Living in the time of revelation—every day, more and more darkness exposed.

I’ve been thinking about the statistics that show that one in three women have experienced sexual violence. (After working with hundreds of individuals in my energy healing practice over the last 20 years, that seems accurate.) Of course, these numbers may be on the low end. When you add in sexual harassment, emotional and other physical manipulation, intimidation and abuse, the numbers are closer to 44%.

Next, I looked up the population of adult women in the United States. There are approximately 173,600,000 of us currently. That means roughly more than 57,867,000 women living today in this country alone have experienced these violations—almost FIFTY-EIGHT MILLION women and of course, too many boys and men as well. It’s also important to remember that a huge percentage of these violations occurred when the women were young girls—children.

At this time, there is renewed attention on the dozen courageous women who came forward years ago with a lawsuit that spans decades of sex trafficking, exploitation and abuse at the hands of the rich and powerful across the globe. What they are revealing is beyond anyone’s worst nightmare. These times have left many women experiencing a wide range of emotions. It’s been extremely triggering, gut-wrenching, rage-provoking, heartbreaking—not just hearing about the abuse, but seeing how the gaslighting, denial and coverups continue. Yet, as painful as it’s been, I’ve felt a sense of relief and a minuscule sliver of hope, too. We all know, in our bones, our souls, our DNA that this is as old as the human race. Though there is a very long way to go, maybe, just maybe, the tides are beginning to turn.

In my last post, I wrote about how loaded is the issue of using my voice to speak up. This seems common now among plenty of (especially older) women. I shared that I lost my voice, my courage to speak, at 13 when my step-father started coming into my room in the middle of the night. Sharing that publicly unsettled me, even though I’ve had years of therapy, healing and integration and feel solid in myself now. I haven’t written since that last post. It is still not an easy thing. However, I feel individually and collectively, we are at a powerful time of reclamation.

Of course, my very closest loved ones know a feather’s touch of my history, yet anyone with whom I’ve ever had a relationship over the span of my life, including my sons, has been impacted. I’ve thought for a very long time about how much to tell and why. I am and I believe a lot of us are already so raw, that I’ve decided against sharing explicit details, but the details live in me vividly—every last one of them.

I am not an expert in this field other than my personal experience, but I want to share some of the impact on my one, small life so that others who have lived this might be comforted. I also want to share the moments of grace I’ve received spanning the last 55 years, and to acknowledge and honor the strength and courage I did not know I possessed until taking a look back through my 68-year-old eyes.

So much has changed in the last half-century. There is much more awareness around this—decades of research, understanding and multiple effective healing modalities. There are many, many wonderful, ethical, compassionate trauma-informed therapists, and a plenitude of valuable resources. Please do not suffer in silence or in shame. You are not alone.

And as a dear friend and mentor reminded me just a few years ago with one sentence that reoriented my thinking about myself—you are not damaged, you were injured.

**********************

As for me, that’s the next post.

After many years of writing for myself—poetry, journaling, entire books in my head—I let loose a bunch of old stories on Substack as a way to begin, to come out of hiding.

My visceral experience when I hit that first “publish” button felt like pulling the stopper out of the drain and a huge release of pressure. Hundreds of memories came rushing in a torrent to the forefront of my mind.

Since the last story was published on January 5, 2026, I started self-censoring and questioning again—old protection patterns.

Gosh, everything I’ve shared so far seems so heavy, negative, rooted in the past. Perhaps I should start sharing something more uplifting like the many magical moments I’ve experienced. Who am I to share, anyway? What do I have to contribute that hasn’t already been said? What’s the point?

Then…life in America in 2026. Every other minute another devastating headline assaulted my senses and sensibilities. Government arrest, torture and murder of citizens for speaking up, speaking out. The Epstein Files (just to name just a few).

The effort required to stay steady at times felt monumental. I could not find my words. That is not “normal” for me. However, I also know to trust that there are times I need solitude and silence—time to feel and gather my thoughts—to respond, not react. This is very different from being silenced by someone else.

I spent some time reflecting upon the “why” I felt compelled to share. I realized that for many years, I felt misunderstood and often criticized, especially within my family. Initially, I hoped that those who judged me throughout my life would have more context for why I was how I was, including a tendency to over-explain. I hoped that even my children and grandchildren, if they ever wanted to know my inner world, would find a record if they chose to read—you know, for posterity—hoping that perhaps my life mattered.

Now that I’m in my sixth decade and know and understand myself better, just giving myself permission to speak, to write, to share, was exactly what I needed to fully integrate my experiences. I no longer feel the need to explain myself.

Writing, for me, has been my way of expressing my emotions when I felt unable to speak. My mind has always been busy and creative, so writing helps me slow down and sort myself out.

As a little girl, I made up skits and stories with my younger brother. I always had something to say when I felt safe one-on-one. However, I felt very shy among strangers, hiding behind my mother’s skirt. I was often in trouble in grade school for talking too much with my BFF, so we learned sign language to communicate. I was reprimanded for that, too. That’s all probably common. However, things began to change.…

I’ve also been reflecting upon all the times I’ve been afraid to speak up.

In 8th grade, my friends and I walked to the Palace Drug Store for sodas after school. One day I needed to make a stop first, so I was late and had to walk alone. It took me three attempts to simply open the door and walk in. Once I did, I still couldn’t join the group, paralyzed with fear.

When meeting my new ophthalmologist (my mother’s future alcoholic, abusive husband) to obtain my first contact lenses at 14, I experienced so much anxiety, I literally forgot my name.

By the time I reached high school, having to stand in front of class to give an oral book report felt like I would surely die. When called upon, my body felt like lead bolted to the floor. I would start to quake once I made it to the front of the class. The shaking transferred to the paper I tried to hold and could barely read. Dissociation was not yet in my vocabulary or in mainstream awareness, but it was most definitely in my experience.

In my late 20s, while sitting in a circle of couples from our church, we went around introducing ourselves with a brief bio. Some of the folks I’d met before and some I hadn’t. This was a simple supper club meeting at my own home. As we moved around the circle, I felt fire in my cheeks and my heart pounding so hard that my blouse moved with each beat. The wait for my turn felt impossible. I did manage to speak and not have to rush to the bathroom.

I have dozens of stories of similar experiences throughout my life. In the last four decades, I’ve put myself in many situations that required me to speak and be seen. Each time, I’d realize the experience didn’t kill me, so my courage developed in small increments. I also found practices that helped me stay in my physical body, including training as a conscious dance facilitator at 53. Those old feelings and fears still arise, but now I acknowledge them. I ask the group to take a breath with me, or to “shake it out.” It has gotten easier.

Yet now, life in America in the second month of 2026. Government murder of citizens for speaking up. The Epstein Files. So. Many. Memories. This lifetime and those that live in our cells, our DNA, our ancestry. IYKYK.

My world changed dramatically the year I reached my adult height, sprouted small breasts and hips, experienced my first kiss in small town, Bible Belt Texas. That was the same year my stepfather, a deacon in the Presbyterian church, started coming into my room in the middle of the night and threatening me if I told.

That was the year I lost my voice.

Now, I know I will write for her—that 13-year-old blossoming young girl—and as my friend and fellow Substack writer said, we tell our stories for others. Madness, mayhem, magic and miracles.

My friend reminded me, “It is so important to be fully who we are, so that those who are looking for us can find us.” Thanks, M.

"Speak Now" by Leslie Odom Jr.

Just before Thanksgiving in 2011, I came back from Port Townsend, Washington, visiting my mother who was dying from ovarian cancer. It was a dismal gray day in Durango and I pretty much badgered my then husband to go see a silly movie (“Twilight,” if you must know.) Had he not gone with me, I would have come home to find him dead. A few minutes into the film, he said he didn’t feel right and was going to the lobby. The next thing I knew, I was being paged because he’d collapsed. I’ll leave out the grueling details, but he experienced a sort of anaphylactic shock from a treatment for numbness in his legs. It was like something out of a movie—carrying him out, getting him to the ER, all the things. Ten hours I spent holding his feet and his convulsing body, willing him to hold on. (He did, though when he’d stabilized, the medical team said they didn’t expect to see him. His stats when he came in were not “consistent with life.”) I only stepped out for a moment while they did one procedure and I almost buckled against the wall. I whispered out loud, “I can’t bear this.” Then I “heard” a voice not my own say, “but you are.”

That moment keeps bubbling up of late as I struggle to comprehend and be with and move through the unbelievable, planned, purposeful, sustained chaos unfolding in this world. Some days I do better than others, but more and more often I feel at this place—I can’t bear it.

“But you are.”

I continue to pray that we all find courage, strength, support, community, peace. Life on earth can be exquisitely beautiful, breathtaking, exhilarating and it can kick my ass sometimes.

Deep breaths. Small acts of kindness and connection. Don’t give up.

I spent a lot of time with my mother in her dying days. She was on quite a bit of morphine for pain management, but she had very lucid moments, too. I just listened as she floated in and out of reflecting on her 72 years of life. She said something that made me sad for her, and motivated me to look at my own resentments. Her simple yet profound words—“I figured out one of my problems—I hold grudges.” She was stubborn like that.

When I was younger, I was very self-critical and hated making mistakes.  When living from that place and projecting outward, I had a hard time extending acceptance, much less forgiveness to others who I viewed as having “messed up.”  I thought that forgiveness meant condoning.  To put it simply, this was a miserable way of being.

I spent the last three decades evolving my ideas and living my experiences of forgiveness and it has radically changed my life for the better.  Forgiveness has been my path to freedom.  There are many layers through which I have moved, but I will begin with the most dramatic shift—true story.

Two years after ending a very difficult relationship, I began to feel that I was literally making myself sick rehashing all the details of the relationship.  Somehow, I remembered a visualization for forgiveness that I’d been given at least ten years earlier.  I began trying to practice the visualization for completely self-serving reasons—to alleviate my own suffering and sure-to-come illness.  I dedicated an entire summer to this practice.  Every day over my lunch hour, I walked with fierce determination, sweating, and imagined.  In the visualization, one step is to imagine the person in front of you and imagine putting your arms around them.  Even in my mind I could not bring myself to do this, I was filled with so much resentment! I kept at it, committed to breaking through.  I finally resorted to asking for help—”God, make me do this.” Nothing.  One day, I felt the shift and my request changed.  “God, make me willing to do this.”  I am pretty sure this is where “thy will, not my will,” comes in.  I was then able to continue on with the forgiveness practice and I kept it up for many weeks, every day.

At the end of that same summer after returning from vacation, my office said “some man” had been calling me every day for the time I was away.  I couldn’t imagine, since I hadn’t dated anyone for a couple of years.  The following weekend, a man who was a mutual friend of mine and the ex’s took me to dinner and a concert for my upcoming birthday.  He reminded me that the ex was “just looking for love like everybody else.”  I felt another giant boulder of animosity and blame fall off in that moment—my perspective shifted.  On the following Monday, on my 40th birthday, I went to work.  I had barely arrived when the phone rang and it was the ex, with whom I’d not spoken in two years! “Oh, my gosh, are you calling for my birthday”?  “Oh, sorry, no, I forgot—I’m calling to make amends.”  By the time we met, I received his amends, but I didn’t need them—I had utterly and completely forgiven him and myself.  This felt like no small miracle.

*****************

Here is that Forgiveness Practice:

The following visualization for forgiveness is especially effective when it is neither safe, comfortable nor possible to find resolution with someone in person.

To begin, imagine the person with whom you’ve had conflict standing in front of you. Imagine putting your arms around them until they hold you in return. Visualize looking into their eyes and repeat three times, “The same light that is in me, is in you. I love you completely, and release you to be who you are.”

This practice helps first to soften your own heart, then shifts your energy field. Working in this way, it is possible to go straight to the soul, bypassing ego, pride, stubbornness and other things that get in the way of healing.

You may repeat any time, any where, as often as feels right. This is a simple, yet powerful practice. Be prepared for change.

******************

A few years later I attended a graduate program in spiritual psychology.  A large component of the practices I learned focused on forgiveness with yet another layer to add. 

Our leaders taught that even though we may say we forgive someone, we can still be stuck with the unconscious judgments we’ve placed against ourselves for having them at all.  I wrote hundreds of these sentences and slowly let go of a lifetime of blame. 

An example (using that ex) would be, “I forgive myself for judging him as selfish.  I forgive myself for buying into the misunderstanding that I am weak or bad for having feelings. The truth is, we are human beings with wounds and conditioning, doing the best we can in any giving moment.”  This may seem like a small addition, but I assure you, this practice is profound.

 In 2003, I was introduced to loving-kindness or metta meditation.  I have continued this practice to this day and without fail, it sets the tone for how I see, perceive and act alone and with others.  I begin with loving-kindness for myself and continue until I get to more and more challenging people in my life. My prayer: May all beings everywhere be filled with loving-kindness. May they be safe and protected, free from inner and outer harm. May they be peaceful, contented and happy, healthy in body, mind and spirit. May all beings be at ease. May they be free.

The last important layer came during a silent retreat in 2012.  On the day the teachers talked about forgiveness, one teacher said to be clear that we forgive the perpetrator, not the act and to “make no mistake—forgiveness is not an invitation to have that person remain in your life.”  This was another “aha” moment.

“Meditate on the truth that forgiveness is not a feeling; it’s a decision to stop rehearsing the resentment, to quit telling yourself the story that keeps the wound fresh.” ~ Rob Brezsny

I’ve been practicing for a long time now, and there’s always more. For me forgiveness is in no way condoning abusive behaviors or injustices, it is a way to free myself from bitterness so that I can move on—a little softer, a little kinder, a little more open-hearted and with clear boundaries and lots of compassion for myself. (You know the cliche about drinking poison hoping it will harm someone else, yes?)

May we all find the courage to forgive. May we know the peace and freedom forgiving brings.

I read this book in the ‘90s and this quote is the one thing that stuck. Something about the potency of the word “fecund,” which I think was new to me at the time and the image it evoked in my mind. It helped me start shifting my perception of how I saw the events of my life and the meaning I’d made from them—many of them extremely challenging for a sensitive child.

A few years later, through lots of serendipitous moments, connections, timing, etc. (that’s another story), I started a master’s program in spiritual psychology—one in which we started from the premise that we are spiritual beings having a human experience (perhaps the first time I heard that as well) and that everything in life is for our learning and growth—not because we’re damaged or beyond help or hope (the way I’d previously perceived myself).

I flew once a month from San Angelo, Texas and my job as an event coordinator and collections manager at an art museum to Los Angeles, California. We had intensive, experiential sessions while learning about various modes of psychology, which we utilized to practice with each other.

One of the most profound things I took away from that experience is that none of us escapes this human experience without difficulties.

We began with about 250 people in our class, and went through two years together. I think the youngest in our class was under 20 and the oldest was a tiny but mighty Irish woman in her 80s.

It was a big deal to me to fly from west Texas (I didn’t have my “are you CRAZY” meltdown until I was a few months in!), but many in our class came from other countries. When we returned home for the weeks in between, we continued our own inner work using what we’d learned.

We had representation across the spectrum of humanity: massage therapists, artists, business people, spiritual teachers, movie business folks, “regular” working folks like me, differences in race, sexual orientation….

It was deep, vulnerable and powerful work—not for the faint of heart.

I heard so many stories over those two years from people that appeared to have it all together, but who’d experienced unbelievable losses, abuse, and so on. Some of the things I’d experienced myself, and others I could not even imagine, they were so horrific. The bottom line, we were all there trying to heal, searching for answers, for meaning and how to carry on.

It also made me realize that there are only so many challenging themes in a human life—various addictions, depression, sexual/emotional/physical abuse, too much money, not enough money, physical health issues, experiencing war, etc. The metaphor that stuck in my mind then was that of going through the line at Mongolian Barbecue in Austin, Texas in the decades prior where you choose what items you’d like for your meal that then gets mixed all together--veggies, meat, condiments, etc. It just seemed like life was sort of like that. “Oh, let’s see...I’ll have a little family history of depression, drug and alcohol addiction and suicide, oh, and let’s top it off with abuse and financial struggles.” This is a gross oversimplification, of course, but hopefully you get my meaning. Some get the hard stuff up front, some nearer the end, but no one remains unscathed.

And from my view now, this is our opportunity always, but particularly in the murky moment we’re in currently.

Here’s your big old pile of raw material. It’s fecund—ooey, gooey, rich, messy, muddy, smelly—but good stuff with which to create.

Alchemy—turning shite into gold.

My mother was a Christmas baby--born on Christmas day. Ours was, as is true with many mothers and daughters, a complicated relationship. We weren't especially demonstrative with affection or words. She was four years older than I am now when she left this earth. This is our 14th Christmas without her.

(From a 2019 post): Recently, I was cleaning out emails and found one I'd sent to her on her 72nd birthday. She had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer the year before. We did not know it would be her last birthday and Christmas (she passed five months later). I'd added an addendum to something I'd written and given her on her 60th birthday. There are so many small moments and little details that I often forget, so remembering brought a watershed of tears. I still miss her, especially at this time of year.

Re-reading the list makes me realize that parenting (and all relating) is made up of hundreds and thousands of gestures that we might not know in the moment are ways we show our love and care for one another, even if we don't verbally express our love. I don't take any of those moments for-granted. I hope I've passed such moments--at least a few--along to my children, grandchildren, family and friends.

For you, Mother. Happy Birthday.

Remember when...

Remember when you used to tease me when I would get all excited about the time that we were at Nanny’s and she had on a blue flowered dress and we were eating bacon and toast...and that would be all I had to say about it? Well, I finally figured out what about those moments was important enough for me to remember. It wasn’t that something particular had happened, it was what I was feeling in that moment--joy, awe, excitement, fear, sadness. I give these memories in honor of you on the occasion of your 60th birthday, so you will know some of the ways you have touched me in my life.

In no particular order:

1. Your scent when I was small--a mix of L’ehr Bleu, Double-Mint gum and cigarettes.
2. Letting me assert my independence at three by allowing me to wear my red sock, yellow sock and pink quilted pants with the butterfly applique and straps crisscrossed in the back.
3. Teaching me to color in circles so it would be prettier and easier to stay inside the lines.
4. All those hours piled up in your bed reading.
5. Showing me how to imprint the comic strip on silly putty.
6. Lying on a quilt in the back yard to watch the stars.
7. Spending hours trying to make the gooey frosting that would be the skirt of my doll birthday cake.
8. Blowing bubbles.
9. Hours at the park feeding the ducks.
10. Chasing birds trying to catch them by salting their tails.
11. Sledding at the park in the cardboard boxes down the snowy hillside.
12. Stuffing the seat pockets on the back of the plane with crayons, books and write on/lift off drawing pads.
13. Playing Johnny Mathis and the War of 1812 Overture on the Hi-Fi.
14. Making all those beautiful Easter baskets with clear pink or purple or yellow paper.
15. Your pot roast, with potatoes, carrots and those sweet brown onions.
16. Letting me play dress-up in your red and hot pink net dresses. I could imagine how beautiful you looked in them.
17. Hearing you play “Moonlight Sonata” on the piano.
18. Flocking the Christmas tree.
19. Our Christmas ritual of making candles then having to wait for the lighting ceremony on Christmas Eve.
20. The time and love you spent wrapping packages--writing on them with glue and glitter.
21. Discovering Varsol as a good way to clean up melted candle wax.
22. Your fried chicken, mashed potatoes and LeSeur peas.
23. Hundreds of trips to the swimming pool in summer.
24. All the time and money you spent on dance lessons, costumes and workshops for me.
25. How you looked in those Mary Tyler Moore red pajamas.
26. How you looked in those red p.j.’s when the mouse jumped out of the cabinet and you caught it in your lap. (I thought you were very brave!)
27. Perming, brushing, rolling my hair on those brush rollers with pink stick pins.
28. Playing all those albums with the pictures attached of our favorite Disney movies--”Bambi,” “Dumbo,” etc.
29. All the clothes you sewed for me--matching outfits with Leesa, the fur vest in 8th grade, etc.
30. Resting the ashtray on your belly (when pregnant with Ron).
31. Taking us with you to the psychic’s house (the one who ate candy bars and had all those cats).
32. Painting the old picnic table yellow for our dining table.
33. Hauling in that old iron bed for me.
34. All your creative projects, like the decoupage cube with magazine pictures. One whole side was covered with faces of women.
35. Showing me how to pull honeysuckle blossoms apart to get to the “honey.”
36. Bringing me a watch from Switzerland and rose rosary beads from Spain. (I still have the beads.)
37. Creating the tradition for many years of giving me a nightgown each Christmas.
38. Burning the beans.
39. Teaching me to cut my first baby’s fingernails when I was so scared.
40. Encouraging me, and many other women, to breastfeed.
41. The Madame Alexander doll and Tiny Thumbelina.
42. Sending me “little boy plants” at the birth of each of my sons.
43. All the times you’ve helped me move.
44. All the times you’ve helped and loved my kids (and still are).
45. Lots of silly, goofy giggling.
46. All the furniture you’ve refinished.
47. Giving me a little rocking chair so I could rock my “babies” when I was little.
48. Rocking me.
49. Rocking my sons.
50. Giving the little boy dresses to each of my sons for their trips home from the hospital.
51. Needle pointing, framing, decoupaging words reflecting your philosophy of life, like “If life gives you lemons...,” the “Desiderata,” “When I am an Old Woman....”
52. Your love of kitchen gadgets.
53. The look on your face when you reached behind the pew at Nanny’s funeral and squeezed my hand and told me you loved me.
54. Singing in the car on road trips to Nanny’s.
55. Taking us to see the Christmas lights in Fort Worth.
56. Encouraging me to keep going at UT.
57. Not shaming me when I confessed my guilt and fear over my finances.
58. Lending (giving) me money.
59. Taking me to the UK for an adventure to celebrate my graduation.
60. All the times you’ve called me “baby.”

Thank you for imparting to me a sense of play, a sense of humor, an open mind, a sense of responsibility, creativity, a love of language, and appreciation of beauty, a love of music, a sense of grace, strength (and stubbornness) and a determination to persevere against all odds. Thank you, Mother. May all the days that remain for you be filled with peace, contentment and love. On this, your 60th Birthday, I love you.

Julie

Addendum for 72nd Birthday:

61. Being the Queen of Candy-Making all these years--remembering “Martha Washington Balls,” and of course the fudge and pralines and peanut brittle.
62. Your ongoing love and support of me through my relationship challenges, graduate school, move to California and back, marriage to John... “remember why you married him in the first place” and what I appreciate about him. That advice has pulled me through countless times.
63. All the care you put into preparing food and goodies for family and friends.
64. The countless ways and times you’ve helped Jason.
65. Your sense of humor.
66. Your love of travel...always curious and exploring.
67. Always remembering me and the kids on our birthdays and holidays--even when you were recovering from surgery!
68. The invaluable help you gave with Dreher and Crystal’s rehearsal dinner (especially when I was having a breakdown!).
69. Accepting John.
70. Being so good to Lisa after her very difficult time in Austin and giving her cooking lessons too. (I just found an email she had written me telling me how she was “in love” with you and Gene and appreciated you so much.)
71. The care and effort you put into making my scrapbook, framing my Christening gown and bequeathing the vintage lace to all of the girls in the family.
72. Your very admirable courage, strength and vulnerability in the face of perhaps your biggest challenge to date. Please give yourself credit.

Happy 72nd Birthday, Mother

I love you.

Julie

I had been in high school during the Vietnam war and later learned my age group was called the “apathetic” generation. I’d paid no attention to politics. I went into the job at the Speaker’s Office very, very naive and idealistic. I came out disillusioned and apolitical, if not cynical, after seeing how things “worked.” A few years later when I was working in a law firm and the Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas controversy occurred, I wished I’d written a book already about my experiences. Now, four decades later, those stories would likely elicit a yawn and an eye roll.

We were required to stay at work, no matter the time, as long as the House was in session. We each had rotating “late night” duty in the front office to greet constituents and sign letters after hours. One of our duties was to rub the Speaker’s feet and shoulders while he reclined. Sometimes, he kissed female staff on the mouth while they sat at the desk. We were terrified to speak up.

There was one rep who became the Assistant Speaker who started asking female staff to come into a back office. He’d then drop his pants to show his hernia scar. It went on for some time before the staff started talking about it to each other. For some reason, I was spared this experience. If memory serves, he was eventually let go after allegedly stealing steaks from the grocery store. I have dozens more stories—older men coming in telling vulgar, sexually explicit jokes just to see me blush, which I did easily and often from my head to my toes, being wined and dined by lobbyists, lots of partying, lots of sex.

In the early ’80s, Texas had a surplus of money from oil and gas, so the task was just how to spend it. As far as legislating, I became aware of the backroom negotiations and deal-making, posturing and drama before sessions even began. I started to understand the “system.” Out of 150 legislators—ranchers and farmers, a few businessmen and teachers—I saw only a handful that managed to stay true to and really work for their constituents within that system. I noticed that the laws were written by hotshot young lawyers using so much legalese that I wondered if most of the reps even understood them.

Another memorable moment occurred during a late night session. They had to “stop the clock” because they needed a quorum and there weren’t enough lawmakers present to vote. The young sergeants-at-arms were sent out to the local bars to gather up the reps. My friend and I were on late night duty and though we were not allowed on the House Floor, we had to walk a rookie rep who was exceedingly intoxicated to the threshold because he could barely stand. We pointed to his desk and said, “Go push the button” to cast a vote.

I only entered the capitol building one more time after I left in 1982. I remained relatively apathetic about politics until Obama came along. I wasn’t surprised by a lot of what I saw play out between 1982 and then.

Fast forward to 2021. Hundreds and hundreds of memories from those experiences came flooding back as I watched (from Colorado) the now governor of Texas become louder and crueler toward women, minorities, the poor. I thought those days were behind us. Obviously they’re not.

No longer silent, I wrote:

Here I stand.

Here I AM.

As solid as a mountain, as fluid as the lava I feel boiling, roiling deep down in my core.

I have birthed and raised sons. I value the strength, the vision, the tenderness of good men. I am privileged to know a handful of them. Men who, like me, are fallible and flawed and willing to learn. Men who cherish their own hearts and those they love.

And now, the hundreds of moments of all the pats on my pretty-little-head or worse, the threats that kept me silent, the subtle and overt words and actions that were clearly understood to keep me in my place—they are boiling, roiling and threatening to erupt.

Here I stand.

Here I AM.

And I know I’m not alone.

There is a reason for the phrase, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”*

By nature I am a kind woman, a soft woman, a woman who abhors violence and angry confrontation. Yet…Basta! Enough.

Here I stand.

Here I AM.

I am not alone.

This is what is moving in me. This is what I will dance…to transmute this energy into courage, to strengthen my commitment to kindness, to compassion…to be the eye of the hurricane, far more powerful than any storms that come. I will dance for myself. I will dance for my mother and my grandmother and all who came before. I will dance for the sisters of my heart. I will dance for my step-daughter, my daughters-in-law, my granddaughters. I will dance for my sons and brothers.

I finally know my place and it is wherever my soul leads me.

Here I stand.

Here I AM, and

We are not alone.

The last couple of weeks, I could not tell whether I was in shock, feeling fatigue or numbness or if I have simply relaxed. Perhaps I have relaxed into acceptance of what is and some semblance of a different daily existence from “before.” I have definitely felt suspended in time and quiet--like that moment just after the whoosh of water breaking after diving in and then hearing...nothing. Just floating, held by the buoyancy of the water. At times, I feel like the bird in a cage with the door open. I wonder if I’ll develop agoraphobia. (Joking, not joking.)

I have seen many wonderful writings likening this time to being in the chrysalis of between time when everything seems to dissolve--no longer caterpillars and not yet butterflies. My good friend wrote a beautiful post calling it the “liminal” space—(I love that word)—referring to being in a transformational process or in the midst of change.

I’ve also read lots of posts and articles that cover the whole spectrum of experience—of “this” experience. Some refer to the gifts of this time to look inward and reflect on past/present/future. (We are so privileged if we have food, shelter, water, warmth, loved ones, health, etc. to enable us to ponder.) Other posts remind me of the enormity of suffering in this world—still racism, misogyny, mass murders, homelessness, starvation, a multitude of diseases, details of the reality in Covid-19 wards, politics, dark, dark, horrible abusive treatment of some humans toward others. Many seem to make assumptions that if someone focuses on the gifts or opportunities in this moment, they automatically ignore or disrespect the reality of suffering and dire straits of many in this world. Each story occurs simultaneously. Is one more true than the other?

How can anyone, ever, really know the suffering of another? It is not a freaking competition. I have lived long enough to observe that no one escapes suffering in some form at some point in this human experience. No one. At least from my point of view. Can we have compassion for the whole spectrum of living a life and just do what we can to alleviate what we are able in any given moment and quit judging “other”? How and why any of us are born into the time, place and circumstances that we are is still such a mystery to me…

Long ago I was in a group setting and saying something—I don’t remember what—and a woman across the room got up and lunged at me, visibly angry, and screamed, “Are you for real????? You only see the good in people”!!! This was not my inner experience, but I was beginning to understand how my mind worked. I assured her that I see all of it, but that I choose to focus on the good. I still see all of it—I feel all of it—literally the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful (all judgments) and some days it seems overwhelming to the point of feeling unbearable. I get through it with doing what I can moment to moment for others and myself. Some days more, some days less. Sometimes feeling guilt for feeling o.k. when I know others suffer. I purposefully look for the good or what seems the true essence in people, for beauty. What is not that, in my view is someone’s unresolved pain. It is the only way I know to go on...and hold all of it in my awareness and my heart.

For a few decades, I read and studied incessantly—wanting to know answers to the big questions. Why is there so much pain and suffering and all the rest? I begged, and pleaded and shook my fists at the heavens. I notice how I still want to know—I want answers and assurances because feeling like I know somehow feels less terrifying than just hanging out in the unknown. I’ve gotten more comfortable there, of late, after enough living...the rubber does meet the road, eventually.

One day in the ‘90s in Austin, Texas, I was listening to the radio and heard this recording. It changed so much for me. It was a step in the direction of releasing my desperate need to know. The recording is about The Great Mystery and happiness. Even in the midst of great difficulty, whether mine or that of others, I am unwilling to abandon the spark of joy inside. That spark is sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. It feels like life to me. As long as I breathe, it is there regardless of what is happening. Somehow, even now, my whole system relaxes when I hear this child’s voice instruct, just “love the mystery.” And I do. In spite of it all, I do. Peace and loving-kindness to all beings everywhere. Give a listen if you feel so inclined.

Some Things Change, Some Things Don’t

I wrote these words mid-April, 2020. It’s interesting to look back at what was on my heart and in my thoughts, and realize that things would appear to get worse before getting better. If I didn’t know, I would not be able to tell when this was written. Some things change, some things don’t. Here’s what I wrote then:

Three weeks of daily life in a small apartment with two beautiful and strong-willed little girls (ages 5 years and 19 months—my granddaughters). Some moments are playful, imaginative, creative and the next are with clenched fists and screaming “I hate being told what to do”!!!!! Yes, my darling, I understand—exactly how I feel. Lots of laughter, lots of snuggles, lots of frustration and tears. My love life, this. I do not take lightly the privilege of this experience. Some days, though, it’s a major accomplishment just to brush my hair.

Daily, I find tears streaming. Nothing dramatic, just frequent when I have a moment to pause, letting it all wash over me. Tears of grief, of longing, of tenderness, of gratitude—especially for all who are literally risking their lives to keep others—us—safe, fed, healthy.

This week with warmer days and a mostly-deserted downtown, we walked a few blocks—the farthest I’ve ventured out in three weeks (other than curbside pickup twice at the grocery store). “Before,” I often felt so restless in my small town life. Now, my outer existence spans a few blocks. How absolutely precious is this freedom to just stroll, noticing the buds on the trees, the birds singing, the butterflies. What a gift. There are things I miss, of course. But I relish these small freedoms. Many are not so fortunate, I know. There are moments when I feel guilt for experiencing joy, delight, pleasure. That passes quickly as I know that is what keeps me going. Guilt comes, too, for thinking I could be, should be, doing more, doing better.

At the end of the day, bone tired and alone again, I read online—all the offerings, the theories, the joys, the fears, the opinions. Sometimes it feels too much, too loud. My head spins. Normally, I play music all the time to uplift me, inspire me, calm me—to dance. Now I crave silence.

I’ve noticed a few things. People (me included) seem to be the same to me as “before”—people who are all about service and generosity are still generously serving, people who were angry are still angry, people who seem to relish spewing hate still do that, people who cope with humor are still finding humor, people who operate out of fear are still fearful, people who live and breathe gratitude are still grateful...it makes me wonder if or how we might really change.

Everything feels so surreal. I watch my mind being pulled in different directions. Exhausting. Really, I find it impossible to know, with any certainty, what is factual. Just too many opinions, too much noise. It seems we don’t quit judging, we don’t quit telling each other how to do “this”—do it my way, stop doing it the way you’re doing it, because... From my view, that is the same as “before.” I have to go quiet and listen—feel my way into what’s true for me, in the midst of not knowing a damn thing other than I am still here, still breathing and I still get to choose where I focus my energy and attention.

Last week I heard a comment from someone that there are 7 1/2 billion possible expressions of light on this planet (and that is only the humans). Let that sink in. 7 1/2 billion unique expressions of light. How on earth can I know what is right for any other being? From my perspective, we waste so much time and energy telling each other how to do and how to be. I assume that every single one of us is doing the best we can, moment to moment and some moments are very freaking hard.

The other thing I notice (and this has been going on for me for a long time) is how much I think about death (with both dread and curiosity) and what follows for me is always thinking about life. Am I fully living? What does that mean to me? What matters? Who matters? ‘Tis the season, no? Life and death, rebirth, spring, seasons, cycles. Since the beginning.

A few years ago, in the span of 18 months, the man I’d been with for a dozen years nearly died, six months later my mother died and four months after that, the same man said he was “done.” I was in therapy at the time and the therapist guided me through a meditation to imagine first his death, then my mother’s and then my own. She asked what I felt inside and it was a surprise to me—it was absolute peace, relief, quiet. Then she said, “and life and the world will go on” and that it wasn’t up to me to “prop it up.”

Riding the waves with the rest of you.

Still, this is my daily prayer: May all beings everywhere (ALL beings) be filled with loving kindness for themselves and others, be safe and protected, free from inner and outer harm. May all beings everywhere be peaceful, contented and happy, healthy in body, mind and spirit. May all beings everywhere have ease and well-being. May all beings everywhere be free.

Like many of us “of a certain age,” I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting upon my life, especially as the world has felt more and more chaotic. My mind has tried to make sense of it all by stringing together different threads that seem to repeat over time.

Throughout my life, I’ve been continually confused, baffled, mystified by the human penchant for hostility toward “others”—others’ choices, beliefs, etc. Looking back over some of my own musings, I see this has weighed even more heavily on my heart this last decade—no need to explain why, I’m guessing.

I’ve moved through different stages of wanting to understand, wanting to change others, avoiding my own fears and darker thoughts, desiring to help others, accepting that everyone must choose their own course and realizing that I am responsible for me, and that’s a full-time job.

These next few posts will likely be about judgment and forgiveness—topics that have dominated my thoughts, emotions and experiences throughout my life having been on both the giving and receiving end of those.

I wrote these words below in March of 2020 at the beginning of the Covid “shut down” while sensing and seeing the reactions to the world suddenly changing and so much fear playing out as many of us felt out of control and uncertain. Here are my words:

Please, my friends and family and anyone else listening, love one another. Do not judge. This is the essence of most, if not all, wisdom teachings.

It sounds simple, but in practice, it is not always so easy for me. I am so grateful for all who have come before to help me learn, though some of the lessons have been so painful. I have borne the judgments of others and I have judged myself and so many others in the name of what?

This I know: We need each other. We always have but it is glaringly obvious now.

Moment by moment, we can notice our thoughts and bring our energies back to our hearts and bodies. The mind/ego is there to protect us, keep us safe, but sometimes we need to “put it on our lap,” wrap our arms around it and comfort it as we do our beloved children or pets. At least for me, some days I must shout at it—“STOP”!!! If you feel fear or panic, please love yourself and do not judge. It will pass. It is just that part of you that longs for safety and security. That is it’s purpose—to try to protect you and those you love.

Emotion is just energy in motion. When I become still and breathe, and relax my muscles, I make more room inside and my emotions pass of their own accord as they are meant to do, like the clouds in the sky. Our emotions remind us that we are alive.

If others in your awareness feel fear or panic, please love them and do not judge. We cannot know another’s traumas and experiences or even their brain chemistry.

We each have our way. We each contribute to the whole. We each are necessary and of value.

Some of us will weep and wail—for our individual, collective and planetary grief.

Some of us will pray and meditate.

Some of us will sing and dance. Some of us will create other forms of beauty.

Some of us will prepare food and share it with our family and neighbors.

Some of us will feel paralyzed because we fear losing our money and our livelihood. Please, love yourselves and one another and do not judge.

Some of us will hold our loved ones close and others of us will stay connected through the gift of our technologies.

Some of us will rage and protest to shed light on the injustices in this world.

Some of us will volunteer. Some of us will care for the sick. Others may hide and tremble. Some of us will share our resources, others may hoard. Please, love one another and do not judge.

Some of us will make long-awaited amends. Some of us will release our now seemingly petty grievances and grudges. Some may hold tight to them because it feels known and familiar and they are afraid—who am I if I let go? Who will remain? Please, love one another and do not judge.

Some of us will make sure we reach out and offer our gratitude and appreciation for our doctors, healers, teachers, mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, friends. Why have we held back all this time? Please, love one another and do not judge.

Some of us may go stir-crazy in solitude. Some of us will organize our cupboards. Some of us will relish the quiet. Some of us may self-medicate in our myriad of ways. Some of us may get really creative in these moments. Please, love one another and do not judge.

Some of us will catch up on reading, writing and movies we’ve wanted to see or file our taxes.

Some of us will tend our gardens, no matter how small or large.

Some of us will feel alone. Some of us will reach out to others more.

Some will be born. What a time to enter this world! Some of us will look back and reflect, some of us will look forward and imagine a better future.

And yes, some of us will fall sick. Some of us will recover. Some of us will die.

All of this has been so since the beginning of humanity. Moment by moment, we do our best.

We each have our way. We each contribute to the whole. We each are necessary and of value.

Please, love one another and do not judge.

At that time, I was an events coordinator and collections manager at the museum. The monks from Drepung Loseling Monastery spent a week with us, creating a sand mandala in our large meeting room with soaring ceilings. They also held performances showcasing their practices of debate, sacred music-making, and offered prayers at their closing ritual.

It was not my normal role in our small museum, but the director asked me to spend time with the monks, making sure they had what they needed, including taking them for meals for in town.

The group was led by their Geshe. “Geshe” is a Tibetan Buddhist academic title for a learned monk or nun, meaning “spiritual teacher.” It represents the highest level of training in certain Tibetan Buddhist traditions, earned through about 20 years of intensive study and debate on Buddhist philosophy and text. The Geshe spoke perfect English. The interpreter’s English was not as good. The rest of the monks spoke their own language. I soon found out that they communicated beautifully, regardless, without shared language.

My first task was to take the group to a ranch house where they’d stay. After getting them settled in and as I was saying goodbye, one monk who was hardly 5’ tall with a prominent overbite took both my hands in his. He looked me in the eyes and bowed his head. A burst of energy coursed through his hands, across my body and exploded in my heart. Instantly, tears began streaming down my face. It was the closest I’d come to experiencing total presence and pure, unconditional love. That’s the only appropriate explanation. His name was Nawang.

Over the course of the week while they created their sand mandala, I made sure the monks had their “butter tea,” I took them out for lunches and dinners and checked on them throughout the day. I had told my teenage son that I’d like him to meet them and hang out if possible. Initially he dismissed the idea.

A year or two before the monks visited us, they had visited a town about 90 minutes away, right in the heart of the Bible Belt in west-central Texas. We were’t sure how our community would receive them, because rumor had it that the other town suspected they were “of the devil” and were the cause of their drought.

Though the monks normally kept a simple diet at home, they adapted to the local fare when they traveled. I took them to my favorite Mexican food restaurant near the museum. It’s a tiny place, filled with ranchers and the like. It was fun watching them as we entered, all dozen of the monks wearing their crimson and mustard robes. Everyone seemed curious and were clearly trying not to stare, but unable to help themselves. It seemed the monks presence softened the rooms, wherever we went.

Mid-week, my son told me that his friend Brandon had met the Geshe at the mall and wanted to hang out with the monks. Brandon and my son joined us for lunch downtown. The monks constantly laughed, teased one another and just exuded joy and playfulness. Our waitress, straight out of a movie with her giant, dangly earrings, curly reddish hair piled high on her head and with a thick west Texas accent said, “I thank the men in this town could learn a thang or two from them”! Keep in mind that all but two spoke no English. I feel sure she was talking about their countenance.

We all walked along the river path back to the museum. When I got back to my office, I received a call from Brandon’s mother, whom I’d not met, asking if I knew his whereabouts. I told her he was still at the river, deep in conversation with the Geshe. She said, “I think this is a gift from God. He has so much trouble with authority.”

Another evening, a funky community art center hosted an outdoor barbecue for the monks. As we sat around a campfire, one of the monks demonstrated tri-tonal chanting, then chanted, “Hey, Baby. How are you”? We weren’t expecting that! I then looked up to see my tall, skinny, teenaged son draped over Nawang, both of them laughing and tickling each other—totally out of character for my son.

On the day of the closing ceremony, I walked into the meeting room and there stood Nawang. I walked up and he embraced me, then started rocking side to side, still holding me. Again, that same feeling of love washed over me. My tears started streaming and continued for some time. As the room started to fill, I saw both my son and Brandon near Nawang, their tears streaming, too. Tender, happy tears.

A man entered with his 5-year old son on his shoulders and I heard the child say, “Daddy, I think this is my lucky day”!

For three consecutive days after the monks left, an older gentleman came to my office and sat at my desk. He told me his wife had once seen the Dalai Lama and he came to support her as the monks worked on the mandala. He thought he’d just sit by the river and read, but instead sat in the room with them. As this man spoke, he got choked up. All he could get out was, “I don’t know what happened…” I replied, “I know.” Then he managed, “and there’s this one…” and he would break down in tears. Again, I said, “I know.” Nawang.

I know. I think we all know, when we open our minds and hearts. Presence. Unconditional love. Remembering.

I moved to Durango, Colorado in December 2004. We lived on 60 acres off of Highway 160 West just east of Hesperus (i.e., it felt like the middle of nowhere after living in big cities for over 25 years). We knew one person when we moved here. And we were on dial-up—remember that sound waiting for AOL to connect? I’d never done snow and in those days, winter shoveling was almost a full-time job at 8200 feet.

A few years later when we got the call that we were finally getting high-speed internet, I’m pretty sure I told the guy on the other end of the call that I loved him!

I joined FaceBook in 2008. Like in any new relationship, I felt awkward and unsure, and my posts and communication were clunky and weird. (I grew up and raised children without cell phones or the internet so it was all new.) The excitement of reconnecting with old friends, classmates and others with whom I’d lost touch made me giddy. I really enjoyed finding out what others had experienced and created in their lives and families during the many years between childhood and adulthood. FaceBook also provided a way to feel somewhat connected at a time when I knew few people in my new town and the then-spouse started going to bed around 7:30-8:00 p.m. I’m more of an 11:00 p.m. bedtime person.

Around 2009 (the Obama years), the more “friends” and family with whom I reconnected from my small, conservative Bible Belt town, the more I started noticing things that surprised me—comments that to me seemed somewhat hostile, critical in a way that made no sense to me and conveyed a level of prejudice that had been both covert and overt when I was in my teens and 20’s in Texas.

I noticed it. I didn’t want to believe it. I did not speak up.

In 2010, I began a conscious dance facilitator training and my mother received a cancer diagnosis. I started posting on FaceBook about my classes. One evening, someone who’d been a good friend in high school posted on my page telling me she was concerned about me because she detected “a certain New Age” tone in my posts. However, what I felt wasn’t genuine concern, but flat out judgment because she assumed my spiritual/religious beliefs didn’t align with hers and hers were clearly correct and superior). Her words were explicit.

At first, I laughed out loud because I thought it was a joke, but then I felt heat rise up from the bottom of my feet to my throat. I sat, breathing deeply, observing my thoughts and reaction. My first thought: if I were evolved, I would probably just ignore this. My second thought: If I were somewhat evolved, I would respond privately. My third thought: I’m livid, not evolved, she chose to post on my public page, so that’s where I’ll respond. And so I did. I waited until I regained some composure and did my best to respond with clarity, calm and kindness. She did not respond to me.

I did not unfriend her for a few more years.

2010-2013: Near death of spouse. Death of mother. Divorce. Loss of home, land, step-grandchildren, animals that were all dear to me. I was grateful to receive some support and connection through FB when I chose to reach out.

2014. I let go of my possessions and moved to Ireland for four months. I enjoyed sharing my journey and depended upon FB to stay connected with friends and family back home.

By 2016, partly due to differing perspectives and the much more openly hostile political environment developing online and in life, a friend group completely blew up and disintegrated. The group had been so special and valuable for me precisely because we’d come together despite our differences in age, background, socioeconomic status and political leanings. I always joked, “I’m Switzerland.” I’ve been a middle-of-the road person, trying to see all sides most of my life, much to the chagrin of people who wanted me to join “their side”

I’ve carried lots of fears, for lots of reasons, around conflict, anger and the possibility of causing harm. The implosion of this friend group felt particularly painful and something I’d not experienced. There has been some repair since then, some in the group moved on. I grieved.

I tried to read more, be more curious and observant, trying to understand what was happening in my community and in the broader world. I found that if I spent much time on FaceBook, I stayed somewhat agitated, saddened, confused by what was posted by people I thought I knew. I tried to engage with a few, trying to understand others’ views, but then I realized, none of those with whom I engaged seemed at all interested in trying to understand my perspective or that of another who differed from theirs.

The derogatory, blaming and shaming tone many used on FaceBook seemed to be accelerating. There was more grief for me reading the accusations hurled toward a whole category of humans (that included me) from folks I’d known when I was young, including someone who was like a brother to me all through my childhood. I felt confused—did he realize he was talking about me? I’d always been made fun of for being perceived as a “hippie chick,” an “earth mama, flower child,” (I was actually born a little too late for that) too sensitive, strange, weird, but I wasn’t accustomed to being accused (by inference) of being a lunatic, violent, radical extremist.

During this same time frame, a family member of mine chose to go onto my public FaceBook page (on a post I’d made about my health insurance costing more than my rent) and insulted a friend of mine who’d commented on my post. It seemed as though she was trying to pick a fight with a total stranger (my friend) by taking an indignant, angry, accusatory tone. That same family member went on my son’s personal FB page and insulted him as well. My son asked, “Mom, do I know this person? Who are they to me? Have they ever sent me a birthday card?” I unfriended that family member, who immediately started emailing me to try to continue their fight. I simply stated that though I had fond childhood memories with them and was grateful for that, I would not tolerate that vitriol on my public page. We are now estranged.

Somewhere in this window, I had to shut down my business page on FaceBook. I had a stalker (someone I had briefly dated 20 years before, who I kept blocking on email, phone, etc.) but he “found” me on my business page and started posting unsolicited and unwelcome rambling diatribes there. I tried multiple times in all the ways provided to block him, and though I could do it on my personal page, I was not allowed on my business page. I have no idea why.

Then came Covid. From my view, it was a time when none of us really knew what was happening and most of us felt out of control and scared. Rather than admit that, I watched as many got really loud and really aggressive about what they thought was right and then condemned everyone who saw it differently. For me it was a sad, confusing, frightening time and my family who also live in Durango and I chose to become a unit to keep functioning—survival mode. Otherwise, it was an isolating time for me. I was so surprised by the behavior of people I’d known for 15 years or more—certain they knew the truth. At that time, I lived right downtown, just off of Main Street and I was stunned daily by the behavior I saw as we were inundated by so many fleeing other states.

In 2021, I woke up in the night, sobbing. I was talking in my sleep, to someone, something beyond me—God or the Universe—asking, “What is the point? Humans are horrible. We don’t evolve. We’ve learned nothing. I can’t take it anymore.” I’ll share the rest of this story another time, but that’s the day I decided I must be very intentional about what I consume, what I share, what I offer, what I contribute—to be vigilant regarding my own biases and conduct. I started looking every day for the tiniest moment or experience of kindness, of beauty, of inspiration.

I unfriended a lot of people—not because we saw things differently, but because of what I perceived as a close-minded, aggressively self-righteous, accusatory tone—people unwilling to question their own perspective. I noticed that what appeared on my feed changed. For a while, FaceBook was once again mostly enjoyable for all the green flag reasons. Then…

I spent one week of my life in 2021 dealing with being hacked and multiple bank accounts being opened in my name. Someone had stolen all of my vital information. It was extremely unsettling. I’m still not sure how/where they obtained my information, but I know there are hackers everywhere and the trolls, bots, scammers and hackers are rampant on FB.

In 2022, I was profoundly affected by the school shooting in Uvalde, Texas and it was yet another turning point for me. I felt compelled to speak up and express what I was feeling on FaceBook as a way to cope. I was shaking when I hit the return button—literally terrified to “expose” myself. I seemed to strike a chord with what many of us were experiencing, so it gave me a bit of courage.

2023, 2024 I started to notice an extreme uptick in the trolling. Almost daily I’d find at the bottom of older posts the very handsome doctor/businessman/high-ranking military man, widower, one small daughter, a puppy and red roses wanting to be my “friend” after he’d written all the love-bombing stuff. A single, older woman must be lonely, vulnerable and ignorant—an easy target.

I rarely have ever posted “political” things on my own page, but I posted a link to an article describing an event at Madison Square Garden in the last year and was immediately attacked by someone I barely know—a friend of a relative—who literally said I should be ashamed of myself for spreading lies. How dare I? Blocked.

Lastly, a close family member was recently hacked. They rarely post, but do use social media in their professional life as well as personal. The hacker even responded to the email warning sent, so there was absolutely no recourse. They have been permanently banned for “child exploitation” (of course this could not be farther from the truth—this family member is a loving parent, partner and well-known and respected community member and leader in their profession). Horrifying. Powerless.

I do not have the bandwidth, stomach or life force required to keep slogging through all of this. I still appreciate all the wonderful ways social media can be enjoyed, but I’m tired of being intentionally used, manipulated, exploited and agitated by the freaking algorithms. I’m tired of grieving what’s been lost and who we seem to have become as a people in America.

The parallels to my own past patterns in relationships are not lost on me. I’ve been reflecting upon my fear of speaking up and out, fear of confrontation, fear of offending someone (due to the deeply ingrained expectation to be “nice”), fear of “rocking the boat” fear of anger/hostility, fear of being cut off, shunned. At this stage in my life, I’m finding my courage and my authentic voice and I’m witnessing this happening for many. It gives me hope and a sense of liberation, even while there are attempts to silence us on a daily basis. I understand, now, how my early experiences contributed to those fears and that in the past, silence meant survival. Now the opposite feels true.

As for how, when and where to express myself with as much clarity, kindness, awareness, respect and integrity as possible, maybe I’m just screaming into the void. I’m still trying to find my way.

Using and being used. Green flags. Red flags.

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Green flags: (how I choose consciously to use FaceBook and other forms of social media—for me that includes only Instagram and occasionally, Threads.

★Staying connected with friends and family across the globe in an easy, fun and efficient way and feeling the abundance of possibilities for meaningful connection

★Traveling vicariously (wonderful especially during times of relative isolation, e.g., folks around the world sharing “A Room with a View” during Covid)

★Meeting new people, some of whom become friends in real life

★Being exposed to different perspectives, different experiences (opportunities to broaden my views or at least continue to develop my curiosity)

★Giving and receiving immediate love and support when there is suffering, need and other concerns, individually and in our communities

★Learning in an easy, efficient way about concerts, events, workshops and other things I enjoy locally and farther afield

★Feeling uplifted by shared beauty whether through visual imagery, poetry, stories, music and other forms of inspiration

★Learning about scientific, medical and ecological advances

★Experiencing a wider exposure to thought-provoking writers that help me make some sense of what I see, hear and feel and broaden or deepen my perspective.

★Having a visual diary of sorts reflecting the last 17 years of my life journey in one place.

******************

Red flags: (How we are ALL being used IMHO)

★Feeling that FaceBook is increasingly an unsafe space for many, many reasons—invasive, violating, hostile.

★Becoming aware that there is and has been for some time the intentional creation and exacerbation of division, confusion, hate and rage among and between ALL of us by the “algorithms” and propaganda from multiple bad actors.

If nothing else, I wish every single one of us on this platform and others understood this and begin to question everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. If we don’t, I don’t know how we can begin to repair, to come closer together, which is what I hope for now and in the future.

If I am being “fed” one view and you are being “fed” another and both are just part of the story and not necessarily accurate, well, don’t you remember the game of “telephone”?

Even in old school multiple-choice equations, if half the sentence is true and half is false, the entire sentence is rendered false. In the meantime, we can seem so certain in the “rightness” of our beliefs.

WE ARE ALL BEING USED, preyed upon and purposefully pitted against each other. We are being tracked. To me, this equates to psychological warfare when so many are already fragile. Please think about this. This in no way releases us from personal responsibility regarding how we choose to use or be used, how we choose to express.

★Finding it increasingly difficult, exceedingly time-consuming and exhausting trying to discern fact from fiction

★Being on the receiving end (and/or witnessing others on the receiving end) of people feeling free to judge, attack, condemn, criticize, shame, etc. for the experience of instant-gratification without evidence, rather than trying to inspire, uplift, understand, engage in respectful civil dialogue Every. Damn. Day.

★Witnessing an absolute lack of accountability and conscious awareness, much less a willingness to cultivate curiosity and care on every effing newspaper post, community site posts, garage sale-sites, rental listings, etc.

★Seeing how many, if not most of us react when we’re in fight or flight, instead of waiting to respond when our rational minds are back on board. (I often have the urge, but make myself “sleep on it.”)

★Being force-fed endless ads, having to deal with bots/trolls, etc. (for which I did not ask) to the point that I might see one post from a friend after wading through the sludge of at least ten ads or bot posts. The “algorithm” decides rather than allowing me to choose, unless I want to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to correct it, without understanding how it actually works and how it constantly changes.

★This effort feels like trying to find one black chia seed in a bag of quinoa. It is exhausting.

Part II, personal backstory to follow