I don't mean to brag, but I managed to topple 50+ years of authoritarian rule with my partner in December... Okay, that might not be TOTALLY true, I'll leave that to you to decide. It all started late October, when we found ourselves staying at the 5-star resort known as the Jordan-Syria border. Stray dogs, friendly men with AK-47s, and a cozy metal bench to sleep on— I don't want to flex too hard, but there was everything a girl could ask for! I suppose that whole debacle is really a story to tell on its own someday, but the ending of it is relevant. After 10 days of being stuck, and lots of beyond weird experiences, the Assad government did not process my visa. Since I really wanted to go to Syria and meet my love's family, there was nothing to do except manifest the demise of my impeders as I went back to Jordan. Is it a coincidence that the government fell less than a month later and I was able to waltz into Syria in the process? I suppose it is up to you to pass judgement on such things. So, what's post-Assad Syria like? I have no idea how to even address that, so please do not ask me. I can tell you that I don't balk at the sight or sound of AK-47s anymore. That I'm as used to seeing them as I was the firearms the police carried in the USA. That I feel as safe as anyone else here, despite my nationality. AND that the coffee shops work, and they are lovely! Shortly after arriving, we popped out for a visit to a mall to satisfy some cravings. I've never liked malls, but it sure was interesting to explore this one a bit! Before walking through, we sat at Pascucci for a coffee and argille (hookah). The menu, of course, was in Arabic. Our server spoke some English though, answering my Arabic "thank you!" with "you're welcome" in English when he dropped off our drinks. We both got a caramel macchiato with double espresso. This was served a bit differently than I'm used to, but it was delicious! I thought that it was very bitter (which I like, no problem) until I got near the end... app

Occasionally I make a mental note when typing out prompts to try and write my own post on a topic I've proposed if possible. This was one such time, as postpartum depression is an issue that is important to me. I've seen the damage it can do to countless women and their families around me, and I've experienced it myself with each of my pregnancies.Thea and I when she was about 2 I think PPD is often misunderstood as just another form of depression. Unfortunately, it is much more sinister than that. PPD can take on many forms. For the one experiencing it, it can feel like insanity. Blinding rage, suicidal thoughts, dissociative and dangerous thinking. I'm a fan of admitting things that might open the door for other women to feel safer in being honest about their experiences, so I'll make a horrible admission. PPD with my youngest made me feel violent towards him, which in turn made me hate myself. Although I never hurt him, dozens of times I had to sit him down somewhere safe and take a few minutes to collect the rage that was ripping my brain apart. It was always followed with sorrow. How could my body give me the impulses to want to do something so terrible? What the hell was wrong with me and my broken awful brain? Should I give him away to someone better? Should I get rid of myself, so he was safe? I'd cry and cry when the rage passed, feeling as if I was the biggest garbage can of a human that ever existed. I spent many days hating myself for not feeling the right way, for being unable to make my little colic ridden guy feel happy. Or at least being able to cope better like every other mother did, obviously. Why was I so broken?

With such great topics for this weekend, I found myself wanting to answer more than one. I suppose I often do; life is too short to pick just one thing when we do not have to after all... The first one that caught my eye gave me a proper laugh:Are you an ignorant asshole? Well yeah, I reckon I am. I think basically all of us are. We each have our own unique experiences, ways of being raised, and feelings. This makes people equally beautiful and ugly as far as I see it. We are all slaves to our own perspectives, and most of our perspectives suck objectively. What is undeniably true in our lives is completely wrong in a different walk of life. All of our opinions are useless and jaded when applied to someone else's path. But just like everyone else, I have tons of opinions. As much as I'd like to think I'm not, I'm judgmental. I'm short sighted. I'm tied to my own experiences in life.A tank near the Syria-Jordan border, taken from a moving car. I try to challenge my own perspectives and remain objective, but the older I get the more I realize that this isn't some sunny and loving task. It's brutal, and a lot of the things you realize along the way hurt deeply. The more I understand the world the less joyful I am. After spending four months in the Middle East, I now know I am privileged beyond belief. Even my desire to look at things in a positive manner makes me an asshole. I am absolutely ignorant when it comes to the reality of most of the world. My best intentions are harmful; my desire to face things with an open heart is just veiled privilege. All of this makes me an ignorant asshole. Some might say that is harsh or whatever, but I find peace in looking at it this way. In another prompt, we are asked what we make of this quote by Lord Byron: "The great art of life is sen

The view through the windshield was nearly obscured by the falling snow. Thick flakes spun down to be pushed away by the force of the moving car, the wipers shoving the few that made it onto the glass aside. The headlights cut out a path maybe five feet in front of us, the rest was an inky darkness that hosted my imagination. Tigers, elephants, and tropical birds danced in the dark as my mind took a virtual tour of the many zoos I'd been to. We were playing 20 questions again, my father and I, and I'd yet to narrow down what animal he may have picked. "Does your animal have four legs?" I asked, and our game continued.My father and my daughter Thea, circa 2019. Most of my childhood memories feature my dad. We moved quite a bit, which led to me only having two semi-significant friends before my teen years. My siblings lived with my mother, and she did not reach out to contact me often. So, for many years my dad was my best bud. He taught me songs I've never heard anyone else sing, gifted me my adoration of all things nerdy, and taught me to look at the world from a place of love. We embarked on many philosophical and physical adventures together, spanning from exploring old canals to the concept of God. Although my dad has a very deep personal relationship with God as he understands him, his opinions on such things are often kept private. One day I outright asked my dad if God was real, and his response is one that symbolizes the sort of parent he is. "Well," he said before taking a pause, "What do you think?" He then patiently listened to my small mind's ideas on the matter, giving me space to form my own thoughts with him as a witness. He was like that a lot, choosing to only intervene in the formation of my world view when it involved something potent. To this end, my father has only really asked one thing from me in life. Be a good person. <img src="

Although my interest in history is pedestrian compared to many history buffs I've known in my life, I've always loved going to historic sites! Visiting Amman gave me an opportunity to physically stand in places I'd only ever read about in books, setting my own two eyes on structures and artifacts that are unfathomably old to me. The Amman Citadel is a location that blends various periods of time together, giving one a window into how this area changed as leadership and culture shifted. Considered one of the oldest continuously inhabited locations in the world, the area that we now call the Amman Citadel has passed through many hands, each leaving their own unique mark on the site. The most ancient fingerprint hails from sometime between 1650-1550 BCE; archeologists discovered a tomb that dates back to this period which held scarab seals and some pottery. The most "recent" addition to this site came well over 1000 years later between 661-750 AD. Most likely built on top of an existing Byzantine structure, The Umayyad palace can be seen from a distance here. Although it contains many Roman architectural stables, such as the entrance hall built in the shape of a cross, it also bears Persian influence. This makes the palace even more unique, as the stylistic choices that mark Persian structures are most commonly found many miles from here in modern day Iraq and Iran.

Are we all not connected in instincts, urges, and desires that easily meet the eye? And below the surface, do the pieces that make up each of us up not resemble one another endlessly, like fractals of the same resounding whole? One could make the case that we are all pieces of the same being, only finding separation in perspective. Much like the individual parts of the human body only seemingly operate independently, yet are tied to one another inseparably. Confessions of the Damaged 1.1 explores this idea, among many others, encouraging us to face ourselves through the perspective of another.Cover image created by @vincentnijman This lovely book was written by I+Everything AKA @selfhelp4trolls AKA @whatamidoing AKA Zack under the first moniker. With a passion for exploring the bonds we share as humans across culture and time, Zack has branched out in a variety of ways to connect folks with themselves and others. You can find him around the web highlighting this magic through his books, music, and podcast, which is called Untangled Knots. After meeting this longtime Hivian and friendly face on chain through his posts, I was excited to dive into the first part of Confessions of the Damaged! This is a read that will take you out of your body given the chance. I found myself noting the similarities between my own existence and the flow of the ocean, the bird that sits outside the window, the wind blowing the curtain back and forth... I found myself pulled into synchronicity with each detail that is not just me, but everyone I've met before. While traveling through the daily life of a homeless man, we experience his thoughts laced together with memories of the past in this volume. I thought on the phrase "homefree" as I read. Many have chosen to call those who live on the streets this instead of homeless, with the idea that it highlights their humanity better. Having been without a home by choice in the past, I've always lik