I think it was Stephen Colbert who defined hope as believing in something without evidence, and optimism as believing in something because there is evidence to suggest it.
A whole plate of changes last week ~ the first day, first outfit for the first day, first pair of heels for the first outfit for the first day, what to pack, and bring, and eat. Applied on bare skin, it felt icy hot with uncomfortable relief. I look deeply into my eyes as I frost the lashes and tell myself to get a move on. I'm working!
Sometimes my chest tightens at being too near the edge. I have to remind myself, change is not vertigo. Change is change, a part of life, so just get over it. And anyway, I was put here, with these people, for this purpose, at this time. Relax and let it go.
Cancer survivors have an astonishing resolve to push into a future they can't control, carrying hope up and out despite the temptation to pull the covers over their heads and block out the world. They already know life does not always go their way, a victimless crime that tests their resolve; when they suffer loss, they gain a new appreciation of their special gifts; and as time grows short, they understand what a waste it is to focus on the what ifs, why nots, and but whens.
On the best journeys, optimism lights the way and courage purposes the trip. The trick is to find a way to enjoy the view from all four sides of the house...
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 25, 2011
All For One
I suppose when you love what you do it really shows in the way you tackle the work to be done. There's a mountain of it to cast a shadow, with the season just beginning for outreach activities throughout the state. Simultaneously is planned an office move plus significant job repurposing for some people, my job included, and for that I have the advantage of being new and not having to transition. (I've got plenty of personal transitions going on.) I recollect a couple of moves at work and know how easily derailed a staff can become when change upends the routine.
But not here. Where I work (still can't get over saying that, btw) ... there seems to be a constant awareness of the work itself. It is interesting to stand alongside people who have worked for decades together, companionably adapting to whatever they are asked to do to further the goals of the organization. There is a genuine sense of - what is it: celebration? dedication? - to make an impact on worldwide health and healing, however small.
My conclusion from that (after day two, as the initial reaction expert) and from meeting everyone (particularly those who went out of their way to stop by my little cubby ~ a Vice President and a receptionist) is that this is a good place to work. No one strutts around with their big titles, and I may be forced to memorize the org chart just to know who's who.
I like that. And becoming part of the philosophical shared voice the office has adopted for unity and purpose. They will come to know me. Rely and trust in me.
The employee manual was full of governing actions and a code of conduct that was fair, honest, and respectful to each employee. The goal was harmony and productivity from within, results-driven from without. Time was taken to explain why policy was enforced, and what the employee would gain. In just a few pages, I saw nurturing and longevity, personal development, and a company as vested in our health, exercise and education as we are.
Wow. There really are places where companies reflect light back into their employees, and I am so glad to have soft landed in one of them.
But not here. Where I work (still can't get over saying that, btw) ... there seems to be a constant awareness of the work itself. It is interesting to stand alongside people who have worked for decades together, companionably adapting to whatever they are asked to do to further the goals of the organization. There is a genuine sense of - what is it: celebration? dedication? - to make an impact on worldwide health and healing, however small.
My conclusion from that (after day two, as the initial reaction expert) and from meeting everyone (particularly those who went out of their way to stop by my little cubby ~ a Vice President and a receptionist) is that this is a good place to work. No one strutts around with their big titles, and I may be forced to memorize the org chart just to know who's who.
I like that. And becoming part of the philosophical shared voice the office has adopted for unity and purpose. They will come to know me. Rely and trust in me.
The employee manual was full of governing actions and a code of conduct that was fair, honest, and respectful to each employee. The goal was harmony and productivity from within, results-driven from without. Time was taken to explain why policy was enforced, and what the employee would gain. In just a few pages, I saw nurturing and longevity, personal development, and a company as vested in our health, exercise and education as we are.
Wow. There really are places where companies reflect light back into their employees, and I am so glad to have soft landed in one of them.
Jan 23, 2011
Spending Days
Tonight I sit in the old familiar chair, with something to get up for in the morning. It's the first time I've done this particular routine in 449 days. A lifetime ago.
I shopped today for knee highs and 2" black heels to wear with a pair of nicely fitting slacks and a pretty blouse. The route is mapped and recommendations tendered as to time and distance ratios. My lunch is in the fridge. The car is gassed up. The alarm is set and Randy promises to be back up with a call at six, just in case.
This all feels mighty fine, a fresh place to make impressions and figure out where the microwave is to make a cup of tea. A new password, a desk, and time at lunch to settle in. I think it will be a friendly and fun place to work. Tomorrow I'll know. Sure hope I can sleep!
I shopped today for knee highs and 2" black heels to wear with a pair of nicely fitting slacks and a pretty blouse. The route is mapped and recommendations tendered as to time and distance ratios. My lunch is in the fridge. The car is gassed up. The alarm is set and Randy promises to be back up with a call at six, just in case.
This all feels mighty fine, a fresh place to make impressions and figure out where the microwave is to make a cup of tea. A new password, a desk, and time at lunch to settle in. I think it will be a friendly and fun place to work. Tomorrow I'll know. Sure hope I can sleep!
Making Neighbors
This was just very nicely put. It is from the blog Maine Family Robinson.
I'm still trying to get the hang of living in western Maine. When you move to a new place, especially a far-flung place, the mundane habits and traditions of the place are all new, and often obscure. Simple things like figuring out what day to put out the trash have to be re-learned from ground zero (Tuesday mornings. Unless there's a holiday)
The fish out of water story is a mainstay of American movies and TV, but I'm not a Clampett, and there are no Drysdales around here anyway. It's closer to the movie Big, in which Tom Hanks is transformed from a grade-schooler into an adult -- except it's the opposite; I’m still physically and intellectually an adult, but I’ve regained the sense of curiosity and wonder of a child, or perhaps a Japanese tourist. Everything and everybody can be interesting if they're unknown to you. There's a temptation to timidity, too. Hang back until you figure out where you fit.
Everyone has been most kind to us in our new home; it's not an insular place. People are amazingly friendly, and they walk everywhere, including past our house, and they stop to talk to you if you're out on the porch or up on a ladder. But then the winter comes.
People are really hardy around here, so winter holds no terrors for them. The reason New York City disintegrates into chaos if it snows a foot is that they've been pretending that winter will never happen for so long that it might as well be a meteor strike when it does show up. People in Rumford know it will snow, and get on with it.
The rocking chairs are in the cellar now, not on our Queen Anne porch, and the pedestrians are fewer, and they can't tarry so long when they're walking their dog because their feet get cold. Life turns inwards a bit.
It snowed pretty good two days ago. Steady, straight down snow all day and all night. My son and I went out in the streetlight's twilight, shoveling the drive in front of our house twice, trying to stay ahead of it. We knew it would snow all night, and we'd have to do it again in the morning, but if we didn't get some of it now it would be a bear in the morning.
Yesterday dawned warmish for around here in January, in the low thirties. It had been as cold as nine degrees below zero a week ago, and thirty felt balmy. But it had rained to finish the snowstorm, and it froze over before dawn. The snow was heavy near the house. It was a citadel's wall along the road where the plow did its work. My older son and I had a long morning of heavy work ahead of us to clear it.
Our neighbor Gayle came up the hill with her snowblower. She's lived here her whole life, and knows enough to have equipment to clear the drive. She took pity on us for the second time this season, and blasted the heavy, wet, snow over the already substantial banks while we cleaned up with our shovels. When we were finished, we went across the street and helped the college professor finish his walk and stairs. He lent me a rake to pull the snow off my porch roof, which is more like ten billion termites holding hands than a real structure. Gayle came back over and blasted this new pile of snow out of my dooryard, too. Dooryard is what they call a place just outside the house where you park around here.
She looked at me and asked, "What about Lloyd?" Lloyd lives next door, and is far from unfriendly, but he keeps almost entirely to himself. He lives alone. He is retired, but goes out every day in an ancient van and ferries people around for some sort of charity or civic good. Not sure exactly what it is.
Gayle and I talked it over. Lloyd wasn't home, so we couldn't ask him if he wanted help. And we'd figure he'd say no thanks, even if we could ask him. People are self-reliant here, and often prefer to be left to their own devices. We finally figured no one ultimately minds a kind gesture, and Gayle blasted the snow and my son and I shoveled around the edges. It was the Maine version of a prank, I guess. Instead of vandalizing his house when he wasn't home, we shoveled his driveway.
I found it easy to imagine myself as the grasshopper of the old fable, not ready for winter while people like Gayle the ant have long since figured out how to take care of the inevitable. Only a fool would move to Maine and not have anything but a creaky back and a teenager to shovel the snow. Gayle would never give you the impression you were imposing on her, even though we were, with our very existence. I'm not used to being the Blanche DuBois of the neighborhood, but there it is.
Gayle was going back down the hill, heading home for a well-deserved rest, and I offered to carry the shovel she carried along with the snowblower. She noticed the fire hydrant across the street from her house was buried by the plow, and started blowing out around that, too. "We take turns doing it," she said, pointing to another neighbor's house. I waved goodbye and started back up the big hill to our house, a bit footsore, tired, and both sweaty and cold -- a bad combination, I thought.
Halfway up the hill, I saw another of my neighbors. I don't know her all that well. She has muscular dystrophy, or maybe cerebral palsy, I'm not sure which. Her limbs do not entirely obey her commands, and her speech is very slurred. In the summer, we used to see her riding a big tricycle up the hill and down to town, returning with groceries in a basket in the back. She can still drive, but I think she likes the exercise. Unlike people without a care in the world, she always appears to be happy.
I was sort of stunned. I stood there in the road a while, longer than I should have, doing nothing. It was like seeing a prisoner trying to tunnel out of a dungeon with a spoon. She had to hold onto the railing or tumble over, and was shoveling as best she could with her other hand. I weigh 175 pounds. I'm not elderly. I've worked construction for a good portion of my life. Her task would have tested me to my limit --maybe past it. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I'd be shocked.
I begged her to stop and let me do it. I yelled for my son to come and help. I asked her over and over to stop and let us do it, but she kept trying to keep going alongside us. Gayle was going up her own driveway, and saw us over there, and rolled her machine over.
Gayle knows her better than I do, of course. She asked where the man she lives with was. She told us he was in the hospital here in town. He's not an old man, much younger than I, but he had a pacemaker put in, and he was having some sort of procedure done on his heart's valve, because it wasn't helping.
"He's coming home today. He's going to call me. He was going to shovel when he got home."
Jesus wept. I could mine a thousand libraries and not come up with words to describe the way the whole thing affected me. Gayle never flinched, just fired up the blower, and my son and I scraped and heaved, and we even moved cars around and cleaned them off. I put my creaky back into it like Charlton Heston gone to seed at an oar, while the whole thing ran around a little track in my head.
In many ways, I don't have a lot in common with my new neighbors. That is not because we're new here, and it’s certainly not their fault. I have never fully fit in anywhere. But I am honestly glad to see them when I sit on the porch on a hot summer's evening and wave as they walk by. They are amiable, and I hope I'm affable right back. No one is rich. There are no beautiful people. There is no way to be a big deal. Exactly how pleasant and solicitous of others you are is about the only pecking order I can discern. The postman is a king here, and wears his crown lightly.
Outside of this place I see my fellow citizens claw and spit at one another over trifles. They kill each other over slights that wouldn’t require an “excuse me” here. Lately it seems to me that half of the country would have driven past my neighbor with a Scrooge's dismissal of her plight on their lips, and the other half would have gone by going the other way, pretending not to see her, while hurrying to a rally to demand a surtax on someone else's money to start a No Snowshoveler Left Behind program.
Me? I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone was as glad to see me as I was to see them.
I'm still trying to get the hang of living in western Maine. When you move to a new place, especially a far-flung place, the mundane habits and traditions of the place are all new, and often obscure. Simple things like figuring out what day to put out the trash have to be re-learned from ground zero (Tuesday mornings. Unless there's a holiday)
The fish out of water story is a mainstay of American movies and TV, but I'm not a Clampett, and there are no Drysdales around here anyway. It's closer to the movie Big, in which Tom Hanks is transformed from a grade-schooler into an adult -- except it's the opposite; I’m still physically and intellectually an adult, but I’ve regained the sense of curiosity and wonder of a child, or perhaps a Japanese tourist. Everything and everybody can be interesting if they're unknown to you. There's a temptation to timidity, too. Hang back until you figure out where you fit.
Everyone has been most kind to us in our new home; it's not an insular place. People are amazingly friendly, and they walk everywhere, including past our house, and they stop to talk to you if you're out on the porch or up on a ladder. But then the winter comes.
People are really hardy around here, so winter holds no terrors for them. The reason New York City disintegrates into chaos if it snows a foot is that they've been pretending that winter will never happen for so long that it might as well be a meteor strike when it does show up. People in Rumford know it will snow, and get on with it.
The rocking chairs are in the cellar now, not on our Queen Anne porch, and the pedestrians are fewer, and they can't tarry so long when they're walking their dog because their feet get cold. Life turns inwards a bit.
It snowed pretty good two days ago. Steady, straight down snow all day and all night. My son and I went out in the streetlight's twilight, shoveling the drive in front of our house twice, trying to stay ahead of it. We knew it would snow all night, and we'd have to do it again in the morning, but if we didn't get some of it now it would be a bear in the morning.
Yesterday dawned warmish for around here in January, in the low thirties. It had been as cold as nine degrees below zero a week ago, and thirty felt balmy. But it had rained to finish the snowstorm, and it froze over before dawn. The snow was heavy near the house. It was a citadel's wall along the road where the plow did its work. My older son and I had a long morning of heavy work ahead of us to clear it.
Our neighbor Gayle came up the hill with her snowblower. She's lived here her whole life, and knows enough to have equipment to clear the drive. She took pity on us for the second time this season, and blasted the heavy, wet, snow over the already substantial banks while we cleaned up with our shovels. When we were finished, we went across the street and helped the college professor finish his walk and stairs. He lent me a rake to pull the snow off my porch roof, which is more like ten billion termites holding hands than a real structure. Gayle came back over and blasted this new pile of snow out of my dooryard, too. Dooryard is what they call a place just outside the house where you park around here.
She looked at me and asked, "What about Lloyd?" Lloyd lives next door, and is far from unfriendly, but he keeps almost entirely to himself. He lives alone. He is retired, but goes out every day in an ancient van and ferries people around for some sort of charity or civic good. Not sure exactly what it is.
Gayle and I talked it over. Lloyd wasn't home, so we couldn't ask him if he wanted help. And we'd figure he'd say no thanks, even if we could ask him. People are self-reliant here, and often prefer to be left to their own devices. We finally figured no one ultimately minds a kind gesture, and Gayle blasted the snow and my son and I shoveled around the edges. It was the Maine version of a prank, I guess. Instead of vandalizing his house when he wasn't home, we shoveled his driveway.
I found it easy to imagine myself as the grasshopper of the old fable, not ready for winter while people like Gayle the ant have long since figured out how to take care of the inevitable. Only a fool would move to Maine and not have anything but a creaky back and a teenager to shovel the snow. Gayle would never give you the impression you were imposing on her, even though we were, with our very existence. I'm not used to being the Blanche DuBois of the neighborhood, but there it is.
Gayle was going back down the hill, heading home for a well-deserved rest, and I offered to carry the shovel she carried along with the snowblower. She noticed the fire hydrant across the street from her house was buried by the plow, and started blowing out around that, too. "We take turns doing it," she said, pointing to another neighbor's house. I waved goodbye and started back up the big hill to our house, a bit footsore, tired, and both sweaty and cold -- a bad combination, I thought.
Halfway up the hill, I saw another of my neighbors. I don't know her all that well. She has muscular dystrophy, or maybe cerebral palsy, I'm not sure which. Her limbs do not entirely obey her commands, and her speech is very slurred. In the summer, we used to see her riding a big tricycle up the hill and down to town, returning with groceries in a basket in the back. She can still drive, but I think she likes the exercise. Unlike people without a care in the world, she always appears to be happy.
I was sort of stunned. I stood there in the road a while, longer than I should have, doing nothing. It was like seeing a prisoner trying to tunnel out of a dungeon with a spoon. She had to hold onto the railing or tumble over, and was shoveling as best she could with her other hand. I weigh 175 pounds. I'm not elderly. I've worked construction for a good portion of my life. Her task would have tested me to my limit --maybe past it. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I'd be shocked.
I begged her to stop and let me do it. I yelled for my son to come and help. I asked her over and over to stop and let us do it, but she kept trying to keep going alongside us. Gayle was going up her own driveway, and saw us over there, and rolled her machine over.
Gayle knows her better than I do, of course. She asked where the man she lives with was. She told us he was in the hospital here in town. He's not an old man, much younger than I, but he had a pacemaker put in, and he was having some sort of procedure done on his heart's valve, because it wasn't helping.
"He's coming home today. He's going to call me. He was going to shovel when he got home."
Jesus wept. I could mine a thousand libraries and not come up with words to describe the way the whole thing affected me. Gayle never flinched, just fired up the blower, and my son and I scraped and heaved, and we even moved cars around and cleaned them off. I put my creaky back into it like Charlton Heston gone to seed at an oar, while the whole thing ran around a little track in my head.
In many ways, I don't have a lot in common with my new neighbors. That is not because we're new here, and it’s certainly not their fault. I have never fully fit in anywhere. But I am honestly glad to see them when I sit on the porch on a hot summer's evening and wave as they walk by. They are amiable, and I hope I'm affable right back. No one is rich. There are no beautiful people. There is no way to be a big deal. Exactly how pleasant and solicitous of others you are is about the only pecking order I can discern. The postman is a king here, and wears his crown lightly.
Outside of this place I see my fellow citizens claw and spit at one another over trifles. They kill each other over slights that wouldn’t require an “excuse me” here. Lately it seems to me that half of the country would have driven past my neighbor with a Scrooge's dismissal of her plight on their lips, and the other half would have gone by going the other way, pretending not to see her, while hurrying to a rally to demand a surtax on someone else's money to start a No Snowshoveler Left Behind program.
Me? I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone was as glad to see me as I was to see them.
Jan 21, 2011
Game Night
I am reminded of the children's books that came out in the 1990s that had the stories within stories. Remember those? The reader was carried along until a choice appeared at the end of a section, and they were presented with two options and directions on where to turn.
The story had its twists and turns, and there were five or six junctures. The stories weren't long, and often it was even more fun to go back to the beginning and find out where it would have ended had there been other choices. Those books helped develop decisionmaking and individual choice.
There is something about game night that does that, too, in addition to visit over dessert and cards. It's informal and friendly, with undiluted communication. Teasing is encouraged. Families bond.
At the game table, everyone is welcome and equal, little ones on up. We learn concentration and the importance of keeping to the rules. That competitiveness is good. That it feels better to win than to lose and even worse to cheat and get caught. That sportsmanship and teammanship make it easier to reach the goal.
All those millions of seemingly insignificant game night help our life take shape and direction, but we don't know that. All we know is the fun of sitting around shooting the breeze, laughing and looking at each other as we learn how to play.
The story had its twists and turns, and there were five or six junctures. The stories weren't long, and often it was even more fun to go back to the beginning and find out where it would have ended had there been other choices. Those books helped develop decisionmaking and individual choice.
There is something about game night that does that, too, in addition to visit over dessert and cards. It's informal and friendly, with undiluted communication. Teasing is encouraged. Families bond.
At the game table, everyone is welcome and equal, little ones on up. We learn concentration and the importance of keeping to the rules. That competitiveness is good. That it feels better to win than to lose and even worse to cheat and get caught. That sportsmanship and teammanship make it easier to reach the goal.
All those millions of seemingly insignificant game night help our life take shape and direction, but we don't know that. All we know is the fun of sitting around shooting the breeze, laughing and looking at each other as we learn how to play.
Jan 17, 2011
Disgrace
I've known a few bosses who lived large in the volatile and visible world of business. Working within their sense of purpose was all-consuming. It was exciting to catch a ride on the buckboard of power and opportunity.
A successful leader: now that's a paradox. Take a person of high ideals and integrity and a heart to make a difference and mix it with a heaping dose of business ruthlessness, and you've got a CEO. They are the lecturers of life, the ones we clamor for and emulate. They seem to have the perfect blueprint for success. We listen and photograph and follow them around.
I've had a couple of bosses take the tumble from on high. One moment they have the keys to the city, and the next there is a silence so profound you can actually hear their career slip off the cliff. I know firsthand the confusion followed by a loss of confidence after a good public flogging. Perhaps an Achilles heel has surfaced somewhere or an unethical business deal was leaked to the adoring public. There are no laurels to carry on, no prior good deeds that are not sullied by that singular fatal mistake. Nothing is left but to retreat and dine on the leftovers.
I know that is why most of us live in fear of the public arena. There is no question there are people among us whose contributions could change the world. It is noble to embrace the idea to serve. But there's that first test to walk barefoot across live coals by a culture that eats its young. And then there is the nagging fear that somewhere on down the road it is likely there will be a mistake made, being both imperfect and unforgiving, and that the wrong comment will be made to the wrong person at the wrong time. That faux pas will cast a pall over a lifetime of service and all the gains will be summarily dismissed.
Seems to me we're the ones who should feel the disgrace, for letting the entertainment industry that whines and cries loudest for leadership be the divining rod for who is most worthy to serve. We really need to turn off those little boxes in the livingroom and stop listening to the news talk anchors tell us how to think.
A successful leader: now that's a paradox. Take a person of high ideals and integrity and a heart to make a difference and mix it with a heaping dose of business ruthlessness, and you've got a CEO. They are the lecturers of life, the ones we clamor for and emulate. They seem to have the perfect blueprint for success. We listen and photograph and follow them around.
I've had a couple of bosses take the tumble from on high. One moment they have the keys to the city, and the next there is a silence so profound you can actually hear their career slip off the cliff. I know firsthand the confusion followed by a loss of confidence after a good public flogging. Perhaps an Achilles heel has surfaced somewhere or an unethical business deal was leaked to the adoring public. There are no laurels to carry on, no prior good deeds that are not sullied by that singular fatal mistake. Nothing is left but to retreat and dine on the leftovers.
I know that is why most of us live in fear of the public arena. There is no question there are people among us whose contributions could change the world. It is noble to embrace the idea to serve. But there's that first test to walk barefoot across live coals by a culture that eats its young. And then there is the nagging fear that somewhere on down the road it is likely there will be a mistake made, being both imperfect and unforgiving, and that the wrong comment will be made to the wrong person at the wrong time. That faux pas will cast a pall over a lifetime of service and all the gains will be summarily dismissed.
Seems to me we're the ones who should feel the disgrace, for letting the entertainment industry that whines and cries loudest for leadership be the divining rod for who is most worthy to serve. We really need to turn off those little boxes in the livingroom and stop listening to the news talk anchors tell us how to think.
Jan 15, 2011
Stick-to-it-ive-ness
My darling niece died last week from cancer that couldn't be stopped. She was 31. She was the sweetest girl, and the smile I remember is smiling back from a picture of the little children she left behind. I haven't seen her since 1998.
Our beautiful granddaughter Aiyana was ravaged by two types of leukemia that overtook her eight year old body in under a month. She left behind a hole too deep to fill. Her maternal grandmother completely missed out on the last 2 years of her life over a family squabble.
A girlfriend's father passed and she didn't even acknowledge it (after 20 yrs without contact). Another friend's uncles and aunts and dad quit talking over a will (3). My bro/in/law and his sister (5); the boys and their dad, sigh, (11/4/ and 2); the girls and their mom (4); the wsm and her sis (25). And that's just people I know.
Opting out of someone's life should be agonizing, but it seems that life is treated more like a military exercise with collateral damage and acceptable losses. Unacceptable! It is unacceptable to excuse ourselves from talking to each other for years. I let my nieces drift out of sight because it was easier that way, for me, like there is a magical opt-out clause when it comes to divorce. How I wish I hadn't.
The littlest disagreements seem to turn into a morality play of ego and demand, and be the excuse to not fight it out and get over it. I would make my boys bunk together when they couldn't get along - and you know, eventually they found a way to make it work. Reconciliation is hard enough without letting a year, or five, or ten help us grow comfortably aloof.
A friend and I had a row that lasted a couple of years once. I've been mad enough at my parents at times to be lost to them for days...weeks...months. I've tried on friends and let them go. But in the end, I know the truth is that everything is fix-able if you want it to be.
If I could pass along this part of relationship-building, it would be to model the courage needed to make a heart vulnerable, show how to step aside and make room for someone, not freak out during the remodel, and hang onto them no matter how steep the climb.
Rest in peace, honey. Sheila Gallagher Kolsters, 11/2/1979 -- 1/5/2011
Our beautiful granddaughter Aiyana was ravaged by two types of leukemia that overtook her eight year old body in under a month. She left behind a hole too deep to fill. Her maternal grandmother completely missed out on the last 2 years of her life over a family squabble.
A girlfriend's father passed and she didn't even acknowledge it (after 20 yrs without contact). Another friend's uncles and aunts and dad quit talking over a will (3). My bro/in/law and his sister (5); the boys and their dad, sigh, (11/4/ and 2); the girls and their mom (4); the wsm and her sis (25). And that's just people I know.
Opting out of someone's life should be agonizing, but it seems that life is treated more like a military exercise with collateral damage and acceptable losses. Unacceptable! It is unacceptable to excuse ourselves from talking to each other for years. I let my nieces drift out of sight because it was easier that way, for me, like there is a magical opt-out clause when it comes to divorce. How I wish I hadn't.
The littlest disagreements seem to turn into a morality play of ego and demand, and be the excuse to not fight it out and get over it. I would make my boys bunk together when they couldn't get along - and you know, eventually they found a way to make it work. Reconciliation is hard enough without letting a year, or five, or ten help us grow comfortably aloof.
A friend and I had a row that lasted a couple of years once. I've been mad enough at my parents at times to be lost to them for days...weeks...months. I've tried on friends and let them go. But in the end, I know the truth is that everything is fix-able if you want it to be.
If I could pass along this part of relationship-building, it would be to model the courage needed to make a heart vulnerable, show how to step aside and make room for someone, not freak out during the remodel, and hang onto them no matter how steep the climb.
Rest in peace, honey. Sheila Gallagher Kolsters, 11/2/1979 -- 1/5/2011
Jan 13, 2011
Home Turf
I awoke with California on the brain. How totally weird.
We hear that folks are leaving CA in record numbers. There may be a lot of reasons for this, an overly mobile society who wants to explore more affordable places to live, or maybe just tired of trying to raise a family in an environment that over-emphasizes materialism. Inevitably most people recognize the truth of an unsustainable, larger-than-life lifestyle. People come enchanted and leave disheartened. California, with all of its complexities, eventually outprices or outliberalizes us.
Me and my state, we have been like this for decades. It's comfortable. I know where everything is. I have come to depend on its warts and rainbows. But suddenly something happens to mix things up. A friend moves, violence erupts close to home, levees give way along with livelihoods, and the kids move up and out.
I don't remember moving out of the fast lane, but I obviously did. The geography is clearer now, the late-summer ugliness as I putter along, gratefully watching the rush rush rush of traffic from a safe distance away. Lost in thought; lost in direction; out of the loop.
California no longer seems edgy or quaint: it more resembles the worn out coat tails we've been riding for too many years. It can't just be me with one foot rooted in yesterday and the other creeping towards tomorrow, timid and unsure. Where am I?
I've heard it said that the future is waiting to be born, waiting for us to form and shape it. Maybe the greatness of California will someday be found beneath all the rubble, but I earnestly doubt we know where to dig.
We hear that folks are leaving CA in record numbers. There may be a lot of reasons for this, an overly mobile society who wants to explore more affordable places to live, or maybe just tired of trying to raise a family in an environment that over-emphasizes materialism. Inevitably most people recognize the truth of an unsustainable, larger-than-life lifestyle. People come enchanted and leave disheartened. California, with all of its complexities, eventually outprices or outliberalizes us.
Me and my state, we have been like this for decades. It's comfortable. I know where everything is. I have come to depend on its warts and rainbows. But suddenly something happens to mix things up. A friend moves, violence erupts close to home, levees give way along with livelihoods, and the kids move up and out.
I don't remember moving out of the fast lane, but I obviously did. The geography is clearer now, the late-summer ugliness as I putter along, gratefully watching the rush rush rush of traffic from a safe distance away. Lost in thought; lost in direction; out of the loop.
California no longer seems edgy or quaint: it more resembles the worn out coat tails we've been riding for too many years. It can't just be me with one foot rooted in yesterday and the other creeping towards tomorrow, timid and unsure. Where am I?
I've heard it said that the future is waiting to be born, waiting for us to form and shape it. Maybe the greatness of California will someday be found beneath all the rubble, but I earnestly doubt we know where to dig.
Jan 12, 2011
1-11-11
No I didn't win the big lottery last night. Now I know the truth about that weird cosmic spiritual good luck day convergence promise of 11111.
But the right hair appointment did come up. And there was good news on the home front with Momma J on the mend. There's reason to be hopeful on the job front. And we played with one of our Great Grandsons yesterday. Wind 'em up and give 'em back ... children are such a joy. He's 30 months ... great restaurant squealing age.
We've really gotten into these wish-you-were-there house hunters international shows ... exotic places and people hunting for somewhere to buy. Not that we've ever planned a trip to India or Slovenia, but we don't miss a show. Can someone explain to me what is up with this no closets in the bedroom thing?
We especially liked the suspiciouslylikeus couple who wanted a humble little place in Italy for a romantic getaway. Sigh. Big Italian cities are out: Rome is like $7K a month to rent a flat. (Knowing that is messing with our when-we-retire-we're-going-to-live-a-year-in-Italy stream of consciousness plan, let me tell you.) Anyway, so what this couple did was find an Italian town in the middle of nowhere with a beautiful view and basic amenities, literally 150 residents using horses and carts, and they snapped it up for about $50K. Hey, that's more like it.
Who are all these people who have a budget of $1.2M for a second home? Everything we own, including our most prized sneakers, don't add up to that.
We're hooked on regular House Hunters, too. One of the favorite episodes was of a young Asian girl who was looking for her first place in Boston. Her parents wanted her in a 2 bedroom for resale and also future liveability. She had saved up a big down but knew two bedrooms was more than she could afford, and although her parents offered to help she really wanted to do it on her own.
Her parents gave some advice, about how to negotiate and what to look for, but left her to it. Back and forth, looking here and there, as she narrated cute videos of each place and sent them overseas. Finally she came upon a great 2br unit (there are always happy endings on this show) that she was able to negotiate down (that always happens, too) so she needed to borrow just a little. We liked how the young woman articulated the symbolic step of getting her own place and at the same time a heartfelt appreciation of her parent's (moral) support (and faith in her).
"You are our daughter. Of course we will help you." That's more like it, too.
But the right hair appointment did come up. And there was good news on the home front with Momma J on the mend. There's reason to be hopeful on the job front. And we played with one of our Great Grandsons yesterday. Wind 'em up and give 'em back ... children are such a joy. He's 30 months ... great restaurant squealing age.
We've really gotten into these wish-you-were-there house hunters international shows ... exotic places and people hunting for somewhere to buy. Not that we've ever planned a trip to India or Slovenia, but we don't miss a show. Can someone explain to me what is up with this no closets in the bedroom thing?
We especially liked the suspiciouslylikeus couple who wanted a humble little place in Italy for a romantic getaway. Sigh. Big Italian cities are out: Rome is like $7K a month to rent a flat. (Knowing that is messing with our when-we-retire-we're-going-to-live-a-year-in-Italy stream of consciousness plan, let me tell you.) Anyway, so what this couple did was find an Italian town in the middle of nowhere with a beautiful view and basic amenities, literally 150 residents using horses and carts, and they snapped it up for about $50K. Hey, that's more like it.
Who are all these people who have a budget of $1.2M for a second home? Everything we own, including our most prized sneakers, don't add up to that.
We're hooked on regular House Hunters, too. One of the favorite episodes was of a young Asian girl who was looking for her first place in Boston. Her parents wanted her in a 2 bedroom for resale and also future liveability. She had saved up a big down but knew two bedrooms was more than she could afford, and although her parents offered to help she really wanted to do it on her own.
Her parents gave some advice, about how to negotiate and what to look for, but left her to it. Back and forth, looking here and there, as she narrated cute videos of each place and sent them overseas. Finally she came upon a great 2br unit (there are always happy endings on this show) that she was able to negotiate down (that always happens, too) so she needed to borrow just a little. We liked how the young woman articulated the symbolic step of getting her own place and at the same time a heartfelt appreciation of her parent's (moral) support (and faith in her).
"You are our daughter. Of course we will help you." That's more like it, too.
Fringers
There was another tragic story of a savage attack on a small political gathering in Tucson the other day. Here we go again. Another fringer turned violent. You know, the ones who seem just a little bit off but sometimes function okay. We walk with them every day, in stores and parks, at family gatherings.
It just stirs the pot on topics of gun control, civil liberties, public safety, and the care and treatment of our fringe population. We make adjustments for them. That's admirable and the Christian thing to do. But civil liberties hinge on a complicated series of endless preventive measures to ensure safety ~ the FDA, UL, government laws, seat belts, and the AMA just to name a few ~ and yet operating almost entirely without preventive mental health safeguards. So it's hands-off to make up for the abhorrant mental health practices of the twentieth century?
That's nuts. The world is hard enough to sift through when you are a sound and reasonable thinker. For someone with processing challenges, it must be a nightmare. They are easy prey to be changed and empowered by it, and act on what seems to them to be right reasoning. And frankly, hiding behind the First Amendment to say anything no matter how outrageous it is, is really starting to piss me off.
Yes, the ugly and vicious political climate of the last election clearly contributed to the events in Tucson, and there is a shared national shame for all politicians engaging in wartime adversarial attacks, including Sarah Palin. Lesson: doing the right thing never goes out of style. Don't let the heat of petty differences make you into someone you're not. You never know who is listening.
Yes, better access to mental health is all we've got when someone is delusional, with disjointed outbursts and ramblings, or threatening to do violence. We need to be able to get the right kind of help, and now. We have reason to weep: there were people in this man's life who already recognized how unstable he was.
Since the mass murder fringe is mostly American, what are we going to do about it? If we were told to make personal sacrifices in order to save our children, who among us would object? To face the thing head on is to talk about the topics we avoid, like our unwillingness to recognize or understand moral and developmental gaps in our friends and children; how and when to make appropriate interventions out of compassion as much as safety; and the personal stake we all have in stopping America from being a national breeding ground for violence.
It just stirs the pot on topics of gun control, civil liberties, public safety, and the care and treatment of our fringe population. We make adjustments for them. That's admirable and the Christian thing to do. But civil liberties hinge on a complicated series of endless preventive measures to ensure safety ~ the FDA, UL, government laws, seat belts, and the AMA just to name a few ~ and yet operating almost entirely without preventive mental health safeguards. So it's hands-off to make up for the abhorrant mental health practices of the twentieth century?
That's nuts. The world is hard enough to sift through when you are a sound and reasonable thinker. For someone with processing challenges, it must be a nightmare. They are easy prey to be changed and empowered by it, and act on what seems to them to be right reasoning. And frankly, hiding behind the First Amendment to say anything no matter how outrageous it is, is really starting to piss me off.
So, to questions. Would true and reasonable gun control have prevented the tragedy here? Would civilized political rhetoric have not keyed in on this particular politician? Would a mental health evaluation have been able to intervene with this tragedy?
Yes, the access and availability to guns is involved somehow and needs to be addressed. An unpopular stance, but an honest one. The loss of civil rights of the victims can't be dismissed.Yes, the ugly and vicious political climate of the last election clearly contributed to the events in Tucson, and there is a shared national shame for all politicians engaging in wartime adversarial attacks, including Sarah Palin. Lesson: doing the right thing never goes out of style. Don't let the heat of petty differences make you into someone you're not. You never know who is listening.
Yes, better access to mental health is all we've got when someone is delusional, with disjointed outbursts and ramblings, or threatening to do violence. We need to be able to get the right kind of help, and now. We have reason to weep: there were people in this man's life who already recognized how unstable he was.
Since the mass murder fringe is mostly American, what are we going to do about it? If we were told to make personal sacrifices in order to save our children, who among us would object? To face the thing head on is to talk about the topics we avoid, like our unwillingness to recognize or understand moral and developmental gaps in our friends and children; how and when to make appropriate interventions out of compassion as much as safety; and the personal stake we all have in stopping America from being a national breeding ground for violence.
Our country seems so lost. We say we love our children but expose them to violence, anger, ugliness, and harm. We put up their smiling school pictures but don't take an interest in them. We ignore the signs of crisis because it reflects badly on us. We stash a gun in the closet and a clip in the drawer and turn the other way.
Jan 6, 2011
Anyone's Son
A friend's son's alma mater was on lockdown yesterday, and this time for real. A transfer student with a quiet and friendly disposition suddenly became violent and came to school with a gun.
School staff are trained to protect and intervene in a variety of situations - chemical spills, acts of nature, fire, social emergencies and assaults. And part of the routine of every school includes an orderly emergency evacuation. There is a coding system announced over the PA. For instance, a Code Red (intruder on campus) directs teachers and students to safely sit on the floor in their locked classroom, turn off the lights and wait for the all clear signal.
But it doesn't work that way when violence springs out of nowhere, as was the case in Omaha yesterday. In those terrifying minutes, the students weren't neatly tucked into their rooms like in the practice scenario: they were all over the school, in the cafeteria, walking between rooms, going to the bathroom. It was a normal day.
The highly-trained administrative team must have realized there was one chance to respond in the best interests of the school, and that meant trying to contain the situation. One of the Assistant Principals and the Principal attempted to intervene and were shot before the young man killed himself. The beloved and respected Assistant Principal died later at the hospital.
Everyone who has ever worked in a school, attended a school, sent their children or grandchildren there is chilled by the news. We cling to wanting our schools to be safe, but even with the best safeguards nowhere really is. This tragedy, like the dozen or more before it, is what happens when a country becomes so addicted to their right to own guns that they are willing to sacrifice the more fundamental civil rights of life itself.
I was in a discussion yesterday with a gun owner about the sacred intent of the constitution and whether it should be read today on the opening day of Congress. We weren't talking gun control but in retrospect the conversation brings up an important point. Amendments to the constitution, it was argued, are directional adjustments to what the forefathers visualized, in order to adapt to the modern world.
Today I am thinking of the staff at the high school and the community in Omaha, Nebraska, and wondering what they are thinking about as they kneel in prayer.
This is the American face of violence. It is anyone's son (on the outside, anyway).
School staff are trained to protect and intervene in a variety of situations - chemical spills, acts of nature, fire, social emergencies and assaults. And part of the routine of every school includes an orderly emergency evacuation. There is a coding system announced over the PA. For instance, a Code Red (intruder on campus) directs teachers and students to safely sit on the floor in their locked classroom, turn off the lights and wait for the all clear signal.
But it doesn't work that way when violence springs out of nowhere, as was the case in Omaha yesterday. In those terrifying minutes, the students weren't neatly tucked into their rooms like in the practice scenario: they were all over the school, in the cafeteria, walking between rooms, going to the bathroom. It was a normal day.
The highly-trained administrative team must have realized there was one chance to respond in the best interests of the school, and that meant trying to contain the situation. One of the Assistant Principals and the Principal attempted to intervene and were shot before the young man killed himself. The beloved and respected Assistant Principal died later at the hospital.
Everyone who has ever worked in a school, attended a school, sent their children or grandchildren there is chilled by the news. We cling to wanting our schools to be safe, but even with the best safeguards nowhere really is. This tragedy, like the dozen or more before it, is what happens when a country becomes so addicted to their right to own guns that they are willing to sacrifice the more fundamental civil rights of life itself.
I was in a discussion yesterday with a gun owner about the sacred intent of the constitution and whether it should be read today on the opening day of Congress. We weren't talking gun control but in retrospect the conversation brings up an important point. Amendments to the constitution, it was argued, are directional adjustments to what the forefathers visualized, in order to adapt to the modern world.
Well that is no more true than in our laws about our right to bear arms. The philosophy of self-protection has not changed although the world has. There is an increasingly violent disconnect between access and responsible access and another Amendment to the Constitution is badly needed. It's not just that guns are too easy to come by and too easy to use. They are the only common denominator here: access + anger + cultural reinforcement = violence.
Today I am thinking of the staff at the high school and the community in Omaha, Nebraska, and wondering what they are thinking about as they kneel in prayer.
This is the American face of violence. It is anyone's son (on the outside, anyway).
Jan 4, 2011
Autumn Leaves
My mind hasn't settled in for the night and in the other room I can hear the sounds of breathing slow and steady. It's my favorite sound, hearing the contented purr of my husband at peace.
It seems like it took a couple of lifetimes to get here, and it was worth the wait to discover Fall is the most beautiful time of the year. It's a welcome relief after the long arid summer; it is savory and unpredictable; and the visual changes are breathtaking as it offers up its earthy and bountiful goodness.
I think of the easy way we are together and how natural it feels to work things through, as if someone up there gave us just the right tools to support each other. Ideas go into the discussion pot individually and come out transformed by a balanced blend of our perspectives. There is trust and honor for what is in each other's heart. Whole evenings are dreamed away watching travel shows, reminiscing out loud, and scheming a way to return.
Life is interesting and creative. There's room to grow. And room to learn. And space to make mistakes and be forgiven. The new improved ways of love are precious. And then there's his smile. Yup, the fall is definitely my season of choice.
It seems like it took a couple of lifetimes to get here, and it was worth the wait to discover Fall is the most beautiful time of the year. It's a welcome relief after the long arid summer; it is savory and unpredictable; and the visual changes are breathtaking as it offers up its earthy and bountiful goodness.
I think of the easy way we are together and how natural it feels to work things through, as if someone up there gave us just the right tools to support each other. Ideas go into the discussion pot individually and come out transformed by a balanced blend of our perspectives. There is trust and honor for what is in each other's heart. Whole evenings are dreamed away watching travel shows, reminiscing out loud, and scheming a way to return.
Life is interesting and creative. There's room to grow. And room to learn. And space to make mistakes and be forgiven. The new improved ways of love are precious. And then there's his smile. Yup, the fall is definitely my season of choice.
Jan 3, 2011
Heading East
A new year is like resetting the odometer. Only better.
And the hint of how wonderful it is going to be came in the form of a series of phone calls from friends all over the country. Great news, said one; We're happy to announce, said another; I've made a great life change, said a third; and it went like that throughout the day.
My own little corner had some news as well. A friend recommended me for a job and the interview is Wednesday. Not only does that boost my spirits but I'm touched to be held in such esteem. Thank you! Love you! Win-Win!
It's been a looooong break between innings. So yay or nay, the prospect stands as a directional marker for where the new year is taking us, and it's gonna be good.
And the hint of how wonderful it is going to be came in the form of a series of phone calls from friends all over the country. Great news, said one; We're happy to announce, said another; I've made a great life change, said a third; and it went like that throughout the day.
My own little corner had some news as well. A friend recommended me for a job and the interview is Wednesday. Not only does that boost my spirits but I'm touched to be held in such esteem. Thank you! Love you! Win-Win!
It's been a looooong break between innings. So yay or nay, the prospect stands as a directional marker for where the new year is taking us, and it's gonna be good.
Jan 2, 2011
Living Without Walls
Happy New Decade. (I really mean it this time.)
The end of the era Christmas was one of the best in recent memory. Folks just kicked off their shoes on this one and no one had to be somewhere else. Been thinking about that, the old traditions and new ones just coming on line and how good we are at adapting to what seems to be constant transitions.
The family was on the move ... Tim to his own apartment in a quaint little suburb of Sac and Dave from beautiful Shasta to beautiful Sonoma. Me and the old man snuck away for a few days to Monterey. We met a flurry of interesting people and saw beautiful places with one sunshiny day and two rainy ones. We spent one evening with rain and wind so blustery that it knocked out power for all of Cannery Row. The angry surf and rain and high gusts were incredible.
Our consensus is that people everywhere are
Wonderful.
Open.
Funny.
Friendly.
Interesting.
Nice to know as we carry a little extra worry-weight around. Carpe Diem! We made our way back to the little hotel and snuggled up in front of the fire. Life is vibrant and savory, every single day.
I'm sure it's because this old age thing is on the brain after witnessing the necessary collisions with trying to respect the private essence of a person's life. There is so much value placed on our lives just the way we made them, and we fight hard to keep life from tumbling down.
We step forward, then back, and forward again, trying to soothe the heartwrenchingly tough transition of coming to terms with what remains. Maybe all of it; maybe not. It is maddening to watch. It makes us anxious and optimistic to know struggle and realize it will be ours someday, for things we take for granted -- our thoughts, our bodies, our lives.
So instead of resolutions of a personal sort, it is all hope for a decade of new beginnings, gentle transitions, guidance and wisdom, and a heaping spoonful of compassion sprinkled on top.
The end of the era Christmas was one of the best in recent memory. Folks just kicked off their shoes on this one and no one had to be somewhere else. Been thinking about that, the old traditions and new ones just coming on line and how good we are at adapting to what seems to be constant transitions.
The family was on the move ... Tim to his own apartment in a quaint little suburb of Sac and Dave from beautiful Shasta to beautiful Sonoma. Me and the old man snuck away for a few days to Monterey. We met a flurry of interesting people and saw beautiful places with one sunshiny day and two rainy ones. We spent one evening with rain and wind so blustery that it knocked out power for all of Cannery Row. The angry surf and rain and high gusts were incredible.
Our consensus is that people everywhere are
Wonderful.
Open.
Funny.
Friendly.
Interesting.
Nice to know as we carry a little extra worry-weight around. Carpe Diem! We made our way back to the little hotel and snuggled up in front of the fire. Life is vibrant and savory, every single day.
I'm sure it's because this old age thing is on the brain after witnessing the necessary collisions with trying to respect the private essence of a person's life. There is so much value placed on our lives just the way we made them, and we fight hard to keep life from tumbling down.
We step forward, then back, and forward again, trying to soothe the heartwrenchingly tough transition of coming to terms with what remains. Maybe all of it; maybe not. It is maddening to watch. It makes us anxious and optimistic to know struggle and realize it will be ours someday, for things we take for granted -- our thoughts, our bodies, our lives.
So instead of resolutions of a personal sort, it is all hope for a decade of new beginnings, gentle transitions, guidance and wisdom, and a heaping spoonful of compassion sprinkled on top.
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