Peeing by the side of the road and rock-bottom moments

Are you overwhelmed? OK, dumb question. It’s more like, “What particular things are overwhelming you just now?”  

Whether it’s family troubles, work pressures, relationship tensions, social strain, the state of the employment market or one’s specific industry, hectic household horrors or the political situation, there are plenty of things barraging us with stress. But it’s interesting to note that while everyone is apparently stressed, some are more stressed than others. 

I came face to face with that recently, while doing some literary research about memoirs. I wrote a memoir some years ago and even got a wonderful literary agent to represent it. She had a successful Manhattan literary practice with some big-name clients, so I was thrilled to sign with her. The way literary agents work is that they help you polish your work and find a publisher, and then they take a 15 percent cut of whatever you make.

Image of peeing outdoors by the intrepid Jennifer Brandel of Flickr.com

In this case, my agent worked on my book for four months—suggesting helpful changes and shopping it to 42 publishers. She said they all responded positively, and some said it was a gripping, amazing manuscript. But they all turned it down with some comment along the lines of, “But this author is completely unknown. We can’t publish a memoir by someone without any public platform.” This included a dozen small presses.  

My agent and I sadly parted ways because she had to work for clients that she could help make money. She never charged me a cent for all that work.  

But she left me with a lot of frustration and a desire to understand the business, so I started reading memoirs—all different kinds of memoirs. There are definitely some good ones out there, though I have to admit that the quality of memoir writing has declined in the past 20 years, in my opinion. There used to be memoirs published simply based on the enjoyment a reader could gain from a skillfully crafted true story. But now, the vast majority of recent memoirs must have some sort of public hook—the author was a bit famous (or wealthy) or they (or their topic) was recently part of a major news story or they have some key expertise about a topic that is in the news or they know someone who is famous, in the news or very wealthy.

Part of my problem is obviously not being in the right place at the right time and not running in the correct circles. My daughter says all I have to do is move to Hollywood. But I also admit that my life is to full to drop everything and crank out a book based on current events in a couple of weeks. Two years ago, had I dropped everything and written about my experiences in Eastern Ukraine, I might have actually stood a chance, though a slim one since I am still officially “a nobody” to the industry. 

What does get a memoir published today is work claiming to be the words of various celebrities. A lot of it is ghost written by professionals and while it isn’t scintillating reading, it’s basically literate. The issue I have with most of the memoirs being published these days isn’t some severe problem with technical quality. It’s the banal focus on the details of celebrity life that repeat again and again in book after book.

I’m not even going to name names, because frankly, these books are so boring they blend together and I don’t want to go back and figure out which book it was by which wealth-born celebrity actress, but one stuck out to me as a quintessential example. A moderately well-known Hollywood actress was telling her life story, including her dreams of acting when she was a teenager in her movie-industry family.  

She described the stresses and perils of teenage angst and self-doubt, the meetings with industry leaders and the nail-biting suspense of waiting for the decisions of casting directors her parents introduced her to. She often spoke to the reader about how to boost one’s own confidence and the need to “just stick to it until you reach your dreams.” Because if she could get through all those trials and tribulations on her road to stardom, surely, anyone can.  

I’ll admit that I would never have gotten that far in this book—research project or no research project—except that I was deep cleaning my house and listening to the audiobook version. I needed something fairly brainless to listen to and the ghost writer did have a pleasantly lilting way with words. But right around the time I was scrubbing my bathtub and had my hands in soap and goo, the book reached its “climax” of plot and tension.  

The actress was involved in last minute negotiations for her first big role and that required driving somewhere that crossed the Sierra Nevada mountains by car. She described this as a perilous journey and went into depth about her stress and last-minute anxieties as they drove. Then she told the driver she needed to find a suitable restroom, and there was some vague discussion of the fact that there was no appropriate place anywhere within many miles. I didn’t really catch whether or not a gas station was unavailable or simply unthinkable.  

But in the end, with the literary fan-fare of high drama, the actress was forced to squat behind a bush and pee on the side of the road. She gushed that she was sure such a thing would never happen to her readers in their struggles for success and assured us that while it was difficult, she did eventually recover. I actually suffered through the rest of the book because I could not quite believe that was the actual plot peak. But it was.  

The plot peak whether in fiction or in a memoir is often the lowest point for the protagonist, rock bottom in terms of reaching a goal or the height of stress. I think about how many people may be experiencing a dark night of the soul this winter. There are families hiding from ICE raids, trying to distract fearful children, or scrambling to make ends meet, to get basic groceries.

There are mother’s grieving still-born or miscarried children who are facing either life-threatening hemorrhages without medical care or legal sanctions or both, on top of their grief. There are young people on the edge of discovering their inner identity who are terrified to share their budding realization with their friends, family, school or counselor because of the negative things they’ve heard about LGBTQ people and now the highest authorities in the land have declared open season on hate.

There are scientists, not just climatologists, battling suicidal ideation because of the devastating reality that everything they’ve meticulously documented over a lifetime career is being tossed in the garbage, and we’re all headed for dystopia-level catastrophe as a result. There are thousands of people who went into public service as a career out of an idealistic belief that a bit of a pay cut compared to the private sector is worth doing work with purpose and heart, who have been summarily dismissed from their jobs or their jobs have ceased to exist overnight.

In my own life, I’ve had a few rock bottom moments over the past several years, so I can’t say that this is the worst moment for me personally. But it is a time of decision making, a turning point that might end up in a memoir as a moment when things reached the breaking point. I’m facing decisions about what I’ll do after I graduate from my MFA program and realizing that if I want to stay in Eastern Oregon and live a life close to the natural environment on my family’s land, I’ll have to accept that a long-standing pattern of bullying and psychological abuse is going to be part of the package. The alternative is striking out on my own to try to forge a completely new career at fifty years old in an economy and literary market that has never been more hostile to independent people pulling themselves up by their creativity straps.

On top of that, I’m watching every structure put in place to level the playing field a bit for people with disabilities be eroded and/or threatened with obliteration. I still remember what it was like not to have health coverage in the United States before Obama, and I have the permanently messed up shoulder to show for it.

Last December, I had surgery on my right eye to preserve my residual vision and it went well, but it did take the spunk out of me for about two weeks. I had scheduled it so that the aftermath would come during the holiday break, so it didn’t interfere with my graduate program. I’ve been so thankful for Medicaid and the access to top eye specialists it’s given me in the last few years. 

The surgeon was gung ho to go to work on the left eye as well, but I asked him to hold off for a school break. But as it turned out, he’s all booked spring break. We were about to decide to postpone it to next fall, because summer isn’t a good season for eye surgeries in general. Then the temporary freeze of Medicaid payment portals hit and the goal of ending Medicaid for people like me was explicitly voiced. A judge has stalled it, so that we still have coverage for the moment, but there’s no telling for how long. I called the clinic back and they said they were already in the process of scheduling my surgery for the middle of spring term. I’ll just have to hope the medical coverage lasts that long and cope with surgery and the high intensity MFA program at the same time. Not a lot of options left. 

The day after that, I got a letter from the insurance company denying coverage for the specialized corneal bandage the doctor had used to shield my eye from excruciating pain after the operation in December. Because it’s a fairly specialized item, it could easily cost upwards of a thousand dollars, more than my monthly income. I’m fighting the decision, of course, but it’s indicative of the times that such a basic thing as a bandage after surgery gets denied and people get threatened with bills that would strip them of the basics of survival. And that’s with Medicaid more-or-less intact.  

The only place I can really breathe deeply these days is on that little bit of land at the north end of the Grande Ronde Valley where I visit every weekend. I take long walks, now with my guide dog Conway, in the pine and fir woods and across the winter-brown ridge tops. It’s a place I can get away from the pressures, the bad news of the world, and increasingly, what feels like surveillance.  

We’ve all heard the stories or experienced that moment where you open your browser or Facebook and get barraged with ads for something you just briefly mentioned to a family member—something fairly obscure and specific that you’ve never actually searched for. There is no doubt that apps are using computer and phone microphones as well as devices for Siri, Alexa and the like to listen in and target ad campaigns based on overheard conversations. At this point, I’ve come to expect it. It’s one of the things I love about the very sketchy cell signal and wifi out at my family’s place. You really can be off-line and out of the eye of AI for a while.

But until now the intrusions seemed restricted to things typed into a search bar, or at most, spoken out loud within range of a microphone. Recently, I had a bizarre experience that challenged this assumption. My sheets got some dirt on them and I decided it was time to wash the whole kit and kaboodle. I stripped the bed and the duvet covers and the pillowcases and threw it all in the washing machine. Then I opened Facebook to check on a couple of groups while I waited. And there was a string of six different ads for new sheets and new duvet covers. The ads continued for two days.

I usually don’t get ads for sheets and duvet covers. Given my search and Amazon shopping histories I get stuff about camping, dogs, keto diets and weirdly medieval-looking wardrobe options. Most of the clothing ads actually aren’t even real. When I’ve tried to connect to a shop through those ads I’ve been bounced into regular clothing retailers, without the retro, Renaissance fair chic. I don’t even search for that stuff, but I’m guessing it’s my very eclectic search history that cues it up.  

The thing is that I never get ads for boring household stuff like sheets and duvet covers but for two days after I stripped my bed, I did. I never mentioned the dirt on the bed or the washing or anything until after all of this went down. So, targeted ads are just be part of the surreal world we’re living in this year.

And I’m not sure the weirdness is only happening in cyberspace. As I was returning from my latest walk across the ridge, I stopped at a flat spot between the cabin where I usually sleep and my parents’ house to let Conway do his thing. It had been a brisk two-mile walk, but he’s a good guide dog and generally won’t pee or poop while we’re out on a trail, so I had to make a point of stopping before we got inside. And I remember that the leash slipped out of my hand and I had to stoop to pick it up.  

After that, I went into the house and helped my mom with a few things, ate lunch and packed up stuff ready to go back to town. Because the internet is so sketchy out there and I didn’t happen to need a flashlight or a magnifying glass or a text reader or a calendar or the weather or an audiobook or my address book or an old recipe or any of the myriad other things I use my phone for, I didn’t notice that it was gone. Thinking back, I know it was supposed to be in the front pocket of a cloth bag I’d been carrying on our long ramble across the ridge, and afterwards, I recalled that I had taken the thermos out of that bag and noticed that it was completely empty, but the absence of the phone that should still have been in there didn’t occur to me then.  

As we were getting in the car though, I ran out to the cabin to get one last thing and on the way back, I felt the sudden strong urge to pee, though I’d already been to the bathroom in the house. The actress who had a ghost writer write that memoir would likely have been utterly shocked, but I didn’t think twice about squatting down to pee outdoors on that little flat spot near the top of the driveway where nobody but the winter birds and deer could see.  

And while I was peeing, I looked at the ground about two feet in front of me, since that is as far as I can see with my eyes.

It took me a few moments to register what I was seeing because it made no sense. There was my phone with the nice brown leather case, lying on the muddy brown carpet of leaves. I wouldn’t have been able to see it had I been standing or had it been even a foot or two further from my face. I could only see it because I squatted down right in that spot to pee. And it was in a very deep signal hole, so I wouldn’t have been able to call it either.

It was right there where I had stopped to let Conway pee an hour earlier, where I had stooped down to get the dropped leash and no doubt upended my bag just enough for it to fall out.

Some will say the ads for sheets and duvet covers is coincidence and corporations aren’t “that bad” with surveillance—yet. And many might say that me finding my brown phone in a pile of brown leaves while legally blind without even looking for it is just freak chance. And maybe it is. But I hope there is some balance in this universe. If the one really is corporate interests trying to squeeze out every cent they can, let the latter be some ancestor or kindly fae or an old god, some spirit looking out for me, because we are sure going to need some spiritual allies.

Resilience under the Solstice tree

Pumpkin Ridge Home fires buring - image by arie farnam

It took me a while to settle on what to write this full moon. There are certainly things happening that merit contemplation, but I’m mainly thinking of everyone out there, especially those who have followed my writing journey for years. We’ve all been struggling to find hope and any useful thing to do in a world gone crazy.

And as much as I want to tell you about the insight I gained into fiction genres and human morality by reading a very irritating gothic novel in my MFA program or discuss why white, rural Americans might feel rootless and overlooked—both of which topics might become future installments, I get the feeling that what we need right now is a bit of comfort and resilience.

We need to get through the holidays, which are fraught in the best of times. We need to regroup and reground ourselves in our values and our communities. We need to conserve energy and gather inner strength—because while I can’t possibly predict what the next year may hold, it is safe to bet that it is going to take a toll on our inner resources and resilience.

I drew some Tarot cards this morning, as I do every morning, and this time I got an interesting concept that I had never really encountered before, the call to treat my creative writing as a lover, or at least, to focus on love in my creative work. Aside from close family, the thing that fills my heart the most are those of you who keep reading my work and sometimes write back, though I am a completely obscure author. That is one way in which love is a natural part of my writing. But writing is also my comfort and solace on a cold winter’s night, much as a lover can be.

And so, I want to offer something that is more appropriate to the holidays, something that will not further tax your energy or make you ponder the genre of gothic literature a week before the Solstice.

While I was walking across the top of Pumpkin Ridge in a mini blizzard last weekend, I remembered the words of Fuji Kreider, spoken to my mother back in the 1980s when we were protesting unsafe nuclear facilities in the Pacific Northwest. My mother was in despair, she says, because no matter what we did, it seemed like it would not make much difference. Fuji said, “We have to do it because of how much worse things would be if we didn’t.”

That stayed with my mother and she’s told it to me more than once. I was a child at the time. It isn’t always enough of an answer for the hopelessness of the world, but it is still true. We are all going to have to do hard things over the next few years because of how much worse things would be if we didn’t act. And in that, we’ll keep our eyes and minds focused on that which we most need to keep safe—our children, grandchildren, land, water, air, our homes, our communities and our inner selves.

As I was walking and looking out at the Blue Mountains and the native plant preserve, crusted with cobalt-silver frost, I started humming Good King Wenceslas, which is—against my better judgement—one of my favorite holiday songs, given that it is actually referencing a murderous Christian monarch who killed the last Pagan king of Bohemia in order to seize power. Yet, it is a song about the Czech nation, which is dear to my heart, and its core messages of courage, hope and compassion thoroughly overwhelm the negative reference from and emotional standpoint.

I have made up alternative lyrics to this song before, but this time, I decided to follow the story structure of the original in which someone frightened and losing hope finds resilience and courage through wise counsel. In the original, the wise counselor is a patriarch, a king, and in conclusion, the song implies that if you follow directly in the footsteps of patriarchal power, you’ll make it through. But we’ve progressed beyond that.

So what I wondered is our current analog of a good king? What should we look to for courage, strength and hope in the midst of the storm? That line from Fuji is still a guiding light in the hardest of times. We come together and do what needs to be done. And so, for me it is community that is the good king, especially the community of progressive-minded, open-hearted people, wherever they may be.

I’ve been asked before, usually by people who vote Republican, why I care what happens to immigrant children or LGBTQ+ people or native people living near oil pipelines or people in Syria or Gaza or people in areas most quickly threatened by climate change. They aren’t me. They aren’t “our people,” I’m told. Why can’t I just put “America first”?

And that is the crux of it. They are my people. Simply put, I’ve had enough experience in my life to know and love people in every group I mentioned and in many many others. When I see people suffering somewhere far away or close to home, I don’t just see someone I don’t know. I see “my people,” a community of open-hearted people, who I have found all around the world. And that sense of unity and solidarity. That’s my “good king” in the new story.

Here then is a new holiday song for you. Feel free to sing it to the tune of Good King Wenceslas. My dad says not everyone knows the tune or how to fit new lyrics to it. So, I’ll try to sing it, though I am far from a good singer and you should not sing any false notes that I might sing, if you can help it. (Lyrics are below the video.)

Walk Between Us

(to the tune of Good King Wenceslas)

On November 6, a child looked out on the times we live in, 

As a nation renounced the rights that they had been given. 

Oh, the flags waved high that day, 

through the words were cruel. 

“Your body, my choice,” so they say,

“Long live fossil fuels.”  

Daddy, will you still love me if I am transgendered?

My friends deported, can’t you see, my future is endangered?

Darling, girl, I do love you, 

for me you are perfection.

If books they ban and people too. 

We'll fight for their protection.

Bring me cardboard and bring me more, bring me markers hither. 

You and I march at the fore when the people gather.

So forth they went parents and child, 

forth they went together

through winds of greed, brazen and wild 

and the bitter weather.

Mama, it's hopeless, I know not how, I can go no longer, 

whatever we do here now, hate grows ever stronger. 

Take our hands my little one, 

And walk between us knowing, 

As the longest night returns the sun,

Our movement still is growing.

So, young and old we come again to raise the cry of justice

They’ll tell us to blame someone, in order to divide us.

But we are family one and all,

Black, brown and white too,

Loving people heed the call,

The future depends upon you.

And now, joyous holidays, blessed Solstice, merry Christmas and happy Hanukah to you all in every corner of the world!

Letter to a person alive in 2054

This time I am not entirely writing for the people who read my blog today, although I do care for them a great deal and they may well benefit from reading this letter. Today, because of what has happened, because of the turn our country has taken, I feel the need to write for some poor soul who may stumble across my words in thirty years.

Dear person alive in the year 2054:

This post is a time capsule, a letter for you across time. If you are there, if you are reading this someday in the distant future, I am unbelievably honored to have been found, even if you are only one solitary wanderer in the archives. And I am so very sorry for what we have no doubt left to you.

I can’t predict exactly what will happen over the next thirty years, of course. But it is a very safe bet at this point to say that little coordinated action to mitigate climate change will occur between 2024 and 2028 at the very least, given the takeover of the US government explicitly by fossil fuel interests.

We have already seen record heat year after year for the past decade. In thirty years, it will no doubt be much more severe. I can’t guess what all the fallout will be. Likely you experience wildfire and drought beyond anything we can imagine, even though our fires and droughts seem unbearable and out-of-control in 2024. The United States was hit by two devastating hurricanes in the past month, much more intense than in previous years due to the heating of the oceans. And those who stole away our future made up stories about the chaotic and self-contradictory Democratic Party somehow controlling the weather, so that they can pretend fossil-fuel-caused climate change isn’t the immense threat we face.

By your time, of course, the human-caused climate disaster is undeniable but too advanced to do much about. This election has stolen the last real chance for actions that might have mitigated the terrifying calamities of your time. That’s partly why I am writing to say how sorry I am and how sorry I know so many others are, crying for you, children growing up today, children yet to be born, all who live in our future.

We fought for you. We went door-to-door helping people vote. We wrote and we demonstrated and we gave our time and our resources to try to protect your lives, because you are our future. And we know it wasn’t enough. Knowing what you know, I’m sure it is hard to understand why we didn’t all go out in the middle of the street and lie down to block traffic to stop the damage before it was too late. The truth is that some of us did just that. I did a few years back with Extinction Rebellion. People went to jail for it. People gave up their careers. But not enough people. Not enough.

Dragonfly on a string of barbed wire - creative commons image by andy blackledge

We were not strong enough. Every day for the past two months I received 5 or 6 propaganda texts on my phone from the Trump campaign. They all came from separate numbers, so when I blocked and reported each one as spam, they still came. My phone company blocks many important texts, but never those propaganda texts. The drumbeat of advertising was inescapable in any built-up area or near any screen. The vast sums of money that poured in to claim our country for corporations and billionaires were overpowering.

Over the past century, many people have struggled for social change, for women to be able to vote, for schools and restaurants and buses to be open to people of all colors, for the freedom to choose a religion other than that of the majority, for the rights of children with disabilities to be educated, for women to be able to have jobs and access their own money and assets, for people to marry whomever they chose, for medical care for gender-misalignment or sudden miscarriages or anything else, for so many things that you may never have heard people had because we don’t know if you will still have any of these rights and freedoms that we fought for or the possibility of learning about our history.

Throughout all of that social change we learned many skills—how to organize, how to stand in solidarity with one another, how to work within the system and talk to elected representatives, how to advocate for ourselves and others through the various agencies and institutions of our society, how to speak and write and think freely. But I am sorry to say, we did not learn how to deal with massive waves of corporate and billionaire power stacked against us. Today there is such a vast tsunami of money for disinformation and spam and mystification, that all of the tools we used before have been befuddled and turned against us.

Many of the poor and vulnerable of this country have believed these waves of well-funded lies and glamoured hate speech. You are certainly not to blame for being angry about that, angry at those who believed the lies and maybe especially at those of us who knew better, who were not taken in and yet failed to do anything to stop it. I don’t say you are wrong. Your anger and your anguish is clear to me.

And yet, it is worth knowing why and how such a thing happened, not because it is an excuse, but because by remembering what happened some 80 to 90 years ago in Germany, we have been warned against this kind of thing and we did fend it off for a good many years as a result. I hope you may learn from us, from this age when money has obstructed the progress of social justice organizing which served us well for a century. I hope that you will be wiser for knowing what is happening in our time. Gods, I hope your history books have not been cleansed of all the unpleasant history that you need in order to chart a better path forward.

I find myself rambling, lost in this moment of grief. What can I tell you who are alive several decades in the future that will help or comfort? I can say that we loved you, that we tried to protect and defend you. But I know we have failed and that your time will be hard beyond our imagining, even if we manage to turn all of this around in another four or ten or twenty years. The oppressive heat and storms of climate change are here to stay. And all of the things that you should have had, the wonderful dreams of a peaceful, prosperous and equitable future that we wanted for you will at the very least be on hold for a long time while we fight for the most basic level of human and civil rights, for the very foundations of democracy.

But I know that it would matter to me to know that those who came before thought of my generation with love and care. So, know this. We fought and we will continue to fight for you. Our voices are likely to be quieter now. Much of our struggle may not be easily seen because it may be very hard to publish or speak out publicly in the next several years. Our schools may well be locked against true information and free expression. Non-profit organizations may be muzzled for any disagreement with state and corporate power. Those who dare to demonstrate in the streets are likely to face swift brutality. But we will fight for you, whether out loud or quietly and without fanfare. I will and I know many others who will.

I cannot explain why so many have turned away from you, our children, even from their own children. They’ve turned away from neighbors and friends and family members too. And so many of them have turned to hate and selfishness and the momentary gratification of being told that they can cuss, bully and lie with impunity. But I do know that it has happened before. We thought we were better than that, that our nation—even our entire species—had progressed beyond a time when such a thing could happen again.

But thirty years ago when I was a young American exchange student in Germany, an old man sat me down at a kitchen table, looked into my face and spoke these words to me: “We were told we were the greatest and the best of humanity. We could not imagine anything like that could happen in our country. And it did. I know right now your country is doing well. You are told you are the best country and the greatest democracy. I hope you will remember that it can happen to you. Beware.”

He had been drafted into Hitler’s army as a young man, and yet when I met him he was one of the kindest people I knew. While many others disparaged me for my poor eyesight and put down my friends who were migrant workers from poorer East Bloc countries, this man sat down to tea with us and told us his story without trying to avoid his own accountability for having been part of a murderous war machine, willingly or not.

And so, I pass his words on to you, since we are now learning hard how true they are. “ I hope you will remember that it can happen to you.” People of the future, you have a right to be angry at us, who had a chance to turn the threat of climate change and did not. You may not have much cause to respect your elders or your ancestors. But I hope you will read this or something like it. I hope you will learn from our history. “Beware!”

Beware certainty and complacency. Beware apathy and the hope that someone else will deal with the big problems. Beware those who blame the vulnerable and the weak for things stolen by the privileged and the powerful. Beware war as a solution. Beware the impulse to protect only your own and to leave others out in the storm. This is what we have learned from our times.

Sincerely,

A person aware and conscious in 2024

Impressions of yellow and blue

All talk and no results, you say? I’ve been talking up a lot of new things over the past few months—a new guide dog and an MFA program in creative writing. Where are the goods?

Here are the goods. You waited and you now get your literary dessert—a fun, cheerful story from Arie without any of the existential dread or pondering on the world’s giant problems. I’m busy writing for my graduate program, so this month my post is one of my writing assignments, this one about color. And you get to meet my guide dog, Conway, in the process.

Enjoy!

Conway, a tuckered-out new graduate of guide dog school

Blind people don’t see black. In fact, most people called blind see something—swirls of color, fragments of light, puffs and blurs and shadows.

And those who see nothing, see nothing. Not black. Try looking out of the sole of your foot. What’s the color there?

But I am not one of those. I see like an impressionist painting, a canvas on which someone went wild with a brush, in a frenzy of creative verve and abandoned logic.

A tree is a spray of emerald and jade, velvet shadows and nut gray trunk. A paper on a dark table is a shocking white splotch, out of place, a mistake in the fabric.

After nearly fifty years in this fuzzy kaleidoscope of nuisance and occasional striking beauty, I put my name in for a guide dog, a partner to bring order to the wildness, to set me straight and maybe give me more of my own choices.

Two years later, I get the call to a training course. Bring lots of shoes. You’ll be walking many miles. Don’t pack chocolate or macadamia nuts or anything else poisonous to dogs. You must label everything with these orange tags!

It will be fun, I think, playing with dogs, maybe even a vacation. Worn out from classes and wrangling kids and canning tomatoes by feel, I am ready for relaxation with a nice pup.

The instructions sound strict, but they get all kinds of people, I figure. They have to have rules. The florescent yellow electronic scanners that lock the front doors to the dorm and every door in the training complex don’t warn me off.

The beige rooms with hard-lacquered golden wood shelves, the pale yellow hallways and drab yellow linoleum set my teeth on edge with the scent of institutionalization. But I am more than happy to put up with a lackluster pallet, all excited to meet my new companion. It was all designed for blind people after all. No wonder there’s not much variety in the color scheme.

But first there are more rules—a huge yellow binder, warm brown leashes and harnesses to learn, a lanyard to carry at all times to open just those yellow scanners accessible to students.

Meals at exact times, on beige trays. Don’t be late! Lateness to meals is disrespectful and implies you’ll be late to lessons. This is hard to swallow at the age of 48, but I do.

There are lectures and deadlines and exact specifications of every movement. Even how I walk is critiqued and corrected. Look ahead! No looking at your feet! You’ll confuse the dog!

It’s a bit like school, but much more regimented. None of my fellow trainees complains. It’s an enormous privilege to get these dogs. Their training costs around $50,000. None of us could possibly pay. So, we follow the rules—so many rules in the supposedly cheery yellow hallways.

Guide dogs are the Ivy League grads of the service-dog world. Police dogs, drug sniffing dogs, dogs for the deaf, and medical alert dogs are all often “failed” guide dogs. And it isn’t mainly intelligence that sets them apart. They’re all smart. It’s their un-dog-like laser focus, the refusal to get distracted by barking dogs, by confusing humans, by backfiring cars.

I wanted a black dog. I wear a lot of black and dog hair will be a new theme in my life. I put it down on the forms. I also wanted a female.

When they bring him to me, he is very male and very yellow. There are much more important things than color or gender in the guide dog world—pace, patience, focus. I am happy—happy and anxious, afraid of breaking the rules, afraid to mess up his training and relieved too.

The training days start at 5:40 a.m., and I crawl into bed exhausted each night. It takes most of the first week to master the dance steps required to turn right or left, like a waltz. It’s a different dance either way. And when you get up to speed, the footwork matters.

There is an exact protocol for the dining room, where the dogs must sit, how I must hold the leash, under a foot and wrapped around a hand—so many rules under the pale yellow lights.

My guide dog conway and I on the ridge at sunset

Each morning we walk by the yolk yellow curb toward the transport vans and every morning there is an intentional boobytrap ready to trip up the unwary student—a barking dog, an over-eager woman offering dog treats, an awkwardly placed sandwich board. And each morning our instructor in a sunshine-yellow jacket lectures me on my many missteps or incorrect hand gestures or mixed up verbal commands.

Then, we drive into the city and stop at various places to walk through city blocks, learning the tricks and traps of working with a guide dog. Orangish yellow rectangles with tactile half-domes at the curb-cuts are like bases in a surreal game of baseball. We scramble to them to get safe from traffic, but gracefully and with all the right footwork.

In the evenings there are lectures by the warm lamplight in the common room. And woe to any student who can’t keep their dog calmly sitting or lying for the duration. And that is usually me. My yellow guy is quieter and more focused than most, but that one thing he does not like—to sit through lectures. And of course, he is going home with the one who is a graduate student.

He is almost too good, somber and serious most of the time. The other dogs play with tug toys, prance in anticipation of going out, show gladness when praised. My dog just puts his head down, does the work and endures.

Finally, graduation day is here, the greatest test of all. We dress up, groom our dogs til they gleam and keep them in perfect order. The stage is gold-stained wood at the front of the room and rows of chairs fill with donors, volunteers, the puppy foster families and my own family. My dog and I walk across the stage and I say a few words that I barely register into the microphone, pleasant, all by the rules—the bright yellow spotlights wiping out all of my color sense.

Then there is a tour for the supporters of the school in which my dog and I show our tricks and smile and thank everyone and be gracious. It is good to be thankful.

Finally, we drive away from the school in my family’s car with my autumn-wheat-yellow dog in the back. A new chapter opening, but there is still an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. He is too sober, too quiet. Is something wrong?

Even after so many years, my mother laments that I cannot see the wild goats on the cliffs above the Columbia Gorge or the bald eagles out over the river. I’m sure they’re wonderful. It would be nice, of course. But I don’t feel a pang. The panorama of color is plenty for me. Swirls of pine green, khaki and lime on the hillsides. The expanse of deep blue sky and the cobalt slash of the river, impressions of golden hills rising on the Washington side. Red and orange speckles are what I see of late season flowers and the black, yellow and white stripes of the freeway homeward.

We stop at Arlington, the little park by the river where we always stop. It’s a good place to let the dog out to do his thing. He’s reticent. The school rules insist he must do the deed on concrete. Usually in a place like this that means in a parking spot. It makes it easy for a blind person to pick up after him and there are places where there is no grass, so guide dogs have to be used to the indignity of pavement.

At last, we walk across the verdant lawn toward the river. My new companion has continued to be stoic. His pace is steady, a little slow at times, in need of my encouragement and prodding.

But here by the river, I feel the pull in his harness grow and then we’re flying across the lawn, out along the river, the periwinkle graduation dress I still have on matching the evening sky, and I lope in long strides, unafraid of tripping because every detail of the land is carried to my hand through the stiff harness. With him, I can run without fear of falling.

Grass and river and sky are different from yellow hallways and paved streets. The school says all an animal needs is food, water, play and affection. But this yellow boy born on the Winter Solstice greets the sweet-smelling earth like a long-lost friend. Oh, you may dislike lectures, but you are a lucky dog because we are going to the mountains, and you will love it there.

He’s dancing then, frolicking and leaping in circles, very un-guide-dog-like. Very like a dog. His tail is slapping my legs. His creamy-yellow joy rising into the deep blue.

Teens, sex and public health obfuscation

I am sorry to do this to you, but like your high school sex education teacher, I have the uncomfortable duty to… address a… well… subject that can be a bit awkward. By that I mean (gulp) “S. E. X.”

Worse yet, I need to discuss teenagers and sex and birth control and porn and hickies and well, you get the point. But bear with me. That was probably the most uncomfortable part of this post.

The inspiration for my dive into this weird and adult-torturing world of teen sex came when I recently attempted to help a young girl get birth control in rural Eastern Oregon. The girl had very recently become obsessed with sex, told me about her boyfriend in detail, showed me her hickies, alternately expressed fear and disgust about sex, said in no uncertain terms that she isn’t ready “to have babies,” as well as accidentally downloaded—and in fascinated shock—read several viciously manipulative pornographic pamphlets designed to groom girls for being sex-trafficked (specifically about mob bosses forcing extremely explicit sex on their young daughters to “protect” them from the other mob bosses, free on Amazon Kindle and anywhere child pornography and middle-school comic books are sold next to each other).

Knowing the girl and her situation, I was aware that she lives with limited supervision and she has a developmental disability that makes impulsivity and difficulty foreseeing consequences very challenging for her. Has there ever been a case where birth control was more clearly indicated?

I made an appointment at a local public health agency for a consultation. I was told even during the scheduling that the girl “has to agree on her own,” despite being both well underage and developmentally disabled, which combine to deny her any reasonable ability to give informed consent. I figured I could talk her through it.

While both parents were enthusiastic about getting birth control for her, the agency insisted they had no say in the matter.

The day of the consultation arrived and the girl was nervous and uncomfortable. She was immediately handed a stack of 30-plus pages of dense forms to fill out and I was ordered to stay out of it. Due to her disability, she scribbled on the signature lines without understanding what it was for. After 45 grueling minutes and a bureaucrat who eventually relented and “helped” her fill out the forms by misspelling her name multiple times, we got into the actual consultation.

amateur Actors playing the roles of teenage lovers in the lion king - image by Arie Farnam

I had promised the girl that this would be quick and easy, because I’d been told it was just a brief consultation ahead of a procedure. And her tolerance for long paperwork and confusing, boring adult conversation is very limited, yet she held up admirably.

Then, we were shown in to see the nurse, who immediately began to talk about sex in graphic and uncomfortable detail. When the girl cringed in loathing and anxiety, the nurse stopped abruptly and asked if this was really something she wanted to do. The girl said, “Well, no. I don't want to do it. They want me to!” indicating me and apparently family members not present at the moment.

The nurse immediately started to end the interview and stated that there was no way birth control would be offered in this case. And some god came down from Asgard and created a miracle, because the girl, who is normally timid and diffident when it comes to unknown adults, faced the nurse again and said she had changed her mind and did want it. She was forced to rehash that consent at least five times over the next 45 minutes of explicit sex consultation, and bless her, she did.

The next day, before the date when the birth control device was to be implanted, I got a phone call from the agency demanding documents showing the parents’ guardianship, despite the fact that “they have no say in the matter.” I provided the documentation and pretended I was not livid with outrage at these two-faced guardians of male access to the reproductive capacities of teenage girls.

I fantasized about the conversation I’d have after she was safely protected, asking them if they thought there was anything else they could do to make birth control harder or more uncomfortable for a young disabled girl to access. But when the time came, my entire focus was on comforting the young girl, who was terrified of the Lidocaine numbing injection and awed by all the sterile preparations. So, I didn’t say anything except “Thank you!” as we walked out.

But the whole incident illustrated how far we are from a society that truly protects the choices of the most vulnerable women and girls. Do I think underage girls should have choices about their bodies. Definitely, I do. Do I think that they should be considered “consenting adults” when it comes to being manipulated, tricked or forced to become pregnant and have babies. No, I vigorously disagree. Should an underage girl who demonstrates understanding of the issues and who can make informed decisions of a complex nature be allowed to refuse birth control? Well, yes. I guess I agree with the spirit of the law on this.

But should a developmentally disabled child be forced to endure lengthy explicit discussions of sex and give repeated rote recitations of a consent she doesn’t understand in order to be protected from pregnancy, which she does clearly state that she does not want? No. This made no sense and it was in several respects both irresponsible on the part of health care providers and unnecessarily shaming to the girl.

The long and the short of it should be that at this age birth control is health care. It’s no different than a vaccination, and parents give consent for vaccinations. Children often vehemently disagree because they don’t like being poked with needles and they get vaccinated anyway, if they have responsible parents.

The young girl I helped get birth control is still confused about what it is for, despite having it explained a dozen times or more. She’s asked several times if it will keep her from being kidnapped. We told her it wouldn’t do that and that it is only to keep her from having babies before she is old enough. But the truth is that there are all sorts of ways such a vulnerable young woman could end up needing birth control. She may break up with her boyfriend tomorrow. But she is a vibrant young person with a healthy body, which includes natural sexuality.

And there are plenty of predators out there, some of whom would be delighted at the rural “public health” response to making birth control particularly uncomfortable for a teenage girl to obtain.

Mismatch: A crucial concept of civilization and disability

I’ve read four books over the past two years which have radically transformed my understanding of the human world. I highly recommend all of these to readers who may feel disjointed, hopeless, surreal, useless, bemused and/or displaced by current events and daily survival in our modern society. These books won’t make all your troubles go away, but they do help make sense of them.

This is the reading list—all both pleasant and absorbing reads, impeccably written:

• Civilized to Death: The Price of Progress by Christopher Ryan

• Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari, Derek Perkins, et al.

• Cassandra Speaks: When Women Are the Storytellers, the Human Story Changes by Elizabeth Lesser, Xe Sands, et al.

• Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Each of those books is utterly transformative in its own right, and there are far too many interesting points to cover in a single blog post, but there is one overall impression I have taken from this study of human nature and our relationship to both civilization and the natural environment. That is that virtually all humans today are “disabled” in the social-model definition of the term because we are living in a maladapted environment that does not support our physical and psychological needs as human organisms.

Image via pixabay - people walking through an airport

For those who are just waking up today, the social model of disability is the concept that disability is not a problem with the individual person but rather a mismatch between an attribute of a person and their human-designed environment.

Thus, a person with a wheelchair is “disabled” primarily because of stairs. In a society without stairs, using a wheelchair would likely be considered a quirk or at most a private health matter. A person with ADHD is “disabled” because of our society’s obsession with tasks that require sitting still and focusing one’s attention on random, functionally irrelevant things for long periods of time. In a hunter-gather society, ADHD may have actually provided advantages in the type of alertness needed to procure food, which is one theory about why it is so prevalent and so much more problematic today than it was decades ago. The further we get from a nature-centered lifestyle, the more society conflicts with ADHD brains.

Similarly, I am “disabled” because I can’t drive or make eye contact, while I am living in a society where driving is central to procuring food, shelter and all the other basic human needs and making eye contact is one of the foundations of social interaction. If I lived in a society. where everyone lived in dimly lit subterranean tunnels with either no transportation or collective transportation and making eye contact was culturally frowned upon, my vision impairment would likely be considered no more than a minor nuisance. And I might be sought after for jobs where no light was available.

Even today, if the electricity goes out at night and the house is completely dark, sighted people fumble around and become suddenly “disabled” by this environmental shift, unable to even walk safely across the floor without bumps to heads or shins. Meanwhile, I walk calmly into the kitchen, easily navigating around the chairs with a hand out the same way I always do, open the junk drawer and reach for the flashlights which I am used to finding by touch.

If read through the lens of this social model of disability, my book list shows that most humans are impacted negatively by the human-built societal structures of today in ways that are significantly disabling. Unfortunately, many of these problems impact people traditionally considered disabled even more heavily than the average person. I am not, therefore, arguing that “we are all disabled” and thus people with disabilities aren’t disadvantaged. Unlike the lights going out, this societal maladaptation does not confer any ironic temporary advantage on me. But I would like to introduce abled people to the idea of looking at their human-built environment from the perspective of its maladaptations which are causing widespread and preventable illness, disability and harm.

Just as I—as a visually impaired person in a sighted society—can find workarounds, obtain adaptive technology or change my environment to better suit my body’s specific needs due to my vision impairment, I am doing the same when it comes to my needs as a human organism—as best I can—in a society that is wildly maladapted for human organisms in general.

In the list, I put Civilized to Death first because that book comes the closest to stating the disabling nature of modern society outright, although the author doesn’t have a grounding in the social model of disability, so he missed this as a further application of his research.

What Christopher Ryan does say in Civilized to Death—and the other authors reiterate—is that human beings are sadly mismatched to the modern environment. Ryan uses the analogy of different types of zoos—some where animals are kept in depressing concrete cages versus those where animals live in a simulated wild environment. He makes the case that modern cities are to humans much like the concrete cages are to animals in zoos. They present unhealthy, stifling environments for humans who suffer physiologically and psychologically as a result.

Through several chapters packed with examples, Ryan demonstrates that modern humans are suffering from deep frustration and significant unnecessary health problems because of our built environment and our societal structures. From artificially enforced sleep patterns to the modern grain-rich diet that we did not evolve for, from bacteriological and toxin exposure that is making us far sicker than our hunter-gatherer ancestors to social structures that are psychologically toxic and oppressive, Ryan shows that modern society is disabling, sickening and killing most humans in ways that early human societies did not.

To clarify, as Ryan does at more length in the book, the reason that hunter-gatherers are reported to have had a lifespan of only about 35 years is because of statistical averages. The combination of a lack of surgeries and NICU incubators and the physically demanding environment meant that infant mortality was very high. Half the population died in infancy or early childhood, despite the relative lack of either infectious or systemic disease in their societies, while the other half of the population often lived to be 70, 80 or even older, often with much better health and a happier, more enjoyable life than the vast majority of us enjoy today. Hunter-gatherers spent far fewer hours procuring the bare necessities of survival and had more time for leisure and their families and friends.

IMAGE BY ALEX NAANIOU - BARE FEET WALKING ON A GREEN FLOOR AMID SHADOWS

Human beings as biological organisms are not well adapted to a stifling built environment, the modern diet, heavy work schedules or social structures involving more than about 150 people. Some human bodies have adapted to the modern diet better than others. But as that diet becomes more and more alien, more and more humans are being sickened by diabetes, heart disease, allergies, food sensitivities and immune disorders. This isn’t because there is “something wrong with these bodies.” It is because of a food environment that is ill-suited to those functional, otherwise-healthy bodies.

Similarly, many of our bodies and brains are breaking down or reacting poorly to the stress of 40- or 50-hour work weeks with another 20-30 hours of household and caregiving tasks piled on top. How many people with diagnoses of ADHD, clinical depression or anxiety disorders would have these disabilities or need medication for them, if they lived in a natural environment where procuring the necessities of life consumed only 25-30 hours per week? Not many, Ryan convincingly argues. Because humans lived with that level of ease for the vast majority of human history, this stress and its effects qualify as a socially constructed disability.

Most people don’t see these effects as “disability” because we all experience them, so the resulting general distress is “normal” and more severe effects in some individuals are seen as individual weakness, or weirdly, individual moral failings.

As I said at the beginning of this post, reading these books and realizing that much off what is wrong in today’s world is due to a mismatch between our human bodies and modern society will not fix these problems. Much of what is wrong can’t be fixed by individuals and some of it couldn’t be fixed, even if we could all agree and work together on it. Overpopulation is the worst of it. For us to live in a well-adapted environment, where our bodies could regain the physical health and general happiness that our hunter-gatherer ancestors enjoyed, the earth could only sustain a small fraction of today’s human population.

However, there are some things that you can do as an individual to adapt your environment for better health and happiness. Just as I, as a visually impaired person, can use various methods and technologies to make sighted society somewhat less problematic for me, I have also learned to change my environment to better suit my overall human body. I have stopped eating a typical modern diet and try to approximate the type of diet my ancestors would have eaten. This has resulted in an amazing resurgence of my health over the past two years.

I have also integrated more varied physical activity in natural environments into my routines. I utilize my brain’s natural propensity to want to remember and categorize plants as a brain boosting activity. I have stopped berating myself when I don’t work a 40-hour week at a traditional job and instead look at all the various methods I use to sustain my life as a form of modern hunting and gathering. That goes along with finding joy and meaning in things that do not require a lot of accumulation of wealth.

There are many things we can do in groups of family and friends as well. Realizing that we are hard-wired to connect in small groups, primarily in close circles of around 10 to 20 individuals, is a big help in understanding our various social problems. With modern technology today, we can in fact create a small clan of close connections and a larger circle of around 100 to 150 people who we connect with for reciprocity and the sharing of information. In such groups, we can develop mutually supportive relationships. If parenting is taken as a group effort—as it was for most of human history—for instance, rather than a task for the biological mother and father alone, a wide variety of current social problems are considerably alleviated.

There is no way to create a utopian society in which we return to an environment ideally adapted to our human bodies. Again, overpopulation precludes it. Also, our bodies are not physically prepared and our minds are full of the skills and information needed to survive in our current society and almost universally lack the information and skills needed to survive in a natural environment, even if one was available. But we can gain benefits by learning as much as we can about the natural environment and spending what time we can in it.

We can—just as people with other types of disabilities do—find work arounds, assistive technologies and possible environmental changes that will help and make life a lot healthier and more enjoyable.

Much of this insight has come through studying the social model of disability and through reading and rereading the books I listed by authors who are looking for a path forward for modern humans. What are the books—fiction or non-fiction—that have most inspired you recently? I would love to get a short list in the comments.

Of difficult children and intense adults

As a small child, I was variously known as “Squawk,” “Magpie” or “Anna Banana” among family and friends. These monikers all referred to my personality and vocal nature to one degree or another. I was, by all accounts—except my own— “loud,” “argumentative,” “obstinate,” “shrill,” “contradicting,” “willful” and “intense.” In short, I was what is called in today’s psychology literature a “difficult child.”

A neighbor reportedly once told my mother that if I had had a less patient mother, I would have been abused. I chuckle about it now, but I also have my own children and I’ve seen just how far “loud,” “argumentative,” “obstinate,” “shrill,” “contradicting,” “willful” and “intense” can be taken. This kind of parenting isn’t for the timid… or even for most humans.

I’m reminded of this because there’s an old meme doing another round on the internet which makes a simplified case for the pop psychology concept that children with such difficult, stubborn or argumentative personality traits will mature into adults with strong wills, solid analytical skills and independent spirits—implying that “difficult traits” in children often transform into positive adult attributes.

I don’t remember “being difficult” as a child. I remember trying to please adults, trying to navigate the world with very little vision, trying to keep up with my brothers, trying to gain inclusion into groups of other kids, trying to play games I couldn’t see, trying, trying, always striving, rarely being allowed to just be in a place where I didn’t have to fight to hold my ground. And so, for the most part, I believe the reports about my combative, willful and shrill nature as a child.

I was always in a battle to keep up and be included. No wonder I came across as if I was fighting.

Of course, I’ve known quiet, passive, sweet-natured blind children. In fact, most of the blind kids I met at “blind summer camps” were more like that. I was an outlier. Most blind kids learned that the best way to get by in the sighted world was to be sweet in order to attract good things and then to wait quietly for hours to be noticed or occasionally included when it was convenient for the sighted majority.

I remember observing how they were treated and feeling very angry inside—on their behalf, I thought, though now I wonder. Mostly I’ve known only those two types of blind children—willful, shrill terrors like me (and reportedly Hellen Keller) and the sweet, passive flowers. The world greeted me with exasperation and accusations of “being a drama queen,” and greeted the other type with occasional pity and long-term indifference.

I’m told pity is a horrible thing to endure as a blind or disabled person. I don’t have a lot of experience with it myself. I’ve always been so intense, willful and self-advocating that I think I have mostly avoided that fate. So, I’ll reserve judgement on which response is worse, having little experience with the shade of green on the other side of that particular fence. That said, being constantly seen as “irritating” and “overly demanding” just for asking for a place at the table has often been hard.

I don’t know if I had much choice about my intense personality. I grew up in a rough-and-tumble physical world in the woods and hills of Northeastern Oregon—not in a town near them, but in them. I’ve known several legally blind kids who grew up in small, rural towns but spent most of their time indoors, doing sedentary things and waiting to be taken places. That was never a choice in my childhood. I was outside in the woods even as a toddler, trailing behind other kids, tossing pebbles to hear the terrain in front of me and yelling “Wait for me!” after my brothers with irritating persistence.

And I did gain some things the more passive blind kids lacked as a result. I learned such good mobility skills that most people don’t realize I’m legally blind. I have a workaround for just about every physical task that takes vision—from threading needles to hammering nails to flipping pancakes. (Not driving, of course. There are limits.) In my twenties, I often said I was fortunate to have had the childhood I did and the personality I had.

So, is the meme right? I was most of the things the meme describes about difficult children—stubborn, defiant, clingy, argumentative... I wasn’t particularly disobedient, or not more so than other children as far as I’ve heard. But did my stubbornness, defiance, clinginess and argumentativeness serve me well and result in positive adult characteristics in the end?

Today, I’m not so sure. While I was able to gain academic success by being “willful, demanding and stubborn,” I’ve often run into situations in the professional world, where these traits are not helpful and result in being shut out of opportunities. I’ve seen some of the quiet, submissive blind people I used to think had things worse than me gain stable—if often boring—employment and a small but steady circle of friends. Their way definitely has its benefits.

Even more troubling than that is my ongoing worldview of constant struggle. It is very hard to argue that it is unwarranted. I have only rarely chosen to fight when I didn’t have to. But my experience of endless battle against a hostile world has been isolating, not to mention stressful on a deep level. I would not wish it on any young kid.

As an adult, I’m often told that I’m “too intense.” Only rarely is that ever given any specificity, but I believe it must be related to my childhood traits. While I learned to physically adapt to my visual disability to a high degree, I’ve never cracked the code of non-verbal cues, eye contact and recognizing faces that are only vague blurry ovals to me. And yet, because of my stubborn and defiant nature, I keep banging my head against that communication wall, often to the irritation of those on the other side of it.

And watching my own kids and my students mature, I have a broader outlook on the meme’s conclusions as well. While it is true that some level of argumentativeness and spunk in a kid shows a likelihood that the future adult will be able to hold their own and not be passive or wishy-washy throughout their life, the conclusions of the meme are simplistic and ignore less savory realities.

In response, I made my own list of where difficult personality traits can lead in anyone—child or adult—if not tempered. This is not to say that I or anyone else who has the “difficult trait” is doomed to a negative future. But these are pitfalls worth watching out for, especially when parenting teens and young adults.

Here is my list to counter the meme above:

• Stubbornness untempered may lead to an inability to see anyone else's perspective and in its extreme form to arrogance and self-agrandisement.

• Defiance of reasonable and healthy authority too often leads to problems with law enforcement and experiments in criminality. (There is, of course, a vast difference between defiance of reasonable authority, such as a parent protecting a child from real hazards, and defiance of dictatorial and abusive power.)

• Disobedience of healthy and safety oriented rules can and does lead to serious accidents, teenage drunk driving, a high risk of death among young adults, experiments with dangerous substances, bad teeth, poor health and other long-term consequences young people often can't foresee.

• Clinginess in children is usually a healthy attachment behavior and possibly a sign that the world appears confusing and overwhelming to the child, which today is confusing and overwhelming to many adults. Yet, clinginess in older children or teenagers can be a sign of deeper insecurity, and if n to addressed therapeutically, could make the young person more vulnerable to abusive and controlling relationships.

• Backtalk (i.e. disrespect, insults and contempt toward parents) may establish distant or broken family relationships, lack of empathy, problems with other intimate relationships where the same disrespect and contempt habits come up, domestic abuse and bullying of others. (This should not be confused with teenage sassiness or moodiness, which while irritating are likely to pass and don’t appear to correlate with much of anything in adult personality.)

• The meme claims that children who don’t do what their parents say are less likely to fall prey to peer pressure. And yet this simply doesn’t hold up to real-world scrutiny. Not doing what they're told by parents is the opposite of not doing what their peers tell them. The primary reason most teens ignore their parent’s instructions is because they are doing things their peers are telling them to do which are dangerous or unhealthy. Hence why their parents are directing them to do something else.

• Always touching things that they shouldn't (after the age when this is simply normal) is a symptom of impulsivity, often neurologically based and not necessarily their fault. But still impulsivity is something that will cause difficulty in adulthood for individuals who experience it excessively, because significant impulsivity often leads to unwanted debt, accidents, addictions and difficulty achieving one's own desired goals.

Trying to raise teenagers in a world of distractions, addictions, scams and seductive ideologies is hugely challenging. Trying to raise teenagers with neurological disabilities that cause a high degree of impulsivity, obstinacy, negative mood and insecurity is terrifying. When I run across this type of meme, I see the underlying message—one from those not responsible for a struggling teen with a lot of at-risk behaviors to those who are responsible for such a teen.

What that message says is: “People who are not actually raising kids with these difficulties don’t understand but they think they know better than those who are in the thick of it.” The myth makes a much better and simpler meme than the reality ever will.

And to those—like me—who have these “difficult traits” whether you are old or young, I say that we are the ones with a choice. Stubbornness can lead one into resentment of others or it can be an asset in self-discipline. Defiance can be turned against those closest and dearest or against those abusing the planet and the vulnerable in our society. Disobedience to authority need not mean making decisions that harm you just to make a point. It can give the strength to take a principled stand. Impulsivity need not be your master. It can be an ally if marshaled and channelled. Clinginess could lead to codependency or being trapped in abusive relationships, or it could mean allowing yourself to be vulnerable and open in relationships.

The results of “difficult traits” are what the individual practices over the long-term.

Shards of meaning and splinters of spring

My thoughts have been far from the day-to-day this year.

My mind is in books, the stories of four brothers in the vortex of pain in my parents’ generation or the never-real, ideal world of a boy and a marten on Mount Hood. My hands are painting the gleaming fir of new garden-bed posts in the sunshine that is far too early.

Image of pumpkin ridge and mount emily in northeaster oregon in early spring with a lone hiker visible - by arie Farnam

My mind gnaws at the fact that the spring is too early, that we scarcely had any snow, that whole nations are becoming climate refugees. But for us locally it still isn’t too much of a problem. Even the forest fires have struck mercifully elsewhere. My hands are filling the washing machine and turning the dial. My feet are tramping through the kitchen.

My mind is drowning in dying languages and resurrected tongues, in Wall Kimmerer’s desperate struggle to learn Potawatami from the nine remaining fluent speakers, in the legacies of Czech students in the 19th century studying at the feet of country codgers, of Hebrew rekindled with such hope and of St. Patrick burning the last rare books written by Irish Druids. My hands are cutting spaghetti squash and cooking meatballs or dribbling a basketball with my teenage boy.

I’m always listening to some audiobook, always trying to run fast enough to get to something that matters, always writing something while resigned that the chances of an unknown writer getting published these days are minuscule, always trying to reach my kids through the addictive fog of social media and video games, always trying to figure out what really matters.

All this, while my body is going to medical appointments, weeding the garden beds, washing the dishes, organizing transportation for my son and doing physical therapy exercises. My mind is like a restless toddler but one with sophisticated taste.

On a good day, my mind is drawing plot lines and character arcs for two new novels, weaving snippets of poetry in for one character and plant lore in for another. My hands are making flash cards for students an ocean away. Even my mouth and my face are speaking through the computer screen, the same trusty lessons I’ve been teaching for twenty years. Or my fingers and eyes are working over a medical study manuscript, editing for grammar, while my mind is gibbering in helpless fury over the news.

Since January, I’ve been writing down the important things in a date book—not the garden preparations, the dishes or even the tutoring of students but the insights in the books I’ve read, the plot holes and their solutions, my kids’ struggles and tiny triumphs, the news and my various epiphanies. I want to be connected to the day to-day-world, but my mind needs this nourishment and stimulation the way a seedling needs water and sun.

It stretches toward the light in one direction and reaches roots through the soil the opposite way. It can’t help it. No matter where I’m planted, my mind is an unquiet and seeking thing. The only things that truly quiet it are mountains, big sky, trees and an unhindered wind. Meditation every morning settles it some but only temporarily.

This is one reason that I’m going to graduate school, starting this summer. But I also worry because I have a lot more responsibilities and duties and needs and distractions than I did the last time I was in school—twenty-five years ago. I did well in school because there was endless time. I read very slowly because of my wiggle, wobbly eyes, but that didn’t seem to matter when there was nothing else but studying and reading in my days. Now it will be different.

I’ll soon have assigned reading and critiques for my restless mind to dig into. And hopefully, that will be copasetic. But I think this restlessness is partly me and partly the times we’re living in. How can we live quiet contented lives in a world that threatens to self-destruct every twenty-four hours or so? How can we ignore the crises enough to live and give and nurture while also not losing our sense of soul? I am betting these questions are not mine alone.