Trauma Turds

I was first introduced to somatic therapy (via traditional talk therapy) late in 2023 as I was attempting to plow through a traumatic episode (like a bull in a china shop) and was struggling with a pathetic lack of progress and the anxiety that went alongside of it. 

At the time, I couldn't decide whether somatic therapy made good sense or  was some crazy, harebrained new trend that would soon pass (with more emphasis on the latter).  According to the experts and other folks who know far more than I do, somatic therapy treats mental health (particularly PTSD, anxiety, and its many cousins) by strategically focusing on and leveraging the mind-body connection.  The therapy is based on the premise that stress, tension, and traumas (including the wickedly entrenched and seemingly unreachable type) are stored deep in the body somewhere and leaving them there is a fabulous recipe for poor physical and mental health over the long haul.   Through proper mind-body exercises, somatic therapy is though to coax the body into releasing buried trauma.  Once those traumas have resurfaced in search of their freedom, the mind can (presumably and with the right kind of help) wrestle them into a healthier tomorrow.  

Sounds very logical but I was skeptical.  My body wasn't exactly sending me email about where all this trauma was hidden or how it would cooperate and let go of it.  

But I felt like I had hit a wall with talk therapy ... the large brick, insurmountable type.  Not because I lacked an excellent therapist, but rather because my mind seemed pretty skilled at keeping what I had not yet talked about in therapy out of all present and future conversation.  When my mind was hell-bent on something, it seemed to get its way no matter what kind of negotiation I entered into with it. This was in no small part courtesy of many years of education and training that brainwashed me into believing that good scientists and engineers let the mind and rational thought run the show... always.  

Despite feeling skeptical and having to fight off my trained mind, I resolved to be open-minded about somatic therapy and dip a single toe in the water (one toe, not the big toe, and no more).  To do this, I began taking yoga classes as my token baby step forward.  I hadn't done yoga in several years ... since shortly after COVID-19 took over the world and created its own trauma.  My lapse meant that I was about as limber as a piece of rebar.  And while I knew from past experience that regular yoga practice would resolve the rebar issue and make me more flexible, I was not looking forward to the inevitable pain and soreness that would get me from here to there.     

In the past, I had treated yoga as mere physical activity -- a means to minimize the stiffness, aches, and pains that aging was invariably pushing onto my radar screen on a regular basis.  I had been warned by conservative Christians that going to yoga class was tantamount to worshiping pagan gods by diverting me to Eastern religion.  Downward Dog would most certainly lead me away from proper Christian life  Peaceful warrior, mountain pose, and forward fold would then advance me into Satan's den.  Etc.  Ugh.   

When I considered whether these perils were potentially valid, reason and emotion returned me back to God's promise that He would chase me to the ends of the earth if I lost my way.  So, in the unlikely event that the devil was indeed hiding in one or more of my yoga classes, I was confident that God could and would pluck me out of Satan's grasp and set me straight. In the meantime, I would drag the Holy Spirit into yoga practice with me, and invest in the practice spiritually, emotionally, and physically to see where it could take me.   

As I started the second phase of yoga practice in my life, I began to pay more attention to what was going on in my mind, in my breath, and in my heart... all while I played advanced Twister with my body.  I thought that meditation, if I could muster it, would calm the running commentary in my mind. If  I could get past pondering how my body was not a pretzel while my instructor was busy trying to tell me so.  If I could find peace in the occasional moment of limberness.  If I could experience mind, heart, body, and spirit at the same time -- well, then, that would be progress.

Slowly, I was able to do something that I  had never done before ... meditate.  In meditation, my mind wasn't blank, but it was at least less busy and more calm.  A million thoughts running around a hundred miles a minute cooled down to a handful of thoughts milling about with no particular place to go. Progress.

And slowly, guess what?  I discovered that trained, experienced therapists were right.  In the moments of paying attention to my breath, attending  to one body part at a time, and raising my awareness of the complex machinery that makes up the human body, I started to notice weird stuff going on.  I felt  little pieces of pain, sometimes deep and sometimes light, breaking off from various parts of my body or breath -- and heading inward -- to my heart center.  

Though not a tangible place, the heart center  is still recognizable as the place where my deepest feelings hide.  It is close to the physical heart but not actually the physical heart.  It is oddly and simultaneously -- very nebulous and very distinct.  

The little pieces of pain that broke off from various places in my body and stages of my breath to be hurtled toward my heart center at high speeds ... deserved a name.  For lack of proper scientific terminology to describe them, I settled on calling them Trauma Turds.  I don't know the size of the Trauma Turd army that lurks within my being.  Yet, I see who they are when they escape their trenches and travel toward  my heart center like asteroids barreling toward an unsuspecting planet.  

As the turds crash land, they hurt, much like an acute moment of grief or a deep disappointment. They have no individual names. I don't know who they are or what they represent. But I think the whole point is that I don't really need to know what part of my life or which experience pooped them into my mind-heart-body.  But I suspect that the escaped trauma turds will eventually have a voice, at least enough so for me to face them, deal with them, and give them a swift kick out of my psyche.  

Wretched turds.   

Despite the weirdness of it all, my one toe in the water is happy .   I am still a little skeptical about my happy toe, but I am willing to dip another toe or two in similar waters and continue on in this journey. To release, accept, and face the Turds.  That is the goal here.

Yoga practice isn't the whole solution, but it certainly seems to have set me onto an interesting and hopeful path forward.

And on a spiritual note, instead of leading me away from God, yoga practice has instead drawn me closer.  In the silent times when meditation becomes within reach, when the gears in my mind ratchet down and allow thoughts to move more slowly, I do more of what I have historically done not nearly often enough. Pray.  

But then... 

Zing.  There goes another one.

Stupid Turds.

Notice. Refocus. Meditate.

Pray.

Zing. 

Sigh.

 

Holidays made Simple

 

I asked Google (which knows everything and wouldn't ever lie to me... right?):  "What is Friendsgiving?" and  Google dug up the following for me out of cyberspace:

"... Friendsgiving is a good way to gather friends, colleagues, or neighbors who are unable to go back home to their family or are wary to travel."

Interesting that there is nothing in Google's notion of Friendsgiving that recognizes that some don't have family "to go back home to" or  that some "are wary to travel" because they don't have the money or the days off from work necessary to hop in a car, train, or airplane headed to a faraway destination where family reside.   

Regardless of Google's limitations (of which there are some ... sorry Google), I am delighted that the concept of Friendsgiving has gained steam and popularity over the years.   It has certainly reduced the stigma associated with not being invited to (or hosting) a large gathering of blood-and-marriage relatives around a gargantuan  table with enough food to feed half a village (and still enough left over to serve an additional village of canines and felines).   Gone are the days when I feel "less" because the table is set only for two or because  Christmas dinner consists of warmed leftovers consumed in front of a Hallmark Christmas movie or a football game (or both).  

I never thought that I would spend a holiday season feeling "full and whole". I lack what American culture has traditionally said I need to have to feel that way -- a holiday filled with holiday parties, meal preparations, and large family gatherings.  

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring because...  we were all exhausted from... socializing.   

Of course, there is no proper rhyme to this sentiment, but it still rang true during the 2024 holiday season.   It all started on the day before Thanksgiving when we hosted a dinner (or delivered dinner) to friends and neighbors to give a break before the Big Meal Prep started.   On Thanksgiving day, we made the long commute to the house across the street where our neighbors Josie and Jack were hosting a large Thanksgiving gathering for friends and family.  And so it went through the holiday season. Hosting dinners and enjoying the hosting of others. Cooking, Baking, and  No-Baking, exchanging treats until our GI tracts were overloaded with delicious food and launching a protest over the frequent overeating and lack of routine cuisine.  

At the end of the season, while making the last long commute from another neighbor's house back home after a lovely New Years Day party, I realized that I had hardly had time to feel lonely or depressed this holiday season.   

While Friendsgiving may, in the eyes of some, still only deserve a second or third place finish among the "best" ways to spend the holidays, it has many first place qualities.  Almost exclusively, I spend time with people I like and whose company I enjoy. I don't worry about difficult conversations among family members who may not get along with each other.  I don't get over-tired  by obligation, but have an option to reach that point by choice.  I have no large commitments to gift giving, so each gift is amply sprinkled with thought, love, and reflection.  

And let's not forget that if I socialize enough, I can largely forget about the fact that a large majority of my work colleagues could care less about what I am doing or how I feel over the holidays. 

Last but not least, if I eat enough, I can forget that I won't be able to spend time with some friends because they are restricted to family-only events over the holidays.

In 2024, I gained a new appreciation for this modern Friendsgiving plus alternative to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the other holidays that spring up between late November and the first of January. 

Who needs those feelings that start to creep in at the start of Thanksgiving week? Feelings of sadness, loneliness, isolation, rejection, and their emotional cousins. Blech.

Adios. Au Revoir. Wiedersehen.  Goodbye Holiday Depression.  

I am deeply grateful for all the friends who surrounded me this past season. And yes, even for two of my best friends who I happen to be related to by blood or marriage.   

In fact, especially so.  

Clean, Old-Fashioned Hate

Many, many years ago (shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth), I enrolled in and completed a degree (or two) at the Georgia Institute of Technology (informally Georgia Tech or just Tech for those who think or feel that GT is the only engineering-focused school worth recognizing).  I had left a Tree behind and instead was looked forward to embracing a Yellowjacket named Buzz -- GT's adorable mascot.  

It didn't take long after I arrived on campus to become aware of how intense the rivalry was between (engineering focused) Georgia Tech and (liberal arts focused) University of Georgia (aka Georgia for those that think or feel that the land grant institution represents the entire state's higher education system).  For starters, I had a roommate from Athens, Georgia (where the University of Georgia is located) and it appeared that I was disliked from the moment I moved my furniture in the door -- presumably due to my "lifestyle" but likely more to do with the fact that I had just moved from Silicon Valley and was immersing myself in more tech culture by pursuing a graduate degree in electrical and computer engineering.  I was one of those urban, tech people -- which seemed to automatically place me in enemy ranks.  

Not surprisingly, the roommate situation didn't last very long and after six months, I moved on to rooming with fellow software and electrical engineers and engineering students-- urban techies.   My new housing situation allowed me a much needed escape from my previous situation where walking in the door seemed so often to be greeted by animosity.   On campus though, there was no such insulation from the UGA-GT rivalry.  Even in the bowels of the cleanroom, the rivalry simmered, gradually building during yet another frustrating football season (at the time, GT's football team specialized in roller coastering from brilliant to dismal and back again) to the annual late autumn rivalry game.   

The prelude to the annual football rivalry game was more than just talk about football and chances of wining -- it was an opportunity to hear a wide range of sarcastic remarks and jokes about the relative inferiority of UGA compared to GT.  Many of my fellow engineers and techies had a less than respectful view of liberal arts programs, often to the point that they didn't understand the point of liberal arts majors at all. Their attitudes toward liberal arts were compounded by the rural (UGA) vs. urban (GT) campuses that pitted those living near farms against those living next to skyscrapers (and horrendous Atlanta traffic which successfully dampened the charm of the city on a regular basis).  

During the annual rivalry game itself, the animosity between the students from each college in the stands would reach its peak.   It was intense enough that many of us made sure that we walked on the opposite side of the street to students from the opposing team and steered well clear of those who had a tad too much alcohol and were indulging in feeding the fray.   

Oddly, it wasn't until many years after I graduated that I became aware that the bitter and intense rivalry between UGA and GT had been coined "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" by author Bill Cromartie in the 1970's to the tune of 611 pages in a book exploring, describing, and embracing the rivalry.  "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" implied that two teams that hated each other could still be sportsmanlike as they competed on the football field. And that they could continue being nice to each other after the game no matter what the winners said, no matter what the losers felt, and no matter what the referees had done.   

A little unrealistic, eh?

Having moved to Washington state a few years after graduating from Georgia Tech, I ran into similar animosity between urban (and wealthy) Western Washington and rural (and not as wealthy) Eastern Washington.  The rivalry between the University of Washington and Washington State University never rose to anywhere near the level of what I had experienced in Georgia -- likely because it's impossible to "hate" a rivalry game called "The Apple Cup".  I was content with a rivalry game where I could cheer, yell, and scream for my team without ever dipping a toe into anything remotely resembling hate.  

It wasn't until 2024 that the term "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" started to really rock my boat.   In an era where hate could be manufactured from almost nowhere and lead to mass shootings in schools, multiple casualty hit and runs in the cities, and a political climate that made healthy, functioning government a pipe dream -- I just couldn't stomach the word "hate" applied to a football game.

How about Clean, Old Fashioned Fans? Clean, Old Fashioned Football?  Clean Old Fashioned Branding that doesn't include Hate?

Can we please dispense with the word hate and come up with branding that allows the rivalry to stand while also hinting at bringing people together rather than pushing them further apart?

I know.  That's just sooooo unrealistic and idealistic.  

protecting the vulnerable

Last night, my husband and I had a friend over for dinner.  The conversation among the three of us lasted long past Taco Tuesday fare and a somewhat strange choice of dessert.  In fact, I don't think I've ever had tacos and chocolate mousse together in one meal, and I blame myself for not choosing a more suitable combination of foods. Fortunately, I don't think the odd mixture troubled anyone at the table except for me.   

But, I digress (as usual). 

During almost four hours together, we covered a substantial amount of food and a broad range of topics. The evening felt both refreshingly normal and strangely unusual. To be able to talk about so many things freely without judgement or anger making it impossible to consider how others see and process the world-- seems to have become an unfortunate rarity at the American dinner table. 

At one point, our freely meandering conversation wandered into the "luck" that both men at the table had enjoyed in their careers in terms of both financial and professional success.  Before I could stop it, the words "white male privilege" jumped out of my mouth, unimpeded by any level of censorship that I might have imposed on my words if I had stopped to think about what I was saying. 

To my surprise, there was no angry or hostile response.  Instead, I had the pleasure of hearing a clear acknowledgment of that privilege. Even further to my surprise, our friend/guest expressed a sense of responsibility for caring for and protecting those who lacked such privilege, particularly women.  My husband often speaks to how much he would like to protect me and see me protected from the perils that accompany being a woman in engineering.  To be in the presence of two men who thought that way -- temporarily left me speechless.  

It made me wonder why I was so shocked by the lack of anger and hostility in the room and left me doing a deep dive into thinking about Who is actually responsible for protecting the vulnerable in our society and What they should be doing and Why it has become offensive to talk about Who and What.  

I am often distressed as to why so many Americans seem to have lost sight of our collective, community obligation to speak up for and protect the vulnerable.  Although the United States still rates highly in terms of generosity in terms of both time and money (#6 in 2024, according to the World Giving Index), it seems like we have an increasingly narrow idea of who our vulnerable populations are.  

Somewhere along the line, we have forgotten that vulnerable populations are everywhere -- even in the affluent United States.  And, by extension, we are all vulnerable in some way, shape, or form -- although some are much more so than others.  Instead, we seem to have created sharp, dividing lines between the vulnerable and the privileged or powerful -- and have acquired the habit of withdrawing our compassion for those who are vulnerable once they speak out in their defense.  So many now make quick judgements about which side (privileged or vulnerable) a person is living on -- before even listening to their story and understanding their experience.

These stark lines of division vary from person to person, from community to community -- so much so that we can't seem to talk about it anymore, much less work toward broader protection of and compassion for anyone who is in need, regardless of their race, ethnicity, immigration status, sexuality, gender, etc.  Protecting the vulnerable is not a monthly check donated to a food bank, a regular offering to the unhoused, a credible book on racism read and reflected, a training class taken -- even though these things are all important. Neither is protecting the vulnerable a task meant only for the privileged to undertake. Instead, it seems to me that knowing Who the vulnerable are, What do do about it, and understanding and seeking to overcome the Why it has become offensive to talk about such things -- has to be addressed at a more granular level:  Everyday Living.

I can benefit from and most certainly should adopt an everyday habit of paying more attention to vulnerability. I need to understand that just because I am part of a vulnerable group, I also enjoy immense privilege.  And I need to leverage both vulnerability and privilege to become a better citizen and a more caring friend.  

All too often, I get stuck in one corner and neglect the other.   Much as I would like to push all the responsibility of protection onto privileged white males, I shouldn't.  Much as I would like to ignore the vulnerable because I enjoy privilege, I most certainly shouldn't.   

So thank you -- friend and dinner guest.  I bet you had little idea that one comment could trigger someone to jump into such a long rabbit hole of reflection.   

But that is, after all, what introverts do.  

It's not just me.... I think there may be other, far more credible and knowledgeable authors who speak to protection of the vulnerable.  Such as: 

We "... must be vigilant in protecting and supporting all communities, including the most vulnerable among us.  We have a special obligation to protect children, whose victimization ripples through families, communities, and society at large.  Likewise, elder abuse, fraud, and neglect remain urgent problems in this country, particularly as the COVID-19 pandemic ushered in a new wave of exploitative practices targeted at seniors... Gender-based violence, including domestic violence, dating violence, sexual assault, and stalking, cuts across socioeconomic, racial, and geographic lines.  In addition, low-income communities, LGBTQI+ communities, communities of color, people with disabilities, non-citizens, and victims of human trafficking face disproportionately high rates of victimization." 

"People should speak out for the poor and vulnerable, and ensure justice for those who are being crushed."

"I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

As I wrote this, I felt an all too familiar sense of embarrassment and hypocrisy because I am not living up to my obligation to protect as well as I should, could, or can. My audience here is one. I am preaching to myself.  

 

Surprised. Not Surprised: Post-Mortem 2024

My memory about how and when the COVID-19 pandemic arrived in the United States is still as clear as if it happened yesterday. In late 2019 and early 2020, I had been reading about the virus in China, fretting about its potential migration to other countries and hopeful that migration to the U.S. was not inevitable.  But, on the eve of flying back to Washington in early 2020, the first COVID-19 case in the United States was announced on the national news.  Patient Zero was in Everett, Washington -- near SeaTac airport where I would land the following day.  

When I heard this, I felt everything in my life go still.  Still. Quiet.  Dark.  

As the United States reacted, as businesses and services of all kinds shut down, as people panicked, as face masks were optional, then required, then demonized -- I had no doubt in my mind that my fellow Christians would step up and do whatever was necessary to protect those around them from infection and the serious harm posed by COVID-19.  I assumed that I would return to church on Sunday after lockdowns were lifted and my fellow Christians would be gladly donning face masks without complaint.  I assumed that they would be more than happy to shine a light in a dark place and chose mask over freedom.  I assumed that wearing a face mask was a small inconvenience -- a minor irritation necessary  to protect the healthy from oppressive illness and the vulnerable from dying.   

The joke was on me, of course. Surprise!  Instead of observing my fellow churchgoers honoring the laws of the land (Romans 13:1-2), I saw pushback.  I saw hostility. I saw dismissiveness. I saw overt refusal to obey public health guidelines.  

Four years later, I am now shocked at myself rather than at my fellow Christians.  It is shocking to me that I was surprised by the results of the November 2024 election.  Really?  How could I possibly be surprised by the outcome?  How could I possibly think that things are different now, in 2024, compared to 2020 and 2016?

Many of my fellow Christians have dismissed or downplayed rape, felonies, assault, racism, xenophobia, and a vast array of hate-filled remarks to vote for the president-elect.  It's one thing to vote for that candidate's policies/positions on issues while admitting and admitting frequently that much of his behavior is anything but Christian. It's another thing entirely to gloat, boast, defend, or remain silent about the behaviors that have shocked America, and should be shocking Christians.  

Whether or not I am surprised or not surprised, I am sure to be dismissed as a demon-filled Democrat, even before anyone thinks to ask or care what my political party affiliation has been over my many decades of voting as an American citizen.   You might be Surprised.

​​​​​​​I so badly wish we could just choose love over anger, faith over frustration, humility over boasting, gratitude over greed, speaking out kindly over remaining silent -- and a myriad of other choices that could get us to a better place as a country without all this chaos, hostility, and divisiveness.      

Surprised. Not Surprised. 

Every day it's a Surprise to me which of the two will win out.

No Fruit, Minimal Fruit, Inconsistent Fruit, Spoiled Fruit = NO Vote

(This blog was written the day before Election Day 2024 and was edited several days after)

Except for my inner circle, I've kept largely quiet about the presidential campaign.   Too much anger. Too much chaos. Too much talking. Too many statements lacking facts and evidence. Too much bias. Too little listening.  And so on.   

I was relatively quiet until the day before the election when the extent of my speaking out ventured beyond my head but remained confined to this blog which should have made me feel a tad better, should have relieved some of my election angst (which as it turns out, was warranted), and be read by at most two persons who likely already know how I feel and what I'm thinking (still true).  

Oops! That was an impressive attempt at talking myself out of writing.  Unfortunately, without writing (and doing so abundantly), I will just succumb to the anger and divisiveness that the majority of voters appear to be indulging.  Trying again now...

My whole attitude can be summed up in two pictures.  While I expected a lot of fruit in the presidential campaign:

It appears a bunch of nuts emerged instead:

Some examples:

• Fruit:  "I strongly disagree with any criticism of people based on who they voted for."
• Nut: "Any African American or Hispanic ... that votes for [the opposing candidate], you've got to have your head examined. They are really screwing you."

• Fruit: "Well, I'm not -- but I'm not finished. I'm not finished. May I finish -- may I finish responding, please?”
• Nut: Interviewer chronically interrupting [the candidate]

• Fruit: The opposing candidate does not understand women’s “agency, their authority, their right and their ability to make decisions about their own lives..."
• Nut: "Well, I’m going to do it whether the women like it or not. I am going to protect them."

• Fruit: The opposing candidate  “is a fascist” because he has praised Adolf Hitler and put personal loyalty above the Constitution.
• Nut: The opposing candidate is “lazy as hell”, “slow”, a "stupid person", and has a “low IQ.” "Does she drink?  Is she on drugs?"

And last but not least, the closing comments of the two campaigns diverged about as much and as widely as I can imagine.   One candidate offered a democracy operating with grace, kindness, and on occasion, joy (her words, not mine).   The other candidate vowed to take revenge on anyone who defies him.  

In all these comments/statements and many, many more that I have heard over and over again in 2024, I've come to the conclusion that although I try to consider all the complex issues on the table without introducing my own bias, I am, after all, a simple-minded voter. Perhaps I also have a low IQ.  Perhaps not.  But with whatever IQ points I have to work with, I can confirm, without reservation, that any candidate who cannot at least try to exhibit the fruits of the spirit (kindness, patience, self-control, joy, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, peace, and love) and do so frequently and sincerely  -- can not have my vote, no matter how much I agree with that individual's stand on any issue. No fruit, no vote.

And, please don't misunderstand me.  I don't mean the use of the word "nut" to say or imply that one candidate is necessarily crazy, but the behavior often seems that way.  My amateur, untrained opinion is simply that something is amiss with one of our candidates (now President-elect). And no matter how much I might agree or disagree with his policies, goals, or strategies, I can't imagine that he will rise above what is fundamentally and essentially "amiss" to enact policy and provide leadership that is consistent with what any country truly needs from a President.  I want to be wrong on this.   

In the closing days of the election, the candidate (now President-elect) accused anyone voting for the opposing party or registered in that party of being possessed by demons.  I am indeed obsessed with and possessed by nine demons, all fruitful.   But to be sure that I am not truly possessed by demons of a more sinister nature, I have turned to prayer and scripture.   If I am wrong, I have fervently asked for eyes to see and ears to hear.   I ask God daily to redirect my mind and my heart if I have it let it run astray.  But, my mind and heart just keep coming back to the same point -- I just can't get away from those crazy fruits (Galatians 5: 22-23).  

Fruits are an essential part of the leadership diet.   Nuts are not.   

Vegetables?... well, that's another blog altogether.  

A Metaphor for Anger in America: Paint Pots at Yellowstone

As any visitor to Yellowstone National Park will tell you, it's nearly impossible not to marvel at the variety and beauty of the hydrothermal features the park offers. The variety extends from Old Faithful who erupts with almost two hundred feet of steaming water and grandeur every 35 to 120 minutes to the relatively water-starved and subdued mud pots which provide endless entertainment with their random symphony of burps and gurgles.  

Watching these features and getting lost in my own little world as any self-respecting introvert would do, I couldn't help but think that many of these hydrothermals speak metaphorically to the problems that we have with anger and frustration in America today.  Many people have heated opinions about politics, policies, rising costs, housing, overwork, underpay, and a myriad of other issues, some so much so that their true colors are largely masked by their anger:

Like the mud pots, others seem pretty mellow and even keeled, but their persistent, low-key, rumbling suggest that they could go sideways at any moment:

Still others, while still heated and passionate in their views, somehow manage to keep their true colors shining bright and beautiful through their negative emotions:

A select few manage to transform all that heated energy into something stunning and lasting -- a legacy:

Given the selection of paint pots, I prefer to strive toward these later models.  Stay invested, remain engaged, feel passionate, experience anger... but do it without it getting in the way of loving and caring about people, no matter what their paint pot may be.

Because I am definitely one prone to steaming over things to the extent that my true colors disappear underneath my anger and frustration, this is easier said than done.   Sigh.

And now back to admiring the geysers and hydrothermal bouquet without overthinking them... that's a piece of advice that Old Faithful was kind enough to give me: