I collect turtles. I have collected them for quite a few years now, and have turtles from all over the world. Most of my turtles were gifts from that dearest kind of friend, an old friend who has seen me at my worst, [take my word for it, she has been at my side when I was in the hospital, and I am a bad patient,] and takes me at my best, no matter what may be happening in between. Whenever I see a turtle, I am reminded of her and I have to smile. Or giggle. Well, usually I laugh out loud.
The story of how I came to collect turtles is an amusing little tale, which begins about ten years ago, and involves some fun with my friend, whom I will call Sherry. [That might be her real name, or it might not. I am not usually one to change names to protect the innocent, to say nothing of the guilty. Which is where this story is going.]
Sherry is a true friend of the heart, who overlooks and underemphasizes the bad while building up the good until you don’t even recognize yourself. She is the kind of friend you can not talk to for four months because life just happens, and when you finally do talk, you pick up right where you left off, and spend six hours catching up and not even realize where the time has gone.
Anyway, a few years back, we were both exhausted moms of young and very busy children, like most of our mutual friends. One weekend, several of us decided to go on a "Mom's Weekend Out." We rented a condo in central Missouri, a couple of hours from home, and we planned a weekend of fun, shopping and eating our way into nirvana.
We left on Friday afternoon, and didn't get there until evening, so we didn't have a lot of time to do anything exciting that first night. We agreed to get up early the next morning and go to the outlet mall and do some shopping. It was a couple of months before Christmas, and we all had presents to get, so this was a fun way to get the job done. We went early, met up for a quick lunch, and then finally finished up in the late afternoon, when we were all dog tired, and just a little silly.
Well, to tell you the truth, we were a lot silly. I think we were off the edge of the cliff silly, in fact. We were giddy from the thrill of an entire weekend of not being responsible for anyone but ourselves - moms on a power trip and we weren’t out of gas yet.
We went to a small pizza joint for dinner, and while we sat there, we laughed and acted like a bunch of goofy teenagers. Although we were quieter. We do deserve credit for that, because we probably wouldn't get credit for much else that evening. We laughed until we cried, weak and stomachs aching, over everything and nothing. It was just one of the times when you are happy to be alive, and everything strikes you funny, and you giggle and laugh like little girls.
While we sat there, we observed people entering the shop. We weren't making critiques, and we weren't being rude, we were just noticing people because it wasn't a very busy place, and that gave us something else to comment on and giggle about. My back happened to be turned to the door, so I was not participating as fully as everyone else, which is probably just as well, anyway. Easier for me to control my mouth if I don't have material to work with. And let me just point out... no, never mind.
All of a sudden, someone mentioned a person coming in the door that was noteworthy. I don't really recall what the source of the excitement was, she was probably exceptionally pretty or something, but I do recall not being able to see over the high back of the booth bench I was seated on. I sat up straight from my slouching position, and still couldn't quite see. Then I slowly extended my rather giraffe-like neck to it's full length, trying not to be too noticeable. I didn't want to look like I was staring at the woman I was staring at. If you know what I mean. That would be rude, and I am never rude. Silly, maybe. Thoughtless occasionally. But never rude
Something you should know about Sherry is that when she is with close friends, she will occasionally blurt out what is on her mind before she really thinks it through, or considers how it will be heard on the receiving end. [ [I would be worried about putting that little bit of info out there on the world wide web, but she is usually the first one to point it out, generally right after having done it, so I don't think it's a secret. But just in case it was a secret, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.] This is actually one of Sherry’s endearing qualities, because she is very honest and real, and you never have to wonder what she is thinking inside.
Evidently, the situation with my neck was a little too much for Sherry to leave alone. She burst out laughing, and when she was able to gasp out the source of her mirth, she spluttered, "You looked just like a turtle!" Well. Everyone at the table quite naturally turned to examine my neck, which I retracted back inside my collar quite a bit faster than I had stuck it out. Which of course made her laugh even harder.
I thought it was hilarious, because I could see her point. As I mentioned, I have always thought of myself as more of a giraffe. I can almost see The Arch from here, my head sits so high on my neck. Obviously, this was too much of an opportunity for me to just let that comment pass, so I said, "Don’t you think that’s kind of… personal? I mean, I might be really sensitive about my giraffe neck.” I re-extended my neck a couple times, just for fun, and we laughed some more.
Sherry was mortified, of course, embarrassed because she hadn't meant it the way it sounded. Although, of course, she did mean it exactly as it came out, but not in an insulting way. I understood that, because like I said, we are old friends, and I knew what she meant. She wasn't laughing at me, she was laughing with me. Hm.
But I see her point. I’ve checked it out a couple times in a mirror since then, and I do look like a turtle coming out of my shell. Anyway, we all laughed, and then we moved on to other silly subjects, like playing Uno until 4 in the morning, and I think Monopoly might have come into the picture at some point. Well, Sherry thought we moved on, anyway. But I wasn't done with her yet.
For Christmas that year, which was a couple of months later, I got her the first turtle. I don’t remember what it was, something silly and inconsequential, I’m sure. It was meant to be a reminder of the fun time we had enjoyed together, and the laughter we had shared. Sherry was chagrined that of all things, that was what I would think of, although she surely wasn’t surprised. And once she got over her embarrassment, she gave as good as she got. The next gift I got from her was a turtle in return, and we have been doing it ever since.
I have given her turtles from all my travels, so she has turtles from Mexico and Asia, Hawaii and Minnesota. And she has done the same, so I have turtles from Paris and Prague, Colorado and Florida, and a whole lot of points in between. We have given tiny turtles in the form of necklaces and pins and earrings, and we have given knickknacks to sit on a shelf. We have exchanged garden turtles, and her daughter even has a stuffed turtle from when she was born that I couldn’t resist sending, because it was just so right.
Speaking of the kids, they have gotten in on the fun too. Wherever we go, our kids are always on the lookout for turtles. It’s become a game for them, something fun to watch for, and it’s even sort of educational. Turtles seem to be a part of the folklore of every culture, and wherever you go, you learn something about them when you ask if there are any turtles to be had.
I never see a turtle now that I don't think of Sherry and giggle over that throwaway moment so many years ago. But as insignificant as those moments are, they are also, to me, the moments in life to cherish - the moments when we are real, so much ourselves that we forget to be better than who we really are. And in revealing the real us, the us inside, we allow those deeper friendships to develop and grow.
Sherry's comparison of me to a turtle was more apropos than she probably realized, because I have spent my lifetime keeping my real self hidden away. I have always been afraid to let people in, to allow them to see the real me, because I have always had a sneaking suspicion that I am not quite good enough, not quite smart enough, just not quite enough, to be worth getting to know. My shell has always been more impenetrable than any turtle could ever dream of, and breaking through it has only been for the very determined.
Sherry has a special gift for people. She is not the turtle, hiding inside herself, afraid to let the world in. On the contrary, she has never known a stranger, because you can't remain unknown for long around her. You can leave her in the bread aisle for two minutes while you run to the frozen foods, and by the time you get back, a total stranger will be pouring her heart out when she thought she was just there to get hot dog buns. You meet her for lunch at the Barnes and Noble, and you will find her in the children's books, taking to heart the story of the woman she has known for all of ten minutes while she was waiting for me. Okay, I was late, as usual, but that is not the point.
And the things people tell her would surprise you. I have heard people tossing out relatively intimate details of their lives, especially about their children, on a 30 second acquaintanceship. This is an alien idea to me, spilling out my guts to a complete stranger I have known for five minutes and will never see again. I spent three years and I won't tell you how many thousands of dollars for the sort of counseling Sherry seems able to dispense in the supermarket parking lot. And I have a feeling it may be almost as effective, because when people say farewell to her, you can tell they are feeling a little better about themselves, and their load is little bit lighter.
I think society today is filled with turtles. The more we do, the less we connect. We are on call 24/7, we have constant access with cell phones, IM, texting and computers, we communicate incessantly with e-mail and have news at the touch of button. We know everything about everyone, and yet, it seems, we know very little about anyone. The suicide rate is climbing while the marriage rate is dropping. We hang out, but we don't go steady any more. We have lunch instead of dinner, because we don’t have time to sit down and talk awhile. We race around dropping our children at one activity after another, but never really connect with anyone while we are there. I fear we have substituted a shallow acquaintanceship for deeper, more meaningful relationships, because we don't have time or energy, or most likely, either one, to go any further. Despite the information overload, we never seem to find out what is important to anyone, even people we are close to. Maybe even ourselves.
My son writes an opinion column for his college newspaper. [He is a lot more talented than I am, thus he gets paid for what he writes. Sort of the ideal job for him, really. He is opinionated anyway, so now he just gets paid for bloviating about it.] Anyway, he noticed that they are no longer allowing comments after his column, and so he wanted to know if he was being singled out, or if they had just stopped allowing them generally. He is bummed to find that the public discussion has been curtailed, but I disagree.
I think the constant freedom to express has had a negative impact on life generally. People shoot off an e-mail without thinking about what they are saying, they IM or facebook a comment that gets taken out of context because it wasn’t thought through, they say whatever comes into their head without filtering the output, and overall, the world has gotten much more negative and less friendly. I think that might be partly why more people are hiding inside themselves, less interested in expressing an opinion in real time. It’s safer to hide behind fake screen names online where their cyber world is more real than the real world, because it is the only place left for them to be fully themselves.
Which brings me back to Sherry. [This post was not originally intended to be about Sherry, but it seems to be writing itself that way. So I’m going to go with that, because she is a fun topic for me.] She has a very rare gift, one which brings the turtles out of their shells. As a turtle, I admire that quality, that ability to draw out others, to make them feel valued and worthy and important, whether it's for two minutes or two hours of her time.
What is it that allows Sherry to connect with people as she does? What makes total strangers open up to her after 30 seconds and tell her things they probably don’t tell their best friends or even their spouse? My answer, after many years of observation, is that Sherry listens with her heart. She not only pays attention, she asks questions that show she is genuinely interested, and she really cares. She doesn’t leave you hanging there, unsatisfied and empty, she takes the journey with you, and let’s you know, whether its for two minutes or two hours, that you matter to her, and she wants you to know you are not alone.
While I am a turtle, Sherry is the hare. That’s not to say she’s flighty. The analogy actually works out pretty well, because she used to be a runner, and she is always going in four directions at once. Which equals the number of kids she has, which explains why she lives in her van most of the time.
In the fable, the hare loses the race, while the steady tortoise crosses the finish line first because he keeps his eye on the prize, and gets there slow but steady. I’m not so sure it works that way in real life. I think often the tortoise gets run over because they don’t see the car coming, while the hare is the real winner, because they enjoy the beauty of the journey. Although the hare gets distracted by the minutiae of life, they also find the joy in the present that so many of us lack, and they share it with everyone around them.
There is an old quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” For the hare, it is all about the journey, and I think they have the right idea. Just because they don’t cross the finish line first doesn’t mean they don’t finish. They just do it in their own way, in their own time, and they do it with a crowd of happy followers who are coming along with them for the ride.
As for me, I am all too happy to stay inside my shell and hide from the world. It's an easy and familiar place, and I am not out of my element to stay there. That is where friends like Sherry come in. If I am slow, if I am afraid, when I go inside my shell, sometimes she will pick me up and shake me until my head falls out. Other times, when I am in need of comfort and care, she doesn't force me to hurry along. Then she will pick me up and carry me with her, so we can cross the finish line together. And we are guaranteed to have some laughs along the way.
I think the world needs more hares.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
On broken lamps....
Modern life is very complex. We talk endlessly about how difficult and complicated our lives have become. Everything has changed, we pontificate, and the old rules just don't apply any longer.
In my own life, I find that is simply not true. I think life is actually pretty simple, and the rules that I live by are easy to follow and to put into practice. Well, maybe not easy, but certainly clear cut. Common sense and decency, along with basic courtesy, are always in order. And for when I get confused, here are my three rules.
First, if it won't matter in six weeks, then it isn't worth fighting about now. You can choose any time frame, six weeks, six months, six minutes - it really doesn't matter. The point is to clarify how important something is to you. Not important generally, because that is something different again, but important to you, personally. In my own line of thinking, if I won't care in six weeks, which is long enough to be sure it will have some kind of lasting impact on my life, but not so long that nothing applies, then it's just not worth it to me to fight about.
Try it. You will find that so little really matters when put into the context of a lifetime. Someone cuts you off on the freeway? It is unlikely to matter even when you reach your destination twenty seconds later than you otherwise would have. A clerk was rude to you? You will likely forget before you even leave the store. Your spouse or child or best friend said something stupid and thoughtless to you? Let them apologize and then move on. Because fighting all the small battles will exhaust you, and leave you with nothing to fight the battles that really matter.
I have been called a doormat, and told that I need to stop allowing people to walk all over me. I have been told to get a backbone, and to stand up for myself. But I have noticed over the years that people who are accorded those qualities of assertiveness are not necessarily happy. While they may frequently get their way, they aren't necessarily blessed with a lot of old friends. They often seem, at least to me, to be lonely inside, with fractious relationships that tend toward the shallow end, and with a constant churn of people.
I am always suspicious of people who want to be my new best friend, especially when I have known them only briefly. They often seem to be the very assertive people I am not. And the point that people often miss, when they think they are showing me my flaws, is that I am blessed with more old friends than a person has a right to have. And I have the things that are most important to me in my life, the things without which I could not be content.
I think, in great part, that is the proof that proves the theorem. When you are a good friend, when you choose your battles wisely, when you overlook the small stuff, you find yourself on the receiving end of the same courtesies. And since I know the log in my own eye is bigger than the speck found elsewhere, I don't feel compelled to wield anything larger than a tweezers.
My second rule is even simpler. If you would be embarrassed to have your mother or your children know about it, then it's probably the wrong thing to do. I have repeated this to my children over and over again, and I hope it has been drummed into their heads so that they will never be able to make a decision without a fleeting thought as to how it would be perceived by those closest to them.
Sometimes big decisions are hard. You want to go two ways, and you just can't figure out which direction is best. Or, more likely, you know deep down what is right, but you really don't want to go that way. You want the fun road, or the easy road, or the less complicated road. But it is very important to remember that sooner or later, everything comes out. People find out; even your deepest secrets somehow become known. Even if you aren't a celebrity, our private lives are pretty public these days, because the internet and the 24/7 news cycle have created a culture of avaricious vultures who need to know everything all the time. Reality television has taught us that no question is off limits, nothing is too personal, and the celebrity of the minute may be us.
If you really believe that your past won't catch up to you, you are either ignorant or willfully stupid. The permanent record we worried about in elementary school has become an unfortunate reality, and facebook will be there to haunt our younger generation for the rest of their lives. We can google ourselves and each other, and suddenly, most of what we thought was private is publicly and unhappily known, often for the amusement and entertainment of total strangers.
So, if you would be ashamed to know that your children will see it, hear it, or read it on the internet, if you are afraid that your mother will google your name and find out, then you are on the wrong track, and you need to find a map. Possibly a whole new road. Maybe move to a different state. But just remember, the internet is everywhere, and your past can become the present at any moment. Just ask the politicians currently running for office.
Socrates talked about the unexamined life not being worth living, but this is ridiculous. He wasn't talking about the world, he was talking about ourselves. Which is the other point of this rule. Even if no one ever knows, you will know, and that is enough.
I recently read about a study that asked people if they knew, absolutely, no one would ever find out, would they engage in a variety of mostly illegal activities? The results were scary, because there were too many people who answered they would even commit murder, if they knew for sure they would get away with it. Of course, people do take that risk every day, but you would like to think most people wouldn't, no matter what. For me that is the heart of this rule. It really doesn't matter if my mother or my children ever find out. If I do something wrong, I'll know, and that's all I need to know.
My third rule is not about myself, it is about dealing with others. We are in relationship with many people, in all the different facets of our lives; family, friends, neighbors, work, volunteering, school - wherever we go in our lives, we have relationships. Some of those relationships are easy, some of them are tricky, and a few of them are just outright difficult. But in all of them, you will become irritated, aggravated, annoyed, frustrated, unhappy, and angry at some point. That is when my final rule comes into play, and it is the most difficult for me, by far.
You can always say it later, but you can't ever unsay something once it's said. There are no take-backs in real life. Once the wound has been opened, it will always be there, and there will always be a scar.
I used to give my kids an analogy when they made a hurtful or wrong-headed decision: life is like a lamp, and if you break it, it will be forever broken. You may be able to repair it, you may even be able to pick up the shattered pieces and glue it back together. You might be able to get a new shade, or to paint over it. You can say you are sorry for breaking the lamp, and that's a good thing, because you should be sorry. But no matter how much you regret or wish it hadn't happened, that lamp will never again be whole, perfect, without flaw.
Words are like that, too. Once you say them, you own them forever. Whether you use them for better or for worse, they are yours, and you will have to live with them. For someone who is naturally sarcastic and cynical - someone like me, in other words - the temptation is often overwhelming to just say what comes into my head. As an adult, I have learned to filter those thoughts, not only to spare the feelings of the people I care about, but also for my own self-preservation. While I may laugh inside myself at my witty ripostes, I know that I need to temper them with kindness and caring, not only because I don't even mean it most of the time, but because if I want to have anyone else in my world, it's a requirement.
It is somewhat entertaining to see my children take on some of those same characteristics, because I will occasionally hear them say what I am thinking. Although I may wish they hadn't said it, and there are often consequences, [it is a learning process, for sure,] I will still giggle, and wish I didn't have the requirement to filter my own thoughts from public view.
But we only need to violate that requirement a few times to understand the power we wield with the words we choose. To see a crushed face, when you have served up sarcasm instead of support, resentment instead of respect, ignorance instead of inspiration, is a truly horrifying feeling. To know, the very moment the words are out of your mouth, that you have said the wrong thing, and to wish you could take it back, but you cannot do it, is the most helpless feeling in the world. This is disappointment or injury to the very soul, and not only was it preventable, it is entirely without recourse. You have broken the lamp, and you can't ever make it whole again.
No matter how complicated your life may be, and most people lead far more complicated lives than me, I would encourage you to think about the rules that direct your decisions, and to decide if they are helpful or hurtful for your own life. Be honest with yourself. Are you the person you want to be? Is your family proud of your branch on the tree? It is never too late to try harder, to make changes, to begin anew. You may not be able to start over, but you always have the choice to be a better person from this moment forward.
Here is wishing you a life of unbroken lamps.
In my own life, I find that is simply not true. I think life is actually pretty simple, and the rules that I live by are easy to follow and to put into practice. Well, maybe not easy, but certainly clear cut. Common sense and decency, along with basic courtesy, are always in order. And for when I get confused, here are my three rules.
First, if it won't matter in six weeks, then it isn't worth fighting about now. You can choose any time frame, six weeks, six months, six minutes - it really doesn't matter. The point is to clarify how important something is to you. Not important generally, because that is something different again, but important to you, personally. In my own line of thinking, if I won't care in six weeks, which is long enough to be sure it will have some kind of lasting impact on my life, but not so long that nothing applies, then it's just not worth it to me to fight about.
Try it. You will find that so little really matters when put into the context of a lifetime. Someone cuts you off on the freeway? It is unlikely to matter even when you reach your destination twenty seconds later than you otherwise would have. A clerk was rude to you? You will likely forget before you even leave the store. Your spouse or child or best friend said something stupid and thoughtless to you? Let them apologize and then move on. Because fighting all the small battles will exhaust you, and leave you with nothing to fight the battles that really matter.
I have been called a doormat, and told that I need to stop allowing people to walk all over me. I have been told to get a backbone, and to stand up for myself. But I have noticed over the years that people who are accorded those qualities of assertiveness are not necessarily happy. While they may frequently get their way, they aren't necessarily blessed with a lot of old friends. They often seem, at least to me, to be lonely inside, with fractious relationships that tend toward the shallow end, and with a constant churn of people.
I am always suspicious of people who want to be my new best friend, especially when I have known them only briefly. They often seem to be the very assertive people I am not. And the point that people often miss, when they think they are showing me my flaws, is that I am blessed with more old friends than a person has a right to have. And I have the things that are most important to me in my life, the things without which I could not be content.
I think, in great part, that is the proof that proves the theorem. When you are a good friend, when you choose your battles wisely, when you overlook the small stuff, you find yourself on the receiving end of the same courtesies. And since I know the log in my own eye is bigger than the speck found elsewhere, I don't feel compelled to wield anything larger than a tweezers.
My second rule is even simpler. If you would be embarrassed to have your mother or your children know about it, then it's probably the wrong thing to do. I have repeated this to my children over and over again, and I hope it has been drummed into their heads so that they will never be able to make a decision without a fleeting thought as to how it would be perceived by those closest to them.
Sometimes big decisions are hard. You want to go two ways, and you just can't figure out which direction is best. Or, more likely, you know deep down what is right, but you really don't want to go that way. You want the fun road, or the easy road, or the less complicated road. But it is very important to remember that sooner or later, everything comes out. People find out; even your deepest secrets somehow become known. Even if you aren't a celebrity, our private lives are pretty public these days, because the internet and the 24/7 news cycle have created a culture of avaricious vultures who need to know everything all the time. Reality television has taught us that no question is off limits, nothing is too personal, and the celebrity of the minute may be us.
If you really believe that your past won't catch up to you, you are either ignorant or willfully stupid. The permanent record we worried about in elementary school has become an unfortunate reality, and facebook will be there to haunt our younger generation for the rest of their lives. We can google ourselves and each other, and suddenly, most of what we thought was private is publicly and unhappily known, often for the amusement and entertainment of total strangers.
So, if you would be ashamed to know that your children will see it, hear it, or read it on the internet, if you are afraid that your mother will google your name and find out, then you are on the wrong track, and you need to find a map. Possibly a whole new road. Maybe move to a different state. But just remember, the internet is everywhere, and your past can become the present at any moment. Just ask the politicians currently running for office.
Socrates talked about the unexamined life not being worth living, but this is ridiculous. He wasn't talking about the world, he was talking about ourselves. Which is the other point of this rule. Even if no one ever knows, you will know, and that is enough.
I recently read about a study that asked people if they knew, absolutely, no one would ever find out, would they engage in a variety of mostly illegal activities? The results were scary, because there were too many people who answered they would even commit murder, if they knew for sure they would get away with it. Of course, people do take that risk every day, but you would like to think most people wouldn't, no matter what. For me that is the heart of this rule. It really doesn't matter if my mother or my children ever find out. If I do something wrong, I'll know, and that's all I need to know.
My third rule is not about myself, it is about dealing with others. We are in relationship with many people, in all the different facets of our lives; family, friends, neighbors, work, volunteering, school - wherever we go in our lives, we have relationships. Some of those relationships are easy, some of them are tricky, and a few of them are just outright difficult. But in all of them, you will become irritated, aggravated, annoyed, frustrated, unhappy, and angry at some point. That is when my final rule comes into play, and it is the most difficult for me, by far.
You can always say it later, but you can't ever unsay something once it's said. There are no take-backs in real life. Once the wound has been opened, it will always be there, and there will always be a scar.
I used to give my kids an analogy when they made a hurtful or wrong-headed decision: life is like a lamp, and if you break it, it will be forever broken. You may be able to repair it, you may even be able to pick up the shattered pieces and glue it back together. You might be able to get a new shade, or to paint over it. You can say you are sorry for breaking the lamp, and that's a good thing, because you should be sorry. But no matter how much you regret or wish it hadn't happened, that lamp will never again be whole, perfect, without flaw.
Words are like that, too. Once you say them, you own them forever. Whether you use them for better or for worse, they are yours, and you will have to live with them. For someone who is naturally sarcastic and cynical - someone like me, in other words - the temptation is often overwhelming to just say what comes into my head. As an adult, I have learned to filter those thoughts, not only to spare the feelings of the people I care about, but also for my own self-preservation. While I may laugh inside myself at my witty ripostes, I know that I need to temper them with kindness and caring, not only because I don't even mean it most of the time, but because if I want to have anyone else in my world, it's a requirement.
It is somewhat entertaining to see my children take on some of those same characteristics, because I will occasionally hear them say what I am thinking. Although I may wish they hadn't said it, and there are often consequences, [it is a learning process, for sure,] I will still giggle, and wish I didn't have the requirement to filter my own thoughts from public view.
But we only need to violate that requirement a few times to understand the power we wield with the words we choose. To see a crushed face, when you have served up sarcasm instead of support, resentment instead of respect, ignorance instead of inspiration, is a truly horrifying feeling. To know, the very moment the words are out of your mouth, that you have said the wrong thing, and to wish you could take it back, but you cannot do it, is the most helpless feeling in the world. This is disappointment or injury to the very soul, and not only was it preventable, it is entirely without recourse. You have broken the lamp, and you can't ever make it whole again.
No matter how complicated your life may be, and most people lead far more complicated lives than me, I would encourage you to think about the rules that direct your decisions, and to decide if they are helpful or hurtful for your own life. Be honest with yourself. Are you the person you want to be? Is your family proud of your branch on the tree? It is never too late to try harder, to make changes, to begin anew. You may not be able to start over, but you always have the choice to be a better person from this moment forward.
Here is wishing you a life of unbroken lamps.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Happy birthday to me....
I am officially approaching middle age. September 16 is my birthday, and on this day in 2008 I am turning 48. That seems pretty ridiculous to me. Didn't I just graduate from college? I still haven't figured out what I'm going to be when I grow up. I have no idea how on earth I can possibly be 48. But it seems I am, so I guess I will celebrate that I am having a birthday at all.
Because I probably shouldn't be celebrating my birthday, truth be told. I have had some close brushes, genuinely too close for comfort, with death in my life. I will spare you the details, but I have not allowed my nearest and dearest to get too comfortable with the idea that I will be around forever. I don't really enjoy the excitement of a life threatening crisis myself, but I do enjoy the flowers that accompany it. How about we skip the hospital and just send flowers? Alstromeria are my favorites, and purple is my favorite color. Just in case you were wanting to know.
On this birthday, I find myself looking back on my life more than I have in awhile, I guess in part because for the first time in many years, I am not severely clinically depressed. I realize that I am more or less at the halfway point of my expected life, a little beyond, really, and I think a review of my life is a good way to inventory where I find myself. I think you have to know where you've been, and where you are, in order to determine where you hope to be in your future. Now that I am not depressed, I think a good hard examination is probably in order.
At the age of 48, popular culture leads me to believe that the best is behind me, and I am now on the downhill slope of my life, with very little to look forward to. Even the Hollywood elite who are my age look 30 years younger than me, which is sort of a wonder, really. After spending their days starving themselves and working out and enduring surgery in the endless quest to look 21, I'm not sure why you would want to bother. After all that, I'd need to call it day, because I'd be too tired for the red carpet, anyway.
When did we get so hung up on being young, I wonder? It wasn't all that memorable of a time in my life, and I suspect the same is true for most people.
So why do people want to remain stuck in youth, instead of moving into the richness of the fall of our lives? I am not going to fight it, I am going to move forward into it with anticipation and savor the beauty and the joy that I know will be found just ahead.
I think a lot of people consider that fall is a depressing season, because the trees lose their leaves, and the grass goes brown, and we all begin to prepare for the long winter ahead.
But for me, fall has always been my favorite season. I see it as a turning point, the moment of anticipation, when the very best part of the year is just ahead, and the days will be filled with joy and song and laughter and surprises. The trees lose their leaves, it's true, but not before showing us their greatest beauty, when they turn glorious colors and show us their previously hidden splendor. Harvest is upon us, and instead of the green fields filled with promise, we now have the reality of the crops and the fruits of the labor of so many farmers which have been tantalizing us for so long.
True appreciation is rooted in the full experience. My life journey has taken some unexpected twists, and I think it is worth reviewing, to help set the framework for the future.
I was born in 1960, a Baby Boomer by cohort, but not by nature. I must add that Hugh Grant was also born that year on September 9, which gives us at least one thing in common. [My predilection for bad boys obviously continues, even for the crush from afar.]
Like many born in the early 60's, I have little in common with my older brethren in the Boomer crowd that preceded me, being more like the Generation X'ers who followed. Ironically, although they grew up to chanting slogans about flower power and making love, not war, I would characterize the Boomer generation as angry, filled with angst, and perhaps even self-loathing, in some ways. Their generational heroes sang about the joys of free sex and drugs, and in sync with their "Me Generation" moniker, it seems most of their time was spent escaping from the cozy cocoon their giddy parents had created for them.
As a generation, they were larger than any cohort in history, and as they matured, they have changed every phase of life with them. They were a tough act to follow, and I think, since the oldest Boomers were already approaching adulthood by the time we younger Boomer Lites came along, we have both suffered for and benefited from their leadership.
They continue to believe that the world revolves around them, and they bring that confidence to the table in every aspect of life. They solve problems we need to face, and force solutions where there is little will. Social Security will get revamped, not because there is will in Washington, but because there are simply too many Boomers to go on avoiding it. They will demand advances in everything from single travel to geriatric care, single serving frozen food to the cure for Alzheimer's, because they continue to demand it, and because they are too numerous to ignore. They will change everything, as they always have, because they are them.
We Boomer Lites, arrived into a slightly different version of the world. While our older siblings had "Leave It To Beaver" and Howdy Doody and the Beatles, and sit-in was not yet part of the vernacular, we Boomer Lites lived in a world that had soured from anger.
My early years were a time of war protests and marches, psychedelic flowers and psychedelic people. Our parents drove large cars, so our older siblings drove Bugs. We saw the generation gap up close and personal, and Vietnam was not an exotic travel destination but the name of a conflict that was rending the fabric of our society. We drank formula and watched black and white televisions where "Father Knew Best," while hiding from The Bomb under our school desks. We saw a president assassinated, and civil rights jumped from the pages of "To Kill a Mockingbird" to a violent reality. But as the 60's passed into the 70's, the world was a better place, the war was slowly coming to an end, and elephant pants took the place of fringe and mini skirts.
The 70's were a cultural phenomenon I would really rather skip over. I don't think there is anything good to say about platform shoes and dancing to the Bee Gee's, much as I loved their sound back then. I actually did dance to disco [yes, that is as embarrassing as it sounds,] and we watched the President resign in Technicolor. I had long hair, big glasses, and was, quite simply, the most awkward human being on earth.
My own views of the 70's are distorted from being seen through the lens of grief, and I spent my teenaged years angry and resentful at a world that was not fair. [Someday I will write a post about the stupid things people say to kids at funerals.] The less said about Watergate the better, and President Nixon's salute from the top of his airplane stairs is something I would rather not remember. Along with the rest of the country, I made some poor decisions, and probably some good ones, although the bad ones stand out more in my mind, of course.
I graduated from high school in 1978, which, if you are counting, is an astounding 30 years ago. It was a big year for happenings, and I don't mean my commencement from Kenyon High School and into the world of a college student.
Jimmy Carter was president, and his main positive legacy, the Camp David Accords, were signed, garnering the Nobel Peace Prize for Sadat and Begin later in the year. Cardinal Karol Wojtilya was elected to the papacy, and became Pope John Paul II. Pete Rose got his 3,000th hit back when baseball was still America's game. Jim Jones perpetrated his mass suicide in Jonestown, giving birth to the slang use of the term "drink the kool-aid" to denote those who follow someone mindlessly.
The 1980's were the best of times and the worst of times, both for us as a country, and for me personally. I got married, which should have been a good thing, and I had my son, Adam, which turned out to be the best thing about the entire decade.
Reagan was President, and sold his version of hope to the American public, who were desperate to believe in something again after too many dark years. Reagan was a genuine breath of fresh air after the hapless Carter walked out of the Oval Office and into the humanitarian work he has done so much more effectively. Reagan brought a new enthusiasm to his believers, and it seemed like a new world order had begun. Something that ultimately proved true, as the Berlin Wall came crashing down, and the Cold War came to its ignominious end. At least for now.
The Challenger blew apart, but didn't dampen our enthusiasm or stifle our spirit. I graduated from college and graduate school, sort of, and I went out into the world of work and faced my first battle with unemployment, as it was a buyer's market when I came of age in 1982, and writers were not in high demand. My family moved several times, we went through some tough life crises, but in the end, we landed in Kansas City, and it turned out to be good.
The 1990's, when I was in my 30's, were great years for me. I was a happy and productive at-home mom. My beautiful Erin came into my life to keep me on my toes, and financially, we were finally somewhat secure. It was unarguably a decade of wealth and global expansion, and the country was prosperous and respected throughout the world. George HW Bush prosecuted the first Iraq war as successfully as it could have been done. Political change was felt throughout the world, and Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa. Climate change was becoming a popular issue, and the Kyoto Protocol was adopted by the UN. The World Trade Center was bombed for the first time, shaking the financial markets, and giving notice of grim things to come, and the fear of the Y2K bug had the entire world in an uproar. Looking back, that Y2K bug seems almost quaint, doesn't it?
The turn of the century, that once in a millennial event, marked my entrance to middle age, as well. I do hope that New Year's Eve won't be an omen for the rest of the century, because it was not a good one for me, and so far, it has been a pretty accurate indicator of my life to come. The 2000's have been a rough ride, and I am ready for the next decade any time.
I have seen my son graduate from high school, the Millennials are on the loose, [and if anyone wants my opinion, they are a great generation, and will be just what this country needs,] and I have gone through divorce. I have confronted and dealt with severe chronic depression, and I defeated a life threatening illness. I have a good friend who calls women in the position in life that I enjoyed before my divorce as "independently wealthy single parents" which was about right, and then I became a genuinely single parent, and found out how much harder it is. I have faced unemployment and the frustration of having a skill no one wants, a degree no one cares about, and a rapidly dwindling bank account that has gone from making me nervous to keeping me up at night. It is rumored that into every life some rain must fall, but this hurricane can be over any time now. Could someone at least throw me an umbrella?
Looking back, I was living a fairy tale, but I'm not sorry I had the chance, even though the castle wasn't real. Although I wish I had saved more and spent less, worked part time or gone to school, done something with my life that would have translated into a better opportunity now to support my family when I really need to, I can't be sorry for the choices I made.
The end result is two wonderful children who will be good and productive citizens when they are grown and out of college, which in the case of at least one of them had better be soon. I have the best of relationships with my kids, part mom and part friend, and I feel like they both want me in their lives as much as I want them in mine. I have had the satisfaction of helping a lot of other children along the way, as I served as their room mom, classroom helper, field trip chaperone, and open house sponsor. I have tried a variety of occupations, started my own company and been able to enjoy everything that goes with that, and dealt with making the decisions that direct my own life. I have done my best, over the last few difficult years, to face my troubles with humor and faith and hope for the future, and carried the burdens as lightly as I could.
So now that I have assessed the past, I want to set my course for the future. I can't change the present, at least not all at once, but I want to know that I have a future to look ahead and work toward. What do I really want to be when I grow up? I have come full circle, it seems, and I want to be what I have always been. I want to be the writer, the storyteller, the humorist. I want to educate, elucidate, inspire and uplift. I want to know that I have used the one power I truly possess for the best, and brought joy and comfort and motivation to others. I want to finish my fractured fairy tale, and write my parenting book. I want to finish my auto-biography, I want to write that Bible study I've been planning. I want to take the ideas that have come tumbling from my soul and pour them out into words to share with others.
I am looking forward to the next year, because I have hope for my future, and I believe that God has something good planned for me. And I will make my one year goal: I will meet you back here one year from today with my fractured fairy tale in hand, ready to submit to a publisher. And when I am a fabulously successful author, I will remember you, because you made it possible.
Happy birthday to me!
Because I probably shouldn't be celebrating my birthday, truth be told. I have had some close brushes, genuinely too close for comfort, with death in my life. I will spare you the details, but I have not allowed my nearest and dearest to get too comfortable with the idea that I will be around forever. I don't really enjoy the excitement of a life threatening crisis myself, but I do enjoy the flowers that accompany it. How about we skip the hospital and just send flowers? Alstromeria are my favorites, and purple is my favorite color. Just in case you were wanting to know.
On this birthday, I find myself looking back on my life more than I have in awhile, I guess in part because for the first time in many years, I am not severely clinically depressed. I realize that I am more or less at the halfway point of my expected life, a little beyond, really, and I think a review of my life is a good way to inventory where I find myself. I think you have to know where you've been, and where you are, in order to determine where you hope to be in your future. Now that I am not depressed, I think a good hard examination is probably in order.
At the age of 48, popular culture leads me to believe that the best is behind me, and I am now on the downhill slope of my life, with very little to look forward to. Even the Hollywood elite who are my age look 30 years younger than me, which is sort of a wonder, really. After spending their days starving themselves and working out and enduring surgery in the endless quest to look 21, I'm not sure why you would want to bother. After all that, I'd need to call it day, because I'd be too tired for the red carpet, anyway.
When did we get so hung up on being young, I wonder? It wasn't all that memorable of a time in my life, and I suspect the same is true for most people.
So why do people want to remain stuck in youth, instead of moving into the richness of the fall of our lives? I am not going to fight it, I am going to move forward into it with anticipation and savor the beauty and the joy that I know will be found just ahead.
I think a lot of people consider that fall is a depressing season, because the trees lose their leaves, and the grass goes brown, and we all begin to prepare for the long winter ahead.
But for me, fall has always been my favorite season. I see it as a turning point, the moment of anticipation, when the very best part of the year is just ahead, and the days will be filled with joy and song and laughter and surprises. The trees lose their leaves, it's true, but not before showing us their greatest beauty, when they turn glorious colors and show us their previously hidden splendor. Harvest is upon us, and instead of the green fields filled with promise, we now have the reality of the crops and the fruits of the labor of so many farmers which have been tantalizing us for so long.
True appreciation is rooted in the full experience. My life journey has taken some unexpected twists, and I think it is worth reviewing, to help set the framework for the future.
I was born in 1960, a Baby Boomer by cohort, but not by nature. I must add that Hugh Grant was also born that year on September 9, which gives us at least one thing in common. [My predilection for bad boys obviously continues, even for the crush from afar.]
Like many born in the early 60's, I have little in common with my older brethren in the Boomer crowd that preceded me, being more like the Generation X'ers who followed. Ironically, although they grew up to chanting slogans about flower power and making love, not war, I would characterize the Boomer generation as angry, filled with angst, and perhaps even self-loathing, in some ways. Their generational heroes sang about the joys of free sex and drugs, and in sync with their "Me Generation" moniker, it seems most of their time was spent escaping from the cozy cocoon their giddy parents had created for them.
As a generation, they were larger than any cohort in history, and as they matured, they have changed every phase of life with them. They were a tough act to follow, and I think, since the oldest Boomers were already approaching adulthood by the time we younger Boomer Lites came along, we have both suffered for and benefited from their leadership.
They continue to believe that the world revolves around them, and they bring that confidence to the table in every aspect of life. They solve problems we need to face, and force solutions where there is little will. Social Security will get revamped, not because there is will in Washington, but because there are simply too many Boomers to go on avoiding it. They will demand advances in everything from single travel to geriatric care, single serving frozen food to the cure for Alzheimer's, because they continue to demand it, and because they are too numerous to ignore. They will change everything, as they always have, because they are them.
We Boomer Lites, arrived into a slightly different version of the world. While our older siblings had "Leave It To Beaver" and Howdy Doody and the Beatles, and sit-in was not yet part of the vernacular, we Boomer Lites lived in a world that had soured from anger.
My early years were a time of war protests and marches, psychedelic flowers and psychedelic people. Our parents drove large cars, so our older siblings drove Bugs. We saw the generation gap up close and personal, and Vietnam was not an exotic travel destination but the name of a conflict that was rending the fabric of our society. We drank formula and watched black and white televisions where "Father Knew Best," while hiding from The Bomb under our school desks. We saw a president assassinated, and civil rights jumped from the pages of "To Kill a Mockingbird" to a violent reality. But as the 60's passed into the 70's, the world was a better place, the war was slowly coming to an end, and elephant pants took the place of fringe and mini skirts.
The 70's were a cultural phenomenon I would really rather skip over. I don't think there is anything good to say about platform shoes and dancing to the Bee Gee's, much as I loved their sound back then. I actually did dance to disco [yes, that is as embarrassing as it sounds,] and we watched the President resign in Technicolor. I had long hair, big glasses, and was, quite simply, the most awkward human being on earth.
My own views of the 70's are distorted from being seen through the lens of grief, and I spent my teenaged years angry and resentful at a world that was not fair. [Someday I will write a post about the stupid things people say to kids at funerals.] The less said about Watergate the better, and President Nixon's salute from the top of his airplane stairs is something I would rather not remember. Along with the rest of the country, I made some poor decisions, and probably some good ones, although the bad ones stand out more in my mind, of course.
I graduated from high school in 1978, which, if you are counting, is an astounding 30 years ago. It was a big year for happenings, and I don't mean my commencement from Kenyon High School and into the world of a college student.
Jimmy Carter was president, and his main positive legacy, the Camp David Accords, were signed, garnering the Nobel Peace Prize for Sadat and Begin later in the year. Cardinal Karol Wojtilya was elected to the papacy, and became Pope John Paul II. Pete Rose got his 3,000th hit back when baseball was still America's game. Jim Jones perpetrated his mass suicide in Jonestown, giving birth to the slang use of the term "drink the kool-aid" to denote those who follow someone mindlessly.
The 1980's were the best of times and the worst of times, both for us as a country, and for me personally. I got married, which should have been a good thing, and I had my son, Adam, which turned out to be the best thing about the entire decade.
Reagan was President, and sold his version of hope to the American public, who were desperate to believe in something again after too many dark years. Reagan was a genuine breath of fresh air after the hapless Carter walked out of the Oval Office and into the humanitarian work he has done so much more effectively. Reagan brought a new enthusiasm to his believers, and it seemed like a new world order had begun. Something that ultimately proved true, as the Berlin Wall came crashing down, and the Cold War came to its ignominious end. At least for now.
The Challenger blew apart, but didn't dampen our enthusiasm or stifle our spirit. I graduated from college and graduate school, sort of, and I went out into the world of work and faced my first battle with unemployment, as it was a buyer's market when I came of age in 1982, and writers were not in high demand. My family moved several times, we went through some tough life crises, but in the end, we landed in Kansas City, and it turned out to be good.
The 1990's, when I was in my 30's, were great years for me. I was a happy and productive at-home mom. My beautiful Erin came into my life to keep me on my toes, and financially, we were finally somewhat secure. It was unarguably a decade of wealth and global expansion, and the country was prosperous and respected throughout the world. George HW Bush prosecuted the first Iraq war as successfully as it could have been done. Political change was felt throughout the world, and Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa. Climate change was becoming a popular issue, and the Kyoto Protocol was adopted by the UN. The World Trade Center was bombed for the first time, shaking the financial markets, and giving notice of grim things to come, and the fear of the Y2K bug had the entire world in an uproar. Looking back, that Y2K bug seems almost quaint, doesn't it?
The turn of the century, that once in a millennial event, marked my entrance to middle age, as well. I do hope that New Year's Eve won't be an omen for the rest of the century, because it was not a good one for me, and so far, it has been a pretty accurate indicator of my life to come. The 2000's have been a rough ride, and I am ready for the next decade any time.
I have seen my son graduate from high school, the Millennials are on the loose, [and if anyone wants my opinion, they are a great generation, and will be just what this country needs,] and I have gone through divorce. I have confronted and dealt with severe chronic depression, and I defeated a life threatening illness. I have a good friend who calls women in the position in life that I enjoyed before my divorce as "independently wealthy single parents" which was about right, and then I became a genuinely single parent, and found out how much harder it is. I have faced unemployment and the frustration of having a skill no one wants, a degree no one cares about, and a rapidly dwindling bank account that has gone from making me nervous to keeping me up at night. It is rumored that into every life some rain must fall, but this hurricane can be over any time now. Could someone at least throw me an umbrella?
Looking back, I was living a fairy tale, but I'm not sorry I had the chance, even though the castle wasn't real. Although I wish I had saved more and spent less, worked part time or gone to school, done something with my life that would have translated into a better opportunity now to support my family when I really need to, I can't be sorry for the choices I made.
The end result is two wonderful children who will be good and productive citizens when they are grown and out of college, which in the case of at least one of them had better be soon. I have the best of relationships with my kids, part mom and part friend, and I feel like they both want me in their lives as much as I want them in mine. I have had the satisfaction of helping a lot of other children along the way, as I served as their room mom, classroom helper, field trip chaperone, and open house sponsor. I have tried a variety of occupations, started my own company and been able to enjoy everything that goes with that, and dealt with making the decisions that direct my own life. I have done my best, over the last few difficult years, to face my troubles with humor and faith and hope for the future, and carried the burdens as lightly as I could.
So now that I have assessed the past, I want to set my course for the future. I can't change the present, at least not all at once, but I want to know that I have a future to look ahead and work toward. What do I really want to be when I grow up? I have come full circle, it seems, and I want to be what I have always been. I want to be the writer, the storyteller, the humorist. I want to educate, elucidate, inspire and uplift. I want to know that I have used the one power I truly possess for the best, and brought joy and comfort and motivation to others. I want to finish my fractured fairy tale, and write my parenting book. I want to finish my auto-biography, I want to write that Bible study I've been planning. I want to take the ideas that have come tumbling from my soul and pour them out into words to share with others.
I am looking forward to the next year, because I have hope for my future, and I believe that God has something good planned for me. And I will make my one year goal: I will meet you back here one year from today with my fractured fairy tale in hand, ready to submit to a publisher. And when I am a fabulously successful author, I will remember you, because you made it possible.
Happy birthday to me!
Monday, September 15, 2008
An unwritten promise....
One of the reasons I started this blog was to instill in myself a more disciplined approach to writing than I have employed in the past. Although I have been writing all my life, starting with my first story when I was about six, I have never taken a serious, controlled - in short, disciplined - approach to it. A real writer, one who writes for the enjoyment of others, and especially one who dreams of getting paid for it some day, has to be dedicated and do it every day, like eating or brushing your teeth. You cannot call yourself a writer until you do it even when you don't really feel like it, or when you are uninspired, or when you can't find a single thing in your life that interests you, to say nothing of trying to make it interesting to someone else.
Historically, (if you can call a life that has only been lived for 48 years historical,) I have taken the hobby approach to writing; picking it up when something came bubbling up inside my head, saying whatever was on my mind, and then returning it to the closet until it comes boiling out again. While that does make the brief period when you begin writing easy, because you have a lot on your mind, it does not make you a better writer. On the contrary, you mostly say too much, instead of too little, because you know it won't last, and you have to say everything before you lose the mood.
Now I am forcing myself to write something every day, to produce a product, good, bad, or indifferent, and put it out there, regardless of whether it is perfect, merely decent, or outright awful (sorry about that, but it is what it is.) It has been an interesting experience so far, allowing people to see me at less than my very best, and being able to accept that something less than 100% perfection is adequate for the day. My own perfectionism has always been one of my biggest stumbling blocks, something that stands in my path, preventing success by short circuiting failure.
Recently, a friend gave me a book titled, The Underachiever's Manifesto by Ray Bennett. It is not, contrary to the title's implications, advocating failure. Instead, it encourages the reader in this success-manic and overworked culture, to relax and enjoy the journey, and to recognize that even unattractive people get married and live happily, people with C averages graduate from college and grow up to be president, and that money, the measure by which our society judges success, doesn't measure happiness, or the value of a person's life to those who are in it.
This is a mostly unwelcome perspective in a society that quantifies personal value by business title, and considers money to be the only grade by which a life is judged successful. If that doesn't define success, I think the workaholics worry, then what is the value of their lives, since they have sacrificed everything to reach that goal. But measured against that rubric, most of the great art, literature and music in the world would not have been considered worthy, and the purveyors would have been destitute. Well, okay, many of them were. But that is not the point. Creativity is rarely rewarded in our straight line, power driven society, unless you are ridiculously pretty, weigh 98 pounds, and your psychological problems outnumber your daily caloric intake.
Back in the heady days of the Renaissance, artists of all types had patrons, people of wealth and social standing who would sponsor an artist, supporting them, so that they could dedicate themselves to their craft, without having to worry about paying the bills. [I am wide open to that arrangement myself, if someone wants to pay me to write. So far, they are not standing in line to volunteer, but it could happen. I'm a dreamer.] That system worked brilliantly during those times of renewal and innovation, and without it, we would be missing many, if not most, of the great works of art, music, theater and literature which make up what we now recognize as "The Classics."
I am certainly not comparing myself to a daVinci, or a Michelangelo. Neither am I Shakespeare, or even Noel Coward. [No, I am not talking about someone afraid of Christmas. Definitely time to renew that library card.] But, as I have been telling my kids, who are now in the serious phase of trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up, it's important to be able to admit what you are good at, in addition to recognizing what you are bad at, so that you have some direction in which to go with your life.
I have tried a number of occupations now, which has certainly narrowed down the list of things I might be good at. Or bad at. So I am well on my way to being a professional underachiever. I think it's safe to say I will never be a teacher, nor am I a very good accountant. I was a great at-home mom, I think, and I am a dedicated volunteer. I hate spending my life behind a desk, and go crazy having to answer phones eight hours a day.
I have two main talents, I think, which surfaced, as talents usually do, pretty early. I am musical, and I can write a fair story. Or a fairy story. Or a fairy tale, or better yet, a fractured fairy tale. Well, I think I can anyway. Certainly I can start one, although I seem to have a hard time finishing one, which is another story.
Speaking of other stories, the very first story I ever wrote was a true life account of the death of a deer. It had everything - violence, beauty, drama, and a tragic ending - to make it a best seller. Unfortunately, I could only make it three misspelled paragraphs long, so it didn't really make it into the book stores, although it did make it between the covers of my scrap book. But if you want to compete with Bambi, you have to have more than 300 words scribbled on a tablet in pencil, I guess.
I have actually published a thing or two, but nothing anyone has ever heard of. I produced one article for a professional journal on the topic of refugee migration patterns. I know, that's going to keep people up at night, waiting for it to come out in hardback. I have done a couple brief articles on things in which I have some interest, but nothing that would appeal to the masses and ultimately pay for more than dinner at McDonald's.
What is the roadblock, standing in the way of the pursuit of what seems, most obviously, to be the one thing I have going for me? Mostly, I guess, I have been afraid to jump, afraid the chute wouldn't open, and I'd crash into the trees and just hang there waiting for someone to come along and save me from myself. And no one would ever come. Which makes me a victim of my own fears, and a failure of my own making. Because I don't define failure in life as trying and not succeeding. Failure, to me, is being so afraid to fail that you never even try.
My daughter, some time ago in another life phase, called me a hypocrite. Harsh, yes, but possibly true, although not in the sense she meant at that angry moment. How can I, as a mother, encourage my children to reach for the stars when I spend my own lifetime trying to sneak under the covers and stay in bed? If I don't have the courage to pursue my own dreams, and to utilize my own abilities, then I have no legitimacy in telling them to recognize and pursue their own talents and dreams.
Unemployment has been a difficult thing for me, and I have certainly tried to find ways to support my kids and myself that will both use my talents and allow me to feel good about how I spend my days. I am about to embark on yet another effort, hopefully one that will be successful, and hopefully one that God will bless and reward. But if the worst happens, and I am not successful, I am glad to know that my kids have seen me try, that I have learned from my mistakes, and that failure, for them, will not be defined in not succeeding, but in failing to try at all.
And in the meantime, I will keep writing, because maybe someday my dreams really can come true. Although, as I have noted before, I am definitely not Cinderella, and I don't really believe in fairy tales any more.
Historically, (if you can call a life that has only been lived for 48 years historical,) I have taken the hobby approach to writing; picking it up when something came bubbling up inside my head, saying whatever was on my mind, and then returning it to the closet until it comes boiling out again. While that does make the brief period when you begin writing easy, because you have a lot on your mind, it does not make you a better writer. On the contrary, you mostly say too much, instead of too little, because you know it won't last, and you have to say everything before you lose the mood.
Now I am forcing myself to write something every day, to produce a product, good, bad, or indifferent, and put it out there, regardless of whether it is perfect, merely decent, or outright awful (sorry about that, but it is what it is.) It has been an interesting experience so far, allowing people to see me at less than my very best, and being able to accept that something less than 100% perfection is adequate for the day. My own perfectionism has always been one of my biggest stumbling blocks, something that stands in my path, preventing success by short circuiting failure.
Recently, a friend gave me a book titled, The Underachiever's Manifesto by Ray Bennett. It is not, contrary to the title's implications, advocating failure. Instead, it encourages the reader in this success-manic and overworked culture, to relax and enjoy the journey, and to recognize that even unattractive people get married and live happily, people with C averages graduate from college and grow up to be president, and that money, the measure by which our society judges success, doesn't measure happiness, or the value of a person's life to those who are in it.
This is a mostly unwelcome perspective in a society that quantifies personal value by business title, and considers money to be the only grade by which a life is judged successful. If that doesn't define success, I think the workaholics worry, then what is the value of their lives, since they have sacrificed everything to reach that goal. But measured against that rubric, most of the great art, literature and music in the world would not have been considered worthy, and the purveyors would have been destitute. Well, okay, many of them were. But that is not the point. Creativity is rarely rewarded in our straight line, power driven society, unless you are ridiculously pretty, weigh 98 pounds, and your psychological problems outnumber your daily caloric intake.
Back in the heady days of the Renaissance, artists of all types had patrons, people of wealth and social standing who would sponsor an artist, supporting them, so that they could dedicate themselves to their craft, without having to worry about paying the bills. [I am wide open to that arrangement myself, if someone wants to pay me to write. So far, they are not standing in line to volunteer, but it could happen. I'm a dreamer.] That system worked brilliantly during those times of renewal and innovation, and without it, we would be missing many, if not most, of the great works of art, music, theater and literature which make up what we now recognize as "The Classics."
I am certainly not comparing myself to a daVinci, or a Michelangelo. Neither am I Shakespeare, or even Noel Coward. [No, I am not talking about someone afraid of Christmas. Definitely time to renew that library card.] But, as I have been telling my kids, who are now in the serious phase of trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up, it's important to be able to admit what you are good at, in addition to recognizing what you are bad at, so that you have some direction in which to go with your life.
I have tried a number of occupations now, which has certainly narrowed down the list of things I might be good at. Or bad at. So I am well on my way to being a professional underachiever. I think it's safe to say I will never be a teacher, nor am I a very good accountant. I was a great at-home mom, I think, and I am a dedicated volunteer. I hate spending my life behind a desk, and go crazy having to answer phones eight hours a day.
I have two main talents, I think, which surfaced, as talents usually do, pretty early. I am musical, and I can write a fair story. Or a fairy story. Or a fairy tale, or better yet, a fractured fairy tale. Well, I think I can anyway. Certainly I can start one, although I seem to have a hard time finishing one, which is another story.
Speaking of other stories, the very first story I ever wrote was a true life account of the death of a deer. It had everything - violence, beauty, drama, and a tragic ending - to make it a best seller. Unfortunately, I could only make it three misspelled paragraphs long, so it didn't really make it into the book stores, although it did make it between the covers of my scrap book. But if you want to compete with Bambi, you have to have more than 300 words scribbled on a tablet in pencil, I guess.
I have actually published a thing or two, but nothing anyone has ever heard of. I produced one article for a professional journal on the topic of refugee migration patterns. I know, that's going to keep people up at night, waiting for it to come out in hardback. I have done a couple brief articles on things in which I have some interest, but nothing that would appeal to the masses and ultimately pay for more than dinner at McDonald's.
What is the roadblock, standing in the way of the pursuit of what seems, most obviously, to be the one thing I have going for me? Mostly, I guess, I have been afraid to jump, afraid the chute wouldn't open, and I'd crash into the trees and just hang there waiting for someone to come along and save me from myself. And no one would ever come. Which makes me a victim of my own fears, and a failure of my own making. Because I don't define failure in life as trying and not succeeding. Failure, to me, is being so afraid to fail that you never even try.
My daughter, some time ago in another life phase, called me a hypocrite. Harsh, yes, but possibly true, although not in the sense she meant at that angry moment. How can I, as a mother, encourage my children to reach for the stars when I spend my own lifetime trying to sneak under the covers and stay in bed? If I don't have the courage to pursue my own dreams, and to utilize my own abilities, then I have no legitimacy in telling them to recognize and pursue their own talents and dreams.
Unemployment has been a difficult thing for me, and I have certainly tried to find ways to support my kids and myself that will both use my talents and allow me to feel good about how I spend my days. I am about to embark on yet another effort, hopefully one that will be successful, and hopefully one that God will bless and reward. But if the worst happens, and I am not successful, I am glad to know that my kids have seen me try, that I have learned from my mistakes, and that failure, for them, will not be defined in not succeeding, but in failing to try at all.
And in the meantime, I will keep writing, because maybe someday my dreams really can come true. Although, as I have noted before, I am definitely not Cinderella, and I don't really believe in fairy tales any more.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A pig in a poke....
I don't really know why, but I have pigs on the mind recently. I love pork chops and bacon, but I don't think that's what has prompted this porcine preoccupation. Anyway, I have gotten to thinking about the modern view of pigs, and just how integral they are in our colloquial expressions and informal culture.
Pigs are often featured at children's zoos, usually surrounded by a family of roughly 200 piglets, [well, okay, maybe eight,] all pink and cute and looking innocent and friendly. They snuffle and snort, looking for all the world like the perfect familial scene. This is false advertising, mostly propagated by people who have seen too many Disney movies. Pigs are large creatures with beady eyes and small, yellow, very sharp teeth, and they are not afraid to use them. I think it's very important to remember this as you sink your own teeth into that juicy chop you are now going to have for dinner.
A word of wisdom - if you don't like to throw dirt, don't get into a pig pen. They are pretty unconcerned about hygiene, happily wallowing in the mud, like... well... pigs. See, that's what I mean. Our culture is full of pig related references, which make our language richer.
Not unlike the end result of feeding pigs, which produces a type of fertilizer that can work in a field, but definitely should not be used on a garden. I'm pretty sure, however, that most Americans don't want to think about what is fertilizing some of those organic crops they are scarfing down by the very expensive bushel. [See, I told you I grew up on a farm. I can throw terms like bushel around, and look really smart, even if I don't know what I'm talking about. Which in this case, I actually do.]
Entire industries revolve around the delicate taste of "the other white meat." It has supported a nationwide obsession with barbecue joints, not to mention men with grills, and of course, the National Pork Producers Council, which works hard every day to protect the fine image of the pig. Imagine, a whole national council to promote the right of every citizen to die by pork sausage patty. Is this a great country or what?
The government, with its usual keen finger on the pulse of the nation, has sponsored a study of pigs, to determine once and for all if Porky is smarter than Doc. Apparently, the results of this study were mixed. While some pigs appear to be smart enough to build houses of brick and send the wolves at the door packing, (or turn them into stew,) other pigs are not quite so hard working. I mean seriously, straw? Twigs? Natural selection at play on that one, I would say.
Pigs are not only found in animated entertainment or fine children's literature, however. We use, or abuse, the pig in daily life on an ongoing basis, and without it, we would be bereft of many colorful cliches, without which, I, for one, would be unable to write this blog.
It has been said that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. This has obvious meaning, and requires little explanation, unless you don't know silk comes from a worm and not a pig. In which case, you shouldn't be using that metaphor, anyway. [And if that is the case, I once again must urge you to get off the blogs and into a library or a good book, because you are woefully ignorant.]
When we accuse someone of eating like a pig, the meaning is clear, although perhaps a little unfair, since pigs prefer a rather healthy diet of grains and fruits and vegetables, unlike the humans who are being so described. By the way, pigs today are fed carefully controlled menus, to produce the exact amount of meat and fat required for the modern diner. Aren't you glad to know that the spare ribs you will grill were designed just for your tastes?
Someone who is stubborn is pig-headed. We bleed like a stuck pig, and we have as much difficulty achieving our tasks as catching a greased pig.
Some of the phrases are a little less clear. What, exactly, is a pig in a poke? I am guessing we are not talking about a porky Pillsbury Doughboy. And why on earth did we start looking for pigs to fly, I wonder?
Pigs, those versatile creatures, are a complete package it seems. They provide us with food and dog toys. They have played a role in educating generations of children through fine literature, not to mention pointing out that straw does not make for a sturdy dwelling. They have given us a wealth of colloquial sayings, and their animated adventures are part of the history of television. Pigs have provided us with art, and even music. "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf...?" Anyway. Foolish or smart, pigs are an integral part of our informal language and American life.
And now, apparently pigs have broken the barrier into high fashion, because just the other day I heard that not only do we dress pigs, but they are wearing lipstick as well. Do you think Petunia will start her own label?
Pigs are often featured at children's zoos, usually surrounded by a family of roughly 200 piglets, [well, okay, maybe eight,] all pink and cute and looking innocent and friendly. They snuffle and snort, looking for all the world like the perfect familial scene. This is false advertising, mostly propagated by people who have seen too many Disney movies. Pigs are large creatures with beady eyes and small, yellow, very sharp teeth, and they are not afraid to use them. I think it's very important to remember this as you sink your own teeth into that juicy chop you are now going to have for dinner.
A word of wisdom - if you don't like to throw dirt, don't get into a pig pen. They are pretty unconcerned about hygiene, happily wallowing in the mud, like... well... pigs. See, that's what I mean. Our culture is full of pig related references, which make our language richer.
Not unlike the end result of feeding pigs, which produces a type of fertilizer that can work in a field, but definitely should not be used on a garden. I'm pretty sure, however, that most Americans don't want to think about what is fertilizing some of those organic crops they are scarfing down by the very expensive bushel. [See, I told you I grew up on a farm. I can throw terms like bushel around, and look really smart, even if I don't know what I'm talking about. Which in this case, I actually do.]
Entire industries revolve around the delicate taste of "the other white meat." It has supported a nationwide obsession with barbecue joints, not to mention men with grills, and of course, the National Pork Producers Council, which works hard every day to protect the fine image of the pig. Imagine, a whole national council to promote the right of every citizen to die by pork sausage patty. Is this a great country or what?
The government, with its usual keen finger on the pulse of the nation, has sponsored a study of pigs, to determine once and for all if Porky is smarter than Doc. Apparently, the results of this study were mixed. While some pigs appear to be smart enough to build houses of brick and send the wolves at the door packing, (or turn them into stew,) other pigs are not quite so hard working. I mean seriously, straw? Twigs? Natural selection at play on that one, I would say.
Pigs are not only found in animated entertainment or fine children's literature, however. We use, or abuse, the pig in daily life on an ongoing basis, and without it, we would be bereft of many colorful cliches, without which, I, for one, would be unable to write this blog.
It has been said that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. This has obvious meaning, and requires little explanation, unless you don't know silk comes from a worm and not a pig. In which case, you shouldn't be using that metaphor, anyway. [And if that is the case, I once again must urge you to get off the blogs and into a library or a good book, because you are woefully ignorant.]
When we accuse someone of eating like a pig, the meaning is clear, although perhaps a little unfair, since pigs prefer a rather healthy diet of grains and fruits and vegetables, unlike the humans who are being so described. By the way, pigs today are fed carefully controlled menus, to produce the exact amount of meat and fat required for the modern diner. Aren't you glad to know that the spare ribs you will grill were designed just for your tastes?
Someone who is stubborn is pig-headed. We bleed like a stuck pig, and we have as much difficulty achieving our tasks as catching a greased pig.
Some of the phrases are a little less clear. What, exactly, is a pig in a poke? I am guessing we are not talking about a porky Pillsbury Doughboy. And why on earth did we start looking for pigs to fly, I wonder?
Pigs, those versatile creatures, are a complete package it seems. They provide us with food and dog toys. They have played a role in educating generations of children through fine literature, not to mention pointing out that straw does not make for a sturdy dwelling. They have given us a wealth of colloquial sayings, and their animated adventures are part of the history of television. Pigs have provided us with art, and even music. "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf...?" Anyway. Foolish or smart, pigs are an integral part of our informal language and American life.
And now, apparently pigs have broken the barrier into high fashion, because just the other day I heard that not only do we dress pigs, but they are wearing lipstick as well. Do you think Petunia will start her own label?
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