Practicing with Pickles

 I didn't start telling my story until the #metoo movement started.

One Thursday in 2016, I created a fake twitter profile so I could say what happened in 140 characters or less. I then proceeded to have a day long panic attack, told one friend virtually, another in person, and most importantly, admitted the details to my husband at long last.

Even then I couldn't say the name.

Trump and his years in office were rough. After my mom died and I realized I needed to realign the solar system I was in to center myself and my own family, I found myself needing therapy, so I went. The work started when I started talking to my therapist about my tendency to get into "pickles" as a teenager.

A pickle is when you send your friends home with your truck and stay at a guy's brother's house with him, then have to figure out how to get home from the next town over on a Sunday morning without your parents figuring it out. Said guy has no responsibility to help you, but your friends answer the phone in the morning and come get you.

A pickle is when you figure out you have a UTI and need to go to the doctor, but also can't admit you are sexually active to your mother, so you go to the doctor and try to take care of it without insurance and prying parental eyes. It fails, and they won't see you, but luckily that time, your mother didn't ask too many questions, or the most accurate one. Your are both relieved and a bit sad, but you are ready with a lie, just in case. 

Or the pickle that comes when you "confess" and "repent" of what happened that led to the UTI. Because you can't decide if one led to the other, and the Lagoon guy who was involved blurred all the lines.

A pickle is when you have yeast infections your junior year of high but you can't tell anyone anything about your body so you just steal whatever you can find from the bathroom cabinet and suffer in silence, unable to talk to anyone who might tell you that it's the acne medication that you take regularly that's doing it.

A pickle is when you rush home in the morning from your almost-husband's place so that when your mom calls in the reasonable hours of 8:30-11am,  you are right where you should be, or at least it looks that way.

And the biggest pickle. Which wasn't really a pickle, but became one because I couldn't deal with it and I didn't think I needed help with it. So I managed the pickle by controlling specific situations without analysis or consideration of their fucked-upedness then left in the dark immediately. It's not something I will spell out. Because even though it's my story, I still feel unqualified to tell it here or anywhere for anyone to see. If you know this pickle, it's because I've told you. And if you know and I or certain other sources haven't told you, that's not on me, and I cannot vouch for what you think it was.

In summary: pickles are the positions you (I!) get yourself into over and over that are normal, age-appropriate behaviors. Since you were conditioned that anything other than Staying Out of Any and All Trouble TM as well as Dating the Perfect Guy TM (who you can never ever meet, because you are you) is necessary for your survival and continued membership in your family, you encounter pickles regularly that you have to get yourself out of, all without revealing too much, admitting that you need help, or letting anyone in your family know.

In November 2020, I said the name. And it really did result in all I had long feared. Kind of. But I realized that the loss I had thought it would be was inaccurate, and that I could handle those consequences, however painful and long term. My solar system was finally correctly aligned, and those who I orbit with already knew or believed me without question.

Nothing happens in a vacuum. It took me almost 30 years to start this path. I thought I could keep it in, and believe me, I tried. Shoving it down in my late 30s. I still remember the day it almost came out; the sun blazing through my kitchen windows, my throwing the words over my shoulder without making eye contact that "stuff happened to me." Thinking to myself on my run later that nigh about how close it came to coming out and thinking I could keep it down in the depths forever.

I equally believed last summer I could work on not telling. What I didn't realize is that all that truth telling in therapy, all that hard work to try to accept my own reality and not downplay it would result in the inability to not say "yes" if the name was said. When your defenses are gone and you finally give a shit about yourself, you don't save someone else. You save yourself.

So now I practice when I think I'm called to tell. And with each telling to a trusted person who can hold space for me, it gets easier. And for each telling for those who can't hold space, and will excuse other's behavior or just not understand, I encounter the reality that not everyone will understand, and I try to have compassion. 

Tell your story. If you don't think you can, find a way. 

Re-entry: What I bring verses what I take away

“Hello! Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me…is there anyone at home?” Pink Floyd – Comfortably Numb

It’s been a very long time since I’ve blogged. I don’t feel bad about that, other than I wish I’d been able to document the past year better. Although I write a little every day on a calendar journal I have, I don’t always capture the whole picture, be it little things that are too many words to write longhand, or the normal things (for right now) that I think will always be the same so why mention, or big things that just are too much to capture at night when I’m tired and I just want a few minutes more to spend in a book.

In July, we went to Hawaii. I’ve been wanting to do a big trip this summer to commemorate our family before it “changes” and we landed there. I don’t know what else to say about that, other than it was wonderful, horrible, frustrating, gorgeous, memorable, busy, heartbreaking, and spiritual all at once.

I had thought we would go to Europe this summer. All I wanted last year was to take my family to London. I was pissed I couldn’t do that, not actively angry, but just mad at life that it wasn’t possible. Then late in June a friend from elementary school shared pics from her Hawaiian vacation and I knew I needed to go there. Her photo shoot of her family on the beach, of zip lining on the north shore, of ringing a bell at a Buddhist temple called to me so strongly. So I brazenly copied her and yet had my very own Hawaiian vacation.

What drew me most was a place called Byodo-In Temple. It’s a replica of a 900 year Buddhist temple in Kyoto, Japan. It’s also a place that many Buddhists have chosen for their cremains. When were there, my family got to enter the space where the cremains are held and it was one of the most impactful events I’ve ever had. It was powerful there. It was spiritual in a way I don’t want to define with words. I felt the peace there and I realized how in trying to find balance, I’m actually experiencing unbalance.

After we walked through the sanctuary, we wandered the grounds and I kept thinking the same thing – My Qi is off. I don’t even know really what Qi is, I just knew that in stopping attendance to the Mormon church over the past 10 months, I’ve lost my spiritual practice. While I have every intention of meditating (my current connection to quiet and spirit) I rarely meditate. I think – I should do that. But I also say that about reading more, sewing, making dinner every night, reaching out to family, doing yoga. You name it, I’m actively saying I should do it and then staying busy so I don’t have to.

The death of my mom hit me upside the head in a way I didn’t ever know it would. It’s not about the realities of grief but more about the absolute feeling of aloneness, of orphanness. I know I’m not alone – but the loss of both parents untethers you from more things than your childhood home and whose in-laws you eat Thanksgiving with. There’s no longer a singular person – or pair of persons – who have to love you. There are only so many mementos you can stuff your house with, only so many rings you can wear on your fingers, blankets to drape over couches and rocking chairs, Barbie dolls to stuff in bins for future grandchildren hands to play with until you realize:

Nothing has value. Except relationships.

At first I wanted all the things. I brought them home and put them in places, some temporary, some permanent. I sobbed the day I brought home my grandma’s end table and lamps. Sobbed hard in my closet on a freshly washed afagan my mom had made. Because the only damn reason that table and those lamps would be in my house is if my mom was dead, and my dad was dead, which means my grandma and grandpa are dead too. Their deadness however long doesn’t matter because the lamps are in my damn house now. They are all gone and one day someone else will get them and I’ll be dead too.

See, nothing has value. It stays, and the owner goes. My relationship to those lamps – and their owners – means more than the lamps. And that doesn’t translate, no matter how long they are in my house, no matter who gets them after me.

As I walked in the sanctuary at Byodo-In, all I could think about was managing the barrage of spiritual feelings coming at me. My family could listen intently to the docent and notice the mementos behind the glass next to the cremains. Shane and the boys saw the Bud Light can behind the glass, I only tell the story of it being there and imagine it. But what I experienced was the potently charged air, the crowdedness of the empty hall and sanctuary, the close feeling. It didn’t scare me, it brought out feeling in a rush of tears. I remember the smell of the incense and the ringing of the singing bowl, my family all being there barefoot and sweaty in front of an altar.

When my mom died, I talked at her funeral about what we bring. “How do we show up in our lives, and our loved ones lives.” I followed that feeling throughout the clearing, cleaning, and selling of my mom’s house. I went to Hawaii to connect with her in a way I didn’t know I needed to. There was something left of her visit there from 1985 that still was there for me to pick up in 2019. Maybe it was in the sand at Waimea Beach. Maybe she’d left it somewhere on Kam Highway going to the North Shore. Maybe I didn’t find it at all, but drove past it and just smelled it on the wind. Suellen Was Here.

Now post-Hawaii, my talk has changed to “What do I take away?” Do I keep being hard on myself? Do I just keep doing what I’ve always done? Hiding my feelings. Pretending things don’t hurt. Waiting for the permission to live the life I want to live. What do I take away from knowing my qi is off? Do I blame my weight gain on it and eat some more potato chips? Yes, I do, some days. Others I really do meditate and then I feel like I have a gold star for effort and I’m “back on track.” I’m in a hurry to get *there* where I’ve learned all the things and am better for it, instead of patiently (and impatiently) making stabs at it, trying to figure out what works.

Summer 2014 Images

On Friday, Amy posted this about End of Summer images. I wanted to comment and tell her how much I loved her images, and share some moments of my own. But then I realized had an entire post of moments that I don't want to forget from Summer 2014.

Dinner with Shane. One night, the kids wanted to stay in with takeout from Five Guys, while Shane and I were more interested in our favorite Mexican restaurant. So we went on a date, just the two of us. It was a simple enough moment: sitting on the bench outside the restaurant, chatting and holding hands. Watching a group of girls who were all wearing their purple softball team uniforms talking and laughing and team-ing together. The view of the mountains, which were that shade of summer green that happens just before they start to turn. Later, the taste of a giant cold Coke and warmed refried beans with chips and salsa (the delicious detail that sets this restaurant apart from others.)

Walking with Ben. Thomas and Shane were running a four-mile training run for Thomas's black-belt physical test. Ben walked with me. The kid talked the whole time: wondering if the rock next to the trail was a meteor; why the sky was darker blue above us and lighter blue lower on the horizon; trying to find a rock of just the perfect size next to the trail that could be a meteor that wouldn't cause a giant crater, but would still put a dent in the trail. I loved his ceaseless chatter, the browning grasses next to the trail, the reddening trees on the mountains to the west, as he rode his scooter along the trail "that was only for walking, not for cartwheeling" he had earlier declared after I demonstrated a cartwheel.

Eating with Thomas. One evening, it ended up that it was only me and Thomas home for dinner, a very, very rare occurrence in our house. Shane was at a late meeting at work, and Ben had gone to the trampoline park with the neighbor kid's family. Not wanting to make dinner, I picked up Thomas from karate and declared it was date night. We went to Carl's Junior together (I'm a sucker for CJ!). We got burgers and fries and cokes and laughed through dinner. He's grown up so much this summer; he's now within an inch of my height, has bigger hands, and bigger feet than me. He's also matured so much, thanks to working at the library for volunteer hours, mowing lawns for his grandma and neighbors, and running with his dad. It was a great summer of growth for him.

Running in San Diego with my foursome. This is a family snapshot: Shane and Thomas ahead of me. We are in the cross walk at the intersection of Mission Bay Boulevard and San Rafael street, between the two bodies of water: the Pacific beach and Mission Bay, just down from our favorite San Diego hotel. Ben is riding his scooter next to me, and I am running. Usually runs in San Diego are solitary, but Thomas had a goal of running 4 miles without stopping before he started school, and so we did it all together on vacation.

Sitting in my sister's pool. For my mom's birthday, we had a family party at my sister's pool. I rarely swim, but on that day, I put on my suit and sat on the steps of the pool with my mom, sister Suzette, and great-niece Josie while she learned to not be afraid of the water. At some point, I ended up stealing my mom's straw hat right off of her head, which I wore for the rest of the party. Later, Amy and my niece Lyndsay came and sat with me. Visiting and watching the kids scream and play and swim while we visited made me happy.

Waiting for Wicked with Sisters Squared. The people on our Italy trip took to taking me and my mom and sisters Sisters Squared. It sort of stuck. In August, we got tickets to Wicked together. Looking down at the curtain at Capital Theater as we took selfies, talked about books we were reading, planned where we would eat dinner later (Desert Edge), and shared in the excitement of being together again as Sisters Squared is an image I don't want to forget.

Swearing with Amy. The end of Ragnar was a disaster. Amy and I sort of hobbled across the finish line, both of us near tears, swearing like sailors as the rest of our team ran ahead. I loved that I could tell my sister in just a few words what I was feeling, and that I didn't have to censor myself, but she would understand and swear along with me while declaring her own frustrations.

Talking Mom about laundry. A few weeks ago I had a little conversation on the phone with my mom that turned somehow to laundry. She told me a little story about folding laudry with my grandma when my two older sisters were tiny. My mom doesn't tell stories about that time very often, and I loved that it just came up so naturally.

Standing on the Pier at Pacific Ocean. I did get to go on one solo run during our time in San Diego. We stayed at a different hotel than we usually do; we were just down the beach a few miles, but it felt so different. I ended up on the sand, instead of the boardwalk where I normally run. I ran all the way to the end of Crystal Pier, where I stopped running, turned on I Wanna Get Better  by Bleachers (I didn't know I was lonely til I saw your face...) and looked out at the ocean. I love the way running on the beach smells. It's fishy and salty and sweaty, and it clears out my soul in a way that no other running anywhere can.

Thanks, Amy for your beautiful and inspiring post.(I enjoyed that moment at Ragnar, too. I always love driving out of Kamas on Saturday morning. It's one of my favorite parts of Ragnar.)

What are your summer images?

Florence

 During our travels in Tuscany, a certain sign kept popping up - Firenze. I kept thinking of the centaur teacher from Harry Potter, but it turns out, the Italian word for the city of Florence is Firenze. It made me think: how many other places do I think have one name, but are really called another?

Anyhow, my worldly ignorance aside, the day we spent in Florence was...interesting. I confess: Florence wasn't my favorite place. I have a fondness now for it in retrospect, but the time that we had there was super rushed, from the moment we got there until we left 5 or 6 hours later.

One distinct memory was a conversation that was had with some of our fellow travelers. One of us had mentioned that in her 20's and 30's, our mom sported a giant blond beehive hairdo. My older sisters claimed it was what allowed them to find her in the store; just look for the big white hair. On of the members of our group, Ed, immediately started calling her Grandma Beehive. He wanted to try and recreate the hairdo, which my mom laughed at but did not indulge. Ed had an easy personality; he was eager to tease my mom, something that was fun to watch. It made me wonder what a brother would have felt like, and how a boy added to our girl family would have changed the dynamic and my mom. Interesting thought. This conversation happened as we walked through the Florence train station, and the mall-like shopping center attached to it.

Santa Maria Novella

One of our first stops was a chapel. It was called Santa Maria Novella. From there, we walked into the center of Florence. There we stopped in front of a palace called the Borgo degli Albizzi - it was a "small apartment" built by the Medici family for the rival Albizzi family that they had earlier exiled. It was a beautiful building. From there, we walked to the Florence Duomo - one of the most beautiful cathedral complexes in the world. It was Sunday, which was not in our favor, because this meant we couldn't tour the church. (It was hugely disappointing to not be able to see Brunelleschi's Dome. An article about the Dome in the National Geographic last month made me want to sob. I was right there, in front of the church that housed this wondrous architectural feat, and I couldnt' see it. Or climb it. Or stare in awe up at it. I can't think too much about it or I get a little sick.) Amy and I would return during our free time to climb the 400 stairs of the bell tower (more on this later) but missing seeing the insides of the Orvieto, Siena, and Florence Duomos is one of my deepest regrets from the trip.

We walked around the complex, then hurried over to the Academia. Our time here was too short - we were able to see the David which was an experience I will never forget. Prior to going to the Academia, I knew very little of what I would be seeing. Almost more moving than the David (which is saying quite a lot) are the 4 statues by Michelangelo called The Prisoners. They are four magnificent sculptures emerging from marble; they look unfinished, until you look at them, and realize they are perfect just as they are. My favorite were the Slave and Atlas. I shed a few tears standing in front of them; it would be hard not to. And of course, the David is perfection; from every angle, he is alive and real. I was most moved by the veins you can see running down his arms; how does one sculpt veins from marble?  I remember spending a lot of time looking at his feet; his second toe is longer than his big toe. I so wish we could have toured the rest of the Academia.

We walked back to the place we would meet after our free time (a church called San Lorenzo - again, didn't go inside, sigh.) From here, everyone scattered. Most of the group was headed to a leather market a few blocks up from the Arno river.

Amy and I had other plans. After consuming a  delicious cheese and tomato pizza from a market near San Lorenzo, we headed to Giotto's Campanile, a free-standing bell tower next to the Duomo. We climbed all the way to the top to get the best view of Florence. The stairs are very steep and narrow; we were often stepping around other people to attain the top of another set of stairs so that they could go down the other way. It was a relief each time we reached a new level. Each time we were a little higher, and a little more out of breath.

The rooftop terrace was one of my favorite. The river was in the distance, and Santa Croce, and even the Uffizi Gallery (within a few hours we would walk PAST the Uffizi; it was painful to be so close to it and have no time to tour it. One more reason that I have to get back to Italy in the future.) From our privileged viewepoint, we watched a church procession coming down one of the tiny side streets towards the cathedral. It had multiple priests and nuns and incense. I wonder if they were carrying a coffin, but I can't prove it. It was fascinating to watch it work its way slowly down the streets. Amy and I enjoyed the top for about 15 minutes, taking pictures and selfies and videos and then made the long trek down.

I loved this little gargoyle

It's amazing how fast two hours can pass. After the bell tower, we had just enough time to walk down to the river, cross the bridge of Ponte Santa Trinita (and photograph all four of the seasons statues). We rushed to cross Ponte Vecchio, walking down the tiny side streets that parallel the river; they were crowded with people and delivery trucks and merchants. I took a few pictures on the bridge, but we were terribly rushed and needed every moment to rush back to San Lorenzo for our meeting place. I had a strange encounter with a street vendor while hurrying; those Italians are smooth talkers -  he told me I had dropped something and pointed to where I had just been. I inspected the pavement only to have him tell me "You dropped my heart," or some similar type of pick up line. I told him I didn't have the time for him and hurried on.

Santa Trinita from Ponte Vecchio

Ponte Vecchio from Santa Trinita

Amy on the side streets near Ponte Vecchio

On Ponte Vecchio

Amy and I made it to San Lorenzo. A nun walked where we were sitting on the stairs and blessed Amy; it was a hurried, frazzled afternoon and we were feeling the distress from missing so many wonderful places and feeling frustrated. Our group slowly filtered in and we hurried on, back past the duomo complex and through the streets, past Uffizi (sob!) and Santa Croce (which was desinged by a jew; there is a motif at the top of the church that could arguably be called a jewish star if you sat down to think about it.) After a jaunt next to the Arno, we met up with our bus and hurried out of the city.

Rape of the Sabines statue. So beautiful!

Perseus holding the head of Medusa

Santa Croce. Can you see the Star of David?

I couldn't say why I didn't love Florence. I feel like I need to justify it somehow - but I don't have the words. It just felt....over the top. For centuries, each of the cities in the Tuscan region were vying for political power. This power was (and is) evinced by the buildings they constructed to show their might. Florence (with their Medici financial backers) pulled out all the stops in their quest to dominate. I appreciate and long to one day visit those places again, and savor them.

The rest of our day was spent at a private winery and olive orchard owned by the Corsini family. We had a tour of the olive and grape orchards (which were stunning) and then an inside tour of where they make their wine and olive oils. It was a beautiful place. That night we ate dinner in their dining room inside the winery; it was served to us by some of the Corsini family, of whom the father is considered a prince. Fancy, fancy. The others on our tour group loved us, since they got to drink the wine samples that were at each of our places. I smelled the different wines - I'm sure they tasted wonderful.

The group. Photo courtesy of Bryan Wooley.

The gardens inside the winery complex.

Dinner. Photo courtesy of Bryan Wooley.

That night was our last in our little town of Montecatini. Since Amy and I could never go to bed on time, we sat on the floor next to our bathroom (the only spot in the room where the wifi worked - and we texted with our family and friends. We stayed up late into the night, listening to the storm outside and talking.

Siena

If I were to ever pick up my family and move to an Italian city, I would live in Siena. I loved everything about Siena. There is a tradition that says that Romeo and Juliet's fateful story was based on a tale that was originally situated in Siena.

What I liked most about Siena is the history, and the big/small feeling of it. It was big enough to feel like a city, but small enough to feel like a place you could call home. Historically, Siena was divided into 17 different wards or contrade which vied for importance and power. When a person was born into their contrade, they were a member of it for life. One didn't leave their contrade for anything; people who did were considered traitors. I liked the idea of a group of people all watching over you from birth to baptism to marriage to death. I can compare it to wards in the LDS church, who have a similar function - being geographic in nature, but also providing social structure and support.

City on a Hill - Siena

Our tour of Siena started near a cathedral that was built for the poor people (the tour guide actually told us this!) The Basilica of San Domenico itself was awesome. While not much to look at from the outside, the inside was filled with light. It also has the distinction of housing the head of St. Catherine of Siena. Her actual head is in a chapel that bears her name. Luckily the head is covered in wax so it doesn't look too gruesome, although I could see her teeth clearly, which were her real teeth, so a bit creepy. But this was a beautiful church. No photos were allowed though;
but here is a picture the chapel, and a link with a picture of Catherine (at the very bottom of the page.)

Basilica of San Domenico

Another view of San Domenico

Next we walked through the streets of the old part of Siena. They are windy, just like all Italian towns. 

It started to be a familiar thing to see a gorgeously gray and white striped Duomo. I liked the baptistry more than the Duomo - its entrance is built into the side of the hill that the Duomo sits on top of. Seriously, it gets exhausting after a while to keep turning corners and seeing such beauty coming at your from everywhere. Italy is ridiculously beautiful.

This staircase was one of my favorite details.

I tried over and over to get a good selfie. There were some locals watching me take these who seemed quite amused.

A few more twisty streets and you are at the Duomo.

So, part of the history of Siena is about the twins Romulus and Remus, who were raised by a wolf.  Romulus went on to found Rome, and Remus founded Siena. A beautiful fountain with friezes of the twin's story was in the Piazza del Campo (the main piazza for Siena). Amy and I found some gelato and checked out the fountain. Oh and I took some selfies of my feet (feet selfies? felsies? Not sure of the correct terminology on this one.)

I love the little details in the buildings of places we visited.

Later, we walked back to the bus. We got back to our hotel in Montecatini and ate dinner with Mom and Suzette and heard about their day. Our hotel was beautiful. Our room looked out onto a courtyard above the pool. We had a beautiful window in the bathroom and a giant jetted tub. And each of the three nights we spent here, we would open the window. The second night there was an amazing thunder storm. I've never heard thunder that loud before!

I like this mirror selfie of mom, Amy and me.

The dining room was super formal. Every night there was a 4 course dinner. The salad course was a buffet - there were such yummy salads! Then we had our pasta course - it was always yummy, although we did have a yummy lentil soup on of the nights. For the main courses we had thin slices of veal, and the next night was fish with delicious chick peas cooked in olive oil. And the deserts were delicious - the best tirimisu that I'll ever eat.

Breakfast was always lovely as well. Every morning I had a pastry, brioche, some sort of cold thinly sliced ham, yummy cheeses, hard boiled eggs. And blood-red orange juice. Delicious!