Say Love

Does the power of nice exist? Can simply being nice to people make a powerful and positive change in a community? Avett Nation seems to think so. Avett Nation is a Facebook group, which describes itself as a place for discussion and to ask questions, post events, photos, and to hang out with fellow Avett addicted friends.  Oh, and make new friends.

Wait. What’s being Avett addicted even mean? The Avett Brothers (TAB) are a band from Concord, N.C. TAB is fronted by two brothers—Scott Avett and Seth Avett. But, we can’t forget Bob Crawford and Joe Kwon! Oh, and Paul Defiglia, Tania Elizabeth, and Mike Marsh—oh my! The band’s music is described as Americana, but any Avett Nationer will tell you it is much broader than that. In fact, they may tell you it can’t be boxed into one genre. They will definitely tell you how TAB music has affected and changed their lives.

I have written about TAB music in the past. It was my constant companion as I went through chemotherapy. It buzzed through my brain as I dealt with the sudden loss of my friend Lee. It’s not all about sadness either. TAB music is something my 11- year-old nephew and I can bond over and enjoy together. I could go deeper into my own stories about how TAB music has been a positive force in my life, but that just wouldn’t capture the magic it can make happen.

A few months ago, my friend Laurin wanted me to check out the group Avett Nation on Facebook.  Laurin and I share the love of TAB music, so she knew this would be perfect for me. I expected to simply find people who enjoyed the music. I was so wrong. I found the power of nice. In order for you to understand what I mean by the power of nice, I decided to interview some Avett Nationers. After all, they are the ones who have created it.

Anita is a 42-year-old mother of two, who was born and raised in North Carolina. She recently moved to Portland, Oregon, but that has not changed the North Carolina native’s love for TAB. Anita was one of the first people I “met” on Avett Nation. She posted that she was working on Avett mail and wanted to know who would like some. Avett mail is anything and everything that revolves around TAB. It could be paintings, jewelry, other crafts, or even music. Avett Nationers list their names and addresses and receive an Avett mail number.  When someone asks if you would like Avett mail, then you give the person your number. I gave mine to Anita. She sent me a gorgeous art piece with one of my favorite TAB quotes, which is, “Decide what to be and go be it.” Anita had no idea at the time, but I had recently left my former life as a college educator to become a full-time writer. I was going to be starting a new job as a full-time writer with a non-profit. Anita’s art has a special place on my desk, and it reminds me that I, in fact, did decide what to be. And then I went and became it! Ahh, the power of Avett Nation.

 Anita said she was originally drawn to Avett Nation because her family was “over” her TAB obsession.  In fact, she said, “My daughter is a huge fan, but insists I need a 12 step program!” Anita has also met other Avett Nationers at concerts. In May, TAB headlined the First Flush Festival on Wadmalaw Island near Charleston, S.C. She was able to meet a couple from Avett Nation and described it as amazing. She even went on to say that the show was amplified by the fact that she was there with others who she knew shared her love for TAB and Avett Nation.  

Anita isn’t the only person I have “’met” through Avett Nation. Brad is a 33-year-old South Carolina native, who now lives in Louisiana. He’s an avid vinyl collector and has over 2,000 albums in his collection. I was drawn to his posts because he was so damn honest. Brad is Avett Nation’s question of the day poster. He generally throws some sort of fun questions at us each day, and it always involves TAB music.  When Brad posts, other Avett Nationers always respond. There are always kind words, positive words, or even TAB lyrics posted. As Brad said, “The biggest thing that draws me to the group is the positive energy that comes from the group. Each person spreads the word of joy and happiness and that’s something I try to do each and every day.”

So, with all of this happiness abound, what about any negativity? Well, it does crop up once in awhile, but who wants to talk about that? Not me. In fact, most of the time it is shut down or swatted away by this notion of the power of nice. TAB is all about the enjoyment and the experience. I would dare say it’s about Marching Fourth, which is exactly what it has helped me and many others do. Go check out TAB. You won’t be sorry. Say love!

Worth

She had been in classes most of the day. As she hurried home, her mind was swirling with all of the things that needed to be done—study, cook, clean. She knew he expected a hot meal. He was going to school and held down a job, so she didn’t really mind. As she rushed around the small apartment kitchen, she decided on spaghetti. It wasn’t the greatest choice, but it would be hot. She was finishing up when she heard his key in the door. He jammed it in. Uh-oh. This was never good. She quickly set the table and brought a huge, steaming bowl of spaghetti into the alcove that served as a place to cram a small table and chairs. He was angry. She could hear it in his breathing. Spaghetti—hot and down her entire front. Humiliated. Scared. Why didn’t’ she leave? She wasn’t sure.

I know this woman. I was this woman. I wonder how she can be so smart yet stay in this situation. Maybe I don’t understand why she doesn’t just pick up and leave. Or, maybe I am uncomfortable, scared, etc. and distance myself from her. I believe these are all things her abuser counts on me doing. From my experiences, I have seen that the abuser wants to isolate the victim. It doesn’t really matter how the abuser achieves this, so long as it is achieved.

Domestic violence is dangerous for everyone involved.  Is this why some people tend to distance themselves? I don’t know. I have had several friends, some closer to me than others, who have been victims of domestic violence. What I refer to as The Spaghetti Incident did really happen to a friend of mine when I was in college. I found out because I accidentally saw some bruises on her. She then went on to tell me that it wasn’t that bad. I had no idea what to do, but I felt like I had to do something. I told one of our close, mutual friends. Then we sat. What could we do? Before too long, it became apparent to my friend’s husband that I knew. I was confronted by him and told to stay out of his business. I calmly told him that I wouldn’t. His business involved hitting his wife, and I was not going anywhere. Then, I didn’t go anywhere.

My friend would try and downplay what was happening to her. I would always correct her. It was a big deal, and it was dangerous. On the rare occasion I was around when abuse took place, I called the police. Always. The police would come, and she would say nothing happened.  Didn’t matter.  I always called. My friend and her abuser/husband moved away after graduation. I stayed in contact. Roughly 10 years after the first incident I knew about, I received a frantic call from my friend. She was finally leaving him, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. It involved possibly losing her child (which she didn’t). It involved her being falsely accused of abuse and neglect. It involved severe physical and emotional abuse that he continued to dole out. She stayed strong this time. I stood with her.

She’s free now, and I’m so proud of her. She has moved on and is living the life that I believe she wanted from the beginning. I know how hard it is to leave. I’ve been there. I did anything I could to hide it. I couldn’t hide it. I’m so grateful I couldn’t hide it. Some of my friends at the time retreated for various reasons. Some thought I caused it and should just not pick fights with him (him being the abuser). Some stood by me and were vocal. Some stood by me with silent support. I clung to all of that support.

Not too long ago, I was emailed a mugshot of my abuser. He had been booked for domestic violence against his then wife. They rarely change. I don’t like to say never, but it just may apply in these situations. I hope she got out. When we were in a relationship, I had “friends” who didn’t believe me. I’m not sure what they thought was going on, but they didn’t believe me. Do you know how desperate I am for them to believe me still? I knew how to contact one woman, and I sent her the mugshot. I never heard from her.

As I said earlier, in my experiences, the abuser wanted to isolate the victim. I went through this, and I saw it in my friend’s situation. The abuser counts on friends and family not wanting to get involved. The abuser counts on people abandoning the victim because she won’t just leave. In some situations, I’ve seen the abuser force the victim to make choices between friends and him. As a person who has been the friend in this situation, it can be hard. You get frustrated with the victim. There are times where the victim may even lash out at you. You want to retreat.  Wash your hands of it. She chose it and deserves it. But, she doesn’t. The abuser counts on you going away and/or getting angry with the victim. Isolation. That’s the goal.

Recently, I have watched this happen to an acquaintance. Because we aren’t really friends, I feel like it’s even harder to figure out what to do for her. She has started to lash out at the people who care about her. At first, I was angry with her for this. Some of these people are my close friends, and they don’t deserve that kind of treatment. Then, I took a step back and my vision cleared. The abuser is behind this. He is likely pushing her to get these people out of her life. They have popped up on his radar, and they must go. The easiest thing to do is get her to do his work. I’m scared for her. This woman has some wonderful qualities. She’s artistic, creative, thoughtful, etc. He will destroy her if she doesn’t leave. It doesn’t get better.

I’m writing this because I’m upset with myself for initially wanting to be pissed at this woman. I have watched a friend go through an abusive marriage. I have been in abusive relationships and know first hand what victims go through. My response has been silence—for now. She needs to get out. Should I write a letter? An email? I just don’t know.

Any time I hear of someone going through the scariness that is an abusive relationship, it takes me back to some (not all) of my past relationships. I can look back on my teenage years and my young adult years and see that I have made some major changes in how I function in romantic relationships. With that said, I can also look back and see that some of those behaviors have seeped into friendships. I’m working on it.  I’ve let go of some people in my life that weren’t really bringing much to it. It’s been sad, but I feel like it’s a positive change for me.

My hope is that someone will read this and possibly glean something from the experiences. If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, there is help.  Make sure you support people in the best ways that you can. Stay safe. March Fourth.

http://www.thehotline.org

"Clothes"ing Doors

The selling feature for our house was the closets.  I never thought I would find a 1950's ranch with so much closet space.  Our master has his and her walk-ins.  Who did that in the 1950's?!?  Problem: I had filled up three of the closets. 

I have always known that I say something through my clothes.  They set the mood for my day.  Is this how I ended up with so many?  Maybe.  The point is I had collected so many different moods, and I was bursting out of three closets--ridiculous.  For over 10 years, I had to wear business to business casual clothes to work every day.  I was working in a college setting, but I knew the expectation was for me to look different than the students.  So, I did.  After working in that environment, I moved on to a strict dress code.  By strict I mean no open-toed shoes, no sleeveless anything, and the expectation of just blending in the background.  Now, it's important to know my moods/styles can range from very Stevie Nicks to Donna Reed to occasionally Peg Bundy.  Don't judge.  My Donna Reed worked well in the college setting, and I could rock my Stevie Nicks and Peg Bundy on the weekends.  Nothing really worked well in the strict environment.  My clothes were the least of my problems, but I should have paid better attention to this little piece of info in my interview.  The interview committee looked like little boxes on the hillside made of ticky tacky--all the same.  The same=frowny. 

I left the strict dress code environment to become a writer.  My dress code changed, again.  Now, I was working at home.  The first few months were fun because it was a novelty to wear footie jammies to work.  Work was my home office, and my home office was filled with dog hair and pups nudging me for attention.  Not bad.  After a few months, the jammies weren't working for me anymore.  I realized that my clothes were still setting my mood for the day.  The jammies made me feel like I shouldn't be working.  I know, I know.  Rattling on about clothes seems trivial, but it goes deeper for me.  During this time, I would open up those three closets and just stare at my old life.  There it was.  My old life crammed into three closets.  It didn't feel good.  Again, I was focusing on my goal, which was to become a working writer.  I needed that day-to-day contact with work peeps.  A former colleague and friend happened to call me during this "questioning" stage, and she said the magic words.  "The non-profit I work for really needs a writer.  You interested?"  Umm, yeah! 

As with any job interview, I decided to wear a suit.  It wasn't a traditional suit.  It was something I had put together from Anthropologie.  As I was introduced around the office, I noticed that no one else was dressed like me.  There were people in summer dresses, slacks, shorts, tennis shoes, t-shirts, etc.  Here's the other observation...they looked happy.  On my drive home I realized how badly I wanted to work at this place.  It wasn't because of the relaxed dress code.  I actually enjoy dressing up and wearing heels most of the time; although, the heels have been slowly transitioning to flats.  Everyone was allowed to set his or her mood for the day.  This place treated its employees well.  And, yes, I got all of this from the clothes.

A few weeks ago, the non-profit called me and offered me the job.  I'm a full-time writer.  A full-time writer!!!  The statement is still settling into the crevices of my brain.  I opened the closet doors again and realized how uncomfortable my old life would look in my new life.  Out it went!  I donated most of the professional wear to a local agency that helps women get back into the workforce.  Now, I'm left in an exciting and uncomfortable place.  I have no idea what to wear.  HR called yesterday to remind me that the dress code is VERY casual.  It made me giggle, and it gave me good "feels" about this place.  HR also reminded me that I could dress however I wanted, and they were just calling to remind me about the dress code because they didn't want me to be uncomfortable on my first day.  Uncomfortable.  Am I finally leaving that behind?

Answer: probably not.  Discomfort is part of life.  If I hadn't been uncomfortable for the past year with working through my decision to be a writer, then I wouldn't have landed this sweet gig.  So, what's next?  Well, those crammed closets actually represented what others had dictated I wear.  I had my style, but overall a workplace had set the parameters.  I know that is normal; however, it feels fantastic that this new place doesn't dictate.  Cleaning out the closets has helped me move forward with my new career--I'm Marching Fourth. 

Home

I have never been described as conventional.  I blame my father.  From as early as my memory will go, I can remember him encouraging me to buck the norm.  He did this with everything.  So, it was no surprise to anyone when I decided to live in a storage barn converted into a tiny house.  I was in undergraduate school, and I had limited funds.  When I say I had limited funds, I mean that I was broke.  I had a budget of $200 a month.  This had to include everything--EVERYTHING.  One of my close girlfriends helped me start my search.  We went to a rental company, and I told them my budget.  There was only one possible place for me to see because I flat out refused to have a roommate.  Oh, and the place also had to take animals because I had a fabulous dog named Nola Jane and a very naughty cat named Annadel.  205 Central Road.  This was going to be it!

We pulled into the tiny commune of houses.  Yes, I said commune.  The "houses" started with my tiny house and got bigger as the houses continued.  And?  They were all shaped like barns.  Maybe they were barns at one time.  Who knows?  Anyway, there were about five houses on this piece of land.  Each house had a tiny driveway and a tiny backyard.  My tiny house was going to cost me $150 a month.  This also included water.  We walked in, and there was the living room/kitchen.  Next, there was a tiny hallway where the bathroom and the bedroom were across from each other.  The bathroom was the only normal size room in the place.  The bedroom was the length of the tiny house and the width of a single bed.  My closet was a bar that was installed at the end of the bedroom.  The entire space was 200 square feet.  Yep.  You read that right.  200 square feet.

Tiny House

I took it on the spot.  I was terrified, and my friend was giddy.  Of course, she didn't have to live in it.  It was all mine, and this was the most important thing.  Plus, no one had ever lived in it.  It had been used as cheap storage space.  So, the carpet was brand new, and no one had ever used the appliances or bathroom.  It was like living in a doll house. Well, a doll house that used to be a utility barn.  My family came to see where I was going to live.  I think my parents were a bit taken aback.  My father had  never wanted me to be conventional, but I don't think he expected his youngest to be living like this.  My brother-in-law immediately decided that my bedroom could use a loft.  Because the tiny house was shaped like a barn, there was a ton of space in the ceiling.  He set to working on a loft for me.  The room was the width of a single bed, so the loft would be the width of a single bed.  It took him one long night, and it was complete.  There was even a handmade ladder that Nola Jane and Annadel could scurry up.  Nola Jane just couldn't scurry down.  No worries.  The tiny house was complete and ready to move in.

I never felt like I was at home anywhere.  I moved into my college dorm, and I didn't miss home.  I missed my friends and family, but I didn't miss where I grew up.  I only lived in two different houses growing up and both of them were in the same school district.  There was no connection to these houses for me.  After my dorm days, I ended up in a great house with two unique and fantastic roommates.  This house wasn't home either.  When I found the tiny house, I found home.  It was the first place I was responsible for.  I could come home from a long day at school and work, and I could do anything I wanted.  These were the leanest years for me financially.  I couldn't run my window AC because I couldn't pay for it.  My favorite movie became Urban Cowboy because it was the only movie that was playing on the only channel my rabbit ears could pick up.  My friends would come over, and we had no choice but to sit right on top of each other in the tiny living room.  This made us laugh, and I love that memory.  I don't want to go back to the tiny house.  Life has been good to me, and I like where I'm at.  The tiny house is one of my most cherished memories.  Even as I continue Marching Fourth, I take the tiny house with me.  Home. 

Down the Rabbit Hole

November 2009: "I think I need new glasses.  Maybe I'll get some vintage frames."  This is what I was thinking as I drove to my eye appointment.  Al was with me because no one can pick out frames when his/her eyes are dilated.  I get to my appointment, and the doctor comes in to take a look.  One look.  The doctor immediately stands up and leaves the room.  No words for me.  He comes back in and says I have an appointment with an eye surgeon that same day.  What the hell?  He tells me there is a large mass in my left eye and that's all he knows at this point.

I got to the surgeon, and I am poked and prodded.  Hours and hours later I get to go home but with no information.  I have no idea what is wrong with me.  I wish my biggest problem was finding some vintage frames.  A few days later I get a call.  I have cancer.  I will have surgery immediately to remove the mass.  My vision should be fine after surgery, but there are no guarantees.  No guarantees...

You would think that this is when I would find myself falling down the rabbit hole, but I wasn't.  I handled it fairly well.  In fact, sometimes I could forget that I was sick.  I would go for my "chemo days" on Fridays.  Great way to start my weekend, right?  I would listen to music.  Most of the time I listened to The Avett Brothers.  Probably not the best choice because these guys can write songs that mainline right to your emotions.  During my last battle in 2013, "Winter in My Heart" became my theme song.  I never wanted to talk.  I never took anyone with me.  Al was always waiting on me when I was finished.  I guess I didn't want anyone to see me be vulnerable.  I shed a few tears while sitting in that stupid recliner, but mostly I just snapped at people.  Cancer made me angry.  I wasn't a warrior.  I wasn't a survivor.  I was just pissed off.  

Four years later and the impact of what I went through is hitting me.  I think I stomped on my feelings and buried them deep inside my gut.  They've started to bubble up in the last few months.  I didn't die.  I could have.  I still might.  It's not like you hear very many stories of people fighting cancer, winning, and moving on to a life that doesn't involve cancer.  It's always there.  I always have to be checked out.  I will always have a tiny scar on my left eye.  You can see it when the light is shining a certain way.  I make fun of it to my friends.  It's a battle scar!  It's not.  It bothers me. 

I can still remember people saying some of the most horrible things.  I don't know if they realized it or not.  Does it matter?  I was told that since all of my hair didn't fall out then I must be feeling great.  Yeah, that's exactly how this works.  I have chemo gushing through my veins, but I have hair!  Hair=health.  I was having lunch with one of my bosses at the time, and she said that people who have cancer know that's what will eventually kill them.  Any energy I had left just drained right out of me in that moment.  I wasn't hurt.  Her words hit me and exploded. Would I eventually die from this?  What if it doesn't go away? 

My first short haircut.  I guess I did look healthy.  I wasn't.

It wasn't all bad.  Al and I realized that we actually did want to be married to each other.  So, after 7 years together, we had a private ceremony in our backyard.  He never wavered on anything.  Anything.  He still doesn't.  I also realized just how much my sister loves me.  She sent me a photo of her after I texted her to tell her that my chemo had worked.  I was doing well.  The photo was her bursting into happy tears.  I didn't know until that moment that she was terrified.  I lost some friends during this process.  I do think that they were my friends, but they couldn't be the friend I needed.  They moved on, and so did I. 

Last week, I had to go in for a check-up.  I do have one benign tumor that continues to grow.  It will need to be taken out at some point.  No cancer, though--for now.  I left that appointment and just sobbed on the sidewalk.  People continued to walk by and act like I wasn't sitting there.  Probably for the best.  I collected myself and went home.  In some ways, I'm more scared today than I was when I was wheeled into surgery.  There isn't anything a doctor or surgeon can do for me now.  I wait. 

I'm just starting to peek down the rabbit hole, and it is scary.  I see all the outcomes swirling around down there.  What will mine be?  I don't think anyone can answer that question.  I try to March Fourth.  In fact, I thought I was Marching Fourth.  It looks like I'm just going to sit and peek down the rabbit hole for a bit.  I wait.

Blogger Block

I'm suffering--from blogger's block.  I have been in a bit of a funk because there are so many unfinished projects and unmade decisions.  Everything is written down very neatly in my trusty notebook, and I stare at it.  A lot.  I haven't even been able to read lately and that's my favorite thing to do.  It relaxes me.  It's like yoga for my mind.  There's only one person who is always allowed to sit in my room(head) with me when I get overwhelmed.  That's my Al.  My husband.  My touchstone for all things good.

Silly humans

I kind of noticed he was always just a few steps away from me.  He tends to sense when my brain gets boggled down in the daily information.  He never asked me questions.  He never told me what I should be doing.  You know those people who should all over you?  That's not him.  Instead, he would sit on the couch with me and watch Nashville.  I know he doesn't like that show, but he sure does like me.  Or, he would come home from working all day and make dinner for us.  Also, he would make sure I got plenty of hugs.  Even when I didn't really deserve them.

There have been so many adjustments since I decided to start writing.  I have started to wonder if being creative is a curse.  Is it?  I don't know.  You never hear of a financial analyst getting lost in his or her head.  Maybe that's because they don't write all of their thoughts out for the world to see?  Maybe they are just as lost?  Hmm.  All I know is my Al has been patiently and protectively making me March Fourth.

So, here I am.  Writing.  Admitting.  The truth.  Al says if I don't just keep going forward then I will remain here forever.  I guess that's true.  It's just that my brain feels bigger than me right now.  We'll see where I go next.  Until then.

Dr. Circuit and the brain

Book Tour: Janelle Kahele

Janelle Kahele is the author of Blink: The Blink Series - Breaking Branches, Blink: The Blink Series - Blinded by Judgment, and Mine.

Author J. Kahele 

I had the pleasure of reading Breaking Branches, which is part of The Blink Series.  Christia (Tia) Cartwright is the main character.  She is a very independent person, who is also very loyal to her friends.  Tia is battling some demons--alcohol and loss.  Michael Wellington enters her life.  The friendship develops into more, and Tia is forced to confront her demons.  As the relationship moves forward, Tia learns more about Michael and his own ghosts.  What are Michael's ghosts?  Read it and find out!

In addition to reading Breaking Branches, I also had the opportunity to ask the author some questions.

Why do you write?   I write to relieve the thoughts that are in my mind.

What advice would you give aspiring authors? To write with honesty and although the first book may not  show the vision you are attempting to portray, the more you write, the more your vision will become  clearer.

What are some of your next projects? I am working on the third installment of Blink: The Series, and I am working on a second installment of my book Mine.

Want to know more about Janelle?  Check it out!

Website: www.janellekahele.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/J-Kahele/1483634408525884?ref=hl
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/JanelleKahele
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/J-Kahele/e/B00IM1SZQA/ref=ntt dp epwbk 0
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7356203.J Kahele