Agression v Assertion, and Enola Holmes

The Boy was in his therapy session and one of his therapists said "Aggression and assertion as the same thing. They come from the same place."

When I heard this, I was like "Hold the phone. That's not right. Or true."

Aggressive is mean and violent. Assertive is strong and confident. Hitler was aggressive when he invaded Poland. I am assertive when I told my manager I want a raise.

Right?

The more I think about it, the more I think the Boy's therapist might be on to something. Hitler wanted to claim Poland under Germany. I wanted more money. We both wanted something, and we turned that desire into action--Hitler with tanks, me with a polite request.

What is the difference? Am I being aggressive? Was Hitler being assertive?

If I were to call my manager and say "Hey $@%@#, give me a raise or else I'll quit," that might be considered aggressive. If Hitler called the President of Poland and politely said, "I think we will make a good team and our countries would be stronger together," that might be considered assertive.

So, are assertive and aggressive simply in the eye of the beholder, in the eye of the person who is being asked to provide what the other person wants? Perhaps, but in polite society, we have norms where we expect people to behave in a certain way. In some cultures, women aren't expected to ask for a raise or ask to be fairly compensated. In these cases, women asking for equal pay (or equal rights or the right to vote) might be considered "aggressive" by those in power who don't want to give them what they desire.

We ourselves might have a difficult time asking for what we want, and we might perceive ourselves as being aggressive, when we really are being assertive.

Interesting conversation, nevertheless.

In other news, I've been trying to read the newspapers lately instead of skimming the headlines. I've been trying to find other stories to read about other than politics, racism and wildfires.

There is no good news. 

None.

Last week, I read a story in the New York Times about some political donor in West Hollywood, California who would "slam" gay Black men with meth and watched them die. I'll skip giving you the link. I couldn't finish the article. This morning, I read about some nefarious, cult-like brainwashing of an eBay employees. So I called a friend to cheer myself up, when in fact I listened to her bitch and piss and moan about the state of the world. She is actually delightful, so I didn't mind listening to her bitch and piss and moan. I felt less alone.

Given the past week of rain (everyone was a little overzealous in their prayers for rain to clear the smoke as we had a week of down pouring), I needed some sun so I went to Kerry Park on Queen Anne. I had never been to Kerry Park in the sixteen years I've lived in Seattle. The view was breathtaking. I've seen lots of views of the Space Needle and Rainier, but this had it all in one shot. I sat on a bench and read for an hour in the sun, occasionally peeking up for a look at Mt. Rainier.

Later while I was making dinner, the Boy called, and we talked for an hour and a half, which was nice.

After the call, I watched the first half Enola Holmes, the story of Sherlock Holmes younger sister starring Millie Bobbie Brown from Stranger Things and Helena Bonham Carter whom I'd watch read the dictionary.

This show is the balm for all that is wrong with the world right now. Millie gets a role where she actually gets to talk! Helena Bonham Carter plays an awesome, creative, feisty, loving, badass mom, the mother I wish I was. There are cinematic statistics that measure the amount women talk about romantic relationships with men in movies, and other statistic that measures who gets the most dialogue--men or women. In the first twenty minutes, I thought the movie was odd and then I realized the dialogue was mostly from Enola and her mom talking. So refreshing. So, so, so refreshing. 

Enola and her mom were talking. Her mother says, "The future is up to us. There are two paths. You can choose to take yours, or the path others choose for you."

A beautiful thought to end a beautiful day.

When, or Past, Present and Future

This morning while I was making a prosciutto and spinach quiche for breakfast, I listened to a lecture/podcast by the addiction specialist at the Boy's school. Tim was directly talking to parents whose kids just wrapped up a year of in-patient treatment, and are now part of a transition program where they are going to regular school but living in a supportive environment. Some of these kids are going to be on their own in the next few months, and that is a tender time. A few of these kids are considering going back to using drugs and alcohol, which naturally scares the crap out of parents.

Tim talked about splitting ambivalences in these teens. Kids (and adults for that matter) may be ambivalent about bad habits, like drinking or smoking pot. Some inner part of these kids may want to smoke pot, and another part may want to be responsible. If parents get on the rabid "Pot is terrible--don't ever do it!" they are putting themselves on one side of an argument.  When parents are on one side, some kids naturally gravitate to the other side.

Tim told a story of a phone call he got from one of his patient's mom. Her nineteen year old son was tossed in jail for possession of drugs. The young man called his mom, hoping she would bail him out. She was kind and compassionate, and set a firm boundary.

"I know this is hard, and I am sorry you are in this spot," she said, "I am sure you will figure something out." Parents have to learn to let kids make their own choices and then also suffer the consequences, even if those consequences break the mom's heart.

The mom told Tim that she had to at that moment see her son for who he was: an autonomous nineteen year old man. Her son no longer was the adorable preschooler who she would take to the park.

That story really resonated with me, for better and for worse.

In some ways, it is good to look back and see the good in people. It can give us compassion. 

Yet, looking back at the past can not serve us well, even when we look back fondly. We might be ignoring or tolerating current unpleasant or unacceptable behavior. Perhaps this is why some women stay with abusive men -- they remember back when he was nice, even though that was a long time ago.

It is fair to remember someone fondly when their current behavior doesn't match the past? We might not be honest or true or hold appropriate boundaries if we are looking at someone's idealized past self instead of their present self. We aren't giving them a chance to make mistakes, to fail, to learn, to grow.

IRL

Last week one night as I was drifting to sleep, I had visions of Zoom meetings. Instead of thinking about some social event I attended, I pictured my computer screen. I was jolted back awake with a big dose of "WTF?" Why am viewing my life as a Zoom event? It was horrible. 

(Kind of. And I say kind of because now I am connecting with people across the country more frequently than I used to pre-COVID, especially my Dad. Okay, mainly my Dad.)

Like most people, I am spending significant time alone during COVID, so it is so nice to see people besides my building manager and baristas. So what is going to be like to get back to real life? Will we remember how to act? Will we know what to do? Will I remember how to socialize, or will I be total awkward?

Friday night, I went out with some friends. Two friends have birthdays a few days a part so I suggested a celebration. We had initially intended to go to a local brew pub, but it was full. It rained Friday afternoon and the smoky skies cleared and everyone was happier to be out and about. People showed up at five o'clock at the brew pub and then didn't leave. Who can blame them? I was planning to do the same thing.

The four of us decided to go to another nearby restaurant which is much fancier than the brew pub. Three of the four of had been to the fancier restaurant before, and one hadn't. At first, Lance looked a little disappointed that the rest of us chose someplace so staid, but that lasted about five minutes. Once we were seated, Lance told the group his dramatic story of a week long camping trip in the Rockies this summer. Having spent a good part of the summer in Montana this year, I could related to his adventures in the mountains. We were laughing so hard, we were the loudest, most raucous table in the restaurant, but in a good way. You know when you are out and see people having fun and think, "I wish I was having as much fun as them"?

We were that table.

It was awesome.

Which is interesting for many reasons. In my pre-COVID life, I'd go out all the time with different groups of friends. Now I rarely go out, so when I do go out, it is extra-super special.

Saturday I went to lunch with Ellen. She was ten minutes late so the owner came by to tell me about the specials. For ten minutes. Which was fine, because I was sitting there by myself and how often do I get to talk to people in real life? Plus, the restaurant was busy by for COVID season, but not by pre-pandemic standards. When Ellen showed up, and the owner was back and still chatty. The waitress brought the food and the owner came by. Again. When we finished, he asked if we wanted dessert.

"No thanks," I said. "I'm good."

"No," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "You are great!"

Uhhhhhh.....

When he left, Ellen said, "I think he was hitting on you." Yeah, I kind of got that vibe, and it made me uncomfortable. My goal was to have a nice lunch with Ellen, not to have this guy show up for half of our meal.

Later, I got to think about it. The restaurant industry as a whole is struggling, but I bet the individuals who work and run restaurants are struggling, too. This guy might not have been specifically hitting on me. Rather, he might have been so happy to be back in business and schmoozing with customers that he was a little overzealous. Instead of the usual sixty customers, there were sixteen. I imagine people who own restaurants love to entertain and make people happy, and they haven't been able to do that for several months.

Today, I talked to my Dad for an hour and forty minutes on the phone. He said he is reading Squeeze Me by Carl Hiaasen and recommended I read it. Instead of ordering it for my Kindle or via Amazon, I decided to see if I could get a local hardcopy. I called Elliott Bay Books and they put a copy on hold for me. I decided to take my life into my own hands and take the Light Rail to Capitol Hill to pick the book, like people used to before we ordered everything in. The Light Rail had construction, so I rode a bus to Capitol Hill.

A bus. 

This was the first time in more than six months that I haven't take public transportation. Everyone had their face masks on. Everyone sat appropriately apart. The bus was free. But it was still a bus.

When I got to Elliott Bay Books, they were limiting the number of people in the store and the length of visit. There was a line of at least thirty people deep to get in. It looked like people were waiting in line for tickets to a rock concert, not to get into a bookstore. It was nuts. These people could have ordered anything in that store from Amazon for thirty percent off in three minutes and never have to leave their couch. 

But they wanted to get out. They wanted to walk through Capitol Hill. They wanted to walk through a real bookstore, not a virtual one. 

And I was in their horde.

Decaf Mocha, Quaffle, or Breaking Alert -- Happiness Found in Food!

Quaffle? Isn't that something out of Harry Potter? Some quidditch thing?

Hmmm.

I am not sure but I had one for breakfast today. A new coffee shop Anchorhead opened across the street from the condo. There was a "Coffee" flag outside the door where a Tully's used to be. Since it is my personal mission to keep coffee shops alive during COVID (and sometimes baristas are the only people I see during the week), I have been bouncing around to all of the coffee shops in my neighborhood within a three block radius. Plus I had some insomnia last night and needed some caffeine to get through the day.

At one point, I had thought of creating a blog called "Decaf Mocha" where I would visit a different coffee shop, have a mocha, and post about it. That would have been much more exciting to share pictures of coffee in a ceramic mug at a nice table instead of a paper to-go cup, which is what I am stuck with now in COVID.

So what is a quaffle? I walked into this newly opened coffee shop at eight a.m. and my nose lead the way. I smelled a delicious baked good. I am trying the Keto diet where I am cutting down on carbs and sugar so I can hopefully avoid putting on more quarantine weight. At the same time, I am watching "The Great British Baking Show" which is a show dedicated to the many ways can people prepare flour, sugar, butter and salt with extra flavors.

The barista/owner said the aroma was a quaffle, a waffle made out of croissant dough with cinnamon.

After trying to avoid the smell smoke all weekend, the quaffle smelled lovely, but I had no intentions of getting food. I was at the coffee shop purely for caffeine. I was planning to go home and makes eggs for breakfast I swear to god. I got the quaffle, hoping it would be terrible and that I would never want another one ever again, that my quasi-Keto diet had cured me of carbs forever.

But no.

The quaffle was awesome. It was a slice of sunshine and bliss in the middle of this smoke and COVID shitshow.  It was truly amazing and why hadn't anyone thought to do this before? It was getting a little depressed this weekend as the only thing to do in COVID time is GO OUTSIDE AND NOW WE CAN'T EVEN DO THAT? C'MON!!!! WTF? AARRRGGHHH!!!!

And then a very good friend who is young and idealistic beautifully said, "You know I feel kind bad sitting in my apartment working while the world literally burns. I feel like I should be doing something."

Nothing like a healthy dose of perspective to get me out of my self-induced pity-party. It is really icky and gross in Seattle, but how are these people in Portland surviving? And then I flip through my weather app, checking the air quality of other cities and I am jealous. Until like two days ago, I didn't even know there was an air quality index on my weather app. London is 2. New York is 21. San Francisco is 13. "Air Quality" is below "Visibility" and "UV Index," which I didn't know where there either. In Seattle we are holding tight at 269: Very Unhealthy.

I don't know if I would have tried the quaffle today if I hadn't been so depressed this weekend. I don't know if I would have enjoyed it so much if I hadn't been locked inside and needed something to cheer me up. But I am grateful for how much joy it has brought me today.

Ferries and Hummingbirds

This morning I woke up and it was quiet. Very, very quiet. There were no sounds of birds or cars, airplanes overhead. I looked out my window and today looks worse than yesterday.

My phone told me today isn't worse than yesterday. Maybe the smoke picked up some humidity as it crossed the ocean to come back to shore.

Earlier this morning, I put my mask on to take Fox outside, not to protect myself from COVID, but to protect myself from smoke. When I came back in, I forgot to take my mask off. I felt better with it on. Fox, however, has been coughing.

If Fox is coughing, what will happen to the hummingbirds? Three or four live in my courtyard and I watch them from my window as I work.

Yesterday I went to the market. The most heartiest of souls were out, and a bunch of them were smoking. Are smokers immune to this wildfire smoke? How bad does it have to get that even smokers can't breathe? What about Portland? Last night, their air quality was around 516. 

Now, I hear the ferries continually blasting their horns and it is freaking me out a little bit (even though I am on land.) The visibility is so low. I feel sorry and I am afraid for these ferry drivers who are trying to shuttle people back and forth to safety when they can't see ahead of them. It reminds me of an episode of The Crown that depicted the London Smog in 1952 (not to be confused with Smaug, the dragon in Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.)

Until this past year, most of the drama in my life was personal, not a shared public crisis. Even with COVID, I had to work from home but still kept my job. I didn't personally get sick, but my mom did. The wildfires, while not destroying my home or town, are impacting the entire Western part of the United States with unsafe air.

Air. 

Humans and animals need food and water to live, but first we need air.

"Lauren, You are 100% Wrong" and Meditation

This week, I have been meditating, which has been a good thing. I've tapped into the Open Sky meditation podcasts from the Boy's Wilderness Therapy. One of the benefits of meditation is emotional resilience.

Friday, I had meeting at 7:00 a.m., two hours earlier than I normally start work. After the meeting, I took a break, eat breakfast and decided to meditate.

That was a very good call because at nine I was called into a meeting to represent me team to a half dozen of out internal stakeholders. The first forty-five minutes of the meeting were tough, but the last fifteen minutes "blew chunks" to use a metaphor from sixth grade.

"Lauren, you are 100% wrong," said one of the stakeholders.

Yeah.

Thanks to meditation, I didn't completely lose my shit. I was able to focus on the rest of the day and be fairly productive. It wasn't that I stuffed down my feelings of rage and self-righteous indignation. Rather, I didn't pick up the bullshit that this guy laid at my feet. I left it there in the meeting. Meditation gave me a layer of protection from the slings and arrows of others. Kind of like a turtle's shell, or slime on a slug.

Aside from that one giant cluster-fuck, I've noticed since I've been meditating that people are nicer to me. My teammates were exceptionally kind to me all afternoon.

It's the End of the World as We Know It, and Rain Dance

Nineteen years ago, the Twin Towers collapsed after a terrorist attack. Nearly three thousand people died and 25,000 people were injured.

That was considered a really bad time, and it was.

I thought about 9/11/2001 yesterday, and how on 9/11/2020, we are experience more a slow, drawn out form of suffering instead of an accute blast of tragedy.

Seattle, as much of the world, has taken a beating in 2020. 

• In March, we were the first place in the U.S. to have documented COVID cases. We have been in some form of quarantine since then.
• In June, we had protests turn into riots over racial inequity.
• In September, we are living in a city dangerously filled with smoke from wildfires in Eastern Washington, Oregon and California.

A friend of mine from the Midwest texted me and asked how the smoke is in Seattle. I said when I am wearing my COVID mask I don't even really notice it that much.

I have to admit I am feeling a little trapped right now. If the air quality got really bad, where would I go that I could drive? I can't drive east because I'd have to drive through areas hit by fires. I can't drive south because Portland and California are on fire as well. I can't drive north because Americans aren't allowed into Canada because of COVID. West is water: Elliot Bay and the Puget Sound.

What's left?

Pray for rain.

Thursday evening downtown

Thursday evening

Yesterday afternoon

This morning

Typical view in the spring and summer (above and below)

Sober and The Plan: What Plan? Whose Plan?

Jack has started to "sober up" from his workaholism. 

I should be thrilled, right?

Nope.

Instead, I am finding myself angry, frustrated and annoyed. Why did it take so long for him to get his head out of his ass? Why didn't he listen to me before? What am I, chopped liver? Why did he sober up after both kids were out of the house and I left? Why did he wait until it was "too late"? The kids will never be kids again. He recently admitted that he "deferred" parenting to me. As a married couple, we divided tasks like managing money (me) and insurance and taking care of the cars (him). Parenting isn't a task to be assigned. Parenting is a purpose, where you hope to raise and nurture a little person into a big person who has their own hopes, dreams, goals, affections, talents and values.

You can't delegate parenting. You either are a parent or you are not. Sure, you can be super-engaged, over engaged, under-engaged, minimally engaged and so on. There is a range, but at some point you have to decide if you are in the game or not.

Of course, there are some exceptions, like military parents described in this beautiful article written by Dana Canedy, a Gold Star spouse. For so long, I thought of Jack's work as being like the military--sacred and worthy of his absence. 

But then Jack never really came home, even when he was home. He was always at work, even when he was at dinner at home, sitting with Claire-Adele, the Boy and I.

On another note, the Boy started his senior year of high school this week in Montana. He is going to a large public high school in northwest Montana while he is living in a house with three other guys and two house leaders.

I haven't fully let myself feel those feelings, and those feelings are complicated. I can live in the present, but part of what makes me live in the moment is accepting those other feelings that are hard and not stuffing them aside. In the past few weeks, I've talked to multiple therapeutic boarding school/inpatient treatment parents. One just found out that the wilderness therapy team recommended his son go into longer-term care. I cried when I heard his story, even though I had been there myself. I don't think I cried when the Boy's team told me they recommended sending him away for another year. I think I said, "Uh-huh, sure. Okay." I didn't cry for my kid, but I cried for someone else's. 

But this week, I was sad. I got an email from the Boy's kindergarten teacher. Mr. Jones emailed all of his kids a note wishing them well on their last first day of school. It was bittersweet to read, as the boy almost didn't make it to his senior year. My friend Cara summed it up perfectly: I am happy the Boy is doing better, but I am sad for you he isn't here."

I was thinking about this dad whose kid kid is going to be sent away for a year. I wanted to tell him the hard part for me is over. The hard part--the fucking hell--was when the Boy didn't get out of bed for six months, when he stopped going to school, when he stopped joining us for dinner, when skiing was possibly the only thing keeping him alive according to his psychiatrist. Deciding my kid wasn't going to get better without an epic intervention was the hard part.

That was the dark time.

This wasn't my plan. It wasn't my ideal vision for my kid to spend his senior year in Montana, living with other kids. But what is a plan? My friend Melissa has an expression, "Man plans. God laughs." When I heard it years ago, I had thought that was a trite little expression, a cliche. Now I understand. There are trajectories and likelihoods, but life offers no promises for anything.

I guess I do disagree with one part of that expression. I don't think God is laughing right now. I think God is holding the Boy, keeping him safe, giving him a soft landing place in Montana instead of crashing to the ground.