Rhena Writes

Tag: mental-health

  • My favorite season is the one I’m in.

    Daily writing prompt
    What is your favorite season of year? Why?
    View all responses

    So, right now, that means spring is my favorite season. In Maryland it already feels a bit more like summer, hot and humid, the constant threat of thunderstorms, even though we are still ten days or so away from the summer solstice. The minutes of sunlight are still piling up on each side of the day. School is still in session, but the community pools are open. It would be easy for me to get caught up in either looking forward towards summer break or backwards to the cooler days of spring during this time of transition. But I’m putting a great deal of effort into being in the season I’m in — weatherwise and otherwise.

    I learned a lesson about this just yesterday in my guitar lesson. I’ve been working the same piece of music for a while now — maybe as long as two or three months? — I’m not really sure. In any case, it’s been a challenging piece and the last few lessons, my teacher has worked with me with the same few trouble spots for a few weeks now. At the end of the lesson, she’s sent me off with some thoughts on how to work on those few measures. So at each practice, I will follow her suggestions and work on those few measures, practicing them over and over. And there certainly has been some improvement.

    And yesterday she called me out. “You’ve been working on these other parts of the piece, haven’t you?” indicating the lines and measures that we hadn’t started working on during my lessons yet.

    I laughed and wondered, “How did she know?“

    I confessed that I had been. She also teaches my daughter and she told me that I’m just like her. There’s probably some truth to that. But when I talked to my daughter about it, she said that she has some favorite parts to pieces of music that she just really enjoys playing and so she plays those parts over and over.

    That’s not what’s going on for me.

    As I explained to my guitar teacher, I have it in my head that there’s some sort of deadline or like a “test” at the end and I start to get worried that I’m not going to have covered or practiced that part of the piece.

    I know. There is no deadline. And that’s also exactly what I said to my teacher. “You’re type A,” she said.

    We both had a bit of a laugh over the whole thing. The whole thing forced to me to examine and articulate some of these ridiculous thoughts and ideas that underlie how I’ve been approaching practicing guitar. And it also made me realize that I present as a Type A personality. And I realize that this is a survival/ defense mechanism that I built up in school and probably in life in general. It’s that I always feel like if I’m not three steps ahead, then I’m three steps behind and slipping even faster.

    But in my heart of hearts, that’s not who I really am. It’s just how I’ve been presenting myself. It’s a coping strategy. I practiced those other sections of the music because I was worried I’d somehow be called upon to know the whole piece and I wouldn’t be prepared.

    All of this for an activity that I’m partaking in supposedly “for fun.”

    In the meantime, the few measures that my teacher suggested I practice aren’t really getting that much better. And the whole thing isn’t really that much fun. Or, at least, it’s definitely not as much fun as it could be if I just trusted the process. Just focus on the parts that my teacher told me to. No need to be a super student, to know the whole thing ahead of the class (by the way, there is no class, these are private lessons). I’ve been cramming all of the music into each week, each practice. And in this way of thinking, I’ve ended up not really knowing any of the music that well. I haven’t been giving each line, each measure, each note its space and time.

    I’d like to be able to tell you that since this lesson and commensurate change in attitude, I’ve picked up the guitar and the whole thing has come together. That’s not true. This isn’t some neat little lesson with a change of attitude and a happy reward at the end. In fact, I haven’t even picked up the guitar since yesterday’s lesson. In part because that’s part of the lesson too. I’m doing all of this for fun so I don’t need to practice just to “prove” something to myself. And I also don’t need to “over practice”. I practice once a day for thirty to forty-five minutes. When I’m done, I’m done, I move on to something else. I don’t fixate and obsess and try to perfect it all.

    So what does this have to do with my favorite season?

    Like I said, my favorite season is the one I’m in. And being able to say that means that I don’t spend a lot of time looking forwards or looking backwards at the other seasons, which will inevitably come in their due time. Just as those other parts of the music will get their due focus and attention in their time. In the meantime, I’ll just live in the moment, the season, the measure, the notes I’m in.

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    It’s Wednesday, which means that I’m going to include a brief summary of what I’ve been blogging about in this past week.

    Let’s begin with last Thursday where I answered the prompt about my dream chocolate bar, which ended up being an impossible one because what’s the point of dreaming if it doesn’t transcend reality?

    Friday was my shortest post yet about why I wouldn’t change my name.

    Next up, I revealed who I spend most of my time with. (MY answer was unsurprising.)

    I wrote about what I need to live a good life. And, again, not a surprising answer.

    My tagline in a list poem: Rhena, more than this poem.

    Lastly, yesterday I wrote about what luxury I couldn’t live without.

    A bit of silence. And then a discussion of why I shouldn’t actually feel awkward about speaking aloud by myself.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Rhena, more than this poem.

    Daily writing prompt
    If humans had taglines, what would yours be?
    View all responses

    Rhena, human being being human.

    Rhena, no-one’s burden, no one’s savior.

    Rhena, good to the last drop.

    Rhena, me, myself, and I.

    Just Rhena it.

    Rhena, returning to myself.

    Rhena, creator, survivor, learner, lucid dreamer.

    Rhena, Queen.

    Rhena never goes out of style.

    Rhena, minding my own business.

    Have it the Rhena way.

    Rhena, I am here, like a good Rhena.

    Rhena, being strange.

    The slowest picker upper, Rhena.

    A Rhena is forever.

    Think Rhena.

    Rhena is it.

    The Rhena-est place on Earth.

    Because Rhena is worth it.

    Rhena gives me wings.

    Rhena, I’m doing my very best.

    The ultimate Rhena machine.

    I’m in Rhena’s hands.

    Rhena runs on Rhena.

    The best a Rhena can get.

    Rhena, I can hear me now.

    Rhena, always suffering.

    Rhena, believer.

    Rhena, more than a tag line.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Good is God (all the time) and YHWH is breath.

    Daily writing prompt
    What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
    View all responses

    A good life is a series of good moments, one after the other, strung together like pearls on a necklace. What makes a moment “good”?

    Being present to myself is a decent starting place to a good moment.

    Is it only good moments that are worthy of a spot on this necklace of life? Or, when I look back on each moment, will some shimmer more brightly than others? Can I consider the dull and tarnished moments as “good” as the others? Yes, I can.

    Because in all of those moments — even the dull, mistake-riddled ones — I was myself.

    Being present to this moment, to myself in this moment, means not looking back at the previous moments with self judgement — not weighing out and judging one as being “good” and another as being “bad.” Those moments existed. And I existed in those moments. That is enough.

    I this moment, I am sitting at my computer, attempting to answer this question. When my mind wanders off in flights of fancy, I pull it back to my breath.

    My breath is always with me. As long as I’m alive. And so I can always return to it. A good breath is any breath at all because it means that I’m alive. A breath is a moment. And a breath is the sound YHWH, which means that “I am” is on every breath. And that means that God is on every breath. And God and good are really the same words. And all breaths are good and therefore all moments are good moments. And a good life is just a series of good moments strung together like pearls on a necklace. And so it is that this is a good life. And so it is that the breath is the most important thing needed to live a good life. Breathe.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Starve Fear. Feed Joy. (A story/ prose poem sort of a thing.)

    Daily writing prompt
    What fears have you overcome and how?
    View all responses

    Fear is a hungry beast. I find it’s overly easy to feed its gaping maw. What do I mean by that? I mean that the society and culture that I live within is a veritable buffet of delights for fear to endlessly consume. Fear, in its turn, has a bottomless stomach and is always ready to grab a clean plate and begin its trip through the hot bar. And the cold one too.

    I’ll feed it unnecessary purchases of bits and bobs I’ve seen advertised as being able to make me happier, prettier, younger, even wealthier. Fear will consume them all. And I? No happier, no prettier, no younger and perhaps a little bit poorer. And still Fear’s belly rumbles with hunger, demanding ever more time, attention, quick fixes, superficial dalliances into this and that. “You’re missing out,” he whispers into my jewel-laden ear. And I succumb. And still he devours more.

    Fear holds my attention with its adrenaline and thrills, its glitter and shine, its shadows and mirrors. Caught up in the echantment of his own illusions, he pulls back a curtain to reveal his greatest weapon: death.

    But, alas, Fear has overplayed his hand. For Death reminds us, “I’ll meet all of you regardless of how you spend your time. You’d do just as well to invite Fear into your heart as you would with his twin, Joy. It’s all the same to me.”

    And so I pass Joy a clean plate from the buffet of earthly delights: a long stretch, a deep breath, the breeze shifting the juniper branches, a sip of clean water. And together we eat our fill. And then some.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Would a job by any other name smell just as sweet?

    Daily writing prompt
    What jobs have you had?
    View all responses

    What’s in a job? Does there need to be payment?

    Cash, ducats, affections exchanged.

    Does there need to be an exchange of tangible goods?

    Care, food, health, love.

    I was once a secret keeper. I was terrible at that job. I didn’t know which ones should be kept and which ones thrown away, whispered and carried away on the wind, which ones to bind up in my heart and which to shout out.

    Needless to say, I’m a terrible judge of character.

    I also spent a summer smearing cream cheese on bagels. This was before there were tip jars on counters.

    My first paid job was babysitting. I probably wasn’t very good at this either. Sometimes, I suspect that parents confused “good at babysitting” with “available and cheap, relatively.” Oh, and a girl in roughly the right age range.

    I even convinced myself that perhaps I really had a gift, a purpose. And so I ended up a teacher for a while.

    I’ve been an assistant editor, a research assistant, a sandwich maker, a camp counselor, a guide for a group of teenagers traveling, a creator. Those are things that I’ve more or less gotten paid for.

    Is getting paid a requisite for a job?

    Because the job I’ve had the longest is a mother but I don’t get paid for that. I’m told it is its own reward.

    I don’t get paid for this either.

    Still, one must carry on. Job or no job. Paid or not. And so I do.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Practice. Practice. Practice.

    Daily writing prompt
    What are you good at?
    View all responses

    I’ve been thinking off and on about this question since I read it last night. And each time, when my mind has started to wander towards figuring out how I’m going to answer it when I eventually sit down at my computer, I’ve gently tugged it back to the present moment.

    Am I good at this gentle tugging? Maybe. But “good” is a relative term isn’t it? Certainly it’s something that I’m trying to practice regularly, this gentle tugging of my mind to the present moment. I don’t think that there’s a way to grade it or assess whether or not I’m “good” at it.

    But even here, now, I’m sitting at my computer answering this daily prompt. My mind will start to wander towards trying to guess at what I’m “supposed” to write. My mind will wonder, “What are other bloggers writing in response to this question?”

    Tug. Tug. Gently. Gently.

    I can feel the keys underneath my fingertips.

    Ah! The miracle that my muscles, sinew, neurons remember where to place each finger in order to get the desired result. How is it that I remember how to spell the words: memory, gentle, mind, and wander?

    I might consider for a moment going down a google rabbit hole to read the science behind this process of what I’m doing here.

    But, remember? Tug. Tug. Gently. Gently.

    My chair is uncomfortably out of alignment from my desk and screen. I rearrange myself. The chair squeaks.

    Gentle tug.

    I hear the car tires on the highway outside of my house; a flare of frustration at the speed everyone seems to be driving.

    Tug. Tug.

    I worry. Is this enough words? Did I answer the question? Will someone read this and feel or think something?

    Tug. Tug.

    My feet are resting lightly on the stack of blankets under my desk. I stretch my toes.

    I pull my mind back to my breath. Breathe.

    This. This is what I’m good at.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Myself.

    Daily writing prompt
    Who would you like to talk to soon?
    View all responses

    I wrote last week about three books about dreams and dreaming and an experience I had with learning more about myself and creative problem solving through my dreams.

    I’ve been writing down my dreams when I remember them. From time to time, I’ll think about what I want to dream about and remind myself to try to write them down after I turn out the light and as I’m falling asleep.

    I’ve wanted to lucid dream and I’ve tried a few practices towards that goal. A few times a day, I checked in to ask myself, “am I dreaming?” The goal here is to prime my brain to ask myself that question in a dream state. I also read that one way that people lucid dream is that they prime their brains to recognize that they are in a dream. Things are often “off” in dreams and if we can recognize that things are not quite right, then we can recognize that we are in a dream and assume control of the dream. As for the things that are commonly off in dream (apparently, according to what I read) is that dreamers are in buildings that no longer exist, they are conversing with people who had already died, or their hands aren’t quite right — they might have too many fingers or not enough or they might just look a bit wrong. (Apparently, hands are so complex that we have a hard time recalling them in all of their detail.)

    I often dream of my childhood home, which has since been torn down. I thought that this was the perfect way to get myself into lucid dreaming. And I tried to prime my brain to remember that when I see that home, it’s not real and therefore must be a dream. Several mornings, when I wrote down my dreams from the night before, I described dreaming of my childhood home followed by the question, “Why didn’t I recognize that was a dream???” I was getting a bit frustrated.

    So I set aside all of that. I didn’t really set aside the “goal” of lucid dreaming but, rather, I decided to trust that my mind was doing what it needed to do whilst dreaming regardless of whether I remembered or not and regardless of whether or not I knew I was dreaming. I still was writing down dreams when I remembered them, but I wasn’t letting it bother me when I didn’t. I was confident that I was still dreaming. I was confident that my mind was still doing what it needed to do to take care of me regardless of whether or not I could put the experiences into language.

    In other words, I let go.

    This letting go, this distinct feeling of ungrasping, this trust in myself …. all of that is central to what happened to me next.

    Last night, I dreamt that I was in the driveway of my home. There was a lot going on. Different people visiting, all these cars parked all over the place, more people arriving with camping chairs. I was getting progressively annoyed by all of this. In the dream, I was talking to a few people. As I’ve mentioned before, it doesn’t really matter who these people are in waking life. They are all dream representations of different parts of my personality or different things on my mind. I was talking to one person and suddenly I looked up at my house. We renovated our house a few years ago but in the dream, the house looked like it did PRE renovation.

    I started to say that to the person I was talking to, “look, my house looks….” and then I’m pretty sure I gasped in the dream. “That means I’m dreaming!” I said. Even though I was dreaming I still said “excuse me” to the person I was talking to and then I launched myself into the air and started to fly.

    Especially when I was younger, I’d often have flying dreams, but they involved a fair amount of effort. And I was often flying to get away from something threatening. In this dream, it was completely effortless and exhilarating. I wasn’t trying to escape. I was simply being.

    In fact, I think that I was SO excited that my excitement woke me up.

    Dreams in general feel like I am speaking to myself. I’m having conversations with different parts of myself often towards getting to know them all better and, as I mentioned before, often towards some sort of problem solving.

    Prior to this experience, I wasn’t even aware that I felt that part of me was unavailable to myself. I think that this is a very western freudian belief system — that we have a “deeper” self that is actually controlling us. In other words, this whole idea of repressing our true selves and feelings.

    I woke up realizing that this isn’t true. It was as if this dream dug out and released this false belief system that had been implanted in there by western “culture”.

    Last night, my lucid dream felt like a “break through” in the sense that I can talk to myself, my WHOLE self without words or language. I experienced a sense of wholeness in the lucid dream, a feeling that has carried over into my waking self.

    I am not a mystery to myself.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • On spoons and hurts; words and truth. (A Prose Poem sort of a thing.)

    Daily writing prompt
    Do you have any collections?
    View all responses

    I once knew someone who collected small decorative spoons. Apparently this was a thing that people did. Or maybe still do. At least, that’s what I was led to believe when I expressed my confusion when I learned of this spoon collection. Apparently, many places, or at least the places where this person had been, sell these spoons as souvenirs.

    I think perhaps they kept their spoons in a velvet-lined box. I’m actually not sure if they showed me such a box or if I just made that up. My understanding is that the spoons were not used for anything. They were just kept. Maybe this person and his family (I think the spoon collecting was something of a group project for them) pulled them out every so often to clean them and reminisce about where they had acquired each spoon. And maybe that is purpose enough. Maybe some objects spark memories, conversations even connection.

    Anyway I’ve never collected spoons.

    I do have horrible habit of collecting hurts. You know, things that have been said or done to me that have been unfair or mean. I squirrel them away in my heart and then every so often pull them out to shine them and examine them so that I learn their every shape and crag. That way I can place them in juuuust the right spot in this wall that I’m building. At least such a collection has a practical purpose. That wall is high and strong. I am safe inside where I can keep an even more useful collection: bits and pieces of information about myself, moments of solid happiness and contentment, bright and shiny truths.

    I collect words and sentences, compile them into their velvet boxes, maybe give them a good shake. What words and images will I pull out from my collection this time? Will they be true?

    Maybe they will inspire me to tap out a bit of mortar or even a whole rock from the wall of hurts. I’ll slip the words out through the hole. They’ll glisten and shimmer, a sort of flashlight morse code. I-M-H-E-R-E they will spell out. I’m here.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Can you spot the moments of unnecessary self sacrifice?

    Daily writing prompt
    What sacrifices have you made in life?
    View all responses

    Let’s play a game. See if you can spot the moment of sacrifice.

    This morning, I was in the kitchen making my tea and toasting an English muffin. I had music on the speaker and also a podcast in my headphones. My son, pen in hand, was working on something on the coffee table.

    “Mom, how do you spell ‘doesn’t’?” he asked from across the room. He made a few guesses and eventually I went over to sit next to him to show him how contractions work. I used to be an English teacher and this kind of thing is in my wheelhouse.

    I showed him “doesn’t” and then was going to show him “isn’t.” He flopped over and moaned. He did NOT want to learn about contractions. He just wanted the one word.

    It was fine. He stated his boundary and I realized that I also wanted to have my tea and English muffin. So I turned back on my headphones and returned to the kitchen.

    A few more questions rolled in. “Mom, how do you spell favor? Mom, how do you spell echo?” At first I’d help him try to sound the words out, elongating different sounds to help him guess more accurately. But eventually I decided that I needed to just turn back on my headphones. He was fine. He might end up with a few misspelled words in his project. That wasn’t the end of the world — his nor mine. Of course, the questions continued. He said my name a few times and I didn’t respond. Finally, I turned to him, “I’m listening to something right now so I can’t help you spell.”

    He started pleading and arguing, “Music isn’t important!”

    I sat down to have my tea and muffin. He continued to ask for help from across the room. Then he tried a different tactic from shouting at me and came over so that he could speak more quietly to me. Eventually, I explained to him that I had been helping him before, with “doesn’t” and he said he didn’t want that help. I have things I need to do now.

    “Mom, how do you spell ‘crate’? Is it K-R-A-T?”

    I shook my head no.

    “How do you spell ‘crate’?”

    I continued to try to ignore him. Eventually I sat down near him on the couch so that I could write in my journal, as is my morning routine. He continued to ask me questions.

    Did you notice it? The moment of self sacrifice? Or maybe I should say moments.

    Often, self sacrifice is considered a good thing and perhaps especially so when it comes to when a parent sacrifices themselves for a child. But looking back at this morning, I can see how confusing my back and forth waffling must have been for him. On the one hand, I would say, “I’m doing something here” and then I could answer his questions. In the moment, it feels like I’m sacrificing what I want (tea and an English muffin) for him, his betterment, to teach him something. But what he is actually learning is that I have weak boundaries, that my basic needs (nourishment) are not as important as him spelling the words correctly.

    For a few moments after I told him that I was listening to something, he responded, “music isn’t important!” Indeed, I felt the tug of guilt to respond to him. Instead, I stayed quiet, listening to my music, teaching him, in the process that, yes, music is important.

    Once I sat down on the couch to write, he continued to ask questions. At first I tried to stay focused on what I was doing, but I was struggling with not answering him, “I am writing and I need to concentrate on that.” After that, there were a few blissful moments where I was writing and he was working on his project. I could see him trying to figure out how to spell “crate” without my help.

    I wish that I had allowed and trusted that my actions would speak for themselves. Had I just continued to write, quietly, I think he would have eventually caught on that, yes, writing is important. His writing is important. And my writing is important.

    And also that spelling each individual word isn’t that important. Don’t let it hold up his writing. He has a deep well of resources and knowledge inside of him that he can tap into without having to always ask me to do it for him. As do I.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. 

  • Writing this post is one small improvement I’m making in my life.

    Daily writing prompt
    What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
    View all responses

    An underground lagoon of water inside a cave. On hot days, it is cooling. On cold ones, it’s a hot spring. Either way, it is eternally refreshed by a constant stream of clean, fresh water. High above the pool, there is a space in the rock ceiling through which sun and moon light alternating stream through. The sunlight feeds the mosses and ferns that grow on rock outcroppings on the walls.

    This cave can be accessed from a tunnel. But at first, the tunnel was very small. I’ve had to dig out the tunnel bit by bit to get to the pool. I shoveled and scraped a little bit here and there, carried out the dirt and stones back out of the back of the tunnel. I had to carry it some distance from the entrance lest it built up too high and the whole thing caved in. One day, I could finally see the pool clearly. And so I kept going. Each day, the work of widening the tunnel and carrying out the garbage became easier and easier. I could even say that I enjoyed it a bit, even though it was work.

    Finally, I could reach the pool. I swam and rested. I drank the clear water. I floated and let the water hold me. It flowed around me. I could stay in here forever. But I won’t.

    The world above would miss me if I stayed here.

    And in any case, the pool is infinite, ubiquitous, ever-present. All the work I put in wasn’t for nothing, after all.

    When I started writing this blog, I didn’t set out to write every day. Even once I found the daily prompts (or they found me, perhaps?), I didn’t set a goal to respond to them every day. And yet, here I am, having just posted to this blog fifty days in a row. I didn’t ever set this as a goal. Still, it feels like something of a milestone which, in turn, feels like an appropriate moment for reflection.

    Or not.

    I had this sort of idea in the back of my head that at some point, maybe today, I’d write a “what I learned from blogging for fifty days in a row” post. Or “what happened when I blogged daily.” Or “the benefits of posting everyday.” My understanding is that those are very SEO friendly terms … or something. (The word “understanding” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.)

    But none of this has been about pleasing any other person (much less an algorithm, search engine, or even, I’m sorry to say, readers). It’s been about me. Making myself content. Giving myself space. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s been about digging towards that pool of my own creativity. And there’s still possibility there.

    So. Will I be back tomorrow?

    I really don’t know. Because the other thing this has been about has been to give myself permission to just be in each moment, to do the things that feel most nourishing to me, to always look for opportunities to extend myself grace. Who knows what tomorrow’s daily prompt will bring?

    I’m just focused on the grace, the space, the nourishment of this moment, this breath.

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    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support.