Infinity and Jelly Donuts

In a Magnum PI episode, Magnum is shot. He hovers between life and death, watching events unfold around him, and (mostly) is unable to communicate with those he loves. He is aided by a friend, Mac, who had died a few years before. At one point, Mac, the spirit, is eating a jelly donut, and when Magnum asks him where he got it, Mac replies "Time has little to do with infinity and jelly donuts." 

Time has always been fluid to me. Past and present intermingle. My dad might say "I'm going to Salt Lake tomorrow," and I'll acknowledge it, and then the next day, I call to see where he is. Sometimes it's worse than that. Sometimes it's only two minutes later, when I say "What are your plans for tomorrow?" and he gives me that look and says in a patient and weary tone that I've come to recognize, "I'm going to Salt Lake tomorrow." And I say, "Oh. You told me that, didn't you?"

At this point, it would be convenient to point out that a major symptom of my CFS/ME (chronic fatigue syndrome, which is more properly called myalgic encephalytis) is what's called brain fog. (If you've ever had several days of insomnia, you've experienced brain fog yourself.) And it's notoriously bad for short-term memory. Still, I can't totally blame that as I've just never been an "in the moment" kind of person. Or rather, I'm more often to have my mind on a moment in the past or future as I am in the present. As a kid, I was terrible at sports partly because I couldn't concentrate on what I was doing. Or remember the rules that had just been explained to me. 

I can recall entire conversations from second grade. I have a whole etsy wishlist devoted to gifts for relatives' babies not yet conceived (but who will be). I just can't tell you if I brought in the mail today. Sometimes I'm quite sure I brought in the mail, but then I realize I'm remembering the mail from the day before. And then I go out to get the mail, it's not there, I check three more times, and my dad points out that it's Sunday. And I think, "Oh, right, Sunday," and I'm flooded with a memory of the rustle of my brother's corduroy pants as we walked to church (on a rare occasion we went to church.) I think he declared the experience of noisy pants as mortifying and refused to wear them ever again...but I was quite charmed by the sound. And then I say, "Has anyone brought in the mail today?"

My earliest memory that I can date is when I was just barely two and had pneumonia. The only thing more awful than the interminable wait in the emergency room was the result: an enormous Penicillin shot. I always thought I remembered that bigger than it was, but apparently it was indeed pretty impressive. And I remember a few months later, being a flower girl for my Aunt Kathy and Uncle Brian. In fact I remember (probably after photos) being told my part was done and I could go play, but wasn't really sure I should. What if a flower girl emergency arose? 

Speaking of which, and this shows how my mind goes from one thing to the next, when Prince Charles and Princess Diana got married, my great-grandmother and I thought it was the grandest thing ever. (I was four. My great-grandmother was forty, or at least that's what she would have told you.) While we agreed Diana's dress was lovely, we thought the flower girl dresses--taffeta with sashes--were divine. (Grandma Roberts didn't live to see the royal divorce, which is just as well, as she would have been pissed. She'd have taken Diana's side eventually, but she still would have been pissed.) 

Another problem with keeping track of time is that I talk to the spirit world as much as I do the living one. Recently, when I mentioned a conversation I had with my mother, my therapist asked me if the conversation happened before or after Mom died. She added, "I wouldn't normally ask, but I never can be sure with you." Uh, yeah. No one ever said I was dull. Forgetful, yes.....

History Revisited

During a week of tech hassles, I sought refuge in one of my favorite viewing pleasures, Colonial House. PBS did a variety of these shows: Frontier House, Texas Ranch House, Manor House, 1940s House (though that might have been the BBC.) I like and recommend all of them. (If you loved Upstairs, Downstairs, Manor House is a must see.) I watch Colonial House most often because I own it and because I love watching a Baptist minister and Berkeley theologian try to run the colony together and separately, often with too much input from the Berkeley theologian's wife. I especially adore it because, since my dad has worked in academia most of my life, I just crack up at the theologian. Even if they didn't say he was a Berkeley professor, if you had shown me his picture, I would have said "That guy has tenure somewhere, probably at Berkeley, and will speak slowly and profoundly, often about nothing." Not that all academics are like this, but there's at least one (usually more) in every department. But I digress...

Anyway, the concept of these shows is that 20th-21st century people go back and try to relive history, which makes for great t.v., though you'd never catch me actually signing up for one. (Without fail, the majority of people who sign up seem to have romantic, hazy ideas about the experience and no clue that it's going to be harder work than they'll ever see again and they will spend most of the time miserable. Why they don't realize that is beyond me.)

It also makes me wonder what people from the past would think about it. I imagine a woman on the frontier thinking, "Ok, so these people can go to a store and buy butter, put it in an appliance that keeps it cold, but they'd rather milk the cow and then churn the butter for the experience? Clearly, our descendants are stupid."

It's not that I don't see the allure of the past. In fact, I spent several years in the SCA. (Society for Creative Anachronism...you know, the people in the park dressed up like they're in the Middle Ages.) I thought it was a delightful way to spend an hour or two. And then I'd look at the really dedicated ones, those who were camping out in tents and lining up for port-a-potties, and washing up out of a bucket of water, and I'd say, "It's been really nice being medieval with you, but now I have to go home to my indoor plumbing, cable t.v., air conditioning, and Internet" --which was dial-up back then and as close to the ancient past as I ever hope to be again.

Invariably, these t.v. programs have varying success at authenticity. Manor House replicates life best, I think, which means the servants wind up hating the family they serve while the family thinks the servants adore them. Uh, yeah. They're just lucky it's not set in the French Revolution.

My beloved Colonial House participants don't do so well at becoming history. Some of them do better than others. The servants do best. But the non-servants spend a lot of time fighting over mandatory church attendance and dress codes. It is fun to watch them stake each other out (literally) and i also enjoy the representatives of two Native American tribes. The first tribe, who coordinated with the project, worry that the colonists won't make it through the winter. The second tribe, who stumble upon them, sort of hope they won't.

And I sit in my comfy recliner, eating junk food, laughing and rolling my eyes, and periodically pausing it so I can check Facebook, play Words With Friends, or add to my blog. Hmm. Three hundred years from now, is that what participants of 21st Century House will do? And will they wonder aloud how anyone survived with only a couple of hundred t.v. channels?

A Bit Of Magic

First off, let me say that this blog has not been what I expected it to be. I thought I'd blog about art--which I've done little of, but maybe I will--and thought I'd blog very little about my mom. I certainly didn't expect so many grief blogs and yet that's what I seem to write about most. All I can say is that she heavily influenced my life and still does. I guess that's part of it, too...when I'm not missing her like crazy, I'm caught up in the magic of still feeling connected to her.

A few days ago, I was sorting through books, looking for the next volume in a mystery series. While I kept most of her book collection, Mom would be quick to point out that I have not kept them in good order. She went to a lot of trouble to sort by author and subject. With me, well, books are lucky if they get back on a shelf and not just in a stack on the floor or, worse, under my bed. (I think that's where my copy of Quiet: The Power of Introversion is, though I haven't been brave enough to look for it just yet.)

Anyway, I was looking for the next book in a mystery series, and came across The Grass Dancer by Susan Power. What struck me was how worn it was. Granted, it's a paperback, but to be that worn, she must have read it a dozen times. And actually I remember seeing it on her bed, or in her hand, or on the shelf, but I don't remember us ever discussing it. Maybe we did and maybe she encouraged me to read it, but....I just don't remember it.

So I started reading it and fell in love with this novel set on the Sioux reservation with multiple points of view, including several generations of women in one family, and laced with magic.

I admit it's been bittersweet. I keep wishing I had read it years ago, so I could have discussed it with her. On the other hand, mostly I feel like I've stumbled upon a gift.

October 15th: Then and Now

When I was very little, October was about cool nights, falling leaves, and the countdown to Halloween. The year I was eight, October exploded, and echoed for years to come.

On the morning of October 15 1985, a man named Steve Christensen picked up a package outside his office and a woman named Kathy Sheets picked one up outside her garage. Neither could have expected that they were holding pipe bombs which would kill them instantly.

At the time, my mom was a reporter for the Deseret News in Salt Lake. My dad, a historian, worked at Weber State University in Ogden. Neither knew Steve or Kathy, though they knew people who did.  I'm driving myself crazy trying to piece together that day for them, but....I keep reminding myself not to, just to stay on my part of the story.

The only thing I remember clearly, was the warning--I think from my mom, calling from a loud and chaotic newsroom--that my siblings and I should not pick up or go near any boxes. We heard it again the next day, when another bomb exploded, seriously injuring Mark Hofmann, a dealer in Mormon historical documents.

My memory of the days and weeks later are a blur of news reports, phone calls, and conversations (which sometimes interested me and sometimes didn't) as apparently-normal Mark Hofmann turned out to be the bomber as well as a  forger. An energy--an odd mixture of stress and adrenaline--settled in our house and changed things in big and little ways. My mom left her job at the Deseret News to co-author a book about the case and for years wherever she went it seemed someone wanted to ask her about it of tell her about their connection to it.

In little ways, long after the warning was lifted, I remained hesitant to pick up boxes. I also learned to hate the song "My Favorite Things." (While the bombs were not tied up in strings, they were most definitely brown paper packages.) In fact, I learned to hate--or at least dread--pretty much anything to do with the case. And for decades, I had nightmares about Mark Hofmann, even after I learned to decipher those dreams and saw they had nothing to do with him. He was just the face my unconscious slapped on anything stressful or frightening.

Some years as October 15th rolled around, I was aware of it, and some I wasn't. Sometimes, when a story or conference about the case was announced, I'd roll my eyes and wonder what was left to say. Any time, I heard about a new historical document being found, I'd wonder if it was a Hofmann. And I'd feel anxiety swell in my gut.

My therapist--come on, you had to know there was some therapy here--assured me I could desensitize myself to it. I sort of believed her, but put that off into the future and dealt with more practical things. And somehow doing that, I undid the dark energy I'd carried so long. I didn't even realize it until I found myself watching an episode of "Who The Bleep Did I Marry" (a most excellent show) featuring Hofmann's ex-wife. They went to file footage and there was Hofmann himself. I looked at the boogeyman of my childhood and felt nothing, except mild curiosity.

Nothing is a hundred percent, I guess, because a few days later, I walked down the driveway to get the mail. I stopped and glanced up at the sky and mountains and thought "What a gorgeous day." And as I bent to pick up the package under the mailbox, I shivered, wondering if that had been Steve's or Kathy's last thought.

The Elephant Graveyard

When elephants come across the bones of another elephant, the whole herd stops, reaching out their trunks to smell, then lift each bone, passing them one to another, searching it for identity and memories, rumbling softly. It starts with the matriarch of the herd--for elephants follow the oldest and wisest female--and goes to the youngest calf. Only when each has searched the bones, do they go on.

I do this myself in a way, not with bones, but with memories, fragments of stories, and vibes of loved ones who have died, even if, like tonight/today it's 4 a.m., and I need to sleep, but I'm too busy trying to remember a particular conversation, not just the words, but the inflections of their speech, the expression on their faces, what they said and what went unsaid but heard, and what I might have heard then, but couldn't understand until now.

2010...no, I have to go back to 2009, when a cousin committed suicide, and stunned the family. We reeled into the angry and baffled grief specific to suicide. (One of the lessons I took from Matthew's death was that whole side of the family--myself included-- is way too stoic and stoicism can be deadly. You have to be willing to call out in pain so that the herd can rush to help.) Later in the year, my aunt Susan's cancer went from "we can treat this" to "there's nothing more we can do." At the same time, my mom's illness and chronic pain worsened, leaving us desperate to hold on to her, but wondering how much she would have to endure.

In the last few months of Susan's life, I could barely even process what was happening. I was so focused on caring for my mom, so afraid that this loss would take what strength she had left. My mom and Susan were born fifteen months apart and died less than three months apart. After my mom died, over and over, I'd think "I need to call Susan" and then I remembered I couldn't, and reality hit me so hard that I sank to my knees. Somehow we had lost them both in that short span of time and they took with them so much knowledge and wisdom and history.....the thought of it was unbearable.

In 2012,  I feel like maybe I have my feet under me again, and then I'll have a night when I roll over, waking from one dream and before sliding into another, I find myself back in the elephant graveyard, remembering fragments of a conversation, trying to keep the words in order, straining to recall if something unspoken slipped in among them, like an elephant searching for the wisdom of matriarchs who made this journey before me.

Culture Clash

One of the challenges of being an INFJ in a 99%-of-people-are-not-like-me world is dealing with the local etiquette. Things that are perfectly acceptable to most people seem downright rude to me. One of the worst of these? Door bells and/or unannounced visitors. I hate both.

Here's the deal: unless I am expecting you or you are bringing me something I ordered--pizza, mail, art supplies, books--than I'm going to get really terse when you show up unannounced and ring the door bell... repeatedly. Or knock. And knock. And knock.

I had one of those moments today. (How did you guess?) Actually, two of them. First was this morning. I was enjoying a lovely Sunday morning, still in bed, and window shopping on Etsy when someone rang the door bell....and rang it again...and rang it again...and then pounded. Since it was Sunday morning, I was not expecting anyone, and it couldn't be mail or UPS, and since I was still in my nightgown, I ignored all the ringing and pounding and finally whoever it was went away. Bliss.

You've got to remember that I'm someone always in search of solitude and silence. I can go days not socializing with anyone in person and, well, those are very happy days. Sometimes people ask me if I get lonely. My response to that is only if the Internet goes down, the cat's asleep, and the Peanut Gallery is not answering...and really it would take all three for me to get lonely....well, and for the cable to go out, too. What some people call loneliness, I call paradise.

Which is not to say I don't sometimes choose to socialize in person and enjoy it....it's just that afterwards, I go home, close all the drapes, and don't say a word out loud for the next twelve hours. My mom once worked with a Ute medicine man, who told her in his half-joking and half-absolute-truth way, "Indians only talk to change the subject." I've thought about cross-stitching that and hanging it on the wall. Though not Indian, I can have whole unspoken conversations with people and only realize later, that unless they're one of me, they didn't know we were having a conversation.

Back to door bells, as I'm always reminding myself, I don't have to answer the door (or the phone.) Except sometimes, when someone comes back an hour and a half later, and I'm now dressed, and busy with an art project, but they're leaning on the door bell, I might answer it just to make the noise stop. And then I may inform you that no, I don't want to pay you to wash my windows, no, I don't want you to come back another day, and if you see anyone else around, selling goods, services, religion or politics to stay away from this house.

In the guy's defense, he's perfectly nice, has washed our windows before (though not because I answered the door and paid him to wash them. The non-INFJ of the household was home that day.) And, by his etiquette code, he's within bounds (though Sunday mornings....well, that might be pushing it.) By my etiquette code, he has interrupted my thoughts, and my art, and threatened to invade my space. On Planet INFJ, you can get a prison term for that. In fact, since art was interrupted, it's probably an aggravated charge.

And he wouldn't be doing time alone. The other day, someone came and pounded on the door and wanted to introduce herself because she was running for office. Astonishingly enough, she was a Democrat, and I didn't know any Democrats ran for office in Ogden, Utah, but I might wind up voting for the Republican just because he/she hasn't bugged me. (To make it worse, it was at the start of the performance finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Uh, yeah.)

I've thought about getting one of those clever "Go Away" door mats, but I'm too afraid the pizza/mail delivery person might think it applied to them. I've also thought about a sign that says "The last person who knocked on this door uninvited got shot," but I'm pretty sure that goes against non-INFJ etiquette.

Maybe I'll just look on Etsy for some fancy ear plugs, preferably ones that have matching fairy wings........

A Silly Aside

Ok, this is just an example of what my life is like....

I ran out of art trading card blanks. (I'm addicted to making and trading these miniature works of art.) I had already placed an order with dickblick.com (another addiction) and had spent more than I should have on various items including more trading cards, but it wasn't going to arrive until next Tuesday. Since there was no way I could wait that long, I went to my studio to get some sheets of card stock, figuring I'd cut some down with my paper cutter. One problem: no card stock. I keep forgetting to get it.

I called a nearby craft store and they had the pre-cut blanks. I thought, "Great. I'll ask Dad to pick some up on his way home."

But then the Peanut Gallery said, "No, you go."

Now, while I've learned to trust them, I don't do so unquestioningly, especially if I think I'm right, so I presented my case. First, me going into a craft store...well, that's just way too temptation. Plus, I've been tired, and--although the craft store isn't huge and it wouldn't be a ton of walking--I try to avoid going out when I'm already tired.

It didn't matter. They just said, "You go" again.

Fine. I figured at least if I went, I could buy some single sheets of card stock, too, to get my stock pile growing again. Dad picked me up, I found the trading cards, got a few packs, plus a couple of Prismacolor markers, which was silly as I have those coming on Tuesday, too, and they were twice as much as at dickblick.com, but.....well, that's the temptation factor. Then I headed over to the card stock, admiring all the lovely shades I could buy for 49 cents a sheet...

Which was when they said, "Don't."

"But I'm out of card stock and it's only 49 cents a sheet," I thought back.

And they said, "Don't."

I sighed, figured my guides were feeling thrifty, and I put back the markers, then came back to the card stock and started choosing colors of card stock, and they said, "Don't."

At this point, I was very close to talking to them out loud, which I try to avoid doing in public. I mean, here they'd insisted I run the errand myself, and I was pretty sure the reason was to get card stock. Now they wouldn't let me buy it?

Too tired to fight, I put the card stock back.....which was when I saw the pack of assorted colors of card stock. It was pushed way back on the shelf and marked down to a ridiculously low price.

And that's why I listen to those smug spirit guides of mine.....

My Side Of The Story

That's actually the name I wanted for my blog, but it was taken. I'm a big Criminal Minds fan, and one of my favorite episodes is the one where Prentiss investigates a friend's death committed by a priest who is murdering people in the guise of exorcism. The episode ends with lyrics: "this is my side of the story, only my side of the story" and the first time I heard them, I thought, "Wow. I wonder if you can do that? Just tell your side of the story and not bother explaining everyone else's side? Maybe just tell it and not feel like you have to justify it? Just say....this is my side of the story." It made me feel so liberated.

See, I grew up too aware of everyone else's feelings and needs and too inclined to put them ahead of my own. I desperately wanted everyone to be happy and thought I could--and should--finesse that. But some people are determined to be unhappy, so it's a waste of energy trying to change that.

When I learned one of my recent posts upset a relative, my first thought was "She's lucky I didn't blog about..." and then I started thinking....maybe I should, not to be petty or hurtful, though I'm sure she'll take it that way, but because maybe I've carried that pain around long enough.

Starting about the time I was eleven, this relative's marriage started to unravel, and I got dragged into it more than I should have, which was not entirely her fault. My mom was the one in the best position to help her, which means we took her and her two children in several times, and there were seemingly endless conversations and phone calls and stress. I couldn't help pick it up both consciously and unconsciously. But the biggest mistake came the summer I was twelve, when I wound up spending fifteen hours a week, babysitting for her, mostly to give another relative--who was her main babysitter--a break.

My relative was all too willing to fill me in on lots of drama about her ex-husband, his abuse, and the fact that he was stalking her. She assured me he spent most of his time watching the house. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen hours a week in a house full of tense, fearful, and miserable vibes with two small children, one who reflected the misery with anger and defiance, the other with clinginess and tears. I could not take them outside. I could not even open the drapes. And every time I heard the slightest sound, I was sure that my crazy and abusive ex-uncle had turned up, possibly with a gun and possibly with an accomplice, to kill or kidnap the kids and it was my responsibility to keep them safe.

At the time, I hated this, but didn't question it. Years later, when I realized that what was being asked of me was unfair for a twelve-year-old child, I confronted my mom about it. She sighed and asked me if I really thought she and my dad would put me in that position. It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, which was that I was never in that situation. It might have been how my relative perceived it, but it wasn't how everyone else did.

My mom said, "He was crazy and abusive, but he wasn't coming for those kids. If I knew you'd bought into her PTSD so much I would  have tried to find another alternative....though I did try to find another alternative and I just couldn't, but I wish I could undo it."

So do I. Often I've wanted to confront my relative to see if she believed her own rhetoric and, if so, why she put me in the situation. In fact, once, at a family party, when I looked at her oldest daughter and realized she was exactly the same age I was that summer, I wanted to ask "Would you have put her in that situation?" But I also realize it wouldn't do any good. She still sees things the same way and would respond by rattling off all her own wounds, while ignoring mine, or maybe she'd add mine to her list of grievances against him, but she'd never admit she was at fault.

Forgiveness is supposed to be about accepting that the past can't be any different and I struggle with that. Part of the problem is that I had so few summers left, at least healthy ones. By the time I was sixteen, I was chronically ill. It might have been nice to have spent fifteen hours a week the summer I was twelve doing something else.

As I approach twenty years of chronic illness and thirty-six years of life, I've come to a few decisions. One is that I am going to surround myself with people who love and understand me, who bring out the best in me, who reflect what I believe, who honor my truth. See, it turns out that, as adults, family relationships are optional, and I'm opting out of a few. It also turns out that I can delete comments, ignore emails or phone calls, and only have people I actually like on Facebook. I can say what I want and, if people don't like it, they can go away.

I can tell my side of the story and that's what I'm going to do.

Tai

The last few months, I've been keeping a secret, one of those delightful kinds that are so magical you have to keep them to yourself for a while. (No, I am not pregnant.) It all started first with this playful little energy I noticed, often at night or when I was drawing. I actually wondered if this new spirit was an animal guide, but I didn't think so because Percie, my cat, was in the room and didn't react. (Percie is very accustomed to people spirits wandering the house, but when the occasional ghost cat turns up, Percie hisses, dashes around, howls, and usually winds up huddled in the sink as if it were a storm cellar, but I digress.)

So one night, I was coloring with a bright red crayon, and a little voice said, "Um, I love red. Red is my favorite." At that point, I almost fell off my bed, and the spirit giggled, then disappeared. She next showed up when I was reading a book about an elephant. Again, all of the sudden, she said, "Elephants are the best." I "saw" (in my mind) a little Asian girl, about age 3 or 4, with big eyes and chubby cheeks. I said, "Who are you?" and she said, "Um, my name is Tai." I took a few breaths, trying to sense other spirits and also panicking that some child had turned up, no doubt with a message for her family, and I would have to track them down, which I really didn't want to do. I explained to her that I couldn't pass on a message, and she said, "Um, I don't have a message, I just want to read the book with you because I really love elephants, too." Ok, a little strange, even by my standards, but, whatever.

Around this time, I read a most excellent book called "Ask Your Guides" by Sonia Choquette. She talked about joy guides, which are often animals already in our lives, but can be animals or children's spirits. Either way, their purpose is to help us not take life or our selves too seriously, not work too hard, and to just have fun. To be honest, I've always resisted the idea of a child guide because to me it seemed like...well, it would be a dead kid, and kind of creepy, but nothing about Tai was creepy and when she showed up again, I said, "You're a joy guide, aren't you?" and she said, "Um, yes, I am."

Tai is nothing like any other guide I've encountered. Usually, when I get information from a guide, it's like they've downloaded it to my brain. When I ask Tai a question, there's a pause, and I see her furrow her brow as she considers it, and then she answers, almost invariably, with the first word being "Um." For instance, "Um, life is about choices. If you make a bad choice, it's ok, but you need to learn from it and do better." Or "Um, maybe you should have a blog and just say what you think and um, if people don't like it, you could make new friends, because friends should like you and be nice to you. Plus, I don't think people can know what you're thinking if you don't tell them."

In addition to loving the color red, elephants, and drawing, Tai is very musical. I get a kick out of this because I am very not musical. I discovered this when I had a couple of lines from "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" stuck in my head. Pretty soon, I heard "Um, what's that song?" When I couldn't remember it, I went to youtube. First I played the original for her, and she liked that, but then I found an African Lion King version, and she just loved that. Next thing I knew, I was playing other youtube videos, especially Muppets for her, and she was singing, dancing, and giggling. At that point, I ordered the first season of the original Muppet Show for her. I need to get the first movie, too, because we've already established that "The Rainbow Connection" is one of her favorite songs. (Tai now has her own playlist on my Ipod.) One day, I played some Ella Fitzgerald scatting for her and she thought that was just divine. Now she likes to sing "Fly Me To The Moon" and scats whole sections: "bop bop bop bop bop...." She tells me she has perfect pitch. I told her I'd take her word for it as I can't even carry a tune.

Like all little kids, things catch Tai's fancy. When I went to an art convention, and one woman was wearing fairy wings, Tai downright swooned and wanted some. We're still negotiating that. We look for wings on Etsy all the time, but haven't found the right ones. I've explained the criteria: they need to be well-made, but not cost too much or it will cut into our art supply budget. Also, they need to be lightweight and comfortable. Most importantly, they have to be made for hobbits. To illustrate this, I showed her a picture of Arwen from Lord of the Rings and emphasized how she was tall and thin and wings would work better on her than on a short and round person like me. Tai is undeterred, so eventually, you may see me walking around in fairy wings.

In my art group, people often post a "draw me this" request and Tai insisted I take one which was a woman holding a snake. I had no interest in drawing that and couldn't even figure out how I would, but Tai countered, "But it would be fun!" I said, "Are you going to help?" and she said, "Um, yes, I will help. I'm a good helper." She helped and it turned out ok, though the woman in the card has the same expression I had when Tai told me I should draw it. Here's this poor woman holding a snake and looking like "Whose idea was this?"

One way that Tai is like other spirit guides is that she gets annoyed when I ask for her advice and don't listen.  For instance, I was working on an art project that was quickly turning into a mess and I said, "Ok, Tai, why isn't this working?" She said, "Um, I think you're too tired." I agreed, but, true to my nature and DNA, I kept trying to make it work until all of the sudden Tai said, rather loudly, "Um, I said you're too tired!" I cracked up and said, "Ok, Tai, you're right. Let's take a break and watch some Muppets."

Part of why I haven't been talking about Tai, aside from the usual "they'll think I'm nuts" bit, is that I was kind of afraid if I did, she'd disappear. We talked about that last night and Tai said, "Um, that's not going to happen." And then she started singing....

Oh, Pioneers....

First off, if you're not from Utah, you need to know that pioneers are to Utah what cows are to Wisconsin... or so I'm told, having never been to Wisconsin. We just love our pioneers here, or at least we're supposed to. The truth is, I've discovered I have very complicated feelings about pioneers, and it's taken me a while to sort them out.

The good: I loved Little House On The Prairie. As a kid, I loved both the books and the t.v. show. As an adult, I still love the books, but cannot watch the t.v. show because it's so melodramatic. Still, I have a fondness for the Ingalls, to the point that I tried calling my cat "Half-Pint" once. She did not appreciate it.

The bad: All those pioneers stole their land from people who had been living there for generations. Well, sometimes the government stole it and then gave it to the pioneers, but still....and, when my loyalties are tested, I go with the tribes I love, not the one into which I was born......speaking of which...

The ugly: Here's the deal. What I really hate are Mormon pioneers. This is in spite of being a descendant of  them and only slightly connected to my ambivalence towards Mormonism in general. Really, the root of it all is a deep and scarring event in my childhood, namely having to play Pioneers with my mother's younger sisters. In this traumatic game, first I was informed that I would only have one dress--and maybe a second good one for church, but only maybe--for the whole trek from wherever (Ohio? Missouri? My Mormon PTSD amnesia has kicked in and I have no idea where we were fleeing from) to Zion. (For those of you who thought Zion was the Jewish homeland, you clearly have not lived in Utah. If you want to learn about the true Zion, I can arrange for a pair of missionaries to visit you, but I'd advise against it.) Anyway, even if I got a second dress for church, I would not, under any circumstances, ever have any jeans, shorts, or overalls to wear. Now, I was a girly girl, and even known to wear dresses to school some days, but every day?

It got worse. Next--and this is the news they knew would really destroy me--I was told I could only take one doll (and I had about three dozen, all of whom I loved equally) and that if there wasn't enough room in the wagon, that doll could be cast out and left on the plains. I don't remember if I cried. I think I might have been too horrified.

The next part of the game involved sitting on a bed, pretending it was a wagon bench, and singing hymns. Somehow my aunts were either not aware of the fact that my parents were heretics and had stopped going to church except when they felt they must...and even then they eventually realized all the people who said they "must" were wrong. But I digress. The result of this was that, aside from kids' church songs, I knew no hymns. I'd been in Sacrament meetings enough that I should have known hymns, but said meetings were so tense with all the things everyone was feeling, but not saying--mainly that my parents were heretics--I couldn't remember a single hymn. Of course, I was so traumatized by my doll facing the possibility of being cast out, that I wouldn't have been able to sing anyway.

In the game of Pioneers, if I registered the slightest complaint, I was reminded that I was lucky to be riding in the wagon....for I could instead be like our ancestor, Maria Ann, who at age ten and a half, not only walked across the plains, but pulled a handcart. My aunts spoke of Maria Ann with great reverence. Even my mom, before she became a heretic, had published a poem about Maria Ann. My first and last talk in Primary (Sunday School for Mormon kids) was reading that poem. And, while it was a fine poem, I really came to hate Maria Ann and all the obedience and piety she symbolized. It only now occurs to me that Maria Ann, age ten and a half, had absolutely no say in either pulling the handcart or making the trek. I mean, nowadays, you tell a kid that they're getting rid of all their clothes and toys--aside from one, which you might force them to cast out somewhere on the plains--and they're going to walk and pull a handcart from Ohio or Missouri or wherever until some dude named Brigham announces "This is the place,"--and that modern kid will turn around and call a child abuse hotline.

But back to the game, having been threatened with pulling the handcart, I would pretend to mumble hymn lyrics while secretly, and earnestly praying--for some tribe, be it the Shoshone, or Ute, or Paiute, or somebody to come massacre us. (Maybe they'd even spare me, realizing that I had been born to the wrong tribe, and they'd adopt me into the right one.) Sadly, that never happened, though sometimes we'd be called to dinner and my grandma's cooking generally lessened the pain from my ordeal, though at night, I would still lie in bed, looking at my beloved three dozen dolls and wondering which I would choose and how I would bear to leave the others, or even take the one, knowing she might be tossed aside.

I feel better having figured out the trauma at the heart of my Mormon pioneer hatred as well as a piece of my childhood insomnia. As for Maria Ann, I've decided to reinvent her. See, there's all kind of documented facts about her life because Mormons love documenting their ancestors, but I refuse to read it. I do know that she was married to a polygamist and later divorced him and lived in California. I don't know if she did that because polygamists were being arrested and a lot of couples got legal divorces and/or fled Utah. (In fact, this is why Mitt Romney's father was born in Mexico....they were hiding with the other polygamists.)

And, before my relatives start posting what really happened to Maria Ann, I don't want to know because my version is best. She turned thirty, realized she hated Utah, raged at her parents for making her drag that damn handcart across the plains, grieved the dolls she left behind, and decided to find her own tribe off in California. There, she had passionate affairs with brown-skinned men, but did not let them stay the night. She managed her own money, spent as much of it as she wanted on dolls, ate nothing but desserts, swore loudly and profanely to a God who loved her for her wildness and disrespect, and she lived happily ever after.

*Apparently, Maria Ann did not marry a polygamist, but a man who later deserted her, leaving her with a houseful of kids, and remarried. And I'm not sure about California. Doesn't matter. My version is still better.

Residue From Past Lives

Once, during a visit predominated by discussions of illness, injury, and aging, a Mormon aunt of mine said, "Won't it be nice after the Resurrection, when our bodies are perfect?" A strained silence followed. I think my aunt realized from my mom's stunned expression that she didn't believe in the Resurrection of their childhood faith. What stunned my mom--as she told me later--was that she hadn't known this before. As she said to me later, "Wasn't the fact that I left the Mormon church a clue that maybe I no longer believed in it?"

(The only time I've seen her more speechless was when she realized an adult nephew had no idea she wasn't an active and faithful Mormon. I guess his parents hadn't filled him in on Aunt Linda the Heretic, which is why googling one's realatives is a good idea, but I digress.)

Anyway, amid that strained silence, I quipped "We Sillitoes don't resurrect. We reincarnate." Everyone laughed, and someone, thankfully, changed the subject.

Reincarnation is the only afterlife that makes sense to me, though I've decided maybe it's optional and not all souls opt in. After all, it seems just as wrong for me to impose my afterlife on other people as it is for them to impose their afterlife on me.

One reason I believe in reincarnation is....well, my phobias. The two things I have always feared most are drowning and being set on fire. When I got older, I realized these were common fates for witches and heretics. Coincidence? I don't think so. (I'm also claustrophobic, but I chalk that up to my ancestors who were miners. After you've witnessed a cave-in or two, I figure, claustrophobia gets hard-wired into the DNA.)

Another phobia? Trains, specifically box cars. My mom tried to blame that on her making me watch a lot of movies about the Holocaust, but I've been afraid of box cars as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, in a car, watching a train pass, I didn't count cars. I just wondered why all my instincts were screaming "Danger, run!" I figured it out, though, the first time I watched a movie about the Holocaust. As the Nazis started herding people into box cars, filling them until there was barely room to stand, then nailed the box cars shut, and sent them off to Auschwitz, I understood not only my fear of trains, but also my wariness of showering, particularly in groups.

My mom believed me, but also thought that was a lifetime we didn't share. Until we saw "War and Rememberance." Now, you need to know that my mom believed understanding and illuminating evil
was part of her soul work, both in this life and in past lives. She had studied all kinds of horrors from serial killers to pedophiles to the Holocaust to 9/11. Consequently, she had very thick skin. Still, as "War and Rememberance" reached a scene where a character entered the gas chamber, my mom turned gray and asked me to pause it. She took a few deep breaths, then reached for some chocolate.

I said, "It was the praying amid the screaming that got you, wasn't it?"

She nodded and admitted maybe we'd shared that life, too.

Once, during what seemed to be a random conversation about various countries, I said, "I don't like Spain. It creeps me out."

"Me, too," Mom said. She thought about it, then said, "Of course, our Incan life was pretty good until the Spanish conquistadors showed up."

"Not to mention the Inquisition,"  I reminded her.

Mom shuddered. "Now that was a particularly bad life."

"Ok," I said. as if ticking off an imaginary list. "No vacations to Spain for us."

Who's Afraid of Barack Obama?

Disclaimer: before I get accused of saying something I didn't, I don't believe everyone has to support Barack Obama. I also don't believe anyone who disagrees with or doesn't vote for Obama is racist. Now on with the blog...

Every once in a while, something happens that I literally can't believe and I start looking around for the hidden camera. One of those was when I learned of the whole birther bit. I knew as a presidential candidate, Barack Obama would have to deal with some misconceptions. I figured people would think he was a Muslim, but I figured after enough times of him stating that he was a Christian, people would believe him. (Personally, had he been Muslim, or Catholic, or Buddhist, or--gasp--a non-believer, I would have been just as strong of a supporter. From the moment, I saw him take the stage in 2004, I realized that he had the potential to be an incredibly powerful leader.)

I knew there would be other criticism. The Socialist claim, for instance, hits a lot of liberals who want to provide services to all Americans. (Anyone else love the part of the London Olympics Opening Ceremonies that was a tribute to national health care?) "Tax and spend" accusations always go with that. Being anti-war is always argued as soft on defense. (Tell that to Osama Bin Laden.)

Most of all, I've never believed this idea that Americans--then or now--are color-blind. I knew that the fact that he was African-American would be a factor. (Really, I think of him as biracial because I like to claim him. I mean, I have family from Nebraska, he has family from Kansas, we could be cousins. But he identifies himself as African-American and I respect that.) But I also believed that as America got to know him, they would become comfortable with him, whether they voted for him or not. 

I believed they would see that he was a good person; someone raised by a single mother and his grandparents, who went to great schools on scholarships and student loans, and spent years and traveled thousands of miles to understand his absent father. This was an eloquent, introspective man who loved both sides of his complicated and global family. He married an amazing woman and treated her well. He went out of his way to be a devoted father to his daughters--the kind of father he hadn't had. This was someone who took a thankless and poorly-funded job to help build his community, then went on to teach Constitutional law--as in the founding law of this country.

I knew he would have to prove he could carry white rural American votes, and, man, did he prove that by winning the Iowa caucuses. I mean, John Edwards had practically lived in Iowa for years, and Obama still won it. Throughout the campaign--which was not all victories--I watched Barack Obama surmount one obstacle after another. I watched him win and I laughed and wept with joy. Seriously, joy.

Of all the challenges, I thought he'd face, I never thought anyone would question the legitimacy of his birth certificate. Or keep their kids home from school to prevent them from hearing his message. Or accuse him of being a pawn in some elaborate conspiracy to bring Islamic law to America.

Today, I had two of those hidden camera moments, one when I learned the idea that he'd turn the country over to the United Nations, and even more when I saw a commercial for a movie based on a book about Barack Obama's rage and I almost fell out of my chair. Barack Obama's rage? Um, there are a lot of Americans full of rage. Sometimes I'm even one of them. But rage is not an emotion I have ever seen close to being in Barack Obama's writing, speeches, or being. Even when he has led the nation in mourning, including a massacre intended to assassinate a member of Congress, I didn't see rage in him.

Maybe it's me, but when I hear "Barack Obama's rage" that means one thing: watch out for the angry black man. There might as well be a picture of him in a Black Panther get-up carrying an Uzi. And that makes me both angry and deeply disappointed.

Tonight I will say the same prayer I've said every night since I heard he was considering a run in 2004: "God bless Barack Obama and his family. Keep them safe. Give them strength. And let him win."

Allison, Joan and Grace

Not surprisingly, I love t.v. shows where a character sees beings other people don't. (But only if they really do. Shows, movies, or books about fake psychics who con people absolutely infuriate me.)

I was a Medium fan from the first episode. As portrayed by Patricia Arquette, Allison DuBois is very normal. She's married, works for the D.A. in Phoenix, and has three daughters to get fed, to school, back from school, fed again, and to bed. Plus, she has dead people who show up with messages. Most are victims of crimes who want help, though Allison's dead father-in-law feels free to pop in from time to time, even if Allison is in the shower. Her daughters have their own intuitive gifts, which allow them to pick up the crayon they want without looking (actually a deleted scene from the pilot, but included on the DVD set) to knowing exactly how many marbles are in a jar in a class project to occasionally predicting the stock market. Through it all, husband/father Joe Dubois, an aerospace engineer, tries to find reason among the unreasonable and maybe get a full night's sleep. Totally normal stuff, at least from my perspective.

Joan of Arcadia is a little more out there. In fact, I didn't watch it when it first aired because I thought it would be really Christian. Turns out, it so isn't. Joan is a perfectly normal teenager in a non-religious household. Her mother is somewhat ambivalent about her Catholic roots. Her agnostic father borders on bitterness toward it. Yet, one day God starts talking to Joan. The show's theme song is that '90s classic "What If God Was One Of Us" and God appears in many forms throughout the series. My favorite is goth teenager God, though I also love when God shows up as a little girl on a playground. Naturally, Joan tries to ignore God, thinks she's going crazy, and finally believes the way all belief happens...when there's simply no other explanation.

Not that Joan leaps into unyielding obedience. She does plenty of questioning, which God permits, but never answers. And, you know how asking a teenager to set the table is a chore? Uh, yeah. But when she relents and acts on faith, she gets a glimpse of  those famous mysterious ways. (You know, like the U2 song.)  Add to all this, one of the most realistic family and high school experiences on t.v. Sadly, Joan of Arcadia only ran two seasons and ended on a cliffhanger (though my money is totally on Joan in that one.)

And then there's Saving Grace. Holly Hunter is Detective Grace Hanadarko, Oklahoma City Police. When she isn't solving crimes and catching bad guys--which she does, as everything else, wholeheartedly--she's getting drunk, having sex with various men, breaking regulations, flashing her neighbor, lying to everyone, and defying authority. She adores her nephew, Clay, spoils her bulldog, Gus, and would walk through fire for her best friend, Rhetta.

One night, in a moment of crisis, she cries "God, help me," and winds up with a "last chance" angel named Earl. Tobacco-chewing and t-shirt-wearing Earl is as stubborn as Grace and they wrestle (literally) for a few episodes before Grace comes close to accepting that she's stuck with him. What she's even less thrilled about is Earl trying to lead her back to God and the work she is meant to do. 

I love so many things about this show: the way Grace empathizes with victims of crime and goes to any length to get them justice; the way Grace and her partners squabble, pull pranks on each other, but always back each other up; the way Rhetta and Grace speak in the shorthand of life-long friendship; the way Grace loves Clay and Gus; the way she uses a call for a "double homicide" as a standard excuse to get out of dreaded family occasions; and the way each episode swings wildly from hilarious to tragic to miraculous, in ways that are connected and random. Kind of like life.

Most of all, I love the relationship Grace has with Earl. He shows up with orders from "the boss" but also stays for pizza, beer, and a movie. He tells her the truth, even when she doesn't want to hear it, and even loses his temper a time or two, but he always comes back. And when life is too much, and she crumbles, he's there not just to catch her, but hold her tightly. Earl's love for Grace is sometimes described as paternal, but it's more than that. It's agape--a Gandhian term for loving someone simply because of not just who they are, but that they are...that they exist as you exist, as both creations and reflections of God. And the fact that a television show can show all this dazzles me.

Opinions Are Like.......Annoying

(Ok, so maybe that's not the real quote, but we'll go with it.)

One of the things that first really annoyed me about Facebook (and also had me thinking I'd never blog) was that people couldn't seem to tell when I was asking for opinions and when I wasn't. It really isn't that hard as when I want opinions, I generally say in my status "What's your opinion on..." or "Anyone have any advice about...." On the occasions that my request has to do with how to get cat hair and/or chocolate out of some high-tech equipment, I tend to include a "help, help, help!" Seems pretty clear to me. 

Other times, I'm just saying something, and everyone offers their opinions and it makes me want to smack them. On the other hand, I realize that I probably offer my opinion on subjects it's not wanted, and I'm trying to break that habit. The truth is most of the time what people want is validation and/or support, not opinions and/or advice. They want to say "I hate my boss the bozo" and not get posts on how to get along with the bozo or hear that they should try to empathize with the bozo or even be told that they really shouldn't post something like that on Facebook (which you shouldn't...in my opinion. And I don't even have a boss. No, wait, I do have a boss, and she's a cat with very strong opinions.)

As some may have noticed, I've even started saying, "I don't want your opinion"--especially if it has to do with anti-depressants. Or President Obama. Or reasons why someone using a computer should not eat chocolate at it and also should not let a cat sleep on it. (Um, yeah. You tell her she can't sleep on something, but first, make sure you're current on your shots. )

Of course, there are also people who say they want your opinion, but they really don't and they should work on that because--in my opinion--that's pretty passive-aggressive, not to mention annoying. 

And, yes, I realize opinions and advice are two slightly different things. For instance, I don't want your opinion on the font I'm writing in because I already have my opinion and I hate it. But even when I do all the things I can think of to change it, it still looks the same, and that's also annoying.

Any advice?

You Again?

That's what I said recently when, after being on top of the world, and loving my life, it all fell apart and I thought...ok, what happened...and then I realized my anti-depressants needed to be adjusted. And I said, "Oh, you again?" To be honest, I kind of hoped I was done with this, which is silly since depression is as chronic as...well, my chronic fatigue syndrome (which is correctly called myalgic encephalytis, but I digress.) 

(A word to those who don't believe in anti-depressants or think something else might help me: keep it to yourself. I've been down this path enough to know what works for me. I reserve the right to ignore and even delete comments about something else I could try.)

The medical term for it is tachyphylaxis. It's more commonly known as "the poop-out effect" or when the meds just stop working. In a way, realizing I'm there again is a relief. It means maybe I don't hate everything in my life or need to make drastic changes. (As my mother's daughter, I am inclined to make what appear to others to be sudden, impulsive changes--everything from moving all the furniture around to moving to another state where I know no one. But those kinds of changes are best made when one's chemicals are balanced and one's vision is clear.) Instead, my mantra becomes "It's the meds....it's just the meds..." and I remind myself that I have an excellent doctor who, if managing anti-depressants were an Olympic sport, would be the ten time reigning gold medalist. Also, while I won't get all the way back to being me fast, I always respond quickly, seeing enough improvement to give me hope. And I've never had side-effects to anti-depressants. So now it's about waiting it out.

And being a little unbalanced is not without its benefits.....like the chance to create crazy and slightly disturbing art. You know, there are all these artists and writers who really could have benefited from anti-depressants. Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Sylvia Plath all come to mind. Critics debate if they had been correctly medicated, would their art have been as good? Uh, yeah. Because they too, would have had times when said meds were not working correctly, and would have given them plenty of opportunity to be dark and disturbing. They just might have gotten to live happier lives the rest of the time.

One of the consequences of my intuitive skills is that I have no fear of death. Zilch. Nada. In fact, I kind of look forward to it. (This does not mean I'm suicidal. I'm not. Stop freaking out, family.) I just like the idea that once I'm done learning the lessons of this life--and I really intend to learn them so I can take on new lessons in my next incarnation because...I'm sick of these--I get to go home and rest, reunite and contemplate, before doing something insane like coming back to this planet to learn some more. 

Those who know me might be surprised to know how often I play songs that talk about religion. The key is they're bluesy spirituals by people like Jim Byrnes and Eva Cassidy, who know a little something about life and pain. Today, as I was listening to Jim Byrnes croon "Lay Me Down, Sweet Jesus"--I told you you'd be surprised--I was struck by the image of finding some nice trees--aspen or birch maybe--and lying down underneath them and just letting go...which is what I really intend to do when I'm done with this life. 

When I was a kid, I remember watching "I Will Fight No Move Forever" about Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. At one point, the Nez Perce are on a grueling hike, trying to get away from the white soldiers, and some of the elders decide to stay behind. My mom explained to me that it was an Indian thing (though really I've read about it in many cultures.) That people just decide they're done, and go off in the wilderness, and wait to die, and it's not awful because they just know how to let go. At the time, it freaked me out. Now, having fought tooth and nail to stay alive (which I frequently remind myself of when my meds are bad) I seriously believe that I could die just by making the choice. In fact, I think that's what my mom did. Physically, her aorta tore, and not for the first time. Spiritually, I think she thought "Ok, I don't want to leave, but I'm done with this life and this battle. Time to move on." And she just let go. Even as my world shattered as I witnessed this, part of me was impressed and proud that she died just the way she always said she wanted to: here one second and there the next. 

As for me, I guess I'm fighting still, off to the doctor to switch from one med to another. In a couple of weeks, I don't hate my life. In a few months, maybe I'll look in the mirror and see myself, sane, and balanced, and I'll say, "Oh, good. You again." Just wanted to let you know what was up, but don't worry.....unless, of course, you see me lying down beneath some trees.

The Peanut Gallery

The only scene I liked in the movie Practical Magic was when Sandra Bullock came out as a witch. (I figure that doesn't count as a spoiler since it was in the previews.) As for the rest of the movie, it was so completely opposite the book, which I loved, that I wish I hadn't seen it. But Sandra Bullock having to relent and say "I'm a witch" resonated with me.

Like what's-her-name who ran for office, I am not a witch. I'm an intuitive. (I prefer that to psychic because psychics are often portrayed as frauds and con artists. Also, too many people confuse psychic with all-knowing.) My intuition takes many forms and heavily influences my life. It is the sense I trust most. It also makes life complicated. Plenty of people don't believe in this stuff, which is fine because I may not believe in their stuff. Also, it can be intimidating because people think I can look at them and read their minds, which I can't, and even if I could, I wouldn't because it's unethical and, quite frankly, I have better things to do. Another challenge is that sometimes I make choices that make no sense even to me and I do them simply because the Peanut Gallery tells me to and I have learned to trust them.

This is how Wikipedia defines a peanut gallery: an audience that heckles the performer. The term originated in the days of vaudeville as a nickname for the cheapest (and ostensibly rowdiest) seats in the theater; the least expensive snack served at the theater would often be peanuts, which the patrons would sometimes throw at the performers on stage to show their disapproval. 

My habit of referring to the energies around me as the Peanut Gallery comes from a time when I was so sick that the walls between the worlds were incredibly thin and I was getting too much feedback from the other side. (I think I was trying to choose fabric or something.) Frustrated, I snapped, "No comments from the Peanut Gallery" and the name stuck. Some are guides, some are loved ones who have passed on. Some members of the Peanut Gallery appear to be permanent, others are with me for a time, and then move on. I cherish their support, ask frequently for their help, and almost always take their advice....and when I don't, I wish I had. 

Most of the time, I just sense them in my waking hours, but sometimes they send me messages in dreams. One member is an Australian aborigine. I'm still trying to get to know him. He's very reticent and I'm not allowed to tell his name. I'm quite sure, though, he was the one who sent me a recent dream. In it, I was judging a swimming race, which was strange as I don't swim and have no wish to hang around pools with a stopwatch. Nevertheless, there I was. I noticed that, along with the swimmers, there was a crocodile in the pool. I thought this was a very bad idea. In fact, I could practically see a red light flashing "danger." No one else seemed concerned. One person even said, "Yeah, we lose a swimmer now and then" in a rather matter-of-fact way. I woke up from the dream and knew it was a warning. Somewhere in my life, a circumstance would emerge, which other people would see as benign, but was really a threat. Within 48 hours, that "crocodile" surfaced, I recognized it, and knew how to handle it.

And then I thanked the Peanut Gallery.

Orientation

I've always said the last thing I needed was a blog. Sometimes, though, I feel like I'm screaming in the wilderness, rarely heard, and even more rarely understood. See, I'm an INFJ. If that doesn't mean anything to you, it's part of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. I learned about this way of looking at personalities when I was a teenager and I fell in love with it because it gave me a way of understanding myself and the people around me.

I could explain what an INFJ is, but this person did it better, so just read this: http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html

By the way, me providing a link to an already written explanation, saving my energy for other things, well, it's very INFJ of me. Now, if you peruse the INFJ profile closely, you may have noticed I am in the 1%. (No, sadly, not that 1%.) Imagine if 99% of the population thought differently than you did. You might feel a little misunderstood, too.

Also, I refer you to the INFJ profile to prove it is not my fault that I have a messy desk. Actually, I have two, my messy computer desk, and my messy art desk, which is contained within my studio, also known as The Avalanche. No, I don't have any pictures of it. See, we INFJs don't believe in pictures. Well, I don't know that for sure, but I suspect we don't. I know I don't. Whenever someone asks me for a picture of my studio, me, my cat, etc., my response is "Use your imagination."

Imagination is a great thing. It can save you a lot of energy. For instance, sometimes I think about organizing my messy desk and I just imagine it organized. I then realize that the image of an organized desk creeps me out.....kind of the way markers/paints/crayons anything else arranged in rainbow order creeps me out. (When I buy a new set of markers/paints/crayons the first thing I do is take them out of rainbow order before I hyperventilate.) Once I've imagined it and viewed the image with horror, I have a reason not to organize and I can do something else. Yay!

We INFJs really like our silence and solitude. If we don't get enough of it, we might stab you with scissors. (I firmly believe Boo Radley of To Kill A Mockingbird was an INFJ.) I am an incredibly social person, but most of my social life is online, and I prefer it that way. A recent trip to an art gathering in Portland, though, reminded me that it's sometimes good to get out of the house. After all, even Boo Radley got out of the house and sat on the porch swing with Scout.

Other things you might have noticed in the INFJ profile, we are very stubborn. Of course, at least according to the profile, we are usually right. This is where we differ from INFPs. (My mom was an INFP so I have great insight into them. INFPs don't care that they are right. Some of them even go to the extraordinary length of believing there is no "right"--that maybe several different viewpoints can be "right." That's about as far as she and I would get into that conversation. Too much further and my brain might have exploded.) In other words, we INFJs know we are right and really care that we are right and get really pissed off when other people don't realize we're right....and that happens a lot since we're only 1% of the population.


Did you catch the part about INFJs and how their intuition borders on being psychic? Uh, yeah. More on that later. As it is, I have already revealed enough for one day and need to return to my silence and solitude.

Oh, and yes, I realize there are no nifty graphics or anything on this blog. I reserve the right to add them (or not) in the future. Until then, use your imagination.