All posts by Rachel

About Rachel

Rachel V. Stankowski considered herself, among other things, a writer. Primarily due to the positive stigmas that accompanied the label, but also because it seemed to excuse some of her more major eccentricities, vanity included.

A Sufi Tale, but not that one from Pinterest.

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Losing sight… easy to do…

And there it is– day 3 of Lent.

“When the death of their master was clearly imminent, the disciples became totally bereft. ‘If you leave us, Master,’ they pleaded, ‘how will we know what to do?’ And the master replied, ‘I am nothing but a finger pointing at the moon. Perhaps when I am gone you will see the moon.'” –Sufi Tale

What does Joan have to say?

“The meaning is clear: It is God that religion must be about, not itself. When religion makes itself God, it ceases to be religion. But when religion becomes the bridge that leads to God, it stretches us to live to the limits of human possibility. It requires us to be everything we can possibly be: kind, generous, honest, loving, compassionate, just. It defines the standards of the human condition. It sets the parameters within which we direct our institutions. It provides the basis for the ethics that guide our human relationships. It sets out to enable us to be fully human, human beings.” –Joan Chittister

And she’s a NUN! A nun who super gets it, right?

It’s not about following the rules. At least it shouldn’t be. Yet for so many people it is. Church, religion, it becomes a recipe, a prescription, a set of Ikea instructions.

True, when it comes time to build the MALM or the HEMNES, there’s probably one best way… leftover screws can be dangerous. But when you pull it out of the oven, a pie is a pie is a pie is delicious no matter what recipe you followed.

Related: mmmm… pie.

I think religion is like that. If the religion you follow or don’t follow helps you to be fully human, to be kind, generous, honest, loving, compassionate and just, if it points you in the right direction, then who cares what religion it is? Who cares if we’re taking directions from a different master? The moon is still the moon. A pie is still a pie.

Related: mmmm… moon pies.

Yep. I’m prone to losing sight of what matters.

Work’s been like that for me lately. I’ve been feeling unappreciated… in need of more thanks, more gratitude, recognition, pats on the back, etc. Thanks had become my religion. And I was using it inappropriately.

I Stella-style got my groove back this week though. At least temporarily. I started working on a new grant and it’s kind of awesome.

A lot of work. Tight time line. Little bit of stress. But dang– if we get it, it’s going to help a heck of a lot of people. People who really need help.

And that is the point.

My job matters not because of the thanks, but because I get really great opportunities to help– to encourage physicians and researchers, to empower them to implement new programs, to bring services to people who really need them. Most recently, opioid treatment services for addicts in the northwoods. Recently, for people suffering from a rare genetic disorder. And before that, kids in the foster care system.

Honestly, I’m pretty lucky. Just got to keep my eyes on the prize… and not let myself get convinced that the thanks are what matters. Nor is the salary. Or the hours. Or whatever. I feel fulfilled. I am participating in improvement of the human condition.

 

Speaking of Sufi tales… I keep seeing this bad boy on Pinterest and tonight it popped up on my Facebook feed:

Sufi

I’d seen “Sufi” this and “Sufi” that so frequently that I really thought it was one really wise and eloquent person. Turns out it’s an Islamic concept. Fascinating. Thanks, Wiki.

Different recipe, same conclusion. Love.

 

Jaaaacob… Jacob and sons…

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Another day, another conversation with the illustrious Joan!

Today, she quotes Exodus first:

“God is gracious and merciful… slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” –Exodus 34:6

A lovely sentiment, to be sure, but it’s a bit cherry picked, don’t you think? I wouldn’t exactly characterize Old Testament God as “slow to anger” and I’m mid-way through Exodus right now. For the second time– four books into the real version I had to switch to a plain language version of the bible and it’s going much better this time. Cover to cover! An interesting read… although songs from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat were stuck in my head for all of Genesis. Anyway…

Here’s what Joan had to say:

“Who is this God, really? Who is this God whom we have fashioned out of the light of our needs and the hopes of our hearts? When we are vengeful, we tell tall tales of an angry God. When we are sick with our own sin, we find ourselves a God of mercy. When we are pressed down, face in the sand, we know what a God of justice is all about. Is this God? Or is God the measure of how deep our smallness goes, how great our parching thirst for love? Surely God is all of this. And more. The more we cannot in our smallness and our thirst even begin to imagine.” –Joan Chittister

Love. Incomprehensible. All of the above.

Weaver of the tapestry.

The threads made of light and hope. The threads of vengeance and anger. Threads of justice and love. God, the universe, the creator, I AM (as it says in Exodus… I’m basically a biblical scholar at this point, guys) is all of those threads and more. So much more.

At least that’s how I feel.

On Ash Wednesday, Call To Action posted this sentiment on Twitter:

Retweeted that!
Retweeted that!

The more to me is just that: love– what we come from, to where we will return. Love, love, love.

Love doesn’t judge. Love cares. Love forgives and heals and on and on and on. Love is friends. Loves is family. Love is steady, it’s there whether you believe in it or not. It is. I AM.

Lent Conversation #1: Nom Noms for the Soul

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I recently bought a new little book.

What’s new, right?

But it’s way more than just a little book– it’s a journal too! And it’s lent-specific. Things to think about every day for 40 days. Kind of excited!

The title of the book is “40 Soul-Stretching Conversations” and every day for the forty days of lent, there’s a little bit of space to write, and two little things to think about– one quotation from someone awesome (e.g. Teresa of Avila) and a reflection on the topic by Joan Chittister (the awesome-est).

So let’s chat about these things, shall we? For 40 days! 40 nights!

Hopefully it’ll be more pleasant than wandering in the desert 😉

So today, conversation numero uno:

“The things of the soul must always be considered as plentiful, spacious and large.” –Teresa of Avila

“But what are the ‘things of the soul’? Surely they are every breath we breathe, every word we hear, every thought we think. The things of the soul have been too long compartmentalized. And so we got religion but not spirituality. We got church but not God. We got the sacred but no the sacredness of the secular. Or better yet, the revelation that there is nothing ‘secular’ at all.” –Joan Chittister

And in reading that very first page… I knew that this was absolutely the book for me. It so eloquently says things that have been swirling and twirling around in my head for a long time now.

Simply put: merely going through the motions cannot feed your soul.

Granted, the entire notion of something “feeding the soul” was completely foreign to me until two short years ago when a woman I met at a conference in Milwaukee asked me about the church I go to– she said, “yes, but are you being spiritually fed?”

I was kind of taken aback at first. How do you answer something like that? How do I know if I’m being spiritually fed?

So I stopped thinking and I answered with my gut.

No.

No, I was not being spiritually fed.

But was that my church’s fault?

Again, no.

It was mine. I wasn’t even looking for food for the soul.

I had church without God. I had religion without spirituality. I had a compartmentalized soul that was so well compartmentalized that it rarely saw the light of day. And not just in the realm of religion/spirituality/the other-worldy-in-other-ways. In everything. What fed my soul just wasn’t a consideration.

My soul, though, has been released from it’s compartment as of late. And dang. That this is hoooooong-ry! Nom nom nom…

Turns out, lots and lots of things can feed my soul. Before that nice, yet rather blunt, lady I had never even thought about it. Now I think about it all the time.

Because I think if I look for the common denominator in all these soul foods, of the metaphorical variety, of course, I think intention is really where it’s at.

My intention changes the way I approach everything, even secular things, and turns them into activities that feed my soul.

When my intention is to build relationships and be the best communicator that I can be, work feeds my soul.

When my intention is to move my body and feel my muscles work, exercise feeds my soul.

When my intention is to spend time preparing good food for myself and my family, cooking feeds my soul.

Anything can feed my soul… if I choose to let it. If I choose to approach it with good intentions, a positive attitude, a sense of optimism, an eye out for the silver lining.

A little soul for everything and everything for my soul.

Nom nom nom…

Cake feeds my soul too... fyi.
Cake feeds my soul too… fyi.

Gonorrhea, Cookies, Time

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You know that series of books “If You Give a [Animal] a [Food Item]”???

Of course you do! Mice and cookies… moose and muffins… cats and cupcakes… pigs and pancakes… there’s a bunch. Apparently, Laura Numeroff has been busy since I was little! Good for her!

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie was the original, it was pretty new when I was pretty little and given that both my mom and Grandma are and were (respectively) elementary school teachers, I’m sure you’re not surprised that I heard it once or twice. And then I read it once or twice more to myself. Perhaps I even forced it on my littles.

Long story short, I knew it pretty well and I thought about it often. Especially after giving a mouse a cookie…

Metaphorically of course. Because a lot of people are like that mouse. You give them a cookie… they need a glass of milk… a napkin… a hair cut… a dust pan… and on and on and on and on… it never ends!

Eventually, that mouse is so exhausted from bleeding you dry that they end up hungry again… in a need of a snack… maybe a cookie.

You know the story.

 

In contrast, do you know what happens when you give a mouse gonorrhea?

(And you can trust me on this one because I have given a lot of mice gonorrhea.)

Nothing.

 

They don’t ask for milk or a napkin or a hair cut or whatevs.

They just keep on keepin’ on until you decide otherwise.

Kind of nice.

 

Sidebar: It’s not actually nothing that happens. Just nothing that you can see. Please see Exhibit A.

Exhibit A: straight out of my dissertation. Brag! I kind of dig this figure :)
Exhibit A: straight out of my dissertation. Brag! I kind of dig this figure 🙂

 

AND THEN I LOST THE REST! You guys, it was awful… it was the evening of February 3rd and I had been writing and writing and writing and all my creative juices were just a-flowing and another 900 words later, it was all gone. Not sure how exactly it happened. No doubt some sort of user error. Regardless, it was all gone and I was all kinds of discouraged. So this intro sat and sat and sat as I stewed and stewed and stewed. Until today. Today I’m ready to go again. So… let’s extend that metaphor!

Because extending metaphors is one of the very best things that I do.

The moral of the mouse and the cookie business is that sometimes you give a little and get taken for all the rest. That doesn’t happen when you give a mouse gonorrhea. It just doesn’t.

I’ve been feeling a lot like that lately. Like I’ve been giving too many mice too many cookies and the expectations afterward are getting out — of — control. I’m overwhelmed. I’m tired. I’m beat. I’m frustrated and exhausted and afraid that I just can’t do it…

Agh! Drama! Especially considering that I am a writer and I legitimately do NOT deal with emergencies!

And — AH HA! I think that’s exactly the perspective I need to keep.

It’s really NOT that big of a deal. None of it is. And if something drops? That’s ok.

Gonorrhea… cookies… whatevs… it’s how you handle the mouse after the fact that’s key.

I WIN!

Weird thing?

Before it was all tragically lost (tragically!)… this was 700 words longer of rant rant rant about people who want too much and how it’s best to stop handing out cookies and better to give gonorrhea and bleedidy bloddidy blue.

You didn’t want to read that. I didn’t really want to believe that. Talk about silver linings?! This is a much better ending.

 

And so was this:

And with that...
Figure 23… the conclusion of my whole thesis. Six full years worth of hard work in one glorious figure. Silverest lining of all!

 

True, February 3rd to February 16th isn’t quite the same as August 2005 to April 2011. But either way, waiting it out and thinking it through was totally worth it… when it was literal gonorrhea… when it was metaphorical cookies.

And I feel like I’m back!

Back for Lent. With plans! See you again soon!

 

PS: I was just watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Jake started a sentence with, and I quote, “For reals…” Guys! I’m pretty sure I started that. It’s catching on! This is like the DANG phenomenon all over again.

 

 

The gut, the brain, the heart: one pack of note cards to rule them all.

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Hey, guys! Long time no see!! And so much has happened since the last time we talked…

I soaked up a few glorious moments of Miami sun. I turned 31 and ate Mexican food. I got the grays dyed right out of my hair. I found out that my friend Jess is basically an international celebrity and am still riding a total pride high over it. And the biggest deal of all? Boston got snowed on!!!

Perhaps you’d already heard?

There are a lot of ideas swirling around in my noggin… some have even made it onto the screen in short bursts. I want to tell you about why 31 was almost not but actually is just fine. I want to confess to you about the guilt I harbor over my reaction to Paul Tangen in the sixth grade. I want to tell you about the new church I am desperate to join– the Church of Marie (although Marie seems to think it makes her sound too “deified” so I’m working on another name). I want to tell you why I think gonorrhea is better than cookies.

So many ideas!

But for now, because I’m having a tough time getting this thing up and running again, I’m going to piggyback on my friend Aimee’s suggestion (not this Aimee, or this Aimie, or even my other friend Amy), but Aimee… Aimee from gonorrhea-land. One of my most favorite curly girls on this great green earth. She likes note cards, you see, and so do I. And when she saw my latest, greatest note card insanity in a Facebook post, she wanted to know more about it. So I’m going to tell you more about it.

Then maybe, on account of being inspired by this particular Aimee (oh how I love all A-MEs! never met a bad one!) we can seamlessly transition into the gonorrhea vs. cookie debate. It’s fun to inspire people to talk about STDs and cool to encourage people to talk about bake goods. Both? Ah-dang.

So… this:

note cards

Note cards. Love them. Multi-colored note cards? Too bad I’m already married…

Seriously though, this was a genius idea born of self-preservation and I’m not even going to be humble about it at all. Buckle up.

Sister Doctor is about to get officially doctorified: M-period-D-period.

Only two more steps on the way to surgical oncologist-dom.

Two more steps… nine-ish more years.

Approximately seven in the next locale. Seven years in a general surgery residency. And Sister Doctor is in high demand. Stellar test scores, glowing recommendations, research experience, honors up the wazoo, you know. All these programs are falling all over each other begging her to come here, no here, no here!!

It’s a good problem to have, of course. But also makes for a tough decision. Seven years. Surgery residency. Nothing to sneeze at.

Especially if the wind of your sneeze is likely to mess up your beautiful note care display. Got to be careful, you know! This kind of thing takes a lot of work.

Let’s be real honest for a second though.

Sister Doctor was driving me cra-zy! She was obsesssssssssing. Out loud. To me. To my husband. To my dog. To my house.

It was, shall we say, unproductive. And a bit annoying.

Real annoying.

So I brainstormed. I bought some note cards. Sister Doctor and I brainstormed again, together this time. And then I sent her quietly on her way to fill out the note cards.

Hear that?

Quiet, productive obsessing.

That’s my kind of obsessing.

 

I don’t want to make light of this decision, because it’s a big one for Sister Doctor and Mr. Doctor and little puppy Doctor too. But I think that after nearly 20 interviews all over this great big country (truly east coast to west coast and back again and again and again), Sister Doctor had something of a gut feeling about what felt right.

But to trust the gut?!

On something this big?!

Heck to the no.

A decision this big calls for options, priorities, pros, cons, and the like. So that’s what we did.

First, I asked Sister Doctor to describe the things that mattered to her. We made a list.

Then we reviewed the list of 13 items and ranked them in order of importance. Each institution was assigned a color and we wrote out each of the thirteen questions on a note card in the appropriate color. Sister Doctor spent the next week (quietly) writing out the answers and this week, we laid it all out… to see what would happen.

The 13 criteria down the left, the five institutions across the top with a strand of yarn down the middle to divide the pros (left) from the cons (right). Straddlers are neutral of course. And we laid out the cards– let the chips fall where they may.

Except what if you hate where the chips fall?

Just as telling! If you’re not sure about your gut feeling before the cards– I guarantee you will be after. There’s no mistaking the disappointment you’ll feel if the choice that pops out on top isn’t the one you really want.

 

So… did it work? Too early to tell. The cards are still on the table. We’re still a hemming and hawing. But Sister Doctor will get there, she’ll make a decision. And she’ll, at the very least, know that she’s thought it out very, very carefully.

Of course, there’s no perfect decision. Never is. Nothing’s perfect. So it’s still hard. But the note cards have made it a little easier for Sister Doctor to think about.

A little quieter for the rest of us in the house.

Win-win. We’re all looking forward to match day!

 

Doesn’t matter how you do it, getting to doctor-dom is a headache. Note cards help.

… or construction paper…

Back in our day, it was construction paper and colored markers all the way to quals... doctor-dom, a headache no matter what.
Back in our day, it was construction paper and colored markers all the way to quals… doctor-dom, a headache no matter what.

 

For seriously though, you know what you know. It’s there, it’s in your head, your heart, your gut. But getting the three to connect? That can be somewhat tricksy. That’s where the note cards really come into play. They can reinforce what you feel, they can make it become what you know, and ultimately, what you believe. It never hurts to just see it all laid out there in front of you.

I’ve been doing it for years. Decades even. The note card industry basically survives because of people like me. I’m ok with that.

 

 

Fun Fact: The big and famous surgeon who wrote Sister Doctor’s most glowing and influential recommendation letter recently SLAMMED a paper I’ve been working on for over a year with a local endocrinologist. I’m super happy for Sister Doctor, but if I ever get a goiter, I’m leaving it in just to spite Mr. Oh-So-Famous Surgeon Man. That’ll show him!

ASSUME :: EMUSSA

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My freshmen year of college, some friends and I went taert-ro-kcirt-ing in the dorms on Halloween. Taert-ro-kcirt-ing is trick-or-treating backwards. Obviously.

We dressed up (just barely– some cat ears and butterfly wings or something of the sort) and went from door to door with a plastic jack-o-lantern full of candy that we handed out. Maybe we collected for UNICEF or something while we were at it? I can’t really remember… but I do remember it being an absolute blast.

I’m normally pretty scared to interact with people, especially people I don’t know. And people I do know. So all people, actually. But when we taert-ro-kcirt-ed, I don’t really remember minding at all. I felt silly and confident and fun as we knocked on each door and handed out candy and a smile– people didn’t expect it, they were so happy. Like I said, an absolute blast.

And maybe it is that simple. When you want to do the opposite of something, just turn the word around and do it. That easy.

I hope anyway. And here’s why.

Remember that chocolate I told you about earlier this week? All of that delicious and amazing chocolate?

Do you also remember about that little binge eating thing that tends to haunt me from time to time?

Welllll…. this:

A trash can full of shame...
A trash can full of shame…

Sigh. It was not the best afternoon of my life.

Delicious, of course, but so very out of control.

But why? When I have so much to look forward to!

I mean, first thing tomorrow morning, I’m getting on a plane and heading to Miami, one of the only places in the country currently untouched by this mess:

So much cold, so much snow.
So much cold, so much snow.

… where I will meet my husband for a lovely long weekend and to attend his work Christmas party where all of his co-workers and their spouses will be waiting to meet me and look at me and talk to me and realize how ugly and stupid and weird and lame I am…

Ah ha!!

I’m stressed. Stressed backward is desserts. So I’m eating desserts. Doing the opposite.

It’s science, don’t think too hard about it.

And the reason I’m stressed?

Really… it’s because I’m terrified. And even worse, I am certain that all of Seth’s coworkers and their spouses and basically all of the people of Miami are going to hate me.

What’s not to hate?! My jaw is so square. My hair is going to be so frizzy (Miami?! of all places!! with this HAIR?!). I haven’t lost any weight (I wanted to lose weight first!) and my clothes come from Target. I’m almost thirty-ONE and I have ZERO kids and I’m a NERD. A huge nerd. I really wish my right eye would open up as far as my left. Oh god oh god oh god. What am I even going to WEAR? What in my closet is the least make-you-hate-me-able of all???

 

Cheese and rice.

I have got to stop.

 

I assume that everyone who meets me down in Miami is going to hate me.

All evidence points to the contrary, of course– Seth loves these people and they love him back. Seth is awesome and Seth chose me so of course they’ll love me too. And if they don’t? B… F… D…

Not everybody clicks, and that’s ok. A truffle for everyone, you know?

But maybe it would be better to head to Miami with my jack-o-lantern full of candy before I start knocking on doors, if you know what I mean. To ditch the assumptions and just emussa instead that everyone is going to love me. That’s the opposite, of course.

Think it could be that simple?

 

Probably. And here’s why.

 

… I assumed that Theresa wouldn’t want to be in my book club because she was pretty and wearing fancy jewelry and drinking a fancy drink and married to a doctor and just seemed so cool. She overheard me telling someone else about it, though, and begged me to let her in. We’ve been texting ever since. I really, really like her.

… I assumed that Kristen wouldn’t want to be my friend because she’s pretty and thin and a pediatrician and therefore a “class A” doctor (not kidding about the classification system at my place of employment, that’s real), but today, after we ate lunch together, which we do pretty regularly, that Grumpy Gus told me I had “lifted her spirits” and wished me well  on my trip to Miami. We’re hanging out for my birthday next week.

… I assumed that my very young friend Emily (like younger than my sister AND brother) wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore after our mutual slightly-closer-to-both-our-ages-friend moved away over the summer, but Emily’s coming to my birthday dinner next week too. And also we do yoga and crafts and watch trash tv together. Traaaaaaash.

 

I wonder how much time, stress, and probably desserts, I could have saved myself from wasting, experiencing, and eating, respectively, had I gone in emussa-ing instead??? Not to mention how much cooler I could have played it if I hadn’t been busy trying to keep them from hating me instead of letting them like me like they were always going to do. (That’s a super confusing sentence. Leaving it.)

Eventually, this afternoon, I went to a little mini holiday party and ate some cocktail weenies (oy, so good) and got over it just a bit. I chatted with some people from another department (who I originally assumed hated me… but totally don’t– another excellent example of that assuming crap) and stopped the spiral. I’m going to face the day tomorrow essuma-ing instead of assume-ing and everyone is going to love me in Miami.

Or not. But it honestly doesn’t matter.

Regardless, the weather will certainly be warmer and I’ll get to spend a bit of time with my long lost husband (it’s really only two weeks, I’m being dramatic) and (you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around) that’s what it’s all about!

 

 

Coincidentally, I’ve talked about assuming before. But unfortunately, Tim Haight never taught me what happens when you assume something about yourself. Like that you’re super hate-worthy. Lessons are so much more difficult to learn on your own. I wish Tim were here.

He’d probably hate me anyway 😉

 

I’m so neurotic. You knew that already. Don’t hate me, k?

What Forrest Gump said.

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Life is like a box of chocolates.

Did you read that with Tom Hanks’s perfect, slow, southern drawl? Such a good actor!! Maybe you even prefaced it with “mama always said…”

It’s just such a classic line. We’ve all heard it. We all know it. I think most of us agree that it is true.

You never know what you’re gonna get.

This Christmas season, my office was spoiled rotten with chocolates. SPOILED, I tell you! Completely rotten. It was so delicious.

One of the boxes was particularly fascinating. It came from Vosges Haut-Chocolat (fancy pants chocolates!) and had some of the most unique (that’s the nice way of saying weird) truffle flavors I had ever encountered– things I never would have even dreamed up! But man, did they ever WORK.

I didn’t sample them all, of course. Some were simply too unique and I was too chicken to try it. And sometimes I just couldn’t justify taking another lactaid. (And I remembered right away how important it is to take a lactaid with chocolate. Lactase?! Lactase?! Why have you forsaken me?!)

(Are you Catholic?… Yes, I did just replace the phrase “My God” with “Lactase” in a classic Easter-time responsorial psalm… probably blasphemy. I’m kind of known for that around here.)

Sometimes I just remembered that the box wasn’t entirely for me and the respect I have for my colleagues (where respect = fear of judgement) prevented me from eating any more.

Regardless, those that I did try, even the really weird ones, were absolutely phenomenal. So amazing that I even emailed my Aunt Susan and Uncle Ed to apologize for my previously very cavalier attitude toward good chocolate. I had laughed at Ed’s use of the word divine, which sounds super serious with a Scottish accent, but now I get it. And I owed them an apology.

So if life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get…

I posit that PEOPLE are like this divine box of chocolates. Even the weird ones just seem to WORK. For someone, at least.

I did not expect to looooove a dark chocolate truffle sprinkled with paprika. But I did.

And there are a whole lot of people that I would consider dark chocolate truffles sprinkled with paprika or creamy plum-powder caramels covered in milk chocolate and sprinkled with pink Himalayan sea salt (oddly specific, right? so delicious though– who comes up with these things?!)… odd, intriguing, unique… amazing.

Of course, not every taste suits every palate, but when I saw all of those descriptions laid out before me on the fancy truffle map (I love those guides to the box!), I could certainly appreciate the uniqueness and interest of every last one.

It was easy to do when it was chocolate.

I want it to be easier to do with people, too.

Even a box of Russell Stover can taste amazing. A delicious molasses chew for me, a chocolate covered cherry for my Seth. A truffle for everyone and for everyone a truffle!!

I think the trick is appreciating it for what it is– a unique combination. Something different. Maybe it’s not your taste, but it’s still special and delicious to someone. I may not get why you love it, but that doesn’t make you love it any less.

And in the above paragraph, the “it” can be a chocolate or a person. Same, same.

 

My friend Jess once told me that my palate was likely to change as I got older. I wanted to believe her, but honestly didn’t… I’ve just had such strong aversions to certain textures and flavors and tastes and smells my whole life. I couldn’t imagine anything else.

Yet here I am today, eating zucchini and adding (pureed) onions to my soup. (Yes, I just pretend that I’m my own toddler and get myself to eat healthy things by hiding them. Works quite well, actually.) These aren’t just baby steps– these things are enormous for me!

The fancy truffles, and my attraction to all sorts of different folks, are my grown up palate. The one Jess promised me several years ago. The chocolate is delicious. And the people? All of their unique and unexpected qualities– absolutely the best!

2014: The Ox-Bow Incident (sans rustlers)

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Have you ever run a road race? Now that I have fully embraced the notion that somebody has to be last and it’s not the end of the world if it’s me, I really really enjoy them. The best part is seeing the finish line up ahead. Except seeing it doesn’t always mean that’s the end.

…

One summer when my Uncle Paul and cousin Kirsten were in town and I was home from school, we decided, as a family, to go out and run the Dexter-Ann Arbor 5K. It was a blast. Ab and I putzed along somewhere near the back, but my Uncle Paul is a pretty devoted runner and he was lined up near the front of the pack. My brother Tom lined up with him, but was pretty disgusted when they got going and Paul seemed to him to just be putzing along at a pace hardly better than the one Ab and I had set. Tom could do better, go faster. And he did. As he came around the bend toward the finish line he was thrilled and started sprinting– piece of cake! Except that what he was completing was only the first, and smaller, of two loops. And he was TOAST. Paul passed him up shortly after that and poor Tom had to drag himself another two miles only to cross that same finish line again.

Thank goodness for rachelv.blogspot.com ... the place I kept all my pictures before Facebook was a big deal.
Thank goodness for rachelv.blogspot.com … the place I kept all my pictures before I used Facebook… and Instagram… and Under the Tapestry.

That was a fun day. I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed so hard my cheeks and my abs hurt.

Oh how I love that story!

…

Fast forward a few years to a St. Patrick’s day while living in the metro DC area and I decided to run a little St. Patrick’s Day 8K through downtown. A super fun run, as any downtown DC run tends to be (for a nerd like me), that ended right at Freedom Plaza on Pennsylvania Ave. I was rocking it that day. And as I came down the final straightaway, I could hear music and see the balloons arched over the finish line and I was keeping up with a big pack and feeling great and… turning left? away from the finish line? what the?!

Just like Tom, except not quite so bad. There was just a little out and back down a side street to account for the distance we hadn’t quite made. I was fine, I still finished, and still in good time (for me… good time is relative in running, remember), but not quite when I expected or how I expected.

 

Twenty Fourteen

Did you ever have to read The Ox-Bow Incident in school? I did. I only remember it very vaguely. Pretty sure there was a lynching and it was awful, but what really stuck with me was what an oxbow actually was. In the context of a meandering river, anyway. And maybe that’s what 2014 was. An oxbow. A bend in the path. An extra two mile loop or out and back down a side-street that I didn’t see coming.

I expected a positive pregnancy test in 2014. I expected to be a mother. I could see the balloons over the finish line and hear the music. But there was a bend in the road and here I am on December 31st, out of sight of that finish line once again.

 

Twenty Fifteen

I don’t know what the finish line is going to look like when I do get there. I don’t know if the balloons will still be inflated or the music will still be playing. I don’t know how long it’s going to take or how difficult the journey is going to be to get there. Maybe it’ll be a quick out-and-back… maybe it’ll be a two mile slog on tired legs… maybe something else entirely. Maybe the oxbow will cut itself off and form a free-standing lake. It’s impossible to tell at this point.

What I do know, though, is that the course I’m on is not as limiting as I’ve made it out to be. My single minded focus on “I want to have a baby” has really limited the life I’ve allowed myself to live for far too long (flare for the melodramatic, once again). I’ve made small steps outside the lines in the last few months, but I could, and should, go further.

For example, my therapist recently asked me what I hoped to have accomplished one year from now, assuming I still wasn’t pregnant. I had no response, but immediately burst into tears. That was pretty telling. (He keeps kleenexes in his office for moments like those. It’s all good.)

So in 2015, we’re taking a bit of a break. I’m going to give my body and my mind a rest. I’m doing other things… I’m running, meditating, and reading. I just got a new full color, hardcover book full of photographs and amazing text about women healers of the world– so excited. So much learning! And being. And learning to just be.

 

When I announced my non-pregnancy the other day (oh snap, it would have been darkly hilarious to do a photo shoot with the negative test… I can see that now. maybe next time), my Aunt Susan said to me, “I can tell you for sure: life is an interesting line, but rarely a straight one.”

And in that comment, she summed up my 2014 perfectly.

 

Incidentally, I’ve always had something of an affinity for straight lines. Maybe that’s why this whole meandering business is so difficult for me. Once upon a time, I even got intervented on for it. (Intervented is not a word, but I don’t think to say “intervened” really sums up what it’s like to have an intervention in your honor.) My friends Danielle and Stephine teamed up with my mom to ban me from purchasing any more horizontally striped shirts. (In all the colors. From Old Navy.) In retrospect, it was a good call. Still a good call. It was kind of all I wore for most of high school. I had to switch to solid colored polos after that. (Confession: I’m wearing horizontal stripes right now. Not kidding. Relapse.)

 

Man, I’m cool.

 

Anyway… here’s to accepting 2015,  however it may come! Happy New Year!!

 

Unrelated, but awesome, picture of super Curls!
Unrelated, but awesome, picture of super Curls!

What Hatha Yoga with Rudra Taught Me About the “Like” Button

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A friend of mine from back in the day (Y-town for LIFE) recently posted an interesting entry on her blog and it got me thinking for days. It just kept popping back and back and back into my head. I loved what she said, but I also had a million alternative thoughts about the topic floating around and kind of wanted to write a rebuttal. It’s one thing to just come out here to this space and point-by-point rebut someone like Matt Walsh whose goal in life seems to be to get people riled up (and is he ever good at it!), but it’s different when it’s the musings of a friend… so I asked her what she thought.

I hemmed and hawed about it for a while because I didn’t want her to think I was some sort of jerk, but I just felt like I had so much to say and I wanted to discuss… here… with you… I finally got up the courage to send her a message while I sat on the runway in Lacrosse waiting to be re-fueled and re-flight planned and was just about out of things to do so I messaged Kacey. Her response was so excellent! She was totally cool with me running with her topic du jour (she’s kind of just cool like that in general) and so here we go! (Let’s check real quick on the jerk thing… Kacey? Or perhaps we should wait until the end…)

 

Kacey’s basic premise, and please forgive me if I’m misinterpreting, was that social media platforms like blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and the like, tend to be self-centered and focused on a culture of “look at me!” … that the desire for shares and likes and comments and such is really a desperate need to be acknowledged. And that that’s why many of us do it– to get the like or the comment or the share, to be acknowledged.

I don’t necessarily disagree, exactly, my rebuttal is more the notion that, at least in my mind, that all of that is ok. It’s ok to ask people to acknowledge you. (Hence the large number of times I’ve actually used the phrase “ACKNOWLEDGE MEEEEE!” both in this space and in real life… it’s like Kacey was speaking directly to me!)

It was so interesting to me that Kacey and I could do the same thing (blog) and use the same types of social media and ultimately take away such a different message from it. I was fascinated by that and I kept turning the notion of WHY that was over and over and over in my head until I think I finally stumbled upon something when I received an email reply from my long lost friend Lotisha who is Pauly-Shore-style in the army now. Literally.

…

Lotisha and I were labmates back in DC and I just adore her. She’s the tiniest person with the biggest attitude and after I got over being terrified of her I realized that I actually looooved her. And one of the things Lotisha and I loved to do together (besides give mice gonorrhea) was take fitness classes. Mostly through Montgomery County. And it was with Lotisha that I took my first ever yoga class. Hatha Yoga with Rudra.

I went into yoga class expecting a workout with emphasis on strength and flexibility. Rurda, however, was a sweatpants-wearing, afro-haired, Costa-Rica-yoga-retreat-bound man who was way into yoga as a practice, not just as an exercise, and during our first class he taught us what the word namaste meant.

According to Rudra, saying namaste to someone else or even to yourself was equivalent to saying “I salute the inner light within you.” I of course looked it up after that and it’s hard to say if that’s true exactly, except that it is widely acknowledged as a respectful greeting or goodbye. Regardless, I like what Rudra said. A lot. (Now. Then I was all “oh snap, this is weird, I don’t think I like it,” but I was wrong as I so often find myself to be.) And I think, to me, the “like” button is really more of a namaste button– a way to acknowledge the “inner light” of another person’s activity, selfie, food choice, witty quip, photo-of-babies-doing-baby-stuff, whatever. The thing about it, whatever it is, that resonates with me.

 

Of course like any other living, breathing human, Facebook also infuriates me at times. It incites major jealousy, constantly feeding my little green monster (30-ish? on Facebook? there’s LOTS of babies, of which I can have none). And, although this may surprise you, this big square head of mine doesn’t often photograph very well and the pictures I do end up posting tend to be the very best chin down, tongue-to-roof-of-mouth, least squinty eyed, minimal frizz, good angle photos that happen. When given the opportunity to paint yourself, why not paint your best self… the self you feel most comfortable with? Leave the dirty laundry for the old blog.

The important thing, for me anyway, is the attitude I choose to approach it with. I can’t possibly be the only one painting my best face out there… which means other people probably aren’t always as gorgeous/happy/un-double-chinned as they appear. Right? (Although I suspect the babies are for the most part real. The monster! So green!) The thing is, I see these perfect posts, these lovely brush strokes on social media because I choose to and because I enjoy it. I am apparently totally cool with voyeurism and I love to see what people are up to. I also love that it keeps me connected with people I otherwise wouldn’t be connected to. Like Kacey! And her blog!

Even amongst the perfect pictures and the happy statuses though, we do still catch glimpses of the truth. And when we recognize those things, those little winks that were meant just for us, we can acknowledge them in another way altogether– it’s the behind-the-scenes connections that might be a little more meaningful.

Because of Facebook, I re-connected with Dawn. Erika recognized my hurt and cheers me on day after day. Kacey and I are blog buddies. Nicole and I became friends, like real friends, long after college.

Because of Twitter, I got a couple blog posts re-tweeted by the Chris Lema and traffic, traffic, traffic on account. It let me keep up with my friend Dr. Kanth on his interview journey.

Because of Instagram, I get to keep up with #ohellabella and to see a #dailydoseofaddisyn. I also get sneak peaks into Mindy Kaling‘s life (yessss!).

And because of this blog, regardless of whether you like it, read it, share it, comment on it… or not… I have an outlet. I can share my words with anyone who happens to stumble across them. I share my ideas with people who are free to agree or disagree. Read on or roll their eyes. Whatevs.

 

That’s the beauty of the internet. It’s let’s us connect.

Or not.

 

Namaste.

Or keep scrolling.

 

You choose.

 

End rebuttal.

 

How about now, Kacey? Not a jerk, right? Just more rambling along the same lines. We’re all friends here 🙂

December Twenty-Sixth

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When I was in fourth grade, my Grandma Mormor (which as an adult I recognize is like saying “Grandma Grandma” since Mormor is the Swedish word for grandmother… but I don’t care) passed away over Christmas break. We weren’t planning to go to Marquette for Christmas, but when an aneurysm in my grandma’s head burst, sending her straight to the hospital with a severe hemorrhagic stroke, we packed up our clothes and our Christmas into our blue van and drove straight up to the UP. Although she came through a surgical repair successfully, another stroke left my grandmother brain dead and life support was removed the day after Christmas. She was only 60 years old when she passed away on December 26th. I chose not to go to the funeral because I was scared (of the funeral? of death? of my grandmother’s body? I don’t know…), but I regret that now. I did write her a letter that was placed in the coffin. Regardless of whether I was there or not, she knew I loved her, and that’s all that really matters.

My Grandma Mormor’s birthday was February 24th and I always think of her then. She was happy and gorgeous and made amazing oatmeal on her kitchen stove. Her house always smelled good and she wore a floral apron in the kitchen. I know other people have other memories of her, but mine stop at the age of 8 and it’s all beautiful to me. I also always think of her on December 26th… the day she died. She would have died on Christmas, maybe Christmas Eve, without artificial prolonging of her life. But nobody wanted that, so she was allowed to pass on the 26th and the 26th always had something of a pall over it. It was not a good day.

Until 2011.

On December 26, 2011, my sister’s first child, her daughter Emma, was born. To me, it seemed like the universe had righted itself again. December 26th was no longer a day for mourning, but for celebrating this amazing little life that came into our family. Today, Emma is three and more amazing than ever and I am so grateful for the gift of timing the universe gave our family.

Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, but December 26th feels bigger than that.

This year, December 26th also marked 14 days after IUI— the day I could take a pregnancy test. Something else to make the 26th of December even more significant. My sister found out she was pregnant with Emma on my dad’s birthday. We were both excited about the possibility of me finding out the same on Emma’s birthday.

I’m not pregnant though. No need to test. (I did, just in case, but it was negative. No ambiguity here.) Remember, I said I’d tell you either way. I was hoping for the other. But a promise is a promise.

 

I guess the fact of the matter is that we all struggle, in our own unique way. Maybe we don’t want children and others see our familial choices as incomplete. Maybe getting pregnant is easy, but the timing is poor. Maybe the timing works out, but our child isn’t as “perfect” as we would have expected. Maybe everything seems just right, but postpartum depression settles in. Maybe things get tough with your toddler, your adolescent, your adult child. Maybe you can’t get pregnant at all.

The good news is that you don’t have to get pregnant to have a family. And families are beautiful and imperfect, no matter how they come to be. There’s no right way, no wrong way, when you fill a home with people (or animals!) who love each other, it really doesn’t matter.

I know all of that, intellectually. But to really know it… that’s tough stuff. So for now, I’m going to let myself just be a little sad. Really sad. Disappointed. Confused and upset and frustrated and guilt-ridden. Just for a little while.

 

I’m also going to drink enough wine and take enough cold medicine to make up for all that I passed up over the last couple of days on account of the potential for pregnancy– a little Christmas cheer to go with my Christmas cold.

All in good time.