Tag: Family

😣 Good Grief, 🥳 Happy Holidays

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash

🥳The Holidays are upon us. In the US, what folks refer to as The Holidays is generally accepted to start around Thanksgiving – the third Thursday of November, though my observations suggest it really starts at the end of October, with Halloween. In the UK, in my anglo-Christian family, it was Christmas and the commercialised build up to it. Perhaps it is something else for you. Whatever The Holidays means to you, they are here and they can be a struggle for many. Suffocating societal expectations of Happy Holidays. Debt-fueling challenges to shower loved ones with gifts. Reminiscence of happier times. Remembrance of past pain. "Happy Holidays", we tell each other, persevering to manifest it as truth, wearing it like an inverted halloween mask, the scary facade on the inside. Upon us like a rabid gang armed with tinsel, Christmas music, and peppermint candy canes, intent on forcing us to ignore how we feel and join in with someone else's idea of fun, The Holidays lie waiting to sabotage some of us when we least expect it.

Collage of me and friends on a few different Christmas Days
A few Christmas memories

😣The Holidays are complicated. This post is not intended as some War on Christmas manifesto or a downer on the holiday season. I have incredibly happy memories of The Holidays: traditions, roaring fires, home-cooked family meals. The camaraderie of working shifts with friends at the local pub. My Grandma's birthday on Christmas Eve. Waking up early to open gifts. Going to bed late after too much food and far too many drinks. Friends, family, church, caroling, and more. I fondly remember my time in the church choir1, singing at midnight mass, or walking the village, caroling door to door. Or my Nana staying with us on Christmas Eve so that she could spend Christmas Day with us. And that time my Uncle Peter surprised my Nana and the rest of us, showing up at the local pub in England after calling us from his home in Canada just the night before (he was really in a hotel nearby). Or the time I surprised my mum with a visit when she thought I was spending Christmas here in the US (and yes, it was my Uncle's visit years before that inspired that surprise). My first Christmas meeting much of my girlfriend's family long before she became my wife, and the time I was welcomed into the home of Gary and Carol to eat together with many neighbours and friends. The Holidays have been filled with happiness for me and I am grateful to carry these memories with me. Yet The Holidays also represent an unhappy, twisted, ugly place. A place that ripped my cousin away in a tragic plane crash and stole the sparkle of my friend Mary, both far too soon. The annual reminder my Nana will visit nevermore, that my Grandma's birthday will be remembered without her.

The Holidays are happy moments and sad, and these moments do not cancel each other out, they weave themselves together into a complex tapestry of deep emotion that can in an instant swing from joyful remembrance to helpless sobbing and back again. This is The Holidays for me. A complicated dance of happiness and grief. Grief is good, grief is healthy if we embrace it rather than dodge it. I find my grief is a journey, walking hand in hand with my emotions as I learn a new way to live without the loves I never expected to lose.

😔The Holidays are lonely. This year is my first year alone for The Holidays since my partner and I concluded our marriage was over, since we separated, since we divorced. This is my first time publicly acknowledging that as a thing that happened. It felt crass to announce it as some thing worthy of everyone else's attention. I do not know if that is because it is or because I am just afraid or something else. There have been many days where I wished for my Nan or Mary to show up for a cup of tea and a chat to help me work that out. In some ways, they did. Grief is complicated.

After reading this, you may think I am misguided to be alone right now or to be sharing all this so candidly. Your gut reaction might be to reach out and invite me over to spend time with people for The Holidays. Please don't, though I very much appreciate the sentiment. I already have the right amount of plans (I will be spending Christmas Day with a few of my friends) and I need to do this. I need to do this and I need to do it now, this year, this moment, with these feelings. If this isn't The First Holidays Alone then I have to wait a whole year before I can get past that seemingly arbitrary yet looming milestone. Right now, I need to spend time with me and my grief, and continue our journey working out exactly how things work from this point on.

🤗The Holidays are hopeful. The Holidays are whatever you need them to be. For me, this year at least, they are a time to reflect and to grow as I come to terms with my grief, my loneliness, and the path I have lying ahead, somewhere in the unknown. I have been here before and I cleared a path to get where I am, I know I can learn to clear a different path than the one I planned. You can too. Whatever you are facing as the year end draws near, whatever The Holidays mean to you, you have the strength to endure. We all have our own paths to clear, and no one is better suited to clear yours than you. You can do it. You have done it before. Do not let society shame you into thinking you are not succeeding just because you don't fit the Hallmark picture of The Holidays. You are enough, you are loved. 💝

  1. this may surprise those that know me to be an atheist – our roads are long and winding, with many turns and stops [↩]

Being Grateful Is Good For You

Being grateful—for what others do, for good fortune, for what you have—is good for you. It makes you happier, helps you sleep better, and boosts your immune system. Being grateful is a good way to live and when you thank someone else for what they have done for you, I believe it fosters relationships, builds community, and encourages others to do the same.

I learned about the concepts behind journaling gratitude at my first KalamazooX when Elizabeth Naramore1 discussed her own gratitude journal. Around the same time, a Facebook friend started recording five things a day for which they were grateful. Looking back, this was the period when I started to acknowledge that I had unaddressed problems with depression, anxiety, and self-worth. Being grateful seemed like an easy place to start, so I gave it a try.

At different times, I recorded my gratitude using Facebook, Twitter, a physical journal, and my blog. Eventually, it started feeling stale or false; I was being thankful for inanimate or generic things like coffee, friends, or sunshine. Don't get me wrong, these are all fantastic things, but stating gratitude for coffee felt like my goal had become writing about gratitude than actually feeling grateful.

"…people are not so keen on just handing out personal information like their home address without at least knowing why."

Sometime before a visit to Boston, I had read about a man who set out to send one "thank you" note a day for a year. The idea of writing to people and thanking them directly was appealing. While in Boston, we visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and there I bought a box of postcards that I thought would suit this purpose. It took another two years and a move to Texas before I actually got started.

It has now been three weeks since I started; I have sent 20 cards, and have another four ready to go this week. Writing them is cathartic for me and I get a little excited to mail each one. I keep a list of the people I intend to write to and make sure to keep track of those to whom I have already written. Each day, I send one card, write one or two more, and send a message or two over the Internet to get addresses. However, it turns out that some people are not so keen on just handing out personal information like their home address without at least knowing why. This seemed odd to me at first and I felt untrusted. In addition, I felt a deep reluctance to explain why. It seemed I felt the value of this project was lost if the postcard was not a surprise. Of course, that is ridiculous; not only do people have every right to know why I would want their address, but if the surprise of receiving the card itself were the value, what would be the point of writing anything on the card?

So, I write this blog entry, in part, to provide an explanation for people when they ask why I need their address. That said, I also write it as encouragement to others who might be considering the start of their own gratitude project. Being grateful is powerful on its own, yet the responses I have received to messages I have sent have been wonderful, humbling, and kind. People are amazing, so tell them; the more you thank others for their impact on your life, the more you will be surprised by your impact on theirs.

  1. IIRC [↩]

Astbury Church

I grew up in England just outside the town of Congleton, Cheshire (the same Cheshire where Lewis Carroll wrote about the Cheshire cat). I attended primary school (elementary school, for my American readers) at a Church of England school in Astbury, a small village dominated by St. Mary's Church.

St. Mary's Church is a giant 13th century edifice and it is old. The earliest known church on the site was Norman though it is possible that before that a Saxon church existed there. Putting aside the rebuilding and refurbishment that has occurred since the 13th century, when you are inside that building, you are inside a building that has been in use for 700 years. It has even survived damage from horses stabled there during the English civil war (though some of its furniture and glass did not). It is old, so old that I find it hard to comprehend how much time that is.

I have many memories attached to the church, including harvest festivals, May Day celebrations, weddings, funerals, christenings, Sunday school, Easter, and Christmas, to name a few. I was a choir member for several years and an altar boy, I was even a shepherd or wise man in a nativity once. Joy and grief, life and death, faith and belief; my earliest memories of these things centre around that church and its grey stone walls.

Conveniently placed next to a pub as seems to be required of all areas of congregation for the English1, Astbury Church, as it is colloquially referred, is an imposing sight. From the A34, the church is accessed via either of two lanes that form the perimeter of Astbury's triangular village green, with its giant oak tree centerpiece and carpet of daffodils, grass, or snow, depending on the season. The ground falls away on all sides, and when viewed from the bottom of the green (and assuming you're not trying to look directly through the tree), the church stands against the sky, its weather-vane atop the steeple often silhouetted against clouds or an early morning sunrise, if you are lucky enough to see it.

When I went to visit my family earlier this year, I visited the church for the first time in quite a few years. With my parents, sister, nephew, and wife, we explored the church and its grounds, reminiscing about the occasions that had brought us there previously. If you ever get a chance, I highly recommend visiting this Cheshire landmark and touching 700 years of history. For now, you will have to settle for some of the photos I took; it is a beautiful building that has been considered by some to be one of the most beautiful churches in the country, and is just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside (though my photosphere below is not great, it should give you a sense of what it is like inside).

To view more photos, go to my Google Photos album for St.Mary's Church.

  1. I presume the pub was there first and they just put the church next door for convenience [↩]

Five Things I Did In England That Might Surprise Americans

We all employ stereotypes to generalise groups of people. Often, a stereotype fills a gap between one cultural experience and another, making assumptions about others to provide an easy answer as to why others are different. It is not a particularly constructive approach to cultural differences, often being divisive to the point of pissing people off. Sometimes that is the intent, to troll people, other times it is a side-effect of ignorance.

That's about as deep as I want to get in this blog entry. However, it sets a basis for the following things I did in England that, due to assumptions (stereotypical or otherwise), may be surprising to my North American friends and neighbours.

1. Sound American

To the community I live in, my friends, my colleagues, and my neighbours, I sound British. It does not matter that there's no such thing as a British accent, the distinctions of Scottish, Welsh, Irish, and English (sometimes even Australian) and any variations thereof are irrelevant; we all sound British. Even now, after 10 years living predominantly in the USA, I sound British. Many are surprised that I have retained my British accent after spending so long here. It does not matter how often I might say to-MAY-toe, zee, or gas, to anyone overhearing me talk, I sound British. I believed them too, until I landed in the UK.

Selected languages and accents of the British Isles (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Selected languages and accents of the British Isles (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Everywhere I went, someone was ready to tell me I sounded American, that I had a twang, that I was losing my accent. Now, at first, I put this down to my saying the odd American word or using an American pronunciation, yet after a day or two, after settling back into my native dialect, the comments kept coming. It seems that immersion in US culture for 10 years does make a difference. Worse still, I could not hear it myself. I was so used to the way I talked, I had not even noticed a change, and I still can't. To one side of the Pond, I sound British, and to the other, American. It has left me a little culturally orphaned, a perennial outsider, a citizen of the mid-Atlantic, land of 80's radio DJ's, bad documentary narrators, and people in old movies1.

2. Eat Well

Possibly the most misleading stereotype I hear about the UK is that all our food is bad, awful, bland, terrible, sludge that no one in their right mind would ever let pass their lips. Though we certainly have some unusual dishes that I find pretty horrible (haggis, jellied eels, black pudding, and tripe), I know many who think otherwise, and it is not indicative of all British food. Every culture has its "acquired tastes" that others think are disgusting (Velveeta, Easy Cheese and corndogs, anyone?), but that is no reason to disparage every food that culture has to offer.

While I was back home, I enjoyed some amazing food: a steak and kidney pie at my old local pub, a home-cooked roast chicken dinner from my mum, and delicious chicken curry. "But wait, curry isn't British!" you may cry, but the curries served throughout the UK have diverged from their Indian or Bangladeshi origins to meet the palates of Britons. As American as apple pie? As British as a good curry.

Now, you may cry that I am biased and of course, I am. However, I am also a very fussy eater (ask my wife) and I do not take my food lightly, not to mention that we are all biased when it comes to our food; biased toward what we like. If you want to know if what I am saying about British food is right, you can ask my wife, Chrissy (though perhaps she may not agree on which dishes are best). Whether you believe me or not, be a little more open-minded and a lot more selective. Don't base opinions about British food on what you are told or on a single, awful or obscure meal; instead, get some recommendations, you might be pleasantly surprised.

3. Farm Programming

Contrary to the belief of the Comcast representative that sold me my first cable service, modern technology exists in the UK2. I realise that many people reading this, if not all, are already aware of this.

Shakespeare was not amused at the quality of the earring he bought on Etsy
Shakespeare was not amused by the quality of the earring he bought on Etsy

As our trip to the UK was to be a working vacation, I spent some of my time sat in the lounge of my parents' centuries old farmhouse, coding, emailing, and taking part in meetings. Even in the "quaint"3 English countryside, the modern engineer can push commits to GitHub, attend a conference call on GoToMeeting, and surf the Internet for cat photos. WiFi and broadband are everywhere in the UK; in fact, in some places, the speeds should embarrass Americans, who have some of the most expensive and slowest broadband Internet services in the world.

4. Not Meet The Queen

"And I said, Jeff? Of course I know Jeff!"
"And I said, Jeff? Of course I know Jeff!"

No, I don't know the Queen. I also did not meet your friend that lives in Lower Bumblecrap or your great Uncle Charlie from Arserottingham. What I am trying to say, though perhaps a little harshly, is that the UK is a big place. There are over 63 million people in the UK, over 53 million of them in England alone, one of which is the Queen4. She does not tend to hang around and have personal relationships with her millions of royal subjects. I understand the idea that there is some chance I may have met someone's friend or family member, no matter how unlikely, but when I get asked if I know the Queen (even in jest), I want to escape and go have a real conversation with someone else. Why is a country that fought so hard to get rid of the British Monarchy so apparently obsessed with it?

5. Not Stay

The idea of leaving the gorgeous countryside and history of England to live in the US seems unimaginable to some. Like Madonna, Kevin Spacey, and Tim Burton, many Americans would jump at the opportunity to live in the UK. I can see why, it is filled with amazing people, history, and free healthcare, not to mention everyone talks like Dick van Dyke got elocution lessons, but I lived there for nearly three decades, I've done that. Although my family and many amazing friends are there, I don't fit. I never really fit. The culture of cynicism, the Tall Poppy Syndrome, the overcast weather; it just does not suit me, and in the long term, it doesn't make me happy. Although the US is far from perfect and there are many things I miss from my native land5, since moving here I have been happier, more satisfied, more successful, and more accepted. When we returned to the US, the immigration officer said, "Welcome home," and he was right.

Today's featured image is by Lunar Dragoon and is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.

  1. Okay, not quite, but I wanted to include the video [↩]
  2. "Do you have computers in England, yet?" he had asked, earnestly [↩]
  3. This over-used description of the UK, or parts thereof, always feels dismissive, like it's just a theme park [↩]
  4. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demography_of_the_United_Kingdom#Population [↩]
  5. Worry-free (or at least worry-less) healthcare, pubs (no, they don't exist in the US), proper fish and chips, cask-conditioned ale, and the steak and kidney pies from my old local, to name a few [↩]

A Lush Pilgrimage

Before Chrissy and I went on vacation to England, we were discussing the trip and what we might do while over there (besides spending time with my family). Mid-conversation, Chrissy tilted her head and said, "How far is Dorset from your parents' house?"

"About four hours, why?"

"Have you ever been to Poole?"

"When I was a kid. There's that photo of me with a python round my neck. Why?"

"What photo?"

"I have that yellow sweater on. Why do you want to go to Poole?"

"I don't remember that photo. You've never shown me."

"I swear I have, but whatever. Why do you want to go to Poole?"

"Oh, no reason. Just asking."

"Bollocks. Why do you want to go?"

And it was then that I discovered Poole in Dorset, England is the home of the very first Lush Cosmetics shop and spa.

Chrissy is a lushie1, she has ordered items from Lush Kitchens around the world, exchanged products with other lushies and generally had a jolly good time discussing Lush products over the Internet. For a while, it felt like a new package arrived every day. There were even three packages waiting for us at my parents' house in England. Chrissy loves Lush and the opportunity to visit the spot where it all began was irresistible. So, I planned a trip to Dorset.

Bournemouth

https://instagram.com/p/03RZYtAJ2w/?taken-by=jeff.yates

I found a hotel in Bournemouth (about 15 minutes drive from Poole), a seaside resort on the south coast of England where my family had holidayed when I was 8 or 9 years old (the same trip I met the python), and made a reservation for a couple of nights. Since we were going to be passing nearby, I also booked tickets to visit Stonehenge on the way back (it's about an hour and a half from Bournemouth)2. It would be a lovely little break, Chrissy could get her Lush fix and I could reminisce about childhood vacations while enjoying the English seaside.

The drive down was mostly uneventful until the very end. After checking in to the hotel, we had to navigate a road closure to find our hotel car park; this turned out to be gated with a key-coded entry and incredibly narrow. So narrow that the only reason I even attempted to drive in was the knowledge that someone must have done so already. So unbelievably narrow, a motorbike might have paused to consider the best strategy for passing through3. After squeezing our way into the car park, we rested up in our room before strolling down to and around the beach and pier.

https://instagram.com/p/03Q-aOAJ1w/?taken-by=jeff.yates

The architecture in Bournemouth is indicative of its popularity and growth during the early twentieth century. As we walked around, I was reminded often of the ITV television interpretation of Poirot.

https://instagram.com/p/03L9RIgJ8d/?taken-by=jeff.yates

After a windy wander along the pier, we grabbed some fish and chips for dinner, then went back to the hotel for a good night's rest. The next day was a big one; Chrissy would get to visit Lush prime.

Poole

Chrissy stood outside Lush, Poole
Chrissy stood outside Lush

I think Poole is probably most famous for the dolphin-marked Poole Pottery, but it is also the home of Sunseeker Yachts, a log boat preserved with sugar syrup4, a lot of pubs (and I mean a lot), and the very first Lush store. We parked up near the Quay and, checking directions on the map, walked to Lush.

Chrissy's excitement was palpable and photos were mandatory. Within moments of arriving, it was clear Chrissy had found kindred lushie spirits in the staff. When they realised how far Chrissy had traveled to be there, they offered her a tour of the spa and a free postcard as a souvenir of our visit. I do not recall ever being made as welcome in a shop as I was there, and I was only there because I'm married to a lushie.

At the end of the spa tour5, they asked Chrissy if she would like a treatment. She looked at me for encouragement, which, after a very brief moment of hesitation, I gave —how could I deny her this after travelling so far to be here? Within minutes, we were both6 ready to be booked in for their 80 minute treatment known as "The Good Hour", but there was a snag; they could only fit us in the next morning7. This unfortunate delay, we were to learn, was serendipity handing us an opportunity.

With the treatments booked, we headed out to explore Poole. We wandered the quay, saw Sunseeker yachts in varying states of manufacture and repair, admired some exceedingly old buildings, lost count of how many pubs we did not have time (nor the constitution) to visit, bought some gifts from Poole Pottery, and visited the museum. It turned out that Poole was really worth a visit, regardless of the initial reason we were there.

Gorilla perfumes display
Gorilla perfumes display

The next day, we returned to Lush. I do not want to go into details about the "The Good Hour" treatment, if you want spoilers I am certain the Internet will oblige, all I would like to say is that it was fantastic. The massage was excellent, the pirate-theme was whimsical and strangely relaxing, and the conversation with my masseuse, Emma, was thoroughly enjoyable if not a little…different8. After our treatment was over, we were given a nice cup of tea (with the option of a drop of rum) while we relaxed and enjoyed some more conversation with the friendly and lovely Lush staff. Everyone who we met was professional, friendly and chatty.

As we sipped our tea someone said in a low voice, "Mark is in if you'd like to meet him."

Mark was Mark Constantine, the co-founder and owner of Lush. Chrissy did not know what to say at first. Her eyes were wide like a child who just heard the distant chimes of an ice cream truck9. We walked out of the spa into the shop and glanced nervously round the corner at Mark. Megan, one of the amazing staff, stiffened up with nerves. No one was sure who should interrupt the boss and ask him to meet two people from Michigan. They were not intimidated by Mark, they were in awe of him.

"Mark is kind of a big deal," we were told.

Eventually someone got his attention and he came over to where we were stood. We shook hands. Chrissy was grinning so wide that her face sank beneath teeth and eyes. Even I was excited; not only was I getting to meet the owner of the company, but it was possibly the best thing that could have happened on Chrissy's pilgrimage to the Motherlush. The three of us posed for a photo, then Mark went back to his task and we finished up our purchases, ready to head off to Stonehenge. What a great day, it could not get any better.

Then just as we were about to leave, Mark's hand fell on Chrissy's shoulder.

"Wait here, let me get something for you."

Lush Spa and store, High Street, Poole, Dorset
Lush Spa and store, High Street, Poole, Dorset

Mark disappeared upstairs where the Lush labs, responsible for inventing new Lush products, reside. We were informed that much of the work in the labs had been focused on products for the new Oxford Street store10. A few minutes later, Mark returned with a small plastic box containing two sparkly cosmetic items.

"These aren't exactly new. They're existing products packaged in a new way."

As Chrissy nearly passed out from excitement, Megan took the shiny products and, after taking a picture of them for herself (these were new to everyone, it seemed), packaged them up for Chrissy. It was a generous finish to an already fantastic trip, something that I am sure we will talk of often. As we set off on our way to Stonehenge, I reflected on the day and how it would not have been possible on our last trip, when I had not brought my anxiety under some level of control. I could imagine us not getting the spa treatments because I worried about the cost, or because I worried about not making Stonehenge on time11. I could imagine us leaving the shop sooner, to be sure we would make our Stonehenge time-slot, missing our meeting with Mark Constantine and his generosity. Worse still, I could imagine me spilling all these anxieties out all over the place like an untamed fire-hose, drowning them in negativity so that we could never look back on them as the wonderful moments they were.

As it is, our trip to Poole was one of the best parts of our three weeks in England. Assuming Chrissy doesn't drag me off to the newly opened Lush on Oxford Street in London, I look forward to stopping by Poole to pop into Lush and say hello to the friendly staff, and perhaps to take a stab at those pubs.

https://instagram.com/p/05qnMyAJ2e/?taken-by=jeff.yates

  1. The word used to describe fans of Lush cosmetics [↩]
  2. That's right, the reason we went to Stonehenge was Lush [↩]
  3. OK, that's an exaggeration, but it was bloody narrow [↩]
  4. Sweet! [↩]
  5. I was allowed to tag along too [↩]
  6. Originally, I planned to try one of the many pubs while Chrissy had her treatment, but then I realised it's my vacation too and I deserved a massage [↩]
  7. Each treatment is unique, so the staff need time to setup the room according to the treatment chosen. Ours was pirate-themed…yes, that's right, pirates! [↩]
  8. Look out for the short story or perhaps even seven novel series (with derived movie franchise) I hope to write soon entitled, "The Radiator People" [↩]
  9. actually, they were wide like Chrissy had just heard the distant chimes of an ice cream truck [↩]
  10. Lush Oxford Street was not yet open at the time of our visit to Poole [↩]
  11. It turns out we didn't, but that's not the point [↩]