A New Year's request to my friends on social media

We've got a brand new year coming up.  An artificial boundary to prompt us to review, reevaluate, renew to be a better version of ourselves.

One of the items on my review list is my social media presence.  I'm going to look back over my posts on Facebook, Twitter, and this blog, and evaluate the content of my contributions.  

I'm going to use the THINK acronym as I read:

http://www.technologyrocksseriously.com/2014/10/before-you-post-think.html#.XBuKeFVKjcs

Some of the questions I will ask myself:

• Did I check the source of any information I shared before posting?  Was it reliable and trustworthy?  Or did it just cater to my own beliefs and opinions?
• Are my posts helpful, inspiring, and kind?  Am I spurring thoughtful conversations, or just fanning the flames of an irrelevant issue?
• Is the kind of world I want reflected in the posts I write and share?
• Do I "like" posts that fit the THINK acronym? 

I respect the opinions of my friends, family, and colleagues, but I'll be honest--if I see someone rapidly sharing memes and posts from nondescript, unverifiable sources, then I'm just as rapidly scrolling through.  If those sources are extremist (on either end of the spectrum), then I'm scrolling through those as well.  

And about that sharing...

There have been several articles from reliable sources regarding Russia's use of social media to influence politics in the United States and abroad.  Those who seek to disrupt democratic processes may be responsible for flooding social media with "fake news" and incendiary posts, but guess who's responsible for spreading such inaccuracies--we, the users of social media, are to blame for spreading those fires.

So this year, I'm going to try to do more reading and THINKing.  I'm going to be even more careful of the posts I share.  I'm going to try and comment on the ones I do share, so that my friends and colleagues are aware of MY thoughts and opinions, not just some unknown meme creator's whims.

I'm going to do my part to make the internet a kinder, more reliable place for my friends, family, and colleagues to meet and share and discuss.  This does not mean that I'm planning on avoiding tough topics--it just means that when I do so, I will do better at making sure the information comes from reliable sources, and that my posts are there to spark conversation, not fires.  I will ignore trolls, because there's a chance they are not who they claim to be as, and not truly reflective of my community.  I will believe my own eyes and experience, and listen to the experience of my friends, family, and colleagues to help guide my beliefs and opinions.

In short, I will do my best to think for myself.  And I ask my friends on social media to do the same.

Tuesday Slice: Hail and farewell

There will be a double retirement party in my library this afternoon, for our campus cafeteria manager...and my library assistant.

Melinda has been my right-hand woman for five years.  After working in the office, she began the position halfway through my first year as a librarian.  That spring semester was one of the blind leading the blind, but we pulled through and came back for more the next year, and the next.

I feel a bit sorry for my incoming assistant, as Melinda has spoiled me.  Rarely do I need to give directions, as she is always onto the next task, usually before I even know it needs to be done.  She single-handedly runs the circulation desk, helping teachers and a class while I'm teaching another group in the lesson area or Book Nook.  I couldn't have maintained our double-class schedule without her assistance.

Melinda's smile is known by all who have encountered her in the office, lunchroom, crosswalk, and library.  As she said tearful goodbyes to our classes last week, there were cries of "Noooooo!" from the students.  She will be missed, and held to her promise of returning to visit in the near future.

Thank you, Melinda, for all you've done for our campus--and for me.  You've helped this fledgling librarian learn to fly, and for that, I'll be forever grateful.

Tuesday Slice: Twenty-eight years

This Saturday marks our twenty-eighth wedding anniversary.  I searched online for traditional twenty-eighth anniversary gifts, and came up empty-handed.  The modern take is anything orchid--flower or color--but purple isn't a favorite color of my husband.

Our college boy comes home on Saturday, so we'll celebrate earlier in the week, most likely with dinner and a movie.  I offered to pay for the tickets as my gift, and suggested to my husband that his gift could be the dinner part.  No muss, no fuss, nothing to dust; that seems to be the motto regarding gifts these days.  We have all that we need and more than we could want, the clutter of our lives on the cusp of overwhelming.

But what lives we have led, these past twenty-eight years!  Twelve jobs between us (eight of them mine).  A premature birth.  A miscarriage.  A medically complicated birth.  The loss of two parents, a sibling, and four great-grandparents.  Eight surgeries in our family of four.  Two and a half college degrees.  Several trips across Texas and across states.  A solo overseas trip to London for me, and an excursion to Tokyo for all of us. 

I've lost count of the number of vehicles we've owned...we're currently at five cars, three motorcycles, and several bicycles.  (Why?  We have four drivers, and the extra car is the only one big enough to move college dorm necessities and lug home a Christmas tree.)  We've had but two homes; our rental when we first married, and the house we bought the year after, now paid in full.  We have no desire to move, having built our lives and collected memories in these walls.

We've had our ups and downs over twenty-eight years, but we've always, always had each other.  Here's to at least twenty-eight more--more love, more laughter, more memories to share.

Tuesday Slice: What's in your phone?

I found my Muse for today's post in the photo gallery on my phone.  Browsing the pictures from the last few weeks, I found several that held my attention.  I realized that together they made a visual gratitude journal entry.

My amazing, creative, adventurous daughter.

Hot tea, and the view from my front porch.

Books of all genres, at my fingertips. (The boxes are full, too.)

My mother's crystal, and the ridiculous cuteness of this teeny cordial stemware.

More food than I need--this is Thanksgiving leftover potpie.

The glory of the skies at dusk--all I have to do is look up.

The joy of family traditions--visiting the Johnson City Courthouse the day after Thanksgiving.

Family willing to travel through states to share traditions.

My hardworking, smart-as-a-whip college boy who comes home for the holiday, and a husband who bears with my every fault and still manages to love me.

Cookie press cookies--can baking get any easier?

Comfy AND cute holiday shoes to wear while I bake gingerbread boys!

A note from the Universe at a school function.

A family heirloom, passed along by my great-aunt along with my mother's baptismal gown.

What's in my phone?  A lot of unfortunate selfies, and whole lotta gratitude.  

Tuesday Slice: The germs catch up

The alarm goes off
The chores get done
The lessons get planned
The emails get sent

Sniffle

The car gets gas
The groceries get bought
The toilet gets cleaned
The package gets mailed

Cough

The alarm gets set
The students get taught
The meetings get met
The phone calls get answered

Sneeze

The dinner gets cooked
The carpet gets vacuumed
The clothes get washed
The texts get sent

Shiver

The weekend gets here
The break gets here
The alarm goes off
The germs catch up.

Sleep.  Medicate.  Sleep some more.

The alarm goes off
The chores get done....

Tuesday Slice: Our own Charlotte

Last night:  I'm worried as soon as I step into the kitchen.  I see a leaf whipping madly about in the cold, blustery wind outside the window above the sink.  It's stuck to Charlotte's web...but where is Charlotte?  Turning off all the lights to cut the glare, I can see that she's not in sight.  I'm hoping she's tucked under the eaves; I've just warmed up, and not about to go out with a flashlight to check.

**********************
Charlotte appeared in our back window in early October.  I first noticed her at oh-dark-thirty in the morning as I shuffled to my coffeemaker.  I looked up bleary-eyed and jumped, thinking I had just walked past a spider hanging from the kitchen ceiling, reflected in the window.  She was outside, hanging in the center of a web invisible in the dark.

Intrigued, I went to investigate in the light of day, but only found the web--and it was big, almost a foot-and-a-half across, attached to our eaves and patio furniture.  Further trips to the backyard uncovered Charlotte's daytime roost between the gutter and the eave.  At dusk, she would be back in view, often respinning the web she had carefully gathered up in the morning.  She kept to her nocturnal schedule for quite a few weeks until recently, when we saw her at all hours.  She didn't come out at all for the last three days, and I thought the worst, until she reappeared Sunday morning.  Her web was much smaller, but still just as detailed, strands less than a quarter inch apart.

But the weather is getting colder this week.  Charlotte made what looks like an egg case a couple of weeks ago, and I've learned that the lifespan of a tropical orb weaver is only about a year.  I'm thinking she isn't long for this world, so I treasure each sighting, knowing it may just be the last one.

Meanwhile, another new tenant is renting space in our backyard.  

This prickly-looking arachnid has taken up residence on our playscape.  The spiny orb weaver's web sports equally spaced dots on its sparse lines.    

A little late to be catching our summer mosquitoes...but I think I'll let her stay, too.

Tuesday Slice of Life: Coming out of the dark

I am a realistic optimist who likes scary books and movies...except when they hit too close to home.  Loved Stephen King's Pet Sematary (even though I shrieked at the ending and threw the book across the room), couldn't sleep for nights after watching "Poltergeist" in the 80s (there was a toy clown in my bedroom, and I come from a family of ghost-believers).  Love Poe-esque horror stories, could barely stomach Hunger Games (the social commentary on economic class and reality television seemed frighteningly prophetic).  I am the girl at the movies who will deliver a vise-like grip on the arm of the person next to me when the suspense becomes too much, then come home and quickly push aside the shower curtain in the bathroom to make sure no one is lurking there.

This meme appeared in my Facebook newsfeed a few weeks ago.  It reminded me of my reaction to scary movies and books, and seemed apropos for the news these days:  #metoo, hate crime shootings and bombings, voter suppression, and the midterm elections.

My husband and I have already cast our ballots.  The thought of watching mainstream television tonight, favorite shows interrupted by election result updates, is giving me the same upset stomach that Hunger Games delivered.  Rather than ride an emotional rollercoaster all evening, which would undoubtedly lead to a restless night--all due to something which is now beyond our control--we are considering leaving the television off, or maybe binge-watching an Amazon Prime show or two.  We will hold each other tight and drift off to sleep.  

The realist in me says that no matter what, we will persevere.  The optimist in me hopes the curtains will be thrown wide open, and the boogeymen will be seen for who they are, vanquished in the light of day.  I can wait for the morning for the ending to this scary movie.

Tuesday Slice: The words we leave behind

Last week's prompt on Two Writing Teachers referred to the National Day on Writing, asking us to reflect on why we write.  I'm a seat-of-the-pants writer, so I didn't check the prompt before posting, but my friend Fran Haley did.  She wrote a beautiful piece on her reasons for writing; take a moment to read it here.

Fran's piece prompted two writing memories--one old, and one from two weekends past.

Many years ago, my parents were cleaning out their garage and came across some old school papers of mine.  In the box, they found journals from my early teen years.  I had a rough time at both of my middle schools--the one stateside because I was smart and the only military BRAT in class; and the one overseas, where I just didn't fit in yet.  Luckily, I had teachers who encouraged journaling in class, and I was able to vent a lot of frustration and sadness in those pages.  My despair went so far as to chronicle thoughts of suicide, which I quickly dismissed (also in writing) because of the hurt it would cause my parents, who were in no way responsible for my depression.

My parents read the journal when they discovered it, and were shocked by those passages.  They had no idea of my feelings back then.  I was able to put on a brave front simply because I could "write it out".

Fast forward several decades.  Now it's my husband who's cleaning up our son's high school papers while he's away at college.  My husband hands me a piece of paper from the pile--a math worksheet.  I look puzzled, so he tells me to turn it over.  Our son had journaled on the back--a passage about feeling overwhelmed by homework and AP classes and SATs.  He decided to take a break on our neighborhood hike-and-bike. As he watched some sunbathing turtles in the creek, he was able to decompress and feel like a kid again.

We saved his story, as my parents had saved my journals.  Reading about our son's anxiety, I wished I had ready access to my middle school writing back then.  If I had let my children read about my adolescent struggles, maybe they could have navigated those years a little more easily.

Perhaps it's time to start gathering our family's words, to pass on to the next generation.

Tuesday Slice: First world problems

You may have seen the images of Central Texas on the news these past few days.

Llano River Flooding

Lake Travis Flooding

This area is just to the north/northwest of us, and these waters flow into downtown Austin to the south.  The news reported yesterday on the effects of the flooding on our water supply--the reasons we are now under a boil-water notice.

The water hasn't been tested positive for anything specific; the boiling notice is a precautionary measure.  We are fine in our house.  Showering is still okay, we already had bottled water on hand, and I've boiled a couple of gallons more.  My husband likes his water cold--and I had already dumped out the ice cubes--so he headed to a convenience store and picked up some gallons to stick in the fridge.

This is just a minor inconvenience at this point.  We still went to work, had access to flushing toilets and sinks, bottled water to drink during the day, came home, even went to the polls for early voting.  I'm hopeful that the silt will clear in a few days and our water situation will return to normal.

Meanwhile, folks in Flint, Michigan have been without uncontaminated water for years.  Native American tribal lands are still lacking water delivery infrastructure.  And the World Health Organization reported last year that globally, 2.1 billion people don't have access to safe drinking water.

We are more than okay in our little, unflooded home in Central Texas.  I'll just be a bit more grateful for my indoor plumbing and bottled water today--and the next day, and the next, if it takes that long for the river to clear.

Tuesday Slice: Crepitus

"crepitus

mass noun

Medicine 

1.  A grating sound or sensation produced by friction between bone and cartilage or the fractured parts of a bone.

Origin:  Early 19th century: from Latin, from crepare ‘rattle’."

(https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/crepitus , accessed 10/15/2018)

At least twice weekly I hear it.  After the pop of my shoulders as my arms stretch upward, the rustling crepitus makes itself known in the

rotation of my upper back

circling of my pendulous head, first clockwise, then counter

slight popping of my wrists as my fists rotate

rustling of my lower vertebrae as my hips circle this way and that

not unlike the leaves that crunch underfoot on my porch.

It's so loud in my head, this grating, rubbing noise as I move my joints, neck to ankles--the soundtrack to the autumn of my years. 

Photo by Symphony999
 [CC BY-SA 3.0  (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)],
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday Slice: The Clown

One of my self-care actions this school year is attending more SoulCollage© sessions.  There's just something about focusing on a theme and images that takes me out of my head and into my heart for a few hours each month.  This past weekend I needed it more than ever, after reading my friends' #metoo stories and following the debacle of the Supreme Court nomination hearings.

Sue, our facilitator, introduced us to Heyoka, the Native American version of The Clown Archetype.  This "court jester" leads us to truth with humor, delivering pranks borne of love without bullying.  I know very few people with this skill; I believe my mother was one of them.  We also talked about Coyote, The Trickster, and listened to one person's account of sitting in a circle of animal dung waiting for enlightenment, only to be laughed at by Coyote and told to lighten up.

My Heyoka SoulCollage© card, 10.6.18.

My mind has definitely been in a serious state as of late, and in desperate need of Heyoka's wise humor.  After pulling a borrowed card and using it to interpret Heyoka's message to us, this is what I "heard":

"Hey, you serious dreamer, you whose sadness and despair leave you feeling punched in the gut...

Get that sh** out already!  Don't you know that the darkness you swallow doesn't need to stay, can't stay inside for too long, or it will end in necrosis? 

Climb this tree with me.  Swing your legs, look down on that which makes you feel hopeless.  See that in the grand scheme of things, those problems are really quite small.  Feel the strength of this old tree, which has seen it all and continues to thrive.

This is a season of blossoming and change.  Whistle through the chaos, stop and smell the roses...such glorious blooms are fed, after all, by the sh** in the earth.

Dance with me, you dreamer, and all will be well."

As if to punctuate the message, Heyoka showed up again in my Monday Notes from the Universe™ :

"Did you know that it's perfectly OK, even highly ideal, to claim all is well amid doubt and confusion? To be happy in spite of challenges? To laugh at problems? Dance without a partner? Sing without a rhyme? Talk to inanimate objects?"

Yep, I'm getting the message to lighten up loud and clear.  Thanks for taking the edge off my sadness, Clown/Heyoka/Trickster.  Or shall I call you "Hope"?

Tuesday Slice: Equal expectations

My husband and I are "CBS Sunday Morning" watchers.  Or rather, I watch it, and he listens from the study, popping in and out of the living room as topics catch his interest.  I liken it to the "Mr. Rogers" time of our weekend, a relatively quiet hour-and-a-half of catching up on news and learning a thing or two about modern history, human ingenuity and acts of kindness.  No sensationalism, no yelling, the show always ending with a "moment of nature" for which we both pause in silence.

During 2018, the show is featuring snippets of history from 1968.  My memories of that year barely exist; I was two, and reeling from my only-child throne upended by the arrival of my brother.  I watch these segments and try to imagine how it impacted my parents and their peers during that year of tumultuous changes in the U.S.

This past weekend, the 1968 spotlight focused on the Miss America pageant.  Unbeknownst to the competitors, feminists marched outside the event, likening it to a cattle auction. It was one of the first times the women's liberation movement would make headlines.

Gender inequality is still a newsworthy topic; the display of male privilege during the Kavanaugh confirmation hearings is a prime example.  The advances made by those 60's feminists, though, are still felt today.  A quote that stayed with me from the segment came from Gail Collins, a New York Times columnist:

"... and within one generation, a little baby girl being born was picked up by her father and looked at with the same expectations as a little baby boy being born." 

I'm not sure if my parents felt that way when my brother and I were born.  I know for sure that when my own daughter and son arrived in the 1990s, our expectations for each were wide open.    Forecasting a narrow vision of their future wasn't a consideration; our dreams and prayers were for a healthy, happy life of fulfilling work and relationships.

Given the current political and societal climate, I hope our dreams for both our daughter and son can still come true.

What if? (Contains mature content)

Preface to this post:  

To the best of my recollection, I have never been sexually assaulted.  Harassed, yes, but not assaulted.  I say "to the best of my recollection", because there is a memory that hangs at the fringes, but it is more feelings than details, and doesn't really evoke trauma, so I Iet it be.
******

I did not watch the Kavanaugh hearing yesterday, nor replays of it after my day of working with children in my school library.  I've become quite pessimistic about any change for the better under this current administration, and didn't want to ruin my upcoming family weekend with another act from this political circus.

Facebook commentaries in my newsfeed didn't allow for complete avoidance of the topic, however, and I felt drawn to read several, including those made by friends and family.

I have questions for those who decided to weigh in on the Kavanaugh hearings:

What if it was me on that stand, Christine Szeredy Margocs instead of Christine Blasey Ford?  What if I had been the one pinned down at a party, screaming behind a hand over my mouth?

What if I had kept that information in my closest circles for decades, still ashamed that somehow I had "asked for it", until I realized "Oh, shit, this joker is now going to have a lot of influence over EVERYONE's lives, not just mine."

Would you believe me, or would you question my memories?  

If you did believe me, would you support my decision to come forward, or would you tell me the past is past, just shut up and put up, your trauma is worth less than what this man can do for our country?
*******

There are those that argue that we all have skeletons in our closets.  I believe we do.  But I know several men whose histories do not involve pinning down women against their will, laughing as they screamed.  It is time we stop allowing such actions to fall under the argument "boys will be boys".  What Dr. Ford experienced was an act of power, domination, and aggression, not a silly prank.

If you aren't a victim, and this makes you feel uncomfortable--good.  If it makes you question some of the actions of your adolescence and young adulthood--good.  Maybe some soul-searching and heartfelt apologies are in order for the ones you may have harmed.

If you are a victim, and this ongoing topic is dredging up traumatic memories--I am so sorry.  My friends have shared heartbreaking stories since the #MeToo movement began. I believe you. I can only hope and pray that your stories help educate others and embolden those who are in a place to make changes for the better do so...like Dr. Ford.

Tuesday Slice: Breathing in the moonlight

Nine-thirty, my intended bedtime.  I change into pajamas, but head to my computer instead of bed, already behind in my Spanish lessons.  Whispering translated sentences using tenía and quería, I complete the quiz and start down the hallway to bed.

Then pause.  The full moon!  I forgot to go outside and take a peek! Looking through the windows, I can see moonlight streaming around the edges of our huge backyard oak, but can't see the old man himself.  I decide to put on my slippers, grab the camera, and head for the backyard.

And there it is, high in the sky.  The Harvest Moon, shining brightly in these first nights of autumn.

My husband joins me for a few moments.  I hear him taking deep breaths of the cooler night air, and I do the same.  Mindful of the time, we head back indoors.  Peaceful sleep awaits.

Tuesday Slice: Passing the test

Thin gray clouds scattered the light of the dawning sun as we gathered on the Mediterranean beach.  It was summer, but the heat of the day was hours away.  I felt awkward, the only child in a class of teenagers and adults clad in swimsuits and flippers, masks and snorkels.

Our instructions were to swim out into the sea to view a sunken vessel, sightsee a bit, then return to the beach.  We plunged into the water and started our PADI skindiving final test.

The pool at the military base where we practiced in the evenings felt like a bath, water heated all day by the sun.  The sea was colder; I felt the chill seep into my bones as I made my way towards the wreckage, swimming a little harder in hopes of warming up my muscles.

Then I felt the seaweed.  Long, slimy tendrils wrapped around my short nine-year-old legs.  I could kick and wriggle free, only to meet up with another patch in a few strokes.  The effort was exhausting.  I was falling far behind the other swimmers, accompanied only by an instructor.  Unable to swim consistently, my body succumbed to the cold, teeth chattering behind blue lips.

The instructor turned me around, and we headed back to shore.  I had swum far enough out to pass the swimming test (or so they said).  Having mastered the written test, I had earned my PADI skindiving license.

Tuesday slice: Thoughts on the Autumn equinox

Ripening

by Chris Margocs

To sprout, one must realize

That you cannot be attached to form

Form will change, must change

For the seed to sprout, grow, bear fruit

Letting go of form is only terrifying

If one forgets that we always return to the seed

Whether the fruit ripens and is eaten,

or spoils on the ground

The seed remains, can be interred

once more in the dark womb of Our Mother

To sprout and grow once more towards the sun.

We are safe, always, in Our Mother's lap.

SoulCollage© card by Chris Margocs.