Category: Thoughts

I used to create imaginary worlds when I was a kid. One of these fantasy worlds was hidden underground, accessible by drainage holes that led to secret passages. These portals did not lead to a subterranean city as much as provide instantaneous transportation to anywhere else on the planet. The precise details of what lay under the suburb’s surface escape me now, but I do remember the underwater passageway.

One of the thousand unmarked gateways led to the ocean floor where a glass tunnel stretched up to meet the water above my head. The semicircular glass tunnel covered an earth bottomed passage, wide enough to be a freeway, from one shore to the next. The thickness of the glass increased with the depth of the ocean floor, but the entire path allowed for visual contact with the ocean above. Of course, I had no concept of the depth of the ocean back then.

I imagined this world when I was eleven years old, at a time when I desperately wanted a means of escape to a far-off place. Why not crawl down a tunnel and hop into a jet powered car or just walk under the whole ocean? I could travel the whole world that way safely and for free!

Not surprisingly, an underwater restaurant opened somewhere in the world not too long ago. I think seeing pictures of that restaurant reminded me of my youthful fantasy world. I told my boyfriend how I came up with the concept for the restaurant 19 years ago and could have made a ton of money selling the idea first.

Another product I jokingly take credit for inventing in my head is TiVo or the digital video recorder in general. When I was around the same age, eleven or twelve, I thought it would be great if I could pause and rewind the cable television the way I could with videos. This was before the digital revolution; compact discs might have just become available. I find it amazing that my imagination back then strove for digital solutions in the analog world. To be honest, I didn’t think my idea would ever become a reality. It was created from the same place as the glass tunnel under the ocean and the monster in my closet (which I never thought was real but was still afraid of).

I used to visit San Francisco regularly, and the first time I took the subway from there to Berkeley, I was stunned because the train goes under the San Francisco Bay. No glass tunnels to observe the wildlife as you go, but I did appreciate that it finally came into existence. It is things like this that remind me how limitless our world experience can be.

I started experiencing sleep paralysis after age 10, after I (and my mom) had moved in with her new boyfriend in a new city, with a new school and a completely different demographic than I’d ever experienced.

Of course at that time, nobody knew what I was experiencing, so it wasn’t until years later while reading a non-fiction book on vampires (yes, you read that right) that I learned about the disorder and its historical association with the mythical succubus. I appreciated finally knowing what it was that I experienced, knowing it had a name, that other people had experienced it too, and that it wasn’t ghosts or goblins causing it.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve had an episode. Tonight, I was watching something where they mentioned sleep paralysis likely being caused by trauma, and it hit me so hard. It all makes sense. I didn’t experience it until moving when I was 10, which was literally the hardest year of my childhood. And I only experienced it a few times after: once or twice in college and then years later when I was living in another house involving a different complicated family situation (that I don’t feel like unpacking here just yet).

Dreams

Sleep paralysis dreams were intense until I figured out how to deal with them. At first, I panicked because I really believed I was awake and paralyzed. When I figured out it wasn’t real, I developed strategies to at least give the illusion of control. I’d use all my strength to slowly move my hand to my mouth and bite my finger. Upon biting my finger, I would wake up. I think it did actually happen once, where I woke up with my hand by my mouth and wet, as if I’d bitten it. But even when I didn’t find my hand by my mouth when I woke up, I usually had tried to bit my finger in my dream state.

My dreams tend to be very adventurous, complex, like the stories I read in fantasy books. Sometimes I am me and recognize everything around me, but mostly I feel like a character in a different story than my own life. I usually remember all or most of my dreams.

Occasionally, I’ve had death dreams. The ones of recent years have taken on a tone of immediacy that has really upset me. In one I was shot in the head at close range by someone after she had pursued me and my roommate in a car through a neighborhood. Another time, I felt something in my stomach burst and then faded to black.

In the last 4 years, I’ve had some lucid dreaming experiences. I’ve either woken up and then realized I was still asleep, or realized I was dreaming and needed to wake up. One time, I was on a beach and decided I needed to kiss someone to wake up.

I’ve even had one or two dreams that felt very spiritual, that actually made me believe that there might be something beyond our physical life.

I had a dream where I felt a presence guiding me to a moment in time, and it was like I was looking at a photograph I recognized, but seeing it in real time. I saw my grandparents at some gathering. They were happy and carefree. The moment was more focused on my grandfather, who I was pretty close to. But it was kind of like a memory mixed with an experience. I have a photograph of the moment I saw, but in the dream I was looking at the moment.

There were some other more vague moments experienced on this journey, but overall, there was a warm comfortable feeling about it all.

I never saw an image of my great grandmother–Granny–but I had the feeling that she was the guiding light, showing me images of my grandma and grandpa. I had this vision of warm yellow light and a feeling of comfort and peace going toward the light.

That morning I got a phone call and was told that my grandma had passed away. I always felt very close to her even though our spiritual beliefs differed. We were two peas in a pod in so many ways. She had an open heart and mind, and I like to think I got mine from her.

I’ll just start by saying the obvious. I haven’t been able to post consistently. I’ve been having a lot of mental health issues (and some physical stuff) but it really comes down to my own perspective on things.

I have a friend who has a lot of problems and will just flake on our plans in the oddest ways. Two things: she does hard drugs sometimes, and she lives a rather unconventional lifestyle. She suffers from depression, anxiety, and possibly other stuff. The pandemic hit her pretty hard, as it did many of us.

In the past, I’ve tried to be gentle when she fucks up because I worried unleashing my wrath would trigger her. So when she disappears for weeks or doesn’t answer the door when we have plans (and we’re texting just 2 hours prior), I would internalize how it made me feel and say something like, “It’s OK, I don’t hate you, I was just worried.” However, she SHOULD know by now that it hurts me to worry that something bad has happened to her when I don’t hear from her. She SHOULD know that all I want is a tiny kernel of communication.

My other friends who know about this have consistently said I’m more generous than she has any right for me to me. And I have made excuses for my behavior for a very long time.

I am finally starting to break through it. I finally see that I need to be honest about how much it hurts me that she does that. So, if (when?) she finally gets back to me, I have resolved to tell her in the kindest way possible that her actions hurt me and its not really OK for her to keep doing that.

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While house sitting recently, I realized what I enjoy so much about it. Yes, its nice to be in a big house with a hot tub and a cat, where I can stretch out and have room for projects, with peace and quiet to center my mind. More importantly though, I feel truly free, but perhaps not in the way you’d think. 

I enjoy the freedom to not stress out about other people and my preconceived notions of what they think of me. I’m free to wear unflattering clothes that are comfortable and not look in the mirror to make sure my imperfections are covered up. I’m free to poop and not feel poop-shamed by smells or stains left behind. I don’t feel the constant burden to hide evidence of my presence. I can live and be messy and not worry that I’m negatively affecting others.

I know this insight into my psyche may not exactly come as a shock to others, but it caught me off guard to see just how much I hide myself from the world. Why do I feel the need to do this? Why do I feel like I need to be small? Why do I feel like I’m of less value and importance than others? Where did all this shame come from?

Other than the poop shame, which I will get to in a minute, the answers are somewhere in the coalescence of my life experience and thus hard to pin down objectively. All I can do is share some insights to what kinds of experiences I’ve had that contributed.

Back to the the poop shame (because I know that’s why you’re still reading). There was one particular incident that I credit for it. Strap yourself in.

When I was younger, like post-college adult age, I visited my grandmother when I could. My aunt also lived in the house with her husband. We had always had a good rapport, but long story short, she was sick through a good chunk of my twenties and thirties, so I didn’t interact with her that much. Years later (again, long story short), when she was in a better place physically, I came to learn that she has some pretty severe mental health issues. For example, she screamed at me at the top of her lungs one Thanksgiving because (wait for it) I put the pumpkin pie in the fridge. Literally, that was it.

So back to poop shame. One day I was visiting the house and I used her bathroom for a number two. I did my best to deal with the odor. (Does anyone else find it confusing to deal with odor in other people’s houses sometimes because it’s like, everyone has different sensibilities about such things?) A short while later, my aunt comes to me with one of those very serious “we need to talk” looks on her face and proceeds to scold me with a raised voice about leaving skid marks in the toilet. I mean, she was actually mad about it, as if I was a misbehaved dog that shat on the floor. I’m pretty sure the comment she made under her breath was something about how she didn’t understand how I could do such a thing and why I didn’t know better because it was clearly offensive.

That’s all it took. From that point on, I started covering my metaphorical, and sometimes literal, poop tracks in any way I could, and I still get very stressed out about it when I’m around other people. 

Just recently, I saw a meme online dealing with this. The comic strip shows a person at work mitigating their poop situation by making sure no one is around when they go in, lining the inside of the toilet bowl with toilet paper, multiple flushings, using spray–the whole nine yards. It was all too familiar. 

What gave me pause was someone’s comment: “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? Everyone poops, its normal.” My reaction was: “Aww, you’ve never been poop shamed, and it shows.”

It wasn’t until then that I really took a hard look at the situation and realized how fucked up it was. I guess seeing the problem is the first step to dealing with it and working on it, so there is that.

Sometimes my train of thought takes off in an unexpected direction, as in this case. As always, thanks for reading! 

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At my current job, I edit English translations of Chinese Buddhist texts. One thing I have found interesting is how challenging it can be to find the right word to reflect the intended meaning. For example, the Chinese character 心 (xin) means heart as well as mind. As you can imagine, this lends itself to a host of philosophical discussions. (I highly recommend Alan Watts’ teachings on the subject, particularly audiobook format if you can find it.) 

The characters 慈悲 (cibei) can be translated as mercy, benevolence, or pity (according to Google translate). Our in-house translation is loving-kindness & compassion, but occasionally it is translated as pity.

In English, compassion (having compassion for) and pity (taking pity on) feel so different to me, but I can see how they share the root idea of caring about others.

When I think of compassion, it has a very positive, warm feeling. I would describe it as a bright sunny day in a glade full of blossoming pink lotus flowers. It conveys a mind of equanimity. 

On the other hand, pity carries with it a kind of sadness, somber with cold-toned blues, like a concrete structure on an overcast day. Pity necessitates judgement; it requires one person to see another as being lower or having less in some way, and deeming that unfair. 

Pity is not for those doing well; compassion is not given judgmentally. This is why, when we translate these particular Chinese characters, we mostly translate it as compassion, especially when it refers to that of the Buddha. 

This crossed my mind yesterday when I was considering the notion that kindness can actually be cruel. There is a small, woman-owned business, the first of its kind in the county, and I really appreciate what they are trying to do. I like their theme, the owners are nice, and I like that they’ve attracted a nerdy gaming clientele over the years. I like to support them for these reasons. However, most of their menu items don’t appeal to me, and sometimes even the ones I do like don’t taste as good as similar items from other establishments nearby. I realized that I still go there almost out of a sense of pity because when I go its usually pretty dead inside. 

And I do that with other things too, like people who I don’t really have anything against but who I don’t really want to hang out with, either; I don’t have the heart to abandon them when they are suffering. But is my kindness, my pity, actually doing them any favors? In the case of this business, my continued patronage could be giving them a false sense of success. I realize I, as one person, may not matter, but I can’t be the only person who feels this way, right? In terms of people, it might reinforce someone’s idea that their behavior is good, even when it is not. Wouldn’t the kinder, compassionate, thing be to let go so they might self-reflect on why? 

Maybe I just overthink. Maybe none of this even matters. 

It brings me to another thought: As a self-trained editor, I don’t always know the technical grammar rules to explain why the English is incorrect, so I do the best I can by describing it in my own way. Oftentimes, when I’m asked the difference between two words, and I don’t have the dictionary handy, I’ll describe how the words feel to me and what images they bring to mind. When I was considering compassion and pity above, it occurred to me that this way of relating to words is something I do often but I don’t know if I’ve ever articulated it before.

That’s all for now. Thanks for reading!

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Last night someone asked me if I felt that getting an archaeology degree had been a waste of time, a mistake.  

I left the field of archaeology (& paleontology—a post for another time) about 10 years ago for various reasons including the unpredictability of fieldwork assignments, the instability of year-round lab jobs, exposure to hazardous chemicals, low pay, poor treatment, and lack of advancement opportunities. And let’s not forget that even though the number of women in contract archaeology may have grown, the attitudes of many of men working around us on development projects—contractors, operators, tradespeople—were still very much that it was a boy’s club, and they didn’t really want us there. 

Being a woman and essentially an inspector that had the power to shut the project down if we found anything often meant a lack of cooperation and communication on their parts. Also, being sent all over Southern California and living out of suitcases in cheap hotels is not as exciting as you may think.

My experience working in the lab was better by far, but that too ran its course and had its own issues.

 I ended up getting laid off 3 or 4 times in my chosen field of study, and by the end of all that, I was ready for a change.

Do I regret my degree? Not really. Studying anthropology made a lot of sense to me at the time. It reinforced my own ideas about how I saw the world and gave me invaluable insight to why people are the way they are. Anthropology is still very much the lens through which I see the world and make sense of larger social issues. I also got to work on some amazing projects with mammoths, giant ground sloths, and yes, even dinosaurs!

As I considered this question, I realized another important factor. I never really fit in with the archaeology world, even as I pursued it. Maybe that is why It didn’t work out for me in the long run. 

Why would I pursue a field when I didn’t fit in? After thinking it over today, I realized it’s because I never felt like I fit in anywhere. Back then, I felt like a square peg in a round hole in most circumstances, to the point where I guess I just thought it was normal. And because I was very good at the detail-oriented, structured tasks of field and lab work, nobody could tell how much anxiety I had or how much I struggled to understand things that other people seemed to know innately. 

If I could go back and change things—I know it’s not popular to say this—but I just might. My life has been difficult, and, in many ways, it hasn’t felt right. I keep thinking about the Dr. Who episode where they change Donna Noble’s life path by having her turn left at a critical juncture instead of right (or right instead of left, I can’t recall exactly), and she never meets the Dr. based on one simple moment. 

Since I can’t go back, I guess I must try to make sure the little moments going forward count.

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An alligator ate Amy’s Almonds.
Brad borrowed Barbara’s bra before band.
Carl can currently control caramel cravings. 
David does diamond dioramas daily. 
Elva eats everything easily. 
Frank follows four fictional fairytales.  
Greg goes gaga getting gory. 
Helen has hormonal hives. 
Ivan is incredibly indigestible. 
Jon just jammed Jerry’s jumpin’ Jalopy. 
Kristen kicks kites. 
Lola likes licking lemons lasciviously. 
My mother makes mole marmalade. 
Nobody needs nonsensical nuptials. 
Oh!, Olivia owns otters. 
Prissy Patty passes pretty pumpkin pies perfectly.  
Quinn Quit.  
Ralph retired randomly. 
Suzie sat surreptitiously sideways. 
Thomas takes time to twirl twin tigers.  
Untie underwear uniformly, Ulysses!
Vivian’s van vroomed veraciously.  
Why wait when we wonder whether we want water? 
Xavier, Xylophone!  
You yawned yesterday.
Zack zapped zippers.