Welcome to the Jungle*

*the one by Upton Sinclair

As you can see by the cadence of my posts, a lot of time and life unfolds in between what I’m willing to share in this public forum, and the drafts that remain tucked away.  The type-A side of me, armed with a vision and a detailed communication plan, hates this fact, but as an employee of Gold Dust & Co., she’s no longer running the show.

Until now, the ethereal ball of unconditional love that animates my human form has found her way to these pages by via my trusty alter ego, Gold Dust.

And then shit got real.

Or rather, shit got real on a scale many of us have not experienced in our lifetime.

My central nervous system has been shot for years, so I’m used to living in a body that considers the end of the world a likelihood. Perhaps there are people who would pursue mindfulness training even without intense anxiety or emotional pain, but I am not one of them.  If I didn’t need to turn down the volume on the chatter box that is my mind, I’d redirect this time and energy to something with far more visible rewards.  Like a macrobiotic diet.  Or planks.  That truly would be nirvana: a quiet mind and rock-hard abs.

Until now, I’ve been able to reassure myself that the doomsday scenarios result from my trigger-happy sympathetic nervous system, and are not supported by actual facts.  Since the election I’ve been wrestling with how to respond to a new normal: Discerning what signals actually do require attention, and then figuring out how to engage without getting caught up in the whirlwind of fear.

I’m learning as I go.  Which means I’m making mistakes. (Yuck.) But I’m also developing new muscles. (Yay!)

Through this process, I’ve made the acquaintance of an additional alter ego: Continental Pussy.  She’s fueled by the same energy source as Gold Dust, but her voice is all her own.  She’s the dark to Gold Dust’s light.  She’s the yin to Gold Dust’s yang.  She’s the Kali to Gold Dust’s Uma.

If the past three months has taught me anything, it's that the truth can be delivered in different forms, tones, and decibel levels.  Sometimes Stevie Nicks sounds like she does on Gypsy and sometimes she sounds like she does on Edge of Seventeen.  Sometimes a laid back, go-with-the-flow approach works.  I'm now learning that there's a time and place for everything.  So when I'm in a centered place and I'm still clear that Shit. Stops. Here.  Well, then it's Continental Pussy's turn to provide the vocals.

Current events have supplied us with a number of courageous individuals speaking truth to power, as well as the reality that recipients of such messages are not always receptive to them. Observing Elizabeth Warren handle Mitch McConnell’s attempts to silence her tapped into some old rage buried deep inside me.

Trained to keep quiet, it's as though every instance where I swallowed my truth just stuffed the negative energy down further, compressing it but never eliminating it.  I thought it was gone.  So did those to whom I acquiesced.  This includes the times I proactively silenced myself in an attempt to appease people by not mentioning anything that might make them uncomfortable.  I assume this fed the inner storm that drove me to pursue spiritual connection in the first place. 

Since the election, the turbulence in the external environment has only intensified, so I’m now in a place where the tensions outside and inside have both reached a fever pitch. 

The only way I can relieve the pressure is by surrendering to it.  Though an unappetizing metaphor, the relief I experience these days feels like what I imagine the fleshy bits of ground beef feel like just after getting squeezed out the end of a meat grinder.  (I warned you it wouldn’t be pretty.)  I guess this means hamburger is just a steak that’s given up its ego.  And that my fascination watching my grandfather turn venison from the deer he hunted into food for his family paid off.  (Interestingly enough, I have the same Kitchen Aid stand mixer, but with the juicing attachment instead.)

I digress.  

All talk of food prep for omnivores aside, the pressures over the past three months aren’t new — these forces were there before.  Now they’re just more visible and intense.  The process of breaking down the stubborn parts inside me has just sped up, that’s all.   The Universe is merely cranking up the speed and the incline on this treadmill we call life.  My first instinct is to panic and doubt that my cosmic personal trainer has my best interests at heart, or to conclude that he/she/it is severely inept at gauging my athletic capabilities.  Eventually though, I get distracted by whatever home renovation show is playing without sound on the screen above me at the gym.  Before I know it, I’ve learned that the only one unable to accurately access my athletic ability is myself.

When Senator McConnell refused to let Senator Warren read the letter Coretta Scott King wrote regarding the (now confirmed) Attorney General, we could say that he silenced her.  But that was only temporary.  As a result of his actions, far more of us are aware of Ms. King’s words, Sen. Warren’s courage, and Sen. McConnell’s conduct than if he had simply let her speak.  

But then I wouldn’t have been so hell-bent on cranking out this piece.  And you wouldn’t have spent these last few minutes listening to me ramble on about making sense of life in this increasingly dystopian world.  (Which, depending on your view, could be a positive or a negative.)  Either way, take it up with Senator McConnell.  Continental Pussy is fresh out of fuqs.  Best to try again tomorrow.

Editor's Note: Mitch McConnell’s office is in Bowling Green, Kentucky.  It is the opinion of this publication that Ms. Conway’s gaff was actually a foreshadowing Tuesday’s showdown on the Senate Floor… #theOtherBowlingGreen

Our Next Opportunity to Vote is Now

Watching the Cubs persevere to do the impossible — win the World Series — proved to be excellent training for the emotional roller coaster of last night’s election coverage.  As the alarming results poured in, I used the same self-soothing tactics I’d relied on last week, including reminding myself to breathe and countless repetitions of the phrase “Everything is happening as it should”.  Someone shared this mantra with me when I got sober, and in the years since, it’s flowed out of my mouth in the face of all sorts of situations, ranging from mild irritation to full-on panic.  

At the time, it sounded ludicrous.  I had plenty of evidence that everything was NOT happening as it should.  Still reeling from the emotional and financial pain of a divorce, and facing life without alcohol as my dimmer switch, I had ample proof that I was completely on my own in this world. The injustice beyond my own pitiful ecosystem made it even more clear that the mom assigned to cosmic recess duty was either on an extended bathroom break or had abandoned her post entirely.

With nothing left to quiet my frazzled nerves, I was desperate to try anything.  Including something as cringe-worthy as the notion that everything really was happening as it should.  It didn’t mean I had to like it.  Or approve of it.  Or even understand it.  

I still come across conundrums where I can’t reconcile the idea of some creative, all-powerful force allowing injustice of any scale, whether it’s the suffering visible in the eyes of animals waiting to be adopted at the shelter — to major atrocities like the Holocaust.  To keep going in the face of evidence to the contrary, I choose to believe “Everything is happening as it should” even if I will not understand how or why during my short stay on this planet. Accepting that gray area of “not knowing” is really my only opportunity to avoid falling back into the downward mental spiral that demands I approach life from a place of constant fear and hyper-vigilance.

Last night, over a burger and multiple diet sodas, my friends and I tried to keep each other’s spirits up, in the face of increasingly steep odds.  I reminded myself to relax my shoulders away from my ears.  I posted pictures of the tent cards bearing the names of suffragettes on social media, trying to inspire my virtual friends to keep the faith. (When I titled our party “Seeking Friends for the End of the World,”  it was completely in jest.)

As the projections continued to tilt in Trump’s favor, I began repeating my mantra.  “Everything is happening as it should…” My friend stopped me and asked,

“But what if it isn’t?”

Deep down, I knew I’d have to keep believing this — even if our greatest fears came true.  Still, the Universe would surely back me up on this one, right?  There was no way that hot-headed, misogynistic, bigot could be elected commander in chief.  I’d be spared having to face the possibility that nothing was happening as it should.  Denial setting in, I maintained that this build-up of tension would only make Clinton’s victory that much more euphoric.  

But there was no extra inning. Unlike last week, my team didn’t win.  Unlike last week, I’m grieving a spectacular loss.  Oddly, this once again proves that anything is possible.  In a strange way, it also showed me that at least for today, my faith in a power greater than myself was strong enough to withstand such a powerful blow.

I am doing my best to clumsily work through these feelings.  I am trying to give myself permission to grieve. I am trying to comfort myself and my friends throughout the country who have genuine concerns about what this election will mean for them and their loved ones.  In the same way I no longer have the luxury to numb the pain, I also can’t afford the aftermath of denying it exists.  

It’s early on, but here are the little specks of hope that are starting to appear among the rubble.  I’m sharing them in the hopes that they might provide comfort to others facing a similar struggle.  I’malso making a public commitment to doggedly pursue the solution, no matter what fears manifest on the national scale.

Potential upsides of a Trump presidency:

Sunlight is the Best Disinfectant

The fear and hate mobilized to win this election was here all along.  It would still be here, even if the electoral college had swung in the opposite direction.  Now it’s out in the open, which makes it easier to address and ultimately heal.  Had Hillary Clinton won, I doubt we’d be as galvanized to follow Gandhi’s advice to “Be the change we wish to see in the world.”  

Verbalizing agreement via social media is always easier than translating those beliefs into reality — especially toward the groups I prefer to view as “the other”.  I will probably do more to bring about world peace by working to show compassion to certain colleagues who drive me bananas (and who have the same skin color and political leanings) than I will by sharing a clever equality-related meme.

We've seen the example, now let's try it on our own

It’s been inspiring to have people like Barack and Michelle Obama represent our country, people with grace and class, who embody their motto of “When they go low, we go high.”  

To date, President-Elect Trump’s behavior has not matched my expectations anyone holding a leadership position, elected or otherwise. At a minimum, I must be that much more diligent to make sure my own actions match my beliefs.

To be clear, I believe that we are all human beings, equally deserving of rights, compassion, and basic needs.  This applies to every human, regardless of the color of their skin, their sexual orientation, their religious beliefs, their gender identity, their socioeconomic status, or their citizenship. Oh, and before I forget, regardless of their political leanings.  
(Oh my god, that last one is a killer. A herculean task.  The Universe is going to have to do some serious psychological rewiring in my brain to get me to that place.)

Open > Closed

I’m opening my heart even further to the people I love (even those who are complete strangers) and seeking opportunities to be a part of the solution, operating from a place of love instead of a place of fear.  

Process > Outcome

If the outcome I hope for is not always guaranteed, then I must find a way to embrace the process.  From that view, the daily decision to keep my heart open — and not to use fear as a justification for building a wall around it — is really all I’ve got.  

So here’s to all of you beautiful readers, let’s lean on each other while we find our way through this and stay squarely committed to being part of the solution.  It’s much easier to fling our cosmic shit all over the place, but if we truly believe what we’ve been saying all along (i.e., that we’re actually stronger together, that love trumps hate, etc.) casting our vote was only one of many little actions we get to take toward achieving that greater victory.

Every moment is a new opportunity to choose between love and fear, between building a wall or tearing one down.  Make no mistake — that is a vote each of us cast by the actions we take day in and day out.  None of us do this perfectly.  None of us do this alone.  But the next opportunity to cast your vote in favor of a more just world isn’t four years from now.  It is now.

Xo,

Gold Dust

The Accidental Fan

Living in Chicago, I’ve met legitimate Cubs fans.  My laissez-faire attitude toward a particular team’s performance doesn’t match the dedication I see them embody.  As Cubs fever intensifies in our city — and oddly, in my own consciousness these days — I want to thank all those gracious souls for allowing fair-weather fans like myself to join in the celebration, even though I’ve not been around to equally share in all the disappointments and dark days that traditionally accompany allegiance with a team.  Especially one that’s seemingly cursed, like the Cubs.  They've endured decades of pain to take part in this triumph, and I stumbled upon it by complete accident, yet the ticker tape falls equally upon us all.

In 2005, I was heading to Chicago to visit my then-husband, who had just started his graduate program at the University of Chicago.  Having been accepted to the University of Michigan, a dream come true for a girl who had dropped out of college and become a hair stylist, I had recently started school myself.  After spending the week in Ann Arbor, I’d taken the train to Chicago to meet up with my partner.  I emerged from Union Station and followed the directions to get on the bus to Hyde Park.  Traffic was impossible.  Chicago traffic can be a shock to anyone from out of town, but the parade celebrating the White Sox World Series victory turned congestion into mayhem.

My backpack, stuffed with a laptop, textbooks, and a weekend’s worth of luggage weighed heavily on my shoulders.  Heat began to build underneath my coat, forming beads of sweat on my upper lip, and dampening my hairline.  Voicemails began to accumulate, my ex clearly annoyed that that I hadn’t arrived on time.  I was always late.  (I still struggle to get places on time.)  But the people were packed in so tightly that I was at the mercy of the crowd.  

I don’t remember much else that happened, but I do remember thinking it was really amazing that I happened to be there, on that day, in the middle of this celebration.  Without even trying, I’d ended up on the parade route, and got to see the bus as the players went by.  When you find yourself in the middle of a claustrophobia-inducing crowd, cheering on their hometown team, you can stress about the fact that you’re not going to make it to your destination on time, or you can join in the party going on around you and cheer like you’d planned it that way.  So that’s what I did.  My body continued making its way toward the bus stop, but my spirit joined in on the celebration happening around me.

The tug to join others in their misery, in their frustration that things aren’t going to plan is still very powerful for me.  My body and mind are hardwired to take on responsibility for their lack of acceptance, and turn that into guilt inward, thinking that somehow I could have taken different action and prevented their unhappiness.  This usually results in shame — the belief that that I am flawed, and that my being a “bad girl” is causing their distress.  

Good girls plan ahead so they don’t get caught in parades.

Good girls don’t make mistakes.  

(But if they did, they’d express remorse for those mistakes — not begin clapping and cheering along with the crowd as the parade passed by.)

To which I can now proudly say:

Fuck that fucking shit.

I can only see this growth in the rear view mirror, but I can see the changes taking root.  This impacts all my relationships, especially those at work.  Frankly, that’s the most challenging place for me to flex this muscle. In the five years following my divorce, I’ve been much more selective about the people I surround myself with.  By forming relationships with people, especially my female friends, who are committed to accepting life on life’s terms and learning to accept ourselves, in all of our “perfectly imperfect” humanity, it’s much easier for me create new pathways in my brain and know I’ll be okay, even if though I'm not perfect.

Work is still a challenge, though.  Even though work cultures vary, and sometimes changing the environment is the best option, as long as the workplace is made up of humans, I will need to learn how to deal with those folks that don’t share my view of the world.  My work today is learning how to not get sucked back into that kind of thinking. Right now, that looks like acting like I believe the saying, “I am enough, I have enough, and I do enough.”

Once again, baseball is helping me out with this life lesson.  Last year, I caught a foul ball at Cubs game.  That was my third baseball game ever, and my second time watching the Cubs.  I assumed that it happened frequently enough that anyone who wanted a foul ball likely would catch at least once in their lifetime.  I learned later that it’s actually kind of rare.  (Again, my apologies to those die-hard Cubs fans!)

On my bookshelf, I have an altar: a place where I keep all the things that have significant spiritual meaning for me, as I keep putting one foot in front of the other, building a life that is true to who I am at my core.  This morning I added my baseball, so that it’s now alongside the flower crown my friend gave me at Camp Grounded (birthplace of my Gold Dust namesake) and some surf wax from my last trip to Costa Rica. 

After the Cubs won the pennant, I heard Cubs' manager Joe Madden expressing themes in his post-game press conference that resonated with me and how I want to approach my life.  His perspective on the importance of being authentic is especially evident in this reference to Javier Báez:

…And when (Báez) goes out there, man, you saw him before the game sitting on the bench, saw him waving into the camera, he's just being himself. I love that.

I love everything about that because when he goes out there he's not afraid of making a mistake, and that's a big thing when you get players that are en masse not concerned about making mistakes, really good stuff can happen.

I'm not a professional athlete, but I do aim to be the best version of myself I can be, in the personal and in the professional sphere.  That is how I want to be: Completely unapologetic about being myself, and not being afraid of making a mistake.

In my personal life, I’ve got a bunch of supportive people in my corner, encouraging me to be true to myself, to do my best, and to trust that that’s enough.  However, that isn't as common in the workplace.  So when I bump into a naysayer, I want to be able to give myself that kind of permission internally.  I know I’m at my best when I’m present and allowing things to unfold naturally.  In those moments when someone tries to convince me otherwise, Gold Dust is going to take a line from Maddon’s playbook and remind herself that when you get a bunch of people who aren’t concerned with making mistakes, “really good stuff can happen”.

The next time someone tries to convince me that success demands I be someone other than who I am, I plan to channel some of the bullet-proof faith of a Cubs fan.  For decades, prevailing wisdom said it couldn't be done.  (I remember a professor in graduate school walking us through his financial argument that the Cubs could never make it to the World Series, based on the size of Wrigley Field and its inability to generate enough revenue to pay for the talent necessary to compete at that level.)  I understood the logic then, and yet, here we are.  We made it to the World Series.  I understand the logic of playing it safe, but if this is all just a game anyway, I'd prefer to at least enjoy the ride.