tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66980255990185897962024-02-06T19:57:19.410-08:00SteepingsA tea-inspired blog.Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-29993733114524140212021-01-21T15:21:00.001-08:002021-01-21T15:21:33.868-08:00Www.RebeccaAngel.comThat's right! I have a website! Woo-hoo!
Please visit my website for all new blog posts, which will be coming about twice a month. If you want more of me, follow me on Instagram @Rebecca-Angel-Music or Facebook Page of the same name.
This blog will no longer be active after this post. Peace and Tea.Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-27423514683962439472020-03-25T13:08:00.001-07:002020-03-25T13:08:51.197-07:00Still Writin'!I'm currently working on my writing career in a more serious way than ever before, which means I don't have time to blog here very much. My energy is precious as I am now adrenal- insufficient. I cut down on my GeekMom work and try to spend my time on writing. What am I writing? Lots of essays based on my experiences with Cushing's and recovery, songs, and even revisiting some creative writing pieces that have been waiting patiently for me to get better and notice them again.<br />
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Jumping into the next phase of existence!Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-73058942506541756302018-08-31T10:24:00.001-07:002018-08-31T10:24:55.194-07:00Healing up!Just to update on one of my previous posts:<br />
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I had the minor surgery. It went well. Unfortunately, I didn't even have time to prepare mentally for when I needed to be in control of a trauma. I came out of anesthesia a little earlier than expected and simply woke up howling in pain, the mask was still on my face, they took it off, but then I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, and went into panic and shock. The nurse was fantastic, talking to me as she administered a little pain meds, my cortisol, and valium so I could breathe normally enough to give me more pain meds, but by then my body was convulsing and she wrapped me in some huge blanket things with only my face peeking out. She stroked my face and stayed with me until my vitals normalized and I stopped shaking- about 40 minutes.<br />
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So the Compassionate Witness thing didn't really help there. But I had outside resources, namely, the nurse. She said, as I was freaking out, "I have four kids. I'm going to take care of you." And then I was taken to the recovery area where my husband was waiting. Within an hour I was able to whisper answers to their question (my voice was gone from the breathing tube and howling) and walk to the bathroom so they sent me home, where I'm healing quite nicely.<br />
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The difference in the speed of healing between this surgery and the last is profound. Yay! Onward!<br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-64467256509301076862018-08-29T15:16:00.000-07:002018-08-29T15:16:03.703-07:00Independently Choosing To StayOn the most basic, statistical level, married men live longer than their single counterparts. The opposite is true for women. Staying married should be a thoughtful choice for us. I am on my 24th anniversary of starting to date my husband. Dataversary? Getting married was anti-climactic for us, we were already living together with a baby by then. But the first night we kissed and became a couple is our special memory. And every year there is a part of me that wonders about it.<br />
<br />
Marriage is a constant choice. Every anniversary I am confronted with the years ahead and the question of whether or not I want to spend them with this person. Sadly, for much of our time that choice of "yes" was based on fear. Being a single-mom with only a high school diploma with no happy alternative home options, made me vulnerable. We lived far away from my family. Then we chose to have a second child. It was at this time that someone asked me, "Are you happy?" And I answered, "That's not something I can ask myself right now." This doesn't mean I <i>wasn't</i> happy, but I couldn't take the chance to find out and risk the secure place for my kids.<br />
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My mother was a single mom of two and struggled until I was in second grade and she remarried a rich, abusive man. We were pulled out of poverty, but I can't say we were happier. Luckily, I can honestly say my husband is not abusive (or rich.) He never exploited my dependence on him, in fact, he never demanded anything, barely asked for much. Still doesn't. I chose to have our babies, I chose to stay home with them teaching music on the side, I chose to homeschool, which kept me outside a lucrative career.<br />
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My disabled and recently divorced mother came to live with us while the children were young. Although her presence and babysitting helped me start school again, she would never have been able to support us financially if I left my husband, or physically able to watch the kids if I had to work full-time. During the years I was getting my degree I was still completely dependent. I chose my path and he supported us unfailingly the whole time.<br />
<br />
But was I happy? Was he? There was a brief few months we wrote each other emails, I'm not sure who started it, detailing our feelings. It wasn't helpful and we decided to stop. It had become a blame game. But I stayed. And he stayed. And we definitely had happy times. Many of them. We just didn't want to talk about it. Is that a healthy relationship?<br />
<br />
After graduation, I continued to homeschool my kids, but as they were older and didn't need my time as much, I started a business. I was finally feeling like I could be an independent person, support my family if I needed to, not rely on someone else, make a free choice to stay or not stay without fear. Alas, this is also when I started to get sick.<br />
<br />
It was gradual, but eventually devastating. Over ten years I slowly degraded until I could barely work, I continued to homeschool but couldn't do everything and farmed out their schooling to classes and other organizations more and more, simply being a taxi cab. I was completely dependent on my husband's health insurance as I went around and around trying to get help.<br />
<br />
My business failed. I could barely do my parental duties and household work. I was more dependent on my husband than ever. Now not just financially but physically as well. I was depressed and vulnerable. It got so bad I finally realized I was slowly dying and would be dependent forever. Ironically, that is when I made, perhaps for the first time, a whole-hearted choice to stay in the marriage. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.<br />
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This person had never let me down. Little things? Sure. Big things? Never. Even though I was so sick, I kept the hope that one day I would get better, so better that I could finally be there for him. Let him know I wasn't staying because I had no other options, because my life depended on it, but because my heart did. It was at this time that he told me that he didn't need me to do anything for him, that he just wanted me to be there. He didn't want me to feel like I had to live up to some standard. He married me, not because he needed me, but because he was happier when I was around. That may not be the most romantic thing ever, but it was exactly what I needed to hear.<br />
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I chose to stay because he was the best partner ever. I always loved him and he loved me, that was never an issue, and something we always said and showed each other in gentle ways everyday. But creating a lifelong partnership is hard work and tough commitment. And I was ready to keep trying, God willing.<br />
<br />
He was.<br />
<br />
I was finally diagnosed with Cushing's, and on the way to recovery as I type this. Within a year of a life-changing surgery, I knew I would continue to improve well enough to work again and be financially independent if I chose. This all coincided with our two children leaving home and living their own independent lives. I am finally free to choose without fear.<br />
<br />
And on my important anniversary, the one where I started dating the man who would ask me to marry him a scant month later (I said, "No way! We're too young!"), I now happily say, "Yes."<br />
<br />
<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-34017862614653733782018-08-24T16:25:00.001-07:002018-08-24T16:25:15.790-07:00Compassionate WitnessI'm writing outside on my stoop while listening to a chainsaw at 7am, drinking my tea (White Cab from Short and Stout). One of my neighbors is cutting an enormous cottonwood. There are several trucks and the one guy is in a bucket high, high up, sawing away branches. Someone I know is recovering from open heart surgery. Doctors have to saw through the breast bone to get inside. Hearing the metallic whir on those branches right now makes me wince.<br />
<br />
On Monday I'll be going in for another surgery. It's minor, an epigastric hernia. My belly is always sore, so I'm getting it fixed now before it gets any bigger. Years ago when it first came to my doctor's attention, he said it would be "in and out" procedure. Well, twenty years later, it's big enough to require general anetheisia and three more holes in my abdomen.<br />
<br />
(On a side note, I got the original hernia after being pregnant with my son. As I get it fixed, he's going off to college.)<br />
<br />
This morning I awoke with a dusting of fear, remembering my surgery for Cushing's last October: going into shock in the recovery room, how incredibly painful those first few days and nights were, how I caught mono right away and spent months recovering from that while going through withdrawl from the cortisol. I know it's not the same, but I also know it's gunna hurt. Lying on my bed, noticing my pulse quicken, my skin became hot, and I worried I might have a panic attack. I turned on my Insight Timer app and scrolled through the Meditations for Anxiety section, choosing one on dealing with trauma by Christina Sian McMahon. It was helpful.<br />
<br />
She talked about trauma as being an overwhelming experience because you have no outer and inner resources to cope. Outer resources being someone or someway to save you at the time. Inner being able to deal with it in a healthy way in the moment. There are two kinds of trauma: big, sudden events and smaller build-up events of similar nature. I guess my trauma is both: the adrenalectomy was the big one, and the after effects were all related but smaller. Either way, the memory is blowing this upcoming minor procedure waaaaay out of proportion.<br />
<br />
After the brief talk, she led a meditation exercise to bring up a minor trauma "to start with." I chose the moment when I came out of surgery and went into shock. Maybe that wasn't the littlest one, but that was the one that was causing me the most trouble. I went back into that moment:<br />
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I was wheeled into the recovery room completely out of it, drugged up and unable to process everything around me, people poking and prodding, everything hurt, my belly felt odd. And then I watched the nurse put medication into my IV: a huge dose of cortisol. I needed it because my body doesn't produce it myself. And then... "I feel really weird," I mumbled. My husband and father were there with me and started getting upset, pointing to my vitals and telling the nurse "her vitals are dropping!" I closed my eyes and heard some chaos, then a strong voice commanding me, "Rebecca, open your eyes." So I did. The nurse starting asking me questions but I couldn't speak. In that moment I was completely helpless and felt even worse than before.<br />
<br />
I recovered pretty quickly, but the memory has stayed. I could barely move or think and then the world dropped out from under me. After my upcoming minor procedure is done, I will be given the same huge dose of cortisol because I'm still not making enough on my own to survive that kind of physical stress. My fears are founded. But I don't want the psychological trauma.<br />
<br />
In the meditation exercise, I went back to that memory, my emotional place of terror, and became a "compassionate witness", observing my emotions and validating them. I pictured myself holding the head of memory-me, forehead to forehead, and saying soothing words, "It's okay to feel this way. You can be afraid. Everything you are feeling is just right. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved."<br />
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The point of the whole thing is to practice with this "compassionate witness" so that when something traumatic happens in real life, it jumps on stage, noticing what is happening and soothes in the moment. Building my inner resources so I can deal with stress. Going into my upcoming surgery, I will keep my inner help in the wings, ready.<br />
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We'll see.<br />
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Rise untethered.<br />
Move with intention.<br />
Be grand.Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-14173333941036031182018-06-24T13:23:00.002-07:002018-06-24T13:42:25.736-07:00Writing Update doobeedooHey peeps,<br />
<br />
I was writin', then vewy vewy quiet, and then suddenly writing again! And now quiet again. Updates:<br />
<br />
<b>Writing:</b><br />
As I got sicker from Cushing's I was no longer able to keep up this blog. Then after my surgery in Oct 2017, my brain started to function better and I started writing again. After a few posts here about my illness, I decided I should write a memoir about the whole experience (actually, my friend Allison suggested that), part therapy, part wanting to help others avoid what I went through. Or at least know they aren't alone.<br />
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I'm also writing a romance novel with my sister as total therapy to focus on something that has nothing to do with how crappy I feel or the state of the world around me. Anxiety is a killer.<br />
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<a href="https://geekmom.com/author/rebecca/" target="_blank">GeekMom.com </a>is still humming along. I'm no longer a Core Contributor, but continue to keep my feet in the water.<br />
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<b>Tea:</b><br />
I'm on the Albany Tea Festival planning committee and we're working on a bigger, better festival this coming Fall. Woot!<br />
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<b>Music: </b><br />
Due to pain issues, guitar isn't happening. However, I'm practicing the piano more. No composing, but considering I have like, 300 songs in my file, I think I'm good. If I get bored (crazy laughter) I can always record the songs that never made it onto previous albums. No plans to perform soon. Not up to that energy level or anxiety. Nope. Nope. Nope. If <i>you're</i> bored, you can listen at <a href="https://store.cdbaby.com/Artist/RebeccaAngel" target="_blank">cdbaby</a> or <a href="https://rebeccaangel.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">bandcamp</a>. Or if you want to see my FACE, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZG1QYAD1zGg" target="_blank">old YouTube videos</a> (under fw5blue) should do it. Did you hear the improv <a href="https://youtu.be/rx9IEST0GAs" target="_blank">Lincoln in Hot</a> video? I thought not...<br />
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<b>Teaching:</b><br />
Barely. I'm only working with my private students at the moment, and cut down for the summer to rest more. Finances are tight, so don't expect any fancy presents.<br />
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<b>Health:</b><br />
Recovery is continuing at a steady pace. I have to keep my cortisol levels high enough not to go into shock, but low enough to make me miserable and wake up my remaining adrenal glad. But I look closer to "normal" than before, and I'm sleeping better (though not great) so signs are positive.<br />
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<b>Social: </b><br />
I get overwhelmed by people, so have been keeping a low profile in real life, however, I'm active on social media because...I'm sure there's an addition on some level, but whatever, get high with me on twitter (@rebeccaangel) and instagram (fw5blue) mostly.<br />
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<b>Olympic Dreams:</b><br />
I do hope to attend them one day. Doesn't matter Winter or Summer. I like watching amazing people. Oh, you thought as a participant? (crazier laughter)<br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-31515020579543624712018-04-04T14:28:00.001-07:002018-04-05T07:53:54.286-07:00Teen Parenting Olympics<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">James Breakwell, a very amusing parent and writer, <a href="https://www.indystar.com/story/entertainment/2018/04/04/xploding-unicorn-parenting-olympics-would-judge-you-cold-hard-numbers/483387002/" target="_blank">posted a Parenting Olympics list </a>that showcased the variety of skills needed to raise the younger set of progeny. After I read it, I replied to him:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Very funny, though it seems that this contest rewards skills aimed at keeping your child from killing themselves, which is the point of parenting in the early years, in contrast with the later years being trying to keep the parent from killing the child. A very different sort of Parenting Olympics.</span><br />
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Parenting teens and young adults has its own unique trials that I probably shouldn't post about in case those with the younger set imagine a time when their kid has the abilities to drive to the grocery store, fluently read the shopping list, pay with their own credit card, come home on time, put all the food away, and make you dinner- that it would ever happen. Or that you would want it to.<br />
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And that is the tricky part of Older Parenting Olympics; it isn't a contest of physical skills or even stamina, it's a mind game, a Battle of Wits, if you will, between you and your own immature self. Yes, you thought it was between the parent and teen, but alas, it really is a test of your ability to act like an adult in every trial instead of the petty, selfish, oblivious, sensitive teenager you still are inside.<br />
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The contest would be a series of questions with several factors to influence your decision with no right answer and whatever choice you make will result in a follow up challenge that you will ultimately fail because you didn't see it coming. Actually, you never see these things coming. Let's get to the challenges! (Replace genders as needed.)<br />
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<b>Challenge One:</b> You son asks you to pick up his original piece from the school's art show.<br />
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Factors:<br />
You are very proud he was in the art show.<br />
If it isn't picked up, he may not get it back.<br />
You had already said you would pick it up when he asked you last week, even giving you the permission slip to do so.<br />
He got the date wrong and it's not next week, it's today.<br />
You have a free schedule today.<br />
You have a free schedule because you are sick and cancelled work which you rarely do because, well, money, which goes for things like college tuition.<br />
It's available for pickup from 9am-noon and he is texting you at 11:15am.<br />
He is texting you from the beach on spring break.<br />
You are in the midst of Not Spring in upstate NY.<br />
He said please.<br />
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Your Answer: You get it for him.<br />
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Follow up challenge: This results in a heart emoji sent back, which doesn't seem to cover it and you secretly hope he gets a little sunburn that day, then worry that he isn't using enough sunscreen for real because last time he was at the beach he got sun poisening. You have an "emotional restraint challenge" of not texting a reminder about wearing a hat, and not feeling guilty about the previous petty revenge fantasy.<br />
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Sort of reward: He then also texts that he will make you dinner when he returns as a thank you. Feelings are mixed.<br />
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Surprise challenge: Later that evening your co-parenter both agrees and disagrees with your decision starting a "conversation" about letting kids fail so they learn to be independent. No one wins.<br />
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<b>Challenge Two:</b><br />
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Your daughter is going on her first big trip. She is leaving for the airport early in the morning so you want to say goodbye tonight. Entering her room you see her finishing up her packing. You notice she is nervous. You are too because there are "issues." Say all the right things.<br />
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Your Answer: "Don't forget to say goodbye to Grandma."<br />
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FAIL<br />
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Follow up challenge: She turns to you with The Look. This is the same look before the tantrum at three years old, the running away at nine, and the flip outs at fourteen. You try not to tense. You have trained for this event for many years. The key is to remained relaxed, but focused. You still tense. She responds, "No. Why do I have to?" Is this a rhetorical question?<br />
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Your Answer: "Grandma will notice that you are gone for days, and it's rude not to say good-bye, and she will worry because she cares."<br />
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FAIL FAIL FAIL<br />
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Surprise Challenge: She snaps back, "But I don't care about what anyone else is doing!" How do you respond? The judges of the Older Parenting Olympics are looking for creativity and a good story to tell your grandchildren.<br />
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Factors:<br />
The honesty of her response is staggering.<br />
Equally staggering is that you know she thinks this is a very good and fair reason.<br />
You were an idiot at her age.<br />
Your parents still love you.<br />
You want her to have a good trip experience.<br />
If she has a good trip experience she will go away a lot.<br />
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Your Answer:<br />
You walk away. A couple hours later, ready for bed, you stand in the doorway of her room where she is going over a travel guide. You say, "what are you most looking forward to on your trip?" She looks up smiling and comes over to show you a couple cool places she wants to see. You hug and kiss. Two days into her trip she texts you happy photos and little message, "btw, I did say goodbye to grandma before I left."<br />
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SUCCESS!<br />
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Disqualification! Later you share this story with other parents instead of the hundreds of complete failures. You don't care.<br />
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<b>Closing ceremonies:</b><br />
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I realize the Older Parenting Olympics may seem a discouragement to those with younger kids to continue the race course, but I assure you the "medals" are worth it:<br />
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Bronze: You are out with you older child and they make a joke that is actually, seriously funny. Not because they are cute or clever, but they have the same sense of humor as you do, see the world similarly, and most importantly, wanted to share it with you because they know you better than most people ever will, have seen your best and worst sides, and still want to make you laugh.<br />
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Silver: You drop them off at some random place and offer a quick good-bye, hoping to get home in time for XYZ when they say, "Thank you for everything you do for me. I love you." Those <i>exact</i> words.<br />
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Gold (ish): They keep coming back home. (This may be the booby prize, but that's up to you.)<br />
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Actual Older Parenting Olympics:<br />
What? You thought that was it? Oh, no. That was just the qualifying round. The actual Olympics start with the realization that it was so much easier when you had a way to help or at least interfere because most days all you can do is bite your lip and watch as they fail in real life in ways that matter much more than an art show or being polite. In ways that break your heart as they have theirs broken again and again, and you wish the Olympics would just end already. Wasn't there a cut-off? Eighteen? Twenty-one? When does the worry stop? Never. Instead of medals you get a friend, maybe a grandchild or two, and hope for the future in this person you know but don't know, is you but is not at all you, is special and is very, very special always. Forever. All I can promise is that you get the only medal that matters, love.<br />
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<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand.</i><br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-23009722944506558372018-03-23T15:29:00.002-07:002018-03-23T15:29:58.678-07:00March Sucks. Here's Some Tea and Inappropriate LaughterGod, I hate March. Macbeth, man. He should have known. I'm like an ice-cream server with a group of teen girls trying to decide on their flavor. Are we winter? Spring? Snow? Freezing rain? Sunny? Cloudy? Long-johns? A t-shirt? MAKE UP YOUR FREAKIN' MIND BEFORE I SCOOP YOUR ASS!!! Sorry, just had flashbacks to my days of serving ice-cream in a dining hall.<br />
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Hold on while I make myself a cup of tea. Perhaps a chamomile blend.<br />
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Ah, much better. Now where were we? Yes, March, the little *&%&%^^$#@!!! Instead of my usual ranting and musing about how crappy I feel, I will give you three memories of when I was laughing inappropriately. We all need the respite.<br />
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<b>The Wiz Costume Kerfuffle</b><br />
My sophomore year of high school was the musical The Wiz. My friend Yvette and I were chorus. We grumbled about it, but still enjoyed ourselves. My best friend Allison was Evilene, the wicked witch, and she rocked the part. In one scene, I was with a group of slaves shuffling around the stage when Dorothy and her posse come in and flush the witch (literally). Yvette had her one and only line of running onstage to announce the visitors. Unfortunately, she was in a big number right before and had a quick costume change. Those in theater can see where this is going. One performance, I was moving boxes onstage and groaning or something when Yvette missed her cue. We slaves continued to groan while Allison improvised yelling and cursing us until finally Yvette stumbled onstage. She was slightly hunched over and missing an arm? I knew it was unprofessional of me to stare, but as I grabbed a box in her direction I saw that she had had some trouble with her costume and it was somehow on sideways with only one arm able to come out, and the other hitched behind her, forcing her to look like the Hunchback of Emerald City. I quickly turned my back to the audience and burst out laughing, muffling it as best I could with my sleeve. Allison obviously saw Yvette, heard me, and shot me a murderous look because she <i>couldn't</i> break out and laugh since she had lines and had to carry the scene. A part of me realized I should pull it together for the play, but most of me just didn't care. It was a high school performance that was mediocre at best, maybe fifty of our family members were in attendance in a theater that could fit two thousand (not kidding), I was unimportant to the plot, and was only doing it to have a good time. Laughing at my friend's mistake, and trying to get my other friend to break character seemed like the BEST time. And it was. Afterwards both of them yelled at me and I laughed even more. To this day if either of them bring it up, I guffaw.<br />
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<b>Mystery Science Theater Psycho</b><br />
Freshman year of college I started dating a cutie. He had a similar sense of humor and we reveled in making each other laugh. Since there was no movie theater in the small town, the college would host movie nights over the weekend for $1 a ticket. They played a random assortment of films, including, one evening, Psycho. My cutie and I went to the Friday night showing and it was a freaky film. I jumped, he held me, it was a swell time. We decided to go Saturday night too (considering there was nothing else to do) and brought along some friends, maybe a dozen people all together. Oh. My. God. My cutie and I were horrendous. Creepy the first time around, the second viewing was just a series of "old timey" movie shots. We never stopped making jokes. Every scene had something to make fun of it. We got looks, we got shushed, and considering these are college students, that says how much we were being disruptive. But cutie and I were on a roll; there was no stopping us. Of course, I can't think of a single joke now, but trust me we were SO FUNNY. I'm sure of it. Maybe. Well, we were laughing a lot anyway. Cutie became Hubby and we still love Hitchcock films. Don't you want to watch one with us?<br />
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<b>Getting it on Behind the Sarcophagus</b><br />
One Spring, my sister was performing Beethoven's 9th Symphony which has the most well-known tune in classical music, the Ode to Joy sung by a choir, celebrating life, written by a man who was dying. I went to see the performance, deciding to crash with her for the weekend as well and pretend I wasn't a homeschooling mom of two, trying to finish my degree, with little social excitement. The concert was Saturday, and Friday evening my sister took me out to the Upright Citizen's Brigade, which is a comedy club in NYC. Also in attendance were my high school buddy (and former Evilene) Allison, and my sister's friend, a guy...can't remember his name but he was pretty cute. The comedy club was gold. I laughed so much I seriously considered leaving so I didn't pee on myself. The next evening we all attended the concert. It was beautiful, I'm sure. I can't really remember any of it because Allison, the guy and me were passing notes the whole time making jokes that, of course, we couldn't laugh out loud about, which <i>of course</i>, only made them funnier. The concert took place in a cathedral with the sarcophagi (that's correct!) of Bishops or martyred peasants or whomever surrounding the pews. At one point, the guy passed me this note: <i>Wanna make out behind the marble Bishop? </i>I knew I was not going to be able to hold it in, so I bit down on the heel of my palm, hard. And still snorted a little. Oh, did I mention the concert was a benefit for Holocaust survivors? It was.<br />
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My tea is all gone. But I feel better. I hope this brightened your March day.<br />
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<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand.</i><br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-21181848644389346632018-02-26T08:10:00.004-08:002018-02-27T08:59:07.641-08:00Keeping New Wine in Old Bottles<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="background-color: #d9ead3;">“Perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until we have so conducted or enterprised or sailed in some way, that we feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keeping new wine in old bottles.”― Henry David Thoreau</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your pants are falling down. Belts look ridiculous; you need new pants. You look up in your closet to the shelves of shoved in old clothes, clothes you never bothered to sort because you didn't want to deal with it, too lazy, too tired, not willing to accept that you might be this size forever. Lucky for you. Pulling down something that looks like pants, a whole pile cascades down to the floor. You bite your lip anxiously while trying stuff on, but it fits. Your old jeans that drag at the heel, your old shirt in that rusted orange that isn't your color, but you like anyway. You had gotten rid of the very small stuff years ago, when you simply figured getting older meant going up a couple sizes. But when you kept going up, you just shoved them away.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You show your son, who gives you a hug and tells you you look great. You go back and pick out a brown corduroy jacket with a plaid lining that you only wore once. You burst into tears. Nothing fit that day years ago, nothing was fitting, and you wanted to look nice in church so you went to the consignment store and found that beautiful jacket that fit perfectly and you wore it to church the next day and someone came up to you and asked when the baby was due. You came home and shoved it high in the closet.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You scan the pile of clothes: in-between sizes clothes, clothes that never fit exactly right, and a few very small geeky t-shirt you just couldn't throw away. And you cry more remembering a dress you bought to try and look pretty, when you were never feeling pretty. You had worn it on a beautiful day, walking to meet your husband for your anniversary lunch, and a stranger commented on your weight. You didn't want it to matter, but it did, how could it not? Your weight was a reminder that something was wrong with you, something was very, very wrong and doctors were not paying attention when you said, "I look in the mirror and I'm not me." And you cried while walking to that lunch, but tried to pull it together before you saw your husband, but couldn't because you were so sad and so worried and so, so tired. He gave you hugs and told you you were beautiful and he loved your new dress, and it was a delicious lunch outside in the sunshine. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You take out the clothes from your drawers that are too big now and plop them on the pile. Your daughter comes in and you tell her you don't want any of this, you can fit in the old ones but you don't want them, you don't want ANYTHING here. She quotes you Thoreau and then says, "Get rid of them. You don't owe them anything. They're just clothes." And then she reminds you that you need to drive her to the bus stop so she can go back to school and take her art history test. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So you pull yourself together, which is much easier to do nowadays, promise yourself that you will compliment a stranger on their outfit today, and go.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #d9ead3;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Two days later. Donated.</span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Rise unfettered.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Move with intention.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Be grand.</i></span></span><br />
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Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-30951339223292496162018-02-21T08:28:00.003-08:002018-02-21T08:28:56.834-08:00Trying Hard, Surprising Limits, and Comfortable Failure: A Healthy BrewSipping my new green tea my daughter's roommate gave me from her trip in Japan (smooth with a perfect aftertaste), I am re-evaluating my bar of success. Grocery shopping was one too many things today. I have a head-ache and since my afternoon students cancelled, I could have just rested. Instead I went to the store, cut it short, then crashed on the couch when I got home, not even putting away the food until later. My bar is much lower than I want it to be.<br />
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Around our mid-twenties, my husband, brother-in-law and myself had a few conversations about finding our limits for the first time. It was really about dealing with failure, but we didn't use the f-word. All three of us had been "smart" in school - meaning, we had the innate talents traditional education likes best. This led to boredom in the classroom. For my brother-in-law, he would annoy the other students; be a disruption. For me, I would sketch classmates, or read books under my desk. And my dear husband would try to pay attention but find his mind drifting to fantasy worlds.<br />
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With a few notable exceptions, we never had to try very hard to succeed. Failing at something meant we weren't interested in it. Unfortunately, this meant that real life presented us with our first failure opportunities, and we were lucky we pulled it together. In law school my brother-in-law struggled for the first time, and considered dropping out. Instead he asked for extra help to figure out this new language and succeeded. It was an eye-opener. For my husband, he found himself in extraordinary circumstances trying to get his PhD all alone in a lab under intense pressure to finish quickly because his adviser had already left the school, while working full time to support his family of four. Trying his very, very best let him do just OK. A blow for the guy was both the valedictorian and could do a slam dunk on the basketball court.<br />
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And I was trying to be the BEST MOM EVAH which my kids didn't seem to care when one would bang their head and the other would throw a tantrum in aisle three of the grocery store simultaneously. Since I looked like the teen mom I was, I was doubly embarrassed because I knew society considered me a failure already. As an at-home mom, my physical endurance and patience were challenged, but my brain was bored, so I decided to improve my musical skills. I wrote songs. Took up a new instrument. I went to an open mic and failed completely- couldn't even finish, my hands were shaking so badly. But I went back. And failed again. And kept going anyway. The groceries still needed to be purchased and my kids were too little to leave at home so that continued as well. I learned to live as a total failure and found it freeing.<br />
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When it takes you three weeks at an open mic to get through one song, everyone cheers. When you look like you're too young to own a cat, and your two children say "Thank you", the neighbors are impressed. Surprisingly, when the bar was lowered, I tried harder. No one expected much so I did my best. I defined my own success.<br />
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Then I started to get sick. It was so very gradual with seemingly unrelated symptoms that I kept pushing to continue being the super bestest at everything. But I couldn't keep up. Like my husband years ago, it took my very best to just be OK. And then I couldn't even do OK. But I didn't look sick. My weight gain was noticeable, but most people aren't going to say anything about that. I had to lower my bar myself. I had to slow down before I had a name for my disease. I at first thought I was failing, that I just needed to try harder, but I was under extraordinary circumstances. I had to ask for help. Lots and lots of help. I had to let people know I was sick so they wouldn't expect me to be...me. Along the way I failed other people by not realizing my limits. That's probably the worst part.<br />
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As I am slowly healing, I have to remind myself that the bar is still low for a reason. I pushed myself last week and had a difficult few days recovering. I did it again this weekend, wanting so much to be at my previous level of "normal", and am suffering for it. The doctor called and only had bad news. I'm much more patient with two screaming toddlers than I am with myself. I need to be comfortable in my "failure", realize that a successful day is one that I set realistic goals for myself and try my best, adjusting along the way. It's a never ending lesson.<br />
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One person in this story I didn't mention yet is my sister. She did not have an innate talent for figuring out school. She did just fine in school due to hard work and asking for help everywhere she could. She never expects anything to be easy or simple, and although failure always sucks, she isn't surprised or set back by it. Right now she is a healthy mother of two polite children, an amazing pianist and composer, and has her PhD in molecular biology. If she decided to go into law, I'm sure she would do it at her own pace with lots of help, and succeed.<br />
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<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand.</i><br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-39354043832393149392018-01-26T07:56:00.000-08:002018-01-26T12:40:24.264-08:00Dear Santa: You'll Need The Head's UpDear Santa:<br />
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I realize this letter is a bit early, but considering it may involve some time travel and shape-shifting magic, you better get started on my list.<br />
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1. My son's Christmas present tea. Someone (he can't remember who) gave him a container filled with a delectable herbal tea, probably home-made or a craft fair hence minimal labeling, and I have been "sharing" it with him. Since I (usually) make him a cup of tea at the same time, I do believe that act cancels out any proclivity towards the Naughty list when I just flat out pilfer his stash.<br />
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2. Lafayette. To be specific Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. I was toggling between him and Jefferson because I was listening to <i>Hamilton</i> and remember adoring both men from history class (intelligence and passion = sexy) and then found out they are <a href="http://veronicasawyer89.blogspot.com/2015/11/hamilton-double-casting_1.html" target="_blank">played by the same actor,</a> go figure. But Jefferson had the whole pro-slavery thang, and Lafayette has an adorable french accent when he raps, so the choice was obvious. I'm not sure how this will work since we're both married and exist 200 years apart, but you'll figure it out. You're Santa!<br />
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3. My teeth. Remember the song "All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth"? Well, I'd like to keep as many as possible. Because of the damn Cushing's, the integrity of my bone and dental health is suffering, hence Le Previous Year of Broken Feet. Yesterday I had my first tooth pulled that had already cracked in half. Two more are giving the dentist the side-eye. So this request is not so much getting something as keeping something. Several things. <i>S'il vous plait?</i><br />
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4. The ability to transform into a dragon. I recently read <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19549841-seraphina%22%20style=%22float:%20left;%20padding-right:%2020px%22%3E%3Cimg%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22Seraphina%20(Seraphina,%20#1)" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1387577872m/19549841.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19549841-seraphina">Seraphina</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/357601.Rachel_Hartman">Rachel Hartman</a><br/> My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2272882779">4 of 5 stars</a><br /><br /> <br/><br/> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/7352472-rebecca-angel">View all my reviews</a>" target="_blank"><i>Seraphina</i> by Rachel Hartman</a> and have decided that the scaly, itchy skin patches I have acquired are not from Cushing's but are signs that I am half-dragon. This should come with some sort of magical powers and I have decided I don't need the powers, but would rather just become a gorgeous, mythical, flying beast. Sometimes. Like when politicians are being morons, I could pay a little visit.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> (FYI: I just spent 20 minutes looking for the perfect dragon picture to give you a decent idea, but nothing had that <i>je ne sais quoi</i>.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">5. That the family member who is sick is still with us at Christmas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">6. A llama.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's my list, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>Père Noël. </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">And you should totally hear my 8 year old niece rapping Lafayette:</span><br />
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<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand.</i><br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-25376260393066412622018-01-14T15:09:00.000-08:002018-01-14T15:09:26.933-08:00Sipping Without My Ace of SpadesI have a natural tendency to look on the bright side of life (<i>whistle...</i>) Twenty two years ago, this very week, I gave birth to my baby girl. When my boyfriend and I found out I was pregnant, in college, it was overwhelming and there were many tears. However, not even a week after we had the confirmation, and the adamant choice to continue with the pregnancy, we found the positives. We were sitting on the floor of the university library, he leaning on the wall, and I nestled in front on him, his arms around my still-flat belly. Suddenly one of us realized, "We get to name it!" And we both smiled mischievously, and the fun side of parental responsibility came to fore. We joked around for a bit, but soon enough he said her name, and we both knew it was the one. Find the happy.<br />
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But 2017 was a tough one.<br />
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First of all, it's none of your business, and second, of COURSE I didn't vote for him!<br />
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As was evident in my previous post, I finally embraced anger and despair. This was good. Good for me. "Don't hold things in or they will turn into cancer," was one of my grandma's dying words. (The other was a full on swearing session to Stephen King because he wouldn't finish the damn Dark Tower series before she died. Steve, if you've been haunted by a Sicilian ghost, now you know why.) I keep things in. There's some good reasons in my past for this, but that survival strategy no longer serves me. I know, I know, I know that Cushing's was caused by a growth on my adrenal gland. But when I first found out the news and needed a surgery, I talked with my young nieces about it. My eight year old asked, "But Aunt Becca, will it grow again?" Although I could honestly tell her that the whole gland was coming out so no, the fear that another could grow on my remaining gland is there. The question to myself is, "how did it grow in the first place?" Like my grandmother's firm belief that some secrets caused her ultimate demise, I'm searching for how I can alter my life to keep another growth from forming.<br />
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Yeah, yeah, meditation. I know. I do that already.<br />
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I started 2018 with a guided meditation on letting go of the past year and setting positive goals for the future. In the beginning of my previous post, I stated that my memory of the past year was filled with a cloud of despair. I know it is a human tendency to focus on the negative; it's a survival mechanism. But it's not me. I'm the whistler on the cross, remember? Thinking back to my view of 2017 was like an image I recalled from biology class that showed what our body parts were in proportion to how touch sensitive they were. It's a freaky image.<br />
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Certain events and feelings totally out-sized others. There were plenty of moments of joy and fun and love and laughter last year with my students, family and friends. Yet the anger and sadness clouded my recollection. It's healthy to acknowledge the full range of emotions, but then I need to let them go. Writing the post, publicly throwing my heart out there, was healing. </div>
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In the beginning of that new year meditation, I was guided to breathe in all the negative emotions of the past year. The guide took some time to do this with multiple, slow breaths to really imagine the people and situations that hurt us, blowing them out into a mental white balloon and then letting it float up into the stratosphere to pop and scatter into the basic elements of life. Woo-woo, whatever, it was a good image. I went through a LOT of balloons. </div>
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Next was to imagine ourselves at the end of this new year having successfully completed a goal, intensely feeling that moment. I set the first goal that came to mind and held a published book in my hands. The positive emotions were heady. Quick, the guide said, pick an image that coincided with those emotions. I saw this:</div>
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Finally, we were supposed to make the image and carry it around in our pocket all year as a dedication to the goal. I went to our basement and found a deck that had some cards already missing, but the ace of spades was missing too. Why did we even have this deck? I threw it out. Then found a new deck that I didn't like the colors as much and found the ace of spades to use as my pocket friend. I think I had it four days before losing it on errands. If you find it at the Co-op, keep it for good luck, ok?</div>
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Alas, I'd have to ruin another deck of cards to keep up my image mantra thing. Can't do it. Too much of a gamer. I wish my mind had chosen a cup of steaming tea as the image, then I could just make it come true everyday. <a href="http://www.troyrecord.com/article/TR/20160624/FEATURES/160629910" target="_blank">A Tulsi-Rose from Underground Alchemy</a> was perfect during our frigid days (and more to come.) I'll keep sipping as my back-up. Tea. Ahh... What was I saying? </div>
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Life of Brian, Teen Pregnancy, Sicilian Ghost, Sensory Homunculus, losing my Ace of Spades. In 2018 I shall embrace my more healthy well-rounded emotions while still enjoying my tea. <a href="https://geekdad.com/2018/01/stack-overflow-2018-reading-resolutions/" target="_blank">And reading books.</a> And playing Mad-Libs. An awesome friend and I do Mad-Libs through texting, and then meet up and read them out loud together for good laughs. I've actually been doing this while writing the post. We both needed an adjective. I typed "caffeinated", and she offered, "pumped-up." A fine way to begin the new year.</div>
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<i>Rise untethered.</i></div>
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<i>Move with intention.</i></div>
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<i>Be grand. </i> </div>
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ps. <a href="http://www.methodquarterly.com/2015/02/the-femunuculs/" target="_blank">That weird sensory image has a female version I found here</a>.</div>
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-75220911017116310022018-01-02T07:40:00.001-08:002018-01-26T07:58:59.688-08:002017: The Year You Learned to Let Go, Cuss, and Add Heavy Cream to Your TeaUnder my desk calendar was a letter addressed, "To Rebecca of 2017." It was written by me at the end of 2016. I wasn't sure what to expect because I don't have a very good memory anymore; one of the symptoms of Cushing's is mental problems (both the cognitive and emotional.) But my feeling of what January of 2017 was like was of a cloud of despair. This was before my diagnosis and subsequent surgery, so I was on a slow, depressing road to death. (I'm not kidding around.) Imagine my surprise to read the letter and find a tone of upbeat recollections, a touch of concern here and there, and a cheerful optimism for the future. <i>Was I fucking delusional? </i>Apparently, I was.<i> </i>And perhaps that was the only way I was able to keep going. I will retype some of my letter to give you a taste of it, and my current update on the past year (sans details that would invade others' privacy.)<br />
<br />
<div>
<i>"I can't wait for my foot to heal. I miss walking."</i></div>
<div>
You miss walking? Me too. You get another six months with the stupid boot on. Then you get a few months to slowly learn to walk again, then surgery, slowly get strength to walk again, and now sub-zero temperatures. You will curse a lot in 2017.</div>
<br />
<div>
<i>"...met with an endocrinologist for the first time...and the thyroid medicine has really helped, but I'm not feeling totally better yet. Maybe I will ask the doctor to increase it?..this latest diet is hard but hopefully will help...sleeping is still not good, but the allergy sprays are working..."</i></div>
<div>
Alright, let's just get this part of 2017 on the table: No chica, he won't increase your thyroid meds because that's not the main problem and that endocinologist is an idiot, no diet is going to work and that latest one sets you on a tailspin of depression that your husband worries so much for your mental health, you will continue to wake up every hour of the night making your body degrade in front of your eyes and you question your existence every 3am, and the allergy sprays are helping you breathe, but are also the reason your feet are not healing and contributing to your real problem: You Have Cushing's Syndrome Caused By A Tumor On Your Left Adrenal Gland. You find this out late Spring, finally realizing all your problems were related, curable, and NOT YOUR FAULT. After finding this out, you add heavy cream to your tea and enjoy it immensely.</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>"...maybe Trump won't be as bad as everyone expects?"</i></div>
<div>
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oh, oh, I think that's the funniest part of this letter! Hahahahahaha!<br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>"...is looking for a new job. I'm so curious to what comes next!"</i><br />
Curious? Interesting word, Pollyanna. Although your husband found a good part-time job, time is running out and nothing is happening. Yes, you have become more open to possibilities, and yes, you have become more accepting of uncertainty, but let's be honest now: "Curious" has become "worried."<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"...looking forward to geeky cons, they're so much fun!"</i></div>
<div>
No you're not. Who are you trying to kid here? You <i>wish</i> you were looking forward to them, but you really just want to curl up in a ball in the corner of the couch and never leave the house. Here's the low-down for cons in 2017:<br />
<br />
You attend Arisia with your son, and afterwards realize there was no fucking way you could have survived without his help. You can barely function. You only keep going because he is with you and you want him to be happy. It's a fantastic convention, and in your haze of physical problems and depression, you manage to find the highlights (Stephanie Law, Deadpool, Kittens of Doom), but I wouldn't call that "so much fun!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And PAX East? You are looking forward to going away for the weekend to run away from life, from the unending problems, from the increasingly concerned looks and conversations from family and friends about your health and your husband's job search, and if you are truly honest with yourself, it is a chance to sit alone and despair. You aren't even sure you will go to the convention, maybe just stay in your hotel room for the weekend. But then a couple days beforehand, your friend finds out you are going because you are on a GeekMom panel (which you are getting anxious about because you can't think straight and are so afraid of sounding like a fool) and he's there for work and won't it be great to hang out ALL WEEKEND?! No, you think. No. I don't want to pretend everything is fine. I don't want to put on my happy face. You are really sick of your happy face. But you lie and say "Great!" Then as you walk across that long bridge to the convention center in the snow, alone and cold and slow with a walking cast, you decide you will not put on a happy face. Your friend can hang out with you or decide to leave, but you are done pretending. He meets you inside the con and is happy to see you. You complain, you are sad, you play poorly at games because you can't concentrate. He asks if he can stay at your hotel because it's easier than driving all the way back to his house. You do not smile or act excited. You tell him you don't sleep well. He doesn't care. He helps you walk across the bridge and get back to the hotel when you are too tired to read the signs and slip on ice with that damn boot. In the room, he listens to you talk about life and crap. You listen to him talk about life and crap. He goes to sleep. You wake up many times. Because he is there, you don't cry. The next day at the con you both attend a panel about chickens. You both find this highly amusing. You meet GeekMoms and are embarrassed by what you look like and know you sound stupid, but they are very nice and seem even cooler than you imagined online. Your friend gives you big hugs when you leave and hopes you feel better soon. You go home and complain that you didn't get a weekend all alone. In retrospect, you realize God had sent an angel to make sure you didn't.<br />
<br />
And all you will remember of ConnectiCon 2017 is how cute your friend's daughter is. Damn, you wish you lived closer.<br />
<br />
<i>"...I hope we have more games. That's fun!"</i><br />
Can you stop with the exclamation points? Seriously. You sound like a third grader talking about the zoo. But yeah, the RPGs with friends were fun in 2016, but didn't continue with that group. Instead you, hubby, son, and two other friends start a new campaign. And it is one of the highlights of the year. Spending time as a family, sharing a meal and game with lovely, funny people, and most importantly, your husband spending hours of free time planning the campaign. He even admitted it was great to focus on something other than looking for a new job or my health problems. Go elf mages, go.</div>
<div>
<br />
<i>"...sad about my Dad." </i><br />
Yeah, I know. But guess what? Oh, Rebecca of 2016, you are not going to believe what happens in 2017. Your dad becomes a superhero. He's the one that starts the chain of events that leads you to diagnosis and surgery and recovery. He is with you every step of the way. Oh, resigned Rebecca of 2016, I won't spoil the future of 2017 with your dad because that relationship is the best part of your year.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"Family vacation was nice. I love the Olympics!"</i></div>
<div>
What rose-colored glasses are you desperately holding to your face? I won't go into detail here, but even I remember the family issues during the 2016 vacation. Though the ocean was lovely on your broken feet. In 2017 you get to be in the ocean again at the Hidalgo family reunion. It's both healing and very difficult. You love your family, but could barely get the energy to be "normal." And yes, I still love the Olympics. Winter in Korea 2018! Wooooo!!! (Not enough exclamation points for that!)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"...I think the meditation is helping with panic attacks."</i></div>
<div>
<div>
It certainly does. Remember in years past when it was multiple times a day? In the beginning half of 2017 you are down to a couple a week. Once the diagnosis is given, they mostly go away. Since the surgery in October you haven't had any huge attacks at all. (Yeah, some anxiety, but life is life, and you're no zen master.) Coincidentally, the intense, daily heartburn also goes away. Maybe not coincidence.<br />
<br />
<i>"...and the kids are doing fine. Hope that continues."</i><br />
It does. God is good. You did alright, mama.<br />
<br />
<i>"...some other things I did this year..."</i><br />
For 2017, it's what you didn't do that's life changing. Sweetheart, you learned to let go. Perhaps for other people, they wouldn't have to have two broken feet, intense body pain, crushing depression, anxiety attacks, debilitating allergies, lack of sleep, etc, etc, to get them to slow down. For you, The Little Engine That Could needed to become Ferdinand. You give up TeaPunk Tales, all other creative writing projects, change to Occasional Contributor on GeekMom, no more cooking classes, quit the co-op committee, relinquish being secretary of the Creation Care Team, quit teaching choirs at Consortium, quit teaching preschool music classes, do not sign up to teach at HENAA for 2018, sing only occasionally at church, and embrace Yin Yoga.<br />
<br />
As you slowly let go of what defines your life, you also let go of trying to control it. Since you were a little girl, you demanded, "I do myself!" This may have helped as a young mom, but no longer serves you. 2017 was the year you let other people help you. The last remnants of your ego sail off to Hawaii with the confession of you-will-know-who, leaving you on the shores of WTF? where you stuff the last of your pride into a bottle and toss that as well. You accept every crate of rum from passing ships with no promise of return payment. They all seem fine with this. In fact, many want to get drunk with you on your shores, singing and carousing loudly in defiance of the crap that comes with life.<br />
<br />
To Rebecca of 2018: I have no clue what happens next. All the Rebecca's of the past hope you learn from their mistakes, let go of their regrets, and enjoy the waves.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand.</i><br />
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Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-71266243491574163372017-12-27T08:34:00.000-08:002020-11-24T16:51:47.320-08:00The Crap Theory (with Chai Sisu)There have been many attempts to describe to "regular folk" the challenges of those of us who have chronic illness. <a href="https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/" target="_blank">The Spoon Theory</a> is a good one. <a href="http://trexismyspiritanimal.com/2016/12/20/matchstick-theory/" target="_blank">The Matchstick Theory</a> is a little more apt. But I'll attempt my own called, The Crap Theory. This is less about choices of energy and just...about what it's like to always feel like crap.<br />
<br />
You wake up feeling like crap. You slept crappy. There have been days when you don't get out of bed, but over the years you realize it doesn't make you feel less crappy physically, and mentally it makes it worse, so you get up. It's slow.<br />
<br />
You move your body. It hurts. It's frustrating. But you do it anyway because overtime the crappiness will increase if you don't.<br />
<br />
You meditate. You still feel like crap, but you're ok with it. Mostly. Not really. But you <i>want </i>to be ok with it. You also want to be a superhero.<br />
<br />
You get ready for the day and interact with people who love you. You want to tell them all the ways you feel like crap, but they already know this. They know it so very well, that you decide to spare them the details and talk about other things instead: the upcoming cold snap, car coordination, we need more eggs, and you reluctantly watch a "really short!" video with your kid. You laugh. For a moment you forget about feeling crappy. Or maybe the caffeine is kicking in.<br />
<br />
Your body tells you its time for a rest because you feel like crap, but seriously, you just got up, so you push yourself. You have realized over the years that mentally it's better for you to do things even if you feel like crap. So you do things. It's slow. Sometimes it's painful when it wasn't just the day before. Sometimes you can't do certain things at all. You often cry. You remember that you forgot something important. Crap.<br />
<br />
You rest. There are no questions about this. There are no others options.<br />
<br />
Eventually, you get yourself moving again with whatever works. You may feel like crap, but you make a damn <a href="http://thesnootyfoxteashop.com/shop/chai-sisu/" target="_blank">good cup of tea</a>.<br />
<br />
You do more things. You interact with people. You feel like crap so you are impatient, inconsistent, and moody. Over the years people distanced themselves from you. You understand, but it still hurts. Then a friend sends you a Loki gif and the crappiness is alleviated by his glorious purpose.<br />
<br />
Today you can eat. Sometimes the crappiness keeps you from this, but not today. This makes it a good day.<br />
<br />
Today music sounds right (sometimes it doesn't), and it doesn't hurt your head (sometimes it does) so you play some while cooking. You move a little. To anyone else, this is not dancing, but in your mind you are a hoochie mama.<br />
<br />
You rest. You are annoyed. Did I mention you feel like crap? You look at your to-do list and cross out things, not because you got them done but because they never will. You feel guilty as someone else cleans up after you.<br />
<br />
You lose yourself to fiction. Depending on how crappy you feel, the format changes. Today, it's a book. Seriously, the girl should pick the 600 year-old ghoul over the wishy-washy werewolf. You come back to yourself and remember you feel like crap.<br />
<br />
You are the first to get ready for bed. You stand by the bed and stare at your pillow and the litany of exactly how crappy you feel and how this may be FOREVER starts to unravel your soul. But there is a spark inside of you that crap can't touch. It knits you back together again. That meditation breathing comes in handy.<br />
<br />
You get in bed and tell God you feel like crap because if you have to live with it everyday, then He can hear about it everyday. He tightens the strings on your soul. You pray for other people and feel perspective. The person you love comes in and kisses you goodnight. You cry a little. You remember the good parts of the day. You feel like crap, but close your eyes and hope for the best.<br />
<br />
You open them again remembering something important you forgot, again. Crap.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand. </i>Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-51474637238064733302017-12-19T13:15:00.001-08:002018-01-26T08:01:27.983-08:00Body, Mind, and Spirit Discuss Over Tea: A One-Act PlayINT. <i>Small, dark bedroom. A large form is under the blankets of the bed, covers drawn over its head. There is a knock. The form does not move. Another knock. No response</i><br />
<br />
SPIRIT <i> (A small child's voice behind the door.)</i><br />
Body? We're coming in.<br />
<br />
<i>No response from the form on the bed. The door opens and SPIRIT runs in. She is a five year old girl with a glowing, light-brown complexion, sparkling eyes, and a halo of dark curls. She is swathed in a bright blue sari with shining silver thread. She jumps on the bed.</i><br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>While Spirit hops up and down on the bed, MIND leans on the door frame. He is a thin, androgynous-looking young man with a blond ponytail and fitted clothing. He is trying to look casual, but is really on the door frame for support. </i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Don't you have to go to the bathroom or something?<br />
<br />
<i>There is a GRUNT from the form and the covers are pushed off slowly. Spirit hops off the bed and grabs the hand of BODY. Body is a large, hulking ogre lady wearing pink, snuggly pajamas. She has a pleasant face that is very sad. Body lets Spirit pull her up off the bed.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't feel good.<br />
<br />
<i>She cries. Mind and Spirit hold her up and they shuffle out of the bedroom.</i><br />
<br />
INT. <i>A small, old kitchen with herbs hanging up everywhere, and a big stove with several pots lightly bubbling. BODY, MIND, and SPIRIT enter and sit at a sturdy wooden table. </i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I want ice-cream.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
No.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
I want ice-cream.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
With all the stomach problems, I really<br />
don't think dairy and sugar are going to help us.<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't care.<br />
<br />
<i> Mind sighs and turns to Spirit who is smiling expectantly.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
What are you really looking for?<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Comfort. <i>(Pause)</i> I'll make tea!<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't want tea.<br />
<br />
<i>Mind and Spirit GASP. Then body smiles a little.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Kidding.<br />
<br />
<i>Spirit jumps up to make a pot of tea. She pulls a stool around with her to reach any high places, and HUMS a pretty tune.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Mind pulls out a laptop from a nearby cabinet and opens it on the table. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Body puts her head in her hands.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Ok. Let's recap the week and plan. How are you feeling?<br />
<br />
BODY <i>(looks up)</i><br />
Like a forgotten Christmas package in the back<br />
of the mail truck being banged around.<br />
<br />
<i> Mind starts typing.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Excellent description. I should use that in a<br />
story someday. But can you be more specific?<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Stiff and sore muscles when I use them,<br />
sometimes painful. Joints are painful.<br />
Head is tense. Right foot swollen<br />
and hurts.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
We need to call the doctor about that one.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
I don't like talking on the phone!<br />
<br />
MIND and BODY<br />
We know.<br />
<br />
<i>Spirit pours hot water into a teapot and brings it over with three cups. She plops happily into her seat and blows on her tea. Body picks up a cup and enjoys the warmth. Mind absently takes a cup and sips while still typing with one hand.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Still can't breathe well so not sleeping.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
We have allergy shots tomorrow.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
The ladies there are very nice, but the<br />
needle always hurts so much.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Mind pats Spirit on the head.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Extra sensitivity, numbness and swelling.<br />
But the biggest one is my digestive system.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
But the nausea is gone, right?<br />
<br />
<i>Body nods and Spirit gives her a hug, her tiny arms barely going around the large being. </i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
But the diarrhea is troublesome.<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Yeah, I'm losing weight but not in a healthy way.<br />
<br />
<i>Mind suddenly lays his head on the table. Spirit comes over and pats his head.</i><br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Why don't we take a break?<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Sounds good to me.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
<i> (muffled)</i><br />
We only just got up.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
How about we play a song on the piano?<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I'm too tired.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> MIND picks up his head and takes a deep breath.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Let's decide on what we need to do today-<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
We don't <i>need</i> to do anything. We are being<br />
taken care of by people who love us.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
What we <i>want</i> to accomplish. Then<br />
play the piano, then rest, and then<br />
do something on the list. Ok?<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
A very short list.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Let's play Christmas songs!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Starts typing.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
I have a plan if we have digestive problems<br />
again. We are on day three of nothing major.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Maybe it's all done? Yay!<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
It won't last. It's because we increased the<br />
medication from being so sick. Once we<br />
start decreasing, it will be back to living in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
<i>Mind puts a hand on Body's shoulder.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
I have a new plan that doesn't involve more<br />
or different drugs. And if that doesn't work,<br />
I'll call a doctor and ask for advice. Don't worry,<br />
I'm not giving up.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
I'm proud of you!<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I want chocolate. Do we have any?<br />
<br />
<i>Spirit jumps up and grabs a box from a countertop.</i><br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
A friend mailed it to us because she<br />
loves us. Yay!<br />
<br />
<i>They all take a piece and enjoy it with the tea. Mind types.</i><br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Ok. How's this. We call the foot doctor-<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
I hate making phone calls.<br />
<br />
MIND and BODY<br />
We know.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
So we call the doctor. And then play<br />
the piano.<br />
<br />
<i>Spirit takes another chocolate.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
And then rest?<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Then rest. Then...mop? We have guests Friday.<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't know if I can do that much.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
We can put on disco!<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
And if we do a little at a time,<br />
it will get done. We can read<br />
a chapter of our book, mop a room,<br />
read a chapter...<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
Ok.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
And then we are planning on going to<br />
choir practice tonight.<br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't know if I can handle that.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
It's hard for me too, but we want to sing at<br />
Christmas mass, so we have to go.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
I get really overwhelmed too,<br />
but everyone is so nice, and the music is so pretty.<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Let's do it!<br />
<br />
<i> They all high-five.</i><br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
On to our day! Piano!<br />
<br />
MIND<br />
Call the doctor first.<br />
<br />
SPIRIT<br />
Shoot.<br />
<br />
<i>They all get up.</i><br />
<br />
BODY<br />
I don't feel good.<br />
<br />
They all walk out, Mind and Spirit helping Body the whole way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-54516869663621238942017-12-15T06:49:00.001-08:002018-01-26T08:02:23.334-08:00Dear Life: You Suck. (With A Side of Nettle.)Dear Life:<br />
<br />
You suck. I sit here sipping nettle tea because I was advised it would keep me alive when I can't eat much, which has been the case for several weeks now due to digestive distress. I suppose I should be grateful to you for the existence of nettle, but since the advice came from my daughter who is a recovering anorexic, I mostly want to punch you in the face.<br />
<br />
I am lodging an official complaint. As you know, I was a teenage mother. This subjected me to negative societal judgment in the form of blatant insults to backhanded compliments about my age for YEARS. One of the ways I kept my dignity intact was with my Future Vanity Revenge Fantasy (say that three times fast.) So when a visiting "friend" pointedly praised my pregnant sister (married, in her late 20's) for having children the "right" way, I didn't spill my homemade soup that she was enjoying onto her lap, instead I pictured the future: a college visit with my grown children, and I, glowing in the sunshine, still young and fucking hot.<br />
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Alas, my children are currently both in college and I am decidedly un-hot...post-hot? "Not hot" just sounds weird. Anyway, while they were in high-school, I developed Cushing's, which, as I'm sure you're aware, strips the sufferer of any type of vanity, ego, or pride in appearance. Thus, my complaint.<br />
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I demand recompense immediately. Some examples would be the invention of gluten-free baklava, a chance encounter with Hugh Jackman wherin he declares his endless devotion to me, or perhaps the emergence of latent magical powers. Any or all of these would be sufficient.<br />
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Sincerely sticking up my middle finger,<br />
Becca<br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand. </i>Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-81770744481990787562017-11-19T02:26:00.000-08:002018-01-26T08:02:52.802-08:00Tulsi and Life's PurposeI have received many thoughtful get-well gifts this past fall. One of my music students gave me a Tulsi tea that is so subtle and perfect right now. Tulsi is also called "Holy Basil" and an herb my daughter once grew in our backyard. I'm having trouble drinking and eating much and this particular variety of Tulsi from DiviniTea called "Soul" is all I want.<br />
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A particular story from a magazine keeps looping through my thoughts. I honestly can't remember what the article was about, but the woman writing it told a story about a friend of hers, and <i>that </i>story has stuck. Here it is:</div>
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A man she knows was an amazing athlete. Then he had a terrible accident and became paraplegic. After years of determination he became an athlete again. And then had yet another accident and became quadriplegic. At this point he had some dark times, but he came out of it with a profound realization that his true purpose in life was to love everyone. </div>
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In light of my recent struggles and personal insights, I wondered about how it took this man becoming a quadriplegic to find his calling in life. And then I wondered if what he realized was true for all of us. What if our only purpose in life was to love one another, and what if I fully lived that truth without having to go through a terrible tragedy?</div>
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Now this isn't an explanation for "why bad things happen to good people". I firmly believe that life is unfair and we will never, never, never, never understand why. I also believe that humans are propelled to make sense out of everything, and when something bad happens, we will replay it over and over trying to find patterns and fit it into a neat view of the world. Did you know that earworms (when a song gets stuck in your head) are caused by not knowing the full song perfectly? And if you can get through the entire earworm from start to finish in your mind, it usually goes away? Unfortunately, bad events often don't have a logical, linear trajectory that led to your pain, and there is no satisfactory ending. The other way to get rid of an earworm is to start singing a new song.</div>
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What if loving everyone was my only job in life? What if all this searching for meaning and purpose in work was missing the point? What if I embraced that physically poor man's epiphany for myself? What if every interaction with everyone I meet was about loving them? What if they are mean?</div>
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Anyway, I've been trying to do this for the past few weeks. When I remember, it's quite relaxing. If my real job is to love everyone, than my other jobs are just side-hustles. That took the worry out of much of my constant, "now that my children are grown, what is my life's purpose?!" thoughts. While in a crowd, it makes me listen and notice more. When with people I already love, I am filled with gratitude, compassion, and for some reason, amusement. </div>
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I wonder if maybe the man got into those accidents specifically to tell his story to that woman who then wrote about it in a magazine which I read so I could then share my take on it here so that someone might read it and...what? I don't know. But that kind of thinking will keep spiraling with no final cadence. Instead, I will compose my thoughts into a simple and beautiful melody of love.<br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Rise untethered.</i><br />
<i>Move with intention.</i><br />
<i>Be grand. </i></div>
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-80352865441060442692017-06-16T08:51:00.000-07:002017-06-16T08:51:41.110-07:00Almond Crisp and A Foggy Brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Almond Crisp tea from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/shortandstouttea/" target="_blank">Short and Stout</a> is my favorite flavor of the summer so far. I have the caffeine-free version which lets me drink it anytime of day. With a splash of cream and over ice, it's perfect (and pink!)<br />
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Unfortunately, I'm having a hard time doing much more than drink tea. The last few years my health has been declining. At first I tried to push myself, thinking revving up would cure-all. But this past year, I decided to go the opposite direction and slow down. (And get some new doctors.)<br />
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I tried very hard to keep up my GeekMom posts each week, Tea Punk Tales, this here Steepings, articles for my local food co-op, and personal writing projects with music and fiction. But everything was taking longer and longer to complete, and wasn't so fun anymore. Brain fog.<br />
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At the moment, I still write for GeekMom, though it takes me three times as long to complete each post. I put together very short articles for the Coop Scoop every other month. Aaaand that's it. My brain is exhausted.<br />
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However, the summer gives me more time (less teaching work outside the home). Last week I wrote my first personal song in three years. I also posted on here a little Ode to my marriage. I may be slow, but I've still got things to say. And lots of tea to drink.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-26377383764881505412017-06-09T09:43:00.003-07:002017-06-09T09:55:19.138-07:00Twenty-One Years of Health: A Love StorySipping my tea this morning, I reflect...<br />
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A successful marriage takes three things: shared values, luck, and fucking hard work. This week my husband and I celebrate twenty-one years of marriage. We met in college when I was eighteen and he was twenty. We were the weird ones on campus that didn’t try to destroy our bodies on a regular basis, instead, we found in each other someone else who cared about health, the environment, and trying to figure out how to live a good life.<br />
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Within a short time we became parents, got married, and moved into our own place. It was an abrupt dive into adulthood, but we were committed to each other, our babies, and the kind of life we had talked about in theory, but could now put into action. We stood firm together in the midst of loving-but-critical family in our decisions for attachment parenting, extended breastfeeding, cloth diapers, family bed, homeschooling, non-toxic cleaners, and not giving our kids crap to eat. We had a limited budget, but tried to eat organic as much as possible, learning how to cook all our meals at home. I was diagnosed with celiac, and we all went gluten-free at a time when no one knew what that meant.<br />
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We came from very different backgrounds: he grew up in a farming family in an upstate town with one stoplight. I grew up in Long Island, traveled around the world as a child, and went to a private high school. We each brought heavy baggage and loving gifts to our partnership. I dropped out of college to take care of our children. He worked his ass off to get a PhD so we could give our kids a future. We confused each other, we supported each other; we stubbornly refused to give up on the other.<br />
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I can’t say much about the luck part: we met young and happened to grow up in a compatible way; the hard work is a given for any long-term venture, but the shared values are easier to define. When we met, healthy living was an interest, after having children it became a priority. There is a continual conversation on whole care of our bodies, minds, and spirits. My partner and I want to grow old together, not just survive, but thrive. Our children are now adults, but remain the primary orbit in our universe. Their increasing independence gives us both a chance to gaze out past the familiar horizon and seek out new adventures. The challenge is to keep holding hands along the way.<br />
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This may be too sustainably-harvested roses for you, but hey, I’m telling a love story.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEHuNlPR5NRyHK-4Dt9e179GeJxj-R0GyBMIgBcjQG6lWK5pGec6l6NBBEF4uQe_tRIleOYCeSbRNTNt-8AI2GQlPoAxLq0K5RODIHX7uy-yLa52EMjE6YaVFGkWTnz0r-xTV7hke2A0r/s1600/IMG_1770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEHuNlPR5NRyHK-4Dt9e179GeJxj-R0GyBMIgBcjQG6lWK5pGec6l6NBBEF4uQe_tRIleOYCeSbRNTNt-8AI2GQlPoAxLq0K5RODIHX7uy-yLa52EMjE6YaVFGkWTnz0r-xTV7hke2A0r/s200/IMG_1770.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
Here's us volunteering at a local community garden to bring food to "food deserts" in our city.Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-59303236492067550742017-06-04T16:09:00.001-07:002017-06-04T16:09:15.564-07:00Rooibos Almond Crisp (Short and Stout)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVmnE66lwg3aD_g9CpbgxNMxZ9_SQm2f08OSEw2TPFuvqA3RGXzr1W9YhUVo-r4blMCRzhmmaArp094QJ2X0YUOZlJ8MF3VnUF_vhWYmzaERxXn4Y3vR88t_XYHMonBSEj1hMstLerF_f/s1600/teapunk+play.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVmnE66lwg3aD_g9CpbgxNMxZ9_SQm2f08OSEw2TPFuvqA3RGXzr1W9YhUVo-r4blMCRzhmmaArp094QJ2X0YUOZlJ8MF3VnUF_vhWYmzaERxXn4Y3vR88t_XYHMonBSEj1hMstLerF_f/s320/teapunk+play.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="720" /></a>
Well, the third <a href="http://albanyteafestival.com/">Albany Tea Festival</a> this past Friday was a hopping place! I represented the <a href="https://www.honestweight.coop/">Honest Weight Food Co-op</a> sampling their cheeses for festival-goers and chatting about what cheeses paired best with teas. Then at 8pm, my troupe of voice actors put on my original audio play. The sound effects were groovy, and I was happy with everyone's performance. Thanks family troupe! <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=0BzhSRp0vofrhUFRLcHNoWGRBRWM">Here is a link to the script: A TeaPunk His'try</a>
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Rise untethered
Move with intention
Be grand</i>Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-56305556669519065592016-12-09T11:30:00.003-08:002016-12-09T11:30:59.053-08:00I Still Drink Tea...And I still have a lot to say, but so much is jumbled up that I have a hard time sorting through it all. Until I get back into the TeaPunk Tales groove again, I leave you with this:
If praying is holding the warm cup in two hands,
May we sip in peace.
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-42383471709064663592016-09-01T16:24:00.001-07:002016-09-01T16:24:26.076-07:00TeaPunk Tales #10: The Language of Tea<iframe height="1490" src="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzhSRp0vofrhb3pwZnRMZ0RLRGM/preview" width="590"></iframe>
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-40116163222732104932016-07-04T14:36:00.001-07:002016-07-04T14:36:30.070-07:00TeaPunk Tales #9 July/August<iframe height="1490" src="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzhSRp0vofrhZVdDSHFZYkVfM18wQWFoTVk1NFluemZ6ZHd3/preview" width="590"></iframe>
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-5567284416258103292016-04-30T17:58:00.005-07:002016-04-30T18:00:33.074-07:00TeaPunk Tales May/June 2016<iframe height="1490" src="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzhSRp0vofrhTEdNTnh2N1JlUjA/preview" width="590"></iframe>
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6698025599018589796.post-68607914368929991422016-03-17T08:28:00.001-07:002016-03-17T08:29:14.184-07:00Black: IrishIt's St. Patrick's Day and I think of my Irish heritage. I will make an assumption the family drank tea in Ireland since EVERYONE drinks tea in the British Isles. But when they came over to America? What happened? Did they make the switch to coffee at some point? Was it the first generation that turned their backs on their tea-drinking ancestors? It may seem like a silly question, but it's worth analyzing the cultural habits of countries and why we eat/drink the things we do.<br />
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The Standard American Diet SAD is not healthy: high in bad fats, refined sugars, artificial add-ins, poor-quality meat, low in fiber, whole veggies and fruits, and fermented foods.
Considering the crappy food diet of my culture, I question the cultural beverages as well. Soda? Not inherently bad if you brew your own lacto-fermented kind with fresh fruits. I have done this and it's suuuuper easy and yummy and full of good probiotics. But the American version of canned soda is awful for you. Beer? Humans used to get a lot of good stuff from their bubbly alcoholic beverages, but the popular American brands are just calories. Coffee? An addiction. And considering the rise of the pre-packaged, single-cup at home machines, and sugar-laden throw-away cup lattes at Starbucks (and other cafes) the environmental impact is staggering.<br />
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Sigh...<br />
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Why don't we celebrate this day with a nice cup of Black Irish Breakfast Tea. Yeah. Perfect. Here's to you, great-grandma and great-grandpa Craig!
Rebecca Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08946663469738823304noreply@blogger.com3