Face Value

When change occurs solely for the sake of change, my natural reaction is to resist.

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

My Flameless Pants

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

Five Reasons Why Being Alone is Healthy

A list to share with your mom who wants you to make some friends already



Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels.

Sure, the Pandemic made us take a different look at the concept of being alone. And being locked up in our homes. And also breathing. But that’s all behind us now. Mostly.

What remains is rampant introversion, widespread social awkwardness, and large pockets of agoraphobia.

I’m here to ask: Is that so bad?

I’m also here to tell you that maybe it isn’t. Let me give you plenty of justification, er, reasons why being alone is great!

If I can do it you can too.

You never have to question who ate all of the pizza rolls

Also, no one judges you when you DoorDash oh-so-many more. None of this “Are you going to eat all of that?” and “Don’t you think you have a problem?”

No, eat and burn the roof of your mouth to your heart’s content, judgment free.

Plus, eating without judgment is healthy:


Showers? Eh, optional

You can wait to bathe until you are too funky for yourself and that bar is certainly higher than when someone else has to smell you. Saves on time, saves on water. Win-win.

Besides, showering less often is healthy:

In The Era Of Hygiene, ‘Clean’ Author Makes The Case For Showering Less


You can sleep in the middle of the bed

You can also sleep sprawled out like a starfish. Snore as much as you’d like with zero elbows to the ribs. Just you and as many pillows as makes you happy. You can have all of the blankets and all of the mattress, too. Embrace all that sleep. It’s beautiful.

Also, sleeping alone is healthy. Wait, that’s not actually what the research says. Hmm. Well, despite that, plenty of people still say they’d rather sleep alone:

In defense of sleeping solo: 60 percent of you prefer your own bed


Breaking wind. Passing Gas. Tooting.

This is the best benefit of living alone. We were all thinking it. I am just not ashamed to say it. And do it. Loud, proud, and without hesitation. No need to say excuse me. No holding it in or going to another room to let it out. No trying to silently squeak it out. No, your grandma was right: better out than in. Give it a little vibrato if you can. Be proud of your accomplishment.

In colloquial terms, let ‘er rip. It’s healthy:

Why Farting Is Good for You


Follow your creative pursuits without interruption

You can paint without judgment. Write without someone peering over your shoulder. Sing loudly without that pesky side eye. Yes, while alone you can really let yourself be and give over to The Muses. Creative pursuits take time and you can devote however much time you want when you are alone, no need to feel guilty about taking time away from family.

And in case you didn’t know, being alone might just make you more creative:

Do you need to be alone to be creative? Here’s what the experts say

Taken all together, I am pretty proud of the case I have presented here for the benefits of being alone. It’s great! Everyone should do it.

Separately and not together, I mean.

Okay, fine. Being alone does have its benefits but it also has some big drawbacks. When being alone becomes being lonely, that can cause some real mental and physical concerns. I think a lot of that has recently come to light during and now post-pandemic.

Here’s some analysis to consider:

Being Alone: The Pros and Cons of Time Alone

I hate to say that Mom may be right about you (and me) needing to get out of the house a little, but she may be right. That pains me to say.

I guess at the end of that day, it’s like the old saying goes:

All things in moderation.

Except pizza rolls. Those are no limit all day every day.

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

I’m All Out of Vices

A Tale of Involuntary Clean Living



Photo by Edward Howell on Unsplash

February of 2020 proved to be the convergence of a lot of change. The big one we all know. That one is still impacting our lives over three years later.

But little did I know that would also be the final act of my monthly cycle. Yep, February 2020 was the official start of my menopause. Since menopause is defined by going a full year without a period, I could only know that February 2020 was the last one twelve months later. Had I known I might have lit a candle. Baked a cake. Held a Bon Voyage party.

What I also didn’t know in February 2020 was that it would be the last time my hairdresser and dear friend would put color in my hair. I began growing out my gray roots in those strange COVID times and just kept going. I’m still not sure I embrace my gray, but it’s mine.

Turns out February 2020 was a significant inflection point for the world and for me.

My monthly cycles had always been at best uneasy and at worst downright awful. They were so regular I could set a watch by them, but in my early twenties I was diagnosed with mittleschmerz which is just a German way of saying ‘middle pain.’

This meant very painful ovulations in the middle of each cycle. This pain would last my entire adult life. Bonus? I always knew when I was ovulating. Downside? Every time I ovulated it made me hurt so bad I wanted to throw up.

In my thirties, I was also diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder, or PMDD. To call it a severe form of PMS is to call a tornado a severe form of wind. The PMDD was a 28-day mental, physical, and emotional roller coaster ride where I felt good for about four to five of those days.

I remember back then thinking how menopause was going to be great. I couldn’t wait to get rid of these awful monthly cycles of agony. Not having periods meant no more pain and the end of the hormonal nightmare, right? It’s cute that I thought having no period would be a cakewalk.

My hormones had so many more surprises in store. With the change came incredible joint pain. Overwhelming fatigue. Brain fog so bad at times I am still certain I have early-onset dementia despite being assured by my medical team that all is well.

I have read and researched and looked for help and I have found many women telling me “It doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Well, yes and no.

Traditional medicine doesn’t have a lot to say. My regular doctor sent me to a menopause specialist who gave me antidepressants for the hot flashes that I told her I only rarely had. She had little to say about the fatigue and memory issues and sent me away saying, “I hear yoga helps?”

Next, I tried a naturopath who did really listen and offered quite a lot of help. Within six months, my situation considerably improved. I was starting to feel better, and as the fog and pain eased, it became clear to me that in my fifties, it was finally time for me to do a much better job of taking care of myself. Something I had ignored for quite some time.

So, back to the regular doctor. “I actually want to exercise,” I told her, and I meant it. I began to eat better. I finally admitted that my lactose intolerance wasn’t something I could pretend I didn’t have.

Also, I grudgingly acknowledged that every time I ate bread products that I craved so much and my stomach bloated up and hurt that maybe, just maybe, I needed to stop ignoring that too.

I ate more vegetables. I vastly reduced the amount of sugar I consumed even though sugar and sugary food is my comfort. And then, something happened that I never could have imagined.

I stopped drinking.

I have never been a big drinker, but boy did I love a couple of glasses of red wine or maybe some bourbon at the end of the week. In menopause, how my body metabolized alcohol changed and I had to stop drinking just to see if it made me feel better, and it did.

So here I am, still working on myself.

I’ve never been a fan of tobacco and nicotine. I’ve tried multiple forms of pot and didn’t like it. Anything harder than that is off the table. I don’t drink. I don’t eat wheat. I rarely eat cheese. I eat sugar but in far smaller amounts. I once had a thing for binge shopping but even that isn’t interesting anymore.

These days I find myself, curiously, without vices. Me, the person who chased all kinds of vices and comforts and mind-numbing agents for the first fifty years of my life.

This is so unexpected.

I often ask myself, “what will I do when I have that really bad day and I want to sink into something that will dull my mind?” And honestly, I don’t know anymore. Yeah, okay, I can get out a pint of oat milk ice cream but come on, the decadence factor just isn’t there.

What do I use to celebrate big news? Non-alcoholic spirits seem to be having a moment. I did try the Seedlip brand, and while tasty, it’s just never going to be that same warm numb feeling as pouring a glass of amber liquor.

This isn’t a complaint, I guess. I feel better than I have in years. Someone commented recently that my face has changed. I haven’t lost any weight, but I think I am less puffy. Less inflamed.

Less inflammation means less joint pain. Less joint pain makes me rather content.

I have always been the type to seek food and drink and other mild to moderately addictive behavior as a way to comfort the aches and pains of everyday life. The past three years of my life have been filled with change and loss and grief.

So now, during what is arguably the most painful time of my life, no one is more surprised than me to find I no longer want to find ways to forget but rather I seek ways to stay present. To feel what I feel and figure out how to cope with that.

Huh. I’m evolving. It’s the weirdest (and most beautiful) damn thing. Who knew menopause would make me a better person?

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

Seeds

 

A Rumination On the Value of Mentors

 
   

Image for post

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

The first day of this new year finds me in a thoughtful place and I know I’m hardly alone here. I think the end of 2020 and the new year 2021 has found a lot of us in in a thoughtful place and full of rumination.

It would be easy to look on 2020 as a mulligan. A do-over. A throw-that-in-the-bin and never think about it again kind of thing. Take it out with the trash.

But to do so would be a mistake. 2020 was a lesson. A mentor. A cruel but perhaps necessary education.

The past several days has me thinking about teachers and mentors who impacted me and more specifically, impacted my art. About how many of them are not in my life anymore, for various reasons. And how much I yearn to find replacements, how hard I seek the wise advice of those who know so much more than I do.

In fact, getting a mentor’s view on the lessons and tragedies of the previous year is exactly what I seek.

To my great sadness, in November within the span of forty-eight hours I lost two of the most influential women in my life. I find myself on day one of 2021 still reeling from their loss and scared to face the road ahead without their wise guidance.

On November 6th, my dear mother-in-law who was more like a friend and one of the strongest working artists I know, passed gently at home with her beloved son by her side.

On November 8th, my photography teacher and dear friend passed peacefully at home under the loving care of her wife of 22 years.

These double blows were hard to take. I even wondered at the time if I could sustain the loss.

In a text to my best friend, I told her that the grief was stacking up and I had no idea where to put it all. Could I build metaphorical shelves to store the pain? Maybe rent a unit where I could put all of this sorrow and then sort through it on the weekends?

No, there are no metal shelves and no locked doors to store the grief. Turns out I have to carry it with me. At times the load bends my back into a question mark. At other times I carry it almost (but not quite) lightly.

I can forget about it for a moment and think I am through and then a smell or a sound or a visual will bring it all right back with weight and ferocity and my back bends further. Bend but not break is the theme, or at least the hope.

I have questions. I have thoughts. I have worries. I have wonders. I am working on a big project, a goal I set for myself and it is a big goal and oh how I wish I could talk to both of these powerful, creative, and smart women to get my head on straight about it.

One would make me a cup of coffee and listen to my thoughts and fears and tell me that she understands and how hard it can be, but that continuing to work, that doing the work, is what matters.

One would make me a cup of twig tea and then verbally shove me around a little in the most beautiful and caring way, telling me to forget what anyone else or the voices in my head say, to just keep making art. Because making art is necessary in this world. Not a nice to have, but mandatory.

And then dazed and thoughtful after each of their wise counsel, I would go back out there into this mad world and I would keep making art. Putting word to page, and paint to paper, and images through a lens.

Because the road to making art is a long road, the journey beautiful and painful and frustrating and worth it. One must walk through low valleys of making really bad art and occasionally look up to find you have arrived at the peak of a beautiful hill. That something you made is actually not that bad and might actually be very good.

From that view atop the hill you can see more hills, steeper and more meaningful and you must, have to, can’t stop now, start moving towards them. Sights recalibrated, on you must go. To keep walking is what matters. To keep walking is necessary.

Even though I miss them both so much perhaps I can find them, then, in just continuing to do the work I set out for myself. And when in doubt, I make myself a cup of coffee or a cup of twig tea and sip and pause and listen and then…get back to work.

To find an image to accompany these words, I went to Unsplash with their thousands of free images, and searched with the word “mentor.” My eyes landed on the image found at the top of this piece. I loved the color and the visual and the feel of the photo. “But that isn’t about being a mentor,” I thought. And then realized I was wrong.

The dandelion with its many seeds waiting for a gust of wind to carry them off is actually perfect. Exactly the image I needed to see. Writing this out, saying these words helps me carry my grief a little bit lighter today.

I cast my own seeds of creativity to the wind. I can’t wait to see where they land.

This post is dedicated to the beautiful art and spirit of both Jamie Dedes and Marty Rose Springer and the impact they had on my life. I am forever in their debt.