Terena Scott's Blog, page 11

100 days of kindness

The first 100 days of a presidency are meaningful. The president elect announces, “In my first 100 days…” and everyone watches to see if he follows through. The first 100 days can set the tone for the rest of his term. That’s why I want to challenge everyone to 100 days of kindness.

President-elect Trump has spoken proudly about his dislike of foreigners and Muslims. He has denigrated women and mocked people with disabilities. His tone has made it okay for white supremacists and misogynists to harass people of color and women. Even people who don’t think of themselves as racist now believe it’s fine to tell racists jokes in public. Lashing out at your neighbor is allowed.

But I believe we can set a new tone simply by being as vocal about kindness as Trump is about hate. Trump has embraced social media as his platform of intolerance. We need to take it away and turn it into a platform of kindness.All you have to do is report kindness on social media with the hash tag #100daysofkindness. Share a kind word with the world. Take a picture of an act of kindness and post it. Not to show off how “good” you are, but to drown out some of the hate speech filling the internet. This isn’t about making you look better to your friends, it’s about spreading generosity and compassion.

You don’t have to share anything on social media, though. Just commit to being especially kind to others for the first 100 days of the Trump presidency. If thousands of people did that, imagine what could be achieved. While Trump continues to insult and denigrate, we could completely ignore him simply by being kind to a stranger. Go ahead and bellow, Mr. Trump. No one is listening.

#100daysofkindness. Imagine the possibilities

2016 – Where is the happiness?

It feels as if 2016 kicked everyone in the gut. Every person I know has faced hardship and strife. Too many people died, from the famous like David Bowie and Prince, to the not so famous but dearly loved, like my friend Randen. Tragedy hit hard and across the world war has escalated. I don’t know anyone who feels safe. And now with President Trump looming, most of my friends feel like they are one step away from disaster. I work in a town devastated by a wildfire. I see how many more homeless people there are crowding the park because there’s no where else to go. It’s so easy to get pulled in to the fear and darkness.

By focusing so much on the news and the dark stories I hear from others, I almost forgot there were many blessings for my family this year. I am teaching again. My husband’s cancer is gone. Our daughter is happy and has many friends. My new book is about half way written. Our garden is thriving. We are financially stable, at least in the short run. The roof doesn’t leak. Both cars run. We have enough to eat.

2011 through 2015 were filled with one health crisis after another. First my daughter almost died, then I was injured and lost my job, then my husband got cancer. We almost lost our home when his small-business ended. I have no idea how we got through those years.

But 2016 in contrast was a wonderful year for my hubby and kid. No one was sick. No one injured. The bills were paid. Seems sad to compare 2016 to those prior four years, as if I’m saying it was a good year because we didn’t die. But sometimes it feels that way…

The future scares the hell out of me. My daughter’s health is declining and I’m afraid of the budget cuts a Republican government will force. How will that affect her and the support she needs to survive?

We are all worn out, fearful and tired. 2016 kicked everyone in the gut. But what I learned from so much fear and loss is that the only way to get back up is to remember the small miracles hidden in the fear.

My daughter’s smile.

Those moments with my special needs students when they suddenly understand something we’ve been working on for weeks.

Every time my beat-up 2003 Honda Odyssey starts on a frozen morning.

The amazing Chinese food my husband cooks from scratch.

Paying all the bills and still having money in the bank.

The tiny plants in my green house waiting for Spring.

Singing with friends on a bright Christmas afternoon.

There is still good in the world. Some years you have to look a little harder to find it, but it’s never gone. It’s worth fighting for. I heard that in a movie somewhere…

Happy New Year. Don’t give up.

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Why I loved Carrie Fisher, and it isn’t because of Princess Leia

As a kid in the 1970’s, I loved Star Wars. But that’s not why I loved Carrie Fisher. To me, Carrie Fisher was more than Princess Leia, an icon from my childhood. She was a strong, outspoken, honest and creative woman. She was a role model.

Carrie Fisher was a writer who shared her struggle with mental illness and addiction, but she did it with humility and humor. Sharing her story allowed others to laugh at their own struggles. She inspired me to write honestly. Speak the truth and don’t apologize, unless you really screwed up, then shout “I’m Sorry” with all your heart. And Carrie wasn’t afraid to fight. When people made fun of her for gaining weight it hurt, but she didn’t hide. Squaring her shoulders she responded with her usual strength and humor, and a loud “Fuck you.”

Carrie Fisher took no shit. Which is one of the reasons her death is so sad. Imagine how much more creative and outspoken she would have been at 80.

Thank you Carrie. I hope I can continue your example. Speak the truth. Laugh at yourself. Love with all your heart.

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Air Your Writing Grievances!

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Festivus, first depicted on the television show Seinfeld, is a secular holiday that allows for the Airing of Grievances. Got a complaint about a person? Air it out on December 23rd.

In that spirit, I would like to Air my Grievances about writing.

I hate my compulsion to write. I am addicted. The need haunts my dreams, makes me grumpy when I don’t have the time to write and makes me resent everyone who interrupts my writing. Overall, writing makes me a bitch.
My life is filled with imaginary characters who talk all at once and demand my attention, even when I’m surrounded by real humans. Writing makes me look like a crazy person.
I have spent thousands of hours of my life pursuing perfection in writing. In those thousands of hours, I may have written four perfect sentences. Maybe.
I have arthritis in my hands from thousands of hours of writing.
Writing has made me a hoarder. There are boxes of journals, stories, half finished novels, outlines, bad poems and rejected manuscripts filling my attic and stuffed under my bed.
Writing is life threatening. I will always get a great idea for a scene or story while driving. I will risk my safety and the safety of others to grab my cell phone in order to record that idea.
Writing is boring. I would rather pick fleas off my dog than edit my novel. But like all good addictions, I will write and edit and write and edit until I go mad with boredom. This is why writers drink and their dogs have fleas.
I’m sure I used the wrong “than” in the above section. And I am a horrible speller. But I will continue to butcher the English language because that is the only way I can get my writing fix. Being a writer and a horrible speller is a curse.
I am terrified of rejection, but am compelled to write and submit and write and submit in a never ending cycle of masochistic misery.
Writing makes me a narcissist. Everybody thinks their life story would make a great book. I am one of those people.

 

What are your grievances about writing?

A Glutened Solstice

Because I am a Celiac, I live dangerously every time I eat out at a restaurant. Gluten particles are sticky and cross contamination is a constant threat. So I wasn’t shocked when I had a gluten reaction from an unknown source. Could have been the cheeseburger I ate with my daughter. Even though it was wrapped in lettuce, I doubt the cook changed his gloves when handling my meal.

What did infuriate me was it happened on Solstice, the night I was to join my friends and howl at the moon around a bonfire while waiting for the longest night to end. Instead, I spent the night howling at my toilet bowl, waiting for another long night of stomach pain to end.

Believe me, if I could eat gluten I would. There is no such thing as Gluten Free sour dough bread (sorry, I’ve tried them all and they all suck). I’ve never had a Krispy Cream donut. When I went to Mardi Gras I spent two days throwing up, and not from alcohol poisoning. Of course, no one believed me as I hurled in a gutter on Bourbon Street. “Amateur” someone yelled.

No, just a celiac.

But my husband did his best to make me feel better. After our daughter went to the bed and my diarrhea subsided, we climbed up on the roof and watched the stars gleam in the frozen sky. I sipped a little wine, determined to celebrate because I’m stubborn that way, and talked about what a crazy year it had been. And then later, when I needed to spend more time in the bathroom, he handed me this:

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Suddenly, I felt a lot better.

Happy Solstice everyone!

 

Dear Trump supporters, I understand why you voted for him, but can you understand why I’m angry?

Dear Trump supporters,

I understand why you voted for Trump. I live in a rural area and work in one of the poorest counties in California, a county with no jobs, substandard housing and dirt roads. This is the kind of place Obama’s promises never reached. The people here are angry, and wanted to send a clear, loud message to Washington DC.

I understand, but can you try to understand why I’m angry?

My daughter has severe disabilities and is one of those people Trump mocked while campaigning. She is a woman who depends on government services for her survival. She lives with me and I depend on services to take care of her. Without the support of Social Security, MediCare and In Home Support Services, I would be forced to put my child in an institution. I thank my government every day for the help my family receives. Trump wants to take that help away.

My husband is a cancer survivor. “Obamacare” saved him and our family. Without subsidized health care and the changes in health care law, he probably would have died and I know our family would be bankrupt. So again, thank you government. I know it is not a perfect plan, but it saved my family. Trump wants to take that away too.

I am a rape survivor. Many women have accused Trump of sexual assault and rape. He brags about it, and now, a sexual predator will be president. What message does that send to women in our country? Our voices and our bodies don’t matter. Men can abuse us and we are powerless to stop it.

Trump is racist. He openly hates Mexicans and Muslims. He thinks black people should shut up about racist cops. And his win of the presidency sends a message to other racists that it’s okay to write swastikas on walls and beat up immigrants.

Many of the people I love are gay, lesbian and transgender. Will they now be denied legal protection to work and live peacefully? Will families be destroyed?

Again, I understand why you voted for Trump, and I know a lot of you aren’t racist or misogynist. But in voting for him, you told people who are racist and misogynist that it’s okay.

You can be the biggest bigot in town and  people will still respect you. Hell, they might even elect you president.

Bias at the Country Club

Recently I attended a beautiful wedding at the Silverado Country Club in the Napa Valley. The ceremony was held under the Oak trees near the golf course and the bride was gorgeous. Everyone was beautiful and happy and wearing their best. In my hand-me-down designer dress and borrowed designer shoes I looked like just another well heeled member of the club. No one could tell the only thing new was my undies, right?

When I first arrived at the country club, I parked my old Honda next to BMW’s and Mercedes Benz and walked to the front door of the mansion/club house. Walking across the green lawn toward the tall front doors I felt several people staring at me. What, haven’t you ever seen a woman in flip flops and a “Drama Queen” apron? The staff directed me to the suit where the bride and her entourage were getting ready. As mom’s best friend, my job was to keep mom calm and hand her tissues as needed. I watched the bride and her bridesmaids be transformed by an army of professional stylists. Amidst the chaos, the bride sat happy and serene, completely in control of everything. Amazing this was the same girl I met when she was 13 and surly.

Sipping expensive champagne, I kept my apron on so I wouldn’t spill anything on my hand-me-down dress and felt utterly out of my element. What the hell was I doing there surrounded by such wealth? Their jewelry was real and their shoes cost more than my monthly grocery budget. Everyone was staring at me, looking down their noses, aware my necklace was from Cost-Plus.

Or were they?

Were these smiling women really treating me like “the help”? Or was I so insecure being in a world I couldn’t dream of affording I assumed they disliked me? Did I dislike them?

Actually, every single person there was kind and considerate. When I ran out of champagne three bridesmaids asked if I needed more. The bride and her new husband were happy to see me. Everyone from the staff to the wealthiest guest was genuinely thoughtful and interesting. Not a single person treated me with contempt. And I liked everyone I met.

I walked in to the Silverado Country club assuming I didn’t fit in and would be ignored. I decided before I arrived that the people would be rude and I’d have nothing in common. Instead I met interesting people who were there because they loved the bride and groom. Just like me. We cheered and toasted and laughed and told stories together. The only one who thought I wasn’t good enough to be there was me.

 

An Introvert at Burning Man

Dust storms. Non-stop music thumping inside my ears. Flashing, glowing, throbbing neon lights. So much light I can’t see the stars, even though we’re in the high desert where the skies should be black and clear. Hot sunlight bouncing off the white playa and slapping my eyes. The press of sweating, laughing, talking, dancing people all around me. Black Rock City: the city that beats Vegas in an insomnia contest.

What the hell am I doing here?

I came to Burning Man for the art and to see friends. The city is art, a temporary but living work of creative power. 70,000 people come together to build a city out of imagination and hard work. And then after a week, the city vanishes. There is nothing like it anywhere, and I wanted to walk the streets and experience all that raw creativity for myself. Maybe I’d take a little bit back with me.

But the constant press of noise and activity exhausted me. I longed for silence in a place where silence had been driven away. People come to Black Rock City to party and my desire for solitude was ridiculous. My camp mates were dear friends and I loved being with them, but I needed a little bit of calm. So I hunted for it.

On my first night, I found quiet at a saki bar. It was still filled with noisy partiers, but there’s something about warm saki on a chilly desert night that felt peaceful. The servers were cheerful and the other patrons relaxed. We were there to take a break from the chaos for a minute. A smiling Buddha statue above the bar gazed across the rollicking playa. It was the perfect stop to begin my plunge into the City.

Throughout the city there are small, almost hidden, places of quiet. Not solitude, but quiet. I discovered tea houses where people could hide from the sun and wash the taste of dust from their mouths. A steam bath where you could  replenish your dried out skin. A wine bar in the back of a camp that served Pinot Noir under an awning covered in cooling tapestries. Small pieces of art scattered upon the playa that were just as beautiful as the larger installations, but attracted fewer people.

And then there was the Temple. It was always packed with people , but felt comforting. People spoke quietly, meditated, cried, and shared their grief. All along the walls and altars were tokens of love for people who had died. I stood with a crowd and silently cried, feeling the weight of a thousand broken hearts. But the weight didn’t crush me. Crying with everyone else felt less tragic than crying all alone in my room at home. We all grieve. We all struggle. The Temple is where we can give that grief away and find compassion.

Of course I made a pilgrimage to Medusa. I kissed her metal lips and thanked her for her inspiration. I sprinkled her with a little water, more precious than perfume in the desert, and asked for her continued help as I rebuilt my struggling press. She shot fire from her snake hair. I wonder if that was a blessing or a curse?

On the night “The Man Burned,” I chose to watch the spectacle from the third story of a camp a mile from the action. Standing on the platform surrounded by friends with the wind blowing dust across my face, I felt happy. Below us, the crush of 50,000 people pushed against the fires and filled the playa with beautiful chaos. I didn’t need to be down in it.

That’s the secret to surviving Burning Man as an introvert. Black Rock City is mainly built for and by extroverts. It stimulates every sense and pushes it to the extreme. Your skin will burn and crack, your eyes will sting, your ears will throb and your heart beat will triple. Your emotions will be manipulated and you’ll want to scream from joy and overexcitement all at once. Extroverts drop after a couple of days, completely exhausted. Introverts may want to drop after a few hours. My advice is to embrace your need for quiet and seek it. Stay out of the middle of the parties and crowds. The entire place is one giant party. Sipping tea in camp while watching a thousand bicycles race by is perfectly acceptable. When you’re ready, join the parade. Then jump out again.

The city has a strange magic. I’ve found exactly what I needed when I needed it. On one night after walking miles with friends exploring art, I became bone weary. Introverts know the kind of tired I’m talking about. It’s not a physical exhaustion, it’s spiritual. I said goodnight to my friends who were planning to party til sunrise and hiked back to my camp. While dodging racing bicycles, I passed one camp and I heard the beginnings of “Dark  Side of the Moon.” The camp was quiet with a few people lounging or sleeping on couches. One couch was in a quiet corner and I sat down. I listened to the low music and looked out across the open playa where art cars cruised and people danced. Lights blinked and strobed against the blackness and I saw flames break the dark like lightning. I suspect the others in the camp were high while listening to Pink Floyd. I didn’t have to be. That’s a great thing about being an introvert: I don’t need drugs to get high. The beauty of the city and the soft music was all I needed.

 

 

Fire and Flood in the Places I Love

image via CNN.com

Louisiana. So much water… a luxury to this drought weary California girl who spent a week there visiting the in-laws. I swam in their pool and then took long, hot, guilt free showers. It rained every day and I cheered every time. Even when the thunder and lightning chased us inside, I grinned watching buckets of rain overrun gutters and trenches.

We left the day before the flooding started. If I had known, I wouldn’t have cheered so much when it rained. Right now a large portion of the state is flooding after historic heavy rains. One more flood. One more lost home.

photo via ABC10 news

In Lake County right now, the town of Lower Lake is burning because of the Clayton Fire. I grew up in Lake County and still love that impoverished, isolated, rural county. My heart is broken for the thousands who are hiding out in shelters, not knowing if they have a home to go back to. Last year Middletown caught fire and most of Cobb Mountain burned. Thousands were homeless. The county was just starting to recover, and now this.

The air in Louisiana smells like green grass and moss. Water drips from tree branches even when the sun shines. The ground stays damp and when I walked on my mother-in-law’s back lawn my feet got drenched in muddy water.

In California, the air tastes like matches. The ground is so thirsty, when I walk in my back yard dust rises with every step. This was a good year for rain, but it wasn’t enough to make up for 5 years of drought.

Whatever water gods there might be, send some of that Louisiana rain to Lake County.

No more luxurious showers; I bathe with my feet in my daughter’s tepid bath water while I quickly rinse off with the shower nozzle. I dream of Spanish moss and dragon flies and damp air.

Do people in Louisiana dream of hard earth and dust storms?

 

Just when you think your career is over…

…something unexpected can happen.

Several years ago, I was injured by a student while teaching. It was an accident, but it left me unable to go back to work. I lost my job, had shoulder surgery, spent three years dealing with Worker’s Comp Insurance, and wondered if I would ever teach again. I teach Orientation and Mobility to visually impaired children and adults. With a certification and a Master’s degree, I am qualified to teach people with vision loss how to travel safely and remain as independent as possible. But with a permanent injury, it looked like my career was over.

Slowly, the pain of my injury improved. It would never go away, but I had learned to manage it and had regained much of the muscle strength I’d lost while recovering. I taught visually impaired adults as a contractor through a non-profit, and although I missed teaching kids, the work felt good. But as the deadline for my certification renewal approached I wondered if I should find a new career. Would getting an MSW be a good idea? Or add another certification to my current one? If I was going to only work with adults, would becoming a Rehab therapist pay better? I even thought I’d go back to school and get my MFA. If I had to double my student loan debt, why not do it pursuing something I loved? There were no jobs locally, so I would have to move and start all over somewhere else, probably out of State.

Then one day, I saw an on line add for an Orientation and Mobility teacher at a school district close to my home. I applied and they called me back that day. It’s a rural community and my combination of skills was perfect for their needs. It was only part time, so that was perfect for me. It felt like a gift. I didn’t have to move, or change careers, or go deeper into debt. Here I thought those three years of grad school to get an O and M Master’s and Credential was a waste of money and time when actually the right job was next door.

Life is funny that way. You can spend hours hunting for answers, but most of the time if you just wait and listen, the answers come to you. You may be convinced your best days are behind you and the future has nothing to offer, but life can surprise you if you let it.

Unfortunately, I do need to renew my certification. It’s due in two weeks. I still have 15 CEU’s to earn. Ugh! If you’ve wondered why I haven’t been writing, it’s because for the last two months I’ve been glued to my computer taking on line courses to earn Continuing Education Units. I decided to renew a little late.

This is another lesson; wait for the answers, but be prepared when they come.