to my mouth). Lennon meant something to me. I had learned to care at least a little about pop culture and this time it hurt. These memories are visceral, personal, and offer some context for my life and the larger moment.

The next broad cultural moment I remember is when the Challenger exploded. I was in the vegetarian dining hall during my freshman year in college. Someone had a transistor radio that we huddled around. I ran back to my dorm because I knew my friend, who was studying to be a rocket engineer, would be devastated. I spent the afternoon sitting with him, missing all our classes and not caring. We watched the coverage on a crummy black and white television. I had to hold the antenna for reception.

It didn't stop there, of course. Other memories, other where were you moments have layered themselves into me. Some were big and global (the start of the first Gulf War, for example) while others are smaller but no less important (my first email account and my first computer). Some have had a greater influence than others but they all are part of my personal history and context as well as the more general ones. Each moment has turned into a kind of litmus test, a shorthand I can use with others to place each of us into time and memory.

All of this helps me know who I am, where I have been, and gives me the tiniest bit of a path to follow when the next big moment happens. If nothing else, I know that the next big moment will happen.

I am old enough now to be part of history and to tell the where was I when stories. I think this is one of the gifts of getting older; personal meaning and context to broader histories. When we tell these stories we make the global personal, and we are able to say I am here. I am part of the world. You are, too.

So where was I on September 11, 2001? At work. In the kitchen, chatting with Clara. As I watched the news play out I remember thinking everything is going to change now. Nothing will ever be the same. I remember knowing at some point I would have to choose how I would react to people, events and the world. So it is, over and over again through history. Where were you. What was it like. How did it feel. We live through these moments and can choose to learn about ourselves and the world, or choose to forget.

This is what 50 looks like. Old enough to remember.

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
 www.thinkstory.com
 (c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, day four: Be the fox

I have posted this poem at least three times. It's worth posting again, especially at this age, in this era.
This is what 50 looks like: Unashamed to go in the wrong direction. With thanks to Elsa who introduced me to this poem.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

By Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage
Copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, day three: This is water

This is the third of 50 blog posts leading up to my 50th birthday.

I've written about this before, but that doesn't mean it isn't still meaningful and worth thinking about. (I suspect I'm going to say this a lot as I blog my way to 50. So be it. Maybe that means I've learned a few things that are worth sharing.)

When I was a kid I thought it was kind of cool to think of myself as a control freak. I'm not sure why I thought that was a good label to own, but I certainly embraced it. I tried to control the world around me, the reactions of the people near me, the forces that pressed in upon me and I failed. Trying to do so is, at best, self-defeating and more likely self-destructive.

I learned at a young age that there is very little I can control. In fact, the only thing I really can effect is how I respond to the world, to people, to the circumstances in which I find myself. As a result of this understanding of my own power and powerlessness, I have tried to live my life as an act of being present. I fail all the time, but I keep trying.

I'm not talking about the things I have control over, like paying my bills or washing the dishes or deciding if I want to have a glass of water or a cup of tea. I'm talking about the external forces that press in on us all the time. I can't change those. I can choose which I attend to, but I cannot stop the world around me, whether it's politics or the climate or standing in a long line. I've learned a few things.

• I've learned that there is a far more that I cannot control than what I can.
• I've learned that the only thing I can truly control is my response to the moment. David Foster Wallace talks about just this in his wonderful speech, This Is Water, linked below.
• I've learned that I need to learn this again. Over and over and over again. Almost every day.
• I've learned that when I give myself permission to just be present in the moment, whatever it may be, the moment is often more bearable than I expected. If it remains unbearable I at least know it will change. 
• I've learned that change is pretty much the only constant.
• I've learned that sometimes presence can change lives. By accepting that I may not be able to control the broad outlines of the world, I can instead have significant impact on the small details. By listening, by choosing to be kind, by accepting that every moment is a part of my life with no less import than any other, I am, in fact, not powerless at all.

This is what 50 looks like. Choosing to breathe when breath is impossible. Choosing to listen because that may make all the difference or at least enough. Choosing again and again and again.


----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, day two: Some thoughts on 30-60

This is the second of 50 blog posts counting down to my 50th birthday. You can find the start here.

When I turned 30 (oh, those many years ago) my mother told me that a woman is at her most beautiful and powerful from ages 30 to 50. Early in my 30s I extended that to 60, since people age differently now and dammit, I didn't want only 20 years of my prime. Additionally I know many powerful, beautiful, amazing women who are well over 60, so maybe I should extend it to 70.

As I near 50, I have to say both my mother and I were on the right track about age, power and beauty, but neither of us was thorough in our assessment. We didn't go far enough. It's about more than beauty and power. It's assurance, determination, and self-confidence. It's about turning into my own version of Wonder Woman regardless of my age.

My 20s were largely about figuring out who I was. That decade was full of more angst and drama than I'm comfortable admitting though from conversations with other women, I'm not alone.

In my 30s I began to get a real sense of who I am and where I want to be going, while my 40s have seen me pursue my dreams with a fierce dedication. I couldn't have done this in my 20s. I wasn't strong enough nor was I focused enough. I cared too much about what other people thought. Now? of course I still care. Sometimes. But my own assessments (with input by those I trust and respect most) of my worth and ability matter more.

My 40s have also honed me in some pretty substantial ways. I know I am strong. I know I am resilient. I know I have internal and external worth. I own myself in ways I never thought I could. Confidence, self-assurance and self-knowledge make me feel a heck of a lot more attractive than I ever thought I was in my 20s or 30s. While it's true that I still don't really feel grown up, I do feel more capable, able and determined than I expected when I was younger.

So yes, a woman is beautiful and powerful from 30-60, but we are more than beauty and power, and I hesitate to say when anyone might peak. We are growing into ourselves, or at least I am; it is an ongoing process. I am becoming, more and more. And who knows what might happen at 70? Or 80? I may find that is when life really begins to feel coherent.

This is what 50 looks like. Standing with her hands on her hips, facing the world.

(P.S. None of this is to exclude men, but I can't speak clearly to male growth and discovery. I'd be curious to know when anyone reading this, male/female/other, feels as though they really came into themselves. I am still becoming, how about you?)

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, day one: Introduction

I realize this is in no way an original statement, but I really don't feel my age. When I was a child I imagined that by now I would be married with several children of my own. I would have a house, a career in some easily understood field working in some kind of organization making plenty of money because all grown ups seemed rich. I'd probably have a dog and imagined myself as slim but old looking because when I was a kid anyone over 25 was old looking. I thought people at the age I am now had impenetrable cocktail parties where they talked about boring grown up things. I thought people at the age I am now had given up junky horror movies and only watched Bergman films. As a child, the age I am now seemed impossibly old, impossibly grown up. I thought people at the age I am now had it all figured out.

Boy, was I wrong. I am widowed with stepchildren, amazing grown people who don't really need me on a regular basis. I have never owned a home and, while I definitely have a career, it's not a typical one and I am by no means rich. I don't currently have a pet and I am neither slim nor particularly old looking. I don't really enjoy cocktail parties (though I sometimes like a good cocktail) and I value both junky horror movies and Bergman.

More than anything, most days I consider myself lucky to find my way out of bed, let alone figure anything else out. It seems to me that being an adult means being better at faking it and having more confidence in your ability to recover from the wrong guesses. It's not that you know so much more but that you know you can navigate it better.

So what is the advanced age I can't believe I'm approaching? I'm almost 50. In fact, I turn 50 in 50 days, so to celebrate and reflect I thought I would post something every day leading up to my 50th birthday. It might be a piece of writing or something I love and would like to share, I don't really know. I make no promises of anything lucid, enlightening or even interesting, but I hope you'll come along with me for at least part of this journey.

This is what 50 looks like. Surprised to find myself here.

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Hi honey, I'm home!

I'm going to start this post the way I'm not supposed to. I'm sorry I've been gone for so long. I hit a wall composed of self-doubt, political malaise, and busy-ness; something needed to go and apparently, this was it. That isn't to say I didn't miss you and writing here, but I needed a break.

I'm back! I've been thinking about what purpose this blog serves, what I want to do with it, what I hope to offer and get out of it, so I think it may change shape a little, but here I am.

I started True Stories, Honest Lies as a simple way to write to an audience. It evolved into a storytelling and personal blog pretty quickly, then took a left turn when Kevin was diagnosed. Soon this blog was dedicated to his illness and then my grief over his death. All of this was exactly what I needed it to be, and some of you needed that, too.

It's no coincidence that I took my blogging break just over three years after Kevin's death. Let me be clear: I am never going to be "over" him. I still love him and I always will. I still miss him and I always will. There will be times when I laugh more easily and other times when I just curl up and cry. That's the way loss is. You get used to it. You learn to live with it. If you're lucky, you eventually feel the love and gratitude at least as much as the absence and pain. I will always mourn him.

All that being said, I was starting to feel a little trapped into writing about grief and loss as if that was what was expected of me, as if it was all I experienced or thought about. No one expressed such expectations, of course, but I did notice that posts about loss vastly eclipsed anything else in terms of readership. I had to ask myself if I was still being authentic to my own emotional state. What did I really want to write about? Mind you, the loss posts were and are still genuine (I'm not very good at being inauthentic, certainly not here) but what do I want to write about now?

My life now continues to evolve and I want this blog to reflect that. We all evolve throughout our whole lives so I hope my evolution will be of interest and use to you.

I will, of course, encounter walls. It's not as though the self-doubt, political malaise, and busy-ness have gone away. But I missed you, missed the writing and decided that I could open a door in that wall to see what was on the other side.

So now what? It's going to take me a little while to re-establish a blogging rhythm. I'd love to know what might be of interest to you. I write a blog because I want people to read it. What would be fun for you? In the past I have:

• Written extensively about storytelling, including my personal experiences as a teller, how-to pieces, tips and tricks.
• Written about my life, personal essays and memoir that cover a broad range of topics.
• Posted stories from other cultures that I thought might be of interest.
• Shared my experiences as a widow. I'm sure this will continue, but I may not write about it as frequently.
• Shared my observations of the world, often the whimsical or unusual things I notice.
• Posted photo essays.
• Shared videos, poems and other art that moved me.
• Run contests with a variety of prizes.
• Other stuff I'm undoubtedly forgetting.

What did you like or find helpful in the past? What would you like to see more of? Please let me know (you can comment below or email me).

It's good to be back. I am looking forward to seeing what we create together.
----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Truth, honesty, and storytelling

I've been thinking a lot lately about the nature of truth. This has been brought on by many things including the news; a panel I'm part of concerning truth and storytelling; and my own tendency towards over analysis. It's a big issue and one I won't solve here, but it's worth exploring.

Several years ago I was in the audience at a story slam. The theme was "Beginnings." For those of you unfamiliar with slams, the rules usually state that the stories told must be original, somehow relate to the theme, short, and true. The events happened. Slams are judged events and the winner can get anything from a moment of glory to cash prizes.

The winning story was a poignant one, about the teller's birth. It was beautifully constructed, well-told and fit with the theme. We were all in tears. He won and rightly so; it was hands-down the best story of the night. A few days later it was revealed he had made the whole thing up. It was fiction. The local storytelling community was in an uproar, feeling betrayed and questioning the artform itself.

One could speculate endlessly on why he did this, he certainly knew the rules, but that isn't the point of this essay. I'm interested in the question of factual truth, emotional truth, and honesty in storytelling. I've written about some of the technical issues of truth and storytelling before, but this time let's think about philosophy. There is no way this essay can dive deeply into these topics (whole lives have been spent on them) but I'd love to start a conversation.

So what is truth? Honestly, that sentence always seems like it should be the punchline of some obscure joke. I don't know if objective truth exists, my personal philosophy tends towards not.

I do know that there are facts. Factual truths, for the purposes of this essay in the context of storytelling, are verifiable. I was born in a hospital in Philadelphia. I was premature and underweight. Evidence exists. Emotional truths (again for the purposes of this essay) are those metaphors, similes, fictions and sometimes verifiable events, that hold emotional power and meaning, revealing something about what it is to be human. I was born in a hospital in Philadelphia. I was premature and underweight. I was a small, scrawny, homely infant, yet when my father first saw me he cried, "She's beautiful!" To an objective viewer I was anything but beautiful (really, I've seen the pictures) but to my father I was exquisite. Both are true. One view contains emotional truth even if it might not be verifiably factual.

One of the wonderful things about storytelling is that we can express emotional truth through many means. Personal or factual stories, fiction, myths, fairy tales, and more. Because storytelling is neurologically powerful, we need to remember that the emotional truths we share can easily cause powerful reactions. Storytellers, whether intentionally or not, are truth-tellers if for no other reason than that we are wired for story. I would hope that we all use these different kinds of truth ethically, remembering that we are directly messing with our listeners' brains. It doesn't matter if you're telling a funny story, a fairy tale, a tall tale, a personal recollection, or something else, they all contain some form of emotional truth. We laugh at things that are absurd because we KNOW they are saying something about what is real. We need metaphor to help us understand the world and our lives. And those deep, personal stories help us all know we are not alone.

Which leads me to honesty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with telling a story that doesn't contain factual truth. The emotional truth makes it worthwhile and worth hearing. What we must do, as artists and craftspeople, is to remain honest with ourselves and with our audiences. Let the story serve the greater purpose of conveying emotional truth, but don't be afraid to own that you may have altered facts to serve truth. They are not "alternative facts." Fiction and metaphor are a vital part of what it is to be human and gives us safe ways to talk about the unspeakable. It may still be true and is no less powerful for not having actually happened. We have always needed fiction and metaphor, and we always will; the morally ambiguous moment is when fiction is presented as fact.

In performance storytelling practice, I'm certain many "true" personal stories have been polished a bit to be better stories, but if they retain most of their factual truth and it enhances their emotional truth, I'm okay with it. We violate trust only when we present something largely fictional as factual.

Storytelling gives us a way to craft the truths we hope are real. It gives us tools to speak of the things that might be too difficult to say otherwise. And we become responsible for the truths we offer, so we must remember our obligation to the audience to not deceive them as they strive towards their own truth.

All of this raises the question of how storytellers can present the story honestly to the audience with neither exposition nor apology, but still owning what kind of truth exists within. You don't want your audience to listen less deeply because they think the story isn't true, but you don't want to lie to them. This essay is long enough without tackling this issue and I don't have a magic solution, though there are several possibilities, three of which I'd like to touch on here, then build upon in another essay.

• You could, for example, weave in some kind of I wish that that was the way it had happened statement, perhaps at the end of the story. This tells the audience it isn't factual but emotional truth you're striving for, and may add to the poignancy of the whole thing. I do this in several stories, including Retellings and The Longest Day of My Life. In the first I tell the facts of the matter, then retell it the way I wish it had happened; while in the second I tell the facts and admit to the lack of resolution, then give myself the ending I wish had happened. Both are emotionally satisfying and give the audience honesty as well as meaning.
• You could create a fictional setting in which to set your stories. Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone stories are full of emotional truth and appear to be factual, yet everyone knows they are fiction. His audience is more than willing to suspend disbelief. I do something similar in my Crazy Jane stories. 
• You could present yourself as an unreliable narrator, then tell it however you want. Something as simple as, "I think this is how it happened, but it might not all be true" will make your audience laugh and identify with you, since everyone exaggerates from time to time. It also allows your audience to listen on several levels at once, for both emotional truth and with a grain of salt around the facts.

So what do I think happened with the teller in that slam? He told a powerful, emotionally true story. I wish he had told it in a different setting or had given us a hint that it was what he had hoped for, and that he hadn't felt the need to deceive his audience. But I don't really condemn him for all that I think he was dishonest. We all yearn for emotional truth, recognition and that sense that we are not alone. We all yearn for the facts of our lives to be different. Maybe he was telling the truth as he wished it had been. We all do. We just need to remember to be honest in the process as we search for our own truths.

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

What would you like to read here?

Hello friends,

As you may have noticed, I haven't posted in April. I've been thinking about why I maintain this blog, what purpose does it serve, and how it might be most useful for you, the kind people who read it. I have a lot of thoughts on this subject, but it seems as though the best thing I can do is ask you.

What would you like to read here? What do you most enjoy? What do you get the most out of? Is there anything you routinely skip? Do you prefer the more personal posts? The practical ones? What would be most helpful for you?

These days I write mostly about storytelling (thoughts on the art and craft, tips and tricks, stories you can use, and so on) and life after my husband's death (grief, thoughts on life after your love has died, love after loss, etc). In the past I've posted bits of fiction and poetry, oddservations (observed moments), challenges and contests, videos, and so on.

In all honesty, you are a significant part of why I blog. It is rewarding to me to know that others find what I have to say interesting, useful, illuminating, funny, whatever.

Send me an email, leave a comment, let me know. Since you are kind enough to give my writing some attention, I'm interested in making sure it's worth your while. I can't promise I'll make everyone happy all the time, but I do believe my work is one of service. Thanks!

----------------------------------
www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer