Wordle of My Blog

Here is a wordle I created by entering my blog URL.  I love wordles because it shows patterns in language, and I believe language is so important. Language not only reflects our thoughts and state of mind, but shapes it as well.  Want to change your outlook on life? Pay very close attention to the words you choose and choose more positive, less extreme words and phrases.  I have often noticed that people who speak in extremes often see the world as black and white.  This may not be bad if you are in the white, but what happens when you fall into the black? If you want to challenge yourself, take recent emails to friends, facebook pages, or journal writings and enter into a wordle program and see what you come up with.  What do your word choices look like?  How are your words impacting your outlook on life? How is it impacting your ability to move forward and make the most of life?

Recently my struggles with IVF, infertility and miscarriage have dominated my blog and the language reflects those topics.  I sat for a minute and thought carefully on my wordle.  There are a lot of emotions in my writing of hope, sadness and possibility.  I do a lot of thinking, writing, and feeling.  There weren't any words like "give up", "dejected", "hopeless."  While this period in my life is most certainly marked with sadness, frustration, and medical treatments, I continue to have words of positivity, family, and goodness.  This gives me perspective and helps me see that I am able to be more than this fight for a fourth child.  I am full of life, full of heart, full of family, full of possibility.  I am. (and that is all I need to be).

Murder with No Permant Consequences

This morning on the Today Show, there was a story about a woman who was denied a hearing to review shared custody of her children. Her request came after she learned that her ex-husband married a woman convicted of killing her children twenty years ago. Five years ago, the woman’s psychiatrist was so concerned about her mental stability, he reported her to the Department of Social Services. When reviewing the mother’s plea to have the custody revised so that her children would not be in harm’s way, the stance of the court was that this woman had not hurt anyone in five years and appeared to be mentally stable; therefore, the children should be allowed to reside with her.

Given my own history with the court system, custody cases, and DSS, and given my position as a psychologist, I was profoundly sad and angry when I first watched the story. I was outraged at the court’s ignorance in making a statement that since this woman had not hurt someone since 2008, she is safe. She has a history of murder and violence; the best predictor of future violence is past violence.  A perfectly capable and loving mother, one who hasn't killed anyone, is able and available to care for the children full time and yet the court did not even hear her plea.  I walked away from the television muttering to myself in a fit of fury.

Then I paused to think more deeply on the subject of why we have such a forgiving court system. Forgiveness is comforting to us. We understand that we are human, and as such, have proclivity to imperfection. It makes us nervous to think that we could permanently damage our lives besed on one moment of weakness, carelessness, or stupidity. We find comfort in the idea of second chances, mulligans, and do-overs. While we seemed outraged at cases like Casey Anthony, inside we are secretly relieved that if such a thing happened in our lives, we might have a chance to walk free. We are comforted in knowing that if something unfortunate happens, we have a chance at redemption.

If a person commits one bad act and thereby internalizes the act as a sign they are a bad person, they are more likely to engage in more bad actions.  By giving second chances and showing mercy and forgiveness, we decrease the likelihood of future acts of that person. Also, given that our judicial system is imperfect, having softness in the system allows for self-correction. The counterpoint is that such decisions send a message to the greater community that these behaviors have a certain level of acceptability. 

While I certainly believe in second chances, I feel that we have to be careful of the messages we are sending.  A cute white woman kills her baby, a football star kills his wife, a famous athlete beats his girlfriend, a famous rockstar sets her boyfriend's house on fire...and we forgive it all...and they make money from the story. The nameless, poor, and minority committing the same crimes receive much more severe consequences.  It sends a confusing message, thereby weakening our faith in the judicial system.  Of further detriment is our sensationalization of violence; it is dangerous and unhealthy to our larger society.   We have to be careful about sending a message that no action has a permanent consequence or that every behavior comes with an excuse or a payout.  I am not suggesting the shaming or dehumanizing of the guilty; I am suggesting that accountability and retribution be a stronger part of our vocabulary. 

When we make everything forgivable, in essence, we forgive the action before it occurs and thereby give a certain level of permission for such behaviors. We can’t forgive abuse or hate crimes or violence. These actions have permanent consequences on the victims, and therefore should also incur permanent consequences on the perpetrator. Casey Anthony shouldn’t make a million dollars for killing her child. OJ Simpson should never have gotten a publishing deal for a book outlining how he would have killed his wife, if he really did it. In the case on the Today show this morning, murdering your own children should prevent you from ever having custody of children.  In order to protect our sense of civics and our society as a whole, we have to be sending stronger, more consistent messages about how we will manage the most unforgivable crimes. It’s a sad day when murder of the innocent no longer has permanent consequences on those responsible.

Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through.  I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history.  My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan.  She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception.   She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team.  She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children.  When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way.  It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations.  My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio.  If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves.  There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static.  Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium.  My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs.  It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer.  We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!”  It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer.   Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues.   We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again.  At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home.  We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans.  I miss those days.  I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning.  All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles.  Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats?  Everyone has a theory.  Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black.  Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved.  While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump.  Baltimore is a proud city.  We are a loyal city.  While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles.  Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history.  We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between.  Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore.  I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to  make new baseball memories.

Taking the Cuts

I have just returned from having two moles biopsied.  It isn’t my favorite thing to do, but given that I love being in the sun and I don’t want to die of cancer, I’ll take the cuts.  Of course, I scheduled my appointment after returning from a week at the beach.  As I try to adjust the paper towel covering me, the male nurse notices my bathing suit marks and says, “Nice tan.”  He doesn’t have any tone to his voice, but the effect is the same.  I know it is ridiculous to be sitting in a room waiting to have pre-cancerous moles removed with a savage tan, but it seems par for the course for me.  A few years ago, I would have rushed to provide a whole slew of excuses.  Now, I just shrug it off and save my breath.  He doesn’t care.  He isn’t the one sitting on the table.  I’m the idiot here, not him.  The doctor asks me if I reapply sunscreen every two hours.  Again, I could lie, but I don’t.  She tells me my honesty is refreshing.  Her approval of my honesty is the highlight of my visit.  Before I know what is happening, she shoves a needle in my neck like I am James Bond and she is the evil doctor charged with taking me down.  While I am still trying to figure out if she killed me, she takes to my skin with a doll size biscuit cutter.  She takes off two moles-one on my neck and one on my chest.  As she is stitching up the big hole in my chest, she says to the male nurse, “see how much easier it is to close it up when there is a flat surface.”   Ouch.  That stings. I have never been chesty, but really, "flat surface?" Was that really necessary?  It is a sad day in a woman’s life when her neck officially has more curves than her chest.

Love Is...

Love isn’t a feeling or a passion, it’s a series of small actions shared between two people. It isn’t big events or grand gestures, but the things that happen in the little spaces, the small breaths, the silent seconds of every day.

Good love knits together these actions and these moments into a tight weave, folding the fabric back on itself time and time again until a thick quilt is formed, creating a cocoon for those wrapped inside. It offers protection, warmth, safety, comfort.

Bad love tries desperately to string together a series of big actions using big looping stitches, trying to shortcut and ignore the strength of the small stitch. The knots and stitches are loose, lumpy, and uneven. In the end, there isn’t a fabric but more of a moth-eaten bit of cheese cloth. Those that have woven this fabric foolishly think no one sees the holes. When others aren't looking, they pull and tug, stretch and fluff, desperately trying to smooth over, plump,and brighten the coarse bits of fray. They try to wrap themselves, but find only a fight with the other for warmth and protection. When one wins, the other loses. The fabric isn’t big enough for both. Both are left bitter, cold, shivering,and exposed to the elements.