How to Be a Social Distancing Warrior

I wrote about how to love effectively and practice creativity during the coronavirus pandemic for Relevant Magazine.

I Quit My Job Of Not Being Allowed

This piece originally appeared in Witches Mag, Issue #3, “Labor”

This story is about chipped nail polish. That’s what they decided was important. That’s what they decided could define sexiness and beauty. 

Until I decided they couldn’t – not for me. 

This is a story about fighting a battle with myself and others – and how I came away from the fight still covered in hair and fat and chipped nail polish. But knowing how to be sexy and beautiful...for me. 

Before we get to the chipped nail polish, we need to get into the mind of who I’ve been for most of my life. At an early age, I learned that I wasn’t allowed. 

I was not allowed to be imperfect. 

Now I think humans in general learn this – not allowed to be late, or have depression, or need a minute. But as a woman, I learned all these things and more. 

My body especially was not allowed to be imperfect. 

By being taught that I couldn’t be imperfect, I was also taught that I must be constantly judging myself and assuming the judgment of others. 

And I didn’t just accept judgment for my “imperfections” that were static, and there to stay. I also accepted judgment for the “imperfections” that are stages in natural cycles – nails growing, oil building up on hair and skin, teeth looking a bit yellow, hair all over the body sprouting in wiry fields. You know, things that need tending to. 

This “tending to” seemed to fall into a woman’s responsibility for her imperfections. Women are taught to spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars every year on keeping the imperfections at bay. To ward off the evil spirits, who might actually enchant some passerby to see beyond the surface. It’s a lot of work. 

I remember a friend telling me to try to hide my fingers when I was talking to a certain guy because he thought chipped nail polish was gross. I made fists and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

I grew up understanding that I needed to practice good hygiene. That I needed to have a skincare regimen, that I needed to brush and somehow style my hair, file my nails, the basics. There were even some fun elements like picking out lip gloss at Target and deciding which shampoo made my hair the shiniest. 

But here’s what shocked me as I grew older and wiser:

The unwritten rule that this tending to must be done almost in secret. With all the appearance that you were already tended. That really, you don’t even need tending. That maybe this tending  – like everything – is all for show and fun. 

That truly sexy women don’t even need facials, they just get them because they’re relaxing. 

Some women do it so well that I really believed the sleight of hand. Add then, of course, judged myself for being less subtle. 

You know who and what I’m talking about. 

The women who arrive to get a manicure with their nails already looking pretty damn good. 

The women at the gym who already look “perfect.” 

The women who look “put together” (whatever that means) even when they’re cleaning the house at 11 pm. 

The one who bounces into the hair salon with hair washed, cut, and styled in a way that I’d pay a lot to walk out with. 

The one at the wax center who looks like she’s never in her life experienced any form of leg hair. 

Me on the other hand…..

Am I not allowed to be “imperfect” even for the sake of striving closer towards “perfection?” I mean, I’m trying! Look, here I am at the salon! 

I’ve been judged for being red-faced and sweaty at the gym. By myself and others. I’ve been judged for having split ends while I am sitting in the chair waiting for a haircut. By myself and others. For having hair that I wish to remove when I show up at the wax center. For having a skin problem when I show up at the dermatologist. These are the people who were supposed to “fix” me. But I allowed myself to believe I was supposed to already be fixed.

All this judgment  and striving, and attempted trickery was out of fear – fear that I would be “letting myself go” (in my 20s) otherwise. Fear that men and women would consider me gross, unkempt, grimy. A wearer of granny panties (because I also am so gross that I forgot to do laundry). A skipper of showers. A neglecter of nails. Naive in the ways of sexiness, seduction, and…beauty. 

But while I was afraid of “letting myself go,” I was actually letting go of myself. My real beauty. My delight. 

When I feel like I’m not allowed to be just my natural self now and then, then I start asking questions like Then why am I even here? What is even the point? What’s the trick? The one where you can look “perfect” without trying? Where I can stop all this pretending. 

I used to put on makeup just to FaceTime with friends, even though we were both supposed to be in PJs drinking wine – you know, letting our guard down. But the mask stays on. (And sometimes it’s a facial mask, but even then you need to look pretty and have the mask perfectly outline your face and show your threaded eyebrows. And your styled “messy” bun needs to stay perfectly on top of your head – not lurching violently to one side as mine often does mid-conversation). 

I do my hardest workouts at home. Because I know my sweaty, red, fat, acne-scarred face will press up against the floor like an idiot when I’m done, and the sweat will mix with a little bit of drool and drip onto the mat during that last excruciating plank. I’m sorry that I can’t look sexy while attempting to look sexy. Sorry that I want something more real than that. 

So, to all the people who’ve judged me (including myself), 

Sorry that my nails were chipped when I came to the manicure place to have them repaired. I’m sorry wax technician, that you had to see my hair before you yanked it out. I’m sorry that my hair was greasy as I stepped into the shower to wash it. I’m sorry that I bleed on my period. I’m sorry for being hungry at mealtimes. I’m sorry for being tired after work. I’m sorry that I’m bloated after eating. I’m sorry that there was something in my teeth while I was chewing. I’m sorry for having messy hair in the mornings. Sorry for answering the door in mismatched pajamas at 7 am. Sorry for that cellulite right where it always is. I’m sorry the chair made red lines on the back of my legs while I was sitting in it. Sorry for that merlot staining my teeth when I was having too much fun to worry about it. Sorry that you had to point it out. I’m sorry for all the ways my body failed you and failed me in your presence. 

And you know what? I’m sorry for all these things becoming so important. I’m sorry for caring. I’m tired of caring. Sorry for being tired. 

Sorry for needing some other way to be a woman. 

Stretch marks, bloated period abdomens, and expanding vaginas tell us that we’re capable of great labor. And I’m not going to spend my strength on hiding – sweaty face or pubic hair or chipped nails. 

The work of imperfection is never quite over. But I can see the fruits of my labor – hairy, scarred, bloated, accepted, beautiful fruits. I choose delight instead of judgment. 

Delight will reign over all things beautiful and sexy and real in my life until you can’t tell the difference. I’ll zap off the hair on my vulva if it makes me feel better. I’ll also spread out my prickly pear legs at the pool if that feels more fun. Yeah, I think manicures are boring. Yeah, I went up a size. Yeah, I have hair there. Now pass me that piña colada. 

Are you Introverted, Extroverted, or Unique?

“Wait, he’s introverted? That’s so weird because I had such a great conversation with him!” My friend says this with confused enthusiasm as she refers to the first time she met my husband, who works in sales and also loves the beach to himself.

“She’s really extroverted, I don’t get why she didn’t wanna come tonight,” someone says about another friend of mine, who tests as extroverted but often craves time alone to reflect.

“Introvert” and “Extrovert” are terms often thrown around as characteristics to qualify or disqualify someone for certain positions or to measure chances of enjoyment or success. Often, we use the terms to explain and describe ourselves or others. Introversion and Extroversion are categories that are referenced everywhere from job interviews to first dates, counseling sessions to cozy chats with good friends.

Humans love categories, and we need categories sometimes. Categories help us learn about, communicate to, and reference the world around us. Carl Jung popularized the terms Extrovert and Introvert in the early 20th century with the intention to help us learn, communicate, and reference differences in personalities. The problem is that today we often use the terms without understanding their true definitions and implications, and so we miss truly understanding the people we’re talking about.

The terms extroversion and introversion originally developed as ways to understand where someone gets energy from. The very basic definition is that extroverts get energy from other people and introverts get energy from being alone. But before we start using the terms, we need to understand two things:

1. Most, if not all, of the original minds behind the terms believed that there are no true introverts and extroverts, rather everyone is an Ambivert – a unique point on the spectrum; meaning a beautiful, messy overlap of both extremes. Occasionally, the extrovert needs to be alone (some more than others) and the introvert needs the company of others (some more than others). Different degrees, different occasions, different contexts, even genetics determine the unique place each individual might fall on the spectrum. Jung said, “There is no such thing as a pure introvert or extrovert. Such a person would be in the lunatic asylum." So be crazy but not that kind of crazy.

2. Since their introduction into our vocabularies, the terms have taken up lives of their own. The mainstream understanding of the terms today is not only different than the original definitions, but also polarizing. We have lost sight of the original intent of the terms and see instead the mythical stereotypes that surround them.

In short, the terms that were never supposed to fully define any one person have developed personalities of their own, and we often use this mutant definition to label someone’s personality. The stereotypes that surround the terms lead to misconceptions and gaps in understanding each other.

So how can we start to peel away the labels to see each other face to face?

One thing to remember is that everyone defies their personality type in some way. As a fiction writer, I am always trying to understand what makes characters realistic. One of my favorite insights is from Robert McKee’s Story. He says characters must have dimension and “dimension is contradiction.” This has helped me understand the apparent contradictions of my own character. Often the “contradictions” are only contradictions to what people have said about me: those helpful categories that result when people mean well, but don’t work hard enough to get to know you (or when you don’t work hard enough to be known). For example, people say I’m an easy-going person. But why does a bad restaurant experience turn me into a vengeful Yelp-reviewer seeking justice over something that doesn’t matter? Because I’m a living-breathing contradiction, thank God. That’s what makes us interesting, that’s the fuel for stories, the stuff plot twists are made of, the thing that makes relationships a constant path of discovery.

Before assigning the people we meet to their “introvert” and “extrovert” teams (and all the stereotypes, myths, and generalizations that come with them), let’s keep in mind that  contradiction as an essential human characteristic. Be on the lookout for that introvert who loves dance clubs, that extrovert who hates having Friday night plans.

We need to keep in mind that there are no rules when it comes to these personality types, and to instead be wary of the rules people think are associated with each type. For example, “loud” does not equal extrovert and “quiet” does not equal introvert. Sometimes, even positive stereotypes like “extroverts have the most friends,” and “introverts are more creative,” can end a conversation instead of deepen it.

Labeling yourself can also endanger discovery. Don’t let your personality test results be excuses  you make for yourself, like: “Oh sorry, I’m just feeling introverted,” or “Oh sorry, I did that because I’m extroverted.” This doesn’t help the conversation. And doesn’t help people understand you, because it stops at a label.

The bright side is that acknowledging a world of 7.6 billion ambiverts means endless discovery. Your “type,” a.k.a YOU is waiting to be uncovered, a unique contradiction and combination of all the things we know, or thought we knew.

Tattoos and other life stories – part 1

I got my first tattoo in plain sight, where I could see it, where everyone could see it.  It’s a little outline of a triangle, like a hollow mountain. A mountain that could be filled.

Mountains are some of my favorite things in the world. When I want to really get to the essence of God, without all these songs and words and phrases and contexts we have for him, I look at the mountains. It feels raw to me, deliciously abstract. Beauty and glory’s tabula rasa, bare and jarring, unneedy, content. I feel like I’m looking back, before we start adding all our misconceptions and ideas and small praises. Sometimes I just want to be.

But I didn’t choose a mountain for my tattoo because I love mountains. I choose it because I am afraid of them.

I always had a dream to live in the mountains. It didn’t come true until high school. I moved to one of the most beautiful places that (even in retrospect) I have ever been. But before I moved there, before I knew I would move there, I visited.  And I was terrified of the mountains. They were my enemies. For some reason, those particular mountains threatened to close in on me, attack me, consume me, laugh at me, chase me away because I didn’t belong there. It was true, I thought, I didn’t belong there. Could never.

That was before I lived among them. Now the mountains surrounding Anchorage, Alaska are beautiful to me, home to me. But they have never stopped being wild. Never stopped being as uncomfortable as wolf teeth on the neck. Never stopped being the truest kind of mountains.

I don’t know if they ever will be safe, but I know they are good. And I’ve learned that comfort hardly ever means best or right. That’s the kind of mountain I got tattooed on my hand.

Seven glorious unending Alaskan summers, and six gnawing winters later I took a job in South Florida. Building up to the move, I had recurring nightmares and senses that I would die on the way there, in a plane crash. But I also knew I had to go. It was my next adventure. This ties into another important part of the tattoo. I see the good yet uncomfortable/terrifying paradox summed up well in the concept of adventure. Adventure rips you out of your comfort zone. Adventures can range from the mild: exploring a new country by yourself, to the extreme: taking a risk in expressing that you love someone, etc. But either way, “adventures make you late for dinner.” They are not straightforward, predictable, or tame.

I feel I will die if I don’t travel the world. But because of my fear of flying (it inconveniently increases the more I fly) I often feel that I will literally die if I do. Like the mountains, adventures aren’t safe. But they’re good. I’d rather die trying to travel than never travel. I’d rather live risking that God is real than to die without ever believing. Even if God is not real,  God is the most beautiful idea I know. Even if the plane does crash, I’m setting off with my little pack and my comfy shoes.

On the flight from Alaska to Florida I also told myself I would get a tattoo like the one I have if I made it alive to my next adventure. And slowly, the more alive I became, the more I realized that arriving was just a part of it. That moment of “safe” solid ground isn’t at all a resolution, it’s at best a transition. The adventure started with saying I would go. By choosing beauty over safety. Ironically, at this point, the safety was back in the mountains of Alaska that I used to be so afraid of. I am still afraid of them sometimes. But I am not only afraid. There is more now than just my fear.  There is love. There is more than doubt, there is faith. That’s why I wanted my little mountain to be hollow inside. So it could be filled with the things that, unlike fear, can truly sustain me. Now I have sometimes fear but always wonder. Always the sense that if I could pick any mountains in the whole world, it would be those. Any adventure, it would be this.

Slow Zoom Towards the Mysterious Unseen

I wrote about a rather obscure short film called Wavelength and the way it parallels our own longing. Read the whole piece over at Mockingbird.

“We don’t do a lot of waiting nowadays. A few extra seconds of Internet load time merits a complaint call. We don’t like waiting, but we’re asked to do a lot of it. We especially don’t like waiting when it comes to movies. We tend to favor fast cuts and snappy punch lines. These movies “reward” the viewers (and also usually the characters) for their time by pairing questions with answers, effects with causes, and situations with explanations. There are actually storytelling formulas that dictate how long the viewer should be left to wonder before the truth is revealed, how long the protagonist should have to struggle before their want is achieved. This is effective storytelling, and a lot of fun, but sometimes we’re left to ask why our own lives aren’t resolving in this “normal” amount of time. The longer we wait, the more our faith is tested. We can’t skip to the end of our stories.”

— "Slow Zoom Towards the Mysterious Unseen" – by Elsa Wilson

Dive In

I’ve thought for a long time that I want to design wine labels. There is a wine label design I like that is called Cannonball. I like this one because it is minimalist and clean and full of momentum. A boy is silhouetted against open space – maybe an infinity of possibility, an endless horizon – and his eyes are ahead. His knees are tucked under his chin. He is ready. He is mid-air, suspended between land (where it is safe) and the water (which could be unsafe). In the image the water is neither smooth or fierce – but it is clearly alive. He is half-way between where humans should logically be (as pedestrian mammals) and where we must learn to be. He is, for a few split seconds, level with the horizon – maybe even he is in the horizon, as I sometimes feel I am in a sunset. We do not know the story of the boy. Maybe he jumps often: he learned long ago how to be out of his element. Maybe he has jumped before and it was traumatizing. Maybe he has never jumped in his life. Maybe the water is cold, or very deep. Maybe there are sharks. Maybe the boy is thinking as he leaves the shore that he might have forgotten how to swim. But what matters in the picture is that he is jumping. In that image, past and future are surrendered as the boy looks the horizon in the eyes. The rest of the story is coming, but not yet. The top of the bottle says “dive in.”

April: What God Sees

“[God] regards men not as they are merely, but as they shall be; not as they shall be merely, but as they are now growing, toward that image after which He made them that they might grow into it.”

— George MacDonald, "The Child in the Mist"

photo: Seljalandfoss, Iceland

Haunting

“I heard them calling in the distance
So I packed my things and ran”

— "Mountain Sound," Of Monsters and Men

They sound like Iceland feels. 

Buddy

I had the privilege of meeting Buddy while I was in Iceland earlier this month. The greatest tragedy of the trip was leaving him behind. 

I will never forget you, Buddy. 

Surprise Yourself

By Jack Garratt, Phase (2015)

Speak and open up your mind
It's something you should do all the time
Keep exploring, seek and find
You know you might surprise yourself
Talk without a taint or hold
The doubts that should embrace your heart
The calm and chaos of your soul
You know you might surprise yourself