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On Our Weird, But Historically Accurate, Fourth of July Traditions

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Hot dogs, fireworks, Will Smith marathons—the Fourth of July is Americana pop culture at its finest. Can’t you practically hear the Lana Del Ray song playing in the background? Believe it or not, this is actually pretty close to what the Founding Fathers envisioned.

When the Second Continental Congress voted to approve a resolution of independence on July 2, 1776, future president John Adams wrote the following to his wife, Abigail:

“The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”

Aside from the early advocation of manifest destiny, Adams was actually incorrect—it would be the Fourth that would be fêted, as that is the date upon which the actual Declaration of Independence was dated (there is some skepticism about the actual timing of the signing, but whatever). Written by Adams’s legendary friend Thomas Jefferson (maybe you’ve heard of him?), the Declaration was the first time that anyone had bothered to write down the self-evident truths of equality and unalienable rights: Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

Let’s set aside a whole lot of politics for the moment and focus on the Happiness. The history of events and celebrations around the Fourth are interesting in their own right and tell a surprisingly comprehensive story of our evolved and evolving national culture.

National Holiday

Despite the immediate acclamation the Declaration received, the term “Independence Day” wasn’t actually popularized until the late eighteenth century—the first recorded usage of the name was in 1791, fifteen years after the initial signing. And, ever the slowpokes, it took Congress until 1870 to make Independence Day an unpaid holiday for federal employees. The cheapskates finally made the Fourth a paid holiday in 1938.

Fireworks

Despite their Chinese origins, fireworks have long been a part of national celebrations, dating back to the original thirteen colonies. The first instance of fireworks being used to celebrate was the very first Fourth of July celebration in 1777. Nearly 200 years later, in 1976, Macy’s sponsored their first Fourth of July fireworks show.

Hot Dogs

While no one is sure exactly who to credit with creating the hot dog, everyone pretty much agrees that they were invented in America, adapted and popularized by German and Polish immigrants who began selling sausages in rolls throughout New York, St. Louis, and Chicago. Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island, New York began in 1972, and regularly attracts half a million live spectators, in addition to more than a million viewers who tune in to watch on ESPN. American Joey Chestnut has held the title since 2007.

Movies

For a time after the westward expansion, the American Dream became synonymous with fame, fortune, and Hollywood glamour. And, while we can’t claim the invention of cinema, blockbuster films are definitely a uniquely American export. Mr. July himself, Will Smith, has faced countless aliens across two franchise films in the name of patriotism. Though his star has faded in recent years (just say no to Jayden and Willow, America), huge tent-pole movies are still released on the Fourth of July weekend with the expectation of breaking box office records. This year, look out for Earth to Echo and Dawn of the Planet of the Apes to battle it out for the #1 spot.

Weird and Wonky

Some things just come full circle. Both Jefferson and Adams died on the 50th anniversary of the Declaration’s signing, July 4, 1826. Lifelong political foes and personal friends, the two continued a written correspondence throughout their lives. Though Jefferson passed several hours before, word never reached Adams, whose last words were reportedly simple—“Jefferson survives.”

A year later, on July 4, 1831, former president James Monroe also died, making him the third president in a row to pass on the Fourth. Calvin Coolidge so far remains to be the only president to be born on the Fourth, though current White House occupant Malia Obama also celebrates her birthday on the same day.

Perhaps the oddest fact of all is that the most sobering quote about the Fourth comes from a fictional president:

“In many ways our great Declaration of Independence was a work order issued under fire. One we still struggle to fulfill.” – President Bartlet, The West Wing

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

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So You’ve Decided To Purchase Weed

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A friend of mine recently sparked the idea for this article when she told me about her recent trip to Denver. Her host, a college buddy, took her to a recreational marijuana shop, because when in Rome. They purchased a small amount of weed—LEGALLY!!!—and gleefully brought it back to their apartment, only to find themselves staring at the friendly little buds with bewildered expressions. Casual but not regular users of pot in college, neither of them had ever had to roll a joint, pack a bowl, or any of those other mildly scandalous verbs. For them, it was the equivalent of standing in front of a sack of potatoes holding a martini glass.

And such is the case for thousands of similarly passive users who are now exercising their new rights to buy recreational marijuana in Colorado and Washington. Should you smoke it rolled up in a joint or spliff? Perhaps using a glass pipe or bong? Using something simpler, like a one-hitter, or something expensive, like a vaporizer? Your choice might vary based on factors like how many people you’re smoking with, and how comfortable you are with handling the ganj.

[Note that this is more of a guide for people who have smoked in the past. Things to remember if you have never smoked marijuana before: start with a little bit; remember to gulp the air, almost as if you’re swallowing it; know that it’s okay to cough; and remember to eat/drink something. Don’t do what this guy does... or do, because it’s fucking hilarious (it’s not crack, sir!!).]

For starters, regardless of your smoking device, you’ll need to grind down that pretty, conical green bud. Many people who use weed regularly have a grinder of their own, which allows you to break a bud into a few smaller pieces and then grind it within a range of fineness—say, French press to espresso. Others, myself included, who haven’t gotten around to investing the $25 in a small grinder, use their fingers. I usually break a bud into manageable pieces—around the size of a pea or smaller—and then rub the piece between my thumb and forefinger with all the delicateness of a French chef crushing some dried thyme over a steaming coq au vin. If you go for this chez stoner approach, be sure to crush the bud over a smooth surface so it’s easy to sweep up and won’t get stuck in any crevices. An open magazine works nicely for this.

Now, to choose a device. If you’re just looking for a tiny toke and you happen to be near a corner store that sells tobacco products, it’s worth investing in a one-hitter, also know as a “porcelain cigarette.” True to its name, it’s painted to look exactly like a cigarette, but it’s typically made of metal (someone realized porcelain was too fragile for pot smokers). Very sneaky, if you’re trying to fool any friends who also don’t happen to have a sense of smell. The great thing about a one-hitter is that it’s easy to pack and even easier to use. All you need to do is gather up some of the bud you’ve just crushed—a coarse grind works in this case—and stuff the front of the cigarette (the end of the white part, where there’s about a half-centimeter well) until you can’t fit any more in there. I had a friend who would simply plunge the one-hitter into a jar of weed to simultaneously crush and pick up bits to stuff the front, which is a little barbaric, but to each his own.

To smoke your stuffed one-hitter (which is actually a misnomer, as you can usually get 2-3 small hits out of it), simply light the front end with a lighter and inhale gently. The one-hitter might get a little warm because it’s metal and thermodynamics something something something, but only the weed itself will actually light. You’ll have to repeat this with each hit, holding the lit lighter in front of the weed without jamming the flame into the front well, so the pot inside gently burns. To clean out the residue after smoking, simply hit it against something hard. I recommend a brick wall. One-hitters can get a bit gunky, but you can boil them in some vinegar to loosen the crud inside. And you know those pipe cleaners you used to love in art class? They’re not just for homemade ornaments anymore!

My one-hitter, whom I call "Trusty Rusty"

My one-hitter, whom I call “Trusty Rusty”

If you’re planning on sharing with multiple friends or if you just want to smoke a lot of weed (no judgment), you might want to consider packing a bowl or bong. Here, you can be a little coarser with your grind. You just want to pile a bunch of little pieces of bud into the bowl or well of a glass piece, almost filling it up. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend purchasing a giant bong, especially if you’re an infrequent user or you have grandparents who like to drop in unannounced, but if you have one to use, this helpful video will show you how to smoke from it.

I personally prefer smaller glass pipes, as they’re easier to store and clean (see one-hitter cleaning instructions, minus the brick wall part), and they come in a wide variety of styles and colors. My beloved pipe is beautifully glass-blown to look like a hedgehog: the underside is the bowl, the tail is the mouthpiece, and the mouth is the air hole (also known as a “carb”). I keep it on my mantle, and no one’s the wiser…

Ain’t she a beaut?

Ain’t she a beaut?

Smoking from a pipe is pretty simple but takes a little bit of practice: hold it in one hand, with a finger covering the carb, and have a friend light the bud; or if you’re feeling coordinated, do it with your other hand. As you see the green bud glowing merrily, inhale gently, still covering the carb. Then, release the carb and inhale a little deeper. All of the smoke that’s accumulated in the pipe will now be in your lungs! Be careful not to produce too much smoke before you release the carb, though, because coughing a lot is way less fun than being high.

The last and (I think) most visually classic method is the trusty joint. This is when you’re going to want to use that grinder or those fingers to their full extent, really pulverizing your weed. You’ll want to get rolling papers for this. My favorite brand is OCB, though I’ve heard those are tricky to get in the US. But any brand will do! Simply lay out a single rolling paper horizontally, with the tiny adhesive strip on the far side, facing up. Carefully place your finely-ground weed along the fold of the rolling paper, then even it out, leaving a pinkie-nail length of empty paper on one end. That will be your smoking end. Carefully pick up your loaded cargo and take the fold between the thumb and forefinger of your hands. Give the weed in the paper a little pinch from below, to try and pack it into this long cigar-shaped form. (You can use a little or a lot of weed, but remember: the more you put in, the harder it is to roll. And you can always roll another!)

Pre-loaded joint/spliff rolling paper

Pre-loaded joint/spliff rolling paper

In theory, what you’ll want to do next is very gently shift that packed weed roll toward the non-adhesive end of the rolling paper, so it’s primed to roll within the paper all the way up to the adhesive end. This step requires a lot of finesse, so don’t throw it against your wall in a fit of rage if you don’t get it right the first time. That would be very wasteful of you! I like to hold the end of the paper with my thumbs, sticking my forefingers atop the weed at either end, and resting the whole operation on the rest of my fingers. I use my thumbs to lift the paper up and over, and then I use my forefingers to tuck in the weed. Once there’s a reasonably tight seal, it’s easy to finish rolling the joint, licking the adhesive to completely seal it up. This sounds much more complicated than it is, so here’s a video demonstrating that same process.

Then I tuck in a roach, which is a little piece of poster board-weight cardboard that usually comes with the rolling papers, rolled up and stuck into the end where you left a little empty space. Truly great joint-rollers will stick this in while they’re rolling, so if you’re feeling ambitious, experiment away. If you find that your joint is too loose, just re-wrap over it with another rolling paper!

A professionally-rolled joint, with roach

A professionally-rolled joint, with roach

Obviously, if you’re only using a small amount of weed, and especially if you’re double-wrapping, it can feel like you’re smoking more paper than pot. Because of this, my go-to rolled choice is a spliff (mixed marijuana and tobacco), which requires either buying some rolling tobacco at a corner store or, if you’re in a tight spot, bumming a cigarette from a friend. Yes, cigarettes are definitely bad(!), so I recommend using rolling tobacco if you can get it, which is still tobacco, but has fewer nasty chemicals. I never use more than a third of a cigarette’s worth of tobacco in a shared spliff, anyway; and also, you’re already smoking, so, let’s talk about the pot calling the kettle black (ZINGAHHH!!!). The rolling process is obviously the same, although you’ll have more product to roll since you’re mixing tobacco with the weed. I like to pre-mix to ensure evenness when smoking, either stirring the pulverized weed in a jar with the tobacco or just mixing it with my fingers on the same open magazine, before piling it into the crease of my rolling paper.

I recently visited a city where weed purchasing is, if not totally legal, then at least ignored. There, I purchased a pre-rolled, monster-sized spliff, which I took apart to show you its guts:

Notice how nicely the little weed pebbles are mixed in with the tobacco strands

Notice how nicely the little weed pebbles are mixed in with the tobacco strands

Of course, if you’re in the middle of the woods or you don’t have any of the aforementioned devices, you can go all high-school and make a bong out of an apple. I’ve tried it before—it’s not as delicious as you might expect, but it gets the job done.

Happy toking!! Don’t eat too many frosting sandwiches! Uh-oh, I’ve said too much.

Photo by Gali Levi-McClure

Relationships

Glimmer of Love

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She is my muse, love.  My life.  My soul, which I never knew or believed existed until I felt her breath… my breath, filling my lungs.  Lately words have been flowing from my heart that I never expected to hear, feel, or believe.  It is as real and as drastic a transformation as I have ever experienced.  Apparently, it is wholely possible to look forward to speaking to someone just moments after hanging up the phone – to miss someone mere seconds following farewells.  It seems that, despite all doubt, in all appearances, potentially, probably, ipso. fucking. facto. that love not only exists, but that I find myself eyebrow deep in it.  This is a first.  Many firsts, in fact.  But, certainly the first time I find myself deep in something that did not require legal, medical, or moral assistance to get out of.

I am writing this for the same reason I’ve ever written anything, because I have to.  I have written, to date, a number of letters beyond my ability to count (which is to say, I’ve run out of fingers and toes) regarding the subject of love, the subject of my love, addressed to… well, you get the point.  I have killed four pens, 2.5 notebooks, and three packs of envelopes in just a couple of months.  So for anyone wondering if The Duke of Glimmer has been writing… he has, but only for one person as of recently.  And although she prefers not to share my attention, I’m sure she’ll grant me reprieve in this case.

My love is music, for I found her through music.  My love is friendship, for I found her through friendship.  She is dance, and light, and laughter… gorgeous hot days, and long desert nights.  She is drugs – I will not lie.  The greatest (seriously, the greatest) drug I’ve ever known.  I am convinced she is the path to my enlightenment – if that is a thing and it can truly be achieved.  And if not, I’m just fucking happy.  Really happy. Happy enough to write this sappy post that you will probably read, say “awww,” puke, then take an insulin shot.  And that’s fine.

The point is that it’s real and it’s out there – love.  It’s not something you’re expecting to find, or that you seek out on purpose.  It just grows, organically – non GMO, always fair trade.  I didn’t even know I wanted it until love found me, but now I’ll fight with the passion of a thousand souls to keep it, this fire that burns in my heart.  There’s no formula, just live your life and let it find you.  It will.  Somehow it found me.  Somehow there’s a beautiful woman in this world who is just like me, but better… so much better.  Genuinely, just ask Tracy, she’s better… and she loves me, lucky fool that I am.  So for anyone struggling or lonely out there – trust me, if you’re holding the glimmer, sooner or later the universe will send someone to share the burden.

Originally published by Hold the Glimmer at http://holdtheglimmer.com/

Photo by Anastasia Heuer

Photo by Anastasia Heuer

 

Food

Negotiating My Peace Treaty With Food

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This article deals with an account of learning to overcome an eating disorder and finding ways to enjoy food again. Its content may be triggering to some people.

I used to do this thing. Maybe you also used to do this thing. Maybe you still do.

I kept a diary of every bite of food that went into my mouth, the margins scrawled with discouraging messages to my future self. A Diet Dr. Pepper and an apple was considered a passable lunch (dinner, too). I taped down my bra so I’d look flatter and more “waif-like.” I avoided being photographed at all costs. And, above all, I abhorred a full meal—whatever, let’s be honest, I abhorred food in general. I was fucking miserable, but for some reason, I felt like I had no other choice.

All of this started when I was about twelve. Growing up, I never really had the whole “your body is becoming something beautiful” chat (though who knows if it would’ve made much of a difference). I felt like my body was turning into something unfamiliar, something grotesque and lumpy and disproportionate. I had daily panic attacks that went undetected by my parents for at least a year. They probably thought I was way too young to have any real issues—they were holding out until high school for that. But it made sense: I’d always been a bit of a control freak, and this was just another facet of my life that I was desperate to have control over—i.e. “No, body. Stop that. You are not in charge. I AM.” So I started starving myself. The whole thing was pretty cut and dry. I don’t think we need to go down the rabbit hole of “why” and “how” this kind of thing happens. The internet is already chock full of that: “Why do we allow our daughters suffer from poor self image? Is the media to blame? Are other women to blame?” Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

But this isn’t about that. This is about how I learned to love food again and how, 15 years later, I even began identifying as an amateur Foodie. This is the peace treaty I negotiated with food.

Hey, food. So as it turns out my body really, really needs you. Like, a lot. Like I will actually physically cease to be without you. So let’s start there…

Because I absolutely must eat food, because I do not have a choice in the matter despite how long I withhold it, I might as well not treat dinnertime like a trip to a renaissance-era torture chamber. I might as well eat stuff that doesn’t suck.

And by “stuff that doesn’t suck,” I don’t necessarily mean indulgence 24/7. I’m not talking about In-N-Out Burger or Girl Scout Cookies (although sometimes, yes, I absolutely am talking about those things). But in this particular instance, I’m talking about awesome, unique, complex flavors. Food that goes crunch! Food that melts in your mouth, spices that clear up that sinus infection in 5 seconds flat, or just the perfect amount of saltiness. I’m talking about the experience of eating.

Regardless of whether it was a carrot I consumed fridge-side on my way out the door or lasagna and red wine at my favorite Italian restaurant, I forced myself to enjoy fueling my body. I re-tooled my brain with enjoyment. Recently, while training my dog, I learned that this is what is referred to as “counter conditioning.” Give the dog a treat every time she sees a skateboard? Eventually she’ll stop howling at the skater kids.

Do I have off-days? Yeah, obviously. Anyone who tells you there’s such a thing as being 100% free of such a warped perspective is bullshitting you—I’ll probably never pound that coveted In-N-Out burger without having to silence those dumb, self-deprecating thoughts at least once. I have to remind myself, time and time again, that eating is wonderful and good for me and fun.

I think that’s one of the reasons I became such a Food-Network-Watching-Restaurant-Week-Enthusiast: it was a way to make food fun. Thank God we live in the age of Alton Brown and Gordon Ramsay and her holiness, GIADA. Learning how to cook is an awesome, totally viable hobby, and more importantly: eating is cool. Seeking out hidden culinary gems in my city and telling people about them is so exciting for me, like passing on a juicy rumor. The pleasurable experience of eating, as a whole, is what helps me keep it together. There’s so, so much more to it than forcing calories into a body that’s running on fumes. This might sound like a no-brainer to most people, but for someone like me, it’s taken 15 years to wrap my head around.

Learning to love the body you’ve got can be hard. A lot of people can’t ever fully master that, try as they might, despite what their families and friends tell them. I think maybe this is because “love” is too strong a word: it’s too tall an order. We’re told to love our bodies. But sometimes we don’t love ourselves, and we feel like we have failed somehow when people tell us that we should. I think “acceptance” is a much better word to use. We can all learn to accept what we’re working with. But learning to love food… that, in my opinion, is totally within reach—the same way you might fall in love with a new band or a series of books. When a person with an eating disorder eats something they think they shouldn’t, there’s a tendency to tie the event to the very definition of their self worth. But to me, viewing eating as a hobby keeps me from internalizing the experience in a negative way. It’s something you do, not who you are, so it’s somehow easier to swallow (pun absolutely intended).

If you’re trying to claw your way out of a similar hole, I highly recommend cozying up to a marathon of Chopped, Yelping your neighborhood’s newest gastropub, or learning to make some really crazy dish, like paella or homemade pasta from scratch. Food is going to be a part of your life if you want to continue having a life, so you might as well make peace with it. You might even surprise yourself in the process: you might even have fun. 

Photo by Michelle White

Photo by Michelle White

Relationships

She’s not Dead, She’s Sleeping (And Other New Mom Lessons)

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I always knew I wanted to be a mother, I just never really thought it would happen as soon as it did. When I graduated from college, my boyfriend and I decided that in a year and a half, when I turned 25, we would start seriously talking about having a baby. Who would have thought that a year and a half later, and ten days before my twenty-fifth birthday, we would welcome our daughter M.

My boyfriend is a little bit older than I am (only sixteen little years), grew up around babies at his mother’s in-home daycare, and helped raise his ex-wife’s daughter (long story). I, on the other hand, am an only child who never babysat an actual baby, but always had an overwhelming maternal instinct and a love of children. When we found out we were expecting, the unwarranted advice started rolling in. People will give you tons of advice when you’re pregnant and a new parent (look, I’m doing it right now, and you’re probably not even pregnant). They mean well, but you will never truly understand what it is like to be a parent until that little bundle of joy comes barreling into your life and changes it forever.

As a new parent, it is almost impossible not to constantly worry. The small foreign creature you brought home from the hospital appears so fragile and delicate and every cough, rash, and change in bowel movement seems like the end of the world. But let me tell you, babies are quite resilient. I remember M’s first diaper rash and thinking it was so horrible that I started Googling images of diaper rashes and immediately concluded that she needed antibiotics and to see the doctor ASAP. I consulted my boyfriend who recommended we put some rash ointment on it and check on it in the morning. I begrudgingly agreed, but if it was still there we were headed straight to the pediatrician! The next morning it was practically gone and I vowed never to Google images of any ailment or disease I self-diagnosed my daughter with. Although, I did slip recently and thought she had hepatitis or aluminum poisoning because her poop was clay colored. The pediatrician did not agree with my diagnosis.

Another thing I found myself worrying about was her growth and milestones, compared to what is considered “normal” for babies her age. Pediatricians tend to freak out if your baby loses too much weight initially and M has always been much smaller than her peers and not-at-all comparable to the giant baby I was. I consulted websites describing the week-by-week progress for infants to research what she should be doing, when she should be doing it, and what to expect her to do next. Heaven forbid she started rolling over a few weeks late or not start solids at the appropriate time! After a while, I forced myself to stop the worrying and had to trust that she was developing at the speed that was right for her. I needed to stop thinking she was dead if her nap went a little longer than usual, and just enjoy the unexpected extra alone time that day.

Alone time. How I miss it. Solitary confinement is vital to one’s sanity when it comes to being a parent. I miss going to the bathroom by myself. Now I have to keep the door open so she can come in and close the door herself (one of her favorite past times) or else she sits outside the door and whines until I come out. My non-parent readers, enjoy your silent potty time while you still have it because soon a little person will want to watch you while you do your business and you will call it “potty training.” (And don’t even get me started on how intimately I know my own child’s butthole.)  Once you become a parent, your life and the world doesn’t revolve around you anymore, it is all about the little one. I treat myself to a monthly massage and try to pawn the baby off on daddy for a girl’s night whenever I can. While taking care of yourself is important, it is mutually beneficial to make time for your partner (especially sexy time). Intimacy after childbirth is another article in itself.

And while we are on the subject of bedroom activities: You never truly realize how important sleep is until you’re not getting it. When M turned four months old, we decided enough was enough, she was going to sleep through the night in her own bed, whether she wanted to or not. We chose to do sleep training, and it was not easy. There are many different approaches and techniques for conducting sleep training, but most fall in to two different strategies: non-crying and cry-it-out.  We chose the latter because sometimes babies just need to cry and learn to get over it. Sleep training is not necessarily the right choice for everyone. I recommend it, but not all parents, doctors, psychologists or babies agree on the best way to go about it or if one should subject their child to it. What I can say is that it took less than a week to get M sleeping through the night, and she goes to bed at roughly eight o’clock and wakes up around seven in the morning. She does have the occasional late night wake up when she’s sick, but those are few and far between.

Being a parent has its challenges, but there are special moments in between that make it all worthwhile; like first words and steps, tickle sessions that make you both roll in laughter, and snuggles that make you not want to ever let go. In the end, it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t crawl until she is ten months old, or that you haven’t had a good night sleep in who knows how long… what matters is that she is a healthy and happy baby who waves and smiles at everyone, loves books, and gives you kisses in the morning.

Photo by Jenny Butler

Photo by Jenny Butler

Health

What is Happiness?

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“Happiness is some cryptic shit. It’s a chimera. A faceshifting freak in a room of mirrors. It’s wonderful and horrible. It helps us and it hurts us. It hamstrings us and elevates us. It’s a pit and it’s a ladder. It — and its many forms, be they satisfaction or pleasure or bliss — is a thing so intensely personal it’s impossible to let anyone else tell us how to get it, keep it, or use it. I think it’s worth asking yourself, how will I be happy? It’s worth trying to find the path to satisfaction. And I don’t think that path is drawn through careful study or through mathematical findings. You don’t get happy through a pro/con list. (Unless you do? See? So personal.) It’s in your gut. It’s a feeling, an instinct, and maybe at the end of the day the shortest path to unhappiness is to ignore yourself and all the inner voices that are screaming for you to go left, go left, for fuck’s sakes go left and all you do is go right. Go with your gut. Follow your bliss. Give to others without taking. Be you. Be the best version of you. And share it with the world. Then again, what the fuck do I know? ” — Chuck Wendig, “25 Things I’m Wondering About Happiness”

Here at UE, we are not trying to give you the answers. We are trying to share the options. These weekly We Don’t Know posts are designed to focus on questions where the only answer is your answer.

Today, we feature a post by author and blogger Chuck Wendig from his website Terrible Minds. When we were sent this post, it immediately struck us how Chuck’s musings on happiness embody so much of what we try to accomplish through our UE community.

At the beginning of his post, Chuck describes his ability to be an “expert” on happiness as follows:

“So, here I am. A clueless, inexpert, inelegant dude. Trying to figure shit out. Like, even now, I don’t know that I agree with half of what I’ve written here. And tomorrow I won’t agree with the other half. But it feels like it’s worth talking about anyway.”

That’s pretty much how we feel about everything we post on UE, just as our mission statement says: You don’t know everything. Neither do we.

To give you a taste of Chuck’s first four “wonderings” on happiness:

1. “Nobody knows what the fuck it is.”

2. “Nobody knows what the fuck it does.”

3. “Happiness is a choice.”

4. “Except when it’s totally not a choice.”

…You get the idea. Go read it for yourself and tell us what you think about happiness in the comments.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Health, Relationships

Let’s Go Get The Shit Kicked Out Of Us By Vulnerability

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After Dr. Brené Brown gave her first TED Talk, about the power of vulnerability, she woke up with a “vulnerability hangover.” She hid in her house for three days, ashamed of confessing that she’d had a “breakdown” to the over 500 attendees. Knowing her video was headed for the Internet, she told a friend she anticipated another couple hundred people seeing her admission but, “If 500 turns into 1000 or 2000, my life is over.” Her talk has since been watched over 12 million times.

[ted id=1042]

When I think about vulnerability, I imagine something raw and tender. The kind of thing I might boast about embracing but, more often, actually find myself cowering from. When I watch a TED Talk like Brené’s, or read some quotes on Tumblr, I think, “YES! That sounds amazing! I am going to start being vulnerable right now! I am going to let go of all my insecurities immediately, accept my imperfections, be kind to myself, really let go of who I’ve thought I should be for all these years, and embrace the imperfect reality of who I am!” Boom. Done. I am vulnerable. And yet, just saying the words “imperfect reality of who I am” sets off a wave of discomfort. Because that’s the reality of vulnerability: it can be really uncomfortable.

[box] “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” ― C.S. Lewis [/box]

For most of my life, just like Brené, I thought I could “outsmart” vulnerability—that if I just locked it up in a box, made all the right choices, and checked off all the boxes on my list of impossible expectations, I could be perfect. And, obviously, perfection was, well, perfect and when you’re perfect, there’s no need for vulnerability. If only that was true. But I did not see vulnerability as a strength back then, I saw it as a weakness. A big, undefined, pain causing weakness. And this unknown thing was so scary to my brain that the idea of even exploring it was enough to get me to bury anything tagged “could be painful” so deeply, that once I started searching, it took me almost a year before I was even looking in the right place.

The fear that vulnerability induces in me is the kind of terror that dictates my actions without me even realizing it. So, first, I had to not only recognize, but also accept, that so many of my actions were defenses. As if that wasn’t vulnerable enough, then I had this exposed raw, tender, place that I was supposed to stay with and sit with! Patience in my life before: not fun. Patience while sitting with discomfort caused by vulnerability: excruciating.  In her TED Talk, when Brené talks about the “whole-hearted”—the ones who believe that what makes them vulnerable makes them beautiful, that vulnerability is not comfortable or excruciating, just necessary—you need to know that when I started this process, I was not one of them. Whether I was willing to articulate it or not, I was one of the ones who always questioned if I was good enough and I was pretty sure I wasn’t.

[box] “[The whole-hearted] talked about the willingness to say, “I love you” first, the willingness to do something where there are no guarantees, the willingness to breathe through waiting for the doctor to call after your mammogram. They’re willing to invest in a relationship that may or may not work out. They thought this was fundamental.” ― Dr. Brené Brown [/box]

Some of the most seemly confident, happy, and/or successful people can still have this voice in their head that makes them believe, in spite of their “accomplishments,” that they are not good enough. On the outside, I denied that I had low self-esteem. Because, honestly, I didn’t think I did. But that was because I only gave weight to the parts of me that I showed to other people and I didn’t count all the things that I only thought to myself.  Look in the mirror and pay attention to your thoughts: Are they kind? Are they accepting? Or do they scan for every flaw? Do they plot how to hide away the things you’re most ashamed of? Do they berate you for not having done more to “fix” something that you consider “wrong”? I was feeding my own insecurities without even knowing they were insecurities. And, worse, I just accepted them as limitations to myself. This was “the way things were” and nothing and no one were ever going to change that. Well, I was right about part of that, no one else was ever going to change the way I saw myself, but I could.

[box] “When you’re raised with the belief that perfection is possible, it’s very hard to let go of that.” – Hannah “Harto” Heart [/box]

Alright, so finally I start digging up my insecurities, I acknowledge them with a curt head nod, and I start trying to sit with them in a very large room (in which I do my best to never directly look them in the eye, because, ow.) Finally, we get closer, we’re not cuddling on the couch or anything, but we’ve started having marginally polite conversations, and then I realize it’s not enough to be aware and sit with my insecurities by myself, to really heal, I have to accept them: out loud. I have to let them be seen by others.

Terror doesn’t come close to describing how I feel about doing this. Because this is not the kind of “being seen” where I get to admit my flaws and then get patted on the back with some reassuring comment to make me feel better. This is the “being seen” where I admit them to a large room full of people and then we all just sit there awkwardly in silence together. Not because it’s awkward, or shameful, or even anything revelatory that they are seeing, but because I am so scared of the risk, I create my own fear-fueled reality. But when I figured out that I was actually sitting in the middle of a boisterous vulnerability party and my shame was just sitting on top of the mute button, every thing changed. Of course this also required something else I had been in denial of: the ability to really trust. Because finding self-confidence in your imperfections requires a kind of trust in yourself and others that is not the kind of trust you give your friends when you tell them about that one time you waited outside a hotel to stalk the Jonas Brothers in college, but the kind of trust that is choosing to go on television, naked, to do an interview in which you willingly hand over a flashlight and say, “Please, examine me.” And I do mean choosing, because that was my turning point with vulnerability, when I realized no one was going to roll out a red carpet and escort my vulnerability to the party. That I was going to have to drag her out myself, sometimes kicking and screaming, every day, for the rest of my life.

[box] “We can let the circumstances of our lives harden us so that we become increasingly resentful and afraid, or we can let them soften us and make us kinder and more open to what scares us. We always have this choice.” — Pema Chödrön [/box]

Vulnerability is a choice. It’s about making the choice to accept my imperfections, my mistakes, my failures, even when it really stings, when all I want to do in the face of criticism is launch into one of my “Whatever, you’re wrong!” or “OMG, I’ve failed at everythinggg” monologues. When going on Facebook to complain seems like so much more fun than apologizing, when sending an angry and defensive email makes us feel better than admitting that maybe the other person is actually right. It’s never starting a thought with, “I know I said I was going to be vulnerable, and that I need to sit with this discomfort, but that sucks and it is uncomfortable, and I don’t want to feel this, so just this once…” It’s not seeking out a drug hit of sympathy from someone by making sure, “You still love me, right?” It’s not justifying my mistakes so that I can make them again. It’s not going numb in an attempt to forget, ignore, or deny. As Brené says: we cannot selectively numb emotion.  If we numb out pain, grief, shame, disappointment, we also numb our happiness, gratitude, and joy. That’s why taking a risk is such a vulnerability, because the inherent definition of a risk is that there is no certainty, and without certainty, we risk failure. And vulnerability is all about embracing your successes and your failures. It’s actually being yourself in the face of possibly losing everything because of it.

[box] “To let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen; to love with our whole hearts, even though there’s no guarantee, to practice gratitude and joy in those moments of terror, when we’re wondering, ‘Can I love you this much? Can I believe in this this passionately? Can I be this fierce about this?’ just to be able to stop and, instead of catastrophizing what might happen, to say, ‘I’m just so grateful, because to feel this vulnerable means I’m alive.’ — Dr. Brené Brown [/box]

There’s an ancient Japanese art form, called Kintsukuroi, that repairs pottery with gold or silver lacquer with the understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. That’s the biggest truth of all this. I still do not have this figured out. I will probably never have it all figured out. I will succeed and fail at vulnerability, and in life, again and again and again. The point it not to actually figure it out but to make the choice to go on that journey, to be broken and put back together. So I am trying, and stumbling, and trying again. And even when I fall into my old patterns, and cycle through the same loops, I just remember that it’s not about the loop, it’s about how much more quickly I can get out of it. And every time I make that choice, as hard as it can be in the moment, I always look back and feel better, stronger, and more alive than I ever did before.

[box] “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” — Theodore Roosevelt [/box]

If you’re interested in reading more about these ideas, I strongly encourage you to go read all the Pema Chödrön you can get your hands on (apparently the Buddhists have had this vulnerability thing figured out for over 2,000 years) and watch Brené’s other TED Talk, about listening to shame. Brené has also written several books that I have yet to read but are waiting for me on my bookshelf. Or just go watch Love Actually.

Photo by Remi Coin

Photo by Remi Coin

Uncategorized

How one person experienced loss and death

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Photo by Rob Adams

I can’t recall the first time I realized that everyone was going to die. In a way, I still don’t believe it.  It’s not something I dwell on—but on the loneliest days or the slowest weeks, I come to the realization that there is a clock ticking somewhere just for us. But just as quickly, I push it out, burying it somewhere in the recesses of my mind. And yet, despite this, I do think there was one moment in my life that defined death, and for me that happened when I was 17, when my grandmother died.

This was the first time that someone very close to me had passed away. Death had been around me before; I grew up with a 24-hour news cycle, after all. People die all the time: it’s a natural and inevitable part of life. But, until that day in January, I had not personally experienced the finality of it. My grandmother was in my life at one moment and then in the next, she was gone. It is such a weird and relative concept that it’s hard to put into words. My mom, dad and I were all in church, when we found out. I was rehearsing with the choir, when suddenly my dad appeared behind me. He told me she was gone and I just kind of stared at him. Then I remembered my mom and what she must be going through and I leaped into action—I had to keep moving so I wasn’t overwhelmed with shock.

My experience with my grandmother’s death was, I think, pretty average. Not to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, but my grandmother, at 88, was living in a nursing home and was getting ready to move to hospice care when she died. My family was “prepared” for it and we had been making arrangements for a while. But there was still a big part of me that couldn’t imagine a day when my grandmother wouldn’t be around. She had been a constant presence in my life since I was born. Her life was so interesting, and she was so interesting, and seeing that taken away from the world was heartbreaking. She lived through some of the more tumultuous decades of the past century and, growing up, she would alway s tell me stories about traveling through, and living in, Europe. We’d play cribbage and she would teach me how to throw classy dinner parties. She was my grandmother.

For me, the hardest part was seeing how difficult my grandmother’s death was for my mom. She was so sad. Even though I was still in shock, I focused on keeping myself together so I could make her mother’s death easier to bear. That day was a blur of documents and plans for the funeral, which was the easiest part of the whole experience, in my opinion. But then we went home, where there was nothing to distract us anymore. Nothing I had ever experienced could prepare me for the sheer emptiness I felt during that downtime. To cope with this, I did what I usually do whenever I feel sad: I retreated. The next day, I made a CD of depressing music, got in my car, and drove around for a while—stopping when I wanted to, but mostly just thinking. There were a lot of things that I wished I had asked my grandmother, wished I had told her. I wanted to know what she thought about growing old? Did time eventually slow down? What was her favorite memory? And I wanted to tell her I loved her. But mostly, I just wished I had spent so much more time with her.

Her death made me think about how I treat the people in my life and I’ve since realized that I approach my relationships selfishly. I seek out people who make me feel good, who make me want to be better, who inspire me to do good things. But I forget most of the time the effect I have on them and how our relationship is bigger than both of us. If you only pay attention to your friends when they are physically right beside you, you run the risk of missing important connections with them. By thinking and observing people outside of your relationship, you could potentially discover more about them and yourself as well. Taking time to listen and to cultivate my relationships has helped me connect on multiple levels. There are some people I would have never thought I could be friends with until I gave them the time to give them a chance and realize that everyone has something to give if you listen long enough. I truly believe we will have fewer regrets in life if we listen, interact, and forgive those we spend time with.

When someone you love has died, you miss everything—and I mean everything—about him or her. Playing, laughing, disagreeing, even fighting with them. It’s an ache that sits right on your heart. I do not say this to make it harder for those who are missing someone, but I do want you know that missing someone doesn’t go away. Missing that person who died will always hurt some part of you. But it doesn’t have to make you miserable, or make you retreat, or make life harder for you. By missing them, you can remember that the person you love, even in death, is making you a better person, simply by reminding you that life is short, and that we all want to leave this Earth, and our friends, a little better than how we found them.

Health

Scientific Proof That Daydreaming Is Awesome For Your Health

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Okay, fine. You got me. I am not, in fact, in an academic position to offer actual “scientific proof” about anything. But, as a person who has spent a lifetime working on a formula for a gentler daily grind, I defend my right to call myself an authority on this particular topic.

Daydreaming is great. And it’s great for you. It isn’t useless or silly. It isn’t only something 13-year-old girls do when they have a huge crush on someone they would never dare exchange a word with. I don’t know about you, but I am fairly certain that there is a WAR ON DAYDREAMING. As you venture further into the world of adult-people, do you feel pressured to engage with yourself in a super sensible way instead of letting your imagination run wild? I mean, it’s obviously important to grasp the reality of whatever situation you’re in. But I’ve found that allowing yourself a little time in Brain-Narnia, no matter what age you are, can be incredibly healthy.

Daydreaming gives you perspective. It allows you to view your obstacles in a different way… to apply them to places you’ve never been to before and people who aren’t you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t consider yourself a “creative person” and you don’t think you’ll “use” the lessons your inner monologue is trying to teach you. That little movie theater that lives inside your head is a powerful weapon against the crappy, unexpected blows of the real world.

Case in point: Enduring a particularly wrath-inducing breakup? Wishing you could assert yourself in front of that co-worker who seriously will not stop treating you like you haven’t even hit puberty yet no matter how many SAT words you use in daily conversation? I suggest to you the following: Get the soundtrack to Kill Bill bumping (either volume is superb, though I gravitate towards Vol. 1 for this exercise), go run, bike, or just walk with mad purpose for a few miles, and imagine the source of all your fury meeting the pointy end of your katana. You feel better, right? YES, YOU DO. You identify with this character, this person who obviously isn’t you but might have some feelings mirroring your own, and you’re able to explore how you really feel. Did the daydreaming directly solve the issue at hand? Not so much. But the important thing is that you gave yourself a safe place to work out your “ish”, as they say. It keeps you from wanting to chase after your skeezy ex with a real katana.

And if you do happen to be the type who uses their daydreams as creative fuel, there’s an added bonus. Your inner platform 9 ¾ is a stage upon which you can watch your wildest concepts come to life, and there is nobody but you (!) in the audience. You can observe characters, places, and images from a safe distance as you attempt to flesh them out and discover more about them. As a kid, I personally used to adore jumping on the trampoline in my parents’ backyard with my boombox blaring, thinking of what I was going to turn in for creative writing class that week. I’d spend hours out there. The neighbors probably asked my parents if I was “okay” (possible perceived evidence of the War on Daydreaming!). Nowadays, I’m more of a long-walks-on-the-beach kinda gal. But it’s the same idea. It’s my artsy fartsy zen time.

However, there’s one caveat to that particular practice, something I’ve had to work to wrap my head around over the years: Just because an image intrigues you when its dancing around in your own brain, it will not necessarily be intriguing, or even good, when it materializes on paper, onscreen, or on a canvas. Some things you dream up will work as you intended. But it can be hard to tell which product of your dreamscape is the golden egg and which is the dud, because both excited you. This is when real-world-brain has to take the reins and learn to let go of the things that didn’t work, things you thought would be eye-opening and thrilling but in the end just wound up looking cheesy as hell. There’s a time and a place for creative daydreaming. Lose yourself in it. Go nuts. But accept the fact that maybe only 25% of the things you conjured up while you were walking the coastline listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack will actually make it into your final product. Accepting that takes time and maturity. And that’s why you need real-world-brain in addition to Narnia-brain. They work together and they each serve a unique purpose.

So, next time somebody tells you to get your head out of the clouds, take it with a grain of salt. You need to stick your head in said clouds from time to time to get some fresh air. It doesn’t mean you’re delusional. It doesn’t mean you can’t confront yourself. It means you’ve given yourself license to not always be so self-deprecating. It’s like taking a mental health day in short little bursts. As long as it’s not hurting anyone and your life/work/relationships aren’t suffering because of it, have a ball. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t have a rich inner life. It’s a coping skill. It’s a creative breeding ground. So get out there, go find some clouds, and promptly stick your head in them. I’ll wait here.

Originally published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com.

Career

That Time I Killed my Childhood Dream for the Sake of my Sanity

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As a kid, I was blessed with a hyperactive imagination and a dramatic sense of destiny.  These are both helpful once you’re older and trying to be assertive in your creativity… but if you’re at a stage in your life when you’re obligated to take an afternoon nap, it makes you a tiny lunatic.  I believed in Santa until I was prepubescent (who cares what other people said, I had the logic worked out), and nobody could prove that dragons didn’t actually exist so I inverse-propertied that shit and stubbornly held out (we just haven’t been looking in the right places).  This was just the more fantastical stuff—you can only imagine how I was about anything over which I actually thought I had control.

Photo Submitted by Emmy Yu

I started acting in films when I was 5.   Ask me some other time, and I can go into the details of how bittersweetly intoxicating it was—the intricacies of how quickly and willingly any child ruled by wild, hungry imagination would slip under that wave of magical make-believe.  For now though, let’s just suffice to say that set life was pretty sweet.  There was free food always, someone announced my presence over walkie-talkie whenever I was anywhere, and working meant having my face on all the monitors.  I fucking loooved it.  (I’m a Capricorn.  You know who else was a Capricorn?  Stalin.)  Point being, when I realized that this was something that I was getting paid to do and technically could get paid to do for the rest of my life and, therefore, not need to do anything else but this all the freaking time… well, I was in.

I turned 6. And chose what I (thought I) would do for the rest of my life.

It’s fascinating how attached you can become to even the most trivial choice.  You embrace it because it gives definition to that messy, inscrutable concept of “self” you have in your mind.  You lock it down in front of you so you can trace the shape of it with your eyes and claim that this is you.  It’s incredibly satisfying… until, of course, it’s not.  Heavy-hitters like Fight Club and Mad Men explore the “not” in a way that I can’t even attempt, but from my basic understanding of it, you either 1) start hating the shape you’re seeing or 2) someone (maybe everyone) starts telling you “Hey, you’re wrong.  That’s not you at all.”  And you’re expected to just let go.

The second was what happened to me and, honestly, it became clear pretty early on that I would not have a future in acting.  But this was the choice I had made—not a trivial one in the slightest—and I was so very deeply attached.  I closed my eyes to the (mostly well-intentioned, for the record) Dead End Ahead messages I was getting.

I turned 10, I turned 11, I turned 12.

It’s difficult for me to step into this next part.  Even with the time I’ve had to soften the light and mute the volume, I try not to dwell on the memories of this time because it’s so easy to linger and ask unheard, unanswerable questions.  To keep it brief, the auditions were torture.  The stifling hush of cattle-call waiting rooms, where I spent at least 45 minutes for every 5 I actually auditioned.  The canned “thank you” responses that I carefully memorized, word for word, so later I could pick them apart, turn them over in my fingers and see if they meant something else. The dwindling callbacks.  The incredible silence from the phone—undeniably the most judgmental silence I have ever experienced.

I turned 17.

I don’t believe that I was an unusually intense child; it was just an atypical context for someone of that age to find herself in.  So, with the logic of my years, I decided that this whole experience couldn’t simply be something that was just happening to me—it had to be as melodramatic as “destiny.”  How on earth could anyone expect me to let go?  It had been molded into my identity for as long as I could remember and, no, it wasn’t even a significant time investment out of my year anymore—much less my day to day—but it was part of me.  You may as well have asked me to hack my arms off.

I can make jokes about it now (armless kids are funny, guys) but really, I struggled with it.  So I gave myself a cheat and went off to film school that fall to study writing and directing.  I packed your usuals—you know: clothes, new laptop, headshots, kitchenware.  I gave myself a little hope.  I wasn’t letting go of acting entirely—I would just come back to it later, and everything I had ever known about myself would still be true.  Everything I had ever insisted to be true would be true.

Photo Submitted by Emmy Yu

Photo Submitted by Emmy Yu

There’s no dramatic, climactic ending to this story.  There was no eureka! moment when I suddenly said, “Hey, get over it,” and then I did.  College and post-grad life led to a natural diminishment in the time and energy I put into keeping acting on my mind.  Admittedly, at the time, this was a transition I ignored because it was too painful to accept.  Better to cover it up with dismissive jokes about “my acting days of yore.”  Even now, I find myself fighting my panicked instinct to minimize the significance—to look it in the eye, this darling, childish fantasy of mine, and say that acting was just a phase I went through.  But I’ve also wised up to the fact that this is a kind of denial—the emotional equivalent of smiling after you’ve knocked your own teeth out.

Somewhere between ages 5 and 18, I missed the memo that there is always a gap between who you are and who you want to be, and sometimes that gap is unbridgeable.  Acknowledging reality—that this thing I once thought was an everlasting part of my life would actually end up as a montage in my head—was a terribly painful but necessary step in growing up.  And I’m not even sure how it happened but I can say that it did.  I stopped paying my SAG/AFTRA dues.  I don’t even remember where my headshots are stored.

The concept of “letting go” is a horrible, shrieking abomination—one of life’s unfortunate staples that will hold you down beneath the surface of all your expectations, breathless, drowning in your impotence.  What’s worse is that your instinct to fight it will cause you just as much pain—the lengths to which you will go so you can trick and manipulate yourself into thinking that it’s done or that it didn’t matter.  If you find yourself there, be honest with yourself but be gentle, too.  Be okay with the fact that you had hoped for something you couldn’t control and it ultimately disappointed you.  Paolo Coelho said “Everything will be okay in the end.  If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”  The end comes when you least expect it and will be much easier than you ever imagined.  You won’t even feel relief because you will have already floated on.

And if that’s too flowery to digest, just think of it as forcing yourself to throw up after a night of hard drinking.