When anxiety/depression sets in I find the first thing to go, is the shower. Not hygiene per say. There can of course still be cleanliness without a spout of waterfall caving in on you—-no matter what the developed world says.
Podcasts are my saving grace. Interviews. Sermons. Books. As much a music lover I am, believe me if you dare, but I find it to worsen my anxiety and claustrophobia. Just like that. In the car. In the home. The world simply closes in. And so, podcasts. Audiobooks. Talk radio. Sometimes silence. And yet this silence too, I have found, mustn’t invade the shower space for it too becomes much too loud, leaving no escape.
And so, podcasts. My favorite? My interest knows no bounds, and so Mother Angelica, Project Life Mastery, Tim Ferris (the king of interview, methinks) and almost every author interview on New Book Series, which spans an academic shmorgeboard of genres. Lamar Burton? He reads amazing short fiction, mostly sci fi which is not my favorite pizza and yet isn’t that the grandest thing about podcasts? Something for everyone even when you think it’s not for you. A former co worker of mine listened to one about unsolved serial killer cases.
The point is I have found a way to keep up a decent hygiene routine. More importantly, I have found a way to cope. Without a harmful addiction or self deprecating antidote. I have realized what is wrong, found a solution, and reaped the reward of recovering a sense of normalcy in my life.
We all have things in our life that have or do cause some level of depression or anxiety on any scale. Whether we notice or not, there are always coping mechanisms in use. As long as they are not self-destructive or harmful to you or others, rejoice that you have discovered your own path towards healing.
My husband likes to wind down his evenings flopped in a leather recliner, a large, brown dog strategically planted across his lap, watching The Voice or some series or movie we’ve both agreed on; or not. Tonight, it’s Sanford and Son. It is not a show I am familiar with and can’t tell if I am hesitant to watch it because it is a sitcom from the golden era of sitcoms or because I have taken up the assumption it is cheesy. We are on episode 2 and at this point, the only thing I am enjoying is the air of a theater performance and the fact it was produced by Norman Lear.
The large brown dog 🙂
I once watched Maude salaciously, another of Lear’s grand ideas, with Bea Aurthur and her flowing silky whimsical no-crap taken demeanor like it was candy for my soul. Because it kind of was. I especially appreciated her firmness and surety of herself; firm, something I have never been, surety of myself, something I have never possessed. During this time was discovered the PBS documentary, Norman Lear, Just Another Version of You. I found it to be equal parts beautiful and inspiring. And I realized how interesting it is how one show, one film, book, song, idea, leads to another and another, like a hopscotch game. This happened recently, thanks to glorious Netflix recommendations, removing from us, like Amazon, the grandness of discovery; as in youth encyclopedias, bibliographies, and dictionaries, which once housed (and for some of us still do) rabbit holes the size of football stadiums, furnishing us with information we didn’t know we needed. But I digress.
I began The Cuba Libre Story, a docuseries, which I had originally thought to be a simple documentary until it occurred to me I was halfway into the 4th episode and became curious as to how many there were; there were 8 and I was now invested. (You can read a short review of mine on Letterboxd here) During this, I somehow gathered the interest of watching, The Last Thing He Wanted, hidden at the end of a heinously long list of films to watch on Netflix. Perhaps it was because I had just watched, The Center Will Not Hold for the second time – a marvelous documentary on the collected life and work of Joan Didion- and borrowed Joan Didion’s book of collected works, We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live, from the library, which the large brown dog promptly seized and dismantled. I now owe the library $30.00. (The Dee Rees directed film, The Last Thing He Wanted, by the way, is not at all as bad as the critics would have you believe. Pay attention. Eat soft snacks. Watch more than once. It will come together.
Once these were watched, it was on to Cuba and the Cameraman, Kill the Messenger, and finally, The Silence of Others. Now, I have typically been one very interested in global activities. I tend to find interest in various places on rotation, for example, Highschool and Under the Tuscan Sun, led to studies of Italy, early 20’s, to France. From there, my interest grew to the middle east, Afghanistan and Israel specifically. India and Pakistan followed. Africa and the Caribbean islands have been the focus for about the last 2 years, following hearing 2 lovely audiobooks; The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver, The Book of Night Women, by Marlon James. I delved into histories of the Congo and the degradation of a beautiful country and its people by greed, and Jamaica and sugar and all the problems that came with still the same greed there. Central and South America, however, have never been on the radar, and certainly not areas I would ever have considered would be. I have nothing against these unique and underrated lands, but I’m pretty sure my Highschool Spanish class ruined all things pertaining to Central and South America for me. Or, so I thought. I am even considering taking up the language again. I live in a state where it’s probably more beneficial to speak Spanish than it is English, if we’re being honest. Film is entertainment, yet it is also amazing for leading us into similar and dissimilar realms alike, learning the routes of history, daring to trust those routes, and coming out on the other side, hopefully, a braver, more learned and empathetic individual.
[I must express, that the following piece in no way excuses or makes acceptable certain behaviors or actions of individuals. We are not be door mats to sinful behavior in relationships and where there is wrongdoing we must speak up. There are consequences to actions and those must be dealt withappropriately. The purpose for writing this is to encourage more compassion in our daily lives by taking the proverbial step back before responding. ]
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As a Catholic convert, there has been so much more vocalization for encouragement of the gift of mercy towards others than I had ever heard in any Christian denomination I have been affiliated with. And that’s a lot. While I am unclear about why this is, I can say, with sheer conviction, it is biblical and it is hard.
I have always had an affinity for Mother Theresa, and as a 13 year old girl still years from conversion, remember clipping a cartoon from the newspaper following her death; she was walking towards heavens gates, and being welcomed. I wasinspired by her, not because I was religious but because she exuded a love and acceptance I wanted so badly to have. If we had known one another, she would have loved me without condition. Despite the fact I was overweight and quiet-apparently a legitimate reason for kids to make fun of and mock and down right bully another kid in school-I knew she would welcome me. I wanted to be welcomed and I wanted to welcome others. In high school, I was thin and quiet–another lethal combination causing teasing and male teacher gawking — and wanted to drop out to receive my GED. This idea was not entertained by any adult. Instead, I interned at a children’s advocacy center, followed by a missionary trip to New York the summer following 9/11. A life of missionary work was instilled when, during stops to inner city Atlanta and an Appalachian community, I was breathless to see both in a state of poverty I was not even aware existed in the United States.
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Upon our return, I took a Christian spiritual gift test in learning my top 3 gifts were Mercy, Compassion and Teaching. Quite interesting but not surprising. Yes, fellow ex-coworker, I do love everyone. I do believe that we love because God first loved us. I do agree with Paul when he tells the Corinthians, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” . In all of my day filled with sinful thoughts and actions, yes, I still believe these things and strive every day to possess a portion of this goodness and love. And yes, I believe this even when one is submitted to the consequences of an action. The murder goes to prison. The speeder gets a ticket. The eggs give the dog gas. The soft butter makes cookies flat. Cause and Effect. Love and mercy and compassion and empathy must all still be there for others, even if it is only done through the prayer that says Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
Perhaps if we showed a bit more understanding of any underlying reason for one’s behavior, or a little more inquiry into our own hearts as to why we are so angry and unforgiving, perhaps the peace that would fall upon us would move the mountains between us.
What is this place, they speak of. This fractional aura convincing Nerves to embrace the Chaotic the Marginal the Residual gardens that remain After the pain has Subsided has Retreated has Been made known and Available to the masses when The heart has turned on itself To weep and carry on another day.
I remember watching a film as a young girl, and crying -no, sobbing-on my mothers heart as I watched children, entering a newly desegregated school. They were being yelled at, taunted, and spit on. Through my child’s eyes, I did not understand the logistics and semantics of race; what I did understand was the pain and sadness accrued on a person when they had done absolutely nothing wrong. The absolute wrongness of suffering in all its banal and incomplete forms. The incomprehensible reasons for vomiting evil on others, simply because they were short or wore glasses or had thick thighs or darker or lighter or more yellow skin.
I physically hurt. The aches deep inside were real and the tears were hot.
And there are those who would say, “Do something!”
And yet, beyond the protesting, beyond the speaking out, and other actions for the current moment we find ourselves in now, what is it I shall do?
“…And we will really believe, we will begin to love. And we will love naturally, we will try to do something. First in our own home, next door neighbor in the country we live, in the whole world”.
And so love and its instruction, begins-but does not end, and is by no means completed- at home. On the bookshelves of my childhood stood the works of Asimov, Plato, Plutarch, Gibran, and Buddha. I remember browsing bible histories, Stanley Karnow’s, Vietnam: A History, and William L. Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. I especially remember grabbing a volume as often as I could, of the old set of Britannica Encyclopedias with pencil drawings. My dad shared his love of documentaries and Journey and my mom encouraged everything I wanted to study, without question, and the public library was my playground. They both appreciated people for people, and to treat others with any sort of hate or disdain for any reason, was not tolerated. By their actions and words I learned that yes, people look and behave differently, yet that is what constitutes the human race, and it is glorious.
A trip to the library, at last.
I cannon balled into the Christian faith during my late teens. These teachings filled the holes of why we suffer and scraped into the scabs of the pain I held for the suffering of others. Race “wars” and any passive-aggressive hate should not and can not exist, because if we are to look at one another the way God looks at us as individuals, all we would see is love. We would see children, not unlike ourselves, who make mistakes, have a bad day, run away, leave the good and cling to the bad because sometimes, that is what we are taught. Lessons learned by family and friends, teachers and society, media, and our own self doubt.
I am not unaware of the suffering in the world, past and present, and am a tuned to the summits minorities have reached while still not quite mounting the peak.
But I believe, that just as in my upbringing, the first step in combating any type divide or injustice begins in the home, speaking against hate, pursuing actions of acceptance, and instilling the desire to understand. We must expand our empathy and global views through reading the works of those around the world-their literature and poetry and biographical and historical studies-by studying their art and religion and history, geography, and culture. When we do this, when we open our minds, we increase our capacity to change the world by creating a family and friendship circle who appreciate and love no matter the individual, and thus we spread the love from there.
I was first introduced to the Criterion family in two very close ways. The first was through their Youtube channel, Criterion Collection, where various actors, directors etc. shimmy into the closet to pick and discuss films at short or length to the camera. Ahh. Allow me to recommend, what I feel are the greatest three;
Tim robbins is a complete favorite, stemming from not only ShawshankRedemption, which most are familiar with, but also the quiet storm of a film, The SecretLife of Words, directed by Isabel Coxiet, the dapper lady also responsible for directing, The Bookshop, a high ranking favorite in my collection.
Around the same time, I had found Letterboxed, a social media-ish app for cinephiles to record what they’ve seen, what they want to see, leave reviews, and meet other filmys like themselves. I adore it and have had the pleasure of meeting many like-minded movie affeciondos.
And so, I’ve joined the ranks of the mass streaming service trial dwellers of Criterion Channel junkies via a 14 day trial. The app has been staring me in the face for almost a year but we like to keep our streaming service fees down. We’ve managed to limit ourselves to Disney plus and Starz. Pretty good stuff, I’d say.
But I had the itch, and in the throes of film awe I ventured again to browse. Did they add anything new? Like stalking down the public library , I was in awe of all that was there. Quincey Jones soundtracks. A series titled, “Split Screen”-what was this buffet of gourmet double screen? Film discussions, Scorsese, Fellini, Sydney Pollock, Sydney Poiter, Saturday Matinee–reminiscent and feeling evoking of my mother on the couch watching black and white westerns and Elvis flicks–Double Feature, Directed By, Short + Feature–oh my. And all of this with extra footage, interviews, and other exciting special features attached for a film buffs never-ending cinematic appetite.
Yes, I could no longer avoid the inevitable. I hit that 14 day free trial button like a game of Whac-W-Mole.
I was in.
And so, after filling my wish list and crunching the numbers, I think we shall make it work. At this moment I’m invested in the collection curated by Nellie Killian, Tell Me: Women Filmmakers, Women’s Stories, which alone, has made me grateful for the leap. The introduction’ written description leaves off with an exquisite quote by poet Adrienne Rich, as will I;
“in order to change what is, we need to give speech to what has been, to imagine together what might be.”
I had lovely intentions of typing in “writers when it rains” to my google search engine, just below the daily doodle, and being inundated with famous writers and authors, editors and journalists, handing over their wisdom and inspiration like ice cream on a stick.
They did not.
In fact, almost the entire first page was nothing but article upon article of Luke Combs’ song, “When it Rains it Pours,” and another by Kidd Rock I had never heard, but now really like. There was one article, second to last, which showed some potential; a question posted on Quora entitled, “What are creative ways to describe the rain?“. This was followed by some more Luke Combs observational criticism and then several “related searches” for waterproof notebooks.
What a smorgasbord of brilliant pieces found on my way down the rabbit hole! Like reading an encyclopedia, or dictionary, or phone book. Curiouser and curiouser. And while this may seem a problem to some, I must confess, it is a favorite quirk of mine. Follow the info wherever it goes. And perhaps this is why one of my favorite people has gifted us one of my favorite quotes;
“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
I never did get back to my main search as it became so intriguing, all the songs, and stories, and art that creative minds do create about the lowly, or maybe not so lowly, rain. And that is quite alright with me.
The author’s fathers’ books and eyeglasses. Copyright stellamaudmaurer
My father was an interesting man. I’d always known it, even before my brothers and I were forced to clean out his home in the days following his death. We were much alike, dad and me. There were so many different things in this life that excited and intrigued him and so there were just as many things to be dug through.
The plants, oh the plants! I was the one of us three to take them all because I couldn’t bear to throw them out. None of us were blessed with a green thumb or rising from the dead powers like dad but by golly those plants would die at my place before they died at the brutal side of the road. And some of them have. The less hardy of the bunch have gone to the other side and decomposed into the ground. Their ceramic pots of eclectic colors and designs plucked lovingly from antique stores now stand empty and obsolete. But the others, the mass cane, the aloe, the snake plant, and all the philodendrons, are stubborn mules, carrying on as though he was still their caretaker, still the one speaking life into their veins; and perhaps the others were stubborn in a more subtle, more intricate way, and loved so hard, they just couldn’t bear to be without him.
In the days of scouring through his things, feeling intrusive and awkward at times, playing a game of, “do you want this?”, “only if you don’t”, and deciding when keeping too much was too much, there were small things that interested me about the man and made me laugh. He kept shoelaces. Without any reason or purpose to me, we would find them in all rooms, scattered like confetti or pirates treasure all over the house. Clean, always a match, and always ties in a neat, loose, knot. Perhaps a dozen pairs. White ones. Black ones.
And then there were the twisty ties. And it was the same method as his shoelaces. Found in every room, scattered in drawers, neatly placed together. Like a treasure hunt I searched for these two sacred items. An inner game that excited me whenever I found one of the two crammed in the back of a random drawer filled with every card we had ever given him, or all the eyeglasses it seemed he had ever owned.
We raided the refrigerator and pantry, all taking what the other one would not or could not; the frozen shrimp and peas and assortment of canned beans and corn all divvied up into our respective boxes. Cleaning supplies, dish towels, batteries, candles, incense sticks, matches, lighters, mechanical pencils, post it pads, notebooks, papers, magazines, books, pictures, everything in the world that was Dad, and everything material that told who he was on the outside with a glimpse of the man inside.
The Man inside whom I could speak with forever in person or by phone because his interests were so varied and vast; space, history, botany, health, architecture, computers, all accompanied by a vement passion that, if you weren’t careful, would become contagious. My love of both owning and reading the antique book was born of him, and encouraged all my life. Most of his books now reside on my shelves.
It has been almost one year since his passing. I greet him at the ocean where he lays, whenever we are there. I still find myself reaching to text him a quote or a picture of an old coin I found. I still find myself readying to email a story or article I think he would enjoy reading. And when I am feeling the sting of missing my father the most, I still listen to the interesting voice in his last message, “Happy birthday, Sweetie, I love you”.
I used to write like a mad woman, and it was grand. At night, there was a long road to trod before sleep coaxed me in. Thoughts would continue to creep in and come as a steam train engine crossing the wild and untamed country. Tracks always coming and coming and coming. There was always a notebook and writing utensil of some sort, both easily accessible. In the morning, I was sure to write down my dreams, in a horribly lazy, half asleep moment, sloppily written all over the page.
Then there was school. In the teen years, which should clarify everything. I wrote in the back of Mr. Geography’s class, while he, the football coach, discussed the linguistic and cultural differences of Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan because, we were of course, in the throes of the newly acquired War on Terror. I was a good student, quiet, able to listen with one ear and tune the other into writing page after page in purple ink, the ramblings and ultra important ideals and thoughts of a disillusioned 15 year old girl.
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And then one day, all was lost. The memories of a traumatic childhood reared their dragon ugly head, forcing my mind into silence. I could not write and relive any moment of my day or past of dreams or hope for the future. I had become numb. Years of this nuisance led to the creation of a sluggish mind. Years of medication and therapy and God led me to the realization that why yes, I could write, I could let it out, and that no, it was not really happing again, no matter what my body and emotions thought. I picked up a pen. Reimagined a writing lifestyle that might overtake the life I was currently living. It took awhile.
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Lately, the madness has begun its volumptous return. I once more write anywhere and everywhere and on everything and anything. There are the scraps. The writing and thoughts on the gas receipts, the restaurant napkins, my hand and pants. A pen is always in my hair bun. And I will welcome the madness all day, everyday. And I will trust it, unquestionably.
stellamaudmaurer 