Musing 11 July or empathy and experience

CW: mentions of racism, chronic pain, cancer. Nothing explicit. Also a little preachy :)

I try to live as an empathetic person. When I was younger this was almost crippling for three reasons: First, when I succeeded in empathy I was overwhelmed by the feelings; second, I often believed I understood more than I did and this led to some hard moments; and third, when I failed I castigated myself. I'd like to think I have more balance now, but it's an evolving practice. I'm glad I approach it intentionally, and I hope I keep learning more about empathy.

What's hard is when I realize that empathy or not, I really can't comprehend what someone is going through. For example, when Kevin was sick, he was in a lot of pain. Pancreatic cancer is terribly painful. I felt for him, I did what I could, I did my best to empathize yet I could not know what it was life. Because he bore it rather stoically, it was sometimes hard to believe it hurt as much as it did. I feel ashamed writing that, but it is what is and, frankly, so it is with all of us. We don't know and sometimes we mess up. I did the best I could, even though it never felt like enough.

In recent years I've been thinking about how hard it is to effectively empathize with someone until you've experienced something similar. This doesn't mean empathy without experience is useless, it most certainly isn't and our imaginations make it possible to empathize and care without lived experience, but there is a difference. 

For example, I will never know what it's like to be Black in America. I was married to a Black man, I grew up in a really diverse neighborhood, I have friends from across the board, but I (a white, middle class, middle aged woman) will never really know. The best I can do is empathize and believe people when they trust me with their experiences, then do what I can to work for a more equitable world.

Another example is around invisible disabilities. Let's take chronic pain. I've known people with chronic pain and have done my best to empathize but I misstepped often, forgetting that they hurt because I couldn't see it. Now I know what's it like and my empathy is different, though still flawed. I am in pain almost all of the time because of my back. Most days it's manageable, but then there are the days when shifting from standing to sitting or bending toward my cup of tea really hurts. This means if someone tells me they are in chronic pain I might, might be more able to remember, empathize, and act accordingly.

I can choose how I respond to this lived experience. 

• I can become bitter and assume no one can possibly understand what I'm going through. I won't do that. None of us are so unique that our burdens are incomprehensible to others or beyond empathy.
• I can accept the empathy I receive, flawed though it may be. I am doing this. Some burden of education falls to me, since I need to remind people that I hurt or can't walk so quickly anymore, but I'd rather assume forgetfulness than malice, and empathize in return. It's hard to remember sometimes and I have certainly forgotten about others issues.
• I can use this experience to deepen my empathy for others. I try, fail, and try again.

All we can do is try. Try to empathize with experiences and lives beyond ours, try to accept the empathy we are offered as long as it doesn't become toxic (that's a whole other post), try to empathize in ways that create useful, appropriate, and meaningful change. 

Try, fail, and try again. So it goes.

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Musing 10 July or belonging

I've had some storytelling gigs in unusual places. I once told stories in a plane thousands of feet in the air from the flight attendants' P.A. on a packed, late flight. Another time I told at a nudist camp. Soon I'll be telling to a bunch of Winnebago enthusiasts. 

Yesterday was one of my favorite unusual places to tell, because I was also telling stories to my past (and maybe my future) self.

I went to my first science fiction convention when I was maybe 13 or 14. I'd been reading speculative fiction since I could read, watching Dr. Who (old school) and Star Trek (also old school) since I was ten, so it seemed like a natural things to do. I don't remember much about that first con, but I do remember finding belonging I hadn't known I missed. 

At that time, geek culture was for outsiders. It wasn't trendy or popular like now, but a bunch of bright people building a community for themselves. There I was, a bright young teen, who could talk with adults without anyone talking down to her. It was magic.

I kept going to cons through my teens and twenties. I was in my early twenties when I found the storytelling community, so gradually my attendance at cons and the like faded. I pretty much stopped going by my mid thirties. 

Yesterday, I told Becoming Baba Yaga at CONvergence, the big Minnesota sci-fi etc con. It was so much fun! Yes, geek culture is now everywhere, and quite popular, but I still felt that sense of belonging because so many different kinds of geekery were accepted. Here were smart, creative people, celebrating what they loved without any need for self-consciousness. In one corner was a woman in a TARDIS dress (she was especially excited that it had pockets), in another was a man with a long grey beard expounding on culture and scientific accuracy from a t.v. series I've never seen, and right here was a middle-aged storyteller, talking about becoming a magical, dangerous crone. 

I miss having close community. I haven't felt deeply involved in a  community since I left Boston, but I felt it again in those hallways. I don't read much speculative fiction anymore, but I could feel the same feelings I did as a child. It didn't matter how weird any of us might feel outside, here we could share my geekiness without worry.

Belonging is so important. Humans are social creatures and almost all need some kind of belonging. It was wonderful watching people belong. Kids playing games with adults. People cheering a group of taiko drummers dressed in some kind of anime costumes. So many different kinds of belonging and celebration.

Will I go back? I think so. I doubt if I'll dress up the way I did when I was younger, but I'll still have fun. Will I belong? I don't know. I struggle to feel like I belong, but for just a little bit, here and there at cons and storytelling events and elsewhere, I don't doubt my shared humanity and belonging. So yeah, I expect I will go back and celebrate everything.

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Musing 9 July or tides

I'm undertaking this public daily writing experiment to help me feel more connected to you and to give me an obligation to write every day. I'm happiest when I write daily, whether it's in a blog, a journal, or on a project, but it's hard for me to do it without an external obligation. By committing to writing every day in July, I feel more connected to myself and to others.

All of that being said, this public daily writing has me thinking about how relatively small my world has become, and asking myself how I feel about it. Before the pandemic I was traveling 30-50% of the time. When I was home I still went out multiple times a week. Now I'm something of  homebody. It's a pretty radical transition in behavior and life patterns.

I wasn't content with traveling so much and I'm not content with staying home so much, but I'm not sure how to achieve balance or what balance might look like. I'm a pretty introverted person and the pandemic enhanced that, yet I need to be around people, my work is with people, and I get down if I stay home for too long. It's a quandary and one that I expect to spend the rest of my life working out.

I know today's musing isn't as interesting or evocative as the others, but it's honest and reflects where I am right now. Today I have a gig that I'll tell you about tomorrow. It will be very people-y, and I expect by the time I get home I'll want to never leave again. 

Perhaps I can think of it as a tide. Some alone time, some people time, over and over. We are creatures of salt water and subject to many tides, maybe this could be one more. Advance, retreat, leave stories of seaweed and shells and the twisted egg cases of conch behind. Onward.

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Musing 8 July or the smell of old books

Did you know that the smell of old books, that scent of time and unread words, is caused by the decomposition of the cellulose and lignin, both plant polymers? What's even better is that smell has a name, bibliosmia. That's the smell of words being forgotten, stories being lost, the book returning to its composite parts.

I love that smell, and I'm sure many of you do too.

I started collecting old books for crafts. I would disassemble them and create other things out of the paper and bindings. Collages, frames, assemblage art, etc. The act of disassembling a book is troubling, given how precious books have been until quite recently, so I started reading them before I took them apart. I then got interested in them for their own sake. 

Old books are different creatures from modern. The paper feels different, the fonts vary more, and sometimes the bindings or illustrations are delightful. They reveal outdated ways of thought, lost music and poems, and have their own weighty presence.

Now I have a corner of the living room, devoted to old books and oddities. If I'm in a thrift store or yard sale, my fingers itch for old paper. It's kind of ridiculous. I'm never going to read all of the new books I have, let alone the old ones, but it feels like someone has to rescue them from rot, and that someone may as well be me.

I could say something here to turn all of this into a metaphor. Lost knowledge. Each death the end of a library (young or old). my own gradual decay into irrelevance. But I won't. Let the books exist for their own sake which is, of course, why I give them shelf space. 

We each have our own odd little fascinations. Welcome to one of mine.

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Musing 7 July or turkey

It's fascinating to me how attached I can become to something that sees me only as a threat. It takes some work to not feel sad about this, but it's worth it. The attachment helps me remain connected to the larger world, and to keep my heart soft.

Long story short, I love wild turkeys and especially their babies.

Long story less short, a few years, a couple of mama turkeys decided to raise their 17 babies in the wildness at the edge of our yard. We watched them grow from little fluff balls to curious kids to rangy adolescents, and then they were gone. Two came back and lived here for a winter-spring-summer-fall, but that's another story. We watched them grow, chased away a hawk or two as the moms crouched over their babies, and really marveled at them. I still have a few of the feathers the juvenile bids shed on the front walk.

I mean, look at them. How could we not have loved them?

Once they were gone, they were gone. It was as if turkeys vanished from our little corner of the world. 

I missed them. Say what you will about turkeys, watching these animals was a lesson in beauty, humility, and wonder.

A few weeks ago, two mama turkeys with seven babies arrived in our backyard. We were delighted. The sounds they made were silly and charming, the mothers were so very careful and caring, giving each other breaks and never putting the kids at risk. It was a wonder.

They disappeared again, but we weren't too worried, they did that from time to time. We were just beginning to wonder what had happened when we saw two female turkeys running frantically through our backyard. Back and forth. You could see the fear in their movements (don't tell me animals don't have feelings, you know they do as well as I) and their distress. There were no babies.

Charley and I talked about what might have happened, each afraid to say the word "coyote" or "eagle" or, most likely, "human." We each mourned a little without wanting to worry the other.

The turkeys returned yesterday, moms and babies. All seemed well. The babies are bigger and they are all there. The mamas still take care of each other and their young. We were both so relieved.

I know the turkeys see me as a threat, as they should. I know were I to approach too closely the best outcome would be a rapid retreat. I know all of these things. That doesn't stop me from loving them, from feeling invested in them, from caring about what happens to them.

If I can feel this way about turkeys, I can feel this way about butterflies, trees and even people. You. Take care of yourself. I care about you. Let me know that's you're okay, even if it's by making a weird sound and leaving a feather on the ground.

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Musing 6 July or oh deer!

I have always been someone who observes things closely, sometimes to the point where I lose the whole in favor of details. I can describe a tree by its bark or leaves but might not know how tall it is. This (like everything) a blessing and a curse, feeding both art and anxiety, but sometimes I am able to see more of the whole and the detail at the same time. Yesterday the universe invited me to see detail at a distance.

Seeing neighbors like these fawns (there were two though the best photo was of one) encourages me to look closely and at the entirety. I will never get close enough to know the details of how soft their fur may be, and how sturdy their hooves, but I can see their beauty amidst all of the green.

Yesterday we watched the fawns exploring. One of them was fascinated by a rabbit grazing outside of our asparagus patch. The fawn watched, took a few hesitant steps closer and bent down to sniff, then galloped away when the rabbit raised its ears and sniffed back. The other got the zoomies and ran all over the yard, kicking its legs up high. When fawns run they seem to stamp the ground, without the grace they soon will grow into. Both always knew where their mother was. All three knew we were watching and, after a time, decided we were ignorable.

All of sudden the doe raced across the yard to something we (momentarily) couldn't see. Then the buck went crashing through the undergrowth with mom right behind, her neck extended to nip if she could. When he was far enough away, she sauntered back, tail flicking as if nothing had just happened.

Today seven bucks wandered into the field next door, some with full racks and others with nubs. The fawns approached them and ran away, approached and ran away while the mother didn't seem too worried. She was only concerned when I was on the porch taking pictures. I don't know why yesterday a buck was a threat but today they were family.

All of this was lovely, humbling, complete. 

When I am too caught in myself, in my own detail, nature can pull me out. That moment of awe, of delight, reminds me that I am part of a vast web of life. If I look, I may see wonder, and the worry about the details fades away.

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Musing 5 July or stomach aches

Musing, 5 July or stomach aches

I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. It was, I suppose, predictable. I had one of those healthy, delicious meals last night that can sometimes have a GI impact later (beans, I'm looking at you). I know it will pass yet right now it seems like I will never feel better. 

There are a lot of things like that in life, those little annoyances that at the time are almost overwhelming but once gone are soon forgotten. I can promise you I will eat too much bean soup again and then remember the next morning why moderation is key. 

It's that way often enough with things that are good for us. They carry consequences just as the crappy things do. They require more work or discomfort or risk. That's the way it is with almost everything, but somethings are worth it.

I want to make a transition here to something meaningful about relationships and connection, but it feels forced and out of reach. The body pretty much always takes priority over wisdom or platitudes. 

I'm going to eat something mild and give my belly a break. Rest is important too, from the hard work of trying to be better as well as from everything else. I promise a better musing tomorrow.

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Musing 4 July or the smell of rain and wind

As I write this I'm watching gusts of wind move the wind-soaked branches back and forth. Even in the dim stormlight (not counting the flashes of lightning) the leaves glisten. 

I love storms, though I didn't always. When I was a young child they terrified me. I was maybe seven years old when my father found me crying in a closet during a storm. He picked me up and rocked me, saying "There's nothing to be afraid of. You're safe. Look, it's beautiful." He stood by the window and held me as the storm raged on; as my tears slowed down, unable to withstand my curiosity; as he taught me to count the time between flash and boom. Given the storms that would later rage between us, this memory is a tender gift.

When I was a teen I took to joining my mother during storms, out on the porch of our ramshackle Victorian twin. She loved the moments before the storm, I loved the storm itself. Now I love both. The way the world darkens and waits, the changes in the scent of the wind, the smell of rain on soil or hot sidewalk. I love it all.

I moved to Kansas City in my mid-forties and storms took on new meaning. They were bigger, louder, and much more threatening since they could hold a tornado in their hidden hearts. In my time there I saw only two actual tornados (though I was quite near one of them) and perhaps a third swept over my home not long before I moved to Minnesota. 

When I first moved to Missouri, I didn't know how to feel about the storms. I remember during the first bad summer storm, I called my friend Philip and asked what I should do. He told me, "Take a blanket and all of your pillows and go into the most protected part of the house. Maybe the basement or a bathtub. You can safely wait out the storm there. Or, once you're really a midwesterner, you'll go on the porch to watch."

That first storm I stayed inside. By the last, the one when the wind was moving horizontally and I could hear the freight train above, I stayed on the porch and watched. I still do.

I suppose there is a metaphor in all of these for facing storms in life. I'll let you suss it out. For now, I'm going back outside to feel the wind, smell the rain, and applaud each flash of lightning.

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Musing, July 3 2023 or The smell of rubber and lube (not what you think)

I miss writing here. I'm going to start posting occasional musings, and see what happens.

______________________

I dropped my car off at the mechanic's this morning, a shop I haven't been to before. His garage is towering, at least two stories high, though neither wide nor deep. There was a deer head made of nuts and bolts, old tools and odd pipes near the entrance, a really artistic piece that would never make it in a museum, their loss. Right below was a vintage Coke machine that would cost hundreds in an antique shop, but here it's still in use. On top sat a few glass insulators, like the ones I have in my living room window where they can catch the light.

His office walls were wood panelling, covered with thank you notes from various local teams and a signed picture from a tv show. I expected it to smell like cigarettes, but I guess he quit a long time ago.

I've spent many hours in shops like this. Once upon a time I loved working on engines, and my 1963 Dodge with a slant six made it easy. The aroma of motor grease and lubricants and rubber is a sweet scent to me, and I smiled as I smelled it again.

My hands miss knowing how to change an oil pan or a carburetor. They are clean most of the time now, and my knuckles are rarely scuffed. Some might call it growth, but I wonder about that alternate path, the place somewhere in a nearby universe where I know more about engines and less about words. So it goes.

In this universe I can, at least, share the scent and memory with you.

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Nine years minus a day

I have so many seemingly-disconnected thoughts in this moment. I try to write fairly cogent essays here, but this won't be one. Please forgive me. This is not the usual longing love letter, though both the longing and the love are here.

1. I'm sure part of why I'm not thinking in a linear way is because I spent the weekend at Sharing the Fire Storytelling (STF) Conference. This conference was integral to our relationship. It's where our friendship really nudged into more. It's also an annual event we both worked hard at (Kevin did a lot of the audio work, I ran it for several years) and decompressed from together. It took me years to return to STF after he died, it's so full of memories and triggers. I went in 2018, I think, then not again until this year, its return from the pandemic.  It felt very strange. Mostly it felt like a reminder that Kevin has been gone for a long time. I taught a workshop, told a story, and mostly had one-on-one conversations, hid in my room, or walked. I didn't want to open the door to all of the feelings. I think sorting through STF will take some time.
2. This far out, the feelings are so much more layered than they used to be. Yes, I miss him deeply, but I now have a whole rich life full of things and people he never knew. I live in a state he never visited, many of my friends are people he never met. That is both a blessing and a weight right now. It is both a solace and feels very lonely. I wish he could have known these people and things, yet I know I wouldn't have known them were he still here. This feeling is especially strong when I look at Charley, a man Kevin would have really enjoyed, yet a relationship that never would have been were Kevin still alive. It's complicated.
3. Time both dulls and releases memories. He is a memory, and some aspects of those memories are sharp and clear, while others are faded and hard to work out. The release of memories is not only a distancing, but an ability to look at things that hurt to much before. I'm looking.
4. Kevin died at 55. I am 55. Next year, on the tenth anniversary of his death, I will be older than he ever had a chance to be. This is making it all harder; this year the grief feels like walking through a marsh with both beautiful moments and treachery. This year, too, I know there is a path through. That also feels like a blessing and a weight.
5. Finally, I have some stuff going on that moves energy from this anniversary. I'm learning how to live with back issues. I'm thinking about how to restructure my business, a business he believed in, in the long tail of the pandemic. Oh yeah, there's still a pandemic. Some other people I love are making their way to the end of their lives. And so on.

There is more, but not stuff I'm ready to share. All of it together means that, while I'm thinking of Kevin often, missing him, and having some hard memories, it's not the cutting pain it once was. This is a good thing. It also is a pain unto itself.

So it goes. Tomorrow I will go someplace beautiful for the day. I will eat foods he loved. I will feel and write and be grateful and sad and joyful that he was. Love doesn't die, it expands and fills us and helps us live.

Wherever you are, I wish you all good things.

Love,

Laura

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