I’m sipping my coffee and thinking about words this morning. My coffee is seriously pretty damned dreadful, and the words I’m thinking over can be vexingly easy to misuse.
People are pecular, and inclined to misattribute what is going on within themselves (or externally) to some cause or another without even a casual fact-check. Humans being human; we are prone to assign “blame”. We think we know the how or why of a circumstance and we decide who or what is at fault based on our “knowledge”. Sometimes we think the fault is our own, and possibly accept responsibility for some event or circumstance, maybe even seeking to make amends for some thing we think we’ve done. Other times, it’s someone else deciding who or what they think is at fault for some situation or event, and they put the responsibility with that individual or group or entity, assign blame, perhaps demand accountability or redress of perceived wrongs. It’s strange stuff, most particularly because it’s often quite subjective, not well-researched, even thoroughly fallacious (or just fucking wrong). We human beings make a rather ridiculous number of assumptions, are exceedingly “gifted” at flawed reasoning, and confirmation bias, as well as offensively fond of maintaining a self-righteous grip on some dumbass notion without regard to any sort of fact-checking. We like being “right”, and we’re often willing to believe we are in spite of mountains of readily available evidence to the contrary. Fucking dumb. Humans being human.
I keep sipping my dreadful coffee. “Why do I do this to myself?”, I wonder, vaguely amused. I could totally go back to the break area and make a better cup of coffee. Instead I continute to sit with my coffee and my thoughts.
When I was much younger, I was often willing to expend a lot of energy arguing against stupidity (or lies). I rarely do now. It’s not that I’m not amused/offended/discouraged by apparent idiocy – totally am – I just… don’t feel I have the time to waste on that, these days. I have a life to live, and it is finite and mortal. I’d rather let wrong-headed bullshit go, and just move on (and potentially simply reduce contact with people perpetually inclined toward lies, stupidity, or negativity). I’d rather just not hang out with someone who is fond of conspiratorial bullshit than argue the point. I’d rather just smile and maintain a comfortable distance or an agreeable presence in the face of someone insisting on being wrong about something for which there is definitely evidence for a different opinion, than fuss over minutiae that may not truly matter for enjoying a moment together as people. It’s not that I don’t enjoy “being right” as much as the next person… I don’t enjoy expending energy fighting for it. If you think differently than I do, but don’t violate my personhood along the way (or anyone else’s), why do I care? You’re free to be wrong. Generally speaking, this seems a win, to me – being accepting, being tolerant, being okay with uncertainty or even being wrong. Only…
…I’m reading “On Tyranny“, and the author makes several very solid cases for specific circumstances in which being accepting or “agreeable” is not a good thing. Something to think about, and I sit with my coffee this morning thinking about words, thinking about ethics, and thinking about the potential risk in being too accepting or too tolerant, under a variety of circumstances. Definitely worth thinking about.
…Although, keeping it real? This doesn’t feel like a world where we’re all at tremendous risk from being “too tolerant” most of the time…
Sometimes there’s real personal risk involved in tolerantily accepting blame (or inaccuracy, errors, or lies) rather than arguing a point. Tolerance is virtuous – unless it is tolerance of actual evil. Real damage can be done. Words have meaning, how we use them matters. The world is complicated, and there’s surely room for many thinkers and many opinions, but there is only one actual reality, one world we all live in, one set of provable, demonstrable, documentable, actual facts – and a lot of people willing to undermine that reality to bolster a narrative that they prefer (whether for power or for profit). Real people can really get hurt. I could become one of those. So could you.
I sip my coffee grateful for this quiet moment of solitude. Right here, right now, there’s just me, this moment, and this dreadful cup of coffee. It’s on okay moment. I’m okay with the bad coffee; it’s real. It’s authentically crappy, and it is what it is. There’s nothing to argue about, and nothing to fear in being honest about it. No particular harm in it. Nothing controversial about a bad cup of coffee – unless perhaps I’m ready to go down the ethical rabbit hole of “should we be drinking coffee at all, considering the terrible exploitation of coffee growers?”. I sigh quietly. Shit is complicated when we “zoom out” and take in a bigger picture.
Reality is what it is. Reality doesn’t care what I believe (or what you believe), or whatever bullshit notions I may be inclined to cling to. Facts don’t lie – but it’s damnably easy to be wrong about whatever conclusions are drawn from them. Another sigh. Another sip of dreadful coffee. My thoughts don’t change anything this morning, and it’s time to begin again.
I’m not even joking, this morning. Have you seen the news? A man in New Orleans drives a truck through a crowd, killing and wounding many…a man in Virginia with a “no lives matter” patch and a stockpile of more than 150 homemade improvised explosive devises at the time of his arrest…a man in Montenegro fatally shoots 12 people… It’s pretty horrible the quantity of killing going on. Let’s not even get started on the multiple genocides being committed around the world. It’s bad. Horrifying. Contributing to the horror is that it also amounts to an enormous distraction from other pretty terrible things going on in the world around us, that slowly degrade global quality of life (at a time when we have so much technology and resources available that we should be easily able to end disease and poverty, entirely).
…Humanity needs a “software update” to our operating systems…
While I intend that metaphorically, I am totally serious about it. It’s hard to “do your best” in the world, if you’re inclined to think that “your best” includes mass murder, fraud, dehumanizing cruelty, and petty bullshit justified by how right you think you are. I sip my coffee thinking about that. How to do better, I mean. I’ve been to war. I’ve seen combat. I’ve seen killing “up close”. I’ve seen violence and rage. I’ve seen the damage done by “othering” groups on the basis of some bullshit criteria. I’ve seen pain and fear and hopelessness – and the behavior it can produce. We can do better. Doing better unavoidably begins with each of us, individually, doing better ourselves – and then setting clear expectations with each other, and holding ourselves and our societies accountable to an ethical standard. I’m not saying it’s easy – I’m saying it probably begins with a change in thinking (and choices). I’m saying starting with a “software upgrade” could be helpful.
…When was the last time you read a book, an actual bound book that you held in your hands?
Consuming media through the internet doesn’t reach us the same way reading books does. There’s science on that. (I recognize the conflict in provide a link to an online source. It’s difficult to link directly to the printed word.) You could “do the thing“, of course, and read about reading (how delicously meta). I’m just pointing out that reading and doing are the two most direct means by which we human primates “upgrade our software”. We become what we practice – and it’s helpful to learn what practices we might do well to adopt, rather than wandering about just trying things out and breaking shit or hurting people.
Why am I even on about this? The current political climate, mostly, but also the nasty shit in the news recently. I just don’t get it – it’s the 21st century, how are people still so ignorant that mass killings seem like an effective solution to anything… or that an indvidual even has that right? So… yeah. Here I am. Reading books and doing my best to be a better human being today than I was yesterday – because I have learned more than I knew yesterday. It’s slow going, no doubt, but it’s better than not learning and growing at all, isn’t it? Steps on a path.
So far this year – and possibly over the past decade – the most important book I’ve read is On Tyranny, by Timoth Snyder. No kidding. It’s even pretty small. I don’t ask much of you, but this one is that big a deal; I’m asking that you consider reading it (please), and if not this book, then some other* that may advance your understanding of the world, and the part you play in the society we live in. Surely that matters?
If you knew that reading a book could change the world, wouldn’t you do it? Hell, if you even suspected it might be helpful, wouldn’t you make the attempt? Such a small thing… and another way to begin again. I know, changing the world isn’t easy – there are a lot of verbs involved, and our results vary. It can be discouraging. Still, we become what we practice, and incremental change over time is powerful. We’re all in this together… what are you doing to make the world a better place for all of us to thrive in? Something to think about, and I do. I sit here with my coffee on the first workday of a new year, dismayed by the bad news on display, and grateful to have a chance to begin again. Again.
*Please note; if the books you are reading make you want to kill people, or seem to justify the killing other people are doing, or somehow excuse other vile human behavior, you are likely reading the wrong fucking books. Choose your books with care; you’re putting that shit into your brain.
I have been taking a look back at Giftmas holidays past… Thinking and remembering, and considering the gaps in my recollections, that – in spite of being “gaps” – are part of what makes this holiday so “magical” and wonderful for me.
My childhood memories, though few, are visceral, powerful memories triggered by scents, by colors, by the twinkle of lights in the periphery of my vision on a winter day. They tend to be what continues to provoke me to “chase the dream” and try to hard, year after year, to recapture that magic. (Sometimes this has led me to stray from my path.) I don’t remember early Christmases, aside from a few lingering recollections of a particular gift item – a bicycle with a purple “banana seat”, a Barbie van, a kitchen playset, roller skates… they aren’t attached to years or context, I just remember those things as existing, connected to Christmases past.
The Ghosts of Christmas Magic.
My most intensely magical recollection of Christmas was a particular year… 1972? 1973? The tree stood in a bucket on the front porch, all the way to Christmas Eve. More than once that year my Dad snarled “if you kids don’t behave, there won’t be any Christmas!” Which terrified me to my child-soul. (Was I really that bad?! That Santa wouldn’t come at all…??) I had no understanding of adult hardship, or adult anxiety, or the pressure parents might face to “deliver” on the promise of Christmas to a child.
Two people who understood Christmas magic.
I went to bed that night, the house entirely ordinary in every way, feeling a bit saddened by my apparent naughtiness. I woke later, in the wee hours, to sounds I didn’t understand, and crept down the stairs very quietly – I could see light, around the corner of the landing. I peered down and around, hoping not to be seen, and… the wonder. The pure magic of the tree fully decorated, fully lit, stockings hanging from the mantlepiece. The piled up presents shimmered and sparkled as the tree lights twinkled. Wow! Santa had come!! I ran back up the stairs and crept close to my Dad, sleeping in my parent’s big bed. “Daddy? Daddy!” I wispered, “Santa came! He was here!” My father sleepily replied “You must not have been as naughty as I thought. Go back to sleep for a little while, it’s too early – he’s probably still working on things in the livingroom. If he sees you up, he’ll take it all back.” I raced quietly back to bed, and lay still and awake, listening carefully, for what seemed like hours, until my next youngest sister also woke, and also crept down the stairs, and came hollering back up like a storm “Santa was here! Santa was here!” and waking the household.
The morning became a chaos of wrapping paper shredded then discarded, a fire in the fireplace, and the arrival later of grandparents with more presents, Mom in the kitchen making breakfast, and Daddy making Bloody Mary’s. I only understood later how late into the night they’d been up, sharing the evening over package wrapping and toy assembling and tree decorating, and how little sleep they’d actually gotten that night (because I’d woken up around 5 a.m.) – but the magic lives with me even to this day. Real Christmas magic, created by mortal parents, for the delight of little girls. Beautiful. I don’t remember a single thing I got that Christmas – but I sure remember that Christmas.
Something changed after that Christmas, in a wonderful and unexpected way. The very next Christmas, Santa rather unexpectedly left our stockings at the foot of our beds! I remember waking (again, too early) and seeing/feeling it there… my stocking! Full of… Christmas! I surreptitiously dumped it on my bed, and gently looked through it, certain I shouldn’t be. I crept quietly to my parent’s bedroom, and gently woke my Dad to tell him, “Santa made a mistake and left my stocking on my bed, Daddy!” he opened one eye, reluctantly it seemed, and eyed the clock on his nightstand – 4 a.m. – “Go ahead and open it quietly, Babygirl, it’s okay. You can enjoy anything you find there as long as you’re quiet until at least 7 o’clock. If your sisters wake up, tell them, too, okay? Daddy wants to sleep until 7 o’clock, okay?” “Okay, Daddy,” I wispered, and softly slipped away to my room, closed the door and turned on my light.
Christmas had come! There were chocolates and lollies, and maple sugar candy, and little toys and puzzles, and a necklace of sparkly beads, and a tangerine in the toe of my stocking – I ate it first, feeling very “good” to save the chocolate for later. By 7 a.m., I was waiting impatiently, all sugared up, and so were my sisters. We three went to the door of my parents room promptly at 7 o’clock, “Daddy? Daddy… it’s 7 o’clock. Santa was here. It’s Christmas.” I heard my Mom groan from the other side of the bed. “Ern, couldn’t you have said 9??” (Ever after that Christmas, the stockings were always on the foot of our beds. A tradition I still adore, and what a creative way for exhausted hungover parents to get just a little more sleep. lol)
There were other merry Christmas holidays with family, and I enjoyed them. The holidays with my Granny as a teenager, spent visiting my various aunts and sharing the holiday with younger cousins, were lovely and safe and warm and joyful and full of light and love and tasty homemade cookies. I remember some of those moments, and what I remember I remember quite fondly. They blur together a bit, forming neither recollections of heartache nor recollections of profound joy. That’s okay, too; I know I was loved.
The Ghosts of Christmas Trauma
I’ll tread lightly here, because it’s a bit of a buzz kill; my first marriage was full of violence, terror, and trauma. Peculiarly, it was also were I found my earliest artistic encouragement, and Christmases were strange, sorrowful, scary, beautiful and full of madness. We were both trying to capture magic we remembered, but it all went terribly wrong as often as it ever went right. I developed a real terror around putting lights on the tree, and a profound, lasting, gut-wrenching anxiety that any single light might be placed “incorrectly”, resulting in unspeakable punishment.
The eagerness of Christmas morning was outweighed by the fear that a gift might be the wrong size, or color, or brand, or type of thing. My joy and my terror competed for attention, every year. I have magical memories of the Augsburg Kristkindlesmarket those years that we lived in that beautiful city, but I also remember walking without a coat on a snowy Christmas Day hoping to find any shop open wherein I could buy something special to replace something that wasn’t “good enough”, tears freezing on my face, ankles cold in the snow, shaking as much with fear as with the cold.
The first Yule season holiday after I finally left that nightmare was… strange. My Granny was fearful that I wasn’t ready to be alone, and invited me out to spend Christmas with her. It was lovely and warm and gentle, and I’m so glad I went. It was a time of healing, and I definitely needed that. When I wept over the loss of all my precious ornaments collected over the previous 14 years, she reminded me that I could start over (and she had sent me a box of antique ornaments she knew had been special to me as a child, that I would find waiting for me when I returned home. I still have those). She sent me home with something to think about, too; I could make Christmas over into something that felt right to me. My values. My idea of magical. No fear. The seeds of my own Giftmas traditions were born in that gentle holiday spent with my Granny, in 1995, as we talked about love and marriage and trauma and divorce and the challenges of finding our way through the chaos in life.
Tales of Giftmas Present(s)
Ever since that Christmas back in 1995, I’ve cherished the holiday season from Thanksgiving to New Year’s my own way and shared that love and joy with my partner(s), over various relationships over the years. I have ornaments from so many years – each year I add at least one new one, something special that says something about the year that has passed, and what made it special.
This year’s special ornament, made by my beloved Traveling Partner, favorite “sticker” characters we have swapped back and forth in our DMs all year, Peach and Goma.
I think about my Dear Friend, and Giftmases we shared over the years. So many special ones.
I enjoy really celebrating each year as it draws to a close. I love finding gifts to delight friends, family, loved ones. I love filling stockings each Giftmas Eve. I enjoy the shopping. The wrapping. The presents under the tree. I love the memories – year by year new beautiful memories add to those that have come before, crowding out the memories of terror or of sorrow. I remember the gifts, and the moments, and the love, every year. It’s not about gifts for me (though I definitely do love presents!); it’s about the gratitude, the appreciation, the fondness, and the celebration – and showing that joy through gift-giving as a tradition. The giving (and even the shopping) is a special thing of its own, and it has importance to the celebration, for me. Giftmas is built on these moments of giving and sharing: shared moments of light in a world that sometimes feels filled with darkness, moments to share “enough” and make it feel bountiful, and moments to set aside life’s challenges in favor of shared comfort and joy.
That very first Giftmas I spent with my Traveling Partner is a particularly fond memory filled with adult holiday magic, joy, and love. 2010. We had moved in together, and we didn’t have a lot (we’d both recently been through bad breakups and a lot of upheaval, moving suddenly had been very costly). We didn’t make much money, and rent was a bigger piece of our budget than ideal. It was hard times. We were doing our best, and agreed that maybe this year we’d “just skip Giftmas”. Wasn’t love enough, after all? I didn’t cry over it (at least not where he could see me), because it just made sense. Practical. Real. We were, after all, both adults.
I came home from work feeling a little blue one cold afternoon to a little tree in the corner of the livingroom, decorated for Giftmas, lights ornaments and little presents underneath. I remember the happy tears, and the joy on his face to see me so delighted. I remember his strong arms around me. I remember the love. More Giftmas magic. No fear. No sorrow.
So much love captured in a moment.
One of the most beautiful things my Traveling Partner did for me was buy me my first pre-lit fake tree, so I wouldn’t have to string the lights every year. He had seen (the prior year, before we moved in together) how much it hurt me, and how I struggled happy/sad with it, and he made it right. (I fucking love that guy.) Another beautiful memory of Giftmas magic. The real caring and consideration, the thoughtfulness, and the love; if I hadn’t understood how much these are part of Giftmas before, I surely knew then.
Along the way there have been so many lovely holidays. Beautiful moments. Giftmas magic. Thanksgiving feasts and New Years’ toasts. It’s a beautiful season and I do it my way – I’ve learned. There have been ups and downs and challenges, and years when there just wasn’t any money to be fancy, and years when somehow things were amazing in spite of that. Eventually, I enjoyed some Giftmas holidays “all alone” – and I enjoyed those my way, too. They were beautiful and bright and full of love, and solitude did not diminish that. One of those is among my favorites.
The more recent years are reflected in my writing (and I’ve grown along the way):
I sit for moment, thinking about how fortunate I am, and how far I’ve come. I’m grateful for every sparkle of Giftmas magic, and every year that I’ve enjoyed some little moment that continues to stand out for me now. No doubt there’s more to say, and I thought I had some kind of point… I guess I’m saying “begin again” when things seem to be sliding sideways unexpectedly. Put love first, and take care of yourself. Be kind and be compassionate and thoughtful, and take time to enjoy little moments of joy and delight – and make the holiday magic on your own terms. It’s not a contest, or a race, and there’s no report card at the end. There’s nothing to live up to that you didn’t make up on your own. I smile and sigh to myself, feeling content, feeling merry, feeling grateful and incredibly fortunate – and excited about Giftmas day. It’s only 3 days away!
In spite of it having rained through the night, this picnic table I’m sitting on had a dry spot pretty much just the right size to comfortably sit for a few minutes. I can see the full moon peeking from the clouds as they drift past, under this natural awning of evergreen boughs. Nice spot to sit awhile in the pre-dawn darkness. I turn off my headlamp and enjoy the quiet moment. Somewhere in the distance I hear traffic, and the sound of human endeavors.
“Enjoy it while you can.” I think to myself. The world is messy and complicated and frankly a little scary. Talk of curtailing banking regulations that explicitly protect consumers and the potential withdrawal of approval of the fucking polio vaccine just terrify me. (Why would anyone even want these kinds of terrible changes?!) Not gonna lie – these are trying times, and I feel it. I make a point to take time to sit, to reflect on the things in life that matter and bring me joy, and to feel gratitude for the many advances humanity has made. The risks and problems that plague us all too often get all the attention.
… It’s important to give myself a break from all that…
I grin in the darkness, swinging my feet like an excited child when I think about Giftmas. The holiday is almost here! The shopping is done. Presents are wrapped and waiting under the tree. I’m eager to share that joy with my Traveling Partner. It’s good to see his progress as he continues to recover from his injury and subsequent surgery. I find myself “missing the man that he was” much less often, because I find him standing beside me once again so much more often, now. Feels good. Feels safe and encouraging. I fucking love this man, and he has become part of me. I’ve been tremendously worried for the past year, and it feels good to finally feel some relief from my fear and worry, and to feel truly hopeful again.
The moon appears again, fat and round and luminous, as if to say “I see you”. A spattering of raindrops fall from the branches overhead, shaken loose by the breeze. My heart feels full of goodness and hope and gratitude, and it’s a lovely feeling to start the day with. I glance at the time. It’s a work day. Time to get back on the path and head back to the car. Time to begin again.
G’damn there’s bad news everywhere. Genocide. War. Femicide. Domestic Violence. Actual targeted hitman-style murders out in the open on city streets. Corruption. Fraud. Misinformation. Civil unrest. Cabinet appointees to government posts who appear to be actual fucking fraudsters and even rapists. What the hell is going on with the world we live in? Seriously – the rich and powerful are going about their usual business of making each other richer and more powerful, while the average person wonders how they’ll pay their bills, feed their families, or afford medical care… and the government agencies that should be protecting people from corruption are being attacked by the (very rich, very powerful) very people that are the most corrupt. Scary. It’s all very scary, isn’t it? Where are we safe? What can we hold onto for a feeling of security and comfort? The news doesn’t look good – and since the media definitely does profit from keeping us all watching, there’s definitely a tendency to enhance and emphasize the worst of it, to alarm and outrage us all, and to keep us arguing with each other over all of it. Disturbing.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I take a moment – this moment right here – for me. Self-care gets more important, not less so, when times are tough. I enjoy a few moments of conversation and quiet commiseration with my Traveling Partner, too; these connections we share matter even more in hard times. More, better, clearer communication with less emotional escalation and fewer buzzwords and dog whistles makes a lot of difference in “turning down the heat” when we’re feeling anxious, worried, or insecure about the state of the world.
Make no mistake, things are bad – and worse still in other parts of the world (no bombs dropping in this neighborhood, so from a personal perspective it definitely could be worse)…but… Things are often bad, somewhere, and the rich and powerful have been after an unjustly large piece of the pie since money and power existed at all. Resist. Vote. Speak up – with real people, in actual conversations. Keep your eye on the things that matter most, and try not to be deceived by “the man behind the curtain”. Look out for yourself, your family, your neighbor, your community, people generally – and avoid “othering” people needlessly. Regular folks are not our enemies – they’re doing their best too. Pay attention to where the money is actually going, if you can. Be mindful that there are many corrupt people, fraudsters and scammers out there, and keep your hand on your wallet (metaphorically speaking). Stop arguing about religion and identity. People are people. Be alert for greed or pettiness to rear their heads within your own heart – and stamp them out aggressively. “Enough” is truly enough. I mean, it can be. That’s my opinion – but this path has lead me to this place, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been before, more consistently, as a result.
I sigh quietly to myself and sip my coffee. I hurt too much to go walking in sub-freezing temperatures before sunrise this morning. I go directly to the office, and try to avoid obsessively ruminating over bullshit that hasn’t happened yet (the future is not yet written) or shit that is already behind me (the past is over and done with if we allow it to be), or things that honestly don’t directly affect my everyday life in any practical way moment-to-moment (like a presidential pardon for a son, or the friends, family, and cronies of a politician being given plum jobs for which they are in no way at all qualified). I breathe, exhale, and relax – and pull myself back to this here, this now. Perspective matters. For most values of “okay”, I’m okay. For most values of “fine”, I’m fine. I’ve got physical pain to deal with, and the usual humdrum insecurities of modern life – with all the comforts and privilege that come along with those. I don’t have to worry that my partner will kill me (that’s a nice relief, honestly). I don’t currently have to worry about genocide in this country (and I hope I never do). People are people. I commit myself to “being the change I want to see in the world”, myself, and doing my best to be kind, to be considerate, to be generally decent, to refrain from greed and pettiness, to manage my anger with skill, and tolerate others with compassion. What greater good can I personally do the world, from where I sit right now, than simply being the best person I can be? If we all did that, how much more wonderful would the world be for us all?
I think about my Traveling Partner, and the joy of celebrating his birthday, yesterday, and the way he inspires me to be my best self today – and every day. There’s more to life than the terrifying ugliness we see in the news. There’s life, there’s love – there’s now. Finding the joy in each moment is a worthy endeavor.
I think about that and sip my coffee. It’s time to begin again.
