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serafaeryListened to this sweet episode of the Cryptonaturalist called Obsidian Bat, an excerpt:
Ya know, your brain has weather. Happiness. Sadness. Foggy autumn mornings
when the dew soaks your pant cuffs. Sunny days with a sweet breeze that makes
you wonder how you could have ever been dissatisfied with anything. We don’t
control the weather out in the wide world and there are plenty of times when we
don’t seem to control the weather in our own minds.
Well, in the wild and inside your own skull, if you don’t control the weather, you
can at least dress for it. A slicker for the downpour and a warm coffee with a
dogeared old friend of a book for days when the sadness blows in over the
mountains.
The last thing you wanna do is beat yourself up for what your feeling. Anxiety.
Depression. Dread. These aren’t the interior weather that any of us would choose,
and that’s kinda the point of my weather metaphor. You didn’t choose such
things and deserve no criticism for feeling them. So, be kind to yourself and dress
for the weather as you find it.
This is a sentiment I've been expressing in therapy a lot lately - a sensation that my depressive episodes just come over me, often with no warning and/or no obvious major trigger. Or maybe there is an obvious trigger, but it still feels completely outside of my control and I feel helpless in the swell of it. My therapist has been gently reminding me of coping mechanisms, instead of trying to "fix" it, which helps so much. The self judgement for feeling so badly despite having a relatively lovely existence is slowly dissipating and I think that can also help with the severity and with enduring these awful spells of discomfort and distress. It's nice to hear a reassuring echo of this sentiment.
Currently I would say my disposition is hesitatingly good, like a still, warm, but mostly overcast day.
I have plenty of work to attend to, today, but after cooking for Josh I need to go find a place to soak up the sunshine before our late afternoon/evening thunderstorms roll in. There is a prediction of large sized hail, a first for this area. And possible tornados. I am afraid. (Mostly for the birds.) I have seen exactly one funnel cloud ever in Portland. It was a day exactly like this. Sunny and unseasonably warm (we are expecting a high of 78!), we were playing in the Salmon Street Springs water fountain downtown. I was 17. Suddenly without warning, the weather turned, we ran for cover from the pouring rain, and the sky turned an eerie green before small funnel clouds formed, disappeared, and reformed in the distance. I had to catch a bus home while soaking wet in summer clothing, while thunder rolled and rain poured in buckets. I learned a lesson about spring in Portland, that day, for sure.
...
Totally different subject:
Here is the little vignette my grandmother wrote about a very early childhood memory of hers. It's delightful - there are other more delightful moments I've copied into text from her family history writing, I find her town development expositions and general way-of-life descriptions so fascinating, but I just feel compelled to share this one, it seems like she wanted it to be in the world, and it is so sweet and innocent. This is from a little town in Iowa called Leon. It's still there, but it looks from google street view like a relatively depressed area, and I cannot find any remains of her childhood home (though the church there is also yellow brick).
Mary Long; An Adventure [ca. 1917]
Once upon a time in a small town with a red-brick court house in its middle there lived a little girl. She had round healthy cheeks with dimples. She had short golden curls and her papa often called her Frowzy-top - just because he loved her very much. She had big blue eyes and thick lashes that curled up quite prettily. Best of all she had a happy smile and folks said she was a sunny child.
She had much to be sunny about. Her papa was big and handsome and jolly. Her mother (“mamma”) was small and pretty and loving. Her brother was kind, though sometimes a tease - and they played lots of games together even though he was nearly four years older than Mary.
Then there was their house. It was square and two stories and made of yellow bricks. It was trimmed in white. The high peaked roof covered a big attic where Mary played dolls as she grew older. How she loved being dry yet so close to the lively patter of a Spring rain. The attic was too hot for play in summer but south of the house was a yard that much later hosted many a lively croquet game. (Sometimes Mary won.) Under the grape arbor - long as the yard - hung a board and rope swing that seemed always to have been there.
Upstairs the house had a bedroom at each corner and a wide hall down the middle. Mary’s first remembrance of sleep were in the southeast bedroom where she was born and where her bed stood until she was old enough to have a room of her own. But that was much later.
Atop the square court house tower was a clock with easy-to-read numbers on its face or father its four faces, north, south east, and west. The clock struck in full, slow, mellow tones and succeeded remarkably well in keeping folks on time. The north face could see Mary’s house a block away.
A two-and-one-half story brick schoolhouse was in the fourth block west and north. On its roof was a square belfry with a peaked top. The musical, clear-ringing bell was tolled by a big rope in the hands of the school janitor, Mr. Campbell. The children liked to watch the rope go up and down through a small hole in the ceiling of the north open entry way; that was when it was time to form a line and march to their classrooms.
On Sundays a medley of church bells called folks to worship, a tolling for Sunday School and later a tolling for church.
Airplanes were seldom heard when Mary was little; so the strike of the town clock, the full sound of the school bell, and the ringing of church bells always came easily to the ears. Their music played a fine accompaniment to a busy carefree childhood. Of course, Mary didn’t think much about that. She was busy growing and playing and being happy.
Once when she was about three she decided to visit her papa who worked in a store just two blocks away. Her mamma was busy and brother Carl in school so she put her teddy bear in her doll buggy and started out. The middle of the street seemed the best way to go since part of the walk-way was uphill. All went well; but about the time she reached the paving in front of the store a friend of her papa saw her. He went inside and told Mr. Long that his little girl was in the street. The quick response was, “Oh no, not Mary. She is home tied to her mother’s apron strings.” (He didn’t really mean she was tied, just where her mother could see that she was safe.) We’ll, the friend said he’d better come and see.
Well, you can guess the end of this story. Mary was taken home, buggy and teddy-bear and all. She was not punished but you can be sure that little girl did not go up town alone until she was older and knew how to keep herself safe. Of course, her folks told her about this adventure when she was older. One part they didn’t remember - but Mary did. Right now when she is seventy and has a daughter and granddaughter of her own she can think back and see herself in the middle of the street in front of her house. She is pushing the little doll buggy and watching to see if her teddy bear is happy. We all have some growing-up memories, just a little different from anyone else’s memories. Aren’t you glad we do?
-Mary Isabelle Long Fleetwood
Waldport, Oregon, 1984
....
And also this cute little postscript from the Cryptonaturalist Obsidian Bat episode - if I ever start making online content again, I want to always include postscripts or outros, I find them utterly delightful. Like a little free extra gift that wasn't expected. This is a thing I do with cards - some little doodle or silly greeting or saying on the back, not knowing if the reader will ever even find it, but hoping it makes them smile, if they do.
Obsidian Bat postscript (Jarod K Anderson)
Post Script:
Some people find bats frightening, but I don’t understand why. They’re just
nocturnal creatures who can sense the world in a way we can’t imagine and
they’re the only true flying creature with teeth, perfect little fangs and… Oh, wait,
I get it now.
Ya know, your brain has weather. Happiness. Sadness. Foggy autumn mornings
when the dew soaks your pant cuffs. Sunny days with a sweet breeze that makes
you wonder how you could have ever been dissatisfied with anything. We don’t
control the weather out in the wide world and there are plenty of times when we
don’t seem to control the weather in our own minds.
Well, in the wild and inside your own skull, if you don’t control the weather, you
can at least dress for it. A slicker for the downpour and a warm coffee with a
dogeared old friend of a book for days when the sadness blows in over the
mountains.
The last thing you wanna do is beat yourself up for what your feeling. Anxiety.
Depression. Dread. These aren’t the interior weather that any of us would choose,
and that’s kinda the point of my weather metaphor. You didn’t choose such
things and deserve no criticism for feeling them. So, be kind to yourself and dress
for the weather as you find it.
This is a sentiment I've been expressing in therapy a lot lately - a sensation that my depressive episodes just come over me, often with no warning and/or no obvious major trigger. Or maybe there is an obvious trigger, but it still feels completely outside of my control and I feel helpless in the swell of it. My therapist has been gently reminding me of coping mechanisms, instead of trying to "fix" it, which helps so much. The self judgement for feeling so badly despite having a relatively lovely existence is slowly dissipating and I think that can also help with the severity and with enduring these awful spells of discomfort and distress. It's nice to hear a reassuring echo of this sentiment.
Currently I would say my disposition is hesitatingly good, like a still, warm, but mostly overcast day.
I have plenty of work to attend to, today, but after cooking for Josh I need to go find a place to soak up the sunshine before our late afternoon/evening thunderstorms roll in. There is a prediction of large sized hail, a first for this area. And possible tornados. I am afraid. (Mostly for the birds.) I have seen exactly one funnel cloud ever in Portland. It was a day exactly like this. Sunny and unseasonably warm (we are expecting a high of 78!), we were playing in the Salmon Street Springs water fountain downtown. I was 17. Suddenly without warning, the weather turned, we ran for cover from the pouring rain, and the sky turned an eerie green before small funnel clouds formed, disappeared, and reformed in the distance. I had to catch a bus home while soaking wet in summer clothing, while thunder rolled and rain poured in buckets. I learned a lesson about spring in Portland, that day, for sure.
...
Totally different subject:
Here is the little vignette my grandmother wrote about a very early childhood memory of hers. It's delightful - there are other more delightful moments I've copied into text from her family history writing, I find her town development expositions and general way-of-life descriptions so fascinating, but I just feel compelled to share this one, it seems like she wanted it to be in the world, and it is so sweet and innocent. This is from a little town in Iowa called Leon. It's still there, but it looks from google street view like a relatively depressed area, and I cannot find any remains of her childhood home (though the church there is also yellow brick).
Mary Long; An Adventure [ca. 1917]
Once upon a time in a small town with a red-brick court house in its middle there lived a little girl. She had round healthy cheeks with dimples. She had short golden curls and her papa often called her Frowzy-top - just because he loved her very much. She had big blue eyes and thick lashes that curled up quite prettily. Best of all she had a happy smile and folks said she was a sunny child.
She had much to be sunny about. Her papa was big and handsome and jolly. Her mother (“mamma”) was small and pretty and loving. Her brother was kind, though sometimes a tease - and they played lots of games together even though he was nearly four years older than Mary.
Then there was their house. It was square and two stories and made of yellow bricks. It was trimmed in white. The high peaked roof covered a big attic where Mary played dolls as she grew older. How she loved being dry yet so close to the lively patter of a Spring rain. The attic was too hot for play in summer but south of the house was a yard that much later hosted many a lively croquet game. (Sometimes Mary won.) Under the grape arbor - long as the yard - hung a board and rope swing that seemed always to have been there.
Upstairs the house had a bedroom at each corner and a wide hall down the middle. Mary’s first remembrance of sleep were in the southeast bedroom where she was born and where her bed stood until she was old enough to have a room of her own. But that was much later.
Atop the square court house tower was a clock with easy-to-read numbers on its face or father its four faces, north, south east, and west. The clock struck in full, slow, mellow tones and succeeded remarkably well in keeping folks on time. The north face could see Mary’s house a block away.
A two-and-one-half story brick schoolhouse was in the fourth block west and north. On its roof was a square belfry with a peaked top. The musical, clear-ringing bell was tolled by a big rope in the hands of the school janitor, Mr. Campbell. The children liked to watch the rope go up and down through a small hole in the ceiling of the north open entry way; that was when it was time to form a line and march to their classrooms.
On Sundays a medley of church bells called folks to worship, a tolling for Sunday School and later a tolling for church.
Airplanes were seldom heard when Mary was little; so the strike of the town clock, the full sound of the school bell, and the ringing of church bells always came easily to the ears. Their music played a fine accompaniment to a busy carefree childhood. Of course, Mary didn’t think much about that. She was busy growing and playing and being happy.
Once when she was about three she decided to visit her papa who worked in a store just two blocks away. Her mamma was busy and brother Carl in school so she put her teddy bear in her doll buggy and started out. The middle of the street seemed the best way to go since part of the walk-way was uphill. All went well; but about the time she reached the paving in front of the store a friend of her papa saw her. He went inside and told Mr. Long that his little girl was in the street. The quick response was, “Oh no, not Mary. She is home tied to her mother’s apron strings.” (He didn’t really mean she was tied, just where her mother could see that she was safe.) We’ll, the friend said he’d better come and see.
Well, you can guess the end of this story. Mary was taken home, buggy and teddy-bear and all. She was not punished but you can be sure that little girl did not go up town alone until she was older and knew how to keep herself safe. Of course, her folks told her about this adventure when she was older. One part they didn’t remember - but Mary did. Right now when she is seventy and has a daughter and granddaughter of her own she can think back and see herself in the middle of the street in front of her house. She is pushing the little doll buggy and watching to see if her teddy bear is happy. We all have some growing-up memories, just a little different from anyone else’s memories. Aren’t you glad we do?
-Mary Isabelle Long Fleetwood
Waldport, Oregon, 1984
....
And also this cute little postscript from the Cryptonaturalist Obsidian Bat episode - if I ever start making online content again, I want to always include postscripts or outros, I find them utterly delightful. Like a little free extra gift that wasn't expected. This is a thing I do with cards - some little doodle or silly greeting or saying on the back, not knowing if the reader will ever even find it, but hoping it makes them smile, if they do.
Obsidian Bat postscript (Jarod K Anderson)
Post Script:
Some people find bats frightening, but I don’t understand why. They’re just
nocturnal creatures who can sense the world in a way we can’t imagine and
they’re the only true flying creature with teeth, perfect little fangs and… Oh, wait,
I get it now.
