The least of these-

Tonight will be my first night working in "Camp". Working 11p-7a. I arrived at 0435 today and it already feels like it's been days here. The group I am with are being responsible and resting up for the night ahead. After a few hours of almost sleeping, I decided to get up and see if I could watch the sunset from the docks. Here in Lakki (name of the city) on Leros Island, the shoreline of the harbor is clean, quiet and the sidewalk is dotted with various benches. It is not a beach town but it is beautiful. What I never realized when hearing about the Greek economy and the government going bankrupt (if that is technically what happened I do not know, it's just my understanding at this point) workers are not getting paid. Government workers, transportation workers, military, police .... I'm not sure how far reaching it goes, but what is usually considered "on Greek time", is much, much worse. There are so many empty store fronts, abandoned buildings. Skeleton in appearance, as I expect most island destinations look when winter comes, if the island is not in the tropics.
Walking on the sidewalk, or boardwalk as it is on the water, I see a boat being untied from one of the tie outs along the way. As I looked across the harbor I understood why it was not at the real dock. It was not a real boat compared to the monstrosity of a cargo boat was coming in to the "real dock". As I passed the little boat and I hear it get started up, I imagined how incredibly seasick I would be in that boat. Then the damn thing blew it's horn and I about stroked out from the fright it gave me. I've always been a bit jumpy anyway. This was a whole new level.
The big cargo boat was apparently parallel parking at the docks, and now that it had pulled around I saw the name of it "Vos Grace". I realized it's cargo would be the 400 refugees that were expected to come from the military island of Farmakinesae (I have not googled how to properly spell that). A far cry from the luxury Blue Star Ferry that I had taken from Athens. I took my pictures of the sunset that seemed to be rushing behind the two hillsides protecting the entrance to the harbor, when I notice a cat sniffing at my coffee cup that I sat on the ledge of some forgotten ledge to nowhere. Her 2 kittens peered out from behind the shelter of a forklift with a flat tire. Momma kitty had a sad, almost desperate cry as she followed me closer to the water. I know that this was probably just me projecting my desperation onto her. I feel so desperate to help. In this 30 minutes of walking to the dock and back to the sidewalk outside of Camp, nothing was really happening around the Vos. I sat down on some concrete thing that was not a bench and was not a tie out, but it made a good enough seat. I prayed. God had put the call into my heart to come here. He aligned the stars and those near to me to make this trip happen almost effortlessly. I just felt a little disconnected from that purpose at that moment. "Show me" was all I kept thinking. Show me why you brought me here.
The view of the part of the boat that the refugees were exiting from was mostly obstructed. Unfortunately, the long, single file line was forming towards the gates of the reception area. All different shapes and sizes. There was no luggage being pulled behind them like the 100's of people that got off the ferry with me. The light of the evening pressed down enough to show the general outline of the folks. Nothing more. The visual instantly made me think about those who had watched a similar situation. Instead of exiting a boat, they were entering a train. Instead of a refugee camp, a concentration camp. The irony that Germany figures into both situations did not escape me. I would tell you that the cool wind made my eyes water, but I would be lying.
The line of displaced souls stopped moving and so I decided to move along. I went back to one of the two places to eat in Lakki. It was named 7 Gates and it was the best wi-fi in town apparently. I sat down near a young woman who had a chunky cherub of a baby girl on her lap. The baby was happy as can be with her oatmeal yumminess. Extra cute was the little bit that formed a mustache. Is not it the case that babies make the best ice breakers and conversation starters? The little one's name was Chaplin (like Charlie, her mom said- also ironic that she had the same mustache as her namesake). Her Mom spoke English perfectly, with a hint of an accent. From Sweden, her and her husband had been on the island for 2 months. He worked for the United Nation's branch for Refugee aid. The Camp was built by this group.
As we talked, she said that the arrivals that just docked would make 400 for the day; the good weather encouraged the Greeks to do a mass exodus of the refugees off of Farmakinesae. The Camp accommodates 300 refugees, 350 tightly squeezed. I have in mind just how busy our night was going to be. I am not going to tell you Mom's name, as I did not ask permission. I know, I know. But I'm using her baby's name. It is what it is at the moment.
I mentioned the weather, as it is a good prediction of how many refugees show up and she added that any day without a shipwreck was a good day. My obvious question was "Does that happen very often?" You can imagine the unfortunate answer.
She began to tell me about the weeks of Christmas and New Years. "We lost many, many people. Most of them children."
My next obvious question was how did the ships wreck- and so a translation is needed here..ship = raft. Almost 100% were caused by the taking on of water. Whether by stormy seas or the appearance of a deadly hole in the raft, the results were equally horrifying.
The week of Christmas, there was a raft that sank. On arrival to camp. a young woman that had been rescued from the water befriended Mrs. UN, and shared her story. Mrs. UN can speak Arabic, so she gets a lot of attention. The Syrian woman, a mother of 4, was fleeing with her children, her mother, her husband and her brother-in-law. There were only so many life jackets but even that did not save her children, as the waves were too strong for their small frames. She was the only adult that survived. She was able to keep a hold of her youngest baby, just a month older than Chaplin. The young woman knew that her baby, in her arms, died about 4 hours before she was rescued. She had no one. There was no one left from her life. The conditions in Syria are so bad that this possibility, losing your family or even yourself, was a risk worth taking. The bodies of these fleeing lost souls were retrieved from the water. Or, as in Turkey just yesterday, the bodies wash up onto the shore (37 in this particular case).
Then, like a light bulb, it registered why I was here (one of the reasons anyway). I am here to write this tragedy into being, bringing it into a human form. Sharing the grief of the refugees, the volunteers and the Greek natives on this island.
I ask that you share this post. Every news clip and internet article I've read or watched has this political air to it. The reality could not be further from the truth. One million refugees fled in 2015. There are 2 million more trying to escape. These are families just like the ones we've all come from. So many are voiceless or silenced by whatever media agenda is the favorite of the day.
Fear of isis (I do not believe they deserve capital letters) and Islamic extremists attacking from their version of the Trojan Horse, is abundant in the US. The collapse of Europe has been suggested from one of my own family members. I'm of the opinion that it will not be the acceptance of refugees into the European nations, or even our own, that will cause mass destruction. It will be the refusal of them that will. Martin Luther King, Jr. said it best "You can not destroy hate with hate. Only love can do it."
Or better yet, Jesus Christ who said in John 13:34, A new command I give you: Love one another.

January 4, 2016

So here I am, after months and months (and months) of not posting to this blog, needing a place to speak on some important issues. I have been cheating on this blog by writing another one.  Thrive in Gratitude was the blog I started after a little come to Jesus meeting I encountered in December 2014.

My inspiration for the following is spurred on by the too numerous to count articles that go something like this- '15 things women need to do before they are 40'; '20 things I learned in my 20's'; 'Why your 30's will be your best decade ever'.

As a woman, I feel like 90% of articles read like a grocery list. I'm pretty sure the 10 best moves to have a bikini body never worked. I'm absolutely certain that the top 5 fat burning foods haven't been all that was promoted of them either. And for the record, there has not been one resolution, New Year's, or otherwise that I have ever kept.

It's petty. All of these notions of generational wisdom and split second self improvement are toxic.
Let's face it- there are no 2 lives, regardless of what generation they are or are not in, that are full of the same struggles and supposed growth and knowledge that has come from the triumph over said struggles. And if there is ever a resolution to have, it would be to STOP READING BEAUTY/FITNESS/GLAMOUR MAGAZINES. They are the most passive aggressive bullshit slingers you'll ever encounter.

Take a step back for a minute. Pan out from the lens of your life's video recorder and look around. Do you see all those men who walked off the cover of GQ magazine? No you don't. So, why in the hell are you putting yourself up in comparison to some extreme standard that even the models have to be airbrushed to make. Aren't you over it, all that self inflicted soul crushing negative talk that seems to ramble on continuously in your brain? Don't you just want to say 'Shut Up already'?

Now, take a huge leap back from yourself and forward in time. Maybe it's only been a few months that you've spent time with the bitch in your brain, but I'd bet it's been a very complicated long term relationship. So, 2 years, 5 years from now- are you still going to be listening to the biggest liar you know? Are you still going to be held down by the fact that you're not a multi-million dollar making model, who still gets airbrushed? More importantly, are you still going to be living your life on that small of a scale? Folding in on your life instead of expanding? (Shut up. no I did not mean your waistline). The world is passing by and you're on a self loathing treadmill, riding a pity train through the life that you don't really find fulfilling anyway. What in the hell for?

I met a woman, 100 years old mind you, and her son, 67 years old, today at Panera Bread. She talked about their travels when they went around the world. Around the WORLD, not the block, or the USA, the freaking WORLD. Her favorite place was Kenya (Africa keeps calling to me!) and he found it hard to narrow down. Rio for partying he said. Sri Lanka was a favorite and when it came up that I was traveling to Greece they both enjoyed telling me how they had gotten so drunk on Red Zenith when on a greek island, that they looked just like those 2 drunks you always see in the movies, with elbows interlocked, swaying and singing all the way back to the hotel. I don't know how old the duo was on their amazing adventure of world travel, but I could tell it lived in them. Adventure that is. I asked how they afforded such a wonderful lifestyle to take the trip and the time. He said they lived cheap and traveled cheap. They both loved being in the world so much that having a simple life was part of the joy.

I would like to point out that neither of them said that they got some great advice from a to-do list in a magazine. Neither of them said they worked super hard to get in the best shape, have the best job, and the perfect hair before their journies. What they did do was sponsor an African family in Kenya with 6 children, and put them all through school. Visiting the family in Africa and sharing in their lives made the simple life they lived feel extravagant. Two of the African children are now living in Florida. What an impact this family has had on theirs.

I have lived a lot of years, A LOT of years, full of disgust for myself. Life was generally easy and carefree, but the longer I listened to the bitch in my brain, the more I struggled with depression. Until I couldn't even stand taking my next breath. How sad to have lost so many lifetimes in those years. I know that the biggest changes came when I started being grateful, for everything. Seeing the beauty of life in some of the ugliest places. I've been lucky to have the nursing profession as a form of therapy. Helping others, caring for others, giving to others of yourself, these things can affect a person's mood. Do these things on purpose, and it will change your life. Stop trying to be perfect and start being happy. If you don't know what makes you happy, which I didn't really know, until I stopped being so "self-centered", then I suggest you take a long look in the mirror and acknowledge the person looking back at you, because you haven't spent enough time taking care of her. She may even seem like a foreigner. If you're looking at your reflection and you don't see someone you love, I humbly suggest you find ways to figure out why. I'm a strong believer in therapy. It's some of the best money I've ever spent. Your life will suck until you like, if not love, the person you are living it as.
I have one other nugget of advice- live for something bigger than you. I'm not talking on the level of your husband, children, family, I'm talking about something that breaks your heart and punches you in the gut when you hear about it. Those things, those passions, are where your humanity lives and giving of your time, energy, prayer, money, whatever, will have a positive, lasting ripple effect in your life. In your well-being and happiness.

Happy January 4th. May you let your heart rule your brain and not some bitch.
Love,
Brooke

August 27, 2015- Memory Lane is always open. No need to live on it.

So there I was, in my hometown, pulling into an empty parking spot, with lines barely visible, in an empty parking lot. The conformist in me would never park all willy-nilly (I'm not Helen Keller); even if I was 99.9% sure that the parking lot wasn't going to explode with cars at 8:30 in the evening on a Wednesday. I was going to walk. Simple. No cell phone, no music. I have always preferred doing my exercise without music. It helps me to notice things. Things like the sound of my feet, the wind through the trees, the approach of a car. My thoughts seemingly narrating the walking tour of my childhood. Wondering of all the changes time managed to make while I've been gone. Noticing homes I'd never noticed before. Seeing homes my classmates grew up in and the now, vacant lot, where my middle school best friend used to live, until she moved away with her family to California. I remember the devastation of her departure. Feeling so sad to lose my very own friend. There has never been a time that I've been by here that I didn't think of her. I found her on Facebook a few years ago and she was kind enough to accept my request. Our social media reunion was like a deflated balloon, there was nothing left of who we knew each other to be.
I pass by the mothers of 2 of my school mates, as they share each other's company on a perfect evening to be outdoors. It was as if time had stopped, and it could've easily been one of the many other times I had passed one or both of them walking along our city streets, when I was in high school. I see the familiar furrow of the brow as one tries to place a name with my face. I hear the silence of their conversation as our steps take us farther and farther apart. Did they ask each other if they knew who I was? Maybe they knew it was an "Albertson" girl. Maybe, like me, they let a handful of memories we might have shared, breeze through their mind and briefly noted that we have all lived a lifetime since the last time we spoke, and that the world just isn't the same anymore.
My tour of town takes me up into the new development of homes where a cornfield used to stand. I say new, but I believe it has been around 10 years or more. These homes could be like any across the US. I don't say that to sound rude. It just seems that, for whatever reason, these homes wouldn't be viewed from the street, 50 years from now, as anything special. The homes in town that have graced this city for a handful of decades are just different. The air around the old homes seems full of history and mystery. The new homes built for young couples, young families, older professionals staking claim to their piece of Loogootee land, don't inspire awe. I have no doubt that they are gorgeous inside. They do not however, have character like old historical homes have and it makes me wonder if that was the same thought others had when those historical homes were new.  I have mixed emotions as the new street intersects with the old. It seems to me that I don't belong on either.
The High School has had an addition built on, of which I've never seen the inside of. Looking at the high school, my high school, I imagine all the stories it can tell. Thinking of the thousands of kids who walked through those halls and out into the world, made me come to terms with the startling fact that the Loogootee High School experience has changed little over the last 100 years.
I cross the highway for a 3rd time, never having to stop for traffic. In the slow, winding thoughts that have swam through my mind, I ask myself what I am doing here. I see vague visions in my mind's eye of a possible home, life and future living out my life here. My nephew and niece are there, my mom, my sisters. It  doesn't stay long, like a sandstorm, the images disintegrate. There are no emotions tied to the images, and my futuristic photo journey leaps into the scenes of many various places. I am there, in the images this time, smiling, with children around me, with life and abundance filling my heart as I see the work of God in me. I now consider myself called to do more, to be more than I have ever done before. The revelation settles in, comfortable and obvious.
I love it here, in my hometown. It is beautiful and fairly uncomplicated. I am lucky. There will always be a place called home for me. On these streets, I am always welcome. My feet will talk this path again, as they have uncountable times before.
No, I don't listen to music when I walk. I like to notice when God is telling me something.

So there I was...: August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll

So there I was...: August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll: I love to write. Well, let me rephrase that. I love sharing my thoughts about things to really let people understand that they aren't al...

August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll

I love to write. Well, let me rephrase that. I love sharing my thoughts about things to really let people understand that they aren't alone in their kind of crazy! Whether it's my disdain for automatic flushing sinks and toilets, Wal-mart parking lots at Christmas, or mosquitos that try to assassinate me, I have covered all kinds of crazy issues. Quite literally "crazy" when speaking about my immobilizing depression. Which I'm happy to report has not reared it's ugly head since December 17th, 2014. I sound like I'm in a 12 step program. Hi, my name is Brooke, I've been non-suicidal for 249 days. I've mostly been happy for those days, but like all crazy (read= normal) people I have days that are just, rude. Have you ever had that happen to you, where your day just feels like an ugly, itchy wool sweater? All you want to do is get home and take it off. I don't know about you, but I can tell when I open my eyes in the morning if that hideous sweater is already on. It doesn't always happen, but when it does I drink Dos Equis. Wait...scratch that, I'm not the most interesting man in the world. Shocking I know..but apparently a la' Bruce Jenner, I could be! Which certainly sounds like hell to me. I mean, getting paid more than female co-workers who do the same job, having very few people have any real expectations of me, being able to pull off telling perverted jokes..(that might be a bad example, I might have done that once or 700 times), being able to go months without shaving. Tough life.
Well, to be fair, there are a few downsides to being a man; testicles, balding (I've got that going on right now..this list is getting weird), erectile mishaps in general (weirder), not being a mind reader so you tend to make your girl angry, and not being fully accepted as a man after you cried watching Remember the Titans. At the end of the day, it's all what you make of it. If I look back to my ugly itchy sweater days, I'm almost certain that I wore that sweater all day voluntarily. Lord knows I have changed my mind on an outfit once or twice. I didn't have to take one step with the happy hater on.
We've all heard the advice that we have the power to change our thoughts and change our mood.  So why don't we? If anything, we have the control of our thoughts. Yes we do, but our mood is sometimes different.
How many women have picked up a magazine on women's "health"? Don't they just piss you off in the long run? They become a nagging mother in-law pointing out all the things you aren't doing right and how far you are from being beautiful in the eyes of some skin salesman. So why do we keep picking them up? There's no easier way to ruin your mood! Bashing your mind or body or even life for pete's sake is a guarantee for the ugly itchy sweater to come out.  Thumb through a mag and you'll see every body part that looks better than yours. Let me introduce you to Photoshop. Keep doing that... you'll be a hateful, miserable troll. You know I'm right. I also know that hearing things like "what's important is what's on the inside" or "you're beautiful inside and out" makes anyone who hears those phrases want to physically harm the other person. Those phrases are so passive- aggressive and so transparent, and even if they are true, they are as helpful as Donald Trump giving advice on hairstyles. The problem isn't that there are beautiful models (HELLO! THEY GET THE TITLE OF MODEL FOR A REASON). The problem is that, as women, we don't see our own beauty and most likely we don't really know what makes us feel beautiful. I've learned to stop waiting for compliments to validate...well anything really, including my looks. It's rare that we a) believe someone else's compliment anyway, because we tell ourselves that our mirror tells the real truth and  b) even if we do believe the compliment we'll tell ourselves it was just because we're having a good hair day or it doesn't count because it was someone we see as less attractive than our self. Wow, we are miserable trolls. Time to knock that shit off. Let's get real for a half second. There is at least one thing about yourself that you know is your best asset. I really like my eyes. They tend to change colors depending on what I wear, and when I've seen them in pictures I've never scolded myself for not holding my eyes in so I didn't look fat. If there isn't one single thing you like about yourself, then stop reading this, sit quietly and say to yourself over and over until the tears flow "I am worthy".
If you have grown up feeling as if you always fell short of someone else's expectations, or maybe they were your own expectations, you won't find peace within yourself until you forgive yourself for letting those feelings hurt you. We all have this sort of monkey on our back. And I can tell you first hand that grabbing that monkey by the tail and swinging it's nappy ass into hell is the best thing you can do for your self-esteem. Sit there and imagine all the nasty, flea infested thoughts that monkey caused and visualize it falling into the flames of hell where all those negative beliefs burn up, right along with the monkey. If you aren't into animal cruelty, then make it a little black back pack.
When you claim your worthiness, you begin to cherish treating yourself well. You start learning what you need and deserve to have, and one day it will hit you. You don't find a thing you love, you'll find a person. She's waiting in the mirror for you to see her.

July 27, 2015- A face of living

There comes a moment in time, for everyone, when they look in the mirror and no longer see the person they are used to seeing. For some reason, the mirror wasn't only used for doing hair, applying make-up and plucking eyebrows that day. It became, in that moment, a thorough and complete image of the person they had been un-seeing for months, maybe years. Being too focused on the details and not the big picture, the whole of us had gone unnoticed. Now, the noticeable was looking back. Little things like the softness the face now had, lines that were once barely perceptible had become carved more deeply, and what I noticed most was the instantaneous love for the woman standing there. Observing the observer, only a millisecond passes, but the recognition of a life being defined settles into the driver's seat of our thoughts and emotions. I felt the honesty in every visible hallmark of growing older. The long forgotten age spot from a trip to Hawaii that tries to blend in on my left cheek bone. One more recently from a few afternoons in the pool with Trey and Teagan.

My eyes are even more revealing than the years of smiles and laughter that took form in the shape of parentheses around my lips. Moving in closer, though still slight, the appearance of the tributaries that my tears use for escape can be seen. I imagine this delicate area is much stronger than even imaginable, it carries some extremely heavy loads. Much more capable to withstand the weight of life's hardest lessons, their existence can go unappreciated. The furrowing of my brows have left two similar sized lines, scars from the spectrum of emotions my life has absorbed. Deep in thought perplexities, anger, frustration and confusion now have a permanent residence between the doorways to my soul.

Bags. The bags under my eyes are cucumber resistant. Which is totally fine with me. I think we as a society have held some pretty negative beliefs about these sirens of fatigue. I see them as a result of a life lived. The glory of living resides under our means for viewing the world. Some view the world with their eyes closed, in a dark bedroom, worrying about scenarios that most likely will never happen, or previous situations that have gone to pass. There are no time traveling capabilities to change the past. We have only the opportunity to choose not to relive it. These humble sacks represent proof that I have spent my years experiencing the world. Night shifts and international flights, jet lag and work that often times leaves no room for rest, while tending to the fragile lives of others; stressful times during the courses of what would soon be realised as unsuccessful relationships. Living life outloud, dancing and carrying on until the wee hours of morning in cities all across America, those times should surely not be forgotten. Nor should the stretches of merely existing, when in the stranglehold of depression. Bags, painless results of working long hours caring for others, traveling to experiences, not just locations (whether a cross country move or for a once in a lifetime vacation), I sought the feeling of bliss that laid in wait at my destination. Bags are reminders of battles, real and imagined, that taught me about gratitude, and ultimately, joy for life. So for me, I'll keep my bags, and recycle them, too.

Age is just a number. A sentiment I firmly agree with, for I feel I am no longer growing up, but growing forward towards the inevitable end of an extremely fulfilling life.

June 29,2015- stop being a baby

There are times in my life that I have been tactless, rude, egotistical, arrogant, spiteful, brash and let's be honest- a bitch. I look back and think of these times and I see me as someone who was hell bent on being strong and independent. Being self-sufficient was difficult at times. A lot of times. I'm not sure when it happened, but I forgot how to ask for help. In December, I remember a night that was particularly painful and Mom came in and saw me crying. My first instinct was to bottle it up, dry my tears so she wouldn't worry and then I wouldn't be seen as...weak, broken, vulnerable. My therapist's voice ran through my mind "Being vulnerable around the people closest to you gives them the chance to actively show you that they love you." So I sobbed and let her dry my tears and I let her make it better. 

One very blatant thing stands out to me these days---what if I had been a guy? Men don't cry. We've all heard it.

Well, I think there's a problem with that. My nephew Trey is 4 years old. Like all busy, running boys he gets bumps and bruises and tends to ask if it's bleeding! Which apparently means death will soon follow. A little boy being a little child. He has the right to cry, to be scared, to have hurt feelings, and get confused by the emotions he may be having at any given moment. So- when is it that it becomes unacceptable? I felt all those emotions this month and it's socially acceptable, for me, a grown woman to breakdown.

But for boys, it's a double standard.You hear phrases like:

 -stop being a baby 

-don't be a sissy

-he needs to toughen up

-he's a cry baby

-and the one I HATE the most is when I hear someone say "he's going to end up gay." The ignorance and sheer absurdity of that statement makes me want to spit nails. 

Exhale. Unclench teeth. 

Trying to move away from anger, although anger seems absolutely acceptable for SOOO many reasons, I begin to feel saddened. If I had been Michael instead of Brooke, I'm certain I would be dead now. My depression would have been socially unacceptable, and since the other side of the coin of depression is anger, I would have been eaten alive by vicious, deadly bullying by my own brain. Why aren't more people talking about this? How many innocent people will die before it clicks with the powers that be?

Nine people killed, in a church, by a kid. I know, I know-he isn't really a kid..but when you look back at your 21 year old self, do you see yourself as a responsible upstanding citizen? Or someone just making a life for themselves; trying to discover the minutia of their uniqueness? 

So, yes, I say he was a kid. 

The blanket rationale for such a heinous act is that he is "mentally disturbed" with a history of a psychiatric disorder. 

That's it? That's as far as you think it goes? What moment in time, in this kid's life, did he become so broken? Boys being forced to be "men" because any sign of being less than that is unacceptable by ...by who? Parents? Friends? Teachers? Television? Bullies? Who makes it stop? I think it's time we do.

Our jails are full of kids, kids locked inside the adult minds of rapists, murderers, thieves- what age does the psyche of boys shatter under the pressures of trying to be stronger than they know how to be, fearless in fearful situations, and ashamed of the inner anguish they must go through when their natural desire is to be comforted, accepted and loved, no matter what. 

Do you want to end hate, racism, oppression, and violence in this country? Allow your boys to be vulnerable, and love and comfort them so they don't feel alone. Teach them with kindness and acceptance, not unreachable expectations. Let them have a childhood. Let them play with legos and dinosaurs until whatever age they want to stop playing with them and by all means encourage creativity. Jump, play, dance and laugh with your sons, nephews, and next door neighbors. Be vulnerable too. Show them that life can be really tough sometimes and teach them grace by allowing them to love you.