in 2015 and 2016, I posted stories for Christmas on Facebook. I'm at the life-altering decision making point. If I do it three times, now I have started something.
I looked at both the 2015 and 2016 stories, and they are both amusing and heartwarming. I just don't know if I have another one in me. But I'm going to try. I'm going to use the response I get to this blog posting to decide if this one goes on Facebook or not.
Christmas 2000 was a tough one for me. It was my first Christmas after my Dad died. My daughter and son-in-law (he was still a boyfriend at that time) had gone north to spend the holiday with her dad and my mom and extended family, so it was just me and my husband at home.
Everyone processes grief differently, and everyone processes grief in their own time. For whatever reason, the tsunami of grief from losing my father hit me on Christmas day.
Mind you, there were warnings the tsunami was coming. I made no plans for Christmas dinner. I don't remember if I purchased gifts or not, but if I did, it was in that strange state of fugue that precedes a breakdown.
On Christmas Day, I fell apart. I remember telling my husband I didn't want to have Christmas without my Dad in the world. I cried until my face hurt.
That day had to happen. Those tears had to be shed. The grief had to find an outlet. Christmas was just the catalyst.
After the storm passed, my husband and I did our annual traditional six mile run (it's a walk now) and then went to a movie, which we did on Christmas Day for many years. That year's movie was "Meet the Parents". And I probably laughed as hard as I had cried earlier.
Because of the extended crying jag, by the time the movie ended, all the restaurants that had been open on Christmas were closed. We did have two frozen hamburger patties in the freezer. (When I say I did not plan, I mean an epic lack of planning.)
The only place open was Walgreen's. So, we went to Walgreen's and got a jar of Ragu, a pound of spaghetti, and a package of hot dog buns. I defrosted and broke up the hamburger patties in the Ragu, and we made garlic bread out of hot dog buns. If memory serves me right, we also bought an impressive amount of wine.
We enjoyed our unconventional Christmas dinner, and I found a measure of peace with my Dad's death.
The next day at work when people asked how my Christmas was and I told the story, many were appalled and upset for me. By then, it was just a thing that gave me another story in my story book.
Christmas doesn't have to be anything in particular to be memorable. And sometimes, the Christmas you need includes a crying jag.
All the Christmases in my life, and I remember very few specifically. I remember Christmas 2000 because it was so far removed from the idealistic Christmas.
But that Christmas was one of the most special of my life because of the gift I received. While my husband could have been upset with me for failing to plan well for Christmas, or upset that I cried till my face hurt, or upset that the few plans we had were upended, none of those happened. Instead, he held me while I cried, and when the crying was over, tried to create as much of a sense of normalcy as he could. And while our Christmas dinner was unconventional, spaghetti with meat sauce is one of my favorite comfort foods.
The gift I received that Christmas was the gift that even though I had lost my Daddy, there was still someone in my world who would always protect me, always comfort me, and always support me. Even though I trusted in my husband's love, that day demonstrated the depth and strength of that love in ways I treasure. And then he still found a way for me to end the day laughing.
So maybe, just maybe, that was one of my best Christmases ever.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Season's Greetings
I was at my Occupational Therapy session the other day, and the woman next to me receiving therapy said that she wasn't going to "do" Christmas this year. She felt that with running her business, providing care taking for her mother, and rehabilitating an injury, it was just too much. I felt very sad for her.
It is not that I think everyone needs the excess that many feel is necessary for the holiday season. It just made me sad that for her, Christmas is something that you do.
I hear a lot of dialogue about a war on Christmas, and to be honest, I've never seen one. But I have seen twenty-first century America turn the time period from mid-November until New Year's into one giant impossible to complete "to-do" list.
This will probably feel rambling, but if you stay with me, I promise I will bring it all together in the end.
When my daughter was ten or eleven, we were going somewhere at night, and we had to drive past the large Monsanto chemical plant near our home. As we drove past she looked at the well lit plant and said, "Look, Mommy, Monsanto decorated for Christmas". I looked at the plant through her eyes at that moment, and it did look festive, and decorative. I knew that the lighting of the plant for 24/7 operations was normal, but for her, seeing it for the first time at Christmas, it was magical. Whatever holiday your faith or ethnic or chosen tradition celebrates, they all have an element of magic in them.
Things were hectic enough when my child was a child, with presents to buy, and cookies to bake, and Christmas pageants to attend, and houses and trees to decorate. Now we also have this "Elf on the Shelf" thing. If it works for you, and is not just another stress maker in your life, have at it. But the whole idea kind of bothers me. Do we really want our children to be good because someone is watching and reporting? Isn't it our job as parents to teach our children the intrinsic rewards for being good people? That it feels good to be kind? It feels good to be generous? That we all make mistakes, and that we need to learn from our mistakes so we can be better people, not because there will be a punishment?
If you have a faith or ethnic or chosen tradition, what is at the core of that tradition? I'm Catholic, so the core of my faith tradition is the birth of the Savior, Jesus Christ. The season is about hope. It is about the improbable. The birth of a poor child in a manger led to the salvation of mankind. What an inspirational story. If your tradition has inspirational aspects, focusing on those can quiet the noise of the "doing" everyone expects.
And as for the actual days. It can be so easy to have to have the most perfectly decorated house and most perfectly set table, with an array of delicious foods. If getting to that point means that you can't spend time enjoying the company of those you love because you are too busy preparing and serving, maybe scaling things back could work. I remember years ago talking to a co-worker who was stressing about all that she had to do for Christmas Eve, and she asked what I was doing. I told her the truth. On the way home from work, I was stopping at the store and picking up an assortment of sushi and sparkling wines, along with one of those dessert sampler trays. Set things out and celebrate. She was astonished. And started the same tradition for her family the next year. You never know how much time you have with the people you love, treasure the moments you have.
So here is my Season's Greeting for all of you. I hope that you remember the magic, and can see the magic. I hope that you are inspiring all you love through your thoughtful goodness, and that you are forgiving yourself when you fall short, and learning so that you do better next time. I hope you are inspired by the spiritual aspects of your chosen holiday, and are spiritually restored by the observation of exceptional generosity and charity in your world. And finally, I hope you are able to hold those you love close in your heart, if not in your arms, and find the ability to focus on making memories with them or celebrating memories of them. Most of all, I hope you remember that the holiday season can always be turned into a giant "to-do" list, but you can turn it back into a time of joyful celebration with the people you care the most about.
It is not that I think everyone needs the excess that many feel is necessary for the holiday season. It just made me sad that for her, Christmas is something that you do.
I hear a lot of dialogue about a war on Christmas, and to be honest, I've never seen one. But I have seen twenty-first century America turn the time period from mid-November until New Year's into one giant impossible to complete "to-do" list.
This will probably feel rambling, but if you stay with me, I promise I will bring it all together in the end.
When my daughter was ten or eleven, we were going somewhere at night, and we had to drive past the large Monsanto chemical plant near our home. As we drove past she looked at the well lit plant and said, "Look, Mommy, Monsanto decorated for Christmas". I looked at the plant through her eyes at that moment, and it did look festive, and decorative. I knew that the lighting of the plant for 24/7 operations was normal, but for her, seeing it for the first time at Christmas, it was magical. Whatever holiday your faith or ethnic or chosen tradition celebrates, they all have an element of magic in them.
Things were hectic enough when my child was a child, with presents to buy, and cookies to bake, and Christmas pageants to attend, and houses and trees to decorate. Now we also have this "Elf on the Shelf" thing. If it works for you, and is not just another stress maker in your life, have at it. But the whole idea kind of bothers me. Do we really want our children to be good because someone is watching and reporting? Isn't it our job as parents to teach our children the intrinsic rewards for being good people? That it feels good to be kind? It feels good to be generous? That we all make mistakes, and that we need to learn from our mistakes so we can be better people, not because there will be a punishment?
If you have a faith or ethnic or chosen tradition, what is at the core of that tradition? I'm Catholic, so the core of my faith tradition is the birth of the Savior, Jesus Christ. The season is about hope. It is about the improbable. The birth of a poor child in a manger led to the salvation of mankind. What an inspirational story. If your tradition has inspirational aspects, focusing on those can quiet the noise of the "doing" everyone expects.
And as for the actual days. It can be so easy to have to have the most perfectly decorated house and most perfectly set table, with an array of delicious foods. If getting to that point means that you can't spend time enjoying the company of those you love because you are too busy preparing and serving, maybe scaling things back could work. I remember years ago talking to a co-worker who was stressing about all that she had to do for Christmas Eve, and she asked what I was doing. I told her the truth. On the way home from work, I was stopping at the store and picking up an assortment of sushi and sparkling wines, along with one of those dessert sampler trays. Set things out and celebrate. She was astonished. And started the same tradition for her family the next year. You never know how much time you have with the people you love, treasure the moments you have.
So here is my Season's Greeting for all of you. I hope that you remember the magic, and can see the magic. I hope that you are inspiring all you love through your thoughtful goodness, and that you are forgiving yourself when you fall short, and learning so that you do better next time. I hope you are inspired by the spiritual aspects of your chosen holiday, and are spiritually restored by the observation of exceptional generosity and charity in your world. And finally, I hope you are able to hold those you love close in your heart, if not in your arms, and find the ability to focus on making memories with them or celebrating memories of them. Most of all, I hope you remember that the holiday season can always be turned into a giant "to-do" list, but you can turn it back into a time of joyful celebration with the people you care the most about.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Things to be proud of
I read a Facebook conversation this morning about the difference between white pride and black pride. The point of the original post was that white pride doesn't make sense, because "white" is an artificial construct, while black pride makes sense because the place identity of many African Americans was stolen from them when they were stolen from their homes and sold into slavery.
I embrace the idea of black pride being a product of history. All of us like to belong, and for many, belonging is attached to origin. People wear green on St. Patrick's Day and claim to be Irish, drink beer for Oktoberfest and claim to be German, celebrate Bastille Day and claim to be French. If you can't know where your people came from, other than a continent, I get the idea of solidarity with the other people from that continent, and I understand that in the historical evolution of language in America, the time when the black pride movement originated predated the term African American and postdated the term negro. So, sociologically, emotionally, and linguistically, black pride makes sense.
But now is when I throw a curve ball into the whole thing. I understand the need to belong to something bigger than ourselves, but why do we try to belong to something based on the accident of our birth?
What is wrong with being proud of what we do, and how we act, and how we think, instead of being proud of the mix of DNA we were born with?
If you read this blog regularly, you know I had my DNA analyzed earlier this year. I found out that in spite of being raised believing I was of German descent, and relatives having emigrated from Germany, I have no German DNA. It looks like my relatives stopped in Germany on their way from Scandinavia to the United States. This knowledge didn't change who I am in the least.
The knowledge that your DNA doesn't match your family stories might be more difficult for some people than it was for me. Maybe because I never based my identity on my national heritage. I'm one of those people who cries at the playing and singing of the United States National Anthem, but I'm not one of those people who bases my identity on being a citizen of the United States of America. I was fortunate to be born here, into a family who had enough money that I always had a roof over my head and food in my stomach. That is not a matter for pride, but a matter for gratitude.
I'm proud that in spite of getting pregnant in the tenth grade at fifteen years old, I persevered and got a Bachelor's degree in Business Information Systems in college. I'm proud that once I decided on a career in Occupational Safety and Health, I pursued and achieved my Occupational Health and Safety Technician certification, and my Certified Safety Professional certification.
I'm also incredibly grateful that I was born with the physical and emotional strength, and the family support to achieve those goals. Without my family's help and support, none of what I have achieved is possible.
When I think about pride and being proud, without that pride becoming destructive, the pride is always tempered by the gratitude for the people who made the accomplishment I am proud of possible.
While our needing to belong to something bigger than ourselves is a powerful force, that need should never overwhelm our consideration of exactly what we are claiming to belong to.
Pride should be attached to accomplishments, not labels. Being proud of being kind, being humble, being generous, being compassionate are all great. To think that a person can say they are proud to be Christian or Jewish or Muslim and think that means something is delusional. When I say or write Christian or Jewish or Muslim, each reader paints their own picture of what that means. Those terms are too broad, and too influenced by too many factors. While kindness and humility and generosity and compassion are also interpretive, they are far less ambiguous than religious categorization.
The same thing goes for nationalistic labels. Why are you proud to be Irish or German or French or Nigerian or Kenyan or Egyptian? Why not say you are proud to be hard-working, or punctual, or well-read, or well-prepared, or well-practiced or reliable?
I think if more people based their pride on what they do and how they act, rather than being proud of the group or groups they were born into, we could all find more common ground. And if we stopped joining groups so that we could label ourselves as Christian or Jewish or Muslim or Republican or Democrat, and instead found pride in being and doing something, maybe we would see we are all more the same than different.
It does not make me angry if you want to be proud of the accident of your birth, or be proud of the group labels you have chosen to take shelter under. I just hope that we can all start examining our beliefs and our behaviors, and seek to believe and behave in ways we can be proud of.
I embrace the idea of black pride being a product of history. All of us like to belong, and for many, belonging is attached to origin. People wear green on St. Patrick's Day and claim to be Irish, drink beer for Oktoberfest and claim to be German, celebrate Bastille Day and claim to be French. If you can't know where your people came from, other than a continent, I get the idea of solidarity with the other people from that continent, and I understand that in the historical evolution of language in America, the time when the black pride movement originated predated the term African American and postdated the term negro. So, sociologically, emotionally, and linguistically, black pride makes sense.
But now is when I throw a curve ball into the whole thing. I understand the need to belong to something bigger than ourselves, but why do we try to belong to something based on the accident of our birth?
What is wrong with being proud of what we do, and how we act, and how we think, instead of being proud of the mix of DNA we were born with?
If you read this blog regularly, you know I had my DNA analyzed earlier this year. I found out that in spite of being raised believing I was of German descent, and relatives having emigrated from Germany, I have no German DNA. It looks like my relatives stopped in Germany on their way from Scandinavia to the United States. This knowledge didn't change who I am in the least.
The knowledge that your DNA doesn't match your family stories might be more difficult for some people than it was for me. Maybe because I never based my identity on my national heritage. I'm one of those people who cries at the playing and singing of the United States National Anthem, but I'm not one of those people who bases my identity on being a citizen of the United States of America. I was fortunate to be born here, into a family who had enough money that I always had a roof over my head and food in my stomach. That is not a matter for pride, but a matter for gratitude.
I'm proud that in spite of getting pregnant in the tenth grade at fifteen years old, I persevered and got a Bachelor's degree in Business Information Systems in college. I'm proud that once I decided on a career in Occupational Safety and Health, I pursued and achieved my Occupational Health and Safety Technician certification, and my Certified Safety Professional certification.
I'm also incredibly grateful that I was born with the physical and emotional strength, and the family support to achieve those goals. Without my family's help and support, none of what I have achieved is possible.
When I think about pride and being proud, without that pride becoming destructive, the pride is always tempered by the gratitude for the people who made the accomplishment I am proud of possible.
While our needing to belong to something bigger than ourselves is a powerful force, that need should never overwhelm our consideration of exactly what we are claiming to belong to.
Pride should be attached to accomplishments, not labels. Being proud of being kind, being humble, being generous, being compassionate are all great. To think that a person can say they are proud to be Christian or Jewish or Muslim and think that means something is delusional. When I say or write Christian or Jewish or Muslim, each reader paints their own picture of what that means. Those terms are too broad, and too influenced by too many factors. While kindness and humility and generosity and compassion are also interpretive, they are far less ambiguous than religious categorization.
The same thing goes for nationalistic labels. Why are you proud to be Irish or German or French or Nigerian or Kenyan or Egyptian? Why not say you are proud to be hard-working, or punctual, or well-read, or well-prepared, or well-practiced or reliable?
I think if more people based their pride on what they do and how they act, rather than being proud of the group or groups they were born into, we could all find more common ground. And if we stopped joining groups so that we could label ourselves as Christian or Jewish or Muslim or Republican or Democrat, and instead found pride in being and doing something, maybe we would see we are all more the same than different.
It does not make me angry if you want to be proud of the accident of your birth, or be proud of the group labels you have chosen to take shelter under. I just hope that we can all start examining our beliefs and our behaviors, and seek to believe and behave in ways we can be proud of.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Life happens when you least expect it
Hello Again to any of my regular readers who noticed I've been gone for a while. On September 25, I tripped and fell while walking the dog. I suffered a Colles fracture if my left wrist. In layman's terms, I broke my radius vertically, and a bunch of the small bones in my wrist.
I tried to start this post a week ago, but my hand still hurt so much when I tried to type that I kept losing my train of thought. This week is somewhat better.
On September 27, I had surgery to put a plate and screws in my arm and wrist to rebuild the joint. I started occupational therapy on October 23.
I find it ironic that my last blog post before my injury was titled "Recovery" and I have been in recovery for the past six weeks.
My occupational therapist is the same person that worked with me to rehabilitate my right hand after my stroke in May 2015.
So, I am in the unique position of having done occupational therapy to rehabilitate my right hand from stroke damage and my left hand from orthopedic damage.
My right hand is my dominant hand, so the consequence of disability in that hand was more acute, and probably provided subconscious motivation. However, I never knew how much I needed my left hand until this happened. Two hands are seriously better than one.
Rehabilitation is hard work. It is frustrating when something you have always been able to do is now difficult or impossible. But stroke rehab and ortho rehab are very different, and because it is what I do, I have been analyzing the differences.
In my case, stroke rehabilitation was not painful. It was very difficult and exhausting, but virtually painless. The milestones were great. I can floss my teeth again. I can put in a pony tail. I can braid my hair. I can crochet. Each one represented my brain learning to control my hand differently than before the stroke. I had to work hard, but pain was never a limiting factor.
Orthopedic rehabilitation is very painful for me. It is not difficult or exhausting, it is just painful. And it takes a lot of resolve to cause yourself pain in the belief that on the other side of pain is restored function. The milestones feel more like an adaptation to higher pain levels instead of victories. I can floss my teeth again. I can put in a pony tail. I can braid my hair. I can crochet. But they all hurt. I do what I can until the pain makes me stop.
I couldn't have typed this much last week without the pain stopping me, so I am making progress. And for that I am grateful.
But I have a huge appreciation for those that have to rehabilitate larger more comprehensive injuries. I salute the courage, fortitude and determination necessary to come back from a significant injury.
It feels good to type and share my thoughts. I lost a little bit of myself when I was unable to do this. It feels good to be back.
I'm trying to stay optimistic that down the road a bit is restoration of full function, and a pain free wrist and hand. If not, I'll adapt to whatever the future is state will be.
And while I work towards that future, it is good to be back. I missed you all.
I tried to start this post a week ago, but my hand still hurt so much when I tried to type that I kept losing my train of thought. This week is somewhat better.
On September 27, I had surgery to put a plate and screws in my arm and wrist to rebuild the joint. I started occupational therapy on October 23.
I find it ironic that my last blog post before my injury was titled "Recovery" and I have been in recovery for the past six weeks.
My occupational therapist is the same person that worked with me to rehabilitate my right hand after my stroke in May 2015.
So, I am in the unique position of having done occupational therapy to rehabilitate my right hand from stroke damage and my left hand from orthopedic damage.
My right hand is my dominant hand, so the consequence of disability in that hand was more acute, and probably provided subconscious motivation. However, I never knew how much I needed my left hand until this happened. Two hands are seriously better than one.
Rehabilitation is hard work. It is frustrating when something you have always been able to do is now difficult or impossible. But stroke rehab and ortho rehab are very different, and because it is what I do, I have been analyzing the differences.
In my case, stroke rehabilitation was not painful. It was very difficult and exhausting, but virtually painless. The milestones were great. I can floss my teeth again. I can put in a pony tail. I can braid my hair. I can crochet. Each one represented my brain learning to control my hand differently than before the stroke. I had to work hard, but pain was never a limiting factor.
Orthopedic rehabilitation is very painful for me. It is not difficult or exhausting, it is just painful. And it takes a lot of resolve to cause yourself pain in the belief that on the other side of pain is restored function. The milestones feel more like an adaptation to higher pain levels instead of victories. I can floss my teeth again. I can put in a pony tail. I can braid my hair. I can crochet. But they all hurt. I do what I can until the pain makes me stop.
I couldn't have typed this much last week without the pain stopping me, so I am making progress. And for that I am grateful.
But I have a huge appreciation for those that have to rehabilitate larger more comprehensive injuries. I salute the courage, fortitude and determination necessary to come back from a significant injury.
It feels good to type and share my thoughts. I lost a little bit of myself when I was unable to do this. It feels good to be back.
I'm trying to stay optimistic that down the road a bit is restoration of full function, and a pain free wrist and hand. If not, I'll adapt to whatever the future is state will be.
And while I work towards that future, it is good to be back. I missed you all.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Recovery
A recurring theme in the books I read is recovery. Many books feature a recovering alcoholic or drug addict, or a person recovering from the loss of a spouse, or the loss of a child, or the loss of a job or the loss of health through either accident or illness.
No matter what a person has to recover from, recovery is a process without a fixed timeline. If you Google "recovery timelines" you get links to all kinds of stuff. Business and organizational recovery timelines for post disaster recovery, stroke recovery timelines, physical therapy recovery timelines for a multitude of conditions. The most striking fact about all of these is how fluid they are.
The business and organizational recovery timelines are the easiest to create and follow, often because the humans involved can be interchangeable, so that if a particular human is incapacitated by the disaster, another human can take their place.
With the personal or human recovery timelines, so many variables impact outcome.
For many events, recovery is a lifelong process. For anyone recovering from addiction, recovery is what that individual will be in for the rest of their life or until they relapse to their addiction. Recovery becomes a state of being, often needing support from others in a similar recovery to stay the course.
The death of a loved one is the start of a lifelong recovery. I believe we never really "get over" the loss of a loved one. We learn to live with the empty space, we learn to live with the grief, we learn to accept a new normal is the only normal available now. The recovery can be interrupted by anniversaries, or memories, or events that crash us back into the aching emptiness of the early days of our loss. Often people recovering from a profound loss also need others who have experienced great loss to counsel them and provide support.
With a physical illness, or an accident, complete recovery is sometimes possible. All of us have been ill, or had surgery, and after a period of time feel exactly like we did before the event. Complete recovery does exist, but many medical events leave a permanent disability. Sometimes, these disabilities are visible, but many times they are not. A brain injury can leave impaired memory, or impaired processing or speaking abilities.
The thing is, with so many different events that can injure a person physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, just about anyone and everyone you meet on any given day can be recovering from something. And there is not always a way for you to know that.
Just one more reason to always be kind.
It is so easy to assign a negative motivation to anyone that upsets your order. Labeling them selfish, or self absorbed or a bully is easier. What is harder is to accept that no one knows what someone else is going through.
I believe we can train our brains to stop assigning negative motivations to people we don't know, and start offering up our aggravation as a prayer or a petition for that person to receive peace.
The harder our own personal recovery is at any given moment will impact how well we practice kindness and forgiveness.
For some people, the pain and difficulty of recovery make them more sympathetic and empathetic; for others, the pain and difficulty of recovery seem to short circuit the ability to feel sympathy and empathy.
That is why if each of us, on the days when we can practice as much kindness as we can must do it. That kindness will change the world.
At least for the person struggling with their own recovery that we showed kindness to.
And each struggling person treated with kindness makes the world a better place.
You can change the world, one kind act at a time.
And the more of us that embrace that philosophy, the better it will be.
Society has to experience recovery just like individuals do. And as we collectively practice supporting recovery in each other, we will see society recover too.
I genuinely believe that.
No matter what a person has to recover from, recovery is a process without a fixed timeline. If you Google "recovery timelines" you get links to all kinds of stuff. Business and organizational recovery timelines for post disaster recovery, stroke recovery timelines, physical therapy recovery timelines for a multitude of conditions. The most striking fact about all of these is how fluid they are.
The business and organizational recovery timelines are the easiest to create and follow, often because the humans involved can be interchangeable, so that if a particular human is incapacitated by the disaster, another human can take their place.
With the personal or human recovery timelines, so many variables impact outcome.
For many events, recovery is a lifelong process. For anyone recovering from addiction, recovery is what that individual will be in for the rest of their life or until they relapse to their addiction. Recovery becomes a state of being, often needing support from others in a similar recovery to stay the course.
The death of a loved one is the start of a lifelong recovery. I believe we never really "get over" the loss of a loved one. We learn to live with the empty space, we learn to live with the grief, we learn to accept a new normal is the only normal available now. The recovery can be interrupted by anniversaries, or memories, or events that crash us back into the aching emptiness of the early days of our loss. Often people recovering from a profound loss also need others who have experienced great loss to counsel them and provide support.
With a physical illness, or an accident, complete recovery is sometimes possible. All of us have been ill, or had surgery, and after a period of time feel exactly like we did before the event. Complete recovery does exist, but many medical events leave a permanent disability. Sometimes, these disabilities are visible, but many times they are not. A brain injury can leave impaired memory, or impaired processing or speaking abilities.
The thing is, with so many different events that can injure a person physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, just about anyone and everyone you meet on any given day can be recovering from something. And there is not always a way for you to know that.
Just one more reason to always be kind.
It is so easy to assign a negative motivation to anyone that upsets your order. Labeling them selfish, or self absorbed or a bully is easier. What is harder is to accept that no one knows what someone else is going through.
I believe we can train our brains to stop assigning negative motivations to people we don't know, and start offering up our aggravation as a prayer or a petition for that person to receive peace.
The harder our own personal recovery is at any given moment will impact how well we practice kindness and forgiveness.
For some people, the pain and difficulty of recovery make them more sympathetic and empathetic; for others, the pain and difficulty of recovery seem to short circuit the ability to feel sympathy and empathy.
That is why if each of us, on the days when we can practice as much kindness as we can must do it. That kindness will change the world.
At least for the person struggling with their own recovery that we showed kindness to.
And each struggling person treated with kindness makes the world a better place.
You can change the world, one kind act at a time.
And the more of us that embrace that philosophy, the better it will be.
Society has to experience recovery just like individuals do. And as we collectively practice supporting recovery in each other, we will see society recover too.
I genuinely believe that.
Thursday, September 7, 2017
Things I notice
As my regular readers know, I read a lot. And as I read I notice things. I read differently now that I am trying to learn to be a writer, and I pay attention differently than I did in the past.
One of the things that I have noticed lately is that contemporary women's fiction, and contemporary fiction in general tackles really difficult subjects. Subjects like childhood cancer, and adult cancer. Congenital diseases, surviving the death of a spouse or child, disability from an accident, infidelity, abortion, adoption, unplanned pregnancy, child abuse, job loss, addiction, mental illness; you think of the trauma, and somewhere in contemporary fiction, there is a book that deals with that topic.
In these books, I feel I really get to know the characters. I understand what they are passionate about. I feel their pain, and their anger. I feel their joy, and their disillusionment. What I hardly ever know about any of these characters is whether they are Republicans or Democrats.
I'd like you to think about that for a second.
A talented writer can create a complex, multi-faceted character that has hopes and dreams, fears and uncertainties, passions and heartaches, without giving them a party affiliation.
Maybe it is time for life to imitate fiction.
Why is it so important to so many people to know someone else's party affiliation, or to broadcast your own? To be honest, I'm pretty sure everyone I know thinks I'm a Democrat. I'm not. I'm an Independent. I also think that most everyone I know thinks I'm a Liberal. I'm very liberal on social issues, but I'm actually pretty conservative when it comes to fiscal matters. What would confuse most people about how I think is that I think if you want to spend more, you have to have more. And that means higher taxes. I am also a huge fan of progressive tax rates, and corporate tax rates that encourage investment in the company over profit taking. But none of that defines me.
When I was younger, I felt like it was easier to get to know people. Easier to see what was in their hearts, because politics was not so much a part of what defined people. I got to know people who were animal lovers, and advocates for children's rights, and disability advocates, and tireless volunteers for women and children's issues.
I got to know Boy Scout troop leaders, and Girl Scout troop leaders, and special education teachers, and bankers and doctors and landscapers and plumbers and electricians and carpenters and factory workers and college professors.
I got to know dance teachers, and theater majors and people pursuing art as a vocation. I got to know people who were totally happy to devote themselves to raising their children and creating a warm and nurturing home environment, and people who were determined to open their own businesses to provide a service they thought the community needed.
And I could probably have guessed with relative certainty who they voted for in any Presidential election. And if they would vote yes or no on a new tax millage. But that was so far from my mind and so far from what made me want to get to know them better or to keep them on the fringe of acquaintance with me.
And I really liked that world better than this one. Because the labels we put on each other limit our ability to accept the unique capabilities of each of us. It doesn't matter to me if you identify as a Republican, or a Democrat, or an Independent, or a Libertarian, or a Green Party member. What matters to me is who you are. What your gifts are. How much you care about others. How much you want to make the world a better place.
There are a million ways to make things better. Some ways work better at some times than others. Some ways work better for some people than for others. But if I can get past any labels that try to define someone, and get to see their heart, their fears and heartaches, their passions and their triumphs, then I can find that facet of them that matches a facet of me and we can build a relationship on that base.
And then we can begin working on making things better. Until the shouting stops and the dividing stops and the building walls around ourselves stops, we can't make things better.
I accept that some people might need the labels, and might need their personal walls. I will offer up good thoughts to the universe that the people that need those things find the enlightenment they need to not need them anymore.
In the meantime, if you allow me to, I will try to see you without labels. I will try to learn about you, and I will try to appreciate what makes you the unique individual you are.
I will try to find common ground to build on, and try to build a foundation strong enough to support discussing our differences.
I will not try to change you, but I will try to hear you, and I will ask you to try to hear me.
And then maybe, just maybe, life can be more like fiction. Where people matter more than party affiliation.
One of the things that I have noticed lately is that contemporary women's fiction, and contemporary fiction in general tackles really difficult subjects. Subjects like childhood cancer, and adult cancer. Congenital diseases, surviving the death of a spouse or child, disability from an accident, infidelity, abortion, adoption, unplanned pregnancy, child abuse, job loss, addiction, mental illness; you think of the trauma, and somewhere in contemporary fiction, there is a book that deals with that topic.
In these books, I feel I really get to know the characters. I understand what they are passionate about. I feel their pain, and their anger. I feel their joy, and their disillusionment. What I hardly ever know about any of these characters is whether they are Republicans or Democrats.
I'd like you to think about that for a second.
A talented writer can create a complex, multi-faceted character that has hopes and dreams, fears and uncertainties, passions and heartaches, without giving them a party affiliation.
Maybe it is time for life to imitate fiction.
Why is it so important to so many people to know someone else's party affiliation, or to broadcast your own? To be honest, I'm pretty sure everyone I know thinks I'm a Democrat. I'm not. I'm an Independent. I also think that most everyone I know thinks I'm a Liberal. I'm very liberal on social issues, but I'm actually pretty conservative when it comes to fiscal matters. What would confuse most people about how I think is that I think if you want to spend more, you have to have more. And that means higher taxes. I am also a huge fan of progressive tax rates, and corporate tax rates that encourage investment in the company over profit taking. But none of that defines me.
When I was younger, I felt like it was easier to get to know people. Easier to see what was in their hearts, because politics was not so much a part of what defined people. I got to know people who were animal lovers, and advocates for children's rights, and disability advocates, and tireless volunteers for women and children's issues.
I got to know Boy Scout troop leaders, and Girl Scout troop leaders, and special education teachers, and bankers and doctors and landscapers and plumbers and electricians and carpenters and factory workers and college professors.
I got to know dance teachers, and theater majors and people pursuing art as a vocation. I got to know people who were totally happy to devote themselves to raising their children and creating a warm and nurturing home environment, and people who were determined to open their own businesses to provide a service they thought the community needed.
And I could probably have guessed with relative certainty who they voted for in any Presidential election. And if they would vote yes or no on a new tax millage. But that was so far from my mind and so far from what made me want to get to know them better or to keep them on the fringe of acquaintance with me.
And I really liked that world better than this one. Because the labels we put on each other limit our ability to accept the unique capabilities of each of us. It doesn't matter to me if you identify as a Republican, or a Democrat, or an Independent, or a Libertarian, or a Green Party member. What matters to me is who you are. What your gifts are. How much you care about others. How much you want to make the world a better place.
There are a million ways to make things better. Some ways work better at some times than others. Some ways work better for some people than for others. But if I can get past any labels that try to define someone, and get to see their heart, their fears and heartaches, their passions and their triumphs, then I can find that facet of them that matches a facet of me and we can build a relationship on that base.
And then we can begin working on making things better. Until the shouting stops and the dividing stops and the building walls around ourselves stops, we can't make things better.
I accept that some people might need the labels, and might need their personal walls. I will offer up good thoughts to the universe that the people that need those things find the enlightenment they need to not need them anymore.
In the meantime, if you allow me to, I will try to see you without labels. I will try to learn about you, and I will try to appreciate what makes you the unique individual you are.
I will try to find common ground to build on, and try to build a foundation strong enough to support discussing our differences.
I will not try to change you, but I will try to hear you, and I will ask you to try to hear me.
And then maybe, just maybe, life can be more like fiction. Where people matter more than party affiliation.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Gifts from my Mother
For reasons I don't remember, I was terrified when I was starting school. I cried every day, and didn't want my mother to leave me at school. After a couple of days, or maybe it was weeks, my mother had a talk with me.
I don't remember how the talk started or ended, but I remember the important thing that she told me. Mom told me that no matter how scared I was, there was another little boy or girl who was just as scared, or maybe even more scared. She told me that if I worried about making that child less scared instead of worrying about myself, that I would be okay, and I would make things easier for someone else.
I'm fifty-seven years old, and I still repeat my Mom's advice in my head when I am nervous or scared entering a social situation. I remind myself that there is someone in that room, or at that conference, or attending that party, that feels incredible anxiety, or isolation, or fear. I can help them simply by being present for them. Listening to them, smiling at them, letting them know that they are seen, and appreciated and valued.
The gift my mother gave me was the ability to practice empathy from a very early age. She gave me the gift of seeing that we are all struggling, we are all fighting invisible demons. We can focus inward on our demons, or we can focus on someone who needs our support to fight the demons that plague them.
With any skill, the more it is practiced, the easier it gets. And the more the pathways in our brains get wired to respond in a particular way. My mother set me up to be a empathetic, compassionate person. She taught all of us that service to others is rewarding. She taught us that volunteering is a great way to make friends. She taught us that we had the power to change the world for someone simply by caring about them.
My relationship with my mother was and is complex, as are most mother-daughter relationships. As she slips further and further into Alzheimer's dementia, I struggle to remember her as a whole person. I went through the same progression with my father when his Alzheimer's progressed, and it was a couple of years after his death before I was able to remember all the wonderful gifts my father had given me before Alzheimer's stole so much of who he was. I'm trying to keep memories of Harriet vibrant even as her disease takes her further away.
I tend to think of happy memories as treasures that are greatly cherished. Those memories will fade and tarnish, just as physical treasures will if they are not celebrated and nourished. I'm trying to do a better job of nourishing my treasured memories by talking about them, and writing about them, and sharing them with others.
When I visit my mother, I try to share memories with her. Sometimes she can remember the story I relate, and sometimes that memory has been stolen from her. But the magic comes in her smile when she does remember a story or an event that we shared.
And those are the gifts my mother still gives me. A smile that says she remembers singing along with a Les Paul and Mary Ford song while we dusted the furniture. An "I love you" as I say goodbye after a visit. A strong grip on my hand even as she is too tired or lost to open her eyes or speak.
As hard as the visits can be, I am working hard to turn them into treasured memories. Because I know as hard as these visits are, I will miss the ability to kiss her face or hold her hand when she finally leaves this plane of existence to join my Dad on the next plane.
I am blessed to have a treasure chest full of memories with my mom and dad. And a heart full of the gifts they gave me.
I don't remember how the talk started or ended, but I remember the important thing that she told me. Mom told me that no matter how scared I was, there was another little boy or girl who was just as scared, or maybe even more scared. She told me that if I worried about making that child less scared instead of worrying about myself, that I would be okay, and I would make things easier for someone else.
I'm fifty-seven years old, and I still repeat my Mom's advice in my head when I am nervous or scared entering a social situation. I remind myself that there is someone in that room, or at that conference, or attending that party, that feels incredible anxiety, or isolation, or fear. I can help them simply by being present for them. Listening to them, smiling at them, letting them know that they are seen, and appreciated and valued.
The gift my mother gave me was the ability to practice empathy from a very early age. She gave me the gift of seeing that we are all struggling, we are all fighting invisible demons. We can focus inward on our demons, or we can focus on someone who needs our support to fight the demons that plague them.
With any skill, the more it is practiced, the easier it gets. And the more the pathways in our brains get wired to respond in a particular way. My mother set me up to be a empathetic, compassionate person. She taught all of us that service to others is rewarding. She taught us that volunteering is a great way to make friends. She taught us that we had the power to change the world for someone simply by caring about them.
My relationship with my mother was and is complex, as are most mother-daughter relationships. As she slips further and further into Alzheimer's dementia, I struggle to remember her as a whole person. I went through the same progression with my father when his Alzheimer's progressed, and it was a couple of years after his death before I was able to remember all the wonderful gifts my father had given me before Alzheimer's stole so much of who he was. I'm trying to keep memories of Harriet vibrant even as her disease takes her further away.
I tend to think of happy memories as treasures that are greatly cherished. Those memories will fade and tarnish, just as physical treasures will if they are not celebrated and nourished. I'm trying to do a better job of nourishing my treasured memories by talking about them, and writing about them, and sharing them with others.
When I visit my mother, I try to share memories with her. Sometimes she can remember the story I relate, and sometimes that memory has been stolen from her. But the magic comes in her smile when she does remember a story or an event that we shared.
And those are the gifts my mother still gives me. A smile that says she remembers singing along with a Les Paul and Mary Ford song while we dusted the furniture. An "I love you" as I say goodbye after a visit. A strong grip on my hand even as she is too tired or lost to open her eyes or speak.
As hard as the visits can be, I am working hard to turn them into treasured memories. Because I know as hard as these visits are, I will miss the ability to kiss her face or hold her hand when she finally leaves this plane of existence to join my Dad on the next plane.
I am blessed to have a treasure chest full of memories with my mom and dad. And a heart full of the gifts they gave me.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Eclipse
I went to a funeral on Monday. The deceased was a lovely woman I have known for almost thirty years. I am friends with her parents. I watched her grow into womanhood, get married, have children and a grandchild.
She was one of those people who lit up a room. She was a respiratory therapist, and all of her patients loved her. I found it ironic that her funeral took place during the solar eclipse. It felt like even the Sun mourned her passing on to the next plane, and the Moon wanted to pay her tribute.
I am left with that sadness that is grief. The place where the love lived that now has to be directed somehow. And my grief is minuscule compared to the grief her family feels.
At the funeral, I found myself thinking about who I am, and what I will leave behind me when I go. I don't want anyone to be incapacitated with grief, but I want to be remembered with love.
How then do we go about life to ensure that we will be remembered with love when we are no longer here? The more I thought about it, the more it distilled into a very few actions.
Be kind. Relentlessly, tirelessly kind. Choosing to be kind elevates you and everyone around you. It can be easy to get caught up in all sorts of things, and to believe that people need to deserve your kindness. They don't. Kindness is a gift freely given that builds up the giver at every exchange. Your kindness may be the turning point in someone's day, or in someone's life. Be kind.
Listen to people. Everyone has a story, and everyone likes to be heard. Listen to people so that they know they matter to you. Some people may say things you don't agree with, and if the relationship is such that you can discuss why you disagree, go ahead, but make sure that everyone you disagree with knows that you heard them, even if you don't agree. Most of us suffer from insecurity and self-doubt. Most of us have days where we feel no one is interested in us or our stories. Each of us can choose to be the person that always makes people feel valued and appreciated. And all we have to do is listen.
Consider whether or not expressing your opinion will make things better. There are a lot of people who believe that everyone wants to know their opinion. When I go to funeral or memorial services, I rarely hear that the beloved deceased had an opinion about everything and was happy to share their opinion. It seems the most beloved among us are those that carefully share themselves with others, never demanding the spotlight, never demanding that their point of view be heard and shared. They are not weak, nor are they without passion for their causes. It is more that they live their lives as an example of who they are and what they believe is important, more than constantly barraging others with their opinions.
Be cheerful. Cheerful people are a pleasure to be around. Think about all the memorial and funeral services you have been to. How many times have you heard "Her smile would light up a room", "You could always tell where he was by following the laughter". There is enormous sadness in the world. Being cheerful lifts the spirits of everyone around you. Of course, there are times when it is impossible to be cheerful. But as much as possible, laugh, and help others to laugh. Be the smiling face that soothes someone's bad day. Bring light into the darkness as much as you can. Be cheerful.
For me, the best way I have found yet to cope with grief is to honor the person who I am grieving for. I try to see the world through their eyes, I try to emulate that which I admired in them, and miss seeing them do. There is no antidote or cure for grief, it is a passage that all must go through at one time or another.
But trying to be the good you saw in the person you miss is a way to keep them alive and with you. And for me, that fills the empty space in my heart more than anything else.
She was one of those people who lit up a room. She was a respiratory therapist, and all of her patients loved her. I found it ironic that her funeral took place during the solar eclipse. It felt like even the Sun mourned her passing on to the next plane, and the Moon wanted to pay her tribute.
I am left with that sadness that is grief. The place where the love lived that now has to be directed somehow. And my grief is minuscule compared to the grief her family feels.
At the funeral, I found myself thinking about who I am, and what I will leave behind me when I go. I don't want anyone to be incapacitated with grief, but I want to be remembered with love.
How then do we go about life to ensure that we will be remembered with love when we are no longer here? The more I thought about it, the more it distilled into a very few actions.
Be kind. Relentlessly, tirelessly kind. Choosing to be kind elevates you and everyone around you. It can be easy to get caught up in all sorts of things, and to believe that people need to deserve your kindness. They don't. Kindness is a gift freely given that builds up the giver at every exchange. Your kindness may be the turning point in someone's day, or in someone's life. Be kind.
Listen to people. Everyone has a story, and everyone likes to be heard. Listen to people so that they know they matter to you. Some people may say things you don't agree with, and if the relationship is such that you can discuss why you disagree, go ahead, but make sure that everyone you disagree with knows that you heard them, even if you don't agree. Most of us suffer from insecurity and self-doubt. Most of us have days where we feel no one is interested in us or our stories. Each of us can choose to be the person that always makes people feel valued and appreciated. And all we have to do is listen.
Consider whether or not expressing your opinion will make things better. There are a lot of people who believe that everyone wants to know their opinion. When I go to funeral or memorial services, I rarely hear that the beloved deceased had an opinion about everything and was happy to share their opinion. It seems the most beloved among us are those that carefully share themselves with others, never demanding the spotlight, never demanding that their point of view be heard and shared. They are not weak, nor are they without passion for their causes. It is more that they live their lives as an example of who they are and what they believe is important, more than constantly barraging others with their opinions.
Be cheerful. Cheerful people are a pleasure to be around. Think about all the memorial and funeral services you have been to. How many times have you heard "Her smile would light up a room", "You could always tell where he was by following the laughter". There is enormous sadness in the world. Being cheerful lifts the spirits of everyone around you. Of course, there are times when it is impossible to be cheerful. But as much as possible, laugh, and help others to laugh. Be the smiling face that soothes someone's bad day. Bring light into the darkness as much as you can. Be cheerful.
For me, the best way I have found yet to cope with grief is to honor the person who I am grieving for. I try to see the world through their eyes, I try to emulate that which I admired in them, and miss seeing them do. There is no antidote or cure for grief, it is a passage that all must go through at one time or another.
But trying to be the good you saw in the person you miss is a way to keep them alive and with you. And for me, that fills the empty space in my heart more than anything else.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
The Strange World of Social Media
I decided to unfollow someone on Facebook yesterday. It would be strong to call this person a friend, as they are more of an acquaintance, but Facebook calls them friends. I pretty much have a rule that if someone sends me a friend request and I know them, I accept it. But this person's extreme views on many subjects were upsetting, and I realized that I had no obligation to expose myself to their views.
And that got me to thinking about a conversation I had with my daughter on Saturday. I talk to lots of people in different settings. The neighbors, people at church, people at races, people at car shows, people in the grocery store. The same level of acquaintance that many of my Facebook "friends" are. And we talk about all kinds of stuff, but I don't really know them.
We talk about weather, and food, and the New Orleans Saints, and Mardi Gras, and music, and books, and plays and local happenings. Given that I live in a very red state, it is safe to guess their politics, but rarely do politics come up, unless we are complaining about pot holes or police response time, or something really specific and local.
At first, Facebook was just like life. People posted pictures of their children, and their pets. They posted about vacations and special restaurant meals and personal accomplishments.
It was a place to go to get caught up on what was happening in each other's lives. Some people still use Facebook that way, and I don't want to stop using Facebook because of the other people. The people that can't seem to stop posting divisive and questionable stuff.
I actually don't mind people having an opinion and posting about it. The people that post links to news stories in publications like the Wall Street Journal, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, New Orleans Advocate, CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, even Fox News, I can scroll past and not be bothered.
But so many people who I used to think were kind of normal can't seem to help themselves from posting links to fringe sources with bizarre conspiracy theories about just about everything. Then there are the people that need to post if you don't say "Amen" this or that bad thing will happen. And the people who post horrific pictures of abused animals and say you need to share those horrific pictures. What?
So I've started to unfollow people. They never put their scary up in my face in person, and I don't know why they feel so comfortable putting their scary all over Facebook, but I don't want to see it. I am not allowing people who wouldn't come to the hospital to see me if I were dying rent space in my head with their bizarre social media persona.
I used to feel kind of bad about unfollowing people. It felt kind of dishonest. Like I should unfriend them if I didn't want to see their scary. But then I thought about it, and I have never felt bad about avoiding subjects in conversation that cause conflict. I try to avoid social media posts that will provoke conflict. And when I do post something that I realize will conflict with others, I try to always just put the fact or opinion out there, and not call people who don't agree names.
So for me, unfollowing means I know I can't influence you to stop putting whatever you want on Facebook, but I don't have to watch or entertain it. In person, I would change the subject. Well, really, in person, most of the stuff that upsets me never came up. So if a person is so inclined to post things that are bizarre, unsubstantiated and/or disturbing, I don't need to see it.
Cleaning out the clutter in your home and cleaning out the clutter in your brain are both worthwhile activities. It is totally within your power and your rights to call yourself a good person, and be a good person without allowing anyone to disturb you with unsubstantiated claims and disturbing images.
Social media seems to have created an alternate reality for many people where they believe that everyone wants to know their opinion on everything, and where they have no obligation to check the veracity of a story before sharing it.
I don't know how to fix that. But I can certainly avoid it by not following those who put their scary on display day after day.
And that got me to thinking about a conversation I had with my daughter on Saturday. I talk to lots of people in different settings. The neighbors, people at church, people at races, people at car shows, people in the grocery store. The same level of acquaintance that many of my Facebook "friends" are. And we talk about all kinds of stuff, but I don't really know them.
We talk about weather, and food, and the New Orleans Saints, and Mardi Gras, and music, and books, and plays and local happenings. Given that I live in a very red state, it is safe to guess their politics, but rarely do politics come up, unless we are complaining about pot holes or police response time, or something really specific and local.
At first, Facebook was just like life. People posted pictures of their children, and their pets. They posted about vacations and special restaurant meals and personal accomplishments.
It was a place to go to get caught up on what was happening in each other's lives. Some people still use Facebook that way, and I don't want to stop using Facebook because of the other people. The people that can't seem to stop posting divisive and questionable stuff.
I actually don't mind people having an opinion and posting about it. The people that post links to news stories in publications like the Wall Street Journal, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, New Orleans Advocate, CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, even Fox News, I can scroll past and not be bothered.
But so many people who I used to think were kind of normal can't seem to help themselves from posting links to fringe sources with bizarre conspiracy theories about just about everything. Then there are the people that need to post if you don't say "Amen" this or that bad thing will happen. And the people who post horrific pictures of abused animals and say you need to share those horrific pictures. What?
So I've started to unfollow people. They never put their scary up in my face in person, and I don't know why they feel so comfortable putting their scary all over Facebook, but I don't want to see it. I am not allowing people who wouldn't come to the hospital to see me if I were dying rent space in my head with their bizarre social media persona.
I used to feel kind of bad about unfollowing people. It felt kind of dishonest. Like I should unfriend them if I didn't want to see their scary. But then I thought about it, and I have never felt bad about avoiding subjects in conversation that cause conflict. I try to avoid social media posts that will provoke conflict. And when I do post something that I realize will conflict with others, I try to always just put the fact or opinion out there, and not call people who don't agree names.
So for me, unfollowing means I know I can't influence you to stop putting whatever you want on Facebook, but I don't have to watch or entertain it. In person, I would change the subject. Well, really, in person, most of the stuff that upsets me never came up. So if a person is so inclined to post things that are bizarre, unsubstantiated and/or disturbing, I don't need to see it.
Cleaning out the clutter in your home and cleaning out the clutter in your brain are both worthwhile activities. It is totally within your power and your rights to call yourself a good person, and be a good person without allowing anyone to disturb you with unsubstantiated claims and disturbing images.
Social media seems to have created an alternate reality for many people where they believe that everyone wants to know their opinion on everything, and where they have no obligation to check the veracity of a story before sharing it.
I don't know how to fix that. But I can certainly avoid it by not following those who put their scary on display day after day.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Paw Prints
I was always a dogs don't sleep in human beds person. My mother was a dogs don't sleep in human beds person, and in this instance, I aligned with my upbringing.
Then Beaux the dog came to live with us. He was not happy sleeping in a crate, and cried a lot. I went on a business trip, and my husband let Beaux sleep in the bed while I was gone. He has slept in the bed ever since. It wasn't even a question with Scarlett, once she was reliably trained to potty outside, she was sleeping in the bed too.
Yes, they leave dog hair in the bed, and I sweep it out every morning before I make the bed. The hair is easy to remove, the paw prints aren't. I tend to change the sheets once a week. The day I put clean sheets on the bed, there are no paw prints. By the next morning, paw prints on the sheets. This used to bother me, but it doesn't anymore. Paw prints are a consequence of dogs sleeping in the human bed. There are other consequences that outweigh the negative, so I'll just live with the paw prints.
One of the things I have learned about having a dog in the bed is that a relatively small creature can take up a lot of space. But I've also learned that when those middle of the night panic attacks come, that small creature will soothe you in a way that a human can't.
There have been many nights when the whirlwind in my mind won't slow down, and when I put my hand on Beaux's back, and feel his even breathing, my mind slows and I can sleep. There have been many nights when one or the other dog will wake up, and move into me so that they are as close as can be, reminding me that I am their comfort as much as they are mine. Paw prints are a small price to pay.
So many of the decisions we make have both positive and negative consequences, and it can be easy to focus on the negative and overlook the positive. It is easy to get caught up in daily irritations and forget the big picture.
Every pair of shoes on the floor, every discarded item of clothing that isn't in the dirty clothes hamper or laundry basket, every cup or glass or bowl on the counter is evidence that people live in your home. If you live alone, it is tangible evidence of you. For many of us who don't live alone, we forget to be thankful for the reminder that we are lucky to be sharing our home.
There is always a down side. In the challenges of every day life, it can be easier to see the down side, to focus on the paw prints, and to forget the strong and quiet gift that companionship is.
I know that some day I will miss those paw prints. I will wake up with a racing heart, and there will be no Beaux to comfort me. In the moments that I forget that, I simply have to look at the urn of Burt's ashes on the fireplace, and I remember how short the lives of our four legged companions are.
We never know how long our human companions will be with us. We can think that they will mourn our passing, but it is always possible that we will have to mourn theirs. There are no guarantees in life.
As much as I can, I am trying to recognize the good, the positive that the people I share my life with bring. I am trying to not let the petty aggravations steal my joy in the moment.
Because we never know how many moments we will have. And I want to make sure I have a treasure chest full of memories with those I love when I can no longer share space with them on the planet.
Then Beaux the dog came to live with us. He was not happy sleeping in a crate, and cried a lot. I went on a business trip, and my husband let Beaux sleep in the bed while I was gone. He has slept in the bed ever since. It wasn't even a question with Scarlett, once she was reliably trained to potty outside, she was sleeping in the bed too.
Yes, they leave dog hair in the bed, and I sweep it out every morning before I make the bed. The hair is easy to remove, the paw prints aren't. I tend to change the sheets once a week. The day I put clean sheets on the bed, there are no paw prints. By the next morning, paw prints on the sheets. This used to bother me, but it doesn't anymore. Paw prints are a consequence of dogs sleeping in the human bed. There are other consequences that outweigh the negative, so I'll just live with the paw prints.
One of the things I have learned about having a dog in the bed is that a relatively small creature can take up a lot of space. But I've also learned that when those middle of the night panic attacks come, that small creature will soothe you in a way that a human can't.
There have been many nights when the whirlwind in my mind won't slow down, and when I put my hand on Beaux's back, and feel his even breathing, my mind slows and I can sleep. There have been many nights when one or the other dog will wake up, and move into me so that they are as close as can be, reminding me that I am their comfort as much as they are mine. Paw prints are a small price to pay.
So many of the decisions we make have both positive and negative consequences, and it can be easy to focus on the negative and overlook the positive. It is easy to get caught up in daily irritations and forget the big picture.
Every pair of shoes on the floor, every discarded item of clothing that isn't in the dirty clothes hamper or laundry basket, every cup or glass or bowl on the counter is evidence that people live in your home. If you live alone, it is tangible evidence of you. For many of us who don't live alone, we forget to be thankful for the reminder that we are lucky to be sharing our home.
There is always a down side. In the challenges of every day life, it can be easier to see the down side, to focus on the paw prints, and to forget the strong and quiet gift that companionship is.
I know that some day I will miss those paw prints. I will wake up with a racing heart, and there will be no Beaux to comfort me. In the moments that I forget that, I simply have to look at the urn of Burt's ashes on the fireplace, and I remember how short the lives of our four legged companions are.
We never know how long our human companions will be with us. We can think that they will mourn our passing, but it is always possible that we will have to mourn theirs. There are no guarantees in life.
As much as I can, I am trying to recognize the good, the positive that the people I share my life with bring. I am trying to not let the petty aggravations steal my joy in the moment.
Because we never know how many moments we will have. And I want to make sure I have a treasure chest full of memories with those I love when I can no longer share space with them on the planet.
Monday, August 14, 2017
Dog Whistles
I have always been told that dogs hear a wider range of frequencies than humans do. Because of this, I have always believed that the whistles that are sold that make no sound I can discern are audible to dogs. I have watched dogs respond to these whistles.
Because of this phenomenon, the ability to silently summon a dog with a whistle, a slang term has been used repeatedly in American language. When someone uses language that sounds benign, but is coded for a certain audience to hear a different message, that is call using a dog whistle, or dog whistle rhetoric.
The problem with dog whistle rhetoric is how powerful it is. Most of the people hearing a coded message will never hear the intent, or the dog whistle. They will hear benign words, and wonder what those of us who understand the code are so upset about.
And mostly, it is impossible to convince them that there is a coded message that they don't understand.
Throughout the 2016 presidential election campaign in the United States, many people, including me, heard the coded message. We heard a call for white supremacy. We heard a call for the degradation of women. We heard a call for mistreatment of people of color. We heard a call for hate and fear.
Those of us who heard these whistles often found ourselves at odds with family and friends who heard no offense in "Make America Great Again". Even when Donald Trump mocked a disabled reporter, dismissed a war hero, mocked a Gold Star family, and bragged about sexually assaulting women, those family and friends stuck with the Donald.
Now, in 2017, we have had an American woman die at the hands of a Nazi in Charlottesville, VA, a quiet mostly liberal college town in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. Thousands of white supremacists converged on Charlottesville, VA to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee. That was their stated purpose. Many of us heard a dog whistle for a showing white strength, white supremacy, and a strong message of division.
There is a time in each person's life, and in each country's history, that people must decide who they are. I am not a racist. I do not believe any race is superior or inferior to another. I do not believe in binary genders, or that gender and sexuality are the same thing. I believe that love happens between individuals, and that all of us are on a continuum for what gender types we are attracted to. I do not believe that any one gender is superior or inferior to another. I believe that we are all born differently abled. I do not believe that my abilities or disabilities make me superior or inferior to anyone else. I believe we all have the right to practice or not practice any religion we choose. I believe none of us have the right to force our religious beliefs on anyone else. And I believe no one religion is superior or inferior to another.
I reject and condemn anyone who supports hatred, violence and separation. I reject and condemn anyone who supports people who have a racist, or sexist, or xenophobic agenda.
It is time for Americans to be loud in their rejection of the hatred that is rampant right now in our country. The time to make nice is in the past. The time to be silent and hope that good people will come to realize they have to take a side is past.
Everyone has to take a side. Either you support hatred, and violence to advance hate, or you reject hatred, and the violence used to advance hate. Silence makes you complicit.
The saying either you are part of the problem or part of the solution has never been more true than it is right now.
I'm not telling anyone that they have to put a sign in their yard, or pick a fight with their neighbor. But we all need to speak up when we hear the hate. We all need to call on our President, Senators and Congressman to loudly decry the forces of hate that are getting stronger in our society. We need to change the channel when someone on radio or television gives a microphone to the hatemongers. We need to not visit internet sites that promulgate hate.
More than 400,000 Americans died in World War II to defeat the Nazis and Facism, and now we have thousands of Americans embracing these causes. We must not allow them to disrespect the sacrifice of those brave individuals who gave their lives for freedom. We must shun them. We must take their platform and their microphones away. We must force them to live in the shadows, as no decent American wants to hear their message, or see their faces.
The only way to stop the tide of hate that is sweeping over America is for all good people to stand together against it. The cost of doing anything else is just too high.
Because of this phenomenon, the ability to silently summon a dog with a whistle, a slang term has been used repeatedly in American language. When someone uses language that sounds benign, but is coded for a certain audience to hear a different message, that is call using a dog whistle, or dog whistle rhetoric.
The problem with dog whistle rhetoric is how powerful it is. Most of the people hearing a coded message will never hear the intent, or the dog whistle. They will hear benign words, and wonder what those of us who understand the code are so upset about.
And mostly, it is impossible to convince them that there is a coded message that they don't understand.
Throughout the 2016 presidential election campaign in the United States, many people, including me, heard the coded message. We heard a call for white supremacy. We heard a call for the degradation of women. We heard a call for mistreatment of people of color. We heard a call for hate and fear.
Those of us who heard these whistles often found ourselves at odds with family and friends who heard no offense in "Make America Great Again". Even when Donald Trump mocked a disabled reporter, dismissed a war hero, mocked a Gold Star family, and bragged about sexually assaulting women, those family and friends stuck with the Donald.
Now, in 2017, we have had an American woman die at the hands of a Nazi in Charlottesville, VA, a quiet mostly liberal college town in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. Thousands of white supremacists converged on Charlottesville, VA to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee. That was their stated purpose. Many of us heard a dog whistle for a showing white strength, white supremacy, and a strong message of division.
There is a time in each person's life, and in each country's history, that people must decide who they are. I am not a racist. I do not believe any race is superior or inferior to another. I do not believe in binary genders, or that gender and sexuality are the same thing. I believe that love happens between individuals, and that all of us are on a continuum for what gender types we are attracted to. I do not believe that any one gender is superior or inferior to another. I believe that we are all born differently abled. I do not believe that my abilities or disabilities make me superior or inferior to anyone else. I believe we all have the right to practice or not practice any religion we choose. I believe none of us have the right to force our religious beliefs on anyone else. And I believe no one religion is superior or inferior to another.
I reject and condemn anyone who supports hatred, violence and separation. I reject and condemn anyone who supports people who have a racist, or sexist, or xenophobic agenda.
It is time for Americans to be loud in their rejection of the hatred that is rampant right now in our country. The time to make nice is in the past. The time to be silent and hope that good people will come to realize they have to take a side is past.
Everyone has to take a side. Either you support hatred, and violence to advance hate, or you reject hatred, and the violence used to advance hate. Silence makes you complicit.
The saying either you are part of the problem or part of the solution has never been more true than it is right now.
I'm not telling anyone that they have to put a sign in their yard, or pick a fight with their neighbor. But we all need to speak up when we hear the hate. We all need to call on our President, Senators and Congressman to loudly decry the forces of hate that are getting stronger in our society. We need to change the channel when someone on radio or television gives a microphone to the hatemongers. We need to not visit internet sites that promulgate hate.
More than 400,000 Americans died in World War II to defeat the Nazis and Facism, and now we have thousands of Americans embracing these causes. We must not allow them to disrespect the sacrifice of those brave individuals who gave their lives for freedom. We must shun them. We must take their platform and their microphones away. We must force them to live in the shadows, as no decent American wants to hear their message, or see their faces.
The only way to stop the tide of hate that is sweeping over America is for all good people to stand together against it. The cost of doing anything else is just too high.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
Words Matter
When my husband and I got married and were trying to blend our families, there was a lot of tension, and a fair bit of anger and acrimony. When tension and emotion are high, it is easy to say things that will hurt, and to leave terrible scars.
We went to family counseling, and the counselor recommended that we find a non hurtful way to express that we were hurt and disappointed. In our family, if you felt hurt or disappointed, the correct response was to say either, "If I had a barbeque, I wouldn't invite you," or "You're not invited to my barbeque".
It was a great way to handle conflict, and I wish I could remember to do it all the time. It is very hard when you feel dismissed or disregarded to respond appropriately. The natural human response to feeling attacked seems to be to attack back.
I've evolved enough that I can usually manage to make "I" instead of "you" statements. Things like "When you speak to me in that tone of voice, I feel like I am being disrespected." Or "When you called my idea stupid, my feelings were hurt". But I fail to take the really right response of, "You're not invited to my barbeque".
Now, I accept saying that to a perfect stranger would be very confusing, so this can only be used with family. But really, how often do we engage in conflict with people outside our families? Most of our conflicts are with family, or friends, or coworkers, all of whom can be consulted to develop a non hurtful, non hostile way to indicate we feel disregarded or diminished.
As for the world at large, the first question for me is always why I have given a stranger the power to make me feel disregarded or diminished. Why not just realize you two humans do not know each other, and that the other person may have something huge going on that has impacted their interpersonal relation skills? Offer goodness up to the universe on their behalf, and move on.
But what about those people who you are forming a relationship with? Should feeling disregarded or diminished prevent you from pursuing a relationship with them?
I think not. I think we all have moments where we speak or act with less consideration than we consider normal for us. I think that in order to have meaningful relationships, we have to give others permission to mess up sometimes, and we have to ask for permission to mess up sometimes ourselves. Meaningful relationships also demand forgiveness, and the hardest part is that they demand that we accept someone else's shortcomings, and ask some else to accept our shortcomings.
It is easy to get in the habit of feeling like all the compromise, all the overlooking of idiosyncrasy, all the forgiving is on our side of the equation. When we feed those feelings, it gets easier to respond in anger, hurt or frustration, and to say things that can't be unsaid, to create hurtful scars that can never heal.
When we carelessly use language to hurt or escalate, we can back ourselves into a corner that we never wanted to be in and can find no way out of.
And all of that starts with how we process the inputs we receive, and how we respond to them. If you start to feel that there is an imbalance of fairness or power in an important relationship, stop. Analyze why you feel that way. If there are concrete examples of situations that left you feeling disregarded, write them down. Ask yourself how those situations could have been handled differently so that a better outcome was achieved. Think long and hard about whether or not a productive discussion can be had with the other party in the conversation. If yes, initiate that conversation. If no, decide if you can process those situations in a way that does not end with you feeling disregarded.
There are some relationships that bring no positive effects to us. Those relationships may need to be preserved for many complex reasons. But there is no reason to give those people's words power over us. If a relationship is not positive and does not need to be preserved, let it go. All relationships need care and feeding. If you turn away from the maintenance of the relationship, it will go dormant, and some will die.
Every time we put hurt into the universe on purpose, because we failed to control our negative emotions, we diminish not only the person we are speaking to in a hurtful manner, we also diminish ourselves.
Words matter. Actions have consequences. Negativity breeds negativity. The pathways in our brains are strengthened by repetition. If I want better outcomes in my relationships, I have to examine the inputs I am providing, and the individuals I am providing them to. Often, I can see the same situation, the same conversation in completely different lights, based on how I choose to process the information.
The more I choose to ignore a careless comment that was not intended to harm, the more likely I am to be able to choose to ignore the next careless comment. We're all flawed. I can choose to focus on the flaw, or I can choose to focus on the rest of the individual.
The more I try to treat everyone the way I wish they would treat me, the more I reinforce the behaviors that I want to demonstrate. The more I demonstrate those behaviors, the more likely I am to inspire others to copy my behaviors.
Every revolution was started by an action. I am choosing today to start a kindness and compassion revolution based on how I respond to others.
We went to family counseling, and the counselor recommended that we find a non hurtful way to express that we were hurt and disappointed. In our family, if you felt hurt or disappointed, the correct response was to say either, "If I had a barbeque, I wouldn't invite you," or "You're not invited to my barbeque".
It was a great way to handle conflict, and I wish I could remember to do it all the time. It is very hard when you feel dismissed or disregarded to respond appropriately. The natural human response to feeling attacked seems to be to attack back.
I've evolved enough that I can usually manage to make "I" instead of "you" statements. Things like "When you speak to me in that tone of voice, I feel like I am being disrespected." Or "When you called my idea stupid, my feelings were hurt". But I fail to take the really right response of, "You're not invited to my barbeque".
Now, I accept saying that to a perfect stranger would be very confusing, so this can only be used with family. But really, how often do we engage in conflict with people outside our families? Most of our conflicts are with family, or friends, or coworkers, all of whom can be consulted to develop a non hurtful, non hostile way to indicate we feel disregarded or diminished.
As for the world at large, the first question for me is always why I have given a stranger the power to make me feel disregarded or diminished. Why not just realize you two humans do not know each other, and that the other person may have something huge going on that has impacted their interpersonal relation skills? Offer goodness up to the universe on their behalf, and move on.
But what about those people who you are forming a relationship with? Should feeling disregarded or diminished prevent you from pursuing a relationship with them?
I think not. I think we all have moments where we speak or act with less consideration than we consider normal for us. I think that in order to have meaningful relationships, we have to give others permission to mess up sometimes, and we have to ask for permission to mess up sometimes ourselves. Meaningful relationships also demand forgiveness, and the hardest part is that they demand that we accept someone else's shortcomings, and ask some else to accept our shortcomings.
It is easy to get in the habit of feeling like all the compromise, all the overlooking of idiosyncrasy, all the forgiving is on our side of the equation. When we feed those feelings, it gets easier to respond in anger, hurt or frustration, and to say things that can't be unsaid, to create hurtful scars that can never heal.
When we carelessly use language to hurt or escalate, we can back ourselves into a corner that we never wanted to be in and can find no way out of.
And all of that starts with how we process the inputs we receive, and how we respond to them. If you start to feel that there is an imbalance of fairness or power in an important relationship, stop. Analyze why you feel that way. If there are concrete examples of situations that left you feeling disregarded, write them down. Ask yourself how those situations could have been handled differently so that a better outcome was achieved. Think long and hard about whether or not a productive discussion can be had with the other party in the conversation. If yes, initiate that conversation. If no, decide if you can process those situations in a way that does not end with you feeling disregarded.
There are some relationships that bring no positive effects to us. Those relationships may need to be preserved for many complex reasons. But there is no reason to give those people's words power over us. If a relationship is not positive and does not need to be preserved, let it go. All relationships need care and feeding. If you turn away from the maintenance of the relationship, it will go dormant, and some will die.
Every time we put hurt into the universe on purpose, because we failed to control our negative emotions, we diminish not only the person we are speaking to in a hurtful manner, we also diminish ourselves.
Words matter. Actions have consequences. Negativity breeds negativity. The pathways in our brains are strengthened by repetition. If I want better outcomes in my relationships, I have to examine the inputs I am providing, and the individuals I am providing them to. Often, I can see the same situation, the same conversation in completely different lights, based on how I choose to process the information.
The more I choose to ignore a careless comment that was not intended to harm, the more likely I am to be able to choose to ignore the next careless comment. We're all flawed. I can choose to focus on the flaw, or I can choose to focus on the rest of the individual.
The more I try to treat everyone the way I wish they would treat me, the more I reinforce the behaviors that I want to demonstrate. The more I demonstrate those behaviors, the more likely I am to inspire others to copy my behaviors.
Every revolution was started by an action. I am choosing today to start a kindness and compassion revolution based on how I respond to others.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
The summer of my discontent
It has been a long time since I posted anything. This has been a difficult summer for me. I'm not exactly sure why.
I think the darkness started to fall on my Mom's 90th birthday. It was really hard for me to accept that my Mom was turning 90 and it was a sad, not a happy day. I have had numerous people I love reach ninety years of age, and always before it was an occasion of great celebration. There was no point in celebration for Harriet, that much disruption would only upset her. It seemed so terribly unfair to me that someone should live that long, only to spend so much time without cognizance.
This summer has also seen a friend lose a great-grandchild to cancer, a friend lose a wife to cancer, and a long-time work associate be stricken with Guillain-Barre syndrome. Every time I feel like I am clawing my way out of the darkness, another wave has taken my feet out from under me.
Usually, I can pull myself up better than I have this summer. It seems like my well of hope is dry. There have been occasional bright spots. My husband and I went on a short vacation with my daughter and son-in-law, and those were very good days. A dear friend came into town and we had dinner, and that was a very good day. Then the darkness comes back.
I usually process my way through the darkness by writing, but I couldn't seem to force myself to write either. Even the laundry stopped bringing me joy. (Laundry has long been the soother of my soul. I love laundry.)
I have tried to make myself open this blog and write. I have managed to compose a few pages in my novel, and to crochet a bit. This week, my husband and I started staining boards to replace a dilapidated fence in the backyard. Each effort, a tiny step towards pushing out of the darkness.
A few weeks ago, we had a visiting priest for Mass. He spoke heavily accented English, and I had to work really hard to understand him during Mass, but especially during the sermon. It was good for me to pay that close attention, because it allowed me to really process what he was saying. One thing he said will stick with me forever. He alleged that the greatest sin is to not use God's gifts to you to make the world a better place. Wasting God's gifts is the worst sin according to this priest.
It made me think about what my gifts are. I think I can write. I think I can be nurturing. I think I can help people to find peace, or inspiration or comfort. Maybe I have been stuck in the darkness because I have not been using my gifts.
It took ten days from the day of that sermon until I had the discipline to try to write. I will try harder each day to find words to put on paper. They may not be as inspirational as I want them to be, but they will be honest.
Sometimes, the best way to inspire is to acknowledge your own struggle. I have difficulty admitting when I am struggling. I like to be the comforter, not the comforted. But if I don't share my struggles, my darkness, then I am not allowing you to see the real me.
I miss the connection I feel when I see that people have read my postings. I truly welcome comments, because some of my struggle this summer has been feeling purposeless. I didn't post for more than three weeks, and no one asked where I was. This left me feeling that I am pushing myself on people, rather than providing a bright spot.
I know I have to be my own cheerleader, and that I have to be my own driver and disciplinarian. But truth be told, the approval junkie in me hasn't gotten a fix in a long time. I need to learn to persevere without external support. And I will.
This summer will not be remembered as one of my favorites. But hopefully, I can turn this discontent into a renewed sense of purpose. I want to use the gifts God gave me to make the world a better place. And I simply can't do that when I let the darkness win.
I think the darkness started to fall on my Mom's 90th birthday. It was really hard for me to accept that my Mom was turning 90 and it was a sad, not a happy day. I have had numerous people I love reach ninety years of age, and always before it was an occasion of great celebration. There was no point in celebration for Harriet, that much disruption would only upset her. It seemed so terribly unfair to me that someone should live that long, only to spend so much time without cognizance.
This summer has also seen a friend lose a great-grandchild to cancer, a friend lose a wife to cancer, and a long-time work associate be stricken with Guillain-Barre syndrome. Every time I feel like I am clawing my way out of the darkness, another wave has taken my feet out from under me.
Usually, I can pull myself up better than I have this summer. It seems like my well of hope is dry. There have been occasional bright spots. My husband and I went on a short vacation with my daughter and son-in-law, and those were very good days. A dear friend came into town and we had dinner, and that was a very good day. Then the darkness comes back.
I usually process my way through the darkness by writing, but I couldn't seem to force myself to write either. Even the laundry stopped bringing me joy. (Laundry has long been the soother of my soul. I love laundry.)
I have tried to make myself open this blog and write. I have managed to compose a few pages in my novel, and to crochet a bit. This week, my husband and I started staining boards to replace a dilapidated fence in the backyard. Each effort, a tiny step towards pushing out of the darkness.
A few weeks ago, we had a visiting priest for Mass. He spoke heavily accented English, and I had to work really hard to understand him during Mass, but especially during the sermon. It was good for me to pay that close attention, because it allowed me to really process what he was saying. One thing he said will stick with me forever. He alleged that the greatest sin is to not use God's gifts to you to make the world a better place. Wasting God's gifts is the worst sin according to this priest.
It made me think about what my gifts are. I think I can write. I think I can be nurturing. I think I can help people to find peace, or inspiration or comfort. Maybe I have been stuck in the darkness because I have not been using my gifts.
It took ten days from the day of that sermon until I had the discipline to try to write. I will try harder each day to find words to put on paper. They may not be as inspirational as I want them to be, but they will be honest.
Sometimes, the best way to inspire is to acknowledge your own struggle. I have difficulty admitting when I am struggling. I like to be the comforter, not the comforted. But if I don't share my struggles, my darkness, then I am not allowing you to see the real me.
I miss the connection I feel when I see that people have read my postings. I truly welcome comments, because some of my struggle this summer has been feeling purposeless. I didn't post for more than three weeks, and no one asked where I was. This left me feeling that I am pushing myself on people, rather than providing a bright spot.
I know I have to be my own cheerleader, and that I have to be my own driver and disciplinarian. But truth be told, the approval junkie in me hasn't gotten a fix in a long time. I need to learn to persevere without external support. And I will.
This summer will not be remembered as one of my favorites. But hopefully, I can turn this discontent into a renewed sense of purpose. I want to use the gifts God gave me to make the world a better place. And I simply can't do that when I let the darkness win.
Monday, July 17, 2017
Short story
Hi All -
I wrote a short story today, and I want to share it with you. It is longer than my usual blog posts, and for that I apologize. I hope you enjoy it.
The Guide
I wrote a short story today, and I want to share it with you. It is longer than my usual blog posts, and for that I apologize. I hope you enjoy it.
The Guide
“Hi, I’m here to escort you to the other side.”
Samantha shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Who are you, and where am I?” she asked.
“I’m Dennis, and you are in the transitional plane. This is where you go when you die. I’m a guide. I’ll take you through to the other side.”
“I have a meeting this morning. I need to make breakfast for my husband. What are you talking about?” Samantha was getting more and more upset as she talked.
This was Dennis’ least favorite kind of client. It was so much easier with the ones who expected to die, or who died violently and remembered the last moments. The clients that died in their sleep were always the most difficult to convince that they were really dead.
“Let’s sit down and have a cup of coffee, and I’ll explain everything to you.” Suddenly, they were in a coffee shop setting, where minutes before, they had been in what looked like the lobby of a high end hotel.
“You had an aneurysm in your brain, and while you were sleeping last night, it ruptured. At a point in the night, your husband woke up and discovered you were not breathing. He called 911, and started CPR, but you were already dead. Your Mom and Dad, and his Mom and Dad are with him. Your siblings are headed into town. This is the afterlife. I’m a guide. I greet people when they arrive, and take them across this plane, to the other side.” Dennis offered Samantha a box of tissues, as she was crying.
“I’m twenty-eight. I have my whole life ahead of me. We didn’t even get to have children yet. I can’t be dead.”
Dennis took Samantha’s hand. “In a few minutes, you will calm down. The energy of this place soothes all negative emotions. The calm will last for a while, and then emotions will come back. When you miss someone too much, there will be opportunities to see them, and to send them messages. Not everyone in the first life is receptive to messages, but if your people are you will enjoy visiting their dreams, and leaving them keepsakes. The transition is always hardest for people who don’t expect to die, and have no warning. Just take deep breaths, it will all be okay.”
Samantha felt her emotions receding, and a peculiar calm was taking over. While her rational mind was still working to process everything, her emotional mind seemed to be shut down. “I must be dreaming. Wait till I tell Mike about this when I wake up. I’ve had some vivid dreams before, but this is a doozy.”
Dennis offered Samantha a cup of coffee, fixed exactly how she liked it. So many of his clients thought their first consciousness in the transition plane was a dream, and he let them. The first couple of times he had tried to reinforce the truth, but after a few clients, he realized they would come to the realization on their own as they made their way across the plane. Samantha would be one of those clients.
“This coffee is perfect. I don’t remember having a dream before where I ate and drank and experienced flavor.”
“When we finish our coffee, we’ll start the journey to the other side. Only guides stay in the transitional plane. All others leave first life, spend as much time as they need to in the plane, and then pass on through to the other side.”
Samantha was still trying to figure out where this strange dream came from, but she was also intrigued by the story this Dennis guy was spinning.
“So, do you know how long I’ll be in the transitional plane?” Dennis shook his head no.
“I get notified to meet a client at a location. Then I get instructions one at a time. After the coffee shop, I’m supposed to take you through the park, and stop at the farm. The walk will take a little while, but we’ll go slow so you can adjust to the environment.”
Samantha hoped she would remember every detail of this dream to tell Mike in the morning. Maybe she could even write it down.
As Dennis and Samantha left the coffee shop, Samantha looked around her. They appeared to be on a Main Street with shops and cafes and hotels. There were other people walking around, and everyone seemed to be with just one other person, but none of the people together looked like couples, more like two strangers, just like her and Dennis. Wierd. As they got to the end of the street, the businesses gave way to houses, and then the houses gave way to green space. Samantha supposed this was the park that Dennis had mentioned. The weather was perfect, warm but not hot, with a nice breeze. The sun felt good, again, warm but not hot. The flower gardens in this park were amazing. Samantha was never one to enjoy silence so she tried to figure out a good way to start a conversation.
“The flowers are gorgeous.” That felt like a good opening. “Yes they are, and I never get tired of them. The flowers change for each client, so that the newcomers always see an assortment that makes them feel good.” Samantha was still trying to process that information when they arrived at a large gate with an intercom.
Dennis pushed a button and a voice responded. “Dennis is here with Samantha Fremont.” “Great, we’ve been expecting you. We’ll see you in the Green House.”
“The have a greenhouse? Is that where they cultivate the flowers?” Dennis smiled, “Not a greenhouse, the Green House. You’ll see in a minute.”
Inside the gate was a farm, with a couple of barns, and about seven houses. Each house was painted in a solid color. The houses were red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, like a rainbow.
Samantha smiled back. “I get it now, the Green House. What are we here for?” Dennis smiled. “You’ll see in a minute, and I think you’ll like it.”
As Dennis opened the door of the Green House, Samantha noticed that it smelled like her Mom and Dad’s house. Kind of a cinnamon and vanilla smell. “It smells like my Mom and Dad’s.” Then Samantha noticed that it also looked like the house she had grown up in. The furniture was the same as when she was in grade school. This dream was getting stranger and stranger. Samantha was looking around the room and noticing how exactly replicated her childhood home was when she noticed the grey and white cat sitting in the window.
“Stardust! What are you doing here?” The cat turned at the sound of Samantha’s voice and jumped down from the window. She ran over and started rubbing against Samantha’s legs, and meowing to be picked up. Samantha picked the cat up, and the two rubbed noses, and then Stardust put her paws on Samantha’s shoulders and nuzzled her head into Samantha’s neck.
“Oh baby! I’ve missed you so much for so long. I don’t understand.” Samantha was starting to get that this wasn’t a dream.
“Most of my clients find their first happiness on this side when they are reunited with their pets. As a guide, I have been assigned to greet a pet and bring them to the farm. Pets make the transition so much more readily than humans. They are happy to wait, as long as they are fed and have a nice place to live and some affection. I brought Stardust over. She was a little shy at first, but she warmed right up. She’s been waiting for you.”
“She’s younger than when she died. And thinner.” Samantha was surprised at how calmly she was processing information. It was strange that being dead was starting to feel normal.
“Everyone returns to their best self in the transitional plane. You were twenty-eight when you died, so you will probably stay twenty-eight. Most people’s best self is somewhere between twenty-eight and forty-eight. We have a few people who present on this side in the sixties and seventies, because they felt they were their best self at that age. How someone presents isn’t up to the Guardian. It is up to the person. So, however you liked yourself best, that is how you present. Children stay children, because children usually like themselves just fine.”
“You said you were taking me through the transitional plane to the other side, the afterlife. What happens to people there? How do they look and feel?”
“I don’t know, Samantha, I’ve never been there.”
“How come? Why not?”
“I have never asked those questions. When I died, I was met by Theo, a guide. He told me that I had been chosen to be a guide, and I went into training here on the transitional plane. I’ve been a guide ever since.”
“But don’t you wonder about what is on the other side? About the afterlife?”
“Not really. Other guides have left this plane and moved on, and I suppose if the Guardian wants me to move on I will. No reason to wonder about it. I am always comfortable. There is always food to eat, a comfortable bed to sleep in, friends to visit with when I’m not working. On earth, I was always worried about how I was going to pay my bills, and if I was going to lose my job. Here, I worry about nothing. I enjoy meeting new people and helping them transition. It is a very nice existence. I’m happier than I ever was on earth.”
Samantha took a minute to process that.
“What was your life on earth like? Did you have family?”
“No family. My mom was a drug addict. Never knew who my dad was. I was in foster care my whole life. She died when I was eight, but by then, I was considered unadoptable. I went in the army at eighteen, gave that twenty years. Then I bounced around. Bartending, tour guide (ironic, I know), waiter, anything to make a few bucks. I liked being around people, but never made close friends. I got diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia at forty-five, and was dead in less than two months. Got all my medical care through the VA, lucky for me I was a veteran, otherwise, I’d have been out of luck. They at least kept me comfortable until it was over.”
“Wow, Dennis. I never knew anybody without family before. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Samantha. The world is full of people like me. Unattached and just getting by. This afterlife is so much better. No disease, no pain, no danger. You can eat all you like and stay a perfect weight. You can drink all you like and never get drunk or feel hungover. No sunburn or indigestion. Nothing to make you ever feel bad. And connections. I have more friends on the transitional plane than I ever did on earth. And I still get to be around people.”
Samantha was still petting Stardust, and feeling better about where she was. “What’s next?”
“Next I’m supposed to take you to the Habitat. I just got word that you are going to meet one of the guides there and both of you will go to the other side. This is a new one for me. I never had two clients at the same time, and I never escorted a guide. Let’s go.”
“Do I have to leave Stardust?”
“No, you and she will be together forever now. Don’t worry, you can carry her, or she can walk. She won’t stray from you in the transitional plane. That is just how it works.”
When Samantha and Dennis left the Green House, they headed right back out through the gate they entered, and headed back towards the park. The day was still perfect, although the sun was lower in the sky. Dennis answered Samantha before she asked.
“The sky mimics the sky on earth, to help people feel comfortable during transition. Time is a little more fluid when you have been here a while, like I have. Basically, I will experience daytime whenever I am with a client, and it is always evening when I finish. I have fun with other guides until night, sleep and repeat.”
While Dennis had been talking they walked about halfway through the park before turning down a different road. Along this road were more houses, like the ones that had been near the main street with the shops and cafes. They came to a small well kept house with a big front porch.
“Here we are. We call this the Habitat. It is the control center for the guides. This is where I came for my training when I arrived. This is where we are meeting the other client.” Dennis wondered which guide was going to be moving on.
There was a man on the far side of the room when they entered. He turned when he heard the door open. “Uncle Rick!” Samantha ran across the room and embraced the man.
“Hey Sunshine! Nice to meet you! I’ve been watching you all these years, and you’re even prettier in person.”
Rick smiled at Dennis over Samantha’s head. “Hey Dennis. I guess you are the guide taking us both to the other side. Samantha is my sister Denise’s girl. I died while Denise was pregnant.”
“Uncle Rick, Mom always told me I would meet you someday in Heaven. I guess she was right.”
“We’re not exactly in Heaven, sweetheart. We’re in the transitional plane. But I did visit your Mom in a dream last night, and tell her we are together. So when Mike called her, I think she knew. Maybe we can visit her again soon.”
Dennis recognized a fleeting sadness. “I’ll miss you Eric. You’ve been here since I got here. We’ve had some good times together.”
“I’ll miss you too, Den. Maybe I’ll see you some day on the other side. I just got back from a delivery. A three year old boy. He was excited about everything. Never cried or was afraid. I took him to the farm where we picked up a puppy, never saw anything cuter than that boy and that puppy together. When I dropped them off at the gate to the afterlife, it looked like there was a big crowd to meet him. I feel good that my last client was so happy to be here.”
Samantha looked puzzled. “If I got Stardust back, where did the puppy come from? Won’t someone else be looking for him?”
“Ah, Sam. Some puppies are euthanized, or die naturally because there is no one to care for them. The Guardian matches them up with the children that died wanting a puppy. This little guy had been battling cancer for most of his life. The guides don’t know much about the other side, but the one thing we do know is that when children go to the afterlife, they go to people who love children, and who either miss their own children, or never got the chance to have children. The Guardian knew it would be too hard for the guides to drop children off not knowing that they would be well cared for. As often as I have escorted children through the plane, I’ve always fallen a little in love with each one.”
“Me, too, Eric. The children are both the easiest and the hardest clients. I need to get you two moving. We’re due at the gate.”
As Dennis, Rick and Samantha walked back through the park and past the farm on towards the gate, Samantha felt the last sense of strangeness leave her body and her mind. The afterlife was waiting, and she felt excited to see what it held for her. Maybe there would be a baby soon that needed her. She thought of Mike, and how she wished she could say goodbye properly.
Dennis answered her as if she had spoken. “The Guardian will let you say goodbye to Mike when the time is right. I told you, you will get to visit, and leave impressions. The more open he is to believing that you can still reach him, the more likely it is that he will know you have been in contact. It is an imperfect system because the humans in first life have a hard time accepting. It is part of the reason that children transition so naturally. They are used to visiting with people in the afterlife, and to them coming here is just like visiting a favorite relative.”
Samantha thought about her Mom, and how often Mom had said she’d had a visit or a message from Rick. “I know my Mom will be fine, because she never lost contact with Uncle Rick. I hope she can convince Mike. I don’t want him to be sad and hurting.”
“Unless Denise has changed an awful lot since I left earth, she’ll convince him. She was like a terrier with a bone as a girl.”
Samantha laughed. “She still is. Thanks for reminding me, Uncle Rick.”
The had arrived at the gate. Stardust pawed Samantha’s leg to be picked up. Dennis shook hands with Rick, and then nodded to Samantha. “Good luck in the afterlife. It was an honor to be your guide.” And with that, the gate swung open and shut, with Dennis on the transitional plane, and Samantha, Stardust and Eric in the afterlife.
Dennis made his way back to town, where he enjoyed a night of darts and camaraderie at the bar watching football.
“Hi, I’m here to escort you to the other side.”
“Dang, I was hoping to see Mary right away. I’ve been waiting eighteen years. Who are you?”
“I’m Dennis, and I’m your guide through the transitional plane. Nice to meet you Henry. I’ll get you to Mary as quickly as I can.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)