Today

Today at work: Can’t focus, my mind is working overtime and needs some fire for all the fuel it has, but all I’ve got to do is some brainless document correcting. Sitting at a grey desk in the corner of a huge room, I glare at a computer screen under florescent lights. A tiny space heater grumbles at my feet. They keep it around 64 in this internal department of offices, beyond a warehouse and through halls, behind doors, like an inner sanctum of air conditioning. Outside it’s pushing 90 and humid as hell from all the rain we’ve had.

By the time 2PM stumbles up, I feel like I might be going a little crazy with that walls-closing-in sensation. I text scramblingly to my husband, a couple friends, with answers enough but not connecting in the way I need to this wire in my mind that seems to be shorted and sparking out its energy into cold air.

Facebook: a terrible pit of deception, artificial socialization. I don’t have a blinking curser over my head as I walk outside from my apartment, making sure everyone knows “Shannon T Greene is taking the trash to the compactor and taking the dog to pee.” If you ask me what music I like, I won’t be able to pull out a picture of the band. And precious few of us ever really look as good as we do in our profile pictures.

But, today is my last day of work for the whole month of June. Next week we make last preparations for our trip, then on Monday June 14th Daniel and I catch a plane to Dublin! I’m borrowing my mom’s camera, a very nice one, much nicer than my little Coolpix. Only the best for the Emerald Isle!

Rejecting Rejection

Today, I haven’t done much in the way of productive thinking. Productive thought denoting, in my mind, the stuff of creative process – imagining scenes, telling myself bits of story. What I have been doing is my job, which I do not think of as my work. I’ve been writing and revising training documents for a giant pharmaceuticals company, for which they pay me enough money to significantly contribute to my and my husband’s financial cares and entertainment whims. Earphones in and music in my head, I have been getting along pretty well for a day at work. The trick is not to think about any one thing for very long, especially the fact that it is 1:03PM and you can’t leave your desk until 4:30PM.

I got a rejection email from Poetry Magazine the other day. I hadn’t realized that, until I’d received the email, I’d been partially hopeful the powers that be at Poetry Mag would accept my poem and publish it among the other, much more prolific, poets within its pages. This was a foolhardy scrap to leave wandering around in my mind unchecked, because I was definitely more disappointed when I read their (very polite) rejection than I had expected.

Rejection letters/emails can’t mean anything to a writer or any kind of artist. I think, for a couple of days, I let the rejection from Poetry Magazine get me down about my work, and that can destroy you as an artist. Think about it. If you want to be a published writer you must send your writing in to be judged by whatever editors or authorities are in charge, and you will most definitely be rejected – at some point, if not most points. You can’t care. You have to be the end-all on your own work and you have to believe it’s worth something. If you don’t believe that, you have to stop creating because if your work isn’t worth something to you, it is never going to mean anything to anyone else. (Well, it will mean something to your mom.)

I was browsing the Writer’s Almanac for today, and read about the author Barbara Pym, who would have celebrated her 97th birthday today if she hadn’t have died in 1980. She started out looking to publish her first novel, Some Tame Gazelle, but it was rejected by a couple publishers. After some time, in 1950, she managed to get it published, and five more novels after that. In 1963, however, she sent her publisher a novel she had just written, which her publisher rejected, claiming that her style of writing was outdated. Then, 16 years later when it seamed the only one besides her who believed in her work was the poet Phillip Larkin:

“In the January 21, 1977 edition of the Times Literary Supplement, writers and scholars were asked to nominate the "most underrated writer of the century." Pym was the only living writer who got two nominations — one from Larkin and one from biographer and scholar Lord David Cecil. And suddenly, she was famous. In the next three years, she published two novels, she was the subject of a BBC program, and Quartet in Autumn (1977), which had been rejected the year before, was nominated for the Booker Prize. Her early novels came back into print, she was published in the United States, and her work was translated into many other languages. But she had cancer, and she died just three years later in 1980.” (Writer’s Almanac)

As I read this section, I smiled to myself and chuckled under my breath at the computer screen. Barbara Pym pretty much got famous after that Times Literary Supplement edition not because her work had changed or gotten better, but because some respected and no-doubt-respectable author-personages said her writing was good. Thankfully for her and for her readers, she never let rejection stop her from creating and believing in her work.

I for one have never read any of Barbara Pym’s books, but I may pick one up in the future. She’s on “the list” (which, by the way, is dauntingly long, especially given my slow reading pace).

This post will end, for no particular reason, with a silly picture of our greyhound, Nicksie, who has a precious little ribbon tied around her head. My little girl!

Pattern of the Positive

I live a constant life of what I call self-medicating. With a built-up practice of about two years now, I’ve been able to train myself to recognize (most of the time) what kinds of situations and circumstances will trigger a narrowing path of negative thinking and cause me hours, sometimes days, of depression.

My self-medication consists of spaces, both literal and figural in nature. My and my husband’s apartment, for instance, is one of those spaces (though it does the job best when it’s clutter-free). But there are others, like the space in my car on the way home from work, and the quiet plunk of water echoing off walls during a bath. This blog is one of those spaces, as is writing in general; also, walks with my husband in the evening are spaces of a sort. And although the walk spaces are shared, they are shared with my best friend who is a part of me even when I am on my own, so it works. Then there are the more abstract spaces, ones formed mentally and almost spiritually out of habit and survival instinct. The ritual of preparing a cup of tea and the partaking of it is one of these, and a necessary space I keep every day. Then sleep and prayer are perhaps the Great Spaces and the most healing of all.

A couple years back, around the time I began paying marked attention to self-medicating and trying to control how I react to my own emotions, I decided I would go off the antidepressant I was taking. The drug was Lexapro, and I had been on it for about a year though I had taken it previously in 2005 for the first time. I had been warned of the side effects of dropping depression meds cold-turkey, but I had done it that first time with no trouble, and I thought I could probably do it again.

The first few days off the meds seemed fine. But then I started getting these sensations that felt like dulled electrical shocks or zaps in my entire body. I was constantly lethargic, nauseated at certain times of the day, and I even lapsed back into some moments and days of being non-motivated or depressed.

I recalled these things yesterday morning during my daily routine of getting ready for work and listening to Morning Edition on NPR. They did a spot called “Coming Off Antidepressants Can Be Tricky Business”, how it worked for some people and not for others. The spot reminded me of what a tough time I had going off the meds, and that it was definitely not a wise decision to quit abruptly instead of tapering off like doctors recommend, if you must go off.

Thankfully, I had enough will-power…or stubbornness…or enough support around me…or whatever it was that let me just go through with it. I just never wanted antidepressants to become an emotional crutch, but most of all, I wanted to be me without the interference of medicine, however hard that was going to be.

Last night, I talked about the radio spot with my husband, Daniel, and about how thankful I am that I haven’t had another relapse of depression. But then I added that I could never really see that happening now, with all I’ve learned about myself, except maybe in the wake of some awful tragedy. I thought, I don’t know if I trust myself to not go emotionally downward if someone I love died or a natural disaster struck and wiped away all I own and know.

Daniel listened, thought for a moment, and then said, “I don’t think you would go back (into depression) even then. Think of how much you’ve worked at getting to know your feelings, and what you’ve been able to get yourself through.”

And I realized, ultimately, he’s right. I can’t make room for the possibility of more depression. I have to have faith in myself to keep going and learning. And this, in itself, is upholding the pattern of positive thinking, which is the opposite of the pattern that so often is or causes depression.

Self-medication, for me, is largely about spaces. But the point of having those spaces is to fill them with what’s positive to me, things like Saturday morning pancakes, watching the clouds move across the sky, learning new things and reading.

* * *


Last night, Daniel and I drove to my parents’ house, laps laden with the almond shortcake I made and cut strawberries to go with it. It was my baby sister’s twenty-second birthday, just four days before her wedding on Thursday, and we had all decided to celebrate with a cookout. My mom made barbequed ribs that slid off the bone and melted in my mouth, and other southern staples like creamed corn and biscuits and baked beans. Two of my dad’s brothers, Uncle Steve the skinny gray-haired lefty, and Uncle Gary the balding garage owner in a sleeveless shirt, showed up with Uncle Steve’s dog Beebee.

My sister’s best friend and old roommate was up from North Augusta for the party and for the wedding. Vlad, who was born and raised in Romania but stayed with our family while he went to college when I was in my teens, came and brought his girlfriend and her little Chihuahua. And, of course, my mom and dad were there too.

I couldn’t think of anything to get Angela for her birthday. So when I was at the store getting ingredients for strawberry shortcake I just wandered around, thinking something would stand out. I meandered through the housewares section and thought about newlywed house-type gifts, like coffee grinders, throw pillows and waffle makers. They seemed too impersonal for a birthday gift for my sister. I weaved through the crafts section, through the racks of bicycles and baseball bats, and found myself in the toy aisles. It just felt right amid the boxes of games and action figures, like I was coming back home after years of being gone. Then I saw them – canisters of Play-Do with multi-colored lids toppling in stacks.

We used to have Play-Do as kids, but you never lose the desire to create shapes and layer colors with clay as you get older. I tossed ten different colors of the soft clay into my shopping cart, and grabbed something else on the way out through the toys – a Velcro ball game with two catching pads similar to a set that Angela and I played with growing up camping and at the beach.

Just because I wanted to further drive home the half-joke of juvenile gifts, I bought her a Pez dispenser in the shape of Pumba from The Lion King and a glittery gift bag with the Jonas brothers on it.

When I gave it to her, it all had the effect I’d planned: she laughed from the moment she saw the bag until she pulled the last can of Play-do out of the bottom. And I saw in her face that she remembered the childhood connections to each gift just like I did.

I tell this story because it has to do with happiness and nostalgia, which can be closely linked. I tell it because I mean to revel in the wonderful feeling I have when I see my sister smile or hear her laugh. And, I tell it because I want to show that happiness can be planned. I think that lots of people believe that happiness is a product, just what happens as a result of something like a nice compliment or a fun day with someone you love. But it’s just not, and we can know that because sometimes we wait on happiness after things that should bring it to us, and it doesn’t come.

Sometimes, you have to mean to be happy. If you aim at joy, you will hit it more likely than not because you are actively involved in expecting it. Someone once told me – and I think that someone was my sister – that if you smile even when you don’t feel like it, just the act will bring on the feeling that usually accompanies a smile. I’ve tried, and it’s worked every time.

* * *

A pattern, by nature of definition, is something that has been organized and created. If it were not controlled by some force, whatever the pattern is made from would just all fall at random. In the pattern of negative thinking we make decisions, whether we are entirely conscious of them or not, to go down instead of up. If we really desire to, we have the ability to take control of that pattern and transform it to be positive, by reacting in a non- self-deprecating, realistic way to each thing we deal with each day. It is possible to create our own world.

And when we have control over so little as human beings, why not decide to be in control of not just our actions, but our reactions?

A Good Life

I'm back - to the Blogosphere and to the real world after an extended weekend in Charleston with Daniel!

If I had been in any sort of lull, had time to myself ever in the months before, May is putting a stop to it. With my husband's and my first anniversary, my sister's wedding and all the events that surround it, and the making-ready for our trip to Ireland in June, I have been a complete creature of preparation, planning, practice, bridal shower and - only a little - stressing. But not that much of the last one. They are happy things, these events - memory-makers and the stuff of nostalgia. But now and then I have to slow the clicking frames in my mind and see clearly, even smell and touch, the lovely things and moments in what rushes by. If I don't, this life will not have been worth even the lifting of the chest for breath.

Sometimes I have thought that what we are all really pursuing here on our planet is happiness. Lots of people would argue and say, no, success is what people want, or love, or freedom. But what are those things without happiness, without that secretive, beautiful thing called joy? Nothing. At least not to me. Sure, those things can create happiness and joy, but not for everyone.

Today at work, my boss stopped by my desk on the way to his office. "How was your weekend?" he asked. Of course, he was referring to my anniversary trip for which I had taken Friday off last week.

I beamed, I'm sure, and said, "It was so nice," and paused a moment. Then I added, "I just wish it didn't have to end."

My boss shifted on his feet a little and replied through a sarcastic grin, "All good things come to an end, Shannon."

I smiled back at his jest and nodded, an olive leaf. But when he walked away to his office I sat replaying his statement in my head and the tinge of seriousness in his voice when he said it. In times before, I have realized by the reactions and comments of others in the office - all people at least eight years my senior - that they think I'm a young grasshopper with many life lessons yet to learn. My boss counts as one of the top holders of this opinion, making sure most he gives me a good impression of how much your life is not yours anymore when you have children, and generally giving off "It must be nice for you...," and "Enjoy it while you can...," vibes.

Several moments after I had been rolling the pebble of his statement, "All good things must come to an end," around in my mind, I realized I heartily disagree with him. I even googled the phrase. I found a website called The Phrase Finder, which says that the phrase dates back all the way to the 14th century and the time of Chaucer, where it originated as the English proverb, "All things must come to an end." The "good" wasn't added until much later. But to me, without the "good", it is a completely different statement.

Sure, all things - moments, feelings, journeys, lines at the grocery store, conversations...lives - must end. It's a fact (that is unless you want to get theoretical and mathematical about it). But even if that thing is a good thing, take, for instance, an anniversary weekend in Charleston, it may end but that doesn't mean more good things shouldn't or can't follow. The attitude I sensed in my boss was one of, "Your life may be nice right now, but you just wait." Well, I'm waiting, but I'm waiting with a purpose, being that whatever my life holds for me and those I love, I refuse to feel that I am always waiting on things to get worse.

I'm a firm believer in the idea that a person's perspective will create his or her world. A person can lose everything she owns, be left completely alone having lost everyone she loves, or be in the center of a tornado and still note the beauty of life and value its every fiber. On the other side of the coin is the person who has everything he could want, be blessed with loved ones and still find things to make him miserable. I'm not saying sadness or anger or even depression are not parts of life that we all have. But we can pull ourselves up and focus on what's good and lovely in the world.

I say all this because of my boss, because my life is boring many days. I have lost loved ones, and I have lost respect where I desired to keep it. But I carry on. I look at the earth - the sky, the greens of the trees and the many deep colors and dimensions around me and know that the same life force holds and balances it all - including me. And because I am blessed with true love and a sound mind, I do not just carry on, I hunger for more.

So Tom (my boss): I don't care if I have eleven children just like my grandma did on my father's side - I will allow them to bring me all the joy I can receive from them. I will continue to love my husband above anyone else and desire him above all else.

And I will not let the Good end in me, as long as I breathe.

Street Cool and Steampunk

I've been reading and writing a good bit lately. Writing a short story and rolling ideas around in my hands, seeing what they feel like. But, I do not want to neglect this more lucid, revelatory outlet of expression, my blog.

Two things:

1. I am at a coffeeshop after having a long run in the park with a new friend. Earlier, as I neared the entrance to the coffee establishment I crossed the path of two, we'll say, urban gentlemen. They had the dark baggy clothing that looks to me like a toddler playing dress-up in his big brother's closet. They had pristinely groomed patches of hair on their chins and shiny stones in their ears. And one of them was carrying an iPod dock complete with iPod, completely turned on and completely playing some illin' beats matching the rhythm of their swagger. What is this, the early 90's? It's socially strange to have music playing to your walk, like you're in some Chris Tucker movie and everything's cool because your ego's being bolstered by you thinking people are watching how awesome you look.

**Note: Overheard a table conversation. You only need to know what one of them was saying. "Oh so are you a nurse? Are you in nursing school? Oh, you're a doctor!" Nice work.

2. I have pleasantly, officially discovered the subgenre/subculture/style called "steampunk". If you've been into steampunk forever and think it's crazy I only just found out about this, hold on a minute. I've been reading books, watching movies and enjoying things that could be called steampunk for, well, my whole life. I only just discovered there was a specific name for it. And now that I can focally identify and define this sublimely intriguing world of art, fashion and literature, I just can't stop going, "Ooo, that's steampunk," in my mind to things that fall into this subcategory. Like I said, lots of books and entertainment I've enjoyed can be acurately called steampunk. The first one that came to mind was Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass and the His Dark Materials trilogy. Then, and I know it doesn't fully qualify, but I thought of the movie Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome with Mel Gibson. I love this post-apocalypse creation not only for the story itself, but for its interesting blending of past and future aesthetics.

And now I can buy that knee-length tight leather vest I've been eyeing for years at the local Renaissance festival and not feel like I'd look like a renny (new term for you? Look it up) when I wear it. It's definitely something Lyra would have worn on the way to find Lord Asriel in the North.



That's all for now....Now, go have an adventure sometime in the coming week! Even a small one, like taking a walk to a new neighborhood, or going to work a different way than the day before. Those things help life seem a little more interesting, and they are good for happiness too.