Frogging...

Not to be confused with gigging frogs. For all my non-knitting friends, this means that point where you have been happily clicking away on that knitting project, perhaps for hours and then you look down and realize something is just not right. After counting rows and stitches, recounting rows and stitches, you realize this is not a simple fix, you cannot simply unknit a few rows and this is something that crochet hook will never repair. You bemoan the fact that you have not utilized the life line. There it is, the issue at hand, perhaps a gaping hole, or twisted stitches. The decision is yours. 

Do you continue on as if nothing has gone wrong? Or... do you decide to (gulp) frog?  You hear the every increasing loudness of the "rip it, rip it, rip it, rip it" froggy chorus and you have the decision of your life ahead of you... Are you prepared to tear out rows and rows of your meditative knitting?  

Knitting has helped me to put my life together when it was unraveling and now that I have worked on this UFO (unfinished object) for years, I see the dropped stitches, the miscalculated rows. part of me kept knitting along unaware. I have measured and contemplated long and hard. Finally, I have mustered the courage and I am frogging with determination knowing that I each time I start over, I understand the pattern better.  

Speak-Out

At a recent NOW meeting, a new member was unclear about what the actual medical procedure for an abortion was like. Another member offered part of her personal experience and then stated that this was the first time she had actually spoken about her own experience publicly. Even though we are empowered feminists, we still have difficulty discussing our personal stories. Society continues to or revisits that those of us who choose or have chosen abortion are somehow less than. I think now more than ever it is time for us to speak-out.


The first abortion speak-out took place during the pre-Roe v. Wade era, when abortion was illegal in the United States. Each state had its own laws about reproductive matters (sounds eerily familiar?). It was rare if not unheard of to hear any woman speak publicly about her experience with illegal abortion. In February of 1969, Redstockings, the radical feminist group founding in New York “disrupted” a New York legislative hearing about abortion. Four years after the 1969 abortion speak-out, the Roe v. Wade decision altered the landscape by repealing most abortion laws then in effect and striking down restrictions on abortion during the first trimester of pregnancy.


And today, it is becoming rare for women to speak-out about their legal abortions. As more and more states enact laws that make access to legal abortions increasingly more difficult and more disinformation is spread as fact, it is important that we hear the real stories of real women who have chosen to seek an abortion, whether it was after or pre-Roe v Wade. I encourage you to contact me with our story, which I will share on my blog and Austin NOW’s website, I know there are other sites out there dedicated to women’s stories and this will be another avenue for our voices but encourage each and everyone to put their story out there so we are heard. 


Email your story to me (stargaia64@gmail.com), indicate if you want your story to appear with your name, a nom de plume or posted anonymously. Or if you blog, I (and the Austin NOW site), will be sure to indicate your story is a cross-post. To get the speak-out started, I will post my story in a day or two. 

Tinfoil

By now everyone has read that depression can physically hurt, it can be exhausting, it can cause insomnia, and a multitude of other uncomfortable verbs. Depression is… we don’t ask for it. I know that I am no alone in this. We, the depressives, are actually a rather big club, but we don’t advertise very often. Membership comes at a great cost to us and to our loved ones. Our loved ones feel helpless even when we explain there is literally nothing they can do to make it better. The most they can do is acknowledge that depression exists, and let us know they are there for us if we need them. We can be reminded to eat, sleep or get up, or take our meds; but ultimately, we are the ones who have to make it better by doing what works for each of us in the moment.

Over the years I have learned that my depression is mostly triggered by situations and seasons.  I don’t know if I am the only one, but I can recognize when I am on the road to a depressive period. There is that defining moment after struggling to stay balanced when I know that I have temporarily lost my battle with biochemistry. My mouth goes dry and I taste silvery, wrinkled, tinfoil. Really, no matter what I eat or drink, I return to the taste of chewing gum wrapper only worse metal. I wonder if I’m the only one.

The situations vary for me but the seasonal depression is well, seasonal, and as a result, more predictable. I actually start brushing up on my coping skills when everyone is pulling out their boxes of holiday decorations. While everyone is getting into that holiday spirit (or pretending to be) I am doing whatever I can to wake up each day. My seasonal depression can be sneaky. It might arrive before Thanksgiving, but always before my birthday in December and sticks around well into January. I get the fun of a summer depression too, around the death date of my best friend, which coincides with one of the hottest months in Texas.

On the more normal side, if there is such a thing as normal symptoms for depression, I become narcoleptic, never able to get enough sleep in an effort to just shut it all out. On the flip side, I might have a bout of disturbed sleep, waking up and unable to really go back to sleep, unable to stop the wheels from spinning. Staring at the alarm clock dreading the moments knowing I should be sleeping since I actually have to function during the day instead of pulling the sheets over my head.

So what works for me when I’m in the darkest depths of depression? I read, I write and I take not too warm baths or showers, and now I try to share what it is like to be a depressive. I think that speaking out about it helps me have power over it.  Most people never recognize my depression because I work hard to cope.  I leave my depression outside when I enter work and I literally put a smile on my face because it really does bring calm energy. I mindfully walk, type and breathe. I focus on the fact that the best thing I have ever done in my life needs his Mom and the reason I somehow live through those lonely moments of depression in a crowded room. I know each day my son will make me smile, even through the deepest depths of any depressive day. To see that sparkle in his eyes and to hear his laugh is truly magical healing.

P.S. I read a blog entry by one of my fav bloggers, Jenny Lawson aka The bloggess, about depression: http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-fight-goes-on/). She has a Silver Ribbon and is raising funds for charity by offering pendants and buttons with the message, “Never Give Up”.

Twitter: A Writing Exercise

I decided to enter yet another social media realm, Twitter. At first, it was just to see what it was all about andthen I decided it would be a really amazing way to learn how to edit myself down to a mere 140 characters, including spacing and punctuation. Below are a string of tweets sent out to the world before I actually had people “following” me other than one friend who told me that Twitter was a great way to just send your thoughts out into the universe. The exercise was more cathartic that I would have ever imagined. Most of my tweets have become less poetic, but I would recommend what I now call the Twitter Poetry exercise.

Love is like the ocean. Vast, seemingly never ending, gentle rocking like a cradle. Like the ocean it can rage like a northeaster.

Love is like an ocean. Crystal clear Bimini blue with 100% visibility. Like the ocean depths, where no light has ever visited.

Love is like an ocean. It can offer a safe harbor or dash you against a hidden reef. You curse yourself for not seeing the obvious.

Love is like the ocean. You may feel like a seaworthy vessel but the ocean can sink you nevertheless.

Love is like the ocean. Wounds sting but heal quicker.

Love is like an ocean. Sails fill with a nickel of wind but remember you might end up dead in the water again.

Love is like the ocean. Sirens beckon, you are overwhelmed with the mystery of its depths.

Texacanized

I still don't totally understand how I ended up in Texas, or should I say, ended back in Texas. I did take a 2 1/2 year break, but I've been back for 11 years. Once you get here, it gets harder and harder to get out. Texas is a big ass state! It can take a good hard day of driving to reach the closest state border, so I guess you just say awhile. 

When I first arrived in Austin, I pronounced the Spanish named streets like my 8th grade Spanish teacher (Mrs. Morales) taught me. Now I've learned to talk like a Texacan. Manchaca is pronounced Man-Chak. Guadalupe sounds like Gwad-a-loop and San Jacinto? San Jay Sinto... so much for that rule about J in Spanish.

Another amazing first moment made me think that there were no other Jews in the state or someone Jewish had a great sense of humor. I saw a huge red neon sign that said:

I later learned it was a grocery store chain. H is for Henry E. and B is for Butts (I don't think this is a Jewish guy). We still say, "We're going to the HEB, need anything?" BTW. there are a few shelves in each HEB of Kosher food, right close to the other "ethnic food."

Right close? A Texacan thing to say. After so many years, it is a bit alarming that I barely notice the Texacan in my daily speech. I have been known to say, "I'm fixin to..." or the dreaded, "might should.." without blinkin. Oh my goddess, see.. a "g" just slipped away! This, from a woman who uses Yiddish expression nearly every day and still says "Aw-range" and Straawberry like I left New York a few weeks ago.

Another Texacan thing is to brag about how I've managed to survive the worst recorded summer heat in Austin history. As I have previously blogged, weather is easily a 30-minute conversation...with a stranger...while in the HEB check out line... after everyone seems to have gotten out of church gets out on Sunday (everyone is in their Sunday best jeans), after the Friday pay day. It seems like everyone gets paid every other Friday in Austin. The next top ten topic of conversation after weather is High School or College Football, but that is another blog.

I realized a few weeks ago just how Texacanized I have really become. We've been thinking about putting aside some cash for a second vehicle. All of a sudden, I want a wait for it... (Hold on to your hats! Oh right, only Texans wear hats all the time) A TRUCK!!!!

Not an SUV or crossover. A truck. Not to freak out anyone too much, I want a little truck. No big tires for me. I do not want a truck that requires a step extension. No F anything, more like a truck so I can put stuff in the back, like firewood. Small enough so a couch or bed WILL NOT fit. I don't mind helping a friend move boxes but I am not opening a moving business. Big Truck? Kiss your weekends goodbye!

I can hear my friends getting a giggle about this. I am sure a serious intervention will take place. "Really, Why on earth do you want a truck?" I really have no logical explanation. I used to say, "I want a pony" every time my son started his list of "I wants"  and he laughs. Now he catches himself mid list and says, "I know Mom (eyes rolling). You want a truck." Maybe I want a truck because every month is Truck Month at just about any dealership here in the Big State. Or maybe it is the "Texas Edition" that just wins me over.

I'm supposin as a Texacan that I'm fixin to get a small truck right soon enough ya'll!