The STUFF Sisters - Mental Health

The Itch and The Dread

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days.

Yesterday I sat for a little under an hour at my dining room table and watched my son and my niece work a huge LEGO project. A Parisian cafe with thousands of pieces that will fit into a city scene my son has been building for years. I watched them sort pieces by kind and by size, and I watched him teach her about “the books” – those multi-pages items that tell you how to put the pieces together so that you actually end up with a Parisian cafe. It is architecture and engineering with bound edges and slick paper.

IMG_20150611_112316 — This photo hangs above my sister’s desk. It is almost 10 years old. My niece is on the left, my son on the right.

I sat there soaking up every little piece of their back-and-forth. Her questions and his gentle answers. His watching her get excited and her looking quickly to him with a smile in her eyes as she completed a big area.

20150708_183733 — On the final leg of the flights home from Paris a few weeks ago.

And I sat there thinking about what I was going to do to the dining room after Dakota leaves for school in two weeks. What would be leaving us (the piano) and what I would miss (his impromptu playing). (He isn’t taking the upright piano. I’m just getting rid of it.)

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days. I am itching to make changes to my life and surroundings, and I am dreading his departure from our home.

In general:

I am itching to clean his room with him next week, and I am dreading entering it without him while he is in New Jersey.
I am itching to move the kitchen table out, and I am dreading our first meal at the new table without him.
I am itching for the freedom that comes with no school schedule, and I am dreading how I will feel without limitations set by a young person.
I am itching for the silences I crave at my writing desk at home, and I am dreading the quiet he will leave in every room.

The Itch and The Dread. It continues.

Creative Gifts

I received this care package in the mail last week.

A gift of creativity is always appreciated.

It was unexpected. It brought me joy. It reminded me why people love getting gifts of art and creativity. Even a co-owner of a store, like me, dedicated to the mission of sharing creativity with the world, needs a reminder once in a while. The happiness it is spreading is immeasurable.

I had re-posted on Facebook an article about a recent study that found that coloring is good for adults. You can read about it here at the Huffington Post. Julie Cates, an accomplished artist and friend, had responded. And, I believe, that was where the seed for this deeply appreciated gift was planted.

Since my original post I have come across another post about coloring books intended for adults. Again, it made me happy to know that coloring, this seemingly “for children only” hobby, has many benefits. You can find out about the newly published coloring book here, coloring book for adults.

So, it turns out coloring is good for people of all ages. And, I for one, will be coloring more often and well into my years. Join me.

Love/Hate

I have entered into an unhealthy relationship with a plant. Two plants, really. Both geraniums. Almost co-dependent, this relationship is.

I have entered into an unhealthy relationship with a plant. Two plants, really. Both geraniums. Almost co-dependent, this relationship is. I provide water and shelter; they provide color and joy.

This photo was taken on Valentine’s Day. These blooms were not there on the 13th of February but were bright and cheerful when I came downstairs on the 14th. Full of love for me, and smiling in the weak sun.

I do love these plants. All summer long, they live on my deck and are more gorgeous every day. They get huge and bloom constantly. They are the two colors I love most in geraniums – red and hot pink. Both of these colors were grown by my maternal grandmother, and therefore I have placed a value on them higher than the 99-cent plants they grew from.

I do hate these plants when I bring them in every winter to the only window in the house that can hold them – the south-facing one in the kitchen. Our busiest room in the entire home. Already overfull with our active lives. I get to enjoy them, true. But I have never enjoyed house plants – in any variety – and I’ve tried to trick myself into thinking they are just “visiting for the winter,” not staying in the house permanently. True, again, but winter is long.

Just when I reach my winter peak of wanting them out of the house, they give me a show of color. I don’t talk to plants or listen to them if they are talking, but I know a plea for a few more months of patience when it is silently offered.

So they will stay.

p.s. I have written of geraniums before. Feel free to read more here and here.

Hearing Voices

On Monday, World AIDS Day, I accepted an award from the AIDS Service Foundation of Greater Kansas City – the Mark Dreiling Community Leadership Award – for twenty years of passion for the cause. In the days since, I have been asked by five people to publish my remarks. I can’t promise that these words were spoken verbatim, because I only wrote down “bones” for my comments, not a complete script.

On Monday, World AIDS Day, I accepted an award from the AIDS Service Foundation of Greater Kansas City – the Mark Dreiling Community Leadership Award – for twenty years of passion for the cause. It was named after my friend Mark who died several years ago from cancer and who was a fierce believer in eradicating AIDS from this planet – or at least from our town. This award humbled me, as I was the first to receive it after it was given to Mark last year posthumously.

In the days since, I have been asked by five people to publish my remarks – two people I know well, and three I don’t really know but who were at the luncheon and sought me out later that day either in person or via e-mail. Again, I am humbled.

I can’t promise that the words below were spoken verbatim, because I only wrote down “bones” for my comments, not a complete script. I also spoke with a voice quivering with passion partnered with eyes brimming with tears. Here are the remarks.

Thank you very much. When I stand here and think about what I have given to the fight against AIDS, I can honestly say that today I have been involved in the delinquency of minors. There are three young people in the audience who could be at school – I don’t know, maybe learning something! – and instead they are here, and I am deeply touched. To you, Dakota and Sawyer and Zach, I say that you saw the numbers and the facts on screen, and I am looking to you to finish what we’ve all started.

I don’t really know when I began hearing voices – not the bad kinds that tell you to do bad things, but the kind that stick with you and become part of who you are. I can clearly remember my parents saying to me that I could be and do anything. The power of those words has fueled me to almost fifty years of age. To you both, I say thanks.

This particular journey actually started with a phone call from Steve Metzler way back in 2000 asking me to serve on the board of the AIDS Service Foundation. You told me, “There really is no time for orientation. You’ll catch on quick and will like this. You can call me anytime.” And I did all of those things. But not without drive by meetings on our street about things I didn’t understand or that I was questioning. Since then, your voice on the phone and in person as I have considered other commitments and board positions has been priceless. I treasure your friendship and your wisdom.

Which leads me to the next voice. A little boy’s voice at bath time. There isn’t a partner, spouse, parent or child in this room who hasn’t lived through what I call the “Litany of Leaving”. It goes like this: “I am heading out to a meeting. I have done these things before I go, I need you to do these things while I am gone, and when I get back we can accomplish these things.” That is the Litany of Leaving.

On this particular night, my son Dakota was maybe three years old. He was splashing in the tub with my husband dutifully near him because you really don’t want the baby to drown because by three you’ve got so much invested. The dog was on the rug looking at me, the room was moist and damp and happy, and I was leaving. I stepped around the dog, and, as I touched the wet blonde head, his little voice said, “Mom? Is it AIDS again?”

Greater than the sound of the splashes and the rubber toys hitting the side of the tub was this voice that has stuck with me since. “Yes,” I said. It was “AIDS again” that was pulling me away from my family, and I told him – to the point where he probably glazed over but I felt better – that we needed to fight to end AIDS so no one suffered anymore…that what I was doing was important for all of us. I had lost him at the word “yes”, and I knew it.

In the silences and the noise, I hear all of you. All of you who taught me the way of beer busts and garage sales at Missy B’s. Standing with you in darkened theaters waiting for performances to end so that we could greet people with buckets after they had been prevailed upon to give. Standing with the same buckets on 47th and any old street asking for more money. With tiles and glaze and high school students. Through walks and runs and rides and golf games, I have heard you all, and you are with me.

And finally, I hear Mark. I will not stand here and pretend that we were close friends. We were not. But we were friends, and I miss him. We served on two boards together, and I felt I had finally joined an elite club when he let me in on his quiet, biting humor. His deep passion for this cause wore off on me, and we ended up sharing much more than either intended.

The first time he called me “Madame President”, I winced, and then I smiled. I hear his voice every time I speak those words to Missy – and, for that matter, most of the other past presidents with which I share the title.

I am deeply touched that the committee chose me only one year after Mark. Thank you. I will not let Mark’s memory fade.

I have worked with all of you in one way or another for the people in our city who struggle with the stigma and the disease. I have said it a million times – and Michael Lintecum is sick of hearing it! – we are all in this together, and none of us accomplishes great things alone.

I firmly believe that when one of us has AIDS, all of us have AIDS. I promised that little boy in the bathtub a world without AIDS in his lifetime.

Thank you for helping me keep that promise.

p.s. Thank you to Theresa Van Ackeren for taking this photo on Monday and to Tom Styrkowicz for sharing his abilities by capturing that image in the first place…and for charity to boot!

Vanity

Yesterday a good man posted photos that included touching words about my sister, me and our store. The post on Facebook was in celebration…

Yesterday a good man posted photos that included touching words about my sister, me and our store. The post on Facebook was in celebration of community, connection and charity. I was very proud of his words.

Sadly, I was also horrified by two of the images. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was shocked at my big butt. That is all I could see. I wanted those photos gone.

I was blinded by my vanity. I cried. I was mean to myself. I had a vicious internal conversation with myself. I treated myself with hate and loathing.

This morning I woke and laid in bed thinking about how I ruined the kindness of that post. I alone was to blame. I looked at my lovely daughter sleeping next to me and I cried. But, this time I cried about my stupidity and vanity.

I will not ask to have those photos removed. I will never see those images the same way again.

Those images are now a reminder to not judge myself so harshly. I will breath in the kind words written about me and I will learn love myself.

Casey

Watery Silence

True silence was visited upon me that night. A slowly darkening night sky was mine to behold each time I smoothly crested the surface. Long, quiet minutes. An hour perhaps.

My desire for quiet is occasionally overwhelming. Our store plays lovely and fun music – which I sign and dance to! – but there are days when I sigh deeply when we turn it off. And mornings when I groan when we start it up.

This summer a friend invited me to swim at a lake. My initial delight was in spending time together. Then my mind latched onto memory of the silence that follows me into water. Both were thrilling and ultimately rewarding.

A few weeks later I was invited back, and I was so forward as to ask if we could swim in the dark, a secret pleasure I remember from my childhood spent in fresh and chlorinated water. My sisters, my parents, and my friends were muted while I explored the capacity of my lungs. The depths never scared me.

True silence was visited upon me that night. A slowly darkening night sky was mine to behold each time I smoothly crested the surface. Long, quiet minutes. An hour perhaps. The magic of friendship that night was when my friend retreated to the house and left me truly alone. I could have wept, and no one would have been the wiser.

Upon his return, we swam into the evening – two voices meeting each other in the dark. I treaded water until my legs were rubbery when I made it back to the dock.

My lungs have a diminishing volume with age, but my love of occasional and deep quiet is met in the embrace of silky, warm water.

– sloane

p.s. Original painting by Philip Robl. Titled: “The Distance”.

My Sister Rocks

Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes.

Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes. Everything is okay. As my grandmother used to say, “no one died today”. It is just another big bump in my relationships journey.

I spent the evening at dinner with my father and my step-mom. We spent four short hours together at a booth table in a restaurant. Eventually the entire staff gave up on us ever leaving and left us alone. It was wonderful. The night flew by and we were all shocked to discover four hours had passed so quickly. My Dad has always teased me about how much I talk. And, even asked me last night what it is like to have so much boundless energy. He then expressed a concerned – as parents will – that I find quiet time for myself. I reminded him that I live with a nine year old that goes to bed by 8:00pm each night. So, yes, I have plenty of quiet alone time and I get a bit excited when I get to be with adults. He smiled.

When I returned home I checked my computer. There was an email that stated that my sister had shared a pin on Pinterest with me.

I clicked on and this is what came up…

I fell apart in a pool of tears. It was exactly what I needed. She knew that when she sent it. She knew I would cry. She knew it would wear me out and zap my boundless energy. And, she knew I would sleep the deep, heavy sleep that comes after an emotional release. I woke feeling groggy, but ready.

My sister rocks!

PS. I tried to find the original source of the image above, but sadly couldn’t. If you know the source, please let me know. I would like to give them credit for their words.

PSS. I am deeply blessed with a family that loves, accepts and celebrates me.

Reaching

This past weekend I sat in the sun. I was yearning for the effects of naturally obtained vitamin D. The same crazy yearning and reaching is happening inside the house as well.

This past weekend I sat in the sun. I was yearning for the effects of naturally obtained vitamin D. We have yet to place all the furniture on the deck or the porch, but the wrought iron straight-backed chair and an end table used as a foot stool provided just the comfort I was looking for in a lounger.

The same crazy yearning and reaching is happening inside the house as well. I have posted before about the geraniums I now place in the kitchen for the winter. Right now they are blooming like crazy, and their faces are smashed against the window glass to capture the magic of daylight. My son and I noticed that every branch on both plants is leaning strongly to the south.

But what appeared today was over the top.

Our household orders produce from an organic cooperative. It arrives every week and is exactly what we requested a few days earlier via the computer. Some weeks we order well and eat every morsel, and some weeks – like last week – we have one item that just sits in the produce drawer. Languishing. Lonely. Cold.

Broccoli rabe was the latest victim. By the time we reached for it on Sunday to cook it, it was past its prime. A little yellow. A tiny bit slimy. So we pitched it into the bin of uncooked and organic food scraps that houses our cast-offs until I can get them to my mother’s chickens. The feathered ladies pick over it after we scatter it in their yard and days later provide us with the best eggs ever.

Today I came downstairs and the broccoli was reaching for the sunshine and BLOOMING! I was stunned and immediately told the dog all about it. These blooms fought their way through a pound of carrot shavings and the skins of three beets. They had to make a 90-degree turn to reach their goals. They worked hard. It stuck with me all day because they really were acting just like every other living thing in our home.

They wanted back outside, they wanted everything the sun had to give, and they wanted to bloom and stretch.

. p.s. You can read my geranium blogs here and here. Both have a little bit to do with plants….

Rant

I am not a conspiracy theorist. I am not a pessimist. I do not dwell on negative thoughts. However, I am being challenged on most of these positions.

I am not a conspiracy theorist. I am not a pessimist. I do not dwell on negative thoughts.

However, I am being challenged on most of these positions by the fact that our fax machine spits out faxes from companies wanting to sell products/processes/loans/systems to us at work. Really? This is effective marketing?

It is waste. Pure and simple waste. I feel sorry for the fool that actually faxes back the form with their pertinent personal data for a chance to win a cruise with other gamblers through the Caribbean. And I would definitely give my social security number to a faceless fax machine for a chance at reduced-cost tax preparation.

STUFF has a fax machine that sits next to me and directly behind Casey in our office. We scrape the bottom of the toner cartridges because toner is expensive. We use it up. We let it tell us 30+ times that the “toner is low,” and even then we do nothing. We do nothing until we can’t print a project we just sent to the printer. (Our machine is a fax/scanner/printer.)

The great thing about the brains in our machine – or the curse – is that, when ink is getting low, it stops automatically printing incoming documents. It continues to print what we send to it, and then, when it gives us the “toner is empty” screen, we gripe and moan and change the cartridge.

When that happened today sixteen (16!) different faxes ripped out of the machine offering us the cruise listed above, a qualifying business loan for $327,000, and a directory listing verification form for the upcoming edition of the Yellow Pages. As if people look at the printed Yellow Pages.

These little gems had obviously been pent up in our machine waiting for us to get off our cheap butts so those anonymous companies could waste our ink and our paper.

Business is expensive enough without these intrusions. If you want to really get my attention, call me. An actual phone call is truly kickin’ it old style.

A fax just makes me think the ink and paper industry is out to make us buy more and all the bad guys are in cahoots. But I don’t believe in conspiracy….

Rant over.

In Constant Search of Authenticity & A Meal I Will Never Forget

I like my world with a bit of grit. If I spend more than a couple hours in a location that is sterile, homogenized or commercialized I start to get depressed. I begin to pace like a caged animal.

I like my world with a bit of grit. If I spend more than a couple hours in a location that is sterile, homogenized or commercialized I start to get depressed. I begin to pace like a caged animal. I get short and snappy with others. I start to worry that the world is in serious trouble. And, I have to stifle my urge to scream.

I don’t understand the appeal of chain stores, themed restaurants or branded theme parks. I went on a cruise once and seriously considered jumping ship more than once. I just wanted to feel the water. Looking at it from five stories up was pure torture. I was desperate to feel the cold water. To taste the salt. To be pulled by the waves.

I have a burning desire to travel before the cultures of the world are “walmarted” and “targeted” to death.

What will the world look like if all the small authentic businesses and communities disappear? You can’t rebuild, recreate or paint on a patina that will ever replace an original. It falls flat.

When I find authentic locales. I get excited. I don’t want to own something or eat something that is one of the millions manufactured. I want to own a one-in-a-million piece of art or eat a meal that can’t be found anywhere else.

I crave authenticity.

Which is why I will never forget the first time I ate at Le Maire’s in Sedalia, Missouri.

It wasn’t the original location, but it was original in every other way.

The fried clams were made as a starter just for us.

The place was spotless. We did share the place with 5 other tables. But, I didn’t take photos of the people because I “outed” myself as a crazy out-of-towner with my photo taking and it seemed rude.

The catfish dinner is the menu “must have”. My daughter insisted on ordering the adult sized platter and put away all six pieces of fish. Please note there is no oily residue on the plate.

The painted walls and murals created a festive Cajun mood.

There is a little grotto at the entrance honoring the founders, Joe and Frenchie Le Maire.

My daughter recommends the Gumball Coaster near the checkout counter for entertainment while you wait for your fresh fried catfish.

My Mother suggested the stop. She had known about it for many years. I threatened to never speak to her again for keeping it a secret this long, but my anger slipped away during the fried clam starter. The happiness I felt at discovering this truly authentic eatery made me giddy.