It's amazing how denial can keep us believing such wonderful things about ourselves--things that aren't quite true. But just like holding your thumb in front of the moon can make it appear to not be there, it is still there. And eventually we have to face it or suffer the consequences.
I, personally, can go along for ages sustaining these self-made eclipses. One recent humbling awakening is that I'm not the good listener I thought I was.
Unbeknownst to me, listening takes a whole lot more than sitting or standing still and pointing myself at somebody. My mind has to do the same thing--and my mouth has to have a cork in it.
When I'm thinking my own thoughts while someone is talking, I don't hear what they're saying. Likewise, when someone isn't listening to me, so I overcompensate by running at the mouth--in spite of their yawns, their looking away, their eyes glazing over to a dull and stupid stare--that also means I'm not listening.
Several months ago, at a benefit tea I attend each year for an animal protection society, I did both of these things with a woman in the check-in line who had decided to convince me to adopt a pet.
I understood her motivation. If people don't adopt the animals that others abandon to shelters, many are put down or, as in the case of this no-kill shelter, live their lives in a sanctuary. That's why my husband and I adopted seven children over the years: four kitties, two birds and one lovably neurotic mixed-breed dog.
Unfortunately, I ended up with asthma and too many trips to the emergency room because of it. And so, when the last of our babies passed away, we didn't adopt another one, even though I wanted to--still want to--because, evidently, the only animals I'm not allergic to are humans and fish.
But that didn't stop this woman from attempting to change my mind by ticking off a list of hairless, non-allergic breeds and more--even though I explained that I was allergic to those sweeties, too. (It's the saliva and skin oil, not the fur, that appear to be the culprits for me.)
I wish I had peacefully listened to her. Told her I'd consider her suggestions. But because I still feel ashamed for choosing my own health over a pet in need, I tried to justify myself. I talked so much that I was oblivious to her backing away from me and, eventually, disappearing altogether when I turned to the person at the check-in table.
Granted, my problem started with justifying myself--something I don't need to do. But it became more exacerbated when I didn't listen to her body language, and the consequences were definitely embarrassing. Unfortunately, not embarrassing enough to change my behavior.
It wasn't until I witnessed myself not listening to a friend--while our other companion intently listened to her--that I was finally shamed into facing it.
My friend was talking about her childhood, which reminded me of something in mine. And since I was too busy chewing on my own memory, I totally missed my friend's. And if that weren't enough, I then uncorked this dazzling memory like the kitty that dumps her catch on the ground to show what a cool thing she's found.
My friend, the gentle spirit that she is, listened to my babbling like a trooper. She showed no signs of my stomping on her or shutting her up. If it weren't for the other friend with us, I'd probably still be unaware of what I did.
"Not all children have a strong sense of self," the other friend said, looking at the gentle spirit. And then she added, "That must have made you feel very sad and lonely."
In that moment, as tears welled up in my gentle friend's eyes, I witnessed the magic of affirmation. I saw how one person listening to what another person verbally and nonverbally says, and then repeating it back to her, can help her feel acknowledged and understood.
So I have decided it's time I worked on removing this shortcoming, and a good place to start is probably with the advice that someone once gave me, but I didn't listen to:
"Never miss an opportunity to say nothing."
QUESTION: How well do you listen to others?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Monday, June 7, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Letting Go of Those I Love
It's not easy to be serene about something as serious as a needle biopsy, but I'm trying, since someone I love is refusing to have one, even though three different doctors--not to mention her family--have told her she should.
Believe me, it isn't as if I haven't tried in the past to guilt, scare, humiliate or nag people into doing what they didn't want or weren't ready to do, all because I thought it was best for them. And, of course, they got testy with me for trying to control them, so I got testy back--and more anxious and emotional, as did they.
In the case of my friend, I know I have to accept her choice. People have a right to treat their bodies as they wish, even if what they choose does appear on the surface to be harmful. I can't deny how helpless and afraid and sad I feel, but all I can do is trust in the value and rightness of her journey--get quiet and centered inside myself, so I'm ready and open to receive the peace and guidance I need.
Otherwise, I'll just make a mess of things.
Like I did two years ago, when I witnessed a turtle attempting to cross a 45-mph, six-lane road and then get hit by a car. The way the poor thing tossed and rolled, he looked like a hubcap flung loose from a wheel, so I was stunned when I stopped and discovered he was still alive and didn't even look harmed.
I carried him to a nearby, undeveloped property, and just before I set him down, I didn't pay attention to his tiny head on that giraffe neck as it snaked out and snapped hold of my finger. His bite was so excruciating that I let him go, but he clung to my finger and dangled in the air. When he finally dropped to the grass, I was still in a frantic haze, but I picked him up and put him further away from the road.
Looking back, I made a lot of mistakes that were harmful to that turtle and myself. I didn't protect my hands from his mouth--or put him on the ground while he was still attached to my finger--so I may have added to injuries that I couldn't see, when I let him drop. I also didn't have the sense to take him to The Conservancy's wildlife clinic--or even to a vet. Either would have been more sane than putting him in that field.
I made these mistakes because I charged in on impulse, instead of first pausing, calming down and asking for guidance.
But the other day, after the third doctor told my friend why she needed a needle biopsy, that a formation in her breast looked suspicious and could be cancer--and yet she still said she didn't want it tested--I didn't charge in on impulse. When we were alone, I looked her in the eye and repeated what the doctor had said, to make sure she truly understood. I told her I had the name of another surgeon she could see, if she wanted another opinion--and that I only wanted her to have the biopsy for the same reason she would want me to have one, if I were in her shoes.
My friend said she did understand, didn't need another opinion, and preferred not to talk about it anymore. But instead of doing what I have often done, which is to shift up to convince-her-now-or-else gear, something inside me understood I had done all I could; I had to let it go.
Even as I write this I am shaking my head and sighing. It's my physical way of surrendering my friend--to God and to herself and to her own dignity to do with her life as she wishes.
This is between the two of them now, and I have no right to interfere with that. All I can do is to try to have some serenity and faith that this is what's best for my friend, whatever the outcome.
After all, it's what I would want her to do for me.
QUESTION: How do you respond when those you love don't do what you think is best for them?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your question? See above left.)
Believe me, it isn't as if I haven't tried in the past to guilt, scare, humiliate or nag people into doing what they didn't want or weren't ready to do, all because I thought it was best for them. And, of course, they got testy with me for trying to control them, so I got testy back--and more anxious and emotional, as did they.
In the case of my friend, I know I have to accept her choice. People have a right to treat their bodies as they wish, even if what they choose does appear on the surface to be harmful. I can't deny how helpless and afraid and sad I feel, but all I can do is trust in the value and rightness of her journey--get quiet and centered inside myself, so I'm ready and open to receive the peace and guidance I need.
Otherwise, I'll just make a mess of things.
Like I did two years ago, when I witnessed a turtle attempting to cross a 45-mph, six-lane road and then get hit by a car. The way the poor thing tossed and rolled, he looked like a hubcap flung loose from a wheel, so I was stunned when I stopped and discovered he was still alive and didn't even look harmed.
I carried him to a nearby, undeveloped property, and just before I set him down, I didn't pay attention to his tiny head on that giraffe neck as it snaked out and snapped hold of my finger. His bite was so excruciating that I let him go, but he clung to my finger and dangled in the air. When he finally dropped to the grass, I was still in a frantic haze, but I picked him up and put him further away from the road.
Looking back, I made a lot of mistakes that were harmful to that turtle and myself. I didn't protect my hands from his mouth--or put him on the ground while he was still attached to my finger--so I may have added to injuries that I couldn't see, when I let him drop. I also didn't have the sense to take him to The Conservancy's wildlife clinic--or even to a vet. Either would have been more sane than putting him in that field.
I made these mistakes because I charged in on impulse, instead of first pausing, calming down and asking for guidance.
But the other day, after the third doctor told my friend why she needed a needle biopsy, that a formation in her breast looked suspicious and could be cancer--and yet she still said she didn't want it tested--I didn't charge in on impulse. When we were alone, I looked her in the eye and repeated what the doctor had said, to make sure she truly understood. I told her I had the name of another surgeon she could see, if she wanted another opinion--and that I only wanted her to have the biopsy for the same reason she would want me to have one, if I were in her shoes.
My friend said she did understand, didn't need another opinion, and preferred not to talk about it anymore. But instead of doing what I have often done, which is to shift up to convince-her-now-or-else gear, something inside me understood I had done all I could; I had to let it go.
Even as I write this I am shaking my head and sighing. It's my physical way of surrendering my friend--to God and to herself and to her own dignity to do with her life as she wishes.
This is between the two of them now, and I have no right to interfere with that. All I can do is to try to have some serenity and faith that this is what's best for my friend, whatever the outcome.
After all, it's what I would want her to do for me.
QUESTION: How do you respond when those you love don't do what you think is best for them?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your question? See above left.)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Lies I Tell
Sometimes, writing a personal essay can be like trying to make a pecan pie and ending up with fried chicken. I don't get what I want, but what I need.
I called a friend yesterday, intending to do some research on self-reliance. We both come from a long line of independent-minded southerners, and I wanted to get her take on things. But in the middle of the conversation, I caught her in a lie that she had been telling for years without realizing. Although it wasn't that important in the larger scheme of things, it struck a cord in me. And after I hung up the phone, I found myself pointing a disapproving finger at her.
Why would she tell herself and others such a lie for so long? How could she be in such denial? I spent a while fuming and ruminating and wasting perfectly good writing time, until it eventually dawned on me that if I was this aggravated with somebody else's lie-telling, I probably needed to look at myself.
I didn't particularly like the idea, but I knew I had to consider the possibility that maybe I was spotting in her what I had not come to terms with in myself. Had I ever told myself lies I was unaware of? After some resistance, a thought eventually came crawling to the surface of my conscience. It was a lie I'd been telling about another friend of mine.
And it was then I knew that this particular essay was not going to be about self-reliance anymore.
I had never honestly admitted that this old friend and I were not really compatible. In all of the years I had known her, I had enjoyed hearing her stories about the people she knew, the parties she attended and the trips she took. At heart, I am a homebody. My days are spent in front of a computer and my idea of a party is a few close friends around a dinner table. It was fun living vicariously through her and her exciting life.
But after a while, I began to come away from our get-togethers with an empty sort of feeling. I longed for a deeper, more intimate friendship, yet ours seemed to hover forever at the surface. When I would share personal things about myself, I noticed she would not reciprocate, and sometimes it made me feel as if there was something wrong with me--as if I was wearing only my underwear in public.
But what had really gnawed at me--and I had chosen to ignore--was that I had become the only one who initiated our getting together anymore. If I didn't call her, I didn't hear from her.
Until this moment I had denied the significance of this--and it's logical meaning: That maybe my friend had also noticed we had very little in common. It was as if we had both silently agreed to ignore and not mention how different we were.
When I would not hear from her for six months or more, I would tell myself, She's just busy. Or traveling. Or sick. I wasn't ready to face the possibility that maybe our friendship had run its course.
Now that I was facing it, I couldn't exactly say she was doing something hurtful. She had every right not to call me if she didn't want to. And besides, by my always calling her, I had enabled her to not have to do the initiating.
She also had every right not to share her intimate feelings. She was just being true to herself--as I was being true to myself. That's the best that any of us can do for one another.
Luckily I am blessed with other friends with whom I am probably more compatible. With them I don't feel like my underwear is showing, because theirs is showing, too. So I don't have to tell lies to myself to enable me to keep their friendships.
If I do hear from my old friend, I'll be glad to see her again. But if I don't, I'll know it means we're moving on.
To new friends and new lessons. And that's good, too.
QUESTION: Are you telling lies to yourself and, if so, what are they and why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
I called a friend yesterday, intending to do some research on self-reliance. We both come from a long line of independent-minded southerners, and I wanted to get her take on things. But in the middle of the conversation, I caught her in a lie that she had been telling for years without realizing. Although it wasn't that important in the larger scheme of things, it struck a cord in me. And after I hung up the phone, I found myself pointing a disapproving finger at her.
Why would she tell herself and others such a lie for so long? How could she be in such denial? I spent a while fuming and ruminating and wasting perfectly good writing time, until it eventually dawned on me that if I was this aggravated with somebody else's lie-telling, I probably needed to look at myself.
I didn't particularly like the idea, but I knew I had to consider the possibility that maybe I was spotting in her what I had not come to terms with in myself. Had I ever told myself lies I was unaware of? After some resistance, a thought eventually came crawling to the surface of my conscience. It was a lie I'd been telling about another friend of mine.
And it was then I knew that this particular essay was not going to be about self-reliance anymore.
I had never honestly admitted that this old friend and I were not really compatible. In all of the years I had known her, I had enjoyed hearing her stories about the people she knew, the parties she attended and the trips she took. At heart, I am a homebody. My days are spent in front of a computer and my idea of a party is a few close friends around a dinner table. It was fun living vicariously through her and her exciting life.
But after a while, I began to come away from our get-togethers with an empty sort of feeling. I longed for a deeper, more intimate friendship, yet ours seemed to hover forever at the surface. When I would share personal things about myself, I noticed she would not reciprocate, and sometimes it made me feel as if there was something wrong with me--as if I was wearing only my underwear in public.
But what had really gnawed at me--and I had chosen to ignore--was that I had become the only one who initiated our getting together anymore. If I didn't call her, I didn't hear from her.
Until this moment I had denied the significance of this--and it's logical meaning: That maybe my friend had also noticed we had very little in common. It was as if we had both silently agreed to ignore and not mention how different we were.
When I would not hear from her for six months or more, I would tell myself, She's just busy. Or traveling. Or sick. I wasn't ready to face the possibility that maybe our friendship had run its course.
Now that I was facing it, I couldn't exactly say she was doing something hurtful. She had every right not to call me if she didn't want to. And besides, by my always calling her, I had enabled her to not have to do the initiating.
She also had every right not to share her intimate feelings. She was just being true to herself--as I was being true to myself. That's the best that any of us can do for one another.
Luckily I am blessed with other friends with whom I am probably more compatible. With them I don't feel like my underwear is showing, because theirs is showing, too. So I don't have to tell lies to myself to enable me to keep their friendships.
If I do hear from my old friend, I'll be glad to see her again. But if I don't, I'll know it means we're moving on.
To new friends and new lessons. And that's good, too.
QUESTION: Are you telling lies to yourself and, if so, what are they and why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Confessions of a Chameleon
"I have tickets to the symphony. Would you like to go?" she asked me after our first lunch together.
We were standing on the sidewalk outside of a tearoom and I couldn't think of what to say, because I really didn't want to go. I like symphony music, but not watching it performed. So I lied and said, "I'd love to."
"This is great," she said, "because my husband doesn't like to go and neither do many of my girlfriends, and I always get tickets for the season--and now I have a friend who can go with me."
"Oh…great," I said, thinking, What on earth have I done?
What I had done is precisely what I had promised myself I would not do anymore: change my own colors to match those of others.
Somewhere in my mid 40s, I had finally mustered the courage to start showing the real me. Now I did things like going to lunch with a girlfriend without a stitch of makeup on and fessing up to my secret wishes and fears and shortcomings.
If you knew me before, you would understand what a feat this has been, because presenting a smudge-free image was fundamental to me.
And lately, things had been going well enough that being the genuine me seemed almost easy.
But it's funny how anything is easy when there is nothing to lose and no pain involved. Toss a shiny new person into the picture--and suddenly a new friendship was at risk--and I reached for a pretense like an addict for a fix.
It isn't her real name, but I'll call her Katherine, and I had recently met her at a benefit luncheon. She was friendly, elegant and cultured, but what had really impressed me was how thoughtful and empathetic she seemed. Yet still I was afraid to be truthful with her.
A week or so later, as I sat through the performance, I hoped that in the future she would find someone else to go to the symphony with her, and that we could stick to lunches and dinners together.
But as is often the case when life attempts to teach me a lesson--and that lesson keeps repeating until I learn it--Katherine called a month later and again asked me to the symphony.
And again I said yes.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done. I was nearly 50 and yet I still didn't have the fiber to tell the truth about myself. But if I didn't let go of this need to leap behind a mask every time I got scared, I would never be fully happy, because I would never be fully me.
I knew I had to tell Katherine the truth, and maybe in person would have been better, but all I could manage was the telephone. So I scribbled down a list of everything I wanted to say. Before our friendship went any further, I needed to be totally frank.
I needed her to know that, as culturally uncouth as it maybe was, I didn't like going to the symphony, ballet, theater, opera or art gallery openings. It wasn't that I had anything against these things; I just wasn't interested in attending them.
So I held my breath, dialed her number and when she answered the phone I told her.
And then Katherine did what I didn't expect: She laughed. She said she was glad I told her the truth, because a friend of hers who loved the symphony had come into town, but Katherine wasn't able to invite her because I had already agreed to go. Now Katherine could take her friend, so everyone would be happy.
About a year or so after that, when Katherine and I were at lunch one day, she said she wanted to order cake for dessert, but only if I would eat half. And although I didn't want any cake--not even a bite--and I started to tell her that, I didn't after all. I was too afraid again.
I confessed this to her recently. It was almost more difficult than it was before, and more humbling, knowing that I am still so afraid to be myself with her. But at least I told her, and that's progress.
I suppose being me will take some time.
QUESTION: Are you fully honest with your friends about who you are and what you do and do not enjoy?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left."
We were standing on the sidewalk outside of a tearoom and I couldn't think of what to say, because I really didn't want to go. I like symphony music, but not watching it performed. So I lied and said, "I'd love to."
"This is great," she said, "because my husband doesn't like to go and neither do many of my girlfriends, and I always get tickets for the season--and now I have a friend who can go with me."
"Oh…great," I said, thinking, What on earth have I done?
What I had done is precisely what I had promised myself I would not do anymore: change my own colors to match those of others.
Somewhere in my mid 40s, I had finally mustered the courage to start showing the real me. Now I did things like going to lunch with a girlfriend without a stitch of makeup on and fessing up to my secret wishes and fears and shortcomings.
If you knew me before, you would understand what a feat this has been, because presenting a smudge-free image was fundamental to me.
And lately, things had been going well enough that being the genuine me seemed almost easy.
But it's funny how anything is easy when there is nothing to lose and no pain involved. Toss a shiny new person into the picture--and suddenly a new friendship was at risk--and I reached for a pretense like an addict for a fix.
It isn't her real name, but I'll call her Katherine, and I had recently met her at a benefit luncheon. She was friendly, elegant and cultured, but what had really impressed me was how thoughtful and empathetic she seemed. Yet still I was afraid to be truthful with her.
A week or so later, as I sat through the performance, I hoped that in the future she would find someone else to go to the symphony with her, and that we could stick to lunches and dinners together.
But as is often the case when life attempts to teach me a lesson--and that lesson keeps repeating until I learn it--Katherine called a month later and again asked me to the symphony.
And again I said yes.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done. I was nearly 50 and yet I still didn't have the fiber to tell the truth about myself. But if I didn't let go of this need to leap behind a mask every time I got scared, I would never be fully happy, because I would never be fully me.
I knew I had to tell Katherine the truth, and maybe in person would have been better, but all I could manage was the telephone. So I scribbled down a list of everything I wanted to say. Before our friendship went any further, I needed to be totally frank.
I needed her to know that, as culturally uncouth as it maybe was, I didn't like going to the symphony, ballet, theater, opera or art gallery openings. It wasn't that I had anything against these things; I just wasn't interested in attending them.
So I held my breath, dialed her number and when she answered the phone I told her.
And then Katherine did what I didn't expect: She laughed. She said she was glad I told her the truth, because a friend of hers who loved the symphony had come into town, but Katherine wasn't able to invite her because I had already agreed to go. Now Katherine could take her friend, so everyone would be happy.
About a year or so after that, when Katherine and I were at lunch one day, she said she wanted to order cake for dessert, but only if I would eat half. And although I didn't want any cake--not even a bite--and I started to tell her that, I didn't after all. I was too afraid again.
I confessed this to her recently. It was almost more difficult than it was before, and more humbling, knowing that I am still so afraid to be myself with her. But at least I told her, and that's progress.
I suppose being me will take some time.
QUESTION: Are you fully honest with your friends about who you are and what you do and do not enjoy?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left."
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Aging Awkwardly, But Grateful
As my 50th birthday looms, I am determined to not fret over the evidence of history etched on my face more and more each year and instead try to adjust my attitude.
I don't want my wrinkles injected with cow's collagen or my frown muscles subjected to bacterium toxin or my eyebrows lifted into perfect crescent moons via a surgeon's scalpel.
Of course, all people should be able to do what they want with their faces and their bodies without others criticizing them. So let me say here that I am not criticizing anyone. I am simply venting, because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid that beauty will be founded eventually on the homogenized look of plastic surgeons, instead of on individuality--and something even more troubling, that because I want to opt out of these procedures, I will be discounted because of it.
And left to fly my wrinkled-woman flag alone.
At least in the past we all looked old together. We comforted each other through our common shared experience.
But now, I see myself in 30 years, one of the last few old female faces left and, consequently, compelled to explain myself to curious little children who don't understand why I am so different from others my age. Why I look 80 at 80.
Still, I can't get passed this feeling that tells me not to interfere with something that isn't broken. And when I ever begin to doubt that, our Jeep provides me reassurance.
Each time this old girl goes in for an oil change, someone invariably comes up to me, holding some grimy part of her, and tells me how wrecked it is. I then call my husband on my cell phone, and he always tells me some version of this: When you go under the hood to fix something, which probably doesn't need fixing, you're only asking for trouble.
And I know he's right, because the time I did let someone fix something, which probably didn't need fixing, somehow another thing mysteriously got broken. So now I leave well enough alone.
I'm trying to do the same with myself. Although, three years ago, I decided to get braces.
A year or so after I'd gotten them, I teasingly asked my husband what he thought, certain he'd agree I looked like a wrinkled teenager. But instead he said he didn't like them.
It took a few days for me to finally eke out why, because he kept saying he didn't know.
It wasn't the cost, he said, or that I more or less up and did it without much discussion. It also wasn't because I looked a little ridiculous, although I think I did.
The reason he didn't like the braces, he said, was because he feared they were only the beginning, and that I would eventually do something more riskful, like injecting botulin into my face. Or worse.
I was glad he loves me enough to worry about such things--and that I was once again reminded that he doesn't need me to change my outsides.
And I'm grateful he's been that way for the entire 25 years that I've known him.
Once, when I whimpered about hating the way my face looked since I've gotten older, he said, "I don't like it when you talk that way about your face; I like your face the way it is."
And I cried then, because he told me what probably all wives want to hear.
If only it were enough.
But it isn't. I am the one who has to love my outsides just the way they are or I will never be satisfied. I will always be afraid of the next new wrinkle or gray hair--or lack thereof.
So I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be aging at all. It means I'm still alive. When I do that, I can feel my attitude getting stronger.
I also eat more healthily than I used to and I exercise three times a week, so I know I'm on the right track.
Now, if I can only quit obsessing over whether or not to buy that cosmetic contraption on that shopping channel that superficially stimulates your facial muscles with baby electrical currents and thereby firms and smoothes the skin…
QUESTION: How accepting are you of your aging process and what, if anything, could you do to improve your attitude?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
I don't want my wrinkles injected with cow's collagen or my frown muscles subjected to bacterium toxin or my eyebrows lifted into perfect crescent moons via a surgeon's scalpel.
Of course, all people should be able to do what they want with their faces and their bodies without others criticizing them. So let me say here that I am not criticizing anyone. I am simply venting, because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid that beauty will be founded eventually on the homogenized look of plastic surgeons, instead of on individuality--and something even more troubling, that because I want to opt out of these procedures, I will be discounted because of it.
And left to fly my wrinkled-woman flag alone.
At least in the past we all looked old together. We comforted each other through our common shared experience.
But now, I see myself in 30 years, one of the last few old female faces left and, consequently, compelled to explain myself to curious little children who don't understand why I am so different from others my age. Why I look 80 at 80.
Still, I can't get passed this feeling that tells me not to interfere with something that isn't broken. And when I ever begin to doubt that, our Jeep provides me reassurance.
Each time this old girl goes in for an oil change, someone invariably comes up to me, holding some grimy part of her, and tells me how wrecked it is. I then call my husband on my cell phone, and he always tells me some version of this: When you go under the hood to fix something, which probably doesn't need fixing, you're only asking for trouble.
And I know he's right, because the time I did let someone fix something, which probably didn't need fixing, somehow another thing mysteriously got broken. So now I leave well enough alone.
I'm trying to do the same with myself. Although, three years ago, I decided to get braces.
A year or so after I'd gotten them, I teasingly asked my husband what he thought, certain he'd agree I looked like a wrinkled teenager. But instead he said he didn't like them.
It took a few days for me to finally eke out why, because he kept saying he didn't know.
It wasn't the cost, he said, or that I more or less up and did it without much discussion. It also wasn't because I looked a little ridiculous, although I think I did.
The reason he didn't like the braces, he said, was because he feared they were only the beginning, and that I would eventually do something more riskful, like injecting botulin into my face. Or worse.
I was glad he loves me enough to worry about such things--and that I was once again reminded that he doesn't need me to change my outsides.
And I'm grateful he's been that way for the entire 25 years that I've known him.
Once, when I whimpered about hating the way my face looked since I've gotten older, he said, "I don't like it when you talk that way about your face; I like your face the way it is."
And I cried then, because he told me what probably all wives want to hear.
If only it were enough.
But it isn't. I am the one who has to love my outsides just the way they are or I will never be satisfied. I will always be afraid of the next new wrinkle or gray hair--or lack thereof.
So I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be aging at all. It means I'm still alive. When I do that, I can feel my attitude getting stronger.
I also eat more healthily than I used to and I exercise three times a week, so I know I'm on the right track.
Now, if I can only quit obsessing over whether or not to buy that cosmetic contraption on that shopping channel that superficially stimulates your facial muscles with baby electrical currents and thereby firms and smoothes the skin…
QUESTION: How accepting are you of your aging process and what, if anything, could you do to improve your attitude?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
What Really is Passion and Do I Have It?
When a friend suggested I write a column about passion, I laughed and looked at his wife, because she knows how confused I am about it. And no, he was not talking about sex. He was talking about that quality that makes some people leap out of bed every morning like it's the first day of their lives.
Since I am incapable of mental or physical sensation before seven a.m., I'm not one of those people. I unfold and crawl out of my warm womb-nest, but only after draining the lethargy from me and stretching every sedated muscle. In fact, I am not a leaper at any time of the day about anything really.
Which has caused me to wonder: Do I have passion or don't I?
For the friend who posed this topic to me, passion is something he never had until 10 years ago, when he got his first whiff of something he realized he wanted. During a vacation, he found himself on a boat off the coast of Florida and thought, "This is what I want someday."
Although he wasn't sure what "this" would be, he was sure he wanted to be on the water as much as possible. Four years ago, at 69, he retired, settled in Southwest Florida fulltime, and founded the first continuing longterm study of bottlenose dolphins in the region. Now, he jumps out of bed every day at five a.m. like a child on Christmas morning.
But what about people like me, who are not so much zestful about something as they are chronically pestered by it?
I became interested in writing when I was about 12, but I wasn't a gifted English student. Two big red Fs are emblazoned on my memory--along with a below average English SAT score. In college I floundered from one major to the next, never considering journalism; I assumed I wasn't good enough to be a writer. But privately I wrote poems and songs and novels I never finished, because of something inside of me that would not quit.
After college I flirted at the shallow fringes of the writing world, too afraid to dive headfirst into the deep end. First I worked for public relations firms and then for a film producer as a script reader.
To test the water a little further, when I was 24 I took a job as an editorial assistant for a small magazine here in Naples, Florida, eventually going on to became an editor and writer for various Florida lifestyle publications.
But during those years I felt an unceasing ache inside of me that said this wasn't the kind of writing I wanted to do.
The problem was, I wasn't sure what kind of writing I wanted to do. By the time I was 45 I had started but not finished 12 novels, as well as submitted 21 essays to my local newspaper, all of which were rejected. The longer I witnessed my creative writing going unpublished the more I doubted my ability.
And then I got a vision of myself at 80, full of regret for having never taken a chance on one of my dreams. The pain was so wrenching I made a promise to myself: I would write and finish a novel no matter how awful I thought it was. So I did, and then I re-wrote it five times before sending it out to agents and other writers, who told me to rewrite it again. And I have.
The latest agent called it "competent", so maybe there is hope, which I'll need to get through re-write number 12.
In the mean time, that nagging ache flared up, so I queried my local newspaper again. And now this column is published there.
As terrified as I am to be swimming in something that sometimes feels like the middle of an ocean I am grateful, because that haunting feeling isn't there anymore.
Maybe that means I'm doing what I need to do, at least for now. I do know I have a sense of contentment about this part of my life that I haven't felt before.
And although every time I sit in front of my computer I worry I'll have nothing to say, a small voice inside of me keeps urging me on, telling me not to give up.
Not even on that silly novel.
I guess that is passion.
QUESTION: Are you passionate about something and, if so, how are you honoring it?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Since I am incapable of mental or physical sensation before seven a.m., I'm not one of those people. I unfold and crawl out of my warm womb-nest, but only after draining the lethargy from me and stretching every sedated muscle. In fact, I am not a leaper at any time of the day about anything really.
Which has caused me to wonder: Do I have passion or don't I?
For the friend who posed this topic to me, passion is something he never had until 10 years ago, when he got his first whiff of something he realized he wanted. During a vacation, he found himself on a boat off the coast of Florida and thought, "This is what I want someday."
Although he wasn't sure what "this" would be, he was sure he wanted to be on the water as much as possible. Four years ago, at 69, he retired, settled in Southwest Florida fulltime, and founded the first continuing longterm study of bottlenose dolphins in the region. Now, he jumps out of bed every day at five a.m. like a child on Christmas morning.
But what about people like me, who are not so much zestful about something as they are chronically pestered by it?
I became interested in writing when I was about 12, but I wasn't a gifted English student. Two big red Fs are emblazoned on my memory--along with a below average English SAT score. In college I floundered from one major to the next, never considering journalism; I assumed I wasn't good enough to be a writer. But privately I wrote poems and songs and novels I never finished, because of something inside of me that would not quit.
After college I flirted at the shallow fringes of the writing world, too afraid to dive headfirst into the deep end. First I worked for public relations firms and then for a film producer as a script reader.
To test the water a little further, when I was 24 I took a job as an editorial assistant for a small magazine here in Naples, Florida, eventually going on to became an editor and writer for various Florida lifestyle publications.
But during those years I felt an unceasing ache inside of me that said this wasn't the kind of writing I wanted to do.
The problem was, I wasn't sure what kind of writing I wanted to do. By the time I was 45 I had started but not finished 12 novels, as well as submitted 21 essays to my local newspaper, all of which were rejected. The longer I witnessed my creative writing going unpublished the more I doubted my ability.
And then I got a vision of myself at 80, full of regret for having never taken a chance on one of my dreams. The pain was so wrenching I made a promise to myself: I would write and finish a novel no matter how awful I thought it was. So I did, and then I re-wrote it five times before sending it out to agents and other writers, who told me to rewrite it again. And I have.
The latest agent called it "competent", so maybe there is hope, which I'll need to get through re-write number 12.
In the mean time, that nagging ache flared up, so I queried my local newspaper again. And now this column is published there.
As terrified as I am to be swimming in something that sometimes feels like the middle of an ocean I am grateful, because that haunting feeling isn't there anymore.
Maybe that means I'm doing what I need to do, at least for now. I do know I have a sense of contentment about this part of my life that I haven't felt before.
And although every time I sit in front of my computer I worry I'll have nothing to say, a small voice inside of me keeps urging me on, telling me not to give up.
Not even on that silly novel.
I guess that is passion.
QUESTION: Are you passionate about something and, if so, how are you honoring it?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Understanding Someone Else's Experience
Oh, how I feel for the mothers of teenage daughters--and for the daughters who don't feel understood.
In a column a while back, I confessed to investing a sizeable chunk of my life to blaming others for my misery, when the only one to blame was myself. It prompted a woman to write to me about her 15-year-old daughter, who she said seemed like my clone.
She wanted to know why, when her daughter had "experienced from birth in a loving family" the concepts of loving ourselves, others and forgiveness, she still chose to "walk the 'no one understands me' path."
And although I can't speak for her daughter, I know for me a lot of misunderstanding occurs because of that very word she mentions--that delicate, ever so unique thing known as our personal "experience".
Because as much as we may think we have demonstrated and communicated certain qualities or feelings with our actions, it doesn't mean others, including our family, will experience them the way we intend. We can't make people feel what we feel and we can't make them understand us.
Once, I remember being stopped at a red light as a woman proceeded slowly through the intersection toward me in my lane. When she tried to back up and redirect herself, she looked so out of sorts that I smiled in an attempt to show her that I identified and sympathized with her, that I also thought the intersection was confusing. But when her expression switched to anger, I felt my smile was misunderstood.
Looking back, I really don't know what caused her expression to change. Maybe it had nothing to do with me--or she wasn't even angry. It's not easy to distinguish my intuition from my assumptions, which tend to get me into trouble.
Nevertheless it taught me an important lesson. People don't always experience my actions the way I want, which can make me feel frustrated and powerless.
But that's a good thing. It reminds me that I have no control over anything but myself, and that it isn't my job to try to rescue emotionally wounded people. When I do try to interfere, they can react a lot like injured pets, who are already in so much pain, confusion and fear from their circumstances that they do the only thing they know to protect themselves--they growl, snap and bite to keep from getting hurt more.
For years I snapped and growled at my mother when she tried to help me with her advice. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I realized that when I whined about my emotional pain and misunderstood-ness, it didn't mean I wanted to be rescued.
What I wanted, but didn't know, was for someone to identify with me, reassure me that my reactions to the world, if not the healthiest, were at least understandable. If others could understand and accept me, then maybe I could understand and accept myself--and accomplish my own rescuing.
Recently, a new friend told me how her child had communicated his own desire for self-sufficiency. Whenever she tried to feed this one-year old his bottle, he became crabby and angry and pushed it away. But when she finally handed him the bottle, he happily fed himself.
No matter what our age, instinct tells us when we're ready to do things on our own. But in my case, I lacked both the understanding and language to explain what I felt, so I vented and complained and pushed people away. I didn't consciously know what I needed until I was in the presence of it.
For me, that was to hear other people tell my story through their own story--people who had been where I was and could show me the tools they had learned to deal with the world in a healthier way.
I have to remember this each time I am faced with someone reacting to something in a way I may not immediately understand, especially if the person seems cantankerous. The best thing I can do is to accept and be compassionate of other people's experience--and to try to identify with them, instead of compare myself against them, so we can find a common ground.
And a measure of peace.
QUESTION: Is there someone in your life you find difficult to understand and, if so, might your relationship with that person benefit from trying to identify with him or her?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
In a column a while back, I confessed to investing a sizeable chunk of my life to blaming others for my misery, when the only one to blame was myself. It prompted a woman to write to me about her 15-year-old daughter, who she said seemed like my clone.
She wanted to know why, when her daughter had "experienced from birth in a loving family" the concepts of loving ourselves, others and forgiveness, she still chose to "walk the 'no one understands me' path."
And although I can't speak for her daughter, I know for me a lot of misunderstanding occurs because of that very word she mentions--that delicate, ever so unique thing known as our personal "experience".
Because as much as we may think we have demonstrated and communicated certain qualities or feelings with our actions, it doesn't mean others, including our family, will experience them the way we intend. We can't make people feel what we feel and we can't make them understand us.
Once, I remember being stopped at a red light as a woman proceeded slowly through the intersection toward me in my lane. When she tried to back up and redirect herself, she looked so out of sorts that I smiled in an attempt to show her that I identified and sympathized with her, that I also thought the intersection was confusing. But when her expression switched to anger, I felt my smile was misunderstood.
Looking back, I really don't know what caused her expression to change. Maybe it had nothing to do with me--or she wasn't even angry. It's not easy to distinguish my intuition from my assumptions, which tend to get me into trouble.
Nevertheless it taught me an important lesson. People don't always experience my actions the way I want, which can make me feel frustrated and powerless.
But that's a good thing. It reminds me that I have no control over anything but myself, and that it isn't my job to try to rescue emotionally wounded people. When I do try to interfere, they can react a lot like injured pets, who are already in so much pain, confusion and fear from their circumstances that they do the only thing they know to protect themselves--they growl, snap and bite to keep from getting hurt more.
For years I snapped and growled at my mother when she tried to help me with her advice. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I realized that when I whined about my emotional pain and misunderstood-ness, it didn't mean I wanted to be rescued.
What I wanted, but didn't know, was for someone to identify with me, reassure me that my reactions to the world, if not the healthiest, were at least understandable. If others could understand and accept me, then maybe I could understand and accept myself--and accomplish my own rescuing.
Recently, a new friend told me how her child had communicated his own desire for self-sufficiency. Whenever she tried to feed this one-year old his bottle, he became crabby and angry and pushed it away. But when she finally handed him the bottle, he happily fed himself.
No matter what our age, instinct tells us when we're ready to do things on our own. But in my case, I lacked both the understanding and language to explain what I felt, so I vented and complained and pushed people away. I didn't consciously know what I needed until I was in the presence of it.
For me, that was to hear other people tell my story through their own story--people who had been where I was and could show me the tools they had learned to deal with the world in a healthier way.
I have to remember this each time I am faced with someone reacting to something in a way I may not immediately understand, especially if the person seems cantankerous. The best thing I can do is to accept and be compassionate of other people's experience--and to try to identify with them, instead of compare myself against them, so we can find a common ground.
And a measure of peace.
QUESTION: Is there someone in your life you find difficult to understand and, if so, might your relationship with that person benefit from trying to identify with him or her?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Okay, So Maybe I'm Not That Chic
I really didn't intend to look like a bag lady at my friend's wedding. Naples was experiencing a cold snap that weekend and I knew the sunset ceremony would be outside on a terrace. My motive was to keep warm.
That is what living in a subtropical climate has done to me. As soon as the temperature dips below 70, while all the tourists frolic on the beach in swimsuits I bundle up in anything I can find with wool mentioned on the fabric label. Wool skirts and sweaters that in some cases I have had since high school and college in Pennsylvania, because they still look new from seldom being worn during the 26 years that I've lived here in Florida.
The cropped, wool cardigan seemed wedding-appropriate; it was black and sprinkled with faceted black beads. It was also as thick as a horse blanket, which fit my warmth agenda. I paired it with a slim, wool, black mid-calf skirt, and added black stockings and black pointy-toe shoes to further up the dressy quotient.
And since the bride had even suggested black, I was relieved to not have to think about it anymore.
But judging from how practically every other female at the wedding was clothed, even the groom's three-year-old granddaughter--in dresses and tops with bare arms and legs--I am guessing that looking like someone in Siberia isn't a popular style for weddings.
It's not that anyone actually said I looked like a bag lady. But the bride didn't exactly disagree with me either when I told her that I thought that's how I appeared in her wedding photographs.
So now I know and will not soon forget: A-line and midi length are not a flattering combination in a skirt. Particularly when that skirt is paired with low-heeled shoes and horse-blanket sweaters.
Lesson learned.
But if I were to believe everything that I think my friends imply about me--or what I see on television and in magazines--I could easily come to the conclusion that I never wear the right clothes or makeup or hairstyle, since I don't look like those models or movie stars. I don't look glamorous or sexy. I look sort of plain. Like the “before” photographs on those makeover television shows. To be honest, I often like the before shots better than the afters, so maybe I favor plain.
But some of my friends don't.
“I think you look better when you at least wear mascara,” a good friend told me over lunch last year. It wasn't surprising, considering she likes to wear eye makeup much of the time. Even to the gym.
That same friend also likes to pester me about my hair length. She says I would look better if I cut it much shorter. But when I did cut it much shorter years ago, another friend said it made me look older.
It's amazing what we all do to help ourselves look what we think is our best. A woman confessed to me that after several years of marriage her husband still thought her strawberry blonde hair was natural. It wasn't. And she had no intention of breaking his blissful bubble.
My own blonde hair is natural--naturally mouse-blonde at the roots. And there is gray there, too, these days. The “natural" sunny highlights I owe to my hair colorist, bless his talented fingers. And gratefully, even my friends seem to approve.
But even if they didn't, I have decided to focus on pleasing myself from now on when it comes to my style, since trying to please everyone else is impossible.
True style is about integrity anyway. It's about honestly articulating on the outside who we are on the inside.
I love seeing other women with that kind of courageous individual style. They are my mentors. They inspire me.
I know my own style isn't for everyone; it's certainly not cool or trendy. And I'm beginning to be okay with that.
I like comfort and simplicity.
And sweaters as thick as horse blankets.
Bag ladies unite.
QUESTION: Does your style reflect the true you?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
That is what living in a subtropical climate has done to me. As soon as the temperature dips below 70, while all the tourists frolic on the beach in swimsuits I bundle up in anything I can find with wool mentioned on the fabric label. Wool skirts and sweaters that in some cases I have had since high school and college in Pennsylvania, because they still look new from seldom being worn during the 26 years that I've lived here in Florida.
The cropped, wool cardigan seemed wedding-appropriate; it was black and sprinkled with faceted black beads. It was also as thick as a horse blanket, which fit my warmth agenda. I paired it with a slim, wool, black mid-calf skirt, and added black stockings and black pointy-toe shoes to further up the dressy quotient.
And since the bride had even suggested black, I was relieved to not have to think about it anymore.
But judging from how practically every other female at the wedding was clothed, even the groom's three-year-old granddaughter--in dresses and tops with bare arms and legs--I am guessing that looking like someone in Siberia isn't a popular style for weddings.
It's not that anyone actually said I looked like a bag lady. But the bride didn't exactly disagree with me either when I told her that I thought that's how I appeared in her wedding photographs.
So now I know and will not soon forget: A-line and midi length are not a flattering combination in a skirt. Particularly when that skirt is paired with low-heeled shoes and horse-blanket sweaters.
Lesson learned.
But if I were to believe everything that I think my friends imply about me--or what I see on television and in magazines--I could easily come to the conclusion that I never wear the right clothes or makeup or hairstyle, since I don't look like those models or movie stars. I don't look glamorous or sexy. I look sort of plain. Like the “before” photographs on those makeover television shows. To be honest, I often like the before shots better than the afters, so maybe I favor plain.
But some of my friends don't.
“I think you look better when you at least wear mascara,” a good friend told me over lunch last year. It wasn't surprising, considering she likes to wear eye makeup much of the time. Even to the gym.
That same friend also likes to pester me about my hair length. She says I would look better if I cut it much shorter. But when I did cut it much shorter years ago, another friend said it made me look older.
It's amazing what we all do to help ourselves look what we think is our best. A woman confessed to me that after several years of marriage her husband still thought her strawberry blonde hair was natural. It wasn't. And she had no intention of breaking his blissful bubble.
My own blonde hair is natural--naturally mouse-blonde at the roots. And there is gray there, too, these days. The “natural" sunny highlights I owe to my hair colorist, bless his talented fingers. And gratefully, even my friends seem to approve.
But even if they didn't, I have decided to focus on pleasing myself from now on when it comes to my style, since trying to please everyone else is impossible.
True style is about integrity anyway. It's about honestly articulating on the outside who we are on the inside.
I love seeing other women with that kind of courageous individual style. They are my mentors. They inspire me.
I know my own style isn't for everyone; it's certainly not cool or trendy. And I'm beginning to be okay with that.
I like comfort and simplicity.
And sweaters as thick as horse blankets.
Bag ladies unite.
QUESTION: Does your style reflect the true you?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
10 Cool Things I Now Know
Let me just say I haven't quite mastered walking my talk. For that reason, even though I know it isn't a good idea to offer unsolicited advice, everything that follows could be construed as that, since it's for my niece and she hasn't exactly asked me for it.
It's not that I think I know better than she what she should do in her life. I don't. And I know she has the right to learn for herself what will and will not work, without others like me butting in to confuse or complicate things.
But she turns 18 soon. And all I really have to offer that's meaningful, besides another birthday check, is the cool and helpful stuff I've learned, which, when I actually make a point of applying in my life, makes things so much easier.
And since I think the only thing worse than unsolicited advice is withholding really good secrets, I will venture to err on the good-secrets side:
1. There are always fewer jerks on the road when I leave 15 minutes earlier. I don't know why this is, it just is. And for some reason, the lines at the bank, grocery store, and post office also don't seem as slow. I learned this from a funny, wise man who's originally from Boston, which, when he says it, always sounds like Baaston.
2. Rejection is protection. I know this because years ago when I was a magazine editor, if my employer hadn't demoted me, which eventually led to my leaving, I would have never been hired by another publisher, who gave me what ended up being my favorite job in my editing career.
3. It's better than a stick in the eye. I learned this from my late father who, anytime I ever whined about something, would tell me this to help me put things in perspective.
4. Delay in life doesn't mean denial. I know this because after 10 and a half years of dating, my husband finally proposed--and we have now been married nearly 14 years.
5. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful need my kindness the most. I know this because when I am any or all of these, kindness from others helps me dissolve the behavior much more quickly and shows me by example a better way to be.
6. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful are my greatest teachers. I know this because the people who cause me the most un-peacefulness in my life continue to be my reason to master the art of being peaceful when the people around me aren't.
7. The difficult takes a little while, the impossible a little longer. I learned this from an elegant woman who learned it from her father. I know it's true, because since the age of 12 I've wanted to tell stories about my life, but didn't believe I was a good enough writer. Five years ago, when I suggested a column of personal essays to my local newspaper, they turned it down, confirming my fear. But I worked on my writing, queried them again, and now, at nearly 50, I am a contributor to that newspaper with this very column. So maybe it's true what Vince Lombardi said: "We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time."
8. I am the only reason I may have a bad day today. I learned this from a truck driver who told me he wrote that bit of wisdom on a slip of paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror to remind him each morning who the real troublemaker was. I know it's true for me, because when I am agitated everyone seems mean and when I am peaceful everyone seems kind--or I don't care anyway because I'm so darn peaceful.
9. There are two kinds of business: My business and none of my business. I don't remember who I learned this from, but I'm pretty sure it was people who wanted me to stay out of their business.
10. Intuition is the best source of advice. I know this because it has always told me whether unsolicited advice--from a meddling aunt or anyone else--is worth listening to.
QUESTION: Do you pay attention to you intuition and, if not, why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
It's not that I think I know better than she what she should do in her life. I don't. And I know she has the right to learn for herself what will and will not work, without others like me butting in to confuse or complicate things.
But she turns 18 soon. And all I really have to offer that's meaningful, besides another birthday check, is the cool and helpful stuff I've learned, which, when I actually make a point of applying in my life, makes things so much easier.
And since I think the only thing worse than unsolicited advice is withholding really good secrets, I will venture to err on the good-secrets side:
1. There are always fewer jerks on the road when I leave 15 minutes earlier. I don't know why this is, it just is. And for some reason, the lines at the bank, grocery store, and post office also don't seem as slow. I learned this from a funny, wise man who's originally from Boston, which, when he says it, always sounds like Baaston.
2. Rejection is protection. I know this because years ago when I was a magazine editor, if my employer hadn't demoted me, which eventually led to my leaving, I would have never been hired by another publisher, who gave me what ended up being my favorite job in my editing career.
3. It's better than a stick in the eye. I learned this from my late father who, anytime I ever whined about something, would tell me this to help me put things in perspective.
4. Delay in life doesn't mean denial. I know this because after 10 and a half years of dating, my husband finally proposed--and we have now been married nearly 14 years.
5. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful need my kindness the most. I know this because when I am any or all of these, kindness from others helps me dissolve the behavior much more quickly and shows me by example a better way to be.
6. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful are my greatest teachers. I know this because the people who cause me the most un-peacefulness in my life continue to be my reason to master the art of being peaceful when the people around me aren't.
7. The difficult takes a little while, the impossible a little longer. I learned this from an elegant woman who learned it from her father. I know it's true, because since the age of 12 I've wanted to tell stories about my life, but didn't believe I was a good enough writer. Five years ago, when I suggested a column of personal essays to my local newspaper, they turned it down, confirming my fear. But I worked on my writing, queried them again, and now, at nearly 50, I am a contributor to that newspaper with this very column. So maybe it's true what Vince Lombardi said: "We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time."
8. I am the only reason I may have a bad day today. I learned this from a truck driver who told me he wrote that bit of wisdom on a slip of paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror to remind him each morning who the real troublemaker was. I know it's true for me, because when I am agitated everyone seems mean and when I am peaceful everyone seems kind--or I don't care anyway because I'm so darn peaceful.
9. There are two kinds of business: My business and none of my business. I don't remember who I learned this from, but I'm pretty sure it was people who wanted me to stay out of their business.
10. Intuition is the best source of advice. I know this because it has always told me whether unsolicited advice--from a meddling aunt or anyone else--is worth listening to.
QUESTION: Do you pay attention to you intuition and, if not, why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I'd Be Fine If...
A friend said I looked exuberant in a recent photograph. Exuberant. What a contrast between the me I am becoming at 49 and the me I was 10 or so years ago, when I sometimes evidently appeared so glum that even strangers, bless their hearts, would walk up to me and say, “Smile.”
Not that it did any good. Instead of being inspired to look up from the ground and acknowledge other people once in a while—people who might already feel invisible enough—I felt attacked and withdrew even more.
In my defense, my face does naturally have a hound-dog quality about it. Everything--my eyebrows, eyes and mouth--it all slopes downward. So I wasn't frowning, I told myself. And no, I did not have a pretty good anger issue brewing inside of me, anger that over time had fermented then flattened to resentment.
I would scream about my job alone in my car so I didn't scare my neighbors, and the love of my life seemed forever inclined to not get married. The world felt unfair, demanding, and infuriating. People seemed mean, thoughtless, and rude. But no, I was not frowning.
Even as I write this I am still amazed at how I believed that the reason for my state was that everybody else was so screwed up.
I remember once ranting about my job to my mother and, her eyes as wide as quarters, her suggesting, “Why don't you just be peaceful?”
Be peaceful? Be peaceful? Wasn't it obvious if I could do "peaceful" I wouldn't be standing there whining?
By the time I was 39 I was finally married to that love of my life and doing what I had always wanted, writing. But I was still walking around staring at the ground and blaming the world for the things I didn't want and the things I wanted but still didn't have. My wants seemed to multiply as soon as a want got granted.
And then I got a want I hadn't expected. Her name was Jane. You'd have thought she had it all, with her attitude. And she did. All the challenging stuff. The unhappy marriage to an alcoholic husband, insane mother, kleptomania, weight issues, low self esteem. She was also pretty, smart, generous, funny and had a great career, although one she hated.
But Jane refused to blame anyone but herself for her mental state or her circumstances. And if Jane had gotten herself into all of this then Jane—with the help of God, a counselor, 12-step meetings and whatever else it took—would get herself out of it, too.
Jane had the spirit and determination of a fighter, but she was a lover. She loved others even with their imperfections and herself enough to work hard at getting well. And that love, even in the midst of her temporary bouts of frustration with herself, absolutely radiated from her, soothing me like the warm fire I had needed and never knew.
Gradually, because of Jane's example and that of others like her—their gratitude, answerableness, acceptance of others and self-effacing humor—I am learning to change my attitude. One day five or so years ago I even noticed I wasn't looking at the ground as much. I was looking strangers in the eye and it felt good.
I haven't seen Jane in awhile, not since she got divorced, moved away and remarried, so I decided to send her an e-mail. Within a day she e-mailed me back.
She said she's divorced again, but has left that career she hated to do the kind of work she enjoys. And I could tell her humor is as strong as ever, as is her forgiveness.
And again she showed me something I needed to see: that if Jane can keep trying and stumbling and forgiving herself then I can, too.
As much as I wish I didn't, I do sometimes fall back into feeling sorry for myself. But at least I don't do it as often anymore or for as long and that's good.
It really does help when I focus on what I have instead of what I don't--something to do with filling my brain with positive thoughts so there isn't any space for the negative.
Smiling doesn't hurt either.
Question: How are you or are you not taking responsibility for your mind-set?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Not that it did any good. Instead of being inspired to look up from the ground and acknowledge other people once in a while—people who might already feel invisible enough—I felt attacked and withdrew even more.
In my defense, my face does naturally have a hound-dog quality about it. Everything--my eyebrows, eyes and mouth--it all slopes downward. So I wasn't frowning, I told myself. And no, I did not have a pretty good anger issue brewing inside of me, anger that over time had fermented then flattened to resentment.
I would scream about my job alone in my car so I didn't scare my neighbors, and the love of my life seemed forever inclined to not get married. The world felt unfair, demanding, and infuriating. People seemed mean, thoughtless, and rude. But no, I was not frowning.
Even as I write this I am still amazed at how I believed that the reason for my state was that everybody else was so screwed up.
I remember once ranting about my job to my mother and, her eyes as wide as quarters, her suggesting, “Why don't you just be peaceful?”
Be peaceful? Be peaceful? Wasn't it obvious if I could do "peaceful" I wouldn't be standing there whining?
By the time I was 39 I was finally married to that love of my life and doing what I had always wanted, writing. But I was still walking around staring at the ground and blaming the world for the things I didn't want and the things I wanted but still didn't have. My wants seemed to multiply as soon as a want got granted.
And then I got a want I hadn't expected. Her name was Jane. You'd have thought she had it all, with her attitude. And she did. All the challenging stuff. The unhappy marriage to an alcoholic husband, insane mother, kleptomania, weight issues, low self esteem. She was also pretty, smart, generous, funny and had a great career, although one she hated.
But Jane refused to blame anyone but herself for her mental state or her circumstances. And if Jane had gotten herself into all of this then Jane—with the help of God, a counselor, 12-step meetings and whatever else it took—would get herself out of it, too.
Jane had the spirit and determination of a fighter, but she was a lover. She loved others even with their imperfections and herself enough to work hard at getting well. And that love, even in the midst of her temporary bouts of frustration with herself, absolutely radiated from her, soothing me like the warm fire I had needed and never knew.
Gradually, because of Jane's example and that of others like her—their gratitude, answerableness, acceptance of others and self-effacing humor—I am learning to change my attitude. One day five or so years ago I even noticed I wasn't looking at the ground as much. I was looking strangers in the eye and it felt good.
I haven't seen Jane in awhile, not since she got divorced, moved away and remarried, so I decided to send her an e-mail. Within a day she e-mailed me back.
She said she's divorced again, but has left that career she hated to do the kind of work she enjoys. And I could tell her humor is as strong as ever, as is her forgiveness.
And again she showed me something I needed to see: that if Jane can keep trying and stumbling and forgiving herself then I can, too.
As much as I wish I didn't, I do sometimes fall back into feeling sorry for myself. But at least I don't do it as often anymore or for as long and that's good.
It really does help when I focus on what I have instead of what I don't--something to do with filling my brain with positive thoughts so there isn't any space for the negative.
Smiling doesn't hurt either.
Question: How are you or are you not taking responsibility for your mind-set?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Me, Rigid?
A thin line separates self-care from selfishness, and I wonder if sometimes I have unwittingly crossed it by digging in my heals over things that no longer serve me.
Such as where to sit on an airplane.
I don't remember when I concluded, “I must sit in an aisle seat”. Maybe it was when I started drinking two liters of water everyday. Or when I decided I wanted to be able to exit an airplane as quickly as possible when we landed--or if we crashed. That's the optimist in me. Or pessimist. I'm not sure which.
I hadn't thought about it until a friend told me about something that happened on her honeymoon. It got her wondering if her own heel digging might be self-care gone petrified.
Or, as she calls it, rigidity.
“I thought it might be a good topic for your column,” she said. But I had a feeling it was her way of saying we might have this affliction in common.
My friend confessed that her do-not-cross boundary when it comes to air travel happens to be the window seat, and when she and her new husband boarded the airplane on their honeymoon a 12-year-old boy was sitting in her seat—until she told him otherwise.
“Did you just make that little boy move?” her groom said.
Of course my friend, who's really a softie, felt like an ogre. So as soon as the “fasten seat belt” sign went off, she asked the boy if he wanted the window seat, and he said he did, so she gave it to him. Now, she says, she's working on loosening her clinch on her boundaries.
But we have to be aware of our boundaries to know if we are being too rigid with them, and it wasn't so long ago that I was oblivious to many of mine until somebody stumbled over one, at which point I realized, Ouch!
Or Ick. As in the case of my first blind date. I was a freshman in college and he was a famous Big 10 football player. He wasn't typically my type but he was attractive in a big, strong guy sort of way—and he wore a jacket and tie and took me to an expensive restaurant with candlelight and white tablecloths and matching napkins.
But he did something I would have never thought to put on my “do not cross this line” list until I had actually experienced it. A waiter brought a telephone to our table with what must have been a 30-foot cord—it was pre-cell phone 1978. And as the diamond chunk in his left earlobe sparkled like the shining star I thought he was, my date dipped his napkin into his water glass, wiped the sides of his nostrils, and proceeded to make bets with his bookie.
So that's how I learned about boundaries initially—by experiencing someone doing something I found disrespectful and respecting myself enough not to put myself in the situation again. But there were other boundaries I set then erased for fear of disappointing others. Until I began this column, I had difficulty telling people I was unavailable during the times I reserved for writing. Because I wasn't yet published, I thought they wouldn't understand why I chose writing over being with them.
And then someone said, “If you don't take your writing seriously why would anyone else?”
It was a needed reality check: I teach others how to treat me by how I treat myself.
Sometimes I still feel guilty over some boundaries I set, but I'm working on that—on shaking off the untruth that says love requires giving even when I bleed. It's okay to say no if I believe the giving will hurt.
Thanks to my friend, I now know I also need to re-evaluate my boundaries once in a while. Instead of setting them globally or for a lifetime, it's better to be open and flexible. I am growing and changing, so it's only natural that my boundaries should, too.
As for the next time I fly, I plan to request an aisle seat but I won't be as rigid about it, in case someone else needs it more.
Like a 12-year-old boy.
Or somebody who drinks more water than me.
QUESTION: What, if any, boundaries are you holding onto that no longer serve you?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
Such as where to sit on an airplane.
I don't remember when I concluded, “I must sit in an aisle seat”. Maybe it was when I started drinking two liters of water everyday. Or when I decided I wanted to be able to exit an airplane as quickly as possible when we landed--or if we crashed. That's the optimist in me. Or pessimist. I'm not sure which.
I hadn't thought about it until a friend told me about something that happened on her honeymoon. It got her wondering if her own heel digging might be self-care gone petrified.
Or, as she calls it, rigidity.
“I thought it might be a good topic for your column,” she said. But I had a feeling it was her way of saying we might have this affliction in common.
My friend confessed that her do-not-cross boundary when it comes to air travel happens to be the window seat, and when she and her new husband boarded the airplane on their honeymoon a 12-year-old boy was sitting in her seat—until she told him otherwise.
“Did you just make that little boy move?” her groom said.
Of course my friend, who's really a softie, felt like an ogre. So as soon as the “fasten seat belt” sign went off, she asked the boy if he wanted the window seat, and he said he did, so she gave it to him. Now, she says, she's working on loosening her clinch on her boundaries.
But we have to be aware of our boundaries to know if we are being too rigid with them, and it wasn't so long ago that I was oblivious to many of mine until somebody stumbled over one, at which point I realized, Ouch!
Or Ick. As in the case of my first blind date. I was a freshman in college and he was a famous Big 10 football player. He wasn't typically my type but he was attractive in a big, strong guy sort of way—and he wore a jacket and tie and took me to an expensive restaurant with candlelight and white tablecloths and matching napkins.
But he did something I would have never thought to put on my “do not cross this line” list until I had actually experienced it. A waiter brought a telephone to our table with what must have been a 30-foot cord—it was pre-cell phone 1978. And as the diamond chunk in his left earlobe sparkled like the shining star I thought he was, my date dipped his napkin into his water glass, wiped the sides of his nostrils, and proceeded to make bets with his bookie.
So that's how I learned about boundaries initially—by experiencing someone doing something I found disrespectful and respecting myself enough not to put myself in the situation again. But there were other boundaries I set then erased for fear of disappointing others. Until I began this column, I had difficulty telling people I was unavailable during the times I reserved for writing. Because I wasn't yet published, I thought they wouldn't understand why I chose writing over being with them.
And then someone said, “If you don't take your writing seriously why would anyone else?”
It was a needed reality check: I teach others how to treat me by how I treat myself.
Sometimes I still feel guilty over some boundaries I set, but I'm working on that—on shaking off the untruth that says love requires giving even when I bleed. It's okay to say no if I believe the giving will hurt.
Thanks to my friend, I now know I also need to re-evaluate my boundaries once in a while. Instead of setting them globally or for a lifetime, it's better to be open and flexible. I am growing and changing, so it's only natural that my boundaries should, too.
As for the next time I fly, I plan to request an aisle seat but I won't be as rigid about it, in case someone else needs it more.
Like a 12-year-old boy.
Or somebody who drinks more water than me.
QUESTION: What, if any, boundaries are you holding onto that no longer serve you?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
Monday, January 4, 2010
No Shoes Please
It started innocently enough. I didn't like cleaning black footprints in the bathtub.
"Here," I said, handing my husband rubber flip-flops. "No more going barefoot outside, especially not to 7-Eleven."
He protested at first by "forgetting" to wear them, and I understood why. We live in a beach town. We have barefoot weather practically year round; it's natural not to wear shoes. But when a super-strength mystery goo showed up on his feet I put my foot down.
"Please wear the flip-flops," I said. "The bottoms of your feet are disgusting."
I guess that did it because he started wearing the shoes. Not all the time, but more, and always to 7-Eleven, and the footprints disappeared from the tub.
That's also when we stopped wearing shoes in our home; it seemed the logical next step. But what initially began as a way to keep the house clean eventually changed into something else: Me trying to keep the world at bay.
Because the world wasn't just dirty it was scary dirty, and I had proof.
In August 2009, New York Daily News reporters Leah Chernikoff and Jacob E. Osterhout, wearing flip-flops, trekked through trains, bars, a park, a baseball game, and the public bathroom at the Coney Island Subway Station—and twice rode the Cyclone—then sent the flip-flops to a lab.
About 18,100 bacteria were found on those shoes. And yes, there were probably good as well as bad ones, but Aerococcus viridans and Rothia mucilaginosa were among them. And since they tend to live in the mouth, the logical reason for them clinging to those sandals was people refusing to swallow their own saliva.
"It's not a good sign," the lab's manager, Dennis Kinney, told the Daily News. “If someone were sick and spitting on the ground, you could pick something up.”
The sandals that traveled to Coney Island's public bathroom had even more bacteria, including Staph aureus. This is a generally harmless bacterium unless it enters the body through a cut, gets into your bloodstream, is left untreated, at which point you can die.
It was enough to convince me that everyone should remove their shoes in my home, not just my husband and I. But no, I haven't yet made this ultimatum. I don't want people to think I respect my floors more than I do their desire to be fully dressed. Or that I think they are bug-infested petri dishes, which I don't, but I do think their shoes are.
I have to admit I was uneasy the first time I was asked to remove my shoes at someone's home, because I always wear socks or slippers. I'd forgotten that ten or so years ago I often went barefoot and never died.
Not many die from shaking hands either, but I'd also prefer not to do that, since I don't know where people's hands have been.
It's exhausting, this bacteria angst, and I really don't want to go through my life plastic wrapped and hermetically sealed. My best guess is, all of it is a symptom of my knowing I'm turning 50 soon.
Twenty-five years ago time stretched in front of me endlessly, but it doesn't feel endless now. I feel like a snowball rolling down a hill. The longer I live, the more I know, so the faster my life seems to go. I'm aware of things like catastrophic germs in a way I wasn't before, of anything that might possibly shorten what living I have left.
But obviously fretting over it isn't a wise preoccupation. Especially since chronic stress weakens the immune system, thus lessening my chances of living to a healthy ripe old age.
So I suppose the only solution is to do what someone once advised me but I didn't pay enough attention to: Wear life like a loose robe.
I wonder if really loose flip flops might be just as good?
QUESTION: How are you or are you not wearing your life loosely?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
For the New York Daily News Article: http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/health/2009/08/11/2009-08-11_flipflops_are_a_magnet_for_dangerous_deadly_bac.html#ixzz0Z0vdTjJI
"Here," I said, handing my husband rubber flip-flops. "No more going barefoot outside, especially not to 7-Eleven."
He protested at first by "forgetting" to wear them, and I understood why. We live in a beach town. We have barefoot weather practically year round; it's natural not to wear shoes. But when a super-strength mystery goo showed up on his feet I put my foot down.
"Please wear the flip-flops," I said. "The bottoms of your feet are disgusting."
I guess that did it because he started wearing the shoes. Not all the time, but more, and always to 7-Eleven, and the footprints disappeared from the tub.
That's also when we stopped wearing shoes in our home; it seemed the logical next step. But what initially began as a way to keep the house clean eventually changed into something else: Me trying to keep the world at bay.
Because the world wasn't just dirty it was scary dirty, and I had proof.
In August 2009, New York Daily News reporters Leah Chernikoff and Jacob E. Osterhout, wearing flip-flops, trekked through trains, bars, a park, a baseball game, and the public bathroom at the Coney Island Subway Station—and twice rode the Cyclone—then sent the flip-flops to a lab.
About 18,100 bacteria were found on those shoes. And yes, there were probably good as well as bad ones, but Aerococcus viridans and Rothia mucilaginosa were among them. And since they tend to live in the mouth, the logical reason for them clinging to those sandals was people refusing to swallow their own saliva.
"It's not a good sign," the lab's manager, Dennis Kinney, told the Daily News. “If someone were sick and spitting on the ground, you could pick something up.”
The sandals that traveled to Coney Island's public bathroom had even more bacteria, including Staph aureus. This is a generally harmless bacterium unless it enters the body through a cut, gets into your bloodstream, is left untreated, at which point you can die.
It was enough to convince me that everyone should remove their shoes in my home, not just my husband and I. But no, I haven't yet made this ultimatum. I don't want people to think I respect my floors more than I do their desire to be fully dressed. Or that I think they are bug-infested petri dishes, which I don't, but I do think their shoes are.
I have to admit I was uneasy the first time I was asked to remove my shoes at someone's home, because I always wear socks or slippers. I'd forgotten that ten or so years ago I often went barefoot and never died.
Not many die from shaking hands either, but I'd also prefer not to do that, since I don't know where people's hands have been.
It's exhausting, this bacteria angst, and I really don't want to go through my life plastic wrapped and hermetically sealed. My best guess is, all of it is a symptom of my knowing I'm turning 50 soon.
Twenty-five years ago time stretched in front of me endlessly, but it doesn't feel endless now. I feel like a snowball rolling down a hill. The longer I live, the more I know, so the faster my life seems to go. I'm aware of things like catastrophic germs in a way I wasn't before, of anything that might possibly shorten what living I have left.
But obviously fretting over it isn't a wise preoccupation. Especially since chronic stress weakens the immune system, thus lessening my chances of living to a healthy ripe old age.
So I suppose the only solution is to do what someone once advised me but I didn't pay enough attention to: Wear life like a loose robe.
I wonder if really loose flip flops might be just as good?
QUESTION: How are you or are you not wearing your life loosely?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
For the New York Daily News Article: http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/health/2009/08/11/2009-08-11_flipflops_are_a_magnet_for_dangerous_deadly_bac.html#ixzz0Z0vdTjJI
Monday, November 23, 2009
Newspaper Picks Up My Blog
Just two and a half weeks after launching What It's Like For Me: Coming To Terms With Humanness, I received word that the Naples Daily News has picked it up for publication in both the on-line and in-print versions of the newspaper.
My first post, "Mindful of Things," appeared on-line at the Naples Daily News last Thursday, November 19, 2009, then again today, in print, Monday, November 23. That same Thursday-on-line/Monday-in-print schedule will repeat every other week from now on at the newspaper.
So that my postings here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com are in sync with the Naples Daily News publishing schedule of every other week, I am putting this site on pause until Monday, January 4, 2010, at which time I will post a new essay--the same day it appears in print in the Naples Daily News.
That means my essays here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com will then post every other week--for at least the time being.
To check out my work at the Naples Daily News, go to http://www.naplesnews.com/, and type in Janis Lyn Johnson on their site's search bar.
Thank you for your support and patience--and see you in the New Year!
My first post, "Mindful of Things," appeared on-line at the Naples Daily News last Thursday, November 19, 2009, then again today, in print, Monday, November 23. That same Thursday-on-line/Monday-in-print schedule will repeat every other week from now on at the newspaper.
So that my postings here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com are in sync with the Naples Daily News publishing schedule of every other week, I am putting this site on pause until Monday, January 4, 2010, at which time I will post a new essay--the same day it appears in print in the Naples Daily News.
That means my essays here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com will then post every other week--for at least the time being.
To check out my work at the Naples Daily News, go to http://www.naplesnews.com/, and type in Janis Lyn Johnson on their site's search bar.
Thank you for your support and patience--and see you in the New Year!
Lovableness, Not So Easy for Some of Us
I admit it. I search the Internet for peculiar things, like the answer to an exasperating issue of mine: How to stop feeling uptight around people I think may think I don't measure up.
I know: It's none of my business what people think of me, if they believe I'm not smart, funny, or good enough. If I am doing all I can to be the best person I can be, all that matters is what I think.
As I said, I know all that. Intellectually. But it must be true that the longest journey is from the head to the heart, because just when I think I have beaten this thing it sneaks back in like crabgrass.
I am sure of something, though: When I carry a question inside me, a power greater than I am knows it. It's like a secret prayer, and the universe has a way of answering in the most unlikely places. Of course, it may not be in the form I expect. It could be a 15 year old named Pumpkin Soup.
I don't know Pumpkin's real name, only that she tossed her message, "How To Be More Lovable", into the Internet sometime during December 2008. I discovered her when I typed "uptight and uncomfortable in the world" into my Yahoo search bar. Maybe that sounds sort of desperate, but I probably was at the time—and Pumpkin seemed like she was, too.
Pumpkin described her friends as "huggy, touchy-feely people," who had given up on hugging her--to say goodbye, hello, and congratulations--because, she thought, she was stiff and awkward.
"My failure to be lovable and huggy and la di da about the world," she wrote, "also is probably the reason I have never had a boyfriend…since I am not hideous looking or anything."
I, too, am not hideous looking or anything, at least not on the outside. Inside can feel like a whole different story. I'm also not as rigid as I was a decade ago--"as tightly strung as piano wire," somebody said—but I can still feel uncomfortable when it comes to hugging people. The first time a stranger attempted to wrap her arms around me I was as receptive as a two-by-four.
Intellectually of course, I understand the root of my up-tightness: It's about not feeling safe. To be with someone, holding hands, hugging or even talking, I need to know that person won't hurt me, physically or emotionally. It's natural to feel uptight around someone who's verbally abusive or has the flu. It's my insecurity mechanism kicking in, warning me of unhealthy situations.
The trouble is, that same mechanism kicks in when I'm with someone I think thinks I don't measure up. I know it's my instinct trying to remind me the fittest of a species survives—which a thousand years ago was a useful tool but obviously isn't necessary today. I'm not going to lose my food and shelter because somebody thinks I'm not “enough”. But what I could lose—and this is what keeps me in the prehistoric ages with gut-clutching discomfort—is a friendship I really want.
So this lingering, low-grade up-tightness—this feeling, as Pumpkin says, of being unlovable—must be fear. Fear that others can't accept my imperfectness—which in my twisted little brain translates into total solitude (if, that is, I am unlucky enough to outlive my husband). And since I happen to be allergic to cats, dogs and basically anything furry with two or four legs I mean really alone.
But all humans are imperfect; even Mother Theresa and Gandhi were imperfect. So if people will not, cannot, do not accept me the way I am—especially when I continue to devour self-improvement meetings and books like M&Ms to try to be “better”--then I have to let them go. Because if they can't accept me, they can't accept humanness; they can't even accept themselves.
And this I do know deep where it counts (I just forgot for awhile): Everyone is worthy of being loved because the Great Spirit of all Things doesn't make mistakes.
How to be more Lovable?
Pumpkin, bless your sweet little uptight heart, we're already lovable enough.
QUESTION: The last time you felt uptight around someone, were you consciously aware of why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
I know: It's none of my business what people think of me, if they believe I'm not smart, funny, or good enough. If I am doing all I can to be the best person I can be, all that matters is what I think.
As I said, I know all that. Intellectually. But it must be true that the longest journey is from the head to the heart, because just when I think I have beaten this thing it sneaks back in like crabgrass.
I am sure of something, though: When I carry a question inside me, a power greater than I am knows it. It's like a secret prayer, and the universe has a way of answering in the most unlikely places. Of course, it may not be in the form I expect. It could be a 15 year old named Pumpkin Soup.
I don't know Pumpkin's real name, only that she tossed her message, "How To Be More Lovable", into the Internet sometime during December 2008. I discovered her when I typed "uptight and uncomfortable in the world" into my Yahoo search bar. Maybe that sounds sort of desperate, but I probably was at the time—and Pumpkin seemed like she was, too.
Pumpkin described her friends as "huggy, touchy-feely people," who had given up on hugging her--to say goodbye, hello, and congratulations--because, she thought, she was stiff and awkward.
"My failure to be lovable and huggy and la di da about the world," she wrote, "also is probably the reason I have never had a boyfriend…since I am not hideous looking or anything."
I, too, am not hideous looking or anything, at least not on the outside. Inside can feel like a whole different story. I'm also not as rigid as I was a decade ago--"as tightly strung as piano wire," somebody said—but I can still feel uncomfortable when it comes to hugging people. The first time a stranger attempted to wrap her arms around me I was as receptive as a two-by-four.
Intellectually of course, I understand the root of my up-tightness: It's about not feeling safe. To be with someone, holding hands, hugging or even talking, I need to know that person won't hurt me, physically or emotionally. It's natural to feel uptight around someone who's verbally abusive or has the flu. It's my insecurity mechanism kicking in, warning me of unhealthy situations.
The trouble is, that same mechanism kicks in when I'm with someone I think thinks I don't measure up. I know it's my instinct trying to remind me the fittest of a species survives—which a thousand years ago was a useful tool but obviously isn't necessary today. I'm not going to lose my food and shelter because somebody thinks I'm not “enough”. But what I could lose—and this is what keeps me in the prehistoric ages with gut-clutching discomfort—is a friendship I really want.
So this lingering, low-grade up-tightness—this feeling, as Pumpkin says, of being unlovable—must be fear. Fear that others can't accept my imperfectness—which in my twisted little brain translates into total solitude (if, that is, I am unlucky enough to outlive my husband). And since I happen to be allergic to cats, dogs and basically anything furry with two or four legs I mean really alone.
But all humans are imperfect; even Mother Theresa and Gandhi were imperfect. So if people will not, cannot, do not accept me the way I am—especially when I continue to devour self-improvement meetings and books like M&Ms to try to be “better”--then I have to let them go. Because if they can't accept me, they can't accept humanness; they can't even accept themselves.
And this I do know deep where it counts (I just forgot for awhile): Everyone is worthy of being loved because the Great Spirit of all Things doesn't make mistakes.
How to be more Lovable?
Pumpkin, bless your sweet little uptight heart, we're already lovable enough.
QUESTION: The last time you felt uptight around someone, were you consciously aware of why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
Monday, November 16, 2009
Grateful for the Cobwebs
Doing something you don't want to do can sometimes be a good thing--even if you are pushed into doing it. It can help you grow beyond your comfort level and, if you're fortunate, it can put more in perspective than you might have imagined.
Take, for example, entertaining friends at home. For most people, it probably isn't an issue, but it is for me. As soon as you step into the foyer of my townhouse, I worry you'll notice the woodwork surrounding the front and garage doors has been dog chewed up to the doorknobs. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet. And if you look across the foyer into the living room, you'll see the parquet floor is as scratched and stained as a butcher block. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.
Then, please don't look up at the two-story ceiling, because the cobwebs are probably two decades old. And yes, I did at least try to do something about that. I repeatedly slung a wet washcloth up there to knock them down. That smeared them all over the place. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.
I tell myself the reason these things are unchanged is because my husband and I eventually plan to move. But I know it's also because I'm frugal and a procrastinator--which is why the fabric on the ceiling of our 13-year-old Jeep hangs nearer and nearer to our heads.
In my dreams, our Someday House will already have perfect door surrounds, ceilings, and floors. Our Someday Car will be perfect, too. But as for my dreams of our Someday House, I know that's all it is, a dream. Because the house my husband and I will ultimately choose will probably be a fixer upper, considering he's as frugal as me.
Despite the blemished townhouse, I did invite three girlfriends over recently. Well, sort of. My initial idea was for one girlfriend to come over for frozen organic pizza. She suggested I cook pasta instead. She even gave me the recipe and asked if I wanted to invite so and so, too. "Sure," I heard myself say.
Then, two weeks before the dinner--or was it one week--she sent me an email explaining she'd also invited another friend. Could I send her directions? "Sure," I emailed back.
The problem was, I'm not and never have been comfortable cooking things from scratch--thus the initial frozen organic pizza concept. The last time I cooked for friends was probably four or more years ago, and that was just a breakfast. This time, I knew I could order take out, even cater the darn thing, but for some reason I eventually came around to the decision that I wanted to cook.
Maybe cooking is like putting on makeup. I enjoy doing it sometimes, for certain occasions. It's the creative part of me trying to be expressed by doing something special. And what could be more special to give someone than a delicious home-cooked meal?
The emphasis, of course, is on delicious. I have a friend named Alice who loves to cook, and everything she makes is delicious, so going to her house is always fun. And herein lies another problem. A lot of what I cook is not so great or, at best, bland. I remember the time I made Gazpacho. Cold soup. How difficult could that be? The dish was so oily it made me nauseous.
Nevertheless, in the middle of my recent dinner party I found myself having a good time. Even my linguini and broccoli tossed in garlic and oil was good--that is, after we all added grated cheese and more salt and pepper. And then, one of my girlfriends mentioned that a homeless family--friends of hers, a couple who had recently lost their jobs and their house, and had a teenage son--was now living with her family in her home.
Whether or not there were cobwebs on my ceiling didn't seem to matter as much anymore. At least I had a ceiling for the cobwebs to cling to.
QUESTION: What event or events in your life surprised you with a shift in your perspective?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
Take, for example, entertaining friends at home. For most people, it probably isn't an issue, but it is for me. As soon as you step into the foyer of my townhouse, I worry you'll notice the woodwork surrounding the front and garage doors has been dog chewed up to the doorknobs. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet. And if you look across the foyer into the living room, you'll see the parquet floor is as scratched and stained as a butcher block. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.
Then, please don't look up at the two-story ceiling, because the cobwebs are probably two decades old. And yes, I did at least try to do something about that. I repeatedly slung a wet washcloth up there to knock them down. That smeared them all over the place. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.
I tell myself the reason these things are unchanged is because my husband and I eventually plan to move. But I know it's also because I'm frugal and a procrastinator--which is why the fabric on the ceiling of our 13-year-old Jeep hangs nearer and nearer to our heads.
In my dreams, our Someday House will already have perfect door surrounds, ceilings, and floors. Our Someday Car will be perfect, too. But as for my dreams of our Someday House, I know that's all it is, a dream. Because the house my husband and I will ultimately choose will probably be a fixer upper, considering he's as frugal as me.
Despite the blemished townhouse, I did invite three girlfriends over recently. Well, sort of. My initial idea was for one girlfriend to come over for frozen organic pizza. She suggested I cook pasta instead. She even gave me the recipe and asked if I wanted to invite so and so, too. "Sure," I heard myself say.
Then, two weeks before the dinner--or was it one week--she sent me an email explaining she'd also invited another friend. Could I send her directions? "Sure," I emailed back.
The problem was, I'm not and never have been comfortable cooking things from scratch--thus the initial frozen organic pizza concept. The last time I cooked for friends was probably four or more years ago, and that was just a breakfast. This time, I knew I could order take out, even cater the darn thing, but for some reason I eventually came around to the decision that I wanted to cook.
Maybe cooking is like putting on makeup. I enjoy doing it sometimes, for certain occasions. It's the creative part of me trying to be expressed by doing something special. And what could be more special to give someone than a delicious home-cooked meal?
The emphasis, of course, is on delicious. I have a friend named Alice who loves to cook, and everything she makes is delicious, so going to her house is always fun. And herein lies another problem. A lot of what I cook is not so great or, at best, bland. I remember the time I made Gazpacho. Cold soup. How difficult could that be? The dish was so oily it made me nauseous.
Nevertheless, in the middle of my recent dinner party I found myself having a good time. Even my linguini and broccoli tossed in garlic and oil was good--that is, after we all added grated cheese and more salt and pepper. And then, one of my girlfriends mentioned that a homeless family--friends of hers, a couple who had recently lost their jobs and their house, and had a teenage son--was now living with her family in her home.
Whether or not there were cobwebs on my ceiling didn't seem to matter as much anymore. At least I had a ceiling for the cobwebs to cling to.
QUESTION: What event or events in your life surprised you with a shift in your perspective?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)
Monday, November 9, 2009
Mindful of Things
It's amazing how shame rears its head unexpectedly, over something as simple as shoes.
One morning when it was raining, I wore rubber flip-flops out of the house, then once at my destination replaced them with the new leather sandals I'd coveted for months before finally buying on sale. It wasn't something I usually did, wear shoes I loved in the rain. In the past I'd have kept them boxed up until another appropriate but dry occasion, missing the opportunity to enjoy them now. This was growth for me.
But when a girlfriend noticed me switch out of the sandals and back into the flip-flops as I headed into the rain again, I felt an uncontrollable need to blurt, "Don't mind me. I'm just fussy." One step forward and another back. I was a child again, ridiculing myself before anyone else on the playground did.
It took me a while to understand where that had come from, my shame for wanting to protect something I treasured. I wasn't being fussy; I was being careful. Somewhere during my lifetime, though, I had unconsciously accepted the myth that consumption is cool and preservation is for fussy people. In our consumerism society, if something isn't shiny anymore--never mind if it still works fine--it gets tossed or gifted to somebody else. Or, if you're like me, donated to charity to assuage my guilt.
No wonder debt and dumps are growing. According to authors Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D.*, New York City garbage collectors picked up more than 1,200 pounds of waste per resident per year a century ago. Three-quarters of it was coal ashes, 15 percent was garbage, and eight percent was what we now call "product waste", items ranging from paper to old mattresses. Today New York collects more than 1,600 pounds of waste per resident, but product waste is a whopping three-quarters of that.
Since we tend to preserve and keep what we care about, I wonder what that says about what we mostly buy? I know for me in the past I too often bought things to follow a trend, copy someone else's style, or fill a space in my home I didn't know what else to do with. All were eventually purged.
Then, last year, I bought a pair of shoes I didn't love just to work with a handbag I did. Within weeks I regretted the purchase, but I couldn't return what I'd worn. For some reason, that acquisition bothered me more than any had in the past, and I couldn't understand why. It wasn't that the shoes had cost much; they were inexpensive. So what was the problem? After all, I'd done this before.
And that's when it dawned on me: I wasn't the person I was before. I knew better. My transgression? I wasn't mindful.
For me, mindfulness means being consciously aware of everything I do and my motives behind it. But as I handed the saleswoman my credit card that day, I was totally oblivious that my motive was impatience. I didn't want to wait to find shoes I loved; I wanted to use the handbag now. Yes, yes, I know I don't have to match shoes to my bag, but this particular pewter metallic tote screamed for gray shoes or sandals (in my non-fashionista opinion).
Since then, whenever I consider buying a non-necessity, I try to remember to ask myself what my motive is. If my answer is that I love it, or at least really like it, and it's in my budget, I buy it. (Of course, my husband thinks the only acceptable motive should be to need it, but that's a whole different topic.)
Being mindful about what I buy also means taking the time to recognize the quality, significance, or magnitude of a thing. It means honoring the fact that someone took the care to create this object. On some level, it meant something to them. It expresses their inspired essence. So I'm trying to change my attitude about those gray shoes. After all, someone thought they were beautiful enough to create them for me. I want to be respectful of that.
I hope someone else would do the same for what I create for them.
*Products, Waste, And The End Of The Throwaway Society, by Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D. "The Networker", http://www.sehn.org/Volume_10-2.html
QUESTION: How are you or are you not mindful of the things you possess and why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left. )
One morning when it was raining, I wore rubber flip-flops out of the house, then once at my destination replaced them with the new leather sandals I'd coveted for months before finally buying on sale. It wasn't something I usually did, wear shoes I loved in the rain. In the past I'd have kept them boxed up until another appropriate but dry occasion, missing the opportunity to enjoy them now. This was growth for me.
But when a girlfriend noticed me switch out of the sandals and back into the flip-flops as I headed into the rain again, I felt an uncontrollable need to blurt, "Don't mind me. I'm just fussy." One step forward and another back. I was a child again, ridiculing myself before anyone else on the playground did.
It took me a while to understand where that had come from, my shame for wanting to protect something I treasured. I wasn't being fussy; I was being careful. Somewhere during my lifetime, though, I had unconsciously accepted the myth that consumption is cool and preservation is for fussy people. In our consumerism society, if something isn't shiny anymore--never mind if it still works fine--it gets tossed or gifted to somebody else. Or, if you're like me, donated to charity to assuage my guilt.
No wonder debt and dumps are growing. According to authors Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D.*, New York City garbage collectors picked up more than 1,200 pounds of waste per resident per year a century ago. Three-quarters of it was coal ashes, 15 percent was garbage, and eight percent was what we now call "product waste", items ranging from paper to old mattresses. Today New York collects more than 1,600 pounds of waste per resident, but product waste is a whopping three-quarters of that.
Since we tend to preserve and keep what we care about, I wonder what that says about what we mostly buy? I know for me in the past I too often bought things to follow a trend, copy someone else's style, or fill a space in my home I didn't know what else to do with. All were eventually purged.
Then, last year, I bought a pair of shoes I didn't love just to work with a handbag I did. Within weeks I regretted the purchase, but I couldn't return what I'd worn. For some reason, that acquisition bothered me more than any had in the past, and I couldn't understand why. It wasn't that the shoes had cost much; they were inexpensive. So what was the problem? After all, I'd done this before.
And that's when it dawned on me: I wasn't the person I was before. I knew better. My transgression? I wasn't mindful.
For me, mindfulness means being consciously aware of everything I do and my motives behind it. But as I handed the saleswoman my credit card that day, I was totally oblivious that my motive was impatience. I didn't want to wait to find shoes I loved; I wanted to use the handbag now. Yes, yes, I know I don't have to match shoes to my bag, but this particular pewter metallic tote screamed for gray shoes or sandals (in my non-fashionista opinion).
Since then, whenever I consider buying a non-necessity, I try to remember to ask myself what my motive is. If my answer is that I love it, or at least really like it, and it's in my budget, I buy it. (Of course, my husband thinks the only acceptable motive should be to need it, but that's a whole different topic.)
Being mindful about what I buy also means taking the time to recognize the quality, significance, or magnitude of a thing. It means honoring the fact that someone took the care to create this object. On some level, it meant something to them. It expresses their inspired essence. So I'm trying to change my attitude about those gray shoes. After all, someone thought they were beautiful enough to create them for me. I want to be respectful of that.
I hope someone else would do the same for what I create for them.
*Products, Waste, And The End Of The Throwaway Society, by Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D. "The Networker", http://www.sehn.org/Volume_10-2.html
QUESTION: How are you or are you not mindful of the things you possess and why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left. )
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
My New Blog Is Coming Soon
Look for the launch of my weekly blog column on Monday morning, November 9, 2009. I hope to see you there!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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