It Was So Pretty and Sad
On masculinity, crabbiness, image maintenance, and integrity. Also, plagiarism (why not!)
Hello my friends,
One of my pals and I exchange voice messages and always preface the really crabby ones with something like: “Be warned, I am very grumpy right now.” Inevitably, the other person assures the message leaver: I love the crabby ones the most! There is something refreshing about the truths that sneak out with rage and/or grief, no? I believe we are all hungry for this truth in our age of polished images. Also, handling grief in safe company has such a rinsing effect, no?
But I feel the need to put a Grump warning on this email. Here it is:
Honestly, who isn’t going through it right now? Whether by the hellscape that is American politics and media coverage (the gutting and policing of national media outlets Oy Oy Oy), actual acts of harm against harmless individuals and boogeyman groups (hello my trans friends and “minorities” and “foreigners”), horrific weather events, or maybe just some good old-fashioned interrelational drama cooked up by yours truly your own ailing soul. If you are sailing through these days unimpeded by worry, hats off to you! Also, please don’t call me right now (lol).
Speaking of images and our confusion/obsession with them, I have been thinking about my own in real life, how I appear to the community in which I live. The truth is, I’m still getting my feet wet in this town to which we relocated (over two years ago) and I still have a lot of resistance to the customs here. Resistance is a huge part of my learning and adjusting process. In this, my soon to be 48th year on the earth (turning 47 this February 😇), I’m pretty used to this fact. There is sometimes a lot of sand in my various oysters, but I trust in my pearl making process. (Or I’m trying to, anyway!)
I also believe it takes about three years to actually ground into a place. Three is a nice number, one I’ve learned the hard way. I’ve been the new kid in an obscene number of towns in my adult life and I’m not gonna lie, parts of me are beyond sick of it: the uprooting, the new digs, new places for posters on the wall. (I honestly would be able to forgive 85% of this move’s problems, though, if there was one decent coffee shop that stayed open past 7pm. Lack of slightly bohemian anchor in utilitarian college town = uh ohhhhh and ugh for Kara’s soul.)
Another part of me, the more resilient, trusting part, knows that I could happily renovate the environs of my domicile every eighteen months until my death. This part knows enough to lean into this change, our move to the middle of Michigan, a land I didn’t even know existed except for my 3rd grade state capitals test, a voluntary test for which I was the sole participant. (All I got for many hours of memorization was a lousy bookmark with a worm on it. Never forgive, never forget!!)
Anyway, I can be a real crab when I’m out and about this town. Some places feel safe, even soothing, like the public library and Costco (lol). Other places flip my inner beasts on high alert. I’ve done a lot to help the beasts calm down in these scenarios but it hasn’t gotten much easier for them/me. Inevitably, I am grouchy and/or instantly exhausted. My spirit refuses to rest until I’m on higher ground.
One of the primary things helping lately is just accepting that these are not my zones. It doesn’t mean I won’t enter them, but it does mean I will be mostly dysregulated, if not entirely unhappy, while in them. I accept that, breathe through it, and exit intact.
I don’t love crowds (parades excepted) and I don’t like amorphous, open fields. I notice that I am much more comfortable in gyms, in a sturdy chair ensconced in family than I am in, say, a neoprene lawn chair on the side of a field where anyone can approach from any angle and start talking into my ear that doesn’t work :( It’s too much for my brain, this constant orienting, wondering who will need me to respond, when, and if they will want me to talk about something that makes me cringe (the school carnival, for instance) when instead I’m counting geese overhead.
Add to this that I don’t want to disappoint my kids, who are being so … something … on the field. (Cute? Active? Semi-proficient?) When my son was much smaller, he told me the proper way to cheer for him at soccer games: “Mom, you’re supposed to say, Go, [Name], go!” It was funny and sweet and also, a little bit of pressure? Like, of course I want to support him and make him feel seen. But also, I’m in my personal version of hell right now, trying really hard not to walk into the neighboring woods where the birds and trees know my name.
Anyway, I need to come clean about this to you. So often when I write, I share about things and people that make me happy, and the writing itself - mostly in my control - really makes me happy. But the move to this (I’m going to say it) weird academic town has been like a shock of cold water to my formerly cozy roots, and while I have accepted the move, I can’t say I’ve adjusted perfectly or even that well. Parts of me are still grumpy about it every single day, and while I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing - disappointment and disorientation can be steps along the path of orienting, I believe - I need to come clean because like all of us, this lady of love and light can be a real crab. 🦀
And yet! I also believe the so-called shadow pieces of our soul and life enrich us and (hopefully) make us more compassionate people. This is why I believe so much in caring for your own vulnerabilities. We can never know the elements that will season our soul in a key way. Sometimes the most important thing to do with the things we hate is surrender to the fact that we hate them.
All this talk of shadow pieces leads me to the Mel Robbins of it all. Former lawyer, current author of self-help books, Mel (I cannot pass up the opportunity to use someone’s first name when it is Mel, sorry) is being accused - so far only in the court of public opinion, I believe - of plagiarizing the title, concept, and some content of a new book called The Let Them Theory from a lesser known writer and poet (Cassie Phillips). I find this interesting because I consider Mel adjacent to my chosen fields of writing, self-study, and mental wellness. I am also that lesser known writer (even lesser lesser known, lol), so this topic hits lots of angles. Anyway, I’m not here to see Mel Robbins taken down, nor am I here to see justice for all artists. I definitely believe in a psychic commons where humans gather and trade ideas. I’m also interested in accountability and the roots we all share as souls evolving. But I have to say, I’m kind of happy this is coming to light. (Here is a writer I respect, Elise Loehnen, writing intelligently about it.) In my heart of hearts, over time and in sometimes quiet ways, I really do believe that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice. I also think this is why integrity is so important. You can kind of feel when something is off in a person, and I have found Mel just kind of loud more than actually helpful. 🤷♂️ I recognize that others may connect with her in ways that I do not. I’m personally curious how important it is to those people that she may be culling her ideas, and even experiences, from others.
Maybe this brings me to the next thing I wanted to share, which is a podcast between one of my favorite teachers Carl Rabke and some his colleagues for his podcast Embodiment Matters (which he records with his partner Erin, herself a somatic educator and beautiful writer). The first episode of a series about masculinity called Men of Depth and Soul features Francis Weller, a psychotherapist and tender of grief rituals (my friend Amelia introduced me to Francis and to Carl 🙏🏽🙏🏽).1 The episode explores how the western world’s definition of masculinity is terribly thin right now, and how those who identify as male might be invited to show up together, to nurture one another and our collective future.2
I am only halfway through but am enjoying Francis’s exploration, especially, of the paucity of soul with which masculinity is portrayed in white culture right now. If I can get over the frequent address of each other as brother in this podcast (alarm bells ring like crazy for me whenever white people use the words “brother” or “sister”) I’m enjoying this topic from a therapeutic perspective, rather than through lenses of popular media (goddess help me, almost every headline gives me a heart attack).
If you can believe it, our washing drama wasn’t solved by a second visit from the “laundry technician” (phrase mine). We had to call him back and were looking at more laundromat days. As I was preparing to head there Friday (a disgusting, rainy gray morning if there ever was one), the machine in the basement apparently heard about my plans. I swear I can do it!! Give me another chance! it whispered. I had thrown in a small hamperful to test whether we could eke out a children’s load and what do you know, the machine got its act together. We moved the bags to the basement (thanks, T) and have been slowly working through our assignments there “for free.”
Don’t worry: Jordan is STILL coming back. This will mark visit four and he did admit that a belt on the machine wasn’t acting right (while quietly acknowledging that he missed it the first time. How bad did you make him feel about it? Tim later joked. Let’s just say, Jordan was lucky *I* was the one answering the door. I was really nice about it and mostly engaged him in talk about whether or not he likes his child’s dentist (on pointe, Kara! tough negotiator, c’est moi). I just want a working machine, ya know?
One of the highlights of my week came when my kids and I went to the dollar store after dinner and danced around the aisles, singing to eighties music, looking at barrettes and craft supplies. I’m not sure but I think we spent over an hour in that place, and I thought about my friend who texts pictures of their woodworking projects (not someone from the local Dangerous Talker group, someone else who also enjoys the hobby - we’re lousy with carpenters up in here! (but also, wow, my carpentry skillz are lacking, I’m realizing lately)). Within hours of meeting this person, we were trading stories of dollar store zen. They are also a secret writer and enthusiast of other things I like, but when I heard them tell about times the dollar store blew their mind with joy, I was like, that’s my people right there.
I had to go to the Home Depot for a side project I’m trying not to name (this makes it sound like a business venture but no, just one of my zany hobbies). The aisle marked Barn Doors got me preternaturally excited. Incidentally, I couldn’t find the toilet aisle, which is what we actually needed. (I promise that my hobby does not involve toilets.) Arms overflowing, I swung by the plant aisle (it was on the way to something I needed, I swear!) and scouted a few friends. I tried to convince Tim to get an anchoring giant for his office, and he rightly pointed out that it was sad and boring.
I was at the Home Depot the afternoon of my aborted laundry day. When I went into the store, it was raining. When I got out, it was hailing. By the time I got to school to pick up my kids fifteen minutes later, snow covered the ground. It was wild to walk through all of those versions of wet in a single hour. It was also, not gonna lie, a teeny bit fun. Like, look at all the drama out there! I was grateful for a return of the fluffy stuff. I’m not ready for April rains.3
I’ll leave you with is this: Hunter Harris is a hilarious culture writer who, IMHO, sometimes cuts a little deep. She has an ongoing joke that John Legend never said no to a single job in his life. (“John Legend would perform at the opening of the third book on your nightstand,” etc.) I enjoy the joke but also: hands off John Legend! I love that guy. This week, though, when I took my kid’s freezer pizza out and saw the following, I laughed so hard.
Anywayyyyyyyyyy. Thanks for hanging with me and visiting my little world today. As a parting wish for all of us, I hope the story is long and the jokes pay off in the end. We are in this together, friends, and I am thinking of you.
XOXO
Kara
P.S. The title of this post came from my oldest child’s comment about the song Hallelujah, which they were singing in the kitchen one day. I asked how they knew it and they said someone played it at school. “It was so pretty, and sad,” they said. (I really hope it was Jeff Buckley’s version, not Leonard Cohen’s cover of his own song. I have so many thought on LC that will never make the light of day. Sorry and you’re welcome!)
P.P.S. Something happened last week which was that I caught my hand’s reflection in an image that is important to the novel I’m working on. It was spooky and beautiful and felt very much that something or someone wanted me to see the physical writing we were doing together. None of it felt done by my hand. I mean, the filming did, but the noticing was very much outside of the “me” who normally experiences my life. **goose bumps emoji** **smoke emoji** **gratitude emoji**
Please enjoy this video of me demonstrating how to use a pencil :)
On the topic of masculinity and how to hold it in balanced ways, Amelia and I have been discussing this lately because we are both raising children assigned male at birth. She keeps mentioning a book called Boy Mom: Reimagining Boyhood In the Age of Impossible Masculinity. The way my brain works, she will have to mention it twelve more times before I actually pick it up, however, it does sound really interesting. Here’s a description: “With young men in the grip of a loneliness epidemic and dying by suicide at a rate of nearly four times their female peers, Whippman asks: How do we raise our sons to have a healthy sense of self without turning them into privileged assholes? . . . Whippman digs into the impossibly contradictory pressures boys now face; and the harmful blind spots of male socialization that are leaving boys isolated, emotionally repressed, and adrift . . . . With wit, honesty, and a refusal to settle for easy answers, BoyMom charts a new path to give boys a healthier, more expansive, and fulfilling story about their own lives.” <3 <3 <3
By wading into this discussion, I do not mean to reinforce the gender binary, something that drives me more than a little batty. I do think it’s important to think about all of this, however, especially as I send my children to public school where, god help us, normative concept are reinforced overwhelmingly ❤️🩹❤️🩹 Possibly the book I *should* be putting here is bell hooks’s The Will to Change! As long as I’m shilling for books I haven’t read, I may as well shill for bell. (Also: does this look interesting? (She has learned nothing about linking to books she hasn’t read, folks!))
Carl and company are leading a three-month “group council” which you can read more about here. I’ve taken classes with Carl (and wish he were my next door neighbor). He is the real deal, grounded in studies and his own practices while being a light, skillful educator, the kind of underspoken but genuinely illuminating presence I really respect. He embodies what I’ve heard Martha Beck call Tonic Masculinity, the opposite of the toxic male: one who carries light and guides others with love. I have been blessed by many many tonic males in my life and believe in both our need for them and our ability to nurture this kind of soulful leadership in our world. XX
In a final (final!) note, I really enjoyed Karen Davis’s newsletter this week. Karen photographs a local lake where she lives and shares the most stunning wildlife photos every week.
I'm glad you gave your grump and crab vibes a voice. They're every bit as interesting to this reader as your happy ones. Dare I ask, in the current hellscape of trans erasure, whether "Men of Depth and Soul" makes any mention of trans men? Cuz....it should (and if it does, angels have no doubt sung and gotten extra wings as well). Also, I have *so many* thoughts about the topic of the way in which assigned at birth gender assumptions are complicated and often not very helpful at all in the end, but I shan't leave it here.
Would love to have witnessed the “ Dollar Tree party.” Sounds like a lot of fun.