The Sea is Red, the Sky is Green, and Pink is Imaginary

So, Eldest Progeny climbed into the car after school on Friday, and introduced me to a new idea that has sent me down a fascinating rabbit hole.

Magenta. It’s a mix of red and violet. Red and Violet are on opposite ends of the color spectrum, and their wavelengths don’t mix. But your brain understands the attempt at mixing the wavelengths, and combines them for you. The color you know as “magenta” was created, not by nature, but BY YOUR OWN BRAIN. So, what you understand as “magenta” isn’t necessarily the same thing I see. Your brain might not mix the wavelengths the same way my brain does.

I did some digging. EP may have gotten this assertion from a reference to this article:

“Magenta Ain’t a Color”

It’s a fascinating description.

But, there’s also a cool rebuttal “Yes, Virginia, There is a Magenta” , which, as I understand it, basically says that, technically, there are no colors at all. Everything we sense as a “color,” is just our brain’s way of interpreting wavelengths. The cones of colorblind folks don’t pick up certain wavelengths of light, and certain diseases and medications can interfere with distinguishing between some wavelengths.

People who don’t have lots of exposure to different wavelengths don’t have those frequencies distinguished in their brains. In every language on the planet, “blue” was the last of the colors to be described. Universally, black and white come first (thought sometimes as “light” and “dark”), followed by red (wine and blood), and then yellow and green. Blue comes last (earliest in Ancient Egypt, who was, not coincidentally, the first culture to create blue dye).

We take certain facts for granted as being “true.” The sky is unquestionably blue. But the Himba people of Namibia have no word for blue, and would assert the sky is a shade of green. Homer had no word in Early Greek for “blue” – the Aegean Sea in his Iliad and Odyssey is “wine-dark.”

 

“Alone on a Wine Dark Sea” by Sarah Needham – https://britishwomenartists.com/art.php?view=189

 

(This is a fascinating rabbit hole in its own right. Check out this Business Insider article  for more.)

From all of this, I think I am beginning to understand one of my great uncles a little bit better. He had 7 brothers, all colorblind. No one bothered attempting to teach him colors, assuming that he was also colorblind. He is not. He does, however, describe himself as “color-dumb.” He can observe variations in color, but cannot describe or identify them according to conventional description.

 

It also makes me wonder about a semi-frequent joke in our household. Dear Husband claims that he personally only has, at best, a 24 pack of crayons in his head (though he was born with the 8 pack and had to work to sort of hit 24), but observes that some people are born with a 24 pack and can move up to the 96. I think he’s hit on something a lot more insightful than I previously understood.

“Woman,” you are thinking, “This is all very well. But isn’t this supposed to be the ‘Mommy Rule Book?’ How in the world does this relate to anything?”

Homer’s wine-colored sea and the Himbia’s green sky are just as true as our blue seas under equally blue skies. We must remember, that they are working with the words and understanding of the world that they have access to.

Just as children are. They have even less access to the words of the world than Homer or the Himba, and we must grant that to them.

I am reminded of a friend of Youngest Progeny, who suffered from a broken arm (at the same time YP did – but from different causes!). Friend was attempting to scratch the nearly-healed, and very itchy arm, and dropped an object into the cast. Parent asked what object, Friend replied, “a ring.” Doctor decided that the irritation caused by a foreign body inside the cast was more harmful than taking it off a day early – parent was quite irritated that the object in question was not a “ring,” but was the metal piece on a pencil that holds the eraser on. Claimed the child “lied.” But, when we later spoke about it – she took a moment to consider the shape of the object, and to think about a 6 year-old’s vocabulary. What other word would you expect a child to use?

(Plus, it makes logical sense that a child would use a pencil to scratch an itch, rather than dropping a random small object into a cast.)

That was several years ago, but I was reminded of it when considering the nature of “truth” and how it relates to language and interpretation.

We have to meet children where they are. They are literally incapable of understanding  the same truths we are, until they have been given the same cultural expectations, understanding, and language we have access to.

If our understanding of color – and the world in general – is dependent on the way our individual brains interpret things, it makes me wonder whether this is true of everything.

Be patient with each other, but especially the children.

---

Every truth has two sides; it is as well to look at both, before we commit ourselves to either.      – Aesop

---

Related: a friend shared a TEDx talk recently that argues something similar about autistic minds. They aren’t necessarily “disabled,” but are “disabled BY” the inability to communicate with “neurotypical” minds. In my own head, at least, this is a very similar rabbit hole. I’ve just used color as a focus.

Celebrate

The kids who were in the oldest age range of the moms’ group I joined when my eldest was in the youngest of that group are moving in to their college dorms right now. This is sending me on a lot of reflections about milestones, and leading me to one more rule I think I forgot in the first edition of the Mommy Rule Book: Celebrate.

Tonight, I’m thinking of milestones. I know we all celebrate our little ones’ milestones – but I want to take a moment to celebrate the moms and dads and caregivers who got them there. Celebrate YOU.

Parents of one year olds: I want to stop and think about everything YOU have accomplished this year. You survived 365 sleepless nights. You have worried and fretted. You learned how to feed this brand new little person! You learned how to change this one’s diaper. You have survived the quirks and individual needs of this particular baby, whatever they are: reflux, breathing issues, heart monitors, allergies, excema. You navigated cradle cap and clipping baby’s nails, and scheduled pediatrician visits – maybe specialist visits, too – and vaccination schedules. You survived every single visitor, and asked a lot of people to wash their hands. And birth mamas, don’t forget: you healed. It takes a staggering 18 months for the human body to fully heal from pregnancy and childbirth, so don’t forget, you managed all of this, while still healing. Dads: you watched your world turn upside down, and spent your own time in worry and exhaustion, but you did it, too! Celebrate you!

Kindergarten parents: Congratulations! You did all of that, and then some! You managed FIVE YEARS. And what years they were! Baby proofing. Bumps, scrapes, band-aids. Temper tantrums. Teething. Biting. You’ve waded into the screen time debate. You have your little one’s favorite picture books memorized. You found a mom’s day out program or a preschool, or did full time day care, or you joined a mom’s group – either way, you navigated first colds and sore throats, and learned how to dose children’s medicines and make sick-child doctors appointments. You agonized over first dentist appointments, first haircuts, and first best friends. Maybe your family dived into the world of pediatric therapy: physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, or behavior management – but it was worth it, because here you are! Kindergarten is a HUGE milestone, and you should pat yourself on the back for everything you and your little one did to make it here!

Parents of kids just starting middle school (this is where I am approaching this year) – look at what you did. You did all of that, and so much more! Homework, sports, school plays, field trips, class holiday parties. Report cards, spelling tests, school projects. PTA. Costumes. Scouts. Camp outs. Friendship drama. Bicycles. Roller skates. Broken arms. Family vacations. Sleepovers. Do you remember that one week, at the end of May, when everything hit at the same time? You know the one: ten swim practices, ballet dress rehearsal, ballet recital, swim meet, two Scout meetings, and TWO school projects due – with presentations. We owe ourselves a little congratulations for making it through elementary school!

And you, you wonderful amazing parents who just sent your babies off to college or first apartments or military training: I’m reading your facebook posts. I’m tearing up with you, while you post your pictures of dorm rooms and hoodies and tail lights, and chore charts with names crossed out and clean and empty bedrooms. But I want to congratulate you, and celebrate you, too. You did everything I’ve listed here, and passed levels of stress and exhaustion that I, and other parents still in the trenches, are only just beginning to see. Summer camp. Puberty. Braces. Glasses. Growing pains. Locker combinations. Homework. Essays. Band/choir/theater/sports. Driver’s Ed. Car insurance. First boy/girl friends. First boy/girl friend breakups. Social media. Discussing the media. Jobs. Bank accounts. Debit cards. College applications. And myriad other things I’m sure I don’t even know about, yet. You are amazing.

I’m proud of the kids, and how they’ve grown, and what they’ve accomplished. I’m in wonder every single day, that the tiny, pink, little creature who once struggled to roll over or hold a toy – now plays the clarinet and swims the butterfly and writes fan fiction. And I am amazed at all the stuff that swirls around in our lives. Not just the kid-centered stuff that’s listed here, but all this, together with the birthdays, funerals, weddings, grocery shopping, laundry, lawn care, vacuuming, dishes, cooking, bathing, working, and, every once in a while, sleeping. And, parents whose little eggs have hatched, grown, fledged, and are leaving the nest: I am in awe of you, for eighteen years of it. I know you are sad, in a sort of bittersweet place, but I hope you take a deep breath, and just relax, for just a moment. I hope you can take that moment to reflect on what it took to get the kids here.

The kids don’t need to know what it took to get them here. They don’t need to see the scheduling magic or the credit card bills or the worry or the sleeplessness. They know they are loved. They know, that no matter what your family’s combination of all of the above was, that you made it work. But, I want you to know that I see you, and I celebrate you, and congratulate you. You have done something amazing, and it’s okay to take a moment to realize it. You are amazing!

40 for 40

I follow a lady online, named Kristina Kusmic. She drops some serious truths, she puts real life out there with all it’s bumps and bruises, but she’s also a lot of fun.

Recently, she shared some of the celebrations of her own 40th birthday – and I’m taking some cues from her. One of her video series was #40for40 – 40 acts of kindness, one for each day leading up to her 40th birthday!

This sounds like a fantastic idea, and I’m going to give it a try!

I also want to be kind to myself, too, so I’m going to see if I can stretch it to 40 acts of kindness for someone else, and 40 acts for me!

It sounds good, in theory, but let’s see if I can actually make it happen.

Today is day one!

I’ve started by pulling out that box of greeting cards. Maybe you have one, too. That box full of cards that were “buy 2, get 1 free,” but you only needed two, so the third one was a “just saying hi,” or random flowers or whatever. That box full of cards when you got ambitious, and thought to yourself that you would start being that thoughtful person who sends random cards. Today, I’m going to mail them. All of them.

For myself? Y’all, I’ve been swimming. I’m taking the Master Swim class offered by my kids’ swim coach. And today, I dragged my lazy butt back to the pool for swim class, again. I am not much of a swimmer, but you know what? I think it’s working. I’ve lost about 5 pounds, but the best part was when we went to the water park last week. And let me tell you – it’s not a terribly busy waterpark, but it’s a lot of fun (shout out to Summer Fun). Becaue it’s not usually crowded, you have to get to walk right up the stairs to the slide, without even having to wait! It means a lot of stairs, really quickly. Last year, the lifeguard looked at me like she was a little worried. But no worried looks this year! So, for myself, I kept swimming.

I think that’s a pretty good start.

40, here I come!

“The best part about getting older is that I know who I am, I know what I stand for, and I don’t expect to be everyone’s cup of tea. I would never trade that for a younger body. My mind and my heart are in better shape than ever.”  – Kristina Kuzmic

 

Knuffle

This is Knuffle:

We found him in the grass, in the backyard, on July 17. He’s been a quiet pet, really. Boring, maybe, but pretty undemanding. He just asks for somewhere warm, and to peek at him from time to time.

Honestly, I don’t know if he’s a live egg or not. I did try to candle him, but there was nothing to be seen at all. A little research tells me that pigeon eggs won’t show anything under candling until they’ve been brooded (kept warm) for nine days, and since we didn’t know the providence of this egg, we decided to assume he hadn’t been brooded at all. So we’ve been keeping him warm for nine days. Maybe not ideal conditions – definitely not ideal conditions – but we had to try something. People who know about birds in our neighborhood told us that 1) pigeon eggs are hard to brood and 2)it’s really not worth it to try. So under the circumstances, even with poor care, we’re the best chance this little guy’s got.

 

Why Knuffle? The kids named the egg Knuffle, because Mo Willems writes books about a mischievous Pigeon, and books about a stuffed animal named Knuffle Bunny. (That’s the kind of house we live in.) There is a crossover book, Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, wherein we get to see that Pigeon has a stuffed Knuffle of his very own. What else would we have named this little egg?

 

Are we sure it’s a pigeon? Of course we are. Because hatching a dove would be a violation of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, and without a license, hatching one would be illegal. I’m pretty sure that the birds in the neighbor’s tree are pigeons, anyway. But, even if this does turn out to be a live egg, and turns out to be a dove, the recipe I found online for pigeon milk supposedly works for doves, too, and once it’s hatched, there is a real bird rehabber around the corner who will take a baby bird – he just doesn’t do eggs – so I’ll turn Knuffle over appropriately.

Anyway, it’s been 9 days! Today, we candle! Do we have a live egg? Let’s find out!
The first thing we learned, is that it’s pretty hard to use an actual candle. A plain old flashlight works much, much better.

Using a candle.

Using an LED flashlight.

To me, it pretty much looks like no one is home. The kids, however, are unconvinced. So, we looked up pictures of what we should have seen. There’s not a lot of love for pigeon eggs out there, but we cobbled some info together. It seems that most eggs at this age will have a dark blob on the “big” end of the egg, opposite the air bubble, and a visible network of blood vessels. I don’t see any of that (though you can clearly see the air bubble, to bottom of the right-hand photo).

However, pigeon eggs only take 18-19 days to incubate. So, since Knuffle is such a quiet pet, and doesn’t really take that much space, the kids have convinced me that keeping it warm for ten more days, just in case, isn’t really that huge of a burden. So, I guess I’ll update this post, with pictures, if we have a pip in ten days. I’m not ambitious that we will, but stranger things have happened.

The next thing I learned, is that even if we don’t have a pigeon, I might have hatched a monster. The feed store down the road sells newly-hatched chickens, and I have two kids who are now fascinated by the very idea of raising birds. They’ve tried to convince me that having a hen would be an investment. (I think our chance of buying chicks is just as high as our chance of hatching a squab, but, again, stranger things have happened.)

I love the idea of pigeons. – George Foreman

 

 

Hobbies

Chapter 11 of the Mommy Rule Book is, If Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.

Not because everyone needs to cater to you, but because if you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t effectively take care of anyone else, either.

Don’t lose yourself. Have a hobby.

I’m posting these here, mostly because I don’t want to lose them.

(And also, because I’m leaving these in the workbook/coloring book/craft table, and I want clean copies to come back to.)

I like to draw mazes. Partly because they’re fun to work once they’re done, and partly because, like working a jigsaw puzzle, it’s kind of zenny to make them.

Mazes

Waiting for the School Bus

Middle school is a crazy time.

I’m thinking I’ll probably have a whole collection of thoughts to gather together on that, later.

But I’m taking a minute, right now, to remember today.

See, I walk my middle-schooler to the bus stop. Every day. Our elementary school is only for our neighborhood, and as such, we don’t have bus service until middle school, so this is new this year, but it’s nice.

I trust her to walk herself. It’s a half-block, around the corner, and then another half-block, with maybe a dozen other kids, all middle-schoolers, waiting for the same bus. Quiet, residential street. I don’t walk her because I don’t think she’ll be okay – I walk her because I need to know everything else in her life is okay. This is a dedicated moment, amidst all the hustle and bustle of getting kids and self ready for school and work, dropping off sister at her own school, errands, chores, and the ephemera of real life – we walk, every morning, just the two of us, to the bus stop. And her daddy and I take turns picking her up. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we talk about favorite books or new television shows or what’s going on in PE or whether she likes math or if that boy was being obnoxious again or what we heard about on the news. It doesn’t matter what the subject is, really – we’re together, in a dedicated moment, every day, by appointment.

But today, my kid stopped me before the usual drop-off spot. Just where we turn the corner. It’s not that much shorter, but….

But my kid is growing up, I guess.

And I guess that is one of the most important mommy rules, isn’t it?

Our job is to grow children – into adults.

Oh, I know we’re a long way away from that. But I think that maybe this is how it begins, isn’t it – a half-block from the bus stop.

Happy Left-Hander’s Day!

It’s Left-hander’s Day!

Generally speaking, lefties are more likely to use both hands comfortably than righties are. Personally, I think that this is probably because it’s sometimes just easier to use the computer mouse as it is, or because steak restaurants tend to have table knives that are beveled to favor righties, or the scissors at the craft table are all righties, or the swipers on credit card machines are almost all built to favor use with a right hand, or whatever. (The Edinburgh Inventory is a ranking of how “handed” a person is. I’m personally about 40 points left of ambidextrous. Would you like to know where you rank? There’s a little test here.)

As it turns out, the habit of switching hands might be good for your brain.

It seems to be popularly suggested that using your non-dominant hand for everyday tasks builds additional connections and pathways in your brain.

Now, think of your brain like a library. Everything you know – from algebra to how to brush your teeth – is on a shelf in the Brain Library. A physical library has different pathways – main aisles and side aisles, shelves can usually be reached from either end, and sometimes even through the bookcases. Then, for whatever reason, the roof collapses! And you very much need some piece of information, but the main aisle is completely blocked. That’s quite all right – you know how to access the needed information by walking down a side aisle or reaching through the stacks. Those multiple pathways come in handy.

Holland House, Kensington, London, 1940

In the real world, brain damage and degenerative conditions such as Alzheimer’s and dementia are very similar to those roof cave-ins.

The more neural pathways you have, the less devastating that cave-in is. The damage is still there, to be sure, but you have taught your brain how to do things in different ways.

Give it a try. Go out and be sinister today! Try and be a lefty (even if just to brush your teeth) – your brain will thank you!
Note: I first encountered the brain-as-a-library analogy when listening to an episode of the podcast “Two Guys on Your Head.” (I’ll update when I’ve tracked down which one.) For the whole catalog:

http://kut.org/term/two-guys-your-head

Additional reference:

What Being Right or Left-Handed Says About Alzheimer’s Risk

Speak Out

We are trying to raise kids who are comfortable navigating in their world.

With that in mind, there was an opportunity this week that we simply couldn’t pass up. The kids and I attended a rally at the Texas Capital, and I have some thoughts I’d like to share.

The rally was kid-oriented; two Representatives, Carol Alvarado (D-Houston) and Wayne Faircloth (R-Galveston), read The Lorax, and we then discussed the bill in question, HB70, which prohibits all political subdivisions from creating any regulations regarding trees and other vegetation. I had already told my kids about the bill, and what it meant, and we went to this event only after they agreed it was something they’d like to speak out about.

Texas Campaign for the Environment then had some lobbyists delivering copies of the book to different Representatives. We tagged along, and though the House was still meeting, we did get to speak with some staffers. The whole thing was an interesting experience, and I know that not everyone shares our viewpoint, but I think there are some things that apply to everyone, and I’d like to share what we learned.

This experience taught me – and the kids – that speaking out about your opinion doesn’t have to be scary – even if it WAS intimidating at first. We went to five offices, and everyone we spoke with was quite pleasant, and even welcoming. It was a wonderful opportunity to remind my kids that we have every right to be there, and speak to the people who represent us.

We learned that sometimes, your allies might surprise you, or even hold a slightly different opinion. Some of the people protesting this bill were doing so because they love trees; some were protesting because they thought it was a slippery slope to other environmental issues, and some protests were not about trees at all, but were people who want to preserve local government’s right to regulate local concerns.

It was also a very neat way to remind the kids that if you don’t tell people – or your government – what you are thinking, then they don’t know.Aside from our gentle little foray into political activism, we made a whole day of it. We spent the day walking around the capital city, riding public transportation, and talking to people and taking in the public art, all of which goes back to the goal of comfort in navigating your world. (I realize that there are places where this is not a big deal, but for those of us in Texas: we love our cars, and we are well out in the suburbs. Public transportation and learning how to safely walk on a city street are experiences that we have to actively seek out!)

Go out and be brave! Ride the bus, talk to a stranger, voice your opinion!

Speak your mind even if your voice shakes. — Maggie Kuhn

The Zen of the Jigsaw

I sat down with my kids on a recent, rainy summer afternoon, to lay out a jigsaw puzzle on our coffee table.

I love jigsaw puzzles. My mom and I used to work puzzles together. I have very specific memories of having puzzles strewn across the formal dining room table. Specifically, I remember the Dallas yellowpages puzzle, and the green Night Before Christmas puzzle. (Funny, I guess other people remember them, too – a very quick googling brought them up right away.)

 

I have so many other puzzle memories, too. Working the US Postal Carousel puzzle on the coffee table, watching the news, when the famous OJ Simpson white Bronco car chase was going on. Spreading out the Paris Cafe puzzle on my apartment kitchen table. Working the Visit from St. Nicholas puzzle on my own kitchen table, while my oldest baby sat in her high chair next to me, eating (read: playing with) her afternoon snack. Spreading the blocks from the kids’ farm puzzle all over the living room floor. Having a collage of all the kids’ puzzles spread on the coffee table. Sitting up way too late with my husband, working puzzles on the puzzle board. Spreading a tablecloth over the puzzle on the kitchen table so we can have lunch; giving up and going out for dinner, because every hard surface in the house is covered with a different in a jigsaw in progress.

Yes, I love jigsaws puzzles.

I once had a coworker who confessed that she didn’t like them, and didn’t understand them. “What do you do with them when you’ve finished it?” And it’s not just her – I’ve heard other people express similar sentiments.

---

In January of 2013, my oldest daughter and I had the amazing opportunity to witness a group of monks from the Drepung Loseling Monestary, as they worked towards creating a sand mandala in the atrium of one of our local university’s art museums. A sand mandala is designed with the specific purpose in mind of destroying it when it is finished. It is meant to represent the impermanence of material life, and its value is not in the having, but in the creating. The act of its assembly is a sort of meditation.

---

The concept of mindfulness seems to be something that our culture struggles with more and more. There is a facebook ad that keeps popping up on my news feed, encouraging me to just breathe for 15 seconds. There is a dutch trend called “hygge” (pronounced hoo-guh), which really doesn’t have an direct English translation, but which basically means being mindfully cozy. Do a quick google search on “stress addiction” – it seems that being addicted to cortisol – the hormone released when the body is placed under stress – is a thing.

---

My jigsaw puzzles get assembled; displayed on the table for a day or two; carefully (and completely) disassembled and returned to their boxes; stored on a shelf for a year or more; and greeted once again like the old friends that they are, for the process to begin again.

Despite the display and the return, the joy is in the peaceful assembly. The gentle, quiet, socialness of sitting with a friend or loved one over the project, and the ritual of working the same Christmas puzzles, year after year after year.

For many of us, I suspect it is the closest we will get to creating our own sand mandalas.

I would like to make a humble, and perhaps biased, suggestion for all of us who are searching for peace and mindfulness. It might be time to just sit down, and work a jigsaw puzzle.

 

There are no extra pieces in the universe. Everyone is here because he or she has a place to fill, and every piece must fit itself into the big jigsaw puzzle.  – Deepak Chopra

To be, or not to be.

O God, give us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can be changed, and the wisdom to know the one from the other.   – Reinhold Niebuhr

Fairy tales are full of people who won’t share their name, because it gives power. The stories say that if you give someone your true name, then they have some control over you. But maybe, just maybe, fairy stories have some sort of distant relative in reality. Superstitions, after all, are based in practicality – it’s bad luck to open an umbrella in the house, but only because something as unwieldy as an umbrella is likely to knock over and break something.

I’ve never really felt in control of anything, and I wonder if that’s why I’ve always felt awkward when I’m introducing myself to people. I invariably mumble, and then they have to ask again, and then I have to tell them again. I dread being asked what my name is. Is the mumbling caused by the dread? Or is the mumbling caused by distaste? When I was a kid, the first person I had met who shared the same name had already claimed the only logical nickname. It had never occurred to me until that point that there WAS a nickname for “Amanda,” and Mandy is the first person I remember being consciously jealous of.

(I did try, briefly, in high school, to claim the nickname “Alice,” because it sounded vaguely like my initials strung altogether, but I’m insecure enough to have hated it the very first time it was said mockingly, even though I’m sure the person only meant to be funny rather than mean. There is only one person left who still brings that up, and I can’t seem to get her to stop. My own fault, I suppose, for bringing it up in the first place. Que sera, sera.)

I’m not a terribly assertive person. “That’s not what I would have expected you to choose,” or “Oh, no, you really don’t want to do that,” and “We’re going to do it this way,” and “I want you to care about this,” are things I have been in the habit of capitulating to. I don’t confront decisions that I would not have made. I’ve been in the habit of consoling myself that situations are only temporary. That I can just go back and quietly and privately fix it later.

The problem is, when you aren’t assertive enough to do it right away, “later” keeps getting further and further away, and before you know it, temporary situations become long-term, and the starter house and furniture and miscellany of life that you bought 14 years ago, that really wasn’t what you wanted, has become the house you are going to stay in for at least another ten years until your youngest graduates from high school.

I’m afraid that this is who I am now, though. The last time I really tried to be assertive was ten years ago, and I was told that I was pregnant and hormonal, and throwing a temper-tantrum, so I’m kind of in despair that I will ever be taken seriously as someone capable of defiance of any kind. I’m trying to dig myself out right now, to say that “later” is finally here, but I think I let it go too long. I’m afraid it’s no longer possible, and that maybe, since I’ve always lacked the courage to change anything, it’s time to just accept.

I’m really very blessed. I know this. And in the end, I suppose this current sadness is really just another temper-tantrum. Maybe fairy stories have nothing to do with mumbling when you introduce yourself. Maybe fiction is beloved because it gives us the illusion that people exist who really do get to decide their own fate.

Maybe you all feel the same way, and I’m only just now coming to the same “what have I done with my life” mid-life crisis that everyone feels. If so, then I’m going to tell you something that you really need to hear: It’s okay to feel this way. I understand, and you aren’t alone.