What is the difference between fear and cowardice? The dictionary definitions are somewhat similar:

fear |fi(ə)r|noun an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat:

cowardice |ˈkou-ərdəs|noun lack of bravery; lacking the courage to do or endure dangerous or unpleasant things

If I’m feeling fearful, it simply means that I’m aware of the dangers that may be lurking around the next corner, but that I’m ready to stand up to them. I don’t know what is around that corner, but I’m putting up my dukes, so to speak. If I’m feeling cowardly, it means that I am actively avoiding, if not running the hell away from the things that frighten me. A fearful person can be brave if given the opportunity, or if armed with enough self-confidence and support. A coward never can be, unless you’re the Cowardly Lion, which, by the end of the movie, most of us understood that he wasn’t so much cowardly as lacking confidence. But I’m losing the plot.

I’m writing this to own up to my cowardice. Oh my, yes. In the last few years, I’ve let cowardice shape almost every decision I make. I don’t write about professional topics that interest me because I don’t have the courage to stand up to scrutiny. I don’t write about things I’d like to change about my job because I don’t have the courage to defend my positions, especially if those positions are contrary to the library’s (or the profession’s) mission and purpose. I lack the courage to speak out because I like comfort, I want to be liked (not respected), I like having a roof over my head and steady paycheques, even though my satisfaction with my current position continues to speed downhill. I write very obliquely about things that happen in my personal life because I don’t have the backbone to face the reality of how my poor choices and inability to communicate causes my relationships to fail again and again.

Gandhi said “A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.” That’s me in spades. I tend to squelch any demonstrative feelings, whether positive or negative, because I’m afraid that those emotions won’t stand up under critical inquiry from others or from myself. There’s so much more I’d rather be doing, so many more things I’d rather be saying, but I won’t because I lack the stomach to defend myself against the critics. My strongest critic is, of course, myself.

When I’m wrestling with a particularly nasty depressive episode, I find that my ability to express passion for even the slightest thing is severely compromised. In his book The Noonday Demon, Andrew Solomon described depression as being “the flaw in love.”

“To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one’s self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection.”

This has been the reality of my daily existence for at least the last three years. More if I’m being honest with myself.

It would feel wonderful to care enough to change, or rather, to feel that I deserve to change. I would be relieved to not feel this daily decay, to understand that my back will not break with the slightest wind, to have unshakable faith that this storm will not lay to waste whatever foundation I’ve created for myself. Depression has turned me into a coward who is afraid of her own reflection because she scarcely recognizes the wraith that stares back at her.

When I am depressed, I don’t believe I deserve affection, or praise, or attention. When I feel like I don’t deserve those things, I run away from anything that challenges me. It’s why I considered surrendering Ella to a cat rescue organization, because I believed I was a failure and a flop, and the only thing I know how to do in an unpleasant situation is to shut down, tuck my tail and run. It’s why I talked myself out of a job this afternoon, under the guise of “being honest about my limitations.” Mark Twain once said “You are a coward when you even seem to have backed down from a thing you openly set out to do”, and that’s exactly what happened to me today, has happened in the past, and until and unless this bout with depression passes, will likely happen again.

I hate to leave this without answers, or a plan of action that will make people think I’m doing something other than wallowing, or getting tripped up by my own narcissistic skirt-gathering, but now I’m at the point where just feeling unburdened enough to admit this openly feels like just the right amount of victory that I’m capable of handling at the moment.

(Photo by seriykotik1970 – http://flic.kr/p/Bj76V)

Last night’s ride home was clear, cool, and nearly silent. It was so quiet, I heard the sleepy quacks of a flock of ducks who were settling in for the night. Beyond that, all I could hear was the sound of my tires on pavement, the breath leaving and entering my lungs, and SkyTrain passing in the distance.

Nights like this are just perfect for riding.

There’s a blog post brewing in my head about this Fast Company article on Generation Flux and what that means to me, and how that may shape my role in this profession. I’ve often said that I don’t feel like a traditional librarian, and for the last few years, I’ve convinced myself that my non-traditional path is a liability. After reading this article, I’m certain that my varied path is an asset.

But I’m still not ready to put fingers to keys about it quite yet.

I’m reading The Magician King by Lev Grossman right now and enjoying it, though less than The Magicians. I came across this quote last night before settling in to sleep:

“That was the thing about the world: it wasn’t that things were harder than you thought they were going to be, it was that they were hard in ways that you didn’t expect.”

Ella is still with me for now. Giving her another chance seems like the right thing to do at this moment. It may turn out that I’m not what she needs, and if that’s the case I will have to learn to accept it, as hard as it may be.

I’m setting a rigid timeline, and I’m going to be introducing more structure into her life. If I don’t see real improvement, I’ll have to let her go and accept that this is not what I expected, and I am not a bad person for doing what is best for us both.

But I’m not ready to throw in the towel. Not yet. I want to fight for this little being. I want to fight for us both.

I’ve decided to keep Ella for the time being. This relationship deserves a second chance.

This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to write.

I’m going to surrender Ella to a cat rescue group.

At the risk of opening myself up to a lot of judgemental comments from well-meaning cat advocates, let me say that this decision was not an easy one to make. This hurts to admit, and as I type this, I’m shedding copious amounts of giant, snotty tears. In just a few short weeks, this beautiful but troubled cat has completely stolen my heart, but now my heart is breaking because I feel like I’ve been pushed to the limit. There’s also a rhinoceros-sized lump of guilt sitting in my gut to go along with the heartbreak.

This started about three weeks ago, when Ella began peeing on my bed. She still uses her litterbox, so everything seems fine in Catbox Town. Friends who have cats convinced me that she was either distraught or ill, so I took her to the vet to try to rule out illness.

Two vet visits, conflicting diagnoses, and a $500 loan from a friend later, Ella was treated for a urinary tract infection that seems to have cleared up. But the treatment wasn’t without stress because the special prescription food the first vet ordered for her, when coupled with the liquid antibiotics I struggled to give her made her throw up. There’s nothing quite like the sound of a cat throwing up. There are two construction sites right across from my apartment, and I seriously thought the noise was coming from there until I realized it was only 6:15 am, and the construction doesn’t usually get underway until 7:30. But I digress.

Here is the litany of things I have tried thus far:

• Taking her to the vet
• Urinalysis
• Antibiotics, pain killers (which made her constipated), and prescription cat food
• X-Rays
• Blood work
• Buying toys
• Buying a cat tree
• Buying special (and expensive) feline pheromone sprays and diffusers to try to relax her
• Buying holistic herbal remedies to try to relax her
• Spending more time with her/paying more attention to her
• Making sure she has someplace to hide
• Making sure she can look out of the window
• Making sure she has something to climb
• Singing songs with her name in it – yes, this was actual advice I received, and I tried it.
• Changing her cat litter.
• Going back to her old cat litter.
• Changing her to wet cat food.
• Changing her to dry cat food.
• Feeding her premium cat food.
• Feeding her cheap cat food, because that’s what she likes.
• Putting foil on the bed, because cats won’t walk on foil – this actually seemed to work, but I can’t sleep on aluminum foil.
• Stocking up on expensive enzyme cleaners to completely remove the smell where she’s marked before.

That seems like a lot for six weeks of care, and it is. Some say that’s too many changes in too short of a time, while others suggest that I keep trying. Someone suggested that I was trying too hard. When I heard that, I think I heard and felt my blood pressure skyrocket.

The bed wetting and acting out is getting worse. Typically she only wet the bed when I wasn’t around, but two nights ago, she did a little dance and peed on the bed while I was looking right at her. This morning I woke to find that the little darling had wet the bed while I was sleeping in it, thereby going to the bathroom on me in the process.

I have never in my life felt murderous rage and crushing disappointment at the same time, but I felt it this morning.

This cat isn’t happy. She isn’t happy here, and she isn’t happy with me. She withdraws from my hand when I try to pet her, she turns her back on me when I sit near her, and if by some miracle she allows me to stroke her cheeks or scratch her under the chin, her tail twitches violently, indicating just how annoyed with me she really is.

I chose a pet because I thought it would teach me patience, and would help me learn to love myself and trust people again. I chose Ella because my heart went out to this little kitty who had been abandoned, terrorized (by other cats), and shuttled around between homes several times in just four short years. I wanted to give her a home, stability, a warm, soft place to rest her head, and all the love she could handle. But the staggering anxiety I’ve felt in the last few weeks can’t be good for me. I know it isn’t good for her.

So there you have it. I’m a horrible person. I’m treating a living being like a faulty toaster. And I totally hate myself for it.

Meet my new roommate, Ella. I never thought of myself as much of a cat person, but I realized that if I got a dog, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate at work for worrying about leaving it alone all day. But cats? Cats are pretty self-sufficient. Or so I’ve heard.

Ella was left behind when her previous owners moved away. The family that took her in wanted to keep her, but she didn’t get along with the other cat in the household. Right now she’s doing a fair amount of hiding, but when I turn my back, she’s often walking around the perimeter of my apartment, checking things out. I’m taking that as a good sign.

Today was one of those days that I’ve heard other public librarians talk about, but had never experienced myself. Without going into detail (because I like being employed, yo), I will simply say that this city and province really needs to devote more money to services and support for the mentally ill. What would be even better would be if we could dedicate space to a social service agency within the library, so that patrons who needed those kinds of services wouldn’t have to travel very far.

To top it off, it is November in Vancouver which means icy rain finds its way under all my waterproof bike gear, no matter how careful I am. And let’s be honest, I’m not all that careful, what with there being a lack of proper cycling gear for people who require Omar the Tentmaker sizes.

As I rode home and felt rivulets run down my ankles and into my Danskos, all I could think was “After a day like today, I could use a drink. And a beer won’t do.” I knew I needed something akin to liquid fire, something that twists and meanders down my throat and fills my body with fluid, sweet-tasting embers that last and last. So I stopped at The Most Amazing Liquor Store on Earth ™, careful not to drip too much on their floors and counters, and treated myself to a bottle of Knob Creek. And trust me when I tell you, it is truly a treat.

I mean – just look at this face.

As someone who once made her living exclusively by drawing boxes and arrows on paper and Visio (and later, Omnigraffle), you’d think I’d be a fairly well-versed on the concept of visual thinking and visual notetaking.

You’d be wrong.

Earlier today I came across Sunni Brown’s TED talk in which she defended doodling as part of the creative process. I’ve never been much of a doodler, because I convinced myself that I needed to know how to draw to doodle effectively. Brown says that doodling has a profound impact on the way we process information, and that this type of creativity and play can help people retain information better.

As a librarian, I live in the world of verbal information. While I don’t document things nearly as rigidly as some of my colleagues, creating documentation to express an idea is a large part of what I do every day. And, well, there’s that whole book thing. Over the last two months, I was reassigned to a different unit in which I had to take in an overwhelming amount of information in order to do the job well. I have a week left, but I wish I’d tapped into mapping out these workflows in a looser, more organic way much sooner.

Tonight I pushed my keyboard to the side of my desk, took pen and paper in hand, put on some music and just let my mind wander. I listened to songs and doodled out lyrics. I watched TED Talks and SXSW sessions about visual notetaking and sketched out some of the concepts. On any normal day, I would have gone through these concepts and not retained a single bit of information, but today, I think the concepts I’ve learned may actually stick with me. The photos in this entry are but a small sample of the doodles I did over the course of the evening.

While I was doing this, I felt myself relax. As the evening passed, I became less concerned about making perfect doodles, and I focused more on flow, on letting the music and ideas flow over me and through me. As I relaxed, my doodles took on a more relaxed, loosey-goosey quality, and it’s that looseness that makes them more effective, I think.

Sunni Brown has put together an exhaustive booklist for anyone who is interested in learning more about doodling, information design, and creative thinking.

Does doodling help you process information better? Is it a distraction, or is it a key tool in your professional toolbox?

I had an opportunity to attend the Internet Librarian conference this week, where I also appeared on a panel. The panel went well. I wish I had more time to discuss the panel topic a bit more in-depth, but I’m glad I had the experience, and it has given me ideas for topics I’d like to present at future conferences.

What this experience hasn’t done, however, is improved my self-esteem or done anything to combat the sometimes crippling shyness I suffer from. If I’m fortified with liquid courage, it’s easy to cover up these deficiencies, but I’m not as young as I once was, and I also had an alcoholic father, so I’m not exactly eager to use booze as a coping mechanism.

You would think that I’d find it difficult to give presentations in front of large groups of people, but the surprising thing is I quite enjoy it. It’s a chance for me to sit (or stand) and talk about what I know, something that I don’t get to do often enough. It’s a chance for me to teach, and it’s a chance for me to learn, and any sort of mutually supportive arrangement like that is one where I flourish. But the one-on-one, the small talk, the greasing of the social wheel stuff always reduces me to tears. Always.

At one point during the conference, I stole away to an empty ballroom and cried. I’m so tired of being this way, but every time I try to change, the process seems unbearable and invisible. I end up hating myself more than I would if I just kept to myself, and nobody enjoys self-loathing, least of all me.

I don’t want to put up walls around myself. I think I’d rather have a picket fence, or some other permeable structure where certain emotions and experiences would be kept at bay, but those things and those people who make me feel comfortable, and make me feel more like myself would easily pass through.

Emily Dickinson, again.

Oh, and hey – look who’s a Planet Bike Supercommuter! Thanks to Alan at EcoVelo for the fantastic profile. My site traffic has been through the roof the last two days. I’m feeling a bit shy. *blushes*

I was going to write about last night’s ride on Esperanza, but I’m still on a bit of an endorphin high, and I don’t feel like I can do the emotions justice. I will simply say that as I passed the hill at the foot of Hornby Street on my way home last night, after besting it a half-hour prior, I said “I made you my bitch!” out loud.

It feels odd to say that I love a photo of myself, but I really do love this photo.