Cori Connors

I'd heard of AA - Alcoholics Anonymous. But as an eleven or twelve-year-old I had not heard about Ala-Teen, a place of healing for the children of alcoholics.

We pulled up to that unfamiliar church, nervous and hesitant. Mom took us to the room where other kids had gathered, then took herself to the space where the spouses of alcoholics met.

Thinking back on it, it must have taken a big old wad of courage for her to walk into that room alone. First of all, to admit that she should even be there, and that we needed to be there as well. Frankly, I don't know if there was someone Mom knew who took her to that first meeting. I hope there was. Knowing the nature of that group of people, I suspect there was someone walking her through this foggy space, I just don't remember.

There is so much I can say, too much for now, about the power of that sacred space. What bubbles up right now is the memory of sitting on folding chairs in a circle with other kids, none of whom we knew. There was an adult leading us, a gentle natured person. I can't remember anything about them, even if it was a man or a woman, old or relatively young. I just remember they made me feel safe. I also remember listening to the stories of the other kids sitting in the circle.

"Hi, my name is so-and-so, and I am the child of an alcoholic."

Everyone responded instantly with a "hello so-and-so." 

Around the circle we went, each kid telling their story. There is something kind of mind-blowing when you hear your own story, with different names and places, repeated over and over again. For a cluster of Mormon girls who thought their little world was wholly unique, shameful, and heavy on the secret vibes, this was new and refreshing.  

In each meeting, during the following weeks and months of Thursday nights, we stood together and recited the Serenity Prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I 

cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Serenity. Courage. Wisdom.

These words became as holy as the ten commandments to me. They remain so.

The part that's the hardest, for me at least, is the wisdom to know the difference. This is why I am such a fan of the Holy Spirit.

Ala-Teen gave ma a powerful set of tools. The most life changing were these:

I did not, and do not, get to own my father's addictions.

Nor do I get to hold the burden for the others affected by those addictions.

When you are, by nature, a fixer, the next mantra we recited became a commandment as well:

Let go, and let God.

Let God hold it. Let Jesus take the figurative wheel.

Let him figure out what part is mine, and what is not. I do not need to fix everything. 

'Thank you Bill W, the 12 step programs that still save souls from internal combustion, and the King of Kings, who said He would untangle the mess of humanness when we've grown enough to go Home.

He remains my one and only King, and I stumble at His holy feet.

This afternoon we marched in protest to  a leader who takes his position as if he were king. This is one of the signs we carried.

My people.

All three girls hopped in the car. I dropped Junie off at her house near the school, then rounded the corner to Main Street.

"I'm a grump today," I said, for no reason at all. My girls make me feel safe talking.

"I'm sorry," Tess said.

"I hate feeling grumpy." Beth lamented. "Do you know what's causing the grumps?"

I thought a second, then replied "Nah, not really. Just... you know..."

They both said "Yeah."

I love that neither of them felt like they had to fix me. 

When I dropped them off they flung their backpacks over their shoulders and thrust their little hands toward me, their fingers forming the ASL symbol for I love you.

My old lady fingers lifted from the steering wheel before I backed up..."Back atcha!"

On the way home, stuck in the traffic of construction on Main Street, I found my eyes watering. The angels that hang out on my right and left shoulders had a conversation, trying to figure out what to do with me. I listened, caught between the two of them.

"Wow, she's really a mess lately!"

"I know. Poor girl. "

"Wadda you mean, poor girl? She has absolutely nothing to worry about! I could show her what real trouble is!"

"How can you say that? You know her. She's trying. It just feels overwhelming to her."

I listened to the two sides of my conscience arguing. It made my head hurt, and the tears multiply.

At some point one of them suggested we turn off the news on the radio. I reached my hand forward and hit the button. Silence was instant. In the relative quiet I heard the voices whispering shoulder to shoulder. One of them commented on what a rough week it's been. She recounted little brain bubbles that constantly fizz in my imagination. Personal stuff, hurtful stuff, on top of the chaos that has become our nation. The frightening weather patterns everywhere, a war that feels like it popped up out of nowhere, leadership that misrepresents so much that I hold dear, death in the family, illnesses, job losses, shaken faith and trust... heartaches everywhere. Heavy-heart overwhelm. 

A few nights ago I laid in my bed, tears wetting my pillow. I couldn't sleep, feeling the weight of personal and societal injustices recently presenting themselves. Heeding my mother's old advice to write things down that worry or distress me, I jotted a rather lengthy list.  People who I have historically felt a kinship with are falling from their pedestals. And I feel myself falling from theirs. I am confused and baffled by how good people can take such unkind stances. My nature is not to think ill of people. It breaks my heart to feel a loss of respect. Reading and re-reading that list of frustrations, I could hear the peculiar voice of Mr. Rogers in my head... "What do you do with the mad that you feel... when you're mad, mad, mad, mad, mad?"

Mad, in a person uncomfortable with mad, turns into sad.

I asked the Lord to hold the mad for me so I could sleep. Sleep restores strength. 

"Let me wake with strength and guide me to know how to handle all the mounding feels," I prayed.

At some point blessed sleep tucked me in.

Angrief is that middle ground when anger doesn't yet realize her divine nature. I am reminded of the words or CS Lewis recorded in his his book, A Grief Observed. As background, Lewis had finally allowed himself to love and be loved, then, when his Joy died, he was angry with  God... mad at the world... mad at everything. Like I feel... sort of mad at everything. 

Lewis, exhausted by anger, gave us these words:

I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.

Grief feels like anger that's been humbled.

Grief, while maybe more piercing than anger,  carries innate cracks that let in light. Grief promises the presence of the Comforter, if we'll have her. And the Comforter is the source for true healing...scarless healing...the kind human bodies can't do by themselves.

Loss, the father of grief, puts us down in our crib and lets us cry because he cannot feed us. The Divine Comforter lifts us, wraps us warm and places us to her throbbing breast. Her tender care holds us confidently until we are able to feed ourselves.

It conjures the 26th chapter in "The Little Prince", when the dying prince tells his friend, the pilot:

"And when your sorrow if comforted (for time soothes all sorrows) 

you will be content to have known me."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

In that place between anger and grief,  make me quiet enough to let the Comforter come in. When her task is complete, if it ever is, I promise to stretch my arm toward her as she backs away, my human fingers forming the sign I Love You.

Beth and Tessa

Many hands make light work.

Within 20 minutes the food was cleared off the tables, chairs and tables were stacked and put away, and the floor was vacuumed. People visited as they worked. These people are used to helping each other.

A few years back, during the Covid Pandemic, I served as Relief Society President in our church congregation. The RS President oversees the women's organization in our church, a beautiful and mighty collection of women devoted to Christ and his teachings. Its one of the oldest and largest women's organizations in the world, with over 7 million members. 

While I served as president  in our Ward unit we had 19 funerals from within our congregation. The RS works to provide assistance, comfort and a meal after each funeral for the family of the deceased. Some of those luncheons served well over 100 people. I saw firsthand these words evidenced by the members of our church group. They not only emotionally nurtured the family who had lost a loved one, they planned, arranged, created, cooked, served, cleaned, and delivered... each person pitching in so that no one person was overwhelmed with any task. It was a beautiful sight to see, and served as a repeated witness to the innate goodness of mankind.  its part of how we mourn with those who mourn.

I got thinking about the term light in this adage. It serves as a double entendre', working on multiple levels. Yes, many people pitching in make jobs that seem overwhelming doable. Like in the Bible, in the book of Nehemiah chapter 3 where the walls of Jerusalem are deteriorating. Nehemiah first motivates his people to recognize the need and visualize the possibility of repairing the many gates surrounding the city. Then he organizes the people, giving them responsibility for the gates nearest their own homes. Religious leaders work beside shop owners who work beside perfume makers. It's a lovely story, telling us that things that seem impossible at first are made possible when people work together. It also tells how every person, regardless of their place in society or notable skill set, has a place in the band.

We are also reminded in scripture that the task at hand, while the impetus for the organization, can become secondary in importance. Nehemiah achieved the repair of the gates, yes... but he also rebuilt the community that was central to the city as well. 

In the process of researching the origins of the phrase "Many hands make light work" I shifted my thoughts to wanting to know the nature of light. I understand the concept of many people helping make the burden lighter, but the concept of Light itself started buzzing in my thoughts and I began a deep dive into the study of light, how it's made. Then, diving even deeper, because my ADHD brain gets a thrill out of this kind of stuff, I started pondering the creation of the world as told in Holy Scripture. 

In the simplest of terms from my unscientific brain, I understand light as the residual outcome of an energy exchange. The word photons floats to the top of this analysis, and the works of Newton, Huygens, Maxwell and Einstein explain how it works. If you don't want to get anything else done in a day, give yourself to light.

Then, because we have the capacity these days to get information at the speed of light I began a little research on the Biblical text explaining God's creation of our earth. 

And God said, let there be light. 

And it was so.

There were two days in the symbolic week of creation when God focused on light. Day one, the first light. And Day 4, the bearers of light: the sun, moon and stars. What was that basic light of the first day of creation? If it was the establishment of 24 hour cycles creating a day, then perhaps the light of the first day was time itself. Light = time. 

Whenever I visit an airport and take the moving sidewalk I imagine I'm a spirit moving along with ease at an escalated pace. Then, BAM, the escalator stops and I'm on my own, needing to use my own willpower and personal energy to get myself moving. I whisper to myself as I take that first step off a moving sidewalk onto solid, heavy ground; "I am born." No wonder we're all tired. We aren't used to all this heavy humanness.

I've long thought that the concept of time is an earthly matter.  People near and dear to me, one of whom looks and sounds an awful lot like me, suffer from some measure of time blindness. (It's a thing... ask AI to give you a synopsis.) Our souls come into our bodies unfamiliar with the concept of time. We who have nursed and nurtured babies through the wee hours of the night are fully aware of this. Some people adapt to the concept of time more easily than others, and we sadly punish those who don't. We should do better at celebrating our diversity. Not long from now we will all die and time will lose its power anyway.

The idea of many hands making light work can not only be interpreted to mean that many people working together can make a hard job easier, it can also mean that our diversity, our uniqueness and personal perspective combines with that of others to create the power source that fuels our very existence. We will dim into nothingness if we allow isolation. It is apparent that the Opposer to all good things is trying to make that happen. Just watch a group of people who used to interface with each other in a room these days. See their heads bent over their devices, their thumbs tapping the glass on their tiny fake Urim and Thumims. I am guilty as well. But awareness is the first step toward change. We need each other.

So here I am now, a whole day of not much else done behind me, but a lot of new information swirling in my brain. It's ok. When I leave this realm, with its strange fixation on time, I will take this new knowledge with me, and a clean kitchen counter will be of no consequence at all.

One Sunday, on the phone to my mom who lived 2,000 miles away, I told her I was no longer a writer.

"What makes you say that?" she responded.

"My professor just doesn't like my work," I said, my voice breaking.

Mom paused.

"Do you like his work?"she asked.

I paused.

"Not really," I answered. "I don't really care for his style."

"Then take what he has to offer, chew it up, swallow what you should and spit the rest out."

I can hear the echo of her words through the tiny speaker in the telephone headset. I recall the timbre of her voice, the familiar combination of conviction and tenderness. This was the same woman who regularly asked "Want me to hit 'em?" when anyone did anything that hurt her grandkids. She championed for the people she loved. 

This piece of advice was different. She needed to do more than cheer for me. She wanted me to trust the foundation of my sense of self, and that required solid truth, with all the scum of the world scrubbed away. Her advice carried additional wisdom, and I rehearse it regularly. Mom was telling me that while our feelings may be hurt by what someone says, there also may be legitimate growth opportunity in a good critique. 

Step 1: Consider the source. Do you respect the person giving the criticism? Do you admire their work? And do you think they see your work clearly?

Step 2: Lick your wounds until the pain subsides. Careful to not jump to final conclusions when a wound is raw. The pain interferes with the ability to think clearly.

Step 3: When the pain no longer blinds you, step back and look objectively at what has been said or done. This step is best achieved with the guidance of Holy Angels who are often beckoned through prayer.

Step 4: Mentally chew on what was offered. This is a tough one, because we don't always see clearly and our perspective is often skewed. You might want to ask the Holy Spirit to lead you to someone to talk to about it, carefully. And over chewing can lead to lockjaw, so be aware of that.

Step 5: Write it down if it gets jumbled in your head.

Step 6: Separate the gristle from the meat. Find what is valuable and helpful, swallow that, then spit out what is not helpful. Again, the Holy Spirit is a dandy separator. Use it. 

Step 7: Move on. One of the first and finest gifts given to all humans is the right to choose and change. If you want to make changes, usually subtle shifts that come from self awareness, do it. This is how we get beauty from ashes.

Mom's advice saved me from trying to be someone I'm not supposed to be. My poetry evolved into lyric writing. And while I can't tell you a single concrete concept I learned in that college poetry class, I can vividly recall, own and cherish the words my mother left me.

Before one can believe such a thing I suppose there has to be an underlying trust that there is something more to life than life as we know it. 

This comforts me. Because it comforts me I am confirmed that I do feel like my personal existence is greater than this moment on earth. So much feels uncertain. But I will be surprised if I die and find out I no longer exist at all. And if that's the case... that I no longer exist... then being disappointed in the fallacy of this belief is a moot point anyway.

Little things bubble up to the surface of my life journey, witnessing to the concept of eternal existence. Small, seemingly insignificant occurrences that testify. For instance, last Sunday for family dinner I was making two big pans of Chicken in a Pot, one of our favorite family recipes. One pot with onions and one without. Every other Sunday I cook for between 20 and 30 people, so I'm used to big pots. But at this moment there was too much going on at once. Bread dough was risen and ready to go in the oven at the same time as the chicken needed to be browned. One pot had already saute'd the onions. Both pots had hot butter ready to brown cleaned chicken pieces. The thing about cooking in hot butter is its less forgiving than oil. There are just a few degrees between hot enough and burnt. I noticed the back burner was too hot, so I hurried to add the cool chicken and SPLASH, the hot butter splattered up out of the pot and onto my hands, arms, neck and face. I knew immediately it was a bad one. I am very familiar with kitchen cuts and burns. I immediately turned down the burner, drenched a couple dish towels in cold water, applied them to my face and neck, filled a red solo cup with ice water and plunged my burnt fingers into it. I wrapped another cold dish towel around my wrists, held the solo cut between my uninjured thumb and forefinger while the rest of the hand dangled in the water, turned up the heat and kept cooking. In analyzing it from this end, it really isn't a sense of martyrdom that compels me to keep cooking when I'm singed or bleeding, it's just that things feel better to me to not have the attention on my tribulation. If it's so bad I think it will be permanent, I stop and get help. But I usually move forward, because my God is a miraculous God and he made my body capable of healing itself. Seriously, every single time I am injured I get an increased sense of confidence in my God, because so far he hasn't failed me. At least in the little scratches, scrapes and burns. I anticipate the following week He will manifest his power by showing me how he made me to heal. 

I am always... always... stunned by the way my wrinkled old skin still heals. How bruises morph like murky sunsets in slow motion, colors becoming deeper and richer, then fading into pastels and then disappearing altogether. 

Tomorrow is one week since the big burn. It was a pretty bad one this time. It hurt nearly all night. Every time I removed the cool cloths from the flesh the pain woke like a baby whose belly reminded him it was time for feeding. Libby brought down her electric icing machine at midnight. I thought, again, how blessed I am to have my sisters living steps away from me. By morning the singeing pain was mostly gone, and the blisters started rising. One large one on my neck had already burst. I treated them gently with oils and ointments that have proved themselves in the past. 

At the neighborhood caucus on Tuesday night my neighbors thought maybe I had shingles because the blisters were on one side of my face and neck. Now it's Saturday. Tonight, when we went to see Annie sing in her Utah Voices Broadway Bingo concert, I was even able to put some tinted moisturizer over the wounds and you could hardly tell I was anything other than an old lady who may still be dealing with hormonal acne.

As strange as it sounds, I thank the Lord for my small wounds. They remind me that I was made to heal. My flesh was made to be renewed, almost completely on its own. It is so miraculous to me! 

Even the scars are testaments. I have a scar on one of my breasts where a doctor removed a mole that may have been cancerous. I tell myself how amazing it is that I live in a place where I can see a doctor, and that I can afford one even, and that someone put themselves through so much schooling and training and 20 hour residency shifts to even know that the little brown mole could have turned into something devastating. So when I see that little scar that no one else sees, I am amazed by my God. A couple years ago I was washing the casement windows in our kitchen. In the process of trying to reach my hand out to clean the outside of the window pane I scraped my arm on the hinge. It was just a thin scrape, but because my skin is so thin it left a scab that surprisingly turned into a white scar. When the summer darkens my skin, the scar reappears, and I am reminded of that day when Dave was blowing the leaves off the back deck and the Spring air was fresh and new and I was able to wash the winter off our kitchen windows. That beautiful ordinary day is written on my forearm, a page in the story of my life. When I see this white scar above my wrist I am reminded of the beauty in ordinary. 

And in the morning, when my dreams sift into reality and I feel the electricity in my lower legs and feet, I realize I must still be alive because my neuropathy is still here. If it is gone, I must not be alive, and I'm not ready yet to be not-alive. Then I immediately remind myself how grateful I am that I am able to walk on feet that hurt. I repeat my daily mantra, started years ago when my paralysis sifted into plain old electric-worm-burning-cold neuropathy... that my friend Joan, who had lost her legs in an illness would be so grateful to be able to walk on feet that hurt.  I am truly grateful to be able to walk on feet that hurt.

I am grateful that, so far, my hurts have all been bearable. I have scars, and I have some measure of pain, but nothing so far has been unbearable long-term. I thank the God of Eternity for that. I trust that in the end... which, ironically, if you believe in eternity never will be the end... everything will be ok. That trust is based on my ability to believe there is a God.  I thank God that I am able to believe that there even is such a thing as God in the first place. And in the second place, that he has all of us in the palm of his mighty hand.

I am a believer, and my scars are witness.

Back on the asphalt playground of my childhood, between the brick wall of the school building and the field that once grew grass before it was so steadily beat by little recess-feet. we played a game. Two teams, one against the other. A kid was sent to break through the line of their opponent's team. They ran with full force at us as we lined up, arms linked, holding the battle line like regimented soldiers. We drew our elbows in, clutching our hands together, denying breakage. Inevitably the opposing team analyzed the rank, determining where they thought the weakest link was. But we held firm. We chanted encouraging words and sent our good energy toward the skinny arms of the weakest links. The kids at the end of the line could feel the jolt, but we all cheered when no-one broke. By the time the bell rang and recess was over we were bruised and battered, but giddy with triumph.

There have been many times in my decades-long life when I have recognized the increased sense of power I felt when my arms or hands were linked with someone else. Skipping along the sidewalk with my sisters. Dancing in the Shade Sisters Dance School recital, our arms linked and legs kicking. Marching in parades along shadeless streets to the rhythm of the local high school marching band. At nineteen-years-old I locked my hand with the man I chose to marry, our fingers intertwined atop a velvet covered altar, our eyes locking as well, tears running down my cheeks, pink with innocence. That grip was a remarkable token of trust.

In London, a few years back, my sisters Ann Marie, Libby and I walked down the street behind the Mews on the way to a fireside. Ann Marie was serving a mission there with her husband Michael. Something about that ancient street compelled us to lock arms, like we did when we were little. I hold that image in a most cherished spot, tucked safely below my heart. Our family walked the same way behind our Mother's casket. It sat regally in a carriage, pulled by a well groomed horse. We walked through the heat of that August day, one mile between the church house and the cemetery, our arms locked in sacred solidarity behind the remains of our beloved mother.

It's pretty easy to think of locking arms with the people who understand us, who agree with us and fight for what we would fight for.

It's harder to feel safe locking arms with someone who doesn't like us.

That's why creating a sense of division is so effective. Why, when we are told we are enemies, we find the people we think would fit on our team and link our arms, daring the enemy to send over their biggest guy.

It's a really effective tool to make people think we are enemies. Put us in camps where we focus on our differences so the bigger more damaging bullies slip into the schoolyard and take over the school.

Don't buy into it.

I say this to myself after a painful, tearful day where someone I recently met hit me out of left field with stunning unexpected force that took the emotional breath out of me.

The Adversary, with a capital A, wants me to feel weakened. I know that logically. But my heart is slow to learn. These words from a man I love and trust, who has joined the ranks of the angels now, have brought me comfort and hope today:

“May we as sons and daughters of God—as eternal brothers and sisters—do all within our power to build up each other, learn from each other and demonstrate respect for all of God’s children. May we link arms in love and brotherhood.”

Russell M. Nelson, the leader of the Church of Jesus Christ LDS for the last seven years, gave us these words when he accepted the Morehouse College Peace Prize. He also said this:

“We do not have to act alike or look alike to love each other. We can disagree on a matter without being disagreeable. If we have any hope of creating the goodwill and sense of humanity for which we all yearn, it must begin with each of us, one person and one interaction at a time."

Throughout history people linking arms have created powerful visual symbols, such as the Baltic Way, or Baltic Chain, back in the 1980's. Roughly 2 million citizens of three Baltic states - Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania locked arms along highways and byways, forming a human chain that covered hundreds of miles, representing their opposition to the unlawful control of the USSR. This unification led to their eventual freedom from that political oppression.

Besides being powerful symbols of solidarity, human chains have also been used in rescue. There was the car that slid off the side of the road in the Sierra Nevada's last year, dangling over a treacherous cliff. Caring strangers linked arms together, the bulk of them on solid even ground, holding firm while the brave and willing stretched themselves into the teetering car and pulled the frightened passengers to safety.

There was the long human chain that fed into the powerful ocean where a riptide had trapped three swimmers under water. All three were rescued.

Chains of miners, of climbers, of divers. What we cannot do alone we find we can do united.

We are so painfully divided by politics these days, given permission from the highest levels of our national leadership to say terrible, insulting things about the people with whom we might not agree. We are brought into the ring when we didn't even want to attend the fight. Pacifists pulled through the ropes. We haven't thought this through, because we are not by nature fighters. So there in the strange square where someone's fists are hurled at us, we raise our own fists. It feels terrible, and I for one do not like who I become in the ring. I've never liked boxing matches, and I've never wanted to watch one, let alone participate. Yet here I am, unwilling to remain silent and still while the wild one flails. I am so weary. We, who engage in current events, are all so weary.

So when I saw this speech from Russell Nelson today I found much needed peace. I am renewed in quiet resolve by the words of this gentle prophetic leader. I am reminded by his joyful expressions of encouragement to pray for those I do not understand.

Two gentle leaders of two Christian churches.

Tonight I whisper in silent prayer the names of folks who have hurt my heart. I challenge myself to be humble enough to pray with sincerity for their well being, just as I pray for my own children. I have whispered the name of our president, asking the God who loves him as he loves me to help him be the best of himself. I speak his name beside the names of immigrant citizens he has detained, and mothers and fathers of girls killed in war. I pray for a long time friend and neighbor who just two nights ago telling me I do not belong to the party to which I have belonged my whole adult life, asking my God to soften my wounded heart toward him and to soften his heart toward me. This is someone with whom I have linked arms in sacred circles. "Lord, keep my heart pure and untainted by offense." I whisper into my pillow until sleep finally brings blessed rest.

While there is so much which divides us, there is also plenty that unites us. When I turn my thoughts to Jesus, to his enfolding words and compassionate regard, I am more able to feel part of the brotherhood of mankind. So that's where I lay my hat; on the Jesus rack, hoping the folks in the souped up truck with the giant wheels and the tattered flags flapping from the truck bed are willing to hang their hats there as well.

More words from Russell Nelson's Peace Prize Speech.

Some people keep their rooms clean all the time. Some don't. Some of us push it to the point that the little angels of conscience that sit on our shoulders float up the our ears and shout "Do something!" Then our eyes are painfully opened and we see the mess we are living in. This pulls us from our typical state of denial.

On this particular afternoon I was forcing myself to deal with the chaotic mess, tiptoeing around the feeling of overwhelm by distracting my brain with the comforting noise of the TV  in the background. I was in the process of dissecting one pile and turning it into three piles when I noticed that Oprah's guest that day was Dr. Daniel Amen, a renowned psychiatrist who specialized in how the brain works, especially the prefrontal cortex. This particular show was focused on adults being diagnosed with ADD - Attention Deficit Disorder. He offered a short test for the audience to see if they might have ADD. The test began with: "How do you clean your room?"

"Do you feel overwhelmed when you clean your room? "

Check.

"When you pick up one thing and go to put it away, do you notice something else, set the first item down, and pick up the something else, repeating the process until you have a bigger mess than you started with?"

Check.

"Are you easily distracted by sounds or smells or noises and have a hard time focusing on the task at hand?"

Check.

I ended up sitting on the edge of my unmade bed watching Oprah and Dr. Amen reveal myself to the whole world.

Not long after, I saw in the paper that Dr. Amen was coming to Salt Lake City and speaking at a conference. They published the date, place and time at a hotel in SLC, so I drove down and walked in to listen. He asked us each to introduce ourselves. Everyone else there was a psychologist, psychiatrist, counselor or therapist. I had not realized this was probably not a public forum, but they let me in anyway. I won't go into much detail, only to say it became clear that I was probably, indeed, owner of an attention deficit brain. Later it was confirmed by my MD. I've learned to see it as a blurse, a superpower and a struggle in one package.

I wish I had known as a young person that this was the way my brain worked. I would have been so much more kind to myself. I had not understood that ADHD did not always mean you were bouncing off the walls hyper, or that you could not focus on anything. I could actually sit for many hours and focus on writing on a song, taking a break only when nature called. And it took considerable self-talk to get my lethargic flesh moving, so no-one would describe me as hyper. It was new information to me that the ability to hyper focus is one way to explain the H in ADHD.

That D on the end of ADHD is a capital D in bold print for DISORDER. We end up with disorder because of our disorder. To be honest, in the process of creating whatever we're creating, it actually feels like we are creating order. Only after the dopamine has worn off are we left with what looks like disorder, and by then we are usually on to some other potentially exciting project. Raise your hand if you know what I mean.

Anyway, because in our little immediate family of six people, five of us are blursed with neurodivergent brains, more specifically ADHD, I found these words to be helpful in getting through overwhelm:

EVERYTHING YOU DO IS SOMETHING DONE.

When I am swimming in too many "to do's" I start repeating this to myself, sometimes out loud. I walk into the space that overwhelms me and repeat the mantra. Then my hands touch something and I am in motion." Just pick up one stray book and put it in the bookshelf, Cori." And that's what I do. Then I tell my hands to touch something else and put it where it belongs.  Don't overanalyze, just move. For us project oriented people, this is not natural. We want to make a plan and move in when we have a sense of outcome. But my kids and I have discovered that sometimes the best way to get anything done is to just do SOMETHING! It all needs to be done eventually anyway. 

So there ya go, our ADD  mantra is to just do one thing. One small thing. Cuz, while it may not ALL be done, at least SOMETHING will be done. And I've found I hate myself less when I do something.

(p.s. I don't really hate myself. I don't understand myself. Raise your hand if you know what I mean.)