Being Strong

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story ****  

“Good afternoon Mr. Bartle,” grunted a raspy voice to the left of the sealed entrance.

Dumbstruck, Raina stared in awe at the gargantuan owls that, moments before, she had assumed to be statues. Both had turned their heads inward to survey the pair with shrewd eyes. They towered over her each holding a radiant shields. The owl to their right had a solid white face, a creamy brown feather coat, and speckled tan patches all over its body. To their left was a somewhat aged black and grey horned owl with knowing green eyes.  Each bore hardened expressions that conveyed wisdom of struggles not even Raina had experienced. The effect of their hardened appearance was more startling than the unbelievable discovery that she had found herself standing before giant living owls inside an enormous tree.

“Alfred!” Bartle addressed the horned owl. “Good to see you back! How is your wing?”

“Healing well sir,” the owl responded raising his free wing slightly to revel a distinct bend in the tip.

“Very good! You will be back on the front lines in no time.”

“Hopefully sir.”

The speckled owl released a derisive puff of air, and rotated its head to survey the hall beyond them.

“Are you here to speak with the queen?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” replied Bartle. “It is rather important. So please excuse us for the brevity today.”

Alfred cocked his head down slightly, and scanned Raina with a wizened gaze. “Of course,” he croaked.

The tawny owl, having returned to look in their direction, stretched a colossal wing out before them. With a graceful flick of the tip, the bird opened the doorway, and returned to the statuesque posture in which Raina had first observed it.

The doors slowly glided open. Eager to see what was inside, Raina stepped forward ahead of Bartle. She crossed over the threshold of the double doors and was struck instantly with a powerful floral scent. She looked around her.  It seemed more enormous than anything else she had seen in the Royal Cypress. The room must have been at the top most point of the tree because Raina saw no covering above their heads. The sun shone directly into the rotunda, saturating Raina in a pleasant warmness. All around birds tweeted, wind whistled, and yet the space echoed with the peaceful kind of silence that she had not heard for years.

It reminded her of that last camping trip she had taken with her family when Mark told her she was too small to help set up the tent.  Unsure what to do about feeling useless, Raina had lain her sleeping bag in an open area, and stared at the vibrant rays of light coming through the branches above. She had zoned out entirely as the birds around her chirped to one another quietly, and the squirrels skittered through the trees.

That’s what the Queen’s quarters sounded like to Raina. It was nothing short of magnificent. As the light came through an open ceiling, it warmed the vast space by glistening off the walls and floor, both of which seemed to be made of marble. As Raina crouched to get a closer look she realized they were made of an agate like material that reminded her of the blocks of petrified wood in Mr. Star’s science class at school.

Raina was amazed. The room was absolutely beautiful, and she had never seen anything like it before. She got to her feet and spun around slowly, scanning the room for signs of whoever might be lucky enough to call this place home. As she turned, Raina suddenly became aware of a faint but strangely familiar sound.  She had heard it all along, but originally thought it just a dove cooing in the distance.  Now that she had taken in her surroundings, the noise grew louder, and it sounded like something she had heard before.  She tilted her head slightly to hear it better. That’s when she recognized it.  The sound was familiar, but not because it came from something she had heard before.  It was a sound she knew well because it came from someone she had heard before.  Raina went pale with the realization, as all the blood rushed out of her head. 

It was the very whimpering sound her brother made when he was trying to be strong.  This was a noise that killed Raina. It beat-up her heart every time she heard it. She had spent the last four years of her life doing her best to allow him the childhood he deserved. She strived just to give him the one she did not have. Despite her best efforts, Raina could never fully protect Tam. He was too young, and yet he already had been through too much.

She tried as hard as possible to shield him, but there had been times when Tam had witnessed everything before she could usher him away.  Against her will, he had seen Mark strike her for having cold dinner on evenings he stumbled home later than usual. Tam had watched as Mark slammed butcher knives into the sink where Raina’s hands were submerged in bubbles, and as he cried out in fear Tam had seen countless glass bottles shatter on the walls around him.  The reminder of her brother’s cry forced Raina outside of herself once more. She stood and watched the memory of herself this past summer, before Tam began kindergarten. It was the moment when Raina finally realized she could not always protect him.

“Hey Tam Tam,” she had whispered one afternoon after the Mean Man had passed out on the recliner behind them.

“He-ey Wain-uh!” he grinned innocently.

“I know things aren’t always easy around here,” she began.

Tam placed his crayons atop his mystical creature coloring book, and gazed at Raina with a quizzical slant to his brown eyes. “What you mean?” he asked.

Raina sighed. The look tugged at her heart strings. She considered forgoing the entire conversation.  Why rob him of this desire to remain oblivious, she thought to herself.  But, she knew the answer. As Tam got older, he was going to see more.  In two different schools, their schedules were going to become complicated, and Raina couldn’t always be around for Tam like she wanted to be. At 13, there was only so much Raina could do to protect her baby brother. One day he would understand what was going on, and she couldn’t shield him from his feelings. She could only teach him how to continue on despite them.

Raina tucked the right corner of her mouth into her cheek in a sorrowful expression. Unable to answer her brother in words, she tilted the tip of her head toward their unwitting guardian laying comatose on the recliner. She shrugged her shoulders and Raised her eyebrows in an effort to say everything she could not.

Tam followed her gaze. He made it clear he understood in his prompt return to the phoenix coloring sheet. Words were not necessary. Raina knew he did not want to discuss it.  She knew he did not want to embrace their circumstances as a reality, because it was exactly how she felt.  So, she gave him a minute of frantic scribbling with focused determination. She let him savor the structure provided by the preordained boundaries of the colorless bird afire.

“Tam Tam,” she whispered again after allowing his break from reality.

His only response was to switch his purple crayon to red as if to signal a stop to the conversation.

“I know this is hard Tam Tam,” she gulped, “but I need to see your eyes.”

Still he refused. As much as she wanted to join him in his denial, Raina carried on.

“You know you can cry around me right?” Her own eyes started to well, but Raina forced the tears away. “Whatever you need to do around me, it’s okay. Okay?”

Tam sniffed, and traded his red crayon out for an orange one.

“Did you hear what I said?” She asked.                                     

His lower lip trembled and his nose wrinkled as he nodded at the colorful bird below him.

Thankful for an actual response, Raina breathed out. “It’s not always safe to cry though. Is it Tam Tam?”

His coloring slowed, and he peaked at her from beneath his long lashes as he traded once again for a yellow crayon.  Tam’s coloring slowed as his head rocked side to side.

“Yeah, I know that.” A heavy weight slowly pushed on her chest as Raina acknowledged her sweet brother’s suffering. “So, sometimes we have to pretend to be strong, and I know that feels awful. But, I promise it will only ever be for short times, and then I will come and save you.  Okay?”

“Okay,” he croaked quietly.

“I will always be there for you when you need to cry Tam Tam. No matter what.”

As Raina remembered this conversation she reentered her body.

“Tam?!”  She cried out. “Where is he?! Tam!” Her hair whipped across her face as she flipped her head erratically.

“He’s here Love,” came Bartle’s unexpectedly even voice.

She circled to her right, and discovered the portly man crouched just at the edge of the room. His gazed was aimed at something on the ground before him. She ran to his side. Before she could question Bartle, Raina became immediately concerned with what hung in the altar above his head. No longer disturbed by the mystical elements of her surroundings, Raina froze as she peered into a watery orb suspended in an iridescent spectrum of light.  She accepted it for the unknown object it was. However, she could not accept what she saw inside it. At its center, Raina saw Tam sitting on a curb.  It was dusk, and the helpless little 5 year old whimpered quietly while he waited for his sister to retrieve him from a deserted school yard.

She felt like a ton of bricks dropped from her shoulders to her belly button. She had completely neglected him. She snapped around to face Bartle.

“Stand up!" She declared authoritatively. "We need to go get my brother!”

“We will need my mother for that,” Bartle said with a curiously somber tone, his head still trained on the floor.

“Well,” she barked at the top of his balding head. “Hurry up then! Where is she?”

Bartle made an odd choking sound then sputtered, “she’s gone. They have taken the queen .” He sobbed into his hands.

Confused, Raina finally looked to the ground before her guide.  There, she saw a bloody footprint smeared on the floor. Directly beside it, Raina saw a cracked diamond dagger alongside a pair of similarly blood-soaked purple butterfly wings. Though they were crumpled and ripped, the wings were large enough to cover her own spine.

---

To be continued... 

Epic Tails

You should know that I believe in the power of fables.  I think that metaphors are a great tool for understanding the world.

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Human history is rich with examples of us exploring our purpose as a species through story telling. People have always been able to extrapolate powerful meaning from mythologies. This is a pattern that continues to this day. If you are paying attention, you'll be surprised to find many of life's little lessons in the most unexpected places. Epic poems, novels, comic books, and even movies are filled with profound insight. I am a firm believer that "all of life's riddles are answered in the movies," and in the best children's stories as well.

So today, when I went to see a movie based on a novel, I wasn't surprised to discover the entire story had been leading to moment of allegorical clarity. However, I was surprised to find out that the lesson to be learned from this particular tale was one I had already learned. Even more startling was the awareness that this very specific lesson was one I had  taught myself. I had even passed this bit of knowledge on recently.


It was this past summer, and I had (as I often do) accompanied my parents to a bike race. I was standing in the official's box in the infield of our friendly neighborhood velodrome. I was talking to my father, as the child of a family friend sat next to us eating a type of sweet treat that I have since forgotten. The brawny little boy sat atop a tall stool wearing a content expression as he munched on his snack. He innocently kicked his dangling legs back and forth in the sunlight. Watching him sit there as his father attended to something elsewhere,  I felt a kinship with this boy who was sharing my childhood experience. I smiled at him as I recalled my own childhood sitting in that very spot.

Then, I noticed what looked like a scrape on his knee. Though the scab was small, I figured it had come from one of his rough and tumble adventures, and I wanted to know the story. So, I asked him. "How'd you scrape your knee?"

He squinted his eyes into a perplexed expression as he looked up from underneath a pile of the most golden blond hair. "It's paint," he said reaching down to scratch part of it off.

It seemed so obvious after hearing that. The kid had, after all, spent the afternoon with both of our fathers repainting lines on the track. However, I felt somewhat unsatisfied with his answer. So, as someone who has been repeatedly complimented for her sensitivity in dealing with children, I told him how I felt.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Well, that's kind of boring."
"Yeah," my dad chimed in. "Next time someone asks you that, you should come up with a better story."

The child looked at us, confused.

"I think you should tell people you wrestled a tiger," I said "It's more exciting."
"Yup, tigers are much cooler," my dad concluded.
 "But, it's just paint," He told us. The boy still looked puzzled, but one corner of his mouth had flipped up into a smirk.
"I know! I can say the tiger had a paint brush in his mouth," he added, clearly missing the point.
"I guess that will work," I responded suddenly feeling disappointed in myself for having told a small child to lie for no good reason. But, it was too late.

The boy had started to get the idea. With our assistance, he had concocted an epic tale of an invisible paintbrush wielding tiger that had scratched him once, because it turns out he did have a cut on his leg (a small freckle-sized scab on one ankle underneath his sock). And, for the rest of that evening, when we told people to ask him about the paint on his knee, the macho boy responded with pride, "I wrestled a tiger."


I guess the point I was making, that was echoed months later in this movie, was that sometimes how you got to where you are is not important. Life can be intense and complicated. We move through it compiling data for complex tales, some of them gloriously exciting, incredibly tragic, or unbelievably mundane. We all have epic journeys to report. In doing so, it's easy to become fixated on how it all happened. When we do that we can forget the most important details. That is, we often neglect to acknowledge that, no matter how we reached our current states, we survived.

So, next time you feel the need to dwell on your past, take a tip from me. Tell the story with a tiger. It'll sound more impressive.

"Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them." - Calvin 

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Disoriented

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There she stood; a little girl alone in the dark stormy forest. Though she wracked her brain, she couldn't recall exactly how she had gotten there, but she knew how to get out. The path lay just before her. She had spun around multiple times, surveying every corner of these creepy woods, but the darkest and most worrisome road was the only one that seemed remotely familiar. Just as she realized it was the way out, the storm picked up. 

The wind began to rock the trees around her as it whistled through the canopy above. Thunder cracked through the sky, and the thick cloud cover dumped freezing water.  The little girl wrapped her arms tightly across her core. She was thankful to be wearing her warmest winter jacket, but even still she shivered as the downpour struck her bare head and cheeks. She was not yet aware that the frigid climate was only partially to blame for her quivering.

Still she stood there, soaking wet and growing colder by the minute. She had figured out which direction to go, but something seemed to be stopping her from heading down that path.  It could have been the ominous shadows looming overhead, or the drastically poor visibility, but it seemed like more.  She had recognized those problems, and the little girl understood that there was nothing she could do about them.

"It is what it is," she reasoned to herself.  "I can only control myself."

So, she took a few small steps forward, but froze in her tracks shortly after beginning her trek.  She couldn't move anymore, because she suddenly felt so small.  She felt as if she had become a miniature version of herself standing in a world of giants.  Despite knowledge of her strengths and capabilities, the little girl cowered in the deep dark woods.  The road seemed even longer now.

With a heavy weight on her shoulders, the girl stretched out her neck and trunk. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see more clearly, but it was of no use.  The fog had rolled in, and she could barely see her own hands in front of her face.

That's when her stomach began to turn.  Something down in her gut began flopping around, but rather than deal with it she reached up to chill her unexpectedly feverish cheeks. The two sensations combined caused her to waver in her stance. She automatically blew out a long stream of air, and crouched to her feet. 

Frustrated, the shrunken little girl couldn't take it anymore.  She was exhausted and overwhelmed from her circumstances. She closed her eyes and let her fingers rake in the damp earth below her.  The little girl knew what had to be done, and she was eager to get on with it. She hoped that an epiphany would strike her, and this sudden burst of insight would shine some much needed light on her situation.

But no amount of grounding or rationalization would get her out of this. She was alone in an unknown land. Though she told herself to move on, the little girl was stuck trapped in a body that wouldn't listen to her.

"I just want to get out of here," she thought to herself over and over.

Tears squeezed out of her tightly clenched eye lids, and her lip began to tremble. Then, a low flying gust of frigid wind knocked her off her precariously perched feet. She slammed down hard into an icy patch of dirt. Without realizing it, the little girl let loose with a wail that was just as loud as the cry of the storm.

She attempted to recompose herself, but that only lasted a couple of short seconds. Then the little girl understood that she couldn't even control herself any longer. She let go in a rare fit of unregulated emotions. She screamed and thrashed about in a way that hadn't been acceptable of her in years. The girl kicked her feet and arched her back while sobbing with every ounce her diaphragm could muster.  She knew it wasn't going to help anything, but she didn't care anymore. The little girl was distraught. She felt confused, frustrated, sad, alone, and angry.  She was overwhelmed, and she was frightened she would never make it through this.

After what felt like forever, her tantrum tapered down and her weeping faded to a whimper. The exhausted little girl slowly sat up and opened her eyes to see the unchanged world around her.  With a heavy heart and a vacant mind, she carefully shifted her weight. She wanted to slip her weight back to the ground. She craved nothing more than to just give in to the insanity that seemed to be consuming her. However, as she leaned carefully backwards, the little girl startled.

She had struck something cold and hard. She turned her body to feel it with her hands.  As she groped along the rocky surface, she found herself crawling forward. Cautiously, she moved further and further until she realized that she no longer felt the cold sting of rain drops on her skin or the burn of the wind as it rushed across her cheeks. She listened carefully, and heard droplets echo in puddles around her. Still blinded by her darkened surroundings, the little girl assumed she must have entered a cave. She got to her feet, and looked around. She had no idea what lay ahead, but, if she squinted really hard, she swore she could see a pin prick of light in the distance.

She adjusted her proportions, and returned to her normal stature. Her chest still ached from fear and her gut flipped with anxiety, but something told her she was going to be okay.  So, the little girl headed off on her journey.

Focal Points

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One of the first things they teach in dance classes is how to spot your turns. "Find a speck on the wall, and stare at it," said every dance instructor ever. "When you're ready," they explained. "Let your head go first. Find the spot with your eyes, and your body will follow."

I remember, as a little girl, spending hours identifying a single fixed point on an adjacent wall. Staring at that spot, I would rise to my tippy-toes, lift one leg, and whip my head around as fast as I could. Each time I hoped that my eyes would remain fixed on that preselected speck, but frequently they wouldn't. I failed often as I attempted to learn this skill. I would lose my balance, teeter, and tip over. Understandably, I found this frustrating.

Eventually, I figured out that focusing on one spot in a semi-distant space was actually serving a purpose. Steadying my gaze seemed to give me balance. That provided the stability required for movements. However, having that down isn't enough. Whipping my head around with no continued focus, left me without direction. My brain lacked proper input to tell my body where to go. I could balance, but I would veer off randomly. I had to know where I was going before making the shift.

Later in life I learned to drive, and dealt with a similar issue. Petrified over the responsibility of operating heavy machinery, I focused my attention on the front of the car. Hoping never to strike anything, I sputtered through this learning process. I zigged through parking lots, and zagged down neighborhood streets. Slowly careening around isolated areas, I thought I'd never make it to a real road.

My steadfast parents however, knew otherwise. They ignored my teenage melodrama, and repeatedly reminded me to shift my gaze further down the road. This made no sense to me at the time. I often wondered how I was to get anywhere without knowing what was directly in front of me. So, imagine my delight when I discovered that they actually did know what they were talking about. Watching the road ahead informed my driving. It allowed me to see where I was going, and told me what was headed my way.

As I have illustrated, this bit of advice is reiterated frequently:

Head up. Keep a weather eye the horizon. Look ahead.

It's all very useful advice. The body follows the eyes. Looking down the road prepares you for what is to come. Although, it is pretty easy to forget this. The present is more immediate. It is, after all, happening now and it seems as though you must deal with it as it comes to you, but having a goal is important.

You must identify where you are going in order to get there. You have got to look ahead, and prepare before you take your steps. Focusing on the distant future gives you the guidance required to maneuver this world. It's a practice that affords you the balance to deal with what's in front of you while also helping steer your life in the right direction.

Big Girls Don't Cry

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This past weekend I went out to a karaoke bar with friends. I had some delicious beverages, and observed complete strangers make a mockery of themselves. After a couple brief hours, I called it a night in favor of my bed and a good night's rest before an early morning. While waiting in line to close out my tab, a rather inebriated young gentlemen wandered aimlessly in my direction. He stopped in front of me, and gaped.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" he inquired with genuine concern in his voice.

Though I assured him that I had been "old enough" to be there for the better part of a decade, the man remained suspicious.

"You look like you're 12!" he argued with me.
"I'm not," I responded abruptly, but he persisted. He went on and on about his misperception of my age. I simply stood there speechless, staring daggers at him, until a nearby friend came over.
"You are not making friends right now," she said. "You need to say something nice, and leave."
"It's just that you look..."
"Think about it," I urged him.
"...like you have a wonderful smile."
"Nice job turning it around," I affirmed. "You should probably go now."

With that he was gone, but his words still linger in my brain.

For the most part, I have pretty thick skin. However, those who know me well, know that being older than I look is one of my truly sensitive areas. And it gets picked on quite frequently. In the past year, I have been called pet names, offered children's menus, had solicitors ask if my mom is home, and had the validity of my ID questioned on numerous occasions. People hear me talk about school and want to know what grade I'm in or what college I'll be attending. In the past, my adolescent clients have asked if I was a teacher or a student, and my child clients have told me I look more like a kid than an adult. The general population seems to struggle with categorizing my appearance, and they all feel the need to share that difficulty with me.

I wish I were tougher. I wish these observations didn't get to me as much as they do. I want to be able to confidently stand up to the world and say, "so I'm short and I've got a mad case of the baby face. No need to make a formal report. It's not like this is news to me. I do own a mirror." Sometimes I even try this, but I lack the most key component: confidence.

I act all resilient and talk a big game about it not bothering me, but the truth is that this infuriates me. See, I believe that life is a long journey of self discovery and growth. I write about growing up so often, because I think that's what we're all trying to do. Myself included.

I'm trying so hard to grow up, to become the mature, poised, and competent woman I know I can be. I'm desperately seeking opportunities to prove professionally, socially, and personally that I am an adult. I constantly feel like I'm ready to start my life. I want a career. I want love. I want a family. I want to move on from adolescent angst and finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

Though well-intended, all of the jokes, comments, and assurances that "one day I'll like it," seem to be forming a barricade in my own development process. When others see me as juvenile, it stunts my personal growth. Even if only for a moment, I loose any progress I've made in life in a regression back to my early insecurities.

I mean, I get it. I look young. But, I can't do anything about my appearance. My hands are tied behind my back on that. All I can do is recite my birth date repeatedly, and hope that one day someone will believe me.

Tabulation of Terror

Fears are a normal part of growing up. We all had those panic inducing phobias that sent us crying for our mommies and daddies.  For many of us it was the monsters under the bed and in the closet. For others it was the ghost in the wall that sounded a lot like your big brother. Whatever they were, they made grown-ups giggle and smirk as they assured us that the world was not as ghastly as we thought.  Though we doubted adult assertions of safety, we eventually overcame these terrifying beliefs. One by one those monsters got smaller, and eventually moved out of our rooms...except when they didn't. 

Here's a list of irrational fears I have that carried over from my childhood.

Mirrors in the dark
Don't act like you don't understand this one. We all played Bloody Mary, and it was terrifying. Problem is, I took it to the extreme. In my mind, that chick wasn't waiting around for the triple utterance of her name, she was just going to appear Hogwarts-style, any old time she felt like it. Still might! That thought freaks me out to this day. Seriously, I may be the only adult woman in the country who, when faced with entering a dark bathroom, will close her eyes and blindly grope along the wall until I hear the light switch click. I'm just not ready to die that way y'all.

Toilets - Pardon the pun, but this shit is scary 

Just like everyone else, I spent the first few years of life not having to deal with my own crap. It was glorious. I simply did my business and someone always cleaned it up. Then suddenly that was over, and I was forced to suspend myself over a cold bowl full of water that roared when I was done. Sure, that could have been the sound of a flush, but it was probably more likely a flesh-eating monster angry about his missed meal. Maybe that sounds crazy, but consider all those stories about rabies-infested rats living in the sewers, climbing up pipes, and biting people on the butt. Now you want me to yank my pants down and sit on that thing?! Suddenly, constipation doesn't sound so bad does it?

Don't trust that smile.

Ernest P. Worrell
Some said his idiocy was amusing, but, I see who he really is. This mastermind unleashed an army of child-stealing trolls on helpless townsfolk! So, of course he petrified me. The trolls looked like the thing I imagined devouring me from within the toilet after I escaped Blood Mary's resurrection. Though my friends loved him, I would leave the minute anyone even mentioned this unnerving simpleton. As with any avoided fear, I never really got over it. Even still, the mere thought of him makes my spine curl. I mean, look at him. He's petrifying!




Rats/Mice
In my youth, a friend forced me to hold Speedy, her pet rat. I stood stupefied as his beady eyes pierced mine. His tiny razor claws scratched my sweaty palms. Then, he deliberately whacked my arm with his thorny worm-like tail. Naturally, I screamed and released my grasp. I had to protect myself from such a vicious threat. Oddly, my friend didn't understand my reaction to this onslaught, and she spent the rest of the day berating me for it. Ever since, I've been convinced that all rats are demon-spawn. I still make Homeric expeditions around pet stories to avoid the rodent section. Go ahead and say this is irrational if you want, but I say you're irrational. They crawl out of toilets and chomp peoples' junk for god's sake! That's clearly evidence of their evil. 

Whining

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Though I do not do it often, I think there is something to be said for a plaintive cry and a grumbling stomp or two. After all, there's a reason that kids do it.

Children have many tasks to achieve as they grow and develop. They need to absorb their cultural expectations, acquire the appropriate languages, and learn the rules of social interactions. They need to simultaneously figure out who they are and begin to understand the world as they perceive it. It's not easy work, and it results in a lot of struggles and setbacks.

As many of us have observed, these disappointments frequently result in outbursts. Kids get upset. They become distressed with other people, their circumstances, and themselves. When this happens, it interrupts the learning process. Being agitated fogs up the mind; making it difficult to process surrounding information. For this reason, one of the principle tasks of growing up is learning to calm oneself. Initially, when kids self-soothe it's not so pretty. Sometimes they tantrum, but often they whine. And why do they whine? Because it helps.

No. Whining doesn't solve problems. It's irritating and hard to listen to. Frankly, it's an annoying behavior that repels most people, but the whining isn't really for other people is it? It's a personal expression that serves the whiner more than anyone else.

Obviously, whining communicates. It tells those around them when a child is frustrated, overwhelmed, or discouraged. It places a sound to a feeling they have yet to identify, and allows them to begin expressing their concerns. But, it's so much more than that.

Whining is cathartic. It's a release of negative emotions that, if held in, would make the difficult work of children even harder. It gives them a chance to let go of disappointments in a physically tangible way. This is important, because once they let go of their unpleasant reactions kids can finally begin to move on.

As we grow up, we learn better, more mature mechanisms for deescalating and pacifying ourselves. The majority of us completely eradicate tantrums from our behavioral repertoire. We start to see whining for it's unpleasantness, and make every effort to rise above this innate reactivity. On the whole, that's a positive example of adaptation. However, it is notable that very few of us are able to cease whining entirely. Personally, I think this is because whining continues to serve an unidentified purpose. I try and acknowledge that whenever possible, and sporadically practice controlled whining as a tool for coping.

Misunderstandings

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I had some rather comical misunderstandings about the world as a child. These moments ranged from private fears I was too worried to ask about, to embarrassingly public declarations of misinterpretations I was confident were true. As I grew older and began to navigate the world in a semi-independent manner, I had a lot of these. Elementary school in particular was rather rough for me.

For instance, I remember being secretly terrified that my father was serious when he warned me that eating handfuls of dried oatmeal would cause an undigestable pit in my gut that I'd need surgery to remove. I mean, the man was a doctor! Who was I to question this logic? Of course it was frightening. Especially when you consider that he always told me surgery should be avoided at all costs. My slightly portly belly was obviously proof that I had been snacking on potential death.

Another time I was playing in our basement (a dream for any hoarder of the medical supply and sporting enthusiast type), and I stumbled upon my brother's athletic cup.
    Yup. I thought it was a breathing apparatus. Naturally, I began to play with it. This isn't so strange when you think about it. I was welcome to play with most of the other medical supplies. I couldn't tell you how many times I used a stethoscope or made balloon animals out of medical gloves as a child.
    So, there I was, running around with my yucky brother's crotch protection on my face pretending it was a mask. I discovered it's real purpose when I ran up to my brother and, in a breathy voice, declared myself to be his father. I thought I was so clever. Being a typical teasing brother, he ridiculed me extensively. Imagine a recently amputated Anakin Skywalker's expression, and you've got my reaction.

Perhaps my most distressing blunder was the insolated blanket confusion. While preparing one of those yearly survival kits for school with my mother, I started giggling at the idea of an upset blanket. "What's an insulted blanket?" I asked with mixed humor and confusion. Oh boy! That was the wrong question to ask in this particular crowd. See, in my family you don't get to just skate by with a question like that going unnoticed. We are a sarcastic bunch, and we show affection through mockery. So, let me just say: I got a lot of love that night. .

At the time, these experiences were all stressful. The associated embarrassment is no doubt the foundation of my neurotic ways. Luckily though I'm human, and I have the inherent ability to grow and move past this shaming history of hilarity. My current vantage point affords me the ability to fondly look upon these memories as my own battle scars of a normal development process.

See, being a kid is sort of like starting a new job. There you are, in a new environment trying to learn what you are supposed to do and how to do it all. Acutely aware of your lack of knowledge about this place, you feel free to ask more questions than those around you. However, at times you are forced to take a leap and guess. Sometimes you're right and your supervisors are impressed, but frequently you are wrong. You may occasionally receive the somewhat condescending chuckle of someone who knows all to well what you're going through, but mostly people cut you some slack. You are, after all, new here.

I Must Not Tell Lies

I don't believe in good and bad.

Image found here

There is goodness and badness, but I don't believe the two qualities exist in vacuums independent from one another. I think that is too black and white for this confusing world of grey. It seems fairly obvious to me that the two are interconnected. So many of the bad behaviors in this world are informed by good things.

Traits like conviction, passion, strength, and love are widely believed to be positive attributes. However these qualities, and others like them, can takeover a person's whole world. They can become powerful enough to influence terrible actions.

Many people find it easy to holistically declare a person malevolent based on what they have done, but for me it's not so simple. I see people for their morals, values, and conduct. I'm hesitant to speak to the motives of another when they have not been explicitly shared with me, and I'm skeptical about the existence of pure evil in this world.

Falling

Image from Batman Begins. Found here

I'm supposed to write a blog today. It's Monday. That means I have to muse, but it's just not happening. While I have numerous musings knocking around in my noggin, none of them are coherent enough to share. I have tried to force some eloquent bit of wonder out for all of you to read, but I'm struck at the fried blankness that is my overstressed mind.

It's been the kind of perspective-commanding rough day that puts my recent "bad days" to shame. Today I was reminded that I have no real experience with suffering. It's a balanced world, and my lack of suffering implies that others have no experience with safety, security, or success. Additionally, I learned that sometimes, there's nothing that can be done for these people. Sometimes limits must be set and lines must be drawn. The high volume of compassion that pours out of my bleeding heart made that last lesson exceptionally hard to swallow, and I suspect it will continue throughout my career.

Frankly, I was rather dumbstruck by both of these lessons when I sat down to produce my Monday Musings this evening. I wasn't sure what to make of these recent experiences, and I couldn't focus on writing a profound or entertaining essay. That is, until my wild little kitten had one of her eccentric adventures.

While she is relatively new to my life, I have already grown accustomed to her sudden bursts of energy and cacophonous surprises. So, when a clutter of clanking noises came from the blinds to my right, I barely even reacted. Slowly, I paused my blank stare and unproductive editing to investigate. This is when I found the curious cat bridging the gap between my propped-up bike and the window sill it leaned against. Closed blinds were no barrier for this daredevil. She awkwardly pushed her way through the metal slates, and then set forth on a rock-climbing-like expedition up the window screen. Nearly two feet up from the base, she dangled helplessly and cried out with a desperate tone.

"Should I go help her?" I thought to myself. I carefully surveyed the situation. Though she was likely to fall, she probably wouldn't drop far and her odds of injury were minimal (if they existed at all). So, I watched patiently to see how she was going to handle this predicament.

Sure enough, she couldn't hang on long. My little feline friend dropped down to the window sill, and subsequently slipped off the ledge. Luckily, she was able to exercise her cat reflexes, and caught the pane at the last minute. As she managed to pull herself back up to her precarious perch, I reminded myself of something I frequently remind others.

That's how they learn.

With that, I remembered that you can't help everybody all the time. Sometimes this is because you lack sufficient time, resources, or energy to give the support you want. Other times, people aren't ready to get your help. They may think they are ready and willing to change. However,  numerous signs that you just aren't reaching them will make you think otherwise. This is when it is important to remember that a little failure can be a good thing. It's not pleasant, but sometimes people have to fall before they can get themselves back up.

So, thank you Schrödinger the kitten for giving me some much needed perspective.

Inquisitive little kitten dismounted by balancing on my top-tube.