the comfort of ritual

I've had occasion recently to use a beautiful hospital chapel as a place of repose and meditation. This particular chapel is full of light and modern wood and air with gorgeous renderings of Madonna and Child in different media. Tall pedestals hold glorious flowers--a bouquet of long stem roses were so lusciously red that I thought they were fake--and vases of wildflowers and branches that reach up to the sky lights.

The first time I walked in, Mass was just ending. Hospital employees were scattered throughout the chairs and the man behind me, 60ish, tall and with a sonorous voice, held a worn ivory rosary that he pressed into my hand as we shook wishing each other peace. The African minister spoke the familiar words in a lovely, musical cadence. And I was surprised at how comforting I found it, having been in rebellion against organized religion and it's restricting and outdated mores for as long as I've been conscious.

I began to sit in the chapel for the 15 minutes after mass, using it to sharpen my meditation against the people who would come in and make noise, the nasally chaplain squawking into his phone, the man with the bicycle and rustling papers, the nuns grouped in whispered conversation at the back. The intent of quiet, the hush of the large space, began to prevail upon me and I felt calmer, breathed a little more deeply, digested my hospital salmon a little better. I found the time I spent sitting alone and the time I spent sitting with the Mass goers peaceful, a natural way to lessen my anxiety.

What I've been focusing on, lately, in my recovery from depression and dysfunction, is modifying black and white thinking to take in and accept the gray areas, to use what's available instead of being in constant rebellion and judgment, to explore the giant well of compassion that one needs to navigate relationships, spirituality, life and this world in the way that I want to. Taking what works from rituals, taking comfort and strength from oft-told stories and liturgies, exploring the depth of quiet, of silence, of whispering nuns I think, will lead to a better understanding and compassion for myself and for others. This doesn't make me a true believer, but it makes for a much better practice toward becoming healthy. I like to think that that's what those who understand essential spirituality developed these rituals for.

When I was a teenager, my BFF, Edie, invited me to First Seder, the meal that begins Passover. We all read from the book, speaking the ancient words, eating the prescribed foods, grinning at each other through the candlelight. Her parents and her sister would pause and explain parts of the ritual that I didn't understand and I realized that sharing this practice was essential to their tradition. I've never forgotten the magic of it, how captivated I was by this living story.

I watched Ted Kennedy's memorial service yesterday in the Mission Church which sits so poignantly in the middle of a ghetto. The high and the low were on hand. Two Black women from Dorchester stood out in the rain for hours to pay their respects. Jesse Jackson let his hair get wet waiting for the hearse. Michelle O seemed to doze, momentarily, in the closeness of the non air conditioned church. And all those Kennedy children. I think all of us probably have some issues with the modern Catholic church, but you couldn't beat the spirituality and comfort of the Catholic liturgy to the family and friends gathered there--the inspired words of our Obama, Teddy's children and grandchildren, his priest, and the words of the Gospel intoned, speaking of what life exists after our time here on earth. It's really interesting to me that Ted was a devout Catholic but still espoused many positions that they opposed. Even one of his grandchildren lead a prayer for people, gay or straight.


So, maybe I'll go sit in a pew or two, breathe in the wood polish and whisper of incense, or turn my face to the multi-colored light refracted through the stained glass or listen to a cantor, or chant and meditate with Buddhists. Maybe I'll take that feeling with me when I contemplate sea and sky. Maybe quiet contemplation, through practice, will become something I can do in the midst of chaos. I'm hopeful things will change, and that I will grow into a more expansive spirit.

brain

So, my way to deal with anxiety, deep dark feelings, sadness, depression and almost anything that could be distressing is to gather information, and oh, ain't the interweb a boon in this regard. Any unexplained crying jag can be successfully interrupted by searching for depression websites, unrelenting blues can be nipped by a youtube video of a visualized meditation, and getting help when I've exhausted my intellectualism is just a depression group listing away. So I went to my psycopharmacologist today with a list of depression groups and day programs and anti-depressants that I haven't tried yet and website printouts and a stubborn idea of how I came to be in this hole again and how to fix it. Like a tire. Or a cavity.

And she made me cry.

Well not really. She just suggested that maybe all that research and technology and intellectualization might be getting in the way of handling overwhelming feelings. Of acknowledging the pain. Well, fuck, no d'uh but I think what really gets me is the sameness of it all. I want a new spark, a new discovery...why it's the hypothalmus! or an excess of progesterone, or that sweet roll you ate last week! Or that giant hump on your back secreting seretonin inhibiting goop--your dowager hump is causing your depression! Huzzah! Let's remove it, get me some spanx, and I'll be all set.

Oy. the gospel of depression. "You have no reason to be depressed." "Depression is just an indication that something is wrong." "Depression is selfish." "Just pull yourself up by your own bootstraps." "I'd never take medication." "I don't want to be involved with someone who has to take pills to feel good." "You're just lazy." "You wouldn't be depressed if you'd just lose weight--got married--had a baby--got your toes done once a week." "You just can't handle life." Darn tootin'. I can't handle it when my emotional barriers fall and the angst comes pouring in sticking to everything and ruining the carpet. I can't handle it when my prism of perception is so off-kilter that I think my cat hates me. I have trouble when my self-conciousness is so profound that I feel invisible, not important enough to take up space. Waste of flesh.

And it's very, very, very tiring. All those commercials about how depression takes a physical toll are true at least in that regard. Don't you love those ads where a person in sweat clothes with limp hair lies on a couch--all this filmed through a grey filter--while their significant other, or child, or dog, sits nearby looking quizzical and lost--in one the husband is sitting at the kitchen table and you can see the lady on the couch in the foreground. (Hey hubby, get up and fix this woman a chocolate cake). And then, in one fell swoop, the filter lifts, the depressive swallows a pill (must be the size of a horse) and eureka! They are out in the technicolor world playing with their ecstatic child (on ritilan) and their dog (on canine prozac) or reaching across the table to hold thier husband's hand (because he's baked a chocolate cake!) And it's just that instant unless you have the eyes of a leopard and can read the tiny print that runs in the last nanosecond the commercial that says, "this shit may kill you or cause the contents of your ass to fall out and it'll definitely be a few more pain filled weeks on the couch until it works but we can't tell you that until you take it for a while, you human guinea pig."

I now have this cocoon of a cubical at work (temporarily while the annual cube shuffle takes place) and I had the lighting crew take out the flourescent, so it's now a dimly lit den, the computer screen casting blue shadows on my face, and sometimes around 2p in the afternoon, digesting an inadequate and acid inducing lunch, working on a spreadsheet for the nth time, fielding calls that should go to subscriptions, I could swear that I actually disappear. Poof. All that's left is are my glasses and a little pile of dust. Gassy dust.

how

How do you mark the day when you realize that you'll probably never really be happy or even reasonably content, that some trick of fate or life, some confluence of genetics, conditioning, a soupcon of abuse and sensitivity have pooled to insure that your life will be a muddy pool, ranging from a clinging, lite sadness to a black and sludgy depression that immobilizes you for days and weeks at a time? Is it freeing to accept that the medication gets you to a baseline that's better than what was, but is still a dip below strength of mind, requiring richer experiences and more colorful adventures to illicit even a soupcon of joy, mostly fleeting and translucent. Is it a disservice to those who love you to gradually stop talking about it, complaining about the funk, is it an acceptance not to flail against it, to keep fighting a fight that seems more and more like a waste of energy and time and resources. We Americans, we fighters of impossible fights, we're supposed to batter away at walls of granite or titanium, surmount them, blast through them with sheer will, with faith in demigods, with science, and clever language, with our last breath. People sometimes think it's melodramatic to say that one can't move one more step, one can't take one more shot or pill or therapy session because it just doesn't work all the way, it just isn't helping at all. Sure, you've been worse, you've been suicidal and it's true to say that you aren't now, that you are maintaining that baseline, that you are able to feed and clothe yourself, that you are able to brush your teeth--that was always a sign that things had gone too far, when you couldn't brush your teeth--that you are able to go to work, go through the motions, and maybe your chatter is a little more nervous and maybe your judgments aren't as sharp and sure, maybe you forget what 8x7 is, but there are calculators, reminders, spell checkers, family members who help you out financially, friends who are always willing to listen, but, damn, you just don't feel like wasting one more minute of your life, sad though it may be, talking about this shit. You are tired of it like a coal miner is tired of dust, exhausted by the very thought of another depression group, there is always somebody much worse off and you are supposed to compare your situation and feel better in comparison, but that never works because you feel so bad for the person, that one strategy never works for you, sorry doctor/therapist/parent/friend.

You hope you are being enough for the people in your life but you know you aren't, but this is all you have to give. They slowly, sadly accept this or go away because they can't face the sadness of what you've become or what your friendship is not or the reflected blackness. Your laughter rings hollow, you don't write, you don't call, you listen, but you listen for the disappointment and not the message. The disappointment is what hurts the most, not your own disappointment, but the disappointment of those you love, those who had hopes for you, those who want your ear, your input, your friendship, your guidance, your heart. But you don't know how. Connection is not innate with you, or the fear of it has been blocked like a leaf choked sewer because past connections have been so painful.

So you stumble along, and try to remember to brush your teeth.

Let's get it straight

Let's get it straight, now. Let's be real.

Skip Gates, Harvard professor, gentleman, was accosted inside his house by white Cambridge cops who demanded to see his identification. IN HIS HOUSE. He in turn asked for their badge numbers and protested when they arrested him. The DA dropped the charges and said both sides were wrong. I beg to differ and so does Skip Gates. The woman who called the police called them because she saw Skip and his Black friend dealing with the stuck front door. The cops came into the house and demanded identification because Skip is Black. They arrested him because he is Black. There was no other reason. The DA dropped the charges, I suspect, because, if he hadn't, there would be a lot of protest.

Racial profiling is really, really simple. People of color, especially Black men, will always be suspect, no matter what. If you are naive enough to think we live in a "post racial" world because President Obama is in the White House, look at all of the racially insensitive things the Right Wing is saying. And look out in the street and notice the Black boys walking by. Does your pulse quicken? Do you wonder what they are doing in your neighborhood? Are you afraid? Do you think about what that means? Of course we've all been conditioned to be fearful, but I've met more nasty white teenagers since I've been in Arlington than Black teenagers I've encountered in a lifetime.

Once, not so long ago a Hispanic security guard followed me around in Walgreens. I finally turned around and said, "Are you following me?" He blushed to the roots of his hair and mumbled something. I forgave him, though, because if he'd been out of uniform somebody would be following him.

I've had friends who say, "Oh, you're just paranoid," etc. etc. Of course these have been white friends. I know we all wish this shit were over but it's not and until it's not (not in our lifetimes), there will be a need for affirmative action, there will be a need for peaceful protest, and we're all going to have keep thinking about it and discussing it and worrying at it like the social hangnail that it is.

Think how mad you get when someone makes an assumption about you based on something you can't help. Think of the injustice of it. Now think of it happening every time you walk out in the street. I can't even discuss it fully, because the accident of my birth is that I'm biracial and light skinned. But I can tell you about the pain of it, the anger of it, the complete idiocy of being judged by an accident of genetics.

And think of this man, Skip Gates, an unbelievably distinguished man who's fought all his life for everyone to have a decent education, a very nice gentleman, a quite famous person, someone who's been taking on this bullshit all his life to be arrested in his own house because some ignay cop with a chip on his shoulder doesn't like some darkie asking for his badge number. We've got to keep on fighting.

P.S. President Obama said in his press conference tonight, "The Cambridge police acted stupidly."

Spike and Tyler

Spike Lee made some pointed remarks, recently, about Tyler Perry's movies perpetuating stereotypes and buffoonery. I just saw an American Experience on Chinese American filmmakers and entertainers and their sense of "otherness" and not having a place to belong. Marginalize, marginalize, is that all this American society does?

There is a post up now on Huffingtonpost.com about people of "mixed race" being the fastest growing group in America--with an accompanying picture of Tiger Woods and President Obama. I've been corresponding for years with a group of "mixed race" bloggers who are still trying to figure out what the hell it means, especially if you have the darker skin or broader features or almond eyes of a "recognizable" minority and get labelled as such. I used to get so angry when people, and they would, would ask me what my ethnic background was. I could easily have answered "white" or "mind your own business" (which was the more frequent reply), but what was the point? No body knows what these labels mean. I got a little bit of a sense of it on the day President Obama was elected, in that a continually marginalized group of people felt a pride and a wonder quite rare in their experience these days. But even he calls himself a "mutt."

And then there are the sub-groups--people with depression, people with chronic illness, people with frizzy hair, people who love cats. I used to sit in those depression groups and especially the early chronic illness groups and listen to the moaning and complaining and wonder where the "people who are depressed but truly hope not to be forever, dayum" or "people with chronic illness who want to know how to deal with this shit on a daily basis so they can live full and exciting lives"... Damnit. And we're all, no matter what color or ethnicity or gender or sexual orientation or where we fall on the spectrum of feline love, trying to figure this bitch out. And I want to wring life like an orange to get all of juice, don't you?

So, back to Tyler Perry--he doesn't need to apologize for his broad portrayals of Black life. Sure, his writing still ain't the greatest and there is definitely an air of buffoonary about some of the characters, but his stories, plays and movies are ALWAYS about redemption. About working through some stuff to progress to the other side. I LOVE the character of Medea, first because it's obvious he has such fun portraying her, second, because she is so herself and wouldn't be any other way and third because the wisdom she spouts is in my bone marrow from all the women I'm descended from, even the Irish, and Scottish and German ones.

I think it's just that we don't have the practice implementing our own integration--I don't know what the hell it means to be mixed race, if anything at all beyond the rich cultural nature of all of the places I'm supposed to come from. Still stereotyping myself as a "Black" woman, still talking that talk and feeling the marginalization, not having learned how to make it not matter.

MOVe

I want out of here. I want to get on a plane and go someplace foreign and delightful and I want out of my brain, out of this malfunctioning body. I want to spend a fortnight or two in the body of Usain Bolt or LeBron James or yoga master Baron Baptiste. I want to feel a heart that beats regularly, even if I stretch my long legs into a run, to be able to raise my arms above my head and bend my back and open my hips. I want a day without headaches, knee creaks, shoulder whinging and winter winds. I want to cuddle my cat without sneezing. I want to get on a plane without a giant zip lock bag full of pills. I want to make a plan for next week, next month, next year, and be able to keep it. I want to go to Italy, eat robustly, drink red wine, jog along the arno, take a dance class with my friend Giulia, and still have breath to dance.

who sleeps?

Who sleeps? It's 4 a.m. and there are finally good programs on PBS after days full of endless Celtic women, Doo-Wop reunions and Laurence Welk retrospectives. I think, why am I up now, and maybe it's to watch the American Masters show on Sweet Honey in the Rock, to remember the earth, and sistah hood, and to sing to my slumbering kitty. I am drenched in sweat and shivering from a fever break, dizzy from the drug I just took, the one I hate to take to sleep because it robs me of more hours than it grants.

My friend told me she got rid of her tv today, her nighttime companion. I admire her greatly for this, ruled as we are by info, and analysis, the comfort of the noise of the thing in an empty apartment and blah-di-blah-di-blah fuckin' blah. The time, the precious minutes, for poetry and reflection and feet pampering and dreaming, and listening to a rock-n-roll version of Madame Butterfly. When I'm not paying attention those endless commercials for dental assisting schools and hair colleges can make me feel inadequate--"Get off the couch and become a pastry chef right now!" The commercials for hair straighteners, discount furniture, amazing space aged products that can shave your moustache and caulk your bathtub, singing pancakes...I saw one tonight about a penis pump--ouch!--are incredibly insulting to the most mediocre adult. "You ugly, hairy, stinky, fat, undereducated, bald, depressed, financially ignorant, fillet-o-fish lovin', saggy faced, tiny dicked, underinformed, Shamwow needing, limp haired, wrinkly, lumpy, person. What you need is a Dyson power vac, next-day-installation carpeting, and an exciting career as a medical assistant!"

Especially at 4 a.m.

I always feel like I should be doing something productive, like planting potatoes, or cleaning some part of my house with a children's toothbrush. I hear the roar of the early morning trucks and buses, entering a new workday. Even when I'm really sick and it hurts too much to move...I should be whittling down my pen collection or defrosting the fridge. After all these years, the compulsion is still there and maybe that's why the illness continues. The struggle is still against instead of through.

I just finished a book about an Irish forensic pathologist named Quirke and his morose and lyrical adventures in 1950's Dublin. Oy, the drear, and yet it was so wonderfully written I couldn't put it down. Maybe all of this early morning reflection will result in me being able to write about difficulties in such a winsome manner without having to result to Bombeckianisms and the occassional cuss word.

So, I'm awake. The kitty snores. Maddening.