Why So Serious?

Why so serious, Batman?

The Joker is scary.  Not all of them.  I seem to recall earlier Jokers in the 80s or such being kind of funny... in a scary clown sort of way.  But Heath Ledger is a scary Joker.  My son loves Batman.  He loves all action heroes (though does have a love/hate relationship with Hulk), but Batman is one he tends to play-act most the time.  He has a mask and a cape and likes to announce to the world "I am Batman!" as he runs down the hallway with cape flowing behind him.

He won't watch the Joker.  Every time something scares him -- anything from a dog or thunder or Joker -- he says "that roars me."  See, "roar," like what a lion does.  Or a monster as it jumps out of the closet to nibble (or chomp) at toes.  So, the couple of times we've watched the Christian Bale Batman, we've had to skip the second installment because the Joker seriously "roars" my son.

Largely, I am okay with this, as the second movie is not very comfortable.  It isn't supposed to be, obviously, it is the story of our hero in the throes of uncertainty, living in the gray of a world that longs to be black and white.  The movie is excellent.  Wonderfully acted, wonderfully written and directed.  Not comfortable.  So out of the three, I have watched the second one less then the others.  Seems to me I have also done this with the Empire Strikes Back.  I must have an aversion to the bad guys getting the up on the good guys.  Apparently, I like the white versus the grey.  But, I am off topic.  So, the second movie, haven't watched it a lot, but the last couple of days the line "why so serious" keeps popping into my head.  This is what the Joker says before cutting people, murdering them, etc. etc.

No.  I am not going to murder or maim or anything along those lines.  Rather, I think the line keeps popping up in my head because I have been soooooo serious.  I like serious.  But I don't like sooooooo serious.  Probably why I like Batman but not, well, I don't know, some long drama that ends in heartbreak.  I've never ever liked those movies.  Ever.  I like British dramas (the Pride and Prejudice set) but I can never ever get into the drama movies.

I like action.  Some comedy.  And I loooooove comic adaptations and sci-fi.

I would say sci-fi is my favorite. 

I wonder why.  Well, I bet that is a whole other blog post that will drip with all sorts of research. In fact, I am writing it down so I can come back to it.  Why I like sci-fi movies best of all.  And, why the superhero has changed in the last 50 years, and is it, in fact, a reflection of society?  For instance, old school Superman is a trip.  There is some serious propaganda going on there.  Kind of like Captain America, but not as apologetic.  Seriously though, that particular subject of super hero adaptations to society (and how it is a good indicator of society influx and change) is one that I wish I could write a dissertation on.  Teehee. And there is not one University in the world that would allow such a dissertation.  Oh well.

Anyway.  Loooong introduction.  Basically, I am rambling.  I need some unserious postage.  Some cuteness.  Some lovely humanity.  That doesn't sound very easy.

So:

Grumpy Cat!  For your viewing... Love this grumpy cat.  So grumpy.  So indicative.  You know, grumpy cat was named one of the most influential beings of 2012.  Influence to laugh I hope, and not be grumpy.

And:

Luke covered in blackberries!!  Isn't that just the sweetiest baby ever!  Ohhmy.  So many exclamation points worth of sweet.  He is still sweet, some times, but most of the time now my lil' Batman gives me attitude.

See:

Or, even more recently:

I love my two-year-old, craziness and all.  He keeps me on my toes and is a constant exercise in patience.  And my goofy husband, though I don't actually have any pictures of him being goofy because he makes me delete all of them.  But believe me, there is goof there...

So, some lightheartedness.  It is sunny this morning.  The light comes through my front window and highlights my living room.  I ignore the dust building up and the cobwebs in the corner and enjoy the sunshine.  The breeze is cool, still left over from the night and not yet full of the day's warmth.  Luke sleeps quietly (for now) and I drink coffee and write this silly blog that I have decided to write.  It's a good morning.

And I am not being too serious.

Love!

Quik Tao

...a fairly timely, daily Tao reminder, especially after yesterday's post...

From 365 Tao:

"Heron stands in the blue estuary,
Solitary, white, unmoving for hours.
A fish!  Quick avian darting;
The prey captured.

People always ask how to follow Tao.  It is as easy and natural as the heron standing in the water.  The bird moves when it must; it does not move when stillness is appropriate.

The secret of its serenity is a type of vigilance, a contemplative state.  The heron is not in mere dumbness or sleep.  It knows a lucid stillness.  It stands unmoving in the flow of the water.  It gazes unperturbed and is aware.  When Tao brings it something that it needs, it seizes the opportunity without hesitation or deliberation.  Then it goes back to its quiescence without disturbing itself or its surroundings.  Unless it found the right position in the water's flow and remained patient, it would not have succeeded.

Actions in life can be reduced to two factors: positioning and timing.  If we are not in the right place at the right time, we cannot possibly take advantage of what life has to offer us.  Almost anything is appropriate if an action is in accord with the time and the place.  But we must be vigilant and prepared.  Even if the time and the place are right, we can still miss our chance if we do not notice the moment, if we act inadequately, or if we hamper ourselves with doubts and second thoughts.  When life presents an opportunity, we must be ready to seize it without hesitation or inhibition.  Position is useless without awareness.  If we have both, we make no mistakes."

As for my take... the greatness I spoke of is not necessarily the greatness that many people associate with being Great.  Greatness can be a way of living.  An example.  Ripples in a pond. 

I do think it is important to dare greatly, put yourself in the arena, but what that MEANS is going to be different for every single person.

And so we continue the journey.

Being Vulnerable... or Demons in the Night

What does "being vulnerable" mean to you?

Pause. 

I will let you think about it. 

Vulnerable. 

Being Vulnerable.

Vulnerable.

The image that enters my head: a bare belly... being ripped to shreds by some kind of demon with long claws.  Four red gashes along the white skin.  Red.  Bleeding.  Nasty and all of my insides falling out on the floor.  Gruesome.  Something from a horror movie. 

Being vulnerable is a long, gruesome, terrible, painful road towards death.

Apparently I have some issues with vulnerability.  So, I suppose that begs the question: why am I talking about vulnerability?

Here is the long and short of it.  I read an interview with shame researcher Brené Brown. She talks about being vulnerable.  About living greatly.  About how awesome it is to be there, engaged, and living life wholeheartedly (a term she has coined).  In the article, she speaks of vulnerability as having the courage to put it all out there.  "The only people who innovate are people standing in the arena getting their butts kicked on occasion."  Changing the world by being vulnerable in the face of all of this that we live with... a society of "scarcity."  She explains in our culture, "we're never thin enough, rich enough, safe enough."  She says being vulnerable is key in turning it all around.

Of making it a better place.  Of being great.

Oh yeah.  Right up my alley.  Her book is  Daring Greatly. I bought it.  I eagerly awaited its arrival (checking tracking every single day) and when it came, I ripped open the box, took off the cover, and eagerly dug in.

I liked the quote she builds the book on:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds have done them better.  This credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives viliantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy causes; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."

From Theodore Roosevelt.  What a wonderful speech.  I was excited for the rest of the book.

Until I wasn't.

Okay okay.  Before I go too far, it is very well written.  She uses personal stories brilliantly, she backs everything up with data.  The book is fun, well written, intelligent, and smart.  She is smart. 

But something was wrong.

I felt like I was skimming along the pages.  I didn't feel it.  I couldn't get down into the bones of it.  Let me explain.  I felt a disconnection for much of the book.  I wasn't there.  I was reading it, processing the information, and during the sections about men and their vulnerability, or children and their vulnerability, I was engaged.  But, the personal stuff.  Didn't feel a thing.

Which made me wonder. 

Why?  The article had obviously sparked an interest, but the book; well, I just felt I was not represented within the examples.  I didn't see myself as having a problem with shame.  Or with vulnerability.  I didn't feel shame towards much; maybe a couple of incidents in my past, and those were largely left in my past.  As for vulnerability, I allow myself to be vulnerable within certain circumstances and with certain people.  So, I read the book, I thought it an interesting read but not life-changing like other books I've read in the past.  I put it in its place with my other books.

Walked away.

And then, literally as I was walking away, I thought about what "being vulnerable" meant to me. 

Being vulnerable. 

Oh my. 

Images of blood.  Guts.  Gruesome beasts out of the darkness of night.  Oh my.

I went back to the book.  I flipped back to the page where she has examples of how others think of "being vulnerable."  They are:

• It's taking off the mask and hoping the real me isn't too disappointing.
• Not sucking it in anymore.
• It's where courage and fear meet.
• You are halfway across a tightrope, and moving forward and going back are both just as scary.
• Sweaty palms and a racing heart.

Among others of about the same caliber.  Nothing in there about beasts, blood, and guts falling on the floor.  And this is what led me to write about vulnerability. 

Let me detour.

At the beginning of this post I wanted, very much, to place a warning.  I wanted to write something along the lines of: "this will be a very personal post with very little humor, or silly antidotes, or cute stories about my son."  See, the things I've written about in the last three posts have had all of those components.  I write about the little stuff I've learned, the ways I've changed in relationship to being a working woman and being a stay at home mom, and the stories of my son that everyone (SHOULD) find cute and touching.  I started this blog out as an exercise in putting myself out there, but so far I've played it fairly safe.  The topics are important to me, very much so, but are they daring?

Am I daring greatly?

I thought so.  But maybe not.

I was acting vulnerable, but only within a very specific, and rather small, perimeter.  For instance.  I have two loyal readers (you know who you are)... and they are two of my closest friends.  They are two individuals who I KNOW will support me in what I write and how I write it.  And I am okay with only writing to these two individuals.  I have not linked my blog to my facebook page; I have not told other people (other than my husband); or in any other way advertised this blog. 

I am staying safe.  I don't write about my views on religion.  Or feminism.  Or how I am a proponent for gender rights.  I don't put myself out there for strangers to read.  I don't invite people to read these posts thereby avoiding criticism... but also excluding potential readers who could, perhaps, benefit from what these entries are about.

Within my perimeters.  But according to this Brené person, I am doing precisely what she says is the opposite of daring greatly.  I am not living courageously.  I am not "in the arena" or making a difference.  Again: "the only people who innovate are the people standing in the arena getting their butts kicked on occasion."  The problem that I have, right now as I write this with my heart in my throat and that weird feeling in the palm of my hands, is that I want to make a difference.  I want to innovate.  I want to challenge, inspire, lead, and create for people.  I want to be great.  Not great, little "g," Great, big "G."  I want to do something that will change the world.

Whoa.  Right?  I hear them.  Brené calls them gremlins.  Greatness.  You.  You are nobody.  You are just some mediocre woman.  You are of average intelligence.  You are average everything.  Those things that you are good at; so are millions of other people.  These blogs are silly and a waste of time.  They only amuse your friends and have no potential to help anyone at all.  Ever.

Seriously.  That all just went through my head.  I could point fingers at past conversations that have likely influenced those crazy gremlins, but they are, in the end, all mine.  Mine all mine.  Oh joy to the world.  And the thing is, I have learned how to beautifully manage them.  Beautifully.  Oh goodness am I good at managing those gremlins.  Let me give you a few examples:

• I have all but stamped out any competitive nature I have, unless it is with myself.  But NEVER with other people.
• I please please please.  I am so good at manipulating things in order to make everyone happy I don't even have to think about it anymore.
• I never, ever create conflict.  Ever.
• I never brag about myself.  In fact, just writing that made my stomach hurt.  Do not brag.  There is nothing to brag about.  You are neither greater or better than anyone else.
• Do not do anything to bring attention to yourself.  Neither good attention or bad attention.

And there are more.

I need therapy.

I need to delete this blog post.

I need to go throw up.

Okay.  Composed once more.

The point of all this, this long tirade of self-examination (if that is what you would call it), is to to point out that maybe I have been on the wrong path.  What I mean; I have focused so much the last five to ten years on managing my life by essentially separating myself from emotion and interaction with Buddhism, meditation, and living in the "now," that maybe I have crippled my abilities.  Maybe I have crippled my greatness.

I don't know.  I just wrote that line about greatness and the gremlins popped up and said "what greatness?"  You are nothing special.

See.  It is easier to be without emotional attachment, or learn to separate yourself from emotional attachment.  I don't mean separation from loving my husband, son, or family, but emotional REACTION to life.  And I don't use the numbing agents Brené writes about (alcohol, drugs, too much work, etc. etc.) I use all the spiritual numbing agents.  I step away from emotions.  I don't let things rattle me.  When things do upset me, I let them go through meditation. Separating myself from the masses. 

And that doesn't sound like it is a bad thing.  Less stress caused by emotion probably means I won't die of a stress-related heart attack.

Have I been on the wrong road this entire time?  Has my approach been completely wrong?

Pink Floyd anyone?

"A walk on part in the war, for a lead role in the cage"

Or maybe, just maybe, I have been on an incomplete one.  Maybe these two things can work together.  Maybe I can both dare greatly and maintain a spirituality of peace and calmness.  That is the ideal, I think, and something I think Brené writes about in her other book The Gifts of Imperfection  and the lessons she has about living wholeheartedly. 

I will tackle that book next.

I will see what this is all about.  Examine.  Reflect.

In the mean time, I ask my two friends who will read this... and anyone else that stumbles upon it... do you dare greatly? Are you vulnerable?  Do you allow yourself to believe that you are great?

Do you get out in the arena?

A Journey of a Thousand Names... Pt. 2

...when we last left our heroes...

Battling bad guys and labels everywhere.  Or depression.  That's right.  How depression and labeling go hand in hand, and how I am going to impart the secret of happiness.  

Not going to happen, but I do intend to delve further into labeling.

Flash back to when I first starting staying at home.  I was depressed.  Seriously depressed.  I started reading books about happiness principles.  There are a lot of books out there on positive psychology, but it wasn't until I picked up "A New Earth" by Eckhart Tolle that something in my head clicked.  I do not recommend this book.  Okay, that isn't true, I do, but only if you come across it yourself and want to read it.  I do not recommend this book to friends and family because it is a piece of work that will either resonate with you, or you will think is a bunch of BS.

The ancient Chinese saying: "When the pupil is ready, the teacher will come."

I was ready.  An excerpt:

"Mother, father, husband, wife, young, old, the roles you play, the functions you fulfill, whatever you do -- all that belongs to the human dimension.  It has its place and needs to be honored, but in itself is not enough for a fulfilled, truly meaningful relationship or life" (p. 104).

And:

"What really matters is not what function you fulfill in this world, but whether you identify with your function to such an extent that it takes you over and becomes a role that you play" (p. 90).

There is no truth in the role.  The role you play is arbitrary.

Oh dear Lord.  My brain started a moving and a rocking and a rolling.  I knew about this, I've read about this before.  But where?

In 2008 I started a master's program in English Literature at St. Mary's University in San Antonio.  The head of that program, and the head of my thesis committee later, was one Dr. Gwendolyn Diaz.  She is the kind of a person that I stand in awe of, and not a little bit of fear.  She is wicked smart.  She speaks four languages, she just breathes intelligence, and, she is very postmodern.  

For definition; postmodern is a movement in literature, history etc. that moves the focus from the hegemony (read: white, male) to the peripheral (read: everything not white male).  Another aspect,  the one that came back to me while reading Tolle, is the process of questioning absolute truth.  Absolute, 100 percent, truth.  I actually used the word "true" in my last entry, and I have regretted ever sense.  Because of Dr. Diaz's influence, and the vast amount of reading I did under her tutelage, I am convinced that absolute truth does not exist.

What does this mean?  Well, it's meaning is a slippery slope.  Basically, I think that everything is an interpretation of the viewer.  I'd like to say that I was the brilliant thinker behind that concept, but really, it is all Jacques Lacan.  Without going into a lecture of Lacan (which is a rabbit hole, indeed), his basic premise is that language creates a space between what an object is, and what the viewer sees as the object.  Definitions that are influenced by experiences, thoughts, processes, and language.

Example.  I say "black cat."  Every single person in all the world will have a different idea of what a "black cat" is.  Sure.  A cat that is black, but how I see a black cat, and how someone else does will be different, if only just slightly.  Not one person in all of the world will have the same definition.  Not. One.

Thus, the lack of absolute truth.  If every person sees things differently, then everything is different.  God.  Something that most people would say was an absolute truth.  But you ask people who, or what God is; those definitions are going to be very, very different.

Absolute truths are just labels that we have assigned.  We assign meaning to words, ideas, conceptions, perceptions.  Everything has a label (role) assigned to it, and for every person this label is different.  

Back to Tolle.  Labels.  Roles.  Absolutes.  How can my identity be governed by a label that's only consistency is that it is perceived differently by everyone.

Makes the mind whirl a bit.  

After I got over being dizzy, I wondered:  if those things that I use to label myself with, that cause unhappiness, are so arbitrary, why the heck am I doing it? 

Jumping around to Buddhism now.  Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche: "A lot of our suffering in life comes from our conceptual mind and it's habit of trying to categorize and put labels on our experiences... Think of how often you've had a conversation where you've assumed someone was judging you in a critical way... For 24 hours, you carried this storyline around in your mind, and it tortured you... Your suffering was self-created by the labeling mind."

And around and around we go.

So.  Recap.  Roles belong to humans, but you should not become the role.  A role, or a label, is not an absolute truth because absolute truths do not exist.  When we assign labels we cause suffering.

Labels suck.  Or do they?

My son is Batman now.  It is several hours after the Hulk episode.  His mood has improved with juice, toast, and a dose of morning cartoons.  His mask is in place and his cape flows behind him as he runs down the hallways.  "Me Batman!" He announces, fighting an imaginary villain.  I watch him being Batman and I am inspired.  His role playing, his person, is playing this label.  He is using the label to create fun.  He is having fun by being a label.  He is not defined by the label.  He is not defined by the role.  He is just having fun being Batman.

The ol' light bulb going on?  You bet.

We are all defined by the labels given to us and the labels we take on.  We live in a society that defines people based on the roles and the labels they have tattooed on their persons.  From where I stand now (and I am always moving, so this might change) I don't see how you can live in society and avoid being labeled or assuming roles.  Part of the human dimension, Tolle says.  But, I don't have to become that role.  In fact, becoming that role leads to unhappiness.  And the roles are whimsical.  Imagination.  Definitions that we have created.

Change the definition.

Change the way you interpret the label. 

Heck, I can have fun with it.  I can run down the hallway with my cape bellowing behind me.  SUPER SAHM!  I am going stitch that on my new red spandex supersuit.  

Or not.

Because, honestly, I struggle with labels all the time, the chief buggerboo being SAHM.  I

am not entirely okay with the term SAHM still.  I can talk brave words.  I can spout out all this research I have done and conclusions I have come to, but I still fight with the SAHM label, and others that assign me a role in society (weight, athleticism, gender etc).  And that makes me think of Rinpoche.  Don't label.  Others will label.  Others will assign truth to your roles.  But do I have to?

Can't I leave that all on the side of the road.  Shed it like a second skin.

Yep.  It would be awesome if I could.  I am not quite there.  Sometimes I catch a glimpse.  I feeling of lightness when I realize that I am none of those things that I listed waaaay back at the beginning of this long diatribe.  I am just me.  Bones. Skin. Brain. Heart.

And then I get a kick in the gut.  An old school mate getting her PhD makes a comment: "Oooh, you decided to have kids instead of pursuing your doctorate..."

Bam!  Self talk: loser, slacker, STAY AT HOME MOM!!!

Yep.  It gets me.  Even though I know it is just a label and it means nothing.  It trips me up.  Makes me doubt and feel depressed and terrible.  Even though I know, intellectually, it is an arbitrary label assigned by society.  I have methods to battle it (another entry down the line).  For today, and the purpose of this entry, I just have to remember that no one (not my family, friends, husband, son or that stupid school mate) or nothing (not that terrible advertising industry) can tell me who I am.

Fighting the good fight.

Super MOM!

For today.

A Journey of a Thousand Names... Pt. 1

This morning my two-year-old announced he was The Hulk.  The reasoning was fairly simple.  He did not want to get up, he was cold, in a bad mood, and in general hated everything.

Hulk Smash!  Hulk Mad!

Little eyebrows scrunched down over eyes that looked out at me with an expression of general dissatisfaction... very much like the green monster who goes around smashing everything in a rage.

Accurate labeling, even though he is two.

He is brilliant!  The next great thinker!

Well, okay, maybe not, but it is a good introduction into this meandering journey regarding identity structures and labels.

...who AM i.... WHO am i... who am I...

This is from the movie Rango.  A gem full of wisdom.  Well, not really, but the movie is about identity.  About the process of becoming someone.... or rather, taking on an identity, a label, that will announce to the world the exact nature of who you (me, him, her etc.) are...

So, who am I this morning?

Let me count the ways:  mother, wife, daughter, granddaughter, sister, writer, runner, reader, and general geek.  I am a college graduate, a high school graduate, a former journalist, a former FedEx employee, a democrat, a Caucasian, a woman.

The labels could keep coming.  I have been and will be a thousand different things in my lifetime, as will every single human being on this planet.  We are awash in labels and names and identity structures, which leads to the psychosis of trying to answer the never-ending-question of "who am I?" 

But what do these labels actually mean?  Because labels are really just words.  Words with assigned meaning.

Dictionary definition of mother: (n) a female parent.

But, I am not just a mother, but a stay at home mother.  This is a very different label than just "mother."  If you want proof, put "stay at home mom" in Google search and see what comes up.  The entries abound, and the craziness abounds as well.  People have very... um, strong... opinions about stay at home moms.  And that is just one label.  Just one label of many that define who I am.  But, the question I have come to ask the last little while is:  how can a label define who I am?  And out of all the labels I have, which one is the right one, the one that actually encapsulates my person? 

Around and around we go.  Dizziness is a side effect.

There are layers upon layers of questions intertwined with this issue, and these questions started waaaaaay back in the days of elementary school.  Remember those days; a little person with this big whole world in front of them and a teacher asks about what they want to be when they grow up.  I don't have a physical memory of that event, but I'm sure it happened, and I, no doubt, answered with "doctor" or "lawyer" or something along those lines.  A label of who I wanted to be when I grew up.  Then I did grow up.  And people kept asking me that question.  What are you going to school for?  Translation; what kind of career are you pursuing? Then, when I was out of school, "what do you do?"  What that question is really attempting to answer is: what label are you going to, or have, assumed in life.  Who are you as based on what you do?  I am a lawyer.  I'm not, actually, but if I was that would hold a certain explanation of who I am.  A label.  A loaded label.  A label that in one word can define my entire person for whoever asks me the question; what do you do?

This is rather long-winded, I realize, but I am leading up to my point.

Oh, wait, I have arrived at my point.

I am uneasy with the label SAHM.  Oooooh boy am I uneasy with that label.  Don't get my wrong.  I love being a SAHM and I would not choose otherwise.  But the label itself is exhausting.  In a society that judges based on labels, this label is a mindfield of judgement (both negative and positive).  And not just from others.  I spent the first year staying at home, trying to figure out what I was going to do five years from then, when my son would go to school, and I would go back to work.  What my next label would be. I was so uneasy with being labeled a SAHM, I wanted to be able to tell people that I was a SAHM temporarily, only for a little while, then I would go back to being a "journalist" or go back to school to become a "therapist" or maybe I would work as a "teacher."

Dark mood.  Depression.  Two reactions that I have learned to look out for.  When I start getting depressed and black-moody, I know it is time to for self-exploration.  Yeah for self-exploration! 

Sort of... because sometimes self exploration is a rabbit hole.  As in Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole.  Complete with magical solutions that both grow and shrink you.

What I found out while looking into my depression is that I had a problem with being labeled a SAHM.  I didn't like the feeling of this label.  My mind rebelled.  But not necessarily because of the term itself.  I found, as I wrote and wrote and wrote in journals, that my problem lay not in the actual term, but in the labeling process in general.  Which is unfortunate, because labeling is historical.

It's evolution, baby.

Seriously.  Labeling is hardwired into us from centuries before.  I am going to switch terminology a bit, and instead of "label," now use the word "roles."  Really, one in the same.  I am a mother.  That is a label and role.  But it is only one of several of my roles.  A couple of centuries ago, one, maybe two roles were who you were no matter what. Rigid.  No movement.  You are woman (or man, child, hunter, gatherer etc. etc.) and that is what you did.  Period.  No questions.  Well, maybe there were a few hardy souls that still questioned.  Those questioning fools, the ones that buck the norms, those buggers have been around all through history.  But most people were the roles they played.  Think of last names.  I have a friend with a last name Baker; wonder what his ancestors did? 

So, to assume a label, or role, is natural.  The thing is, somewhere along the line, the roles we assume have lost their rigidity.  If I am born into a family of bakers, I don't necessarily have to take on that role.  Heck, even the role of gender can now be changed.  I was born a female but really feel like I am a man.  Okay.  Role... or label... changed.  The rigidity is almost entirely gone.  What has arisen from this, however, is an overabundance of labels.  And people, along with cooperation, organizations, countries, etc. etc. have taken advantage.

Think I am talking crazy?  Nope.  A multi-billion dollar industry called advertising is the example I hold up.  The sole purpose of advertising is tell consumers who they are... or who they should be.  Thinner.  Prettier.  A vacationer to Hawaii.  Labels.  Labels to define who we are as a people.  Labels to define who I am and who I want to be and who I SHOULD be.  This does not settle well with me.  Actually, it does not settle well with a lot of people.  Stress. Depression. A constant rat race to be as good as our neighbors, or the people in the magazines, or the people on the television.  A nation, in particular the United States, trying to bigger and better all the time.  More money.  More things.  More stuff.

But there has developed, in the last little while, a reaction to this movement.  You've likely heard this before, haven't you?  About the negativity of the rat race?  That it is bad to try to keep up with the Jones's?  There is a wave of change that has tried and is trying to show that bigger and better does not mean happier.  That advertising is propaganda to get you to buy so cooperation can make money.  Bottom dollar.  Not about what makes you a better or happier person, but what can put money in the pockets of those doing the advertising.

Happiness is not in a new car.  Or a new haircut.  It is not in how you are labeled or how you label yourself.  Ah, a happy life.  Isn't that the goal of everyone? It was my goal and is my goal.  To find happiness.

So, that is where we will stop this particular entry.  A teaser.  A cliffhanger. 

What is happiness?  I will answer that question, and tell you how to accomplish create a happy life.

BAHAHA!  I am a liar.  I will not.  But I will address happiness in my life, and how labels, or a lack thereof, helps me on my journey.

Stay tuned.  Same bat-time.  Same bat-channel.

Or something.

In the beginning there was... darkness? Light?

I wear a bracelet.  It is a bastardized quote from a T.S. Eliot poem: "darkness shall be the light and stillness the dancing."  The quote is not exact.  I didn't have a big enough letter allowance to fit the exact quote (missing "the" before stillness), but the important part is there.  The problem is: I don't actually know what the line means.  It is from the poem "Four Quarters."  The poem is essentially a diatribe of nonconformity and questioning of... well, pretty much everything.  I do not envy those who are poets.  They have a tough battle mentally to get what is inside, outside. Painters also receive my utmost sympathy.  But I digress. 

Back to Eliot. 

So the quote reminds me of different things on different days.  Some days it is a reminder of the duality that exists in everything.  Stillness, dancing/darkness, light.  Some days it is a reminder that these dualities are actually one in the same.  Originally, I think this is why I bought the bracelet.  I wanted to be reminded, every day, that those things that are opposite, or in fact, many times, the same.  The old thought of "they are two sides of the same coin." 

So, where am I going with all of this...?  Basic enough; this blog, which I am unsure about writing in the first place, is an attempt to understand, explore, and grow two sides of the same coin.  The coin, obviously, is me.  The two sides?  That is a little more difficult to explain.

Or is it?

I am who I am because of who I am.  A circular path of existence.  That sounds all nifty and original, but I am, no doubt, stealing it from someone in the past.  Because it is the truth.  You are who you are.  Right now.  At this moment.  Not who you were yesterday or who you will be tomorrow.  Right now.  Tomorrow you will be that person tomorrow, and it will be right now.

But, I am getting ahead of myself.

The reason for the blog. 

Partially, this blog started out of a letter (read: e-mail) that I sent a very good friend of mine in Texas.  She wrote back and said that it could be the start of a very successful blog.  Encouragement.  Absolutely.  But I started to think about the letter.  In it I wrote about my life as a stay-at-home-mom.  (Yes.  I am one of those.  I will go into that side of the coin).  But, I also had long lengthy passages about my current obsession with spirituality.  (And yes, I am one of those too). 

I went back to read the letter.

The stay at home mom (from now on known as "SAHM" because I don't want to type that out every time) talked in length about peanut butter and jelly stains on everything... including,  but not limited to, television sets, fridge doors, and... wait for it... toilets.  The toilets gross me out.  My two year old; he loves peanut butter and jelly.  He would eat pbj sandwiches for every meal and likely be perfectly happy.  Unless I offered him pizza, and then pizza would, maaaaybe, dethrone the pbj.  Anyway.  My pbj loving son, also likes to take his pbj and create art.  I have yet to decide if he does this out of a genuine creative need, or because it drives me batty and he knows it.  Oh yes, my son knows and exposes those things that drive me batty.  He has learned.  Already.  I blame it on his father.

But again, I get off track.

The letter.  The letter addressed the adventures of pbj in my household.  And then it talked about this journey that I have found myself on.  This is the flip side of the coin.  I have always been a bit of a geek  intellectual.  I love school.  I love to read.  And I like to think.  Literary theory is probably my favorite subjects.  No, it is my favorite subject.  I love thinking.  To make a (very) long story shorter, when I decided to stay at home, my thinker got put in storage.

It rebelled.

Not pretty.

Depression, anger, irritability.  I became a nightmare.  Bless my husband and his (unknown to most people) patience.   He is a saint.  Don't ever tell him I said that, it will go straight to his head and I will hear stories about his sainthood for years and years...

Anyway.  My thinker rebelled.  The problem is, I had no idea what was going on.  I was just blah.  Inside and out.  I don't actually remember at what point I realized I needed to get something straight.  Well, I knew I needed to get something straight from the very beginning.  (I was not unconsciously bat-shit crazy, I was very aware).  However, I didn't know the reason behind the crazies until I started reading Martha Beck.

Yep.  You heard -- well read -- that right.  Martha Beck.  The Oprah life coach.

Wait.  Oprah.  What??

Now I was a SAHM that read Oprah.  My 20 year old self rolled over in her grave.  But, the point I found as I read Martha Beck, then moved on to a whole host of others, is that my 20 year old self was, just that, IN THE GRAVE. 

Two sides of the coin.

I am a sahm.  I find myself playing for hours with pint-sized super heroes and doing endless loads of laundry.  I cook, clean, and wipe snotty noses with the sleeve of my sweatshirt (yep, me!).  I kiss boo-boos and I yell and threaten with time outs. 

I am also a thinker.  I devour books on psychology, spirituality, and politics.  I need to stretch my mind, grow, and look for answers to questions I don't know exist.

And somewhere in the last two years (that's right, two WHOLE FREAKING years) I discovered that I have to be both of these people. So, now I am on a journey.  I am on a journey to reconcile the two pieces.  To grow in my spiritual and thinking life all the while growing as a parent and wife.  This blog is part of the process.  Part of the being "vulnerable"that Brene Brown (another Oprah find) talks about in her latest book as essentials for happiness.  Writing a blog.  And honestly (and we will do -- swallows nervously -- honest here), documenting this feels right, though it feels scary.  I am a writer.  Oh, did I forget to mention that?  Yes.  A writer.  I think when I put words to paper.  So that is what I will do here.

A journey.

I am not the first person to attempt this kind of journey, or the only person, the last person, or any other kind of person that is different from anyone else.  I just am.

Today. 

Tomorrow will be different.

I am who I am because of who I am.

Welcome.