The cure for shame is courage, and courage comes from vulnerability, and if I am being honest and brave, I must admit I have not been writing as much here because I have been locked in some shame jail, feeling terribly blocked and isolated. I am not depressed or anxious… yet. But if I don’t listen and write and share the weight of these last shackles of shame, no one will come unlock them.

Shame cannot survive empathy.

My writing teacher told our class (in words better than these clunkers), something I write could save someone’s life. I believe that to be true, because the words of so many writers have saved mine.

Reprising her role in my life as storyteller-savior is Brené Brown. These words of hers echo Alice’s, “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.”

And there is no f’ing way I am giving my power to shame instead of to help someone else, starting with myself.

So friends, and the tens of you that read and comment and share posts and cheer and send me good vibes, I am going to task a risk, KT Tape up my knees, crack open my heart again, and little by little get these stories up and out. Stay tuned.

Here’s Brené if you don’t know her work.

So apparently, in the last 35 days, I took an unintended sugarleg break. Except for tweets. And a bit of Instagram. Oh, and maybe some Pinterest. A dash of Facebook happened and a little Go Mighty too. Also a writing class. (And a writing workshop!) A couple dates. A wedding (not mine, duh!) A baby shower (also not mine, duh!) Too much TV/caffeine/sugar/cheese. Not enough sleep or money.  A lotta lotta work, of the productive and rewarding kind.

But only sporadic running.

And uneven writing.

If I (re)learned anything during my fantastic 5-week writing class, it was the importance of writing every day, even if it is not getting posted or published every day. I realized that my writing routine has been so linked to my running routine, that when the running is off, my writing rhythm has suffered. That is clearly no excuse, but I am kind of surprised at my deep commitment to not just write, especially with what I know is some damn good material rattling around in the noodle.

Alas, it only counts once it’s on the page.

That is why I am proclaiming here that I know I am stuck and that I know how to fix all of this: call the acupuncturist and make an appointment for him to work on my knee; call the writing coach, the blogging mentor, and other supporters to make a plan; go bed earlier; oh and:

After last week’s insane week (Boston Marathon bombing, Boston suspect hunt and capture, Boston love, Senate KILLING the gun control bill, fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas, and my own personal 10-day long asthma attack, I just could not get any Hot Links posted. Work is also cah-razy bizzy, but in the fantastic and inspiring way, so I am very happy for that. I am simply, just very tired at the end of the days. And saying, fuck it, like, a lot.

In the spirit of keeping going and knowing when to say fuck it, I have a few, probably outdated-by-mere-days links that you have already seen. Because after a week like last week, it’s more important tell people that you love them repeatedly, and to laugh your fucking ass off.

The Delta Gamma Letter was fab, but this video is THE BEST. (Full disclosure, I was a sorority girl and I fucking love to say fuck. Oh, and now, “c**t punt.” Brilliant.)

Celebrity Close-Up. SO weird. (h/t Kottke.)

Two awesome stories from my hometown!! That dude who wrote Game of Thrones bought the Jean Cocteau Theatre, AND the city council passed a resolution supporting gay marriage!

And finally, this is the beautiful cover of Boston Magazine. Read about how they pulled it off here. From Editor in Chief, John Wolfson:

To me the cover is about two things: perseverance and unity. By itself, each shoe in the photograph is tiny, battered, and ordinary. Together, though, they create something beautiful, powerful, and inspirational. Remove just one shoe and you begin to diminish, in some small way, the overall effect. Collectively, they are the perfect symbol for Boston, and for our response to the bombings.

I still feel quite shocked and numb, and the words to my feelings are slow to come. I did have a fleeting moment of clarity, about finishing races, which I have done nine times in the past four years. A finish line is a mixed-up crush of elation, pride, relief, exhaustion and celebration, where the accomplishment of a race is realized both in hours and minutes and seconds, and in hugs and high fives.

At each of my finishes, I have basked in my strength, but also in distinct moments of vulnerability. As the body comes to rest, muscles twitching, asthma flaring, sweat turning quickly to shivers, these physical shifts can give way to an emotional overflow. Mostly it’s joy, but sometimes it’s disbelief at what you’ve just accomplished and a burst of reflexive tears just fill your eyes. So when I think, that today, the personally sacred moment of crossing a finish line was disrupted with the most unimaginable violence, the tears that come are just so deeply sad.

My thoughts and concerns are with all of the victims who have been injured, or killed, and with their loved ones who feel so helpless right now. My deepest gratitude to the first responders who ran into danger and mayhem and also to the doctors and nurses who received the wounded with focus and determination to ease their pain. My respect to the officials and citizens of Boston who I have no doubt will care for each other until every last person is healed and justice is brought to the criminals who blew up their city.

My heart though… my heart is with the runners and the finish lines they have yet to cross. Something tells me that when they do, they will let those tears flow and flow and flow.

But because I am 42 (only!), I am fine, I got this, life will go on, and I know how to not slip into a Pit of Despair Over Things I Cannot Control. I am actually happy and content and inspired. And I totally made this pound cake last weekend for my outlaw step-daughter and BF.

That said, onward with some random Hot Links from all over that spectrum of 42-year perspective.

Hat tip again to Kim France for linking to these over-4o fashion bloggers.

Looking forward to my summer soundtrack.

They have heard of Roe v. Wade right? Get off women, jerks.

Best obituary of Margaret Thatcher hands-down. A sampling:

Is that what made her so formidable, her ability to ignore the suffering of others? Given the nature of her legacy “survival of the fittest” – a phrase that Darwin himself only used twice in On the Origin of Species, compared to hundreds of references to altruism, love and cooperation, it isn’t surprising that there are parties tonight in Liverpool, Glasgow and Brixton – from where are they to have learned compassion and forgiveness?

And finally, the sheer goodness power of the Internet. I met Leslie Fandrich in person (!) at Camp Mighty last fall, she of the twinkling-eye, earnest comments and wicked sense of humor. She has the kind of talent with both her camera and her paintbrush that makes it seem like, “omigod, I can totes draw that,” until you go, “no wait, I cannot, I can barely take a proper selfie or draw a stick man,”  because wow, she has some serious SKILLS of the magic kind, but that is why you are drawn into her work so deeply – because you can access it with your own emotions and experiences. The way her photos are both observational and composed creates an instant relationship, with Leslie and her subjects. This is probably why, when I flagged her down to sit with me for the last dinner at Camp, I found myself spilling my guts in a way I only do with very old and trusted friends, or perhaps, my therapist. (Still feel spazzy about that LF!! You get my shoulder next time, drinks on me!) Leslie is just that person. A brilliant, warm, talented, funny, awesome person.

Leslie has also been sharing one of the most intimate human experiences (and one that I have not yet had), the passing of her mother. Her photos, words and art work documenting the intimate nature of dying has been as life-affirming for me as a sunrise hike, belly laughter, great sex, a perfect plate of pasta. Using the word effortless to describe her experience and her work does a disservice to her courage and determination to be present and share it with all of us. Nothing about this is passive… yet there is an ease, and a quiet power, and mostly… great love in her expressions throughout this time. My deepest sympathies are with Leslie and her family as they move into the necessary period of mourning, but also, deepest and most humble gratitude for showing me what love and courage looks like.

Much love to you Leslie, can’t wait to see you in the fall. Let’s try something magical.

Here you go!

This week was the 40th anniversary of the cellular phone. (For the record I got my first mobile phone in 1994. It was one of those beige Motorola “flip” phones and the numbers on the sliver of a screen were orange. A few more Motorolas, then I became a Nokia person, then a couple Blackberries, and presently a devoted iPhone person.) Now of course, we are ALL douchebags.

So, don’t stretch before exercise. Got it. Really? Okay Well Blog, I believe you.

This is totally a thing. I wish this guy was my boyfriend. He makes smoothies and says “fuck” a lot.

Speaking of saying “fuck” a lot, have I shared this one before? Oh man, does this make me happy. Usage of hashtag/fates worse than death might be the most deft employment of sarcasm in the history of the hashtag.

Hat tip to Girls of a Certain Age for this link. 15 Mid-Century Modern Homes that Will Kill Your Children. Darkly hilarious and I want those floating stairs.

I don’t know what a series of photographs like this is called, but I will be a clod and call it stream of consciousness. It is SO much better than that.

Someday, I want to write a book too.

I can’t remember the first time I heard a story about super-human strength, but it was definitely when I was a kid. I feel certain I saw it on TV, on “That’s Incredible” or “Real People.” (Note, we now have the Internet and a thing called You Tube, all but putting these types of shows out of production.) A person rescuing another from a harrowing situation and the lifting of a car or the ripping of a door off its hinges Hulk-style was the general gist of every story. Once, a row of lockers fell on a friend while we were horsing around after gym class, and I lifted the lockers off of her… so I know these feats are true. Soon after, I learned about the endocrine system, and that a rapid burst of adrenaline is the magic juice that enables our muscles to effortlessly lift steel lockers off a friend. Even knowing the science, I was still fascinated with these tales of survival. It did not just happen in movies or to Wonder Woman.

And then, I got older.

Age brought with it life experience, which seemed to have more stories about people getting hurt, maimed or dying than of adrenaline-fueled survival. And these were sometimes people I knew. Worse still, people were getting sad, or hopeless, or addicted to all manner of distractions. And because it can always get worse, I saw that people isolated themselves. I was one of those.

Last fall when I went to Camp Mighty, I started to connect that very idea. That in the face of a long series of fairly large failures, disappointments and setbacks over the past nine years, I was choosing isolation as a coping strategy for far longer than I intended, and that now, if I wanted to get done all the things on my Life List let alone just live my life the way I wanted to, with perhaps some joy and even some love, I would have to find some of that super-human strength to do it.

I got back from Camp raring to go: work was great, the Giants won the World Series, and then, over Christmas break, while in my hometown, I found myself in a room with a man I’d been enjoying getting to know, when his ex-girlfriend walked in unannounced. Everyone was fully clothed; I was still in my coat and hat in fact, but yeah. There I was.

Being lied to. Again.

During Christmas. Again.

I walked out. I calmly, maybe almost too calmly, just got my bag, put my sunglasses on and walked the fuck out.

When this happens to you, and I hope it does not, there is no huge scene, or, regrettably, all the phenomenal and witty comments and comebacks of so many great movie scenes. No writer is feeding you lines like, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” and you’re definitely not shoving all his belongings into his BMW, dousing it with gasoline and lighting it on fire.

Nope. Not for me anyway. I just walked out.

(Later that day, I lost my mind with rage and hurt. Unfortch, I don’t like to eat or drink when I get upset, so I could barely even get the sorely needed booze down my throat at the parties I had to attend later that night. Again, no screenwriter in their right mind would have a just-dumped character not go on a bender. Not very cinematic.)

A pause now in this part of the action to jump ahead to this past Wednesday morning.

There I was, in my bathroom, freshly showered, naked, worried about missing the ferry while hastily putting body lotion on, when I came face… to another face in my bathroom window. After two full beats registering that there was a FACE LOOKING INTO MY BATHROOM WINDOW, I screamed an enraged terror scream that would have made the hair on the back of Jamie Lee Curtis’s neck stand up. The face disappeared, I grabbed my robe and ran out the front door to look for the bastard who I then computed to know, was the boyfriend of my upstairs neighbor. How did I know this? My other neighbor had reported to me that she caught him looking into her windows in much the same way a couple months ago and I remembered it in that split second and so went after him to try and catch him running away.

I. Was. PISSED. I screamed his name and yelled for him to get back here, which did not happen. I went back inside, put my Ugg boots on, grabbed my key and locked the door (in case he came back and hid in my apartment?) and marched upstairs to confront the girlfriend, my neighbor. I was yelling. I was shaking. I was breathing hard, near asthma attack levels, being out of shape from no running. It was 7:15 in the morning.

The confrontation with the neighbor/girlfriend did NOT go well, in that she was in full denial that this was really happening, and basically started to sass me, and gaslight me, telling me I was over-reacting, imagining it, and oh, by the way, he’s moving in here over the weekend.

Oh no you didn’t.

This whole situation WAS full movie scene, from that pervie punk skulking around to peek into my window, to my blood-curdling scream and running outside after him, to the bitchy, reality-show cast member finger-wagging of the 21 year-old girl accusing me of having an “erratic” personality. Are you FKM as they say?

He then CAME BACK to admit he did it and apologize to me, to which I said directly to his face, “You violated my privacy and my personal space. There is nothing normal about what you did. You have a problem. You are not welcome here. I never want to see you again.” Holy shit did that feel good.

The only thing missing was me calling the cops right then and there, which, thankyouverymuch, I did later in the day. He packed his shit and is not moving in. She’s leaving within weeks. If he shows up here, I will call the police again.

Calling on my inner-Taratino, one more flashback, but this time, to a few weeks ago, at an intersection while stopping for a red light.

I was rear-ended by man driving a Range Rover. Totally low speed, a couple scratches to my bumper, but definitely, his fault. We pulled over to check on each other’s well-being and to exchange information. I was shaky from the adrenaline spike and trying to calm my breathing and gather my thoughts. He immediately started telling me the whole accident was my fault and that as such, I should “be reasonable” about the repair issue. “Which means what?” I asked. Did he think I would take less than the full amount for the repair for damage HE caused? Apparently he did. He started to tell me that my car was not in pristine condition anyway, so why should I even care? “Look at this, this dent on your front bumper,” he said, “are you telling me that you drive around with this, but that you expect me to pack for this tiny scratch that my car only caused because you did not go through the yellow light?” Oh my f-ing God. That is how this arrogant, Range Rover driving a-hole was speaking to me. Was I suddenly caught in a hidden-camera stereotype experiment?? I could feel myself crumbling a bit, feeling like maybe he was right, I did have to stop fast, but wait, the light was turning and I was not going to run it… UGH, I was drifting a bit down that hole of not thinking my feelings let alone the truth mattered.

After I reached out to a friend who calmly reminded me to call my insurance, especially since this guy was such a jerk, I did just that. I was thrilled to find out that he was as consistent an asshole with them as he was with me, and that I was not just some special weakling  in a sensible compact car he chose to harangue. He was an equal opportunity ass. (Oh and his insurance accepted liability and car will be getting repaired shortly. Front bumper I have to save up for!)

Back to the scene in December.

I would not change it. Because if I had not calmly walked the hell out of that house with my dignity intact, then had the emotional breakdown even as messy and hurtful as it was and then recovered from that, I would not have gone after this creepy spying schmuck and his abusive girlfriend for violating my home and privacy and sense of security AND been right about it.

I’d likely not have stood up to the jerk who hit my car either.

Superhuman strength, or what we call the fight or flight response is autonomic. We cannot control it. Not even Oscar winning screenwriters can control it, so that is why everyone is always lifting cars and saying awesome shit. But, we have powers beyond a witty line. When we pay attention to how we react, and understand that the only thing we can control is how we react and deeper still how we THINK about how we react, that’s when we do become heroes.

PS,

Dear Universe,

I am pretty sure I get it now. So that thing how you split the ass out of my pants on Friday, I mean, really was that necessary? I totally laughed, because split pants, like unintended loud farts, are totally funny. But Universe… really? You’ve read my Life List right? Please get back to work on that. I promise, I am in good humor. I just would like a nice boyfriend (#59) and a bit more financial freedom too (#14) would be great! Thanks! ;-)

Perhaps it is because I am not getting the hang of meditation, or that I am so behind in miles that I am extra-worried about the state of our world, but this week’s serious list of Hot Links are for the moms and dads of 1st and 2nd graders especially, but also to everyone else, every single solitary American one of you, whether you are a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Independent, Man, Woman, Gay, Straight, Rich, Middle, Bougie, Poor, White, Black, Yellow, Brown, Civil Servant, Professional, Soldier, Trust Funder, Young, Old, Employed, Infirmed  Renter, Doctor, Lawyer, Cowboy, Feminist, Fundamentalist, Catholic, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Yogi, Mormon, Atheist, SNR,  Married, Divorced, Brother, Sister, Cousin, Aunt, Uncle, Grandparent… etc. ad infinitum, so you know, ALL OF US.

This was the week that we celebrated the first day of spring, but also the 10 Year Anniversary of the start of the Iraq War.

This was the week after Lean In and MAKERS made the headlines and was instead the one when the mainstream media felt sorry for the Steubenville rapists.

This was the week that we started playing March Madness, but also dropped the Assault Weapons Ban from consideration in Congress.

Go back up to that list at the top and identify yourself to as many of those categories that fit for you and feel free to add your own. Because that is what a political strategist or a marketer does. They look at the demographics and look for trends that bend toward 51% majorities and then write a law or sell you a product that is offensive to the other 49%. Is that fair? Nope. Not one bit. Because each one of us is way more complex and sensitive – including the assholes among us – than these categories we agree to belong to.

And yet, week in and week out, we keep buying their bullshit and their rape culture and their guns. It’s 100% on us.

To the moms and dads of those 1st and 2nd graders, those of you who can really go there in your minds and hearts and conjure up what it must have been like for the Sandy Hook moms and dads, however much you don’t want to think about this, please think about those moms and dads who got the call that THEIR son or daughter, their…

Charlotte

Daniel

Olivia

Josephine

Ana

Dylan

Madeleine

Catherine

Chase

Jesse

James

Grace

Emilie

Jack

Noah

Caroline

Jessica

Avielle

Benjamin

Allison

isn’t coming home today and in fact,  just got brutally murdered by a disturbed young man wielding a legally purchased assault rifle that pumped out 151 bullets in the span of 5 minutes with such sheer force that their small bodies were actually dismembered, to those moms and dads, please, please don’t just let this one go this week.

Your demographic is the 49% this week. And you’re about to lose.

Just a note to say I am winning at failing at the Deepak/Oprah Perfect Health 21-Day Meditation Challenge. (I also hate the term “Challenge” as used for learning meditation skills, is it a competition? Um, no.) Not only am I not trying very hard, I don’t like hearing Deepak’s voice as he recites the daily thoughts, not because what he is saying isn’t relevant or interesting, but because it’s Deepak, the ubiquitous spiritual guru to the masses with his lovely lilting Indian British accent and books and branding, I am totally distracted and counting his money for him. And I love money! And inner peace!

Oy.

I don’t have a solution yet, but wanted to admit that I know I am responsible for the success or failure of this goal, and participating half-heartedly guarantees failure. I know I have to look for another method and teacher that suits my learning style, one that has a massive ADD chip on its shoulder!