I'm about to get to get on a soapbox (and probably offend a few people). That was your warning.
When someone discusses a major tragedy he or she nearly had the misfortunate of being near or in (and thus hurt or killed), that person should steer clear of saying that God told them "not to go there" or "to stay home." It implies that those who DID go, who didn't stay home, are not in communication with God or that God does not care about them as much. That is rude.
That was the brief version. Here's a not-so-brief one:
I can't speak for other faiths, but Mormons seem to have a monopoly on this lovely practice. I was 18 when the 9/11 attacks occurred. The stories of the many faithful who had been inspired to stay home from work or not attend a certain business meeting reverberated throughout the culture for the next several months and even years. Of course, I don't necessarily doubt those experiences. But I don't know if these people quite grasped how it could have made those who had loved ones die in the attacks feel. Even on the 10th anniversary of the event, I found myself interviewing someone who was in D.C. that day. He recounted numerous stories from people in his congregation who had found reasons — coincidentally or not — to be far away from the Pentagon that day. They said things like, "God was watching out for me that day."
It's risky to write or talk critically about anything surrounding a recent tragedy. However, I might not be able to bite my tongue if I continue to hear similar thoughts in the coming days in regard to the Boston Marathon bombings. The first story came in via someone in the newsroom today. An acquaintance who had the opportunity to watch the runners at the finish line in Boston on Monday apparently decided not to go weeks ago after feeling "weird" about it. Now, he credits the spirit for that decision.
I know — really, I do — that 95 percent of the people who have these stories or who pass them along are genuinely without guile. Many of them may have had spiritual experiences to persuade them away from such dangers. While my own spiritual experiences are few and often too complicated to realize until later, I get that others experience God differently. That's OK.
But to these people who say God kept them safe, I want to say: Do you realize what you're saying? Would you say that to the father of the 8-year-old boy who died Monday? Would you relay your spiritual witness to the man who just lost both of his legs and whose horrific post-explosion photo is now circulating around the web? Would you even think to imply to them that God cares more for you and your safety than He does for them? Because, by imparting that God communicated with you to keep you safe — and that you listened, you're insinuating that either the other person matters less to God and might not have been worthy of that communication, or that the individual just wasn't listening closely enough.
I'm exhausted. Tragedies like this make me sick. I spent all day Monday searching for the status of the 18 Cache Valley runners who had registered for the marathon. It took five staff members and nearly five hours to track every single one of those 18 and ensure they were all alive and unharmed. We talked to them, to their worried family members, to their terrified friends. These are 18 good people who, if they had been hurt, would have still been good. It should not be implied they are not as loved by God as is anyone who chose not to go for whatever reason.
And of course, I know the response: "But Emilie, I don't think anyone who says stuff like this means it like that." Of course they don't. I know that. That's exactly why they should think twice about saying it.
4.05.2013
Lately
I haven't felt the need to write lately, but that will come. It always does. For now, here's what I've been up to. (All photos from my phone and therefore, sufficiently blurry.)
I'm teaching a class at USU again this semester. It's much less time-consuming since I basically built the curriculum last year, but if you look for me on any given Sunday or Tuesday night, I will be prepping like this. Probably with Lucy.
Our friends, Joey and Emily, invited us to Bear Lake in February to check out one of the cabins they manage. It was snowy but sunny and beautiful — and great to get out of Cache Valley and see some friends.
Garrett and I had our nephews over for a sleepover last month while Katie and Shawn spent their first night alone since having Conner. Most people who have experience with Anderson started laughing as soon as they heard we were going to try this. The kid has enough energy to power a small town. But it went well. Anderson slept well before getting up right at 8 a.m., ready to go. Conner was going through his I-won't-sleep-without-a-binky-in-my-mouth phase, so I was up every 30-45 minutes putting it back in. Eventually, he ended up next to me in bed. But he's a cute one.
Spring came early, and my crocuses (croci?) were lovely. Then they all died. But I was grateful for the initial color.
One of my goals, remember, for 2013 is to read more. These are my books for this year. I've read half of three of these. I want to read them all.
Cute Conner. He smiles a whole lot more now. On demand, even. He's also huge: 19 pounds at six months.
Before spring came, winter happened. (And it might come back. This is Utah, after all.) The snow is sort of pretty sometimes.
Jet loves this spot. For several hours a day, he watches out that window. We love our big boy, even though he's a little too vocal lately.
I interviewed an artist several weeks ago who had the coolest ceilings. This was all done using drywall products. I want him to come work on my house.
Garrett and I refinanced the house in March. The title office, where we signed the paperwork, is kitty-corner on the same block as my work. I took this looking out the window toward work. Interesting view of a complicated block. (Oh, did you want me to talk about the refinance? It was stressful. That's all.)
2.09.2013
To do in 2013
So it's February, and I'm just now thinking about goals for the year. It's me. No one should really be surprised. So, in no particular order...
1. Be a better friend. I am an introvert — an introvert who often forgets that others do friendship and love in different ways. I value friendship in various ways — in time spent talking, energy spent thinking, comfortable silence, unconditional support. I don't do a good enough job doing these things — or in recognizing the alternative ways in which others value and act on friendship. Frankly, I often feel very alone. I don't consider myself one who has tons of friends. That's sometimes OK, but I need to be more active on my end so that when it's not OK, I can know I did everything I could. A handful of people are very important to me, and I don't want to lose them this year.
2. Read one book a month. Social media has made reading books difficult. (At least, that's my excuse.) My attention span is shorter, my computer usually has too many tabs open, and my phone, with its many, many notifications, is always within reach. I want to read more. I have a stack of books I've either started and not finished, or not started at all. They are good books. There is no reason I can't find the time to read them.
3. Keep my IT band healthy. I have no fitness goal this year because I will fail and then feel crappy about myself. But I need to keep my IT band healthy for the sake of my knee's health and my general well-being. It's a million times better than it was one year ago, but I haven't done what's necessary this year to have it as good as it could be.
4. Make things. By no means am I considered crafty, but I'd like to do more with my hands. I see cool stuff on Pinterest — stuff I could do but don't. This year, I want to make something and generally be more creative.
5. Go outside more. There is nothing like living in northern Utah for the past four weeks to make one appreciate Utah's summers. Cache Valley is nearly paradise June through September, and I don't appreciate it enough during those months. I want to hike, ride my bike, walk, camp, swim outside. Anything.
6. Be nicer. I've had somewhat of an epiphany over the past several months — if it's possible to experience something that's literally defined as "a moment" instead over many moments — about the state of humankind and its ability to be horrible. I don't understand how and why we treat each other in such an uncaring way. Despite better intentions, I'm probably guilty of this at times, too. I want to be nicer.
7. Eat healthier. Last year was a turning point for my nutritional health, but there is still so much I could do. I tend to have 10-day spurts of energy, during which I make food, buy produce, take my lunch, etc. Then I get tired, have a few long days ... and eat like crap. This year, I want to figure out how to combat those down spurts.
8. Be a better boss. It's exhausting to be in charge of people. Sometimes I let that exhaustion get to me, and I shut down — even at work, where people genuinely need me. There's a lot I could do better, even if it requires more brain power. What my goal is in 2013 is to figure out how to do those things better. Extroverts and introverts manage differently, and I've failed in many ways by trying to model examples from the former. I need to figure out how to harness the good from what I do have to offer.
9. Sleep more. My sleep schedule is craptaculer. Has been for years. Sometime yesterday, while sitting at work around noon, I counted up about 27 hours I'd actually slept in the past five days. By Fridays, I'm often not intellectually functional. Things need to change.
10. Act. Be less passive. Make decisions. Don't put off hard stuff. Maintain my good qualities of thoughtfulness and stability, but do away with my bad qualities of procrastination and fear. Act like 2013 might be my last year. You never know. No one ever knows.
1. Be a better friend. I am an introvert — an introvert who often forgets that others do friendship and love in different ways. I value friendship in various ways — in time spent talking, energy spent thinking, comfortable silence, unconditional support. I don't do a good enough job doing these things — or in recognizing the alternative ways in which others value and act on friendship. Frankly, I often feel very alone. I don't consider myself one who has tons of friends. That's sometimes OK, but I need to be more active on my end so that when it's not OK, I can know I did everything I could. A handful of people are very important to me, and I don't want to lose them this year.
2. Read one book a month. Social media has made reading books difficult. (At least, that's my excuse.) My attention span is shorter, my computer usually has too many tabs open, and my phone, with its many, many notifications, is always within reach. I want to read more. I have a stack of books I've either started and not finished, or not started at all. They are good books. There is no reason I can't find the time to read them.
3. Keep my IT band healthy. I have no fitness goal this year because I will fail and then feel crappy about myself. But I need to keep my IT band healthy for the sake of my knee's health and my general well-being. It's a million times better than it was one year ago, but I haven't done what's necessary this year to have it as good as it could be.
4. Make things. By no means am I considered crafty, but I'd like to do more with my hands. I see cool stuff on Pinterest — stuff I could do but don't. This year, I want to make something and generally be more creative.
5. Go outside more. There is nothing like living in northern Utah for the past four weeks to make one appreciate Utah's summers. Cache Valley is nearly paradise June through September, and I don't appreciate it enough during those months. I want to hike, ride my bike, walk, camp, swim outside. Anything.
6. Be nicer. I've had somewhat of an epiphany over the past several months — if it's possible to experience something that's literally defined as "a moment" instead over many moments — about the state of humankind and its ability to be horrible. I don't understand how and why we treat each other in such an uncaring way. Despite better intentions, I'm probably guilty of this at times, too. I want to be nicer.
7. Eat healthier. Last year was a turning point for my nutritional health, but there is still so much I could do. I tend to have 10-day spurts of energy, during which I make food, buy produce, take my lunch, etc. Then I get tired, have a few long days ... and eat like crap. This year, I want to figure out how to combat those down spurts.
8. Be a better boss. It's exhausting to be in charge of people. Sometimes I let that exhaustion get to me, and I shut down — even at work, where people genuinely need me. There's a lot I could do better, even if it requires more brain power. What my goal is in 2013 is to figure out how to do those things better. Extroverts and introverts manage differently, and I've failed in many ways by trying to model examples from the former. I need to figure out how to harness the good from what I do have to offer.
9. Sleep more. My sleep schedule is craptaculer. Has been for years. Sometime yesterday, while sitting at work around noon, I counted up about 27 hours I'd actually slept in the past five days. By Fridays, I'm often not intellectually functional. Things need to change.
10. Act. Be less passive. Make decisions. Don't put off hard stuff. Maintain my good qualities of thoughtfulness and stability, but do away with my bad qualities of procrastination and fear. Act like 2013 might be my last year. You never know. No one ever knows.
1.03.2013
Moments from 2012
There are not words to string together in a way that would adequately sum up 2012. At least, not in a way in which I know how.
I do know this: 2012 was one of those years for which the other years in my life prepared me. While I may appear to be the same person as I was a year ago, I feel so different.
You're supposed to write the wrap-up posts on the last day of the year; I know this. But as is typical, I've needed another few days to think about it. Because I can't write something succinct, something that summarizes the last year in a traditional way, here are a few moments that helped define my 2012.
Even these, they're not as nuanced as I'd prefer. And they give the impression that the past year was much sadder and more intense than it was. Well, that's not true. It was intense. But it was not always sad.
One night in March or April, I sat with Garrett at Kneaders just before closing. We'd gone to take advantage of the half-priced desserts so it must have been after 8 p.m. on a Saturday. The days prior had been rough. My mind was moving faster than I thought possible and yet so slow the pain had time to fester. I sat, telling him how unfair life was, how upset I was, how betrayed I felt. It was the opening of what has been the second real religious crisis of my life. The one that won't end. I started crying, tears of hurt and anger. I tried to not make a big deal of it; there were other people sitting around the restaurant. But I cried so hard I didn't care anymore. Garrett just listened. And then, after almost everyone was gone, the store manager came over and handed me a cookie.
I sat in a room with three family members one late afternoon this past fall. An entire side of the room had glass windows, so I could see the teenagers and adults walking by in the hallway. It'd been a ... challenging 24 hours, and the details are the kind you only share with your closest family members and your boss in an attempt to explain why you're not going to be able to work for a few days. It's not my story to tell. But I will forever remember that moment, sitting in that room, watching for an awkward grin to break through my brother's resolve, and just hoping the people walking by outside that glass would be OK.
We walked up and down the streets in downtown Chicago, promising ourselves we'd find a bus or get to a train stop in a few blocks. It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and I was about 30 hours into a trip to Chicago that lasted fewer than 48. It might have been normal for Chelane and Mindy, but this was not life as usual for me. It was spontaneous. I was sleep deprived; I was happy; I was loud without caring. As we walked, Chelane and I kept stopping to point out to each other the flowers and plants that grew outside the wealthy town homes in ways only Lake Michigan's humidity would allow, while Mindy rolled her eyes at our continual slowing. Our feet hurt. I remembered how Chelane's love of plants hit while we were roommates in college, while my obsession waited another year or two to blossom. Finally, we were somewhere — together — where we could enjoy it all at the same time. I have a feeling we'll still be pointing out plants to each other in another 50 years.
Sometime in June, I woke up to see a list of names and phone numbers on a paper I had left on the countertop to see the night before. It was a phone call I'd been putting off for years, and one that — if I chose to let it — would set off a chain reaction of events I had not yet been prepared to deal with. I sat down at the counter, started calling and found what I needed pretty immediately. I jotted down a date and time, hung up the phone and sat there for about three seconds. Then, I threw the pen across the kitchen as hard as I could. It broke, shattering. I sunk to the ground crying, furious that life had put me in a position to have to feel these emotions, to have to make that call. As I sat crying on the cold tile, the cat, stunned at the sudden burst of violence, rubbed up against me and started to purr.
One Saturday, while driving to work one afternoon, I listened to a podcast about Mormons and gays. I pulled into the parking lot and sat in my car a bit longer to finish listening. My heart ached for the dispair in those whose voices I heard. As I sat there, I involuntarily begged for a resolution. Then, I had one of those moments. One of those huge moments — the ones some attribute to the spirit or others call an epiphany. It made me gasp and quickly look up. In that moment, no words came to me, but I was suddenly filled with peace. And I was overcome with the knowledge that my heart is in the right place, and that maybe someday, it will all be OK. By no means do I still feel this peaceful about this, but for that moment I did.
Late summer, in my car, parked between the Kmart and Kohl's buildings in North Logan. The night before I had found out someone I had known relatively well, someone with whom I had a complicated relationship, had killed himself. Through some unofficial process, it was determined by others that I'd be the one to break the news to a close friend — someone who had a much closer, more complicated relationship with this person. Someone who had the potential to be devastated by this news. I sat in my car in that parking lot texting her, trying to feel out if now was the right time to drive over to her apartment. It was not. And so, with the knowledge that this horrible information would stay bottled up in me for yet another day, I broke down about it for the first time. Gripping the steering wheel, I stared at the receipts and napkins littered throughout my car and wondered why life has to be so hard for so many people.
I'd crossed my fingers for weeks that the building on the east side of the Quad would be finished, furnished and ready before the end of spring semester. Now it was, with its beautiful new Mac lab and working projector equipment, but I wasn't ready. As my students wandered out of the old classroom one day in April for the last time, I waited. That old computer lab, the one on the third floor of the Animal Science building that every journalism student my age remembers, was saying goodbye, telling us to find a new home. But it was where I'd found my home. It was the room in which I first felt that newswriting spark, the one I'd raced to every other morning when I was 19 so not to miss quizzes, the one where I'd spent my last journalism class in the spring of 2005. It was also the space I'd come back to in 2012 to stand in front of 16 students twice a week and attempt to teach them in ways similar to how I'd been taught. It was the room in which I gained a confidence I didn't know I lacked. So, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few photos of the old PCs, mismatched chairs and broken printer. And then I walked out.
I do know this: 2012 was one of those years for which the other years in my life prepared me. While I may appear to be the same person as I was a year ago, I feel so different.
You're supposed to write the wrap-up posts on the last day of the year; I know this. But as is typical, I've needed another few days to think about it. Because I can't write something succinct, something that summarizes the last year in a traditional way, here are a few moments that helped define my 2012.
Even these, they're not as nuanced as I'd prefer. And they give the impression that the past year was much sadder and more intense than it was. Well, that's not true. It was intense. But it was not always sad.
One night in March or April, I sat with Garrett at Kneaders just before closing. We'd gone to take advantage of the half-priced desserts so it must have been after 8 p.m. on a Saturday. The days prior had been rough. My mind was moving faster than I thought possible and yet so slow the pain had time to fester. I sat, telling him how unfair life was, how upset I was, how betrayed I felt. It was the opening of what has been the second real religious crisis of my life. The one that won't end. I started crying, tears of hurt and anger. I tried to not make a big deal of it; there were other people sitting around the restaurant. But I cried so hard I didn't care anymore. Garrett just listened. And then, after almost everyone was gone, the store manager came over and handed me a cookie.
I sat in a room with three family members one late afternoon this past fall. An entire side of the room had glass windows, so I could see the teenagers and adults walking by in the hallway. It'd been a ... challenging 24 hours, and the details are the kind you only share with your closest family members and your boss in an attempt to explain why you're not going to be able to work for a few days. It's not my story to tell. But I will forever remember that moment, sitting in that room, watching for an awkward grin to break through my brother's resolve, and just hoping the people walking by outside that glass would be OK.
We walked up and down the streets in downtown Chicago, promising ourselves we'd find a bus or get to a train stop in a few blocks. It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and I was about 30 hours into a trip to Chicago that lasted fewer than 48. It might have been normal for Chelane and Mindy, but this was not life as usual for me. It was spontaneous. I was sleep deprived; I was happy; I was loud without caring. As we walked, Chelane and I kept stopping to point out to each other the flowers and plants that grew outside the wealthy town homes in ways only Lake Michigan's humidity would allow, while Mindy rolled her eyes at our continual slowing. Our feet hurt. I remembered how Chelane's love of plants hit while we were roommates in college, while my obsession waited another year or two to blossom. Finally, we were somewhere — together — where we could enjoy it all at the same time. I have a feeling we'll still be pointing out plants to each other in another 50 years.
Sometime in June, I woke up to see a list of names and phone numbers on a paper I had left on the countertop to see the night before. It was a phone call I'd been putting off for years, and one that — if I chose to let it — would set off a chain reaction of events I had not yet been prepared to deal with. I sat down at the counter, started calling and found what I needed pretty immediately. I jotted down a date and time, hung up the phone and sat there for about three seconds. Then, I threw the pen across the kitchen as hard as I could. It broke, shattering. I sunk to the ground crying, furious that life had put me in a position to have to feel these emotions, to have to make that call. As I sat crying on the cold tile, the cat, stunned at the sudden burst of violence, rubbed up against me and started to purr.
One Saturday, while driving to work one afternoon, I listened to a podcast about Mormons and gays. I pulled into the parking lot and sat in my car a bit longer to finish listening. My heart ached for the dispair in those whose voices I heard. As I sat there, I involuntarily begged for a resolution. Then, I had one of those moments. One of those huge moments — the ones some attribute to the spirit or others call an epiphany. It made me gasp and quickly look up. In that moment, no words came to me, but I was suddenly filled with peace. And I was overcome with the knowledge that my heart is in the right place, and that maybe someday, it will all be OK. By no means do I still feel this peaceful about this, but for that moment I did.
Late summer, in my car, parked between the Kmart and Kohl's buildings in North Logan. The night before I had found out someone I had known relatively well, someone with whom I had a complicated relationship, had killed himself. Through some unofficial process, it was determined by others that I'd be the one to break the news to a close friend — someone who had a much closer, more complicated relationship with this person. Someone who had the potential to be devastated by this news. I sat in my car in that parking lot texting her, trying to feel out if now was the right time to drive over to her apartment. It was not. And so, with the knowledge that this horrible information would stay bottled up in me for yet another day, I broke down about it for the first time. Gripping the steering wheel, I stared at the receipts and napkins littered throughout my car and wondered why life has to be so hard for so many people.
I'd crossed my fingers for weeks that the building on the east side of the Quad would be finished, furnished and ready before the end of spring semester. Now it was, with its beautiful new Mac lab and working projector equipment, but I wasn't ready. As my students wandered out of the old classroom one day in April for the last time, I waited. That old computer lab, the one on the third floor of the Animal Science building that every journalism student my age remembers, was saying goodbye, telling us to find a new home. But it was where I'd found my home. It was the room in which I first felt that newswriting spark, the one I'd raced to every other morning when I was 19 so not to miss quizzes, the one where I'd spent my last journalism class in the spring of 2005. It was also the space I'd come back to in 2012 to stand in front of 16 students twice a week and attempt to teach them in ways similar to how I'd been taught. It was the room in which I gained a confidence I didn't know I lacked. So, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few photos of the old PCs, mismatched chairs and broken printer. And then I walked out.
12.22.2012
Covering grief
One Sunday years ago I sat in church next to my friend. Class was about to start — I think. My memory is a little fuzzy about the technicalities. We were 18 or 19. Her mom stepped into the room, leaned over my friend's shoulder and whispered that a close family friend had just died. My friend lunged forward in her chair, sobbing.
That moment has stayed with me for a long time. Every time I think of it, I am struck with how different my reaction might have been. This person was young, was not expected to die; his death was quite unusual. I would have sat still, stunned and possibly in denial. In contrast, my friend's reaction was so immediate — she heard, she processed, and she began to grieve in a mere few seconds.
For better or worse, that is not how my brain operates. In my job, it has more than once been a benefit. I am able to process appalling news items professionally and do what needs to be done at work before dealing with them emotionally.
This, combined with nearly 10 years of experience in reporting on sometimes horrific events, has made me a bit cold to tragedy. It's how people like me get the reputation for being "heartless" journalists.
Last Friday, I was home when I heard about the shooting in Connecticut. I was working on another project on my laptop, and the news about the dead filtered in slowly — but in the background. It was just another shooting, to be honest, but I recognized its significance and dealt with it as needed at work later that day. Still, it was just another shooting.
Then on Thursday, The Salt Lake Tribune did this, memorializing one of the children by dedicating an unprecedented amount of white space to the "story she never had the chance to write." I saw it after I woke up and thought about it all morning. Driving to work, Sissel's melancholy "Like an Angel Passing Through My Room" played in my car. And then it all hit: This little girl, who spelled her name just like me, who was the oldest child just like me, who had those blue eyes just like mine — she was dead. Perhaps these similarities had subconsciously kept me from recognizing the weight of the situation because I knew it would hit home too hard.
It took a newspaper to do it. The genius use of white space spoke to me in a language I recognized. And I finally felt human.
The truth is, reporters are all human. Some of us grieve the story as we report it, and others take longer. But we all grieve. A former colleague of mine covered the shooting aftermath for three straight days, trying to write about the victims in a way that did them justice. His Facebook status updates have been heartbreaking, especially in seeing the apparent guilt he feels in actually feeling pain — when those around him "deserved" to feel it more.
There's a fuzzy line journalists walk when reporting on these types of things; we want to empathize, but if we immerse ourselves too much in the grief, we risk becoming paralyzed by the dispair. So, we put up a wall and therefore risk being seen as heartless.
That Thursday morning, the tears came, and I had to pull over. And since then, Sissel's haunting rendition has floated through my mind many, many times a day.
In this peaceful solitude
All the outside world subdued
Everything comes back to me again
In the gloom
Like an angel passing through my room
I close my eyes
And my twilight images go by
All too soon
Like an angel passing through my room
That moment has stayed with me for a long time. Every time I think of it, I am struck with how different my reaction might have been. This person was young, was not expected to die; his death was quite unusual. I would have sat still, stunned and possibly in denial. In contrast, my friend's reaction was so immediate — she heard, she processed, and she began to grieve in a mere few seconds.
For better or worse, that is not how my brain operates. In my job, it has more than once been a benefit. I am able to process appalling news items professionally and do what needs to be done at work before dealing with them emotionally.
This, combined with nearly 10 years of experience in reporting on sometimes horrific events, has made me a bit cold to tragedy. It's how people like me get the reputation for being "heartless" journalists.
Last Friday, I was home when I heard about the shooting in Connecticut. I was working on another project on my laptop, and the news about the dead filtered in slowly — but in the background. It was just another shooting, to be honest, but I recognized its significance and dealt with it as needed at work later that day. Still, it was just another shooting.
Then on Thursday, The Salt Lake Tribune did this, memorializing one of the children by dedicating an unprecedented amount of white space to the "story she never had the chance to write." I saw it after I woke up and thought about it all morning. Driving to work, Sissel's melancholy "Like an Angel Passing Through My Room" played in my car. And then it all hit: This little girl, who spelled her name just like me, who was the oldest child just like me, who had those blue eyes just like mine — she was dead. Perhaps these similarities had subconsciously kept me from recognizing the weight of the situation because I knew it would hit home too hard.
It took a newspaper to do it. The genius use of white space spoke to me in a language I recognized. And I finally felt human.
The truth is, reporters are all human. Some of us grieve the story as we report it, and others take longer. But we all grieve. A former colleague of mine covered the shooting aftermath for three straight days, trying to write about the victims in a way that did them justice. His Facebook status updates have been heartbreaking, especially in seeing the apparent guilt he feels in actually feeling pain — when those around him "deserved" to feel it more.
There's a fuzzy line journalists walk when reporting on these types of things; we want to empathize, but if we immerse ourselves too much in the grief, we risk becoming paralyzed by the dispair. So, we put up a wall and therefore risk being seen as heartless.
That Thursday morning, the tears came, and I had to pull over. And since then, Sissel's haunting rendition has floated through my mind many, many times a day.
In this peaceful solitude
All the outside world subdued
Everything comes back to me again
In the gloom
Like an angel passing through my room
I close my eyes
And my twilight images go by
All too soon
Like an angel passing through my room
12.06.2012
Becoming a vegetarian
It's now been three months since I last purposefully ate meat or meat byproducts.
Becoming a vegetarian was very nearly accidental, but for those who know me, it's not entirely shocking. In fact, I wrote about it nearly two years ago. I've neglected to mention this recent change to anyone who didn't need to know because, frankly, I haven't wanted to come off as preachy. Additionally, I wasn't sure how long it would last. Lastly, I'm still not sure how much time must elapse before one can call herself a vegetarian. Is 90 days long enough?
I'm not sure, but I think it's going to last, so I'll take a moment to explain why.
I participated in a neighborhood Facebook fitness/diet contest in August, September and October. We received points each week for exercising a certain amount, drinking enough water, eating a certain amount of fruits and veggies, etc. Each week also included a special challenge: Getting eight hours of sleep a night or not eating carbs after lunch, for example. During the third week, we had to eat fish on two days and go vegetarian one day. I ate fish that Tuesday, went veggie Wednesday, didn't have meat Thursday and had fish Friday. By Saturday, I realized what I was doing and figured I'd keep it up.
So, in the past three months, I've had some fish — four or five servings — and continue to eat dairy and, occasionally, eggs, but have steered clear of meat products otherwise. I suppose this makes me a pescetarian, but since I don't even know how to say that word and no one knows what it is, I'll continue to say vegetarian.
In June, I wrote about transitioning to a cruelty-free bathroom. Basically, I now use personal hygiene products made by companies that do not test, pay to test, or purchase products that have been tested, on animals. It's been easier than I planned — and a lot of fun to find new companies and products, especially ones that are local.
I've long been an animal lover. Reading about the horror animals go through in the name of beauty and money changed my world view. The same horror is apparent in most factory farms and nearly all slaughterhouses. It seemed that if I were to stop using certain beauty products for the sake of animals, it was illogical to continue to eat the meat from those animals — animals that had been treated poorly their short lives only to endure having their throats slit and bleeding to death — just for the sake of eating something that might taste good.
As for the other animal products in my diet: I am aware there are ethical problems with eating fish, but I don't do it often enough to worry. Most of my eggs come from the small farm down the street whose chickens, believe me, are quite the free-ranging, happy and healthy group of birds. I've transitioned to an organic yogurt, and it turns out almond milk is delicious. However, I feel some guilt about the cheese, chocolate and ice cream that continues to make its way into my diet.
So, it was not for health reasons. However, there have been some benefits. In the first month, I lost 10 pounds. Had the loss continued at that rate, I would have been concerned, but I quickly figured out how to make up for the loss of meat calories by eating more vegetables, beans and other legumes. Turns out, I really like beans. This adjustment has also made me more aware of several foods from which I previously shied away.
Other changes include the following:
• I now like grocery stores. Garrett is blown away. I can spend a long time in a produce section — it is so colorful! — and even longer reading ingredients on canned soups or sauces. I have tried fruits and vegetables I didn't even know existed. I like squash. I want to eat healthier.
• I've read more about not only what happens at factory farms, but about what types of hormones and chemicals are pumped into the animals before they go to slaughter. It doesn't seem safe. This had made me more cognizant of nearly everything I put inside me — although I do still like an order of fries despite having recently figured out I need to first determine the type of oil used to fry them.
• Eating out can be a chore, which is probably good for my wallet and my health. I've found several items at most restaurants that I can eat, but getting accurate information about ingredients is difficult.
• Reactions have been funny. Some people are terrified for me ("What do you eat?!?!"), while others are just confused. When I asked the low-level employee at Kneaders one day if a particular soup was made with chicken broth or another type of soup base, she said, "I think it's just water. But, it tastes really good!" My mom was concerned about how I'd get through Thanksgiving, but I did just fine. When some more insensitive people have found out about my new diet, I have gotten some immature jokes about bacon or ... well, pretty much just bacon. Those people exhibit the most anger, which is strange considering my eating habits in no way affect theirs.
Am I doing any good? Am I saving any animals? I don't know. I do know that after making the single biggest health or diet change ever for me, there's a whole lot more than just saving animals to like about this new lifestyle. I should have done it years ago.
Becoming a vegetarian was very nearly accidental, but for those who know me, it's not entirely shocking. In fact, I wrote about it nearly two years ago. I've neglected to mention this recent change to anyone who didn't need to know because, frankly, I haven't wanted to come off as preachy. Additionally, I wasn't sure how long it would last. Lastly, I'm still not sure how much time must elapse before one can call herself a vegetarian. Is 90 days long enough?
I'm not sure, but I think it's going to last, so I'll take a moment to explain why.
I participated in a neighborhood Facebook fitness/diet contest in August, September and October. We received points each week for exercising a certain amount, drinking enough water, eating a certain amount of fruits and veggies, etc. Each week also included a special challenge: Getting eight hours of sleep a night or not eating carbs after lunch, for example. During the third week, we had to eat fish on two days and go vegetarian one day. I ate fish that Tuesday, went veggie Wednesday, didn't have meat Thursday and had fish Friday. By Saturday, I realized what I was doing and figured I'd keep it up.
So, in the past three months, I've had some fish — four or five servings — and continue to eat dairy and, occasionally, eggs, but have steered clear of meat products otherwise. I suppose this makes me a pescetarian, but since I don't even know how to say that word and no one knows what it is, I'll continue to say vegetarian.
In June, I wrote about transitioning to a cruelty-free bathroom. Basically, I now use personal hygiene products made by companies that do not test, pay to test, or purchase products that have been tested, on animals. It's been easier than I planned — and a lot of fun to find new companies and products, especially ones that are local.
I've long been an animal lover. Reading about the horror animals go through in the name of beauty and money changed my world view. The same horror is apparent in most factory farms and nearly all slaughterhouses. It seemed that if I were to stop using certain beauty products for the sake of animals, it was illogical to continue to eat the meat from those animals — animals that had been treated poorly their short lives only to endure having their throats slit and bleeding to death — just for the sake of eating something that might taste good.
As for the other animal products in my diet: I am aware there are ethical problems with eating fish, but I don't do it often enough to worry. Most of my eggs come from the small farm down the street whose chickens, believe me, are quite the free-ranging, happy and healthy group of birds. I've transitioned to an organic yogurt, and it turns out almond milk is delicious. However, I feel some guilt about the cheese, chocolate and ice cream that continues to make its way into my diet.
So, it was not for health reasons. However, there have been some benefits. In the first month, I lost 10 pounds. Had the loss continued at that rate, I would have been concerned, but I quickly figured out how to make up for the loss of meat calories by eating more vegetables, beans and other legumes. Turns out, I really like beans. This adjustment has also made me more aware of several foods from which I previously shied away.
Other changes include the following:
• I now like grocery stores. Garrett is blown away. I can spend a long time in a produce section — it is so colorful! — and even longer reading ingredients on canned soups or sauces. I have tried fruits and vegetables I didn't even know existed. I like squash. I want to eat healthier.
• I've read more about not only what happens at factory farms, but about what types of hormones and chemicals are pumped into the animals before they go to slaughter. It doesn't seem safe. This had made me more cognizant of nearly everything I put inside me — although I do still like an order of fries despite having recently figured out I need to first determine the type of oil used to fry them.
• Eating out can be a chore, which is probably good for my wallet and my health. I've found several items at most restaurants that I can eat, but getting accurate information about ingredients is difficult.
• Reactions have been funny. Some people are terrified for me ("What do you eat?!?!"), while others are just confused. When I asked the low-level employee at Kneaders one day if a particular soup was made with chicken broth or another type of soup base, she said, "I think it's just water. But, it tastes really good!" My mom was concerned about how I'd get through Thanksgiving, but I did just fine. When some more insensitive people have found out about my new diet, I have gotten some immature jokes about bacon or ... well, pretty much just bacon. Those people exhibit the most anger, which is strange considering my eating habits in no way affect theirs.
Am I doing any good? Am I saving any animals? I don't know. I do know that after making the single biggest health or diet change ever for me, there's a whole lot more than just saving animals to like about this new lifestyle. I should have done it years ago.
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