Refuse Consent!

 I refuse my consent to #fascism. I also refuse my consent to despair. I affirm that I will cling tenaciously – relentlessly – to #hope, and I invite you to do so, too.

In Troubled Times: Tenaciously Hopeful

I first posted this on January 2, 2017, right after the presidential election. I'm putting it up again as a reminder of how important it is to take care of our mental well-being in troubled times.

Recently, I’ve noticed more articles on staying grounded in joy and hope, even when surrounded by fear. Perhaps such articles have always been part of the general social media discourse and I am only now becoming sufficiently calm to notice them. But I rather think (hope!) this is a trend. In me, it certainly is. After the initial rounds of fear and trepidation, the constant adrenaline wore off. I’m not naturally a person who enjoys being fearful; from my experience training dogs, I suspect it’s not an appealing state for most of us. Some, I suppose, enjoy the “high” of confrontation, even violence, but I’m not among them. Harming others and myself is not where I want to live my life.

I see also posts affirming commitment to action, often in terms of “We Will Fight On!” and I’ve been resisting the urge to jump on that bandwagon. (Also the “Organize the Resistance” brigade.) It all sounds so necessary, a matter of putting my money where my mouth is. And is just as unrealistic for me as remaining in that state of terrified fury.

As unhealthy.

I am not objecting to others following the paths to which they are led. Resisting fascism and protecting the most vulnerable are inarguably vital to our survival as individuals, communities, and a society. I am thrilled that people have the drive and knowledge to organize such resistance. I will be right there, cheering them on. But I won’t be in the forefront.

It’s taken me a long time, coming from a family of dyed-in-the-wool organizers (labor unions, radical politics, war resistance, etc.) to come to terms with not being one of them. Undoubtedly, seeing the cost to my family played a role in my reluctance. I’ve marched in my share of civil rights and anti-war demonstrations, written a gazillion letters, painted an equal number of signs. But it’s not where my heart is. I’ve seen the joy in the eyes of those for whom this is their passion, their “thing.” I want to hug them all and say, “I’m so glad you’re out there, doing this for both of us.”

The fallacy is that making the world a better place is an either/or proposition. Either I’m out there, making headlines by facilitating events of vast numbers for the people’s revolution (as an example), or I’m sitting at home, knitting while Yosemite burns.

The fact is, any social movement happens on many levels. There’s the outward, banner-headline, political level, one that often requires organization on a national or international level. There is a community level, supporting your neighbors, particularly those in need. Soup kitchens are just as necessary as demonstrations outside the White House, although they serve fewer people. Taking care of ourselves and our families is yet another.

Quiet, mindful actions that focus on compassion, justice, and unity need not be limited to small numbers. In fact, outward activism must be balanced by inner activism. We can all find where we are called to act along that spectrum, and we can move back and forth (or in and out, whichever image works best) with circumstances, experience, and energy levels. What a relief to realize I don’t have to pick one thing or level of involvement!

So what speaks to me right now is remembering joy. The year to come is almost certainly going to be full of occasions for grimness if not despair, so I don’t want to start off that way. I want to full up my “savings account of hope” as much as I can, cultivating those people, places, and things that lift my spirits. I want to never, ever let go of believing we can survive this, kindness and persistence will triumph, and no matter how dark it may seem at the moment, love will win.

I refuse my consent to fascism. I also refuse my consent to despair.

I affirm that I will cling tenaciously – relentlessly – to hope, and I invite you to do so, too.

Rebecca Solnit on "It Doesn't End Well For Them"

 I've recently begun following essayist Rebecca Solnit. She's a brilliant writer, full of fire and (com)passion. Here's a recent sample of her work:

No One Knows How This Will End (But I Do Not Think It Will End Well for Them)

These three horsemen of the MAGA-tech-bro apocalypse are in the position of penthouse dwellers who think their top floor apartment doesn't rest on all the floors underneath, or so it looks to me as they rush about wrecking things with an apparent conviction that they're immune to the impact, that they have a monopoly on power, that their power is not merely part of larger systems, that they have defeated everything including cause and effect. Trump just tweeted a quote from Napoleon Bonaparte, "He who saves his country violates no law," which is maybe supposed to justify the attacks on the Constitution and the outrageously illegal actions we've seen since the January 27th attempt to seize Congress's power of the purse.

But Napoleon didn't end his career as an emperor. He ended it as a prisoner of the British on a small volcanic island more than a thousand miles off the coast of southern Africa. I don't know where Trump, Musk, and Vance's story ends, but I know it doesn't end with them in power, and I don't think it will end particularly well for them, though my main concern--and yours, I presume--is trying to prevent damage along the way. And I'm convinced that if we take action, we get to write some of the chapters and maybe revise or erase some of what they're trying to impose.

(You can sign up at the bottom of her Home page.)

In Hopeful Times: Robert Reich on Optimism

 

At the beginning of Trump 1.0, I began a series entitled "In Troubled Times." With the onset of the war in Ukraine (aka The War of Russian Aggression), I shifted to "In Times of War." Today, Substackian Robert Reich offers reasons for cautious optimism. Let's feed that hope!

This is a very brief summary. Click on the link to read the whole thing and to subscribe.

Ten reasons for modest optimism

Friends, If you are experiencing rage and despair about what is happening in America and the world right now because of the Trump-Vance-Musk regime, you are hardly alone. A groundswell of opposition is growing — not as loud and boisterous as the resistance to Tump 1.0, but just as, if not more, committed to ending the scourge.

1.Boycotts are taking hold.

2. International resistance is rising.
3. Independent and alternative media are growing.
4. Musk’s popularity is plunging.
5. Musk’s Doge is losing credibility.
6. The federal courts are hitting back.
7. Demonstrations are on the rise.
8. Stock and bond markets are trembling.
9. Trump is overreaching — pretending to be “king” and abandoning Ukraine for Putin.
10. The Trump-Vance-Musk “shock and awe” plan is faltering.

In all these ways and for all of these reasons, the regime’s efforts to overwhelm us are failing.

Make no mistake: Trump, Vance, and Musk continue to be an indiscriminate wrecking ball that has already caused major destruction and will continue to weaken and isolate America. But their takeover has been slowed.

Their plan was based on doing so much, so fast that the rest of us would give in to negativity and despair. They want a dictatorship built on hopelessness and fear.

That may have been the case initially, but we can take courage from the green shoots of rebellion now appearing across America and the world.

As several of you have pointed out, successful resistance movements maintain hope and a positive vision of the future, no matter how dark the present.

In Troubled Times: This, Too, Shall Pass

I first posted this in April 2023. It's a good reminder.

I started a blog series, “In Troubled Times” after the 2016 presidential election. Folks I trusted said that things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. That’s true now, too. You can read the first installment, "Becoming Allies," here.

I came of age in the 1960s, demonstrating for civil rights and marching against the Viet Nam War. I never burned my bra, but I volunteered for Planned Parenthood in the years before Roe v Wade. I am not bragging about my activist bona fides. I was one of many, and rarely in the forefront. However, I remember all too well the feelings of both elation and futility. The energy and inspiration of being surrounded by thousands of like minds, filling the streets of San Francisco, chanting and singing. We thought that if we could sing loudly enough and joyfully enough, we could change the minds and hearts of the nation’s leaders. And then came a day when many of us realized they were not about to listen to us. The war raged on, now captured on television in our living rooms.

That feeling of powerlessness was one of the driving forces behind my debut science fiction novel, Jaydium, by the way. My heroine is initially trapped on a dusty, barely-habitable planet at the back end of nowhere, and through a series of shifts through time and parallel dimensions, she ends up on an alien planet where she has the chance to change history by stopping a war. It’s about both re-engagement and the quest for peace (and I was tickled when Tom Easton of Analog praised the latter as unusual and laudable.) Writing it reflected my personal journey from withdrawal to participation.

I vividly remember how, in the late 1960s, my father, who was born in 1907 and lived through two world wars, pogroms, the McCarthy witch hunts, and more, would talk me down from desperation. When I was in a panic about the Cold War maneuver of the moment, he never dismissed my concerns; he was just coming from a broader perspective. And he was right. We got through those years without blowing the planet up.

Now I find myself in the position of being an elder—a crone, if you will. My earliest political memories date from the mid-1950s, including the terror of HUAC, the pervasive suspicions, racism, misogyny, and antisemitism that no one questioned. When I was a bit older, the anti-communist hysteria had faded somewhat (depending on where you lived), but not the rest. And always, in the years before oral contraception, sex meant fear of pregnancy. I knew girls in high school who got sent out of the country and returned the following year or so without their babies. Later, in the late 1960s/early 1970s but still before Roe v Wade, I volunteered at Planned Parenthood. And heard many stories. Looking back, I cannot believe how ignorant I was about so many other issues.

I do not mean to brag about my life experiences or to enter into a contest of which times were worse. Each generation faces its own trials, and each generation is convinced that theirs are world-ending, worst-ever scenarios. This is one of many reasons why we need generational memory (not to mention history books!)

[rant] In Troubled Times: Still Here, Still Holding on to Hope

I first posted this in August, 2019. I'm still here, still holding on to hope. We aren't all crazy or hopeless or overwhelmed on the same day. When events are too much, we can borrow a bit of courage from one another.

Following the 2016 election, I posted a series of essays called “In Troubled Times.” I wrote about despair, fear, anger, powerlessness, and determination. Then the initial fervor faded. Exhaustion set in for me as well as for so many others. Emotional exhaustion. Spiritual exhaustion. But the constant, increasingly vitriolic litany of hate and fear, as well as the assaults on democratic norms and civil liberties not only continued, it escalated.

What is to be done in the face of such viciousness, such disregard for human rights and dignity? Such an assault upon clean and air water, endangered species, and the climate of planet we depend on for our lives? How do we preserve what we value, so that in resisting we do not become the enemy?

I don’t know what the most effective strategy of resistance is. Social media abounds in calls to action. I do know that there are many possible paths forward and that not every one way is right for every person. Not everyone can organize a protest march (think of five million protesters in front of the White House; think of a national strike that brings the nation’s businesses to a halt). I find myself remembering activist times in my own past.

I came of age during the Civil Rights Movement and the Viet Nam war resistance (and, later, the women’s rights movement of the 1970s). I wore my hair long, donned love beads, and marched in a gazillion rallies. Those memories frequently rise to my mind now. In particular, I remember how frustrated I got about ending the Viet Nam war. In 1967, I joined the crowd of 100,000 protesters in San Francisco. I wrote letters, painted posters, and so forth. And for a time, it seemed nothing we did made any difference. My friends still got drafted and not all of them made it home, and those that did were wounded in ways I couldn’t understand. Others ended up as Canadians. I gave up hope that the senseless carnage would ever end.

But it did. And in retrospect, all that marching and chanting and singing and letter-writing turned out to be important. The enduring lesson for me is that I must do what I feel called to do at the moment, over and over again, different things at different times, never attempt to second-guess history, and especially never give in to despair. Enough tiny pebbles rolling down a slope create a landslide.

My first political memories date back to the 1950s, when I saw my union-organizer father 

marching in a picket line. The 1950s were a terrifying time for a lot of folks. For my family, it was because my parents were active in their respective unions, and both had been members of “the Party” in the 1930s. My father was fired from his job on a pretext and soon became the target of a formal Federal investigation. (He’d been under FBI surveillance since 1942.) The Department of Justice filed a lawsuit to take away his naturalized citizenship. It was a time of incredible fear: people committed suicide or “went underground” (now we call it “off the grid”) by living in safe houses and using only cash. Some of our relatives did that, and our home became one of those havens. The DoJ suit was dismissed in 1961, although the FBI continued secretly watching my father until his death in 1974. I should add that it is so odd to me to regard that bureau as protecting democracy in current times, after their 1984-like behavior in the 1950s and beyond.

The point of all this is not that my family had a hard time. Lots of families had a hard time. Lots more are having an unbelievably hard, terrifying, horrific time today. The point is that we got through it. Not unscarred -- it’s still excruciatingly difficult for me to call attention to myself by political activism. My parents never stopped working for a better, more just and loving world. They never lost hope.

In Troubled Times: How Stories Save Us

I first posted this in August, 2021. Hold on to hope!

Stories can heal and transform us. They can also become beacons of hope.

Quite a few years ago, when I was going through a difficult personal time, I came across a book about the inherent healing power of telling our stories. No matter how scattered or flawed our lives may appear, as we tell our stories, we gain something. Patterns emerge from seeming chaos, and our lives begin to make sense. It may be dreadful, agonizing sense, but even tragedies have order and consequence. I found that over time, the way I told my story changed, reflecting my recovery process and new insight.

The mirror side of story-telling is story-listening. While a confidential diary or journal can be highly useful, having someone hear our words can be transformative, especially if all that person does is listening. Not judging, not analyzing, not wondering how to respond, just taking in our words, a silent partner on our journey. Often we feel less alone in retrospect, no matter how isolated and desperate we might have been at the time. Additionally, a compassionate listener invites us to be kinder with ourselves.

Perhaps this is how Twelve Step programs work, apart from any Higher Power mysticism or Steps: that by simply hearing our own voices relate our histories, and having the experience of being heard, we open the door to viewing ourselves through the lens of new possibilities.

Personal storytelling calls for discretion, of course. Although it may be true that “we are only as sick as our secrets,” casually (or not-so-casually) violating a confidence from someone else is not the same as choosing to include the listener in our own private lives. Some of us never learned healthy boundaries about what is safe to share, and when, and with whom. We, or others, can be harmed by indiscriminate broadcasting of embarrassing, illegal, or otherwise sensitive information. The kind of storytelling I’m talking about, on the other hand, is as much about the journey as it is the facts.

Stories can get us through dark times by giving us hope and inspiring empathy. Stories work by creating a bond between the narrator or central character and the listener/reader. Who wants to read a story about a person you care nothing about? And if that appealing character has a different history or journey, or learns something the reader never experienced, so much the better. We accompany them into darkness and out again.

[guest post] Judith Tarr on Story

Writer Brain: The Power of Story

by Judith Tarr

Story helps us process trauma and understand the world. I've been thinking more about what Story is, and what it does. And how as far as we can know, it's unique to humans.

We may find out that other animals tell each other stories, too. For now, we seem to be the only species that tells itself things that aren't true, but that contain a deeper truth. It may be a factor of the way our brains are constructed. We can think in layers. We can know what is, but also what might be or could be--and what couldn't possibly be except in our imagination.

It can be hard to tell what's true and what's not. We have a powerful capacity for self-deception, which can be dangerous. Consider the Big Lie. It's a deliberate falsehood that's told to serve a purpose, usually political or financial; that's repeated over and over until the people who are lied to believe it's true.

Which, yes, has something to do with the events of this month.

But I'm talking about Story here. About the lie that is, in its essence, true. It creates worlds and characters. It invents histories. It fabricates languages that can take on lives of their own.

People are out there speaking Klingon and more than one dialect of Elvish. They're living in our world but speaking words that came from the mind or minds of humans who imagined how alien beings would think and talk. It's a strange thing, but it's beautiful. It's a lie but it's true.

The image I chose for this post exists in multiple worlds. In this one it's a piece of jet contrail that caught the wind and attached itself to wisps of cloud. The light of the setting sun struck the ice crystals and give them the illusion of color, even while the wind made it seem to be moving steadily westward.

In another world, the world of Story, it's a dragon. Can you see the shape of it? The long neck. The snaky tail. The wings. It comes from the west and it's flying east over the mountains.

I don't know where it started or where it's aiming to go. But because I have the power of Story, I can imagine. I can invent a world for it to come from and a reason for it to be flying over this land, on this evening. I can make up a destination for it, and tell the story of what happens to it when it gets there.

Maybe it's a happy story. It's bringing good news to people who are waiting eagerly for it. Or maybe it's a tragedy. Something terrible happened, and it's warning the people in the east. Or it's a monster story, and it's hunting, and its prey is running away in front of it.

Personally I like the more optimistic kinds of stories. I understand and appreciate the need for the darker ones, for the way they shed light on our own darker impulses. But I lean more toward good news than bad. There will pretty definitely be darker moments, crises and reversals, but my mind wants them to end more happily than they began.

I know that every story can't and won't have a happy ending. Real life can hit hard. But one function of Story is to make it possible to withstand the hits. To find a way through. To face problems and, if at all possible, solve them.

Even if they can't be solved, at least we can try. We can imagine alternatives. We can hope.

Story helps us do that. That's its power.

That's why I'm writing fiction again. So that I can process what's happening. Deal with the hard parts. Find ways to make them less hard. And share those ways with other people, many of whom will share their own ways with me. And maybe, among all of us, we'll end up in a better place than we began.

Judith Tarr is the author of over forty novels and numerous short stories. She has a Patreon, where she shares fiction, nonfiction (like this blog), and (of course) cute cat pictures.

https://www.patreon.com/dancinghorse . 

She lives near Tucson, Arizona with a herd of Lipizzan horses, a small clowder of cats, and two Very Good Dogs.

Reprinted by permission

In Troubled Times: Finding an Inner Guide to Political Action

I first posted this November 28, 2016, right after the presidential election. I'm putting it up again as a reminder of how important it is to take care of our mental well-being in troubled times.

Like many others, I did not sleep well on election night or the following nights. Shock and dismay had hijacked my mind. I felt as if I had been catapulted into a very dark Twilight Zone episode. My thoughts went hither and yon, partly batted about by a political racquet, partly going from shiny/horror to next shiny/horror.

In my recovery from PTSD, I have learned to be protective of my sleep and my inner balance. I quickly detected warning signs and realized that I had to put my own mental and physical health first. Without that foundation, I wasn’t going to be able to make any sense or take effective action. So I set about using my “tool box” to reduce my anxiety. Besides sleep management and calming techniques, I reached out to my family and close friends. I tried as best I could to keep the focus on myself and my feelings, not politics. I took notice of which conversations made me feel better and which did not.

I felt better about myself when there was something I could do for the person close to me. Perhaps this was because I felt less powerless, but I believe it was because I felt more connected. Research suggests human beings are hard-wired to feel pleasure from helping others. Whether or not this is true, feeling valued and needed is a good thing.

So the first “movement” of my journey was to take care of myself and then to reach out to those around me.

Once I was feeling a bit more settled, I started to look around for other actions I might take. This required a great deal of filtering of news and social media. News sources inundated me with blow after terrible blow as events (and nominations or appointments) unfolded. I realized I could spend 100 hours a day on the various calls to action, and that not all of them were appropriate for me. Some would put me right back in the zone of risking my mental health.

How then are we to know how to proceed and what actions will not damage us?

We listen for that sense of rightness, no matter how frightening the prospect. I learned a great deal about this process from hanging out with Quakers. They talk about “discernment” and “leadings of the Spirit.” It’s one of the things that makes Quaker action different from other activism. One is led to take action by the promptings of the inner light, which means that arguments for or against make little difference. This made Quaker abolitionists (for example) tenacious in their cause.

What am I led to do? How will I know when that happens?

I’m still listening, and while I do that, I pay attention to small things that I feel able to do. They may not qualify as “Spirit-led,” but they seem possible. Then I notice how I feel. As an example, I wrote a letter of support to the nearest mosque; I felt lighter and more hopeful after I had mailed it. On the other hand, I felt low and discouraged after speaking with certain people I had otherwise reason to trust. I’m not likely to try that again.

I do not know how or even if this process of trial and reflection, slowly feeling my way, will lead to action on a state or national level. I’m definitely not going to fly across the country to attend a march in Washington D.C. or New York City. Because I’ve felt energized by writing letters, I am more likely to do that again. I’m considering volunteering in person at Planned Parenthood (where I volunteered when I was in grad school, before Roe v. Wade) or the ACLU, but do not yet see a clear path.

Meanwhile, I continue to practice reaching out, and find that the circle keeps getting bigger. By listening compassionately and seeking out safe places to share my own fears, I join a community of light. By sharing suggestions of actions, I become aware of those I might be willing to take, or inspire others to take actions I am not comfortable with. Who knows? Maybe knowing someone who is brave enough (or skilled enough) to do something will show me the way. Or perhaps the way will open in community once I see I do not have to act alone.

In Troubled Times: Antidote to Despair

Following the 2016 election, I wrote a series called In Troubled Times. It seems appropriate to post these again now. This came out on December 9, 2016

Recently a friend voiced her despair about the effect of the elections and the president-elect’s nominations on the future of the planet. She said “fear” was too mild a term. Her conversation kept referencing the Permian extinction event and the destruction of the Earth. I admit I didn’t respond well. I tend to react to emotion-laden exaggerations of complex issues, and that reaction overrode the compassionate thing to do, which was to listen to her feelings. My mind flipped from a conversation about emotions to one about facts. Needless to say, she was not interested in whether current projects are for a target global warming of 3.6 degrees or 4 degrees Celsius.

In observing my own mind, I notice what I do when faced with the notion of looming ecological disaster. I run away to information. In this case, at least, I find it calming. The facts don’t change, but researching the issue and reading the considered opinions of people with legitimate scientific credentials who have studied the matter in depth changes my emotional reaction. I suspect a portion of this runs along the lines of, “Whew, I don’t have to figure this out all on my own!” I’m only one of many who are grappling with the problem.

Clearly, this was not my friend’s process. A little bit of information (the Permian extinction event plunged her into even greater hopelessness. From this I take away something so simple, its profound truth often escapes me: we don’t all cope with stressful news in the same way.

I’ve written about paying attention to what makes me feel calmer or more distraught, and then making mindful choices. Although information is helpful to me, it can also have an addictive quality. We writers joke about doing so much research on a novel project, the book never gets written. Similarly, I can mire myself in one source after another until I go numb. That numb state is a sure sign I’ve either made a poor choice or gone too far.

Blogging about my process, however, seems not to have a down side. I suspect this is because such writing puts me in better touch with my feelings and increases my sensitivity to what is good for me and what is harmful. It has the added benefit of being of service to others who are wrestling with the same issues, searching for a way through the morass of upset feelings to a way forward in what the Buddhists call “right action.”

Reaching out to others, offering my help, sharing my experience and insight and listening to their own, all these things lift me from despair.

What things help you?

In Anxious Times: Holding on to the Hope We Create

In 2016 and after, I wrote a series of posts called, "In Troubled Times," about despair, anger, determination, hope, and all the myriad emotions that followed the 2016 election. 

Now, as we await the results of 2020, I have a few thoughts to share. If the muses are with me, I'll be posting more. No matter what the results, we are in for a tough, divisive time. But we're in it together, and together we shall prevail.

First and foremost -- As I took my evening shower on Election Day, I was struck by a moment of light. No matter what happens, we always have within us the power to be beacons of hope for one another. We are not alone. We can lift each other up when despair overcomes us. I keep remembering my father's steadfast hope -- and he lived through a revolution, pogrom, starvation, the Depression, McCarthyism, and more. He never gave up working for a better world -- and neither will we.

Then I read these words from Robert Hubble: 

We must be patient. Biden has a path to victory that does not depend on Pennsylvania with its contested mail ballots. Biden gave a hopeful speech on Tuesday evening and urged us to wait until all votes are counted. Trump, on the other hand, declared victory in the early hours of Wednesday morning but demanded that counting cease. That tells us all we need to know about what the respective campaigns believe about the ultimate result of the election and the will of the American people. Trump is now trying to subvert that will based on a legal theory that says the functioning of the U.S. Constitution should be stopped based on his personal preferences. That's not how the Constitution works, and Trump's claim is ludicrous and meritless.

December Reflections

"Don't think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter.

It's quiet, but the roots are down there riotous..."

--Rumi

As the year draws to a close, I reflect that it's been, as Mark Twain put it, "One damned thing after another." Some good, some not-so-good, some most excellent, some terror-inducing. Whatever is happening, however, I remember the mantra, “This too shall pass!”

Life sometimes sideswipes us with occasions for rejoicing or unspeakable tragedy, but hard times run in cycles. It’s important to find ways of reminding ourselves of this rhythmic nature. Outward-facing periods of great vigor and challenge are followed by periods of apparent stagnation. These fallow times can feel like the pits of despair when nothing seems to be changing (except for the worse) and no matter how hard we engage with the problems in our lives, we seem to make no discernible progress. Winter is never going to end; all our senses convince us of it. We are never going to find “the one,” or sell that first story. And we’ve heard enough tales of folks who actually never do find a partner or make a sale that we are sure we belong in that group. As the days shorten and snow or rain turns into mud, we become even more certain the sun will never return.

That’s when I need black belt survival tools. My mantra (above) is one of them. Here are some others that work for me.

• Every day, I speak with someone who loves me.
• I try to do a daily act of kindness in a way that I will not be found out.
• I try to begin each day with trust and end it with gratitude. These can take whatever form seems good to me on that day.

What helps get you through winter blues?

Painting by David Cox (1783-1859)

In Troubled Times: Surviving Exhaustion

In previous posts in this series, I’ve written about emotional sobriety, feeling overwhelmed, and finding a personal sanctuary. Now I’d like to talk more about the concrete things we can do to keep our emotional and spiritual balance during the difficult, terrifying, and outrage-evoking recent months.

For me the first step is always admitting that what I have been doing isn’t working. I can get absorbed in one dreadful news story after the other, and with each round I lose more perspective and calm. My adrenaline levels get progressively higher. Sometimes – often! – it seems as if nothing else is happening in my life except reacting to yet another threat to the people, organizations, and principle that are important to me. Old wounds re-open; the ghosts of family tragedies (like the pogroms my father survived as a boy) re-awaken. I fear for my Jewish family and my queer daughters and sister and my trans daughter-in-law, for my black, Muslim, and Hispanic friends. I despair for the future of the entire planet. In other words, I need help.

Sometimes all that’s necessary is for me to admit that matters have gotten out of hand. Then I can scale back on my news consumption enough to think clearly what actions I would like to take. And especially what would be enough for the moment so that I can leave the topic and focus on other aspects of my life – my family, my writing, my local community, the beautiful redwood forest that cloaks the hills outside my windows. Playing classical music on my mother’s piano. Knitting hats for charities in poor areas of the country and world. Cuddling with the cats.

Recently I have noticed how those times of relative sanity come to a screeching halt. There are always new reasons – excuse me, Reasons. Like a hurricane or three. I’ve seen references to “outrage fatigue” but I suspect what is happening is outrage overlap. There isn’t sufficient time in between to return to balance and stay there, catching our breath, before something new and dreadful reels us in.

Supporting a New Writer 5: Hope Heals

Barb Caffrey: The main reason I restarted my writing despite a number of life challenges (including

the loss of my husband Michael in 2004) is because I knew I needed to do it. Sometimes, writing can be stress relief; it allows you to step outside of your own head for a while, and do something else other than grieve -- do something else other than concentrate on all the problems you cannot solve.

It allows you to do something positive. Something meaningful. Something that you can point to later, and ask yourself, "I did that?"

Granted, at the time, I didn't realize at all this was why I was trying so hard to write. I looked at it as an expression of creativity (which, of course, it is); I also saw it as my way to strike back against the darkness of entropy, and of course as a way to continue on with what my husband (also a writer) and I had done all our lives.

In short, writing allowed me to feel more like myself, rather than the person I had unwittingly become after my husband died so suddenly. I didn't like feeling like an open wound all the time; I wanted to heal.

Writing helped me heal.

Barb Caffrey has written three novels, An Elfy On The Loose (2014), A Little Elfy in Big Trouble (2015), and Changing Faces (forthcoming), and is the co-writer of the Adventures of Joey Maverick series (with late husband Michael B. Caffrey) Previous stories and poems have appeared in Stars Of Darkover, First Contact Café, How Beer Saved The World, Bearing North, And Bedlam's Edge (with Michael B. Caffrey).

From Wendy, for whom this blog series was created:

Dreams are possible....

Hope lives....

If you take action....

If you reach out with an earnest, heartfelt plea....

Good people will respond.

I do not take this creative journey alone. What a comfort this realization has been to me.  I am encouraged and deeply grateful for the wonderful words of wisdom you have all shared with me.

I am writing again. Perhaps in fits and starts, but still putting words to electronic paper on a daily basis. 

I am starting to believe in myself again, to see myself as a creative spirit with something to say.

My words matter. My words can entertain and enlighten. I have a voice. All of you have helped me find that voice again.

Thank you!

Monday Wisdom From Harriet Beecher Stowe

When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you...never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

Wishing you fortitude for whatever you are struggling with this week.

Monday Wisdom From Martha Washington

The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not our circumstances.

Monday Wisdom From Louisa May Alcott

I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Seek resilience and resourcefulness, not insulation.

Cancer Sucks, Thoughts From My Friend Connie

I've written before about my friend Constance Emerson Crooker's memoir, Melanoma Mama: On Life, Death, and Tent Camping, the "death" part being her ongoing tussles with Stage 4 melanoma. Stage 4 any-kind-of-cancer is majorly bad news, but melanoma is particularly nasty. Connie has, in her own words, won the lottery when it comes to treatments, but her future hasn't always been rosy and for all I know, is not now and never will be. During a nasty reversal, she wrote words that amaze me with their honesty:

When I imply my days might be numbered, people sometimes say, "None of us know how long we'll live." As if we're all in the same boat. As if I'm supposed to agree that it doesn't matter to me that I've been diagnosed with an incurable, life-threatening disease, because, after all, life is sure to end for all of us. Sorry, but I can't be so sanguine about it. I'm not saying this to garner the sympathy vote, but having Stave IV melanoma is not the same as knowing, generally, that all living things must die. It just isn't. Knowing that I can theoretically get crunched by a speeding train or knocked on the bean by a meteorite is not the same as the day-to-day realization that there's an enemy lurking in me that loves to suck my blood and grow out of control in all kinds of inconvenient places. I don't like it. I hate it.

It's not about not having lived yet. If there's some pleasure, licit or illicit that I've missed out on in life, I honestly can't think of it. I'm a fiend for sucking up life, rare and juicy.

It's not about not having contributed enough good yet. Of course I could do more, but I'm proud of my accomplishments.

Here's what it's about. Being sick just plain sucks. It's like being trapped on a nausea-producing carnival ride that won't stop to let you off. It's about feeling helpless in a cruel, cold universe that wantonly wipes out whole species, and doesn't give a flying fuck about one struggling human.

I'm reminded that the most loving and most powerful thing we can do for someone we care about who is living with cancer is not to cheer them up. It's to listen.


I highly recommend Connie's book, especially if someone you love has a serious disease like cancer. I wouldn't go so far as to give copies to everysingle friend and family member I know, but if her words have spoken to you, do check it out.

GUEST BLOG: Janet Freeman on Gratitude and Stewardship

I was awed and inspired by how fully my friend lived the almost-five years between her diagnosis with Stage 4 ovarian cancer and her death last week. I am reminded that a terminal diagnosis does not mean we stop living -- it is an invitation to make every moment count, and thereby enrich not only the life of the patient but those around her. Here is author and lung cancer patient Janet Freeman-Daily on her own experience of hope, illness, and the zest of being alive.

I’m grateful to be here.  Actually, I’m grateful to be anywhere.  I’m grateful to be alive.  The fact that I’m alive is a modern-day medical miracle.

In May of 2011, after a few months of a persistent cough, I was diagnosed with pneumonia caused by advanced lung cancer.  No, I never smoked anything except a salmon.  Five months after diagnosis, despite chemo and radiation, the cancer spread outside my chest and I was given at most two years to live.  A year later, after more treatment and another recurrence, I learned my cancer had a rare mutation.  Last October, I found a clinical trial that could treat that mutation with an experimental pill, and I flew to Denver to get it.  In January, I achieved the dream of all metastatic cancer patients: No Evidence of Disease.  My cancer is no longer detectable.

I am overwhelmingly grateful for everything and everyone that has brought me to this state of grace: medical science that discovered new ways to treat my condition, insurance that paid for most of my care, family and friends who supported me, a knowledgeable online lung cancer community, and all the prayers and good wishes lifting me up throughout my cancer journey.  Thank you.  I am truly blessed.

I am not cured.

Living Now With Cancer

From my dear friend, Bonnie Stockman, as she faces her third recurrence of ovarian cancer, posted with her permission:

I'm going into my third lap.  One is such, ah, a virgin the first time.  So hopeful and optimistic for a cure even with less than charming odds.  The second time is a denouement of sorts, but a thin thread of hope hangs in there - I've talked to a couple of people that had a recurrence many years ago and are here to tell about it.  The third time... haven't run into anyone that's a long term survivor after the third time.  The stats for treatment effectiveness are similarly less than cheerful.  At this point, one term I saw used was "salvage chemo".   Buys one time - and hopefully salvages some decent quality of life.

I will miss hearing what happens in all the stories, but I am reminded that the stories are endless and the beginnings before my time.  I wonder about both ends of them, but all I have is my part right here in the middle of beginning and ending.  It was for others to know the beginnings and it is for others to know the endings, if indeed there ever are any endings.  Like the saying on the hippie school bus:  "Now is all we have".  

Indeed, we have now. And if we have been generous with our hearts, we have each other. Sometimes, we have each other even if we haven't, because life itself is full of gifts. Every day.

Open your eyes. Tell someone you love them. Listen when they love you back.