I scurried out of the bank and crossed the street. My mind was racing, trying to form a somewhat manageable budget until my next paycheck. Amidst this mental financial planning, I encountered man – clearly disabled as he was leaning heavily on a walker – waving a piece of paper and mumbling something I couldn’t hear. Thinking that perhaps he was looking for directions, I stopped. His story went as follows: “I have cancer, looking to get to Mount Sinai for chemo, only have $8.”  He was asking for money. Because of my new found lack of funds, I quickly told him that I didn’t have any cash and walked briskly towards my apartment.

About seven steps down the block, a knot began to form in my stomach. I knew I should be helping the man.  I stopped to check how far it was from my corner to the hospital – I would figure out the cab fare and then hail the man a cab and pay that exact amount. By the time I figured out the distance and the exact amount of cash he would need to get there, a nice couple was helping the man into the cab and handing the driver a $20 for the trip.

Two steps later, I burst into tears. I had had the opportunity to help someone who was actually in need and, consumed with my own issues, I had acted rudely and selfishly.

Some reading this may have the same reaction my boyfriend did: “well, you can’t help everyone. Have to worry about yourself!” And as I’ve noted before, I believe in select acts of selfishness.

I am also a fan of random acts of kindness. Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project, noted that there is actual scientific studies that show that random acts of kindness not only raise your serotonin levels, they also raise the serotonin levels of those around you – regardless of the size of the act of kindness.

I’m not an advocate for letting others habitually walk all over you. Quite the contrary, I’m a huge fan of standing up for yourself as needed and taking care of yourself so that you can have the energy to help others. In fact, living in NYC often makes me wonder if I’m developing a hard edge to my personality. That’s born out of nervousness over showing any sort of vulnerability. In the big bad world of over 8 million people, vulnerable equates to weak and surely there’s something Darwinian about living in 450 sq feet and riding a smelly train to a thankless job each day.

What keeps me going and encourages me to help strangers are the small kindnesses I’ve been shown by complete strangers. Those little actions – someone giving me a seat when I had a ton of packages with me, a girl who stopped to see if I was ok when I was crying on a corner in Columbus Circle over Christmas time or someone simply holding a door open for me – these tokens turned my day around and gave me a generally brighter view of my situation for that moment and the thought of being able to impart such a huge shift in POV to a stranger with just a small gesture is my motivation.

The thing is, even when I have been taken advantage of, I don’t feel nearly as bad as the times in which I’ve had the opportunity to help someone in need and failed to do so. Not doing the right thing always makes me feel like a jerk. Doing the right thing always makes me feel good.

for serotonin’s sake: what is one small gesture you’ve made for a complete stranger?

I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of “home.” Perhaps it’s because I’ve never been comfortable with being comfortable or perhaps it’s because during my childhood, home was never exactly a fun place to be. Because of these two factors, I spent most of my late teens and early twenties moving around.

Granted, none of these moves were cross-country exoduses meant to cleanse the soul and inspire the mind. I stuck mostly to New York state, moving from Rochester to Long Island and then on to New Paltz then Albany to Saratoga to New Jersey and the finally into Manhattan – all before my 24^th birthday.

Someone once asked me if all of my moves made it difficult to maintain friendships. I remember being confused by the question – I’d never even thought about that. Why would it make it difficult to maintain friendships? If anything, it strengthened them and allowed me to naturally weed out the “real” friends from the “drinking” friends and my “no matter what” friends from my “convenient to hang out with” friends.

Obviously, when you’re constantly moving and making new friends, it’s hard to keep in contact with everyone you’ve ever been friends with. I also think that we naturally outgrow many friendships but geographical ease and a sense of convenience allows the friendship to live on beyond its expiration date. Moving provides an excellent filter for friends. There are those people from each stage of your past that you will always be in contact with, there are people who will slowly fall away from your story as you each go your own way and then there are those who stick with you like garlic breath after a sumptuous Italian meal.

Moving, however, takes that geographically convenient element out of the equation. The friendship needs to either sink or swim. With my many moves, I’ve found that some friends who I thought were near and dear have faded away. Other friends who I thought were fair weather folks have been there at my darkest times. People have a funny way of surprising you like that.

Some wonder, with all of my moves, what is home for me? New York City is slowly but surely become my mistress but I will always call Saratoga my first love and my first home. Saratoga is where my adopted pseudo-family lives. Saratoga was the first place I really set down my own roots. Not roots because of school or a boy or my family. I chose to live there. I looked at a map and decided that Saratoga seemed nice so I rented an apartment a week later and moved my meager post-college belongings in. I painted the walls of my studio apartment a peach color on the hottest day of the year, during a humid thunderstorm and after an epic night of drinking. A decision I came to regret – the color was repulsive – but I still couldn’t help but smile each time I looked at the walls. They were my walls. Really though, location is not the point. The people that I met that year – and the years preceding when I was in college – those are my tribe, my people. They saw me in a really unsavory state that included a little too much vodka, too little sleep and a general life downward spiral while I tried to figure out how to capitalize on my Journalism degree just as the world hit a recession.

It was that year that I learned that “home” is a relative term. It’s more about people than places. Home is not seeing someone for almost a year and feeling like no time has passed when you finally meet again. Home is a group of people who know and love you despite knowing the real you. Home is someone who will be there for you at your darkest moment. Home is someone who will take you sky diving after you’ve had your heart broken. Home is a good soul who loves you more than you love yourself sometimes. Home is your group of girlfriends from college who have been flung to the far reaches of the earth but when you’re together two or three times a year, it’s like you’re back in your college apartment, mixing up cocktails and doing pre-bar lunges. Home is a hug. Home is your adopted aunt and uncle who used to cook you hungover omelets and worry about you when you came home late and still remember to send a birthday card  – even when you regularly forget their special events. Home is where you want to run to when the shit hits the fan.

You see, moving around doesn’t scare me. I know that my friends – my tribe members – who are meant to be will be, because they have always been. And I will always be for them as well. Sure, I can no longer wander downstairs in my sweatpants and plop on my guy friend’s couch after a long night. I won’t wake up every Saturday morning with my two best college girl friends snuggled in bed with me and giggle while recounting the events of the night before. But I can feel these people – and those little moments – in my heart and my soul.  I can look back on the years of my early twenties with all of the insane emotional bullsh*t, confusion and general discontentedness and I can smile because, goddamn it, I gained an amazing group of friends from that pile of manure. And better yet? They knew me when I was a train wreck and they know me now when I’ve put myself (somewhat) together. They’re the only ones who can smile at me and say “wow, Meg, you’ve come so far” and actually know what the hell that even means. They’re the ones whose compliments matter most to me.

Home is those who knew you at your worst and loved you anyway.

***

This time of year is rough for everyone. There’s no longer any holiday cheer to look forward to. All we can do sit tight and wait out the frigid winter winds and hope that Paxatony Phil catches a glimpse of his ever elusive shadow so we can start peeling the layers of wool and warmth back to let some Vitamin D catch our pale, alien skin.

Everyone is cooped up inside, crawling over each other (especially in NYC where 800 sq feet seems large and luxurious). In those conditions, it’s impossible not to go stir crazy. Anxiety creeps in and with it comes the Mean Reds like a slow spreading mental rash – itchy and inevitable.

Last week I felt that slow creep rolling in with the end-of-month bills. Everyone has his or her triggers. I start to feel like I’m suffocating on each breath I take. As each day is filled with new fears, the simple things like getting out of bed and answering the phone become an ordeal. Every minor offense such as someone cutting in line for the subway turnstile throws me into a disproportionate rage. I have no patience for those I love most. I want nothing more than to hibernate under my comforter with a fat novel and a bottomless cup of steaming hot tea until I can be around the general public without feeling a cluster of fear move slowly from the middle on my chest into my throat and finally, to rest behind my eyes in the form of the need-to-cry moments that can’t be contained.

My eyes, they often leak.

The Blues are a bummer.  Literally. They make you sad and unsociable. But the Mean Reds give you horns you never knew you had. They’re as unpredictable as a tropical storm. They seem to come out of nowhere and leave the same way. Blues are usually predictable – a bad week at work, family drama and the like. They can be shooed away with a good dinner, some quality time with friends or a great yoga session. The Mean Reds suffocate you with the worst kind of fear – the kind in which you’re not able to identify what exactly you’re afraid of.

This morning, after being under mental siege for what seemed like ages, I walked out of my corner coffee spot. I heard a taxi honk its horn. I took a sip of my soy latte – made just right by my favorite barista and I held a door for a stranger who complimented me on my boots. I looked up into the grey sky to see the Empire State Building in an embrace with a ring of gloomy clouds and I took a deep breath to fill my lungs with my city. As I let my breath out, out went the last of my Mean Reds.

***

do you ever get the Mean Reds? how do you get rid of them?

I was once that girl who stressed over my friend’s problems. I helped them work through everything! (And to be fair, they did the same for me as well). I would skip classes to cheer a friend up, drop anything to be there for a significant other in need and spend anything I had to make my family member happy.

At the end of the day, I was so exhausted from solving other people’s problems that I didn’t have the energy to properly handle my own issues. I was miserable and conflicted. I was partaking in my own leftovers instead of enjoying the feast of self.

Little by little, as the years progressed from 21 to 22 to 23, I began to see the merit in being a smidge selfish with my energy. 24 was my ‘year of self.’ I learned to say no when I wanted to – and without guilt! I learned  to listen to  my inner self and take a night off when all I want to do is sit around in my under-roos and read blogs and drink an endless amount of Earl Grey tea with honey and soy milk. I learned to distance myself from my friend’s problems. I can be there for them without being in the middle of their conflict, and plus, it’s so much less emotionally taxing to be an occasional shoulder to cry on rather than a referee. I pared down my close circle of friends so I could be a better friend to those around me. I started to take more of an interest in building a relationship with my little brothers and cousins. Formerly, I’d just be annoyed by their presence because I was tired and they were loud. Now I see that they’re actually (shocker} humans! And they’re actually kind of cool humans at that.

I discovered that in order to put others first when they most need it, we must put ourselves first at other times. That ever-elusive balance.

We’re responsible for putting the oxygen mask on ourselves FIRST before assisting others. You’re most able to help others when you have a steady flow of that vital life supply. When I am happy and stable in my own person, I’m able to help those around me without feeling as though I’m neglecting my own needs. I can put my life on hold for a night to cheer up a friend; I have a few extra dollars in my budget to buy a round of drinks for an old friend. I have more patience with my siblings and significant other. I’m an all-around better girlfriend, friend, sister, daughter, cousin, granddaughter and employee when I am happy or at least contented with my life.

I also like being there for my loved ones during the joyful times as well. I enjoy sending thank you notes and post cards and helping to celebrate the good as well as mourn the bad. I’ve just found that at certain moments, I haven’t been able to entirely savor other people’s triumphs because I’ve been so anxious over my own misfortunes.

That was the last straw for me. When I was unable to celebrate a friend’s life victory because I was wallowing in my own lack of victories. It’s one thing to feel a ting of jealous for a stranger but to not be able to celebrate a loved one because of your own perceived inadequacies is a terrible feeling. I started to get my life on track then and there.

Come to think of it, perhaps I should send that friend a thank-you note…

I’ve been woefully negligent of my weekly link round-ups, not due to lack of links, but due to lack of time and energy. So this week’s links are the best of the best from the last 3 week – it’s like my belated holiday present..to you! ya! :}

***

i’m a huge fan of sparkling wine (sometimes known as..champagne…) and i love this collection of surprising facts and stories about champagne

***

how adorable is this baby seal who wandered into a house and took a nap on the owner’s couch?!

***

i love this list of new year’s resolutions. it’s the only new year’s post i’ve read that hasn’t been tedious to complete (not that i don’t suport everyone’s resolutions – i just find long, drawn out lists better placed in personal journals)

***

according to these three images that i’ve reblogged recently, i’m craving bright colors this winter:

(via … )

( via… )

( via … )

***

i loved this post about relationships. favorite quote: If the foundation is there, you have something. That’s not saying you will have to work at the relationship and not just let it “fall” because everything else is just there. We grow and evolve as people, but if we went after matters of the heart and mind, there seems to be some strength there in relationships.

***

i think that this song is beautiful (and the video is also visually gorgeous)

***

this article by simon doonan on Marilyn Monroe is so.good.

***

what posts, articles or videos really blew up your skirt this week? want to include on of your posts? shoot me an email at meghanpbutler at gmail.com by Thursday!

]]> http://megsmumbo.com/2012/01/05/1819/feed/ 5 http://megsmumbo.com/2012/01/04/song-of-the-day-it-gets-better-it-gets-better-it-gets-better/ http://megsmumbo.com/2012/01/04/song-of-the-day-it-gets-better-it-gets-better-it-gets-better/#comments Wed, 04 Jan 2012 07:09:40 +0000 Meg http://megsmumbo.com/?p=1810 My little brother, Jameson, is the most laid back person I have ever met. He’s a very typical middle child – peace maker, non-confrontational and very quiet. Sometimes I worry that “laid back” is synonymous with “lacking passion.”  All of these characteristics are the complete opposite of me. I’m passionate and insane and loud and super confrontational. Jameson, however, is passionate about one thing: music. He can literally go on for hours and hours about different bands and the merits behind various genres of music, eras and even geographical locations in relation to music.

We got to spend a lot of quality time together this past week and he spent much of that time alternating between trying to broker a peace treaty between my youngest brother and I (we’re too similar for our own good) and teaching me about all the insanely awesome new music he has up his sleeve.

May favorite find is Ramshackle Glory. I usually listen to music that is along the lines of Passion Pit/Dave Matthews/Otis Redding  while Jameson is into the Clash and various punk bands. But Ramshackle Glory is the perfect mix between punk-tastic vocals, poetically beautiful lyrics and fun melodies.  Today’s song of the day is their song “Your Heart is a Muscle The Size of Your Fist.” If you like them, don’t forget to “like” them on The Facebook.

dalia never showed me nothing but kindness. she would say: “i know how sad you get. and some days, i still get that way, but it gets better. it gets better. it gets better. sweetie, it gets better, i promise you.” and she tells me: your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. keep on loving. keep on fighting. and hold on, and hold on, hold on for your life. ian built a cabin in the woods to live in. for years, terrifying noises kept him up at night with a twelve gauge under his pillow. he’s living in boston now, going to art school. i forgive him. i forgive him. hell, i’ll admit it: i’m proud of him. serena’s an architect and a carpenter. she’s such a feminist she says she isn’t one, because goddamn, my gender shouldn’t matter. and her motorcycle glides through the streets of providence, down to the warehouse district. the paint job is as stunning as her knowledge of medieval building techniques. your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. keep on loving. keep on fighting. and hold on, and hold on, hold on for your life. this one goes out to georgios. he knows how to dance. abby banks, your book is beautiful, and fuck anyone who says otherwise. scott, i love you and you make me glad to be alive. i promise that i’m gonna pay you back. you always know how funny everything is, even when i’m so serious that it’s gonna be the death of me. like the time that our friend chuck came over to our house. he said he needed somebody to take care of his pets, because he was going out of town. i asked him: “where?” and he said: “new mexico.” i asked if i could get a ride. he said: “no, you don’t want to follow me where it is that i’m going.” he pulled out of the drive way. that was the last time we saw him, because he drove straight to his parent’s cabin and put a bullet in his head. your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. keep on loving. keep on fighting. and hold on, and hold on, hold on for your life.

(lyrics via official Ramshackle Glory website)