How sad is it that my first thought when I saw the word "touch" was a feeling of creepiness due to the Penn State scandal? A word that should evoke feelings of caring and gentleness can instead conjure up feelings of uneasiness and suspicions of ulterior motives due to all the recent news stories about people who prey upon children.
I pushed those feelings out of my mind and went instead with the secondary good feelings that the word "touch" evokes. Lately my mother has been hospitalized with some serious health issues. Since I'm her primary caregiver, I've been spending a lot of time at the hospital and making important decisions about her care. Seeing her in such a vulnerable and helpless position terrifies me. It's a highly stressful time, in between trying to juggle my daily work life and expecting to help in the delivery of my first grandchild in a matter of days. I want so much to be free to feel only the joy of the childbirth, without the other burdens that are on my mind right now. I can't concentrate on anything lately and I'm highly agitated.
In the midst of all this, I was truly touched by two incidents of touch. A couple nights ago, after I had spent a long evening with my mother in the hospital, I came home both mentally weary and physically exhausted and crawled into bed where my husband was already sleeping. He turned over and hugged me for a long time. He had no other expectations and didn't say a word, he just simply laid there and held me to let me know that he cared. It was the sweetest feeling in the world, and the best therapy I could have wished for at that moment.
The second incident took place at the hospital. My poor 88-year-old mother had been laying for three days in a hospital bed with a tube down her nose into her stomach, her arms restrained so she wouldn't mess with the tube, and nothing to eat or drink. She could only lay on her back due to the restraints. She was completely miserable, and I had noticed that her lips looked very parched and dry, so I brought in some vaseline to use on them. As I was applying it to her lips, she was so grateful. Over and over she thanked me. I sit here with tears running down my face as I think about it. It was such a simple thing for me to do, but it meant the world to someone who was in absolute misery. It took me back to the time that I did the same thing for my dad as he lay dying in the hospital, only in his case he could not express his appreciation. I'll never forget the bittersweet poignancy of either of those moments.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
What would your sixteen-year-old self say if she/he could see you now?
What’s up with the hairdo? I should have kept it long and straight.
What cool kids I have!
My husband is nuts (mostly in a good way)!
What a bummer that I’m working 9-5 in a job I don’t care too much for.
What happened to my dream of being independently wealthy?
I’m so glad I’m still in touch with my friends Marilyn, Joy, Randy, Denise and Teri. I’d hate to lose them! But where are Lynn and Kathy? And what the heck is Facebook?
What’s up with the saggy knees?
I finally got a convertible!
I’m glad to see I’m still riding my bike. I always did like to ride.
How in the world did I end up in Georgia?
My mom has turned into my Grandma!
What’s up with the wrinkly neck? Heck, I have turned into my Grandma!
I’m expecting my first grandchild? Now I’m REALLY old!
I’m surprised that I don’t read more books. I always enjoyed reading. But I’m happy that I’m still writing.
How come I’m not living on a lake with a boat? I always wanted to do that.
How come I’m not living on a lake with a boat? I always wanted to do that.
I’m so glad I still like the outdoors, camping and hiking. I’d hate to lose those loves.
What’s up with the extra 15 pounds?
It's hard to believe that my dad is really gone. I can't imagine life without him.
Do I really like that music I have playing in my car, and who is Adele?
I’m so proud of myself—I’m 58 years old and can still turn a cartwheel!
Monday, November 28, 2011
What secret are you keeping?
I can't think of any secrets I'm keeping for myself, but I am keeping two secrets for others. A co-worker entrusted me with a secret regarding a situation with her son, and a neighbor confided a secret regarding her husband's health issues. Both asked me not to tell anyone else, and I won't give any more details here in case someone tracks me down through my blog. In both cases, I'm very honored that they chose to confide in me and that they consider their secrets safe with me. I wouldn't dream of betraying them.
I take being asked to keep a secret seriously, and it's not hard for me to do. I know others who couldn't keep secrets if their lives depended on it, and I've seen the repercussions. I don't understand people who love to divulge news that isn't their own; I guess it's for that momentary satisfaction of being in the spotlight and commanding the center of attention.
However, I don't think I'd be able to keep a secret if it was harmful for someone else not to know about it. Luckily, I can't recall a time that I've ever been in that position.
I take being asked to keep a secret seriously, and it's not hard for me to do. I know others who couldn't keep secrets if their lives depended on it, and I've seen the repercussions. I don't understand people who love to divulge news that isn't their own; I guess it's for that momentary satisfaction of being in the spotlight and commanding the center of attention.
However, I don't think I'd be able to keep a secret if it was harmful for someone else not to know about it. Luckily, I can't recall a time that I've ever been in that position.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Describe a time when you were SHOCKED.
It was a December day and I was in the 9th grade, staying after school with my good friend Marilyn to work on a Home Ec project. I remember we were making skirts on the sewing machines, and I had gotten behind on mine so I was trying to catch up. My mom had agreed to pick us up when we were finished and give Marilyn a ride home.
It was just starting to get dark outside when we pulled into her neighborhood, and we were greeted by the eerie sight of many flashing emergency lights and a lot of commotion going on at a nearby construction site. We briefly checked out the scene as we drove by, but really couldn't see much except several emergency vehicles on hand. Marilyn offhandedly remarked that her dad was working at that site, and the three of us wondered what was happening. We pulled into her driveway and she got out and waved goodbye. Little did any of us suspect that upon opening her front door, she was about to enter a scene of tragic chaos.
After getting home and eating dinner, I stretched out on my bed with the radio on (CKLW was my station of choice in those days) and began to do my Latin homework. I struggled with it for awhile, then decided to call Marilyn, who was also in my class, to collaborate. Her mother answered the phone, and when I asked to speak to my friend, she told me that Marilyn was unable to talk right then; that her father had died that afternoon. My mind began whirling in shock and disbelief. I knew Jack fairly well and liked him, he always talked and joked with us kids. It was all I could do to stammer "OK, thank you" as I hung up. I turned to my mom and began to cry; she hugged and comforted me as best as she could.
After awhile I returned to my bedroom, staring numbly at the school books still open on my bed. The radio was still playing and the news came on. That's when I heard the horrific news that Jack had been crushed to death when the underground construction site he was working at had caved in on top of him. I had never dealt with death before in my 14 years and this was a devastating way to hear that grim news, delivered so impersonally and matter-of-factly by a news commentator. I called for my mom and I remember she laid down on the bed and cried with me.
Somehow, I went to school the next day. Our Latin teacher, knowing that Marilyn and I were friends, asked me why she wasn't in class. I vividly remember feeling very uncomfortable and on the verge of tears when I answered in front of the whole class that her father had died the night before. After class, the teacher walked with me down the hall and asked me about what had happened. Later I found out that she wrote Marilyn a compassionate letter, telling how her own father had also died suddenly when she was a teenager.
I recall standing in the gym at lunch time and talking with a group of girls about the tragedy. One of the things my mother had said to comfort me was that Jack had probably not suffered because the accident most likely had happened very quickly. I repeated it to this group of girls and one of them scoffed at me, saying, "Of course he suffered, he slowly suffocated to death!" My mind immediately went into another tailspin, imagining how he probably died thinking about his family, wondering how they would get along without him, thinking about not being able to see his four kids grow up. I went home sick that afternoon and I wasn't faking it--I was literally sick at heart.
It was the first time I ever had to deal with death, and it was particularly tough because it came in such a shocking and tragic way.
It was just starting to get dark outside when we pulled into her neighborhood, and we were greeted by the eerie sight of many flashing emergency lights and a lot of commotion going on at a nearby construction site. We briefly checked out the scene as we drove by, but really couldn't see much except several emergency vehicles on hand. Marilyn offhandedly remarked that her dad was working at that site, and the three of us wondered what was happening. We pulled into her driveway and she got out and waved goodbye. Little did any of us suspect that upon opening her front door, she was about to enter a scene of tragic chaos.
After getting home and eating dinner, I stretched out on my bed with the radio on (CKLW was my station of choice in those days) and began to do my Latin homework. I struggled with it for awhile, then decided to call Marilyn, who was also in my class, to collaborate. Her mother answered the phone, and when I asked to speak to my friend, she told me that Marilyn was unable to talk right then; that her father had died that afternoon. My mind began whirling in shock and disbelief. I knew Jack fairly well and liked him, he always talked and joked with us kids. It was all I could do to stammer "OK, thank you" as I hung up. I turned to my mom and began to cry; she hugged and comforted me as best as she could.
After awhile I returned to my bedroom, staring numbly at the school books still open on my bed. The radio was still playing and the news came on. That's when I heard the horrific news that Jack had been crushed to death when the underground construction site he was working at had caved in on top of him. I had never dealt with death before in my 14 years and this was a devastating way to hear that grim news, delivered so impersonally and matter-of-factly by a news commentator. I called for my mom and I remember she laid down on the bed and cried with me.
Somehow, I went to school the next day. Our Latin teacher, knowing that Marilyn and I were friends, asked me why she wasn't in class. I vividly remember feeling very uncomfortable and on the verge of tears when I answered in front of the whole class that her father had died the night before. After class, the teacher walked with me down the hall and asked me about what had happened. Later I found out that she wrote Marilyn a compassionate letter, telling how her own father had also died suddenly when she was a teenager.
I recall standing in the gym at lunch time and talking with a group of girls about the tragedy. One of the things my mother had said to comfort me was that Jack had probably not suffered because the accident most likely had happened very quickly. I repeated it to this group of girls and one of them scoffed at me, saying, "Of course he suffered, he slowly suffocated to death!" My mind immediately went into another tailspin, imagining how he probably died thinking about his family, wondering how they would get along without him, thinking about not being able to see his four kids grow up. I went home sick that afternoon and I wasn't faking it--I was literally sick at heart.
It was the first time I ever had to deal with death, and it was particularly tough because it came in such a shocking and tragic way.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
What do you do to pamper yourself and relax?
Well, I've already written about my little flowers/cupcake routine on occasional Mondays. In the spring and through the summer, I like to get pedicures. Sometimes my daughter Michelle and I go together. Giving myself time to write in this blog is also a form of pampering and relaxation.
Believe it or not, my bike rides are an important way of pampering myself. I began cycling in cross-state rides in 2006 and have done RAGBRAI (the Iowa ride) three times, the Shoreline West ride in Michigan twice, and the BRAG in Georgia once. The cross-state rides are very challenging, but they also have an "adult summer camp" quality to them, as my friend Sue likes to say. We decide on our destination ride for the summer, and often it's the only time during the year that I see most of my cycling friends. The rides are usually a week long and we camp along the way. The only goal we have each day is to reach the next camp, and we have all day to do it on a pre-determined route. The few decisions we have to make usually involve food--where and when to eat our meals. The rides are a chance to catch up with my friends' lives, and the camaraderie involved in successfully doing such a physically demanding activity is a rewarding and special thing to experience. The shower at the end of a long day of cycling is always awesome and makes me feel like a new person again. And yes, we do some "celebratory" drinking and sometimes (often?) get pretty silly and slap-happy. On almost every ride, we meet new people and our circle of cycling friends becomes larger. I guess these bike rides would be considered an unusual form of pampering but I truly consider them a joyful and relaxing activity and I'm so glad my friend Sue introduced me to them!
Believe it or not, my bike rides are an important way of pampering myself. I began cycling in cross-state rides in 2006 and have done RAGBRAI (the Iowa ride) three times, the Shoreline West ride in Michigan twice, and the BRAG in Georgia once. The cross-state rides are very challenging, but they also have an "adult summer camp" quality to them, as my friend Sue likes to say. We decide on our destination ride for the summer, and often it's the only time during the year that I see most of my cycling friends. The rides are usually a week long and we camp along the way. The only goal we have each day is to reach the next camp, and we have all day to do it on a pre-determined route. The few decisions we have to make usually involve food--where and when to eat our meals. The rides are a chance to catch up with my friends' lives, and the camaraderie involved in successfully doing such a physically demanding activity is a rewarding and special thing to experience. The shower at the end of a long day of cycling is always awesome and makes me feel like a new person again. And yes, we do some "celebratory" drinking and sometimes (often?) get pretty silly and slap-happy. On almost every ride, we meet new people and our circle of cycling friends becomes larger. I guess these bike rides would be considered an unusual form of pampering but I truly consider them a joyful and relaxing activity and I'm so glad my friend Sue introduced me to them!
Friday, November 25, 2011
Write about an unforgettable meal.
I'm not necessarily the kind of person who remembers meals over the years. I certainly appreciate delicious food, but most meals don't take on much importance or stick in my mind. We used to joke about my brother and his memory for food. On the long driving vacations we took as a family, he'd remember towns by the restaurants we stopped in and what he had to eat there. "Oh, Mclean, Texas--that's where we went to that cafe with the wagon wheel out front where they put the really good barbecue sauce on their hamburgers," he'd say. I definitely remember going through a fruit stage on those trips. I'd search for fruit plates on the menus--most family restaurants had them back in those days (late 1950s and 1960s). They'd usually give a choice of sherbet or cottage cheese with them, and I'd always take the sherbet.
So I wracked my brain for the answer to this unforgettable meal question, and a clear answer finally came to me. It was a meal that I remember not for being fancy and grandiose, but for being simple and "hitting the spot" at just the right time. We were on a family vacation in New Mexico, and were going on a camping/fishing trip with my grandparents and my Aunt Leora and Uncle Murl. My family had our travel trailer and they had their campers. It had been a long afternoon of traveling and we arrived at the campsite after dark in a driving rain. I was hungry and grumpy after being cooped up in the car all afternoon, and more than a little discouraged at the sloppy mud and chilly rain that greeted us. My Aunt Leora offered to fix us all dinner in their camper. She had prepared a homemade beef stew and cornbread ahead of time, and all she had to do was heat them up. We all crowded into their camper to eat. Leora was always a fantastic cook, and her stew was out-of-this-world delicious. Maybe it was because I was so hungry and uncomfortable to start with, but that hot, tasty meal was really memorable for me and I appreciated it so much, even as a child. Interestingly, it's probably the one meal my brother doesn't seem to recall!
I wish my aunt was still living. I'd tell her about the fond memory I have of the delicious meal she prepared on that rainy night and served in their tiny camper.
So I wracked my brain for the answer to this unforgettable meal question, and a clear answer finally came to me. It was a meal that I remember not for being fancy and grandiose, but for being simple and "hitting the spot" at just the right time. We were on a family vacation in New Mexico, and were going on a camping/fishing trip with my grandparents and my Aunt Leora and Uncle Murl. My family had our travel trailer and they had their campers. It had been a long afternoon of traveling and we arrived at the campsite after dark in a driving rain. I was hungry and grumpy after being cooped up in the car all afternoon, and more than a little discouraged at the sloppy mud and chilly rain that greeted us. My Aunt Leora offered to fix us all dinner in their camper. She had prepared a homemade beef stew and cornbread ahead of time, and all she had to do was heat them up. We all crowded into their camper to eat. Leora was always a fantastic cook, and her stew was out-of-this-world delicious. Maybe it was because I was so hungry and uncomfortable to start with, but that hot, tasty meal was really memorable for me and I appreciated it so much, even as a child. Interestingly, it's probably the one meal my brother doesn't seem to recall!
I wish my aunt was still living. I'd tell her about the fond memory I have of the delicious meal she prepared on that rainy night and served in their tiny camper.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
What are you grateful for on this Thanksgiving Day?
A much harder question to answer would be what's NOT to be thankful for?
On Thanksgiving morning, I awoke in my warm, comfortable bed and arose planning to attend the "Pre-Turkey Burnoff," an intense work-out taking place at a gym across town and lead by one of the most dynamic and motivating exercise instructors I've ever known. It was a frosty, invigorating 32-degree morning as I gathered together with 70+ other health-conscious attendees, and all seemed to be in a festive mood as they joked about burning off their calorie-laden meals in advance. I was thankful for the opportunity and the good health to undertake such an ambitious, early morning endeavor.
Upon arriving home, I began the day-long process of preparing our traditional, abundant and beloved Thanksgiving feast--complete with turkey and all the trimmings. The previous evening, Julie and I had a giggly, fun time crafting some pilgrim's hats and turkeys out of cookies and candy as treats/table decorations. My grandma's lace tablecloth adorned the table, and places were set with china and silver for the special occasion. Around our table sat six VIPs including myself and five of my loves--my mother, my husband, two of our daughters, and our son-in-law. Under the table sat Lily, begging for the occasional table scrap offered by her dog-loving "grandfather." The lively dinner conversation centered on the impending birth of an exciting early Christmas gift--Michelle and Craig's daughter Aubree--and the anticipation of a Florida trip at Christmas time.
The evening following the meal was restful and mellow, yet warm and companionable. A check of the computer revealed thoughtful Thanksgiving greetings from friends near and far. It was a day filled with much reflection, and more than any other Thanksgiving, I was constantly mindful and conscious of everything I have to be grateful for. Most of all, I was tremendously thankful for another day in this life of mine, and the generous opportunity to live it well.
On Thanksgiving morning, I awoke in my warm, comfortable bed and arose planning to attend the "Pre-Turkey Burnoff," an intense work-out taking place at a gym across town and lead by one of the most dynamic and motivating exercise instructors I've ever known. It was a frosty, invigorating 32-degree morning as I gathered together with 70+ other health-conscious attendees, and all seemed to be in a festive mood as they joked about burning off their calorie-laden meals in advance. I was thankful for the opportunity and the good health to undertake such an ambitious, early morning endeavor.
Upon arriving home, I began the day-long process of preparing our traditional, abundant and beloved Thanksgiving feast--complete with turkey and all the trimmings. The previous evening, Julie and I had a giggly, fun time crafting some pilgrim's hats and turkeys out of cookies and candy as treats/table decorations. My grandma's lace tablecloth adorned the table, and places were set with china and silver for the special occasion. Around our table sat six VIPs including myself and five of my loves--my mother, my husband, two of our daughters, and our son-in-law. Under the table sat Lily, begging for the occasional table scrap offered by her dog-loving "grandfather." The lively dinner conversation centered on the impending birth of an exciting early Christmas gift--Michelle and Craig's daughter Aubree--and the anticipation of a Florida trip at Christmas time.
The evening following the meal was restful and mellow, yet warm and companionable. A check of the computer revealed thoughtful Thanksgiving greetings from friends near and far. It was a day filled with much reflection, and more than any other Thanksgiving, I was constantly mindful and conscious of everything I have to be grateful for. Most of all, I was tremendously thankful for another day in this life of mine, and the generous opportunity to live it well.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
"One forgives to the degree that one loves." ~ La Rochefaucould Who have you forgiven?
I would like to say that I've forgiven my brother, but I'm just not sure that is 100% true. I know I'm headed in the right direction, but I'm not completely there yet. The emotional charge from being hurt is not totally gone. My motivation to accomplish forgiveness stems not only from wanting a good relationship with my only sibling but also from my belief in the saying that "holding a grudge is letting someone live rent-free in your head." Who needs that?
I know better than to sit around waiting for an apology in order to forgive. Mike already told me that won't happen. So I have to find a way to cancel the debt without the apology--a way to quit holding him responsible for paying for my pain. Perhaps it would be easier and quicker to forgive if we lived closer and I saw him more often, but ultimately that's not an excuse.
I was reading an article about how to tell when you've truly forgiven someone. Here are the seven steps listed and how I'm faring with each one of them:
I know better than to sit around waiting for an apology in order to forgive. Mike already told me that won't happen. So I have to find a way to cancel the debt without the apology--a way to quit holding him responsible for paying for my pain. Perhaps it would be easier and quicker to forgive if we lived closer and I saw him more often, but ultimately that's not an excuse.
I was reading an article about how to tell when you've truly forgiven someone. Here are the seven steps listed and how I'm faring with each one of them:
When the first thought you have about them is not the injury they caused in your life. Yes, most of the time now I can have normal, everyday thoughts about my brother without rehashing our problems.
Would you help them if you knew they were in trouble and you had the ability? Yes, I'm sure that I would assist him in any way I could if he needed help.
Can you think positive thoughts about this person? Yes, I can and do smile when thinking about certain things my brother has said and done, both before and after our problems.
Do you still think of getting even with the person? No, those thoughts stopped some time ago and even when I was having them, I knew I'd never act on them.
When you have stopped looking for them to fail. OK, I have to admit to making mental notes to myself when I see or hear of my brother doing the same sorts of things he accused me of doing. But he's the person who originally considered these things failures, not me. I just find it interesting that he apparently only considers them failures when applied to me. And yes, I do fantasize about pointing this out to him but have never done so.
Does the transgression come up again in a heated conversation? We haven't had a heated conversation in a few years now. But if I became upset with him over something else, I'm afraid I couldn't absolutely guarantee that I wouldn't use the injury he caused me as ammunition.
Do you still anticipate them doing what they did before? This is a big one for me. Yes, unfortunately I still anticipate and fear a repeat performance. In fact, I've had dreams about it. I definitely have some unresolved trust issues.
So, I've conquered four of the seven steps. I'm making progress, but I obviously have some work to do yet in the forgiveness arena!
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
"To sin by silence, when we should protest, makes cowards out of men." ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox When did you stand up and protest?
I'm usually a "go with the flow" kind of person, especially at work, where I've generally always done what was expected of me without creating too many waves. However, lately I've felt myself changing in this regard. Maybe I'm less compliant because I'm getting old, cantankerous and rebellious. Ha! Perhaps it's because the people in charge are either my age or younger than me and I feel more comfortable questioning some of their rules and procedures. Or, since I'm getting closer to retirement time, possibly it's because I feel that I have less to lose. More than likely, it's a combination of all three reasons.
At any rate, we were recently given the go-ahead to hire a new librarian at work, which was considered a fairly big deal due to the hiring freeze the university has been experiencing lately. Everyone in the library is expected to participate in an extensive hiring process. It used to be that each staff member (there are 30 in the library) spent about 3 to 4 hours on the selection process to fill one open position. So that's about 90-120 man-hours of time spent--sounds a little excessive to me, but it was considered the "standard procedure" when I was hired, so OK, I went with the flow.
Recently the hiring process has been touted as "new and improved" and it's been expanded so that 5-1/2 to 7-1/2 hours per staff member is now required to fill one open position. That adds up to 165-225 man-hours of time. I personally think they've gone way overboard and decided that I was drawing the line. I've been swamped with work lately and the last thing I needed to do was to spend the better part of a day on the hiring process for a position that has nothing to do with my own job.
So we had two candidates interviewing last week for the open librarian position. I deliberately chose to attend only the morning sessions for each candidate, skipping the afternoon sessions. And I filled out a detailed form about my impressions of each candidate, but I skipped the round-table discussion. Even so, I still spent about 2-1/2 hours of my time on the selection process... plenty, in my personal opinion. I found out later that part of the round-table discussion included a critique of how each of the candidates dressed, and the fact that one seemed to be wearing a jacket that was too small for her. And by the way, the critique was lead by a male librarian who never seems to run a comb through his hair, always wears white socks, and usually has his shirt half tucked in and half out. I'm just sayin'... I'm happy to have missed the whole discussion, in spite of the entertainment value. I definitely couldn't have contained myself at that point!
My boss did ask later why I wasn't in attendance for all the sessions. I didn't get the impression that she was upset, just that she was puzzled and inquisitive. I answered honestly that I thought the expanded hiring process was excessive and that I felt the 2-1/2 hours I spent was more than adequate when I had a lot of work that I really needed to be doing. I asked why the format had been changed for the selection process. She told me that she'd find out the reasons and get back to me; I haven't heard anything yet. So, that was my own form of standing up and protesting a procedure that I felt had gotten out of control. A small thing in the big scheme of life... but I felt better for doing it.
At any rate, we were recently given the go-ahead to hire a new librarian at work, which was considered a fairly big deal due to the hiring freeze the university has been experiencing lately. Everyone in the library is expected to participate in an extensive hiring process. It used to be that each staff member (there are 30 in the library) spent about 3 to 4 hours on the selection process to fill one open position. So that's about 90-120 man-hours of time spent--sounds a little excessive to me, but it was considered the "standard procedure" when I was hired, so OK, I went with the flow.
Recently the hiring process has been touted as "new and improved" and it's been expanded so that 5-1/2 to 7-1/2 hours per staff member is now required to fill one open position. That adds up to 165-225 man-hours of time. I personally think they've gone way overboard and decided that I was drawing the line. I've been swamped with work lately and the last thing I needed to do was to spend the better part of a day on the hiring process for a position that has nothing to do with my own job.
So we had two candidates interviewing last week for the open librarian position. I deliberately chose to attend only the morning sessions for each candidate, skipping the afternoon sessions. And I filled out a detailed form about my impressions of each candidate, but I skipped the round-table discussion. Even so, I still spent about 2-1/2 hours of my time on the selection process... plenty, in my personal opinion. I found out later that part of the round-table discussion included a critique of how each of the candidates dressed, and the fact that one seemed to be wearing a jacket that was too small for her. And by the way, the critique was lead by a male librarian who never seems to run a comb through his hair, always wears white socks, and usually has his shirt half tucked in and half out. I'm just sayin'... I'm happy to have missed the whole discussion, in spite of the entertainment value. I definitely couldn't have contained myself at that point!
My boss did ask later why I wasn't in attendance for all the sessions. I didn't get the impression that she was upset, just that she was puzzled and inquisitive. I answered honestly that I thought the expanded hiring process was excessive and that I felt the 2-1/2 hours I spent was more than adequate when I had a lot of work that I really needed to be doing. I asked why the format had been changed for the selection process. She told me that she'd find out the reasons and get back to me; I haven't heard anything yet. So, that was my own form of standing up and protesting a procedure that I felt had gotten out of control. A small thing in the big scheme of life... but I felt better for doing it.
Monday, November 21, 2011
If you were to describe your current emotional life as a color... what color would you pick?
I'd pick a shade of orange to represent my current emotional life. I feel generally happy at this point in time, but I'm also extremely busy, on the brink of feeling almost frantic sometimes. So in combining the happines of yellow with the energy of red, I get orange.
Coincidentally, orange has always been my favorite color, from the softer coral/melon shades to the darker sienna/umber shades. Orange also represents fall, my favorite season. When I was a child, I remember getting occasional rides to school from my friend's mother--the one who abused her daughter. Once she asked all of us kids one by one what our favorite color was. It was like she was doing some sort of armchair analysis on each of us. When I answered orange, she paused for a long time and then asked, "Really?" in an incredulous tone. In my 8-year-old mind, she made me feel as if I picked the "wrong" color. (I never did like that woman!) But I stubbornly stuck by it then, and I still love it.
Coincidentally, orange has always been my favorite color, from the softer coral/melon shades to the darker sienna/umber shades. Orange also represents fall, my favorite season. When I was a child, I remember getting occasional rides to school from my friend's mother--the one who abused her daughter. Once she asked all of us kids one by one what our favorite color was. It was like she was doing some sort of armchair analysis on each of us. When I answered orange, she paused for a long time and then asked, "Really?" in an incredulous tone. In my 8-year-old mind, she made me feel as if I picked the "wrong" color. (I never did like that woman!) But I stubbornly stuck by it then, and I still love it.
I googled the meaning of the color orange just for kicks. Orange represents enthusiasm, creativity, determination, encouragement, stimulation and optimism. I'll take big doses of all of those! I recently bought a sweater in a beautiful melon color. I have it on today, and it makes me happy.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Maybe it will go away... Write about a time when you believed in those five dangerous words.
I had left this prompt unanswered for quite awhile, not being able to think of a reply. But something happened recently which gave me an unfortunate answer to this question. On November 29th, I stopped by my mother's apartment after work as I usually do. I found her clutching her stomach, doubed over in pain. She told me she had felt that way for about two hours, since 2:30 that afternoon. Thinking she might simply have an upset stomach, she asked me to go to the store and get her some baking soda to mix with water--the old-fashioned remedy for a tummy ache. We were both hoping that "maybe it will go away" although I was starting to have my doubts. I did as she asked and it helped briefly but soon she was doubled over and moaning with pain again. I told her we either had to go to urgent care or the hospital, and she replied that she wasn't going to the hospital--so urgent care it was.
By the time she saw a Dr. at urgent care, she was in severe pain. They gave her morphine for the pain (not a good idea, as it turned out, for an elderly patient with a little bit of dementia) and determined that she needed to be taken by ambulance to the emergency room at the hospital. There she was diagnosed as having an abdominal obstruction. A tube was placed via her nose down her throat and into her stomach to drain off all the fluids, intestinal materials, and digestive materials that had built up in her system. She of course wasn't allowed to have anything to eat or drink during this whole process and she was in a great deal of discomfort. It was 3:30 am before I left the hospital the following morning.
I had been home and had gotten only about four hours of sleep when the phone rang. It was a nurse from the hospital telling me that my mother had woken up very confused and upset, had gotten out of bed by herself, was pulling at her tubes, and was refusing to let anyone near her. Four people were in her room trying to calm her down and get her back in bed. I was asked for permission to restrain her, in order to protect her from doing harm to herself. Reluctantly, I gave my permission because I didn't think there was any other recourse. I got down to the hospital as soon as possible to help calm her down.
For three days my mother had nothing to eat or drink and was restrained to her bed. It seemed so cruel and archaic. To make matters worse, because she's blind she could not see to push the call button for a nurse, and due to the restraints it would have been practically impossible for her to do so anyway. I spent as much time at the hospital as I could and was there for blocks of several hours at a time. Each time I arrived, I found her pulling at her restraints, desperate to get out of bed because she had to go to the bathroom. She was not checked on nearly often enough considering the situation she was in. She was at the mercy of a nurse or a tech happening by her room. It was degrading to her and made her highly anxious, worsening her already precarious mental state. She would beg me for just a sip of milk or a taste of ice cream and it broke my heart to constantly have to explain to her why I couldn't get anything for her.
Conditions got increasing more grim by the day, until one day at work I just broke down to one of my co-workers. It turns out that I picked the right person. Her niece is the director of the 6th floor at the hospital. She gave her a call and I talked with her for a few minutes about my mother's horrible situation and my frustration at not being able to speak to a doctor. Within an hour, I received a call asking if I could be at the hospital at 3:00 for a consultation with a Dr. When I arrived at the hospital, conditions had changed dramatically for the better. The tube, which had already been dry for a day and a half, was removed from my mother's nose and she had been given some sips of water. Food was going to be reintroduced to her system the next day. And to my amazement, sitters were scheduled to be with my mother around the clock at the hospital's expense. Until then, I never knew that such a program existed. If I had, I would never have given permission to put my mother in restraints.
My mother spent a total of eight days in the hospital, and a series of unfortunate and careless mistakes were made in her care. If I had not found a connection to someone who worked there, I shudder to think what might have happened. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to remember much about her hospital stay at this point. I should be so lucky.
This was definitely a time when "maybe it will just go away" didn't pan out. Thankfully, it didn't take too long before I realized that waiting wasn't the way to go, and I had to take some action.
By the time she saw a Dr. at urgent care, she was in severe pain. They gave her morphine for the pain (not a good idea, as it turned out, for an elderly patient with a little bit of dementia) and determined that she needed to be taken by ambulance to the emergency room at the hospital. There she was diagnosed as having an abdominal obstruction. A tube was placed via her nose down her throat and into her stomach to drain off all the fluids, intestinal materials, and digestive materials that had built up in her system. She of course wasn't allowed to have anything to eat or drink during this whole process and she was in a great deal of discomfort. It was 3:30 am before I left the hospital the following morning.
I had been home and had gotten only about four hours of sleep when the phone rang. It was a nurse from the hospital telling me that my mother had woken up very confused and upset, had gotten out of bed by herself, was pulling at her tubes, and was refusing to let anyone near her. Four people were in her room trying to calm her down and get her back in bed. I was asked for permission to restrain her, in order to protect her from doing harm to herself. Reluctantly, I gave my permission because I didn't think there was any other recourse. I got down to the hospital as soon as possible to help calm her down.
For three days my mother had nothing to eat or drink and was restrained to her bed. It seemed so cruel and archaic. To make matters worse, because she's blind she could not see to push the call button for a nurse, and due to the restraints it would have been practically impossible for her to do so anyway. I spent as much time at the hospital as I could and was there for blocks of several hours at a time. Each time I arrived, I found her pulling at her restraints, desperate to get out of bed because she had to go to the bathroom. She was not checked on nearly often enough considering the situation she was in. She was at the mercy of a nurse or a tech happening by her room. It was degrading to her and made her highly anxious, worsening her already precarious mental state. She would beg me for just a sip of milk or a taste of ice cream and it broke my heart to constantly have to explain to her why I couldn't get anything for her.
Conditions got increasing more grim by the day, until one day at work I just broke down to one of my co-workers. It turns out that I picked the right person. Her niece is the director of the 6th floor at the hospital. She gave her a call and I talked with her for a few minutes about my mother's horrible situation and my frustration at not being able to speak to a doctor. Within an hour, I received a call asking if I could be at the hospital at 3:00 for a consultation with a Dr. When I arrived at the hospital, conditions had changed dramatically for the better. The tube, which had already been dry for a day and a half, was removed from my mother's nose and she had been given some sips of water. Food was going to be reintroduced to her system the next day. And to my amazement, sitters were scheduled to be with my mother around the clock at the hospital's expense. Until then, I never knew that such a program existed. If I had, I would never have given permission to put my mother in restraints.
My mother spent a total of eight days in the hospital, and a series of unfortunate and careless mistakes were made in her care. If I had not found a connection to someone who worked there, I shudder to think what might have happened. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to remember much about her hospital stay at this point. I should be so lucky.
This was definitely a time when "maybe it will just go away" didn't pan out. Thankfully, it didn't take too long before I realized that waiting wasn't the way to go, and I had to take some action.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
What single thing have you said that's had the most significant positive impact on another person?
I asked three of my family members (my husband and two daughters) to give this question some thought because I honestly wasn't sure I'd be able to answer it without their input. My stepdaughter Brianna also unknowingly answered this question when she had a recent conversation with her dad. Here's what they all said (paraphrased from my memory):
Rich told me that it wasn't words that had a positive impact on him, but a gesture. It was a time during our marriage when things were really rocky, and we were talking about separation. We had begun to see a marriage/family counselor and we were both angry at times, and depressed at other times. One morning I was going to work and he came out to move his car so I could leave. As I drove away, I blew him a kiss. He said it took him by surprise and really encouraged him at a time when he was feeling down, making him realize there might be some hope for our marriage after all.
Michelle wrote the following message to me when I asked her the question:
"I don't know what you said exactly, but I know the situation. When we were trying to plan my wedding and you figured out that we were really out of money and you and dad came over to our house that one day. I was very upset because we were either going to have to postpone or cancel the wedding. It made you upset to see me crying. I remember you just held me close and told me everything was going to be all right, that we would get through it. And that you were going to do whatever it took for me to have my wedding! After that I didn't worry about it anymore! I knew that you would never let me down, because you never have! You always see the positive in any situation that I bring to you. I love you!"
As a preface to Julie's answer to the question, she was involved in a bad car accident when she was in high school. It happened when she was looking at her cell phone, crossed the center divider, and hit a car coming the opposite way. She miraculously managed to escape with only a broken foot and a chip broken out of her wrist. When the manager of the tow yard saw her mangled, totaled car, he told us he had it figured for a fatality.
With tears running down her face as she remembered that period of time, Julie said: "It was right after I had my car accident, and you were going to change the sheets on my bed for me. I got up to help you and when I tried to pull the sheet up on my bed, the pain in my wrist was terrible. I was so discouraged, I laid down on the floor and was crying. You laid down on the floor next to me and hugged me, telling me that you loved me and promising me that everything was going to be OK. You were so sweet to me and it just made me feel so much better and encouraged me."
My stepdaughter Brianna, age 31, has been through some tough years recently. She and her fiance Ryan live in Gulfport, MS, which is a very economically deprived area of the country post Hurricane Katrina. They've had a lot of ups and downs, neither of them currently has a job, and Brianna is also a frequent caregiver for her mother and her stepfather, who are both in poor health. She and Ryan each have some problems with depression after all they've had to deal with in their young lives. I recently wrote a letter to Brianna and although she never replied directly to me, she told her dad that she always carries it with her. When she's down, she pulls it out to read it over again; and when Ryan's down she hands it to him to read again. Here are a couple of paragraphs from the letter:
Rich told me that it wasn't words that had a positive impact on him, but a gesture. It was a time during our marriage when things were really rocky, and we were talking about separation. We had begun to see a marriage/family counselor and we were both angry at times, and depressed at other times. One morning I was going to work and he came out to move his car so I could leave. As I drove away, I blew him a kiss. He said it took him by surprise and really encouraged him at a time when he was feeling down, making him realize there might be some hope for our marriage after all.
Michelle wrote the following message to me when I asked her the question:
"I don't know what you said exactly, but I know the situation. When we were trying to plan my wedding and you figured out that we were really out of money and you and dad came over to our house that one day. I was very upset because we were either going to have to postpone or cancel the wedding. It made you upset to see me crying. I remember you just held me close and told me everything was going to be all right, that we would get through it. And that you were going to do whatever it took for me to have my wedding! After that I didn't worry about it anymore! I knew that you would never let me down, because you never have! You always see the positive in any situation that I bring to you. I love you!"
As a preface to Julie's answer to the question, she was involved in a bad car accident when she was in high school. It happened when she was looking at her cell phone, crossed the center divider, and hit a car coming the opposite way. She miraculously managed to escape with only a broken foot and a chip broken out of her wrist. When the manager of the tow yard saw her mangled, totaled car, he told us he had it figured for a fatality.
With tears running down her face as she remembered that period of time, Julie said: "It was right after I had my car accident, and you were going to change the sheets on my bed for me. I got up to help you and when I tried to pull the sheet up on my bed, the pain in my wrist was terrible. I was so discouraged, I laid down on the floor and was crying. You laid down on the floor next to me and hugged me, telling me that you loved me and promising me that everything was going to be OK. You were so sweet to me and it just made me feel so much better and encouraged me."
My stepdaughter Brianna, age 31, has been through some tough years recently. She and her fiance Ryan live in Gulfport, MS, which is a very economically deprived area of the country post Hurricane Katrina. They've had a lot of ups and downs, neither of them currently has a job, and Brianna is also a frequent caregiver for her mother and her stepfather, who are both in poor health. She and Ryan each have some problems with depression after all they've had to deal with in their young lives. I recently wrote a letter to Brianna and although she never replied directly to me, she told her dad that she always carries it with her. When she's down, she pulls it out to read it over again; and when Ryan's down she hands it to him to read again. Here are a couple of paragraphs from the letter:
"Brianna, when you and Ryan were here for Michelle’s wedding, you both captured the hearts of a lot of people. My mother said you spent a lot of time talking to her during the reception, and she was so grateful for that. I often run into Gwen, the “flower lady,” and she always asks how you’re doing. She told me that the two of you had a great conversation, she thinks you’re a wonderful person, and she’d love to do the flowers for your wedding. Kimberly and Wendy, the bartenders and my co-workers, also fell in love with the two of you. They think (correctly) that you are so sweet and Ryan kept them very entertained. They said something similar--“We want to do the bartending for THEIR wedding.”
"I, personally, was blown away by the way you handled Craig’s seizure the day after the wedding. You took control of the situation and calmed everyone’s nerves. Helping others, whether its people in medical emergencies, the handicapped, social work, or elderly people, is definitely where your talents lie. And of course we all know Ryan is a people person extraordinaire. In a different time and place, I can see him making great use of that real estate license. The two of you are young and vibrant people with SO MUCH talent. It literally pains me and your dad to see you languishing like you are now, spinning your wheels with no jobs, no money, no direction for change. You’re both so much better than that! I know that sometimes you see the situation as hopeless, but there’s always a way out. Honest. Promise me you won’t give up… no excuses. If one plan doesn’t work, sit back, lick your wounds, and try something different. DON’T GIVE UP!"
I'm so glad this prompt was presented, and that I asked the people closest to me to answer it. Otherwise, I would never have known the positive effects of my words and actions in these cases. So many times, people go through life without knowing that they really have helped out and created some good in bad situations. I'm deeply touched and humbled to know that I've had a significant positive impact on the people I love.
Friday, November 18, 2011
"Compassion practice is daring. It involves learning to relax and allowing ourselves to move gently toward what scares us." ~ Pema Chodron What are you leaning into, even though it may feel scary?
I'll be 60 years old in less than two years. When I do the math, I figure I've already lived approximately 2/3 of my life if my luck holds out and my "longevity genetics" are taken into consideration. So I guess I'd say I'm "leaning into" aging, like it or not, and boy is it ever scary! I look at my 88-year-old mom and wonder, "Will that be me in 30 years?"
I find myself doing everything possible to delay the aging process, trying to ward off the inevitable. I exercise like a fiend, watch what I eat, try to dress "young" within reason, color my hair and have a "fun" hairstyle. It helps that I have good genes, Also, I live in Georgia--a state that, let's face it, has one of the highest obesity rates, most smokers and consequently poorest health in the nation--where I look younger in comparison to a lot of people my age. So I get lots of compliments and looks of amazement when I divulge my age.
But I know that very soon I'll have to come to terms with the inevitability of aging. Even now, I look in the mirror and cringe at the lines around my eyes and mouth, and the roll around my middle that just won't go away no matter what I do. My "chicken neck" is starting to remind me of my grandmother's, and my upper arms tend to keep waving long after I've stopped! And just when did my knees start to sag in a southerly direction?
Far worse than the visual signs of aging are the mental indications. I certainly can't keep track of details like I used to, and names often escape me. I've watched my mother go downhill at a much more rapid pace in the past year, and it terrifies me. She forgets how to use her washing machine, is very confused by numbers and figures, asks the same questions repeatedly and tells stories over and over again, often within one conversation. It's hard to have meaningful dialogs with her because I'm constantly having to identify people who used to be very familiar to her, or define words or terms that she's either forgotten or never knew. Try explaining the concept of Facebook to a person who has never used a computer and can't see! Jokes and stories tend to lose their impact when you stop several times along the way to give explanations.
The sight issue is another scary factor. My mother began losing her sight sometime around 1990, when she was in her late 60s. Her macular degeneration has been passed down through at least four generations in her family as far as we know. I take vitamin and mineral eye supplements, trying to do what I can to maintain healthy vision, and I hope against hope that I got my dad's "eyesight" genes. My husband and I have kind of a sick running joke when we talk about aging and wonder how we'll fare as we age. I playfully say, "The pillow, Rich. Remember the pillow."
So what's the secret to aging gracefully, anyway? I saw an interview with Florence Henderson on TV the other day and thought, "Wow, I want to look and act like her when I'm in my 70s." Some people seem to age so naturally. I hope I'm one of those lucky ones.
I find myself doing everything possible to delay the aging process, trying to ward off the inevitable. I exercise like a fiend, watch what I eat, try to dress "young" within reason, color my hair and have a "fun" hairstyle. It helps that I have good genes, Also, I live in Georgia--a state that, let's face it, has one of the highest obesity rates, most smokers and consequently poorest health in the nation--where I look younger in comparison to a lot of people my age. So I get lots of compliments and looks of amazement when I divulge my age.
But I know that very soon I'll have to come to terms with the inevitability of aging. Even now, I look in the mirror and cringe at the lines around my eyes and mouth, and the roll around my middle that just won't go away no matter what I do. My "chicken neck" is starting to remind me of my grandmother's, and my upper arms tend to keep waving long after I've stopped! And just when did my knees start to sag in a southerly direction?
Far worse than the visual signs of aging are the mental indications. I certainly can't keep track of details like I used to, and names often escape me. I've watched my mother go downhill at a much more rapid pace in the past year, and it terrifies me. She forgets how to use her washing machine, is very confused by numbers and figures, asks the same questions repeatedly and tells stories over and over again, often within one conversation. It's hard to have meaningful dialogs with her because I'm constantly having to identify people who used to be very familiar to her, or define words or terms that she's either forgotten or never knew. Try explaining the concept of Facebook to a person who has never used a computer and can't see! Jokes and stories tend to lose their impact when you stop several times along the way to give explanations.
The sight issue is another scary factor. My mother began losing her sight sometime around 1990, when she was in her late 60s. Her macular degeneration has been passed down through at least four generations in her family as far as we know. I take vitamin and mineral eye supplements, trying to do what I can to maintain healthy vision, and I hope against hope that I got my dad's "eyesight" genes. My husband and I have kind of a sick running joke when we talk about aging and wonder how we'll fare as we age. I playfully say, "The pillow, Rich. Remember the pillow."
So what's the secret to aging gracefully, anyway? I saw an interview with Florence Henderson on TV the other day and thought, "Wow, I want to look and act like her when I'm in my 70s." Some people seem to age so naturally. I hope I'm one of those lucky ones.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Each day is a new start. Each moment is a beginning. How does today mark a "beginning" in your life?
I used to have a refrigerator magnet that said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." When I first saw the saying I thought it was very wise, but with overuse it morphed into something trite.
I recently perused a book about this very subject. I can't recall the title right now, but it was written by Harold Becker. Some things he wrote have struck with me; here's a brief synopsis:
Every moment of every day we have a choice, whether we are conscious of it or not. Our choices create our reality. Many of us fall into the trap of believing that what we experienced in our past is destined to be our future. It takes a lot of strength and determination to quit blaming others and accept the responsibility of creating our own realities. We all the have power, the ability, and the imagination to make a different choice, embark on a new path, and modify our own futures.
Of course, as simple and easy as that sounds, changing myself is one of the hardest things to do, and the older I get, the more difficult it becomes. I know that it takes baby steps and doesn't happen overnight. For now, I think I will concentrate on two basic things:
I recently perused a book about this very subject. I can't recall the title right now, but it was written by Harold Becker. Some things he wrote have struck with me; here's a brief synopsis:
Every moment of every day we have a choice, whether we are conscious of it or not. Our choices create our reality. Many of us fall into the trap of believing that what we experienced in our past is destined to be our future. It takes a lot of strength and determination to quit blaming others and accept the responsibility of creating our own realities. We all the have power, the ability, and the imagination to make a different choice, embark on a new path, and modify our own futures.
Of course, as simple and easy as that sounds, changing myself is one of the hardest things to do, and the older I get, the more difficult it becomes. I know that it takes baby steps and doesn't happen overnight. For now, I think I will concentrate on two basic things:
- Start each new day with a blank canvas. Do my best to forget about what might have happened yesterday and concentrate on making today the best is can be.
- Be mindful of all my choices during the course of a day. Don't make these choices haphazardly. Pick a direction and stay with it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
#7) Politics without principle.
My intense apathy/disinterest in politics is only bolstered by its rampant lack of principles. Sadly, in today's modern-day world, the news is full of politics tainted by:
I seriously question if politics with principles is a concept that exists anymore. I guess I'll continue to be jaded until someone who actually has ethics enters the political scene like a breath of fresh air and proves otherwise.
- empty promises
- hidden agendas
- rationalization of unethical/immoral activities
- corruption
I seriously question if politics with principles is a concept that exists anymore. I guess I'll continue to be jaded until someone who actually has ethics enters the political scene like a breath of fresh air and proves otherwise.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
#6) Religion without sacrifice.
No matter what your religion is, it seems to me that sacrifice would be an important component. Without sacrifice, you're merely putting up a facade. You're paying lip service to a belief but not actually living the belief.
It's certainly necessary for me to sacrifice in order to live my life according to the Golden Rule. To be a good parent, spouse, daughter, friend and co-worker, I've often had to defer my own wants, needs and desires without worrying about getting credit or receiving recognition. Good relationships require compromise, and compromise requires sacrifice.
My problem is that I tend to sacrifice too much, and then I become resentful and completely lose my sense of self. It's important to remember that by definition, compromise isn't one-sided. Compromise requires that both sides make concessions. I need to learn to walk the fine line between sacrifice and self-preservation/self-fulfillment. I'm working on it.
It's certainly necessary for me to sacrifice in order to live my life according to the Golden Rule. To be a good parent, spouse, daughter, friend and co-worker, I've often had to defer my own wants, needs and desires without worrying about getting credit or receiving recognition. Good relationships require compromise, and compromise requires sacrifice.
My problem is that I tend to sacrifice too much, and then I become resentful and completely lose my sense of self. It's important to remember that by definition, compromise isn't one-sided. Compromise requires that both sides make concessions. I need to learn to walk the fine line between sacrifice and self-preservation/self-fulfillment. I'm working on it.
Monday, November 14, 2011
#5) Science without humanity.
My knowledge (and, admittedly, my interest) about this subject is limited--I'm not really a science kind of girl. I do know that when I first saw the movie "Frankenstein" as a kid, the thought of science gone awry scared the crap out of me. That feeling was reinforced when I read about the fictional breeding farms in "Brave New World", which was on the required reading list in high school, and then learned in history class about the reality of Hitler's "master race" experimentations during World War II.
We once passed over White Sands, New Mexico in an airplane while on a family trip, and our pilot described the sand turning into glass during the explosion of the first atomic test bomb. I don't remember anything else he told us, but I recall being awestruck by that fact. My uncle and my dad worked as an electrician and an apprentice electrician respectively at Los Alamos prior to World War II. The location of the lab was such a highly kept secret that a nondescript storefront in Santa Fe served as the official gateway to the secret city of Los Alamos. I just finished reading the book 109 East Palace, which tells the undercover tale of Los Alamos. My uncle told a story of once standing atop a desk to fix a ceiling light in an office, and looking down to see top-secret blueprints accidentally left out on the desk. His heart skipped several beats as he realized the gravity of the situation he was unknowingly thrust into. My uncle and my dad joined the Navy and Army during World War II, but were never sent overseas since they had worked at Los Alamos and it was feared that they might "know too much" and spill secrets under situations of duress.
I also recall the seeing the leftover bomb shelters during my childhood in the 1950s and 1960s. There was one close to where we lived in Farmington. When I asked my parents about it and they explained its purpose, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach thinking about a scary, unknown, Twilight-Zone world where such a disaster could happen.
The first test tube baby was born after I graduated from college, and I know there were many people who considered this a foreboding prelude to eventual genetic engineering and cloning. They saw it as science interfering with nature and doctors "playing God." But today, after many years of using in vitro fertlilization in medicine, much of the controversy has died down and most people do realize more benefits coming from this practice than harm. Now there are similar fears regarding embryonic stem cell research--a subject I know next to nothing about, except for the fact that it caused a lot of raised eyebrows at the Baptist university where I work when one of my student assistants did her senior paper on the topic! Despite my lack of knowledge, I'm well aware that science has many amazing benefits but when it's left untempered by discretion and humanity, science can also lead us down a controversial and ultimately terrifying path to violence and destruction.
We once passed over White Sands, New Mexico in an airplane while on a family trip, and our pilot described the sand turning into glass during the explosion of the first atomic test bomb. I don't remember anything else he told us, but I recall being awestruck by that fact. My uncle and my dad worked as an electrician and an apprentice electrician respectively at Los Alamos prior to World War II. The location of the lab was such a highly kept secret that a nondescript storefront in Santa Fe served as the official gateway to the secret city of Los Alamos. I just finished reading the book 109 East Palace, which tells the undercover tale of Los Alamos. My uncle told a story of once standing atop a desk to fix a ceiling light in an office, and looking down to see top-secret blueprints accidentally left out on the desk. His heart skipped several beats as he realized the gravity of the situation he was unknowingly thrust into. My uncle and my dad joined the Navy and Army during World War II, but were never sent overseas since they had worked at Los Alamos and it was feared that they might "know too much" and spill secrets under situations of duress.
I also recall the seeing the leftover bomb shelters during my childhood in the 1950s and 1960s. There was one close to where we lived in Farmington. When I asked my parents about it and they explained its purpose, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach thinking about a scary, unknown, Twilight-Zone world where such a disaster could happen.
The first test tube baby was born after I graduated from college, and I know there were many people who considered this a foreboding prelude to eventual genetic engineering and cloning. They saw it as science interfering with nature and doctors "playing God." But today, after many years of using in vitro fertlilization in medicine, much of the controversy has died down and most people do realize more benefits coming from this practice than harm. Now there are similar fears regarding embryonic stem cell research--a subject I know next to nothing about, except for the fact that it caused a lot of raised eyebrows at the Baptist university where I work when one of my student assistants did her senior paper on the topic! Despite my lack of knowledge, I'm well aware that science has many amazing benefits but when it's left untempered by discretion and humanity, science can also lead us down a controversial and ultimately terrifying path to violence and destruction.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
#4) Business without ethics.
This prompt hits home in a personal way for me. In 2007, my oldest daughter Michelle was working for a monogramming company in town. She learned how to run the embroidery machines and she basically enjoyed her job without complaints. The problems began when she had an accident on the job and a needle on one of the machines went through her finger and broke off inside. She successfully had out-patient surgery on her finger and was out of work for 6-1/2 days. However, the company she worked for reported to workers' comp that she was out for a total of 21 days and pocketed the extra money. This was discovered when the insurance company called Michelle and asked for a statement about the accident.
When the insurance company asked for their money back from the monogramming company, the owners called Michelle in for a meeting. They accused her of "turning them in" and when she denied it, they accused her of lying. They warned her not to talk to the insurance agent again and intimidated her by threatening to take the money out of her check or her sick time if they indeed had to pay it back. They admitted to "stretching the truth a little bit" on the claim, but said they had protected Michelle and now it was her turn to protect them.
Things got ugly on the job after that. Michelle was repeatedly asked if she was receiving any more calls from the insurance company, and her boss made a sarcastic remark about choosing "the most expensive doctor in town" to do her surgery. She was suddenly required to work off the clock whenever she had monogramming mistakes to fix. Questionable items such as a "snagged towel" were deducted from her paychecks. In short, the job became miserable and unbearable, and Michelle walked in one day and quit on the spot.
Her last paycheck was short by about $260.00 and when we pursued it through the Georgia Labor Board, we were told that by law, employers are only required to pay an average of minimum wage for hours worked during a week, no matter what the hiring agreement might have been. The monogramming company had been careful to meet their legal obligation of paying Michelle minimum wage for the last two weeks she worked. The fact that she normally made quite a bit more than that per hour could not be legally enforced unless we took the company to court.
In a final letter to Michelle which asked her to return the key to their building, the owners expressed disappointment at her "unprofessional" behavior by not giving them two weeks' notice when she left. It's interesting that they used the same term that I'd apply to them, along with dishonest, unethical, and a few other choice words. What a shame that a young person had to learn that despite hard work and trying her best, an employer would treat her with such a lack of dignity and respect. A prime example of business without ethics. This company is still in business, but I fully expect bad karma to get them in the end!
When the insurance company asked for their money back from the monogramming company, the owners called Michelle in for a meeting. They accused her of "turning them in" and when she denied it, they accused her of lying. They warned her not to talk to the insurance agent again and intimidated her by threatening to take the money out of her check or her sick time if they indeed had to pay it back. They admitted to "stretching the truth a little bit" on the claim, but said they had protected Michelle and now it was her turn to protect them.
Things got ugly on the job after that. Michelle was repeatedly asked if she was receiving any more calls from the insurance company, and her boss made a sarcastic remark about choosing "the most expensive doctor in town" to do her surgery. She was suddenly required to work off the clock whenever she had monogramming mistakes to fix. Questionable items such as a "snagged towel" were deducted from her paychecks. In short, the job became miserable and unbearable, and Michelle walked in one day and quit on the spot.
Her last paycheck was short by about $260.00 and when we pursued it through the Georgia Labor Board, we were told that by law, employers are only required to pay an average of minimum wage for hours worked during a week, no matter what the hiring agreement might have been. The monogramming company had been careful to meet their legal obligation of paying Michelle minimum wage for the last two weeks she worked. The fact that she normally made quite a bit more than that per hour could not be legally enforced unless we took the company to court.
In a final letter to Michelle which asked her to return the key to their building, the owners expressed disappointment at her "unprofessional" behavior by not giving them two weeks' notice when she left. It's interesting that they used the same term that I'd apply to them, along with dishonest, unethical, and a few other choice words. What a shame that a young person had to learn that despite hard work and trying her best, an employer would treat her with such a lack of dignity and respect. A prime example of business without ethics. This company is still in business, but I fully expect bad karma to get them in the end!
Saturday, November 12, 2011
#3) Knowledge without character.
When my girls were little, their elementary school began a character education program. Each week, a different character trait was highlighted and the children did various activities focused on that trait. For example, during the week that kindness was the chosen trait, the students had to define kindness, draw a picture depicting kindness, and give examples of an act of kindness they performed during the week, and kindnesses they observed from others. I thought it was a worthwhile program which took schools beyond the role of teaching a purely academic education and into teaching good values and integrity.
Knowledge without character seems to me a very dangerous thing. Adolf Hitler comes to mind--a man who was considered a genius and yet he had not one ounce of humanity in his character. A much less extreme example would be one of my dad's cousins, who has a Ph.D. in molecular biology, an important position working with the National Institute of Health, and has authored many ground-breaking papers about his research. Despite his high degree of academic knowledge and "book smarts" that go way beyond what most of us will ever know, he's very lacking in social ability. I remember he came to visit us once when I was a child, and he could barely carry on a conversation. He was briefly married once, never had any children, and basically lives a life of seclusion. I'm sure his lack of social graces has worked to his detriment in many ways over the years.
If I had to choose between one or the other--having a top-notch education or a stellar character--I would choose the character without hesitation. Having a great education is worthless if it doesn't bring you happiness, or if you don't have the ability to use it wisely and with integrity.
Friday, November 11, 2011
#2) Pleasure without conscience.
All you have to do lately is check out the daily news to read plenty about the negative consequences of pleasure without conscience--the exploits of Lindsay Lohan, the affairs of Tiger Woods, and now the Penn State scandal is an extremely tragic example.
I think that most of us are guilty of exhibiting pleasure without conscience at certain times in our lives. When we're younger, we fall into the "grass is greener" trap more easily. Younger people are often more self-absorbed and have more feelings of entitlement, which causes them to rationalize their actions and shirk responsibilities. For example, I can think of plenty of times when I was younger, had too much to drink, and then drove home--sometimes even with passengers in my car. As we mature, most of us think more about the consequences of our actions. Thank God!
When I think about what keeps me on track and out of the pleasure-without-conscience trap, I consider the qualities of gratitude, long-term thinking, and humility. When I recognize the things I'm grateful for in my life, I think less about what I don't have and I won't fall into the "charge it and worry about paying for it later" mode of thinking. When I concentrate on seeing the big, long-term picture, I can stop myself before taking an action and ask if it will get me closer to what I REALLY want in life or if it's just satisfying a need for instantaneous gratification. My mother used to say that if you wouldn't want everyone to know about what your're thinking of doing, it's probably not a wise course of action to take. And finally, if I practice humility I can put myself into the shoes of others and be less selfish. Important to remember, though, is one of my favorite quotes: "Humility is a funny thing. Once you believe you're humble, it's gone." So true!
I think that most of us are guilty of exhibiting pleasure without conscience at certain times in our lives. When we're younger, we fall into the "grass is greener" trap more easily. Younger people are often more self-absorbed and have more feelings of entitlement, which causes them to rationalize their actions and shirk responsibilities. For example, I can think of plenty of times when I was younger, had too much to drink, and then drove home--sometimes even with passengers in my car. As we mature, most of us think more about the consequences of our actions. Thank God!
When I think about what keeps me on track and out of the pleasure-without-conscience trap, I consider the qualities of gratitude, long-term thinking, and humility. When I recognize the things I'm grateful for in my life, I think less about what I don't have and I won't fall into the "charge it and worry about paying for it later" mode of thinking. When I concentrate on seeing the big, long-term picture, I can stop myself before taking an action and ask if it will get me closer to what I REALLY want in life or if it's just satisfying a need for instantaneous gratification. My mother used to say that if you wouldn't want everyone to know about what your're thinking of doing, it's probably not a wise course of action to take. And finally, if I practice humility I can put myself into the shoes of others and be less selfish. Important to remember, though, is one of my favorite quotes: "Humility is a funny thing. Once you believe you're humble, it's gone." So true!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Ghandi's Seven Dangers to Human VIRTUE... Through writing, explore your personal relationship to each principle: #1) Wealth without work.
Visions of Paris Hilton began dancing through my head when I read this prompt. She could be the poster child for Wealth Without Work. Or maybe Fame Without Talent (is that another of Ghandi's Seven Dangers?). Of course, there are other ways of becoming wealthy without working besides inheriting the money—enticements such as the lotteries, Las Vegas, Wall Street, and other get-rich-quick schemes are everywhere we look. I’ve never been much of a gambler, especially when the odds of winning are very low.
My daughter Julie, always one to march to the beat of a different drummer, used to say that she wanted to be a starving artist when she grew up—the polar opposite of wealth without work. The idea of using her creativity to barely eke out a living was an appealing, romantic notion to her.
I surely don't know through personal experience, but I've heard it said that wealth without work is not nearly as fulfilling as fortune obtained through blood, sweat and tears. Following this train of thought, a child that does chores to earn an allowance and buy the toy that he wants will cherish that toy much more than a child who receives the toy as a gift. I didn’t get an allowance as a child; the first money I earned was from babysitting some of the neighborhood children. I remember saving to buy a Lovin’ Spoonful album that I wanted at the time. I cherished the album, but then I think I would have loved it just as much if I’d received it as a gift. Although it does sound a little boring to me, I’m just not 100% convinced of the dangers of wealth without work. If volunteers are needed to test the theory, keep me in mind—I’m your girl!
My daughter Julie, always one to march to the beat of a different drummer, used to say that she wanted to be a starving artist when she grew up—the polar opposite of wealth without work. The idea of using her creativity to barely eke out a living was an appealing, romantic notion to her.
I surely don't know through personal experience, but I've heard it said that wealth without work is not nearly as fulfilling as fortune obtained through blood, sweat and tears. Following this train of thought, a child that does chores to earn an allowance and buy the toy that he wants will cherish that toy much more than a child who receives the toy as a gift. I didn’t get an allowance as a child; the first money I earned was from babysitting some of the neighborhood children. I remember saving to buy a Lovin’ Spoonful album that I wanted at the time. I cherished the album, but then I think I would have loved it just as much if I’d received it as a gift. Although it does sound a little boring to me, I’m just not 100% convinced of the dangers of wealth without work. If volunteers are needed to test the theory, keep me in mind—I’m your girl!
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Write about your sweet tooth or other indulgence.
Busted! Lately I've been treating myself a couple times a month to a special little self-indulgence that makes me happy.
We have a florist in our town who just happens to be from my hometown in Michigan. When my family first moved to Macon and we were starting to explore the downtown area, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the sign for Lawrence Mayer Florist with the two trademark lions flanking the front door. It had to be the same florist from Farmington, Michigan; how could there possibly be two of them with the same name? Sure enough, it was. Our families are heavily intertwined. Lawrence and Kay Clark Mayer bought my great-grandparents home back in Farmington, Michigan. My grandparents were very close friends with the Clarks. My mother gave Kay Clark Mayer tap dancing lessons when they were teens, and then she later taught Lawrence and Kay's son Jonathan in the 3rd grade. Jonathan now runs the florist business.
Anyhow, after receiving their floral deliveries on Mondays, Mayer's Florist gives away all the leftover roses from their previous shipment to any woman who comes in and asks for them. They're supposed to be giving them away in half-dozen bunches, but I always seem to score a dozen long-stem roses; maybe it's the family connection. ;) They're top quality roses and even though they're "older" they're always beautiful for at least a week after I get them.
Next door to the florist shop just happens to be Amanda's Cakery. Amanda makes AMAZING cupcakes. They are melt-in-your-mouth delicious; in fact, on the last couple of birthdays at our house, her cupcakes were requested rather than birthday cakes. This week, her specialties were lemon poundcake with raspberry buttercream, pumpkin poundcake with cream cheese icing, orange poundcake with orange buttercream, and red velvet with ganache drizzle. Need I say more? So, after getting my flowers, I stop in at Amanda's and further spoil myself by purchasing a scrumptious cupcake.
I'm a happy little camper after leaving Lawrence Mayer's and Amanda's. This has become my way of treating myself occasionally, the cost is minimal, and the best part is that it's always on Mondays, so it serves as a great little pick-me-up on my otherwise least favorite day of the week.
We have a florist in our town who just happens to be from my hometown in Michigan. When my family first moved to Macon and we were starting to explore the downtown area, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the sign for Lawrence Mayer Florist with the two trademark lions flanking the front door. It had to be the same florist from Farmington, Michigan; how could there possibly be two of them with the same name? Sure enough, it was. Our families are heavily intertwined. Lawrence and Kay Clark Mayer bought my great-grandparents home back in Farmington, Michigan. My grandparents were very close friends with the Clarks. My mother gave Kay Clark Mayer tap dancing lessons when they were teens, and then she later taught Lawrence and Kay's son Jonathan in the 3rd grade. Jonathan now runs the florist business.
Anyhow, after receiving their floral deliveries on Mondays, Mayer's Florist gives away all the leftover roses from their previous shipment to any woman who comes in and asks for them. They're supposed to be giving them away in half-dozen bunches, but I always seem to score a dozen long-stem roses; maybe it's the family connection. ;) They're top quality roses and even though they're "older" they're always beautiful for at least a week after I get them.
Next door to the florist shop just happens to be Amanda's Cakery. Amanda makes AMAZING cupcakes. They are melt-in-your-mouth delicious; in fact, on the last couple of birthdays at our house, her cupcakes were requested rather than birthday cakes. This week, her specialties were lemon poundcake with raspberry buttercream, pumpkin poundcake with cream cheese icing, orange poundcake with orange buttercream, and red velvet with ganache drizzle. Need I say more? So, after getting my flowers, I stop in at Amanda's and further spoil myself by purchasing a scrumptious cupcake.
I'm a happy little camper after leaving Lawrence Mayer's and Amanda's. This has become my way of treating myself occasionally, the cost is minimal, and the best part is that it's always on Mondays, so it serves as a great little pick-me-up on my otherwise least favorite day of the week.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
"I love to hear a choir. I love the humanity... to see the faces of real people devoting themselves to a piece of music. I like the teamwork. It makes me feel optimistic about the human race when I see them cooperating like that." ~ Paul McCartney Describe a time when you experienced cooperation and teamwork.
Working as a volunteer for the 4th annual Bunko for Breast Cancer event in Macon in February 2008 was an awesome experience. One of my co-workers has a cousin who founded the event after being the caretaker for her mother, who successfully beat breast cancer. The Bunko event is held to raise awareness about this disease as well as to raise funds for United in Pink, a local group devoted to increasing survivorship and strengthening families affected by a breast cancer diagnosis. Tickets to Bunko for Breast Cancer always sell out and each year it becomes bigger and better than the last.
Typically, monthly meetings to plan the event start in September the previous year. Besides planning the menu, choosing a caterer, a master of ceremonies, bartenders, and a band, table decorations are crafted and volunteers begin to "hit the streets" to solicit give-away products and services from local businesses. So many donations are needed for this event that it's mind-boggling. There are over 200 goody bags to assemble for every participant as well as prize bags for the biggest winners, biggest losers, and players having the most bunkos at each table. There are large numbers of high-end gifts needed for a silent auction and raffles, and bottles of wine are gathered for a wine raffle. I collected all kinds of donations from free pizza coupons to hair products to a free lawn service to a beautiful framed painting done by my daughter's art teacher, just to name a few.
On the day of the event, I left work early to help with set-up in a large banquet hall. In addition to setting up, I was part of the team who sold raffle tickets. The opening ceremony, during which a long stream of breast cancer survivors cross the stage and announce how many years they've been a survivor, brings tears to everyone's eyes. One of my co-workers did a little dance across the stage to thunderous applause as she announced she was a one-year survivor. It's clear that a positive attitude plays a big part in the ability to survive. Bunko is a dice game, but there's so much going on during the evening that the game is not always the focus! Believe me, a room full of over 200 women can get pretty wild and the noise level is astounding!
In 2008 we raised an amazing $42,000 from tickets sales, raffles, and the silent auction. Pink bra T-shirts designed by a local artist were also sold and were a big hit. In the three years since then, those profits have doubled. Our team of 30+ volunteers worked hard over many weeks to make the event a success and the sense of camaraderie blew me away. At the end of the evening, when the 200+ participants had all departed with their goody bags and prizes, the band played on and we pink-clad volunteers had our own little party and danced up a storm. I've been a participant since then, but haven't volunteered again. It's exhausting and time-consuming, but extremely gratifying at the same time. I will definitely do it again.
Typically, monthly meetings to plan the event start in September the previous year. Besides planning the menu, choosing a caterer, a master of ceremonies, bartenders, and a band, table decorations are crafted and volunteers begin to "hit the streets" to solicit give-away products and services from local businesses. So many donations are needed for this event that it's mind-boggling. There are over 200 goody bags to assemble for every participant as well as prize bags for the biggest winners, biggest losers, and players having the most bunkos at each table. There are large numbers of high-end gifts needed for a silent auction and raffles, and bottles of wine are gathered for a wine raffle. I collected all kinds of donations from free pizza coupons to hair products to a free lawn service to a beautiful framed painting done by my daughter's art teacher, just to name a few.
On the day of the event, I left work early to help with set-up in a large banquet hall. In addition to setting up, I was part of the team who sold raffle tickets. The opening ceremony, during which a long stream of breast cancer survivors cross the stage and announce how many years they've been a survivor, brings tears to everyone's eyes. One of my co-workers did a little dance across the stage to thunderous applause as she announced she was a one-year survivor. It's clear that a positive attitude plays a big part in the ability to survive. Bunko is a dice game, but there's so much going on during the evening that the game is not always the focus! Believe me, a room full of over 200 women can get pretty wild and the noise level is astounding!
In 2008 we raised an amazing $42,000 from tickets sales, raffles, and the silent auction. Pink bra T-shirts designed by a local artist were also sold and were a big hit. In the three years since then, those profits have doubled. Our team of 30+ volunteers worked hard over many weeks to make the event a success and the sense of camaraderie blew me away. At the end of the evening, when the 200+ participants had all departed with their goody bags and prizes, the band played on and we pink-clad volunteers had our own little party and danced up a storm. I've been a participant since then, but haven't volunteered again. It's exhausting and time-consuming, but extremely gratifying at the same time. I will definitely do it again.
Monday, November 7, 2011
What's underrated about you?
This is something I've touched on before, but I honestly feel that my value as an employee is vastly underrated. It's terribly demoralizing, but since I've made the decision to hang on until I can retire in a couple of years, I try to ensure that I'm bolstered and fulfilled by other aspects of my life in the meantime. My reasons, as I see them, for feeling underrated in my job are as follows:
- It's the nature of the beast. I work in a university in a small southern town, where there's an inherent dichotomy between those employees who are faculty and those who are staff. In the library, the employees who have MLS degrees are designated as faculty. They're in a separate pay bracket, receive more benefits, have exclusive meetings, get extra perks. The wide chasm between faculty and staff was glaringly apparent when both a faculty member and a staff member in the library coincidentally became pregnant and had babies at the same time. The faculty member was out on paid leave for several months, whereas the staff member had to use all her available sick and vacation time and was expected back to work in 6 weeks.
- The system of "Levels." As a staff member, you start out at Level 2 with a set pay rate and you stay there until a Level 3 position at a higher pay opens, you apply and are accepted for the job. Otherwise, any pay increases come from small annual cost-of living-adjustments IF they happen at all. In my 10 years of working at the university, we've had three years with no cost-of-living adjustments and three additional years where the salary increases were lower than the inflation rate. Our net salary increases are now 9-1/2% below the inflation rate since 2000. The next logical Level 3 position above mine is occupied by a person who has been employed at the university for 15 years and shows no signs of going anywhere. Even if she did, I wouldn't be "rewarded" by a promotion to her position despite the fact that I've been a long-time employee and have always received excellent annual reviews. I'd have to apply and interview for the job along with anyone else in the university and the community-at-large who applied. That's how "the system" works here. It leaves you feeling inconsequential and valueless.
- The "Yankee factor." It's hard for many people to believe who have never lived in the South, but for several years I was referred to as a Yankee in some way, shape or form every single day. It's not a compliment. A Yankee is considered to be an arrogant, abrupt individual who has no finesse, like a bull in a china closet. Southerners view themselves as much more smooth and genteel, and they have an uncanny way of making a criticism sound more like a compliment. It's an arduous, tedious process to gain the confidence of Bible Belt Southerners when you're a heathen Yankee. The southern accent is another hurdle to overcome. For example, the word "taxi" has three syllables, but the word "science" has only one syllable. Go figure! There's no such word as "sell." Instead you ask, "Are you planning to sale your house?" After 13 years in Georgia, I still have a hard time interpreting the accent at times, which often gives me the appearance of being slow, dim-witted, or confused. Not exactly sterling qualities to have in the job market.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Who is your community?
Funny how the definition of community has changed over the years. Community used to mean the people and places surrounding where you live. Now, we tend to define community as people who have a mutual caring, support, and respect for one another. My community covers a wide range of people from all different periods of my life. I've attempted to categorize them below, but this may be an oversimplification. The categories are fluid rather than being mutually exclusive, sometimes one person fits into more than one category.
I guess that community is simply a state of mind. It's a sense of belonging that springs from other people accepting you for who you are.
- Some of the people in my community share a similar background with me. My friends Joy, Teri, Lynn, and Marilyn are some of my "oldest" friends and were part of my childhood through high school years.
- Others in my community shared a special phase of my life or a pivotal experience with me. Sue is my lifelong friend from college days; Teresa is from my Rocky Mountain Park days.
- Some in my community are related by blood and we share a special closeness and always keep in touch; for example, my cousins Marilyn, Tom, and Janet.
- Sharing common interests is the reason some people are in my community. I have a group of cycling friends who share biking adventures with me. And I met my friend Darlene when I was investigating my family tree.
- Some people became part of my community because we found ourselves in similar circumstances. My friend Lynn and I shared a bond because we had children the same age and our husbands both worked at night.
- Then there are those who started as colleagues, and we became friends when we discovered we had common beliefs or values. Steve D., Wendy, Barbara and Kimberly all fit into this category.
- And there are those who started out as members of my community in the traditional way--by living in close proximity to me--but our personalities clicked and we became friends as well as neighbors. Janet and Jody fall into this category.
I guess that community is simply a state of mind. It's a sense of belonging that springs from other people accepting you for who you are.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
It's all in the timing... describe a time when the timing was critical.
In the pre-daylight hours of Mother's Day 2008 we were abruptly awakened by the startling sound of something banging wildly against our bedroom wall and the muted wailing of a siren. Rich leapt out of bed and opened the front door, letting in the full shrieking of the tornado sirens. The wind was blowing so hard it was literally howling, and the pounding sound we heard was the front porch swing banging against the house.
By this time, both the girls had gotten out of bed and were coming down the stairs wide-eyed. The three of us followed Rich to the sunroom door. Since the power was out, he had grabbed a flashlight and he wanted to check on the dogs outside in the dog run. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of his flashlight beam on one of the large sunroom windows. The glass was bowing under the pressure, the trees in the backyard were roaring, and I could hear the sound of leaves and branches hitting the windows. I yelled at Rich to forget about the dogs and close the door; we all needed to go down to the basement.
Just after he turned and shut the door behind him, we heard a thud so loud and strong it shook the entire house, followed by the shattering of glass. Rich had closed that door in the nick of time. The four of us scrambled downstairs to the basement and huddled in the dark. As Rich's flashlight played around the room, we could still hear the sound of shrieking sirens and howling winds. Within five minutes it was all over.
We crept up the stairs to an eerie stillness. Dawn was just breaking outside, casting an incongruous pink glow over the destruction that had just occurred. We cautiously opened the sunroom door to find that a tall sweetgum tree had crashed through the roof, shattering one of the big floor-to-ceiling windows. The treetop was literally in the room with us. If Rich had kept walking out the door to get to the dogs, he would most likely have been crushed by that tree.
Macon suffered extensive damage from that Mother's Day tornado. Even three and a half years later, I can point out places that were damaged and never fixed. There are abandoned homes with bright blue tarps still hanging over holes in their roofs, and empty lots where houses were completely destroyed and never rebuilt. Ironically, a week later Mother Nature informed us she wasn't done with us yet. A huge damaged tree from the empty lot next door fell over, took down another tree of ours in the process, and they both crashed into the other side of our sunroom, damaging it further. So May 2008 became forever etched in our minds not only as the time that Rich narrowly escaped being crushed, but when a total of three trees fell on our house. An odd juxtaposition of extreme good fortune and very bad luck all at the same time. What are the chances?
By this time, both the girls had gotten out of bed and were coming down the stairs wide-eyed. The three of us followed Rich to the sunroom door. Since the power was out, he had grabbed a flashlight and he wanted to check on the dogs outside in the dog run. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of his flashlight beam on one of the large sunroom windows. The glass was bowing under the pressure, the trees in the backyard were roaring, and I could hear the sound of leaves and branches hitting the windows. I yelled at Rich to forget about the dogs and close the door; we all needed to go down to the basement.
Just after he turned and shut the door behind him, we heard a thud so loud and strong it shook the entire house, followed by the shattering of glass. Rich had closed that door in the nick of time. The four of us scrambled downstairs to the basement and huddled in the dark. As Rich's flashlight played around the room, we could still hear the sound of shrieking sirens and howling winds. Within five minutes it was all over.
We crept up the stairs to an eerie stillness. Dawn was just breaking outside, casting an incongruous pink glow over the destruction that had just occurred. We cautiously opened the sunroom door to find that a tall sweetgum tree had crashed through the roof, shattering one of the big floor-to-ceiling windows. The treetop was literally in the room with us. If Rich had kept walking out the door to get to the dogs, he would most likely have been crushed by that tree.
Macon suffered extensive damage from that Mother's Day tornado. Even three and a half years later, I can point out places that were damaged and never fixed. There are abandoned homes with bright blue tarps still hanging over holes in their roofs, and empty lots where houses were completely destroyed and never rebuilt. Ironically, a week later Mother Nature informed us she wasn't done with us yet. A huge damaged tree from the empty lot next door fell over, took down another tree of ours in the process, and they both crashed into the other side of our sunroom, damaging it further. So May 2008 became forever etched in our minds not only as the time that Rich narrowly escaped being crushed, but when a total of three trees fell on our house. An odd juxtaposition of extreme good fortune and very bad luck all at the same time. What are the chances?
Friday, November 4, 2011
#10) Promise without forgetting. (Proverbs 13:12)
I think I've always done this pretty well, and still do despite the aging factor and its effect on forgetfulness! I don't promise lightly. I'm also good about carrying through on things I say I'll do, even when I haven't necessarily promised.
Being a people-pleaser by nature, I know that forgetting promises can lead to great disappointment and hurt feelings. I've been on the receiving end enough times, and I certainly don't want to be a person who does this to others. It reflects on you as a person and shows that you're insincere. I usually don't buy the "I forgot" excuse when it comes to breaking promises. I simply think that the promise-breaker hasn't assigned enough importance to the promise or to the person who was promised.
I particularly don't like to see children hurt by broken promises. This was one of my pet peeves as a mother when my girls were small. Looking back, it served as a valuable lesson when it happened, though. I remember explaining to them that even people that they love have their flaws and aren't perfect. And telling them to always remember how badly they felt when something they were promised didn't happen, so that they'd never do the same to someone else. I think they learned the lesson well; both of my daughters are very good about remembering and keeping their promises as well.
Being a people-pleaser by nature, I know that forgetting promises can lead to great disappointment and hurt feelings. I've been on the receiving end enough times, and I certainly don't want to be a person who does this to others. It reflects on you as a person and shows that you're insincere. I usually don't buy the "I forgot" excuse when it comes to breaking promises. I simply think that the promise-breaker hasn't assigned enough importance to the promise or to the person who was promised.
I particularly don't like to see children hurt by broken promises. This was one of my pet peeves as a mother when my girls were small. Looking back, it served as a valuable lesson when it happened, though. I remember explaining to them that even people that they love have their flaws and aren't perfect. And telling them to always remember how badly they felt when something they were promised didn't happen, so that they'd never do the same to someone else. I think they learned the lesson well; both of my daughters are very good about remembering and keeping their promises as well.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
#9) Forgive without punishing. (Colossians 3:13)
I see this principle as an extension of my previous post. Writing it took a lot out of me, because I've shoved that memory away numerous times without examining it, not wanting to relive all the emotion, pain and guilt again. Not wanting to replay it in my head ad nauseum. I know I'm much harder on myself than on anyone else. It's very telling that I eventually forgive others without punishment, while imposing an endless litany of reading the riot act to myself. I can beat myself up better than anyone else can.
I logically know that forgiving myself is important to my well-being. Carrying around self anger and guilt in a heavy backpack can cause or worsen all sorts of illnesses, both mental and physical. The secret to forgiving myself is to take responsibility for my actions, but not to let my failures bury me. To learn from past mistakes and move on. TO REMIND MYSELF THAT IT'S OK NOT TO BE PERFECT. To know that I'm worthy of forgiveness.
Self-forgiveness isn't easy. If only there was an internal "system reset" button! I suppose I'll know that I've successfully forgiven myself when the memory gives me no more pain. Or at least less pain. I look forward to that day.
I logically know that forgiving myself is important to my well-being. Carrying around self anger and guilt in a heavy backpack can cause or worsen all sorts of illnesses, both mental and physical. The secret to forgiving myself is to take responsibility for my actions, but not to let my failures bury me. To learn from past mistakes and move on. TO REMIND MYSELF THAT IT'S OK NOT TO BE PERFECT. To know that I'm worthy of forgiveness.
Self-forgiveness isn't easy. If only there was an internal "system reset" button! I suppose I'll know that I've successfully forgiven myself when the memory gives me no more pain. Or at least less pain. I look forward to that day.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
#8) Trust without wavering. (Corinthians 13:7)
My dream would be to trust without wavering 100% of the time. I'd like to listen to my intuition and completely trust that it knows what it's talking about! I'd like to stand firm in what my gut tells me to do, no matter what. But I seem to be a second-guesser by nature.
One time when I didn't listen to my intuition still haunts me. My dad had undergone triple bypass surgery in 2002 and never regained consciousness afterwards. For a long and unbelievably painful month, my mother, brother and I waited for him to "wake up" while all his systems were shutting down one by one. After consulting with a battery of doctors, we finally had to face the undeniable fact that it was time to let him go. We did it in the most humane way possible, by stopping his daily dialysis and letting the toxins build up in his system so that he would "float away" painlessly to his death.
During this excruciating month, I was occasionally making trips back home to Georgia for various reasons. I had gone home to attend my daughter's honors assembly at school when I received a call from my brother that my dad was near death and would probably go within the next 24 hours. If I wanted to see him one last time, I needed to head back to Florida. I left immediately and drove those 300+ miles like a madwoman. I remember there was construction on the interstate and it was shut down to one lane with bumper-to-bumper traffic. I got over on the dirt shoulder and passed all the traffic for miles. Lots of people honked; some angry drivers gave me the finger. I didn't care. I kept going. It all seemed so surreal.
My dad was still alive when I finally got to the Orlando hospital and I sat with him for a couple of hours. Occasionally I talked, assuring him that it was OK for him to let go, that my mother had lots of people to look after her. I told him that I'd miss him but knew he would always be my guardian angel. Other times I sat in silence, just holding his hand and rubbing his thumb. A nurse came into the room periodically, checking on me and asking if I was OK. "Not really," I answered honestly. He nodded and told me he was sorry. An Hispanic cleaning lady came into the room and looked at me with big, brown sympathetic eyes. "Your daddy?" she asked in a heavy accent. I suddenly felt like a little girl again, and could only trust myself to nod my head. She came over and gave me a big hug. Such a sweet lady.
I decided to go out into the hallway and call my mother, to let her know I was back in Orlando and I was planning on staying with my dad while he passed away. Her voice was full of heavy worry and stress as she requested that I please leave the hospital and come to her house instead. "You don't know how long you'll be there by yourself. That hospital is in a bad part of town. I don't like that you'll be leaving there on your own, maybe in the middle of the night." I really wanted to stay with all my heart. I could have explained that I felt compelled to stay with dad. I could have promised that I'd get a security guard to walk me out when the time came. I might have asked to speak to my brother, and gotten him to help convince my mom that it was better for me to stay put. But how could I add more stress to a woman who was already at her breaking point? A woman who had already lost most of her eyesight, and was now not only losing her husband of 53 years, but her alternate pair of eyes?
Tears gathered in a big lump in my throat, where some of them still hide. I left without going back into my dad's room again. I'd already been saying goodbye for two hours and I just couldn't bear to say it for the final time. I didn't permit myself to look back. Against my gut instincts, I left him to die alone--a man so afraid of dying that he refused to make any burial plans with my mom, or to talk about death in any capacity. We got the call that he passed away about four hours later, a minute before midnight.
Recently my mom told me that her one big regret was that she let my dad die alone. I'm glad she couldn't see my face as I listened to her. I kept my voice steady as I comforted her by saying that we had all done our very best at a time when we were heartbroken and grieving. Now if I can only believe my own words and forgive myself.
One time when I didn't listen to my intuition still haunts me. My dad had undergone triple bypass surgery in 2002 and never regained consciousness afterwards. For a long and unbelievably painful month, my mother, brother and I waited for him to "wake up" while all his systems were shutting down one by one. After consulting with a battery of doctors, we finally had to face the undeniable fact that it was time to let him go. We did it in the most humane way possible, by stopping his daily dialysis and letting the toxins build up in his system so that he would "float away" painlessly to his death.
During this excruciating month, I was occasionally making trips back home to Georgia for various reasons. I had gone home to attend my daughter's honors assembly at school when I received a call from my brother that my dad was near death and would probably go within the next 24 hours. If I wanted to see him one last time, I needed to head back to Florida. I left immediately and drove those 300+ miles like a madwoman. I remember there was construction on the interstate and it was shut down to one lane with bumper-to-bumper traffic. I got over on the dirt shoulder and passed all the traffic for miles. Lots of people honked; some angry drivers gave me the finger. I didn't care. I kept going. It all seemed so surreal.
My dad was still alive when I finally got to the Orlando hospital and I sat with him for a couple of hours. Occasionally I talked, assuring him that it was OK for him to let go, that my mother had lots of people to look after her. I told him that I'd miss him but knew he would always be my guardian angel. Other times I sat in silence, just holding his hand and rubbing his thumb. A nurse came into the room periodically, checking on me and asking if I was OK. "Not really," I answered honestly. He nodded and told me he was sorry. An Hispanic cleaning lady came into the room and looked at me with big, brown sympathetic eyes. "Your daddy?" she asked in a heavy accent. I suddenly felt like a little girl again, and could only trust myself to nod my head. She came over and gave me a big hug. Such a sweet lady.
I decided to go out into the hallway and call my mother, to let her know I was back in Orlando and I was planning on staying with my dad while he passed away. Her voice was full of heavy worry and stress as she requested that I please leave the hospital and come to her house instead. "You don't know how long you'll be there by yourself. That hospital is in a bad part of town. I don't like that you'll be leaving there on your own, maybe in the middle of the night." I really wanted to stay with all my heart. I could have explained that I felt compelled to stay with dad. I could have promised that I'd get a security guard to walk me out when the time came. I might have asked to speak to my brother, and gotten him to help convince my mom that it was better for me to stay put. But how could I add more stress to a woman who was already at her breaking point? A woman who had already lost most of her eyesight, and was now not only losing her husband of 53 years, but her alternate pair of eyes?
Tears gathered in a big lump in my throat, where some of them still hide. I left without going back into my dad's room again. I'd already been saying goodbye for two hours and I just couldn't bear to say it for the final time. I didn't permit myself to look back. Against my gut instincts, I left him to die alone--a man so afraid of dying that he refused to make any burial plans with my mom, or to talk about death in any capacity. We got the call that he passed away about four hours later, a minute before midnight.
Recently my mom told me that her one big regret was that she let my dad die alone. I'm glad she couldn't see my face as I listened to her. I kept my voice steady as I comforted her by saying that we had all done our very best at a time when we were heartbroken and grieving. Now if I can only believe my own words and forgive myself.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
#7) Enjoy without complaint. (Philippians 2:14)
Once again, this principle goes back to living for the moment. Lately I've been making more of a conscious effort to enjoy the here and now. Squelching the coulda-woulda-shoulda’s. Banishing fault-finding and complaining. Relinquishing the past and silencing worries about the future, reminding myself that “most of what you worry about never happens anyway.” I sure haven’t mastered all of this with consistency yet, but I’ve definitely had my moments of success.
Recently my brother and sister-in-law came to town and of course I had a good deal of trepidation about their visit, based on the dissension between us over the past several years. But some valuable exchanges occurred between Mike and me that helped toward my goal of quieting the bitter words spoken between us in the past, forgiving and letting go. The thing that moved me the most involved, of all things, a jean jacket.
Years ago when we were both in high school, I often asked my brother if I could borrow his jean jacket. I had one too, but mine was new-looking, dark blue and just didn’t measure up in the coolness factor. His was faded, frayed and showed the perfect amount of wear. Yes, sometimes I was guilty of just taking it when he wasn’t around to ask, and there were times he had to track it down in my closet when he wanted to wear it. This went on for several months until Christmas rolled around. There, in a package under the tree with my name on it, was the beloved jean jacket. He liked it almost as much as I did, so I truly considered it a gift of generosity. I treasured it and wore it often, until it became thread-bare and practically fell apart in my hands.
Flash forward through about 40 years and lots of turmoil between us to the recent visit. I was on a bike ride and stopped at their campsite to see them. Mike announced, “I brought you something” as he pulled out another well-worn jean jacket. I literally had to blink back the tears forming in my eyes.
My husband thinks I’m reading too much into the situation, but to me the jacket represents a truce. I feel that it’s Mike’s way of saying, in his own unique way, “Let’s forget about what has happened and go back to how we used to be.” The jacket needs a patch or two (or three) and is well weathered, but then so are we at this point! The unexpected gift truly touched me. I will patch it and wear it with great pride and pleasure. It serves as a wonderful reminder to stop the griping, enjoy the moment and live for today.
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