tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49608674199413547092024-03-05T04:54:00.102-08:00Quotidian MusingsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-21707606332853469192015-01-10T16:00:00.000-08:002015-01-10T17:57:30.658-08:00Strange BedfellowsThe saying goes that politics makes strange bedfellows. I think it is also true of the internet, Facebook in particular. Now I believe that most folks have a fairly drama-free selection of interests on Facebook. Sure, there's wacky Uncle Harold with his obnoxious politics or ditzy Cousin Isabelle with her conspiracy theories. But we can put them on mute, avoid the annoyance and still get through family gatherings in peace. But this week I got two examples of high drama coming from the most unexpected spots and it caused me to think about just who I bounce up against on the internet.<br />
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Both, BOTH, of the incidents happened on two knitting groups. Yep, knitting groups. On one of them, I stumbled into a very spirited discussion (read name-calling) concerning copyrights on patterns. Being well versed in the issues of plagiarism, this seemed like a no-brainer to me. But, clearly, I wasn't entering into the spirit of the thing. After close to 200 entries weighing in on the issue and taunts of "thief" and "heartless", I tuned out. It seemed like an easy thing, don't give away things that should be paid for. But, alas, the verbal war waged on.<br />
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The other case was more interesting and, for me, more thought provoking. Someone on the group announced, rather dramatically, that Facebook was a very real threat to her, her family and everyone she knew and that she would be leaving in 24 hours. Wow, I thought, that's fairly huge. So I decided to poke around during the time remaining to see what could be so threatening. This was not a person that I was personally acquainted with and wasn't aware of any direct interaction we might have had. It is a huge group. But I poked a bit and discovered a person that I could not have been more different than. We probably wouldn't want to know each other in real life and had nothing in common beyond knitting. In fact, I know that I wouldn't want to know her because she is involved in something that I find reprehensible. It is an issue that many people have different opinions on, so the specifics don't really matter.<br />
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I was reminded of a time years ago when, as part of a job, I was expected to deal with a couple of people that had committed hideous acts against children. (I declined.) But it was pointed out to me that I had probably dealt with similar people in other arenas without knowing it. They may have been correct, but it still seemed different to me. And it remains that way.<br />
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The thoughts circled around and around after I read more about this woman. What does it say about me, that I couldn't dig up any compassion for her once I figured out her situation? I'm not sure I'm too happy about the answer to that question. Should I consider that having one common interest allows for broadening of one's scope? Maybe. Does it allow both parties an opportunity to see beyond the self-adopted labels to the other's innate humanity? Perhaps. Should one take advantage of those opportunities, even if the other party wouldn't/couldn't? Don't know. But it got me thinking.<br />
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I thought about how many wars/battles/struggles/conflicts we humans carry on, frequently without thinking. Perhaps that is just the way of humanity, but it is sad. Throughout our history, we've carried on the battles/conflicts started by our parents, our grandparents, heck our grandparents' grandparents based on..we're no longer sure what. The "other" looks wrong, thinks wrong, acts wrong, prays wrong, says the wrong thing and we must condemn them and oppose them because of that. Wouldn't it be better to let bygones be bygones and drop the hate? Of course. But humans, as a group, don't seem to have reached a place where they can let themselves do that, yet.<br />
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So, what shall I do about my own lack of compassion? The more I thought about it, the easier I could see that I could indeed feel sorry for this lady. For reasons that are very real to her, she feels fear for herself and others. Whether or not it is in fact real. Whether or not it is a result of her own choices. Whether or not I ever cross paths with her again. She is a human being in fear and that is something that I can feel compassion for.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-10147002670085257912014-12-31T11:13:00.000-08:002014-12-31T12:03:47.042-08:00One Last ResolutionWhile it is traditional to declare resolutions at this time of year, I've decided that resolutions are too heavy and bring potentially too much negativity. The classic "I'm going to lose weight" brings with it the inevitable "OR?". The answer to which is almost equally inevitable "Or I'll feel bad about myself." Hardly seems productive. Aspirations seems so much better. So full of hope and potential. Aspirations set something to aim for while allowing that something short of that may also be good and worthy. They seem to declare a path more than an objective. Having said all this, I find that there is one last resolution that I must make that has been far too long in the waiting. I make it because failure on my part really would allow a negative to continue in my life.<br />
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Shortly before I turned 5 years old, in the upheaval that was my parent's divorce, a seed was sown. I was too young to understand all the words, but I clearly understood (or thought I did) what they meant. That they were sown by someone I later knew to be mentally ill. That they led me to a logical leap that was clearly not logical. That the maliciousness reflected more on the speaker than on me. All of these things I would come to recognize much, much later. But what was impressed upon my childish mind was that my very existence was a negative thing. That by breathing I had ruined the lives of everyone I loved. I still remember the look on her face when she dumped her load of venom on me and it still makes me shiver for the small child I was. I kept this episode secret for decades.<br />
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I can see, in hindsight, that this festering little seed, led to a chain of bad choices and self-loathing all through my younger self's life. I couldn't just be a good little girl. I had to try to be the best good little girl ever, just to justify my existence. And of course, anything bad that happened was, most likely, my fault or, at the very least, something I deserved. After all, what right had I to occupy space? And thus, I spent far too much time, effort and energy apologizing for living, in one way or another. And, in the instances when I genuinely fouled up, the effect was increased exponentially. Naturally, I couldn't expect much from anyone or anything because I was deeply unworthy. I should just be grateful for whatever small things came my way and shut up.<br />
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After a year of tough breaks and intense reflection, during which that smaller younger me has clamored for attention, I have decided that enough is too much already. Time to gouge out that moldy old seed and toss it onto the compost pile. Therefore, I resolve to never apologize for living, in any manner, ever again. I will ask for what I want/need/desire because I am entitled to those types of things just like anyone else. When I legitimately make mistakes, I will apologize; but I will not assume guilt that is not my own. When others seek to impose guilt that is not mine to take, they will be invited to remove themselves and have a nice life, separate from mine. I will not agree with any position (including my own) that includes an element of feeling bad about myself. And, when I inevitably slip back into the time worn path, I will gently remind myself that I don't do that any more and move on. Period. Full stop. <br />
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As for aspirations for the coming year, there are many. Some creative. Some productive. Some self nurturing. Some nurturing of others. All worthwhile.<br />
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May you who read this have whatever good things you most wish for in the coming year and always.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-39908980233019247552014-11-24T10:28:00.000-08:002014-11-24T10:38:12.420-08:00Rude awakeningsUnder other circumstances, it could have been amusing in a Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Keystone Cops kind of way. But they say that comedy is all about timing and nothing, absolutely nothing, is funny at 3:30 in the morning.<br />
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And under other circumstances, I would have felt more compassion for the neighbors. But these are the neighbors that set and reset their car alarm every night, complete with beeping horn, after most of the neighborhood has gone to sleep. So their misfortune in the wee hours left me unmoved.<br />
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All of this is due to a visitation, before the crack of dawn, by the world's worst repo man.<br />
<br />
We were awakened by the car alarm blaring repeatedly across the street. After it went on for a bit, with no sign of stopping, visual inspection took place. Outside the bedroom window was an unmarked white tow truck attempting to abscond with an SUV parked in the driveway. The SUV in question was at a peculiar angle with headlights flashing and horn beeping while the driver of the tow truck tried in vain to shut the thing up. It looked as though it was possible that the SUV had been dragged on a collision course with another car parked on the street. <br />
<br />
At some point, Repo Dude moved the tow truck several yards down the street and returned to the SUV, flashlight in hand. He attempted to enter the vehicle several times before succeeding. He walked around the back. He walked around the passenger side. He leaned on the driver side window. He jiggled the passenger door. He went back to the driver's side. Back to the passenger door. He eventually got in and popped the hood. He hunted under the hood with the flashlight for Lord knows what. He got the alarm to stop. He closed the hood. He fiddled some more. The alarm went off. Lather, rinse and repeat. <br />
<br />
One of our other neighbors, an otherwise mild mannered lady I'm sure, yelled out her window that it was 3:30 in the blinkety blank blank morning. Helpful, but I doubt there was anyone within earshot that wasn't all too painfully already aware of that fact. <br />
<br />
At long (too long) last, he had quieted the alarm again and returned to the tow truck, backing it up to the SUV. He jacked up the SUV and spent several minutes walking around and around the vehicle seemingly trying to figure out how to secure his prize. Once secured, our hero took his trusty flashlight and returned to the cab of his truck. He pulled away with the SUV and as he went around the corner, the alarm was again heard, retreating into the distance.<br />
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Sleep having been totally banished, I reflected on the cause of my current undesired state of consciousness. For some reason, whether through hardship or carelessness, our neighbors clearly have neglected to make car payments. And for some reason, some finance company decided that they really wanted their vehicle back in lieu of payment. The truck driver decided he wished to make his mark on the world as a repo man. Said finance company contacted said driver and it was decided that 3:30 in the flipping morning was the optimal time to take their property back. And because of that, several dozen upstanding citizens will be spending the rest of their day yawning and staggering about in a sleep deprived haze.<br />
<br />
I'm not disputing the company's right to expect payment for the purchase. I'm not disputing their right to repossess it if payment is not forthcoming. I'm not even disputing Repo Dude's right to gainful employment. What I am disputing is the need for all of those things to occur at 3:30 AM outside my bedroom window. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-25141826608161012252014-02-10T13:39:00.000-08:002014-02-10T13:39:47.931-08:00Mortality <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> By the time we're eight or ten, most of us figure out that we are not immortal. And, if we still think we're immortal, we've run smack into the realization that at least some others are not. But, beyond that, we don't give it a whole lot of thought. In fact, if we DO give it a whole lot of thought, we'll have been told not to be so morbid and to be happy. So we toodle along, content in the notion that while death may indeed exist, it exists only for the old or those far away from us. For the most part.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There are a few words out there that can change that in an instance, a prime one being biopsy. Biopsy, along with it's fellow traveler cancer, can bring mortality, personal mortality, into very clear and immediate focus. There you were, toodling along with your life; working, playing, laughing, loving, wasting WAY too much time on the computer and WHAM you are pulled up short by a six letter word and all the baggage it carries with it. No more, "don't worry, be happy" because worry has just taken up residence in your brain and whether that residence is permanent or not remains to be seen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so it begins, the biopsy, the inconclusive results, the referrals, the scheduling of surgery, the pre-op check ups and the terror. No matter how calm, cool, collected, even sanguine one thinks one is, there is a time around 2:45 in the morning when the terror is undeniable. No one else may see it. You may even try to convince yourself that it isn't there. But it is. And no one, not your mother, not your spouse, not your friend, not even the very nice surgeon that you just met, can say anything to make that go away. Because while they hope for the best, and can quote statistics, and can assure you it will be fine; ultimately, they can't know that to be the fact until you've moved through the entire experience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, all of this takes time. So you have a lot of time to think. And think. And think. You realize rather quickly that you are not where you'd always thought you'd be by whatever-this-point is in your life. You then begin to wonder IF making plans for the future is some sort of magic you are invoking to get through the situation. Or if, perhaps, you are just whistling past the graveyard and which graveyard is it going to be. One sinks to the forbidden morbid regions rather quickly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before too long, you realize that even IF this isn't going to be whatever it is that will spell your demise, something will and that every day lived is a day closer to that day. And you begin to wonder what that means for your life going forward. Between blood tests and CAT scans and this and that, you have quite a bit of time for reflecting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And, if you're me, you wonder if any insights you garner through all of this reflecting will be carried through should the surgery and the pathology reports say that the end isn't coming in that particular way in this particular year. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mercifully, the pathology reports came back "negative for malignancy." Now it's time to see how many of the insights remain and where they lead.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-82330520409874476602012-08-13T22:18:00.001-07:002012-08-13T22:18:42.818-07:00Enough?On July 20, 1969, I was 9 years old. My great-grandmother was 89 years old. And Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon. At this point in her life, my great-grandmother had finally given up her own place and spent her days in a room at her son's home, usually listening to baseball on the radio. She never had much use for television. But on this day, everyone was urging her to leave her room to watch the historic event. But she flat refused. Eventually insisting that it had not, in fact, happened. All of which led her family to speculate that Grandma had finally slipped into senility. Nothing could have been further from the truth.<br />
<br />
She explained that in her life so much had happened. Born in 1880, she'd seen indoor plumbing and electricity introduced. Her little Ozark town had seen the train come through, followed by cars and then airplanes. Her world had stretched from a girlhood in Des Arc to adulthood in St. Louis. By 1969, she'd buried her husband and three of her five children. Radio, television, satellites and now this! A man walking on the moon was just too much. She'd had enough!<br />
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In the end, she lived 94 years, out living everyone who had shared her memories of all these changes. I've always admired the wisdom she showed in knowing when enough was enough. And as I've gotten older, I've wondered when I might reach the point of recognizing when enough is enough. <br />
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As a child of the space age, I am thrilled at Curiosity's successful landing on Mars without for a second thinking it going too far. However, I must admit, I'm not enamored of each and every technological doodad that comes down the pike. Not so much because I distain innovation, but rather for their dehumanizing side effects, the way they seem to put up barriers between people while purporting to expand connections. Two years ago, on Valentine's Day, my love and I were out for a romantic dinner at a very nice little restaurant. A casual glance around the room revealed that the couples at every table except three had their eyes glued to the screens of their smart phones, rather than on the face of the person they were with, which perplexed me. It still does. Certainly, it was no more than an extreme example of what one sees every day, but the phenomenon is not a good thing in my opinion, and one place where I choose to say enough in my own life.<br />
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I wonder what new events will lead me to consider the limits of enough in my life. I don't think it is any sort of one-size fits all absolute. Perhaps many people never reach a point of enough in their lives. And I wonder if that is either a good or bad thing, or perhaps neither. Maybe the wisdom lies in recognizing if you have reached the point of enough.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-26521912037332536972011-11-27T05:41:00.002-08:002011-11-27T06:12:24.966-08:00The way things are<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'm up early this morning. Contemplating the way things are. Because that's what you do when it is the wee hours of the morning. And you're sick. And you have no health insurance.<br /><br />The first thoughts that come to you are those of dread. Why the heck is my throat hurting so much? Is it strep? If it's strep, what am I going to do about it? I'd have to do something about it obviously. Remembering the time when I didn't do anything about it and ended up with pneumonia. Didn't have insurance then either. <br /><br />This is followed by the denial phase. Of course, it isn't strep. It's just a sore throat. The aspirin makes it hurt less, so it MUST not be strep. Right? Sure, the fever got rather high yesterday, but aspirin took the edge off of that, too. It's not serious. Really, it's not.<br /><br />Quickly, the dread creeps back in. But the pain woke you up, you idiot. Swallowing isn't supposed to wake you up. At this point, you must throw all your energy into heading off total panic. It'll be better in a little bit. That's right. Somehow the magic of sunrise will make it better. Everything is better in the light of day. Sure. That's it. <br /><br />Then comes the balancing of fears. Which is worse? Strep throat? Going to the doctor and risking adding even one more penny to the balance sheet? At what point does the balance tip too far to recover from?<br /><br />Then comes the time for counting your blessings. I'm luckier than so many. I shouldn't complain. Others have it much, much worse than I do. I have a roof over my head. Food to eat. Clothes to wear. And, dammit, a very sore throat! What am I going to do?<br /><br />What am I going to do?<br /><br />Then the fatalism sets in. If it continues, I'll just have to go to the doctor anyway. Risk the bill. Try to avoid a bigger bill. Nothing to be done about it. It's probably not strep anyway, right?<br /><br />And I think about how 50 million of us, in a population of 311 million or so, have to go through this type of small hours calculus, or, for the small ones, have parents that must do it for us. And I wonder why, in a country that is so rich, this is acceptable? But, on some level, it is totally acceptable or we would not have one sixth of our people without health care. We wouldn't have politicians who suggest those without the basics of life are somehow just too lazy, that no circumstances could have led to this otherwise. We wouldn't have a population so fearful of their own vulnerability that they feel the need to lash out or ignore the have-nots for fear that one day they might join their ranks. <br /><br />Then thoughts come full circle. There's a very good chance that it's not strep. If it continues for a couple more days, I'll figure out someway to pay the doctor and, if need be, the pharmacy. And I'll deal with whatever I have to deal with. Because that's the way things are.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-47586798855460994602011-06-20T07:06:00.006-07:002011-06-21T06:50:04.376-07:00Father's Day<style>@font-face { font-family: "Geneva"; }@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">Father’s Day is not a holiday that has had much of a place in my life.<span style=""> </span>My parents divorced just before my 5<sup>th</sup> birthday and my father, quite literally, disappeared from my life for five years.<span style=""> </span>We had some vague notion that he’d moved to California, but birthdays and Christmases came and went with no word.<span style=""> </span>And no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care and it didn’t hurt, I never quite succeeded.<span style=""> </span>I learned early that you can miss what you never had.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">When my father reappeared, I felt suspicious and frightened.<span style=""> </span>Totally unable to fall into a family relationship with someone I had no memory of.<span style=""> </span>Despite acrimonious court dealings, I probably saw my father no more than half a dozen times before I was 17.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">I survived, but it could get tough.<span style=""> </span>As a young child, no other kids in my elementary school had divorced parents.<span style=""> </span>This led the other children to taunt me, as if I had driven my father away all by my little self.<span style=""> </span>This did not do a thing to lessen the usual child’s guilt in such cases.<span style=""> </span>If <u>only</u>, I’d been a better little girl!<span style=""> </span>Preposterous from this angle, but very real at age 5, 6, and 7.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">After I became a mother, my father and I made some attempts to get to know each other.<span style=""> </span>But distance and his early death ultimately made that impossible.<span style=""> </span>And when he died, I mourned what I could never have more than what I had lost.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">I’ve often wondered how I might have been different if I had had some sort of consistent father figure in my life.<span style=""> </span>Someone to look up to, or resent, or both in turn.<span style=""> </span>As it happened, there is nothing there to lean on or push against and it remains a big question mark.<span style=""> </span>I’ve looked on, with both envy and relief as I witnessed my friends’ relationships with their fathers, and wistfully wondered what that would be like. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:14pt;">Happily, I’ve had a glimpse in the past two years.<span style=""> </span>My fella came fully equipped with one regulation-sized father whom I am privileged to call Pop.<span style=""> </span>It’s a new experience having someone to call by that name.<span style=""> </span>I don’t expect Pop will be helping me with any skinned knees, flat bicycle tires or teenage angst, at least I hope not.<span style=""> </span>But he has certainly welcomed me into the family.<span style=""> </span>And, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m able to pull back the curtain a little bit and take a peek, up close, at what a father is like.<span style=""> </span>And while I’ll never have what I never had, it makes me smile to see it was real for someone else.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-86614344291791525532011-03-06T11:49:00.005-08:002011-03-06T12:37:09.995-08:00More Words<style>@font-face { font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Shortly after my mind started spinning at the manipulation of Twain’s words, a tragedy unfolded in Tucson, Arizona in which 19 people were shot with 6 killed by a deranged young man.<span style=""> </span>Almost immediately mud started being flung from both ends of the political spectrum blaming the other for their inflammatory language causing the incident.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >It started a discussion about the lack of civil discourse in this country, particularly in the political arena.<span style=""> </span>Clearly, it is not reasonable to point the finger at anyone other than the perpetrator as being responsible for what happened.<span style=""> </span>However, all the accusations flying back and forth tended to reinforce the point that our civil discourse has become ugly.<span style=""> </span>It doesn’t seem that we have the option of agreeing to respectfully disagree any longer.<span style=""> </span>It must escalate to an angry tone with name-calling.<span style=""> </span>We can’t just believe that there are different ways of thinking about how to solve problems or even what we identify as problems.<span style=""> </span>Those that we disagree with must be evil, stupid and/or unpatriotic and probably all three.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Naturally, the initial calls for civility have quickly disappeared and the nasty rhetoric is back in full swing just two months after the shootings.<span style=""> </span>What is to be done?<span style=""> </span>With a 24-hour news cycle broadcasting the worst of the worst in inflammatory speech, how do we avoid its influence and throw water on the flames?<span style=""> </span>How do we maintain righteous indignation in the face of wrong while refraining from contributing to the uncivil discourse that is seemingly everywhere?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I’ll admit I started bristling when I was first called unpatriotic for having a different political opinion than some others.<span style=""> </span>And after hearing it several dozen times, well, we won’t get into my unladylike response just now. How to defuse such things?<span style=""> </span>How to opt out while maintaining one’s own integrity and remaining engaged?<span style=""> </span>Clearly the media is not going to tone things down.<span style=""> </span>And neither are the politicians.<span style=""> </span>So that leaves the rest of us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Perhaps a first step could be to reduce or eliminate adjectives when discussing someone with whom we disagree.<span style=""> </span>No longer is that politician/commentator that stupid, lying, evil SOB.<span style=""> </span>He or she is Job-title What’s-his-name and he or she did not tell the truth about X.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it is time to act like Sgt. Friday on Dragnet and use “just the facts.”<span style=""> </span>Naturally, there are people who don’t care what the facts are because they know better and their agenda requires that they not acknowledge any pesky little things like facts.<span style=""> </span>In which case, why bother to talk to them about it any way?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Secondly, we can recognize and acknowledge that <b>most</b></span><span style=";font-family:";" > folks on both sides of the political chasm believe that they have the best intentions to work out the best solution to a problem and they are not attempting to do evil things.<span style=""> </span>Whether or not their beliefs are justified is another matter, but we need to stop assuming that the other side is acting from nefarious motives.<span style=""> </span>The person who cuts your hair is not evil just because they prefer a socialist dogcatcher to one from the Bull Moose Party.<span style=""> </span>I have absolutely no doubt that there are some folks that are acting from bad motives, but they are not likely to be among the people you run into on a daily basis.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >You may have noticed that these two suggestions are aimed purely at how we perceive someone with whom we disagree and how we respond to them.<span style=""> </span>But isn’t that truly all we can do about the situation?<span style=""> </span>Resolve to not be part of the problem?<span style=""> </span>Maybe, if enough people refused to play along with the status quo, it would spread like a cold until enough people caught it to ignite a spark of civility across our sadly polarized society.<span style=""> </span>At the very least, it could make us, as individuals, feel calmer in our daily lives.<span style=""> </span>And who knows where that might lead?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >As I said earlier, words are powerful things.<span style=""> </span>We should be careful how we wield them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-36372582458213258732011-03-06T07:43:00.007-08:002011-03-06T11:35:43.107-08:00Words<style>@font-face { font-family: "Geneva"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I've been thinking a lot about words recently. It started when I heard an interview on the radio with Dr. Alan Gribben, who has edited a bowdlerized version of the novels The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. (Published by New South Books) His stated purpose was to make the books more accessible to younger readers by removing every instance of the word "nigger" from the books and replacing it with the word "slave". His stated purpose is to remove barriers because the word makes younger readers uncomfortable and thus puts a barrier between them and Mark Twain's work. He also stated that teachers were reluctant to use the books in class because it contains that word.<span style=""> </span>Once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I started thinking about his argument and found the whole notion of his changes objectionable.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Huckleberry Finn came under fire almost immediately.<span style=""> </span>Published in 1864, by 1865 it was banned because it was "coarse".<span style=""> </span>Who knows what was meant precisely, but the primary objection of the Brooklyn library in 1902 was concerned that Huck both itched and scratched and that the word "sweat" had been used rather than perspiration.<span style=""> </span>Now, of course, the objections are focused on language, which reflect the cultural norms of a particular place and time in history.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">In Dr. Gribben's concern for teachers being unwilling to use the book, I believe he shortchanges the profession.<span style=""> </span>I'm certain that any good teacher would begin the study of the book by explaining the book's historical context.<span style=""> </span>They would tell their students that the word was in the book and why Twain used it.<span style=""> </span>They would talk about Mark Twain's childhood, growing up in a slave state and his witnessing of a brutal murder of a slave by a slave owner.<span style=""> </span>They would talk about Twain's position on slavery and his use of sarcasm and irony.<span style=""> </span>They would go on to point out that the character Jim, who is saddled with the unsavory adjective, is the most admirable character in the book.<span style=""> </span>They would point out that Jim frees Huck from his ingrained prejudices and becomes free himself.<span style=""> </span>So, I don't think Dr. Gribben's concerns for the teachers were justified.</p><p face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">Moving on to his concerns for students, particularly African American students, being uncomfortable with the word.<span style=""> </span>Hopefully, their teachers would have taught them about the book before actually reading it.<span style=""> </span>They would know about historical context, how the ugly bigotry and the nasty words related to it are no longer acceptable and why.<span style=""> </span>They would have had discussions about ethnic/racial and all other sorts of prejudice.<span style=""> </span>They would have been given ideas to look for within the characters of the book; the education and evolution of Huck, the ignorance of his father, Jim's essential dignity.<span style=""> </span>Then they would begin their reading. <span style=""> </span>And then, I hope that the word would still make them uncomfortable, no matter what the student's ethnicity, because it is a filthy, hateful word used by hateful people.<span style=""> </span>It should make everyone uncomfortable.<span style=""> </span>And if the students are too young to grasp all of that information, then they are too young to be assigned the book.</p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">Perhaps because I am from Missouri and feel a bit proprietary about Mr. Twain or perhaps because I write a bit myself, the question is is Dr. Gribben's version of Huckleberry Finn still Mark Twain's work once he has tinkered with the objectionable adjectives?<span style=""> </span>At the very least, it is something less than the original.<span style=""> </span>It takes on the weight of a Cliff Notes version, a graphic novel or a condensed edition and, thus more than just a word has been lost in translation.<span style=""> </span>It is not Mark Twain's book any longer.<span style=""> </span>(And I swear that I can hear him cursing in the distance.)<span style=""> </span>It is not just that the words Twain chose have been fiddled with, but also the tone he intended to set has been altered along with them.<span style=""> </span>The people who call Jim by that word do so out of either ignorance, in Huck's case, or hatefulness and that is clearly shown in the book.</p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Geneva;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Words are powerful things and no childhood rhyme about sticks and stones can negate that.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And Twain's use of the word is powerful enough that we discuss it, debate it and are made uncomfortable by it 101 years after his death. He knew what he was doing.</span><br /></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-38935637771599768462011-01-02T12:37:00.005-08:002011-01-02T16:10:21.674-08:00Resolutions and ProcrastinationI've been thinking about firing up the old blog again for months and kept putting it off. Why? I don't think I can answer that. I think part of the problem was the longer I left it dormant the more profound I felt the next posting should be. WARNING: This blog post is NOT going to be profound. There, now that that's out of the way, we can continue.<br /><br />I'd also been thinking about New Year's Resolutions, as one does at this time of year. The more grandiose the better, right? But as I mentally listed the various steps that I could take to improve various aspects of my life, I was left with the absolute certainty that none of them would last past January 18th, if that long.<br /><br />So, what to do with all these rambling thoughts? Is there a value in resolutions? They say that most people's resolutions rarely make it past February. So, why make them? For me, they seem to have value in that they let us articulate, if only to ourselves, what our highest aspirations are for ourselves. They let us visualize a better us and offer the opportunity to take some steps toward that better self. Sure, many times we don't succeed to the level we envision to begin with. But that's really not the point. Any notion that "perfection" is actually attainable is doomed to failure. However, the awareness of goals and incremental steps in their direction offers us a focus and motivation to move forward in our lives rather let them idle indefinitely.<br /><br />The trick is to make resolutions realistic and not restricted. If I say that I will lose 46.5 pounds and then only lose 35 have I really failed? Sure I didn't hit a magic number, but I made measurable progress towards an overall goal. Once the sense of failure is allowed to settle in, it is far too easy to give up entirely and slide back into behavior or thinking that we have admitted to ourselves is not in our best interests. <br /><br />So I propose a more realistic model. Choose an area of life that you'd like to see an improvement in and then resolve to improving it in some realistic way. Small bites, in small time periods; rather than grand gestures over long periods of time, would seem to have more chance of some sort of success.<br /><br />Given that I haven't written here since last February, you might have guessed that my major bug-a-boo is procrastination. Surprised? I could get the gold on the Olympic procrastination team, if such a thing existed. This is only made worse by the fact that I am very good at working under pressure. If a task doesn't have any other challenge associated with it, then I add one by putting it off as long as possible. It certainly gets the adrenaline going, heart racing, etc. However, I'm finding that I'd much rather approach things in a more peaceful manner. Goodness knows that life hands us enough adrenaline inducing events without adding to it.<br /><br />So my resolution for 2011 is to reduce my chronic procrastination. Notice I don't say eliminate, just reduce by some amount. I've been at it since I was in high school; I have no illusion that I can quit cold turkey. I will attempt to do assignments as they come in, rather than just before they're due. I will attempt to do the laundry before I'm totally out of clean clothes. I will respond in a timely manner to all communication. And I will blog in something approaching a regular manner.<br /><br />Happy New Year, everyone!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-79472157252015923022010-02-08T19:09:00.004-08:002010-02-08T19:43:09.859-08:00Bemused<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Tomorrow, the 9th, I begin my second half century of life. It's a weird age to think about in the abstract. Folks tend to make a big kerfluffle about birthdays that end in zero, which seems a bit arbitrary to me. In reality a person is only one day older than the day before, but, in our youth-loving culture, the higher the number of birthdays, the closer we come to being seen as irrelevant by society.<br /><br />Most of my birthdays ending in zero have been non-events. Twenty is lost in a haze of unhappiness and misdirection. Thirty was headed toward being not much of anything until it turned into thirty-and-haven't-finished-college, which made it a bit of a bummer. Forty wasn't much at the time either, but, in hindsight, I can see it as the beginning of my Great Awakening in which my life began turning into a more fulfilling direction.<br /><br />And now it is fifty. I come to the number with neither excitement nor dread. In fact, the number has no particular meaning to me by itself. I don't know what fifty is supposed to feel like and doubt that I ever will. The only dread attached to the number fifty is the baggage that other people will attempt to attach to it and me. Of course, there is good-natured teasing about getting <span style="font-weight: bold;">"old"</span>, which isn't a problem. The problems come when others assume you can't do things, like jobs, because of it. The gradual invisibility which descends on "women of a certain age." The dismissals that occur from others based on nothing but a birth-date. These are the things I am not looking forward to and plan to reject as much as possible.<br /><br />It's mind-boggling how we collectively approach age. "Really? You look so much younger than that!" No matter what <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">that</span></span> is. "You're so young for your age." Whatever <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">that</span> might mean. And we're expected to take it as some sort of compliment. As though there is something wrong with the age that we truly are. As though they are surprised that we haven't fallen apart yet. And then there is the very real possibility of age discrimination in the work place, which is the only true downside to the number attached to our birthdays.<br /><br />So, how do I approach this phenomenon? First and foremost, I refuse to let anyone categorize me as <span style="font-weight: bold;">"old."</span> Any young whippersnapper who tries to pigeonhole me is going to be sat down for a few home truths. As far as the world of work goes, I plan to omit any and all references or hints to how many birthdays I've celebrated. And, since I'm frequently told that I "don't look my age," I plan to take out stock in L'Oreal and keep those gray hairs that I've been collecting for the past quarter century well hidden.<br /><br />Given that I have no idea what fifty is supposed to look or feel like, I plan to continue on in a way that suits me. And that includes becoming a bit more outrageous. Anyone who has a problem with that will be politely invited to go suck an egg.<br /><br />I don't feel any different inside that I did when I was thirty-five. So I may just remain thirty-five. Okay, maybe thirty-six. Tomorrow will be the fifteenth anniversary of my thirty-sixth birthday. Given that I am blessed (or cursed) with long-lived genes, I could very well end up celebrating the fifty-fifth anniversary of my thirty-sixth birthday. And I intend to go forward as I have these past few years, grabbing all the gusto I can and having as many new experiences as possible.<br /><br />"We are always the same age inside." -- Gertrude Stein.<br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-25807556607364281132010-02-04T14:38:00.004-08:002010-02-04T15:29:15.901-08:00Chasing 20 minutesI was talking with a friend a couple of weeks ago and I discovered how much internet dating and job hunting have in common. Having enjoyed(?) both endeavors, it all boils down to packaging oneself in such a way that someone reading your profile or resume will want to meet you to delve into the possibilities further. And, more likely than not, you will miss the secret words and be dismissed out of hand.<br /><br />In an internet dating profile, you have one paragraph to interest the other person enough for them to even read further. Of course, if your photo doesn't fit their ideal of the 'perfect' person, then you won't even get them as far as the first paragraph in most cases. If you can get them to paragraph two, you have to pack as much information about yourself as possible into as few words as possible for them to even consider sending you a short message. Then, always mindful of the secret words that you don't know, you may write back and forth for a bit until one or the other actually suggests a cup of coffee. Then you are off for your nerve-wracking interview. It is very hard not to feel piles of rejection, even if you aren't particularly interested in the person. <br /><br />I tried to remain fairly open minded in looking at profiles. Height, occupation, visuals were not show stoppers for me. I did eliminate people whose profiles indicated wildly different outlooks than mine, but I avoided only looking at the tall, dark and handsome sorts in favor of good and interesting men.<br /><br />I was amazed at what sort of men cropped up and how quickly they made decisions without knowing anything about me. I'm no spring chicken, but I don't scare small children or animals either. And I clean up pretty good. One of the worst ones was a garbage collector who wanted to meet for dinner. As he walked up, I noticed he had immediately decided against spending any time getting to know me. This was confirmed when he said, "why don't we just go across the street and have coffee?" Rejection. And from a garbage man? That one hurt, even though I wasn't all that interested yet. I always figured it would take some time to get to know someone before you could be interested. Silly me. There were several who I rejected out of hand because either they began touching WAY too early, like the first 15 minutes, or their first topic of conversation was sex. Not that I'm not a fan of both things, but not with just anybody and certainly not less than 30 minutes into it.<br /><br />Out of all the men I met through on-line dating, only one engaged me in conversation from the very beginning and truly wanted to get to know me as much as I wanted to get to know him. Needless to say, he is the one I am with for the long haul.<br /><br />Job hunting is pretty much the same. You have one or two pages to put down all the right words on your resume so that you may be deemed worthy of an interview for a job. Of course, in all likelihood, the person who is looking at your resume is working in the human resources department, knows very little about the actual job and is scanning for 'secret words'. If the magical words aren't there, it doesn't matter how capable you are, the hiring manager will never see your resume and you won't be seriously considered for the job.<br /><br />I've applied for jobs whose description did all but say "and your name must be Natalie"; I was so clearly qualified for the position. But I apparently either didn't use the right magic words or they had only posted the job because they had to, having already decided who they wanted to hire. And, in most cases these days, you never hear anything at all from the company. They don't even send out 'drop dead' letters any more.<br /><br />In both dating and job hunting, your friends and family will try to lessen the rejection with platitudes. "The right job (or man) is just waiting for you." "Clearly it wasn't where you are supposed to be." "He was obviously the wrong one." "There are more fish in the sea." True, as far as they go, but not comforting. What if it (or he) isn't just waiting? What if there isn't any place where you are supposed to be? Sure are more fish in the sea, but clearly my angling skills are not up to snuff. And, after too, too many rejections, the temptation to give up is high.<br /><br />It all boils down to trying to package yourself so that someone will find you worthy of 20 minutes of their time. And I wonder, how did we allow ourselves to reduced to anonymous words on either a screen or resume? And why are people willing to make snap judgments about just about everything based on so very little?<br /><br />Half of a century in, it feels as though people have become more distant from each other. I don't know if that is truly the case or if it is a regional difference between where I grew up and where I have lived most of my adult life. As a kid, I knew all the neighbors for several blocks around, at least on a nodding basis. Now, I don't even know all the people in my 13 apartment building. It was even worse when I lived in California. There it took the 1989 earthquake to even get a conversation going with the folks across the hall.<br /><br />It also seems as though things have sped up considerably over the years. And that fact alone has to meddle with interpersonal connections. I swear nothing makes me want to scream more than "time is money." As if money is the most important thing in the world. I've certainly met people for whom it is, but I don't think that's most of us. And if I am correct, why are most of us allowing that hurry up, abbreviated mind set to dominate how we must deal with things and people? It might be extremely difficult to go against the flow, but if enough of us tried might we not turn the tide? What might happen if we give the person more than the 20 minutes they are desperately chasing? What if we gave them 30? We'd learn more. We'd be showing more respect. And we might just slow everything down to a more human speed. Could be it would be worth it to try.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-52267901584099419352009-10-27T14:09:00.005-07:002009-10-27T15:09:10.282-07:00Simple connectionYesterday, I woke up with one of those migraines that make me long for the days when sucking my thumb and whimpering were an acceptable way of coping with things. Thus, I expected a day filled with a whole lot of nothing much. Once the pain killers began to take the edge off, I made myself an industrial strength, super-sized cup of tea, watched a few geese migrating and looked at some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">internet</span> links that friends had sent me. Two different people had sent me a link to the same blog post. <a href="http://mylifeisapieceofcake.blogspot.com/2009/10/roger.html"> (here) </a>I cried as I read the story and mulled over its meaning.<br /><br />It is a simple story of a woman reaching out in a simple way to a total stranger. World peace is not achieved. Cancer is not cured. Nothing that the world views as grand is accomplished. And yet, something extraordinary does happen. And perhaps the tears were brought on by the very fact that it is extraordinary. Or at least much more extraordinary than it should be. I talked about it with a few folks who had read it as well. There were different reactions, as one would expect. These reactions, of course, made me consider it further.<br /><br />One person was concerned about the impact her action could have had on her small children. Granted, we do tell our kids not to talk to strangers, especially strangers on the street, with very good reason. And every parent is rightly protective of them in that way. But the person seemed to miss the other side of it. What impact, indeed, might it have on her children to see their mother showing compassion to another human being on a regular basis. A very positive one, I imagine. It very well could inform how they come to view and treat others in their lives. The mother showed respect toward a stranger and, from her own need, shared what she could. Not a bad model to be putting forth.<br /><br />A couple of others expressed concern as to whether or not the recipient was either really in need or was responsible for their own situation and thus, perhaps, not deserving of her compassion. This is a position that I understand. In our city, we've enacted laws about "aggressive pan-handling" because of certain people harassing others on the streets downtown. It became a big enough problem that the city government had to take steps. And, granted, we do have a number of groups of homeless kids constantly trying to beg money for coffee and puppy chow. It is no wonder that folks become tired of it. But, for me, there is another side to it. What do we do to ourselves, if we do not see and respond (in someway) to those who are around us? When we cease to recognize them as one of our own? I think we damage a part of ourselves. That part that was so alive on the kindergarten playground when another child was hurt. That cries over news stories from the other side of the world. That cannot bear the thought of a mother's loss of her child, no matter who she or her child might be. It's a part of our humanity that gets buried a bit each time we turn away from part of humanity.<br /><br />And I believe that this goes far beyond street people and their obvious problems. It extends to everyone else around us with their not so obvious situations. Perhaps it is the fault of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">societal</span> problems. Perhaps it is our myth of self-sufficiency. Perhaps it is nothing more than fear for our own security. Whatever it is, almost all of us pull our hearts in and shut them off from various people and situations. We believe that we cannot or should not cope with any problems other than our own. I fail miserably at it myself, but I do have two reasons why we should try to move beyond this belief.<br /><br />First of all, whatever or whoever is before us is, by definition, a part of our life. We may not have invited them. We may not have asked for the event or situation or person to present themselves, but there they are awaiting a response. Certainly, our response can be to turn away. Sometimes that is possible. We can ignore the beggar, the sick, the criminal, the inconvenient, generally without overt <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">repercussions</span>. They (or someone just like them) will continue to be there, whether we ignore them or not. We can't fix all the problems of the world. Very true. But might we not also be able to address the small problem of this minute that stands right in front of us? And if we do not, who will? And if we do not, what does that do to us?<br /><br />Secondly, every organized religion that I'm aware of (and most of the non-organized spiritualities as well) demand that we reach out to help others. The holy books and great thinkers do not suggest that it might be a good idea. They do not say, "do it if it is convenient." They do not say, "hope that someone else will come and do it." They just say do it. Whatever <span style="font-weight: bold;">IT</span> might be in the moment.<br /><br />Do I follow my own ideas all of the time? Of course, not. I get wrapped up in my own worries just the same as anyone else does. I am only too aware that I cannot solve a single solitary major problem in the world and that can quite easily lead to not even wanting to acknowledge that they exist. I am frequently asked for money and, more often than not, I am unable to give even small change. And there is no way in the world that I could respond to each request that comes my way. So what's to be done?<br /><br />I think the most important part of the story in the blog is not that she gave a man a hamburger. I think the important part is that she recognized their common humanity and reached out to him. Even without the sandwich, the impact would have been there just in looking at him, smiling at him, calling him "sir". Giving him the recognition of his dignity as a fellow human, a brother. Every so-called bum on the street once had a mother who cradled him. Somewhere along his path something went terribly wrong but that innocent child still is there. Every cranky old person once had a vibrant young life full of promise that has been buried by time or tragedy. Every lonely person sitting in a theater had dreams of vital connections that never came their way. And that is the person we should acknowledge, respect and, if possible, reach out to. Even if only for a moment.<br /><br />Did the lady of the blog permanently change the man's life? I guess that depends on what sort of change one means. Is he still homeless? Most likely. Will he be eternally grateful for the hamburger? Probably not. But in that simple interaction, several lives were impacted by her small, kind act. The man had a small amount of dignity restored to him. The woman, with problems of her own, was able to see a connection. Her children witnessed, what I am sure will be, one of many examples of how to be with other people. Many people read the story and forwarded it through the internet. And I felt compelled to write about it. Quite an impact from a trip to McDonald's.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-72611874783596323042009-10-08T17:33:00.008-07:002009-10-08T18:05:28.407-07:00Misery"Most people would rather be certain they're miserable, than risk being happy." -- Robert Anthony.<br /><br />I believe there is a rather large kernel of truth in this quote. I know in my own case, in the past I have let myself get bogged down in the misery at times, rather than grasp at the possibility of a happiness that may or may not have been just beyond my reach. Sometimes going so far as to doubt a happiness that is right before me offering things that I knew without doubt I craved in the deepest parts of my being. I don't believe that I am unique in this, which brings me to the inevitable question of why. Why do many of us do this to ourselves? Why do we occasionally work against our own interests? And what does it take to release ourselves from this self-imposed misery? As with so many of these issues, I believe a great deal of it can be boiled down to fear and external expectations.<br /><br />How do we come to the point of embracing our miseries? I seriously doubt it is a conscious act for most of us. Perhaps it is cumulative. We have innumerable small nips and bites take away small but essential pieces of our happiness over a long period of time, until all we notice is the pain and forget the happiness or potential for happiness that once inhabited the places now filled with pain and loss.<br /><br />Perhaps it comes with an awareness that risk can equally lead to much worse misery as easily as to happiness, and the fear of that outcome deters us from reaching for the potential happiness that also could come about. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.<br /><br />Also, there is the risk of possible censure of family, friends or society because the happiness that calls to us falls outside acceptable norms and expectations. Perhaps our true happiness lies in running away and joining a circus. Without a doubt, others would warn against pursuing pipe dreams and not being mature or responsible. Conformity or fear of criticism frequently suppress the true desires of our hearts, sometimes to the point of killing them completely. In time, we become a self-policing organism that will not allow itself to acknowledge that the stars exist, much less reach out for them. Once this self-policing is firmly in place, we frequently don't recognize gifts of happiness that appear before us wrapped up in pretty paper and a bow. And, if we do notice it, we may be suspicious that the contents can truly be what it appears to be, thus perpetuating the all to familiar misery. In holding tight to the familiar misery, we seemingly hope to block out even deeper misery. But, of course, there is no guarantee of that either.<br /><br />How do we shake off the shackles of long standing conformity, misery, pain, that restrain our hand's reaching for the possibility of finding our true bliss? I suspect it requires a conscious focusing on how we can move deliberately toward joy and release our hold on the constant niggling pains that we've allowed ourselves to claim as our own. Not an easy task, certainly. It is terribly easy to lapse back into familiar patterns. Too easy to substitute acceptance for happiness. To cling to stability rather than risk change for the sake of happiness and fulfillment. To exchange a proper public image for all out goofy joy.<br /><br />As I was examining some of these questions with a friend, discussing the potential for a great happiness that had suddenly appeared in my life, she offered very wise words. "Accept it and say 'thank you'." And so I did. And so I shall. It is the only truly rational response.<br /><br />"Say yes quickly, if you know, if you've known it from before the beginning of the universe." -- Rumi.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-21087034366225421092009-08-17T16:58:00.007-07:002009-08-17T18:11:34.919-07:00Blog anniversaryOne year ago today, I began this blog. Yesterday, I scanned through all of the 85 posts and reflected on the experience.<br /><br />I noticed that the blog quickly evolved into something more than I thought it was going to be. I started out thinking that I'd be writing short posts that would unearth more meaning behind my daily tasks. I also thought there would be more about knitting. It started out that way, but it didn't stay that way very long. For the most part, I'm examining things that puzzle me using the filter of my own experiences. I also find myself challenging the status quo. That's right, me and Don Quixote tilting at windmills.<br /><br />The length of my posts has expanded as well. Early on they were in the 300-400 word range. Now the average is 850 words with double that happening occasionally. Not that word count is important on this blog, but it is interesting. I don't know if I was being timid in the beginning or if it was just a function of the shift in focus, but it has changed.<br /><br />I've learned several things through blogging this past year. First, I quit worrying about whether or not anyone was reading it. Early on I'd worry that no one was reading it if there were no comments. I installed a site meter which shows me the number of hits and sometimes the state or country it came from. I was thrilled when I realized that my blog had been read on every continent. This started out primarily through other bloggers and other people on my social networking site recommending my blog to others. Some have even embedded links to my blog from their blogs. A big thanks to those folks, especially Colin.<br /><br />I worried for awhile that no comments meant that my writing was too personal and didn't carry anything that someone else could relate to. But then, I started getting e-mails and messages on social networking sites that negated that worry. Although I'm sure that some of the posts didn't speak to anyone but me.<br /><br />I also learned not to pay attention to, nor feed, the trolls. I've had great exchanges with people who disagree with me and we've given each other food for thought. And those who disagreed also afforded me the opportunity to more fully explore the issue for myself and to offer a clearer explanation. I will, however, absolutely not engage with trolls who snipe from cover hurling verbal abuse. Such people have been out there since the beginning of internet exchanges and they aren't going to go away. So I ignore them in the hope that they will go find another blog or blogger to hate for awhile.<br /><br />Being the Queen of Why, I naturally considered why I began the blog and, more importantly, why I continue it. I honestly can't remember exactly why I decided to start. I have a vague notion that it was fueled by a desire to put more discipline into my writing with a hope of eventually establishing myself as a writer. But even that seems to be a part of why I kept at it more than why I launched it. Whatever the reason, my journal hasn't seen a lot of business since I began the blog. Where I used to fill up two journals a year, the current one has been going for more than a year and has room for more.<br /><br />And the why of why I keep at it is even more elusive to me. I know that I enjoy it. I know that I'm very happy with the brief and not so brief contacts with others that have happened. It has given me more discipline in my writing and has helped me move closer to the goal of putting 'author' on a business card. I've also learned not to force a posting if it just seems not to want to come. I guess ultimately I continue with it because it continues to give me things to learn. It gives me a place to flesh out ideas that are swirling through my mind. It has given, for the most part, pleasant interactions with people I most likely would have never had contact with. Not writing has never been an option for me. I've done it since I was a child and I'm not likely to stop before I stop breathing. I've never done it in a public way before this year, so, in a sense, it is teaching me a bit about being courageous. And the exploration will continue.<br /><br />Thank you for reading.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-91085721377042929022009-08-11T12:10:00.004-07:002009-08-11T14:10:57.520-07:00Star TrekI'm a little bit of a Star Trek geek. I don't have a pair of Spock ears nor have I studied Klingon grammar, but I do enjoy the various renditions of Star Trek that have appeared over the years. I even have some favorite episodes, although I generally call them 'that episode where X happened', rather than the title of the episode. And given a choice, Star Trek the Next Generation is my favorite. Why in the world am I telling you all of this? Well, it just so happened that my all-time favorite episode was on last night and I was happy at the prospect of seeing it again. This, naturally, made me start thinking about what it was that I liked about it.<br /><br />My favorite episode of Star Trek the Next Generation (STTNG) is called <span style="font-style:italic;">Darmock</span>. In this episode, Captain Picard encounters a race of people who speak in metaphors, metaphors that make no sense at all to our heroes. Great frustration ensues on both sides. Then the other captain, Dathan, beams himself and Picard down to the nearest planet. There they must join together to conquer a beast that would very much like to kill them both. To make a long story short, the two captains begin to communicate through their joint struggle for survival. Dathan, in the end, dies in the effort. To me, it is not just a story about cooperation, but also about the importance of truly listening and trying to communicate.<br /><br />Obviously, it's extreme to risk death in order to communicate, but the various steps that were shown could be quite valuable in more mundane settings. They started out simply acknowledging that they did not understand each other. This, of course, led to some very hard work in listening, asking questions and looking for areas of agreement. Perhaps the Star Trek universe has the advantage in that there are so many different cultures and languages that no one makes too many assumptions about what the other is trying to get across. We who share a common language, rightly or wrongly, expect that the other person will understand clearly what we mean. This is probably inevitable to a great extent, but the addition of clarifying questions would go a long way towards fully understanding. After all, we all bring different experiences and/or different cultures to every situation we are in. We can't always assume we are speaking the <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">same</span></span> language in every sense of the word. Our words may be the same, but our understanding of them can be quite different. <br /><br />Another aspect of their communication style is the fact that they shared stories with each other. This required a type of listening that did not mandate an immediate response. In this way, the listener had no other job than to listen and to try to understand. Any response prior to the end of the story would have been inappropriate if not downright rude. In the episode, the only thing the 'listener' said was, "Tell me more." This 'help me understand you' approach shows respect for the speaker and a real desire to truly connect with them. If we were to include a bit more of this approach in communicating with those around us, I'm willing to bet that the incidences of hurt feelings and anger would be reduced. It would be a good experiment to try in any event.<br /><br />There was also very little to distract them from their attempt to communicate, except of course for that pesky beast. But aside from the fighting, the rest of the time they had nothing more pressing or distracting pulling at them. I have little doubt that our hectic, busy lives interfere in our efforts to connect and truly communicate with others. While it is true that it would be impossible to spend the time and effort necessary for that level of communication with absolutely everyone, there are times when I believe it is absolutely mandatory to try, especially with those who matter to us most. I have been fortunate to know a few people who truly want to do that level of listening. They are so restful to be around, partly because you can trust that they are engaged in the process every bit as much as you are. There isn't quite as much pressure on the speaker to cast about for multiple ways of communicating the same point. There is trust that any miscommunication will be dealt with with clarifying questions rather than angry accusations. <br /><br />There also was little on the agenda for those two characters beyond communicating and surviving. Neither one of them was scanning each word or phrase for something to disagree with or to use against the other one. So much of our supposed listening devolves into plotting out our responses. How could I possibly listen to you if I am trying to come up with a witty remark or looking for someway to puncture your ideas? In work situations, the quick response is expected and there is very little room for communication beyond facts and figures. And I think that this need for speed bleeds over into our personal relationships, where it really doesn't belong. I doubt that this is intentional on anyone's part, but it happens far too often for it to be good for us.<br /><br />In the Star Trek episode, an opening was made for a connection with another race and Captain Picard personally was touched by his connection with Dathan and his efforts. In real life, I think we could do a lot worse than creating openings between people and connecting on an emotional level. And in real life, we could also deepen and strengthen bonds with those around us. We could do a lot worse.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-79960708890351329882009-07-30T10:07:00.015-07:002009-07-30T12:07:46.212-07:00Escaping the heat.Yesterday was one of those days that made me wish that I was a better writer, a better poet. In the middle of a freakishly abnormal heat wave, I decided to drive over to the coast rather than melt and whine at home. It's only about 90 miles to the ocean. So close that I wonder why I don't go more often. I took off early in the morning with no plan other than to drive west until I saw the Pacific.<br /><br />Not far past the outskirts of the metro area, one starts climbing the hills that lead into the Coastal Range. The range is small, as mountain ranges go. The summit is only about 1600 feet. But it is beautiful. With a few gaping exceptions. Sailing past the farmland that lies just below them, I felt my spirit lift as the trees began to close in behind and over the car. Frequently when driving in the hills here, it resembles nothing so much as entering a leafy green tunnel with the branches joining over the road allowing only random patches of sunlight to land directly on the road. I don't know that it was actually cooler there, but it certainly gives the mental impression of feeling cooler. Whether it is the unrelenting green or the sense of being sheltered by all of those trees, I do not know, but it never fails to improve my outlook.<br /><br />What never fails to dampen my elevated mood are the clear cut areas. Driving through forests here always carries the possibility of coming across those areas leased to lumber companies, which have stripped entire mountainsides of everything taller than two feet in height. The devastation is sickening with stumps and branches strewn every which way and, all too frequently, no seedlings planted to replace what has been taken. The feeling is one of witnessing violence and there are no words adequate to describe it. Sometimes the companies leave a thin line of trees near the road in a futile attempt to mask what has happened beyond them. I know all of the 'rational' arguments about jobs and the need for lumber, but it leaves such scars. I don't get physically ill at the sight as I used to, but it still mutes the shine of an otherwise perfect day.<br /><br />About an hour out from the city, deep into the mountains, there is a restaurant that we always stop at. Discovered it when the kids were little. It isn't a great gourmet place, it is a funky place modeled on a logging camp motif. (I know, ironic after the last paragraph.) The food is good and the feeders outside of the windows provide a variety of birds to watch while you wait. It's hard to imagine driving this way to the beach without stopping there. It's just part of the package.<br /><br />Finally, I come out of the mountains and almost immediately there is the Pacific. Or rather, there <span style="font-style:italic;">should</span> have been the Pacific. There were low-lying clouds covering the entire coastline. With no particular destination in mind, beyond not going to the usual places, I turned left to see what would present itself. Only occasionally did the sun power through to reveal blue ocean below. And I noticed that it is quite unnerving to drive down the coast highway, on the edge of cliffs that should be overlooking the ocean, and only see thick clouds below. On curves especially, it felt as though one wrong move and I could fall off the edge of the world entirely. There are many 'Scenic Outlook' sites along the coast and every one of them yielded a wide vista of clouds and nothing else. So I kept driving south.<br /><br />I sped past all of the beaches and towns that I had stopped at before, still not sure where I was going to end up. The tiny little harbor towns seem much more appealing driving through them than they probably are to live in, but my fantasy of having a place by the ocean was running rampant. Little places like Garibaldi and Hebo which basically have one street, one grocery, one theater, etc. let one imagine a simpler and, perhaps, more real type of existence. Never mind the certainty that the reality might drive one quite mad.<br /><br />When I had had just about enough driving for one sitting, I saw a sign that read "Nestucca Beach, next right." So right I went and drove the 3 or 4 miles to the beach. While there were occasional splashes of sunlight peeking through the clouds on the highway, down by the ocean there were none. The fog was so thick that the sun was nothing more than a hazy little ball overhead. <br /><br />I walked about a mile up the beach and did a little people watching. Since it was 65 degrees on a weekday, there weren't too many people to watch which is why the ones who were there caught my attention. I wondered about the two teenage girls lying on towels in swimsuits attempting to get a tan. They must have been freezing. I watched a couple of chocolate Labs dashing into the water chasing a stick, which they then proceeded to carry together down the beach. I don't believe I've ever seen two dogs carrying opposite ends of a stick before, but it seemed like usual behavior for those two. There were a few intrepid souls in wet suits with boogie boards braving the frigid water. My favorite was a grandmother with a toddler. The toddler was running for all he was worth, collecting rocks and passing them on to his grandmother. Then, when she had enough, he would take them one at a time and attempt to throw them into the water. More often than not, he missed the ocean.<br /><br />The beach itself was littered with the remains of the gulls' breakfast. Crab had been on the menu and I had to watch my step for a ways so that I didn't step on shells and pincers. There were also tire tracks despite the fact that I was far past the sign that said motor vehicles were not allowed on the beach. All the usual beach debris could be found, partial shells, bits of seaweed and the odd cigarette butt.<br /><br />As I walked, I noticed that the tide was coming in, so I picked a spot and planted myself, waiting for it to come to me. I gazed out watching the variations of the waves tumbling in for the better part of an hour before the ocean caught me. The water was slate gray with only the white bubbles at the top of the waves relieving the color. I watched the near approach of the water for awhile until my focus shifted to the furthest waves I could see coming in. They couldn't have been more than a thousand yards away, the visibility was so short. Those tunnels of water collapsing in on themselves gave the barest glint of green near their crests before resolving back to gray. I continued to look outward, waiting for the water to reach me, with a fairly blank mind. Just watching. Just noticing. Once or twice, my mind skipped back to other times, other beaches, other companions, but for the most part it was just me, the ocean and nothing more. Or rather, nothing less.<br /><br />At long last, the water reached out and slapped me. Nothing quite prepares one for the first touch of the cold water. It came up and captured my feet up to my ankles before it pulled back. It must have been undecided about wanting to play because it took another 10 minutes before another wave was brave enough to reach me again. I shifted my focus to the place where the water was striking and wondered with each new wave if this one would be the one that really got me. Childish musings perhaps, almost as if I was daring it to tag me. As the water became more consistent in its approach, I planted my feet more firmly, braced for the big one. No truly big ones arrived, at least not while I stood there. But I did enjoy standing in the low surf, comparing and contrasting the sensations.<br /><br />After awhile, the grandmother and child came back up the beach. Their adventure apparently over because now the child was being carried. Too much excitement for one day, most likely. A woman bounced past, walking her collie. And one of the guys in the wetsuits had had enough and made his way past me and away. I walked back down the beach, more slowly than I had walked up it and made the climb over the dune that would lead back to my car. <br /><br />I half thought that I'd go in search of another place, but I found that I was done for the day. I got all of the sand off my feet and pointed the car back towards the highway. I always tell myself when I go to the beach that I'm going to stop and get some saltwater taffy. And, as usual, this time I didn't do it either. I apparently like the idea of taffy more than I actually like taffy. So I brought no physical souvenirs from the excursion, unless I can count a sunburnt nose and aching calf muscles from the climb up the dune. Yet, somehow, it feels as though this particular day will be with me for quite some time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-253618689334349782009-07-19T14:07:00.009-07:002009-07-19T16:28:48.109-07:00Assumptions and labelsIf you ever want to see the entertaining sight of steam coming out of my ears, start slapping some labels on me. It never fails to get me hot under the collar and has ever since I was quite young. Whether it is a good label or a bad label, it almost never fails to chafe. I've known this about myself for a very long time, but I never parsed out the reasons why. It always leads to assumptions, which frequently are incorrect and can in turn lead to very unwelcome outcomes.<br /><br />My first memories around this came from when I was 5 or 6 years old. I was introduced to someone, who leaned over and talked to me as if I were the village idiot simply because of my age. I don't remember who it was or what they said precisely, but I do remember fuming at the way I had been patronized. I'm sure that I couldn't have described it then beyond the fact that I didn't like being treated like a baby, but I clearly remember feeling insulted. Now the person obviously hadn't planned to insult me. It would have never occurred to them that it was even possible. They were merely acting out of their assumptions based on the label 'little girl' that I was carrying at the time. The same sort of things have happened throughout my life as the label has changed from 'girl' to 'young woman' to just plain 'female.' Depending on what assumptions are attached to the labels, my resultant response has ranged from slight annoyance to extreme irritation, especially if it has led to my being disregarded because of them.<br /><br />At a slightly different angle, I find that I bristle when confronted with the assumption that I don't know my own mind or mean what I say. For the life of me, I can't figure out what purpose this might serve. In fact, I can't see anything but difficulties arising from that. Real fireworks can be seen whenever I hear the words, "you don't mean that." Given that I generally don't say things that I don't mean, this feels like it has to be some sort of self-serving position taken by the speaker. (Don't want to assume that, however.) This one rose up again recently when I decided to stop seeing someone. I meant what I said about not wanting to see him any more the first time I said it. And every time I repeated it for almost 5 months. And it makes me wonder why some people assume that 'A' means 'B' when 'A' is the only thing that has consistently been said. It seems like a sort of deliberate miscommunication, which kind of boggles the mind. It's difficult enough to communicate without making it more so.<br /><br />I think my allergic reaction to labels increased in adulthood because of all the assumptions that were hung on labels that I more or less had accepted. I ran headlong into one of those right after I got married. All the people that I had hung out with, went to movies with, or just did regular things with, all assumed that I was no longer available. It blew my mind. I was immediately dropped from standing invitations and I had to chase folks down to clear up the matter. Apparently, I was supposed to be fused to my husband and not do anything on my own. This only increased once my sons were born. I had apparently disappeared and could not have a separate identity. That was an extremely difficult labeling assumption to dodge and, at times, I let myself get buried under it, which was truly unfair to everyone. Similar labels and assumptions came attached to my choice in jobs, education and spirituality. And they almost always missed the mark. The labels were too broad and the assumptions too all-encompassing to have any real meaning.<br /><br />I have no clear idea why most of us, if not all, compartmentalize others based on assumptions. Perhaps it is nothing more than a sorting function in our brains to help us make a semblance of order out of the overwhelming possibilities that exist in our world. But the outcome of it can move well beyond the realm of irritation and cause real damage to our relationships and unnecessary stress in our lives. This can happen based on the labels we attach to others, or based on how we connect assumptions between different people. If one of our parents employed disapproving silences to control our behavior, we might assume that similar silences mean the same thing in other relationships. If someone in our past abused our trust with lies, we might assume that either no one is to be trusted or perhaps that everyone lies. If we have been manipulated in the past, we may believe that others are trying to do it to us again. The examples could go on and on. And how sad that is for all parties involved.<br /><br />But what's to be done about it? I suspect a lot of it is done unconsciously, based on past experiences. And I imagine that a portion of that is done out of self-preservation and fear of repeating a bad experience. Perhaps the only thing we can try to do is to slow down and consider those around us, recognizing that they are unique in our experience. By being slow to assume, we don't need to risk ourselves unnecessarily, merely allow enough time for the other to reveal themselves in more depth, which in its turn could allow for more depth in the relationship we have with them. If we look at each new person with an active curiosity as to who they are, rather than quickly labeling and pigeonholing them, we open up new possibilities. And if we look at older relationships without the filter of assumptions, we give others the opportunity to reveal pleasant surprises about themselves. And, should we find things that we'd rather not see in them, at least we have a firmer basis for any decision we make.<br /><br />"Assumptions are the termites of relationships." -- Henry Winkler.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-86313430878168296182009-07-16T13:07:00.013-07:002009-07-16T14:52:52.412-07:00ContentmentBack when I was in undergraduate school, after we had solved all the problems of the world over lunch, several of us had quasi-serious discussions about which book we would memorize if books were banned a la Ray Bradbury's <span style="font-style:italic;">Fahrenheit 451</span>. I had no trouble at all deciding on which one; <span style="font-style:italic;">Jane Eyre</span> by Charlotte Bronte. It has been a favorite of mine for a long time and I still go back and re-read it every few years.<br /><br />I do have my issues with Jane. I was thoroughly disgusted with her for abandoning Rochester the way she did, but I eventually gave her a pass on that, partly because she did eventually return and partly because of the mores of the time. I preferred to think that she would have behaved differently if she lived later than the 19th century. In my latest re-reading of the book, however, I came across something that made me want to shake her until her teeth rattled. When little Adele asks her if they will be happy, she replies that they will work hard and be content. What the...? What an insipid thing to say to the child! I was outraged! I was livid! I know, I know, over-reaction. Acknowledging that it had more to do with me than with what Ms. Bronte wrote in her book, I gave it some thought.<br /><br />I found dozens of quotes advocating contentment as a noble goal for life and I even agreed with a few. The quotations that cautioned about wanting more and more things seemed to parallel my views. I've never been inclined to focus on the acquisition of things. It always seemed like it took too much effort away from other things that I was interested in. But the other quotes annoyed me. They generally came from religious or political sources and they seemed to attribute a high sense of virtue to contentment that I simply cannot see. It was as if they were promoting contentment as the opiate of the masses.<br /><br />To my mind, this sort of contentment equals settling for less. Jane offered Adele contentment as a goal and not the happiness that she desired. It is true that neither Adele nor anyone else has a guarantee of each and every happiness they desire. But by eliminating the possibility of reaching for some of the more important, life-enhancing things that are available, it seems to me that even contentment is not possible. Contentment may end up being the end result, but as an all encompassing goal, it seems terribly inadequate.<br /><br />It also seems as though it requires a certain amount of self-deception a la the fox in Aesop's fable. The fox wanted the grapes and tried everything he could think of to get them. When he failed, he walked away having decided that the grapes were probably sour and he didn't want them anyway. Our society reinforces this view on all sides. We tell others that what they wanted isn't worth it, or wouldn't make them happy, or that it is the wrong thing to want. When the fact of the matter is someone else simply doesn't know if it is worth it or not to you. And, at one time or another, most people agree and stop striving for whatever it is. The pressure is exerted to do what is 'acceptable' and 'reasonable' until we frequently relax into a vanilla pudding type of existence and give up on our fondest dreams, hopes and desires.<br /><br />After having been a big fan of the vanilla pudding club when I was younger, I find that I've lost my taste for it entirely. Not only did I not reach for other flavors, I barely acknowledged their existence. And in that way, I committed what I consider to be the most unforgivable of sins; I wasted a lot of time and did not live my life. I don't plan on making the same mistakes in the future. I'll be trying every unusual flavor that crosses my path. I'll be reaching for every scrap of joy that life offers. And I'll be doing so without the overly excessive concern I had for society's approval that I had in my youth. I'll have to pick another book and heroine than Jane Eyre. She's been reduced to a cautionary tale for me. I'm going to be browsing on the adventure shelves for something else entirely.<br /><br />"Be happy while you're living; for you're a long time dead." -- Scottish proverbUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-68009910591959688672009-07-11T13:53:00.016-07:002009-07-11T22:25:07.923-07:00FroggingAs most knitters know, 'frogging' is when you rip out what you have been working on. It can happen when you discover a very obvious mistake in the work. It can be an admission of defeat. Or it can be simply because your tastes or interests have changed and you wish to do something entirely different. Whatever the reason, knitters are generally reluctant to do it. I've been known to abandon a project for a year before succumbing to the need to frog it. And, after having frogged half of a sweater the other evening, I found myself wondering not just about frogging knitting, but the role that frogging has in other areas of life.<br /><br />As I sat there unraveling the knitting and winding the yarn back into a ball, I began to think about the reluctance to do it. This sweater had been sitting for months with a huge mistake staring at me from near the beginning. I've known for all those months that it would have to be frogged, but I still dragged my feet about actually doing it. Why?<br /><br />One possibility might be that I had invested so much time in the knitting that I felt like I had wasted time and effort which could only be redeemed by the myth that I would eventually fix the mistake and finish the sweater. It was as if only the outcome could justify the process it took to get to that point in the sweater. This seemed a bit wobbly to my thinking. Don't get me wrong; I like a successful outcome just as much as the next one. But I also enjoy the process while it is happening. I don't tend to focus on finishing an item until I'm about three quarters done and my mind has started mapping out the next thing. The hundreds of thousands of stitches made over hours and hours are not somehow less enjoyable when an anticipated outcome doesn't come about. This applies to other areas of our lives. Careers, relationships, personal goals, anything we aimed for does not lose its authenticity or value when we release it in favor of something else. It was valuable while it was valuable and that doesn't change when the goal changes.<br /><br />Similarly, there is sometimes a sense of failure. We have missed the mark of the original goal and therefore must be less than what we thought we were. This too seems wrong somehow. There are lessons to be learned in the process that could very well be valuable on the next project. We might have learned a new way to do something. We might have learned that we never want to use a particular technique again. We may even have learned the difficult lesson of walking away because it no longer suits us. There doesn't seem to be any virtue in continuing to the end of some project simply because it was started. Our society, of course, frowns on this attitude whether in the micro or the macro. But rather than failure, there is a wisdom in not continuing with things for no other reason than we started them.<br /><br />Another possibility is that it simply does not suit us for some reason. Our tastes change. Our needs change. Heck, even our sizes change. If we discover half way through the sweater that something about it no longer suits us, where is the virtue in finishing it? If it is finished, the result would be a sweater that we will never wear. Wouldn't it be better to reclaim the basic materials and turn it into something else?<br /><br />Obviously, society condemns frogging when it moves beyond the realm of knitting. No one wants to be labeled a quitter/failure/what-have-you. Which is probably why knitters are reluctant to frog a project. But society condemns all sorts of things for the sake of enforcing conformity. There is a need to examine that condemnation. Generalized norms do not take into account individualized needs or interests. There is no accommodation for living in the moment and responding to what appears before us. Seemingly once something is begun, it must be continued no matter what. The yarn that I recovered from the frogged sweater is happily becoming a different sweater with a different design. And other things that I have frogged from my life are being knitted into much better things as well. How much richer our lives might be if we learned to frog as needed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-89923026756568928772009-06-29T17:19:00.005-07:002009-06-29T19:06:07.530-07:00The problem with hope.Or perhaps it is more a problem with the inconsistent approach we have toward the notion of hope. We, by turns, tell people that they have to have hope and not to get their hopes up. The various and sundry sayings on the topic run the gamut of 'there is no such thing' to 'you can't live without it.' So which is it? Or is it both? Or neither?<br /><br />I considered the possibility that the difference between not getting your hopes up and having to have hope might lie in the situations that they are used. This didn't seem to work out, however. <br /><br />We seem to say 'don't get your hopes up' in situations where there actually IS some small possibility that whatever we are hoping for could happen. It might not be probable or likely, but it is not totally impossible. I think we see this frequently in situations with children. It is almost parental code for 'it ain't gonna happen.' It serves to delay likely disappointment, but not much else. The person who says it probably feels fairly certain that the let-down will be coming, but doesn't want to voice the bad news yet. If the hope is that an absent parent will finally, finally come to visit or that Santa will bring a pony, the adult on the spot has a strong idea that neither one is going to happen. So what is accomplished by delaying the disappointment until the non-arrival of the parent or the pony? It could be that the adult also harbors a tiny hope that they will not have to disappoint the child. It could be that they want to protect the child from the inevitable sadness. It could be that they want to delay their own sadness in seeing the sadness of the child until the last moment. But I wonder if it really serves anyone to do so.<br /><br />The same holds true when adults use it with each other. Perhaps the one saying it has seen the other person face too much disappointment and can't bear the notion that they will be flattened by disappointment yet again. <br /><br />On the other hand, when things look as if they are irretrievably hopeless, we tell the person that they 'have to have hope.' "There is always hope." Etc. etc. Even when we know for a fact that there is not always hope, the semblance of hope must be maintained. In fact, the more desperate a situation looks, the more we insist that there is hope. A cure may be found. It is only temporary. It's probably not as bad as it looks. It is always said as an attempt to cheer someone up. But absent any evidence that it might be true, it frequently falls flat.<br /><br />We also are skeptical of anyone who seems to maintain hope in the face of improbable odds. At the very least, we might consider them to be desperate. In the extreme, they are simple or deluded. A perpetual Pollyanna is not taken very seriously.<br /><br />So what the heck is going on here? I'm not certain by any stretch of the imagination, but the most obvious possibility is that it is a vital survival mechanism. What would happen to someone who truly had no hope? There is at least some chance that they would give up and be able to release the pain of disappointment. If there is no hope, then there is no expectation and it would make the pain of disappointment less. But I think that would only be true of a minority of people. And the effort to reduce pain would also reduce joy. <br /><br />Even at my most cynical and at the lowest points of my life, there has always remained just a tiny seed of hope that whatever pain or loss was going on would somehow be lessened in the future. It may not, in fact, happen, but being able to anticipate potential improvement in the future can remove enough of the edge of the current pain to carry on into the future. It could be self-delusion or a coping mechanism, but it also could be an innate survival tool. Even if it is delusional, a reasonable amount of hope cannot hurt us in the short term and may help us make it through to a better place.<br /><br />"Never deprive someone of hope...it may be all they have." -- Anonymous.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-27827101634646418652009-06-22T13:14:00.015-07:002009-06-22T15:04:34.813-07:00Missing the ObviousSpring came late to Portland this year. And as I've done every spring since I moved to my current home, I've eagerly watched for the camellia bush outside my kitchen window to bloom. Since it is on the north side of the building, it is usually the last to bloom. So as its sisters on the south side burst into lovely colors and smells, I stepped up watching for 'my' camellia to bloom. As the month passed, there were absolutely no flowers on it. It must have been trimmed at the wrong time last year, because there was not a single bud on the entire plant. I kept watching and watching, no camellias. I was so focused on the camellias that I almost missed out entirely on the azalea that is planted right next to it. It wasn't until the roses started rioting across the back fence that I turned my attention away from the camellia and its lack of flowers this year.<br /><br />And this in turn made me consider what else I have missed while focused too closely on something else. The short answer is that I'll probably never know for certain. But it bears some examination so as to reduce the occurrence of it in the future. Like most people, I've spent the majority of my adulthood wrapped up in whatever task/person/event demanded my attention at the time, to the point of shutting out even the idea that other things could or should merit some of my attention as well. <br /><br />I've been a master at missing the obvious most of my life. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, "it's as plain as the nose on your face," or "if it had been a snake, it would have bit you," I'd never need to work a day in my life. And that is not counting the times I have heard, "how could you not know?" I was always too busy trying to be a good daughter/mother/wife/friend to even recognize other possibilities that would have enriched my life if I'd but welcomed them in. There are a few huge ones that come to mind and I'm sure there must be dozens of others.<br /><br />And don't get me started on the more subtle possibilities that I have let pass me by. They must number in the hundreds, if not thousands. I'm fairly blind as far as subtle things going on in my own life, my own possibilities. Which is odd because I tend to recognize the subtleties that occur for other people around me. The standard joke with me is that I wouldn't catch a hint if it hit me upside the head with a two-by-four. I suspect this might be a by-product of focusing on one thing and missing another. But part of it must be due to my preference for directness. So, what's to be done?<br /><br />I'm happy to report that I've gotten better about noticing/recognizing some things that come into my life unexpectedly. I'm not to the level of awareness that I hope to achieve, however. And I don't think it is necessary to throw the baby of specific focus out with the bathwater in trying to open myself up to more possibilities and realities. The trick must lie in balancing the two, the question is how. I suspect that it demands a shifting of focus, a more deliberate observation of what is happening both around me and within me. Not focusing on the forest or the trees, but on both in a constant moving back and forth. It requires considerable discipline to avoid sleepwalking through life, to live deliberately and wide awake.<br /><br />My long observation of the camellia wasn't for naught, however. For the first time since I have been watching it, I noticed that a song sparrow kept hopping along my window sill. And as the weather grew warmer, I saw that she was using the sill as a launching pad into the bush. Once it was warm enough to open the windows, there were delightful baby bird noises coming from it. So, my focus may have been misdirected for awhile, but there were rewards anyway. As there always seem to be, if we but recognize them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-28234550063260116802009-06-11T18:42:00.014-07:002009-06-12T03:38:02.445-07:00CravingsNot too long ago, I was in a conversation with a few women. And as happens among women who have given birth, we were swapping 'war stories' about our experiences. The amusing part was when we told our various craving stories. Pregnant women are notorious for craving odd things to eat. There didn't seem to be any sort of particular pattern, each of us just wanted to eat some strange things at times before our children were born. None of us were the classic pickles and ice cream cravers. In fact, I was a bit smug that before my second son was born I was strictly scarfing down raw cauliflower. We won't get into my craving for Jack in the Box tacos with the first one. <br /><br />The conventional wisdom, whether it is supported by science or not I don't know, is that if one is craving something specific then it is something that you need. If you want a banana, maybe you need more potassium in your diet. If you want a dill pickle, perhaps you need sodium. I can't hazard a guess at what I might have needed from those dreadful tacos, but with healthier choices, I imagine that there could be something to the benefits of those cravings. Just so long as a craving doesn't turn itself into an addiction, there doesn't seem to be any problem in responding to it. A scoop of ice cream is fine, a half a gallon is something else entirely.<br /><br />This led me to think about non-food related cravings and what they might spring from. If we carry the analogy further, surely they also reflect some sort of need that the person has. We all remember (or perhaps were) the kid in grade school who would do anything to try to be accepted by the other kids. Maybe they were a bit socially inept, perhaps they wore the 'wrong' shoes, or they were just not part of the 'in' crowd. For whatever reason, they felt incredibly isolated and generally mocked by others. Pity was the best they could hope for. But what was really going on here? Was it something worthy of pity or contempt? Not really. For whatever reason they craved connection and, some how, others found them to be unworthy of it. As they got older, they most likely just gave up and hid the need deep within themselves. Some might have even taken the 'sour grapes' tactic and decided that they never wanted it in the first place. My question is, inevitably, why? Why were they mocked for what is a natural desire? <br /><br />If we look at the food cravings, they are usually met with smiles and good humor. Ha ha ha, you wanted pickles and ice cream. But there isn't any contempt as there seems to be with various cravings for human contact. In fact, even expressing them is considered to be unacceptable. Almost as if it is some sort of weakness to have human needs and admit it. And it truly has me befuddled. What is the possible risk or danger here, to either side of the equation? Nope, can't come up with anything.<br /><br />Many, many years ago, I worked in the hospital wing of a very large convent. One of the sister's minds had slipped well away from the accomplished, intelligent woman that she had been earlier in her life. She spent her days yelling at little boys who weren't there and crying. Her answer, when asked why she was crying, was always the same. "No one loves me." All of her accomplishments in life disappeared in the face of unrelieved loneliness. No doubt, she had felt the loneliness for many years, but given the nature of her commitment, she probably never voiced it. And, while there was no large scale solution to her past, most of the aides could calm her merely by assuring her that they loved her.<br /><br />On the opposite side of the spectrum, I used to have a next door neighbor in her 80s. She was a crusty old bird who always spoke her mind and the devil could take the hindmost. She'd been widowed, one of her sons had died, even her dog had been killed. But there was no lingering sadness or isolation in her daily life. She took to summoning me over and telling me we were going to have tea. And so we did. It never occurred to me to turn her down. She was obviously living her life on her own terms and would not sit around hoping for company, she demanded it. I think, however, that she was more of the exception than the rule.<br /><br />And I wonder why. It is almost as if we have some sort of shame around asking for what we need from others. Or perhaps it is a loss of face concerning the fact that whatever it is we crave has not been given to us and we suspect that we are, therefore, not worthy of it. Could it be that those childhood traumas still inform our adult needs? Or is there some sort of tacit agreement between everyone that such things can only come as a gift and the request somehow negates that. On yet another hand, perhaps the asking carries an assumption of a demand on someone else. Or.......I don't know exactly what all else. <br /><br />More importantly, how does one live truly from one's essential self, if an effort has to be maintained to deny parts of that core? How do we respond to people in our lives with cravings that we may or may not be able to answer? How do we understand them? Maybe those with cravings should feel free to ask for what they need. Maybe those hearing the request should wonder how long the person has been hungry and make them a small snack. After all, there is not anything to criticize in the cravings we all have.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-37865828236074974082009-06-06T17:42:00.004-07:002009-06-06T19:00:01.570-07:00Random goodnessWhatever can happen to anyone can happen to me." -- Muriel Rukeyser.<br /><br />My first thought when I read this was that it applied to negative outcomes. We read about plane crashes, natural disasters, illnesses and think 'there but for the grace of God, go I." We collectively and openly recognize that life has a random quality that makes everyone of us vulnerable. Whether it be a large natural disaster or a smaller personal catastrophe, something negative can and most assuredly will happen to everyone at some point. We try not to obsess about it; we try to prepare for it. But there is no way to avoid whatever it is from coming to us, whether 'it' is anything from a minor disappointment up to death. This is so patently obvious that there really isn't much to explore about it.<br /><br />The other face of this coin bears some looking at, however. We tend to overlook the possibility of good things coming to us just as surely as the bad ones do. I wonder why this seems less the case than it's negative counterpart. When we hear of someone else's good fortune, we can feel glad for them, especially if they are close to us. Frequently, however, we feel envy. And if their good fortune involves something we'd hope to have for ourselves, the envy can expand to very ugly proportions.<br /><br />Why is this? I think it comes from a combination of things. Partly it is a result of deep-seated cultural ideas about the 'haves' and 'have nots.' And partly, I think it comes from a collective sense of scarcity that reaches into our psyches beyond material needs.<br /><br />The Calvinism of the Puritan colonists on this continent left a mark of predestination imprinted on our collective memories. What you had in the way of material goods was an illustration of where you stood in God's opinion. Wealthy folks obviously deserved what they had and poorer people obviously deserved to have nothing. On the face of it, especially put this baldly, we would reject this notion. But there still seems to be a tinge of it remaining in our subconscious, at least among those who are seen to have more than the usual share of benefits. This, and other historic cultural traits such as regal and clerical hierarchies, leave a deep rift between the favored few and the teeming masses. <br /><br />With the end of monarchies and state established religion, we did not escape the structure or the belief that everyone has his or her place. Here in the United States, and perhaps other places, we are fed the dizzying notion that anyone can succeed in whatever they choose if only they work hard enough. But, like our Puritan ancestors, we also look down on those who fail to do so, assuming that they just haven't worked hard enough to merit the better things. I think this provides us some mental insulation from the notion that there is a random element to success as well as to failure. The good things in our life <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span>must</span> be dependent solely on our efforts or they could disappear. It has also been used to oppress various parts of the population, but that it another topic entirely.<br /><br />The other problem tends to lie in a deep-seated belief that there is scarcity in everything. It is as if, if you have something there is not going to be enough for me to have the same thing. And to safeguard our futures, we must continue to stock pile more and more, leaving less for others. Or so the thinking goes. But is this notion of scarcity true? I doubt it. I think the problem lies more with the fact that we seem to have collectively lost the concept of having enough. There is a huge industry whose sole job is to convince us to buy more and more stuff and generate perceived needs. And constant bombardment of their messages simply has to have a huge influence or else they wouldn't continue to do it. Many years ago I read a book by (I think) Alan Watts. In it he wrote about how our culture had substituted amount for quality in our property. And I think this also applies to the more intangible parts of life. We can't be happy for others' successes because, on some level, we think it means that they have somehow taken the success that we wanted to have.<br /><br />But whatever reason lies beneath our understanding, we do not seem to believe that random, unexpected joys can come to us just as surely as tragedies. We seem to only see the lacks in our lives rather than the abundances. There are those fortunate souls who do revel in the joys rather than the pains, but for many of us there is the perpetual 'yeah, but' quality to our appreciation of what is in our lives. I got X, but I really wanted X+Y and therefore, I can't fully enjoy the X that I do have. Perhaps this is human nature. Maybe it is the motivation for human beings to continue reaching forward in our evolution. It could also be something else entirely. No matter what it is, I think we would better serve ourselves by finding some way of shifting our focus more towards the good we have, rather than dwelling on the tragic.<br /><br />I'm not certain how to do this and, like most things, it probably needs to be different for everyone. Some folks are list makers, some reflective and still others make resolutions to change things about themselves and their outlooks. But no matter how it might be implemented, I feel certain that we could enhance our daily lives by living in hopeful anticipation of the random goodness rather than dreading the random arrival of tragedies.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4960867419941354709.post-7646604350527522072009-05-25T12:43:00.005-07:002009-05-25T13:26:32.895-07:00Sharing Happiness"An unshared happiness is not happiness." -- Boris Pasternak.<br /><br />Not being an absolutist, I'm reluctant to agree with Pasternak totally. There is, however, a germ of truth in this that I wish to explore.<br /><br />It is certainly possible to be quietly happy about some things and feel no need to find company to share them with. The things that give this kind of happiness vary from person to person. For me, it tends to happen most often with what seems to be small in the grand scheme of things. When I finish making something with my hands, I do not need to show it to all and sundry in order to savor the satisfaction and gentle happiness that I feel. I can hold the finished sock, shawl or dress and smile all by myself before I move on to the next thing. And for quite awhile after it is completed, it will generate the same little joy whenever I use it.<br /><br />Another experience where this occurs for me is when I am walking among the trees. Many times I not only do not need to share the connection and happiness I feel in this experience, I do not want to. There is a depth of feeling within me at those times that defy the ability to share. Or, at least, I've yet to find anyone to share it with whose presence would not detract from the feelings it generates within me. I wonder if the experience would be enhanced or merely take on a different feeling if I ever were to find someone to share it with. But, for now at least, it is a stand alone joy that is not diminished by being solitary.<br /><br />The ocean, on the other hand, absolutely demands a companion for me to feel the greatest happiness. There is an overwhelming power generated by the ocean that requires that the experience be shared. I feel that I cannot hold it alone. And, while I realize no two people will experience it in the same way, the feeling is so vast that another silent witness makes it easier to find the depths of joy and awe that it can give.<br /><br />There are also some events and accomplishments that are, somehow, lessened without the sharing of them. Sometimes these are the milestones in our lives. Large or small, joyful celebrations are not as joyful without friends or family to share them with. Other times, it is the recognition of achievement or the difficult challenge met that generates such a bubbling up of happiness that we <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span>must</span> tell everyone dear to us about it. And, absent dear ones, we will stop mere acquaintances or total strangers and tell them because we cannot contain the feeling within ourselves. The efforts or hopes that we've held closely to our hearts erupt and overflow when they are realized. It's the feeling of someone about to become a parent who tells everyone about the coming baby. It is the person who has struggled to achieve a dream who is finally able to say, "I did it!"<br /><br />I wonder if there is any real difference in the types of happiness, beyond the circle it finds its voice in. Some might argue that it is better to feel the fullness of joys within ourselves, not needing to share it. Perhaps even suggesting that exuberance is unnecessary to joy. Other might agree with Pasternak that sharing is necessary to the fullness of happiness. I feel that there is no duality to happiness; it is a both/and rather than an either/or proposition. There is quite simply no right or wrong way to be happy or to express it.<br /><br />Society imposes unspoken expectations and restrictions on the level the expression of joy may take. These tend to be based on the perceived value of the experience and the age of the person experiencing it. In fact, if people do not express an 'appropriate' response to a happy event, they can be condemned either as unfeeling or childish. If anyone much older than 5 years old becomes too thrilled at the sight of a daisy, they will most likely be seen as a simpleton. If someone fails to celebrate anything at the same level as those around them, they are seen as unfeeling and perhaps depressed. Society demands conformity even in expressions of happiness. How sad. <br /><br />The challenge in expressing happiness, as in most other things, is to give it our own authentic voice and the devil take the hindmost for what others think about it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3