Save Ratchet!

CALLING ALL TROOP SUPPORTERS & DOG LOVERS

Do you love Dogs? Do you support our troops? If either or both of these apply, then please read the story (link below) in today's Star Tribune and sign the petition to save Ratchet. Heck, if you have any passion about human interests, read below.
Beloved pup's fate becomes international cause
Please, don't delay.

Ruminating

I recently came across an article that discusses a link between creativity and mood disorders. The article clearly states that not all creative people are depressed or bi-polar, and that all people with depression or bi-polar disorders are not creative. It does however point out some interesting connections.

From the article:

Experts say mental illness does not necessarily cause creativity, nor does creativity necessarily contribute to mental illness, but a certain ruminating personality type may contribute to both mental health issues and art.

The article discusses such points as hypersensitivity to your environment, creativity, constant ruminating about the things happening to you and the world, and how these are often interrelated. When I first read the article this week, I thought: BINGO! You can read the entire article here.

I am definitely a ruminator, and I have suffered through bouts of depression, from mild to severe. If you ask anyone who knows me personally, they'll tell you I am creative, I have a big heart, and that I sometimes wear my emotions on my sleeve. I imagine that the emotional part comes from the hypersensitivity to my environment. I strongly dislike unfairness, and that is when you will most likely see the emotions. I am also an empathizer, often tuning into the feelings of others, which in turn, can increase my inner burden. Lastly, I think situations to death (perhaps a little obsessive or perfectionist).

There are many people I spend a great deal of time with that seem shocked when I tell them I am and have often been depressed. Most people would say that I am usually upbeat and positive, but that is only when I keep myself busy and focused. If I am around negativity, I tend to fall in to that trap, as well. In other words, I can stay positive if those around me are, as well. At the end of the day, however, when I unleash my inner self, I am exhausted from holding it in and still depressed.

The older I get, the more I realize that I do not think the same as others, which isn't all bad. I tend to think in pictures and emotions. This is quite possibly the creative side of the depressed mind. Perhaps the question "Do I need to paint you a picture?" was meant for me. If I need to recall something, I often must go back to the place the thought first popped in my head. This can be a problem, because if I am asked to recall details of a conversation or action, it may not come to me until I retrace my steps. (I guess I wouldn't be a very good court witness.) Sometimes it only takes one small visual reminder to open the floodgates of memory. Or solitude.

Solitude helps me to sort the scattered thoughts in my mind. My best work comes during times I am alone. While some people may thing I am an extrovert, because I am friendly, as well as busy and productive in group work, chattering away (often too much), I am truly an introvert. Too much togetherness drives me bonkers. It makes me want to jump out of my skin. I need to escape. I do not like spending 24/7 with people, so vacations and business travel can be a bit taxing. I get recharged when I am alone without distractions.

When I look back at my blogs, I see alot of ruminating. Sometimes I write when I'm feeling mildly depressed or vulnerable, thus the ruminating. (Or am I mildly depressed because I ruminate?) However, if I am having a really down day, I would rather sleep or do mindless things, as I can't string together coherent thoughts. As of late, I have probably had more depressed days than not, in a large part, due to some very unfair things happening in the workplace, to others and myself. I have worked hard to fix the wrongs, but to no avail. Add some personal and financial stressors, and there is a recipe for disaster.

I imagine it is time to revisit the medication issue, though that could be a blog of its own...I have handled depression with and without, and will probably spend the rest of my life volleying between the options. Perhaps a change of scenery will be the only elixir I need.

Has The Fire Gone Out?

I found this as I was reading online. It fits in perfect with the reflective weeks I've been going through. It seems as timeless as when it was written in the sixties. Of course, it is an age old problem, which just becomes more pronounced during times of struggle. The cycle will likely repeat throughout all of time, because history always does, and we are all imperfect.

The Cold Within.

Six humans trapped by happenstance

In dark and bitter cold

Each possessed a stick of wood—

Or so the story’s told

Their dying fire in need of logs

But the first one held hers back

For of the faces around the fire

She noticed one was black

The next one looked across the way

Saw one not of his church

And could not bring himself to give

The fire his stick of birch

The third one sat in tattered clothes

He gave his coat a hitch

Why should his log be put to use

To warm the idle rich

The rich man just sat back and thought

Of wealth he had in store

And keeping all that he had earned

From the lazy shiftless poor

The black mans face bespoke revenge

As the fire passed from sight

For he saw in his stick of wood,

A chance to spite the white

And the last man of this forlorn group

Did naught except for gain

Giving just to those who gave

Was how he played the game

Their sticks held tight in deaths still hands

Was proof enough of sin

They did not die from cold without—

They died from cold within

-James Patrick Kinney

In researching the author, it appears he was an "author unknown," but his wife corrected that information with this letter to Abigail Van Buren:

DEAR ABBY: My husband, James Patrick Kinney, wrote the poem "The Cold Within" in the 1960s. It is gratifying to know he left something behind that others appreciate. He submitted it to the Saturday Evening Post; however, it was rejected as "toocontroversial for the times." Jim was active in the ecumenical movement. His poem was sent in to the Liguorian, a Catholic magazine. That was its first official publication to my knowledge. Since then, it has appeared in church bulletins, teaching seminars and on talk radio, listed as "Author Unknown." If that was done for legal protection, I understand. My family is always happy to see it appear, but we do think the true author should be given credit.

There's much to chew on in this piece, The Cold Within. Each person is responsible for their own level of helping to keep the fire going. Will your heart melt the bitter cold?

Cannery Row @ McCann's Food & Brew October 10 2008

(l to r) Gary Dockendorf, Chris Laumb, Mike Sharp, Dean Severson, and Carol Anderson

Last night, we spent a lovely evening at McCann's Food & Brew in St. Cloud. They are known for their craft brews, carefully created by none other than my very talented brother-in-law, Chris. He started his brewing career as a hobby, with another brother-in-law, Mark, and things took off from there. He was the brewmaster for O'Hara's Pub (same location-33rd & 3rd) for many years, and when they abruptly closed, he went on to roast coffee beans for Dunn brothers for a stint (another passion). When McCann's took over and remodeled, he was back on board, creating many flavorful brews, and feeling lucky to be employed in a career he loves.

Other talents of my brother-in-law include his voice and guitar playing skills. He is a self taught musician with a wide variety of tastes. He has been with the group Cannery Row for a number of years. They are a five member group, playing mainly Americana, Folk-Rock, and Western Swing. They play many local venues such as coffee shops, benefits, farmer's markets, local festivals, art crawls, etc. They played last night at McCann's, the reason for our rare evening out. I went for the music, my husband for the music AND brews. They are playing today at the Hopfest at Brau Brothers Brewing in the tiny town of Lucan, MN. They will be playing with Gentry Bronson in November as a benefit for the Central Minnesota Sexual Assault Center.

I love listening to the folksy songs, some well known, others lesser known, even obscure. Some of the songs are written by the band, some are the work of other singers and lyricists. The songs bring me back to a time where life seemed more simple. We worked hard, we ate mostly home cooked foods and fresh garden produce, we spent time talking, singing, and laughing with family, friends, and neighbors. We seemed united to make our world, or at least our little corner of it, a better place for everyone. We fought for the rights of the little guys...the family farmer, the blue collar worker, the poor, the children, all the disenfranchised, really. Now...we bail out corporate America as we struggle to put food on the table and gas in our cars.

I want to go back...and for a little spell last night, I did.

Below are the lyrics to one of the songs sung last night, which seems to be the root to some of what is happening in our country today, which Farside of Fifty blogged about in her "Hard Times" piece yesterday.

Thirty Years Of Farming (Lyrics by Fred Eaglesmith)

There's a little white note on the gate by the road

That a man put up yesterday

And when we saw it,

we all ran out

Just to see what it had to say.

And when we read it,

our eyes filled with tears

And they fell to the cold, hard clay

Something about a mortgage,

something about foreclosure

Something about failing to pay.

Chorus:Oh, and on the post by the general store

They put up a little sign

An auction sale day after tomorrow

At the end of Lincoln Line

Thirty years of farming,

thirty years of heartache

Thirty years of day to day

Oh, my daddy stopped talking the day the farm was auctioned

There was nothing left to say.

Oh, my mama's tears fell freely down

As she walked amongst the flowers in the yard

And every number the auctioneer called

Was like a blow to her precious heart

And every number the auctioneer called

Meant another thing was sold that day

'Til everything was auctioned,

and we stood there watching

As they loaded it and drove it away.

(Chorus)

At the day's first dawning,

we awoke this morning

There was nothing for us to do

Nothing in the granary,

no hay in the mow

No cattle, no tractor, no tools.

So we loaded up the car,

took the clothes that we wore

And a few things we managed to save.

Mama read from the Book,

we took one last look

And then we drove away.

(Chorus)

Oh, my daddy stopped talking the day the farm was auctioned

There was nothing left to say.