Gluchlich

The German word for happiness- well, probably one of the words, but since my German isn't very good it's the only one I know-- is "Gluchlich." And this used to bother me, just a little, because it is so clearly related to the English word "lucky." It irritated me to think that an entire language could seriously assume that happiness was up to luck, that you couldn't influence your own fate about this most basic of psychological needs. I know very well indeed that we aren't always in perfect control of our emotional lives, but this seemed to be a bridge too far.

Then I read a book by Tony Danza, of Who's the Boss fame, about doing a TV reality show in which he taught a high school English class for a year in a tough high school in Philadelphia. (The book's title is I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had.) What I mostly got out of that book was that good teaching doesn't necessarily make for good reality TV, because good teaching inherently involves less drama than reality TV needs. But towards the beginning, as he was talking about how he got to the point of doing the reality TV show, he talked about how he had many friends who were just as talented and just as hardworking has he had been, but that getting the role in Who's the Boss was a lucky break for him. It was his way of acknowledging that he was no better than-- well, maybe not anyone else, but many of the people he knew and respected. I liked that--and suddenly I became a lot more OK with Gluchlich as a concept. 

I am aware that happiness can be cultivated-- that's the hardworking part. But somehow I feel calmer and happier myself when I know there's some unfairness built into the system. If I don't have as much as someone else, it isn't automatically because I wasn't as good as them at something. It even, oddly, makes it easier to be happier for them. If you know it isn't a perfectly balanced system to start with, there's no use weeping or wailing when it shows itself to be what you already knew it was. :D

The Garden Lantern

Last spring some time I was in Kohl's with a $5 off $5 coupon, and I wandered around until I found the thing I was supposed to buy, which was a solar garden lantern. I'm getting better at this with buying things-- finding what is just right and then going with that. I kind of wish I were so confident in picking out people to be friends with, but people are not things and money is much simpler (and in some ways more dangerous) than exchanges of friendship, so perhaps I should be content.

Anyway, I brought it home and then set it by my door to wait until I figured out exactly where in the garden I wanted to put it. I wanted it to be useful, but I also didn't want to attract mosquitoes close to the front door.

But I also-- and this is the extremely silly part, but it's funny and I'd rather make someone laugh than make them think I'm never ridiculous-- I also hesitated to put it out because I was afraid that the weather would get to it. The garden lantern. That was designed to be out in the weather. So, as I mentioned, I propped it in its corner between my front closet and my front door, and periodically it would fall over, and I would think to myself that I should put it out, and I would worry again about the weather, and I wouldn't do it.

Then last Thursday or so, I realized that while it was designed to deal with the weather, it wasn't designed to be tipped over and fall on the ground repeatedly, and that I should just put in in a spot already. You see, unlike lighting designed for the indoors, this garden lantern didn't have anything flat to rest on; it had a pole with two spikes at the end, meant to be driven into the ground. So I took it out and within about three seconds realized that the perfect spot was just inside the garden gate, and I felt very silly for not having put it there before. And I was so pleased with how it looked as I went out for my walk on Sunday evening that I took a picture of it as I left the house, and that is the picture that I show you now:

I suppose there's some useful moral to be learned from all this, though I'm not quite sure what. I'm just thankful that my silliness didn't result in the poor lantern being broken without ever having been used. The sight of it brings me happiness every time I see it.

Child Abuse Prevention Training

 A new school year is about to begin in our district. This means, among other things, that I have been diligently completing online training modules, including one which is sometimes known among staff members as "child abuse prevention training."

But it isn't, not really. It's actually a training on what our legal responsibility is if we suspect a child has been abused: which is to say, we must report it promptly to the proper authorities. I've cried after work every single time I've had to submit one of these reports, BTW, but having emotions about a legal responsibility doesn't absolve you of said responsibility. Also, it's not a huge percentage of days. I've only ever had to submit at most one a year, and my job for the past several years has involved so little direct interaction with the kids that I haven't had a day like that for quite some time. 

I've been thinking about what it would be like if it were actual child abuse prevention training. If I were designing it-- and to be clear, I'm well aware that no one has asked me-- but if I were designing Child Abuse Prevention Training, I would have the first part be on how to recognize your emotions, the next part on how to appropriately deal with your emotions, and the last part on how much more important it is to be in control of yourself than of any child. 

For good measure, I'd probably throw in a few things about how to get children to do things without being abusive to them, because I know I am personally most at risk of child abuse when I feel like I have to get a kid to do a thing that for whatever reason isn't happening. Now that I think about it, I'd probably also have a bit about what is going through children's heads when they act a certain way. I've noticed an ever-greater tendency in our culture to attribute adult-style motivations and ideas to these young aliens who most often have no idea what is going on, want desperately to win our approval, and haven't learned yet how to regulate their own emotions (which, it's that much more difficult for them to do so when we are giving them poor examples ourselves). Maybe I'd end on a happy note with several videos of people telling "That could have gone south, but I managed to figure out how to stay in control of my emotions, ask for help as needed, and prevent child abuse" stories.

Thank you to Project Gutenburg for making this out-of-copyright image available!
I think this lady looks pretty calm and collected even though one of her charges looks less than enthusiastic about nap time (or wherever they're going) don't you?

Meet the ferns

The Lady Ferns were the first to get their names because it seemed silly for ladies to not have names. I'm not sure why my phone in all its wisdom has decided to give Lady Elisabeth such different lighting than Lady Katherine; I took these photos mere seconds apart, and the ferns themselves are pretty close together.

Lady Katherine

Lady Elisabeth

After that the Hay-Scented Fern told me he could be called Charlie, after my grandpa (who never actually went by Charlie, but whatev). Because I know you are wondering: no, Charlie doesn't smell like anything, hay or otherwise, to me. 

Charlie, poor Charlie.

I feel pretty bad about how poorly Charlie is doing. First, I left him in his pot for about half of last summer, literally overshadowed by the ladies beside him (though I didn't notice that part at the time), and only watering him when I noticed everyone was looking a bit droopy. Then I got so tired of trying to find spots in my yard to plant ferns which hadn't already been cris-crossed by too-large tree roots that I gave up and planted Charlie in an inadequate hole. You can see the result. *sigh*. I can only hope that he will continue to survive, and eventually thrive. Also I'm backing up that hope with extra water and fertilizer and encouraging words.

Dasher and Dancer are next to each other, and Donner is over on the far side of the yard, next to the fence rather than the sidewalk. Dancer was my only Christmas fern last year, but I ended up planting Dasher and Donner this year. As with other Christmas-named plants, these are named for that fact that they still have foliage during the cold time of year, when Christmas is in the northern hemisphere.

Dasher

Dancer

Donner

I decided on the names for the Ostrich Ferns last. The others had practically named themselves. I finally decided to go with Edward and Edwina when Mrs. Weathercolour suggested it; I'd thought of it, since I used to have a picture book titled "Edward the Emu," but her suggestion cinched it. (Ostriches aren't emus, but we both figured: close enough.) I feel a little bad for Edwin and Edwina, since the cicadas liked them an awfully lot. In the weeks since they got all that love the eggs have been hatching out, and Edwin and Edwina's fronds have been dying off rather much. And yet, they started out quite hale and hearty and happy, better equipped to deal with that kind of stress than probably anything else in the garden, so I'm not too worried for them.

Edwin

Edwina

Magical Tennis Shoes and Perfectionism

I think I've written about the magical tennis shoes here, but I'm not finding the post at the moment. When I do I'll link to it.

The TL;DR is that I ended up buying a pair of tennis shoes that was extremely in style, which made me darn nervous because I truly did not want to look like one of the seventh graders I was working with at the time. It turned out that instead of the kids thinking I was trying too hard to be cool (with the exception of exactly one sixth grader) they thought I WAS cool-- and the more trend-aware the kid was, the stronger the impression was. This was pretty weird for me, but nice; the positive feedback from kids was nice, but the truly amazing effect was that the same kids who on principle tended to resist any and all orders, suggestions, commands, etc. would get twirling spirals in their eyes and say "Yes," when I asked them to do things, as long as I was wearing The Magical Shoes. I found these effects to be both hilarious and worrisome.

It was worrisome because I know darn good and well that letting any of your sense of self-worth rest on the approval of seventh-graders is a terrible idea, even if you're a seventh grader, but especially if you're a grownup. Luckily, I was able to avoid that fate at that time. 

However, recently I was in a group discussion about a video featuring a woman who had been an elite synchronized swimmer, whose perfectionism had prevented her from enjoying the successes she had before she became too ill to compete. All of a sudden I made the connection: it does feel good to get compliments from normally hostile seventh graders; it also feels good to get awards and prizes from the sports world (or the academic world, or the musical world, or the world in general); but letting go of your precious sense of self-worth in exchange for those things is a terrible idea.

I haven't been quite as successful at keeping my sense of self-worth safe from these other traps, but at least now I have a metaphor to remind me why I should keep trying. :)

I've become the Crazy Native Plant Lady

Being the Crazy Native Plant Lady might not be as weird as being a cat lady, but it isn't my fault; I'm excessively allergic to cats.

Also: I do try to keep my blog posts pretty vague about exactly where I live, but if you are the sort of person who can pinpoint my location from the (native) plants I'm about to describe, I'm not worried at all about what would happen if you chose to find me.

I moved into a new apartment last spring. While the to-do list for the inside is still extensive, the yard is delightful and green and sun-dappled and no matter how hot the weather, it's cooler than the unshaded sidewalk outside of my gate. It's also enclosed by a 6-foot tall privacy fence. This means that even though there are plenty of neighbors who can see my yard from their second-story windows, in practice as long as I'm moving around the yard, I don't think about that too much and I have fun.

And what kind of fun? Well, pulling weeds. I know. Balloons should be sent for this party. But it IS fun. 

The first year, I started my garden planning by buying a bunch of seeds that I ended up not being able to use: zinnias, zucchini, cilantro, cucumbers. As spring got underway and the tree by the back gate began to leaf out, I started to notice that my garden wasn't just kind of shady; it's really shady. Like, the official definition of a shady garden is one that gets not more than three (or four) hours of sunlight a day, and as I sat in my comfy chair by the window one lazy Saturday and monitored how much sun different parts of the garden got, I couldn't see any part that got more than one hour of sunlight that day.

That's when I began to realize I was going to need a different strategy. I eventually gave away my vegetable, herb, and flower seeds, and began researching what would grow in shade.

And you know what I came up with? Ferns! Ferns are gorgeous and they love to grow in super moist, super shady conditions-- like the forest floor. I knew this because I'd seen them growing there, wild, on walks. I figured that a garden shaded by domesticated trees couldn't be that different. When my older sister lived in Tasmania, I'd heard tales of a fern forest-- I'd still love to go-- but even the thought of having my little 15-by-20-foot yard green with ferns made my heart sing. 

I started researching what else I could plant. I found out about Virginia Bluebells, which looked gorgeous but are a little bit difficult to obtain commercially, and by the time I had figured out I wanted them last year, I had missed my window of opportunity. Instead, I ended up purchasing what they had left that was on my list: a Christmas fern, two lady ferns, and a hay-scented fern. (Because I know you are going to ask: yes, I sniffed it, and no, it didn't seem to smell like hay or anything else to me.) Then I kept them on the mini-concrete-slab in the back yard (2'x2') for at least a month, but probably more like two, while I tried to get around to planting them.

I am not going to pretend that I'm not a procrastinator, but in this case, it wasn't just procrastination. For one thing, I needed to clear the plants that "cumbered the ground" that was the ultimate destiny for the ferns' home. Most of it was English ivy, which isn't that hard to rip up, but it's so prolific that there was just a ton to do. Add the fact that it's not a native, and this is definitely classed as an invasive. On top of that, there were several out-of-control sweetbriar canes-- which, to be clear, were never going to even blossom, given the lack of sunlight, so it was a plant that was literally all thorns and no roses. On top of that, the root systems of the trees that surround the yard like to send up suckers, which need to be clipped off so that my yard doesn't actually become a forest floor. I mean, if I chose to do it, it would be one thing, but I'm not making that decision this year.

And it turned out to be those root systems which caused the most delay, once the overgrown invasives were gone-enough that I could start thinking about where I wanted to plant my beautiful ferns. It turned out that I wasn't going to have a lot of choice, because it seemed like everywhere I tried, I would run into tree roots at least as big around as my wrist, blocking me from digging a hole big enough for my plant.

Part of the problem is that the nursery I have been buying these ferns from sells them in gallon pots, and with instructions to dig a hole twice as wide as the pot, I end up having to find a space that's at least 18 inches wide and nearly a foot deep, in order to get these things in the ground. The Christmas fern went in fine, but the lady ferns took a couple of tries each and the hay-scented fern was put in a hole which, according to the instructions, was inadequate, but I figured by then that it would be happier in the ground than in its pot a few more weeks while I dug hole after hole, trying to find a better spot.

I shifted strategies again. I realized that planting ferns this big, enough to cover the yard, was not going to be feasible. Which was/is fine, since they aren't exactly cheap, and it was going to take quite a while to be able to afford enough to cover the yard. Everything I've read says that each of these varieties will spread once it's established, and I'm SUPER excited for that to happen.

But... four ferns isn't going to provide coverage for a 15'x23' yard very quickly. I decided that I would buy a few more this year, and just let the garden grow a little at a time. Now I have two more Christmas ferns over on one side of the sidewalk, and a couple of ostrich ferns (which I was also too late to get last year) on the other side.

Luckily, I also have some happy native volunteers. I had some cute, tiny but tall daisy-looking things, and after weeks of typing variations of their description into the internet, I finally became convinced that these were daisy fleabane-- I love the name; it's a bit ridiculous, like me-- and best of all, they were natives! So I left my little patch all fall and all winter, and rejoiced when it grew back even bigger and better this spring.

The cicadas loved the daisy fleabane.

I also have wood sorrel, which sort of looks like clover until you look at it closely; it's a lot taller than clover when it's grown a bit, but the biggest tell is that clover has white flowers and wood sorrel has yellow ones. Wood sorrel, check.

This year I was also early enough to get the Virginia Bluebells, Unfortunately, after one night outside in my yard, the Virginia Bluebells got eaten by an unknown creature. Back to the nursery they went (luckily they have a very generous return policy) and that was when I found out that I could get the ostrich ferns. The ostrich ferns are doing pretty well, except that the cicadas tried to lay eggs in one of them, too, so the fronds affected by that little episode aren't doing so well.

Poor cicadas. They aren't very smart.

But I was still feeling a little worried about what to fill in with. Not Daisy Fleabane, because it's so tall it would block what sunlight was getting to the ferns from getting there at all. Wood sorrel is fine in its place but it isn't that prolific.

Then, round about the time one of my older nieces was visiting, in the spring, I noticed these cute little purple violets all over my yard, and felt moved to look them up. Lo and behold, they're native, and what's more, the extension service recommends them as a groundcover! I was never planning on soccer games in this yard anyway. Something that is hardy and native and green most of the year round but gorgeous in the spring sounds exactly like what I want for my yard. Also it needs no mowing. I quite appreciate this quality.

I'm also continuing to look up plant descriptions, to try to figure out what is native and what isn't, and pull out the nonnatives. TBH weeding feels like an IRL computer game, only instead of murdering imaginary aliens, I'm composting real-live plant aliens. I dunno. It's satisfying. 

P.S. I'll post pictures next time. For realz. I just don't have any at the moment, and it's dark out, and I started this post back in May, and I think it's about time to just let it be up and add a picture post later. :D

Your (distant, secondhand) Grief Counts

In the last month or so, I've talked to a couple of different people who were close to me who were shaken by the deaths of people who were not close to them. They didn't want to impose on the families affected by the deaths, but they did need to talk about it, so they talked to me-- and, to be clear, I do know that it is an honor to be trusted this much.

One of the things I told them is that I do know, from firsthand experience, that having someone sad for you because someone close to you has died makes grief lighter. 

I learned this from the secondhand-mourner perspective when a woman I knew and admired lost her husband to suicide. When I got to the casket-- she was standing at the head of it-- and looked into my friend's eyes, all I could do is cry. She hugged me, and said, "Thank you for crying for me."

I didn't know her that well, and I had never met her husband that I knew of, and I felt utterly impotent to offer any comfort in that moment. That is why when she said it, I thought she was being very thoughtful of me to let me think that I had actually done her any good.

I thought this until I lost my friend who was murdered by her ex-husband. Some people were so shocked when I told them about it that I had to spend precious emotional energy calming them down. That was pretty hard. But others-- many others, even some who didn't know my friend at all-- chose to be sad for me, and I learned firsthand that having someone else be sad for my loss is one of the single most healing things that I've ever experienced.

I learned this again when my dad died. Fewer people, though not zero, were shocked and upset and needed me to be emotionally present in ways that were pretty hard. But others offered sweet, loving support. I especially appreciate a couple of the teachers in the building where I worked who quietly checked in on me now and again to make sure I was doing OK. They had lost their own fathers within the last few years, and they knew from their own firsthand experience what was needed. But all of the other people, including close friends, who didn't know what to do and who were just straight up sad for me? I was SO thankful for them, too. Every expression of grief on my behalf seemed to split mine up and take a part of it away.

So, my advice: be aware not to impose, but looking someone in the eye and letting them know how truly sad you are for their loss is not maybe a little perhaps helpful, but it genuinely lifts the burdens of grief. If you feel an unexpected wave of grief over the death of someone you have never met, this not only signals that you are a human with a functioning heart, but it means that if you are in a position to communicate that grief, you could provide the exact support that grieving person or family needs. It tells them that their person mattered-- even to someone who had never met them. And surely, if you think about it, someone who matters even to those who never met them must matter a lot.

The caveat: some people are not going to be up to human interaction when they are grieving. The essence of not imposing is being willing to step back when the person indicates that is what they would like you to do. If this is the vibe you're getting, be sure to respect it, but at the same time understand that your own grief is still real, and that you yourself may need to reach out for support. I learned that one the hard way. My personal experience is that suicides can be particularly difficult to process. I beg of you to reach out for the support you need if you are finding yourself in a hole having to do with this issue-- or if you find yourself in an emotional hole about anything at all. Each life is precious, including yours.