Finding Kind and IndieFlix

When I started middle school, my best friend from elementary school asked the “cool” girls if she could sit at their table.  They said yes – as long as I didn’t join her.  She couldn’t understand why I was upset when she took them up on their offer.

At a party in eighth grade, a girl I knew only marginally stopped me outside the bathroom and told me that she had a message for me from another girl at the party.  The message – that I had a "horse face" and there was no way that the boy I liked (who I gathered the other girl liked too) actually liked me.  On my way outside, I passed the girl who had sent the message.  She didn’t look at me.

At another party that year, a group of girls berated a girl because of her sexual experiences.  Word had gotten out that she was more sexually advanced than most of the rest of us.  Someone called her a slut.  Another girl made a dramatic run for the bathroom, saying she was so disgusted that she had to throw up.  I don’t remember saying anything mean, but I also don’t remember coming to the berated girl’s aid.

Middle school was a rough time for me – as it is for many kids.  I felt ugly and like I didn’t fit in.  While I only remember a few specific events, I can recall the feelings of shame, embarrassment, and vulnerability in an instant.  Some of them have never left me.  For reasons I can’t quite wrap my head around, the comment about my horse face had lasting effects.  I continue to have negative feelings about my teeth and my smile.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic.  In fact, the opposite.  There’s a normalcy to these experiences.  Most people can call up plenty of times they were hurt by their peers as kids.  And I don’t pretend that I was never the cause of any of these harms.  As I suspect is often the case, I don’t remember them.  What has stayed with me is my own pain.

So while I would never say that I was bullied and wouldn’t cry now about anything that happened to me back then, I could relate to some of the stories shared in the recently-released documentary Finding Kind.  The film addresses girl-on-girl bullying by following its two creators across the country as they talk to girls and women about their experiences with the damage women do to each other. 

I watched the film last weekend with my wife, and we talked for over an hour afterwards about our own experiences in school.  I had mixed feelings about the film.  I felt that it only brushed the surface of a topic that has become increasingly disconcerting with the advent of facebook and twitter.  The film seemed to vacillate between tearful stories about painful incidents and images of flowery, bouncy girls holding hands or hugging.  I wanted to see more thoughtful discourse about why bullying occurs and - if the film's creators' premise is true (that bullying and general meanness is worse between girls) - why it is amplified in the female community.  

All that being said, the film struck me as perfect for a young audience.  I could imagine myself as a middle school student watching it and being both buoyed by the realization that I was not alone and reminded to keep a careful eye on my own behavior so that I would always lean towards kindness.  Of course, it is worth noting that I had lots to say about the topic once the film was over, and I've thought about it fairly consistently since then.  So if the documentary encourages thinking and dialogue about how we can all be kinder in our communities, then it's a good step in my book.

It's worth a watch for young girls, for educators, for parents, and maybe for anyone who still holds onto some pain (even tiny pain) from those years.  I'm not sure whether bullying is worse in the female community or if it's just different.  I think this movie could start a dialogue with boys as well about situations where they've felt bullied or have been a bully themselves.  In the film, whenever they pulled out a group of girls to have these discussions, I hoped that someone was talking to the boys in a different room.  It seems clear to me that, while girl-on-girl bullying might be worse or have its own issues, no child is immune from the pain that can be wrought by the mean words and actions of their peers. 

I'm interested in hearing about your childhood experiences and where you think the line is between "kids being kids" (boys or girls) and bullying.  Did you feel like you were bullied?  Did you bully other kids?  Was it worse with girls?

For those of you who are interested in watching Finding Kind, I have good news.  The film airs until May 24 on IndieFlix*, a subscription service that shares independent films and provides significant revenue back to the filmmakers themselves.  To the first 10 readers that comment on this post, IndieFlix has provided me with codes for a free two-month subscription.  So not only can you watch Finding Kind, you can search their whole library of independent films.  And you don't have to give any credit card information.  If you want to continue with a paid subscription after your two months, you just sign in and pay at that point.  Be sure to leave me an email address so that I can send you the subscription link.

*Disclosure: I received a free three-month subscription to IndieFlix.

one little word: GIVE in April

Rather than making resolutions this year, I chose one little word for 2013 - a way to set my broad intention and create a guide for my path as I meander through a new year. I chose the word GIVE, and you can read more about that process here. At the beginning of each month I'll look back on the previous month and share with you how the one little word has been working in my life.

 

I'm amazed how thoroughly this one little word - just four letters - is affecting the lens through which I see my journey this year.  And it's not always this sublime experience of blissfully giving of myself. It continues to bring challenges and opportunities for growth. These past few months, I've been tangled in knots over one piece of it.  Even now, I have trouble writing this post - it has taken me the whole week to get it out.  I feel, in some ways, ashamed of what I'm sharing.  And yet, I'm going to share because I wonder if there aren't others out there like me and if we might encourage each other.

When I started the year, I knew that one way I wanted to give was through volunteering.

So I started looking into possible volunteer opportunities, and one jumped out at me right away - working with a group called Diversity Rocks in Burlington.  It's a youth group that's made up of middle and high schoolers who are part of a growing refugee community in the Burlington area.  I had a friend who volunteered with them, and I was drawn to the group not only because I was interested in working with kids but also because I was excited about engaging with a more diverse population than I interact with on an everyday basis here in Vermont.

I went to a few of the youth group meetings, and I liked the kids a lot.  I loved hearing their perspective on things.  I liked watching them interact with each other - the incessant giggling, the little spats, the posturing.  I felt lighter when I was with them.  And I thought the group was serving a great purpose - a place where a diverse group of kids could come together to share experiences, encourage and support each other.  One of my first times there, we discussed college opportunities in a session designed to encourage the kids to view college as a real possibility for them.  An older member of the refugee community, who came to Burlington as a high schooler before Diversity Rocks began, told his story of studying every waking moment to try to learn English, then working two jobs so he could pay for community college to improve his test scores so he could land a soccer scholarship to a local college. I was awed and humbled by how little he took for granted, by how committed he was to doing whatever he had to do to get what he wanted.  He's still working six days a week and planning to go for a Masters degree.  The members of the youth group worshipped him.  So did I.

There was just one problem.  The group meets on Friday nights from 6:30-8:30.  Volunteers help drive the kids to and from meetings, so that often meant I was out until 9:30 or 10:00. Of course, that doesn't sound like that big of a deal.  But I was struggling with feeling upset about missing Friday evenings with my wife.  I work a cushy state job with boundaried hours, but she works for a law firm. Many weeks that means I rarely see her for any substantial length of time during the week. Without either of us ever saying it, Friday nights became kind of sacred for us.  It was our opportunity to reconnect after a week of busy nights.  Saturdays were filled with errand-running; Sundays she was often back at the office.  But Friday nights we kept just for us.

Until I started volunteering with Diversity Rocks.  I didn't do it every Friday night, but I was trying to make it every other Friday night.  And I kept finding that I was resentful.  I wanted to be at home reconnecting with my wife. I missed her.

I liked what I was doing with the kids.  I just didn't want to be doing it right then.  And every time I felt resentment, the very next emotion was guilt.  How could I be resentful?  Wasn't I the one who wanted to volunteer?  Hadn't I heard how hard that young man worked for everything he got?  Hadn't I heard how he took nothing for granted?  How could I be resentful about spending a few hours on a Friday night with fun kids?  Could I not even give that to a worthy cause?

I spent a few months of Fridays in this resentment-guilt loop, and every time I thought about giving up and doing some other sort of volunteering, I gave myself a stern talking-to about what it means to give of oneself and how it requires sacrifice and how I needed to stop being so selfish.  But the talking-to wasn't working.  My ambivalence kept me from really committing to the group, and I just found myself at home on Friday nights with my wife but feeling bad about myself. 

I'm not sure that I didn't - or don't - need that talking-to.  I still feel ashamed of my resentment, of my inability to sacrifice.  I still feel bad that I'm not going on Friday nights.  But focusing on that shame froze me in place.  Once I realized that the shame wasn't working to make me a better volunteer or a more giving person - that it, in fact, involved an enormous amount of self-focused time and energy, I set it aside as best I could and set out to find another volunteering opportunity.  This one is as a mentor through Spectrum Youth & Family Services in Burlington.  I'll spend one-on-one time with a middle schooler who could use an adult friend.  We'll plan events and activities that my mentee is interested in, and we schedule our meetings at times that work for us.  They've set me up with a 7th grade girl, and I'm excited to begin getting to know her.


After writing all of this, I think maybe the key to meaningful giving is meeting yourself where you are.  You might do amazing things, but if you're doing them filled with resentment, then someone's getting hurt.  You, or the people you're "giving" yourself to, or the people you love.  Eventually that resentment seeps into the giving act itself.  And that's rarely pretty. 

I truly believe that we all have something of value to provide to the world - something special that we can really give ourselves over to.  But if we get stuck thinking that we have to provide exactly this or in exactly that way, then we might end up not giving at all.  We might just walk away.  Maybe one day I'll be ready to give my Friday nights to an awesome youth group.  Maybe not. 

In the meantime, I keep remembering a phrase that I learned one of the first times I visited Burlington.  We were staying with friends who live in a group house, and I was doing a load of dishes after a big potluck.  One friend came into the kitchen and asked me if I really wanted to be doing the dishes.  I wasn't sure what she meant because who ever really wants to do be doing the dishes?  But she explained that she didn't want me washing the dishes because I thought I should.  I could wash the dishes only if I was washing from a place of joy, if I was giving joyfully.  I washed them that afternoon because I was so happy to be there, beaming from a morning of singing and meeting amazing people, because I was overflowing with gratitude for haivng been welcomed into such a warm place.

I've giggled about the interaction on occasion afterwards because in my house, if we only washed dishes when we were doing it from a place of joy, we wouldn't be able to walk into the kitchen.  But the memory keeps coming up again as I've thought through my volunteering struggles.  I want to throw my heart into volunteering.  I want to give the best, most loving parts of myself  And goodness knows, there are enough people and issues out there that we could all find some place where we could give joyfully.

I hope I've found mine.


A look back:
one little word in March
one little word in February
one little word in January
 

A Change Will Do You Good

So this is happening.

In less than a month, we'll be closing on our house and moving in.  And while I know this change will do me good, I can never get excited about packing.  This time is no exception.  

But as I tape those boxes, I keep reminding myself this move will be the last for at least a few years - and maybe more.  I've moved almost every year for the last 14 years.  That's too much change for me. 

But this change - this one, really big change - just a little over a year after that other really big change is so exciting.  I can't wait to turn the key in that door and know that it's OUR key and OUR door.  I can't wait to put down roots.  It's a cliche, I know.  But it's so perfect.  It says exactly what I mean.

I can't wait to root myself to a place, to a home, to a community.  I can't wait to grow from that place.

So I pack.  I move through the overwhelm and the feeling of impossibility when I look at a room full of stuff, and I pack.  

I pack and I pack and I pack. 

It's so worth it.

April Photo Walk: Spring!

Yesterday I grabbed my camera and took Jammer on a long walk, on a mission to scope out every beautiful little sign of spring I could find.  I thought perhaps I was still too early, since most of what I saw were little buds on trees.  But looking back through the photos, there is no doubt that spring is upon us.  I've never been so excited for it or in such agreement with the good ol' saying, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." 

The Things I'm NOT Doing

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine mentioned that she wanted to talk to me about my creative life - specifically, how I balance having a full-time job, commuting, being married, and finding time to lead a creative life.  

I almost laughed out loud at the notion that I've figured out how to balance ANYTHING.  But then she said, "I see all these projects and things on your blog, and I just keep trying to figure out how you do it.  I could never find the time." There was something in the way she talked that made it sound like I was some sort of creative superhero, working a full time job, keeping the home fires burning, knitting up an afghan, and writing essays while making dinner.

Since the blogging comparison game is something I feel really passionate about and since I feel a commitment to presenting a somewhat truthful (if not complete over-sharing) picture of my life, I thought I'd come clean (or not so clean) about all the things I'm NOT doing when I'm doing all the creative things I love to do.

1.  I'm not cleaning my house.

Nope.  Most of the time, I'm not even tidying my house.  A while ago, my wife and I decided to invest in the services of a house cleaner once every two weeks.  We're both naturally messy.  In fact, in the two weeks between cleaning appointments, our house can go from pristine to looking like we've been robbed.  Who am I kidding?  We can do that in 3 days.  The night before she comes, we spend hours running around like crazy people tidying enough that someone could actually clean.

2.  I'm not doing dishes.

There is a perpetual stack of dirty dishes in our sink.  We don't have an automatic dishwasher, and try as I may, I just cannot bring myself to keep up with that task.  I might do it for a few days, but inevitably I go back to my old ways and the sink piles up.  We try to keep it from getting to the point where there's no longer a surface to put a dirty dish on, but I won't lie and say it doesn't happen sometimes.

3.  I'm not doing laundry.

As if I haven't shown you already what a horrible slob I am, I don't even do my own laundry.  I have a tiny good reason for this one because our laundry is in the basement, which has a dirt floor and is covered in cobwebs and infested with horrible, dreadfully enormous cave crickets (seriously, don't click on that link).   Also, when we first started to send the laundry out, I had hurt my knee and couldn't climb the stares easily and Navah was working a lot.  But then it was just so easy.  We could just leave it at the door and they'd pick it up and bring it back clean and folded.   So we didn't stop...

4.  I'm not putting away my clean laundry.

It's just getting embarrassing now, isn't it?  But it's true.  I leave the laundry in the bag for days.  I just cannot be troubled to take five minutes and put the clothes in the drawer.

5.  I'm not going out with friends.

It's not like nights out with friends never happen, but I can be an introverted hermit type.  When I get home from work, my favorite thing is to curl up on the couch with some good television and my knitting or make a time-consuming meal in the kitchen while I listen to my favorite Pandora station.  I don't make friend dates very often.  I have to remind myself that it's a good thing to do.

6.  I'm not paying my bills.

This one we have really got to work on, but we're bad about paying bills on time.  I'm not getting sent to collections or anything, but there's no excuse for the lateness except that I don't have an organized system and they just slip my mind.  I forget it's a thing I have to do.  As does my wife - it would be nice if ONE of us could be responsible!.

7.  I'm not responding to emails.

I think about responding to emails.  I write responses to emails in my head.  Sometimes I even believe that I have responded to an email that I most definitely have not responded to.

8.  I'm not exercising.

Almost never happens.  I've been working on this since I've been rehabbing my knee, but it's still not a regular part of my schedule.  When I think of how I'm going to spend an afternoon, exercising is never the first thing on my list.

9.  I'm not doing that other project.

No matter how many projects I have going on, I'm always wishing I were doing more.  And I always feel like I'm neglecting one thing in favor of another.  Too much knitting means not enough writing.  Too much writing means not enough photography.  Too much blog writing means not enough fiction writing.  And vice versa.  On everything.


I wish I were a person who had it more together.  I do it too - I look at other bloggers, and I think how do they do it?  I don't know.  Maybe they are really superheros.

But my guess is that they're making choices.  And what I'm seeing - and what you're seeing - is the result of those.  I make the choice to knit more and clean less, to write while the dishes pile up.  And sometimes I get fed up, and I make the choice to get everything in order and step away from the creative for a while.

But I always find my way back.  As does the sink full of dishes.

Pistachio and Coconut Stuffed Dates

One of my favorite new food blogs is Cassie's Back to Her Roots.  Her focus is on healthy cooking and  living, but she doesn't go overboard with it.  As she says, "Now I understand that kale, birthday cake, rest days, flax seeds, strenuous hikes and good beer can all be healthy."  Cassie doesn't forgo all the pleasure of good food in favor of a smaller pant size.  Instead, she takes a holistic approach - good food (some hardcore healthy meals, some a little more decadent, but all made with good wholesome ingredients), lots of enjoyable physical activity, and a commitment to self care.

I swear, every time I read one of her posts, I feel better about life.

Besides that, she's just smart in the kitchen.  Her salads in a jar are genius, and her Sunday food prep regime has me spending a little extra time preparing on the weekends and being so glad for it during the busy week.

A couple weekends ago, I tried my hand at one of her recipes, and it was a huge success.

In preparation for a potluck, I made her stuffed dates and dipped one end in chocolate, a little added excitement that she mentioned in the brilliant post about how she preps food for the week.

They were a huge hit.  I had none to take home, and several people specifically sought me out to tell me how delicious they were.  Potluck score.

I followed Cassie's pistachio and coconut stuffed dates recipe completely.  And after they were all stuffed, I melted chocolate chips in a bowl in the microwave, dipped one end of the dates in and then let them cool on some parchment paper in the fridge.  (We use Sunspire grain-sweetened chocolate chips, which we buy in the bulk section of our local health food store.)

The bad news was that I discovered I'm allergic to pistachios.  Major fail.  I developed a cashew allergy as an adult that's gotten progressively worse in the last few years.  And now pistachios are also on the no-eat list.  What a shame.  I'd forgotten how delicious they are.

I'll have to come up with another version - maybe with pecans...

Blue Moon

Last week I headed out after work to a house concert in Montpelier, the town where my office is.  A random series of connections had led to my receiving an invite, and while I had been happy to say yes at the time, on the actual evening of the concert, I was less than excited.

I was going to spend the next few hours at the house of someone I didn't know, with people I didn't know, listening to a musician I hadn't heard of, and I wouldn't get home until it was too late to really spend any time with my wife before going to bed so I could get up and go to work the next day.  Nothing about it sounded good to me.  I was tired and feeling low.  The last thing I wanted to do was be sociable with strangers.  I just wanted to go home and cozy up on my couch and feel sad.  It was one of those days.  

But instead I left work, looked up the address on my phone, and pointed my car toward the concert.       After a drive that included approximately ten harrowing minutes on a dirt road so muddy and riddled with potholes that I was sure my wild veering and sloshing was going to land me in the ditch at every turn, I arrived at the house no more excited for the evening than I'd been when I left.  

I followed a line of pink balloons up a long, very steep, winding driveway and tried to fit my car into a the mash of others, realizing instantly that the way these cars were parked, I wasn't going to be able to leave until everyone left.  No showing my face and slipping out early.  Awesome.  

I bundled my coat around me, stepped out of the car, got my arm tangled in my seatbelt, and proceeded to dump out onto the driveway the entire contents of my purse, which basically consisted of a pile of crumpled receipts and to-do lists, one tube of lip gloss, about 187 coins, and two tampons thrown in for good measure.  

A carful of people pulled in next to me just in time to witness the whole event and several of them jumped out, but I shooed them away saying I could get everything but thank you very much.  I shoved the final slip of paper into my purse and grabbed a rogue quarter, fully intending to get back in my car and leave when I realized they'd blocked me in. 

So that was that.

I turned toward the house and ran smack into an elderly man who had been in the car that had just pulled in. He asked me if I was okay and if I needed any help.  His voice was so quiet and gravelly that I had a hard time understanding him, but I could tell what he was asking. I thanked him and told him I was fine and smiled and gestured toward the door and we walked in together.  

He was tall and was simultaneously sharply bony and soft in that way that only very old people are.  He wore a newsboy cap and a short wool jacket.  He pulled a worn bifold wallet out of the back pocket of his pants.  It was so thick with slips of paper that I wondered how he sat down.  He held it out to me and said, "I'd be lost if anything ever happened to this."

I nodded my head in agreement, smiled, and patted my purse. 

Then I made my way around the event, engaging in awkward small talk.  I felt out of place and lonely, surrounded by accomplished musicians and benefactors, wondering how it was that I had ended up at this random house on a Monday night.  My thoughts spiraled downhill into a barrage of questions about community and family and where my place in the world was.

When someone announced that the music was going to begin soon, I headed for an empty seat, which was next to the elderly gentleman with the thick wallet.  He smiled at me as I sat down.  

The music was wonderful - electric violin.  It was different from anything I'd ever heard before, and I finally let myself sink into the experience.  I finally forgot to wish that I were at home instead.

When the short concert was over, I stood to leave but noticed that the elderly gentleman was still sitting, seemingly pondering what he had just heard.  I sat back down and asked him if he'd enjoyed it. 

"I don't know that he did anything a normal violinist couldn't do."  

I appreciated his frankness and told him I could see his point.

He leaned in close to me and said, "I think we were destined to meet."  I laughed.

I can't remember the next few things I said or the next few things he said, but before long we were talking about how someone had told him he wasn't a good singer when he was thirteen years old.  And he'd stopped singing.  He had just never done it.  For years and years.  For decades.  And then he retired, and someone asked him to join a choir at the nursing home.  And he thought, why not?  

It turns out that he loves singing.  He sings in three different choirs now.  They mostly sing what he called "the old classics" - Rogers & Hart, Gershwin, Cole Porter.  Those songs changed his life, he told me.  Even though he didn't sing back then, they taught him about love and beauty.  Those men were geniuses.

His favorite was - and still is - Blue Moon by Rodgers & Hart.  

I love that one too, I told him.  

And then he started to sing it.  With the little post-concert cocktail party going on around us, sitting in a corner of the room, he started to sing.

Blue moon, 

you saw me standing alone...

He stopped and looked at me - he'd forgotten the next line.  

I chimed in.

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own.

We went on like that for the rest of the song, me jogging his memory and him joining in with me to finish out each line.  In the corner of a cocktail party.

Blue moon

You knew just what I was there for

You heard me saying a prayer for

Someone I really could care for

And then there suddenly appeared before me

The only one my arms could ever hold

I heard somebody whisper please adore me

And when I looked the moon had turned to gold

Blue moon

Now I'm no longer alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own

I can't remember the last time I heard that song, much less sang it.  I was shocked that I remembered the words, but they all came back to me like I'd sung it every day of my life.

When we finished singing, I put my hand on the elderly gentleman's arm and told him thank you.

"I told you we were meant to meet," he said.

"I think you were right," I told him.  

I sang the whole way home.